Blindside (Michael Bennett 12)

The crowd wasn’t nearly as discerning. That’s how it always is. In sports and politics and real life. A rowdy crowd drives the conversation and clouds the issues.

Harry stood firm and gave them a look that had withered many detectives under his command. More police cars arrived, along with a crime-scene van.

The crowd could see things were happening, and they started to lose their initiative.

Harry turned to me without any more thought of the crowd behind him. It was that kind of confidence that had inspired countless cops and defused dozens of confrontations.

He said in a low tone, “You doing all right, Mike?”

“I’m not physically hurt if that’s what you mean.”

He led me toward his Suburban and simply said, “That’ll do for now.” It was a complex and touchy subject; he wouldn’t be part of the investigative team and, by policy, couldn’t ask me any probing questions.

It didn’t matter. When I slid into his SUV, I realized he wasn’t acting as Harry Grissom, lieutenant with the NYPD. He was just being my friend.

That’s what I needed right now.

CHAPTER 8

HARRY DROPPED ME off at my apartment on West End Avenue a little after six. I had done all the procedural shit that overwhelms a cop after a shooting. I talked to a union rep, a Police Benevolent Association attorney, and a psychologist. Finally, I told them I had a tremendous headache and needed to lie down. Really all I needed was my family.

As I walked down the hallway to my apartment, my neighbor, Mr. Underhill, spoke to me for the first time in all the years we’d lived there.

He said, “You doing okay?”

I just shrugged and said, “Yeah, you?”

The older, corpulent man nodded and smiled. Then he disappeared back inside. It was the only conversation I had ever had with the man. It was unnerving.

People wondered how an NYPD detective could afford such a great apartment on the Upper West Side. If they were bold enough to ask, I usually just said, “Bribes,” and left it at that. In reality, the apartment had been left to my late wife, Maeve. She had cared for an elderly man here for years. In that time, her personality and warmth had brought the man from a dour, solitary existence to happiness. He felt such joy being around her that when he passed away he left her the apartment and a trust to help pay the taxes. He had wanted Maeve and her growing family to enjoy it. The apartment was a constant reminder of what a ray of sunshine Maeve had been to everyone she met.

Occasionally, when I was in a weird mood, the apartment could make me sad. The idea that my wonderful wife had meant so much to someone that he had changed our entire family’s life was amazing. The fact that she had only gotten to live here a short while was tough to swallow.

The smell of pot roast hit me as soon as I opened the front door. So did two kids. Shawna, my second youngest daughter, and Trent, my youngest son, barreled into me like out-of-control race cars. I didn’t mind one bit.

When I dropped to my knees, Shawna gave me a big hug and kissed me on the cheek. “I’m so glad you’re home safe, Dad.”

Trent chimed in, “Me too.”

So much for my hope that I could ease everyone into what had happened to me. And now I understood Mr. Underhill’s gross show of emotion. I had known word would leak out. Obviously I’d spoken to Mary Catherine about it. I’d told her not to make a fuss. Have something serious happen to you, then try to tell an Irish woman not to make a fuss. It would be easier to keep the sun in the sky an extra two hours.

Before I could even navigate into the kitchen, Mary Catherine found me and gave me a huge kiss.

“I appreciate the attention, but I’m fine.”

Mary Catherine said, “And I thank God for it. But your name has already been on the news. The guy who has the cable access show, Reverend Caldwell, is already in the Bronx saying that you’re a murderer walking free.”

“I thought you’d learned by now that most people don’t have any clue about the facts when they’re spouting garbage like that.” I half expected Mary Catherine to ask me if it was a good shooting. The only thing I had heard the news got right was that there were two men and a police officer involved.

Shootings were ratings monsters, so every news team covered them from start to finish. They always had the same elements: sobbing family members telling the world that their dead relative had been sweet and would have never hurt a fly. And in New York, no shooting was ever complete without the commentary of the Reverend Franklin Caldwell. The “people’s voice.”

To distract myself, I wandered back to the corner of the living room where my teenager Eddie had his face in a computer monitor. I needed something normal like

this. Foolishly I said, “Need a hand with anything, Eddie?”

He didn’t take his eyes off the screen. Another common occurrence. He said, “Thanks, Dad. I think I’ve got this. I’m writing an algorithm to find documents where references to The Lord of the Rings are made. Google just doesn’t cut it for me anymore. Do you have any ideas where I should search?”

All I could do at this point was lean down and kiss the teenager on the top of his head. In his case, I’d never be the smart dad. The best I could be was a loving dad.