Disclaimer: They aren't mine. No money is made.
Notes, timeline, warning, etc.: Guess this could qualify as a post Seige missing scene. No warnings except maybe a naughty word or two…or maybe twenty.
The Blind Men and the Elephant
By Mele
So, oft in theologic wars
The disputants, I ween,
Rail on in utter ignorance
Of what each other mean,
And prate about an elephant
Not one of them has seen.
John G. Saxe, The Blind Men and The Elephant
As Jim Ellison hurried around the corner from Major Crime, his eyes were focused on the file he was reading, so he was caught completely unprepared by the vending machine that appeared unexpectedly in his path.
"Damn!"
The tall detective reached out instinctively, preventing the teetering machine from toppling over, much to the relief of the young fellow who was manning the dolly upon which it was balanced.
"Thanks, Dude, that was close. Gotta tell you, you cops sure go overboard when you can't get your snacks. I mean, really. Shot it twice? Smashed it over? It's one for the record books, that's for sure," the man who's name tag read 'Paul' declared, even as he maneuvered his unwieldy burden past the Sentinel.
Ellison's gaze fell on the ruined face of the vending machine, taking note of the two gaping holes that showed the wall beyond, feeling a chill in his gut as he realized it was just luck that Sandburg hadn't been hit. It was one thing hearing that his young friend had had a close call, and something entirely different seeing the stark evidence.
It had been only two days since Gerrit Kincaid's takeover of the Cascade Police Station, and nerves were still frayed. It didn't help that enough damage had been done to the precinct that repairmen were a common sight, and that the visage of the heavily damaged building across the street served as a visual reminder of exactly how severe a threat that madman had represented.
Jim himself had bruises and pulled muscles as unpleasant souvenirs of his encounter with the leader of the Sunrise Patriots. Once the adrenalin had worn off, the former Special Forces Ranger had discovered that what they all said was true: he wasn't as young as he used to be. Hanging off the ski of a helicopter with 170 pounds of lunatic clinging to his leg took a lot more out of him these days.
Then there was Sandburg to consider.
Though Jim would not admit it for anything, he was impressed with the younger man's resilience. He'd heard plenty about how Kincaid had threatened Blair, how the grad student (much to everyone's surprise) had stared back at the Gerrit over the gun aimed at his face and fed the terrorist a line of 100% pure, unadulterated bull. As Taggart phrased it from his position stretched out on a gurney and headed toward an ambulance, the kid had the balls of a tiger.
And the next day Sandburg was back in the precinct again, completing his aborted attempt at filling out the paperwork and taking the drug test. By that evening he'd already learned how to assist Jim with filling out reports, and had been photographed and fingerprinted for his observer's pass. If Sandburg had been nervous about returning to the place where 24 hours before he'd nearly been killed, he kept quiet about it.
That'd been yesterday, and Blair and Jim had parted company with the younger man promising to come by the station after finishing his last lecture, sometime before three. With close to another hour before Sandburg was due to show up, Ellison had been killing time doing some long neglected, low priority filing and follow-up. The detective hated scut work, but he had no choice after being restricted to desk duty for a couple of days. Simon had insisted his friend be checked over by an EMS, who'd suggested a few days of restricted duty until Ellison's strained muscles had had a chance to recover.
Jim watched the young maintenance worker enter the service elevator with the destroyed vending machine, then continued on to the regular lift. The sight of the snack machine, even empty, awakened hunger in the Sentinel as he realized he'd skipped lunch. Remembering the machines on the third floor usually had the best selection; he punched the button for three then turned his attention back to the file.
Nearing the break room, which was the largest and best appointed one in the precinct, Jim came to a halt when he caught the sound of his name spoken by one of the occupants of the room. Standing just around the corner from the entrance, and well out of sight, he listened, wondering why he was the subject of conversation.
"Man, you are so far off base," came a laughing voice Jim recognized as belonging to Henri Brown.
"Oh, come on, Brown. You saw the little prick. If he's not a user then I'm Miss America." That sneering voice could belong to no one except Bruce McAfferty, senior-most detective in Major Crime. Six months from retirement, McAfferty could be a poster boy for the American Cynical Society.
