Recovery

Chapter 38

The Journal of John Nolan

Lucy and I weren't assigned to the detail at the university's memorial service. I didn't like Grey's reasoning, but I agreed with it. If La Fiera caught sight of Lucy, she would have recognized her in a split second and taken off. That meant that we didn't get a break mid-week either.

It was just as well. Busy as Bailey is, we wouldn't have had any time together. And as far as mental health interventions in Mid-Wilshire are concerned, Lucy and I are a two-person band. And we had plenty to do. The more the temperature rose, the more calls we got.

One scared the hell out of me as a parent. Dooley, a three-year-old autistic boy, piled two speakers on top of a chair to climb high enough to pull out the titanium pin his parents were using to secure a sliding door. Apparently, he heard someone mention swimming and headed to a nearby pool. It only took his mother a couple of minutes to realize he was gone, but he'd almost made it to the pool when we found him.

Dooley was fine, but Lucy had to calm down his parents. They thought the titanium would keep him in and were frantic to know what else they could do to keep him safe. I gave them some advice on alarms they could put on the doors. Lucy suggested a consult with the Neuropsychiatric Institute at U.C.L.A. But the family already had one, and Dooley went through a course of therapy sessions. The alarms will at least let his mother and father know right away if their son gets out again. I know what it's like for parents to live in constant terror of something happening to their child. I wish I could have done more.

As dangerous as they are, it was almost a relief to get a call about a domestic dispute. It took us a while to figure out that it sprang from the husband's shopping addiction. For some reason, he couldn't stop buying golf gear. His wife was threatening that if he came home with one more club, she'd club him with it. Lucy referred him for therapy and a support group. I hope that works out better than it did for Dooley and his family.

Sometimes I wonder how much good Lucy and I are doing, but the last call restored my faith a little. A mentally challenged young man disappeared from a group home. His caretaker went after him and found him walking up and down the street. He was trying to coax him back inside when a regular uniformed unit arrived ahead of us. A cop named Walker was in the shop. He saw the young man, Jamal, turn toward him with a dark shape in his hand. The caretaker tried to explain that his client meant no harm. But Walker already had his gun out when we arrived, and the caretaker was shouting, "Don't hurt him! It's just a toy!"

Lucy practically tackled Walker while I checked out the situation. The dark shape was a plastic robot. It was Jamal's favorite. According to his caretaker, he even slept with it. I'm not sure what Lucy said to Walker, but I know she didn't pull any punches. Neither one of us did when we wrote the report. If Walker had only listened to the caretaker, the situation wouldn't have escalated. And if Lucy and I had been a few seconds later, it would have been a tragedy for both Jamal and Walker. But we were there in time. No one was hurt, and Walker will have to undergo some mandatory training. I believe that all cops should get that training. Maybe in time, they will.

I'm writing again after almost a week. It's Monday night. The university memorial service took place yesterday. Lucy and I weren't there. But we got the story when we came in for our shift this morning.

La Fiera showed up all right. Despite all the cops doing surveillance, her presence almost went unnoticed. She was in disguise as a man. Apparently, perhaps in a salute to her late son, she was wearing his clothes. The only way the L.A.P.D. knew, was that a dog trained to sniff for shipments from Guatemala, which to a canine, smell different from the local varieties of weed, picked up on her.

Maybe Diego had leftovers in his pocket. He might have used cannabis for the pain of his knee injury. That's not uncommon in California. Or Sandra might have wanted to settle her nerves. Either way, the alert pooch caught the scent.

La Fiera didn't come quietly. She didn't have a gun, but she did have a knife concealed in a spring-loaded sheath on her arm. She slashed the first cop who approached her, but he was lucky he was that close to a world-class medical center. He'll pull through. And his partner tased de la Cruz.

Now it's up to the district attorney to bring charges against a woman responsible for innumerable miseries and deaths. I can't even imagine where he'll begin. The explosions alone killed and injured so many, including innocent bystanders. As much as it still sometimes twinges that I never made it to a law degree, I don't envy him the task.

As far as I know, other than demanding a lawyer, La Fiera hasn't said a word. She wouldn't even talk to Angela. I don't know if she's in shock that she was so readily captured or merely employing sound legal strategy. Either way, it doesn't matter. Her crimes speak for themselves. She might end up in the next cell to Rosalind Dyer. Then, for the next 30 or 40 years, they can compete for who was the most deadly criminal mastermind. In sheer numbers, I'd say La Fiera would emerge on top. But for pure maliciousness, it would still have to be Rosalind. I think La Fiera regards dead bodies as the cost of doing business. Rosalind enjoyed the kill and, even more, the torture. I'm hoping – no praying – that neither one of them ever sets foot back in society again.

Speaking of setting foot in society again, Rachel finally stuck her head up. The way I understand what happened, she became part of a trial for a new treatment for Huntington's disease. To say it did not go well for her would be putting it mildly. But the drugs slowly wore off. She'll still have to face an uncertain future, but she'll be grabbing life with both hands while she can. That's really all any of us can do. Tim seems to be supporting her in any way he can. I wish them both all the best.


Bailey studies John in his Class A uniform. "You look great."

John regards her doubtfully. "I haven't had to accept much in the way of honors since I graduated high school as Salutatorian. I don't know how to do this."

"There's nothing to know, John," Bailey counsels. "You don't have to make a speech or anything. Just stand there while the fire chief pins the medal on your chest. Then you shake his hand. Everyone applauds, and that will be pretty much the end of it. After that, I'll take you to dinner."

Nolan draws a deep breath. "That doesn't sound too hard."

"It won't be. And John, you deserve the Medal of Valor. I and all the other firefighters are trained to run into burning buildings to save people. And we do it with the proper gear. You had none of that, but that little boy would have died without you. I'm very proud of you."

"Thanks. Coming from you, that means a lot." John offers his elbow. "I guess it's time to go."


Nolan and Bailey are about to make as quick an exit as possible from the awards ceremony when Sergeant Grey calls John over. "Look, Nolan. You know I've been far from your biggest booster, but you've turned into a good cop. And if the department gets any more like you, we'll be better for it. So I'm going to tell you this. The medal you just received won't erase the reprimand from your record, but it will go a long way to overcoming it. So if you want to make detective, you have a shot now."

John shakes his head. "I appreciate that, Sir. But Bradford told me that being a T.O. is a sacred duty. And I've come to believe that he's right. So I'm going to do my best to join the cops preparing the next generation to serve."

Grey extends his hand. "In that case, I sincerely wish you luck."

Finis

A/N I'm posting a day earlier than usual, so I can start fresh after the season premiere. It will be a new universe. I'm not sure what I'll call the next story yet. A lot of that depends on what happens tonight. But for now, it will tentatively be titled "P 2." See you on the other side.