DISCLAIMER: Adam-12 is property of MarkVII/Universal and no copyright infringement is intended with the publication of this piece. Cover photo courtesy of wikimedia commons. The unedited version of this story with all the song lyrics intact is available over on WWOMB or AO3 under the same pen name of Bamboozlepig. ALL ORIGINAL CONTENT OF THIS STORY, INCLUDING MY OWN CREATED FANON, CHARACTERS OR OTHER SPECIFIC DETAILS UNIQUE TO MY WORK IS THE SOLE PROPERTY OF BAMBOOZLEPIG AND MAY NOT BE USED WITHOUT MY PERMISSION. *This story may contain graphic language or depictions of potentially upsetting situations, therefore reader discretion is advised.* For plot purposes, intentional liberties may be taken with the depiction of any real life protocols and creative license taken with the portrayals of canon elements, including characters. Feedback is always welcomed and thank you for reading!

Now then, I invite you to please pull up a chair and sit down, and dive right back into the Dark Side. After all, doesn't everyone have one?

Oh...but before you do? You might want to take just a moment and whisper...

A PRAYER FOR THE SOUL

CHAPTER ONE

"I need you to look up here at the numbers on my helmet," the paramedic in the blue coat tells me. "Don't look anywhere else, just focus on the numbers on my helmet."

I do as I'm told. "Los Angeles Fire Department, number 15," I say, as he shines a bright penlight into my eyes. "Did I pass?"

He clicks the penlight off, ignoring me. He holds up his index finger. "I want you to follow my finger with your eyes, without moving your head."

I follow his fingers with my eyes, from side to side, up and down. "Would you like me to cross them now?" I ask. "I can do that, too."

He ignores me again. "When you fell down the stairs, did you hit your head?"

"No, I managed to remove it, just in time," I tell him. "I try to keep this one from getting banged up, since I don't happen to have a spare head."

He quite obviously fails to appreciate my snarky humor. "Do you recall if you blacked out at any time?"

"No, I didn't black out."

"Who's the President of the United States?"

I roll my eyes. "Mickey freakin' Mouse."

He stares at me with a dour frown. "I asked you a question. Now I'd appreciate it if you'd answer it seriously. I'm not in the business to be playing games with you."

"Richard Nixon. And I'm not playing games, either, pal. I just want to go see how my…"

"What's today's date?"

"October 18, 1973. Look, can I…"

"What's your name?"

"Peter Joseph Malloy. Badge number 744, serial number 10743. Would you like to know my favorite foods, my favorite activities, and what I want to be when I grow up?"

"Can you tell me where you are right now?"

"I'm sitting in the back of an ambulance, answering a bunch of idiotic questions, while my partner is…"

"Could you take off your coat and roll up your left sleeve so I can take your blood pressure?"

I fidget uncomfortably on the hard bench seat in the back of the ambulance, ducking my head in an attempt to look out the tiny side window of the rig in order to see up to the house. The overhead light in the ambulance reflects off of the window glass, hampering my ability to see out. I squint, but to no avail. All I can see is the interior of the rig in the shiny mirror-like finish. "Is this really necessary?" I ask, looking at the paramedic. "I'd like to go see how my partner is doing."

The paramedic gives me a cool, impersonal gaze. "You claimed you were pushed down a flight of stairs, coming to rest on a cement floor, so I'd say yes, it's necessary."

I sigh heavily, slipping off my coat and unbuttoning my uniform sleeve. "I wasn't pushed," I say. "I was kicked in the stomach, which sent me falling backwards down the steps. And I don't think I'm injured, just banged up a bit." I push the sleeve up past my elbow.

"It won't hurt you to get checked over, just to be on the safe side," he tells me. The overhead light glints off of the lenses in his wire-rimmed glasses, making his eyes look like hard chips of ice. Quite fitting for his oh-so-lovely personality. He brusquely shoves my shirt sleeve even higher…evidently I didn't push it up far enough to his satisfaction. He wraps the blood pressure cuff around my left bicep and inflates the cuff, his ice-eyes on the little round gauge. "BP 130 over 50," he says, as the cuff deflates with a hiss. He grabs my wrist to check my pulse, looking at his watch in silence. "Pulse is 100. It's a bit rapid, but that's to be expected, considering what you've just been through."

"Gee, ya THINK?" I ask sarcastically. I start to stand up. "Now can I go? I'm worried about my partner, who's still in the house up there."

"Mr. Malloy, sit back down. We're not through yet. I need to check a few other things before I consider releasing you. I'm sure your partner is fine. He's being assessed by Paramedic Anderson. He's in good hands, don't worry." He nods towards the bench seat. "I said, sit back down."

Silently fuming, I sit back down. "How much longer is this going to take?"

"Could you unbutton your shirt so I can take a listen to your heart?" he asks, putting the earpieces to his stethoscope into his ears.

"Look, I'm fine, really," I protest vehemently.

"I'm sure you are, but I just need to check. We don't want you collapsing later on from a problem we could've caught now. It wouldn't look very good for the Los Angeles fire department's paramedic service."

"Oh, for god's sake," I grumble, tugging my tie up over my head and reluctantly unbuttoning my shirt. I slip the silver tie clasp into my pants pocket and stuff the tie into my coat pocket. "Here I am, sitting in the back-end of this damned ambulance, while my partner is…"

"SHHH!" he warns sharply, sliding the cool metal disc of the stethoscope over the cotton fabric of my t-shirt. "You need to be quiet!" He listens for a moment. "Now I want you to take a series of slow, deep breaths for me, in and out, so I can listen to your lungs, okay?"

