Act of Mercy – Chapter Fourteen
Under the circumstances Art felt she'd over-reacted, and he hated the position her over-reaction had put him in. He eyed his Deputy and tried to come up with appropriate words, maybe some wisdom or guidance to impart, but all that came to mind was something he'd heard back in college, Aristotle, if he remembered correctly. Nothing else offered itself, so he went with it.
"Anybody can get angry, that's easy. But getting angry at the right person, with the right intensity, at the right time, for the right reason, in the right way, that's hard."
Tim looked up at him, flat expression except for the body language. His pose suggested defeat, no expectations of clemency, waiting for the jury to say the inevitable 'guilty'.
"You're quoting Aristotle at me?" Tim wet his lips and sunk a little lower in the chair, not giving up even a glimpse of the anger the psychologist was so up in arms about.
"Aw hell, I'm not sure if I said it for your benefit or mine," Art replied honestly, surprised at being caught out plagiarizing the classics by this young man. There was always more to someone, always something to learn.
"Just so you understand," Tim said slowly, the lid tipped and the anger just visible now, simmering, hot. "I got angry the right amount, at the right person and for the right reasons."
"But did you really need to start throwing furniture?"
"I thought it better than punching her."
"I suppose you think I should congratulate you on your admirable restraint."
Art tried to sound angry but he wasn't, frustrated was closer and he couldn't help the disappointment slipping in. No one liked Ms. Ootes, but no one could figure out a way to get rid of her without a law suit. A little less restraint from Tim and she might have quit her contract and good riddance.
"And now it's officially on record." He waved her report. "You're an idiot."
Tim didn't disagree, whichever way Art meant that statement.
Art opened a drawer and dug around, pulled out an information flyer and tossed it onto the desk. "There's an anger management course that runs online. Complete it and this goes away."
Tim leaned forward, reached over for the paper, dragged it peevishly the rest of the way across the desk and slumped back in his chair.
"Mope all you want, but it's not like you really have a choice." Art felt the guilt niggling, responsible somehow, too soon. He added to lighten the punishment, "Hell, half the LEOs in Lexington are alumni. Why do you think I have the information in my desk? You're just clever enough to get it out of the way early in your career."
Art looked for something in Tim's expression, not sure what, then looked out at the bullpen and caught Rachel watching them, and Dan. He frowned and she went back to concentrating on her work. Dan just rolled his eyes making his feelings on the matter known. Word spread fast.
"But on the bright side," Art continued, "the Marshals Service pays for it." He wrinkled up his face suspiciously. "I wonder if she's getting kick-backs?"
Tim finally loosened up some, showing a feeble smile at the feeble joke then the two of them sat stewing, different thoughts about the same issue.
"You okay with the shooting?" Art eventually broke in, still dealing with it himself, with the guilt, not for the man at the morgue but for the one sitting across from him now.
"I'm fine."
"Really?"
Tim cocked his head. "What do you want me to say?"
"In the dog house, Gutterson?" Dan asked as he and Tim waited for the elevator at the end of the day.
Dan had stopped calling him Rover after the shooting; Tim noticed, wondered what that signified.
"Ha, ha," he replied, not feeling very witty.
Rachel walked up behind them, reached over and gave the sleeve of his jacket a tug in sympathy. "I heard you bit somebody."
"Did not. I just chewed on the furniture a little." Tim put on some irritable for effect but grinned sincerely enough for them as he slouched against the wall. They were attempting to make light of it and he appreciated their efforts.
"I think I have a craving for a burger and a brew at Molly's," Dan mused. "What do you say?"
Tim wasn't feeling very sociable, hesitated.
"I'm in," said Rachel then, "So's Tim."
"Sure," Tim replied, figuring they'd already colluded and he might as well play along.
The conversation was nearly a repeat of the one by the elevators a few days back, the day of the shooting, except it was Dan and Art that day. They had taken him out, knocked back a few rounds of something harder than beer, a rite of passage, then had seen to it that Tim got home without incident. Dan admired the now meagerly furnished apartment, not skimping on the sarcasm, and, satisfied that Tim was handling things well enough, left him alone.
