You Get Full Credit For Being Alive

Chapter Seven

Detective Janich usually came to visit around lunchtime, which was perfect for me. I could catch a few hours of sleep between my night shift and my volunteer stint, then grab a cup of coffee and take Della for a walk in the park while I listened in on his and Shawn's conversations. They were still pretty one-sided, but lucky for me, Janich was a repeater. Maybe he liked having the extra time that repeating what the other person said gave him to think; maybe it was a part of his training as a detective. Maybe he just needed to hear something more than once for it to sink into his thick troglodyte skull. But no matter what the reason was, thanks to that habit I got a lot more information out of his visits to Shawn than I would have otherwise.

This day's visit started like all of them seemed to, with a heavy sigh and a perfunctory "Hey, Shawnie," before he pulled up a chair and sat down. "You speakin' yet?"

No, no he wasn't. But he was asking questions, apparently. "Did you stop... what the fuck's that supposed to mean?"

Tap tap. The sound of a finger pushing on a piece of paper, emphatic.

"Stop what, Shawnie? Stop smoking?" Janich chuckled, but he sounded nervous. I called Della back from where she was running around and clipped her leash back on. We might be needed in the hospital before long.

"What, did you remember something?" That was definitely nervousness in his voice. "What did you remember? Something about the attack?"

Tap tap.

"You've gotta be more goddamn specific, Shawn, otherwise I can't answer you!" Janich said, his voice rising at the end. It was shockingly loud; he had to be close to one of my microphones. "If you can write this out then you can write me an explanation. Here, take the pen." There were the brief sounds of a tussle, or more likely manhandling. "Write it out, goddammit. Write it out for me, tell me what you know!"

One long moment of silence later Janich said, "Jesus, look at you. You can't even hold onto the fucking pen. You got someone to write this for you, then? Who, one of the nurses? Have you been talking to someone?" His voice got lower. "Did you tell someone else about... whatever this is about, Shawn?"

I put on some speed, swearing at myself in my head for giving Reggie a limp now. I couldn't move at anything close to a run. Della whined, maybe sensing my own worry.

Tap tap.

"You're confused," Janich said at last. "Out of your head confused. You're a goddamn crippled nutbag, Shawn, and it doesn't matter what you think you know, no one's going to take the word of a head case like you for anything, especially not anything about me. I've got twelve years on the force here. You're just a Johnny-come-lately who got his last partner killed. No one cares what you have to say, Shawn." There was a slamming noise, then the chair scraping again as he stood up and stomped out of the room.

I ran into Detective Janich on his way out. Literally ran into him; I made sure to turn my shoulder into it and ram him right in the solar plexus as he came out of the front doors. It was easy; he'd been looking down at his phone the whole time, glaring as he texted furiously. He fell back on his ass, the phone flying out of his hand.

"Oh my gosh! I'm so sorry! Here, let me help you. Della, fetch!" I pointed at his phone and she bounded over and grabbed it up gently in her jaws, then carried it back to me. Janich was still flat on his back, the air knocked out of him thanks to his diaphragm contracting so violently. My time as a high school football player had been more useful in my working life than I'd ever anticipated when I'd been a young linebacker. I took the phone out of Della's mouth and stared at it. "Huh, it's kind of yucky. Let me get the drool off this for you." I backed through his last text exchange as fast as I could. The one I'd interrupted was still undone and unsent.