Slogging Forward
Setting: "Waiting to Exhale"


We left the crime scene soon after the coroner drove away with Eva Arenas' body, as the techs were washing her blood down a storm drain. Batista sat in heavy silence the whole way back to the station, and I didn't really make much of an effort at conversation. Because while I sympathize with what he's feeling, a lot of me— selfishly, obsessively —still can't stop thinking about the bodies they're pulling out of the ocean up north. About the murderer they're calling the Bay Harbor Butcher. About whether or not this is just the Ice Truck Killer resurfacing.

Now we're all gathered in the briefing room, the paperwork on Rafael Arenas and Chino and everyone and everything we know about the 29th Street Kings spread all over the table. Ramos is still with Eva's daughter and the DCF. Pascal is out, either off duty or back dealing with the Bay Harbor bodies, I don't know. I'm surprised she isn't here, and that she left this case to LaGuerta. The mother of a murder victim gets whacked the day after her son in connection to a gangbanger who's so far avoided prosecution? Accusations about our department's relationship with the Hispanic community aside, I'm sure I'm not the only one smelling the shitstorm building on the horizon.

"We should've held him," Batista says suddenly, setting down the paper he's been reading. "We could've prevented this."

"We offered her protection," Doakes says gruffly. "And she refused."

"Yeah, well, I wouldn't have been too happy about accepting our help either after we told her we didn't have enough to arrest the prick who killed her son."

"Of course she was unhappy. But that didn't change the fact that she couldn't have given us grounds to hold him. And we couldn't force her to accept our protection."

He taps his highlighter on the table. "You don't feel we're even a little responsible for this?"

"Of course I do." He closes the folder he's been looking at, pulls another one off the stack by his elbow. "But what the fuck else were we supposed to do?"

"I don't know. Something."

"Alright," LaGuerta says, holding up a hand as Doakes looks up to glare at Batista. "Enough. What's done is done. The best we can do for her now is to clean up this mess and find something that'll finally put Chino away."

As if anyone's going to talk to us now, I think, flipping through Rafael's autopsy report again. Or ever would have.

Assuming what Eva said was true, Chino picked up Rafael Sunday night, stabbed the shit out of him— possibly with help, but probably not —then dumped him under the causeway. None of the Arenas' neighbors saw Chino in the neighborhood, that night or any other night. They have no idea who he is, despite the fact that he and the 29th Street Kings have been grinding the shit out of East Kendall for about a decade now.

The next day Eva gets shredded or dumped or whatever happened to her right in front of her own house, just a couple yards from her front door, but no one saw or heard anything. In fact, it's our fault. The same way it somehow always is.

I stare at the marks the coroner drew over the generic body outline on the autopsy sheet, picture the bloody hack marks all over his and Eva's body.

Though Batista may be right about this one.

I'm reaching for my big gulp of Diet Coke when there's a knock on the glass behind us. I let go of the cup and turn to see Dexter standing there, a couple folders in his hand.

"I've got my preliminary report here," he says as he comes in, waggling one of the folders. "And Masuka's." He gestures with the other.

"Cliffnotes?" LaGuerta asks, taking Masuka's.

He shrugs, handing me his blood report. "The wounds are consistent with a machete. Judging by the lack of blood at the scene, I don't think she was killed where she was found. Probably looking at another dump job."

"Wonderful," I murmur, leafing through the glossy, horrible pictures. After flipping through half of them, I pass the folder over to Batista, having no real desire to see the rest.

"Doesn't look like Masuka's found anything yet," LaGuerta says, folding over a page as she skims.

"Yeah, I don't think so," Dexter says.

She sighs and leans back in her chair.

"He said he'd be by in a few minutes. But if there's nothing else, I thought I'd get going."

"Yeah, go ahead." She waves him off. "Good night, Dexter."

He nods. "Good night, Lieutenant. Everyone."

"Night," Batista echos. I think I hear Doakes grunt.

"See you later, bro," I say.

With another nod he turns, disappears down the hall. I pick up my Coke again.

