Murder One

By

Nora Lou Wilson

And

Rebecca S. Smithey

Note: This story is a follow-up to the episode "Parenthood" …What if the Reagans became suspects in a murder case? What if they had no solid alibis?

Frank Reagan carefully moved through his house, balancing a platter of sandwiches, a bowl and a large bag of chips.

"Pop, grab the napkins, willya?"

"I've got 'em here, Francis…and the paper plates…and the pickles…and the beer…" He smiled. "It's been a long time since we've done this…Saturday night poker…when will the boys get here?"

"Jamie should be here any minute, and since I told Danny to be here fifteen minutes earlier than that, he shouldn't be too far behind."

Henry scoffed. "That kid. I could never understand how he could consistently be fifteen minutes late."

There were sounds of the back door opening and then Jamie's voice drifted into the dining room. "Quit bustin' my chops, Danny."

"Don't worry, kid, I'll take it out on you in the card game tonight. Hey! Who's ready for some poker? He looked around. "How come we're not playin' in the kitchen?"

Jamie smiled at him. "So you'll have to walk further to get me a beer."

Frank watched his two sons come in. Jamie went immediately to the coat tree in the hall and hung up his jacket. Danny threw his on the kitchen table as he moved through the room. And that pretty much sums up my sons…Danny: loud, brash, messy and late, but one of the best husbands, fathers and detectives I've ever known…Jamie: quiet, calm, neat, considerate and one of the best police officers I've ever known. He'll also make one of the best husbands and definitely the best father of all of us…Sydney was smart. I'm just glad she left when she did instead of marrying him and then deciding she couldn't take it. The family didn't need to go through another divorce…Erin had been through enough…

Frank's thoughts naturally drifted to Nikki's big event that very night, and how badly her father had been treating her and her mother lately. He had better show her the time of her life tonight…Frank's thoughts were interrupted when his cell phone rang.

He fished it out of the pocket of his jeans. "Reagan."

Erin's voice was hushed but filled with anguish. "Dad? I am going to KILL him!"

"What's John done now?"

"I just called him to make sure he would be here soon. Nikki was getting anxious since he was supposed to pick her up half an hour ago. He was at a party; I could hear the noise in the background. But the …asshole…"she hissed the word, "lied and said he had to work. He told me to tell her 'next time for sure…' What am I going to do? I cannot break her heart like that, Dad, I just can't!"

"What time does the Father – Daughter Banquet start?"

"In forty – five minutes!

"I'll be there in fifteen."

"Dad?"

"I'll take her…Just let me get into my tux."

"Oh, Daddy…Thank you…I didn't…I couldn't…"

"I know, Sweetheart. I'll be there shortly. Don't tell her."

"I can't let you do this, Dad."

"Yes, you can and you will."

Frank hung up and turned to his father and sons who were unashamedly listening to his end of the conversation.

"What has that asshole done now?" Danny asked.

"John blew off the annual Father – Daughter Banquet at Nikki's school. He didn't even have the decency to tell Nikki himself, but dropped it into Erin's lap…I'm going to take his place, so I've gotta go get ready…sorry about the card game…"

"I'll call your detail; they can get you through traffic."

"Thanks, Pop."

"What can we do to help?" Jamie's face was a mask of concern.

"We can go find that asshole and beat the shit outta him!" was Danny's reply.

"That doesn't help, Danny," Pop said. "Although it does sound like he deserves it. We should at least have a little talk with him."

The voices of his father and sons followed Frank upstairs. He quickly got into his tuxedo, his best cuff links and patent leather shoes. While he dressed, his mind raced with thoughts of what he would like to do to John Boyle. That little piece of…garbage…had hurt his girls for the last time! My promise to God!

Frank was back down the stairs and out the door in record time, but still his detail was waiting for him at the curb, the engine of the glistening black SUV idling. He had long suspected that they camped out somewhere in the neighborhood, just hovering over him. This pretty much confirmed it. They raced through the night, lights and sirens going, and Frank was knocking on his daughter's door twenty minutes after her phone call.

