Okay, it took a bit longer to update than I thought it would, so I'm planning on future updates every 1-2 weeks. If I get them done sooner, then that's a pleasant surprise! I hope someone out there is still reading. Even if there's not many readers or interest, I'm having a good time writing it and I plan on writing more. I love this fandom and don't want to give up on it. I'm always looking for new story ideas so if anyone has any to give away, please drop me a line.

A warning on the language. Some profanity present.

Chapter 9

Reed hiccupped as the air shot out of his lungs from a solid punch to the solar plexus. He balled his fists into the rough material of his attacker's jean jacket, and they both crashed backwards to the floor.

Nearby, Walters ducked out of the way of a swinging pool stick as another man jumped on his back and wrapped his arms around his neck.

"Damn it!" Walters cursed, reaching back to grasp the man by the arm as he dropped down to one side in an effort to dump his unwelcome piggy-back rider.

The man lost his grip and Walters, whirling around, pushed him forcefully in the chest. The man flew back onto a pool table, rolling off of it in an ungraceful somersault.

"Reed!" Walters yelled, scanning quickly through the melee, trying to spot the young officer. "Reed!"

Reed kneed the man on top of him in the stomach, and scrambled to his feet. A beer bottle flew by his head, smashing into shards when it hit a nearby wall. He caught sight of Walters and the two picked their way through the chaos to get to each other.

"You, okay?" Walters asked, quickly inspecting his partner.

Reed nodded, breathing hard. A trickle of blood ran down his chin.

"We're out-numbered. We've got to back off until we get back-up," Walters shouted to be heard. Two brawling patrons bounced off of him, sending him sprawling into Reed who dove after them.

He was pulled up short by Walters grabbing the back of his Sam Browne belt. "I said hold up, Reed!" he barked.

The severity of the man's voice brought Reed's focus back to the older officer.

"We're leaving?" he gaped at Walters.

"Not leaving," Walters growled impatiently. "Backing off. They'll swarm us if we don't."

He herded Reed into a small alcove hiding a payphone by the bar, where they could observe the brawl without being out in the open. Walters reached for the phone, grimacing at the stickiness of the receiver. He shifted his grip from a full fist to a thumb and forefinger, as if he were holding a delicate tea-cup. Dialing '0,' to get an operator, he called the station for assistance.

Reed anxiously watched as the bar fight continued with no-holds-barred destruction. He winced as furniture smashed and glass shattered amid the flailing and falling bodies. Nervously, he asked, "Shouldn't we do something?"

"We will," Walters assured grimly. "Once we have the numbers for it."

Reed gulped, blinking at Walters, who could read the uncertainty in the earnest blue eyes. Stenzler never looked at him like that. He had trusted his FTO completely.

And look where that got him, Walters thought with a twist in his gut.

"Trust me," Walters said, in a voice that resonated hollowly in his own ears. "I know what I'm doing."

Did he?

Within minutes, a wave of blue surged through the door as officers all over the division responded to the call for help.

"Now we're in business," Walters said to Reed, rushing out to join the brawling.

An hour later, as the ambulances cleared with the injured and the black-and-whites rolled away with the arrested, Walters and Reed wearily climbed into their own car. The back seat was empty of any occupants, as Sergeant MacDonald gave them a free pass booking any of the fight's participants as they had the brutal task of authoring the main incident report.

The two officers sat in silence for a minute, before Walters finally grumbled, "What a dumpster fire."

They both looked at each other and broke into grins. Reed grimaced and rubbed his chin then his eye.

"You're going to have a world-class shiner," Walters assessed cheerfully as he studied Reed's face. "One to be proud of."

"It's an honor I could do without," Reed said, gingerly probing the area around his right eye which had started swelling.

"We'll get you an ice pack back at the barn."

"Not a steak?" Reed joked. "Wouldn't that be more macho?"

Walters laughed, his eyes twinkling. "Not when a good cut of meat is a buck twenty-five a pound."

ADAM12ADAM12ADAM12ADAM12

Val Moore sighed as he looked over the reports detailing the encounter from the previous night. The detectives still hadn't found out the identity of the dead John Doe and it was too early for a preliminary report from the coroner's office for a cause of death.

