"What?" Tanner stopped in mid-motion, his hand still inside the bag of sandwiches.

Haseejian spun back towards Olsen, and Healey and Lessing froze where they sat.

The captain looked angrily from one detective to the other, meeting all four pairs of eyes before he spoke again. "Garrity's dead. He was beaten to death in a cell on the seventh floor at Bryant Street about an hour ago." He took a deep steadying breath. "I, ah, I don't have to worry about any of you guys, do I?" he asked hesitantly, his tone bordering on apologetic.

Everyone shifted slightly, Haseejian and Lessing in annoyance, Tanner and Healey in anger. "What are you suggesting, Captain?" Healey snapped.

"Dan," Haseejian warned, keeping his eyes on Olsen. "What happened?"

Obviously frustrated, Olsen inhaled deeply. "Garrity's body was found in one of those unused segregated holding cells on the top floor, you guys know the ones. He'd been beaten to death; the ME thinks with fists but he's not gonna be sure until he's finished the autopsy."

"How did he get in there?" Tanner asked, still trying to control his irritation. "Where was the sergeant on duty?"

"We haven't got all the information yet; I was told Shepherd was on duty, but that hasn't been confirmed. And so far no one has any idea what Garrity was doing up there."

"And you think one of us had something to do with this?" Healey asked with barely suppressed animus.

Olsen and Healey locked eyes, neither blinking. "We're gonna need to know where each one of you was during the last four hours," the captain stated flatly. "But it's not gonna be me – IA is already involved. They're going to be getting in touch with you as soon as they can, so you better get ready to head back to the shop." He paused, once more looking all four of them in the eyes. "Please tell me I have nothing to worry about."

No one answered him.

# # # # #

Steve came awake slowly. He shifted slightly in the armchair, working the kinks out of his neck before he opened his eyes and looked at the bed. The steady beeping of the heart monitor was a comforting reminder that all was, thankfully, well. Mike was still sedated, looking almost peaceful, his chest rising and falling with an assuaging rhythm. There seemed to be no blood in the pericardial catheter tubes, which was a good sign, he thought.

With one last squeeze, Steve unlaced his fingers from his partner's and ran his hands over his face, rubbing his eyes. He sat forward in the chair and stretched his back muscles, then stood slowly. He leaned over the bed and laid a hand lightly on the top of Mike's head. "I'll be back in a few minutes," he whispered, then turned and left the small room.

Trying to stifle a yawn, he walked into the waiting room, expecting to find a few of his colleagues still sitting vigil. Instead he spotted a uniformed sergeant sitting in the far corner, reading a magazine. "Phil," Steve called as he approached, and the older man's head came up, "where is everybody?"

Sergeant Franklin tossed the magazine on a nearby table. "Steve," he said as he got to his feet, "Rudy asked me to stay here in case you came out. They all had to go back to the shop, somethin's come up. I'm not sure what, but it sounded pretty serious."

Steve frowned. "Oh, okay," he said slowly. "Did he ask me to call in or anything?"

"Nope, not that I was told. I got the feeling that he was gonna come back and tell you himself, but I could be wrong. Sorry. He, ah, he wasn't very forthcoming, if you know what I mean?"

"Yeah, I do," Steve chuckled dryly. "Okay, thanks." He sounded confused. As he turned away, Franklin stopped him.

"How's Mike doing?"

"Oh, ah, he's doing great. Everything looks good, so – fingers crossed, hunh?"

"That's terrific. I'll pass the word."

"Yeah, do that. Thanks again, Phil." Brow furrowed, Steve slowly crossed the room and headed towards the cafeteria, worry and perplexity moderating his steps.

# # # # #

Slumped in the armchair, a coffee on the table beside him and a magazine balanced against the knee of his crossed leg, Steve Keller glanced up at the bed as he turned a page. The soft clearing of a throat from the doorway caught his attention and he looked up to see a nervous-looking Rudy Olsen standing there.

Olsen's eyes snapped from the bed to Steve. "He, ah, he looks pretty good," he said, nodding slightly at Mike and trying hard to smile.

Steve snapped the magazine shut, tossed it on the floor and stood. "Yeah, he's doing great. They told me they're gonna take the catheter out tomorrow morning, on schedule, which is a good sign. Then they'll wake him up and I'll give him a shave," he finished with an affectionate chuckle.

Olsen had crossed slowly to the far side of the bed, his sad eyes never leaving his injured lieutenant. He was nodding slowly. "God, things can go so badly, so fast, can't they?" he said quietly, almost to himself. He reached out and gently laid his hand on Mike's forearm.

