Burying Ben (38 page)

Our problem
is solved, and Baxter can
’
t wait to show
m
e. He asks
m
e to please come to his office right now. Evidently, I’m no longer
persona non grata
. He
’
ll even send a
car for
m
e, if I
want one, which I don
’
t, having barely drunk half a glass of wine. “
O
ur” proble
m
, he had said. I feel im
m
ense relief to hear him
finally take responsibili
t
y, show
so
m
e ownership for this
m
ess that I’m in.

A new desk officer buzzes
m
e in. I wonder where Eddie is. I take the elevator up. Mahogany row is deserted, and
m
ost of the office doors are closed. From
so
m
e
where in the building, I hear soft laughte
r
.

Manny is sitting in a chair n
e
xt to the coffee table in the chief
’
s office. He is leaning on his knees with his head in his hands. He doesn
’
t look at
m
e. The ch
i
ef is in his shirt slee
v
es, his shoulder holster on display.

”An a
m
azing thing happened, Dot. I ca
m
e into the office to do so
m
e work. I get more done at night when it
’
s quiet.
A
nd who do I find in
m
y office, at
m
y desk, on
m
y co
m
puter, but Officer Ochoa?
W
hat, I wonder, could he be doing
? Y
ou, of course, know the answer.”

Manny looks up. “I was just looking for a quiet
p
l
ace to write a report.”

“Shut up.” Baxter picks up a
plastic disc holder from
his
desk and waves it at
m
e. “File recovery utility,” he reads off the
box.
“Where have I heard that before
?
”

“It
’
s
m
ine. She has nothing to do
with it. I ca
m
e on
m
y own.”

Baxter whirls towards him. “Speak when spoken to. That
’
s an order.”

Manny lowers his head to his hands again. I can
’
t look at hi
m
.

“Chivalrous, isn
’
t he?
Impressionable. Open to influence.
W
h
at did you pro
m
ise hi
m
?
You’re really so
m
ething, you know
that. Eddie
’
s on his way out, than
k
s to you, and now you
’
ve done it again.”

He leans against his desk and dru
m
s his fingers on the disc case. He looks like a child about
to gleefully incinerate so
m
e insects under a
m
agnifying glass.

“
W
hat do you want?”

“Sa
m
e as before. Quit hounding
m
e.”

“If I don
’
t?”

“This pro
m
ising young officer will lose
his job. R
e
m
e
m
ber, he
’
s still on probation. I don
’
t need a reason to fire hi
m
. Plu
s
, it would be unethical of
m
e not to tell any prospective e
m
ployers that he hacked into
m
y co
m
puter seeking access to confidential
personnel
records.
T
h
at
’
s against the law. The
c
ity attorney
m
a
y ask
m
e to press charges.”

“Fine. You have a deal.”

“That
’
s it?
N
o questions?”

“No questions.”

Baxter takes his gun out of
his shoulder holster and s
m
ashes the co
m
puter disc with the ha
n
dle, splitting
it in
h
al
f
. He puts t
h
e t
w
o halves b
ac
k into t
h
e c
a
rrying
c
ase
a
nd hands it to Manny.

“You’re dis
m
i
ssed. For the ti
m
e being.”

“
W
hat about
m
e
?
”

“Do whatever you want after you leave the building. R
e
m
e
m
b
er?
You don’t work here any
m
ore.”

I follow Manny down the hall to the ele
v
ator. He won
’
t look at
m
e.

“I am so sorry. I wish you hadn
’
t done this.”

He is red-faced, staring
at his shoes.

“The file was on three compu
t
ers, the chief
’
s, his secretary
’
s and the co
m
p
uter in personnel
and
training.
Whoever
made the changes did it in
the chief
’
s office at 1:00 a.m.”

“Manny, please. Stay out of this. It
’
s my proble
m
. You
’
ll ruin your career.”

“I already have,” he says as he takes the stai
r
s, l
e
aving
m
e to wait alo
n
e
f
or the elevator.

Chapter Thirty Eight

I t
a
lk to
m
yself
in the
c
ar
on the way ho
m
e. Giving up is a small
p
rice to
p
ay if
it sa
v
es Manny
’
s career. I
’
ve had doubts about working for the Kenilworth police
f
r
om
the beginning. If I hadn
’
t been in such a hurry to
get away from
Mark, I
m
ight have thought twice about taking the contract.
Things were easier when I sat in an office writing books or doing assess
m
ents of virtual strangers,
no involve
m
ent, no on-going relationships, no responsibility for anyone’s future. Just interesting conversations. I don
’
t belong in this cop world, not with
m
y fa
m
ily background. I don
’
t trust cops and they don
’
t trust
m
e, especially not now after what’s h
a
ppened to Ben, Eddie and Manny.

I uncork the bottle of Pinot Noir. It
’
s 2:00 a.m., too early or too late for a drink. I don
’
t care. I toast
m
yself. This is an opportunity to do so
m
ething different, find work where people are happy to see
m
e co
m
i
ng. Work that doesn’t give
m
e night
m
ares. I could sell flowe
r
s or work as a greeter in Ho
m
e Depot. I take a sip of wine. It
’
s lovely. A da
m
n sight better than the Two Bu
c
k Chuck of my future.

I take
m
y yellow pad into the living room
and start to
m
ake a li
s
t of
all the possible jobs I
m
i
ght want. I can’t concentrate.
All I can think of is Manny, desolate, slu
m
ped against the wall in Baxter
’
s office. How can he work with the threat of dis
m
issal hanging over his head? How safe w
i
ll he be if
he
’
s worried and distracted? The s
m
art thing for
m
e
to do is to look the other way, cut my losses, and
m
ove on, like Gary’s been telling
m
e to do.

