In the Aftermath of Hell

by Bamboozlepig

Pete & Jim must face the aftermath of the sniper attacks. Dragnet/Emergency! crossover. [sequel to "The Ordinary Day"] *remains on hiatus*

3. In The Aftermath Of Hell Chapter 3

ALL ORIGINAL CONTENT OF THIS STORY, INCLUDING MY OWN CREATED FANON, CHARACTERS OR OTHER SPECIFIC DETAILS UNIQUE TO MY WORK IS THE SOLE PROPERTY OF BAMBOOZLEPIG AND MAY NOT BE USED WITHOUT MY PERMISSION.

IN THE AFTERMATH OF HELL

CHAPTER THREE

"Starting with the senior man in the car, I'll need your name, serial, and time on the job," Sergeant Friday tells us, as Bill Gannon is poised to take notes in the notepad attached to his clipboard.

"Malloy, Peter J.," I say. "Serial 10743. It'll be fourteen years on November fifteenth."

"Reed, James A.," says Jim. "That's spelled with a double 'e', too. Serial 13985. It was seven years this past July seventh."

"Who was in charge of the situation out here?" Friday asks. "Until Sergeant MacDonald arrived and set up the command post?"

"I was," I tell him.

"Who was the one who brought the sniper down eventually?" he asks.

"I was," Reed tells him. "I didn't shoot him, either, I…"

"I don't need that information," Friday tells him brusquely, causing Jim to frown. "At least not yet." He turns to me. "I'll direct most of my questions to you then, Officer Malloy, if you were in charge until Sergeant MacDonald arrived on scene."

"That's fine," I say, settling back against the hood of Friday's sedan. He gives me a glare, and when Reed catches sight of it, he casually leans back against the car, too, smirking a bit at Friday's obvious discomfort at having two beat cops with dirty coveralls on lean on his pristine detective's car. "Fire away, Sergeant." I cross my arms over my chest, fixing him with a cool look.

"Prior to getting called out here, you were on routine patrol, correct?" he asks.

"We were," I say. "You can see what our activities were according to our logbook from the squad car."

"Yes," Bill Gannon says, handing the logbook back to Val Moore. "Sergeant MacDonald was kind enough to allow me to copy the entries down."

"Thanks," Val says, tucking it under his arm. "I'll make sure it gets put back in the squad car."

"Approximately what time were you dispatched out here to this call?" Friday asks.

"Around twenty past noon," I say. I don't volunteer any more information, I figure let the bastard dig for what he wants, especially after the way he treated me over the Walters case.

"What kind of call was it?"

"It was an assist other agency call," I tell him. "Dispatch sent us to meet up with LA County Fire's Engine 51, here at Palmtree and Adamson."

"Did the dispatcher say why?"

"Not at first," I say. "Then right after first dispatching us, she came back with further information on the call type."

Friday waits for me to continue, and when I don't, he frowns. "Which was?" he asks.

"According to Engine 51, their paramedic unit was pinned down by sniper fire on Granite Court," I tell him.

"Was it?" he asks.

"Pinned down by sniper fire?" I ask innocently.

"Yes," he says, rolling his eyes a bit.

"Their truck is still sitting out there, pocked with bullet holes and surrounded by debris from the parking ramp," I say, rubbing my chin thoughtfully. "So yeah, I'd say it was." I catch Reed's eye out of the corner of my own, and he smiles a bit, knowing that I'm going to make Sergeant Friday work for this interview.

"How long did it take you to respond out here after being dispatched?" Friday asks.

"Five minutes or so," I say.

"Can you pin that down a little firmer for me?" he asks.

"Well, considering the fact that we were going code three, and I was actually DRIVING the squad car and trying not to get us into a wreck, I really can't say that I looked at my watch and timed us, Sergeant," I reply.

"Pete, don't be flip," Val warns.

"What about you?" Friday asks, looking at Reed.

"Oh, I'm never flip, Sergeant," he replies, deadpan. "I'm pretty serious."

"No, I mean, did you look at your watch?" Friday asks, slightly annoyed.

"Uh…no," Reed says. "On account of the fact that when we're rolling code three to a call, I'm usually keeping an eye out on the traffic so we don't get creamed." He shrugs. "You know, they pretty much teach us that in the Academy."

"Reed, I'm warning you, too, don't be flip," Val says sharply.

"When you arrived on scene, what did you see?" Friday asks.

"Engine 51 staged at the corner of Palmtree and Adamson," I tell him.

"Anything else?"

"We could see the medic unit that was pinned down, the medics huddled near the right rear duals," I tell him. "We could see people lying in the street, not moving."

"Could you see the sniper?" he asks.

"Not from where we were at," I say. "The angle was too low."

"So how did the medics know they had a sniper on their hands?" he asks.

"You'd have to ask them, Sergeant," I tell him. "But I'm pretty sure they'll tell you it was when the windshield of their truck exploded in their faces."

"They kept in contact with their Captain over a walkie-talkie?" he asks.

"Yeah, a handie-talkie," I tell him. "Pretty similar to our CC units."

"Did their Captain advise you of what they had?" he asks.

"Yes, Captain Stanley did," I tell him. "He told me they'd been shot at as they arrived on scene for a medical unknown in Granite Park. They bailed out and took cover."

"Did you hear any shots yourself?"

"Nope, not a one. He was evidently using a silencer for the first part of his slaughter," I say. "The only way the medics knew he was shooting was by hearing the screams of the victims in the park."

"And you couldn't see him, right?"

"No."

"So how did you know where he was at?"

"We didn't, at first," I say. "The medics reported seeing him atop the Granite Court building. When Air Ten got into the area, they confirmed it. The sniper was on the roof of the building."

"What did you do next?" he asks.

"I got on the PA system, told the people in the street and park area to stay where they were at, that help was on the way. Then I got on the radio, asked all the responding cars and dispatch to take their traffic to Tac2," I say.

"Why?" he asks.

"Tac2 was easier to monitor, with all of us being on the same frequency," I say. "We generally go to Tac2 when we don't want everybody that has a police scanner to know what's going on, including the media."

"Did you request a sergeant to this scene?" he asks.

"Sergeant MacDonald was already on his way out here, but I advised him of what we had."

Friday rubs the bridge of his nose. "Did you make any requests of Sergeant MacDonald, as far as what would be needed out here to deal with the situation?"

"I told him we needed the SWAT team mobilized," I say. "I advised him to start ambulances this way, to deal with the wounded. I told him it looked to be a mass fatality incident."

"Anything else?" he asks.

I shake my head. "Nope. All we could do was wait for his arrival."

"Did you take command of the scene until he arrived?" Friday asks.

"Yeah," I say. "I deployed the arriving back-up units to various corners to set up roadblocks in the area. I wanted all traffic stopped, not knowing how far a range he had on that rifle. I asked the fire crew to go to the two businesses here and ask them to evacuate the area for their own safety. When one of the county deputies arrived, I had him go over to Shale Court in back of Granite and evacuate the residences over there."

"Did you have any trouble?" he asks.

"The owners of both the car lot and the furniture warehouse were a bit reluctant to leave," I say. "But after I threatened to arrest them for interference, they thought better of it. And the fact that the medic crew reported more shots being fired kinda scared them into scooting out of the area. Sniper situations tend to do that to people, you know," I say, grinning slightly.

"Why didn't county handle any of this?" Friday asks.

"That would be a question you need to put to county," I say. "We were told by Captain Stanley that the county was tied up on a hostage situation of its own, and therefore was unavailable. So we took over as primary incident commanders."

"How did you determine where to set up the roadblocks?" Friday asks.

"Easy," I say. "I wanted Adamson shut down completely, so I placed units at Chicory Drive to the east, and Oaktree Drive to the west. When he blew up the ramp later on, the roadblocks were moved even further back." I gesture to the street we're on. "I wanted an easy access road for the emergency vehicles, so I shut Palmtree off at Morris to funnel them in, and Oaktree off at Morris to funnel 'em out."

"Pretty fast thinking," Friday says, squinting at me.

"You have to think fast out here, Sergeant. Otherwise you'll wind up dead," I say.

"How long did it take for Sergeant MacDonald to arrive on scene and take over command?" he asks.

"Five, maybe seven minutes or so," I say. "Again, we weren't exactly timing things, Sergeant."

"What did you do once he arrived?"

"I filled him in on what I'd done so far, establishing the roadblocks and getting the area cleared out," I say. "I told him that Captain Stanley had gone ahead and requested the contractor for the Granite Court building be en route out here with blueprints for the building, for when we went to take the sniper down. I also told him I thought we'd use this vacant lot to set up a triage area, once we started pulling victims out. I suggested that he have an announcement be put out over the tv and radio stations warning people to stay out of this area."

"And he did all that, just on your suggestion?" Friday asks.

"It's what he would've done himself," I say. "Had he been the first one to respond out here."

"He requested the SWAT team, correct?"

"Yes, he got in contact with the team commander, Sergeant Gus Baron, and made sure he was already aware of the situation out here and on his way," I say.

"You and Officer Reed are SWAT team members, am I right?" he asks.

"We are," I say. "We have been since its inception in 1970."

"Were you asked to be members or did you apply?"

"Sergeant Baron asked both of us, based on our personnel packages and work record," I say.

"How many members are there?"

"Twelve," I tell him. "Including us."

"How often do you train with the team?"

"Once a month. Sometimes twice, depending on the schedule."

"Where do you train?"

"The Academy," I say. "And Camp Pendleton."

"How many SWAT calls do you normally handle in a year?"

"Anywhere from two to twenty," I say. "Sometimes more, sometimes less. Depends."

He frowns. "On what?"

"On how often we are forced to deal with crazy people who want to take others hostage, or hold us at bay with weapons," I tell him.

"Have you ever handled a situation like this before?"

"Similar ones, yes," I tell him. "No two situations are alike, Sergeant. The outcome depends on the suspect's willingness to cooperate with us."

"Have you ever been forced to shoot a suspect, or otherwise use force in order to bring an end to the situation?"

"Yes," I say.

"Both of you?" he asks, glancing at Reed.

Jim nods. "Yes."

"Have either of you been forced to kill a suspect in order to bring a peaceful end?" he asks.

"Sergeant Friday, the information regarding the SWAT team activities of these two officers is classified, in regards to their use of deadly force in any SWAT incident," Val says. "I'm sure you know that. It's out of regard for their safety."