Pinning him down with a thoroughly nasty glare, I comply. As I do, I think of how much I would really love to punch this cold bastard, right in his stony little face.

"Lung sounds are good," he says. "Could you lift up your shirt for me and show me where on your abdomen you were kicked?"

"What the hell do you want me to do? Strip?" I snap. "I keep telling you, I'm fine!"

He sighs, obviously getting irritated with his problem patient. "This will go a lot faster if you cooperate, Mr. Malloy. A blow to the abdomen can be quite serious. You might've sustained internal injuries, such as a ruptured spleen or a torn abdominal aorta."

I yank up my t-shirt. "There! See? I'm fine!"

"Could you lie down on the bench for me so that I can palpate your abdomen?"

"Are you KIDDING me?" I snarl. "I feel fine! How many times do I have to tell you that before it sinks into that little pea-brain of yours?"

"You don't need to insult me, Mr. Malloy. I would be remiss in my duties if I allowed you to just walk away, without thoroughly checking you over. I am bound by my profession to completely assess and treat any injuries you might have sustained. If I let you leave without doing that, and you should collapse or die later on, I could be held accountable. And I really don't want that on my spotless record. So I'd appreciate it if you'd just cooperate with me, Mr. Malloy," he says in a professional, detached tone. "Now lie down."

Thoroughly irked, I stand my ground. "Nope. I am NOT lying down. Not here, not there, not anywhere. Not in a box, not with a fox…"

He holds his hand up. "Fine. I get it. Play games all you want, Mr. Malloy. But you were ordered by your sergeant to get checked over, and I'm not letting you leave the back of this ambulance until that is done." He fixes me with an impassive gaze. He obviously is not going to back down.

So I try a different tact. After all, you catch more flies with honey than with vinegar. "Look…" I glance down at the silver rectangular nameplate that's pinned to his coat. "Brice. Please let me go into the house and check on my partner. He's hurt far worse than I am, and I'm really worried about him. Then I promise I'll come back out here and you can finish poking and prodding me until your little heart's content, alright?"

He folds his arms across his chest and gives me a stern look. "In the time you've been wasting, trying to avoid being examined, I could have checked you over already, and you'd be on your way up to see about your partner. Now lie down. This won't take long."

Gritting my teeth, I swing my legs up, lying down. I don't exactly fit very well on the hard bench seat, so I have to squirm around to try to cram myself into the tiny space. My leather gunbelt creaks as I shift about, trying to get at least halfway comfortable on the seat. "What the hell ever happened to the word 'please'?" I mutter, loud enough for him to hear.

"I don't believe in it," he says with clear, undisguised arrogance. "I refuse to beg my patients to comply with my orders. The sick and the injured should be willing to do what I ask without expecting pleasantries. I don't operate that way. I am here to do my job, not make friends." He presses in on my stomach. "Any tenderness, any pain when I press down anywhere?"

"No," I tell him. "But a bit of advice for you, Brice. I'd be changing my bedside manner fast, before a 'patient' decides to stick that penlight of yours right where the sun doesn't shine."

He looks down his nose at me, the overhead light flashing off of his glasses once more. "I don't recall asking you for your advice, Mr. Malloy, nor am I interested in seeking it. I'm the medical professional here. You're merely a police officer." He finishes pressing in on my stomach. "No sign of internal injuries. Now when you fell, did you hit your ribs?" He begins pressing in on my ribcage. "Do they hurt anywhere?"

"Maybe a…" I wince as he hits a tender spot, "…little. But I don't think they're broken or anything. Just bruised."

"I concur. But I feel you should leave that up to a doctor to decide. You need to have x-rays taken to rule out any broken ribs." He nods at me. "You may sit up now." He gestures to the cut on my cheek. "How'd you get that cut?"

I unwedge myself from the cramped area, glad to get my feet back on the floor of the ambulance. "The guy I was trying to cuff up got away from me and struck me in the face with the open edge of the handcuff. Now are we done here? I'd like to go see about my…"

He interrupts me. "That might need stitches. You need to go to the hospital and get it checked. You don't want infection to set in," he says. "Now, do you feel pain anywhere else…your legs, your back, your arms?" He holds his hands out to me. "Can you squeeze my hands with yours just as tight as you can, Mr. Malloy?"

Frustrated and angry, I've finally had enough of his officious impersonal manner. In the blink of an eye, I snap my right hand out, grabbing a tight fistful of his shirt collar. I yank him towards me, pleased to see his eyes bulge slightly as he tries to draw in a breath around his restricted airway. "Listen here, Brice," I growl, my voice low and menacing. "It's Officer Malloy, to you, you cocky little pissant! And if you don't let me go right now, so that I can go check on my partner, I swear to God, I will wrap that stethoscope of yours around your scrawny little neck and strangle you with it. Then you will SEE just how tight I can grip my hands!"

He eyes me coldly. "There's no need to threaten me, Officer Malloy. I'm merely doing my job, same as you," he rasps. "And I should tell you, I have a black belt in karate, plus I am trained in other forms of martial arts. I assure you, I am fully capable of defending myself."

I squeeze his collar just a little bit tighter, causing him to cough slightly. "Goody for you, Bruce Lee. I'm fully capable of defending myself, too, plus I have a gun and a nightstick to back me up when the other means fail. Wanna guess which one of us would win that fight, should you be so stupid as to pick one with me? Now, we're done here. Got it?" I push him away from me with a small, forceful shove.

He rubs his throat where his collar was tight. "I really can't let you go, Officer Malloy. It's not proper protocol."

"Screw proper protocol," I snap, grabbing up my coat. I hop out of the back-end of the ambulance, slipping the coat back on against the chilly night air. I don't look back as I hurry up to the house, but I can feel his eyes boring coldly into me as I walk away.

