Ironside - 'The Draft Dodger' - 6/8
Dec. 2nd, 2021 06:03 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: 7,694
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 Six
Ed Brown stared at his reflection. He could see the exhaustion in his eyes, his face. He could see the lines of pain in the creases on his forehead, in the corners of his eyes. He’d taken two aspirin when they’d returned to the office, the painkillers refusing to do their job, his headache only increasing. He knew the pain had little to do with Norman Madison hitting him on the back of the head with what Fran had told him was the butt of her service weapon; he was too tense. . .
He could see the tension in his shoulders, the regret he felt agreeing to sleep in the office, to stay close as the chief had asked. He should have said no, wanting his privacy, to dream while he slept without anyone watching. For the first time since Vietnam, Ed was scared, afraid he would wake up screaming, waking the chief, putting himself back under scrutiny. He should have said no. Ed looked down, his hands gripping the edge of the bathroom sink, three small white pills resting on the sink beside his right hand.
He had left Fran waiting in the car, unwilling to invite her into his home; mementos he didn’t want her to see, the picture of Anne would leave Fran with a curiosity she wouldn’t be able to ignore, questions asked, another conversation Ed didn’t want. He’d packed a small bag, certain the chief would insist his sergeant stay close while the case remained open, spending more than one night in Ironside’s office and home.
Ironside’s concern worried Ed, the chief’s hunch that something bad was going to happen to his sergeant now nagging at the back of Ed’s mind. He began to doubt himself, doubt his ability to do the job, worried he was going to be too busy looking back over his shoulder to see what was in front of him. He couldn’t work like this. He wouldn’t be able to do his job. Knew the exhaustion he felt fed the doubts. He needed to sleep, an uninterrupted eight hours.
The pills within reach, they were an invitation to sleep. He could take two, knock himself out, unable to wake up if he did dream. If the nightmares were as bad as he expected them to be. . .
He should have said no.
Shook his head, not liking what he was thinking, where his thoughts were going. If he took more than one, he would wake up feeling groggy, the effects of the sedatives clinging to his body and his mind, his reactions slowed, his mind heavy, surrounded by a thick fog. If Ironside did insist his sergeant stay for more than one night, Ed was going to need the sedatives to last.
Filled a glass with water, his hands still shaking. Frustration tore through him, an urge to throw the glass and its contents at his reflection. A slow, deep breath. Held it before breathing out, a slow release. Took one of the sedatives, drinking the glass of water to wash it down and put the remaining two back into his shaving kit. Tightened the bathrobe around his waist, turned away from the mirror and left the bathroom.
The chief and Mark were waiting for him, sitting at the round table in the center of the office, a pack of playing cards on the table. It was late, almost midnight. Ed had spent the evening writing up his reports, finishing the final report for the Miller case while Fran had confirmed Alex Pierce’s alibi. Paperwork caught up, he needed to sleep, a game of poker the last thing on his mind.
‘He can’t sleep,’ said Mark, looking at Ed as he nodded at Ironside.
‘I can,’ said Ed, walking past the table and toward the sofa on the other side of the room.
Ed didn’t want to force Mark from his bed, there was no need. The leather sofa wasn’t a comfortable choice but under the influence of one of Mrs. Miller’s sedatives he would be asleep within minutes. Sat down on the edge of the sofa, sheets, blanket, and pillow already set out. Mark had made up the sofa while he was in the bathroom, making it look more comfortable than it was, not the first time Ed had spent the night. Looked up to see Ironside moving toward him, the chief dressed for bed.
Stopping in front of his sergeant, Ironside said, ‘You look tired.’
‘I am tired. You should be tired, it’s almost midnight.’
Ironside frowned. ‘I keep thinking I’ve missed something.’
‘You want to know why Charlie Madison murdered Elizabeth Warner.’
‘I do.’
‘You think they’re tying up loose ends. You think they’re going to try and find our witness. They won’t find him, chief.’
‘They’re smart,’ said Ironside. ‘They’ll find a way.’
‘Stealing the maintenance keys to Warner’s building was a smart move.’
‘It would have been smarter for the manager of the building to tell us his keys had been stolen before Mrs. Warner was killed and not after.’
The Madison brothers had stolen the maintenance keys to the building, giving them access to areas the police officers watching the building had thought were secure. The brothers had entered the apartment building through a locked maintenance door, undisturbed as they made their way to the tenth floor and the home of Elizabeth Warner. Ed felt angry. He knew Mrs. Warner’s death wasn’t their fault, but he couldn’t stop himself thinking otherwise; if Fran hadn’t questioned him in the car, if he hadn’t stopped by the side of the road. . . they would have arrived five minutes earlier, possibly saving Mrs. Warner’s life.
‘Norman Madison must have taken them after I chased him down the stairway.’
Ironside nodded in agreement. ‘He recognised you as a police officer, that’s why he ran. He also knew we would try and identify him. It was only a matter of time before we did.’
‘Why? He didn’t know we had a witness. He didn’t know we would suspect he was involved with the death of Henry Warner.’
‘You chased him down a stairwell for a reason, Ed,’ said Ironside. ‘Madison didn’t know what that reason was. He could only make a guess and a smart man would guess that you suspected him of being involved in Henry Warner’s death. He stole the keys because he wanted access to Mrs. Warner.’
‘Something else is bothering you,’ said Ed as he sat back, leaning against the back of the sofa. Whatever Mrs. Miller’s doctor had subscribed, they were strong. He could already feel the weight of the sedative in his limbs, his body relaxing, the tension leaving his muscles, his headache easing. Understood why it had been so difficult for Mrs. Miller to wake up on the night her husband had died, the widow fortunate she had been able to wake at all.
‘If their intention is to get rid of the witness. . . Ed, you and Fran could be next. You’re both witnesses to the murder of Elizabeth Warner.’
‘They had an opportunity to kill us both. They didn’t.’
‘Hindsight, Ed,’ said Ironside as he shook his head, his frustration obvious. ‘Everything about this case is bothering me.’
‘And now you’re bothering me.’
‘Is that what I’m doing?’
‘It’s beginning to feel like it,’ said Ed.
Ironside smiled. ‘All right, Ed. I leave you to brood on your own.’
‘Is that what I’m doing?’
‘It’s beginning to feel like it.’
‘Good night, chief,’ said Ed, smiling at Ironside.
Nodding, Ironside said good night and moved away from Ed, wheeling his chair toward his own bed, a large brass contraption set against the wall in the large open office. Ironside would be too close, but Ed didn’t think it mattered. If he woke up screaming, the chief would hear him, even if he were sleeping in Mark’s room with the door closed.
Mark stood up, following Ironside. They had a routine, Mark helping the chief into his bed. . . Ed didn’t want to interfere. Stood up and took off the bathrobe Mark had lent him, tossing it over the back of the sofa. He felt the chill on his skin. He’d never been able to wear a pyjama shirt, more comfortable in his sleep without one. Lay down on the sofa, pulling the blanket up over his legs. Closed his eyes. Saw the nightmares on the edge of his vision, waiting. They wouldn’t have long to wait, Ed asleep within minutes.
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.
.
Ironside woke, something disturbing his sleep. He turned his head and looked at the bedside clock. Two in the morning. Grimaced with disgust. It was hard enough to sleep as it was, he didn’t need someone else. . . remembered Ed Brown was sleeping on the sofa. Ironside waited, listening. Whatever had woken him. . . if Ed had woken him, there was only silence.
Closed his eyes and thought about the case. The case did bother him. Why had Charlie Madison killed Elizabeth Warner? He agreed with Ed’s assumption; the Madison brothers were tying up loose ends, Ironside worried Ed and Fran would be next. A feeling of unease filled him. Ed close, Ironside had allowed Fran to leave the office, to go home alone. Had he done the wrong thing, a mistake made? Ironside corrected his thoughts. He knew Fran was safe, for tonight at least. Tomorrow he would arrange for an officer to be with her day and night.
Ed. . . the killer violent, his sergeant had already survived two confrontations with the men responsible for the deaths of three people. Ironside knew about Ed’s history. . . knew the military had trained his sergeant to kill, Ed more than capable of defending himself but Ironside wasn’t sure Ed’s training would be enough, not when it came to the Madison brothers, Ed lucky on both occasions. Fran had told him Ed had fought back in the Warner’s apartment, in control of the fight before Norman Madison had interfered, taking Ed out of the fight with a blow to the back of his sergeant’s head. Fran had also been extremely lucky, more so than Ed.
Ironside would never forgive himself if his sergeant came to any harm. . . if Fran or Mark. . . he pushed the thoughts away. He didn’t want to think about losing either of them, enough friends lost over the years. He thoughts returned to his sergeant. He trusted Ed, trusted him to do the right thing. But he was also worried about his sergeant, his friend. Ed was suffering, going through something he refused to talk about, memories of the past haunting him.
Ironside felt helpless.
He suspected Ed had lied to him about having flash backs, but he couldn’t prove it. Ed had never lied to him, not until he had pushed his sergeant, hoping Ed would give in to the pressure, admitting to Ironside what was troubling him. But his sergeant had remained stubborn, refusing to give an explanation for his actions. Ironside smiled, feeling a small amount of pride. . . he was proud of Ed, always would be. Proud of Mark, Fran. . . proud of Eve. They were good people. Good police officers, particularly Ed. The man should have been a lieutenant by now, leading his own team, Ed smart, instinctive, intuitive and his deductive reasoning was nearly as good as his own. Ironside smiled, he’d trained Ed, trained him to be a good police officer, a good detective. Wondered for a moment if he were to blame, not encouraging Ed to move on. A part of him was grateful Ed hadn’t. . . he didn’t know what he would do without him. Didn’t think he could ever replace him.
