Free Mixed Messages (A Malone Mystery) by Patricia Gligor

result of a gunshot wound when he was on the force, was really acting up today. That always happened when it rained; the dampness seemed to seep into his bones for days .
    He opened the refrigerator and took out a can of Diet Coke. He waited until he was back in his recliner before popping the tab on the can. He’d learned the hard way that, if he opened it before he sat down, sure as anything he’d spill a lot of it on the way to his chair . There were several faint stains on the light beige carpet to prove it. No matter how hard he scrubbed, he couldn’t totally erase them.
    He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, thinking about his many conversation s with Ann. She was such a sweet girl. When she lived across the hall from him, she used to come over almost every day and they’d spent hours talking. He’d begun to think of her as the daughter he never had. He hoped that she was okay. He knew that her husband, David, was on his way to developing a drinking problem. Bernie had seen all the signs and he recognized them because he too had once had a problem with alcohol.
    It started when he was in boot camp. At first, it was a social thing but, little by little, for him , it had escalated. In Korea, it became a way to escape temporarily from the horrors of war. He didn’t like to think about the war. There was so much death and destruction in what was truly a beautiful country. He could still see the blood ied bodies of his friends and the terrified expressions on the faces of the little children, many of whom had fathers and mothers who were soldiers because Korean women fought as soldiers too.
    Worst of all , was the time he’d spent as a prisoner of war. Somehow, he’d made it through the months of captivity but he’d seen so many men die. Some died of malnutrition and disease because they received no medical treatment whatsoever, some froze to death, some were beaten to death and some simply couldn’t take it anymore and died from what was later called Give-up-itis. He’d watched two of his closest friends being executed by the KPA forces, one bullet behind each of the ir ear s .
    He opened his eyes. It didn’t pay to think about that time; it only depressed him. The war was what had started him drinking in the first place but, miraculously , because a lot of men developed drinking problems on the job , joining the Cincinnati police force after the war, had somehow saved him. He had his old sergeant to thank for that.
    He’d started out on the force drinking with the other cops a few evenings a week after work. It wasn’t long though before even he knew that he was using any and every excuse to have a drink, actually several drinks, and he realized that, long after his buddies went home, he still sat in the bar ordering one after the other . Some nights, no one else wanted to go out but he went anyway. He didn’t think about quitting because hey, a guy worked hard, risked his life every day to protect the public, he deserved a break.
    Then, one night his sergeant came into the bar and sat down on a stool next to him.
    “How’s it going, Bernie?” he’d asked.
    “Doin’ okay,” he replied. “You wanna drink? I’ll buy ya one.”
    “No. No thanks. I gave that up a few years ago.”
    “How come?” Bernie asked.
    “I had a problem with the booze. I lost everything because of it. My wife left me, took my three kids. It was a bad time. Then, one night, my partner and I were on a stakeout over - the - Rhine, supposed to watch for any illegal activity at this warehouse and I was, let’s just say, not at my best; actually, I had the hangover from hell. We were sitting there and, all of a sudden, this guy comes running out with a gun. My partner jumps out of the car and, of course, I should’ve been right behind him, watching his back, but I wasn’t. I was too slow responding, thanks to the hangover. My partner got shot and almost died. I don’t know. After that, I kind of took it as a sign