Disclaimer: The Closer and its characters are the property of their respective creators and owners, James Duff, Warner Bros. and TNT. No copyright infringement is intended.

Spoilers: Heavy for episode 507 "Strike Three"

Author's Note: I know it's going slow but I hope you guys bear with me.

Chapter Two:

Strike Three

Brenda had almost forgotten, yet when she stood in the middle of her crime scene and turned to face Raydor who had appeared there out of thin air, Brenda's body did remember quite vividly what response it had better have when confronted with the woman.

Brenda couldn't help it, Raydor was just somebody she could barely look at without feeling her heart pounding within her chest and her hands shaking because her blood was boiling and pulsing in her veins, leaving her feeling weak, feverish and dizzy.

The fire was back, ignited by the woman's mere presence.

It was late, it was cold, emotions were running high, and Raydor decided that it must be a good idea to waltz right into Brenda's space like she did. There was tension in the air; Flynn and Provenza, who were police officers through and through and felt a deep connection, a brotherhood with every other member on the force, were upset and angry, rightfully so.

Two officers of the LAPD had been killed in the line of duty, shot to death in the streets, left to die.

And Raydor thought that if she talked calmly enough, if she used big enough words, everyone would be alright with the fact that she had waltzed in there and had decided to question those officers' conduct.

Brenda was very aware that she was the only thing standing between Raydor and the lynch mob that would undoubtedly tear into her if the chance arose.

And yet, when she felt the woman's frustration mingling with her own, her even, short breaths joining hers in crystalline clouds, as she had to force herself to look the woman in the eye and immediately felt the repercussions, a wave of heat warming Brenda from the inside out, she knew that she could not deal with that.

She could not deal with that now and she knew, she saw, she felt, that Raydor was thinking the exact same thing.

It was the Whitner case all over again.

Just much, much worse.

Stealing evidence, withholding it, interfering with an ongoing investigation, and this time, Brenda thought, Raydor was the one obstructing justice, not her.

Arguing with her over every tiny, little technicality, over every single step taken along the way, was exhausting and it was wearing down Brenda's defenses.

And defenses she needed. The woman kept following her, tailing her, shadowing her, not to be outsmarted or worse, kept out of the loop and Brenda was doing her damned hardest to never end up alone with her. It had become her secondary mission. Fact was that Brenda couldn't think when Raydor was sneaking around; she tried blaming it on the mass of people occupying her murder room, they certainly weren't helping, but Raydor was doing a whole lot of different things to her.

"Let's be clear," the woman said, "under the best of circumstances leaving this car behind as a lure for Ted Kretshner guarantees a confrontation of some sort with police officers already lathered up into an angry mob. Have you thought about the consequences?"

Standing in front of Mrs. Kretshner's garage, Raydor's voice dropped to barely above a whisper, was the very first instance Brenda contemplated laying a hand on the woman. She wanted to reach out, put her hand on her throat and prevent her from questioning her methods further. Despite what Raydor thought, she was not capable of doing Brenda's job better than Brenda herself and once that woman would realize that, things would go decidedly more smoothly.

"Yes. And if we end up having to shoot this killer then the crime scene will be all yours, Captain."

When Brenda walked away because it was all she could do, her hand was shaking.

They were all cooped up in the observation room, staring at Ted Kretshner and Stomper, his partner in crime.

Unfortunately, the oh-so-pleasant Mr. Kretshner had resisted arrest and had ended up with what would soon turn into quite the shiner. He complained about it, had asked for a doctor and of course the oh-so-correct-and-by-the-book Captain Raydor had insisted that the time was perfect for a Use of Force investigation.

"Does anyone really think I wanna go in there? Anyone?"

Brenda didn't have to contemplate the question to know that the answer was 'no', plain and simple. In that moment she admired Raydor a little bit; Brenda's job involved bending the rules sometimes, it was necessary but for the proper execution of Raydor's job it was required that the rules were being followed and the woman did just that with rigorous attention to detail.

Even if that meant she had to read a suspect his rights and ruin every chance of getting another word out of him.

Ted Kretshner was a despicable human being, filled with hate and contempt, on his very own self-righteous mission that was both senseless and a waste of time, yet Raydor was adamant that he had the same rights as every other human being. Brenda had to admit that she was right – pretending not to see things was how Raydor had come to be there in the first place and it wouldn't do to have this case thrown out of court on a technicality.

A new plan formed in Brenda's head as she watched the Captain read Kretshner his rights; her voice was deadly calm, precise and quiet. She spoke slowly and evenly and Brenda knew from the little experience she had had with the woman that the slower, the calmer she spoke, the bigger the inner turmoil.

Raydor was disgusted.

Just like everybody else.

But Raydor did her job to the best of her abilities and not some half-assed version of it when she didn't like the set of rules she had to adhere to.

Of course that didn't mean Brenda had to be a fan of said set of rules as well. She went into every investigation with an open mind, not guilty until proven otherwise, the truth will set you free and so on but Raydor, she went in assuming the worst and that was morally questionable in the worst of ways.

