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“I hear you made deals with everybody,” Van Buren commented, looking at her visitor over her reading glasses as she worked her way through a stack of paperwork. McCoy nodded.
“Eight and a third to twenty-five for Johnson and Hatch; fifteen to twenty-five for Martins.”
“Then it’s over.”
“Not by a long shot.”
She looked at him quizzically, and he elaborated,
“I just sent a Deputy Chief of the NYPD to jail. Every case he ever worked—every case worked by those he mentored!—is now suspect and subject to possible appeal.” He tapped the edge of her desk. “Yes, I got justice for Mike and for those two kids. But….”
“Maybe it’s like you said,” she replied, and it was his turn to look quizzical. She continued, “The sheer number of people on the job … statistics says that a few of ’em are gonna be duds.”
He half-smiled. She smiled back and asked,
“So, why are you hanging around here? And on a Saturday?”
“I’m trying to get away from Mike,” he replied honestly. “Cynthia’s asleep—she worked a twenty-four-hour shift at the hospital yesterday—and Mike’s just been acting like a pissy little teenage girl today. I don’t know what his problem is.”
She snorted.
“What?”
She took off her glasses and deliberately laid them on top of the pile before answering him. “You’ve never had crisis response training, have you?”
He shook his head. “Never needed it.”
“Well, the Department cycles everybody through about once every three years. The last time I had it, they had this woman there who had been one of the first responders at Columbine, and now she travels around the country doing these presentations … anyway, one of the things she said that I’d never heard before was that the third day after Columbine, everybody came in and were just pissy. That was the anger phase.”
“So, you’re saying that he’s acting completely normal?” A twinkle appeared in his eye. “Can he come live with you?”
She chuckled. “It’s only for a few more days … until he gets his credit cards replaced, right?”
He nodded, smiling. “Or Connie comes home. Whichever comes first.”
“Eight and a third to twenty-five for Johnson and Hatch; fifteen to twenty-five for Martins.”
“Then it’s over.”
“Not by a long shot.”
She looked at him quizzically, and he elaborated,
“I just sent a Deputy Chief of the NYPD to jail. Every case he ever worked—every case worked by those he mentored!—is now suspect and subject to possible appeal.” He tapped the edge of her desk. “Yes, I got justice for Mike and for those two kids. But….”
“Maybe it’s like you said,” she replied, and it was his turn to look quizzical. She continued, “The sheer number of people on the job … statistics says that a few of ’em are gonna be duds.”
He half-smiled. She smiled back and asked,
“So, why are you hanging around here? And on a Saturday?”
“I’m trying to get away from Mike,” he replied honestly. “Cynthia’s asleep—she worked a twenty-four-hour shift at the hospital yesterday—and Mike’s just been acting like a pissy little teenage girl today. I don’t know what his problem is.”
She snorted.
“What?”
She took off her glasses and deliberately laid them on top of the pile before answering him. “You’ve never had crisis response training, have you?”
He shook his head. “Never needed it.”
“Well, the Department cycles everybody through about once every three years. The last time I had it, they had this woman there who had been one of the first responders at Columbine, and now she travels around the country doing these presentations … anyway, one of the things she said that I’d never heard before was that the third day after Columbine, everybody came in and were just pissy. That was the anger phase.”
“So, you’re saying that he’s acting completely normal?” A twinkle appeared in his eye. “Can he come live with you?”
She chuckled. “It’s only for a few more days … until he gets his credit cards replaced, right?”
He nodded, smiling. “Or Connie comes home. Whichever comes first.”
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Link to [Part 42]
