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*

4. In The Aftermath Of Hell Chapter 4

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 FOUR

Someone comes up next to me on the other side and I turn my head to see Val Moore, gazing at the scene below with unabashed horror in his grey eyes. "So much death, so much destruction," he says softly, visibly awed. "Makes you wonder how a single man can do so much damage in just a day's time."

"Has it really only been a day?" I ask, wearily rubbing at my forehead. "It seems a helluva lot longer than that. More like an eternity."

"Time slows in the midst of a tragedy, time speeds up in its aftermath," he says. "Or at least that's what it always feels like."

"Bet you've never seen something as horrific as this in your career, have you?" I ask.

"No," he says, shaking his head. "I haven't. And I had hoped I never would, either. But as society changes and evolves, I suppose such atrocious acts of violence are to be expected. Violence is the norm nowadays."

"Not this much violence, Val," I say. "This is more like something out of an action movie, not real life. I keep expecting to see movie cameras rolling and hearing a director yelling 'cut!' Instead, there's…" I hesitate, my tired brain searching for the right words to describe the scene below. I'm at a loss, so I just gesture across the parapet, saying, "…this. There's just this. Silence and so much death."

"It's unreal, to be sure," he says. He stares out at the yellow-sheeted bodies lying covered in the brightly lit park. "I wonder what Burnside was thinking when he carried all of this horror out?" he asks quietly.

I shrug, my shoulders sore and aching from tension and strain. "We may never know, Val," I tell him.

"I don't wanna know," says Jim Reed from on the other side of me. "I don't give a rat's ass what the bastard was thinking. All I know is that I'm glad the sonofabitch is dead." His voice is low and harsh, and he keeps his eyes on the scene in the park. He rubs his palms across his face, wiping away the tracks of his tears from his cheeks. "Very glad," he reiterates, his jaw set firmly. The look he gives Val and I dares us to scold him for taking delight in killing Charlie Burnside.

"So you take joy in knowing that you've killed a man?" Sergeant Friday asks, coming up behind us. "I find that a bit unsettling, Officer Reed, especially for a police officer."

Reed turns around, staring at Sergeant Friday through narrowed blue eyes. "C'mere, Sergeant," he says, motioning to Sergeant Friday. "I want you to stand right here where I'm standing." He steps aside, allowing Friday to take his place. "Do you see all of that out there, Sergeant?" he asks, his voice laden with anger. "Do you SEE all the dead bodies lying under those yellow sheets out there in the park and in the street?" He jabs a shaking finger at the horrific scenes. "Do you honestly SEE all of that death and destruction out there, Sergeant Friday?" he repeats, his voice clearly strained with fatigue.

Friday stares out at the scene below, dark eyes scanning the park and the street. At first, no emotion registers on his face, but then as he takes in the numerous yellow-sheeted bodies dotting the grass of the park, one by one, I see his face slowly begin to lose the dour expression, being replaced by stunned shock and horror at what lies before us. For a moment, he leans hard on the parapet, his hands gripping the cement tightly, as he surveys the hellish scene. He clears his throat, but he doesn't speak. Evidently shock and horror are not two emotions Joe Friday is well-acquainted with.

Bill Gannon, standing on the other side of Jim, speaks for the both of them, as he presses against the parapet and studies the horrific sight in the brightly lit park himself. "Jesus Christ," he murmurs, clearly in awe. "It looks like a war zone out there."

"Yes," Friday mumbles softly. "I see it, Officer Reed. Believe me, I do."

"No," Jim says, closing his eyes and shaking his head. "No, you don't see it, Sergeant. Take a good hard look at all of those bodies lying out there in Granite Park. Those bodies used to be people; living, breathing, thinking, feeling people who were alive just this morning. Husbands, wives, mothers, children, grandparents, college kids, high school kids…they were all someone to somebody, they meant something to someone, and now they're gone. Cut down in an instant by a madman's whim." Jim's voice begins to rise. "They were killed, not for political gain, or in the heat of an argument. They didn't give their lives in defense of our country, or for a stupid war in a foreign land. They died because they were THERE, Sergeant Friday. They were THERE, in this park, on this day, and therefore that made them Charlie Burnside's target." He flicks his gaze to the park, the muscles in his jaw twitching. "I stand up here and count AT LEAST twenty bodies out there, Sergeant. That's twenty folks who woke up this morning, very much alive and looking forward to the day ahead of them, and now it's twenty body bags that will be carried out of this area; taken out like they were nothing but garbage, because that's what Charlie Burnside has reduced them to. Human garbage. And how goddamned fucking sad is that, Sergeant Friday? That some crazy jackass with a rifle and a childish vendetta gunned them all down, just because they made the mistake of being in the park today." Reed points angrily to the remains of the blown-out parking ramp littered about the street. "And see that, Sergeant? What's left of the ramp? It's nothing more than large piles of chunked concrete and rebar on the ground level, but when you get up here and see the aerial view, you can see how shattered it truly is. It's busted and broken beyond repair." Reed looks back to the park, his eyes blazing with fury. "Just like the lives of the survivors and loved ones of the deceased out there, Sergeant. Shattered and broken beyond repair. And I find it utterly contemptible that you yourself are apparently incapable of feeling any emotion, other than disdain for the fact that I admitted I'm glad the bastard is dead."

Friday's eyes narrow as he turns his head and looks at Reed. "I assure you, Officer Reed, that I am just as upset over the high casualty rate incurred out here just as much as you are. I fully understand that those people out there meant something to someone, and that the lives of the survivors and loved ones left behind will be forever changed. But I am, first and foremost, a police officer, and I must conduct myself accordingly, without getting emotionally involved in the case or the victims. It is not that I don't feel genuine sorrow or horror for what has happened out here, I just must be capable of distancing myself from the emotional impact of it, knowing that my emotions have absolutely no place in an official police investigation."

"That's pretty cold and calloused," Reed snaps. "Even for a veteran detective such as yourself, Sergeant. Those were innocent people murdered in cold blood out there, and you cannot dredge up any sympathy for their loss? I find that very cruel, Sergeant. Utterly inhumane."

"You think so?" Friday challenges. "I can justify my harsh outlook because I know that the investigation is far from over. Sympathy can come later, much later, after the book is closed on the case. It is not our place to mourn the dead right now at this point, but to make sure that the investigation is free from bias and personal emotions."

Slightly angry and irritated at his dismissive attitude towards Jim, and I step in. "So, what you're saying, Sergeant, is it doesn't matter at all that those people died out there, just that we make sure that the investigation into this mess is conducted in an impersonal manner. We are not to feel sorrow or shock at their loss, we're just to consider them another toe tag and case file in the city morgue, right?"

"I'm not denying that the casualty loss out here is staggering beyond belief," Friday replies defensively, turning to me. "We thought that the high losses of life in Austin and Atlanta were horrific. And I'm in no way diminishing the jarring impact that this case has had on the city, the state, the country, and the world. But we must remember, in such a horrific incident like this, that all eyes are upon us, watching closely to see how we handle the investigation into it. There is no room for error in the prying gaze of the whole world. We cannot afford to make mistakes in how we handle this, lest we be made fools."

I shake my head wearily. "Fine, Sergeant. Justify it all you want, as long as it cuts shit with you. But it doesn't me. I still think you're a heartless, cruel, uncaring bas…"

"PETE!" Val snaps, warning me sharply. "Sergeant Friday is your superior officer!"

"No, I'd like to hear what he has to say, Captain Moore," Friday tells Val, looking at me through narrowed eyes. "I'm always interested in the opinions of a man who has shown no remorse for killing a suspect in the past."

"Pete's right," Jim growls at Friday. "You're nothing but a cold-hearted sonofabitch." He folds his arms across his chest, glaring at Sergeant Friday. "There, I said it. And let me repeat for you, Sergeant, in case you didn't hear me the first time. I'm glad I killed Charlie Burnside. I'm VERY glad I was the one who shoved his sorry ass over the edge of this building. I cannot bring myself to feel ANY sympathy at all for his passing. He was nothing but a contemptible coward, who couldn't face up to the fact that he was the one that caused the mess that his life ended up turning into, so he got a gun and came up here to vent his rage. He doesn't deserve my sympathy or even my pity. Those people that were murdered, wounded, or terrorized by him are the ones I feel genuinely sorry for. The survivors are the ones who need our sympathy now, not him. They have to pick up the pieces of their lives and somehow go on. Burnside only deserves my utter contempt and hate."

"Sergeant, are we done here?" Val asks, stepping in between Jim and Friday in order to attempt an end to the pissing match. "It's been a long day for both Officer Malloy and Officer Reed, and I'm sure you can understand that their tempers are not in the best of shape right now. They've been through a helluva lot, and it's wearing on them, Sergeant."

Friday stares at Reed, who glares back defiantly, then he speaks, his eyes never leaving Jim's. "We're done, Captain," he says. "For now." Nodding to Bill Gannon, he starts to turn away, but Jim stops him, holding his hand up.

"Look, Sergeant, you weren't out there," Jim says, his tone weary but still battle-edged. "You didn't see the shit we saw or experience the shit we experienced. It's easy for you to stand here and pass judgement against Pete and I for how we've acted, but you weren't the one who had a four-year-old child's head explode in your arms from a bullet. You didn't see the terrified preschool kids who had come to the park for a picnic, and ended up going out in an armored rig, guarded by men in black uniforms and carrying guns, their teachers and classmates horribly wounded by sniper fire, their little brains unable to even comprehend what hell was happening around them. You didn't see your partner damn near get killed, simply because he tried to save a woman's life. You didn't ride into that hell on that hot and stinking Armadillo, over and over again, horrified, disgusted, stunned, and wondering if you were going to survive the trip back. You weren't afraid and sickened like we were. You didn't see the death and damage and destruction up close like we did. Had you endured any of that, ANY of that at all, then you would know why neither Pete nor I are sorry that Charles Burnside is dead." Jim turns then, brusquely pushing past Sergeant Friday, going over to the fire escape stairwell.

