Ironside - 'Questions and Answers' - 1/1
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azombiewritesTitle: Questions and Answers
Fandom: Ironside [1967 TV Series]
Genre: Angst
Rating: PG
Main Characters: Sergeant Ed Brown, Chief Ironside and Officer Fran Belding.
Disclaimer: Based on the characters created by Collier Young.
Author's Note: Tag for S6 E7 'Nightmare Trip'.
More Author's Notes: If you haven't seen them, spoilers for the episodes: S6 E7 'Nightmare Trip' | S5 E4 'The Gambling Game' | S1 E18 'To Kill a Cop' | S1 E21 'All in a Day's Work'.
One More Author's Note: I'm ignoring the timeline used in the episode 'Nightmare Trip' for Ed Brown being in Vietnam because it contradicts everything.
Total Word Count: 4,171
Status: Complete
Summary: Chief Ironside isn't curious, he doesn't want know, but he does need to know why his sergeant found it necessary to spend time in a California prison as a John Doe.
Taking a deep, slow breath sergeant Ed Brown opened the door to Chief Ironside’s quarters on the third floor of police headquarters; a spacious combination that included an office, kitchenette, numerous desks, a large bed and smaller rooms off to the side. He stepped inside, allowing the door to close behind him. Moving slowly, in no hurry for a confrontation, he walked down the ramp, gaze searching for the chief.
The place looked empty. It felt cold, uninviting. Not sure if he were welcome after the stunt he’d pulled in California, Ed walked toward the stove in the small kitchenette, pouring himself a cup of much needed coffee. The previous two days difficult, emotionally, and physically. Exhaustion flooded his limbs, and he still had a mild headache which didn’t surprise him, his head slammed against a wall more than once during a fight in a small, confined cell, grateful it hadn’t been any worse. He could still feel the desperation he’d felt after the fight had ended, a desperate need to get out of the claustrophobic space, hands gripping the cell bars, calling to be let out.
Ed didn’t regret what he’d done, a short stay in a prison cell putting things into perspective. Forgetting what it was like to be a civilian, he’d become stuck in a routine he hadn’t recognised as destructive, not until Dale had released pent up emotions regarding his own job in the military. Ed recognised the signs; his friend had become desensitised to violence and death.
Killing a man meant nothing to Dale . . . “pull the trigger like I’m dictating a letter” he’d said, “throw a grenade like I’m making a phone call”. Ed knew how he felt, recognising his own form of desensitisation. He pushed the thoughts aside, he didn’t want to dwell on it, plenty of time for that when the chief demanded his sergeant explain his behaviour, why Ed had felt it necessary to spend time in a Californian prison as a John Doe. Ed had answers, just wasn’t sure he was ready or willing to give them.
If he were honest with himself . . . he wasn’t sure the chief would understand. If he would accept what Ed had done and move on, leaving the conversation and his sergeant’s feelings behind. And if he were really honest with himself . . . he was scared, afraid the chief would understand and that would lead to psychological testing, the last thing Ed wanted.
He turned to face the empty room. Took another sip of coffee and thought about what he should do. There was plenty of paperwork: filing to be done, forms to fill out, reports to type . . . he grimaced at the thought, mundane paperwork was the last thing he wanted to do. Nothing else to do but wait. Something he was content to do, enjoying the large open space of the chief’s quarters; the cell he shared with four other men had been too small, claustrophobic, the airplane crowded, and his apartment felt smaller than it was. He would wait, for how long he didn’t know.
It was plausible the chief and Mark were still on their way back from California, catching a later flight back to San Francisco. He hadn’t called the office before he left his apartment. If he had known the office was empty, he would have taken his time, taken a walk in the park, enjoyed the fresh air and the open space. He’d only spent twenty-four hours in that cell, but it felt as though he’d been in there much longer; days, weeks and he had allowed it to happen, went willingly into the claustrophobic atmosphere of a prison cell. Put himself into a situation where he could have received an injury more serious than a headache.
He didn’t regret it.
‘Ed!’
Body shifting with surprise at the sound of Fran’s voice, Ed stumbled and made a clumsy attempt to keep the hot coffee in the cup and not allow it to spill all over his hand. A sigh of relief when he succeeded. Regained his balance and looked up to see Fran rushing toward him. Afraid she was going to hug him Ed stepped back and held the cup of coffee up in front of his body as though it were a shield and then he saw her expression. She was angry. With him? No doubt in his mind. More concerned with a confrontation with the chief, he’d forgotten about Fran.
‘Are you all right,’ said Fran as she stopped in front of him. ‘Where have you been? What happened? And why didn’t you call? The chief’s been worried sick about you, we all have.’
Stunned by the reveal of the chief’s concern, his mind muted, Ed could only stare back at Fran.
‘Well? Are you going to answer me, or--’ Fran stopped mid-sentence and reached toward him, her anger quickly deflating, replaced just as quickly with an expression of concern. ‘You’re hurt. You’ve hit your head. You have a brain injury and can’t talk.’
Ed smiled and said, ‘Who can talk with you asking so many questions. Did you even manage to take a breath befo--’
’Don’t even think about changing the subject,’ said Fran. ‘I asked you a question Ed Brown. Answer it.’
‘Which one?’
‘All of them.’