He thought of Eve. . . felt the ache. He missed her. Missed her every day. Eve had been as good as Ed. She would have gone far in the police department, but Eve had chosen married life over a career. He didn’t blame her. Couldn’t blame her but he still missed her, his heart aching every time he thought about her.
His thoughts returned to his sergeant. Ed was struggling, and Ironside didn’t know how to help him. Ironside knew there was more to it than a derogatory remark, something else that caused Ed to react the way he did, something else the cause of his sergeant’s anger. . . something else that made Ed’s hands shake.
Ironside knew the right thing to do. . . send Ed home, give him time to recover but Ironside knew Ed too well. He knew Ed needed to work. The death of Ed’s fiancé had almost broken him, work the only thing that had kept him sane. Understood, if he did send his sergeant home. . . Ed may not come back.
Ironside wanted to keep Ed close, telling Ed he wanted him to stay at the office because he was worried about his health, his sergeant unconscious for ten minutes. . . worried something else was going to happen to him. Both statements true but not the main reason for Ironside wanting Ed to spend the night in the office. Ed needed company, he needed someone to talk to. Ironside knew with a certainty that if left alone, Ed would do nothing but remember, his mind travelling through his past. His sergeant needed a distraction, Ironside surprised when Ed refused a game of poker, instead heading for the sofa and sleep.
A sharp cry, the sound muffled. Ed.
Ironside used the strap above his bed to pull himself upright. He was more independent every day, able to get himself into and out of bed, still allowing Mark to help, not wanting the young man to start feeling redundant. He didn’t know what he would have done without Mark. Ironside had been angry those first few days back at work after his release from the hospital, taking his anger out on Ed and Eve, Ed taking the brunt of Ironside’s anger. Ed had dealt with Ironside’s strong emotions in a way Ironside had expected from his sergeant, Ed refusing to respond, Ironside taking advantage of Ed’s kindness, his sergeant finally retaliating, reminding Ironside it wasn’t Ed’s fault Ironside was in a wheelchair. It wasn’t Eve’s fault. But it had been Mark who had pulled Ironside out of his pit of despair. It had been Mark who had softened the edges of Ironside’s anger and resentment.
Getting his body into the wheelchair beside his bed, Ironside rolled his chair across the floor toward the sofa. He didn’t want to get too close, afraid he would wake his sergeant, Ed needing the sleep.
His sergeant lay on his side, facing the room. Ed looked peaceful. Ironside looked back over his shoulder, wondering if it had been Mark making the noise. Turned back when Ed gasped, a sharp intake of breath, his body twitching. His sergeant was dreaming.
Moving closer, Ironside held his breath. Watched as Ed kicked the blanket away, kicking it to the floor. Ironside could see the sweat building on Ed’s skin, his sergeant flinching, almost recoiling, his upper body hitting the back of the sofa. Ed wasn’t dreaming, he was having a nightmare, Ironside confident Ed was reliving a traumatic moment in Vietnam.
Ed’s eyes snapped open, his brown eyes searching the room.
‘Ed,’ said Ironside, assuming Ed had woken.
His sergeant blinked, his eyes closing, returning to sleep, his body continuing to shift, twitch, his eyes moving rapidly beneath his eyelids, the nightmare continuing. Ironside didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know if he should wake his sergeant, Ed embarrassed to find his boss watching him sleep.
Ironside leant over and picked up the blanket. He moved closer to the sofa, throwing the blanket back over his sergeant. Not long before Ed kicked it back off. Ironside sighed, his concern growing. Moved his chair back, creating distance so he wouldn’t disturb his friend and watched his sergeant sleep.
Ed had an appointment with Doctor Carrington at ten, Ironside hoping the doctor would be able to help his sergeant, to ease Ed’s pain. He hoped the doctor would convince Ed to talk about what was bothering him, to tell his boss why he had physically assaulted a material witness. Ed needed to talk and Ironside needed to hear what Ed had to say, ready and willing to listen even if it did cost him a good bottle of bourbon; Ed Brown was worth it.
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Ed woke slowly. He could feel the ache in his lower back. Felt the blanket against his skin. He had a vague memory of shedding the blanket sometime during the night, the nightmares causing his body to become too hot, skin soaked with sweat as he kicked the blanket to the floor. . . a feeling of someone close, watching him.
He could hear voices, words softly spoken. Opened his eyes. Blinked. He was lying on his side, his back to the room. He shifted his body, stretching his legs before turning onto his back.
‘Morning sleepyhead.’
Turned his head to the side. Fran was sitting at the round table, Mark beside her. Mark was smiling, enjoying the moment, enjoying Ed’s embarrassment and he was embarrassed. He looked away, searching the room for Ironside. If someone had been watching him sleep. . . turned his head and looked up at the ceiling. Closed his eyes. He still felt tired. Patient enough, he would fall back to sleep.
‘Coffee?’ said Fran, raising her voice.
‘Please,’ said Ed. ‘And a couple of aspirin.’
He could hear Fran’s footsteps coming toward him, not away from him. Opened his eyes and turned his head. She knelt beside him, her hand resting on his forearm, the blanket separating them, a look of concern on her features.
‘Headache?’
‘Backache.’
‘I said you could have my bed,’ said Mark, his voice distant.
‘You did,’ said Ed, closing his eyes.
Fran nudged him with her elbow. ‘The chief said you had an appointment at ten and you’re to be ready by nine thirty.’
‘Where is the chief?’
‘The chief and lieutenant Reese are at the commissioner’s office giving him an update on the case. You should get ready. The chief was tired and grumpy this morning, so you don’t want to keep him waiting.’
‘What time is it?’
‘Nine twenty-five,’ said Fran.
Ed’s eyes snapped open as he sat up, the blanket gathering around his waist. ‘What!’
‘That woke you up,’ said Fran, smiling as she stood up and walked away.
Ed looked at his watch. It was eight-fifteen. He smiled. It was a side of Fran he liked, and he wanted to see more of it. With time to spare, he lay back down and closed his eyes. Ed could smell coffee and toast, the sweat on his skin. He had dreamt, the nightmares savage in their intensity, violent.
He thought about the appointment Fran had mentioned. Doctor Carrington. Felt his gut clench with anger and resentment. He wasn’t looking forward to meeting Doctor Carrington, the man experienced with dealing with men who had been in Vietnam. A small voice in the back of his mind told Ed he wasn’t going to bluff his way through the appointment, the doctor would see through his lies, his assurances he was okay, it was only a few bad memories, he could deal with them, he’d done it before.
Carrington would expect honesty, but Ed wasn’t ready to be honest. The truth would put him on medical leave, Carrington suggesting Ed take time off work. The anger burned in his chest, pushed into a situation he wasn’t ready for. He didn’t want to speak to Carrington. He didn’t want to talk about Vietnam.
Fran returned to his side, a steaming cup of coffee in her left hand, two aspirin in her right. He sat up, legs becoming entangled in the blanket. Reached for the cup, the aspirin. His hands were steady, knew it wouldn’t be long before they started shaking. Took the coffee and aspirin, thanking Fran as she walked away.
The coffee was hot, the liquid burning his mouth as he took a sip to wash down the aspirin. He stood up, taking the coffee with him. Straightened the sheet and blanket on the sofa, a rushed attempt to make it look tidy. Took the bathrobe still hanging over the back of the sofa and dragged himself up the short set of steps and into the bathroom. Fifteen minutes later, he was ready to go; showered, shaved, dressed and his hair combed. Sitting at the round table, Mark, and Fran sitting with him, Ed waited. Waited for Ironside to return. Waited for his appointment with Doctor Carrington.
.
.
.
Pacing the length of Doctor Carrington’s waiting room, Ed could feel the anger and resentment growing. Ironside sat close by, the chief impatiently flicking through one too many DIY magazines as he waited. Ed had expected Ironside to go with him, Ironside making sure Ed arrived on time for his appointment, but he hadn’t expected the chief to go in with him, to sit in the waiting room while Ed waited to be called into Carrington’s office, Ed now concerned the chief would insist on staying by his side while he spoke to the doctor.
Ed stopped pacing when the door to Carrington’s office opened, a young woman rushing out of the room, her eyes flooded with tears. She didn’t stop to make another appointment, leaving the office and the doctor behind her.
‘Sergeant Brown?’
Ed turned to look at Carrington. The man stood in the doorway of his office, waiting, wearing an expression full of patience. Ed turned to look at Ironside, the chief watching him.
‘He wants to help,’ said Ironside. ‘Ed, talk to him.’
His body hesitant, Ed walked into Carrington’s office, stopping just inside the doorway. Carrington closed the door, brushing past Ed as he walked further into his office. He sat down at a large desk, the piece of furniture facing an even larger widow. No curtains, the morning sun shone into the office, the room full of natural light.
‘Sit down, sergeant,’ said Carrington.
Ed sat down, his chair not close, a short distance from Carrington, facing the doctor’s profile. It wasn’t a comfortable position to be in, it felt emotionally cold, as though the man wasn’t interested in the person he was talking to, a distance kept. . . a barrier between doctor and patient. He watched as Carrington began to scribble notes onto a large notepad, Ed wondering what the man was writing when his patient had yet to speak.
At least six foot tall, Carrington was a thin man, skinny. His hair grey, his features showing his increasing age. He wore a brown suit and a yellow tie. Looking to his left, Ed could see the man’s credentials and experiences on the wall; American College of Psychiatrists; UCSF School of Medicine; photos of Vietnam, a group portrait, Carrington one of the men in the photo. Carrington had been there. Ed even more certain he wasn’t going to bluff his way through the next hour, if he lasted that long, expecting to get up and walk out when the questions became too personal.