"Officer Reed," Friday calls to him.

Jim stops, but doesn't turn around. "What," he asks, not as a question, but as a dull monotone. His head droops towards his chest.

"Truly, I am sorry for what you and Officer Malloy experienced out here today," Friday admits, his face softening slightly. "It must have been very difficult for the two of you, witnessing the tragedy and the horror as it was unfolding right in front of you. You may think I'm devoid of emotion or incapable of feeling sorrow for those killed, maimed, or left behind, but I do. Believe me, I do. Any death like this is senseless, made all the more incomprehensible by the randomness and the innocence of the victims selected by the gunman. The loss out here is astounding and shocking, and truly I feel grief for those who were thoughtlessly gunned down. But, in order for me to complete an unbiased investigation into this matter, I must keep my own personal feelings out of it. And as a cop, you should know that the first rule of thumb is to never get emotionally involved with a situation, no matter what. Emotions can easily color our opinions, influencing the outcome of a case for either good or bad. It's only a good, prudent officer who keeps his emotions out of his cases, for fear of breaching a strict moral ethic."

"Great," Jim responds, looking over his shoulder sourly. "I'll try to remember that the next time I'm wearing a little girl's brains on my bulletproof vest." He clicks on his flashlight and begins to walk down the steps.

Friday watches him for a moment, then he turns to Val. "Is Officer Reed always that emotional?" he asks.

"Given the circumstances, Sergeant, you can't hardly blame him," Val says, his voice a bit pointed. "What these two men experienced out here was nothing short of Dante's Inferno. I think it's highly commendable that they managed to keep their cool and their emotions well in check, until after the whole situation was over. I wonder how many men, yourself included, could do that?"

"Yeah, and also manage to keep their sanity out there, amidst all the bullets whizzing past your head, the screams of the wounded and scared, and the sight of so much death stretched out in the green grass of a park," I reply caustically. Then I turn away, clicking on my own flashlight and following Reed down the darkened fire escape stairwell. He is nearly down to the first floor, and by the time I reach that level myself, my boots sloshing through the ebbing water from the sprinkler system, he is outside already. I step through the warped frame of the glass double doors, the water that had been flowing over them now reduced to a slow, gurgling stream. I pause on the sidewalk, searching for Jim, then with a start, I see him.

He has climbed over the small pile of rubble surrounding Charlie Burnside's body, and he stands over the yellow-sheeted lump, staring down at it. He doesn't look up as I slowly approach him, he just continues to stare down, as if in a trance.

"Hey," I say softly. "We're ready to go. As soon as Friday, Gannon, and Val make it down here, we're heading back to the command post and then the station."

"Should I be sorry he's dead?" he asks, his tone dull. He keeps his eyes fixed on the yellow sheet before him.

"No," I tell him. "You shouldn't be. Why, do you think you should?"

He shrugs tiredly. "I dunno, Pete. I dunno." He kneels down, gingerly lifting the edge of the plastic yellow sheet, pulling it up far enough to reveal the shattered body of Charlie Burnside. He stares at the figure, transfixed, as a light breeze tugs gently at the yellow sheet gripped in his fingers.

I glance at Burnside's corpse and instantly regret it. Burnside's skull surprisingly didn't exploded on impact; instead, the force of his head striking the jagged piece of concrete caved the back of his skull inward, forcing bits of bone and brain matter out through his nose, ears, and gaping mouth in a grotesque splash of red, white, and grey. The rebar that pierced his body pokes up underneath the sheet, tenting it in an obscene phallic gesture around his groin, while the second piece of rebar jabs through his throat, impaling him firmly to the chunk of cement. Sharp jagged edges of numerous broken bones stick up through his bloodied skin, and his cloudy eyes stare sightlessly at the night sky overhead, mouth hanging open in a scream that will never be heard. Blood is drying on the cement chunks around him, thick maroon puddles that gleam stickily in the klieg lights. It soaks his green camouflage pants, turning them black. The dynamite is still strapped to his chest, but the sticks have been deactivated by the bomb squad technicians, carefully removing the blasting caps and wires from the device so that Burnside's body can be safely moved to the morgue. The gun he'd held to Reed's head lies a few feet away from his outstretched hand, the pale fingers grappling lifelessly towards it. Dust still settling in the air from the parking ramp coats him lightly, lending him a macabre look, as if his gruesomeness isn't enough now. Charles Burnside, hellishly feared just a few hours ago as he carried out his dastardly deeds, is now reduced to nothing more than a sorry little clump of bloody rags, pale flesh, and shattered bone. Finding it rather fitting that he would end up this way, I swallow hard, looking away. I nudge Reed on the shoulder with my knuckle. "Drop the sheet, Jim, and let's go," I tell him. "It'll do you no good to stand here and stare at him. Or what's left of him."

Jim doesn't answer me, instead, he slowly stands up, the yellow sheet still in his fingers. Anger and hate compete in his eyes as he gazes down at the broken and shattered remnant of a human being in front of him, then he starts to draw his foot back, and with horror, I realize that he is about to crush the rest of Burnside's skull under the heavy tread of his boot.

I grab his arm roughly, jerking him away. "Don't do that!" I hiss at him. "Leave him alone, Jim!" I yank on his arm again, trying to bring him to his senses.

He knocks me away with a defiant glare, then he throws his head back, his jaw working as he makes a hawking sound, then he spits right on Burnside's shattered skull, the spittle landing right in the middle of the bloody face. "You evil sonofabitch, I hope you rot in the deepest bowels of Hell," he growls, dropping the sheet back over Burnside's body. He pushes roughly past me, ignoring my stunned stare as he scrambles across the small pile of rubble.

I turn to follow him, noticing that Sergeant Friday, Bill Gannon, and Val Moore are just coming out of the Granite Court Building. The three of them glance up as Jim strides past, but luckily, they evidently haven't been witness to Reed's minor desecration of Burnside's body. I brush past them to catch up with Jim, and when I do, I catch the look of curiosity Sergeant Friday gives me. I ignore him, continuing to follow my partner as he hurries down the dusty street at a rapid trot.

Reed quickly reaches the pile of rubble from the parking ramp and stops, turning to look back at me briefly before he starts to climb the pile. There is something in his chilly expression that gives me pause, and I slow my pace, wisely deciding to give him his distance, if that's what he prefers. He chooses his handholds and footholds carefully as he scales the rubble, and by the time I start climbing myself, he is already over the top of the rubble and slowly climbing down the other side. I pick and choose my own handholds and footholds, as small chunks of concrete rain and rattle down around me as I slowly climb. I hesitate when I reach the top, looking back to see where Val and the two detectives are at, but they're ambling along at a leisurely pace down the dusty road, and after a moment's thought, I begin the downward climb of the rubble myself. I lost sight of Jim while I was climbing, and I search for him in the flood-lit darkness, expecting to see him nearly to the command post by now. Instead, I spot him standing next to the Armadillo. I approach him slowly, half-expecting him to take off again, but to my surprise, he doesn't. Instead, he turns to watch me, his expression somewhat forlorn.

"We should thank this old girl for the work she did out here today," he murmurs when I reach him. He rubs his hand across the gunmetal-grey hull, his fingers leaving marks in the thick dust coating the rig. He walks around to the rear of the rig, his hand trailing along the side. He touches the rear door that is hanging half-open, mute testimony to our harried escape out of the vehicle after the parking ramp blew. The door creaks gently under his hand, swinging slightly. "Without her, I don't know what we woulda done. She pretty much saved our asses, you know," he says.

"Yeah, I know," I say. I touch the side of the Armadillo, studying the dust that rests in the whorls of my fingertips when I take my hand away. I rub my fingers together, the dust gritty against them, then I swipe my hand across the leg of my coveralls, leaving tracks of greyish-white among the other grime. I peer into the back-end of the rig, thinking that it has seemed an entire lifetime ago since we left it beached out here amid the rubble, like a dolphin trapped amidst the ruins of Atlantis. In the klieg lights, I can still see the puddles of blood on the metal floor of the rig, drying maroon smears of crimson we tried to clean up but couldn't, after rescuing badly wounded victims. The fetid air trapped inside the metal hull of the Armadillo, once so thick with the smell of fear and sweat, vomit and blood, urine, shit and gunpowder; is now gone, replaced by the crisp night air with its oddly cleansing tang.

"I just wish we could've gotten into the area sooner with the rig," Reed says, patting the hull of the Armadillo with affection. "Maybe we coulda saved more people than we actually did."

I shrug. "Maybe. Maybe not. There wasn't that much time elapsed from when we arrived on scene, to when Gus brought the rig out and we got suited up." Hearing voices, I glance over at the mountainous pile of cement and rebar, and see that Sergeant Friday, followed by Bill Gannon and Val Moore, are coming down the side, carefully crawling across the chunks of concrete with slow, precise movements. I look back at Jim. "I think the vast majority of the fatalities happened during the first few minutes of Burnside's spree, though. So it wouldn't have made any difference at all if the rig got here any sooner or not. It coulda been just down the block when Burnside started shooting, and it still probably wouldn't have helped most of the ones who died."

"No," he says, shaking his head. "I suppose not." He looks over at the battered hulk of Engine 51. "Wonder how the fireboys are taking it?" he asks, gesturing to the remains of the engine. "Stoker loved that engine as much as you love Adam-12."

"It can be replaced," I say. "Unlike lives."

He catches sight of Sergeant Friday approaching, and he turns away with a sour grimace, starting to walk back to the command post. "Yeah," he says as I fall into step next to him, the two of us scaling the second pile of rubble rather easily. "Tangible things like vehicles can be replaced. Things like souls cannot." He looks over at me, his expression unreadable. "There were at LEAST twenty people dead in that park, from what I could see. But I'm sure there were more than that." He shakes his head in disgust. "Imagine that, Pete. Not even Whitman had that high of a body count."

