Warnings: Violence. Lots and lots of violence. Strong language. Disturbing situations. OOC-ness. Possible timeline issues I hope you won't notice. Not beta-read, as always.

Part XXXIII: Leatherman

Part I

Chief Forrester Henry, the head and heart of May City's New Central Branch, had gone through life gritting his teeth because his first name was a better last name than his actually last name was. He'd sent back or cut up dozens of membership cards and credit cards because the names were switched. He'd had the same conversation with a million operators. "Yes, I know that Henry is usually a first name, but it's my last name. And yes, I know that Forrester is usually a last name, but it's my first name. Please understand I can't use my credit card because this isn't my name and it doesn't match with my ID and the store manager is threatening to call security so could you please give me a break?"

Detective Nicholas D. Wolfwood (who knew the man better than most) always joked that the problem with Henry was that he was a teddy bear pretending to be a badass. With one too many beers in him, Wolfwood would say that he blamed Henry's dramatics on his seeing one too many buddy cop movies where the chief was always a screaming, grizzly old fart who cursed up a storm and threatened to take badges every episode. In the face of such a precedent, a guy who spoiled his daughter and cooed at his grandson could start to feel a little pressure.

"Okay, boys and girls," Henry said in what was his best attempt at being stern. In the main meeting room, and spilling out into the cluster of desks beyond, officers of every description stopped joking and arguing to listen. There was the unmistakable air of mischief hanging about all of them.

"Right, right. Quiet it down. I'm sure you all know that today some new trainees will start workin' with us. If you're going to be trainin' one of them, you know already 'cause I sent you the memo. If you didn't get the memo it's probably 'cause you're too stupid to keep track of your shit. If that's the case your ass is grass and I'm the lawnmower. And I'm guessing from that stupid grin on your face that you, Officer Warsaw, don't have the slightest idea that you'll be trainin' a new officer?"

The grin fell off Warsaw's face.

"Thought not," said Henry. "I'll be seeing you after the meeting."

Someone made the buzzing sound of a lawnmower starting. Warsaw squirmed.

"But enough about Warsaw's demotion, let's talk about the new guys. First off, this station is notorious for giving the trainees a rough time."

Snickers sounded through the room.

"Yeah, yeah, it's real fuckin' funny," Henry said, glaring at everyone. "You guys get your kicks and I get shit for it."

A cop in the back shrugged imploringly. "Come on, Chief, all of us got the same treatment when we were training!"

Darby nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah, my T.O. used to leave underwear in my locker. Women's underwear."

"Don't blame that on your T.O.! Those lacy ones are still in there!" someone shouted back.

"What the hell are you doing in my locker!"

"Can we stay on track here, people?" Henry interrupted. "We were talkin' about how nice and kind you're gonna treat the scr—new officers."

"See, Chief! Even you can't help it! They're new; they deserve to be picked on. We're just...following tradition!"

Henry rubbed his wrinkled forehead. "Tradition, eh? Well some traditions have got to end. These are good guys: high marks at academy, spotless records. The last thing I need is for you clowns to 'break 'em in' the hard way. So you're gonna treat 'em proper. You're gonna treat 'em real nice. This means I don't wanna hear you callin' them 'scrubs' or 'rookies' or 'frosh' or 'fresh meat' or—"

"How about 'fuckin' kids?'" Warsaw called from the back.

"No," Henry said.

"Fishies? Errand Boys?"

"No!"

"Walking targets?"

"Hell no!"

"Did he already say we couldn't call them 'scrubs'?"

"Yeah, but he didn't say we couldn't call them 'bitches'."

"He didn't say no to 'bait' or 'canon fodder' either."

"Dammit!" Henry seethed. "This is it! No insults or nicknames or...anything! Treat 'em decent, follow?"

"Yes, Chief," the room replied in the vocal equivalent of crossing your fingers behind your back.

Henry looked skeptical, yet desperate to believe all at the same time. "All right, let's greet them...nicely."

The minute the door opened there was an enthusiastic round of applause that anyone could see was tainted with the aroma of condescension. The applause gave way quickly to raucous calls of "Here, fishies!" and "Scrubs!" Henry slapped his forehead.

There were ten officers in all, each one more fresh faced than the last. There wasn't a beard or even the trace of stubble on the men. No makeup hid a thing on the faces of the women. They were too young to have anything to hide. Their uniforms were so unstained and crisp that one could imagine dirt running away from them and hiding in fear. All ten of them looked nervous, but maintained perfect academy posture that most everyone in the room forgot until it was time to attend a ceremony or a funeral. A few of the more self-conscious veterans tried to stand up a little straighter.

