After I posted chapter 4 in August, rl decided to kick me in the ass, so that's why this took so long.
I wouldn't call this a crossover, but I did bring in characters from CSI NY, and Dr. Huang from Law & Order SVU.
Ryan's Tale, A Kidnapping In New York City, part 1
New York City, December 28, 2009
Sitting in a bar in the US' largest city, I look around at the mob of people, drinking, laughing, enjoying themselves, and all I can do is heave a huge sigh. Despite my surroundings I feel very much alone. A woman two seats down flashes me a smile, but I ignore her. I'd rather sit and brood.
The door swings open, and a gust of icy air hits me in the face. Everyone here keeps saying that the current bitter cold is unusual for New York. True or not, I can't believe that anyone would want to live in this climate. Even though I was born in Massachusetts, and lived in the northeastern United States until a teenager, over half my life has been in Miami. So I'll take 95° and humid any day than this bone-chilling winter weather, not sure how my sister stands it.
A group of three men enter the bar, and for a moment my heart leaps into my throat. The first thought that flashes through my mind is that Horatio found me, but after a few seconds of staring, I see that although the man bears some resemblance to H, it isn't him. I gesture to the bartender for another, while wondering if H has made any effort to locate me, or if after reading my note, he decided to just let it be.
The bartender sets another whiskey and soda in front of me, and I tap a stack of bills signaling him to take one for payment. So wrapped up in my moping, I don't notice that the three men, who had just entered, have sidled up to me and have me surrounded.
The red-head elbows me rudely to catch my attention. "You think the three of us are fags? Is that why you were staring?" His tone is pure aggression.
Alarms instantly begin going off in my head. My cop training kicks in; these men are looking for trouble. "No, no," I protest mildly. "You look like someone I know, and for a second I thought it was him. I apologize if my staring was offensive." I address this to the red-head, who, up-close, still bears a similarity to Horatio, although he's younger, and has the look of someone who's lived hard.
"Ah huh," he grunts out, clearly disappointed in my meek apology; he had wanted a hostile response, so he could have countered in kind.
"I say we teach him a lesson." A short, Hispanic man, who acts like he's hyped-up on meth, points a finger at me while tapping his feet.
"Down, Chapi," the third man says, laying a hand on his buddy.
"Okay, so who exactly is this friend of yours?" the red-head asks, while motioning to the bartender to bring three beers.
"Ah," I hesitate for a moment, deciding on exactly what I should divulge to them. "A friend, no actually my supervisor. His coloring is the same as your." I make a small gesture at his hair, and then take a large gulp of my drink. I need to finish it and find a way to leave.
"Supervisor, ehh." He grabs the beers from the bartender and distributes them among the three of them. "What exactly do you do?"
He's fishing for information, and my gut is telling me not to reveal too much.
"Actually, I'm on disability now, had an accident at work," I hedge, tossing down the last of my whiskey. I take the bills from the bar, leaving a ten spot for the bartender. "Well, it's been nice," I begin, as I slide off the barstool.
"You were rude to us when we arrived, and now you're being rude again," the red-head says, his tone soft, but I can still hear the underlying menace.
"You need to stay and have a drink with us," the one called Chapi tells me, and then I feel it, hard metal pressed against me. He lowers his voice to a whisper. "Stay. And. Have. Another. Drink, or you'll get it in the back. And after I'm done doing you, I'll empty my gun at the rest of the people in here."
Red raised his hand to the bartender and points to me. I risk a quick peek behind, and see the flash of an automatic stuck in my back. The third man has positioned his body, so it's hidden from anyone, who's looks over. Not that anyone would be staring in our direction; everyone's too wrapped up in their own business.
"O-kay," I say slowly, sliding back on the barstool, my mind working furiously, looking for a way to secretly indicate to the bartender that there's a problem. I look at Chapi, and see insanity reflected in his eyes and wonder if he's crazy enough to do what he threatened.
"So, what exactly do or did you do?" Red, elbows on the bar, pushes himself closer to me, looking like he's getting chummy. He smells like beer and cigars.
I don't hesitate this time. "I'm a cop," I say, hoping that the magic word cop will give them pause. "And that supervisor I was referring to is a Lieutenant."
"NYPD?" he asks before tipping his beer bottle to his mouth.
Now I hesitate, an NYPD officer would certainly have more weight than an out-of-state cop, but I could easily be tripped up in that lie, especially by three men, who probably have been in and out of the system. "Miami Dade Police Department," I finally say, playing it safe.
"Miami Dade, ehh." Red feigns disinterest, but I catch the quick looks between the three men. "And what kind of cop are you? You look kind of young, so patrol, evidence lock-up, what?"
"Crime scene investigator," I answer shortly, debating whether I should call their bluff, and inform the bartender of the gun.
"Crime scene investigator." Red tightens his arm around me and whispers in my ear. "Impressive. Now, you're going to get up off that barstool, and we're going to slowly walk out of here."
The words are barely out of his mouth, and I'm shaking my head in the negative. Leaving with them would be suicide. "No w. . . ."
"Look at my friend," he interrupts. "The one with the gun in your back."
I glance over at Chapi, who's grinning like a madman.
"He's certifiable psycho," Red continues, while the quiet one, draws circles by his head, as to emphasize what a crazy man Chapi is. "If he says, he'll kill you and as many people in this bar that he can, he means it. So, if I were you, I wouldn't tempt him."
"Killing a cop is a capital offense," I warn them stiffly, still hoping I can wiggle out of this mess by the fact that I'm a police officer.
"Yes." Red's lips are touching my ear. "But Chapi doesn't give a fuck," he pauses and then continues. "Would it help, if I told you that as long as you cooperate, we won't kill you? Just need your help with a small project."
"You can guarantee that he won't kill me?" I glance once more at Chapi, who still looks as unhinged as ever.
"You do what we ask, and I will personally protect you. I promise." Red holds his hand up like a boy scout.
I don't believe him, of course, but I do believe that he was being truthful about Chapi shooting up the place. So, slowly I slide off the stool to accompany them, wondering just how fucked I am.
December 30, 2009
Trudging along highway 9 somewhere just south of New York City, I wrap my arms around myself; I'm freezing. It's been 48 hours since I was kidnapped, and it's a toss-up on which will kill me first, the sociopaths, who took me at gunpoint or the bitter cold.
