Ironside - 'The Draft Dodger' - 3/8
Sep. 29th, 2021 08:21 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
azombiewritesTitle: The Draft Dodger
Fandom: Ironside [1967 TV Series]
Genre: Crime | Hurt/Comfort | Angst
Rating: PG
Main Characters: Sergeant Ed Brown, Chief Ironside, Officer Fran Belding, Lieutenant Carl Reese, Mark Sanger and Commissioner Dennis Randall.
Disclaimer: Based on the characters created by Collier Young.
Author's Note: Set between S5 E4 'The Gambling Game' and S5 E5 'Ring of Prayer' because I still wanted there to be some conflict between Ed and Fran.
Author's Other Note: Ed Brown was a marine who saw combat in Vietnam - even though the timing in the show is all fucked up - and, it drives me crazy this piece of cannon is rarely mentioned in the show. And it drove me insane when there was no mention of his past in the season 4 episode ‘No Game for Amateurs’. As soon as the plot included draft dodgers, I kept wanting to know what Ed Brown thought of draft dodgers. But Ed’s past wasn’t included in the plot and that left me disappointed and wanting to know more. So, I wrote my own story. This is a separate story and doesn’t mirror ‘No Game for Amateurs’ in any way.
Chapter Word Count: 7,631
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 Three
More than an hour’s drive to Mrs. Warner’s apartment building, too much time to think, the thoughts tumbled through his mind as Ed drove, his emotions conflicted and confused. He didn’t understand the chief’s behaviour, his concern toward his sergeant. During his career as a police officer, Ed had suffered some setbacks; a few injuries, nothing serious, the occasional mild concussion; his character questioned when accused of police brutality; arrested for murder due to mistaken identity; kidnapped; on the run, chased by contract killers, Ironside never as concerned as he was now.
Ironside cared. . . about everyone else. Ed shook his head. No. That wasn’t right. Ed knew Ironside cared about him, the chief just didn’t show his concern when it came to sergeant Ed Brown, always hiding his concern behind a gruff exterior. But this, this was something more, Ironside gracious with his emotions, caring enough to make certain his sergeant was okay, warning him not to confront a dangerous killer on his own. Wondered if the chief had given Carl the same warning.
Ed had given his word he wouldn’t, Ironside accepting it without question, but he didn’t understand the warning or the concern, more than capable of defending himself. The marines had trained him to kill, with a gun, a knife, his hands. . . anything within reach. He remembered a hot and humid morning in Vietnam, his skin prickling with sweat at the memory. He had killed a man with a branch of bamboo, piercing the jugular, the blood hot and sticky. Tightened his grip on the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white.
Ed shook his head again, at the memory and Ironside’s behaviour. The more he thought about it, the more confused he became. He didn’t understand it, still waiting for the other shoe to drop.
‘You’ve developed a twitch,’ said Fran.
Ed didn’t answer, thinking he now had an opportunity to apologise for his behaviour, for his lack of professional conduct. In his mind, he tried to form an apology that wouldn’t sound patronising to a woman still fragile after the death of her father.
‘You keep shaking your head.’
‘Sorry, I was thinking,’ said Ed, glancing at Fran but she had turned away from him, her gaze focused on something else as she looked out the window.
Her tone dulled, Fran said, ‘What were you thinking about?’
He hesitated, not sure of what he should say. Ed wanted to apologise, but Fran didn’t seem to be interested in what he had to say. Not wanting to give up on her, he put the apology aside, testing the waters with another topic.
‘I was thinking about what the chief said.’
‘The chief said a lot of things.’
Felt a splinter of anger. ‘The last thing he said. To me.’
‘The chief’s right. If a former boxer couldn’t defend himself against that kind of killer, what sort of chance do you have.’
Not a question. A statement. Did she really think he was a coward, a man incapable of defending himself? Knew he should respond with the truth, but he was not going to tell her about his military experience, his time in Vietnam. Resting his left elbow on the edge of the window frame, Ed rubbed the back of his thumb against his chin, a sign of frustration. He’d had enough. Turning the car into the next empty parking spot, he slammed on the brakes, Fran’s body snapping forward, then back. Turned off the engine.
‘Ed!’
‘I’m sorry, Fran,’ said Ed as he twisted his body to face her, his right arm resting across the back of the seat. ‘I’m. Sorry. I treated you with more kindness than I should have. You’re grieving and I didn’t want to cause you anymore pain. I’m sorry I wasn’t more professional. I’m sorry I didn’t reprimand. . .’ Stopped mid-sentence when he saw Fran smiling. ‘What?’
‘The chief said the same thing.’
He shook his head, his mind frozen with confusion.
Fran pointed at him. ‘You’re shaking your head again.’ And then she put him out of his misery. ‘The chief spoke to me last night after you left.’
‘About me?’
‘He said you had been treating me as friend instead of a police officer.’
‘He told me I was being too soft with you.’
Gripping his hand with her fingers, Fran said, ‘I’m sorry too, Ed. I made the past week harder for you.’
‘Truce,’ said Ed.
‘Truce.’
‘You were upset this morning,’ said Ed. ‘Was that my fault?’
‘No,’ said Fran as she looked away from him.
Given the impression she didn’t want to talk about what had upset her, Ed turned back in his seat, placing his hands on the steering wheel, pausing when Fran spoke, her voice fragile, her emotions strong.
‘A good friend of mine was sent to Vietnam.’
Tightened his grip on the steering wheel when his hands began to shake. ‘I’m sorry, Fran.’
‘He’d been gone a year. When he came back home for a visit. . . Ed, he was a different man. He was so angry, quick to lose his temper. Violent. I couldn’t understand why he was going back. When I asked him, he said he didn’t know what else to do. He didn’t come back. He was killed in Vietnam.’
Ed stared out the front window, unable to look at Fran. ‘That’s why you don’t like the military? You think the army changed your friend?’
Fran nodded as she bit her lower lip.
‘The army didn’t change your friend. Vietnam did that. No one is the same when they come back from that place. . .’
Snapping at him, Fran said, ‘How would you know?’
Filled with a coldness he couldn’t explain, Ed ignored her. He started the car and drove away from the curb. He could hear her tears as she cried, her back to him as she turned her face from him. At any other time, he would reach out, offer emotional support, a shoulder to cry on. But not now. He didn’t want to help. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t understand the anger she felt toward him. Couldn’t feel empathy toward her. Couldn’t feel any sort of emotion; anger, remorse, fear. . . he felt nothing.
.
.
.
Ed parked the car in front of the apartment building. Turned off the ignition, opened the door and got out of the car. Slamming the door shut, he shoved the keys into his pocket, and stepped up onto the sidewalk. He faced the building, waited as he heard the passenger door close, Fran stepping up beside him. About to move forward, he stopped, Fran’s words causing him to hesitate.
‘Ed, I’m sorry I snapped at you.’
He glanced at Fran. She stood with her shoulders straight, her eyes red and full of doubt. He thought about what she’d been through, her father murdered, the death of a close friend in Vietnam. Remembered the way she had placed her hand the chief’s shoulder earlier that day, the chief showing his support, squeezing her hand. The expression on her face when Malcom had referred to the men sent to Vietnam as baby killers.
He was an uncaring idiot. Of course, she had snapped at him. Fran didn’t know he’d been in Vietnam. She didn’t know about his experiences. He felt no blame toward her, no longer angry, a feeling of empathy growing.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Ed, moving forward and opening the door, holding it open while Fran stepped through the doorway and into the foyer.
He followed her in, closing the door behind him. They walked to the elevator, Ed pressing the button, hands in his pockets as they waited. Fran had fallen silent, but Ed could feel her eyes on him, she was watching him. He felt his skin crawling under her scrutiny. Was she trying to decide if his acceptance of her apology was genuine, or had she come to understand his reaction when she’d snapped at him? He didn’t want to know, quickly stepping into the elevator when the doors opened.
‘Have you met Mrs. Warner?’ said Fran, following him into the elevator.
‘Yes.’
‘You worked on the case?’
‘Yes,’ said Ed as he pressed the button marked with the number ten. Stood still as he stared at the panel of numbers above the elevator doors, tracking their progress to the tenth floor.
‘What’s she like?’
‘She’s like every other woman who’s lost their husband.’
‘You’re angry with me,’ said Fran as she turned her head to look at him.
Ed sighed, not in frustration but defeat. Only early-morning and it felt as though it were late in the day, Ed ready to go home. To close his eyes and sleep. The memories of Vietnam in the distance, he felt he could sleep without the nightmares, without the help of Mrs. Miller’s sedatives. He’d been wrong to accept them, he knew that, but he hadn’t been in a good state of mind at the time. He looked down at his hands, could see the slight tremor running through his fingers, his hands shaking. Clenched his fists. Opened his hands and put them in his pockets.
‘Ed?’
Fran didn’t just want an answer, she needed an answer. ‘Fran, I’m not angry with you. I’m just. . . tired. It’s been a long week.’
‘And, I haven’t help,’ said Fran.
‘No, Fran, you haven’t.’
Fran had shown no support, only doubt at Ed’s ability to do, not only the chief’s job, but his own. She often gave him the impression she didn’t like him, resented him for some reason he couldn’t understand, possible he’d given her cause to dislike him. She’d smiled at him that morning, Ed now wondering if the expression had been genuine. Lowered his head and closed his eyes. Thought about what Ironside hold told him the day before; your doubts were your own. Was he projecting his doubts onto others, blaming them for his failings? No. He hadn’t failed, the case solved, the job done, his and the chief’s.
‘You look tired,’ said Fran.
About to answer her, Ed stopped, the words catching in his throat when the elevator stopped at the seventh floor, and the doors opened. A man, a look of surprise on his features, stepped into the elevator. Turning his back on them, the man reached for the buttons, lowering his hand without pressing a floor number. . . the man also heading toward the tenth floor.
Ed scrutinised the man; at least six feet, heavyset with dark brown hair and clean-shaven features. The man began to fidget, shifting from one foot to the other, glancing back over his shoulder at Ed, quickly turning his head back to the front when he realised Ed was watching him.
The man’s behaviour poking at Ed’s intuition, Ed stepped back, closer to the back of the elevator. Gripping Fran’s elbow, he pulled her toward him, shaking his head at her when she began to protest, pulling her elbow from his grip. His expression serious, Fran frowned and then she followed his lead, stepping back with him.
