Spoiler Alert: Spoilers for Seasons 2 & 3, up to and including "Silent Night".
A/N: As always, thanks to my reviewers who push and question and even doubt if I'm still on track. Here's a little more action for you!
Disclaimer: No infringement of copyright is intended. All characters originated with CSI:NY; all song lyrics are from The Beatles.
It's A Long Journey Home
Chapter 43: Act Naturally
We'll make the scene about a man that's sad and lonely
And beggin' down upon his bended knee
I'll play the part but I won't need rehearsal
All I gotta do is act naturally
Doors seemed to open and people to melt away magically as the two men entered the building. Danny was irrepressibly reminded of the old Westerns he used to watch with Louie on Saturday afternoon television, when a gunfighter walked into the bar and everyone froze or hid under a table. Well, Diane had told him she was hiring him as a gunslinger, hadn't she?
He swung into step behind John Monroe, letting him take the lead. John didn't hesitate or slow down, just swept through the building into the back corner office, where he walked in on Olafsen and Evans pouring over an incident board. Lindsay's picture was front and centre of the board, and Danny felt his heart clutch: the photo was one taken by the CSIs after the hit and run, and every bruise and scratch was mercilessly highlighted.
"John? Nice to see you! When did you come into town?" Bob Olafsen was effusive in his greeting, jumping up to pump John's hand and greet him warmly. "How's life in DC? I can't tell you how much I miss Quantico. Great days. Really great days."
"Bob," John returned the greeting politely, ignoring Danny's narrowed eyes and suspicious glare. "Good to see you too. My dad called me when Lindsay was attacked the third time."
Olafsen's eyebrows rose high on his forehead, and he ran a hand over his thinning gray hair. "Three times? Are you sure?"
Danny slammed a hand down on the desk, "Don't play with us, Olafsen! You know it's three times! One bullet, one truck, and one hand opening her IV drip. She nearly died of an overdose two nights ago. And you still haven't put anyone on her room, you still haven't processed her clothes, and you still haven't found the evidence that your lab lost. Are you stupid or just incompetent?"
John grabbed Danny and shoved him ungently away from the centre of the room. "Shut the fuck up, Messer! I told you I'd handle it. If you can't keep your nose clean, get out!" His voice was cold and deadly quiet.
Danny pulled away from John with an inarticulate noise of disgust. "She's your fucking sister, man! Are you going to let them kill her right in front of you and do nothing?"
John turned away deliberately, his face impassive and voice flat. "I'm here on behalf of my family, Bob, asking that I be allowed access to your investigation. This is not an official request, yet." His voice left no room for discussion, but Evans interrupted anyway.
"We don't need the Feds any more than we need hot-head assholes from the city interfering here. We can handle the investigation."
"Yeah," Danny's hands were shaking with the desire to simply plow Evans down. "Yeah, you're doing a great job. How much evidence have you lost? How are you planning to keep her safe? Have you even examined the evidence she collected on her own shooting? Jesus, you couldn't investigate yourself out of Saran Wrap, man!"
Evans turned his back on Danny, as if the younger man was simply not worth responding to.
John glared at Danny, mouthing, "Shut up!" again, then turned back to Olafsen, who was standing frozen with anger and distaste in front of the board. "Bob, all I'm asking for is some co-operation here. I don't want to call in the Department on this; you know it wouldn't look good for you. But as you know, I work for the Public Corruption Unit at the FBI. There are some problems here, you have to admit."
Olafsen spoke through frozen lips, "I am looking into the loss of evidence. We have traced the bullet casings to Detective Monroe's presentation of evidence just before her accident."
He did his best to ignore Danny's growl at the use of the word 'accident' and went on.
"Detective Monroe collected all the evidence and put it in the box to hand over to Detective Jeffers. When he went through the box, the envelope with the casings was not in it."
"You told a tech – what's his name? Ross? Yes, according to detective Monroe, you told Ross to take and process those casings. He's one of your ballistics guys?" Danny had his notebook out now, and Olafsen's eyes were glued to it in dismay. Evans continued to look out the window, his back to the rest of the room, but Danny could tell by the tension in his body that he was listening.
