Uncertain Terms

Chapter 1

Even as he sat across from his father at Thanksgiving dinner, Michael Brogan couldn’t bring himself to forgive the man. Frank Brogan continued to cause him torment, though the two had never discussed the event that began the downward spiral of their relationship.

A police officer in Boston, Massachusetts, Mike Brogan took a week off from work to travel back to Illinois for an early Thanksgiving with his family at his mother’s request. After spending much of the day near her and his older sister, he now felt uncomfortable as the family passed around the turkey, potatoes, and stuffing. Sweat formed under his armpits, defeating his antiperspirant as they grew sticky and began emitting natural body odors.

Normally Brogan brought his wife and three children with him during visits home, giving him a buffer that protected him from his father and two brothers, keeping uneasy conversations at bay. This year schedules prevented him from bringing anyone else, and he and his wife needed some time apart, so he drove solo to the Chicago suburb of Schaumburg where his folks resided.

Snow fell outside the dining room window and classic Christmas music played in the background, creating a picturesque family setting in visual terms only. Diane Brogan hated any holiday tunes newer than 1980, so her record player often belted out Frank Sinatra, the Carpenters, Dean Martin, or Andy Williams. A rather large, red candle sat in the middle of the table with four wicks that Diane burned each year while the family ate, even if they weren’t all able to attend. Sometimes they joked that the candle would outlive them all, because it never seemed to diminish with each passing season. Conversation at the table remained light, with people asking one another if they had enough food, or talking about the Blackhawks and the Bulls.

Tensions always remained between Brogan and the male members of his family because they all had questions that they silently knew were best left unanswered. All of them were cops, a family tradition started by Brogan’s great-grandfather, a son of immigrants who traveled from Ireland to the United States in the late 1800s. His father was three years retired from the Chicago Police Department where he worked as a desk sergeant during his last year. Younger brother Sean worked as a homicide detective and Riley, the youngest sibling, in the Bomb and Arson Section. Their everyday jobs assisted them with their side work, which Brogan avoided altogether when he broke away from his lineage to move east.

So, how are things in Boston? Brogan’s sister Erin inquired, giving him pause from the stress of the day.

Erin opted to become a nurse practitioner, which provided her with a solid living, yet kept her around police officers on a daily basis. Although their parents never discouraged her from policing, they never encouraged it.

Things are good, Brogan answered, giving the standard response, knowing he traveled home for a few days simply to escape his problems at home.

As a father of three, he now understood the issues that accompanied teenagers, and whenever the kids weren’t around he and his wife fought constantly. Brogan worked far more than his standard eight-hour shifts, working overtime and making an honest living. He didn’t take shortcuts, and therefore major risks, like the other peace officers in his family. It remained difficult for him to look them in the eyes when the family was together. The reason he moved away after graduation and virtually never returned remained the elephant in the room because they all suspected, but no one wanted to hear the real answer.

Are you working the Thanksgiving parade again this year? Erin asked.

Yeah. We’ll be leading the way with the motorcycles.

Changed your mind about coming back for Christmas? his mother asked as Brogan forked a piece of turkey breast into his mouth.

I can’t get enough time off, he replied. And I’m not sure Jo can be too far from the office over the holidays.

Brogan’s wife, Bobbi Jo, managed a print shop that held accounts with several major sports teams, several police and fire departments, and a handful of schools. Although print was allegedly a dying medium, her business never seemed to slow. Both of them worked hard, anticipating their children eventually attending college, which may have contributed to the decline in their marriage.

We’d love to see the kids, Diane said, speaking for her husband as she often did when it came to her oldest son.

With Dad retired, maybe you two could fly to Boston, Erin suggested.

Please, God, no, Brogan thought, stopping short of rolling his eyes and nudging his sister in the ribs. When it came to the home life of Brogan’s parents, Diane called the shots, so if she wore down her husband he might concede to a Boston trip.

Frank simply grumbled and looked down to his food to eat, putting a quick lid on the subject. Although he possessed all of his hair, Brogan’s father had gone gray almost twenty years ago, never bothering with artificial coloring products. Unlike his father and brothers, Brogan decided to grow facial hair in the form of a full beard, since it was allowed on the Boston Police Department. Almost a tradition for some generations of police officers working in the city, they were permitted most conventional forms of facial hair so long as their appearance was well-groomed.

