AUTHOR'S NOTE: I am having some technical errors with my computer and things such as that, I'm sure you know how it is. So please, I beg of you, be patient with me. I'll get it figured out (hopefully).

The Shield: The Corner of My Mind

Chapter 1

The girl's open palms beat against the glass of the door. She was in tears, her eyes were bloodshot, her cheeks were red.

"You did this!" She screamed as Dutch walked over to the door. "You did this! It's you're fault! You killed my baby brother!"

Dutch pulled open the door, and the girl practically fell in. After she caught her balance she lifted her fists and threw them fiercely at Dutch's chest, beating him pathetically.

"You bastard!" She cried as he moved to gently grip her wrists and try to restrain her. "You cock sucking bastard!" She pulled back from his grasp and fiercely swung her open palm. It slapped harshly against his face, the smack of the contact cracking through the room.

By now, all eyes were on Dutch and the girl. Everybody knew who she was, and everybody knew why she was here.

Her name was Crystal Martinez. Everybody called her Chris. Dutch had put her little brother in prison for the aggravated murder of a black man, and he had killed himself in his cell after being raped only four hours before.

Vic had seen her when she came in. She had been sitting in the waiting room, waiting for Dutch to come in. She didn't know he always used the back door, or else she would have waited out there. Vic Mackey knew when a girl was royally pissed off, and this one had vaulted beyond that point about three and a half hours ago. If she wasn't so hysterical, she might have concentrated enough on Dutch to draw blood, but it was obvious she wasn't thinking clearly.

Pulling his head back from the sting of the slap, Dutch winced, but recovered quickly. He reached forward and took hold of Chris's wrists, this time more firmly.

"Let me go!" She screamed at him, throwing herself backwards, trying to wrench out of his grip.

But his fingers tightened around her thin, fragile wrists, and he pulled her back towards him. He felt her pulse under his fingers, and heard her shouts, and for a moment was reminded of the tabby hissing and clawing at his chest as his hands tightened around its neck-

Suddenly she gave way, seemingly exhausted, and collapsed against him. His hands slipped from her wrists, and her arms fell limply to her side. He put his arms around her shoulders and gave her a gentle, reassuring hug.

"Why did you do this?" She hissed as she pulled away again, wiping her eyes.

"If I had known that this was going to happen, I would have kept him in The Cage." He motioned over his shoulder to the place they stowed criminals before processing them and sending them off to prison or releasing them.

For a moment Chris's crystal blue eyes focused on The Cage, two "cells" that looked more like dog pens than a containment center for criminals. There were a few people in there now, milling around, mostly ignoring the commotion.

"He didn't even do it," she growled.

"Now only was his blood at the crime scene," Dutch protested, "but also his hair and his semen. He has been lying to you for the past year. He never worked at the clinic. He was panhandling and selling drugs."

She knew it was true, but she didn't want to admit it to this dick detective. So instead, she rolled her eyes, wiping more tears from her cheeks, and turned to lean against the wall.

Taking a step forward, Dutch gently placed a hand on her shoulder, squeezing softly. He could feel the thin bones under his fingers, and couldn't help but think of the history of the family. A poor mother, with many children to feed, whose father was a Mexican and whose mother was a white runaway. This girl's father was white, and the Mexican in her showed through only a little, in her accent and cheekbones. The family had lived in a tiny house outside of L.A. before moving into the vicinity, hoping to find themselves better off here. Unfortunately, they only found themselves poorer. The youngest daughter had starved to death last year.

"I'm sorry about what happened to your brother," Dutch said, his voice quiet and compassionate. "But there's nothing I can do about it now." He paused, feeling her shoulders begin to quiver as sobs overtook her again. "There is a psychiatrist most of the station goes to when they need to talk to someone. His name Dr. Phill-"

"I don't need a fucking psychiatrist!" She spun fast, whipping his hand from her shoulder. "I need a friend. A family member, a spouse. Someone who knows me. But I don't have that anymore, do I shit head?" She took a threatening step forward, but Dutch held his ground.

"You can talk to me." He pulled a business card from his pocket, and pressed it into her hand. "Maybe I can help you. Maybe I can make up for I took from you."

