Ironside - 'The Draft Dodger' - 7/8
Jun. 10th, 2022 02:04 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: 6,462
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 Seven
Ed didn’t mind the heat, the cloudless sky, who wouldn’t enjoy the sun on their face; it was the humidity he didn’t like. A heavy, thick blanket of heat, it wore him down. It made him feel tired, felt as though his throat and lungs burned with each breath. And with the heat, came the mosquitos, the buzzing sound they made a constant noise as they hovered, waiting for an opportunity to strike, to bleed their victim. They irritated him, wore his patience thin, tired of swatting them away, no repellent left, he’d used the last of it only an hour earlier.
He lifted his gaze, eyes drawn away from the ground to watch the men in front of him. Sergeant Decker was on point, the unit following his lead as he led them through a clearing. Turned his head to look at the men behind him. Lieutenant Parsons lingered on the edge of the group, his head down, eyes searching for traps as he moved forward. Ed didn’t like every man in his unit, he didn’t have to, he only had to trust them, and he did. Trusted them to watch his back, to protect him, to save his life if they could. He would do the same for them but there was one man he didn’t trust. Ed searched for him, finding him close to the trees, his gun slung across his back, his hands empty. Ed knew, if the shit hit the fan, the pacifist would run into the trees and hide, not willing to fight, not willing to protect other members in the unit. He had learned to hate pacifists; too many of them in Vietnam, they couldn’t be trusted. Gritted his teeth and pushed the anger down, left it crawling in the pit of his stomach.
Turned back to face the front. Gaze downward, careful with each step he took, Ed searched for traps, too easy to miss if you weren’t paying attention. The jungle was dense, so much foliage, so many places to set a landmine or a trip wire. The summer monsoon over weeks ago, the ground was dry, the clearing littered with dead branches, the wood breaking beneath their feet as they walked, too much noise made, the sounds sharp, carrying in the still air toward any enemy close enough to hear it. He didn’t know why Decker chose to lead them through the clearing rather than go around, something Ed would question for years to come. Too many times to count, he would berate himself for not voicing his doubts to Decker.
Ed had seen the results of a land mine explosion too many times in his first tour of Vietnam; a sickening sight, horrific injuries, limbs ripped apart, men screaming in pain and fear. He didn’t want that. If he died in Vietnam, he preferred a quick death, a bullet to the head, the heart, something that would take him quickly and quietly. Ed wasn’t sure he wanted to live a life without his legs or an arm. Couldn’t imagine not being able to walk. Didn’t want to.
Felt the sting of a mosquito bite on the side of his neck, swatted it away with his left hand. Took a deep breath, the air burning his lungs, at least it felt like it. Could feel the sweat on his skin, taste the salt when he licked his dry lips. Heard a branch snap beneath his feet. Heard someone behind him swear. Flicked his gaze upward. Saw the explosion in front of him when Ralph Decker stood on what Ed presumed was a landmine.
A second explosion behind him. Pain tore through his back, collapsing his knees and sending his body to the ground, his gun caught beneath him. Face in the dirt, Ed tried to move. The pain bore down on him, keeping him in place. Something burned inside his body, not a flesh wound, something more serious, something life threatening. . . a slow death, something Ed didn’t want.
He lifted his head. Watched as Decker searched for a missing limb and then the man started screaming, the pain obvious on his face. Watched as Decker’s head snapped to the left, the side of his head exploding outward. Ed hadn’t heard a gunshot, Decker shot by a sniper.
Ed searched the immediate area, members of the unit spread out on the ground in front of him. Tried to look behind, lifting his shoulders, turning his upper body. Almost cried out, the pain so bad, something ripping his insides. Dropped his head to the ground, forehead thudding against the hard dirt. Short, quick breaths as the pain eased.
Despite the pain, he couldn’t stay where he was, he had to do something. It wasn’t in his nature to be passive. Made an attempt to crawl along the ground, moving his right leg. The pain sudden and bright, it spread across his lower back, turning his stomach. He felt as though he were going to be sick. Sweat pooled on his forehead, dripping down to the ground. Tried again, this time the pain too much, the pain excruciating. Realised with a sudden feeling of dread. . . he couldn’t move, not without pain, not without causing further injury.
He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, his breath becoming quick, shallow. Pressed a hand against his forehead, his skin slick with sweat. . . cold. He was going into shock. Knew, with a sinking heart, there was nothing he could do to help the other members of his unit, taken out of the fight, his injury debilitating. . . there was nothing he could do.
Ed trusted the rest of the unit to do what he couldn’t. Benson, their radio man, would get a message out to command, demanding an evac but that could take more time than the unit had. He didn’t know how many were left. . . Decker the only casualty of the explosion in front of him. He didn’t know how many deaths or injuries were behind him. Ed didn’t know what state they were in. They could all be dead, he didn’t know. He did know the pacifist was still alive, hiding amongst the trees, taking shelter at the sound of the first explosion.
It felt like it took too much time before the remaining men in the unit reacted, before they began to communicate with each other.
‘Where is he?’
Ed felt the relief, his shoulders relaxing, when he recognised the voice of Lieutenant Parsons. He liked Parsons. They had a shared interest in fishing.
‘Behind us. Due south.’
Collins. Trustworthy and dependable. The unit’s comedian, always ready with a joke, always able to make Ed laugh. Both men, and others, will die today, Ed just didn’t know it, not yet.
‘Benson?’ said Parsons.
‘Working on it, LT,’ said Benson, his deep voice filled with fear. ‘Radio took a piece of shrapnel, but I can fix it.’
‘How long.’
‘Five minutes,’ said Benson.
‘Make it quicker.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Ed turned his head, the right side of his face against the ground, debris scratching his skin, his gaze searching for other members of the unit. He’d located Parsons, Collins, and Benson by the sound of their voice; Parsons, and Collins behind and to his left, Benson behind him and to the right. He could see Parsons in his peripheral, the sight of the man lifting Ed’s confidence.
He saw movement in the trees behind Parsons, about to call out a warning when he recognised the pacifist. The man was curled up against a large tree, its stump thick, wide enough to hide the man from the sniper. Hands against his ears, knees against his chest, his gun on the ground beside him. Ed felt the anger curl in his stomach. Hidden from the sniper, the man was able to do something, to move toward the enemy, locate the position of the sniper. To take a kill shot and end this. The pacifist did nothing.
Staying calm, Ed called out to Parsons, raising his voice only loud enough for Parsons to hear. No fear in his tone, no warning to give, Ed said, ‘LT, to your left.’
Possible, the LT would be able to get the pacifist moving, to make the man do something, anything to help them. Ed wasn’t optimistic, but right now, what other choice did they have.
Parsons turned to look, raising his head to see over a fallen branch. Ed saw the LT’s head snap to the right, the sound of a gunshot echoing in the silence. For a moment, Ed lost the ability to breath, his breath caught in his lungs, his chest tight with guilt. His fault. If he hadn’t spoken. . . realised the shot had come from a different direction. There was more than one sniper.
‘Fuck!’ It was Collins, his voice too loud, attracting the attention of one of the snipers.
Ed strained to see something he didn’t want to see. Collins shuffled forward, his stomach against the ground, his movements quick and precise, now close enough for Ed to look the man in the eye. He saw fear and anticipation. There was a sudden explosion of dirt next to Collins’s head, Collins swearing a second time, the profanity cut short when a bullet through the back pinned him to the ground, Collins no longer moving, his empty gaze staring back at Ed.
Three men dead. Already too many. Ed lifted his gaze, too much effort needed to look away from Collins, found the pacifist, the man staring back. Ed didn’t want to speak, a raised voice needed for the man to hear him, instead, Ed nodded toward the area behind him, an indication for the man to look for the sniper. Ed wasn’t sure the pacifist understood, the man taking too long to respond. Ed repeated the motion, nodding a second time. The man shook his head. He knew what Ed wanted, knew what Ed and the other men in the unit needed him to do but the pacifist refused, keeping his position, hiding from the snipers, refusing to help.
Ed wanted to turn his head, to look for Benson, the only man who could actually do something, but he now knew any movement would draw the attention of the snipers. The frustration and anger growing, Ed hissed, ‘Benson!’
‘Almost.’ A whispered response.
