Friday 29 May 1998
07:22 AM
Ten days.
Blair was missing for ten days now. His car had been found in a ditch, near the docks, keys on the contact, his backpack and laptop in the back seat.
Forensics had found nothing. Nor had the Sentinel.
Jim spent hours with the lab technicians, almost dismantling the old Volvo entirely, searching for anything that may help them to understand what happened, but he had come up with nothing.
And now, ten days later, they didn't have any clue of "how", "who" or "why".
Blair had just vanished into thin air.
No witnesses. No nothing.
Jim ran a trembling hand through his cropped hair, head aching from the day's events. He was tired. He hadn't sleep well since he had burst in Simon's office ten days ago.
He had known that something had been wrong when Blair didn't show up at the station after his last class. They had made plans to go to an important stake-out that night and Blair had promised to be early.
Simon and half the crew of Major Crime had been immediately on alert. Blair might be the king of obfuscation but he wasn't an irresponsible young man. And when it came to backing his partner up, he was like a guard dog. Nothing and no one can stop him.
No. There was no way the grad student would have let Jim go alone in this stake-out, let alone not calling at all, letting his partner worry. They all knew that something had happened.
Something bad.
Jim had gone to the University with Brown while Rafe had called all the clinics and hospitals in Cascade. Hell, Rafe even had the morgue checked, but he hadn't said that to Ellison. The man was in full "just look at me and I will break you like a twig" mood and it was a little scary.
Finally, Simon had put an APB on the missing observer. They had found his car, but no trace of the young man.
Joel Taggart had immediately started pulling files, checking on the cases Jim and Blair had worked on. Garrett Kincaid and Lee Brackett were their best candidates for a little play at revenge, but they were still locked in prison, for what seemed some more hundred years.
Jim leaned back in his chair, covering his eyes with one hand and trying to clear the fog that had become his brain, when a thud startled him. A file had been deposited none too gently on his desk.
Jim looked up at the man who was standing there, his jaw clenched and his face hardened. "Bowen." The Sentinel voice had an icy edge.
Mark Bowen was older than Jim by a couple of years. He was a tall man, taller than him, with well defined muscles and a bad attitude.
Bowen had been transferred from Seattle four months ago, after being investigated by IA for "excess use of force". He had been cleared, only God knows how, but his superiors had thought that a change of scenery was the best thing for the Detective for now.
The man had taken an immediate dislike on Sandburg. Jim knew that the unconventional young man with his long hair, earrings and colourful clothes had more than once been the end receiving of some harassment by his fellow cops. But that had been at the beginning, now most of them had come to respect Blair. The others, well, they knew better than to cross Ellison. He was Black ops. A dangerous man indeed. And he had made it clear more than once that his partner was off limits.
Jim knew that Blair had tried his best, as always, to befriend Bowen, the young man knowing first hand what it was to be an interloper in a tight group. But Bowen had wanted nothing of it.
Though he had not witnessed it, Jim knew that more than once Bowen had been verbally abusive with Blair. Mostly innuendos and rude comments. He had questioned his friend about it, but Blair had just shrugged it off and dismissed it as "not important". So Jim had let it drop, but not before having had a nice little enlightened conversation with Bowen about the proper way of treating his partner.
So now, Bowen didn't like Ellison so much, which was just fine by him.
He knew that the older Detective was now spreading, none too discretely, rumours about Blair and him. The man was really a jerk and Jim knew that nobody in Major Crime would listen to him, so he wasn't worried.
For now.
Cold green eyes fixed him with obvious disgust.
"Ellison, here is our report on the stake-out at Correlli's residence. Don't know who your snitch is on this case, but let me tell you this: it was a waste of time. The guy is clean. Hell, he's a pillar of the Italian community here in Cascade. I don't even know why we investigate him".
The big cop was flanked by a man in his early thirties that Jim didn't recognize. He was wearing a badge on his belt.
Soft grey eyes looked at the two Detectives, uncertainty writen all over the man face. The younger Detective seemed quite nervous; the tension between the two older men was clearly palpable in the almost deserted bull pen.
God, who's the fool which had partnered this … kid with Bowen.
Jim was going to answer when the fool in question exited his office. "Ellison, Bowen, Davies, my office now" Simon' voice thundered across the bullpen.
"Have a seat," Simon sat at his desk after pouring himself a cup of coffee.
Simon quickly made his presentation "Jim, this is Junior Detective Allan Davies. He's going to work with Bowen here for a while".
"Hi, Detective Ellison, I'm pleased to be in Major Crime. It's an honour to work in the cop of the year team," a big smile graced Davies face, hand stretched out.
"Welcome in, Davies," Jim shoock the proffered hand.
Bowen snorted in disgust.
