Stevan Mena - Transience

“Are you asking me, can’t you remember?” Jack asked, his patience on slow boil.

Bishop’s shoulders swelled with arrogance. “I remember she smelled sweet like an avocado, ripe and fresh. Pretty for a spic whore.” Bishop smiled, showing teeth, his eyes twinkling with a macabre delight.

Jack saw red. He leaped from his chair, clawing at Bishop’s throat. Harrington grabbed Jack, restraining him, prying Jack’s fingers from around Bishop’s neck. Jack finally saw reason and released him. Bishop coughed, making the most of it, dramatically rubbing his throat as if he had glimpsed the grim reaper.

“You can’t fucking do that! You can’t fucking touch me!” Bishop coughed, his eyes watery and red.

Harrington walked Jack calmly towards the door. Bishop sat hunched over, still clutching his neck, breathing heavily.

“I told them at the clinic I had problems. They wouldn’t listen. Maybe now you’ll listen to me.”

Jennifer, Harrington, and Jack stood huddled in the adjacent holding area. Jack seemed listless and distant as he studied Bishop through the glass. Bishop’s eyes seemed like black sockets in the overhead fluorescents, a frightening expression of emptiness on his face.

“We’ll need to get a dive team over to the reservoir tomorrow morning,” Harrington said.

“You did everything you could Jack,” Jennifer said.

“No, I missed something…” Jack checked his watch for no reason, not sure what to do next, dazed.

“Thanks to you he’s off the streets,” Harrington said. “He finally made a mistake and we got him.”

Jack turned, his eyes ablaze. “We didn’t do shit! He’s been coming and going as he pleases, getting away with murder for over 10 years. And the only reason we have a suspect in custody is because some brave young girl defended herself long enough to hand him to us!”

Jack ended his rant with a loud cough that multiplied. He doubled over, red in the face. Jennifer put her hand on his back to steady him.

“Jack, are you okay?” Jack stepped away from her.

“Do you need your pills?” Harrington asked.

Jack scowled at Harrington with embarrassment. He wiped his mouth, the fit subsiding.

“I just need to catch my breath, can I do that? Move back so I can catch my breath.” Jack leaned up against the wall and took out his pills. There was no use hiding his condition any longer, his tenure was over — what more was there to stay for? And his condition was no secret to anyone, no matter how noble his efforts to shun sympathy had been.

“I’ll get you a glass of water,” Jennifer said, leaving the room. Jack’s taut breathing slowed, returning to normal. Despite his hardened shell, he was appreciative of their concern. They were good, caring friends. Denying his suffering was just his way of denying the inevitable, denying death.

Harrington leaned in close to Jack, capitalizing on their time alone. “Jack, we knew the odds she’d be found alive were a million to one. Carl knew it, or should have.” Jack fumbled to get his pills in his mouth, his hand shaking. “I know how much you wanted to believe that little girl’s story. But don’t do this to yourself. Good detective work solves crimes. You’re one of the best. He’ll never hurt another child, thanks to you.”

Harrington placed his hand on Jack’s shoulder and squeezed it. Jack appreciated the gesture, and what he said. Whatever bitterness he had just been feeling seemed to morph into self-loathing and depression.

Jennifer re-entered holding a styrofoam cup filled with water. She held it out for Jack. “Thank you.” He took a sip and placed it down on a table. “Jennifer, can you get Carl Rosa on the phone for me?”

“No need. He hasn’t left.”

Jack exited the room and moved somberly down the hall. He wasn’t looking for Carl, he’d run into him eventually. He simply ambled forward, his mind dark, devoid of any coherent thought. He passed his office and paused to glare at his name on the frosted glass door. He suppressed an urge to drive his fist through it.

He entered the main hallway, spotting Carl asleep on a bench. Someone thoughtful had brought him coffee, the half empty cup balanced treacherously on the arm of the bench.

Jack slowed, thinking he might let Carl sleep a little longer, have one more dream with a happy ending. He would have the rest of his life to relive this crushing moment, what’s the rush?

Just then, Carl’s eyes fluttered. He spotted Jack down the hall and sat up straight. No turning back now.

Jack came to understand the best way was to just look them straight in the eye, tell the truth, then shut up. Nothing else you say will matter, unless you know of a way you can bring their loved one back from the dead. Just shut your mouth and let them grieve, however they choose.

Jack thought about what that poor doctor must have felt, having to tell him he’d tried and failed to save Sarah’s life. I’m sorry, Mr. Ridge, she didn’t pull through . She didn’t pull through … He remembered how the doctor didn’t waiver and looked him in the eye bravely. How difficult that must have been.

Carl shifted in his seat as Jack stepped closer. She didn’t pull through, Carl.

Carl stood up and Jack motioned for him to sit back down, which made Carl want to stand up all the more. Sitting down meant dreadful news. He stayed on his feet.

Jennifer entered the hallway from the far end and spotted Jack talking to Carl. She couldn’t hear what he was saying. She watched as Carl went limp and collapsed into Jack’s arms. Jack helped him to the bench and eased him down.

Jack sat motionless beside Carl, who wept into his hands. They sat that way for a long time.

Jack closed his office door and slumped down into his chair, emotionally drained. The cassette player still sat on his desk. He reached over and pressed play. Rebecca’s voice came to life on the tape again. “ Trusted him … lied to me.”

Jack pressed fast forward at random. “ Rebecca?” Leonard’s voice spoke.

“I hear church bells. Santa Maria, Madre de Dios—” Jack forwarded again. “The fruits of our labors … find Jesus on the hill. Find Jesus … ” Jack stopped the tape. What had he overlooked? Misinterpreted?

There was a photograph of Angelina on his desk, a large 8x10. He picked it up and studied it one last time, then tossed it into the pile of victim’s photographs.

He walked over to his file cabinet. A small bend in the metal made it difficult to open. He tugged it hard and it slid all the way out with a metallic screech. He removed the large scrapbook of mugshots Rebecca had examined the other day.

He flattened the book out on his desk and flipped through. As Bishop’s mug shot came into view, the thing that stood out the most about him was his very unique face — ugly, memorable — not ordinary at all. Not a face you’d forget, or confuse with someone else’s.

Rebecca had stared at this picture, he was certain. But she said nothing. For someone who had dreamed of this face for so long, woke up screaming from it, supposedly carried it with her across lifetimes, you would think seeing it up close would illicit a very powerful reaction. But she said nothing. Which meant she had never seen him before.

He thought about what Laura had said, that they’d all taken what Rebecca had conjured up in those therapy sessions and applied whatever explanation they saw fit, never fully realizing the obvious. However all of those coincidences had transpired, it was certain that they were just that, coincidences . Dumb luck, as Harrington called it.