The Fifth Reflection

by Ellen Kirschman

  “I didn’t think they’d do it.”

  “How could you take the chance?”

  “Me? Taking chances? You’re the careless one. Letting her live here with all these hippie types. Everyone coming and going.”

  Bucky’s hands curl into fists. “Crazy fucking woman. I fixed it. I had people in here all the time. Watching her.”

  We are standing in the shadows, just inside the door. Pence starts forward. I put my hand on his arm to stop him. This is the face-to-face we need.

  “I can’t lose you, Bucky.”

  “I don’t want Bucky,” JJ says. “Bucky doesn’t want me. We barely speak.”

  “Don’t be stupid. Bucky wants Chrissy. His affairs come and go. But you’re different. You’re Chrissy’s mother. You’ll never go away.”

  “That’s why you killed my daughter? Because you’re jealous of me?”

  “I didn’t kill Chrissy. I loved her.”

  “You killed her,” JJ shouts, over and over. Her face a torment. She lunges at Kathryn.

  Kathryn’s cry wails through the gallery. She rips away from JJ. “It wasn’t supposed to happen. I only meant for her to be missing. Long enough to frighten Bucky. Make him hate you. Brenda and Buzz, they’re the ones who killed her with their drugs.”

  “I would have given you Chrissy if it would have saved her life. Moved away. Whatever I needed to do to stop you I would have done.” She spins around, arms flailing. A display of ceramic pots crashes to the floor, splintering into shards. She picks up a shard. Waves it in the air. Uncertain where to slash. Who to cut. All she has been trying not to see—the waste, the loss, the banal evil—hits her full on. She plunges toward Kathryn.

  Frank’s voice spins by my ear. “JJ, no.”

  She stops mid-step, frozen, one foot raised in the air, her eyes luminous with panic. Then runs to Chrissy’s tapestry, clawing at it with the sharp end of the shard, tearing at the pieces she so lovingly stitched together. Clumps of cotton batting float in the air like tiny clouds.

  “She killed you. She killed you. You’re dead.” Droplets of tears and saliva spray the bare wood floor around her. She yanks hard on a dangling fringe, the ripping sound like a muted scream. Chrissy’s eyes, the same eyes that once gazed serenely over the room, collapse at an angle, deforming her innocent face.

  JJ falls to the floor, hollowed out by the rage she has finally released, leaving her with only enough strength left to weep.

  Frank moves to her side, drops to his knees, and puts his arms around her.

  “Let it go,” he says. “Let it all go.”

  “Get away from me!” Bucky shoves Kathryn against a wall, hard enough to send a large painting clattering to the floor. She stumbles and rights herself.

  “Leave her,” Kathryn says to Bucky. “Come home with me. I love you.”

  “No you don’t.” I move toward Kathryn. Pot shards crunching under my feet. “You don’t love Bucky. You took Chrissy to punish him. That’s not love.”

  “I didn’t kill her. Why won’t anyone listen?” Kathryn’s voice pitches through the gallery.

  “Doesn’t matter,” I say. “You didn’t kill her with your own hands, but you’re the reason she’s dead.”

  It takes nearly an hour to calm JJ down and help her to her feet. One by one her commune mates sit with her, stroking her back, whispering in her ear. Someone opens a bottle of wine and passes it around. A whiff of marijuana floats in the air.

  “Thank you, everyone,” she says. Her voice is reedy. She steadies herself against a table. “I’m so sorry to involve all of you in this. And for the damage to your work. I don’t know how to make it up to you.”

  “No worries,” the man with the goatee says. “I’m going to take the broken pieces of my pots and build something new with them.” There are murmurs of reassurance from the group and offers to help repair Chrissy’s tapestry.

  JJ’s face fills with unbridled grief. “I need time to think.” She turns to the tapestry. “I may change my mind, but for right now, I don’t want to repair the tapestry. I want to learn to live with it. As it is. As I am. Damaged and torn.”

  Frank is unusually quiet in the car as we drive home in the dark.

