The Machine
It was just another day at the office for Rick. Georgina, or Georgie, was softly singing along to her gospel radio station while stuffing folders with paperwork. The gray-haired secretary liked to say that she came with the precinct, like the files of rap sheets and mugshots.
She doted on Rick like he was her own son, especially now that he wore his trouble in the frown lines of his forehead. He walked past her desk to his office and the stack of folders he needed to wrangle. The threat of losing his position still loomed in the curt emails from his superiors.
The last meeting he attended did not go well. He had to outline his strategy to ensure this kind of thing wouldn't happen again. The county board of directors barely listened to his proposal before he was battered by a blitz of nitpicking questions and undermining comments. All led by Mayor Monroe, who rarely attended these meetings and seemed to only be there to antagonize him.
There was none of the usual catching up and chit chatting about their sons with, Bryce Gilmore, the deputy clerk. His son Jamal played with Carl on the same little league team a few years ago. After the meeting adjourned, Bryce gave him the cold shoulder. It was a lonely walk from the boardroom through the wide marbled halls of the old county complex to his car.
But now, he was in his second home. A sacred place. The King County sheriff's office. He was sinking into his well-worn leather chair. He was soothed by the crack and static of the CB radio in his office and the coded vernacular of his guys in the field. Everything was running like a well-oiled machine.
He was shooing Carol out of his office as she sniffed the air and teased him for smelling like coconuts instead of his usual manly aroma. He was rummaging through his desk to find the roll of spearmints Michonne had him hooked on. And though, this was the place people called to report every kind of trouble, Rick was at peace and well into the routine of his day.
Until a sudden reverberating sound of something heavy and wooden being pushed across the bare floor was followed by a thud and the pitch of fracturing glass. Tara shot down the hallway to his door. The look on her face made him jump out of his seat before she could get his name from her nervous lips. Her hair whipped her face as Rick tore past her to the commotion.
A mess of papers were being trampled by boots. The medal and remembrance display case windows were smashed. The framed picture of Morgan Jones was being kicked, this way and that, unintentionally by the scuffle. Rosita's tongue whirred like a pinwheel in the wind, shouting Spanish threats and curses at T-Dog as she and Noah tried in vain to pull him away from Daryl.
"Hell's goin' on in here," Rick barked in an awful, heavy voice that made most everybody pause and look his way.
T-Dog jerked his hands from Daryl's neck, allowing the rookie to drop from his tiptoes and stand flat on the floor again. Rosita immediately inspected his red-marked throat with concern.
T- Dog addressed Rick still looking Daryl in the eye. "Rick, get your boy, man." He was out of breath, his eyes squinted fiercely. "He talkin' reckless and I'm about to put his young ass in timeout."
Rosita defended her partner. "You started it, T! You shouldn't have said that about his brother."
"I can't believe you're defendin' him, Espinosa! You? You heard what he said to me!"
"You know he didn't mean that, T. You're just baiting him because you hate his brother."
"Fuck his brother! I meant what I said and he meant what he said! Morgan Jones was better than ten Merle Dixons. Everybody in here who knew Morg knows that the wrong cop died that day."
T-Dog got in Daryl's face again, nose to nose, chest to chest. "Be careful, Espinosa. These white boys don't really have our backs out there. And don't think you'll ever be good enough for him to take you home to meet the rest of his white trash family…"
"T! Hell's wrong with you, man?" Rick had heard enough, but he still was unclear as to how this clash erupted.
The imposing deputy, turned to answer Rick but his tirade ended and his face fell from fury to fright when he felt the hard press of Daryl's sidearm at the back of his head.
"Whoa! Whoa! Whoa," Abraham said as he made his way from the bathroom down the hall with the newspaper under his arm.
Rosita's eyes were as big as saucers. The sight of her partner and friend holding his gun at the head of their fellow deputy rendered her usually boisterous mouth silent. Reaching for Daryl's arm but afraid to actually touch it she whispered shakily, "Backwoods, you can't do this. Put that away."
Rick saw Noah's eyes widen. The boy was younger than Daryl, but unlike Dixon, he'd been on a path to law enforcement since high school. Despite his early start, Noah had none of the daring that Daryl possessed. However, when it came to adherence to protocol Deputy Wesley led the pack. Besides young Noah, there were civilians present and prisoners waiting to be booked.
Unfortunately, this disagreement was not happening behind closed doors. The public nature of it would call for him to administer discipline. Harsh discipline - depending on how this all played out. With his job already in peril, he knew this would only add fuel to the fire Monroe and Blake had set.