"You look a mite chilly, boy. Here, I took this from the car." A voice behind me says, and then the wonderful comfort of a blanket being wrapped around me.
I grab the ends and pull them tight and look over in gratitude. It's Red, who has come to my rescue.
"Not exactly dressed for winter." He stares at the light jacket I'm wearing.
"Well, I wasn't expecting it to be this cold, and also," I pause, as I remember the events that led to this hike outdoors.
Four of us were squeezed into an old Ford Focus, me in the back seat with Red, Chapi in front with the fourth member of their group, a man named Vig. Red had been tormenting Chapi, laying on insult after insult, until of course, Chapi snapped and pulled his gun. But instead of backing down, Red continued, daring the other man to kill him. The trigger was pulled, but not before Red grabbed the gun; it went off with the roof the of car taking the damage. But the commotion caused Vig, to drive off the road into a ditch, breaking the front axel of the car; thus, this current trek down the highway looking for shelter.
"Wasn't expecting to be spending so much time outdoors," I look over at Red, who's eyeing me with worry. Normally, it's nice when someone is concerned, but when it's a sociopath, it can be cause for alarm. "My ears are still ringing." Having a gun go off in the close confines of an automobile can be hard on the hearing.
"Yeah," Red gives a short laugh. To him the episode is amusing. "Fucking Chapi! I'll really enjoy killing him one day." He states this matter-of-factly without emotion nor regret. I'm not sure who I'm scared of more, him or the lunatic, Chapi.
"Gas station up ahead," Vig, who has the air of one who's the leader of this motley crew, yells back to us.
Hope shoots through me, as I can only pray there'll be an opportunity to secretly ask for assistance. Also, can't help but wonder if my sister has filed a missing person's report on me with the NYPD, and with any luck perhaps Horatio will catch that I'm on the missing persons' data base. I sigh silently. That scenario is highly unlikely. As far as H is concerned I'm visiting my sister and her family for the holidays; he doesn't even know that I'm in New York, since I didn't bother to tell him where my sister lived. My way of asserting my independence from him. Guess the joke's on me.
January 3, 2010
"All set?" Horatio asks, eyeing the packed duffle bag.
"Think that's everything." Kyle scratches his head and then grins widely at Horatio. He's excited. Tomorrow he sets off for Fort Still in Lawton, Oklahoma to start basic training. "I'll be alright," he assures his father. "It's time I stood on my own two feet. And after my tour of duty, perhaps I can see about going into law enforcement. They usually like applicants, who have military experience."
Horatio inclines his head in acknowledgment but quietly comments. "How about a college degree before making any firm commitments on a career path?"
"Yeah, sure," Kyle says agreeably. He knows that his dad would have preferred him to enroll in either a trade school or college than the army. But he isn't sure that education is the way he wants to go. "But that's two years from now at least."
Horatio can only nod his head again. He's not happy about Kyle's choice, but his son went ahead and enlisted without seeking his advice first. Since Kyle turned eighteen last July, there wasn't much he could do about it. Hearing his cell phone chirp, he turns to leave Kyle finish his preparations. "Yeah," he answers, his tone sharp. He's not in the best of moods.
"H?" the voice on the other line asks cautiously.
"Mr. Simmons." Horatio immediately changes his tone; Walter is not at fault for any of the current events that has blackened his disposition. "What have you found out?"
"Not much. We know that Wolfe was born in Massachusetts, but I can't find any record of a sister. I know she's older, so she must have been born in another state. Without a name, there's no way to track her down. She's married, so. . . , he trails off, hoping H won't be asking him to hunt down all women with the surname of Wolfe in the New York metropolitan area. "Who's to say if her last name is still Wolfe. Want me to keep looking?"
Horatio hesitates before answering. It had taken over a week to find out that Ryan had boarded a plane for New York. With the holidays Horatio's usual contacts had just not been available. Ryan's note had said that he would return after the new year; it was now January third, and more than likely he would be home in a day or two. It wasn't worth wasting his and other people's time.
"No,, Mr. Simmons, my guess is that he'll be back sometime this week. Don't bother yourself anymore, but I do thank you for your assistance."
"No problem."
"Happy New Year, and I'll see you in the lab later this week." Horatio is scheduled to fly with Kyle to Lawton, Oklahoma the next day, but his plan is to be back in Miami by Tuesday. Ending the call, he heaves a silent sigh. His son is leaving, and it seems that he would soon have to let Ryan go too. His ward had improved significantly over the last six months, night terrors and acting out in his sleep had diminished, leaving mostly normal nightmares in their wake. It's time to move on for all of them.
Homicide Division, NYPD, January 5, 2010
"Hey, Mac." Detective Don Flack greets the head supervisor of the New York crime lab. "Happy New Year."
Detective Mac Taylor gives his colleague a funny look. "It's the fifth of January, a little late with that sentiment."
Flack only grins; he's used to Taylor's dour disposition. "Yes, but I haven't seen you yet this new year, so it's entirely appropriate. Anyway, we're starting the year off right. Caught two of the bodega-robbing gang, who have been terrorizing and killing shop keepers for months now. Get just one of them to flip, and we can round up the rest of the crew."
"Great." Mac allows himself a small smile. "Who'd you catch?"
Flack opens a police file and begins to read. "Juan 'Chapi' Longoria, has a sheet a couple of miles long. Caught him and his partner in the act. They were taken by surprise when the old lady they tried to rob pulled out a shotgun. They're lucky, they're still alive."
"Who's his partner? Another winner, who's in the system?"
"Don't know." Flack shrugs. "Didn't have any I.D on him, and refuses to tell us anything, just asked for a lawyer."
"Really?" Mac is surprised. Usually the average criminal isn't smart enough to clam up and immediately ask for a lawyer.
"Anyway, he isn't saying anything, but Chapi's doing enough talking for the both of them, unfortunately, he talks a mile a minute, and most of what he says is incomprehensible. But Mr. I-want-a-lawyer has the look of someone with half a brain, so once his Council gets here, maybe a deal can be struck, and he'll rat out his friends."