Looking away, Ed went through everything Fran had asked in his head. Returning his gaze back to Fran, he replied with succinct answers. ‘No. California. Got mugged.’ Ignoring Fran’s sharp intake of breath, he continued. ‘Didn’t have a quarter. No. No and no. Although, I think there should be another “no” but, I’m not sure.’
Turning her back on him, Fran said, ‘You’re impossible.’
‘But you were worried about me?’
She ignored him, making her way to the round desk in the center of the room and picking up the phone she began to dial.
Ed frowned. ‘Who are you calling?’
‘I’m calling the chief to let him know I found you,’ said Fran as she took out her irritation and anger on the phone dial with a led pencil.
‘You found me? Are you sure you didn’t hit your head? Suffer a brain injury?’
Turning to look at him, Fran said, ‘Yes. Yes and no.’
‘Touché,’ said Ed, a smile creasing his features. ‘Is the chief still in California?’
‘How did you know he was in California?’
‘I’m a detective. It’s pretty obvious he would go there to look for me. And where he goes, Mark goes. So, is he still in California?’
‘No, he’s in a meeting with the commissioner.’
‘Not about me I hope.’ And he really hoped it wasn’t about him.
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Fran, as she turned away and began speaking. It was a short conversation, obvious the chief was no longer there, now on his way back to the office. Fran replaced the receiver and walked back toward him, stopping in front of him and crossing her arms over her chest. She frowned and said, ‘You are all right?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘You said you were mugged.’
‘Mugged and rolled,’ said Ed before drinking another mouthful of coffee. When he saw the change of expression on Fran’s face, he realised his mistake.
‘They threw you out of a car?’
‘A van actually--’
‘A van?’
‘Fran, I’m fine. Really.’
‘Then why didn’t you call? And don’t give me that line about not having a quarter.’
‘It’s a long story and I don’t feel like going into details right now. Dealing with the chief is going to bad enough, I don’t want to have to explain it all to you as well. How did they get back so quickly, the chief and Mark?’
‘They had a private charter.’
‘That explains the meeting with the commissioner.’
‘But you are, okay?’ said Fran.
‘I’ve already told you I am . . . three times now.’
‘I know, it’s just . . .’
‘Just what?’
‘You look pale.’
‘It was a long trip over a very short time. And I was mugged.’
Fran smiled. ‘All right, but you will let me know if you need anything?’
‘Fran,’ said Ed, ‘stop fussing, you’re almost as bad as Eve.’
His regret instant when Fran’s smile slipped then fell away.
‘You miss her, don’t you?’
‘Every day.’
Fran nodded, turned, and walked away. She sat down at the round table and began to shuffle through a small tower of files, sorting them, separating them, and placing them on the table next to her. A change of subject was needed but he didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know how to placate her mood. He’d upset her, that was certain, but he didn’t know why. He could always fall back on what he considered an old favourite when it came to women. Apologise.
He walked to the table, set his cup of coffee on the table, and sat down next to her. She refused to look at him, concentrating on the files in front of her. There were only a few files left, not enough to keep her attention away from him for much longer. He waited and when she was done, her gaze looking for something else to occupy her mind he spoke.
‘I’m sorry, Fran. I didn’t mean to upset you.’
‘You didn’t,’ said Fran as she turned her head to look at him.
‘Then what did I do?’
‘Would you have explained it all to Eve?’
So, that was it. Fran had joined the chief’s staff over a year ago and she still felt like an outsider. The case involving a gambling ring and the death of her father had been a mess, the chief injured and in constant pain, Ed and Fran had disliked each other almost immediately. The case had ended on a positive note, the killer found, the chief undergoing medical treatment to repair his neck injury. It had been an emotional ride, his fear and concern for the chief overriding everything else; the cause of his anger, his resentment toward Fran, laying blame for the chief’s injury on the young officer.
And then the chief had asked Fran Belding to join his staff on a permanent basis. It wasn’t long before he had grown to like Fran. She was smart, quick to smile and had a sense of humour that made him laugh but he knew they would never be close, not in the same way he was close with Eve. Eve Whitfield was a good friend, still was but he didn’t see her often as he would like, the time between contact growing longer each time. He knew, eventually, they would lose touch, the only reminder of their friendship a yearly Christmas card.
‘Honestly, Fran, I don’t know.’
‘I understand,’ said Fran.
‘No, you don’t.’
Ed looked away, lowered his head. Aware Fran was watching him, he took a moment to consider what he should say, if he were willing to reveal more than he wanted, to complicate their working relationship. No, it wasn’t the right time. She wouldn’t understand the lack of remorse he felt when killing a man.
Looking back at her, he said, ‘You’ve only been a police officer for what . . . fifteen months. I’ve been a police officer for over ten years. Let’s just say, everything came to a head, and I needed time to sort some things out in mind. It’s not that I don’t want to tell you it’s just . . . you won’t understand and the last thing I want right now is for you to judge me.’
‘I would never judge you, Ed, you know that.’
‘No, Fran, I don’t know that. Maybe, in a few years, I tell you but not now.’
‘I’ll hold you to that.’
‘Then it’s a date,’ said Ed, smiling, relieved when Fran smiled back at him.
‘All dates aside, perhaps you would care to explain it to me?’
