Disclaimer: I don't own Flashpoint, its characters, blah, blah, blah. Like you didn't already know that!
The man sitting at the bar of the Goose stared into his third Scotch of the night. He would have been about five feet, ten inches tall if he were standing, but at the moment, he was slouched over his drink, elbows on the bar. He ran one hand over his balding head and swirled the glass, watching the amber liquid dance and sway with the ice as his mind again went over the scene he had processed a few hours before. A drug dealer had opened fire on police as they came to serve a warrant on him, and eight-year-old Haley Brynne's mother had been killed right in front of her.
Homicide Detective Gregory Parker of the Toronto Police Service shuddered at the remembered vision of the girl lying terrified underneath the bed, her mother lying on the floor, blood seeping from the wound in her chest, a gun on the floor just in front of her. He remembered other little girls, too, like the three-year-old blonde angel whose father slit her throat so deeply he nearly decapitated her; like the sixteen-year-old dark-haired beauty who was raped and beaten and left for the elements to devour. He quickly drained his glass and signaled to Albert, the bartender, for another. Tonight, he was determined to drown the visions in Scotch, but he was far from accomplishing that mission. Drink after drink failed to erase what he had seen in his career - a mother and her children brutally murdered by the one person in their lives who should have protected them, who should have kept the bad things from entering their lives; boys and girls slaughtered before they had a chance to live; little girls forced to witness the death of a beloved mother. He couldn't forget the coppery smell of blood that permeated his senses or the phantom taste of it in the air. He desperately consumed more and more alcohol in a frantic attempt to rid his brain of the memories and sensations.
It was hours later when Albert finally poured him into a cab, gave the driver his address, and paid the fare upfront. It wasn't the first time the bartender had done that for Greg, and it certainly wouldn't be the last. Greg staggered up to his apartment, failing numerous times to get his key to work in the lock before finally pushing the door open and stumbling across the threshold. He managed to slam the door behind him, not realizing or caring that he might wake his own wife and child. Making his way to the couch, he fell onto the cushions and promptly passed out, falling into a blackness that tormented him with dreams of the horrors one human being could inflict on another.
Earlier that day
Joanne Parker rushed around the apartment gathering up anything she thought she would need or want. Her six-year-old son, Dean, was due home from school soon, and she wanted to be ready to go as soon as he got there. She grabbed photos and knickknacks and carefully placed them in the open suitcase on the coffee table.
"Are you sure about this, Jo?"
The question came from the woman leaning against the dining room table. She was of medium height with straight brown hair hanging to her waist. She watched Joanne's frenetic motions and sighed. She had never seen her best friend this scared before, and she again wondered what Greg had finally done to prompt this action.
Joanne stopped suddenly and turned. "No, I'm not, Mandy, but I can't do this anymore." She looked around the living room and breathed deeply. "Last night was the last straw."
"What did he do?" Amanda Steller demanded. "Why won't you tell me?"
Jo glanced at her over her shoulder. "Are you sure you want to know?"
"Yes!" her friend shouted.
"Fine," Jo said resignedly. She slowly removed the sweater she had been wearing. Underneath she had on a short-sleeve T-shirt, and Amanda gasped when she saw the vivid purplish-black marks ringing her friends upper arms.
"That bastard!" she growled. She strode to Joanne and gingerly touched one of the bruises, causing Jo to wince. "Sorry," she said, pulling her hand back. "Jo, has he done this to you before? He hasn't been beating you, has he?" She paused with a sudden horrible thought. "He's not beating Dean, is he?"
"No!" Jo exclaimed quickly. "He's never laid a hand on either of us before. That's why this scared me so much. Mandy, I don't even think he knows what he's done." A sob escaped her throat, and tears began to fall from her eyes. "He was so drunk last night that I think he could have walked through a plate glass window without remembering or feeling anything. It's just been getting worse and worse, and I finally decided that, if he can hurt me without realizing it, then it's just a matter of time before it spills over to Dean as well." Her voice became cold. "I will never let that happen! That's why we have to leave."
Amanda nodded her understanding as she tried to quell the fury building up inside of her. She had known Greg and Joanne Parker for over ten years, since before they had married, and it infuriated her that he had turned into a person who could do such a thing. Before the drinking, he had been a sweet, loving man who treated his wife and boy as if they were the most precious things in his life. It was only after a few years in Homicide that he had begun to drink. She had tried to talk to him a few times about it, but he had always brushed her aside, telling her that she couldn't possibly understand. She had been around him when he was drunk, and knew that Joanne was right. He did many things that he didn't remember the morning after, but he had never been physically violent. His violence had been confined to verbal assaults and flying objects, and Joanne and Dean had quickly learned to simply leave him to battle his demons alone when he was in that state.
