Burying Ben
Advance Praise for
Burying Ben
“With confident, compelling prose, and a fast-paced story,
Kirschman manages to make the life of a police psychologist seem as exciting as that of a SWAT team.
Burying Ben
explores themes of power, manipulation, and ethics that go beyond the usual thriller. The vulnerable Dr. Dot is the most interesting heroine to come along in a long time.”
—Camille
Minichino, author of the
Periodic Table Mysteries
, the
Miniature Mysteries
and the
Professor Sophie Knowles Mysteries
“So real you’ll swear it’s nonfiction! With a heroine you’d want as a friend, and a tale so gripping it will keep you up at night, Ellen Kirschman turns her incredible insight as a police psychologist into cop fiction with soul. Do yourself a favor and grab
Burying Ben
right away.”
—Shane
Gericke, author of the #1 Kindle bestseller,
Torn Apart
“
Burying Ben
is a compelling novel with a brisk, fast-moving plot, and engaging characters. Ellen Kirschman draws from her years of experience as a police psychologist to imbue her book with realism, drama, and great insight into the world of law enforcement. This crime novel is a skillful debut.”
—Miles Corwin, bestselling author of
Kind of Blue
and
Midnight Alley
“
Burying Ben
is an informative must read . . . an outstanding effort and stunning achievement for a first novel.”
—Andy O’Hara, California Highway Patrol Sergeant (Ret.) and Founder of Badge of Life Psychological Survival for Police Officers
“[A] breathtaking first novel by an author with the writing skills of a seasoned veteran. . . .
Burying Ben
rings with authenticity, about real cops and a real cop therapist that everyone will enjoy.”
—Allen R.
Kates, author of
Cop Shock: Surviving Posttraumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD)
“I started this book at ten at night and finished it at one on the morning. If there had been a sequel at hand, I would have started it immediately. In her first fiction work, Ellen
Kirschman has created what most veteran authors only dream of—compelling characters in a tight-turning plot.”
— Mike Orenduff, author of
The Pot Thief
mystery series
“A great read. A real life police drama by a real life police psychologist.”
— Kevin
Gilmartin, Ph.D, author of the million-selling book,
Emotional Survival for Law Enforcement
Burying Ben
Burying Ben
Ellen Kirschman
Aakenbaaken & Kent
New York
Burying Ben
Copyright 2013 by Ellen Kirschman, all rights reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations for use in articles and reviews.
Aakenbaaken & Kent New York
Aakenbaaken.com
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance of the fictional characters to actual persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Author photo courtesy of S. Hollis Johnson.
ISBN:
978-1-938436-11-6
Dedication
This book is dedicated to my colleagues at the International Association of Chiefs of Police – psychological services section, the American Psychological Association – public safety section, the Society for Police and Criminal Psychology, and the West Coast Post Trauma Retreat. Through hard work and compassion, you ma
ke a big difference in the lives of those who are sworn to protect and serve the rest of us.
Acknowledgements
Story
telling is how cops learn to be cops. Their experiences, funny and tragic alike, inspired me to write this book. I hope they will forgive me for stealing their stories and lifting their personalities. I am grateful to the people who helped me, a rookie novelist, learn the ropes. My law enforcement consultants Lt. Zach Peron, Lt. Bob Bonilla, Sgt. Natasha Powers, Retired Chief Lynne Johnson, Judge Mike Ballachey, Phil Shnayerson, Esq., Wayne Schmidt, Esq. and Marty Mayer, Esq.; my fellow psychologists Gary Olson, Dave Corey and Phil Trompetter; my fellow writers Mike Orenduff, Harriet Chessman, Maud Carole Markson, Jan Harwood, the Wombistas and my sister-in-law, Doris Ober, who has stuck with me from the awful first draft; and my back up team, Laurie Harper of Author Biz, the energetic, eagle-eyed publicist, Sharon Donovan, my agent Cynthia Zigmund of Second City Publishing Services who is wise, supportive and always answers her email, and the good folks at Aakenbaaken and Kent who have given
Burying Ben
a warm welcome. Finally, and forever, to Steve, who is always there.
Prologue
Suicide. It
’
s the one t
h
i
n
g thera
p
ists dread the most.
W
e try to prepare. We
m
ake our clie
n
ts pro
m
ise to call us
before they kill the
m
selves, even t
h
ough they
k
now, and we know, there’s not a chance in
hell we’ll be by the phone wait
i
ng for their call. Patients
m
ay be depressed, but they’re not stupid.
W
e get them
to sign contracts, useless docu
m
ents designed to cover our asses. And they do, just to shut us up. I’m not questio
n
i
ng the solace t
h
at co
m
es from covering
one’s ass.
O
r the wisd
om
. The therapist who can show her dead client’s fa
m
ily, lawyers and the newspapers that she
m
ade her client pro
m
ise not to kill hi
m
self without con
t
acting her first and has a piece of paper to prove it is a lot better off than I am
this
m
orning.