"If Burnside was going for the maximum impact, he sure as hell got it," I tell him. "Not only in the body count, but the variety of victims. They were from all walks of life."

"Which is what makes it all the more unbearable," he says. He falls silent as we pass by one of the gas-powered generators fueling the klieg lights, the thick smell of motor oil and diesel fuel from the genny strong on the air currents that drift past us. We come to the spot where Adam-12 sat at, the outline of the car very clear on the pavement, for the grey cement dust sifted across everything except the ground beneath the squad, leaving a pristine patch of clean cement underneath the car. Reed puts a hand on my arm, stopping me. "Hey, thanks," he says, his voice a bit hesitant.

I peer at him in confusion. "For what?" I ask, frowning.

"For making sure I kept my cool out there, Pete," he says, shrugging.

I study him for a moment, as his eyes search mine, still looking for my approval, even after all these years as my partner. "You did just fine out there, Jim," I tell him. "You woulda kept your cool, whether I was there or not. You're too good a cop to have lost your head, even in a horrific situation as this one has been."

"Maybe," he admits a bit grudgingly, as if he doesn't believe me.

"No maybe," I tell him. "You woulda done just fine out there on your own, Jim, and you know it." I glance back at the party of Sergeant Friday, Gannon, and Val, and see that they are all three inspecting the Armadillo with interest. I watch them for a moment, the I turn, walking back towards Val's black sedan.

"Yeah, I guess," Reed says, following me.

I look at him over my shoulder, giving him a slight frown. "Whatever happened to the confident, gung-ho kid who took on a group of armed teenage thugs in a dark park a few years ago?" I ask. "He wasn't afraid of anything, including me."

"He's been replaced by the older model," Reed says, his voice quiet. "One that is not quite so sure of himself anymore, not only in his job, but in his life in general."

I fall silent, having no ready answer for him, at least none that would give him much solace at this point. For I know that the undermining of Reed's confidence and faith in himself has come solely from Jean, for whatever reasons and whims she might have. Whether it's to influence him into changing jobs, or just for her own spiteful amusement, I have no clue, but I find it rather dastardly of her, not to mention cruel and thoughtless. But I wisely keep my opinions of Jean, her attitude, and her treatment of Jim to myself, not wanting to let Jim know I think very little of her right now, lest it upset him further. It's an opinion that started around the time of the Walters incident, and has only grown and festered as I've seen how nasty and downright bitchy Jean has become towards her husband. And while it's not my place to interfere with their marriage, should his lack of confidence in himself appear to worsen, something will have to be said. Cops need to project an air of complete confidence to the public while on duty; otherwise, it's a trait of weakness that can be fully exploited by a cunning crook who can use that chink in the armor against us for their own good. And it is never wise to appear less-than-confident in truly frightening situations, for if it becomes apparent to the public that we are scared ourselves, then that inflames their own fear even higher. We reach Val's car, and I sit down on the hood, weariness seeping through my very marrow. Reed sits down next to me, looking a little lost and forlorn as he studies his hands. "Hey," I say, nudging him with my shoulder. "Thanks for coming to my rescue after I got hit. I truly appreciate it."

He looks up and regards me for a moment, trying to detect any sarcasm or derision in my voice, and finding none. He shrugs. "No problem. I was seriously hoping you didn't get shot, since I didn't relish hauling your wounded ass back to the triage area. Mighta put a crimp in my style, ya know." He smiles slightly, proving to me his comment is in jest and means no harm.

"You got heart, partner," I tell him wryly, returning the grin. The movement feels foreign to me, as if the muscles in my face have forgotten how to smile.

"Is Sergeant Friday always such a jackass?" he asks, tilting his head back and staring up at the night sky.

"Yeah, for the most part," I tell him. "Of course, don't let the wonderful history he and I share color your opinion of him."

He clear his throat. "I'm not all that comfortable with attending this press conference tomorrow, Pete," he says.

I lean back against the hood, my palms flat against the black metal, as I turn my own gaze skyward. "Yeah, I know," I tell him. "Neither am I." I study the inky sky, the moon hiding behind veiled wisps of clouds, as stars freckle the darkness. I search out the North Star, and with my eyes, I trace the path of the Big Dipper, finding a small bit of comfort in the solid fact that it's still there in the night sky, a familiar sight amidst so much horror from today.

"Wonder if we could get out of it some way?" he asks, looking over at me. "I'm not exactly thrilled with the idea of being on public display, you know."

"Yeah, I know," I say. But we're kept from further conversation by the arrival of Sergeant Friday, Bill Gannon, and Val Moore.

"I told you, Sergeant, that you are more than welcome to follow us back to the station and pick up the rifles used by Officers Malloy and Reed from there," Val is saying to Friday. His voice is raised, evidence of a disagreement going on between the two men.

"I'm not sure why you're balking on this, Captain," Friday says. "The weapons were only fired during the course of rescue operations. They were not fired in order to bring Charlie Burnside down. His death was affected by other means."

"Sergeant," Val says, somewhat sharply. He draws himself to his full height, towering rather imposingly over the slightly smaller Friday and much smaller Bill Gannon, as he regards them both with a slight aura of distaste. "This incident has garnered worldwide attention, and as you stated earlier to Officer Reed, the eyes of the world are upon us, watching very closely how we handle this investigation. The crux of the investigation falls into Central Division's jurisdiction, and that is the primary stationhouse where all the crucial evidence and information must be taken to in order to be processed. I would be very remiss in my duties as Captain of Central Division to allow two detectives from Parker Center to take possession of the rifles used by my SWAT team members, without having the weapons examined and test-fired first in our own ballistics department."

"But it's not like we're going to tamper with them or anything," Friday says irritably. "And the weapons were only used in field operations, not in bringing Burnside down."

"The matter is closed, Sergeant," Val tells him crisply and authoritatively. "You and Officer Gannon may follow us to the station and pick up the weapons there, after they've been examined by our ballistics team." Val turns to Reed and I, ending the spat between him and Friday. "Gentlemen, are you ready to head back to the station?" he asks, coolly assessing us in his grey-eyed gaze. And his somewhat chilly scrutiny of us makes both of us squirm uncomfortably at the rather casual parking of our asses on the hood of his car. The two of us slide off, exchanging guilty glances like chastised children as we stand up. For while Val Moore is a good friend to both of us, he is, first and foremost, our commanding officer, and due the respect from us for that office.

"I thought you wanted us to change out of the SWAT coveralls before we get back to the station," Reed says. "So the media doesn't realize that we're the ones who got Burnside."

Val shakes his head. "Forget it. Let's just get back to the station." His voice holds an edge of weariness, and I suddenly realize that while Reed and I were experiencing hell out here in the Granite Court area, Val must have been experiencing his own hell back at the station, trying to hold down the fort and deal with the outside crises caused by the sniper situation. He pulls the keys to his car out of his pocket and reaches for the handle on the driver's side door. He nods curtly at Gannon and Friday. "If you two would like to follow us in, we'll be sure and get the weapons turned over to ballistics right away, so that you may have them as soon as possible." He opens the door and climbs in, leaving Friday and Gannon to retreat to their unmarked sedan.

"I call shotgun!" Reed says, smirking at me. He hurries around to the side of the car and opens the passenger door, climbing in next to Val.

I detect a tone of outright giddiness underneath his voice and I frown as I open the door to the backseat and shove our gear over to make room for myself. I climb in, the giddy note in Reed's voice striking an edge of unease within me for some reason. I think about it for a second, then I shake it off. Reed's probably just tired and emotionally wrung out right now, just like I am. As I close the door, Val starts the car up and waits for Friday and Gannon to back their car up enough to let him out.

Val expertly executes a three-point turn in the street, unable to flip a U-ie due to the nearby logistics truck and the somewhat narrow street, and he slowly pulls forward, stopping to see if Friday's car falls in behind us. He reaches down, grabbing the radio mike, keying it. "Dispatch, this is One-L-10 en route to the station with two," he says into it. He replaces the mike when dispatch acknowledges him.

Reed suddenly turns in his seat, craning his head and neck to look out the rear window. His intense scrutiny makes me twist around in my seat, too, in order to see what he finds so fascinating.

Val also notices Reed's interest in the scene behind us. "What are you doing, Jim?" he asks, slightly puzzled. He slows the car as we reach the roadblock at Morris and Palmtree, the faces of the two uniformed officers manning the post just pale ovals to me, the brims of their watchcaps casting deep shadows over their faces as they move the wooden sawhorse barricade to let us through. A small crowd of bystanders and reporters are kept behind the barricades, watching with avid interest as the black sedan passes them by. A few flashbulbs pop, photographers taking our pictures, just in case we turn out to be someone important.

"I'm taking one long last look at Hell before we leave it behind," Jim replies grimly. Then he turns back to the front of the vehicle and settles into his seat, offering nothing more in the way of explanation. He doesn't need to, and Val wisely asks no further questions.

I continue to stare out the back window, watching as the grey sedan of Sergeant Friday's slows at the roadblock, then eases through. The horrific scene on Palmtree begins to grow smaller as Val's car picks up speed, the concrete dust from the parking ramp a thinning haze across the klieg lights. The lights themselves cast bright beams into the sky, a domed aura that is much brighter than the lights of the surrounding area. All the scene lacks is a roving searchlight skipping across the sky, drawing attention far and wide to the tragedy that has happened there. I keep watch until the car turns a corner, and all that I can see are the headlights of Friday's sedan as he keeps pace with Val. I turn back around and look out the front windshield, the passing streetlights glinting off of the glass, tickling across the red emergency light on the dashboard. When Val stops for a red light at an intersection, I glance out the window on my side, and see a small crowd of people, along with several members of the news media, gathered on the steps of a Baptist church. "What's up with that?" I ask Val, pointing.