When I reach the cement steps, the screen door suddenly flies open, nearly smacking me in the face. I jump back, startled. "Hey, Brice!" a white-coated ambulance attendant yells. "Get in here! Anderson needs some help!" I start to enter the house, but the attendant stops me. "Stay out here!" he barks at me. Brice rushes past me, shoving me, almost knocking me down in his haste to get into the house. I quickly regain my footing and follow in his wake. There is a commotion going on inside.

"He's seizing!" the paramedic named Anderson says to Brice. "He's seizing!" he repeats into a phone receiver that's connected to a red metal box. He drops the receiver to the floor as Brice grabs a wooden tongue depressor from a black tackle box and tries to force it between the clenched teeth of the thrashing figure on the floor. He can't do it, the jaws are clenched too tight.

"Administer 10 milligrams of Valium, IV push!" a disembodied voice says from the other end of the receiver. Anderson grabs the receiver back up. "10 milligrams of Valium, IV push, 10-4!" he answers. "You got that?" he asks Brice.

Brice has already grabbed a glass bottle and a syringe from the tackle box. Popping the plastic cap off of the syringe, he pushes the needle down into the liquid inside. He reaches a certain amount, then he drops the bottle back into the box. Eyeing the liquid inside the syringe, he squirts a small amount of it out, then he plunges it into an IV port attached to a jittering arm. "Give it a few seconds," he tells Anderson.

Horrified, I stare in disbelief at the scene presented before me. My partner, Jim Reed, is flat on the floor, thrashing about as if he had electricity coursing through his body. His eyes are rolled completely back in his head. A heart monitor beeps frantically, as Jim's heart rate spikes with the seizure activity. He is hooked up to oxygen, the plastic tubing snaking across his pale face. They have cut away his uniform shirt and white t-shirt underneath. A large square bandage covers the bullet wound in his side, bright red blood starting to seep through the white gauze.

Sergeant MacDonald has caught sight of me. "C'mon, Pete, wait outside," he says to me. "You don't need to see this." He grabs me by the shoulders and tries to push me towards the door. I notice that his own eyes are wide with shock.

"NO!" I snap, shaking Mac's grip off of me like he were nothing more than a bug. "I'm not leaving Jim!" And seeing the look on my face, he wisely decides not to argue with me.

Reed's thrashing begins to lessen, and it soon stops. The heart monitor returns to a normal rhythm, beeping slower than it had been. He moans, tossing his head back and forth restlessly on the blue folded pillow of the paramedic's coat.

"Patient is now post-dictal," Anderson says with audible relief into the phone receiver and box contraption. "Rhythm on the monitor has returned to a normal sinus tach."

"10-4, Rescue 15. Transport patient as soon as possible and advise us of any changes. Grab another set of vitals once you get loaded up and give us your ETA when you get en route," the disembodied voice says.

"Rescue 15, 10-4. Transport and notify of any changes. We'll grab another set of vitals when we get in the ambulance, and we'll advise you then of our ETA." Anderson replaces the receiver into the red box. "Get the stretcher in here," he tells the ambulance attendants. They go to get the stretcher that is just outside the screen door.

"What in the hell just happened to him?" I ask, my voice shaking slightly. "Why did he have a seizure?"

Brice looks up at me, without any compassion at all in his eyes, and in that very instant, I know that I will hate that man forever. "Sometimes head injuries can cause seizures," he tells me coolly. "But as you can see, he's coming out of it now. There's nothing to worry about."

"THERE'S NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT!" I shout, my reserves of calm completely gone. "My partner was just thrashing around like he was being electrocuted, and you tell me THERE'S NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT!" Wild-eyed and extremely pissed, I start toward him. "I'll give you something to worry about, you jackass!" I draw my right fist back, preparing to knock the bastard out cold.

"Whoa, Pete, settle down!" Mac quickly lunges forward, catching my wrist and the back collar of my jacket in his hands, violently yanking me back in an attempt to bring me to my senses. "They're doing all that they can to help Jim right now! Don't try and stop them!" He pulls me even further back as the ambulance attendants enter with the stretcher. "C'mon. Let's get out of their way. Let them work."

"Wha'…wha' happen?" Reed mumbles from the floor.

"Just relax, Officer Reed, we're going to take good care of you," Anderson soothes in a soft voice. "You just had what we call a grand-mal seizure. We gave you some medicine to stop it. We're going to transport you to the hospital and have you checked out, just to make sure you don't have another one. Do you understand me?" He talks so gently to Jim that I immediately like him better than his impersonal, protocol-crazed partner.

"Yesh," Reed says. His eyelids flutter open, and he looks around him, his eyes hazy with shock and confusion. "Where Pete?" he mutters.

"I'm right here, Jim," I say, trying to keep the fear out of my voice, lest it upset him. Mac releases my wrist and my collar and I move into Reed's line of vision. "See, I'm right here." The two paramedics and the ambulance attendants start preparing Reed in order to move him onto the stretcher. Deftly, they shift IV bags and equipment around him.

"Don' feel good, Pete," he says as his eyes try to focus on me . "Head hurt." His tongue sounds thick, like he's downed several shots of whiskey.

I kneel down next to him. "I know it hurts. Stuart Walters tried to break your head for you with a statue. But your head's too damned hard to break, isn't it?" I try to force my face into a smile that I don't feel.

He nods slightly, a ghost of a smile passing thinly across his lips. He winces as Brice checks the bandage over his bullet wound. "Hey," he mumbles. "Tha' hurt."

I look at Anderson, who is still kneeling next to me. "Why is his speech so slurred?" I ask in a low tone.

