While the Heart Beats
Author's Note - Sorry for the delay in getting this posted, everyone. Please note that I also refreshed the first two chapters, so you might want to give them a look as well for updates that improve the overall story. This update does NOT contain spoilers for the Blue Bloods season finale.
Tissue warning, though.
"You gotta let it go and be on our way
And look for another day,
'Cause it's not the same, my baby
Watch it all fall into the ground
No happy ever after, just disaster..."
- Gavin Mikhail, "Disaster (Acoustic)"
Dr. Aaron Bainton was a man who knew his city well. A New Yorker by birthright and by heart, the doctor loved his city and had never lived anywhere else; never would. In his nineteen years as chief of emergency medicine at Bellevue Hospital, he'd seen a lot of cases come through the wide, bright doors of his famous emergency room... people of every age, nationality and language, royalty and tourists alike, all drawn together by sickness and injury, tragedy and comedy. The Bellevue ER was his own little sliver of New York City life, and while he'd had plenty of opportunities to move onto into research, he never had. He loved it here; loved being part of such a private and vulnerable place in people's lives and helping them heal. He loved having no two days alike, be it the high-profile drama of a subway accident or the six-year-old yesterday who'd come in for swallowing a handful of pocket change. He loved being the witness; setting their lives right. Most of the time, he could do it.
Sometimes, he could not.
Dr. Bainton had always followed politics and government closely in New York, and had spent many a Sunday morning pouring over the New York Times with his glasses perched on the edge of his nose and a cup of decaf in his hand, laughing at Mayor Russo's ineptness or nodding in silent solidarity with the DA. He often saw Commissioner Reagan's photos in those pages, a rock of a man, quietly and efficiently running the NYPD with the wisdom of a father. He thought well of the man; always had. He wondered idly if he was as physically dominating in person as he appeared to be in the Times photos.
He found out in the early hours of a May morning in 2009.
The call came in around two a.m., when no good calls ever came. By the time Dr. Bainton had been roused from a sound sleep by the emergency message, dressed, and hurried to the Bellevue emergency room, there was little left to be done. The NYPD detective had already been pronounced, and really, according to the attending physician who'd been on that night, he'd been dead before he ever became a patient. "We did everything we could, but he was gone," Dr. Durbin had sighed, slowly peeling latex gloves from his hands as they stood together in the corridor. "Three to the chest. One to the neck. Pneumothorax, catastrophic injuries to the heart and blood vessels, major bleedout..."
Dr. Bainton glanced through the glass doors into Trauma Four. Signs of a frantic race to save a life were everywhere, from pieces of discarded tubing and wraps on the tile floor to the equipment, smeared with blood in some places, now being carefully disconnected as several nurses worked quietly, respectfully, around the gurney in the center of the brightly lit room. "I was told he was on the warrant squad. Why wasn't he wearing a vest?"
"He was. The rounds were armor-piercing." The attending physician pulled the glove off with a snap. His jaw tightened, and Dr. Bainton saw grief flicker across his face, like a shadow. "Thirty-two years old. Makes me wanna puke. We never even had a chance to save him, boss."
Dr. Bainton pulled in a cleansing breath, grounding himself. He looked past his colleague down the hall. In the bustle and confusion, someone had left the main doors next to the reception desk propped open, and he could see the tight knot of officers spilling out of the waiting room at the opposite end of the hall. There were so many of them that they were beginning to take over the corridors now, too, talking quietly amongst themselves. Some were in uniform, some not, and from the number of distinguished looking older men dressed in nothing but than blue jeans and mis-buttoned shirts, he wondered how many of them were brass, rattled from their beds just as he had been. Many were casting anxious glances his way. "Do they know?"
"They ought to if they saw him come in. He was in a bad way. But no one's told them, if that's what you're asking." Dr. Durbin glanced into the trauma room, watching as the nurses finished their cleanup, pulling the sheet flush underneath the fallen officer's chin. "Hospital PR has been notified, and we have security in place outside to deal with any media that show up. The Commissioner is on his way. His public information guy has been calling here every ten seconds, but nothing's been released."
Dr. Bainton's throat was dry, and he swallowed. He had treated victims of 9/11, oversaw the trauma of the Flight 2722 crash from a few years back, and had spoken, calmly and eloquently, at more high-profile news conferences than he cared to remember. But this... this was the hard part. "I'll inform with the family when they arrive."
