It takes me another half hour to extricate myself from the nonchalant therapeutic grasp of Dr. Legaspi and by the time I’m finally anywhere near the door I’ve somehow agreed to come back and actually committed myself to a time slot.  My distracted attempts to explain how being under works have not fazed Legaspi.  She’s seen Law and Order, she watches Cops.  I’ll have access to clocks and there’s a watch right there on my wrist.  If all else fails I can ask the guy with the camera to drive me.   

She’s relentless and I’m too preoccupied by the name on that tape to put up much of an argument.  Exstead.  And Jinny with an “I”.  How many of them can there be? But what are the odds of the Department sending me to the same shrink as one of the people I’m supposed to be helping SF’s Internal investigate?  Does Legaspi’s yellow page ad read “Half price off on troubled female law enforcement”?   

Inspector Jinny Exstead.  Her file reads way more exciting than mine, rather like a made for television movie starring either Valerie Bertinelli or Nancy McKeon.  I grab it out of the parachute silk duffel bag I use as a briefcase and use the first traffic jam I pull up on to study it flipped open on the steering wheel.  

Thirty Two. Single.  Never been married. Reams of internal notes documenting obvious personal problems interfering with duty.  She’s been written up for being combative, hostile with superiors, described as “difficult” “high strung”, “rebellious” and “confrontational”.  I snort in derision over that; I seriously doubt the file of any female who has risen up through the ranks dominated by males would read any different. The latest entries though begin to document what on paper looks like an obvious downward spiral; late reporting for duty, calling in sick, entries of suspected alcohol dependency beginning to affect her relations with co-workers and her job performance.  

One of the latest notations documents an Intervention by family and co-workers and a subsequent voluntary trip to Rehab.  Legaspi might be some by-product of that if after leaving Rehab she had agreed to continue seeing a shrink as a condition for not losing her job while inside.  Or maybe Inspector Exstead had just felt some lemming pull of her own urging her to be shrinky-dinked.  Rehab is, after all, for quitters.   

Shit, I think.  She should have just transferred into Narco.  Fit right in. 

They don’t hire professional photographers to take the photos for police or department ID’s.  Mine bears a slight resemblance to me, but much more to my dad, were he ever to find himself in drag.  Exstead, however, is one of those disgusting females with the kind of face it is probably impossible to take a bad photo of.  She’s unsmiling and fierce with an in-your-face pissed off expression of tolerance.  Dark hair, straight, off to either side bangs, eyes either blue or green, impossible to say which in this photo.  Her head is slightly ducked with her chin tucked just barely; classic body language indicating defensiveness, a subconscious left over from when our ancestors had to routinely protect the soft undersides of their throats from predators.  You see it a lot in cops.  And abused children. 

I lose my grip on the folder trying to make a left turn while laying on my horn at the asshole who apparently neglected to read that paragraph in traffic law that gives the right of way to the vehicle with the green arrow and nearly rear end the car in front of me trying to fish the scattered pages out of the passenger side floorboard.   

I toss aside the ones I’ve already scanned.  There’s a smattering of family history within the file.  Mother deceased sometime in childhood, and under this in black ink is scribbled “suicide”.  Only girl in a fairly large family, father and brothers in law enforcement~~  I make a face and lean back.  To someone outside law enforcement that tidbit of information probably means nothing.  Police officer is a respected designation; it reeks of strong work ethic and high morals.  To someone actually in law enforcement, or who has been married or born the child of one it screams volumes.   

There is a reason why cops have high divorce, suicide, spousal and child abuse rates along with obesity, heart attacks, migraines, high blood pressure, alcoholism, drug abuse, clinical depression and strokes.  It is a profession which consumes the person; there is no real off duty time, no clocking out, no not being a police officer just because you have taken off the uniform or lain aside the guns.   

The people a cop comes into contact with are rarely overjoyed to see them arrive, even if they dialed 911 themselves.  This tends to make you very tired.  It’s disheartening to tackle an enraged and drunken 250 pound man who seconds earlier was cracking the skull of his wife on the concrete, only to have her leap up shrieking and clawing to defend his right to beat the shit out of her.  It is a job which isolates and insulates the officer from anyone not in law enforcement until one day you pick up your address book and realize that every person in it has their rank or badge number next to their name.  There are things you cannot talk about and things you cannot make yourself forget and the stress of that coupled with the odd, unpredictable hours and the incredible amount of energy it takes and there is very little left over for anyone; not husband, not wife, not child, not self.  

A mother who chose to end her own life, the only girl in a family of stressed out, driven, testosterone–filled guys, and she decides to go into the business herself. 

Inspector Jinny Exstead is either a  masochist or a martyr.  The Cavalier wanders to the left and takes in a few drunk bumps as I fumble for the photo which has slid out beneath the paper clip on the folder and then hold it up and peruse that face again.   

Masochist, I decide.  Martyrs aren’t that pissed off.               

Several hours later I am sprawled out across the top of the king sized bed in room 502 of the Marriott, all five folders spread out under my nose, trying to piece together a puzzle.   

Five cops, five folders, two precincts, an assortment of missing drugs including but not limited to Cocaine, Ecstasy and Vicodin in rather extravagant amounts, at least in the last few weeks.  Street rumors that a cop is selling seized drugs at clubs to ravers.  Statements from paid informants repeating the same information, which means jack shit because paid informants are paid and will say anything the guy with the money wants to hear or write down. 

