Schizo by Nic Sheff Page A

coffee out of Styrofoam cups, their uniforms crisp and polished-looking. Police cars are parked and double-parked all up and down the street.
    Inside the station is all cheap tile floors, colorless, threadbare carpeting, and dark-paneled walls. There are posters taped up advertising different police services, along with a bunch of missing person flyers and mug shots. Against the far end of the main room there’s a reception desk, where a rather large woman is sitting behind an ancient-looking computer, wearing a bright blue police uniform. There are a couple of wooden benches set up in front of the reception area, but, surprisingly, no one seems to be waiting.
    A big cop with a really big mustache pushes past me so I almost fall back.
    â€œHey, watch it,” he says gruffly. “Don’t stand in the door.”
    I take a deep breath and hold it, walking over to the receptionist lady with my eyes fixed on the ground. My heart beats fast and hard.
    â€œCan I help you?” the woman asks, but without looking at me.
    The computer screen lights up her broad face, and I can see what must be some kind of spreadsheet reflected in the framed, oversize printout of the department’s antidiscrimination policy behind her. She has short silver-gray hair and thick tufted eyebrows and quite a bit of fur on her upper lip. Her mouth is turned down at the corners, and there are deep-set lines around her eyes and crossing her waxen, pale forehead.
    â€œYes? What is it?” she tries again. “What do you want?”
    â€œI . . . I . . .” My voice trembles, though there’s really no reason why it should. I guess I’m just nervous, is all. I’m nervous to talk about Teddy.
    â€œSpit it out, kid, I don’t have all day.” She speaks in a monotone, still typing at the computer and not looking at me.
    â€œI . . . I . . . I’m here to see . . . Detective Marshall . . . Detective Kerry Marshall.”
    The woman’s head swings back and forth slowly, her eyes fixed on the screen. “Nope. Detective Marshall was transferred to Santa Clara last year.”
    My breath catches in my throat and, instinctively, I take a step back. “Wh- . . . what do you mean?”
    â€œHe was transferred,” she says, without any inflection whatsoever. “Detective William Demarest has taken over all of Detective Marshall’s cases. Would you like to talk to Detective Demarest?”
    â€œWell . . . I . . . I don’t know. Do you . . . uh . . . remember the case of the little boy who went missing from Ocean Beach?”
    She keeps typing, still not looking over at me. “Lots of children go missing, I’m afraid.”
    â€œYes, but this was Detective Marshall’s case. A boy, Teddy Cole, was kidnapped from Ocean Beach two years ago. It was in all the papers. Teddy Bryant Cole.”
    Finally the woman stops. She moves her hands off the keyboard and turns to look at me full-on. Her eyes study me. For the first time, there is a hint of color behind the dull gray of her irises.
    â€œTeddy Bryant . . . That case was never solved.”
    â€œNo,” I say timidly. “That’s why I wanted to talk to Detective Marshall. Teddy Bryant Cole is my brother.”
    The woman shakes her head, her lips held tightly together. “I am so sorry,” she says. “I am so very sorry for your loss.”
    My nostrils flare and I grit my teeth.
    Teddy is not dead,
I want to tell her, but she interrupts me, saying, “I’m sure Detective Demarest will be happy to speak with you. Just wait over there for a moment.” She gestures with her head to the empty benches.
    I nod. “Yes, okay, thank you.”
    â€œIt’ll just be a moment.” And then she smiles again, this time showing off a row of stained yellow teeth.
    I sit, waiting on the bench, my legs