ACT III
Scene One
The manager shot Vince a hard look when he entered the laundry. Having spotted Roy and the others he ignored her and went directly to them.
"Aren't you off," Roy asked after perfunctory greetings had been exchanged.
"I was heading back to the station when this call came in," Vince explained. "What's going on?"
"Hazing," Cap replied with disgust, and quickly filled him in.
Vince turned his attention to Stewart. The rescued boy was now seated in one of the hard, plastic chairs scattered about for customers to use while they waited for their laundry. A blanket retrieved from the squad was wrapped around his shoulders. His foot had been caught under the agitator, which had to be removed to free him. Despite her anger the manager had brought over clean clothes for him to wear. "Anything left here more than two weeks is forfeit," she'd explained. "We usually donate it, but there's always something around and it's always clean. Here," and she'd tossed a T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants at him. Stewart's neck was badly bruised where the bathing suit had pulled taut and he had two broken toes but was otherwise uninjured and had insisted he would go to his own doctor. Roy knelt beside him as he recovered from his ordeal. Though chilled at first there was no sign of shock and his shivering had ceased before Vince arrived.
"I need some information for my report. What's your name?"
"Stewart Zeciak." He confirmed his age as eighteen, his status as a student and his address as the fraternity house. The questions turned to the incident at hand and Stewart grew vague. When asked the names of the others involved he stayed silent.
"I understand you want to protect your friends," Vince patiently assured him. "If you refuse to file a complaint I don't suppose I can force you. I do have to fill out this report and I expect the management here will hold them responsible for the damage to the machine."
"That's all," Stewart asked quietly, "just the washing machine?"
Vince nodded. "If you won't press charges then yes, just the machine."
"And my name can stay out of it?"
"I have to put it in my report, and if the management here does decide to pursue the matter then it will be up to them."
Stewart seemed to be thinking it over when Roy offered, "Vince, a couple of the other kids are still here. From what the manager said, they're not the trouble makers. In fact, they tried to help."
"Good. That's good, thanks Roy." Vince looked around but saw only women and a few elderly men doing their laundry. "Where are they?"
"Back room. They went for the circuit breaker when their friend here got caught, then one of them got stuck. Johnny's back there now helping them out."
Cap glanced at his watch. "What's keeping Gage anyway? Didn't that boy say his friend was practically clear already?" The corner of his mouth twitched toward a smile. Gage was a good man but he was young and eager, and thought he could handle anything. It wouldn't kill the kid to ask for a little help. Captain Hammer turned to his men. "Stoker, you and Kelly go see what the hold up is."
As his crewmates went off, Roy's attention was drawn back to his charge. "What? What's wrong?" Stewart was terrified.
"He won't get it," he mumbled. "They think it's funny, but if he fights … they wouldn't." He shook his head, slowly at first, then faster and faster as if he could shake the thought and eliminate the reality.
Roy grabbed Stewart's shoulders to still him. "They wouldn't what? What won't he get?"
As if in response, the boy who had come for Johnny barreled into the main room of the laundry, immediately followed another, larger boy, then Stoker just a few steps behind. "Stop him," Mike shouted just before flinging himself at the larger boy and taking him down with a flying tackle. The first boy never broke stride, but Vince and Marco were across the store in no time, blocking the exit.
With Marco right behind him Vince marched the boy back toward his friend, who was rising carefully under Stoker's watchful eye. Both boys were then directed to a pair of the plastic chairs. They eyed the door sullenly, but whether it was because they were outnumbered or merely in response to police authority, they sat down quietly. Stoker stepped over and angrily snatched something out of the smaller boy's hand.
The rage in Mike's eyes belied the calm in his voice. "Marco, we need a backboard and splints back there, and burn packs, too, I think. I'll get Roy." Marco headed out; Mike glared at the boys as he said to Vince, "They tried to kill him." He pressed the item he had taken from the boy into Vince's hand.
Mike turned toward Roy, but, before he could call out, half the lights, washers, and dryers died. A moment later, over the din of the machines still going, those winding down and the complaining of the customers, Chet's voice rang out loud and clear and panic-stricken. "Roy," he hollered, "hey DeSoto, you better get back here. And bring your gear!" Roy snatched up the drug box and biophone and ran for the back with Cap right behind carrying the rest. Mike hurried out after Marco.
Roy and Cap found Chet struggling to open one of the dryers. Just a minute before he had come into this room, a few steps ahead of Stoker. The frat boys had been standing in front of that dryer, looking and laughing as if the glass was a television screen on which they were watching I Love Lucy. The shorter of two was fingering the silver prize he held. On the floor at their feet was a blood-soaked Los Angeles County Fire Department uniform jacket.
It took only seconds for the firemen to realize what had happened, what was still happening to their friend. Before they could act, the shorter boy had shoved Kelly aside and both boys had flown for the door. With a cry of, "Go!" from Chet, Mike was hot on their heels. Chet recovered his feet quickly and moved to the dryer. The door wouldn't open. This wasn't like the machines he knew, like the ones up front that opened easily and immediately began slowing to a stop. He had looked to the control panel; no off switch. He'd tried turning the timer back to zero but still the drum kept turning. With no time to waste figuring it out, Chet had moved to the circuit box and flipped the breakers until the dryer imprisoning Johnny began to slow. The irony of helping John this way was not lost on Chet but there was no time to contemplate that now. He ran to the doorway to summon the others, then immediately returned to the dryer. The tumbler was slowing, stopping, but still the door would not open.
Cap pulled out the handie-talkie to report the Code I and request an ambulance.
As Roy set up the biophone he spotted the laundry manager at the room's entrance. "How hot is this machine?"
"It … uh … it depends —"
"How hot!?"
