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anyway? ”
    Piterrelli reached out to comfort him, but Clayton shrugged away from his
    touch.
    “Don’t! Just, just leave me alone. I need...I just need a minute.” Turning,
    Clayton walked several feet away and planted his hands on his hips.
    “Jesus, motherfuckin’ Christ!” he shouted. Panic gripped him as a surge of
    adrenaline shot through him, simultaneously making his limbs quiver and
    shake, and turning his body hot and cold.
    Clayton knew people acted this way in these situations, but had not fully
    understood them until now. Being a cop, he had seen grief take many forms.
    When told a loved one was dead, most people would break down
    hysterically. Occasionally, their grief took the form of anger and some
    people lost it entirely. Suddenly, he realized it was happening to him. He
    was losing it. This all- consuming rage coursed through him, making him
    ready to do battle with anything and everything around him instead of doing
    what he desperately wanted to do, which was cry for the loss of a best friend.
    That realization caused the anger to drain away, and left him feeling weak
    and sick to his stomach. Then the tears finally came. They were big, hot
    stinging tears that blurred his vision and clogged his throat so badly he
    thought he would choke.
    “Aw, Craig,” he was able to get past the lump in his throat. This time he
    didn’t shrink away from the comfort being offered by his fellow officers, as
    they came up behind and stood beside him, gripping his shoulders and
    touching his back. With emotion strangling their voices, it was hard to tell
    exactly who was comforting whom. Clay turned slightly, and suddenly
    found Captain Jackson’s big, burly arms around him, clasping him hard like
    a father would comfort his son.
    Standing in the Captain’s strong embrace, Clayton heard random comments
    from his fellow officers.
    “He was a good man, a good cop.”
    “Damn, he was only twenty four years old. Hell, he’d hardly even lived.”
    “I’m sure gonna’ miss him.”
    15

    Straightening, Clayton fought and won a measure of control. Studying him,
    to make certain he was going to be alright, Captain Jackson thumped him on
    the back and released him. Clayton slumped into a nearby chair and covered
    his face with both his hands. Vivid pictures flashed behind his closed lids as
    he replayed the past four hours in his mind…
    When he heard the front door open, Clay rolled out of bed. Scratching his
    chest, he ambled down the hall and almost ran smack into Craig.
    “Whatup boy?” Craig said to him in greeting, as he raced past him. “I gotta’
    piss like a racehorse,” he told Clay as he dashed past him in the hallway on
    his way to the bathroom. A moment later, Clay heard the bathroom door
    slam in Craig’s room. Shaking his head, Clay went into their small kitchen
    to make some coffee. When Craig came in about fifteen minutes later, Clay
    offered him a cup.
    “Nah,” he said and opened the refrigerator. Rummaging around in there for
    quite a while, Craig finally came out with an open carton of orange juice.
    “So, what time are you picking up the new ride?” he asked Clay.
    Clay noticed Craig had taken a shower and changed into khaki shorts and a
    faded Mets T-shirt. His keys were in his hand, and he was obviously on his
    way out again. That was nothing unusual. He knew how hard it was to
    work all night then come right in and go to sleep.
    “This afternoon, before I head to the beach; you still gonna’ meet up with us
    later?” Clay asked.
    Craig stood by the refrigerator, gulping down OJ. He burped loudly,
    showing his appreciation of Florida’s finest, before answering.
    “Yeah man, I’m there. But first, I gotta’ stop by my mom’s,” he’d said.
    “The mower’s on the fritz and I promised I’d take a look at it before she went
    out and brought a new one.”
    That was just like him, Clay thought, remembering how good Craig was to
    his mother.
    Craig’s mom!
    Oh, Jesus,