Ironside - 'The Draft Dodger' - 8/8
Jun. 17th, 2023 06:41 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: 4,510
Status: Complete
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 Eight
Ed Brown paced the length of Ironside’s office and home, his stride long, slow, his shoes rapping against the floor, turning each time he reached an obstacle. He was bored, the boredom almost as bad as monsoon season in Vietnam. Stuck in the rain and the mud for months on end he’d seen men do crazy things just to get through the day, only to do something crazier the next. And if you weren’t crazy enough to do something stupid, there was always the drugs or the women, but Ed found, in Vietnam, the average man, the men who fought beside him, didn’t care about his boredom, only their own.
Here, in the present, stuck inside the chief’s office and home, it was different, everyone giving him something to do, something to occupy his mind, to quell his boredom: filing, the typing, answering the phone, making coffee. It didn’t help. Doing the same things over and over, the work repetitive, it only created more boredom.
Ed wanted . . . needed to get out of the office. He needed to do something, ready and willing to do what was needed to close the case. Anything to end the boredom that had consumed him for the last ten days.
But he couldn’t leave the office, the chief arguing anyone could get into police headquarters – they only had to walk through the front door – but they couldn’t get into Ironside’s office and home, all exits locked and a guard at each door, any commotion outside the office alerting Ironside to any danger trying to gain access to Ed Brown.
On top of the boredom was the concern, even after more than a week of recuperation. Everyone asking him if he was okay. Did he need anything? Could they do anything to help? He didn’t need help. He was fine but sore, his side still tender. Felt like he’d pulled a muscle, every turn or twist of his upper body pulled at the healing wound in his side.
The chief had a different set of questions, Ed’s patience dwindling with each answer. No, he wasn’t having any more nightmares. His hands weren’t shaking, his anger was gone. Possible, the pain killers had kept them at bay, hiding his emotions, his nightmares within a numb void. He’d soon know, the tablets now in the bin, Ed refusing to take any more. He didn’t need them. Not now. He was fine.
Their attention, their concern was almost overpowering. It frustrated him. Irritated him but he knew they were only trying to help. He couldn’t fault them.
Ed paused, turned, and looked toward the main exit. Shook his head and resumed his pacing. If he made any attempt to leave, the chief would have his sergeant arrested, Ed didn’t doubt it. Glanced out of the window as he turned away from it, pacing toward the other side of the room.
Charlie Madison was still out there, the man still eluding the police, and no one believed they would find him any time soon. Someone was helping Madison, that much was obvious; they just didn’t know who. His only known associates. . . the owner of Duggie’s Gym was under arrest for harbouring a fugitive. Madison’s face had been plastered across newspapers and news programs during the days of the investigation as the police asked for the public’s help in locating the man, Madison’s associate refusing to help. Norman Madison was dead and so was Jack Higgins, but the police had missed someone, another person willing to help Madison evade capture. Someone who, if persuaded, could help him murder a police officer. If that were the case, an altercation with Charlie Madison would put Ed at an even further disadvantage and if alone, it would be two against one.
Madison was hard to miss, every officer familiar with his description, his photo but Ed and the chief both knew Madison wouldn’t try to kill Ed while he was at police headquarters, but Ironside worried the man might send someone else to do his dirty work. Ed didn’t think Charlie Madison would leave it to someone else, he wasn’t the type. He’d want revenge and he’d want to kill Ed with his own hands. It would come down to who was more patient . . . Ed Brown or Charlie Madison and Madison had plenty of time to wait.
The day after Ed had killed Norman Madison and Jack Higgins, his name had appeared in the papers, along with an unflattering photo, giving Madison the identity of the man who had killed his brother. The story suggested Brown had used extreme force, the amount unnecessary, the article angering Ed; they hadn’t been there. Use of extreme force had been his only option. He’d been contacted by the press asking for a comment, for his side of the story but he had refused. The vultures wouldn’t print the truth, only what sold newspapers.
There was also an ongoing internal investigation, two detectives from Internal Affairs arriving shortly. His statement not enough, they would ask the kind of questions Carl Reese and chief Ironside wouldn’t. Ed wasn’t worried. He’d done the right thing. The only thing he could do. The investigation lengthy and time consuming, they would either clear him or they would arrest him.
‘Damn it, Ed!’ said Ironside with less patience than Ed felt. ‘Either do something or sit down!’
Ed stopped moving and looked around the office for something to do. Finding nothing – he’d already completed everything that needed to be done – he moved toward the table in the center of the office where the chief was reading another report detailing the departments failure to find Charlie Madison or John Malcom. He sat down, a short, bearable stab of pain in his side.
‘And if you don’t have anything to do,’ said Ironside, ‘you can prepare for your interview with Internal Affairs. They’re eager to close the case.’
‘Eager to arrest me,’ said Ed, the words muttered.
‘Ed, if they were going to arrest you, they would have by now,’ said Ironside, closing the file and setting it on the table. ‘When’s your next appointment with Doctor Carrington?’
‘Why the sudden change of subject,’ said Ed, clarity dawning quickly as he slumped further into the chair. Didn’t think he had the energy to deal with Internal Affairs and Doctor Carrington in the same afternoon. ‘What time is he arriving?’
‘You should be a detective,’ said Ironside.
‘I am a detective.’
‘A detective detects, sergeant, so go detect something to do.’
They were getting on each other’s nerves, obvious to everyone; Mark had escaped, saying he needed to buy more groceries, Fran quickly volunteering to give him the help he didn’t need. Normally comfortable in each other’s company, Ed’s impatience, his boredom was pushing Ironside to the edge of insanity, the man’s anger ready to erupt, to berate his sergeant. Neither man wanted that.
Ed stood up, pushing the chair back and walked away, giving the chief time to calm down. Stepped up to one of the windows and looked at the scene below. People, walking and driving, going about their business. He looked at the blue sky, watched the wind rustling through the trees in the small park opposite police headquarters. He wanted to go outside. He wanted to go back to normal. He didn’t feel any anger toward the chief, grateful Ironside had opened his home to him, giving Ed what he needed, even if he didn’t want it, including emotional support.