"That's where the relatives of the deceased have been brought to," Val tells me, his eyes meeting mine briefly in the rearview mirror.

"What's gonna happen to them?" Reed asks, turning his head and looking out the passenger side window at the small crowd.

"Homicide's out in the field now taking Polaroids of the deceased. They'll bring the snapshots here to the church to get a preliminary ID from the relatives gathered here," Val tells him. "Then, once the bodies are removed from the scene and taken to the morgue, they'll be asked to go there for a final identification of their loved one."

"Oh," Reed says quietly. "Will they have help? I mean, will there be someone on hand to guide the relatives through the whole process, from identification of the bodies to gathering the information needed in order to release the bodies to the funeral homes?"

"The department's chaplain is on hand, along with several area clergy members and some representatives from the local funeral homes," Val tells him. "They won't be forced to go through this whole process alone, Jim. There will be someone to guide them the whole way, helping them wherever they need it."

I study the small throng of people until Val pulls away from the stoplight. My mind returns me to that frantic woman in the triage area, desperate to find out news about her daughter and grandchildren in Granite Park, shrieking at me as she finally realized that they were not coming out of there alive. I feel her bitter anger wash over me once more and reflexively, my hand strays to my heart and I rub the area of my chest where she struck me with her fist, the blow landing on the bruise I received while trying to pull her daughter back to the Armadillo. The canvas fabric of the coveralls is harsh under my fingertips and I close my eyes, recalling the outrage of both women; first the daughter, angry that we'd left her dead children behind after rescuing her, and the mother, after learning that we failed to pull her loved ones safely from the park. I shiver slightly, once more feeling the daughter's body slam back into mine as Burnside's bullet pierced her heart, dropping her with a rag doll swiftness to the green grass below our feet, the bullet lodging in my vest and coming oh-so-close to piercing my own heart…so close, in fact, I don't wish to think about it, lest I be reminded once more of my own mortality. I lower my head, the inner demons inside my brain chastising me for failing to keep that woman safe. You shoulda made sure she was gonna stay put in the rig, Pete…they whisper softly. You shoulda realized that she wasn't about to let you guys leave her kids behind, dead or not, and you shoulda made sure that either you, Reed, or Gage kept ahold of her, keeping her from leaping out of the back of the rig and going back for her kids. Why didn't you think of that, Pete? Her murder is as much your fault as it is Burnside's. If you hadn't have been stupid and let her escape, she never woulda been in Burnside's sights in the first place. You might not have fired the gun that killed her, but your inattentiveness caused her death, just as much as the bullet did.

"You okay back there, Pete?" Val asks, concern tinging his voice.

"Huh?" I ask as I'm snapped out of my reverie, opening my eyes. I catch the curious glance Reed gives me over the back of the seat, and the frown Val has as he looks at me in the mirror. "Yeah, I'm fine, Val," I tell him. "I'm just sore where the bullet hit my vest and bruised my chest, that's all." I lean forward, resting my forearms on the back of the front seat. "Hey," I say to Val. "Just so you know, the rifle that jammed on Reed up on the roof was the same one that jammed on me out in the field."

Val turns his head slightly, never taking his eyes off of the road. "Oh?" he asks. "How did that happen?"

"I'm not sure why it jammed on me in the field," I say. "But Reed must have grabbed my rifle up instead of his, when he went after Burnside."

"I'll be sure and let Ballistics know that," Val tells me, and I settle back into my seat once more. "They'll want to run some tests to find out why it jammed in the first place."

Reed drums his fingers on the door frame as he stares out at the passing night scenery. "Out here in the real world, outside of the Granite Court area…what happened there seems so far away, you know?" he murmurs, sounding slightly dreamy. "It's like that scene was set in a completely different universe or something. It's unreal, like a dream or something."

"You mean a nightmare," I tell him. "Not a dream. Dreams are supposed to be good, but that back there was far from being good, Reed."

"Yes, I suppose it probably does seem like that," Val says, glancing over at him with a thoughtful expression. He clears his throat. "Before we get to the station, I think I should warn you two of a few things. First of all, I've told you that the media is camped outside the station. We've been able to move them back across the street from the front and rear entrances, but they are there, hoping to be the first to grab interviews with the people involved in the shooting. Second of all, the uninjured survivors pulled out of the park have been brought to the station in order to give their statements to the detectives. That includes some of the preschool children you two pulled out of there. The station is a bit of a madhouse inside."

"You mean those poor kids are being made to give statements to the dicks?" Reed asks, incredulous. "How awful! Haven't those little ones been through enough already?"

Val sighs. "Like it or not, they ARE witnesses to a beastly crime, and it's imperative that they give their version of events to the detectives, in order to piece together what happened out there."

"I'm surprised," I remark. "Those kids were so frightened out there, I'd be amazed if the dicks can get much out of them."

"They've got to at least try, Pete," Val tells me. "In any case, the parents of the children have been brought to the station to sit with them during the interviews, so hopefully they won't be further traumatized."

"Like that isn't going to happen anyway, whether their parents are there or not," Jim says, his voice irritable. "Having to recount the worst couple of hours in their young lives to calloused homicide dicks."

"Jim, it's not going to do you any good to get angry at the detectives," Val tells him. "They're just doing their jobs, you know." Val taps the steering wheel with his finger. "Also, the feds have been called in to assist in the investigation."

I frown. "I thought we were handling it in-house," I tell him.

"We are," Val tells me. "The majority of the investigation is our baby. But, as big of a crime scene as this whole incident has turned out to be, Chief Davis felt it prudent to call in the FBI and the ATF to assist us. It can't hurt, Pete," he tells me.

"It also can't help, either," I tell him dryly. "The fibbies aren't exactly known for their tact and grace, Val, not to mention their intelligence."

"If you're thinking of the Murdock case, Pete, I'd advise you to let it go," Val tells me, glancing at me in the rearview mirror.

Reed turns in his seat to look at me. "What was the Murdock case, Pete?" he asks with curiosity. "I don't remember that."

"It was before your time, kid," I tell him. "It was a kidnap-murder case we worked back in…"

"It was a case best left forgotten," Val interrupts, giving me a warning glare. "Pete felt that the feds didn't handle the case like they should have, and they overlooked several clues that could have helped us catch the kidnapper before he killed his victim."

"Yeah," I say, meeting Val's eyes in the mirror with a clear challenge. "Remind me to tell you about it someday, Jim. It's utterly fascinating, not to mention highly entertaining, in how the feds screwed up big-time." I load my voice with icy sarcasm.

"Pete," Val warns once more. "It's water under the bridge. And the agents that worked that case were either reassigned or fired by J. Edgar Hoover himself. The agents working this case are completely different from the ones who worked the Murdock case."

"Okay, so they're different," I tell him. "So, what's to keep them from stepping in and hijacking THIS case right out from under us, like they did with the Murdock deal? You know, they can claim that this case will fall into the realm of federal jurisdictional boundaries and shut us out completely."

"They're not going to do that," Val assures me, but he doesn't sound like he really believes that himself. "They're only assisting with the investigation at our request. We're still spearheading it, not them." He shoots me a meaningful look in the rearview mirror. "In any case, it is important that the two of you fully cooperate with them."

"Hey, wait a sec," I say, leaning forward once more. "Why do WE have to cooperate with THEM, if the LAPD is the one leading the investigation?"

"They will likely wish to interview the two of you," Val tells us. "For their own records of the case."

"I already gave my statement and version of events to Friday and Gannon," I tell Val somewhat sharply. "I'm not interested in reliving it once more for them, Val."

"Pete, you know as well as I do that a crime of this scope and magnitude must be thoroughly investigated," Val tells me, his own voice sharp. "I expect you and Jim to cooperate with them completely, without any hesitation or argument." When I open my mouth to say more, Val cuts me off with a crisp wave of his hand. "That's it," he snaps. "I don't wish to hear anymore about it, Malloy. The discussion into this matter is closed."

I settle back into my seat with a huff, arms folded across my chest, as I glare narrow-eyed at the back of Val's head.

Reed clears his throat. "Any idea on how the injured are doing at the area hospitals?" he asks, changing the subject.

Val hesitates a moment before he speaks, as if he's uneasy with the question. "Well, the last I'd heard before I left the station to come out to the scene, two of the preschool children had died once they got them into the ER. The rest of the wounded are listed in anywhere from critical to good condition, depending on their injuries. The next twenty-four hours will be the deciding factor in who lives and who dies from their wounds. We hope to have an updated number as far as the injuries and deaths in time for the news conferences tomorrow," he tells us.

"You mean there's going to be more than one news conference?" I ask from the backseat. "Why?"

"Yeah," Val says. "In fact, there's going to be one tonight from out of City Hall. Mayor Bradley and Chief Davis will be speaking to the press. Then tomorrow morning, another conference is scheduled, with official statements from the command staff involved and hospital officials. Then, the one later in the morning will focus primarily on you and Reed, along with John Gage."

"Why us?" Reed asks. "Why can't they be happy with the statements issued in the first conference tomorrow morning?"

"You three were the ones who rode into battle this afternoon, and ultimately, you and Pete were the two who brought an end to Burnside's reign of terror," Val tells him. "The press and the public will be interested in meeting the men who acted so bravely today, saving countless lives during a sniper's siege, and acting upon yourselves to end Burnside's spree."

"Well," Reed says, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "You know, I've gotta tell you, I've got a bit of a problem with the news conference involving us, Val." He flicks his eyes over to Val for a moment, then he stares out the window once more, shifting uneasily in his seat.

"What kind of problem?" Val asks, his hands tightening imperceptibly on the steering wheel.

"I don't want to do it," Reed tells him simply. He turns to Val, his gaze daring Val to deny him.

Val is quiet a moment, eyes on the road. "Well, I can understand that, Jim," he begins hesitantly. "But you can't forego it. It has to be done."

