Ironside - 'The Draft Dodger' - 2/8
Sep. 9th, 2021 08:17 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
azombiewritesTitle: The Draft Dodger
Fandom: Ironside [1967 TV Series]
Genre: Crime | Hurt/Comfort | Angst
Rating: PG
Main Characters: Sergeant Ed Brown, Chief Ironside, Officer Fran Belding, Lieutenant Carl Reese, Mark Sanger and Commissioner Dennis Randall.
Disclaimer: Based on the characters created by Collier Young.
Author's Note: Set between S5 E4 'The Gambling Game' and S5 E5 'Ring of Prayer' because I still wanted there to be some conflict between Ed and Fran.
Author's Other Note: Ed Brown was a marine who saw combat in Vietnam - even though the timing in the show is all fucked up - and, it drives me crazy this piece of cannon is rarely mentioned in the show. And it drove me insane when there was no mention of his past in the season 4 episode ‘No Game for Amateurs’. As soon as the plot included draft dodgers, I kept wanting to know what Ed Brown thought of draft dodgers. But Ed’s past wasn’t included in the plot and that left me disappointed and wanting to know more. So, I wrote my own story. This is a separate story and doesn’t mirror ‘No Game for Amateurs’ in any way.
Chapter Word Count: 5,861
Status: Work In Progress
Summary: John Malcom claims to be a witness to a murder the San Francisco Police Department is desperate to solve. There is a catch. Malcom is a draft dodger, and he will only identify the killer if the police can guarantee he’ll be excused from the draft. Ironside agrees to take the case but, he realises too late there is a conflict of interest; his sergeant doesn’t like draft dodgers.
Chapter Two
If there was one thing Ed Brown hated more than a draft dodger, it was a pacifist and he considered draft dodging pacifists to be cowards, their peace-loving nature an excuse. Their cowardice a form of self-preservation. He knew men who felt fear, men who pushed the fear aside to help others, to commit acts of bravery.
Ed had once told a woman he was fearless, a true statement. He was fearless. More than a year in Vietnam had taken all the fear out of him. . . nothing could compare. He’d been scared when he stepped off the military transport plane and into the Vietnam war, terrified after he’d killed for the first time. . . killed an enemy, a man. His skin grew thick after the first week, his mind shutting down after the fourth.
He had learned to live with the violence and the death, the explosions, the severed limbs, the smell of burning and decaying flesh. . . the loss of friends. He’d lived with uncertainty, not knowing if he were going to live or die. . . not knowing if he would step on a land mine or trip a wire. He had lived with the fear every day he was in Vietnam until a piece of shrapnel had given him a ticket home.
An image of Ralph Decker played across his mind. . . Decker had stepped on a land mine, his lower right leg ripped from his body, shock keeping Ralph silent as he’d searched for his missing leg. When the screams had started. . . Decker quickly silenced by a sniper’s bullet. Too many men had died that day because a pacifist had refused to do the right thing. . . to save lives.
Ed closed his eyes, memories of that day playing in the back of his mind. The memories so clear. . . he’d remained still, his head in the dirt, a piece of shrapnel in his back. The smell of blood, of fear staining the uniforms of those around him. Watched as a pacifist, hidden by foliage, sat by and allowed a sniper to kill his friends.
‘Ed?’
His movements slow, Ed opened his eyes, lifted his head, and looked at Ironside. The chief looked concerned, worried, not a familiar expression. Looking away, worried the others had noticed his behaviour, Ed tried to concentrate on what was going on around him. Dinner moved to the conference table, creating room for Reese and Malcom, the two men were enjoying bowls of left-over chilli. Fran and Mark were involved in a conversation, ignorant of Ed’s memories.
Pulling his gaze away from Fran and Mark, Ed looked at Ironside and said, ‘Chief?’
‘I paid good money for that steak and you’re not eating it.’
Ed looked down at the steak, the meat sitting in a puddle of juice tainted red, the smell a reminder of something he couldn’t forget. He could feel the sweat on the back of his neck, the faint tremor in his limbs.
Ironside had insisted they eat, the chief not willing to waste good money on a meal he’d ordered. Ed couldn’t eat, his stomach turning. He felt sick. Knew he wouldn’t be eating meat until the memories and expected nightmares were gone.
‘Sorry, chief. Guess I’m not hungry. I must be more tired than I thought.’ It wasn’t a lie. He was tired. Too tired, the exhaustion heavy in his limbs, his mind falling victim to memories of the past.
‘A waste of good food and money,’ said Ironside, throwing his napkin onto the table.
Ironside gave the impression he was angry with his sergeant but Ed, familiar with the chief’s moods, knew Ironside was more concerned than angry, an emotion usually reserved for others, not Ed Brown. Not comfortable with the unfamiliar concern Ironside was showing toward him, Ed looked away, his gaze finding John Malcom. A bitter taste filled his mouth, his chest swelling with anger. He wanted to lash out, to inflict pain but John Malcom hadn’t been there that day, not the one who had caused so much pain and death.
Ed couldn’t help but think about what would happen if John Malcom went to Vietnam. Placed in the same position, would he do the same thing. Unwilling to kill because it went against what he believed. Unwilling to run into danger because the fear kept him in place. Ed clenched his fists and took a slow breath.
‘Ed?’
Snapped his gaze away from Malcom and looked at Ironside.
‘Go home, Ed,’ said Ironside, ‘and get some sleep.’
Ed nodded but didn’t stand up.
‘Go,’ said Ironside. ‘Now.’
Still looking at Ironside, Ed reacted, following Ironside’s instruction as though it were a command given by a drill instructor and stood up. His balance shifted, the movement subtle, not enough for the others to notice. He grabbed the edge of the table. Watched as the frown appeared on Ironside’s face. The chief had noticed. Before the chief could voice his observation with a question, Ed said, ‘I’ll go see Mrs. Miller on the way home.’
‘Ed, I told you Mrs. Miller can wait until the morning.’
‘She’s waited long enough, chief.’
‘Then take someone with you. You’re too tired to drive anywhere,’ said Ironside, ‘and the last thing I need is you in a hospital bed. I’ve had enough of hospitals to last me a lifetime.’
‘I’ll get a lift with a patrol car.’
‘Fran can take you,’ said Ironside. ‘It will give you two a chance to talk.’
‘Sorry, chief,’ said Fran as she smiled at Ed. ‘I couldn’t stomach another minute of Mrs. Miller flirting with tall-dark-and-handsome.’
Mark smiled at Ed and said, ‘You were flirting with the victim’s wife.’
‘You’re assuming I was talking about Ed,’ said Fran.
‘Not assuming,’ said Mark. ‘Deducing.’
‘Good night,’ said Ed, walking away from the table and up the stairs, refusing to look back when Carl and Fran said goodnight, Mark resorting to familiar banter when he said, ‘Later.’
Ed opened the door, walked out of the office and into a night without nightmares.
.
.
.
Mrs. Miller poured the coffee, passing the cup to Ed with hands shaking with grief. ‘Are you sure?’
Taking the cup and setting it down on the table in front of him, Ed said, ‘I’m sorry, Mrs. Miller. The blood test shows there was more than one sedative in your system and the only person who--’
‘I could have been mistaken,’ said Mrs. Miller as she brushed a strand of red hair behind her ear. ‘I could have taken more than one.’
‘How many did you take?’
‘Two?’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Ed.
‘You keep saying you’re sorry, sergeant,’ said Mrs. Miller. ‘As though you mean it.’
Ed lowered his head. Gaze following the patterns in the green carpet beneath his feet, his mind drifted as he thought of Anne. He thought of the missed years, the rest of their lives, her engagement ring kept in a locked box in his apartment. Not because he was keeping it for someone else, because he knew there would never be another. He dated women, but he’d never had a serious relationship since Anne and knew he never would. He didn’t want to replace her.
‘You lost someone,’ said Mrs. Miller.
Mrs. Miller was a beautiful woman with shoulder length red hair and green eyes. Ed knew her beauty wouldn’t last, her husband’s death aging her, Mrs. Miller already looking older than her forty years. She was also very astute.
Rubbing the ring finger of his left hand, Ed said, ‘Yes. I lost someone.’
‘How?’
He didn’t want to talk about it, but he didn’t want to leave Mrs. Miller to her grief. Not yet. ‘Murder.’
