Betrayal

FIVE MONTHS LATER, at the main Redwood City police station, Evan Scholler sat waiting in a hard chair just outside the room to which he had been summoned, the small wire-glass-enclosed cage that was the office of his boss, Lieutenant James Lochland. Evan's shift had ended twenty minutes ago, at five o'clock. The summons had been taped to his locker downstairs. Now, as he sat, he could see Lochland at his desk, moving paperwork from a pile in the center of it to one of the trays at the far right corner. When the surface of the desk was clear, the lieutenant drew a deep breath, looked through his wired glass, met Evan's eyes and, in his no-nonsense style, crooked an index finger at him, indicating he should come on in.

Lochland was a young forty and considered a good guy by most of his troops, who, as patrolmen, were by and large, like Evan, young themselves. The scars from a severe case of teenage acne marred what would have been an otherwise handsome face, so that now he came across as approachable. He wore his brown hair a little long by cop standards, and cultivated a mustache that could use a trim. Now he told Evan to shut the door behind him, to take one of the two seats that faced his desk. He had his hands clasped loosely in front of him on the pale green blotter and waited while his visitor was seated.

"What's up, sir? You wanted to see me?"

"Yeah, that's why I sent the note. I thought maybe it'd be a good idea if we had a little informal chat and maybe nip a couple of habits, or tendencies, in the bud before they get you in trouble. But before we go into any detail on those things, I wanted to ask you how you think things are going in a general way. In your life, I mean."

"Pretty good, sir, I think. But, listen, if there've been complaints-"

Lochland held up a restraining hand. "If there have, we'll get to 'em, promise. But we're not there yet. Meanwhile, what I'm really asking about is your state of mind. How you feel about being back here, in the job."

"Pretty good. I feel okay about it. I'm glad to be back."

Lochland nodded, put on a tolerant look. "You sleeping?"

Evan let out a breath, started a smile that went nowhere. "Most nights. Whenever I can."

"You need help with it?"

"What's that?"

"Getting to sleep?"

"Sometimes I'll have a drink or two, yes, sir. When I can't get my mind turned off."

"What are you thinking about?"

Evan shrugged.

"Iraq?"

He let out a long sigh, lifted his shoulders again. "I can't seem to get it out from inside me. The guys I lost. My girlfriend. The whole thing."

"You talking to somebody?"

"A shrink, you mean?"

"Anybody."

"I talked to some woman at the Palo Alto VA until my discharge came through."

"And that was just before you started here, right?"

"April nineteeth. Not that I'll have a party on that date for the rest of my life or anything. So, yeah, a couple of weeks before I started here."

"And you're not talking to anybody since then? They didn't give you any referrals for when you were done with them?"

This brought a snort. "Uh, no. I'm reading between the lines here, but you're saying you think I've still got issues."

"I'm asking, that's all. I'm asking if maybe it's a little too soon. If you feel like you're under too much stress."

"You mean post-traumatic stress?"

Lochland shrugged. "Any kind of stress. Stress you don't need if you're trying to do a good job as a cop. What I'm saying is that there are programs we've got here, and people we could recommend if you think you need it."

"I don't want to go down that road."

"What road?"

"PTSD. You get that label, you're damaged goods. The Army says I'm good. Physically and mentally I'm the miracle child. Now, if one of our own shrinks says I've got PTSD, I'm done."

"That's not exactly accurate."

Evan shook his head. "It's close enough. Post. Traumatic. Stress. Disorder. Disorder, Lieutenant. That's a mental illness. I'm not copping to that, period. That's not what I'm dealing with. I'm fine, sir. Maybe I just need to let a little more time go by." Again, Evan let a long breath escape.

"There!" Lochland said. "That's what I'm talking about."

"What?"

"You don't feel that when you do it? You're sighing like a bellows, Evan. Every time you open your mouth, it's like you're lifting this burden and dropping it on the side before you can say anything."

After a second, Evan hung his head. He came close to whispering, "That's the way I feel." Raising his eyes, he looked across the top of the desk. "So how am I screwing up? On the job, I mean."