Blessed with a full head of hair as well, Brogan felt fortunate for good genes, although he discovered a condition of nearsightedness around the time he entered high school that forced him to wear eyeglasses rather early in life. He’d toyed with contact lenses, and even wore them during the rare occasions he participated in sports, or sometimes when he rode his motorcycle, so he could wear regular goggles over his hazel eyes.

It’s very good, Mom, he said, since no one else had bothered to compliment his mother’s hard work for the feast.

His brothers mumbled half-hearted appreciation, and Erin gave a genuine thank you, openly embarrassed that she hadn’t said something earlier.

The remainder of dinner passed rather silently until Erin and Brogan’s mother started collecting dishes and glasses from the table. Brogan helped wipe the table clean before removing the middle section that extended the normally round table into a larger oval for family gatherings. His two brothers and father stepped outside to smoke cigars before they settled in for college football games. Brogan declined the invitation extended to him from his brothers, not wanting to talk shop on the holiday. He might have joined them on the front porch if he felt he had anything to discuss with them. Sometimes they swapped stories from work, but beyond that they might as well have brought up the weather.

You could talk to them, you know, his mother said, glancing toward the outdoors.

I’m not sure we have much to talk about these days.

Your brothers ask me and Erin about you, his mother said, carrying several pieces of silverware from the strainer to the drawer where they belonged. You don’t have to be such a stranger.

Brogan kept up with his older sister and his mother on social media, e-mails, or the occasional phone call, but feared being directly linked to his father or brothers. They kept company outside of their regular jobs that he wanted to distance himself from, and he felt disappointed that both of them blindly followed their father’s path.

I’m busy, he replied, trying to evade the sentiment of her statement. They have their own lives, so I don’t want to badger them.

It’s more than that, his mother pressed, which wasn’t her nature. When you first left you kept in touch with them regularly, and over the years that’s changed.

When he left for Boston, Brogan never truly explained his motivations to anyone in his family, basically just saying he wanted to be his own man and get away from home for a while. He called his brothers often during those early days, trying to talk them into leaving Chicago, not joining the police department, or at least steering clear of lawless associates.

Subsequent visits led him to the truth, and he slowly gave up hope for the future of his family.

Where do you want this, Mom? he asked while holding the table leaf as she moved some more dishes out of the strainer.

Just set it down. It goes in the spare bedroom closet.

I’ve got it, Brogan insisted.

He carried it toward the spare bedroom, catching a glimpse of his brothers and father outside the picture window as he crossed the living room. Had he not made the move to Boston, the quick glance might have been his alternate future. Only later in life did he realize his father spent time with him in strange places like taverns and police stations to groom him for two separate careers. Brogan wondered how much free will he would have possessed in his career path, fully suspecting his father intended for all three of his sons to take up police jobs to further his own agenda.

Carrying the leaf into the bedroom, he slid the closet door open to reveal several police uniforms on hangers, the dress blues protected by a garment bag beside the everyday gear. It surprised him a little that his father held onto the uniforms and didn’t hawk them to a younger police officer who wanted spare uniforms at a reduced price. He wondered if his father kept them with an agenda, though he now appeared his age, too old to pass for a street cop. Everything remained together, from hats to his nylon and leather duty jackets, as though he couldn’t part with them.

Too heavy for you? Frank Brogan asked in his usual stoic tone, giving his oldest son a hard time.

When he joked or made conversation he often spoke with little or no inflection in his tone, which made him sound perpetually serious.

I’m surprised you kept all of your stuff, Brogan said, nodding at the uniforms.

Me too.

Detecting a faint odor of cigar smoke, Brogan was reminded of how tough his father acted through his formative years. When he transitioned from a child into a teenager, Brogan saw a difference in how his father treated him. Suddenly some of the errands he ran for people as a kid in the streets of Chicago gained meaning in his mind. Making a few dollars each time he did a favor for certain friends of his father as a kid, Brogan grew to understand that each errand was a petty crime destined to escalate as he aged. Courts might have deemed him innocent of any crimes because he was an unwitting minor coerced by adults, but that didn’t make him feel less guilty. He also lived with the knowledge that his father, a man sworn to uphold laws by the city of Chicago, approved of such actions.

