Long Bright River: A Novel (22 page)

The Roundhouse isn’t the official name of the Philadelphia Police Department’s headquarters, but it’s the only thing I’ve ever heard it called.

The building is, of course, round in places, and Brutalist in style, and constructed of a yellowish-gray concrete that darkens in the rain. There is talk of moving out of it soon, and it makes sense to: the PPD is running out of room. The building now looks dated and severe. But I can’t imagine the Roundhouse not being the home of the PPD, just as I can’t imagine the Tracks not being the home of the people who frequent them. As of last week, Conrail and the city have finally begun to pave the area over. But chaos will always prevail, even when its home is taken away.

Inside, I recognize two officers in the lobby, and nod my hello. They give me strange looks:
What are you doing here,
they imply. I wish I hadn’t been seen. Meetings with Internal Affairs are always causes for gossip and, sometimes, for mistrust.

Denise Chambers is friendly, fifty-something, and plump, with gray hair and blue glasses. She welcomes me into her office and tells me to sit down across from her in a new-looking chair that positions me at child height.

—Cold enough? says Chambers, nodding out her window to the thin
winter air outside. We’re several flights up. From here, I can see Franklin Square, its carousel at a standstill.

—It’s not so bad, I say. I don’t mind the cold.

I pause, waiting, while Chambers finishes something on her computer. Then she turns around.

—Do you know why I asked you to come here? she says, cutting to the chase. In her question, I hear a faint echo of the way I talk to suspects on the street:
Do you know why I detained you? Do you know why I pulled you over?

For the first time, a flicker of doubt runs through me.

—You said Sergeant Ahearn passed on some information to you, I say.

Chambers assesses me. Seeing what I know. Yes, she says slowly.

—What did he tell you?

Chambers sighs, folds her hands on the desk in front of her.

—Look, she says, this is a difficult part of my job, but I’m obliged to tell you that you’re under internal investigation.

It comes out before I can stop myself. Me? I say, dumbly, pointing to my own chest.
I’m
under investigation?

Chambers nods. I have a sudden memory of Truman’s warning to me to get some allies in the district.
Politics, Mick.

—For what? I say.

Chambers extends her fingers, ticking off items as she speaks.

—On Tuesday of last week, you were seen with an unauthorized passenger in your car. You were also seen outside your assigned PSA. On Wednesday and Thursday you were seen without your radio and out of uniform while on your shift. On Friday, you failed to respond to any calls for a block of two hours. In general, your productivity this fall has decreased by about twenty percent. You’ve also run searches on two civilians in the PCIC frequently and without cause. Finally, we have reason to believe you’ve been bribing a business owner in your district as well.

I look at her.

—Who? I ask her, incredulous.

—Alonzo Villanueva, she says. And we believe you’ve been keeping a change of civilian clothing in his store for unauthorized activities
during work hours. And that on at least one occasion, you stored your department-issued weapon there, unsecured.

I’m silent.

Everything Chambers is saying is, technically, true. And yet I am shocked. It’s also embarrassing to know I’ve been watched: I scan my memories of the last week, thinking about what I’ve said, what I’ve done, while in a police vehicle. Wondering whether they gathered information through audio or video recording, or simply through having someone from Internal Affairs tag me on my shifts. Anything is possible.

—May I ask what triggered this investigation? I say.

—I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, says Chambers.

But I know.

It was Ahearn, without a doubt. He’s never liked me. It’s true that my productivity has been in sharp decline since Truman went on leave, and my activity logs no doubt reflect that. Sometimes this alone can trigger internal monitoring, a request for surveillance. But I also think, aside from that, he’s been looking for a way to get rid of me for years.

—Did Sergeant Ahearn tell you anything else? I ask. Did he tell you about Paula Mulroney? Did he tell you about the accusation she made against at least one officer?

Chambers hesitates. He did say something about that, she says. Yes.

And all of a sudden I know: Ahearn poisoned the well. He played down what I said. He told Chambers that I would be making a complaint, but that I was untrustworthy.

—And what are you going to do about it? I say. Has Detective Nguyen been informed?

—He has been, says Chambers. He’s looking into it.

—Look, I say, a little wildly now. Ahearn has never liked me. I’m not his friend. But I’m honest, and I’m telling you that one of our officers—at least one—has been accused of using his power to demand sex from women who are not in a position to say no.

There is silence in the room, briefly.

—And, I continue, emboldened now, that this person was spotted on video following one of our victims.

Chambers’s gaze wavers for a second. The fact of our gender—two female officers, one older, one younger, sitting across a desk from one another—lingers in the air between us, just briefly, like smoke.

