Chapter 2
Mitch made it to the CAP unit with minutes to spare. As he pulled out his desk chair, he looked toward John’s office. Through the window in the door, he saw John check his wristwatch.
“Sanctimonious son of a bitch,” Mitch muttered, then looked around to see if anyone in the unit had been observing or eavesdropping, and saw that most, if not all, currently pretending not to, had been.
Sure as hell, by now the antagonistic scene in the drunk tank had been recounted dozens of times throughout the entire PD.
He tried to appear nonchalant as he booted up his computer in order to find the phone number of the bar where he’d wreaked havoc last night. It was owned by a guy he knew only by his first name. When he got him on the phone, he said, “Gus, Mitch Haskell. Please don’t hang up on me.”
He humbly offered to foot the bill for repairs in exchange for Gus not pressing charges.
Gus was querulous and slow to forgive until Mitch turned on the charm—which once upon a time he’d been reputed to ooze.
“Look, I admit that I was a jerk. You have every right to be pissed over the damage I did.”
“It’s not just that, Mitch. I thought you’d given up the booze.”
“I had. What can I say? I backslid.”
“To the max. You were out of your head. Violent. You threatened to cut my bartender’s throat.”
“I’ve got no excuse, Gus.”
“No excuse, maybe,” the man said around a heavy sigh, “but you’ve got a damn good reason.
” When Mitch said nothing in response to that, Gus continued.
“Everybody knows about… well, your wife and all. And it sucks. Big time. In light of that, I’m willing to cut you some slack. I’m not going to press charges.”
“Thank you.” To lighten the mood, he said, “Tell you what. Cost of damages plus a bottle of Beefeater to replace the one I broke.”
“Two bottles.”
“Deal.”
“Not quite. There are a few chairs I’ve got to replace. And that mirror was all I had left to remember my wife by.”
“I didn’t know she’d died.”
“She didn’t. She split. But still.”
Mitch chuckled. “To all of the above, okay.”
“Now we have a deal,” Gus said. “You know, Mitch, for a cop, you’re okay. I like you. I appreciate your patronage. But you gotta go easy on those double straight-ups.”
“As my pal John Bowie keeps reminding me.”
“Which brings me to something else. I don’t want Bowie on my case for overserving you, so I’ve instructed the bartenders to cut you off after two. Got it?”
“Yeah. Got it.” Mitch asked him to figure up what he owed. “And thanks again, Gus.”
As Mitch was disconnecting, John came out of his office and walked over.
Before John could say anything, Mitch held up his hands in surrender.
“Gus is a decent guy. After some initial grumbling, we came to terms, and he agreed not to press charges. He accepted my apology and even told me he likes me.”
“Glad to hear it. Also glad you came in.”
“In under an hour, too.”
“You look better. Smell a hell of a lot better.”
“I had only one way to go.”
“You hungry? Beth offered to cook breakfast for us.”
Mitch patted his middle. “Thank her, but the tummy isn’t quite settled yet. Even coffee didn’t sit well.”
John nodded but did so absently. He kept his eyes lowered as he contemplated the toes of his boots, then he lifted his head and said quietly, “Before I left the house this morning, Beth brought it to my attention that yesterday was the second anniversary of—”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Did the date have anything to do with your bender last night?”
“I said, I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Well, that’s too bad, Mitch. You’ve got to talk about it.”
“Wrong, bro. I don’t gotta.”
“You do gotta. I’m making it mandatory.”
Mitch recoiled as though he’d been clipped on the chin. “Excuse me?”
John repeated the simple statement, adding, “I consulted the superintendent this morning and got his backing. His full backing.”
Mitch took a swift look around the large room.
The detectives and uniformed officers scattered throughout it had made themselves appear busy, but he knew that they were attuned to what was taking place at his desk.
Everyone in the department knew that his relationship with John was an unshakable, long-lasting friendship.
It had begun when they were partnered as detectives. Working together like a well-oiled machine, the partnership continued until Mitch was recruited by the DEA, based on his covert mission experience in Afghanistan.
Then, a few years later, and coinciding with Mitch’s decision to quit the undercover work, John had cracked a cold case, the famous Crissy Mellin case, which his now-wife Beth had documented on the true crime TV series Crisis Point.
The fallout from John’s investigative work, and Beth’s compelling documentation of it, had culminated with the exposure of rank corruption within the CAP unit.
The head of it was indicted, tried, and convicted of numerous felonies, including the murder of one of his own henchmen.
He was presently serving what amounted to a life sentence.
John had subsequently been appointed to take over the leadership position of the unit, and one of his first moves had been to bring Mitch back into the PD.
They’d picked up where they’d left off years earlier, working in tandem.