Ben Go
m
ez is dead. Last night he checked i
n
to a motel in t
h
e Sierra
f
oot
hi
lls, got into bed fully dressed
w
ith his badge pinned to his shirt, pulled a blanket over his head to contain the
m
ess and shot hi
m
self in the
head with his duty weapon.
I i
m
agine h
i
m squir
m
ing under the covers, tug
g
ing at his clothes as they catch under him. How long did he lie there?
W
hat was he thinking about?
W
ho was he thinking about?
Was he debating against putting the cold
m
etal gun under his c
h
in?
Or did he do it instantly?
And then what?
Noise?
Color?
Flashes of light?
I liked Ben Go
m
ez. He and I had so
m
e
thing in com
m
on. It brought us together when we
f
irst
m
et and held us in a
f
ragile
b
alance, as if tethered by a fraying rope. It was the recognition that we both had an uncom
m
on sensibility the others around us didn’t have.
W
e were outsiders, displaced persons try
i
ng hard to fit in without losing too
m
uch of our souls. It wasn’t much of a bond. And it didn’t hold.
“Dot?
Are you still t
h
ere?” Chief Baxte
r
’s voice echoes through
m
y bedroo
m
. The telephone in
m
y h
a
nds see
m
s miles a
w
ay, as though I am
looking at it through the wrong end of a pair of binoculars. I put the phone up to
m
y e
a
r. I have no idea how long the chief has been waiting for
m
e to respond.
“Sorry to have to tell you this ov
e
r the phone.” The words leave his
m
outh reluctantly, I can al
m
ost hear l
i
ttle ripping sounds. It is not h
i
s style to apologize. “I need you to co
m
e
in to the station before the troops get the news. I’m
going to wait until the 6:00 a.m. shift change to
m
ake the announce
m
ent.” He doesn’t wait for me to reply. I’m the department shrink. It’s
m
y job to be there
in a crisis, whenever and wherever
Even if the c
r
isis is my
f
ault.
Chapter One
It is a day of firsts. My
f
i
rst day on the job and my first dead body. Chief Baxter wants
m
e to see it. His whole face is concentrated
with the effort to
m
ake his point, as thou
g
h he were explaining blood spatter analysis or
the bio
m
echanics of tasers.
H
e is wearing gold cufflinks shaped like barbells. Short and b
a
rrel chested, he looks like a well-dressed fireplug. I can i
m
agine him
as a str
e
et cop, pugnacious and badge heavy.
“Don’t sit around your office and wait for
c
ops to co
m
e to you. That
’
s why I’m giving you a car and a scanner. Get out in t
h
e f
i
eld.”
He speaks in short staccato b
u
rsts as though he is
trans
m
itting
over the ra
d
io, dropping
any unesse
n
tial words. A slight s
p
ray of saliva leaves shiny droplets on his desktop. He walks around the desk and stands close to
m
e. I
s
m
e
ll his pine-scented aftershave
a
nd
m
o
uthwash.
“
T
his is why I have credibility. I
m
ake it
m
y
business to suit up and get out on the street once a
m
onth. I stay in shape. And I always carry.” He opens his jacket
and shows
m
e his shoulder holster. He is wearing a c
u
stom
f
itted
d
ress s
h
irt th
a
t shows o
f
f
the inve
r
ted trian
g
le
m
ade by his br
o
ad shoulders and narrow waist. “
S
treet cops are the lifeblood of this organization. The street is where I started. I’ve never forgotten t
h
at and I don
’
t want
anyone else to.”
He leans against the edge of his desk, his ar
m
s folded over his chest. “I have a rookie on scene at a suicide. Ben Go
m
ez. H
e
’s been having trouble. Talk to his field training officer. See what you can do to help h
i
m
.
I’ve
m
et the kid. Not
m
y best hire, but I think he’s salvagea
b
le.” He li
f
ts his index finger. “I’m
putting
a lot of faith in you, Dot. I’ve had a lot of trouble in
m
y
organization since I took over as chief. Some days I feel like Typhoid Mary. I’ve got four officers on stress leave and three on ad
m
i
n leave under inve
st
igation. No telling when any of t
h
em
will co
m
e back to work.
I have a s
m
all organization—seventy five officers. I can’t afford to lose this rookie, too. It’s bad for
m
orale plus my overti
m
e budget is o
f
f the charts.”
He extends his hand to
m
e. “It’s one t
h
ing to study us and write books about us. It’s another thing to hit the streets with us. You co
m
e highly recom
m
end
e
d by Mark Edison. That says a lot. Most
m
en don’t have
m
uch good to say about their for
m
er wives.”
He laughs a little too loudly. I wonder if he has an ex and, if he does, what she was like.
“So, welco
m
e aboard. I know this is a tall order, but Dr. Edison said you’re the one for the job. Don
’
t disappoint
m
e or hi
m
.