"All right. Let's have some introductions," Henry said, flipping through the papers on his worn clipboard. Alphabetically he called out names and one by one the new officers stepped forward and gave a brief introduction, trying to ignore the loud sniggers and conversations swirling all around them. Henry had just made it halfway down the list when a disturbance at the back of the crowd alerted everyone to the presence of one popular police detective.

"You're late!"

"Sorry, Chief, but the DA waits for no man!" Wolfwood fired back and eventually made it to the front of the room, tie out of place and hair artfully ruffled.

He propped himself against the edge of a desk, crossed his arms and waited. "Don't let me interrupt," he said. Henry tried to look putout, but it wasn't the best attempt. "I need to see you after the meeting, Detective."

"Sir, yes, Sir!"

"Smartass," Henry said and continued with a forced, "Ahem!"

As he called out the names, Wolfwood let his eyes drift over the gathering of men and women. There was a short brunette with green eyes and charming baby fat. Definitely datable. Then there was a caramel colored willow of a girl with flashing brown eyes. When she spoke, it was with a purring voice that made Wolfwood think of a snuggling kitten. Several clicks past datable.

Henry made it to the second to last name on the list. "Vash Saverem," he said and a tall, blonde scarecrow stepped forward. Wolfwood's girl watching came to a surprising end as he listened to the officer speak.

"I'm Vash Saverem. I'm looking forward to working with all of you," he said seriously, but it was obvious he was biting the inside of his cheek, as if a joke was fighting its way up his throat. The corner of his lips twitched and he stepped back hastily. Red with the effort not to laugh, Saverem's eyes caught Wolfwood's and for just a minute, Wolfwood imagined that he got the joke, too, and that the two of them were sharing it while everyone else stayed in the dark.

Saverem looked down and Wolfwood suddenly found that he couldn't have told anyone what had made him chuckle five seconds before. The last officer in the line stepped forward and gave a much longer introduction that Wolfwood didn't hear at all because he was still looking at Saverem. He couldn't figure out why. After all, he was just a skinny guy with hair too long to have been regulation at academy. He was just another fresh fish in the big police pond, but Wolfwood got the impression that he was different. He wondered exactly why that was.

Introductions out of the way, everyone applauded and then dispersed, the Training Officers moving forward to snatch their trainees before the sharks of the department could sink their teeth into them and begin the hazing.

Wolfwood watched the activity from a distance, shook his head, and wandered off to Henry's office. It wasn't his concern. He only looked back over his shoulder once. Or maybe twice.

Not his concern at all. He'd probably never even meet the guy.

"Nick! My boy! Come on in!" Henry boomed and pulled a chair out for Wolfwood. Wolfwood darted distrusting looks from the chair to Henry and back. It was as if he expected the chair to explode at any minute.

"Who are you and what did you do with the Chief?"

Henry forced a laugh. "Oh, you kidder!" he said and shoved Wolfwood with an unnecessary amount of force into the seat. He eased into his own chair, clasped his hands together at the desk and smiled sunshine down on the detective. "Nicholas, have I told you how much I appreciate how hard you're willing to work for this city?"

"Whatever it is, the answer is no."

The smile intensified, painfully. "You're an invaluable member of this team. You always go the extra mile. Even when you're case load is fit to burstin'."

"I'll bite off my own tongue and bleed to death before I say yes."

Henry's fingers flexed almost imperceptibly on the desk. "I've never seen an officer so willing to give up hard earned vacation time and holidays in order to help the force out when it's in need!"

"Your windows are high enough. I will jump."

The smile crumbled. "You're a Christian! Suicide goes against your whole...whatever!"

"I can make an exception."

"Nick! Please!"

"Can you remember the last time I had a vacation?"

Henry frowned. "Er...no."

"Neither can I!"

There was a staring match that neither man won. Finally, the Chief gave a massive sigh and looked genuinely needy. "I can hit you with a sob story that will break your heart."

"Watching my vacation get stolen away is already doing that."

"But I'm only askin' you to do this because it's...er...a good cause. Very...er...noble."

"You have ten seconds."

Henry tried not to look too hopeful. "Burke had a heart attack while fixing the roof of his house. Fell right off and broke his leg, too. We've got his eleven cases to pass around. One of them is tied up with the feds, three of them are going to trial and..." He shrugged helplessly.

Through clenched teeth, Wolfwood asked. "What cases were you thinking of sending my way? All of them?"

"Not at all! Just two homicides and coughaserialkillercough."

"What was that?" He cupped his ear and sat forward. "Didn't quite catch that."

A sigh and then, "Another nutty serial killer. Leatherman. The Leatherman case. Burke requested that you take over. He's got more wires hooked up to him than the Channel Seven Tower and he looked at me with these pleading, intense eyes and he says, 'Get Wolfwood on Leatherman. I don't want any one else on the job. He's the only man I trust!'"

