DISCLAIMER: Adam-12, Emergency!, and Dragnet are the property of MarkVII/Universal and no copyright infringement is intended with the publication of this work. Cover photo courtesy of MorgueFile. 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!

This story remains on hiatus until I can get back to it and make the revisions needed to bring it into line with my current plot. Please note that I do not give anyone permission to finish writing this story for me. Also, please understand that even if I am not able to finish it, I cannot remove it from this site for reasons I will not go into.

In order to understand this story, you must read the one preceding it, entitled "The Ordinary Day", as this story picks up immediately where the previous one ended. Now then, I won't divulge any more of the storyline. Instead, I invite you to read and find out what happens...

IN THE AFTERMATH OF HELL

CHAPTER ONE

"All units on Tac2 from One-L-20, the sniper has been neutralized. I repeat, the sniper has been neutralized. All units at this scene may stand down at this time, but please remain at your current posts and keep your radio traffic on Tac2 until further notice."

"Dispatch copies that, One-L-20. Time of stand down, 18:00 hours."

"One-L-20 from Air Ten?"

"Go ahead, Air Ten."

"Mac, if you don't need us for any further aerial assistance, we'd like to head back to base. We're running low on fuel."

"Yeah, that's fine, Air Ten, return to base. I'll dispatch a homicide team to meet you there, in order to get your statements. Thanks for all your help up here today. Your assistance was valuable."

"Roger that, Mac, always glad to be of service. Dispatch from Air Ten, we'll be headed back to the LAPD heliport, and we'll be out of service until further notice."

"Dispatch copies, Air Ten."

"Dispatch from One-L-20?"

"Go ahead, One-L-20."

"You need to contact the coroner's office, have them en route out here with body bags, identikits, and refrigerated trucks. Once Homicide is through processing the scene out here, the bodies will need to be removed as soon as possible. They'll need to bring out their photographic equipment in order to aid with identification."

"Copy that, One-L-20. They will need to know how many body bags to bring out to that location."

"Ah…say at least forty for now. It may be more, it may be less. We won't know until Homicide gets into the area and begins processing. We'll have a more accurate body count by then. We'll need someone from the Water Department en route out here. We've got a water main that's ruptured that will need to be shut off. Get ahold of the heads of Public Works and the Parks Department and advise them that they're looking at a rather large clean-up effort on both the streets and in the park area, once this scene is released. We don't need them out here now, but let them know that there's a lot of large piles of debris from the parking ramp in the street, plus damage within the park. Get in touch with the keyholders of the Granite Court building and parking ramp, the Office Furniture Warehouse, and the AutoZip Used Car Lot, and advise them that there is a considerable amount of damage done to their properties. They won't be allowed in until the scene is cleared, but reassure them that our officers will be standing guard over the premises overnight and in to tomorrow, to prevent looting. You might also see if the Red Cross can send their mobile canteen unit out here, in order to supply coffee and doughnuts for the personnel working on site. Advise all those responding out here to use the roadblock at Palmtree Drive and Morris Avenue in order to get through."

"Roger, One-L-20. Captain Moore is wanting to know how the sniper was neutralized, in order to pass that information along to the Chief of Police and the Mayor."

"Advise Captain Moore I'm not sure yet how the sniper was neutralized. The two SWAT team members have yet to return to the command post with that information. I'll let him know as soon as possible."

"Copy, One-L-20. Also, the Mayor and the Police Chief are wondering if it would be possible for them to come out to the scene for a survey of the area. They'd like to speak with some of the family members and survivors, if possible. And I believe they'd like to speak with the two SWAT team members who brought the sniper down."

"Uh…negative on that dispatch. Advise them that the scene has yet to be processed and is still very much an active crime scene. And I'd rather not have them speak with the relatives of the deceased in the park just yet, let the poor people get their heads wrapped around what's happened out here before we start allowing the officials to talk with them. And as far as the survivors, they're being sequestered until they can be fully interviewed by homicide. The two SWAT team members cannot be interviewed until they've been debriefed by the investigating detectives."

"Roger that, One-L-20. Be advised that Captain Moore will be on his way out there shortly, to speak with you and assess the scene, to see what further needs to be done. He will also be sitting in on the debriefing of the two SWAT team members."

"Copy that, dispatch. Advise Captain Moore that he needs to come to the roadblock at Palmtree and Morris to be allowed in."

"One-L-20 from One-Adam-43?"

"Go ahead, One-Adam-43, this is One-L-20."

"Mac, the mobile lighting trucks are here. Where do you want me to tell them to go?"

"Tell 'em to come on up to the logistics truck for now, I'll deploy them from there."

"Roger, Mac. There's four trucks in all, plus a support vehicle with extra gasoline for refueling the generators. I'll send them through."


"I suppose Mac is wanting us back at the command post," Jim Reed says, his voice weary and thick with fatigue. He still sits on the rooftop of the Granite Court building, back braced against the high edge of the brick parapet, his head resting against the wall, his eyes closed.

"Yeah," I reply, still staring up at the ever-darkening sky. I'm sitting next to him on the rooftop, watching the stars wink on overhead. An incredible lethargy has taken hold of me, and right now, it's an effort for me to even gather the energy to talk. I hear the whup-whup-whup of Air Ten banking in the distance, then the sound slowly fades off. They must be headed back to the helipad.

Reed draws in a breath and heaves it out in a sigh. "I really don't want to, you know," he says. "It's peaceful up here."

