Alone (10 page)

B
OBBY HAD TO
get some air. He left the museum, cabbed it home, and stood like an idiot in the middle of his family room. Fuck it. He went for a run.

Down G Street to Columbia Road. Heading into the park, where traffic roared by on his left, and there was nothing but ocean on the right. Exchanging the Heights for the Point, passing by the historic L Street Bath House, and watching the homes go from tidy three-levels to full-fledged mansions. He hit Castle Island, where the wind gusted into his face and the ocean pounded the shore. Weather was wild here, the wind a physical force, shoving against him as he strained forward. He muscled his way around the stone walls of the old lookout, watching jets from Logan climb slowly into the sky, looking as if they were barely going to clear the island. Playground was here. Kids out on the slide, bundled up against the weather.

He ran around again, picking up the sounds of kids laughing as the notes danced across the wind. Lots of families were moving into South Boston. Used to be working-class kids, walking up from the various housing projects to Castle Island. The families were more white-collar now, but the kids played just as rough.

He headed home, his lungs working hard and finally clearing the fog from his head.

Back in his house, he got out the yellow pages and, still dripping with sweat, started his calls. He found who he was looking for on the third try.

“We have a Nathan Gagnon admitted into the ICU,” a hospital nurse responded to his query. “Brought in last night.”

“Is he okay?”

“Well, we don't generally put the healthy ones in intensive care.” The nurse sounded droll.

“I mean, what's his condition? I'm with the Massachusetts State Police.” He rattled off his badge number.

“Serious but stable,” the nurse reported.

“Pancreatitis,” Bobby recalled. “Is that life-threatening?”

“It can be.”

“In this case?”

“You'd have to talk to his pediatrician, Dr. Rocco.”

Bobby made a note. “Has the boy been in before?”

“Few times. Again, Officer, you should talk to Dr. Rocco.”

“Okay, okay. One more question, if you don't mind.”

The nurse seemed to think about it, then must have decided that she didn't mind. “So?”

“Does the kid ever come in with other conditions? You know, broken bones, unexplained bruises?”

“Does he fall down the stairs a lot?” the woman asked dryly.

“Exactly. How's he doing with stairs?”

“Two broken bones in the last twelve months. You tell me.”

“Two broken bones in the last twelve months,” Bobby murmured. “No kidding. Thanks. You've been very helpful.” He hung up the phone.

Bobby sat on the edge of his chair. Yellow pages were open on his lap. Sweat trickled down his nose and dripped onto the thin paper. He could feel the darkness inside himself again, murky and deep. And he thought what he'd really like to do today, more than run, more than sleep, more than even speak with Susan, was go to a firing range and shoot the living daylights out of something.

So what did that say about him?

A smart man would forget about his encounter with Catherine Gagnon. He'd done his job, the best an officer could do. Now he should wash his hands of everything and walk away.

Of course, a smart man didn't meet a woman like Catherine in a very public museum. And a smart man didn't worry so much about a kid he barely knew.

Bobby snapped the yellow pages shut.

“Dr. Rocco,” he repeated to himself. He headed for the shower.

Chapter
9

B
OBBY
'
S CELL PHONE
rang the minute he left the house. He didn't feel like driving into Boston—just the parking would bankrupt him, and frankly, without flashing red lights to back him up, he wasn't stupid enough to brave the traffic. So he walked to the bus stop with his head down and shoulders rounded, feeling conspicuous in broad daylight, like a felon from
America's Most Wanted
.

Thank God Jimmy Gagnon had been white, Bobby thought, or he'd never be able to leave his home.

His phone bleated again. He flipped it open suspiciously, the wind already ripping the words from his lips.

“Yeah?”

“Bobby? Thank God. I've been trying to reach you since last night.”

“Hey, Pop.” Bobby relaxed, but only a fraction. He continued walking, his legs eating up the six blocks to the bus stop. “I called you this morning, but couldn't get through.”

“Had to take the phone off the hook. Damn reporters wouldn't stop bothering me.”

“Sorry 'bout that.”

“I didn't tell them anything. Good-for-nothing sons of bitches.” Bobby's father hated journalists almost as much as presidents from the Democratic Party. “You okay?”