Resting his hand on the butt of his service weapon, Ed waited. He could see the tension in the man’s shoulders, the man’s stare as he watched the number display. Finally reaching the tenth floor, the elevator stopped, and the doors opened. The man stepped out, turning left, and walking away.
Taking his hand from his revolver, Ed followed him into the hallway, watching as the man walked around a corner and into another hallway. Ed walked to the right, Fran staying close. He could sense her curiosity, her need to ask questions; she wanted an explanation. Ed walked to the door of Mrs. Warner, stopped, turned his head to look back. The man stood at the corner watching them, retreating out of sight when Ed had turned to look at him.
The suspicion exploding in his chest, Ed turned quickly and began to run, chasing his suspicion. Fran called after him, Ed ignoring her as he ran, expecting her to follow procedure, to stay with him, to watch his back.
Forgetting his long stride, his speed, Ed creating too much distance between himself and Fran as he rounded the corner. The man stood by a door, a sign on the wall indicating it was a fire exit. Ed didn’t slow, the man snatching at the door handle when he saw Ed, opening it and disappearing into the stairwell.
Ed followed him, catching the door before it could close. His heart pounded in his chest, the adrenaline pumping through his limbs as he ran down the stairs. He could hear Fran behind him, the sound of her footsteps distant. The sound of his shoes slamming against the concrete stairs echoed around him. As he rounded a flight of stairs, Ed caught a glimpse of the man running from him, saw a glint of metal in his hand. Drawing his weapon, Ed continued the pursuit.
A door slammed shut below him. Reaching the door, Ed’s fingers wrapped around the door handle, taken by surprise when the door slammed open, the edge of the door striking him against the side of the head, Ed knocked backwards. Hand slapping the wall behind him, he tried to regain his balance. He was at a disadvantage. . .
‘Ed!’
He looked up at the sound of Fran’s voice, saw the knife as it came toward him, the weapon slicing through the air. Snapped his upper body back and to the right, the knife barely missing his throat, but it was enough, the suspect successful in stopping the pursuit.
Losing his balance, Ed fell, his body tumbling down the stairs. Not a long fall, Ed’s body hitting the wall when it had nowhere else to go. The breath knocked from his lungs, he struggled to get up. Heard the door above him close, looked up to see Fran coming toward him, her own movements frantic, an expression of anger when she saw he was all right; nothing broken, just his ego bruised and his lungs empty.
Kneeling beside him, her hand on his shoulder, Fran said, ‘Ed Brown, what on earth were you thinking?’
Ed didn’t answer, still trying to pull in a breath. Relaxed his body, let his head fall back and closed his eyes.
‘Ed?’
Pulled in a deep breath.
‘Are you okay?’
Opened his eyes, saw the concern in hers. Nodded his head. ‘I’m fine.’
Her concern quickly turned back to anger. ‘Ed, you promised the chief you wouldn’t confront the killer on your own.’
‘That wasn’t the killer.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Because a man that good with his fists wouldn’t run from anyone, including the police.’
Using the wall behind him as support, Ed pushed his body up, Fran taking his left arm, an offer of help he accepted without complaint. His legs shook, not from fear, the adrenaline leaving his body, his limbs. He wanted to go after the man but knew it was too late, the suspect no doubt riding the elevator to the first floor. No time to wait for an elevator, time taken to run down the stairwell too long, the man gone by the time Ed could reach the first floor.
‘How did he know we’re police officers?’ said Fran, still holding onto his arm.
‘Fran, in case you hadn’t noticed, I have the word “police” written across my forehead.’
Fran squinted as she looked at him, her eyes searching his face.
Ed frowned. Thinking he was bleeding, he raised his right hand and realising he still held his gun he put it back in its holster. Pressed his fingers against the side of his head where the door had hit him. A painful spot, the skin not broken. No blood. Looked at Fran and said, ‘What?’
Fran smiled. ‘I was looking for the word “police” on your forehead.’
‘Very funny,’ said Ed, shrugging off her arm and making his way up the stairs back to the tenth floor, his back feeling bruised, his shoulders stiff with pain. He could feel a headache forming, spreading across the side of his head. Fran stayed close behind him, too close. Did she think he was going to fall on his ass?
‘Do you want to tell me why you were pursuing a man who isn’t Henry Warner’s killer.’
‘Fran, if you can’t work that out for yourself, then you’re in the wrong job.’
.
.
.
Three weeks ago, Mrs. Elizabeth Warner had been distraught, unable to control her emotions, no effort made on her appearance; hair a mess, makeup running, her clothes wrinkled. Today, her eyes dry, her hair straight, her makeup perfect, she sat on a plain, beige lounge with her legs crossed.
No offer of coffee, she answered their questions, her answers short, the information she gave limited. The suspicion still lingering, Ed began to suspect something wasn’t right. You didn’t get over the death of the person you loved in three weeks. There were days when Ed’s grief was so strong, he struggled to get up in the morning, even after almost ten years. Knew there were others like him, including the chief.
His chair uncomfortable, the muscles in his back still sore, Ed stood up and walked to the window. Looking down at the street, he listened as Fran asked the same questions, he had asked three weeks earlier, testing Mrs. Warner, the widow giving the same answers in a monochrome tone, lacking emotion.
A suspect running from the police; a suspect who Ed was certain was on his way to the apartment of Mrs. Warner. He decided to switch tactics. Before Fran could ask another question, he turned away from the window, looked at Mrs. Warner and said, ‘You were expecting someone before we arrived, who was he?’
Ignored Fran when she turned to look at him, her expression revealing her surprise. The young officer still had a lot to learn.
‘Six-foot, heavyset, dark brown hair, clean shaven?’ said Ed, watching her expression carefully.
Mrs. Warner lowered her head, hiding her features from him, and looked down at her hands.
‘Drives a dark green two door Polara.’ He didn’t know the man in the elevator drove the Polara, adding the description of the car because he wanted to assess the widow’s reaction.
‘I don’t know who he is. I received a phone call yesterday from a man who said he wanted to talk to me about my husband’s death. ’
‘You spoke to him yesterday,’ said Ed, moving forward and sitting back down next to Fran.
‘Yes.’
‘On the phone.’
‘I told him to call the police, but he came knocking on my door about an hour after he called. I told him the same thing, to call you and then I closed the door.’
‘You had no interest in what he had to say about your husband’s murder.’
‘It’s not my job to investigate Henry’s death, it’s yours.’
Fran shifted forward in her seat and said, ‘Why didn’t you call us, Mrs. Warner?’
‘Because I assumed he was going to call you.’
Leaning back in the chair, Ed waited, watching the woman in front of him. Her eyes still dry, her body language defensive. . . he didn’t believe her. ‘How often did your husband go out at two in the morning?’
‘You asked me that question three weeks ago.’
‘I’m asking you again, Mrs. Warner. How often did your husband go out at two in the morning?’
‘Why are you doing this to me?’ said Mrs. Warner as she looked up at him, her expression full of anger.
Ed felt no sympathy toward her, his suspicions still nagging at him. ‘Answer my question, Mrs. Warner.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Was it possible your husband was having another affair?
‘No. I told him if he had another affair, I would leave him.’
‘What about you?’ said Ed. In his peripheral, he could see Fran, her body becoming tense as she straightened her back.
‘No, sergeant, I am not having an affair.’
Ed smiled. ‘You were quick to assume that’s what I was asking, Mrs. Warner.’
‘I assumed nothing of the sort. You suspect me of my husband’s murder, that much is obvious.’ She stood up, walked quickly to the front door, and opened it. ‘Please leave.’
Fran stood up.
Ed didn’t move. His gaze steady as he looked at Mrs. Warner, he said, ‘He got on the elevator on the seventh floor. Do you know anyone who lives on the seventh floor matching the description I gave you?’
Her hesitation confirmed Ed’s suspicions.
‘No, I don’t know anyone like that?’
‘Like what?’ said Ed.
‘Like the man you described.’
‘Not like a criminal. . . or a man who kills for money.’
‘I asked you to leave.’
Nodding, Ed stood up and followed Fran out of the apartment, stopping in the open doorway. Turned back and leaning in close, Mrs. Warner stepping back from him, Ed said, ‘Pretty bear.’
Mrs. Warner flinched. ‘Get out!’
Ed left, turning his back on her before she could slam the door in his face. Checking his watch, he walked toward the elevator, shaking his head at Fran when he noticed she wanted to say something. Pressing the button for the elevator, he turned to look at her.
‘What did do you think of Mrs. Warner?’
Fran frowned, taking a moment to think before answering, a faint smile crossing her features. ‘She’s not like, every other woman who’s lost their husband.’
Ed smiled and said, ‘No, she wasn’t. She was a grieving widow the first time I met her.’
‘She was lying about the man in the elevator,’ said Fran.
‘Yes.’
‘You revealed a piece of information only the killer and our witness know. Why? If she is guilty of hiring someone to kill her husband, she now knows we have a witness.’
‘Fran, what good’s an ace if you don’t play it,’ said Ed, repeating something Ironside had once told him.
‘And what about Malcom? You’ve put him at risk.’
Getting impatient, Ed pressed the elevator button again. ‘Malcom is under police protection. Right now, he’s sitting comfortably in the chief’s office on the third floor of police headquarters. He’s safe where he is.’
‘For how long? It could take weeks to find Warner’s killer and I don’t believe the chief’s patience will last that long.’
The elevator arrived, the doors opening. Ed allowed Fran to go in first. Once inside he pressed the button for the first floor. The doors closed and the elevator moved, his balance tilting before settling. Ed felt irritated, anger forming in the pit of his stomach. Once again, Fran was doubting him.
His tone calm, his gaze steady as he watched the numbers above the elevator doors, Ed said, ‘Fran, I’ve been a police officer for over ten years. A detective of sergeants for eight. The chief selected me to be a part of his team for a reason. Stop questioning my ability to do the job.’
‘Ed, that’s not what I was doing. I--’
‘It’s exactly what you were doing. You’ve been doing it all week. I was wrong not to put a stop to it sooner, but I’ve had enough. Don’t do it again.’ He turned his head to look at her, Fran staring back at him. He smiled. ‘Let’s start over.’