Folded his arms, his frustration written in his body language. Listened as Ironside came up beside him.
‘Ed, I know you feel frustrated. You want to do something about your situation. I know you want to look for Charlie Madison--’
‘It’s been more than a week,’ said Ed. ‘How long does it take to find one man?’
‘Two men.’
‘John Malcom isn’t trying to kill me.’
‘Neither is Charlie Madison,’ said Ironside. ‘Not while you remain in this office. He will try to kill you as soon as you leave police headquarters, which is why you’re staying here until he’s found.’
‘You could use me as bait. Draw him out.’
‘Ed--’
‘He won’t shoot me,’ said Ed, turning to face Ironside, the idea simmering at the back of his mind long enough. ‘He’ll want to be up close and personal, kill me with his fists the same way he killed Henry Warner.’
‘And like Henry Warner, you won’t be able to defend--’
‘Chief, you of all people know what I’m capable of. I can defend myself against Madison.’
‘Not while you’re injured, sergeant.’
‘It’s been more than a week. Almost two. I’m fine. How many times do I have to say it!’ Ed noticed the expression on the chief’s face; too late. He’d gone too far, talking back, arguing with his boss. Ironside stared back at him, silent, expectant. Knew what Ironside wanted. ‘I’m sorry, chief.’
‘Apology accepted,’ said Ironside.
‘It could take weeks to find Madison. Months even. He could have left the country by now. I can’t just stay here, waiting and doing nothing. We need to make the first move. Go on the offensive . . .’ Ed turned away and began pacing, his fists clenched. Stopped and turned back to face Ironside. ‘I can’t keep doing it your way, chief. It’s not working.’
Ironside nodded, a slow movement, reluctant. ‘Alright Ed, I’ll think about it. If I can think of a plan. . . we’ll do it your way.’
.
.
.
Ed watched as officer Maxwell placed a series of photos on the table, setting them out carefully, slowly, as if she were trying to make a point. Took her time straightening each photo so they sat in a straight line, each photo depicting the aftermath of the violence used in the elevator of the Beaumont hotel. In full colour; a gruesome scene. Dark red blood covered the elevator floor, the man Ed now knew to be Jack Higgins, lay in the center, his face serene . . . so pale, the loss of blood obvious. Norman Madison sat in the corner, his back to the camera, left side of his head hidden from view as it rested against the corner wall of the elevator.
Ed looked up at Maxwell before shifting his gaze to look at the man sitting next to her. Lieutenant Talbert was older than Maxwell by at least twenty years, his features wearing his experience. Gray hair thinning, his moustache was in desperate need for attention. He wore thick spectacles, his blue eyes staring back at Ed.
Looked back at Maxwell. An even younger version of Eve, blonde hair, blues, the buttons on her uniformed glinting beneath the ceiling light. Too young, how did she end up in Internal Affairs. She stared back at him, her gaze steady. Talbert had trained her well.
No question asked, Ed remained silent, waiting.
Talbert leaned forward, tapping on the first photo with a nicotine-stained finger. ‘You slit his throat.’
‘He gave me no choice.’
‘You were behind him, sergeant, how does that constitute self-defence?’
Ed was blunt. ‘He was between me and the man who was about to shoot John Malcom.’
‘How could you be certain Norman Madison was going to shoot John Malcom?’
‘When Madison said he was going to shoot John, I believed him.’
Talbert nodded and pointed at the photo of Norman Malcom and said, ‘The autopsy report tells me you shot Norman Madison in the back of the head. Did he give you a choice?’
‘The autopsy report,’ said Ironside, sitting next to Ed, ‘tells the bullet entered the right side of his skull, at a slight forward angle. Not from behind.’
‘We only have your account of what occurred in that elevator, sergeant. Two men dead and the only witness who can corroborate your story is still missing. Until John Malcom is found, we can’t close our case.’
‘’Ed Brown is a decorated and trusted police officer,’ said Ironside. ‘His account of what happened should be enough.’
‘It isn’t,’ said Talbert.
‘They murdered two police officers,’ said Ed.
‘Is that why you murdered Norman Madison and Jack Higgins?’ said officer Maxwell.
Ed shifted his gaze back to Maxwell. He stared, his gaze hard, his anger turning her eyes away from him. ‘I didn’t murder anyone.’
‘Officer Maxwell,’ said Ironside. ‘There will come a day when, as a police officer, you will be forced into a situation where you will have to defend yourself or another person. I hope you make the right decision. And if you do, no one in this department will accuse you of murder. Apologise now or leave the room.’
Maxwell looked at Talbert. He stared back at her, silent.
She looked back at Ironside before standing up and walking out of the room.
‘She seems nice,’ said Ed.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Talbert, hesitating. ‘Look, this all seems straight forward but we do need John Malcom’s statement. If he collaborates--’
‘He will.’
‘--your statement, it will be an open and shut case.’
‘If only it were that simple,’ said Ironside.
Ed watched as Talbert gathered up the photos; one last look at a scene that looked as though it had come from a horror film. He felt hopeful, a feeling he didn’t expect. Talbert believed him, the man only going through the motions, dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s. Maxwell was the problem, but Ed knew she would have no say in the outcome of the case. He also knew she would no longer be a part of Internal Investigations.
Ed turned at the sound of someone knocking on the doorframe; Maxwell had left the door open. Fran stood in the doorway. She looked awful, plain and simple. She hadn’t taken the news well; her service revolver used by Jack Higgins to kill Ted Baker. Fran blamed herself, nothing they said convinced her otherwise. Not now. She needed time to process her emotions and then they would try again. Fran was intelligent. Deep down she knew it wasn’t her fault, but she wasn’t thinking with her brain, her blame too loud in her head.
‘John Malcom is on the phone,’ said Fran. ‘He wants to talk to Ed.’
It was that simple.
.
.
.
