The Incident (Chase Barnes Series Book 1) (3 page)

Four

I continue to realize that I take Lindsey’s support and love of me for granted.  Aside from replaying Jake’s death in my nightmares, I also frequently have dreams about how I would have turned out if Lindsey left me for what happened to Jake.              

             
She probably would if she knew the whole story. 

              I’ve actually told her, on repeated occasions, that she should have left me and found a new husband that isn’t me.  Each time I make mention of her leaving me she scolds me and orders me to stop being so ridiculous.  She actually slapped me once, just to make the point that she wasn’t going anywhere that much clearer.  It was the first and only time either of us ever laid a hand on the other.  The amount of force behind the blow led me to believe that that was her anger release without being so blatant.

              During my six- month leave from the department I tried to pick up a few hobbies, as Dr. Sharper requested, but there was nothing that interested me.  I’m not an active hobby person.  But I guess with all the continued free time I was about to embrace I should find something.  A hobby to me is following the Mets during their dismal, depressing seasons.  I tried gardening then realized it was the winter.  I tried building model airplanes then realized I couldn’t concentrate enough to glue the microscopic parts together.  I actually glued my fingers together more than the actual parts.  I even glued my shoelace to my ankle.  Then I tried photography but gave that up when I realized that my pictures resembled those of a drunk ten- year old.  It was then that I realized I needed to get back to work.  That was my hobby.  But that was recently flushed down the shitter by the one guy I truly trusted in the department. 

              Dr. Sharper recommended that I keep a journal while I was on my leave to help me alleviate my anger, my stress, and my anxiety that developed as a result of my experience.  She was even nice enough to supply me with the black and white notebook and a brand new pen.  Sharper said she would never request to read it unless I asked her to review my thoughts.  She also told me it was designed as a way to continue my therapy when I’m not sitting in her uncomfortable chairs on Tuesdays.  I initially thought a journal was a stupid idea, frankly because I’m not a thirteen- year old girl.  And I never told Lindsey about it because I was embarrassed.  This entire ordeal has been embarrassing.  The fact that I was forced out of a job because they thought I had drifted off the deep end.  The fact that I could never get myself to tell anyone the story of what happened that night- not my boss, not my shrink, and especially not my wife.  My shrink knows an abbreviated version of the night Jake died, most of which coming from the reports from the department.  Lindsey knows that Jake is dead and that I was there but nothing beyond that.  I just can’t tell anyone what really happened that night.  There aren’t many things I’ve ever kept from Lindsey but, since the night of the incident, I find myself holding back more and more on a daily basis.

              My journal sat on the kitchen table for a few weeks before I even attempted to scribble a letter in it.  I casually glanced at it every morning and it even doubled as a coaster for my Snapple iced teas during lunch.  I don’t remember the exact point or what the exact reason for starting to write in my journal.  I’d like to say that I’ve enjoyed writing in my journal but then I’d be lying.  I’d even go as far as saying it’s been a way to process my thoughts from my experience and come to an understanding of what happened but then I wouldn’t be telling the truth.  Then I’d start to sound like Dr. Sharper- something I have no desire doing.  One reality is that Lindsey’s never seen what I’ve written because she doesn’t even know I’ve started writing in it.  And I’m not really sure if I ever want her to know the true horror of how Jake died.

              I dedicated my back deck as my writing area when I was sure to be home alone.  The serene, natural ambiance of the trees and the occasional chirp of the birds in the distance provided me with a sense of clarity that allowed me time to gather my thoughts- even if it was for a short time.  The first time I sat to write was a Thursday, which I remember because it marked the two month anniversary of the incident.  I’ve only written in it five times because, to me, it’s enough to tell my story. 

Five

“Hey, babe.  How’d the meeting go?” Lindsey asked when she came through the front door.  I can count on one hand the amount of times Lindsey had called me ‘Babe’ in the last six months.

             
Does she hate me for what happened?  Does she not love me anymore?

              I chalked it up to another sign of her hidden resentment towards me.  I’d been home, stewing in my own frustration since my meeting with Fitzgerald.  I wanted to call Lindsey and tell her all about it as soon as possible but I couldn’t.

              See, Lindsey’s a teacher.  A special education teacher and apparently it’s frowned upon for a teacher to accept personal phone calls during class time.  Even if it is from her charming yet highly agitated husband.  We frequently text a few times during her lunch period but this news was not text- worthy.  I wasn’t sure how Lindsey would react since she seems to thrive on adding even her most asinine opinions and comments on any situation possible.  Most people like to add their two cents; Lindsey likes to add her dollar fifty.   

              “Unbelievable,” I said flatly.

              “That’s great!  Fitzgerald is going to let you have your job back?  When do you start?” Lindsey sounded so excited, clearly missing the tone of my voice.  The questions came so quickly that I couldn’t even squeeze in a frustrated breath.

              “Not exactly,” I said.  I made her sit next to me on the couch and I told her about my conversation with Fitzgerald.

