a m e. W ho knows, m aybe Ben will f i n d a job with a s m aller d e part m ent, or m aybe he should aim for so m ething less challenging, like a com m unity service officer position. He pro m ises to call Ben and check in.
The next day Ben’s letter of resignation is posted on the bulletin board on A-level. It is brief and to the point. He is resig n ing for personal reasons and thanks everyone for their support. I call Ben every day for anoth e r week. He never calls m e back. I hate unfinished endings. Actually I hate endings of any kind, especially when I’m not the one who wants to call it q u its.
Six weeks later Ben is dead and I am in the chief’s office standing on that worn spot in the carpet. It is 5:30 a.m. I can see myself reflected in the window behind Baxter’s desk, dark shado w s beneath m y eyes. The sun is co m i ng up, m arbling the black sky outside with bloody red stripes. Baxter is staring at his co m puter. “ T his is a first for m e,” he says. “A suicide note by e m ail.” I walk behind his desk so that I can see the screen: “Dear Chief Baxter: Thanks for treating m e like dirt. There are so m e things you should know. Eddie Rimbauer is an e m o loser.”
” W hat’s an e m o loser?” I ask.
Baxter shrugs. “Beats m e.”
I continue reading: “Ri m bauer was on m y case every day. He’s a bully. He tried to force m e t o quit. I went to the doctor for help. She only m ade thi n gs worse. She told m e what I s a id w a s confidential and then she told him everything. She ordered m e to bring my wife in for counseling which wrecked our m arriage. I had a happy m arriage and now I have nothing thanks to her.”
Baxter shoves his desk chair under m e b e fore my knees give way and pours m e a glass of water. “ W ant a cop y ?”
T h e pri n ter s p its it out b efore I can a n swer.
“I don’t understand. He wasn’t suicidal.” My heart is pounding like I’ve just run up a flight of stairs. “He was happy about getting a new FTO. Happy about getting so m e ti m e off. He was under a lot of stress, sure, so was his wife. But he trusted m e. I know he did. W hy d i dn’t he call m e? W hy didn’t he call so m eone ? ”
Baxter hands m e Ben’s note and sits on the edge of his desk, facing m e.
“Dot, I need to know everything that happened between you two. Everything he told you about Eddie.” He jerks his head f r om s i de to side, making that crackling noise in his neck.
“I can’t tell you. It’s confidential.”
“He’s dead . ”
“It still applies.”
The law is unclear about this. I opt for the conservative answer. The s m all veins around Baxter’s eyes and te m ples bulge.
“You don’t get it. An officer under my com m and is dead. A n officer I hired. I’ve already started an IA. You’ll be compelled to gi v e a state m ent.”
“An inter n al a ff airs investigation on m e ? ”
“On everyone connected with Ben. R e m e m ber, your firm was the one w ho recom m ended hi m , said he was psychologically stable.”
“It’s not m y firm anymore, and I didn’t do his psych.”
“ W ell your na m e’s still on the letterhead. N o t to m ention the fact that I hired you specifically to prevent this kind of thing from happening.” He stands up. “I’m going to the briefing room to tell the troops. Then I’m going out to see the wife and her f a m ily. I’m not looking forward to this. Set up a psycholog i cal debriefing for our people to m orrow. I don’t want any m ore casualties. Now, go ho m e and take care of yourself. You look like shit.”
That night I have a nig h t m are. I’m at the beach at a m assive police conve n tion when h uge waves rise up without warning, giant w a lls of ocean hover overhead, threatening to crush everyone. I race through the crowd screa m ing, pleading, trying to get so m eone to pay attention to t h e i m pending catastrophe. It is as though I am invisible and everyone there is deaf.
The next day Ben’s letter of resignation is posted on the bulletin board on A-level. It is brief and to the point. He is resig n ing for personal reasons and thanks everyone for their support. I call Ben every day for anoth e r week. He never calls m e back. I hate unfinished endings. Actually I hate endings of any kind, especially when I’m not the one who wants to call it q u its.
Six weeks later Ben is dead and I am in the chief’s office standing on that worn spot in the carpet. It is 5:30 a.m. I can see myself reflected in the window behind Baxter’s desk, dark shado w s beneath m y eyes. The sun is co m i ng up, m arbling the black sky outside with bloody red stripes. Baxter is staring at his co m puter. “ T his is a first for m e,” he says. “A suicide note by e m ail.” I walk behind his desk so that I can see the screen: “Dear Chief Baxter: Thanks for treating m e like dirt. There are so m e things you should know. Eddie Rimbauer is an e m o loser.”
” W hat’s an e m o loser?” I ask.
Baxter shrugs. “Beats m e.”
I continue reading: “Ri m bauer was on m y case every day. He’s a bully. He tried to force m e t o quit. I went to the doctor for help. She only m ade thi n gs worse. She told m e what I s a id w a s confidential and then she told him everything. She ordered m e to bring my wife in for counseling which wrecked our m arriage. I had a happy m arriage and now I have nothing thanks to her.”
Baxter shoves his desk chair under m e b e fore my knees give way and pours m e a glass of water. “ W ant a cop y ?”
T h e pri n ter s p its it out b efore I can a n swer.
“I don’t understand. He wasn’t suicidal.” My heart is pounding like I’ve just run up a flight of stairs. “He was happy about getting a new FTO. Happy about getting so m e ti m e off. He was under a lot of stress, sure, so was his wife. But he trusted m e. I know he did. W hy d i dn’t he call m e? W hy didn’t he call so m eone ? ”
Baxter hands m e Ben’s note and sits on the edge of his desk, facing m e.
“Dot, I need to know everything that happened between you two. Everything he told you about Eddie.” He jerks his head f r om s i de to side, making that crackling noise in his neck.
“I can’t tell you. It’s confidential.”
“He’s dead . ”
“It still applies.”
The law is unclear about this. I opt for the conservative answer. The s m all veins around Baxter’s eyes and te m ples bulge.
“You don’t get it. An officer under my com m and is dead. A n officer I hired. I’ve already started an IA. You’ll be compelled to gi v e a state m ent.”
“An inter n al a ff airs investigation on m e ? ”
“On everyone connected with Ben. R e m e m ber, your firm was the one w ho recom m ended hi m , said he was psychologically stable.”
“It’s not m y firm anymore, and I didn’t do his psych.”
“ W ell your na m e’s still on the letterhead. N o t to m ention the fact that I hired you specifically to prevent this kind of thing from happening.” He stands up. “I’m going to the briefing room to tell the troops. Then I’m going out to see the wife and her f a m ily. I’m not looking forward to this. Set up a psycholog i cal debriefing for our people to m orrow. I don’t want any m ore casualties. Now, go ho m e and take care of yourself. You look like shit.”
That night I have a nig h t m are. I’m at the beach at a m assive police conve n tion when h uge waves rise up without warning, giant w a lls of ocean hover overhead, threatening to crush everyone. I race through the crowd screa m ing, pleading, trying to get so m eone to pay attention to t h e i m pending catastrophe. It is as though I am invisible and everyone there is deaf.
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