Sworn to Silence

CHAPTER 7

John Tomasetti knew he was in serious shit the instant he walked into Special Agent Supervisor Denny McNinch’s office and saw Deputy Superintendent Jason Rummel standing at the window. The last time he’d seen Rummel was when Field Agent Bryan Gant was shot and killed while executing a search warrant in Toledo six months ago. Word among the agents was that Rummel only ventured from his corner office for hirings, firings or deaths. John didn’t have to wonder which of the three had warranted this personal visit.

Seated at the conference table with her requisite Kasper suit and Starbucks mug, Human Resources Director Ruth Bogart paged through a brown expandable file. A file that was too thick from too many forms being shoved into it, and worn from too many bureaucratic fingers paging through. A file John was pretty sure had his name printed on the label.

He should have been worried for his job. At the very least he should have been concerned that he was about to lose his salary and health insurance. Not to mention bear witness to the end of a law enforcement career that had taken him twenty years to build.

The problem was, John didn’t give a damn. In fact, he didn’t give a good damn about a whole hell of a lot these days. Self-destructive, he knew; not a first for that, either. But at the moment all he felt was mild annoyance that he’d been pulled away from his cranberry muffin and dark roast.

“You wanted to see me?” he said to no one in particular.

“Have a seat.” Denny McNinch motioned toward one of four sleek leather chairs surrounding the table. He was a large man who wore his suits too tight and never removed his jacket, probably because his armpits were invariably wet with sweat. John wondered if he knew that the field agents and administrative assistants called him Swamp Ass behind his back.

Two years ago, when John had first come on board with the Ohio Bureau of Criminal Identification and Investigation, Denny had been a field agent. He’d been a weight lifter and could run a five-minute mile with a fifty-pound pack strapped to his back. He’d been a decent marksman and a black belt in karate. Nobody fucked with Denny McNinch. Back in the day, he’d been a real ass-kicker. Then he’d begun the arduous climb up the political ladder. Somewhere along the way he’d become more figurehead than principal. He stopped shooting. Stopped running. Too much deskwork turned brawn to flab, respect from his peers to mild disdain. John didn’t have any sympathy; Denny had made his choices. There were worse fates for a man.

Rummel, on the other hand, was a paper-pusher from the word go. He was small in stature with a wiry build and a Hitleresque mustache that had made more than one field agent crack a smile at an inappropriate moment. But it was usually the last time they smiled at Jason Rummel. Rummel made up for his physical shortcomings by being a mean son of a bitch. A real corporate sociopath. The man with the hatchet. At fifty, he was at the top of the Bureau’s political food chain. He was a predator with big fangs and sharp claws and a proclivity for using both. He fucked up careers for the sheer entertainment value.

As John pulled out a chair, he figured he was about to be on the receiving end of those claws. “What’s the occasion?” he asked. “Someone’s birthday?”

McNinch took the chair beside him without speaking, without making eye contact. Not a good sign. None of this was.

“Don’t be a smart-ass,” he muttered.

Rummel chose to stand. The short man striving to be tall. He walked to the table and looked down at John. “Agent Tomasetti, you’ve had a remarkable law enforcement career.”

“Remarkable isn’t the adjective most people use,” John said.

“You came to BCI with the highest of recommendations.”

“A day I’ll bet you’ve regretted ever since.”

Rummel smiled. “That’s not true.”

John scanned the three faces. “Look, I think everyone in this room knows you didn’t call me in here to slap me on the back and tell me how remarkable I am.”

McNinch sighed. “You didn’t pass the drug test, John.”

“I’m on medication. You know that.” It was the truth; he had prescriptions. Several, in fact. Too goddamn many if he wanted to be honest about it. He didn’t feel inclined to be honest.

Ruth Bogart spoke for the first time. “Why didn’t you write it down on the form when you gave your urine sample?”

John shot her a dark look. “Because the drugs I take are nobody’s goddamn business.”

Bogart’s face reddened through her Estée Lauder makeup.

McNinch shifted uncomfortably. “Look, John, can your doctor verify the script?” he asked reasonably. The peacekeeper. The man in the middle. The man who used to be just like John until too much paperwork turned him into another fat guy in a suit who didn’t count for shit.

“I’m sure he can.” Another lie, but it would buy him some time. John figured it was the best he could hope for at this juncture.

Bogart piped up again, angry now because John had embarrassed her in front of her colleagues. “I’ll need the name and number of your physician.”

“Which one? I have several.”

“The one who prescribed the pills.”

“They’ve all prescribed pills.”

Bogart shook her head. “Give me the names, John.”