Before he can answer, Brice pipes up. "It's common for people who are post-dictal to have slurred speech. It's an after-effect of the seizure. It's nothing to…" But he doesn't finish the rest of the sentence when he catches me glaring icicles at him. Instead, he busies himself with making sure the IV lines are taped up and secure. "Could you move aside so we can get the patient onto the stretcher?" he asks me.

"He's not just a patient, he's my partner," I tell him with a scowl, but I stand up, stepping back out of their way. On a one-two-three move, the four of them swiftly move Reed onto the stretcher without any trouble. A tan wool blanket is quickly pulled up over him and tucked in around him, as the heart monitor and oxygen tank is gently nestled in at his side. The IV bags are placed near his shoulders. The two attendants fasten the black straps, securing Reed to the stretcher, as the paramedics pick up the rest of their equipment.

"I'll get the door," Mac says, moving swiftly behind me. As he holds the screen door open, the attendants begin to wheel the stretcher out. One of the wheels catches on the doorstep, jarring Reed with a thump. He begins to shiver as the chilly night air hits him.

"Hey, watch it!" I bark. "Go easy with him!"

Reed is mumbling something unintelligible as they hurry the stretcher down the sidewalk and to the open doors of the ambulance. I rush to keep up, nearly treading on Anderson's heels. They stop the stretcher at the back of the rig as Brice hops inside ahead of it. Anderson begins to hand him up the equipment, the red box contraption and the black tackle box.

Instantly, I am up in arms, realizing what is going to happen. In a panic, I grab Anderson by his coat sleeve. "WHAT! No, hey, I don't want him riding in with Reed, I want you!"

"Officer Malloy, I assure you I am one of the best paramedics…" Brice begins.

I cut him off sharply. "You may be one of the best paramedics, Brice, but you sure as hell don't have any compassion for your patients. I don't want you riding in with my partner, I want Anderson to do it. Now get out of that ambulance before I climb in there and throw you out!"

Brice exchanges a look with his partner. "Very well. If you insist." He hops down out of the back of the ambulance and Anderson climbs in. They then begin to load up the stretcher containing Reed. He groans as the stretcher tilts and bumps slightly. Once Reed is situated, Anderson begins checking the equipment around him, hanging the two IV bags from a hook in the roof of the ambulance.

Brice turns to Sergeant MacDonald. "I feel that I must inform you that your man here," and he gestures rather derisively to me, "has displayed an attitude that is quite unbecoming of a police officer."

Mac turns to him, his arms folded across his chest. He eyeballs Brice with obvious distaste and contempt. "Is that so," he says in a cool tone that suggests he really doesn't give a damn what my attitude is right now.

"Yes. He threatened me with serious bodily harm while I was attempting to assess his injuries, and well, you can see how he is acting now. I suggest you write him up for it."

Mac stares at him for a moment in sheer disbelief. But it's only a moment, as he quickly regains his composure. "Look, pal, that injured officer in the back-end of that ambulance is not only his partner, but his friend, too, so might I suggest that YOU back off…before you have TWO of us to answer to." Mac's tone is politely threatening, and his eyes are flashing fire at Brice, who backs away in huffy annoyance.

Anderson has finished getting a new set of vitals from Reed and he picks up the receiver from the box contraption. "Central Receiving, this is Rescue 15. I have a new set of vitals to relay. Let me know when you're ready."

"Hey, what is that thing anyway?" I ask one of the ambulance attendants as I point to the phone and box..

"It's called a biophone," Brice says in a snotty tone. "Any idiot knows that." And upon receiving two withering glares from Mac and I, he looks away in a haughty manner, sticking his nose up in the air with a sniff.

"Pete…" Reed moans. "Where Pete?" He's evidently lost sight of me. He thrashes a bit on the cot. "I wan' Pete!" he demands.

I step up on the back bumper of the ambulance, my hand against the roof to support myself. "I'm right here, Jim," I tell him.

Blearily, he tries to focus on me. "Where?"

I touch his ankle. "Right here. I'm right here."

"Where 'm I goin'?" he says. "Don' wanna go."

"They're taking you to the hospital," I tell him soothingly. "You need to get checked out."

"NO!" he says. "Wanna go home! Wan' Jean!"

"You can't go home yet, Jim, you've been hurt, and the doctors at the hospital need to make sure everything's okay. And Jean will be at the hospital with you, don't worry."

Anderson has finished giving Reed's vitals to the hospital. He looks at me. "Is someone from the department going to follow us in?" he asks.

"Yeah," Mac says from behind me. "Brinkman!" he yells.

I glance over my shoulder to see Bob Brinkman run up. "Yeah, Sarge?" he asks.

"You and Walters follow the ambulance in to Central Receiving. I'll dispatch another unit to go pick up Jean Reed. Stay at the hospital with her until I get there. If there's any changes in Jim's condition, call the station and have them contact me immediately, okay?"

Brink nods. "Right." He hurries back over to where Jerry Walters stands next to their squad car. After a brief discussion, the two of them climb into the car. The squad car starts up, the engine grumbling to life, and Walters flips the red top lights on, preparing to follow the ambulance in code three to Central Receiving.

Reed thrashes a bit harder on the cot, struggling against the straps. "Pete, don' let 'em take me away…I don' wanna go…please don' let 'em take me…" He jerks his head violently back and forth. "Come wit' me, please, don' wanna be by myself…"

"Brinkman and Walters will be there with you, and I'll get there to the hospital just as soon as I can, okay, buddy?" Seeing the fear on his face really worries me. Jim Reed is not one to be afraid of much. I wonder to myself how much of his fear can be attributed to the head injury. "I have a few things here I need to get done, and then I'll be there with you as soon as possible, do you hear me, Junior?" Instinctively, I start to climb into the back to reassure him.

