A hard, hot pressure filled my throat.
“Did you hit your head?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you bleeding?”
“A little.”
“Has anyone examined you?”
“No.”
That was when the officer in me overtook the daughter.
“Listen carefully. Do not sign anything. Do not accept any statement they put in front of you. Ask for medical attention immediately. Tell them you may have a head injury and difficulty breathing.”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
“For what?”
“I never wanted to destroy your marriage.”
“You didn’t destroy anything.”
I said it before I even understood that I meant it.
Thirty-five minutes later, I pushed through the glass doors of Baltimore Central still wearing my uniform.
Conversation stopped.
Heads turned.
A young officer near the desk looked at my rank insignia, straightened instinctively, and disappeared through a side door.
A gray-haired sergeant came out less than a minute later.
“Lieutenant Colonel Mercer?”
