“Domestic abuse is very complex,” she agreed, wondering where this was going.
“So would it be strange to kill a woman's husband and have her thank you for it?”
Elizabeth paused. “That reaction would be less common,” she said slowly.
“That's what I thought.”
“But that doesn't necessarily mean anything.”
“It's gotta mean something, Doc, or she wouldn't have said it.”
“Bobby, did you talk to Catherine Gagnon? Did you know Jimmy's wife?”
“Nah, Doc. I can honestly tell you, we've never exchanged a word.”
Bobby was already out in the reception area, donning his heavy wool jacket and rewrapping his scarf. Elizabeth trailed behind him, her radar working full power but unable to penetrate his screen.
“See you Monday at three. Gee, it feels good to have an appointment.” Bobby rolled his eyes, gave her a little salute, headed for the door. Moments later, she watched him walk down Boylston Street, shoulders hunched against the cold, hands buried deep into the front of his jacket.
Dr. Elizabeth Lane stood at the window long after his figure had passed from sight. Finally, she sighed.
She hated what she had to do next.
Elizabeth picked up the phone.
“Hello.” A few moments passed. “So sorry. My condolences. I realize this is very awkward.” And then, “Again, I'm very sorry for the timing, sir, but we need to talk.”
T URNING INTO SOUTH Boston, Bobby tried to figure out what he should do next. The doctor was right; he was tired, hungry, stressed out. He should call it a night, hole up at home and get some rest. He lived on the first floor of a three-family row house—rented out the top two floors for a little income, really little actually, since one of the tenants, Mrs. Higgins, had come with the house. The previous owner had been charging her one hundred and five dollars a month for the past twenty years, and Bobby hadn't the heart to change terms on her. People were like that in Southie. They took care of one another, and even if he was still an outsider, one of the new bloods buying into the old neighborhood, he felt he should live up to the spirit of the place. So he kept Mrs. Higgins and her three cats at a hundred and five a month, and in return, she baked him chocolate chip cookies and told him stories of her grandkids.
Mrs. Higgins was going to be disappointed with him now. She'd liked Susan, approved the way everyone else in Bobby's life approved. Susan was sweet, Susan was kind. Susan was grade-A wife material all the way.
And it was over. Bobby had lied to the counselor earlier, maybe because the knowledge still stung. As of five hours ago, he and Susan were through. It had been a fantasy, and now it was done.
He'd bolted awake shortly after one this afternoon, shaky and disoriented from the sound of traffic pouring through a sun-bright room. Ohmygod, he'd overslept his alarm. He was at the wrong house, he didn't have his uniform, oh shit, he was really in for it now—
And then it came back to him. The night, the shooting, the spray of a man's brains across a distant room. He lay in Susan's bed, feeling his heart pound, and for a moment, he was afraid he was having a heart attack. He couldn't breathe, and his arm was tingling, shooting pains going straight to his chest, which continued to heave and gasp.
Then it came to him. Susan's blonde head, warm and heavy on his shoulder. The length of her bare body, pressed against his. Her left leg, crooked over his hip. Her sheets, smelling of lavender and sex.
He'd eased his arm out from beneath her, and she'd stirred, rolling over, sighing deeply, then drifting back to sleep. He'd watched her a moment longer, feeling an emotion he couldn't name. He wanted to touch her cheek. He wanted to inhale the fragrance of her skin. He wanted to curl up against her and cling to her like a child.
And he'd thought, almost wildly, that maybe if he never got up, the day would never happen. He could stay here, she could stay here, and he'd never have to tell and she'd never have to know. His world could remain warm naked skin, tousled blonde hair, and lavender-scented sheets.
He'd never have to face what he had done. He'd never have to be the man who pulled the trigger. God, life was full of shit.
Bobby got out of bed. He made it to the bathroom, where he realized he hadn't had a chance to urinate since eight last night, and pissed for what felt like forever. Then he got dressed, found the lower drawer where he kept his extra things, and as quietly as he could, emptied the contents into his rucksack.