Mac nods. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves. Once his lawyer gets here, see if we can fingerprint him. If he has a record, I want to know before we start cutting deals."
"Of course," Flack replies. After working with Taylor for more than eight years, he knows how the man operates.
Mac turns to leave, when a civilian aide approaches them. "Detective," she addresses Flack. "There's a Rachelle Nelson here, wife. . . ." She lowers her voice to a whisper. "Wife of Stan Nelson."
The name Stan Nelson has Taylor stopping in his tracks. A wealthy business man in New York, who ran in all the right circles.
"We'll talk to her," Flack says, knowing that the wife of Stan Nelson needs to be shown every courtesy.
"Mrs. Nelson," the aid motions to an attractive, chic woman. "These detectives will help you."
"Oh, thank god!" the woman approaches them, relief written all over her face. "My brother called about an hour ago, asking me to obtain a lawyer for him. I called our family lawyer, but currently he's tied up in court. I'm sure he'll get my message and be here as fast as he can. But there has to be some mistake. My brother is a police officer. How could he be under arrest?"
"Just who is your brother?" Flack asks, as he minds whirls, putting two and two together. Unknown perp is the brother-in-law of a wealthy, important New York businessman. This simple case just got a bit more complicated.
"Ryan, Ryan Wolfe," Rachelle replies. "He's an officer for Miami-Dade Police Department, a crime scene analyst."
"Wolfe!" Now it's Taylor, whose mind is whirling. "Works the day shift under Lieutenant Horatio Caine?"
"Yes, yes, Caine is, was his supervisor, but Ryan's current status is unable to perform duties. He hasn't been working for some time now. I did ask Ryan if he called the Lieutenant to tell him that he had been arrested, but his answer was that he had one phone call, and he was calling me to obtain a lawyer for him. But Lieutenant Caine has been named Ryan's legal guardian, so I'm thinking he should be informed, no?" Rachelle looks questioningly at Flack and Taylor
"I remember Wolfe from four years ago," Taylor says thoughtfully. "A good criminalist, and a good officer. What I don't understand, is why he needs a guardian?"
Rachelle sighs. "I'm not sure. Ryan doesn't talk about what happened. All I know is that he was kidnapped by the Russian mob, and afterward he must have had a breakdown because he was institutionalized for a time, and then the courts appointed Mr. Caine as his guardian."
"Jesus," Mac whispers under his breath. Any police officer, anywhere, knows the Russian mob and what they are capable of. He doesn't know Ryan's story, but he can pretty well guess what happened.
"Anyway," Rachelle continues. "I tried to contact Lieutenant Caine at Miami-Dade, when Ryan went missing. But he wasn't in, off for the holidays."
"He went missing?" Mac repeats. The tangled web just became more tangled.
"It was after Christmas. He went out and never returned. I didn't worry at first, just thought, you know, he met someone. He's young, single, and attractive, but after another day went by, I became worried. He didn't pick up his cell phone after numerous attempts, so I filed a missing person's report with your department, and also tried to get in touch with Lieutenant Caine."
"I've got it here." After Flack heard about Mrs. Nelson filing a missing person's report, he immediately went to his computer and brought the report up. "You filed it on December 30, and yeah. . . ." He peruses the photo of Ryan attached to the report. "That's our unknown per. . .suspect."
"Unknown?" Rachelle is confused. "You mean Ryan didn't identify himself?"
"No." Flack looks up from the computer. "He had no I.D. and he refused to say anything to us."
"He's not right, you know." Rachelle immediately finds an excuse for her brother. "I know he's still under a psychiatrist's care and is currently on a lot of medication."
Mac gives Flack a silent, 'I need to talk with you in private' look. "Mrs. Nelson, please make yourself comfortable." He offers her a chair next to Flack's desk. "I'm going to go and try to talk with your brother."
"You will tell him I'm here and that a lawyer is on his way?" Rachelle hastily asks.
"I most certainly will," Mac reassures her. "And afterward, perhaps you'd like to speak with him?"
"Thank-you, detective." She smiles at him in gratitude while taking a seat.
"Okay, Don," Mac speaks softly as soon as they're out of earshot. "We need to cross our t's and dot our i's on this one. CSI Wolfe is not only a police officer, but the brother-in-law of a prominent local businessman, and the ward of Horatio Caine. There's no room for error here. Call the staff psychiatrist to have him come and check Wolfe out, and make sure it's the psychiatrist and not an underling. We need a medical doctor here."
"Gotcha." Flack nods his head in agreement. "And you're going to try and talk with Wolfe, even though he's lawyered up?"
"Yes, he should remember me, so maybe a familiar face will loosen his tongue a bit. And afterward I'm calling Horatio Caine."
I hear the door open, and am greeted by, "CSI Wolfe." My head immediately jerks up at being addressed by my title and name. I hadn't told anyone here, who I am. It takes me a second or two to recognize the man, but I remember him from four years ago.
"Detective Taylor," I say, and then correct myself. "Or is it Detective-Sergeant, or Lieutenant?"
"No, still detective, and head of the crime lab here in New York." Taylor positions himself in front of me, looking down."
"I remember," I say, looking away, not meeting his eyes. I'm dead tired, haven't had a night's sleep since that fateful evening. I know I must look a wreck.
"CSI Wolfe, why didn't you identify yourself as a police officer, when you were arrested?"
I note that it's the second time Taylor addresses me by my formal title, a reminder that I'm an officer of the law, and as such should be giving my fellow officers my total cooperation. I shrug and then say. "I asked for a lawyer."
"And one is coming," he tells me. "Your sister is here in the precinct, and says that her lawyer is on his way."
"Good, good." I nod my head and say nothing more, best to keep my mouth shut.
"She also tells me that Horatio Caine is your legal guardian."
I can't help but react to that statement, as I my heads whips forward, and I finally meet Taylor's eyes.
"Want to tell me about it," he asks me gently.
"No."
"Fair enough. Would you like to call Lieutenant Caine to let him know that you've been arrested?" He holds out his cell phone.
There's a buzzing in my ears, and my whole body is shaking, no doubt from lack of sleep, food, and the winter chill in the air here, even indoors. I don't think I have enough energy to face H, even by telephone, 1300 miles away. I shake my head in the negative.
"Would you like me to call him?" Taylor asks.
