Author's Note:
"Everything you want in life has a price connected to it. There's a price to pay if you want to make things better, a price to pay just for leaving things as they are, a price for everything." -Harry Browne
It's not just the officers of LAPD's Central Division that pay the price of the job, it's their families too. When two different arrests go horribly wrong, the fallout has far-reaching effects resulting in both tragedy and redemption.
I started this story around five years ago and left it on the shelf for a long time. It's cross-posted on Wattpad but I like ffn better for this kind of story. (Plus, I can't help feeling like I'm far too old to be on that other site.) I wasn't sure if I'd ever finish it but I have a way of drifting away from a project then returning it a long time. It's one of my very bad, life-long writing habits that I'm trying to correct. My goal is to publish a new chapter every 1-2 weeks. I've got eight done already but want to tweak and edit them a bit.
I love feedback and constructive criticism, so please fire away. I don't take things personally, but I am not interested in flames or trolls. Don't like what I write, then don't read it. Find something you do like and read that instead. Easy enough, right?
Anyway, this story isn't just a 'Malloy and Reed' story, although they are certainly in it. For some background, you might want to watch the Adam-12, Season 1, Episode 5-"You're Not the First Guy Who's Had the Problem. I do a lot of research to try and get things as accurate as possible and I draw on family and friends who are/have been in law enforcement. I draw on some of my own experiences when it comes to grief and loss as you can't escape those things once you've got some living and life behind you. Even so, it is a story, and as such, isn't always realistic in every minute detail.
Adam 12 is a show from the past and so, saying this, understand how different things were in the 60's and 70's. Things that were acceptable then aren't now. If you disagree with some things such as the view of police, etc. that is definitely your right and if it offends you, then once again, find a story that suits you. There are so many brilliant ones on this site!
Chapter 1-A Bad Morning
"Bill, are you up?" Jessie Walters stood at the bottom of the stairs, calling to her husband who had not made an appearance yet, even though the house was bustling with activity as the family got ready for the day.
She didn't know what time her husband had gotten in but it had to be late. So late that she had decided to let him get a few extra minutes of sleep and hadn't reset the alarm clock for him like she usually did.
She waited for a reply, patting the dark head of eight-year old Kevin as he clacked clumsily by with his roller skates. "Take those off right now. You know you're not supposed to skate inside."
"Awww, Mom, I'm never going to learn..."
"You will," Jessie assured him as she brushed a strand of hair out of his eyes. "Just not inside the house."
She looked into the living room at the small shelf-size grandfather clock on the fireplace mantel and sighed. "Go up and see if your father is up yet. Tell him it's almost six."
"Okay, Mom," said Kevin, sitting on the steps as he picked at the knotted laces of his skates.
The dream was always the same; the familiarity of it sickening in its inevitable sequence of events. The squealing of brakes as the black and white unit skidded to a stop. The kid jacking the door open and leaping out even as he barked out, "Stenzler, wait!"
The crack of a gunshot, a bullet punching through the glass of the door, then the dark-haired rookie crumpling to the ground; his life-blood already gushing from a hole in his chest and pooling on the sun-heated pavement beneath him.
Another shot sounded and the whine of a bullet near his left ear sent Officer Bill Walters ducking lower for cover behind the open driver's side door. Scanning the area where he thought the shot came from, he saw a man lean out from behind a battered blue Dodge about thirty feet ahead.
"Hold it right there and don't move! Drop the gun!" he shouted, taking aim with his own gun.
The man didn't listen and bolted towards a rickety wooden fence that divided one lot from another. He lifted his hand toward the crouching police officer and the sunlight gleamed off a metal object that Walters could clearly see was a gun. A gun that had just fired a bullet and wounded his rookie partner.
Kill or be killed. Sometimes it was the way it had to be. Some people didn't give you any other choice.
His own Field Training Officer's words drifted through his mind in the split second before he acted. The police officer's instincts honed by years of training and experience took over. Automatically, he aimed and squeezed off one quick shot.
The bullet hit its mark and the man, gun still gripped tightly in his hand, dropped like a stone to the ground and lay deathly still. Cautiously, Walters approached with his weapon still aimed at the downed man.
Nothing remarkable about the guy. Dark pants and a button-up white shirt. Thinning brown hair, medium height, medium build, medium everything. Just an Average Joe. He kicked the gun away from the man's loosened fingers and prodded the man with his foot.