—Did he tell you that part? I say. Or did he leave it out?

But Denise Chambers will say no more.

I walk out of the Roundhouse with paperwork in my hands. It informs me of my rights and responsibilities during the suspension I’ve been placed on, pending investigation.

At least, I think, I won’t have to worry anymore about who will watch Thomas on snow days. At least there’s that.

In the lobby, I keep my gaze on the floor.

The only person I wish to speak to, right now, is Truman.

I get into my car and take out my phone. I’m about to call him when a thought takes hold of me. Whether or not this is paranoia, I can’t say. But if Internal Affairs knew as much as they did about me, it does not seem out of the question that they have received permission to tap either my phone or my personal vehicle. I glance up at the ceiling, at my dome light, at the backseat, at Thomas’s booster seat in the middle. I don’t know what actions are within their rights. And I don’t wish to get Truman in trouble, too: he’s done enough.

I put my phone away and peel out, driving blindly toward Mount Airy.

I feel self-conscious, stopping in on Truman without phoning ahead, but I don’t know what else I can do. I hope I don’t surprise him at an inopportune time. I keep remembering the woman’s voice in the background of my call to him.
Who is that?
the woman was saying.
Truman, who is that?

Truman’s car, a neat and polished Nissan Sentra, sits in his driveway. Truman’s personal vehicles are always impeccable. Not a trace of
food or dust or dirt anyplace inside or out. Especially since Thomas was born, my car has always been full: full of kids’ toys and crumbs and water bottles, full of shopping bags and food wrappers and coins and snacks.

I park on the street again and walk onto Truman’s porch. I hesitate before knocking: second thoughts, second thoughts.

I’m standing there, my hand in the air, deciding, when the front door flies open. On the other side of it is a tiny lady, less than five feet tall.

—What are you selling? she says. Whatever it is, I don’t want it.

—Nothing, I say, surprised. I’m sorry. Is Truman home?

The lady lifts her eyebrows at me, but doesn’t move, and says nothing more.

I weigh my options. The woman before me could be anyplace between sixty and eighty years old. She looks something like an aging hippie. She’s wearing a bandanna on her head and a T-shirt that says
Virginia Is for Lovers.
Is this—could this be—Truman’s mother? I know he has one, and that she is alive, and that he loves her. I know she was the principal of an elementary school at one time. But last I heard, she was retired and living up in the Poconos.

I try to peer past her, into the house, but the woman closes the door slightly, as if to block my view.

I try again.

—I’m a friend of Truman’s, I say. I was just hoping to speak to him.

—Truman, says the woman, as if searching her memory. Truman.

It is then, finally, that Truman himself emerges from the back of the house, wearing a towel around his waist, sort of hopping to get to the door. He’s embarrassed to be seen this way, I know: proper Truman, whom I have rarely seen in anything other than a uniform, even after work.

—Ma, he says. This is my friend Mickey.

The woman nods, suspicious, looking back and forth between us. Okay, she says. But she makes no move to let me in.

—Just hang on, Mick, says Truman, and he moves his mother gently out of the way. One second. He closes the door. In the moment before he does, his eyes connect with mine.

Five minutes later, the three of us are sitting uncomfortably in the living room. Truman is clothed now, straight-backed in his chair, his right leg stretched out on an ottoman before him. We all have tea. Truman’s mother looks at the cup in her hands.

—Drink it, Ma, says Truman. It’s cool enough now.

He looks at me. My mother’s been living here for a little while now, he says. He hesitates, glancing at his mother, seeing whether she’s listening. She had a fall, he says.

—And she’s been forgetting, he adds, quickly and quietly.

—I am right here, son, says Mrs. Dawes, looking up sharply. Right here in this room with you. I’m not forgetting anything.

—Sorry, Ma, says Truman.

—Why don’t we go out in the yard? he says to me.

I follow him, watching the sure broad back of him as he leads the way. How many times have I watched him from this angle, leading the way up the steps of a house, leading the way into crime scenes, leading the way as we answered one call after another? Shielding me, in a way, from the worst of it, the first sight of a body or a gruesome injury. Our shared history means that I take strange comfort in following him.

It’s freezing in the backyard. Small shrubs, brown from winter, run along a brown wooden fence. We can see our breath as we speak.

—I’m sorry about my mother, says Truman. She’s—

He hesitates, searching for the word. Protective, he says finally.

—Don’t worry about it, I say—thinking, not saying, that I’m mildly jealous. That it would be nice to have someone in my life who was protective of me in that way.

