Disclaimer:The Sentinel and all its components belong to Pet Fly, Inc. I'm just borrowing them for non profit fun.
Notes, Timeline, Warnings, etc:Warning: Blair as a cop, if you consider that a bad thing. Post TSBBS. Some less than delicate language is used by our favorite anthropologist turned cop, but we forgive him, he had his reasons. Rated PG.
A Dangerous Job
By Mele
The alarm had barely had a chance to beep once before a large hand stilled its irritating sounds, as Detective James Ellison rolled over and sat up on the edge of his bed, rubbing the lingering traces of slumber from his face. Glaring at the inoffensive alarm clock the Sentinel stood up and made his unhurried way down the stairs, noting with no surprise that Sandburg had not yet returned.
It had been seven months since the debacle that had resulted when the grad student's mother sent Blair's thesis to a publisher for 'proof reading'. Seven months of the one time anthropology graduate student doggedly molding himself into an entirely new being; Blair J. Sandburg - police officer and soon-to-be detective. One more month of routine patrol duties, then Sandburg could take the test that would bump him up to detective. It wasn't as fast as Jim and Simon had wanted it to be, but it was still speedier than the usual officer could hope to accomplish that goal. Given the fact Sandburg had provided three years of free service to the department, all parties involved figured it was as fair a solution as they could come up with. His Blessed Protector, assisted by the core group in Major Crime and a surprising number of others the young man had befriended over the years, had quietly and efficiently short-circuited any building retribution against the one time observer. More than a few officers had put two and two together and had come up with the truth, and if any others were having problems with it…well…there were plenty of math lessons being given.
No one was looking forward to Blair's promotion more than Ellison, who had gone back to his previous partner-less status during the younger man's period of training and probation. Inspector Megan Connor could - and did - help out when needed, but Jim had found that if he limited the use of his senses while on duty, and allowed Blair to walk him through some refresher tests in the evenings, he could get by adequately alone. Captain Banks was less than thrilled with the situation, but understood Jim's reasoning and continued his support of his best detective.
This week Blair had pulled the night shift, which meant that he was usually stumbling in from his shift as Jim was breezing out the door to start his. So it didn't surprise Ellison to hear the familiar tread approaching the front door, and the older man glanced up as his roommate entered the loft.
"Hey, Chief, you're actually finished on time this mor…what the hell happened to you?" he asked anxiously, noticing Blair's heavily bandaged left hand and the gash decorated with butterfly bandages on the high forehead.
"Oh, crap, you would not believe the night I had," the younger man groaned, sinking into a dining room chair and gratefully accepting the cup of coffee Jim handed him.
"What happened? You have to break up a fight or something?" Ellison queried, sitting down opposite of his friend and looking him over. Wednesday nights were usually comparatively quiet shifts, but nothing was impossible. Now that the first shock of Sandburg's disheveled appearance had passed the Sentinel noticed the unpleasant smells emanating from his Guide. A faint but noxious combination of bird waste, fish, urine, and…Jim took another cautious whiff and wrinkled his nose in distaste…skunk. Plus Sandburg's normally pristine dark uniform was liberally splattered by what appeared to be mud, blood, and cat hair.
"Oh, God, I wish. No…this…this was so much worse. I'm telling you, man, after the last few hours I'd relish something easy like a psycho serial killer or homicidal mental patient. Anything but what I went through tonight," Blair sighed, laying his head down wearily on his folded arms.
"You're starting to worry me here, Junior; just what exactly happened? Or do I need to go to the precinct and read the reports?"
"Oh, damn…the precinct. When this gets out…I'll be ruined for sure. Would it be too much trouble for you to just shoot me now?" the rookie asked plaintively.
"I'm not doing that much paperwork for anyone, not even you, Sandburg, so you can just forget that idea. Now, what happened?" he asked less patiently than before.
"First it was the stupid cat in the tree," the former grad student moaned, looking up blearily at his future partner. "I mean, really, how cliché is that? A cat in a tree."
"This damage was all caused by a cat in a tree?" Ellison asked with a doubtful expression.
"Not hardly. That was just the start of the whole fiasco. I'm telling you, I don't need to check the almanac to tell it was a full moon last night," Blair explained, sitting back upright and sighing.
