azombiewrites (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
azombiewrites) wrote2021-11-16 08:16 pm
azombiewrites) wrote2021-11-16 08:16 pm
Ironside - 'The Draft Dodger' - 4/8
Title: The Draft Dodger
Fandom: Ironside [1967 TV Series]
Genre: Crime | Hurt/Comfort | Angst
Rating: PG
Main Characters: Sergeant Ed Brown, Chief Ironside, Officer Fran Belding, Lieutenant Carl Reese, Mark Sanger and Commissioner Dennis Randall.
Disclaimer: Based on the characters created by Collier Young.
Author's Note: Set between S5 E4 'The Gambling Game' and S5 E5 'Ring of Prayer' because I still wanted there to be some conflict between Ed and Fran.
Author's Other Note: Ed Brown was a marine who saw combat in Vietnam - even though the timing in the show is all fucked up - and, it drives me crazy this piece of cannon is rarely mentioned in the show. And it drove me insane when there was no mention of his past in the season 4 episode ‘No Game for Amateurs’. As soon as the plot included draft dodgers, I kept wanting to know what Ed Brown thought of draft dodgers. But Ed’s past wasn’t included in the plot and that left me disappointed and wanting to know more. So, I wrote my own story. This is a separate story and doesn’t mirror ‘No Game for Amateurs’ in any way.
Chapter Word Count: 6,052
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 Four
Sitting at the conference table, Ed tried to appear relaxed as he looked through another book of mugshots. Knew he was failing, his shoulders tense, his back stiff, left hand clenched in a fist. The memories of Vietnam at the back of his mind, he concentrated on the book in front of him, gaze quickly traveling across each photo, his hand trembling as he turned each page.
The chief sat at the other side of the table, bold in his scrutiny of his sergeant, Ed worried the chief was looking for an excuse, an opportunity to return to a conversation Ed didn’t want to continue. Uncomfortable, the doubts returning, crawling at the edges of his thoughts, Ed shifted in his seat, turning his body away, twisting his back. Grimaced at the stab of pain through his shoulders and lower back.
Glanced at his watch, the thirty minutes almost up, Fran and Mark returning to the office at any minute. He didn’t expect any kind of rebuke from Mark. Four years of friendship and trust would allow Mark to accept Ed’s act of violence for what he assumed it was, a reaction to an ugly insult.
Fran. . . Fran was a different matter. She would ask questions, take advantage of the situation to alleviate her own emotions regarding her friend. She would want Ed to explain why her friend had changed after a year in Vietnam. Ed wanted to be wrong in his expectations. He didn’t want to shut her down. Didn’t want her to think he didn’t care because he did but he couldn’t put her needs first, not this time. He couldn’t alleviate her pain by increasing his own.
Heard the office door open, soft voices as Mark and Fran made their way down the short set of stairs and to the conference table, Ed not surprised when Fran sat down beside him, Mark sitting down next to the chief. Kept his gaze steady, turning another page in the mugshot book, his suspect still unidentified. Watched as she reached toward him.
Ed said, ‘Don’t.’ A simple word. A simple instruction, Fran hesitating and pulling back. His body language becoming defensive, his anger still simmering, he turned away from her, something he didn’t want to do but he couldn’t stop himself. Facing the chief once more, Ed flicked his gaze up to look at Ironside. The chief nodded toward Fran, encouraging Ed to talk to her. Ed shook his head.
‘Fran,’ said Ironside, accepting Ed’s refusal to talk. ‘Now isn’t the right time.’
It would never be the right time, not for Ed Brown but his refusal to talk wouldn’t stop Fran from asking questions. Just like the chief, she would wait for an opening, the prospect turning Ed’s stomach.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Fran, looking away from Ed.
‘Here’s a list of Mrs. Warner’s friends,’ said Ironside, passing a piece of paper to Fran. ‘Go and talk to them. Find out what you can. Start with her closest friend, Mrs. Mary Kennedy.’
Fran took the list, her movements slow, her mind obviously distracted. He couldn’t reassure her. Couldn’t tell her everything was okay. . . because it wasn’t.
‘Mark, go with her.’
‘I don’t need help,’ said Fran, her tone angry as she stood up.
Turning his head, Ed looked up at Fran. She stared at the chief, defiant. Fran had no reason to be angry with the chief. No reason to question his orders the way she had questioned Ed’s.
When Ironside spoke, his words were cutting, straight to the point. ‘I already have one volatile officer to deal with, I damn well don’t need another.’ Ironside glared at Ed, then Fran. ‘Most of Mrs. Warner’s friends live in the same apartment building, including Mrs. Kennedy and I will not have you knocking on doors without someone there to back you up if something goes wrong.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Fran, walking away from the table and up the steps, snatching her coat and handbag off the coat rack as she made her way to the office door.
Ironside looked at Mark and said, ‘And I don’t need you to remind me you’re not a police officer.’
Mark gave Ed a look, his eyes full of humour. Unable to stop himself, Ed smiled back. Standing up Mark said, ‘Later.’
‘Later’, said Ed, watching Mark walk away before turning back to face Ironside.
‘You should talk to her,’ said Ironside.
‘Why? Because you want me to make her feel better about her friend?’
‘She told you about him?’
‘Isn’t that what you wanted?’
‘Ed--’
‘I can’t tell her why her friend changed--’
‘Can’t or won’t.’
‘Both,’ said Ed. ‘An explanation about what happened to her friend will only make her feel worse. Is that what you want, chief?’
‘What I want, sergeant. . .’ said Ironside, shaking his head and looking away. A few seconds before his gaze returned to Ed. ‘What I want is a drink.’
Ed slammed the book closed on the last page and stood up, pushing his chair back. Walking toward the kitchenette, he could feel the muscles in his shoulders shift, a crease of pain. He needed to relax, to calm down, his body too tense, his muscles too tight. A difficult thing to do. . . his anger unwilling to leave him. Felt as though he was standing on the edge of a precipice, ready to fall, a deep black pit on the edge of his vision. He didn’t want to fall. He didn’t want to fall because he knew he wouldn’t be able to get back up.
Reaching the kitchenette, he stopped in front of the sink. Gripped the edge, held on while he leant forward. Closed his eyes and took a slow, deep breath. The side of Ralph Decker’s head exploded. A rush of breath, his body stumbling as he opened his eyes. He needed. . . wanted one of Mrs. Miller’s sedatives, shame tearing through him at the thought. Shook his head and stood up straight. He was home. In San Francisco. He wasn’t in Vietnam. They were only memories.
Reached toward the coffee cups on the shelf. Stopped at the sight of the tremor running through his arm, his hand shaking. Clenched his fist, the knuckles white. A slow breath. Unclenched his hand, the limb still shaking. He couldn’t help but laugh at the thought of carrying two cups of coffee to the conference table. Instead, he compromised, taking two empty cups and the pot of coffee from the stove.
Walking back, he stopped when Ironside said, ‘When I said a drink, I wasn’t talking about a cup of coffee.’
Undeterred, Ed moved forward, set the cups and the pot of coffee on the table, and said, ‘We’re working.’
‘When has work ever stopped me from having a glass of good bourbon?’
About to respond, Ed interrupted when the phone began to ring. He reached toward it, Ironside snapping up the handset before Ed could.
‘Ironside!’
With the chief distracted, Ed poured two cups of coffee, placing one in front of the chief. He sat down and opened the next book of mugshots. Looked up when Ironside put the call on speaker phone, Carl Reese’s voice echoing down the phone line.
‘I’m telling you, chief. He wants to press charges. I can’t talk him out of it. I’ve tried until I’m blue in the face.’
Ed clenched his fist, a strong need to punch John Malcom in the face. The man lucky, Ed Brown capable of inflicting more than a slap. Malcom lucky Ed didn’t leave him bruised and bloody on the floor.
‘You didn’t try hard enough.’
‘I even told him Ed had provocation on his side.’
