children.”
“I want to hear you say it,” Brooke said after a minute.
I stared at her, wide-eyed. Her features looked stark in the night-light, her eyes a void of shadow.
“What?” I said.
“I want to hear you say what happened to my husband. I appreciated your honesty before. The men will only try to protect my feelings. I need to know exactly what happened so I can try to deal with it. These kids need me to be able to deal with it.”
“We don’t really know yet, Brooke,” I said. “We found him shot in a park, St. James Park in the Bronx. It’s a known drug area.”
Her face contorted, her lips quivering. Her left eye began to twitch.
“Ooooooh! I knew it,” she finally said, nodding vigorously. “ ‘Undercover’s a promotion, Brooke. They always watch my back.’ Not always, huh, you goddamned idiot.”
I racked my brain about what to say next in the silence that followed. The walls seemed to move in on me. I needed to get out of there. Something ripe was starting to churn in my stomach. I had to have some air.
What would I normally say in an investigation I didn’t already know all too much about? I took out my notebook again.
“When was the last time you saw Scott?” I asked her, trying to act like a detective.
“He left around eight tonight. Said he had to go in for a few hours. He kept insane hours. Scotty was almost never home lately.”
“He didn’t say specifically where he was going, did he? Was there a phone call that preceded his departure?”
“Not that I can think of this second. No. I don’t remember any call.”
Brooke started bawling again all of a sudden.
“Oh, God. His poor mom and sister . . . they were so close. They’re going to be . . . I don’t think I could tell them. No, I . . . Could you? Detective . . . ?”
“Lauren.”
“Could you call her, Lauren? Scotty’s mom, I mean. Will you make the call?”
“Of course,” I said.
“Are you from his unit?”
“No,” I said. “I’m from Bronx Homicide.”
“Did you know Scotty?” she asked then.
In the silence, I listened to the splutter of Scott’s son greedily finishing his bottle.
“No,” I said. “We were out of the same precinct, but we never had the chance to work together.”
“I’m sorry about what happened with Taylor. My four-year-old,” Brooke said. “She doesn’t respond well to strangers. She’s autistic.”
I stood there, breathless.
That was it.
It.
The thing that finally took me over the top.
“I hope I didn’t frighten her,” I heard myself say as I nearly ran out of the room. “Could I use your bathroom?”
“Down the hall on your right.”
The vomit came up a foot or more before I made it to the toilet. I threw both taps on to cover the sound of more retching. And left them on to cover the tea kettle–high primal shrieks that escaped my throat.
I used the entire roll of toilet paper, cleaning up. I actually took out my gun as I sat on the pink-carpeted toilet lid. I wondered if the coroner would put Death by Guilt on my certificate. I finally put the gun away and went downstairs. Not because I didn’t want to kill myself anymore. I just thought that Brooke Thayer was having a bad enough night as it was.
In the kitchen, Mike offered to tell the mother.
“That’s okay, Mike,” I said, smiling insanely as I dialed the number from the open address book. “Why break precedent?”
I held the phone away from my ear after I told Scott’s mother that her son was dead. I eyed my partner across the kitchen as we listened to the agonized sounds coming from the earpiece.
Mike lifted a crayon-scribbled picture from underneath a
Blue’s Clues
magnet on the fridge and shook his head. One of the kids had drawn a two-headed dragon.
“You find the ones responsible,” Brooke said to me as we made our way to the door a few minutes later. The two-year-old boy was up now, too. He was attached to the leg that the four-year-old had neglected. The baby in
“I want to hear you say it,” Brooke said after a minute.
I stared at her, wide-eyed. Her features looked stark in the night-light, her eyes a void of shadow.
“What?” I said.
“I want to hear you say what happened to my husband. I appreciated your honesty before. The men will only try to protect my feelings. I need to know exactly what happened so I can try to deal with it. These kids need me to be able to deal with it.”
“We don’t really know yet, Brooke,” I said. “We found him shot in a park, St. James Park in the Bronx. It’s a known drug area.”
Her face contorted, her lips quivering. Her left eye began to twitch.
“Ooooooh! I knew it,” she finally said, nodding vigorously. “ ‘Undercover’s a promotion, Brooke. They always watch my back.’ Not always, huh, you goddamned idiot.”
I racked my brain about what to say next in the silence that followed. The walls seemed to move in on me. I needed to get out of there. Something ripe was starting to churn in my stomach. I had to have some air.
What would I normally say in an investigation I didn’t already know all too much about? I took out my notebook again.
“When was the last time you saw Scott?” I asked her, trying to act like a detective.
“He left around eight tonight. Said he had to go in for a few hours. He kept insane hours. Scotty was almost never home lately.”
“He didn’t say specifically where he was going, did he? Was there a phone call that preceded his departure?”
“Not that I can think of this second. No. I don’t remember any call.”
Brooke started bawling again all of a sudden.
“Oh, God. His poor mom and sister . . . they were so close. They’re going to be . . . I don’t think I could tell them. No, I . . . Could you? Detective . . . ?”
“Lauren.”
“Could you call her, Lauren? Scotty’s mom, I mean. Will you make the call?”
“Of course,” I said.
“Are you from his unit?”
“No,” I said. “I’m from Bronx Homicide.”
“Did you know Scotty?” she asked then.
In the silence, I listened to the splutter of Scott’s son greedily finishing his bottle.
“No,” I said. “We were out of the same precinct, but we never had the chance to work together.”
“I’m sorry about what happened with Taylor. My four-year-old,” Brooke said. “She doesn’t respond well to strangers. She’s autistic.”
I stood there, breathless.
That was it.
It.
The thing that finally took me over the top.
“I hope I didn’t frighten her,” I heard myself say as I nearly ran out of the room. “Could I use your bathroom?”
“Down the hall on your right.”
The vomit came up a foot or more before I made it to the toilet. I threw both taps on to cover the sound of more retching. And left them on to cover the tea kettle–high primal shrieks that escaped my throat.
I used the entire roll of toilet paper, cleaning up. I actually took out my gun as I sat on the pink-carpeted toilet lid. I wondered if the coroner would put Death by Guilt on my certificate. I finally put the gun away and went downstairs. Not because I didn’t want to kill myself anymore. I just thought that Brooke Thayer was having a bad enough night as it was.
In the kitchen, Mike offered to tell the mother.
“That’s okay, Mike,” I said, smiling insanely as I dialed the number from the open address book. “Why break precedent?”
I held the phone away from my ear after I told Scott’s mother that her son was dead. I eyed my partner across the kitchen as we listened to the agonized sounds coming from the earpiece.
Mike lifted a crayon-scribbled picture from underneath a
Blue’s Clues
magnet on the fridge and shook his head. One of the kids had drawn a two-headed dragon.
“You find the ones responsible,” Brooke said to me as we made our way to the door a few minutes later. The two-year-old boy was up now, too. He was attached to the leg that the four-year-old had neglected. The baby in
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