His head snapped to the left, gaze catching the chief sat in his wheelchair at the top of the ramp. So caught up in the conversation with Fran, he hadn’t heard the elevator or the door to the office closing. He was caught off guard, unsure what to do or say.
The chief’s expression was neutral; this wasn’t good. Remembered what Fran had said . . . “the chief was worried sick about you”. The chief would never admit it, but it was comforting to know he cared. Mark stood behind the chief, smirking, enjoying Ed’s discomfort.
‘Mark, Fran,’ said the chief. ‘Find something to do.’
Felt Fran’s fingers wrap around his wrist, a slight amount of pressure applied, a touch of encouragement. ‘Good luck.’
He couldn’t turn his gaze away from the chief, Ironside staring back. He was aware of Fran standing up and walking away. Aware of Mark following her. They would go into the room on the left, close the sliding doors behind them, moving out of earshot to allow Ed and Ironside some privacy. Allow him to talk about what happened in California, confident his friends wouldn’t have their ears pressed against the door. Easier to talk . . . it didn’t matter, Ironside rolled his chair down the ramp, past Ed and toward the small conference table on the other side of the room. Stopping at the table, he turned his chair, looked at Ed and waited with expectation.
Ed knew what the chief wanted. Standing up, his confidence weak, he walked toward the chief, pulled out a chair at the end of the table and sat down. Ironside would ask questions, gather information but Ed knew it wouldn’t be for personal reasons, his questioning professional, no doubt worried his sergeant might be going off the rails; no sane man would willingly spend time in jail. No sane man would see a way out and refuse it, instead making a silent request to be left alone to deal with the situation in his own way.
The silence stretching, becoming uncomfortable . . . at least it became uncomfortable for Ed, Ironside said, ‘Ed?’
It wasn’t just a question, or a request, more a demand made in simple terms.
‘Chief,’ said Ed, the only thing he could think of to say in the moment.
The chief smiled and said, ‘Why don’t we start with something simple. Are you all right?’
Ed relaxed, only slightly, his back still straight, his forearms resting on the arms of the chair. ‘Yes.’
‘See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?’
‘No.’
‘Ed, you obviously don’t want to tell me what happened in California, but I think you need to talk about it, and I need to know why you thought it was a good idea to spend time in jail. You hid your identity from authorities and when I found you, you refused the offer of a get-out-of-jail-free card. What on earth were you thinking? Were you even thinking? I thought we’d gotten past your lack of thought when it came to making decisions.’
The Frank Vincent situation happened nearly five years ago. He confronted the man without thinking about the repercussions after two police officers were murdered. Two weeks suspension and a lecture from the chief about right thought and wrong thought the result. He wasn’t proud of what he’d done. He’d embarrassed the chief and the department. The chief had accepted his apology and his plan to draw Vincent out of his comfort zone and toward the weapon he’d used to murder a police officer.
Ed felt a bubble of anger churn in his gut. Lowering his gaze, he rubbed the palm of his right hand against his thigh. Aware his body language was mirroring his anger and frustration, he stopped, lifted his gaze and said, ‘You’re wrong, chief. I was thinking. If anything, I was thinking too much, and it was the right kind of thinking. I am sorry for embarrassing you again but if I had a choice, I would do it again.’
‘Why? Why in the flamin’ hell did you think it was a good idea to be arrested and put in a jail cell with four other men?’
He didn’t know how to voice what he was feeling without giving the impression he was going through some kind of breakdown, but he needed to be honest. He had never lied to the chief, and he never would.
‘I’d forgotten what it was like to be a civilian.’
‘And you thought spending time in a jail cell would change that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Out of the blue, you decided to get arrested to remind yourself what it was like to be a civilian?’
‘Not exactly, no.’
‘Then what exactly?’
He didn’t want to bring Dale into the conversation but felt he didn’t have much choice. No reasonable explanation without explaining Dale’s situation and comparing it to his own.
‘Does it have anything to do with the friend you spoke to before a simple case of escort duty went to hell?’
The chief could read him like an open book. Ed nodded. ‘He’s at a place in life he doesn’t want to be.’
‘Go on,’ said Ironside, leaning forward, elbows resting on the arms of his wheelchair, his hands held together.
‘He’s become desensitised to his . . . work. Told me some things that in a way mirrored my life.’
‘In what way?’
‘Dale received his oak leaves. I congratulated him and . . .’ Ed shook his head, remembering the way his friend had reacted. ‘He got angry, defensive. In a way, he told me he didn’t want to be where he was . . . in the military, with his life in general. He admitted he kills like he’s dictating a memo or making a phone call. Life means nothing to him. He feels nothing when he kills.
‘I arrest people like I’m dictating a memo. I treat people the same, even though they’re different. I dehumanise them. They’re all the same to me and I feel nothing. I kill people when I have to, and I feel nothing. I don’t remember all their faces or their names only some. It’s the same thing. I’m not that different to Dale, I’m just in a different profession. He said it’s the uniform that locks a man in. He’s wrong about that but he’s right about the routine, doing the same thing over and over. It all became too routine, and I didn’t even know it. I was locked behind a shield of duty and the only way I could think of getting out of it was to remind myself what it was like on the other side of the badge, so when the opportunity presented itself, I took it.’
