The Hopkins Case – Chapter Twelve

For the fourth day in a row Tim slipped in late. He and Miljana had some catching up to do. If it had been Raylan no one would have noticed – a late cowboy was a common occurrence. But a late soldier wasn't. Tim was part of everyone's morning routine and his tardiness had the office alternating between mumbling about possible signs of a coming apocalypse and grumbling about Nelson's coffee making skills.

Tim tried to avoid eye contact with Art when he walked past him to his desk. Art had strategically chosen a spot to stand, just far enough from the corner of Tim's desk that if Tim tried to walk behind his boss to get to his chair it would look like he was being evasive, but walking in front put them so close together that a confrontation was inevitable. And Art had prepared for the inevitable. He was resplendent in shades of annoyed – baleful glare, arms crossed tightly, lips disappearing in a scowl.

"Rachel," Art called out as Tim attempted to slink past.

The wayward Deputy stopped in anticipation of some sarcasm.

"Let me guess," she replied, walking over to stand with him, "take Tim with me?"

"How did you know what I was going to say?"

"You've only said it the last three days," Tim muttered then continued to his desk.

Art ignored the remark, asked Rachel, "Since when is Tim ever late?" then, not waiting for a reply, "I guess his girlfriend forgave him," then, "I'll bet it's that psychologist, isn't it?"

Tim ignored the baiting.

Art had said it all casually enough but Tim caught him looking sideways at Rachel, clearly hoping she'd give something away since Tim wasn't cooperating.

"You really think I'm not savvy to your interrogation techniques by now?" she replied smirking with Tim but keeping her receiver tuned to her boss. She smiled and added, "You know, Chief, you're too smart to be a man."

Art frowned. "I'm not sure how to take that."

Tim grinned at the back and forth, played it cool. "Sorry I'm late," he said. "What'd I miss?"

"Not much. Santa was in giving away winning lottery tickets. Oh, and don't get comfortable," Art said, after blithely watching Tim do just that. "You're going to Trimble with Rachel."

Tim turned off his computer and stood up. He looked at Art patiently, accepting the punishment, asked, "Trimble? What's in Trimble?"

Art slapped Tim's question aside with one of his own. "Isn't it against the law or something to sleep with your psychiatrist?"

That wiped the grin off Tim's face and tripped him into honesty. "She's a psychologist not a psychiatrist." Tim let his eyes glide from his boss to Rachel – all innocence on her face – then back trying to discover how Art knew.

"What's the difference?" Art shrugged.

"The difference is I can't get drugs from a psychologist."

Art's demeanor shifted instantly to concern. "You're taking drugs?"

"No," and Tim jumped instantly to defensive. He gritted his teeth. "I was just explaining. You asked what the difference was."

Art exchanged a look with Rachel that got Tim's back up even more.

"Is there a problem?" Tim snarled and took a step closer.

Art lowered his chin and stood his ground. "I don't know, Tim, is there?"

"Boys, let's back it up a bit, start again," Rachel said, stepping between them. "Why are you both so prickly? Tim, Art's just fishing to see if his hunch about your girlfriend is right. So let's pick it up there, shall we? Art says, 'Is it a good idea to be sleeping with your psychologist?' and you say..." She motioned for Tim to answer.

But Tim wasn't cooperating, didn't let Rachel interfere with the stand-off he was having with his boss. "You'd rather I be sleeping with a bottle of bourbon?" he challenged, speaking slowly.

"Or how about a bottle of oxy?" Art suggested, angry now and showing his hand.

Tim wet his lips and responded, "Is that the way you see it happening?"

"What I see happening is you late every day since Tuesday."

Since I rolled in that pile of catnip, thought Tim, but he wasn't going there in an office full of coworkers, so he took the path of least resistance, spoke softly, "I'm sleeping with my psychologist, Chief. You got a problem with that?"

