Dave Zeltserman - Bad Thoughts

“I can’t do that. I’ve got to beat this thing now or I-I’ll-” The thought died in his throat.

“Beat what?”

“Nothing.” Shannon shook his head, cradling it in both hands. “You’ve got a suspect out there to interrogate, okay?”

DiGrazia turned so he wasn’t facing Shannon. “I need a partner I can trust,” he said. “Not one who goes wacko a couple weeks every year. You take a leave now and return when you’re normal or I’ll ask Brady for a switch. I don’t have any other choice.”

With that, DiGrazia left the room, closing the door quietly behind him. Shannon leaned his head back and banged it against the tile wall. The spinning had stopped and the coldness in his head had cleared somewhat. He wondered briefly why he had the reaction he did with that thirteen-year-old kid. He had seen far worse during his eight years on the force. Like the young mother who’d become paranoid schizophrenic and believed a devil cult was after her ten-month-old baby. To protect her child from being taken by the devil she split the kid open like a ripe watermelon. That one even had DiGrazia woozy, but not him, not with his stainless steel gut. So why would a stabbing-yeah, it was a gruesome multiple stabbing, but still only a stabbing-have this kind of effect on him? Causing him to pass out at the sight of a thirteen-year-old suspect? Of course, he knew he was only kidding himself. Deep inside he knew the reason for it. Whether he’d admit it to himself was another question.

Like clockwork, things were progressing as usual. First the nightmares, followed by bouts of listlessness, depression, and then simply the struggle to get his ass out of bed. He hadn’t realized he had reached the next level until DiGrazia had pointed it out; that he had stopped taking care of himself.

But there was still a chance he could beat it-if he could keep away from the booze. Except February tenth was a long four days away. As it was, he felt now like he was barely holding on by his fingertips and whatever he was holding on to was slippery as all hell.

Bill Shannon sat for a long while. Sat until the whispers had quieted in his mind. Then he stood up slowly and studied himself in the mirror. His skin had a pasty sheen to it, his eyes a wild combination of yellow and red. If he didn’t know better himself, he’d say he’d been tying one on-and a hell of a one at that. What was the point of staying sober if he was going to look like a stinking drunk? He blotted the thought out of his head. He knew better than that.

He turned the faucet on and ran his comb under it and slicked his hair back. It helped a little.

The corpse had been removed, and DiGrazia, Jamie Roberson, and most of the crew were already gone. As Shannon left the apartment he nodded to a couple of members of the forensic team that were tidying up loose ends. They both only gave him a blank stare in return.

When Detective Ed Poulett spotted Shannon entering the squad room, he raised his hand to his forehead and swooned to the floor in the same overly melodramatic way Bette Davis made famous. Then he started moaning in a high-pitched voice as he let his feet twitch spastically. That brought out some hoots and catcalls from their fellow officers. Shannon watched for awhile, then applauded politely and sidestepped past him. Poulett, with a big, smart-alecky grin, jumped to his feet, and along with Jacoby and Mason followed Shannon to his desk.

“What the hell happened to you?” Poulett asked. “Sight of blood get to you?”

“Come on, level with us,” Mason smirked, showing off yellowed teeth. “The suspect just scared the shit out of you, right? A real mean-looking muthafucka.”

“Give me a break,” Shannon said. “I got sick. I think I have some sort of virus.”

“Virus, huh?” Poulett said. “Let me guess where you caught it.” He put his head back and stuck his thumb near his mouth and made with the drinking noises. Then he broke out laughing.

“That’s not funny,” Shannon said.

“Maybe not,” Poulett agreed. He was grinning, but his eyes had a coldness about them. “Neither is embarrassing us. How do you think the punks on the street are going to react to hearing about a pussy cop passing out at the sight of a thirteen-year-old? You better get a grip on yourself, pal.”

Shannon pushed himself to his feet and leaned forward. “You better shut up,” he said very softly.

Poulett stood his ground for a moment and then cracked a smile and stepped back. “You better get a grip, pal.” He pointed a thick finger at Shannon as he walked away. “You need it bad.”

“You know, it really doesn’t look good-” Jacoby started.

“Shut up,” Shannon ordered under his breath as he turned to face him.

“A little touchy, aren’t we?”

Shannon turned and saw Captain Martin Brady standing over him. Brady’s pudgy face was set in an unhappy frown.

“Yeah, maybe a bit,” Shannon admitted.

“Bill, let’s talk,” he said and then turned and headed to his office in the back of the squad room. Shannon, not having any choice, followed him. DiGrazia was waiting for them, sitting impassively, barely looking up as his partner entered the office.

Brady went behind his desk and sat with his hands clasped in front, his eyes staring, unblinking. “You’re having a rough time, are you?”

“Just got sick for a moment, some type of virus, I think.”

“Is that so? Maybe you could use some time off?”

“I’m okay now. Nothing to worry about.”

“Well, now, I think there is something.” Brady showed a troubled smile. “Joe has been suggesting that two weeks of rest would do you a world of good. I agree with him, Bill. I’m going to put you on two week’s short-term disability, effective immediately.”

“You have no right.”

Captain Brady didn’t bother to say a word. He just continued staring at his detective, his smile showing some strain.

“I’m going to the union with this,” Shannon threatened. “You have no cause to force me on leave.”

“I’m not talking about a leave of absence. Only short-term disability.”

“You’ve got no cause!”

“Absenteeism would be a damn good cause,” Brady said, nodding slightly. “Unprofessional demeanor. Intoxication-”

“I haven’t been drinking a damn thing!”

“Looks drunk to you?” Brady asked DiGrazia.

“Stinking drunk,” DiGrazia answered.

“And that’s from your own partner.” Brady sighed. “Bill, I’m trying to do you a favor. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be. At best, all you’d accomplish with a union protest would be to embarrass yourself.”

“I’ll be fine, you don’t have to do a thing-”

“Yes, I do. There’s a pattern with you, Bill. A weird pattern, but a pattern nonetheless. It’s become pretty damn obvious.” Brady lowered his voice into a conspiratorial tone. “I’ll be honest, if you weren’t such a damn good cop I’d’ve bumped you from the force years ago. It’s kind of unsettling the way you fall apart a few weeks every year. But you are a damn good cop. Smart, determined, you keep your caseload moving. It would be a damn shame to have to lose you. So take the next two weeks off, relax, maybe go to Florida with the wife. Enjoy yourself.”

Shannon had his eyes closed tight. He shook his head slowly. “You don’t understand-”

“It might help if I did, but I don’t suppose you’d tell me?”

Shannon opened his eyes and stared helplessly at his commanding officer. After a long silence he shook his head. “There’s nothing to tell.”

“I suppose not. Joe, why don’t you take Bill home, see that he gets there okay. Give his wife a call also.”