‘Do you know why she was murdered?’
‘She was trying to help someone.’
‘Did you find the person who killed her?’
‘Yes.’
‘Sergeant, I’m never going to know why my husband killed himself,’ said Mrs. Miller as she began to cry.
Ed didn’t have an answer and he wasn’t going to say something, say anything just to fill the silence. He could apologise again, but it wouldn’t be enough. Anything he said would never be enough. She didn’t know why her husband had taken his life and Ed didn’t know how that felt. He knew why Anne had died.
Waiting patiently as Mrs. Miller cried, Ed looked around the room, admiring the expensive furniture, the pastel colours. He looked at the framed photographs above the fireplace. Black and white photos of a happily married couple. He had a handful of photos of Anne, enlarging his favourite, the picture in a simple wooden frame hanging in his living room. Looked back at Mrs. Miller when she spoke.
‘It’s my turn to be sorry, sergeant,’ said Mrs. Miller as she wiped her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief.
‘You shouldn’t be.’
‘You must deal with this sort of thing all the time.’
‘Death?’ said Ed.
‘Hysterical women.’
‘Not just women. I’ve also met a few hysterical men in this job.’
Mrs. Miller smiled. ‘You’re a good man, sergeant.’
‘Mrs. Miller--’
‘You were a gentleman this afternoon while I. . . I apologise for my behaviour, sergeant Brown.’
‘You needed a distraction,’ said Ed. ‘I understand.’
‘Yes, you do understand.’
‘Will you be all right? Do you want me to call your brother?’
‘I’ll be fine. Grieving is a natural process, although some of us do prefer to grieve alone.’
Taking the hint, Ed stood up.
‘Sergeant,’ said Mrs. Miller. ‘Do you mind if I asked you a personal question.’
Hoping that he wouldn’t regret it, Ed said yes.
‘You look tired and pale. Are you unwell?’
Ed smiled. ‘Just tired, Mrs. Miller. It’s been a long week.’
‘Are you sure? I don’t know if you’re aware of it, sergeant. . . your hands are shaking. Much like mine.’ She held up her hands, the limbs still trembling.
Responding before he could think about what he was going to say, Ed said, ‘We got a new case today and it’s brought up some bad memories.’
‘Of your wife.’
He didn’t correct her. ‘Vietnam.’
‘You were in Vietnam?’
‘Yes.’
‘How long?’
‘Just over a year,’ said Ed. He shouldn’t be talking about his personal life with the widow of the man whose death he’d spent the last five days investigating. Couldn’t stop himself. He really was too tired. ‘I received a medical discharge.’
‘Wait right there, sergeant,’ said Mrs. Miller, standing up and walking away. She pushed through the swinging door that led into the kitchen. Came back through it a few seconds later. She walked up to Ed, stopped in front of him and took his right hand, lifting it up with her left.
His first instinct was to pull his hand away, but he remained still, Mrs. Miller not a threat. In her right hand she held a small bottle of pills. Tipped it into his hand, four small white pills falling into his palm. She closed his hand and looked him in the eye.
‘My brother’s son was in Vietnam. He has horrible nightmares. He wakes up screaming. I don’t know how you sleep, sergeant, but if you have the same kind of nightmares my nephew has, these will help.’
Ed frowned. ‘Are these sedatives? Mrs. Miller, I can’t--’
‘You can and you will. You’ve done so much for me this week.’
‘Mrs. Miller--’
‘Please, sergeant,’ said Mrs. Miller. ‘You don’t have to use them. They’re just in case you need them.’
Ed looked down at his hand, still held by Mrs. Miller. He could feel the small four pills clenched in his fist. He shouldn’t take them. He shouldn’t use them. Memories flickered through his mind, a reminder of what it was like to sleep when he was in this state. He would dream, the nightmares waking him, his breath short, his chest painful, his throat raw.
He should excuse himself from the Warner case, but he couldn’t do that, not after a week of doubts, of people questioning his ability to do Ironside’s job. If he asked for time off, he would prove them right. He could tell Ironside his sergeant had a conflict of interest but then he would have to explain why because Ironside would ask. Very few people knew about what happened on that day in Vietnam; three survivors, including himself and the doctors who treated his injuries - both physical and mental.
Or he could accept the sedatives Mrs. Miller insisted he take. Ed knew he wouldn’t sleep tonight, aware of the impending nightmares. One of these sedatives would help. He would wake in the morning feeling refreshed, arrive at the office on time as though nothing had happened, as though the memories of Vietnam weren’t playing with his mind.
Ed nodded and said, ‘Thank you, Mrs. Miller.’
‘Your acceptance tells me everything, sergeant.’ She let go of his hand and pushed him toward the front door of her apartment. ‘Now, leave me alone so I can grieve.’
‘If you need anything--’
‘I’ll call my brother,’ said Mrs. Miller. ‘Don’t worry about me, sergeant, I’ll be fine.’
‘If, you’re sure?’
‘I’m sure, and thank you, sergeant, for not assuming I killed my husband.’
Before he could answer, Mrs. Miller opened the door, pushed him out into the hallway and closed the door behind him. Ed smiled. Mrs. Miller was going to be fine.
.
.
.
Ed was early, arriving at the office before eight. Expecting very little activity, he opened the door and stepped into the office. The door closing behind him, he walked further into the room, down the steps and to the kitchenette.
Mark, Ironside, and John Malcom sat at the round table, empty breakfast plates in front of them. Ed ignored them, a cup of coffee his priority. Taking a cup, he filled it with coffee. He could feel the heat, smell the brew. Took a sip, turned, and walked closer to the table. He stopped beside Ironside and leaned back against one of the poles in the room, its length stretching from the floor to the ceiling.
‘Morning, Ed,’ said Ironside, turning his wheelchair until he faced Ed. His gaze steady as he scrutinised his sergeant. ‘You look like you slept well.’
‘I did.’
‘Good. Glad to hear it.’
He had slept well, the sedative doing its job, shutting down the memories before they could take advantage of his exhaustion. If he had dreamt while he slept, he didn’t remember them. He woke early, feeling refreshed, as he’d expected. His limbs . . . his hands were steady, no longer shaking. The memories of Vietnam were back where they belonged, shut away in a part of his mind he didn’t visit very often but he knew they would be back, it was only a matter of time, John Malcom an ugly reminder.
‘There’s eggs in the oven if you’re hungry,’ said Mark as he stood up and began collecting the dishes, taking them to the sink in the kitchenette. Leaving them, he walked back, stopping beside Ed. ‘Along with that piece of good steak you didn’t eat.’
‘I’m sure someone’s dog will enjoy it,’ said Ed.
‘What was that sergeant?’ said Ironside.
‘Nothing, chief,’ said Ed, smiling at Mark before hiding his smile behind his cup of coffee as he took another sip.
Ironside looked up at his sergeant, released a faint flicker of a smile and turned away, facing the table once more. ‘Mark, those dishes won’t clean themselves.’
‘They will if you help them,’ said Mark, keeping his voice low so only Ed could hear him. He stepped away, walking to the kitchenette.
Ed’s smile grew. He felt good, better than he had all week. He felt strong, ready to take on the case. ‘Has the approval for Mr. Malcom’s demand come through?’
‘The commissioner called earlier,’ said Ironside. ‘The concerned party has agreed, and Carl is on his way with the paperwork’.
‘The government or the army?’
‘Both.’
Ed turned to face the office door when it opened. Wearing cheerful expressions, Fran and Carl walked into the room. Ed felt a moment of jealousy, wanting Fran to smile with him the same way she was smiling with Carl. There was no attraction, only a need for a good working relationship. Knowing he was at fault, Ed knew he had to make the first step, an apology, but not now, neither the right time nor place.
‘Look who I found,’ said Fran, walking down the steps, stopping, and resting a hand on Ironside’s shoulder. ‘He was scratching at the door.’
Ed frowned. Behind Fran’s smile there was a layer of pain. She was hurting. He understood it was more than her father’s death. There was something else, another reason for her pain. Noticed when Ironside gripped the hand resting on his shoulder. Ironside knew what was wrong. He blinked, clarity slamming into him like a fist. They had spoken about him last night, Fran expressing the doubts she felt regarding Ironside’s sergeant.
