A/N: Again, big thanks to boredsvunut3 and Ink Cat. You guys... I just love you! Oh, and lyrics, again, thanks to Toby Keith. They're his, not mine.
Chapter 3: Courtesy of the Red, White and Blue
Hey Uncle Sam put your name
At the top of his list
And the Statue of Liberty
Started shakin' her fist
And the eagle will fly
And there's gonna be hell
When you hear Mother Freedom
Start ringin' her bell
And it'll feel like the whole wide world
Is rainin' down on you
Yeah, brought to you
Courtesy of the red, white and blue
I've finally gone and done it, I think as I collapse in the crib. I've finally screwed up the Job with my own life. And, for lack of a better word, it sucks. I can't look at her anymore without thinking about the other night. Can't look at her without remembering how she let me walk away.
After I sat with her and let her cry on my shoulder, she lets me walk away. Nothing. She didn't say a damned thing. Not one damned word, let alone my name. Nope, it's hopeless, not that I held much hope anyway. You can't live on hope, you'll die. And I've never lived my life on hope. Always found a way to mess it up on my own. And I've gone and done it again.
I barely close my eyes when she comes storming up the stairs, saying my name. Of course, not my first name. Just Munch. Like everyone else. Just Munch. As I get up, I bang my head on the bed and let fly a few colorful words before holding my hand to my forehead and following her as she says they've found the guy who matched the print in the one apartment. I grab my coat and we 'run' down to the car and get in, with her driving. I'm glad for it because I'd probably get into an accident. And to think, I used to be the eager beaver. Right.
As we pull up in front of some rich guy's brownstone, we both look up at it before climbing out of the car. I ring the doorbell and we're answered by a muffled, "Who is it?"
"Police," I shout. The door opens and we're met by a young woman, probably the maid.
"Yes?"
"We're looking for Douglas Warrington. Is he home?"
"Mr. Warrington is in the sitting room. He does not feel well."
"It's urgent that we speak to him. Could we come in?"
"Yes, all right." She opens the door wider and Benson and I step in. She keeps her eyes locked on the maid as we walk through the house, but my eyes wander around, looking at the art hanging on the walls and various other niceties that would never go in my apartment. That I could never afford, more like.
Our 'Mr. Warrington' is leaning back in a reclining chair, snoring. His chin is covered with a scraggly beard and he looks like he's been drunk. He's in an open striped bathrobe with boxers on and he's a sight for sore eyes.
"Mr. Warrington," the maid says as she shakes his shoulder. He groans and she shakes a little harder, saying his name again, louder. "Mr. Warrington, these police officers-" Detectives, I think with a bit of resentment. We're no uniforms. "-need to speak with you."
He moans again and brings a hand up to his face, rubbing hard. I think, for some odd reason, that he's trying to rub off the scraggly beard and the dirt to somehow make himself seem like a nicer guy. "Yeah, what do you want?" he asks, opening one eye and staring at us.
"I'm Detective Munch and this is Detective Benson. We're investigating the rapes of three women last night. Do you know anything about that?"
"Does it look like I do?"
"Listen, we can do this here or we can take you for a nice ride down to our house."
"I was out all night, arright?"
"Where?" Benson asks, tone sharp.
"Friend's house."
"That's not specific enough. Come on," I latch onto his arm and Benson grabs the other. We haul him to his feet, while he groans at being pulled from his resting place. "Get some clothes on," I say and throw discarded garments at him. He moans as he pulls the t-shirt over his head after taking off the robe.
"Listen, I didn't do nothin'."
"So I guess you did do something."
"Huh?" he grunts out, halting the process of pulling his jeans on.
"Double negative. C'mon." He finishes pulling on his pants and buttoning them up and we get him in the car, but Warrington stays silent as we drive back to the precinct. This is gonna be one hell of an interrogation.
"So, where were you last night?" Benson asks from her seat at the table. Warrington's across from her, a cup of coffee in front of him, but he has yet to touch it.
"I told you, I was out."
"Where? You need to account for your whereabouts."
"At a party."
"Thought you said you were at a friend's house?"
"The party was at a friend's house. Why the hell am I here anyway?"
"We have evidence tying you to one of the crime scenes."
"Yeah, so?"
"So, that means you're looking pretty good for this. Two rapes and a rape/homicide. Don't think Daddy's money can buy you out of this, Doug." I pull his rap sheet over from where Benson has it in front of her. "You might have escaped with only a few years, combined, on your assault, assault with a deadly weapon. Oh, and look. Statutory rape. You like 'em young, eh, Dougie?"
"Bitch told me she was eighteen. If I'd've known she was jail bait I wouldn't'a done her."
"What about these assaults? Girlfriend says you hit her pretty hard. Had to go to the hospital. Then, you went and did it again. Went after her with-" I make a show of looking at the report. "-a hammer. Not too smart there, Doug. You should've known that if she turned you in once, she'd do it again."