Silence and then, "He didn't say any damn thing like that!"

"No, but it was implied. He did ask for you. I just added a coupla fluffy things to make it sound better."

Wolfwood sat forward and propped his elbows on the desk. "Chief, I don't want to go in your book of whiners, but I've got to say: there were seven serial killers active in May last year. I've helped catch two of them and now we're down to five. Can I get a vacation before I sew on another Boy Scout badge for catching the criminally insane?"

"Nick, listen," Henry said and shifted his bulk around. "I'd love to give you the time off—Lord knows you deserve it—but when the detective in charge of the case has a major heart attack and asks for you to take it and you've got a nice reputation for catchin' guys like this and I said I'd get you...you gonna make a liar outta me?"

Wolfwood scowled at him but it lacked any real venom. "If—if—I were to agree—"

"Thank you!" Henry interrupted with a genuine smile of relief on his wide face.

"I said if," Wolfwood snapped.

"Oh, right. Sorry."

Wolfwood didn't look convinced by the apology and said, "If. If I take the case, we're talking a lot of perks."

"What kind of perks?"

"Well...have I mentioned this car I've had my eye on?"

Henry's expression was poison. "You're going to be a bastard about this, aren't you?"

Wolfwood yawned and then a Cheshire grin spread across his face. "Yes, I really am. It's a beautiful car and I just can't afford it without a little help. And don't get me started on the vacation time I'll be missing out on again. But Leatherman...Leatherman...I don't know a thing about that case. I've been too busy with Brookside and Bay Bridge to notice anything else. So everything I need to know will be...?"

Burke looked torn between irritation and relief. "On your desk soon as you finish visiting Burke. If the poor bastard's up, he can tell you what you need to know. If he ain't, happy readin'." He reached under his desk and retrieved a blue tin. "And give him these. Wife made 'em. I think they're chocolate. With the wife's cookin'..." He shrugged. "Could be shortbread gone wrong."

"I like Sally's cooking."

"That's 'cause you're still young. The effects are cumulative. Get to be my age and you'll run in fear."

Burke looked like hell. Wolfwood told him so.

"Thanks," the man gagged out. He was sitting up and surrounded by machines that all seemed to beep and flash. All around were flowers and balloons. Wolfwood added his to the collection.

"Oh, and I brought you some cookies from Sally. I think they're chocolate."

"She's a sweetie. Find a spot. Stick 'em anywhere. An' have a seat."

Wolfwood did so and then smiled at the other detective. "Can I get you anything?"

"Nah, I'm fine. 's funny, but I hate the doctor most when he's right. He's been tellin' me for years to change my wicked ways before they got the better of me. Now look at me, surrounded by machines; like something from a Spielberg flick."

"Hey, you're still alive."

"That what you call this?"

They both shared a sad smile and then spoke of other things. Burke had been watching the news and teased Wolfwood about his new celebrity status. Wolfwood told Burke all the station gossip including the fact that the new recruits had come.

"Anybody interesting?"

Wolfwood opened his mouth, words on the tip of his tongue and then he thought better of it. "Nah, same as always," he lied.

"The place could use a little shaking up. Shame, isn't it?"

"Yeah. Damn shame." Eventually, they were able to bring the conversation around to business.

"Leatherman, what's he all about?"

Burke shook his head but it took effort. "He's pretty sick, but not too smart. That's why it pisses me off that we can't find him. Victims are all young; usually rich boys into the Leather scene. He keeps them—like pets or somethin'—for weeks at a time. Then he panics, kills them off or leaves them to die."

"Witnesses? Something like this has gotta—"

"You'd think that, wouldn't ya? But no, the victims aren't the only ones with money and reputations. Way I figure, nobody comes forward to say, 'Yeah, I saw him with so-and-so on this-and-this day' because they're protecting their own, precious, filthy rich necks. But like I said: he's sloppy. We get a good witness who can give us a solid sighting and I think he'll be ours."

Wolfwood nodded slowly. "It's weird. You know, I feel like I'm coming up from having my head buried in the sand. I went home the other day and looked at this stack of papers in my doorway and realized I hadn't looked at any of them. Can't remember the last time I read a paper at all. I've been so wrapped up with my own cases, I didn't notice anybody else's. How the hell did somebody like Leatherman who's killed—how many victims?"

"Oh, at least 13 but maybe as many as 20."

"That many? Like I said: how did I miss something like that?"

Burke raised a weak hand and slapped Wolfwood on the shoulder. He barely felt it. "Don't beat yourself up. After all, you're gonna get to know him pretty well soon enough. In a way, I'm almost glad I had a heart attack. I'm already sick of the bastard myself."