This time I shake my head in the affirmative.
After showing Rachelle Nelson into the interrogation room, where Ryan is being held, Mac pulls out his cell phone to call Horatio. He just hopes that the number he has is still current, otherwise, he'd have to go and try and pull it out of Wolfe, which judging from the level of cooperation they've gotten from him so far, could be difficult. Bringing up his contact list, he scrolls through it to the name Caine, but before he can hit the dial button, Detective Flack and a well-groomed Asian man approach him.
"I not only got you a medical doctor, but I got you the A-team," Flack says, as he makes a introductory hand gesture.
"Dr. Huang." Mac is pleasantly surprised.
Dr. George Huang is a FBI psychiatrist on loan to the NYPD for his expertise in forensic psychiatry and criminal profiling. A slim, attractive man, he radiates calm and intelligence.
"If I would have known you were available to us, I would have called sooner,." Mac says with a smile. "We're honored, and also extremely happy that you're going to help us on this case because I think it's going to be tricky."
"I'm covering for Dr. Milton. After thirty years of marriage, he finally took his wife on a cruise for the holidays. He'll be back next week, so unfortunately, I won't be available to anyone and everyone in the NYPD after this week," Huang explains.
"Message received." Mac nods his head with some regret. Huang is usually only available to Manhattan's elite special victims' unit because of his expertise in profiling sexual predators and serial rapists/killers. "Anyway, I assume Detective Flack filled you in on our suspect?"
"He has." Huang nodded, as the three men make their way to a small hallway with one-way mirrors that look into the interrogation rooms.
"Officer Ryan Wolfe from Miami-Dade police department." Mac points into interrogation room two. "He was taken by the Russian mob, don't know any details, but I'm sure they're not pretty. Since then he's been on leave and under a psychiatrist's care. According to his sister, he went missing eight days ago, and today he's caught with a ex-con trying to rob a bodega. He's asked for a lawyer, and one is coming. I'd like you to question him, see if. . . ."
"If he's lawyered up, then I shouldn't be questioning him," Huang interrupts.
"I don't think I'm making myself clear," Mac continues. "I'm not looking for an interrogation; I'm looking for a medical assessment, both psychological and physical because the man looks shaky. If there's a obvious mental or physical problem, I want to do right by him. Because if we don't, we'll have to not only answer to his prominent brother-in-law, but also to his legal guardian, Horatio Caine, who is a Lieutenant in the Miami-Dade police force. He's a good man, good police officer, but I don't want to be put in the position of having to explain to him why we didn't get medical help for his ward."
"I've heard of Caine. I remember when he worked for the NYPD as a homicide detective back in the 90's," Huang says, as stares through the mirror at the young man, who probably would be handsome with a shower, shave, and a hot meal. "Just be advised, I tend to side with the victim if there's any, and I mean any psychological trauma. Even though I'm a consultant for the NYPD, I have, at times, testified for the defense. Do you still want my involvement?"
"Actually," Mac says, "in this case, I hope you do end up testifying for the defense."
The buzzing in my ears has turned to a dull roar, and I fight to maintain control. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see my sister, looking more than worried. I wish I could reassure her, but speaking, moving, even thinking is currently a gigantic effort. The door opens and three men enter. I recognize the two detectives but have no idea who the third man is.
"Detective Taylor." My sister immediately jumps up. "May I get Ryan a soda? He'd like one, and I don't think he's had anything to eat or. . . ."
"I'll get him one." The detective, who interrogated me when I first arrived, tells her. I believe his name is Flack. "Any particular kind?" He looks over at me.
"Get him a coke," my sister answers. "It's what he likes, being a caffeine addict."
"Be right back," he says and exit's the room.
"Ryan," Detective Taylor addresses me. "This is Dr. Huang. He's a forensic psychiatrist and criminal profiler. I've asked him to check you out. Is that alright?"
I'm finding it harder and harder to speak as the roaring in my ears is getting louder. I'm tired, hungry, thirsty, and my head feels like it's going to explode. I manage a slight nod, and then croak out the word, "Horatio?"
"I'm going to call him right now," Taylor tells me, pulling out his phone and walking over to the other side of the room.
"Ryan." Dr. Huang stares at me with assessing eyes. "I've been told that you went missing over a week ago. Have you been taking your medications?"
I manage another head shake, signaling no, while my sister instantly speaks up. "His medications were left at my house, which also has me concerned because I know he hasn't been taking them."
"That is a problem." Dr. Huang briefly looks over at her and then his gaze returns to me. "Ryan, can you tell me what medications you're on?"
My mouth tries to form the words, but as hard as I struggle, nothing comes out.
Dr, Huang waits patiently and then turns to my sister. "Would you be able to have someone bring his medications here to the precinct? It's crucial that I know exactly what he's on and the dosages."
"Yes, yes, I call our housekeeper. Give me a moment." Almost frantically, my sister digs in her purse for her cell phone and hurries to the other side of the room. Instinctively, I make a grab for her, as she leaves the table. She's the one familiar face in a sea of strangers.
Huang immediately notes my reaction. "It's okay, Ryan; your sister isn't going anywhere. May I touch you?" He extends a hand but doesn't make contact.
I nod my head, even though I so want to put my hands to my ears to try and drown out the roaring. He lightly encircles my wrist with his fingers, just as Detective Flack comes bursting through the door with a can of coke in one hand. Half-throwing it in front of me, his attitude is brusque and all business.
I concentrate on the coke can, telling myself that once I have a couple of swallows, I'll feel better. My hand shakes violently, as I try and reach for it. I can't seem to grasp on to it. Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes, willing myself to take hold of it.
Huang's soft voice penetrates the roaring, as I hear him say, "Detective Taylor, we need to get him to a hospital now." He doesn't wait for any kind of answer but quietly asks me if I can stand and walk, or if he should call an ambulance.
I start to get up but my trembling causes me to be clumsy, and I stumble as I rise to my feet. In hindsight, I realize that Detective Flack meant well as he reaches to grab me, but he's slightly rough, and that's the straw that breaks the camel's back. Adrenaline kicks in, overcoming my weakness, as I push him away and then attack. A part of me can hear the yelling, and my sister calling my name, but my control is gone, and the roaring in my head has overcome me.