A sudden commotion down the hall seized their attention, and Dr. Bainton straightened, slightly alarmed, when he saw the police gathered there look up, then spring into action, reacting to a threat he couldn't see. Moments later, he understood when he saw a young man sprinting through their ranks at breakneck speed, busting tackles like a linebacker. They were shouting his name, reaching for him, but he dodged every hand, ignored every cry, and when he tore around the corner toward where the two senior doctors stood, the edges of his worn jacket flapped out and Dr. Bainton caught a glimpse of the shield on his belt. He lifted his eyes to the man's face, and was brought up short by the terror he saw there.
The man skidded to an abrupt, awkward stop as soon as he saw the two doctors, nearly falling to the ground. His face was ashen. His mouth worked, but no sound emerged. His expression was panicked, warring with the deep, sucking darkness of grief.
Dr. Bainton was in front of him before he realized he had moved, gripping the young man by his upper arms. The man was shaking - from fear, from adrenaline - and the officers and other men chasing him down were taking hold of him now too, as much to hold him up as to show solidarity. "Calm down," Dr. Bainton ordered, lowering his voice an octave. "Calm down."
"My brother," the man gasped, barely able to choke out the words. "My brother, doc. Joe. Where is he?"
One of the officers squeezed the man's shoulder. "Doctor, I'm Bureau Chief Pulaski, NYPD, Chief of Detectives. This is Detective Danny Reagan. His brother Joe was the officer brought in..."
Dr. Bainton stopped listening. His eyes locked with those of the young man before him, who stood there gasping for air, his skin cold, his face desperate. In that moment, Dr. Bainton realized that Danny Reagan's entire life was hinging on the words he would speak next.
He would wonder, later, what expression crossed his face in that moment, because as it turned out he never had to say a word. The doctor blinked, swallowed, and Danny Reagan caught something - something - because his eyes flared wide, and he drew back suddenly, sharply, as if he'd been struck by an invisible hand. "Oh God," he gasped. "God, no, doc. Doc, where is he? Where's my brother?"
Dr. Bainton's grip tightened. "Detective Reagan, I'm Dr. Aaron Bainton, the chief of emergency medicine-"
"Where's my brother?" He was almost screaming it, and twisted violently in the doctor's grasp.
"Your brother Joe was brought in about half an hour ago with multiple gunshot wounds," Dr. Bainton said. "Sustained in the field while on duty. He was in full arrest when he arrived, and despite the best efforts of our team-"
Danny stilled in his hands. "No."
"I'm sorry, detective. We weren't able-"
"No!" he howled. His body went lax, a puppet with its strings cut, and crumpled to the floor. Dr. Bainton went down with him. "God, no, please no, don't tell me that. Doc, where is he? Where is he?"
"I'm so sorry, Detective," Dr. Bainton said, fighting down his own emotions. Pulaski had also gone to the floor with Danny, and the other officers were warring with their own grief, faces tight and grim. He shifted to get a better grasp on the shaking young man. "We did everything we could, but his injuries were just too severe."
Danny's head was down, and he was gasping, barely able to take in any air. Dr. Bainton squeezed his shoulder. "Detective-"
"I don't believe you," he wheezed. "Doc, I've got to see him."
Dr. Bainton twisted around to look at his colleague several yards back in the hall, standing in front of Trauma Room Four. He shot him a silent question with his eyes and Dr. Durbin nodded once, quietly.
Danny's gasps were echoing in the hall, bouncing off the fluorescent lights and crisp ceiling tiles. Behind him, Dr. Bainton could see a large, tight group of officers gathered now, keeping a respectful distance but staring, their expressions devastated. Battling his own welling grief, Dr. Bainton stood and, with the help of the tight knot of police around him, pulled Danny to his feet.
From the waiting room, he heard a quick, sharp order, and suddenly the officers were parting, stepping back out of the way, snapping to attention.