Tim had plunked himself on the couch and watched the evening news. He switched it off after the first bad camera angle of the incident showed up on the local news cast and decided to sift through some emails as a distraction. He was about to switch himself off and fall into bed when one more email popped up and he opened it. Standing out in the text, like a mirror reflecting, were two familiar names, now dead Rangers, and a cursory report from a friend of the how and the where and whatever why was available. It hit him hard, slapped him awake and sober. He paced around the apartment trying to get a hold on what he saw reflected in those names then pulled out the other half of the bottle of bourbon from the previous week and deliberately and methodically finished it off.
If Art noticed that Tim was a bad shade of raw the next day, he didn't comment. Unaware of the news from across the world, Art chalked it up to the events in Lexington, and kept an eye on him. There was always work to be done and Rachel kept Tim busy. Somewhere among the rest of the week's duties, Art had lined up the appointment for Tim with the psychologist and that damage was done and now Tim was back at Molly's bar again with Dan and Rachel and another drink and another week passed, closer to some imaginary point of no return.
He stopped by the recruiting office Saturday morning at the end of his run. It was closed. He dropped his head against the glass of the door breathing heavily, fogging up his view of the inside. It felt like there was an equal amount of him in there as out here and he wasn't sure he could keep living like that. He ran his route backward, got home worn out. Pulled out his wallet, his credit card, logged in, paid and completed the four-hour online fucking-anger fucking-management course. She could chew on that. Then he showered and ate.
"Rachel told me about the incident with the psychologist."
"Ma!" Rachel looked horrified, searched again for an escape hatch on the ceiling, but not finding it she let out a silent movie scream, covered her face and sank her head on the table.
Tim didn't care and grinned at the dramatics. Everyone knew by now anyway. Something like that just doesn't stay a secret for long.
Dan was right about the office staff, they loved water cooler gossip. Tim's silence about his time in the military kept them amused. Early on, the idea surfaced that he had sat at a desk during his career as a Ranger doing Army bureaucracy missions. That rumor floated for a while but was shot full of holes and sank the day Tim put a perfect shot into the fugitive at the laundromat. After that, they speculated on the number of kills. Then after the business with the psychologist, it was generally agreed that he was tossed out of the military, conduct unbecoming, dishonorable discharge, a violent and loose cannon. They were quiet around his desk. Rachel hated it; Dan fed into it and laughed about it. Tim didn't care. Sooner or later they'd get bored with him.
Mrs. Brooks poked Tim with a spoon she'd pulled out of the drawer.
"Rachel doesn't like her, either."
"Ma!"
"Well, it's true."
Mrs. Brooks tasted her sauce. She sat back at the table, sipping on a glass of wine, fixing everyone's life while she fixed dinner. She gave Tim a knowing look, using the spoon as a pointer.
"Rachel had a bad case last year involving a young girl. The nightmares she had over that." She tut-tutted and shook her head.
"Ma, you don't need to tell that story."
"I wasn't going to tell the whole story." She turned a glare on Rachel for interrupting then looked kindly back at Tim. "That woman didn't help one bit. I finally found Rachel a therapist in town, private. Now he helped, didn't he?" she asked her daughter, but didn't wait for an answer. "He helped her, but we had to pay for that."
Tim chanced a glance over at Rachel who just shrugged and stated, "She's right. She's always right."
He raced a hand up to cover the grin, scratched an imaginary itch on his chin.
"I have a friend in Tennessee," Mrs. Brooks continued. "I've known her since grade school. She's been in about every kind of therapy – couples therapy, personal therapy, even went to see a psychic. You know what she said to me? She said: therapists are like hairdressers, finding one that works for you is tricky. You've got to look for one that suits you, understands your uniqueness, or else just like a bad hairdresser they can make you feel even more miserable about yourself."
"Mom, just how many hairdressers do you think Tim's been to? He's a hairdresser virgin."
Mrs. Brooks's eyes drifted up to Tim's hair. "Mm."
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