"The Right Thing"
"Jesus. They really do hire you cumquats right out of the womb."
The young man peered up, quietly startled by the officer's voice directed toward him. He furrowed his brow as he caught a glimpse of the man's lifeless body past his fellow officer's uniform, the screwdriver embedded deep in his neck, clenching his jaw out of instinct as the event's shocking reality suddenly hit him again, somehow even harder. In what seemed to be a kind of small mercy, another officer stood in front of the grisly view as he addressed Officer Decker with a contemptuous tone. "Hey. Give him time." Jim's face had returned to the grimaced stare of reflection as his partner and friend looked down at him with genuine pity. "He still hasn't processed what's happened." Decker looked down at Jim with a short sigh, nodding as he attended to the body. As he passed by, Dell shared another disgusted look at Decker, then knelt down to meet Jim at eye level. "Take some deep breaths."
His close friend's words weren't quite coming through, blending in with what his mind interpreted as background noise against the tragedy that had unfurled that night, as well as the reality that he'd have to live with this for the rest of his life, jail time or no. "Jim, hey."
Jim again snapped out of his trance, meeting Dell's eyes with his own. His confidant's subtle look of concern as Jim's glazed eyes met his didn't dissipate as he continued. "I need you to listen to me."
Jim nodded silently.
"Everything that happened tonight? Didn't happen."
Jim blinked. His brows furrowed once again, though not as intensely, as he barely sputtered out the word 'what?'
"He killed himself. The department made a mistake by leaving a deadly weapon in his cell and he killed himself."
Jim looked past Dell to look at the body. It had been moved, contorted into such a fashion that, at least in the moment, appeared to be self-inflicted. "No, that... that's... not what-"
"That's the lie we have to tell." Dell nodded. Jim's look of defeat as he processed his words caused Dell's face to crease with regret. "That's the lie we're going to have to keep telling."
Jim's vision became unfocused. The overwhelming despair pulled him back into a reflective state while Dell's words became unintelligible. He had, inexplicable to himself, been too cowardly to stop what his colleagues were doing. As if robotic, Dell's request that he drive him home while the rest of those involved stay and manage the situation seemed to reach his attention, but barely. He pursed his lips with a weak nod.
Clutching both hands around a mug of coffee just before the sun rose, his girlfriend walked into the kitchen for a glass of water, but was startled by Jim's presence at the table, sighing with relief as she pressed her palm up against her chest. "What are you doing up?"
For a moment, even her voice failed to gain his attention. He looked up at her, somewhat deadpan, forcing a smile in her direction while focusing his eyes on anything but her face. "Couldn't sleep."
She kept her eyes glued to him. They'd been together long enough to know when things had been bothering him. "Is it the department?"
He looked at her, his eyes widening slightly. "What?"
"You can transfer, you know. As... much as you like Audell..." She sighed, shaking her head as she filled up a glass of water. "I'm just saying. And, I like him too. I just think he's learned to settle with less, as much as you don't like me saying that."
His body became steadily less tense. She'd been referring to the various concerns she had in following his high school friend into the force, much less in Lawrence, when they'd previously had extensive conversations about finally moving out of the 'boring Midwest'. "I wish you'd stop calling him Audell." He took a sip of coffee, his eyes glazing over while focusing on the table's slight imperfections.
"Are you okay?" she asked. Her voice broke through the veil again, surprised that she'd somehow managed to teleport next to the table from the kitchen, eyeing her up as he slowly realized he was missing gaps in memory.
"I'm fine."
She shook her head, gently placing her glass of water on one of the coasters. It took him longer than it would any other person to notice her quietly staring at him, to which he said, "What? I'm fine."
"You know… when we went to see that movie for your birthday a couple weeks ago… I thought I'd be the one traumatized by it." She chuckled. "Seriously. Tell me I didn't do this. If there's something wrong, I-"
He cleared his throat. "Jesus, Jas…" He interrupted her, clearly frustrated. He looked up at her. Her face wrung of pure concern just about made him experience a whole new whirlwind of emotions. "I loved it, the movie. Ellis is one of my favorite authors, and…" he closed his eyes for a moment before addressing her again. "I love you."
"Jim, you're scaring the shit out of me."
"Why?"
"Why?" she exclaimed, as if in disbelief. "You look like you saw a fucking ghost! Did… did something happen? At the station, did someone…?" she opened her hands briefly, as if pleading him for an answer.
He lowered his head, stroking his fingers along his forehead. "Yeah." He cleared his throat.
"'Yeah'? 'Yeah' what?"