He knew Benson was taking a big risk, the man revealing his position to the enemy when he made the call, but it had to be done, Ed knew that and more importantly, Benson knew it. Ed closed his eyes and hoped for the best, hoped Benson would survive to receive the medal he deserved. Held his breath when Benson began to speak, relaying their situation and position to command. Seconds that felt like minutes passed as Ed listened to the one-sided conversation, hopeful when Benson signed off, now only a matter of waiting and surviving long enough for help to arrive. . . a gunshot, the sound loud, expected.
‘Benson?’
There was no response.
‘Benson?’
Another gunshot, Ed flinching with expectation. One of the men in front of Ed grunted, the bullet not meant for Ed. He felt a moment of regret. If the bullet had struck him. . . it would over, his death far quicker than bleeding out, his shirt and trousers soaked with blood. He could feel it. He could smell it.
Time passed, the heat and humidity bearing down on him. He felt dizzy, sick, and weak. He didn’t know how much time he had left, the blood loss and shock slowly taking his life. Ed didn’t know how long it would take for help to arrive, but he did know he was going to die today. Spent the time he thought he had left staring at the pacifist who refused to help save the lives of the men in the unit.
.
.
.
On the eighth floor of the San Francisco General hospital, Ironside sat with his back to the waiting room, ignoring his friends, his colleagues as he stared out the window overlooking Potrero Del Sol Park; his thoughts, and emotions focused on Ed Brown. His chest ached with fear and uncertainty. What was taking so damn long?
He had thought Ed was dead, thought he’d lost another good friend, too many lost. He couldn’t get the image out of his head, the sight of his sergeant slumped in the corner of the elevator, bloody and broken, his eyes open, staring. . . Ironside had thought his friend was dead. Couldn’t rid himself of the emotion or the fear.
His mind kept returning to the Beaumont Hotel, replaying everything over and over, trying to understand what he had done wrong, to work out what he should have done right. The plan had been simple, Ed to use Dolby and Baker as backup, Carl Reese and other officers arriving within minutes, but something had gone wrong.
Ironside took full responsibility for what had happened. . . for what had happened to Ed, to Dolby and Baker. Two good men dead, both officers shot in the back, dying where they lay, their families now grieving. A moment of anger, a thought of revenge, both emotions forgotten when he remembered the sight of Ed in that elevator and the fear for his sergeant returned.
But Ed wasn’t the only person in the elevator. Norman Madison was dead, shot in the head at close range. Three guns were found at the scene, Fran and Ed’s service weapons and an automatic pistol. Only two had been recently fired. Ironside couldn’t imagine the grief and guilt Fran would feel if the ballistics department determined her service weapon had killed Dolby or Baker. He would receive the results first, breaking the news gently and reminding Fran she hadn’t been at fault; Madison could easily have taken Ed’s weapon when they were in Mrs. Warner’s apartment.
A wallet found in the coat pocked of the second deceased identified Madison’s accomplice. Jack Higgins. His throat had been cut, a knife slicing through the artery. Ed’s pocketknife had been found lying in a large pool of congealing blood next to Higgins.
Ed had fought hard, a use of extreme violence to protect John Malcom, to save his own life. In such a small, confined space, there was nothing else Ed could have done. He couldn’t run, couldn’t hide. No time to call and wait for more backup. Ed could only do one thing, he’d fallen back on his military training, doing the only thing he could to save lives. Ironside wouldn’t and couldn’t blame Ed, but he didn’t know what others would think of Ed’s violence.
Something had gone wrong and Ironside didn’t know what had happened, or how Madison and Higgins were able to get into the elevator with Ed and Malcom. He couldn’t decipher the events, unable to draw a conclusion. He could only wait, Ed and John Malcom the only men who could explain what had happened. John Malcom was on the run, an APB painted on his back and Ed. . . Ed was still in surgery.
Feeling the anger explode, Ironside slammed a closed fist against the arm of his wheelchair, the pain stabbing through his hand. He ignored the pain. Ignored everything except the anger he felt at the situation. The fear he felt at the thought of losing another friend. The emotion he felt at the loss of two good men. The guilt he felt as he took responsibility for what had happened. No one else to blame. He should have waited for Carl. He shouldn’t have sent Ed in alone. Hindsight. It would feed his guilt, his dreams. Too many things he should have done differently.
‘Bob?’
Shifting his gaze, Ironside saw the reflection of Dennis Randall in the window, the man wearing an expression of concern.
‘How is he?’
Ironside turned his chair to face his friend. ‘Dennis, I expected you to be here sooner.’
Randall stepped forward, closer to Ironside and said, ‘The dead come first, Bob. I stopped to give my condolences to Ted Baker and John Dolby’s families before I came here.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Ironside, turning away, facing the window. ‘I shouldn’t have presumed. As soon as I know Ed’s condition, I’ll pay my respects.’
‘I explained the situation,’ said Randall, moving up beside his friend, staring at the same scene below them. ‘They’re not expecting you today. Tomorrow morning will be fine.’
Ironside nodded. It was one of the hardest parts of the job, talking to relatives of the dead, even more so, when the dead were police officers. Silence pulled at both men, pulling them closer. Ironside could feel the support, the empathy coming from his friend. Felt the hand gripping his shoulder, the silence broken too soon when Randall spoke.
‘This isn’t your fault, Bob.’
‘Of course, it’s my fault,’ said Ironside, his tone angry as he turned his head to look up at Randall. ‘I sent him in there. . . alone and without backup.’
‘Ed wasn’t alone, and he had backup. He did his job. He protected John Malcom and I will make sure he receives a commendation for what he did today.’
‘I thought he was dead,’ said Ironside, looking away, hiding his guilt.
‘He isn’t,’ said Randall. ‘And knowing Ed, he’ll pull through.’
‘You didn’t see him, Dennis.’
‘I saw what he did.’
‘Ed did what he had to do to protect John Malcom,’ said Ironside, his tone giving Randall a warning.
‘I believe, I’ve already stated that fact,’ said Randall. ‘No one is blaming Ed or you. This isn’t your fault. Put your blame where it belongs. On Norman Madison.’
‘How? The man’s dead.’
‘Yes, he is. He took the lives of two good police officers and paid for it with his own life.’
Ironside waved the comment away with a flick of his wrist. ‘Not everyone will see that as justice.’
‘The people who matter will,’ said Randall, before changing the subject. ‘I understand John Malcom ran from the scene.’
‘You spoke to Carl?’ said Ironside.
‘I did. He’s still at the hotel. It’ll be a couple of more hours at least until he can get here.’
Ironside grimaced. ‘I can’t understand it, Dennis. Why would he run?’
‘Mr. Ironside?’
Ironside turned his chair, Randall moving with him. A man wearing a white coat with a name tag that read “Doctor Mathis”, a stethoscope around his neck and a moustache that most men would envy, stood before them. Ironside’s team and the officers waiting on news about Ed’s condition gathered into a tight group behind the doctor, impatience written across their features. No one was more impatient than Ironside.
‘How is he?’ said Ironside.
‘Mr. Brown is going to be fine. The amount of blood,’ the doctor shrugged his shoulders, ‘gave the impression he was worse than he looked.’
Ironside felt his own shoulders stiffen. ‘The amount of blood covering my sergeant gave me the impression he was dead.’
The doctor didn’t look apologetic, but he did apologise. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Apology accepted,’ said Ironside. ‘What is the condition of my sergeant?’
‘Mr. Brown has an open head injury to the left side of the head, resulting in four stitches. He’s lucky he doesn’t have a concussion. He also has a through and through bullet wound to the left upper quadrant of the abdomen which required surgery to repair and clean the injury and bruising to the sternum. He lost a decent amount of blood, but he’ll be fine. ‘
The doctor had listed Ed’s injuries the same way he would have read out a medical textbook. Ironside didn’t like that. He didn’t like Doctor Mathis.
‘We’ll keep him in overnight just to be safe and release him in the morning with a prescription for antibiotics and painkillers.’
‘He’s not dead then,’ said Ironside, the words meant to cover the emotional relief he felt, his voice cracking, ruining any attempt to hide his emotions as he looked at his friends and colleagues. Their smiles and expressions of relief were contagious, Ironside feeling his own smile grow.
