Do I Know You?

Time may heal all wounds, but sometimes fate has to push it along.

Police Chief Sam Webster oversaw a small police department in a quiet, obscure Missouri town sitting along the Mississippi River, surrounded by plenty of small lakes and streams. Before that, he was a homicide detective, an undercover officer, and a SWAT commander for large metropolitan city police departments. He was also burned out by the manic and relentless pace, the constant exposure to humanity’s depravity, and the grinding wheel of big-city politics. He felt parched and desolate, as if he had roamed in a desert for years. He realized his years of drifting were rooted in unresolved feelings from a high school confrontation with a bully, which left him struggling with self-doubt and regret.

Daltry, Missouri, with a population of 3,897, was the oasis he needed. It was the perfect town where a fifty-two-year-old fly-fishing enthusiast could fade into the sunset of police work and live life at a sane pace and let time heal old wounds. For now, however, Sam found himself unexpectedly preparing to go on duty this cold Monday night in November, a night that reminded him of photographs of the dark side of the moon.

The scheduled officer, Justin Calder, called in sick at the last minute. Even though Sam didn’t usually have to cover regular shifts when someone called in, he studied his aging reflection in the mirror, wondering how much he had changed over the years. He buttoned up his uniform with a nagging sense that fate was at work.

Usually, another officer would cover the shift. Linda was helping her husband renovate the old Wabash Hotel up the hill, while Darrin and Rob were off bow-hunting and couldn’t be reached. Frustrated with Justin for making things difficult and for still being on the force, Sam started to call his last backup, then stopped, deciding to take the shift himself.

Sam decided to take Justin’s sick call as the push he needed to finish his retirement letter. He was done with Daltry and the politics that let someone like Justin Calder get away with abusing his power. Sam had already written to the State’s Attorney, slamming the prosecutor for dropping the recent excessive-force charges against Justin and calling Justin "a bully who dishonors both his uniform and the oath he swore to uphold." He knew his appeal wouldn’t matter, but it felt good. The world was full of Justins, arrogant and unchecked.

Sam’s hatred of bullies was rooted decades ago. It never faded. He found it ironic that his motivation for becoming a cop, to stand up to bullies, was now the reason he was choosing to leave the force. An unwanted thought crashed over him, dredging up old memories and biting self-doubt: Maybe you are a coward.

Sam shoved this all-too-familiar foe back into the box that he hid deep within his thoughts. It always lurked in the shadows of his mind, ready to leap out and rattle him, just like those creepy jack-in-the-box clowns with their wide, unsettling grins. He shuddered at the connection. He really hated clowns. Sam sipped his tepid coffee, turned off the football chatter, tossed the burritos in the fridge, and headed out to City Hall.

On the way there, the Jack-in-the-box clown’s head sprang again. It was grinning at him about the day in homeroom when Larry Brockton, the school bully, sucker-punched him in front of everyone. Sam remembered that, despite all the talk about Larry’s ferocious fighting skills, the punch itself felt weak and barely affected him. But what did hurt was the panic, humiliation, and confusion Sam felt at that moment. Sam just stood there. But so did Larry.

Instead of lunging at Sam with wild, savage punches like he always did with his other targets, Larry stood in place waiting for Sam to move. That confused, then jolted Sam. He remembered walking toward Larry as if he were sleepwalking, brushing past him, and heading for the boys’ bathroom door ten feet away. As he passed him, he heard himself say, “Let’s take this to the john, just us.” Larry was surprised, Sam even more so.

Sam remembered feeling swallowed up by a force not his own. Hate, rage, violence, guilt, shame, confusion, all swirled around in his mind like a tornado. But most of all, Sam clearly remembered thinking that if Larry followed him in, he would have made sure Larry left on a stretcher, or not at all. The malice had erased his shame – along with his sanity.

Larry eyed Sam, then looked over at his girlfriend in the crowd, totally thrown off and unsure what to do. She shoved her way closer, begging him to cut it out. Larry started toward the bathroom door, then just gave Sam a confused look, smirked, turned, and ambled off with his girlfriend like a conquering hero. Sam remembered an animal urge to chase him down and drag him back to his lair, but it was as if someone had said, “Let him go.” Sam listened. He walked into the bathroom, closed the door behind him, found a toilet, and vomited.

It still baffled him as to why Larry didn’t follow him to the john, or why he didn’t hit him right back or chase him down, either. He recalled deciding to talk it out with his dad. That was a mistake. His father’s response was what you would expect from an alcoholic with anger management issues. His words pierced deep into Sam’s core and anchored there: "Boy, you just showed your ass to everyone at your school. You’re a fucking coward." Sam still remembered the disgust on his dad’s face and the self-loathing that erupted within himself. It was the driving reason he became a cop: to prove to himself, and to his long-deceased dad, once and for all, that he was not a coward.

The odd thing is that after that day, Larry faded into the background, and no one ever messed with Sam either. Although the two boys saw each other every day, they never spoke again. It was as if an invisible, yet transparent wall had risen between them, making it feel as if they were walking in separate dimensions.