She stepped over and glanced at the setting. Maximum. She swallowed hard. "The heating element outside the drum heats to 210 degrees."
"Roy," Chet asked, the fear he'd felt when they'd discovered Johnny, the horror of being unable to free him immediately and the dread of what they would find once he was free all revealing themselves in that single word.
"I know. Just —" Roy nodded to the dryer. Just keep working. His knuckles were white as he gripped the biophone receiver. "Squad 51," he said around the lump in his throat, "how do you read, Rampart?"
"We read you, 51." Dixie's voice was comforting; Roy took solace in her presence, even over the com. Keep it professional. That was best, for all of them. First, basic patient information: age and gender, weight and build. Next, details of patient's status and condition.
"Rampart, victim is trapped in an industrial clothes dryer; it was running and the temperature inside was possibly as high as 210 degrees. This is information only, Rampart; we are working to free the victim now. He —" Roy cleared his throat, "he's sealed in."
"10-4 51, standing by."
While Roy was communicating with the hospital Mike and Marco entered with the backboard and what seemed to be all of the medical equipment that had been in the squad. Mike also carried a pry bar. Please G-d, let this not be what it has to be, Marco sent up a silent prayer. Please let it be anything else. Mike, pry bar in hand, stepped over to Chet. With a single touch to his shoulder Chet moved aside to allow Mike access to the dryer door.
Mike quickly broke the seal, Chet yanked open the door. The first thing to hit him was the smell. It filled his nose, his mouth, even his eyes. He'd been on the front lines in war and fire, he'd seen men burned, he'd smelled charred flesh. This was different. He swallowed back the rising bile. "They … they cooked him," he choked out, horrified. He wanted to run; he stepped aside for Roy and awaited instructions.
Careful to not touch the hot metal, Roy pushed through the smell and the heat and leaned into the dark interior of the large dryer. "Johnny, can you hear me?" The only response was short, sharp, shallow breaths. Johnny was listing drunkenly to the right, curled up tight, his arms wrapped protectively around his head. Even in the dimness Roy could make out the red cast of John's skin and the unnatural angle of his left forearm. "Johnny, where are you hurt?" He reached for his partner, who recoiled from his touch. "Johnny, can you hear me? Let me take a look." Again Roy reached for him. John moaned softly; Roy was certain he heard No. "I'm going to get you out of here but I need your help." Did he shake his head? "Johnny, do you hear me?" Nothing. He reached out and touched John's knee; Johnny flinched and pulled away from him. "John, look at me," Roy demanded. "Gage!"
Johnny started. He dropped his left arm and grunted harshly when it hit his knees. In the shadows his arms appeared strangely bent, his hands gnarled. He moved his right arm just an inch when another moan escaped him. Slowly, he lowered the arm to rest by his side. His eyes did not open. "R-Roy?" he choked out.
"Yeah, Partner, it's me. Where are you hurt?"
"Roy? … H-hurt? No, I … not … wait, what?" Confusion, disorientation, Roy noted.
"Johnny, listen to me. You're pretty banged up. You've got to let me help you; we're going to get you out of here."
"Out … Out?" Johnny's breathing became increasingly labored, his chest heaved from the effort. "Out! Got to … get out! … I'M HERE!" he yelled, as much as his parched throat would allow. His terror reached his friends as the drum magnified his voice. "I'm here!" he panted. "ROY? … I'M HERE! … WHERE THE HELL … ARE YOU GUYS?! … GET … ME … OUT OF … HERE!" Using the last of his strength, Johnny called weakly, "Help. … Guys. … Pl-please!" He brought both arms back up to protect his head, seemingly unaware they were injured.
Johnny's head jerked abruptly, his arms dropped back to his sides, his breath hitched; he retched once, twice, then vomited violently. Roy clenched his teeth, laid one hand on John's back and held his head with the other, maintaining his patient's upright and slightly forward position. The smell of the vomitus mingled with the odors in the dryer, doubling then tripling as it hit the hot metal.
"Anchor me!" Roy yelled suddenly. Hands steadied Roy's hips and back as he supported John. It was too dark inside the dryer for Roy to read his watch. He had no idea how long the convulsion lasted. A minute? An hour? Forever. Roy held on, being as gentle as he could with Johnny's broken left ulna and, he found on the right, dislocated shoulder and broken humerus. Damn! Something snapped. A rib. Hang on, Johnny. When it was over Johnny's limbs continued twitching. There were three broken bones and a dislocated joint that Roy knew of, each painful under the best of circumstances, not the least of which was the patient remaining still. The heat emanating from Johnny was palpable, even inside the still hot dryer. There was nothing to be done as long as Johnny was inside this machine. It was time to get him out. "Hey, Cap."
"What do you need, DeSoto," Cap asked. His voice was steady, grounded. Roy clung to that.
"Backboard and ice. Lot's of ice."
Marco stepped in as close as he could with the backboard to the dryer opening to help Roy move John out. Chet took a step toward the doorway where the manager still lingered. "Where can we get ice?"
She shook her head. "You can't, not around here, not now. Nothing's open yet."
"Hey Mike," Chet called, "can you give me a hand? Bring the pry bar." He went directly to the manager, moved in close to her and spoke with an eerie calm. "I saw a soda machine up front. That's refrigerated. We need the key and something for carrying. Or my friend here can just open it the same way he opened that damn dryer."
"The key is in the office." She hurried out. Mike clapped Chet's back as they followed her.
"Biophone," Roy called to his captain. He turned to Marco. "Keep his neck straight, and watch his back; watch out for his back, neck, right shoulder – it's dislocated, and his arms. They're both broken, and one rib for sure."
While Roy and Marco maneuvered Johnny onto the backboard Cap picked up the receiver. "Rampart, this is Squad 51."
