hear.
As I climbed in my cruiser and buckled my seatbelt, she was perched like an eagle behind the curtains, keeping watch as I reversed down the driveway.
Most parents would be proud of their twenty-eight-year-old daughter who was just starting out in the police force, but Barbara James wasn’t your usual mother. She was Catholic and came from a strict family, and she had tried to raise me much the same way.
When I told her I was taking the law enforcement entrance exam, she had laughed. But when I passed the test and entered the police academy, that laughter had turned to tears.
Not only was she worried because the job was dangerous, but she was also concerned about my reputation. What will people in the parish think when they find out you want to be a cop? she’d asked.
First off, I didn’t give a damn about my mother’s parish. Part of me relished the thought of their gaping faces when they learned about my new job.
Secondly, I’d reminded her that I didn’t want to be a cop. I am a cop now, I’d told her. And there was nothing Barbara James, or anyone else in Northfolk, including the parish, could do about it.
I’d always been fascinated by people. I wanted to help them. Understand them. And as corny as it sounds, I wanted to make a difference in the world. At first, I’d considered psychology or social work. But what better way to make a difference than to help the one group of people that no one gives a damn about? The incarcerated.
But Eddyville Penitentiary was hours away, and it paid more to be a cop than a corrections officer. It started out as a small dream, but once I’d entered the academy, it became an obsession. An obsession that, once upon a time, stretched beyond being a small-town cop in my tiny town of Northfolk…
But my views on helping and understanding criminals were looked down upon by my peers, and I was reminded at the academy, more than once, that it was my job to help the community, not the criminals who muck it up. I understood their point of view, but I was idealistic—couldn’t I help the community and try to make a difference in people’s lives? Was it really impossible to do both?
Northfolk was a close-knit mountain town, comprised of less than five thousand people. Nevertheless, it was riddled with poverty and with that came heavy drug problems, specifically heroin and meth. Besides drug crimes, sometimes I had to cite people for shooting off unregistered guns or riding ATVs on private property. Domestic disturbances and petty thefts occurred occasionally, too, but they were the exception, not the norm.
I’d only had one serious incident since joining the force, but it was enough to change all those well-thought-out plans I’d previously made. Four weeks into my new job, I’d been called to the scene of a domestic disturbance. I didn’t recognize the red-faced, frazzled woman who opened the door, but I did recognize her husband. A well-known cop, Ezra Clark, was accused of assaulting his wife. I had no choice but to call it in…and to arrest him. But what happened next…well, let’s just say that Ezra didn’t take too kindly to a new, young, female cop trying to take him into custody. He was angry and drunk, and although the scuffle between us only lasted a few seconds, the results had caused long-term effects. Possibly, lifetime effects. Memories of that day came floating back…the pounding pop when I fired my own gun, the burning smell of gunpowder in my nose. On my lips…
Would I ever be able to forget that day? And most importantly, would my colleagues and the residents of Northfolk…?
Sergeant DelGrande’s instructions circled back through my mind. He’d asked me to go directly to 8418 Sycamore Street, where a woman had called in, claiming that her ex-husband had stolen her child right out of bed. It sounded like a domestic disturbance, but I wasn’t familiar with the address. It was near the old Appleton farm, but no one lived out there besides the Appletons, as far as I knew.
As I pulled down the gravel drive to the property, I was instantly met by a running woman. Thick black hair swept across her face, a silky pink robe blowing back like a cape in the wind. I closed my eyes, fighting back images of Mandy Clark opening the door that day…if I let myself think about it long enough, I could still remember the smoky smell of Officer Clark’s flesh as I pulled the trigger…
The events of that day were still such a blur. One minute, I was sliding the cuffs on his wrists, and the next, it was me being slammed against the hood of my cruiser. You think you’re tough, don’t you? You don’t know shit, rookie. He let me go, but then he did the unthinkable: he reached for my gun. Afterwards, my fellow officers would claim that Ezra was probably just teasing, trying to show me I was ill-prepared as a new cop…but he was wrong about that. When he reached so did I…and moments later, one of us was lying dead on the ground…
Cautiously, I parked and emerged from my patrol car. While most of my male colleagues would have itched their fingers over their guns at the sight of a hysterical person, my instinct was to go to her, to calm her down. She was clearly distraught, her cheeks streaked with tears, her skin blotchy. I couldn’t shake off images of Mandy Clark’s distraught face, her battered skin stretched over her face like a ghoulish mask…
“Sh-she’s gone,” the robed woman choked out the words, all the while fighting with the hair around her face. “M-my Lily’s gone.”
The wind howled, blistery cold for September, causing me to stumble a bit with the heavy belt weighing down my mid-section. I shook off my whirling thoughts about that day with Ezra Clark and tried to focus. “Ma’am, let’s go inside and talk. Would that be okay?”
She hesitated, giving me the once over as though I were a stranger asking to use her phone. Her eyes were wild, shell-shocked. Maybe she knows who I am. Maybe she knows I shot a colleague, I thought. But that’s ridiculous, I chastised myself, immediately. This woman was new to Northfolk; she couldn’t possibly know about the Clark incident.
“I’m here to help. You called us,” I gently reminded her.
Shakily, she led the way inside. The cabin was sparsely furnished, a small arm chair and rug in the center of the living room. Everything looked worn but clean, and not recently used.
There was no TV, no pictures or personal effects.
“How long have you lived here?” Awkwardly, I tried to adjust my belt, then took out a notebook and pen from my back pocket. The pages were blank, which for some reason, made me feel embarrassed.
“I just moved in yesterday. Me and my daughter, Lily. She’s f-four.”
“And your name?”
“Nova Nesbitt.” The words were like whispers, strained.
“And your ex-husband, how long have you two been divorced?”
Nova shifted from foot to foot, chewing on a stray piece of hair and looking around the room with those wide, wild eyes. “Well, we’re not. I mean, I-I only just left him y-yesterday.”
I clicked the bottom of my pen, open and closed. It was a nervous habit.
“Does he live in Northfolk, too?”
“No. He’s b-back in G-Granton, Tennessee. I can g-give you the address though.”
After I scribbled his name, address, and phone number down, I closed my pad. “Ma’am, if you’re not legally divorced and you both share custody of the girl, then it’s not a crime for her to be with her father.”
