It All Started With His Glasses

I know all too well what others think of me. And perhaps even worse, I understand why they think those things. But I wasn’t always this way. When I was young, I ran freely and easily. I remember being fast and graceful and mostly happy. I could throw a ball or hit a puck handily enough. And my feet were even known to obey my commands.

I was small for my age, and the other boys would tease me. But my mother would dry my tears and hug me and tell me not to worry, that I would grow to reach my father’s height and maybe more. Then she would tell me that my size didn’t matter because I was still better in sports than most of the other boys. And besides, could they remember facts and figures the way I could? And there was no question in her mind that I could stand up to anyone, because she had faith in me.

I would stomp out of whatever RCMP sponsored housing we were staying in that particular month and face down the bullies in question. So the teasing was never particularly cruel and never lasted very long.

Then on the first day of grade ten, I woke up and everything was different. My hands and feet, which had always been almost comically large, suddenly seemed to be inches farther from me than the day before. I would reach for something and my arm would shoot out impossibly far and send that item crashing to the ground. Or I would underestimate just how long my legs had become and I would trip over everything and nothing.

The taller I grew, the clumsier I became. The clumsier I became, the more I was teased. But this time there were no hugs or soothing words. My mother had been killed the month before. She was walking to a friend’s home when she was hit by a car being driven by a man who was far too old to be behind the wheel of an automobile. She was buried next to her parents and the man was sent to a nursing home.

I lost my father as well. He buried himself beneath his work, and I was left to raise myself as best I could.

I grew a foot and a half in the next three years. I used to cry myself to sleep because I missed my mother. Then I cried myself to sleep because I missed my father. Later I would cry myself to sleep because I was growing so fast that my legs would hurt horribly. By the time my body stretched itself into its current height of six feet four and a half inches, my clumsiness and acceptance thereof were so deeply ingrained, I didn’t know how to change.

I remember the day I received my acceptance letter from the RCMP. I was so hopeful. I thought that I had finally gotten my chance. That perhaps I could find enough of the boy I had been to allow me to be the man I wished to become.

And I did well at Depot. My defensive tactics instructor had been a recruit while my father did his tour of duty at the Academy. He remembered my mother fondly. He took me under his wing and provided me with endless encouragement and assistance. His faith in me was so powerful I started to believe in myself.

My mother had been right about my intellectual abilities. I had always had a head for facts and figures. I memorized our Penal Code and Code of Criminal Procedures before I stepped foot on Academy grounds, but thanks to Corporal Matthews I was able to apply my knowledge. Classmates actually asked to be partnered with me during Situation Simulation.

Of course all of that changed with graduation. I requested the same duty station as my father, so that we might be together. Ottawa was pleasant enough, but I was given nothing but the most mundane tasks. While other rookies were hunting down felons, I was hunting down paper for the office copy machine. And knowing that my father was in charge of the duty assignments only made it worse. I began stammering and tripping again.

I would go to my father and request street work -- any kind of street work. He would smile agreeably and tell me he would find something suitable to my talents. Then his eyes would drift to the picture of my mother. His smile would become tinged with longing, and he would tell me how much I reminded him of her, how our eyes were the exact same shade of blue and how he saw her in my smile. He never cried in front of me, but he would send me away, back to whatever terribly important tasks I had been performing before I came to see him. I would shut his office door and trip my way back to my duty.

When the position here at the Consulate opened up, I saw my chance. Father was on extended leave, visiting friends in Yellowknife. I knew that this particular posting was considered a joke, but what else could I expect given my reputation? And I must admit that I knew of Constable Fraser and held a little grain of hope in my heart that he would allow me to tag along with him and learn from him.

I applied for the post and was approved with no delay. They were afraid I would withdraw my request, I’m sure. And had I known the lay of the land, their fears would have proven well founded.

Inspector Thatcher does little for me, other than inspire me to new heights of clumsiness. And my hopes where Constable Fraser were concerned were quickly dashed by his obsession with Detective Vecchio. He spent every free and almost every duty moment with the American, leaving us little time together and no room for friendship on any level.