They agreed Ed would go in alone, John wanted it that way. If Ed brought company, John would run, disappear for a second time. Ironside didn’t like it, not after what happened last time. No choice. Alone physically but, the chief was listening, a microphone concealed beneath the collar of Ed’s coat. Ironside would hear everything, Ed and John’s conversation recorded. If help was needed there was backup; Carl Reece and two uniformed officers.
As he moved deeper into the alley, he could hear rats scavenging through the rubbish lining the alley; he hoped it was rats. Could smell urine and stale sweat, rotten food and something he didn’t want to recognise. John had slept in this alley. Realised he kept using Malcom’s first name. The pacifist had broken through Ed’s defences, his dislike of the young man, his hatred of pacifists. He understood Malcom’s fear of going to Vietnam, but he didn’t agree with it. John didn’t have to worry about that anymore. He wasn’t going to Vietnam. He was going to jail; he was an accessory after the fact. There was nothing Ed, the chief or anyone else could do about it.
Looked back over his shoulder. The apartment building where Henry and Elizabeth Warner had lived stood tall, watching over the alley. Most of the windows in the building were dark, tenants asleep at this time of night. Kept moving forward. John was waiting for him, and Ed knew John wouldn’t be alone. Heard and felt glass breaking beneath his shoe. Stopped. Stood still, breath held in his lungs. In the dark alley, the sound reminded him of Vietnam, cans and bottles used as an early warning sign. Ed knew he was close.
Released his breath and said, ‘John?’
‘Here.’
John Malcom stepped out of the shadows, his face bruised and dirty. Blond hair longer than Ed had last seen it. He could see the fear in the young man’s eyes.
‘Are you all right?’
Malcom nodded, the acknowledgement lacking assurance.
‘How did you get the bruises?’ said Ed, genuinely concerned.
He watched as John looked over Ed’s left shoulder, heard the whispered words, ‘I’m sorry.’
Ed quickly stepped to the right, turning his body as he moved to face the man behind him, the crowbar bouncing off his upper left arm, the blow inadequate. Leaning back, keeping his balance, Ed lifted his right foot, his height an advantage, and kicked forward, the heel of his shoe slamming into Madison’s chest.
A powerful blow, Madison stumbled back, almost falling to the alley floor, his left hand pressed against his chest, the crowbar still in his right hand. That was not good. It put Ed at a disadvantage but, he’d faced worse enemies than this man.
‘John,’ said Ed, keeping his distance from Madison. ‘Go. Chief Ironside is waiting on the main street. He’ll keep you safe.’
‘What about you?’ said Malcom.
‘Don’t worry about me. Go.’
Ed didn’t look to see if John had followed his instructions, mind and body concentrating on Madison.
Madison didn’t speak. Only growled as he rushed Ed.
Ed sidestepped a second time and using Madison’s momentum, he slammed Madison into the side of the building. He followed up with a punch to the man’s right kidney, Madison grunting in pain.
Madison pushed back, Ed moving away from the wall with him. The man was full of anger, the emotion controlling him, common sense thrown out the window along with his boxer skills. It made Madison an easy opponent, Ed in control of the fight. He should have ended it quickly, put the man out of his misery before he understood what he was doing wrong. If Madison came to his senses, this fight would be much more difficult for both men.
Madison turned and threw the crowbar, Ed ducking out of the way. Realised what Madison was doing too late, the man kicking out, foot striking Ed’s right knee. Ed went down, knee collapsing beneath him.
‘You like to fight dirty,’ said Madison, kicking Ed in the face. ‘So do I.’
Before he knew it, Ed was lying on his back, staring at the dark night above him.
‘You killed my brother.’ He kicked Ed in the ribs. ‘He was my only family.’
Madison kicked out again. Missed as Ed turned away, fingers reaching for the crowbar Madison had thrown at him. Fingers wrapped around the metal as he looked toward the man above him. Waited for the right moment, Madison close. The man leant forward, bending at the waist. Target found, Ed lifted his shoulders off the ground and swung, his aim true as the crowbar collided with the side of Madison’s skull.
It wasn’t the end of the fight, not as Ed hoped.
Madison was still standing.
Ed rolled over, tried to get to his feet but his knee wouldn’t allow it. He’d made a mistake, underestimating Madison. It was a mistake he wouldn’t make a second time.
He could hear running footsteps. Reinforcements. Expected Madison to run. He didn’t, instead Madison pushed Ed back down, foot against Ed’s back, keeping Ed in place. Ed was vulnerable. He knew it but, there wasn’t much he could do. Not in this position. How could he be so stupid? He had expected Madison to fight like a boxer. He didn’t. Madison was in control. Ed Brown wasn’t.
Ed was trying to prove a point. Not just to himself but to everyone else. Fran’s words still stung . . . she had thought he wouldn’t have a chance against Charlie Madison. Still did. Everyone did. Except the chief, the only man who knew what his sergeant was capable of. All the doubts he had during the Miller case had returned. He wanted to prove he could do it. He proved himself wrong and everyone else right. It was a blow to his ego. Wasn’t sure his ego could take the hit.
Madison reached forward and down to pull the crowbar from Ed’s fingers. The man got too close, his weight shifting forward, he was off balance. Ed pushed up, hands beneath his chest, he pushed with everything he had. Madison fell forward, stumbling as he tried to regain his balance. Ed stood up, crowbar still in his right hand. He swung hard at the back of the man’s knee – two could play at that game – and when Madison collapsed Ed forced the man’s upper body to the ground. Threw the crowbar away and pulled the handcuffs from his belt. Cuffed Madison before he had a chance to retaliate. Ed had won the fight. It hadn’t been pretty, but it was his victory.
Ed stood up. His knee hurt like a son-of-a-bitch, but he was sure it wasn’t broken or dislocated. He took a step toward the figures running toward him, Reece pushing the chief’s wheelchair.
‘Ed?’ said Ironside.
‘I’m here.’ said Ed as he changed direction. When he reached the side of a building, he leant against it, taking the weight off his knee.
‘Are you all right.’
