Disclaimer:- The Characters of Steve and Mark Sloan, Jesse Travis, Amanda, CJ and Dion Bentley and the back-story of Diagnosis Murder belong to someone else, I am merely borrowing them in the hope that they won't mind. No infringement of copyright is intended and no profit is being made from this enterprise. The rest of the original characters and the plot are mine.
Please Read This Before You Start:- This story will be posted in parts as it is written, if it is not posted here then it has not been written yet. I will write it as quickly as RL will allow but parts will be posted approximately every 1-3 weeks.
Synopsis:- When a series of seemingly unrelated crimes injure and traumatize those Steve is closest to, he is caught in the middle, having to deal with his concern and sense of responsibility, as his self esteem and credibility take a beating. It seems that his life is falling apart, but is this just the beginning? Will anyone realise that there is a more sinister hand than fate involved in what is happening to him before Steve's suffering really does destroy him?
Warnings:- For those of you who know my writing I don't need to say this, but don't expect anyone to make it through this story unscathed, particularly if they happen to be a police lieutenant or a young doctor.
To Destroy a Man.
Steve's hand moved up and down with the slight jerkiness that his fuzzy concentration skills would allow, the key hovering close to but not touching the lock. He really didn't want to scratch the door, so he focused every part of himself in guiding the small metallic object into its home. Eventually he succeeded in getting the end to enter the hole and with some sense of achievement pushed it all the way in, turning it with a satisfying click. It was at that point he realised his first mistake, his weight was leaning onto the door maintaining his precarious balance, as the lock released and it swung open he was pitched forward into the hallway of the beach house, stumbling as he went.
The second mistake had been to try to catch himself by grabbing for the nearest object, which, unfortunately, was the large decorative urn of dried flowers standing on a small purpose built stand; at his touch it had also begun to topple. Steve wasn't sure how he managed it in his uncoordinated state, but he stopped his own descent whilst simultaneously catching the vase with both hands and raising his foot to steady the stand, somehow preventing the, what would have been, catastrophic fall to the floor. None of this was achieved without losing the contents of half of the vase, scattering foliage across the hallway. Awkwardly he steadied the stand and deposited the vase on top of it, pulling two fingers to his lips he made an exaggerated 'shushing' noise at the offending inanimate object for the clatter it had made in it's almost tumble to the floor.
The gesture was meant to admonish the stand for nearly making enough noise to wake his father. The fact that making such a gesture to an object which could only move if pushed would make no sense to any but an inebriated mind, escaped the attention of Steve's inebriated mind, and he made a half hearted attempt at picking up the flowers, but quickly gave up as bending over made his head begin to spin.
Next he attempted to hang his jacket up on the hooks by the door but as he let go, thinking that the collar was firmly over the hook, he was surprised to see the jacket fall gracelessly to the floor. He picked it up and tried again but this time he was only successful in pulling another jacket down with it. With a dismissive wave of his arms he decided to give up, it was another task that could wait until morning.
Despite the fact that he had decided to leave the jackets until morning, he found himself still staring down at them a minute later. Realising that he needed to decide what he was going to do, he looked at the stairs which led down to his own apartment. The idea of heading down and collapsing bonelessly onto his bed for the next, however many hours he could get away with, was extremely tempting. On the other hand, the sirens' call of the refrigerator was making itself heard by his empty stomach, the alcohol induced temptation to snack strong enough to override his need to lie down. He turned and headed for the kitchen.
Steve's third mistake, in what was becoming too long a list, was to leave the lights off. He did not want the light to show under the door to his father's room and risk waking him up. Again, had he been thinking clearly he would have realised that he had already made enough noise to wake the dead, and he was just about to make more. Attempting to navigate across the darkened room, he caught his foot under the leg of a chair, tripping and pulling the chair over, he put his arms out to catch himself only to have his left hand impact painfully with the corner of Mark's desk. He pulled it back sharply as he landed heavily on his hip, letting out a startled yell followed by a soft curse.
