The Police Chief
In fact, that’s why he’d wanted a cat in the first place. A creature who didn’t know about his job; who didn’t complain, as his kids did, about his long and irregular hours; who wouldn’t wrinkle its nose, as his wife did, when he came home smelling like a crime scene.
Of course, it’s not as though Shelter Island is a hotbed of crime.
Last year, there were six overdoses, Narcan administered three times; the island isn’t isolated from the opioid crisis.
And certainly, in summertime, godawful city drivers flood the streets with their Range Rovers and Jaguars, driving like they’re three sheets to the wind even when they’re stone-cold sober.
July and August, the chief and his officers issue speeding tickets like candy; they give out more citations between Memorial Day and Labor Day than they do in all the other months of the year.
But now, early on a January morning, the streets are quiet. The chief is groggy enough that he has to ask the officer on the other end of the line to repeat himself.
“Sir, a woman—you know Clarice Bendersly, husband died six months ago?—she was out walking her dog this morning and found a body on the beach.”
The chief wipes the sleep from his eyes, sits up straight. No one describes a living, breathing person as a body.
It’s already been identified. Not officially; the officer explains that Clarice Bendersly recognized the body.
Someone from the recovery center.
When they broke ground on the recovery center, there was an uproar. People claimed the town council had been bought off, bribes paid to overcome zoning laws and building codes. The rich believe they can get away with anything if they throw enough money at it.
The people who work at the center, they may live on the island year-round, but they’re not locals any more than the summer people are.
The owners opened the center here not because of some history with this island—the chief heard they’re from Georgia—but because they thought the island was an idyllic location, isolated and private, rustic but appealing.
And the patients—they’re worse than the summer people, using up the island’s sea air and sandy beaches like everything was put here for their benefit.
Just before the center opened, the owner met with local law enforcement, explaining that their patients would be on the property voluntarily, distinguishing them from the drunks and addicts the chief interacts with on the job, the sort who get sent to rehab as part of a plea deal to avoid jailtime.
The officer asks if the chief would like him to call the center.
No, the chief will do it himself.
He sets the coffee brewing before he makes the call. The center’s owner doesn’t sound groggy, as though the wealthy—and the chief certainly counts the folks running the shelter as wealthy, right along with the patients—are more well rested than the rest of us.
The chief can’t help it. He’s relieved that the body on the beach is one of them.
On the other end of the line, the owner expresses shock, dismay, murmurs, “What a tragedy.”
In the absence of a family member, the center’s owner will formally identify the body. Clarice Bendersly, batty old woman, is hardly reliable.
As he hangs up, the chief thinks, A place like that recovery center will never work, not really. You want to get someone sober, you gotta break them down, remind them that they’re nothing.
People like that never believe they’re nothing.