The Poet Read Online Free PDF

and smiled when I walked in. I was hoping she’d be there. I came around the counter and pulled an extra chair away from an empty desk and sat down next to hers. It looked like a slow moment at the Rocky library.
    “Oh no,” she said cheerfully. “When you come in and sit down, I know it’s going to be a long one.”
    She was referring to the extensive search requests I usually made in preparation for stories. A lot of the crime stories I wrote spiraled into wide-ranging law enforcement issues. I always needed to know what else had been written about the subject and where.
    “Sorry,” I said, a feigned contrition. “This one might keep you with Lex and Nex the rest of the day.”
    “You mean, if I can get to it. What do you need?”
    She was attractive in an understated way. She had dark hair I had never seen in anything other than a braid, brown eyes behind the steel-rimmed glasses and full lips that were never painted. She pulled a yellow legal pad over in front of her, adjusted her glasses and picked up a pen, ready to take down the list of things I wanted. Lexis and Nexis were computer databases that carried most major and not so major newspapers in the country, as well as court rulings and a whole host of other parking lots on the information highway. If you were trying to see how much had been written on a specific subject or particular story, the Lexis/Nexis network was the place to start.
    “Police suicide,” I said. “I want to find out everything I can about it.”
    Her face stiffened. I guessed she suspected the search was for personal reasons. The computer time is expensive and the company strictly forbids its use for personal reasons.
    “Don’t worry, I’m on a story. Glenn just okayed the assignment.”
    She nodded but I wondered if she believed me. I assumed she would check with Glenn. Her eyes returned to her yellow pad.
    “What I’m looking for is any national statistics on occurrence, any stats on the rate of cop suicide compared to other jobs and the population as a whole, and any mention of think tanks or government agencies that might have studied this. Uh, let’s see, what else … oh, and anything anecdotal.”
    “Anecdotal?”
    “You know, any clips on cop suicides that have run. Let’s go back five years. I’m looking for examples.”
    “Like your …”
    She realized what she was saying.
    “Yes, like my brother.”
    “It’s a shame.”
    She didn’t say anything more. I let the silence hang between us for a few moments and then asked her how long she thought the computer search would take. My requests were often given a low priority since I was not a deadline writer.
    “Well, it’s really a shotgun search, nothing specific. I’m going to have to spend some time on it and you know I’ll get pulled when the dailies start coming in. But I’ll try. How about late this afternoon, that be okay?”
    “Perfect.”
    As I went back into the newsroom I checked the overhead clock and saw it was half past eleven. The timing was good for what I needed to do. At my desk I made a call to a source at the cop shop.
    “Hey, Skipper, you going to be there?”
    “When?”
    “During lunch. I might need something. I probably will.”
    “Shit. Okay. I’m here. Hey, when’d you get back?”
    “Today. Talk to you.”
    I hung up, then I put on my long coat and headed out of the newsroom. I walked the two blocks over to the Denver Police Department headquarters, flipped my press pass at the front counter to a cop who didn’t bother to look up from his Post and went on up to the SIU offices on the fourth floor.
    “I’ve got one question,” Detective Robert Scalari said after I told him what I wanted. “Are you here as a brother or as a reporter?”
    “Both.”
    “Sit down.”
    Scalari leaned across his desk, maybe, I guessed, so I could appreciate the intricate hair-weaving job he had done to hide his bald spot.
    “Listen, Jack,” he said. “I have a problem with that.”
    “What