It took a moment, Fran smiling back, nodding in acceptance.
Turned his gaze away from her. A fresh start, Ed not sure how long it would last. He thought about what she had said, the chief not having the patience to allow John Malcom to remain at police headquarters for a long period of time. Ed wasn’t concerned about the chief’s patience, more concerned with his own. It wouldn’t take much, a wrong word, a particular phrase used, and he would snap. He didn’t lose his temper often, but Ed knew, if he lost his temper with John Malcom. . . suspended once again for police brutality, his career would end.
.
.
.
Ed followed Fran into the office, his stomach rumbling with hunger. He couldn’t remember the last time he ate, a vague recollection of a hotdog sometime the day before. Walking down the ramp, he glanced to his right, his hunger retreating at the sight of John Malcom. The young man stood in the kitchenette, staring at Ed with an expression Ed easily recognised. It was the same expression he’d seen on people’s faces as he’d walked down the street in his dress uniform; people who had spat at him and called him a baby killer. It was an expression full of disgust.
Malcom had worked it out. Or someone had told him. He now knew Ed had been in Vietnam. It was only a matter of time before a confrontation occurred, Malcom making accusations, Ed would react, his reaction filled with anger and violence.
Stopping where he was, Ed stared back, a feeling of satisfaction when Malcom turned away. He waited, knowing Malcom would look back at him and he did, a few seconds later, glancing back over his shoulder at Ed. This time Malcom held the stare, but Ed refused to look away.
‘Ed!’
Saw the smile flicker across Malcom’s face. Felt the anger settle in the pit of his stomach, the anger forcing him to ignore the chief. Before he could think of what he was doing, Ed turned and walked toward the kitchenette. Smiled when Malcom stepped back. With the young man’s back against the sink, Ed reached past him, grabbed a cup off the shelf and poured himself a cup of coffee.
‘Sergeant Brown!’
Unable to ignore that tone, Ed looked at Malcom before walking away. He could tell Malcom wanted to say something, not enough courage to voice his thoughts, at least not yet. Ed knew he could inflict a lot of damage before anyone else in the office could pull him away, possible Malcom was aware of a Vietnam veteran’s skill set, the man waiting until they had an audience, able to say what he wanted when he knew there would be someone else there to stop any violence aimed toward him. Ed grimaced, not looking forward to the confrontation but he knew it was inevitable.
Almost stumbled when he saw the ensemble sitting at the conference table. The chief sat at the head of the table, commissioner Randall beside him. Then Mark, Reese, and Fran. Is this why Malcom hadn’t confronted him. . . no, this would have been a perfect opportunity, Malcom thinking Ed wouldn’t react with the commissioner in the same room.
Malcom was wrong.
‘Are you all right,’ said Fran.
Ed frowned in confusion, understanding slapping him in the face. She’d seen his grimace, mistaking it for something else, assuming he was hurting after his fall down a flight of stairs. His head did ache, a mild irritation, easily ignored; he had worse.
He looked back at Malcom, turned his gaze to Fran. ‘I’m fine.’
Her gaze flicked toward the man standing in the kitchenette, before she looked back at Ed. She nodded in understanding, again assuming something different, thinking he was angry at Malcom on her behalf. Pulled out a chair to sit down at the conference table, hesitating when he saw that familiar expression on the chief’s face, Ironside impatient and frustrated. Put his cup of coffee on the conference table and sat down.
‘Well?’ said Ironside.
‘Mrs. Warner is no longer a grieving widow.’
‘We have a suspect?’ said Ironside.
‘We have a suspect.’
‘You pushed?’
‘I pushed.’
‘How did she react when you called her pretty bear.’
‘She threw us out of her apartment.’
‘She threw us out when you accused her of having an affair,’ said Fran.
His anger already ignited, Ed turned his head, ready to snap but Fran was smiling.
‘Always a gentleman,’ said Ironside. ‘What time did you leave Mrs. Warner’s apartment?’
‘Ten thirty-five.’
Ironside nodded, and said, ‘If Mrs. Warner is guilty of conspiring to kill her husband, she would have called her accomplice as soon as you left her apartment.’
‘I’ll deal with that,’ said Reese. ‘The apartment building has a telephone operator. If she made a call to someone who lives in the building, the call would have gone through the operator.’
‘Carl, you’ll also need to do a deeper background check on all the men living on the seventh floor. . .’ Ed stopped talking, aware of the look the chief was giving him. With a sheepish grin, he said, ‘Sorry, chief.’
‘No need to be sorry, sergeant.’
Randall leant forward, resting his forearms on the conference table. ‘Why a deeper background check?’
‘Ed fell across a possible suspect,’ said Fran.
Ed struggled to keep a straight face.
‘The wife,’ said Randall, nodding at Fran.
‘No, sir, the driver of the car.’
Ironside tilted his head, a hint of pride on his features. ‘A suspect who lives on the seventh floor.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Ed.
‘And how did you . . . fall across him?’
Before he could answer, Fran said, ‘That was after Ed chased him down a stairwell and he didn’t exactly fall across him. He fell down a flight of stairs.’
‘The suspect fell down a flight of stairs?’ said Randall.
‘No, sir, Ed fell down the stairs.
Heard a soft chuckle behind him. Turned in his seat to find Malcom standing behind him. . . too close.
‘Ed?’
‘He caught me by surprise,’ said Ed, turning back to face Ironside.
‘Unusual for anyone to catch you by surprise,’ said Ironside.
Ed knew that statement was for Malcom’s benefit.
‘Start at the beginning,’ said Ironside.
After Ed finished telling them about the man in the elevator, Ironside pushed a large sheet of paper toward his sergeant. Ed took it, pulling it closer. It was a composite sketch of a man with similar features to the man in the elevator. Possible they were related. Handing the sketch to Fran, Ed nodded and said, ‘The resemblance is enough to make me think the man we saw is related to the killer.’
Ironside nodded. ‘Brothers, or cousins.
‘Or he could be the killer,’ said Mark. ‘I mean, he could have shaved off the moustache.’
‘No. The guy we pursued wasn’t the killer.’
‘Now, Ed,’ said Mark. ‘You can’t be sure of that.’
‘Ed’s sure,’ said Fran.
‘Does this mean,’ said Ed, pointing at the composite, ‘that Malcom wasn’t able to identify the killer from the mugshots.’
‘No identification,’ said Reese.
‘What about Mr. and Mrs. Hendricks?’ said Fran.
Reese shook his head. ‘Mrs. Hendricks stuck to her story. She doesn’t hold a grudge against her husband or Warner. Had no reason to kill him. Says she met someone who recently proposed. She’s happy and plans to see a divorce lawyer. And she didn’t react when I called her pretty bear. She’s not a suspect.’
‘And Mr. Hendricks?’
‘Still blames his wife and Warner for the end of his marriage but no reaction to pretty bear.’
‘So, still a suspect then,’ said Ed.
‘Still a suspect.’
‘Is Mr. Hendricks physically capable of beating a former boxer to death?’
‘No,’ said Reese, looking at Fran. ‘But he does have a healthy bank balance.’
‘Except,’ said Ironside, ‘Mr. Hendricks didn’t make any cash withdrawals before or after Mr. Warner’s murder.’
‘You still believe Warner was killed by a contract killer?’ said Randall.
‘Until we find something to prove otherwise.’
Randall turned to look at Reese. ‘Have there been any other cases with the same method of killing?’
‘Not that we could find, no. But we’re still looking.’
‘And Mrs. Warner,’ said Randall, ‘does she have a bank account?’
‘Yes,’ said Reese, ‘and no suspicious activity with her account but there is a life insurance policy worth ten thousand dollars.’
‘Has she tried to cash it in?’
‘No, sir. As far as we can tell, she hasn’t called the insurance company.’
Ironside, slapping his hands against the arms of his wheelchair, said, ‘All right, for now we’ll concentrate on Mrs. Warner, Mr. Hendricks, and Ed’s suspect. Carl--’
‘Background checks and reinterview the building’s occupants. Talk to the telephone operator. I’ll take a copy of this sketch,’ said Carl, reaching over and taking the composite from Fran, ‘show it to the officers who did the initial interviews and everyone else in the building, see if anyone recognises him.’
‘Not alone,’ said Ironside, waiting for Reese’s agreement before looking at Fran. ‘Fran--’
‘Talk to Mrs. Warner’s friends and ask them if they suspect she was having an affair.’
Nodding, Ironside said, ‘And ask her friends if they’ve heard the term “pretty bear”. Ed. . .’
‘Look through the mugshot books for the man in the elevator and if he’s not there, a composite sketch.’
‘Now that you all know what to do,’ said Ironside. ‘I suggest you get on with it.’
‘What about me?’ said Malcom. ‘They know you have a witness. What if they come after me?’
‘We’ve already been over this, John. You’ve nothing to worry about,’ said Ironside. ‘You’re under police protection--’
‘I don’t want a baby killer protecting me.’
Ed Brown felt the anger erupt. . . his movements sudden, intentional. Temper lost, the anger fuelling his movements, he stood up, his momentum knocking over his chair. He moved fast, pivoting to his right. Snapping his body forward he wrapped the fingers of his right hand around Malcom’s throat.
‘Ed!’ said Ironside, setting his hands against the conference table, pushing his wheelchair back. Turned and made his way around the table.
Still moving, Ed pushed Malcom back, slamming the smaller man’s body against the balustrade. Ignored the pain crossing the man’s features. Ignored the voices yelling at him to stop. Leaned in close. His gaze cold, angry. He waited for Malcom to react, to do something, anything that would give Ed good reason to hit him. Malcom did nothing, instead waiting for someone to come to his rescue, his gaze looking at someone behind Ed, a smile flicking at the corners of his mouth.
Ed knew Mark and Carl were behind him, their reactions not as fast, giving Ed time to get a strong hold on Malcom. They wouldn’t be able to remove his grip, physical force required, a painful blow to break his hold. Also knew they wouldn’t resort to physical violence, not unless ordered by Ironside or Randall. Something Ironside wouldn’t do, but Randall, Ed wasn’t sure, and he didn’t care. Saw the fear fill the young man’s eyes when Ironside shouted a warning.