‘All right, Ed. We need to deal with this now before it festers. So, I’m going to be blunt. If you’re not comfortable with some of the things you have to do as a police officer, then quit. Find another job but whatever you choose to do, don’t bring your self-pity to work.’
‘You think it’s self-pity I’m feeling. I don’t feel sorry for myself. I don’t feel anything, that’s the problem.’
‘Then you shouldn’t be a cop. Period.’
‘But I am a cop. I don’t know how to be anything else. It’s just . . . I just want to be able to feel something when I kill a man.’
‘Then feel something but feel something constructive,’ said Ironside. ‘Ed, do you remember how Eve reacted when she shot and killed Billy Matling. She almost drowned under the weight of guilt she was feeling. She told me she wanted to be a human being as well as a cop. I told her she had to learn to be both. You need to do the same but from a different perspective.’
‘I wasn’t there for that conversation.’
‘Then you should have been . . . for future reference. If you had, I wouldn’t be repeating myself. Ed, you’re a good cop, one of the best and you’re also a good man. Feeling nothing doesn’t make you wrong or inhuman. People deal with things differently. Eve felt too much, you think you don’t feel enough. Feeling nothing is the way your subconscious deals with what you have to do as a police officer.’
‘That doesn’t make me feel any better.’
‘I had no intention of making you feel better, sergeant. It was meant to sort out that mess you call a brain.’
‘One minute you’re giving me compliments and the next you’re insulting me.’
‘Since when do I give you a compliment,’ said Ironside as he sat back in his chair.
‘You said I was a good police officer, one of the best.’
‘As though I would ever admit you were a good officer.’
‘You have, twice,’ said Ed before giving up the battle.
‘Don’t change the subject. Just answer the question.’
Ed frowned. ‘What question?’
‘Are you going to continue to be a cop or are you going to quit and find something else to do.’
‘I already told you I don’t know how to be anything else.’
‘Yes, you did and there is your answer.’
‘That’s no answer.’
‘It’s my answer and my answers are always the right answers. You say you can’t be anything else, then learn to live with what you can be. A good cop and no, that wasn’t a compliment. Accept the way you are and get on with the damn job.’
It was easier said than done thought Ed as he lowered his head, looking away from the man he respected and admired. One of the things he liked about the chief was his ability to be blunt, telling a man or woman what they needed to hear and not what they wanted to hear, his words always honest, always sincere.
When he’d walked out of that prison, his extradition in tow, he’d felt better. He had admitted he was a cop and he felt proud to be a cop . . . until his retirement or his death. What had happened in the last twelve hours to change that?
This conversation.
It brought it all back, his friend’s reaction, Dale’s admittance. Ed couldn’t help but compare Dale’s situation with his own. They had started out together, finding friendship in the forests of Vietnam as they fought together against the Viet Cong. A piece of shrapnel in his lower back had given Ed a medical discharge. Not long after he’d arrived home, he’d joined the police academy and three months later he was a cop . . .
He refused to think about Anne.
Dale had remained in Vietnam . . . continued fighting, killing. Ed had seen a lot in his short time in the military, Dale had seen a lot more. As a former marine and now a cop, Ed felt he was able to compare the violence of Vietnam to the violence on the streets of San Francisco. They didn’t compare. He could understand why Dale felt the way he did, and he hoped his friend came to a decision about his situation that would be beneficial.
‘Well?’ said Ironside, his impatience voiced in his tone.
‘I’m thinking.’
‘Then think faster.’
Ed threw a scowl at Ironside and stood up. Putting his hands in the pockets of his trousers, he ignored the chief and started pacing, back and forth. He could feel the tension in his shoulders, the muscles in his neck tight. His head ached.
Dale had told him he was lucky; no longer wearing the uniform, that maybe it’s the uniform that locks a man up. But Ed considered his badge to be his uniform. He was locked in. He stopped pacing. Closed his eyes and tried to remember the faces of the men he’d killed in the line of duty. He couldn’t remember all of them, only some. Was the chief right? Did he not remember all their faces because it was his way of dealing with death, his way of accepting the fact he’d killed a man?
He realised the chief was right. He did remember his first kill in Vietnam, his second and then he’d shut down. Understood his only way to make it through the war was to shut down his emotions, to not react or feel when he killed an enemy. It had stuck, carried over to his job as a police officer. He could live with violence. With death. He could live without feeling any emotion when he killed a man because back in Vietnam, he’d created a coping mechanism that would allow him to live with it.
He was a cop.
He was proud to be a cop.
Ed opened his eyes and turned to look at Ironside. ‘I’m a cop.’
‘About flamin’ time,’ said Ironside as he wheeled his chair away from the table.
‘Chief,’ said Ed. Waited until Ironside turned back to him. ‘I won’t forget what you said. It means a lot.’
‘Anytime you need to be reminded you’re a cop, just let me know.’
‘I meant the compliment, chief. One of the best you said. I won’t forgot that.’
Ironside grimaced. ‘A compliment I won’t be making again, sergeant, if you don’t get back to work.’
‘Yes, chief.’
A sign of normal.
Ed just hoped it would last.
The End
Master Fan Fiction List
Fandom: Ironside [1967 TV Series]
Genre: Angst
Rating: PG
Main Characters: Sergeant Ed Brown, Chief Ironside and Officer Fran Belding.
Disclaimer: Based on the characters created by Collier Young.
