Anything You Say Can and Will Be Used Against You (7 page)

“Even when she's not,” Denux said. “Seems a little wired at times.”

“That's Katie. Comes and it goes.” Boudreaux shrugged. “You won't find a better cop, though. She killed a man once, didn't blink an eye about it. Tough gal. Damn good training officer too. She used to train only rookies, but a couple years back, she started working with cadets.” He gave a short laugh, shifted in his seat. “That woman was a cop from day one, even as a cadet. Johnny and I knew.”

“Her husband Johnny?”

“Yep, he and I were partners out of Broadmoor. Katie rode with him during thirteenth week when she was in the academy. You didn't know? That's how they met. She was so sweet and so fierce at the same time. She adored him. He trained her when she came out of the academy too. Hell of a cop, Johnny was. Never should have died.” Boudreaux flicked his cigarette out the window. “Let that be a lesson to you, boy. It can happen to any of us, no matter how good you are. And he was one of the best.”

Denux was tempted to ask more, but he resisted. As he told us later, “It was just all too frigging weird.”

The following week we returned to the academy, feeling even more constrained by the classroom after our time on the streets, bursting with the desire to be done with this. The next ten weeks dragged on in some ways—hour after hour in our seats, taking notes, trying to listen, the sky so blue and promising outside the high, small windows. But it also became more intense and focused as our goal grew closer. Richard mingled with us more frequently, despite seeming distracted. He came alone to some of our parties and drank heavily; we didn't ask about his fiancée, Ellen. His grades dropped some, but he pushed himself hard in the gym and out on the firing range. We never mentioned Katherine, although we saw her on occasion, slipping in during lunch
to sit with Richard for a few minutes out in the breezeway. The cadets who hadn't been on our shift tended to find excuses to walk down the breezeway past them for a soda or a cigarette. Richard and Katherine always nodded hello, but that was all.

With only three weeks left until graduation, Hawkins washed out as expected, unable to avoid the reality any longer of less-than-passing grades and poor evaluations from his thirteenth-week ride-along. He'd never been particularly impressive on the firing range either. And he truly was a dipshit. Still, we all patted him on the back, said we were sorry to see him go, suggested he try again.

That was around the time Richard turned morose and short-tempered; circles appeared under his eyes, and he often sat blankly during class, staring at the far wall above the instructor's head. Sergeant Jackson gave him twenty push-ups one day at roll call for an unacceptable uniform. Katherine no longer visited at lunchtime.

Who knows at what point she started to withdraw, or when she actually ended it, but we know it was before graduation. We learned over the years that her pattern was consistent: she selected one male from the academy class and always ended it before graduation. She would have let Richard down calmly, matter-of-factly, just before she'd handed him his graduation present, the graduation present she always gave.

“Early, I know,” she might have said. “But this is it, cowboy, between you and me, and I want you to have this before I go.”

Did he say anything as she took the tiny St. Michael's medallion out of its box, slipped the silver chain around his neck? Or did he just stare at her, stunned and bewildered, his heart skittering hard against bone?

“There,” she said, adjusting the medallion on his chest, her fingers lightly brushing his skin. “You know who St. Michael is, don't you? The patron saint of police officers. You don't have to be Catholic. He'll keep you safe if you do the rest.” And she reached down and kissed him, a soft lingering kiss, before she stepped back and began to dress.

“Nice while it lasted, cowboy, but it's over and no harm done. Go back to your fiancée. Go be a good cop.”

Did Richard plead, cajole? Or was he more stoic, laying out a
rational argument? Did he explode in frustration, tell her he loved her, wanted to be with her? Whatever his approach, he would not have accepted her dismissal. He would not have walked away; he would have laid himself even more bare. Of this we are convinced.

And why would her reply to him be any different than the reply she gave all the cadets who came before and after him?

“So you fucked the legend, Marcus. Congratulations. Now let it go.”