Dr. Bainton's stomach knotted. God help me, he thought, as several bodyguards in suits and long trenchcoats rounded the corner, dressed for business despite the hour. Tucked inside their protective circle were two men, moving fast. One was an older gentleman with white hair, his face pinched and pale like a man coming off a two-week flu. He recognized him as Henry Reagan, the former PC. Just in front of him was Commissioner Reagan, unmistakable despite his wrinkled slacks and mismatched jacket thrown over a polo shirt. His presence was overwhelming, and he moved with purpose, commanding the hall, only the deep lines in his face belying his worry.
His eyes fell upon them, and he stopped short.
Danny twisted toward him. "Dad," he gasped. "Oh my God, Dad."
Frank Reagan's eyes rounded. They flashed to Dr. Bainton, who cleared his throat. "Commissioner Reagan, my name is Doctor Aaron Bainton. I'm the chief of emergency-"
"Doctor?" The Commissioner's voice was weak, disbelieving.
"I'm so sorry, Commissioner," he said quietly.
A noise wrenched out of Danny, like an animal seized in a steel trap. The Commissioner straightened, fighting to pull in a shaking breath, then another. He blinked, then swayed, and Dr. Bainton realized belatedly that the bodyguards and officers had surged around him, holding him up.
Danny took a menacing step towards Dr. Bainton, lurching like a drunk man as he did so. "Did you even try to help him?" he whispered, and the dangerous note in his voice almost made Dr. Bainton recoil. "Did you even try? Where is he? I want to see him right now, right now, goddammit-"
"Danny," the Commissioner said, and Danny stopped. His expression still trembled, anger and sickness and disbelief all bubbling under grief, grief, with an overwhelming desperation in eyes that glittered with tears. "Son, please."
"I want to see him," Danny protested. "Where... doc, where...?"
"Come with me," Dr. Bainton said simply, and Danny sagged back, back into the safety of his father's arms as the Commissioner stepped up behind him and wrapped both around his son. His face was white, blanched with shock. Danny brought up a shaking arm around his father, and Henry's weathered hands came down on each of their shoulders.
The doors to Trauma Room Four slid open silently, and Dr. Bainton walked to the head of the stretcher, looking down with no small regret at the man who lay in stillness, the horrific trauma to his body and throat sealed over by the serenity of white sheets that framed his face, achingly young, and perfect except for a scrape on his temple; a vivid red bruise at his hairline. Dr Bainton swallowed, then looked up at the Commissioner and his family in the doorway, clinging to each other. "I'm very, very sorry for your loss."
The Commissioner stepped to the foot of the gurney, gripping the silver rails. Danny surged to his brother's side, gasping, and laid shaking hands against the cool face. "Joe," he said aloud, brokenly, then said it louder. "Joe, c'mon man. Really? Joe, man. Come on!"
And when his trembling knees would hold him no more; when he collapsed to the floor, sobbing brokenly, it was Henry who gathered him up, because the Commissioner had stepped to the other side of the gurney, his eyes riveted to the body.
As Dr. Bainton watched, Frank laid a massive, unbelievably gentle hand against his son's cheek, and leaned forward until their foreheads touched, silent tears pattering onto Joe Reagan's still face.
Dr. Aaron Bainton had been the chief of emergency medicine at Bellevue for years. He had treated the victims of 9/11. He oversaw the trauma of the Flight 2722 crash from a few years back.
But it was one of the saddest things he had ever seen in his life.
)()()()()(
Dr. Bainton never forgot Joe Reagan. He never forgot the officer's family.
Which was why, on a lovely May afternoon in 2013, he knew with a single phone call that his day was going to hell.
"Who did you say?" the doctor snapped, and the resident looked up from his chart in surprise. Behind him, the ER was surging into action, preparing neighboring trauma rooms for the incoming wounded. "Repeat that."
"It's a Code Six," Dr. Tomkins replied, referencing the code for a high-profile case. He looked a little startled by Dr. Bainton's urgency. "Ambulances inbound; two NYPD officers shot in the Bitterman Housing Project. One critical with a GSW to the throat, unknown injuries to the second. NYPD dispatch is advising that one is..." He checked his notes. "...Officer Jamison Reagan." He stumbled over the name a little; looked up. "Son of the police commissioner."
"God dammit," Dr. Bainton growled, and rushed past the startled resident, barking orders, preparing as best he could even as his stomach went cold and the turkey sandwich he'd had for lunch sat at the bottom like a lump of lead. Four years. Four years ago, he had given the police commissioner of New York City the worst news any father could ever receive, and now here he was again. Here he was again.
