Tomasetti extends his hand to both of them. No introductions are made; none are needed. Just a minute or two of weather-related small talk that’s stilted and uncomfortable. Neither of them is here to talk about the cold or snow, but to arrest one of their own, a duty no cop relishes.
After a minute, the female agent reaches into a compartment on her belt and removes a pair of handcuffs. Next to me, I hear Gina’s intake of breath, the sound of her slowly releasing it as she shores up for what’s next.
“Gina Colorosa?” the female agent asks.
Gina squares her shoulders and steps forward, her expression impassive. “I’m Colorosa.”
“We’ve got a warrant for your arrest,” the woman tells her. “Turn around and put your hands behind your back.”
I’d expected some slightly improper retort from Gina. Something to let us know she’ll be doing this on her terms, not theirs. She’s the one with the goods, after all, and if we don’t like it, the lot of us can go to hell.
Instead, she gives me a single, defiant smile. “See you around, Burkholder.”
Lowering her chin nearly to her chest, she turns her back to the woman and offers her wrists. “Let’s get this over with.”
CHAPTER 34
TWO WEEKS LATER
Life is the greatest teacher of all things wise despite the fact that the vast majority of us are reluctant students. One of the most important lessons time has taught me is that of appreciation. Not just the big moments—those milestones of life—but the small signposts that oftentimes go uncelebrated. Those are the moments I’ve learned to value. Those snatches of time spent in some mundane but meaningful way that might otherwise be forgotten.
It’s been two weeks since the ordeal at The Freezer with Damon Bertrand and Ken Mercer. Both men were pronounced dead at the scene. As Gina Colorosa was being arrested and taken into custody in Painters Mill, a secret task force spearheaded by the Bureau of Criminal Investigation was serving multiple warrants in and around Columbus. Six individuals were arrested that night, including Deputy Chief Frank Monaghan, a Franklin County judge, and four police officers, one of whom was a detective. Charges included witness tampering, obstruction of justice, extortion, bribery, making false statements to investigators, deprivation of rights under color of law, and manslaughter. The following day, the acting chief disbanded the vice unit, terminated seven additional police officers, and reassigned all remaining cops who’d been part of the unit.
I haven’t spoken to Gina since her arrest. According to Tomasetti, she was transported to Columbus and booked into the Franklin County jail. During her arraignment, she was formally charged with a multitude of serious charges, including witness tampering, obstruction of justice, making false statements to investigators, and manslaughter. The presiding judge denied bail, citing her as a flight risk and a danger to the community, but I believe that as Gina and her attorney work with investigators and prosecutors, chances are some of the charges will be reduced or dismissed and at some juncture she’ll be granted bail. She’s a key piece of the state’s case against many of the officers who were indicted, after all, and an important witness whose testimony will undoubtedly affect the outcome of what will likely become dozens of cases.
In the two weeks since, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about what happened. What I could have done differently. The things I would change if I could, now and ten years ago.
This afternoon, I’m sitting at my desk in my cramped office at the police station, a little too thoughtful, but making a valiant attempt to get caught up on the myriad projects I fell behind on while I was gone. My mind isn’t on the task at hand. Since returning to work, I’ve mostly been going through the motions. I’ve spent much of my time quietly appreciating the normalcy of this life I’ve chosen. That I’m alive to live it. That I have people who love me—and that I love them in return.
I hear my officers’ voices coming from the reception area down the hall. Glock and Skid are going at it over Sunday’s Super Bowl game and a halftime show that didn’t quite measure up. Pickles and T.J. are debating the severity of the recent blizzard versus the infamous blizzard of 1978. So far, Pickles is winning. A few feet away, Tomasetti is on his knees next to the printer stand I ordered three months ago and never assembled, using a screwdriver to secure a shelf.
Neither of us will admit it, but he’s kept a close eye on me the last couple of weeks. Other than to update me on the happenings of the case, we haven’t talked too much about it. We haven’t discussed my relationship with Gina, how close we’d once been, and how much influence she had on my life. I suppose I’m still trying to figure some things out. I can’t help but wonder: If I’d been a better friend and stayed in Columbus, would I have been able to prevent her from making the mistakes she did? Or is it presumptuous for me to think I ever had any control at all?
“Chief?”
I look up to see Mona come through my office door, ponytail bouncing, a stack of mail in one hand, a large overnight box in the other. “Janine Fourman called to remind us she’s still got an abandoned vehicle parked in front of her shop and she would like us to tow it.”
“You mean the Prius that’s buried in the six feet of snow left behind by the plow?” I take the mail from her, page through it, and toss half into the recycle bin beneath my desk.
“That’s the one.” She grins. “Want me to ticket it?”
“Is the fire lane clear?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Who owns the Prius?”
“Tom Skanks.”
Tom is the owner of the Butterhorn Bakery, across the street from Janine’s shop. He’s a good man, an honest merchant, and he makes the best apple fritters in the state. Sometimes, when he has leftover doughnuts at the end of the day, he’s been known to deliver them to the police department.
“Tell Tom he has seventy-two hours to move his vehicle. If he needs longer, give it to him. Let him know if he needs a hand digging it out, Tomasetti is pretty decent with a shovel.”
Tomasetti looks up from his work. “I heard that.”
“What about Janine?” Mona asks.
“If she gives you any lip, ticket her for being an obnoxious fool.”
Mona chortles. “Roger that.”
“Would you let everyone know there’s a staff meeting in twenty minutes?” I ask.
“You got it, Chief.”
When she’s gone, I pick up the overnight box, shake it, and then pull the tab. Paper crinkles as I pull out the slightly heavy flat object and unwrap it. A tastefully framed photo looms into view. The quick punch of remembrance takes my breath.
It’s a photograph of Gina and me taken the evening we graduated from the police academy. I’ve never seen it before; I have no idea who took it. But I remember the moment with clarity. We’re standing in front of the stage where the podium and chairs were set up. We’re in full dress uniform—white shirt, tie, and hat—hair pulled back into ponytails at our napes. Gina leans against me, her arm draped comfortably around my shoulders. I’ve just kissed my badge and I’m holding it up as if to tell the world “Look out! Here I come!” Our heads are thrown back in laughter. Remembering, I smile despite the pang of melancholy in my chest.