‘Mark. Carl! Don’t touch him.’
The two men, wearing expressions of confusion, turned to look at Ironside, the chief shaking his head. They nodded and stepped back, creating room for Ironside as he made his way to his sergeant.
Tightened his grip on Malcom’s throat, Ed aware he was taking this too far, cause given for an assault charge, his career over. He didn’t care. Malcom, understanding he wasn’t going to receive help, dug his fingers into Ed’s right hand, nails scratching at the skin on the back of Ed’s hand. Ed slapped him, little force used, Malcom hesitating.
‘Ed, let him go.’
He could see Ironside in his peripheral. Felt the chief’s hand press against his lower back. Ed wasn’t ready to let go. Could feel his heart pounding in his chest, the sweat beading across his forehead, on the back of his neck. Felt the pain stabbing through his lower back. Watched the side of Ralph Decker’s head explode as the sniper’s bullet exited his skull. Stared at the man who refused to help.
‘Ed. . .’
Blinked. Turned his head to the left. Saw the concern etched in Ironside’s expression. Looked back at Malcom and said, ‘The next time you call me a baby killer, I’ll hit you so hard your nose will break.’ Stepped back, pulling Malcom with him. Slammed him against the railing once more before letting go.
Malcom slid to the floor, right hand massaging his throat. Ed saw the red indentations he’d left behind. He didn’t care. He walked away, his back to the others. Began to pace the room, hands clenched as he counted his steps. Turning around at the count of ten. Back and forth as he waited for his anger to subside. As he waited for commissioner Randall to ask for his gun and badge.
‘Carl, take Mr. Malcom to a hotel. I want two officers to stay with him. And make sure it’s somewhere close.’
‘Bob,’ said Randall, still sitting at the conference table.
‘Dennis, I will not have that man staying in my office!’
Malcom coughed as he pushed himself up to his feet. ‘You can’t. . . do that.’
‘I can and I will,’ said Ironside. ‘Carl, once he’s settled, I want you to identify sergeant Brown’s suspect.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Reese, taking Malcom’s arm and pushing him toward the ramp and the office door.
‘We had a deal,’ said Malcom as he tried to pull his arm from Reese’s grip.
‘We also had an agreement that you wouldn’t use propaganda in my office!’
‘I’m sorry, all right. I won’t say it again.’
Ironside looked toward his sergeant, Ed still pacing, his body, his limbs stiff with tension, his expression full of anger. ‘Mr. Malcom, I don’t believe you are sorry.’
Malcom continued to argue as Reese opened the office door. Followed the younger man into the corridor, the door closing, shutting off Malcom’s protests.
Turning his chair to face the others, Ironside said, ‘I want everyone else to leave. Come back in thirty minutes.’
Fran stepped forward, closer to Ed. She reached toward him as he walked past her, his pace quick, agitated. Dropped her arm to her side. Looked away and allowed Mark to lead her out of the office, his hand on her elbow.
‘Dennis,’ said Ironside, his tone suggesting the commissioner also leave.
‘Bob, sergeant Brown is a member of your team, but he works for me.’
The commissioner was going nowhere.
‘All right,’ said Ironside, moving his chair to interrupt his sergeant’s pacing, Ed ignoring him, walking around Ironside’s wheelchair. ‘Ed.’
‘I’m not a baby killer,’ said Ed as he continued to pace.
‘I know. We all know.’
Ed shook his head. His body was shaking, memories of the war playing at the back of his mind. Black and white images, snatches of red. He could hear the screams. . . he felt dizzy, knees stumbling. Regained his balance and continued to pace, back and forth in front of Ironside, his sense of direction broken, no longer walking in a straight line.
‘Ed, sit down.’
He couldn’t. He had to keep moving. If he stopped, his mind no longer concentrating. . . he would lose control. Not in front of the chief. Not in front of the commissioner. Saw the office door, a means of escape. He could go home, take one of Mrs. Miller’s sedatives, three left. Close his eyes and escape from the world, the memories. But the escape wouldn’t last. He would wake, the memories still there. What would he do then? Take another sedative. He couldn’t keep doing this, the case the problem, Malcom the cause. . .
Chest feeling tight, a struggle to take another breath, Ed stopped moving. Leant forward, hands on his knees and closed his eyes. The memories tore through him, his balance lost as he snapped his eyes open. Reached out for something, anything to keep him upright. Felt a strong grip on his upper arm. Looked up and stepped back in surprise. The commissioner stood beside him.
‘Sit down, sergeant, before you fall down and embarrass everyone, including yourself,’ said Randall, directing Ed toward a chair.
Too surprised to pull away, Ed slumped down onto the chair, his knees trembling, his shoulders shaking. His mind no longer focused on moving. He didn’t want this. Sitting still wasn’t going to help. He needed to keep moving, distract his memories.
Moving his wheelchair closer, stopping beside his sergeant, Ironside said, ‘Ed, explain to me why you just assaulted John Malcom?’
Shook his head. He couldn’t tell the chief about the pacifist in Vietnam. Couldn’t tell Ironside about the memories, the nightmares that were waiting for him to run out of sedatives. Ed couldn’t tell him about Decker, or the others. Not because Ironside wouldn’t understand, but because he would.
‘Ed, you’ve remained calm in more difficult situations, so, I know this isn’t about what Malcom said. There’s more to it, another reason why you reacted the way you did.’
Ed lowered his head and closed his eyes. Knew Ironside was talking about Tom Dayton.
‘What happened?’
Kept his head low. Refused to answer. If he started talking, to give an explanation, he may not be able to stop, revealing too much of his past.
Trying a different tactic, Ironside said, ‘This morning you told me you were all right. Did you lie to me?’
He would never lie to the chief, a man he respected and admired. Lifted his head, his gaze steady as he looked at Ironside. ‘No.’
‘Then tell me what’s changed in the last few hours.’
Shook his head.
‘Ed!’ said Ironside, losing his patience. ‘I can’t help you if don’t tell me what’s wrong.’
Randall, standing beside Ironside, said, ‘Have you had any flashbacks?’
Felt all the energy leave his body, shoulders slumping with defeat as he stared back at the commissioner. How could he know. . . how?
‘What?’
‘Sergeant, have you had any flashbacks
Fumbling for a response, he looked at Ironside, the chief watching his sergeant with worry and concern. And there was something else. . . the chief looked distressed. Ed felt the guilt as it settled in the pit of his stomach. For the first time since he’d known the chief, Ed was going to lie. Told himself he wasn’t lying to the chief, the question asked by the commissioner. Shifted his gaze to look at Randall.
‘No. Not flashbacks. But this case has brought back some bad memories.’
Randall nodded and said, ‘You assaulted a material witness because of some bad memories?’
‘Dennis--’
Randall held up a hand, silencing Ironside. If his mood weren’t so low, Ed would have smiled at the sight. No one silenced Robert Ironside, not even the commissioner but this situation. . . Ironside too concerned about his sergeant to put up a fight.
‘He called be a baby killer. What was I supposed to do?’
‘Sergeant, take a few days off--’
‘I don’t need a few days off. I can do my job.’
‘You’ve just shown me how well you can do your job,’ said Randall, his tone harsh, unforgiving. ‘And it wasn’t a request.’
‘Dennis,’ said Ironside. ‘Are you doubting my sergeant?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Then trust him when he says he can do his job.’
‘You’re forgetting something, Bob,’ said Randall. ‘Sergeant Brown assaulted a civilian.’
‘You need to forget what you saw.’
‘I’m sorry, Bob, but I can’t do that. If John Malcom wants to press charges, there’s nothing I can do.’
‘And if I can convince Malcom not to press charges against sergeant Brown?’
‘Then I’ll forget what I saw here today,’ said Randall. ‘On one condition.’
Frowning, Ironside looked at the commissioner. ‘You want Ed to undergo psychological testing.’
‘Before the bad memories become something more.’
‘Agreed,’ said Ironside.
‘I’ll make an appointment for him, then I’ll call you with the details.’
Ironside nodded.
Ed felt like he wasn’t in the room, decisions made for him. He wasn’t concerned about psychological testing. He’d been through it before. Knew the questions and the answers, confident he could convince the doctors he was fine. Ironside was a different matter. The chief would take it further, wanting a more detailed explanation as to why his sergeant assaulted a material witness.
‘Anything he needs, Bob. Just let me know,’ said Randall, nodding at Ironside. He looked at Ed. ‘Sergeant.’ Turned away and walked out of the office.
Ed felt humbled. He had assumed the commissioner would fire him, take his badge and his gun. Surprised when the man offered his support instead, willing to forget the assault if Malcom refused to press charges. Anger beginning to subside, a feeling of relief, Ed turned his head to look at Ironside.
‘Tell me why you assaulted, Malcom,’ said Ironside.
Looking away, Ed shook his head. ‘I can’t. Not yet.’
‘All right,’ said Ironside, nodding in acceptance. ‘You’ll tell me when you can.’
Ed clenched his jaw, memories flickering through his mind. He wasn’t sure he would ever be able to talk about it.
‘After this case is closed, we can drink a bottle of bourbon and swap war stories.’
Turning his head, Ed saw the haunted look in the chief’s eyes. Ironside had his own memories; he’d served in the navy. He could see understanding and empathy. Ed didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know if he should agree, once committed he wouldn’t be able to back out, no excuse acceptable.
‘Ed, there is no one I trust more than you. Give me your word you can do your job without any further incidents.’
Felt a sudden need to talk, to tell the chief everything. The moment gone, Ed said, ‘Yes, sir, you have my word.’ With Malcom gone, removed from his presence, Ed was certain there would be no more incidents. ‘But. . . are you sure you want to waste a good bottle of bourbon on me?’
‘I didn’t say it would be a good bottle, sergeant,’ said Ironside.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Ed, smiling, a false emotion, an attempt to convey everything was all right, that he was all right.
He wasn’t.
His head ached with the memories, his anger still simmering. Ed hoped the conversation was over, a false hope. He knew it wasn’t, a temporary reprieve, the chief would ask more questions when given the opportunity. Ed just had to make sure he didn’t give him one.
Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four
Master Fan Fiction List
Fandom: Ironside [1967 TV Series]
Genre: Crime | Hurt/Comfort | Angst
Rating: PG
Main Characters: Sergeant Ed Brown, Chief Ironside, Officer Fran Belding, Lieutenant Carl Reese, Mark Sanger and Commissioner Dennis Randall.
