-1The apartment was dim; one solitary light shone in the living room. The stereo that usually played Sinatra and Martin albums on a seemingly infinite loop was silent. An open bottle of scotch occupied the coffee table.
Joe leaned back with a sigh, taking a generous sip from the glass in his hand. He had told the lieutenant that he would be able to sleep fine and that he was fine. The truth was that he couldn't sleep, and he was far from fine. Anita was right; watching a fourteen-year-old boy take his own life had horrible affects on a person. Joe had gone through the rest of his day in a disjointed state: his body was at work, but his mind was elsewhere. He kept seeing that young boy, kept watching him put the gun to his own temple and pull the trigger.
Van Buren had forced both him and Ed out the door at the end of the day. Green hadn't protested, but home was the last place Joe wanted to be. There were other people in the squad room, and at least he could be useful if he was working. At home, he would be alone with his thoughts. He finally left after the lieu had threatened to make him ride a desk.
He had been right about being in his apartment. He was alone, and it was far too quiet. His mood couldn't be soothed with music; the scotch wasn't helping, either. Joe was beginning to doubt himself--here, the scotch was helping. If he couldn't talk a fourteen-year-old down, what good was he as a detective?
Joe cast his eyes to the glass he held; it was empty. He reached for the bottle but decided against it and instead turned to the side table that stood next to the chair. Picking up the phone, he dialed a familiar number, waiting out the ringing a bit impatiently.
The other line clicked, and a soft voice met his ear. "Hello?"
"Liz? It's Joe…"