Sometimes people snap. Today was Grant Durer's day.

At six o'clock in the morning, Durer was in traffic on a wide highway that really wasn't anywhere. All around him were cities, but this road wasn't part of them; it stretched between them, looped around them, merged with two other highways, and changed names four times along the way. He took it every morning.

Today he was wedged behind a semi tracker trailer with a sticker that asked "HOW'S MY DRIVING?" but the phone number to call and complain that his driving sucked was missing. Behind him was a station wagon that had seen better days. Rust and dents were displayed across its body like battle scars. Bundles of sleeping bags were secured by bungee cords on top. Stuffed alongside them was an ancient cooler and what looked like a broken bag of metal bars and umbrellas. Durer stared at it through his rearview mirror, trying to figure out what it was. He had time, after all.

A tent, he realized ten minutes later. It was a collapsed tent propped up alongside the cooler. The driver just hadn't put it back together properly and now it looked like a busted pterodactyl if he squinted at it. Putting on the clues together, Durer figured that the driver of the wagon must have been going on a trip. Or maybe coming back from one. Some nice long, relaxing vacation in the woods with no one to bother him. Maybe he'd go hunting or fishing and spend all day getting brown in the sun. Durer, though he had never met him, hated the driver of the station wagon from that moment on. Durer remembered liking hunting. He'd been in the hunting club in college but couldn't remember the last time he'd gone.

He drummed his fingers on the wheel and wondered why his forehead hurt. Had he really given it more than a passing thought, he would have noticed that it was from frowning. He had been frowning, in fact, for five years.

Three years ago, the tic had started. It was just below his right eye and went off like a trigger at least once every minute. He didn't notice it when he chewed gum, so he smacked like a horse all day long. His gum chewing bothered his wife and worse, it made his jaw ache. But now he couldn't go without it. He chewed gum like other people smoked. If he couldn't find his brand at the convenience store, he got angry.

He turned the key in the ignition and crept forward five feet, then he turned if off again. Somewhere far ahead of him, someone leaned on their horn.

"Shut the fuck up before I come over there and make you shut the fuck up!" he screamed out the window and then flopped back into his seat. The horn went silent. His head was throbbing now and his jaw was so sore he felt it all the way to his teeth.

Last night he had met with some of the boys from work. There was Randall who had been with the company as long as him, had only ever received two raises in that whole time, and whispered obscenities at the management team behind their backs.

Then there was Chuck, who was even older than both he and Randall, was openly hostile to the management team and freely used obscenities to their faces. But they couldn't fire him. He had seniority, handled data entry like he had invented it, and could train the newcomers better than anyone else. Besides, firing him would mean having to promote either Randall or Durer to take his place. Near as Durer could tell, they would never do anything to help him get ahead. But Chuck would never move any further either, punishment for being so good where he was. Chuck, Durer and Randall. The three of them were the running joke of the company. Durer could look back on his life now and realize that a lot of bowing and scraping didn't advance your career or your life; it just meant that some bastard would see you bowing and scraping so well and decide you should do it forever. Here, Durer, you're so good at taking orders, Durer thought bitterly, mimicking his supervisor's voice in his mind, why don't you bend over that desk there and take it up the ass while you finish the numbers from last month?

Durer sometimes imagined punching his supervisor. It cheered him up just a little bit every time he did it.

Over smokes and brandy last night, the boys had bitched like pros. And after a few bottles, Durer got the feeling that they had talked about some pretty crazy things. Crazy, crazy, crazy things. He remembered something feeling like a cold block of fear in his belly and then melting into something alive and hungry. The rest of it was a haze.

One hour of stop and go traffic later, and Durer made it to his office. He didn't really think about it, but his duffel was heavier today. He made it to his cubicle inside the rented office space on the sixteenth floor, blandly greeted the other employees nearby, and then folded his big body into his chair. When his bag hit the ground, it clunked and thudded in a way that paper and folders never did.

His headache was worse now than ever. He downed a couple of aspirin (he'd started taking them like candy around the same time he started chewing gum), and turned on his computer. At the rate he was going, he wondered when the hole in his stomach would appear and if it would kill him before he could do it himself.

Just after lunch, his supervisor called him into his office.

Twenty minutes later, Durer returned to his cubicle but he didn't sit down. He stood near his chair staring down at nothing. He was still standing there five minutes later. And then ten minutes later. Finally he looked around and saw Randall and Chuck looking at him with wide-eyed worry. Everyone was, actually.

He laughed at how stupid Chuck looked with that cheesy mustache and his eyes as big as plates. He laughed at how Randall looked ten times younger when he was scared. He laughed and laughed and laughed.