Brogan placed the leaf behind the uniforms, noticing some of the family photo albums on a shelf above the clothes. He remembered good times over the years during the holidays, on summer trips, and even visiting Disney World just before he entered middle school. Only once had Brogan, his brothers, his father, and his grandfather taken a photo together wearing their uniforms. Of course Brogan wore his Boston uniform, which looked somewhat different from the Chicago uniforms, and his grandfather wore a plainclothes jacket like a detective might wear, with his old badge hanging by a beaded chain around his neck since he was retired.

He wondered if his father ever looked at the photograph, which was forever immortalized in a local newspaper with an article that discussed their family legacy on the job.

You need to set that flat or it’ll warp, Frank informed his son, causing the Boston cop to wonder if his father searched for items to chastise him about.

Sorry, Brogan said a bit more gruffly than he meant to, reaching inside to lay it down on the floor.

Something bothering you, son? Frank asked, sliding the closet door shut as though more unearthed secrets remained inside.

Nothing more than usual, Brogan answered as they both lingered in the spare bedroom momentarily.

His father looked to the ground momentarily, something he rarely did because he always wanted to maintain control, and did so by looking people in the eyes.

I knew when I lost you, Frank admitted slowly, with regret in his voice. You were seventeen, and one day I just knew things between us had changed.

I grew up.

You certainly did. You barely waited a month before you moved to Boston after high school.

Brogan had moved in with his cousin just outside of Boston that year, working all of the right jobs and gaining experience so he made the police department recruit list on his first attempt. He met his wife as a rookie cop and everything fell right into place, as though divine intervention guided him to exactly where he needed to be.

Are you dying, Pop? he felt compelled to ask.

No, his father scoffed. Why would you ask that?

You scare me when you get this personal. I’m afraid you’re about to give me some deathbed confession.

Frank looked at him with stone cold seriousness.

Michael, there are hundreds of secrets I’ll be taking to my grave. I just wish you could have been part of some of them.

Brogan exhaled silently through his nose, knowing exactly what his father meant. No further words needed to be exchanged because they both knew where the other stood. Even as a cop Brogan wasn’t a saint, but he tended to follow the rules and a moral code he created for himself, based partly on the law and partly on the Catholic Church he was forced to attend during his youth. Now he chose to attend mass even though his life felt like the fallout of the good years crashing and burning around him.

Glad we talked, Dad, Brogan said with calculated sarcasm before his father brushed past him to exit the room.

Milling around the first floor of the house while the men watched football and Erin helped his mother set up the Christmas tree, Brogan picked up a plastic candelabra with flickering lights that used to sit in the window during his childhood. It welcomed him home from school, whether he aced a test or received detention for talking to friends too much during class. A cardboard box held several Christmas decorations from his youth, even though his mother gave each of her children one or two of their favorites over the years. He plucked a set of red, plastic bells from the box that played digital chimes when activated, wondering why they weren’t gifted to him.

So much of the house provided him with fond memories of his childhood, particularly around the holidays. His father typically walked through the front door with a wreath and a poinsettia plant just after Thanksgiving in uniform after his shift. An outsider might have thought they were the family holiday shows modeled their ideal characters after, and for years Brogan might have agreed with them. He felt as though this moment, with football on the television, snow falling outside, and holiday tunes pouring from the record player’s speakers, was predestined to remind him of every childhood Christmas.

He also felt a sense of foreboding, as though this might be the last time his entire family spent a holiday together. Unable to place where the negative feeling originated, Brogan slowly placed the decorations into their cardboard home. Turning, he took in a view of the living room behind him, with all of his family carrying out their usual activities. He felt a mix of depression and jubilation, once loving the life provided for him until a single event soured him toward his father, the man’s associates, and even the city of Chicago. Brogan’s brothers may have fallen in line like good soldiers, but he couldn’t escalate from the petty crimes committed as a child to the types of atrocities he saw his father commit after he turned seventeen.