I reconciled myself to a routine of work, home and ineptitude. And there I remained, until he appeared. I’ve been attracted to Detective Vecchio since the beginning. Well, since his beginning as Detective Vecchio that is. No, that’s not entirely accurate. Truthfully, I’d have to say that it all started with his glasses.

*

I noticed him the moment he stepped foot on Canadian soil. I was arranging the furniture in Her Majesty’s new bedroom. Unfortunately, I have no eye for such things. Fortunately, I have strong arms and a strong back. I had just moved Her bureau for the fifth time and was reaching for my Fung Shui manual when I chanced to glance out of Her north window. My breath was held captive, trapped in my throat by the unexpectedly delightful view my eyes beheld.

Constable Fraser was making his way toward the new Consulate’s front doors. And while that in and of itself would have made the view lovelier than it had a right to be, it was the man beside him who was the cause of the deliciously warm tingle of anticipation that expressed itself as a curling of my toes and a sudden desire to arrange furniture, or anything else that might require arranging, downstairs in the reception area.

I was eager, admittedly rather too eager, to meet Constable Fraser’s new partner. Lieutenant Welsh had come to the Consulate, the former Consulate, and had a long meeting with Inspector Thatcher a mere ten days before. I had then been called in to join them. I remember being quite nervous and wondering just what I could have broken or ruined that would necessitate the presence of another supervisor, and an American supervisor at that. Of course when they let me in on the machinations being plotted by the American Federal Bureau of Investigations, I was truly honored by the trust they were placing in me. Not only did they explain that Detective Vecchio would be replaced by another Detective who was to take on his name and very life, they were also kind enough to explain the reason for the entire, initially confusing, situation. I thanked them both and assured them that their faith in me was justified and that I would never betray their trust.

I had spent the better part of those ten days imagining what the new Detective Vecchio would be like. Of course he would be handsome -- tall, not too much shorter than I at any rate, with a lithe form and patrician features. But would he walk with that same winsome, breezy gait I had so often admired? Would his eyes glow with a fire that seems inborn only to those who have been blessed with Mediterranean blood? And would he favor me with those smiles that promised nothing less than Paradise and gave nothing more than a memory?

I bounded down the stairs at a somewhat undignified rate of speed. I made it safely to the ground floor and mentally congratulated myself for not tripping or stumbling on any of the boxes that lined the Consulate’s walls. I grabbed the first item my eyes lighted on, and what luck! It turned out to be nothing less than Her Majesty’s new portrait; not only an excuse to be downstairs, but a real conversation piece as well.

As you can well imagine, our first meeting was somewhat different from what I had pictured. His height was just as I had anticipated, but that was all. He bore not the slightest resemblance to Detective Vecchio. His shoes were not shoes at all, but some off-brand, heavy, ungainly boots that hadn’t seen the proper side of a polishing brush in perhaps forever. His clothes were not at all stylish and looked as though they had been pulled from the bottom of a drunkard’s laundry hamper. And his hair was. . .unusual. . .to say the least. And the less said about it the better.

I took an almost instant dislike to the man. On top of all of the things that he was -- untidy, unkempt, unfriendly -- there were all of the things that he wasn’t -- namely Detective Vecchio. As I stood with his in the reception area and offered him tea, while he waited for Constable Fraser to finish his business with the Inspector and her interior decorator, I felt a sudden urge to see Detective Vecchio, the real Ray Vecchio.

Of course, I hid my feelings toward this interloper. He was a guest of the Canadian government after all.

Our first meeting was brief. But I had enough time to form an opinion of this man, or so I thought.

Our next encounter would show just how wrong I had been. He returned to the Consulate some days later. He was waiting for Constable Fraser, who was being detained by the Inspector, who was, loudly enough to be heard through the Canadian pine of her office doors, expressing her displeasure at some thing or another.

While Constable Fraser was ensconced with the Inspector in her office, Detective Vecchio began walking among the boxes still lining the walls. He would stop and inspect various items and move on. I followed along, partly to elucidate upon items that he found worthy of his interest and partly to ensure that none of those items found their way into his coat pockets.