"Go ahead, 51," came the calm, sure voice of Dr. Early.
"Rampart, the victim is being extricated now." Cap relayed the information exactly as Roy laid it out. "He has vomited once and experienced a convulsion. There is continued twitching in the extremities. Broken left ulna, right humerus and dislocated right shoulder. Broken right fourth rib. Skin is red and dry. Stand by."
Mike and Chet returned carrying laundry sacks filled with ice-cold pop.
Hours passed in the minutes since Mike and Chet had stumbled onto the scene in the back room of the laundry. How long had Johnny been here before they had; how long had he been in the dryer before his friends found him; how long had he been battered and cooked before they were able to get him out?
Roy worked quickly and efficiently, with a confidence he did not feel. He watched from a distance. He looked on as his hands cut away Johnny's uniform.
A pall fell over the men. Johnny's head was caked with blood that had browned as it heated; his fingers were mangled and bright red with bits of white peeking through; both ankles were swollen and purple, his left foot turned awkwardly. Burns were revealing themselves, white and red even against already reddened skin. His back, sides, arms, and shins were various shades from dark pink to nearly black. In the middle of his chest the crimson and burgundy came together in the shape of a foot. His body was a hideous rainbow of pain. Stoker was the first to speak. "What the hell did they do to him?"
"Rampart, vital signs are: pulse 150 and thready, respirations 40 and shallow, BP is 80 over 40. Pupils are dilated and reactive, temperature 104. Be advised spinal precautions have been taken however patient has responded to touch to the extremities and there was voluntary movement prior to the convulsion." It was a smooth, professional voice relaying Johnny's information to the doctor, first his vital signs and status, then the litany of his injuries: bloody scalp, broken bones — so many broken bones, hematomas, dislocation, sprain, abdominal rigidity, hyperthermia, burns. Roy couldn't bear to listen anymore when the voice calmly started using terms like "stuperous" and "possible head injury" and "pain" and he especially didn't want to listen when Johnny groaned and Cap asked about giving him something for that pain and that same calm, professional voice, Roy's own voice, explained that he couldn't do that.
Dr. Early's orders were followed; when the ambulance finally arrived seconds later Johnny was ready for transport. His face was obscured by the oxygen mask; his hands and arms were dressed and splinted; his shoulder was immobilized; his ribs were wrapped, his ankles splinted. He was covered by a sterile sheet, wet with saline. He was strapped to the backboard, even his head, held to the board with Kerlix, keeping his neck clear for the ordered I.V.'s that had been established there; the bp cuff was still around his leg. Carefully placed at his neck, armpits, and groin were the cold cans of pop.
Roy thought he heard Cap's voice as Johnny was placed on the stretcher. He was vaguely aware of Chet immediately behind him as they followed the stretcher through the laundry. He thought he saw some police going to the back room as the firemen left it. Though relieved the path to the ambulance was clear, he took no notice that the crowd in the front room and on the sidewalk outside had parted before them like the Red Sea. He placed the cases he carried into the ambulance and climbed aboard. He paid no mind to the squad pulling into traffic behind the ambulance and never saw the unmarked police sedan that followed. Hold on, Junior. Just hold on.
Scene Two
"Ice bath is ready, Doctor."
"Get X-ray in here."
"Orthopedics is standing by."
"And page Dr. Brackett!"
Familiar phrases spoken by familiar voices droned in Roy's ears as the medical staff, including Dr. Early and Dixie, descended upon Johnny like vultures. Roy shuddered and closed his eyes against the image. Vultures descend on corpses. Johnny's not dead yet. NO! He's alive. He's hyperthermic, he's burned, and he's beat all to hell but he's alive. Please, G-d, if you're listening, please —
There was a touch on his arm. Dixie. What was she saying? Her voice was soothing; the words didn't matter. A tug on his arm, a light push at his back, a glimpse of Dr. Brackett rushing by in response to the page, a gentle push downward on his shoulder, then he was seated at the table in the lounge, a cup of coffee before him. He shoved it aside and folded his arms on the table. Dixie's voice again, then Chet's. Chet? When he looked up he was alone.
He scrubbed his face with his palms. What were they thinking? The washing machine stunt is stupid enough, but a dryer? Dumb kids! Why would they hurt someone like that? Why Johnny? We should have seen it; we should have known something was up. We should have missed you sooner, Junior. I should have missed you. I'm sorry, Johnny. Roy closed his eyes and sighed heavily. A second sigh turned to a yawn as his head slowly dropped onto his folded arms.
"Hold it! Hold it! Hold it!" Johnny exclaimed. "Will you look at that!" Following Johnny's gaze, Roy saw two people fighting for the toddler between them, each with a firm grasp on him.
Roy grabbed the microphone as he pulled over. "L.A., this is Squad 51. Request police at West Carson Street and Figueroa, possible kidnapping in progress."
"10-4 51."
Roy approached the pair with caution, careful not to do anything that might further endanger the child. As he drew near he saw that Johnny was one of the men fighting for the boy. The other man was about two inches shorter than John, but larger in every other way, and obviously very strong. Roy's approach distracted him for just a moment; Johnny used it to his advantage and snatched the boy. The chase was on!
Sirens approached. The police! Roy's relief was short-lived. The cruiser slowed just long enough for the officers inside to sadly shake their heads at him before speeding off.
Johnny returned, still running, still holding the little boy close. A second man had joined the first in the pursuit. He was even larger than his friend. They were chatting between them as if out for a morning stroll. Why are you here, Junior? Why didn't you keep going? You're faster. Why didn't you get away? You were safe. As they drew near Roy gasped. How could he have not seen it? The boy clutched to Johnny's chest was Chris! Roy took in John's matted hair and the stains spreading down his chest and under his arms. He met Johnny and reached eagerly for his son. "Thank you, Partner. Thank you."
