NYPD Detective Maria Baez closed her eyes in the women's bathroom, remembering the scene only three weeks ago.
She'd taken Tommy Russell downstairs and entrusted him to an officer. She was on the phone with MaryAnn Russell when she heard screams.
Judging by the gathering crowd, someone had fallen off, jumped off, or been pushed off, the roof.
She ran back up the stairs, praying that it hadn't been her partner.
She pushed open the door to the roof—and stopped, her heart in her mouth.
Corporal Russell was nowhere to be seen.
Her partner of just over a year—and friend for eleven years—sat on the rooftop, his head in his hands. "Reagan!" She hurried to him, worried he'd been shot—they'd been told Russell had a gun. "Reagan!"
He didn't move—didn't seem to have heard.
"Danny!"
She bent down in front of him, right in his line of sight. "Danny, look at me!"
She had to call his name three more times before he looked up.
His eyes were dead, and she shivered. "Are you okay?"
He shook his head.
She had meant "Are you physically okay?" and she knew he knew that.
But his answer…an honest one, for once…had nothing to do with his physical well-being, and the pain in his eyes broke her heart.
She held her hand out to him. "Come on, partner. We need to talk to ESU, and then I'll drive us back to the precinct."
"Tommy," he whispered.
"He's safe. He's with a uniform, and some other uniforms are going to bring his mom."
Slowly, he stood up, followed her woodenly downstairs. He talked to the officers and ESU in a hollow, dead voice; there wasn't even a hint of his usual anger—and that was what worried her.
When they had finished with the officers, they talked to Mrs. Russell.
Then they headed for the car.
Danny handed the keys over without her even having to ask—he knew he couldn't drive—and sank into the passenger's seat.
She started the car. After a few minutes, unable to bear the silence any longer, she said, very, very gently, "It's not your fault, Danny."
Normally, that would have provoked an angry outburst, cursing, or some sort of response; but he just sat there. He's in shock, she thought.
Back at the precinct, he filled out all his paperwork methodically, then pulled out his phone. She hoped she knew whom he was calling, and flinched at the emptiness in his voice when he said, "I…I'm drowning, Doc."
So, she wasn't surprised when Dr. Dawson came in twenty minutes later.
She intercepted him in the hallway. "Thanks for coming, Dr. Dawson."
"No thanks needed. What happened, Detective?"
"Danny tried to talk Russell down, but…he jumped anyway. I was downstairs with Tommy—waiting for ESU and hostage negotiators—when it happened. Other than to give his statement, Danny's barely said five words since. I had to drive us back. He's in shock."
"That's understandable. I'm glad he called me. Are you okay, Detective?"
"Yeah. I…I didn't see it happen. I don't have Danny's…I never served, so I don't have his…fierce loyalty. I'll be fine, Dr. Dawson."
"Well, make sure to reach out to your friends if you need to. It's late, Detective; go home, try to get some rest."
She'd nodded to him, and he'd headed for the desk where Danny sat.
She leaned back against the sink, wondering how things had gotten this bad. She'd kept trying to get Danny to talk, but he'd kept stonewalling her. He'd mentioned Doc in passing, so she knew he was getting help—or hoped he was at least talking—but he got quieter and angrier, and weight slowly fell off him.
The day Gormley told her Danny was on modified, per the Commissioner's direct orders, had been the day she had planned to go to Gormley herself and tell him Danny needed help.
Now, she was glad he'd gotten it before it was too late.
She left the bathroom, walked back to her desk. Her partner was sitting in his chair, going through papers, cursing occasionally under his breath.
"I brought lunch. Homemade chicken noodle soup. Figured it'd be easy on your stomach."
He sighed. "You too, Baez?"
She shrugged. "I'm a detective, Danny; I notice things. Your clothes are hanging off you; you've lost …what…ten, fifteen pounds? I heard you losing your lunch in the men's bathroom yesterday—can't imagine that was fun, what with bruised ribs and all."
"How do you know it was me, and not the drunk perp?"
"I had just walked the perp back to the holding cell."
"Oh."
He felt his shoulders slump when Baez caught him in the lie.
Third day on modified. Stupid desk duty. Eight hours a day, forty hours a week, for six weeks. 240 hours of boredom.