“Working on it.”

“On paid leave?”

“Till we hear from the DA.”

“I did a little calling around,” Pop said. Once upon a time, Bobby's father had gone by his real name, Larry, but then he'd set up shop as a custom pistolsmith to augment his retirement income. So many of his customers were Bobby's fellow police officers. They'd started calling him Pop, too, and now it had stuck. Bobby'd been surprised by the evolution, sure his gruff, hard-assed father would hate the familiarity. But Larry didn't seem to mind. Sometimes, he even appeared flattered. Things changed, Bobby supposed. In his own way, Bobby was trying to change, too. It was just a longer time coming.

“I'm hearing good things,” Pop said quietly. “You did what you had to do.”

Bobby shrugged. Saying “Thanks” would sound too cavalier. Saying anything else would be ungrateful.

“Bobby—”

“I know I should've tried harder to call you,” Bobby cut in. “I shouldn't have left you so long to worry.”

“It's not that—”

Bobby rushed on, quickly now, before he lost his courage. “I guess it all just hit me harder than I thought. I mean, I don't doubt taking the shot. I could only act on what I saw, and what I saw told me to shoot. But still, the guy's kid was in the room. Right there, not five feet away, and I blew his father's brains out. Now the boy has to live with what I did, and
I
have to live with what I did, and I . . .” Bobby's voice broke off, sounded more ragged than he would've liked. Jesus, how did he get into this mess?

Pop didn't try to say anything this time.

“It gets to me, Pop,” Bobby said more quietly. “I didn't think it would. But it gets to me. And last night . . . last night I had a beer.”

His father didn't speak right away. He said finally, heavily, “I heard it might have been more like half a dozen beers.”

“Yeah, yeah, you're right. It was probably closer to five or six.”

“Did it help?”

“No.”

“How did you feel this morning?”

“Like shit.”

“And tonight?”

“I'm done. I slipped, I learned my lesson, I'm done.” Bobby couldn't quite resist adding, “And you?”

“I'm good,” Pop said. “One asshole in the family is enough, don't you think?”

Bobby had to smile. “Yeah, one asshole is enough.”

“And Susan?” his father asked gruffly. “Now you got some time off, maybe you can bring her out for a visit.”

“I don't know.”

“What don't you know, son?”

“I don't know . . . a lot of things.”

“Come visit me, Bobby. It's only a thirty-minute ride. You could spend an afternoon. We could talk.”

“I should do that.” Which they both knew meant that he wouldn't. Pop was trying, Bobby was trying, but there were still things both couldn't forgive and neither could forget.

“Hey, Pop, I gotta go.” Bobby could see the small cluster of three people at the bus stop. An older woman stared at Bobby. He stared right back.

“Have you talked to your brother at all?”

“No.”

“I'll give him a call. I'd hate for him to catch it on the news.”

“Pop, George lives in Florida.”

“Yeah, but these kinds of stories . . . they have a life of their own.”

A
T THE HOSPITAL,
ironically enough, Bobby couldn't catch anyone's attention. He stood for ten minutes at the registration desk before growing impatient and heading for the hospital directory next to the elevator. He found a listing for Anthony J. Rocco, M.D., on the third floor. Bobby took the stairs.

Arriving at the top, he was breathing hard. He found a glassed-in waiting room filled with children's toys and snotty-nosed toddlers. Two kids were crying. One was trying to cram a metal car down her throat. Greater Boston Pediatrics, the sign said. Bobby decided it must be the place to start.

The receptionist at the counter barely glanced at him. She slid him a sign-in sheet and a chewed-up pen while cracking her gum and talking on the phone. Bobby had to wait until she hung up to inform her he wasn't a patient; he simply wanted to talk to Dr. Rocco. This confused her greatly. He flashed his badge, said he was with the police, and finally got a response. The girl flew out of her chair and trotted down the hall in search of the infamous Dr. Rocco.

Bobby didn't know whether to feel triumphant or vaguely ashamed. He'd put on a pair of khakis, a button-down shirt, and his best sports jacket for this occasion. He was doing his impression of a homicide detective, which probably only proved that even state troopers could watch too much TV.

