“Nothing personal, but I just want to be left alone. To get on with my job—a job I love.”
“Look, this is our first session. I understand why you might want to keep things to yourself. Men are more likely to be a closed book. I get it. But ultimately, the feelings you have, the dark feelings, will need to be explored. It’s going to take time. I want to help you get through this.”
“Get through what?”
“The pain you’re holding in. The guilt over what happened that night five years ago.”
McNeal sighed. His gaze wandered across the artworks on the wall. “No disrespect, but you don’t know the first thing about me.”
“I believe I do.”
McNeal bowed his head.
“Some cops say the job grinds them down. The things they see. You were a detective for eight years before you started in Internal Affairs. You must have seen all kinds of deaths. Murders. It is a lot to deal with. It all builds up.”
McNeal was silent.
“What happened five years ago has haunted you. I can see that. Tell me about your wife. How was she affected by it?”
McNeal had wondered when she was going to get around to that. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
The psychologist fixed her steely gaze on him. “Tell me what happened five years ago. I need to hear it from you. I believe you were off-duty.”
“I’d rather you didn’t talk about that.”
“Okay, so why don’t you talk about it? How about we start with that night. What happened?”
Jack closed his eyes.
The psychologist leaned forward. “You need to resolve these issues, Jack, once and for all. I’m here to help you.”
Jack stared at her.
“You are compelled by Assistant Chief Buckley, head of the Internal Affairs Bureau, to attend these sessions. I can help you, but you need to open up.”
Jack turned toward the rain-streaked window to see darkness finally falling over the city.
The psychologist leaned forward and handed him her card. “I can see this is going to be difficult for you. So, if it’s okay with you, I’m going to cut this session short. You can take some space and time to think about what I’m saying.” She pointed to the card in Jack’s hands. “Call me at that number, whenever you want, day or night. Maybe face-to-face doesn’t feel right for you.”
Jack sat in silence, memorizing her name and number.
“You need to do this, Jack. It would make it a lot easier if you allowed me into your world.”
“What if I’m not ready to do that?”
“Then I’m afraid,” she said, a tone of foreboding seeping into her voice, “you’ll have to deal with the fallout down the road. And it might come at a terrible price.”
Three
It was nearly midnight when the phone rang.
McNeal ignored it as he stared down through his rain-streaked apartment windows onto West Third Street, gun in hand. It was a Glock 17. The latest model. He’d tested it at the NYPD firing range at Rodman’s Neck in the Bronx. West Third was bathed in the red neon light from the window of a tattoo parlor. A motorbike pulled up outside. McNeal watched as rainwater poured down a curbside storm drain like rivulets of blood.
The radio played low, a Springsteen song from the Nebraska album. Down below, a cab sped past, spraying water onto girls leaving a bar. A few high-pitched screams. Then laughter.
McNeal felt empty. He contemplated heading out for a drink. A few beers. A scotch. A few shots of tequila. The session with the psychologist had brought back a lot of bad memories he had consigned to the darkest recesses of his mind.
The phone stopped ringing. He sighed and turned off the music. He put down his gun on the dresser beside the photo of his son. His flesh and blood. A picture of innocence.
McNeal allowed the silence to smother him for a few minutes. His emptiness returned. The terrible emptiness. The pain he carried. Five long years his son had been dead.
His mind flashed back to that stifling, dark night in a Staten Island backyard. He closed his eyes, and he was there again . . .
He faced his partner, Juan Gomez, who had a gun pointed at Caroline. In his other hand, Gomez held a half-empty bottle of vodka. Gomez wanted to die. He wanted Jack to kill him. He wanted suicide by cop. He saw it clearly. His partner had cracked. The high-pitched sound of screaming all around. The smell of smoke. He shouted at Gomez to put down the gun. Gomez sobbed. His partner waved the gun and aimed it at a wall. A gunshot rang out. Then Patrick collapsed, blood pouring from his neck. Ricochet bullet. Pandemonium. Suddenly Gomez was inconsolable and turned the gun toward McNeal. His pal. His partner.