"Why?" Reed asks.

"The public will be curious to meet the men who got the LA sniper," Val says. "With such heroic acts that you, Pete, and John Gage performed out there today, comes the price of fame and glory."

"But at what cost to our sanity, to our integrity?" Reed asks, voice rising slightly. "Pete and Johnny and I, we were only doing our jobs out there, Val, and that's all. We acted the way we are trained to act, and the fact that we're being considered heroes for just doing our duties as policemen, doesn't set well with me. And I'm pretty sure the three of us weren't even thinking of fame and glory while we were fighting out in Hell."

Val turns to Jim, a curious expression on his face. "That's the second time you've referred to this incident as Hell, Jim. Why is that?"

"Because that's what it was," Jim says, shrugging. "Sheer hell. Seeing all those frightened and wounded kids and adults, the dead lying on the grass out there, always wondering if we were gonna make it out alive each of those trips." Reed sighs heavily, shaking his head. "I don't wanna do the press conference, Val, I'm tellin' you. I don't wanna do it."

"You have to, Jim. There's no way out of it," Val tells him, sounding sympathetic. "I'm sorry, but it was a direct request from Mayor Bradley himself. He wants the world to know the men who brought down Charles Burnside." He gives Jim a reassuring smile. "But trust me, in a few days, this will all blow over. Your names will be forgotten rather quickly, I'm afraid. After all, who remembers the men who got Charles Whitman and Mark Essex? In a couple of weeks or so, you and Pete will be completely forgotten in the pursuit of the next big story that captures the public's imagination."

"That's nice to know," Reed says, his tone sarcastic. "In the meantime, Pete and I are…"

"Pete and you will be hailed as heroes," Val interrupts, holding his hand up. "I'd advise the two of you to bask on the laurels while you can, for fame is fleeting, at best. Your fifteen minutes of it will be up in no time at all, and the two of you will soon be ancient history."

"But I don't want fame or glory, Val," Reed protests plaintively. "I just want to keep my life as normal as possible, without any fuss. I just want to be Jim Reed, that's all. Is that too much to ask?"

"I'm sorry, Jim," Val says, glancing over at him once more, a glimmer of sadness in his eyes as if he is aware of the cost of fame for Reed and I. "Truly I am."

"Are you, Val?" Reed asks wearily. "Are you really?"

"Jim, those of us on the command staff will be facing our own news conference first thing in the morning," Val tells him. "Sergeant MacDonald will be there, along with Sergeant Miller, County Fire Chief Houts, Sheriff Pitchess, Chief Davis, and myself. There will also be officials from the two hospitals the victims were taken to, Rampart and Central Receiving. We are being made available to answer questions from the press regarding this situation."

"Sounds to me like it's turning into a gen-yoo-wine three-ring circus," I remark dryly. "What's next? Governor Brown arriving to give us proclamations declaring Reed, Gage, and I heroes for a day, giving us the keys to the city, big shiny medals on blue satin ribbons, and a hearty handshake and slap on the back for a job well done?"

Val's eyes narrow as he regards me in the mirror. "I fail to find your sarcasm entertaining, Malloy," he tells me tightly. "I'm not sure what the Governor's plans are, but there is word that he will be here sometime within the next day or so, as a show of sorrow and respect for the dead, and support for the survivors."

"Oh, how nice and touching," I say sarcastically. "Just what the dead, the wounded, and the survivors need. A politician's deepest sympathy and heartfelt sorrow. How lovely that will look come re-election time."

Val stares at me, slightly shocked at my gubernatorial blaspheme. "Pete!" he snaps. "You shouldn't speak of the Governor that way."

"Why not?" Reed asks. "It's true, isn't it? Whenever there's been a horrific tragedy, the politicos step in, with all their gladhanding and copious fake weeping, just to boost their public image. After all, what better image to portray to the voting public in times of crisis, than that of the ordinary man who shared in their sorrow during a tragic time?" Reed twists in his seat to look back at me. "Am I right, Pete?" he asks, a bitter grin on his face.

I nod. "Damn straight, Jim," I tell him, matching his bitter grin with one of my own.

Val glances at the two of us, an expression of surprise and dismay written across his face. "I don't know what's gotten into the two of you," he says, shaking his head. "I honestly don't." He turns his attention back to the road.

"I'll tell you what's gotten into us, Val," Reed says, his tone pure acid. "Charlie Burnside." He barks out a short laugh, utterly devoid of any humor, and stares out the passenger side window. "Burnside's what's gotten into us," he mutters, then he falls quiet.

I lean my head back, watching as the flicker of passing street lamps skim across the grey interior of Val's car. I close my eyes, drifting on the muted squawking tones of the radio. I stretch my hand out, my fingers grazing the cool metal of a badge pinned to dacron, and I rub my fingertips across the bumpy surface, softly tracing the raised emblem of City Hall, the engraved letters spelling out "Policeman" across a smooth banner at the top of the shield, the words "Los Angeles Police" close to the bottom of the shield. I hesitate a moment, making a mental bet with myself that if I rub my thumb across the number only once, I can figure out whose badge it is, mine or Reed's. Eyes still shut, I lightly stroke my thumb across the stamped numbers just once, then I close my fingers around the metal oval of the shield, allowing myself a small smile as I win the bet with myself. The badge warms under my touch, and I grasp it tightly for a moment, then release it, my fingers seeking out the shooting brass that is pinned nearby. I glide my index finger across the circular medallion, then over the small loops chaining the medallion to the double bars above it. I grip the medallion between my thumb and forefinger, the emblem on the Distinguished Expert medal digging into my fingertips, then I let it go, the medallion softly falling back to the dacron uniform, the warmth transferred to it from my touch already cooling. I open my eyes to see Val studying me in the rearview mirror, his expression that of curiosity mixed with concern; then he returns his gaze to the road ahead, while I stare out at the passing night scenery, my fingers still absently stroking the numbers "744" on my badge. I sigh quietly to myself, knowing that it will take more than a piece of hammered metal to protect Reed and I from what lies ahead of us. In fact, I'm not sure what WILL protect us from what lies ahead, and that is truly a frightening thought.

---

Val is right, the media is camped out in front of the police station, along with a throng of the curious that always tend to gather at such scenes, just so they can boast that they were there. The crowd is contained to the area across the street from the stationhouse, kept out of the roadway by sawhorse barricades and uniformed police officers patrolling the perimeters with rabid intensity. As the car silently glides past, flashbulbs pop again and video cameras are raised, the bright lights swinging across the side of the car, but the reporters' images of us is blurry at best. The curious watch with neck-craning interest as Val pulls into the driveway, followed by the grey sedan of Sergeant Friday and Bill Gannon. Val parks the car in back of the station, and Friday's car pulls in next to us.

Val shuts the car off and turns to us. "Look, I'm really sorry all of this is happening," he tells us. "Truly, I am. None of us wishes to be thrust into the public spotlight under these circumstances. But, what's happened here in the city this afternoon is a horrible crime, not to mention an awful tragedy, and the people…well, the people must be able to take some bit of good away from this event. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

"I do," Jim says tightly. "And you can save it, Val. Neither of us needs to hear a pep talk right now. All I want to do is get out of these damned coveralls and go home to my family, if that's alright with you."

Val stares at him, slightly stung, and then he nods. "Yes, that's fine. The two of you are on administrative leave until further notice."

"With pay, I hope," I say, beginning to gather up my gear. I toss the uniform tie and silver tie clasp into my watchcap, draping the shirt over my arm.

"Of course," Val says. "The city would be highly remiss if it didn't compensate its heroes for their time off during this crucial investigation."

"Will you quit calling us heroes, Val?" Reed asks, climbing out of the car. He opens the back passenger side door and begins to gather his own gear. "Pete and I were just doing our jobs, that's all."

Val regards him over the back of the front seat for a moment, then wordlessly he opens his door and gets out, going around to the back of the vehicle. There's a thunk as he opens the trunk lid, and I can hear him speaking to Sergeant Friday and Bill Gannon.

"Don't get too mouthy with Val, Jim," I warn softly. "He's the Captain, and don't you forget that."

Reed looks at me, a slight flush of anger rising to his face. "I'm not getting mouthy, Pete, I'm just getting tired of all this shit, you know?"

"If you're tired of it now, whaddaya gonna do when it gets worse over the coming days?" I ask, getting out of the car.

"I'll deal with it," he tells me sharply, slamming the car door.

"Yeah, like you're dealing with it now," I sigh, slamming my own door shut. I go around to the rear of the car, where Val is taking the two rifles we used today out of the trunk.

Jim glares at me. "Hey, you're one to talk, Pete, about handling things," he tells me irritably.

"We'll get these down to Ballistics right away, Sergeant Friday," Val tells Friday. "We'll put a rush on them, so that you may have them yet tonight."

I reach in to grab my helmet case and briefcase, grappling with holding onto my watchcap, gunbelt, shirt, shoes, and nightstick. Reed drops his nightstick with a wooden clatter, and he sighs in frustration as he bends down to pick it up from the ground.

Bill Gannon sees our dilemma and steps in, grabbing the rest of our gear from the trunk. "Here," he offers helpfully. "Let me help you guys. You have your hands full as it is."

"Thanks," I tell him gratefully, as Val slams the trunk lid shut, the rifles clutched in his hand.

Sergeant Friday gives his partner a disgusted look for helping us, then he turns to Val. "These two men understand that they are on leave, correct?" he asks.

"They've been apprised of that, yes," Val tells him.

"And they realize that they are not to speak to any members of the media, outside of those during the press conference tomorrow, correct?" Friday asks.

"Look, we know the drill," I tell him. "We've been in cases like this before, Sergeant, albeit nothing quite as large as this case is. But Reed and I know that we're not to give any statements to any members of the press. We also know that we're not supposed to discuss the details of this case with anyone other than the investigators, and that includes our families." I hesitate. "Especially our families," I add.

