Cape Girardeau, Southeast Missouri. It’s a quiet, quaint small town with big city aspirations. One thing not lacking in Cape. Restaurants. Cape’s got a little bit of everything. From fast food joints like Burger King, McDonald’s, Wendy’s, and Taco Bell to a few that are more nuanced, like Qdoba, Chick-fil-A, and Culvers. Then you have chains like Applebee’s, Chili’s, Red Lobster, Outback Steakhouse, and IHOP. But no small town is complete without a Cracker Barrel, Texas Roadhouse, and Logan’s Roadhouse. There is a reason for competitive restaurants: the number of people traveling through Cape Girardeau.

               Most people don’t know Cape is the last, biggest city between Saint Louis and Memphis, Tennessee. Because we are in the middle of two larger cities, we have two regional hospitals supporting those living up to four hours away. Thousands of cars, semi-trucks, buses, RVs, and pickup trucks travel this stretch of interstate. Add to the hospitals, Southeast Missouri State University, and you add roughly 10,000 students to the population of Cape Girardeau.

               Cape is also the hometown of the conservative talk show host Rush Limbaugh and the Southeast Missourian newspaper. The newspaper is breathing its last gasps just before it keels over and dies, but not without putting up a valiant fight!

               We had a few famous people graduate from our university, and two major motion pictures were shot here. The town went gaga for Ben Affleck when he was caught working out at one of our local gyms connected to Saint Francis Hospital. It wasn’t that big of a deal for me. I was working at Rhodes. It’s Cape’s 7-11, Quik Stop, Circle-K, or Plaid Pantry. To be fair, the job didn’t suck all that much. It afforded me the time I desperately needed to attend classes, make enough to live on, and still have a semblance of free time. And I needed that.

                Our family, Belchle, is semi-famous in Cape Girardeau. At least it was, once upon a time. We had a small grocery store, so I’m told, located on the corner of Broadway and North Park Avenue. At a different time, people got all their meat from one store, dairy and cheese from another, and all other sundries from another. Growing up in the late 1970s meant I caught the last gasp of no technology. Cash registers were going digital. Grocery stores were carrying everything. Produce. Meat. Dairy. All the other items you might need at home? You could find them in one place: Walmart. Grandma and Grandpa told my parents that was what killed Blechle’s store – Walmart. Corporate greed, according to Grandpa. But neither of them talked about the store. Can you blame them? That was supposed to be their income, their nest egg, besides the farm, of course. I never pestered them, and Dad was pretty tightlipped about it. A sore subject, to be sure, other than the fact that they had a store.

               Mom and Dad pushed me and my siblings hard to get an education. Being the oldest Blechle, it was a no-brainer that they would push me harder than my brother or two sisters. Randy, my father, was a truck driver back when unions ran the industry. I often wondered if he ever met Jimmy Hoffa. Dad was a union steward, which kept him home when the industry was striking in the early 70s. Darla loved Randy being home because he helped with the kids. Like it or not, Randy was a family man, loving the holidays, especially Christmas. He made sure all his children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren knew that Santa Claus is an honest man delivering toys to all the good kids of the world.   

               Darla, my mom, was hard on us girls. Toe the line, that was Darla’s motto. And if we ever crossed it, or her? She would get reticent, speaking in a harsh whisper. If we talked back or asked to repeat something? Chores, instead of playing outside. Needless to say, I did a lot of chores. Dusting. So much dusting. And laundry. And our family was big, so there were always dishes to wash or put away. I hated dishes. I vowed to have a dishwasher in the house I would eventually buy. An industrial strength one which I tended to either forget to load it or run it.

                  “Kim, are you listening to me?” I must’ve blanked out for a minute. I worked four shifts, ten hours each, between my twelve credit hours of classes. I did go out last night for a few beers, but I thought I could live on five hours of sleep. Guess I was wrong about the sleep part.

               “Yeah. Sorry.” I had heard Jimmy, my supervisor. He was a bit of a stickler for details. And after learning he was pushing for a manager’s position, it got worse. “I must’ve dozed off for a second there.”

               “If classes are getting in the way, we can cut back your hours, kiddo.” Jimmy was older than me by three, maybe four years. The gray, thinning hair told me he was in his late forties, maybe early fifties. But I knew better because we grew up together, attending Jackson High School. He often passed for a teacher, even in high school. Those of us who knew him? We never took him seriously. And this job? You’ve got to be kidding. It was so easy any moron off the street could do it.

               “Kiddo, Jimmy? You’re barely old enough to drink, and we all know it. So, knock off the ‘I’m an adult’ attitude. Kay?” I patted his cheek. “And, yes. I’m getting to the bathrooms right now.”

               “You really think you’re mentally ready for the police academy?” Jimmy knew I wanted to be a police officer since high school. It was the only thing I could think about or talk about. Even my friends were tired of hearing about Miranda rights, the right way to detain a suspect and cold case files of Cape Girardeau and Jackson. I was two years into college and decided to apply to the academy after the end of my second year.  

               “Jimmy, after working here? You are ready to deal with everything the police deal with, probably more so.”

               “So that’s why you’re working here? A test for the academy?”

