Rackham - Storyflash

The civilian car pulled off the countryside road onto the paved but
nevertheless dusty parking lot. Surrounded by loosely arranged trees, a
rustic-looking wooden fence, and the occasional trashcan or road sign,
the parking lot lay squarely in what most of Rackham’s colleagues would
have thought of as the middle of nowhere.
And indeed, for a city
boy, the surroundings were almost unbearably rural. Apart from the
sprawling farmhouse complex squatting on the far side of the meadow
beyond the wooden fence, there didn’t seem to be a building within the
next couple miles. All that was visible were gently sloping hillsides
and small gatherings of trees here and there. He was 15 minutes off the
I-65, on a road that he wouldn’t have sworn even had a name – if it wasn’t for the fact that he’d looked it up a long time ago and knew for a fact that it did.
Killing
 the engine, Rackham exited the car and took another look around. Apart
from his vehicle, a privately owned Seat 515 originally mainly chosen
for its inconspicuous looks but now sporting a slightly battered and
neglected exterior, there were only a handful of other cars and one
motorcycle currently resting in the spacious parking lot in front of the
 Ranch. Not a lot of visitors today, it seemed. But that was all well,
as the Chicago Detective had intentionally chosen a predictably
comparatively quite Tuesday morning for his trip here.
As he started
to make his way to the entrance gate and looked around for the person
supposed to be expecting him here, he got no further than a few strides
before his cell phone rang. It was Burley, as the digital display gladly
 informed him upon a quick and slightly annoyed glance.
Couldn’t give it a rest, even for one morning, the stubborn son of a bitch, now could he?
“Burley”, he grunted into the phone in lieu of a greeting.
“Hey Racks – where are you? I got something… just came up… can we conjoin?”
“Told ya I was takin’ the mornin’ off, man. Medical appointment, y’know..”
“Ah true, remember it now. You said that, right. When d’you think you can be back at the precinct, then?”
“Look,
 I’m kinda outta town, right now… and I’m probably gonna be a while…”
His tone was beginning to let a bit more of his impatience show than he
might have actually intended. But he was starting to get fed up with his
 partner’s constant drive and relentless ambition to solve this insane,
ridiculous pet case of his. The whole mystery hobo responsible for all those deaths thing. It was starting to grate on Rackham’s nerves, and he found himself a bit short on nerves as it was, right now, anyways.
“Anything
 I should be worried about?”, his partner tried to infer his concern and
 loosen up the audible tension that was building over the wireless line
at the same time.
“Nah, nothing that needs to concern you”, Rackham cut the attempt at human empathy off near its root.
“Okay,
 whatever. Nevermind then. Just let me know when you get back in the
vicinity, yeah? I really need to show you these new…” Rackham zoned out
before he could learn whether it was photos, or witness statements, or
whatnot, that his partner had dug up now, on his desperate quest that he
 suspected was at least half again as much motivated by revenge for the
disfigurement of his previously passably handsome face, as by the sense
of justice that Burley kept pushing to the foreground as the true reason
 for his newfound private crusade.
“Yeah, yeah”, he just mumbled into
 the phone distractedly. He had just spotted who he was looking for,
walking nervously towards him across the meadow beyond the fence. “I
oughta be done here soon, anyways… I’m gonna let ya know…”
With that,
 he hung up on the phone, slipped it back into his pocket, and turned
towards the entrance gate, resuming his walking pace towards it.
Not
for the first time, his gaze rose to the giant label affixed above the
gate, which, fashioned in a faux-Old-West style, said Sunnydale Ranch
 in giant, carved and blackened letters on wooden planks that were
undoubtedly of modern make but had been weathered and aged just enough
to convey a romanticized rustic, olden times vibe.
And not for the
first time, he stopped just a few steps short of actually crossing
through the gate, waiting instead for his host for the morning to come
out and meet him here, at the final outskirts of the parking lot.

