Another vignette?

[Dreamfire]

Apartment 64

In the bedroom of a DUMBO apartment, a couple lays sleeping. The wife wakes suddenly, her eyes opening wide as a rough hand knocks against her shoulder. The husband groans beside her, his face contorted with a frown. He tosses his head from side to side, his breathing is fast;, Sitting up, she looks over at him, sadness in her eyes as she notes the down turned mouth, the tears captured in his lashes. She knows if she wakes him, she will sleep but he will not. It seems there isn’t enough peace for both of them in their bed. Dark shadows under her eyes tell of many sleepless nights. She lifts her hand to touch him and as she does he stills, his face relaxes and his breathing deepens. She looks relieved and lies down next to him, trying to snuggle in close without bringing him awake. Perhaps he will stay calm now.

~

In the living room, she yawns, settles her pillow and sheet and draws the spare duvet up to her chin. In a moment she is fast asleep again.

~

Golden pastry, shiny and crisp. Small pinprick holes all around the outer edge with wisps of steam escaping, bringing with them the luscious aroma of beef and gravy. Fit for a king’s table, just like in the book he is reading.

Jim looks with hungry eyes and a watering mouth as his mother cuts the pie. The table is full but he has no thoughts for anyone but his mother, the pie and himself. To a small boy of six it looks huge, big enough to feed an army of men and he is but one small boy. He contemplates a full stomach and gives his Mom a big happy smile, holding his fork and knife like soldiers ready to attack on command.

It seems to take forever as she doles out pieces of pie onto other plates. Jimmy has lost count but it feels like twenty or more have been served before him. It’s almost his turn. His brother’s voice peters out, replaced by the sound of munching and chomping. A small part of Jimmy’s mind wonders why his Mom doesn’t tell Bobby to close his mouth while he eats. The majority of his attention is focused on assuring himself that his meal will make it to his plate. Time slows and the distance between the serving platter and his plate stretches. Jimmy holds his breath and sits on his hands while his legs jiggle in anticipation. He swallows and licks his lips. Finally the pie slice is directly above his plate. Held precariously on a serving fork and balanced by the knife she used to cut it, it wobbles slightly. Jimmy can see the bottom crust, soft and warm, starting to wilt over the edge of the fork. He points, and meets his Mom’s eyes. She smiles, giving him confidence that she will make sure every last bit gets to his plate. He looks down, feeling embarrassed. Warm compassion touches the man tossing in the bed and he stills.

The pie in his mouth consumes his every sense. The taste is strong and dark. He closes his eyes for a moment, reveling in the mixture of meat and mushrooms, peppers and peas in thick hot gravy.

Too late, he realizes that the pie is a little too hot and he opens his mouth to let out the steam, waving his hand in front of his open mouth. The sides lift up in a grin as his eyes meet those in the child’s face opposite him. She grins at his enthusiasm and funny attempt to cool his mouth, holding out a glass of water to help. He takes it but hesitates, the taste is so exquisite and he knows it will all go once he gulps the water.

He looks around to see who else is giggling, enjoying his show, but the faces seem to come forth and recede back into a fog. Names pop through his mind, friends, family, an aunt perhaps, the kid from today’s baseball game and even the dog who joined in, chasing the ball when Ken hit it way out of field.

His mouth is still filled with pie and he closes it again, ready to swallow and send the food to his growling tummy. He feels his Mom’s hand tussle his hair and he looks up with loving eyes to thank her for such a yummy meal.

And gasps in shock, it’s not Mom it’s Dad, and Dad raises his hand high. Red veins stand out in the whites of his eyes. Jimmy notices the pupils are small in the blue iris. His lips are pulled back from tobacco stained teeth and his anger spills out words and actions hotter and more dangerous than a mere piece of pie. Jimmy’s head is buffeted forward with the blow, the pie moves faster than he does and flies to the plate in front of him. Jimmy looks at it with regret as he is hauled up by his arm to stand on his chair. He is too frightened to turn to face his father but looks to his own shoes, noticing now how scuffed and worn they are, how the sole is coming loose again.

His stomach growls loudly but not loud enough to shelter him from the anger of his father; “Feed them before you feed me, hey?”

Jimmy tries to get off the chair to go to his mother as she falls from a wallop to her head.