‘Yeah, I’m fine.’ Knew Ironside didn’t believe him. Nodded toward Madison. ‘Someone needs to read him his rights.’
Ironside looked at the uniform officers and said, ‘Read him his rights and put him in the car.’
Ed listened as Madison’s rights were read, the man silent, refusing to respond. His silence surprised Ed. He’d expected more from Madison.
‘Chief!’
As a group they turned toward Reece, his tone of voice cause for alarm. Carl was looking toward the shadows. At first Ed couldn’t see what he was looking at and then it hit him, realisation sprung like a mouse trap. He walked forward, his knee twisting, more painful than before, his limp now pronounced. The chief would notice his sergeant wasn’t all right, another injury gained, a visit to the local hospital eminent. Ed didn’t care, not now.
John Malcom hadn’t followed his instructions, staying in the alley, hiding in the shadows, waiting.
‘Ed…’
Ed ignored the chief. Stopped when he reached John Malcom. ‘John, put down the gun.’
He could only have gotten the weapon from Madison. Stolen it because Madison wasn’t that stupid. Ed didn’t think John was capable of shooting anyone, not a danger to others, only to himself.
‘I don’t want to go to Vietnam,’ said Malcom, the barrel of the revolver pointed at his own head.
Ed put out his hand, a placating gesture. ‘You’re not going to Vietnam, John. We had a deal . . . remember?’
‘I remember.’
‘Give me the gun, John.’
‘But I am going to jail . . .’
John stood still. Calm. His breath slow, steady. Ed could see death in the kid’s eyes. Had no hope of talking him down.
‘John . . . please.’
The moment Ed knew John was going to pull the trigger, he sprung forward. Blinked as the bullet exploded from the barrel, felt the warm blood splatter against his cheek. Watched as Malcom fell to the ground.
John Malcom didn’t have to be scared anymore.
.
.
.
Ed emptied his second glass of Bourbon. He was quickly heading toward drunk. He needed the Dutch courage, Vietnam too difficult to talk about, even to a close friend who had also seen war. He put the glass down on the table, waited while Ironside filled the glass for a third time. Emptied the glass, the alcohol settling in his stomach. His emotions were finally receding as he began to feel numb.
Ironside’s sergeant began to talk. He told his friend about the pacifist in Vietnam. About Ralph Decker. The landmines. His own injury. The snipers. How he watched his friends die while the pacifist hid and did nothing. Spoke of his anger and hatred toward men like John Malcom.
His throat dry, Ed finished his story.
Ironside refilled Ed’s glass and said, ‘What happened to the man who refused to help?’
Ed turned his head to look at Ironside. ‘I heard someone slit his throat while he slept.’
He hadn’t been there to see it, already on his way back to the states. Ed waited for Ironside’s response.
‘You don’t use his name.’
Confused, Ed frowned.
‘The pacifist,’ said Ironside. ‘You don’t use his name. You only refer to him as “him”.’
‘No, I don’t use his name,’ said Ed, looking away and down at his left hand, fingers gripping the glass of Bourbon. It was at times like this where he missed Ann the most. He could tell her anything and everything and he did. She always understood. Never judged. Always helped. She was always there when he woke up from a nightmare . . . until she wasn’t.
‘I’m done.’ He said no more. No more talk of Vietnam.
‘It would help if you did?’
‘Help who?’
‘You.’
‘I’ll discuss that one with Doctor Carrington.’
‘You’re going to keep seeing him?’
‘Do I have a choice?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll keep seeing him.’
‘Good,’ Ironside nodded before taking a sip of Bourbon. ‘You started to like him, didn’t you? John Malcom.’
‘You tend to do that when someone saves your life. I still think he was a coward. He chose death over a jail sentence.’
‘He was scared,’ said Ironside. ‘We don’t know what that’s like, to be scared all the time.’
‘No, not anymore.’
Ironside looked at his sergeant. ‘You should take a week off.’
‘Not with Lieutenant Talbert breathing down my neck.’
‘Lieutenant Talbert has been taken care of.’
Ed smiled. ‘Did you have him assassinated?’
Ironside scowled. ‘No. Apparently Charlie Madison is singing like a canary. He’s told Carl his brother went to the hotel with the intention of killing John Malcom. Carl passed that piece of information onto Talbert.’
‘Did he say where he’d been hiding for the last ten days?’
‘He was hiding in plain sight. His brother’s apartment.’
‘No one thought to look there?’
‘No,’ said Ironside.
‘Not even you.’
‘I can’t think of everything, sergeant.’
‘Is that how he found Malcom? Saw him in the alley when he was looking out the window.’
‘It is.’
‘When?’ said Ed, keeping his gaze steady.
‘Only an hour before John called.’
Ed let out the breath he’d been holding. If John had been with Malcom for the last ten days…
‘So, what about that week off?’
‘I just had two weeks leave.’
‘Stuck in this office with an angry old man.’
‘Mark isn’t that bad,’ said Ed.
Ironside laughed. ‘I’m serious, go on a holiday.’
‘Where?’ said Ed.
‘I know of a good fishing spot. We could fish during the day and drink the night away.’
‘We?’ said Ed, looking at Ironside.
‘My team is due a week’s leave. I know it would help Fran. She still blames herself for Ted Baker’s death.’
‘She’s stubborn.’
‘Yes, she is. I’m certain she’ll accept that it wasn’t her fault sooner or later. I’d rather it be sooner.’
‘Sure, why not. I think I’d enjoy watching Fran try to bait a hook.’
The End.
Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight
Master Fan Fiction List
Fandom: Ironside [1967 TV Series]
Genre: Crime | Hurt/Comfort | Angst
Rating: PG
Main Characters: Sergeant Ed Brown, Chief Ironside, Officer Fran Belding, Lieutenant Carl Reese, Mark Sanger and Commissioner Dennis Randall.
Disclaimer: Based on the characters created by Collier Young.
Author's Note: Set between S5 E4 'The Gambling Game' and S5 E5 'Ring of Prayer' because I still wanted there to be some conflict between Ed and Fran.