"You crazy, Dixon? You can lose your badge for this." The reminder came from Abe, who was never especially close to the young man, still he considered Daryl as a man cut from the same cloth. "Come on, brother we're family."
"Yeah? Well maybe I don't want this badge anymore," Daryl said with an eerie calm. "Y'all say we're family but you turned your back on my brother and expect me to do the same."
"Your brother's a piece of shit," T-Dog turned and faced Daryl defiantly, who kept the barrel trained at the other man's beaded forehead.
Rosita shrieked, "Shut the fuck up, T!" Daryl pulled back the slide, aimed again, steady and dared him to repeat it.
Tara was trying to deescalate the situation, as were Carol and Jerry but their pleas for calm only heightened the noisy chaos. Rick heard Georgie's small voice call for him under the uproar but his focus stayed on the two combatants.
"Dixon, you stand down, son." The sheriff spoke in a firm but heartfelt tone to the young deputy. It was almost enough to quiet the mounting bedlam. "We're not doin' this today. Just think for a second, now," he appealed to them both as his beating heart banged in his throat. "You're both good men. You can choose to walk away from this with both your careers in tact."
"Rick," Georgie called to him again.
"Don't worry, Georgie. These boys are gonna do the right thang," Sheriff Grimes assured the frantic secretary.
Rick placed a placid palm on Deputy Douglas' chest and looked him square in the eye, "Don't force my hand here." When he gestured to Daryl to lower his weapon,the scowling rookie officer slowly complied.
He holstered his gun but before anyone could breathe a sigh of relief, Daryl sucker-punched T-Dog with a hell-bent left hook and the station erupted into hysteria again.
Rick mumbled, "Goddammit, Dixon," pushing his deputy back against the wall with his forearm across his chest.
"Oh, fuck," Abe exclaimed and reached to keep a now bloodied T-Dog from hitting the floor.
"Rick! The radio!"
"Not now, Georgie!" Grimes answered dismissively, breathing as heavily as the man he had pinned to the wall.
"Rick," the secretary shouted again, this time refusing to be dismissed. "There was a call for paramedics on Savannah Street!" The location made everyone pause. "1207 Savannah…"
Carol's hand flew up to her lips in shock. "Oh my God, Shane!"
Rick met Carol's stormy blue eyes and swallowed hard, his heart dropped from his throat to the pit of his stomach. He looked to Georgie for confirmation that she'd heard the address correctly. The older woman held a hand to her chest, openly distraught, and nodded.
The sheriff's tensed features immediately dropped. Pushing Daryl back into the wall once more in frustration, he cursed under his breath. Turning on his heels, he marched silently to the exit. In a hurry to get to his best friend, he left the station and the rest of his employees to kill one another, if they so desired.
...
Rick walked past the lingering first responders outside the little house on Savannah Street. Stepping over the threshold, he readied himself for an ugly sight.
How many times had he strolled through this doorway with deli sandwiches and a six pack? No knock required. How many times had he sat in his car impatiently looking at this green painted door? Always waiting for his tardy friend to come out inevitably still combing his dark wavy hair, shirt half buttoned and popping chewing gum between his teeth.
Pulling out a chair from the small table near the kitchen, Rick steadied himself between the seat and the table. His legs were ready to give out and his head was drifting, buoyant on a tide of grief.
A grunt, no different than one produced from a kick to the ribs, exited his body as he fell into the old fashioned wooden chair. Rick had spent many nights sitting in this chair, usually a little tipsy. Sometimes completely drunk.
Even when he was there to wallow in his feelings about Dontaye Evans' fate, or his failed marriage or his inability to connect with some girl he thought he liked, Rick usually ended the night in full throated laughter at his best friend's tomfoolery.
Rick could almost hear his voice now. He could see a phantom of Shane, red-faced and grinning across the table, chasing his beer with another scandalous installment of True Stories in the Life of Shane 'the Machine' Walsh.
"My eyes were big as her double D's, Rick," Shane recounted through a drooling giggle.
Rick nearly spit out his drink. "Well, that's what happens when you two-time a girl like Natalie."
"You call it two-timin'? Now, come on, Rick. When you're at a buffet… are you two-timin' the meatloaf if you try the fried chicken?"
Shaking his head, Rick scolded amusedly, "That's a terrible analogy, bud. You do know that women are more than meat to consume?"