At that point his father finally considered him old enough to step up and shut up about whatever he witnessed. The incidents in question included some fairly brutal beatings of complete strangers, accepting bribes from different strangers, and tampering with evidence when it suited the people who paid his undisclosed wages.

Looking into the living room at the man who raised him, Brogan clearly remembered the day that changed his life. The man he admired, whom he patterned his own life after, shot a young man in the head down a filthy, garbage-laden alley while the victim pleaded for his life. That day, and every day afterward, changed for Michael Brogan as he began to count the days until he legally became an adult, and finally graduated high school.

Now he felt the same way, counting down the hours until he headed back to Massachusetts, away from the family he both loved and loathed simultaneously. Even though his sister and mother didn’t have blood on their hands, he felt they remained culpable for turning a blind eye over the years. His father knew how to hide the extra money well, but every so often he bought things that cops simply couldn’t afford with a growing family, before his retirement. Closing his eyes momentarily, Brogan pictured himself at home with a loving family surrounding him for the impending holiday season, but even that was a fantasy nowadays.

If he could mentally endure a few more days, the trip home would provide him with some solitude. Brogan hadn’t felt comfortable in his own skin for a long time, his only escape coming from work and more work. Some men found comfort in the arms of another woman, bought a sports car, or joined a club when they reached middle age. Brogan fell into a vicious cycle of working to provide for his family while escaping his problems at home.

Seeing the lights being strung across the Christmas tree in the living room, he wished he could return to a simpler time and forget all about adult problems.

Chapter 2

Brogan returned home a few days before Thanksgiving, finding the Thursday holiday marginally better than any other day. Scheduled to work overtime in Boston for the annual Thanksgiving Day Parade, he woke early to shower and begin putting on his uniform. Although snow hadn’t fallen much the past week, the temperatures plummeted, ensuring he donned extra layers beneath his striped pants and long-sleeved uniform shirt. Walking to the kitchen, he carried his marked motorcycle helmet and double-checked the e-mail in his phone that provided instructions about the parade detail.

Instead of the nylon jackets with gaudy yellow-green reflective sleeves, the department requested the Harley-Davidson riders wear their leather duty jackets, which suited Brogan. Already in his riding boots that reached the bottom of his knees, he walked into the kitchen, trying to avoid making noise as he heated a breakfast biscuit in the microwave. He didn’t dare hit a drive-thru in case traffic between Boston and his home in Lexington proved congested.

Withdrawing the steaming biscuit from the microwave, Brogan heard footsteps enter the kitchen behind him.

You’re up early, he said to his wife, taking notice that she wasn’t wearing her wedding band.

She claimed it felt tight on her finger the past few months, but he wasn’t convinced her explanation was truthful. He wore his religiously, seldom removing the gold band, even when he went to bed at night.

I couldn’t sleep, Bobbi Jo said with a tone of sleepy indifference, as though she didn’t want a conversation at the moment.

I won’t be home until late afternoon, he said before taking a bite of the biscuit. The parade lasts a few hours, and I’m sure we’ll get stuck doing traffic control at the end.

Will it be televised?

I think so.

In the past their children loved seeing their father on the television whenever he led a parade with the motorcycle, or carried out work in the background of a case being televised on the news. Now their two teens and their son on the verge of becoming a teenager paid more attention to tablets, phones, and computers than their parents. Brogan remained a constant presence in their lives when he wasn’t working, attending their sports and school events with regularity. His own father seldom came to anything he didn’t personally plan during Brogan’s youth, as though driving home the message that the life Frank Brogan created for him took precedence over everything else.

Brogan hated being reduced to small talk with his wife, but it seemed whenever they tried discussing real issues an argument ensued.

I’ll plan for dinner around five, Bobbi Jo said before turning to return to bed, or watch the television in their living room.

Wait, he said, causing her to turn around reluctantly.

He didn’t want to go to work angry, but he also didn’t want to live his life like a zombie at home, simply existing.

Can we do something? Go somewhere? he asked. Just the two of us? I’ve got comp time banked at work that I can use.