Earlier in his career, six or seven years back, Bobby had debated making the transition from uniformed patrol officer to investigative detective. Uniformed officers were considered the grunts of the operation, the front-line troops even in an organization as elite as the state police. Detectives were smart; patrol officers, good at doing what they were told. Bobby had the brains, his sergeant had urged, why settle for driving a Crown Vic for the rest of his life?

Bobby had still been debating his options when he'd learned of an opening on the STOP team. He'd submitted his resumé and begun the rigorous selection process. He had to pass oral boards, prove proficiency with special weapons, and endure intense physical fitness requirements. Then came the special drills: scenarios involving swinging from ropes to see if the applicant was afraid of heights; scenarios involving a smoke machine to test how well the applicant functioned under extreme stress. They were tested with cold, tested with heat. Made to crawl through mud carrying eighty pounds of gear, required to hold a pose for up to three hours.

Always it was drilled into their heads: Tactical teams deployed anytime, anywhere. They could be called upon to enter any sort of situation and all kinds of terrain. You had to think fast on your feet, thrive under pressure, and be fearless. Survive the application process, and you received the honor of training four extra days a month while surrendering all your nights and weekends to be on call twenty-four seven. All this, for no additional income. Men joined the tactical team purely for the sake of pride. To be the best of the best. To know that as a team—and as an individual—you could handle anything.

Bobby'd survived the selection process. He'd won the open slot, and he'd never looked back. He was a good cop, serving with the best cops. At least that's what he'd thought until two days ago.

The receptionist was back, cheeks flushed, and breathless.

“Dr. Rocco will see you now.”

A toddler screeched a fresh round of protest from the waiting area. Bobby pushed gratefully through the connecting door.

He found Dr. Rocco sitting in a small office halfway down the hall. The desk was buried under heaps of files, and the walls were covered with children's drawings and immunization schedules. A few things struck Bobby at once. One, Dr. Rocco was younger than he'd pictured, late thirties to early forties. Two, the doctor was a lot more attractive than Bobby'd imagined: thick dark hair, trim athletic build, and an oozy sort of country-club charm. Three, Dr. Rocco obviously read the
Boston Herald
and knew exactly who Bobby was.

“I have some questions about Nathan Gagnon,” Bobby said.

Dr. Rocco didn't say anything at first. He was eyeing Bobby up and down. Wondering where Bobby got the gall to show his face in public? Preparing to cite doctor-patient confidentiality? Dr. Rocco finally glanced up again and Bobby saw something unexpected in the man's gaze: fear.

“Have a seat,” the pediatrician said at last. He gestured to a file-covered chair, then belatedly grabbed the stack of papers. “How can I help you?”

“I understand you're in charge of Nathan Gagnon's care,” Bobby said.

“For the past year, yes. Nathan was referred to me by another pediatrician, Dr. Wagner, when she failed to make progress on his care.”

“Nathan has an illness?”

“Officially, he's listed as FTT.”

“FTT?” Bobby asked. He took out a small spiral notebook and a pen.

“Failure to thrive. Basically, from birth, Nathan's been behind the curve in size, weight, and key developmental benchmarks. He's not developing in a ‘normal' manner.”

Bobby frowned, not sure he was getting it. “The boy's too small?”

“Well, that's one element. Nathan's height of thirty-four inches puts him in the lowest one percent for a four-year-old boy, and his weight—twenty-six pounds—doesn't make the curve at all. His condition, however, has to do with more than just size.”

“Explain.”

“From birth, Nathan has struggled with vomiting, diarrhea, and spiking fevers. He seems constantly malnourished—he's had rickets, his blood phosphate levels are too low, same with blood glucose levels. As I said before, he's lagged behind almost all traditional benchmarks for development—he didn't sit up until he was eleven months old, he didn't cut teeth until he was eighteen months old, and didn't walk until he was twenty-six months old. None of that is considered good. And then, in the past year, his condition appears to have worsened. He's had several attacks of acute pancreatitis as well as two bone fractures. He's failed to thrive.”

Bobby flipped a page in his notebook. “Let's talk about the bone fractures. Isn't it unusual for a four-year-old to have two broken bones in one year?”