"Ross Adams, yes. He's one of our techs. He says that the casings were not on the table when he went to pick them up, and that when he went to Jeffers to get them from the box, they were not there either."
"Ross?" Danny flipped through his book again, and read through a page before looking up and staring at Evan's unresponsive back. "When you came to interview Detective Monroe in the hospital, and I asked about processing her clothing, you said Ross should have picked up the evidence bag collected by the hospital. Is that the same Ross? Did you ask him why he didn't?"
Evan's voice remained cool and unemotional, "Ross went to the hospital, but the clothing was gone. People had been in and out of that room; there's no way of knowing who took it."
McKim walked into the room, carrying a file, which he dropped on Olafsen's desk. He looked at Danny with a thinly veiled sneer that Danny had no trouble interpreting.
"Perfect," thought Danny, feeling a kind of rage building in him at the sight of Lindsay's former partner.
John glanced at Danny warningly. Evidently the Bozeman police had not requested the security tapes from the hospital. Danny didn't react to Monroe's warning look. "So you haven't put anyone on her room either? You think this is finished? You think this guy is satisfied?"
Olafsen sat down in the chair behind his desk suddenly, his eyes shadowed and exhausted, looking at Lindsay's brother and ignoring the abrasive New Yorker. "John, we're doing what we can. We don't have the manpower to guard her room. And to be honest, it's hard to be sure what happened in all these circumstances. Lindsay didn't call us out to the house to process the scene; all we have is the evidence she collected. There's no proof that anyone tried to kill her – it could have been an accident or just, I don't know, a joke or something. I agree that the street accident may look suspicious, but again, we have nothing to go on, no witnesses, no forensic evidence. And you know how people drive around here! When I first moved West I was told to drive as if the other drivers were all on horseback, ready to move in any direction at any time, and I've found that pretty good advice."
As Olafsen talked, Danny could see him relaxing into a story-telling posture, slipping on the mask of the 'good-ole-boy' he must have used to get elected to his position at least a couple times since 2000. Even his voice slowed and began to drawl a little as he talked himself out of taking Lindsay's case seriously.
Time to shake him up again. Danny pushed himself away from the wall he had been leaning on. "Yeah, nice. So first Lindsay rode in front of a loaded gun and then – boom! – walked in front of a careless driver? I get it. I guess she better get back to the real world; seems she loses all her common sense here in cow country." His voice was dripping with disdain.
He moved across the room as quick as a striking snake, banging up against Olafsen's desk, startling the sheriff into retreating, pushing back into his chair. He leaned over the desk, snarling into Olafsen's pale, sweaty face.
"So, did she climb out of bed on her broken leg and open her own IV? Did she put herself into convulsions, nearly kill herself with an overdose of morphine just to get some attention? 'Cuz, you know, that kind of makes sense to me. It looks like her death is the only thing you're going to take seriously. As long as she survives, you're going to downplay and ignore it. That how it plays out here in Smalltown, USA, Sheriff?"
John, grabbing Danny by the arm a moment before a white-faced McKim got a hold of him, threw him back against the wall. "That's it. That's the last time, Messer! I told you to cool it. I told you to stay in control. You can't do that, you're outta here. Now!"
He looked at the shaken sheriff. Evans had turned from the window when Danny had started yelling, and had his hand hovering over his gun. "Let's all just take it down a notch, can we? I'm going to take Detective Messer back to my parents', then I'd like to come back and see what evidence you have, and see what we can figure out. Bob? Detective?"
The sheriff nodded, still a little worried by the violence in Danny Messer's eyes. Evans shrugged, but didn't argue about John's return. McKim stood in the corner of the room, arms folded across his chest and face stoic.
Danny tried to pull away from John's restraining arm, "You can't just make this go away by dragging me back to the ranch, Monroe. Someone needs to make them accountable."
He continued to rave and yell as John dragged him out of the office and down the hall. He struggled against the hands on him until finally John had to lock his arms together behind him, and push him out the building into the parking lot, where he shoved him up against the car and hissed in his ear, "Do I need to use handcuffs, or are you going to shut the fuck up?"