How can we possibly leave? she asked, openly trying to keep her voice down. "Our oldest wants to quit sports so he can experiment with drugs, our daughter has already checked out because she thinks we’re divorcing any day now, and our youngest wants to be you, but you’re never around."

That’s bullshit, Brogan said as evenly as possible. I make it to their games, I cook here half the time so you don’t have to, and-

You’ve checked out, Mike. I miss the man who used to bring me flowers spontaneously, even when we couldn’t afford it. I miss the man who got jealous whenever another guy looked sideways at me.

Brogan couldn’t argue her points, partly because he felt insecure after too many meals on the road caused him to gain some weight. She remained vibrant and exceptionally pretty, even standing in their kitchen wearing a bathrobe at the moment. Following trends, she cut her hair short, which he liked even though he didn’t think he would, and she always dressed more stylishly than him when they went to restaurants or movies. After giving birth to three children she always looked beautiful, getting her figure back in no time at all.

Feeling as though he took her for granted sometimes, Brogan shifted uneasily in the kitchen, hearing the creak of his old leather gun belt. Some officers went to the newer nylon styles, but he stayed traditional whenever possible, realizing now that perhaps his clinging to tradition cost him in more important areas. He remembered his younger days as a patrolman when Bobbi Jo virtually raped him when he walked through the door after work. Now her eyes darted away from him more often than not, adding to his self-image issues.

I can do better, Brogan said, too defeated to say much else.

"You have to do better, Mike. Maybe it’s too late for us, but you can still do right by the kids."

Her words crushed him emotionally. True, they fought recently, but divorce never came up, and Bobbi Jo never indicated she had thrown in the towel on their marriage before.

I don’t want to leave things like this, he said, even though a glance at his watch indicated he needed to get moving if he wanted to make his overtime assignment on time.

Bobbi Jo gave him a look somewhere between bewilderment and sorrow.

"Mike, you always leave us like this. What’s the difference this time?"

Realizing any further discussion wasn’t going to prove fruitful, he sighed as he reached for his helmet, jacket, and gloves. Their recent arguments hadn’t singled him out as the problem, but the harsh reality that he needed to be present in both body and mind at home struck him like a fist. Bobbi Jo left the room without uttering another word, leaving him to collect his gear, and his thoughts, as his eleven-year-old reached the kitchen threshold, rubbing his sleepy eyes.

What are you doing, champ? he asked Thomas, his youngest of the three children.

I couldn’t sleep.

Brogan threw on his duty jacket, setting his helmet and gloves on the table momentarily before kneeling beside his son.

You might as well stay up and watch the parade, Tommy.

Do you have to go to work? It’s Thanksgiving.

Thomas seemed a bit pouty as he asked the question, even though he outgrew such behavior a few years ago.

I do, but I’ll be home for dinner.

Promise?

Promise, Brogan swore as he ran his hand through his son’s already messy hair with a smile. You behave, and watch for me in the parade, okay?

Okay, Thomas answered with a sheepish smile, turning his head away from his father.

Glancing into the living room, he spied their Christmas tree already standing in its designated corner, devoid of any decorations except for colored lights. Brogan had gone through the effort of dragging it inside from the garage the previous evening for their annual tradition of decorating it on Thanksgiving Day. The days of living vicariously through his children around the holidays were behind him, however, as adult problems caught up with the Brogan household. Sitting there unplugged and dark, the tree mirrored Brogan’s thoughts on the start of the holiday season.

Brogan patted himself down, making certain every piece of necessary gear was on his person before grabbing the helmet and gloves. The current administration wanted specialty vehicles like motorcycles and armored trucks kept in a motor pool, which didn’t add time to Brogan’s drive so much as it required more hoops to jump through when retrieving the Harley-Davidson.

He walked outside, finding the overcast sky spitting snow downward as he raced to his Chevy truck, jumping inside to begin his trek into Boston. When he turned the key the engine acted like it wanted to turn over and start, but simply kept cranking. For three years his truck provided him with reliable transportation and four-wheel-drive during the cold, snowy months, but today of all days it failed him.