Things were going along very well until he came to a box that contained various papers of minor historical importance. He began reading a document that consisted of assurances from a long dead mayor of Chicago that the people of his fair city were not, in fact, plotting to tear the former Consulate to the ground brick by brick. The letter was written in shockingly bad penmanship. Before I could decipher a particularly poorly written sentence for this Detective Vecchio, he reached into his coat and pulled out what had to be the singularly most unattractive pair of glasses ever made by man. He put them on, and I was lost. The bridge accentuated his smallish nose, the thick lenses drew attention to his already large eyes, and the earpieces set off his stubbled cheekbones and softly curving ears to perfection. I stood transfixed by his beauty, which had been made apparent only by his unfortunate choice of eyewear.

He chuckled at some unintentionally amusing phrase penned by the former mayor and then smiled at me as though I were party to his private joke. I returned his smile with an awkward half-grimace of my own, turned on my heel and promptly fell over a large box containing papers on the ongoing soft pulp crisis, thus spilling the papers and ruining any chance I had of earning his suddenly-desired respect in one fell swoop.

He helped me to my feet, which only made matters worse, and then helped me stack the papers, which made them worse yet. I thanked him, but I couldn’t bear to look him in the eye. I knew what I would find. I had seen it far too often in my life. Sticks and stones will break my bones, but words left unsaid do far more damage indeed.

I was given a temporary reprieve from his pity by the sudden opening of the Inspector’s office door and the sharp click clacking of her high-heeled shoes as they crossed the wooden floor of the reception area. I was again saved from the Inspector’s wrath by the not quite slamming of the front door.

Detective Vecchio’s attention was captured by the appearance of Constable Fraser, and they retreated to the Constable’s office cum living quarters. I secreted myself in a far corner of the Consulate, and there I remained until I was certain that I was blessedly alone.

*

Oh, we’ve met several times in the ensuing months, but always briefly. Except for that time he was arrested by Constable Fraser and I was placed in charge of his care and custody. I thought I handled myself rather well, given the situation -- aside from the liberties I took with my uniform after he returned it to me. But I have come to the conclusion that all of that was entirely his fault, since he hadn’t bothered to have it dry cleaned before he returned it to me.

But I digress.

I must admit that I have always had a penchant for desiring the unattainable. This has caused me no small amount of pain in the past, but somehow, knowing he is beyond my grasp has made wanting him easier and the sting of my disappointment less sharp.

While in his presence I have done as well as could be expected given my affection toward him and my awkwardness, until now that is.

He came to the consulate mere hours ago and collected Constable Fraser as was his custom. But following their departure, I went to fix the Inspector’s afternoon tea and chanced to notice that Detective Vecchio had left his glasses on the counter next to a tray of half-eaten, freshly baked Snicker doodles.

I took his glasses and carefully wrapped them in my handkerchief and then placed them in my jacket pocket, right over my heart. I called Miss Vecchio and she told me that she had overheard Lieutenant Welsh ordering Detective Vecchio to be at a farmer’s cooperative store adjacent to downtown at six p.m. precisely. Happily, I knew the place she meant, as I had ventured there just recently in search of organic passionfruit for an exceptionally selective daughter of a visiting member of the Canadian National Cribbage Team.

I intended to do nothing more than hand him his glasses and perhaps have a moment to enjoy his company before bidding him a good evening and, hopefully, executing a graceful exit. But, in the words of Robbie Burns, “The best laid plans of mice and men aft times gae agley.”

And that is how I come to find myself in my current circumstance, sitting across a narrow spanse of thinly veneered bar table from him, doing my abject best to hide my anger and to avoid staring accusingly at his bespectacled, roguishly charming face.

Tuesday night and we’re all down at Hanrahan’s neighborhood bar and grill putting away the cold ones. And when I say all of us, I mean all of us. Welsh isn’t just here, he’s the ringleader. He sitting at the head of this long table that’s made up of a whole bunch of little tables.

We finished tonight’s case/bust with no injuries and a whole bunch of good press. And then Lieutenant “I’m going to skip my own retirement party” announces he’s taking all of us out for a brew.

He leads us here and tells a waitress that isn’t quite as harsh looking as all of the others that he’s fronting us a round. Then, miracle of miracles, he actually fronts us another one.