"I need to know if they've ever been forced to shoot and kill someone while handling a SWAT incident," Friday says in slight protest. "For background purposes."

"You can obtain that information at the station, Sergeant," Val tells him. "With the approval of both myself and Sergeant Baron, of course."

"I intend to," Friday says, giving Val a small glare. He leans against the bumper of the logistics truck. "Tell me about the Armadillo," he says.

I shrug. "It's an armored Brink's truck, reinforced with steel plating in both the cab and the body of the rig. It's got protective plates over the wheels to prevent them from being shot out. It's got bulletproof glass in all the windows of the cab. The interior is stripped down with just two benches on either side, and a small portal window that allows the SWAT team members to communicate with the driver. The rig was purchased and retrofitted to departmental specifications in March of this year. It was part of an overall upgrade package for the SWAT team, since we also were outfitted with new bulletproof vests, military harnesses, and surplus Army helmets. If you want any further information, you'll have to talk to Sergeant Baron, he's the head of our SWAT team."

"Was it purchased for use in events like this?" Friday asks.

"It was purchased for use in any event that might require the SWAT team," I tell him. "A hostage situation, a bank robbery, a sniper incident…anything that would require the mobilization of the SWAT team."

"Do you use it in every situation?" he asks.

"No, this was actually the first time the Armadillo has ever been used in any kind of situation," I say. "Other than trial runs at the Academy and Camp Pendleton."

"So while you've trained with it, you've never actually had the chance to use it, correct?" Friday asks.

"Right," I say. "Today's situation was the first time it's been out in the field."

"So you had no idea of how it would perform in a real situation, right?"

"If it performed as well as it did in test runs, I expected it to work just fine out here," I say.

"You both have trained with it?" he asks.

I nod. "Yes, we have."

"Same amount of hours, same kind of testing and training overall?"

"Yes," I say, getting a bit irritated. "It, along with the SWAT team, has always performed well with any type of incident thrown at us, whether it was a test run or an actual event."

"Had Sergeant MacDonald ever seen the rig in action?" he asks.

"He saw it in a demonstration we put on for the upper brass over the summer, in order to show them how it worked," I say. "Like I said, today was the first time it was ever out in the field, Sergeant."

"He was reluctant to bring it out, was he not?" Friday asks.

"He wasn't sure it would run well, no," I say. "I think he felt it hadn't proved itself in the field just yet, and that made him hesitant to request it out here."

"But you didn't have any trouble asking Sergeant Baron to bring the rig out, did you?" Friday asks.

I frown. "I'm not sure what you're getting at, Sergeant."

"After Sergeant MacDonald arrived on scene, you filled him in on the situation out here and what steps you'd taken as far as shutting down traffic, correct?" he asks.

"Right," I say.

"So at that point, the command of this incident effectively passed from you to your superior officer, Sergeant MacDonald, right?" he asks, a slight glimmer in his eye. "You were no longer in command of the situation, it had been given over to him, correct?"

"Yeah," I say. "It had."

"And Sergeant MacDonald got on the radio, Tac2 to be exact, and began issuing requests and orders of both dispatch and the other officers assisting out here, right?"

I hesitate, and I see Reed give me a wary glance out of the corner of his eye. I know exactly where he's going with this, I think to myself. Shit! "Yes, Sergeant MacDonald took full command of the incident out here, a command that I willingly turned over to him, as he is my superior officer," I say, rubbing my forehead.

"And while Sergeant MacDonald was issuing orders over the radio, he maintained contact with Sergeant Baron, head of the SWAT team, right?" Friday asks.

"He informed Sergeant Baron of the situation out here, yes," I say.

"He did not ask for the Armadillo to be brought out here, did he? All he wanted was the SWAT gear, right?" he asks.

"No, he didn't ask for the Armadillo, just the gear," I say.

"Did you tell him the rig was available for use? That it could be of great help out here, despite the fact that it hadn't been proven in-field yet?"

"I suggested it to him, yes," I say. "I told him it deserved the chance to run, and maybe save lives out in the field. I felt it would be very beneficial out here."

"Sooo…" Friday says, a reflective look in his eye as he taps his chin with an index finger. "Then pray tell me WHY, after hearing Sergeant MacDonald request only the SWAT team gear out here, I heard YOU get on the radio and ask Sergeant Baron to bring the armored rig out here, despite your superior officer's previous orders?" He jabs at me with that index finger. "And keep in mind, before you answer that, Officer Malloy, I was listening in on the radio traffic on Tac2 regarding this incident back at the Parker Center. I distinctly heard two different voices, that of Sergeant MacDonald issuing the first request for the gear only, and then yours, fairly demanding the Armadillo be brought out here by Sergeant Baron." He gives me a malicious grin.

"I didn't demand that the Armadillo be brought out here," I say heatedly. "I only knew what was happening out here, that we had a sniper on a rooftop shooting at innocent people in a park below, and that the best chance for those people escaping with their lives was with the help of that armored rig."

"But you basically overruled your commanding officer, going over his head to issue a request that was not your privilege to do," Friday says.

"Is that true, Pete, that you went over Mac's head and asked for the rig out here?" Val asks, looking at me with a frown.

"Look," I say. "Mac didn't want the rig brought out here, he felt that if it failed, it would look bad for the department. I knew that the rig performed well in trial runs, and if we didn't test it now in a field opportunity, we might never know how it would work in a real-life situation. Time was critical here, those people had been pinned down in the park since noon, and were understandably getting scared they weren't going to be rescued. Many of those in the park were small children. It was important that we use whatever resources we had on hand to save as many lives as we could out there. I felt that the rig needed to be brought out here to do what it was supposed to do: help us in our SWAT team function. That's why I got on the radio and asked Sergeant Baron to bring the Armadillo out here. It wasn't a power-play or anything like that on my part, it was just concern for the folks stuck out there, that's all. Any hesitancy on Sergeant MacDonald's part might have cost lives." I spread my hands out, palms up. "And had Sergeant Baron arrived out here without the rig, and it was later decided to use it, we would have wasted valuable time waiting for someone to drive it in from the station, valuable time we didn't have."

"Did Sergeant Baron agree with you, that the rig was necessary?" Friday asks.

"He was a bit hesitant at first, too, but he decided to give it a chance," I say.

"Did you happen to be witness to all this, Officer Reed?" Friday asks, turning to Jim.

Jim shifts uncomfortably, biting his lip. "Yes, I was," he says softly, as he realizes whatever he tells Sergeant Friday is going to reflect badly on me.

"And is what Officer Malloy telling me true, that's exactly how it all went down?" Friday asks. "There was some disagreement between him and Sergeant MacDonald, and he went over Sergeant MacDonald's head to request the Armadillo?"

"Yes," Jim says, bowing his head.

"How exactly did Officer Malloy gain control of the radio?" he asks. "Did he grab the radio mike out of Sergeant MacDonald's hands?"

Jim stares at his boots. He rubs the side of his nose nervously. "Yes," he says, his voice nearly a whisper. He looks up at me, shooting me a look of sad-eyed apology.

I shake my head, looking away. I don't want to meet his eyes right now, I know he'll see the anger in them. I realize Reed was forced to tell the truth, and I wouldn't want him to lie on my behalf, but the old saying is true: the truth hurts. Stings, actually.

"Is that true, Officer Malloy?" Friday asks. "You grabbed the mike away from your commanding officer?"

"Yes," I mutter. "But it's not something I've ever done before, believe me."

"Was Sergeant MacDonald upset with your actions?" he asks.

"Yes," I say. "He was. He told me we'd discuss it later."

Val clears his throat. "While it's disappointing to hear, Sergeant Friday, I'm sure that Officer Malloy had only the best of intentions when he acted the way he did. And I can assure you, that the matter will be brought up in an in-house disciplinary meeting."

Friday looks at Val, a slight sneer of contempt on his face. "Captain, it appears to me that there seems to be a lack of regard for one's superior officers in your division, not to mention disciplinary issues other than this. I suggest you handle it pronto, before it gets too far out of hand."

Val eyes him coldly. "Duly noted, Sergeant," he clips out. "Now might I suggest you drop this matter and continue with the interview? This has already been a long day for these two men, and it's looking like it's going to be a long night, too. I'd appreciate it, and I'm sure they would too, if you'd get on with it. We still have the walk-through to get done, Sergeant."

"Fine," Friday says, turning back to me. "After overriding your Sergeant, what did you do next?"

"There wasn't much we could do," I tell him. "Other than wait for the rig to be brought out here, with our gear aboard. Sergeant MacDonald continued to issue orders regarding setting up the triage area, getting ambulances and medevac choppers in here, along with additional rescue squads, and activating the triage teams from Rampart and Central Receiving. By that time, Air Ten had arrived on scene to give us air support, and they flew over the park and the sniper's nest to give us a status report. According to them, they could see a lot of what appeared to be a lot of injuries and fatalities in the park and on the street below, and they reported also seeing a preschool bus parked in the lot, indicating there were likely children present in the park. And they confirmed what the medics had seen, the sniper was holed up on the roof of the Granite Court building."

"Was Sergeant MacDonald the one who gave orders to issue a statement to the media, warning people to stay out of this area?" Friday asks.

"He was," I say. "In addition, he had the firefighters prepping the vacant lot for triage, and he also had one of them draw us up a map of the park, so we'd know the basic layout once we got in there."

"Were either of you nervous about going into such a dangerous situation?" he asks.

I shake my head. "No, my main concern was for the people who were in danger from the sniper, not my own personal welfare."

"What about you, Officer Reed?" Friday asks.

Reed ducks his head. "I was a little bit," he says, sounding slightly embarrassed. "I didn't like the idea of having to face the possibility of running across murdered children in that park."

"Did you voice your misgivings to your partner or Sergeant MacDonald?"

"I told Pete," Reed says. "Not Sergeant MacDonald, though."

"Why not?" Friday asks, cocking his head. "It was a volunteer position, am I not right?"

"Right," Reed says.

"It wasn't an order issued to you by either Sergeant MacDonald or Sergeant Baron, or even Officer Malloy, that you go into that situation, right?"

"Right," Reed tells him. "In fact, Pete offered to have Deputy Vince Howard from the sheriff's department suit up and ride in instead, since he was a member of the county SWAT team."

"But you turned him down?"