He paused at the doorway of the bedroom. He took in the flush of Susan's cheeks, the rumpled curls of her golden hair. And Bobby felt an ache that went on and on and on.
Bobby rarely thought of his mother anymore, but when he did, it was almost always during moments like this one. When he wanted something he knew he couldn't have. When he felt a little unhinged, a little undone, a permanent outsider, always looking in.
He remembered the way the woman had held her child last night, the little boy's head tucked against her chest, her hands tight over his ears. And he found himself wondering, in a dark, foreboding sort of way, if his mother had ever done the same.
Two in the afternoon on a bright, sunny day, when he should've been cruising I-93 for speeders or drunks or motorists in need of assistance, when he should've been going through the paces the way he'd been going through the paces for years, Bobby stood in the doorway of his girlfriend's bedroom and felt something inside him tear. A sharp, hard ache. A genuine physical pain.
Then the worst of it was over, and all that was left was an already fading ache, the echo of a ghost pain, a soft mourning for what might have been. He could live with that. He had, in fact, been living with that for years.
Bobby left.
When the front door clicked shut behind him, Susan opened her eyes. She spotted the empty space on the bed. She called out his name, but he was already down the hall and it was too late to hear.
T HE L STREET Tavern was a bar's bar, heralding back to the days of smoke-filled interiors and drunken games of darts, the days before bars became smoke-free, family-friendly national chains and the settings of popular sitcoms. Lots of cops hung out here. Locals, too. It was the kind of a place where a guy could finally relax.
It was also crowded on a Friday night. Bobby thought he'd have to stand, but then halfway across the low-lit room, Walter Jensen from Boston PD spotted him and immediately slid off his stool.
“Bobby, my man! Get your ass over here! Have a seat, make yourself at home. Hey, Gary, Gary, Gary. I'm buying this man a beer!”
“Coke,” Bobby said automatically, making his way to the wood-scarred bar, where lots of guys were turning now, some Bobby knew, some he didn't. Behind the bar, Gary had already started pouring a Killian's.
“Beer,” Walt said sternly. “Pager can't get you anymore, Bobby. Remember? As long as you're on administrative leave, the four-hundred-pound gorilla is dead. So sit back, loosen that collar, and have yourself a cold one.”
“Well, shit,” Bobby said with some surprise. “You're right.”
So Bobby had a beer. First from Walt, who had to congratulate him on a job well done.
“I heard it straight from the horse's mouth—Lieutenant Jachrimo himself. You did what you had to do. And through glass no less. Shit, Bobby, that's some serious shooting.”
Then Donny, also BPD, wanted in on the glory. He refreshed Bobby's drink and contributed his own two cents.
“Just goes to show, money doesn't buy happiness. Walt, how many times have we been out to that place? Three, four, five? We're just sorry we missed the party.”
It occurred to Bobby for the first time that both Walt and Donny were also part of Boston's SWAT. “How'd it play in Revere?” he asked.
“Same old, same old,” Donny said. “Guy shot up the roof of his own house. Drank a six-pack. Shot up his house some more, and then, just when the LT was getting really pissed off at the lack of progress, passed out cold. We went in and wrapped him up tight while he snored. Kind of boring really. We didn't e
ven get to yell.”
“But you've been to Back Bay?”
“Sure, Jimmy and his lady liked to spark the fireworks. He'd get drunk, she'd get mad, and off they'd go.”
“He beat her?”
Donny shrugged. “We never saw and she never said. They're not the ones who called it in anyway. It was always the neighbors who complained.”
“Didn't like fighting in their neighborhood?”
“Jimmy liked to throw things,” Walt said. “Once he hurled a chair off the balcony and onto his neighbor's Volvo. The neighbors really didn't like that.”
“When you were called out, what'd you do?”
“Not much. Couple of uniforms would go by, talk to the happy couple. I caught the call once. Jimmy apologized and, being of a generous sort, offered me a beer. The wife never said much of anything. Cold fish, if you ask me, though maybe if you're married to a guy like Jimmy, you learn to keep your mouth shut.”
“He was violent?”
