Courageous (7 page)

Adam arrived at the station two hours early and went to Sergeant Murphy’s office. Murphy was on the phone. His eyes were vacant.

“I’m so sorry, Emma. So sorry.”

Adam sat by his desk, listening. Murphy stared at the phone. Apparently Emma had hung up.

“You’re early, Adam.”

“Couldn’t stay home after your call.”

“Sorry about that. It’s three hours earlier for Emma on the West Coast. I debated about waiting. But my wife insisted I call.”

“Obviously Emma’s devastated. What did she say?”

“She kept saying there must be a mistake. It wasn’t possible.”

“Was it a single shooter?”

“Yeah,” Murphy said.

“We have a name?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“What do you mean, Sarge? It’s good we know who did it, right?”

“It was Jeff Henderson.”

“I know who died. I’m asking who killed him.”

Sergeant Murphy put his head down, his thumb and index finger rubbing his closed eyes. “He killed himself.”

Chapter Eight

Friday was one of the worst days of Adam’s life.

Adam was asked to say a few words at Jeff’s funeral. He declined. He wasn’t going to stand in front of a large group. He’d say the wrong words and embarrass himself.

So Adam wrote a note about Jeff, about how kind and patient and understanding he’d been and how much help he gave during Adam’s first four years on the force. As the sheriff read his words, Adam caught Emma’s eye. She sat across the aisle in the front row, puffy eyed, appearing older than her fifty-seven years. He wondered if Emma wished Jeff had been as kind, patient, and understanding with her and the children as he’d been with Adam.

Jeff’s younger children, nineteen and twenty-four, sat with their mother. Brent, the youngest, had his dad’s square jaw and blue eyes. Jeff’s oldest son and his wife hadn’t bothered to make the trip from California. Neither had his daughter’s husband, nor any of the grandchildren. Was it anger or overwhelming grief because Jeff had taken his life? Or was it because they thought he’d been a rotten husband and father?

Adam pondered how unfair it was to judge a cop; they couldn’t understand what it was like. Then he chided himself.
At least I could have taken him to Pearly’s and bought him link-sausage biscuits like the old days.
He’d seen sadness in his old friend’s eyes during their conversation. Why hadn’t he taken the initiative?

Adam felt a sudden wave of anger. Why hadn’t Jeff reached out for help? Why hadn’t he called someone? Why had he trusted his own judgment, put that old Sig Sauer in his mouth, and pulled the trigger?

But what Adam felt wasn’t just grief and anger. It was fear. In a special meeting at the sheriff’s office two days earlier, they’d brought in the police psychologist who explained what they’d all heard before—that the suicide rate among cops was higher than the general population. The psychologist said three times as many police officers had taken their own lives than had died in the line of duty. In one eight-month period, eight different California Highway Patrol officers had committed suicide. How this was supposed to be helpful, Adam wasn’t sure. Should they feel better that Jeff’s suicide wasn’t that unusual?

Adam knew Jeff not only because of their old partnership, but because he knew himself and the police culture. Most cops thought asking for help was a sign of weakness. Cops were supposed to
solve
problems, not
be
the problem. He was taught to suppress his emotions in the middle of crises and soldier forward. Later on you could be emotional, they’d said. But when is later on? There’s no later on because you’re still a cop. Even when you don’t wear the uniform, you’re always a cop.

So Adam sat in his own private world, jerked back to reality only when he felt Victoria squeeze his hand.

Nearly two hundred uniformed officers were there. They represented the Dougherty County Sheriff’s Department, the Albany Police, and at least a half-dozen surrounding agencies.

Had Jeff died in the line of duty, there might have been six hundred or more uniformed officers from all over south Georgia. The governor might have attended. They would have had an honor guard that folded the flag, presented it to Sheriff Gentry, who would have presented it, in turn, to Emma. At the funeral they would have had a twenty-one gun salute, and taps would have been played.

When a minister stood up and said Jeff was in a better place, Adam tried in vain to remember what Jeff had told him about his spiritual beliefs. His thoughts wandered through what could have, should have, or might have been.

An hour later Adam stood at the graveside.

Nathan hung behind as people began drifting away. He approached Adam from behind and laid a hand on his shoulder.“I know you were close. I’m sorry, Adam. Where was he at spiritually? Did he know Jesus?”

“I don’t know.”

“Did he go to church somewhere?”

“I’m not sure.”

Nathan saw Adam’s face and knew he shouldn’t ask any more.

But Adam was asking himself those same questions. He had known Jeff Henderson for seventeen years. He’d spent about a third of every week with him over a four-year period and had been to dozens of ball games and on three vacations with him and his family. And still, he didn’t know the answers.

Later that afternoon, after his shift was over, Adam Mitchell finished his shower and was nearly dressed when his peripheral vision caught a sumo wrestler lumbering his direction.

“Hey, Mitchell.” Brad Bronson bulled his way across the locker room. Adam examined Bronson’s T-shirt, an XL, but the shirt didn’t make it down to his belly button. If one size fits all, his shirt was not that size.

Adam focused on Bronson’s unibrow for fear of looking elsewhere. “What’s up, Sarge?”

“That rain was somethin’, wasn’t it? My front walk’s
kivvered
with mud. I slipped this morning and liketa broke my neck.”

“Uh-huh.” Adam had never met the folksy side of Brad Bronson. It unnerved him.

Bronson pushed hard on his neck, which made an alarmingly loud cracking sound. “Too bad about Henderson.”