She glanced down at the card, seemed to scan it for a moment, crumpled it, and bounced it off his forehead. "I don't need you." She muttered something in Spanish that he couldn't quite here as she stalked out the door, picking up her purse and digging through it.

Sighing, Dutch just stood there for a moment, watching the door swing closed behind her.

"Why did you do that, man?" Vic asked as he approached. "You got the hots for her or something? You've never offered to help anyone like that."

"It's none of your fucking business," Dutch remarked coolly as he turned towards his desk.

"If it were me, I wouldn't be handing my business card to a girl who seems prone to violence."

Dutch turned to reply, but Vic had vanished down another hall into the Strike Team's room.

"You OK?" Claudette asked as he came into the main room of the station house. "That was quite a ruckus."

"Yeah," Dutch muttered as he sat heavily in his chair. "It was."

"You got too connected to the case," Claudette said. "What happened?"
"I felt bad for her," Dutch admitted. "Her brother had been lying to her, her youngest sister starved to death; her mother was hardly home, her father skipped out on them. The family crumbled and she has nothing left but that boy. Now she doesn't even have that." He hunched over his desk, looking for some paperwork to do.

"Did you like her?" Claudette pressed, sitting down at her desk.

Lifting his eyes, Dutch eyed for a moment, then returned to his task of finding some form to fill out. There was always a form to fill out or something to sign. Where the Hell was all his paper work?

It was his neglect to answer the question that answered it for Claudette. Dutch had liked this girl. He'd felt for her. And he'd caused her pain.

Chris stalked away, running her finger along the sides of buildings.

Her tears had dried, the blood that had rushed to her cheeks had returned to her heart. She walked down the street, strangely sobered, her mind blank.

"Hey baby!"

Her head swung around, her eyes catching the man who wolf-whistled at her.

"Come on in my car; see if you can handle a real man!"

Without replying, she turned her back on the car and the man hanging out the back window and making vulgar motions to his crotch.

She knew she wasn't necessarily pretty. Or hot - or really attractive at all. She had light brown hair, blue eyes, she was extremely pale. As far as she was concerned the only heritage that showed through in her was the European. She was little more than a skinny white girl...who had just gone ballistic on a detective that could have stepped on her like a bug.

Whatever...her looks weren't the reason men shouted at her when she walked through this particular portion of town. It was because here hookers ran rampant, and they often mistook her for one. If you were a female on this street at night, no matter how heavily clothed, you were fair game.

She arrived home to find an eviction notice on her front door. She tore it down and crumbled it, tossing it over her shoulder before letting herself into the crappy little one-room apartment she and her brother had once lived in.

Before he died, she thought, bitterly blaming that damned detective for the suicide.

But he was just doing his job, she thought, thinking back on the previous night. The previous night, when she had been treated to an elegant dinner that would have taken up two of her lousy paychecks.

Dutch, she thought as she wrote down a phone number on a napkin. She had a photographic memory. All she had to do was glance at the card and it was in her mind. She knew this, and that was why she had looked at the card.

At this point in her life she was weak and vulnerable. She knew she needed someone, and she knew that if that someone was going to be anyone, it might as well be him.

She really didn't hate him. She was just mad, upset, and she needed someone to blame. Right? Human nature, of course. But she was regretting the way she had treated him. He had been so kind to her from the moment they had met.

Lying down on the bed that folded out of her old, rat-eaten couch, Chris stared at the ceiling and sighed, thinking about last night.

She and Dutch had gone out on a "date." She had realized what her brother had done, and she knew it wasn't Dutch's fault. It was her brother's fault, no one else's. He liked her, she thought he was cute, and kind. He had bought her dinner, they had talked. He was recently divorced; she was younger and bitter. He was a detective who was commonly disliked among several cops at the station; she worked at a Dairy Mart in the slums.

They had gotten along so well. She had even developed a full-blown crush on him.

Then she heard what had happened, and all her anger, all her hatred focused on him. He had put her baby brother away; he had been responsible for his rape and suicide.

But he had only been doing his job.

Forcing every muscle in her body to relax, Chris ran her fingers over her eyes, trying to will herself to sleep. It had been a long year, and it seemed it was only going to get longer.