Now, get in your car and get out in the field.” He opens the door to his
office and shows
m
e out.
As the new depart
m
ent psychologist, I am
in no position to protest or to tell him that I’m
scared to death because I
’
ve never seen a dead body before. Not even
m
y father
’
s.
W
hat if I e
m
barrass myself, faint or, God forbid, get s
i
ck to
m
y sto
m
ach?
I wonder how he expects
m
e to suit up. Maybe I should put wheels on
m
y couch and tow it behind my car?
The radio traffic on
m
y scanner crack
l
es briskly, drowning out
m
y thu
m
ping heart.
L
iste
n
ing to it is a guilty
p
lea
s
ure, like ea
v
esdropping. This is t
h
e
b
est of two possible worlds, close to the action but at a safe re
m
ove–the unobserved observer listening to the breathlessness of the chase,
t
h
e e
s
calating octaves that betray fear, the barked co
mm
ands, the unnatural calm of the dispatcher, and the final “
C
ode 4” signaling that the short reign of terror has
g
i
ven way to hours of report writing and investigati
o
n.
I drive un
d
er a cool
g
r
een canopy of old oaks. Light filters t
h
rough the leaves dappling the street. Fifty
years ago this old northe
r
n California neighborhood was considered the ulti
m
ate in affordable, architect-designed fa
m
ily houses. Now the current selling prices are beyond
m
y reach and the r
e
ach
of any Kenilworth cop,
fire
fighter
or schoolteac
h
er. Neighbors are con
g
regating in s
m
all worried clusters on t
h
e sidewalk in front of a uniquely shabby one
story ho
m
e. They watch as I park
m
y car. I take ten slow deep breaths and step to the sidewalk. Spind
l
y tr
e
es
f
lank the walk that le
a
ds to the
f
r
o
nt door. The grass on either side of the cracked concrete path is brown and freckled with splotches of hard, dry dirt. The front door is open. I grit
m
y teeth and walk in.
The air inside s
m
ells of cooked cabbage, dirty clothes and cigarette s
m
oke. The walls are painted the color of bruised
and
decayi
n
g greens. I look down a long hall, dark as a tunnel. I hear voices to
m
y front and
m
y side, and I see
m
ov
e
m
ent through an arched doorway. I continue down the hall,
m
y
shoes tapping on the bare wood floor. An elderly
m
an lies sprawled on the living room
floor,
wearing
corduroy pants, bedroom slippers, and a gray cardigan, like the one
m
y
father wore every day of his waning life. The
m
e
mory swoops in on
m
e. How he used to button it, so that one side hung lower than the other a
n
d stuff the pockets with odds and e
n
ds until they were stretched and shapeless, driving
m
y
m
o
ther to distraction.
I force
m
yself to look at the
m
an
on the floor. One end of a frayed rope is tied around his neck, the other end dangles from
a wood ceiling bea
m
. A dining chair lies on its side. Decaying floral drapes are pulled shut across a large window, sagging at the top where the drapery hooks have co
m
e loose. The only light in the room
co
m
es from
a slide projector that sits on a cof
f
ee table playing an endless
l
oop of
f
a
m
ily photos across a ho
m
e
m
ovie screen. The slides
m
ove forward through a spent life.
There is a vintage wedding portrait of two young, slim
people. She
wears a suit and a pillbox hat and holds a bouquet. He is in an A
r
m
y uniform. Then
there are baby pictures, children opening Christ
m
as presents, a birthday party, a gradu
a
tion, a teenage couple in prom clothes, a studio portrait of an older
couple, a
n
d
m
ore wedding photos of a s
m
iling young woman in a bridal gown.
The room
s
m
ells
m
usty and singed.
Ben Go
m
ez stares down at the body as photos play across
h
i
s face. His face is flushed a
n
d there are
b
eads of sweat on his up
p
er lip. He has a thin face a
n
d body with dark, al
m
ost black hair and thick eyebrows. One eyebrow is
s
plit in two
b
y a shiny ri
b
bon of white scar, as th
o
ugh one side of his face is in perpetual surprise.
He senses
m
y presence and looks up. His eyes are soft and black with thick eyelashes that a wo
m
an would die for. His slender face is s
m
ooth and unble
m
ished with high cheekbones and a sharp nose. He see
m
s barely old enough to have graduated from
high school. Behind
him
stands an older officer, a lit ci
g
ar in
h
is downturned mouth, fat jowls
m
elting beneath his
m
ustache. His gray hair is gelled into s
m
all spikes as though defying the downward
pull that age and gravity have i
m
posed on his corpulent body. He is watching the younger
o
fficer the way a sci
e
ntist
monitors
the mov
e
m
ents of a laboratory rat.
“C’mon Saf
e
way,” he says. “Staring at t
h
is guy won’t bring him
back to life. Get a
m
ove on it so we can go out and help the living.”