Bad Thoughts (8 page)

      
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.
 
 

Chapter 8
 

      
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.”

      
“Sure.” DiGrazia stood up, continuing to avoid eye contact with his partner.

      
Shannon took a deep breath and then stood up and forced a smile. “Well, Marty,” he said. “I guess I’ll be seeing you in two weeks.”

      
“I certainly hope so. Send us a postcard.”

      
The two men left the office in silence. As Shannon passed through the squad room he could feel his fellow officers staring at him with a mix of curiosity and amusement. He had an urge to grab Poulett and kick his smirking face in, but he swallowed it down and kept walking. At the door, he turned and addressed the room, announcing that due to his remarkable service he was being given two weeks paid leave and the rest of them could just go screw themselves. Someone threw a half-eaten doughnut at him. He barely got out in time to avoid the barrage that followed. DiGrazia hadn’t been as lucky. His eyes burned as he picked part of a tuna fish sandwich out from under his jacket, but he kept his mouth shut.

      
Outside, they got into Shannon’s Grand Prix, with DiGrazia behind the wheel. Shannon broke the silence, calling his partner an asshole.

      
“I don’t know what you’re bitching about,” DiGrazia mumbled, stone-faced. “Two weeks paid leave sounds pretty good to me.”

      
“You’re an asshole.”

      
“You’re repeating yourself.”

      
“Yeah, well, in this case it’s well deserved.”

      
“You didn’t give me any choice,” DiGrazia said. “It was either get you on leave or get another partner. And I don’t want another partner.”

      
Shannon sat quietly, his face forming a peevish look. Finally, he thanked DiGrazia for spreading the word about his fainting.

      
DiGrazia started laughing. “You’re really losing touch with reality, aren’t you, buddy boy? There were half a dozen fellow officers in that apartment watching me drag you out of the kid’s bedroom. Think about it.”

      
The ride turned silent again. Finally, Bill Shannon asked to be dropped off at an address in Brookline.

      
“I need to see my therapist real bad,” he explained.
 
 

Chapter 9
 

      
Susan Shannon had been out of it all day, making mistakes, losing her concentration. As the afternoon wore on, her frustration built, severely creasing her brow and tensing her small face. When she lost an hour’s typing by hitting the wrong mouse button, the color dropped right out of her. She sat frozen, struggling against the impulse to smash her computer against the wall. Then she stood up, her body rigid, and held her breath before heading towards the ladies’ room. Sid Lischten, one of the law firm’s partners, spotted her and was about to start bitching about how long it was taking to get his contract typed up. He opened his mouth and then closed it. Even though Susan Shannon stood only five-foot-one and weighed at most ninety-five pounds, at that moment she didn’t look like anyone you wanted to tangle with.

      
When Susan saw herself in the ladies’ room mirror she let out a disgusted giggle. Her face looked like a ridiculous parody of itself—frozen into a hard, anxious mask.

      
She leaned over the sink and splashed cold water over her face. After a while she could feel the hardness softening. She glanced in the mirror and saw her face was almost back to normal, only a little tightness stiffening her mouth.

      
There were obvious reasons for her anxiety. The workplace was stressful as all hell. The associates for the most part were bastards, the partners petty little tyrants. They were adapting well for the nineties, cutting three secretaries and dividing their work among the remaining four. The official message given to the office staff was just be thankful you have a job. The unofficial message was a little more blunt; if you complain about having to work lunches or coming in an hour early or leaving an hour late, then your ass—even if it’s as pretty as Susan Shannon’s—will be out on the street.

      
But that was only a small part of it. She could live with all that. What she couldn’t live with was what was happening to her husband. As much as he promised her this year would be different—that he was making progress with his therapist—she knew it was going to turn out the same as it always had.

      
It was all starting up again. A week ago he jolted up in bed at four in the morning, moaning, his body soaked in sweat. It took her almost a half hour to get him out of it. Since then, the nightmares had come nightly. After the nightmares came the moodiness, the depression, his just staring into space. She didn’t have a clue if he’d gone to work today. She had tried calling home a half dozen times and no one answered, but that didn’t mean a thing. If he was home, he’d just let the phone ring. Probably wouldn’t even be aware of its ringing.

      
Once he got out of bed he was better, almost functional, but getting him out of bed was becoming harder and harder.

      
She knew the signs as well as she knew anything. She’d been living with them for over ten years. Two days ago he had stopped showering or shaving or even brushing his teeth. That was bad. That meant the drinking was only a few days away, at best.