‘Then remind Mr. Malcom extortion is a crime. I’ll wait.’
‘Chief, isn’t that extortion?’
‘What are you trying to say, Carl?’
‘I’ll remind him.’
Muffled voices, Ed unable to understand the words spoken but he recognised the tones. Anger, frustration and then fear. It didn’t take long, Carl back on the line within minutes.
‘Chief, Mr. Malcom has decided not to press charges against sergeant Brown.’
Ironside smiled. ‘See how easy that was?’
‘Too easy.’
‘Have you got him settled?’
‘The Beaumont on ninth street. Room 402. I’ve got Baker and Dolby staying with him.’
‘Two good men,’ said Ironside. ‘Head on over to Warner’s apartment building. Fran and Mark are on their way to talk to Mrs. Warner’s friends. Assign a uniformed officer to help them, someone who can handle himself.’
‘It’s going to take me more than an hour to get there, chief.’
‘You managed to use a phone to call me.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Ironside disconnected the call, smiled at Ed, and said, ‘That’s one thing you don’t have to worry about.’
‘I wasn’t worried.’
‘Ed, you could have lost your job.’
‘I don’t care about losing my job,’ said Ed, his tone angry. ‘He called be a baby killer.’
Ironside frowned, a flicker of concern in his blue eyes. He stared at his sergeant, a familiar expression forming. Ed Brown knew that look. Realised his mistake. A lack of concern regarding his job, the anger in his voice giving the chief an opportunity, creating an opening for Ironside to return to a conversation Ed had hoped was over.
Making the decision not to raise a metaphorical white flag and surrender, he steeled his expression and stared back at the chief. Ironside was a stubborn man, remaining silent, waiting but Ed was angry, too angry to give in and break the silence. Resting his left arm on the conference table, he leaned back in his chair. There must have been something readable in his expression, not long before the chief spoke.
‘Ed, I’m sure, you’ve been called worse,’ said Ironside.
Ed didn’t agree with the chief’s assumption. ‘What can be worse than someone calling you a baby killer?’
‘You’re right, Ed, but you didn’t attack him just because he called you a baby killer. We both know that.’
The chief was wrong. He was also right. ‘I thought we weren’t going to talk about this until the case is over.’
‘I made an offer to share a drink and swap war stories. You assumed the conversation was over.’
Ed knew the chief well enough not to assume anything. He’d known the conversation wasn’t over, he just didn’t expect to return to it so quickly. Thought he would have time to sort out his thoughts, his emotions. ‘Why can’t you leave it alone?’
‘Because I want to help you,’ said Ironside.
‘How is this helping? ’
‘Ed, why are your hands shaking?’
Ed looked down at his hands, the limbs resting on the table. His hands were shaking, obvious to anyone who was looking, and the chief had been looking. Clenched his fists and closed his eyes, snapping them open, stopping the memory of Ralph Decker’s death. Ed didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what to do.
‘I took you at your word when you told me you could do your job. . . I’ve been watching you, Ed. Your hands haven’t stopped shaking since you sat down. You’re tense, agitated. You’re angry and you’re defensive and I’m beginning to think you lied to the commissioner. Are you having flashbacks?’
He didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to talk about his experiences in Vietnam, not until the case was over. Not until there was a full bottle of bourbon on the table. Not until he was too drunk to care about what he was saying, revealing a past he refused to talk about while sober.
Ironside slammed his hand down on the table. ‘Answer my question!’
The sound like a gunshot, Ed flinched. His chest tight, the air caught in his throat. Tried to convince himself to be honest with Ironside. . . no. He couldn’t tell the chief the truth. The truth would remove him from the case, placed on medical leave. He couldn’t sit at home and do nothing. His mind would wander through the memories of Vietnam. The nightmares were bad enough when he slept but to dream while he was awake. . . he would fall into the black abyss, and he wouldn’t be able to climb back out. He needed a distraction. He needed to work. And the only way he could remain on the case, to keep working was to lie to the chief, easier when the commissioner had asked the same question.
He didn’t want to lie to the chief, something he thought he would never do but he felt as though he didn’t have a choice, forced into a situation he didn’t want to be a part of. Felt as though he had only one option left . . . an option that would only make sense to a desperate man.
‘No. I’m not having any flashbacks.’ The lie so uncomfortable, he could feel his skin crawl. Felt the bile rise into the back of his throat, his stomach churning with guilt.
‘Are you lying to me?’
‘No,’ said Ed. He would never forgive himself, the guilt pulsing through his skull. . . his chest ached with emotion. He couldn’t sit at home doing nothing. He couldn’t give his mind time to remember. . . ‘I’m not lying to you.’
Refused to look away when the chief stared back at him. His throat dry, he needed a drink but if he broke eye contact now. . . he had to act confident, the chief able to read him like an open book. He had to remain calm, surprised when the chief finally accepted his lie as the truth.
‘All right, Ed,’ said Ironside, leaning forward in his wheelchair, ‘but if I find out you’ve lied to me, I’ll transfer you out of my department before you can even begin to think of apologising.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Ed, knowing the chief wasn’t bluffing. He also knew it wouldn’t just be a transfer, also demoted and back in uniform and directing traffic. He also knew it would be the end of their friendship.
Ed reconsidered his decision to lie, his friendship with Ironside more important than his job, more important than John Malcom. Were the memories so bad he would throw away a good friendship just so he can keep working, so he could hide from the memories. He could give in, tell the truth. Sent home he would sit in his living room. . . remembered the last time he’d gone through this. So caught up with his grief when Anne had died, the memories of Vietnam had returned, adding to his misery, his obsession with Tom Dayton getting him through one of the worst periods of his life. He couldn’t fix his memories, only wait for them to recede and they wouldn’t do that while he sat in his apartment doing nothing. He could fix a broken friendship. . .
He flinched a second time when the phone began to ring, certain the chief had noticed.
Watching his sergeant, Ironside picked up the phone. ‘Ironside. . . Already. . . All right, Carl, we’ll meet you there with a search warrant.’ Hanging up the phone, Ironside pushed his wheelchair away from the table. ‘Carl just a got a call, they think they’ve identified your suspect.’
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.
.
The drive to Warner’s apartment building had been a ninety-minute journey full of tension and silence, Ed driving while Ironside sat in the back of the van. A change of atmosphere when they stopped at the courthouse to get their search warrant signed, the chief waiting in the van while Ed had gone inside. It was a feeling of relief when they finally arrived at their destination, Ed no longer worried the chief would ask more questions, probing into his sergeant’s past.
Turning off the ignition, Ed got out of the van, walking around to the other side, and stepping up onto the sidewalk. He waited, patient as the chief made his way out of the van, the platform always slow as it lowered Ironside and his wheelchair to the ground.
When the chief was ready, Ed walked forward and opened the door to the apartment building, holding it open while the chief wheeled his chair through the open doorway, Ed following and closing the door behind him.
Carl Reese stood in the center of the apartment building’s lobby, a combination of detectives and uniformed officers standing behind him. They were ready and waiting, a need to get on with the job and take a violent killer off the streets.
Ironside wheeled his chair further into the lobby, stopping in front of Reese. Taking his place beside the chief, hands in his pockets, Ed looked at Reese, the man staring back at him.
‘Ed,’ said Reese.
‘Carl.’
‘Everything all right?’
‘Everything’s fine,’ said Ed.
‘You’ve got the search warrant?’
‘I’ve got the search warrant.’
‘Enough of the small talk, gentlemen,’ said Ironside. ‘Let’s get on with it.’
Reese nodded. ‘I called ahead and assigned two officers to Officer Belding. I also asked sergeant Duffy talk to the telephone operator. Mrs. Warner called Norman Madison at ten-forty am. Mr. Madison lives in apartment 702. Her description of Madison matches Ed’s description. Mr. Madison wasn’t home when the operator put the call through.’
