Chapter 1      Six Minutes

The squad room erupted into cheers as “The Old Man” sat a box on his desk and turned to face them. Keith Harkin was fifty-four years old, as fit as ever, but the time was right. It was something a person knew instinctively. Like when Michael Jordan or Tom Brady decided to call it a career when some around them thought they should stick with it. Keith was sure he had more in him to give, but it was past time to start giving to the right people in his life.

Lieutenant Barb Cavanaugh stood off and added to the applause with a subtle golf clap—not celebratory, not thankful, just neutral and polite. To Keith, that was Barb to a tee—polite but uncommitted, at least to her men and women in the detectives’ bureau. Even on such an occasion for her former partner.

Someone started saying, “Speech! Speech!” Soon, eighteen cops joined in loudly. He didn’t want to make a speech. He preferred to say nothing at all. His wife, Bernice, was there to walk out with him for the last time. They would drive home to Euless to begin a life he had cheated of his time for over thirty years. They had spoken openly about his thoughts, nightmares, and regrets. They had agreed that putting in his papers was the best decision he could make.

Over their thirty-five years of marriage, thirty of it as a cop, Keith had missed almost every holiday, birthday, anniversary, dance recital, and his two daughters’ graduations. He had given one hundred percent of himself to the job, leaving little for the family.

He doubted Bernice wanted a speech; she probably wanted an apology for thirty years of absence, bad moods, and nightmares. Thirty years of concealment: unable and unwilling to bring the streets, the loss, the depravity, or the horrors that filled his days, that haunted his dreams and occupied his mind, into the brief hour or two they shared most days.

Over the years, Keith mentioned the names of fallen officers, some of whom he knew, others he knew as brothers. They had not been killed in the line of duty. They were taken from their families by their own hands. The suicide rate among cops was almost as high as that of military personnel with PTSD. Trauma knew no battlefield but the mind, so Iraqi deserts or Fort Worth streets made no difference when it struck its devastating blow.

Keith Harkin felt the darkness intruding when he slept or had quiet moments. He knew his reactions concerned Bernice. She seemed to want to say or do something to comfort him, but he held it inside and pushed her out. It was just how he dealt with things—how he kept them siloed, thinking he was protecting Bernice from the ugliness of a homicide detective’s life.

No, he figured Bernice was about as interested in a speech as he was in giving one, but as always, he would give more to the job than was deserved while Bernice waited patiently for it to end. Then he could finally come home to her, or this time, with her.

He rested his left hand on the box containing the remnants of his years of service. The few trinkets that made his desktop look like a human worked there: family photos, Service Commendations, a bowling trophy for third place, and the album—the constant reminder of his failure as a detective.

He turned to face the people lined up in a semicircle at the back of the squad room. The chant of “Speech! Speech!” died down. Then, finally, the lieutenant and Bernice took a step sideways while he spoke.

“I’ve known some of you since you were rookies and some, not so long but just as well. And you know me too. So, you know I’m not one for making speeches. But let me tell you something. I respect every one of you. I even trust most of you.” A little laughter went up and elbows nudged in the room.

“In all seriousness. I’ll miss you. The job. I’ll miss coming in here every day for maybe a week.” There was more laughter, and the room could see he was uncomfortable. Then, finally, someone shouted, “We’ll miss you too!”

“I doubt that’s true. But to a person, you have been good people to work with. I’d trust, hell, I’d be honored to have any one of you work my case if I ever get murdered.” The room looked awkwardly back at him, and a few detectives laughed nervously.

“Let’s all meet up sometime, tip a glass of beer, and discuss anything other than the job. I’m going home with Bernice now.” He didn’t wait for the polite applause to stop before he picked up his box and walked away. Bernice by his side.

It was a Thursday, and everyone thought he would wait until Friday, but for Keith and the homicide detectives, the workweek didn’t begin and end as it did for others. The spelling was the only difference between Monday, Friday, or any other day. Weekends meant more homicides, and on Mondays, the board would be full. But it would look the same on other days ending in Y. There was seldom a break in the action.

Keith and Bernice had weathered many difficult years together, mainly because Bernice was not a quitter. She thought about it. She even dreamed about starting over somewhere. About how much more pleasant it would be if she didn’t spend every waking moment worrying about someone. Every news report of an officer-involved shooting, when he was on patrol that tied her stomach in knots, would be gone. Every time, he cussed at her or the kids for asking a question, interrupting a thought, or making him feel guilty by talking about some event he had missed. None of that would have had to happen.

Most of his life’s missed events were significant, requiring much of his time and attention. They accurately represented the lives of his two daughters and his three grandchildren. In his head, the Frank Sinatra song My Way had played on repeat for more than ten years. Not the triumphal crescendo of the boastful ending I. Did. It. My. Way! But the haunting beginning that best described Keith’s life and his career. Regrets, I’ve had a few.

There it had stopped, repeating over and over. The following line was just out of reach because he always chose to grasp the truth tightly. He could never say, but then again, too few to mention. He didn’t mention the regrets for fear of letting them surface and consume him as they did in his sleep.

Keith and Bernice drove from Fort Worth to their home in Euless. Small talk filled the time it took to navigate heavy Thursday afternoon traffic. Bernice talked of plans to visit the girls.

“Allison is getting a badge in Girl Scouts this weekend at a jamboree. Maybe we could drive up to see them?”

“That would be great, Bernice. Let’s do that.” He had responded in a way he never could for thirty years because Detective Keith Harkin never knew what tomorrow would bring, only that it would come with another problem he had to deal with. Another witness statement. An autopsy result. A trial appearance. A meeting with someone in the department or another grieving mother, father, or child. The demands of the job cut him off from the possibility of ever committing to an event in the lives of his children. For the last five years, they didn’t even bother to ask.