A tense moment passed. In his periphery Tim could see Rachel's confusion. And maybe Art could too, because the older man took a step back, planted his hands on his hips, not confrontational, comical, and looked up to the ceiling on the pretense of giving the question some serious consideration.

"Well, let me think about it." He rubbed his head with exaggerated vigor. "Smiling Tim's kind of a nice change," he concluded, trying to ease back into teasing, not quite getting there, "so I'll suffer with Nelson making the coffee and let you have your girl since she keeps you in such a good mood."

Tim pressed his lips together, backed off and cast a suspicious glance at Rachel.

"What? You think I said something?" She pulled him in the direction of the doors. "I didn't have to tell anyone about her. You wear it like a Time Square advertisement."

"Do not."

"Do, too," Art called out as they retreated into the hall.

Tim stopped just through the doors, let Rachel continue to the elevators and press the button. He stood a moment looking back into the bullpen, back at Art staring thoughtfully at the floor. Tim waited, hoping to make eye contact one more time but Art didn't look up, turned eventually and walked slowly into his office.

"Tim, you coming?" Rachel held the elevator door for him.

"Yeah." He shuffled in behind her. "Trimble, huh?" Tim repeated, getting back to the day's business. "Prisoner transport?"

"No. Art wants us to keep an eye on Dickie Bennett," Rachel explained. "He's being released today."

"Dickie Bennett? I didn't think he was getting his release, what with Raylan making a victim impact statement at the hearing."

"I think Raylan's statement made an impact alright, just not what everyone had in mind. Art's still mad at him for it."

"That good, huh?"

"Mmm."

"Fuck. Dickie Bennett. Can we stop for coffee on the way?" he pleaded.

"You want a cigarette with that?" She arched an eyebrow, smiled slyly. "I'm glad one of us is getting some."

Tim didn't say anything, couldn't keep a smile from showing briefly, leaned himself against the wall at the back of the elevator.

"I told you she'd understand."

"You just love saying that, don't you? I told you so." He crossed his arms. "God, imagine what it'd be like having you for an older sister."

Rachel stiffened; Tim froze. He forgot about everything else that was on his mind that morning while he grasped for a way to haul that last statement back out of the air, wiped a hand across his mouth, but too late to wipe away the words.

"Shit," he said and pushed himself off the wall, stood straight, faced her, "You know I didn't mean anything by that."

"I know."

"I'd take you on as an older sister. I mean you practically already are," Tim grimaced. "Of course people will know you adopted me."

She whipped a hand out and smacked him in the gut. "Shut up."

"I'll pay for coffee."

"Mm-hmm."

"And any other punishment…"

She threw the keys at him. "You drive."

"Okay, anything else?" He trailed after her to the van, contrite.

"Yes, there is something else," Rachel said as Tim unlocked the doors.

He had the good sense to look worried.

"You can tell me what that was all about." She pointed up then settled into the passenger seat.

Tim slumped into the van and hissed a long breath through his teeth, sidestepped. "I just hate having to always talk about my personal shit with Art."

"Well, this is what you signed up for. It's the price you pay for getting to legally shoot people. This job cuts under your skin and bleeds into your personal life and your personal life bleeds back into this job. You don't like Art being nosy? Quit." She left it at that and hung a look on him.

Tim hoped that would be enough to satisfy her because the real problem was that he didn't know how to talk about his personal shit. The things that preyed on his peace, the things that weighed down the happy end of his equilibrium, they were things that no one could understand, at least no one that hadn't been 'in the shit.' And that led to another problem, that being 'in the shit' meant you brought home a lot of shit and subsequently had to deal with all that shit. And it wasn't just, oh dear, let's bandage that up for you, no, it was something you lived – every day. And some days he got tired of dealing with it and those days it got away from him and then he got tired of everyone wanting an explanation when it did.

Rachel broke into his silent tantrum, "And now you can tell me what that thing with Art was really about 'cause I am not buying your 'personal shit' bullshit."

Shit, he thought.

A minute passed. Another prod. "Waiting."