Reed nods. "I did."

"Why? I mean, it's certainly understandable, Officer Reed, if you didn't want to go into a situation and face possible injury or death, especially since you have a wife and child at home, along with another baby on the way," Friday remarks. "And if Officer Malloy offered you an alternative, you would not have been wrong in taking it."

Reed's head snaps up, his eyes flashing. "I had a job to do, a duty, Sergeant. Misgivings or not, someone needed to help those people out in there, and Pete couldn't do it alone. I felt I was the best man for the job, so I pushed aside my feelings and did it."

"Do you often have moments of crisis on your conscience?" Friday asks.

"No," Reed snaps. "Not at all, Sergeant. No matter what my personal feelings are towards different things, I'm a sworn police officer, and my duty is to uphold and enforce the law for ALL citizens, regardless of my opinions. Any police officer who lets his personal feelings or opinions color his actions is a very poor police officer indeed."

Friday looks at me. "What about you, Officer Malloy? Any misgivings as far as this case?"

Only about you being the one to interview us, I think to myself. "No," I tell him. "None whatsoever. Our first priority was the safety of the people in the park, and getting them out of there. That's all."

"How long did it take for the Armadillo to arrive out here?" he asks.

"About ten minutes," I say. "And no, before you ask, we weren't timing it, either."

"Did you two begin suiting up immediately upon its arrival?" he asks.

"Yes, we did," I tell him. "Sergeant Baron had placed our gear in the back of the rig when he left the station. While we were gearing up, we filled him in on the situation. With the map of the park one of the firefighters had drawn, we began to discuss our options as far as our rescue operations."

"Did Sergeant Baron call in any further SWAT team members at any time?" he asks.

"He didn't, not until near the end, when we were trying to figure out how to best get the sniper after our first plan was foiled," I say.

"Why didn't he call in other members? Surely he couldn't have expected you two to do the work alone," he says.

"I don't know what Sergeant Baron's reasoning was behind that," I tell him. "You'd have to ask him yourself, Sergeant."

"I think he was concerned that we'd get too many men out here and there wouldn't be anything for them to do," Reed says. "Really only two to three men can fit aboard the Armadillo during runs."

"What kind of plan did you devise to perform rescue operations?" he asks, completely ignoring Reed, who huffs a sigh and folds his arms across his chest, fixing Sergeant Friday with a blue-eyed glare.

"We knew the only feasible way into the park was through the main entrance; the back entrance was too narrow to permit the armored rig to drive through," I tell him. "The first thing we needed to do was to get the two medics out of there, in order to bring them back to the triage area, where they would assist the doctors and nurses from the area hospitals. Once we got them pulled out, we would concentrate on rescuing the other victims pinned in, loading them aboard the rig as we found them."

"How long did it take for you two to suit up and begin rescue operations?" he asks.

"About ten, fifteen minutes or so," I tell him.

"Was there any mention of one of you laying down cover fire?" Friday asks.

"I was the one elected to do that," I tell him. "While Officer Reed would be the one to get the survivors on board."

"Why were you elected to do that?" he asks. "Why not Officer Reed?"

"I'm a Distinguished Expert as far as marksmanship is concerned," I tell him. "Sergeant Baron felt it would be best if I was the one to fire at the sniper if needed."

"And did you?"

"Fire at him?" I ask. "Yes, I did, but none of my shots hit him."

"That's pretty bad for a Distinguished Expert," Friday smirks.

"Not really," I tell him sharply. "When you consider that I was firing from four stories below where he was hiding at, and he had a ledge to duck behind when I shot at him. I might not have hit him, no, but I sure as hell kept his head down."

"You two used the departmental issued M16's, correct?"

I nod. "Yes, we both left our service revolvers back here at the command post. They wouldn't have done us any good out in the field."

"Were you two given any orders regarding removal of the dead out there?" he asks.

"We were told to leave them where they were at," I say. "Our concern at that point was not the dead, but the living."

"Did Sergeant Baron give you any orders regarding the ones obviously near death?" he asks.

"He told us to leave those that were so close to death where they were at, they likely wouldn't survive the trip back to triage," I tell him. "It goes against our beliefs, but we had to obey his command."

"Did you run into that kind of situation out in the field, where you found a grievously injured person and picked them up anyway, in hopes of saving them?"

"Only once," I say. "And we picked him up anyway and brought him into triage."

"So you obviously didn't obey Sergeant Baron's orders, either, did you?" he asks snarkily.

"It's not in our nature to leave someone behind that needs our help," Reed tells him. "Despite the orders."

"Did he live long enough to make it back to triage?" Friday asks.

"No, he died in the back of the rig," I say. "And trust me, we got chewed out by one of the triage doctors, too, for bringing a dead guy out of there."

"Getting back to the beginning of the rescue operations, did you go ahead and pull the two paramedics out first?" he asks.

"We did," I say. "We helped them load some much-needed equipment off of their damaged squad so they could use it in the triage area. After we got them aboard, Sergeant Baron spotted several victims in the street, pulling up alongside of them. We got out and determined that they were deceased. The only two civilians we pulled out of there alive were a mother and her child who were huddled by a car in the parking lot. They were uninjured, but extremely frightened. With the medics, their equipment, and the two civilians aboard, we couldn't fit anyone else, so Sergeant Baron turned the Armadillo around and headed back to the triage area."

"Then what?" he asks.

"We unloaded the medics and their gear at triage, along with the woman and her child, and returned to the command post. Sergeant Baron wanted to give Sergeant MacDonald an update on what kind of fatalities we'd already seen in just the street alone."

"How many were there?" he asks.

I shake my head. "I honestly can't say, Sergeant. We didn't stop to count them, we just checked for signs of life, leaving them if we found none. Many of the ones we ran across, not only in the street, but in the park also, were quite obviously dead."

Sergeant Friday looks at Val. "Captain, do you have a final count on the number of fatalities in the park?"

"We don't, Sergeant," Val tells him. "Our homicide teams are just now getting in there and processing the scene. We probably won't have a final count until tomorrow. I'm sure you can understand, it's such a large scene to process right now."

Friday turns back to me. "You returned to the command post to update Sergeant MacDonald on the fatalities you'd seen in the street. Did you ride back into the sniper's zone after giving the Sergeant that information?"

"Well…not exactly," I say, shifting nervously on my feet. "One of the medics, John Gage, had an idea that he wanted to run past his captain and Sergeant MacDonald."

"Which was what?" he asks.

"He wanted to outfit himself in a bulletproof vest and helmet, and ride into the zone with us, in order to assist us in pulling the people out of the park," I say. "They both refused, of course, citing liability and injury issues."

"Did he accept their decision?" he asks.

I exchange an uneasy look with Reed. "No, he didn't," I say, after hesitating a bit. "He chased after the Armadillo once it was in motion, headed back into the zone. He managed to climb aboard."

Friday stares at me for a moment. "What did you do? Inform Sergeant Baron that he'd stowed away aboard the rig and the rig needed to return to base?"

"Eh…no," I say. "We informed Sergeant Baron that Gage had gotten aboard, but he decided not to turn the rig around. We went on into the field, in order to continue rescues."

"Gage did have on a bulletproof vest and helmet," Reed says. "And we had every intention of returning him to the triage area once we were out of the zone. We quickly informed Gage that he was to remain inside the rig at all times, until we returned to base."

"Did he obey?" Friday asks.

"At first he agreed to," I say. "But then as we came across an injured lady that Officer Reed couldn't get into the back of the rig, Gage hopped out to help. I couldn't assist Reed, I was trying to keep the sniper's head down with cover fire. After we got her and her daughter aboard, we came across a couple of teenage girls near their car. We got one aboard, but the other one went back for her purse, and the sniper shot her dead. Gage jumped out of the back of the rig to try to save her. We ordered him back aboard, since she was obviously gone. He was reluctant at first, thinking he could save her, but I pointed out she was dead and beyond help. He then got back aboard."

"When you returned to the triage area, did you remove him from aboard the rig?"

"No, we decided to take him to the command post and let Captain Stanley and Sergeant MacDonald deal with him," I say.

"Did they order him placed under arrest, anything like that?" Friday asks.

"No," I say. "Gage pointed out to them that he'd been of great help aboard the rig, in terms of getting the victims loaded up faster. He managed to convince them that he'd be valuable aboard the Armadillo, since I couldn't help Jim pull the victims aboard. Two sets of hands worked faster than one," I tell him. "And despite our misgivings about having an untrained man on the rig, he did prove his worth in the field not once, but several times."

"So let me get this straight, Officer Malloy. Instead of off-loading him and placing him under arrest, you guys made the decision to keep an unauthorized person aboard a police department vehicle, to aid and assist you in an official police department capacity, despite the fact that it went against every ounce of protocol?" Friday asks, incredulous.

"To be fair, Sergeant, John Gage was a trained paramedic," Reed points out. "And I know he'd been in similar situations before, where he'd assisted the county in their SWAT incidents. If none of us had the confidence that he could perform capably in the field, we wouldn't have hesitated to take the steps necessary to keep him off of the rig."

"That doesn't matter," Friday snaps, glaring at Reed. "John Gage is NOT a sworn police officer, but the two of you are, along with Sergeant MacDonald! He should not have been allowed aboard that rig while it was performing rescue operations! I don't care whether he had a bulletproof vest and helmet, and he performed wondrous miracles in the field, he was unqualified to be aboard that rig, and that's final!" His voice rises in anger. "The three of you, and his fire captain, should have known better! His presence on that rig is a direct violation of departmental protocol!"

Val takes a step forward, towards Friday. "Look, Sergeant. While I'm sure you can quote the little blue book by heart without even looking at it, this situation out here was highly unusual in the fact that it's never been faced by our department before. All three officers realize that by allowing John Gage to remain aboard the Armadillo during rescue operations was very wrong, they've agreed to discuss the matter in a closed-door disciplinary hearing within our division."

"Were you aware that this happened out here?" Friday asks Val.

"I was made aware of it after the fact, yes," Val says. "And I fully intend to deal with it in-house, Sergeant. But like I said, this situation was something none of us have ever had to face before, and desperate times call for desperate measures. John Gage was willing to risk his own personal safety in order to facilitate smoother rescue operations in the field, and I find that quite commendable, to be honest, Sergeant."