Disclaimer: Based on the characters created by Collier Young.
Author's Note: Set between S5 E4 'The Gambling Game' and S5 E5 'Ring of Prayer' because I still wanted there to be some conflict between Ed and Fran.
Author's Other Note: Ed Brown was a marine who saw combat in Vietnam - even though the timing in the show is all fucked up - and, it drives me crazy this piece of cannon is rarely mentioned in the show. And it drove me insane when there was no mention of his past in the season 4 episode ‘No Game for Amateurs’. As soon as the plot included draft dodgers, I kept wanting to know what Ed Brown thought of draft dodgers. But Ed’s past wasn’t included in the plot and that left me disappointed and wanting to know more. So, I wrote my own story. This is a separate story and doesn’t mirror ‘No Game for Amateurs’ in any way.
Chapter Word Count: 7,631
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 Three
More than an hour’s drive to Mrs. Warner’s apartment building, too much time to think, the thoughts tumbled through his mind as Ed drove, his emotions conflicted and confused. He didn’t understand the chief’s behaviour, his concern toward his sergeant. During his career as a police officer, Ed had suffered some setbacks; a few injuries, nothing serious, the occasional mild concussion; his character questioned when accused of police brutality; arrested for murder due to mistaken identity; kidnapped; on the run, chased by contract killers, Ironside never as concerned as he was now.
Ironside cared. . . about everyone else. Ed shook his head. No. That wasn’t right. Ed knew Ironside cared about him, the chief just didn’t show his concern when it came to sergeant Ed Brown, always hiding his concern behind a gruff exterior. But this, this was something more, Ironside gracious with his emotions, caring enough to make certain his sergeant was okay, warning him not to confront a dangerous killer on his own. Wondered if the chief had given Carl the same warning.
Ed had given his word he wouldn’t, Ironside accepting it without question, but he didn’t understand the warning or the concern, more than capable of defending himself. The marines had trained him to kill, with a gun, a knife, his hands. . . anything within reach. He remembered a hot and humid morning in Vietnam, his skin prickling with sweat at the memory. He had killed a man with a branch of bamboo, piercing the jugular, the blood hot and sticky. Tightened his grip on the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white.
Ed shook his head again, at the memory and Ironside’s behaviour. The more he thought about it, the more confused he became. He didn’t understand it, still waiting for the other shoe to drop.
‘You’ve developed a twitch,’ said Fran.
Ed didn’t answer, thinking he now had an opportunity to apologise for his behaviour, for his lack of professional conduct. In his mind, he tried to form an apology that wouldn’t sound patronising to a woman still fragile after the death of her father.
‘You keep shaking your head.’
‘Sorry, I was thinking,’ said Ed, glancing at Fran but she had turned away from him, her gaze focused on something else as she looked out the window.
Her tone dulled, Fran said, ‘What were you thinking about?’
He hesitated, not sure of what he should say. Ed wanted to apologise, but Fran didn’t seem to be interested in what he had to say. Not wanting to give up on her, he put the apology aside, testing the waters with another topic.
‘I was thinking about what the chief said.’
‘The chief said a lot of things.’
Felt a splinter of anger. ‘The last thing he said. To me.’
‘The chief’s right. If a former boxer couldn’t defend himself against that kind of killer, what sort of chance do you have.’
Not a question. A statement. Did she really think he was a coward, a man incapable of defending himself? Knew he should respond with the truth, but he was not going to tell her about his military experience, his time in Vietnam. Resting his left elbow on the edge of the window frame, Ed rubbed the back of his thumb against his chin, a sign of frustration. He’d had enough. Turning the car into the next empty parking spot, he slammed on the brakes, Fran’s body snapping forward, then back. Turned off the engine.
‘Ed!’
‘I’m sorry, Fran,’ said Ed as he twisted his body to face her, his right arm resting across the back of the seat. ‘I’m. Sorry. I treated you with more kindness than I should have. You’re grieving and I didn’t want to cause you anymore pain. I’m sorry I wasn’t more professional. I’m sorry I didn’t reprimand. . .’ Stopped mid-sentence when he saw Fran smiling. ‘What?’
‘The chief said the same thing.’
He shook his head, his mind frozen with confusion.
Fran pointed at him. ‘You’re shaking your head again.’ And then she put him out of his misery. ‘The chief spoke to me last night after you left.’
‘About me?’
‘He said you had been treating me as friend instead of a police officer.’
‘He told me I was being too soft with you.’
Gripping his hand with her fingers, Fran said, ‘I’m sorry too, Ed. I made the past week harder for you.’
‘Truce,’ said Ed.
‘Truce.’
‘You were upset this morning,’ said Ed. ‘Was that my fault?’
‘No,’ said Fran as she looked away from him.
Given the impression she didn’t want to talk about what had upset her, Ed turned back in his seat, placing his hands on the steering wheel, pausing when Fran spoke, her voice fragile, her emotions strong.
‘A good friend of mine was sent to Vietnam.’
Tightened his grip on the steering wheel when his hands began to shake. ‘I’m sorry, Fran.’
‘He’d been gone a year. When he came back home for a visit. . . Ed, he was a different man. He was so angry, quick to lose his temper. Violent. I couldn’t understand why he was going back. When I asked him, he said he didn’t know what else to do. He didn’t come back. He was killed in Vietnam.’
Ed stared out the front window, unable to look at Fran. ‘That’s why you don’t like the military? You think the army changed your friend?’
Fran nodded as she bit her lower lip.
‘The army didn’t change your friend. Vietnam did that. No one is the same when they come back from that place. . .’
Snapping at him, Fran said, ‘How would you know?’
Filled with a coldness he couldn’t explain, Ed ignored her. He started the car and drove away from the curb. He could hear her tears as she cried, her back to him as she turned her face from him. At any other time, he would reach out, offer emotional support, a shoulder to cry on. But not now. He didn’t want to help. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t understand the anger she felt toward him. Couldn’t feel empathy toward her. Couldn’t feel any sort of emotion; anger, remorse, fear. . . he felt nothing.
.
.
.
Ed parked the car in front of the apartment building. Turned off the ignition, opened the door and got out of the car. Slamming the door shut, he shoved the keys into his pocket, and stepped up onto the sidewalk. He faced the building, waited as he heard the passenger door close, Fran stepping up beside him. About to move forward, he stopped, Fran’s words causing him to hesitate.
‘Ed, I’m sorry I snapped at you.’
He glanced at Fran. She stood with her shoulders straight, her eyes red and full of doubt. He thought about what she’d been through, her father murdered, the death of a close friend in Vietnam. Remembered the way she had placed her hand the chief’s shoulder earlier that day, the chief showing his support, squeezing her hand. The expression on her face when Malcom had referred to the men sent to Vietnam as baby killers.
He was an uncaring idiot. Of course, she had snapped at him. Fran didn’t know he’d been in Vietnam. She didn’t know about his experiences. He felt no blame toward her, no longer angry, a feeling of empathy growing.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Ed, moving forward and opening the door, holding it open while Fran stepped through the doorway and into the foyer.
He followed her in, closing the door behind him. They walked to the elevator, Ed pressing the button, hands in his pockets as they waited. Fran had fallen silent, but Ed could feel her eyes on him, she was watching him. He felt his skin crawling under her scrutiny. Was she trying to decide if his acceptance of her apology was genuine, or had she come to understand his reaction when she’d snapped at him? He didn’t want to know, quickly stepping into the elevator when the doors opened.
‘Have you met Mrs. Warner?’ said Fran, following him into the elevator.
‘Yes.’
‘You worked on the case?’
‘Yes,’ said Ed as he pressed the button marked with the number ten. Stood still as he stared at the panel of numbers above the elevator doors, tracking their progress to the tenth floor.
‘What’s she like?’
‘She’s like every other woman who’s lost their husband.’
‘You’re angry with me,’ said Fran as she turned her head to look at him.
Ed sighed, not in frustration but defeat. Only early-morning and it felt as though it were late in the day, Ed ready to go home. To close his eyes and sleep. The memories of Vietnam in the distance, he felt he could sleep without the nightmares, without the help of Mrs. Miller’s sedatives. He’d been wrong to accept them, he knew that, but he hadn’t been in a good state of mind at the time. He looked down at his hands, could see the slight tremor running through his fingers, his hands shaking. Clenched his fists. Opened his hands and put them in his pockets.
‘Ed?’
Fran didn’t just want an answer, she needed an answer. ‘Fran, I’m not angry with you. I’m just. . . tired. It’s been a long week.’
‘And, I haven’t help,’ said Fran.
‘No, Fran, you haven’t.’
Fran had shown no support, only doubt at Ed’s ability to do, not only the chief’s job, but his own. She often gave him the impression she didn’t like him, resented him for some reason he couldn’t understand, possible he’d given her cause to dislike him. She’d smiled at him that morning, Ed now wondering if the expression had been genuine. Lowered his head and closed his eyes. Thought about what Ironside hold told him the day before; your doubts were your own. Was he projecting his doubts onto others, blaming them for his failings? No. He hadn’t failed, the case solved, the job done, his and the chief’s.
‘You look tired,’ said Fran.
About to answer her, Ed stopped, the words catching in his throat when the elevator stopped at the seventh floor, and the doors opened. A man, a look of surprise on his features, stepped into the elevator. Turning his back on them, the man reached for the buttons, lowering his hand without pressing a floor number. . . the man also heading toward the tenth floor.
Ed scrutinised the man; at least six feet, heavyset with dark brown hair and clean-shaven features. The man began to fidget, shifting from one foot to the other, glancing back over his shoulder at Ed, quickly turning his head back to the front when he realised Ed was watching him.
The man’s behaviour poking at Ed’s intuition, Ed stepped back, closer to the back of the elevator. Gripping Fran’s elbow, he pulled her toward him, shaking his head at her when she began to protest, pulling her elbow from his grip. His expression serious, Fran frowned and then she followed his lead, stepping back with him.
Resting his hand on the butt of his service weapon, Ed waited. He could see the tension in the man’s shoulders, the man’s stare as he watched the number display. Finally reaching the tenth floor, the elevator stopped, and the doors opened. The man stepped out, turning left, and walking away.