He sat up and pulled his injured hand to his chest, cradling his wrist as he waited for the throbbing to subside a little. He waited only a short while before resuming his attempts to get to the kitchen. With as much care as his impaired state would allow, he pushed himself unsteadily to his feet and resumed his journey, but by now it seemed inevitable that he would not make it without further incident.
He was close to the door when a twinge of pain from his injured hip made him stumble forward again. He caught himself on what he thought was the cupboard under the bookshelves but only succeeded in dislodging two loose volumes that had been left out. They fell to the floor and Steve only just managed to prevent himself from following them. He stood for a moment regaining his breath before finally completing the last few steps to the kitchen. Still cradling his hand protectively to his chest, he decided that coffee was what he needed first.
The top of the coffee container, however, proved uncooperative, unable to get a grip with his knuckles throbbing as they were.
"Looks like you could use a hand with that."
The comment from behind startled Steve and he turned, the lid chose to give at that precise moment and flew off scattering the contents of the coffee container in an arc across the room. As he moved Steve failed to notice the door, which he had carelessly left open when he retrieved the coffee, his forehead made contact with the corner with an audible crack.
Mark winced in sympathy but knew enough to realise that it was the sort of impact that stung rather than caused real injury, even so he moved forward to get a closer look. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to startle you."
"S'okay," Steve said, his speech slightly slurred, placing the now empty container on the worktop and bringing his good hand up to gingerly feel for damage, He drew in a sharp breath as his fingers made contact with the tender skin which was reddened and beginning to swell. "Sorry about the mess." He said somewhat sheepishly.
"Don't worry about it we'll clear it up in the morning."
Steve moved his head, forcing his father to make eye contact. "I don't just mean in here."
"I know," Mark replied, "didn't occur to you to turn the light on, on your way in huh?"
"I was trying not to wake you," Steve replied, letting his eyes drop to the floor.
Mark grinned, "and you might have succeeded if you hadn't brought that herd of elephants through the living room with you." He tilted his head to a slight angle as he examined the bump on Steve's forehead. "Sit down and I'll get you some ice for that," he began to move toward the refrigerator, "and for the hand too."
Steve automatically looked down at his scraped and bruised knuckles, if it had been anyone other than Mark he might have wondered how they'd noticed that he'd hurt his hand as well. He drew in a deep breath. "I'm sorry," he said again as he headed for the table, still slightly unsteady on his feet.
"Nothing to be sorry for," Mark stated as he looked for something to put the ice in, finally retrieving a bag from the drawer. "As long as you had a good night." He paused from his task to turn and look at his son. "You did have a good night?"
Steve smiled and nodded as memories of the evening returned. "You could say that."
Mark returned with the ice pack, putting it in Steve's uninjured right hand so that he could hold it against his head, before taking hold of his left to check the injury. "How good?" he asked.
"Would you believe karaoke with Michealson from division?"
Mark looked Steve in the eye, "Not New York, New York?"
Steve nodded, a twinkle in his eye now, his smile broadening, "And I swear this time he was the one who was flat and I was in key."
Mark's mind conjured up visions of Christmas parties past when Steve, reluctant to sing at all in public, would give in to the cajoling of his ex partner from his days of being a beat cop, and would take the microphone to sing the old standard. It was a standing joke that both men could actually sing the song in key, just never the same one, and their leg kicking antics, each trying to outdo the other, always went down a storm. Of course, Steve always needed a few beers to loosen up enough to take part, which was why it was a rare, and therefore special treat for all those who witnessed it.
Steve Sloan was not a heavy drinker, an occasional few beers watching a game, a glass of wine with dinner was his usual limit, even on those occasions when he really let his hair down he generally stopped before he got really drunk. This evening was one of those very rare occasions when he'd gone a little further than normal, not that he'd realised until he'd tried to make it into the house, he was in fact fairly sure that he hadn't had that many beers, but then again there was plenty of evidence to the contrary. He had to accept that he'd gone a little too far tonight and he was probably going to pay for it in the morning.