He could tell by her expression she’d wanted to call him asshole, but she didn’t have the balls. Ruth Bogart was far too politically correct to say what she really thought. She’d wait until your back was turned, then sink the knife in good and deep.

John recited the names of three doctors and gave her the phone numbers. There were more doctors—he’d done quite a bit of shopping around—but he stopped there since prescription shopping was illegal in most states.

John leaned back in his chair. “If you guys are after my ass, you should have called me in here about my performance or attendance instead of this drug test thing. Considering my history with BCI and the Cleveland Division of Police, termination based on a urinalysis could be tricky.” He lowered his voice. “People hate it when the good guy gets the shaft. I don’t think you need that kind of negative PR. Hell, if this were to go to litigation . . .” He shrugged.

McNinch looked alarmed. “John, no one’s after your ass.”

“We don’t expect this to go to litigation,” Bogart added.

John didn’t believe either of them.

Rummel set a leather-bound notebook on the table and sat. “Is there a correlation between the drugs and your attendance?”

John couldn’t help it; he laughed. But with his career in the toilet, his life already down the drain, there wasn’t anything remotely funny about any of this. Except for maybe Rummel’s ridiculous mustache.

The deputy superintendent shot Bogart a look. She passed him a sheet of paper. Rummel set the papers down without looking at them. “You’ve missed ten days of work this year and it’s only January.”

“I had the flu.”

“For ten days?”

“It was bad.”

In his peripheral vision, John saw Bogart roll her eyes.

Rummel frowned. “John, you’re bound by the employee handbook just like everyone else.”

Bogart chimed in. “You’ll need to provide us with a note from your doctor.”

“I went to a clinic.”

“An invoice will do,” she said. “For documentation.”

John scanned their faces, his heart rate kicking up. Two years ago he’d had high hopes for the field agent position with BCI. He’d hoped a new job in a new city would provide him a fresh start. He’d hoped it would save him from the black hole that had sucked him down since the fiasco in Cleveland. Or maybe save him from himself. BCI was a top-notch agency. The field agent position was a far cry from working narcotics. His duties were more diverse. He spent less time on the street. There was less stress. The people were decent. Well, except for Rummel.

But like a hiker with a backpack full of stones, John had brought his problems to Columbus with him. The rage. The grief. The outrage at the unfairness of life. His reputation and the stigma. Once in Columbus, cut off from what few friends he had left, he became even more isolated. The fresh start he’d hoped for became a whole new nightmare rife with all the trimmings. Different doctors. Same problems. Same drugs. Same bottle of Chivas. The new job became a new failure. The names had changed, but the move hadn’t changed a thing.

Now, the brass at BCI wanted him gone, and at the age of forty-two, John was facing early retirement. Or maybe a security officer position at the local Kroger. But John wasn’t ready to call it quits. The sad truth was there wasn’t much out there for a former detective with a psych sheet, a reputation as a rogue cop, and the work record of a stoned college student. The grand jury in Cleveland might have returned a no bill, but the stigma would follow him the rest of his life.

Rummel gazed steadily at John. “Have you considered early retirement? Taking into account your service with the Cleveland Division of Police, we could wrangle you a deal.”

John knew he should jump at the opportunity. Shoot the horse and put it out of its misery. But God, he didn’t want to give up on his career. If he did that he might as well be dead. Even that option had crossed his mind a time or two, but he didn’t have the guts.

“What kind of deal?” he asked.

Rummel came forward in his chair, his rodent eyes gleaming. “In case you’re not reading between the lines here, John, this is not a request.”

“Take the deal,” McNinch said quietly.

“It’s more than fair,” Bogart put in. “Full bennies. Company car.”

John’s temper writhed. Contempt for these people was like a serpent beneath his skin, twisting, ready to slither out and strike. “Fair probably isn’t quite the right word, is it?”

“We know what you’ve been through,” Bogart soothed.

“I seriously doubt it.” John said the words through teeth clenched so tightly his jaws ached.

“We sympathize with your . . . situation.” This from Rummel.

John looked at him, wondering how many times the man had said those hollow words to other agents who’d lost partners or loved ones. Insincere son of a bitch; he was probably enjoying this. He envisioned himself lunging over the table, grabbing the other man’s collar and slamming his face into the rosewood surface until his nose was a bloody pulp. He could feel his pulse throbbing at his temples. The blood roaring in his ears.

Silently, he counted to ten, the way Doc Pop-a-pill had instructed. It didn’t help. “I’ll take it under advisement,” he ground out.

Denny groaned aloud. “John, for chrissake . . .”

Shoving away from the table, John rose abruptly. “If you people want me gone, I suggest you get your cards in order and grow some balls.” Not waiting for a reply, he started toward the door.

“John!” McNinch called out.

