Burying Ben (3 page)

He takes
m
y elbow, helps
m
e
to my feet, and
m
oves
m
e
toward t
h
e door. His hand cla
m
ps f
i
r
m
ly to the back of
m
y a
r
m
. I
flash back to an anti-war de
m
onstration, the co
p
s
in ri
o
t
gear,
their faces hidden behind plastic shields, herding the cro
w
d off the street, pushing us to
m
ove fas
t
er, prodding us with their batons.
W
hen we are outside, I shake him
loose and pull away.

“Anything
wrong
?
”

I want to say that I hate bullies. I
don’t appreciate being
m
anhandled and I don’t think hu
m
iliation is an appropri
a
te training device.
W
hat I s
a
y instead is
“Ben looks a little
shook
up.”

“He’d better get over it. This is nothing co
m
pared to what he
’
s gonna see. No blood, no maggots, no puke, just a little lividity. Anyhow, the guy was probably a
m
i
serable son-of-a-bitch wife
beater who ran his f
a
m
ily off
a
nd deserved to die alone.” He looks at his watch. “See you later, D
o
c,” he says. “Thanks for dropping by.”

I get in
m
y
c
ar and t
u
rn
o
n the
air co
n
ditio
n
ing. I did it. Passed
m
y first test, looked at t
h
e body and didn
’
t lose my cookies.
My face is
b
urning, and
little
rivulets
of sweat are dripping down my back and under
m
y
ar
m
s. A red flush crawls up
m
y neck and across
m
y cheeks. They co
m
e more frequently now, these stress-induced hot flashes, heralding a pre
m
ature peri
m
enopausal hell.

My
doctor tells
m
e to stay cal
m
. My
m
o
ther tells
m
e to find another
m
an. She thinks that
I
’
ll
have
plenty
of
opportunities on this new job. So
m
u
c
h for her wish to see
m
e safely coupled again.
T
hus far the
m
en I have
m
et today are pushy, hardly old enough to date, obese
and sadistic or dead. I’m not interested in
m
eeting
m
en. I wan
t
ed the one I had, but Mark didn
’
t want
m
e. He wanted space and, as it turned out, his new psych assistant, t
h
e
lovely
Melinda
with
s
m
ooth skin and a tiny waist. Then he wanted a divorce.

A horn blast startles
m
e. Two
m
en in black
suits ju
m
p from
the coroners’
van and wheel a gurney into the house. The street is s
t
rangely quiet despite the number of vehicles and people moving about. The only
noise is the engine on the
m
e
dic van. It runs steadily, the broken heart of a failed enterprise.

I wake up before dawn, once again. The sheets
are da
m
p and
m
y hair is soaked. The sky is the color of
tarnished silv
e
r. Mor
n
ings w
e
re t
h
e ti
m
e Mark
and I had to ourselves. We would lie in bed talking, so
m
et
i
m
es
m
ak
i
ng love, and then linger over coffee and the newspaper, debating p
o
litics. I
c
an
f
ill
m
y evenings with b
o
oks, TV, and
m
ovies, but the mornings are like great, unfurnished roo
m
s,
e
m
p
t
y and echoing. I can
’
t bear the
m
orning talk shows or the idea of driving through the dark to a gym
to stare at
m
yself in the
m
i
rror next to a slew of hard-bodied gym
rats. Twenty years of
m
erging
m
y life
with Mark
’
s, and now I have to reinvent myself at 48, figure out
what do with
m
y ti
m
e, what I want to eat, when I want to sleep, who I want to sleep wi
t
h. I don
’
t want to wind up like that old
m
an I saw yesterday, dying alone with only old photos for co
m
p
a
nions.