Fuck, he muttered, letting his head drop onto the steering wheel from sheer frustration.

Chapter 3

Nice, one officer commented when Brogan stepped out of his son’s green MINI Cooper.

Zip it, Brogan replied, hardly in the mood for jokes at his expense.

Forced to drive the car that he helped his oldest son purchase with a co-signed loan because Chad’s girlfriend liked it, Brogan simply wanted to get to his parade assignment and endure the next few hours. The car and the loan came before the trouble with his oldest child, or Brogan never would have purchased it, even if he did get a good deal. Some selective wording on the loan for what basically amounted to a salvage title car got Chad a decent rate and a car he wouldn’t have trouble selling in the future.

After the latest episode of discovering random bagged pills in his son’s room, he wasn’t about to let Chad out of the house except for school. ‘Disappointed’ didn’t even begin to describe his feelings toward his eldest son after he worked so hard to save for the teen’s college years. Like all parents he held the highest of hopes for his children’s future, and he hated seeing Chad venture down a road that paralleled the people Brogan sometimes took to jail.

He received a few smartass looks from his colleagues who all drove vehicles more appropriate to the Boston climate.

Nice cah, one of his fellow officers commented as he walked past, speaking in the accent native to the land about the car.

Despite living in the area literally half of his life, Brogan enunciated words like ‘cawfee,’ ‘state troopah,’ or ‘plenny.’ He didn’t mind being considered an outsider, either, because it surprised a number of people to this day that he passed the exam and interview to join the department so many years ago.

Brogan’s mind kept wandering back to the conversation with his wife, no matter how much he tried to trudge forward. He went through the motions of inspecting the Harley after he retrieved the keys, exchanging brief conversations with a few of his fellow motorcycle officers, and getting all of his gear on before following the convoy over to the parade’s staging area. Time passed quickly once they got in position because Brogan didn’t need to speak to anyone, giving him time to ponder his marital status.

He didn’t know many of his fellow riders very well, even though he’d attended events with some of them for years on the motorcycles. Being part of the group felt somewhat like a loosely-organized fraternity, or maybe a Thursday night poker group where men got together but never discussed matters of deep importance. For the most part he knew their names, but when parades and armed escort events ended, each of them went their separate ways back to their districts. Some of them patrolled on the Harleys during warmer weather, but many of them worked an average day inside a marked squad car.

A veteran of parade work, both on the motorcycle and occasionally on foot, Brogan rode in the third of six motorcycle pairings. The Harleys kicked off the parade, providing both a loud opening that excited kids and adults alike, while establishing an additional police presence aside from the uniformed officers along the intersections. Feeling emotionally destroyed to start the holiday season, Brogan waved to children craving attention from police and firefighters, unable to personally conjure the holiday spirit.

* * *

Nearly two hours later he had reached the parade’s end, and while some of his fellow riders returned to the motor pool, Brogan doubled back to visit one of his buddies working an intersection near the end of the parade. Tim Kelley had trained Brogan during his rookie period as an officer, both as his field training officer and as an adviser in the years that followed. The two became fast friends, occasionally playing cards, attending baseball games, and sometimes working special events together.

A few years after training Brogan, Kelley gave up his position as a training officer when he found other opportunities on the department to earn extra money.

Now fifty-one, Kelley spoke of retirement on occasion, but Brogan suspected the man couldn’t afford to retire when he earned a third of his yearly taxable income with overtime pay. A husky man of nearly three-hundred pounds, Kelley maintained a full head of blond hair that showed signs of turning gray, along with a mustache of the same color and piercing blue eyes that surveyed his surroundings like those of a trained guard dog. Today he wore a thick nylon duty jacket with a reflective vest over the top that the officer often complained made him look like a crossing guard. He wore his duty hat and some ear warmers made specifically for peace officers that protected their ears from cold and wind while allowing them to hear their radios and other nearby noises.

Brogan couldn’t very well sneak up on his buddy with the motorcycle, so he pulled near the intersection Kelley was blocking to keep the parade moving and leaned on the patrol car alongside his pal. Even with his Harley parked nearby Brogan dared not leave his helmet or anything important in the open on the motorcycle, so he kept his helmet cupped under his armpit.

