Free Burying Ben by Ellen Kirschman

funeral. W as I drunk? Maybe you noticed I was the only one there with enough respect to w ear m y unifor m .”
    He sh a kes his head. “Stupid fucking kid. It was du m b to do hi m self, like everything else he did. He would have got over it, found another job. Nothing ever stays that bad.”
    “Sounds like you m ay be speaking f rom experience.”
    He stands up, his finger pointing at my chest. “Listen to m e , Florence Nightingale. You can shove your m a il order Ph.D. right up your ass. Ben Go m ez was never going to be a cop. Never. The fact t h at he ate his gun over so m e dipshit thing proves m y point.” The door opens and Manny co m es through holding a paper sack and a cup of coff e e.
    Eddie spins around. “Out. You don ’ t co m e in until I tell y ou to co m e in.”
    The door closes. He turns back to m e, his finger still pointing.
    “ W hat do you m ean proves your point? W hat point ? ” I ask.
    “Get over it, Doc. You can’t fix it. Not now. You had your chance. And you can ’ t fix m e, so don ’ t try.“
    He m oves towards the door and opens it. “Heads up, Mañana . Ti m e to hit the s t r eets.”
    He tu r ns toward me, backlit by the light in the hallway and bows slightly. “ Hasta lu m bago , Doc. Have a nice day.”

Chapter Eleven
     
     
    Gary Morse, thin as he was in graduate school, is leaning on the door to his office wearing his old cordur o y jacket and holding an u nlit p i pe, his once long b l ack hair almost entirely silvered.
    “I’ve been waiting for you, Dot.” His deep baritone voice is a bal m . “How you doing ? ”
    “Not too bad.”
    “The gang’s all here getting coffee and settling down. I thought I’d walk in with you.” It is like him to know exactly what I need.
    Gary and I and the other therapists in our building m eet once a m onth in the staff room to present cases to each other for peer consultation. Everyone knows about Ben. They must – it ’ s been headline news, including the fact that, according to h i s fa t her- i n-law, he had been seeing m e, the depart m e nt’s n e w psychologist.
    T here is a slight syncopation in the conversation as w e walk in. E veryone l o oks at m e, and when I look back, they turn their heads, pretending to be looking els e where. So m eone hands m e a cup of coffee. So m eone else gives m e a hug. They are restrai n ed in their curiosi t y. They want details, but are too polite to ask directly. I’d probably feel the s a m e if our situations were reversed. I join the charade, pretending not to n o tice how ea g er they are to learn what I have done wrong. I watch as they silently m easure their co m petency against m i ne, the so-called expert in police psychology.
    Gary walks upstairs to my office after the m eeting. W e walk out to a b r eezeway that overlooks a s m all garden. “You were pretty quiet in there.”
    “I didn’t have anything to say.”
    He bangs his pipe against his shoe. Flakes of ash drift over our f eet. He re f ills the pipe, ta m ping tobacco into the bowl with a nicotine stained finger. T h e fragrant aro m a of burning tobacco settles on us like m i st.
    “Look, Dot,” he says, “I don’t know the p a rticulars of what happened. If you want to tell m e, I’m here to listen. And if you don’t w a nt to talk, that’s fine too. I’ve been in this business as long as you have. W hen a client com m its suicide, the therapist suffers. I know you m ust be going over and over it in your m i nd. I would be. Just don ’ t be too hard on yourself. We’ve all m ade m i stakes, big m i s t akes. Myself included. Join the crowd.”
    “Have you ever had a patient kill hi m self ? ”
    He shakes his head no.
    “Then let m e tell you. S o m e m istakes are worse than others.”
    He takes a long draw on his pipe, exhaling the s m oke with a soft whistle. He looks hurt.
    “I’m sorry. I know you’re only trying to help. I apprec i ate it. Can we change the subject ? ”
    “Sure.” He