Hands fasten on me, and my arms are pinned behind my back. My head is pushed down hard on to the table, which causes me to black out with my last rational thought; Horatio will be so disappointed in me.
Trinity General Hospital, New York City
Handing the cabbie a fifty dollar bill for a thirty dollar cab ride, Horatio swings the taxi's door open and shivers as a blast of artic air hits him. All the years he lived in New York City, he doesn't remember it ever being this cold. Taking long strides, he hurries to the hospital's main entrance.
Unbuttoning his jean jacket (unfortunately, he doesn't have a winter coat, since he came directly from Lawton, Oklahoma), he makes sure his Lieutenant's badge and gun are in plain view. He had taken a partial retirement/disability from the NYPD back in the 90's, so he could still legally carry a gun in New York. Stopping at the information desk, he obtains Ryan's room number, and despite it being on the fifth floor, he elects to take the stairs. Taking two at a time, the exercise helps calm the hundred of thoughts that are whirling around in his head, ever since Mac Taylor had called.
Approaching the room that information had given him, he sees a doctor about to enter, reading a patent's file, no doubt checking test results. Without any hesitation, Horatio grabs the file out of the doctor's hand and continues into the room.
"Hey!' the doctor protests, following him in. "You can't do that! The patient's medical information is confidential!"
But it's too late. Horatio has already skimmed Ryan's information.
No drugs or alcohol found in his system
Suffering from dehydration
Multiple contusions
Broken ribs
Possible sexual assault
It's the last piece of information that accelerates Horatio's heart rate and raises his blood pressure.
"Doctor," Horatio pauses a moment to check the man's nametag. "Daniels. I am this man's legal guardian, and therefore, have every right to know his medical information. Now. . . ." He surveys the room, noting the four other occupants besides an unconscious Ryan, who's handcuffed and restrained to a hospital bed. "I want you out!" he says this looking directly at Mac Taylor. "And who exactly are the rest of you?"
"I'm Rachelle Nelson, Ryan's sister." Rachelle immediately steps forward. "And this is my attorney, Mr. Glassberg. Ryan specially asked me to obtain a lawyer for him."
Horatio gives a nod of acknowledgement, thankful that at least Ryan had been smart enough to ask for an attorney. "What exactly are the charges against him?" he asks, purposely keeping his gaze averted from Taylor.
Although puzzled by Horatio's hostile attitude, Mac maintains his cool. "Armed robbery and assaulting a police officer."
Taylor's last charge has Horatio's head jerking around, and their eyes finally meet. "Just who did he assault?" All of his worst fears for Ryan are materializing.
"A detective Flack," Mac says matter-of-factly. "Horatio." He extends an olive branch. "I certainly don't want to be at odds with you. My guess is that his medical condition will exonerate him and the charges will be dropped. So. . . ."
"At this point, I'm not willing to have the NYPD privy to any of his medical information. After I've heard his story and talked with the doctors and Mr. Glassberg." He gives the attorney a brief glance. "I'll decide on how we will proceed."
"Fair enough." Mac gives Horatio a nod. "Come find me, when you're ready to talk," he says and quietly leaves the room.
"This is Dr. Huang." Rachelle makes the introduction. "He's a psyciatrist, and. . . ."
"He works for the NYPD," Horatio interrupts. "Dr. Huang." Now his attention is directed at the doctor. "If you breathe to anyone that Ryan has so much as a hang-nail, I'll be reporting you the Office of Professional Medical Conduct, and. . . ."
Now it's Rachelle, who interrupts. "It was Dr. Huang, who told the police detectives that Ryan should be in the hospital and has been very helpful in trying to figure out Ryan's medication. He was off his meds the eight days he was gone."
"Lieutenant," Huang speaks up. "I do not work for the NYPD. I am an FBI doctor."
"I'm well aware of who you are." Horatio faces him, hands on hips. "But you represent the other side, and. . . ."
"I represent my patients," Huang says firmly. "My first and foremost duty is to them. Now as a psyciatrist I can tell you that when Mr. Wolfe attacked that police officer, he was suffering a breakdown. He was no way responsible for his actions." He returns Horatio's stare, remembering the talk about Detective Caine back in the 90's. An excellent police officer, his one weakness, a short and volatile temper. Huang sees that Lieutenant Caine still has his temper, it's just more controlled.
"And I repeat myself, I don't want any of Ryan's medical info given to NYPD. Can you go along with that?"
"Giving NYPD the facts on his medical condition would only help his situation. I don't understand why you would withhold this information?"
"I have my reasons." Horatio is no mood to explain himself, especially to a man he's suspicious of.
"All right." Even the placid Dr. Huang has to count to ten before continuing the conversation. "You say you're his guardian. I would like to see documentation of this before I just accept your decisions regarding Mr. Wolfe."
Mr. Glassberg and Dr, Daniels are shaking their heads in agreement, but it's Rachelle, who removes any doubts. "Ryan did tell me specifically that Lieutenant Caine is his legal guardian. He was institutionalized spring of last year and was deemed incompetent by the courts."
"I have letters of authority from Miami-Dade Circuit Courts." Horatio tells them. "I'll have my lawyer fax a copy of the document here."
"Fine." Dr. Daniels is satisfied. "I'll send in an aid with the fax number, and I'll have her make copies for everyone. Now, am I still needed, or are you going to allow Dr. Huang to be the doctor on record for Mr. Wolfe?"
Horatio considers a few moments. His temper has abated, so he's able to think rationally instead of emotionally. He knows of Dr. Huang and his reputation, a well-respected psyciastrist within the medical and the law enforcement communities. "Okay." He gives Huang a nod. "But only if you recognize that I'm the one in charge."
"I can," Huang replies. "But will you explain your reasoning by keeping NYPD in the dark? If they had the medical facts, the charges would more than likely be dropped."
"I don't want to give them any information until I have all the specifics. Has Ryan said anything to anyone about what happened?"
Rachelle is shaking her head in the negative. "He said nothing to the police, except ask for a lawyer. And when I was allowed to sit with him, he refused to talk, thinking that someone was observing us."
"I want to hear his side of the story," Horatio repeats stubbornly, "before any definitive action is taken. Mr. Glassberg." He turns to the lawyer. "Can you arrange a bail hearing and have Ryan released into my custody?"
