Chapter 31 - About Face

For the second time, Lassard took a seat at the chair in front of Lieutenant Harris's desk.

From my position beneath the desk, I could see Harris's legs shaking ever so subtly. Lassard's question had apparently terrified him. Harris opened and closed his mouth but I could only hear his loud breathing.

"I would like your honest opinion, as Captain Tackleberry's senior instructor," Lassard added.

"Does my opinion really matter, though, Sir? You've always considered Tackleberry one of the best recruits to come from the academy—that trumps what I think of him."

"You have seen Captain Tackleberry in action many, many times, and indeed, much more than I have. I would like you to tell me your opinion of his conduct."

"Uh, I think I see where this is going," Harris muttered in reply, following it with a humorless chuckle.

"I'm not sure what you mean—"

"You're going to invite me to resign, aren't you," Harris said, his voice barely audible. His legs were still shaking beneath the desk. I saw gooseflesh appear on Harris's arms as he sat in his chair, hands folded contritely in his lap.

"What?" Lassard boomed. "Of course not. Whatever gave you that idea?"

"Well, if I say that Tackleberry is a liability, that reflects poorly on the academy and on you, Sir. It would hurt our reputation for a… veteran instructor such as myself to admit that there could be a proble—"

"Tell me, what is it we do at the police academy?" Lassard cut in, in the tone of an infomercial announcer.

Harris stopped speaking, apparently taken aback, gaping at his superior with an open mouth.

"We teach!" Lassard exclaimed. "And learn! If that means we have to learn uncomfortable truths about ourselves, then that will make us all the more able to teach a new generation in a better way!"

"So, let me get this straight," Harris started, his voice suspicious. "What you're saying is—"

"I'm saying, I want you to tell me your honest opinion of Tackleberry's conduct as a police officer. If you believe him to be lacking in some key way, that must be considered for not only himself but for the many, many cadets he trains."

"I see."

A very uneasy silence followed. I hoped that Lassard wasn't attempting to peer under the desk during this silence, and I was anxious for either one of the men to begin speaking again.

"Please, Lieutenant."

Harris took a deep breath and fidgeted uncomfortably in his chair.

"Well, I've known Tackleberry for eleven years now," he said lowly, his head bowed. "He's forged some important alliances with other police officers and precincts. His room was always impeccable every time we had a random inspection. His military background is something to be respected. And he is, uh, very, very enthusiastic about his job."

"And yet?"

I could hear Harris gulp.

"And yet, he is… very… impulsive when he detects a possible threat," Harris began, using more delicate words to describe Tackleberry than he'd shared with me. "I've been made aware of several instances in which he has shot multiple times through closed doors, with thankfully no one being harmed in the process."

"Can you tell me any specific instances?" Lassard asked, his voice unbelieving.

"Well, it was only a year into his position as a police officer that he and his future wife shot up a lamp store, doing almost 80 grand in damage. He was written up for excessive force, and Mahoney got him off. When we were trying to catch the Wilson Heights gang, he drove a monster truck over a dozen or so civilian cars. Not only that, but he discharged his weapon in this very building."

I could see Lassard's feet as he fidgeted in his chair.

"When was that?"

"It was in the commons room," Harris explained, not exactly answering Lassard's question. "He shot through the TV set. You don't recall seeing the screen blown to smithereens for the year or so it sat there? What if the bullet had gone through the wall behind it?"

"What's your point, Lieutenant?" Lassard asked, after a minute of silence. "Nowhere in your answer was there a shooting through a closed door. It could be that Tackleberry has a thing against… appliances."

"My point is, Sir, Tackleberry's trigger-happy ways are not becoming of a police officer and it was only a matter of time before something like this happened."

There was another silence that followed Harris's detailed statement, and I badly wished I could see Commandant Lassard's face. After what seemed like forever, finally Lassard replied.

"Thank you, Lieutenant," the older man said, giving the words a second to linger in the air. "Now I can better understand what has been going on here."

He began to rise in his chair, a movement that stopped when Harris spoke.

"What are you going to do now?" Harris murmured, his voice a higher pitch than usual.

"I… I'm not entirely sure," Lassard replied.

"Not sure of what?"

"I should like to… collect more information," Lassard said, his voice low and uncertain. "Sources, that sort of thing. Once there is confirmation, then I shall inform Captain Tackleberry of your view—"

"I'd prefer we keep this between ourselves," Harris replied in a low tone. "Why tell Tackleberry about—"

"So Captain Tackleberry can know how you feel, of course, and he can address any wrongs that have been confirmed."

"But Sir, Tackleberry didn't listen to me as a cadet—what makes you think he's gonna listen to me now? Not only that, but he outranks me."

"Did I not promote you?" Lassard responded. "I thought I'd promoted you after you saved the many, many D squad cadets from the cadet with the gun. Charles Manson, was it?"

I rolled my eyes. Wow. This guy did not seem to have a firm grip on reality here. He'd literally been referring to Harris as Lieutenant for this whole conversation.

"In fact, you did not promote me back to captain," Harris replied, "though you did offer to do so. The cadet with the gun was in fact a woman, Connie Manson."

"Ah," Lassard replied, standing up. "Then I shall consider it… again. Or would that be reconsider?"

"I don't know, Sir," Harris said, standing up as well.

"I never thought I'd say this, but Captain Harris, you are a man of rare integrity," the commandant remarked.