 

And so we graduated and hit the streets. It seems long ago. And it was, nearly twenty years now. Over half our original class has left the force—quit, fired, disabled. Two are dead, but not from the job. The rest of us are sergeants, some even lieutenants, working in departments as varied as Homicide, Auto Theft, Criminal Records, the Chief's Office. Some of us still work uniform patrol, but we're supervisors and rarely go out on the streets. Richard's in Planning and Research, down at Headquarters, after a long stint in Armed Robbery. He's married, but not to Ellen, and has two sons.

Katherine died seven years after we graduated. The last the dispatcher heard from her, she was out with a Signal 34, a prowler, on St. Ferdinand Street. It was a busy night, full moon Friday, and when another unit finally arrived ten minutes later to back her up, it was clear she'd put up a fight: slashes and cuts, some of them deep, covered her arms and face and legs; blood gushed from her femoral artery. The perp lay partway on top of her, the barrel of her gun resting against his cheek; Katherine had managed to blow his head off, even as he stabbed her repeatedly, hepped up on PCP. She was barely conscious when the officers got there, whispering something they couldn't understand. They threw her in the backseat of their unit and hauled ass down North Boulevard to the BRG, but her heart had stopped and she'd lost too much blood.

Her funeral was something to see; the line of police cars stretched over a mile on the way to the cemetery; the department bugler played taps. We all saluted her casket.

Her picture is up on the wall at Headquarters when you first walk in, behind a glass case. The Wall of Honor, we call it: all the Baton
Rouge city cops who've died in the line of duty. Far too many of them. After you walk in and out of there day after day, you tend to pass by it without really
seeing
their faces; the wall becomes more of a twitch deep beneath your skin that can't quite be ignored as you turn down the hallway to the evidence room or crime scene division, or wherever your business may take you.

Still, sometimes we do stop and linger, needing to study the too-long parade of faces—good cops we knew like Carl D'Abadie, Chuck Stegall, Warren Broussard, Betty Smothers, and Vickie Wax.

Does Richard occasionally pause here as well, we wonder. Is his eye caught by Katherine's face, more serious and far younger than we ever remember? Does he look at her, and look at Johnny, the two Cippoines up there on the wall? Does he stand here, like we do, and remember when the world seemed good and bright and we were all so alive and full of possibility.

Mango-colored sawdust spits and floats, filling the air as George cuts deeper into a stubby limb on the massive, twisted mulberry in my front yard. He has refused my offer of a ladder, and so, as he reaches the chainsaw above his head, his navy sweatshirt hikes up to reveal the gentle swell where back becomes buttocks and dives into a dark inverted Y. I grin and look away.

Although he is only fifty-nine, George resembles an eighty-year-old walrus and moves as if his knees are permanently fused. Every morning and every afternoon, he walks his ebony pug past my house in a slow shuffle. I know he has a wife, though I've never seen her. I know he's retired, but from what I can't say for sure.

“Lemme tell you something,” he said by way of introduction several weeks after I'd moved into the neighborhood. “I like most cops. You gotta hard job. Most people don't understand, but I do.”

I'd thanked him politely, agreeing silently that the job was hard, but not in the way he might expect.

“Nice work you've done here on this house,” George had contin
ued, barely stopping to take a wheezy breath. “Most people don't care. They'll let everything go to hell. I can tell, you're not that kind of person.” He tucked in his lips, puffed out his cheeks, and nodded, his jowls jiggling, as he took in my newly tilled garden, just washed windows, recently edged grass. I squinted a little at my house, the yard, saw it through his eyes, and relaxed my shoulders, straightened my spine. Yes, I thought, I'm not that kind of person.

I've lived here five months now, and I've learned that George likes to tell people something, sometimes several somethings, each time he sees them.

Like this morning, for instance.

“I'm gonna tell you something, Liz. Now, I'm not telling you what to do, but that mulberry will rot if you don't cut those limbs flush and paint 'em. Simple thing, really. But your business is your business.” The last wisps of his hair flip-flopped willy-nilly in the breeze.