"I know, I know," Shane surrendered. "But you seen the curves on Natalie? She's the meat, the potatoes and a slice of cake!"
"So what happened?"
"Nat socks me in the eye and jumps on Emé. You know black chicks don't just pull hair like white girls. They went at it like they were in the ring. It ain't sexy at all! It's kinda scary."
"I guess so. Especially when you're naked as a jaybird."
Shane laughed through his shame and admitted, "I was! I was! Ass naked… so was Emé! It was the middle of the night and I'm prayin' none of my neighbors call the cops."
"I woulda sent Peletier and Chambler."
"That's cold, man. Why not Espinosa?"
Rick threw his balled up taco wrapper at Shane's incorrigible face. "Just finish the story."
"Emé cussed me out and told me if I wasn't a cop, her cousins would've beat my ass. I held Nat back while she found her clothes and left."
"Well, at least you survived."
"Survived?! She left me with Nat, man," Shane shrilled with playful hysteria. "She's a wildcat! Fucked my brains out. My brains, Rick. My brains…"
His brains. His beautiful brain with razor sharp wit and the ability to see the world from a light-hearted angle, no matter the predicament. Shane was always smarter than Rick.
God knows he didn't have as much common sense but he knew how to ace a test. His academy grade point average put Rick's to shame. If the sheriff was honest, though nobility always won out, he was often tempted to heed Shane's advice to sneak a peek at the answers on his page.
The warm wetness from the rims of his eyes blurred the gruesome sight in the Savannah Street living room. The headrest of Shane's gray recliner was soiled and slick with crimson. Rick's head fell back, his nose pointed at the ceiling searching the ether for the strength to get up and do what he'd promised Shane years ago.
He moved deeper into the house, passing the picture of the two of them at graduation in their pressed blues and peaked caps. They were holding each other by the shoulders, smiling wide, ready to make a difference. Energized to "be the change" as King County's, then, Public Works Director, Deanna Monroe had declared from the podium of the outdoor stage.
They did it, too. They made it a point to be fair and compassionate. To check their egos at the door of the precinct and check each other if necessary. Rick wouldn't forget all the times Shane helped him remember some procedural guideline that saved him from a mountain of extra paperwork or botching an arrest.
If you asked Rick, he would tell you Shane deserved to be sheriff more than he did. But that's just not how things worked out. Shane was more charming, well-versed and thanks to Rick's old sports injury, he was faster too. The only thing he lacked was the desire to be more than a beat cop. It was enough for Officer Walsh to take orders and cruise the streets.
Rick always knew he wanted more. Though he would've given it all up if he'd known what it would take for him to get it. When Rick fell into depression after Dontaye Evans' untimely demise, Shane never judged him.
When Rick traded in the city streets to patrol country roads, Shane went with him. When Rick ran for Sheriff, Shane supported him as much as anyone. Jealousy was never one of Shane's traits, so when Rick took the oath of office, his best friend was genuinely happy for his success and made sure everyone at the ceremony knew it with his obnoxious woops and whistles.
But where had Rick been while Shane spiraled into depression that swallowed him whole? He knew his friend and yet he somehow lumped him in with Merle. Rick asked himself, How am I different from the media or the rioters in Robinson Park?
Stepping into Shane's bedroom, he opened the closet. All his jeans neatly folded across hangers. T-shirts folded and arranged on the closet shelf like a store display table. His uniforms were still in the cellophane wrap from the cleaners.
Rick kneeled down under the fashionable wardrobe to the microwave-sized safe that sat between a few pairs of shoes. He punched in the combination using the black number keys.
2-5-1-3
February 5, 2013.
Rick had been there for Shane that day.
It was a hard one to get through. The week had been long as hell after Shane broke up with his pregnant girlfriend. For months Rick had witnessed the insanity of their relationship.
Fights about missed calls. Fights about tone. Fights about word choice. Fights about "looks". When Cynthia finally told Shane it was over, Rick felt bad that they'd waited until she was 6 months pregnant, but he couldn't deny his relief.
Of course, like everyone who knew them, he'd seen it coming. When he got home that night he celebrated the end of that disaster popping a bottle of wine with Lori.
After a few days of calm, Cynthia called Shane again. Call after call. He wouldn't answer and Rick wouldn't blame him. That was their routine. Take a break, get back together. She'd call, Shane would fold.
After his shift, Shane sat alone in his living room without the support of his friend. Cynthia's number showed on his phone screen. He couldn't resist.
