When the first bunch of MTacs started getting killed, their funerals rated live TV coverage. Networks, CNN. Precoverage on the morning shows and afterthoughts on Nightline. All the airtime they wanted to spend on ceremonies as long as it didn't cut into prime time. Except when the Baltimore Eight got buried. But when the president makes a eulogy, you carry it, you carry it live and you carry it live even if it bumps the sitcoms.
That's part of the reason the funerals aren't as good anymore. Beautiful as they are, there were so many of them so often they got mundane. How many times can you watch cops in full dress salute flag-draped coffins? How often can you look at young widows and widowers hug busted-up families? How much speechifying can you stand from the brass and politicians about" the greatest service you can give" and" not dying in vain"?
So no more live coverage and not as many politicians giving speeches. Unless it was an election year. Election years they fought like white trash at a Wal-Mart sale about who was going to say what over which body.
Except in California. Harry was at every funeral. Harry spoke at every funeral. He didn't give a speech, he spoke. He was one of the few politicos who could talk about pain and loss and the need to be strong and mean every word he was saying. Sometimes he would cry, but most times he wouldn't. But everyone who listened cried. Everyone who listened felt like they shared his pain. We didn't, because no one had lost more than him. And if he could survive and carry on, couldn't we?
And Harry never said any more than he had to, and he never said anything about anything that had to do with politics. From him there were only comforting words, there was an expression of understanding and there was a vow to protect the normals from the metanormals.
Harry made you proud to be MTac. Harry made you glad to know that when your time came, there would be someone like him to say a few words overyou.
Sometimes LA was a beautiful city. The beautiful days mostly followed the bad ones. Hard rain and strong wind carried away the smog, left clear skies behind. The hidden was revealed. Behind downtown were mountains. Under the clouds of car exhaust the Valley was a decent stretch of land. At night, glowing electric below the Santa Monica mountains, it was downright good-looking. On those days, the beautiful days, you could almost understand why people wanted to live in the place.
But it just figured LA would decide to be beautiful on the day Reese got buried. Wasn't right. Should've been raining. Los Angeles should've been crying for her.
The black cars, the limos that carried the family, the brass and suits were all pulling away. The other cops had scattered, gone home clutching their own family members while reassuring them— not real convincingly but giving it a shot anyway—that what happened with Officer Bannon wouldn't happen to them.
The reporters, the few local media that still bothered showing up for" these things," were gone. Harry Norquist had stayed, lingered, not rushing off like the other bureaucrats. Tried to comfort the family. But he'd gone now too. There was, after all, still a state to be governed. All that was left at Veterans Cemetery were the rolling greens, the rows of headstones and the dead.
Among them walked Soledad with Bo, Yarborough and" those two," which is what Soledad called Vin and Whitaker.
Looking up at the sky, the blue sky, Soledad said: "Ought to be raining. It's the kind of day people get married, not buried. It's not right. It ought to be—"
"She had more family than I figured." Bo stumbled into Soledad's thought. Half because he wasn't listening, half because he wanted to at least steer the conversation toward something positive."Think that's good she had so much family come out and see her off."
"Just that much more family she's left behind." Soledad brought back the dark clouds.
Whitaker: "They should be proud of her. Reese was good cop."
Soledad was downright nasty with the" who asked you" look she flashed. Whitaker took it, shut up, looked away.
"I'll tell you this, though." Yarborough talking now."She hung in there, huh? Never did anything the easy way right up to the last. That's how I want to go."
"That's how you want it? On your back, in a coma?" Vin didn't care for that idea. Cared for it zero."No thanks. When it comes for me, I hope it comes quick."
"Sure. Live like a bitch" — Soledad shared her ace boon nasty look with Vin and was glad to do it—"die like a bitch."
Vin didn't look away like Whitaker had. Vin gave Soledad nothing but smile.
Yarborough modified himself: "All I'm saying is she didn't go down easy. You gotta respect that. She was a fighter. A fighter. I don't want to go down without putting up a fight."
Soledad, looking at the blue sky again: "It's too nice a day. Should be raining."
"Well, now, it's not like freaks give you a choice on how you want to go down," Bo pointed out.
Vin asked: "You ever get a choice? There isn't much in this life that won't kill you. Read the other day about a guy trying to shake a soda loose from a machine. Fell over and crushed him. Died for a Coke. Now, how messed up is that?"
"A woman one time," Yarborough said, recalling a story,"got drunk and passed out in her Jacuzzi. Boiled to death. Like human soup or something."
"Honest?" Bo asked.
"For real," Yarborough answered.
Whitaker didn't say anything. Whitaker could do without any more looks from Soledad.
Soledad: "I heard about a guy who was out fishing, he yawned, a fish jumped out of the water, down his throat and he choked to death."
Everyone waited for the punch line.
Soledad confirmed her story."It's the truth. I mean, I read it… Heard it."
Bo wasn't buying."Sounds like one of those urban legends."
"How's it gonna be an urban legend?" Yarborough wanted to know."How's somebody going to go fishing in the city?"
"In New York, in the lake in Central Park you can—"
Whitaker got himself another look from Soledad. Whitaker shut up again.
Yarborough laughed."Yawned and choked on a fish. That is truly messed up."
The other four laughed too.
"I mean, seriously, you are some kind of loser. That's like having a fatal accident shuffling cards."
More laughs, a little stronger.
"Hell, if I knew there was a fish out there with my name on it, I'd pay a freak to burn a hole in my chest."
The laughing stopped: Just that fast and just that casual Yarborough had said too much. The five cops had to spend about a minute standing around in his embarrassment.
Yarborough didn't know what to say. He had meant nothing by his remark. No disrespect to the still-cooling Reese, as disrespectful as it had come off. But to speak on it further, to try and apologize, would only serve to prolong the discomfort.
Bo gave them direction: "How 'bout we take a moment, say a prayer?"
Five white-gloved hands reached head-high and removed uniform caps. Five heads bowed in quiet tribute.
Four police officers, in their thoughts, best they could, strung together bits of eloquence in asking God to give Reese comfort and love in her passing.
Soledad prayed a little different. She prayed a little more simply. God, she requested, give me one more chance to kill every freak that wanders into my crosshairs.
A respectful amount of time later Bo lifted his head, his cap went back on.
He said: "All right. We all got things to do other than stand around, so how about we get back to them?" The subtext of the statement being: Life goes on, people. Reese is dead. I miss her. You miss her. But it's time to go back to doing work.