Stone Cold (3 page)

Despite the severe nature of the crisis that had brought about the death of Amy Wheeler, the case itself was considered relatively straight–forward, and hence Kathryn had been handed as her first assignment the task of rehabilitating the grieving officer. There was clearly no blame placed upon his shoulders, thus the grief was entirely psychological. Bad things sometimes happen to good people, and Kathryn knew that the search for explanations was fruitless and often damaging. Some turned to God or their families. Others turned away. The weight of a person’s guilt and the grief it caused them, over something they could not have possibly controlled, was an oft–underestimated mental health issue. Without boundaries for that grief to be contained it could easily spill into the detective’s private life and perhaps consume him entirely if proper perspective were not placed on the event and how he related to it.

Psychology 101:
perspective
.

The officer guided Kathryn to an office adjoining the operations room and knocked on the door, which was adorned with the name Capt. Gregory Olsen.

The captain got up from his desk as they entered. Tall and broad, Olsen shut the door behind Kathryn as the female officer left and extended his hand to Kathryn Stone. Olsen was a long–service officer, his rugged features hewn from granite like mountains and thick white hair like the clouds that topped them, and a magnificent moustache nestled above his upper lip. Kathryn guessed he wasn’t far off retirement, and his seemingly eternal presence in the town afforded him as much respect, if not more, than that enjoyed by the mayor.

‘Nice to meet you, Ms Stone.

His voice was so deep it sounded like boulders rolling down a hillside.

‘Thank you,’ Kathryn said, her hand feeling like a child’s being held by a bear’s paw.

Olsen gestured to an empty seat beside his cluttered desk as he sat back down. ‘Not often we get call for a shrink in this office. Times are changing, I guess.’

‘Extraordinary times,’ Kathryn replied. ‘Big city shoot–outs are not a daily feature of your officers’ working lives.’

‘No,’ Olsen admitted. ‘Just as well it was Griffin and Maietta on the scene.’

‘Maietta?’

‘Jane Maietta,’ Olsen explained. ‘Griffin’s partner. Tough as saddlebags, a street kid out of Illinois made good.’

‘And Griffin’s a soldier?’

‘Former army,’ Olsen confirmed. ‘Two tours in Iraq so he knows gunfights, probably saw some shit he’d rather not go into. But the shoot–out at the farmhouse was different.’

‘How did the ricochet happen?’

‘He was shooting at one of the bikers, who’d drawn a bead on an armed officer who had just been hit in the leg and was left exposed. Griffin fired. The bullet hit the wall beside the biker’s head, bounced off a metal brace and hit the kid behind him in the left temple.’ Olsen pointed to his head, in case Kathryn didn’t know what a temple was. ‘There was nothing that anybody could do.’

‘How did Griffin react, in the immediate aftermath?’

Olsen stared at her for a moment. ‘He didn’t dance a fucking jig, if that’s what you mean?’

‘It’s important,’ Kathryn said. ‘The more I know about how Griffin reacted to the event, the better I can understand how he’s handling it now.’

‘He didn’t know he’d killed anybody until he entered the building,’ Olsen explained. ‘Nobody did until HRU broke through into the building and ended the incident. It wasn’t until the kid’s autopsy that the bullet was recovered and matched to Griffin’s weapon. He was told the day after that.’

‘He didn’t see the child’s body?’

‘He did,’ Olsen exhaled, his gaze falling from hers. ‘He knew the bullet was his, I think, maybe instinct or something. Amy Wheeler died in his arms.’

‘Nobody thought to keep it from him?’ Kathryn asked.

‘Too much red tape,’ Olsen explained. ‘HRU need to account for literally every round they fire in these kinds of incidents, which meant that we did too. With a dead kid I could plausibly have figured that it made sense to claim that the bikers killed her, but that would have left a round unaccounted for. They went by the book, and rightly so did I.’

‘And how is Griffin coping at this time?’

‘He’s wired up pretty tight,’ Olsen replied. ‘He’s tough enough and smart enough to get through it all, but I don’t think he really knows where to begin. Griffin’s good, most ex–soldiers are, but likewise he’s too proud, thinks he knows best, always wants to work alone and that’s what got him into this state in the first place. He doesn’t even open up to his partner.’

‘And how would you describe his state, exactly?’ Kathryn asked.