Jim closed his eyes. He'd either rat on his entire department and live in fear until the end of his days, perhaps even putting Jasmine in danger. One visceral thought of her being hurt as a result of his actions caused him to finally look up at her, slightly more confident in his approach. "He killed himself."
Her eyes widened. Her furrowed brow dissipated quickly. "Killed-"
"A suspect." Jim interrupted. "We took him in for trying to rob a… fucking Miller Mart off Wakarusa. He… h-he…" his voice trembled. "W-we got him questioned, but he didn't seem all right in the head, so we put him in a cell to dry up, and…" his shaky voice trailed off. Once again, time seemed to pass faster than normal as he felt Jasmine's touch caress his shoulder, having switched chairs to pull one closer and comfort him. As he began to cry, it dawned on him that he was sobbing both for the victim and for who he expected to be his lifelong partner. He lied to her face without enough hesitation, he thought.
…
The next few weeks passed by in a blur, half out of necessity. Douglas County's reaction to the 'suicide' of 34-year old Oliver Schmitt was to be expected given his recent arrest, forgotten in the papers within a week. It hadn't even made the news, even with Oliver's rap sheet consisting purely of drug convictions and little else. Part of him had hoped, in some form, that someone in his family would eventually show up to advocate for the man's life.
No one could. His closest relative was his sister, who had died in a car accident years prior. Alongside Dell, no one else seemed aware that the only other relative of Schmitt was his father, though perhaps they thought that staying ignorant of his estranged father's existence would lessen the odds of him appearing in the county with questions. After all, his father was a decorated prosecutor for the state of Illinois.
Jim's motivation wasn't fear. He only feared Schmitt's reaction upon the news. That's exactly what he told Jasmine.
"Someone has to tell him his kid's gone, Jas." He shook his head. "The county didn't give a shit," he said, his voice growing louder as he gestured the kitchen knife in her direction. "Did you see the placement? In the local papers?"
"I did." She frowned. "And… I get why you want to do this, James. I'd do the same."
He scoffed.
She looked up at him. Her lips contorted in agony. She approached the kitchen counter as he cut away at the vegetables. "I'm worried about you. Okay? I don't know what you're going to do. I don't know if you're going to…" her words failed her.
He looked up at her. "What?"
She tightened her jaw, looking up at him once more. "You think you failed him. I know it, you know it. This is how you make it right, and I GET that, but Jim, you're going to say something that's going to get yourself in trouble. Negligent homicide, I think it's called. That's what it is, right?"
He shook his head, placing the knife by the cutting board. "Did Dell give you that one?"
She leaned in. "You're not the bad guy here." She sighed out a trembled breath. "And he wasn't either-"
"Oliver. His name's Oliver, alright?" he moved to wash his hands.
"Oliver wasn't a bad person. It's fucked up. All of this, it's fucked up." She surveyed his face. He was agonizing all the same. "…but as much as this might be the right thing to do…"
He briefly looked at her, pursing his lips. As he reached to grab the paper towels, he dried his hands and finally locked his gaze with her's. "We did fail him."
…
A few days later
The towering view of the city's supreme court embodied what he'd felt would ultimately have to be his fate. In a twisted sense of irony, he had thought to himself that he'd perhaps be able to live with Oliver's murder if he used the same 'coping strategies' as his, and not the ones the state-offered therapist offered him. He knew he certainly wouldn't be journaling about the incident. For now, his only focus was to ambush Oliver's father with the news. Days went by without even a sight of the man until one summer morning…
"Theodore Schmitt?" he asked. Before the suited gentleman was a casually-dressed man in cargo pants and a light hoodie, standing by outside the Italian sandwich shop just down the way from the district court.
The suited man peered up from the newspaper he'd been focused on. His lunch was half-eaten. Jim's slight stare of distress as he eyed the newspaper was cut short as the man replied, "Can I help you with something?"
"Theodore Schmitt, the prosecutor?"
Theodore's eyes felt piercing. He squinted up at Jim as he calmly folded the newspaper and setting it down next to his cup of coffee.
"I'm… a friend of Oliver." He was trying to maintain control over his breathing. "Your son?"
Theodore's mouth closed shut. His eyes broke away from Jim's for a moment. He seemed like he had an expectation of where this was heading. "What's this about?" he asked, returning his eyes on this stranger who gestured to sit across from him. He nodded.
"Mr. Schmitt, um…" he cleared his throat, keeping his arms close to his body as he intertwined his fingers in his lap. His eyes closed out of pure remorse. "Oliver died a few weeks ago."