I go downstairs to
m
ake coffee. The c
l
ock on the coffee
m
aker reads 4:45. The aro
m
a and steady drip of coffee are soot
hi
ng. I couldn
’
t have been the only one in the room
who was picturing herself in that
o
l
d man
’
s place. I wonder how long it will take Ben Go
m
ez to undergo a
m
oral inversion, learn to bla
m
e
victi
m
s for their own
m
i
sery. I try to picture him
as a grizzled, old veteran and, just to be fair, I try to i
m
agine Eddie as a tender-hearted rookie.

Chapter Two

The Kenilworth police headquarters are housed in a drab four story concrete box surrounded on three sides by a parking lot. A chain link fence separates the public parking fr
o
m
the spaces
reser
v
ed for official
vehicles. Concrete barriers
er
ected after the infa
m
y of Septe
m
ber 11th guard the front of the building,
m
aking it i
m
possible for bomb filled ve
h
i
cles or anyone else to park close to the entra
n
ce.

T
h
e wealthy residents of Kenilworth have long welco
m
ed illegal im
m
i
gra
n
ts as gardeners and
m
aids. Since most can’t tell a Hispanic day labo
r
er from
a Middle Eastern terro
r
i
s
t, they ha
v
e appare
n
tly assuaged t
he
ir guilt abo
u
t i
m
periling the re
s
t of us with their voracious needs for cheap labor by authorizing a capital i
m
prove
m
ent pro
j
ect to build concrete stanchions in front of every public building.

Kenilworth is known as a desirable
p
l
ace to
li
v
e, a place of status, but
h
ere, in the dingy lobby of police headquarters, the
m
i
sery that lies beneath the veneer of wealth and safety is on display. Posters in Engli
s
h and Spanish advertise
f
or
m
i
ssing persons, runaways, AIDs treat
m
ent, drug treat
m
ent,
ways to protect the old and the young from abuse and safe houses for the victims of do
m
e
stic violence. The d
e
sk officer is sealed behind a thick wall of bulletproof glass, one
eye on the clock, the other on a group of teenage bo
y
s, their ski
n
ny ar
m
s covered in ho
m
e
m
ade tatt
o
os, who are sprawled across a row of cheap plastic chairs
m
olded in eye assa
u
l
ting col
o
rs,
s
o
m
e sleepi
n
g, so
m
e resting with their heads on their hands.

The desk off
i
cer waves
m
e over, gla
n
ces at
m
y security badge and presses a button that operates the e
l
evator. A few of the boys raise their heads and watch as the doors open then close behind
m
e. The old elevator grinds slowly upward.
It s
m
ells of
grease a
n
d wet
m
etal.

Chief Baxter is trying to raise
f
unds for a new public safety building, but it
’
s a hard sell. The community couldn
’
t care
less t
h
at this buildi
n
g
is
overcrowd
e
d and
f
alling
apart so l
o
ng as their own houses are safe and secure. The elevator shudders, stops and then starts again.

My father would have hated knowing
that his carefully tutored daughter had rejected her birt
h
rig
h
t a
n
d joined forces with t
h
e ene
m
y. Govern
m
ent was the ene
m
y. Every a
u
thority figure w
a
s corru
p
t a
n
d, accor
d
ing
to
m
y father, anti-Se
m
itic. Only working people could be trusted. My father and I used to watch old news clips of hi
m
, the college dropout, brick in hand, a defiant finger
raised at the
T
V
c
a
m
era, screa
m
ing at his fo
r
m
er fellow students to
‘
o
ff the pigs’.
The beauti
f
ul, wild-h
a
ired
z
eal
o
t
b
e
i
n
g
c
a
rt
ed
off
to jail looked nothing like
m
y tired, ge
n
tle, da
m
aged father, his useless right ar
m
dangling
a
t his side, a me
m
ento
f
rom the police
who beat him with clu
b
s until the
n
erves in his shoulder were good for nothing but pain.

