Habit (25 page)

He looked across the room at Argon, who gave him a cool, steely gaze.

Argon would stand between Brendan and oblivion. “All that shit that happened – you called it your reckoning. But this is your reckoning, now. It never ends.”

Brendan got to his feet. Argon stood, too, and helped the limping detective into the kitchen. The two men then went about pouring the poison down the drain.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR / MONDAY, 7:18 AM

He had woken up and dressed very early that morning, but it wasn’t early enough to catch Argon, who was gone.

Brendan stood in the living room, holding his fresh mug of coffee and looking at the couch where Argon had slept for three nights. It was now empty. The old cop had even folded up the blanket he’d drawn across his large frame each night. He had placed a small object on top of the blanket, a gift to Brendan.

Brendan sipped his coffee. He felt good. He knew from previous experience that post-acute withdrawal from alcohol had effects which could last for a long time. Aversion to people and crowds, claustrophobia, depression; it all came with the territory. But the last time he had gotten clean had followed a twenty-year drinking period, and those final days had been round the clock abuse. This time, he’d only been inside the bottle for a week. It had taken everything he had to crawl back out again.

He leaned on his crutches. He had a doctor’s appointment later in the day, but first he was going to go in and make the IACP meeting, as Argon had instructed. Brendan had called them just a few minutes ago to set it up. They had been happy to hear from him, and he would meet them at eight that morning.

He had dressed in his navy tie and a powder blue shirt. He slid his dark gray blazer over this. As he looked at himself in the mirror he thought his hair had grown too long, but for now he brushed it back. He trimmed his finger nails and, of course, shaved, leaving a mustache and bit of beard framing his mouth. He had been shaving every day since he’d started the job, but change was good.

He would miss Argon. He could imagine no one else seeing him through the darkness of the last 72 hours. Getting off a serious binge was hell. But it was over now, the last fumes dissipated from his pores and evacuated from his intestines. His mind felt clear.

He got into the Camry ten minutes later. He opened the back door first and fed in the crutches, turning them at an angle so they would fit. Then he carefully got himself into the driver’s seat.

He adjusted the rear view mirror and took Argon’s gift, a small crucifix, and fastened it around his neck. Seamus Argon was not an overtly religious-type. He had found his faith years before – or rediscovered it, to use the man’s own term – and claimed that it had seen him through. He didn’t expect others to follow in the same path, but like most AA members, he believed that acknowledgment of a higher power was a key element in the healing process. It had been something Brendan had struggled with in the past, but he found the crucifix hung round his neck more easily that morning.

He paused before backing out of the driveway. He wondered at the nature of addiction, and habit. He was a man of science. Investigation and evidence were the hallmarks of his process of understanding the world, not faith and superstition. Yet as he grew older, where one ended and the other began, became less distinct. He thought of Eddie Stemp talking about possession. About demons and spiritual access points. When a man like Seamus Argon came into your home and helped you rid yourself of a horrible toxic affliction, it was, on the one hand, a simple biochemical scenario. The neurotransmitters in the brain became hijacked with the extra dopamine that the alcohol amped up. The cellular receptors in the body became literally addicted to the peptides spilled by the affected glands of the body. In order to pull out of it, they needed to be denied the substance which had laid siege and be given time to readjust. There were no slippery, scaly demons lurking somewhere within the body, but, on the other hand, through all the research Brendan had done in school and then at the university laboratory in his earlier career as a neuroscientist, the discipline was unable to provide answers to some very basic questions.

It was unimportant whether or not Argon had merely helped Brendan slip the chemical noose and withstand the crippling period of his body’s regrouping, or whether the grizzled older cop had performed some sort of exorcism. Argon drew strength from somewhere, and he had offered Brendan the chance to do the same.

Brendan figured he could use all the help he could get.

He cleared his mind of these thoughts, realizing that showing up to a meeting with the IACP thinking about demons and possession was not necessarily the best tack. At the same time though, he felt he had nothing to hide. Let them see what they wanted to see – he had no control over that.

The bits of dread and guilt that were accumulating while he sat in the Camry dwindled away as he at last found this sense of personal freedom.

As he pulled away from his house and headed towards the Department, he was absently aware that he hadn’t even smoked a cigarette for three days.

* * *

Agents Roman Scalia and Cindy Barrister greeted Healy warmly. Taber was there for a time, offering a serious countenance, though his eyes glinted with hope. When Taber left, he requested that Healy come to his office after the session was over. The agents set a digital audio recorder down on the table, and the three of them began to talk.

“We were pleased to get your call this morning,” Barrister began. She was a pretty woman in her forties, wearing a dark suit. Her blond hair was pulled back in an immaculate bun. “It’s our policy for the officer involved in a use-of-force situation to have time to recover, but of course you don’t want too much time to pass. Things can become sanitized, or worse, any negative effects the incident may have on the officer can go unchecked.”

Brendan smiled and nodded once. “Understood. I felt ready, so I called.”

“Excellent,” Barrister said. “So. Let’s get going. How have you been?”

Brendan glanced at the set of crutches leaning on the table next to him. “All things considered,” he said.

The agent looked at the crutches, too. “And how are things with that? Any leads?”

“They’re looking into a late-model Ford, either black, dark red, or maybe even purple. Not much to go on, nothing found at the scene.” He looked at both agents. “When the truck hit me, it didn’t leave any part of itself behind.”

The agents looked grim.

Brendan shifted his weight and smiled politely.

They proceeded.

