Tomasetti didn’t like the idea of walking into something unprepared. Since the Slaughterhouse Murders case ten months ago, he’d worked hard to clean up his act. He’d stopped taking the drugs his doctors had prescribed. He’d cut down on the drinking. He’d stopped thinking about putting his gun in his mouth and pulling the trigger. His work on the Slaughterhouse case had earned him a commendation and gone a long way toward restoring a reputation of which he’d once been proud.
But it had been more than just the case that had saved him from self-annihilation. He may not have survived if it hadn’t been for Kate. Somehow, she’d managed to cut through the bullshit when no one else had been able to reach him. She made him want to be a cop again. Made him want to live. Made him want to be a man.
They reached the austere mahogany doors of conference room one. It was then that he knew this was no impromptu morning chat. He’d always known it was only a matter of time before his transgressions of the past caught up with him. When Denny shoved open the door, Tomasetti knew his day of reckoning had arrived.
Deputy Superintendent Jason Rummel stood at the glossy conference table, looking down at a smattering of papers spread out before him. He smiled when he saw Tomasetti. “Morning, John.”
Too friendly, Tomasetti thought, and figured the meeting was going to be worse 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.