Thankfully, he had little time to dwell over it, because when the Bellevue doors flew open, his training kicked in and he fell into step next to the first gurney, tucking in at the head next to the EMT who was riding the gurney's rails, doing chest compressions as another worked the ambulatory bag. "We've been doing CPR since we picked up," the man gasped to him.
"How long has he been down?"
"At least ten minutes. His partner started CPR in the field. We almost needed a crowbar to make him stop."
Dr. Bainton's eyes went to the officer, and his stomach clenched. The young man was covered in blood, and he was limp, sallow. Dr. Bainton could have fit three fingers into the wound at the base of his throat. He saw the pale face, the dark hair, and he clamped down on his emotions. "Trauma Two," he ordered, and the race to save a life began.
Five minutes in, he knew the race was over before it had started.
The officer - "Officer Vincent Cruz," someone had shouted over the din in the packed trauma room as doctors, nurses and EMTs scrambled around the gurney, and his gut had loosened just a little - had been clinically dead when he arrived, and nothing they were doing could change that. Blood in the lungs. Torn carotid artery.
Dr. Bainton looked at the clock, and the familiar twist of regret burned behind his eyes. "Time of death, five twenty-nine p.m.," he said.
"Doctor, can we have you over here? Please?" A nurse was in the doorway, her face pinched, and she darted next door to Trauma Three.
Peeling off his gloves, he followed her quickly into the neighboring room. He was in the zone, ready for more trauma, more injuries to be fixed, but instead he was met by the sight of a young man sitting up on a gurney, stripped from the waist up, struggling to get to his feet. Two orderlies had hold of him, and a stern-faced nurse was trying to keep him in place. Dr. Bainton's eyes flashed over the young man's body in quick assessment, and he saw a baseball-sized contusion on his chest that he recognized instantly as the impact of a bullet, stopped by a tac vest. His right arm was wrapped as well. Dr. Tomkins stepped forward from the corner. "This is Officer Jamie Reagan," he said, handing over the chart for Dr. Bainton to glance through. "Just minor injuries. Vest stopped a bullet near his shoulder. He wants to see his partner."
Dr. Bainton swallowed, stepping forward. "Officer Reagan? How are you feeling?"
"I'm fine." The young man gripped the material of the gurney beneath him, and Dr. Bainton saw the dried blood on his hands. It was smeared on his cheek and jawbone as well. He knew it didn't belong to him. "My partner was the one who got hit."
"And your chest?"
"You tell me. The vest did what it was supposed to do." The young man's eyes were on the door. "Doctor, I want to see Vinny."
Dr. Bainton sighed, handing the chart to a passing nurse. "Officer Reagan, it would be best if-"
"I know he's dead," Jamie said flatly, and Dr. Bainton blinked, startled. "I was there," he added, and his voice wavered. "I mean... I know he's dead, doctor. I want to see him."
"I don't know if that's such a good idea, Officer."
"Please," Jamie said. "I need to see him."
"For right now, I'm going to have you stay here," Dr. Bainton said, even as a nurse stepped close and whispered into the doctor's ear about Commissioner Reagan's arrival. He nodded, then turned back to Jamie. "Please, Officer. There are certain things that need to happen and you've been injured besides-"
"I'm fine," he snapped. "Look at me. I'm fine."
"Well, you'll let us be the judge of that, right?" He smiled gratefully at the orderlies as they gently eased the agitated officer back onto the gurney. "Just wait here for now, Officer Reagan."
Dr. Bainton left the room and turned immediately to the NYPD officer who had materialized out of thin air next to the doorway, standing watch. "Don't let him leave the room," he muttered, and the officer nodded solemnly.
He made his way to the VIP waiting area quickly, and moments later the main doors opened behind him. He turned, and his throat tightened at the sight of the bodyguard contingent. It could have been 2009 in that moment - solid, intimidating-looking men in trench coats, and at their center, Commissioner Reagan. He was wearing slacks and a sweater, but Dr. Bainton would have known his face anywhere. He was pale, but composed, and his family was around him in a tight knot, including Danny - God, Danny Reagan.