More was about to be said when the two women heard a key in the front door. Amanda felt the fury build again when she saw Joanne flinch. She was obviously bracing herself for the possibility that it was Greg coming home early, but it was only Dean.
"Mama!" he cried, dropping his bright blue backpack on the floor and rushing to his mother. He flung his arms around her and kissed her cheek. She tried to hug him back, but he suddenly pulled away from her.
"Mama? What's wrong? Why are you crying?" He reached out one small hand and touched a tear that was suspended on her face.
Joanne held her son at arm's length and searched his brown eyes, so much like his father's. "We..." she began, but her voice cracked, and she stopped and cleared her throat. She tried again, "We are going on a trip, my love." She attempted a smile.
"We are?" Dean's little face crinkled in confusion. "Where are we going?"
"We are going to visit Grandma and Grandpa in Texas," Joanne continued, trying to sound like this was a good thing.
"Really?" her son's confusion was instantly replaced with joy at this news. "When?"
"Right now," she said, standing up. "I've already packed for us, and Amanda is going to drive us to the airport."
The confusion returned as Dean looked around the apartment. "But, what about Daddy?"
Joanne looked at Amanda as if to ask for her help. This was the only part of her plan that Jo hadn't figured out - how to explain to a six-year-old boy that he would never see his father again.
Amanda stepped in. "Your daddy can't come right now because of work. Maybe he'll join you down there later."
Joanne nodded her appreciation. It wasn't a lie, for there was that possibility, slim though it might be.
"But," Dean looked between the two women, "won't Daddy be lonely without us?"
A sob threatened to escape Joanne again, but she swallowed it down and gave her son a smile. "Yes, I'm sure he will, darling, but he simply can't come with us right now."
The small boy stood there for a moment, looking at his mother, and then slowly nodded. "Okay," he said softly. "But he'll come later, right, when he's done working?"
"We'll see," was all that Joanne said, and then she stood up and took Dean's hand with a forced smile. "Let's go, Dean. The plane won't wait for us."
Grabbing his backpack and handing it to him, she took one of the suitcases in her other hand while Amanda took the other two. Walking out the door, she looked back one last time before sighing heavily and locking it behind her.
The next morning, Greg woke to a raging headache. Groaning, he stumbled to the master bedroom's bathroom, chewed two aspirin without bothering with water, and climbed into the shower after stripping off his clothing, leaving it in a tangled pile on the floor. He let the hot water flow over his aching muscles, and he quickly washed away the literal and figurative dirt and grime from the day before. Exiting the shower, he wrapped a towel around his waist and brushed his teeth, ridding his mouth of the aftereffects of his ill-conceived night of drinking. It wasn't until he was walking out of the bathroom that his brain registered the fact that the apartment was silent. He glanced at the four-poster bed in the middle of the bedroom and saw that it was made up neatly, but that was no surprise since Joanne often got up before him after a night like that. He wondered if Joanne had taken Dean out for breakfast, as by now, his son was usually wrapped around his legs, telling him about school or friends or something. His still-fogged mind tried to process his surroundings, but he couldn't grasp a logical thought out of the jumbled mess in his brain. He stepped to the closet and opened the door to pull out a suit for work, and it was then that clarity decided to crash into his consciousness like a wrecking ball.
His suits, dress shirts, shoes, and ties were all where they belonged, but the left side of the closet, Joanne's side, was completely barren. All that remained of his wife's possessions were empty hangers, mocking him with their skeletal shapes, devoid of the clothing that gave their existence meaning. He backed out and quickly moved to Joanne's dresser, flinging out drawers that were as empty as the closet.
"No, no, no," he mumbled, frantically searching the bedroom for any sign of his wife. He returned to the bathroom and, for the first time, realized that the only toiletries left in the cabinets and drawers were his. He hung his head as reality hit him. His wife had left him.
He stood at the bathroom sink, head bowed for several moments, but then, his head snapped up.
"Dean!" he whispered harshly, looking at his reflection in the mirror.
He rushed to his son's room across the hall and skidded to a stop as soon as he flung open the door. The bed was neatly made, just as in his own room, but Greg immediately noticed that all was not right. Dean's hockey trophies were not in their usual place on the shelf above his bed, and his favorite teddy bear was gone from his spot on the bed. Greg flew to the closet and jerked open the door, releasing a cry when he saw that it was as empty as his. Tears began to flow freely down his cheeks as he checked the dresser, already knowing what he was going to find.