"Problem, Bowen ?" Simon asked coldly.
"No Sir, I just wanted to know what we are supposed to do with the Correlli's case," The voice had a sweet-friendly tone.
It didn't seem to impress Simon, whose eyebrows frowned with displeasure.
"Well, that's why you are here. I appointed you two on this case temporarily. Detective Ellison's going to give you a briefing on it." Simon waved his hand toward his best Detective to urge him to go on.
Jim heaved a sigh and began. "We have good reason to think that Correlli may know Hartmann. He …."
"Gerald Hartmann? The professional killer !" Bowen cut him off abruptly; clear incredulity could be heard in his voice"There's no way a man like Harvey Correlli could be connected to Hartmann."
"This guy, Hartmann, was never convinced, though the FBI tried more than once to pin him. He always used people to cover for him, to back him up. He's a king of manipulation. He convince them that he's some kind of … dispenser of justice. He told them that he cleans the street from the 'trash'; takes care of 'the one' who escaped justice. God! How could people being so … naïve?" Detective Davies said flipping, with a very serious face, through the file Banks had given them.
There were about ten statements here from all over the country. Teacher, doctor, housewife, student, even a judge! All told the same kind of story. Hartmann had approached them with a 'sad story' and they had helped him, sure of his claim. He set them up, then walked out, free of charges.
Some of them, even after being confronted with the fact and facing jail time, still believed in Hartmann. Jim didn't feel sorry for them: they had willingly helped someone to perpetrate a crime. They were guilty. Period.
"You said it: he's a manipulator," Jim went on, "and a very good one. We know Gerald Hartman is here in Cascade. And it's not for our great weather and beautiful scenery, so he must have a contract to execute soon. It would be near impossible to find the identity of his target, there's too many possibilities, but we can try and find out who may be is going to be his next misguided 'protector'".
Bowen was the one thumbing through the files now, "Correlli?" he asked, looking up at Jim, his brow furrowed in astonishment.
"Yes. Ellison and his partner think that Mister Correlli is our man," replied Simon. He remembered the excitement in Blair voice when he had told them about his theory.
The FBI had put a 24/7 surveillance on Gerald Hartmann as soon as he had arrived in Cascade. They had turned up with nothing significant. The guy's schedule made no sense. Most of the time, Hartmann stayed in his Hotel. Among the places he went, three were a little strange. He had gone three times to the Cascade Bellevue Hospital, four times to Springfield cemetery and once to the New Art unit at Rainier.
Only Blair had found the connection.
Amanda Correlli. The only child of Alice and Harvey Correlli.
Amanda had been 19 years old when she had been hit by a car. The reckless driver was never found. After six months in a coma, the young woman had died, leaving his parents devastated.
A beautiful young woman, Amanda had long brown hair and soft hazelnut eyes. She was going to graduate in Art this summer and planned to go to Paris to finish her studies.
Blair had remembered the inauguration of the new art wing of Rainier, some time ago: two big studios, with large windows, conceived to receive art student. And the name of the benefactor: Harvey Correlli.
There had been photos of Amanda and some of her work had been on display. Mostly pastels. The paints showed Amanda's mastery of this delicate technique. But, above all, they reflected the very soul of their author in the choice of colours and subject.
Blair had found that Amanda Correlli had been in Bellevue for the six month of her coma and that she now rested in Springfield Cemetery, near the sea.
Simon had first been a little dubitative. It's seemed too … simple. The fed had tried for six years to make a case against Gerald Hartmann and had made no headway and in less than one week Blair Sandburg, Police Observer, Anthropologist 'extraordinaire' had managed to put the pieces together! They had contacted the FBI and put Correlli on surveillance.
Simon shook his head and turned back to his Best Detective. Jim was haggard and pale; worry was shaping his features, making him looked older and almost … vulnerable. Simon heaved a sigh and went on.
"You two will help Ellison on this case by taking care of the stake-out. Don't forget, Ellison is still in charge, so you find something, you tell him." The tone of Simon voice left no doubt the conversation was over.
"Yeah, of course, no problem" came Bowen answer, "and what exactly is Detective Ellison going to do, while we pass day and night in a car waiting for something to happen." He glared at Jim with contempt.
"THIS, Detective Bowen is none of your business I'm the Captain here and I'm the one that makes decisions, is that clear?" Simon's voice was cold and distant.
"Yes Sir, crystal clear" Bowen snorted.
"Fine, you would better not forget it." With that Simon dismissed the three men.
Jim headed to the break room to fill his coffee cup. Lack of sleep and worry were taking their toll on him. He felt utterly exhausted. He was moving, eating and even breathing like in automation.
He came back at his desk and sat down heavily on his chair. Taking the forensic report on Blair's office and car, he went through it again, with the fragile hope of finding something … anything.