No movement. Slowly, Walters reached down and checked the man's neck for a pulse, making sure he still had his gun aimed at him. You never knew when someone was playing possum and he had learned that the hard way once during his first year on patrol. It was a lesson learned and imprinted on his body in the form of a jagged scar and in his mind by his inherent carefulness in situations like these.
Nothing. No pulsing beneath his finger. The guy wasn't playing possum; he was dead as a skunk.
Grasping the dead man by the shoulders he turned him over. Instead of a stranger's face, it was Stenzler's, the bright blue eyes open wide and full of terror. The young rookie reached up and grabbed his shirt with bloodied hands. "I don't want to die. Don't let me die!"
Walters recoiled, trying to shake the desperate hands from him. Falling backwards against the pavement, the city street faded away and he found himself on a bare hillside. Fire crackled in the dry, coarse vegetation and heavy black smoke curled up into the sky.
Walters shuddered. He knew where he was. He had relived the nightmare so many times there was no mistaking the war-torn landscape of the Korean countryside.
Without looking, he knew what he'd see. Twisted, smoking metal was all that was left of the med-evac helicopter he had been flying. Dragging himself along the ground, he reached the crumpled body of his co-pilot. This time though, it was Stenzler's youthful face, burned but still recognizable, looking up at him, pleading for help.
"Help me, Walters. Help me. I don't want to die here like this. Don't let me die."
But it was too late. He knew there was nothing he could do and the helplessness and total despair of the situation made his teeth chatter and the world spin around him. Death was already claiming Stenzler-his life force burning out like a flickering candle.
"I don't want to die. Do something! Do something..." The words echoed inside and outside his head. The world around him gradually changed as everything faded except for the crimson blood which ran in red rivulets down the hot pavement until it clotted in small sticky pools.
"Dad. Dad..." It wasn't Stenzler's voice anymore.
Walters sat upright in bed, fists clenched, ready to fight. Heart pounding and sweat beading on his forehead, he breathed heavily as if was in a foot pursuit with a fleeing suspect.
Where was he? He looked wildly around, seeing only dark shadows and dim light from shade-covered windows. There was no wreckage, no hillside, no hot city street, no Stenzler...
Stenzler.
For a moment, he was in the hospital again, seeing his young partner's still body on hospital gurney. He could hear the surgeon's quiet condolences amid the heart-broken cries of a new police widow sobbing and railing against the unfairness of it all. He could see Beth Stenzler as she struggled against the gentle arms of Lt. Moore as he supported her to keep her from falling to the floor.
"Oh, God," he groaned at the larger-than-life memory and put his head in his hands. "He shouldn't have died. He was just a kid. He shouldn't have died. He shouldn't have died."
"Dad?"
Startled by the childish voice, Walters looked up to see his youngest son, Kevin, standing at the edge of the bed. Even in the dim light, he could see the boy's dark blue eyes were wide with a mixture of uncertainty and fear. Horrified at the thought of any member of his family seeing him so unglued, he felt a surge of anger.
"What are you doing in here?" he barked.
"Mom told me to come up and tell you that it's almost six."
"Well, you've told me. Now go have breakfast or something."
"But I already did."
Walters scowled darkly. "Then go find something else to do. Like picking up those marbles you left all over the living room floor. I almost broke my neck last night when I got home. You kids have got to start picking up after yourselves once in a while."
"Okay, Dad," Kevin said meekly, his lips trembling. Shooting nervous glances between the floor and his father, the boy shuffled his sneakers on the floor and twisted his hands in the pockets of his jeans.
Walters swiped a hand over his face, trying to wipe away both memories and sweat. Throwing back the tangled sheets and blankets, he forced himself out of bed. He felt a bone-crushing weariness that almost made him weak in the knees. Angry and impatient with himself, he pushed everything but the task of getting ready out of his head. He'd have to hurry if he wanted to make it in time for roll call and there was no time to wallow in things that were over and done. There was nothing to do for the past but let it be.
Kevin lingered nearby, watching as his father rifled through the closet for some clean clothes and made his way to the bathroom.
Realizing the boy hadn't left, Walters stopped at the bathroom door and took a deep breath before speaking. It was a technique he often used at work to blow off tension and steady himself. He tried not to raise his voice again. "Something else, kiddo?"
"Dad, do you think...do you think you could take me to the park when you get home? There's too many stones in the driveway for me to skate there and the sidewalk's no good either 'cuz it's got crumbles and bumps in it."