Taking his hand from his revolver, Ed followed him into the hallway, watching as the man walked around a corner and into another hallway. Ed walked to the right, Fran staying close. He could sense her curiosity, her need to ask questions; she wanted an explanation. Ed walked to the door of Mrs. Warner, stopped, turned his head to look back. The man stood at the corner watching them, retreating out of sight when Ed had turned to look at him.
The suspicion exploding in his chest, Ed turned quickly and began to run, chasing his suspicion. Fran called after him, Ed ignoring her as he ran, expecting her to follow procedure, to stay with him, to watch his back.
Forgetting his long stride, his speed, Ed creating too much distance between himself and Fran as he rounded the corner. The man stood by a door, a sign on the wall indicating it was a fire exit. Ed didn’t slow, the man snatching at the door handle when he saw Ed, opening it and disappearing into the stairwell.
Ed followed him, catching the door before it could close. His heart pounded in his chest, the adrenaline pumping through his limbs as he ran down the stairs. He could hear Fran behind him, the sound of her footsteps distant. The sound of his shoes slamming against the concrete stairs echoed around him. As he rounded a flight of stairs, Ed caught a glimpse of the man running from him, saw a glint of metal in his hand. Drawing his weapon, Ed continued the pursuit.
A door slammed shut below him. Reaching the door, Ed’s fingers wrapped around the door handle, taken by surprise when the door slammed open, the edge of the door striking him against the side of the head, Ed knocked backwards. Hand slapping the wall behind him, he tried to regain his balance. He was at a disadvantage. . .
‘Ed!’
He looked up at the sound of Fran’s voice, saw the knife as it came toward him, the weapon slicing through the air. Snapped his upper body back and to the right, the knife barely missing his throat, but it was enough, the suspect successful in stopping the pursuit.
Losing his balance, Ed fell, his body tumbling down the stairs. Not a long fall, Ed’s body hitting the wall when it had nowhere else to go. The breath knocked from his lungs, he struggled to get up. Heard the door above him close, looked up to see Fran coming toward him, her own movements frantic, an expression of anger when she saw he was all right; nothing broken, just his ego bruised and his lungs empty.
Kneeling beside him, her hand on his shoulder, Fran said, ‘Ed Brown, what on earth were you thinking?’
Ed didn’t answer, still trying to pull in a breath. Relaxed his body, let his head fall back and closed his eyes.
‘Ed?’
Pulled in a deep breath.
‘Are you okay?’
Opened his eyes, saw the concern in hers. Nodded his head. ‘I’m fine.’
Her concern quickly turned back to anger. ‘Ed, you promised the chief you wouldn’t confront the killer on your own.’
‘That wasn’t the killer.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Because a man that good with his fists wouldn’t run from anyone, including the police.’
Using the wall behind him as support, Ed pushed his body up, Fran taking his left arm, an offer of help he accepted without complaint. His legs shook, not from fear, the adrenaline leaving his body, his limbs. He wanted to go after the man but knew it was too late, the suspect no doubt riding the elevator to the first floor. No time to wait for an elevator, time taken to run down the stairwell too long, the man gone by the time Ed could reach the first floor.
‘How did he know we’re police officers?’ said Fran, still holding onto his arm.
‘Fran, in case you hadn’t noticed, I have the word “police” written across my forehead.’
Fran squinted as she looked at him, her eyes searching his face.
Ed frowned. Thinking he was bleeding, he raised his right hand and realising he still held his gun he put it back in its holster. Pressed his fingers against the side of his head where the door had hit him. A painful spot, the skin not broken. No blood. Looked at Fran and said, ‘What?’
Fran smiled. ‘I was looking for the word “police” on your forehead.’
‘Very funny,’ said Ed, shrugging off her arm and making his way up the stairs back to the tenth floor, his back feeling bruised, his shoulders stiff with pain. He could feel a headache forming, spreading across the side of his head. Fran stayed close behind him, too close. Did she think he was going to fall on his ass?
‘Do you want to tell me why you were pursuing a man who isn’t Henry Warner’s killer.’
‘Fran, if you can’t work that out for yourself, then you’re in the wrong job.’
.
.
.
Three weeks ago, Mrs. Elizabeth Warner had been distraught, unable to control her emotions, no effort made on her appearance; hair a mess, makeup running, her clothes wrinkled. Today, her eyes dry, her hair straight, her makeup perfect, she sat on a plain, beige lounge with her legs crossed.
No offer of coffee, she answered their questions, her answers short, the information she gave limited. The suspicion still lingering, Ed began to suspect something wasn’t right. You didn’t get over the death of the person you loved in three weeks. There were days when Ed’s grief was so strong, he struggled to get up in the morning, even after almost ten years. Knew there were others like him, including the chief.
His chair uncomfortable, the muscles in his back still sore, Ed stood up and walked to the window. Looking down at the street, he listened as Fran asked the same questions, he had asked three weeks earlier, testing Mrs. Warner, the widow giving the same answers in a monochrome tone, lacking emotion.
A suspect running from the police; a suspect who Ed was certain was on his way to the apartment of Mrs. Warner. He decided to switch tactics. Before Fran could ask another question, he turned away from the window, looked at Mrs. Warner and said, ‘You were expecting someone before we arrived, who was he?’
Ignored Fran when she turned to look at him, her expression revealing her surprise. The young officer still had a lot to learn.
‘Six-foot, heavyset, dark brown hair, clean shaven?’ said Ed, watching her expression carefully.
Mrs. Warner lowered her head, hiding her features from him, and looked down at her hands.
‘Drives a dark green two door Polara.’ He didn’t know the man in the elevator drove the Polara, adding the description of the car because he wanted to assess the widow’s reaction.
‘I don’t know who he is. I received a phone call yesterday from a man who said he wanted to talk to me about my husband’s death. ’
‘You spoke to him yesterday,’ said Ed, moving forward and sitting back down next to Fran.
‘Yes.’
‘On the phone.’
‘I told him to call the police, but he came knocking on my door about an hour after he called. I told him the same thing, to call you and then I closed the door.’
‘You had no interest in what he had to say about your husband’s murder.’
‘It’s not my job to investigate Henry’s death, it’s yours.’
Fran shifted forward in her seat and said, ‘Why didn’t you call us, Mrs. Warner?’
‘Because I assumed he was going to call you.’
Leaning back in the chair, Ed waited, watching the woman in front of him. Her eyes still dry, her body language defensive. . . he didn’t believe her. ‘How often did your husband go out at two in the morning?’
‘You asked me that question three weeks ago.’
‘I’m asking you again, Mrs. Warner. How often did your husband go out at two in the morning?’
‘Why are you doing this to me?’ said Mrs. Warner as she looked up at him, her expression full of anger.
Ed felt no sympathy toward her, his suspicions still nagging at him. ‘Answer my question, Mrs. Warner.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Was it possible your husband was having another affair?
‘No. I told him if he had another affair, I would leave him.’
‘What about you?’ said Ed. In his peripheral, he could see Fran, her body becoming tense as she straightened her back.
‘No, sergeant, I am not having an affair.’
Ed smiled. ‘You were quick to assume that’s what I was asking, Mrs. Warner.’
‘I assumed nothing of the sort. You suspect me of my husband’s murder, that much is obvious.’ She stood up, walked quickly to the front door, and opened it. ‘Please leave.’
Fran stood up.
Ed didn’t move. His gaze steady as he looked at Mrs. Warner, he said, ‘He got on the elevator on the seventh floor. Do you know anyone who lives on the seventh floor matching the description I gave you?’
Her hesitation confirmed Ed’s suspicions.
‘No, I don’t know anyone like that?’
‘Like what?’ said Ed.
‘Like the man you described.’
‘Not like a criminal. . . or a man who kills for money.’
‘I asked you to leave.’
Nodding, Ed stood up and followed Fran out of the apartment, stopping in the open doorway. Turned back and leaning in close, Mrs. Warner stepping back from him, Ed said, ‘Pretty bear.’
Mrs. Warner flinched. ‘Get out!’
Ed left, turning his back on her before she could slam the door in his face. Checking his watch, he walked toward the elevator, shaking his head at Fran when he noticed she wanted to say something. Pressing the button for the elevator, he turned to look at her.
‘What did do you think of Mrs. Warner?’
Fran frowned, taking a moment to think before answering, a faint smile crossing her features. ‘She’s not like, every other woman who’s lost their husband.’
Ed smiled and said, ‘No, she wasn’t. She was a grieving widow the first time I met her.’
‘She was lying about the man in the elevator,’ said Fran.
‘Yes.’
‘You revealed a piece of information only the killer and our witness know. Why? If she is guilty of hiring someone to kill her husband, she now knows we have a witness.’
‘Fran, what good’s an ace if you don’t play it,’ said Ed, repeating something Ironside had once told him.
‘And what about Malcom? You’ve put him at risk.’
Getting impatient, Ed pressed the elevator button again. ‘Malcom is under police protection. Right now, he’s sitting comfortably in the chief’s office on the third floor of police headquarters. He’s safe where he is.’
‘For how long? It could take weeks to find Warner’s killer and I don’t believe the chief’s patience will last that long.’
The elevator arrived, the doors opening. Ed allowed Fran to go in first. Once inside he pressed the button for the first floor. The doors closed and the elevator moved, his balance tilting before settling. Ed felt irritated, anger forming in the pit of his stomach. Once again, Fran was doubting him.
His tone calm, his gaze steady as he watched the numbers above the elevator doors, Ed said, ‘Fran, I’ve been a police officer for over ten years. A detective of sergeants for eight. The chief selected me to be a part of his team for a reason. Stop questioning my ability to do the job.’
‘Ed, that’s not what I was doing. I--’
‘It’s exactly what you were doing. You’ve been doing it all week. I was wrong not to put a stop to it sooner, but I’ve had enough. Don’t do it again.’ He turned his head to look at her, Fran staring back at him. He smiled. ‘Let’s start over.’
It took a moment, Fran smiling back, nodding in acceptance.