\*\*\*

Chicago Police Accident Investigation Report . . . . . . . . . . . . . Page Nr. 2 of 3
Type of Investigation: Motor Vehicle Crash
Police Department: Westbridge . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Code: 01
Station: 07977051 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Case Nr.: T-1006

Description of Accident from Driver #2
Driver
 #2, one Harris M. Furrings, states that at the time of the accident, he
 was driving down Western Mainstreet just south of 22nd Ave on the #1
lane. Planning to turn left into 22nd, he switched into the #2 lane and
flashed his taillights to indicate his intention. He states that he was
driving at or below the permitted speed limit for this section of
Western Main, and approached the intersection with all due alertness and
 in compliance with general traffic laws.
The intersection in
question being an unregulated crossroads, he emphasizes his watchful
approach to the intended left turn. The traffic lanes in both directions
 of the crossing street were reasonably well observable, and so he made
his turn.
That is when, according to driver #2’s statement, car #1
appeared “as if out of nothing”, speeding towards driver #2’s car from
the left hand side, threatening to impact car #2 in the driver’s side.
Unable to tell whether the other driver (#1) was aware of the impending
collision, he “acted purely on instincts” and pulled his car around to
swerve sharply to the right, to get away from the danger. Also, he
stepped on the gas at this time, to accelerate his own vehicle and maybe
 get out of the path of the inbound car #1.
Not having completed his
left turn at this time, the maneuver took him to “somewhere pretty much
in the middle of the crossroads, maybe off to the left a bit, I reckon”.
Driver
 #2 further states that car #1 however did not maintain a straight line
of approach – which would have avoided the impact or at least reduced
the crash to a glancing contact. Instead, the other driver #1 swerved to
 the left, “obviously in a shocked and surprised attempt to avoid the
collision” but, as driver #2 states, “in entirely the wrong direction”.
The
 cars collided, car #1’s nose hitting car #2 in the driver’s side.
Driver #2 believes that only his quick reaction to “step on it” has
saved his life on this occasion, as this meant that the impact happened
further to the back of his car, and he was not himself directly hurt by
the inwardly distorted metal of the vehicle’s chassis. Instead, only the
 back seat and trunk were directly hit, and driver #2 merely lost
conscience from the crash.
He states that the crash must have sent
his own car spinning around and slithering across the crossroad from the
 force of the impact, because when he regained consciousness a few
minutes later, and exited his car, he “felt I was in a different place
from where the impact had happened”, but still on Western Main / 22nd
Ave.
Driver #2 states that, in a state of shock, he did not do
anything until the paramedics arrived. He thinks that was a few minutes
later. He then got processed through the usual procedures.

Report of Human Injuries and/or Casualties from Paramedic Unit D-35
Chief
 paramedic Henderson, and junior paramedics White and Sedlack arrived at
 the site of the crash at 21:34 on Sept 17th. They had been informed of
the accident by their dispatch unit in the usual manner, and responded
to the call as they were amongst the nearest emergency units to the
named location.
Upon arrival, they found two wrecked cars, one male
black adult, looking to be in his thirties, wandering the crossroads and
 picking up shattered chassis parts, as well as a number of other cars
that had stopped to look on or wait for the debris from the crash to be
cleared. In one of the cars, they found three more victims of the crash:
 two white adults, male and female, appearing to be injured or
critically injured, and one female white minor, obviously injured as
well.
“There was blood everywhere inside of that car”, states junior
paramedic White, and “I knew instantly that the girl was in trouble, and
 when I got a look at the parents, it looked dire for them as well”,
states junior paramedic Sedlack.
The passengers of car #1 could later
 be identified as the Rackham family, consisting of Junior Detective
Michael Rackham, his wife Julia Rackham, born Sierra, and their
4-year-old daughter Clara.
When the emergency medical team arrived,
chief paramedic Henderson states that he and his team were just finished
 taking care of the shocked driver #2, and removing the unconscious
bodies from
continued on page 3
Filed on: 2003/9/19
SSV Nr.: 332-P

\_\_\_\_(signed)\_\_\_\_\_\_\_ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .\_\_\_(783)\_\_\_\_
Officer’s Signature . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Service Number