"Stupid whore went and turned me in. I was just giving her a little payback."
"Oh, so now she deserved it?" Benson asks.
"Hell yeah! Bitch screwed me over."
"Did Elaina Simnowski screw you over too? Because, as far as we can tell, you don't have any connection to her. Why would you be in her apartment?"
"Friend of my father's. Some old bag whose dead husband served with my Dad."
"And you get off on raping old ladies? From one extreme to the other, eh, Dougie?"
"Are you fricken' kidding me? What the hell kind of sicko rapes old ladies?"
"Could be the kind I'm looking at," Benson says coolly as a knock on the glass tells us Cragen wants us. With Warrington shooting Benson a death glare, we leave, closing the door with a nice, satisfying slam and leaving Warrington to stare at the four walls.
"Fin just called. He was talking with Elaina Simnowski's daughter. She said that her father, Daniel, served in Vietnam. He died about a year ago from cancer."
"Even if Warrington is telling the truth about his father, he still didn't have a reason to be in her apartment. And what about our other vics?" Benson asks.
"You'll have to go talk to them."
Benson and I look at each other before going into the squad room and grabbing our coats and keys for the car. It's back to the hospital. And we'll probably split up and that means I'll have to see the pain in their eyes. Hear it in their voices. If there's one thing about this job I hate, it's the pain. To think, I thought Homicide was heart wrenching. Man, was I wrong. Dead wrong, if you'll excuse the pun.
This time when we get to the hospital, we don't ask for directions, but split up like I knew we would. Benson goes to Carol's room and I take Maribel. When I get to her room, there's two little kids in there with another woman. "Maribel? I'm Detective Munch. I'm working with Detective Benson on your case. Do you think we could talk in private?"
She nods. "My sister just brought over my sons. They wanted to see me."
As the sister ushers the two little boys out of the room, one stops and stares at me a moment before asking, "Are you a real cop?"
I smile. "Yes, I am."
"Do ya got a badge?"
I hold it out to him and he takes it gently, as if he might break it. His eyes are full of wonder as his small fingers run over the metal. Everyone in the room smiles and it's nice to see some small, and I mean nearly microscopic, joy in this horrible event.
"I wanna see it, too!" the other little boy suddenly whines and the sister chastises him about whining in front of the nice detective.
"That's all right. This won't take long," I assure the sister. To the little boys, "While I'm talking to your mom, you can hold my badge."
"Thank you," they say in almost perfect unison as the sister again tries to usher them out, also giving thanks.
A smile is still on my face as I turn to Maribel. "How old are they?"
"Brandon's ten and Nathan's six." She's quiet for a moment. "What else do you need to know?" She knows that the only reason I would come is information, but the surprising part is she offers it up.
"I need to know if you have any family in the military."
"My husband. He's in Iraq on his second tour. Why?"
"We think that whoever did this to you might be targeting women who are related to someone in the service."
"Why would they do such a thing?"
"We don't know yet, but we'll find out."
"Will my husband be okay?"
"Yes, he'll be fine. We think that they're just targeting the families."
"My boys... couldn't he hurt them too? Will he?"
"We don't know yet. As soon as we know anything for sure, I promise to call."
She reaches her hand towards mine and grasps it. "Please, Detective, keep them safe."
I look at her for a moment, silent. I hate making promises like this. They're the kind that you can never guarantee. They're promises not even gods can keep and when you make them, in those cases where you get too close, you feel so damn awful afterwards and the look on the faces of those you let down--"We will. I promise."
"Thank you. Thank you." She finally lets go of my hand. I give a small smile, trying to reassure her and she returns the gesture through tears.
Something shakes my brain a little after that, reminding me to ask the other questions I have. "Is there anyone who might have a grudge against your husband?"
"No, not that I can think of. His men love him; he's a lieutenant. I don't see how anyone could want to hurt us, just to get to him."
"Have you received any threatening phone calls lately? Anything out of the ordinary that might suggest anything like this?"
"No, it's been quiet. Just my usual day to day things."
"Okay, thank you, Maribel. If anything comes up, I'll call."
"Thank you, Detective," she says again and I leave. Brandon and Nathan are sitting on the floor by the doorway and I almost trip over them. Brandon immediately stands up, Nathan copying him.
"Here's your badge back, sir." Brandon holds out my badge, cradled gently in his small hands.
I take it, also gentle, but I don't put it back in my pocket just yet. The way he held it, so tenderly, touches me. "Thank you." I start to walk away when his voice calls out.
"Are you gonna help my mom?"
I stop and turn around to see him standing in the middle of the hallway. "Yes, I'm going to help her."
"So you're gonna find the man who hurt her?"
"Yes, I am."
"Well, when you do, could you tell him I hate him for what he did to my mom?"
I walk back the few steps and kneel down in front of him. I look into his eyes and see the anger there at what happened to his mom. "Tell you what, why don't you go in there and tell your mom you love her and I'll think about it. Deal?" I stick out my hand.
