Copyright and Author's Rambling
NYPD Blue belongs to Steven Bochco, David Milch, and ABC, etc. The Babysitters' Club belongs to Ann M. Martin (no, this isn't a crossover; Jasmyn reads one of those books so I've got to mention it in the copyright).
There is a deaf character in this chapter (and maybe subsequent chapters). When she (or others talking to her) use sign language, the words are written in italics (not to be confused with people's thoughts).
Chapter Two: Another Day on the Job
John Clark, Jr. Residence
Thursday, October 30, 2003
7:09 am
"Wake up, sleepyhead," Rita cooed in her boyfriend's ear. He moaned and buried his face in his pillow.
"I'm not going to work today," he mumbled.
She gave him a gentle kiss on the cheek. "Oh, yes, you are." He felt a pair of hands yank the pillow from under his head.
"Why'd you have to do that?" he complained, not making any effort at movement.
"Because you're gonna be late for work."
"I don't care."
He felt a strand of her black hair brush over his cheek. "Are you okay, John?"
"Yeah, just a little tired." And if you don't mind, I'm going back to sleep now.
"That's funny. You crashed on the couch as soon as we got home yesterday. And you went to sleep right after we ate dinner."
He opened his eyes and received a glimpse of his girlfriend's worry before closing them again. "Like I said, I've been kind of tired lately." He hoisted his head off the bed and leaned against Rita's breasts.
"If you hurry up and shower, I'll make you cinnamon French toast," she offered. Cinnamon French toast had been his favorite breakfast dish since he was a kid.
He shook his head. "Don't bother," he told her. "I'll just have a muffin or something." He stood up and headed for the bathroom.
"Are you sure? I was going to make some for myself anyways."
"I just don't feel like French toast this morning." I'm not hungry.
His uneventful Wednesday morning had been interrupted by a gunshot wound to the head. One glimpse at the DOA and gritty images of his father flashed in front of his face in rapid succession. Andy nearly punched the hotshot uniform in the mouth for ribbing him (What's the matter? Never saw a corpse before? Thought you gold shield detectives were supposed to be tough.). His muscles felt sore and it took him longer than usual to get undressed. He allowed himself to be immersed in the warm gushing water. His vision was starting to blur, transforming one green facecloth into two fuzzy-looking objects. He squeezed his eyes shut and sat down against the wall opposite the showerhead. As quickly as the dizziness had come, it subsided. He waited for a second before resuming his shower. I'm probably just stressed out, he decided. All the crap with Pop and everything … yeah, that's probably why I've been feeling like shit.
* * *
Courtyard Behind Abandoned Building
Thursday, October 30, 2003
8:25 am
"What've we got?" Detective Andy Sipowicz asked the uniformed cop.
The cop didn't look up from his notes. "Partially decomposed unidentified female DOA, aged fifteen to twenty years. Skull fracture and strangulation marks on the back of the neck."
The cop led the two detectives to the body. "Oh, Jesus!" Andy cursed under his breath before composing himself to shoot the photographs. Half of the DOA's face was rotted and the back of the skull was crushed. Wisps of dirty-blonde hair were matted with dried blood, and the neck was twisted. The only article of clothing on the victim was a ripped cranberry sundress. Andy photographed the DOA from another angle. Her fingernails are ripped, he observed. Whoever the son-of-a-bitch was, she didn't give up without a fight. "Where's Medavoy and Jones?" he asked his partner. They noticed a thirty-something year-old black man loitering near the fence. Andy motioned toward the man with his head.
"I think they're on the other side of the building doing canvass," John said. That's the first thing I've heard you say all morning, Andy realized. He made a mental note to corner him about it later.
"What' your name?" Sipowicz called out to the loiterer.
"D'Angelo."
"You got something for us? Or you just here for the show?"
The man shrugged. "I'm not bothering anybody," he said. "Someone snort too much crack?"
"No, somebody got murdered," the baldheaded detective said.
"Not my problem."
Sipowicz's face turned red and he grabbed the man by the collar of his shirt. "That kind of attitude's gonna get you in deep shit!" he snarled.
"Whatever you say," D'Angelo said.
"Do you always hang around here?" Andy wanted to know.
"I go where I feel like going," D'Angelo responded. "So why don't you take your fat white ass and go bother some other dude."
Big mouthed son-of-a-bitch! He was about to respond to the asshole fire-with-fire, but a resounding crack of flesh against concrete interrupted his efforts. He used the opportunity to cuff D'Angelo to the chain link fence.
"What the fuck?" the man grumbled.
"You shut the hell up!" Andy snapped. He looked down to see his partner's crumpled form on the ground. "John?!" Damn it! I knew he looked like hell this morning. Shoulda made him go home. He shook the unconscious man. "Hey, John!" He swallowed the sickening feeling back into the pit of his stomach. Earlier this morning, he had dealt with a stubborn nine-year-old. At the Station House, he had dealt with a stubborn partner. Rita had mentioned to him that John was overly exhausted lately. When he asked John about it, the younger man just waved off his girlfriend's concern and assured the older man that he was just a little tired but there was nothing to worry about.
He poked his head over the fence and saw the other 15th Precinct detectives interrogating a prostitute. "Medavoy! Jones!" he shouted. He waved them up to the courtyard.
He's having so much trouble, Andy. … Yeah, I noticed that. … Oh, God, he can't stand up! … Medavoy! Martinez! … It's his chest cold. Just his chest cold. … You're gonna be alright, Bobby. Just lean against me.
"What happened?" Greg asked.
"How should I know?" D'Angelo spat. "I didn't do nothing. The man just fainted or something."