  “You were great,” I say. “The way you stopped JJ. She might have killed Kathryn. And then you held her until she stopped crying when everyone else was afraid to touch her.”

  The light in front of us turns red. We sit in silence waiting for it to change. I have something I need to say but I’m afraid I lack the courage to say it.

  The light changes. We move forward.

  I find the courage I need at the next stop light.

  “Before we marry, I have some work to do in therapy.”

  Frank grimaces.

  “Is this about feelings you still have for your ex?”

  “No.”

  “Then why do you need therapy?”

  Two parallel tears slowly inch down my cheeks.

  “Kathryn fooled herself into thinking she didn’t care about Bucky’s affairs or that he had a child with another woman. JJ fooled herself into thinking she could avoid her anger and her loss. I’ve fooled myself by not acknowledging my own grief.”

  “What grief?”

  “Grief over not having children. Mark didn’t want kids. At least not with me and I went along with it. I was so focused on not losing him that I lost touch with myself, with what mattered to me. My insecurities, my suspicions, they’re all part of my grief. I don’t want to lose myself again. You deserve better. And so do I.”

  “We’re too old to have children, Dot. Unless we adopt. And we’re too old for that.”

  “Feelings don’t grow old the way people do. Especially feelings that aren’t worked through. It takes guts to look at painful emotions. But if you don’t, those feelings take you places you don’t want to go. I think that’s what happened to Kathryn and JJ and to me. I don’t want to do that again. You’re the best thing that’s happened to me, Frank. I want to be the best thing that’s happened to you.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  I GO TO headquarters the next morning directly from Frank’s house, dressed in yesterday’s clothes. No shower. No hair gel. Pence is in his office in sartorial splendor working on his comments for the morning’s press briefing.

  “Tell me what you think.” He picks up his script and gives a short preparatory cough. “Ladies and gentlemen of the press, citizens of Kenilworth.” He shakes his head. “Wrong. Should be citizens of Kenilworth first.” He scribbles something and starts again. “Citizens of Kenilworth, ladies and gentlemen of the press, I am happy to announce that, after more than two months of nonstop investigation, we have three suspects in custody for the tragic death of Chrissy Stewart: Kathryn Blazek, Chrissy’s stepmother; Buzz Stewart, Chrissy’s father’s half brother; and his common-law wife, Brenda Finister. It is not anticipated that there are additional people involved. The district attorney plans to charge all three defendants with felony murder under the special circumstance of kidnapping. The punishment for murder committed in the perpetration of a kidnapping is severe. The district attorney determines the charges to be filed. But I can tell you with certainty that all three defendants are facing the death penalty or life without parole plus five years. If there is anything positive to emerge from this tragedy, it is this: Chrissy’s kidnapping and subsequent tragic death was not a stranger abduction. What we feared at first, that the person or persons responsible for her death were trafficking in child pornography, turns out not to be the case. Why? Because the task force on Internet Crimes Against Children is working. Are there any questions?”

  I want to ask how he knows this, since it’s impossible to prove a negative. And doesn’t he feel responsible for creating a convenient narrative for Kathryn to use, one that sent the investigation on a wild goose chase and prolonged JJ’s agony?

  “I do.” Manny is in the doorway. I have no idea how long he has been standing there listening to Pence. He walks into the
office and leans against a chair. His eyes are sunk deep in their sockets and his clothes are more rumpled than mine.

  “If the ICAC team is so successful, how come there are still more than thirty thousand child porn links on the Internet?”

  Pence turns around and gives Manny the once-over. “Speaking of how-come questions, how come you look like you slept in your car?”

  “Because I did. Lupe kicked me out. I missed her deadline.”

  “What deadline?” Pence puts his paper down. “I never gave you a deadline. Anyhow, it’s all over except the shouting. Or the applause.”

  “It’s not over and Lupe knows it. Not until the trials are done and those guys are in prison. Until then it’ll be nonstop testimonies, depositions, you name it. She wants a husband with a nine-to-five job.”