She must have answered, but all Jimmy knows is his mother is wiping blood from her face, from under her nose and trying to placate the huffing man between them. He watches, still standing on the chair as his mother takes the plates back and returns pieces of the pie to the platter, smoothing over the top and trying to remake it as it was.

Jimmy notices that the other seats are empty and wonders where everyone has gone. He watches as his father eats the pie, not tasting a mouthful but shoveling it in, past his yellowed teeth, in between drags from a cigarette and gulps from a can, and to the music of a woman’s sobs. Jimmy looks down, to get off the chair and go comfort his Mom, but his feet aren’t there anymore and he remembers he had run off with all the others.

He feels disgust for his own cowardice, anger toward his father, compassion for his Mom. A wisp of smoke curls up and he watches it fascinated. It curls, first this way, then that. Climbing in the unseen current toward the ceiling, it is the most beautiful thing to watch and he cannot help but reach out to touch it. It dissipates into a cloud of grey, featureless, a void with nothing. With fear in his belly, he tries to look again at his father, his mother, the table, the room, but there is nothing, they have all gone and as he opens his eyes to the day, he remembers again; he is blind.

Jim shoves the feelings away, tells himself, yet again, it’s just the nightmare.

He nods to himself. It’s not so hard now, not as hard as it was a year or more ago when every waking was like a dunk in the cold sea. Now it is just uncomfortable, like a too tight shirt, or holding something too close to his face to see clearly, like a cobweb he can’t remove no matter how he turns. Sometimes it is so uncomfortable it is suffocating, but this morning it is just something to push through.

He reaches to the side to find Christie, but she isn’t there.

Jim checks his clock. “Six-Twenty-Three, AM” Did she sleep on the couch again? He frowns, wishing she wouldn’t do that.

Jim rises, smiling as Hank’s clicking claws bring him close and the dog pushes his head into Jim's hands for a morning pat. Walking as quietly as possible, Jim bumps into the half-opened bedroom door. He grimaces; luckily he was going slowly or that would have hurt. He wonders again, how after a year and half, Christie hasn’t managed to learn to either shut or leave the doors open in the apartment. It isn’t as if it’s rocket science.

He makes coffee as quietly as he can, then stands, listening, at the back of the couch. He enjoys the sound of her breath, deep and steady. He wonders if her eyes are moving in REM and sighs. He’d ask her but she never remembers her dreams.

Stripping his clothes and stepping into the shower, he indulges himself in the visuals from his dream; the face of his Mom, the sight of that golden pie and then the wisps of smoke. He smells the steam as it passed his face and he wonders if the steam looks anything like the steam in his dream. He doesn’t remember.

The smell of coffee and Christie’s padding feet on the kitchen floor bring out a gentle mood in him. He comes up behind her as she stands at the kitchen island and wraps his arms around her, kissing her neck softly.

“Morning, sleepy head,” he says.

She just nods, finding words difficult. Then she turns and wraps her hands around his neck. “You had nightmares again last night.”

“I woke you up?”

“Yes.” She doesn’t push the word at him accusingly but still, he reacts as if she did.

“Well, you should just wake me, I’ve told you.” He steps away, taking her hands in his and then letting them go. He turns to pour his coffee.

“I know you find it….“

“Shhhh,” he says harshly, trying to listen for the sound of the cup filling but her words mask the sound and the hot coffee overflows. “F*&k.”

“Here, let me get that.” She walks over with a hand towel.

“No.” He growls at her. “I made the mess, I’ll clean it.” He can’t see her face drop as she stands there, towel in hand, inches away from the coffee.

“Okay.” She backs down. It seems it takes so little these days to turn his mood sour, and so much effort to sweeten him up again. She closes her eyes for a moment and rubs the back of her neck. She knows the feelings of frustration she experiences while watching him seek for paper towels and a cleaning spray under the sink must be nothing compared to what he must feel doing it, but still they grate on her already frayed nerves.

“I don’t want you to sleep on the couch anymore, Christie,” he says, as he wipes the coffee.

“But Jim, I can’t sleep with you tossing and turning.”

“So wake me.”

“But then you don’t fall asleep again. And I have to look at you in the morning, all tired and washed out.”

