Chapter 2 Steve and Mark; part 2

Steve was in Hell.

His head ached in incessant waves, the pounding providing a syncopated rhythm for the stop, start spinning of the room. With his eyes open he could just about hold a focus for a few seconds, with them closed it was worse, as images spiralled in opposite directions across each side. His stomach was threatening more dry heaves as bile once again rose in his already raw throat, but his physical discomfort was nothing compared to his mental anguish.

He wasn't sure of the exact length of time since he'd been separated from Mark, he just knew that it was too long; too long to not know how he was, too long to not even be told if he was still alive.

Most of the journey to the station had passed in a mental oblivion as his mind had struggled to process events that it did not want to accept as reality. He barely acknowledged the booking process, remaining in a detached state as he was fingerprinted and photographed.

It wasn't until he was being examined by the doctor that the whole ugly situation had finally registered. It was the harsh impersonal treatment by the doctor that had finally broken through the haze. The man was rough, pushing Steve's head back with no regard for any discomfort he might cause, pressing too hard on injuries to test for a response. It was such a contrast with how Mark had gently probed both injuries earlier, that the returning memory forced Steve to study the man who now took his father's place.

There was no concern or compassion evident in any of the doctor's actions, his expression only held contempt. Here was a man who clearly believed in 'guilty until proven innocent' whatever the constitution might hold true.

In studying the man's expression Steve was forced to acknowledge the reason behind it, the reason he was being examined in a secure room by a strange doctor, the reason his father was not there. The returning images stole his breath away.

"Please," he asked, once he had the breath to speak, "Do you. . . . Did they tell you how my father is?"

The doctor paused in his examination. "So now you care?" His expression was cold as he locked gaze with Steve, holding it only for a moment before turning to his bag for some gauze to wrap around Steve's knuckles. "What's the matter, worried he might die and then you'll be facing a murder charge?"

The accusation hit like a slap across the face, and it took Steve a moment to compose himself. "I didn't. . ." he began the protest but never finished, the contemptuous look had returned to the doctor's features and Steve knew that he would be parroting the same line uttered by almost everyone that he'd ever arrested, an empty protestation of innocence that would not be believed. Part of him wanted to stand up and grab the guy and shake him until he had convinced him that he would not, could not even contemplate doing what they had accused him of, but he knew that it would be to no avail. Instead he looked down, unable to take the accusing look the doctor aimed in his direction, however unjust, if the charges against him had been true, Steve knew that he would deserve that look and more. He shook his head slightly. "I just want," he paused, the emotion was stronger than that, "I need to know how he is," he said quietly. He forced himself to look back up into the doctor's eyes. "Please, could you find out for me?"

The doctor was about to deliver another sarcastic reply but something about the sincerity of Steve's expression, the quiet passion in the plea, stopped him. He looked away closing up his medical bag. "I'm declaring you fit to be interviewed," he stated and turned to head for the door, pausing as he reached it. "I'll see what I can find out about your father," he said without turning and then he was gone.

--

Officer Charles Peters let out a heavy sigh, this was going to be a tough one. Domestic violence calls were always the worst, the victims often did not want their attackers prosecuted no matter how badly they were hurt, witness statements were hard to come by, and they frequently had to rely on physical evidence to get a conviction, which neither side thanked them for. This case, however, involved one of the worst kinds of domestic abuse perpetrated by one of their own, a cop, someone sworn to uphold justice, and Peters found that particularly difficult to stomach.

Not that he really wanted to believe that Steve Sloan had hit and nearly killed his own father but there were just too many inconsistencies between the statement that he had given and the physical evidence at the scene for him to ignore it, and experience had taught him that no matter what he wanted to believe the truth was often ugly.

His partner Vince O'Neill had gone to Community General in the hope that he would be able to get some kind of statement or at least a better report on, and possibly some photographs of, the injuries. If this did turn out to be an abuse case then, in the absence of a statement by the victim, the photographs were often the best evidence that the prosecution had. Peters had returned to the station to charge and help interview Steve. He had taken the time, while Steve was being checked over by the doctor to check Steve's record and had even managed to find someone in homicide to ask about Steve and his relationship with his father.

--

The detective looked around, he was in luck the homicide division offices were empty, the room in semi- darkness, illuminated only by desk lamps carelessly left on, tall shadows crept up the walls. He sat down at one of the desks and waited for the phone to ring.

"Yes, I work with Lt. Sloan." He had answered cautiously but now relaxed into the lie, keeping a careful eye out for anyone entering the room.