He’s sitting there like a king, with Frannie on his left and the man of the hour on his right. We’re long past round two, and fast running out of things to toast. Well, at least we were running out of things until the Duck Boys jumped in. Somewhere around round five, Huey and Dewey took over. Somewhere around round eight, they started being funny.

“To Tuesday!” One of them would shout out. Everyone would laugh and drink to Tuesday.

Then we drank to patent leather, Huey’s bunions, the jukebox, tofu, the guy who invented tofu, football, baseball, hockey, squash, curling, hurling. You name it, we drank to it.

Even Fraser had tossed a sheet or two into the wind. Everyone was in the spirit of things. Everyone except me. I was sober as a judge. And I don’t mean that district judge guy that got arrested for DWI last week. I was drinking the flattest, nastiest, no alcohol, beer substitute on the planet. Not so anyone would know it of course. I snuck the waitress aside and asked her for the stuff where no one else could hear. She gave me that sympathetic “Oh, another recovering alcoholic cop” look and said how it was no problem.

I got out my mental notebook and scratched Hanrahan’s off my list of after work hangouts. I knew I wouldn’t be getting served any Boilermakers in here any time soon. But I was too worried about the danger I really was in to be worried about her worrying about me.

See, I was sitting in the danger zone. I was next to Frannie, who was sitting across from Turnbull, who was looking everywhere but at me. I didn’t think nothing of it when I sat down. It’s just that Dewey wanted that seat. And while Dewey is an okay guy and all, when he gets drunk his hands tend to go international. You know, Roman hands and Russian fingers. And Frannie isn’t really my sister, but I still think of her that way.

What with Vecchio all wrapped up in Fraser down at the other end of the table, I kind of felt responsible for Frannie, especially since she wasn’t in any kind of shape to be responsible for herself. So I sat down next to her and spent the next couple of hours pushing Dewey’s hand off of my knee and avoiding my real weakness -- the face of the guy sitting across the table from Frannie.

I could tell he was pissed at me, but the way I see things I should have been angry with him. It was his fault that I was in the situation I was in, all of the situations I was in, come to think of it.

It was his fault Frannie’s knees weren’t off limits to Dewey. If he had just gone after Frannie, there wasn’t a guy at the two seven that would have dared to put a hand on or near any of her body parts out of respect. But no, he fixes her that one lunch and then nothing.

It was his fault I wasn’t drinking anything worth drinking. I knew there was no way I could drink and sit across from him, knowing his long thighs were just inches away from my booted feet and not do anything about it. Because I’m a pretty decent guy, but his thighs had been giving me dreams involving him and a saddle and me and a few other things that I shouldn’t think about in mixed company.

It was his fault I was wearing my glasses in front of the entire squad. I was never going to hear the end of the Buddy Holly’s uglier brother comments. Hell, Dewey had already toasted my four eyes four times. But it was get teased for my lack of fashion sense or get teased for my staring at Turnbull lack of sense.

And it was his fault I was here in the first place. We’d been chasing this guy Portman for months. He started out doing the usual scumbag stuff, stealing cell phones and radios out of rich people’s cars. But he built up to the majors. He went to stealing cars and then jacking people. A few months ago, he offed a guy that didn’t get out of his forty thousand dollar import fast enough.

We’ve been looking for him ever since. It should have been no problem, just issue a warrant for the guy and let a couple of beat cops pick him up for a traffic violation. But Portman was slippery. It was like he sweated grease. Every time someone got close, he’d just slip away and leave no trail to follow.

Welsh finally got fed up with it. He set up this huge sting -- had us trailing Portman around like a pack of blood hounds. We followed him to this open air farmer’s market thing that some city council person who had never seen the inside of a supermarket decided would help revitalize a neighborhood.

We surround Portman near the oranges and Welsh gives the word to take him down. But the guy is slimier than a infomercializing guru. We look up and he’s ducking under a table. And just like that, the chase is on. I’m running and I’m cursing because this case is my baby. Welsh made it my baby, and I don’t like the idea of a Harding Welsh sized dress shoe up my ass.