"Well, then break out your tiara, because there is no way anyone would assign a druggie to ride with Ellison. The program you're thinking of is 'Scared Straight' not 'Scared into an Early Grave'. Get real. From what I've heard and seen, he's some sort of post trauma shrink who's supposed to help Ellison get his cheese back on his cracker, if you know what I mean. He's been through some serious shit, could be some sort of post traumatic trouble he's been having recently"
"No, no, no, Brown, that's damn near as insane as McAfferty's idea. Hell, a drug user would be safer around Jim than a shrink would. You guys didn't see that kid in action; no way he's anything like what he appears to be. My money's on him being a special ops guy checking up on Ellison. They say once you're in covert ops you never really get out, and I'm betting they keep a pretty close eye on guys like Jim. Kid's too good at self-defense to be civilian."
Jim bit his knuckle to stifle a bark of laughter at Joel Taggart's suggestion, which was actually a relief compared to the previous two suggestions. A drug addict? A shrink? SANDBURG?
"I think you're all nuts," a new voice cut in, and it took Jim a couple of moments to place a name to the soft voice. Josh Sexton, a recent addition to the unit, having been bumped up from Burglary nine months before. "You guys ever pick up a newspaper? Come on, the name: 'Sandburg'? He's the precinct's attempt to pacify affirmative action, I'll just bet you. How many Jews do we have on board? Not enough, I'll bet. That's why he's here, to ensure we have our legally required 2.687 employees of Jewish descent, or whatever the heck ridiculous number they come up with."
Assorted sounds of derision met that declaration. "That's the lamest idea yet," Brown declared. "What's your thought, Brian?"
Rafe's quiet voice sounded less than sure, but then again, Brian was the newest recruit to the unit and still feeling his way along. "I figured he was some rich kid, you know, just based on how he was dressed. You know kids these days; the worse they dress the more money they have. My guess is he's someone like maybe the mayor's son, and his daddy is putting pressure on Captain Banks to let the kid ride along with a Major Crime detective." Ellison could almost hear the self-depreciating shrug following this suggestion.
"Hey, not bad, Partner," Brown enthused. "I like that idea, it's got it's own sick logic. Wouldn't it just serve some rich kid right to be stuck riding along with Ellison? Be one way the captain could get a bit of revenge and not get in any trouble."
"Oh, come on, Henri, Jim's not that bad," chimed in a new voice that Ellison recognized as Mitch Stevens. "He's a good cop, and a fair man."
"I know that, Mitch. But, damn, the man is COLD. I don't think I've ever seen him smile, and recently…well, recently he's even grouchier, if that's possible. You know I don't mean anything against him, I rather like the son of a bitch." There was a pause while Brown took a sip from his soda before continuing. "And let's just round this out, okay? What do YOU think Sandburg's here for?"
"Personally I figured he's some pencil neck bureaucrat from IA sent down to check up on Ellison. Jim's good…damned good…but sometimes his methods are a little different. And that whole mess with The Switchman? Yeah, it would be like IA to send some poor sap down to ride along with Ellison and get the 'whole story'."
"Or die trying," H cracked, generating a round of chuckles.
Jim frowned in consternation; he wasn't that bad, was he?
"Come on, Stevens, IA officers are still cops, and that punk is most definitely NOT a cop. If he came sashaying in here without Ellison to watch over him not a one of us would think twice of searching him and slapping cuffs on his wrists just on general principles. And don't even try to tell me any different," McAfferty asserted.
"Not all of us are willing to arrest someone based just on looks, Detective, and might I remind you that Major Crime is not run that way?" Captain Taggart countered, his normally warm, friendly voice turned cold.
"Sorry, Captain, but I've just seen too many punks like him. Long haired deadbeats who figure the world owes them."
"And I'm saying that I saw that young man show exemplary courage under extreme circumstances; frankly in a situation where many seasoned officers might have needed a break to change their uniform, if you catch my drift. It takes a certain kind of courage to look down the barrel of a gun and not be reduced to a gibbering, terrorized mess and Sandburg has it in spades," the big bomb squad captain stated. Out in the hallway Jim smiled with unconscious pride.
"Now see, that's why I'm thinking he's a shrink. They're trained to handle all sorts of situations, and he probably saw that gun and figured Kincaid was a misunderstood soul with unresolved daddy issues or something," Brown theorized.
"A rich kid would have figured no terrorist dare shoot him, or else might be so immune to violence due to watching too much violent TV shows or something," Rafe offered.
"Oh, Christ on a crutch, you're not suggesting the kid was unafraid because he grew up watching the Power Rangers or the Dukes of Hazzard, are you?" Sexton snickered, prompting another round of laughter that nearly drowned out Rafe's muttered 'no'.