Mr. Glassberg hesitates, looking over at Rachelle, who nods slightly, signaling that it is okay.
"Alright, Lieutenant, " Dr. Huang says, just as a aid enters the room, piece of paper in her hand with a fax number of the fifth floor. "Perhaps you can help me now? I'm trying to make head or tails of the Mr. Wolfe's medications, but it would be helpful if I knew some of his medical and psychiatric history. Perhaps you can fill me in."
"I'll do you one better," Horatio replies, pulling his cell phone out of his jacket pocket, while taking the fax number from the aid. "I'll get a copy of Ryan's medical records from his psyciatrist in Miami. Would that be satisfactory?"
January 6, 2010
Entering the luxury suite of the Ritz-Carlton hotel, I can't help but roll my eyes. "I think my sister went a bit overboard," I say to Horatio, happy to break the stoney silence that had prevailed since this morning, when I woke up to find him in a cot next to me in Trinity General. My sister's paying for our accommodations despite our protests. Rachelle may have a mild-mannered appearance, but she somehow usually gets her way.
"She obviously does well for herself." Horatio says, as he opens one of the bedroom doors and throws a small travel case on the bed.
I notice that she had reserved a suite with two bedrooms (and a full kitchen), naturally being ignorant of our bed sharing. The bed sharing though is a matter of convenience, not sexual. If I have one of my episodes and start wandering around the house, Horatio is immediately alerted and can wake me before I burn the house down, take a stroll in the street and get hit by a car, or cause any other catastrophe.
"She married a rich man," I reply as I throw myself down on the sofa. "Stan came from money and since he's finished college, he's made more money."
I look up to see H studying me, his head cocked. I know what he's thinking. "I didn't ask them for financial help when I had been fired from MDPD because my sister had already given/lent me money in the past. When they found out about my gambling habits, they cut me off. I don't blame them, so even though at that time the money wouldn't have been for gambling, I still couldn't ask them, since I lost their trust."
Horatio makes no comment on my explanation, just says that he's going to take a shower and shuts the bedroom door. Appropriate, since he's been shutting me out since he arrived. I'd prefer an angry H, lecturing me and giving me the look, instead of this distant one, who barely speaks to me. Not that I blame him. He had been in Lawton, Oklahoma when he received the call from Detective Taylor, seeing Kyle off to boot camp. And now, he's here in New York, digging me out of another disaster.
I sigh, wondering if anything's on the TV worth watching or. . .another thought suddenly struck me. My wallet with my money and credit cards had been taken by the pschyo gang, so I need to cancel credit cards and dispute any charges those goons ran up. I grab my lap top which is sitting in a pile of my stuff, which my sister had thoughtfully sent over. Setting it up in the work station that's located between the living room and small kitchen, I plug it in and boot it up.
Logging into my bank account, I'm shocked to see that all of my accounts, credit cards, savings, checking have been closed out. I automatically dig into my pants' pocket for my cell phone, when I remember, the goons had taken that too. Another matter I'll have to deal with. Grabbing the hotel's phone, I dial the number of Dade County Credit Union. Exactly eight minutes later, I'm rushing into Horatio's room. He's just exiting the bathroom, towel around his waist from a shower.
"Thanks for taking care of my credit cards, but you didn't have to close all of my accounts. So, where's my money?"
He says nothing for a few minutes, taking his time to dress. When he gets to his shirt, a button-down, he says in a mild tone, "when you need money for something, you can ask me. I transferred everything under my name."
His reply has me speechless because even though, the courts gave him power over my fiances, he had never exercised that power. . .until now. I look at him with disbelief. "What? I have to ask you for anything I want or need, like a kid asking for an allowance? That's bullshit!"
"That's the way it is now," he says, manner still calm.
"No! No!" I pace a few steps. "Why are you. . . ?" Then it hits me; perhaps he's looking for a way out of this mess. "H, I know that caring for me has been a burden, a big one, and I know that you'd like to get back to Kyle in Oklahoma, and back to MDPD. So, why don't you renounce your guardianship and leave. If the courts here decide I need a guardian, I'll have my sister. . . ," I trail off. He's not looking happier, in fact, his expression has become even more remote.
"That," he tells me, "is not going to happen."
"H, I really think our," I pause, wincing inwardly at the term relationship, too imtimate, but there's no other word which fits. "Relationship should come to an end. You need to go on with your life, and I. . . ."
"I repeat myself," he interrupts. "That is not going to happen. And if you talk your sister into taking me to court, I'll win. You're a resident of Miami Dade County, so I don't think the New York courts will want to interfer with their edict. Unless, of course you're planning to become a New York resident." The look on his face is hard, and it says, 'I dare you.'
My temper boils, and I'm just about to shout back that that's exactly what I'm going to do, when common sense whispers in my ear. I hate New York, have no desire to live here, and I don't want to burn my last bridge with MDPD. I still hold out hope that one day I can return to work. So, for once I keep my mouth shut, but I do stomp out of the room, and head for the suite's main door. Slamming it, I head for the elevators and hit the button for the ground floor. I exit into the hotel's lobby.
Now I'm a bit nervous, as I look over my shoulder for H, picturing him dragging me back forcibly, but he never shows. Guess he knows that there's nowhere I can go, no money, credit cards, or winter clothing, as I notice for the first time that's it's snowing heavily. Sighing, I meander into the salon adjacent to the lobby and throw myself into chair next to an outside window. I haven't seen snow since I was a kid. I have no idea how long I sit there, my mind replaying the confrontation I had with Horatio, when a familiar voice interrupts my brooding.
"Hey, Ryan, what are you doing sitting here?"
"Dr. Simmons?" I'm surprised but pleased. "You're here in New York?"
"Horatio called me," he says, taking a seat next to me. "Said that you and he were going to be stuck here for a time, and that a Dr. Huang is going to take over your care. I spoke with Dr. Huang, who wanted a copy of your file, but. . . ." He shrugs. "Just not practical to send over a file the size of a, well, its equivalent would be a weighty tome."
He smiles at me. "I suppose he and I could have hashed things out over the phone, but I wanted to have a chance to check on you myself. And hey, who doesn't want to see lovely New York in the middle of a blizzard?"