"I know it," I reply.

"I can hear myself think," he says.

"What are you thinking of?" I ask him, looking over at him.

"This," he says, holding his hands up for me to see. They're stained with dried blood; blood from the injured victims we pulled out of the park. "This," he says, pointing to the left sleeve of his coveralls, where the faint crust of dried blood and brain matter still adorn it, from the little girl whose head was blown off by Charlie Burnside, right as Jim was getting ready to load her into the Armadillo. "This," he says, making a sweeping gesture with both hands to the rooftop and the park below. "And this," he says, pointing to the naked ring finger on his left hand, where his silver wedding band usually sits.

"That's a lot for one person to be thinking about," I tell him. "You sure your brain can handle all that?"

He is quiet for a moment. "No," he says. "I'm not sure." He looks over at me. "Tell me, Pete, do you have any words of wisdom for me right now? Any answers from the font of Malloy wisdom to help me out in dealing with any of this?"

I shake my head. "No," I say. "None at all. I don't even have any words of wisdom for myself. In all my years of service on the police force, I've never had to deal with anything like this."

He falls quiet for a moment, then he speaks. "How'd you get the cut on your knee?" he asks, nodding to the gash on my right knee.

"Slipped on a chunk of concrete and came down on a piece of rebar," I tell him.

"Chasing after me," he fills in. "I'm sorry, Pete."

I shrug. "Don't be. Couldn't be helped."

"It was a stupid-assed thing of me to do, wasn't it?" he asks. "Coming up here on the rooftop to confront Charlie Burnside."

"It certainly wasn't one of your smarter moves, that's for sure," I tell him. "But at least you got Burnside. He's dead. He can't hurt anyone else."

"What about the ones he's already hurt? The witnesses and the survivors we pulled out of the park?" He rubs his forehead. "And us," he adds. "What about us? His actions today are rather far-reaching as the future goes. How do we put what we've seen today out of our minds? How do ones like John Gage and Roy DeSoto cope with this crap? Gage rode into battle with us during the rescues, he saw what we saw. The fire crew from Station 51 had to rescue their own captain from their crushed fire engine, and in the process, Mike Stoker got shot. How do we begin to make any sense out of what hell has occurred out here? Tell me that, Pete."

I shake my head. "I don't know," I say. "I honestly don't know, Jim. I guess we take it one day at a time." I slowly drag my weary body to my feet, picking up my rifle. I look out over the park in the twilight one last time, the bodies of the dead now just faint pale shapes in the dusk. A few security lights wink on in the park, joined by some of the streetlights on Granite Court that weren't damaged by either Burnside or the explosion of the parking ramp. The cars in the lot down below are covered in dust, and the bodies of the dead in the street are likewise covered. Glass from the shattered car windows glitter in the light of the street lamps, while the collapsed parking ramp looks like a giant has stepped on it, crushing it underfoot. Dust still drifts like a ghostly powder in the air, though it's not as thick as it was earlier. There's the popping sound of a gas-powered generator motor starting up, and it's soon joined by the sputtering of other motors. Then, without warning, four sets of huge mobile lights snap on, one right after the other, temporarily blinding me with their obscene brightness. "Jesus Christ," I say, wincing and turning away from the lights. I put my hand up to shield my eyes from them. "The mobile lighting trucks are here," I tell Reed. "In case you can't tell." Even the rooftop is bathed in light.

He stands up, too, blinking in the sudden brightness. "They've even got them lighting up the park like it's broad daylight," he says. "I thought they couldn't access the park from the other side, that the path in was too narrow."

I squint, trying to discern where the trucks are set up. "They've got one at the corner of the park, in the street, at Adamson and Chicory," I tell him. "It looks like they've pulled the other one right up to the maintenance entrance."

Reed studies the sniper's nest Burnside has laid out on the roof. He goes over to the dusty tripod and kneels down, trying to get a line of sight into the park. "Wonder what the bastard was thinking as he watched people die out here from his bullets?" he asks. He looks over at Burnside's discarded rifle lying nearby and mesmerized, he slowly starts to reach a hand out to pick it up.

"Jim!" I hiss in shock. "Don't touch that! SID will have to process it."

He jumps, jerking his hand back. "Sorry," he says. He stands back up, gazing around the rooftop. "He was in for the long haul, that's for sure," he says, gesturing to the collapsed homemade canopy that Burnside had evidently built for protection from the sun. A black footlocker is nearby, the lid propped open, boxes of ammunition nestled within, along with K-rations and three canteens, along with a couple of rolls of toilet paper. A red Coleman mini-cooler sits next to the footlocker, filled with grey water and floating chips of ice. Cans of soda float and bump in the disgusting water. A small transistor radio, along with a handheld police scanner are sitting next to the tripod. A thick layer of dust coats everything, except Burnside's rifle and the CC unit he was using to talk to and taunt us before Reed took him down.

"We almost died up here," Reed says softly. "Do you realize that, Pete? That if Air Ten hadn't of made that pass to distract Burnside, he would've killed us?"

"I'm trying not to think of that right now," I tell him. I start towards the rooftop fire escape door, pulling my flashlight out of my pocket and slinging the rifle over my shoulder. My feet are heavy beneath me, my footsteps slow and ponderous. "We'd better get down there, before Mac has our asses on a platter," I tell Reed over my shoulder.