"Sandburg," the senior detective growled, glaring at his future partner.
"Okay, okay. We got a call around midnight, dispatch said there were reports of a Peeping Tom over near Argyle and Christine, you know, where all those retirees live in little matchbox houses. We were the closest unit, so we took the call, with me driving and Marc calling it in." Marc was Marcus Williams, a twenty-year veteran of the force, who'd been assigned as Sandburg's interim partner.
"I was trying to figure out what kind of Peeping Tom would be working in that neighborhood, considering the average age of the residents there is about seventy or so. Marc said it was probably one of the residents themselves who'd gotten confused or something. Anyway, we weren't really worried. So, we get to the address and start looking around, and out from between the buildings comes our suspect." Blair smiled a little ruefully at the memory.
"She was all of maybe four foot ten, I mean, she was barely tall enough to see inside a window without a ladder. She had wispy blue tinted hair that was kind of…well…sort of looked like Albert Einstein's. Her face was all greasy and shiny from some sort of cream, and she was wearing orange framed glasses. I gotta tell you, if I looked up and saw that looking in a window at me I'd be scared too. She came stomping on up to us in her yellow robe and pink fuzzy slippers and demanded that we arrest her neighbors for abducting Lover Boy. 'They took my Lover Boy, I know they did! They hate him!' she's shrieking at us while the neighbors in question come out on their porch to see what's going on. Seems they're the ones who called it in - the Yings are both retired school teachers in their eighties, but sharp as tacks, both of them. Tell you what, they seriously don't like being accused of crimes, though, cause they both leapt right into the fray adding their two cents worth about their crazy neighbor."
"So, there's our suspect, ranting on about her missing lover, and Marc is trying to get in a word edgewise while Mr. and Mrs. Ying are telling me that they are innocent of any wrongdoings. All the while, mind you, more and more of the locals are gathering around, kind of lining the two front yards. Finally Marc got the whole lot of them quieted down and asked our suspect, who, it turns out is a Ms. Meriweather, just how old this lover of hers is. She gets all testy about the questions and asked us what that mattered, and Marc was explaining how if he was especially elderly or ill they might need to bring in a search party. You should have seen the expression on her face. She kind of sputtered and said he was only five. So, I'm thinking it must be a grandkid or something, but Lover Boy is a pretty strange thing to call a grandkid, and then the Yings point out that she's looking for her lost cat."
"Named 'Lover Boy'," Jim interjected with raised eyebrows.
"Yeah. Kinda glad I don't live in that neighborhood when she calls that cat in, you know? Anyway, so this sets Ms. Meriweather off again, and she accused the Yings of having a feast on Cat Chow Mien…honest to God, that's what she said…at which point I had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing. They three of them are shouting accusations at each other again, Marc's trying to get Ms. Meriweather away from the Yings, who I'm trying to kind of herd to their own front porch and right in the middle of this another neighbor pipes up saying the damned cat is up in a tree. Well, that silenced everyone, who turned to this old guy like he was the voice of God or something. And he kind of stepped back a bit, probably thinking he was going to be attacked, but he had guts. He pointed to this huge tree on the curb and said he heard the cat up in it."
"Marc grabbed the searchlight and sure enough, there's this butt ugly black and white matted ball of fur staring down at all of us. And my partner, being the humanitarian that he is, promptly volunteered me for cat retrieval duty. Claimed it was a time-honored tradition, a rite of passage so to speak, that the rookie saves the imperiled feline. I pointed out that with three years under my belt I was no longer a rookie. He just shook his head. I pointed out I'm not fond of heights. He just pointed at the tree. I pointed out that I now carried a weapon, at which point he laughed outright, I might add. With nearly thirty people watching, I really couldn't appear cowardly could I?" he added plaintively when Jim snickered at the story.
"Of course not," the older man smirked, guessing where this tale was going.