Although it wasn’t official, it was universally understood that Mitch was John’s second-in-command.
Everyone in the department knew the strength of their bond.
They had few, if any, secrets from each other.
They’d seen each other at their ideal best and at their most miserable worst. For years, they’d served as each other’s sounding board.
Even if they disagreed, nothing had ever created a fissure in their friendship.
No one had ever seen John pull rank on Mitch. He never had.
Until this moment.
“Let’s go into the office,” John said. “We’ll talk there.”
“I’m not going to talk about it in there, or out here, or anywhere. You ordered me to resume my duties. That’s what I’m going to do.” He swiveled his chair around and brought his computer to life.
John swore under his breath, then reached over Mitch’s shoulder and laid a sheet of paper on his keyboard. Mitch picked up the sheet, read what was on it, and turned his chair back around to face John. “What’s this?”
“Exactly what it looks like. A list of names with their contact info.”
“Huh.” Mitch raised the sheet closer to his face and scrutinized it. “I can’t help but notice that all these people are designated as doctors.”
“Of psychology.”
“Shrinks?”
“Therapists.”
“Huh,” Mitch said again. “Why are we investigating them? What are they suspected of? Overcharging the unbalanced among us?”
John’s eyes took on a familiar, quelling glint, but his tone of voice remained even. “These psychologists have ranging experience counseling law enforcement officers specifically, but all have excellent credentials and reputations.”
“Says who?”
“I’ve vetted them myself.”
“No one would ever accuse you of being a slacker, John.”
John gave him a stern, “cut the crap” look. “Pick one.”
“Pick one?”
“Doesn’t matter to me which one you choose. All have agreed in advance to see you no less than twice a week for the next six weeks. If you stay sober till then, and the chip on your shoulder has shrunk to the size of a pimple, I’ll consider cutting the sessions to one a week.”
Mitch took another survey of the room as though to ask those eavesdropping if he’d heard right. Coming back to John, he huffed a laugh. “Are you fucking kidding?”
“No. You won’t seek help on your own, so I am making it compulsory. You’ll continue your duties and draw full pay. That is unless you fall off the wagon like you did last night. If you do that, I’ll have no choice but to suspend you.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Dead serious. Because you’ve got a serious problem, Mitch, and, before you react, please hear me out.
” His expression changed to one less stern.
“You’ve got to unload to somebody about Angela.
You can’t keep it bottled up, or it’s going to destroy you.
Will you ever get over losing her? No. But you’ve got to learn some coping skills.
You need professional guidance on how to deal with it. ”
“I’ll deal with it how I choose to.”
“You’re not dealing with it at all.”
“Well, I don’t need guidance. Coping skills? What the eff? That’s all bunk.”
“Says the guy who last night got drunk on his ass, brandished a broken bottle at a man, and then passed out and fell down face first.”
“That was an isolated—”
“Not that isolated. You think I don’t know that you fell off the wagon weeks ago, and that since then you’ve been half drunk half the time? You need help. You won’t talk to me or Beth, and both of us have tried to get you to open up. You won’t talk about it with your in-laws. They tell me—”
“You’ve taken this up with my in-laws? Behind my back?” he shouted. “Damn you, John. Where do you get off—”
“Your mother-in-law told me you’re reluctant even to speak Angela’s name.”
Mitch shot up out of his chair, his hands forming fists at his sides.
John didn’t even flinch. “What? Are you going to hit me?” he asked with maddening composure. “Threaten me with a broken bottle? Give me no choice but to fire you?” He waited, and when Mitch only stood there steaming, he said, “I’m begging you to listen to reason.”
He leaned down and picked up the sheet of paper, which Mitch had dropped when he came out of his chair. John pushed it toward him and pressed it against his chest, holding it there.
“Call one of these doctors today and make an appointment for tomorrow. If I don’t hear from one of them telling me that you’ve had your first session, don’t bother coming in on Tuesday. Are we clear?”
“You son of a bitch. You’re supposed to be my friend.”
“I’m being your friend. I am your friend. I’d be no friend at all if I turned a blind eye and let you continue as you are.” He applied pressure to the sheet he still held against Mitch’s chest, then removed his hand.
Mitch caught the piece of paper as it fluttered toward the floor. He ripped it in half, then in half again and tossed the pieces into the air.
Unfazed, John said, “I’ll text the list to you. Think hard on this, Mitch. If you don’t care about what you’re doing to yourself, think about what you’re doing to Andrew.”
“Don’t… don’t…” He pointed his index finger at John’s face, but realized his hand was shaking. “Fuck you.” He shoved his chair under the desk and stormed out, glaring at anyone who dared to make eye contact.