J. Bertrand - Nothing to Hide

“I feel like I should be lying on the couch.”

She smiles faintly while Bascombe just shifts his weight.

“I’ve asked the lieutenant to sit in,” Wanda says. “I’m sure you know what this is all about. You’ve worked for me in the past, so you know how I like to run things. I expect a lot from my people and they expect a lot from me.”

“I understand.”

“Lieutenant Bascombe has already briefed me on your case load. While you’re on leave, we will be reassigning the open investigations. Theresa Cavallo will pick up the slack, so I’d like you to brief her on anything outstanding.”

“Is that really necessary?” I ask. “Nothing against Cavallo, but the thing is, I’m ready to come back to work.”

“You’ve been through quite a trauma.”

“Regardless, I don’t want to sit on the sidelines any longer.”

“There’s the question of the IAD investigation. Until that’s concluded-”

“I’ll be riding a desk. I understand.”

“You keep saying that, but I don’t think you do understand. Until further notice, you are on leave. We’ll review the situation periodically and reassess. In the meantime, I want you to hand everything over to Cavallo and bring her up to speed.”

“What are you trying to say, Wanda?”

“I think I said it.”

“That sounds like indefinite suspension to me.”

“Not at all.”

I turn to Bascombe for intercession. He’s busy counting the tiles in the suspended ceiling. Clearly Wanda has already clipped his wings.

“Listen,” I say. “My partner was murdered practically before my very eyes. I was held at gunpoint while they removed important evidence from the scene. We don’t have the luxury of sitting back and waiting, Wanda. This needs to be our top priority.”

“Are you really going to fight me on this, Roland? On my first day in the saddle? Frankly, I’m insulted that you feel the need to lecture me on my priorities. If you had your head on straight, you’d realize that the second you decided to shoot a man in half with a machine gun, your involvement in the case was basically over. At best you’re a witness, at worst-I don’t even want to say it.”

The problem with having history between us is, it gives me liberty to say more than I should. At a certain point, in an argument with Hedges or Bascombe, I’d know when to shut my mouth. Not with Wanda, though. In a family squabble you speak your mind, even when it’s suicide.

“You know something,” I say, “it is your first day, and with all due respect I’m only lecturing you because you seem to need it. One of our people is dead. We should be out there making our presence felt. There are some serious irregularities in this case and-”

Bascombe cuts me off, coming to life so suddenly he makes me flinch. “Now you listen to me! You’re way over the line. Now you either shut your mouth right now or you will be on indefinite suspension. Do I make myself clear?”

“Lieutenant,” Wanda says calmly.

I stare at Bascombe, still surprised. And then it dawns on me what’s going on. Despite what Wanda said, he hasn’t briefed her on the case, not entirely. He jumped in to prevent me from enumerating the irregularities-namely the FBI runaround and the fact that, unless he has a twin brother, my decapitated victim is very much alive and well and wielding a shotgun.

“You were saying?” Wanda asks me. Not that she really wants to hear it. She’s just giving me more rope.

My first impulse is to get everything out in the open. Why hold back? But Bascombe chose not to say anything, and he must have his reasons. I can feel the tension coming off him in waves.

“Nothing,” I say. “Never mind. If you want me to take a couple of days off, that’s your call. You can imagine the stress I’m under, so please disregard what I just said.”

She lifts her hand. “Don’t say another word. Lieutenant, let’s have Detective March come back in two weeks-”

“Two weeks ?”

“-for a reassessment. Assuming he’s up to it and there are no new developments, we can look at the option of restricted duty.” She makes a note on her pad, then rises to escort me out. Again, like a shrink whose client’s hour just ran out. Bascombe starts to follow me out, but she recalls him to the couch, saying they have a lot of work to get through. “I’m sure March knows how to find the exit by now.”

After I’ve summarized my open cases for Cavallo and answered questions to the best of my ability concerning a couple of Lorenz’s files, I hoist my briefcase and make for the door. With every step I expect to be called out for trying to leave with the Brandon Ford paperwork. But I make it to the elevator without incident, then down to the lower-level garage.

Charlotte calls from her office, asking if I’m interested in lunch. I start to agree, but I really don’t feel up to it. I want to be alone, to lick the fresh wounds the morning has inflicted on my pride. Sensing my mood, she backs off.

“I did make you an appointment with a doctor, though.”

Before the funeral, I’d confessed to her about the constant pain that followed from my fall in the woods. Then she threatened to call a doctor, making me regret saying anything at all.

“I don’t need to see a doctor.”

“Yes, you do. If it’s nothing serious, he’ll give you a prescription and you’ll have some relief from the pain. And if it is serious, Roland, then the sooner you do something about it, the better. You’re not as young as you used to be.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m not trying to hurt your feelings, baby. Just stating the facts.”

Which is how I end up, a couple of hours later, perched on a blue vinyl examination table wearing nothing but a stiff cotton gown. X-rays of my lower spine glow on the light board across the room, placed there by a nurse with appliqué crystals on her fingernails. As she departs, she estimates the doctor’s arrival time at three minutes.

Twenty minutes later, a short, handsome Asian man in his mid-thirties appears, wearing mint scrubs and a modish pair of black plastic glasses. He launches into a speech about the mysteries and complexities of the human back. His tone sounds a little defensive, as if I’ve suggested there’s an easy fix. “Have you ever known anyone who’s had back surgery?”

“Not surgery,” I say. “Surgeries, yes.”

He laughs. “I’ll have to remember that one. There’s some truth to it, for sure. You don’t want to go down that path, assuming you don’t have to.”

The vertebrae could be compressed, he notes in a dubious tone, pinching the sciatic nerve, but there’s no herniation. “The symptoms you describe, though, sound consistent with a herniated disc.” He says a lot more, most of which I don’t catch. In my case, he says it’s possible we might do nothing and the pain will go away. Or we could take action and inadvertently make it worse. The thing to do is to wait and see.

“For now, I’m going to recommend rest,” he says. “And I’ll write you an anti-inflammatory prescription to bring the swelling down. No heavy lifting.”

In other words, no gun, no cuffs, no lugging that thick leather briefcase.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

When I get home, I swallow a couple of pills and start running a bath. Just as my toe touches the water, the doorbell rings. I slip on a terry cloth robe and grab my Browning before descending the stairs. Through the peephole I see Bascombe, his eyes hidden behind a pair of Ray-Bans.

“Open up, man.”

I welcome him inside. He smirks at the gun in my hand.

“Can’t be too careful,” I say.

We go through to the kitchen. He’s never been to the house before. He pauses to appreciate Charlotte’s marble counters and stainless appliances. Then he pulls out a barstool and sighs. “You didn’t make things easier on me this morning.”