123
Aligned Design
Ch 22
From the Sculpture Garden, Gleason walked to the Shakespeare Garden. She spent another hour enjoying the plants, flowers, gardens, all of it. She had the whole place to herself. She passed no one. Who else would traipse around in this rain? The flowers were at their best in the rain.
Water is life; Gleason knew this from her childhood on the island. Water surrounded her life growing up. It rained often in the North Sea. It was cold that far north. Warm days were precious. She thrived in the cold and wet. It brought the roses to her cheeks and the curl to her hair, Christian used to say. There he was again! Why am I thinking of him so much, she wondered.
She could see him so clearly in her mind's eye: big, strong, red hair, red beard, eyes the color of far north ice – a clear, clear blue. She had his height, his hair and a darker, deeper, bluer version of his eyes. He was her father. Nora was her mother, she supposed. Christian and Nora were dedicated. They were true to each other, sleeping with none other in the commune. Whilst all cared for all of the children, Christian seemed to look after Gleason especially. He always knew where she was, who she was with, what she was doing. He was always there, nearby. She hadn't seen him since she was seven. Now, he was here, in her mind, all the time. I wonder where he is. How he is.
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A second vehicle, a pick up truck, drove up Clinton and turned left into the driveway at the Big Apple Storage facility. The driver got out, unlocked the gate, pushed it open, and drove through. The truck turned left and headed for the tall buildings on the far end.
The driver and his buddy were discussing the woman the buddy had had dinner with the night before.
"So, was she worth the price of dinner? Dinner on a Wednesday, no less?" asked the driver.
"Let me say this," the other guy replied, "I was dinner and she was dessert."
They both laughed.
Neither noticed the Honda parked on their right between the third and fourth buildings. Neither saw the two bodies on the ground.
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"Do you want to go check out his place?" Bobby asked Eames, his hands and fingers indicating the way toward the lifts. He was hoping she would want to go look at Navicky's place so they could maybe stop at a hardware store.
"Did you run him in the system?" she replied.
"No, I didn't. I guess you want me to, huh?" Bobby knew his chance to get out was slipping. He dropped into his chair and began to type. He watched the search bar fly.
"Well?"
"Ha! Look at this." Eames came around to his side of the desks. Bobby pointed to the screen. "I'm going to print this, but look." Bobby pointed to the list of priors Joseph F. Navicky had: grand theft, home invasion, larceny – a litany of non-violent crimes dating back thirty years. He'd not spent much time inside for all his hard work.
"Well, he's been a lucky bad boy," Eames said. "Maybe we should go check out his place."
"Yes! Yes, let's go see what we find there." Yes, he thought. We can check out his place, and then head to a hardware store. Bobby grabbed his coat, shrugged it on, picked up his portfolio and waited for Eames to return from the printer.
She saw him standing there, looking eager. "Uh, Bobby, shouldn't we ask Deakins about you leaving?" Eames watched him carefully. She sensed this was something that would send him into a rage.
Bobby stood still. She saw his lips purse. His eyes closed, head tilted left. His shoulders fell. Eames saw him take two deep breaths. He did not explode. He carefully tossed his portfolio onto his desk. Slowly, he removed his coat and hung it up. He pulled out his chair and sat.
Eames didn't know what to do, what to say. So she did and said nothing.
"You go. Go on. I'll work here."
"Bobby. . ."
"It's ok. Hey, on your way back, can you get me a sandwich or something?" He glanced up at her with a wan smile.
"Yeah, sure," Eames felt terrible. She called the eight-eight for a pair of uniforms to meet her at Navicky's place.
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"Are you sure he's going to need that much?" Deakins said rubbing his forehead with his left hand.
"Captain, we want to get him well as soon as possible. We need to be aggressive in the beginning and then we can reduce the length and frequency of his sessions. It's easier to start high and go low rather than the reverse," Dr. Alice Stephens had called to notify Deakins of the plans for Goren's treatment. She wanted to speak with the captain to ensure he was all right with the proposed routine, as it would cut into Goren's availability to work.
"So, tell me again the times," Deakins pulled over a tablet and prepared to take notes.
"I'd like to see him three times a week for ninety-minute sessions. Are Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays doable?"
"Sure, sure, it makes sense to spread it out over the week. What times?"
"You tell me. Is early or later better?" Stephens wanted to make this as easy as possible.
"Gee, I guess early, get it done and have the rest of the day to work." He thought a moment then asked, "You haven't talked with Goren yet, about all of this?"
Stephens replied, "No, I wanted to make sure it was all right with you. I'm calling him next. This is a silly insurance question -- but will the department grant him the time to stop here first? The clerk asked me to ask."
"Yes, he'll use undocumented sick time. When do you plan his first session?"
"I'd love to start tomorrow morning if he's willing. If not, then this coming Monday morning."
"I, uh, will I be kept informed? I know the confidentiality and all."