Portman rounds a corner and I hear what sounds like a one man band in a category four hurricane. I make the corner a minute later. When I’ve stopped wheezing and the black spots clear from my eyes, I’m blessed with the sight of a twisting writhing mass of Portman sleaze and Turnbull purity rolling around in what’s left of an artichoke display.

Turnbull wasn’t part of our little party, but I’m too happy at this turn of events to wonder what he’s doing here, saving my rep of all things. Turnbull stands up, helps Portman up and starts apologizing. I realize what must have happened. I start laughing so hard Portman almost gets away before I can make Turnbull understand that he needs to keep a hand on the guy. But I get the idea across just in time, and Turnbull hangs on to him until I can get him in cuffs.

Welsh and the rest of the two seven come around the corner, huffing and puffing worse than I was. They pull up short when they spot Turnbull. They know Turnbull’s talents as well as I do, and it could go either way. I could tell the whole unvarnished truth, but Turnbull really saved my salami. Besides, everyone deserves to be a hero at least once.

I walk up and clap him on the shoulder. I tell him his timing was dead on and thank him for agreeing to work backup on my little warrant operation. Welsh buys the horse and the cart that came with it. He steps up and shakes Turnbull’s hand and calls him the hero of the day. All of the other guys join in. Turnbull keeps looking at me like he knows what I’m doing and he doesn’t like it one bit. But he’s too polite to call me a liar, so he goes along with it.

We all head back to the station. I finish up the paperwork, Welsh signs off on it and starts talking about a celebratory brew, and that’s how we all ended up here.

I believe I manage quite nicely during our little impromptu celebration. I smile and laugh and drink at all of the appropriate moments. I keep a tight rein on the shame that threatens to fill my throat and choke off my breathing. And when my turn comes to make a toast, I am blessed with inspiration and make a particularly meaningful statement. I stand ramrod straight, look the former Detective Vecchio in the eye and say in an oddly detatched voice, “To Detective Kowalski and the faith he showed in my abilities by asking me to join your operation.”

My toast is followed by a round of “To Kowalski!” and the clatter and clash of half empty beer glasses.

He doesn’t respond to the challenge in my eyes, but at least he has the decency to look away first.

I take my seat and spend the rest of the evening matching Lieutenant Welsh drink for drink. By the time the check comes, I am near to drowning in weak American beer and self-pity. And if I stumble when I stand, for once I’m not the only one.

The Lieutenant is feeling expansive and offers me a ride to my apartment. I thank him, but decline. He lives in the opposite direction, and besides, the walk will do me good. He acknowledges that it would be a rather long drive, but insists that someone see me home.

Surprisingly, Detective Kowalski steps up. He bypasses me entirely, makes his offer of a ride to my home to the lieutenant as though I were a child, incapable of making even the most insignificant decision on my own behalf.

I again voice my objections, but the Lieutenant will have none of it. I am quite insistent until he threatens to call the Inspector. While I have nothing but the utmost respect for Inspector Thatcher, I have no desire for her to be made aware of my less than sober state -- especially considering the fact that I am neither wholly in or out of my uniform. I shed my leather gear and jacket some time ago, but my pants and shirt are decidedly RCMP issue.

I capitulate and allow myself to be led to his small black car. It’s bucket seats were not designed for someone of my size, but I take black pleasure in my discomfort. I direct him to my residence and then sink into silence.

He glances at me frequently and moves about in his seat as though searching for the right words to extricate himself from the situation he has placed both of us in.

Finally he settles for the obvious.

“I’m sorry.”

I am feeling rather small, and so I cannot find it within me to make his apology easier on his conscience than his lies have been on my pride.

“Whatever for, Detective Kowalski?”

He stares at me in disbelief. When I refuse to meet his qaze, his eyes return to the windshield. But he plunges on.

“You know what I’m talking about. I’m sorry about earlier, at the market.”

“Oh, that.”

“Yeah, that. I’m sorry about that.”

“Could you be more specific, please?”

I’m in the mood for a fight. He’s getting there.

“What the Hell do you mean ‘more specific’? I’m trying to apologize here! You want me to crawl? Is that it?”

