Marker of Faith

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 13

Commotion around the precinct roused John from his slumber. He'd been dreaming of the little girl again, and something else, although he couldn't remember the damned details. He lay still for a moment, the feeling that he was supposed to remember something tugging at him, but it just wouldn't come. The more he tried to remember, the fuzzier it got so he gave up. It didn't matter, just another nightmare to add to the pile.

My brain feels like Swiss cheese.

He'd been dreaming a lot, the visions slamming into his brain the moment he shut his eyes. Fragments stuck with him, mostly the nightmare pieces, but he kept waking up groggier and groggier each time. Restful sleep was elusive; he'd probably see Dave's head exploding every time he closed his eyes until the day he died.

Fuck. Morbid much?

John sat up and put on his rumpled suit jacket as he yawned; he hadn't been home in two days. Instead he just set up residence in one of the empty holding cells in the Detective section of the precinct. The other cells had stayed vacant, and John wondered if the shift cops were shunting prisoners to other cells across the building. Everyone had left him alone except some anonymous Good Samaritan who'd felt the need to rescue his teeth, which, John noticed, indeed felt wooly. The do-gooder left deodorant and a shaving kit, a toothbrush and some mouthwash in a toiletry bag on the floor next to him. The gesture actually humbled John. It was always so easy to ignore the good in people, especially these people he worked with. He picked up the bag and leaned back on the bench, cradling it in his arms.

John just stayed tucked away in the cells, hiding out from the world and trying to rationalize everything that happened so far. All of the hallucinations -- seeing and hearing Dave's ghost (yeah, right), the freak show fog in the interrogation room, Rattle's story -- it was all a stress related blur. John only had the nightmares to keep him company, and nothing freaky happened once he'd shut down his mind and got a grip. Except for the dreams.

Dave was still dead, but life would go on. John would solve the priest's murder, find the sick fuck who butchered him and then get on with day-to-day job of being John Bergenson. He'd bury Dave, make his peace and say goodbye, and then get back to his own sad pathetic excuse for a life. He might even try being nicer to people, more likely not, though. John leaned back against the wall, slowly waking up and settling into the acceptance of his denial and justification of events, when he heard someone coming down the hall.

Chief Williamson stomped over to John's misery nest and frowned.

"Finally awake I see. Detective Bergenson, are you ready to come back to work now? Your little sleep over do you some good?"

John yawned and stared at the pile of files, wadded up notepaper and microwave food wrappers around his feet. He cleared his throat and sniffed. The Chief was just standing there waiting for him to answer.

"Yeah, I guess. What's up?"

"Not the gusto answer I was hoping for," the Chief countered. "We have another murder and we could use your eyes on it." He crossed his arms over his expensive and freshly pressed suit.

"Yeah?" John yawned again and rubbed his eyes. He knew it was pissing off the Chief and he wanted to stretch the moment for as long as possible.

"You look like hammered dog shit," Williamson muttered.

"That's pleasant," John said with a smirk. He still had the toiletry bag tucked under his arm and he was rubbing his face like a five-year-old just awakened from a nap. The Chief gave him the once over and then looked in the direction of the detective squad, all of them orderly and clean-shaven, and sighed.

As the Chief of Police he demanded order and respectability, a polished image for the city, for the Mayor who was breathing down his neck about the murder and the suicide. It looked like that image was sliding out the door, starting with Dave Macken and moving on to John Bergenson -- two of his best homicide guys.

"I'm good, Chief," John said pleasantly.

Williamson watched him finger comb his hair and sighed in disgust.

"On second thought, give it another day. I don't have your grief counselor paper work anyway." Williamson arched his eyebrows. "You haven't gone, have you?"

"Nope."

"It's department policy, damn it. You know that. IA might crawl up our collective asses over the incident. I can't let you loose until you're cleared. No active duty till it's done. Detective Romano will take over the investigation." The Chief brushed a piece of lint off of his sleeve and then looked disdainfully at John. "You stay here and go over statements since you can't seem to be bothered to go home and get cleaned up, follow any kind of order at all." He wrinkled his nose and stepped back from the cell. "You really look like crap. Keep this up and I'll have to put you on a psych hold."

"Fuck IA. Chief, I said I'm good. I'm back," John said as he pushed by him. "We're short staffed and you need me."

"Detective, we have an image to protect."

"Images don't solve cases. A pressed suit doesn't make a difference--"

"Bullshit. Remember that what I say goes," Williamson snapped. "I'm responsible for this department, this whole police force, and I'm trying to be patient with you, but you are severely testing me right now." He glared at John and then looked down at the floor, seemingly lost in thought. John crossed his arms and stayed quiet.

After a moment of indecision, Williamson looked John in the eyes and said calmly, "Clean yourself up first and then you can head over. I don't want you embarrassing this department. At least make the damned appointment...can you do that, at least?"

He didn't wait for a response and stalked out of the corridor. John took his keys out of his pocket and headed out towards his desk.

"Fuck your image," John muttered as he tossed the bag on his chair. He hoped the press would already be at the scene. He imagined the look on Williamson's face if he showed up looking like this, ragged and unkempt, and John grinned for the first time in days.

"Portsmouth's finest!" he said out loud with bravado. He realized he didn't know the location of the DBV (death by violence).

That's sneaky, Chief.

A uniformed cop rushed past, and John grabbed his arm. "Hey, where's the 141? Williamson wants me on it."

The cop hesitated for a moment, and then took off at a jog towards the door again. He yelled over his shoulder, "Bethel Shalom Park, across from the synagogue on Avery Street. Another splatter fest."

John's knees buckled. "Oh Jesus, not another one."

All of his explanations slipped away and he felt the tingle of whispers at the back of his mind.