Turned his gaze away from her. A fresh start, Ed not sure how long it would last. He thought about what she had said, the chief not having the patience to allow John Malcom to remain at police headquarters for a long period of time. Ed wasn’t concerned about the chief’s patience, more concerned with his own. It wouldn’t take much, a wrong word, a particular phrase used, and he would snap. He didn’t lose his temper often, but Ed knew, if he lost his temper with John Malcom. . . suspended once again for police brutality, his career would end.
.
.
.
Ed followed Fran into the office, his stomach rumbling with hunger. He couldn’t remember the last time he ate, a vague recollection of a hotdog sometime the day before. Walking down the ramp, he glanced to his right, his hunger retreating at the sight of John Malcom. The young man stood in the kitchenette, staring at Ed with an expression Ed easily recognised. It was the same expression he’d seen on people’s faces as he’d walked down the street in his dress uniform; people who had spat at him and called him a baby killer. It was an expression full of disgust.
Malcom had worked it out. Or someone had told him. He now knew Ed had been in Vietnam. It was only a matter of time before a confrontation occurred, Malcom making accusations, Ed would react, his reaction filled with anger and violence.
Stopping where he was, Ed stared back, a feeling of satisfaction when Malcom turned away. He waited, knowing Malcom would look back at him and he did, a few seconds later, glancing back over his shoulder at Ed. This time Malcom held the stare, but Ed refused to look away.
‘Ed!’
Saw the smile flicker across Malcom’s face. Felt the anger settle in the pit of his stomach, the anger forcing him to ignore the chief. Before he could think of what he was doing, Ed turned and walked toward the kitchenette. Smiled when Malcom stepped back. With the young man’s back against the sink, Ed reached past him, grabbed a cup off the shelf and poured himself a cup of coffee.
‘Sergeant Brown!’
Unable to ignore that tone, Ed looked at Malcom before walking away. He could tell Malcom wanted to say something, not enough courage to voice his thoughts, at least not yet. Ed knew he could inflict a lot of damage before anyone else in the office could pull him away, possible Malcom was aware of a Vietnam veteran’s skill set, the man waiting until they had an audience, able to say what he wanted when he knew there would be someone else there to stop any violence aimed toward him. Ed grimaced, not looking forward to the confrontation but he knew it was inevitable.
Almost stumbled when he saw the ensemble sitting at the conference table. The chief sat at the head of the table, commissioner Randall beside him. Then Mark, Reese, and Fran. Is this why Malcom hadn’t confronted him. . . no, this would have been a perfect opportunity, Malcom thinking Ed wouldn’t react with the commissioner in the same room.
Malcom was wrong.
‘Are you all right,’ said Fran.
Ed frowned in confusion, understanding slapping him in the face. She’d seen his grimace, mistaking it for something else, assuming he was hurting after his fall down a flight of stairs. His head did ache, a mild irritation, easily ignored; he had worse.
He looked back at Malcom, turned his gaze to Fran. ‘I’m fine.’
Her gaze flicked toward the man standing in the kitchenette, before she looked back at Ed. She nodded in understanding, again assuming something different, thinking he was angry at Malcom on her behalf. Pulled out a chair to sit down at the conference table, hesitating when he saw that familiar expression on the chief’s face, Ironside impatient and frustrated. Put his cup of coffee on the conference table and sat down.
‘Well?’ said Ironside.
‘Mrs. Warner is no longer a grieving widow.’
‘We have a suspect?’ said Ironside.
‘We have a suspect.’
‘You pushed?’
‘I pushed.’
‘How did she react when you called her pretty bear.’
‘She threw us out of her apartment.’
‘She threw us out when you accused her of having an affair,’ said Fran.
His anger already ignited, Ed turned his head, ready to snap but Fran was smiling.
‘Always a gentleman,’ said Ironside. ‘What time did you leave Mrs. Warner’s apartment?’
‘Ten thirty-five.’
Ironside nodded, and said, ‘If Mrs. Warner is guilty of conspiring to kill her husband, she would have called her accomplice as soon as you left her apartment.’
‘I’ll deal with that,’ said Reese. ‘The apartment building has a telephone operator. If she made a call to someone who lives in the building, the call would have gone through the operator.’
‘Carl, you’ll also need to do a deeper background check on all the men living on the seventh floor. . .’ Ed stopped talking, aware of the look the chief was giving him. With a sheepish grin, he said, ‘Sorry, chief.’
‘No need to be sorry, sergeant.’
Randall leant forward, resting his forearms on the conference table. ‘Why a deeper background check?’
‘Ed fell across a possible suspect,’ said Fran.
Ed struggled to keep a straight face.
‘The wife,’ said Randall, nodding at Fran.
‘No, sir, the driver of the car.’
Ironside tilted his head, a hint of pride on his features. ‘A suspect who lives on the seventh floor.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Ed.
‘And how did you . . . fall across him?’
Before he could answer, Fran said, ‘That was after Ed chased him down a stairwell and he didn’t exactly fall across him. He fell down a flight of stairs.’
‘The suspect fell down a flight of stairs?’ said Randall.
‘No, sir, Ed fell down the stairs.
Heard a soft chuckle behind him. Turned in his seat to find Malcom standing behind him. . . too close.
‘Ed?’
‘He caught me by surprise,’ said Ed, turning back to face Ironside.
‘Unusual for anyone to catch you by surprise,’ said Ironside.
Ed knew that statement was for Malcom’s benefit.
‘Start at the beginning,’ said Ironside.
After Ed finished telling them about the man in the elevator, Ironside pushed a large sheet of paper toward his sergeant. Ed took it, pulling it closer. It was a composite sketch of a man with similar features to the man in the elevator. Possible they were related. Handing the sketch to Fran, Ed nodded and said, ‘The resemblance is enough to make me think the man we saw is related to the killer.’
Ironside nodded. ‘Brothers, or cousins.
‘Or he could be the killer,’ said Mark. ‘I mean, he could have shaved off the moustache.’
‘No. The guy we pursued wasn’t the killer.’
‘Now, Ed,’ said Mark. ‘You can’t be sure of that.’
‘Ed’s sure,’ said Fran.
‘Does this mean,’ said Ed, pointing at the composite, ‘that Malcom wasn’t able to identify the killer from the mugshots.’
‘No identification,’ said Reese.
‘What about Mr. and Mrs. Hendricks?’ said Fran.
Reese shook his head. ‘Mrs. Hendricks stuck to her story. She doesn’t hold a grudge against her husband or Warner. Had no reason to kill him. Says she met someone who recently proposed. She’s happy and plans to see a divorce lawyer. And she didn’t react when I called her pretty bear. She’s not a suspect.’
‘And Mr. Hendricks?’
‘Still blames his wife and Warner for the end of his marriage but no reaction to pretty bear.’
‘So, still a suspect then,’ said Ed.
‘Still a suspect.’
‘Is Mr. Hendricks physically capable of beating a former boxer to death?’
‘No,’ said Reese, looking at Fran. ‘But he does have a healthy bank balance.’
‘Except,’ said Ironside, ‘Mr. Hendricks didn’t make any cash withdrawals before or after Mr. Warner’s murder.’
‘You still believe Warner was killed by a contract killer?’ said Randall.
‘Until we find something to prove otherwise.’
Randall turned to look at Reese. ‘Have there been any other cases with the same method of killing?’
‘Not that we could find, no. But we’re still looking.’
‘And Mrs. Warner,’ said Randall, ‘does she have a bank account?’
‘Yes,’ said Reese, ‘and no suspicious activity with her account but there is a life insurance policy worth ten thousand dollars.’
‘Has she tried to cash it in?’
‘No, sir. As far as we can tell, she hasn’t called the insurance company.’
Ironside, slapping his hands against the arms of his wheelchair, said, ‘All right, for now we’ll concentrate on Mrs. Warner, Mr. Hendricks, and Ed’s suspect. Carl--’
‘Background checks and reinterview the building’s occupants. Talk to the telephone operator. I’ll take a copy of this sketch,’ said Carl, reaching over and taking the composite from Fran, ‘show it to the officers who did the initial interviews and everyone else in the building, see if anyone recognises him.’
‘Not alone,’ said Ironside, waiting for Reese’s agreement before looking at Fran. ‘Fran--’
‘Talk to Mrs. Warner’s friends and ask them if they suspect she was having an affair.’
Nodding, Ironside said, ‘And ask her friends if they’ve heard the term “pretty bear”. Ed. . .’
‘Look through the mugshot books for the man in the elevator and if he’s not there, a composite sketch.’
‘Now that you all know what to do,’ said Ironside. ‘I suggest you get on with it.’
‘What about me?’ said Malcom. ‘They know you have a witness. What if they come after me?’
‘We’ve already been over this, John. You’ve nothing to worry about,’ said Ironside. ‘You’re under police protection--’
‘I don’t want a baby killer protecting me.’
Ed Brown felt the anger erupt. . . his movements sudden, intentional. Temper lost, the anger fuelling his movements, he stood up, his momentum knocking over his chair. He moved fast, pivoting to his right. Snapping his body forward he wrapped the fingers of his right hand around Malcom’s throat.
‘Ed!’ said Ironside, setting his hands against the conference table, pushing his wheelchair back. Turned and made his way around the table.
Still moving, Ed pushed Malcom back, slamming the smaller man’s body against the balustrade. Ignored the pain crossing the man’s features. Ignored the voices yelling at him to stop. Leaned in close. His gaze cold, angry. He waited for Malcom to react, to do something, anything that would give Ed good reason to hit him. Malcom did nothing, instead waiting for someone to come to his rescue, his gaze looking at someone behind Ed, a smile flicking at the corners of his mouth.
Ed knew Mark and Carl were behind him, their reactions not as fast, giving Ed time to get a strong hold on Malcom. They wouldn’t be able to remove his grip, physical force required, a painful blow to break his hold. Also knew they wouldn’t resort to physical violence, not unless ordered by Ironside or Randall. Something Ironside wouldn’t do, but Randall, Ed wasn’t sure, and he didn’t care. Saw the fear fill the young man’s eyes when Ironside shouted a warning.
‘Mark. Carl! Don’t touch him.’
The two men, wearing expressions of confusion, turned to look at Ironside, the chief shaking his head. They nodded and stepped back, creating room for Ironside as he made his way to his sergeant.
