Marker of Faith

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 8

John couldn't stay at home. The walls were closing in, trying to smother him in sorrow. He vaguely remembered the car ride over, stuffed in the back of the police cruiser like a perp, entombed in silence as he was whisked away from Dave's body. It was a blur. The cops Williamson had assigned to drive him home had been quiet; they led him to the door, took his keys and opened up his lonely house. They didn't even say anything as they deposited him on his couch: no empty words of comfort or camaraderie, even. John watched them dispassionately leave him to his solitude.

The horror of Dave's last moments, his last words: too many shadows and not enough time, sent waves of cold chills through John's body, but his mind was too numb to process it all. He looked around and drew in a deep, ragged gasp; the sound echoed hollowly through the room and bounced back at him like a slap in the face.

A picture on the wall drew his attention and John's vision muddled with tears as he tried to focus on the image of himself with Dave. They were at some cop party a few years back at the Mayor's mansion. It was a good party and a fond memory, but John's chest tightened as he gazed at the photo and back in time. Dave's head was tilted back and the photographer had caught him in mid-laugh. That was Dave, always the life of the party. John looked for other faces in the photo and saw Roddy off to one side, a slight smile on his face, and he wondered how the M.E. was doing right now. He was covered in Dave's blood the last time John saw him -- a lifetime ago, truly. Tears freely flowed down John's cheek and he angrily swiped them away as he jumped to his feet. He had to get out of here, away from this quiet.

He looked down at his bloodstained jacket and yanked it off, tossing it on the floor with a cry. His pants and shirt were covered in Dave's blood and blending in with the already dark fabric, and he doubled over in uncontrollable shivers. He had to get out of this place. As John ran out the front door he grabbed a shabby, threadbare replacement jacket hanging on a peg in the hall and shoved his arms through roughly, wrapping the coat like armor against the chill seeping through his body.

Another cop had followed him home in John's car, now parked at the curb. He purposefully climbed behind the wheel and, almost out of reflex, made his way towards his other home, the station, where he lived his job, his life. John drove on autopilot, the city blurring by without notice. As he pulled up and parked in front of the building he was overwhelmed with the sadness of it all. He leaned back in his seat with his hands bunched in white-knuckled fists on his lap. John was numb, lost, abandoned...dead himself.

A delivery truck roared by the parking lot, the deep rumble of its engine vibrating the car's windows so that John looked up and realized where he was. Another wave of soul-crushing sadness washed over him and he felt like he was drowning. The stifling heat of the closed car made it hard to breath so he yanked open the door and tumbled onto the sizzling asphalt. The blistering heat of sun-kissed tar on his palms worked through the numbness, and the pain finally forced him to stand. People stared at him as they passed by, taking in the rumpled and bloodstained clothing with wary, curious looks, but he didn't notice; he was lost in the sensory overload of his sorrow. John didn't want to go inside, didn't want the comfort and familiarity of this place, but he felt pulled almost like an injured animal making its way back to a den to heal.

Dave was gone, dead by his own hand, and he wasn't coming back. The world was now a dark place.

The glass doors of the station beckoned and John finally gave in, entering slowly and ignoring the questioning glances of the front desk sergeant. John made his way down the hallway like a zombie, ignoring everyone around him, and arrived in the detective section where he shuffled over to his desk.

The room was alive with noise -- phones ringing, detectives shouting to each other across the room, and he stood rigidly letting the sounds assault his mind. It was like nothing had happened.

Life goes on.

Dave's desk faced his, and John's heart cracked at the sight of the empty chair.

Other detectives milled around him, some reaching out to pat him on the back, but they were caught up in their own world. Open cases beckoned, with the priest's murder adding to the caseload. John watched them work, pick through details in the folders in front of them, tap away at their keyboards entering facts and suppositions about the crimes they studied. John realized that even though he worked with these men and women for years, side-by-side, he'd always stayed detached.

Dave was the only one he'd ever allowed to get close. They'd hit it off the first day they met even though both were as different as night and day. Dave with his gentle humor, and John with his cynical attitude, they had bonded like brothers despite their backgrounds. John didn't have any siblings and neither did Dave, but something -- maybe the job, maybe loneliness -- drew them close and it went unspoken between them but accepted that they were now family. Brothers.

But Dave was now gone, and John was alone again.

"How could you do this?" John whispered bitterly to the empty desk in front of him. He flopped down in his chair and laid his head down on his desk. Next to his cheek he saw the edge of a hand written note peeking out from the clutter. He sat up with the note sticking to his face, and he pulled it off. It was from Chief Williamson and John sighed with disgust. That pencil pushing tight-ass must have known he would come back here. John rubbed his eyes and then read the note, sighing with frustration at the clipped, neatly written words.

Detective Bergenson,

Here is the number of a grief counselor --735-9909

Policy mandates that you contact them ASAP.

We also need YOU back ASAP so get on it. Two days should be enough to get your head on straight. We need to look strong for the community. Detective Macken was a good officer but we need to do damage control on that situation.

DO NOT SPEAK TO THE PRESS UNTIL YOU TALK TO ME.

Hang in there -- Chief Williamson

John crumpled the note and angrily dropped it into his garbage can. Two days? Was Williamson kidding? He should quit right now, just walk out and not look back, but John knew he wouldn't. He couldn't. This job was his life. What else did he have? John looked at Dave's desk and then at the stack of case folders on his own desk.

"Shit," he muttered and laid his head down. John drifted off into a fitful sleep amidst the comforting sounds of his police world, and as usual, everyone left him alone.