The Pallbearers

Chapter 20

I was in a deep funk and angry with myself as I left Harbor Division. I couldn't get past this festering guilt. I was marinating in dangerous self-analysis even though I knew that was no wav to work a case.

Suicides are intensely personal. A man at odds with himself looks into his own abyss, not telling anyone about the devastation he feels, pretending to most around him that everything is okay. Usually only his wife or close friends will see evidence of it. Then suddenly and without warning he ends it. Since almost nobody saw it coming, nobody is really in a position to stop it but the victim or the immediate family.

I could almost deal with Walt's death being a suicide. Almost. I could sort of absolve myself from blame if he died by his own hand. After all, he hadn't reached out to me. He hadn't asked for my help, even though I'd not been around to give it.

Murder, on the other hand, was a whole different situation. In a murder, there's a perp. A dark presence who seeks to harm. There's usually a motive. Motives are often transparent, even to bystanders. If you're paying attention, a murder should not be a surprise event.

A good friend, especially if he's a cop, should see it coming. There might have been prior threats of harm, which would have caused behavior modifications in Walt that I could have spotted, asked about, and evaluated. Method, motive, and opportunity are the three pillars of all homicide investigations. I live by those words. I should have known something was wrong, and that's why I was so angry.

I was furious for having been absent without cause from Walt's life. Had I been there, I could have made Pop confide in me. I could have stopped this from happening.

I parked my car at the valet in front of the Tiki Hut, got out, and dragged my guilt-ridden ass through an entrance lit with flaming torches, gave my name to the maTtre d', and was led through a half-empty restaurant, out to the deck that sat right on the ocean sand, only three blocks from my house. Alexa was seated under an outdoor heater. She had a surprise guest.

My son, Chooch, rose to hug me as I approached the table. I kissed Alexa and, as we sat down, I thought, this is just right. These are the two people I want to be with.

"I thought you could never miss training table during spring ball," I said to my handsome, six-foot-four, half-Hispanic son.

"They let me out because I had to go over and see a doc in West L. A. for deep ultrasound," he explained.

"How's the hammie?"

"It's a bitch. Hamstrings take forever. Fortunately, this one didn't get pulled too bad. If I'm careful and don't reinjure it I should be back on the field in six to eight days." He was smiling, trying to keep it upbeat even though I knew he was panicked about losing position and dropping down on the depth chart. Coach Pete Carroll runs an open program, so everybody always has a chance to move up. Football at USC is a lot of fun, but its also a tough, competitive hustle.

"You guys ready to order?" Alexa asked, smiling at the guy talk while passing menus around.

Alexa and I had the classic Mai Tai, Chooch had a Coke, and we all ordered the teriyaki-steak special. While we waited for the meals, we talked some more about school and spring ball.

"I was doing great 'til this hamstring," Chooch said. "Coach says you don't lose your position on the depth chart through injury, but my not being on the field can't help. I gotta totally concentrate on getting rehabbed."

It went on like that for a while, until our dinners came. Then Chooch abruptly changed the subject.

"Mom tells me Walter Dix was real important to you. Thats why you guys canceled Hawaii."

"Yeah," I said. "He was."

"Then how come you never talked about him?"

I sat for a moment and tried to deal with that.

"It was a mistake not to," I said. "I should have." Alexa reached out and took my hand. "Pop Dix ran the foster home where I lived from the time I was six until I graduated high school. He was the only person back then who cared whether I did my homework or got into fights. Cared if I was hurting or afraid. Walter stood between me and disaster. But when he needed me, I was nowhere around. I failed him, and in doing so I failed myself." The last part came out almost as a whisper.

"If I said something like that, you know what you'd say to me, Dad?"

"No."

"You'd say, 'Suck it up, Chooch. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. It's not the way to solve your problem.'"

"Is that what I'd say?"

"Yeah. It wasn't your fault."

"I can't get past my betrayal," I said. "I'm trying, but it's eating me up."

"Y'know, Dad, you can never pay people back for the favors they do. The best you can usually do is pass those favors 011."

I looked down at my plate, then stirred niv tropical drink, wondering how the hell to get out of this conversation.

"When we first met, you didn't know that you were my dad," Chooch continued. "But you reached out to me anyway. Got me out of that gang. You cared about me when nobody else did. There was only you between me and disaster, the same way Mr. Dix was there for you. When you saved me, you passed his favor on."

"It isn't quite that simple," I said.

"It is," Chooch replied. "It's exactly that simple."

Alexa squeezed my hand, and when I looked over, she nodded.

Later that night, after Chooch went back to USC and we got home, Alexa and I were again in the backyard. A low fog had dropped over the coast, and we were sitting in a thick white cloud, unable to even see halfway across the small canal that runs past our house. She held my hand as a distant foghorn blared mournfully miles away out in the ocean.

I thought about what Chooch had told me, how you can rarely pay people back for the good deeds they do. Circumstances almost never align so perfectly that they allow for that to happen. So you drag your debts around instead, feeling bad because you haven't been able to square things. As Chooch had said, the closest you usually come to a payback is some sort of transference. Becoming a cop was part of that for me.

But now that Walt was gone the debt had been prematurely canceled. His death had just turned into a homicide and that gave me a fresh chance. At least I could now go out there and solve his murder.

Alexa was studying me carefully as I sat beside her. "I think you're way too emotional about this," she said, echoing Detective Coles concern. "You better snap out of your funk or I'm not gonna let Cal assign this case to you."

"I should have been there. I should have seen what Walt was going through," I said softly.

"But you weren't and you didn't. You'll never do right by Walt now if you've got your chin on your chest. You've got to work this like any other murder. Unemotionally and with objectivity. You do it any other way you're gonna screw up."

"Yeah, you're right. I'll pull it together."

She looked over at me, skeptically. "I was thinking, since I'm on vacation for two weeks anyway and don't have anything to do, maybe I could give you a hand."

"Don't trust me to do this by myself?"

"You want my help, I'm in," she said. "I won't butt in on what Sally does, but I can handle stuff in the background. Then we can go over it and strategize together at night."

"You always were my best backup," I told her. I reached over and we slapped palms. "Partners," we said in unison.

"Since I'm gonna have a little role in this, you want to tell me what we're doing-what our first step is?"

"In the morning I'm gonna take a look at a guy named Rick O'Shea." Then I told her who he was and why he'd caught my interest.

"Sounds like a good thread to start pulling," she said. "What do you want me to do?"

"Put some pressure on the ME's office. This redo autopsy is a loser for them. They already know they're gonna end up looking bad. Don't let them delay it or push it off."

"Done," she said.

"I'm pissed off, Alexa. I'm really angry. How could I have let this happen?"

"Now you're cooking. Anger's good. Now go out and bring us back a collar." The night was turning cool so Alexa decided to go inside.

I sat there a little longer and slowly my anger turned to resolve. Suddenly I felt Walt's unseen presence hovering next to me. It was like the old days, when we'd been in the morning lineup, floating beyond the break, just outside the impact zone.

Without looking, we could always tell when a big one was coming. The energy of the wave building from the ocean floor touched a spot deep inside us, curling our toes with expectation.

I had that same feeling now. A huge swell of energy and expectation was beneath me. I could almost hear Walt shouting encouragement like he did when I was a boy, yelling at me to start cranking and tap the source.

In the old days we'd sometimes take off on the same wave, ride shoulder to shoulder, dropping in together behind the curl. Both of us lighting it up, fully covered, blasting out of the tube, rail to rail, riding the wall of glass all the way into the shore, shouting our excitement into the sky where only God could hear.