“Christ, look at the fucking state of you.”

I groan and try to roll over, but the handcuffs locked to the hospital bed railing jerks me up short. With my right hand I run the tips of my fingers along my heavily bandaged shoulder and wince at the muted pain. My head throbs, and I have the sickly metallic taste of last night’s booze lying slick on my tongue. The last thing I recall was kneeling on the lawn and the touch of latex gloves and cold steel.

“They had to open your shoulder up,” continues the voice. “The tip of the boxcutter snapped off, embedded in the bone or something.”

I know this voice. “Morning to you, too, Vince,” I rasp. “Any chance of some water.”

He ignores me and continues. “Jesus, Joey. You off your meds again? And your blood alcohol was through the roof.”

“What are you doing here, Vince?”

“What am I doing here? What the fuck are you doing here? Lying there leaking blood.”

“It was the damn kids.”

The kids. A wave of remorse washes over me. What was I thinking? It doesn’t matter if they were armed. I’m an adult. An ex-cop. I should’ve kept it under control. But they took the book, shit, I need that back. This is going to play out bad. Especially since I killed one of them. I turn my head and off in the corner I see Officer—now judging by the chevrons, Sergeant—Vincent Parker lounging in the hospital chair. Those things are always uncomfortable, but if Vince has one super power it’s being able to relax in awkward environments. This made him a good partner for me.

“Enough with the kids, Joey. No one saw kids. Just your drunken ass running crazy on your mother’s front lawn.”

“But, all that blood.”

“Only blood in the reports was yours. Don’t know what else to tell you.” I fix my gaze on the floor.

“Damn storm...” I say, mostly to myself.

I run my fingers along the bandages and down my torso to where the awl ripped deep into my right side. It pierced just above my hip, and it’s just as sore as my shoulder, if not more.

“You’re a lucky prick,” says Vince. “A couple of inches either way and it’s Saint Peter you’re talking to, not me.”

“Yeah, well thank the other guy.”

“Are these the cards you’re really playing?”

“What?”

“The kids, the other guys. You’re saying someone else did this to you?”

“Why the fuck would I. . . ?” Oh, goddamn. I think I know where this is going.

Vince gets up from the chair and places a hand on my arm. “Joey-boy, you’ve got a history.”

“But—“

“You know it, and I know it.”

“But it wasn’t serious. It was just talk. It was after the shooting.”

“I took your word for that then, but looking at you now, maybe I’m thinking I was too easy on you.”

“You did this to me?” I ask, jerking at the cuffs. “You locked me up?”

“Self harm, Joey. Your prints are all over the boxcutter and awl. What’s a cop supposed to think?”

“So you’re a cop, not a friend.”

“If a cop keeps your ass from dying, then I’m a cop. I’m sorry, I should’ve checked in when I heard your Mom died.”

Vince has got a point. From his view I was a mad-ass civilian running around on my dead mother’s lawn with a boxcutter sticking out of one shoulder and an ancient awl protruding out of my gut. On top of that I was waving around a bloodied fire poker and berating kids that supposedly weren’t even there. The next card I play had better be a good one.

“So what happens next?”

“You know the answer to that.”

“So, I’m getting charged.”

“No you’re not getting charged, you know that, too. What would I book you with? Disturbing the peace while being a fucking idiot. That’d catch everyone in town.”

I lift my wrist against the handcuffs a few times as I stare Vince down. “Then what in the shit is this all about?”

Vince sighs and fumbles at his waist for the keys. As he’s unlocking my handcuffs he shakes his head.

“To make a point.”

“You think I’m gonna hurt myself?”

“Joey you moron, take a look at yourself. I’m worried about the rest of the world.”

Shit, back to a psych eval, then. This one probably state provided. “Listen, I ran off the rails. It was the first time back at my Mother’s place. Things got on top of me.”

Vince sits back down, crosses his legs out in front of him and folds his arms. He’s definitely not in I’m-all-ears mode.

“So you’re telling me this is a one off.”

“I’m telling you there are reasons.”

“You’re going to give me an excuse. Don’t bother.” He taps two fingers against the stripes on his shoulder. “These here are bullshit detectors, Joey. You don’t get ‘em until you can tell the difference.”

“Come on, Vince. We were partners. You know me.”

He sighs and unfolds his arms. “Get on with it. And it’d better be the truth.”

I lay there in the hospital bed. Feeling like a piece of regurgitated shit. And I tell him the truth.

All of it.