Ed Brown had survived his third encounter with Norman Madison, Ironside could only hope there won’t be another one; Ed had been through enough these past few days.
Doctor Mathis spoke as though he hadn’t heard Ironside, interrupting Ironside’s thoughts. ‘Mr. Brown has been moved to a room if you would like to see him?’
‘Please,’ said Ironside, feeling Randall squeeze his shoulder.
The doctor turned away. Baulking at the group of people in front of him, he said, ‘One visitor at a time. Mr. Brown needs to rest,’ before stepping around them and walking down the hospital corridor.
‘I’ll see you in the morning, Bob.’
‘Thank you, Dennis.’
‘Just make sure he’s okay.’
Ironside followed Mathis, stopping next to Mark and Fran to give instructions. ‘Mark, go to Ed’s apartment. Pack a bag for him. He’ll be staying with us until Charlie Madison is caught. Fran, go back to the office. I want to be kept up to date on the search for Madison and Malcom.’
‘I’d like to see Ed before I leave,’ said Fran as she frowned down at Ironside.
‘I don’t think Ed is ready for company,’ said Ironside, patting her on the forearm. ‘He has a lot to deal with. You can see him when I bring him back to the office in the morning.’
‘I’ll come back and pick you up,’ said Mark.
‘Come back in the morning. I’ll be staying.’
‘Give him our love,’ said Fran.
‘I’m not going to embarrass him.’
Fran smiled. ‘I’ll tell him in the morning.’
‘I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.’
‘Later,’ said Mark as he led Fran away.
Ironside nodded and turned toward the corridor where Mathis was waiting. He nodded to the two uniformed officers standing to the side, expecting them to follow him. Ed needed the protection, his injuries making him vulnerable, the two officers there to guard Ed’s hospital room.
Charlie Madison was still out there, and his brother’s death would send him on a path of revenge. It was inevitable the press would find out the name of the police officer who had killed two men to defend the life of another. Someone in the department would leak Ed’s name, and there was nothing Ironside could do about that, but he could and would protect his colleague, his friend.
Once there, Ironside had no intention of leaving Ed’s side, not until he no longer had a choice or a reason. He would stay with his sergeant until Ed was released and back in Ironside’s home and office. He would keep Ed close. . . until Ed was no longer in danger.
It didn’t take long to reach Ed’s hospital room, the room on the same floor as the waiting room. He waited while Doctor Mathis opened the door, following him further into the room. The doctor stepped aside, revealing his sergeant. Ironside had expected a heart monitor and too many tubes; Ed looked as though he were sleeping, only one tube snaking its way down to the back of his sergeant’s right hand.
‘He should be awake soon,’ said Mathis. ‘He’ll be groggy because of the anaesthetic and no doubt confused but give him some time. Be patient.’
‘I’m always patient when it comes to my sergeant,’ said Ironside.
‘Press the nurse’s buzzer if he needs anything,’ said Mathis, turning away and opening the door. He hesitated at the sight of the two police officers standing in the hallway. He turned back to look at Ironside.
‘Sergeant Brown’s life is at risk. There will be two police officers guarding this room until sergeant Brown is released.’
‘Of course,’ said Doctor Mathis, nodding as he left the room, the door closing behind him.
Left alone with his sergeant, Ironside wheeled his chair closer to the right side of the bed, his back to the wall, the door within sight and settled in to wait, his only company his feelings of guilt. He watched Ed’s face, his sergeant’s features relaxed, immobile, his face pale, his cheeks flushed. Ironside knew he was staring, not something he usually did, normally looking elsewhere when he was thinking but this was different. He wasn’t solving a case, the case already solved, only a matter of finding Charlie Madison and John Malcom.
Fifteen minutes had passed when his sergeant’s features began to shift, a grimace appearing as Ed turned his head away from Ironside, pressing the side of his face deeper into the pillow, a whimper of distress escaping as his legs moved beneath the hospital bed sheets.
He had thought his sergeant was waking but he was wrong. Ed was dreaming, the violent events in the Beaumont hotel’s elevator adding more content to his sergeant’s nightmares.
Ironside wanted to wake his friend, but he wasn’t sure how Ed would react. If woken while he was having a nightmare, his sergeant may react violently, defending himself against a perceived threat. Ironside decided the best course of action was to wait, allow Ed to wake naturally.
Not a long wait before Ed snapped awake. His body flinching, jerking away from his nightmare. He lifted his head, but it was obvious his sergeant didn’t have the strength to remain in that position, his head falling back onto the pillow.
‘Ed,’ said Ironside as he moved his chair closer, reaching out with his left hand to grip his sergeant’s wrist.
Ed turned his head, blinking, his gaze stumbling for a few seconds before settling on Ironside. His gaze didn’t stay long, moving away as his sergeant searched his surroundings. Ed looked back at him and said, ‘Hospital?’
‘Very observant, sergeant,’ said Ironside.
His sergeant frowned, obviously confused. ‘Did I take too many of Mrs. Miller’s sleeping tablets?’
Ironside struggled to keep the surprise and anger from his features. ‘You’ve been taking someone else’s sleeping tablets?’
Ed shook his head and raised his right hand, showing four fingers.
‘You took four sleeping pills?
Ed closed his eyes and said, ‘No . . . she gave me four. Her nephew took them.’ His frown returned, his forehead creasing. ‘That’s wrong . . .’
Ironside could feel his own confusion growing. He wanted to ask more questions, but he could see Ed was fading, awake for a short period of time, easing Ironside’s concerns about his sergeant’s health. Ed was going to be fine.
But Ironside was left with even more questions, but they would all have to wait for Ed Brown. Ironside didn’t mind, as he’d told Doctor Mathis earlier, he was a patient man.
.
.
.
Two hours later and Ironside’s patience was running out, not because his sergeant was still sleeping. . . Carl Reece was pacing back and forth in front of Ed’s hospital bed, the man’s footsteps loud, irritating, causing Ironside’s anger to grow. He didn’t want to snap, not toward a man who had spent the last five hours dealing with death, instead, he watched him, hoping Carl would get the message. He didn’t, other things on his mind.
Carl had selected Dolby and Baker to protect John Malcom at the Beaumont hotel, the man no doubt carrying his own weight of guilt; there was plenty of it to go around, everyone blaming themselves, not each other. Dennis Randall was right; they should be blaming Norman Madison, but Ironside knew it would be a long time before he shifted the blame to where it belonged.
The sound of limbs scraping against stiff bed sheets drew Ironside’s attention back to his sergeant. Moved his chair closer to the bed, waiting with more patience than he felt he had. When his sergeant finally opened his eyes, his confusion immediate, Ironside said, ‘Ed, you’re in the San Francisco General hospital and you’re going to be fine. Nothing serious according to your doctor and you will be released tomorrow morning into my care.’
Ed stared back at him, before glancing toward Reese and then back to Ironside. His sergeant frowned, Ironside seeing that expression too often since they’d taken the Warner case.
‘What happened?’ said Ed.
‘You don’t remember?’
‘Things are a little confusing right now.’
Reese moved to the left side of the bed and said, ‘You had another run-in with Norman Madison.’
‘Who won this time?’ said Ed, turning his head to look at Reese.
‘You did,’ said Reese, pointing at Ed.
‘But I should see the other guy . . .’
‘The other guy is dead. So is the man who was with him. You killed them both. You shot Norman Madison in the head and cut open another man’s throat.’
Ironside snapped. ‘Carl, that’s enough!’
‘He needs to know,’ said Reese.
‘Sergeant Brown already knows. He’s confused, give him a few minutes.’
‘I don’t need a few minutes,’ said Ed, refusing to look away from Reese. ‘Baker and Dolby?’
‘They both died at the scene.’
Ed closed his eyes. Swore.
‘Ed,’ said Reese, a different tone used. ‘What happened . . . it isn’t your fault. You did what you had to do. I would have done the same.’
‘You carry a pen knife?’ said Ironside.
‘I do now,’ said Reese, smiling at Ironside. He looked back at Ed. ‘Feel up to giving me a verbal statement.’
His sergeant silent, still, Ironside became concerned, worrying the last straw had broken the camel’s back. ‘Ed?’