"Officer Reed and Officer Malloy are experienced in matters such as this," Val informs Friday. "Believe me, they will not utter a peep about this case to anyone."

"They'd better not," Friday warns. "There's certain details we don't want leaked out to the press just yet."

"Then cancel the news conference tomorrow," Reed suggests. "If you don't want certain details released to the public."

"We can't do that," Friday says. "Besides, you will be amply coached tomorrow morning prior to the press conference on what you will be expected to say, should the Mayor decide to open the conference to questions."

Reed exchanges a glance with me. "So…we're going to be told what to say tomorrow?" he asks warily. "I'm not sure I like that, Sergeant. I'm used to speaking my mind, and so is Pete. I'm not comfortable with someone putting words in my mouth, telling me what I can and can't say. "

"This is one time you'll have to follow protocol," Friday says. Then he smirks, turning to me. "Oh yes, I forget. You seem to have a problem with following protocol, don't you, Officer Malloy?" he asks snarkily.

Anger flashes within me, and I glare at the good Sergeant. "I don't have a problem following protocol, Sergeant, but I do have a problem with..." I begin, but Val cuts me off with a warning look, making me hold my tongue.

"The two of you need to be here at the station by ten a.m. sharp, in order to be briefed prior to the press conference at eleven. From here, you'll be taken to City Hall, where the conference is being held," Val tells us. "You also need to be in your full dress blues, too." He turns and begins walking to the door of the station, as we follow behind.

"Why?" I ask. "What's wrong with the two of us just wearing our regular uniforms?"

"You are expected to project a certain image to the public," Val informs us, his tone clipped and precise. "Chief Davis feels it would be only proper if the two of you wear your dress blues." Val opens the door, holding it to allow the rest of us to enter.

"Oh, sure, he's one to talk," I snip. "He'll be outfitted in a suit and tie."

"It's dress blues or you draw suspension," Val warns sharply. "Without pay." He nods to Bill Gannon. "Just set their gear inside of the locker room door when we pass it," he tells him. "Pete and Jim can grab it from there, I'm sure." Val turns and begins to stride down the crowded hallway, the rest of us bobbing along in his wake like ducklings following their mama. People glance up with startled looks and quickly make way for him, seeing Val's purposeful stride and the two rifles clutched in his hands. Curious eyes and silence follows us as Val stops outside the locker room door, opening it a bit to allow Bill Gannon to tuck our helmet bags and briefcases just inside the door. "Gentlemen, I will see you tomorrow at ten a.m.," he tells Reed and I with a crisp nod of his head, then he turns and continues down the hallway to the Ballistics division, followed by Friday and Gannon. The conversation in the hallway resumes to its previous level of a dull roar, as people bustle by in a hurry, and it seems like every freaking telephone in the station is ringing constantly, the shrill tones adding to the already overwhelming hustle and noise.

"Christ, he wasn't kidding when he said this was a madhouse," Reed murmurs to me, his hand on the locker room door.

"Oh, Officers!" a woman calls to us. "Officers, please!" The two of us turn to see a young woman hurrying towards us, waving her hand frantically at us as she pushes her way past the people clustered in the hall. She reaches us, her brown eyes wide with nervousness as she looks at us. "Do you two recognize me?" she asks timidly, smoothing her blonde hair down with a trembling hand.

"Yes," I say, recognizing her as the young teacher with the preschool kids, the one who was so terrified, she sat huddled up in the back of the Armadillo, without saying a word. "You were with the preschool kids."

"I was also the one who slapped you and spit on you, Officer," she says, putting a hand on my arm as her face reddens with shame. "I just wanted to tell you how sorry I was for doing that. I'm not normally like that, believe me."

"It's okay," I assure her, smiling a little. "It was a natural reaction to the stress of the incident, and it's perfectly understandable. No harm done."

"How are the kids holding up?" Reed asks.

She glances over her shoulder at one of the offices that has the door to it closed, then she looks back at us. "They're in there with their parents and the detectives," she says, pointing to the closed door. "I think the detectives are about done interviewing them, but I'm not sure." Her eyes land on a splotch of blood and grey brain matter on Jim's coveralls, and she blanches, her hand going to her mouth as she realizes what it is. "I'm so sorry," she murmurs, backing away as if we have the plague. "But I really must get back to…" her voice trails off as she turns and hurries back down the hallway, quickly ducking into the ladies' room.

"What was wrong with…" Jim begins, but looks down as I point out the splotch to him. "Oh," he says, grimacing and jerking his head in disgust. He turns and shoves the locker room door open with a hard smack of his hand.

The locker room is deserted when we enter, and I head straight for my locker, dumping my gear on the bench. Reed does the same, and as I sit down on the wooden bench, bending over and beginning to work on untying my sodden boot laces, he goes over to the door and retrieves our helmet bags and briefcases, setting them on the floor between us. Dirty water squishes out from the heavy boot laces, and I find I have to work a bit hard at undoing the soaked and swollen knots. "God," I mutter, finally getting one set of laces done and tugging the water-logged boot off of my foot. "I wonder if my feet will ever dry out."

Reed doesn't even bother trying to undo the laces; instead, he fishes his pocket knife out of his uniform pants pocket underneath the coveralls, and sits down on the bench, opening the knife and commencing hacking at the boot laces with an intensity. "I don't care if my feet dry out," he mumbles. "I just want to get the hell out of this outfit with the gore on it." He hands me the pocketknife once he cuts through the laces. "Here, use that, it'll work faster."

"Thanks," I tell him, taking the knife and hacking at the laces on the other boot. They finally break for me and I close the little silver knife, handing it back to him. I tug the second boot off, along with the soaked socks and I wriggle my waterlogged toes, happy to have my feet free at last from the squooshy boots. I stand up, nudging the boots aside with a foot, then I tug at the coveralls, slipping my arms out of the sleeves, dust rising from the creases in the coveralls with my movements. The co-mingled smell of salty sweat, coppery blood, and peppery gunpowder clings to them like a harsh miasma. I shimmy them down past my waist, then I sit back down on the wooden bench, tugging the wet legs of the coveralls off. I quickly run my hands through the deep cargo pockets, making sure I've taken everything out of them, then I wad them up in a tight ball. I stand up, taking them, along with the boots and socks over to the trash barrel, tossing them in with a thump. I return to the bench, walking across the cool polished cement floor in my bare feet, noticing that Jim has stripped off his own coveralls and is holding them in his hands, a faraway expression on his face as he stares at them, the splotch of blood and brain tissue right in front of his unseeing eyes. "Hey, you okay?" I ask, sitting back down.

He jumps a little, as if he's forgotten I am there. "What?" he asks, looking over at me. "Yeah, I'm fine, Pete. I'm just dandy." He frowns, gesturing to the outfit. "I didn't realize I had gotten that on myself," he says, making a face of disgust. "I knew it was on the vest, but not the coveralls."

"How could you have known something like that?" I ask him, grabbing a towel out of my locker and drying my feet and legs with it. I could take a shower here at the station, washing the smell of dust and fear and sweat from me, but I'd rather wait until I get home, where I can spend as long as I want under the shower head, or at least until the hot water runs out. I glance over at Jim, who is still staring at the splotch of gore. "It's only a little spot of it," I tell him. "It's not that noticeable."

"That preschool teacher noticed it," he tells me grimly.

"Only because we're in the bright lights of the station," I tell him.

He stands up, grabbing his own boots up from the floor, and carries them, along with the coveralls, over to the trash barrel where he tosses them in atop mine. He hesitates, resting his hands on the rim of the barrel, and I watch him with slight concern, wondering if he's about to be sick. He shakes himself, much like a dog would, and he reaches into the pocket of his uniform pants, pulling out a small handful of change. He looks over his shoulder at me. "I'm gonna call home and let Jean know I'm okay," he says. "When I get done, you need to call Judy and let her know you're okay, too, Pete." He heads over to the pay phone in the corner of the locker room, disappearing behind a row of lockers. I hear the clink and rattle of a coin dropping into the phone's coin box, then he starts dialing, the dial counting out rapid clicks as he calls home. "Hey Jean, it's me," he says a moment later. "I just thought I'd call and let you know I'm okay…" His voice trails off as Jean takes over her end of the conversation. "Yes, I'm back at the station with Pete," he says. "And I…" His voice trails off again.

I fish the key to my locker out of my pants pocket, slipping the little silver key into the lock and opening it with a click. I turn around, grabbing up my nightstick, tucking it into a corner of my locker, then I pick up my helmet bag and briefcase, tucking them in on the bottom of the locker. I take my service revolver from the holster on the gunbelt, laying it in on one of the top shelves of the locker. I empty out the pockets of my uniform pants, unbuckling the belt and tugging it free from the loops. I strip the pants off, soaked to the knees with water from the inside of the Granite Court Building, and I lay the pants on the bench, intending to toss them in the chute for the drycleaner. Pulling my gym bag from the locker, I unzip it, slipping my black uniform oxfords and silver-buckled belt inside. As I coil the leather gunbelt up and tuck it inside the bag also, I catch Jim's response to his wife.

"Jean, I told you I'm fine," he says in exasperation. "Both Pete and I are okay." He hesitates as he listens to her speaking once more. "Yes, I know it was all over the news, Captain Moore has told us that," he tells her. He sighs dramatically. "Look, Jean, I know it was dangerous, but Pete and I had a job to do. It wasn't like we could ignore the people that needed help in that park. It was a very desperate situation, and lives were on the line. Pete and I just happened to be…"

Trying vainly to ignore Reed's conversation with Jean, I pull my chinos from the hanger in my locker and step into them, transferring my wallet, loose change, and car keys into the pockets. I take my blue pinstriped oxford shirt from the same hanger the chinos were on and slip into it, tucking the tails into my pants.