He fidgets the whole way through, but he hears me out. I’ve been through a lot of shit, especially during my time as a cop, but Vince always was the counterbalance to everyone else’s crap. Whenever I needed an ear, an ally, or just someone who wouldn’t look at me like I was some dog shit stuck to their shoe before barking “faggot” at me, Vince was my man. At times I even considered him a father of sorts, but I’ve always been hesitant with that word, seeing as how mine ran out on us before I could hold my own head up.

When I finish talking, Vince coughs.  I realize he’s waiting for me to make the next move. This is one of his favorite interrogation techniques. Enough silence, enough staring, and he gets all the birds singing.

“I know,” I admit. “It sounds crazy. But it’s what happened.”

He leans in close, elbows resting on his knees, and looks deep in my eyes.

“That’s quite the story,” he says.

“You believe me, right?”

“Well, there are a couple of details I could never quite understand when everyone else explained what happened to you.”

“Okay...”

“Your story answers some questions.”

Vince moves to my bedside, delves into his pocket, and pulls out a palm-sized mirror — one of his unconventional crime scene tools. I grab his wrist to check my reflection.

I look like a goddamn raccoon. I touch the bridge of my nose where there’s a line of congealed blood trying its best to make a scab. Someone put a steri-strip across the wound to hold it together, but there’s no suture. Deep purple cascades down either side of my nose, settling underneath each eye and swelling into symmetrical dark patches.

“They wrote it off as you cracking yourself with the poker. No way a poker did that. I’ve seen enough headbutts to know where that came from. And here…”

He reaches down and pulls up my right hand. All four of my knuckles are beet red and sore as hell. I wince as he squeezes them.

“You said you punched one of the kids,” he continues. “They claimed you punched a wall or something. But I checked your mom’s house. Old plaster walls everywhere and not a single sign of trouble inside.”

“So you do believe me about the kids.”

“Let’s not get carried away. I’m saying I don’t think you’re lying. That doesn’t mean what you said actually happened.”

“Where does that put me? I’m not some menace! I can’t do a psych stay!”

He pockets his mirror and sighs.

“Can’t do much about that. You’re only twenty hours into a three-day legal hold. Once you’re no longer a medical patient, you’re supposed to go to inpatient psych unless…”

“Unless what?”

“Unless we decide you’re not a risk.”

“You can do that, Vince! Please, I’d owe you.”

“Hell, Joey. You already owe me, and I’m not looking to extend your tab.”

“How can I convince you?”

“You can’t.”

I’m frustrated as hell. I cross my arms and accidentally tweak my left shoulder. My head throbs, and I can’t think. But this is one thing I can control. I grab the call light and squeeze the red button for the nurse far harder than is necessary.

“Can I help you?” buzzes through a speaker.

“Yeah, I need pain meds. Quick.”

“Okay, I’ll have to get your nurse. Give her a little bit of time because she’s in with another patient, okay?”

I grumble as the speaker buzzes out. Vince is chuckling.

“What’s so funny?” I ask.

“You’re just...you’re rusty is all. I said you couldn’t convince me, not that I couldn’t be convinced.”

There’s a knock at the door and a man in white scrubs with a big, dark beard pokes his head in.

“Hi! Need some morphine?” he says, with a smile that knows he has the key to becoming my best friend.

I nod. Vince stands up.

“I think that’s my cue to go. Is anyone else here to watch him?” he asks the nurse.

“Oh, I’m happy to stay here at the bedside. It’s good to see him so alert.”

“Where are you off to, Vinny?” I ask.

“To go where I can be convinced. Your mom’s house. Where are the keys?”

He’s on my side. The nurse is drawing up my morphine. Things are looking up.

“In my pocket. Wherever my pants are.”

Vince ducks into the closet and fiddles around until I hear the gingling of his target. He closes the door and walks back over to me.

“Maybe those books are there. Maybe there’s more stuff of interest in the attic. Maybe there’s something you aren’t telling me. All I need is a look around, then I’ll be back.”

He pockets my keys and turns to leave.

“Vince,” I say.

He glances over his shoulder. “What, Joey?”

“The awl. Where’d it go?”

“I’m thinking it went along with its friend, the boxcutter, to the hospital incinerator.”

The nurse clears his throat and smiles to hide his impatience. Vince takes a look at him and nods.

“I’ll be back before you wake up from whatever this guy is giving you. Take it easy, Joey.”

And Vince leaves. If anyone can get me out of this mess, he can.

Next Chapter: Nine