Precinct 11 - 01 - The Brotherhood (17 page)

Boone had to admit that Francisco Sosa was keeping his word and maintaining an appropriate distance. There were actually days when Boone regretted having broken from him and wished the pastor would be more insistent about seeing him. But who was he to think he should be a priority for the head of such a huge church? Sosa had a dozen pastors reporting to him and a million other things to think about. And there was the fact that Boone had virtually legislated that the man leave him alone.

Boone came to appreciate that every few days Sosa sent an innocuous text, simply listing a Scripture reference. Boone would haul out Nikki’s Bible, peek again at his name at the top of her prayer list, and find the verse. The most recent had been Isaiah 40:31:

But those who wait on the Lord shall renew their strength; they shall mount up with wings like eagles, they shall run and not be weary, they shall walk and not faint.

Boone found the language majestic, the promise magnificent. The rub came in the opening phrase. When had he ever waited on the Lord, and why should he now? Yes, his strength needed to be renewed, he needed to be able to fly, to run, to walk and not faint. But what had God done for him lately?

During Boone’s visit with Brigita Velna on the fourteenth workday of his furlough, he fully expected to be returned to duty.

“You don’t have to like it or accept it, Officer Drake,” she said, “but I am recommending that you wait one more week.”

Boone sat shaking his head. “Of course I have to accept it. What recourse do I have?”

“I stand corrected. You do have to accept it. I mean, you can appeal it, but that process would take longer than a week, so it’s not worth the effort.”

“Can you at least tell me why? I’ve read, I’ve studied, I’ve attended classes. I can sometimes think of Nikki and Josh without bursting into tears. And I’m bored out of my mind. I need to be at work.”

“How is the apartment hunting going?”

“I’m close to something I like. I should have an answer in a day or two.”

“And when you go back to work, you’re on day watch, right? You wouldn’t likely be able to conduct any personal business in the evenings. This further delay in getting back on the job will give you a week to secure your new place and move.”

“I can work that out either way. Now why are you making me wait? Please tell me you’re seeing something that can make this make sense to me.”

“I wish I could. I’m a scientist, a psychologist, an analyst. There is nothing I would like more than to be able to show you a printout or some research data that proves I am right. In this case, I confess, I am going on intuition.”

“So you’re convinced I’m not ready.”

“I’m not sure, but I fear you are not, and thus I am not willing to risk it. There is something in your demeanor, Officer, something impatient and deeply troubled. Now don’t give me that face. I know you have more reasons than most to be psychologically wounded. No one can be expected to just snap back from such trauma. You can protest and try to persuade me, but the fact is that I see before me a man not only understandably devastated, but also angry.”

“And why shouldn’t I be?”

“I’m not judging you. I am just saying that another six working days before you’re back on the job will be to your benefit.”

“And to the CPD’s and the city’s.”

“Of course.”

“Your real priorities.”

“Which I have never denied.”

The worst part about all this was that she was right and Boone knew it. He thought he could control himself and that he would not be a threat to the department or the city, but it was coming up on only a month since the deaths. Who could expect him to even be in his right mind by now?

“Tell me about the new living space you have in mind,” Ms. Velna said.

“It’s nice. Small. About a twenty-minute drive to work. Two bedrooms, one I will use for workout equipment. I have my schedule and routine and regimen all written out. I know what I’ll eat and when, when I’ll work out and for how long. Everything’s going to be just so.”

Again she seemed to study him. “You are going to control the things you can control.”

He nodded slowly. “I hadn’t thought of it that way, but yes. Exactly.”

“Does that tell you anything about yourself?”

“Guess I’m a little dense.”

“You’re anything but dense, but perhaps this is subconscious. You have always been in charge, in control. You work toward what you want, and you accomplish things. Now your world has been shattered by something wholly outside your control, and you are reverting to a place of comfort.”

Boone made a face and scratched his head. “That’s a little deep for me.”

“Is it? Tell me, do you line up your clothes, especially your uniforms, in your closet?”