Sinking to the floor in front of his son's dresser, he hugged his knees to himself as he rocked back and forth, sobbing. His wife had left him, and she had taken his son with her.
He didn't know how long he stayed there on Dean's floor, but the ringing of his cell phone drew him from his stupor. He reached down to get it from his pocket and realized that he still only had a towel on. He slowly stood up and made his way back to his room, the silence of the home weighing on him heavily. Indeed, the empty drawers, closets, and rooms seemed to mock him, telling him that it was his fault that he had driven his wife and son away.
The ringing of his phone had stopped, but as he pulled it from his pants after extricating them from the pile on the floor, it began to ring again. He looked at it and saw that it was Jim Keach, his partner of almost five years.
"Yeah," he said after pushing the call button.
"Greg?" Jim's voice came through the phone. "You're late! Where are you? It's already nine o'clock. Inspector Thomas is furious!"
"I..." Greg stopped, trying not to hyperventilate as reality sank deeper into his consciousness. "I'm not going to be able to make it in today."
"What? Why?" Jim's voice lowered. "Greg, are you still drunk?"
"No," he managed to reply before another sob escaped him. "But, I swear to God, I wish I were. She's gone, Jim, and she took Dean with her!" That was all Greg could manage before collapsing in a heap on the bathroom floor, dropping the phone in the process.
Jim Keach stared at the phone in his hand with horror, and then he said, "Greg, are you still there? Greg?"
"What is it, Detective?"
The deep, rough voice of Inspector Martin Thomas broke into his desperate questions to a silent phone.
"I don't know, sir, but it sounds like Detective Parker is in trouble."
"What kind of trouble? Do we need to send a patrol car to his house? Or is it the kind of trouble he creates for himself?"
The Inspector knew that Greg had a drinking problem, but a lot of cops did. He also knew that Greg had, so far, been able to keep that problem out of his work, and so the Inspector had chosen to ignore it. Now, however...
"I don't know, sir," Jim repeated, "but I'd like to go and find out, with your permission."
Inspector Thomas nodded his head. "Go ahead, Detective. See what's going on. I'll call if I need you."
"Thank you, sir," Jim said gratefully before grabbing his jacket and heading out the door.
Driving quickly to Greg's apartment, he skidded to a stop in the parking lot and rushed upstairs. He knocked and then tried the doorknob. He was surprised when he found that it was unlocked, and he quickly entered the home, his hand on the butt of the gun at his waist.
"Greg? Are you here?"
He listened carefully and heard the sound of crying coming from Greg's bedroom. He ran in the direction of the sound and halted when he saw his friend, naked except for a towel around his waist, curled in a ball on the bathroom floor, tears streaming down his face and great sobs wracking his entire body. He knelt down and grabbed Greg's shoulders, shaking him.
"Greg, buddy, what's happened?"
Greg made no response, and it was some time before Jim was able to get him to sit up and look at him. The tears continued to flow as Greg whispered harshly, "They're gone, Jim."
"Gone? What do you mean, gone? Greg, what are you talking about?" Jim shook him again.
Nodding, Greg slowly stood and pulled himself from Jim's grasp. "I mean gone. She took everything - clothes, toys, his hockey trophies."
"Well," Jim said, looking around in disbelief, "where'd she go?"
"I have no idea," Greg said resignedly, "but, from the look of things, she's not coming back." He rested his hands on the bathroom counter, and the anger that was constantly simmering just below the surface began to boil over. Suddenly, he let loose a feral cry and ran his hands across the counter, sweeping bottles of aftershave and mouthwash to the floor with a crash. He put his head in his hands and groaned.
Jim stepped behind him and placed his hands on his friend's shoulders. "Greg, come on, let's get you dressed. I promise I will help you figure out what's going on, okay?"
"Dressed?" Greg looked at his partner in the mirror.
A chuckle sounded in the bathroom. "Yeah, dressed. You can't exactly figure things out in a towel, Greg."