"I think he's already going to have our asses on a platter," Jim says, following behind me. "After the stunt I pulled." He picks up his rifle, the one that jammed on him just when he confronted Burnside on the roof. "Lousy piece of crap," he mutters, turning it over in his hand. "I might as well have come up here on the rooftop with a squirt gun."

"SID will want to take a look at it," I tell him. "See why it jammed on you."

"I know it," he tells me, his voice somewhat irritated. "I'm not an idiot."

Wordlessly, I turn away, and begin to make my way down the fourth floor stairwell. My flashlight beam bounces brightly ahead of me, and a moment later, I hear Jim's footsteps squishing behind me, and his flashlight beam soon joins mine. The fire alarms are still shrieking at ear-shattering decibels, while the emergency lights still strobe frantically off and on. The sprinkler system continues to rain inside, and we have to watch our footing going down the steps, as the carpeting covering them is slick and soggy with flowing water. When I reach the bottom of the first flight of stairs, I stop, in shock. The water has now risen to the level of the second step up from the ground floor, and is rapidly encroaching upon the third step. Shining the flashlight down through the murky water, I carefully place my feet on the second step, feeling around with first one foot, then the other, to make sure that the steps are still there and haven't been washed out or weakened. When I reach the bottom step, I start to set my foot down, sure that I have solid ground underneath me, but I'm wrong. The carpeting that lines the steps has buckled from the water and pulled away from the stairs, and I slip, nearly falling into the murky water. I throw my hand out to catch myself on the railing and Reed grabs me by my collar, jerking me back, saving me from splashing into the water surging around the steps.

"You okay?" he yells over the din of the fire alarms.

"Yeah," I yell back. "Watch that last step!" I ease myself down and when I reach the floor, I stop, turning around and shining my light for Jim to see his way down. Once he's down on the ground level, the two of us wade carefully through the dirty, debris-laden water that nearly comes to the tops of our boots. The sprinklers hiss overhead, showering us with icy-cold water. Chilly fingers of it trickle down my back, and I shiver. We reach the skewed wooden double-entrance doors that are barely hanging on the door frame, the glass completely blown out of them, and step through them to the pavement outside, leaving behind the hell that is inside the Granite Court building. Water is gushing rapidly out over the bottoms of the doors, flowing out onto the sidewalk. I switch off my flashlight and run a hand through my soaked hair. With the four lighting trucks providing lighting, it's like we're walking down the street mid-day.

Beside me, Reed hesitates, his gaze locked on the broken body of Charlie Burnside, the sniper and the cause of all this destruction and death today. When Reed sent Burnside toppling over the side of the building, Burnside landed on a pile of rubble from the parking ramp he'd dynamited. His body is pierced in two places by sharp pieces of rebar that poke up through him, one in the groin and one in the throat, pinning him to the rubble like a grotesque butterfly in a museum. The dynamite is still strapped to his chest, while the revolver he'd had pointed at Reed's head has fallen out of his hand and winks metallically at us in the bright lights. His face is a ghastly death mask of horror, his mouth hanging open in a soundless scream, while his eyes stare sightlessly at the sky overhead, and blood seeps out of his body through areas of flesh pierced with shattered bone. It drips and puddles in the rubble below him.

"C'mon," I say, tugging gently on Reed's sleeve. "It's done and over with. The bastard is dead." He doesn't answer me, and I feel him shudder convulsively beside me. I tug on him once more, trying to get him to move. "It's not gonna do you any good to stand there and stare at him," I tell him. "Let's go."

He bats my hand away suddenly, then he abruptly shoves past me and begins to stride ahead. Whether he's upset with me or Charlie Burnside, I can't tell. He doesn't look back to see if I'm following him.

I lag behind, giving him his space. As I walk back towards the command post, I allow myself to take in the sights that the compressed urgency and violence of the earlier situation wouldn't let me see, forcing me to take on tunnel vision in order to do my job. My boots squish as I walk, as concrete dust grits under my tread, clinging thickly to my wet feet. I pass by Los Angeles County Fire Squad 51, where paramedics John Gage and Roy DeSoto took cover from the sniper's bullets on the passenger side of the truck. Bullet holes pucker the dusty red metal skin like kisses, the windshield is completely shot out, the light bar is a mess of red plastic shards, the tires on the driver's side are flattened. The driver's side mirror hangs by one metal rod, while some of the compartment doors hang slightly open, bullets popping the handles free from the body of the truck. Burnside's rental truck is completely buried under a pile of rubble, only a small portion of the tailgate visible. An unearthly silence sits over the area, broken only by the popping and farting of the generators powering the lights. By the time I reach the first mound of rubble I must crawl over to get back to the command post, Reed has already made it across, and is in the process of scaling the second pile. Moving gingerly, I watch my step carefully as I clamber over the slabs and chunks of broken concrete, my knee throbbing sharply from the gash on it, the act of climbing breaking it open once more, causing blood to ooze stickily down my leg.

The Armadillo, the armored SWAT rig we used to perform rescues in the park this afternoon, sits forlornly between the two piles of concrete, helplessly stuck until the debris surrounding it is removed. It looks like a creature trapped in the La Brea Tar Pits. As I pass it, I run my hand along the thick metal hull, my fingers feeling out little dings and dents it received when the ramp came crashing down. I pat it like a favored thoroughbred horse, for without it, we wouldn't have been able to rescue anyone in that park until we'd brought the sniper down. I cast a glance over at the ruined hulk of Engine 51, the bed of the fire engine badly crushed by a concrete support pillar from the ramp, the cab pierced in two by another chunk of concrete. Captain Stanley from Station 51 had been pinned inside and had to be rescued by his firefighters. They cut the roof supports at the driver's side doorframe in half, flopping the severed section of the roof up next to the concrete chunk, in order to bolster it. I glance down, and see thick droplets of blood in the dust around the fire engine and trailing over the nearby rubble, most likely from both Captain Stanley and his engineer, Mike Stoker. I reach the second pile of debris and pick my way across, choosing my footholds and handholds carefully. I notice that Jim has already made it across and is stopped at the base of the pile, evidently waiting for me.