As though she were aware of his scrutiny, Fran looked at Ed. She didn’t look away, smiling at him instead. His stomach dropped. Had Ironside told her about Anne. . . No, Ironside wouldn’t do that to him. Ironside must have said just enough to give Ed an opening, an opportunity to apologise without Fran throwing the apology back in his face. He felt relief. Understood their working relationship was heading toward safer ground. He smiled back.
‘I dropped this,’ said Carl, a grimace crossing his features as he set a file down on the table in front of Ironside.
Ironside opened the file and after reading through the paperwork, he passed them to Malcom. ‘Your demand agreed to, signed and delivered.’
Malcom looked down at the sheets of paper in his hand, a smile lifting the corners of his mouth. Put them down on the table, looked at Ironside and said, ‘And it’s not a demand.’
Staring at Malcom, Ed said, ‘You’re right, Mr. Malcom, it’s not a demand. It’s extortion and in this country, extortion is a crime.’
Malcom looked scared, his expression shifting to anger as he looked at Ironside. ‘I’m not going to tell you anything if you’re going to arrest me for extortion.’
‘No one is going to arrest you for extortion, Mr. Malcom,’ said Ironside. ‘Sergeant Brown was stating an opinion disguised within a fact, something he won’t do again. Isn’t that right, sergeant.’
Still staring at Malcom, Ed said, ‘Yes, sir.’
‘I want it in writing,’ said Malcom as he stood up, pushing back against the chair, the sound of furniture scraping across the floor. ‘I’m not saying anything until you sign a piece of paper saying you won’t arrest me.’
‘Sit down!’ said Ironside, his anger exploding. ‘As long as you tell us the truth, no one is going to arrest you. You have my word.’
Malcom hesitated, his gaze shifting from Ironside to Ed.
‘Sergeant Brown works for me. He’ll follow my orders.’
Sitting down, Malcom continued to look at Ed, quickly looking away when Ed stared back at him. ‘How long is this going to take?’
Leaning on the arm of his wheelchair, Ironside said, ‘Until the case is solved, you will remain in protective custody. Lieutenant Reese explained this to you last night. That’s why you’re here.’
‘Why? I’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘John,’ said Reese, ‘it took you three weeks to come forward. You contacted the police, not because you wanted to do the right thing. You came to us because you saw an opportunity to use the information you had to evade the draft. So, forgive me for thinking you might run as soon as you got your hands on signed documents excusing you from service.’
‘A draft dodger,’ said Ed.
‘Better than being a baby killer,’ said Malcom. ‘That’s what they do over there. They kill babies.’
Ed could feel his muscles tighten, his hand clenching the handle of the coffee cup. Could feel the anger crawling across his skin, could see the memories as they pushed back, fighting for control. He wanted to say something, but he couldn’t, his anger too strong. Felt Ironside’s calm presence when his boss and friend moved closer to him, the chief grabbing his left wrist and holding on. Watched as Mark walked past him, sitting in a chair at the table. A show of support from both men. Shifting his gaze, he looked at Reese, the man staring back, his shoulders tense, waiting. . . waiting for a physical reaction from Ed, ready to intervene. Ed looked at Fran. She was staring at Malcom, her smile gone, replaced by anger.
‘I’ll ask you not to repeat propaganda in this office, Mr. Malcom.’
‘I’m only telling the truth.’
‘Truth or not, you will not repeat that statement in my office. Is that clear?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I suggest we make a start.’ Releasing his sergeant’s wrist, Ironside moved away, wheeling his chair to the conference table. Stopped his chair at the head of the table and waited for everyone to join him.
Setting the coffee cup down on the table, his body language calm, hiding the anger he felt, Ed followed Ironside. He didn’t sit down. Leaning back against the balustrade next to the chief, he folded his arms and waited, his anger simmering to a boiling point. Waited for Malcom to say the wrong thing. . . If he used the term “baby killer” one more time, Ed was going to react, and no one was going to stop him.
After his release from the military hospital, Ed had worn his dress uniform as he’d walked to the train station, not enough money to catch a taxi. He’d been proud of his uniform, still was but not everyone felt the same way. Some people he’d passed in the street had called him a baby killer while others had spat at him. He hadn’t stood for it then and he won’t stand for it now, allowing one use of term out of respect for his boss.
Fran sat down next to the chief, setting a large, thick legal pad on the table in front of her. Mark sat down beside her, Carl and Malcom sitting on the other side of the table.
‘Now, Mr. Malcom, start from the beginning.’
Hands gripping the arms of his chair, Malcom looked around the table, his gaze nervous. ‘Can I have a glass of water?’
‘Mark.’
Mark left the table, returning with a jug of water and a tray of glasses. Malcom took one of the glasses and held it up while Mark filled it with water. He drank quickly, draining the glass. Held it in his hands while he spoke, turning the glass back and forth, fidgeting.
‘When my number came up in the lottery, I ran. I was living on the streets. That’s why I didn’t know the guy had died. I only saw it on the news the other day.’
‘All right,’ said Ironside. ‘Go on.’
‘I was sleeping in the alley across the street.’
‘Opposite the victim’s apartment building?’ said Reese.
‘Yeah. I could see the front door.’
‘You said you were asleep,’ said Ironside.
‘I was but it wasn’t the first time I’ve slept there.’
‘How often did you sleep there?’
‘Every second or third night. I don’t like staying in the same spot too long. In case someone sees me and reports me to the cops. Anyway, I’ve watched people coming and going from that place.’
‘Including the victim?’
‘Yes, sir. I’ve seen him leave for work. Usually around seven thirty. That’s how I recognised his picture in the news.’
‘You recognised him at two in the morning, in the dark from across the street?’ said Reese.
‘No,’ said Malcom.
‘No?’ said Ironside. ‘Then how did you recognise him?’
‘It was almost daylight. The sun was coming up so it must have been just before six. Mr. Warner, that’s the guy’s name. He was about to go into the building when this guy came up and stopped him.’
‘Was that the first time you’d seen the victim return to his apartment building at that time in the morning?’
‘Yes.’
‘And it was one man?’
‘Yes, sir. One man approached him.’
Ironside frowned and said, ‘Go on.’
‘The guy said “pretty bear sent me” then he started hitting him. Warner didn’t stand a chance, the guy just hammered him.’
‘Pretty bear?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You heard that from across the street?’
‘The street was quiet, and he was loud when he said it.’
‘Was he saying it for someone else’s benefit,’ said Ironside, tapping the fingers of his left hand against the arm of his wheelchair.
‘I don’t know. I--’
‘I wasn’t asking you, Mr. Malcom.’
Lowering his gaze, Malcom nodded.
‘Did Mr. Warner say anything?’ said Reese.
Shaking his head and lifting his gaze, Malcom said, ‘No, he didn’t have a chance.’
‘Was there anything obscuring your view?’ said Ironside.
‘No, nothing.’
‘You had a clear view of what happened?’
‘Yes.’
Fran slammed her pencil down on the table, glared at Malcom and said, ‘You just watched and did nothing as a man was beaten to death.’
‘What was I supposed to do? The guy was huge. He would have killed me.’
‘You could have called the police,’ said Fran. ‘You could have yelled at him, gotten his attention, distract him long enough for Mr. Warner to enter the apartment building.’
‘Fran,’ said Ironside. ‘That’s enough.’
‘I didn’t do anything at the time, because if I’d gotten his attention, he would have come after me. If I tried to leave, he would have heard me. I know what happens to witnesses, but I did call the police. I told them what happened.’
‘You called the police?’ said Ironside. ‘When? When did you call the police?’
‘As soon as I could get away,’ said Malcom. ‘Chief Ironside, you have to believe me. I didn’t know he’d killed the guy. Honestly. I told the police a guy was mugged. I didn’t know he was dead.’
‘I believe you, Mr. Malcom.’
Joining the conversation, Ed said, ‘What was he wearing?’
Malcom frowned. ‘Who? The killer?’
‘Mr Warner. What was he wearing?’
Malcom described the clothes Warner had been wearing at the time of his death. He’d gotten that part right, but Ed wasn’t sure about the rest. He didn’t trust John Malcom, the young man willing to do anything to dodge the draft, and a man, desperate and scared, could be dangerous. Ed didn’t believe Malcom posed a physical threat, dangerous in other ways, Malcom reminding Ed of the pacifist in Vietnam.