John didn’t stop. He didn’t look back.

“Let him go,” Rummel said quietly.

John hit the door with both hands, sent it flying open. It banged against the wall hard enough to rattle the framed picture of the attorney general in the hall. Keyboards fell silent. Heads swung his way. Pretty administrative assistants. A field agent holding a Krispy Kreme doughnut. The mail guy with his cart piled high with envelopes. Their expressions were wary, as if they expected John to pull out his sidearm and go postal. A little afternoon entertainment to go with their lattes and Diet Cokes. High drama on the fourteenth floor. Break out the fucking popcorn.

John felt the eyes burning into him as he strode toward his office and yanked open the door. Inside, he looked around, wondering what the hell he was doing. He should have taken the offer. He should have stayed calm. Now, if Rummel had his way, they were going to fire him. God knows he’d given them cause. Liquid lunches. Lost afternoons. That was when he bothered to show up at all. His penchant for prescription drugs was just the icing on the cake.

But God help him, he didn’t know what he’d do without the drugs. Didn’t know how he’d get through the day or God forbid a whole goddamn night. Talk about a clusterfuck.

He crossed to the window behind his desk and stared out at the traffic on Broad Street fourteen stories below. Not for the first time, the thought of ending it all flitted through his mind. He could go home. Have a couple of drinks. Work up the courage. Be done with it. But while John was squarely at the bottom of the barrel, he wasn’t so far gone that he could blow his brains out.

Not yet, anyway.

Sighing, he turned from the window and slid into the chair behind his desk. He thought about Nancy and Donna and Kelly, and shame for what he’d become cut him. The urge to pull out the photos was strong, but he resisted. Seeing their faces didn’t make him feel any better. He couldn’t remember them the way they’d been. When he thought of his wife and two little girls, he saw them the way they’d been on the dreadful night he’d found them . . .

A soft rap on the door drew him from dark thoughts. “It’s open.”

McNinch stepped into his office, his expression contrite. “Sorry about what happened in there.”

“Par for the course.”

“Rummel knows you’re a good agent.”

“Rummel doesn’t know shit about me.”

McNinch slid into the visitor chair and pretended to be interested in the plaques, commendations and framed diploma on the wall. “It was a good deal,” he said after a moment.

“I’m not ready to retire.”

“There are a lot of things you could do, John. Things with less stress.”

The smile felt brittle on his face. “You mean like a rent-a-cop?”

McNinch frowned. “Hell, I don’t know. Private detective. Friend of mine from Houston, a former cop, went into corporate security for a major pizza company chain. Draws a decent salary. Another guy I know is now a Justice of the Peace.”

“Good for them.”

“You gotta do something, man. Rummel wants you gone. He’s like a dog and you’re the fucking bone. At the moment, you have a choice as to how you walk out that door. In six months, you may not have that luxury.”

John gave him a hard look. “I wouldn’t call any of this a luxury.”

“Hey, man, I know you got a tough break—”

“I didn’t have a tough break,” he snapped. “For chrissake, just say it. Stop with the fucking euphemisms.”

Grimacing, Denny looked down at his hands. “I’m on your side.”

“You’re on whatever side is convenient. But I get it, Denny. I’ve been around long enough to know how it works.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way.”

“Yeah, me, too.”

Rising, the other man started toward the door.

John leaned back in his chair and watched him go. When the door clicked shut, he opened his pencil drawer and pulled out the flask, the silver finish tarnished from use. The irony that it had been a gift from his wife never ceased to give him pause every time he took a drink.

Snagging his briefcase, he set it on his lap and snapped it open. He dug into the side pocket. Relief swept through him when his fingers closed around the prescription bottle. John hated what he’d become. A sick parody of the man he’d once been. A fucking junkie. Everything he despised. Weak. Dependent. Pathetic. He wanted to blame it on the doctors. After all, it was they who’d so eagerly prescribed. But two years ago, John had been a basket case. A man truly at the end of his rope. Flirting with thoughts of suicide. Going so far as to put the gun in his mouth. He’d tasted the gun oil and his own fear, felt the cold steel rattle against his teeth.

Popping the cap, he tapped out two Xanax and one Valium. He wasn’t supposed to take them together, but he’d experimented and discovered through trial and error a cocktail of pills that provided what he needed to get through the day.

He pulled out the framed photograph and blew off the paper dust and pencil shavings. His late wife, Nancy, and his two little girls, Donna and Kelly, smiled at him as if they didn’t have a care in the world. Looking at them never got any easier. He should have been able to protect them.

Propping the frame on his desk, he tossed the pills into his mouth and raised the flask. “Here’s to you, Nancy,” he whispered and washed them down with eighty-proof whiskey.