Page 84 of Feel Me

Declan and the chief need to form a plan, and for that they need quiet. They can’t have quiet with Brenda here. She’s in full-blown hysterics. As much as I empathize with what she’s feeling, an emotional breakdown won’t help anyone.

“Do we haveanyidea where Escobar is?” Declan asks.

I pause at the door to hear the chief’s answer. “No. The neighbors heard the victim screaming and called 9-1-1. Three people saw him as he fled the apartment, including the responding officers. One of badges ran after him, but lost him a few blocks away, they’re combing the area now. The other badge ran into the apartment, but the victim was already dead.”

I step out and close the door quietly behind me, guiding Brenda down the hall and past the row of cubicles. A few of the on-call staff came in when they heard what happened. They watch us in silence, their expressions somber.

It’s only Valencia who speaks. “I’m sorry, Melissa,” she says.

“I am, too, Valencia.”

Law enforcement personnel, attorneys, and even the clerical staff employed here, often become cynical and numb to the brutality we’re frequently exposed to. It’s survival, and what it often takes to do the job. But the cases like this one trigger our emotions and remind us how human we remain.

I lead Brenda to my office, motioning her to sit in one of the chairs. I sit beside her and wait for her to calm.

“I can’t keep doing this,” she finally says.

“Brenda, this is a tough job,” I begin.

“No,” she says, cutting me off. “A tough job is getting up at three in the morning to haul garbage like my father did. A tough job is driving a tow truck like my brother does. A tough job is working as a teacher in the inner city school system like my mother has for the last twenty-nine years.Thisis hell!”

I lean back, letting her yell because she needs to. “I quit this unit,” she says. “I’m sorry, Melissa. You’ll have my official transfer request on your desk tomorrow.”

I don’t ask her to reconsider or to think things through. Bottom line, she can’t do the job. Eight months on my staff and she’s already burnt out. “That’s not necessary. I’ll just take your resignation.”

She blinks back at me with red, swollen eyes. “Can’t I just transfer to another unit?”

“Not without my recommendation.”

“And you won’t give me one?” she asks.

She didn’t even know Rosana and lost all semblance of control. “No,” I reply quietly. “This isn’t where you belong.” I’m not trying to be insensitive or mean. I’m being honest. Someone this fragile can’t work here. Victims of crime deserve better.

Tears stream down her face. She knows I won’t change my mind. But before she considers cursing me out, I hope she remembers the riveting speech she gave me during the interview process, about how passionate she is about victims’ rights and how social work was all she had ever wanted to do.

“Just go home,” I tell her when she doesn’t move. “Leave your phone, and your keys, and I’ll take care of the rest.”

She doesn’t argue, but she does release a few more tears. She places the cell phone and keys on my desk. “The pass code is 1-2-1-4,” she manages.

I don’t bother to thank her, I simply watch her as she slips out the door and shuts it lightly behind her.

I rub my tired eyes the moment she’s gone. It’s Sunday morning. The weekend is almost over, and we have an entire week ahead of us. But there’s no time to rest.

Rosana is dead.

That lovely girl is dead.

There’s a knock on the door. “Come in,” I say, trying not to lose it.

Valencia opens the door. “How are you?” she asks.

I shake my head because that’s all I can do then.

She leans back and looks down the hall. “Brenda quit?”

“Pretty much,” I answer.

“Fine by me, she was baggage anyway.” She walks in and sits in the chair Brenda had occupied. “If I have to comfort my victim services rep, no way in hell should she be within ten feet of this office.”

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