Sergeant Rick Lyndley and eight field training officers are in the b
r
iefing roo
m
, seated around a long rectangular table. The room
is painted a non-descript beige and the floor covered with worn carpeting. Florescent light fixtures buzz like trapped flies. Two of the
m
en are leafing through last night
’
s beat reports. Another is
l
ooking at artists’ sketches of wanted criminals and gang
m
e
m
bers. An over
s
i
z
ed shi
f
t sch
e
dule taped
to the o
n
ly window is blocking the dull
m
orning light of an
overcast sky. I am
the only wo
m
an in the roo
m
, certainly the only Jew and, with the exception of t
h
e sergeant and Eddie R
i
m
bauer, I am
probably the oldest. Lyndley calls the
m
eeting to order.
H
e is
a tall, lanky
m
an with short black hair that is turning gray at the te
m
ples.

“
H
eads up. Let
’
s get going.
W
e have a guest, Dr. Meyerhoff, our new consulting psychologist.”

“Is t
h
at why she’s so sh
o
rt, because she’s a s
h
rin
k
?“ so
m
eone
asks. I laugh to be polite. It
’
s an old joke.

T
here’s a noise at the door.

“Alright guys, enough funny stuff.” Baxter
strides into the roo
m
, grinning and stands behind
m
y chair. He bends to my ear with a
m
ock w
h
isper. “The more they rag on you, the
m
ore they love you.
W
hen they stop teasing, that’s when you should be worried.”

I’m already a bit w
o
rried. Trust doesn
’
t co
m
e easily to cops, especially when it co
m
es to
m
e
ntal health professionals.

“Gentl
e
m
en, this little lady is a powerhouse.
W
e’re lucky to have her. She’s written three p
o
lice psychology text books
with Dr. Mark Edison, and now she’s got a book of her own.” He looks at
m
e. “I have it on
m
y desk.
W
hat’s it called agai
n
?
”

I can feel
m
y face getti
n
g red. “Behind the
Bad
g
e: The Police Fa
m
ily Lifestyle,” I say.

“Can I get two copies, one for
m
y wife
and one for
m
y girlfriend?” says a skinny, red-haired officer at the end of the
table. “And can I get your autograph?”

“Settle down, guys,” Baxter says. “Most of you know Dr. Edison. He’s been doing our pre-e
m
ploy
m
e
nt screening and fitn
e
ss evaluations for years. He thinks Dr. Meyerhoff is the best. Hated to lose her.”

The truth is, my ex would have
said anything to get
m
e out
of the office so that he and Melinda could play kissy-face
b
ehind cl
o
sed
doors. Baxter hadn’t been a bit suspicious about Mark’s over the top verbiage. I re
m
e
mber hoping, at the ti
m
e, that he did a better job vetting his police applicants.

Baxter claps his big hands on
m
y shoulder
s
. “So take it easy on her. At least for a while.”

The
m
en around the table are hard to
read. I worry that the
chief’s
ardent
stamp of
approval will hu
r
t
m
o
re than it h
e
lps.

“Thanks, Chief,” I say. “I appreciate your
taking the ti
m
e to co
m
e down here and introd
u
ce me. I’m
also a
little e
m
barrassed.
W
hile
I have a lot of experience and the gray hair to show for it, I still have a lot to learn, especially about field training.”

“Don’t worry. Sgt. Lyndley will bring you up to speed, short fo
r
m
,” he says clapping Lyndley on the back
as he leaves t
h
e r
o
o
m
.

“Okay,” Lyndley says. “Let’s get s
t
arted. So, Doc, we get these kids right from the aca
d
e
m
y, day or two after they
gr
aduate. The acade
m
y gives them
the basics, clas
s
room
style.
W
e give them
the real world. T
h
e ju
m
p from acade
m
y to field traini
n
g is like learning to scuba dive—it
’
s one thing
to do scuba in a swi
mm
i
ng pool, it
’
s another to dive in the
o
cean where there are no walls and
t
h
e fish have
b
ig teeth.
W
e keep them
for 16 weeks, divided into four separate pha
s
es with three different FTOs. We write observation reports every day, and we
m
eet every other week to d
i
scuss t
h
eir pro
g
ress
.
”