\*\*\*

Head
 Nurse Selena Hadleigh headed straight across the meadow, passing by
half a dozen kids and two adults who were playing there with a few dogs,
 huskies from the look of them. When she had well passed the group, she
veered towards the gate and approached Rackham, but not without shooting
 nervous glances over her shoulder before closing in on him. No doubt
she felt exposed out here, her presence suspicious in the eyes of
potential onlookers from the ranks of her superiors, patients, or
visitors.
He didn’t mind – he had repeatedly offered to meet her
somewhere else, somewhere more discreet, but she had refused every time,
 arguing that she felt it unprofessional to do so. So she preferred to
meet on institution grounds, in spite of the risk of appearing
suspicious to someone overly attentive to their dealings.
But there
was hardly anyone in sight, actually. The children group was busy
throwing balls and little sticks for the dogs to fetch, paying little
attention to their surroundings beyond their game. Elsewhere on the
meadow, a white-cloaked orderly was pushing around an elderly lady in a
wheelchair, and even further in the distance two men could be seen,
obviously taking a walk while having a smoke. By all rights, Selena
Hadleigh could have relaxed – but she didn’t.
The mousy, vaguely
british-looking woman’s gaze settled insecurely on Rackham’s silently
waiting expression. She nestled with her ash-brown ponytail for moment,
then cleared her throat. She had shed her profession’s iconic white
overcoat and come out in plainclothes – and plain indeed they were. Like
 many nurses, she wasn’t a flashy dresser by any account. A drab jacket
over a crème blouse, combined with astonishingly unremarkable
earthen-colored skirt and shoes, made her appearance a dreary
composition of muted browns and faded pastels.
“Mr. Rackham”, she
forced a professional smile onto her lips and into her voice, “it’s…
good to see you…” Already, that smile was crumbling around the edges.
“Would you like to step into my office for our talk? Or we have a very
nice lounge area with outstandingly recommendable food if you’d like?”
“Naw”,
 came his drawled out reply, signaling disinterest so brusquely as to
border on rudeness. “Let’s take a little walk instead, shall we?”
It was no more a question, really, than she had expected a positive answer to her own questions.
“If you will, of course”, she managed to squeeze a little hint of indignation into her agreement.
As
 they walked away from the gate and towards the early noon shadows of a
row of trees growing alongside the wooden fence delineating the Ranch’s
premises adjacent to the parking lot, the two of them made an awkward
looking couple. Him in his well-worn black leather jacket, sturdy jeans
and boots, with a few oily curls of his jet-black locks falling into his
 face whenever he lowered it for a moment, surrounded by an aura of urbanity
 almost palpably out of place in these rural surroundings, and her
almost melting into the countryside background if it hadn’t been for her
 visibly nervous and reluctant manner.
They walked wordlessly for a
few moments. Then Rackham reached into his jacket, and pulled out an
unmarked envelope. Hadleigh’s shoulders tensed up when she saw it. He
extended the flat, bureaucratically beige packet towards her, and simply
 said “this quarter’s payment”.
“No no no no!”, she backed away from
him, hands raised as if to defend herself against the offensive object.
“I cannot accept that”
Then, with a slight droop of her shoulders,
she added in a different tone “I really thought you had come to talk,
this time. You know -“
“Take it”, Rackham simply reinforced his gesture with as few words as he could muster. “You know it’s yours.”
“I really can’t -”
“On
 the contrary, Ms. Hadleigh”, he lowered the envelope as if not to
threaten he quite so directly with its presence anymore, “you have to take it.”
“Look,
 it’s against all the regulations to receive unregistered money like
this! I don’t know how my predecessor handled things with you, and I’m
pretty sure I don’t want to know really, but… but it’s bad enough I did
it those other times…There have been questions his time! I really have
to stop. I could even lose my job if this ever comes out!”
 She had
unconsciously taken a few half-steps backwards, away from the city cop
with the illegal money in the inconspicuous envelope. Despite them being
 the only people anywhere in hearing range, she spoke in semi-hushed
tone, and her words were hurried by her intense unease.
“Why don’t
you donate through the official routes, anyways? Your due fees are paid
well in advance, and anything else that you like to give – is always
welcome of course! But you can give it by way of official donation… keep
 both of us out of trouble…?”
“No, you
 look”, came the harsh and unmoved reply, “I wanna spend this money
where it counts. Not for some bureaucrats and doctors-in-chief to
decorate their offices with it. And I know you damn well need it, too –“
“Our
 donation channels are all AMP certified and very well documented! Any
donor can use our convenient online form to trace where his money is
going at any –“
“Oh, now cut the bullshit, will ya?”
A faint
droning sounds as if from an approaching vehicle came into hearing range
 somewhere down the road. Undeterred, Rackham continued to insist.
“From
 what I gather, your animal therapy ward just barely dodged having to
sell two horses and a cow last month alone. And effective two months
ago, rabbits and geese have been halved, due to the cost in fodder from
what I understand? Your electro stimulation program has raised its fees
across the board, and that seems to be due to the intense maintenance
costs of the devices, am I correct? You are under-teched, underpaid and
understaffed…”
 A bus came into view, looking much like one of the
many schoolbusses that could often be seen in Chicago’s morning and noon
 traffic, but with different markings. Wasn’t exactly the normal schools
 that sent their kids out here for a day’s vacation.
Hadleigh noticed
 the bus as well, of course, and tensed up once again. Guilty looks in
the direction of the bus, the Farmhouse-gone-treatment-centre across the
 fence, and around the nearly empty parking lot followed, before her
attention returned to him. He didn’t give her a chance to protest again.
“And
 how do the budget cuts affect the amount of money you can spend on
activities with the patients, huh? I want the people working here to be
able to do it as well as they possibly can”, he implored her with a grim
 expression permitting no adversity. “Now you take this money and find
the ways that it needs to be used.” He glanced over to the approaching
bus, then to the children and huskies playing on the meadow, “Before
your dog squad is the next to go…”
As the bus drew into the parking
lot, and children proceeded to spill out of its innards, Head Nurse
Hadleigh’s defiantly set shoulders had already dropped, her gaze had
become resigned, and she nodded in weak agreement as she hurried to
grasp the envelope in as unsuspicious a manner as she could, and
proceeded to slip it underneath her jacket.
“Well, a good day then, Ms. Hadleigh?”, Rackham ventured, sensing her tense eagerness to be elsewhere right now.
“A
 good day, Mr. Rackham”, she mumbled almost inaudibly underneath her
breath, already striding away from him. Already, one of the couple of
adults who had emerged from the bus amidst the crowd of twenty or so
kids had started to look around for someone to receive them on their
visit.
As Rackham lit a cigarette and slowly ambled over to the
fence, he saw a single orderly appear from the Farmhouse and approach
the gate from inside, apparently to meet the visiting group outside.
Hadleigh went there as well and started to exchange words with the
group’s caretakers.