"You are kidding, right?" I look out the windows again. The snow is piling up, making a mess of the streets and sidewalks. It's pretty, when one is sitting inside, warm and comfortable, but I remember having to shovel it as a kid, didn't think it was so pretty then.
"This certainly is a nice place." Simmons glances around the opulent hotel. "Looks quite pricey. Just how does Horatio afford the Ritz-Carlton on a lieutenant's salary?"
"He doesn't." I slouch in my chair. "My sister paid for a suite, a two bedroom suite, so there's plenty of room for you. Her husband's worth millions," I quickly add.
"Nice," Simmons comments. "Anyway, are you down here watching the snow fall?" He nods toward the huge windows that line the wall and overlook central park.
"No, I'm down here because I had a disagreement with H." Talking about the incident renews some of my anger. "He took over all my money. If I want something, I have to ask him for it. So, what? If I want to go and buy myself a hanburger, I have to beg for money, my money? It's not right."
Simmons says nothing for a moment, as he divests himself of his heavy coat. "Perhaps he took away access to your money, so you wouldn't buy yourself another plane ticket again and disappear to parts unknown. Rather thoughtless and careless on your part," he admonishes me gently.
"So, you know about that?" I slouch further down in my chair.
"Of course. Horatio called me the day you left, asking if I knew where you were or any information about your sister. You left him a note saying you were going to spend the holidays with her, didn't give a name or address. The man has been caring for you for almost a year now, and you repay him by just taking off."
I sigh. Dr. Simmons' chastisement has me seeing the situation through Horatio's eyes. Shame begins to replace the anger in me. "It probably was the stupidest thing I ever did," I admit. "And that's saying a lot because I have done numerous stupid things in my life. But I felt better, and I guess just wanted to assert my independence, but in the end the joke was on me."
Simmons gives me sidewise glance, as his eyes are fixed on the hotel's windows, watching the winter scene outside. "It was bad, wasn't it?" he asks.
I know he's referring to my latest trouble. "Yeah," I answer shortly, as memories of being held captive by the gang of thugs come flowing back. I immediately clamp down on them, don't want to think about it and especially them.
"I'm sorry," Simmons replies with total sincerity. You know, if I wasn't a man of science, I'd swear you were cursed by something or someone. A tornado hits in the greater Miami area, and you get sucked up in it; a gang of thugs is looking to kidnap someone in the city of more than eight million people, they pick you. You attract trouble like a magnet."
I can't help but smile slightly. Simmons gentle humor is like a soothing balm on an open wound.
"Anyway, I haven't eaten since this morning before I left for the airport, so how about you show me where I'm laying my head tonight, and we'll order room service. It's on me, so you don't have to ask Horatio for anything. And then we can talk some more. Sound alright to you?"
I nod my head and stand, wincing as my broken ribs remind me that I'm still rather frail physically. Simmons' notices and looks at me sympathetically. His mere presence has made me feel like my world isn't crashing down anymore.
Checking and rechecking the hospital records and Dr. Huang's notes, Robert Simmons heaves a huge sigh, as he glances over at Ryan, who has fallen asleep on the couch. His patient, who had been making such promising progress, just took ten steps backward, and said patient was being rather reticent about this newest tragedy. Using a second pad of paper, he jots small reminders of issues he needs to discuss with Dr. Huang and/or Horatio.
Thinking about Horatio, he chuckles. He would have loved to have been a fly on the wall, when Ryan was insisting that the guardianship be dissolved. As a psyciatrist he is all too aware of Horatio's control issues, and the mere hint that Ryan wanted him to give up the control. . .well, Simmons could only imagine the expression on the Lieutenant's face. The door of their suite opens and the object of Simmons' musing enters with a bellman, pushing a luggage cart filled with bags and boxes.
"Guess, you went shopping." Happy for the interruption, Simmons rises from the desk to help unload the cart. "Nasty day for that activity."
"I'm a true New Yorker." Horatio gives Simmons a slight grin. "Bad weather means nothing to us."
"You haven't lived in New York for what? Fifteen years or more? Are you still a true New Yorker, or are you now a south Floridian?" Simmons asks, as he peeks into a few of the bags that are now piled up in the kitchen counter.
Handing the bellman a twenty, Horatio sees him out and then glances over at a sleeping Ryan. "Did he talk to you at all about the kidnapping?"
"No, he very carefully stayed away from that topic of conversation." Simmons begins unpacking the bags that held groceries. "Guess you're not planning on ordering a lot of room service, " he observes. "Which is probably smart because I ordered dinner for myself and Ryan, and when the waiter handed me the bill, I was close to telling him that I'd have to go wash dishes to pay for part of it."
Immediately Horatio starts digging in his pocket for his wallet. "Let me reimburse. . . ."
"You're not going to give me any money, Lieutenant," Simmons interrupts. "I'm getting quite a bargain being able to stay in this beautiful hotel for free, so don't worry about it. As Ryan's psychiatrist, I don't want to see his care compromised by anything I did or didn't do, because, unfortunately, Ryan is managing to do that all on his own."
Sighing, Horatio can only agree with that assertion, as he begins putting away the grocery items that Simmons unpacked. His respect for the doctor rises, as he sees that Simmons is not only highly intelligent but very observant. "How badly did this latest incident set him back?" he can't help but ask.
"Hard to tell when he won't talk about it. The fact that he won't talk about it is not a good sign."
"And the sexual assault? Did that happen or not? The doctor at the hospital wasn't sure."
"I read the hospital report, and at this time all I can say is it's inconclusive, until Ryan tells us what happened. But I'm also concerned about his physical health. You need to push fluids with him, and I don't mean coke and coffee."
"The hospital did give me some dietary instructions at discharge because of his dehydration." Horatio pulls out a bottle of wine from one of the bags. "A glass?" he offers.
"Yes and make it a big one." Groceries put away, Simmons sits himself down on a stool at the breakfast bar. "Also push him to eat and to eat healthy because in the world of Ryan, French fries and ketchup are vegetables. He was underweight before and going eight days without eating didn't help."
Pouring two glasses of wine, Horatio hands one to Simmons. "I'll do what I can."