And then he reached down, lifted his duffel onto his desk and unzipped it slowly, lovingly, like he had undressed his wife on their wedding day; back when she still bothered to look at him at all.

The police got the call three minutes later.

The autumn days were still warm and the weather readers dropped the phrase "Indian Summer" daily, like a hot potato.

Officer Vash Saverem wanted to laugh, but he kept it to himself. More than two weeks into his job and it still tickled him: His Training Officer was a big, old softie.

His name was Cooper (Marvin Cooper, but had stopped answering to his first name some time after he got his badge). Cooper had become a cop because he'd watched a TV show in middle school about a lost little girl, complete with teddy bear. Career Day, he said with a Santa Claus glint in his eyes. The little lost girl had been in tears until she saw Officer Friendly. Officer Friendly had been a cute blonde in a short, short skirt, Cooper said. But more than the nice set of stems, she had helped the little girl find her mother as if by magic. Cooper said it left a big impression on him. He even had a copy of the video and had showed it to his son and daughter in hopes that they'd catch the fever. Unfortunately, he said, his daughter had seen "Mulan" and wanted to be a warrior. His son wanted to be a pirate and now ended every sentence with "Savvy?"

He was considering banning Disney flicks from the house.

Vash liked the guy. Cooper cringed when someone cursed, thought Mr. Rodgers was a Saint, and admitted to having a weakness for cookie dough ice cream. After too long around the tough-acting, meat-eating, angry guys at academy who did what they did because they thought they were supposed to, Vash was glad to meet someone who hadn't turned into an action movie star the minute he got his badge.

The only drawback, Vash realized, was that Cooper sugarcoated everything. His beat was pretty soft, he had admitted to Vash within their first hour of meeting. And if anything too bad happened, more than likely it was a drug sale and then it wasn't his territory anymore after the initial stop. Cooper patrolled around West Avenue from where it stretched south to Eaglebright and then east towards Roderick. The whole area was a nesting ground for insurance offices and stockbrokers. There was a lake and a park nearby and the greenery spilled over into potted plants beside revolving glass doors and well-trimmed trees lining the strip. There seemed to be a franchise coffee shop on ever corner. It wasn't the concrete jungle one expected from May. It was the ball pit of the McDonald's.

Even traffic here was pretty tame though five miles in either direction—off every major exit—was hell. Most people rode the highway in from the suburbs and worked in the heart of the city. They parked somewhere close and then spent their days taking cabs or the subway or buses. Pedestrians in business black hustled from place to place everywhere Vash looked.

"What time is it, kid?" Cooper asked in his mellow tenor.

"Just past noon, sir."

"You hungry?"

"I could go for a coffee," Vash answered and added, "and a donut" in a whisper.

"What was that?"

"How about that shop over there?"

"Oh! Good choice! They have bagels! They'll toast them for free, too!"

The squad car angled into the parking spot and Cooper hefted his body out. "You stay here. I'll run in. What do you want?"

"Just a coffee. Lots of sugar, lots of cream. And some donuts, if they have them."

Cooper shook his head. "'s Guys like you who give us all a bad name. Well, it can't be helped." He waddled through the door and it swung shut behind him.

Vash leaned back and thought about his day so far. Officially, he wasn't in training anymore. After a soft two week with the most intense event being a DWI that turned violent, Vash had lived through his first morning as a police officer. Cooper would still be with him for the next week or so, but his job as T.O. was over. Vash was excited and nervous all at the same time. He still felt what he had felt for a long time: that he had a pair of big shoes to fill. And because of that, he wanted to make everyone proud, wanted to prove himself, wanted to do the right thing. Part of his mind squirmed uncomfortably and he had to face facts.

Sometimes, he worried. It wasn't enough to knock him off course, but when he stepped back and looked at his choices from a distance, like studying a painting, they didn't really look like his own. Instead, it looked as if he had jumped from square to square like a chess piece being moved around a board by someone else. The whole time he had been doing it—going to police academy, burning the midnight oil—it had seemed like what he wanted, had seemed right. It still did, but sometimes he wondered what he'd be doing if things had gone differently.

He jumped, startled. He still hadn't gotten used to the radio. It clicked on with a static stab before a droning voice cut it off. "All officers near the thirty-three hundred block of Roderick..."

Vash poked his head out the window to stare at the nearest street sign.

31st and Roderick. Two blocks away, he thought just as the door beside him opened.

"Donuts and coffee," Cooper said around half of a toasted bagel.

"No time," Vash answered and kicked the sirens.