"Yes, it was against protocol," I say. "But John Gage did a helluva lot of good out there today. Both Officer Reed and I were glad to have him helping us out. If he hadn't, the operations would've gone a lot slower, and it's likely that more people would've died because of the longer amount of time it would've taken for us to get them out of there. Between the three of us, we got in there, got the people out as fast as we could, and got the job done. That's what matters most in the long run, Sergeant. Not who was supposed to be or not supposed to be on board the rig, but how well and how quickly we got the job done. You can't stack protocol against the value of human lives."

"I intend to take this matter to Police Chief Davis and County Fire Chief Houts," Sergeant Friday says. "I'm quite sure they'd be interested in what went down out here."

"That's entirely up to you, Sergeant," Val says coolly. "I'm sure that the acts of bravery shown by those three men out in the field today will far outweigh any matters of protocol that were broken." He nods at Sergeant Friday. "And now, if you will please, let's get on with the interview."

Friday turns back to me. "Alright, Officer Malloy. After returning to the command post and hatching the harebrained scheme to leave a paramedic aboard the rig, I presume you three returned to the battle zone once more?"

"Well, Sergeant Baron had noticed a pickup truck parked on the street near the Granite Court building," I say. "He got the license plate number on our way out with the wounded, and gave it to Sergeant MacDonald, in hopes of it possibly leading to the sniper's identity. We were also informed by some of the officers at the roadblock on Oaktree and Adamson that the news media was trying to get footage of the Armadillo as it came out of the zone. The decision was made at that time to pull Engine 51 across the street, in an attempt to block the media's view. We had also noticed that the sniper had evidently removed the silencer from his rifle, as we could now hear the shots as he fired them."

"Once the fire truck was in place, you resumed rescue operations at that time?" Friday asks.

"Yes, we did. We headed for the park next, where we expected to encounter the most injuries and fatalities," I tell him.

"Did you set down guidelines for John Gage to follow, in regards to his safety?" he asks.

"We did," I say. "Not only for his safety, but ours, too. And for the most part, he followed them."

"Tell me about the first trip into the park," he says. "What you found once you got in there."

"The decision was made to load up as many people as we could squeeze aboard the rig," I say. "The first batch of victims that we ran across were the kids from a preschool and their teachers. As Gage and Reed loaded up victims, I maintained cover fire, until the rifle jammed, rendering it useless. At that point, I could see that Gage and Reed needed an extra set of hands, so I helped load the children into the back of the rig."

"How badly injured were these kids?" he asks.

"They were…" I begin, but my voice grows husky with a sudden flood of emotions. Damn it, I thought I'd had my emotions firmly in check, but anger, sorrow, and guilt wash over me in a tidal wave that comes out of nowhere. I bite my lip and look away, remembering the sight of the little boy in a sailor suit, a bullet wound in his leg; another little boy with a massive wound to his stomach, the tiny girl with her back literally in shreds. I swallow hard, thinking of the little girl in Reed's arms, the one whose head was blown off by one shot from Charlie Burnside, and how Reed didn't want to leave her body to just lie there in the park. I close my eyes for a moment, recalling nearly bodily tossing my partner into the back of the rig after I pried the dead child out of his arms that were unwilling to let her go. "They were pretty critical, Sergeant. One of their teachers had been killed, the other one shot in the arm. The third one was in severe shock. It's not something I'd ever want to see again, I'll tell you that." I open my eyes again, staring at my muck covered boots, so that no one will see the emotions in my eyes.

"One of them died in my arms," Reed says softly, his own emotions unchecked. "As I was getting ready to load her into the back of the rig, the sniper got her in his sights and blew her head off." He points to the crust of dried blood and brains on his black coveralls. "I'm wearing her brains on my coveralls, Sergeant, along with her blood. She was only about four or five years old, nearly the same age as my own son." He looks up at Friday, a glimmer of pain and anguish in his eyes. "It's not an easy thing to take, Sergeant, having a child murdered in your arms like that. An innocent child, one whose only crime was to want to go to the park and have a picnic with her preschool class."

Friday falls silent, staring between the two of us. His expression softens slightly, and to my surprise, I see a small glint of sympathy in his eyes. "I'm sorry," he says. "That must have been very difficult for the two of you to experience out there." And just as quickly as the small edge of sympathy appeared, it's gone again, replaced by his regular, no-nonsense attitude.

"Yeah, it was," Reed says. "But the pain will come later, after this is all over with. It always does." His voice holds a sharp trace of bitterness.

"Were you able to get all the children from the preschool aboard the rig?" Bill Gannon asks, speaking for the first time since the interview began.

I nod. "Yeah, we were. Sergeant Baron was able to take a few of them in the front seat with him. Once we got them loaded up, we returned to triage."

"That was the trip from hell," Reed says. "Riding in the back of that stinking and hot Armadillo with a bunch of frightened and seriously injured preschoolers." He locks his gaze onto Friday's, his blues eyes staring coldly into Friday's dark ones, anger flashing a bit. "I've never seen kids so scared that they've got that thousand-yard stare on their little faces, and all they can do is whimper, like little puppies. Tell me how you can explain to them what happened in that park, Sergeant, because I can't explain it to myself."

Sergeant Friday shrugs, shaking his head. "I'm not sure I can, Officer Reed. I can't explain it at all, other than what happened today was the work of an evil madman." He hesitates. "Do you two wish to stop the interview and take a small break?" he asks.

"No," Reed sighs. "Let's get it over with."

"Are you sure?" he asks, looking at me.

"I'm with Reed, let's get it done," I say.

"Alright then, you returned to the triage area and unloaded the injured children and their teachers. You went back into the zone again?" he asks.

"We stopped long enough to kind of clean out the back of the rig," I said. "There was blood and other matter on the floor, and it would've made it slippery. I also had to replace the empty clip in my rifle with a new one." I glance over at Jim, who's studying the ground, and I debate whether or not to tell Sergeant Friday that Jim once more had misgivings about returning to the field. I decide not to, feeling that it's not something the sergeant should know. It's not up to me to expose Jim's thoughts to the air. "After we did that, we returned to the field, entering the park once more."

"John Gage was still on board, I presume?" Friday asks.

"Yes," I say. "He remained on board until the rescue operations were complete."

"What about the next set of victims you rescued?" Friday asks.

"We had some teenagers by the stone wall in the park that we loaded up. One was dead, so we left her where she was at. Another one was only in shock, not injured. The third kid had a pretty serious gunshot wound to both the leg and the shoulder. Once we got them aboard, Sergeant Baron turned the rig towards some other victims he'd spotted, but they were deceased. The next batch of victims we came across were businessmen who'd been huddled behind an overturned picnic table. Neither were wounded, but one of the men kept threatening us with a lawsuit for not getting in there right away and pulling people out. As we were helping him aboard, the sniper fired at him, winging him in the shoulder. The last set of victims we picked up were a couple of college-age kids. One wasn't hurt, but his friend was seriously injured with an abdominal wound." I swallow, the flash memory of the kid's intestines showing through the gaping hole in his gut dancing in front of my eyes. Suddenly the coffee and doughnut I had earlier turns to lead inside my own stomach. Taking a deep breath, I continue. "It was obvious the kid was near death, I doubted he would've lasted the ride in the Armadillo to triage. But Gage felt a pulse on him, and we went ahead and loaded him up into the back of the rig. Unfortunately, he didn't make it. He died before we even got out of the zone."

"You returned to triage then, after getting those folks aboard?" Friday asks.

"Yeah, we did. We got chewed out by one of the triage doctors, too, for bringing in a dead kid, but it couldn't be helped," I say. "It's not in our natures, nor that of the paramedics, to leave a breathing victim to die out there, despite our orders to the contrary." I rub my forehead tiredly, wishing the interview would go faster. Next to me, Jim Reed fidgets uncomfortably, and I honestly wish we had chairs to set on right now. It seems like all we've been doing today is either run or stand, one of the two. "We unloaded the injured and the deceased kid and returned to the zone once more."

"Was the sniper shooting at you the whole time you were performing rescue operations?" Friday asks.

"Not constantly, no," I say. "It wasn't an endless barrage of bullets. I think he fired when he felt he had a viable target, or he wanted to remind us he was still there."

"Did you maintain cover fire each time you got out of the rig?" he asks.

"No, it became quickly apparent that it was pretty futile. At that range, I couldn't hit him, and I was needed to assist in loading the victims up into the Armadillo. So I quit shooting at him, leaving my weapon in the back of the rig."

"Did you make that decision yourself, or did Sergeant Baron make it for you?" Friday asks.

"It was made by Sergeant Baron," I tell him, my voice a bit sharp. "He could see it was useless to fire at the sniper, and he knew that time was of the essence in getting those people out of there. He was the one who told me to quit laying down the cover fire and help out with the victims, which I already had started doing before he gave me that order."

"Alright," Friday says, his voice sounding a bit weary. Evidently he's getting as tired of the interview process as we are. "Tell me about this trip into the zone."

"We checked the picnic pavilion for any survivors. One of the victims was the park groundskeeper, but he was dead. I ran across a young mother and her little boy. Both were still alive, but she was unable to walk due to a hip injury. I called Gage over and he helped me in getting her and her son aboard the rig. Officer Reed found another young woman with a leg injury, and we loaded her aboard. The rest of the pavilion was clear, so we moved on to the fountain, where Sergeant Baron had spotted more victims. Three of them were teenagers, two boys and a girl, but only the girl was still alive, with facial trauma. Gage spotted another pair of college kids nearby, a boy and a girl. The boy was dead, but the girl was still alive. We got her and the teenager loaded up. The last spot we headed to was the playground equipment." I stop, biting my lip once more as the same flood of emotions washes over me once more; anger, sorrow, and guilt. My voice becomes soft with unshed feelings. C'mon, Pete, you're a big tough cop, and big tough cops don't show emotions, I tell myself, but it does no good. "We decided to check for any survivors there, since we were going to be running out of daylight and we didn't want to be performing rescues after dark. Sergeant Baron warned me that we couldn't take too many more aboard, but I knew we'd manage somehow. We were close enough to the equipment to go over there on foot, with Sergeant Baron following behind in the Armadillo. We split up to search the area faster. The first set of victims I came across, a mother and her son, were dead. Officer Reed discovered a mother and her child still alive near the swings, and he was able to load them up. Gage found a mother and her two children by the slide, but they were dead, too. Gage swore that the little girl was still alive, but she wasn't. Her injuries were too devastating. I tried to pull him away from the lifesaving measures he was performing on her, and he got mad, taking a swing at me. He tried to return to the little girl once more, but Officer Reed stepped in."