He stops. Clearly something in her words has angered him, but she is too tired to work it out.

“Me having nightmares, they’re my problem to handle, not yours. So wake me.” He says it like an order, like she isn't allowed to make her own judgment call. His voice, like the expression on his face, is harsh. It’s almost like he feels she is trying to steal his discomfort from him when all she really wants to do is share the burden, help him if she can, if he’d let her. She presses her hand hard against her mouth, holding back a sob and stands very still. Maybe if she is quiet enough he’ll think she’s gone and hasn’t heard those harsh words.

Jim shakes his head, he doesn’t understand her. Maybe saying he had nightmares last night was just an excuse. Maybe she prefers to sleep on the couch. Maybe she doesn’t want to sleep next to him.

He finishes cleaning the spilled coffee, puts the spray bottle away, shoves the paper towels in the bin and takes his coffee off to the bedroom.

She steps forward on tip toes and uses the towel clutched in her hand to get the bits he missed, to soak up the drops from the floor. She hopes he doesn’t hear the squeak as the bin opens and she throws her towel in on top of his. His hearing seems to have gotten so acute lately, she feels she can’t get away with anything; it is as if he follows her every move around the apartment with his ears.

Christie yawns and gathers the pillow and duvet. Instead of taking it to the bedroom, she tucks it into the armoire. Chances are she’ll need it again tonight.

As they dress she makes an attempt at normalcy. “Jim, you’ll remember to be home in time to make that movie tonight won’t you?”

He turns to face her; she can tell he’s forgotten, though they’d talked about it only last night. “Sure. What time do I need to be here?”

“We’ll leave at eight if we eat here, or six thirty if you want to take me out to dinner.” She gives him a cheeky smile.

“Okay, I’ll call when I know which time.” Jim nods as he speaks, as if agreeing for the first time.

He begins walking back to the living room.

“It’s that movie you wanted to see. The one about the bad cop.” Christie says, hoping to sell him on the idea again. But she mistimes her words;, he turns toward her and bangs his knee loudly into the wooden clothes hamper behind the door. She winces, “Sorry.”

The tide of color rising in his face frightens her, his blinking eyes tell her the impact hurt but he reacts only to her words. “It’s nothing.” He reaches out a sweeping hand and finds the door he’d been aiming for, “And really, it’s not your fault,” he says, carefully neutral.

But his temper continued to rise; he hated these mornings when he left earlier than Christie, She’d follow him around the apartment, trying to make small talk, trying to distract him. It wasn't like it had been two years ago when they could toss banter back and forth. Didn’t she understand that he had to concentrate to get ready now? He felt she watched him like a hawk, watching for the moment when he’d make a mistake, waiting to pounce. And she’d check him before he left. Like a grammar school kid, she’d smooth his coat, fiddle with his hair. Yesterday she’d even taken a wash cloth and dabbed at his face; shaving cream she’d said. At least he’d managed to ban her from the bathroom while he shaved. Too dangerous he’d said; quietly she’d agreed.

He’s ready to make the trip to the job. Hank responds to the slap on the thigh and stands ready for his harness. Jim heads for the door but she intercepts midway, “Here, you’re collar is awry.” He smiles a plastic ken doll smile while she fiddles.

She kisses her husband on the cheek, but he is already out of the apartment in his mind. She watches Hank lead him to the door, and lets her breath out only when it closes behind them. Christie feels guilty at the relief. She has a few minutes where she could be at home in the apartment without being scared she’d startle him or upset him somehow. She had hoped the return to work would mean the end of egg-shell days but it really hadn’t made that much difference. Well, not to her. He did seem more fulfilled, and the way he talked about work, when she could cajole him into talking about the job, it seemed like he was satisfied with how it was going.

She finds herself at the window, watching as he waits with the dog at the edge of the road. Two cars go past, Jimmy’s head moves a little with each one. After a moment the dog steps off the curb. The man follows. She wonders how on earth he could trust a dog to know when to cross a road. “No choice,” she whispers to herself and tears spring up in her eyes. That rock in her chest, the one she has carried since Jimmy went blind, is very heavy today, bruising her heart and making every breath difficult to take.

[Dreamfire]

Warning: Alternate Universe Musing: Non-traditional BJ

Whose Shoes?


