Hermione
The night air has dropped several degrees, and the bubble around me is quite chilly now, despite the bustle of people in the immediate vicinity.
I feel the onset of shock and exhaustion trying to worm their way to my frontal lobe and resolutely push all of my feelings back into a corner.
The area around me is bustling, like its own little city. There's even a table set up off to the side, covered with coffee carafes and pastries. Who knew you could order catering at a crime scene? The police arrived first, followed closely by an ambulance, and since then, emergency personnel have been arriving in droves.
This isn't my first time at a crime scene. But I've never been on this side of it. I usually scoop and run, taking the injured with me.
The detectives that arrived are not at all what I expected them to be. Watching SVU with my folks growing up, (Dad just loves Olivia Benson;) I expected off the rack suits and bucket loads of empathy. Instead, what arrived were giants in combat boots and intimidating scowls.
This certainly isn't my first interaction with the police either. As an A&E doctor, I talk with them on a regular basis. If not daily, then several times a week. But then, it's on my turf. I'm in my hospital, in my exam rooms. Plus, it's not me they're looking at. It's the poor soul in the hospital bed.
I can feel the detectives watching me from across the street. Yes, I'm not a suspect, but I get the feeling they don't like what I have to tell them either.
It's after three a.m., and I've already lost track of how many times I've described the car and the sound of the bullets ringing out. It's easy to explain. I'm sure it will haunt my dreams for months.
Finally, they make their way back over.
The detectives make quite the sight. The dark-haired one, Potter, I think; stands slightly ahead of the others, who have flanked him on either side. I wonder if they planned it that way, or if they defer to him automatically? Either way, it's impressive, and I'm sure that was the point.
It's not that he's all that big. He is, but no taller than Neville, and not as wide as the red-headed man beside him. But it's the way he carries himself. He reminds me of what my Mum would call a mountain man. There's nothing particularly special about him. He's wearing a black Henley under a tactical vest, light coloured jeans, and boots. With a well-trimmed beard and black messy hair, he's almost putting off a Captain America betrayed by his government vibe. Or maybe more Henry Cavill via Superman, searching for his origins.
Does my comparing him to two different superheroes say more about me and the amount of telly I watch, or more about him and the aura he puts out?
Either way, Mum would swoon.
"I'm sorry about the wait Dr. Granger. If you could run us through the events of tonight, one more time, we'll find a patrolman to get you home. I bet you're ready for a shower."
Detective Neville radiates a good ole' boy hospitality when he speaks, and it helps alleviate some of the tension building between my shoulder blades.
The desire for a shower and my bed surges through me so hard it's my turn to swoon.
"Oh, God, yes. Please, and thank you."
"Start from the decision to walk, alone, in the middle of the night, through downtown Ansley please."
My attention swings to Detective Potter, and the disapproval dripping from his voice. The unvoiced accusation sets my teeth on edge, and I stand up straight as my five foot four will allow. I look Mr. Brooding in the eye, intending to give him a piece of my mind, and a spark of static electricity zings over my nervous system.
His eyes are like emeralds.
Disconcerted, I defensively begin my story.
"Yes, well. My car wouldn't start."
"Make and model?"
I cross my arms over my chest, somehow forgetting the blood congealed into my shirt, then yank them away with a grimace. I cringe as my gaze leaves the detectives for a moment and flicks to the blood dried and caked into my arms.
"She's a 2006 Impala, not that I'm sure what the relevance is."
"Where is it now?"
I look up again, and see Potter has followed my movements with his eyes. They flick over me, taking in everything from the plasma buried in the crevasse of my pants seam to the tremble running through my hands.
I fist my fingers, refusing to let the tremble show.
"My car? It's still in my parking space at the hospital."
"Do you know your license plate number off the top of your head?"
What the hell is this guy's problem? The third guy with them, not Neville, has his notebook out and is writing while I speak. Neville is smiling and nodding, urging me along my tale. Potter just stands with his thumbs hooked into his vest at the armpits, boring holes into me with his eyes. I have to resist the urge to squirm.
I pull my mobile out, and flick through my photo albums until I get to my important papers folder. I hand my mobile wordlessly to Potter, who glances at it for a heartbeat before passing it to Neville.
At his silent assent, I continue my story.
"My car wouldn't start. I debated about calling my parents or someone for a ride but realized I'd be home before anyone could get to me if I simply walked. I palmed my pepper spray and took off."
Detective Potter nods his head, and Neville gives me a reassuring smile. Taking a deep breath, I power on.
"The walk home was fine. I was making good time. The, um, patient, um, the victim I guess," and I cringe, not knowing how best to address the deceased, "was walking the opposite direction of me on the sidewalk. He was yelling at me—"
"Yelling? What was he saying? Did he hurt you?"
Potter takes a half step forward, before catching himself and dropping back between his co-workers.
God, this guy is—intense. His blazing green eyes are boring holes into me, and his fingers stretch and flex across his chest. I run my hands down my legs, ignoring the feel of the slick fabric against my palms. I need to get out of these clothes. I flick my gaze over his shoulder, trying to calm my runaway nerves.
"No. It was playful, or not aggressive at any rate. He even moved to the middle of the street. To avoid scaring me, he said."
"Were you frightened?"
The insinuation makes me pull my shoulders back.
"No. I wasn't. He didn't frighten me, but I didn't interact with him either. No need to encourage him. I work in the casualty department. I deal with patients all day long who talk a big game. I can count on one hand the number of times someone physically got aggressive with me. I don't scare easily."
