Are They Forever Lost?

Carthage PD

8.15 am Saturday 2 December 2006

"So what you're telling us, Trooper, is that McMillans have a long history of problems with law enforcement?" McCoy said. He leafed through the stack of files in front of him. Regan studied her hands folded in her lap, not wanting to catch an I-told-you-so smirk on McCoy's face. Yeah, yeah, she thought. The McMillan's are Carthage's answer to trailer trash.

She could have guessed that without leaving the city. She'd seen it on Timmy McMillan, clinging to him like the smell of stale cigarette smoke, the aura of a lifetime loserdom. White bread and cheese wiz sandwiches every day of his childhood. Parents who drink – or more. Raised himself, or raised by his older brothers and sisters – which would have been worse, basically about on a par with being raised by wolves.

Oh, yeah. Regan knew Timmy McMillan before he even opened his mouth.

"Oh, I'm sure it's nothing by big-city standards," Trooper Harris said. "But around here, if something's smashed up or stole or you know, there's some kind of trouble, it's usually the McMillans at the bottom of it."

Know that story too, Regan thought. Police turning up at the door, time after time. Whatever's been done, round up the usual suspects – the white-trash, low-rent, welfare-sucking usual suspects.

Her stomach tightened with acid. Black coffee breakfast. Should have added a Mylanta chaser.

"Looks like just about every member of this family has done some time, at one point or another," McCoy said.

"Oh, yeah," Harris said. " Timmy was no exception. He did three months in juvenile hall for stealing a car and smashing it up, then he got some more time when he got caught with marijuana in phys ed, then there was the shoplifting – "

"Just back up a little," Regan said, looking up from her hands. "He went inside for being busted with weed in gym class? What kind of judges do you guys get up here?"

"And what kind of gym teachers?" McCoy asked with a grin.

Harris shook his head. "He was busted with three kilos in his sports bag. He was dealing."

"In gym class. Sounds like a model citizen," McCoy said with a sidelong glance at Regan.

"History of violence?" Regan asked. "In Tim McMillan? Or his family?"

"Sure," Harris said, and shrugged. "Usual stuff. Like, for example, one time his older brother Dave and a couple of friends started arguing in the store over who owed who a pack of cigarettes. Arguing became shoving, someone threw a punch. Timmy came to his brother's rescue, all four of them ended up in hospital and the store was pretty well trashed."

Regan avoided catching McCoy's eye. He'd made it clear he was humouring her with this half-assed investigation into Timmy McMillan's past from the beginning: now, after a six hour drive, a fifteen minute conversation they could have done on the phone had made it clear it was a wild goose chase. She spoke to Harris instead. "So you've heard about the charges down in New York City?"

"That poor girl? I have." Harris shook his head. "It's a terrible world out there. I suppose if anyone from Carthage were going to get mixed up in something like that, it would be one of the McMillans. They just start out wrong and get worse."

"Because of their family … " Regan said.

"Good fruit can't grow in bad soil," Harris said.

"We're not all destined to turn into our parents," McCoy said, seconds before Regan could express similar sentiments. She was surprised – by the words, and by the harshness of his voice. She turned to look at him and saw him staring Trooper Harris down with something like defiance.

"No, sir, Mr McCoy," Harris said placatingly. "I just mean, it does seem sometimes with that family that we'd save time taking them straight from the birth ward to juvenile hall. Still, we never had nothing around here like they did to that poor girl. Just goes to show, you never do know."

McCoy looked up sharply. "What do you mean?"

"Well, I never would have said Timmy McMillan could do something like that. He's never been any good, for sure, but what they did to that girl … he's not some kind of psycho killer. Or I would have said that he wasn't." Harris shrugged. "Like I said, you never can tell."

McCoy looked down at the files in front of him, and flipped them shut. "Maybe we should talk to some of the people around here who knew him." Regan had been ready for him to thank Harris and suggest they head back to the city and she turned in her seat in surprise. McCoy shrugged. "Since we're up here."

"Yeah," Regan said. She tried to look professional and indifferent but she could feel the smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. "Since we are."

"I can give you a list of names, some addresses. The McMillans live out near the cemetery – " Of course they do, Regan thought. "And I wouldn't go out there on your own, if I were you. I hafta go and do a couple of things this morning – I'm supposed to be off – but I can meet you later at lunch time, maybe with some of the guys, and take you over there. And most other people you'd want to talk to, they're okay."

"Okay," McCoy said. "Why don't you give us those names, and tell us where and when you want to meet."

Harris started writing. Regan leaned back in the uncomfortable wooden chair, which seemed to have the same collection of splinters and sharp edges that every piece of furniture in every police station accumulated within days of being unpacked. She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. She'd slept badly. Nothing new. Her nap in the car had been the deepest, sweetest sleep since they'd closed the Mary Firienze case.

Nothing new, but this past week her grinding fatigue was worse than it had been in years. Healing. Healing takes it out of you.

Her bruises – including the bad ones she couldn't remember receiving, the ones on her side and legs in the shape of boot prints – had deepened to indigo and in places were beginning to turn green. The scabs on her face were beginning to flake at the edges. A few more weeks and she'd be good as new, or close to. Or as close to good as new as I can aspire to be, these days.

The wave of self-pity that washed over her brought tears to Regan's eyes.

Just as she knew her exhaustion was the physiological aftermath of the damage Walters had done, Regan knew her easy tears were nothing more than an emotional response to her body's trauma. Meaningless. Just a physical reflex. She hunched away from McCoy and wiped them away quickly. It all takes time. Nothing but time.

Time. Time had smoothed some of the rough edges away from Seattle, had left her able to say I used to be a cop. Yeah, I got shot. There was this guy, so I transferred to highway. Time would do the same with what had happened last week, until she could say Yeah, there was this guy who jumped me, tied me up.

Except the problem was that as Regan had strangled slowly in the alley, the time between then and now, between Seattle and New York, had disappeared, and now the smooth edges were jagged and Regan's nightmares came when she was wide awake.

"I drew maps," Harris said, and Regan opened her eyes to see his handing his list of names and addresses to McCoy. "Some of those places are hard to find."

"That's great," McCoy told him. "Now, is there somewhere near here that does a good breakfast?"

"Sunny's Diner, on the corner two blocks down," Harris said. "Show your badge and Lorraine will give you a discount."

"You hungry?" McCoy asked Regan.

"I'm okay," she said.

"Well," McCoy, "I'm starved. Come on." He stood up and held out his hand to Regan. For a second, she looked blankly at it, trying to work out what he wanted her to give him, and then she realised. My hand. He wants me to give him my hand.

She let him pull her to her feet. When her cramped legs wouldn't support her immediately, McCoy put his hand under her elbow to steady her, taking her weight easily. Regan leaned on him for a moment, the feel of his strong grip subtly reassuring. She looked up at him, expecting a sarcastic remark, but McCoy's eyes held only patience.

"Some food might do both of us good," he said quietly.

"Okay," Regan said. Her knees steadied, but she didn't hurry to pull away. "Okay, Sunny's Diner it is."

.oOo.