Putting down his pen, Carrington turned to face Ed and said, ‘Why don’t you start by telling me why you’re here?’
‘You know why I’m here,’ said Ed, looking back at Carrington.
‘Yes, sergeant, I know why you’re here. I want to know why you think you’re here.’
‘I don’t have a choice. It’s either here or a suspension.’
‘You’re here because your friends are worried about you.’
‘They’ve got nothing to worry about. I’m fine,’ said Ed, his tone defensive, angry.
‘You assaulted a material witness because he called you a baby killer. Nothing about that is fine, sergeant Brown.’
Gritting his teeth, Ed looked away.
‘Your hands are shaking.’
Looked down at his hands. He hadn’t noticed, his limbs calm earlier. When had they started to shake again? Closed his fists, too much strength used, his knuckles white.
‘Are you having flashbacks, sergeant?’
Ed looked at the photo on the wall.
‘I was there for a year,’ said Carrington. ‘1967. I was handing out drugs to ease the effects of the trauma men like you suffered while in Vietnam. It was the wrong thing to do. Supressing the trauma only made the long-term effects worst. The suicide rate of men returning from Vietnam is growing. I’m trying to make up for what I did. . . to help men deal with the trauma in a more positive way.’
Turned his gaze back toward Carrington.
‘You’re a police officer. If you are having flashbacks, it’s only a matter of time before they affect your ability to do your job. What do you think would happen if you were in a confrontation with a suspect, a violent suspect and you suffered a flashback? You could be seriously hurt or worse, you could be killed. What about the officer standing beside you? Think about it.’
Ed did think about it. He lowered his head and thought about Fran. If he had suffered a flashback during their confrontation with the Madison brothers. . . if he had reacted, thinking he was back in Vietnam, he could have killed Charlie Madison. The result, Norman Madison would have killed Fran before Ed could stop him.
Remembered he had suffered a flashback while he had his fingers wrapped around John Malcom’s throat. If Ironside hadn’t broken through the flashback, snapping him out of his memories. . . thought about the flashback he’d had in the car. . . the sound of a car horn bringing him back, returning to the present to realise the car he was driving was drifting toward the barrier on the side of the road. . . if he’d been on the freeway. He had scared Fran. . .
Carrington had put things into a different perspective. Ed hadn’t thought he could be a danger to himself. . . to others. He didn’t want to talk about Vietnam but his refusal to talk, his reluctance to admit he was having flashbacks. . . he bit down on his bottom lip, the pain sharp.
Ed fought hard against Carrington’s statement, the man’s common sense. His emotions building, he felt as though his mind were going to break. . . something snapped, his head aching, his acceptance surprising him. The man was right. If someone. . . if Fran were hurt. . . the chief, he couldn’t allow that. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself. Thinking he could deal with this on his own had been a selfish thing to do. Thinking if he ignored the memories, the flashbacks long enough, they would leave him, his mind, his sanity returning to normal. Knew without a doubt, that this time, it wouldn’t be so easy, that he may not be able to do this alone.
‘I can’t talk about Vietnam,’ said Ed.
‘You don’t have to talk about Vietnam. Not today.’
‘Yes, I’ve had some flashbacks.’
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Ed sat in front of the van, Ironside behind him, the chief silent, waiting, watching his sergeant. Ed stared out through the windscreen. He was a little shell-shocked, the confrontation with Carrington not as bad as he’d expected. He’d walked out of the doctor’s offices with a business card and the details of his next appointment. He hadn’t spoken about Vietnam, Ralph Decker or the pacifist who had refused to help, his admittance of flashbacks enough for Carrington.
He shifted his gaze, looking at the rear-view mirror. Almost smiled when Ironside looked away, the chief’s scrutiny caught red-handed. Ironside had said nothing when Ed walked out of Carrington’s office ten minutes after he’d walked into it, the chief remaining silent as they rode the elevator to the first floor. They’d been sitting in the van for twenty minutes, Ironside patient as Ed collected his thoughts, processing what had just happened.
Carrington had made sense. Too much sense. It had been a light bulb moment for Ed, a feeling of relief when he admitted to having flashbacks; emotionally and physically, a heavy weight removed from his shoulders. The tension in his muscles, his neck lessening. He felt better. Felt like he could get through this without too much difficulty, but he was struggling with the idea of telling Ironside the truth. He didn’t know how the chief would react. . . no, that wasn’t right, he did know. Ed didn’t know if he could face the chief’s ire right now, still reeling from his admittance to Carrington.
It was better to just get it out of the way.
Just say it.
Tell him the truth.
How hard can it be?
He managed to make one admittance today, why not another.
He’ll send you home.
Say it anyway.
Tell him the truth.
‘I lied to you,’ said Ed, waiting for the familiar eruption of anger.
‘I suspected as much,’ said Ironside, his voice calm.
Surprised by Ironside’s reaction, Ed turned in his seat, twisting his upper body so he could look at Ironside. ‘I expected a bit more anger, chief. What was it you said, transfer me out of your department before I could even think about apologising--’
‘I still might,’ said Ironside. ‘I’m not angry with you, Ed. It’s my fault you lied to me. I pushed you too hard. I should have left things alone. I should have waited until after you’d spoken to the doctor.’
Turning back to face the front, Ed said, ‘I can’t sit at home doing nothing.’
‘I know.’
‘I need to work. . . I . . .’
‘Ed! I know you. I know how you think. I’m not going to send you home. I may send you back to uniform to direct traffic but I’m not going to send you home. You can work in the office.’
Ed grimaced at the thought. Filing, paperwork . . . typing. But he couldn’t complain, it was better than sitting at home doing nothing but remembering the past.
The silence returned, neither man talking. Ed could feel the relief crawling along his spine, caressing the muscles at the back of his neck. Looked down at his hands. They were steady, no longer shaking. He felt calm, the anger gone. He felt good. He felt good because he’d confessed to having flashbacks. It had been that simple but he realised he still wasn’t ready to talk about Ralph Decker but there was something he wanted to tell the chief, his friend.
Stared out through the windscreen as he spoke. ‘After I was released from the military hospital, I walked to the train station. I couldn’t afford to take the bus. I only had enough money for a train ticket home.’
‘You wore your uniform,’ said Ironside.
‘I went to Vietnam thinking we were doing the right thing. I believed what I was told by our government. It wasn’t long before I realised, we were fighting a war we couldn’t win. . . I thought the people back home would be supportive. Not everyone was. People spat at me. They called me a baby killer. I didn’t let them get away with it then and I wasn’t going to let someone like John Malcom get away with it now.’ Looked at Ironside in the rear-view mirror. ‘Do you still want to waste a bottle of bourbon on me?’
Ironside smiled. ‘For you, Ed, I’m even willing to waste a good bottle of bourbon. As long as you pay for it.’
His thoughts began to drift, interrupted when the van’s mobile telephone began to ring. Ironside answered the call, Ed twisting his body to look back and listen to the one-sided conversation.
‘Ironside. . . what? How in the flamin’ hell did he manage to do that. . . No, we’re five minutes away. . . Send officers to Duggie’s Gym, let them know Norman Madison is armed and both brothers are dangerous. We’ll meet you at the hotel.’ Slamming the handset down, Ironside looked at Ed and said, ‘John Malcom made a phone call to Duggie’s gym at four am this morning.’
Frowning with confusion, Ed said, ‘How? He’s got two officers watching him.’
‘Well, we’re not going to find out sitting here, are we, sergeant!’
‘No, sir,’ said Ed as he started the van’s engine, accelerating away from the curb.
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Ed and Ironside arrived at the Beaumont Hotel with time to spare, Carl Reese at least three minutes behind them. They couldn’t wait, Ed’s backup already on site, already with John Malcom. Turning off the engine, Ed got out of the van, taking a moment to search the street for a dark green Polara. The street clear, Ed ran to the entrance of the hotel, bursting through the open doorway, surprising the man behind the front desk in the hotel’s small lobby. Without slowing he ran to the front desk, the man in front of him stepping back.
Ed took out his wallet and identified himself as a police officer. ‘Has anyone checked in this morning. Six-foot, heavyset, brown hair, with or without a moustache?’
The desk clerk, a lit cigarette dangling from his mouth, shook his head. ‘I had one guy, but he didn’t look anything like--’
‘Where are the stairs?’
He pointed to his left. ‘Around the corner with the elevator. Is there something wrong. . .’
Ed didn’t listen to what the man was saying, already moving in the direction of the stairs, running around the corner. They had discussed their strategy on the way to the hotel. Ironside was going to wait in the lobby for Carl, while Ed made his way to the fourth floor. With Dolby and Baker as his backup, Ed would bring John Malcom down to the first floor and the van and take him back to police headquarters.
It was a simple plan, basic but anything and everything could go wrong. Ironside would be on his own until Reese arrived with uniform officers. Ed would be on his own until he reached Dolby and Baker. They had the option of waiting but it had been over six hours since Malcom had called Duggie’s gym. They didn’t have time to wait, the Malcom brothers already proving their intelligence. They had to get Malcom back to police headquarters and they had to do it quickly.
A small area. An elevator to his left, a door leading to the stairs in front of him. Ed ignored the elevator and ran to the door leading to the stairwell. Opened the door. Taking out his service weapon, he took the stairs two at a time, reaching the fourth floor quickly. He stepped out into the hallway.