Walters felt a stab of guilt. The skates had been a birthday present a couple of weeks back and he knew how the eight-year old longed to at least be good enough to keep up with his friends. But today? It would be impossible. He sighed. "I can't, kiddo. I'm logging an extra shift."
Hope vanished from the boy's face and he kicked at the floor. "That's okay. I know you've got to work," he muttered.
Again, guilt pricked at Walters. When was the last time he done something with the boy? With any of his kids? The fact he couldn't remember bothered him. Was he turning into his own father who had been so focused on himself that he never had time or room for anyone else? The thought chilled him. This wasn't the man he wanted to be.
"Look," he offered, putting his hand on Kevin's small shoulder. "I'm switching over to P.M. Watch on Sunday when the new deployment period starts, so how about we'll go in the morning?"
"What about church?"
"What about it? We'll play hooky."
"I don't think Mom will go for that. Catechism classes, you know."
Walters couldn't help but smile ruefully. He didn't go to church except for the times he couldn't avoid it-holidays, weddings and funerals but the long-ago childhood lessons he had learned had left their mark in his memory.
"Yeah, I remember those." He affectionately tousled his son's hair. "Don't worry about your mother. I'm pretty sure I can get us a day pass from prison for a good cause like you getting some time on those skates."
"You think so?" Kevin beamed, his smile revealing his missing two front teeth.
"You bet. Leave it to me, kiddo."
ADAM12ADAM12ADAM12
"I got one for you, Reed."
Shaking his head, Pete Malloy sighed as he shut his locker. Next to him, his partner, Jim Reed, was putting the finishing touches on his uniform, pinning on his badge and shooting brass.
"Yeah?" Reed looked up and smiled at Bob Brinkman, who had stopped on his way out to the break room.
Brinkman grinned. "Yeah. So a dog walks into a bar..."
Malloy groaned. "Isn't it a little early for the low budget humor?"
"Come on, Pete," protested Brinkman. "This one's funny."
"I'll bet." Pete picked up his gear and headed for the door.
"Hey, don't you want to hear it?" Brinkman called after him.
"Oh, I'm sure I'll hear it. More than once if my partner has anything to say about it," Malloy quipped over his shoulder.
As he started out the door, Malloy collided head-long with Bill Walters who was hurrying into the locker room. The impact caused both the men to stumble and Malloy's hat bounced off his head to the floor. Automatically, Malloy checked his watch. He couldn't remember a time when the other senior officer of their watch had been even close to being late for roll call.
"Sorry, Pete," Walters apologized, reaching down to pick up the fallen hat. Dusting it off, he thrust it back to its owner and continued at a half-run to his locker. Fumbling at the lock with his key, he threw the locker open with a loud bang and started struggling out of his shirt.
"Don't worry about it, Bill," Pete assured, shrugging.
At the sight of his hurried partner, Brinkman stopped telling his joke in mid-sentence. Exchanging looks with both Malloy and Reed, he made a conversational comment after a few moments. "I thought you were in the break room having a cup of coffee."
"Does it look like I'm having a cup of coffee?" snapped Walters as he buttoned his uniform shirt and snatched his tie off a hook.
"No. It looks like you're late."
"Ya' think? You ought to be a detective with that razor-sharp brain of yours."
Malloy shot a knowing glance at Reed and titled his head toward the door. Understanding his partner's meaning, the dark-haired officer shut his locker and nodded to Brinkman and Walters. "Catch you guys later."
A few of the last remaining officers drifted towards the door. Some slowed their pace in order to hear the rest of the exchange between the two partners. With much less tact than the others, Ed Wells made it a point to stop at the end of the row of lockers.
Wells had a teasing comment on his lips when Walters glared at him and stabbed a finger in his direction. "The peanut gallery's closed today, Wells, so shut it."
Wells grinned and shrugged. "Okay, Walters. You can put your gun back in your holster. I wasn't going to say a thing."
"Good." Walters pinned his badge on with ferocity. "Because if I had a dime for every time you were late, I could retire tomorrow and spend the rest of my life on a yacht in Catalina Bay."
Wells held up his hands in mock surrender. "Hey, all I wanted to do was to welcome you to the ranks of the not-so-perfect street cops club." He continued to smile, his blue eyes twinkling. "It's taken you a while to join us flawed patrolmen but congratulations just the same."
Walters ignored him as he finished adjusting the belt on his pants and grabbed his hat, baton, and briefcase. He gave his locker door a well-placed kick and it slammed shut with a savage rattle.