The phone had rung several times an hour. Sometimes it was someone with a legitimate complaint, or another precinct needing help on a case. Other times, it was crackpots that made him wonder, for the millionth time, why anyone would ever choose to do drugs.
When he wasn't answering the phone, he was sorting the mail, digging through boxes of papers for his partner's current case.
"Detective Reagan, you have some visitors," a voice said, and he sighed, turned around.
Tommy Russell and his mother were walking toward him. "Hi, Detective Danny!" the little boy said, and he rose to his feet.
"Hi, Detective Reagan. Tommy's been begging to come by for the last week; but between moving and paperwork and appointments…we haven't been able to until now. He has something for you."
He blinked. "But…his dad is dead because of me," he whispered.
"No, Detective Reagan, John is dead…because of John. Tommy is alive because of you."
Tommy handed him a folded piece of paper.
He unfolded it, and froze.
It was a picture of him pulling Tommy off the ledge—not entirely accurate, but…kids.
His breath caught.
He swallowed, tried to say something, but the words were lodged in his throat.
"Thank you, Detective Danny." The little boy poked him in the leg, and Danny squatted down to make eye contact with the eight-year-old.
His breath caught at the pain—it wasn't his ribs, that time—but he kept his face neutral, not wanting to scare the boy. He had to swallow before he could get the words. "Thank you, Tommy. I…I'm sorry I couldn't save your dad, kiddo. I tried."
Tommy threw his arms around him, rocking Danny back on his heels. He patted the boy on the back, blinked back tears of pain, then pulled away. "Would you like to look around this big police station?" The boy nodded, and Danny stood. "Officer, would you give them a tour? I'll see you soon, okay?" he said to Tommy, who nodded vigorously, and followed his mother and the officer.
He turned to make his escape to the bathroom, when a voice said, "Detective Reagan." It was MaryAnn Russell. "Thank you for trying to save John. You did everything you could."
No, I didn't, he thought. Aloud, he said, "I'm sorry it wasn't enough," and hurried towards the men's room.
He made it just in time for the pancakes and coffee to come back the way they'd gone down.
"Dammit!" he said, as he rinsed his mouth out in the sink.
He took a hard look at himself in the mirror—something he'd been avoiding.
He looked like crap—there were dark circles under his eyes, his belt was three holes tighter than normal, and his clothes were hanging off him. If this didn't stop soon…he was never gonna return to full duty.
He was shaking, and he cursed again as he pulled out his phone to send a text. Tommy Russell and his mom just came by.
He set the phone down, splashed cold water on his face, then leaned on the counter.
A few minutes passed before the reply came. Let me guess: they came by to blame you for not saving John?
He knew Doc wasn't serious—it was a damned therapeutic tactic—but the guilt still brought a lump to his throat. No. To thank me, again. Tommy had a picture for me—me pulling him off the ledge. Not entirely factual, but what the hell. Mrs. R even told me I "did everything I could."
Maybe you should listen to them, Danny. You did do everything you could. It's not your fault John jumped.
Tell that to my stomach, he wrote back, and deleted the messages.
He checked that the rest of the stalls were empty, then leaned against the door, dialed Linda.
She answered, groggily, on the fourth ring. "Hey, Danny."
"Hey. Sorry to wake you."
"It's okay, I told you to call me. What's wrong?"
"Tommy and Mrs. Russell just dropped by—to thank me for saving Tommy's life. Tommy drew me a picture—me pulling him off the ledge. Not exactly what happened, but...kids. Mrs. Russell told me I did everything I could."
"They don't blame you, Danny—maybe you should stop blaming yourself."
"Trying. I celebrated Tommy's gift by losing my breakfast."
"Danny…"
He closed his eyes. "It's probably just the new med, like you said." He swallowed. "I need to get back to work. Love you."
"Love you more. Take care of yourself, Danny, okay?"
He nodded. "Trying. Love you most."
Back at his desk, he propped the drawing up on his desk.
Baez looked at him. "Is that a good idea, partner? I mean…is it going to remind you that you saved Tommy…or it going to haunt you, because you couldn't save his dad?"
"I don't know," he whispered.
"Bye, Detective Danny!" he heard, and he turned as the little boy ran up to him.
"Bye, Tommy. Be good for your mom, okay?" he said, and sighed in relief when his phone rang. Excuse me, he mouthed to Mrs. Russell, and picked up the phone. "Reagan."