"Took you long enough," he says when I reach him.

"Yeah, well, I'm not a mountain goat like you are," I tell him. I brush the dust off of my hands.

"You're also not as young," he says.

"Thanks for pointing that out to me," I reply. "As if I didn't already know." The two of us trudge on, passing the water spewing violently up from a ruptured water main. We avoid the small river of grey sludgey water that flows towards the gutters; why, I don't know. It's not like our boots aren't already so damned wet, our toes are swimming in them. When we reach the intersection of Palmtree Drive and Adamson Avenue, a huge roar suddenly goes up.

Jim frowns. "What the hell is that?" he asks, looking around.

I nod towards the spectators gathered at the roadblock two blocks away, on Mapletree Drive and Adamson Avenue. They stand behind thick wooden barricades, as news media trucks with tower masts loom behind them. Lighting for the news reporters' cameras give the crowd an unworldly glow, and flashbulbs pop as our pictures are snapped, albeit distantly, by news photographers. The crowd is surged and packed around the black and white squad car of Adam-11, Bob Brinkman and Dave Russo, and the sheriff's car of Deputy Vince Howard. "It's them," I say. "I think they're cheering for us."

"That's a switch," Reed replies dryly. "Usually they're cheering against us." He catches my sleeve, stopping me. "Hey Pete," he says, somewhat hesitantly. "I did do the right thing, didn't I?"

I look at him. "What do you mean?" I ask.

"In terms of Burnside. I did do the right thing in confronting him on the roof and bringing him down, didn't I?"

I study him a moment. "Why are you even questioning that?" I ask. "If you hadn't of gone after him like you did, we would've ended up waiting him out. And that would've been a waste of city resources. So yeah, as foolhardy as your actions were, you did the right thing. Burnside was stopped."

"I doubt Mac will see it the same way," he says dourly.

"Probably not," I tell him. "But whatever disciplinary actions you face for disobeying Mac's orders, I'll face, too. I disobeyed him in going after you."

He smiles dryly. "What a true friend you are, Pete."

"Nah, not a true friend," I reply. "I just didn't want to have to break in a new rookie at my age."

"Yeah, you ARE getting up there in years, Methuselah," he says. "You're getting old and set in your ways."

"Watch it, kid," I grump as I start towards the command post once more. "I'm still senior man in the car. And I can order you to do whatever I want, including writing all the reports out for the next six months."

"Aw, you wouldn't do that to me," he says, falling in next to me. "My hand would come off from all that writing."

"Try me," I tell him, quirking a corner of my mouth up in a slight grin.

The activity around the command post has slowed considerably, now that the situation is no longer a rescue operation, but an investigation and recovery operation. I notice that most of the ambulances and medical personnel has left the triage area, leaving behind a field of medical debris. Mike Hanson, the contractor for the Granite Court building, has also left the scene, likely headed to the station to give his statement regarding Charlie Burnside's work history on the Granite Court site. Mac is waiting for us at the command post when we arrive, his face set stonily as he regards us with clearly undisguised anger. "What in the hell took you two so long to get down here?" he asks.

"We were enjoying the view," Reed quips. His humor quickly fades as Mac fixes him with a thundercloud glower.

"Captain Moore awaiting the report on how the sniper was brought down," Mac snaps. "So he can pass it along to the Mayor and the Chief of Police."

"I pushed him over the side of the building," Reed says quite simply. "I took the distraction offered by Air Ten and shoved him over, after yanking the detonator out of his hand for the bomb he had strapped around his chest. It disabled it, since nothing exploded after he fell."

Mac stares at him for a moment as he digests what Reed has told him. "Well, that would explain why I didn't hear a kill shot being fired," he says. "So Charlie Burnside is officially dead?"

"He's dead," I tell him. "He's lying on top of a pile of rubble, with pieces of rebar sticking up through him. He's not a pretty sight."

Mac picks up the radio mike. "Dispatch from One-L-20, inform Captain Moore that the sniper was pushed over the side of the building and fell to his death. That was how he was neutralized."

"Dispatch copies, One-L-20," she replies.

"You two realize you're in serious trouble, don't you?" he asks, a muscle jumping angrily in his jaw. "For disobeying my direct orders?"

"We do," I say. "And we're prepared to face the consequences due to our disobeying orders. We'll accept whatever disciplinary action is meted out to us."

"Mac, if I hadn't of gone in after him like I did, he'd still be up on the roof of the building," Reed says defensively. "We'd be forced to wait him out. And that would've taken time and resources we don't necessarily have."

"It would've been better for us to wait him out," Mac snaps. "Than have the two of you get killed by that madman, just because you wanted to play hero, Reed."

"I didn't want to play hero," Reed says, his voice rising. "I was only sick of seeing what he'd done today, and I decided to put an end to it!"

"And you not only risked your life, but the life of your partner!" Mac tells him. "And if Burnside was correct in his threat that he had other buildings around here rigged to blow, you could've prompted him into setting those bombs off, killing more innocent people!"