‘Police officers have to be law–keepers, counsellors, fire–arms experts, mediators and often goddamned politicians all at once,’ Olsen explained. ‘There’s no real–life Jack Bauer out there running around playing maverick–cop, no matter what people see on the television. Griffin’s suffering from a lack of confidence, no matter how hard he tries to conceal it, so he’s built himself a wall to hide behind.’ Olsen sighed. ‘I guess it’s what you folk would call a coping mechanism, right?’

‘Something like that,’ Kathryn nodded. ‘He’s projecting his grief outward as anger. Is he working on anything right now?’

‘He’s been pulled off the front line,’ Olsen said, ‘and he’s not carrying a firearm until he’s over this. I’ve got him looking into our cold–case files. Desk job.’

‘How’s he liking that?’

‘He’s not. I’d rather he was in the field, but until the investigation is complete my hands are tied. You think he should be out there?’

‘Maybe,’ Kathryn said. ‘I’ll figure that out after I’ve spoken to him, but generally the more normality that surrounds him the more comfortable he’ll feel. Any ideas on his home life?’

‘He doesn’t talk about it.’

‘Fine,’ Kathryn said. ‘Not talking about it is saying something in itself.’

‘That’s the kind of talk that’ll piss him off,’ Olsen pointed out. ‘We’re straight–talking folk out here, Miss Stone. Griffin doesn’t place much stock in all of this fairy–go–lightly psychobabble and nor do I.’

‘Noted,’ Kathryn replied. ‘He won’t like me seeing him every day either.’

‘You want to stick around that closely?’

‘He’s a former soldier, a patriot and a police officer,’ Kathryn said. ‘He’s earned the right for me to do a good job for him. What about the parents of Amy Wheeler? Have they been talked to, or met Griffin?’

‘No,’ Olsen replied. ‘They understand what happened was a tragedy and they’re good strong folk, enough not to start litigation against the department, but you can figure for yourself that they didn’t want a face–to–face with Griffin and he sure as hell doesn’t want to see them. As it happens, procedure means that Amy’s parents have not been informed of the identity of the officer responsible, and I think it’s best to keep things that way.’ Olsen watched her for a long beat. ‘You think you can set him straight?’

‘I don’t want to see another veteran’s family collapse and let them wander off to a life on the streets, okay? These guys did enough in Iraq and Afghanistan already, let alone fighting crime back home.’

Olsen sucked in a prodigious lungful of air and blasted it out across his desk as he leaned back in his seat.

‘I’ve only got five detectives to play with Miss Stone, and a sixth rotational officer. The sooner Griffin’s back on the job, the better. You’ve got my support if you think this will help him.’

‘It’ll help him,’ she said. ‘What’s at issue is whether he wants to help himself.’

***

4

‘This is the room,’ the duty officer gestured Kathryn toward a closed door marked
Interview Room 1
. ‘Detective Griffin is waiting for you. Can I get you a coffee ma’am?’

‘I’m good, thanks,’ Kathryn smiled back.

The officer turned and walked away down the corridor. Kathryn stared at the door in front of her. Get your act together. You’re here to help, so
act
like it. She took a deep breath and then pushed down on the handle and strode in.

Bare walls. A brushed aluminium table bolted to a floor of grubby linoleum tiles. A single strip light, harsh and cold, set into the ceiling behind a cracked plastic cover that had been repaired with a strip of gaffer tape. Not the most inviting of rooms and hardly the best place to speak to a grieving man about such delicate matters.

Detective Scott Griffin sat before her, a pair of clear blue eyes flicking up to meet hers. Thick brown hair framed a young face that was lined with world–weariness, the permanent late–night strain of law enforcement. Shoulders set, back straight. Ex–military, she reminded herself. Hands folded in his lap, a little too tightly to be natural. On edge. Uncomfortable.

‘Detective Griffin, I’m Kathryn Stone,’ she said as she closed the door behind her.

‘Pleasure, ma’am.’ A soft drawl, but no smile.

‘Texas?’

‘Odessa,’ came the reply, a faint glint of life in the blue orbs now.

‘You’re a long way from home, soldier.’

‘Army got me out and about. Long time ago now.’

‘Who are you trying to kid?’ she asked with an easy smile as she took a seat opposite Griffin. ‘Once a soldier…’

Griffin managed a smile, sort of lop–sided where one side curled up and the other curled down.