Author's Other Note: Ed Brown was a marine who saw combat in Vietnam - even though the timing in the show is all fucked up - and, it drives me crazy this piece of cannon is rarely mentioned in the show. And it drove me insane when there was no mention of his past in the season 4 episode ‘No Game for Amateurs’. As soon as the plot included draft dodgers, I kept wanting to know what Ed Brown thought of draft dodgers. But Ed’s past wasn’t included in the plot and that left me disappointed and wanting to know more. So, I wrote my own story. This is a separate story and doesn’t mirror ‘No Game for Amateurs’ in any way.
Chapter Word Count: 4,510
Status: Complete
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 Eight
Ed Brown paced the length of Ironside’s office and home, his stride long, slow, his shoes rapping against the floor, turning each time he reached an obstacle. He was bored, the boredom almost as bad as monsoon season in Vietnam. Stuck in the rain and the mud for months on end he’d seen men do crazy things just to get through the day, only to do something crazier the next. And if you weren’t crazy enough to do something stupid, there was always the drugs or the women, but Ed found, in Vietnam, the average man, the men who fought beside him, didn’t care about his boredom, only their own.
Here, in the present, stuck inside the chief’s office and home, it was different, everyone giving him something to do, something to occupy his mind, to quell his boredom: filing, the typing, answering the phone, making coffee. It didn’t help. Doing the same things over and over, the work repetitive, it only created more boredom.
Ed wanted . . . needed to get out of the office. He needed to do something, ready and willing to do what was needed to close the case. Anything to end the boredom that had consumed him for the last ten days.
But he couldn’t leave the office, the chief arguing anyone could get into police headquarters – they only had to walk through the front door – but they couldn’t get into Ironside’s office and home, all exits locked and a guard at each door, any commotion outside the office alerting Ironside to any danger trying to gain access to Ed Brown.
On top of the boredom was the concern, even after more than a week of recuperation. Everyone asking him if he was okay. Did he need anything? Could they do anything to help? He didn’t need help. He was fine but sore, his side still tender. Felt like he’d pulled a muscle, every turn or twist of his upper body pulled at the healing wound in his side.
The chief had a different set of questions, Ed’s patience dwindling with each answer. No, he wasn’t having any more nightmares. His hands weren’t shaking, his anger was gone. Possible, the pain killers had kept them at bay, hiding his emotions, his nightmares within a numb void. He’d soon know, the tablets now in the bin, Ed refusing to take any more. He didn’t need them. Not now. He was fine.
Their attention, their concern was almost overpowering. It frustrated him. Irritated him but he knew they were only trying to help. He couldn’t fault them.
Ed paused, turned, and looked toward the main exit. Shook his head and resumed his pacing. If he made any attempt to leave, the chief would have his sergeant arrested, Ed didn’t doubt it. Glanced out of the window as he turned away from it, pacing toward the other side of the room.
Charlie Madison was still out there, the man still eluding the police, and no one believed they would find him any time soon. Someone was helping Madison, that much was obvious; they just didn’t know who. His only known associates. . . the owner of Duggie’s Gym was under arrest for harbouring a fugitive. Madison’s face had been plastered across newspapers and news programs during the days of the investigation as the police asked for the public’s help in locating the man, Madison’s associate refusing to help. Norman Madison was dead and so was Jack Higgins, but the police had missed someone, another person willing to help Madison evade capture. Someone who, if persuaded, could help him murder a police officer. If that were the case, an altercation with Charlie Madison would put Ed at an even further disadvantage and if alone, it would be two against one.
Madison was hard to miss, every officer familiar with his description, his photo but Ed and the chief both knew Madison wouldn’t try to kill Ed while he was at police headquarters, but Ironside worried the man might send someone else to do his dirty work. Ed didn’t think Charlie Madison would leave it to someone else, he wasn’t the type. He’d want revenge and he’d want to kill Ed with his own hands. It would come down to who was more patient . . . Ed Brown or Charlie Madison and Madison had plenty of time to wait.
The day after Ed had killed Norman Madison and Jack Higgins, his name had appeared in the papers, along with an unflattering photo, giving Madison the identity of the man who had killed his brother. The story suggested Brown had used extreme force, the amount unnecessary, the article angering Ed; they hadn’t been there. Use of extreme force had been his only option. He’d been contacted by the press asking for a comment, for his side of the story but he had refused. The vultures wouldn’t print the truth, only what sold newspapers.
There was also an ongoing internal investigation, two detectives from Internal Affairs arriving shortly. His statement not enough, they would ask the kind of questions Carl Reese and chief Ironside wouldn’t. Ed wasn’t worried. He’d done the right thing. The only thing he could do. The investigation lengthy and time consuming, they would either clear him or they would arrest him.
‘Damn it, Ed!’ said Ironside with less patience than Ed felt. ‘Either do something or sit down!’
Ed stopped moving and looked around the office for something to do. Finding nothing – he’d already completed everything that needed to be done – he moved toward the table in the center of the office where the chief was reading another report detailing the departments failure to find Charlie Madison or John Malcom. He sat down, a short, bearable stab of pain in his side.
‘And if you don’t have anything to do,’ said Ironside, ‘you can prepare for your interview with Internal Affairs. They’re eager to close the case.’
‘Eager to arrest me,’ said Ed, the words muttered.
‘Ed, if they were going to arrest you, they would have by now,’ said Ironside, closing the file and setting it on the table. ‘When’s your next appointment with Doctor Carrington?’
‘Why the sudden change of subject,’ said Ed, clarity dawning quickly as he slumped further into the chair. Didn’t think he had the energy to deal with Internal Affairs and Doctor Carrington in the same afternoon. ‘What time is he arriving?’
‘You should be a detective,’ said Ironside.
‘I am a detective.’
‘A detective detects, sergeant, so go detect something to do.’
They were getting on each other’s nerves, obvious to everyone; Mark had escaped, saying he needed to buy more groceries, Fran quickly volunteering to give him the help he didn’t need. Normally comfortable in each other’s company, Ed’s impatience, his boredom was pushing Ironside to the edge of insanity, the man’s anger ready to erupt, to berate his sergeant. Neither man wanted that.