It was just past eight p.m. when Sam got a call from police dispatch about a disturbance on Main Street. A naked man was standing in front of Halligan's Hotel and Restaurant, the only hotel in town, screaming obscenities at the diners inside and threatening anyone who approached him. “So much for the dark side of the moon,” Sam thought. He grabbed his coat, jumped into his cruiser, and responded to the call. Thoughts of Justin surfaced again, unexpectedly, irritating Sam like a sudden surge of acid reflux. He skipped the siren and activated his flashing emergency lights.

Sam still harbored resentment from the incident a week ago when Justin, hired under political pressure, responded to a routine domestic call with excessive force. Despite knowing Eileen Watkins was usually the aggressor, Justin brutally beat her quiet husband, Gene, which led to a lawsuit for excessive force. Political connections ensured Justin wasn’t held accountable. Approaching Hannigan’s, Sam felt bitter toward the town’s corruption but was at least relieved Justin was off duty that night.

The patrol car’s emergency lights mixed with streetlights, casting strange shadows across the block. The patrol car’s strobing light illuminated a figure standing in the middle of the road, about fifty yards away. The man’s silhouette was unsettling, making Sam tense up as if he’d stepped into another world.

Sam rolled up and flipped on his spotlight, cutting through the shadows. The man wasn’t naked, just shirtless, wild-eyed, sprinting back and forth like a caged animal. He screamed every obscenity Sam knew, and plenty he didn’t. Sam’s police instincts, sharpened by rough years in Chicago, kicked in. Heart pounding, he checked his taser and his sidearm, ready for anything. This man was drugged up, drunk, mentally unstable, or likely all three. Sam knew this could go sideways fast. The outside crowd wasn’t helping.

The spectacle drew a swarm of Daltry’s townsfolk from both inside and outside the restaurant. They were shouting, jeering, and taking videos for social media. Sam snatched his car’s radio microphone and barked at the crowd to clear out or stay inside. Everyone knew Sam. Most trusted him, steady as a rock and fiercely protective. But if provoked, his intensity was fierce. In moments, the crowd melted away.

Sam was still focused on the man. He could see that he was walking toward him slowly. “Not good,” Sam assessed quickly. He was hoping to de-escalate the situation. The man stopped in his tracks, now locking eyes with Sam like a stray cat cornered on the street. His hair was wild, black, and dirty; his face was haggard and scraped clean of its normal features from drug use, with only a few teeth left in his mouth. His body, deteriorated and emaciated from years on the street, spasmed and jerked as he moved again. Sam could see the man’s eyes, two small voids set against an alabaster-colored face, scarred and broken by years of physical violence and self-abuse. Yet Sam saw the broken, chaotic soul standing in front of him. It was Larry Brockton.

A whisper seemed to come from behind him, or from some unknown direction around him, as he focused on the man: “Have compassion.” Sam paused, his breath visible in the cold air, heart pounding as he stepped toward the wild-eyed man. He softened his voice, letting compassion cut through the tension, “Hey buddy, do I know you?"

The words hung between them. Sam didn’t want to use Larry’s name in case he was wrong or if it would make it worse. But Sam felt himself trembling with memory and a plea for recognition. Sam’s question wasn’t just about identity; it was about reaching across years of pain and confusion, hoping to resurrect and resolve something that had been lost so many years ago.

“You don’t know me, I’m a ghost,” he blurted, eyes glassy, gazing ahead, obviously not recognizing Sam. “Yes, you are,” Sam thought with a shiver, but kept his smile and looked at the man. Larry was obviously on heavy drugs. As for what mental illnesses Larry suffered from, he couldn’t even hazard a guess. Regardless, Sam had to end this now.

“Okay. What’s your name?” Sam asked, even though he already knew. “Larry,” he mumbled. Sam felt his stomach drop.

“Larry, I’m not here to hurt you. I want to make sure nobody gets hurt. Let me throw my coat on you and get you in the car,” Sam said, inching closer, voice gentle but firm. Suddenly, Larry snapped, cursing and lunging at Sam. Instinct took over. Sam drew his taser, his voice cutting through the chaos to warn Larry. Larry’s crazed laughter abruptly stopped. “He must have been tasered a few times,” Sam thought with sadness.

For a heartbeat, time stood still. Sam took advantage of the pause. He lunged, tackled Larry to the ground, and snapped the cuffs on him so fast that Larry’s legs were still kicking like he thought he was running, when really, he was already flat on the pavement and cuffed.

He put a jacket on Larry and secured him in the back seat of the patrol car. Sam called dispatch to let them know he had the subject in custody and was taking him to the hospital for medical attention. Meanwhile, Sam kept looking into the rear-view mirror. Larry was staring back at him.

“You okay back there, Larry?” Sam asked, hoping he would recognize him.

“I need a cigarette,” Larry responded.

“Okay, not really what I was expecting, but it’s a start,” Sam thought

“Alright. I need gas anyway.”

Sam pulled behind Buc’s Shell, checked Larry’s cuffs, then grabbed a pack of cigarettes, a couple of sodas, and candy bars from inside. Larry hadn’t budged; he just stared out at the river. Sam opened the back door. Larry looked up at him, surprised, but there was still no sign that he recognized him. Sam moved the cuffs to the front. “Don’t try anything. You’re at a disadvantage. You good?”