‘And the killer, what was he wearing?’ said Ironside, nodding at Fran to continue taking notes.
‘He wore a pair of dark blue overalls, black gloves and a black raincoat. The plastic kind. And black boots. When Warner was on the ground, the guy kicked him in the head. He kept kicking him.’
‘That explains the partial shoe print,’ said Reese.
‘What did he do after he killed Warner?’
‘I didn’t know he killed him.’
‘What did the killer do--’
‘He went through his pockets and took something,’ said Malcom. ‘I didn’t see what it was.’
‘And then?’
‘He left.’
‘In a car? On foot? Bus? Taxi? How did he leave the scene?’ said Ironside, his tone revealing the frustration he was feeling.
Almost dropping the glass from his hands, Malcom set it on the table, and said, ‘He walked to the corner and got into a car. Someone else was driving.’
‘Which corner?’
‘The corner of Howard and Johnson.’
‘Did you see the driver?’
‘No.’
‘What kind of car was it?’ said Reese.
‘A 1966 Dodge Polara 2-door hardtop. Dark green. I have a thing for cars.’
‘Registration?’
Malcom looked embarrassed. ‘I didn’t see the plate.’
‘You have a thing for cars, but you didn’t see the licence plate,’ said Ironside, shaking his head.
‘I did see the car parked in the same spot two or three days earlier.’
‘Was it two days or three?’
‘Two.’
‘You’re sure.’
‘Yes. It was a Tuesday.’
‘At what time did you see it?’
‘It was just before two in the morning, and it left at about thirty minutes past two.
Ironside frowned. ‘Describe Henry Warner’s killer.’
‘He was as tall as him,’ Malcom nodded at Ed. ‘Heavy set, like he lifted weights every day. Brown hair and a thick moustache.’
‘Which hand did he use the most?’
‘His right hand.’
‘Is there anything else you can think of. Anything that would make him stand out in a crowd?’
Malcom closed his eyes and after a few minutes, opened them and said, ‘No, but I would know him if I saw him again.’
‘Good,’ said Ironside. ‘Carl--’
‘Mug shots and a sketch artist,’ said Reese, nodding in agreement before getting up and walking away.
‘Mr. Malcom, I want you to write it down. Everything you saw and everything you heard. Then I want you to sign it. When Lieutenant Reese returns with the sketch artist, you’re going to describe the man you saw in as much detail as you can. Once you’ve done that, I want you to go through our books of mugshots, see if you recognise anyone in our files.’
‘And if he isn’t in your files?’
‘We have other enquiries to pursue.’
‘You didn’t answer my question.’
‘Releasing the man’s description to the media will be a last resort,’ said Ironside.
‘If you do that, he’ll know there’s a witness. He’ll come after me.’
‘You’ll be in our protective custody, Mr. Malcom.’
‘His protective custody,’ said Malcom, again nodding at Ed.
‘Our protective custody,’ said Ironside. ‘And before you start criticising my staff, I should tell you, sergeant Brown is very good at his job, and I trust him implicitly. He’s also the kind of man who would give his life to protect you and others. Now, you asked for me to oversee this case. If you trust me, then you can trust my staff. If you don’t. . . Keep your opinions to yourself, Mr. Malcom.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Malcom. ‘Oh, and chief. . .’
‘Yes, Mr. Malcom.’
‘Can you call me John. Mr. Malcom makes me feel old.’
As he rolled his chair away from the conference table, Ironside smiled, the expression forced, and said, ‘Of course. . . John.’
Ed lowered his head, failing to hide the smile pulling at his lips.
‘What are you smiling at, sergeant,’ said Ironside as he wheeled his chair past Ed, making his way to the round table. ‘Follow me.’
Ed pushed away from the balustrade, falling in behind Ironside. ‘Another nice-little-chat, chief?’
Staring at his sergeant, Ironside said, ‘Do you need one?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Well, you’re going to get one. Sit down.’
Ed wanted to roll his eyes, protest the chief’s concern. He didn’t, sitting down and returning Ironside’s steady gaze. ‘Do you believe him?’
‘Don’t change the subject.’
‘No, sir.’
‘Don’t you mean, yes, sir.’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘You were quiet while Malcom was giving his statement.’
‘Is that what you call it,’ said Ed. ‘It seemed more like an interrogation to me.’
Remaining silent, Ironside continued to stare at Ed, his expression calm, neutral. Ed knew that look. Ironside was stubborn at the best of times but when he looked at you the way he was looking at Ed. . . you raised the white flag and surrendered. Until he spoke the truth, Ed was going nowhere, Ironside ready and willing to wait for as long as it took for his sergeant to give him a response; a question not asked but an explanation wanted.
Ed lowered his gaze, rubbed the palm of his right hand against his thigh. ‘I was thinking.’
‘About the case?’
‘No,’ said Ed, giving Ironside a sheepish smile. ‘I was thinking about punching John Malcom in the face.’
‘Ed, you’re not a--’
‘I know,’ said Ed, staring back at Ironside.
Ironside continued to look at his sergeant. A couple of minutes later, he nodded in acceptance and looked away. ‘All right, and yes, I do believe him. He knew the killer took something from the victim and we didn’t release that information to the press.’
‘He also knew what was said during the anonymous phone to the police and that the killer was wearing gloves.’
‘Pretty Bear. What do you make of that?’
‘It could be a nick name.’
‘Or a term of endearment.’
‘Or a term of endearment,’ said Ed.
‘A contract killing.’
‘Not professional.’
‘Agreed,’ said Ironside, his expression thoughtful. ‘It was personal.’
‘The wife?’
‘Or the mistress.’
‘Or the husband of the mistress but why wait two years?’ said Ed, looking up when Fran and Mark joined them.
‘Mr. Malcom is writing his statement,’ said Mark, sitting down at the table.
Standing beside Ironside, Fran said, ‘I don’t think I could stand another second of that man’s company.’
By the expression he wore, Ed could see that Ironside was troubled, something about the case eating away at the chief. Ironside, a very intelligent man, was capable of thinking outside the box, but too often, he would keep his thoughts to himself, waiting for his staff to catch up with him, to come to the same conclusion.
Ed didn’t want to wait. ‘What are you thinking, chief?’
‘I want to know how one man could beat a former professional boxer to death?’
‘Could Pretty Bear be the name of a boxer?’ said Fran.
Mark shook his head. ‘I’ve never heard of a boxer with a name like Pretty Bear.’
‘A term of endearment?’ said Fran.
‘That’s what we were thinking.’
‘You were thinking without me,’ said Fran, her words softened with a smile.
‘Officer Belding,’ said Ironside.
‘Yes, chief?’
‘What do you think of Mr. Malcom’s statement.’
No hesitation, Fran said, ‘Mr. Malcom is telling the truth. He knew things about the crime that weren’t released to the press.’
‘So does the killer,’ said Mark.
‘John Malcom didn’t kill Henry Warner,’ said Ed.
‘What makes you so sure?’
‘I’ve known people like him. If he killed, he wouldn’t use the kind of violence Warner’s killer used.‘
‘Because he’s a pacifist?’
‘Because he’s a coward.’
‘Mark,’ said Ironside, bringing the conversation to an end. ‘I want you to stay with Mr. Malcom--’
‘You keep forgetting,’ said Mark. ‘I’m not the fuzz.’
‘I’m not asking you to arrest him,’ said Ironside. ‘Just sit with him while he writes his statement.’
‘And what will you be doing?’
‘Something very important.’
‘Such as?’ said Mark.
‘I’ll think of something.’
Shaking his head with disbelief, Mark stood up and walked away.
‘Ed, I want you and Fran to talk to the victim’s wife. Carl can talk to Mr. and Mrs. Hendricks.’
‘Right’, said Ed as he stood up, surprised when Ironside snatched out a hand, grabbing his wrist, a tight grip.
‘Ed, be careful. We’re dealing with a dangerous man capable of extreme violence. I don’t want you trying to take him on alone.’
‘I won’t.’
‘Give me your word.’
His confusion evident, Ed frowned. ‘Chief?’
‘Your word, sergeant!’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Ed.
‘Good,’ said Ironside as he let go of his sergeant’s wrist and turned his back, the discussion over, leaving Ed Brown in a very confused state.
Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three
Master Fan Fiction List
Fandom: Ironside [1967 TV Series]
Genre: Crime | Hurt/Comfort | Angst
Rating: PG
Main Characters: Sergeant Ed Brown, Chief Ironside, Officer Fran Belding, Lieutenant Carl Reese, Mark Sanger and Commissioner Dennis Randall.
Disclaimer: Based on the characters created by Collier Young.
Author's Note: Set between S5 E4 'The Gambling Game' and S5 E5 'Ring of Prayer' because I still wanted there to be some conflict between Ed and Fran.
Author's Other Note: Ed Brown was a marine who saw combat in Vietnam - even though the timing in the show is all fucked up - and, it drives me crazy this piece of cannon is rarely mentioned in the show. And it drove me insane when there was no mention of his past in the season 4 episode ‘No Game for Amateurs’. As soon as the plot included draft dodgers, I kept wanting to know what Ed Brown thought of draft dodgers. But Ed’s past wasn’t included in the plot and that left me disappointed and wanting to know more. So, I wrote my own story. This is a separate story and doesn’t mirror ‘No Game for Amateurs’ in any way.
Chapter Word Count: 5,861
Status: Work In Progress
Summary: John Malcom claims to be a witness to a murder the San Francisco Police Department is desperate to solve. There is a catch. Malcom is a draft dodger, and he will only identify the killer if the police can guarantee he’ll be excused from the draft. Ironside agrees to take the case but, he realises too late there is a conflict of interest; his sergeant doesn’t like draft dodgers.
Chapter Two
If there was one thing Ed Brown hated more than a draft dodger, it was a pacifist and he considered draft dodging pacifists to be cowards, their peace-loving nature an excuse. Their cowardice a form of self-preservation. He knew men who felt fear, men who pushed the fear aside to help others, to commit acts of bravery.
Ed had once told a woman he was fearless, a true statement. He was fearless. More than a year in Vietnam had taken all the fear out of him. . . nothing could compare. He’d been scared when he stepped off the military transport plane and into the Vietnam war, terrified after he’d killed for the first time. . . killed an enemy, a man. His skin grew thick after the first week, his mind shutting down after the fourth.
He had learned to live with the violence and the death, the explosions, the severed limbs, the smell of burning and decaying flesh. . . the loss of friends. He’d lived with uncertainty, not knowing if he were going to live or die. . . not knowing if he would step on a land mine or trip a wire. He had lived with the fear every day he was in Vietnam until a piece of shrapnel had given him a ticket home.
An image of Ralph Decker played across his mind. . . Decker had stepped on a land mine, his lower right leg ripped from his body, shock keeping Ralph silent as he’d searched for his missing leg. When the screams had started. . . Decker quickly silenced by a sniper’s bullet. Too many men had died that day because a pacifist had refused to do the right thing. . . to save lives.
Ed closed his eyes, memories of that day playing in the back of his mind. The memories so clear. . . he’d remained still, his head in the dirt, a piece of shrapnel in his back. The smell of blood, of fear staining the uniforms of those around him. Watched as a pacifist, hidden by foliage, sat by and allowed a sniper to kill his friends.
‘Ed?’
His movements slow, Ed opened his eyes, lifted his head, and looked at Ironside. The chief looked concerned, worried, not a familiar expression. Looking away, worried the others had noticed his behaviour, Ed tried to concentrate on what was going on around him. Dinner moved to the conference table, creating room for Reese and Malcom, the two men were enjoying bowls of left-over chilli. Fran and Mark were involved in a conversation, ignorant of Ed’s memories.
Pulling his gaze away from Fran and Mark, Ed looked at Ironside and said, ‘Chief?’
‘I paid good money for that steak and you’re not eating it.’
Ed looked down at the steak, the meat sitting in a puddle of juice tainted red, the smell a reminder of something he couldn’t forget. He could feel the sweat on the back of his neck, the faint tremor in his limbs.
Ironside had insisted they eat, the chief not willing to waste good money on a meal he’d ordered. Ed couldn’t eat, his stomach turning. He felt sick. Knew he wouldn’t be eating meat until the memories and expected nightmares were gone.
‘Sorry, chief. Guess I’m not hungry. I must be more tired than I thought.’ It wasn’t a lie. He was tired. Too tired, the exhaustion heavy in his limbs, his mind falling victim to memories of the past.
‘A waste of good food and money,’ said Ironside, throwing his napkin onto the table.
Ironside gave the impression he was angry with his sergeant but Ed, familiar with the chief’s moods, knew Ironside was more concerned than angry, an emotion usually reserved for others, not Ed Brown. Not comfortable with the unfamiliar concern Ironside was showing toward him, Ed looked away, his gaze finding John Malcom. A bitter taste filled his mouth, his chest swelling with anger. He wanted to lash out, to inflict pain but John Malcom hadn’t been there that day, not the one who had caused so much pain and death.
Ed couldn’t help but think about what would happen if John Malcom went to Vietnam. Placed in the same position, would he do the same thing. Unwilling to kill because it went against what he believed. Unwilling to run into danger because the fear kept him in place. Ed clenched his fists and took a slow breath.
‘Ed?’
Snapped his gaze away from Malcom and looked at Ironside.
‘Go home, Ed,’ said Ironside, ‘and get some sleep.’
Ed nodded but didn’t stand up.
‘Go,’ said Ironside. ‘Now.’
Still looking at Ironside, Ed reacted, following Ironside’s instruction as though it were a command given by a drill instructor and stood up. His balance shifted, the movement subtle, not enough for the others to notice. He grabbed the edge of the table. Watched as the frown appeared on Ironside’s face. The chief had noticed. Before the chief could voice his observation with a question, Ed said, ‘I’ll go see Mrs. Miller on the way home.’
‘Ed, I told you Mrs. Miller can wait until the morning.’
‘She’s waited long enough, chief.’
‘Then take someone with you. You’re too tired to drive anywhere,’ said Ironside, ‘and the last thing I need is you in a hospital bed. I’ve had enough of hospitals to last me a lifetime.’
‘I’ll get a lift with a patrol car.’
‘Fran can take you,’ said Ironside. ‘It will give you two a chance to talk.’
‘Sorry, chief,’ said Fran as she smiled at Ed. ‘I couldn’t stomach another minute of Mrs. Miller flirting with tall-dark-and-handsome.’
Mark smiled at Ed and said, ‘You were flirting with the victim’s wife.’
‘You’re assuming I was talking about Ed,’ said Fran.
‘Not assuming,’ said Mark. ‘Deducing.’
‘Good night,’ said Ed, walking away from the table and up the stairs, refusing to look back when Carl and Fran said goodnight, Mark resorting to familiar banter when he said, ‘Later.’
Ed opened the door, walked out of the office and into a night without nightmares.
.
.
.
Mrs. Miller poured the coffee, passing the cup to Ed with hands shaking with grief. ‘Are you sure?’
Taking the cup and setting it down on the table in front of him, Ed said, ‘I’m sorry, Mrs. Miller. The blood test shows there was more than one sedative in your system and the only person who--’
‘I could have been mistaken,’ said Mrs. Miller as she brushed a strand of red hair behind her ear. ‘I could have taken more than one.’
‘How many did you take?’
‘Two?’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Ed.
‘You keep saying you’re sorry, sergeant,’ said Mrs. Miller. ‘As though you mean it.’
Ed lowered his head. Gaze following the patterns in the green carpet beneath his feet, his mind drifted as he thought of Anne. He thought of the missed years, the rest of their lives, her engagement ring kept in a locked box in his apartment. Not because he was keeping it for someone else, because he knew there would never be another. He dated women, but he’d never had a serious relationship since Anne and knew he never would. He didn’t want to replace her.
‘You lost someone,’ said Mrs. Miller.
Mrs. Miller was a beautiful woman with shoulder length red hair and green eyes. Ed knew her beauty wouldn’t last, her husband’s death aging her, Mrs. Miller already looking older than her forty years. She was also very astute.
Rubbing the ring finger of his left hand, Ed said, ‘Yes. I lost someone.’
‘How?’
He didn’t want to talk about it, but he didn’t want to leave Mrs. Miller to her grief. Not yet. ‘Murder.’
‘Do you know why she was murdered?’