Getting ready for a funeral took a lot of time when you were a police officer.

First Brenda took out her shoes and shined them the way she had learned as a little girl from her own father who used to shine his shoes almost every evening when he came home. She had been, and still was, very proud of her father, a retired Captain of the Army.

Next she took out her uniform and laid it on the bed; she took the plastic cover off, donned the pants and the shirt then the belt holding the holster for her gun, leather pockets for two additional magazines and a pocket at the back for the cuffs. She then clipped the tie on and fussed with it for about two whole minutes. After that, she checked the two stars on each side of the collar signifying her rank then adjusted the two ribbons, one a commendation, the other the Community Policing Medal.

Her nametag, Johnson, it simply read, was clipped on as well and Brenda couldn't help but trace her finger her own name several times as she stared at herself in the mirror.

From a little box she took the Sharpshooter Medal she had qualified for a couple months ago and pinned it to the pocket of her shirt – next year she would try for an Expert Medal. Brenda took a little extra time for her badge, polishing it with a soft cloth. She sat on the bed for a while, just looking at it and thinking about the officers that had been killed in the line of duty.

It was so utterly senseless…which was a gross understatement.

It could've been anyone.

Brenda shook her head and put the badge in its place, close to her heart then she pulled her hair back in a bun sitting low enough on her head so she could still wear her cap. Her shined shoes gleamed when she put them on.

Then she took her gun, a Glock, and holstered it.

Leaving the house, her cap securely under her arm, Brenda felt a certain pride warming her from within. The blues alone gave her a sense of belonging which she hadn't felt prior to joining the police force back in Washington D.C. – the first time she had put the uniform on, she had known why her father had always been so proud to wear his own.

Sometimes Brenda got made fun of still even though she had earned the respect of many of her colleagues and subordinates but most of the time, she just didn't strike people as the typical police officer. The truth however was that Brenda felt deeply connected to the job she had chosen and the people she was serving the community with.

She felt humbled even.

Brenda loved her job and she wouldn't be doing anything else even if she could have her pick; she may come across as obsessed and too driven but there was more to it than the simple need to figure it out, to complete the puzzle because every time Brenda closed a case, she knew she had made a difference. She couldn't right the wrongs that had been committed but she made a difference and that was what kept her going.

Somebody had to do it.

"Chief Johnson."

Brenda halted in the middle of the corridor on her way to meet her squad and turned slowly. Captain Raydor stood before her in her uniform, hair pulled back, cap under her arm, shoes shined, and looking very proud indeed.

"Cap'n Raydor."

It was an open secret among friends and family that Brenda had a sort of weakness, a soft spot, for men in uniform...and as it turned out, she seemed to have a weakness for women in uniform as well or rather for one woman in particular. For a moment Brenda's mind went blank and she forgot all about who Raydor was and just saw a woman of integrity standing before her, a beautiful sight.

"I see you've met your deadline," Brenda said for lack of anything else to say.

"Yes," the woman responded, a sense of relief in her voice. "Officers Stern and Duran have been completely exonerated."

The blonde felt her badge burn through her uniform as she looked at Raydor, the woman who picked the other side whenever she had to choose between the PD and whoever else.

"And because of the way Force Investigation Division operates I'll be investigatin' the deaths of more good cops just like them."

"…excuse me?"

"When officers are shot and killed in the line of duty, they're investigated by me. When they shoot back they're investigated by you." Brenda saw Raydor falter for an infinitesimal moment and knew instinctively that the woman had had that same thought way before her. "That means they'll think twice before defendin' themselves. That hesitation means that more good cops will die. I have to ask, have you ever considered what your principles might cost?"

Raydor gave a small nod. "70 million dollars. That was the settlement in the Rampart case. One hundred. That's how many convictions were overturned due to renegade policing and lack of oversight in one division alone, not to mention the loss of trust the LAPD needs to remain effective…"

There were always two sides of the coin.

"There has to be a better way."

"Well," Raydor said quietly, agreeing in a sense, "until then…you've got me."

Brenda felt the anger dissipate as she saw, for the first time, utter honesty in Raydor's eyes, a glimpse behind the mask, a glimpse of the real person underneath. "You're going to the funeral?"

"Yes," the woman replied, a small smile creeping onto her lips. "And don't worry, I've got my own car."

In the end, when Brenda was watching Raydor walking down the hallway in her uniform, she was left with a sense of respect for the woman and a sour taste in her mouth.

Everyone upset over the rules blamed Raydor. She was probably the least liked, the most despised person on the force, the force Captain Sharon Raydor seemed to love, and hold up to a higher standard. It was that standard she was trying to defend.

Somebody had to do it.

Brenda refused to feel bad for her though, after all, Raydor had chosen this for herself.

They weren't all that different, were they?

Too bad.

She was somebody Brenda could've actually liked.

~TBC~

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