Ed stood up, pushing the chair back and walked away, giving the chief time to calm down. Stepped up to one of the windows and looked at the scene below. People, walking and driving, going about their business. He looked at the blue sky, watched the wind rustling through the trees in the small park opposite police headquarters. He wanted to go outside. He wanted to go back to normal. He didn’t feel any anger toward the chief, grateful Ironside had opened his home to him, giving Ed what he needed, even if he didn’t want it, including emotional support.
Folded his arms, his frustration written in his body language. Listened as Ironside came up beside him.
‘Ed, I know you feel frustrated. You want to do something about your situation. I know you want to look for Charlie Madison--’
‘It’s been more than a week,’ said Ed. ‘How long does it take to find one man?’
‘Two men.’
‘John Malcom isn’t trying to kill me.’
‘Neither is Charlie Madison,’ said Ironside. ‘Not while you remain in this office. He will try to kill you as soon as you leave police headquarters, which is why you’re staying here until he’s found.’
‘You could use me as bait. Draw him out.’
‘Ed--’
‘He won’t shoot me,’ said Ed, turning to face Ironside, the idea simmering at the back of his mind long enough. ‘He’ll want to be up close and personal, kill me with his fists the same way he killed Henry Warner.’
‘And like Henry Warner, you won’t be able to defend--’
‘Chief, you of all people know what I’m capable of. I can defend myself against Madison.’
‘Not while you’re injured, sergeant.’
‘It’s been more than a week. Almost two. I’m fine. How many times do I have to say it!’ Ed noticed the expression on the chief’s face; too late. He’d gone too far, talking back, arguing with his boss. Ironside stared back at him, silent, expectant. Knew what Ironside wanted. ‘I’m sorry, chief.’
‘Apology accepted,’ said Ironside.
‘It could take weeks to find Madison. Months even. He could have left the country by now. I can’t just stay here, waiting and doing nothing. We need to make the first move. Go on the offensive . . .’ Ed turned away and began pacing, his fists clenched. Stopped and turned back to face Ironside. ‘I can’t keep doing it your way, chief. It’s not working.’
Ironside nodded, a slow movement, reluctant. ‘Alright Ed, I’ll think about it. If I can think of a plan. . . we’ll do it your way.’
.
.
.
Ed watched as officer Maxwell placed a series of photos on the table, setting them out carefully, slowly, as if she were trying to make a point. Took her time straightening each photo so they sat in a straight line, each photo depicting the aftermath of the violence used in the elevator of the Beaumont hotel. In full colour; a gruesome scene. Dark red blood covered the elevator floor, the man Ed now knew to be Jack Higgins, lay in the center, his face serene . . . so pale, the loss of blood obvious. Norman Madison sat in the corner, his back to the camera, left side of his head hidden from view as it rested against the corner wall of the elevator.
Ed looked up at Maxwell before shifting his gaze to look at the man sitting next to her. Lieutenant Talbert was older than Maxwell by at least twenty years, his features wearing his experience. Gray hair thinning, his moustache was in desperate need for attention. He wore thick spectacles, his blue eyes staring back at Ed.
Looked back at Maxwell. An even younger version of Eve, blonde hair, blues, the buttons on her uniformed glinting beneath the ceiling light. Too young, how did she end up in Internal Affairs. She stared back at him, her gaze steady. Talbert had trained her well.
No question asked, Ed remained silent, waiting.
Talbert leaned forward, tapping on the first photo with a nicotine-stained finger. ‘You slit his throat.’
‘He gave me no choice.’
‘You were behind him, sergeant, how does that constitute self-defence?’
Ed was blunt. ‘He was between me and the man who was about to shoot John Malcom.’
‘How could you be certain Norman Madison was going to shoot John Malcom?’
‘When Madison said he was going to shoot John, I believed him.’
Talbert nodded and pointed at the photo of Norman Malcom and said, ‘The autopsy report tells me you shot Norman Madison in the back of the head. Did he give you a choice?’
‘The autopsy report,’ said Ironside, sitting next to Ed, ‘tells the bullet entered the right side of his skull, at a slight forward angle. Not from behind.’
‘We only have your account of what occurred in that elevator, sergeant. Two men dead and the only witness who can corroborate your story is still missing. Until John Malcom is found, we can’t close our case.’
‘’Ed Brown is a decorated and trusted police officer,’ said Ironside. ‘His account of what happened should be enough.’
‘It isn’t,’ said Talbert.
‘They murdered two police officers,’ said Ed.
‘Is that why you murdered Norman Madison and Jack Higgins?’ said officer Maxwell.
Ed shifted his gaze back to Maxwell. He stared, his gaze hard, his anger turning her eyes away from him. ‘I didn’t murder anyone.’
‘Officer Maxwell,’ said Ironside. ‘There will come a day when, as a police officer, you will be forced into a situation where you will have to defend yourself or another person. I hope you make the right decision. And if you do, no one in this department will accuse you of murder. Apologise now or leave the room.’
Maxwell looked at Talbert. He stared back at her, silent.
She looked back at Ironside before standing up and walking out of the room.
‘She seems nice,’ said Ed.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Talbert, hesitating. ‘Look, this all seems straight forward but we do need John Malcom’s statement. If he collaborates--’
‘He will.’
‘--your statement, it will be an open and shut case.’
‘If only it were that simple,’ said Ironside.
Ed watched as Talbert gathered up the photos; one last look at a scene that looked as though it had come from a horror film. He felt hopeful, a feeling he didn’t expect. Talbert believed him, the man only going through the motions, dotting the i’s and crossing the t’s. Maxwell was the problem, but Ed knew she would have no say in the outcome of the case. He also knew she would no longer be a part of Internal Investigations.
