had finally come to Hailey’s cramped, imprisoned little world. She squinted against the brilliance, her head suddenly aching; her brain rebelling at the infusion of clarity to her unknown reality. She shielded her eyes with a weakened arm so that she might become used to the new light.
It was when she finally dared remove the arm that she saw it, in all its perfect splendor—and it was then she began screaming uncontrollably. Memories of the night of her abduction stampeding back into her timid brain, crushing everything good and happy and hopeful in their path.
“The world was all before them,
where to choose
Their place of rest,
and Providence their guide:
They hand in hand
with wand’ring steps and slow,
Through Eden
took their solitary way.”
John Milton, Paradise Lost
1
I’D BEEN a cop for as long as I could remember, or at least it seemed that way most days. That was not a complaint. Detective Bobby Macaulay—Bobby Mac. I was born for this work; I’d no sooner have traded in my badge than I would my wife, my three little girls, or my son. And if it wasn’t part of who I was when I was born (many contended that very truth, half-kidding maybe)—either way it certainly defined me then. I’d always believed that all good cops felt that way—that being a cop was as fundamental to their core personality as anything else about them. As fundamental, actually, as their hair color or their height and weight.
It was in the DNA.
Whatever the truth happened to be, I counted myself fortunate to be one of the minorities in the world—those who woke up each morning excited to go to work. I loved my job. It was not about the money. I did not stare at my paycheck each month, willing the numbers to magically transform or for extra zeroes to appear. When I received the standard city wage increase, I didn’t smile or frown or say much one way or the other.
I was, in two words, completely fulfilled.
Churchill said, “Find a job you love and you’ll never work a day in your life.”
That was me.
The worst part of the job? You’d think the murder and mayhem; you’d think the death, blood, and gore. Sadly, you got used to that. You saw guys eating cheeseburgers while studying the ligature marks around an old woman’s throat. I know, it sounds horribly insensitive, as if these guys could not care less. I supposed there were people like that on the job: detectives who literally didn’t care one way or the other. Or had stopped caring, more likely. Oh hell, of course there were , because I knew some of them. But most I knew—the ones with cop in their DNA—the way they learned to cope was by shutting that part of their brain down. It was tougher than learning how to levitate, but that was the irony. Good cops actually cared so much that they had to do it; they had to go numb and desensitize themselves to the worst horrors imaginable because only then could they do their jobs.
What were our jobs?
We spoke for the dead; we spoke for them by finding who made them that way.
I couldn’t eat a cheeseburger at a crime scene. I’d never gotten used to that part of the horror, but I’d learned to cope in my own way. I had a place I put things in my head. Or my heart. At times it was hard to tell the two apart, especially as a Homicide detective. But that place, it had a very strong lock, and I made sure I was the only one with the combination.
Anyway, back to the part of the job that made it most difficult for me: the crackpots. My own personal stitch in the side as I ran the gauntlet. It seemed (to me, anyway) that there were people on this earth whose sole purpose in life was muddying waters that were already quite unclear to begin with. Shit disturbers, I called them. They were not simply a bane to the police department; they appeared in every place and in all walks of life.
The sad part of dealing with these individuals was that many had good hearts; a great number truly believed that the
It was when she finally dared remove the arm that she saw it, in all its perfect splendor—and it was then she began screaming uncontrollably. Memories of the night of her abduction stampeding back into her timid brain, crushing everything good and happy and hopeful in their path.
“The world was all before them,
where to choose
Their place of rest,
and Providence their guide:
They hand in hand
with wand’ring steps and slow,
Through Eden
took their solitary way.”
John Milton, Paradise Lost
1
I’D BEEN a cop for as long as I could remember, or at least it seemed that way most days. That was not a complaint. Detective Bobby Macaulay—Bobby Mac. I was born for this work; I’d no sooner have traded in my badge than I would my wife, my three little girls, or my son. And if it wasn’t part of who I was when I was born (many contended that very truth, half-kidding maybe)—either way it certainly defined me then. I’d always believed that all good cops felt that way—that being a cop was as fundamental to their core personality as anything else about them. As fundamental, actually, as their hair color or their height and weight.
It was in the DNA.
Whatever the truth happened to be, I counted myself fortunate to be one of the minorities in the world—those who woke up each morning excited to go to work. I loved my job. It was not about the money. I did not stare at my paycheck each month, willing the numbers to magically transform or for extra zeroes to appear. When I received the standard city wage increase, I didn’t smile or frown or say much one way or the other.
I was, in two words, completely fulfilled.
Churchill said, “Find a job you love and you’ll never work a day in your life.”
That was me.
The worst part of the job? You’d think the murder and mayhem; you’d think the death, blood, and gore. Sadly, you got used to that. You saw guys eating cheeseburgers while studying the ligature marks around an old woman’s throat. I know, it sounds horribly insensitive, as if these guys could not care less. I supposed there were people like that on the job: detectives who literally didn’t care one way or the other. Or had stopped caring, more likely. Oh hell, of course there were , because I knew some of them. But most I knew—the ones with cop in their DNA—the way they learned to cope was by shutting that part of their brain down. It was tougher than learning how to levitate, but that was the irony. Good cops actually cared so much that they had to do it; they had to go numb and desensitize themselves to the worst horrors imaginable because only then could they do their jobs.
What were our jobs?
We spoke for the dead; we spoke for them by finding who made them that way.
I couldn’t eat a cheeseburger at a crime scene. I’d never gotten used to that part of the horror, but I’d learned to cope in my own way. I had a place I put things in my head. Or my heart. At times it was hard to tell the two apart, especially as a Homicide detective. But that place, it had a very strong lock, and I made sure I was the only one with the combination.
Anyway, back to the part of the job that made it most difficult for me: the crackpots. My own personal stitch in the side as I ran the gauntlet. It seemed (to me, anyway) that there were people on this earth whose sole purpose in life was muddying waters that were already quite unclear to begin with. Shit disturbers, I called them. They were not simply a bane to the police department; they appeared in every place and in all walks of life.
The sad part of dealing with these individuals was that many had good hearts; a great number truly believed that the
Similar Books
A Date with Fate
Cathy Cole
The Dr Pepper Prophecies
Jennifer Gilby Roberts
Full Moon Feral
Jackie Nacht
In Death 17 - Imitation in Death
authors_sort
Between the Alps and a Hard Place
Angelo M. Codevilla
Matt Archer: Monster Summer
Kendra C. Highley
Wild Orchids
Karen Robards
TYCE 3
Shareef Jaudon
LOVING ELLIE
Lindsey Brookes
Target: Rabaul
Bruce Gamble