"But I got the goddamned job done!" Reed snaps. "That's something, isn't it?"

"Hey, what's the status of our residences?" I ask, trying to defuse what looks to be a rapidly developing explosive situation right here. "Have the bomb squads cleared them yet?"

Mac turns to me, still angry. "They have," he tells me. "All of our residences are safe. I even had them check out Judy's house, just to be on the safe side. Burnside didn't have anything planted there at any of our homes. We'll get the bomb squads to check out buildings in the area, but my hunch is Burnside was blowing smoke up our asses as far as having other structures set to explode." Mac turns back to Reed. "How in the hell did Burnside manage to get the drop on you in the first place, Reed? You had the kill order to shoot him on sight. What went so wrong up there on that rooftop, that you nearly got the two of you killed?"

"My rifle jammed," Reed says, his eyes snapping fire. "That's how he got the drop on me."

Mac looks at me with narrowed eyes. "And you, what the hell was wrong with you, Malloy, that you didn't shoot at him?"

"He had Reed kneeling in front of him," I tell Mac, a bit of anger seeping into my own voice. "I wasn't about to shoot through my partner. And Burnside held the detonating device for his personal bomb in his hand. I wasn't about to risk firing at him anyway, and having his thumb twitch on the button, blowing us all to kingdom come."

"The bottom line is, Mac, you weren't up on that rooftop with us, nor were you down below running rescues before we even got Burnside," Jim tells him heatedly. "You were back here in the safety of the perimeter, watching from the sidelines. You have no idea what kind of hell it was out there. And until you do, don't you dare to pass judgement on us for what we did."

The muscle in Mac's jaw is really twitching now. "What you two did was foolish, going after Burnside like you did. The both of you disobeyed my direct orders not to enter that building, and you chose to flagrantly disregard them. This matter will be brought up before a disciplinary board, and they will be the ones to determine your punishments."

"Fine," Reed sighs. "We get that."

"Do you?" Mac asks sharply. "Do you get that, Reed? Because I don't think you do, not at all. Your actions are ones I'd expect from a first-year rookie, not a man with seven years on the force." He flicks a glance over at me. "Nor one with fourteen years, Malloy. What in the hell were you two thinking?"

"We weren't…" Reed begins.

"That's right, you weren't thinking," Mac says, cutting him off. The two of them glare angrily at one another.

"Look, is there still anyone left over at the triage area?" I ask, changing the subject. "I slipped and cut my knee on a piece of rebar. I'd like to get it checked out, if I could."

Mac looks at me. "Dr. Brackett and one of the nurses is still over there," he says. "But you'd better get a move on, they're packing up to leave soon."

"Great," I say, grabbing Reed's coverall sleeve. "C'mon, let's go see if we can get some of this dirt washed off of our hands."

Reed balks a minute, then he shoves his hands under Mac's nose, the palms up. "Do you see that, Mac?" he asks sharply. "That's blood from the victims we were pulling out of there." He points to the blood and brains still on his coveralls. "See that? That's from a little girl whose head Burnside blew off, just as I was getting ready to put her into the back of the Armadillo. Both Pete and I have blood on our hands, on our clothes, on our souls…innocent blood. And not all of those people we could save, either. How many of them will die at the area hospitals, because their wounds were too severe or we didn't get to them in time?" He pokes a finger at Mac. "If you had been in that hell, if you were wearing the brains of a little girl on your clothes, then you might understand why I did what I did."

Mac starts to reply, then he closes his mouth with a snap. "We'll deal with this later," he says. "Get over to triage and get checked out, then you need to go over to where the homicide dicks are conducting the debriefing interviews, and get with them to do the walk-through and the interview."

I nod, tugging harder on Reed's sleeve. "C'mon," I say. "Let's go to triage, make sure I'm not gonna get lockjaw from this cut on my knee."

Shooting Mac one last glare, Reed reluctantly turns and follows me. "The way he acts, you'd think I committed a crime, going after Burnside the way I did," he grumbles.

"You have to see it from his point," I say. "Not that it's an easy thing to do right now. He almost lost two of his best officers on that rooftop. And if Burnside was telling the truth and has other buildings rigged to blow, we risked the lives of innocent people."

"I knew you'd take Mac's side, Pete," Reed says somewhat bitterly.

"Hey now, I'm not taking anyone's side," I say, a bit sharply. "I'm just saying, there's two different points of view."

"Yeah, I guess," he says dully. "You're in luck. Dr. Brackett and Dixie haven't left triage yet."

Dr. Brackett and nurse Dixie McCall are helping to pack supplies into the back-end of a waiting ambulance. They look up as we approach. "Pete, Jim, what can I do for you?" Dr. Brackett asks. "Are you starting to have problems from your bruise, Pete?"

I shake my head, my hand straying automatically to the spot over my heart where one of Burnside's bullets went through a female victim and into my bulletproof vest. The Kevlar stopped the slug, for which I'm forever grateful. "No," I say. "I slipped on a piece of rebar and cut my knee pretty good."

"Let me have a look," he says. "Have a seat on the back-end of the rig."

I sit down on the edge of the ambulance, propping my right foot up on the bumper so he can look at my knee. "How's Captain Stanley and Mike Stoker doing?" I ask.