“Time I was there, I saw a hole punched through the wall,” Walt said. “Wife didn't say anything, but it looked to me the exact same size as a man's fist.”
“And the kid?”
“Never saw him. I think they had a nanny. Probably better for the kid.”
Bobby's second beer was getting low. Donny flagged Gary down for a refill and Bobby didn't complain. “You'd think a judge's son would know better,” he said tersely.
Walt shrugged. “Way I hear it, Jimmy gets in a little trouble and the judge makes a little call, and it all goes away. If only we were all so lucky.”
“Didn't go away this time,” Bobby said sharply.
“Nope. Fine piece of shooting, Bobby. Honestly, if it wasn't for you, that wife and kid would probably be dead right now. That was some really serious shit.”
More guys were coming up. Someone clapped him on the back. Someone else bought him another beer. Bobby could no longer feel the rim of the glass coming to his lips. He was aware of sliding a little, disappearing into a vortex inside the loud, overheated bar. But at the same time, he was hyperaware—of the guys who didn't come up to him, of the eyes that peered at him from across the room, of the way some people looked over, saw his face, then quickly shook their heads.
And now he noticed something he hadn't before: the way both Walt and Donny regarded him. With respect, yeah, and awe, maybe, but also with genuine pity. 'Cause he was a cop who'd killed a man. And at the end of the day, it probably didn't matter what the DA's office finally ruled or what the department issued as its official finding. They were living in the media age, and in the media age, cops didn't get to fire their weapons. Cops were honored if they got themselves killed in the line of duty, but they were never supposed to draw their guns, not even in self-defense.
Another beer arrived. Bobby picked up the glass. He was well on his way tobeing completely, shit-faced drunk, when his LT found him and gave him the news.
J ESUS SHITTING BRICKS. What the hell are you doing, Bobby? Half this city is watching you and you go and get drunk?”
Lieutenant Bruni was dragging him around the corner from the tavern. He had one finger crooked around the collar of Bobby's jacket and was literally pulling him down the street.
“Not . . . on the . . . clock,” Bobby managed to slur out. Christ, it was cold outside. The raw November night slapped him across the face, making him blink owlishly.
“Camera crews are coming. Someone leaked to the goddamn press that you were holding court in a pub. But by God, you must have a guardian angel somewhere, because the chatter got picked up on the scanner and I was sent to bail you out. Bobby, listen to me.”
Lieutenant Bruni suddenly jerked to a halt. He was panting, his breath coming in frosty clouds that floated across Bobby's vision. He had both hands on Bobby's collar, shaking him.
“Bobby, you're in trouble.”
“No . . . shit.”
“Listen to me, Bobby. Today's been a busy day downtown. Judge Gagnon is not happy his son is dead, and he's not about to listen to reason or circumstance. The judge is gunning for revenge, Bobby, and he's got you in his sights.”
Bobby couldn't think of anything to say. The world was swimming around him. Air cold upon his cheeks. The stench of beer ripe in his nostrils. He needed to shower. Christ, he needed to sleep.
Thank you, the woman had said. Thank you.
And then it came to him: What a fucking bitch! Thank him? She shouldn't be thanking him. She should've left her drunken husband years ago. Or she should've said something to calm the man an hour earlier. Or never let go of her son. Or never taunted her husband in such a way to make him smile that cold, vengeful smile. She'd been the one in that room talking to Jimmy. She should've done a million and a half things differently, so Bobby would never have had to pull the trigger. So Bobby would never have had to kill a man and ruin his own goddamn life. So Bobby wouldn't be here now, drunk and exhausted and ashamed. What the hell kind of man killed a guy in front of his own kid anyway? Oh God, what had he done?
The bitch, the bitch, the bitch.
He pulled away from his lieutenant. He walked in small, random circles, still feeling crazy with rage. He wanted to take a bat and smash every fucking window in every fucking car on this street. And then he'd take a tire iron to every door and a blade to every tire. He wanted, he wanted, he wanted . . .
Oh Christ, he couldn't breathe. His chest had locked up. His lips were open, gasping, but nothing was coming, no air would draw in. He was having another heart attack. He was dying in South Boston because it was November and he'd always known it would happen like that. The summer was safe, fall not too bad, but November . . . November was a killer month. Shit, shit, shit.
