Dobey:
I figured it out when I was a kid: nobody just "goes" to the hospital.
My great-uncle Lucius worked in the rail yard. One night in the summer of 1938, my mother came into the kitchen and said, "We have to go to the hospital." I'd hardly ever heard anyone mention the hospital, and I had no idea what we would do there, but I hoped it might be fun, like when she would say, "We have to go to the store", or "Let's go to the movies". Except I could see she'd been crying. What we did at the hospital was sit in really uncomfortable chairs on and off for a few days until great-uncle Lucius finally died. During that time, I saw a lot of people come and go, but none of them were having fun. They were mostly crying and/or praying, just like my relatives. Just like me.
That's when I figured it out: the main reason you go to a hospital is because you or someone you know is sick, injured, dying, or . . . dead.
Since then, I've always disliked hospitals. Right now, I hate this one.
It feels like I've spent more than my share of time here at Memorial during my years on the force. Of course, I know it's not just me. Cops can spend a lot of time here for any number of reasons. Sometimes there are victims' statements to take; sometimes there are prisoners or witnesses to be protected; sometimes there are fellow cops . . .
I don't know how long I've been sitting here. Feels like days. They call this the waiting room for a reason. We're all waiting for something: information, confirmation, hope, pain. I must look bad, because a woman who's been sitting on the other side of the room comes over and asks me if I'm all right. Jesus, what a stupid question. Is anyone in this room "all right"? I don't think it's any of her business, but I manage to be polite and tell her I'm fine. She smiles sadly and pats my hand and goes back to her seat. Thank God.
I look around the waiting room and see that more beat cops have showed up. Bernie Glassman's eyes are red and wet, and the face of his rookie partner, Joey Spring-something, is some sick shade of pale green. They look at me, but they don't say anything. That's good, because I don't want to talk. Not now. Not yet.
The door opens, and Huggy Bear walks in. He drops into the empty chair next to me but doesn't say anything. I don't look at him, and I can feel him staring at me with those liquid eyes of his.
"Captain?"
I don't answer. I don't want to talk.
"Captain, are they here yet?"
Not even to Huggy.
"Harold?"
That does it. I feel tears sliding down my cheeks and spilling onto my suit coat, and I'm really angry at him for making me cry.
I manage to keen my voice even. "No, the ambulances are still a few minutes out. The nurse told me to wait here." Of course she did, it's the waiting room. This is where I've spent what now seems like an eternity waiting, tonight and over the years. Why don't they just put my name on this fucking chair? I really don't want to talk.
"Thanks for calling me."
Why won't he just shut up? Suddenly it's all too much, and I'm furious, and I can't hide it. "Why do those two always have to go around like Batman and Robin, trying to save the world? Why didn't they go to The Pits? Why didn't they just go home?!"
Huggy's voice cracks. "I tried to stop them, Captain; I really did, but. . ."
"What?" Now I look at him and see the anguish in his eyes. Oh, my God.
"Joe Collandra called The Pits looking for them to warn them. I tried . . ." He shakes his head, and now he's crying.
I put a hand on his arm, and for a while we just sit in silence amid the ever-growing sea of blue uniforms. Maybe it's time to retire. I don't think I can do this anymore.