"That's what I was afraid of. So I did it, I climbed the damn tree to rescue the damn cat. Just like the hero in many a child's storybook, the big brave policeman there to save the day. But someone forgot to clue Lover Boy in to how this was all supposed to work. I finally maneuvered close enough to touch him, all the while cooing at him about how he's a pretty boy and all that, just oozing calm affection, valiantly ignoring the malevolent evil in his glowing yellow eyes. So I oh-so-slowly, oh-so-carefully reach out and how does that furball from hell thank me? He wraps his four claw infested legs around my arm and sinks his teeth into the ball of my hand and actually pisses on me, that's how! Then he went dashing down me, down the tree, across the lawn and into Ms. Meriweather's house," Blair concluded in shocked outrage at the injustice he'd endured.
Jim tried to contain his laughter, forced himself to consider that his partner had been injured, but still…
"Oh, yuk it up, Jim. Glad I could amuse you," Blair groused, though his own eyes twinkled a bit as the ludicrousness of the situation hit him.
"Now I had to climb back down with only one good hand, which was not nearly as much fun as the climb up had been," he noted sarcastically, pleased when that idea sobered his friend.
"Geez, Chief, you're lucky you didn't fall…" He took a closer look at his roommate. "You didn't fall, did you?"
"No, Jim, I didn't fall. I managed to avoid that indignity, though just barely. And I did get a standing ovation from the audience, who stayed for the entire show, mind you. Well, except that one old lady who told me she was going to wash my mouth out with soap if I ever repeated what I said when Lover Boy attacked me. Then Ms. Meriweather threatened to lodge a complaint against me for upsetting her cat's delicate constitution, while Marc was wrapping my hand with gauze and complaining about how I smelled. Like I was happy about it? We had just gotten finished, barely pulled away from the curb, when another call came, this time to the city park, which is just a few blocks from there," Blair sighed.
"Another cat?" Ellison smirked, sipping his coffee.
"I wish. No, this one was at least obvious from the start. Seems one of the paper delivery people noticed a skunk in distress and called it in."
"A skunk in distress?"
"Yeah. It was really pretty sad, Jim. This poor animal had a soda cup stuck on its head. It must have really liked the flavor of whatever drink it was, because he'd managed to get his head through the plastic top, probably by widening the straw hole, but it couldn't get back out. And the cup stayed attached to the top. So there it was, stumbling around backwards blindly with this thirty two ounce cup where its head is supposed to be."
"Why didn't the person who spotted it stop and help?" Jim wondered.
"Marc asked dispatch that, and the reply was that the person didn't want to get sprayed by a skunk. Well, gee, like we did? Dispatch indicated they could try to get animal control, but generally skunks were outside their jurisdiction. Like they're inside ours? They were sports about it, though, said it was a handle at our own discretion situation. We were about to say the hell with it, Marc wanted to take me to the hospital to have my hand looked at anyway, but there was just something so…pathetic…about the poor thing. We couldn't just leave it to suffer like that, blind and terrified. So, after some discussion, we found one of the big trash barrels and removed the plastic liner full of trash. Then we snuck up on it - which wasn't exactly hard under the circumstances - and basically dropped the barrel upside down over it. See, we figured if it was contained in a small area it could knock the cup off of the lid, at least. And it worked. A few minutes later I tipped the barrel over to release it - immediately taking off in a dead run, of course - and its head was free. It was pissed as hell, and sprayed in my direction, but I was pretty well out of range. Might have gotten a little splattered on my lower legs or my shoes. Did I?" he asked his Sentinel.
"Yep. Oh, yeah. Definitely." Jim sneezed as if to prove his point.
"It can't be that bad, can it?" Blair wondered, looking down at himself. "Maybe a shower would be a good thing."
"I'd recommend it. But first finish this tale of wonder. So far I understand the bandaged hand and some of the smell, but not everything. What happened after the rescue of the cat and the skunk, Dr. Dolittle?"
"Ha-ha, Big Guy. I'm laughing here. Not." Blair took a deep breath, then continued. "After we were sure the skunk was okay and headed back toward the open fields, we started again for the hospital. Hadn't even gotten a block away when the radio came on again, and I swear, at that point I figured someone was just having on over on us, you know? Get this; the call is regarding a wounded duck in the middle of Foster Street down by Albert's Pond. You remember Albert's Pond, right Jim?"
"All too well," the Sentinel replied with a troubled frown. It had been over three years since David Lash's intrusion into their lives, but neither Jim nor Blair was ever likely to forget it.