Wells nodded to Brinkman. "Now all your partner needs is to get a sense of humor, Brink."
Walters pushed past both of them. "Oh, I've got a sense of humor, Wells. I have to have one in order to be able to work with a couple of clowns like you guys."
"Hey! What'd I do?" Brinkman protested as trailed after his partner to the conference room where roll call was held at the beginning of each shift. He sighed as Wells fell in step beside him. "I sure hope this is just a bad start to an otherwise good day."
Wells chuckled. "A guy we know used to say the only thing we can do is do our best and hope for the best."
Brinkman nodded in agreement. "That's sure the truth. Who said that?"
Wells grinned. "Your partner, believe it or not." He patted Brinkman's arm. "So take it from an old pro at the late game, he'll settle down after a couple of blocks behind the wheel in the ol' black and white."
Brinkman shrugged. "I guess so. You're the expert when it comes to being late and all that stuff."
Roll call was as normal as it could be. In his calm, easy-going way, Sergeant MacDonald, known affectionately to his men as "Mac," presented the usual mix of crime reports, stolen cars, and other news in the division that might be of help to the patrol officers during their shift.
The sound of rustling papers and the scratching of pens writing punctuated the silence when Mac finished speaking.
"Any comments or questions?" he asked. He looked out over the sea of dark blue uniforms in front of him before dismissing them.
"One other thing," he added, raising his voice to be heard over the scraping of chairs on the floor and the murmur of voices. "Anyone interested in overtime come and see me. We've running short on some shifts due to the number of officers out with injuries."
Stopping near the door, Reed hesitated, chewing his lip thoughtfully.
Watching his partner, Malloy frowned and prodded his partner with his briefcase. "Come on, partner, keep moving. The last thing you need is an extra eight hours on the street to brood about."
"I guess you're right," Reed conceded, giving Mac one last lingering look. "I just feel like I should help out. Don't you ever feel like that?"
"Sure, but it's hard enough to put in our regular hours. You start picking up those extra shifts and it gets to be a habit. Next thing you know you're so burned out you can't think straight. You start making mistakes. Mistakes that can cost you or your partner or someone else their life."
Malloy paused, letting the impact of his words sink in. He could almost see the wheels turning in the younger officer's head as Reed thought about it.
"I can see your point," Reed finally conceded. "But I still feel like I ought to volunteer for at least one extra shift."
"Volunteering just gets you into trouble. I thought you would have learned that by now," Malloy sighed. "Besides, the brass will take care of it. They'll shuffle guys around, maybe pull someone from another division temporarily, and if worse comes to worse, they'll mandate overtime and you'll get a chance to ease that guilty conscience of yours."
"Oh, Malloy," Mac called from down the hall.
Reed and Malloy both turned around to face the Sergeant who was just coming out of the conference room with a stack of files under one arm and a clipboard under the other.
"Yeah, Mac?" Malloy answered.
Mac flashed him a smile. "Thanks for picking up that shift tomorrow. I know it's your day off and I appreciate you helping out. You two be safe out there." He nodded at the two officers before heading down to the Watch Commander's office.
Reed raised his eyebrows and turned to pointedly stare at Malloy. "I thought you said 'volunteering just gets you into trouble'?"
"It does," Malloy insisted, suddenly interested in the handle of his briefcase. "Which is why I'm sure I'll be sorry when tomorrow comes."
Reed chuckled, shaking his head. "Do as you say, not as you do, right?"
"That's right," Malloy nodded curtly, not meeting his partner's amused eyes. "Now let's get going. We're not getting paid to patrol the station."
Walters and Brinkman were the last ones to leave roll call. Walters had taken his time picking up the latest copy of the hot sheet before carefully folding it and putting it in his pocket. Then he had stopped and looked over the bulletin board, taking particular care in studying the internal departmental job opening sheet.
"Thinking of transferring?" Brinkman asked when curiosity got the better of him.
Walters shrugged indifferently. "Maybe. Maybe not. We better get going."
He looked at his watch and frowned. The hands pointed at 10: 30. He tapped the glass face.
"How do you like that? My watch is busted. It must have happened last night when Russo and I were wrestling around with that deuce. I never even noticed."
"Maybe you're working too much," Brinkman suggested lightly, swinging his briefcase and baton back and forth.
"Maybe I am, Mother," Walters said, scowling. "But when my work schedule is your business I'll let you know."