The whole situation was troubling, particularly in the climate of police brutality accusations spotlighted in the LA Times the last six months. A man arriving dead after a tussle with a group of officers during an arrest...it was more ammunition for the press to fire at the department.

He knew what had to be done. He and Captain Grant had discussed it in a meeting that morning with input from the Chief via phone. As much as he hated to do it, all the officers involved had to be "desked." He wasn't looking forward to disciplining his men. Pete was a sure bet as the one who wouldn't take it personally, knowing that it was based on policy not finger-pointing.

McCray? The young cop accepted discipline begrudgingly, always loudly vocal about any perceived unfairness. Predictably, Miller's loyalty would keep him in total agreement with his partner. As to Charlie Burnside... Moore sighed again. The man's package was filled with disciplinary actions from the multiple divisions he had been assigned over the last four years. He would be angry and hyper-defensive, reckless with his words, and completely lacking self-control.

The Lieutenant was a master at handling personnel problems but this was a tricky situation. Captain Grant had accepted Burnside's transfer as a favor to his friend, Captain Mason, at Van Nuys Division, with a full understanding of the volatile officer's past problems with authority and his persistent rule-breaking and recurrent co-worker conflicts.

Moore had an innate sense that sooner or later Burnside would wash out of the department. It wasn't often he was wrong about such things; he always tried every alternative until there was no other choice. He hated to do it, but sometimes it became an absolute necessity to cut a problem officer lose from the department.

There was a sharp rap before the door opened, admitting Sergeant MacDonald with Malloy, McCray and Miller filing in behind him, expressions grim.

"Where's Burnside?" Moore asked.

"Called out sick," Mac informed him. "Muscle spasms, he said."

Jeff snorted under his breath and bumped Mutt's elbow discreetly. The move didn't escape the Lieutenant's notice, but he ignored it.

"I'm sure you all know why you're here," Moore began. He folded his hands and leaned forward on the desk as he gauged their reactions.

As predicted, Malloy, stoically resigned, wore the expression of a man in the dentist chair waiting for a root canal. Jeff vibrated with the tension of a coiled spring and Mutt shot sideways glances of worry at his partner. They all waited, rigidly silent, for Moore to continue speaking.

"The Captain and I talked at length about last night's events. In making our decision, we also considered how to apply departmental guidelines in this unusual situation."

Moore paused, letting his men absorb the words. "Until more information can be gathered, and a review board can take a look at the facts, you're all on duty at the station."

"But, Sir..." Jeff protested, stopping when Moore put up a hand.

"This is not open for negotiation, McCray. You will be assigned to the front desk with Officer Byrd. Malloy, you will assist the on-duty Sergeant, and, Miller, you'll be in booking."

"That's it," the Lieutenant pushed his chair back and stood up, effectively ending the meeting.

Jeff wasn't finished. "Sir, can't we discuss this?"

"This isn't open for discussion, " the Lieutenant said abruptly. "The decision stands and that's an end to it."

Jeff opened his mouth to argue when Malloy hooked his arm as if they were square-dancing partners and forced him out the door.

"What are you doing, Malloy?" snapped the younger officer, shaking free from his grasp.

"Saving you from yourself," Malloy answered. "The decision's been made and there's no use fighting it. Not unless you're a kamikaze going on a suicide mission."

"He's right, partner," Mutt agreed. "We're pushing paper and that's that."

"This is such bull shit," Jeff huffed, scowling. "No matter what we do, we're wrong."

"That's stretching it don't you think?" Malloy reasoned. "A man we fought with and arrested is dead and no one knows why. What are they supposed to do? Ignore it because we don't want to sit on the sidelines until it's all sorted out and the dust settles?"

Jeff still wasn't satisfied but Malloy's words calmed him, and he visibly relaxed. "It's just not fair, Pete. You know it's not."

Malloy sighed. "Maybe, but that's the way it is and you should know that by now. You're no rookie; you know better than to take this personally. You're going to fry yourself like an onion ring getting so uptight. It's all just part of the job."

"That's right, Partner," Mutt nodded in agreement. "At least we got the good stuff. Malloy pulled the short straw; he's got to work with Sergeant Banks tonight."

Jeff whistled. "God, I didn't think of that. Maybe we're still drawing aces." He flashed a crooked grin. "Hear that, Malloy? You got Banks."