"That's okay, Partner, it's not that far out a theory," Brown chimed in, obviously working hard at supporting his new partner.
"Well, it makes as much sense as him being a shrink or an addict," Rafe muttered.
"I still say he's a mole from IA," Stevens insisted, tossing his empty wrapper at the corner trashcan. "Yeah, three points!"
"Okay, so how about we compromise: he's a former drug addict, trained in psychology, who's transferred to IA from the military Special Ops, and just happens to be the mayor's son and our very own token Jewish person?" Sexton proposed, bringing a final round of laughter as the sounds of the group breaking up could be heard.
Jim started forward, planning to now get his snack, and figuring he could maintain a good enough poker face to avoid suspicion. He hadn't turned the corner yet when a new, and now familiar, voice joined the others in the break room.
"Hi, Captain Taggart, it's good to see you up and around again." Blair's voice rang cheerfully in the now quiet room.
Jim stopped again, curious as to what his fellow detectives might say to his partner, and how Blair would handle it. He had no intention of letting them harass his young friend, but needed to know that Sandburg could handle himself.
"Sandburg, it's good to be seen again," the big captain replied, the smile ringing clearly in his voice. "We haven't scared you off yet?"
"No way, man. It'll take more than a gun wielding psycho to scare me off," the younger man claimed.
"So, hey, Hairboy, since you're determined to hang around, mind if we ask you a question?" Brown asked.
"Sure, Detective Brown, ask away."
"We're just wondering what you're doing here, you know? What your interest in Detective Ellison is. Why Captain Banks agreed to let you observe him," Henri queried, carefully keeping his voice neutral.
Ellison tensed, wondering if the grad student would stick to their agreed-upon explanation. Part of the detective was disgusted at his lack of belief in the younger man, but a lifetime of being experience had taught him that trust had to be earned. Sandburg would start to earn that now, or he'd have to cut the anthropologist loose.
"I'm studying the phenomena of the closed society within the police department," Sandburg explained, sitting on the edge of a nearby table. "And Detective Ellison was chosen because he's without a partner right now."
"What? Some kind of school report?" asked Rafe.
"Yeah, I'm a student at Rainer."
"You're working on your BA?" Sexton wondered.
"Nah, this is for my dissertation."
"You're going to get a Master's?" McAfferty asked, sounding almost insulted by the idea.
"I already have my Master's," Sandburg explained mildly. "This is for my Doctorate."
"You already have a Master's? What, are you some kind of genius? Started college at twelve or something?" Joel queried, sounding impressed rather than disbelieving.
"Not hardly, man. But I did start early."
"Must have," Sexton commented, standing and approaching Blair. "I'm Josh Sexton, by the way."
That started a round of introductions, with Sandburg shaking each man's hand with a warm word of greeting, though he'd met Taggart and Brown previously.
"And I'm not as young as you seem to think I am," Blair continued, reclaiming his seat.
"What's your field of study?" Stevens inquired.
"Anthropology."
"My niece is going for her Master's in Anthropology, down at UCLA," McAfferty commented almost grudgingly.
"They have a really good program, from what I've heard," Blair enthused. "Does she have a particular focus yet?"
"Not yet, seems like every time she goes on an expedition she changes her mind."
"Good for her! It's a pretty dynamic field, I've never really understood how anyone could limit themselves to just one aspect, myself."
"That's what she says." The elder detective's voice had definitely warmed up.
"But how's an anthropologist going to fit in around a bunch of cops?" Stevens challenged, his tone more curious than belligerent.
"Oh, hey, anthropology and detective work have far more in common than you may think. It's all about observing, gathering data, and drawing conclusions. Sure, anthropologists are less likely to be shot at, and the people they are investigating probably won't end up in jail, but a lot of the methodology is very similar," the grad student explained cheerfully. "And I gotta tell ya, the way you can apply it to your social life is…well, let's just say, it can give you a whole new set of pickup lines." Jim didn't need to see Sandburg's face to know the younger man was winking at his audience.
Apparently Brown didn't believe the younger man's claims, because his scoff was clearly audible without Sentinel hearing.
"Being an anthropologist improves your love life? Sure, if you're dating nerds."
"Nerds need love, too, Henri. But, seriously, what's the one thing all women want?"
There was a pause, then Blair laughed.