‘Not while I’m flat on my back,’ said Ed as he opened his eyes. ‘And I need some water.’
Five minutes later, the bed repositioned, Ed was sitting up, his right hand resting against his gunshot wound. His sergeant’s brown eyes dark with pain, his thirst sated, Ed was ready to talk.
.
.
.
It took too long for Ed to give his statement, his mind constantly drifting, thinking about Baker and Dolby, both men dead. They hadn’t had a chance, shot in the back by two men intent on killing the only witness to their original crime: the murder of Henry Warner. Ed realised with a moment of clarity. . . John Malcom had saved his life. If the young man hadn’t pulled Ed into that elevator, he would have been gunned down, killed where he lay. Dead like Dolby and Baker. But Malcom had given Ed an opportunity, a chance to fight back, to defend his life, to protect John Malcom
A pacifist had saved his life.
It stuck in Ed’s mind.
It could be that Malcom had done it to save his own life, taking an armed detective with him as he tried to run from the men who wanted to kill him. Ed wasn’t sure which option he preferred. He didn’t know where John Malcom was, but Ed knew he would be scared. . . hiding from the police and Charlie Madison.
Pulled from his thoughts, a nurse walked into the room, interrupting his statement. They waited while she performed her duties, Ed returning her smile, his reaction forced. Told her no when asked if he needed anything. She left, warning him she’d be back with his pain medication within the hour.
He was in pain. He didn’t deny it, but he didn’t care, the pain proof of life. His mind returned to Baker and Dolby. Thought of their families, their children. Felt a moment of satisfaction. . . he had killed the men responsible for deaths of two good police officers. There would be no trial. No chance of being released on a technicality. No early release for good behaviour. Norman Madison and Jack Higgins were dead. Ed felt no regret over their deaths, no guilt but he did regret the deaths of Dolby and Baker. Felt the guilt scratching at the back of his mind.
‘Ed?’ said Reese, now sitting on the edge of the bed.
Ed blinked, refocusing on the man next to him. ‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t be sorry, Ed,’ said Ironside. ‘You’re not at fault. Take your time and continue when you’re ready.’
Ignoring the chief, Reese said, ‘Madison said “We had a deal, John”.’
‘John Malcom was working for Norman Madison.’
‘In what capacity?’
‘Madison paid him to watch Warner’s apartment building.’ Ed frowned as a memory returned. He looked at Ironside. ‘You can see the alley where Malcom was sleeping from Norman Madison’s apartment.’
Ironside nodded. ‘Madison must have seen Malcom sleeping there. Why stay up all night watching an apartment building when you can pay someone to do it for you.’
‘Madison thinks Malcom betrayed him because he went to the police.’
‘Why did he come to us if he was a part of it from the beginning?’ said Reese, frowning as he looked from Ed to Ironside.
‘He didn’t know they were going to kill Warner. Told him they were going to teach him a lesson.’
‘Whether he had knowledge or not,’ said Ironside, ‘John Malcom is now guilty of accessory to murder after the fact.’
‘Come on, chief,’ said Reese. ‘He didn’t know they killed Warner until a few days ago. He approached us voluntarily to give a witness statement.’
‘Only after he received a guarantee he wouldn’t be sent to Vietnam,’ said Ironside, his voice raised, his frustration showing when he shook his head. ‘That aside, he knew the identity of the men who killed Henry Warner and he still didn’t tell us their names. An unspoken truth that resulted in the death of five people, including Madison and Jack Higgins and my sergeant could have died. Malcom should have told us the truth, instead he used the situation to benefit himself.’
‘You’re right,’ said Reese. ‘I’ll add an arrest warrant to the APB when I leave.’
‘Do it now.’
‘Chief--’
‘Now, Carl,’ said Ironside, his tone full of anger. ‘I want John Malcom in police custody by the end of the day.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Reese nodded at Ed. ‘We’ll do a written statement tomorrow.’
‘I haven’t finished my verbal statement.’
‘It can wait,’ said Ironside. ‘You look tired. You need to rest. Isn’t that right, Carl.’
‘Whatever you say, chief.’ Reese stood up, turned away from Ed and Ironside and left the room, taking his guilt with him.
‘You were a little hard on him,’ said Ed, his gaze watching the door as it slowly closed. ‘It’s not Carl’s fault John Malcom lied.’
‘I know that and so does Carl,’ said Ironside. ‘But Carl was doing some of his own pushing and you look like you needed a break.’
‘I’m okay, considering what’s happened.’
‘Ed, you did a good job today. You protected John Malcom. You did what you had to do and no one, especially me, will find fault with your actions.’
‘I didn’t save Baker or Dolby.’
‘You couldn’t have saved them, Ed, no more than they could have saved themselves.’
‘Doesn’t stop me from feeling guilty,’ said Ed.
‘We all feel guilty for our own reasons. I blame myself for sending you in alone,’ said Ironside, holding up his hand when Ed opened his mouth to argue. ‘Carl blames himself because he chose Dolby and Baker to stay with Malcom and you blame yourself because you survived, and they didn’t. We all know we’re being irrational but that won’t stop us from feeling guilty. Only time can do that.’
He didn’t have the energy to argue. Closed his eyes.
‘Why don’t we change the subject?’ said Ironside.
About to answer, Ed opened his eyes and looked at Ironside. The chief was wearing that look, the one that told Ed he was in trouble. Only minutes ago, Ironside had told Ed he’d done a good job. . . shook his head, his confusion evident. ‘Why do I feel like you’re leading up to something?’
‘You’ve been taking Mrs. Miller’s sleeping tablets.’
Ed hesitated, but only for a moment. ‘Now that you mention it, I am feeling tired--’
‘Why in the hell do you think it’s okay to take someone else’s medication?’
‘Her nephew has nightmares.’ It was all Ed could think of to say, as if that statement alone would explain everything. It did.
‘Her nephew was in Vietnam.’
‘She was upset, and I was too tired . . . I said some things I shouldn’t have.’
‘Mrs. Miller gave you her tablets to help you sleep.’
‘She only gave me four,’ said Ed.
‘How many have you taken?’
‘Two.’
‘And the other two?’
‘They’re in my shaving kit back at the office.’
‘You took one last night . . . while you were in my home?’
‘Yes.’
‘That explains why you didn’t wake up when you were having a nightmare at two o’clock in the morning.’
‘You were watching me?’ said Ed, one of his concerns realised. The chief knew he was having nightmares.
‘You woke me up, sergeant . . . you’ve been keeping too many secrets. Why didn’t you talk to me about any of this? I’m not just your boss, I’m your friend.’
‘I don’t talk about Vietnam.’
‘That’s obvious to anyone who isn’t an idiot, sergeant!’
Ed looked at the door. ‘Where’s a good bottle of bourbon when you need one.’
‘Don’t change the subject.’
Frowned as he looked back at Ironside. ‘How did you know about the sleeping pills?
‘You told me.’
Ed didn’t remember that conversation.
‘When you woke up, the first time, you asked me if you’d taken too many of Mrs. Miller’s sleeping tablets. When did the nightmares start?’
‘The night we took over the Henry Warner case.’ It was time to continue with the truth, telling the chief about the flash backs the first step, always the hardest step to take. He didn’t have to talk about Vietnam, about the pacifist who refused to help but he told Ironside about everything else: the nightmares, the flash backs, the anger, and the tremors that had plagued him for the last few days. Told him it was about more than being called a baby killer, but he couldn’t explain the reason for his reaction to the derogatory term because that would mean talking about Vietnam. Ironside listened as Ed spoke, his expression neutral but there was empathy and understanding in his blue eyes. Ed hadn’t expected anything less. ‘Are you going to suspend me? Send me home?’
‘No,’ said Ironside. ‘The case isn’t over. John Malcom and Charlie Madison are still free, and Charlie Madison will want revenge when he finds out his brother is dead. You’ll be staying with me until he’s caught.’
Ed didn’t like it, but he knew he didn’t have much of a choice. If he refused, he was certain, the commissioner would order Sergeant Brown to be placed in a safe house with around-the-clock protection. He would play along, rest and recover because he wasn’t sure he would be able to defend himself, not in this condition, not with his injuries still fresh. Time to heal was what he needed.
Time to prepare because when he next met Charlie Madison, only one of them was going to walk away with their life intact.
Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight
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: 6,462
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 Seven
Ed didn’t mind the heat, the cloudless sky, who wouldn’t enjoy the sun on their face; it was the humidity he didn’t like. A heavy, thick blanket of heat, it wore him down. It made him feel tired, felt as though his throat and lungs burned with each breath. And with the heat, came the mosquitos, the buzzing sound they made a constant noise as they hovered, waiting for an opportunity to strike, to bleed their victim. They irritated him, wore his patience thin, tired of swatting them away, no repellent left, he’d used the last of it only an hour earlier.
He lifted his gaze, eyes drawn away from the ground to watch the men in front of him. Sergeant Decker was on point, the unit following his lead as he led them through a clearing. Turned his head to look at the men behind him. Lieutenant Parsons lingered on the edge of the group, his head down, eyes searching for traps as he moved forward. Ed didn’t like every man in his unit, he didn’t have to, he only had to trust them, and he did. Trusted them to watch his back, to protect him, to save his life if they could. He would do the same for them but there was one man he didn’t trust. Ed searched for him, finding him close to the trees, his gun slung across his back, his hands empty. Ed knew, if the shit hit the fan, the pacifist would run into the trees and hide, not willing to fight, not willing to protect other members in the unit. He had learned to hate pacifists; too many of them in Vietnam, they couldn’t be trusted. Gritted his teeth and pushed the anger down, left it crawling in the pit of his stomach.
Turned back to face the front. Gaze downward, careful with each step he took, Ed searched for traps, too easy to miss if you weren’t paying attention. The jungle was dense, so much foliage, so many places to set a landmine or a trip wire. The summer monsoon over weeks ago, the ground was dry, the clearing littered with dead branches, the wood breaking beneath their feet as they walked, too much noise made, the sounds sharp, carrying in the still air toward any enemy close enough to hear it. He didn’t know why Decker chose to lead them through the clearing rather than go around, something Ed would question for years to come. Too many times to count, he would berate himself for not voicing his doubts to Decker.
Ed had seen the results of a land mine explosion too many times in his first tour of Vietnam; a sickening sight, horrific injuries, limbs ripped apart, men screaming in pain and fear. He didn’t want that. If he died in Vietnam, he preferred a quick death, a bullet to the head, the heart, something that would take him quickly and quietly. Ed wasn’t sure he wanted to live a life without his legs or an arm. Couldn’t imagine not being able to walk. Didn’t want to.
Felt the sting of a mosquito bite on the side of his neck, swatted it away with his left hand. Took a deep breath, the air burning his lungs, at least it felt like it. Could feel the sweat on his skin, taste the salt when he licked his dry lips. Heard a branch snap beneath his feet. Heard someone behind him swear. Flicked his gaze upward. Saw the explosion in front of him when Ralph Decker stood on what Ed presumed was a landmine.
A second explosion behind him. Pain tore through his back, collapsing his knees and sending his body to the ground, his gun caught beneath him. Face in the dirt, Ed tried to move. The pain bore down on him, keeping him in place. Something burned inside his body, not a flesh wound, something more serious, something life threatening. . . a slow death, something Ed didn’t want.
He lifted his head. Watched as Decker searched for a missing limb and then the man started screaming, the pain obvious on his face. Watched as Decker’s head snapped to the left, the side of his head exploding outward. Ed hadn’t heard a gunshot, Decker shot by a sniper.
Ed searched the immediate area, members of the unit spread out on the ground in front of him. Tried to look behind, lifting his shoulders, turning his upper body. Almost cried out, the pain so bad, something ripping his insides. Dropped his head to the ground, forehead thudding against the hard dirt. Short, quick breaths as the pain eased.
Despite the pain, he couldn’t stay where he was, he had to do something. It wasn’t in his nature to be passive. Made an attempt to crawl along the ground, moving his right leg. The pain sudden and bright, it spread across his lower back, turning his stomach. He felt as though he were going to be sick. Sweat pooled on his forehead, dripping down to the ground. Tried again, this time the pain too much, the pain excruciating. Realised with a sudden feeling of dread. . . he couldn’t move, not without pain, not without causing further injury.
He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, his breath becoming quick, shallow. Pressed a hand against his forehead, his skin slick with sweat. . . cold. He was going into shock. Knew, with a sinking heart, there was nothing he could do to help the other members of his unit, taken out of the fight, his injury debilitating. . . there was nothing he could do.
Ed trusted the rest of the unit to do what he couldn’t. Benson, their radio man, would get a message out to command, demanding an evac but that could take more time than the unit had. He didn’t know how many were left. . . Decker the only casualty of the explosion in front of him. He didn’t know how many deaths or injuries were behind him. Ed didn’t know what state they were in. They could all be dead, he didn’t know. He did know the pacifist was still alive, hiding amongst the trees, taking shelter at the sound of the first explosion.
It felt like it took too much time before the remaining men in the unit reacted, before they began to communicate with each other.
‘Where is he?’
Ed felt the relief, his shoulders relaxing, when he recognised the voice of Lieutenant Parsons. He liked Parsons. They had a shared interest in fishing.
‘Behind us. Due south.’
Collins. Trustworthy and dependable. The unit’s comedian, always ready with a joke, always able to make Ed laugh. Both men, and others, will die today, Ed just didn’t know it, not yet.
‘Benson?’ said Parsons.
‘Working on it, LT,’ said Benson, his deep voice filled with fear. ‘Radio took a piece of shrapnel, but I can fix it.’
‘How long.’
‘Five minutes,’ said Benson.
‘Make it quicker.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Ed turned his head, the right side of his face against the ground, debris scratching his skin, his gaze searching for other members of the unit. He’d located Parsons, Collins, and Benson by the sound of their voice; Parsons, and Collins behind and to his left, Benson behind him and to the right. He could see Parsons in his peripheral, the sight of the man lifting Ed’s confidence.
He saw movement in the trees behind Parsons, about to call out a warning when he recognised the pacifist. The man was curled up against a large tree, its stump thick, wide enough to hide the man from the sniper. Hands against his ears, knees against his chest, his gun on the ground beside him. Ed felt the anger curl in his stomach. Hidden from the sniper, the man was able to do something, to move toward the enemy, locate the position of the sniper. To take a kill shot and end this. The pacifist did nothing.
Staying calm, Ed called out to Parsons, raising his voice only loud enough for Parsons to hear. No fear in his tone, no warning to give, Ed said, ‘LT, to your left.’
Possible, the LT would be able to get the pacifist moving, to make the man do something, anything to help them. Ed wasn’t optimistic, but right now, what other choice did they have.
Parsons turned to look, raising his head to see over a fallen branch. Ed saw the LT’s head snap to the right, the sound of a gunshot echoing in the silence. For a moment, Ed lost the ability to breath, his breath caught in his lungs, his chest tight with guilt. His fault. If he hadn’t spoken. . . realised the shot had come from a different direction. There was more than one sniper.
‘Fuck!’ It was Collins, his voice too loud, attracting the attention of one of the snipers.
Ed strained to see something he didn’t want to see. Collins shuffled forward, his stomach against the ground, his movements quick and precise, now close enough for Ed to look the man in the eye. He saw fear and anticipation. There was a sudden explosion of dirt next to Collins’s head, Collins swearing a second time, the profanity cut short when a bullet through the back pinned him to the ground, Collins no longer moving, his empty gaze staring back at Ed.
Three men dead. Already too many. Ed lifted his gaze, too much effort needed to look away from Collins, found the pacifist, the man staring back. Ed didn’t want to speak, a raised voice needed for the man to hear him, instead, Ed nodded toward the area behind him, an indication for the man to look for the sniper. Ed wasn’t sure the pacifist understood, the man taking too long to respond. Ed repeated the motion, nodding a second time. The man shook his head. He knew what Ed wanted, knew what Ed and the other men in the unit needed him to do but the pacifist refused, keeping his position, hiding from the snipers, refusing to help.
Ed wanted to turn his head, to look for Benson, the only man who could actually do something, but he now knew any movement would draw the attention of the snipers. The frustration and anger growing, Ed hissed, ‘Benson!’
‘Almost.’ A whispered response.