"I heard it," Malloy grumbled, trying to massage the stiffness out of his neck. "You don't have to rub it in."

Jeff grinned and slapped him on the back. "Our sympathies, Pete. We'll send a wreath for your gravesite."

Malloy smiled ruefully. "Thanks. I'll be sure to remember you smart guys in my will."

Mutt and Jeff both laughed and the shorter man patted his tall partner on the arm. "Let's get some coffee and eat a couple of those muffins Mo made. Coming, Pete?"

"Yeah," Malloy sighed. "I'm coming."

ADAM12ADAM12ADAM12ADAM12

On their way back to the station, the silence was different than at the start of the day. The stress of the morning had gradually dissipated during the course of the watch and it was comfortable, instead of tense. Chewing his lip, Reed glanced over at the older man several times.

Malloy would have noticed the subtle signals from Reed and provoked a conversation, but Walters' attention was on the road as he navigated through the late afternoon traffic.

"Walters?" Reed finally asked.

"Yeah?"

"Can I ask you a question?"

Walters focus stayed on the road. "If it's about my decision to wait for back-up..." he started, his jaw setting defensively.

"No," Reed interrupted quickly. "I know it was the smart thing to do. Charging in like Ed Wells would have been really stupid." He paused, searching for words. "You've been married for a long time, right?"

"Centuries," Walters answered, a corner of his mouth quirking upwards.

"You've gotten hurt on the job, right?"

"Sure." The older officer shrugged. "Everyone does sooner or later, when things go sideways." He shot a curious glance sideways. "Where's this rabbit trail heading, Reed?"

"How's your wife deal with it?" Reed wanted to know.

Immediately, understanding dawned on Walters and he sighed. "Your wife having trouble dealing with the job?"

Reed nodded. He stared out the window at the parked cars along the side of the street they were driving down. A red light snared them to a stop and, in unison, the two officers pulled the sun visors down to block the brilliant reddish glow of the late afternoon sun.

"It's tough," Walters admitted. "Some guys' wives just can't deal." He paused, remembering. "I had partner once whose wife got so hyped up that he ended up pulling the pin. It was either that, or a divorce."

Walters continued. "He's a manager at a hardware store now. I see him every now and then when he brings his kid over for piano lessons with my wife. He doesn't seem very happy but who am I to judge? His life, his choice."

Reed digested the words, intense thought producing a deep line between his eyes, before he asked, "Does your wife ever ask you to quit?"

"Nope." Walters flicked on the turn signal and made a right, blending in with the traffic on the boulevard leading to the station. "She asks me to quit other things, not the job."

Reed's curiosity was piqued; he wanted to ask what those other things might be, but Walters' expression was anything but inviting.

"Jean...that's my wife...she left last night...packed her clothes and went to her parents...it's over..." Reed stopped, gulping.

Walters shifted in his seat. "Come on, Reed. You're thinking worse-case scenario. So she went to the parents for a breather. That doesn't mean she's kicking you to the curb."

"You don't know, Jean," Reed said, shaking his head back and forth. "Once she makes up her mind..."

"Look, me and my wife fight sometimes," Walters started, then smiled wryly. "Well, mostly I rumble with her...but once in a while she gets really mad. I know when it happens because she'll start calling me 'Walters' instead of Bill, and then I'm sleeping on the couch and eating cold sandwiches and Chef Boyardee 'til it blows over."

They pulled into the station and parked, joining the fleet of other black-and-whites. Walters pulled the keys out of the ignition and looked over at Reed. "Give her some time. You'll work it out."

"It's over," Reed insisted. "She wrote me a letter. The only way she's changing her mind is if I quit."

The older man silently considered the information, wrinkling his brow. Other officers went by, eyeing them curiously when they didn't get out of the car. Walters' could be severe with probationers, and they wondered if Reed was getting served one of the legendary lectures.

"If she won't change her mind, are you going to quit?" Walters wanted to know.

"Never," Reed said looking up. "Being a police officer is who I am. She has to accept it."

"What if she doesn't?"

"She will," insisted Reed, his voice shaking from his own disbelief.

"But if she doesn't..." Walters pressed.

"I don't know!" Reed snapped. "I just don't know!"

He glared at Walters and was surprised to see that sympathy has softened the older officer's normally chiseled features. Reed's anger quickly faded, and he put his face in his hands.