"C… What the hell? We can't keep…"
"Shane," a voice other than the one he expected interrupted his weak protest. "It's Cynthia's mom."
His voice went low, afraid of her reason for calling. "Mrs. J? What…"
"The baby came early, Shane." Cynthia's mother gasped before letting out an acute groan. "Cynthia didn't make it."
Shane wouldn't go up to the hospital to see his new daughter. He had enough bullshit reasons but Rick knew his friend was scared, plain and simple. Through all Shane's denials and attempts to joke the situation away, Rick could see the fear in his eyes.
He didn't want to see that baby hooked up to monitors, tubes criss-crossing over her wrinkly skin. He didn't want to deal with the fact that she was his responsibility. His alone. He couldn't believe that the last time he saw Cynthia was really the last time. He thought things would go back to being normal in a few weeks.
It was the same thing Rick had thought since Andre's funeral. Back then Shane fell off the radar, too. When Rick kept coming around to check on him, his best friend told him that he'd rather be left alone in the most passive aggressive way-
"I know you're just trying to help me, bud and you're a good friend. But if you're really my friend, Rick, you gotta give me space to work this shit out the way I know how."
It was completely feasible that since the shooting, Shane needed to be alone to work through it. Rick knew this was true, but it didn't stop him from feeling guilty about not being there when his friend needed him.
He was needed now too and he was gonna be there for Shane even though Shane was gone for good.
...
Rick held the curious gaze of the little girl in front of him. Her purple rimmed glasses made her clear maple eyes even bigger and brighter. Sandy hair hung from her head in countless plaits with colorful dangling barrettes.
Cynthia's mother stood in her living room doorway, clutching the envelope that contained Shane's will. It named her as the custodian of his affairs and his daughter as the sole beneficiary of everything he owned. Mrs. J's full lips quivered, even as she looked at her grandbaby and tried to put on a convincing smile.
"Tell Rick thank you," she prodded the little one.
"Thank you, Mr. Rick." The girl blinked down at the hand-carved cigar box in her hands. She looked so much like her dad. There was only a ghost of her mom in her cocoa brown skin and dimpled face. "What's in it?"
"Some thangs your…" he looked to Mrs. J and saw her brow bunch. "Some stuff Shane wanted you to have. Go ahead. Open it."
The little girl smiled at the mention of Shane. She loved him, though she rarely saw him. He'd stop by for her birthday or Christmas. He'd call her now and then to see how school was going. To Jordyn, he was her grandma's funny friend. Just someone who knew her mommy when she was still alive.
Jordyn sat the box on the table and pulled the lid up and back. She quietly studied the contents. She was just about Judith's age and smart as a whip.
Rick could never understand why Shane never told her. To him, it was the highest irony that Judith wasn't his when he thought she was and Jordyn belonged to Shane but she didn't know it.
In the box, there were a rainbow of ribbon colors from Shane Walsh Sr.'s time in the Air Force.
Silver medals a teenaged Shane won from high school track and field victories.
His shiny Shane A. Walsh, King's County Sheriff's Department name tag and badge, collectable coins from his grandfather, a CD of his favorite songs and his favorite pair of Aviator shades.
The unboxed ring he got for Jordyn's mother but never had the courage to give her. So much for curious little eyes to explore.
The baby girl zeroed in on a picture of Shane, more than a decade old, from a thin stack of other family pictures. A smiling headshot of him, handsome in his cadet uniform. Her next words almost knocked Rick from his spot on the edge of the sofa.
"He looks like me," she said through her lisp, her eyes glued to the photograph.
Her grandmother's tenuously held tears broke free and she covered her mouth, retreating to her bedroom. Leaving Rick and Jordyn alone at her coffee table, the little one seemed unmoved by her grandmother's sadness. But her eyes spoke an uncanny perception.
Mrs. J always liked Shane. She was always pricking him to just try his hand at being a daddy.
Like her late daughter, she really believed he'd make a good one. As much as she loved Jordyn, it felt wrong to her that she was raising this child when she had a perfectly good father out there who just happened to suffer from a fear of failure and emotional attachment.
"He gave me all this because he loved me," Jordyn told Rick with certainty. She stared at a different picture. This one showed Shane and Cynthia in one of their happier moments.
"I love him too." Rick was floored. His eyes welled, his lips parted to reply but a boulder seemed to be lodged in his throat. "We always had fun."
"Yeah," Rick swallowed and finally croaked out a response. "We did too."
...