The chief hadn’t questioned his state of mind, showing trust and support, knowing his sergeant would do his job. Ed had been grateful for both the trust and support, his ability to do his job questioned too many times over the past ten days but right now, in this moment, he was questioning himself, the chief’s nagging feeling something was going to happen to his sergeant nagged at the back of Ed’s mind. He pushed the thoughts out of his mind, the nagging feeling pushing back as he walked along the hallway.
Room 402 was just beyond the elevator, Ed pressing the elevator button as he passed it, calling it to the fourth floor. It wasn’t his intention to take Malcom down to the lobby in the elevator, only wanting to use it as a distraction, to put it to use so someone else couldn’t. His gaze searched the hallway as he moved forward, passing room 401, its door closed. He paused, listening for any indication the room was occupied. Hearing nothing, he moved on, reaching 402. Looked to the right, the left – the hallway still empty – and knocked on the door.
‘Dolby, it’s Ed Brown.’
Dolby opened the door, his face flushed, cheeks red, the sweat clinging to his forehead. Over Dolby’s shoulder he could see Baker, the man wearing an expression full of anger and frustration. Malcom stood beside Baker, the bruising on his neck a dark purple, the fear in his eyes evident. Ed didn’t know if the fear was directed at him or the situation, decided it was both.
‘We’re leaving,’ said Ed as he continued to search the hallway. ‘Now.’
‘About time,’ said Baker as he pushed Malcom out through the door and into the hallway.
Ed took Malcom by the upper arm, his grip tight as he led Malcom down the hallway, past room 401 and toward the stairwell.
‘Where are you taking me?’ said Malcom as he tried to pull his arm from Ed’s grip.
Ed ignored him.
‘You can’t do this to me!’
Heard the ding of the elevator as it arrived, the doors opening. A moment of silence before everything went to hell. Gunshots behind him, Ed began to turn, raising his gun as he moved. Pain punctured his left side. He stumbled, his left leg buckling beneath the pain. Felt his body falling to the left, surprised when Malcom grabbed his arm and pulled him into an empty elevator. Cursed his luck as fell forward, his gun caught beneath his body when he hit the floor of the elevator.
He could hear Malcom’s panicked breaths as the young man began pressing the elevator buttons, an attempt to escape. The doors began to close. Ed shifted his body, pushing upward and turning toward the closing doors. Norman Madison and a man he didn’t recognise forced their way into the elevator, their hands slapping against the doors, forcing them back open, the doors closing behind them.
Ed didn’t have enough time to raise his service weapon. Madison moved quickly, kicking Ed in the side, forcing him back to the floor. Ed tried to get up a second time. Madison swung his arm toward Ed, the butt of a gun directed at the side of Ed’s skull. Madison didn’t miss, hitting Ed across the left side of his head, skin splitting, an open wound, already bleeding. Pain exploded through his skull. Fought through the nausea and vertigo, the sensations strong, vindictive in their efforts to take him down, to take him out of the fight.
Hands gripped the lapels of his jacket, felt the elevator shift as it began its decent to the first floor. Ed didn’t think he was going to make it that far, dead before they reached the first floor. . . a bullet to the head. His upper body lifted, shoved into a corner of the elevator as he closed his eyes, his mind calm, his expectations of death soaring. His gun pulled from his loose fingers, Ed thought they were going to shoot him with his own weapon.
‘Jack, don’t let him do anything stupid.’
Ed opened his eyes and looked up at Jack. The man stood over him, a threatening pose, an automatic pistol in his right hand. Ed decided to test the boundaries, ignoring the threat as he began to move, a clumsy attempt to stand up. A boot slammed into his chest, breaking his balance, and stealing the air from his lungs. He fell back, body hunched, arms curling around his chest.
‘Stay down.’
He stayed down. He didn’t have a choice. Ed felt dizzy, two blows to the head within a twenty-four-hour period taking its toll. A slow breath. His side burned. Could feel the warm blood on his scalp, feel it crawl down his neck. Could feel his blood-soaked shirt sticking to his skin. Felt the elevator jerk to a stop. Grimaced when the pain shifted, increasing before settling. He looked to the right. . . Norman Madison had pressed the emergency stop button and Ed now knew, without a doubt, Madison was going to kill John Malcom.
Ed couldn’t let that happen. It was his job, his duty to protect Malcom, it didn’t matter that he didn’t like the man. He wasn’t thinking of his own life. It didn’t occur to him that once Malcom was dead, so was Ed Brown, his thoughts tunnelled down to one thing; protect John Malcom with everything he had. Turned his gaze to look at Jack. The man distracted, too busy watching Madison. Ed glanced toward Madison.
Norman Madison stood over Malcom. John Malcom was on the floor, knees against his chest, arms wrapped around his knees, his gaze flicking between Madison and Ed, his eyes pleading, silently asking for help.
Ed didn’t use his military training in his job as a police officer. No need to use his training against a suspect. When confronted, most suspects ran from him. Armed suspects shot at him. Once caught, they would become meek, allowing him to handcuff them and lead them to the nearest police vehicle, usually his own.
Now, in this situation, he had no choice, no longer in possession of his service weapon, his military training the only thing he had left. It was kill or be killed. He would wait for an opening, strike at the right time. He stared back at Malcom, shifting his gaze when Madison spoke.
‘We had a deal, John,’ said Madison. ‘You double crossed me. You went to the police.’
Ed frowned. Brain slow to catch up, it took him a moment to understand what Madison had said.
‘You killed that man,’ said Malcom, showing a hint of defiance. ‘You said you were just going to teach him a lesson. You killed--’
With an open palm, Madison slapped Malcom, the sound sharp, Malcom crying out in pain.
‘I paid you good money to watch that building. That’s all you had to do.’
‘You killed him.’
‘You went to the police. It didn’t take them long to work it out,’ said Madison. ‘Warner was going to pay us ten thousand and you ruined everything by talking to the police.’
Ed wanted to ask questions. He wanted to know why Charlie Madison killed Elizabeth Warner, but he didn’t want to draw attention to himself. Jack had turned away, his back to Ed. The man was either an idiot or over-confident, making a mistake, thinking Ed was no longer a threat.
Madison aimed Ed’s service weapon at Malcom’s head, his finger on the trigger. ‘I don’t like it when people double-cross me, John.’
Reaching into his pants pocket with his right hand, Ed’s fingers wrapped around the pen knife he always carried with him. With Jack’s back still turned, Ed took the knife from his pocket. Opened it with fingers thick with pain and slick with blood.
‘Please don’t,’ said Malcom. ‘Please.’
Ed struck his first blow, slamming his foot against the back of Jack’s knee. The leg crumbled, Jack grunting in surprise as he fell onto one knee. Ed knew he had to kill; no other choice given to him. He had to kill to save John Malcom’s life. Adrenaline helped him to change his position, moving forward, the pain pulsing through his side, his head. Aim true, quick, and violent, Ed stabbed Jack in the neck, pushing the knife forward, cutting through the carotid artery. A spurt of warm blood across his hand.
Jack dropped his gun and slapped his hands against the wound in his neck, a desperate attempt to stop the bleeding, his efforts useless, the wound too severe, fatal. Jack fell forward, hitting the floor as he continued to struggle, the sound attracting Madison’s attention, the man turning toward Ed, his gun moving with him.
Despite his injuries, Ed was quicker, more experienced . . . more determined. He dropped the pen knife and picked up the automatic pistol, aiming it toward Madison. Pulled the trigger. The bullet tore through the side of Madison’s head, blood and brain matter painting the elevator wall. Madison’s body collapsed, falling to the floor. Ed looked at Jack, searching for any threats. There were none, the man still, his eyes open, blood no longer pumping out of the wound on his neck.
It was over, Malcom still alive, the threat to his life was dead. Adrenaline gone, Ed collapsed back against the wall, his hand and the gun falling to his side. He watched as Malcom reached for gun Madison still held, pulling it from the man’s dead fingers. Watched with a feeling of surprise when Malcom aimed the gun at him.
‘I just saved your life,’ said Ed.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Malcom.
‘John, this isn’t your fault.’
‘He said he was going to teach him a lesson.’
‘And you believed him. John, no one is going to blame you for what happened to Henry Warner.’
‘Why did you do it?’
Ed felt confused, light-headed. He wasn’t sure what Malcom was asking him.
‘I called you a baby killer. . .’
‘What you think about me. . . what I think about you didn’t stop me from doing my job. They were going to kill you, John. I did what I had to do to protect you.’
‘This is my fault,’ said Malcom.
‘You called Norman Madison at Duggie’s gym.’
‘I thought they would help me. I didn’t think they would. . . I’m sorry.’
‘I don’t blame you, John.’
Malcom dropped the gun and pressed the emergency stop button, the elevator jerking, a sudden shift of position, before continuing its decent. Ed looked down. Blood soaked his white shirt. Too much blood. He pressed his hands against the wound. Gritted his teeth and clenched his jaw when the expected pain tore through his side.
The elevator came to a stop, the doors opening. Malcom pressed the emergency stop button a second time, keeping the elevator on the first floor. Malcom stepped over the bodies of Norman Madison and Jack last-name-unknown and ran out of the elevator.
Ed didn’t have the energy to try and stop him. Didn’t think he would be able to stand up on his own. He could see the chief, a look of surprise on Ironside’s face when Malcom ran past him. Locked eyes with his friend, gaze steady as he tried to hold on, Ironside an anchor, an effort to keep his mind afloat. It wasn’t working. Heard the chief’s voice when he shouted for someone to call an ambulance. Closed his eyes, the lids too heavy. He felt hands touching him, pulling at his clothes, looking for injuries. He could hear Carl Reese, his voiced raised as he told Ed to hang on, as he told Ed he was going to be okay.
Ed wanted to believe him.