"Where's my date?" He beamed as if he were not one of the angriest fathers on the planet right now. He looked around the room for Nikki. She stood in the arched doorway leading into the hall dressed in a shiny blue and silver dress that made her look way too grown up for Frank's taste. "Excuse me. I must have the wrong apartment. I was looking for my little granddaughter. Have you seen her, Miss?"

"Grandpa? What are you doing here?"

"Well, I heard that the Father – Daughter Banquet was tonight, and since I haven't gotten to go to one of those since your Mom graduated, I called and had your Dad locked up so I could take his place."

"Is Dad really locked up?"

"No, I just called him and talked him into letting me take you." At Nikki's look of doubt, Frank added, "It did take a bit of persuasion, but after a few threats he finally agreed. So, I get to be your lucky date."

Frank watched Nikki digest this…saw her realize what was really going on and then accept the cover-up he had come up with. With eyes even shinier than her dress, Nikki smiled up at her grandfather. She's gonna be the best cop this family ever produces…

"No, Grandpa," she said as she hugged him. "I'm the lucky one. I'll be with the handsomest man there!"

Dear god, I love this girl! Frank looked at Erin, who was bravely hiding her tears. John Boyle is a dead man!

"Nikki?" Erin held out a plastic box of flowers. "Your dad sent this earlier. He said he at least got to buy the corsage."

Nikki looked at her mother, and for an instant Frank thought the charade was going to crumble, but his girls were made of sterner stuff. At the very same time, Nikki and Erin raised their chins and smiled at each other, accepting the lies that made this night bearable.

After his son left the house, Henry Reagan took a seat at the dining room table across from his grandsons. Danny was red-faced and fidgety, ready to explode, but the anger he saw beginning to boil behind Jamie's eyes was disconcerting. Jamie was usually so calm and level-headed, but once he got angry…

Henry could see the betrayal in Jamie's eyes too. When John Boyle had appeared in all their lives, Jamie had been a wide-eyed kid, and John had been one of his "pals". John had been another older brother, but one that didn't look down on him, play tricks on him or "bust his chops". John had been charming, and Jamie had fallen for the façade. Later, when John had revealed his true colors, Jamie had been left with a sense of betrayal that he had never quite been able to shake off.

"So," Danny said. "We gonna go after the son-of-a-bitch or not?"

Jamie got to his feet at once. "Yeah, let's go!"

Henry rose to stop them. "Boys, as much as you would like to, you can't just drive around the city all night, trolling for John."

"You got a better idea?" Danny snapped.

"You're both gonna sit back down and let me clean your wallets out!" Henry motioned for them to sit. "We'll think of something while we play. Five Card Stud, Reagan style…" he began to deal the cards.

Henry, Danny and Jamie played a few hands of poker, but their hearts weren't really in it. Danny left first, after losing three hands in a row to Jamie's poorly executed bluffing. He had been unable to concentrate on his cards because the anger he'd felt about Boyle's latest stunt refused to go away.

He drove aimlessly through the streets of the city, wanting nothing more than to find the son-of-a-bitch and beat the living crap outta him. He couldn't say that he was actively "trolling" for any sign of his brother-in-law…not exactly…but he did not want to go home and dump his foul mood on Linda and the boys.

Jamie helped Pop clean up the mess they had made, then he left too. His anger was no less than Danny's but his was coupled with the pain of knowing how badly he'd misjudged John. He drove back across the Brooklyn Bridge and parked the newly repaired Chevelle on a side street near his apartment in Soho.

He made his way up to his very lonely apartment. With Sydney out of his life, he could barely afford the rent, and he was counting the weeks until the lease ran out. He turned the television on and watched a western based on a Louis L'Amour novel his father really liked. Half-way through the movie, he fell asleep on his couch.

Henry Reagan moved through the house, turning off the lights and closing the curtains. He left a kitchen light on for Francis and another small lamp lit in the living room.

He fought the urge to pull his old station wagon out of the garage and go find the weasel calling himself John Boyle. He'd never liked the man, but Erin had loved him whole-heartedly. John had seemed crazy about her – at first.