"I know my job is a big issue, and I know it worries you greatly, but there's nothing I can do about it, Jean," he tells her, his voice rising. "I'm certainly not quitting the force just because of what happened out there today, if that's what you're thinking." He falls silent once more, and I swear that I can nearly hear Jean's squawking voice coming tinnily out of the phone receiver, even from my spot in the locker room. "No, I really don't know WHAT you're thinking anymore, Jean," he snaps. "I don't even know what I'M thinking anymore. Except for this morning, and we BOTH know what's on your mind right now…" His voice trails off again.

Wondering despite myself at what Jim's rather cryptic comment to Jean means, I take a clean pair of socks out of the locker and sit down, pulling them on. I slide my feet into my brown loafers and stand up, smoothing my clothes down with my hands.

"Okay, well let me ask you this, Jean," he says heatedly. "Do you want me to come home tonight or not? Because if you don't, I'll have to either get a hotel room or crash on Pete's couch." He sighs. "No, I'm not being snippy with you, I just need to know where I'm going to be sleeping tonight…either at home or somewhere else."

I flinch a little at the idea of Jim crashing on my couch tonight. Yes, he's my best friend and I love him like he's my brother, but I was actually hoping to have tonight by myself, in order to decompress and destress from today's horrific events. I shake my head, mentally trying to telepath to Jean to take her husband, at least for tonight.

"Yes, I know it is," he says. "But I…" his voice stops as Jean cuts him off again, and I hold my breath, waiting to hear the answer. "Fine," he snaps. "We'll discuss this when I get home." He slams the phone receiver down in the cradle with a bang, and he stalks around the corner of the lockers, glowering. "Goddamnit," he mutters. "Just what I really need right now. Another lecture from my wife on the dangers of my job." He unlocks his locker, throwing the door open with a metallic clang. He nods at me. "You can call Judy now, Pete, and let her know you're okay. She's probably worried sick about you."

I quail a little at the thought of speaking to Judy, and I shake my head. "I think I'll wait until I get home," I tell him. Judy's the last person I want to talk to right now, since if anything, she'll want me to pour my heart out to her in a meaningful discussion of today's events, and that's something I cannot get into, both pouring my heart out and meaningful discussions. I shouldn't feel that way, since Judy is my girlfriend and I love her, but it's a quirk in my personality that I can't quite overcome for some reason. And, truth be known, I sometimes wonder to myself if I even really love her, or if I'm just going through the motions because I'm sick of everyone making pointed little jokes and remarks about my inability to stay in a lasting relationship for longer than a few months, not to mention my longtime bachelorhood.

He frowns, looking at me. "Really, Pete, you should call her."

"I told you I'd wait until I get home, okay?" I tell him, slightly irritated.

He sighs, shaking his head at my idiotic stubbornness. "I don't get you, Pete, Judy's a good woman. You shouldn't treat her the way you do sometimes." He begins to change out of his uniform and into his civvies. "I'm surprised that your relationship has lasted this long," he says, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye. "Given the fact that your attention span in the romance department is that of a hyperactive gerbil on uppers."

"Speaking of relationships, how's yours going?" I ask, trying to change the touchy subject of Judy and I. My voice sounds a bit snarkier than I intended, and it does not go unnoticed by Jim.

He scowls. "It's going just fine, Pete," he tells me sharply.

"Doesn't sound like it," I reply. I pick up my uniform shirt and begin removing the brass from it, unpinning the silver and gold badge, the silver name tag, and the shooting medallion. I'll take them home, along with the rest of my gear that will need to be polished up before tomorrow. Slipping them into an inner pocket inside the gym bag, I empty out the breast pockets of the shirt, taking out the little notebook and Miranda card, along with my pen. I put them in on the shelf of the locker, next to my service revolver.

"Okay, so maybe it's not," Jim says, stepping into his jeans. "We've just hit a rough patch, that's all."

"You've been hitting that rough patch for nearly a year now," I remark, then instantly regret it, as a look of pain washes across Jim's face. "Look, forget I said that," I tell him hastily. "I'm sorry. I need to remember to keep my big mouth shut."

"No, it's okay," he says quietly. "You're only speaking the cold, harsh truth, Pete." He pulls on his red sweater and sits down on the bench, starting to put his socks and sneakers on.

"You wanna talk about it?" I ask after a moment.

"No," he replies, his crisp tone putting an end to that conversation.

I study him for a second. "Well, if you ever wanna…" I begin.

"Thanks, I appreciate it, Pete, but no, I don't want to talk about it," he interrupts. "Not now, not ever."

I put my watchcap, the uniform tie and silver clasp still tucked within it, inside the gym bag, then I scan my locker for anything else I'll need to take home and shine up. "I don't like the idea of having to wear our dress blues to the press conference tomorrow," I say. "It's a pain in the ass."

"Yeah, I know," Jim says. "I don't know why they changed the protocol back to wearing dress blues for certain events." He reaches down, grabbing his own gym bag from the bottom of his locker, setting it on the bench next to him. He tucks his helmet bag and briefcase away, and begins to strip the brass off of his uniform shirt.

I take my dirty uniform over to the metal laundry chute, opening the door and tossing the pants and shirt inside, the buttons of the shirt rasping against the metal of the chute as the uniform slides down, landing into the cloth laundry bin with a soft hush. I return to my locker, checking Jim's progress on getting his gear together so that we can leave, and I see that he's poking along, brows furrowed in concentration as he unpins his badge from his uniform carefully. I have to wait for him, since I'm the one who must give him a ride home. I grab the leather holster that holds my off-duty weapon from the shelf in my locker and I clip it to my belt on my left side. I slip the off-duty .38 into the holster and take my tan windbreaker from the hook inside my locker, pulling it on. I make sure it's covering the .38 as I zip it up halfway, then I slam the locker door shut, relocking it with the key. Reed is still taking his time putting his gear away, so I wander over to the row of sinks and the long mirror that line one wall. I study my reflection, my face pale and grey, my hair dusted white with cement dust. I look like a redheaded version of Casper the Friendly Ghost.

I glance at my hands, seeing traces of blood still embedded within the whorls of my fingertips, so I turn on the taps, dabbling my hands in the lukewarm water, catching some soap from the wall dispenser so I can try to scrub some of the bloodstains from my hands. The water turns pinkish when I rinse the soap off, so I get some more, scrubbing harder at my fingertips and palms. Finally the water runs clear, and I bend my head down, cupping my hands and catching water in them, splashing the water on my face to rid myself of the grit. The water is cool against my skin and I savor it, closing my eyes as it trickles down my temples and cheeks, dripping off the ends of my nose and my chin. I catch some more in my hands and I use it to rinse the chalky, gritty taste of dust out of my mouth. I roughly comb dampened fingers through my hair, loosening up the particles of grit that have settled there among the strands. Turning off the taps, I grab a handful of paper towels and dry my face, giving my reflection the once-over again, deciding that I'll at least pass for halfway decent-looking. Wadding the paper towels up, I toss them into the trash, silently congratulating myself as I make the shot easily, the wadded ball of towels landing in the trash barrel on the first throw. "Hey, you about ready?" I ask, coming back around the row of lockers to check on Reed's turtlish progress.

He's sitting there on the bench, silent and unmoving, eyes staring vacantly at his hands as he holds them out in front of him. "I've got blood on my hands," he says in an odd monotone. His gaze never leaves his palms.

The hollow tone to his voice sends a shiver down my spine. I've never heard Jim's voice sound so eerie and alien. I hesitate, studying him with a slight frown, then I speak. "Yeah, I know," I tell him. "I did, too. I just washed it off, and you should do the same, Jim."

He turns his head slowly, his eyes still vacant as he stares at me, and it dawns on me that the shock of today's events is finally hitting him. He holds his hands up in front of him, and I notice that they're shaking slightly. "Look, Pete, I've got blood on my hands," he repeats in that odd monotone. He frowns, looking at his palms. "I don't want blood on my hands. How do I get it off, Pete?" He looks at me with a quizzical expression on his face.

"Go wash them at the sink," I tell him once more, jerking my head in the direction of the sinks. "That's what I did, Jim." Concern rapidly wells up inside of me, and I'm not exactly sure what to do for him to bring him out of this state.

He blinks suddenly, as if just now realizing that I'm there. He stands up and walks slowly over to the row of sinks, his hunched-over stance and creaky gate that of an 80-year-old man instead of a kid in his late twenties. Leaning hard on one of the sinks, he studies his reflection in the mirror. "My hair looks grey," he says, peering at himself. "It makes me look old."

"It's from the concrete dust that was in the air back at the scene," I tell him, watching him carefully. "Use your fingers to brush some of it out." I point to the sink taps. "Jim, turn on the water and wash your hands," I tell him. "That will get rid of the blood on them, I promise."

He grips the sink tightly, closing his eyes, his fingers white-knuckled in their death-grasp on the porcelain. "Pete," he whispers, his voice sounding anguished. "I've got blood on my hands. I can't go home to Jean and Jimmy like this."

I approach him slowly, my hands out in front of me to show him that I mean him no harm, since I'm not sure how he's going to react. "Jim," I tell him gently. "Wash your hands in the water. That will take the blood off, trust me."

"Why today?" he rasps hoarsely, his eyes still tightly closed. He sways slightly, and I put out a hand to steady him.

"Why today what?" I ask him.

He opens his eyes, turning to look at me, sheer torturous anguish in his blue eyes. "Why today?" he asks sadly. "Why did it have to be today that I got blood on my hands?" He turns back to his reflection, staring at it in horror. "Why did Burnside choose today to do his deed? Why not tomorrow? Or the day after? Or the day after that? Why couldn't he pick a day that I wasn't on duty, and do it then?" He looks back at me, tears springing to his eyes. "Why today?" he whispers sorrowfully, as the tears begin to slide down his cheeks.