‘All right,’ said Ironside. ‘Mr. Madison has become a suspect in the murder of Henry Warner. He may be aware of our presence, and I don’t want him evading us the same way he evaded sergeant Brown. Consider him armed and dangerous.’
A murmur of acknowledgement, some of the officers nodding their heads.
‘I want two officers to stay in the lobby. Sergeant Brown, use the stairs, take an officer with you. We’ll use the elevator.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Ed, moving away from the chief’s side.
‘Oh, and Ed,’ said Ironside, ‘try not to fall down the stairs.’
Ed tried to feel offended, couldn’t manage it, smirking at Ironside. The tension broken, he turned away and headed toward the stairwell, collecting one uniformed officer as he went. Reaching the stairwell, he opened the door and began to make his way up the stairs, watching the corners, looking for a suspect, possible Madison was waiting, ready to ambush the first officer to reach him.
The stairwell empty of suspects, it didn’t take long for Ed to reach the seventh floor, his long stride taking the stairs two at a time, the uniformed officer moving quickly behind him, able to keep up. Ed opened the door and stepped into the hallway. The chief and Carl were already waiting, huddled together beside the elevator. They were talking to each other, their voices soft, their conversation hidden from sergeant Duffy, the officer waiting nearby. A moment of paranoia, Ed concerned they were talking about him, comparing notes. Thinking they were making the decision to remove him from the case, a need to interrupt them, Ed moved forward.
The chief looked away from Reese, watched as Ed walked toward him and said, ‘Are you ready?’
The question meant for him, Ironside wanting to know if Ed was ready and able to do his job. Given an option to back out, to remain in the hallway with Ironside while someone else knocked on the door. Ed hesitated, staring at the chief. It didn’t feel good to have his state of mind questioned in front others, in front of Lieutenant Reese. The other officers wouldn’t have noticed, wouldn’t have understood the meaning behind the question but Ed knew Carl understood.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Ed.
‘Good. Carl, take the lead.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Carl, looking at Ed as he walked past.
Ed turned away and joined Reese by the front door of apartment 702. He stood to the side of the doorway, his back to the wall, Reese mirroring his position on the other side of the door. Took his gun from his holster and waited while Reese knocked on the door, his body tense, ready to act if something went wrong.
No answer, Reese knocked a second time. A third time. ‘Mr. Madison! Police! We have a search warrant. . . Open the door, Mr. Madison.’
Still no answer. Reaching into his pants pocket, Reese pulled out a key. Held it up to show Ed, smiled and said, ‘Master key.’
Ed smiled back.
Using the key to open the door, Reese pushed it open and stepped back out of sight. ‘Mr. Madison. . .’
Watching Reese, Ed saw him nod, indicating Ed should go first. Ed understood. . . Reese trusted him, trusted Ed to do his job and do it well, the lieutenant not concerned with Ed’s earlier outburst, his act of violence toward a material witness. His gun held in front of him, Ed entered the apartment, Reese moving in behind him.
Pushing the front door until it hit the wall with a soft thump, Ed moved further into the room. A small space, two doors to his left, an open kitchen to his right. While Reese waited in the living room, Ed quickly checked the kitchen. Empty. He stepped back into the living room, shaking his head.
They moved together, stopping next to the first door on the left. Ed opened the door and quickly stepped into the room, his gaze searching back and forth. He stepped forward, knelt, and checked under the bed while Reese checked the closet. Nothing.
The second room turned out to be the bathroom, no one hiding behind the shower curtain. Norman Madison wasn’t home. Ed wasn’t surprised. He hadn’t expected their suspect to be waiting for them, but they had to be sure, not willing to search the apartment before making sure it was safe to do so.
‘Well?’
Ironside.
Ed and Reese joined the chief and the other officers in the small living room.
‘Mr. Madison isn’t home,’ said Reese.
‘We assumed as much,’ said Ironside, looking around the apartment. ‘You know what to do.’
They did know what to do.
‘I’ll search the bedroom,’ said Reese. ‘Duffy, take the bathroom. Harry, look through the kitchen. Ed, you can have the living room.’
Orders received the officers began to search the seventh-floor apartment.
The living room was tidy, clean, the carpet a dark brown, the walls painted a pale green. A small, brown sofa with two matching armchairs set in the middle of the room. Behind the sofa was a large window, the curtains closed, sunlight clawing its way around the edges of the curtains and into the living room. In front of the sofa was a square, wooden coffee table, its surface covered with literature. A drinks cabinet rested against the wall next to the window, a variety of bottles of alcohol crowded together on top of the cabinet. An assortment of photos on every wall. There wasn’t a television, radio or a stereo, no form of entertainment other than the magazines on the coffee table.
Ed rifled through the magazines, a common topic, Madison had a specific interest. Held one up, showing it to the chief. ‘Boxing magazines.’
‘It’s possible Mr. Madison is as dangerous as the man who killed Warner.’
Nodding in agreement, Ed continued his search.
Officer Duffy came into the living room. Shaking his head, he said, ‘Nothing in the bathroom, chief.’
‘All right, wait outside.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Ed searched the furniture, running his fingers along the edges of the cushions, lifting them to search beneath. Nothing. Opened the drinks cabinet, only more alcohol. Opened the curtains, sunlight filling the room. There was no balcony, only a view of the alleyway across the street. The alley where John Malcom had slept, waking to witness a murder. He pushed the thoughts to the back of his mind. He didn’t want to think about John Malcom.
Nothing left to search, Ed began to look at the photographs. They looked professional; landscapes, portraits. . . photos of men in the boxing ring. Ed stopped, looking closer at a photo hidden amongst the landscapes. It was a photo of two men, their features similar, one clean shaven, the other wore a moustache. Ed recognised one of the men as the man he had chased down the stairwell. Possible, the other man was Henry Warner’s killer.
‘Chief,’ said Ed as he took the photo off the wall, showing it to Ironside.
Wheeling his chair closer to Ed, Ironside looked at the photo. ‘The man on the right is Norman Madison?’
‘Yes, sir. The same man I chased down the stairwell.’
Leaving the bedroom, Reese walked into the living room. ‘I found these in the closet.’ He lifted his right hand. He was holding a pen, a set of keys dangling off the end.
Ironside took the pen from Reese and looked more closely at the four keys attached to a San Francisco Giants key ring.
‘The keys were wrapped in this,’ said Reese, holding up a piece of paper by the corner to show Ironside.
A short note, a name and address scrawled across it. ‘Evelyn Pierce. 184 Herriford street.’
‘I also found pay slips. Madison works at a photography studio called “Family Portraits”.
The officer searching the kitchen walked into the living room. ‘The kitchen is clean, chief. Nothing of interest.’
Ironside nodded, distracted, thoughts elsewhere. Aware the chief was thinking ahead, planning his next move, Ed waited for instructions. He knew what they needed to do but he didn’t want to interrupt, Ironside making the decisions.
‘Carl,’ said Ironside. ‘Give this photo to Duffy. . .’
Ed gave the framed photograph to Reese.
‘Is this the guy you fell over?’
‘Funny,’ said Ed, grateful Reese still trusted him.
‘I want Duffy to show it to John Malcom. I’m certain Malcom will identify the man with the moustache as the man who killed John Warner. And then I want you to put out an APB for Norman Madison and arrange a stakeout of this building in case he returns. Assign some men to stay here while the crime scene officers go over it. After you’ve done that, go to his place of work. I doubt he’ll be there, but we’ll need to be sure. Get any information you can about the man. In the meantime, Ed and I are going to pay a visit to Evelyn Pierce.’
.
.
.
Evelyn Pierce lived in a modest home. The front lawn, recently cut, was green. The hedges running along the footpath, trimmed into rectangular shapes. The sun was bright, a hint of cloud cover ruining an almost perfect blue sky. The air was fresh, a soft breeze rustling the trees lining the sidewalk. Flowers blooming, there should have been a pleasant smell.