He knew Benson was taking a big risk, the man revealing his position to the enemy when he made the call, but it had to be done, Ed knew that and more importantly, Benson knew it. Ed closed his eyes and hoped for the best, hoped Benson would survive to receive the medal he deserved. Held his breath when Benson began to speak, relaying their situation and position to command. Seconds that felt like minutes passed as Ed listened to the one-sided conversation, hopeful when Benson signed off, now only a matter of waiting and surviving long enough for help to arrive. . . a gunshot, the sound loud, expected.
‘Benson?’
There was no response.
‘Benson?’
Another gunshot, Ed flinching with expectation. One of the men in front of Ed grunted, the bullet not meant for Ed. He felt a moment of regret. If the bullet had struck him. . . it would over, his death far quicker than bleeding out, his shirt and trousers soaked with blood. He could feel it. He could smell it.
Time passed, the heat and humidity bearing down on him. He felt dizzy, sick, and weak. He didn’t know how much time he had left, the blood loss and shock slowly taking his life. Ed didn’t know how long it would take for help to arrive, but he did know he was going to die today. Spent the time he thought he had left staring at the pacifist who refused to help save the lives of the men in the unit.
.
.
.
On the eighth floor of the San Francisco General hospital, Ironside sat with his back to the waiting room, ignoring his friends, his colleagues as he stared out the window overlooking Potrero Del Sol Park; his thoughts, and emotions focused on Ed Brown. His chest ached with fear and uncertainty. What was taking so damn long?
He had thought Ed was dead, thought he’d lost another good friend, too many lost. He couldn’t get the image out of his head, the sight of his sergeant slumped in the corner of the elevator, bloody and broken, his eyes open, staring. . . Ironside had thought his friend was dead. Couldn’t rid himself of the emotion or the fear.
His mind kept returning to the Beaumont Hotel, replaying everything over and over, trying to understand what he had done wrong, to work out what he should have done right. The plan had been simple, Ed to use Dolby and Baker as backup, Carl Reese and other officers arriving within minutes, but something had gone wrong.
Ironside took full responsibility for what had happened. . . for what had happened to Ed, to Dolby and Baker. Two good men dead, both officers shot in the back, dying where they lay, their families now grieving. A moment of anger, a thought of revenge, both emotions forgotten when he remembered the sight of Ed in that elevator and the fear for his sergeant returned.
But Ed wasn’t the only person in the elevator. Norman Madison was dead, shot in the head at close range. Three guns were found at the scene, Fran and Ed’s service weapons and an automatic pistol. Only two had been recently fired. Ironside couldn’t imagine the grief and guilt Fran would feel if the ballistics department determined her service weapon had killed Dolby or Baker. He would receive the results first, breaking the news gently and reminding Fran she hadn’t been at fault; Madison could easily have taken Ed’s weapon when they were in Mrs. Warner’s apartment.
A wallet found in the coat pocked of the second deceased identified Madison’s accomplice. Jack Higgins. His throat had been cut, a knife slicing through the artery. Ed’s pocketknife had been found lying in a large pool of congealing blood next to Higgins.
Ed had fought hard, a use of extreme violence to protect John Malcom, to save his own life. In such a small, confined space, there was nothing else Ed could have done. He couldn’t run, couldn’t hide. No time to call and wait for more backup. Ed could only do one thing, he’d fallen back on his military training, doing the only thing he could to save lives. Ironside wouldn’t and couldn’t blame Ed, but he didn’t know what others would think of Ed’s violence.
Something had gone wrong and Ironside didn’t know what had happened, or how Madison and Higgins were able to get into the elevator with Ed and Malcom. He couldn’t decipher the events, unable to draw a conclusion. He could only wait, Ed and John Malcom the only men who could explain what had happened. John Malcom was on the run, an APB painted on his back and Ed. . . Ed was still in surgery.
Feeling the anger explode, Ironside slammed a closed fist against the arm of his wheelchair, the pain stabbing through his hand. He ignored the pain. Ignored everything except the anger he felt at the situation. The fear he felt at the thought of losing another friend. The emotion he felt at the loss of two good men. The guilt he felt as he took responsibility for what had happened. No one else to blame. He should have waited for Carl. He shouldn’t have sent Ed in alone. Hindsight. It would feed his guilt, his dreams. Too many things he should have done differently.
‘Bob?’
Shifting his gaze, Ironside saw the reflection of Dennis Randall in the window, the man wearing an expression of concern.
‘How is he?’
Ironside turned his chair to face his friend. ‘Dennis, I expected you to be here sooner.’
Randall stepped forward, closer to Ironside and said, ‘The dead come first, Bob. I stopped to give my condolences to Ted Baker and John Dolby’s families before I came here.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Ironside, turning away, facing the window. ‘I shouldn’t have presumed. As soon as I know Ed’s condition, I’ll pay my respects.’
‘I explained the situation,’ said Randall, moving up beside his friend, staring at the same scene below them. ‘They’re not expecting you today. Tomorrow morning will be fine.’
Ironside nodded. It was one of the hardest parts of the job, talking to relatives of the dead, even more so, when the dead were police officers. Silence pulled at both men, pulling them closer. Ironside could feel the support, the empathy coming from his friend. Felt the hand gripping his shoulder, the silence broken too soon when Randall spoke.
‘This isn’t your fault, Bob.’
‘Of course, it’s my fault,’ said Ironside, his tone angry as he turned his head to look up at Randall. ‘I sent him in there. . . alone and without backup.’
‘Ed wasn’t alone, and he had backup. He did his job. He protected John Malcom and I will make sure he receives a commendation for what he did today.’
‘I thought he was dead,’ said Ironside, looking away, hiding his guilt.
‘He isn’t,’ said Randall. ‘And knowing Ed, he’ll pull through.’
‘You didn’t see him, Dennis.’
‘I saw what he did.’
‘Ed did what he had to do to protect John Malcom,’ said Ironside, his tone giving Randall a warning.
‘I believe, I’ve already stated that fact,’ said Randall. ‘No one is blaming Ed or you. This isn’t your fault. Put your blame where it belongs. On Norman Madison.’
‘How? The man’s dead.’
‘Yes, he is. He took the lives of two good police officers and paid for it with his own life.’
Ironside waved the comment away with a flick of his wrist. ‘Not everyone will see that as justice.’
‘The people who matter will,’ said Randall, before changing the subject. ‘I understand John Malcom ran from the scene.’
‘You spoke to Carl?’ said Ironside.
‘I did. He’s still at the hotel. It’ll be a couple of more hours at least until he can get here.’
Ironside grimaced. ‘I can’t understand it, Dennis. Why would he run?’
‘Mr. Ironside?’
Ironside turned his chair, Randall moving with him. A man wearing a white coat with a name tag that read “Doctor Mathis”, a stethoscope around his neck and a moustache that most men would envy, stood before them. Ironside’s team and the officers waiting on news about Ed’s condition gathered into a tight group behind the doctor, impatience written across their features. No one was more impatient than Ironside.
‘How is he?’ said Ironside.
‘Mr. Brown is going to be fine. The amount of blood,’ the doctor shrugged his shoulders, ‘gave the impression he was worse than he looked.’
Ironside felt his own shoulders stiffen. ‘The amount of blood covering my sergeant gave me the impression he was dead.’
The doctor didn’t look apologetic, but he did apologise. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Apology accepted,’ said Ironside. ‘What is the condition of my sergeant?’
‘Mr. Brown has an open head injury to the left side of the head, resulting in four stitches. He’s lucky he doesn’t have a concussion. He also has a through and through bullet wound to the left upper quadrant of the abdomen which required surgery to repair and clean the injury and bruising to the sternum. He lost a decent amount of blood, but he’ll be fine. ‘
The doctor had listed Ed’s injuries the same way he would have read out a medical textbook. Ironside didn’t like that. He didn’t like Doctor Mathis.
‘We’ll keep him in overnight just to be safe and release him in the morning with a prescription for antibiotics and painkillers.’
‘He’s not dead then,’ said Ironside, the words meant to cover the emotional relief he felt, his voice cracking, ruining any attempt to hide his emotions as he looked at his friends and colleagues. Their smiles and expressions of relief were contagious, Ironside feeling his own smile grow.