Where is the hard evidence?  I’ve shuffled through each file and through the manila envelope first given to me in Austin and I am finding nothing.  They’ve got drugs missing.  They’ve handed me five names and five faces and five personnel files and documentation supporting that there are now less drugs in the evidence room than had been recorded previously, but that’s it.   

In spite of the fact that the drugs have been apparently disappearing for a period of over half a year from just one precinct, nobody has had the brilliant idea of setting up a surveillance camera aimed in that direction and nobody has laid a wire in the room.  They have a sign in-sign out sheet which is apparently in custody of a desk jockey, but there are a million different ways to get around the tiny measure of security that offers and nobody has gone through the paperwork and even attempted to match up the dates of the missing drugs and who was in and out of the room on that day and there’s nothing anywhere about the person at that desk.  Apparently that is my job. 

And these people they’ve given me as suspects!  Three men with files so bland and squeaky clean I’m wondering if maybe they are crossing guards instead of cops.  Who can have been on the force for seven years and never once lost their temper or called in sick and been spotted later at the beach or mouthed off to a supervisor?  We’d eat these guys for breakfast in Texas.  With a beer to wash them down.  

The lone female other than Exstead has the first name of Amelia; now who named Amelia would have the balls to so much as turn in a library book late, much less be carting off coke and X?  There is nothing in any of the files which tells me one of them is bringing in anything extra;  no townhouses, no yachts, no new cars, no trips to Bermuda, no wives or husbands or significant others sporting gifts…  In fact, I can’t tell if anyone has even bothered checking that out.  Other than Exstead the entire pile of paper is so boring I actually find myself watching the Weather Channel and pondering the mystery of the constantly pregnant female forecasters.  Do they pass out fertility drugs between cold fronts and air masses or what?  

I’m half dozing when the phone rings and I knock my Heinickin off the night table as I grab for the phone.   

“Coop!” a male voice booms in my ear. “You sound drunk.”  I recognize my Lietenant and roll my eyes. 

“No such luck, LT.  Asleep.” 

“Asleep?” I think maybe he attempts to keep the disbelief out of his voice, but not by much.  “What is it out there?  Ten?” and before I can answer he skips straight to the real reason he’s called.   

“You keep that appointment today?” It’s barked in his Marine Reservist voice where he is referred to as First Sergeant Wayne.   

“Yes, Sarge.” I sigh and stretch the cord out to the limit and fetch another Heini out of the little fridge.  The drop in rank is not an insult; before he tested for CLE he was my Sergeant in Traffic Law for three years when I was a Trooper.  He’d bumped up to Lieutenant eighteen months before I passed the CLE test and oral board, claiming the automatic rank of Sergeant/Investigator. The “Sarge” is an old habit neither of us have ever attempted to break me of. 

 He’s waiting, expecting something else apparently, but I have no clue what it is and if it’s to do with Dr. Legaspi I’d just as soon skip it.  So I pry the top off with the bottle opener on my key chain and guzzle beer before telling him, “This case out here…” 

“What about it?” 

“How’d I end up with this one?  It’s hinky.” 

“Hinky?” he barks and before I can affirm that yes, indeed, I did use the word “hinky”, he’s swiveled back around to the Legaspi thing again. 

“We didn’t get the release form,” he tells me and I close my eyes and do a slow ten count before replying.  

“I went.  I saw her.  She said she would fax it.”  I take another swallow and press the cold green glass bottle against the side of my face which is hot.  I try again. 

“This case, Sarge,” I say, trying to make my voice calm and direct.  “I don’t like it. “ 

“Well, you’re not being paid to like it.” He drawls and I hold the receiver away from my ear and jab the bird at it several times before putting it back to my ear to hear he is still fucking going on about goddamn Legaspi. 

“—had to convince them to send you on this one.  I put my ass on the line for you and part of the deal was you see someone and this Legaspi was recommended by SFPD.”  

Oh fuck.   I squeeze my eyes shut and roll the bottle across my forehead, grinding my teeth.  SFPD’s been let in on my melt down and here I am on a mother fucking job that doesn’t add up and when I ask questions it’ll be That Crazy Girl from Texas asking them.  Great.  I’m surprised they haven’t notified the Marriott to put me on suicide watch or something.   

And then the information falls into place with a click as I realize that someone at SFPD deliberately sent me to the same head doctor ministering to the mental needs of one of the people they handed me to investigate.  The only one with anything more than milk toast on record. There is no such thing as a coincidence like this.  A piece of the puzzle is spinning mid-air but I can’t see where it’s going to land yet or what pieces I need to fit around it.   

   His voice changes, goes from harsh drill sergeant growl to the voice of the guy I play basketball against in the gym at the Academy.   

“There’s nothing wrong with getting a little help, Coop.  Take advantage of the Department’s providing you this service—“  he goes off on some spiel about the stress and the terrible thing that happened and how we all miss Jase and I have to put the phone down or I will start screaming and this is not an indication of mental health to the Department.   

When I get it back up he’s gone silent and I give him what he wants to hear.   

“I made another appointment today.  With Legaspi.”  I hear the exhale of relief on his end and I push on before he can get started again.   

“ Now I need you to shut up and listen to me about this case and I need to know who gave you Legaspi’s name. ”  And then I tell him why.  

 END OF TWO

{~> Crossroads  Next Story, Please <~}