‘You a local girl?’

‘No, I was raised in Nevada.’

‘Looks like we’re both a long way from home.’

Kathryn retrieved from her bag a small file marked with Griffin’s name and opened it up.

‘How are you coping with the aftermath of the shooting incident?’

A long silence filled the room before Griffin replied.

‘You don’t beat about the bush ma’am.’

‘I figured that you’re probably somebody who probably appreciates straight talking.’

Griffin raised an eyebrow, the crooked smile still touching his features.

‘I guess. And in answer to your question, things are fine.’

‘Can you define
fine
for me detective?’

‘I don’t drink any more, if that’s what you mean.’

‘That’s what I mean,’ Kathryn agreed. ‘You’re married.’

‘Four years.’

No more details. No elaboration. No mention of the wife’s name, although Kathryn already knew it of course. That could also just be straight talking, but she doubted it.

‘She coping okay?’

‘With what?’

‘With you.’

‘Should she be having a problem?’

‘No,’ Kathryn replied. ‘Detective, I could take this interview in all kinds of directions, but I prefer to just sound people out at a realistic level. Mind games and inferred psychology seem a waste of time to me. You’re a well–trained, upstanding officer and a patriot. If you want the bullshit version I can deal, or we can just cut to the chase and let me figure out how life really is for you and your family right now.’

Griffin stared at her for a long moment, then leaned back as he exhaled noisily. It was like watching noxious fumes spill from a crippled body and then the first inhalation of clean air for months.

‘We’re working it out,’ he said finally. ‘One day at a time.’

‘Been having problems long?’

Griffin stared at her again, probably wondering whether he could bullshit past her. A soft sigh as he apparently rejected the option, his eyes focused to infinity on the table top.

‘You don’t just walk away from a war, in any sense.’

‘I don’t doubt it. Post–Traumatic–Stress–Disorder takes many forms, detective. I won’t bother boring you with them as I’m sure you know by now what PTSD is. You’ve had a hell of a ride over the past few years and sometimes it can take the brain a while to process everything, get it into a context that you can handle. You just need some more time.’

‘And my wife?’

‘The same,’ Kathryn replied. ‘We’re all people, detective. What affects one person tends to rub off very easily on those close to them, and sometimes that can open wounds which take a long time to heal. Give her space, let her know that you’re trying.’

‘Like I said, I don’t drink now.’

‘Getting dry isn’t getting better all on its own,’ Kathryn pointed out. ‘You talk much?’

Griffin shrugged, keeping that steady blue–eyed gaze on her. She felt as though she were being analysed in silence.

‘Try harder,’ she said, glancing down at the file to break the spell. ‘You’re young, you’ve got plenty of time to get past this and move forward.’

‘You don’t look old,’ Griffin observed.

Kathryn almost laughed. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’

Griffin’s smile didn’t slip as he leaned forward on the table, his eyes fixed upon hers.

‘That’s what it was meant to be,’ he replied. ‘You’ve been through a lot yourself but you’re looking okay for it.’

Kathryn’s studied calm slipped and she felt saliva pooling in her throat. ‘Have we met before?’

Griffin shook his head. ‘You sometimes wear a ring,’ he said. ‘The skin stays smooth after they’re removed ‘cause the sun doesn’t get to it so easy, so I figure you’re either recently separated or you took it off before you came in here.’

‘I’m happily attached, actually,’ Kathryn replied, uncertain. ‘Where are you going with this?’

‘You’re not the only person who can dig into a stranger’s past just by looking at them,’ Griffin replied. ‘Which means your advice is no better than that I could get from friends in a bar.’

‘People in bars tend to like talking about themselves more than helping others.’

‘You think that I need help?’

‘I think that you need time, and space, to process what’s happened to you.’

Griffin watched her silently for several long seconds. ‘I need to be able to do my job.’

‘Which you will, just as soon as I clear you again for full duty.’

‘Which will be when?’

‘When you’re ready,’ Kathryn replied.

‘Can I ask you something?’

‘Anything.’

‘You’re in an unhappy relationship, no matter what you might say to hide it,’ Griffin said. ‘So you tell me: if a trained psychologist can’t pick themselves the right person to spend their life with, why should I listen to anything they say about me or what I need?’

Kathryn managed to hold the detective’s unwavering gaze for long enough to formulate a reply.