The Incident

 Chapter One-

Even though I wasn't supposed to, I dropped by the department a couple of times in the last six months. According to Fitzgerald, I was to stay away from the department for the entire duration of my mandatory leave. His psychoanalytic conclusion was that returning to the department would only make things worse. Everyone apparently has their PhD in analyzing Chase Barnes. But I couldn't help it if Dr. Sharper's office was directly across the street from the department. Fitzy unsuccessfully tried to use brute force to get me to leave my old stomping grounds after my first two attempts to visit.

I once again took it upon myself to visit for a third time and waited until I knew Fitzgerald would be out of the office and handcuffed myself to his desk just so he'd give me a chance to talk. Upon entering, I heard Fitzgerald let out a frustrated sigh the moment he realized who was sitting with their back to him. He initially ignored me and went about his business. It wasn't until after he sat and began adjusting case files on his desk that he noticed the cuffs. I rattled and clanged the cuffs against the metal desk until the hairs on Fitzgerald's neck stood at attention. He did nothing but shake his head and chuckle. What else could he do?

He had to let me back to work. I needed to be back to work. I fed him the bullshit that it was per doctor's orders. I knew he wouldn't buy it, considering he'd have to check with Dr. Sharper to get her supposed professional opinion as to whether I was ready to return. She ultimately had the final say and needed to sign off on the necessary paperwork that indicated I was ready to return to action. At first, I thought it was a breach of doctor- patient confidentiality but then I realized I didn't care all that much.

"Fitzy, I need to work. This domesticated bullshit is killing me. Just knowing that I can't work is making me nuts," I said. It was the same routine I'd delivered during my previous visits but had ended in failure. I suddenly felt like an inmate pleading for approval from the parole board. Each time adding more and more empathy. Home had become my prison.

"I'm sure Lindsey loves having you home."

I looked at him, disregarding the comment. Then said: "And what about poor Drew? I'm sure he's a lost puppy without me."

"Drew is just fine. Listen, come back in a week and we'll talk about your assignment." I noticed the inflection in his voice, almost as if he had an answer to his plan but wasn't ready to reveal.

"Really, you'll let me back to work in a week?" I asked.

"No, dipshit. I said come back in a week and we'll talk."

Throughout our few minutes of conversation he hadn't looked at me once. He finally grazed a casual glance my way.

"A week? What the hell is this bullshit? Every day for the last six months I've had to relive that night." I was shouting. "It's grown beneath my inner conscience and festered at the base of my brain like a fucking cancerous tumor. I haven't learned a damn thing since and it's literally beginning to kill me. "

Fitzgerald threw up his hands in surrender. He said, "Okay, okay, okay. I gotcha, buddy. I'm with you on that one and we've been working it since you left and haven't come up with anything worth a cup full of shit."

"I know it should be the least of my concerns but I can't keep fighting to answer what the hell he was doing in Paterson? That's the shit that keeps me up at night. Well, that and the fact that I wish I could've done something different. Of all the drug busts, prostitution rings, and gang violence I've taken on in the three years I've been on the force, I had to be called to that 7-11 on that night and watch it all unfold the way it did."