"Frank," one of the officials said, and Dr. Bainton was grateful for the moment to compose himself as memories of Joe Reagan's death rushed back. "This is Dr. Aaron Bainton, chief of emergency medicine."
Dr. Bainton shook the strong hand that was offered. He saw no flashes of recognition in the Commissioner's eyes and was grateful for it. "Commissioner, I treated your son when he was brought in not long ago," Dr. Bainton began, and rushed forward when he saw the family beginning to tense. "He's going to be fine. He took a single shot to the chest, but his vest stopped the bullet. Saved his life. He was grazed across the right bicep and shoulder, but those wounds are just superficial. I was with him just a moment ago, and he's awake and oriented."
As Dr. Bainton spoke, he saw a woman embrace a teenage girl, and an older man - Henry, Henry Reagan, there in the back - touched her shoulder. A blond woman sagged against Danny, who swallowed hard and put an arm around her waist. Frank nodded, his eyes misting. "Thank God," he said. "Thank God."
"Commissioner," Dr. Bainton continued. "I'm afraid your son's partner, Officer Vinny Cruz, was DOA. We pronounced him not long after he was brought in. Your son attempted to resuscitate him in the field, but he was shot in the throat. It was not a survivable injury. The first responders, uh... I understand they had to pry him out of your son's arms."
Frank swallowed hard. "I need to see my son."
"Of course. I'll arrange for it as soon as possible."
Within a half hour, he had drawn the Commissioner and Danny from the makeshift war room they had set up in the nurse's lounge, and he watched as they approached Jamie cautiously. Officer Reagan looked awful, and he told the story of the incident quietly, washed in shock. Dr. Bainton watched as they put their arms around him, and finally he could watch no more. He left them to themselves and busied himself with charts at the nurse's station until a deep voice startled him from his thoughts. "Doctor."
Dr. Bainton looked up to see Frank Reagan standing before him, his face creased deeply with grief. "Commissioner," he said. "I'm very sorry for your loss."
"I know you did everything you could," he replied grimly. His eyes flicked to Dr. Bainton's face, assessing. "I remember what you did for my son a few years back." His voice wavered; he cleared his throat. "I remember what you did for my son Joe. Thank you for that. And thank you for everything you did today."
Dr. Bainton swallowed hard. "There was very little we could do for Officer Cruz, I'm afraid," he said quietly. "The EMTs got them here in record time, but to be honest, Commissioner, with the injury Officer Cruz had... he could've been hit right here in the ER and I doubt we could have saved him."
The Commissioner lowered his head. "We're trying to get in touch with his family now. Doctor... my son asked me about seeing his partner."
Dr. Bainton sighed. "I don't suggest that. Not in his current state. He's pretty agitated, as you saw."
"May I see Officer Cruz?"
Dr. Bainton hesitated. "Well... for positive identification purposes. Of course."
"Thank you."
Dr. Bainton led Frank Reagan past two different sets of officers until they reached the doors of Trauma Two. The walls were white, the lighting vivid. It was clean, quiet. The body was swathed in white, the face invisible from where they stood.
He looked at the Commissioner. "Sir, are you sure?"
Frank Reagan made no moves forward. He slipped his hands into his pockets. "Of all the places I thought I might be on a Sunday evening, doctor... this one didn't crack the top thousand."
"This isn't a place anyone ever imagines being."
"Oh, I have," he said softly, then turned to look at the doctor. "Do you remember my son?"
"I remember Joe Reagan very well."
"Not a day goes by that I don't think of him. And I'm back here in my nightmares more than I'd care to admit." He took a deep breath and stepped forward, and Dr. Bainton went with him.
The officer's face, and only his face, was exposed. He looked like a thousand bodies Dr. Bainton had seen before; better, in fact, than many. He could've been asleep.
He looked up at the commissioner. Frank Reagan's face was impassive, but his eyes were riveted to the officer's face, stilled by death. The doctor could only wonder what 'what ifs' were running through his mind as he stared at the body. "This is my officer," he said quietly. "My son's partner. Officer Vincent Cruz."
"Yes sir."
"To be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord," he whispered. "The dust returns to earth, and the spirit returns to God who gave it."
And as Dr. Bainton watched, Commissioner Reagan straightened, his eyes upon Officer Vinny Cruz's body, and saluted him.