"Okay, okay, besides that! They like being the center of attention, right? So, when the lady invites me into her place, I tell her that I can learn all sorts of stuff from just looking around at whatever she has out in the open. They really seem to dig that, you know? So, I'll wander around, check out her books, music, art, the kind of stuff she has on display, maybe check the fridge and pantry, you know, case the joint." He paused for the laughter that comment gave rise to.
"You sound like a damn Peeping Tom or a stalker," Josh Sexton commented.
"No, no…you're missing the point here. While I'm doing that, I find nice things to say about her…you know, like…'Anthropological studies show a direct correlation between intelligence and Barbara Streisand's music. Since it looks like you have all her CDs I'm guessing you're a genius,'" Sandburg's voice fairly dripped with false sincerity.
"You have GOT to be kidding!" Brown managed to exclaim amidst his laughter. "No WAY is anyone going to fall for that!"
"I kid you not! It works! Well…except this one time," Sandburg admitted reluctantly.
"Oh? What time was that?" Joel wondered.
"Well, I was doing my shtick, and started noticing some really strange things…books and things that added up to something I wasn't really comfortable with. Turned out she was a practicing Satanist, which is one thing I SO can't get into. She had gone into the kitchen and came out with these glasses of what I'm sure was just really dark red wine…but it looked like…well, something else…and I swear, I just lost it. I was out that door so fast it was three blocks before my shadow even caught up with me!"
Loud laughter and guffaws met that story, interspersed with the sound of chairs being moved back.
"Whee, you sure can spread it thick, Kid," Stevens chuckled, tossing his debris into the trash.
"You have NO idea," Ellison agreed, striding into the room. "What, was there a staff meeting and someone forgot to tell me?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.
Six mildly puzzled pairs of eyes greeted this atypical display of good humor from the normally cantankerous detective. However, Brown was quick to rise to the occasion.
"What makes you think we FORGOT to tell you?" he smirked, while still maintaining a prudent distance from Ellison.
"Because if it was for any other reason my feelings might be hurt…and if my feelings were hurt I might just tell Captain Banks where most of his department wandered off to," Jim suggested with a comically overplayed pout.
Chuckling, the six other men departed, leaving the Sentinel alone with his young Guide.
"Hey, Chief, you handled those guys well," Ellison commented.
"You were listening?" Blair asked with a slight frown.
"Actually, I'd been listening for a while before you showed up. Speaking of which, you're earlier than I expected."
"Class got out early. I figured I'd grab a snack before going on up," Blair explained.
"I'll do better than that, let's grab a late lunch, my treat. I'm bored, as well as hungry, since they won't let me go out in the field," Jim suggested.
"Hey, I'm down with that. Never turn down free food, that's my motto," the grad student exclaimed, ushering his new friend toward the door. "Lead on!"
A few minutes and a short walk later they were seated in a window booth of a small diner, waiting for their orders to arrive. Blair rolled the sugar dispenser between the palms of his hands as he looked over at the Sentinel.
"So, why were you eavesdropping on your fellow officers, Jim? And how well could you hear them?" he asked. "And are we going to have to have a discussion of the proper use of your abilities?" he added, glaring with mock sternness at the older man.
"No, Dad, I'll be good," Jim smirked before turning more serious. "I heard my name mentioned, so I stopped to listen. Ended up being an interesting experience."
"What were they talking about?"
"You."
"ME?" Sandburg squeaked, giving his companion an incredulous look. "Why would they be talking about me?"
"Seems they couldn't quite figure out why a long-haired kid would be assigned to ride with an hardass like me," Ellison explained, sitting back as the waitress delivered their meals.
"Hmmm…I guess I can see how they might wonder about that. And they did ask me as soon as I got there. Did they have any ideas?" he asked innocently.
Jim almost snorted out the mouthful of ice tea he'd just taken. "You could say so."
"What? What'd they think I was doing there?"
"Well, let's see…one idea that was advanced was that you were part of an attempt to adhere to the integration laws; representing compliance in having enough people of Jewish descent. Then there was the suggestion that you are the mayor's son," he grinned, enjoying the look in Blair's ever widening eyes.
"Of course, there was the idea that you were a drug user being scared straight, OR an officer undercover from Internal Affairs investigating my methods."
"How in the world did they come up with that one?" the anthropologist wondered.
"It gets better; H figured you are a psychologist trying to help me cope with some sort of post traumatic stress or something," Ellison snickered.