“Keep him in house, maybe he can take calls or do research for your guys.” Tunney gave Fisk a look that was as close to sympathetic as he was gong to get. “I’m told he has special software that will allow him to access all the usual databases and such. Maybe he can write up the reports, take some of the humdrum work off their hands?”

Fisk had not been able to keep the disappointment out of his voice. “Yes, Sir. When’s he due?” He sighed and opened his day planner.

“Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Fisk’s head shot up, disbelief in his eyes, “But we’re flat out on the Tongue Collector case! We don’t have time to go babysitting some blind guy.”

Tunney pretended not to hear the last sentence, “I’m getting a lot of heat on that case. You better get a break on it fast.”

“The whole squad is working doubles to get him, Chief.”

Dennis Tunney nodded. He knew that meant they were still nowhere near a working theory, but it was a nasty and messy series of crimes, bodies dumped in dissimilar locations, no physical evidence, and gruesome mutilations that had caught the press’s interest. He stood and turned to leave. “I’ll call you to see how it went.”

Gary landed heavily in his chair as soon as the Chief had left. That was all he needed, understaffed, a rabid serial killer in his precinct, and now a blind hero to baby sit. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and shook his head.


~


“Update,” Fisk demanded as soon as his homicide squad had spread themselves around his office.

Detective Jim Dunbar rubbed his face with his hand and squared his shoulders. He hated reporting in when there had been no clear progress on a case, and this was shaping up to be the worst case in his career right now. “Mendelson’s alibi checked out for the last two murders. He’s not the Tongue Collector.”

He checked his notes, although he knew what was written there as well as he knew his own face. “We’ve had the female undercover detectives out for a week and a half now and they’re reporting nothing. We haven’t scared him off, and the liaison with UC says he wants his officers back. Now we’re working the possibility that rather than a local John, he’s someone these girls all saw while they were working another job, maybe a bartender or a drug dealer. So we’re going back to their friends and family to try and find a connection.”

Fisk nodded, it wasn’t a bad way to go, and with the lack of physical evidence it was possibly the only way to go hunting for something new.

“Karen?”

Karen looked first to the senior detective who met her eye and smiled encouragingly, then to the Lieutenant who wanted her report. “Ah, right,” she began and cleared her throat. After several weeks she was still a little nervous when she had to report. She did good work, but sometimes got muddled reporting. She looked from Jim to Tom and back again.

“Karen’s been making a list of sex offenders in a slightly wider radius…” the blonde man started and gave Detective Karen Bettancourt an encouraging smile.

“I spread the search to five miles wider all around us. I came up with 85 names of men who are either out on parole or fully released.”
“Good. How you going to narrow that list down?”

“Ah, I’m not sure yet, I only just got the names, so I thought I’d work that out with Tom and Jim.” She looked to Tom who nodded and answered her.

“We’ll clean out the pedophiles and guys with particular traits that don’t fit the profile and see how long the list is then. If it’s not too long, you start gathering alibis.”

Fisk looked satisfied and Karen allowed herself to relax a little.

Jim's face was unreadable. He and Tom had been partnered up for a couple of years now, and she often felt like the third wheel. A third wheel who was new and unproven and very female. She knew the Lieutenant had been putting in requests for a fourth detective for months now, but he had explained he wanted a veteran who could show her the ropes and help her establish good habits, not some rookie.

“Before you go, you need to know we have a new detective starting here tomorrow.”

Karen grinned. Finally. “That’s great, Boss.”

“Who is it?” Tom asked.

Gary kept his face impassive. “Detective Marty Russo. He was with the 7-5 until about a year ago. He’s coming back from medical leave.”

The three detectives went silent as the coins dropped into their respective slots.

“The Marty Russo?” Tom asked.

“That’s right.”

Fisk studied the faces in front of him. Karen’s mouth had opened and then she had slumped a little. Tom had snapped his mouth shut and looked to his partner for the lead. Jim started to smile and then the smile had died on his lips when he saw the Lieutenant wasn't joking.

“Boss, come on, you gotta be joking?” Detective Dunbar couldn’t keep the shock from his voice. “I mean, I know the guy’s a hero and all but, come on.”

