text: The Suicide Police S. A. Tawks ~~~~~~~~~~~ “What made you join the force?” he asks. “My brother killed himself,” she replies. “Ah,” he says as he gently places his hands around the mug in front of him. “The usual reason.” “You?” She hooks a finger around the handle of her mug and waits for his response before bringing the drink to her mouth. “Previous wife. Almost ten years since I found her.” He stares into his drink like the memory is just below its surface. “Did you find your brother?” “I did,” she shares after taking a sip and swallows the caffeine. “Do you mind talking about it?” She shakes her head. “I don’t think I would’ve been able to join the force if I did mind. Not that it’s a rule. I just-- Well, you know--” “I know.” And in the look they share an understanding that does not need to be verbalised. “It’s a confronting line of work,” she says after the moment she uses to take another sip. “If just talking about it was hard for you, well, you’re probably in the wrong profession.” “Suicide,” he says bluntly. “You’re talking with a fellow officer. You don’t have to skirt around its name.” “Right.” In the silence she places her hand on the heated side of the mug. “In what state did you find your brother? If you don’t mind,” he adds, offering her an exit from the conversation. “Dead. Three days at the least. He had a place up in the mountains. Shut himself in the garage and ran his motor.” “Before or after vehicles were fitted with detectors to prevent such a method?” “After.” She shakes her head slowly and the movement runs down her arms and makes the surface of her drink ripple. “He found a way around it.” He lets out a soft sigh before, “Death finds a way.” This produces a weak nod from her and she inches her hand away from her drink. “Don’t take that the wrong way,” he says a bit louder than the volume they’ve been talking in. Her hand freezes and she looks up from her drink. Their eyes lock; hers slightly startled and his almost sleepy. “It is your task, and mine, to keep premature death at bay. Our duty is to protect and preserve life, remember?” he reminds, paraphrasing the force’s motto. “I know. But it’s a confronting line of work,” she repeats. Then adds, “A tough line of work,” as her hand finds the warmth of her mug again. He deflates slightly when her hand is back on the mug and his eyes return to a drowsy state. “Can you think of a reason why you’re beginning to question your work? Surely you can identify the good you’ve done. Imagine if an officer had been able to provide prevention for your brother. Would he not be in your life now? Would both your lives not be better off thanks to the preservation?” “I have been considering him lately,” she admits. “Is he the main reason you began doubting your job? Was it his birthday recently? Did you find some of his belongings?” She shakes her head. “I think I know what began the thoughts.” “Good,” he says encouragingly. “Being able to identify triggers are good, as you very well know. Do you want to talk about it?” “I was called--” she begins but stops when she hears a noise across the space. Her eyes shift in the direction of the sound and her hand leaves the mug again. “It’s just the refrigerators kicking in,” he assures her. He doesn’t even glance at her hand. Instead, he keeps his drowsy eyes locked on her face and tells her to continue with her recount. “I was called to the scene of a homicide. This man had murdered his wife and was threatening self-harm.” He shakes his head and issues a tut-tut sound. “Sorry. Continue. Please.” “Neighbours called the police when they heard her scream and they arrived just in time to stop him from escaping. So he was in his car, a cruiser was blocking him from getting out of his driveway, and he had a gun. The responding officers drew their weapons and this created a kind-of standoff. But he had his gun pointed at his head. One of the officers called it in and that’s when I got called out.” “How long have you been with the force?” he asks as he raises his mug. “Three months.” This makes his drowsy eyes come to life a little more and his eyebrows rise. “How long ago was this incident?” he asks after taking a generous, refreshing sip. “One month.” “That’s tough. Very tough. I’d been an officer for almost a year before I was called to an incident with a perp who has already given legitimacy to their violent threats. It’s a very hard situation.” “I shouldn’t have been assigned to it. There should be a certain kind of callout that greenhorns are excluded from. They should have called someone like you.” He takes a guess at what she’s trying to say with, “Someone with experience?” “Yes!” “The academy is designed to prepare cadets for every situation and instill the sanctity of life in all recruits. Some situations are going to be tougher than others but the aim of every job is the same. Protect and preserve life.” “But he was manipulating the system! He knew I had to