The Booker Dialectical Journal

Tom stood at the edge of his brother’s gravesite, his eyes fixed on the mahogany-colored casket lying at the bottom of the six-foot hole. The graveside service had taken less than ten minutes, the only mourners himself, Booker, and Captain Fuller. The officiating celebrant had spoken fondly of a man he didn’t know, respectfully acknowledging Will’s service to the community while blissfully unaware of his lewd, criminal behavior. For Tom, it was an unfitting send off for the brother he’d adored, but for Booker, it was a suitable ending for the cruel, sadistic officer who had made his friend's life a misery. In death, Will was friendless and alone, which was somewhat apt, considering he’d forced Tom to live in social isolation all his adult life.

The two men took a short walk across the perfectly manicured lawn and stopped beneath a large white oak, the thick overhanging canopy of leaves shielding them from the afternoon sun. Perspiration stood out on Booker’s forehead, the damp patches under his arms staining his navy-blue shirt. But his discomfort was more a testament of his pent-up tension rather than a reaction to the mild spring weather. He’d taken the burden of worry to new dizzying heights, his concern for his friend physically churning his stomach. Tom was unpredictable, calm one moment, anxiety-ridden the next, and he’d had no idea how he would react during the burial service. The young officer, however, had surprised him. It appeared his friend had managed to diffuse the ticking time bomb of emotion inside him, making for an uneventful interment. But the uneasy feeling in Booker’s gut remained. He had no way of knowing if Tom were really okay or was it the proverbial calm before the storm. Only time would tell, but he knew if it all turned to shit, he would be there to pick up the

“Maybe,” he replied cautiously. “Or maybe they did Hanson a favor. Will wasn’t just his brother, he was also his rapist, and if Penhall and the others had turned up, they would have watched his every move, waiting to see how he reacted. Do you really think that’s what Tom would have wanted? Being the center of attention would most likely have brought on a panic attack, and I think he's suffered enough, don't you?”

“That’s bullshit, and you know it,” Booker shot back, his voice dripping with rancor. “This isn’t about sparing Tom’s feelings. They didn’t come because they’re nothing more than a bunch of cowards.”

Although his young subordinate made a valid point, Fuller remained impartial. The past was no longer his priority. He needed all his officers back in the game, including Booker. “It doesn’t matter now. The funeral’s over, and we need to look to the future. I want you back at the Chapel first thing tomorrow. You and Penhall have a new case.”

Surprise arched Booker’s eyebrows. “I thought Penhall was working the Westview case with