Not that he didn't deserve to let his hair down, his caseload had been brutal for months now, and he had worked two tough undercover assignments almost back to back, so tonight's opportunity to celebrate the successful completion of both cases, the trials ending within days of each other with successful convictions, had come as a welcome relief after the months of hard work,
Mark had been getting worried by the almost permanent lines of strain that had built up around Steve's eyes, and it had come as a relief to him that Steve finally had the opportunity to relax a little. As a result he was prepared to be more than a little indulgent with his son's current condition, knowing that it was a result of celebration and not one of the more worrying circumstances that sometimes seemed to turn people to drink.
"Ah yes," Mark said, examining the back of Steve's hand, "But were you singing in the same key as the backing track?"
Steve considered the question seriously for a moment. "Maybe not," he admitted, "but can I help it if they always play it in a different key to the one I sing it in?"
Mark smiled, watching for Steve's reaction as he bent his fingers. "And to think I can never get you to sing at the hospital Christmas concert."
Steve did not have the control to hide his grimace as his bruised knuckles protested at being asked to move. "That's because it would be unseemly for the son of the Chief of Internal Medicine to be seen drunk on stage in front of an audience that included children." Steve replied, "and let's face it that's the only way that I would ever volunteer to sing in public."
"But what about the concert in '93 and then again in. . ."
"Dad, I said 'volunteer,'" Steve stated, "If I remember '93 you used guilt to get me to do it and the following year if memory serves then I think blackmail would be a more appropriate phrase." Steve paused for a moment. "In fact you were in breach of California penal code number. . ."
"Steve," Mark interrupted, his reproachful tone belied by the twinkle in his eye. "I did not resort to blackmail, I merely reminded you of certain photographs I had in my possession. . ." He finished his examination of Steve's hand. "Well I don't think that you've broken anything but I'd use a bit of that ice on it to keep down the swelling."
Steve nodded. "It was definitely blackmail," he muttered, as Mark stood and moved over to the cupboard
"If you still want coffee it will have to be instant," Mark said, allowing another smile as he took the jar from the cupboard, taking care to close the door.
Steve nodded his assent. "We got anything to eat?" he asked.
Mark thought for a moment. "I think there might be some of that ham left, I could make you a sandwich," he offered heading for the refrigerator once more.
Steve was about to agree when the reality of the situation struck home, it was nearly two in the morning and he'd already woken his father and got him out of bed, it was completely unreasonable to expect him to stay up and make him something to eat. Even though Mark had made the offer he felt a surge of guilt at his own behaviour. "No, you get back to bed," he said, pushing himself to his feet. "I can make it."
Mark turned and regarded Steve's shaky stance. "It's ok," he said, realising the reason for Steve's refusal. "Now that I'm awake, I'm kinda peckish myself, so I think I'll join you." The latter part was a lie, but joining Steve would give him an excuse to spend a little time with his son, whom he'd seen far too little of recently, and then there was the added bonus that Steve would not have to use a knife which, in his current accident prone state, seemed a very positive benefit.
Steve nodded once more and sat down more than a little gratefully, the room was taking on unpleasant movement of its own whenever he stood up. He let out a sigh, he really didn't think that he had drunk that much.
Mark began retrieving what he would need for the sandwiches and assembling it on the table, on his second journey he stopped short, the bread and pickle jar still clutched in his hands. Turning his head slightly he listened, alert to something that he had just heard that did not seem right, but, not having paid sufficient attention, he could not be sure about. He was paying attention now, so he waited to see if it was just an overactive imagination giving substance to a perfectly natural sound, or if there was indeed something wrong.
It took Steve much longer than it normally would to notice his father's sudden shift in demeanor, by the time he did, Mark had deposited the items he held on the edge of the table and was moving towards the door. "Something wrong?" Steve asked, managing somehow to keep his voice reasonably low as his instincts kicked in.
Mark turned and met Steve's slightly concerned gaze. "Probably nothing," he said, keeping his tone light, "Stay here, I just need to check on something."