"You'll work it out, Reed," Walters repeated, kindness softening his voice. "She'll come around. You'll see."

ADAM12ADAM12ADAM12ADAM12

Dr. Kelly Brackett sighed as he looked at his watch. "Time of death...eleven thirty-nine. Thanks everybody."

The anesthesiologist started packing up the "tackle box" of gear he had brought to intubate the patient, throwing used equipment in a heavy plastic bin that was destined to head off to sterile processing in the basement.

Dr. Mike Morton, looking like he had swallowed a spoonful of bitter medicine, shuffled over the to hand sink in the corner of the room to wash blood-spatter off his wire-rimmed glasses. Brackett knew the young intern was mentally going over the scenario, picking it apart, trying to figure out something they could have done to change the outcome. The young intern always resisted and fought against the inevitable, hating to lose a patient, no matter how hopeless the case.

Hell, they all hated when it turned out like this, but it had been a lost cause from the second they wheeled the gurney through the doors. They all knew it, but they had to try.

Dr. Brackett sighed again, surveying the bloody scene around him as he filed details in his memory he'd need for his charting. Middle-aged man, dead on arrival, victim of a single gunshot wound in the chest. Shot during a robbery gone bad. A coroner's case. They had tried to restart his heart for over twenty minutes to try to get him to surgery, but the extraordinary effort had been futile.

"Is there any family?" he asked at the nurses' station.

The nurse informed him that the police were trying to find the victim's wife, but there was a young man out in the waiting room who come in the ambulance with the deceased.

This was always the worst part. Breaking the news. It never got any easier, no matter how many times he did it.

Dr. Brackett had no problem finding who he was looking for. A young guy, dressed in a suit spattered with blood, sat in the farthest corner of the room looking out the large plate-glass windows. Everything about him was defensive, from his choice of seating to the way his arms folded protectively across his chest. He wore sunglasses and his face was impassively unreadable in its stone-like blankness.

As soon as he heard Brackett's footsteps coming towards him, he stood up, waiting, arms still folded.

"Hi, I'm Dr. Brackett. Are you with Sam Bartolli?"

A silent nod.

"Are you friend or family?"

"Friend," came the answer, then before the doctor could say more, "you're going to tell me he's dead, right?"

Brackett gave a nod, somber. "Yes. Mr. Bartolli died. We did all we could..."

"...but it wasn't enough," the man abruptly cut him off.

"Yes," Dr. Brackett acknowledged. "It wasn't enough."

The man stood motionless like a statue without any sign that he had heard. There were no words, no exclamations, no tears...nothing.

The doctor was disconcerted by the blank wall of stoicism in front of him. He wanted to swipe the sunglasses off the guy's face to see if there was a human being underneath, rather than an emotionless automaton.

"Do you know if there's any other family besides his wife?" he asked after a long silence.

"His son works in the oil fields somewhere in Texas and his daughter's on the east coast. It was just Sam and his wife." The man pulled out his wallet, absently rubbing at a dried, rusty brown blood stain on his tie. He handed Dr. Brackett a wad of money. "Can you make sure Mrs. Bartolli gets home safely? Maybe call her a cab or something? She'll be in a bad way...they were close...and she shouldn't drive."

Dr. Brackett waved the money away. "That's not necessary. We'll make sure she's taken care of." He scrutinized the man, noticing the slight trembling of his hands as the wallet was put away. "Are you alright?"

A nod and an odd, small smile. "Sure."

"Do you need a ride? They said you came in the ambulance with Mr. Bartolli."

The man shrugged. "My car's back at the deli. I'll call a cab."

As he turned away towards the pay phone on the other side of the waiting room, Dr. Brackett called out. "I'm really sorry about Mr. Bartolli."

The man's shoulders slumped and the emotionless mask threatened to break for a moment, before sliding back into place.

"So am I, Dr. Brackett," he said simply.

ADAM12ADAM12ADAM12ADAM12

"Why the fuck did you shoot him?" Artie whined, asking the same stale question at regular intervals since they had fled from the deli.

"I didn't mean it," Mark groaned out the same answer, the only thing he could truthfully say.