Lieutenant Fisk liked the situation about as much as his detective did, but he had been told in no uncertain terms that he was taking this detective, and that he would be under great scrutiny as to how he handled it. Privately and off the record, Chief Tunney had told him he hoped the guy would wash out fast so they all put the nightmare behind them, but that Gary would have to take the guy on. There was no choice.

“Jim, I’m only going to say it once. He is coming on board. Handle it. Now go find this killer.” Fisk opened the next file on his desk. “Karen, shut the door and take a seat.”

Karen did as she was asked and looked down at her note pad.

“Russo’s a veteran, ten years and he’s had his gold shield for most of those. Fastest detective to first grade in his precinct. You’ll have to make some accommodations but it’s expected you’ll make this work and learn as much as you can from him.”

What was there to say? Boss, he strung my best friend along for months without telling her he was married? Boss, I know I’m female but I still take my job seriously? Am I being given this guy to baby-sit ‘cause I’m a woman? She couldn’t say any of these things of course. Fisk waited, Karen just swallowed and nodded. “How long?’

“That depends on a lot of things.” Fisk held out a sticky note. “Go see this woman at 1PP now. She’ll fill you in on what to expect, working with a blind partner.”

“He’s completely blind?”

“Apparently, yes.”

With a stiff jerk Karen stood and took the note.

As she walked past Dunbar and Selway, she felt their eyes on her. Giving in, she turned to see Jim shaking his head. Was it sympathy or did he think her weak for not putting up more of a fight?

~

The resentment boiled inside while Karen hung around waiting for the HR woman who was going to clue her in. All this political correctness was going to kill her career. And yet she was pretty sure that it wouldn’t be her with the dud partner if it weren’t for the fact that she was a woman.

“Ah, Detective Bettancourt?” A pleasant voice pulled her out of her angry glare out the window.
The woman was of medium height and heavy in that ‘just had a baby way’ that women got. Her round face was framed with rich dark hair and her green eyes looked out from modern glasses that suited her face. She had an engaging smile and seemed genuinely happy to see Karen. “Sorry to have kept you. A moment earlier and you could have met Detective Russo. I was just seeing him out.”

Karen gave her a weak smile. Meet Russo? Tomorrow was soon enough, next year would be soon enough, in fact anything sooner than never would be too damn soon.

“Carol King.” The woman held her hand out and Karen took it, trying to quell the annoyance she felt that this woman appeared to be quite nice. She’d rather have been faced with someone she could dislike immediately and be done with the whole thing.

“So, what do I need to know?”

Carol nodded her to a chair and took the one behind the desk. Several files were piled on each side. Carol took the top one from her right and opened it. She took her time answering. “The department and all staff must be compliant with standards of behavior that the public have set in the bylaws.” When Karen looked as if she were going to protest the lecture Carol held up her hand. “Please, I am obliged to brief you, neither of us can get out of this, so let’s just be straight with each other. It will go faster that way.”

Karen nodded, her resentment went up another notch, perhaps it wouldn’t be so hard to dislike this woman. Ms. King read her several politically written statements about how Russo was to be accommodated but not coddled, that he was to be shown respect, that there was to be no harassment or hazing and, if Karen found that she was being given any similar treatment because of her partner’s disability, the proper channels for complaint. It was bureaucratic nonsense. He wouldn’t be accepted, she’d likely be ostracized and besides, how could you have a disabled police officer? A blind detective who couldn’t see a perp or a crime scene? A groan escaped as Karen’s mind started to bring up images of Mr. Magoo. Ms. King looked up from the pages she’d read, she gave a sympathetic smile and closed the file. “Will you sign that you’ve been briefed?”

Karen nodded and took the pen. She felt like she was being briefed about the end of her career.

As Carol filed the signed document she asked, “Have you had any peers, friends or family who were blind or visually impaired?”

“No.”

“In that case we can start with any questions you might have.” And Carol waited.

Karen floundered. Questions? Other than how can I dump the guy as fast as possible, no, she didn’t have any questions.

Carol waited again, smiling, and Karen couldn’t work out if it was genuine or an enjoyment of Karen’s obvious discomfort. “Well, I guess. Is there anything special I need to do or be aware of?”