If Steve had been more alert, he would have noticed the small signs that betrayed Mark's apprehension, the tension in his shoulders, the slight frown that creased his brow, the way he drew himself up to his full height in a subconscious display of determination, and if he had noticed, he would not have let Mark investigate alone.
Instead Steve's dulled perception failed to register the warning signs, accepting the instruction without the curiosity that should have been sparked by it. Capable of concentrating on only the most basic aspects of his environment, he moved the ice down from his forehead to the back of his hand and waited. It wasn't until the clatter from the other room became very loud that he reacted, and by then it was too late.
The sound of falling furniture and breaking glass, accompanied by a muffled cry were enough to send a surge of adrenaline crashing through his system. He could literally feel the wash of chemicals as his head cleared. He pushed himself to his feet, knocking the chair to the floor as he made for the door, covering the distance from the table in three strides before, catching sight of what was happening in the other room, he froze
The tableau in front of him seemed surreal. His father stood across the room looking slightly dazed, one hand to his reddened cheek; it was clear that he'd been struck. Facing him stood a man dressed entirely in black, holding a gun in one hand and an ornate statue that normally lived in front of one of the bookshelves in the other, the man's face was obscured by a black hooded mask with cutouts for the eyes, nose and mouth.
Mark's own fear was held in check by his intelligence, he knew only too well the statistics on violent acts perpetrated by burglars caught in the act, had seen the results on too many occasions, and he knew that even though the man had already hit out at him, his best bet was still to try to remain as calm as possible. "Please," he patiently repeated what he had already said in the hope that his assailant would listen this time. "Take whatever you want, I won't try to stop you. There's no need. . ."
Despite the danger he was in, Mark had prayed fervently that Steve would not hear the commotion and come to investigate. He needed his son to remain safely in the kitchen, but that hope was dashed as Steve interrupted him. "I'd listen to him if I were you," Steve stated, attempting to draw the intruder's attention away from his father.
Steve had assessed the situation in a moment, his thoughts as clear as if he were stone cold sober. His badge and gun were both locked away downstairs in his apartment, there was no chance of him getting to them, and, even if he could, he had the sense to realise that, however clear his thinking seemed, the alcohol in his system would dull his reactions. His father was taking the right tack, attempting to talk the guy out of any violent reaction was their best hope, although the unwavering gun and the rapidly darkening skin on Mark's face, indicating a blow already struck, did not bode well.
Steve wasn't sure what sort of reaction he had expected to his comment, he had certainly intended to focus any further violence on himself rather than his father, but the muzzle flash and loud report still took him by surprise as the man turned and, without hesitation, fired his gun in a single action. Years of ingrained training took over and Steve automatically ducked for cover as Mark shouted "No!" making a grab for the gun. He wasn't quick enough however, it was almost as if the gunman was waiting for the move as with a smile he swung the heavy statue towards Mark's head.
Steve looked up just in time to see it make contact with the side of Mark's skull, barely aware of his own anguished cry, as he pushed himself to his feet.
The masked intruder watched dispassionately as Mark slumped to the floor, dropping the statue to land by his head, before turning and running for the open doors to the deck, through which he had entered.
On some level Steve knew that he should still be concerned by the man who had moments earlier fired at him, knew that he still carried a gun and was therefore dangerous. He knew that he should devote some of his attention to what he was doing and where he was going, but, from the moment he had seen Mark begin to fall, his vision had tunneled, his entire focus was now on his father. He ran forwards, dropping to his knees by his father's crumpled form, for a moment he was separated from reality by a wall that stole the air from his chest, preventing him from breathing, preventing him from moving. He stared at the rivulets of red, threading their way as sharp ribbons of contrast through white hair before dripping to the floor to form a rapidly growing pool. The effect was horrifyingly hypnotic, the wall pressed harder against his chest and he knew that he had to fight the effect, knew that his father needed him to act.