He looks somewhat saddened by this, as if he had hoped he would get to say it himself. "Deal," he says in a dejected voice and we shake on it. As I get up and walk away again, I'm heartened by Brandon's courage. Little does he know I'd like to slam Warrington's face into a wall for what he (probably, I remind myself) did. I meet up with Benson at the end of the hall and as we go, I turn and look back towards Maribel's room. Brandon is standing outside and he waves as we leave. I wave back and smile. When I turn back to Benson, she's suppressing a laugh.
"What?"
"Nothing," she says, still smiling, and we continue down the sterile hallway.
"Yeah, right." I let it hang in the air for a moment before, "What did Carol say?"
The smile is gone from her face and I'm sorry I had to ask. Her smile is so beautiful and I just- stop it, stop it, stop it, I belabor myself. You're going to drive yourself nuts, John. Pull it together. I argue with myself as she tells me something. Thoroughly slapping myself mentally, I ask her to repeat it.
"She said her boyfriend is in Iraq. He's supposed to come home next week."
"Nice welcome back present, huh?" It's a rhetorical question, we both know and there's silence for a few minutes as we climb into the car again.
"What about Maribel?"
"Her husband is on his second tour in Iraq."
"What I don't get is whether Warrington is targeting those who served in general, or those over in Iraq. Because so far, two out of three are in Iraq."
"Maybe we missed something with Elaina Simnowski. A son or something."
"Maybe." She doesn't sound convinced, though she does turn in the opposite direction of the station house. "Let's go see."
"Miss Simnowski, do you have any other family members that are in the military? Possibly Iraq?"
"No, no one. Why?"
"We think that whoever did this wants to hurt the families of those in the military." Benson shifts in her chair.
"Do you know a Douglas Warrington?" I ask.
"Sure. I know Robert Warrington, too. He served in Vietnam with my father. He and Mr. Warrington remained close friends after the war and my mother still talks... my mother still talked with him after my father passed away last year." She stifles a sniffle. "I'm sorry. I just... I want you to get whoever did this to her."
"We will, Miss Simnowski. What was your feel of Douglas?"
"He was a stuck up rich kid. Always going to parties and getting in trouble, both with the law and his father."
"I take it you didn't like him." Why we say this, I've no idea, but it eases things a bit, I guess.
"No way." She looks at me, hard. "You know, you look familiar. Wait here a moment." Benson looks at me oddly as Cheryl Simnowski leaves the room. I shrug and probably look as confused as she feels. I've no idea how I could look familiar to Cheryl. Benson's gaze is broken by Cheryl's return with an old photo in her hand. "There." She points to a young man. Skinny, tall, broad shoulders, with a gun slung over one shoulder and he looks remarkably like-
"Is that you?" Benson asks in wonder.
"I think it is," I reply disbelievingly as I take the well worn black and white. I'm in uniform, and not the bag. It's the uniform I wore all those years ago when I served in a war that I strongly disagreed with. The war I protested in college. And here's this picture, forty years later, with me and a whole bunch of other young guys, still wet behind the ears, that I've long forgotten. Men who probably died beside me and I can't remember their names. "Would you mind if I took this?" I finally ask Cheryl.
She shrugs. "Sure, go ahead. Keep it if you want. I have others."
"Thanks," I mutter as I look back down at it incredulously.
"Did you know my father?"
"I don't remember anyone with the last name of Simnowski, no."
"Oh, that wasn't his last name. My mother kept her maiden name, for business purposes. My father's last name was Jessup."
I look at her quickly, hoping she might be lying. But no, her face is straight as ever, except for the few tears that still linger. "Danny Jessup?"
"Yes, that's him." She points again to another man standing not one person over from the younger me. Sure enough, old Danny's standing there, smiling that crazy ass smile he always had. Even when we were in the middle of the field, he still had that crazy ass smile. Even when he got shot in the leg and he had to spend a couple of weeks in that smelly old field hospital. We all wondered how he made it out of that damn war alive.
"We'll call you if we need anything else," Benson says and tugs on my sleeve. I look up. "That was Cragen-" Wait a minute, when did a phone ring? "-he wants us back down at the house."
"Thank you," I say again as we leave. I tuck the photo safely into my coat pocket and we climb back in the car. After all these years... I can never get rid of that damn war, can I? No, Johnny, it'll always be with ya, a voice says and I know it from somewhere, though from where I can't tell. War does a funny thing to the mind, meddles with things you thought were wrong and tells you they're right. Like killin' a man. It ain't right, but in war, it's what you gotta do to keep yourself from bein' killed because you can sure as hell bet the other guy ain't gonna care. All that matters is stayin' alive. War teaches you that, burns it into ya head, and when the war's over, it's still there. Forget it, Johnny. Forget it now, or you'll never be the same. Forget it now, or you'll die like the rest of them. Forget it now, or you'll never make it out alive.
Forget it now, Johnny.