She knows the tough cases even before Danny tells her about them…he comes home later than usual, is lost in thought when she tries to talk to him, picks at his food, and takes on the punching bag with his bare hands.
When he comes home after midnight Tuesday and goes straight to the basement, she goes upstairs to check on the boys—they're sound asleep—then wipes down the already-clean counters.
He's been home twenty minutes when she finally goes downstairs after him.
He's sitting on the little bench next to the punching bag, jacket, tie, and shirt on the floor, shoulders shaking, punching bag swaying a little.
He's got a rag wrapped around his left hand, and he's staring at something in his hand.
"Danny?"
He takes a shaky breath. "Janitor found a body at 0330 Monday morning. He was a Marine, Linda. A homeless Marine. Idiot officer let the janitor walk away from the scene. Time I got there, he'd been lying in an alley for…six hours."
His breathing's ragged, like he's trying to fight back tears.
She rubs his back.
"He…shouldn't have died like that, alone. He earned the Silver Star…and he died alone, beaten… blunt force trauma. It's not right."
"No, it isn't. But you're going to get justice for him."
He nods, leans his head on her shoulder. "Dad thinks I'm too pissed to work the case."
"Based on your knuckles, I think I'd agree with him."
"So what do I do? Pass it off to some…detective who never served?"
"No. You…come home to me each night. Actually talk to me, Danny. Tell me what's going on. And stop trying to hurt yourself."
He blinks, looks at his hand as if he hadn't seen it before.
"What have you got there?"
"It's nothin', Linda."
"It's the medal you got, isn't it—the one you won't show me?"
"Because I don't deserve it!" he chokes out harshly, and slips it into his pocket.
"What do you…?"
"Not tonight, Linda; just please…help me get my hand cleaned up. I've gotta get some sleep."
She pulls him to his feet, picks up his shirt and jacket and tie, gives him a gentle push to go ahead of her up the stairs so she can keep an eye on him.
He's almost non-responsive in the shower, even with her standing in front of him in her birthday suit, and that worries her. She tells him about the boys' day, and their football practice, but he's clearly off in some other world.
She cleans his hand, worried by the amount of blood on the rag, and helps him get dressed for bed.
"Let me hold you?" she asks when they're in bed.
"I don't wanna hurt you," he whispers.
"You won't, babe. C'mere."
Reluctantly he snuggles into her chest.
She rubs his back, smiles at the feel of his muscles under her hands, frowns at how loose his pajama pants are. She knows he doesn't eat on a tough cases, but he's definitely lost some weight-and not the kind of weight you wanna lose.
"Have you been eating, honey?"
"I'm not an anorexic teenager, Linda," he grumbles.
That's a "no," then-classic Danny deflection. She wonders vaguely how long it's been going on, wonders if Frank's comment about Iraq during the Campos case had anything to do with it.
"Did you and Jackie eat dinner at the precinct?"
"She got us burgers," he says-without saying whether or not he actually ate his.
If it weren't so late, she'd text Jackie to find out, but she doesn't want to leave Danny's side. His muscles are finally un-knotting under her hands, his breathing's a little less ragged, his heartbeat down within normal limits. "You know if you wanna talk, I'll listen."
"Not tonight, Linda," he says, and buries his face in her chest, preventing any further talk.
She kisses his head and hopes that he'll talk to her before the angst of this case has him getting himself modified, attacking a suspect, or worse.