Johnny thrust Chris at his father, deliberately placing himself between the junior DeSoto and their pursuers. "Welcome, Partner," he said breathlessly. "Go!"
The two large men surrounded Johnny as Roy turned away, clinging desperately to his son. He caught one last glimpse of his partner as the larger of the two put John into a full nelson. Behind him, Roy heard the unmistakable thump of a fist connecting with a body. Again. And again. And again. He then heard the snap of breaking bone. Johnny grunted but did not call out. He did not ask for help. Thank you, Junior. After strapping Chris into the booster seat in the passenger side of the squad, Roy drove away.
Cap entered from his office and sat down at the table as his men bustled about putting dinner out. Mike was putting the finishing touches on the salad, Marco put out the dishes and utensils, while Roy drew milk and juice from the refrigerator. Chet was pulling on the oven door but it stuck. Cap glanced at his watch. "What's keeping Gage?" His inquiry was met with shrugs and blank stares.
"Hey Stoker," called Chet, "give me a hand here, will you?"
A tap on his shoulder from Mike and Chet stepped aside. Mike yanked open the oven door; a horrific smell filled the kitchen. Roy looked over just in time to see Johnny's roasted body tumble from the oven.
The squad pulled up at the scene of the single vehicle MVA, the engine just behind. The front end of what had once been a beautiful 1967 Plymouth Barracuda was crushed against the wall of an abandoned warehouse.
"What have we got," asked Cap.
"Drunk driver," Vince replied. "Just a kid, from the looks of it, but I can't get close. I tried a couple of times, the kid got hysterical."
Vince was right, the driver looked just about eighteen. Roy rushed to the car. "Johnny, can you hear me," he asked the driver. "Johnny, I'm going to take your vitals now. Easy does it." He took Johnny's wrist but John snatched it back.
"No," Johnny moaned.
"Come on, Junior," Roy coaxed, "just let me check you out and then we'll get you out of here."
Johnny's breathing grew ragged. "Out … Out? … Out! Got to … get out! ROY?" he yelled. "WHERE THE HELL … ARE YOU?! … GET … ME … OUT OF … HERE!" His strength spent Johnny panted out a whisper, "Help. … Roy. … Pl-please! … Roy? … Roy!"
"Roy. Roy? Roy." Calling his name. Johnny! Shaking him. Someone was shaking his shoulder. Had he really fallen asleep? Thank goodness, just a bad dream; maybe it was all just a very bad dream. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and looked up into the concerned face of Dr. Brackett. No, not a dream.
"How is he?" Brackett sat down and slid a fresh cup of coffee toward Roy. He ignored it. "Johnny?" With just a nod at the cup the doctor insisted. Roy sipped. Brackett gave the slightest shake of his head as Roy moved to put the cup down, forcing another sip.
The door opened. Roy's anger flared at being interrupted before even getting started, then faded as fast as it had risen when Chet entered the room. "Doc" Chet came over and stood behind his crewmate. "Roy," he clapped Roy's arm in greeting. Roy flinched and gasped at the sudden pain.
"Roy?" Brackett was beside him. Roy rose slowly and removed his jacket.
"What happened," Chet demanded.
"Come on," said Brackett before Roy could reply, "let's get a better look." He led the firemen to the hallway. "Hey Dix," he called, "what's available?"
"Treatment three." One look from Kel had told her who the patient was. She was at the door to the treatment room in a moment, holding it for them.
Once the doctor had given them the once over, Dixie quickly cleaned the abrasions on Roy's palms, then cleaned and bandaged the scratches on his right arm while Brackett took a closer look at the bite on his left. "This is infected. You should have said something."
"I know." At least Brackett didn't ask why he hadn't. Roy felt the prick of the antibiotic injection. He turned to see Dixie smiling at him as she put a band-aid on the injection site.
"Tetanus is up to date?" He nodded. She made some notes in the chart, passed it to Dr. Brackett, then moved on to cleaning the bite.
"You're off now, right," Brackett asked, looking from Roy to Chet. For the first time since he'd joined them, Roy realized Chet was wearing civvies.
"Yeah," Chet answered, "today and tomorrow."
Brackett nodded. "Good." He turned his attention back to Roy. "How'd it happen?"
He wanted to hear about Johnny but, understanding the doctor's need for information and remembering the need to document the injuries attributable to Caprice Anderson, he began. "When we left here after Missy Tyro's surgery — how is she? Has her mother shown up yet?"
"Physically she'll recover, eventually. She's unresponsive, but with all she's been through … we'll just have to wait and see," Brackett provided.
Dixie added, "No visitors yet, but we did get a call from a woman looking for her. Something tells me that was the mother. At least I hope so."
Roy nodded, still hoping the mother would show up, disappointed but not surprised that she hadn't. "We were headed back to the station when Johnny spotted a couple fighting over a child – their son. Not just arguing, mind you, fighting. Mother turned out to be a junkie and she won. She hit the father hard enough to knock him down, grabbed the kid and took off. Johnny went after her and got the kid back."
Roy stopped, visions playing in his mind of the animal that had once been a woman driving Johnny to the pavement, tearing at his hair and clothes and throat.
"The kid bit you," Chet guessed, prompting him to continue.
"Johnny brought the kid back and gave him to his father. The mother wasn't happy. She attacked." He threw a look to Chet, but he was listening intently with no sign of mischief. I should have known. Chet can be a jerk sometimes, but he's ok. "Whatever she was on made her real strong. She went after Gage; I tried to pull her off …"
"She bit you," Dixie finished when Roy trailed off.