Felt his mind drifting. . .
Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven
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: 7,694
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 Six
Ed Brown stared at his reflection. He could see the exhaustion in his eyes, his face. He could see the lines of pain in the creases on his forehead, in the corners of his eyes. He’d taken two aspirin when they’d returned to the office, the painkillers refusing to do their job, his headache only increasing. He knew the pain had little to do with Norman Madison hitting him on the back of the head with what Fran had told him was the butt of her service weapon; he was too tense. . .
He could see the tension in his shoulders, the regret he felt agreeing to sleep in the office, to stay close as the chief had asked. He should have said no, wanting his privacy, to dream while he slept without anyone watching. For the first time since Vietnam, Ed was scared, afraid he would wake up screaming, waking the chief, putting himself back under scrutiny. He should have said no. Ed looked down, his hands gripping the edge of the bathroom sink, three small white pills resting on the sink beside his right hand.
He had left Fran waiting in the car, unwilling to invite her into his home; mementos he didn’t want her to see, the picture of Anne would leave Fran with a curiosity she wouldn’t be able to ignore, questions asked, another conversation Ed didn’t want. He’d packed a small bag, certain the chief would insist his sergeant stay close while the case remained open, spending more than one night in Ironside’s office and home.
Ironside’s concern worried Ed, the chief’s hunch that something bad was going to happen to his sergeant now nagging at the back of Ed’s mind. He began to doubt himself, doubt his ability to do the job, worried he was going to be too busy looking back over his shoulder to see what was in front of him. He couldn’t work like this. He wouldn’t be able to do his job. Knew the exhaustion he felt fed the doubts. He needed to sleep, an uninterrupted eight hours.
The pills within reach, they were an invitation to sleep. He could take two, knock himself out, unable to wake up if he did dream. If the nightmares were as bad as he expected them to be. . .
He should have said no.
Shook his head, not liking what he was thinking, where his thoughts were going. If he took more than one, he would wake up feeling groggy, the effects of the sedatives clinging to his body and his mind, his reactions slowed, his mind heavy, surrounded by a thick fog. If Ironside did insist his sergeant stay for more than one night, Ed was going to need the sedatives to last.
Filled a glass with water, his hands still shaking. Frustration tore through him, an urge to throw the glass and its contents at his reflection. A slow, deep breath. Held it before breathing out, a slow release. Took one of the sedatives, drinking the glass of water to wash it down and put the remaining two back into his shaving kit. Tightened the bathrobe around his waist, turned away from the mirror and left the bathroom.
The chief and Mark were waiting for him, sitting at the round table in the center of the office, a pack of playing cards on the table. It was late, almost midnight. Ed had spent the evening writing up his reports, finishing the final report for the Miller case while Fran had confirmed Alex Pierce’s alibi. Paperwork caught up, he needed to sleep, a game of poker the last thing on his mind.
‘He can’t sleep,’ said Mark, looking at Ed as he nodded at Ironside.
‘I can,’ said Ed, walking past the table and toward the sofa on the other side of the room.
Ed didn’t want to force Mark from his bed, there was no need. The leather sofa wasn’t a comfortable choice but under the influence of one of Mrs. Miller’s sedatives he would be asleep within minutes. Sat down on the edge of the sofa, sheets, blanket, and pillow already set out. Mark had made up the sofa while he was in the bathroom, making it look more comfortable than it was, not the first time Ed had spent the night. Looked up to see Ironside moving toward him, the chief dressed for bed.
Stopping in front of his sergeant, Ironside said, ‘You look tired.’
‘I am tired. You should be tired, it’s almost midnight.’
Ironside frowned. ‘I keep thinking I’ve missed something.’
‘You want to know why Charlie Madison murdered Elizabeth Warner.’
‘I do.’
‘You think they’re tying up loose ends. You think they’re going to try and find our witness. They won’t find him, chief.’
‘They’re smart,’ said Ironside. ‘They’ll find a way.’
‘Stealing the maintenance keys to Warner’s building was a smart move.’
‘It would have been smarter for the manager of the building to tell us his keys had been stolen before Mrs. Warner was killed and not after.’
The Madison brothers had stolen the maintenance keys to the building, giving them access to areas the police officers watching the building had thought were secure. The brothers had entered the apartment building through a locked maintenance door, undisturbed as they made their way to the tenth floor and the home of Elizabeth Warner. Ed felt angry. He knew Mrs. Warner’s death wasn’t their fault, but he couldn’t stop himself thinking otherwise; if Fran hadn’t questioned him in the car, if he hadn’t stopped by the side of the road. . . they would have arrived five minutes earlier, possibly saving Mrs. Warner’s life.
‘Norman Madison must have taken them after I chased him down the stairway.’
Ironside nodded in agreement. ‘He recognised you as a police officer, that’s why he ran. He also knew we would try and identify him. It was only a matter of time before we did.’
‘Why? He didn’t know we had a witness. He didn’t know we would suspect he was involved with the death of Henry Warner.’
‘You chased him down a stairwell for a reason, Ed,’ said Ironside. ‘Madison didn’t know what that reason was. He could only make a guess and a smart man would guess that you suspected him of being involved in Henry Warner’s death. He stole the keys because he wanted access to Mrs. Warner.’
‘Something else is bothering you,’ said Ed as he sat back, leaning against the back of the sofa. Whatever Mrs. Miller’s doctor had subscribed, they were strong. He could already feel the weight of the sedative in his limbs, his body relaxing, the tension leaving his muscles, his headache easing. Understood why it had been so difficult for Mrs. Miller to wake up on the night her husband had died, the widow fortunate she had been able to wake at all.
‘If their intention is to get rid of the witness. . . Ed, you and Fran could be next. You’re both witnesses to the murder of Elizabeth Warner.’
‘They had an opportunity to kill us both. They didn’t.’
‘Hindsight, Ed,’ said Ironside as he shook his head, his frustration obvious. ‘Everything about this case is bothering me.’
‘And now you’re bothering me.’
‘Is that what I’m doing?’
‘It’s beginning to feel like it,’ said Ed.
Ironside smiled. ‘All right, Ed. I leave you to brood on your own.’
‘Is that what I’m doing?’
‘It’s beginning to feel like it.’
‘Good night, chief,’ said Ed, smiling at Ironside.
Nodding, Ironside said good night and moved away from Ed, wheeling his chair toward his own bed, a large brass contraption set against the wall in the large open office. Ironside would be too close, but Ed didn’t think it mattered. If he woke up screaming, the chief would hear him, even if he were sleeping in Mark’s room with the door closed.
Mark stood up, following Ironside. They had a routine, Mark helping the chief into his bed. . . Ed didn’t want to interfere. Stood up and took off the bathrobe Mark had lent him, tossing it over the back of the sofa. He felt the chill on his skin. He’d never been able to wear a pyjama shirt, more comfortable in his sleep without one. Lay down on the sofa, pulling the blanket up over his legs. Closed his eyes. Saw the nightmares on the edge of his vision, waiting. They wouldn’t have long to wait, Ed asleep within minutes.
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Ironside woke, something disturbing his sleep. He turned his head and looked at the bedside clock. Two in the morning. Grimaced with disgust. It was hard enough to sleep as it was, he didn’t need someone else. . . remembered Ed Brown was sleeping on the sofa. Ironside waited, listening. Whatever had woken him. . . if Ed had woken him, there was only silence.
Closed his eyes and thought about the case. The case did bother him. Why had Charlie Madison killed Elizabeth Warner? He agreed with Ed’s assumption; the Madison brothers were tying up loose ends, Ironside worried Ed and Fran would be next. A feeling of unease filled him. Ed close, Ironside had allowed Fran to leave the office, to go home alone. Had he done the wrong thing, a mistake made? Ironside corrected his thoughts. He knew Fran was safe, for tonight at least. Tomorrow he would arrange for an officer to be with her day and night.
Ed. . . the killer violent, his sergeant had already survived two confrontations with the men responsible for the deaths of three people. Ironside knew about Ed’s history. . . knew the military had trained his sergeant to kill, Ed more than capable of defending himself but Ironside wasn’t sure Ed’s training would be enough, not when it came to the Madison brothers, Ed lucky on both occasions. Fran had told him Ed had fought back in the Warner’s apartment, in control of the fight before Norman Madison had interfered, taking Ed out of the fight with a blow to the back of his sergeant’s head. Fran had also been extremely lucky, more so than Ed.
Ironside would never forgive himself if his sergeant came to any harm. . . if Fran or Mark. . . he pushed the thoughts away. He didn’t want to think about losing either of them, enough friends lost over the years. He thoughts returned to his sergeant. He trusted Ed, trusted him to do the right thing. But he was also worried about his sergeant, his friend. Ed was suffering, going through something he refused to talk about, memories of the past haunting him.
Ironside felt helpless.
He suspected Ed had lied to him about having flash backs, but he couldn’t prove it. Ed had never lied to him, not until he had pushed his sergeant, hoping Ed would give in to the pressure, admitting to Ironside what was troubling him. But his sergeant had remained stubborn, refusing to give an explanation for his actions. Ironside smiled, feeling a small amount of pride. . . he was proud of Ed, always would be. Proud of Mark, Fran. . . proud of Eve. They were good people. Good police officers, particularly Ed. The man should have been a lieutenant by now, leading his own team, Ed smart, instinctive, intuitive and his deductive reasoning was nearly as good as his own. Ironside smiled, he’d trained Ed, trained him to be a good police officer, a good detective. Wondered for a moment if he were to blame, not encouraging Ed to move on. A part of him was grateful Ed hadn’t. . . he didn’t know what he would do without him. Didn’t think he could ever replace him.