Theodore's eyes broke contact. This man's face said it all. In this moment, at least Jim felt, there was nothing that connected two human beings more than the shared grief of loss. Yet, Oliver was his child, no matter how estranged. Theodore closed his eyes for a few seconds, then looked to Jim. "How?" he asked, swallowing.
"The police department said that he killed himself." Jim replied. Theodore sighed softly, his eyes wandering down at the table as he sat back. "But… that's not the truth." Jim said. Theodore looked up at him, brows knitted in confusion. "Oliver was… arrested, by me and another, Officer Perry, for trying to rob a convenience store in the area. We… brought him back to the station and tried to question him, but he was on something. Best thing, we figured, let him rest in the cell downstairs."
Theodore leaned in slightly, glaring quite obviously at Jim, who could only hold eye contact with the man sparingly. "It's Friday night, the boys in the station are drinking a little, and Decker, Sam Decker, gets them all to agree to 'fuck around' with Oliver, who we'd just finished locking up for the night. Dell and I- uh, that's… Officer Audell Jackson, went home for the night." He paused. "He did. I stayed." He finally looked up at Theodore. "They wanted to mess around with him and it escalated. They started kicking him, beating him, a-and he w-" his words suddenly burst out of his chest as his emotions overwhelmed him, wringing his face painfully. "I didn't stop 'em and Decker, this…" his eyes filled with pure rage. "This demon, he stabbed Oliver in the fucking throat. Just stabbed him."
Theodore's eyes began to well with tears, though his face and body maintained composure as his eyes remained out of focus. "Oh God…" Jim yelped out quietly, covering his face. "I'm so sorry."
…
…
One year later
"Listen, I am telling you, THIS is how you do it!" he laughed, pressing the spatula into the meat.
"Can't lie, those don't look half-bad…" he chuckled, taking a swig of beer as he looked out at the pool. "Choice of music, on the other hand…"
"I know. I tried- no, begged her not to put it on. I think they're called 'Metal Tide' or something like that. And I know what you're going to say." He looked up at his friend. "'Sam, you begged your wife not to, and what'll she do?' I know! Maybe I'm a little stupid, but at least I can grill some of the best burgers in the neighborhood."
"Actually," a voice spoke up, reaching between the two men to grab her iPod. "Silvertide. And everyone comes for the pool, not you." She smirked up at him.
Sam laughed. "I'll accept that answer. 'Least you didn't say they're all here for the music."
"Oh, come…" she scoffed playfully, looking over at Sam's friend. "Hey. The music is fine. Right?"
"Oh, yes, Mrs. Decker." He grinned widely. "In fact, that's why Icame."
She chuckles, shaking her head. She looked up at Sam. "Hey. Where's Nathan?"
He took a swig of beer. "Up in his room," he replied, wiping his mouth with his wrist. "Playing that PlayStation." His wife gave him a look of disappointment. "Hey, that kid deserves a break. Yeah. Practically aced his senior project, and I'm going to follow that up by subjecting him to your…" he cleared his throat. "Wonderful… music choice." He glanced over at his friend with a smirk.
She folded her arms, glaring up at him.
He blinked, then shook his head, taking another swig from his beer. "Fine. I'll get him down." He nudged his friend, raising his empty bottle. "Hey. Gotta get more from the distributor. Want to come along after these're done?"
He smiled, nodding. "Sure, sounds good!"
Twenty minutes had passed, and the two decided to take a walk down to the beer distributor. The partly cloudy skies gave rise to what seemed like a fantastic start to the summer.
"Hey, do me a favor… try to not to lay it on too hard, huh? The kissassery?" he laughed.
"What? I… really am there for the pool!" he laughed with him, glancing out at the large grassy field and the scattered trees. "Hey, I'm gonna go take a piss."
"Alright." Sam replied.
His friend stepped off the neighborhood outskirt's sidewalk, making certain not to trip over the various bushes that increased in thickness as he approached the forest rim. He eyed a particularly thick tree with a smirk. "Oh, yeah."
Shortly after, he stepped through the same path he'd taken, and back up on to the sidewalk. He sighed with relief. "Alright, let's-" he looked up. "Sam?" He looked around, half wondering whether his friend was pulling a prank on him.
The garrote dug deeper, drawing blood while Sam was dragged violently through the field's underbrush. His desperate attempts to loosen the wire around his throat with his fingers failed continuously with every suppressed squeal and cry. As the attacker stopped in his tracks, he maintained one last brief glance at the attacker: a bald man in a black dress shirt and a pair of sunglasses. The man then pulled the garotte's handles upward, further tightening the wire around his neck, causing Sam's eyes to widen in shock and pain.
