Resolve (5 page)

I’m not moving that fast, but I’m feeling a little dizzy. I suddenly realize it’s because I’m holding my breath. I’ve got to keep it together.

Got to see this through.

I
’ve never been one who enjoys the rush of uncertainty. I really haven’t had that sensation since I was drifting around in my professional life, trying to figure out who I wanted to be. Despite having done nothing wrong, the detectives’ questions put me back on my heels. When you’re used to being the authority figure in nearly every conversation you have, feeling defensive is pretty rare. But when it does happen, you feel your world’s axis tilt just a little. Not enough to topple you over, but just enough to remind you that your perception of control is a tenuous illusion, and that you have spent a large part of your life talking yourself into believing your dominance is real.

It was obvious to me that the transition from a cop to a probation officer did not fix the underlying condition that caused my professional crisis of faith. It temporarily treated the symptoms, but then the disease came back with a paralyzing vengeance. I needed something to give meaning to my life and put me on track. I needed something to keep the millstone of my disillusionment from compressing me into psychological rubble. That’s when I met Kaitlyn.

On the days I managed to shake off my anguish enough so that I could force myself into going to work, I spent most of my time interviewing, listening to, and re-arresting every type of criminal offender southern West Virginia had to offer. Culturally speaking, it was a different world down there. Criminally speaking, not so much. You could substitute “Baltimore crack dealer” for “West Virginia Oxycodone-pusher” and the story was basically the same in the end. Those who demanded the drug found those who could supply. Competition was eliminated by law enforcement activity, self-destruction, or rival conflicts. Black, white, Hispanic, male, female—it didn’t matter. All of the players eventually got locked up or killed. The final tally for everyone in the chain was always zero. Nevertheless, the game would go on with replacements for the fallen; and when the courts decided that somebody was going to get a chance at redemption through the probation system, then I was there to show him how to avoid the stumbling blocks. Or, if he did happen to fall down, it was my job to throw him back into the jaws of the prison system. And everybody eventually falls. It’s just a matter of degree.

I had all kinds of offenders on my client list. Most were involved with oxy or meth, but there was an assortment of others as well. I don’t have a lot of positive memories about the job, but I did get one good thing out of it. Not every guy can say that the state correctional system helped him meet the love of his life.

Kaitlyn entered my life when the courts had ordered one of my stellar-citizen clients to attend one-on-one anger management counseling a couple of times a week. As part of a new community-friendly initiative, I was basically supposed to hold his hand while I took him to some office complex and introduced him to his counselor. I took Mr. Grumpy up to the fifth floor where I had been told the counselor’s office was. After a few minutes in the waiting room, Kaitlyn Richards came out to meet me—I mean Mr. Grumpy—or whatever his name was.

She looked every bit the part of the consummate professional in her dark blue pants suit and a pair of low matching heels. Even in business attire, auburn hair pulled back into a ponytail, and wearing hardly any makeup, she couldn’t hide her good looks. We shook hands and she introduced herself in a confident, but not arrogant manner. Her grip on my hand suggested to me that she would spend her days listening to the frustrations of others, and then take her own out on a heavy bag at a local gym. When our hands broke contact, I noted that even in her current attire a swimmer’s physique was pleasantly noticeable.

She complemented all of this with a look of total alertness, and it was easy to assume that she was the type to work sixty hours a week and still never miss a workout. I was suddenly self-conscious that I hadn’t shaved that day. She looked expectantly from me to Mr. Grumpy and back to me. After a few blinks, I realized what I was forgetting and I introduced her to my—and now her—client. Becoming somewhat professional and coherent again, I gave her my card, which she grabbed with a naked left hand, and I told her I would be calling to keep up on Mr. Grumpy’s progress. I let an uncomfortable silence descend on us until she smiled, said goodbye, and took her new charge into her office.

Never one to shuck my responsibilities, I dutifully phoned her office the next day to see how the session went. I even shaved for the occasion. I introduced myself again and asked about the previous day’s meeting.

Without divulging any confidential information, she told me that Mr. Grumpy was “still in compliance with the court-ordered counseling” and that everything was fine. Another awkward silence ensued, and I stroked my smooth chin, said my goodbyes and hung up.

I called her again a few days later to see how the latest session had gone. After all, I had to keep close tabs on Mr. Grumpy. This five-foot-six, 140-pound miscreant had been in a five-second bar fight in downtown Huntington. He had nearly broken another guy’s skin before passing out drunk in mid-punch. He had a terrifying prior criminal record for public urination outside of a monster truck show. The man was obviously a menace. The hard-core drug dealers, burglars, and other felons assigned to me would just have to learn to share my attention. Mr. Grumpy needed me.

Again, Dr. Richards informed me that Mr. Grumpy was “still in compliance with the court-ordered counseling” and that everything was fine.

Good to know.

This time I let the stillness build until she actually asked me if I was still there. Flustered, I told her that my cell must have lost the signal momentarily, and I asked her to repeat what she’d said. She did, and I gave my thanks before hanging up. I made a mental note to buy a cell phone.

When I called again the next week to ask about Grumpy’s progress, I made it as far as, “Hi, it’s Cyprus Ke—” before she impatiently snapped, “Why don’t you just ask me out already?”

I suddenly wasn’t sure I could be with a woman who was this direct. I’m an old-fashioned guy. Besides, there was Mr. Grumpy to consider. This would create a conflict of interest and I would have to pass him off to one of my colleagues. What would he do without me? And who did this lady think she was? I decided right then and there that I was going to quickly back away from this situation. Maybe after we had dinner one time.