Author's Note: Tag for S6 E7 'Nightmare Trip'.
More Author's Notes: If you haven't seen them, spoilers for the episodes: S6 E7 'Nightmare Trip' | S5 E4 'The Gambling Game' | S1 E18 'To Kill a Cop' | S1 E21 'All in a Day's Work'.
One More Author's Note: I'm ignoring the timeline used in the episode 'Nightmare Trip' for Ed Brown being in Vietnam because it contradicts everything.
Total Word Count: 4,171
Status: Complete
Summary: Chief Ironside isn't curious, he doesn't want know, but he does need to know why his sergeant found it necessary to spend time in a California prison as a John Doe.
Taking a deep, slow breath sergeant Ed Brown opened the door to Chief Ironside’s quarters on the third floor of police headquarters; a spacious combination that included an office, kitchenette, numerous desks, a large bed and smaller rooms off to the side. He stepped inside, allowing the door to close behind him. Moving slowly, in no hurry for a confrontation, he walked down the ramp, gaze searching for the chief.
The place looked empty. It felt cold, uninviting. Not sure if he were welcome after the stunt he’d pulled in California, Ed walked toward the stove in the small kitchenette, pouring himself a cup of much needed coffee. The previous two days difficult, emotionally, and physically. Exhaustion flooded his limbs, and he still had a mild headache which didn’t surprise him, his head slammed against a wall more than once during a fight in a small, confined cell, grateful it hadn’t been any worse. He could still feel the desperation he’d felt after the fight had ended, a desperate need to get out of the claustrophobic space, hands gripping the cell bars, calling to be let out.
Ed didn’t regret what he’d done, a short stay in a prison cell putting things into perspective. Forgetting what it was like to be a civilian, he’d become stuck in a routine he hadn’t recognised as destructive, not until Dale had released pent up emotions regarding his own job in the military. Ed recognised the signs; his friend had become desensitised to violence and death.
Killing a man meant nothing to Dale . . . “pull the trigger like I’m dictating a letter” he’d said, “throw a grenade like I’m making a phone call”. Ed knew how he felt, recognising his own form of desensitisation. He pushed the thoughts aside, he didn’t want to dwell on it, plenty of time for that when the chief demanded his sergeant explain his behaviour, why Ed had felt it necessary to spend time in a Californian prison as a John Doe. Ed had answers, just wasn’t sure he was ready or willing to give them.
If he were honest with himself . . . he wasn’t sure the chief would understand. If he would accept what Ed had done and move on, leaving the conversation and his sergeant’s feelings behind. And if he were really honest with himself . . . he was scared, afraid the chief would understand and that would lead to psychological testing, the last thing Ed wanted.
He turned to face the empty room. Took another sip of coffee and thought about what he should do. There was plenty of paperwork: filing to be done, forms to fill out, reports to type . . . he grimaced at the thought, mundane paperwork was the last thing he wanted to do. Nothing else to do but wait. Something he was content to do, enjoying the large open space of the chief’s quarters; the cell he shared with four other men had been too small, claustrophobic, the airplane crowded, and his apartment felt smaller than it was. He would wait, for how long he didn’t know.
It was plausible the chief and Mark were still on their way back from California, catching a later flight back to San Francisco. He hadn’t called the office before he left his apartment. If he had known the office was empty, he would have taken his time, taken a walk in the park, enjoyed the fresh air and the open space. He’d only spent twenty-four hours in that cell, but it felt as though he’d been in there much longer; days, weeks and he had allowed it to happen, went willingly into the claustrophobic atmosphere of a prison cell. Put himself into a situation where he could have received an injury more serious than a headache.
He didn’t regret it.
‘Ed!’
Body shifting with surprise at the sound of Fran’s voice, Ed stumbled and made a clumsy attempt to keep the hot coffee in the cup and not allow it to spill all over his hand. A sigh of relief when he succeeded. Regained his balance and looked up to see Fran rushing toward him. Afraid she was going to hug him Ed stepped back and held the cup of coffee up in front of his body as though it were a shield and then he saw her expression. She was angry. With him? No doubt in his mind. More concerned with a confrontation with the chief, he’d forgotten about Fran.
‘Are you all right,’ said Fran as she stopped in front of him. ‘Where have you been? What happened? And why didn’t you call? The chief’s been worried sick about you, we all have.’
Stunned by the reveal of the chief’s concern, his mind muted, Ed could only stare back at Fran.
‘Well? Are you going to answer me, or--’ Fran stopped mid-sentence and reached toward him, her anger quickly deflating, replaced just as quickly with an expression of concern. ‘You’re hurt. You’ve hit your head. You have a brain injury and can’t talk.’
Ed smiled and said, ‘Who can talk with you asking so many questions. Did you even manage to take a breath befo--’
’Don’t even think about changing the subject,’ said Fran. ‘I asked you a question Ed Brown. Answer it.’
‘Which one?’
‘All of them.’
Looking away, Ed went through everything Fran had asked in his head. Returning his gaze back to Fran, he replied with succinct answers. ‘No. California. Got mugged.’ Ignoring Fran’s sharp intake of breath, he continued. ‘Didn’t have a quarter. No. No and no. Although, I think there should be another “no” but, I’m not sure.’
Turning her back on him, Fran said, ‘You’re impossible.’