Brackett inspects the cut carefully. "They were both stable when they were taken away by ambulance to Rampart. Captain Stanley looks to have a broken shoulder and possibly some upper torso and back injuries, while Mike Stoker has a bullet wound in his left shoulder. We flew Stanley out in one of the medevac choppers, while Stoker went in by ground."

"Did their crew go in with them?" Reed asks.

"Hand me that bottle of sterile water, Dix," Brackett tells Dixie. "I need to wash this cut out before I can get an idea of how bad it is."

Dixie hands him the sterile water, twisting the cap off. "It's gonna sting a bit, Pete," she warns me, then she looks at Reed in order to answer his question. "Roy went in with Captain Stanley on the medevac chopper, while Johnny and Chet Kelly rode in with Stoker. Marco Lopez caught a ride to the hospital with Brice and Bellingham."

I draw in a hiss of breath as the water hits the cut on my knee, making it sting and burn rather sharply. "Damn, you weren't kidding," I mutter through clenched teeth.

Dixie laughs. "Would you like me to get you a bullet to bite on, Pete?" she teases affectionately.

"Thanks, but no. I've had enough of bullets for today," I tell her. I give her a long-suffering smile. "But I'm sure I'd feel a lot better if you'd maybe hold my hand," I tease back. Dixie and I go back a long ways, even before I ever had Jim Reed as my patrol partner. Dix and I had dated for a while, but found out that two stubborn and strong-willed people like us were often at odds in the romance department, butting heads over the silliest things. We decided that our relationship worked better on a friendship basis, and that's the way it's been ever since. And I wouldn't change it for the world, either. "Or maybe you could kiss it for me and make it all better."

"You know, I should tell Judy you're flirting with another woman," Jim tells me.

"No one likes a tattletale, Reed," I warn jokingly.

"I don't think it will need stitches," Brackett tells me, putting a white gauze bandage slathered with antibiotic ointment over it. He takes the tape Dixie hands him and tears off a couple of strips, securing the bandage to my knee. "But you'll need to stop by the hospital the first chance you get, let one of us take a look at it. Are you up-to-date on your tetanus shot?" he asks.

"Yeah, I am," I tell him, wincing a bit as the antibiotic ointment stings the cut.

Reed gestures to the portable klieg lights that dot the vacant lot, providing more lighting than offered by the street lights and security lights.. "When did they bring these out?" he asks.

"They were brought out before it started getting dark," Brackett tells us. "Once operations are done here in the lot, I imagine they'll be using them where they need them in the scene over there."

Jim points to the small crowd of about thirty or so people standing gathered around a uniformed officer with his back to us. He is speaking to them, and they listen to him intently. "What's going on there?" he asks. "Is that where they've taken the survivors to be debriefed?"

Dixie looks around the side of the ambulance to where Jim is pointing. "No," she says gently. "Those are relatives of the victims still in the park," she says. They stare at the uniformed officer with a variety of expressions on their faces. Some look sad and weary, some look stunned and shocked, while others have the look of resignation and acceptance that their loved ones aren't coming out of the park alive. A few still have hope etched across their faces, and that's the most heartbreaking of all to see.

Jim's eyes meet mine, a glint of anguish in them. "Oh," he says, looking away. "Where's the survivors?"

"I believe they've been taken out of here on a bus," Dixie tells him. "To the police station for interviews. Sergeant MacDonald felt it would be easier on them if they were removed from the scene. It would be less traumatic."

"What about the relatives of the deceased?" Reed asks irritably. "Don't they deserve the same kind of treatment?"

Dixie's eyes widen a bit at his sharp tone. "Easy, Jim," she says soothingly. "They are going to be taken out of here just as soon as possible. They're in the process of trying to find someplace for them to go to, a nearby church maybe, in order for them to be made comfortable while waiting word about the people in the park. Your police chaplain is with them, and he has been ever since Sergeant MacDonald called him out here to assist, a couple of hours after word of the shootings got out, and you guys started pulling people out of the park."

"Sorry," Jim mutters, studying his hands. "I didn't mean to sound snappish, Dixie." He rubs his palms together, as if trying to rid them of the bloodstains.

Brackett pats me on the shoulder. "You're good to go, Pete. But make sure you get to the hospital and get that cut checked out more thoroughly, got it? You don't want infection to set in on it."

"Got it," I say, standing up. "Hey, I don't suppose you guys have something to wash our hands off with, do you?" I ask. "We got pretty dirty during rescue operations."

"I do," Dr. Brackett tells me, and he climbs into the back of the ambulance for a moment, returning with a couple of bottles of sterile water and some towels. "This should do the trick," he says, hopping down. He gives a bottle to Dixie, and as she slowly pours that bottle over my hands, he pours the other over Reed's.

Scrubbing at the bloodstains embedded in my handprints, I'm relieved to see that most of it washes away. Now if it would only do the same for the ones on our souls, I think, glancing over at Reed. "Thanks," I say, as Dixie pours the last of the sterile water over my palms. I take the towel she offers me, drying my hands. "We've got to get going. We still need to be interviewed by homicide," I tell her. "If you guys see any of the Station 51 crew at Rampart, tell 'em that we'll be down to see how Captain Stanley and Mike Stoker are doing as soon as we get the chance." I hesitate. "And thanks for all the help you guys have given out here today," I say. "It's greatly appreciated."

"No thanks necessary," Dixie tells us. "We were just doing our jobs, like you two were."

"Still, though," I say. "Getting a triage area set up so quickly couldn't have been very easy. And then, some of the badly injured that we brought in, it couldn't have been too easy to deal with that, either."

