The morning to what was quickly turning into a brutal 24hr day had come mercilessly fast. Working on his second cup of coffee, and fighting vigilantly to stop his eyes from drifting shut, Steve tried to ignore the office phones ringing off the hook, mostly due to citizens and store owners voicing their concerns about the horrible attack and a mass murderer still at large.
So far, the only description they'd gotten was a presumed male, 6ft tall, wearing a ski mask and dark clothing, entering the nightclub and quickly opening fire without a warning. Many of the survivors claimed that initially, they believed the gunshots were part of the loud music, but quickly panicked as other patrons collapsed to the ground.
Despite a news-wide plea for any eye witnesses to come forward and help identify the assailant, their efforts had been in vain thus far.
Next to him, an equally exhausted Hank Flick was holding onto his coffee cup with a death grip, his eyes following the busy commotion going on in the bullpen, his hands trembling, as the occasional silent tear rolled down his cheek.
Well aware of the clean-up protocol that would ensue, Steve had convinced the stricken man to accompany him back downtown, get away from the nightclub and the horrors they'd witnessed, and most certainly don't return to an empty apartment he'd shared with his longtime partner and half owner of the club, Barry Kudrow.
Mike had initially balked at the request, seemingly uncomfortable having anybody related to the unspeakable crime in the bullpen, as if it would disrupt their workflow- or his peace of mind.
Thankfully, after incessantly pleading his case and the concern he had about the other man's well-being considering the circumstances, the Lieutenant had succumbed to the emotional guilt trip he'd put him through, but not without a lengthy speech about the importance of keeping any relationships past and present out of an active murder investigation.
In other words, Steve would be babysitting Hank and take full responsibility for anything going wrong, a responsibility he gladly accepted.
Midway through the morning, with all of Bryant Street parked up with News Van awaiting the upcoming press conference, Steve temporarily lost his battle for consciousness as he waited for Melinda McKay to answer the phone; a local Drag Queen Artist and entertainer who worked part time for a clothing designer downtown. It had been his hope to see if Martin, Melinda's real name, had received any threats or heard about an ongoing vendetta through the local extravaganza grapevine.
Even though the person on the other end had reassured him that the wait would be minimal, Steve had been on hold for a couple of minutes now, the quiet music in the background lulling his exhausted mind into a much needed powernap.
He never realized he'd fallen asleep until he felt Hank's hand on his wrist, quietly nudging him back to reality. With a flinch, he jerked awake, only to find himself face to face with the warm brown eyes that conveyed so much sadness.
"They don't give you any breaks here, do they?"
Smiling sheepishly, Steve pinned the receiver between his shoulder and ear, and covered Hank's hand with his own.
The sleeves of the bar owner's sweater were still wet from a combination of tears and spilled coffee earlier, when an emotional outbreak caused him to dump a fresh cup all over his arm. Thankfully he'd survived the episode largely unscathed, beside a disparaging glance from Mike's office aimed directly at his young partner.
"I wish. Not in this case though. But I have to admit, unless we get a breakthrough in the next twelve hours, you can add Michael and myself to the death toll. I honestly can't remember how long we've been awake at this point. That can't be healthy."
"Doesn't that cause you guys to make mistakes?"
It was an honest, caring and non-judgmental question Steve had heard a few times before. And yet, with the pressure of the case on his shoulders, and his mind recalling the unspeakable loss that happened in Hank's life a few short hours ago, he forced a defiant grunt.
"We won't allow for that to happen. We're very used to working long hours in this line of work. Sometimes we don't get back home until-"
His passionate speech aimed to assuage Hank's worries was disrupted when the door to the glass-walled vestibule opened in unison with that of Mike's office. From a few feet away, he could see the Lieutenant's watchful eyes drift over the bullpen as if he'd been waiting for the latest visitor impatiently, in order to gather his resources and get busy.
Eventually, those blue eyes ended on him, Mike's expression unusually guarded.
"There you are, Lenny. Come on, hurry up. Steve, Haseejian, Haley, let's meet in my office for a couple of minutes."
Nodding obediently, he glanced over at Hank, who gave him a half-hearted shrug.
"I won't go anywhere, Stephen Jacob, don't worry. I…I have no place to go at this point."
The candid words made him tear up momentarily, the heartbreak and sadness of the situation wearing on every last of his nerves as the images of countless bodies flooded his tormented mind over and over again.
Reaching forward to squeeze the other man's shoulder one last time, feeling him shake below the touch, Steve got up and joined the rest of the gang for what would be a painstakingly long meeting.