The interrogation rooms, the metal desks, the small municipal court, the judge’s chambers, the break room.
I can still hear the radios crackling and the telephones ringing, smell the cheap, bitter coffee, and see the detectives busy with paperwork.
Seeing Allison is awkward. When I worked here, we became pretty good friends, but after I left, our friendship fell by the wayside. It wasn’t a good feeling. Don’t friends keep up after a job change?
Allison was raised in Casper, Wyoming. She had several rough-and-tumble brothers and is used to cowboy humor. She also had a sister who had a neurodegenerative disease that made her incapable of caring for her own child. Before she was incapable of doing so, Allison’s sister took her life. As a result, Allison raised her sister’s son. The father was uninvolved and a drunk. I’d thought of how much I’d hate to lose Jess that way.
But when I was on the job, we were an exasperated team of two women at the bro-heavy station. Allison winced along with me at their locker room stunts and of course talked in colorful detail about all this ad nauseam throughout the workday. I’d happily answer Allison’s eye roll at the juvenile jokes and puerile antics, but it was more than enduring the pranks and tomfoolery. It was thenot-so-subtle club mentality.Dudes here, ladies there.Allison and I knew we weren’t invited. It was an invisible wall of sexism. And the more you said anything, the worse it got. Nothing prosecutable. Nothing specific. All their violations landed in a gray zone, but the slights and insults were piled higher than my head.
“I’m good, Allison. And you’re right, it’s Private Detective Mitchell.” I wink.
Allison grins back, and I realize how much I miss her, how she’d smirk and hide her laugh when we’d talk trash about the guys, especially Hartley. Our connection also involved running together, working out, and occasionally grabbing lunch.
Now, if I were still seeing the therapist I saw back in college, she’d have a field day. More isolation, she would point out.When did this loner streak rear its head again?she’d ask.
I knew it was me who could find any reason at the drop of a hat to retreat from friendships, and that I should resist it. And I did. For years now, I’ve stayed relatively in touch with the gang, even after Hannah, John, and Maggie all moved east. And Fiona, even when I wasn’t sure I liked how superficial she could be.
But after Coleman, I haven’t spoken at length to any of them, including Allison, in months and months. Allison and Jess even get together sometimes, but without me. They met through me when I was on the force still, and sometimes I’d invite Jess along to join us for coffee or lunch if Sam was with his dad or at school, but the two became closer after I left the department. After I isolated myself from everyone but Jess.
Allison’s blond hair has gone grayer at the roots, but some of the strands refuse to cooperate with the others and pop straight up from her part.
I tell her I want to file a report: that the latest sketch looks a lot like me.
“Sketch?” she says. Then it hits her. “Oh!”
Wallace cuts in, “Not just a lot. More likeprecisely.”
Allison studies me like an art critic. She fiddles with her phone and gasps. “Oh my God, Mitchell. Itdoes.”
She pages someone in the back, probably Ross.
I go at the loose skin on the outside of my thumb again. “Who’s on today?”
“Ewing and Stoddard,” she says. “But I think Stoddard stepped out.” She shakes her head like she’s trying to process my dilemma. Like I’m a dead woman walking. “What do you think it all means? What will you do?”
“Not sure,” I say, disappointed that Stoddard isn’t in. That leaves Detective Mitch Ewing, a stalky, balding man who is good friends with Lieutenant Hartley and spearheaded the move for all the officers and techs to wear black armbands at work to show solidarity—as if that were needed—when word got around that we’d reported the harassment.
Sergeant Ross swings the door open and sees me. “Mitchell!” He flashes a big smile. He’s put on some weight, his midriff expanded like risen dough.
I don’t mind Ross. He has empathy. But too much compassion in a place like this is not ideal, and I often wondered how long he’d stick around. I’m glad to see he’s still here.
Allison holds up her smartphone.
He squints at the sketch, then stares at me for a second, his head tilted. “Wow, I do see it,” he says. “You know, I kind ofdidthink it when I saw it yesterday, but I guess I figured there was no way it would be anyone from around here. But yeah, with your hair down and all.”
I think of my old uniform, how relieved I was to not have to decide what to wear to work and how to style my hair each day. As an officer, I could be undeviating and practical with a tight ponytail. Since I left, though, I’ve found joy in changing it up, reinventing myself in minor ways with new clothes and trying different things with my hair. This morning in Dallas, I threw on high-waisted jeans with a tucked-in white T-shirt, my red leather jacket, and some high-heeled booties. But now, in this place, I feel self-conscious wearing only a T-shirt andjeans—teen-like, not someone to take seriously. I wish I’d kept my jacket on despite the heat.
“Come on in,” Ross says. “Mitch can chat with you.” He points to Detective Ewing’s office.
Like a factory-second jack-in-the-box, Ewing pops up from behind his desk as we round the corner.
“Mitchell,” he says. Mock smile. He oozes smug arrogance. “How’ve you been?”
“Good.”
Delivered without an ounce of feeling.
“Heard you’ve hung a shingle. How’s that workin’ for ya?”
