Chapter 6: Tuesday, September 26, 2017 to Thursday, September 28, 2017

Kelly and I watched the news Monday night for about an hour, but it was getting repetitious, and we turned it off. By then Kelly was beginning to get some emails and tweets from people she was friends with, mostly asking what was going on. Most seemed confused, but several were rather vile. A few people wanted me to immediately fly to California and butcher my brother on the fifty-yard line, followed by ritually committing suicide. We went to bed, where Kelly tried to take my mind off politics, and mostly succeeded.

The next morning, I didn’t give the issue any thought. Who has time for politics when you have to get a six-year-old to school, bundle a toddler off to day care, and get to work? My seniority in the department was such that I mostly worked day shift, and could help Kelly, but even with both of us, it was still hectic. I got to the station about 0730.

I was greeted with a stack of messages on my desk, all pleasantly organized. All but one were from various reporters asking, begging, pleading, and demanding interviews about the President’s tweets. The only message that I really cared about was the one on top, telling me to report to Chief Crowley as soon as I showed up. Sighing, I stood up and went up the stairs to his office.

Chief Crowley had been Detective Crowley back when I first met him while in high school and had been Captain Crowley when I met him again after getting out of the Army. To a certain extent he was what many considered my ‘rabbi’, a superior officer who watched over the careers of those beneath him. My other rabbi was Lieutenant Jenkins, who had been my boss in TRT, the Tactical Response Team, and was now the Patrol Commander. Personally, I never put a lot of faith in being anybody’s favorite. It seemed to me that the best way to become a favorite was by doing a good job.

I waved at a few of the ladies in the office area when I got upstairs. My illustrious police career had started there as an administrative assistant before going to the academy. Being an admin was a lot like being a slave, in that everybody was your boss, but at least they were a lot politer about it. I stopped at the desk of Caroline Upgrove, who was the Office Manager and the real boss, notwithstanding the various captains, lieutenants, and sergeants around the place. “Hey, Caroline, I hear the Chief wants me.”

She gave me a wicked smile. “I certainly think we can say that!”

I grimaced at her. “Trust me, whatever happened, it wasn’t my fault!”

She laughed and picked up the phone, hitting a button. “Boss, the Grim Reaper is here.”

“Send him in.” I heard that both from the handset and through the door down the hallway.

I just rolled my eyes and headed to his office. His door was open, so I simply knocked and entered. “Morning, Chief.”

“Morning, Grim. Close the door and take a seat.” He hit a button on the phone and said, “No interruptions, thanks.” He looked over at me and said, “So, you’re famous again.”

“Chief, I need this like I need a hole in my head. This wasn’t my idea.”

“Well, I have reporters demanding you give interviews, so maybe you should tell me what’s going on. All I know is that the President has told people you’re a bad soldier and a lousy cop.”

I sighed and nodded, and then gave him the breakdown of what was going on with Jack and the tweets. He just listened, then asked, “Are you sending out any tweets in response?”

“Chief, I don’t even have a Twitter account. Facebook either, for that matter. I like to get my friends the old-fashioned way, by giving them tickets and arresting them.”

Crowley laughed at that. “You might have to get Twitter and Facebook accounts before this is over, just to respond.”

I simply shook my head. That was not in my plans. “Chief, you know those classes we take in conflict de-escalation? Maybe I shouldn’t respond.”

He shrugged. “Yeah, maybe, maybe not. I think your brother Jack landed you in it this time. From what I see on the news, Donald Trump is not somebody who ever took that class. More the opposite, if you ask me.”

“I don’t know. My Dad told me that Mom is putting a contract out on my brother if he keeps tweeting, but Jack didn’t take the class either.”

“You going to do any of those interviews the reporters are asking for?”

“Not if I can help it, and not in uniform, that is for damn sure.” He nodded at that. No way did a chief of police – any chief of police! - want one of his officers getting into a pissing match with the President of the United States while in uniform! “You?”

“Maybe. I’ve got people asking about your record, and whether you’re a bad cop or not. Some of that is public records.” He shrugged again. “Listen, that’s my problem, not yours. Get out of here and get to work.”

I nodded and stood up. In the open doorway I said, “Just tell them the truth, Chief. You know, about how, when I’m not fighting crime and battling evil, I fly around with a red cape and have a twelve-inch johnson.”

Chief Crowley laughed at that, but the real problem was Caroline, who was out of sight in the office area, but within earshot. “Twelve inches? Really, Grim? I’ll have to ask Kelly about that the next time I see her!”

I turned beet red and took off, escaping the laughter.

I spent the rest of the shift studiously avoiding the news. By mid-afternoon that became more difficult. Jamie and I had to return to the station to bring in a drunk who had driven off the road into Lindsey’s Creek. Since he managed to do this by ‘borrowing’ his mother’s car while his was in the shop from a previous accident and with a suspended license, we figured it would be at least a day or two before the justice system cut him loose again. We were heading back out to the cruiser when Jim Nichols asked me, “Hey, Grim, can Trump really take your Medal away?”

I gave Jim a funny look, as a few people turned towards us. “What are you talking about?”

“President Trump ordered your medals revoked.”

“What?” What in the world was going on now?

A couple of other officers came over and agreed with Jim and pulled out their phones to show me. A succession of tweets filled the little screens. It took a few minutes to scroll through them, but like Chief Crowley and I had been discussing earlier, neither the President nor my brother Jack was letting it drop.