‘But you were worried about me?’
She ignored him, making her way to the round desk in the center of the room and picking up the phone she began to dial.
Ed frowned. ‘Who are you calling?’
‘I’m calling the chief to let him know I found you,’ said Fran as she took out her irritation and anger on the phone dial with a led pencil.
‘You found me? Are you sure you didn’t hit your head? Suffer a brain injury?’
Turning to look at him, Fran said, ‘Yes. Yes and no.’
‘Touché,’ said Ed, a smile creasing his features. ‘Is the chief still in California?’
‘How did you know he was in California?’
‘I’m a detective. It’s pretty obvious he would go there to look for me. And where he goes, Mark goes. So, is he still in California?’
‘No, he’s in a meeting with the commissioner.’
‘Not about me I hope.’ And he really hoped it wasn’t about him.
‘I’ve no idea,’ said Fran, as she turned away and began speaking. It was a short conversation, obvious the chief was no longer there, now on his way back to the office. Fran replaced the receiver and walked back toward him, stopping in front of him and crossing her arms over her chest. She frowned and said, ‘You are all right?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘You said you were mugged.’
‘Mugged and rolled,’ said Ed before drinking another mouthful of coffee. When he saw the change of expression on Fran’s face, he realised his mistake.
‘They threw you out of a car?’
‘A van actually--’
‘A van?’
‘Fran, I’m fine. Really.’
‘Then why didn’t you call? And don’t give me that line about not having a quarter.’
‘It’s a long story and I don’t feel like going into details right now. Dealing with the chief is going to bad enough, I don’t want to have to explain it all to you as well. How did they get back so quickly, the chief and Mark?’
‘They had a private charter.’
‘That explains the meeting with the commissioner.’
‘But you are, okay?’ said Fran.
‘I’ve already told you I am . . . three times now.’
‘I know, it’s just . . .’
‘Just what?’
‘You look pale.’
‘It was a long trip over a very short time. And I was mugged.’
Fran smiled. ‘All right, but you will let me know if you need anything?’
‘Fran,’ said Ed, ‘stop fussing, you’re almost as bad as Eve.’
His regret instant when Fran’s smile slipped then fell away.
‘You miss her, don’t you?’
‘Every day.’
Fran nodded, turned, and walked away. She sat down at the round table and began to shuffle through a small tower of files, sorting them, separating them, and placing them on the table next to her. A change of subject was needed but he didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know how to placate her mood. He’d upset her, that was certain, but he didn’t know why. He could always fall back on what he considered an old favourite when it came to women. Apologise.
He walked to the table, set his cup of coffee on the table, and sat down next to her. She refused to look at him, concentrating on the files in front of her. There were only a few files left, not enough to keep her attention away from him for much longer. He waited and when she was done, her gaze looking for something else to occupy her mind he spoke.
‘I’m sorry, Fran. I didn’t mean to upset you.’
‘You didn’t,’ said Fran as she turned her head to look at him.
‘Then what did I do?’
‘Would you have explained it all to Eve?’
So, that was it. Fran had joined the chief’s staff over a year ago and she still felt like an outsider. The case involving a gambling ring and the death of her father had been a mess, the chief injured and in constant pain, Ed and Fran had disliked each other almost immediately. The case had ended on a positive note, the killer found, the chief undergoing medical treatment to repair his neck injury. It had been an emotional ride, his fear and concern for the chief overriding everything else; the cause of his anger, his resentment toward Fran, laying blame for the chief’s injury on the young officer.
And then the chief had asked Fran Belding to join his staff on a permanent basis. It wasn’t long before he had grown to like Fran. She was smart, quick to smile and had a sense of humour that made him laugh but he knew they would never be close, not in the same way he was close with Eve. Eve Whitfield was a good friend, still was but he didn’t see her often as he would like, the time between contact growing longer each time. He knew, eventually, they would lose touch, the only reminder of their friendship a yearly Christmas card.
‘Honestly, Fran, I don’t know.’
‘I understand,’ said Fran.
‘No, you don’t.’
Ed looked away, lowered his head. Aware Fran was watching him, he took a moment to consider what he should say, if he were willing to reveal more than he wanted, to complicate their working relationship. No, it wasn’t the right time. She wouldn’t understand the lack of remorse he felt when killing a man.
Looking back at her, he said, ‘You’ve only been a police officer for what . . . fifteen months. I’ve been a police officer for over ten years. Let’s just say, everything came to a head, and I needed time to sort some things out in mind. It’s not that I don’t want to tell you it’s just . . . you won’t understand and the last thing I want right now is for you to judge me.’
‘I would never judge you, Ed, you know that.’
‘No, Fran, I don’t know that. Maybe, in a few years, I tell you but not now.’
‘I’ll hold you to that.’
‘Then it’s a date,’ said Ed, smiling, relieved when Fran smiled back at him.
‘All dates aside, perhaps you would care to explain it to me?’
His head snapped to the left, gaze catching the chief sat in his wheelchair at the top of the ramp. So caught up in the conversation with Fran, he hadn’t heard the elevator or the door to the office closing. He was caught off guard, unsure what to do or say.
The chief’s expression was neutral; this wasn’t good. Remembered what Fran had said . . . “the chief was worried sick about you”. The chief would never admit it, but it was comforting to know he cared. Mark stood behind the chief, smirking, enjoying Ed’s discomfort.