Being first on the scene is rarely—if ever—a good thing. Gruff cops in their favorite bar with take a long drag from their cigars and a longer drink from their beers and tell you that all the shit that goes wrong—all the things that come out funny when the forensics team starts poking around—all ends up blamed on the officer that kicked the door down in the first place. They'll tell you stories of split-second decisions that turned out to be the wrong ones because what a scene looks like when you first get there is never what it looks like five hours later with yellow tape surrounding it and the bodies turning cold and rank beneath the black light. And later, they'll say with a snarl, when the attorney asks you what you were thinking when you fucked up so royally, you'll have to say that you made a simple mistake and, most likely, the jury won't believe you.

Vash and Cooper were first on the scene. Two officers swimming through a sea of panicked employees streaming from the building and into the street like an army on the retreat. They crashed into each other, trampled the ones that fell.

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!" Cooper cried as he tried to fight the tide of bodies. He and Vash were actually pushed further back away from the entrance with their struggles. "This is impossible!"

"There's always another way into a building," Vash hollered back and veered off to the right, cutting in front of the mob. They found a side entrance, a little smaller than the main gate, when they rounded the building. Inside was an abandoned guard station and a metal detector that roared when the two officers passed beneath it. Nobody came to stop them. They split at the elevators.

"I don't suppose you'll object if I...?" Cooper said and gestured to the elevator with an embarrassed expression.

"I'll take the stairs. No problem. Actually," he said and gave Cooper's spare tire a considering look, "I'll probably beat you there." He took off at a run before Cooper could retaliate fairly.

"Blasted fresh fish!" Cooper mumbled and then hit the up button.

Vash was thinking as he took the Spartan stairs at a dangerously paced run. The numbers painted on each landing marking the floors seemed to be counting up to something terrible and he didn't want to think about that being the case but they were first on the scene. First on the scene was never a good thing.

When he reached the eleventh floor, he could hear the gunshots. He was breathless by the time the number sixteen surged before his eyes. Leaning back against the heavy door leading to the corridor, he took a few deep breaths, felt his heart rate slow, and then pulled his piece. Safety off. Another gunshot sounded and somebody screamed loud enough for Vash to hear it through the door. He leaned against the handle, pushed the door open with the small of his back and swung out into position. He was in a narrow hallway with offices on either side and an elevator at the end. What was left of the big windows that had made up half of the wall blocking off the offices was on the floor, glass littering the ugly beige carpet. The entire place smelled a little too much like the academy shooting range.

Vash crept forward, put his back against the wall and leaned forward just enough to assess the scene. What he saw made his blood turn cold. A big man was holding a Colt .45 to the head of younger man who was on his knees facing Vash, his hands behind his back. Execution style, Vash thought.

In a corner to the right, more than a dozen people were cowering with their hands to their ears or holding onto each other, crying. Another armed man—thinner and mustachioed— stood before them, screaming at them to shut up. He kept darting nervous glances between the man with the Colt and a body on the ground. "This ain't no good, man! You hear me?" he said. "You've lost yo mind! You shot David. What the hell did David ever do?"

"Shut up, Chuck! Shut the fuck up and watch them!" the big man seethed.

"Man, man...this is bad. What the hell am I doin'? What the hell am I doin'?"

"Shut the fuck up or I'll shoot you, too! Just shut it!"

One of the hostages moved. "I said don't move!" The tall man's finger twitched on the trigger and the gun went off. The hostage rolled onto his side, holding his leg to his chest. "My leg, God, my leg!"

"I said don't move! All of you, back against the wall!"

Over the panicked sounds coming from the hostages, Vash could hear a steady monologue. "Do you think you can treat people anyway you want?" the big man said and shoved the gun hard into the back of the other man's head. "Do you!"

"Please don't kill me. I've got a wife..."

"Yeah? Well so do I, you little punk bastard. Can't even support her like I want. Can't do anything for her and you know what? It's your fuckin' fault. Can't get ahead 'cause you won't let me. You...you...you think you can just step on whoever you like. You treat people like shit and use them and then kick them to the curb when you're done and I'm tired of it!"

"Just shoot him already! Get this over with!"

"I said shut up!"

Vash shifted back out of sight and tried to think. Now wasn't the time to think about how insufficient academy training was turning out to be. Now wasn't the time to complain that a few weeks with a softhearted Training Officer on the easy beat had done diddly to prepare him for a hostage situation. Now was the time to remember the words his Sergeant had said to his class that first day at academy:

Don't be a hero. Heroes end up dead.

He nodded to himself. Yes, now was not the time to play hero, either. Now was the time to figure out how long it would take for the other units to arrive. Now was the time to control the situation long enough so that the hostages would last until they did. He tried to kick his brain into gear, to make it work like the brain of someone who had been doing this for years, not someone who had been doing this for days. Unfortunately, nothing brilliant was coming to his mind. Worse, he got the nasty, nasty feeling that if he didn't do something soon, there would be very few hostages left for the backup to save.