Instead, there was an odour Ed recognised as soon as he stepped out of the van. It was the smell of death, of decaying flesh. It was possible someone’s family pet had died, the animal struck by a car and left to rot in the gutter, but it was too much of a coincidence.
Reacting on instinct alone, Ed walked up to the edge of the driveway, his gaze searching for anything or anyone out of place. The left side of the house fenced off; the fence too high for a six-foot two sergeant to climb over. On the right was a garage, its door closed, the building attached to the side of the house. Ed could see no way to get around to the back of the house, sometimes easier to force entry through a back door.
Everything else looked serene, peaceful, the only oddity the stench of death. Looking back over his shoulder, he watched as the van’s platform lowered the chief’s wheelchair to the ground. Watched as the chief’s face conveyed his recognition of the smell, his features creasing with disgust then suspicion.
Certain the death wasn’t fresh, the killer no longer in the area, Ed gave the chief a look, his expression asking a question. Ironside understood what Ed was trying to say, no words needed, they’d worked together long enough to read each other’s body language, each other’s facial expressions.
Ironside nodded at Ed, giving his sergeant permission to move forward without him. Ed walked up the flat driveway, the space empty, giving the impression no one was home. Reaching the end of the driveway, he stopped in front of the garage. Looking toward the house, he could see the curtains on the windows were open. Followed a paved footpath along the front of the house until he reached a set of steps leading up to the front door.
Ignoring the front door, Ed moved to the closest window, stopping at its edge. Holding his breath, he listened for any sound indicting he wasn’t alone. No sounds came from within the house. Leaning to his right, Ed looked through the window into a large living room. The space filled with furniture, he could see nothing but dark shadows and empty spaces. A quick glance over his shoulder before moving on. The chief sat in his wheelchair at the bottom of the stairs.
Ed saw a moment of shame, of anger on the chief’s face. The emotion not directed toward Ed, the chief angry with his disability, a feeling of shame because he couldn’t do anything to help, nothing to do but wait while his sergeant took all the risks, calling for backup if necessary. Calling for help if Ed walked into trouble. There was another option. They could retreat, call for backup and wait, no need for Ed to enter the home alone.
‘Go,’ said Ironside.
Ed obeyed, quickly moving to the front door. Tested the handle, the door locked. He pressed hands against the door and pushed. It felt heavy, the doorframe solid. Ed stepped back. Balance on his left foot, he raised his right leg and kicked the heel of his foot against the door beneath the lock. It took three attempts, the door finally giving way, crashing open and slamming against the wall. Grimaced as the smell grew stronger.
Ed stepped into the doorway. His back against the broken doorframe, he armed himself with his service weapon, a comfortable weight in his right hand. He searched the room beyond the doorway, his eyes adjusting, the dark shadows retreating. The room clear of any immediate threats, Ed moved quickly, walking into the living room.
In front of him was a closed door, a dark red smear staining the white wood. Looking to his left he saw a darkened hallway, two closed doors on the right, two closed doors on the left. He hesitated. . . police procedure told sergeant Brown to identify himself before he moved further into the house.
Ed called out, his voice loud. ‘San Francisco police!’
Something scraped across the floor in the room in front of him, Ed certain it was the kitchen. He walked forward; the sound of his footsteps softened by the beige carpet beneath his feet. He gripped the doorknob, turned it, and pushed the door open, force used, the door hitting the wall; no one hiding behind it. Overwhelmed by the smell of death, he stepped back. Taking a moment, he placed his left hand over his mouth and nose and walked into the kitchen, the sight before him stopping him from going any further.
A large wooden table sat in the middle of the kitchen, surrounded by six chairs. A back door, a small window set in the frame, cupboards lining the wall in front him, a large window covered with a net curtain above them. A white, kitchen sink in the middle. Looking to the left he saw a door, a fridge and stove to its side. To his right was another door leading to the garage.
The kitchen looked immaculate, everything clean, everything shining. The bloated corpse on the floor, the flies hovering over the body, crowding the windows. . . the only things staining an image of perfection.
He stared at the corpse, the body almost unrecognisable, the flower patterned dress the only thing indicating the victim was a woman. He should feel angry. . . that someone would use such violence against a woman. Ed felt nothing, no emotion. He’d seen much worse in Vietnam.
The chief needed to see this but before he could bring Ironside into the home, he had to clear the other rooms. He saw a snap of movement to his left. The door burst open, and a man lunged toward him, screaming something Ed couldn’t understand. Ed turned to face him, but the man had been too quick, slamming into Ed, knocking Ed off his feet. He fell, his back hitting the floor, Ed grunting in surprise and pain.
The man dropped down on top of him. With his back pressed against the floor, Ed had nowhere to go. Fingers wrapped around his throat as he stared up at eyes full of anger, fear, and tears. He punched the man in the ribs, the man shifting his body to compensate, moving his head closer toward Ed.
Ed punched the man in the side of the head. Stunned, the man stumbled, falling to the side. Ed helped, pushing the man way, forcing his attacker onto his back. Ed sat up, knelt next to the man, one knee on the floor, the other pressing down between the man’s shoulder blades. Took his handcuffs from the clip on the back of his belt and handcuffed the man.
Ed stood up and stumbled back against the wall. Felt a moment of surprise when the man began to cry.
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.
.
‘My name is Alex Pierce. The woman in there,’ said Pierce, nodding toward the back of the house, ‘is my wife.’
Alex Pierce sat on a wooden bench in the back garden, Ironside in front of him, Ed hovering close by, ready and willing to use force if the man showed any sign of violence.
Pierce was a short man, stocky, his shoulders wide. Black hair with flecks of grey, his eyes blue. A handsome man, he sat with his hands clenched in his lap, squeezing, and rubbing his fingers, a sign of agitation or anxiety.
Ed had taken notice of the man’s hands earlier, noticing the lack of bruising, cuts, and blood. If this man had killed his wife, he didn’t use his hands, something else used as a murder weapon.
‘Why did you attack sergeant Brown?’ said Ironside, his elbows resting on the arms of his wheelchair.
Pierce looked up at Ed, tears in his eyes, an apology on his lips. ‘I’m sorry. I just. . . I just got home from work. I found her. . . and then you. . . you kicked in my front door. . .’
‘Sergeant Brown identified himself as a police officer.’
His movements sudden, Pierce stood up. Ed stepped forward, ready to intervene, stopping when Ironside raised his hand. ‘It’s all right, Ed. I don’t think Mr. Pierce is going to do anything violent.’
Pierce sat back down, his shoulders slumping. ‘I wasn’t thinking straight. My wife was. . . I was scared. Angry. I thought the person who. . . I thought they’d come back.’
‘They?’
‘The person who killed my wife.’
‘You said you just arrived home?’
‘Yes,’ said Pierce, looking up at Ironside. ‘I put the car in the garage and went inside.’
Ed looked toward the house, through the kitchen window, the net curtain turning members of the Science Investigation team into sharp shadows as they moved around the kitchen.
Looking back at Pierce he said, ‘You didn’t notice your wife was dead when you left for work.’ A callous question, he ignored the chief when Ironside twisted his upper body to look up at him. ‘Why is that?’
Staring at Ed, Pierce said, ‘I left for work five days ago. I’m a marketing manager. I travelled to Dallas for a conference. I left my car at the airport, flew to Dallas. Stayed at the Henson Hotel. Flew back this morning. I didn’t kill my wife.’
‘Well need to confirm you were in Dallas.’
‘It’s all in my briefcase. Tickets, receipts. . . everything. It’s in the car.’
‘Can you think of anyone who might have reason to murder your wife, Mr. Pierce?’ said Ironside.
Alex Pierce lowered his head.
‘Anything that could help us. . . was she worried about anything or anyone?’
Pierce looked up at Ironside, his cheeks red with embarrassment. ‘My wife was window shopping for a new home closer to the city. I think it was just an excuse to get out of the house and away from me. I love my wife but. . . I think she was having an affair.’
Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five
Master Fan Fiction List
Fandom: Ironside [1967 TV Series]
Genre: Crime | Hurt/Comfort | Angst
Rating: PG
Main Characters: Sergeant Ed Brown, Chief Ironside, Officer Fran Belding, Lieutenant Carl Reese, Mark Sanger and Commissioner Dennis Randall.
Disclaimer: Based on the characters created by Collier Young.
Author's Note: Set between S5 E4 'The Gambling Game' and S5 E5 'Ring of Prayer' because I still wanted there to be some conflict between Ed and Fran.
Author's Other Note: Ed Brown was a marine who saw combat in Vietnam - even though the timing in the show is all fucked up - and, it drives me crazy this piece of cannon is rarely mentioned in the show. And it drove me insane when there was no mention of his past in the season 4 episode ‘No Game for Amateurs’. As soon as the plot included draft dodgers, I kept wanting to know what Ed Brown thought of draft dodgers. But Ed’s past wasn’t included in the plot and that left me disappointed and wanting to know more. So, I wrote my own story. This is a separate story and doesn’t mirror ‘No Game for Amateurs’ in any way.
Chapter Word Count: 6,052
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 Four
Sitting at the conference table, Ed tried to appear relaxed as he looked through another book of mugshots. Knew he was failing, his shoulders tense, his back stiff, left hand clenched in a fist. The memories of Vietnam at the back of his mind, he concentrated on the book in front of him, gaze quickly traveling across each photo, his hand trembling as he turned each page.
The chief sat at the other side of the table, bold in his scrutiny of his sergeant, Ed worried the chief was looking for an excuse, an opportunity to return to a conversation Ed didn’t want to continue. Uncomfortable, the doubts returning, crawling at the edges of his thoughts, Ed shifted in his seat, turning his body away, twisting his back. Grimaced at the stab of pain through his shoulders and lower back.
Glanced at his watch, the thirty minutes almost up, Fran and Mark returning to the office at any minute. He didn’t expect any kind of rebuke from Mark. Four years of friendship and trust would allow Mark to accept Ed’s act of violence for what he assumed it was, a reaction to an ugly insult.
Fran. . . Fran was a different matter. She would ask questions, take advantage of the situation to alleviate her own emotions regarding her friend. She would want Ed to explain why her friend had changed after a year in Vietnam. Ed wanted to be wrong in his expectations. He didn’t want to shut her down. Didn’t want her to think he didn’t care because he did but he couldn’t put her needs first, not this time. He couldn’t alleviate her pain by increasing his own.
Heard the office door open, soft voices as Mark and Fran made their way down the short set of stairs and to the conference table, Ed not surprised when Fran sat down beside him, Mark sitting down next to the chief. Kept his gaze steady, turning another page in the mugshot book, his suspect still unidentified. Watched as she reached toward him.
Ed said, ‘Don’t.’ A simple word. A simple instruction, Fran hesitating and pulling back. His body language becoming defensive, his anger still simmering, he turned away from her, something he didn’t want to do but he couldn’t stop himself. Facing the chief once more, Ed flicked his gaze up to look at Ironside. The chief nodded toward Fran, encouraging Ed to talk to her. Ed shook his head.
‘Fran,’ said Ironside, accepting Ed’s refusal to talk. ‘Now isn’t the right time.’
It would never be the right time, not for Ed Brown but his refusal to talk wouldn’t stop Fran from asking questions. Just like the chief, she would wait for an opening, the prospect turning Ed’s stomach.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Fran, looking away from Ed.
‘Here’s a list of Mrs. Warner’s friends,’ said Ironside, passing a piece of paper to Fran. ‘Go and talk to them. Find out what you can. Start with her closest friend, Mrs. Mary Kennedy.’
Fran took the list, her movements slow, her mind obviously distracted. He couldn’t reassure her. Couldn’t tell her everything was okay. . . because it wasn’t.
‘Mark, go with her.’
‘I don’t need help,’ said Fran, her tone angry as she stood up.
Turning his head, Ed looked up at Fran. She stared at the chief, defiant. Fran had no reason to be angry with the chief. No reason to question his orders the way she had questioned Ed’s.
When Ironside spoke, his words were cutting, straight to the point. ‘I already have one volatile officer to deal with, I damn well don’t need another.’ Ironside glared at Ed, then Fran. ‘Most of Mrs. Warner’s friends live in the same apartment building, including Mrs. Kennedy and I will not have you knocking on doors without someone there to back you up if something goes wrong.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Fran, walking away from the table and up the steps, snatching her coat and handbag off the coat rack as she made her way to the office door.
Ironside looked at Mark and said, ‘And I don’t need you to remind me you’re not a police officer.’
Mark gave Ed a look, his eyes full of humour. Unable to stop himself, Ed smiled back. Standing up Mark said, ‘Later.’
‘Later’, said Ed, watching Mark walk away before turning back to face Ironside.
‘You should talk to her,’ said Ironside.
‘Why? Because you want me to make her feel better about her friend?’
‘She told you about him?’
‘Isn’t that what you wanted?’
‘Ed--’
‘I can’t tell her why her friend changed--’
‘Can’t or won’t.’
‘Both,’ said Ed. ‘An explanation about what happened to her friend will only make her feel worse. Is that what you want, chief?’
‘What I want, sergeant. . .’ said Ironside, shaking his head and looking away. A few seconds before his gaze returned to Ed. ‘What I want is a drink.’
Ed slammed the book closed on the last page and stood up, pushing his chair back. Walking toward the kitchenette, he could feel the muscles in his shoulders shift, a crease of pain. He needed to relax, to calm down, his body too tense, his muscles too tight. A difficult thing to do. . . his anger unwilling to leave him. Felt as though he was standing on the edge of a precipice, ready to fall, a deep black pit on the edge of his vision. He didn’t want to fall. He didn’t want to fall because he knew he wouldn’t be able to get back up.
Reaching the kitchenette, he stopped in front of the sink. Gripped the edge, held on while he leant forward. Closed his eyes and took a slow, deep breath. The side of Ralph Decker’s head exploded. A rush of breath, his body stumbling as he opened his eyes. He needed. . . wanted one of Mrs. Miller’s sedatives, shame tearing through him at the thought. Shook his head and stood up straight. He was home. In San Francisco. He wasn’t in Vietnam. They were only memories.
Reached toward the coffee cups on the shelf. Stopped at the sight of the tremor running through his arm, his hand shaking. Clenched his fist, the knuckles white. A slow breath. Unclenched his hand, the limb still shaking. He couldn’t help but laugh at the thought of carrying two cups of coffee to the conference table. Instead, he compromised, taking two empty cups and the pot of coffee from the stove.
Walking back, he stopped when Ironside said, ‘When I said a drink, I wasn’t talking about a cup of coffee.’
Undeterred, Ed moved forward, set the cups and the pot of coffee on the table, and said, ‘We’re working.’
‘When has work ever stopped me from having a glass of good bourbon?’
About to respond, Ed interrupted when the phone began to ring. He reached toward it, Ironside snapping up the handset before Ed could.
‘Ironside!’
With the chief distracted, Ed poured two cups of coffee, placing one in front of the chief. He sat down and opened the next book of mugshots. Looked up when Ironside put the call on speaker phone, Carl Reese’s voice echoing down the phone line.
‘I’m telling you, chief. He wants to press charges. I can’t talk him out of it. I’ve tried until I’m blue in the face.’
Ed clenched his fist, a strong need to punch John Malcom in the face. The man lucky, Ed Brown capable of inflicting more than a slap. Malcom lucky Ed didn’t leave him bruised and bloody on the floor.
‘You didn’t try hard enough.’
‘I even told him Ed had provocation on his side.’
‘Then remind Mr. Malcom extortion is a crime. I’ll wait.’