\*\*\*

Chicago Police Internal Investigation File
Investigation
 of Junior Detective Michael Rackham, serving with Vice Squad Chicago,
SN 17-D-5, for Involvement in Traffic Accident, Responsibility
Assessment
Police Department: Dunslow Square . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Station: 12800341
Code: IIF-03-ITA-135-12-2-2 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Case Nr: ITA-135

This
 Commission hereby recommends the total and immediate absolution of JD
Michael Rackham from all responsibility for the above detailed traffic
accident.
Having at long last been able to record the JD’s statement
 – delayed due to his extended hospital stay and long stretches of
unconsciousness – we find that the investigated bears no guilt or
partial guilt of the terrible road crash.
Allegations of
intoxication at the time of the accident, thus pointing to a possible
DUI case, could not be proved to the satisfaction of this commission,
and have therefore been summarily dismissed.
No other allegations
concerning breaches of traffic laws or general civil conduct on the part
 of the investigated have been raised, nor proven.
In the light of
this, the commission recommends to clear JD Rackham of all accusations
and merely suspend him from service for the duration of his
rehabilitation treatments, plus three (3) months thereafter.
All due
 empathy should be shown to this young, so far faultless member of the
police force in his time of deep grief. We wish to express our heartfelt
 condolences in the face of the terrible loss that befell JD Rackham and
 his young family, and it remains only to wish them all the best for
their future.

Signed: 2003/11/28
Chief of Investigation: Police Commissioner Harold Langfield (signed)

