Summary: Robert Goren has endured 769 days of endless torment. Help is on it's way. But is it too little, too late?
A/N: This is a continuation of the Trials and Tribulations Series. The first story in this series: Unexpected Tribulations is an explicit story that can only be found on Archive of Our Own. You can find me there under User24601 or FanFicWriter24601. Feel free to message me if you would like the link as I cannot post it here.
Chapter 1: Intuition
The sergeant in charge of the intelligence unit down at the 21st precinct was not a man you wanted to cross. Hank Voight had a reputation as a man who would get the result he wanted, no matter the cost. He was a good cop, but he was also the type of cop that would have no problem bending or breaking rules to see justice done.
It was in the small hours of the morning and the sergeant was finally finishing up for the night. They had just wrapped up a high-ranking politician blackmail case. The kind of paperwork involved seemed like a never-ending barrage of form after form. Exhausted, he walked down towards the back stairs on his way out. As he passed the holding cells/drunk tank, a voice called out to him.
"Excuusse me, Offivcer!"
Backtracking a few steps, Voight turned to face the drunk man that had called out to him.
"Yes?" Hank asked, his gravely voice gruff with inconvenience, as he carefully eyed the tall blonde man. The man's clothing was rumpled and Voight could smell the alcohol the emanated from him.
"Imma need a phone call. Pleassse? It'ss important," said the blonde man.
"Sorry pal. Nothing I can do about that," Voight responded. "You'll get your phone call in the morning. Just sit tight and sober up."
The man grumbled something under his breath, but Voight didn't hear any of it, his back already turned as he headed out the door. A few seconds later, Hank was breathing in the warm summer night air, as he headed to his car. Upon reaching his vehicle, Hank fumbled with his keys, a tight feeling in his gut distracting him. Opening the door, and taking a seat, the sergeant put the keys in the ignition but did not turn on the engine. The underlining sense of dread and foreboding, that had started when he had heard the man's voice was preventing him from leaving.
"Fuck it," Hank said to no one in particular, as he climbed out of the car and headed back inside.
Avoiding the holding cell, Hank wound his way around to the front desk were he retrieved the log from the deputy on duty. Scanning the entries, Hank found the one he was looking for: At 1:22 a.m. on June 28, 2014, officer was dispatched to Woodlawn Avenue regarding a drunk driver. Dean Kipling (DOB 7-15-1957) was pulled over and blew a blood alcohol level reading of 0.17%. Suspect was arrested for DUI (driving under the influence).
"You know anything about this Dean Kipling in the holding cell," Voight asked the deputy.
"Not really," replied the deputy, "just that he is drunk and keeps asking for his phone call. And something about a broken something back at his house."
"He give you the creeps?"
The deputy leaned forward and said in a whisper, "Yeah, can't put my finger on it though."
A black Cadillac Escalade pulled up outside a small house with a white picket fence. Sergeant Voight glanced down at his phone to make sure he had the right address. A few minutes later, Detective Alvin Olinsky pulled up alongside and rolled down the window to speak with his commanding officer.
"Hey," Olinsky said as he nodded his head towards the house, "this the place?"
"It would seem so," Voight replied. "Go and park down the street a bit and meet me round back."
Olinsky and Voight were cut from the same cloth, both experienced police. But where Voight was tight-jawed and clean cut, Olinsky was grizzled and woolly. He could usually be seen sporting a flat cap and a handlebar mustache. So, when he got the call from his long-time friend and boss, he simply rolled out of bed and got his ass over to the location.
"You get someone to make that 911 call?" Voight asked as he approached.
"Yeah," the detective replied. "Got one of my CIs to call in possible gunshot from this location."
"Good," said Hank as he pulled out Kipling's keys, that he had swiped from the evidence locker, "that gives us probable cause to enter. Can't be too careful these days. Here's hoping we don't find anything and we can just go home, no one the wiser."
Unlocking the back door, the two men stepped into the home. Pulling out their flashlights, they did a quick sweep of the place. Voight went right, checking out the kitchen, dining room, and master suite. Olinsky went left, searching the coat closet, laundry room, and bathroom. The detective was in the living room, looking at the bookshelves when Hank met back up with him.
"Nothing unusual, as far as I can see," Hank said. "Think he lives alone?"
"What size was the bed?" asked Olinsky in his usual monotone.
"King. Why do you ask?"
"Because he has a partner," Olinsky replied as he held up a framed picture of Kipling with another dark-haired man.
"Oh," Hank said. "That kind of partner. Well then, that makes sense why there were two sinks in the master bath."
"There's something else you should see," Olinsky stated as he lead the way out of the living room and down the hallway. Alvin stopped in front of the closet door, opening it up, and shined his light down at a plush toy penguin.
"That's odd," Voight said. "Why would two grown men have an entirely empty closet except for one stuffed animal?"
"You think that's odd? I think this closet has been soundproofed."
"Really," Hank said as he stepped inside, closing the door behind him. The darkness enveloped him and quickly turning around, he reached for the nonexistent door handle to push it back open. Raising his voice, Voight called out for Olinsky to open the door. Nothing happened, and Hank pounded his fist against the frame. Olinsky's bewildered faced greeted him a second later.
"Took you long enough," Hank grumbled.
"Well, looks like I was right about it being soundproof," said Olinsky. "And there's one last thing."
"What's that?"
"There's an empty space behind this wall. The laundry room on the other side doesn't come completely over this way."
"Staircase," was Hank's reply, "there must be a staircase. I didn't see any basement windows, but there was a foundation, it would make sense for there to be a basement."
It only took them a few moments to discover the heavily locked door behind the coats, hats, and scarves hanging in the coat closet.
"This thing is a beast," observed Olinsky. "You got the keys still?"
"They're right here," Voight said as he grappled with them. Trying the different keys until he found a match.
"Hank," Olinsky said suddenly, "there's a keypad here too. We're not getting in without some sort of code."
Sighing in frustration, Voight dropped the keys. "Whatever is behind this door, it can't be good." Silence filled the air as both men contemplated the possibilities of what a heavily fortified door, in an inauspicious looking house, could possibly be hiding.
"Well," Hank said at last, "let's give squad a call and have them come crack open this door."
"Sure thing boss," replied Olinsky.
"And Al, see if they can remain as inconspicuous as possible. The last thing we need is to attract attention and have one of the neighbors give the other guy a heads up before we even know what's going on."
A/N: This story is cross posted on Archive of Our Own.