“Yes. It’s a major part of any detective’s creed to have their partner’s back. That usually means that in an altercation you step up and prevent harm to your partner. Legally you should do that without putting yourself in harm’s way but we both know that the NYPD culture says you do it no matter what. That a certain amount of risk comes with the job.” She waited while Karen nodded. “For Detective Russo, you need to realize that danger comes in forms other than just perps or suspects.”

Oh, great, she was going to be a baby-sitter. “Now that doesn’t mean you have to baby-sit him. He has a guide dog and is capable of finding his way around the place just fine. However if you see him about to step into danger you are expected to take into account that he may be unaware of it and alert him.”

“Like?”

“His dog won’t know that a gun pointed at his handler is a bad thing. You’d need to tell him.”

“No problem.” Karen hadn’t thought of it, but that’d be fine.

“Similarly, he will need you to share your information on a more basic and thorough level than another detective would. The layout of a building or crime scene, a physical description of an interviewee or suspect, or of some evidence you are considering.”

Karen shrugged, “No problem.”

Carol let out a breath and Karen could see she was relieved. Perhaps she had expected Karen to be unwilling to do these things but they seemed pretty basic.

“I’m going to show you how to act as a sighted guide.” When Karen’s eyebrows shot up, Carol hastened to add. “You are not obliged to act as one and Marty is certainly not expecting you to, however there may be times when you want to give him a hand and you should know how to do it properly.”

Again Karen nodded.

Carol stood. “I’ll show you first by taking the role of the guide and then we can swap.”

The office was large enough that Carol could show her how to guide someone around the room, through a door and even to a chair. It all made sense. She explained that different people used different grips, some taller men especially preferred a hand on a shoulder, some on the forearm, it was up to the blind person and the guide to work out.

Karen was surprised when Carol looked at her watch and jumped up. The time had flown quickly and she hadn’t really had a chance to ask a question. Carol tossed a card on the table. “Call me and let me know how you’re getting along.” Then they were out the door.

~

Jim and Tom were arguing lightly over her head. Karen was sitting with her eyes shut, trying to concentrate on her call when he arrived. The whole room suddenly went quiet. Call forgotten, Karen looked up at the man who entered the squad. Walking confidently behind a big yellow dog, he stood close to six feet wearing a black trench coat and dark glasses. He stopped and gave a nervous half smile. “Detective Russo. Lieutenant Fisk is expecting me?” he said, aiming his words at the group of three.

Jim stepped out from behind Karen’s desk and she thought he was going to go introduce himself to the guy, but Dunbar just kept on going, heels ringing loudly down the corridor as Karen and Tom gaped. “Ah, right. Well, he’s in his office.” Karen blurted.

Russo’s face tightened and Karen’s stomach dropped even further. Shit, he couldn’t even find an office?

Tom took a deep breath, he stepped over to Fisk’s office and knocked loudly on the door, “Boss, the new guy is here to see you.” When Fisk nodded and put down his phone, Tom turned back to Russo. “Over here, his office is over here.”

“Thank you,” Russo turned the dog in the right direction, “Forward. Door.”

As Fisk closed the door behind Detective Russo, Karen met Tom’s eye. He looked sympathetic but unhelpful. He picked up his coffee and headed off down the corridor to find Jim. Karen sunk into her chair, feeling like the only rat left in a sinking ship.

~

Jim looked up as Tom entered the locker room. He had no words, he just shook his head.

“C’mon, give the guy a chance, Jim. He was a good detective before, and he’s a hero.”

Jim looked at his partner of three years. Tom was a softie, always was, always would be. He was becoming a fine detective, good persistence, he was picking up some excellent interview skills but he was a sucker for a victim. And one day that’d get him killed. He’d trust someone he shouldn’t, or he’d put himself in danger for some vic instead of doing his job.

“Tom, I got nothing against the guy. But he’s handicapped, he’s disabled, he can’t f%^&g see! He shouldn’t be a cop, let a lone a detective.”

“But the department-” Tom began

“Is putting us all in danger by doing this. Putting Karen in danger by doing this. How’s that guy supposed to have her back?” Jim’s voice rose as he got into it, his hands up in the air in the universal stance of questioning.

Tom finally nodded, Jim was right, how could that guy have Karen’s back? “So, what do we do?”