\*\*\*

The
 mixed group of children and teenagers that had emerged from the bus –
it must have been one of those collective rides, where several…
institutions… each sent a smaller group and paid for a larger transport
together – had been received by the orderly, and with minimal need for
Hadleigh’s interference, were just now being herded onto the premises.
Rackham
 had stayed in the shade of the trees and idly walked up and down along
the fence, careful to keep his distance to the group of minor therapy
patients, while finishing his smoke. As he was about to stamp it out on
the gravelly ground between the parking lot’s asphalt and the meadow’s
lush grass, he noticed Hadleigh making as if to follow the visiting
group inside, but in an oddly halfhearted manner.
And sure enough,
she shot an insecure glance in his direction. He dropped the cigarette,
ground it into the gravel with one rough-shod boot, and made as if to
head back towards his car – provoking her to make a move if she wanted
to continue their conversation. As far as he was concerned, he was done
here… for this time.
Seeing him making to leave, she indeed gathered
her nerves and with one last look towards the receding group of visiting
 patients, visibly gave herself a push and set herself into motion on an
 intercepting path to his own. He slowed down, then stopped, letting her
 catch up to him.
The silent question on his, somehow permanently
grumpy-looking, face was answered by her timid, yet urgent-sounding
voice: “Mr. Rackham, I was… meaning to ask you…”
“Yeah?” a careful
measure of impatience inserted into the question, to make sure she
hurried up or left him be already. He wouldn’t take the money back, if
that’s where she was going with this.
“Would you… would you perhaps…
like to… come in and see her… this time?” She asked timidly and with
downcast eyes. “I mean… all this money you give us… and I’m sure
grateful, it’s just I hope it never comes out, you know… but I was
thinking…”
“Were you now?” his tone still carefully controlled, kept
icily neutral so as not to betray neither rejection nor compassion in
too great a measure either way.
“I was thinking”, she started a new
attempt, “you have to be wondering how she’s doing, don’t you? After all
 these years, and I checked the records”, she was speaking very fast
now, as if to get it over with before he would interrupt her again and
she would not find herself able to launch another go at the topic,
“you’ve never once been registered in the visitor’s logs, and you’ve
always refused to let me give you any reports on her condition or the
progress of her rehab, and…”
She was running out of words, fast,
which seemed only to contribute to the urgency of her speech however.
“You’ve got to wanna see her, don’t you? We can make it a confidential
visit, if you wish, or even bring her out from the premises if you’d
prefer that…”
 “No”, he cut her off, swallowing down his pain and
turning it into bitterness somewhere deep down in his churning stomach,
then spitting it back up as gruff rejection. It was a trick he had long
since mastered, and nowadays barely even noticed using. It had all but
become second nature to him.
“No I don’t wanna see her”, he continued, now sounding angry and dangerous, “and what I’d prefer is that you’d never ask me about that again, Ms. Hadleigh”,
 pronouncing her name as if it was a threat. An ages-old police trick,
but it almost never failed to unsettle the opponent. Or at least to
re-establish some professional (not to say outright hostile) distance
when conversations became too personal in his line of work.
“I fully trust
 that your patients are in the best care that you can give them and that
 my money can buy them. I need to know no more details about any particular patients of yours, thank you very much.” That’s right, blur the issue, misdirect the opponent, insult the nurse with your sarcasm, he thought to himself. Anything to get away from the topic that is too painful to face head on, even after all these years. Maybe especially after all these years.
Browbeaten,
 the Head Nurse gave up. She’d owed herself a try, he could see that
clearly, but now that she’d made her attempt, she didn’t have that much
fight in her to continue the discussion on idealistic principle alone.
Good. Apparently he had made himself clear, then.
“I’ll tell you when
 you can expect me to want to meet her”, he offered, in a belated
attempt at mending fences. It wouldn’t do to get her too angry at him,
after all.
“When she asks to see me, that’s when. But she didn’t do that, now did she? She couldn’t, even, could she?”
An uneasy silence settled between them.
“Well, then that’s that, for now. Thanks for your concern though”, he managed to add, unconvincingly.
The
 silence stretched for a few heartbeats, until it was slowly broken by
the distant rumbling of another motor vehicle approaching the Ranch.
A
 few, wordless moments later, an ambulance van came into view on the
road, and proceeded to pull into the parking lot and approach the front
gate. The van’s window panes were shaded, so it was impossible to
perceive the people inside. Looked like it was either a celebrity
transport (some of them wouldn’t wish or would’nt be able to use their
own limousines but would still put great stock in anonymity) or a
permanent admission of some sort. Not all of the patients in there were
necessarily just “visiting” for a while… in fact, not all of them were
even considered curable in the long run. And as he well knew, the Ranch
was in the habit of becoming an ultimate, permanent stay for some of
those who the doctors assumed would simply never get better again.
The
 white van with its red and blue medical markings was ambling idly in
front of the gate for a few moments, the driver probably calling in to
reception to confirm their arrival. This gave Hadleigh all the excuse
she finally needed. With a quick glance at her watch, and a recognizing
look as if she had expected such an arrival (which was not only possible
 but in fact likely of course), she tore herself away from Rackham’s
silently brooding figure, and strode towards the van.