He thought of Eve. . . felt the ache. He missed her. Missed her every day. Eve had been as good as Ed. She would have gone far in the police department, but Eve had chosen married life over a career. He didn’t blame her. Couldn’t blame her but he still missed her, his heart aching every time he thought about her.
His thoughts returned to his sergeant. Ed was struggling, and Ironside didn’t know how to help him. Ironside knew there was more to it than a derogatory remark, something else that caused Ed to react the way he did, something else the cause of his sergeant’s anger. . . something else that made Ed’s hands shake.
Ironside knew the right thing to do. . . send Ed home, give him time to recover but Ironside knew Ed too well. He knew Ed needed to work. The death of Ed’s fiancé had almost broken him, work the only thing that had kept him sane. Understood, if he did send his sergeant home. . . Ed may not come back.
Ironside wanted to keep Ed close, telling Ed he wanted him to stay at the office because he was worried about his health, his sergeant unconscious for ten minutes. . . worried something else was going to happen to him. Both statements true but not the main reason for Ironside wanting Ed to spend the night in the office. Ed needed company, he needed someone to talk to. Ironside knew with a certainty that if left alone, Ed would do nothing but remember, his mind travelling through his past. His sergeant needed a distraction, Ironside surprised when Ed refused a game of poker, instead heading for the sofa and sleep.
A sharp cry, the sound muffled. Ed.
Ironside used the strap above his bed to pull himself upright. He was more independent every day, able to get himself into and out of bed, still allowing Mark to help, not wanting the young man to start feeling redundant. He didn’t know what he would have done without Mark. Ironside had been angry those first few days back at work after his release from the hospital, taking his anger out on Ed and Eve, Ed taking the brunt of Ironside’s anger. Ed had dealt with Ironside’s strong emotions in a way Ironside had expected from his sergeant, Ed refusing to respond, Ironside taking advantage of Ed’s kindness, his sergeant finally retaliating, reminding Ironside it wasn’t Ed’s fault Ironside was in a wheelchair. It wasn’t Eve’s fault. But it had been Mark who had pulled Ironside out of his pit of despair. It had been Mark who had softened the edges of Ironside’s anger and resentment.
Getting his body into the wheelchair beside his bed, Ironside rolled his chair across the floor toward the sofa. He didn’t want to get too close, afraid he would wake his sergeant, Ed needing the sleep.
His sergeant lay on his side, facing the room. Ed looked peaceful. Ironside looked back over his shoulder, wondering if it had been Mark making the noise. Turned back when Ed gasped, a sharp intake of breath, his body twitching. His sergeant was dreaming.
Moving closer, Ironside held his breath. Watched as Ed kicked the blanket away, kicking it to the floor. Ironside could see the sweat building on Ed’s skin, his sergeant flinching, almost recoiling, his upper body hitting the back of the sofa. Ed wasn’t dreaming, he was having a nightmare, Ironside confident Ed was reliving a traumatic moment in Vietnam.
Ed’s eyes snapped open, his brown eyes searching the room.
‘Ed,’ said Ironside, assuming Ed had woken.
His sergeant blinked, his eyes closing, returning to sleep, his body continuing to shift, twitch, his eyes moving rapidly beneath his eyelids, the nightmare continuing. Ironside didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know if he should wake his sergeant, Ed embarrassed to find his boss watching him sleep.
Ironside leant over and picked up the blanket. He moved closer to the sofa, throwing the blanket back over his sergeant. Not long before Ed kicked it back off. Ironside sighed, his concern growing. Moved his chair back, creating distance so he wouldn’t disturb his friend and watched his sergeant sleep.
Ed had an appointment with Doctor Carrington at ten, Ironside hoping the doctor would be able to help his sergeant, to ease Ed’s pain. He hoped the doctor would convince Ed to talk about what was bothering him, to tell his boss why he had physically assaulted a material witness. Ed needed to talk and Ironside needed to hear what Ed had to say, ready and willing to listen even if it did cost him a good bottle of bourbon; Ed Brown was worth it.
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Ed woke slowly. He could feel the ache in his lower back. Felt the blanket against his skin. He had a vague memory of shedding the blanket sometime during the night, the nightmares causing his body to become too hot, skin soaked with sweat as he kicked the blanket to the floor. . . a feeling of someone close, watching him.
He could hear voices, words softly spoken. Opened his eyes. Blinked. He was lying on his side, his back to the room. He shifted his body, stretching his legs before turning onto his back.
‘Morning sleepyhead.’
Turned his head to the side. Fran was sitting at the round table, Mark beside her. Mark was smiling, enjoying the moment, enjoying Ed’s embarrassment and he was embarrassed. He looked away, searching the room for Ironside. If someone had been watching him sleep. . . turned his head and looked up at the ceiling. Closed his eyes. He still felt tired. Patient enough, he would fall back to sleep.
‘Coffee?’ said Fran, raising her voice.
‘Please,’ said Ed. ‘And a couple of aspirin.’
He could hear Fran’s footsteps coming toward him, not away from him. Opened his eyes and turned his head. She knelt beside him, her hand resting on his forearm, the blanket separating them, a look of concern on her features.
‘Headache?’
‘Backache.’
‘I said you could have my bed,’ said Mark, his voice distant.
‘You did,’ said Ed, closing his eyes.
Fran nudged him with her elbow. ‘The chief said you had an appointment at ten and you’re to be ready by nine thirty.’
‘Where is the chief?’
‘The chief and lieutenant Reese are at the commissioner’s office giving him an update on the case. You should get ready. The chief was tired and grumpy this morning, so you don’t want to keep him waiting.’
‘What time is it?’
‘Nine twenty-five,’ said Fran.
Ed’s eyes snapped open as he sat up, the blanket gathering around his waist. ‘What!’
‘That woke you up,’ said Fran, smiling as she stood up and walked away.
Ed looked at his watch. It was eight-fifteen. He smiled. It was a side of Fran he liked, and he wanted to see more of it. With time to spare, he lay back down and closed his eyes. Ed could smell coffee and toast, the sweat on his skin. He had dreamt, the nightmares savage in their intensity, violent.
He thought about the appointment Fran had mentioned. Doctor Carrington. Felt his gut clench with anger and resentment. He wasn’t looking forward to meeting Doctor Carrington, the man experienced with dealing with men who had been in Vietnam. A small voice in the back of his mind told Ed he wasn’t going to bluff his way through the appointment, the doctor would see through his lies, his assurances he was okay, it was only a few bad memories, he could deal with them, he’d done it before.
Carrington would expect honesty, but Ed wasn’t ready to be honest. The truth would put him on medical leave, Carrington suggesting Ed take time off work. The anger burned in his chest, pushed into a situation he wasn’t ready for. He didn’t want to speak to Carrington. He didn’t want to talk about Vietnam.
Fran returned to his side, a steaming cup of coffee in her left hand, two aspirin in her right. He sat up, legs becoming entangled in the blanket. Reached for the cup, the aspirin. His hands were steady, knew it wouldn’t be long before they started shaking. Took the coffee and aspirin, thanking Fran as she walked away.
The coffee was hot, the liquid burning his mouth as he took a sip to wash down the aspirin. He stood up, taking the coffee with him. Straightened the sheet and blanket on the sofa, a rushed attempt to make it look tidy. Took the bathrobe still hanging over the back of the sofa and dragged himself up the short set of steps and into the bathroom. Fifteen minutes later, he was ready to go; showered, shaved, dressed and his hair combed. Sitting at the round table, Mark, and Fran sitting with him, Ed waited. Waited for Ironside to return. Waited for his appointment with Doctor Carrington.
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Pacing the length of Doctor Carrington’s waiting room, Ed could feel the anger and resentment growing. Ironside sat close by, the chief impatiently flicking through one too many DIY magazines as he waited. Ed had expected Ironside to go with him, Ironside making sure Ed arrived on time for his appointment, but he hadn’t expected the chief to go in with him, to sit in the waiting room while Ed waited to be called into Carrington’s office, Ed now concerned the chief would insist on staying by his side while he spoke to the doctor.
Ed stopped pacing when the door to Carrington’s office opened, a young woman rushing out of the room, her eyes flooded with tears. She didn’t stop to make another appointment, leaving the office and the doctor behind her.
‘Sergeant Brown?’
Ed turned to look at Carrington. The man stood in the doorway of his office, waiting, wearing an expression full of patience. Ed turned to look at Ironside, the chief watching him.
‘He wants to help,’ said Ironside. ‘Ed, talk to him.’
His body hesitant, Ed walked into Carrington’s office, stopping just inside the doorway. Carrington closed the door, brushing past Ed as he walked further into his office. He sat down at a large desk, the piece of furniture facing an even larger widow. No curtains, the morning sun shone into the office, the room full of natural light.
‘Sit down, sergeant,’ said Carrington.
Ed sat down, his chair not close, a short distance from Carrington, facing the doctor’s profile. It wasn’t a comfortable position to be in, it felt emotionally cold, as though the man wasn’t interested in the person he was talking to, a distance kept. . . a barrier between doctor and patient. He watched as Carrington began to scribble notes onto a large notepad, Ed wondering what the man was writing when his patient had yet to speak.
At least six foot tall, Carrington was a thin man, skinny. His hair grey, his features showing his increasing age. He wore a brown suit and a yellow tie. Looking to his left, Ed could see the man’s credentials and experiences on the wall; American College of Psychiatrists; UCSF School of Medicine; photos of Vietnam, a group portrait, Carrington one of the men in the photo. Carrington had been there. Ed even more certain he wasn’t going to bluff his way through the next hour, if he lasted that long, expecting to get up and walk out when the questions became too personal.