I made a face at the remark. Was he saying Harris only had integrity rarely, or that he had a rare type of integrity? It was impossible to tell. Even so, Harris bowed graciously at the comment and muttered a low word of thanks.

From my position under the desk, I could see Lassard had pulled his legs together closely in what I assume was a salute, causing Harris to salute back. Had Lassard just referred to Harris as captain? It was too bad that he hadn't officially promoted him. Slipping up and calling him captain would not make it so. Was Lassard really going to consider the promotion, or was he going to assume he'd already done it?

I was quite taken aback at the submissive, humble, and respectful way that Lieutenant Harris had interacted with Commandant Lassard this evening. It was certainly a massive change from how he'd acted in the past run-ins I'd seen. Not only that, but Commandant Lassard seemed to be quite pleased with Lieutenant Harris, enough to mention that promotion that had not happened two weeks ago—I just hoped that Lieutenant Harris wouldn't be too pissed off that I'd in fact spoken with the commandant yesterday about all the pranks, being as it seemed as if it wouldn't be making a difference!

Even so, I was disappointed in Lassard, who had appeared to forget all about what I'd spoken to him about just yesterday—not about Tackleberry, but about the number of pranks that Lieutenant Harris had had to endure all week. So really, this meeting had really been for nothing. He hadn't said anything about talking to the other instructors or anything. I shook my head under the desk, stifling a sigh of frustration.

"Now, what the hell was that?" Harris growled, pushing away from the desk a minute or so after Lassard had left the room and shut the door.

I looked up from my position under his desk.

"What, the pinch?"

"Well, that made no sense either, but—that, meeting just now, if that's what you'd call it!" He looked suspicious, rubbing his chin. "Did you talk to Lassard about me?"

"That's why I wanted to meet up with you today, to tell you," I explained. "I was tired of watching you suffer for no reason. I wanted to stop these pranks."

"So you spoke to the commandant?" he cried. "There goes my chance to ever replace him!"

"Why do you say that?"

"Because if I am even considered in the running for commandant, I will have a hell of a time gaining the respect of Callahan, and Jones, and Hooks, and—"

"I would argue that your sticking to your unpopular beliefs will get you respect."

"But bein' a rat who tattles to the commandant won't get me none of that."

"All I did was tell Lassard about the pranks," I replied. "I mean, it sounds like he completely forgot about them anyway. I wouldn't worry about it."

His eyebrows raised, Harris stood up and began pacing back and forth behind his desk.

"You can see it too," he said, peering at me, satisfaction spreading slowly over his face. "Can't you."

"See what?"

"Lassard's mental decline."

I could only stare at him with a look of confusion.

"Well, he is pretty old, but yeah, I can see that he's—"

"Did you know that he reached the mandated retirement age seven years ago?"

I looked at him, wondering where he was going with this. I recalled the conversation the commandant had had with Harris and me after the incident with Connie Manson at the shooting range. Lassard was certainly very well-aware at that time of the apparently countless times Harris had disrespected him, and came across as very capable. He'd been far less sharp tonight, but did that warrant a forced retirement?

"No," I muttered. "But if it's mandated, how is it that—"

"The commissioner made an exception for him, that's how. And he's been milking it ever since. In the course of—what was it, twenty minutes—Lassard twice forgot why he was told to talk to me, in addition to being unable to recall his not promoting me!"

"But I do recall when we talked to him, that you said you could not accept a promot—"

"That's beside the point, Carnegie," he cut in, making a dismissive gesture. "Finally, someone else besides me sees the writing on the wall," Harris continued, sighing loudly as he spoke. "Lassard doesn't have the mental fortitude to do such an important job—I've been saying this for years, and now you see it too." He shut his eyes, lifting his head to the sky. "I have been vindicated."

Now his eyes were locked on the picture of himself hanging in his office, his chin held high, a smile playing across his lips. He clasped his hands behind his back, looking very much like he was getting ready to pose for another self-portrait.

Here I was, thinking Harris was finally figuring out what he had to do to get ahead, namely showing some respect and admiration for this older man who'd certainly given him a dressing-down several weeks ago, but in fact he had just hidden his disdain very well.

"But if he promotes you back to Captain," I suggested, "I'm sure you'd be happy to accep—"

"The moment he walks out of the building tonight, he'll forget that a second time," Harris insisted. "I can't just sit around here, waiting around for his brain to start working."

"What about the pranks?" I asked him.

"Don't you see, Carnegie?" he replied back, looking at me briefly before staring back at his picture. "This is divine intervention. By Lassard's forgetting all about the pranks, I won't be a rat, just a veteran officer pushed to the limit by his colleagues. A veteran officer who has been screwed by the system one too many times. And if he by some miracle of miracles is able to remember any of what you told him, well, that'll only confirm what needed to be done."

I made a face of concern, but he only continued to stare towards his picture.

"What do you mean, pushed to the limit? What needs to be done?" I asked.

"What I mean is, I can't wait around for Lassard to check his sources before rilin' up Tackleberry with my statement," he muttered. "It's high time I finally break through, make a real case for myself," he added, seemingly speaking to his picture. "Reporters'll probably be gone by next week. It's now or never…."

"Now or never for what?" I asked. He didn't answer me. In fact, he barely acknowledged me at all.

I frowned.

"Thaddeus," I said, touching his arm. He jerked his arm away, still staring at his self-portrait.

"Carnegie, you can't be seen in here," he said, eyes widening, suddenly returning to reality. "You oughta go. Here, I'll see you out."