"Could you tell me a little bit about him?" Peters asked, knowing that he would not be able to use the information he found out but needing some background on the man he had arrested.

"He's a good detective, excellent clearance rate, of course. . ." he paused, deliberately not completing the sentence.

"Of course what?"

"Well," the word was drawn out, just the right amount of reluctance, "he does get some help."

"Help from whom?"

"His father, Dr Mark Sloan, he's a consultant for the police department."

"Hmm," Peters tried to make his next question sound casual, he figured that it would get him a more honest answer. "Does the Lieutenant get on well with his father?"

"They seem to have a good relationship, Steve," false familiarity, then a cover for the apparent slip, "Lt Sloan lives in an apartment at his father's beach house," just enough of the truth to make the next lie more convincing. The unspoken 'but' hung at the end of the sentence.

Peters picked up on it, "I sense there's a 'but' here."

Again just enough reluctance before the answer to make it believable, "I think the Lieutenant gets a little frustrated sometimes, you know his old man stealing the glory all the time, solving the cases that he's working on."

"Does this lead to friction between them?"

Pause, "Yes, I guess."

Now the crunch question, "Does it ever lead to violence?"

Bingo, the coup de grace answer, "Well," pause, "I've never actually seen them come to blows." Beautiful, the implication was clear without having to put anything into words, time to get curious. "Look what is all this about? Is the Lieutenant in some kind of trouble?"

"I'm not at liberty to say until I've spoken to your Captain," Peters replied, knowing that he had extracted all of the useful information that he was going to get. "I'm sure you understand. Thank you for your help."

"You're welcome," the detective said hanging up the phone, "Very welcome," he spoke to the receiver as he stood and with a smile left the room, mission accomplished.

-

More than half an hour had passed since the doctor had left and still no word. Steve had finally succumbed to the rolling nausea, not sure if the vomiting was brought on by the alcohol, a reaction to what he had seen happen to Mark, or the realisation that he was suspected of causing the injuries, probably a combination of the three, all he knew was that it went on long after there was anything to bring up and left him feeling shaky and weak. The officer who came to check on him almost called the doctor back but Steve assured him that he would be all right and so he was left alone in the interview room.

Alone to consider the possible consequences of what had happened, alone in an agony of waiting, where the lack of news could bring no comfort; he had seen far too many homicides caused by blunt trauma to the head not to fear the worst.

The spinning walls started to close in around him. He needed to be at the hospital not here, he should be there with his father, not sitting here waiting to be interviewed about something he couldn't possibly have even. . . How could they think him capable of. . . He should be at the hospital. The walls swam inwards now, anxiety turned to anger. He hit the table in frustration, jarring his bruised knuckles as the side of his fist made contact making the table jump.

"Does that make you feel better Lieutenant?"

Steve looked up, he had not heard the door open, or either of the two officers, who now stood opposite him enter. He looked down at where his fist now rested on the wooden surface and then back up again. He shook his head, taking a deep breath in an effort to get his spiralling emotions under control. The adrenaline that had accompanied the burst of anger helped to clear his head. "No," he replied, quietly, too quietly, he knew that he wouldn't be heard. He cleared his throat and deliberately injected more volume. "No, it didn't."

Officer Peters took a seat and formally introduced Detective Johnson who would be working the case. Steve noticed that they were doing everything to the letter and he couldn't blame them, his rank imbued him with a certain status, whatever crime he was suspected of committing, his case would be reviewed by a higher ranking officer, that meant a Captain, so they were taking no chances at getting anything wrong.

"Before we begin," Detective Johnson spoke. "Dr Sykes asked me to tell you that your father is alive, but he's still in a critical condition, they were running tests when he last spoke to the hospital."

Steve let out a long slow breath as a small amount of the fear that had been tearing him apart ebbed. Mark was still alive. He allowed that knowledge to wash over his senses, to ease a little of the tension and stress. Then he had to acknowledge the rest of the news, his condition was critical and Steve knew only too well what that could mean. An invisible hand gripped his stomach and squeezed tightly. It took him a moment to realise that Detective Johnson was speaking again.

Once again Steve was reminded of his rights and asked to state for the record that he had waived his right to have an attorney present. Then they began the questioning. They took him through the events of the evening step by step, starting with when he had left the bar to return to the beach house and ending with the arrival of the paramedics. They asked the questions over and then repeated them in a different order until finally Steve had had enough.

"Look, it doesn't matter how many times we go through this, my answers are not going to change because I'm telling the truth," Steve stated, the frustration evident in his tone.