"I was forced to slap him," Reed says. "In order to bring him to his senses. He was defiant at first, but we got him back to the rig."

"You know, assault charges can be filed against both you and John Gage, Officer Reed," Friday says. "On you, for slapping John Gage, and on him, for hitting Officer Malloy."

Reed shakes his head. "That thought has never entered my mind, and I doubt it has Gage's either. We both were running pretty high on adrenaline at that time, and I'm sure that's what set us off."

"What then, Officer Malloy?" Friday asks.

"Sergeant Baron spotted three more victims, and we drove across the park in order to reach them," I say. "It was a mother, her toddler son, and infant daughter. She wasn't hurt, but her kids were. We got her aboard the Armadillo, but it was apparent that the two little ones were deceased, and had been for awhile. We left them where they were at. She wasn't happy with us leaving her kids there, and she…" I stop suddenly, as the mother's anguished and angry face swims before my eyes. I rub my temples, trying to soothe the pounding headache that's sprung up behind my eyes. The doughnut and coffee roils sourly in my stomach.

"She did what, Officer Malloy?" Friday asks.

Jim puts a hand on my shoulder. "Pete, you okay?" he asks softly, concern in his voice.

I nod. "'M okay," I mutter. But I cannot find my voice to finish telling the story, the unmitigated horror of what happened next with the distraught young mother playing out in slow motion in my mind. "I…" I begin, but my voice falters, cracking into a whisper. "I…" All I can hear is the crack of the rifle shot that ended her life so abruptly, slamming through her heart, her body falling back into my arms, the bullet piercing my vest with a stinging sharpness. And I can see her body falling away to the green grass below, as I dropped to the ground myself and puked my guts out, while wondering if I'd been hit and was going to die in that bloody park like a dog.

"The mother was understandably distraught," Reed says to Friday, picking up the narrative, his hand still on my shoulder. "She was hysterical with the fear that we were leaving her kids behind, evidently not realizing they were already dead. She managed to get out of the back of the rig before it left the park, and Pete went after her. He caught her, the two of them struggled, and that's when the sniper shot at her, killing her. The bullet went through her and into Pete's vest." He gives my shoulder a small comforting squeeze, then drops his hand away. "I was afraid the bullet had pierced the vest and wounded Pete, since he dropped to the ground on his knees. I hollered out to Gage and Sergeant Baron that Pete had been hit, and Gage came to my aid, helping me get Pete back on his feet. Sergeant Baron swung the rig around to meet us, and we got him loaded into the back of the Armadillo. After we got to triage, we found out that the bullet had only lodged in the vest and not gone all the way through. Which is a good thing, because if it had, Pete would've been killed instantly, shot through the heart."

"Is that correct, Officer Malloy?" Friday asks.

Wordlessly, I nod, remembering the fear that I had that I was never going to be able to breathe again, the impact of the bullet hitting the vest knocking the wind out of me.

"Were you checked out at the triage area by a doctor or one of the paramedics?" he asks.

"I was," I say, my voice still a bit hoarse. "Other than a bruise over my heart, I'm fine. I changed out of the damaged vest into another one." Reflexively, my hand strays to the spot over my heart and my fingers touch the rough coverall cloth, as if to assure myself that I am, indeed, still alive.

"And you returned to the park to continue operations?" he asks.

"No, that was our final run," I say. "The ones left in the park were deceased, and Sergeant Baron was sure there was no one left alive in there, so we returned to the command post, after dropping John Gage off at triage."

"So you made a total of five trips in all, performing rescue operations?" he asks.

"Yeah," I nod. "After we cleared from triage, we returned to the command post and began to discuss our options for getting the sniper down. He'd been identified by that time, as a former Los Angeles police officer from our division, named Charlie Burnside."

"Officer Burnside was let go from the police department concerning allegations of use of excessive force," Val says. "The allegations were found to be true, after Officer Reed and Officer Al Porter came forward with statements over what they'd witnessed Burnside doing to suspects already in custody."

"Yes, I remember that," Friday says. "Burnside nearly beat a man to death, didn't he?"

Val nods. "The man survived and ended up testifying against Burnside, despite Burnside's efforts to keep the man quiet."

"Were you aware that the sniper was Charlie Burnside?" Friday asks me.

"No," I say, shaking my head. "We didn't know who he was until we returned to the command post to begin hashing out a plan to get him down. "Sergeant MacDonald had dispatch run the license plate on the truck that Sergeant Baron had spotted parked near the Granite Court building. The plate came back to a rental vehicle, and the man who rented it was Charles Burnside. But we weren't aware of who he was until our return to the command post that final time."

"And just for your information, Sergeant Friday, after Burnside was identified as the shooter, we had the homes of both his ex-wife and his parents checked out, to see if they were okay. Unfortunately, prior to the incident out here, Burnside shot and killed his ex-wife and her new husband, along with his two kids. He also murdered both of his parents, all evidently the night before," Val tells him. "And after we were informed that he'd stolen dynamite and blasting caps from his workplace, we had the bomb squads check out both of those residences, along with his own apartment, for any booby traps he might have left behind. They were cleared and checked out okay."

"I also understand you had the bomb squads checking out the residences of both Officer Malloy and his girlfriend, Officer Reed, and Sergeant MacDonald, to make sure Burnside hadn't planted any traps there, either," Friday says.

Val nods. "Yes, that's correct. And those residences checked out okay, too."

Friday turns back to me. "Tell me about the plan to get Burnside down."

"We had the contractor for the Granite Court building on site by that time, with the blueprints for the building. We ran through a couple of scenarios, finally settling on one that had us taking the Armadillo onto the parking ramp next door to the building. While Sergeant Baron dropped us off at a side entrance that was protected from his fire by the overhead decks, he'd drive the rig to the top of the ramp and wait for our signal that we were in the building. After we signalled him, he'd throw diversionary firecrackers and smoke bombs onto the roof of the Granite Court building, while Reed and I stormed the roof stairwell, hoping to take Burnside down before he had a chance to fire at us. It wasn't the greatest of plans, but logistically speaking, it was the best one we could come up with, that didn't put us in danger of being shot by him," I tell Friday.

"And you were made aware that this was a shoot-to-kill order, that if either of you had the kill shot, you were to take it?" Friday asks.

"Yes, Sergeant MacDonald told us it was ordered by Chief Davis himself," I say. "And it would've been highly unlikely that we would've gotten the chance to take him alive, anyway. He had the fire escape door to the roof propped open, and according to the blueprints provided by the contractor, there was not much area that would've given us adequate cover to shield ourselves from his fire."

"So then what happened?" Friday asks.

"We picked up our rifles and our service revolvers, tucking the revolvers into our military harnesses," I say. "We made sure we had enough ammo clips for the rifles and bullets for our revolvers, along with a few diversionary firecrackers and smoke bombs that Sergeant Baron gave us in case we needed them. I swapped out my damaged vest for another one, and we got back into the rig, ready to roll again."

"Who was to be the primary shooter?" Friday asks.

"I was," I say. "Reed was secondary."

"Why?" Friday asks. "Because you're the Distinguished Expert?"

"That, and Sergeant MacDonald didn't wish to place Officer Reed in harm's way if he could help it. Officer Reed has a family, and I don't, making me a bit more expendable than him," I say.

"Which were you planning on using, the revolvers or the rifles?" he asks.

"The revolvers, if we could, due to the close range we'd be working in," I tell him. "But if it came down to using the rifles, we were prepared to do that, too."

"What was the plan you were going to use?" Friday asks. "Tell me one more time."

"We were going to take the armored rig into the parking ramp next door to the Granite Court building," I say. "There's a side entrance to the building, and the entrance would've been protected by the upper decks of the ramp. Sergeant Baron was to let Officer Reed and I out of the rig to enter the building, while he took the Armadillo up to the top deck of the ramp. We were to let him know we made it safely inside the building by giving two clicks on our CC units. After that, we were to give him a few seconds, then we were to start moving towards the southern stairwell of the building, which led to the roof access. He'd give us a double-click on the CC unit to let us know he'd made it to the roof, then he'd give another click to let us know he was getting ready to throw the diversions. When we heard the diversions going, we were to make our move, storming the roof and taking Burnside out, hopefully with little difficulty. We had Air Ten monitoring our progress from the air, and Sergeant MacDonald was monitoring us on the ground via the CC units. And if it all went sour, we were supposed to get the hell out of Dodge and regroup, in order to try to come up with another plan."

"So what happened?" Friday asks.

"The bastard blew the ramp up before we got to it," I say. I gesture to the rubble of the ramp in the block before us. "That's what's left of the ramp after Burnside detonated it. He triggered it as we were approaching it, evidently figuring that's how we were going to get him. The debris crashing down not only mired the Armadillo, rendering it useless, but it also came down on Engine 51, trapping and injuring Captain Stanley, who was inside the cab of the fire truck at the time."

"Were either of you injured in the blast?" Friday asks.

"Other than being jostled around some, no," I tell him. "We were trapped inside the Armadillo for a few moments, though, the blast had jammed the doors. Sergeant Baron was able to get out on the passenger side of the rig, and between the three of us, we managed to get the back doors popped open so Officer Reed and I could get out."

"Did you three return to the command post at that time, to regroup and replan?"

"No, Sergeant Baron returned, but Officer Reed and I tried to assist the crew of Engine 51 in freeing their captain from the wreckage of the fire truck. We returned to the command post when Sergeant MacDonald ordered us to."

"Did Burnside fire at any of you at that time?" he asks. "You were sitting ducks, after all."

"No, he didn't," I say. "I think he wanted us alive to torture us."

Sergeant Friday raises his eyebrows. "Torture you? How so?" he asks.

"When we got back to the command post and were in the process of trying to come up with another plan to bring him down, he made contact with us via a CC unit," I tell him.

"Did you know he had one?" he asks.

"Not until then, no," I say. "When he made contact with us, it was surprising. We didn't expect it."

"What did he say to you?"