In the backyard, I recount for Truman the story of my meeting with Denise Chambers, and its surprising results. As I speak, he wears an expression of warmth and concern. The words tumble out of me more and more quickly.

—No, he says. Really?

—Really. I’m suspended.

He pauses. Any new info on Kacey? he says.

—Nothing, I say.

For a long time, Truman goes silent, biting his lips as if wrestling with whether or not to say something. Finally, he speaks.

—What about Cleare? he says.

I look at him.

—What do you mean,
Cleare,
I say.

Truman looks at me for a while.

Then he says, Mick. Come on.

When he says this, I sense the crumbling, all around me, of some large and unwieldy pretense, a defensive wall I erected years ago and counted on, along with Truman’s sense of discretion and respect, to protect me from any direct questions.

Suddenly, I find my voice has been taken from me.

I rarely cry. I didn’t even cry over Simon. I was mad, yes; I punched the refrigerator. I shouted into the air. I hit pillows. I didn’t cry.

Now, I shake my head. One hot tear spills down my cheek and I wipe it angrily away.

—Fuck, I say.

I don’t think I’ve ever even cursed in front of Truman.

—Hey, he says. He is gruff. He doesn’t know what to do. The two of us have never touched, unless it was in the process of wrestling some perp to the ground.

—Hey, he says again, and at last he extends one hand and puts it on my shoulder. But he doesn’t try to hug me. I appreciate this. I’m humiliated enough as it is.

—You okay? he asks.

—Fine, I say roughly.

—How did you know about Simon, I say.

—I’m sorry, Mick, says Truman. It’s kind of an open secret. A lot of people know. The PPD is small.

—Well, I say.

I try then to pull myself together. I look up at the cold gray sky until my tears freeze. Then I sniff and wipe my nose once, roughly, with my gloved hand.

—Things started between us when I was very young, I say, by way of explanation, or excuse.

—No kidding, says Truman.

I look away. My face reddens: that old terrible tell. My downfall on the job.

—Hey, says Truman. Hey. What do you have to be embarrassed about? He’s the asshole. You were a kid.

But his words only serve to make me feel worse. I dislike the idea that I am a ‘victim,’ in any sense of the word. I dislike the attention, the sympathy, the hushed tones it elicits. I would prefer, in general, not to be spoken about, by anyone, in any way. And the thought of my colleagues in the PPD gossiping about me and Simon, rolling their eyes and slurping their coffee as they elbowed one another in merriment, makes me want to disappear into the hard earth of Truman’s backyard.

Truman is still watching me, measuring his words, assessing the weight of what he wants to say. He puts his hands on his waist. Looks down at the ground.

—You know he’s got a reputation, he says, hesitantly.

—Simon?

He nods.

—I don’t mean to make you feel bad, he says, or to talk out of school. But you’re not the only one. Rumor is there were other PAL kids he targeted. Seems like there was a pattern, but no one ever confessed, or registered a formal complaint. He was suspended for a while, after enough gossip, but they could never nail him on anything certain.

I open my mouth. I hesitate. There’s so much more about him, I want to say, that you don’t know. But I stay silent. It’s all too embarrassing. The father of my son.

We look at each other.

—What were the ages of the victims? says Truman. In Kensington.

—The first was unknown, I say. The second was seventeen. The third was eighteen. The fourth was twenty.

—Mickey, says Truman. Do you still have that video on your phone?

I nod. I don’t want to watch it. My stomach feels tight.

Silently, Truman holds his hand out, and at last I bring it up on the screen.

Together, we watch it. It’s as grainy as ever, an optical illusion. The figure who crosses the screen first is a shape-shifter, his face inscrutable. And yet—in the figure’s height, in his gait—I can imagine Simon.

—What do you think? I say, unwilling to make the pronouncement myself.

Truman shrugs. Could be, he says. You know him better than I do. I’ve always steered clear. He’s a scumbag.

—No offense, he says, glancing up at me.

We watch it again and again.

And then, finally, Truman takes stock of our evidence.

—Listen, he says. The good news is you’re free tomorrow. I’m free tomorrow. What leads do we have at this point? Who are our suspects?

—Connor McClatchie, I say. And Simon, I guess.

—We’ll split up, says Truman. I’ll take McClatchie. I don’t want you going near him after what he said to you. You take Simon, he says.

We plan to switch cars, since Simon knows mine. I’ll leave my car in Mount Airy, and drive Truman’s home to Bensalem. I apologize, preemptively, for the mess.

Before I leave, Truman puts his hand on my shoulder one more time.

—We’ll find her, he says. You know, I actually believe that we’ll find her.