Ed Brown had survived his third encounter with Norman Madison, Ironside could only hope there won’t be another one; Ed had been through enough these past few days.
Doctor Mathis spoke as though he hadn’t heard Ironside, interrupting Ironside’s thoughts. ‘Mr. Brown has been moved to a room if you would like to see him?’
‘Please,’ said Ironside, feeling Randall squeeze his shoulder.
The doctor turned away. Baulking at the group of people in front of him, he said, ‘One visitor at a time. Mr. Brown needs to rest,’ before stepping around them and walking down the hospital corridor.
‘I’ll see you in the morning, Bob.’
‘Thank you, Dennis.’
‘Just make sure he’s okay.’
Ironside followed Mathis, stopping next to Mark and Fran to give instructions. ‘Mark, go to Ed’s apartment. Pack a bag for him. He’ll be staying with us until Charlie Madison is caught. Fran, go back to the office. I want to be kept up to date on the search for Madison and Malcom.’
‘I’d like to see Ed before I leave,’ said Fran as she frowned down at Ironside.
‘I don’t think Ed is ready for company,’ said Ironside, patting her on the forearm. ‘He has a lot to deal with. You can see him when I bring him back to the office in the morning.’
‘I’ll come back and pick you up,’ said Mark.
‘Come back in the morning. I’ll be staying.’
‘Give him our love,’ said Fran.
‘I’m not going to embarrass him.’
Fran smiled. ‘I’ll tell him in the morning.’
‘I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.’
‘Later,’ said Mark as he led Fran away.
Ironside nodded and turned toward the corridor where Mathis was waiting. He nodded to the two uniformed officers standing to the side, expecting them to follow him. Ed needed the protection, his injuries making him vulnerable, the two officers there to guard Ed’s hospital room.
Charlie Madison was still out there, and his brother’s death would send him on a path of revenge. It was inevitable the press would find out the name of the police officer who had killed two men to defend the life of another. Someone in the department would leak Ed’s name, and there was nothing Ironside could do about that, but he could and would protect his colleague, his friend.
Once there, Ironside had no intention of leaving Ed’s side, not until he no longer had a choice or a reason. He would stay with his sergeant until Ed was released and back in Ironside’s home and office. He would keep Ed close. . . until Ed was no longer in danger.
It didn’t take long to reach Ed’s hospital room, the room on the same floor as the waiting room. He waited while Doctor Mathis opened the door, following him further into the room. The doctor stepped aside, revealing his sergeant. Ironside had expected a heart monitor and too many tubes; Ed looked as though he were sleeping, only one tube snaking its way down to the back of his sergeant’s right hand.
‘He should be awake soon,’ said Mathis. ‘He’ll be groggy because of the anaesthetic and no doubt confused but give him some time. Be patient.’
‘I’m always patient when it comes to my sergeant,’ said Ironside.
‘Press the nurse’s buzzer if he needs anything,’ said Mathis, turning away and opening the door. He hesitated at the sight of the two police officers standing in the hallway. He turned back to look at Ironside.
‘Sergeant Brown’s life is at risk. There will be two police officers guarding this room until sergeant Brown is released.’
‘Of course,’ said Doctor Mathis, nodding as he left the room, the door closing behind him.
Left alone with his sergeant, Ironside wheeled his chair closer to the right side of the bed, his back to the wall, the door within sight and settled in to wait, his only company his feelings of guilt. He watched Ed’s face, his sergeant’s features relaxed, immobile, his face pale, his cheeks flushed. Ironside knew he was staring, not something he usually did, normally looking elsewhere when he was thinking but this was different. He wasn’t solving a case, the case already solved, only a matter of finding Charlie Madison and John Malcom.
Fifteen minutes had passed when his sergeant’s features began to shift, a grimace appearing as Ed turned his head away from Ironside, pressing the side of his face deeper into the pillow, a whimper of distress escaping as his legs moved beneath the hospital bed sheets.
He had thought his sergeant was waking but he was wrong. Ed was dreaming, the violent events in the Beaumont hotel’s elevator adding more content to his sergeant’s nightmares.
Ironside wanted to wake his friend, but he wasn’t sure how Ed would react. If woken while he was having a nightmare, his sergeant may react violently, defending himself against a perceived threat. Ironside decided the best course of action was to wait, allow Ed to wake naturally.
Not a long wait before Ed snapped awake. His body flinching, jerking away from his nightmare. He lifted his head, but it was obvious his sergeant didn’t have the strength to remain in that position, his head falling back onto the pillow.
‘Ed,’ said Ironside as he moved his chair closer, reaching out with his left hand to grip his sergeant’s wrist.
Ed turned his head, blinking, his gaze stumbling for a few seconds before settling on Ironside. His gaze didn’t stay long, moving away as his sergeant searched his surroundings. Ed looked back at him and said, ‘Hospital?’
‘Very observant, sergeant,’ said Ironside.
His sergeant frowned, obviously confused. ‘Did I take too many of Mrs. Miller’s sleeping tablets?’
Ironside struggled to keep the surprise and anger from his features. ‘You’ve been taking someone else’s sleeping tablets?’
Ed shook his head and raised his right hand, showing four fingers.
‘You took four sleeping pills?
Ed closed his eyes and said, ‘No . . . she gave me four. Her nephew took them.’ His frown returned, his forehead creasing. ‘That’s wrong . . .’
Ironside could feel his own confusion growing. He wanted to ask more questions, but he could see Ed was fading, awake for a short period of time, easing Ironside’s concerns about his sergeant’s health. Ed was going to be fine.
But Ironside was left with even more questions, but they would all have to wait for Ed Brown. Ironside didn’t mind, as he’d told Doctor Mathis earlier, he was a patient man.
.
.
.
Two hours later and Ironside’s patience was running out, not because his sergeant was still sleeping. . . Carl Reece was pacing back and forth in front of Ed’s hospital bed, the man’s footsteps loud, irritating, causing Ironside’s anger to grow. He didn’t want to snap, not toward a man who had spent the last five hours dealing with death, instead, he watched him, hoping Carl would get the message. He didn’t, other things on his mind.
Carl had selected Dolby and Baker to protect John Malcom at the Beaumont hotel, the man no doubt carrying his own weight of guilt; there was plenty of it to go around, everyone blaming themselves, not each other. Dennis Randall was right; they should be blaming Norman Madison, but Ironside knew it would be a long time before he shifted the blame to where it belonged.
The sound of limbs scraping against stiff bed sheets drew Ironside’s attention back to his sergeant. Moved his chair closer to the bed, waiting with more patience than he felt he had. When his sergeant finally opened his eyes, his confusion immediate, Ironside said, ‘Ed, you’re in the San Francisco General hospital and you’re going to be fine. Nothing serious according to your doctor and you will be released tomorrow morning into my care.’
Ed stared back at him, before glancing toward Reese and then back to Ironside. His sergeant frowned, Ironside seeing that expression too often since they’d taken the Warner case.
‘What happened?’ said Ed.
‘You don’t remember?’
‘Things are a little confusing right now.’
Reese moved to the left side of the bed and said, ‘You had another run-in with Norman Madison.’
‘Who won this time?’ said Ed, turning his head to look at Reese.
‘You did,’ said Reese, pointing at Ed.
‘But I should see the other guy . . .’
‘The other guy is dead. So is the man who was with him. You killed them both. You shot Norman Madison in the head and cut open another man’s throat.’
Ironside snapped. ‘Carl, that’s enough!’
‘He needs to know,’ said Reese.
‘Sergeant Brown already knows. He’s confused, give him a few minutes.’
‘I don’t need a few minutes,’ said Ed, refusing to look away from Reese. ‘Baker and Dolby?’
‘They both died at the scene.’
Ed closed his eyes. Swore.
‘Ed,’ said Reese, a different tone used. ‘What happened . . . it isn’t your fault. You did what you had to do. I would have done the same.’
‘You carry a pen knife?’ said Ironside.
‘I do now,’ said Reese, smiling at Ironside. He looked back at Ed. ‘Feel up to giving me a verbal statement.’
His sergeant silent, still, Ironside became concerned, worrying the last straw had broken the camel’s back. ‘Ed?’
‘Not while I’m flat on my back,’ said Ed as he opened his eyes. ‘And I need some water.’