‘Mark, Fran,’ said the chief. ‘Find something to do.’
Felt Fran’s fingers wrap around his wrist, a slight amount of pressure applied, a touch of encouragement. ‘Good luck.’
He couldn’t turn his gaze away from the chief, Ironside staring back. He was aware of Fran standing up and walking away. Aware of Mark following her. They would go into the room on the left, close the sliding doors behind them, moving out of earshot to allow Ed and Ironside some privacy. Allow him to talk about what happened in California, confident his friends wouldn’t have their ears pressed against the door. Easier to talk . . . it didn’t matter, Ironside rolled his chair down the ramp, past Ed and toward the small conference table on the other side of the room. Stopping at the table, he turned his chair, looked at Ed and waited with expectation.
Ed knew what the chief wanted. Standing up, his confidence weak, he walked toward the chief, pulled out a chair at the end of the table and sat down. Ironside would ask questions, gather information but Ed knew it wouldn’t be for personal reasons, his questioning professional, no doubt worried his sergeant might be going off the rails; no sane man would willingly spend time in jail. No sane man would see a way out and refuse it, instead making a silent request to be left alone to deal with the situation in his own way.
The silence stretching, becoming uncomfortable . . . at least it became uncomfortable for Ed, Ironside said, ‘Ed?’
It wasn’t just a question, or a request, more a demand made in simple terms.
‘Chief,’ said Ed, the only thing he could think of to say in the moment.
The chief smiled and said, ‘Why don’t we start with something simple. Are you all right?’
Ed relaxed, only slightly, his back still straight, his forearms resting on the arms of the chair. ‘Yes.’
‘See, that wasn’t so hard, was it?’
‘No.’
‘Ed, you obviously don’t want to tell me what happened in California, but I think you need to talk about it, and I need to know why you thought it was a good idea to spend time in jail. You hid your identity from authorities and when I found you, you refused the offer of a get-out-of-jail-free card. What on earth were you thinking? Were you even thinking? I thought we’d gotten past your lack of thought when it came to making decisions.’
The Frank Vincent situation happened nearly five years ago. He confronted the man without thinking about the repercussions after two police officers were murdered. Two weeks suspension and a lecture from the chief about right thought and wrong thought the result. He wasn’t proud of what he’d done. He’d embarrassed the chief and the department. The chief had accepted his apology and his plan to draw Vincent out of his comfort zone and toward the weapon he’d used to murder a police officer.
Ed felt a bubble of anger churn in his gut. Lowering his gaze, he rubbed the palm of his right hand against his thigh. Aware his body language was mirroring his anger and frustration, he stopped, lifted his gaze and said, ‘You’re wrong, chief. I was thinking. If anything, I was thinking too much, and it was the right kind of thinking. I am sorry for embarrassing you again but if I had a choice, I would do it again.’
‘Why? Why in the flamin’ hell did you think it was a good idea to be arrested and put in a jail cell with four other men?’
He didn’t know how to voice what he was feeling without giving the impression he was going through some kind of breakdown, but he needed to be honest. He had never lied to the chief, and he never would.
‘I’d forgotten what it was like to be a civilian.’
‘And you thought spending time in a jail cell would change that?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Out of the blue, you decided to get arrested to remind yourself what it was like to be a civilian?’
‘Not exactly, no.’
‘Then what exactly?’
He didn’t want to bring Dale into the conversation but felt he didn’t have much choice. No reasonable explanation without explaining Dale’s situation and comparing it to his own.
‘Does it have anything to do with the friend you spoke to before a simple case of escort duty went to hell?’
The chief could read him like an open book. Ed nodded. ‘He’s at a place in life he doesn’t want to be.’
‘Go on,’ said Ironside, leaning forward, elbows resting on the arms of his wheelchair, his hands held together.
‘He’s become desensitised to his . . . work. Told me some things that in a way mirrored my life.’
‘In what way?’
‘Dale received his oak leaves. I congratulated him and . . .’ Ed shook his head, remembering the way his friend had reacted. ‘He got angry, defensive. In a way, he told me he didn’t want to be where he was . . . in the military, with his life in general. He admitted he kills like he’s dictating a memo or making a phone call. Life means nothing to him. He feels nothing when he kills.
‘I arrest people like I’m dictating a memo. I treat people the same, even though they’re different. I dehumanise them. They’re all the same to me and I feel nothing. I kill people when I have to, and I feel nothing. I don’t remember all their faces or their names only some. It’s the same thing. I’m not that different to Dale, I’m just in a different profession. He said it’s the uniform that locks a man in. He’s wrong about that but he’s right about the routine, doing the same thing over and over. It all became too routine, and I didn’t even know it. I was locked behind a shield of duty and the only way I could think of getting out of it was to remind myself what it was like on the other side of the badge, so when the opportunity presented itself, I took it.’
‘All right, Ed. We need to deal with this now before it festers. So, I’m going to be blunt. If you’re not comfortable with some of the things you have to do as a police officer, then quit. Find another job but whatever you choose to do, don’t bring your self-pity to work.’
‘You think it’s self-pity I’m feeling. I don’t feel sorry for myself. I don’t feel anything, that’s the problem.’
‘Then you shouldn’t be a cop. Period.’