Reed hands Dr. Brackett the towel he was using to dry his hands. "How do you deal with what you've seen out here?" he asks.

"We're trained to handle crisis situations like this, just like you are," Dr. Brackett tells him. "Once the adrenaline hits, your brain kicks into automatic, and you know what you need to do in order to help people."

"No, that's not what I meant," Reed says. "I mean, how do you come to terms with what's happened out here? All the carnage, all the horror, brought on by just one man? How do you cope with it all?"

Brackett is quiet a moment, studying Reed. "People handle what they've seen in cases like this differently," he says. "Some people feel that talking about it helps ease the stress, while others seek different avenues. Some take to drinking or popping pills, while others hide it away, ashamed to reveal their feelings. It's not a good idea to let it fester inside of you, Jim. If you feel the need to talk, I'm always a willing listener. Or if you don't want to talk to me, I'm sure…"

Jim holds his hand up, abruptly cutting Dr. Brackett off. "Never mind," he says sharply. "Forget I asked." He jerks his head at me. "C'mon, Pete, let's go find the detectives who are supposed to interview us." And with that, he strides off across the grassy area that is strewn with medical litter from the triage area.

"I'm sorry," I say with an apologetic shrug. "It's been a really rough day and he's not in the best frame of mind right now." I hurry then, and catch up with him. "That wasn't very nice," I chide. "Brackett was only trying to help, you know."

"I don't need help," he replies. "Not from him, not from anyone. Not even from you, Pete." His tone does not invite any further discussion, and I let the matter drop for now.

As we pass by the area where the relatives of the deceased are waiting, a tiny blonde woman in a peasant skirt and blouse steps out of the crowd and approaches us. I recognize her as the same woman that drove around the barricades early on after the sniper situation first happened, worried about her daughter and her grandchildren in the park. Mac ended up having Chet Kelly drive her back behind the barricades. "Oh, please," she moans, wringing her hands with worry. "Tell me if my daughter and my grandbabies are okay. They were in the park this afternoon, and no one is telling me anything about them. Did they get out safely?" Her eyes hold the frantic hopeful belief of someone who knows deep down that their loved ones are gone, but isn't quite willing to accept it. "My husband and son-in-law have been checking at the hospitals, and they've not been brought in yet. Are there any more survivors left in the park?"

Reed stops. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but we're not allowed to give that kind of information out," he tells her gently. "I'm sure if you wait, they'll have word of your daughter and grandchildren soon enough."

She turns to me and pulls something out of her pocket. She thrusts a crumpled picture under my nose, a family portrait of a young couple seated with their two small children. "This is my daughter and grandkids," she says. "Do they look familiar to you? Do you remember seeing anyone like that in the park?"

With a sinking feeling, I recognize the woman in the picture as the one who took the bullet for me, and her children as the little ones cruelly butchered by Burnside's bullets. I swallow hard and look away. "I'm truly sorry, ma'am, but I can't answer that question for you. You'll need to wait and see what the officials tell you."

"Is there a chance you've maybe missed them in the park?" she asks. "Could there be any survivors left in there that you might have overlooked? Could you go in and check for me? It won't take very long. My daughter's name is Cynthia, my granddaughter is named Bethany, my grandson is…" Her voice trails off as she stares at Reed and I, both of us mutely shaking our heads in sorrow. Realization sinks in and she lets out a low moan. "They're in there, aren't they?" she whispers, tears rolling down her face. "They're not coming out, are they? They're dead. All of them. He killed them, didn't he?"

"I can't answer that," I tell her, feeling helpless. "I'm really very sorry, ma'am."

Her sorrow rapidly turns to anger, and she lashes out at me, stunning both Reed and I with the sheer vehemence of her emotion. "Are you really sorry, you bastard?" she asks in a snarl. "Are you really and truly sorry? My daughter and grandchildren are lying dead inside that park, and you goddamned fools couldn't save them! You're worthless, both of you! Utterly worthless!" Suddenly she strikes out at me with her fist, hitting me right in the heart. "I hope you have to live forever with what's happened out here! I hope you go to bed every night and wake up every morning, thinking of the innocent people you jackasses let die in there! May you two carry that with you until your dying day!"

The police chaplain, Father Tim O'Reilly, quickly approaches her and puts a comforting arm around her. He gives us a sympathetic look. "Come now, Mrs. Howard. These officers did the best they could in such a horrific situation, and you know it. They did what they could to help everyone in the park. None of this is their fault, no one but the gunman is to blame for what has happened out here," he tells her gently. "Now let's let them get back to work, okay?"

"Lousy bastards," she mutters as he leads her away, shooting us both a deadly glare over her shoulder. "They let my daughter and grandbabies get killed by that madman."

We watch as they walk away. "Jesus," Reed mutters, running a hand through his hair. "That was tough to deal with." He glances over at me. "You okay?" he asks, noticing that I'm rubbing the spot on my chest where she struck me.

"Fine," I tell him. "She just hit me where the bruise is at." Looking around, I spot Sergeant Jerry Miller in a small group of people over at the edge of the vacant lot. I point him out. "There's Miller, let's go see if he's ready to interview us."