“Head between your knees. Come on, Bobby. Bend over, deep breath. You can do it. Just concentrate on the sound of my voice.”
Bobby felt hands on his shoulders, hands forcing his head down. Stars were building in front of his eyes, brilliant white spots blooming in a sea of black. The stars would burst soon, fade away, and then there'd be only the black, rushing to greet him.
Then, as quickly as it started, his chest unlocked, his compressed lungs suddenly gasped to life and inhaled a rush of oxygen. He staggered into the middle of the street, barely missed a passing car, and gulped a deep lungful of icy night air.
Bruni was still beside him, dragging him out of the traffic and talking low and fast. “Pay attention to me, Bobby. Pull yourself together and pay attention.”
Bobby found a streetlight to cling to. He wrapped his arms and legs around the cold metal. Then he hung his head and fought to get a grip.
“All right,” he said. “I'm together.”
Bruni looked skeptical, but he grunted in acquiescence. “Do you know what a clerk-magistrate hearing is?”
“A clerk what?”
“Clerk-magistrate. The clerk-magistrate reports to the Chelsea District Court of Suffolk County. That's the civil side of the county's judicial system, versus the criminal side. You probably didn't know—hell, I sure didn't know—but any person can seek a clerk-magistrate hearing for probable cause that (a) a crime has been committed, and (b) that the defendant did it. If the clerk-magistrate finds in favor of probable cause, then the clerk-magistrate can issue criminal charges against the defendant, even though it's a civil court. Basically, any civilian can run around the DA's office and, using the clerk-magistrate, pursue their own criminal case, with their own personal lawyer and their own personal funds. You might want to ask, Bobby, what this has to do with you.”
“What does this have to do with me?” Bobby asked wearily.
“At four forty-five this evening, Maryanne Gagnon, wife of Suffolk Superior Court Judge James Gagnon and mother of Jimmy Gagnon, filed a motion for a hearing with the clerk-magistrate. She's arguing there's probable cause that a murder was committed, and that you did it.”
Bobby made the mistake of closing his eyes. The world promptly spun sickeningly.
“Judge Gagnon's not waiting
for the DA's office, Bobby. He doesn't give a damn what their investigators find, he doesn't give a damn what the hell our department finds. He's gunning for you himself.”
“I thought . . . I thought as Massachusetts state employees we were protected from all that. The Mass. Tort Claims Act. As long as we're on the job, someone can only sue the state, not us.”
“Yeah, nobody can bring a civil suit against you specifically. But this isn't a civil suit, Bobby. This is a probable cause hearing to press criminal charges. This is a felony. This is, if you're found guilty, you go to jail. This isn't some guy looking to ease his bereavement by collecting cold hard cash, Bobby. This is a guy looking to destroy your life.”
Bobby's legs gave out and he went down hard, tilting wildly to the left, before Bruni caught his arm and brought him back to center. The lieutenant joined him on the curb. They sat, tucked hidden between two cars, and for a while, neither of them spoke.
“Jesus,” Bobby said at last.
“I'm sorry, Bobby. Honest to God, I've never heard of anything like this. Do you have a lawyer?”
“I thought the union provided a lawyer.”
“Union can't help. This is a case brought against you personally, not the State of Mass. or the department. For this, you're on your own.”
Bobby placed his head in his hands. He was too tired, too drunk for this. He felt as if November had leached all the fight out of his bones, and he had nothing left.
“It was a righteous shoot,” he said.
“No one I know is saying otherwise.”
“The man was going to kill his wife.”
“I listened to the tape of the command center's conversation this afternoon. You followed procedure, Bobby. You documented events, you detailed what was happening, and you did what you were trained to do. Maybe no one else will ever say this, but I'm proud of you, Bobby. You had a job to do, and you didn't back down.”
Bobby couldn't talk anymore. He had to pinch the bridge of his nose to quell the moisture suddenly stinging his eyes. God, he was tired. Worse, he was drunk.