The two officers exchanged glances, an unspoken agreement to change the direction of the questioning passed between them. "How would you describe your relationship with your father?" Johnson asked.

Steve thought for a moment, how would he put it into words, that unspoken trust, loyalty friendship, the rock he could always rely on, the joker who could always amuse him, the inveterate meddler who continually frustrated him, the wise man who gave him counsel, the fool who spread joy around him, the intellectual who could process a thousand facts and find you the one you needed, the amateur sleuth who thwarted the professionals, the doctor who saved lives, the man whom he loved. He was all these things and more. How did he put that into words?

He looked into the eyes of the man who had asked the question, knew that he needed to give an answer. "We're very close," it was an inadequate statement but the best that he could do.

"Do you ever get annoyed," there was a slight pause, "angry with him?" Peters asked, "Does he ever frustrate you?"

Steve wanted to answer no, knew where the line of questioning was taking him, but that would be a lie. His father was frequently exasperating, especially when he got caught up in investigating a case, often acting without concern for his own safety. Steve also found himself frustrated when one of his father's intuitive leaps left him playing catch-up, but he never got angry in the sense that he was being asked about now. So would a negative response be a lie? He tried for a neutral reply. "Everyone gets frustrated with the people they love at some point, but I would never do anything to hurt him." The last part of the statement was emphatic.

"I understand he's a consultant with the police department." Peters continued,

Steve nodded.

"I hear he solves most of your cases for you."

Steve met Peters' gaze, a flash of irrational anger at the implied slight. "Solving homicides is invariably teamwork, and if you're asking if my father is a part of that team then the answer would be yes, he helps out on some cases and has helped to solve many."

"But sometimes he does solve the case himself, without your help?"

"Yes."

"And he takes the credit for providing the solution?"

"Yes."

"And that doesn't bother you?"

Steve thought for a moment, "I never really consider it, as long as the murderer is off the streets does it matter how?" He paused, not sure where this line of questioning had come from or who these officers had been talking to, but knowing that he needed to stop it. "The only reason I ever get frustrated with my father is when he does things without considering his own safety, and that's because I worry about him getting himself hurt. That's hardly a motive for me to do what you are accusing me of. He has proved time and time again that he is an asset to the department and I frequently go to him for help because I know that he will help. There is nothing," he emphasised the word, "in our working relationship that would make me want to hit him."

The two officers exchanged another meaningful glance. "Do you drink often Lieutenant?" Johnson asked.

Steve sighed and shook his head.

--

Amanda sat down, then she stood up again, she paced up and down the corridor four times before dropping back onto the seat, but she did not stay down, around thirty seconds passed before she was pacing again. She was about ten paces from returning to the seat when the door to the exam room opened and Jesse came out. She rushed to him.

He gave her a tired smile, "I've just upgraded his condition from critical to serious," he stated. There was lots more detail that she needed but he wanted to give her the good news first. "He's got a way to go, but he's breathing on his own now, and I think he should be all right."

Amanda couldn't help herself she threw her arms around Jesse's neck and hugged him, holding back the tears that threatened, the moisture making her eyes shine. Jesse returned the hold, needing the moment of comfort as much as she did, the last couple of hours had been gruelling, eventually he pulled back from the embrace

"Do we know what happened?" Amanda asked, information had been scant since she'd arrived, it had taken her a while to get to the hospital after she got the phone call, finding a sitter at 3am wasn't the easiest of tasks, so all that she really knew was that Mark had been brought in with a head injury and that he was in a critical condition.

Jesse indicated that they should begin walking and they headed for the doctor's lounge. "All I know is that it happened at the Beach house and that Mark was struck on the side of the head with something heavy and sharp. He has a concussion but that doesn't look too serious at the moment, the main problem was the cut to the scalp, it took fifty stitches to close it up, the blood loss sent him into shock and he stopped breathing, which is why we had him on the ventilator for a while, but it looks like we got lucky, all we need now is for him to wake up."

Jesse moved to pour himself a much needed coffee. Amanda looked around, "Where's Steve? Is he with him?"

Jesse shook his head, "I don't know, I've had one of the nurses trying to track him down, but so far nothing, he's not answering his cell and there's no answer at the Beach House."

"So he doesn't even know yet?"

Jesse shook his head, "But perhaps it's for the best, at least now we can greet him with good news rather than 'wait and see'"

"I guess," Amanda pondered the situation for a moment, "Still if anything had happened. . ." She left the sentence trailing, knowing that Steve would have wanted to be there.

"Dr Travis," the excited nurse called from the doorway, "Dr. Travis," she repeated as she arrived at the table.

