Written by Jackie
I haven't written in my journal (never called you a diary, too frilly) since high school. The Devo sticker stuck to the first page sent me on a flashback. But Dad died today, and I'm so lonely. I need to explain my feelings, and you're the only thing that can listen, understand, and not answer back.
My father and I were always close, but you know that feeling....words you want to say but can't express, words you don't even know are there until it's too late? That feeling won't go away, no matter how much I try to worry about Mom or funeral plans.
So many bodies go past me on a daily basis, the rape victims, the children, the elderly. I try not to get emotionally involved, and I usually succeed. But seeing Dad in the morgue was a shock to my system. I moved back here to say goodbye, to spend time with him, and he's already gone. Leaving me with questions. Did he know how much I loved him? Did he really support my choice to cut up bodies, or did it tear him up inside (no pun intended)?
The answers are never going to come, I know. Writing in this collection of paper and binding isn't going to make a difference, but I have some small hope transcribing these thoughts upgrades them. That somewhere, my father sees them. It's ridiculous, it's unbelievable, and I'm doing it anyway.
Dad, I love you. Thank you for giving me this journal all those years ago. I hope you know how much I respected and admired you. Goodbye.
Haven't written a word in about a year, I guess I've been busy.
Kellerman and I....Mike I mean, have broken up. Not even a breakup, just a slow death. Strangely enough, I feel little to no emotions about it. Maybe we just had a pure sex relationship. Nothing wrong with that, ha-ha. But still, it reminds me of those old cliches in movies and books about repressed women who feel nothing. They're ice maidens who are fragile on the outside and
waiting for the Harlequin man on the inside. Know what? I hate them. Always have. I *feel* emotions. I feel anger and hate and love. Physically perfect bimbos disguised as career women, and they disgust me. Reminds me of that friend (so-called friend) who told me I'd look so beautiful if I just
got rid of the mole on my face. I asked him why I should, since he charged hundreds of dollars to give women a "beauty mark" that doesn't look that different from mine. He changed the subject, smart guy.
I do feel uncomfortable being around Mike, knowing I might have something to do with why he looks like shit, and not being able to help. But there's nothing to do, he can only help himself (could that sound any more self help/12 step?).
Forgive me please, if I can forgive myself. Today I broke one of my own rules: no coddling detectives. This complete ass named Falsone has been bugging me for weeks. In my face, asking about the Mahoney shooting. That finally stopped (thank God), but he's still annoying me. It's like he wants
approval and is your worst nightmare until he gets it. So I lied to him today, told him he did a good job with a case. Yeah, real great job Paulie boy, caught the wrong guy, beat him up (word travels fast, especially in the Waterfront during happy hour), then found the real rapist. Too late to help
anyone. I'm having embalming fluid fantasies at the moment....sometimes it's great to have such free access to chemicals.
Just got back here after a day or two at Casa Bayliss. Should I spill? Why not, that is what you're here for.
No one was more surprised than I was. Tim has always sort of given me the eye, but he's supposed to be shy and bashful. Puppy-dog. Well, that puppy is all grown up, believe me. He made the first move, in the Waterfront. Christmas Eve, in front of most of the guys. Kiss right on my lips. Being the
lusty woman I am, I kissed back. Faster than you can say "is that really Clark Kent?" we went back to his place, he took off the glasses, we took off our clothes, and had a two-day sexfest. I didn't even spend Christmas Day with Mom, she went on a cruise. So all day, with Tim. I can think of worse
places to spend the holiday.
He's so commanding, gentle, everything. It's like Detective Bland and Mr. Nympho. Two sides of a coin.
Outside of bed, he's sappy, sweet, wants to talk, discuss. In other words, I keep him inside bed (or in the shower, or the kitchen table, or the living room floor if his back were better...) as often as possible.
Happy New Year! I doodled a little party hat on the side of the page for you. Tim actually tied my hands up yesterday (if anyone stumbles upon this journal and says "what a sad life she must lead", at least I'm not reading other people's private notes!). Definitely not the submissive type, but limited
kink can be fun.