At about that same time, he realized that his position was bad. Very bad. The gunmen could get a great shot at him if he moved even a foot to his right, but his view would be blocked by cubicles. He barely had a place to take, couldn't move without making a sound, didn't have a clean shot that wouldn't put the hostages in danger and was really beginning to think that his first day as a cop was the worse one in the history of the world.

Things weren't looking to improve, he realized with a sick plummeting feeling inside his stomach. He looked down the hallway to the elevator, to the lit numbers above the doors saying that the elevator was moving up, up. Four floors away. Three floors away. Damn.

While he had a little cover from the barrier wall, the elevator was right beside the entrance to the office. There was no cover from that position. In fact, anyone coming off the elevator would be standing directly in front of the guy with the Colt. When Cooper came through, he'd be a sitting duck.

He had to do something. And no, he thought, now was not the time to be a hero, but it might just be the time to be a human diversion. He took a step to his right. The tall gunmen caught sight of him.

"Cops, man!"

"Fuckin', fuckin'...just...just...leave me alone!" the big man said. His voice was pained and halfway between a sob and a scream.

A bullet flew past Vash's ear and a framed painting on the wall beside him shattered, raining glass down onto him. Vash went into a crouch, bit back a gasp, and tried to hold his position without becoming Swiss cheese.

"This is the police. Put down your weapons. I just want to talk to you."

"No, no, no!" the same hurt voice screamed. Each 'no' was punctuated by another bullet. More glass rained down. Someone was whimpering. Vash tried to ignore the glass that cut into his face on the way down.

Up ahead, the lights above the elevator flashed on the number 16. There was a pause like eternity as Vash moved, trying to distract, trying to give Cooper a chance, trying to do something right. And maybe, just maybe, his Sergeant would say he was just trying to be a hero.

The elevator door gave a cheerful ding and slid open.

Cooper stepped into the hallway. Like a rookie, Vash thought in the half a second interval before everything went to hell.

"Get back in the elevator!" His voice sounded quiet and far away. Cooper looked like he was barely moving at all or moving through air as thick as tar. When the bullet hit, he whirled from the force of it, his big body pirouetting almost gracefully.

A sick splatter of blood painted the wall behind him.

Vash was already moving, hunched over and cringing at the sound of bullets coming too close. He made it to Cooper, dragged him down and back, away from the entrance. The guy was heavy, but Vash was running on adrenaline. He shuffled the last few feet back to safety, shifted the unwieldy body in his arms and then down onto the floor. When he looked down, he saw Cooper's blood spreading across this chest, a slick, heavy weight of red that seeped through to his skin. He closed his eyes and tried to block out the double imprint—one right now and the other from his childhood. All the blood. Everywhere.

No. That was then and this was now and he was here to stop things like that from happening ever again and he'd be damned if he'd lose after all this time.

He swallowed and opened his eyes.

There really wasn't time to think anymore. At academy, they told him to take out the biggest threat first.

He spun, kneeled, raised his gun, fired twice. His view still wasn't the best, but his aim always was. A lifetime of training to do this.

The man checking the hostages crumbled like a marionette with the strings cut when his kneecaps couldn't support him anymore. The blood that soaked his dress slacks looked black. When he hit, his gun tumbled from his fingers.

"Fuck! My legs! My fuckin' legs!"

Vash moved again, ducking back behind the barrier in time to avoid a round of shots. He did a little mental math. No sounds of a reload and no Colt held that many bullets. There was another gunman. But where?

He looked down at his Training Officer. He could still see the slow rise and fall of his barrel chest. Good sign. Just hold on...

"Hey, Coop, you still with me?" he whispered.

"Rookie...hotshot," Cooper coughed back.

Vash managed a chuckle even as he swallowed hard and looked away from the red stain spreading beneath his body. "Keep your shirt on. You wanna eat that bagel, right?"

He waved his arm before the entrance and let out a long breath when a bullet barely missed it. He knew more than enough now because, really, sound was a wonderful thing. He pulled up onto his knees, twisted his torso to the left and squeezed off another two shots. Someone screamed. He dropped back down.

Two down. One to...

"Don't you come near me! I'll do it! Don't think I won't! This bastard deserves it! He wants to fire me! Take away everything! He...they all deserve it. I can't win! I can't get ahead!"

Vash peeked over the barrier, through the jagged frame of broken glass and cringed. The man who had been on his knees was now up, being dragged back, a meaty arm wrapped around his neck and the barrel of the gun pressed to his temple. Wet, helpless tears ran steadily down his cheeks.