make the shot if I sensed he was in danger. Now he’s in a psychiatric hospital rather than a prison!” “Have you considered that maybe he was attempting suicide by police? You are aware that prison reform and psychiatric reform have made jails seem like resorts in comparison to asylums. So if he was looking for the easy way out, he screwed that one up.” “But the amount of time he’ll have--” “Is one perp’s questionable behaviour the reason for your thoughts or are you trying to hide something?” His sleepiness has vanished and his voice has grown rougher. These changes have startled her and her hand moves the farthest from the mug since they’ve begun their talk. “Don’t!” his voice echoes around the quiet space before he continues in a gentler manner, “forfeit your control.” Her hand freezes and she lowers her palm onto the table instead of returning her fingers to the warmth of the mug. “Please. Share your feelings and thoughts. That’s the only way I can fully comprehend your situation and attempt to help you. Was it what he made you do or was it the established life he so carelessly and thoughtlessly threw away?” he tries, utilising his experience. This produces shock from her, like he’s said something personal about her that he has no way of knowing unless he has been spying on her. She places her head in her hands and gives in to the crushing weight of the world and the things in it she doesn’t understand. “Why would he do it?” she asks as the heaviness of reality squeezes tears from her eyes. “He was young, rich, successful, had two daughters and was completely healthy. Why? How? How does?” “You’re forgetting your training. It is not your role to question why some people are triggered by some things and why some people can carry heavier burdens than others. Your job is to protect and preserve life. Our success is gauged by quantity not quality. One beating heart saved from the jaws of suicide is one more job well done. And every time a saved heart beats one more beat, that’s your success as an officer growing. Let the staff of the asylums worry about the quality issue.” Her face rises from her hands and her features display the emotions he’s been hoping for the opposite of. Her complexion is a contortion of distress and hopelessness. It’s a tough gig. Sometimes an officer says what the perp wants to hear, sometimes an officer says what they think the perp needs to hear and sometimes, rarely because training usually prevents such an occurrence, an officer will be evoked by a perp, situation, setting, feeling or something else to stray from procedure. She forfeited her control more than once but he gave her more than one chance because she’s part of the force. In his book, that counts for something. She moves her hand for the revolver on the table. The revolver he talked her into setting down earlier. Her fingers touch the weapon and this is enough for her to forfeit control. No more chances. No more talking. His service weapon has been trained on her foot throughout the talk and he squeezes the trigger. The bullet burrows into the centre of her foot and the pain makes her forget about her intention with the gun. The officer gets to his feet and snatches the revolver away from the perp as he rises. “In accordance with The Suicide Prevention Act, you’re under arrest for expressing suicidal ideation in a public setting,” the officer says, gesturing to the evacuated diner. He holds her revolver up and adds, “With violent intent.” Glancing through the window beside them he beckons for the EMTs watching in the car park. As they rush inside to provide their expertise, the officer recites the words he has countless times before. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to a psychiatrist. If you cannot afford a psychiatrist, one will be provided for you. Do you understand the rights I have just read to you?” “I don’t want asylum,” she says like a scared child, the prospect making her forget the pain he has inflicted on her. “M’am, I hope you use that fear as motivation to shape a better life for yourself.” He turns away from the table as the paramedics begin their aid and exits out into the car park. Sitting in his patrol car, the officer starts the lengthy paperwork required for every incident as he waits for the next callout. His shift ends as the sun rises to begin a new day and he makes it home in time to share breakfast with his wife before she goes to work. “How was your shift?” she asks over the food in her mouth. He’s thought about his fellow officer on and off throughout shift and almost replies with, ‘I had a real tough one tonight. With all the training she had and everything she knew, it makes you wonder why she would act in such a way.’ He catches himself before speaking, thinks over his response for a moment longer and decides the thoughts are folly before he stoically replies with, “Had a tough incident. Training helped me achieve the aim. Like always.