"Roy," said Dr. Brackett with controlled anger, "I understand what kind of morning it's been but do you realize how much bacteria is in a human bite? And if she was a junkie, I'm sure proper dental hygiene was not a priority."
"I know," Roy's temper finally showed itself. "Do you? Johnny ran after this woman to help a child. We'd been on consecutive runs since about one this morning, it was hot and he ran after her and ran back carrying the kid. He ran for almost twenty minutes. Then she attacked him. I tried to pull her off and she did this," he held up his arms. "And those scratches across Johnny's throat, Doc, she did that, too. She was out of her mind on something and she attacked him!"
Dixie, Dr. Brackett, and Chet were staring at him. "Roy," Dixie ventured.
Again his anger left him as quickly as it had come, the energy spent like a wave that had just crashed on the shore. "I'm sorry. It was a rescue; I was bitten. Please, Doc, just tell us how Johnny's doing." He could feel Chet holding back his questions as Brackett spoke. He knew that the "med-speak" sent most of the conversation over Chet's head and he appreciated the man's restraint. "Can I see him?"
Brackett was shaking his head. "I'm sorry, Roy, but we have him in isolation. The risk of infection in his current condition is just too high. He wouldn't know you're there anyway."
Chet clamped his mouth shut with an audible click, locking in the final question. If any of the others noticed they did not acknowledge it.
"I understand," Roy conceded sadly. "Whatever's best for Johnny, right?" Brackett smiled, grateful for that understanding. "You'll let me know when." It wasn't a request.
"Of course." He accepted a bottle of pills from Dixie and made his own notes in the chart before passing the bottle to Roy. "Take these. Twice a day with food, so one with breakfast and one with dinner starting with dinner tonight. And come see me tomorrow afternoon. I want to take a look at that arm before your next shift."
"He'll be here," Chet assured the doctor when Roy remained silent.
As they moved into the hallway Roy to turned to Brackett once more. "Doc, I —"
"I've seen it before, mostly fraternities, even a few sororities and some high-schoolers. Lots of nausea, vertigo, some bumps and bruises. These kids think it's funny; they don't understand how dangerous it can be. This is the first time I know of that they left the heat on but it was bound to happen sooner or later and I'm sure it will happen again. Careless. Stupid. Stupid and dangerous!" He shook his head in disgust. "By the way, what was that with the pop?"
"No ice available," Chet shrugged.
"Good thinking." Chet grinned, glad he'd been able to provide that little extra help. "You did a good job out there. I know it was rough; each injury exacerbates the others. You guys did great. Now it's my turn."
Scene Three
They bypassed the emergency vehicles area by the ER door where the squad would ordinarily have been parked. Still lost in thought, it wasn't until they reached Chet's car that Roy put that together with how Chet was dressed. Chet caught the look on his face.
"When we were leaving the scene, Cap said since it was already after shift change that once the docs had Gage I should bring the squad back ASAP and pick you up after. You had the follow-up and he figured you'd want to be here until there was word on Johnny anyway. I came and told you I was leaving."
"I'm sorry, Chet. I —"
"It's ok." The ride back to the station began in silence, each man's mind still on the events of the morning. "It was a real bad scene." Roy just nodded. "I should've gone."
"Gone where?"
"When that kid – Jack?" Chet searched his memory. "No, that was the friend. I know I heard him give Gage his name. Erik! That's it! When that Erik first asked for help Cap wanted us both to go. Maybe if I had —"
"Stop it," Roy snapped.
"What'd I say?"
Roy took a deep breath and blew it out slowly. "It's not your fault, not now and not then. Cap changed the order; you were going to disobey an order?"
"Are you saying it was Cap's fault?"
"No. It's just … yeah, you could've gone with them, or Cap could have sent you instead. That could be you back at Rampart right now, or any of us. That kid said he just needed one guy. He grabbed Johnny. And we bought it, all of us – including Johnny.
"Why didn't he take off as soon as he saw there was no victim? Why didn't he call us if he was in trouble?"
Chet's knuckles whitened as anger tightened his grip on the steering wheel. "You think this was Gage's fault?"
"No! Of course not!" Another deep breath, released more slowly, deliberately. "I don't know why they picked Johnny. What that Erik said he needed him for … it was simple. It would've only taken a minute. If it got complicated Johnny would've come for help, or at least tools. We didn't miss him, Chet. I didn't miss him. He's my partner and I didn't even realize how long he'd been gone."
They had arrived at the station. Roy moved to get out of the car but Chet grabbed his arm. It was somehow comforting. He thought of Missy Tyro's hand there, and Ward Anderson's. Chet wanted nothing from him. For the first time that day the hand on his arm was to give him something and he knew what Chet was about to say.
"It's not your fault either, Roy. It's not Cap's or mine; it sure as hell isn't Johnny's. It's those two college guys, nobody else."
"I know. I just … I can't stop thinking —"
"I know, me too. Come on, everyone's waiting." Roy knew Captain Hammer would have waited for him; he brightened upon hearing the whole crew was there. "There's a detective here, he was interviewing us, wants to talk to you, too." Roy felt his body as well as his spirit sag at the disappointment that police questions were the only thing that had kept the crew there. "The guys all wanted to swing by the hospital but the cop kept us here. Even gave me a hard time until Cap told him I was going to get you. I guess since no one could see Gage anyway it worked out ok."
"Yeah," Roy's smile held no sadness. He regretted his momentary doubt and shook it off quickly. This really was a great crew. "It's ok."
Roy headed toward the door that would take him directly into the kitchen but Chet stopped him. "You look awful. Go get cleaned up, change your clothes, take a shower, heck, take a nap! Whatever you need. It's been a long morning and it was longer for you. The guys'll understand."
"But they'll want to know about Gage."