              “Can they really do that?” Lindsey asked.

              “I don’t know, but they did.”

              “Well, you should file a grievance or something,” she said.

              I wasn’t for grievances and wasn’t about to file one because of this.  “It is what it is,” I said. 

              “What do you mean?  You love being a cop and you’re so good at it,” she said.

             
If she only knew.

              “I know but grievances are just a bunch of bullshit anyway.  It’s a whole mess of paperwork that I or the guys on the other end never want to deal with and most of the grievances never even get heard anyway.  And the ones that do get heard usually go unnoticed for at least six months, which could mean another six months out of work with my thumb up my ass.”  I didn’t know if what I said about the delayed process of the grievances was true.  However, it was all I could think of that would appease Lindsey, calm her rant, and she would have the least knowledge of them.

              I could see Lindsey’s wheels spinning as she pondered what I had just said.  She looked as if she was ready with a reply but I just told her to leave it alone and walked out of the room.

Six

She followed me into the kitchen and I got to her before she could deliver a jab.

              “Linds, I’m not going to file a grievance.  I thought about it; I really did.  I really think this could be a good thing for me.”  Trying to power through my frustrations, or what I thought might be frustrations, I had spent the day really considering my life as an independent private investigator.  I said, “I get to make my own hours; I get to be a detective, which is what I was going to put in for at the department anyway, right?”

              She nodded and I could see her mood briefly lighten.  “I suppose, but what the hell do you know about private investigation?  How are you going to pick up cases?  And, more importantly, how are you going to earn a steady paycheck?  We can’t live just on my salary.”

              I knew Lindsey like a favorite pair of sneakers.  The comfort level.  The amount of support left in the sole.  And, most importantly, the quirks that just make them work.  And because of all of this, I prepared myself with a list of questions that Lindsey would bombard me with when I told her what had transpired from the meeting.  I could now check off questions one, two, and four.  Number three was on the way.  I answered them in order in which I had them written.

              “Fitzgerald said he’d throw me a few cases to get me started, which also will give me some money to bring in.  I can charge an hourly rate, plus expenses, such as travel, if necessary, and supplies.”  I didn’t know what type of supplies a private investigator would need but I was confident in my answer.  My mind drifted to night- vision goggles and camouflage crossbows then realized I was just going to be a private investigator in suburban New Jersey not auditioning for Rambo Part Five.

              Lindsey watched as I checked off the first two questions on my list.  I continued, “Well, I obviously don’t know a whole lot about private investigating but what’s there to learn?  I’ve been a cop for a few years so that should give me some level of credibility.  I’d also like to think that I have some pretty good detective instincts.  And I read a lot of mystery and crime novels.”  I added the last part to make Lindsey smile but it failed. 

              She sat at the kitchen table with her hands in her lap and stared at nothing in particular.  I couldn’t help but stare at her pristine looking skin, her steel blue eyes and the way her shoulder- length hair was perfectly shaped around her slender face. 

              Nothing was said for a minute or so.  It was an awkward silence that made me feel very uncomfortable.  Lindsey finally moved and I watched her put her hair up into a ponytail only to immediately let it fall back across her shoulders.  She stood up.

              “Well, is this what you really want?

              Bam! And there was question number three.  Check.

Seven

“Yes it is,” I said.  She was content with my answer and sensed the level of confidence it carried.  We talked about inane things for a while and decided to both make dinner.

              While I sautéed up the onions, peppers, and mushrooms, Lindsey prepared the pork chops for the range- top grill.  I could tell she was thinking about something.  Probably work.  Probably my work- or whatever the hell you wanted to call it right now. 

              “What is it?” I asked.

              “Well, it’s funny you should bring up private investigating, Mr. Chase Barnes.”

              I always laughed when she called me that.  I cautiously replied, “Why?”

              “There’s a boy in my class, Esteban.  He comes from a really tough neighborhood and an even rougher home life,” Lindsey said.  I had an inkling as to where she was going with her thoughts but I stayed quiet and let her talk.

              “And what would you like me to do about it?”

              “I don’t know.  Just look into him for me, as a favor.  I think he might be mixed up in some gang stuff and maybe even drugs.  He’s only twelve.”  She talked while she continued to season the pork chops.  I could see the passion Lindsey has for these kids.  Whenever she came home and told me some of the heart- wrenching stories about her kids, I loved her that much more.  Stories of sex and drug abuse, alcoholism, neglect, and dead- beat parents.  All of this before the kids are teenagers.

              Lindsey taught at a behavior management program for Bergen County Special Services.  BCSS, as it’s better known to the locals, is a county- wide program that provides extra- special attention and care for kids with all types of physical, mental, and emotional disabilities.  Lindsey taught at the Right Step School, a school that specialized in teaching elementary and middle school students how to harness their anger, depression, and abandonment issues while learning the same academics that would be provided to them in a more traditional school setting.