Robert Crais - Suspect

Nightmares had shattered his sleep four or five times a week since his fourth day in the hospital. Most were like short clips cut from a longer film of that night’s events—the big man shooting at him, the big man raising his rifle, Scott slipping in Stephanie’s blood, and the impact of bullets punching into his body. But more and more were paranoid nightmares where the masked men were hunting him. They jumped from his closet or hid under his bed or appeared in the back seat of his car. His most recent nightmare had been last night.

Scott said, “A lot less. I haven’t had a nightmare in two or three weeks.”

Goodman made a note in his book.

“You attribute this to the regressions?”

“What else?”

Goodman made a satisfied nod, along with another note.

“How’s your social life?”

“Social life is fine if you mean grabbing a beer with the guys. I’m not seeing anyone.”

“Are you looking?”

“Is mindless small talk a requirement for mental health?”

“No. Not at all.”

“I just want someone I can relate to, you know? Someone who understands what it’s like to be me.”

Goodman made an encouraging smile.

“In the fullness of time, you’ll meet someone. Few things are more healing than falling in love.”

Few things would be more healing than forgetting, or catching the bastards who did this, but neither seemed to be in the cards.

Scott glanced at the clock, and was irritated to see they still had six minutes.

“Can we bag it for today? I’m tapped out, and I have to get to work.”

“One more thing. Let’s touch base about the new job.”

Scott glanced at the time again, and his impatience increased.

“What about it?”

“Have you gotten your dog? Last session, you said the dogs were on their way.”

“Got here last week. The chief trainer checks them out before he accepts them. He finished yesterday, and says we’re good to go. I get my dog this afternoon.”

“And then you’re back on the street.”

Scott knew where this was going and didn’t like it. They had been through this before.

“After we’re certified, yeah. That’s where K-9 officers do their job.”

“Face-to-face with the bad guys.”

“That’s kinda the point.”

“You almost died. Are you concerned this might happen again?”

Scott hesitated, but knew better than to pretend he had no fear. Scott had not wanted to be in a patrol car again, or sit behind a desk, but when he learned two slots were opening in the Metro K-9 Unit, he had lobbied hard for the job. He had completed the K-9 dog handler training course nine days ago.

“I think about it, sure, but all officers think about it. This is one of the reasons I want to stay on the job.”

“Not all officers are shot three times and lose their partner on the same night.”

Scott didn’t respond. Since the day he woke in the hospital, Scott had thought about leaving the job a thousand times. Most of his officer friends told him he was crazy not to take the medical, and the LAPD Personnel Division told him, because of the extent of his injuries, he would never be cleared to return, yet Scott pushed to stay on the job. Pushed his physical therapy. Pushed his commanding officers. Pushed his Metro boss hard to let him work with a dog. Scott would lie awake in the middle of the night, making up reasons for all the pushing: Maybe he didn’t know what else to do, maybe he had nothing else in his life, maybe he was trying to convince himself he was still the same man he was before the shooting. Meaningless words to fill the empty darkness, like the lies and half-truths he told to Goodman and everyone else, because saying unreal things was easier than saying real things. His unspoken, dead-of-night truth was that he felt as if he had died on the street beside Stephanie, and was now only a ghost pretending to be a man. Even his choice of being a K-9 officer was a pretense—that he could be a cop without a partner.

Scott realized the silence was dragging on, and found Goodman waiting.

Scott said, “If I walk away, the assholes who killed Stephanie win.”

“Why are you still seeing me?”

“To make peace with being alive.”

“I believe that’s true. But not the whole truth.”

“Then you tell me.”

Goodman glanced at the time again, and finally closed the notebook.

“Looks like we’re a few minutes over. This was a good session, Scott. Same time next week?”

Scott stood, hiding the stitch in his side that came with the sudden movement.

“Same time next week.”

Scott was opening the door when Goodman spoke again.

“I’m glad the regressions are helping. I hope you remember enough to find peace and closure.”

Scott hesitated, then walked out and down to the parking lot before he spoke again.

“I hope I remember enough to forget.”

Stephanie came to him every night, and it was his memories of her that tortured him—Stephanie slipping from his bloody grip, Stephanie begging him not to leave.

Don’t leave me!

Scotty, don’t leave!

Come back!

In his nightmares, it was her eyes and her pleading voice that filled him with anguish.

Stephanie Anders died believing he had abandoned her, and nothing he did now or in the future could change her final thoughts. She had died believing he had left her to save himself.

I’m here, Steph.

I didn’t leave you.

I was trying to save you.

Scott told her these things every night when she came to him, but Stephanie was dead and could not hear. He knew he would never be able to convince her, but he told her anyway, each time she came to him, trying to convince himself.

The narrow parking lot behind Goodman’s building was furious with summer heat, and the air was sandpaper dry. Scott’s car was so hot, he used his handkerchief to open the door.

Scott bought the blue 1981 Trans Am two months before the shooting. The right rear fender had a nasty dent from the taillight to the door, the blue paint was pocked with corrosion, the radio didn’t work, and the odometer showed 126,000 miles. Scott had bought it for twelve hundred dollars as a weekend project, thinking he would rebuild the old car in his spare time, but after the shooting he lost interest. Nine months later, the car remained untouched.

When the air blew cold, Scott made his way to the Ventura Freeway and headed for Glendale.

The K-9 Platoon was headquartered with the Metro Division at the Central Station downtown, but used several sites around the city for training its dogs. The primary training site was in Glendale, which was a spacious facility where Scott and the other two new handlers had been trained as K-9 officers during an eight-week handler school run by the Unit’s veteran chief trainer. The student handlers trained with retired patrol dogs who no longer worked in the field due to health or injury issues. They were easy to work with and knew what was expected of them. In many ways, these dogs served as teachers for their baby handlers, but when the school cycle was completed, the training dogs would return to wherever they lived, and the new handlers would be partnered with pre-trained patrol dogs to begin a fourteen-week certification process. This was an exciting moment for the new handlers, as it meant they would begin bonding with their new dogs.

Scott knew he should feel excited, but felt only a dull readiness to work. Once Scott and his dog were certified, he would be alone with the dog in a car, and that’s what Scott wanted. The freedom to be alone. He had plenty of company with Stephanie.

Scott was passing the Hollywood split when his phone rang. The Caller ID showed LAPD, so he answered, thinking it was probably his K-9 Platoon Chief Trainer, Dominick Leland.