"You've located Lt Sloan?" Jesse asked, pre-empting what the young woman was going to tell him.

"Not exactly, I was just talking to the Ambulance crew who brought Dr. Sloan in; they just brought in another patient," she paused to take a deep breath to fuel the over excited speech. "They said that Lt Sloan was there."

"At the Beach House?" Amanda asked.

The young woman nodded.

"Then why didn't he. . . ." Jesse began to ask the obvious question.

The nurse anticipated the rest of it. "He couldn't come in with him, the police were there too and they arrested him."

Jesse's mouth opened and closed but no sound came out.

Amanda managed to voice the question. "They arrested Steve?"

The nurse nodded.

"What for?"

The nurse shook her head, "I'm afraid I don't know, they just heard him being read his rights before the doors closed and then they were on their way here."

Jesse stood, "There was a police officer waiting to speak to me," he stated, "I'm going to find out what's going on."

Amanda stood and followed.

--

Johnson closed the door on Steve and turned to his colleague. "Well what do you think?"

Peters shook his head, "His version does explain how the place got to be such a mess, although I have to admit my first impression of the place was that there had been some sort of fight," He looked at the door and then back at his colleague. "He has had time to come up with a plausible explanation." He shook his head again, "There's still too much that doesn't fit. "The doors to the deck were locked when we got there and there was no sign of forced entry. If the burglar came in that way he would have to have had a key, and if he ran off in a panic after hitting Dr. Sloan, why would he take the time to close and relock the door, it doesn't make sense, and, if he had a gun, why pick up the statue that Dr. Sloan was hit with, it wasn't worth stealing, why not just use the gun?" He turned and stared back at the door, "I don't want to, but I think he did it, maybe not deliberately, he'd been drinking, his father said or did something to make him mad and he hit him, I've seen it before."

Johnson let out a sigh, "I tend to agree, the forensics unit is still out at the house looking for the bullet that Sloan says was fired at him, so far they've found nothing and the only fingerprints that they've pulled off the weapon are Sloan's. It certainly looks like he invented this intruder to cover his own actions." He paused to think things through for a moment, then let out another sigh "If he's convicted this'll end his career."

Peters nodded silently.

--

Jesse would have laughed, the suggestion was so ludicrous, but the serious expression on the police officer's face stopped him, changed the reaction from humour to outrage. "You think Steve did this to his father?" he asked, unable to keep the incredulous tone from his voice.

"The evidence seems to suggest that yes."

Jesse was angry now, "I don't care what the evidence suggests, Steve Sloan is no more capable of hurting his father than he is of chopping his own arm off," he stated, moving forward without even realising it. "Steve and his father have the closest relationship between father and son that I've ever seen. There is nothing that Steve would not do for Mark, or vice versa." Despite their difference in size, Officer O'Neill had a good six inches in height and about 40 pounds on Jesse, the strength of the young doctor's personality allowed him to drive O'Neill back until he was touching the wall. "In fact if Steve were faced with the choice of cutting off his own arm or hurting his father then he would cut it off." Jesse was pointing, almost stabbing at O'Neill's chest to emphasize his speech. "Steve Sloan did not do this. So you had better start looking for the man who did."

It took a moment for Jesse to realise what the passionate defence of his friend had led him to, he consciously reigned in his emotions, O' Neill for his part seemed slightly stunned from the strength of feeling. Jesse stepped back, the energy draining from him.

Officer O' Neill tugged at his shirt and squared his shoulders. "Look I know that you know Lt Sloan and his father, but I can only go from what I saw. Lt Sloan had clearly been drinking heavily, his knuckles were bruised, Dr Sloan had marks on his face consistent with being struck before the blow with the statue, and the whole house was a mess as though people had been fighting."

Jesse shook his head. "He didn't do it," he stated much more calmly as he brought his emotions under control.

"What did Steve say happened?" Amanda asked, as Jesse dropped back a little further.

O'Neill turned to face her. "He claims there was a masked man who broke in, hit his father, shot at him and then ran away."

"Then why. . ." Amanda began to ask.

"Why don't we believe him?"

She nodded.

"The entrance Lt Sloan claims the intruder entered and left through was locked with no sign of forced entry." O'Neill paused for a moment before continuing. "I know you don't want to believe this but I have seen it before, people behave differently when they've been drinking and. . ." He stopped as Amanda began shaking her head, he looked back at Jesse, he knew when he was defeated. He wasn't going to get either of these people to believe that Steve attacking his father was even a possibility. He took out a card and held it out to Jesse. "I need you to contact me as soon as Dr. Sloan is well enough to make a statement." He cleared his throat. "There'll be a photographer over to take pictures of the injuries in the morning, it's standard procedure in this sort of case."