"I want to know about Gage. I didn't understand half of what the doc told us. But I know he's alive, and I know he's got the best doctor in L.A. taking care of him. Besides, if we waited this long, we can wait a little longer."
"Thanks, Chet."
Scene Four
Fifteen minutes later Roy joined his shift mates in the kitchen. He had taken Chet's advice and grabbed a quick shower. He had planned to wait until he got home and was already looking forward to a long, hot shower there, but when he peeled off his uniform he found himself transfixed by the blood. His own blood on the sleeves of his uniform and T-shirt; Johnny's blood on the front of both shirts and the jacket. When he spotted the vomit on his shoes and the cuffs of his pants he was overwhelmed by the need to wash off some of this horrifying shift.
Arms outstretched and braced against the shower walls to keep his bandaged wounds dry, Roy bowed his head and let the water rush down his back. After a few minutes he raised his face directly into the stream. He lost himself in the feeling of the water as it hit his face and throat and made its way down body. When he looked down he saw pink spinning down the drain. Johnny's blood. He wished he could wash this whole day away so easily.
He stayed there, watching until the water ran clear. Finally, he ended his shower and got dressed, leaving his soiled uniform on the floor beneath his locker.
As he crossed the bay he paused to look around. It all looked so normal. He spotted movement in Cap's office: C-shift's captain. The squad was nowhere to be seen, but that wasn't unusual. The only indication that anything was out of the ordinary was the engine parked in the driveway rather than the bay. The C-shift engine crew was working very hard scrubbing her and not looking at him. Beyond them the sun was shining and birds were singing and people moved about like they did on any ordinary day. Roy squared his shoulders and headed to the dayroom.
Cap, the crew, and a man Roy had never seen before were seated around the table. Cap and the stranger rose when he entered. "Roy," Cap came over to him. "How are you holding up?" Roy just nodded and let Cap guide him to a seat. On either side, Mike and Marco immediately pulled their chairs closer. Seated on the far side of Mike, Chet, too, moved his chair in toward Roy. Cap stood behind him, his hand resting lightly on his paramedic's shoulder. "Roy DeSoto, this is Detective McCluskey. Detective, this is Firefighter/Paramedic Roy DeSoto."
"Mr. DeSoto," the detective said by way of greeting. He appeared to be about Cap's age, but where Captain Hammer was solidly built and sported a full head of dark hair, Detective McCluskey carried the beginnings of a spare tire common to once athletic men; his gray hair was thinning though he compensated with a thick, neatly trimmed gray mustache. Even his eyes were gray. His slacks and sport jacket where gray as well, as if he were attempting to personify the old cliché of a "steely cop". He did not offer his hand.
"Detective," Roy returned.
"There was really no need to drag this out."
"What are you talking about?"
"If you had just spoken to me at the hospital we could have already disposed of this matter."
"Disposed of —" Roy sputtered. Cap gripped his shoulder ever so slightly. "You mean the assault on my partner? Is that the matter you're so eager to 'dispose of'?"
"If you want to look at it that way," McCluskey replied dispassionately. "I was referring to your interview."
"I never knew you were at Rampart."
"I can't say I'm surprised. The staff there wouldn't let me anywhere near you, wouldn't even confirm that you were still there, and your partner was in no shape to tell us anything."
"You saw Gage?" Chet demanded.
"Of course. This is an assault case. The system requires certain things if it's going to work. Ideally, we'd have gotten a statement from Mr. Gage. Barring that, if we even hope to nail these guys, then evidence has to be gathered as quickly as possible."
"If you couldn't talk to him what kind of evidence could Johnny give you," Marco asked.
"I'll get to that. There are a few things I need to go over with Mr. DeSoto first. Captain Hammer, if you'd retake your seat?" Cap just stared at the detective. He made no move to comply. Finally McCluskey looked away. He pulled a pen and a small notebook from the inner pocket of his sports jacket and returned his attention to Roy. "Your coworkers have told me what they could about what happened at the laundry, which, frankly, wasn't much." He made a show of reading his notes. "Before we get to that, though, I understand you and your partner were victims of an assault shortly before the call to the laundry, yes?"
Marco and Mike turned shocked eyes to Roy. Chet had been able to fill Cap in briefly while Roy showered, but there'd been no opportunity to share the news with the others.
"What does this have to do with what happened at the laundry," Cap asked.
"Your man was the victim of two assaults within minutes of each other. Either he's having a really bad day, or maybe we need to take a closer look at him. What kind of a troublemaker is this Gage?"
Cap's grip on Roy's shoulder tightened slightly. Jaws clenched, as did fists, but no one said a word. They all glared at the detective.
Finally, Roy asked, "Don't you guys talk to each other? There were two officers at that scene this morning: Bogart and Phillips." McCluskey didn't react to the names; he waited for Roy to continue. "We spotted a child at risk. Turns out we stumbled into a family situation. The woman was a junkie, she was endangering her son. We got the child away from her; she decided to show us how she felt about that. She jumped on Johnny's back, kneed, kicked, scratched, bit. Would you like to inspect the infection her bite left on my arm?"
"That won't be necessary." There were satisfied smirks all around as McCluskey turned just a little green at Roy's suggestion. He decided to change tacks. "Your man was alone in the back room with those boys, correct?"
"You already know he was," Mike spoke before Roy could answer.
"Yes, right. Let's see," he flipped the pages of his notebook, "one of the boys approached you, grabbed Gage's arm and said he needed help. Gage went with him willingly. Does that about sum it up?" Roy nodded. "Does Gage like girls?"
The sudden change in the questions left the men stunned. "What do you mean, 'like girls,' of course he likes girls. Some of them even like him," Chet responded.
