Final Comprehension

Friday, 4:20pm

I stand infront ofCaptain Carl Warden, my commanding officer before I was taken off thejob, nervously fidgeting with a strand of hair that has fallen out ofmy ponytail. It's a habit that started when I was in pre-school:whenever I get excited, nervous or scared, I start pulling at ituntil I completely yank it out. My mum used to tell me that if Iwouldn't stop, I'd end up bald before I turn 40. Bless her.

"So?" I ask, steppingfrom one foot to another, staring at Captain Warden's blankexpression while he's reading the note I just gave him. He haswrinkled his brow, which makes him look older than he actually is;his hair still has that dark color that looks like it's dyed butactually isn't, and his intense, dark brown eyes still have thatlight in them that he used to have when he was a homicide detectivethat ran the streets 10 years ago. Before the promotion that made himmy direct superior officer.

He frowns for one moresecond, then holds up the white sheet of paper. "This was on yourdoorstep?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you are certainabout where it comes from?"

"Yes sir, I am."

When I got home from myhearing, I had found a white sheet of paper that lay on my doormat,which had led me to no other conclusion than that it had beenplaced there on purpose. Someone wanted me to find it. And theywanted me to get the message that was written on it in neat, smallletters.

Well done,muffin.

Muffin. There was onlyone person who had ever called me that name.

Wyatt Baker.

It had been an insidejoke, which had originated in the days that I had started my job as ahomicide detective under his wing and never showed up in his carwithout a blueberry muffin in my hand.

I knew it was ridiculous.Wyatt was dead. I killed him myself with dozens of whiplashes thatleft numerous wounds all over his body, too many to save him from bleeding to death. I saw the ambulance carrying his corpse away whileI was still screaming my lungs out. It was impossible.

Yet, I have never beenmore sure of anything in my entire life.

There is a long silencebetween us. Finally, Captain Warden carefully places the note on hisdesk, leans back in his chair and sighs. His dark, intense eyes findmine.

"You know what myproblem is, Detective Evans?" he asks, staring at me without anyemotion. "My problem is...Wyatt Baker is dead. You've seen ityourself, you've even read the autopsy report. You have been inintensive care since the day we've rescued you from your martyrdom.One year of psychological therapy are behind you, with no other aimthan to get you back on track. Yet here you are, claiming that theman you killed one year ago is threatening you."

I look at him, for amoment unable to speak. I know it sounds crazy, but I can't helpit. I swallow hard before I allow myself to talk.

"Captain, I know whatyou think. And you probably have every right to do so, but I swear toyou, this isn't just some kid's joke. Detective Baker and I hadthis inside joke, he was the one who invented that nickname –muffin, – for me, nobody else ever knew about it!" I stare athim, wanting to force him to believe me when something strikes mymind.

"Someone's beenfollowing me for days now, and I know it sounds crazy, I know itdoes, but I just...I just know it's him!"

Just as I say the wordsout loud, I want to slap myself, because I know how insane I mustsound to the Captain. I look at my reflection in a glassframe on hisdesk, my face red with excitement and my eyes wide awake with panic.No surprise he looks at me, bewildered.

"DetectiveEvans...Cassie," he says in a fatherly way that somehow upsets meeven more. "I know the last days have been rough for you. It'snever easy for a homicide detective to switch his job out in thefield with one behind a desk, doing paperwork all day. You probablyhaven't slept much and therefor, see things that aren't there.Maybe you should consider going back to Dr. Galliani for anothercounselling session, maybe it was all too early for you. One yearisn't that long to recover from what you have been through."

I stare at him, and Ican't believe what I'm hearing. Is he suggesting what I think heis?

He takes the little whitenote that has mentally thrown me back into that dark basement andopens a drawer in his desk. He puts the note inside of it andcarefully takes out an A4-sized sheet of paper. He places it on thedesk, then interlaces his fingers on top of it. His eyes find mineonce again. But this time, it's sadness I see in them.

"I think it's thebest if you take a permanent break from these offices."

Captain Warden opens hisfingers and slowly starts shoving the white sheet closer to my sideof his desk. For a moment I don't understand what I see – myvision seems blurred and I have to blink several times before Irealize what he just place infront of me.

A resignation letter.

He is suggestingwhat I think.

Suddenly, the room feelsto small for me, and the air around me seems to thicken with everysecond. I lean onto the massive wooden chair infront of me,gasping for air, my heart thumping in my chest. I shake my head, butthe blurred vision doesn't fade away. I hear Captain Warden saysomething, but I can't make out any words; every sound around me ismuffled as if I'm wearing earflaps.

Somehow, I finally manageto get out: "You...you can't do this, sir, with all due respect,this...this is everything to me. This job is my life!" And with asudden urge to make him understand: "I am not crazy!"

He looks at me andsympathetically shakes his head, which suddenly fills me with whiterage. Why do empathy and comprehension always do that to me?

"Cassie, I'm sorry. Ishould've made that decision a long time ago. Look at you. Youthink you have recovered, you think you're over the memory of whatyour former partner has done to you, but instead, you keep seeing himfollowing you, and seeing a harmless kid's joke as a threat to yourlife by a man who's been dead for over a year now."

I am staring back at theman who has been my biggest supporter ever since I started my job onthe force, a man who has been like a father figure for years now, andI realize it all means nothing. He doesn't believe me. He thinksI'm crazy, that I'm seeing things that aren't there. But theyare.

I just know it.

"Captain, I am notmaking any of this up!" I shout, gripping the backrest of thewooden chair so tight that the knuckles of my hand turn white and myfingernails leave nasty marks in the leather. I don't care. "Iknow what I've seen, I know Wyatt, and I justknow that he's back! You have to trust me!"

But I see that I am lost.Captain Warden has made his decision long ago, after the rescue teamsaved me from Wyatt's basement and restrained me to a stretcherwhile I was trying to kick and bite my saviours the entire time, andlong before the official hearing five days ago.

"I need you to leaveyour badge here with me, please. I am sorry."

I can barely hear whathe's saying. As if I'm in a dream, I pull out my badge, the thingI always kept so close to my chest that I could feel its cold metalagainst my ribcage, and place it on the Captain's desk with shakinghands. Then I turn around and slowly walk out of the office.

I hear my former boss saysomething behind of me, but this time, I don't turn around.Nevertheless, somewhere in the back of my mind, I hear his words loudand clear.

"One day, you'llunderstand."