Five minutes later, the bed repositioned, Ed was sitting up, his right hand resting against his gunshot wound. His sergeant’s brown eyes dark with pain, his thirst sated, Ed was ready to talk.
.
.
.
It took too long for Ed to give his statement, his mind constantly drifting, thinking about Baker and Dolby, both men dead. They hadn’t had a chance, shot in the back by two men intent on killing the only witness to their original crime: the murder of Henry Warner. Ed realised with a moment of clarity. . . John Malcom had saved his life. If the young man hadn’t pulled Ed into that elevator, he would have been gunned down, killed where he lay. Dead like Dolby and Baker. But Malcom had given Ed an opportunity, a chance to fight back, to defend his life, to protect John Malcom
A pacifist had saved his life.
It stuck in Ed’s mind.
It could be that Malcom had done it to save his own life, taking an armed detective with him as he tried to run from the men who wanted to kill him. Ed wasn’t sure which option he preferred. He didn’t know where John Malcom was, but Ed knew he would be scared. . . hiding from the police and Charlie Madison.
Pulled from his thoughts, a nurse walked into the room, interrupting his statement. They waited while she performed her duties, Ed returning her smile, his reaction forced. Told her no when asked if he needed anything. She left, warning him she’d be back with his pain medication within the hour.
He was in pain. He didn’t deny it, but he didn’t care, the pain proof of life. His mind returned to Baker and Dolby. Thought of their families, their children. Felt a moment of satisfaction. . . he had killed the men responsible for deaths of two good police officers. There would be no trial. No chance of being released on a technicality. No early release for good behaviour. Norman Madison and Jack Higgins were dead. Ed felt no regret over their deaths, no guilt but he did regret the deaths of Dolby and Baker. Felt the guilt scratching at the back of his mind.
‘Ed?’ said Reese, now sitting on the edge of the bed.
Ed blinked, refocusing on the man next to him. ‘Sorry.’
‘Don’t be sorry, Ed,’ said Ironside. ‘You’re not at fault. Take your time and continue when you’re ready.’
Ignoring the chief, Reese said, ‘Madison said “We had a deal, John”.’
‘John Malcom was working for Norman Madison.’
‘In what capacity?’
‘Madison paid him to watch Warner’s apartment building.’ Ed frowned as a memory returned. He looked at Ironside. ‘You can see the alley where Malcom was sleeping from Norman Madison’s apartment.’
Ironside nodded. ‘Madison must have seen Malcom sleeping there. Why stay up all night watching an apartment building when you can pay someone to do it for you.’
‘Madison thinks Malcom betrayed him because he went to the police.’
‘Why did he come to us if he was a part of it from the beginning?’ said Reese, frowning as he looked from Ed to Ironside.
‘He didn’t know they were going to kill Warner. Told him they were going to teach him a lesson.’
‘Whether he had knowledge or not,’ said Ironside, ‘John Malcom is now guilty of accessory to murder after the fact.’
‘Come on, chief,’ said Reese. ‘He didn’t know they killed Warner until a few days ago. He approached us voluntarily to give a witness statement.’
‘Only after he received a guarantee he wouldn’t be sent to Vietnam,’ said Ironside, his voice raised, his frustration showing when he shook his head. ‘That aside, he knew the identity of the men who killed Henry Warner and he still didn’t tell us their names. An unspoken truth that resulted in the death of five people, including Madison and Jack Higgins and my sergeant could have died. Malcom should have told us the truth, instead he used the situation to benefit himself.’
‘You’re right,’ said Reese. ‘I’ll add an arrest warrant to the APB when I leave.’
‘Do it now.’
‘Chief--’
‘Now, Carl,’ said Ironside, his tone full of anger. ‘I want John Malcom in police custody by the end of the day.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Reese nodded at Ed. ‘We’ll do a written statement tomorrow.’
‘I haven’t finished my verbal statement.’
‘It can wait,’ said Ironside. ‘You look tired. You need to rest. Isn’t that right, Carl.’
‘Whatever you say, chief.’ Reese stood up, turned away from Ed and Ironside and left the room, taking his guilt with him.
‘You were a little hard on him,’ said Ed, his gaze watching the door as it slowly closed. ‘It’s not Carl’s fault John Malcom lied.’
‘I know that and so does Carl,’ said Ironside. ‘But Carl was doing some of his own pushing and you look like you needed a break.’
‘I’m okay, considering what’s happened.’
‘Ed, you did a good job today. You protected John Malcom. You did what you had to do and no one, especially me, will find fault with your actions.’
‘I didn’t save Baker or Dolby.’
‘You couldn’t have saved them, Ed, no more than they could have saved themselves.’
‘Doesn’t stop me from feeling guilty,’ said Ed.
‘We all feel guilty for our own reasons. I blame myself for sending you in alone,’ said Ironside, holding up his hand when Ed opened his mouth to argue. ‘Carl blames himself because he chose Dolby and Baker to stay with Malcom and you blame yourself because you survived, and they didn’t. We all know we’re being irrational but that won’t stop us from feeling guilty. Only time can do that.’
He didn’t have the energy to argue. Closed his eyes.
‘Why don’t we change the subject?’ said Ironside.
About to answer, Ed opened his eyes and looked at Ironside. The chief was wearing that look, the one that told Ed he was in trouble. Only minutes ago, Ironside had told Ed he’d done a good job. . . shook his head, his confusion evident. ‘Why do I feel like you’re leading up to something?’
‘You’ve been taking Mrs. Miller’s sleeping tablets.’
Ed hesitated, but only for a moment. ‘Now that you mention it, I am feeling tired--’
‘Why in the hell do you think it’s okay to take someone else’s medication?’
‘Her nephew has nightmares.’ It was all Ed could think of to say, as if that statement alone would explain everything. It did.
‘Her nephew was in Vietnam.’
‘She was upset, and I was too tired . . . I said some things I shouldn’t have.’
‘Mrs. Miller gave you her tablets to help you sleep.’
‘She only gave me four,’ said Ed.
‘How many have you taken?’
‘Two.’
‘And the other two?’
‘They’re in my shaving kit back at the office.’
‘You took one last night . . . while you were in my home?’
‘Yes.’
‘That explains why you didn’t wake up when you were having a nightmare at two o’clock in the morning.’
‘You were watching me?’ said Ed, one of his concerns realised. The chief knew he was having nightmares.
‘You woke me up, sergeant . . . you’ve been keeping too many secrets. Why didn’t you talk to me about any of this? I’m not just your boss, I’m your friend.’
‘I don’t talk about Vietnam.’
‘That’s obvious to anyone who isn’t an idiot, sergeant!’
Ed looked at the door. ‘Where’s a good bottle of bourbon when you need one.’
‘Don’t change the subject.’
Frowned as he looked back at Ironside. ‘How did you know about the sleeping pills?
‘You told me.’
Ed didn’t remember that conversation.
‘When you woke up, the first time, you asked me if you’d taken too many of Mrs. Miller’s sleeping tablets. When did the nightmares start?’
‘The night we took over the Henry Warner case.’ It was time to continue with the truth, telling the chief about the flash backs the first step, always the hardest step to take. He didn’t have to talk about Vietnam, about the pacifist who refused to help but he told Ironside about everything else: the nightmares, the flash backs, the anger, and the tremors that had plagued him for the last few days. Told him it was about more than being called a baby killer, but he couldn’t explain the reason for his reaction to the derogatory term because that would mean talking about Vietnam. Ironside listened as Ed spoke, his expression neutral but there was empathy and understanding in his blue eyes. Ed hadn’t expected anything less. ‘Are you going to suspend me? Send me home?’
‘No,’ said Ironside. ‘The case isn’t over. John Malcom and Charlie Madison are still free, and Charlie Madison will want revenge when he finds out his brother is dead. You’ll be staying with me until he’s caught.’
Ed didn’t like it, but he knew he didn’t have much of a choice. If he refused, he was certain, the commissioner would order Sergeant Brown to be placed in a safe house with around-the-clock protection. He would play along, rest and recover because he wasn’t sure he would be able to defend himself, not in this condition, not with his injuries still fresh. Time to heal was what he needed.
Time to prepare because when he next met Charlie Madison, only one of them was going to walk away with their life intact.
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