You must be bored, Kelley noted, looking to Brogan because the parade proceeded slowly, but smoothly.

Spectators lined the streets for as far as the eye could see along the outer edges of the streets, but no one appeared unruly to Brogan.

Not sure I want to go home, the younger officer replied, trying to avoid sounding as depressed as he felt.

You and Jo having problems again?

Again? I’m not sure it ever ended.

Brogan folded his arms, not sure he wanted to talk much about it, even though he brought up the subject.

Kelley had tried the marriage game twice, and after the second divorce, and losing many treasured belongings, he stuck to dating and casual sex, refusing to be tied down.

You’re in a sticky situation with a house, kids, and college payments on the way.

Brogan rolled his eyes.

I’m not sure that’s going to factor in.

The oldest giving you more headaches?

Kelley stepped up momentarily to warn some kids scrambling for thrown candy about getting too close to the floats and marchers.

You can’t beat yourself up about that stuff, Mike. Let him get a taste of the real world for a while and then college will sound like a dream come true. As for your marriage, try using toys or porn. Or role playing.

We’re well past that, Brogan scoffed. I’m either an absentee husband because I work so much, or I smother her when I try to stay home more.

Kelley gave him a shrewd look that only a good friend might provide before asking a delicate question.

Sure she hasn’t found something else?

"You mean someone else?"

Kelley replied with an easy shrug. While some people mistook his subtle body language for laziness, Brogan knew the man as easy going and never in a rush except when backing up his fellow officers.

He didn’t warm quickly to new officers, and sometimes it required a year or two before he engaged in conversations with them. Kelley kept quiet, always observing and evaluating others while forming his own opinions about them. Brogan told his friend it wasn’t very Christian to judge people, but Kelley often replied with a bittersweet smirk and one of his easy shrugs.

God judges them when they reach the pearly gates. My job is to make sure they don’t get there any sooner than necessary.

Now Kelley adjusted his position against the car and folded his arms, surveying the crowd as he searched his mind for sagely advice. Before he could offer any words of comfort, or truth, both officers noticed a disruption coming their way as several white men in their early twenties shouted obscenities at a group in the parade. The group in question consisted of primarily African-American marchers who preached dislike and distrust against police officers in the wake of a young black man being shot by police in the Midwest.

Both Brogan and Kelley were familiar with the group and its agenda, but their duties in this instance called for them to keep regular citizens from interfering with the procession. They approached the two young men who were marching alongside the group, putting on a show of hatred for all to see.

That’s enough, boys, Kelley said in his easygoing voice, like a teacher scolding students he didn’t hold any grudges against.

While Kelley tried talking the two young men down from their anger, Brogan used his radio to request a few additional officers be sent to their location.

Those assholes hate you guys, one of the young men argued, trying to use logic the cops were forced to ignore, even if they agreed.

Let it go, Kelley urged, still retaining his composure.

Brogan had seen his friend pushed to anger a few times over the years, but it virtually required an unwavering effort to get him legitimately upset. Knowing exactly where this conversation was heading, the motorcycle cop put on his helmet and adjusted the strap so he didn’t lose it during the impending scuffle.

In this case, Kelley never reached a boiling point, but he didn’t put up with sass from two individuals hell bent on disrupting the parade, either. While the one backed down rather quickly when a few other officers showed up, the first decided to run his mouth and eventually vented his frustrations directly at the veteran officer. Showing yet another side of his personality in the form of his crass sense of humor when someone irritated him, Kelley handcuffed the young man and insisted all four officers carry him away from the scene by his appendages because he continued to act unruly.

Brogan found himself grasping the left elbow while Kelley and two other officers grabbed the other elbow and the knees so the man couldn’t kick at them. Often during parades, even when multiple troublemakers weren’t expected, the department provided a paddy wagon to remove numerous offenders from the grounds. Unfortunately for Brogan the police van couldn’t be parked very close to the area without interrupting the parade, so the officers ended up carting the man half a block before securing him behind the vehicle’s solid steel doors.

When the doors slammed shut, Brogan