do you use drugs. Did Rebecca use drugs? Illegal or prescription?”
“See? This is what I’m talking about. Do you use drugs, detective?”
Brendan had expected the young man to be combative. It was better that he got riled than panicky, and ran out.
“I used to,” said Brendan.
“So? What about you? Let’s talk about you. See how you like people prying into your life.”
“It’s not fun; you’re right.”
“What is a guy from Westchester doing up here in Podunk central working as a detective?”
Brendan took a deep breath, and exhaled. He moved his cup of coffee in front of him and took it with both hands. He spoke in a clear voice, not too soft, not too loud.
“I was born and raised in Hawthorne to a middle class family. I got a scholarship to a school where I studied the biology of the brain. Particularly, I studied how we formed habits, did things routinely. Everything from muscle memory, to the basal ganglia. I didn’t graduate top of my class, or anywhere near it. I barely made it through. Then I came close to receiving my PhD in neurobiology when I was your age, but fell short.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know how I made it through, even that far, because I was drinking the whole time. I had met a girl at school, and we were married in two years. We had a child the year I was finishing. Then, I lost it all.”
He paused there, and gauged Kevin’s reaction. The young man seemed incredulous. “You almost got a PhD in neurobiology? What the fuck are you doing as a cop? That can’t pay much.”
“Neither does neurobiology. It’s a myth that a doctorate automatically translates into a high income. I wasn’t going to be a brain surgeon. I did research. It all depends on who you go to work for as a researcher, or if you stay in academia and go after grants. At the time, with the economy, let’s say the prospects were grim. But that’s not why I became a cop.”
“Then why?” Kevin seemed genuinely more relaxed with the focus off him for now. And some of the combative energy seemed to have temporarily subsided. You could often reveal more about a person of interest by talking about things other than themselves. Sometimes the indirect approach worked best. Back in Westchester, a policeman named Argon had taught Brendan that.
“I became a cop because of everything I lost. My wife, my child, my life. I sobered up, thanks to the help of someone who came into my life just when I needed it most. That man was a cop. It took me time to get myself together, but during part of my recovery, I went to the police academy. I figured lots of push-ups and sit-ups would be a good thing.”
Brendan shrugged, and sat back, letting go of the coffee cup.
Kevin’s face was open now. He regarded Brendan plainly from across the table. His fight or flight impulse seemed to have subsided. A moment later, a woman appeared. Both men glanced up, thinking their food had arrived.
Instead of the waitress, they saw a pretty brunette in jeans and a white blouse, a small bag over her shoulder. She smiled at them. “Good morning. I’m Olivia. Can I join you?”
Kevin looked across the table at Brendan. His eyes were bloodshot.
“I don’t want to talk to this woman.”
Brendan was opening his mouth to speak when the grief counselor responded. She addressed Brendan directly at first.
“Good morning, Detective. I’d like to start by being clear about something; about who my client is. My client is this man, Kevin. It is not the Sheriff’s Department.”
Now her eyes drifted over to Kevin, who was looking down at his hands. “What you and I discuss is entirely confidential. My job is to help you through this process. If you feel like you are in a good condition to help the police officers after we speak, then that is for you to determine. But, you may not. And that’s okay, too.”
Kevin lifted his head up and met her gaze.
CHAPTER SEVEN / THURSDAY, 12:12 PM
Brendan left Kevin with the grief counselor and
“See? This is what I’m talking about. Do you use drugs, detective?”
Brendan had expected the young man to be combative. It was better that he got riled than panicky, and ran out.
“I used to,” said Brendan.
“So? What about you? Let’s talk about you. See how you like people prying into your life.”
“It’s not fun; you’re right.”
“What is a guy from Westchester doing up here in Podunk central working as a detective?”
Brendan took a deep breath, and exhaled. He moved his cup of coffee in front of him and took it with both hands. He spoke in a clear voice, not too soft, not too loud.
“I was born and raised in Hawthorne to a middle class family. I got a scholarship to a school where I studied the biology of the brain. Particularly, I studied how we formed habits, did things routinely. Everything from muscle memory, to the basal ganglia. I didn’t graduate top of my class, or anywhere near it. I barely made it through. Then I came close to receiving my PhD in neurobiology when I was your age, but fell short.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know how I made it through, even that far, because I was drinking the whole time. I had met a girl at school, and we were married in two years. We had a child the year I was finishing. Then, I lost it all.”
He paused there, and gauged Kevin’s reaction. The young man seemed incredulous. “You almost got a PhD in neurobiology? What the fuck are you doing as a cop? That can’t pay much.”
“Neither does neurobiology. It’s a myth that a doctorate automatically translates into a high income. I wasn’t going to be a brain surgeon. I did research. It all depends on who you go to work for as a researcher, or if you stay in academia and go after grants. At the time, with the economy, let’s say the prospects were grim. But that’s not why I became a cop.”
“Then why?” Kevin seemed genuinely more relaxed with the focus off him for now. And some of the combative energy seemed to have temporarily subsided. You could often reveal more about a person of interest by talking about things other than themselves. Sometimes the indirect approach worked best. Back in Westchester, a policeman named Argon had taught Brendan that.
“I became a cop because of everything I lost. My wife, my child, my life. I sobered up, thanks to the help of someone who came into my life just when I needed it most. That man was a cop. It took me time to get myself together, but during part of my recovery, I went to the police academy. I figured lots of push-ups and sit-ups would be a good thing.”
Brendan shrugged, and sat back, letting go of the coffee cup.
Kevin’s face was open now. He regarded Brendan plainly from across the table. His fight or flight impulse seemed to have subsided. A moment later, a woman appeared. Both men glanced up, thinking their food had arrived.
Instead of the waitress, they saw a pretty brunette in jeans and a white blouse, a small bag over her shoulder. She smiled at them. “Good morning. I’m Olivia. Can I join you?”
Kevin looked across the table at Brendan. His eyes were bloodshot.
“I don’t want to talk to this woman.”
Brendan was opening his mouth to speak when the grief counselor responded. She addressed Brendan directly at first.
“Good morning, Detective. I’d like to start by being clear about something; about who my client is. My client is this man, Kevin. It is not the Sheriff’s Department.”
Now her eyes drifted over to Kevin, who was looking down at his hands. “What you and I discuss is entirely confidential. My job is to help you through this process. If you feel like you are in a good condition to help the police officers after we speak, then that is for you to determine. But, you may not. And that’s okay, too.”
Kevin lifted his head up and met her gaze.
CHAPTER SEVEN / THURSDAY, 12:12 PM
Brendan left Kevin with the grief counselor and
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