Tightened his grip on Malcom’s throat, Ed aware he was taking this too far, cause given for an assault charge, his career over. He didn’t care. Malcom, understanding he wasn’t going to receive help, dug his fingers into Ed’s right hand, nails scratching at the skin on the back of Ed’s hand. Ed slapped him, little force used, Malcom hesitating.
‘Ed, let him go.’
He could see Ironside in his peripheral. Felt the chief’s hand press against his lower back. Ed wasn’t ready to let go. Could feel his heart pounding in his chest, the sweat beading across his forehead, on the back of his neck. Felt the pain stabbing through his lower back. Watched the side of Ralph Decker’s head explode as the sniper’s bullet exited his skull. Stared at the man who refused to help.
‘Ed. . .’
Blinked. Turned his head to the left. Saw the concern etched in Ironside’s expression. Looked back at Malcom and said, ‘The next time you call me a baby killer, I’ll hit you so hard your nose will break.’ Stepped back, pulling Malcom with him. Slammed him against the railing once more before letting go.
Malcom slid to the floor, right hand massaging his throat. Ed saw the red indentations he’d left behind. He didn’t care. He walked away, his back to the others. Began to pace the room, hands clenched as he counted his steps. Turning around at the count of ten. Back and forth as he waited for his anger to subside. As he waited for commissioner Randall to ask for his gun and badge.
‘Carl, take Mr. Malcom to a hotel. I want two officers to stay with him. And make sure it’s somewhere close.’
‘Bob,’ said Randall, still sitting at the conference table.
‘Dennis, I will not have that man staying in my office!’
Malcom coughed as he pushed himself up to his feet. ‘You can’t. . . do that.’
‘I can and I will,’ said Ironside. ‘Carl, once he’s settled, I want you to identify sergeant Brown’s suspect.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Reese, taking Malcom’s arm and pushing him toward the ramp and the office door.
‘We had a deal,’ said Malcom as he tried to pull his arm from Reese’s grip.
‘We also had an agreement that you wouldn’t use propaganda in my office!’
‘I’m sorry, all right. I won’t say it again.’
Ironside looked toward his sergeant, Ed still pacing, his body, his limbs stiff with tension, his expression full of anger. ‘Mr. Malcom, I don’t believe you are sorry.’
Malcom continued to argue as Reese opened the office door. Followed the younger man into the corridor, the door closing, shutting off Malcom’s protests.
Turning his chair to face the others, Ironside said, ‘I want everyone else to leave. Come back in thirty minutes.’
Fran stepped forward, closer to Ed. She reached toward him as he walked past her, his pace quick, agitated. Dropped her arm to her side. Looked away and allowed Mark to lead her out of the office, his hand on her elbow.
‘Dennis,’ said Ironside, his tone suggesting the commissioner also leave.
‘Bob, sergeant Brown is a member of your team, but he works for me.’
The commissioner was going nowhere.
‘All right,’ said Ironside, moving his chair to interrupt his sergeant’s pacing, Ed ignoring him, walking around Ironside’s wheelchair. ‘Ed.’
‘I’m not a baby killer,’ said Ed as he continued to pace.
‘I know. We all know.’
Ed shook his head. His body was shaking, memories of the war playing at the back of his mind. Black and white images, snatches of red. He could hear the screams. . . he felt dizzy, knees stumbling. Regained his balance and continued to pace, back and forth in front of Ironside, his sense of direction broken, no longer walking in a straight line.
‘Ed, sit down.’
He couldn’t. He had to keep moving. If he stopped, his mind no longer concentrating. . . he would lose control. Not in front of the chief. Not in front of the commissioner. Saw the office door, a means of escape. He could go home, take one of Mrs. Miller’s sedatives, three left. Close his eyes and escape from the world, the memories. But the escape wouldn’t last. He would wake, the memories still there. What would he do then? Take another sedative. He couldn’t keep doing this, the case the problem, Malcom the cause. . .
Chest feeling tight, a struggle to take another breath, Ed stopped moving. Leant forward, hands on his knees and closed his eyes. The memories tore through him, his balance lost as he snapped his eyes open. Reached out for something, anything to keep him upright. Felt a strong grip on his upper arm. Looked up and stepped back in surprise. The commissioner stood beside him.
‘Sit down, sergeant, before you fall down and embarrass everyone, including yourself,’ said Randall, directing Ed toward a chair.
Too surprised to pull away, Ed slumped down onto the chair, his knees trembling, his shoulders shaking. His mind no longer focused on moving. He didn’t want this. Sitting still wasn’t going to help. He needed to keep moving, distract his memories.
Moving his wheelchair closer, stopping beside his sergeant, Ironside said, ‘Ed, explain to me why you just assaulted John Malcom?’
Shook his head. He couldn’t tell the chief about the pacifist in Vietnam. Couldn’t tell Ironside about the memories, the nightmares that were waiting for him to run out of sedatives. Ed couldn’t tell him about Decker, or the others. Not because Ironside wouldn’t understand, but because he would.
‘Ed, you’ve remained calm in more difficult situations, so, I know this isn’t about what Malcom said. There’s more to it, another reason why you reacted the way you did.’
Ed lowered his head and closed his eyes. Knew Ironside was talking about Tom Dayton.
‘What happened?’
Kept his head low. Refused to answer. If he started talking, to give an explanation, he may not be able to stop, revealing too much of his past.
Trying a different tactic, Ironside said, ‘This morning you told me you were all right. Did you lie to me?’
He would never lie to the chief, a man he respected and admired. Lifted his head, his gaze steady as he looked at Ironside. ‘No.’
‘Then tell me what’s changed in the last few hours.’
Shook his head.
‘Ed!’ said Ironside, losing his patience. ‘I can’t help you if don’t tell me what’s wrong.’
Randall, standing beside Ironside, said, ‘Have you had any flashbacks?’
Felt all the energy leave his body, shoulders slumping with defeat as he stared back at the commissioner. How could he know. . . how?
‘What?’
‘Sergeant, have you had any flashbacks
Fumbling for a response, he looked at Ironside, the chief watching his sergeant with worry and concern. And there was something else. . . the chief looked distressed. Ed felt the guilt as it settled in the pit of his stomach. For the first time since he’d known the chief, Ed was going to lie. Told himself he wasn’t lying to the chief, the question asked by the commissioner. Shifted his gaze to look at Randall.
‘No. Not flashbacks. But this case has brought back some bad memories.’
Randall nodded and said, ‘You assaulted a material witness because of some bad memories?’
‘Dennis--’
Randall held up a hand, silencing Ironside. If his mood weren’t so low, Ed would have smiled at the sight. No one silenced Robert Ironside, not even the commissioner but this situation. . . Ironside too concerned about his sergeant to put up a fight.
‘He called be a baby killer. What was I supposed to do?’
‘Sergeant, take a few days off--’
‘I don’t need a few days off. I can do my job.’
‘You’ve just shown me how well you can do your job,’ said Randall, his tone harsh, unforgiving. ‘And it wasn’t a request.’
‘Dennis,’ said Ironside. ‘Are you doubting my sergeant?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Then trust him when he says he can do his job.’
‘You’re forgetting something, Bob,’ said Randall. ‘Sergeant Brown assaulted a civilian.’
‘You need to forget what you saw.’
‘I’m sorry, Bob, but I can’t do that. If John Malcom wants to press charges, there’s nothing I can do.’
‘And if I can convince Malcom not to press charges against sergeant Brown?’
‘Then I’ll forget what I saw here today,’ said Randall. ‘On one condition.’
Frowning, Ironside looked at the commissioner. ‘You want Ed to undergo psychological testing.’
‘Before the bad memories become something more.’
‘Agreed,’ said Ironside.
‘I’ll make an appointment for him, then I’ll call you with the details.’
Ironside nodded.
Ed felt like he wasn’t in the room, decisions made for him. He wasn’t concerned about psychological testing. He’d been through it before. Knew the questions and the answers, confident he could convince the doctors he was fine. Ironside was a different matter. The chief would take it further, wanting a more detailed explanation as to why his sergeant assaulted a material witness.
‘Anything he needs, Bob. Just let me know,’ said Randall, nodding at Ironside. He looked at Ed. ‘Sergeant.’ Turned away and walked out of the office.
Ed felt humbled. He had assumed the commissioner would fire him, take his badge and his gun. Surprised when the man offered his support instead, willing to forget the assault if Malcom refused to press charges. Anger beginning to subside, a feeling of relief, Ed turned his head to look at Ironside.
‘Tell me why you assaulted, Malcom,’ said Ironside.
Looking away, Ed shook his head. ‘I can’t. Not yet.’
‘All right,’ said Ironside, nodding in acceptance. ‘You’ll tell me when you can.’
Ed clenched his jaw, memories flickering through his mind. He wasn’t sure he would ever be able to talk about it.
‘After this case is closed, we can drink a bottle of bourbon and swap war stories.’
Turning his head, Ed saw the haunted look in the chief’s eyes. Ironside had his own memories; he’d served in the navy. He could see understanding and empathy. Ed didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know if he should agree, once committed he wouldn’t be able to back out, no excuse acceptable.
‘Ed, there is no one I trust more than you. Give me your word you can do your job without any further incidents.’
Felt a sudden need to talk, to tell the chief everything. The moment gone, Ed said, ‘Yes, sir, you have my word.’ With Malcom gone, removed from his presence, Ed was certain there would be no more incidents. ‘But. . . are you sure you want to waste a good bottle of bourbon on me?’
‘I didn’t say it would be a good bottle, sergeant,’ said Ironside.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Ed, smiling, a false emotion, an attempt to convey everything was all right, that he was all right.
He wasn’t.
His head ached with the memories, his anger still simmering. Ed hoped the conversation was over, a false hope. He knew it wasn’t, a temporary reprieve, the chief would ask more questions when given the opportunity. Ed just had to make sure he didn’t give him one.
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Date: 2021-10-11 11:21 am (UTC)This is great - fun and intriguing and I'm enjoying it lots. I can't wait to see where this is going. Poor Ed, we do like to put him through the wringer, don't we!
There were a couple of bits I though were spot on -
Last chapter, Ed's reaction to the steak. I know it was just a moment but that was really vivid and effective.
And this line from this chapter "I have the word “police” written across my forehead." That made me smile so widely because it's so true.
Looking forward to more
-x-