Mac grabs me by the back of the coat, tugging me down to the pavement. "You can't go with him, Pete, and you know that," he says with a shake of his head.

"Patient's becoming extremely agitated," Anderson says. "Let's roll." One of the ambulance attendants climbs in the back, while the other one runs around to the driver's side. The engine comes to life with a roar.

Reed lifts his head, his eyes frantically searching for me. He catches sight of me standing at the back. "Pete! Pete! NOOOOO!" he wails in pure anguish, the sound of his fear breaking my heart. Brice slams the rear doors of the rig, giving it two quick slaps, then he hurries over to the red fire rescue squad that's parked in front of the ambulance. The ambulance pulls away from the curb, its siren moaning low, and the rescue rig falls in behind it, followed by the squad car with Brinkman and Walters. I stand there on the side of the street, bleakly watching the procession of emergency vehicles as they speed off down the road, lights flashing and sirens screaming. I keep my eyes on them until the sirens have faded away and the lights have disappeared on the horizon. Hanging my head, I close my eyes, black desolation creeping softly into my soul. Dear God, can this night get any worse?

Dimly I am aware that Mac has left my side. He comes out of the ranch house, the screen door banging shut behind him. He has Reed's coat, hat, gunbelt and nightstick in his hands. He opens the passenger side door of his black-and-white station wagon and lays them gently on the front seat. He comes back over to me. "You okay, Pete?" he asks, concern evident in his voice.

"I wish I could've gone with Jim," I tell him. "He was…" All at once, my voice clogs up in my throat and I feel the hot sting of tears behind my eyelids. Quickly I duck my head, blinking my emotions away so Mac won't see them. After all, big tough cops aren't supposed to cry. I clear my throat. "He was scared, Mac. He didn't understand what was going on. He didn't want to be alone." I jerk my head in the direction of the ranch house. "Jim's been through hell tonight, Mac." I turn my gaze back to the pavement below my feet. "Sheer hell," I repeat in a hoarse whisper.

"He's in good hands, Pete. Don't you…"

I raise my head sharply, fixing Mac with a piercing glare. "Don't you dare tell me not to worry about him. You saw what kind of shape he was in," I tell him.

He puts a hand on my shoulder. "No, I know you. I can tell you not to worry about him, but I'd only be wasting my breath. So go ahead and worry about him all you want. But it never did any good, trust me."

"How do you know?" I ask.

He shakes his head. "How many times have I been in this situation with either you or Reed, or both of you at the same time? What did you think I was doing all the times I was pacing in the emergency room of the hospital? My taxes?"

"No." I can't bring myself to smile at Mac's attempt at humor. It just hurts too much right now.

"Believe me, Pete, I sometimes think the two of you are going to put grey hairs on my head faster than my kids will."

I don't answer him for a moment, my eyes staring down the road at the ambulance long since gone. "Jim's badge and shooting brass," I say quietly. "You didn't let them get lost in the shuffle, did you?"

Mac pats the breast pocket of his uniform shirt. "I've got them safe and sound, right here. I'll make sure he gets them back, along with the rest of his gear, just as soon as I can." He goes around to the driver's side of his wagon and climbs in, picking up the radio mike. "Dispatch, this is One-L-20, could you switch over to Tac 2?"

"This is Dispatch on Tac 2, One-L-20, go ahead."

"I need to have a unit go over to Officer Reed's residence and pick up his wife, Jean, and transport her to Central Receiving Hospital. Officers Brinkman and Walters will be there to sit with her. When the transport unit has delivered her to them, have the transport unit go back into service."

"Roger, One-L-20," comes the disembodied voice of the dispatcher. Then I hear her again, this time back on the main ops frequency as Mac flips the radio switch back. "One-Xray-14, what's your location?"

"This is One-Xray-14. We're at Hollywood and North Van Ness."

"Roger, One-Xray-14, could you contact dispatch as soon as possible for a call?"

"One-Xray-14, roger. We'll contact you as soon as we can." The dispatcher won't give Jim Reed's address or the reason for the call out over the air, in case someone should be listening to the traffic with a police scanner.

I try to remember who's working One-Xray-14 tonight. Jerry Woods and Dave Russo. That's good, because Jean knows both Woods and Russo. At least it won't be strangers that will pick her up to take her to the hospital.

Mac returns to my side. "Pete, did you really threaten that paramedic with serious bodily harm?"

I stuff my hands into my coat pockets. It's against regulations, but I don't care. "Yeah, I did," I admit. "I had to. His bedside manner was less than charming."

"And I'm sure yours was just as nice as pie, right?" He quirks his eyebrow up.

"Of course, Mac. What else would it be?" I give him my best innocent look.

Mac studies me for a moment, then he begins to smile. "I'm almost afraid to ask, Malloy, but my curiosity has gotten the better of me…just exactly what kind of serious bodily harm did you threaten him with?"

I feel the start of a smile ghosting about on my own face. "I…uh…threatened to strangle him with his own stethoscope."

Mac laughs, shaking his head. "You know it's not wise to make enemies of firefighters or paramedics, Pete. You never know when you'll need them."

I shrug. "Eh…so one little weenie on the Los Angeles Fire Department doesn't like me. It's no skin off my back." Mac and I walk back over to his wagon. I lean up against the left passenger side of Mac's car, tilting my head up to look at the stars that have appeared in the inky sky, now that the thunderstorm has moved off into the distance, its energy spent out over Los Angeles. Off to the east, faint flickers of lightning outline steep thunderheads, and only a muted growling grumble of thunder can be heard now and again. A crisp, clean tang is in the air, and I breathe it in deeply, drawing the air gratefully into my lungs, savoring the pure sweet taste of it. The rain has temporarily washed away the sins of the city, casting it newly reborn into the world. Too bad I can't be as lucky, I think bitterly to myself.