The teenager huddled miserably on an old, dirty tarp, with his head in his hands, rocking, pulling at his blonde hair until it stood on end. Artie, too nervous to sit, paced, letting out a volley of cursing every couple of minutes. He kicked at a discarded beer bottle, sending it careening off into the darkness.

They had run fast and far after the botched robbery, caught a city bus to South L.A., and headed for one of their most reliable "hide-outs"-the basement of a crumbling, abandoned building.

The decaying structure was without electricity and the windows were covered with plywood and a mishmash of scrap boards which effectively blocked out the daylight. They would have been cloaked in total darkness except for the faint, yellowish glow of a flashlight they kept stashed there. In the dim light, nightmarish shadows danced and gyrated, complimenting the hellish surreally of their situation.

"What are we going to do?" demanded Artie, his voice cracking.

"How do I know?" cried Mark. "This was all your idea!"

"Yeah, but you shot him, you dumb fucker!"

"I didn't mean it!"

"What are we going to do?"

"We've got to turn ourselves in," Mark suggested.

"No way!" Artie yelped. "Are you crazy? We'll get the chair for this. I'm not getting fried. It's your fault, not mine! I didn't shoot him!"

"It was your idea, your gun!" Mark shot back, angry, as the shocked numbness he had been drowning in started to recede.

He tried to think of the robbery but it was all a blur. A mixture of sound bites and flashes of memory, all punctuated by the blast of the pistol which wouldn't stop echoing in his ears. Would he ever stop hearing it? Would he ever stop seeing Sam falling to the floor, his life bleeding away from a wound he created? His stomach lurched and churned and bile rose to the back of his throat. He had already vomited several times and wasn't sure he could stand doing it again.

"That guy saw us," Artie hissed. "He saw us."

"What guy?" Mark wanted to know, then the answer cut clearly through all the haze. The man who had interrupted them, whose sudden intrusion had made him pull the trigger on Sam. He tried to think about the shadowy figure but he couldn't recall anything that wasn't blurry and indistinct. The gunshot rang in his ears again and he put his face in his hands, his eyes burned and he wished he could cry. He hadn't cried sine he was a little kid. His father never allowed it. Men don't cry, he always said. His father's face appeared before him and Mark wished he had the gun in his hand, wished he had put a hole in him instead of Sam.

"He saw us," Artie repeated. "He'll finger us."

"What did he see really?" Mark said slowly. "We were wearing masks, remember?"

"Yeah, we were, weren't we?" Artie smiled at the simple fact then sucked on his teeth. "So what are we going to do?"

Mark thought a moment, then jumped up and felt the front of his jeans. Thrusting his hand in a pocket, he pulled out a crumpled business card.

"I got it!" he said, excitement and relief bleeding through in his voice. "We'll call Eric Moore."

"Who the hell's that?" Artie wanted to know, suspicious.

"My lawyer. He'll know what to do."

ADAM12ADAM12ADAM12ADAM12ADAM12

Within the first hour of the watch, Malloy knew the night was not going to go well. His expectations, along with his spirits, had been low, but he completely gave up when Sergeant Banks disappeared.

A rounding of all the usual places in the station produced no results and Jeff, sharpening a mountain of pencils at the front desk, smiled knowingly when Malloy stopped by to see if anyone had seen the missing man.

"So, Sergeant B.F., is MIA, huh?" the young officer grinned, his good humor restored by fresh coffee and blueberry muffins.

Jeff turned to the other desk officer, a permanent fixture named Marty Byrd. The man was a thirty-year veteran with a bum leg from a shotgun blast sustained from a badly-ending domestic call many years before.

"Shocking! Can you imagine?" he whispered to the older man, who shook his head and sighed in sympathy.

Byrd was nicknamed "The Undertaker" by his fellow officers for his skill in handling the families of crime victims. His rich, baritone voice sounded perfectly in the station's barbershop quartet and when offering sympathetic condolences. He was a master of tact and empathy with a soft spot for the grieving and a universally kind manner; the brass recognized his talents and made use of abilities on a regular basis when tragedy hit hard.

Jeff preferred to call him "The Count" as he thought he would make a perfect stand-in for Bela Lugosi in a modern-day Dracula remake. Byrd took the ribbing with his usual easy grace. He had a undisguised fondness for the station's younger officers and humored McCray by dressing up as a vampire at the Division's last Halloween party. "See?" Jeff had told everyone with undisguised delight. "A dead ringer."