‘She was trying to help someone.’
‘Did you find the person who killed her?’
‘Yes.’
‘Sergeant, I’m never going to know why my husband killed himself,’ said Mrs. Miller as she began to cry.
Ed didn’t have an answer and he wasn’t going to say something, say anything just to fill the silence. He could apologise again, but it wouldn’t be enough. Anything he said would never be enough. She didn’t know why her husband had taken his life and Ed didn’t know how that felt. He knew why Anne had died.
Waiting patiently as Mrs. Miller cried, Ed looked around the room, admiring the expensive furniture, the pastel colours. He looked at the framed photographs above the fireplace. Black and white photos of a happily married couple. He had a handful of photos of Anne, enlarging his favourite, the picture in a simple wooden frame hanging in his living room. Looked back at Mrs. Miller when she spoke.
‘It’s my turn to be sorry, sergeant,’ said Mrs. Miller as she wiped her eyes with an embroidered handkerchief.
‘You shouldn’t be.’
‘You must deal with this sort of thing all the time.’
‘Death?’ said Ed.
‘Hysterical women.’
‘Not just women. I’ve also met a few hysterical men in this job.’
Mrs. Miller smiled. ‘You’re a good man, sergeant.’
‘Mrs. Miller--’
‘You were a gentleman this afternoon while I. . . I apologise for my behaviour, sergeant Brown.’
‘You needed a distraction,’ said Ed. ‘I understand.’
‘Yes, you do understand.’
‘Will you be all right? Do you want me to call your brother?’
‘I’ll be fine. Grieving is a natural process, although some of us do prefer to grieve alone.’
Taking the hint, Ed stood up.
‘Sergeant,’ said Mrs. Miller. ‘Do you mind if I asked you a personal question.’
Hoping that he wouldn’t regret it, Ed said yes.
‘You look tired and pale. Are you unwell?’
Ed smiled. ‘Just tired, Mrs. Miller. It’s been a long week.’
‘Are you sure? I don’t know if you’re aware of it, sergeant. . . your hands are shaking. Much like mine.’ She held up her hands, the limbs still trembling.
Responding before he could think about what he was going to say, Ed said, ‘We got a new case today and it’s brought up some bad memories.’
‘Of your wife.’
He didn’t correct her. ‘Vietnam.’
‘You were in Vietnam?’
‘Yes.’
‘How long?’
‘Just over a year,’ said Ed. He shouldn’t be talking about his personal life with the widow of the man whose death he’d spent the last five days investigating. Couldn’t stop himself. He really was too tired. ‘I received a medical discharge.’
‘Wait right there, sergeant,’ said Mrs. Miller, standing up and walking away. She pushed through the swinging door that led into the kitchen. Came back through it a few seconds later. She walked up to Ed, stopped in front of him and took his right hand, lifting it up with her left.
His first instinct was to pull his hand away, but he remained still, Mrs. Miller not a threat. In her right hand she held a small bottle of pills. Tipped it into his hand, four small white pills falling into his palm. She closed his hand and looked him in the eye.
‘My brother’s son was in Vietnam. He has horrible nightmares. He wakes up screaming. I don’t know how you sleep, sergeant, but if you have the same kind of nightmares my nephew has, these will help.’
Ed frowned. ‘Are these sedatives? Mrs. Miller, I can’t--’
‘You can and you will. You’ve done so much for me this week.’
‘Mrs. Miller--’
‘Please, sergeant,’ said Mrs. Miller. ‘You don’t have to use them. They’re just in case you need them.’
Ed looked down at his hand, still held by Mrs. Miller. He could feel the small four pills clenched in his fist. He shouldn’t take them. He shouldn’t use them. Memories flickered through his mind, a reminder of what it was like to sleep when he was in this state. He would dream, the nightmares waking him, his breath short, his chest painful, his throat raw.
He should excuse himself from the Warner case, but he couldn’t do that, not after a week of doubts, of people questioning his ability to do Ironside’s job. If he asked for time off, he would prove them right. He could tell Ironside his sergeant had a conflict of interest but then he would have to explain why because Ironside would ask. Very few people knew about what happened on that day in Vietnam; three survivors, including himself and the doctors who treated his injuries - both physical and mental.
Or he could accept the sedatives Mrs. Miller insisted he take. Ed knew he wouldn’t sleep tonight, aware of the impending nightmares. One of these sedatives would help. He would wake in the morning feeling refreshed, arrive at the office on time as though nothing had happened, as though the memories of Vietnam weren’t playing with his mind.
Ed nodded and said, ‘Thank you, Mrs. Miller.’
‘Your acceptance tells me everything, sergeant.’ She let go of his hand and pushed him toward the front door of her apartment. ‘Now, leave me alone so I can grieve.’
‘If you need anything--’
‘I’ll call my brother,’ said Mrs. Miller. ‘Don’t worry about me, sergeant, I’ll be fine.’
‘If, you’re sure?’
‘I’m sure, and thank you, sergeant, for not assuming I killed my husband.’
Before he could answer, Mrs. Miller opened the door, pushed him out into the hallway and closed the door behind him. Ed smiled. Mrs. Miller was going to be fine.
.
.
.
Ed was early, arriving at the office before eight. Expecting very little activity, he opened the door and stepped into the office. The door closing behind him, he walked further into the room, down the steps and to the kitchenette.
Mark, Ironside, and John Malcom sat at the round table, empty breakfast plates in front of them. Ed ignored them, a cup of coffee his priority. Taking a cup, he filled it with coffee. He could feel the heat, smell the brew. Took a sip, turned, and walked closer to the table. He stopped beside Ironside and leaned back against one of the poles in the room, its length stretching from the floor to the ceiling.
‘Morning, Ed,’ said Ironside, turning his wheelchair until he faced Ed. His gaze steady as he scrutinised his sergeant. ‘You look like you slept well.’
‘I did.’
‘Good. Glad to hear it.’
He had slept well, the sedative doing its job, shutting down the memories before they could take advantage of his exhaustion. If he had dreamt while he slept, he didn’t remember them. He woke early, feeling refreshed, as he’d expected. His limbs . . . his hands were steady, no longer shaking. The memories of Vietnam were back where they belonged, shut away in a part of his mind he didn’t visit very often but he knew they would be back, it was only a matter of time, John Malcom an ugly reminder.
‘There’s eggs in the oven if you’re hungry,’ said Mark as he stood up and began collecting the dishes, taking them to the sink in the kitchenette. Leaving them, he walked back, stopping beside Ed. ‘Along with that piece of good steak you didn’t eat.’
‘I’m sure someone’s dog will enjoy it,’ said Ed.
‘What was that sergeant?’ said Ironside.
‘Nothing, chief,’ said Ed, smiling at Mark before hiding his smile behind his cup of coffee as he took another sip.
Ironside looked up at his sergeant, released a faint flicker of a smile and turned away, facing the table once more. ‘Mark, those dishes won’t clean themselves.’
‘They will if you help them,’ said Mark, keeping his voice low so only Ed could hear him. He stepped away, walking to the kitchenette.
Ed’s smile grew. He felt good, better than he had all week. He felt strong, ready to take on the case. ‘Has the approval for Mr. Malcom’s demand come through?’
‘The commissioner called earlier,’ said Ironside. ‘The concerned party has agreed, and Carl is on his way with the paperwork’.
‘The government or the army?’
‘Both.’
Ed turned to face the office door when it opened. Wearing cheerful expressions, Fran and Carl walked into the room. Ed felt a moment of jealousy, wanting Fran to smile with him the same way she was smiling with Carl. There was no attraction, only a need for a good working relationship. Knowing he was at fault, Ed knew he had to make the first step, an apology, but not now, neither the right time nor place.
‘Look who I found,’ said Fran, walking down the steps, stopping, and resting a hand on Ironside’s shoulder. ‘He was scratching at the door.’
Ed frowned. Behind Fran’s smile there was a layer of pain. She was hurting. He understood it was more than her father’s death. There was something else, another reason for her pain. Noticed when Ironside gripped the hand resting on his shoulder. Ironside knew what was wrong. He blinked, clarity slamming into him like a fist. They had spoken about him last night, Fran expressing the doubts she felt regarding Ironside’s sergeant.