But Henry had been the first person in the family to catch a glimpse of John Boyle's other side. He had been to a meeting in the city on a Friday night. John and Erin had been married for only a few months, and as he stood on Broadway hailing a cab back to Brooklyn, Henry had seen John. He was leaving a bar a block away, his arm draped around the waist of a girl who looked no older than a senior in high school.

Henry had kept it to himself until John and Erin had arrived for Sunday dinner. At his first opportunity, Henry had taken John out to the back porch for a little one-on-one talk. At first, John had tried to deny that he had been where Henry had seen him, but it hadn't taken him long to crumple. He promised never to cheat on Erin again, but Henry never trusted the boy from then on. Now, years later, Henry wished he had used that one opportunity on the back porch to beat the crap out of the little punk.

On his way home, Frank Reagan had to admit that he had actually had a good time with Nikki at the Father-Daughter Banquet. The meal had been excellent – much better than he remembered from Erin's days at the same school. And to show her a good time, Frank had spent a good part of the evening dancing with her and her friends. He had pulled out every step he had learned in a ballroom dancing class he had taken with Mary years ago. After the banquet, he had taken Nikki out for dessert at Junior's. When he had walked her to her door, she had thrown her arms around his neck and kissed him on the cheek. "I had a great time, Grandpa!" she gushed, before running inside. The hurt look in her eyes from earlier in the evening was gone, and the smile he got from Erin at the door was destined to be one of the highlights of his life.

The detail dropped him at home and after changing into a pair of sweats and a t-shirt, he wandered around the darkened house for awhile. Pop was asleep, his deep snores filling his bedroom. He was glad he had been able to rescue the event for Nikki, but it rankled that he'd had to do it in the first place. Nikki was a beautiful, talented girl who was bound to set the world on fire someday. John is missing all of it…deliberately…That was unforgiveable.

Finally, his anger getting the best of him, Frank pocketed his house keys, strapped his weapon into an ankle holster on his leg and took off through the neighborhood on a run. He set himself a hard pace, trying to drive the anger out of his body by sheer exertion. He ran a route through Prospect Park, then turned and took a breather before heading back toward Rugby Road and home. Suddenly, he realized that he was standing outside the home John Boyle had inherited from his parents when they had been killed in a plane crash while John was still in high school. John and Erin had lived there for a while but then he had taken an apartment in mid-town after the divorce. John still owned the house, but rented it out from time to time.

Mary had always said that John yearned to have the kind of family life the Reagans had, and because of that they had tried to overlook many of John's failings. But not anymore…

John Boyle stepped out of a nightclub in Soho and draped one arm casually around the shoulders of a willowy blonde he'd met inside. This is shaping up to be a great night he thought. A helluva lot better than playing Daddy Dearest at that stuck-up school with my drama queen daughter.

He guided the girl toward the corner, intent on hailing a cab to his place. A shadow detached itself from the wall to his left and solidified into the figure of a man. John started to reach inside his coat for his cell to call the cops, sure that he and the girl – what was her name again? – were about to be mugged.

When the man came closer and passed beneath the glow of the streetlight, John took his hand out of his pocket and glared at the now familiar face. "What are you doing here?" he snapped.

"John – we need to have a little talk. It's about my niece…Our family is not happy with you."

John Boyle felt something strike him at the base of his skull. A blinding flash of light exploded behind his eyes and he fell to his knees. A booted foot kicked him in the chest, and he cried out in pain as he felt ribs shatter. He tasted the blood in his mouth, felt the throbbing in his head and gasped for air.

There was a pause, only long enough for John to wonder if that dumb blonde he was with was able to dial 911, and then he was hauled to his feet. One fist held tight to his shirt, keeping him erect, and the other fist began to beat him until blackness rushed in.

After receiving Communion, Frank Reagan turned away from the altar and started back down the aisle to rejoin his family. As he looked up, he saw J.T Hogan standing just inside the doors of St. Luke's, his expression dour. Hogan was the chief of his security detail, and his sudden appearance here would not mean anything good.

Frank stopped in the aisle just long enough to tap his father on the shoulder and whisper "be right back, Pop," then he made his way to stand next to Hogan. "I'm really sorry to disturb you here, Boss," he whispered, "but we've got a bad situation."