“Certainly not, detective. I’m simply trying to ascertain what exactly it is you are apologizing for. For being in such poor physical shape that you almost lost a wanted murderer? For being embarassed that it was me who saved your reputation? For laughing at me? For lying about my reason for being at the market? For continuing the lie? For refusing to look me in the eye? For refusing to drink to my toast? For taking pity upon poor me and manufacturing an account of heroism on my behalf?”

I grow angrier with each question. The last is almost loud enough to be deafening. Detective Kowalski screeches his beloved car to a stop at a fortuitous red light, and I make my escape. I walk in the general direction of my apartment. He drives alongside, asking and then ordering me to get back into his car. Thunder sounds ominously in the distance, matching my mood exactly.

“Turnbull, please get back in the car.”

“No.”

“I’m sorry, okay? Get in the car.”

“No.”

“Look it’s going to rain.”

“Good.”

“Turnbull, I got your belt and jacket, you’re going to need them in the morning.”

“So?”

“Dammit, Turnbull! Just get in the damned car!”

I don’t respond. I’m not drunk enough to say the words that come to mind. He yells, “Fine!” and pulls away in a smoke of burning rubber tires. I am alone, but only for a moment. He turns the car into a nearby alley. I hear his engine cut out and a door slam. He joins me on the sidewalk, muttering under his breath all the while. Finally he deigns to speak to me again.

“Look, Turnbull, I was just trying to help.”

“Help? I don’t want your help! Not like that at any rate! Who would want to be helped like that?

“I know that I am an incompetent buffon, but did you have to shame me publicly? And then to force me to sit through that farce of a celebration? I thought better of you than that.”

“Look, Turnbull. . .”

“No, Detective Kowalski, you look. I am going to my home now. I suggest you return to yours. I would be very grateful if you would be kind enough to give my things to Constable Fraser. I am certain he will not mind returning them to me.”

“Turnbull. . .”

“We have nothing further to say to one another, Detective.”

I lengthen my strides and escape him quickly. The sky opens up and rains its sorrow down upon me. I do not enter my building until my clothes are fully soaked. I strip, towel myself dry and fall into my narrow bed.

***

I was pretty hot about the whole deal. Hot at Turnbull for being so mad at me, and hot at myself because he’s right about the whole thing. I was only trying to help, but it was a pretty shitty thing to do, knowing what I know now, anyways.

I thought it was my fault he was always tripping and saying stupid stuff while I was around. I knew I made him uneasy. Heck, I’d be knocking stuff over and falling if I was straight and some swings both ways freak stared at me like I was hotter than a Mexican plate lunch every time he came around to visit one of his buddies. How was I supposed to know he was like that all the time?

I stewed about it for a few days and then did what I always do when I can’t figure something out on my own. I went to talk to Fraser about it. Okay, so I hung around Fraser and moped until he figured something was up and asked. But it all works out the same, right?

He didn’t know a whole lot about Turnbull, nevermind they’ve worked together for a couple of years. But he did one of those Fraser not quite wrong things. He left Turnbull’s personnel file on top of his desk and left me alone in his office. The all the way wrong stuff was up to me.

I didn’t disappoint myself. I waited an entire seven seconds after the door closed before I opened the file.

Things were pretty clear even to my bad eyesight. Turnbull had two big problems. The first one, his mom getting knocked off, I couldn’t do anything about. But the second one. . .that I could fix, and how.

What a freaking nightmare, going straight from the academy to working for your old man. Your old man who lost his wife and probably wigged every time he thought about losing his only kid.

Turnbull was a rookie. Six years on and he was still a rookie. He’d never learned to do things right, because he’d never been given a chance to do them wrong. Faxing and filing do not a street cop make.

Welsh had been making noises about partnering me up with somebody since Vecchio came back and he and Fraser hooked back up. I had taken a look around the bullpen, and Turnbull seemed like a better choice than any of the others, better looking anyway. All I had to do was convince Fraser.

*

“Absolutely not, Stan.”

“Why not?”

“Turnbull is. . .well, Turnbull.”

“Yeah, so?”

“He could be injured or worse.”

“That’s the point.”

“I fail to see the point, Stan.”

“He could be injured. He could be killed. That’s the point.”

“Are you stating that you have homicidal intentions toward Constable Turnbull? Because, Stan, let me tell you once and for all that. . .”