Putting down his pen, Carrington turned to face Ed and said, ‘Why don’t you start by telling me why you’re here?’
‘You know why I’m here,’ said Ed, looking back at Carrington.
‘Yes, sergeant, I know why you’re here. I want to know why you think you’re here.’
‘I don’t have a choice. It’s either here or a suspension.’
‘You’re here because your friends are worried about you.’
‘They’ve got nothing to worry about. I’m fine,’ said Ed, his tone defensive, angry.
‘You assaulted a material witness because he called you a baby killer. Nothing about that is fine, sergeant Brown.’
Gritting his teeth, Ed looked away.
‘Your hands are shaking.’
Looked down at his hands. He hadn’t noticed, his limbs calm earlier. When had they started to shake again? Closed his fists, too much strength used, his knuckles white.
‘Are you having flashbacks, sergeant?’
Ed looked at the photo on the wall.
‘I was there for a year,’ said Carrington. ‘1967. I was handing out drugs to ease the effects of the trauma men like you suffered while in Vietnam. It was the wrong thing to do. Supressing the trauma only made the long-term effects worst. The suicide rate of men returning from Vietnam is growing. I’m trying to make up for what I did. . . to help men deal with the trauma in a more positive way.’
Turned his gaze back toward Carrington.
‘You’re a police officer. If you are having flashbacks, it’s only a matter of time before they affect your ability to do your job. What do you think would happen if you were in a confrontation with a suspect, a violent suspect and you suffered a flashback? You could be seriously hurt or worse, you could be killed. What about the officer standing beside you? Think about it.’
Ed did think about it. He lowered his head and thought about Fran. If he had suffered a flashback during their confrontation with the Madison brothers. . . if he had reacted, thinking he was back in Vietnam, he could have killed Charlie Madison. The result, Norman Madison would have killed Fran before Ed could stop him.
Remembered he had suffered a flashback while he had his fingers wrapped around John Malcom’s throat. If Ironside hadn’t broken through the flashback, snapping him out of his memories. . . thought about the flashback he’d had in the car. . . the sound of a car horn bringing him back, returning to the present to realise the car he was driving was drifting toward the barrier on the side of the road. . . if he’d been on the freeway. He had scared Fran. . .
Carrington had put things into a different perspective. Ed hadn’t thought he could be a danger to himself. . . to others. He didn’t want to talk about Vietnam but his refusal to talk, his reluctance to admit he was having flashbacks. . . he bit down on his bottom lip, the pain sharp.
Ed fought hard against Carrington’s statement, the man’s common sense. His emotions building, he felt as though his mind were going to break. . . something snapped, his head aching, his acceptance surprising him. The man was right. If someone. . . if Fran were hurt. . . the chief, he couldn’t allow that. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself. Thinking he could deal with this on his own had been a selfish thing to do. Thinking if he ignored the memories, the flashbacks long enough, they would leave him, his mind, his sanity returning to normal. Knew without a doubt, that this time, it wouldn’t be so easy, that he may not be able to do this alone.
‘I can’t talk about Vietnam,’ said Ed.
‘You don’t have to talk about Vietnam. Not today.’
‘Yes, I’ve had some flashbacks.’
.
.
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Ed sat in front of the van, Ironside behind him, the chief silent, waiting, watching his sergeant. Ed stared out through the windscreen. He was a little shell-shocked, the confrontation with Carrington not as bad as he’d expected. He’d walked out of the doctor’s offices with a business card and the details of his next appointment. He hadn’t spoken about Vietnam, Ralph Decker or the pacifist who had refused to help, his admittance of flashbacks enough for Carrington.
He shifted his gaze, looking at the rear-view mirror. Almost smiled when Ironside looked away, the chief’s scrutiny caught red-handed. Ironside had said nothing when Ed walked out of Carrington’s office ten minutes after he’d walked into it, the chief remaining silent as they rode the elevator to the first floor. They’d been sitting in the van for twenty minutes, Ironside patient as Ed collected his thoughts, processing what had just happened.
Carrington had made sense. Too much sense. It had been a light bulb moment for Ed, a feeling of relief when he admitted to having flashbacks; emotionally and physically, a heavy weight removed from his shoulders. The tension in his muscles, his neck lessening. He felt better. Felt like he could get through this without too much difficulty, but he was struggling with the idea of telling Ironside the truth. He didn’t know how the chief would react. . . no, that wasn’t right, he did know. Ed didn’t know if he could face the chief’s ire right now, still reeling from his admittance to Carrington.
It was better to just get it out of the way.
Just say it.
Tell him the truth.
How hard can it be?
He managed to make one admittance today, why not another.
He’ll send you home.
Say it anyway.
Tell him the truth.
‘I lied to you,’ said Ed, waiting for the familiar eruption of anger.
‘I suspected as much,’ said Ironside, his voice calm.
Surprised by Ironside’s reaction, Ed turned in his seat, twisting his upper body so he could look at Ironside. ‘I expected a bit more anger, chief. What was it you said, transfer me out of your department before I could even think about apologising--’
‘I still might,’ said Ironside. ‘I’m not angry with you, Ed. It’s my fault you lied to me. I pushed you too hard. I should have left things alone. I should have waited until after you’d spoken to the doctor.’
Turning back to face the front, Ed said, ‘I can’t sit at home doing nothing.’
‘I know.’
‘I need to work. . . I . . .’
‘Ed! I know you. I know how you think. I’m not going to send you home. I may send you back to uniform to direct traffic but I’m not going to send you home. You can work in the office.’
Ed grimaced at the thought. Filing, paperwork . . . typing. But he couldn’t complain, it was better than sitting at home doing nothing but remembering the past.
The silence returned, neither man talking. Ed could feel the relief crawling along his spine, caressing the muscles at the back of his neck. Looked down at his hands. They were steady, no longer shaking. He felt calm, the anger gone. He felt good. He felt good because he’d confessed to having flashbacks. It had been that simple but he realised he still wasn’t ready to talk about Ralph Decker but there was something he wanted to tell the chief, his friend.
Stared out through the windscreen as he spoke. ‘After I was released from the military hospital, I walked to the train station. I couldn’t afford to take the bus. I only had enough money for a train ticket home.’
‘You wore your uniform,’ said Ironside.
‘I went to Vietnam thinking we were doing the right thing. I believed what I was told by our government. It wasn’t long before I realised, we were fighting a war we couldn’t win. . . I thought the people back home would be supportive. Not everyone was. People spat at me. They called me a baby killer. I didn’t let them get away with it then and I wasn’t going to let someone like John Malcom get away with it now.’ Looked at Ironside in the rear-view mirror. ‘Do you still want to waste a bottle of bourbon on me?’
Ironside smiled. ‘For you, Ed, I’m even willing to waste a good bottle of bourbon. As long as you pay for it.’
His thoughts began to drift, interrupted when the van’s mobile telephone began to ring. Ironside answered the call, Ed twisting his body to look back and listen to the one-sided conversation.
‘Ironside. . . what? How in the flamin’ hell did he manage to do that. . . No, we’re five minutes away. . . Send officers to Duggie’s Gym, let them know Norman Madison is armed and both brothers are dangerous. We’ll meet you at the hotel.’ Slamming the handset down, Ironside looked at Ed and said, ‘John Malcom made a phone call to Duggie’s gym at four am this morning.’
Frowning with confusion, Ed said, ‘How? He’s got two officers watching him.’
‘Well, we’re not going to find out sitting here, are we, sergeant!’
‘No, sir,’ said Ed as he started the van’s engine, accelerating away from the curb.
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.
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Ed and Ironside arrived at the Beaumont Hotel with time to spare, Carl Reese at least three minutes behind them. They couldn’t wait, Ed’s backup already on site, already with John Malcom. Turning off the engine, Ed got out of the van, taking a moment to search the street for a dark green Polara. The street clear, Ed ran to the entrance of the hotel, bursting through the open doorway, surprising the man behind the front desk in the hotel’s small lobby. Without slowing he ran to the front desk, the man in front of him stepping back.
Ed took out his wallet and identified himself as a police officer. ‘Has anyone checked in this morning. Six-foot, heavyset, brown hair, with or without a moustache?’
The desk clerk, a lit cigarette dangling from his mouth, shook his head. ‘I had one guy, but he didn’t look anything like--’
‘Where are the stairs?’
He pointed to his left. ‘Around the corner with the elevator. Is there something wrong. . .’
Ed didn’t listen to what the man was saying, already moving in the direction of the stairs, running around the corner. They had discussed their strategy on the way to the hotel. Ironside was going to wait in the lobby for Carl, while Ed made his way to the fourth floor. With Dolby and Baker as his backup, Ed would bring John Malcom down to the first floor and the van and take him back to police headquarters.
It was a simple plan, basic but anything and everything could go wrong. Ironside would be on his own until Reese arrived with uniform officers. Ed would be on his own until he reached Dolby and Baker. They had the option of waiting but it had been over six hours since Malcom had called Duggie’s gym. They didn’t have time to wait, the Malcom brothers already proving their intelligence. They had to get Malcom back to police headquarters and they had to do it quickly.
A small area. An elevator to his left, a door leading to the stairs in front of him. Ed ignored the elevator and ran to the door leading to the stairwell. Opened the door. Taking out his service weapon, he took the stairs two at a time, reaching the fourth floor quickly. He stepped out into the hallway.
