Chapter 3
Don was just about to help his vic into the back seat of the LAPD unit when he heard his name called. Turning, he saw Jimmy Preston, a newer agent, assigned to another team. He frowned. What did this newbie want?
"Agent Eppes," Jimmy was breathless when he reached the unit. "I'll…I'll get this guy. Agent Reeves saw me in the corridor and sent me out here, told me to take your vic in and send you back to her."
That might make a little sense. Don was a senior agent. He should probably stay on the scene. "Right," he said, and carefully made the transfer so that Jimmy's hands took over for his. "Where is she?"
"Digital forensics." Jimmy was climbing into the back of the car. "Don't forget to go through decon," he threw back over his shoulder.
Don ran back for the building, impatiently let the LAPD officers maintaining security at the door check his ID. Just inside, he veered to the women's restroom off the lobby. Decontamination. All the times he had been required to practice this emergency action plan, he couldn't believe how different it felt when it wasn't a drill. Designated personnel were stationed at the entrance to bag and tag the gloves he had been wearing with the injured civilian. He was allowed to enter the room, where he washed his hands, then held them out while another safety team member thoroughly drowned them in alcohol. A third person circled him while this was happening, to check for blood on his clothes. None would be allowed back in to cross-contaminate the scene. Spotting some stains, the agent had Don remove and bag his dress shirt, and gave him an FBI t-shirt to put on instead. Finally, back at the door, he was issued a fresh pair of gloves.
It all happened so fast, Don was halfway to digital forensics before his brain caught up with him, and he stopped dead in the corridor.
Digital forensics?
Where he had sent Charlie?
Charlie had ridden down in the elevator with Megan. Megan was in Central Booking during the shooting. So Charlie must have gone on, to log-in the temp tech, like Don had asked him to.
Bodies were rushing past him on both sides, and he stood still in the hallway.
"Eppes!"
Don looked up, startled, saw Director Merrick.
"Are you all right?"
The Director's solicitude did more to bring him back than the melee around him. "Merrick" and "empathetic" were not often used in the same sentence. Don started moving, again. "I'm fine, sir. I've been called to digital forensics." Merrick nodded, and continued on toward Central Booking.
He was soon running, and his feet nearly slipped out from under him when he turned into the room full-tilt. The paramedic team kneeled over someone on the floor, blocking his view, while Colby and Megan stood off to one side. Colby tore his eyes away from the floor when he heard someone enter the room, and met Don's. "Charlie's hit," he said simply, and Don's legs nearly abandoned him this time. He moved around until he could see his brother's curly head. His face was almost completely obscured by an oxygen mask. His eyes were closed. "How bad is it?"
The EMTs inserted another line into Charlie's hand — Don saw two there, already — and prepared to lift him to the stretcher. One of them spoke. "Wound isn't life threatening, although he's lost some blood. Problem is shock. We've got to get him transported."
"Try not to move the body behind you," Colby warned, and Don noticed for the first time that Charlie was partially on top of another person. A woman. The temp?
His eyes were drawn back to Charlie, who hadn't even whimpered as the needle was inserted into his hand, or as he was transferred to the stretcher.
"Where are you taking him?"
"We've been diverted to Cedars," answered an EMT. "We've got to spread these vics around, try not to overwhelm the ERs." The paramedics negotiated the doorway. One looked back at the agents. "Anyone coming?"
Don didn't want to let Charlie go alone, but he couldn't ask anyone else to leave the scene right now — even the Director was working the scene — and he couldn't have his father get a phone call. Not this phone call. He shook his head, and the EMTs pushed their cargo off. "You two get to decon," he said to Megan and Colby, not looking at them. "Check in with Merrick in Central." He finally looked at them, or more accurately, at the blood on Colby's hands. "I'm going to take my Dad to Cedars. I'll be back as soon as I can."
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Alan stepped back, admiring the cake.
He smiled. Don would be surprised. Alan had a cake from the bakery to serve at the dinner tonight, but this one was special, for Donnie to take home. He hadn't told either of his sons when, a few months ago, he had been digging around in the back of the pot cupboard and found the "birthday tins". Their mother had special ordered one for each of her sons, from some cooking catalog she had, and always made their birthday desserts in them, every year. Even the year she died, she had made them. Don's was in the shape of a baseball mitt, and over the years, Margaret had become very adept at the decorative frosting. His attempt was nowhere near her level, but Alan was just glad it was recognizable. He took a step to the side, and frowned. Mostly recognizable.
He shook his head, thinking of Charlie's birthday tin. He had only been four when Margaret wanted to get them, and even then he had requested the Pi symbol. They hadn't really understood what he was saying — he just kept saying he wanted "Pi", and so Margaret had finally settled for a deep-dish pie tin. When she served Charlie cherry pie for his next birthday, he had cried for two hours, falling asleep several times only to wake up and start crying again. After that, serving Charlie pie on his birthday became a family joke.
Alan chuckled and started for the refrigerator to turn the steaks in their marinade. He looked up, confused, when he heard the screech of tires in the driveway. Was that Don? He looked at his watch. At 2:30?
He was looking at the kitchen door when Don burst through it. In his confusion he still wanted to smile, wish his son a happy birthday, but his mind immediately registered that something was very wrong. Don was breathing hard, had run full-tilt from the SUV. Was he wearing gloves?
"We have to go," his son said, and Alan knew all that he needed to from those four words. Silently he laid the dish towel on the table, walked to the counter to pick up his keys.
He looked at Don.
"Take me to your brother."
