You Don't Want to Know
Previously: The team chat with the Headmaster of Academy Prep and get an early evidence briefing from Amanda.
8:45 PM - Saturday, November 1, 2014
Rockridge, Oakland
Amanda’s evidence lowered the mood and sapped the energy. All three agreed to meet the following morning at 8 to set up for the student meeting. Mark offered Jeannie a ride, and Paco gave them both a ride back to his SUV parked at the playground. After grabbing Jeannie’s bag at the station, he dropped her in front of the Park Lane.
“You did good today, Mark.” She told him as she stepped out of his SUV. She looked exhausted, dark circles starting under her eyes.
“You did good today too.” He said. “You’re a good investigator.” Jeannie chuckled as she shut the door.
“I don’t know what I’m doing.” She shrugged from the opposite curb.
“That’s why you’re good.” He gave her a wave and headed for the bridge.
The house was dark downstairs when he arrived home around 9:15. He came in the back door and saw a note on the counter. “Thai food in fridge.” For the first time today, he wasn’t hungry. He didn’t bother to turn on the lights, just moved toward the lower cabinet in the kitchen island where the booze was kept. Digging out a bottle of Four Roses, he poured a neat shot into a rocks glass and tossed it back, and then poured a second. He felt the bourbon burn his throat and exhaled slowly.
“Wow.” Katie stood in the shadowed kitchen doorway. She spoke softly but Mark jumped anyway. He was wary; she could still be mad from this morning - just what he needed right now. “I thought it would at least be a few more years of marriage before you’d hit the bourbon the moment you walked in the door.” She walked toward him with a little smile, barefoot in his sweats with the waistband below her round belly. Her face was clean, no makeup, which he always thought made her the most beautiful— a stark contrast to what was in his brain. He didn’t know what to say. Clearly she wasn’t upset, but he felt undeserving in the moment. She reached up and kissed his cheek. “I missed you today. How was it?” She whispered, trying to hug him sideways.
“You don’t want to know.” He whispered. He could feel her gaze of concern looking over his face. The whole day washed over him and he looked down with a sob.
“Mark -” Katie was in disbelief. “What is it?”
“A teen girl. She’s dead. We don’t know how. It’s - just. It’s awful.” He whispered. “I - I had to tell the father. I mean, I - I broke him. I broke a man today. A good man.” He realized it was true as he said it. Tears came down his face, thinking of Spiro Thomas and the way he stood there and watched the man’s soul come apart. He’d only cried twice as a man before: when Katie said she’d marry him, and when she told him she was pregnant. He tried to breathe and covered his face with his hands.
“Sweetheart. I’m so sorry.” She said, pulling his hands down. She moved in front of him and pressed herself into his chest sideways, wrapping her arms around his torso. He was shaking and she just held on, her face in his neck. He clung to her, his hand shielding her belly instinctively. They stood that way for a long minute, his body quaking. “You know,” she began softly just below his ear, “the best way you can help that man will be to solve it.”
9:05 PM - Nob Hill, San Francisco
Jeannie knew her father would be in the middle of his nighttime routine with Clara by now, so she immediately went into her room to drop her bag. She needed a drink. The kitchen was empty with just the under-counter lights on. Finding a bottle of Bulleit Rye, she poured a generous amount straight into a rocks glass and immediately returned to her room with it. She locked up her gun and spare clips, and charged her radio. She settled her belt, nightstick, cuffs, and body armor on the chair next to her dresser. Her uniform felt disgusting; sticky with the stress of the day. She felt certain she probably stank too. Undressing, she left the navy heap in a pile, grabbed her drink and went into the shower. She let the almost too-hot water pour over her while she just stood there and sipped on the whiskey with her eyes closed.
The whole day moved through her mind like a movie, Alexa Thomas’ body, her kind parents, her pretty face frozen in a hazel stare with pink water drops on the skin. She thought of Paco’s gentle quietness and Mark’s nerdy energy — they were both good at what they did in their own way. And what about her? Was she really good at this, the way Mark said she was? How did she fit in with it all? What was she missing, forgetting, overlooking? She downed the last of the Bulleit and sighed. She scrubbed herself top to toe and stood in the hot spray another few minutes, wondering if she’d be able to sleep at all.
Jeannie combed out her hair, doused herself in moisturizer and popped on a fresh pair of pajamas and an oversized cardigan sweater. Returning to the kitchen, she poured another Bulleit and went back to her room. Her phone vibrated.
“You’re home? Come talk to me.” It was her Dad. She smiled. She wanted so much to tell him everything, but knew she couldn’t go into it all, even for her father. Still, she could tell him some of it.
She went to the large bedroom on the other side of the apartment with her drink and knocked lightly on his door, which was always left slightly ajar, just in case. She peeked in through the opening to see him popped up in his reclining bed, watching Dateline with the volume low. Fergus was curled up on his bed in the far corner; he raised his head and gave a wag for Jeannie, but re-settled into his paws.
“Hi Dad.” She said softly, giving him a kiss. She sat on the end of the bed while he started typing on his iPad.
“You’re late, where have you been?”
“Sorry, I meant to call Clara.” She began, trying to figure out how to explain the day. “The Captain detailed me to an investigation.” Her father’s eyebrow raised. Whatever facial mobility had vanished, this one was still present. She didn’t know how to begin. It felt like a year had passed since she left the house that morning. She started slowly. “It’s a teen girl, she died in the Presidio. I’m working with the Park Police and someone from the FBI. I think he thought…I don’t know, I guess, that I know that world and that I could help.” He looked at her simply, a slight smile on his face. His eyes were beaming.
