Rudy Olsen's hands were wrapped around a cardboard cup of tepid questionable coffee. It was at least his third since he'd sat down in the hospital waiting room what seemed like hours ago; he couldn't remember the time or the coffees. Concerned and supportive colleagues were keeping him company. But the mood in the room was getting restive; too much time with no word was beginning to make everyone edgy.

A rise in the volume of the heretofore subdued chatter alerted the captain that hopefully someone had arrived to tell them about the injured detectives. Olsen looked up to see a middle-aged doctor, his green scrubs stained with blood, approaching and he got to his feet. Someone took the coffee cup from his hand.

"Captain Olsen? I'm Doctor Roberts, one of the surgeons looking after your colleagues today. Why don't we have a seat?" he smiled kindly and gestured at the chair Olsen had just vacated. They both sat, with a large group of uniformed and plainclothes officers gathered around them.

"How are they, doc?" Olsen asked with a little more anxiety in his voice than he wished.

"Well, I can tell you about both of them. They're going to be fine. It's going to take some time, but eventually both of them will be back at work as if nothing had happened, I can guarantee you."

Roberts watched the older man visibly relax; this was one part of a very difficult job that he actually liked – being the bearer of good news. It didn't always happen. "I operated on the lieutenant, and I can tell you right now he's going to recover completely. He was hit once in the right shoulder, and the bullet went right through. It entered just below his collarbone at a very steep upward angle and came out his back just above the shoulder blade.

"However, it was quite a rocky road to get him into Recovery, let me tell you. When he got here, he was in what we call 'hemorrhagic shock'; he'd lost almost forty percent of his blood volume, which is about as close as you can come to bleeding out without actually succumbing. We intubated him and got IV lines going with both blood and saline to resuscitate him," Roberts saw Olsen wince at the word, "and got him into the OR right away. It was very close, but everything went incredibly smoothly, we were able to locate and stop the hemorrhage quickly and now he's in Recovery. He still unconscious but his prognosis is excellent and we expect him to start waking up in the next few hours."

He glanced up at the others, smiling assuredly. "He'll be in ICU for a couple of days while we bring his blood level up to normal and keep an eye on him for any possible complications, but he's strong and healthy and he should come out of this no worse for wear." Roberts looked back at Olsen. "Believe me, Captain, this is the best outcome we could have hoped for. The lieutenant was lucky. The bullet just nicked the axillary artery – that's part of the big one that goes up through the shoulder and down the arm. The tear in the artery wall was tiny, but enough to cause continual blood-loss, especially if pressure wasn't applied immediately and, from what I gather, it wasn't. But he was also extremely lucky – an eighth of an inch higher, the wound would have been a through-and-through and he would have walked out of here without surgery, just a couple of bandages, but an eighth of an inch lower and you'd have been arranging his funeral."

Olsen took a deep breath, and rubbed his hands down his cheeks and over his mouth, sighing loudly and, it seemed, happily. He even managed a smile. "How's the inspector doing?" he asked, brow furrowing once more.

There was movement in the group of officers eavesdropping, and Roberts glanced up and smiled. "Perfect timing," he said lightly as another doctor appeared through the crowd. Roberts stood. "Captain Olsen, this is Doctor Albertson. He's the one who's been looking after the inspector. Gentlemen, I have to get back to my patients. Captain," he turned to Olsen, shaking his hand again, "your men are in good hands. You can all stop worrying." And with that he was gone.

"Captain," said Albertson, raising his hands in a placating gesture, "let me reassure you and your men here that the inspector is going to be just fine, but it's gonna take a little while till he's back to normal. He took one hell of a beating, I can tell you that, and he's gonna need some time and a little plastic surgery to get back to looking like he did before this happened."

At Olsen's grimace, Albertson took a brief pause then continued. "Most of the inspector's more serious injuries involve his head. However he has a deep laceration in his left bicep, probably from a knife, that required 15 stitches to close, and a penetrating wound in his left pectoral muscle, just above his nipple, about two centimeters deep, probably from the same knife. But these two wounds are essentially superficial.

Albertson let these details sink in before he continued. "He has a non-displaced zygomatic orbital fracture – that's this bone here," he demonstrated on himself by touching the bone on the outside of his left eye, "that fortunately doesn't need surgery. He has a hairline jaw fracture along the left side that unfortunately meant wiring his jaw shut. And he has a badly broken nose, which will eventually need surgery. Needless to say, the inspector is going to be spending a bit of time with us before he'll be allowed to go home."