Andy grabbed the man's arm and shoved him against the fence. "Either you shut up or I'll shut you up myself!" Greg took Andy's arm and led him away from the loudmouthed jerk.
"He – he's coming around," the Irish man said.
"You okay, John?" Baldwin asked.
"Yeah, I'm fine," he responded.
Andy knelt down next to his partner. "You sure? You look a little pale."
"It's just a dizzy spell," John attempted to explain. "I … maybe … I haven't been eating much lately."
"Greg's got a banana in the car," Baldwin offered.
"Are you sure you're okay, kid?" Andy repeated. "I can call a bus if you …"
"I said I was fine. Just got a little dizzy, that's all." He pushed away any attempts at help and shakily stood up.
* * *
15th Precinct Detective Squad
Thursday, October 30, 2003
9:54 am
Detective John Clark, Jr. turned on the spigot and immersed his cupped palms in the refreshingly cold water.
"How you feeling?" Detective Baldwin Jones asked as he walked to the urinals.
John splashed the water onto his face. "How many times do I have to tell you?" he muttered, annoyed. "I'm fine. It was just a dizzy spell."
"You ever pass out like that before?" Baldwin called back.
No, I haven't – but I've come pretty damn close lately. "No," he answered. He ripped off a paper towel and wiped the excess water off his forehead. "I'll see you around," he told his friend before exiting.
He shuffled his feet toward his desk, trying to keep himself upright. You really need to get a decent night's sleep, he chastised himself. His partner sat at the desk across from him, skimming through Missing Persons' reports. "Any luck?" he inquired.
"Yeah, any more luck and I'd be scraping in the millions in a crapshoot game," Andy snorted.
John rested his chin in his palm. "I'll take that as a no." He noticed Lieutenant Tony Rodriguez talking to a woman in his office. "Who's with the Lieutenant?"
"Some forensic psychologist," Andy replied. "The boss thinks we might need help with this one. Like we've never dealt with partially decomposed skeletons before," he grumbled.
Rodriguez opened his door and poked his head out. "Sipowicz, Clark, in my office." He shut the door behind the two partners. "Sipowicz, Clark, this is …"
"Not you!" John groaned. He winked at the woman standing in front of Rodriguez' desk.
"Well hello to you too," she said coolly. She shook her chin-length dreads and enveloped the young detective in a hug.
"You two know each other?" the Lieutenant asked.
John grinned. "Since kindergarten. Siena and I practically grew up together."
Siena extended a well-manicured hand in Andy's direction. "Siena Hill," she greeted her friend's partner.
"Dr. Hill has agreed to offer her assistance on your case," the Lieutenant informed the detectives. "Why don't you bring her up to date."
They exited the Lieutenant's office and stood in the hall. "Partially decomposed female DOA …" John began.
"…Falling in the fifteen to twenty age range with a skull fracture and strangulation marks on the neck," Siena continued. "Your boss filled me in already."
"Then what do you need us for?" Andy grumbled.
"How about telling me what you've found in the Missing Persons' reports?" she suggested. "Then we can head over to the morgue and take a look at the autopsy reports." She headed for the detectives' desks. John began to follow her, but Andy held him back.
"Damn know-it-all," the veteran detective grumbled. "What else does she plan on doing? I've been on the job since you kids were in diapers."
"Watch it, Andy," John warned.
"Cut the crap, Detective," Siena shot back. "This ain't a contest."
John stifled a smirk and shook his head. This is going to be very interesting.
* * *
McDowell-Sipowicz Residence
Thursday, October 30, 2003
6:45 pm
Jasmyn Wilder curled up on the bed, reading The Babysitters' Club. She didn't consider it to be her bed or Detective Sipowicz to be her grandfather. It seemed that she was just a guest in that apartment, staying for an extended amount of time. There's no way in hell I'm related to that white cop, she told herself. Momma would call him a "prick" if she was here.
She turned the page. Claudia Kishi was arguing with her parents over her grades. Connie and Theo seem nice enough. Connie's real sweet. The two detectives and the baby slept in the master bedroom and Jasmyn and Theo shared the smaller bedroom. Sometimes, after "lights out," the two of them would chat. He confided in her his fears of his father and Connie abandoning him; she told him stories about her mother and what little she could recall about the father/brother they barely knew.
"Finish your homework?" Andy asked as he entered the room.
Jasmyn shrugged. "I didn't feel like doin' it."
"Get to the table and get cracking," the man-who-was-her-grandfather ordered. "What subjects do you have?"
"Stupid math." Which I ain't doing. She could picture Momma standing over her, telling her to line up the numbers so she wouldn't add 7+2 instead of 7+9. If she was having a difficult time with one particular problem, Lisa would have Jasmyn create a tune to go along with the equation. She leaned against the wall and crossed her arms over her chest for effect. He's gonna get all mad now.
Instead of the reaction she expected, the portly man crossed his arms over his own chest and imitated her scowl. "I can out stubborn you any time."
"Aw, can't I do it after dinner?"
"Dinner won't be ready for another half hour," the detective told her. "That gives you twenty-five minutes to get a head start. Do as many of the problems as you can, and I'll check them after dinner."
"I hate math," she complained. "I'm not gonna do it and you can't make me." So don't even try.
It was 5:30 on a Wednesday afternoon; Kristy was calling the meeting to order. Momma would never let no thirteen-year-old babysit me. Why can't these people think of more interesting names for their club? She was about to find out what would be discussed at the meeting, but felt the book being yanked from her eager hands.
"Homework," Sipowicz instructed. "Now."