With a monumental effort he forced his eyes closed and took a deep breath, banishing the sight that threatened to overwhelm his senses, a part of his mind screaming that he had to do something; his father needed him. He swallowed convulsively and opened his eyes again, forcing his fingers to move forwards and feel for a pulse. His insides churned in a maelstrom of fear as he moved his fingers, diving into panic for a moment when he could not feel anything, before abating slightly as he slid them to the correct position, the pulse was there, too rapid and slightly erratic, but there. "Dad?" he questioned. No response. "Dad, can you hear me?" he tried again, nothing, no sign that Mark had heard him, no movement at all.
He rocked back on his heels, taking a moment to process what to do next. The phone, he needed to call 911, get help. Towels, he would need something to try to stop the bleeding. The door, he should open the door for the paramedics. His head darted about as the thoughts tumbled over each other, once again he found himself having to force a focus, he drew in another deep breath and pushed himself to a shaky stand, demonstrating a coordination that he would have been incapable of ten minutes earlier, he grabbed the phone from Mark's desk and punched in the numbers as he ran through to open the door, leaving it slightly ajar. The line connected and he identified himself as a police officer, trying to remain calm as he answered the operator's questions, but as he returned to the living room, his eyes were drawn once again to the expanding circle of blood on the floor. It pulled at his consciousness, making focus on his answers difficult, he barely remained coherent and was aware that he was still slightly slurring his words, he cursed himself for the unnecessary time that he had wasted as the operator finally let him know that help was on the way. Throwing the phone onto the couch, he headed for the kitchen, pulling the drawer that held the towels all the way out and dropping it to the floor, he grabbed what he needed and headed back to Mark's side.
He picked up the statue and moved it out of the way before attempting to get a closer look at the head wound, trying desperately to remember what he needed to check for and what he should and shouldn't do.
Steve had no idea how long he knelt cradling his father's head in his lap, whispering assurances that help would be there soon. Part of him would have asserted that time had no meaning but with every passing second, another bright red drop of blood escaped from the head wound, despite his best efforts to prevent it, another laboured breath was drawn or expelled through lungs that seemed to no longer want to serve their purpose, another endless interval passed, where Steve could only hold his father, knowing that he could be dieing but not possessing the skills to do anything about it. Steve's reality wasn't measured by the passage of time but rather by the ebbing of life, it seemed that his father was slipping away from him and all he could do was watch.
Steve recognized the uniforms, they were the pale blue that signified paramedics from the fire department, the insignia on the badge confirmed it. His mind snapped back to a brief but total clarity as he handed his father's care to those he knew could help him, answering the questions they had as clearly as he could. Stepping back, he hovered near enough to still feel connected but not so close that he would get in the way. White shirts followed as the ambulance crew arrived and joined in the frantic activity around Mark. Steve tried to listen, tried to interpret the conversation spoken in the alien language that his father and best friends used so easily, but his focus was fading again, his mind unable to sort the confusion of emotions that gripped him.
The dark blue shirts that signified the arrival of uniformed LAPD officers were the last to impinge on his consciousness, but he couldn't truly have said whether that was because they were the last to arrive, or whether it was because they weren't directly involved in his father's treatment and so he just didn't see them.
"Lieutenant Sloan," Officer Charles Peters repeated for the third time, finally resorting to stepping between Steve and where the EMTs were treating Mark, in an effort to get his attention. Steve slowly lifted his eyes as the view of his father was cut off. "Please, I need to ask you some questions about what happened here."
Steve nodded an acknowledgement. "I know but. . ." He paused, licking his lips to try to ease the dryness, but it didn't help, his whole mouth was dry, the acrid taste left behind by the repeated bursts of adrenaline making him want to spit, but removing the necessary saliva to do so. "My father. . ." he said gesturing behind where the officer stood.
"Look," Peters said, "I know this is a difficult time but the sooner that we find out who did this the sooner we can do something about it." He caught and held Steve's gaze.