I'd nodded, looking at the tree, thinking how Andy would have hated this kind of chore; we'd divorced just before I joined the police department eight months ago. Maybe one of the guys on my shift would lend me a chainsaw, show me how to use it. Or my sister's husband, a man who seemed born to hold a hammer and pound a nail. A chainsaw, a gun: What's the difference? They're both just tools to be mastered. I'd flexed my fingers, imagining the quivering machine clamped between my hands, the crisp, cool cuts I would make, smoothing out the lines of the tree. A task that, when finished, would actually show the effort.

But George had other ideas. Despite my protests, he was back in ten minutes with his chainsaw, his whole body tense with delight.

“At least show me how to do it, George,” I'd begged.

He'd brushed off my request. “No need for that,” he responded, a smile skittering quick as a mouse across his lips. “My contribution to public service. This'll be done right quick. Won't take but half an hour.”

I relent, and he is happy.

As he works, George tells me things. Actually he tells me something for fifteen minutes, then cuts for five minutes, then tells me something else for twenty minutes, and so on. I glance at my watch,
stifle a yawn. This is not going to be a right quick job. I have to be on shift in less than two hours.

He tells me about the weed eater stolen from his driveway. “Hell, if they'd of asked, I woulda given it to 'em. But stealing. Sheesh.” He shakes his head in disgust. “But I don't have to tell you, Liz, do I?” And he fires up the chainsaw, cuts another limb.

He stares at the ground or the tree as he talks. He tells me about mowing the lawns of three neighborhood widows, relates the deaths of their husbands: heart attack, pancreatic cancer, Alzheimer's. “Fine women, a real shame.” About the history of his German chainsaw. “Don't make 'em like this anymore. Never breaks, not like that stuff they sell you these days, lemme tell you. People think they can save money, buy something on the cheap, then it breaks on them six months later. Ha!” About the property he's bought outside Baton Rouge in Greenwell Springs. “Thinkin' of movin' there. Real soon. City living has gone all to hell. Anybody steals from me, I can shoot 'em, no problem.”

I don't know whether he's trying to get a rise out of me or whether he really believes this, but I can't let the comment pass. So I keep my tone neutral and mention that I believe shooting somebody is a problem no matter where you live, whether that somebody is stealing from you or not.

His lips fold inward, his jaw juts forward, and he glares at the police unit parked in my driveway before he starts in on another limb high above his head. The inverted Y appears again, a much deeper view. Swear to God, it's all I can do not to giggle. This will be a good story to tell the guys at work.

After the limb thuds to the ground, he turns and looks me straight in the eye. “Lemme tell you something. I killed somebody once. Over in Vietnam, was there three years. I killed Vietcong, yes. But I'm not talking about that.” George moves closer, and I smell the rankness of his body. It takes all my willpower not to step back.

“I'm talking about putting a gun upside someone's head and pulling the trigger. An American. Army fellow like me.” His cheeks expand like a chipmunk, and he expels a long breath. “Was raping a little Vietcong girl, no more than eleven or twelve. Just a little girl that never did no harm to nobody.” His gaze drifts away. “Couldn't
abide by that. So I killed him. And lemme tell you, I may have nightmares, but I don't regret it.”

George fires up the chainsaw, rises back up on his toes. The blade bites into the limb, sawdust fills the air. This time I don't grin, and I don't look away. I study the wide expanse of his flesh, really study it, the ripples and hollows, the caterpillar trail of hair. I'm startled by the sudden urge to reach out and gently pat his half-bare bottom.

But I don't. I just stand behind him, sawdust floating around us like fireflies, taking it all in: that exposed flesh, the deep crack, our broken secret hearts.

It's been two years since I left. Some days I miss it so badly, the ache is so deep, that I think I must know what amputees feel like, reaching for that part of themselves no longer there. I miss the laughter, the stories, the camaraderie, the adrenaline.

In the last four months I've finally been able to move my gun from under the pillow to the floor beside my bed. I've passed the point where I stood transfixed in front of my closet, bewildered by choices: Black skirt and halter top? Blue jeans and white linen shirt? Flowered sundress?