“Yes.”

“Shoes polished the night before?”

“Belt too.”

“Work out at the same time each day for the same duration, eat at the same time, leave for work at the same time. You’re a man of routine, correct?”

“Anything wrong with that?”

“Of course not. We all have ways of comforting ourselves, making ourselves feel secure. We like things to be predictable. You see how it is a matter of control? You are engineering your own life.”

“I can see that.”

“Now tell me, what happens when something else invades and interrupts your self-created world, your routine?”

“There’s nothing else for me to lose.”

“Sure there is. I don’t mean to be macabre, Officer Drake, but there are other people in your life you care about, surely. Your parents, your brothers, your in-laws, your partner, maybe other colleagues? people at church? friends? I ask you again, what happens if misfortune or even tragedy attends one of them?”

Attends? Where do people learn to talk like this?

“I guess I wouldn’t like it.”

“You wouldn’t like it because it was beyond your control. You are drawing yourself in, Officer. Retreating to your comfort zone. Your new place, small and smart and efficient as it will be, becomes your personal fortress.”

“You think it’s unhealthy?”

“Not if you recognize it. You will begin to grow and really mature when you realize that life is capricious. You cannot control everything. You must resign yourself to that.”

“Go with the flow?”

“Yes.”

“So I should take the loss of my family in stride? It was fate? Nothing I could have done about it?”

“I’m not saying that. Just don’t blame yourself—or worse, think you can build new defenses that will protect you from ever suffering again.”

“Don’t blame myself? I knew Josh could get out of his crib by himself. I should have figured out some way to keep that from happening.”

“Yes, and what if it had been your wife who accidentally spilled the gasoline, and then she couldn’t get to him in time? I’m not trying to make this more painful for you. I’m trying to point out that you can’t think of every eventuality. You can’t protect yourself from everything.”

This was hard, and part of Boone hated it. She was making him face himself. He’d had the same inward reaction to Francisco Sosa when the pastor pried into the level of his passion for God. What was it about people analyzing him that made him so uncomfortable?
Was
he a self-made man, a control freak? Down deep he wished he
could
control everything. Maybe down deep he also wished he didn’t need God. Sosa had once intimated that Boone seemed to give himself credit for a sweet life. Well, it wasn’t so sweet now, was it?

Ms. Velna stood and shook Boone’s hand. “You’re a remarkable young man,” she said, “and I wish you all the best. I will send through the paperwork, authorizing you to return to duty a week from Monday. In the meantime, do me a favor. In fact, do yourself a favor. Give yourself a break. I don’t say this glibly, and I know it’s not easy. But realize that you are not in control of everything and can never be. Cut yourself some slack.”

Late the next week, Jack enlisted a couple of off-duty officers to help move Boone into his new apartment. By the end of the day, Boone was exhausted but encouraged. He liked the way the place had turned out, and while he was going to be lonely, there was no way around that. He set up everything the way he wanted it, and when he was done, he had not one inch of wasted space. This was not going to be a place where he could entertain, though Jack could come over and watch a game with him. Maybe Brigita Velna was right. He had built himself his own little fortified castle.

The following Monday Boone was welcomed back to the 11th district with enthusiasm but not the usual horseplay or barbs. He would know the awkward period was over when someone would have the courage to insult him just for fun. He missed that.

Jack Keller quickly dumped his temporary partner and took Boone back in the passenger seat. While Boone was trying to settle into his old routine, he discovered that it was now Jack Keller who seemed in the worst mood. Every cop in the city knew he was in line for the Organized Crime spot, and it had even been speculated upon by the
Chicago Tribune
police beat reporters.

Yet still it hadn’t happened, and there seemed no way to tell when or if it ever would. Boone found himself amused to see Jack short not only with him—which he appreciated under the circumstances—but also with the public. They made a couple of routine traffic stops, and both times Jack wound up berating the drivers, exhibiting sarcasm and condescension. In both cases the offenses were egregious and the drivers worthy of scorn. But clearly Jack had acted outside department protocol and chastised himself all afternoon. “Watch these yahoos complain to downtown, and I won’t have a leg to stand on.”