He had read the report so many times he could recite it by heart. Jim took out the photos and re- examined them for any clue that might lead to his friend.
He had been sorting through the stack of pictures for hours now. His head threatened to explode and concentratation was getting more and more difficult. He finally resigned himself to stop. There was nothing in here to help him.
He had nothing more than before. Nothing. He could sense the anger growing on him. He hit the desk with his fists, then, in a movement of pure rage, threw all the papers scattering them to the floor.
Everyone in the bull pen froze and turned to look at him.
"Ellison! My office, NOW." Simon's voice bellowed, resonating in the now strangely silent bull pen.
Jim sighed and followed his superior in his office. He knew what would come. And he really wasn't up for that now.
"Have a seat". Simon stood behind his desk pointing at the chair in front of it with a hand, while pouring a cup of coffee for his distraught detective with the other.
Jim remained standing up, his posture rigid with barely restraint anger, impatience clearly writen on his face.
"Jim, sit down, please." Simon voice was softer but firm.
Finally, Jim did as he was told with an audible sigh. He growled "I didn't have time for this, Simon."
"Drop the attitude Detective!" Simon ordered. "You're driving everyone insane here".
Jim let his head drop to his hands. Something appeared on the edge of his vision. He lifted his head to look. Simon waved a cup of coffee in front of him. He took the offered cup.
"Thanks Simon. I … I'm … sorry for …" Jim's voice trailed off.
"Don't. Jim, I know how you feel about the kid. Hell, I'm worried too, we all are." The tough captain didn't show it, but he had become real fond of the young man. Well, maybe not really "fond of" but the young man had grown on him.
Sometimes, Blair reminded him of his son, Daryl. Of course, he knew that the grad student was nearly thirty years old, but the young man had a way with life which was so ... "youthful". He was always seeing the world at his best. Even after all he had been through since he was working with Jim, Blair was always bounced back with enthusiasm and cheery energy.
Though, at their first meeting, Simon had had some reserves about this long-haired hippie boy, he had grown to respect the young man.
It was only seven weeks since they had had their little encounter with Dawson Quinn, killer cop and perfect psycho. After having escaped while being transferred to another prison, Quinn had kidnapped Simon to help him to cover his getaway and to retrieve the loot from an old robbery. Jim and Blair had come after Quinn and his girlfriend from hell, braving two crazy survival mountain men in the same time. The kid had been shot but he had keep his cool as well as it could have been expected from a cop in the same situation.
And now this.
Simon sighed. He took his glasses off and pinched the bridge of his nose. Yeah, great, a headache was settling here.
The captain turned back to face Jim. His friend looked rough; rumpled clothed,big lines of fatigue writen all over a pale face. It was time to stop this now.
"Look Jim, there's nothing for you to do here. The FBI agents will be here soon now," Simon could see Jim's face distorted by a snarl at this announce but he kept on "so, I'm going to drive you back home", the snarl was now threatening to become a real growl and Simon cut off Jim before the man was able to formulate any arguments. "It's not an option Detective. " Then he added in a gentler ton "Jim, you need your rest. What good are you to Sandburg if you're ready to collapse?"
Jim closed his mouth. His anger deflated like a pierced balloon at the name of his missing friend.
Simon couldn't understand. Jim couldn't go "home", because there was no "home" anymore. Without Blair the loft was only a place to live: walls, doors and stairs. Just a place. Not a home. No tapping noise in the night, no drumming rhythms, no precious heartbeat.
Only emptiness.
He wasn't ready to face that, not now, not ever.
"Jim. Please" Simon's voice was heavy with concern now.
Jim nodded and shoulders slumped in defeat he followed his friend down to the garage.
The ride to the loft was silent. Simon glanced over at his friend who was gazed out the window. Simon had never seen Jim this devastated, even after Jake Pendergrast's disappearance. He knew the connection with his friend and the young grad student was strong and deep, the kind of one you would see in close knit families.
Yeah, these two were just that to each other: family. Brother, father and friend all rolled in one.
Jim wasn't looking at his Captain. He didn't want to. He just couldn't.
He was afraid of that he would see there : the certainty of Blair death. He was afraid of what Simon was thinking of, because as a cop he knew it all: after 36 hours, the chance of finding a kidnap victim alive was close to none. And Blair had been missing for ten days.
But he was sure that this wasn't a simple kidnapping. No ransom demand had been made and Blair's car had been cleaned up by a professional.
So what was it? Has Blair been taken as an act of revenge against him or as bait to force him to do something? Sure, none of these scenarios were really appealing, but they meant one thing: Blair was alive.
And Jim needed to hold on that hope.
His friend was alive. He had to be.
TBC
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