"I don't know, partner, I just don't know," I tell him softly, shaking my head. "We'll probably never know, either." I reach over and turn on the sink taps for him. "Now wash your hands, Jim, so we can go home, okay?" He doesn't respond, still clutching the sides of the sink in a tight grip, so after a moment, I realize that I must act for him and I gently take ahold of one of his wrists, pulling on it and trying to break his hold on the sink. He lets go of the side reluctantly, and I push his hand under the running water, after first making sure it's not too hot with my fingers. "Here," I tell him, reaching across him and tugging on his other wrist to get him to let go of the other side of the sink . "Get your hands wet, then scrub them with the soap," I explain. He just stands there, letting the water wash over his hands, mutely staring at them, his expression mournful. I realize that he's not going to do anything on his own so, sighing, I wet my own hands once more, pushing on the button to get soap from the dispenser, and I pick up his left hand, scraping the soap off of my palm onto his, then I grab his other hand, rubbing them together like I would a small child who is unable to wash his hands on his own. I thrust his hands under the water, rinsing them, then I repeat the process, as Jim stands next to me, placidly allowing me to wash the blood off of his palms and fingers. When the worst of the blood is washed off, I nudge him with my elbow. "Can you wash the dust off of your face, Jim? 'Cuz that's one thing I ain't doin' for you. Just bend your head down and splash some water on your face to get rid of the concrete dust, okay?" Nodding obediently, he bends his head to the sink, cupping his hands and splashing water onto his face. I step back, grabbing a handful of towels and drying my hands once more.

"Whattsamatter, your partner turn ee-jit on you, Malloy?" a voice calls jovially.

I whip around to see Ben Ryan standing there, grinning, his arms folded across his chest as he regards Reed and I with perverse delight. Ryan's been a thorn in my side for a couple of years now, having taken an instant dislike to me for some reason when he first got hired on in 1973. He enjoys mocking me, like Ed Wells, but while Ed's mocking is done largely in jest and has no real malice in it, Ryan's remarks carry the heavy weight of a bully's sarcasm and sharp derision. "Leave him alone, Ryan," I snap, unsure of how long Ryan's been standing there. "Reed's had a long day and he's a bit in shock right now."

"Aww, so whaddaya gonna do, Malloy, take him home and tuck him into beddy-bye?" Ryan coos derisively. "Maybe give him a little kiss on the forehead, tell him it's all gonna be okay?" He smirks at me. "Maybe you should crawl under the covers with him and cuddle him, Malloy. I'm sure the two of you would just love that, wouldn't you? The two of you could just spend the night in each other's arms." He laughs heartily at his own wit, but since there's no one else in the locker room besides us, his joke goes unappreciated.

I stare at him for a moment, stunned at his implication that Jim Reed and I are lovers, then my anger explodes like fireworks, flaring up skyrocket-high inside of me at the clear insinuation. "Why you little smart-assed sonofabitch!" I snarl menacingly, starting towards him, my fists clenched in rage, my fingernails digging sharply into my palms. I can't wait to sink a fist right in the middle of his sneering face, wiping that evil smirk off with a hard blow of my hand, bloodying his nose for him. "I oughta kick the shit right outta you for even THINKING that of Reed and I!" My blood pounds wildly in my brain and I taste bitter rage on my tongue.

Behind me, still at the sinks, Jim suddenly comes to life as it dawns on him that I'm about to drop Ryan's ass. "Pete, no!" he yells, leaping forward and grabbing me by the arm and jerking me sharply back, causing me to lose my balance and stumble a bit. "Let it go!" he warns, shaking my arm hard, digging his fingers into my bicep. "Pick a fight with him and he'll cost you your job, and you don't want that!"

"Oh-ho," Ryan crows in delight. "So the other one steps in to save his partner's ass!" he chortles. He leans forward, as if imparting a secret to us. "I think I must have struck a nerve, boys! Tell me, which one of you is the dom and which one of you is the submissive?" He cackles gleefully, shaking his head. "Or do you take turns?"

"You goddamned motherfucker!" I yell, lunging wildly at him, my rage nearly blinding me in its red-veiled, ear-roaring intensity. I want Ryan's blood and I want it now. I want to see it spilled across the polished cement floor, as I kick the living shit out of Ryan, making him weep and beg for my mercy. And then I'll spit on him and kick him again, just to show him the mercy of Pete Malloy.

"Pete!" Jim yelps sharply in my ear, hauling me back once more by my arm. "Damn it, let it go! A jackass like Ryan isn't worth losing your job over!"

"I don't give a shit, let me at the bastard!" I growl, writhing madly, trying to break free from Reed's grasp. "I'll fucking kill him!"

He grabs me by the back of my shirt, twisting it in his fist, digging his elbow heavily into my spine, trying to force me to my senses. He jerks my arm up sharply behind me, pinning it to my back with his grip, using his weight to push hard against me like I'm an unruly prisoner, knocking me off-balance as he yanks me sideways, shoving me up against one of the sinks. "Ryan, get the hell outta here!" he spits angrily at Ryan. "Before I let go and let him have at you!"

"Hell," Ryan sneers. "Malloy's an old man. He couldn't kick my ass if his life depended on it." He hawks and casually spits into one of the nearby sinks.

"Do you want me to let go of him just so you can find out?" Reed snaps as he struggles with me. "Trust me, Ryan, Pete may be older than you, but I'd bet all the goddamned money in the world that he can kick your ass eight ways to Sunday and then some!" He jerks his head at the door. "Now get the hell out of here, before I release my hold on him and he pounds your sorry little ass into the ground!"

"Shee-it," Ryan drawls, still grinning. "Can't you boys take a joke?" He goes to the locker room door and opens it, turning to blow Reed and I a kiss. "You two have fun tonight, ya hear?" he chuckles, the door swinging shut on his laughter.

"Sonofabitch!" I rasp, twisting hard in Reed's grasp and lunging wildly at the door. "Damn it, leggo of me so I can go kill the bastard!"

"Not on your life!" Reed hisses, jerking me back. "I'm not gonna let you throw your career away on a stupid jackass like him!" Twisting my arm up even higher, he shoves me against the sink once more, driving me into it with a force that sends glints of pain shooting through my hip where I make contact with the sink. "Pete, quit fighting!" he orders sharply. "I don't wanna hafta hurt you!"

"Let go of me, damn it!" I snarl, snapping my head around and glaring at him over my shoulder. "Let go, I said!" I demand and he complies, his fist letting go of the tight clench of the back of my shirt, his hand dropping away from my arm. Absolutely furious with him for stopping my attack on Ryan, I whip around, drawing my fist back to punch him.

"Go ahead!" he growls, eyes flashing dangerously at me. "Hit me, Pete! But if you do, be advised I will drop you on your ass so fast your goddamned head will spin!"

Suddenly, I catch sight of myself in the mirror over the sinks, red-faced, disheveled, and panting, ready to strike my best friend and partner. Horrified, I quickly drop my hand by my side and turn away from him in abject shame. "I'm sorry," I hoarse out, guilt rapidly flooding into me. "I don't know what came over me, Jim."

He studies me for a moment with unforgiving eyes, then he sighs, shaking his head. "Forget it," he says wearily. "We're both still on edge over today's incident."

"Yeah, but I almost hit you," I say, utterly ashamed of myself. "That's completely unforgivable, Jim."

"It's also not the first time you've nearly hit me," he replies. "In fact, you HAVE hit me, if I remember right." He walks over to the bench, picking up his uniform and carrying it over to the laundry chute, tossing it down with a rattle of the chute door.

"Look, I'm really sorry, Jim," I apologize. I start to tuck my shirt back in, but then I decide it's a waste of time, so I forget it. Instead, I reach over and turn off the sink taps that Jim has left running by accident. "I had no right to go after you like that. You were only trying to keep me from beating the shit out of Ryan."

"Pete, just drop it," he says.

"Yeah, but I…"

"Pete, I said just drop it!" he snaps. He slams his locker door shut with a bang that rattles the whole row. Then he clenches his fist, suddenly drawing it back and striking at the metal door with such a fury, it leaves a dent in the door and makes the row of lockers jump. "Goddamnit!" he snarls, wincing and opening his fist up and wiggling his fingers. He shakes his hand in pain. "Why today? Why the fuck did all of this hafta happen on today, of all days?" He rubs his other hand across the injured one, checking to see if he's broken any bones.

I stare at him in shock, his sudden attack on the locker door startling me. "You asked me that a bit ago, and I told you I didn't know WHY Burnside chose today to carry out his killing spree." I frown, studying him with concern once more. "I don't understand what's so important about today anyway."

"Because," he says, sounding absolutely miserable. Sitting down on the wooden bench, he closes his eyes, shaking his head as he drops it into his hands. "You know what happened to me this morning before I left for work?" he asks, his voice a harsh whisper.

I sit down on the bench next to him, shaking my head. "No, what happened to you this morning, Jim?"

Eyes still closed, he rubs the area on his finger where his silver wedding band used to sit. "I don't know how to tell you this, Pete, since I am having a hard time telling it to myself." He opens his eyes, staring at the floor.

Worried, I study him. "Just tell me, Jim. Tell me what happened to you that's got you so upset. Maybe I can help you."

"No, I don't think you can, Pete," he tells me sadly. "Not this time, anyway." He bites his lip and he glances at me, then he studies his hands that are now free from blood. "Promise me you won't be shocked or angry, okay?"

I frown, puzzled as to what this great event is that happened to him this morning that is so awful, he is reluctant and squeamish to tell me. "I promise," I say. "Now tell me, because I can't read your mind, Jim. But I CAN see that whatever it is, it's bugging the hell outta you."

"Of course it would bug the hell outta me," he replies dully. Then he looks at me, his eyes meeting mine sorrowfully, and the next words out of his mouth shock me into speechlessness, despite my promise otherwise. "This morning, Jean told me she wants a divorce."