Reluctantly Jesse took the card and nodded.

There was an awkward pause, heavy emotions clogging the air. If O'Neill expected Jesse to say something else he was disappointed, he cleared his throat, thanked Jesse for his cooperation and left.

Jesse leaned back against the wall watching the officer retreat down the corridor before turning to face Amanda. "What a mess" he said barely audibly, allowing a whole stream of emotions to wash over him as he tried to get the nights' events into perspective. Amanda could only nod her agreement.

Jesse allowed the introspective for only a short time, knowing that he needed to be pragmatic, both of his friends needed him. He looked back up at Amanda. "I need to check on Mark again, then I'm going down to the station to see if I can help Steve."

Amanda nodded, she too was struggling to untangle her emotions. She was torn, should she stay with Mark or accompany Jesse to help Steve?

It was as if Jesse sensed her dilemma "I think you should stay here with Mark, he'll appreciate a familiar face when he comes round."

She managed a small smile of appreciation, "Let's get to it then."

--

Steve did his best to straighten himself up. The night in the cell had been one of the worst that he could ever remember spending. For the first hour he had worried constantly about his father, knowing that he was in a critical condition, that he could lose him at any moment ground at his nerves and frayed his emotions. When he had finally been given the news that he was out of danger, it brought little relief, it simply allowed other thoughts and fears that had been bubbling under to rise to the surface. He had desperately needed to sleep off the effects of the alcohol that still lingered in his system, but his eyes had remained stubbornly open, his mind active, his emotions swirling. He couldn't stop the images of the night's events repeating over and over in his head, his father's ashen features and the growing pool of blood forming a constant backdrop for his emotional turmoil. Fear, anxiety, anger, frustration, all vied for his attention, and with each passing hour another emotion began to emerge; guilt. He couldn't help thinking that if he hadn't been drunk, he would not have woken his father, would not have put him in danger. If he hadn't been drunk, he might have been able to stop what had happened.

The guilt grew stronger through the cold dark hours of early morning, the more he considered the events that had led him here, the stronger his belief became that his own self indulgence had got his father hurt, like a strangling vine it began to choke off more rational lines of thinking, leaving him with an all pervading sense of responsibility for what had happened. By the time morning came, he was finding it difficult to convince himself that he did not belong in the cell.

He knew that Jesse was around somewhere, although he hadn't been allowed to see him Jesse had managed to get news to him about Mark's condition. He had also arranged a lawyer and brought him clean clothes for his arraignment, the ones he was arrested in were covered in blood. He was therefore not surprised to see his friend waiting in the courtroom, but somehow he could not bring himself to make eye contact, instead he looked down as he moved to his seat, avoiding looking at anything.

Jesse was shocked by his friend's appearance, his features were pale and gaunt, and heavy black bags pressed under bloodshot eyes. His whole demeanour was one of defeat as he moved forward shoulders slumped, eyes downwards.

Steve did not take much notice of the proceedings, grateful that waiving the reading of charges was standard procedure at this sort of hearing, so he did not have to hear the accusation read aloud, at least not yet. Nonetheless he was all too well aware of why he was here, of what these people believed him capable of and as he sat his mind went momentarily numb. The formality of the courtroom suddenly made the whole thing more real and for the first time since his arrest he started considering the consequences.

It took a while to register that the arraignment was over, his lawyer was talking to him. "So you do understand what we just agreed to?"

Steve didn't really answer, he let out a sound that could have been a vague acknowledgement, but he did not need to say anything, his expression said it all.

"OK," the lawyer said ushering Steve out with him. "Come outside and I'll go through it with you."

He waited until they were outside the courtroom before turning to face Steve. "The judge has agreed to release you on your own recognisance, but he has insisted on a Stay Away order. That means you're going to have to find yourself somewhere else to live until this comes to trial. Is that going to be a problem?"

"No," Jesse stated, "He can stay with me."

Steve turned to look at his friend, he hadn't even realised that he'd joined him. He knew that his mind wasn't working at its best, emotion and exhaustion, not to mention a growing hangover, were keeping his thinking fuzzy. "Stay Away order?" he questioned, not that he didn't know what one was but he was having trouble connecting it to his own circumstances.

"Yes," the lawyer stated patiently, "I'm afraid that if you come within a hundred yards of your father, you'll be subject to immediate rearrest."

TO BE CONTINUED.......