               “I mean, why not, right?” I pushed the mop bucket into the women’s restroom after attaching a magnetic sign on the door saying temporarily out of service. It wasn’t unusual to find little baggies filled with what I assumed was dope, either on the floor or in the trash. Every once in a while, I’d find a syringe on the floor. More often than not, I could smell dope in the bathroom, but this was more frequent in the men’s restroom. Someone was still in the women’s restroom. I’m trying to figure out how I didn’t notice her in there before. “Excuse me.” I knocked on the door to the stall. “Everything okay in there?” I heard a groan, not uncommon in a bathroom. Then I heard something hit the door – hard! The woman inside the stall fell off the toilet and slumped to the floor. A faint smell of something burning, a metallic smell, hit my nose. I tried to open the door. It was locked. She was wedged against the stall door, making it impossible for me to open it.

               I ran out, shouting to Jimmy, “Call 9-1-1, Jimmy! Right now!” Jimmy looked like a deer caught in headlights, with a blank expression. “Screw you. Andy! Pick up the phone and dial! Now!” I ran back to the woman, hoping I could figure out how to get into the stall. Just as I tried to push my way in, two EMTs crashed through the door, pushing the mop bucket out of the way.

               “How long ago did you find her?” An older woman, probably fortyish, asked.

               “Thirty seconds ago.”

               “Unresponsive?” the second EMT asked.

               “Affirmative.”

               “Katherine, please step back.” The woman scrambled under the door, moved the woman away from it, and unlocked the stall. “We got a used syringe, a tourniquet, a spoon, a lighter, and a small empty baggie.”

               “Katherine, I need you to step back and block the door. No one comes in or out unless they are fire or police, clear?”

               “Affirmative,” I answered. I was part of a first responder’s call and loved the adrenaline rush! Jimmy tried to push his way in, and I pushed him out. “Fire and police only, Jimmy. Sorry.” I guarded the door like a pitbull guarding a young girl: I was large and in charge. Well, at least guarding the door.

               The woman evidently knew me, but I didn’t recognize her. “Katy, this isn’t the best way to get into the academy, you know?” The voice behind me was familiar. “Are you okay?” I turned around and saw my Dad’s brother, Tony. Tony joined the force about the same time Dad came home from Vietnam. Randy twisted his ankle, breaking his right arm after a fall. After six months of therapy and casts, the break never healed, so the Army sent him home. He was in excruciating pain, especially when attempting to ride his motorcycle. He sold it after coming home and decided to join the Cape police department. Nowadays, he was called to de-escalate situations like domestic squabbles, most of which were settled with an apology. The EMTs were working away on the woman. “Nikki, Nikki, Nikki. What’re we gonna do with you, girl?” Tony stuck a piece of gum in his mouth and started chewing. “This,” he pointed at the woman, “is Nikki Raine.”

               “Wait. Doctor Raine’s daughter?” I asked Tony.

               “Yep. Nikki’s been doing this junk for a long time. Surprised to see her back in Cape. I thought she was still locked up in Charleston.”

               “Locked up?”

               “Yeah.” Tony popped his gum. “Stole a lot of jewelry from dear old Dad. Daddy pressed charges, refusing to help her.”

               “That’s terrible.”

               “Naw.” He smacked the gum and blew a small bubble, popping it between his teeth. “Dr. Raine tried for seven years to get her in rehab. She refused. Even after OD’ing three different times.”

               Both EMTs stood up. “Tony, we’ll need the coroner out here.”

               Tony shook his head, holding back the tears. “Narcan?”

               “Four doses. We performed CPR for almost forty-five minutes. No pulse. Pupils fixed and dilated. Must’ve gotten some bad dope.” Tony grabbed my shoulders, turned me around, and walked me out of the bathroom.

               “You don’t want to see this,” he told me, a tear leaking from his eye falling down his cheek. My Uncle Tony was a tough guy. I never saw him cry. Until today.”

               “I found her!” I shouted. “She was alive a few minutes ago!”

               “I’m so sorry, Katie.” Tony hugged me.

               I never forgot that day, nor did I forget the look Uncle Tony gave me. It was his way of saying I should stay away from the police academy, fire, and rescue, or any other service that dealt with the public. The image of Nikki’s face was burned into my brain. I was determined to be a police officer, to fight the drugs coming into Cape Girardeau. I had this grandiose idea that I could stop all the bad stuff if I was in control. I still do. Until Chief Panetti, I thought it was possible.

               “Katie? Hey, everything okay?” Dusty asked me. Tony kissed my forehead and wiped my tears as I approached him.

               “Dusty? What are you doing here?”

               “I heard there was some commotion over here. Thought I’d poke around a bit.”

               “I don’t feel like talking.”

               “That’s cool. Can I get you a drink, maybe?”

               “Thank you, no.” Dusty handed me a Kleenex. “Thanks.”

               “No problem. You working here now?”

               “Yeah.” I blew and wiped my nose. My entire body ached. I felt like I got run over by a truck.

               “I heard there was an overdose.”

               I didn’t say a word.

               “So, was there?”

               “Was there what, Dusty?”

               “An overdose?”

               “I don’t know. I’m not a doctor.”

               “Surely you saw something.” I could now see a press badge hanging from his neck. Dusty was working for the press. Probably the Southeast Missourian, if I had to guess.

               “Sorry.” I looked at the clock hanging above the cash registers. “Damn it. I’m late. Bye, Dusty,” I said, brushing past him to grab my purse, stashed under the cash register. Not where Jimmy told us to keep it, but I didn’t care.

               “Let me buy you a drink later. What do you say?”

               “I’ll think about it,” I said, putting my sunglasses on my face.