"He asked us if we liked that big bang, meaning the parking ramp blowing up," I tell him. "We didn't recognize his voice at first, Sergeant MacDonald ordered whoever was on that frequency to get off of it, and that's when Burnside revealed that it was him on the CC unit. From there, he began to taunt us, launching a personal attack against all three of us, Officer Reed, Sergeant MacDonald, and I. Some of the bullshit he said over the air was downright vicious."

"Like what?" he asks. "Give me an example."

"He told me that my wife was cheating on me, going to bars when I wasn't home, and that he'd apparently had an affair of some sort with her," Reed says, disgust in his voice. "He said that the baby she's carrying now isn't mine. Burnside claims he staked my house out many nights, and witnessed my wife going to bars. He basically gave me a line of bullshit over my marriage and the current state it's in."

"He called me a pedophile," I say, the word itself a bad taste in my mouth. "He said that's the only reason I'm dating Judy, so I can have access to her young son. He claimed that's the reason why I used excessive force on that child molester we arrested awhile back, that I was beating something out of a man that I secretly despised in myself." I point to Jim. "He called him trigger-happy, since Jim was involved in an off-duty shooting incident. He landed on Sergeant MacDonald for the time he hit that pedestrian while on duty."

"He whined about his life after he'd gotten fired from the police department," Reed says. "He wanted to throw himself a little pity party, and invited us along, but we didn't take the bait. He'd informed us that he had other buildings in the area rigged to explode, including our personal residences. He wouldn't divulge what buildings he'd rigged, though, when Sergeant MacDonald asked him."

"Didn't what he was saying to you anger the three of you?" Friday asks. "If someone were personally attacking me in such a vicious verbal manner, I'd certainly be angry."

"Sure we were," I say. "But what could we do? Other than turning off the CC unit, there wasn't much we could do. And in turning it off, we cut our one line of communication to him, however nasty it may be." I shake my head. "No, as evil and vicious as his statements were to us, we needed to keep him talking. It was our only insight into what he was thinking. And I think we were hoping he'd eventually run himself down, and give up."

"Were you prepared to wait him out, then, if it came to that?" Friday asks.

"Yeah, we had no choice. We were going to be losing our daylight in a little while, and the scenarios we could come up with in regards to entering the building once more and taking him down were nearly impossible," I say.

"So how did you go from standing down here, deciding to wait him out, to the two of you getting into the Granite Court building and taking him out?" Friday asks. "I don't understand it. The prudent decision was to wait for a better opportunity to get him, even if it meant waiting."

"That was the plan," Reed says. "Until we got him mad enough to shoot one of the firefighters who was still working to free Captain Stanley. He shot him in the shoulder, wounding him."

"So upon seeing that, you decided to move in and get him?"

Reed bites his lip and stares at his boots. "Yeah, I did," he says, his voice harsh. "I grabbed up one of the rifles and took off across the street to go get the bastard, once and for all."

"And you followed?" Friday asks, looking at me.

I nod. "I wasn't going to let him get killed, if I could help it."

"Did Sergeant MacDonald give you the order to go get Burnside at that point?" he asks.

"No, he ordered both of us back to the command post," Reed says. "And we both disobeyed those orders."

Friday studies the two of us. "You know, I'm really surprised," he says. "Two officers with such distinguished careers as yours were willing to chuck that all to hell, in order to play hero."

Reed's head snaps up, anger flashing dangerously in his eyes. "Neither of us were playing hero, Sergeant, believe me!" he growls at Friday. "We were both sick and tired of what that evil sonofabitch had put everyone through this afternoon, and that's why we reacted the way we did! Playing hero was the farthest thing from my mind, and I'm sure it was the farthest thing from Pete's mind, too!"

Val Moore sighs wearily. "And before you begin to harp on the issue of protocol and disobeying orders, both Officer Reed and Officer Malloy are aware that there will be consequences from their rash actions, and will face those consequences before an in-house disciplinary board. I can assure you of that, Sergeant Friday."

"That board is going to be awfully damned busy deciding the fates of these two men," Friday tells him sharply. "Seeing as they've committed several rather serious infractions in just a few hours' time." He turns back to Reed. "So you impetuously grabbed up one of the rifles and started after Burnside, your partner in tow. Did he shoot at either of you?"

"No, he held his fire," I say. "He allowed us both to get into the building without firing a single shot at us."

"And then what?"

"I made it to the roof of the building," Reed says. "I was prepared to gun him down the minute I hit that roof, but the rifle jammed on me. When I went for my service revolver, Burnside revealed that he had dynamite strapped to his waist, and had the detonator in his hand. He threatened to blow the two of us up, and forced me to drop my weapon, taking me hostage."

"When I arrived on the rooftop, I saw Burnside holding a gun to Officer Reed's head. Burnside showed me the dynamite he was wearing, along with the detonator, and he told us he was going to blow all of us up," I say. "I didn't want to shoot through my partner, nor did I want to take the chance of my shot making Burnside's fingers twitch on the detonator button, so I lowered my weapon. At that point, our chances of getting off of that rooftop alive seemed pretty slim. Burnside knew that, and took that opportunity to taunt us some more."

"Until the chopper flew by, diverting Burnside's attention long enough for me to yank the detonator out of his hand and shove him over the side of the roof," Reed says.

Friday stares at Jim for a good long minute. "Did I hear you right?" he asks, amazed. "You grabbed the detonator out of his hand and shoved him off of the roof?"

Jim nods. "Yep," he says, but there is no trace of pride in his voice.

"How did the chopper know to fly past?" he asks.

"I left my CC unit open," I tell him. "So that Sergeant MacDonald would know at all times what was going on. He ordered the fly-by."

"So, no shots were fired at him at all, other than the initial cover fire?" Friday asks.

"Nope. It all went down exactly as Reed said it did," I tell him.

"Alright," Friday says, shaking his head. "From this point, I'm going to stop the interview so that we can do the walk-through. I'll need the two of you to take us through the events up on the rooftop, step by step."

"Got it," I say.

Val grabs the tape recorder and microphone, stopping the tape from recording any further. "I'm coming with you, of course," he says. "And I'll be recording the interview on the roof for our records."

Friday rolls his eyes, sighing. "That is your choice, Captain Moore," he says. He jerks his head at Bill Gannon. "Let's go," he says. "Get this over with." He begins to stride purposefully up the street towards the Granite Court building. Gannon falls in behind, along with Val, who's carrying the tape recorder and mike in his hands.

"Amen," Reed mutters, as we lag a bit behind the trio. "I thought we'd never get to the walk-through." Then the two of us fall silent as we follow along.

The klieg lights mounted on the trucks light up the area like it's high noon. Smaller kliegs, used in the triage area, are now set up in various spots to aid in lighting up some of the spots the bigger lights can't quite reach. They cast a blinding, bright white glow to the scene, rendering it rather surrealistic, like an obscene and oversized work of art. Dust still drifts in the air, lending a ghostly, gritty haze to it all. I notice that the black bomb squad van is parked as close to the piles of rubble as it can get.

We climb over the first pile of rubble and reach the mired Armadillo. Sergeant Friday comes to a halt. "This the Armadillo?" he asks, gesturing to it.

"Of course," I say. I point to the smashed fire engine next to the rig. "And that's what's left of Engine 51."

He looks the Armadillo over with a critical eye. "Pretty sturdy rig, huh?" he asks, rubbing a hand on the side, as if petting a favorite dog.

"It more than proved its worth out here," I say. "Without it, I don't know what we would have done."

"We wouldn't have been able to pull those people out of the park, that's for damned sure," Reed says.

Friday studies the piles of rubble with evident trepidation. "There's no other way over this?" he asks, looking back at us. Apparently the good sergeant is loath to climb even the smallest mound of rubble.

"Unless you flap your wings and fly," Reed mutters under his breath.

Friday frowns. "What was that, Officer Reed?"

"I said, 'there's no other way to get by,'" he lies. He grins slightly, catching my eye.

"We got over it, Sergeant, I'm sure you can too," I say cheerfully. "Just tell yourself, I think I can, I think I can."

"Pete, don't be disrespectful," Val warns, but he shoots me a small smile.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Joe, just start climbing the damned thing and get your butt over it," Gannon tells him. "It's not like it's Mount Everest or anything." Gannon begins to climb the pile of rubble. "See?" he calls, looking back over his shoulder at his partner. "I'm a helluva lot older than you, Joe, and I can climb it."

Carefully, Friday begins to follow Bill Gannon over the pile of cement chunks and sharp rebar. He freezes as a couple of smaller pieces of concrete tumble from the pile, but seeing that the rubble is in no danger of becoming an avalanche, he quickly scales the rest of it, picking his way down as daintily as a ballerina in toe shoes. Val scales the pile next, without any hesitation, and then Reed and I take it, following much the same path as we took before. With a slight grimace of disgust, Friday brushes the dust off of his pants.

Reed catches sight of him doing that. "If you think that's bad, Sergeant, I've got news for you," he says. "The inside of the Granite Court building is much worse than this out here. Burnside deactivated the electricity to the building, and when the ramp blew up, it set off both the sprinklers and the fire alarms inside. When Pete and I came out, there was water nearly up to the second step of the first stairwell."

"Yeah," I say. "That's why we squish when we walk."

The leader of the bomb squad, Sergeant Marty Nimler, and his technicians are getting ready to leave the scene, their equipment in their hands. He spots us walking towards him and waves us over. "We're ready to leave, Captain Moore," he tells Val. "We've checked out the rest of the Granite Court building, along with the park pavilion and the areas around the playground equipment. They all check out okay. We didn't find any explosives. We did, however, find the body of the security guard for the Granite Court building. He's in a janitor's closet on the first floor. I marked it with some crime scene tape so the homicide dicks would process it. Oh, and we gave the dynamite strapped to your sniper the once over, too. That device is deactivated, so it's safe to remove him when you get ready to take the body away. We also silenced the fire and security alarms inside the Granite Court building, so you won't go deaf when you enter. You'll still need flashlights to see, though, the lights are shut down."

Val nods. "Good enough," he says to the man. "Thanks for your assistance today, not only out here, but at the other residential sites, too. It's greatly appreciated, Sergeant Nimler."

"Not a problem," Nimler tells him. "I'll stop by and let the sergeant at the command post know that everything out here checked out okay." He nods to the rest of us, then he and his men begin climbing over the rubble to return to their vans.