Ed turned at the sound of someone knocking on the doorframe; Maxwell had left the door open. Fran stood in the doorway. She looked awful, plain and simple. She hadn’t taken the news well; her service revolver used by Jack Higgins to kill Ted Baker. Fran blamed herself, nothing they said convinced her otherwise. Not now. She needed time to process her emotions and then they would try again. Fran was intelligent. Deep down she knew it wasn’t her fault, but she wasn’t thinking with her brain, her blame too loud in her head.
‘John Malcom is on the phone,’ said Fran. ‘He wants to talk to Ed.’
It was that simple.
.
.
.
They agreed Ed would go in alone, John wanted it that way. If Ed brought company, John would run, disappear for a second time. Ironside didn’t like it, not after what happened last time. No choice. Alone physically but, the chief was listening, a microphone concealed beneath the collar of Ed’s coat. Ironside would hear everything, Ed and John’s conversation recorded. If help was needed there was backup; Carl Reece and two uniformed officers.
As he moved deeper into the alley, he could hear rats scavenging through the rubbish lining the alley; he hoped it was rats. Could smell urine and stale sweat, rotten food and something he didn’t want to recognise. John had slept in this alley. Realised he kept using Malcom’s first name. The pacifist had broken through Ed’s defences, his dislike of the young man, his hatred of pacifists. He understood Malcom’s fear of going to Vietnam, but he didn’t agree with it. John didn’t have to worry about that anymore. He wasn’t going to Vietnam. He was going to jail; he was an accessory after the fact. There was nothing Ed, the chief or anyone else could do about it.
Looked back over his shoulder. The apartment building where Henry and Elizabeth Warner had lived stood tall, watching over the alley. Most of the windows in the building were dark, tenants asleep at this time of night. Kept moving forward. John was waiting for him, and Ed knew John wouldn’t be alone. Heard and felt glass breaking beneath his shoe. Stopped. Stood still, breath held in his lungs. In the dark alley, the sound reminded him of Vietnam, cans and bottles used as an early warning sign. Ed knew he was close.
Released his breath and said, ‘John?’
‘Here.’
John Malcom stepped out of the shadows, his face bruised and dirty. Blond hair longer than Ed had last seen it. He could see the fear in the young man’s eyes.
‘Are you all right?’
Malcom nodded, the acknowledgement lacking assurance.
‘How did you get the bruises?’ said Ed, genuinely concerned.
He watched as John looked over Ed’s left shoulder, heard the whispered words, ‘I’m sorry.’
Ed quickly stepped to the right, turning his body as he moved to face the man behind him, the crowbar bouncing off his upper left arm, the blow inadequate. Leaning back, keeping his balance, Ed lifted his right foot, his height an advantage, and kicked forward, the heel of his shoe slamming into Madison’s chest.
A powerful blow, Madison stumbled back, almost falling to the alley floor, his left hand pressed against his chest, the crowbar still in his right hand. That was not good. It put Ed at a disadvantage but, he’d faced worse enemies than this man.
‘John,’ said Ed, keeping his distance from Madison. ‘Go. Chief Ironside is waiting on the main street. He’ll keep you safe.’
‘What about you?’ said Malcom.
‘Don’t worry about me. Go.’
Ed didn’t look to see if John had followed his instructions, mind and body concentrating on Madison.
Madison didn’t speak. Only growled as he rushed Ed.
Ed sidestepped a second time and using Madison’s momentum, he slammed Madison into the side of the building. He followed up with a punch to the man’s right kidney, Madison grunting in pain.
Madison pushed back, Ed moving away from the wall with him. The man was full of anger, the emotion controlling him, common sense thrown out the window along with his boxer skills. It made Madison an easy opponent, Ed in control of the fight. He should have ended it quickly, put the man out of his misery before he understood what he was doing wrong. If Madison came to his senses, this fight would be much more difficult for both men.
Madison turned and threw the crowbar, Ed ducking out of the way. Realised what Madison was doing too late, the man kicking out, foot striking Ed’s right knee. Ed went down, knee collapsing beneath him.
‘You like to fight dirty,’ said Madison, kicking Ed in the face. ‘So do I.’
Before he knew it, Ed was lying on his back, staring at the dark night above him.
‘You killed my brother.’ He kicked Ed in the ribs. ‘He was my only family.’
Madison kicked out again. Missed as Ed turned away, fingers reaching for the crowbar Madison had thrown at him. Fingers wrapped around the metal as he looked toward the man above him. Waited for the right moment, Madison close. The man leant forward, bending at the waist. Target found, Ed lifted his shoulders off the ground and swung, his aim true as the crowbar collided with the side of Madison’s skull.
It wasn’t the end of the fight, not as Ed hoped.
Madison was still standing.
Ed rolled over, tried to get to his feet but his knee wouldn’t allow it. He’d made a mistake, underestimating Madison. It was a mistake he wouldn’t make a second time.
He could hear running footsteps. Reinforcements. Expected Madison to run. He didn’t, instead Madison pushed Ed back down, foot against Ed’s back, keeping Ed in place. Ed was vulnerable. He knew it but, there wasn’t much he could do. Not in this position. How could he be so stupid? He had expected Madison to fight like a boxer. He didn’t. Madison was in control. Ed Brown wasn’t.
Ed was trying to prove a point. Not just to himself but to everyone else. Fran’s words still stung . . . she had thought he wouldn’t have a chance against Charlie Madison. Still did. Everyone did. Except the chief, the only man who knew what his sergeant was capable of. All the doubts he had during the Miller case had returned. He wanted to prove he could do it. He proved himself wrong and everyone else right. It was a blow to his ego. Wasn’t sure his ego could take the hit.
Madison reached forward and down to pull the crowbar from Ed’s fingers. The man got too close, his weight shifting forward, he was off balance. Ed pushed up, hands beneath his chest, he pushed with everything he had. Madison fell forward, stumbling as he tried to regain his balance. Ed stood up, crowbar still in his right hand. He swung hard at the back of the man’s knee – two could play at that game – and when Madison collapsed Ed forced the man’s upper body to the ground. Threw the crowbar away and pulled the handcuffs from his belt. Cuffed Madison before he had a chance to retaliate. Ed had won the fight. It hadn’t been pretty, but it was his victory.