“Your face has softened, Liz, really it has,” my sister tells me. But I don't see a difference.

I still bark “Hello” into the phone, still stand with feet slightly apart and hands on hips, still get up at least once a night to check a suspicious sound, still habitually distrust just about everyone's motives, still am more aware of what's happening around me than most of the human race. I still have nightmares, and I still wonder about the color of that boy's eyes.

I don't know what to do with the bulletproof vest, the men's black shoes, the brass polish, two sets of handcuffs, nightstick, six-cell flashlight, PR-24, precinct pins, and silver breastplate engraved in block letters
L MARCHAND
. Or the metal ticket holder, report clipboard, plug-in spotlight, dozens of scribble-filled pocket-sized notebooks recording the details of nine years worth of calls.

I envisioned shedding that life as easy, something I stepped out of into something new. I didn't realize it had permeated my skin, blood, cells, brain chemistry—how irrevocably the work altered my DNA.

People ask me why I left: acquaintances at school, men I'm dating, strangers I meet at cocktail parties. Swear to God, I don't know how to respond. Their expression always throws me, that look they give me and the cane clenched tightly in my hand. Their eyes are so eager. They want dirty, horrific, appalling viewed from a distance; they want a sense of their own mortality made safe.

Usually I shrug the question off, say, “I was in traffic division most of the time, working wrecks and writing tickets. Pretty boring stuff.” That often does the trick; they launch into their own story about how some cop wrote them a ticket and “was an asshole” or how they were “only three miles over the speed limit,” or they wonder why cops write tickets when there are “real criminals to catch.” They ask me for tips on getting out of tickets. “Be nice,” I always say, “don't make any sudden moves, don't argue.” And I smile inside, a tight little smile, because often the person will turn right around and argue with me, pressing home their case for why the cop was in the wrong and they were in the right. If I'm feeling particularly patient, I might explain that more officers are killed on traffic stops each year than any other type of call, that more officers are killed or injured in car wrecks than from guns or knives.

Sometimes, when someone asks me why I left, I gesture toward my leg and cane, say, “Would you do it, be a cop?” and change the topic.

“You're really defensive,” men will say. “You're a very angry woman.” They don't ask me out again.

My sister says I need to work on my social skills. “You didn't do anything wrong, Liz. I don't know why you dance around it. Tell them there was an accident, it wasn't your fault, but you'd had
enough. It's not a complex question needing a complex answer.”

I love my sister. She's a banker with four kids and an endless supply of practical optimism, one of those people who says, “Have a nice day,” and means it.

But my accident, the one that landed me in the hospital for six weeks with my leg strung up like a marlin on display, isn't the real answer, just the easy one.

The truth is, I'd already pretty much decided I was leaving before that middle-aged suburban mom out running errands plowed into the side of my patrol car. There were the usual cop burnout reasons: poor pay, lousy equipment, disgruntled civilians, jackass chief, the sheer weariness that comes from doing the job. All a part, but not the whole.

When I ask myself that question, I see gloves, stiff with blood, stuck to the dashboard of my police car; this one particular night, six months before my own accident, plays out in my head every time I search for the moment my heart shifted gears, and I began to leave.

 

It was the last tour of dogs, midnight to eight shift, on a crisp, cold February night just after Mardi Gras. I'd recently been transferred out of the traffic division into uniform patrol. It had been quiet for the most part—some disturbance calls and family fights, a couple of thefts earlier in the shift. About four in the morning I backed my police unit up against a deserted Exxon station. I was filling out a few reports, kind of dozing, smoking cigarettes, and waiting for daylight to roll around. It's nice at that time of night. You're cocooned in this little world of your own, just the occasional chatter of the radio to break the silence; otherwise, it's peaceful. Kind of holy if you're the religious sort and want to see it that way.

Headlights turned in suddenly, and I tensed, ducked a little, squinting, then the lights were killed and another unit glided in smooth and quiet next to me, driver's side to driver's side. It was Gary, a short, compact man with a skittery laugh and porcupine eyebrows. We sat there, slouched down in our seats, letting the night wrap around us, talking some and silent some, listening to distant voices on the air.