For a few moments it's just quiet, as I sip my drink and the other cops flip through the paper my brother just delivered. Then LaGuerta sets down Masuka's report and closes it. "Not that I expected forensics to hand us a break on this," she says, as if to conclude some nonexistent conversation.

Before if I can decide whether or not I care about seeing what Masuka wrote up, Doakes reaches for the folder.

"So we've got nothing?" I ask.

She shakes her head. "Tomorrow we're going to have to recanvas the neighborhood. Hopefully we can find someone willing to talk to us before we find Chino."

Yeah, fat fucking chance.

I don't voice the thought.

"For now let's call it a night," she continues. "Thanks for all your hard work today."

Doakes shuts Masuka's report, pushes to his feet. "What a fucking mess," he growls.

"That's for fucking sure," I say, getting up too and stretching my back.

"I'll clean up," LaGuerta says to Batista as he starts shuffling the paper on the desk. "Don't worry about."

"Alright," he says, shrugging and getting up.

"Morgan," LaGuerta stops me as I grab my cup and move to follow Doakes to the door. "Can you stay a minute? I need to talk to you."

Doakes, Batista, and I exchange glances before I look over at LaGuerta, who's still sitting at the table, neatly tapping a stack of papers into order. "Yeah, sure," I say. For one brief, naive second I'm not sure what this is about, but by the next I remember the assault at the bar. As the two other cops head for the exit, I feel my stomach sinking.

"Would you mind closing the door?" she asks, to no one in particular. Doakes is already walking into the hall.

"Yeah," Batista says. He nudges the door stop out, catches the door with his hand. He glances at me curiously before he steps out and lets it shut quietly behind him.

Trapped, alone now with the leviathan, I turn to face her. "I'm guessing this is about the fight last night?" I ask wearily and without preemption, before she can sink her teeth into me.

"You guessed right," she gestures in front of her. "Sit down, please."

Swallowing the lump that's suddenly appeared in my throat, I set my cup back down, go to reclaim my seat.

She waits until I've settled before she speaks again. "Tell me what happened," she says.

I feel a flush of shame. "It was just a misunderstanding," I hedge.

"So explain it."

For a beat I just look at her. I can only assume she's read the incident report, so any whitewashing would just be handing her a shovel to deepen my grave. "I was at the bar waiting for a drink," I say. "This guy, O'Bannon, he said he recognized me from somewhere, tried to get my attention. When I ignored him he touched me, and I hit him. It was just a reflex."

Her face is completely impassive. "How did he touch you?" she asks.

Another flush, this one warmer. With a rush of self-hatred, I tap the spot with my fingers. "He touched my arm," I say.

She nods. "I read Officer Moyse's report. He said you apologized and, after learning more about your circumstances, Mr. O'Bannon agreed not to press charges."

"That's what happened," I say. And then I don't say anything else.

LaGuerta studies me for a bit. "Do you want to talk about it?"

I shrug. "It was a mistake. I just… reacted. He had no right to touch me."

"No one's saying he did. But that doesn't make your reaction appropriate, especially as a peace officer."

"No, it doesn't." I look away, down at the half-organized spread of reports. "I feel like shit about it."

Another pause. Then, "Are you sure you don't need more time?"

"Yes." I meet her gaze again. "I need to be here. I need to work."

Her eyes harden. "What I'm hearing is you still need time to work through what happened to you. I'm not convinced that it's appropriate or safe for you to do that here, with a badge and a firearm."

I feel that hatred pound through me, toward myself, and toward her. It strangles my response in my throat.

"What if you'd been armed at that bar? What happens if you 'react' to somebody in the community while you're on the job?"

I was armed last night, and thank the sweet baby jesus she doesn't know that.

"I have a responsibility to keep the people in the community and the people in my department safe, Morgan, and that includes you," she continues. "Tell me why I shouldn't recommend to Pascal that you be taken off active duty."

"I…" I falter. Because I need this. "Because it was a mistake." I need to be here.

She searches me. "That's all you have to say?"

Don't take this away from me.