“Frase. . . Frase. . . Fraser!”

“What?”

“What I am saying is that the guy is a cop, right?”

“Well, technically speaking.”

“Exactly, technologically speaking. But only technologically speaking, because no one’s ever given him a chance to be anything else. You’ve read his file. Do not lie to me. I know you have.

“The guy’s a virgin. Don’t look at me like that. You know what I’m saying.”

“Why the sudden interest in Turnbull? Aside from the obvious of course.”

That little dig earned him a Stanley Raymond Kowalski death look and a few points in the negative column of my friendship ledger. He knew I had it bad. I knew I had it bad. He didn’t have to rub it in.

He just stood there, waiting for an answer.

“No reason.”

He kept standing there.

I spilled my guts.

“So, you’re feeling guilty.”

“Protective.”

“Guilty.”

“Responsible.”

“Guilty.”

“Remorseful.”

“Guilty.”

“Guilty.”

“Thank you.”

He still didn’t look none too sure about the whole thing, but he called Turnbull into his office and said how the two seven was needing some help with a case and since he was too busy with some party the Ice Queen was planning, he needed Turnbull to do his part, blah, blah.

Turnbull didn’t look too happy, and he didn’t look at me, but he said as how he’d do his duty. Little did he know. Trial by fire had nothing on his next six months.

*

Welsh fell so in love with me, I thought he might propose. For the next whole half of a year, I took every crappy, impossible, dirty, messy case that came across his desk. And everywhere I went, I dragged Turnbull along.

He still wasn’t talking to me, so it really was like haveing a rookie along. But he was a trooper. He tramped through dumpsters, talked to whores and junkies, searched some of the nastiest prisoners I could find and never complained.

I started off asking all of the questions and making all of the decisions. As we went along, I handed duties over to him. Sometimes he made a real mess of things, he’d ask the wrong question and we’d end up in a fight with a complainant, or he’d make the wrong decision about who should go to jail and for what. But he was a rookie; that was his job.

Bit by bit his techniques got better. He had good instincts from the get go, he just didn’t know to trust them yet. He’d mess up, and then later when he’d talk about it -- all business, no buddy buddy stuff still -- he’d fess up that he’d gone against what he’d thought in the first place.

He was getting really good, and I was getting really desperate. All of our time together, and he still hadn’t forgiven me. Other guys were starting to make noises about getting his help with cases, and I knew that soon he’d decide to work with one of them.

***

I went along well enough in the weeks following my run-in with Detective Kowalski. That is to say, I went along as before. I continued to trip and stammer and break seemingly unbreakable objects. He would visit Constable Fraser on a semi-regular basis, but I had always managed to find tasks to keep me away from his presence.

I was surprised when Constable Fraser called me to his office to speak with him and Detective Kowalski, and even almost shocked when he informed me that I would be working with the American.

I was certain that this was the Constable’s idea and would be quickly squelched by the Detective. But it was not, and I understood the situation well enough. If Detective Kowalski could not have my forgiveness freely given, he would wring it from me. I truly hated him at that moment. But I did my duty.

For six long months I did my duty. I performed every menial, degraging, repetetive task he demanded of me. I searched alleys and dumpsters. I put my hands on people who were covered in their own vomit and urine. I asked questions of people who were too high or drunk to know the day of the week. I sat on a chesterfield that was crawling with roaches as I informed absentee parents that their newly gang-initiated son died in a drive-by. I chased suspects over rooftops and into sewers. I held an accident victim as he died of shock while waiting for an ambulance to arrive. I delivered a baby in the back of a 1971 Impala. It was a girl. They named her Rose, after my mother. I silently cursed Kowalski’s arrogance and berated my continued obedience every step of the way.

He could make me memorize the street name for every variety of drug that denziens of his fair city bought or sold. He could make me learn all of the terms prostitutes used for various acts and where they went to perform those acts. He could make me work accidents and stabbings and shootings, but he could not make me forgive him.