‘But I am a cop. I don’t know how to be anything else. It’s just . . . I just want to be able to feel something when I kill a man.’
‘Then feel something but feel something constructive,’ said Ironside. ‘Ed, do you remember how Eve reacted when she shot and killed Billy Matling. She almost drowned under the weight of guilt she was feeling. She told me she wanted to be a human being as well as a cop. I told her she had to learn to be both. You need to do the same but from a different perspective.’
‘I wasn’t there for that conversation.’
‘Then you should have been . . . for future reference. If you had, I wouldn’t be repeating myself. Ed, you’re a good cop, one of the best and you’re also a good man. Feeling nothing doesn’t make you wrong or inhuman. People deal with things differently. Eve felt too much, you think you don’t feel enough. Feeling nothing is the way your subconscious deals with what you have to do as a police officer.’
‘That doesn’t make me feel any better.’
‘I had no intention of making you feel better, sergeant. It was meant to sort out that mess you call a brain.’
‘One minute you’re giving me compliments and the next you’re insulting me.’
‘Since when do I give you a compliment,’ said Ironside as he sat back in his chair.
‘You said I was a good police officer, one of the best.’
‘As though I would ever admit you were a good officer.’
‘You have, twice,’ said Ed before giving up the battle.
‘Don’t change the subject. Just answer the question.’
Ed frowned. ‘What question?’
‘Are you going to continue to be a cop or are you going to quit and find something else to do.’
‘I already told you I don’t know how to be anything else.’
‘Yes, you did and there is your answer.’
‘That’s no answer.’
‘It’s my answer and my answers are always the right answers. You say you can’t be anything else, then learn to live with what you can be. A good cop and no, that wasn’t a compliment. Accept the way you are and get on with the damn job.’
It was easier said than done thought Ed as he lowered his head, looking away from the man he respected and admired. One of the things he liked about the chief was his ability to be blunt, telling a man or woman what they needed to hear and not what they wanted to hear, his words always honest, always sincere.
When he’d walked out of that prison, his extradition in tow, he’d felt better. He had admitted he was a cop and he felt proud to be a cop . . . until his retirement or his death. What had happened in the last twelve hours to change that?
This conversation.
It brought it all back, his friend’s reaction, Dale’s admittance. Ed couldn’t help but compare Dale’s situation with his own. They had started out together, finding friendship in the forests of Vietnam as they fought together against the Viet Cong. A piece of shrapnel in his lower back had given Ed a medical discharge. Not long after he’d arrived home, he’d joined the police academy and three months later he was a cop . . .
He refused to think about Anne.
Dale had remained in Vietnam . . . continued fighting, killing. Ed had seen a lot in his short time in the military, Dale had seen a lot more. As a former marine and now a cop, Ed felt he was able to compare the violence of Vietnam to the violence on the streets of San Francisco. They didn’t compare. He could understand why Dale felt the way he did, and he hoped his friend came to a decision about his situation that would be beneficial.
‘Well?’ said Ironside, his impatience voiced in his tone.
‘I’m thinking.’
‘Then think faster.’
Ed threw a scowl at Ironside and stood up. Putting his hands in the pockets of his trousers, he ignored the chief and started pacing, back and forth. He could feel the tension in his shoulders, the muscles in his neck tight. His head ached.
Dale had told him he was lucky; no longer wearing the uniform, that maybe it’s the uniform that locks a man up. But Ed considered his badge to be his uniform. He was locked in. He stopped pacing. Closed his eyes and tried to remember the faces of the men he’d killed in the line of duty. He couldn’t remember all of them, only some. Was the chief right? Did he not remember all their faces because it was his way of dealing with death, his way of accepting the fact he’d killed a man?
He realised the chief was right. He did remember his first kill in Vietnam, his second and then he’d shut down. Understood his only way to make it through the war was to shut down his emotions, to not react or feel when he killed an enemy. It had stuck, carried over to his job as a police officer. He could live with violence. With death. He could live without feeling any emotion when he killed a man because back in Vietnam, he’d created a coping mechanism that would allow him to live with it.
He was a cop.
He was proud to be a cop.
Ed opened his eyes and turned to look at Ironside. ‘I’m a cop.’
‘About flamin’ time,’ said Ironside as he wheeled his chair away from the table.
‘Chief,’ said Ed. Waited until Ironside turned back to him. ‘I won’t forget what you said. It means a lot.’
‘Anytime you need to be reminded you’re a cop, just let me know.’
‘I meant the compliment, chief. One of the best you said. I won’t forgot that.’
Ironside grimaced. ‘A compliment I won’t be making again, sergeant, if you don’t get back to work.’
‘Yes, chief.’
A sign of normal.
Ed just hoped it would last.
The End
Master Fan Fiction List
no subject
Date: 2021-05-30 06:58 am (UTC)You have no idea how much of a smile I have on my face right now. You have made my weekend, and probably my year.
All my brain is doing at the moment is alternating between “OMFG Ironside fic” and “OMFG Ed Brown icon” but at some point in the near future I’m sure it will be coherent enough for me to write a comment for AO3.
In the meantime, this is fabulous and I love it.
*another happy sigh*
-x-
no subject
Date: 2021-06-01 01:06 am (UTC)And any Ed Brown icon you see, you're welcome to snag it :)