Jim paced. “We keep our eye on Karen’s back like we’ve always done. If… If the Lieutenant sends him out in the field with us, well, we make sure we steer clear enough away from him that he realizes he can’t do this.”

Jim made it seem simple but he knew nothing was as simple as it looked.

~

“Karen, you set?” She must have nodded for a moment later Detective Dunbar continued. “Tom. Let’s go.” And with that the men were gone and Marty was alone, again with his partner.

Marty had been in the squad for four days now and felt no more comfortable than he had on that fist day. “So, we going to interview the mother?” he asked.

There was a silence before Detective Bettancourt answered, “Did you find any other relatives?”

Marty’s mouth pulled into a tight line. They were working a serial rape and murder case, very gruesome and so far there had been no physical evidence that provided any leads. The Lieutenant had directed them to list relatives and sift through what they knew of the vics to see if there was any other common factor. Marty was sure it was so they stayed in house and didn’t go out on the streets. But damn it! He was a detective and he couldn’t do his job tied to a desk. Somewhere out there a man was killing pros and he knew he could help catch the guy, even if no one else had any trust in him.

“Karen, we need to interview the people we have found, see what they know, see if we can find a lead.” He heard her indrawn breath, ready to divert him, and kept speaking, “I know you think we can’t leave the squad, maybe even the Lieutenant has told you not to, but he didn’t tell me not to and even if I can’t see, I can still walk and I can still ask questions and I can still think.” He stood up and pulled on his coat. “So let’s go see this mother and see what she has to say.”

Karen looked to the Lieutenant’s door, it was closed and the blinds were drawn. She too, was getting sick of hanging around the squad. Getting a new partner should have meant more time out, working the job but so far it had been like imprisonment. How dangerous could it be, interviewing relatives?

“Okay, but just the first one. After that we’ll see.”

~

It had been awkward, introducing him, and his reaching out to shake the hand of a woman who was so mired in grief she could barely raise her head, let alone get up to greet them.

“Take this chair.” Karen had said, a little harshly due to her own embarrassment and she seated him at the kitchen table.

The woman had said virtually nothing, during the twenty minutes that Karen and Marty asked her questions about her daughter. The friend who was sitting with her gave Karen an apologetic smile as she saw them out the door. “I’m sorry, she hasn’t really said anything since she identified her daughter.”

“I understand.” Karen held out a card, “If you think she might be able to talk tomorrow, give me a call?”

“Sure.” The friend stepped back out of the way of Russo’s dog, clearly unnerved by the thought of a blind detective.

~

He followed her down the stairs of the apartment block into the sunshine and soft breeze.

“Well, that went well.” Karen couldn’t help the sarcasm in her voice. It was no fault of Russo’s, she couldn’t even blame it on him. The woman was so lost in her grief, chances were she hadn’t even noticed the detective couldn’t see.

“Depends how you look at it.” Russo didn’t sound defeated like she felt.

She raised her eyebrows at him. Of course he missed that. “How?”

“I didn’t get you killed like Dunbar thinks I would, and we got out of that noisy squad for an hour.”

Karen had to smile. Jim did think Russo would get her killed if they stepped out the door, as if she were a helpless female that couldn’t look out for herself. And getting out, back on the street had been good.

“Yeah, but we’re no further to solving the crime.”

“True. How about we check out the next one on our list? Now you know it can’t hurt.” Russo aimed a smile at her but she was several feet in front and missed it.

She didn’t answer. He named an address, “It’s only a couple of blocks from here.”

She turned, he looked… hopeful. And more than anything, she wanted to find a lead in this case, something that she could take in to the Lieutenant and show him, see I can do this job even if you tie a stone around my neck. She nodded. “Okay. But this time say no to coffee. The friend hovered over you as if you were going to break her best china.”

Marty nodded and bit his lip, and Karen could have kicked herself. He couldn't tell she was joking from her voice, well, half joking.

[Dreamfire]

Nightmare

Jimmy moved up to the door. He turned to Terry, who stood close behind him. “Quiet now, we want to surprise them - this time.”

“Ha ha, very funny.” Terry’s voice still showed embarrassment from the last time they’d snuck up on a perp, and Terry had alerted the bad guys with an elephant-sized sneeze. Jim smiled and put his hand to his chest, suddenly unsure if he had put on his bullet proof vest. But the heavy comfort was there and it was time to spring their trap. Jim pushed against the mesh of the security door.