As though she were aware of his scrutiny, Fran looked at Ed. She didn’t look away, smiling at him instead. His stomach dropped. Had Ironside told her about Anne. . . No, Ironside wouldn’t do that to him. Ironside must have said just enough to give Ed an opening, an opportunity to apologise without Fran throwing the apology back in his face. He felt relief. Understood their working relationship was heading toward safer ground. He smiled back.
‘I dropped this,’ said Carl, a grimace crossing his features as he set a file down on the table in front of Ironside.
Ironside opened the file and after reading through the paperwork, he passed them to Malcom. ‘Your demand agreed to, signed and delivered.’
Malcom looked down at the sheets of paper in his hand, a smile lifting the corners of his mouth. Put them down on the table, looked at Ironside and said, ‘And it’s not a demand.’
Staring at Malcom, Ed said, ‘You’re right, Mr. Malcom, it’s not a demand. It’s extortion and in this country, extortion is a crime.’
Malcom looked scared, his expression shifting to anger as he looked at Ironside. ‘I’m not going to tell you anything if you’re going to arrest me for extortion.’
‘No one is going to arrest you for extortion, Mr. Malcom,’ said Ironside. ‘Sergeant Brown was stating an opinion disguised within a fact, something he won’t do again. Isn’t that right, sergeant.’
Still staring at Malcom, Ed said, ‘Yes, sir.’
‘I want it in writing,’ said Malcom as he stood up, pushing back against the chair, the sound of furniture scraping across the floor. ‘I’m not saying anything until you sign a piece of paper saying you won’t arrest me.’
‘Sit down!’ said Ironside, his anger exploding. ‘As long as you tell us the truth, no one is going to arrest you. You have my word.’
Malcom hesitated, his gaze shifting from Ironside to Ed.
‘Sergeant Brown works for me. He’ll follow my orders.’
Sitting down, Malcom continued to look at Ed, quickly looking away when Ed stared back at him. ‘How long is this going to take?’
Leaning on the arm of his wheelchair, Ironside said, ‘Until the case is solved, you will remain in protective custody. Lieutenant Reese explained this to you last night. That’s why you’re here.’
‘Why? I’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘John,’ said Reese, ‘it took you three weeks to come forward. You contacted the police, not because you wanted to do the right thing. You came to us because you saw an opportunity to use the information you had to evade the draft. So, forgive me for thinking you might run as soon as you got your hands on signed documents excusing you from service.’
‘A draft dodger,’ said Ed.
‘Better than being a baby killer,’ said Malcom. ‘That’s what they do over there. They kill babies.’
Ed could feel his muscles tighten, his hand clenching the handle of the coffee cup. Could feel the anger crawling across his skin, could see the memories as they pushed back, fighting for control. He wanted to say something, but he couldn’t, his anger too strong. Felt Ironside’s calm presence when his boss and friend moved closer to him, the chief grabbing his left wrist and holding on. Watched as Mark walked past him, sitting in a chair at the table. A show of support from both men. Shifting his gaze, he looked at Reese, the man staring back, his shoulders tense, waiting. . . waiting for a physical reaction from Ed, ready to intervene. Ed looked at Fran. She was staring at Malcom, her smile gone, replaced by anger.
‘I’ll ask you not to repeat propaganda in this office, Mr. Malcom.’
‘I’m only telling the truth.’
‘Truth or not, you will not repeat that statement in my office. Is that clear?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I suggest we make a start.’ Releasing his sergeant’s wrist, Ironside moved away, wheeling his chair to the conference table. Stopped his chair at the head of the table and waited for everyone to join him.
Setting the coffee cup down on the table, his body language calm, hiding the anger he felt, Ed followed Ironside. He didn’t sit down. Leaning back against the balustrade next to the chief, he folded his arms and waited, his anger simmering to a boiling point. Waited for Malcom to say the wrong thing. . . If he used the term “baby killer” one more time, Ed was going to react, and no one was going to stop him.
After his release from the military hospital, Ed had worn his dress uniform as he’d walked to the train station, not enough money to catch a taxi. He’d been proud of his uniform, still was but not everyone felt the same way. Some people he’d passed in the street had called him a baby killer while others had spat at him. He hadn’t stood for it then and he won’t stand for it now, allowing one use of term out of respect for his boss.
Fran sat down next to the chief, setting a large, thick legal pad on the table in front of her. Mark sat down beside her, Carl and Malcom sitting on the other side of the table.
‘Now, Mr. Malcom, start from the beginning.’
Hands gripping the arms of his chair, Malcom looked around the table, his gaze nervous. ‘Can I have a glass of water?’
‘Mark.’
Mark left the table, returning with a jug of water and a tray of glasses. Malcom took one of the glasses and held it up while Mark filled it with water. He drank quickly, draining the glass. Held it in his hands while he spoke, turning the glass back and forth, fidgeting.
‘When my number came up in the lottery, I ran. I was living on the streets. That’s why I didn’t know the guy had died. I only saw it on the news the other day.’
‘All right,’ said Ironside. ‘Go on.’
‘I was sleeping in the alley across the street.’
‘Opposite the victim’s apartment building?’ said Reese.
‘Yeah. I could see the front door.’
‘You said you were asleep,’ said Ironside.
‘I was but it wasn’t the first time I’ve slept there.’
‘How often did you sleep there?’
‘Every second or third night. I don’t like staying in the same spot too long. In case someone sees me and reports me to the cops. Anyway, I’ve watched people coming and going from that place.’
‘Including the victim?’
‘Yes, sir. I’ve seen him leave for work. Usually around seven thirty. That’s how I recognised his picture in the news.’
‘You recognised him at two in the morning, in the dark from across the street?’ said Reese.
‘No,’ said Malcom.
‘No?’ said Ironside. ‘Then how did you recognise him?’
‘It was almost daylight. The sun was coming up so it must have been just before six. Mr. Warner, that’s the guy’s name. He was about to go into the building when this guy came up and stopped him.’
‘Was that the first time you’d seen the victim return to his apartment building at that time in the morning?’
‘Yes.’
‘And it was one man?’
‘Yes, sir. One man approached him.’
Ironside frowned and said, ‘Go on.’
‘The guy said “pretty bear sent me” then he started hitting him. Warner didn’t stand a chance, the guy just hammered him.’
‘Pretty bear?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You heard that from across the street?’
‘The street was quiet, and he was loud when he said it.’
‘Was he saying it for someone else’s benefit,’ said Ironside, tapping the fingers of his left hand against the arm of his wheelchair.
‘I don’t know. I--’
‘I wasn’t asking you, Mr. Malcom.’
Lowering his gaze, Malcom nodded.
‘Did Mr. Warner say anything?’ said Reese.
Shaking his head and lifting his gaze, Malcom said, ‘No, he didn’t have a chance.’
‘Was there anything obscuring your view?’ said Ironside.
‘No, nothing.’
‘You had a clear view of what happened?’
‘Yes.’
Fran slammed her pencil down on the table, glared at Malcom and said, ‘You just watched and did nothing as a man was beaten to death.’
‘What was I supposed to do? The guy was huge. He would have killed me.’
‘You could have called the police,’ said Fran. ‘You could have yelled at him, gotten his attention, distract him long enough for Mr. Warner to enter the apartment building.’
‘Fran,’ said Ironside. ‘That’s enough.’
‘I didn’t do anything at the time, because if I’d gotten his attention, he would have come after me. If I tried to leave, he would have heard me. I know what happens to witnesses, but I did call the police. I told them what happened.’
‘You called the police?’ said Ironside. ‘When? When did you call the police?’
‘As soon as I could get away,’ said Malcom. ‘Chief Ironside, you have to believe me. I didn’t know he’d killed the guy. Honestly. I told the police a guy was mugged. I didn’t know he was dead.’
‘I believe you, Mr. Malcom.’
Joining the conversation, Ed said, ‘What was he wearing?’
Malcom frowned. ‘Who? The killer?’
‘Mr Warner. What was he wearing?’
Malcom described the clothes Warner had been wearing at the time of his death. He’d gotten that part right, but Ed wasn’t sure about the rest. He didn’t trust John Malcom, the young man willing to do anything to dodge the draft, and a man, desperate and scared, could be dangerous. Ed didn’t believe Malcom posed a physical threat, dangerous in other ways, Malcom reminding Ed of the pacifist in Vietnam.