‘Chief, isn’t that extortion?’
‘What are you trying to say, Carl?’
‘I’ll remind him.’
Muffled voices, Ed unable to understand the words spoken but he recognised the tones. Anger, frustration and then fear. It didn’t take long, Carl back on the line within minutes.
‘Chief, Mr. Malcom has decided not to press charges against sergeant Brown.’
Ironside smiled. ‘See how easy that was?’
‘Too easy.’
‘Have you got him settled?’
‘The Beaumont on ninth street. Room 402. I’ve got Baker and Dolby staying with him.’
‘Two good men,’ said Ironside. ‘Head on over to Warner’s apartment building. Fran and Mark are on their way to talk to Mrs. Warner’s friends. Assign a uniformed officer to help them, someone who can handle himself.’
‘It’s going to take me more than an hour to get there, chief.’
‘You managed to use a phone to call me.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Ironside disconnected the call, smiled at Ed, and said, ‘That’s one thing you don’t have to worry about.’
‘I wasn’t worried.’
‘Ed, you could have lost your job.’
‘I don’t care about losing my job,’ said Ed, his tone angry. ‘He called be a baby killer.’
Ironside frowned, a flicker of concern in his blue eyes. He stared at his sergeant, a familiar expression forming. Ed Brown knew that look. Realised his mistake. A lack of concern regarding his job, the anger in his voice giving the chief an opportunity, creating an opening for Ironside to return to a conversation Ed had hoped was over.
Making the decision not to raise a metaphorical white flag and surrender, he steeled his expression and stared back at the chief. Ironside was a stubborn man, remaining silent, waiting but Ed was angry, too angry to give in and break the silence. Resting his left arm on the conference table, he leaned back in his chair. There must have been something readable in his expression, not long before the chief spoke.
‘Ed, I’m sure, you’ve been called worse,’ said Ironside.
Ed didn’t agree with the chief’s assumption. ‘What can be worse than someone calling you a baby killer?’
‘You’re right, Ed, but you didn’t attack him just because he called you a baby killer. We both know that.’
The chief was wrong. He was also right. ‘I thought we weren’t going to talk about this until the case is over.’
‘I made an offer to share a drink and swap war stories. You assumed the conversation was over.’
Ed knew the chief well enough not to assume anything. He’d known the conversation wasn’t over, he just didn’t expect to return to it so quickly. Thought he would have time to sort out his thoughts, his emotions. ‘Why can’t you leave it alone?’
‘Because I want to help you,’ said Ironside.
‘How is this helping? ’
‘Ed, why are your hands shaking?’
Ed looked down at his hands, the limbs resting on the table. His hands were shaking, obvious to anyone who was looking, and the chief had been looking. Clenched his fists and closed his eyes, snapping them open, stopping the memory of Ralph Decker’s death. Ed didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what to do.
‘I took you at your word when you told me you could do your job. . . I’ve been watching you, Ed. Your hands haven’t stopped shaking since you sat down. You’re tense, agitated. You’re angry and you’re defensive and I’m beginning to think you lied to the commissioner. Are you having flashbacks?’
He didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to talk about his experiences in Vietnam, not until the case was over. Not until there was a full bottle of bourbon on the table. Not until he was too drunk to care about what he was saying, revealing a past he refused to talk about while sober.
Ironside slammed his hand down on the table. ‘Answer my question!’
The sound like a gunshot, Ed flinched. His chest tight, the air caught in his throat. Tried to convince himself to be honest with Ironside. . . no. He couldn’t tell the chief the truth. The truth would remove him from the case, placed on medical leave. He couldn’t sit at home and do nothing. His mind would wander through the memories of Vietnam. The nightmares were bad enough when he slept but to dream while he was awake. . . he would fall into the black abyss, and he wouldn’t be able to climb back out. He needed a distraction. He needed to work. And the only way he could remain on the case, to keep working was to lie to the chief, easier when the commissioner had asked the same question.
He didn’t want to lie to the chief, something he thought he would never do but he felt as though he didn’t have a choice, forced into a situation he didn’t want to be a part of. Felt as though he had only one option left . . . an option that would only make sense to a desperate man.
‘No. I’m not having any flashbacks.’ The lie so uncomfortable, he could feel his skin crawl. Felt the bile rise into the back of his throat, his stomach churning with guilt.
‘Are you lying to me?’
‘No,’ said Ed. He would never forgive himself, the guilt pulsing through his skull. . . his chest ached with emotion. He couldn’t sit at home doing nothing. He couldn’t give his mind time to remember. . . ‘I’m not lying to you.’
Refused to look away when the chief stared back at him. His throat dry, he needed a drink but if he broke eye contact now. . . he had to act confident, the chief able to read him like an open book. He had to remain calm, surprised when the chief finally accepted his lie as the truth.
‘All right, Ed,’ said Ironside, leaning forward in his wheelchair, ‘but if I find out you’ve lied to me, I’ll transfer you out of my department before you can even begin to think of apologising.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Ed, knowing the chief wasn’t bluffing. He also knew it wouldn’t just be a transfer, also demoted and back in uniform and directing traffic. He also knew it would be the end of their friendship.
Ed reconsidered his decision to lie, his friendship with Ironside more important than his job, more important than John Malcom. Were the memories so bad he would throw away a good friendship just so he can keep working, so he could hide from the memories. He could give in, tell the truth. Sent home he would sit in his living room. . . remembered the last time he’d gone through this. So caught up with his grief when Anne had died, the memories of Vietnam had returned, adding to his misery, his obsession with Tom Dayton getting him through one of the worst periods of his life. He couldn’t fix his memories, only wait for them to recede and they wouldn’t do that while he sat in his apartment doing nothing. He could fix a broken friendship. . .
He flinched a second time when the phone began to ring, certain the chief had noticed.
Watching his sergeant, Ironside picked up the phone. ‘Ironside. . . Already. . . All right, Carl, we’ll meet you there with a search warrant.’ Hanging up the phone, Ironside pushed his wheelchair away from the table. ‘Carl just a got a call, they think they’ve identified your suspect.’
.
.
.
The drive to Warner’s apartment building had been a ninety-minute journey full of tension and silence, Ed driving while Ironside sat in the back of the van. A change of atmosphere when they stopped at the courthouse to get their search warrant signed, the chief waiting in the van while Ed had gone inside. It was a feeling of relief when they finally arrived at their destination, Ed no longer worried the chief would ask more questions, probing into his sergeant’s past.
Turning off the ignition, Ed got out of the van, walking around to the other side, and stepping up onto the sidewalk. He waited, patient as the chief made his way out of the van, the platform always slow as it lowered Ironside and his wheelchair to the ground.
When the chief was ready, Ed walked forward and opened the door to the apartment building, holding it open while the chief wheeled his chair through the open doorway, Ed following and closing the door behind him.
Carl Reese stood in the center of the apartment building’s lobby, a combination of detectives and uniformed officers standing behind him. They were ready and waiting, a need to get on with the job and take a violent killer off the streets.
Ironside wheeled his chair further into the lobby, stopping in front of Reese. Taking his place beside the chief, hands in his pockets, Ed looked at Reese, the man staring back at him.
‘Ed,’ said Reese.
‘Carl.’
‘Everything all right?’
‘Everything’s fine,’ said Ed.
‘You’ve got the search warrant?’
‘I’ve got the search warrant.’
‘Enough of the small talk, gentlemen,’ said Ironside. ‘Let’s get on with it.’
Reese nodded. ‘I called ahead and assigned two officers to Officer Belding. I also asked sergeant Duffy talk to the telephone operator. Mrs. Warner called Norman Madison at ten-forty am. Mr. Madison lives in apartment 702. Her description of Madison matches Ed’s description. Mr. Madison wasn’t home when the operator put the call through.’
‘All right,’ said Ironside. ‘Mr. Madison has become a suspect in the murder of Henry Warner. He may be aware of our presence, and I don’t want him evading us the same way he evaded sergeant Brown. Consider him armed and dangerous.’