We talk at work, with relatively little chemistry. Then I stop by the Waterfront, and he looks at me, I mean *looks* at me, and I want to rip his clothes off right there. Fortunately, I have self-control. I waited until closing time. Poor Munch, if he ever finds out what we did in the store room...
Occasionally I compare Tim to Mike, but there's really no comparison. Two very different men. Mike's close friendship to Connie Lingus might give him a slight edge. If you ever saw him eat oranges you'd understand why. Such mouth control! But Tim, he's a big boy. Bigger man all the way around. I wonder what they'd be like together.
OK, it's official, this journal is now my very own version of Penthouse. If anybody I know, especially in the homicide squad, ever saw this, I'd be the latest Mary Astor.
Goodbye Penthouse, hello Ladies Home Journal. Tim and I are over.
I leave a few things at his house (breaking the cardinal rule apparently), and he gives them back to me. Gives them back to me in front of the other ME's, his partner, complete strangers. Humiliating and degrading. My sex life is completely separate from my work, always has been. If I were fucking
corpses (which I'm not), I'd even get the cadavers from a graveyard and leave those cooling in the morgue alone.
But Bayliss, oh no. Tim shoves my own stuff in front of me at a crime scene. A true gentleman.
I have self-respect. And integrity. Sometimes that's all I have. If the choice is between that and a roll in the hay, I'm going for the former, every time. He could've been such a fun fuck buddy, but instead he turns out to be another dick with a number of insecurities and quirks higher than Baltimore's
Nothing that thrilling to mention. Thank God I can still work with Bayliss without feeling uneasy, it's always difficult to stand over a corpse with Mike when he's giving me that hurt look. If the rumors going around about Bayliss are true, I'm the last thing on his mind right now.
I really should rip the last few pages out. They bring back those awful high school memories of when everyone called me "Julianna Loves Cox".
Remember when I said the bodies never get to me? I lied.
A man cut off a truck, truck played deadly chicken with him, he and his wife were in an accident. Man died, wife could. Another case, until today. The brass told me to slightly adjust the car driver's blood alcohol level. Why? The truck belonged to the city of Baltimore, drunk car driver=no lawsuit.
Departmental cover-up at it's best. Or worst. Unsure of what to do. Job or conscience? I'm going to sleep on it. Like that ever works.
More pressure, subtle, but still there. I had to throw out one of my employees my first days here, because he ruled a hooker's death as overdose so the cops wouldn't have to investigate it. A few months later, I found out a diener I trusted stole jewelry off bodies. Now I find myself facing the
same temptation. Not for a little extra cash, just so I can keep the job I love. Maybe my father was right, I should have become a plastic surgeon instead.
Mike told me to leak the story to the press. Ironic, since he's the expert on coverups. I asked Giardello for advice, he supported that decision. I'm tempted, definitely tempted. The old handkerchief over the phone receiver trick? Why bother? I'm going to be the sacrifice anyway, disguised voice or not.
Stick a fork in me, I'm done. Or my career's done. I leaked the story to the Sun. Lost my job as a result. The son of a bitch couldn't even tell me
face to face, his secretary did.
I'm writing this in a motel room on the outskirts of Hagerstown. It's the nationwide tour of Super 8's for Julianna Cox, former CME.
Other than Mom, I didn't stay in Baltimore long enough to establish true relationships. Maybe that was for the best. Mike was a friend, or a pseudo-friend. I wish I had the chance to know Giardello (he told me to call him Gee, maybe I can someday) more. If I'll miss anyone from my job, it's probably Scheiner.
At least I still have my (ha) skills. I'd rather put makeup on bodies in funeral homes than try and find another career.
Integrity, self-respect, vs. a steady job. Dad, if you're listening, sometimes I wish you'd raised a daughter to have a few less principles. And then there's days like today, when I realize I couldn't have asked for a better father.
Back in the suitcase you go, see you tomorrow...ah hell why not this once...Debbie Diary.