Ed stood up. His knee hurt like a son-of-a-bitch, but he was sure it wasn’t broken or dislocated. He took a step toward the figures running toward him, Reece pushing the chief’s wheelchair.
‘Ed?’ said Ironside.
‘I’m here.’ said Ed as he changed direction. When he reached the side of a building, he leant against it, taking the weight off his knee.
‘Are you all right.’
‘Yeah, I’m fine.’ Knew Ironside didn’t believe him. Nodded toward Madison. ‘Someone needs to read him his rights.’
Ironside looked at the uniform officers and said, ‘Read him his rights and put him in the car.’
Ed listened as Madison’s rights were read, the man silent, refusing to respond. His silence surprised Ed. He’d expected more from Madison.
‘Chief!’
As a group they turned toward Reece, his tone of voice cause for alarm. Carl was looking toward the shadows. At first Ed couldn’t see what he was looking at and then it hit him, realisation sprung like a mouse trap. He walked forward, his knee twisting, more painful than before, his limp now pronounced. The chief would notice his sergeant wasn’t all right, another injury gained, a visit to the local hospital eminent. Ed didn’t care, not now.
John Malcom hadn’t followed his instructions, staying in the alley, hiding in the shadows, waiting.
‘Ed…’
Ed ignored the chief. Stopped when he reached John Malcom. ‘John, put down the gun.’
He could only have gotten the weapon from Madison. Stolen it because Madison wasn’t that stupid. Ed didn’t think John was capable of shooting anyone, not a danger to others, only to himself.
‘I don’t want to go to Vietnam,’ said Malcom, the barrel of the revolver pointed at his own head.
Ed put out his hand, a placating gesture. ‘You’re not going to Vietnam, John. We had a deal . . . remember?’
‘I remember.’
‘Give me the gun, John.’
‘But I am going to jail . . .’
John stood still. Calm. His breath slow, steady. Ed could see death in the kid’s eyes. Had no hope of talking him down.
‘John . . . please.’
The moment Ed knew John was going to pull the trigger, he sprung forward. Blinked as the bullet exploded from the barrel, felt the warm blood splatter against his cheek. Watched as Malcom fell to the ground.
John Malcom didn’t have to be scared anymore.
.
.
.
Ed emptied his second glass of Bourbon. He was quickly heading toward drunk. He needed the Dutch courage, Vietnam too difficult to talk about, even to a close friend who had also seen war. He put the glass down on the table, waited while Ironside filled the glass for a third time. Emptied the glass, the alcohol settling in his stomach. His emotions were finally receding as he began to feel numb.
Ironside’s sergeant began to talk. He told his friend about the pacifist in Vietnam. About Ralph Decker. The landmines. His own injury. The snipers. How he watched his friends die while the pacifist hid and did nothing. Spoke of his anger and hatred toward men like John Malcom.
His throat dry, Ed finished his story.
Ironside refilled Ed’s glass and said, ‘What happened to the man who refused to help?’
Ed turned his head to look at Ironside. ‘I heard someone slit his throat while he slept.’
He hadn’t been there to see it, already on his way back to the states. Ed waited for Ironside’s response.
‘You don’t use his name.’
Confused, Ed frowned.
‘The pacifist,’ said Ironside. ‘You don’t use his name. You only refer to him as “him”.’
‘No, I don’t use his name,’ said Ed, looking away and down at his left hand, fingers gripping the glass of Bourbon. It was at times like this where he missed Ann the most. He could tell her anything and everything and he did. She always understood. Never judged. Always helped. She was always there when he woke up from a nightmare . . . until she wasn’t.
‘I’m done.’ He said no more. No more talk of Vietnam.
‘It would help if you did?’
‘Help who?’
‘You.’
‘I’ll discuss that one with Doctor Carrington.’
‘You’re going to keep seeing him?’
‘Do I have a choice?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll keep seeing him.’
‘Good,’ Ironside nodded before taking a sip of Bourbon. ‘You started to like him, didn’t you? John Malcom.’
‘You tend to do that when someone saves your life. I still think he was a coward. He chose death over a jail sentence.’
‘He was scared,’ said Ironside. ‘We don’t know what that’s like, to be scared all the time.’
‘No, not anymore.’
Ironside looked at his sergeant. ‘You should take a week off.’
‘Not with Lieutenant Talbert breathing down my neck.’
‘Lieutenant Talbert has been taken care of.’
Ed smiled. ‘Did you have him assassinated?’
Ironside scowled. ‘No. Apparently Charlie Madison is singing like a canary. He’s told Carl his brother went to the hotel with the intention of killing John Malcom. Carl passed that piece of information onto Talbert.’
‘Did he say where he’d been hiding for the last ten days?’
‘He was hiding in plain sight. His brother’s apartment.’
‘No one thought to look there?’
‘No,’ said Ironside.
‘Not even you.’
‘I can’t think of everything, sergeant.’
‘Is that how he found Malcom? Saw him in the alley when he was looking out the window.’
‘It is.’
‘When?’ said Ed, keeping his gaze steady.
‘Only an hour before John called.’
Ed let out the breath he’d been holding. If John had been with Malcom for the last ten days…
‘So, what about that week off?’
‘I just had two weeks leave.’
‘Stuck in this office with an angry old man.’
‘Mark isn’t that bad,’ said Ed.
Ironside laughed. ‘I’m serious, go on a holiday.’
‘Where?’ said Ed.
‘I know of a good fishing spot. We could fish during the day and drink the night away.’
‘We?’ said Ed, looking at Ironside.
‘My team is due a week’s leave. I know it would help Fran. She still blames herself for Ted Baker’s death.’
‘She’s stubborn.’
‘Yes, she is. I’m certain she’ll accept that it wasn’t her fault sooner or later. I’d rather it be sooner.’
‘Sure, why not. I think I’d enjoy watching Fran try to bait a hook.’
The End.
Master Fan Fiction List