"You're really being a grouch, you know." Brinkman spoke in the same tone he used when he told a joke, friendly and easy-going, yet a frown tugged at his lips and he looked with concern at his partner.
Brinkman had transferred from the Hollywood Division where he been first assigned as a fresh new probationer out of the Academy and had spent the last two years matched up with a twenty-plus year veteran named Jack Watson. Watson felt both life and the LAPD had dealt him a bad hand and his cynicism and bitterness had made him difficult to work with. Brinkman had often been at odds with the older man and while he did learn, each lesson was laced with ridicule and needling.
So when Brinkman was partnered up with Walters, he had been wary and suspicious, afraid he was going to have to work with another Jack Watson. Yet from the very first day, Walters had been a good partner: loyal, pretty much by the book but not so much so he didn't bend the rules if the situation warranted, and with a sense of humor that Brinkman appreciated even if it wasn't always the same as his own. Early on, Brinkman learned he could count on his partner to watch his back, both on the street and the station. The pairing worked well for them both and their personalities blended well. As the senior partner, Walters never threw his weight around and even when they bickered it was more the back-and-forth of an old married couple than any kind of true argument.
Yet lately, things just hadn't been right. Brinkman could sense something was bothering his partner, but he wasn't sure what it was or what to do about it.
Walters took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Yeah, I know and I'm sorry, Bob. It's not your fault I got up late or that I got stuck in traffic on the way in."
Brinkman's eyes widened in surprise at Walter's use of his first name. It was always 'Brink' or 'Brinkman,' never Bob-except sometimes when the harsh realities of the job took another chip out of their souls and they'd sit in the black-and-white on some corner and sadly marvel at another instance of evil rearing its ugly head on the streets of Los Angeles.
Brinkman wasn't sure how to react, so he responded with his usual grin. "You're sorry? Really?"
"Yeah, really. Home stays at home, work stays at work."
Walters started walking again at a quicker pace and Brinkman jogged to catch up.
"Sorry enough to listen to a joke or two today?" Brinkman asked, continuing to smile.
"I said I was sorry, but I don't know if I'm that sorry."
"Just one?"
Walters sighed deeply, and put his hand on his chest in mock pain. "Do you know what you're asking me to do?"
"Sure. Enjoy a good joke."
"Do you know a good joke?"
"Lots," Brinkman assured. "The problem isn't me, it's you knowing a good one when you hear it."
Walters blew out his breath in frustration. "Not that old argument again. We go around and around like a couple of horses on a merry-go-round." He poked Brinkman in the chest. "You wouldn't know a funny joke if it came up and pinned your badge on."
"Just give me one more chance to show you. One chance," Brinkman countered. "Or are you chicken?"
Walters snorted. "You bet I'm chicken. You've hit me with enough bad jokes the last few months that I look for a foxhole every time I hear the threat 'I've got one for you, Walters,' 'Listen to this one, Walters.' As it is, I should wear a suit of armor with all the zingers you sling my way."
Brinkman bent his arms and started flapping in the imitation of a chicken. "Pock. Pock. Pock. Winner, winner, chicken dinner."
Walters rolled his eyes. "That's the worse imitation of a chicken I ever saw. Sunny could do a better job than that and she's five."
"Sure she could. That girl's a comic genius."
Brinkman couldn't help but smile at the thought of Walter's young daughter-a brown-haired wisp of a girl with big brown eyes and a smile like a sunrise on the beach.
At the mention of his daughter, some of the tension left Walters and the rigidity in his shoulders eased. He held up a finger. "Alright. One joke. Got it? One."
"Can I tell it to you now?" Brinkman asked, grinning from ear to ear. "You'll love it, I promise. It'll kill you."
"I'm sure it will. I should probably go ahead and call the body snatchers to make a reservation at the morgue."
"So can I tell you the funniest thing you've ever heard in your long humorless life?"
"Not now. Later on after we get going and have a chance to stop for coffee. I need some caffeine to be able to take it. Then I'll be ready."
Mac came out of the watch commander's office and caught sight of the pair. "Do you know what time it is?"
"No," Brinkman answered. He pointed at Walters. "His watch is broken and I lost mine."
"Well, let me tell you then," Mac said, with exaggerated politeness. "Time to get out on patrol. Now beat it!" He hooked his thumb towards the door at the end of the hallway that led out into the parking lot.
"Yes, sir," Walters answered. He elbowed Brinkman in the ribs. "Come on, Groucho. Let's get to work."