A murmur of acknowledgement, some of the officers nodding their heads.
‘I want two officers to stay in the lobby. Sergeant Brown, use the stairs, take an officer with you. We’ll use the elevator.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Ed, moving away from the chief’s side.
‘Oh, and Ed,’ said Ironside, ‘try not to fall down the stairs.’
Ed tried to feel offended, couldn’t manage it, smirking at Ironside. The tension broken, he turned away and headed toward the stairwell, collecting one uniformed officer as he went. Reaching the stairwell, he opened the door and began to make his way up the stairs, watching the corners, looking for a suspect, possible Madison was waiting, ready to ambush the first officer to reach him.
The stairwell empty of suspects, it didn’t take long for Ed to reach the seventh floor, his long stride taking the stairs two at a time, the uniformed officer moving quickly behind him, able to keep up. Ed opened the door and stepped into the hallway. The chief and Carl were already waiting, huddled together beside the elevator. They were talking to each other, their voices soft, their conversation hidden from sergeant Duffy, the officer waiting nearby. A moment of paranoia, Ed concerned they were talking about him, comparing notes. Thinking they were making the decision to remove him from the case, a need to interrupt them, Ed moved forward.
The chief looked away from Reese, watched as Ed walked toward him and said, ‘Are you ready?’
The question meant for him, Ironside wanting to know if Ed was ready and able to do his job. Given an option to back out, to remain in the hallway with Ironside while someone else knocked on the door. Ed hesitated, staring at the chief. It didn’t feel good to have his state of mind questioned in front others, in front of Lieutenant Reese. The other officers wouldn’t have noticed, wouldn’t have understood the meaning behind the question but Ed knew Carl understood.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Ed.
‘Good. Carl, take the lead.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Carl, looking at Ed as he walked past.
Ed turned away and joined Reese by the front door of apartment 702. He stood to the side of the doorway, his back to the wall, Reese mirroring his position on the other side of the door. Took his gun from his holster and waited while Reese knocked on the door, his body tense, ready to act if something went wrong.
No answer, Reese knocked a second time. A third time. ‘Mr. Madison! Police! We have a search warrant. . . Open the door, Mr. Madison.’
Still no answer. Reaching into his pants pocket, Reese pulled out a key. Held it up to show Ed, smiled and said, ‘Master key.’
Ed smiled back.
Using the key to open the door, Reese pushed it open and stepped back out of sight. ‘Mr. Madison. . .’
Watching Reese, Ed saw him nod, indicating Ed should go first. Ed understood. . . Reese trusted him, trusted Ed to do his job and do it well, the lieutenant not concerned with Ed’s earlier outburst, his act of violence toward a material witness. His gun held in front of him, Ed entered the apartment, Reese moving in behind him.
Pushing the front door until it hit the wall with a soft thump, Ed moved further into the room. A small space, two doors to his left, an open kitchen to his right. While Reese waited in the living room, Ed quickly checked the kitchen. Empty. He stepped back into the living room, shaking his head.
They moved together, stopping next to the first door on the left. Ed opened the door and quickly stepped into the room, his gaze searching back and forth. He stepped forward, knelt, and checked under the bed while Reese checked the closet. Nothing.
The second room turned out to be the bathroom, no one hiding behind the shower curtain. Norman Madison wasn’t home. Ed wasn’t surprised. He hadn’t expected their suspect to be waiting for them, but they had to be sure, not willing to search the apartment before making sure it was safe to do so.
‘Well?’
Ironside.
Ed and Reese joined the chief and the other officers in the small living room.
‘Mr. Madison isn’t home,’ said Reese.
‘We assumed as much,’ said Ironside, looking around the apartment. ‘You know what to do.’
They did know what to do.
‘I’ll search the bedroom,’ said Reese. ‘Duffy, take the bathroom. Harry, look through the kitchen. Ed, you can have the living room.’
Orders received the officers began to search the seventh-floor apartment.
The living room was tidy, clean, the carpet a dark brown, the walls painted a pale green. A small, brown sofa with two matching armchairs set in the middle of the room. Behind the sofa was a large window, the curtains closed, sunlight clawing its way around the edges of the curtains and into the living room. In front of the sofa was a square, wooden coffee table, its surface covered with literature. A drinks cabinet rested against the wall next to the window, a variety of bottles of alcohol crowded together on top of the cabinet. An assortment of photos on every wall. There wasn’t a television, radio or a stereo, no form of entertainment other than the magazines on the coffee table.
Ed rifled through the magazines, a common topic, Madison had a specific interest. Held one up, showing it to the chief. ‘Boxing magazines.’
‘It’s possible Mr. Madison is as dangerous as the man who killed Warner.’
Nodding in agreement, Ed continued his search.
Officer Duffy came into the living room. Shaking his head, he said, ‘Nothing in the bathroom, chief.’
‘All right, wait outside.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Ed searched the furniture, running his fingers along the edges of the cushions, lifting them to search beneath. Nothing. Opened the drinks cabinet, only more alcohol. Opened the curtains, sunlight filling the room. There was no balcony, only a view of the alleyway across the street. The alley where John Malcom had slept, waking to witness a murder. He pushed the thoughts to the back of his mind. He didn’t want to think about John Malcom.
Nothing left to search, Ed began to look at the photographs. They looked professional; landscapes, portraits. . . photos of men in the boxing ring. Ed stopped, looking closer at a photo hidden amongst the landscapes. It was a photo of two men, their features similar, one clean shaven, the other wore a moustache. Ed recognised one of the men as the man he had chased down the stairwell. Possible, the other man was Henry Warner’s killer.
‘Chief,’ said Ed as he took the photo off the wall, showing it to Ironside.
Wheeling his chair closer to Ed, Ironside looked at the photo. ‘The man on the right is Norman Madison?’
‘Yes, sir. The same man I chased down the stairwell.’
Leaving the bedroom, Reese walked into the living room. ‘I found these in the closet.’ He lifted his right hand. He was holding a pen, a set of keys dangling off the end.
Ironside took the pen from Reese and looked more closely at the four keys attached to a San Francisco Giants key ring.
‘The keys were wrapped in this,’ said Reese, holding up a piece of paper by the corner to show Ironside.
A short note, a name and address scrawled across it. ‘Evelyn Pierce. 184 Herriford street.’
‘I also found pay slips. Madison works at a photography studio called “Family Portraits”.
The officer searching the kitchen walked into the living room. ‘The kitchen is clean, chief. Nothing of interest.’
Ironside nodded, distracted, thoughts elsewhere. Aware the chief was thinking ahead, planning his next move, Ed waited for instructions. He knew what they needed to do but he didn’t want to interrupt, Ironside making the decisions.
‘Carl,’ said Ironside. ‘Give this photo to Duffy. . .’
Ed gave the framed photograph to Reese.
‘Is this the guy you fell over?’
‘Funny,’ said Ed, grateful Reese still trusted him.
‘I want Duffy to show it to John Malcom. I’m certain Malcom will identify the man with the moustache as the man who killed John Warner. And then I want you to put out an APB for Norman Madison and arrange a stakeout of this building in case he returns. Assign some men to stay here while the crime scene officers go over it. After you’ve done that, go to his place of work. I doubt he’ll be there, but we’ll need to be sure. Get any information you can about the man. In the meantime, Ed and I are going to pay a visit to Evelyn Pierce.’
.
.
.
Evelyn Pierce lived in a modest home. The front lawn, recently cut, was green. The hedges running along the footpath, trimmed into rectangular shapes. The sun was bright, a hint of cloud cover ruining an almost perfect blue sky. The air was fresh, a soft breeze rustling the trees lining the sidewalk. Flowers blooming, there should have been a pleasant smell.