Greg looked down at himself and sighed. He slowly nodded and went to his closet again, mechanically pulling out a suit, shirt, tie, and shoes. He next walked to his dresser and pulled out underwear and socks before putting on his clothes without thought. After tying his tie, he and Jim walked out into the living room. Greg looked around for the first time that day and noticed all the things that were missing. The mantel above the fireplace was normally covered with family photos, but now there were only two. One was of Greg and Dean with Capretti in the pit at Daytona, and the other was Dean's latest school photo. Joanne's knickknacks were gone, as well as the afghan her mother had made that was usually stretched over the back of the couch. With a sigh, Greg walked toward the kitchen, but he stopped when he saw a note on the dining room table. He picked it up with shaking fingers and unfolded it.
Greg,
I'm sorry that there couldn't be another solution, but after last night, I just can't trust you around me or Dean anymore. In case you don't remember what you did, which wouldn't surprise me in the least, I had Amanda take pictures. Check your phone.
I'm sure by the time you read this, we'll be long gone. I'm taking Dean down to my parents' home in Dallas today. Please don't try to stop us or contact us. I won't take the chance that you will someday hurt our son.
Joanne
The paper fluttered to the ground as Greg reached for his phone. He groaned when he saw the image of Joanne's arms and the dark bruises that encircled them. He didn't remember anything about inflicting those injuries, but he knew that she was telling the truth. He dropped his phone on the table and his head into his hands.
Jim had picked up the note and read it, and when Greg dropped the phone, he also looked at that. "Oh, Greg," he whispered, "what did you do?"
"I don't remember, Jim, truly I don't." Greg's words were muffled against his hands. "I don't remember doing it, and I certainly don't remember why." He raised his red-rimmed eyes to his friend and partner. He spoke so softly that Jim had to strain to hear him. "What am I going to do?"
Jim shook his head. "Just give her time, buddy. She'll come around. But you know the drinking has to stop, right?"
Greg nodded, "I know, I know. I promise, never again." He stood up straight and adjusted his clothing. Putting on a false bravado, he grabbed his phone from Jim and stuck it in his pocket. "Come on, let's get to work," he stated simply and led his partner out the door.
Greg's promise lasted not even a day. He had called Joanne right after his shift was over and was promptly told that they were not coming back...ever. Fury and grief overwhelmed him, and he found himself back on his stool at the Goose, downing glass after glass of Scotch, and every night thereafter was the same.
This behavior sickened Jim, but no amount of talking, pleading, or threatening turned Greg away from the booze. Between the horrors of his job and the devastation of his family leaving, Greg was now constantly in an alcoholic haze. He tried to make sure that his work wasn't affected, but the instant he was off the clock, he was ensconced either at the Goose or on his couch in his empty apartment, drowning the emotions and memories in alcohol.
Eventually, though, the booze found its way into his work, and he was forced to take a leave of absence from the job. The night the Inspector told him to leave, he bought a case of vodka and brought it home. He told himself that he would either finish those bottles, or they would finish him. He hauled the case into the apartment and set it on the floor next to the coffee table, slowly lifting one bottle out at a time and gingerly placing it on the table until all six of them were lined up neatly facing the couch.
Greg picked up the empty case and carried it to the front door, intending to carry it out to the trash, but he stopped when he saw the mail on the floor underneath the slot in the door. The envelope on top was crumpled, and the handwriting was that of a small child. With a cry of delight, he dropped the case and snatched the letter up, thrilled that his son was writing him. He ripped open the envelope and froze when he saw the salutation. It didn't read Dear Daddy, but instead, it said Hi, Datectiv Parker.
He sat down heavily on one of the dining room chairs and read the short note. Tears flowed freely at the words written on the page.
Hi, Datectiv Parker. It's me, Haley, and I wanted to say thank you for helping me. I'm staying with some pepole, and I'm skared, but I'm gonna be brave, cause you told me everything will be OK, and I beleive you.
The simple, sincere sentiments of the little girl tore at Greg's heart, and he burst into tears. This small child had been through hell and was scared, but she was going to be brave because she believed him when he reassured her.
After he sat there for a long time, sobbing out his grief and shame, he finally stopped and took a deep breath. Feeling a new resolve, he set the letter on the table, stood, and walked to the living room. One by one, he took the bottles of vodka to the kitchen sink and watched as the clear liquid swirled down the drain. As the last drop of the last bottle disappeared, Greg swore to himself that if that little girl could be brave and face her future, then so could he. It was very late, but he picked up his phone anyway and dialed Jim's number.
"Yeah?" a groggy voice came on the other line.
"Jim? It's Greg."
Jim instantly became alert. "Greg? What's the matter?"
"Nothing," Greg said simply, and then he paused, finally ready to take the first step on the road to recovery. "Buddy, I need help."