Buddy Lee thought, It ain’t about that kid. If that was it, I’d be in bracelets by now.
LaPlata pulled out his cell phone and scrolled through a few screens. When he found what he was searching for, he put the phone on the coffee table made from milk crates that sat between them. Buddy Lee looked at the phone. There was a picture of a bearded man with a huge black eye. His mouth was swollen, too. His lips looked like sausages. The background behind the man was the muted puke green that Buddy Lee knew so well. The picture was obviously taken in a police station.
“That is Mr. Bryce Thomason. He came down to the police station this morning and told us an interesting story. He said two old guys came in his head shop and beat the shit out of him while asking questions about the murders of their sons. Bryce also has some broken fingers. He won’t be vaping with that hand for a while,” LaPlata said. Buddy Lee raised his head.
“Yeah, somebody fucked that boy up good. But, ya know, he look like he got a smart goddamned mouth, so I ain’t surprised. Huh, and here I was thinking you might have some news about the case,” Buddy Lee said. LaPlata placed his hands on his knees.
“Let’s me be real honest with you, Mr. Jenkins. Off the record. I get it. You had a rough relationship with your son because he was gay and you couldn’t handle it. Now he’s been killed and you can’t fix things with him so you wanna fix the people who did it, because you don’t think we’re moving fast enough. I understand how you feel. But here’s the thing. We can’t have private citizens running around trying to get retribution. That’s how people like Bryce here get hurt. That’s how I end up having to arrest you and drag you downtown. I don’t want to do that, Mr. Jenkins, but I will. People can’t take the law into their own hands. That’s how we get anarchy. And by the look of the bruises on your face, you’ve engaged in some anarchy recently.”
“You really believe that, don’t you?” Buddy Lee asked.
“Yes, I do.”
Buddy Lee scratched at his chin. “You keep saying you understand. You got kids, Detective LaPlata?”
“I got a boy and a girl, and before you ask, yes, if someone hurt them I’d want to find the bastards and kill them slow, but I wouldn’t, because I’d trust my fellow officers to find the people who did it and handle it the right way,” LaPlata said.
“See that’s where we are different. You saying that because it ain’t happened to you, and I swear to God I hope it never does. But until you sitting on this side of the table, I’d appreciate it if you stop saying you understand. Now I’m no lawyer, but I’m thinking if you had more than the word of that boy—what you say his name was, Bryson?”
“Bryce,” LaPlata said.
“Yeah, Bryce. I’m thinking if you had, say, some videos of who beat his fucking teeth in, well, you’d be arresting me right now. But you ain’t because you don’t. Now if you don’t mind, I’m pretty damn tired and I’d like to get some sleep.”
“Hey, Mr. Jenkins. I’m sincerely sorry for your loss. I don’t know how it feels, but I can imagine. Because if someone hurt my kids, I’d lose my fucking mind. But let’s make sure we got one thing straight. I’m giving you an out here. This is your onetime stay-out-of-jail-free card. Yeah, it’s your and Mr. Randolph’s word against Bryce, who is, in fact, a little shit. His two associates can’t seem to remember who came in and put the hurting on him. So I’m letting this one slide. I’ve driven sixty miles outside of my jurisdiction to give you a warning. Next time, if there is a next time, I’m hauling you downtown, and I’ll get the judge to set a bail just high enough it’ll keep you in jail until we finish our investigation. We clear about that?” LaPlata asked.
“Like I said, Officer, I’m about to be dead to the world, so if you could excuse me. I’ve got a big night ahead of me laying here thinking about my boy and how I can’t never fix things with him,” Buddy Lee said. A white-hot rage flamed in his chest like a shattered hurricane lamp. This fucking cop with his crisp white shirt and his pleated pants with a crease sharp enough to slice bread wanted talk to him about loss? This pretty boy who didn’t look like he would know what hard times were if they came up and spit in his goddamn face? This preppy-looking son of a bitch who probably never missed a Christmas with his family and played touch football every Thanksgiving like a goddamned Kennedy? This guy who had nice middle-class sex with his wife every other Friday night? Who never had to tell his spoiled brat of a daughter they didn’t have enough money for the doll baby she wanted? Who probably lived in a nice two-story on the north side of the Cap City with his goddamned living breathing son wanted to tell him about loss? About how he couldn’t fix things with Derek? Fuck him. Fuck him and his happy Norman Rockwell bullshit life. Buddy Lee was acquainted with loss in ways Det. LaPlata could never even conceive, let alone survive.