“Yeah.”

Bronson’s thoughts jumped like a rock skipping across choppy water. He’d never met a transitional sentence he liked. “You ever have to deal with that Koos woman?”

The swift switch of topics startled Adam. “Diane Koos? The PIO?”

“Why did they put a civilian over sworn-in cops? Makes no sense.”

“She’s not really over us. She was hired by the sheriff to help us with some of our PR problems. He decided to hire outside the department for a change to send the message we aren’t covering anything up.”

Bronson stared at him. “You think I don’t know that?”

“Well, you—”

“That Koos woman worked ten years for television news!” He said it like she’d spent her life selling crack to preschoolers. Bronson revved his cement mixer, then spit on the locker room floor. Adam’s eyes didn’t follow. He didn’t need a memory of any fluid that came out of Bronson’s body.

“I know,” Adam said. “She lobbied for Shane’s reprimand for failing to warn a runaway perp before tasing him.”

“And he got the reprimand, which means she
is
over us—or may as well be. She knows jack about being a cop. And she has the sheriff’s ear. Walks around in spiky shoes that hurt her feet, then takes it out on us. She was out to get me when she was a journalist, and she’s still putting the heat on me.”

“Something you said?” Adam suggested. “Or does this have anything to do with the guy at the Albany mall you head-butted into unconsciousness?”

“That’s just an excuse,” Bronson said.

“You have to admit it’s a pretty
good
excuse.”

“The perp was a power lifter. On steroids and crack. They act like he was a one-legged pacifist grandma with the flu.”

“Well, what can you do about it? I mean, other than not head-butt people at the mall.”

“The Koos keeps it up and I’m gonna break her broom in half.”

Derrick Freeman entered his grandmother’s tiny apartment after midnight. When he opened the door, a light turned on. A frail white-haired woman stood waiting in the tiny living room. The deep lines in her face showed worry and fear.

“You been drinkin’, Derrick.”

“No, Gramma.”

“Don’t lie to me, boy. I smell the alcohol from here. And I saw the boys you were with. I’ve seen ’em before. You know how I feel about the gangs!”

“Yeah, I know.”

“You’re a smart boy, one of the smartest at your school. I work two jobs so you’ll be able to go to college. I don’t work so that you can flush it all down the toilet.”

“You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

“
I
don’t know what I’m talkin’ about? I’ve been alive four times longer than you have, boy. I know all about gangs. I saw them take down your daddy before you even got to know him. Your brother was next. You think it doesn’t break my heart every day for Keishon to be doin’ time? It started like this, hangin’ around with the gangsters; then he got beat in. Then they owned him and took him down.”

“That’s not what happened, Gramma. And he’s not dead; he’s in Georgia State Prison. He’ll be out in a few years.”

“You were what, fourteen, so you know how it went down? And you think everything will be fine when he gets out? Those boys are Gangster Nation, aren’t they? They makin’ you feel important? They just wanna suck you in. They get you to do drugs, then push drugs, make dirty money, hurt innocent people. You steal for them, you belong to them. God didn’t make you to be nobody’s slave, boy. White man’s or black’s.”

“That’s not how it is. They’re my friends, my brothers.”

“You’ll find out what they are when it’s too late. They go after kids who are dumb and desperate. That’s why I’ve made sure you did your studies and stayed away from the gangs. But I can’t make you anymore. You gotta decide for yourself.”

“You got that right. That’s what I’m gonna do. Decide for myself.”

“Derrick, please.” His grandmother reached to touch his shoulders. “Your mama was shanked by a boy in the gang. For what? She had ten dollars on her. He wanted crack. You become part of the GN, and you’re spittin’ on your mother’s grave.”

“My mama has nothin’ to do with this. I barely even knew her.”

“You barely knew her because the gang took her from you and me and Keishon! You don’t understand what kind of life you’re playin’ with. Gangbangers become targets; their families become targets. You want me to be a target? You have a girlfriend, she’ll be a target.”

“They don’t care about you, Gramma.”

“You’re right about that. The question is, do you care, Derrick? They might kill you. They might even kill for you. But I would die for you. That’s what I
been
doin’. Except for your uncle Reggie, I’m the only family you’ve got now. You still have a chance, son. A good education will get you a good job; it’ll give you options. Just finish high school and get away to college. There’s no life for you here, Derrick.”

“They’re my friends, Gramma. I can finish high school without even tryin’. I can still go to college if I want to.”

“They’re gonna smoke you like a cigarette and throw you on the street and grind you into the ground. That’s what the gangs do.”

He turned away and walked toward his room.

Derrick’s gramma wasn’t finished. “Maybe you’d listen if I was a man. God knows, I wish you had a man in this house to tell you what it’s really like. Maybe you don’t think I’m much. I’ve had to be a mother and a father to you, but I just can’t be what I’m not.”

“I’m goin’ to bed.”

She stepped toward him and put her hand on his shirt. “Don’t let ’em beat you in, Derrick. I’m losin’ you like I lost your mother and your brother. They gonna take you from me. I see it in your eyes. Please, don’t let them do it.”

She clutched his sleeve, and he pushed her away hard. Her head hit the wall with a loud thud. She slumped to the floor, a low moan spilling from her lips.

He walked into his bedroom and slammed the door. He was sick and tired of his gramma, tired of her warnings and her constant yammer.

She’s an old-head; she don’t know nuthin’.