Page 63 of Tear Me Apart
He needs the buffer. He doesn’t like to make this phone call, and yet, he feels compelled. Every six months, like clockwork, he rings Detective Gorman to see where things stand with the case.
It is a pointless endeavor. Vivian’s murder, Violet’s kidnapping, it’s old news. Seventeen-year-old cold cases aren’t front and center in anyone’s mind but the family left behind.
Gorman isn’t even a detective anymore. He’s a sergeant, runs a squad, and the last time they talked, was about to hit his retirement age, take his twenty, and bolt for greener pastures. The last thing in the world he’d do is reopen a cold case on the eve of his departure.
But Zack has to try. Every six months, he dials the number for the Nashville Metropolitan Police, asks for the homicide office, talks to Gorman, and then they both go on their way for the next six months. Fruitless, but something about it makes him function. He has Gorman’s home and mobile numbers, and in the beginning, he used them frequently, but as the case ages, as the pain grows hard and deep within him, he feels the niceties should be observed. He always gives Gorman the chance not to talk to him by calling the office directly.
Not calling isn’t an option, but over the years, instead of hourly, daily, weekly, he’s backed it down to every six months, to show respect. Zack isn’t about to let the police forget. And Gorman is the only person he can talk to. The only other one who knows the gritty details, who saw the blackened blood, who understands what it’s like to have your life snatched away while your back is turned. Not only understands but sometimes even feels badly about it all.
Zack knows the detective cares, in his way. But the man can shut off his emotions with the best of them.
Yes, a little distance, a few niceties, this he can give the man who worked so hard to find his wife’s killer, his daughter’s kidnapper. Never mind that he failed to find the culprit. Most husbands wouldn’t be so forgiving of that fact.
He takes a bracing sip of Laphroaig, then picks up the phone and dials.
“Metro Police.”
“Homicide, please.”
Silence, then a click. A voice he doesn’t recognize answers.
“Parks here.”
“I’m looking for Sergeant Gorman.”
More silence. “Um, sir, I’m sorry, but Sergeant Gorman is no longer with us.”
The rage blooms bright in his chest. How dare he leave without at least saying goodbye? Without warning him he was handing off the case to another detective?
He pulls himself together. “When did he retire?”
“He didn’t. I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but Sergeant Gorman passed away. Is there something I can help you with? I’ve taken over the day shift. Sergeant Bob Parks.”
“I’m Zack Armstrong.”
Another brief silence. He hears papers flipping in the background, the bray of a distant laugh. He’s been in that office often enough to know that the room is tiny, there is a television in the corner above the desk, and the homicide office itself is a warren of cubicle desks that house a bunch of detectives who are practically on top of one another. They are moving soon, to a new office space, one he assumes will be shiny and clean, state of the art. Maybe they already have. Maybe his image of the scene is already distorted.
“How can I help you, Mr. Armstrong?”
The tone is neutral but inquisitive. Polite. As if the man has no idea who Zack is.
“I’m calling to inquire about the status of a cold case from 2000. The murder of Vivian Armstrong. My wife.”
The cop’s response is automatic but sincere. “Oh. I am so sorry for your loss.”
If Zack had a quarter for the number of times he’s heard those words...
“Sergeant Gorman was my contact for the case. No one phoned to tell me he’d passed away.”
“Sorry about that, sir. It was sudden, an accident. We’re only now settling the squad’s reorganization.”
“What kind of accident?”
“That’s...personal information I’m not authorized to release.”
“Right. How did I not hear about this? I read the papers. There’s been no report of the sergeant’s death.”
“His family didn’t want a lot of attention. It’s been hard for them.”