Simmons nods his head and takes a sip of wine. A few moments of silence as the two men enjoy winding up the day with a libation. "And how are you, Lieutenant?"
Horatio takes a minute to respond. He doesn't like answering questions about himself, even innocuous ones. "I'm okay," he responds cautiously.
"I hear your son just went off to boot camp. That plus this. . . ." Simmons gestures toward Ryan. "Situation probably has you stressed. It's important to take care of yourself in times like these."
"I'm used to stress." Horatio cocks his head and stares at Simmons, trying to determine where the conversation is heading.
"I know you are, but you are human." Simmons knows he's pushed enough, and it's time to back off. "As a doctor, my prescription for you is get enough sleep, eat well, and do something for yourself now and then." He stares back at Horatio for a moment before getting up to go back to his work.
Taking his cue, Horatio starts for his bedroom. There are still numerous matters he needs to tend to. Reaching the door, he pauses and turns to Simmons. "I don't know if I thanked you for taking the time to come here to New York. I know you being here can only help Ryan. And as far as doing something for myself, this is it." He points to over to Ryan. "I do this as much for me as for him."
I'm trying to run, but it feels like there's lead in my legs and feet and the mounds of snow are ice cold and impeding my movement. Every step takes all my energy and willpower. I turn my head and see them, the men in ski masks. But this time there are others with them, but my vision is blurry, so their features are impossible to make out. I return my attention back to my body, as I catch myself from falling. My heart pounds in my chest, and there's a roaring in my ears. I'm so out of breath; I can't even call out for help.
I picture myself finally giving up and falling to the ground. The mass would overrun me, grabbing, biting, mauling, and. . .suddenly a figure appears in the distance. Hope surges in me, giving me the shot of energy I need to keep going. He's slim with red-hair, and now my spirits are soaring because it's Horatio, here to rescue me. Veering to the right, I head in his direction, but as I draw close, I hear a voice yelling.
"Ryan, over here, over here!"
I turn my head to see the identity of the voice, and my heart drops when I realize it's Horatio. By then it's too late, as I've now closed in on the man I thought was him. I try to skid to a stop, but that action clashes with my forward momentum, and I end up falling at the man's feet. Looking up, I see Red, lighting a cigar, gun in his hand. Horatio is still yelling my name, and I try to call out to him, but my mouth opens and nothing comes out.
"Ryan! Ryan!"
His voice finally penetrates into my consciousness, and I come to, lips still open with silent screams.
"Ryan, wake-up, buddy. You're okay; nothing is happening to you."
"Fuck," I manage to gasp out, as my eyes start to focus and I can see that I'm still in our suite at the Ritz-Carlton, lying on the floor, right at the door. H has one arm around me, holding me down, and Dr. Simmons is standing at the breakfast bar, looking shaken. I'm shivering with cold even though the suite is a comfortable 72°.
"Oh my god!" I raise my hands to my head, my eyes filling with tears. They're back. The nightmares, which I thought I exorcised, are back.
"Bring him to the couch," I hear Simmons tell H. "I'll check him out."
Horatio gently hauls me up and over to the couch and then wraps a blanket around me. Putting fingers on my wrist, Simmons checks my pulse and then comments to H, "his heart is racing."
Horatio begins to move me in a prone position, but that causes me to cry out in pain and wrap my arms around myself. "His ribs," he astutely tells Simmons.
"Lift up his shirt," Simmons instructs. "With all his thrashing around, something might have moved. I need to check that his broken ribs didn't puncture anything."
Horatio slowly rolls up my tee shirt, and the sight of my chest and abdomen discolored from bruises and welts have them exchanging looks.
"Okay, Ryan." Simmons stands over me, hands softly running over my rib cage. "You're okay. Would you like something for pain?"
I nod my head, still panting hard. Horatio readjusts my shirt and then slowly maneuvers me so I'm being supported by the arm of the couch. "I was better." I manage to garble out. "No nightmares for," I stop and think. "Over two months, and now. . . ."
H says nothing, as he kneels beside me, resting a hand lightly on my collarbone while Simmons returns with a bottle of water and a couple containers of medications.
"Okay, Ryan. I'm going to give you something to relax you, and also a double dose of pain meds, so this combination will probably knock you out," he says as he hands me the bottle of water and three pills. "Hopefully, this will help you sleep soundly with no nightmares."
I nod my head and don't protest when Horatio assists by holding the water bottle for me to drink from. My hands are shaking so much that I barely can get the pills to my mouth.
"Ok, Ryan, now open your mouth," Simmons says, still standing over me.
I automatically obey, wondering if Simmons is checking to make sure I really did swallow the meds because he examines it thoroughly, even asks me to lift up my tongue.
But I'm in no mood or shape to argue, so I obediently do what he says, and then push myself down so I'm lying flat.
"Ryan, I'm going to take you in the bedroom, where I can keep watch over you." H puts a hand on my shoulder, signaling me to get up off the couch and follow him. I nod, as I get to my feel. I can feel the pills starting to work their magic. With H holding on to me, I stumble to his room and half-fall on the bed. I feel the covers being drawn up over me, and then blessed nothingness.
Standing in the bedroom doorway, Simmons watches Horatio pulling the covers over Ryan. "I'm starting to believe that Ryan was not assaulted."
Straightening up, Horatio's head snaps around, his expression questioning.
"The hospital report says that he had no tearing or damage to the anus. By seeing all of his bruises and contusions, I presume that if he had been raped, there would certainly be signs of physical trauma. I checked his mouth looking for signs of oral rape, but his mouth is clean, no swelling, bruising, or cuts."
"That is a relief," Horatio says thankfully.
"But even so," Simmons continues, "his physical injuries are a testament to how brutal his kidnappers were."
"Yes." Horatio's mind switches to detective mode. "And when they beat him, they made sure it was on the body and not on the face or forearms, where it would be noticed."
"Good point, so what does that mean?" Simmons asks.
"That, Sir," Horatio drawls out, "is yet to be determined."
In this series, my aim for each chapter is eight to ten thousand. Well, I'm over 10,000, and I realized that I have a lot more story to tell, so this chapter will be broken down in two parts. I have started part 2, but I'm sure that I won't be posting it until after the New Year. So, happy holidays to everyone in advance.