“They were in the wrong, Jack. They’re not going to complain to anybody.”

“If they do, it’ll go on my record and will for sure keep me from getting into OCD.”

It was all Boone could do to keep from chuckling. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone downtown took seriously a complaint from a guilty motorist who felt unduly hollered at. Now if Jack had threatened them or intimidated them or put his hands on them, that would have been a problem. It was clear to Boone, however, that these drivers were relieved to just be ticketed and sent on their way.

Boone and Jack spent much of their downtime in the car talking about the potential of the future. “If it takes this long to see you get promoted, how long will it take to get me over there?”

“Who knows? A year? I hope not more.”

Boone was aware that Jack had largely kept him out of sticky situations for his first couple of weeks back on the street. That ended the afternoon Boone was spelling Jack behind the wheel and they were cruising near an elementary school at release time.

Their squad car was second in line facing east, waiting as a crossing guard stopped traffic both ways so kids could cross the street. Suddenly came a westbound motorcyclist, roaring right through the crosswalk. The guard grabbed two kids and held them back, dancing out of the way.

Boone immediately flipped on his blue lights and tried to pop a U-turn, but the cars in front and behind him were too close. Jack turned on the siren briefly, and both cars tried to get out of the way.

“Move!” Jack screamed. “Get that sucker, Boones!”

Boone reminded himself to keep an eye on the crossing guard and the kids as he maneuvered a three-point turnaround and finally headed west. By now the cycle was four blocks ahead and flying. Fortunately the traffic was thick enough that the cyclist had to slow, and the cars ahead of Boone were slowly pulling over.

All Boone could think of was his own son. This guy had missed schoolkids by inches.

“He’s gone right!” Jack said. He radioed their position, reported that they were in pursuit of a reckless motorcyclist, and advised where other squads should set up.

Boone had long prided himself in his ability behind the wheel, but while the squad had a high-performance engine, it could not go where a cycle could. Every time he drew within a block or so, the rider shot through an alley or took a turn too late for Boone to follow.

Boone deftly braked, popped U-turns, took sharp corners, and somehow stayed close. Meanwhile Jack was variously shouting, encouraging, swearing at the cyclist, and staying on the radio to direct other squads. Boone knew the best he could do was somehow force the cyclist into a roadblock. No way a single squad could catch this guy.

“Right here! Left here! Careful! If we can get him to take a right at the light, we’ve got him! You’re not gonna believe who’s in the chase, Boones!”

“Who?”

“Watch Commander Lang. Just got out of a meeting and heard the call.”

“How long’s it been since he’s been in on a collar?”

“Got to be years. Let’s get this guy!”

Boone floored the squad from two blocks behind the bad guy, lights flashing and siren blaring. And sure enough, the rider took the right turn. Boone had to slow quickly and pick his way through the intersection. “Brakes are getting mushy!”

“Got to be overheated. Careful.”

And as soon as Boone had straightened the car, he found himself within feet of the squads that had stopped the cyclist. He swerved and pushed the brake pedal to the floor, but still he slammed into the back of another squad. Fortunately no one was in it. But he could tell from the markings that it was the watch commander’s car.

Lang and his driver were part of a small cadre of officers who had surrounded the cycle, on which the rider still sat. The rider had jerked around at the sound of the crash and was now pointing and laughing so hard he was doubled over.

“Not your fault, Boones!” Jack hollered as he grabbed his hat and nightstick and was sliding out. “Don’t worry about it!”

But Boone was already out of the car, leaving his hat and stick. His jaw was set, his eyes afire. He elbowed other officers aside and approached the cyclist, who was grinning so wide he was in tears. Without a thought Boone fired a right cross to the man’s chin, and he and the heavy bike went over.

Jack grabbed Boone and pulled him back while the others wrestled the cycle off the man, who lay unconscious.