Pray for Silence

than he’d anticipated. “Morning.”

Crossing to him, Rummel extended his hand and they shook. He was a short, wiry man with a pale complexion and a mustache that looked as if it had been fashioned by Adolf Hitler’s barber. “We’re glad you’re here.”

Tomasetti was vaguely aware of the vista of downtown Columbus through the window. The podium affixed with the seal of the great state of Ohio shoved into a corner. The flat-screen TV mounted on the wall. On the opposite side of the table, Human Resources Director Ruth Bogart had already set up shop. He recognized his thick and battered personnel file on the glossy surface in front of her. Next to his file were two pens, a legal pad, several ominous-looking forms and a Starbucks coffee mug smeared with lipstick.

Bogart wore a burgundy power suit with a hint of white lace at the neckline. She looked at him over the bifocals perched on her nose and smiled in a way that reminded him of a coral snake, right before it sank its fangs into you.

Rummel took a seat at the head of the table, reminding everyone he was the man in charge. Behind him, Denny closed the conference room door with an audible click, shutting them in. Tomasetti wondered if they were psyching him out. If the situation hadn’t been so serious, he might have laughed at the absurdity of it. Back when he’d worked vice with the Cleveland Division of Police, he’d spent many an hour in interview rooms, psyching out perps. He didn’t much like being on the receiving end.

Tomasetti sat across from Bogart. “Looks like the gang’s all here.”

She ignored him. Rummel cleared his throat. “You’re a good agent, John. One of the best we have. I know we’ve had our differences over the last year or so, but I want you to know I have the utmost respect for you as a professional.”

All Tomasetti could think was that the axe was about to fall. He could feel the hairs on the back of his neck prickling in anticipation of the blade. That’s how Jason Rummel operated. Butter them up, then sink the knife in good and deep.

Knowing the value of playing the game, Tomasetti focused his gaze on the photo of the attorney general framed in gold leaf above Rummel’s head. “I appreciate that,” he said.

“I know that last case took a toll, John. Professionally. Personally.” Rummel grimaced. “I know the timing on the whole thing was bad.”

The words were a euphemism for the untimely murders of Tomasetti’s wife and two young daughters two and a half years earlier. People used euphemisms when they didn’t want to say the real thing. This time, because the reality of what happened was too terrible to say aloud. Tomasetti had no use for euphemisms, so he remained silent.

“I want you to know we take care of our agents here at BCI,” Bogart added.

Tomasetti turned his attention to Denny McNinch and gave him a what-the-fuck-is-she-talking-about look. “You going to tell me what’s going on here, or are you going to make me guess?”

Denny wiped his hands on his slacks. “It’s that drug test thing a few months back, John. We tried to make it go away, but the suits want it dealt with. You know, policy.”

Of course, he’d known. The big, bad failed drug test. Back when he’d been self-medicating, alternating between prescription drugs and booze. “That was ten months ago,” he heard himself say.

“These things take time,” Denny said. “There’s a lot of bureaucracy involved and everyone seems to have a different opinion on how things should be handled.”

Tomasetti smiled. Ten months ago, that same failed drug test hadn’t kept them from sending him into the field in the hopes that he would screw up so they could fire him. “I think the official term is politics.”

“No one’s playing politics,” Bogart said quickly.

“In light of your achievements, no one was in a hurry to rush to judgment,” Rummel added. “We’re not here to crucify you.”

“That’s a relief,” Tomasetti said.

If any of them caught the sarcasm in his voice, they didn’t show it.

Rummel looked at the human resources director and nodded.

Ruth Bogart looked down at the file in front of her. “We received a call from the superintendent, John. He wants the drug situation addressed. By the book. You know, to protect the interests of the agency. To protect you.”

“You mean in case I go postal or something?”

Bogart shook her head. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Against any sort of liability that might crop up,” Denny added.

“There were some meetings,” she continued. “Jason went to bat for you, John. He put his own career on the line. They weren’t listening.”

I bet, Tomasetti thought. Rummel didn’t put anything on the line for anyone, unless he had something to gain.

“Jason put in a good word,” she continued. “Made some recommendations. He reminded them of the commendation, your years of service, both with BCI and the Cleveland Division of Police.” She grimaced appropriately. “He reminded them about the ordeal you went through in Cleveland.”

“I appreciate that.” But he felt as if he were being tag-teamed by a pack of dogs. “So what’s the verdict?”

Rummel looked appropriately grave. “The final resolution we arrived at is to place you on administrative leave.”

“Temporarily, of course,” Denny clarified. “You have a lot of friends here at BCI.”

Tomasetti leaned back in the chair. “I guess it pays to have friends in high places.” This time the sarcasm came through loud and clear.

Denny looked like his tie was too tight. “We figured you could use some time off. Get yourself back on track. Hell, get some things done around the house. Go fishing, for chrissake.”

“We play it this way and you can come back with a clean slate. Pick up where you left off. Everyone wins.” Rummel laughed. “Hell, I wish I could take some time off.”

A laugh hovered in Tomasetti’s throat, but he withheld it because he knew it would sound as bitter as it tasted. As far as he was concerned, BCI didn’t give a good damn about him. They just wanted to sweep this dirty little incident under the rug where no one would trip over it.

“I guess that commendation only goes so far when it comes to politics,” he said.

“This has nothing to do with politics,” Rummel said.

Tomasetti let out a sigh. “How long?”

Bogart and Rummel exchanged glances. “As part of your leave package, you will be required to attend regular weekly sessions with a licensed psychiatrist contracted by this agency,” she clarified. “And a drug test. Every week.”

“You gotta pass it,” McNinch added.

Tomasetti couldn’t help it; he laughed. An inappropriate sound that echoed in the room like the growl of some wounded beast. “Oh, for chrissake.”

“It’s a condition of your continued employment,” Rummel clarified.

That was the point when Tomasetti knew he was sunk. There would be no negotiation. No defending what he’d done. No undoing the past. No lying his way out of a reality he himself had created.

Of course, he tried anyway. “Those drugs were prescribed by the same doctors you’re telling me to see now.”

“Those drugs were prescribed by different doctors at different times,” Bogart pointed out. “You abused that.”

“Look, I don’t think we need to get into ancient history.” This from Rummel, the advocate, looking out for the well-being of one of his top agents. “That’s not the purpose of this meeting. I mean it, John. This is an opportunity. Try to look at it that way. Make the best of a bad situation and move on from there.”

All Tomasetti could think was that he’d been making progress. As far as he was concerned, work was the best therapy. Putting him on leave now was like yanking the rug out from under him just when he’d found his balance.