Steve considered it and nodded again, "OK, but there's not much to tell." He dropped into professional witness mode. It was a tactic he often used when he had to recount situations that had, for some reason, been difficult or traumatic. It was a skill honed from years of court appearances and witness statements given routinely as part of his job. Emotional detachment was often necessary for self preservation, here it was the only way he could deliver any coherent facts. He described what he had seen and heard from the moment his father left the kitchen. ". . .and then I called 911, and waited for you to arrive." He finished his statement and drew in a breath, grateful that he had managed to get through it with only slight pauses each time he'd had to repress the attached emotions.
"I see," Peters said, making notes, as he spoke. "And you're sure he went out through the doors to the deck."
Steve nodded. "They were open, it must have been how he got in in the first place."
"And besides you and your father, does anyone else have a key to the door?"
"Only Dr Jesse Travis and Dr Amanda Bentley, they're both colleagues of my father's at Community General Hospital."
"Charlie!" the call attracted Peters' attention and he turned to see his partner summoning him.
"Just give me a moment," Peters said, stepping away.
Steve watched him only briefly, turning his attention back to the men who were working on Mark. They had brought the stretcher in and were preparing to transfer him. Steve stepped forward to help. "How is he?" he asked, once Mark was resting on the stretcher.
One of the ambulance attendants set about covering him and fastening the straps, whilst the other looked up to answer Steve's question. "We need to get him to the hospital," was his only reply.
If Steve had been looking for some reassurance that Mark would be alright, he didn't get it, in fact the vague answer only served to heighten his fears, the sense of imminent loss gripped him and he had to fight to hold back the tears that welled in his eyes. He would not give up hope. Not yet.
As he began to follow the stretcher to the waiting ambulance it took him a moment to realise that he was not alone.
"I just have a few more questions for you Lieutenant." Peters said. "There are a few things about your account that don't tie in."
"They'll have to wait," Steve stated, "You can catch me at the hospital."
"I'm afraid they won't wait," Peters said, grabbing Steve's arm and turning him to face him.
"Look," Steve replied, trying to be patient but aware that, now they had Mark stable enough to move, time was of the essence, the EMTs almost had the stretcher loaded into the ambulance. "I'm going in the ambulance with my father to the hospital, any questions you want to ask I'll answer from there, or I'll come in and make a full statement in the morning."
"I'm sorry Lieutenant but I can't let you do that."
Steve's temper was beginning to flare, his emotions in too much of a mess, his system still too inebriated to exercise proper control. "Do what?"
"I can't let you travel in the ambulance since you have clearly been drinking and I still have some questions. . ."
Steve almost snarled his response. "If you want to stop me from getting in that ambulance you'll have to arrest me, otherwise I'm going." Steve moved to climb into the back of the ambulance but was stopped by a firm hand on his chest.
"Steven Sloan I am arresting you on suspicion of breaching California Penal Code number 368. You have the right to remain silent. . . "
The rest of the Miranda was lost in a sea of emotion as Steve was forced to watch the ambulance doors close and the ambulance pull away, but it did not matter he knew the rest of the script better than he knew his own name.
". . .Do you understand these rights as I have explained them to you?"
Steve acknowledged the final question with a barely audible, "yes," his mind still reeling from the unexpected turn of events. Not sure why the officers he now faced had arrested him until his fuzzy mind pulled up the text of penal code number 368. Gripped by a sudden nausea, he swallowed back the bile rising in his throat as he looked down at his bruised knuckles. 'Oh God!' they thought that he had. . . his own father! He looked up a mixture of abhorrence and shock marred his features. "You can't think. . . I. . .I . . didn't. . . ." but he couldn't manage to get anything else out, the emotions of the last half hour finally overwhelming him as shock set in. He did not even notice as his wrists were cuffed and he was escorted to the police car, his only coherent thought a silent prayer that Mark would be all right.
TO BE CONTINUED. . .
PS pertinent section of California Penal Code.368 can be found at:- http:www.leginfo.ca.gov/cgi-bin/displaycode?sectionpen&group00001-01000&file346-368