Some emotion flashes behind Potter's eyes, but I don't have the wherewithal to guess what it could be. He dips his chin in a sharp quick nod.
"Good."
I'd hate to be on the other side of an interrogation desk from this dude if this is how he treats his witnesses. The Detective isn't rude, per se. But his posture and tone are incredibly intimidating. I keep trying to turn my story towards Neville, but DCI. Potter's very presence keeps my gaze turning towards him.
"A car drove by us, going east down Hogwarts and I lost sight of him. The victim, that is. We were walking in opposite directions, and his teasing was becoming fainter. Then, I heard tires squealing and turned to see where it was coming from. The car pulled a U-turn in the intersection and came back in our direction. When I heard the first gunshot, I dropped to the ground and covered the back of my head with my hands."
I huff quietly to myself.
"Like that could stop a bullet."
I can't help the self-deprecating tone that slips out. Maybe it wasn't the brightest idea to walk home in the middle of the night.
Instead of another lecture though, Detective Potter surprises me. He reaches across the space between us, using his finger to push my chin up.
"No, that was exactly the right thing to do. A hand can't stop a bullet, but it can provide an extra layer of protection against ricochets and shrapnel. It can provide a barrier between kicking feet and swinging fists. When confronted with an enemy you can't beat, flee. If you can't flee, face them with honour. If neither option is feasible, make yourself the smallest target you can. That's what you did. You survived."
He has a scar over his eyebrow, partially hidden by his hair. I clench my fists to stop myself from reaching out and moving his hair out of the way to run my thumb over it. To stop from asking what caused it.
Smiling in gratitude, I take a steadying breath and continue.
"When the car was gone, I looked up and saw my patient," shit, "um, the victim, on the ground. I could already see the blood pooling around him—two litres at least by then. He bled out right in front of me. I called 999 then grabbed my kit from my bag. It was no help. I flipped him to check for exit wounds. He cried out in pain. I figure when they autopsy him, they'll find five holes, two bullets still inside. I didn't have my wits about me to check for casings or bullets around us. I'm sorry. I knew it was too late. The only way I could have saved him was if it had happened in the hospital parking lot, and I'd had blood and fluids and a shit load of help standing by. Even then it would have been iffy.
"With no other way to stem the bleeding, I climbed on top of him, covering two of the wounds with my hands and using my body pressure on top of that, hoping to at least slow the bleeding. I was still assuring him that he'd be okay when I felt him pass.
"I confront death on an almost daily basis. Sometimes I fight him off; sometimes, I help a soul meet death as friends.
"This?
"This was something different altogether.
"I wish he would have died on impact. Bleeding to death in that manner is not an enviable way to go. It didn't take a long time, but until the shock set in, it would have been very painful. Compound that with my entire body weight squishing him into the rough pavement—it'll be a long while before I can scrub the image from my mind."
If I ever do.
It's somber when I finish rambling. Looking at my audience, I can tell I've hit a nerve. The Detectives have seen the same things I have, but closer. They handle death on a more personal level. I get those that have a chance of being saved. It's their job to handle those that didn't.
Detective Potter breaks the silence.
"Thank you, Dr. Granger. I'm sure we'll have some follow up questions, but I think that's all we'll need from you tonight. You've already given your statement to the officers first on the scene, correct?"
I nod to confirm that yes, I've told this story a half dozen times now.
"And Neville," I remind them, with a soft smile.
"Were you able to provide them with a description of the vehicle?"
I scrub my hands over my face, past caring about the blood still coating my fingers.
"Umm, yes. It was a white BMW. I think. They said I could come by and look at pictures of cars to see if I can pick it out when I bring my clothes to the station. I understand the chain of evidence from my own work and got an evidence bag from one of the techs."
A wave of exhaustion rides its way down my neurons, and a yawn forces its way out of my face. I try to hide it, to shake it away, but Neville smiles and follows suit after me.
"Don't do that doc," he mumbles as the yawn stretches his face wide. "It'll be hours until I can try to get some sleep."
Potter rolls his eyes in evident exasperation, and I swear I see his lips tip up at the sides.
Maybe.
It's the first sign of humanity I've seen out of him tonight.
"Ron, keys."
The red-headed fellow standing to the left of Detective Potter removes a set of keys from his pocket and places them in Potter's outstretched hand.
I don't miss the look passed between him and Neville, who's still trying to get his yawning under control.
"Stay with Nev. Maybe get him a cup of coffee. We can't have Sleeping Beauty crashing on us before we finish here."
He's talking to the red-head, but his eyes never leave my face. The intensity of his gaze sends a shiver crawling up my spine.
"Dr. Granger, if you'll come with me, I'll drive you anywhere you'd like to go."
Uh-uh. No way.
There is no way in hell I'm willingly getting into something as enclosed as a car with Mr. Tall Dark and Intimidating. Like the great genie once said. Phenomenal Cosmic Power, itty bitty living space.
"That's a sweet offer, Detective Potter, but I live just up the road. I can walk home from here."
Three looks of nearly identical incredulity hit me square in the face, and an exhausted giggle escapes before I can swallow it back down. I twirl my finger around my ear as both an explanation and apology at my words.
"Yeah, okay. I just heard it. Sorry. That was barmy. I'm going on twenty-four hours without sleep, and the adrenaline has finally left my bloodstream. Let me try that again. Thank you, Detective Potter. I would appreciate a ride home, if you don't mind."