But now here she was, back in the twenty-first century, facing a potential disciplinary hearing, maybe even a firing. People had lost their jobs over a lot less. The force received enough claims of racism; she would be used as an example of how they have zero tolerance over that kind of behaviour. No doubt the noise would slither all the way back to DC. Her father would shake his head, tell her how disappointed he was in her. Ouch. ‘Disappointed’ was almost as spine-tingling as the very word which had got her in trouble with Darnell. Her dad could push guilt on her easier than Chuck Cunningham pushed crack onto underprivileged kids. He would no doubt ask that dreaded question; what would your mother say if she was here?
It had been fifteen years since she died; Vanessa was just a kid. Marianne Jamison had Motor Neurone disease. She walked in for a check-up after feeling particularly fatigued and left having been told that she had months left to live. A decade and a half on, Vanessa still longed for her guidance, her empathy and the love only a mother could possibly offer. Her father ran the household with military efficiency after that, which was what made her who she was today, but occasionally a girl just needed a hug from her mom.
She debated with herself throughout the night. Surely they’ll do an investigation. Surely they’ll understand. But why should they? Would you? With the eyes of America waiting to see how the force handle racism? I could deny it. But they’d see straight through me. I can’t lie.
The relationship with her colleague also tortured her. Even if she somehow survived a racial discrimination claim, how would she carry on with the case, working with a man who believed that she tried to destroy his marriage? She had done no such thing. Even if she despised Darnell, she wouldn’t risk her own reputation for spite. The mistress always came off worse in these situations, more so than the wandering husband. And what had he done? Really? Despite her prickly words to shatter his illusions of his marriage, in reality, he had chosen not to go through with it at that motel in Indiana, not her.
As soon as twilight entered, she showered and left the house. It was a half-hour walk to work and it allowed her to clear her head. Sitting at home alone simply allowed her to torture herself. She just had to get up and face the music, even if she was petrified of what track would be playing when she got there.
As she entered the precinct, there was an unsettling mood. The usual welcomes to the office were missing. Something wasn’t right. She turned around and looked towards the exit. She could be curled up in her bed in less than thirty minutes. But for what? The issue wouldn’t go away. It would just welcome her back the next morning.
Commander Hill walked into the reception room and clocked his subordinate. He was never a smiley chap but his unimpressed temperament had grown to despair this morning, looking at the cold fury spread across his face.
‘Detective Jamison, please can I see you in my office?’
Vanessa closed her eyes and nodded her head before following her manager into a space no bigger than a broom cupboard; there was nowhere to hide. Anticipating the worst, she hadn’t glammed herself up as much as she usually would; what a waste it would’ve been if she’d been sent home less than hour into her shift. Instead she wore a simple white top above black jeans and some comfortable slip-on shoes.
The door opened and sitting before the Commander’s desk was Detective Jackson, who avoided eye contact with her. She took a deep breath and took a seat beside him, lowering her head. She had no doubt that Darnell had blabbed regarding her loose use of outdated terminology.
‘Chief, before you begin, please let me explain.’ Vanessa placed her hands as if in prayer and leaned forward across his desk.
‘I think I’ll do the talking, Detective Jamison,’ Hill replied, scratching his head. ‘How could you let this happen? How could either of you be so stupid?’
Vanessa looked up. Either of them? Oh God…what had he discovered? It couldn’t be her poor choice of words. But… oh no. Their kiss?
‘The cat is out the bag. The President is furious.’
‘The President knows about this?’ Vanessa gasped. She was puzzled. How had a kiss between two detectives made its way up the chain to the highest man in office?
‘The whole world does!’
Vanessa held a hand over her gasping breath. Her eyes squinted, trying to focus on anything which would make sense to her. The Commander lifted out a remote control from his drawer and switched on a television hanging on the wall. On the screen, CNN covered the breaking headline: Lincoln Body Snatched!
The anchors in the studio delved into the grimy details of the story, about how it had been stolen under the noses of the cemetery security, highlighting its similarities to the previous attempt at stealing the body, and asked the big question of why the government and the police were working so hard to keep the theft a secret. Helicopters circled the cemetery capturing every movement below and reporters outside the gates ran to every guard and officer entering the park, screaming questions, which were responded to with a simple no comment.
The news should have been covering