"Sergeant B.F.?" Malloy asked, idly wondering what Jeff called him when he wasn't around.

"You know," Jeff explained. "Bigfoot. A creature who people talk about but never actually see. Sarge is starting early...usually he waits until the watch is half-over before vanishing into the primeval forest."

Malloy sighed. He rarely worked with Banks; his deployments matched Mac's for the most part, and MacDonald was the quintessential pro. Banks? Not so much. Sure, he had heard things, but he never paid attention; a coppers' locker room was as rife with gossip as an old ladies' sewing circle.

"You want me to put out a code one for him over the station's PA?" Jeff asked hopefully.

Malloy considered it, weighing satisfaction versus consequence. "No thanks," he decided. "I'll find him."

"You put up some missing posters and I'll send for the hounds. We'll sniff him out," Jeff called out gleefully as Malloy headed back to check the Watch Commander's office again.

He stopped at the open door for a quick look, saw Lieutenant Moore and Mac, heads bent over the last of the day watch's paperwork, pens scratching, their voices blending in a murmur of suggested corrections. Deciding not to mention his dilemma, he continued his search in booking.

He caught sight of Mutt, his head higher than everyone else in the hallway, escorting a scrawny, anorexic-looking tweaker.

"You got to help me, man," the addict begged, shaking in the throes of withdrawal. "I'm dying here."

"You seen Sergeant Banks lately?" Malloy asked.

"Nope," Mutt answered. "And neither will you 'til he wants to be seen."

"Don't you care?" the man wailed, rattling the handcuffs. "Aren't you going to do something for me?"

"Yeah, I care," Mutt assured his prisoner. "I'm ready to give you a kidney, Bro. Your choice, right or left."

Malloy moved on with his search, visiting the break area, the locker room, and the detectives' office before circling back around to booking and the front desk again. Not sure he could take another ridiculous tactical search suggestion, Malloy was glad that Jeff was occupied talking to a old lady who had come to file a complaint about some plastic pink flamingos that had been swiped right off her front lawn in "broad daylight by thieving hoodlums."

"Tell me the truth, Marty," Malloy asked Byrd. "Does Banks really pull a Houdini like this every watch?"

Byrd nodded. "It's true, Pete, but it's worse since he decided to pull the pin. He's been gone for a long time in spirit and now his body's missing too."

"Where do you think he is?" Malloy grumbled. "I've searched everywhere, even broom closets and the darkest corners of the basement."

Malloy's thoughts went to Captain Grant, with his strict sense of duty and high expectations and he shuddered. "What's the old man think about this?"

Byrd's bushy black eyebrows jumped upward with shock. "What makes you think he knows? Banks put his time in and he's got a few months left on his card. It wouldn't be fair to call him on the carpet at this point, would it?"

Seeing Malloy's irritation nakedly exposed in his scowl, he placated. "Look, Pete, I've known the guy for a long time. Ernie Banks is a good guy...a good copper...but the job used him up. When you get old, you bleed easier. You bleed more. You start owning all the stuff you always told yourself wasn't your tragedy. He's tired and worn out."

"That's no excuse. He needs to do his job," Malloy said, trying to hang onto his severe disapproval which was swiftly dissolving under the full force of Byrd's skillful diplomacy.

"Yes, and he does it," agreed Byrd. "Slowly. Like the tortoise and the hare. Banks is a grouchy old snapper nearing the end of the race. Let him cross the finish line and have his day."

Malloy snorted but the sound lacked conviction, and the desk officer surged ahead, pushing his advantage. "Come on, Pete. Cut us old farts some slack." Then came the killing blow. "For my sake, if not his."

That was it. Few at the station could resist a heartfelt request from the likable desk officer and Malloy threw up his hands in resignation. "Okay, Okay! But for you. Not him." He grumbled over his shoulder as he left, "If you spot him, cuff him to something solid and don't let him get away!"

Malloy was sitting at the desk, sans Banks, glumly proof-reading crime reports while his mind absently catalogued potential hiding-places when he heard a soft tap-tap on the glass frame of the door.

"Hey," Reed greeted. "Do you have time to talk?"

