Cop

It’s not that I don’t love my wife. I do. Dearly. But I’m bored and hungry and don’t know what to do about it. I’m impatient and willing to take chances emotionally. Life’s a gamble and I’m a gambler. I’m still a kid at heart is what I actually tell myself. Even though I’m already forty-two years old, have two children of my own, and am a police officer sworn to uphold the law with a badge and a gun, I’m a kid. I’ve cheated on Marianne more than once, more than twice, broken my vows to her, someone I actually love. It always hurts me when I do it. And I always promise myself I won’t do it again. But if history is any indicator I wouldn’t bet on my marital fidelity. And I know each time I screw around it creates more problems for me than it is worth, hurts me more than it helps, but I don’t seem able to curb my behavior or appetites in this regard. My partner Eddie told me it was evidence of an addictive personality. Maybe. But I don’t smoke, or drink, or do illegal drugs. So what am I addicted to anyhow, Eddie, I ask him?

“I don’t know, Joe, the rush, I think,” he says, “the new pussy, the risk, the unknown. You’re a whacko my friend. Pure and simple.”

I’m a cop, a detective actually. I like being a police officer. I take it seriously. It excites me. Being a detective is good for me and I’m good for it. It’s where I want to be. I worked my way up to detective. I’m proud of myself. Think of myself as one of the good guys. I like that, even imagine I make a contribution to the general welfare of society: maintain the peace, bust the criminals, keep the streets safe for women and children, freedom and democracy. You know.

I make enough money to maintain our family and go on small vacations. Marianne doesn’t have to work though she does. Says she likes the opportunity it gives her to be outside the house. I could retire in ten years if I want to. Maybe I’ll go to law school then I tell myself. Who knows? The captain trusts me. And I think he’s right to trust me. My partner Eddie trusts me. And he’s also right to trust me. Hey, I am a trustworthy police officer. And I’d like a guy like me to be my partner too. I’d even like me as a husband if it weren’t for the cheating. In fact I’d be a completely honest man if it weren’t for the cheating. At least I’m an honest cop. At least I think I am.

My kids are my pride and joy. They mean everything to me. I don’t even know how to explain it. I just get overwhelmed with emotion when I think of them. I know that sounds corny and trite, but I mean it. I love them too much for their own good. I always wanted kids, as long as I can remember. As a kid I wanted kids. And I can’t bear the thought of anyone or anything hurting them. So why do I take these chances, why do I play around with my marriage to Marianne?

It happens like this. I go out to investigate a burglary. The victim is a local TV reporter. She is a reasonably attractive woman, not gorgeous, but suave and sophisticated looking. She goes to a gym judging by her arms, by the cross trainer shoes in the corner of her living room, by the gym bag on the floor by her bed. I’m paid to observe. She has a great body and good teeth. And she doesn’t even see me, at least at first she doesn’t. She’s just focused on how inconvenient it is to be have come home and find she’s been broken into. Everything is all hurry up and business to her. She lives in a nicely decorated little ranch out in West Roxbury. Makes at least three hundred thousand a year I guess. Is wearing a lacey white bra that shows through her clean linen blouse. Has on stockings and three-inch heels. Has just come home from work and found her apartment wrecked. Called 911. Eddie and I were in the neighborhood working a series of B and Es. We get the call. There is the possibility of fresh leads and we are at her house in five minutes, before the crime scene guys, before the fingerprint and photography guys. I like it that way whenever I can. First on the crime scene is the best way to see a crime scene, with fresh clear eyes and no one else’s mess.

“This is how I think they got in,” she says showing me the opened window in the master bedroom at the rear of the house. It has one of those old wooden window latches with an arm lock on the top that turn into a matching lock on the bottom window frame. The latches appear to be perfectly in place.

“Do you leave that window unlocked regularly,” I ask?

“No, I’m actually compulsive about locking it,” she says, “Although I honestly don’t remember for sure when the last time I opened or locked it was.”

“Is anything missing from your house?” I ask. “Or are you just a messy housekeeper?”

“I don’t know yet,” she says, “nothing obvious.”

“’Nothing obvious,’” I repeat, “that’s going to be the name of my police procedures manual or my first novel.” I smile at my own wisecrack.

There is always something obvious at all crime scenes, something that provides the clear path or clue to further information. Sometimes you just don’t see it or can’t add up all the pieces. And I surely don’t see it in this apartment, not yet, and besides which, I don’t know what it is I’m looking for other than an elusive clue. Isn’t that the way it is?

“How do I actually know you guys are cops?” she asks me with a kind of surprised afterthought look on her face. I remember we’re in plain clothes.

“Could it be that we showed you our badges when we walked in and said that we were responding to a 911 call of a robbery and got here about five minutes after your call?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Well then,” I say, “let’s do the specifics here if you don’t mind,” and without waiting for an answer I ask her “first, of all, do you live here alone?”

And she’s actually defensive about this, or frightened, or self-conscious. Something. Her eyes shift a little, like she doesn’t want me to know. And why might that be?

“I live here alone,” she says flatly.

“Does anyone else have a key?”

“Just my cleaning lady.”

“No boyfriends with keys, ex-boyfriends with keys, friends, relatives, handymen?”

“No one. And what does a key matter, isn’t it obvious they came in through the window?”

“It’s not obvious to me,” I say.

“Do you mind if I sit down,” she asks.

“Lady, it’s your house,” I say. “Suit yourself.”

She sits down on her sofa. It seems totally natural that I should watch her skirt ride up her thigh as she sinks into the sofa. And when I look in her eyes she has caught me looking at her skirt.

I linger there a few seconds. There’s nothing wrong with looking at a lady’s legs where I come from, especially if she wants you to look at them, even if ever so ambivalently.

“Mind if I take a look around,” I ask.

“It’s your duty to do so,” she says.

I browse around her apartment in the casual way that works for me, not really knowing what I am looking for, but attentive to detail. I notice nothing unusual at first. I am in the bathroom opening and closing draws peeking at hair dryers, face creams, nail files and diaphragms, when the business card laying in the draw with the lipsticks catches my eye. Every officer in the Boston police department is given business cards. They’re nice to have. You can always leave one with someone who you hope wants to know how to reach you. The lettering is blue and quite distinctive, a little raised on the card, embossed is how I think it’s referred to, with the town emblem in the lower right hand corner. They were so familiar to me that I reached in and picked it up. It’s a little dirty and stained and has been in someone’s pocket or in this draw for some time. “Captain Drew Herrick,” this one reads. Now why in the world did she have Herrick’s card in her bathroom vanity draw, I wonder. There are dozens of innocent explanations, and one or two salacious ones. I file it away for later consideration. That’s what detectives do, you know.