‘And the killer, what was he wearing?’ said Ironside, nodding at Fran to continue taking notes.
‘He wore a pair of dark blue overalls, black gloves and a black raincoat. The plastic kind. And black boots. When Warner was on the ground, the guy kicked him in the head. He kept kicking him.’
‘That explains the partial shoe print,’ said Reese.
‘What did he do after he killed Warner?’
‘I didn’t know he killed him.’
‘What did the killer do--’
‘He went through his pockets and took something,’ said Malcom. ‘I didn’t see what it was.’
‘And then?’
‘He left.’
‘In a car? On foot? Bus? Taxi? How did he leave the scene?’ said Ironside, his tone revealing the frustration he was feeling.
Almost dropping the glass from his hands, Malcom set it on the table, and said, ‘He walked to the corner and got into a car. Someone else was driving.’
‘Which corner?’
‘The corner of Howard and Johnson.’
‘Did you see the driver?’
‘No.’
‘What kind of car was it?’ said Reese.
‘A 1966 Dodge Polara 2-door hardtop. Dark green. I have a thing for cars.’
‘Registration?’
Malcom looked embarrassed. ‘I didn’t see the plate.’
‘You have a thing for cars, but you didn’t see the licence plate,’ said Ironside, shaking his head.
‘I did see the car parked in the same spot two or three days earlier.’
‘Was it two days or three?’
‘Two.’
‘You’re sure.’
‘Yes. It was a Tuesday.’
‘At what time did you see it?’
‘It was just before two in the morning, and it left at about thirty minutes past two.
Ironside frowned. ‘Describe Henry Warner’s killer.’
‘He was as tall as him,’ Malcom nodded at Ed. ‘Heavy set, like he lifted weights every day. Brown hair and a thick moustache.’
‘Which hand did he use the most?’
‘His right hand.’
‘Is there anything else you can think of. Anything that would make him stand out in a crowd?’
Malcom closed his eyes and after a few minutes, opened them and said, ‘No, but I would know him if I saw him again.’
‘Good,’ said Ironside. ‘Carl--’
‘Mug shots and a sketch artist,’ said Reese, nodding in agreement before getting up and walking away.
‘Mr. Malcom, I want you to write it down. Everything you saw and everything you heard. Then I want you to sign it. When Lieutenant Reese returns with the sketch artist, you’re going to describe the man you saw in as much detail as you can. Once you’ve done that, I want you to go through our books of mugshots, see if you recognise anyone in our files.’
‘And if he isn’t in your files?’
‘We have other enquiries to pursue.’
‘You didn’t answer my question.’
‘Releasing the man’s description to the media will be a last resort,’ said Ironside.
‘If you do that, he’ll know there’s a witness. He’ll come after me.’
‘You’ll be in our protective custody, Mr. Malcom.’
‘His protective custody,’ said Malcom, again nodding at Ed.
‘Our protective custody,’ said Ironside. ‘And before you start criticising my staff, I should tell you, sergeant Brown is very good at his job, and I trust him implicitly. He’s also the kind of man who would give his life to protect you and others. Now, you asked for me to oversee this case. If you trust me, then you can trust my staff. If you don’t. . . Keep your opinions to yourself, Mr. Malcom.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Malcom. ‘Oh, and chief. . .’
‘Yes, Mr. Malcom.’
‘Can you call me John. Mr. Malcom makes me feel old.’
As he rolled his chair away from the conference table, Ironside smiled, the expression forced, and said, ‘Of course. . . John.’
Ed lowered his head, failing to hide the smile pulling at his lips.
‘What are you smiling at, sergeant,’ said Ironside as he wheeled his chair past Ed, making his way to the round table. ‘Follow me.’
Ed pushed away from the balustrade, falling in behind Ironside. ‘Another nice-little-chat, chief?’
Staring at his sergeant, Ironside said, ‘Do you need one?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Well, you’re going to get one. Sit down.’
Ed wanted to roll his eyes, protest the chief’s concern. He didn’t, sitting down and returning Ironside’s steady gaze. ‘Do you believe him?’
‘Don’t change the subject.’
‘No, sir.’
‘Don’t you mean, yes, sir.’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘You were quiet while Malcom was giving his statement.’
‘Is that what you call it,’ said Ed. ‘It seemed more like an interrogation to me.’
Remaining silent, Ironside continued to stare at Ed, his expression calm, neutral. Ed knew that look. Ironside was stubborn at the best of times but when he looked at you the way he was looking at Ed. . . you raised the white flag and surrendered. Until he spoke the truth, Ed was going nowhere, Ironside ready and willing to wait for as long as it took for his sergeant to give him a response; a question not asked but an explanation wanted.
Ed lowered his gaze, rubbed the palm of his right hand against his thigh. ‘I was thinking.’
‘About the case?’
‘No,’ said Ed, giving Ironside a sheepish smile. ‘I was thinking about punching John Malcom in the face.’
‘Ed, you’re not a--’
‘I know,’ said Ed, staring back at Ironside.
Ironside continued to look at his sergeant. A couple of minutes later, he nodded in acceptance and looked away. ‘All right, and yes, I do believe him. He knew the killer took something from the victim and we didn’t release that information to the press.’
‘He also knew what was said during the anonymous phone to the police and that the killer was wearing gloves.’
‘Pretty Bear. What do you make of that?’
‘It could be a nick name.’
‘Or a term of endearment.’
‘Or a term of endearment,’ said Ed.
‘A contract killing.’
‘Not professional.’
‘Agreed,’ said Ironside, his expression thoughtful. ‘It was personal.’
‘The wife?’
‘Or the mistress.’
‘Or the husband of the mistress but why wait two years?’ said Ed, looking up when Fran and Mark joined them.
‘Mr. Malcom is writing his statement,’ said Mark, sitting down at the table.
Standing beside Ironside, Fran said, ‘I don’t think I could stand another second of that man’s company.’
By the expression he wore, Ed could see that Ironside was troubled, something about the case eating away at the chief. Ironside, a very intelligent man, was capable of thinking outside the box, but too often, he would keep his thoughts to himself, waiting for his staff to catch up with him, to come to the same conclusion.
Ed didn’t want to wait. ‘What are you thinking, chief?’
‘I want to know how one man could beat a former professional boxer to death?’
‘Could Pretty Bear be the name of a boxer?’ said Fran.
Mark shook his head. ‘I’ve never heard of a boxer with a name like Pretty Bear.’
‘A term of endearment?’ said Fran.
‘That’s what we were thinking.’
‘You were thinking without me,’ said Fran, her words softened with a smile.
‘Officer Belding,’ said Ironside.
‘Yes, chief?’
‘What do you think of Mr. Malcom’s statement.’
No hesitation, Fran said, ‘Mr. Malcom is telling the truth. He knew things about the crime that weren’t released to the press.’
‘So does the killer,’ said Mark.
‘John Malcom didn’t kill Henry Warner,’ said Ed.
‘What makes you so sure?’
‘I’ve known people like him. If he killed, he wouldn’t use the kind of violence Warner’s killer used.‘
‘Because he’s a pacifist?’
‘Because he’s a coward.’
‘Mark,’ said Ironside, bringing the conversation to an end. ‘I want you to stay with Mr. Malcom--’
‘You keep forgetting,’ said Mark. ‘I’m not the fuzz.’
‘I’m not asking you to arrest him,’ said Ironside. ‘Just sit with him while he writes his statement.’
‘And what will you be doing?’
‘Something very important.’
‘Such as?’ said Mark.
‘I’ll think of something.’
Shaking his head with disbelief, Mark stood up and walked away.
‘Ed, I want you and Fran to talk to the victim’s wife. Carl can talk to Mr. and Mrs. Hendricks.’
‘Right’, said Ed as he stood up, surprised when Ironside snatched out a hand, grabbing his wrist, a tight grip.
‘Ed, be careful. We’re dealing with a dangerous man capable of extreme violence. I don’t want you trying to take him on alone.’
‘I won’t.’
‘Give me your word.’
His confusion evident, Ed frowned. ‘Chief?’
‘Your word, sergeant!’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Ed.
‘Good,’ said Ironside as he let go of his sergeant’s wrist and turned his back, the discussion over, leaving Ed Brown in a very confused state.
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