“Mr. Healy,” said Agent Barrister, “the IACP guidelines we work from were established to constructively support officers involved in shootings and other use-of-force incidents. Shootings and other use-of-force incidents can result in heightened physical and emotional reactions from the participants. So I want to ask you again. How have you been these past few days?”

Brendan sighed. Typically he was very uncomfortable with seeking approval. They wanted honesty and acted like they were on his side, but the two agents regarding him had the power to close the door on his law enforcement career. At the same time, he realized he had nothing to lose.

“I was given morphine following the incident with the pick-up truck. My injuries were extensive. The morphine – and the incident, too, I have to admit – triggered an emotional response I hadn’t really seen coming.”

“And what was that?”

“I started drinking again. I had eight years of sobriety.”

“And are you drinking now?”

“Not for the past 72 hours.”

“Are you a part of any support group?”

“I’ll be attending AA meetings this week. A friend of mine found me a local chapter. It’s in the basement of the Resurrection Life Church.”

“That’s good.”

Barrister had been doing all of the talking, and her face indicated genuine sympathy. She seemed to shake something off now, and reverted back to her more monotonous recital of IACP protocol.

“Mr. Healy, given the extreme nature of both of your recent incidents, we feel that an intervention is necessary.”

“Intervention?” Healy thought of Argon. Hadn’t the old Scottish cop already provided what the health care people called an intervention?

“Post-shooting interventions are conducted only by licensed mental health care professionals trained and experienced in working with law enforcement personnel. You may not feel it is necessary to participate – most cops don’t – but we think you will get a lot out of it. That’s why we’re requiring you to attend.”

Brendan shifted his weight again. They didn’t leave him much choice. A trill of electricity zipped up his spine when he thought about who the so-called mental health professional might be. Wouldn’t it be an ironic twist of fate if Miss Olivia Jane were to sit down across from him? The chances were slim, and even if it were to come to pass, she’d be sure to pull out of it and reassign Brendan to someone else.

This thought left a bitter taste in Brendan’s mouth and he realized the agents were looking at him curiously. He smoothed the scowl in his forehead with his fingertips. “Okay,” he said.

“Good. We can reconvene with this investigation after you’ve had a chance to have at least two appointments with your care provider.”

“Reconvene?”

They both looked at him blankly, some of their humanity displaced for the moment, as they each undoubtedly wondered if Healy was going to be a problem. Agent Roman Scalia spoke up.

“Yes, Mr. Healy. After a life-threatening incident – two, in your case – most officers are concerned if their physiological and emotional reactions are ‘normal.’” He hooked his fingers in the air to hang the quotations around the word. “A post-shooting intervention is not a head-shrinking, despite what you may think. It’s intended to be educative, to reassure you and reduce any anxiety.”

“I’m not anxious.”

“Mr. Healy, you just told us that . . .”

“I know what I just told you. I had a relapse. I’ve taken care of it. I called you to set this meeting so that I can move on with my life. Please. I’m in the middle of a murder investigation.”

“We understand,” said Barrister. “But you understand that we deal with these types of situations on a regular basis, working all over the state of New York. Helping officers with coping mechanisms, maintaining their sleep functions, accessing social support, and abstaining from alcohol abuse – these are our priorities.”

Healy was silent. They weren’t going to budge. And then Scalia added, “Given your past, we’re especially concerned here.”

Brendan felt a twinge of anger. “My past?”

Barrister shot Scalia a look, seeming to warn him about proceeding, but Scalia ignored her and cocked his head. “You don’t think that’s material?”

Healy stared back at Scalia.

“If you feel you’re ready to move on with your life, as you say, maybe you’d be willing to furnish us, in your own words, with the information about what happened to your wife and your daughter.”

Healy glanced at Barrister, who suddenly looked sorry to be in the room. Then he leveled his gaze at Scalia.

Brendan took a breath.

“I started drinking in my teens, like a lot of people. Only my drinking carried through into my twenties. It interfered with school, but I still graduated with my masters in neuroscience. I met my wife while in school. Shortly after graduating, we had our daughter. I went to work for the university in the research department, working towards my PhD. On the surface, we had a very successful life. But I was drinking every day. It was a real problem in our marriage. Of course, I didn’t know that at first. I found every other thing to blame. But, my wife knew it. And she loved me, and so endured it for as long as she could.

“One night, we went out to eat. We went to our favorite place, called Tramanto. It’s a lot like the Savoy, in Rome. You know that place? It’s a family place. But they have huge drinks. Not the kind I usually go for, but then again, I went for every kind. So I had two piña coladas and two margaritas. The waitress gave me a look when I finished up with a stout beer. Not even much for me, five big drinks, I was fine. But my wife . . . she was trying so hard to get out from under it. She said it was like living with a time bomb. She tried to put her foot down. She snuck the car keys from my jacket when I went to the bathroom for my third or fourth trip. She got our little girl ready to go and said she was driving. I figured,
let her
. I thought,
even on my worst drunks I’m a better driver.
Those were my last thoughts about my life partner of seven years, wife for four of those years. But, I told her I wasn’t going to go. If she wanted to drive, then fine. I told her I would get a cab home later.”

Brendan looked at the two agents and realized that he had their complete attention. He felt the prickly heat of tears, but that was all. His heart beat a steady rhythm.

“I stayed at the bar and drank more. I flirted with the waitress who had given me the look – or, well, I tried to flirt with her. Meanwhile my wife and daughter got into our car. Less than a mile from the restaurant on the Saw Mill parkway they were slammed into by a truck. They both died in transit to the hospital. While I was sitting there watching the bar TV, drinking, my wife and baby girl died.”