"No." I desperately want to get up and away from her. "I don't know what I can say. I passed the psych screen and the department shrink agreed I was ready to come back. I can only promise that nothing like this will ever happen again."

"You understand why that isn't enough to convince me?"

Fear is chewing into the rage and shame seething through me. Don't let him take this from me too. "I do understand, Lieutenant." I fight to maintain even the vaguest wisp of professionalism. "But I can't prove to you that something won't happen. I'm asking you to have some faith in me."

She says nothing for what feels like minutes, or eons, though really it's probably just a few seconds. "I want you to come in a little early tomorrow to meet with Lieutenant Pascal and I so we can talk about this more," she says finally. "Ultimately, this decision is up to her."

Thank god. "Alright," I say. "I'll be here."

She lets another beat pass, but something in her expression seems to soften as she leans slightly forward. "I want you to understand that I'm not trying to minimize what happened to you. If anything, I'm worried that that's what you're doing by coming back here so soon."

I clamp down on all that hatred, try to imagine crushing it into a ball. Try to think of something cogent to say. "Respectfully, Lieutenant, I think it's time for me to move on," is what I come up with. "I'm not gonna be able to do that with more time off. At least here I can get some distance."

For awhile she says nothing, maybe because she's waiting for me to continue, but the reality is I don't think I can trust her with much more. I've probably already said too much. "Alright," she says finally. "Well, I'll see you tomorrow."

"Bright and early," I say, quickly pushing to my feet. I pause before fleeing for the door, look down at her. I almost want to say something else, maybe thank her for her rare show of concern, or maybe make one last stab at convincing her that I'm not halfway off the deep end. But instead I just say, "Good night."

"Good night," she replies, already going back to organizing paper.

Without another word, I grab my Coke and wheel around, head for the exit. Before the door's shut behind me, I've already reached my desk. Batista's the only other one still in the pen, doing something on his computer. My brother's station is dark, but Masuka's still there, also sitting behind his computer. I ignore both their glances as I set my cup down and move behind my desk, reach for the drawer where I stashed my purse. Smoke. Want a smoke. Need a smoke.

I'm drawn short by a blinking light on my landline. And even though I know I need to get the hell out of here, I reach for the receiver, tap the code to get into my voicemail.

"Hello, this is Eric Hernandez," a tinny voice buzzes in my ear. I sink into my chair, my heart thumping dully. "I got your message about my sister, Eva Arenas. If you could please call me back, I'll be home all night. I don't know if you have my cell phone, but it's 706-555-0119. In case I don't answer or something. Thanks."

I grab a pencil and scribble the number onto the nearest pad of paper.

"End of messages."

I let the receiver droop for a second, already kind of forgetting what I was doing a couple seconds ago as I play the message back in my head. I left a message for this guy, Eva's brother, a few hours ago. For some reason I volunteered to be the one to notify. Probably because I'm a fucking idiot.

I set the phone back in the cradle, start digging around the sea of random crap that's already somehow managed to accumulate on my desk for the notepad where I wrote the original number. I'll try that one first.

"Hey, Morgan," Masuka says as I finally find the stupid thing. I look up to see him standing next to my desk, a small bag slung over his shoulder.

"Hi, Vince," I say, dropping the pad on top of the mess.

"Angel and I are going out for drinks. Wanna join?"

My first impulse is to refuse, and I open my mouth to do it, but change my mind before I've said anything. "Yeah," I amend. "But can you wait a few minutes? There's something I've gotta do."

"I can wait," Batista chimes in from his desk. I glance over at him.

"Cool," Masuka says, then starts grinning. "There's always someone on the internet eagerly waiting for me to pass the time with."

I grimace at him. "Don't make me regret my decision."

Wiggling his eyebrows, he turns around, goes back to his hole. The second he does I remember what I've got to do, and I find myself staring down at the number. Just for a second.

But it has to be done. One last thing, one of the few things I can do for Eva Arenas.

Even if it does fucking suck.

Exhaling, I reach for the receiver, start dialing.