Ed Wells, who arrived on the scene shortly after I put out the call for officer needs assistance, ambles up nonchalantly. He is alone in an L-car tonight, his usual partner out sick. "What's so funny?" he asks, having heard Mac and I chuckling. "Reed didn't look like he was doing too good when the ambulance left with him." He stands in front of me, his gaze flicking back and forth between Mac and I.

"He's in good hands, Ed," Mac tells him. He goes around to the rear of the wagon and yanks the back gate open.

Ed turns to me. "What was wrong with him?" he asks.

"He has a head injury, along with a bullet wound to his side," I tell him in a short tone of voice. I have very little time for Ed Wells, especially right now at this point.

Ed lets out a low whistle, shaking his head. "That's too bad. Reed's a good kid." He looks at Mac. "You know, people can die from head injuries. They bleed inside their brains and the doctors can't stop it in time. They die without ever regaining conciousness."

"ED!" Mac barks at him in horror. "That's enough!"

Ed turns back to me, a smarmy grin plastered across his face. "Too bad you didn't go with him, Pete. After all, you two are always watching out for each other, right?" Ed says. His voice just drips with sarcasm.

I stare at him, my hands automatically clenching into fists inside my coat pockets. "I'm needed here," I tell him in a low tone. "Homicide's got to get here first and go over the scene with me. Then I have to go back to the station for the interview regarding the shooting. You should know that, Ed. Besides, watching out for each other is what good partners are supposed to do, in case you haven't forgotten."

He nods his head in an airy manner. "Oh yeah. But you know, you worry over that kid like he was your brother or something. Reed's been a cop now for, oh what, five years? Isn't it about time you let Junior off the leash?" Mimicking me, he stuffs his hands into his coat pockets. He glances at Mac with a smile. "Maybe Mac should've put him in with me tonight, then he wouldn't have gotten hurt. Seems like when the two of you work together, one of you always ends up getting injured."

"So?" I ask him, starting to do a slow burn on a fast match. "Getting injured is part of the job. We've all been there at one time or another. Need I remind you of the time Reed and I rescued your ass from that sniper who shot you on his front lawn because you stupidly ran right into his line of fire?"

Mac, who is still standing at the back of his wagon, writing something down in his report book, briefly glances up. "Ed, leave Pete alone," he tells him sharply.

Ed rocks back and forth on his heels, utterly confident and thoroughly delighted with himself. He tilts his head back, my height over him forcing him to look up at me. He hasn't noticed that my eyes have narrowed to slits as I regard him with barely disguised dismay and dislike. It's a warning he should well heed, but he foolishly doesn't. "Tsk tsk, Malloy, now that's all in the past. It's water under the ol' bridge." He shrugs. "Besides, I've learned my lesson. Now I do things by the book. And it seems to me that the book was one thing you and Reed threw out the window tonight in responding to this call. You should've called for back-up and waited before you two decided to enter that house. It's what I would've done."

Taking my hands out of my coat pockets, I shift my weight against Mac's car, my muscles tensing up inside of me. "Go away, Ed, right now," I growl through clenched teeth. "Go back to your own car. Leave me alone."

"Wells, I thought I put you working crowd control," Mac says, once again looking up in annoyance.

"There's no crowd to control," he says, waving his hands about. "See? No crowds, not even the media's here yet. Everyone's gone back inside for the night. It's too chilly to stand around out here. Besides, the excitement is all over for now."

"Then go work on your reports," Mac tells him. "In your car," he adds pointedly.

"I don't have any reports to write. I got them done earlier," Ed says. "While the medical personnel were dealing with Reed." He says this in the same type of pointed tone Mac just used.

"Go away, Ed, I'm warning you," I say, my voice now menacing.

He regards me with an arrogant sneer, the banty little rooster that he is. "If you think I'm afraid of you, Malloy, you've got another think coming. After all, you wouldn't dare do anything to me with the Sergeant standing right there." He nods his head towards Mac.

"Ed, I'm telling you for the last time, leave Pete alone," Mac says. "Or I'll turn my back and let him have at you."

Ed scoffs with disdain. He smirks up at me in anticipation of delivering his wicked final bon mot. "You know, Malloy, your partners must have big ol' bull's-eyes painted on them, since they seem to be in the habit of getting shot when they're paired up with you. First it was Howie Parker and now it's Jim Reed. What are you trying to do? Set the departmental record for most partners lost in the line of duty or some…ULP!"

Wells' sentence is cut-off in mid-utterance, as anger rockets through my blood like Fourth of July fireworks, and I reach out and grab him by the front of his coat, jerking him around and slamming him into the side of Mac's wagon, hard enough to make the car rock on its wheels. "Why don't you shut the hell up, Ed?" I snarl at him, my face inches from his. "You've tangled with me before, haven't you learned anything by now?" I give him another hearty shake, banging him up against the car again, and am pleased to see sheer terror on his face as his hands scrabble wildly at my wrists, trying to break my grasp on him. There is a roaring in my ears as blood pounds furiously in my veins. "I should kick the shit right out of you for saying that! You're nothing but a jackass, Wells!" I hiss venomously.