The chief hadn’t questioned his state of mind, showing trust and support, knowing his sergeant would do his job. Ed had been grateful for both the trust and support, his ability to do his job questioned too many times over the past ten days but right now, in this moment, he was questioning himself, the chief’s nagging feeling something was going to happen to his sergeant nagged at the back of Ed’s mind. He pushed the thoughts out of his mind, the nagging feeling pushing back as he walked along the hallway.
Room 402 was just beyond the elevator, Ed pressing the elevator button as he passed it, calling it to the fourth floor. It wasn’t his intention to take Malcom down to the lobby in the elevator, only wanting to use it as a distraction, to put it to use so someone else couldn’t. His gaze searched the hallway as he moved forward, passing room 401, its door closed. He paused, listening for any indication the room was occupied. Hearing nothing, he moved on, reaching 402. Looked to the right, the left – the hallway still empty – and knocked on the door.
‘Dolby, it’s Ed Brown.’
Dolby opened the door, his face flushed, cheeks red, the sweat clinging to his forehead. Over Dolby’s shoulder he could see Baker, the man wearing an expression full of anger and frustration. Malcom stood beside Baker, the bruising on his neck a dark purple, the fear in his eyes evident. Ed didn’t know if the fear was directed at him or the situation, decided it was both.
‘We’re leaving,’ said Ed as he continued to search the hallway. ‘Now.’
‘About time,’ said Baker as he pushed Malcom out through the door and into the hallway.
Ed took Malcom by the upper arm, his grip tight as he led Malcom down the hallway, past room 401 and toward the stairwell.
‘Where are you taking me?’ said Malcom as he tried to pull his arm from Ed’s grip.
Ed ignored him.
‘You can’t do this to me!’
Heard the ding of the elevator as it arrived, the doors opening. A moment of silence before everything went to hell. Gunshots behind him, Ed began to turn, raising his gun as he moved. Pain punctured his left side. He stumbled, his left leg buckling beneath the pain. Felt his body falling to the left, surprised when Malcom grabbed his arm and pulled him into an empty elevator. Cursed his luck as fell forward, his gun caught beneath his body when he hit the floor of the elevator.
He could hear Malcom’s panicked breaths as the young man began pressing the elevator buttons, an attempt to escape. The doors began to close. Ed shifted his body, pushing upward and turning toward the closing doors. Norman Madison and a man he didn’t recognise forced their way into the elevator, their hands slapping against the doors, forcing them back open, the doors closing behind them.
Ed didn’t have enough time to raise his service weapon. Madison moved quickly, kicking Ed in the side, forcing him back to the floor. Ed tried to get up a second time. Madison swung his arm toward Ed, the butt of a gun directed at the side of Ed’s skull. Madison didn’t miss, hitting Ed across the left side of his head, skin splitting, an open wound, already bleeding. Pain exploded through his skull. Fought through the nausea and vertigo, the sensations strong, vindictive in their efforts to take him down, to take him out of the fight.
Hands gripped the lapels of his jacket, felt the elevator shift as it began its decent to the first floor. Ed didn’t think he was going to make it that far, dead before they reached the first floor. . . a bullet to the head. His upper body lifted, shoved into a corner of the elevator as he closed his eyes, his mind calm, his expectations of death soaring. His gun pulled from his loose fingers, Ed thought they were going to shoot him with his own weapon.
‘Jack, don’t let him do anything stupid.’
Ed opened his eyes and looked up at Jack. The man stood over him, a threatening pose, an automatic pistol in his right hand. Ed decided to test the boundaries, ignoring the threat as he began to move, a clumsy attempt to stand up. A boot slammed into his chest, breaking his balance, and stealing the air from his lungs. He fell back, body hunched, arms curling around his chest.
‘Stay down.’
He stayed down. He didn’t have a choice. Ed felt dizzy, two blows to the head within a twenty-four-hour period taking its toll. A slow breath. His side burned. Could feel the warm blood on his scalp, feel it crawl down his neck. Could feel his blood-soaked shirt sticking to his skin. Felt the elevator jerk to a stop. Grimaced when the pain shifted, increasing before settling. He looked to the right. . . Norman Madison had pressed the emergency stop button and Ed now knew, without a doubt, Madison was going to kill John Malcom.
Ed couldn’t let that happen. It was his job, his duty to protect Malcom, it didn’t matter that he didn’t like the man. He wasn’t thinking of his own life. It didn’t occur to him that once Malcom was dead, so was Ed Brown, his thoughts tunnelled down to one thing; protect John Malcom with everything he had. Turned his gaze to look at Jack. The man distracted, too busy watching Madison. Ed glanced toward Madison.
Norman Madison stood over Malcom. John Malcom was on the floor, knees against his chest, arms wrapped around his knees, his gaze flicking between Madison and Ed, his eyes pleading, silently asking for help.
Ed didn’t use his military training in his job as a police officer. No need to use his training against a suspect. When confronted, most suspects ran from him. Armed suspects shot at him. Once caught, they would become meek, allowing him to handcuff them and lead them to the nearest police vehicle, usually his own.
Now, in this situation, he had no choice, no longer in possession of his service weapon, his military training the only thing he had left. It was kill or be killed. He would wait for an opening, strike at the right time. He stared back at Malcom, shifting his gaze when Madison spoke.
‘We had a deal, John,’ said Madison. ‘You double crossed me. You went to the police.’
Ed frowned. Brain slow to catch up, it took him a moment to understand what Madison had said.
‘You killed that man,’ said Malcom, showing a hint of defiance. ‘You said you were just going to teach him a lesson. You killed--’
With an open palm, Madison slapped Malcom, the sound sharp, Malcom crying out in pain.
‘I paid you good money to watch that building. That’s all you had to do.’
‘You killed him.’
‘You went to the police. It didn’t take them long to work it out,’ said Madison. ‘Warner was going to pay us ten thousand and you ruined everything by talking to the police.’
Ed wanted to ask questions. He wanted to know why Charlie Madison killed Elizabeth Warner, but he didn’t want to draw attention to himself. Jack had turned away, his back to Ed. The man was either an idiot or over-confident, making a mistake, thinking Ed was no longer a threat.
Madison aimed Ed’s service weapon at Malcom’s head, his finger on the trigger. ‘I don’t like it when people double-cross me, John.’
Reaching into his pants pocket with his right hand, Ed’s fingers wrapped around the pen knife he always carried with him. With Jack’s back still turned, Ed took the knife from his pocket. Opened it with fingers thick with pain and slick with blood.
‘Please don’t,’ said Malcom. ‘Please.’
Ed struck his first blow, slamming his foot against the back of Jack’s knee. The leg crumbled, Jack grunting in surprise as he fell onto one knee. Ed knew he had to kill; no other choice given to him. He had to kill to save John Malcom’s life. Adrenaline helped him to change his position, moving forward, the pain pulsing through his side, his head. Aim true, quick, and violent, Ed stabbed Jack in the neck, pushing the knife forward, cutting through the carotid artery. A spurt of warm blood across his hand.
Jack dropped his gun and slapped his hands against the wound in his neck, a desperate attempt to stop the bleeding, his efforts useless, the wound too severe, fatal. Jack fell forward, hitting the floor as he continued to struggle, the sound attracting Madison’s attention, the man turning toward Ed, his gun moving with him.
Despite his injuries, Ed was quicker, more experienced . . . more determined. He dropped the pen knife and picked up the automatic pistol, aiming it toward Madison. Pulled the trigger. The bullet tore through the side of Madison’s head, blood and brain matter painting the elevator wall. Madison’s body collapsed, falling to the floor. Ed looked at Jack, searching for any threats. There were none, the man still, his eyes open, blood no longer pumping out of the wound on his neck.
It was over, Malcom still alive, the threat to his life was dead. Adrenaline gone, Ed collapsed back against the wall, his hand and the gun falling to his side. He watched as Malcom reached for gun Madison still held, pulling it from the man’s dead fingers. Watched with a feeling of surprise when Malcom aimed the gun at him.
‘I just saved your life,’ said Ed.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Malcom.
‘John, this isn’t your fault.’
‘He said he was going to teach him a lesson.’
‘And you believed him. John, no one is going to blame you for what happened to Henry Warner.’
‘Why did you do it?’
Ed felt confused, light-headed. He wasn’t sure what Malcom was asking him.
‘I called you a baby killer. . .’
‘What you think about me. . . what I think about you didn’t stop me from doing my job. They were going to kill you, John. I did what I had to do to protect you.’
‘This is my fault,’ said Malcom.
‘You called Norman Madison at Duggie’s gym.’
‘I thought they would help me. I didn’t think they would. . . I’m sorry.’
‘I don’t blame you, John.’
Malcom dropped the gun and pressed the emergency stop button, the elevator jerking, a sudden shift of position, before continuing its decent. Ed looked down. Blood soaked his white shirt. Too much blood. He pressed his hands against the wound. Gritted his teeth and clenched his jaw when the expected pain tore through his side.
The elevator came to a stop, the doors opening. Malcom pressed the emergency stop button a second time, keeping the elevator on the first floor. Malcom stepped over the bodies of Norman Madison and Jack last-name-unknown and ran out of the elevator.
Ed didn’t have the energy to try and stop him. Didn’t think he would be able to stand up on his own. He could see the chief, a look of surprise on Ironside’s face when Malcom ran past him. Locked eyes with his friend, gaze steady as he tried to hold on, Ironside an anchor, an effort to keep his mind afloat. It wasn’t working. Heard the chief’s voice when he shouted for someone to call an ambulance. Closed his eyes, the lids too heavy. He felt hands touching him, pulling at his clothes, looking for injuries. He could hear Carl Reese, his voiced raised as he told Ed to hang on, as he told Ed he was going to be okay.
Ed wanted to believe him.
Felt his mind drifting. . .
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