  “Then she shouldn’t have married a cop.” Pence looks at his watch. “We have a briefing to do. Get yourself cleaned up. You’ve got ten minutes.”

  Manny doesn’t move.

  “Look, if it helps, I’ll call your wife and tell her how much we appreciate her support. I’ll give her a framed certificate of appreciation. Send her some flowers. A gift certificate to get her nails done. Tell me what she wants, I’ll get it.”

  “I think she wants more than getting her nails done,” I say. Flowers and a mani-pedi may satisfy Pence’s wife. What Lupe wants is engagement, participation, a full partner in life, not someone whose identity is dependent on his job.

  Pence walks up to Manny and claps his hand on Manny’s shoulder. “Isn’t this what you’ve been waiting for? To stand up with me in front of the press and tell everyone Chrissy’s murder is solved? The community’s gonna love you.”

  “The doc got the physical evidence. We already got confirmation from the lab that the makeup on Chrissy matches the stuff Kathryn Blazek buys. The doc’s the one who found the Dollar Store and Maldonado. She’s the one who should be on TV.”

  I flash with anger toward Lupe. Couldn’t she have waited? Let Manny feel the relief, the pride that comes with arresting the guilty? On the other hand, addiction to work is like any other addiction. All promises and good intentions with multiple relapses. Actions speak louder than words. She’s been fooled before.

  “Nobody solves a murder by themselves, Manny. I was glad to help. This is a day to feel proud of yourself, not badly.”

  “I feel bad because my marriage is on the rocks.”

  Pence raises his hands in the air. “Marital counseling is above my pay grade. I’m going to the briefing. By myself. Straighten him out, Doc. He only gets one pass.”

  As soon as Pence leaves the room, Manny slumps into a chair.

  “Talk to me, Manny. What’s going on?”

  “She doesn’t want me. Says I’m not the person she married. I told her, I can’t change back. Be the person I used to be. Not after what I’ve seen.”

  “Of course you can’t. You’re older. Wiser.”

  “Also more cynical, more suspicious and paranoid according to Lupe. She’s been telling me that ever since I started with the nanny-cams so I can check on Carmela.” Before I can say anything, he puts his hand up. “Don’t you start on me, too. I need to make sure Carmela is safe. Lupe can’t protect her from people so bad she doesn’t even believe they exist.”

  “I’m not going to start on you. I don’t even know what a nanny-cam is. But I am going to challenge your underlying assumption that because Lupe’s a civilian and you’re a cop, she’s hopelessly naive.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Let me give you another interpretation. You’re judging 90 percent of the people in your private life by the 10 percent you encounter at work. That’s a sampling error, get it?” He shrugs. “Do you do this nanny-cam thing while you’re at work?”

  “I’m good at multitasking.”

  “Really? So how come you can’t be a cop, a husband, and a father at the same time?”

  He pushes back in his chair, rolling away from me toward the door. He’s had about enough of my hectoring. What he’s looking for is kindness and understanding. Kindness and understanding have their place, but there are times when what’s most therapeutic is a kick in the ass. Or a two-by-four between the eyes.

  “Do you want Lupe back?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Well then, go and get her.”

  “Won’t work. She’s finished with me.”

  “That’s because you didn’t stand by her. Change that and maybe she’ll change her mind.”

  Manny walks into my office on A-level an hour later and shuts the door. His eyes are red from crying.

  “I did what you said. I called her.”

  “Didn’t go too well?”

  “I got conditions. Get therapy and quit the task force.”

  He flops in a chair and pokes at his chest.

  “Policing is what I do. The task force is what I do. I can’t change.”

  “Of course you can. You change every day. We all do until the day we die. Exercise changes your brain. Meditation changes your brain. PTSD changes your brain. You can change if you want to, but you’ll need help.”

  “I’m not taking any medication.”

  “Get into therapy like Lupe said.” He winces. “Not with me. I’ll find you somebody else. Maybe someone who used to be a cop and is now a psychologist.” There’s a slight tilt to his eyebrows. My guess is he didn’t even know about the new breed of cops with doctorates in psychology. “Let me tell you something. This case has stirred up a lot of unexpected feelings for me, too. It happens when you identify with the victim. Carmela and Chrissy were almost the same age. It brought things too close for you.”