Vash stood, moved to the entrance and into the office, glass crunching beneath his feet. "Okay," he said and was surprised his own voice sounded steady. Inside was worse than he had been able to see. There were at least four people, either dead or dying strewn across the floor like discarded toys, their white shirts and crisp skirts and slacks stained red. "If you put down your gun, we can talk. I just want to talk."

"Drop it! Stop moving! Fuckin' stop moving!" the big man screamed, veins rising beneath his skin. His eye was twitching steadily above his fleshy cheek and the muscle at his jaw flexed rhythmically.

The hostage cringed and made desperate little panting noises when the barrel pushed harder against his face. "Durer! Durer! Please don't! God, help me!" he cried out.

"I'm tired! I'm so tired!" the man named Durer said pitifully. "Don't come closer!"

Vash halted again, opened his mouth to say something—later, when he tried to think about it, he couldn't imagine what it would have been, probably more meaningless, pleading words—but they never left his lips. Never got the chance.

One of the hostages had decided to be a hero.

And maybe his Sergeant had had a point because this wasn't good at all.

He was a lanky guy with shaggy brown hair. He didn't move with much finesse, but he slammed into Durer's back with enough force to send both him and the hostage tumbling forward. The gun slid off and away from where it had been pressed. Durer's finger pulled back reflexively. The bullet left the chamber while the gun was still sliding and the angle sent it whizzing one inch from Vash's ear. He went sideways awkwardly and slipped on the bloodied carpeting. Everything happened in seconds. Vash looked up. The impossible tumble of bodies before him was like the children's game, Monkey Pile. There was no order to the limbs splaying here and there. Vash's quick eyes lost track of the gun.

All three men hit the ground. The hero scrambled off first and looked desperately around at his feet, searching for the gun.

"Sir, back away!" Vash heard himself scream as he staggered to his feet. The man looked up at him then, puzzled. He looked, for a minute, as if he was about to nod. Instead, he went down when his side exploded. Close range.

The hostage from before was clawing his way from underneath Durer, his leg twisted at a strange angle and his foot lifelessly dragging behind him. "God help me God help me God help me," he gasped, fingers stiff and talon-like as he tried to save himself. Durer had rolled onto his back and was still clutching the gun in both his shaking hands. The hero's blood made an angry mask on his crazed face, his eye still spastically twitching.

"Please! Drop the gun!" and it was more of a plea, something his Sergeant would have never approved of, but what could he do when the choices were so few and so ugly?

"No!"

Durer rolled again, ending on his knees, one hand bracing him while the other lifted, aiming the gun at the man who had started the day as his supervisor, but now was just another thing in the way, another reminder of the fact that while some people have bad days, he had been having a bad life.

"I'll never, ever, get ahead," he whispered. His finger started the short, ever-so-long ease back. When the flesh of his thigh tore into shreds, he went sideways. He didn't scream; merely toppled over like a building with no supports, with nothing left to hold it up.

But he didn't release the gun. Laying on his side, head cradled against his arm, he stretched it forward, reaching for one last thing. The end to something.

"Help me oh God oh God!"

"Never. Get. Ahead."

"Please stop," Vash whispered, wishing that he couldn't see the tendons in Durer's wrist shifting as his finger moved...

"Never."

The last shot fired that day crashed through the silence, lingered, and then faded away.

"God help me help me," the supervisor continued to chant long after someone—albeit not God—already had.

Vash dropped to his knees and bowed his head.

He was still kneeling there like a man at prayer when they found him less than five minutes later.

"Officer down! Officer down!" someone cried into a radio. "Get that gurney over here, now!"

A woman was sobbing loudly. "He...he...he just went from cubicle to cubicle! Shooting! He was crazy..."

No, Vash thought. He'd just had a bad day.

"Are you hurt?" A hand landed on his shoulder.

Vash didn't look up. "No," he said, but it was a lie.

To Be Continued...

Thanks to all! Many apologies for the delay in the update. Ask me about my alien abduction!

Ahem. Right.

Up Next:

When he walked through the station, people looked at him with expressions he tried to pretend weren't half fear, half awe. The ache it caused was made worse by the conversations he heard all around him. Conversations where captains and sergeants and hardened beat cops called men and women he had graduated with everything from 'Kid' to 'Rookie' to 'Scrub.' Always playfully. Always with a smile.

But those same officers nodded at him, respectfully. Reserved and cautious. Tiptoeing around him, afraid to say or do the wrong thing.

And no one—absolutely no one—called him 'Rookie'.

No one, in fact, called him anything but 'Officer Saverem.' Officer Saverem.

And while his fellow graduates probably envied him for the instant respect he had received, he would have done anything to be treated just like them. But one day—one infinitesimal moment in his life—had destroyed every chance of that. He wasn't like them now. Different and weird till the last. As always. And no one understood.

No one.