Olsen sighed loudly. "Wow, um, is he conscious?"

Albertson smiled encouragingly. "He began to come around earlier while we were working on him and we immediately got him on some more powerful drugs to put him under. He's having no problem breathing through his mouth, which is a good thing, but he'll be in a hell of a lot of pain if he comes to right now. So for his sake, we are going to keep him sedated, and keep a very close eye on his respirations, for the next 24 hours or so. He'll be in the ICU cubicle beside his partner when the lieutenant gets there, not that either of them will be aware of that."

A relieved murmur wafted through the group, and Olsen finally allowed himself a relieved smile. He stood as the doctor did and held out his hand. "Thank you very much, Dr. Albertson, you've managed to brighten a very dark day for all of us."

Albertson's grin was broad and genuine. "I don't know if Dr. Roberts mentioned it, but delivering good news is one of the best perks of this job."

# # # # #

The sun now completely set, Haseejian was leaning against the tan LTD, arms folded, head down. The coroner's wagon and most of the black-and-whites were gone, as were the groups of curious neighbours. Healey walked slowly out the flophouse door and crossed to join his colleague, turning to lean against the car as well.

After several long silent seconds, Healey sighed loudly. "So what do you think happened up there?" he asked quietly.

Continuing to look down, Haseejian shook his head slowly. "I have no idea, except I can't stop thinking that Mike shot a dead man through the heart." He looked up at Healey, concern furrowing his brow. "It just doesn't make sense."

"Yeah," Healey agreed reluctantly, as they both fell silent once again.

"Oh, ah," Haseejian perked up slightly, "I talked to Rudy. Mike's out of surgery; it was touch-and-go but he's gonna be okay. Steve's pretty messed up. He has a broken jaw, a broken nose and some kinda fracture of the bone around his left eye. But neither of them are gonna be able to talk to us for awhile."

"Well, that's good news at least," Healey grinned, relieved, and reached up to massage his stiff neck. It was turning out to be a very long day.

They both looked up as the photographer exited the building and started towards his car. "Jimmy," Haseejian yelled towards him, "I want those pictures on my desk asap, all right?"

Biting back a frustrated sigh, the photographer nodded as he opened the back door of the black compact and set his camera case on the backseat.

Patrolman Madsen, who with his partner McKinley were still on-site, strolled towards the detectives, frowning. "Jimmy? I thought his name was Roger?"

"It is," said Haseejian with an agreeing nod.

His frown deepening, Madsen began slowly, "So why do you …?"

Healey's chuckle cut him off, and Haseejian glanced at his colleague, his own grin building. "Do you want to tell him or can I?"

"Go right ahead," Healey laughed with a 'be my guest' gesture.

With an almost evil cackle, Haseejian began. "When Roger joined the crime lab a coupla years ago, for some reason Mike kept having trouble remembering his name. It was driving Steve crazy. We were all getting a big kick out of it – every time he'd run into him at a scene, Mike would call him by a different name. And poor Roger was so insecure that he didn't have the nerve to correct him.

"So one day we were all at this murder site and Mike wanted to make sure it was all documented and he kept calling for 'Jimmy', and Roger, who was nearby, didn't realize he was being addressed and the louder Mike got, the more everybody cringed until finally Steve just lost it. He yelled at Mike, asking him who the hell was 'Jimmy', and Mike shouted back 'Jimmy, the photographer' and Steve yelled 'his name is Roger!' And then everyone just froze and it got really, really quiet and Mike and Steve were just staring at each other…and then this little voice pipes up, 'That's okay, I can answer to Jimmy'."

Healey was doubled over, wiping tears from his eyes remembering the tensely funny scene while Madsen's ever-widening eyes never left Haseejian's face.

"Needless to say," Haseejian continued, chuckling, "we've been calling him Jimmy ever since."

Their laughter eventually quieted and as the silence once again took over, they remembered where they were and why they were there. Haseejian raised his head. "Come on," he said quietly, "let's get out of here. I want to drop by the hospital before I go home, just to see…well, you know," he looked up, almost embarrassed.

Healey nodded slowly. "I know," he said kindly, "I'll go with you."