  He leans forward in his chair. “We got a conniving liar, a bully, two dope addicts, and an earth-biscuit mother. Who did you identify with?”

  I start to answer and stop. I’m pressing Manny to have some boundaries between his home life and his work. I need to practice what I preach.

  “I talked to the guys on the task force after I talked to Lupe. They don’t want me to quit. They’re getting hammered. They need me.”

  “So does Lupe. And Carmela. For that matter, you need you. You said so yourself. You’re not who you used to be. Do you even know who you are anymore?”

  “The chief needs me.”

  “It’s nice to be needed. Feels good. But know this first. Pence is your boss. He’s not God. And he’s not family. He’d throw you under the bus in a hot minute if it served his purposes.”

  “Lupe kicked me out. How’s that for family loyalty?”

  “She’s trying to get your attention.”

  “She’s picked a helluva way to do it.”

  There’s a knock on the door. Pence is standing in the hallway, all smiles.

  “It went perfect.” He walks into my tiny office. “There were a ton of questions, most of which I had to deflect, because my main man wasn’t there. I gotta tell you, Manny, everyone was asking for you. You are a hero.”

  Manny squirms in his chair. Nothing embarrasses a cop more than to be called a hero.

  “So, did you get everything straightened out here, Doc?” he says as though we are talking in code and Manny isn’t sitting right in front of us.

  “You have to ask Manny.”

  “How about it, Manny? Take a few days off, get a little rest, talk to the wife, and then get back in the saddle?”

  Manny struggles out of his chair and stands, feet apart, hands behind his back, in parade rest position. “Thank you, sir, but I am requesting an immediate transfer back to patrol, preferably swing shift with weekends off.”

  “I told you. No can do.”

  I stand, too. “If he’s a hero, doesn’t he deserve some consideration?”

  Pence gives me the stink eye.

  “Bad move, Manny. Take my advice. Cases like this don’t come along every day. Take advantage of the moment. Could be good for a promotion. Funding for the task force. FBI National Academy. Who knows?”

  “Sorry,
sir. I want to go back to patrol.”

  “Because of the wife? Man up for Christ’s sake. Make your own decisions.”

  I can hear Manny take a sharp breath.

  “I refuse your request for a transfer. End of discussion. Blame it on me. Tell the wife I ordered you to stay on the task force until further notice because I don’t have anyone to replace you.”

  They stand face-to-face, eyes locked.

  “Do you understand me, Officer Ochoa?”

  “Yes, sir. I understand that you have the right to refuse my request.”

  “Alright then, that’s settled.”

  “And I have a right to find a job with another department.”

  Pence’s back goes ramrod straight. “That would be a very poor decision. Think about it. You’d have to start all over. Low man on the totem pole. Dog watch. No vacation for a year.”

  “Shouldn’t I take advantage of the moment like you suggested?”

  Pence recoils, unused to having his own words thrown back in his face.

  “Don’t kid yourself, son. Finding another job won’t be easy.”

  Manny takes a step back, widening the space between them.

  “With all due respect, sir, I am not your son, I am an employee of the city of Kenilworth.” He moves again until his back presses against the wall. “Furthermore, and after serious consideration, it is my opinion that finding a new job will be a damn sight easier than finding another wife.”

  Manny leaves first. Pence stands there, clutching his script.

  “What kind of fix is that? You just wrecked his career.”

  “I did nothing of the kind. Anyhow, that’s his decision. Not mine.”

  “And you didn’t coach him?”

  “He’s suffering on this assignment. His family is suffering. Where is all that care and concern you told me you have for your employees?”

  He opens his mouth to say something and closes it. “Pussy-whipped. That’s what I call it. He can’t stand up to the wife and he can’t stand up to you.”

  “And you just want to parade him around in front of the media like your pet dog.”