"That's not so far-fetched, man. I did minor in Psych," Blair noted with a grin of his own.
"Yeah, well you just keep that minor far away from me. But the capper…my personal favorite theory…is that you are a covert ops officer checking up on me."
The two men's eyes met across the table, then both burst into laughter simultaneously, startling more than a few of the other patrons.
"Co…covert ops? ME?" Blair gasped at last.
"Well, you DID handle yourself pretty darn well," Ellison noted, sobering. "Just in case I forgot to mention it, you did well against Kincaid."
"Thanks, man. But all it was was adrenalin and fear driving me to keep alive," Sandburg demurred. "Nothing to be proud of there."
"You're wrong about that, Chief," Jim said intensely, bringing the younger man's attention to him. "You kept your head, you used whatever resources were available, you didn't give up or give in. You've got good instincts, Junior, and with time and training you could even make a good cop."
"Whoa, I am NOT a cop, my mom would freak at the very idea," Blair announced, holding up both hands in a warding off gesture. "But, thanks, anyway."
"Just don't let it go to your head," the detective growled, well aware the kid wasn't intimidated by his attitude.
They ate in companionable silence for a few minutes, then Blair chuckled again. "You know, the guys, they reminded me of this poem my mom used to read to me when I was just a kid. She had this book, a big old thing, called 'A Treasury of the Familiar', which was just this hodge podge collection of poems and bits of plays and essays and song lyrics and what not. Anyway, there was this one poem about six blind men who go to see an elephant. Each one approaches the animal individually, and each one grabs or feels a different part of it. Like the guy who feels the elephant's knee thinks it's like a tree, the one who feels it side says it like a wall, and the one who gets the tail says it's like a rope and so on. And at the end of the poem they are all arguing about what this damn elephant looks like, and all of them are wrong, but all of them are sort of right, you know?"
"I get what you mean, but how do you figure the guys got it partially right? Something you need to confess to me, Sandburg?"
"Back down, Big Guy. No, I'm clean. BUT, I do use natural herbs, and I was raised by one of the original hippies, so it's not surprising that association was made. And let's see…I am Jewish, so that one was at least partially right, as was the shrink assumption as I mentioned before," Blair mused.
"As for the idea of being an IA officer or a covert ops guy…well, anthropologists DO tend to 'infiltrate' places, so it can sort of fit, if you stretch it a bit," Sandburg decided, looking quite pleased with himself.
"And the suggestion that you're the mayor's son?"
Sandburg scratched his head in puzzlement. "Okay, you got me on that one. Guess that guy missed the elephant entirely and grabbed a flamingo or something," he grinned.
"A flamingo, Chief? Where did that come from?"
Blair flushed with some embarrassment. "It just popped into my head, as a kind of 'anti-elephant' you know? Give me a break, it's been a long day," he groused.
"A flamingo popped into your head? Riiiight," the older man smirked, enjoying his companion's disgruntled expression.
He popped the last bite of patty melt into his mouth and sat back, relaxed and comfortable. He watched his young friend flirt with their waitress, his youthful face free from worry or melancholy. Just 48 hours before he'd nearly lost Sandburg to Kincaid's reign of terror, and the speed with which Blair had bounced back impressed the detective.
Now looking at his partner's bright eyes, bright clothes, bright smile, he felt a fleeting sense of sorrow, a dread that the still youthful grad student would be changed by things he encountered in Jim's often violent and senseless world. He knew that all people had to grow up and experience and change, but he hated the thought of this free spirited young man burdened by memories of the sorts of gruesome scenes that officers in Cascade all too often encountered. He had a fleeting vision of the grad student wearing grey clothing and a grim expression, the light in his blue eyes faded to slate. For just a moment he felt the impulse to send Blair back to his safe world of academia, cocooned safely away from the horrors human beings are capable of visiting upon each other. Wanted to tell him to get out now, before it was too late and he lost himself in the gritty underbelly of the city.
But, the moment passed, and Ellison shook his head, dispelling the odd thoughts as he reached for his wallet.
"Come on, Chief, finish up," he told his partner.
"Time to get back to work."
The End
Author's note: The book mentioned, "A Treasury of the Familiar" was a much-loved part of my childhood and early adulthood. After my mother's death we somehow lost her copy of that book, but I finally was able to replace it a few years ago. The poem referenced is one of my all time favorites, and was the inspiration for this little tale. Thank you for reading it! K