The door swung open, he listened to it squeal and winced. Stepping into the dark hallway, Terry tight at his back, Jim grinned. He enjoyed this end of the business, a little bit of danger, a good chance to get the bad guys, he and his partner ready to mop up. Both had their guns raised, both were in top condition, seasoned and ready to pounce. The information they had gathered suggested the perps would make their hit tonight. If they surprised them beforehand it would mean a closed case. And more than that, he felt it was the right time to pounce – a familiar sense of certainty that tonight they’d win. He could also feel something unfamiliar, a cold feeling in his gut, like something was wrong. He turned to look at Terry, but it was too dark; he couldn’t make out Terry’s face.

Carefully they took two and then three steps. A thin strip of light and some sound leaked under the doorway ahead. Radio? No, it was late night TV, the volume turned down low. There were people laughing behind the sound of weapons being cleaned. He smiled. Best way, catch them in the act. Moving forward Jim kicked something on the floor and stumbled, landing heavily on one knee, muffling his outgoing breath. He looked back, expecting to see the shine off Terry’s teeth as his partner laughed silently, but Jim must have been blinded by the light from under the door. Terry was invisible. Picking himself up, he started forward. In the dark, his outstretched hand met with Terry’s back. Jim frowned; surely Terry had been behind him a moment ago?

They were at the door. Pushing it open with his shoulder Jim stepped forward around the door, and leveled his gun. Although he could hear a ruckus, men scrambling, weapons being reassembled and thrown down, a table toppled, he couldn’t make out the people. He blinked in surprise and Terry stepped forward without him. The murky dark was relieved only by the flicker of light from the TV and it too faded, as Jim strove to focus on even one figure before him. His heart beat spiked, and adrenaline poured unrestrained into his blood. F&^k, where were they? Jim swung around to the wall, groping for the light switch. How could it be dark? There had been light pouring from the crack under the door only a moment ago.

“Stop, lay down your weapons!” He heard Terry call out and then the thumps and clacks of heavy guns being placed on tables. Jim found the light switch. He felt it click up, down, up again, but there was no change before his eyes. His breath caught in his chest and he backed up against the wall, trying to make out what was going down in the gloom ahead. Shapes, dark shapes - was that Terry? Was it a perp? Jim’s jaw was clenched tight with strain as he moved his head trying for a clear view.

“On the floor, hands behind your head,” Terry’s Brooklyn accent broadened as he manhandled someone right there in front of Jim. Terry’s commands shot out and Jim heard the pounding of boots on the floor, protests over the sound of cuffs closing too tight, and the grunts of men being thrown to the floor. Terry didn’t seem to notice that Jim was just standing there, backed up against the wall, invisible, unmoving.

A single shot rang out, followed by the sound of multiple men falling on a gunman. Terry screamed, “Jimmy!” and the sound reached Jim distorted, as if it had traveled underwater to get to him. Still Jim strained, unable to find faces to match the voices he heard, unable to call out to Terry that he was okay, unhurt, just mired in the shadow.

The TV flashed to his right and Jim turned to it. He stared at the crystal clear image on the screen: Someone being loaded onto a stretcher and pulled into a waiting ambulance. Jim turned in surprise as a cold breeze and sprinkling of rain spattered his face. The sheet over the casualty on the gurney flapped, and he heard it close by. With no memory of moving, he was standing outside, up against a brick wall, the clinker bricks rough under his hands. Lethargic rain drops trickled down his face and spattered on his shirt. The flashing light atop the bus was sharp and unrelenting; his head ached from the overload and confusion.

Jim turned away from the bright light of the bus’ siren. Terry was loading a perp into their car, he could hear the guy complaining but it was too dark, Jim couldn’t see the car, let alone his partner or their suspect. He heard Terry laugh and another joined in, but it wasn't Jim.

He closed his eyes tight and shook his head but when he opened them again it was to a calm dark, a quiet dark, no rain, no breeze, no sounds of struggle but for his own strained breath and the pounding of his heart. A dog snored. Hank, it was Hank, and Jim had only had another dream.