Steve eyed him worriedly. "Rudy, is there something you need to talk to me about?" he asked softly.

"Hmm?" Olsen pulled his eyes away from Mike and looked at the younger man. "Ah, yeah, um, lets go for a walk." It seemed to take effort to pull himself away from the bed and walk back towards the door, Steve in his wake.

They had passed through the waiting room and into the corridor near the elevators. Steve was waiting for Olsen to begin, and was surprised when the older man punched the elevator button.

They eventually strolled out the front entrance of the hospital into a bright sunny afternoon. Steve squinted, suddenly realizing it had been over twenty-four hours since he had left the confines of the ICU.

Finally away from hospital staff and visitors, Olsen turned to his young inspector. He took a deep breath. "Garrity was beaten to death last night in a cell at Bryant Street."

Steve took a step back, unable to mask his shock. "What?!"

Olsen nodded, unable to make eye contact.

"Um, ah, when?"

"This morning, when you were getting your jaw done."

Hands on his hips, Steve backed away and half turned, trying to put this new information into some kind of perspective. "What do you mean he was beaten to death? By who? Another inmate?"

"We don't know by who yet, but we do know it wasn't another inmate," Olsen said, looking down.

Steve stopped moving and stared at the captain's downturned head. Several seconds passed before he said softly, "What are you trying to tell me, Rudy?"

Olsen closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, then raised his head. "It wasn't another inmate," he said again, this time with more emphasis.

Steve eyed him evenly. "You think it was one of our guys." It was a statement, not a question, and it was spoken in accusation.

Olsen met his stare. "I don't know who it was right now. I'm just telling you who we know didn't do it."

Steve snorted. "You really think one of our guys is capable of doing that?"

"I think anybody is capable of anything if they're pushed far enough."

Taking a deep breath, Steve looked away, a hand coming up to run across his face.

He took a couple of deep breaths then nodded slowly. "What do you need from me?" His tone was conciliatory, realizing the harrowing predicament into which the older man had been thrust.

Relieved, Olsen's rigid posture relaxed slightly and he almost smiled. "Just, ah, just stay with Mike for next day or so, stay away from the office and, ah, just try not to have any contact with anyone from the department until we get a handle on this, okay? We don't know where it's gonna go and I'd just as well not have you two involved in it in any way. Okay?"

Sighing sadly, Steve nodded and put a comforting hand on Rudy's shoulder. "Yeah, I can do that."

They stood in silence for several seconds, then Olsen said quietly, "Listen, ah, you better get back to Mike. I gotta get back to the shop." He reached up to put his hand on Steve's cheek, patting him gently. "You look a lot better without all that wire in your mouth," he said with a smile, then slid his hand around to the back of Steve's neck and shook him slightly, as he had seen Mike do. "When he wakes up tomorrow morning, tell him we're all pulling for him, alright?"

# # # # #

He looked at himself in the mirror. His jaw was back to normal but he still needed to get his nose fixed; there was an abnormal bump on the bridge. He ran a hand over his now stubble-free cheeks, turning his head back and forth to get a better look at the dark circles under his eyes. He hadn't gotten much rest last night; strangely enough though, stretched out over two armchairs under a light blanket had turned out not to be the most uncomfortable place he had ever tried to sleep.

This time it had been his overwrought brain that had kept him awake. Olsen's revelation had shaken him badly; he couldn't conceive that someone he had worked shoulder to shoulder with for so long could or would have the capacity to beat another human being to death.

He turned on the hot water and splashed some over his face, than dried it on the towel he'd thrown over his shoulder. He packed up his toiletries and left the washroom, making his way back across the waiting room and into the ICU cubicle once more.

Dropping his toiletries bag into his carryall near the door, he looked at the bed and smiled. Mike's pericardial drainage catheter had been removed over an hour ago and now a small gauze bandage covered the incision just below his sternum. And, much to Steve's relief, he was showing signs of regaining consciousness.

He sidled up to the head of the bed, and picked up the older man's hand. He sighed quietly and closed his eyes, trying once more to figure out just when and what he would tell his partner about what was happening.

He felt Mike's fingers tighten on his own and he opened his eyes. The older man's blue eyes had opened slightly. Steve gently removed the oxygen mask then laid his hand against Mike's face and stroked his beard-stubbled cheek, knowing the touch would help. Gradually the blue eyes began to focus and Steve leaned over the bed.

Mike's eyes widened, and a slow grin began to build. "Smile," he said, his voice surprisingly strong.

And Steve did.