His only hope at this point was to find that person who was a friend of his wife’s but a stranger to him.
Nothing, nothing, nothing...
He downed the contents of the plastic glass, so thin it nearly cracked under his grip. He poured some more. He drank.
Back to the task...
Slips of paper passed under his bleary eyes on their way to the discard pile.
This put him in mind of running his big corruption case. Poring over page after page of financial documents, real estate, corporate contracts and filings, checks, accounting books, Excel spreadsheets, and so much more.
And then...
At last he had found a gold nugget. No,platinum. The lead that took him to Beacon Hill, and to what he’d found hidden in the sewer pipe that went nowhere.
And eventually what happened after.
He sipped from the fragile glass.
His eyes closed.
The smell.
It’s tuna, Merritt has recognized. His sessions with Dr. Evans are at 1 p.m. and he supposes that a tuna salad sandwich is what the shrink looks forward to at lunch: an oasis in the desert of dangerous crazies.
Today the doctor is wearing two hats: shrink plus vocation counsellor. “You’ll need to get into a program when you’re out.”
“Oh, I will. I’ll probably be in one forever. I like them.” Jon the Charmer is back. Always when in the shrink’s room.
“And then a job. You won’t be able to be a policeman anymore.”
The reminder, obvious, infuriates him. He says in an enthusiastic voice, though, “I’ve been thinking about that, Doctor. I’ve got a lot of options.”
“I’ve seen reports from the staff. They’ve said your work in the metal shop is exemplary...” He then pauses, perhaps thinking that the big word is too much for a con.
Merritt had graduated from college before the academy but gives no clue as to the resentful anger. “I enjoy working with my hands. It’s kind of a gift. You?” He puts on a face of genuine curiosity.
“No.” The doctor doesn’t like to answer questions about his life outside the four corners.
“I put myself through college working the line at Henderson Fabrications.”
One of the few companies on Manufacturers Row still operating, if not thriving.
Dr. Evans stares at the tablet. Merritt isn’t sure if he’s reading it or not. Zoning out seems to be a mainstay of his practice. He can be counted on to do this several times a session.
Obsessively wrestling with his prisoner-patients’ mental health?
Daydreaming of the cares of housewives?
Or thinking of tuna sandwiches?
He flutters back to this dimension and looks at Merritt. “The report I got, Jon. That con from C. He jumped you. You didn’t fight back.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to do that, Doctor.” A laugh. “Nothing good would come of it. That’d be a sure way to really get my ass kicked.”
Oh, it was close. For an instant Merritt was seared by the rage. And though he isn’t a big man any longer, he could still have snapped the neck of the wiry tweaker, crazed because he couldn’t get product and somehow, in his decayed mind, associating Merritt with that absence.
But he’d stepped back and taken the blows.