“That’s very good for you. I’m proud of you.” He wrote out. This made Jeannie want to cry, the emotions of the day hitting her full in the solar plexus.
“Thanks.” She said softly. “It’s pretty terrible.” She wiped away a tear. “We had to tell the parents this evening. We don’t know how she died yet. There was a Halloween party in the Presidio with a bunch of kids and some alcohol and drugs. Tomorrow we have an early meeting with the kids from the different schools so we can start interviews. We thought we’d get them together to minimize the rumor mill. ” She looked down and took a sip of her whiskey, wanting to say that this last part was her idea, but didn’t.
“Good idea. Which schools?” He typed.
“The fancy ones. Holy Heart, Academy, Xavier...” Her father’s eyes clouded when she said Xavier; like the Captain, her father was also an alumni, along with her uncles, cousins, brothers, Chris, and herself.
“Some advice?” He typed.
“Sure.” He paused, thinking, and then typed a long sentence.
“With these kinds of kids, you never know what’s going on at home. Sometimes it’s the richest kids that are the most neglected.” Jeannie thought of Charlie Dagonet.
“I know.” He looked her in the eye and held up a finger. This usually meant he wasn’t quite done. “What?” He went back to the iPad.
“You need to keep a clear head.” He looked at her glass of whiskey, and then meaningfully back in her eyes. He began typing again: “Take it easy - no more nights at the bar - you’ve been going too much. Stick to wine and beer. And bed early.” Jeannie sighed. She didn’t know he had noticed, but of course he had. Her father saw everything. She had been drinking too much lately, between Chris, and moving, and work, and her Dad…it was helping her numb it all. She also knew it was a slippery slope and she needed to get a handle on it.
“Okay.” She said softly, nodding. “I agree with you.” She exhaled deeply. “I should head to bed then - I’m cooked.” She smiled at him and he nodded back. “Remember - Niner game tomorrow against the Rams. 1 o’clock.” He nodded again, his eyes bright. He loved the Giants, but he loved his 49ers even more. She kissed him on the forehead. “Thanks Dad, I love you.” He blinked his eyes slowly.
She went back to her room and downed the last of the whiskey on the way.
There were three lines from Chris waiting on her phone.
She didn’t know what to say but had to say something at this point. She missed him too. Everything about him. God, she wanted him that very second — it would be a relief just to curl up next to him, his long arms wrapping her up. Her exhaustion craved his physical strength.
She couldn’t say any of that. And she certainly didn’t need a fight tonight.
She saw the three dots below her message appear and disappear. They reappeared and faded again. Finally, a little thumbs up icon appeared on her message.
9:25 PM - Spring Street Valley, Sausalito
Paco pulled into the carport of the house he and Imogen shared mid-way up the hill in Sausalito. It was a funky early-70s build with redwood trim throughout, and finished with original Heath tile in the kitchen, main room and out to the patio. The house belonged to someone Imogen knew from the art world who now lived in Ojai, so while it was a good deal for them, Paco knew that she was really in love with that Heath tile. It was mostly a golden-reddish-brown to work with the local redwood, but some tiles had moments of deep green, olive, or even a warm metallic copper. Each one was a surprise. The house felt artistic and calm in its very bones: the warm wood, the tile, the layered Moroccan rugs they’d found at the Alameda Flea Market. Paco had even managed to bring a few of his Grandmother’s Yokut baskets from home, and they worked beautifully with Imogen’s pots filled with every type of houseplant. They also loved the patio that gave a glimpse of the houseboats below in Richardson Bay and Belvedere Island beyond.
He mounted the stairs slowly, fatigue radiating from his core. He looked out at the bay and rested on the railing, watching the lights of the houseboats. The evening had cleared out what was left of the rain and fog, leaving a sparkling autumn night with a half moon.
“There you are.” He heard Imogen say, opening the door softly. She wrapped her arms around him from behind, and just her light hug was a relief. Paco didn’t even know how to look at her after everything he’d seen that day. “Hi.” She whispered, kissing him.
“Hi.” He said. She was so beautiful, her white-blonde hair in loose braid over one shoulder, catching the moon. They were a striking couple — like a Greek myth, opposites of light and dark. She looked at him and her slight smile turned into a soft frown.
“You’re not okay, are you?”
“No. Not really.” He sighed. She gave him a long look, reading him. She did this, keeping silent for a time, giving him space to come to whatever he needed to say. She was the first person he’d ever met outside of the Res who was totally okay with silence.
“Should we have a fire?” She offered softly, pulling him inside.
Twenty minutes later he was showered and changed and came downstairs to find Imogen had already gotten a blaze going in the vintage fireplace in the corner. The lights were low and she was coming in with a hot pot of tea and a cold beer for him. How did she always know what to do?
She nestled into him and they both stared at the fire, enjoying the quiet crackle.
A lot of the California tribes had a burning ritual after a death. The person who died would have their belongings burnt so their soul would know not to come back for them. It was like the practice of not speaking of the dead — you didn’t want to draw them back to earth and have them haunt you. Better to say goodbye to all of it and burn it to dust. Paco wondered what the Ohlone mourning ritual was and made a mental note to look into it. He thought of Spiro and Carole Thomas and what they might be doing right then.
“Billy - are you going to tell me?” Imogen asked softly. It took Paco a second to register that she was even speaking. He sighed, beginning slowly.
“Honestly, I don’t think I can. Not just because you don’t want to know, but because I can’t go through it all again tonight.” Imogen shifted to look at him, concern in her face. “I can tell you that this was maybe the worst day of my career, so far anyways.” He felt weak saying it, but knew it was true.
“I’m sorry.” She whispered. He shook his head softly. “Anything I can do?”
“Just this.”