"You're sure," the detective continued. "There's no chance maybe he's a little … off?"
"Johnny?" Chet continued. "You're kidding, right?"
McCluskey shook his head. "No, no kidding. It's been suggested that he —"
"That he what?" Marco demanded.
"That maybe he prefers being the girl to being with a girl."
A quick clearing of Cap's throat kept his men's reactions in check, though the tension in the room continued to rise. "Who suggested it," Mike asked, "the men that almost killed him in that dryer?"
"Those boys said it was an accident, that it started out as just a practical joke."
"A practical joke!?" Chet was incredulous. "Do you have any idea what that practical joke did?"
He checked his notes. "Hyperthermia, first and second degree burns, over twenty bone fractures —"
"Twenty?" The crew turned to Roy.
"They didn't know," McCluskey asked before Roy could respond to Marco's question.
"When did I have the chance to tell them," Roy countered.
"Why didn't you tell them back at the laundry? You're a paramedic, aren't you? Shouldn't you have figured it out in the field?"
"I am a paramedic. I'm not a doctor, and if I was a doctor I couldn't take X-rays out in the field."
"Right, well … These boys said it was just a joke gone bad. They claim they've done it before and no one's ever gotten hurt."
"They've done it before," said Roy quietly, "but not with the heat on. Johnny would've been fine if the heat wasn't on."
"They say that was an accident. Said it was part self-defense."
"How was throwing my partner into an industrial dryer with the heat on and starting it self defense?"
Detective McCluskey went to the couch in the corner and picked up the manilla envelope he'd put there while awaiting Roy's return from Rampart. He returned to the table and stood before the men, but looked directly at Roy when he replied, "They claim your man Gage made unwelcome advances."
"What!?"
"They're trying to say Johnny made a play for them, Chet." Roy's voice remained soft, his lips turned up in a sick grin, the fury burned in his eyes.
"Oh, I get what they're saying; I just can't believe they're saying it. I can't believe they think anyone would believe that garbage! Not Gage, no way!"
"It is garbage," Marco agreed, "but you can bet some idiot will believe it." He looked directly at McCluskey.
"They said that not only did he make passes, but that when they turned him down he turned violent. Gave one a bloody nose. That's where the blood on Gage's jacket came from, not from Gage. He'd apparently already removed the jacket. That's when the advances started. According to the witnesses he removed his jacket and said he was 'hot' for them."
"Witnesses?" Chet yelled. "You mean suspects, don't you?"
McCluskey ignored Chet's question. "Just two more questions, gentlemen, and then I think we'll be done here." He turned to Roy. "Why didn't you go with him? When that boy came out asking for help and your partner went with him, why didn't you? That's what you guys do, isn't it? You work in pairs, so why didn't you go with your partner?"
"You son-of-a—"
Marco's response was stopped by Cap's free hand touching his shoulder. The other still lay on Roy's shoulder, offering strength, support, and guidance as Roy needed it. Roy met Marco's eye and gave a tight-lipped smile.
"Detective, what do you know about paramedics?" Cap's voice was quiet, his tone firm.
"Firemen with some advanced first aid training," McCluskey replied simply.
"The men of the rescue squads are the first ones in. If your home is burning they're running into the flames to get your family; to get you out. And not just fires. People get into all kinds of trouble in all kinds of places. These men are the first up the ropes, up mountains, up the sides of buildings, on rooftops and scaffolds and cranes hundreds of feet off the ground. They're first into collapsed buildings, cave-ins, chemical spills, even the ocean when necessary. Anyplace you can think of that someone can get trapped or hurt, my men have been there, and even a few places you haven't thought of.
"The 'advanced first aid' includes starting I.V.'s, administering life-saving medications, delivering babies, even restarting hearts. They work under a doctor's orders to stabilize patients that would otherwise die before ever reaching the doctor. They do this under conditions that the doctors guiding them still can't imagine, conditions you, with all your police experience, can't even imagine.
"Gage and DeSoto are two of the best men I've ever had the privilege to command. Gage was asked for help, he went to help. DeSoto had a victim in his care. The civilians we serve come first. You should understand that; we're supposed to be on the same side. These men put their lives on the line every time they come to work; they shouldn't have to fear the people they're helping."
Had circumstances been different Roy might have blushed at such a testimonial from his captain. A quick glance around at his friends showed only their agreement. The awkward moment was broken by the tones. All the firemen sat up a little straighter, forgetting for just a second that they were off duty. They listened as C-shift responded to the call.
As the engine's sirens faded into the distance Roy returned his attention to the detective. "What's your last question?"
"Excuse me?"
"You said you had two questions left," Roy explained. "My captain just answered the first one. That leaves one. So what's your last question?"
Detective McCluskey moved around the table, removing a stack of photographs from the envelope as he did. "Excuse me." With poorly concealed displeasure, Mike moved his chair over to allow the detective some space next to Roy. "I need you to look at these," he laid a picture of a sprained right ankle on the table in front of Roy, "and tell me," a picture of a broken left ankle, "which were caused by Caprice Anderson," Roy'd never said her name. His gaze flew to McCluskey's face. He did know! A pair of bruised and battered shins appeared, "and which were caused by the dryer incident." Next came a pair of thighs with four distinct bruises, one just above each knee, one on each thigh just below the groin. Roy quickly turned the picture face down, appalled at this invasion of his friend's privacy. McCluskey lowered the next picture more slowly. Roy grabbed it before it reached the table and crumbled it into a ball. "That's ok, these are just copies." Cap stepped back as Roy shot to his feet. "I don't have to charge you with destroying evidence," McCluskey almost managed to sound magnanimous.
"Detective, I think we're through here." Cap could have been issuing an order to one of his own men, but his men knew there'd have been much more respect in the command.