But I can
’
t. I’m having trouble living with myself after
B
en
’
s death. How could I live with
m
yself
if I abandon Manny too?
He hasn
’
t
done
anything wrong. He
’
s only a
pawn in the power struggle between
m
e and the chief. And what about Eddie, drunk, depressed,
m
aybe suicidal?

I start another list, a catalogue of recent events. I’ve spent years doing research and assess
m
ents, organizing and capturing c
o
m
plex infor
m
ation about people on paper. Why can
’
t
I do the sa
m
e about
m
y own life?
B
y 3:30, I
’
ve covered four pages with notes, and I
’
m having trouble keeping
m
y eyes open.

I
m
ake a pot of coffee. It takes three cups for
m
e to feel half a
w
ake. I should go to bed, but every ti
m
e I think of Manny, my sto
m
ach skids sideways. So
m
ething’s
m
i
ssing. L
i
ke a lost na
m
e, it hov
e
rs at the edge of my conscio
u
sness. I look
at
m
y notes. Melin
d
a did
Ben
’
s assess
m
ent. I accept that now. And, altho
u
gh I hate to ad
m
it it, she did a dece
n
t job. I’m
still not sure that Mark
d
i
dn
’
t take Belle
P
atcher
’
s
m
oney to change the r
e
commendation. But if he didn’t take it, who did?

“
W
ant to find the corrupt bastards
?
” my father used to say, “
F
ollow the
m
oney.”

I nap for three hours and call a psychologist friend who works in the
m
ental health clinic at Kenilwo
r
th Community Hospital. I
tell her a client of
m
ine has been a
d
m
itted to the hospit
a
l a
f
t
e
r a sui
c
ide
at
te
m
pt and her ca
s
e
has been taken over by a psychiatrist.
W
e com
m
iserate about how psychiatrists never return phone calls, especially to psychologists who want to follow their own clients in the hospital. She checks on Belle Patcher
’
s current status and tells
m
e she
’
s been moved
to t
h
e Prescott
R
eside
n
ti
a
l Center
f
or the treat
m
ent
of
depression.

Prescott Residential Center is a hybrid facility, part psychia
t
ric hospital, part spa. I pull into the parking lot, the lone
Honda amongst a herd of Mer
c
edes and BMWs. Lush landscaping surrounds fountains,
m
in
i
ature waterfalls, teak bench
e
s and koi filled ponds. All artfully arranged into pictu
r
e-perfect niches of tranqui
l
ity and conte
m
plation. At the mo
m
ent, no one is partaking of such beauty, sa
v
e
the gar
d
en
e
rs.

The lobby rivals a four-star hotel. Marble floors and colu
m
ns, a pla
n
t filled atriu
m
and vases of silk flowers as tall as I a
m
. The young wo
m
an behind the front desk is reading a
m
agazine. I drill
m
y fingers on the
m
arble counter top to get her a
t
tention. She tells
m
e that all the residents — appare
n
tly
s
he has been instr
u
cted
n
ot to
call them patients—are in OT, occupational therapy. She asks the na
m
e of the resident I want to visit, checks her computer and in
f
or
m
s
m
e that th
e
r
e
’
s
o
nly one name on the list of
per
m
itted
visit
o
rs.

”I’m
Belle’s sister. I’ve just flown in from
out of town. She doesn’t know
that I know she’s in here,” I whisper. “I just want to give her a hug. I won’t be but a
m
i
nute.”

The young wo
m
an
s
m
iles unenthusiastically.
“You still have to be on the list.”

“Ten
m
i
nutes, that’s all I want. I’ve
b
een up all night on the red eye. I just want her to know I’m
here. Her husband begged
m
e to co
m
e. Said it would cheer her up enor
m
ously.”

Cheering up a depressed person is
ill-advised,
m
akes
th
e
m
feel as though no one understands the stran
g
lehold depress
i
on
h
as on their lives.

“Ten minutes. Please?” My eyeballs
bulge with tears.
I am
not
f
eigning this. I’m
exhausted and
m
aybe a little hung over.

”
W
hat’s your na
m
e
?
”

“April.”

She glances at the co
m
p
uter s
c
reen
a
nd tells
m
e to wait in the
seating ar
e
a
to
m
y right. I sink into a glove leath
e
r sofa. There is a pile of
brochures on the bamboo coffee table in front of
m
e. The Prescott
R
esid
en
ti
a
l Center
d
esc
ri
bes itself as a renowned treat
m
ent f
a
cility with exceptional acc
o
mmodations. There are photos of contented people in deep conversation. Not a depressive or
a psychotic in the crowd. No
m
ention of locked
facilities,
res
t
raints, suicide
w
atches or even
m
edication.

I can’t tell the patients from
the staff. No one w
e
ars a uniform. There is
a li
s
t of
activities av
a
il
a
ble to resi
de
nts: tennis,
swi
mm
i
ng,
m
ass
a
ge,
gardening,
m
edit
a
tion and yoga. I’m
t
e
m
pted to have a
m
eltdown
a
nd check
m
y
self in. I wonder how
much it would cost.

There is so
m
ething about the
pl
ace that ree
k
s of exploitation. V
i
nnie Patcher tr
yi
ng to buy off his guilt,
B
elle
m
aking h
i
m
pay for his abuse. A door bangs open behind
m
e and Belle b
u
rsts around the corner with her wobbly gait. She’s wearing her silk jogging suit and her hair has been freshly per
m
ed. A leather handbag da
n
gles from
h
e
r ar
m
. Her face is lit up like a c
h
ild
u
ntil s
h
e sees
m
e. Then she colla
p
ses i
n
to a tantru
m
, s
w
inging at
m
e with her purse,
kicking
m
e in the legs. The rece
p
tionist looks at us in alar
m
.