Malloy looked up, a friendly affirmative on his lips when he caught sight of the kaleidoscope of blossoming colors around his partner's swollen eye. He sat back in chair and threw his pen on the desk. "What the hell happened to you?"

"A bar fight," Reed explained. "What happened to you? Everyone's talking about last night."

"Oh, yeah? What are they saying?" Malloy asked, wryly imagining the locker room gossip.

"They say that you, Burnside, Mutt, and Jeff are getting blamed for something that wasn't your fault. That you're getting scapegoated by the brass and they're making an example of you because of stories in the Times..."

Reed stopped talking, his lips twitching as he struggled to continue. His fists balled on the armrests of the chair and emotions flitted over his face, one after another, easy to read in their rawness. Doubt...anger...frustration...outrage...disgust...a playbook of disillusionment.

"That's not how it is, Reed," Malloy said quietly, regretting his partner's loss of unquestioning faith in the department's leadership. It had to happen sooner or later but it didn't make it less troubling.

Malloy chose his words carefully, wanting to state his beliefs forcefully, but clearly. "Jim, tough decisions are always unpopular...especially in the locker room...but the brass has to make them just the same. Do you understand that?"

Reed was silent. Unconvinced.

Malloy sighed. This was no good. There was something unbearably dark lurking in all this. It was the bite of disenchantment with the venom of cynicism. Such things could easily consume and warp a probationer. He thought briefly of Sergeant Banks, bitter and jaded. No one started out of the Academy that way, but it was easy to go down that road. Too easy. There was no way he was letting that happen to Reed. Not without a fight.

"Listen to me, Jim," he said, earnestly. "We took an oath to protect and serve. Each and every day we go out on those streets, we have the power of life and death in our hands. We make split-second decisions: sometimes saving lives, sometimes taking them. That power comes with responsibility and responsibility means accountability. We are all accountable for every single thing we do out there. We have to be. Do you understand that?"

"The guys don't think you're being treated right," Reed said.

"I don't care what the guys think."

"Maybe I don't think you're being treated right."

"I do care about that," Malloy admitted. "Because if you feel that way then you're wrong."

"How am I wrong?" challenged Reed. "What about being innocent until proven guilty?"

"That's not how it is. It's true if you're a citizen in the justice system," countered Malloy. "But as a police officer answering to the front office it's just the opposite...you're guilty until proven innocent. That's how the system of accountability works in the department."

"I don't think it's right," Reed insisted, but Malloy could see the cogs and wheels turning as ideas were being processed.

"It's how it is and it's not wrong."

"You feel that way even though you're at the receiving end of it?" Reed questioned, squinting with his good eye at his partner.

"Yes...even more so because I'm at the receiving end of it," Malloy answered. "I know departmental policy will be the basis of the investigation. Not locker room politics. Not public opinion. Not those crappy editorials by that skeezball Neiman. I trust in the fairness of the process and I trust Captain Grant and Lieutenant Moore to oversee it. They've always done right by every person in this Division and my beliefs aren't going to change just because I'm involved this time. Do you understand that? "

"I guess so," agreed Reed reluctantly.

"You guess so?" Malloy said, smiling. "You can count on it, Partner. We'll get a fair shake and the truth will come out in the end."

"Okay," Reed finally agreed. "I see what you're saying."

The two men smiled at each other, and, much to Malloy's relief, the darkness that had been hoovering was gone. Reed fidgeted in the chair and Malloy could see the tell-tale signs that he wanted to talk about something.

"Listen, Pete," Reed began. "I wanted to talk to you about something..."

He was interrupted by Jeff rapping on the door then pushing it open without waiting for an answer. "Did you find Banks yet?"

Irritation surged through Malloy at the mention of the missing Sergeant. "No," he growled. " I did not find Banks yet."

"Lieutenant Moore and Sergeant MacDonald are gone for the day, and Lieutenant Murray is out on a call. We really need a supervisor," Jeff said, tense and frowning. "Will you come?"

"What's wrong?" Malloy asked quickly, but Jeff was already gone, jogging up the hall towards the front desk.

Malloy followed with Reed close on his heels. His mind whirled with possibilities, none of them good. Not if the look on Jeff's face was any indication.

"What do you think's wrong?" Reed asked, close on his heels.

"I don't know," Malloy answered grimly. "But we're going to find out."