We're sitting there, and pretty soon a couple of other units pull in, and before you know it, most of the shift was in that parking lot. There are only so many places you can hide from supervisors. Even Frank and Larry from K-9 and a couple of guys from ARAB, Armed Robbery and Burglary, were tucked in among us.

We leaned up against our cars, hunched into groups against the cold, talking low and laughing, swapping stories. We complained about the new uniforms, which seemed a pale imitation of those worn by the State Police, and generally agreed that this year's crawfish season was likely to be lousy. Mona and I debated the hot rumor about the new guns the brass wanted to issue to female officers; they thought the new .357s were too much gun for our hands. We made all the guys hold up their palms so we could compare width and length. Everyone, except Sid and Gary, agreed that our hands were definitely bigger than Sid's and Gary's.

I remember it as being a good night, one of those easy, graceful shifts where there was no tension, no stress. No one pissed off at anyone else. It was a night where it felt good to be a cop, and you knew when you went home that morning, you'd actually sleep, probably not need that shot or two of scotch to get you there. It was one of those nights where we were laughing at ourselves, genuinely liking our job.

Bart was telling about Cookie finding a big toe in the back of his unit, up under the matting. Swear to God, it was just a toe, with lots of hair on it. Long toenail, kind of yellowed. Obviously male. We were offering suggestions about what had happened to the person formerly attached when the dispatcher called for any unit in the area of the interstate split.

We went quiet and looked at one another. We were only six, seven minutes away; two minutes if it was a Code 3 call. But no one was going to volunteer for anything at that time in the morning.

Dispatcher calls again, says it's a major 52 up on the interstate. Mona looked at me and grinned. “He's gonna ding you, Liz.” I shook my head and prayed.

The problem was, at that time of night it's one of two things. Either a drunk with a slightly banged-up car—which meant waiting on a wrecker and then trying to decide whether to run the silly jerk
on the PEI to see if he's over the 1.0 limit, which meant too much time involved to get off shift on time (of course, you could just drive the drunk home instead, but the possibility of piss and vomit in the back of your unit was extremely high). Or, it really was a major accident—which meant time at the hospital, relatives to deal with, and too damn many forms to fill out. Either way, no one wanted it. So we waited to see who the dispatcher would nail.

“2D-78,” he said. “Can you copy?”

Mona elbowed me, and I sighed, pulled out my portable radio. Each unit is assigned a zone to patrol, and the interstate split was mine.

“2D-78, go ahead.”

“I got a one-car, major 52, eastbound, right after the interstate split. Car's supposed to be off the roadway. Advise on ambulance and support units.”

I acknowledged, told him I was enroute, and headed toward my patrol car, grumbling disparaging comments about the dispatcher and wrecks in general. Everyone stirred around, moving away from my car, laughing, telling me to give them a call if I needed assistance. Sid said, “Can't escape those traffic calls, Marchand.” I gave him the finger. Mona asked if I wanted her to ride on up with me, but I said no, the car was probably abandoned, and I'd be back in a couple of minutes.

I pulled out of the parking lot, tires squealing—mainly for the effect—and flipped on my red lights and siren as I headed for the interstate. Traffic was almost nonexistent, and I made good time: engine racing, pedal floored to the mat, steering wheel vibrating.

As I slowed down coming off the Interstate 12 overpass, I saw the skid marks and debris that marked the path of the lone car, sitting upright but misshapen, ahead of me. The driver had lost control in the turn coming off the ramp and flipped three, maybe four times.

I parked about fifty yards back so my spotlight flooded the area and told the dispatcher I was 10-7 on the scene. I got out of my unit slowly, walking wide and left of the blue Toyota as I approached. I couldn't see anyone in the car, so I alternated between watching the car and scanning the shoulder and nearby woods as I walked up. It was possible the driver had been ejected as the car rolled, but none of the debris so far had looked like a body.