Michonne heard the gravel crunching under the tires of Rick's approaching vehicle. She stood up as Carl emerged from his bedroom, summoned by the same sound. Though he refused to look in Michonne's direction, she could still see his red-rimmed eyes.
She stayed a few paces behind him, giving him first dibs to his father as Rick walked through the door. Father and son embraced for a long moment as sniffles and stifled sobs were exchanged between them. Carl's face was buried in Rick's shoulder. Rick kissed his head and looked to Michonne with sorrowful blues that seemed to melt in his watery gaze.
She mustered up a faint supportive smile which he returned with appreciation.
"I can't believe he's dead, dad. Why would he do that to himself?"
Rick could guess why. He was looking at part of the reason now. A childless mother.
The blood of an innocent on his hands had been too much for Shane's fragile heart to bear. He took his eyes off Michonne and spoke into the young man's hair. "I don't know, Carl. I just don't know."
The boy pulled back to look his father in the face. "He didn't say anything to you? Did he seem that sad to you? You're his best friend, couldn't you tell?"
A child had left Rick speechless for the second time today. Michonne came to his rescue. "It's easy to overlook the things your friends don't want you to see." Thoughts of Sasha's confession immediately flooded her mind and she felt an eerie chill at the thought of her going down the same path as Shane.
"What's that supposed to mean," Carl barked at her. "You didn't even know him! You don't know anything about us!"
Rick called after his son as Carl stormed away back to his room. Michonne winced when his door slammed behind him.
Rick tensed his jaw. "I'm sorry. He's gonna apologize," he assured her as he went to follow the boy with a ready reprimand.
She placed a gentle hand to his chest. "It's okay, Rick. I know he's upset. He needs his dad not some stranger… no matter how much his daddy loves her. No matter how much she loves his daddy." She held his face in her palm tenderly. "So you go be there for him and when he's settled, I'll be here for you."
He nodded wearily and walked past her to Carl's room. Immediately, the young man was on defense.
"Really? You're gonna come after me about raising my voice at your girlfriend?" His voice was full of contempt in reference to Michonne. "That's what you want to be upset about tonight? Not your best friend blowing his brains out or that Philip said you'll be out of a job by the end of the year… You wanna come in here and try to force me to apologize?"
"That's not…"
"Mom called looking for you. She's real upset about Uncle Shane. You should call her."
"I can't, Carl…"
"You know, Philip is hardly ever home. Mom gets lonely. I think she misses you, dad. I think maybe if you talked to her… maybe you two could work it out."
"Carl…"
"You could try," Carl's voice broke and his reddened eyes spilled over again. "How can you just not love her anymore? Are you some kinda machine?
The irony of that question nearly made Rick laugh. The robotic routine of married life with Lori was something he couldn't explain to his son, even if he wanted.
"Carl, your mom is married to someone else. I'm with someone else. We can't get back together."
Carl knew deep down that was the answer he'd get. It still stung like hell to hear his father actually say it. He decided to unleash some hard truths of his own.
"Well, I don't want you to be with somebody else. Everybody is ruining my life! What about my life? I lost you and got Philip. I lost my old friends and got this new school full of fuckin' racist idiots!"
"Carl."
"Now, Uncle Shane's gone and this lady moves in here. It's sad that her son is dead, but why do we have to take care of her?"
"Son," Rick took a soul-weary breath and slowly eased to a perch on Carl's bed. "I love you. I promise I'm not tryin' to ruin your life. Nobody is. I don't understand what you have against Michonne. She's not the first woman I've dated since your mom and I divorced. You never seemed to have a problem with it before. So why now?"
His dad's connection to Michonne was strong, intense. It frightened Michonne too at first. For Carl it felt like standing on a launchpad witnessing a rocket push pass gravity. The force of it all, the heat, was undeniable.
"Because…" Carl couldn't explain his feelings but he knew somehow, "this is different," he blurted. "It's different."
"I know," Rick agreed with a half smile. "That's a good thang."
"For you."
"Carl, you know I wouldn't be with her if I didn't think she'd be a good thang for you too. I love her."
"More than me."
Rick stood up with conviction and made his way over to his son. "Not more than you."
"But you're choosing her over me."
"I'm choosin' her because of you." Rick dipped his head to look his son in the eye. "The day you were born, you taught me that I could find the deepest truest meaning of love in someone else's eyes. That a piece of your heart could be missing… and you wouldn't even know it until you were blessed with it. And because this is a dark world we're in son and that darkness has touched all of us. You deserve some light in your life… and so does she. We all do."