Jerry is talking to the group, evidently homicide detectives from other stations that have been called in to assist out here. We wait patiently as he speaks. "Make sure they're made as comfortable as possible at the station," he's telling the detectives. "Don't let the media anywhere near them, and make sure that only the homicide detectives working this case are the ones interviewing them. Keep in mind these people have been through hell in a very short period of time, and they musn't be rushed or hurried into giving their statements. Give them all the time in the world, gentlemen, and let them tell their stories as they see fit. Be gentle with them. This has been a very traumatic experience for them, and we don't want to add to their trauma by being irritating or pushy. Do I make myself clear?" When he gets nodded assent from the group, he continues. "Okay, then. Head back to the station and begin interviews." As the small group of men disperses to their cars, Jerry turns to us. "Let me guess, you two are here to be debriefed, right?" he asks.

"No, I thought maybe we'd discuss the weather," I say dryly. "Nice night we're having, isn't it?"

Jerry regards me a moment. "Always the funny man, aren't you, Malloy?"

I shrug. "I try. I'm thinking of taking my stand-up comedy act on the road."

"Yeah, well, don't quit your day job," he tells me.

"Who's interviewing us, you?" Reed asks.

"Ah…no, not me," he says. Another small group of men approaches Jerry, and he holds his hand up to Reed and I. "Just a sec," he tells us as he turns his attention to the new group. I recognize several of them as detectives from Central Division. They all have cameras slung around their necks and are carrying notebooks and clipboards with white paper tags tucked underneath the clips. "Go ahead and begin canvassing the scene," he tells them. "There's DOA's in both the street and the park, so make sure that you search the scene thoroughly. If there's any kind of identification on them, go ahead and make a preliminary ID, tag 'em, photograph 'em, and turn 'em over to the coroner's office for removal. The coroner's office will be the one handling the positive ID's, with the help of family members of the victims. Handle the processing of deceased with dignity and respect, and try to maintain the integrity of the crime scene as best as you can. Got it?" This group also nods assent, and Jerry dismisses them with a wave of his hand. "Go to it, then. We've got a large crime scene to process." They disperse and he turns back to Reed and I. "Sorry," he says. "We've got a lot of work to do, not only out here, but back at the station and at the hospitals, too. We've got to interview the wounded victims, too. I don't mind telling you, this whole situation is one huge mess."

"Tell us about it," I say. "We went through it while it was happening, Jerry."

"At least you got the bastard," Jerry tells us, a grim smile on his face. "Who was it that shot him?"

"I was the one who got him," Reed says. "And he wasn't shot, I pushed him over the side of the roof."

Jerry's eyebrows quirk up in surprise. "Really," he says in amazement. "Ain't that a feat? What are you, Reed, Superman or something?"

Reed starts to open his mouth to reply, but a voice from in back of us cuts him off. "Sergeant Miller, are these the two officers who brought the sniper down?" asks a familiar staccato tone.

"They are," Jerry tells Sergeant Joe Friday and Officer Bill Gannon. "Officers Reed and Malloy."

Friday regards me with a glimmer of amusement, a slight smirk on his face. "I know who they are," he tells Miller. "We've met before. And I'm sure they remember us, especially Officer Malloy."

I exchange a grim look with Reed, then I set my mouth in a thin-lipped smile, completely devoid of any smidgen of friendliness. "Yes, I do, Sergeant Friday. I remember you all too well. You tried to torpedo my career on the police force two years ago with your rabid overzealousness and your claims that I murdered a killer in cold blood. That's a little hard to forget, Sergeant."

"Well, then," Friday says, his eyes cold. "Now that the niceties are out of the way, let's get this interview underway, shall we?" He gestures towards the logistics truck. "Sergeant MacDonald has graciously offered us the use of the logistics truck for the initial interview. Once that is done, we'll get to the walk-through of the scene on the rooftop. Do either of you have a problem with that?"

Reed and I shake our heads no. "Is Sergeant MacDonald going to be sitting in on this?" he asks.

"It'll be Captain Moore that will be sitting in on this interview," Bill Gannon tells Jim and I. "Sergeant MacDonald has yet to be interviewed himself."

"Let's get started," Friday says, and begins to walk towards the logistics truck. Gannon falls in next to him, while Reed and I follow behind.

"I'm not looking forward to this, Pete," Jim whispers to me. "Not at all."

"I know, me neither," I whisper back. "We could've drawn anyone else to do this interview; instead, with our luck, we got Sergeant Friday." Friday hears me mention his name, and he glances over his shoulder at me, giving me an icy look. And dread begins to sink into my stomach, since I know he still doesn't hold me in high regard. But then again, I don't exactly hold Sergeant Joe Friday in high esteem, either.

As we walk towards the logistics truck, a black bomb squad van cruises past us. It slows, and Mac approaches it, evidently giving orders to the men inside. After a few moments, it starts up again, the van crossing over past the safety perimeter into what we called the battle zone. It pulls even with the mired Armadillo, since the debris from the parking ramp allows it no further passage past that point. Four men get out of it, and begin to unload bomb-detecting gear from the rear of the van. Then they make their way across the mounds of rubble.

"What's the bomb squad here for?" Reed asks.

"They need to make sure the Granite Court building and the picnic pavilion in the park are clear of any trip wires or bombs," Gannon tells us. "Just in case Burnside left some surprises behind."

"Jesus," Reed says to me, a bit shocked. "I never even thought that he'd maybe have that building set to blow when I went in after him. I wasn't thinking."

"That's right, you weren't," Sergeant Friday tells him over his shoulder. "And the two of you are mighty damned lucky he didn't have that building set to explode, either."

Reed exchanges worried glance with me. I can tell that neither of us has a good feeling about this impending interview. And we are soon proven correct.