Instantly, Mac is at my side, his report book dropped to the ground. "Pete, let go of him, right now!" he orders, as he tries to free Wells. He tugs on my arms, while Wells pushes at me with a frightened whine as he dances furiously up and down in my grip. "Pete, let...go…" Mac yanks hard, struggling to gain any kind of a hold on me, trying to shove himself between Wells and I. "…right NOW!" With a heave, he manages to break my death-grasp, but not before I give Ed Wells another hefty shake, bouncing him merrily against the car one last time. As I stagger back under the force of Mac's weight, Wells takes full advantage of the situation, propelling himself off of the side of the car to land a nasty punch to my face, cutting open my bottom lip.

"You lousy bastard!" he shrieks at me. "How dare you do that to me?"

I lunge at him but am stopped by Mac. "Lemme at him, damn it!" I holler, seeing nothing but a pure red haze before my eyes. I manage to break free long enough to clip Ed soundly on the side of his face, my fist landing a very firm and very satisfying blow to his right cheekbone. Mac hauls me backwards once again, and I lose my balance in the rain-dampened grass, falling hard on my ass to the ground with a jolt that rattles my teeth.

"HA! You're not so smart now, are you, Malloy? " Ed shouts jubilantly, darting in front of me and pointing his finger at me as I sit somewhat stunned on the wet ground.

"ED, GET OUT OF HERE RIGHT NOW!" Mac yells at him, whipping around in fury. "Get back to your own car before I let Pete finish you off!" When Wells hesitates, Mac points to the L-car Wells is assigned to. "Ed, NOW! Or I'm going to write both of you up for fighting!"

As Wells backs away, rubbing the side of his quickly swelling face, he glares at me. "You shouldn't have done that, Malloy." Then he turns his glare on Mac. "And I would've won, too." Huffing in poor-loser defeat, he trudges back to his squad car, climbing in and giving the door a good slam, just to let us know he's still very mad.

Turning my head and spitting blood from my mouth, I run my tongue over my front teeth, checking to see if I've lost any. Fortunately, I haven't. Shaking my head, I mutter, "Damned Wells," under my breath as I try to calm myself down.

Mac stands over me, his arms across his chest, glaring at me. "I could write the two of you up for that little scuffle," he tells me angrily. "Maybe I should, if it would teach the two of you a lesson."

I eye him dully. "Go ahead and write me up, see if I care." I heave myself to my feet, brushing myself off. My gaze lands on a scowling Ed Wells and I glare at him with clear victory in my eyes. Thinks he would have won against me? Not likely. I shoot him the best sneer I can manage with a cut lip. I spit blood out once more.

Mac cocks his head at me, his eyes still narrowed in anger. "I'm really surprised at you, Pete, losing your cool like that. You oughta know better."

"Ed Wells rubs me wrong," I tell him in a clipped tone.

"Wells rubs a lot of people wrong, but not everyone has to take a sock at him."

"I didn't take a sock at him, I merely introduced his backside to your car. He was the one that hit me first."

"Still, both of you acted in a very unprofessional manner. Fighting with a fellow police officer is against regulations, you know. What if a citizen had seen you two going after each other like that? It's conduct unbecoming an officer."

I don't answer him. I walk away from him, going over to Adam-12. Suddenly feeling drained and weary, so very much older than my 36 years, I open the passenger side door and sit down in Reed's customary spot. Massaging my temples with my fingers, I try to come to terms with what I just did. I admit I am ashamed and embarrassed at the way I acted, especially since I pride myself on being professional. Mac was right, I should have kept my cool, no matter how much Wells was needling me. A little pissant like him isn't worth the trouble. Sighing, I press the pads of my thumbs to my eyelids, trying to ease the pounding headache that has sprung up behind my eyes. I have no luck, and the anvil chorus of demons continues to strike hell in my brain. I look at my watch, wishing that Homicide would hurry up and get here. Digging a handkerchief out of my pocket, I dab at the blood on my lip. I wish I had some water to rinse the taste of copper out of my mouth, but I don't. I take the wadded-up uniform tie out of my coat pocket and toss it on the dashboard of the car. I should really start on my report regarding the incident out here, but when I look at the black cover of the report book, I feel absolutely no desire to take pen in hand and start documenting the case. Instead, I lean my head back against the headrest and close my eyes, seeking solace in the momentary darkness behind my eyelids. I hear the engine of Wells' vehicle start up, and open my eyes long enough to see his car leaving the scene. As he passes Adam-12, Ed Wells gives me the meanest look he can muster. I shake my head with a derisive snort. Yeah, Ed, I'm really quivering in fear.

Mac crosses the front lawn with something in his hands. Bright yellow crime scene tape, the official announcement to the world that a crime has been committed at this address. He goes over to the chain link fence that divides the Walters' property from the property next door. Tying one end of the tape to the fence, he walks back across the front yard, the tape unspooling rapidly in his hands. I watch disinterestedly as he strings it across the whole front part of the house, effectively sealing it off for Homicide. When he reaches the carport over the driveway, he snaps the tape off and ties it to one of the carport support posts. He ties another piece of tape to the same post, then disappears briefly from my sight as he secures the open side of the carport that faces Mrs. Timmons' house. He reappears, ducking underneath the tape. "You could've helped me," he calls as he puts the tape away in his car. When I don't answer him, he comes over to me. "Didn't you hear me? You could've helped me, you know."

"But you did such a fabulous job yourself," I tell him dryly. "It looks very professional. You've elevated crime scene tape-stringing to an art."

Mac regards me for a moment. "You do realize that you're out of uniform, right? Regulations state that your shirt must be buttoned up and tucked into your pants, and you must wear your tie when you wear the class-C uniform. Plus, you look like you've gone dancing with a meat grinder. You should've let that paramedic clean that cut up for you. You're a disgrace to the LAPD uniform, Malloy." But his comment isn't barbed with cruelty, just a gentle rebuke.