The shattered windshield of the Toyota was flecked with blood and bowed out on the left. Half the hood was caved in and had tangled about itself. It wasn't until I stood even with the driver's side door that I saw him. The halogen lights on the interstate reflected off the bright, shiny surface of his skull. His brain quivered and throbbed between jagged pieces of bone, pumping blood onto his neck and shoulder. Brain fluid seeped through his dark, curly hair. He lay alone, against the driver's door, his legs sprawled out across the bucket seats. Glass shards glittered in his clothing. There was stubble on his cheeks, and his eyelashes were thick and long. He was eighteen, maybe twenty.

I pulled off my glove and reached to feel his pulse.

“2D-78, Headquarters.” I used my other hand for the portable radio on my hip. “Major 52 here. One vehicle. Male subject with massive head injuries. Get me EMS, 10-18. Fire department, supervisor, and rescue van—he'll need to be cut out.”

The dispatcher acknowledged my transmission. The boy's pulse was weak and broken. But it was a pulse.

I took a deep breath, then spread my hands as wide as possible and grasped the torn fragments of his skull, applying pressure over the bleeding holes and gashes. My bare thumb rested firmly against his brain.

I stiffened my arms and pulled his neck back and upward slightly. Tiny red-flecked bubbles appeared at his mouth with each exhalation. Alcohol permeated the air. I counted four beer bottles strewn about the car. His inspection sticker had expired. The left turn signal beat a steady monody, and on the radio, swear to God, an oldies ballad by Billy Joel who loved us just the way we were.

Time slowed; I became aware of each passing second. The night air was crunchy cold and whipped about us. A vast expanse of deserted interstate stretched out before my eyes as the flashing red lights of my unit bounced off the trees. There was no movement, no life anywhere, except between my hands.

Half leaning into the car, wedged up against the door, I felt my pulse slow to match his. His blood trickled down my arm as I whispered an old lullaby my mother used to sing to soothe my childish fears, to scare away the bogeyman. I watched his face, peaceful and
unmarked from the brow down. I wondered what color his eyes were and whose lips had last touched his.

Gradually, a siren's lonely, plaintive keen drifted through the night and surrounded us with its wail. EMS had arrived.

The scene became a hive of activity. Pressure pads were applied, intravenous injections given, neck brace put on. The airway was supported open and oxygen fed in. Blood pressure and vital signs were taken. Radio hookup to the hospital was established. The technicians moved quickly, efficiently, spoke in short, clipped sentences—all their attention, all their skills focused on stabilizing the body before them.

“Keep upward traction. Don't move,” they told me.

I hadn't intended on giving up my place. The boy and I still breathed as one, but there was a distance between us now, and I felt the urgency more acutely.

Other officers arrived. Gary walked up, stopped, his eyes widening. Briefly he glanced at me. Then, delicately, we began the task of removing the boy from the car. Extraction tools were needed. An officer wedged the prongs of the Jaws of Life into the door, flipped the switch, and peeled the metal back. Glass popped and shattered as I shielded the boy's head with my own. Two officers eased his legs out while a paramedic supported his back; another held his neck steady. Even as we moved him to the stretcher, my hands remained anchored to the boy's head.

Mass shock trousers—inflatable rubber pants to keep the lower body stabilized and slow any internal bleeding—were put on, then we rolled him to the waiting ambulance like hermit crabs scuttling sideways with precious cargo. Gently we lifted him into the ambulance's waiting embrace. I crouched inside and hollered at Gary to pick me up at the hospital.

I half stood to maintain traction, bracing my hip against the interior wall of the ambulance. A metal safety clip dug into my leg. The driver talked to the hospital via radio; the other paramedic started a second IV. My arms began to ache and burn. The inside of the ambulance was an alternate world—the glow of yellow and red lights played across our faces. I watched the boy's face. We went around a corner, and I locked all my muscles in place, trying to retain my balance. A stream of blood came off the stretcher at the next turn, and I
moved my feet, trying to avoid getting it on my pants. The attendants laughed. I smiled. Inside, another part of me withered. A boy was dying, and I didn't want blood on my uniform.