Frank took a deep breath and motioned to the doors. "Let's step outside," he said.

The two men stepped out into the bright sunshine. Hogan glanced around, making sure no one was within earshot. "A body was found about 2 a.m. in an alleyway behind a club in SoHo. He'd been beaten to death. Facial recognition was impossible due to trauma, but he still had his wallet and credit cards on him."

"So robbery wasn't the motive…" Frank said, but he was wondering why Hogan had brought this to him, and he waited for the other shoe to drop. "What are you not telling me yet?"

"The driver's license in his wallet identified him as your former son-in-law, John Boyle."

"Has this been confirmed?" Frank's voice sounded strained, even to his own ears. He looked back at the closed doors of the church where his daughter and granddaughter were sitting. He wasn't sure what he had been expecting, but it certainly wasn't this.

"His fingerprints were already in the system because of the bar association rules." Hogan was nodding his head. "I'm sorry, Boss. It's a match."

Frank nodded, wondering how he was going to break this kind of news to the family. Another thought was nagging at him as well. If the investigating officer were to ask if anyone had motive to hate John Boyle enough to wish him dead, then the Reagan family would all be suspects.

Dinner was a somber affair. Frank had waited until everyone got to the house before he told all of them about John's death. Erin had been stoic, but Nikki fell apart and hid in an upstairs bedroom. Erin took Nikki a cup of tea and sat with her until she cried herself into a fitful sleep. Frank knew she was crying mostly for the lost opportunities her father's death represented for her.

No one ate much, or felt like talking. Danny finally broke the silence only after Jack and Sean had escaped into the den to play video games. "Last night, I wanted to kill him myself," he said. "But I can't believe someone really did it!"

Frank nodded. "Any investigator worth his shield is going to take a hard look at all of us," he replied. "We had history with him. But I know this family. I know no one in this family could commit murder." He looked around the table. "I just hope we can prove it."

Later that night, Frank Reagan stood in an examination room at the Medical Examiner's office. John's body lay on a metal table in front of him, covered by a white sheet. Only his face – or what was left of it – was visible. Whoever had done this had beaten John's face until it was a bloody mass. It had been a vicious, personal beating.

He sighed; twenty-four hours ago he had considered beating the man himself. He looked across the table at the medical examiner who had performed the preliminary examination of the body.

Dr. Kaufman was one of the best members of the M.E.'s office, a woman who had chosen forensics over any number of specialities when she graduated from medical school. She had spent a decade working at the Body Farm in Tennesse, then moved to New York when she married a Columbia Law School professor. Frank had seen the two of them recently at a party in Gracie Mansion, where she had kept the party going with her wit and personality. But now, she was all business, going over her preliminary report with clinical efficiency.

He wasn't the only one listening. At the end of the table, a homicide detective from the 6th precinct was taking notes. His name was Ken Wells, and he had an impeccable file.

"I won't be absolutely certain until I finish the autopsy, but I do have some preliminary findings," Dr. Kaufman was saying. "Time of death is somewhere between 10 p.m. and 1 a.m. his assailant was right-handed, and over six feet tall."

Wells looked up. "How do you know that?"

"From the direction and depth of the wounds…he might have been on his knees at some point during the attack, as evidenced by some bruising on his legs. But for the most part, the killer was standing over Mr. Boyle while he beat him." She pointed to an area of depressions on Boyle's cheek. Even without a microscope, they could see a pattern of some object imprinted into the flesh and bone. "I thought at first that the imprint might have been from a set of brass knuckles, but now I am sure that it is from a heavy ring of some kind."

Out of the corner of his eye, Frank could see the detective's eyes drift toward the NYPD ring Frank wore on his right hand. He reached over with his left hand, pulled the ring off and handed it to Dr. Kaufman. "Here…eliminate this as the ring in question."

The doctor stared at him for a moment, then took the ring and stepped over to a stainless steel sink. Detective Wells followed, and watched as she sprayed the ring with luminol. The substance would reveal the presence of any blood spatter. While the detective watched the process, Frank stood over the body of his former son-in-law, his mind reeling with memories…