*

I was at the end of my rope and had shredded it so soundly it resembled a single string of dental floss. I had vowed to never work with him again, and I fully intended to keep that vow. But when he arrived at my building that morning, he was early. He met me at my front door and spoke before I had a chance to give him an earful of my thoughts. He uttered the two words that make every officer’s blood burn white hot -- cop killer. We were looking for a cop killer.

I told him alright. Then I told him this would be the last time I would work with him, preferrably the last time I would see him. He nodded once and turned from me.

We followed what few leads we had for endless hours. He seemed unusually affected by the case and allowed me to direct the officers who were to assist him. I wondered what his relation to the slain officer had been, but I didn’t voice my curiousity.

Our sources eventually led us to an abandoned milliner’s storefront some three blocks south of the precinct house. I was determined to catch our suspect inside of the building. I knew who would be running if the situation deteriorated into a foot chase.

I made several attempts to hold a dialogue with the suspect, but all of my efforts were rebuffed. I looked to Kowalski and he asked me what we were going to do. I could feel him and the officers with us watching me, waiting for my decision. I told them we would stay put and try to wear him down, unless he fires at us.

He chose that exact moment to fire at us. He aimed poorly and missed us all, but a bullet hit a brick next to Kowalski and sent a small piece of the brick flying. It cut his cheek. I was enraged.

That man just injured my partner. No one hurts my partner.

I hadn’t meant to say that last bit aloud, but judging by the looks on the other officers’ faces, I did just that. Surprisingly, they did not laugh at my pronouncement.

One of them said, “Let’s get the bastard,” to me, and the others quickly agreed.

I asked if any of them carried tear gas in their patrol car. It’s strictly against their Standard Operating Procedure for anyone other than their Tactical Response Team to have the gas grenades, but this is Chicago, so I figured it couldn’t hurt to ask.

I wasn’t not disappointed. Three officers gingerly raised their hands. I sent one enterprising young woman to her car and she returned with, not one, but three of the devices. I thanked her and took one.

I told them to cover me and moved forward and to take up position behind a junked Cadillac. Our suspect fired off several rounds, again missing each time. I pulled the pin and threw the grenade toward the storefront window. It made a beautiful arc and crashed through the glass, sending shards flying onto the sidewalk and smoke streaming through the building.

The suspect rushed through the broken window and began running north, away from my position. He was fast, but not fast enough. I took off after him at a dead run. I heard one of the beat officers call out over their radio that I’m on the ground in pursuit of one. As I ran past the milliner’s, I took a lungful of tear gas. I choked but didn’t slow up.

When I reached the suspect, I didn’t grab him. I pushed him to the ground, just as Kowalski taught me to do. The copkiller dropped to the ground and his pistol fell from his fingers. I stood over him, huffing and wheezing like a three pack a day smoker. Several officers take that opportune moment to squeal up in their cruisers. One slipped his pen through the trigger guard and picked up the pistol, to preserve any fingerprints. The others took not so gentle custody of our suspect, James W. Hansen, white male 35 years of age.

Lieutenant Welsh appeared from behind an ever-increasing sea of patrol cars. He shook my hand and called me the hero of the hour. And in a startling moment of clarity, I understood. I looked for Stan, but he was nowhere to be seen.

Welsh begins talking about paperwork and a celebratory round of drinks. Dumbly, I follow him back to the station.

I finish my paperwork and allow Welsh to lead me to Hanrahan’s, where I gain an odd sense of closure from sitting at his right side as we toast tear gas, Cadillacs, ladies hats, and my own addition -- organic passionfruit. And when someone is drunk enough that they ask for a speech, I can only think of one way to begin. I speak of the only one of us who is not present.

“I wasn’t always this way. I guess you would have to say that it all started with Detective Kowalski’s glasses. . .”

Of course, I don’t tell them everything, how could I? But they enjoy my story well enough, especially the part about the artichoke display.

We drink and talk and laugh long into the night. We make our final toast a somber one.

“To Officer Vanessa Pasternac, she died as she lived, with honor, courage and dignity.”

We empty our glasses, clear our throats and say our fond farewells. My friends and colleagues head toward their homes.

I button my jacket against the cold and set out for Stan’s. I have no intention of putting head to pillow until I have forgiven him, thanked him, shared a drink with him, and told him that I love him too.

The End