"If something comes up or happens that directly relates to or may impact his capacity to perform his duties as a law enforcement officer, then certainly. Otherwise, it's all doctor-patient privilege."
"That's fine, that's all I would want to know anyway. Dr. Stephens, thank you for working to get him well. He's the best detective I've got. And . . . he's a good man."
"I'm delighted to be working with both of you. We'll work hard."
They both hung up and Deakins watched as Bobby slipped off his coat and hung it up.
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The rain slowed and finally stopped. Gleason had been walking for nearly three hours and she wanted to get some lunch. No more eating late and getting sick in the morning she told herself. She headed for the Norris Student Center.
Students began to mill around in the after rain. This is a beautiful campus, she thought. It felt right, being here. Again, her mind slid back to Bobby. He will be so angry. What will he say? Oh, god, what will he do? I have to take this job. I have to. He won't leave New York. He can't leave. But I can. I can live here.
Gleason's interview was tomorrow morning at nine at the Anthropology Department. She would take a cab to the Old Vic House on Hinman. Gleason was looking forward to her interview. She was well prepared; she knew what she could offer. She also knew the university wanted her. Dr. Milton Manlowe had been very excited when she'd called on Monday. She liked Chicago. She wanted to live here. She wanted to live here with Bobby. He will never come here. She knew that.
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"Goren," Bobby said into the phone. "Oh, Dr. Stephens, hello."
"Detective, how are you doing?"
"I'm ok, I guess. What can I do for you?"
"I'd like to begin seeing you again. You knew that was imminent, didn't you?"
Bobby rested his head in his left hand, thumb against his temple, fingers shielding his eyes. "Yes, I know it isn't over," he said softly.
"I'd like to meet with you tomorrow morning at eight. Can you meet me here at that time? We'll meet for ninety minutes." Dr. Stephens listened carefully to his reply.
Bobby hesitated, tomorrow, Friday, Gleason's coming home tomorrow. Tomorrow night. She'll be home. "Yes, I'll, I'll be there. I need to talk with Deakins about being late, but I'm sure he'll be ok with it."
"Thank you, detective. I look forward to talking with you again."
"Yeah, me too." Bobby hung up and wiped his hands over his face. Jesus.
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Gleason entered Norris Student Center and removed the gargantuan raincoat. She folded it as best she could and laid it over her left arm. She took in the options at Willie's Food Court. Just about anything anyone could want was obtainable – typical fast food, Chinese, salads, sandwiches – anything. She walked around the perimeter, eyeing it all.
Students filled the area, carrying trays, bags, enormous cups of drink. Gleason felt a thrill. She would be a part of all of this. She belonged here. Her classes would be larger, not a bad thing – even though her small class sizes at Brookbine had allowed for an intimacy that would be the envy of other professors. Still, larger classes meant more minds and more minds meant more diverse thinking, which meant better conversations. Gleason was starved for conversation. She and Bobby had had wonderful conversations that first weekend. But they had grown quiet, distant during their recoveries.
Enough of that thinking, she told herself. Eat something. She decided to get a huge salad from Windy City Salads.
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"Come in," Deakins said without looking up.
Bobby entered the boss's office and shut the door. He sat.
"What's up?" Deakins asked, already knowing the answer.
"Uh, Dr. Stephens just called. She, uh, she wants me to begin sessions again tomorrow morning. At eight, at her office. I said ok. That means I'm going to be late. Is that ok?" Bobby said this all without making eye contact. His hands illustrated the ideas as they usually did, but they seemed sluggish, not crisp as they usually were.
Bobby knew the importance of therapy. He knew what it had done for his mum. And for him. He had had a few sessions with her psychiatrists upon her admission to Carmel Ridge. The sessions helped him understand exactly what was happening inside her brain. He'd read everything he could get his hands on concerning schizophrenia. He learned about the chemical and electrical differences in the schizophrenic brain. He knew about the impact of chemistry upon the electrical systems and the resulting sensory affects from the chemical and electrical imbalances.
Just talking with someone about it, being able to ask questions and getting answers, had put his mind at ease. He was able to get on with his life, knowing his mum was cared for, that knowledgeable people were putting her mind at ease with medication and talk. Bobby had tried to talk with his father and brother about what he had learned. Neither had cared. Ritchie was selfish and ignorant. Their father was overwhelmed and frightened. Ritchie had disappeared and their father had died.
"Of course, Bobby. We'll use undocumented sick time. I'll know where you are and what you're doing, but it won't count against your sick days." Deakins looked at his detective. He felt for the man. "Bobby, this is a good thing. I want you to tell Dr. Stephens everything. Don't hold back. Take advantage of the chance to get well. I need you back one hundred percent. Understand?"
Finally, Bobby looked up. He saw the genuine concern in Deakins eyes. He saw more than just a boss wanting a healthy drone. He saw friendship. He looked back down and said, "I understand. I need to get well. I hate my life right now." Then he looked up and said, "Thanks." He put both hands on the arms of the chair and rose. He turned and walked back to his desk.