"Mac, ask me if I really care about uniform regulations right now," I say wearily. "Tonight's the night I threw all protocol out the window. I decided to give the little blue book a break."

"What's gotten into you anyway, Pete?" he asks me. "Normally you're pretty level-headed. But tonight you're acting like a cranky child in need of a nap. First you snap at the paramedic, then you go after Ed Wells. I don't get it."

I shake my head. "It's nothing, Mac. I'm just tired, that's all," I white-lie to him. I look at my watch. "I've been out here for what seems like forever. I want to get the walk-through with Homicide done, then the shooting interview, so I can get to the hospital and check on Jim."

Mac looks up at a car that pulls in behind his wagon. "Homicide's here," he tells me. "Looks like your wish is granted."

"Took 'em long enough," I grumble. I get out of the squad car to see Sergeant Jerry Miller and his young partner, Sam Bingham approach.

"Jesus Malloy, I swear, you get uglier every time I see you," Jerry says to me by way of greeting.

"Jerry, I think you need to learn a new line, but that involves reading, and that would probably tax your poor little brain too much," I tell him.

"Seriously, what in the hell happened to you?" he asks.

I exchange a look with Mac. "I went dancing with a meat grinder."

Jerry rolls his eyes. "Sorry I asked." He nods to Mac. "We would've gotten here sooner, Mac, but we were tied up on a robbery/homicide over on Sepulveda. Liquor store owner got shot in a holdup, but he managed to get a round off at the kid who robbed him. Both were taken to the hospital. Liquor store owner was DOA, but the kid survived long enough for us to get his dying declaration. Took some time. It's been one helluva night for murder, that's for sure." He gestures to the house. "So what do we have here?"

"Quadruple homicide," I tell him. "The guy who committed the murders is lying dead down in the basement. I shot him."

Jerry sighs heavily and takes out his notebook. "Okay, Pete, from the top." He hesitates a second, looking around him. "Where's Reed? He out sick tonight?"

"No, the murderer tried to bust his head open with a statue," Mac tells him. "He also shot Reed with his own weapon. Jim's at Central Receiving right now."

Wincing, Jerry says, "Ooh, ouch. I'll have to wait then and get his version of the story when he can be interviewed." He points to me. "So for now, I'll just go with yours. Who lives in that house?"

"Lady by the name of Melissa Walters and her three young children, Natalie, Andrew and Matthew. Her soon-to-be ex-husband is the one lying dead in the basement. His name's Stuart Walters."

"What time did you get the call to come over here?"

"Around 11:40. Dispatch gave it to us as a welfare check. The neighbor lady was concerned about the Melissa Walters and her kids."

"What's the neighbor lady's name?"

"Mrs. Timmons. That's T-I-double M-O-N-S. I didn't get her first name."

"Okay, why was she concerned about Melissa Walters and her children?"

"She had heard a disturbance coming from the residence about 3 hours prior to calling us. She said she heard a lot of yelling and screaming, and the sound of stuff being broken. Then about 5 minutes before she called us, she spotted Stuart Walters leaving the house. She said he wasn't supposed to be there, Melissa Walters had an order of protection against him. She noticed that after he left, there were no lights on in the residence. She said there should've been. The little girl who lives there is afraid of thunderstorms, so her mother turns the porch light on to comfort her."

"She waited three hours before she decided to call us? Why?"

"I don't know, Jerry, you'd have to ask her."

"Did she attempt to make contact with the family on her own?"

I shake my head. "No, I don't think so. At the time all of this went down, that thunderstorm was pounding the hell out of the city, so I doubt she would've ventured over in the rain. It was only after seeing Stuart Walters leave that she decided to call the police. Apparently he was pretty violent towards Melissa Walters and the kids. According to her, he used to beat them."

Jerry nods. "Okay. Sam, why don't you go on over to Mrs. Timmons' house and start interviewing her. I'll go ahead and do the walk-through with Officer Malloy."

Sam is just young enough, just green enough, to be flabbergasted by Jerry's request. "Now?" he asks incredulously. "It's nearly 2:00 in the morning! She's bound to be asleep!"

"And that's why you knock on her door or ring the doorbell, my friend. So you can wake her up and begin the interview," Jerry tells him.

"But NOW?"

"Yes, now!" Jerry snaps, his patience worn thin. "In this business, kid, time has a funny way of blurring witnesses' memories. That's why it's important to interview them as soon as possible, while the memories are still fresh in their minds."

"Okay," Bingham says, shaking his head. "But if she gets mad at me, I'm telling her it was your idea, Jerry." He turns and walks up the sidewalk to Mrs. Timmons' house.

"Having fun breaking in Junior G-Man, there?" I ask Jerry somewhat snarkily.

He shakes his head with a disgusted sigh. "You know, I think he got his detective's badge out of a cereal box."

"Oh, well, I'm sure even Melvin Purvis got on J. Edgar Hoover's nerves every now and then," I tell him.

Mac clears his throat. "I think I'll take a quick swing over to Central Receiving, see how Reed's doing. I'll meet you back at the station, Pete. I'll be there for the shooting interview."

"Fine," I say. While Mac would usually be the one to accompany me into the station, especially since I shot and killed a man tonight, he is taking a bit of an extraordinary step to leave the scene to go check on Jim Reed. He's evidently as worried about Reed as I am.

"Don't let the interview start before I get there," he tells me. "I don't want you going through it alone."

"You ready to hit the house?" Jerry asks me.

I take in a deep breath, casting a wary eye towards the tidy little ranch house. "As ready as I'll ever be, I guess."