"I am not a fuck up," he stated firmly, getting right to it.

Rachel put up both hands to stop this running away on her. "No one said you were."

"Art did."

"No, he didn't."

"Well, that's what I heard, loud and clear." Tim strangled the steering wheel, took a corner a little sharply. "He thinks since my little nighttime heroin extravaganza that I'm doing drugs."

Rachel's eyebrows arched up in disbelief then slowly furrowed as she thought back to the conversation. "Tim, I don't think that's what he meant."

"That's exactly what he meant. Everyone's just waiting for me to fuck up. They look at the statistics and then they look at me."

"Maybe you need to say that to Art. You're preaching to the choir here. I know you're not a fuck up."

"You sound like my girlfriend."

"I'd really like to meet your girlfriend, or is that getting all up in your personal shit?"

He looked askance at her, catching her profile, stubborn clearly etched.

"Mm-hmm," she confirmed smugly, defusing the situation with some Mrs. Brooks-style attitude. "I want to meet your girlfriend, then maybe I'll think you've been punished enough for the sister comment."

Tim tried some diversion. "How're things with you and Joe?"

"Why do you think you're driving?" she snapped. "I was up half the night talking, round and round." She made circles with a finger, pressed her lips into a frown and stared out the window.


They chased Dickie around the state, getting back to Lexington late enough that Tim didn't bother going back into the office. He crossed the parking lot to drive home, hoping to avoid Art. His phone rang.

"Upstairs, now."


"Rachel tells me they wouldn't tolerate drug use in the sniper squads." Art was apparently tired of fishing, didn't bother hiding his objective this time.

Knowing this conversation was coming sooner or later, Tim worked hard not to get defensive. He had thought about it through the day, knew Rachel was right. If he were in Art's chair, the Chief's chair, he'd be concerned too.

Tim had to admit to his own concerns. He had been anxious every minute since the night he found Donny Hopkins and tasted for himself the ease of carefree hours, the slow drift on a lazy heroin river. Since that experience he had been constantly alert for that friendly whisper, that nudge of betrayal, that need to pay the fee and take another trip, make his escape. Substance abuse was a common enough problem with returning veterans. He had friends from the Rangers fighting a whole new war back on the homefront, had heard other stories about guys outside of his personal circle spiraling out of control, all of it tallying up to an uncomfortable number of casualties. He wet his lips and wondered what to say to put Art's mind at ease when he couldn't even do that for himself.

Haven't gone there yet, Art, but don't let me out of your sight.

Maybe Art could assign a security detail, have him followed for a few weeks, months. It twigged then – that's why he'd been riding with Rachel all week.

He looked up from where he'd been watching his hands, fidgeting. He hadn't responded quickly enough. Art was studying him carefully.

"Yeah, I, uh, didn't want to part with my rifle."

"Your security blanket, huh?" Art jested.

A smirk. "Yep. Kind of a security blanket and the monster under the bed all in one." Tim ordered his face into a social grin hoping that would be that.

But Art wasn't going to let him off easily today. He sat back, a calculating look. "I know alcohol has been your drug of choice…up till now. But seriously, Tim," he leaned forward again, hands clasped on the desk, "can you imagine yourself wanting to try heroin again?"

Tim couldn't answer. The phrase 'pregnant pause' came to mind and he wondered what trouble this particular one was going to give birth to.

"Tim?" Art pressed, "Can you picture it happening?"

Tim shook his head, "No." Did he really mean that? Men were falling all around him. Why should he be any different? Superman didn't exist, not anymore, not for him. "No," he repeated hoping to make it true if he said it enough.

"Me neither. But I wanted to hear it from you. Though, honestly, under the circumstances and considering your background, I wouldn't think less of you if you'd said 'yes.'" Art slouched a little in his chair now that he'd leapt that particularly tall building, propped his head up on his elbow. "You ever find yourself needing help, you come see me."

"Okay."

"Okay."


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