Instead, there was an odour Ed recognised as soon as he stepped out of the van. It was the smell of death, of decaying flesh. It was possible someone’s family pet had died, the animal struck by a car and left to rot in the gutter, but it was too much of a coincidence.
Reacting on instinct alone, Ed walked up to the edge of the driveway, his gaze searching for anything or anyone out of place. The left side of the house fenced off; the fence too high for a six-foot two sergeant to climb over. On the right was a garage, its door closed, the building attached to the side of the house. Ed could see no way to get around to the back of the house, sometimes easier to force entry through a back door.
Everything else looked serene, peaceful, the only oddity the stench of death. Looking back over his shoulder, he watched as the van’s platform lowered the chief’s wheelchair to the ground. Watched as the chief’s face conveyed his recognition of the smell, his features creasing with disgust then suspicion.
Certain the death wasn’t fresh, the killer no longer in the area, Ed gave the chief a look, his expression asking a question. Ironside understood what Ed was trying to say, no words needed, they’d worked together long enough to read each other’s body language, each other’s facial expressions.
Ironside nodded at Ed, giving his sergeant permission to move forward without him. Ed walked up the flat driveway, the space empty, giving the impression no one was home. Reaching the end of the driveway, he stopped in front of the garage. Looking toward the house, he could see the curtains on the windows were open. Followed a paved footpath along the front of the house until he reached a set of steps leading up to the front door.
Ignoring the front door, Ed moved to the closest window, stopping at its edge. Holding his breath, he listened for any sound indicting he wasn’t alone. No sounds came from within the house. Leaning to his right, Ed looked through the window into a large living room. The space filled with furniture, he could see nothing but dark shadows and empty spaces. A quick glance over his shoulder before moving on. The chief sat in his wheelchair at the bottom of the stairs.
Ed saw a moment of shame, of anger on the chief’s face. The emotion not directed toward Ed, the chief angry with his disability, a feeling of shame because he couldn’t do anything to help, nothing to do but wait while his sergeant took all the risks, calling for backup if necessary. Calling for help if Ed walked into trouble. There was another option. They could retreat, call for backup and wait, no need for Ed to enter the home alone.
‘Go,’ said Ironside.
Ed obeyed, quickly moving to the front door. Tested the handle, the door locked. He pressed hands against the door and pushed. It felt heavy, the doorframe solid. Ed stepped back. Balance on his left foot, he raised his right leg and kicked the heel of his foot against the door beneath the lock. It took three attempts, the door finally giving way, crashing open and slamming against the wall. Grimaced as the smell grew stronger.
Ed stepped into the doorway. His back against the broken doorframe, he armed himself with his service weapon, a comfortable weight in his right hand. He searched the room beyond the doorway, his eyes adjusting, the dark shadows retreating. The room clear of any immediate threats, Ed moved quickly, walking into the living room.
In front of him was a closed door, a dark red smear staining the white wood. Looking to his left he saw a darkened hallway, two closed doors on the right, two closed doors on the left. He hesitated. . . police procedure told sergeant Brown to identify himself before he moved further into the house.
Ed called out, his voice loud. ‘San Francisco police!’
Something scraped across the floor in the room in front of him, Ed certain it was the kitchen. He walked forward; the sound of his footsteps softened by the beige carpet beneath his feet. He gripped the doorknob, turned it, and pushed the door open, force used, the door hitting the wall; no one hiding behind it. Overwhelmed by the smell of death, he stepped back. Taking a moment, he placed his left hand over his mouth and nose and walked into the kitchen, the sight before him stopping him from going any further.
A large wooden table sat in the middle of the kitchen, surrounded by six chairs. A back door, a small window set in the frame, cupboards lining the wall in front him, a large window covered with a net curtain above them. A white, kitchen sink in the middle. Looking to the left he saw a door, a fridge and stove to its side. To his right was another door leading to the garage.
The kitchen looked immaculate, everything clean, everything shining. The bloated corpse on the floor, the flies hovering over the body, crowding the windows. . . the only things staining an image of perfection.
He stared at the corpse, the body almost unrecognisable, the flower patterned dress the only thing indicating the victim was a woman. He should feel angry. . . that someone would use such violence against a woman. Ed felt nothing, no emotion. He’d seen much worse in Vietnam.
The chief needed to see this but before he could bring Ironside into the home, he had to clear the other rooms. He saw a snap of movement to his left. The door burst open, and a man lunged toward him, screaming something Ed couldn’t understand. Ed turned to face him, but the man had been too quick, slamming into Ed, knocking Ed off his feet. He fell, his back hitting the floor, Ed grunting in surprise and pain.
The man dropped down on top of him. With his back pressed against the floor, Ed had nowhere to go. Fingers wrapped around his throat as he stared up at eyes full of anger, fear, and tears. He punched the man in the ribs, the man shifting his body to compensate, moving his head closer toward Ed.
Ed punched the man in the side of the head. Stunned, the man stumbled, falling to the side. Ed helped, pushing the man way, forcing his attacker onto his back. Ed sat up, knelt next to the man, one knee on the floor, the other pressing down between the man’s shoulder blades. Took his handcuffs from the clip on the back of his belt and handcuffed the man.
Ed stood up and stumbled back against the wall. Felt a moment of surprise when the man began to cry.
.
.
.
‘My name is Alex Pierce. The woman in there,’ said Pierce, nodding toward the back of the house, ‘is my wife.’
Alex Pierce sat on a wooden bench in the back garden, Ironside in front of him, Ed hovering close by, ready and willing to use force if the man showed any sign of violence.
Pierce was a short man, stocky, his shoulders wide. Black hair with flecks of grey, his eyes blue. A handsome man, he sat with his hands clenched in his lap, squeezing, and rubbing his fingers, a sign of agitation or anxiety.
Ed had taken notice of the man’s hands earlier, noticing the lack of bruising, cuts, and blood. If this man had killed his wife, he didn’t use his hands, something else used as a murder weapon.
‘Why did you attack sergeant Brown?’ said Ironside, his elbows resting on the arms of his wheelchair.
Pierce looked up at Ed, tears in his eyes, an apology on his lips. ‘I’m sorry. I just. . . I just got home from work. I found her. . . and then you. . . you kicked in my front door. . .’
‘Sergeant Brown identified himself as a police officer.’
His movements sudden, Pierce stood up. Ed stepped forward, ready to intervene, stopping when Ironside raised his hand. ‘It’s all right, Ed. I don’t think Mr. Pierce is going to do anything violent.’
Pierce sat back down, his shoulders slumping. ‘I wasn’t thinking straight. My wife was. . . I was scared. Angry. I thought the person who. . . I thought they’d come back.’
‘They?’
‘The person who killed my wife.’
‘You said you just arrived home?’
‘Yes,’ said Pierce, looking up at Ironside. ‘I put the car in the garage and went inside.’
Ed looked toward the house, through the kitchen window, the net curtain turning members of the Science Investigation team into sharp shadows as they moved around the kitchen.
Looking back at Pierce he said, ‘You didn’t notice your wife was dead when you left for work.’ A callous question, he ignored the chief when Ironside twisted his upper body to look up at him. ‘Why is that?’
Staring at Ed, Pierce said, ‘I left for work five days ago. I’m a marketing manager. I travelled to Dallas for a conference. I left my car at the airport, flew to Dallas. Stayed at the Henson Hotel. Flew back this morning. I didn’t kill my wife.’
‘Well need to confirm you were in Dallas.’
‘It’s all in my briefcase. Tickets, receipts. . . everything. It’s in the car.’
‘Can you think of anyone who might have reason to murder your wife, Mr. Pierce?’ said Ironside.
Alex Pierce lowered his head.
‘Anything that could help us. . . was she worried about anything or anyone?’
Pierce looked up at Ironside, his cheeks red with embarrassment. ‘My wife was window shopping for a new home closer to the city. I think it was just an excuse to get out of the house and away from me. I love my wife but. . . I think she was having an affair.’
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