I gesture to the shattered remains of Squad 51. "There's the medics' rescue squad," I say. "You can see how he shot the windshield out, along with the tires, the light bar, and the side mirror." We begin walking again, stretched in a thin line, five abreast, with Reed and I at the lead. I point to the rubble covering Burnside's rental truck, only the tailgate visible. "There's Burnside's truck," I say. "What's left of it, anyway." I glance over at Reed. "I feel like I'm giving a freakin' tour or something here," I say, sotto voce.

"Yes," he whispers back. "And be sure to point out the dead bodies lying in the middle of the street, for their added viewing enjoyment." And I hear the sharp edge of bitterness in his voice once more.

Sergeant Friday halts in front of the Granite Court building, studying the blown-out glass doors that are hanging lopsidedly from the frames, murky water cascading over the wooden bottoms and flowing merrily out onto the cracked pavement. He looks over at the carnage in the street, yellow sheets now covering the dusty remains of the deceased, the first victims of Charles Burnside's vicious attack on this ordinary day. The homicide dicks have been here already and tagged the victims, doing their duty quickly so they can move on to the next set of dead. Friday mutely shakes his head, then he looks at Reed and I. "I'll need the two of you to walk us through it from here," he says. "Starting with Officer Reed."

Val clicks on the recorder, holding the mike out so it will pick up our conversation.

"Like I said, I just grabbed one of the rifles we'd been using in the field and took off after Burnside," Reed says. "I climbed over the rubble without any problems, and made it into the building just fine."

"And I grabbed up one of the rifles and went after him," I say.

"Did Sergeant MacDonald try to physically stop either of you?" he asks.

"He did me," I say. "He was only able to yell at Reed, he'd moved too fast for any kind of physical reaction on Sergeant MacDonald's part. And with me, all he did was grab my sleeve. He didn't try to hold on to me or anything."

"And you made it over the rubble okay?" he asks.

"I slipped a bit and cut my knee on a piece of rebar," I say. "But I made it into the building just fine, too."

"And you say Burnside didn't fire at either of you?"

"Nope. He let us get into the building, unscathed," I say.

Friday looks at Reed. "Did you have any sort of plan formulated in your mind as far as getting him?" he asks.

"No, other than to shoot the sonofbitch the second I saw him," Jim says.

"And you?" he asks, looking at me.

"My concern was for my partner," I say. "I had no plan formulated at all."

"That him?" Friday asks, pointing to yellow-sheeted, crumpled form of Charlie Burnside. The sheet covers all the damage that a fall from four-story building did to his body.

Reed glances at the bright yellow sheet, then looks away. "Yes," he says. "That's what's left of Charlie Burnside." He sets his mouth in a grim line, refusing to meet my eyes.

"Let's go inside," Friday says. He pulls a small flashlight from his pocket and turns it on, entering the building, stepping over the wooden threshold with a grimace of disgust at the filthy water flowing out. "I sure hope my drycleaner can get this crap out," he mutters to Bill Gannon, who is faithfully following behind, his own flashlight in his hand.

"Joe, your drycleaner should be able to clean that muck out just fine," Gannon tells him.

"But my shoes are going to squish for the next several days," Friday complains.

"It's a risk you take on the job, Joe," Gannon says. "You sometimes get dirty trying to find the truth."

Val Moore steps across the threshold, paying no mind to the disgusting water that quickly soaks his pants and soggies his shoes. "You've forgotten how filthy it can get out here, Sergeant," he says. "When you've been out of uniform patrol for so long."

Reed and I cross the threshold, our feet splashing into the water. The icy deluge soaks my boots once more, and I swear I can feel my toes shrivel in shock. I pull my flashlight out, flicking it on, and Reed does the same. I play the beam around the area of the lobby, noticing that the level of the water has dropped with the sprinkler system being shut down. It stopped raining indoors when they turned off the busted water main in the street, which is a good thing, because had the sprinklers kept on going, the building would likely be floating halfway to Hawaii by now.

"Watch the steps," I warn. "They're slippery."

Holding on to the soggy wooden railings, Sergeant Friday begins to climb the stairs, followed by the rest of us. The carpeting on the steps is so waterlogged, when we set our feet down on it, it squooshes loudly and water squirts up around our tread. We trudge along silently, until we reach the fourth floor landing, and the stairwell that leads to the roof. Friday stops, swinging around to face us. "Were you able to get Burnside lined up in your sights, Officer Reed?" he asks. "When you reached this landing?"

Jim shakes his head. "No, I didn't even stop on the landing, I just continued on until I came to the roof." He points to the fire escape door, the heavy metal propped open with a concrete block. "He had the door propped open, and I…"

"That was a very foolish thing to do, Officer Reed," Friday says, interrupting Jim. "You could've walked right into his line of fire."

"I realize that, but I didn't walk into his line of fire," Jim tells him. "It was like he was waiting for me to come to him."

"Did you stop on the landing, Officer Malloy, and try to get a fix on the situation up here?" he asks.

I nod. "I'd already clicked on the CC unit when I was still on the first floor, and let Sergeant MacDonald know that I'd made it into the building. Whether Burnside caught that traffic on his CC unit, I don't know. I made sure the unit stayed on as I went up the steps. I kept listening for a gunshot, but heard none. When I got to the last set of stairs here, I got down on my stomach and crawled up the final flight, trying to be as quiet as I could be. I got to the landing and came to my feet, trying to use what little bit of cover the wall along the fire escape door frame afforded me. I listened for conversation, but there was none, so I carefully made my way out onto the roof."

"And it was after you'd made the mad dash to the roof, that Burnside got the drop on you, right, Officer Reed?" Friday asks.

Reed hesitates. "Yes," he says.

"I want you to come out on the roof and show me where you were standing when Burnside overpowered you," he says, walking out onto the roof. Gannon follows.

Jim brushes past Val and I on the stairwell, and we fall in behind him. "I was about here," he says, stepping a few feet over the fire escape threshold onto the roof. "I had just made it out when I saw Burnside standing near the edge of the roof. The second I saw him, I squeezed the trigger on the rifle, but it wouldn't fire, it was jammed. That split-second of the misfire gave Burnside the opportunity to get the drop on me. He didn't physically overpower me or anything like that, he just showed me the revolver he had pointed at my heart in one hand, and the detonator for the dynamite he wore in the other. He told me if I made any move towards my service weapon, he'd blow us all up." Jim stops, staring around the rooftop that is bathed in bright light. He rubs his forehead, biting his lip.

"Officer Reed, what happened next?" Friday asks.

"I'm getting to that," Reed snaps suddenly, his irritated outburst a surprise. "Do you think this is easy for me to do? To admit to my partner, my captain, and two investigating detectives that I screwed up royally, and nearly cost my partner his life, along with mine?"

"Jim, we understand," I say, taking a step towards him in hopes of calming him. "It's not a horrible thing that you did up here. Foolish, yes, but not horrible."

He shoots me a venomous glare, making me halt in my tracks, then he turns that glare on an impassive Sergeant Friday. "You wanna know how the rest of it went down?" he asks, his voice razor-sharp with anger. "I'll tell you, Sergeant. Burnside made me remove my service revolver from the holster on my military harness, sliding it across the rooftop to him. Then he made me get down on my hands and knees and crawl to him, like I was a dog begging for mercy. He knew that Pete was coming up the steps next, and he made me turn around, still on my knees, and face the stairwell, knowing that seeing me in that position would freeze Pete in his tracks. He wanted Pete to see me at his mercy, like I was a goddamned idiot, the revolver pointed at the back of my head." He closes his eyes, a violent shudder coursing through him suddenly. "And you know what the evil bastard said to me right before Pete got here?" he asks, his voice a harsh whisper.

Friday shakes his head. "No, what?" he asks.

"He…" Reed gags suddenly, putting a hand over his mouth, his face going pale. He swallows hard, then he speaks again, barely getting the words out through gritted teeth. "He told me that the baby my wife is carrying isn't mine, it's his. It's his child my Jean is pregnant with."

"Oh Jesus," I say in shock, starting towards him once more. "Jim, I'm sorry…" I begin.

"Pete, leave me alone!" he warns sharply, holding his hand out. "Back off!" He turns a hard-eyed gaze back to Sergeant Friday. "That's when Pete arrived on the scene. And Burnside held him at bay, using me as a shield." Dropping his head down, his jaw clenched, he shoves his balled-up fists into the pockets of his coveralls. It's clear he's done speaking for now.

I pick up the narrative. "I got out here on the roof and saw Jim down on his knees, facing me, with Burnside holding a gun to his head. He held the detonator for the dynamite in the other hand. He asked me if I was looking for something, meaning Jim. He displayed the dynamite he had strapped around his waist. He told us he wanted to go out famous, as the Granite Park Sniper. I tried to talk to him, reason with him, but he wasn't willing to back down. I asked him to at least spare Jim, because of his family, but Burnside refused. He wanted us to go down in flames with him. At that point, I had no choice but to concede to him. I wasn't about to shoot through Jim, and I feared a head shot might make Burnside twitch, possibly setting off the dynamite. I had no clear shot at him." I hesitate, remembering the look of sorrow and defeat in Jim's eyes when he realized we were about to die at the hands of a madman. "It was the hardest thing I've ever had to do," I say, my voice hoarse with bitterness. "To admit defeat to a scumbag asshole like Charles Burnside, and know that we were going to die."

"You were going to die because neither one of you used your damned heads," Friday says sharply. "You two continually disregarded protocol throughout this incident, which is indefensible in itself, but you also chose to barge up here onto this rooftop, without any kind of plan in place at all, in order to bring down Charlie Burnside."

"Screw protocol," Reed snaps, raising his head sharply. "We got the goddamned job done. The sonofabitch is dead, isn't he?"

"And he very nearly took the two of you out with him," Friday snaps back. "You can't enjoy a hero's life if you're dead, Officer Reed. And it would be a small consolation to your wife and son, plus your unborn child, for you to be awarded the Medal Of Valor posthumously."

"I don't want a hero's life, I don't want the goddamned Medal Of Valor," Reed growls, menace in his voice. "I just wanted this mess to be over with, Sergeant. I was sick of seeing what he'd done to those people, those kids. It tears at my heart, you know. Seeing so many wounded, so many dead, so many scared victims brought out of there. They'll have to live with the scars of what happened out here for the rest of their lives, Sergeant." He turns his head away. "And so will we."