"Yeah, me too. So I'm not exactly thrilled to be called out there to investigate a duck, of all things. But, wouldn't you know it, we were the closest unit, so we swung on by. Got to the location, where a canal crosses under the street and feeds the pond, but no duck, wounded or otherwise. I knew…just knew…we should just go on without bothering to look, but nooooo…we had to get out and check out the area, just in case. Marc took the far side of the road and I took the section between the road and the pond. You remember all those kind of half rotted decks and walkways and whatever that is all around that pond? It's still there, but hey, I was being careful, I wasn't going to go looking around underneath them, no way. But damn if I didn't hear something, so I shone my flashlight under this shell of what used to be a decorative walkway over the canal. The ground underneath slopes pretty steeply to the canal edge, but I thought I was far enough back."
"You weren't." Jim stated with a knowing look.
"I wasn't. I slipped, landed on my back and slid down the slope like a kid on a slide. Only it wasn't just damp grass and earth I was sliding in…oh, no…couldn't be anything easy like that. No, I had to do the slip and slide in duck dung."
Ellison lowered his head to his arms on the table, his shoulders clearly shaking as he pictured his hapless friend's tumble.
"Oh, yeah, real hilarious, Jim," Blair said with heavy irony. "I'm laying there thinking this night just can't get any worse when there's this kind of flurry of activity and something latches onto my ear. Damn near gave me a heart attack! I jumped up, or at least tried to, but I was underneath that bridge and managed to whack myself a good one in the head. However, whatever the hell had attacked my ear was displaced, so I basically scrabbled up the incline on my back, totally freaking out at this point. I got to the top and before I could even try to stand up something grabbed me and hauled me to my feet. I turned ready to draw my gun for the very first time to find Marc all but giving himself a stroke trying not to laugh," the young man continued, shaking his head at the muffled laughter coming from his roommate.
"It's not that funny you dickhead," Sandburg grumbled.
Jim made a mighty effort to bring himself under control again. "So that explains the head injury, right?" he asked with considerably more sobriety.
"Yeah. Typical head wound, it bled like crazy. But before I let Marc doctor that we both shone our lights down there to see what the hell had attacked me. My ear wasn't damaged at all, but still…" he sighed.
"What was it, Chief?"
Blair's reply was too muttered for even Sentinel hearing to decipher.
"What was that?"
"It was a duck, okay?" his Guide snapped, glaring at his roommate and daring him to so much as snicker.
"A duck? You were assaulted by a duck?" he asked incredulously.
"It was a female, probably had a nest or babies somewhere down there," Sandburg offered in explanation.
"I see. Yes, ducks can be dangerous that way. I'm sure you've seen the nature shows explaining how hazardous it is to get between a mother bear and her cubs. Or a mother duck and her ducklings. They post warnings in the paper every spring about that. Thank God it wasn't a goose, Chief. You might not have been able to fight it off," Ellison guffawed, finally giving vent to his humor once more.
"You are so not helping, man," Sandburg groused.
"Come on, admit it Sandburg, it's funny!"
"Hah, maybe to you it is, but you aren't the one who ended up trying to explain all this at the hospital at four in the morning."
Jim stood and took his empty coffee cup into the kitchen. "At least you lived to tell the tale."
"Oh, yeah, and in a few years…say fifty or so…I may even find it funny. But as much as you've enjoyed it, the night still wasn't over," Blair commented.
"There's more? Hold on, let me get another cup of coffee. You need a refill?"
"No thanks. I need to sleep pretty soon, and the antibiotics they gave me are raising hell with my stomach already."
"Antibiotics? Why were you given antibiotics?"
"Cat scratches and bites, Jim. Just a precaution. Besides, by the time I got to the hospital my injuries were anything but sanitary, as you can imagine."
"Ah."
"So, to continue this tale, after Marc got my bleeding stopped, we started yet again to the hospital, and you know what happened next. Another call. This time to the Cascade Seaview Aquarium, reports of lights and activity inside the closed facility. And of course, we had to be the only unit in the area. Naturally. So we swung on by, and sure enough it looks like most of the lights are on inside and we can see the shadows of people stalking about. We were about to call it in when the night watchman came out the front door, shining his flashlight on us."
