Wilson came over beside him and put a hand on his shoulder. “Damn it, we all make mistakes,” he said, hunting awkwardly for words. “Don’t let this thing beat you all the way down, Mike. What will happen to you is anybody’s guess. The papers will play you up as the fearless cop who avenged his brother’s murder. When the rest of it comes out, that you were on Ackerman’s team, well they may switch around and make you out the biggest bum in the city. Powell is on your side though, and so is Myerdahl, if he’ll ever admit it.” Wilson frowned and then rubbed a hand over his face. “The best thing you can hope for is that they’ll let you resign without pressing charges.”
So I’m through as a cop, Carmody thought, still staring at the floor. That had been important once, but now it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered really. He felt as if his body and soul were vacuums, drained and empty, without even a promise of hope to sustain them.
“What’s the worst I can expect?” he asked.
Wilson shrugged. Reluctantly he said, “Three, four years, maybe.”
“Am I under arrest?”
“No, but you’ll have to stick around. Powell wants me to take a statement from you tonight on your connection with Beaumonte and Ackerman.”
“That fast?”
“We’ve got to do it fast. Before the organization can grow another head.”
“Okay. Can I go outside and say good-by to a friend?”
“Sure, of course.”
The record room had returned to its normal state of quiet efficiency; the reporters had gone up with Powell to work on the story of Ackerman’s death and the patrolmen had been detailed back to their squads and wagons. Abrams was at his desk, studying a file, and the clerk was typing out a report, occasionally pausing to stare through the dirty windows at the dark city. The bright overhead light was merciless on the battered furniture, the cigarette-littered floor, the curling flyers tacked on the bulletin board. It was a room that had been part of Carmody’s life for years, but after tonight that would be all over.
Karen sat alone on the wooden bench at the wall, striking an incongruously elegant note against the drab and dusty office. She was wearing a black suit, high-heeled pumps, and her hair was brushed back from her small serious face. Good people, he thought. That had occurred to him before, but grudgingly and suspiciously. Now it was a simple unqualified tribute.
She rose lightly to her feet as he crossed the room.
“Let’s sit down,” he said. He felt clumsy and constrained with her, hopelessly at a loss for words. “I’ve just got a few minutes,” he said at last. “There’s a lot of routine to get out of the way, you know.”
“Yes, of course. Don’t worry about me, Mike. I’ll get a cab.”
“Where will you go?”
“Well, I haven’t thought about it. Some hotel, probably.”
The room was silent except for the occasional rattle of the clerk’s typewriter.
“You told me to say I was wrong,” he said, dragging the words out with an effort. “I did that. I wanted you to know.”
She looked at him gravely. “Did it hurt?”
“It wasn’t too bad.” He frowned at the floor, feeling weary and helpless. It wouldn’t work. There was no way to get to her, no way to bridge the barrier of bitterness he had built between them.
But miraculously, she came to him. “Don’t try to do too much all at once,” she said, putting a hand on his wrist. “Take it in easy stages. That works, you’ll find.”
“Look, I was wrong about you,” he said. “That was as wrong as I ever got. Can you believe that? Can you forgive me?”
“That won’t be hard, Mike. But let’s do it the way I suggested. In easy stages. Okay?”
“All right, whatever you say,” he said. Then he sighed and looked at the big clock above the police speaker. “The lieutenant’s waiting for me.”
They walked around the counter together and stopped at the swinging doors that opened on the corridor. “Eddie’s funeral is tomorrow morning,” he said. “Would you want to go with me?”
“I’d like that, Mike.”
“Look, I may be going to jail,” he said abruptly. “They can let me resign, or send me up. Either way, can I find you afterwards?”
“You’ll be able to find me,” she said slowly.
Carmody smiled into her small brave face, and put a hand on her shoulder. For just that instant there was a suggestion of the old hard confidence in his eyes. “I’ll see you, Karen,” he said.
“Good-by, Mike,” she said in a soft voice, and pushed through the swinging doors and walked quickly down the corridor.
Carmody watched her until she turned out of sight. Standing alone, he stared into the dim empty corridor, still seeing in his mind the graceful swing of her legs and the high proud look of her head and shoulders. After a few moments he shook his head and rubbed his forehead and eyes with the back of his good hand. Then he turned and walked slowly into the record room. The door to the lieutenant’s office stood open, and Carmody saw that Wilson was waiting for him, an empty chair pulled up beside his desk.
Carmody wet his lips, suddenly swept by an emotion that he couldn’t define. Part of it was fear, but there was something else, too. For a moment he stood indecisively, staring at the empty chair that waited for him at Wilson’s elbow. Finally, it came to him; this was what he felt as a child when he waited in the line at the confessional. Fear, yes, but something else. And the other thing was the sweeping relief that came from the anticipation of forgiveness.
Smiling slowly, Carmody walked into the lieutenant’s office. “Let’s go,” he said, and eased himself gratefully into the empty chair.