Friday falls silent, staring at Jim. "Tell me about the final moments, Officer Reed. Leading up to when you shoved him over the side of the roof."

Jim keeps his head turned away. "There isn't much to tell, Sergeant," he says dully. "The chopper flew by, offering a diversion, and I took that moment that Burnside's attention was drawn away from Pete and I, and grabbed the detonator out of his hands. At the same time, I shoved backwards with my upper body and sent him over the roof. The detonator disconnected when he fell."

"Weren't you concerned the dynamite might detonate when his body impacted with the ground?" he asks.

Jim shrugs. "Yeah, but it didn't."

"Lucky for you," Friday remarks. "The two of you could've been blown to kingdom come."

Jim turns and looks at him, pure hate in his eyes. "Yeah, HOW lucky for us," he snaps venomously, his voice dripping with sarcasm, then he strides over to the edge of the roof, looking out at the scene down below with a faraway expression.

Friday turns to me. "That how it went down, Officer Malloy?" he asks.

I nod. "It is," I say. "The chopper flew by and gave Reed a chance to react."

He gestures around to the sniper's nest, the footlocker filled with ammo clips, K-rations, canteens, and toilet paper. "He had quite a set-up up here, didn't he?" he asks.

"He was in it for the long haul," I say.

Friday turns to Gannon. "Bill, I'll need a sketch made up of this rooftop. Include the layout of his nest, making sure to mark the spot where the rifle was mounted on the tripod near the edge. Make a note of all the equipment he had up here." He looks over his shoulder at Reed, who's still standing at the edge, looking over. "Where was your exact location, Officer Reed, when Burnside had you hostage?"

"Right where I'm standing now," Jim says quietly. "Give or take a few feet away from the edge of the roof. Burnside was right behind me."

Friday looks at me. "And I assume you were fairly close to the fire escape door?" he asks.

I nod. "I was about where Officer Gannon is at now," I say.

"Okay," Friday says. "Bill, make sure and note whereabouts both Officer Reed and Officer Malloy were at up here, along with Charlie Burnside." He looks at Val Moore. "That pretty much concludes our interview, Captain," he says. "Other than the notes and sketches we need to make up here."

"I'd like to look over the notes Officer Gannon made," Val says, clicking the tape recorder off. "If I could, please."

Friday frowns. "Why?"

"Just a matter of protocol, you could say," Val tells him, smiling slightly. "I'd just like to make sure they're accurate with what Officer Reed and Officer Malloy have stated."

Gannon hands his notebook over to Val. "It's not a problem," he says, shrugging. "It's as close to the interview as I can get." Tearing off a sheet of paper from the back of the notebook, he clips it to his clipboard and begins sketching out the rooftop.

I make my way over to where Jim is standing at. He has his hands resting on the cement edge of the parapet, and he leans on them slightly, his gaze focused in on the activity in the park. "Don't jump," I say jokingly. "You have a lot to live for."

He swings his head around to look at me, his eyes dark with despair. "Do I?" he asks softly. "Do I really, Pete?"

"C'mon," I say gently, putting a hand on his shoulder. "You have to know that whatever Burnside said to you earlier was a complete line of utter bullshit. Jean's not having an affair, she's not pregnant with his kid, and she's not hitting the bars at night, Jim. She wouldn't be drinking while pregnant, anyway. And I know she wouldn't do that shit to you, Jim. She loves you too much."

"I dunno," he says, looking back out over the park. "Jean's changed her attitude towards me, Pete. It's like sometimes she can't stand to be around me, and believe me, the feeling is mutual. All we do anymore is argue, and I don't think the marriage counselling is helping much. She lashes out at me, I lash out at her, and together we're very unhappy. Our marriage has lost something, and I don't know how we can go about finding it." He rubs at his forehead. "Or if we even want to anymore. I don't know that it's worth it to either of us, Pete." He shrugs wearily, shaking my hand off. "Maybe we married way too young. I don't even know if she loves me anymore."

"The bigger question you need to ask yourself is if you still love her, Jim," I say. "At least enough to try to make the marriage work."

He is silent for a moment, then he speaks. "I don't know, Pete. I honestly don't know. And I'm getting awful damned tired of fighting all the time, you know? Maybe we should just throw in the towel and call it quits," he says, his voice bitter once more. "Divorce is looking better and better all the time."

"But what about Jimmy?" I ask. "And the unborn baby? You won't be in their lives every day, Jim. And I'd hate to see you miss out on being a father, it's what makes you happiest."

"I'm sure Jean would grant me equal custody," he sighs. "And what kind of life is it now for Jimmy anyway? Even though we try not to fight in front of him, he knows that his mom and dad aren't getting along. It's gotta be upsetting and stressful for him to see us this way. He's too young to understand what's really going on."

"Is there anything I can do to help?" I ask. "Whatever you need, whatever has to be done, name it and I'll move heaven and earth to get it done."

"I know," he says quietly. "And I appreciate it, Pete, really I do. You've been like a brother to me over the years, and I know that I can always count on you to be there for me." He inclines his head towards the park. "How many do you think he killed out there today?" he asks, changing the subject.

I shake my head. "Dunno. Upwards of twenty, twenty-five at least. And that's not counting the ones who may end up dying at the hospitals, too."

"This has been the worst scene I've ever worked," he says, closing his eyes. "I can't believe this whole situation. I'm having a hard time wrapping my head around it, you know?"

"I know," I say. "I am, too. In all my years on the force, I've never had to deal with something as horrific as this."

"They've got the easy jobs," he says, pointing to the several homicide dicks working in the park. Flashbulbs pop as they take pictures of the deceased, lying where Charles Burnside's bullets felled them. They carefully document each body with several different camera shots, and they handle the deceased with the utmost care when they gently shift them to look for identification. When the detective taking the pictures is finished, they put a tag identifying the body around either a wrist or an ankle, then they cover them up with a yellow sheet. If there was no ID found on the body, they'll be labelled as Jane or John Doe, until they can sort through the evidence still out here at the scene, like the cars parked in the lot, and match them up that way. And they'll interview the families of the dead, to make sure they get the identifications properly made. "The detectives just come in and mop up afterwards. We did the hard work today, not them," he says.

"I wouldn't say they've got it easy, Jim," I tell him. "They've got to do the identifications, notify the families of the deceased, and process the rest of the scene besides. That's no small task, believe me. It's just as hard as ours was out here today, and just as heartbreaking. They'll have to do those notifications several times over in a day's time."

"Is that why you never became a detective?" he asks, still watching the work in the park. "It's too heartbreaking to do?"

"No," I say. "That's not why. Over the years, detective work appealed to me less and less. I don't like the fact that you don't interact as much with the public as we do in our jobs as beat cops. Spending months working a case that oftentimes doesn't have the expected outcome seems dull to me. I wouldn't like being cooped up inside all day, either, sitting behind a desk."

"Yeah, I guess," he says noncommitally. He glances at me out of the corner of his eye, as an idea evidently comes to him. "Pete, your rifle jammed on you in the park, didn't it?" he asks.

"Yeah, but I think it was because the clip was empty," I say. "I put in a fresh clip when we came back from that run."

"You didn't fire it anymore after it jammed, right?" he asks.

"No, I was helping out loading up victims by that time," I say.

He turns and looks at me. "After we returned to the command post when the parking ramp blew, where did you lay your rifle down?"

"Next to the rear wheel of the logistics truck," I say, frowning. "I leaned it up against the side of the van. Why?"

He closes his eyes, shaking his head. "Oh Christ," he mutters, grimacing. "That was the one I grabbed up when I went after Burnside."

I feel myself go pale with shock. "Oh my God," I whisper. "That's why the rifle jammed on you up here." I swallow hard the horror that rises in my throat. "Jim, I'm so sorry. It wasn't done on purpose. I would never have dreamed of giving you a weapon that didn't work and you know it."

"I know it," he says, eyes still closed. "But I went in to battle with a useless rifle. And it almost got both of us killed, Pete." His voice is almost a half-sob.

"If anyone's to blame, it's me," I say. "I should have asked Gus for a different rifle after that one jammed."

"Just forget it," he says, turning away from me. "Just forget it, Pete." He leans his elbows on the edge of the parapet and returns his distant gaze to the park below.

"I…" I begin.

He cuts me off. "Just drop it, okay, Pete? I don't wanna talk anymore. About anything. Just let me be, alright?" he pleads. "I can't deal with this right now."

I study him for a long moment. I try to think of words of comfort I can offer my partner and best friend, but none come to mind. So instead, I keep my mouth shut, not wanting to intrude on his thoughts, and I lean against the edge of the roof, watching the work in the park, too. The dusty haze fills the air, giving the brightly lit park a foggy, dreamlike quality. The emerald-green grass is pocked now with tire tracks from the Armadillo, dotted here and there with yellow sheets that hide such awful tragedy underneath their sunny color. I close my eyes as the breeze ruffles my hair. It's chilly up here on the roof, and I shiver a bit, noticing that Jim's shivering, too. I glance over my shoulder at Val Moore and Sergeant Friday, who are speaking with Bill Gannon. Their conversation is a dull thrum in my ears; I try to tune it in, but can't muster the interest, so I forget it. I look over at Jim Reed, who hasn't changed position, his anguished eyes still staring blindly at the park below. And I notice in the dust and grime on his face, the tracks of silent tears sliding down his cheeks. I turn away, not wanting him to know I can see him crying, for emotion like that is such a private thing. My heart aches for him and what he's going through, I wish like hell I could take it all off of his shoulders and restore his life to the way it was before.

But I know, deep down inside of me, that life for the both of us has forever changed on this day, this plain ordinary day. Nothing will ever be the same again. The befores are now ancient history in our lives, while the afters seem rather daunting indeed. What we will face in the days to come is not going to be pleasant or easy. I sigh heavily, my bones aching from weariness. Oh, what I wouldn't give to take back this awful day, to turn back the clock and start all over, I think to myself. Or pretend it never happened at all. I lean over slightly, looking over the edge at Burnside's sheet-covered body below. And I suddenly feel a hot wave of pure, unadulterated hate for the man who caused so much tragedy, so much havoc, so much sorrow, on such a nice day. As fast as it hits me, it leaves me, a hollowness inside me where the anger blazed at moments before. And then I know, truly know, that there's no such thing as a happy ending…for any of us. The best that we can hope for is something in between.