Larry grinned, sizing Sam up. Big guy, tough hands. Larry was wiry, worn down by meth and hard times. No contest. Sam didn’t rub it in; he just handed Larry a cigarette and lit it, then lit his own.

“Want a soda or a candy bar?” Sam asked, popping a can for himself.

Larry took a deep drag, then nodded.

“Sure. Why not?” He wolfed down some candy and chugged the soda, then went back to his smoke.

“Thanks for the break. But I got nothing for you,” Larry said.

Sam watched him for a moment.

“You’ve got a story,”

Larry looked worried.

“Relax. How’d you wind up, like this?” Sam asked.

Larry blinked, feeling like he was back in church, preacher waiting for his testimony.

“Long story. Doesn’t concern you,” Larry replied.

“No, you’re wrong. I know you are here for a reason, Larry.”

Larry laughed nervously, sensing the intensity of Sam’s words.

“Here’s the short version,” Larry began. “High school was a mess. I barely scraped by, saved only by what felt like divine intervention. After that, I joined the Army and lost myself in Afghanistan. Found out my wife was hooking up with my best buddy. After assault charges were dropped, I joined a motorcycle gang, got hooked on meth, went to jail, years on the street. Now, here I am in a nowhere town, smoking with a cop at the back of a filling station,” Larry finished lighting a second cigarette.

Sam had latched onto Larry’s ‘divine intervention’ part of his story. “What was that ‘divine intervention’ all about?” Sam asked, as if only the two existed in the entire universe.

Larry’s grin faded, his gaze hardening. “I was the school bad-ass. Picked fights for fun. One day, I slugged this guy hard; he didn’t flinch. He just stared at me. At first, I thought he was afraid, then he moved past me and told me to meet him in the john. When I saw his dead eyes, I knew he wanted more than a fight. Then came the ‘divine intervention’: ‘Walk away.’ I did. Everything changed after that. People avoided me. My girl left, friends vanished. All I wanted then was to graduate and disappear.” Larry took a puff.

“Anyway, what’s your story? You don’t look like you belong here.”

Sam bent closer to Larry. “I’ll spare you the boring details about a long career in law enforcement, working in big cities, with lots of bad people hurting and killing each other. I’ll tell you the most important part: why I became a cop.”

“Remember when I first saw you and asked, 'Did I know you?’” he asked gently. “I was hoping you would say yes,” Sam finished.

Larry sensed that this moment between him and Sam was the reason they had come together, as if no one else existed.

“See, when I was in high school, this guy that everyone avoided because, well, he was a bad-ass, came looking for me one morning. He punched me out of nowhere. Then…”

Sam watched Larry's face twist in terror as he began trembling and collapsing into his own mental torment. Sam gripped Larry’s sweaty hands, steadying him to keep from making a scene. “Larry, Larry, you are safe, brother. I am not here to hurt you. You, well, WE are here to heal each other. Don’t you see that now?” Sam asked with compassion transformed from years of pent-up fear, hate, guilt, and self-doubt.

“Larry, that day changed things for me, too. I’d seen you fight guys twice your size, but something clearly stopped you.”

Larry looked at Sam, almost shocked by the question.

“I thought you’d fall or run. I didn’t think you’d ask me to fight in the bathroom.”

“Why didn’t you follow me to fight?” Sam pressed.

“I knew I’d screwed up. I didn’t want any part of whatever you had hidden away for me.” Larry could see that Sam was stunned.

Sam continued, “I was scared at first, you know? But then something inside me snapped. I hated you in the worst way possible, and wanted to hurt you, really hurt you.” Sam paused, then finished his thought. “I am grateful, beyond words, that you, No, that we walked away.”

“Larry, I know you get ‘divine interventions’, too. It saved you.” Then Sam corrected himself, “They saved us. Don’t ignore them,” Sam pleaded and continued.

“You know, another officer was supposed to be on duty tonight; he might have tasered you or worse. I only took this shift by fate, and you picked this town by fate. But I believe it was ‘divine intervention’,” Sam said, “because a voice spoke to me as you told your story.”

Larry looked surprised.“What?!”

“You won't make it out alive of another confrontation. Walk away. I’m begging you,” Sam pleaded, tears welling up.

Larry stood, tears streaming down his sunken cheeks.

“I know. I love you, brother.”

Sam and Larry never met again after that night. Sam learned that Justin’s “sick day” was a final interview with the Missouri State Troopers. Justin promptly quit Daltry PD and joined them.

A year later, Sam learned Larry had been fatally shot by a Missouri State Trooper, Justin Calder. Haunted but grateful for their final conversation, Sam sat alone on his porch, saddened by memories of Larry’s pain. Sam never told Larry the rest of what the voice had said, “he’s suffered enough.”

Sam, now retired, spent his days fly-fishing instead of wandering the desert. He was solaced in knowing that, however things turned out, he and Larry were meant to cross paths and in the healing power of time and fate.