…
"eHarmony. That's what I'm using." He scoffed, looking out past the blinds as the torrential downpour outside pulled his focus from the conversation with his therapist.
"Why do you feel like that's something to be ashamed of? I think it's incredible for people, old or young, to be able to connect like this." She leaned in. "You said it yourself, Brian. Thousands of people are using it."
"…and?"
"Well, with the same conclusion you've made against yourself, why not say the same about all of them? Even the women you met with a few days ago."
Brian sat back in the chair, pondering her words. Then, he smiled. "I guess… you're right." He looked up at her.
Brian returned to his apartment. He groaned as he pushed the door open. "Fucking hell." he muttered to himself, folding up the umbrella and setting it on the stand. He pulled his drenched coat off of him, heading into the kitchen before stopping in his tracks to be met by a man stood in plain sight. A bald man in a collar-popped raincoat, not unlike his, turned to face him, gripping a suppressed pistol.
Elsewhere, the fingers of a dark-skinned man traced along the back of another. She cuddled into him closer, rubbing his chest. "Why didn't you?" she asked, looking up at him with a smile.
"Why didn't I…? Oh," he laughed. "Why did I let him go with a warning? I- honestly, I thought he was being serious. Even the other officers thought I was an idiot."
"No, you were being sweet." She smiled wider, nuzzling her cheek into his chest. "You're a sweet man, Mr. Jackson."
He smiled down at her, then focused back up at the ceiling, his smile waning slightly. "You think?" he asked. Her answer was interrupted by the buzz of a cellphone. He grunted as he reached over, grabbing his Nokia.
"You're not on call tonight, right?"
"Eh. I'm never not on call, but…" he shrugged. "Nope, it's just Perry."
"Brian?" she looked up at him. "Oh. One of your coworkers?"
"Uh-huh." He placed his phone down by his side, reaching up to run his fingers through her hair. The vibration of his phone was felt, and he sighed. "Hey, what do you want? I'm busy with the girl of my dr…" his voice stopped, staring at his phone screen.
"…Audell?" she looked up at him again. "What's…?"
He pulled himself off from her and hurriedly left the bed. "I have to go. I'll- shit, I'll call you."
BANG!
BANG!
Dell threw his clenched fist against the apartment door, shaking his head with confusion and fear. He recalled that the text told him the door was open and that he was welcome to let himself in. He reached down and gently shoved the door open, closing it as he entered. "Perry!" he yelled, his face and clothes sodden with water. He continued as he approached the living room at the end of the hallway. "Perry, look, we can talk about thi- oh, god…!"
Brian's slumped body sat on the couch with a bullet wound in the center of his forehead and a phone in his hand. Dell spun around in panic, but his attempt to leave the apartment was cut short when his eyes met with the assassin's. His body froze in pure fear. "Please…"
…
TZZT. TZZT. TZZT.
The alarm's buzzer was particularly grating during the hangover. Jim threw his body up off of the floor. "Fuck… CHRIST! I'm up, I'm up!" he yelled, stumbling over to slap the alarm in the hopes that it'd turn off, but it didn't. He stared at it, confused, before baring his teeth in anger as he viciously unplugged the alarm. The room went quiet. Then, after a few seconds of calm, birds could be heard outside. The blinds had been shuttered for months, he thought, and decided to remedy it by opening them up.
The light was blinding, but when his vision adjusted, the view of the ocean and the people celebrating various occasions on the beach made him smile, if briefly, but he knew no amount of permanent sunshine could fully pull him out from the bottom of his bottle. Certainly not vanity.
Despite that, somehow, this day felt different. It felt like, in his mind, he could recover, if he acted like it hadn't happened. As insulting as he'd felt this was to Oliver's memory, the truth is, maybe someone like Oliver wouldn't have felt like his death was in vain if it meant improving someone else's life rather than destroying it. Jim, without hesitation, would swat these thoughts away.
Today was different.
As the server approached his table, he glanced up at him with a half-forced smile. "Hi, how's it going? Could I have… just a water, actually? Ah, with lemon."
"Of course."
He sighed softly, folding his sunglasses and placing them next to his journal in which he had written about how he was feeling today. A young couple caught his attention in one of the tables opposite to him, giving them a fleeting look of envy. He snapped out of his trance as the server approached with his water. "Here you are. Enjoy."
"Thanks," he replied, smiling up at the bald server. "Appreciate it." He pulled his chair closer to his table, taking a hefty gulp of the lemon water as he continued filling in his journal:
Drank water today for the first time in a week. That's something.