"So what was going on?" Jim prompted him, glancing at his watch to check the time.
"Seems they had received a shipment of crabs and crawdads and the like. They were supposed to be all nice and comfy in their crate, where they would be left to settle down from being transported. But...apparently the lid wasn't on quite right and being the curious critters they are, the frigging things took a hike. All one thousand plus, mind you. So we walk into the building to see crabs of every conceivable size, shape and color scooting around - a veritable cornucopia of crabs - while a half dozen of the facility's directors chased them. It was like something out of a Mel Brooks movie, or a really bad 50's horror movie; Night of the Living Crustaceans."
Jim snickered at the image. "So, naturally, you had to stay to help, right?"
Blair sighed gustily. "It was literally a matter of life or death, Jim. They had been out of the water too long as it was. So, yeah, we helped. Basically the plan was just grab a crab and drop it in a tank. Whatever tank was handy. They'd sort it all out later. So there we all were, stalking crabs while the night watchman kept yelling and pointing out ones that were hiding. But he wouldn't touch them, no way. Still, it was working pretty good, even though the crabs didn't seem to appreciate our efforts. I was trying to reach one especially big one that had managed to wedge itself between two displays when it got to me first. It grabbed the flesh between my thumb and forefinger and pinched hard! I reacted on pure instinct, pulling my arm back and waving it, but that was like the Rambo of crabs, man. It held on and wouldn't let go. So there I am waving my arm about trying to get it loose and trying not to swear. Finally my flesh gave up the fight before the crab did and with nothing to hold on to anymore it went flying and damn if it didn't land neatly into one of the tanks. And the director dared to complain that I mishandled the thing! My god, I had a gaping hole in my hand dripping blood and he said I wasn't gentle enough? That did it for Marc, he grabbed my arm and hauled me out of there before either of us could say anything we might regret. He called us in as unavailable and used the sirens to get us to the hospital without further interruption."
"What was the damage, Chief?" Ellison queried.
"Ten stitches in my hand from the crab, antibiotics to fight infection from the cat bite, a very slight concussion from the impact with the bridge, and a tetanus shot for good measure," Blair supplied.
"Isn't being a cop fun? We warned you it's a dangerous job," Jim smirked, patting Blair's shoulder as he went by. "Get a shower, Stinky, and some sleep. You're not on duty tonight, right?"
"No, thank God."
"Good, so you can rest. I'll see you later," the Sentinel promised as he headed out the door.
True to his word, Blair took a long, hot shower, and hit the sheets, falling almost instantly asleep. He didn't stir until he heard Jim working in the kitchen, and the savory smells brought him wandering out.
"Hey, good, Chief. Just in time for dinner, go wash up," Ellison instructed him.
"Oh, man, what ever you're fixing smells good," the younger man commented as he hurried toward the bathroom. He returned to the table a couple of minutes later to find his roommate taking the covers off of several different dishes. "What are we having?"
"Well, Chief, we're having some Crawdad soup, Crab legs, Duck ala Orange, and Chicken Chow Mien. Sorry, couldn't find any Cat Chow Mien," the big man grinned.
Sandburg groaned even as he started to dish up a generous portion of each dish. "Thanks, man."
"What the hell, figured you could use some revenge," Jim grinned, pleased to see his friend chuckle at that.
"Indeed, I can," Sandburg agreed, digging into his crab legs with gusto. "Take that, Rambo!"
The End.
Author's notes: This tale was inspired by an item that appeared in our local newspaper in the "Crimewatch" column. It read, and I quote: "Report of a wounded duck in the No. 2 lane of Main Street near City Park. Officer unable to locate duck, gone on his arrival." Yes, my hometown is a regular Mecca for crime. G Anyway, I shared that tale with my friend in Germany, Dagmar, who then provided the story about the 1,000+ crabs escaping. Add in the story of the skunk, in which I was the newspaper delivery driver who spotted the poor creature, toss in a completely fictitious story of a cat in a tree, and mix with a hearty helping of literary embellishment, and I had a fic. g Hope it gave folks a smile at least. K 6/7/03