We had a private ceremony three months later. I asked the judge to take some wedding photos of us with my new cell phone.

Back when we started dating, it hadn’t taken us long to figure out we were going to be together. We just had to work out a few details. Last names, for instance. I wanted her to take my last name, but she wanted to keep hers. So we made a deal. She would keep her last name and in exchange I would have to be fine with that.

Psychologists are very skilled in the art of compromise.

I have to admit, I was never sure I was the marrying type, but married life definitely agreed with me. For a few months I didn’t even mind the part of my job that involved being lied to a thousand times a day, or getting a call from the jail telling me one of my projects had held up a Stop-and-Rob gas station while wearing a work uniform with his name patch on it, or spending my afternoons collecting warm plastic cups of urine so loaded with THC that it refused to even slosh around. Kaitlyn made everything better, and things started coming into focus for me.

My new bride even tried to get me to understand myself better. But, of course, I blew off her so-called constructive criticism because why would I listen to an expert in human behavior who also happens to be my best friend and wife? No, sir. I was way too smart for that.

But overall, things did improve. I started experiencing a feeling that was completely new to me: ambition. For the first time in a long time, I began to think that there was more I could do with my life. Not that what I was doing wasn’t important, but I needed something more. Something different. Something to shake things up.

Detective Shand’s words echoed in my head. I was still a little lightheaded and out of breath from the run, and I struggled to wrap my mind around what he was saying.

I finally responded to the news in the same stupid, dumbfounded way that people had reacted to my words when I was in his shoes.

“Killed? Lindsay Behram?”

Through puffs of cold breath, Hartz went straight to the point and said, “We’re tracking her movements from yesterday. When was the last time you saw Lindsay?”

Tracking her movements?
This was no car accident. This was not “a drunken student falls down a set of stairs and hits her head”-type deal. When Shand said
killed
he meant
murdered
. These guys were investigating a homicide.

I immediately replied, “I saw her around three o’clock yesterday afternoon.”

Not a flicker of heightened curiosity on either of their faces. Of course. They knew I saw her. Why else would they be looking for a professor she had for only one class.

Shand returned to me with a quick tennis forehand, “What did you two discuss?”

I knew from my years in law enforcement that the two worst things an innocent person could do in this situation were to either lie, or omit a portion of the whole truth. There was no way I was going to conceal anything, even if it could create an appearance of impropriety down the road. Cops become cynical by nature. It just happens. If I were to get caught in a lie, I would be putting the crosshairs on my own forehead. Besides, nothing ever happened between the two of us, and Steven was there to witness my glorious moment of righteous indignation.

I shyly batted my answer back, “I think she had a thing for me. Kind of a crush, I suppose. But I made it very clear that nothing was ever going to happen between us.”

Uh, oh. I had already gotten the sense that these guys were good at hiding their emotions behind stoic expressions. Real good. And what I just saw flash on each of their faces was brief. Just a quick peek. A quick pulse of heat lightning that didn’t make the slightest sound, but opened up the surrounding scenery to further examination for a brief moment in time. I had figured they might not have been prepared for my response, but this was something more. It was the last thing I expected and certainly not what I wanted. Each of their faces betrayed a look that summarized what I had felt all too often when I had questioned a suspect at a crime scene and had heard a single fact that unexpectedly fit. They had simply been toying around with the dial on the front of the safe and the tumbler had accidently, and remarkably, clicked into place. One number in the combination . . . down.

For the first time, the two detectives spoke almost simultaneously. Hartz, suddenly looking less concerned with the cold breeze, won the brief verbal tug-of-war and reasoned, “So you did know her a little more than your other students?”

“I suppose I know . . . I knew her a little better because she tended to stop me after class and ask me questions. She was flirtatious, but that was it. I swear, nothing ever happened between us. I did not return her implied pronouncements of affection at any point. I was very clear about it yesterday!”

Implied pronouncements of affection?
Way to not sound pompous, Dr. Dumbass. And when a person being questioned says,
I swear,
that’s what is called a qualifier. Usually, it means that the person is lying through his teeth. This was sure going well.

Now, it was Shand coming at me with a backhand this time, “Yesterday in your office.” A statement. Not a question.

I hadn’t said she came by my office.

“Yes. My graduate assistant, Steven Thacker, was there with me in my office until three-thirty. He witnessed the entire exchange where I made it completely clear to her that there could be no relationship between us,” I exclaimed as my irritation started to rise again. Continuing in a labored breath, “I explained that university policy forbids it and that it was simply not going to happen.”

“How old is Mr. Thacker?” asked Hartz, without letting a second pass.

What a strange question to ask. If I were interrogating some pompous professor at a second-rate university who openly admitted a recently-made-dead student was hitting on him, I certainly wouldn’t focus on some grad student’s age.

I managed to breathe out, “I guess he’s around twenty-five or so. He’s scheduled to graduate this May.”

It occurred to me that I better start asking some questions of my own before it began to look as if I were not asking because I already knew most of the answers.

“Wait a second. You’re asking a lot of questions that make it sound like this wasn’t an accident. What happened to Lind . . . Ms. Behram?”

Nice job idiot. First name basis with the deceased.

The fact that I have always tried to be on a first name basis with
all
of my students, and that it is actually possible at a small school like this where everybody seems to know each other, is probably not something the detectives wanted to hear at this point. Maybe I could also dazzle them with my knowledge of adult learning theory and the benefits of informal interaction in the classroom while I’m at it. Genius.