"As soon as DeSoto goes through these pictures —"
"Now, detective." All the firemen were now on their feet, circling Roy. Mike gathered the pictures that were on the table and pushed them at McCluskey.
"May I show you out," Chet asked with a flourishing wave toward the door.
The policeman turned to Roy. "I know this is difficult, DeSoto, but if you want to get your partner any just —"
"It's Mr. DeSoto, McCluskey," Cap corrected. "He'll do whatever is necessary to get justice for Gage, but right now you're done."
McCluskey was shoving the photos back into the envelope when Roy stepped up to him. "Johnny and I told Bogart and Phillips that we'd be at Rampart division around seven this evening. I'll be there, we can finish this then." He turned and left the room.
Scene Five
"He's gone." Fewer than five minutes had passed. Cap entered his office to find Roy sitting at the desk, the crumpled photograph now smoothed out in front of him, face down.
"Does he really believe that humiliating Johnny like that is the way to get him justice?"
"I can't answer that." He pulled up a chair. "I can tell you that Gage has nothing to be ashamed of. And he won't, not if this crew has anything to say about it."
"Did you see it," Roy nodded at the photo in front of him.
"I saw it."
"Then how can you say —"
"John was the victim of a terrible crime, and sometimes the justice system stinks. As this case goes forward some things may prove embarrassing. We can't protect him from all the ugliness he's going to face. If nothing else, Detective McCluskey showed us that. But we can support John, and remind him that no matter how embarrassing it gets he has nothing to be ashamed of." They sat in companionable silence while Roy pondered Captain Hammer's words.
"Hey," Mike appeared at the door. "Are we interrupting?" He stepped into the office, followed closely by Marco and Chet.
"Sorry if we are," Marco added.
"We were just hoping you could fill us in on Johnny's condition," Chet finished.
"Over twenty broken bones?" Mike's question opened the floodgates and Roy was inundated with questions he could barely discern.
"Hold it," Cap rose. "Roy?"
"Yes, there are over twenty fractures. That doesn't mean they're all broken. Doesn't even mean it's twenty bones. Cracks in the bones are also referred to as fractures. And there's different kinds of fractures. He's got seven broken fingers; three of those are compound fractures. You saw them; those are the ones that broke the skin. Breaks in both arms, lower left and upper right. A number of fractures are to his ribs. Eight ribs are involved; half of them are broken, the others have cracks, a couple more than one crack per rib, and one of the broken ribs has an additional crack in it. Cracks in both tibia, that's the shins, his right patella — knee cap; there are a few breaks in the bones of his left ankle, and both big toes.
"His right shoulder was dislocated. His kidneys took a pounding, the doctors are keeping a close eye on that.
"He's got first degree burns on all the exposed skin and a good part of his back where his shirt pulled up; second degree wherever he came in contact with the metal. His pants did give some protection where they covered, they pulled up a bit on the shins, and there's a pretty significant second degree burn to his right hip. Seems he put his knife and scissors into his pockets; the material inside the pocket was pretty thin, the scissors got too hot."
"Why would he do that, why put the metal so close to his skin," Chet wondered aloud.
"Think about it, Chet," said Roy gently. "If he left them on his belt and they'd come loose and started tumbling around in there with him … at least this way it's just one, small area. From the scissors, anyway."
"Is there any good news?"
Roy offered a wan smile. "Yeah, Mike. There is, actually. We got the hyperthermia in time. Somehow there's no spinal injury. He was able to protect his eyes, face, chest, belly, his upper legs. There's no concussion —"
"What about all that blood on his head," asked Marco.
"Not Johnny's. Maybe it has something to do with the nosebleed the detective mentioned. That could produce a lot of blood."
"How would it get in Johnny's hair," Marco persisted.
"I don't know, Marco. That's the detective's job."
"You trust him," asked Chet, incredulous.
"Forget McCluskey for now," said Cap. "What's going on with Gage, when can we see him?"
Roy sighed. "Not for a while. He's pretty heavily sedated."
"When, then?"
"He's in isolation," Chet answered Mike's question. "From what I could gather, it may be a while."
They all turned to Roy expectantly. "They can't cast the fractures. They can't treat the burns if he's got casts. The ribs are one thing, but his arms and hands and legs … they're in splints so they can get at the burns. They can't risk him moving so they'll have to keep him sedated until the burns are sufficiently healed for the casts to go on."
The silence filled the room. As firemen they were all well aware of how long it could take burns to heal.
Again it was Mike who broke the silence. "Isn't it dangerous to keep someone sedated that long?"
"There's no other way, not with Johnny's combination of injuries."
The squad backed into the bay. The men waited for the C-shift paramedics to head into the day room before parting ways. Once again Roy was alone in the office with his captain.
Cap closed the office door. "How are you holding up, DeSoto?"
"I'm all right, Cap. I'll be better once Johnny's out of the woods." Cap nodded. He reached into one of the desk drawers and pulled out a lighter, which he handed to Roy. "What's this for?" Cap glanced toward the photograph still face down on the desk. Roy smiled and took the lighter. Cap grabbed the waste basket, dumped the few papers in it onto the floor and planted it in front Roy.
Roy picked up the photo. He held it over the small metal waste basket and lit the corner. He couldn't bear to think of how Johnny had sustained this particular injury. He watched with some relief as the image evaporated into the smoke, wishing the smoke could take the image from his mind as well. Finally the photograph of Johnny's buttocks with the large hand-shaped bruise on the left side was gone.
He and Cap made sure the fire was out, then quickly straightened the office before heading to the parking lot. Again Roy was struck by the apparent normalcy of the day.
"Get some rest, DeSoto."
"Will do, Cap." He got into his car to head home. Finally, the shift was over.