Page 32 of Splintered
Ben nodded, dazed. He nodded because he didn’t know what else to do. Paramedics, doctors, professionals, they should be able to help, right? They were trained in this stuff. They knew how to fix people.
What did it mean when the professionals were stumped? When they had to call for help?
How broken was Evan?
“Can I wash my hands?”
Velasquez nodded. “Mr. Lombardi has offered statements upstairs that he’s at fault for this incident. He says he is the one who attacked you.” He watched as Ben shakily made his way to the sink. Ben could feel his gaze, his assessment, his studying. Velasquez seemed like a man that had ten Rubik’s cubes going at once inside his mind. “This was a serious assault, Mr. Haynes. You need to consider pressing charges.”
“Against Evan?” He let the burning water run, steam rising from the sink as it stripped the dried blood from his hands in tiny flakes. His skin was still stained, like he hadn’t washed anything off. “He’s my partner. He needs my help.” He slammed off the faucet and grabbed a towel. He’d sandpaper the blood away.
“Mr. Lombardi is not getting the right kind of help he needs at the moment, clearly. He’s a danger to himself and to others right now. He attacked you, and if you hadn’t been able to defend yourself, this evening could be going very differently for everyone.”
“He never would have hurt me.”
Velasquez sighed, the exhausted sigh of a police officer who had worked the graveyard shift for too many years, who had seen the best and the worst, but much more of the worst. Pity filled his gaze. Ben’s stomach turned rancid, bile crawling up his throat, as that pity rained down on him.
“Mr. Haynes, I see a lot of domestic violence. Please believe me when I say that the crimes people commit against people who they claim to love are always far worse than any crime I’ve seen perpetrated between strangers. Think about it: do we ever truly know the people we love? I mean, really know them? Inside their mind? Their thoughts? We just hope we know, don’t we? We hope they’re telling the truth.” He shook his head.
“I’ve been a cop for sixteen years, and I’ve personally arrested nine husbands who decided they didn’t want to be married anymore. What do they do? Do they file for a divorce? Do they seek counseling? Do they just run away, disappear? No. They murdered their wives. Strangled her, or shot her, or drowned her. Then they chopped her up, or burned her, or both. Or dumped her off their fishing boat. Then they tried to conceal their crime. When’s the last time you bleached your garage, Mr. Haynes? Do you know what a missing wife plus freshly bleached garage means?
“Those are hard. But what’s even harder is when I go to the same place, night after night, breaking up a domestic and trying to reason with both people, trying to get them to seek help, or cool down, or walk away from each other. Whatever they need. And you know what? The smart ones, they get out of Dodge. Or they get help. Things get fixed. The others?” His lips thinned. “Domestic calls have a way of turning into murder investigations. And I recognize more than a few of the vics.”
“This isEvan,” Ben said. Velasquez’s words were bullets, plinking off the rage he’d been building in his belly ever since the first timeNew Yorkhad fallen from Evan’s lips. Rage and fury and brimstone he’d stocked and fed with every argument, every evening of silence. Every shattered dream he’d lamented over. Rage that had legs, and claws. Rage that was finally coming out. “Evan is the love of my life! He’s struggling right now. Something is fucked up in his head, and he needs my help! Not this! Not to be accused of trying to murder me! You want me to make his life athousandtimes worse right now? Cart him off to jail?Fuck you! I love him! And I willnevergive up on him!”
Velasquez took a deep breath. “It’s your choice, Mr. Haynes. I want you to spend some time this weekend thinking about what’s happened here tonight, though, and how to best take care of Mr. Lombardi going forward.”
“I’ll be taking care of him this weekend—"
“No, you won’t, Mr. Haynes.”
“What the hell do you mean?”
“Mr. Lombardi represents a clear danger to himself and to others. He’s hurt himself and he’s hurt you. The paramedics have reached out to his doctor and we’ve decided to place him on a fifty-one-fifty hold for the weekend. We’re taking him to St. Ignatius for a psychiatric hold—"
“What?” Ice flooded Ben, pure, distilled panic.No, no, Evan can’t leave, he can’t leave their home, this house—
“—per his doctor’s instructions.” Velasquez stared. “He needs help, Mr. Haynes. Serious help.”
“I know.” Ben grasped the counter, leaning his weight into it. The counter spun, the lights in the house fading on the edges of his vision. He squeezed marble until his bones hurt.
“This weekend is an evaluation. His doctor will help you both figure out the next steps.” Velasquez pocketed his cell phone and his notebook. “Have you called his family yet? His parents?”
His breath hitched. “I don’t know his parents.”
For the first time, Velasquez looked human, softening around the edges. Pain crinkled the corners of his eyes. “They need to know what’s happening.”
“It’s complicated. They don’t know about…” Ben’s arms fluttered around him. The house, him, their life together. Anything at all about Evan that lay beneath the surface, something deeper than his job title and his place of employment. Did they even know his current address? Evan hadn’t ever lived with anyone before. What did his parents think? He’d never asked.
Evan’s parents were a mystery, a black box he couldn’t touch.
“They’re about to bring him downstairs,” Velasquez said, after listening to his radio. “Do you want to go to another room for this?”
“No. I want to see him.” Ben rubbed his palm down his thigh. “I love him. No matter what happened.”
Velasquez put one hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “Mr. Haynes, please. Think about what’s best for you both right now. The most important thing is keeping you both safe and healthy, and getting you both the help you need. Maybe you both need a break.”
“We don’t.”