\*\*\*

Phonetic Transcription of Post-Surgery Report #152/03
Operating Surgeon: Dr. Tearney
 [Transcriptions begins at 00:11:31:15 of Tape #152]
Female patient by name of Rackham.
Delivered
 with various fractures to rips and limbs, critical state of blood loss,
 severe fractures to the cranium, unknown but presumed severe extent of
damage to cortical mass.
Patient was stabilized prior to the
operation, and was still attached to breathing support and blood pumps
during the surgery. Junior surgeons with defibrillators and other
emergency equipment stood by during the intervention, but were not drawn
 upon during its course.
Successfully opened the cranium at squamosal
 suture, removed a number of splinter fragments of the parietal bone and
 occipital bone from the subdermal tissue, and parietal lobe, and
Wernicke’s area. Splinters ranged in size of between 0.02 and 0.85
inches, and were numerous, as both adjacent bones had taken severe
fracturing.
Successfully cauterized injuries in affected areas of cortical mass, no major artery damage evident.
Cerebellum
 seems not to have taken any damage beyond the severe concussion
affecting the brain at large. Other adjacent parts of brain were
measured to show blood flow within acceptable parameters, no anomalies
evident.
Successfully restructured parietal and occipital bones, and re-closed cranium at squamosal suture.
MRI
 scan suggests threat of hematoma formation on prefrontal cortex and
premotor cortex. These areas could not be reached by this intervention,
and have to remain under observation. Potential need for further
intervention there is estimated not unlikely.
Surgery concluded at
01:42 on 2003/09/18 with patient physically and cerebrally stable, and
moved back to ICU ward for further observation and examination.
Basic
 vital functions presumed intact, but considerable amount of cognitive
deficiencies is expected to remain, especially in the areas responsible
for language, higher motor functions, and vision.
God bless her poor soul.
 [Transcription ends at 01:17:25:08 of Tape #152]

\*\*\*

Having
 waved the shaded ambulance van through the gate, Hadleigh made off back
 onto the premises as well, sparing not so much as a look back at
Rackham this time. As he went back to his car, he lit another smoke,
glanced at his watch and got ready to leave.
As he pulled out of the
parking lot, his glance wandered across the large sign above the gate
one more time. Below the giant etched letters proclaiming it as the
“Sunnydale Ranch”, smaller letters informed a more careful onlooker of
its repurposed properties as “Rehab Center and Therapeutic Treatment
Clinic”. Yeah, that sounded nice and
hopeful, didn’t it? They couldn’t very well have added “and Long-Term
Storage of the Permanently Deranged” to that, now could they? Naw, that
would’ve surely been way too Victorian ages for the oh-so-progressive
medical community these days…
His cell phone rang again. He picked it up after quickly glancing at it to confirm it wasn’t Burley this time.
“Hey Marty. What’s up?”
He
 listened as the Falcini crime family’s representative rattled off a few
 niceties, confirmed that Rackham had received the usual envelope, and
proceeded to briefly sketch the current situation for Rackham, who only
made occasional affirmative grunting noises during the Consigliere’s
monologue. He liked to ramble a bit sometimes – but it was generally
wise not to interrupt him at it.
 “So if you would be willing to do
the family, hm… another one of your little favors in this matter”, the
high-ranking criminal finally got to his point, “your, um… circumstances… permitting…?”
“Sure man”, came the not-so-wordy reply of the hard boiled cop, “…anything.”
Marty,
 happy to hear it, rambled on some more, but the conversation soon came
to its natural end. Rackham hung up and dropped the phone in the
passenger seat. No need to pocket it, he thought, probably gonna be only a matter of minutes before Burley next calls with some new “hot lead” of his…
Heading
 back in the direction of the I-65, he was off to some more dirty work
for the mob, then. More tightrope dancing between his job as a law
enforcement officer and his mafia contacts. But so be it. They paid
better than anyone else would, and in his position in Homicide it was
all but trivial for him to extend a few favors every now and then.
Thoughts
 of his illegal moonlighting for the Falcinis inevitably led back to
thoughts of Clara, however. Even though he had never seen her since, he
could never forget her. The clumsy grace of her first few steps. That
lovely little voice forming its very first words. How she skipped
through the warm summer rain in her little yellow dress on that one
weekend vacation out of town, delighted as only a four-year-old can be
by the big, heavy drops of water falling down from the sky to join her
in her dance. How she had loved horses more than anything else in life…
Each
 of these memories was a red-hot dagger forever twisting in his heart.
For the baby child that he’d had didn’t exist anymore. And the daughter
she might have become was never meant to be. All that remained was his
inextinguishable guilt, and the memories that would never go away.
He
 could not bear to look at her, after that accident, not in the state
she was doomed to permanently remain in. But this way, he could at least
 make sure she was with her beloved horses. Even if she was just lying
limply on the back of one, held in place by an orderly or three, and
mindlessly drooling into its mane. The therapists said it helped these
children, made them feel better.
So if there was any part – any part – of her still somewhere in there, then he knew she would enjoy these awkward and degrading moments with all her heart.
And if that was all he could do for her anymore – god dammit, then he’d fight for that as long and as hard as he had to.