A young man sitting at the reception desk grinned, saying, “Every time I see you, Detective Fiske, you’ve got another beautiful woman with you.”
She blinked at the comment, her back stiffening. Next to her, she could have sworn she heard the detective growl.
“Keep it professional or you might find you don’t have a job.”
The young man swallowed deeply, mumbling his apology. She watched as the detective signed in for both of them and handed her a temporary badge. Continuing to follow his lead, she walked down the hall.
She opened her mouth to ask if she was going to be viewing the body up close as she had seen on TV or in the movies. She sucked in her lips and pressed down, refusing to give an indication of weakness in light of Bethany’s actions just from looking at the picture.
He opened the door and stepped in, holding the door for her to follow through. She released a breath she had been holding to see that they were in a conference room.
“Ms. Wilson, let me explain how this is going to go. Pictures of the deceased will be shown on the screen,” he said, waving to a widescreen TV on the wall. “There will be a multitude of pictures from the front and sides. If you are uncertain that he is who you think he might be, please say so. On the other hand, if you are able to positively identify him, we will have a form for you to sign. Do you have any questions?”
“Will it all be based on what I say?”
“We have his fingerprints and it will be cross-referenced with your identification.”
She nodded, then added, “Rocky was in the military. The Army.”
At her added information, his eyebrows raised. “Then that will be an added place that we will be able to obtain cross-referenced identification.”
He leaned forward and pressed a button on an intercom panel sitting on the table. “We’re ready.”
She stared down at her clasped hands resting on the table for a few seconds, then, steeling her spine, lifted her gaze. There, on the screen, was the face of a young man she had gotten to know. Her heart squeezed as she continued to watch as several more pictures moved across the screen. The left side of his face. The right side. His shoulder and upper arm covered in a tattoo. And then another picture that was taken straight on. She recognized the small scar that cut through his left eyebrow, remembering his story of having his eyebrow pierced, then getting rid of it when he joined the Army.
“Ms. Wilson?”
She startled, her gaze shifting from the screen to Detective Fiske, seeing sympathy in his eyes. Her head nodded up and down in jerks, and when she attempted to speak it came out as a croak. Clearing her throat, she said, “Yes. That’s Rocky… um… Richard Stallone. He said that his Army buddies nicknamed him Rocky because of his last name.”
Her lips were suddenly dry, and she blinked, battling back the moisture that threatened to gather in her eyes. She swallowed deeply before asking, “How did he die?”
“From smoke inhalation. There was a fire in the building next to him and he appeared to have never woken from his sleep.”
Her stomach clenched as her heart began to pound. Christ, he just wanted a warm place to sleep. Why didn’t he take the bed we offered? Why didn’t I insist? Sucking in another breath through her nose, she wondered how many other Rockys were out there that she couldn’t reach, couldn’t help. “You can’t save everyone.” How many times have I heard that? It’s the mantra of social workers everywhere.
Biting the inside of her cheek to quell the desire to weep, she glanced to the side toward the detective eyeing her carefully. She could see the questions building in his eyes but cut him off before he had a chance to begin. Lifting her chin slightly. “You have papers for me to sign?”
He held her gaze, and she fought the desire to look away. Finally, as though giving up the silent battle of wills, he nodded. He pulled a sheaf of papers from inside his coat pocket and began explaining each one. Uncertain her fingers would hold a pen, she was glad that he wrote down the name Richard Stallone, adding a line underneath indicating Richard had been in the Army.
After reading through the papers and asking if she had any more questions, he handed her the pen, and she signed and printed her name. They stood in unison, walking back through the hall and out the door.
They had almost made it to his SUV when she halted, her feet stumbling. Her mind churned with memories of Rocky in the group counseling class she led. I thought he was making it. Those thoughts swirled with the images she had just seen. The never-ending list of those she needed to assist was growing, so she forced her gaze to lift to his. “If there’s nothing else, Detective Fiske, I believe I’ll walk.”
“Ms. Wilson, please allow me to drive you back to the shelter. I know this has been a shock, and I appreciate your cooperation. I’ll have more questions for you, but they can wait.”
“I appreciate that.” It seemed surprising for her voice to be as strong as it was, as though they were discussing something more mundane than the death of a young man. But right now, she simply wanted to be alone. “I do prefer to walk, though. Thank you.” Without giving him a chance to argue, she turned and quickly headed down the street, pulling her coat around her, warding off the chilly wind.
At the end of the street, she gave in to the desire to look over her shoulder, shocked to see the detective still standing by his SUV, his gaze pinned on her. She turned the corner, no longer wanting anyone’s eyes on her. She finally felt the sting of tears and bent her