The last tweet I had known about was from the day before, with the President calling me a ‘Poor soldier, poor cop.’ This morning he doubled down, stating,’ Soldier Reaper should be ashamed of his brother. Soldier Reaper is no hero.’ I muttered a quiet curse at the ridiculousness of this but kept reading. Next up was Jack, sending out a tweet saying,’ My brother Graham W. Reaper was a great soldier. President Obama presented him with the MOH. DJT needs to learn what a hero really is!’ That was when things really began to go off the rails. The next tweet from the President, just a few minutes before Jamie and I came back into the station, stated,’ On the advice of my generals & advisers, I am directing a review of all Obama-era military awards. No unworthy medals!’

“Oh, shit!” I muttered. I looked at the people standing around us. “Doesn’t this guy have anything better to do?” Looking over the stream of tweets the guy had issued that day was exhausting. He was bitching about the NFL protests, North Korea’s torture of an American prisoner, a Republican primary in Alabama, the United Nations, Puerto Rico - and me! “It’s like we’re back in the fifth grade and he’s double-dog-daring me to do something stupid!”

“So? Can he take away your medals?” asked Jamie.

I shrugged, but then shook my head in the negative. “That’s pretty unlikely.”

“But he can do it?” asked Jim.

“No, not really. I mean, yes, medals and awards can be revoked, but he can’t just order them taken away. Once they’ve been awarded, especially if you’re not a soldier any longer, it is almost impossible to revoke a medal. The only times I’ve even heard of it happening have been in the context of an active-duty soldier being court-martialed, for murder or something. Then it’s simply like the cherry on top of the sundae, just one more little thing when they throw the book at you. For the Medal, that would take an Act of Congress”, I said. While I wasn’t an expert on military law or medals, I had been around the block a few times with mine. You learn things about that stuff.

Sergeant Castle came over and said, “This doesn’t affect anybody but Sergeant Reaper, so everybody needs to knock off the gossip and mind their own business. Sergeant Reaper will handle his own problems. Now get back to work and go bring in some bad guys!”

The group began to disperse, but Castle put a hand on my shoulder and put things in their proper perspective. “Don’t sweat this, Grim. You’re still an asshole, but you’re our asshole!”

I laughed at that. “Thanks, Sarge, really feeling warm and fuzzy now. Just feeling the love! You learn this technique in Watch Commander School?”

“It’s the first lesson! Seriously, don’t sweat it, Grim. This is just bullshit, and you know it.”

“Yeah, I know it. Now I simply need to fly out to California and beat the crap out of my brother for getting me into this mess.”

“Do it next week. Go see the game first.”

Jamie and I went back on patrol for another hour before returning to the station for end of shift. I went over to my parents at that point and picked up the kids. After day care and school, Mom or Dad would take care of them for a few hours until either Kelly or I could pick them up. Kelly had an evening seminar, so I drove them home and started baths. Riley was very good; Seamus was a pain. Welcome to the Terrible Twos. Kelly got home just as I was getting ready to dry him off and dress him for bed, so I put his mother to work.

“What’s the latest on the Twitter front, you commie bastard?” she asked.

I snorted a laugh out. “I’d probably be more popular with the President if I actually was a commie bastard. I can’t figure the guy out. He’s never heard of me, I’ve never tweeted or whatever about him, I’ve never given an interview on this, and somehow, I’m Public Enemy Number One! How did I get into this?”

“Don’t look at me, Grim. It’s not like I voted for the guy.”

I just nodded at that. Kelly was a Democrat and had voted for Clinton. On the other hand, while I had been a Republican, once Donald Trump became the Republican candidate, I changed my registration to Independent. I couldn’t be part of a party that nominated a known racist and sexual predator to the highest office of the land. I might not have been a fan of Barack Obama, but at least he didn’t brag about sexually abusing women. I sat out the general election, disgusted with both candidates.

“Yeah, I hear you. Dad’s already heard from some reporters. They remembered he was the official family spokesman the last few times I ended up in the papers. When they asked why I wasn’t responding to the President on Twitter, he told them I wasn’t on Twitter. According to him, they just stared at him like he was speaking in tongues. I guess you’re not human if you don’t tweet.”

Kelly laughed at that and patted my cheek condescendingly. “You’re just a caveman, Grim. Cute, but a caveman.”

I gave my wife a leering smile. “Just how cute?”

“Not that cute!”

I laughed at her.

Wednesday, things just kept getting sillier. Both Jack and I got a couple of tweets running us down. In my case, one stated,’ Hero Reaper no hero, refuses to respond to charges of being a bad soldier, bad cop!’ Chief Crowley told me that he had made a statement to CNN’s Anderson Cooper, basically stating my record as a police officer, trying to refute the claim I was a bad cop. He also told me that the County Council, paragons of virtue and civic courage, were asking him about the possibility of getting rid of me. Wonderful!

When I got home, Kelly was on the phone, and she waved me over. “He just walked in”, she said, handing me the phone. “It’s your brother, Jack.”

I took the phone. “Calling to get me into more trouble?” I asked my brother.

I could hear him groaning. “Hey, this wasn’t my idea. I’m the guy pledging allegiance and he’s going after me, too.”

“Well, the next time somebody tweets something stupid, leave me out of it. The County Council wants to fire me, only they can’t figure out why. The next time you talk about me, they’ll probably start building a bonfire!”

“Okay, okay, I’m getting a lot of grief, too. Listen, want to come to Denver for the next game?”

“What?”

“I’m serious. Some of the guys and I have been talking, and we were wondering if you would want to come to the game.”

I was silent for a moment. While we often tried to get to see Jack play, and it was easy to get tickets through him, something sounded off about this. We normally would see him when he was playing nearby, the Falcons in Atlanta or maybe the Titans in Nashville. His next game was in Denver. My brother was up to something. “Jack, if I come out to see you, I’m probably going to end up kicking your ass. What’s going on?” I asked.