He'd hoped for a few moments of peace before being hassled again, but it was not to be. Eric and Walter had heard of the events at Jeff's office and had already begun asking questions. He'd hoped that he'd managed to appease them with a highly edited version of events.
"Good job you were there, H," Walter had said before patting him on the shoulder and returning to his duties in the Lab.
Perhaps the big man might not be so quick to praise him when he learned of the reason why he was there in the first place. Jeff lying had done him no favours, his people were too smart not to see what was going on right under their noses. It would only be a matter of time before his darkest secrets would be laid bare to the whole team. He would be forced into early retirement, while the rest of the Department picked over the bare bones like he was some kind of rotting carcass, to be pulled apart and dissected at will.
But perhaps it was the commendation on the accuracy of his shot from Eric that had galled him the most. The words were intended to be encouraging, yet it had only served to make him feel smaller than he had last week when he'd frozen at the warehouse. Eric's patronising comments had made him feel as if he were being given a pat on the head for good behaviour. He forced himself to smile, although it came out as more of a pained grimace, nodding his thanks to his well-meaning colleagues before excusing himself quickly and making his way to the supervisor's office.
Slumping down heavily on the couch, he lifted his hands to his face and willed the small tremors to stop. He winced as he looked at the bent fingers on his left hand, clenching and then releasing his fist in a repetitive fashion, as he tried to rid himself of the tingling sensation that ran through the damaged appendage. He hadn't realised how much tension there had been in his body until he had finally pulled himself back into his Hummer. He had watched Jeff and his own colleagues leave, silently keeping guard, until one by one, they had pulled out of the parking lot.
It had been a tough day by anyone's standards, let alone his. What he needed now was a strong coffee, a hot shower and an early night. Preferably in that order. He knew it was wishful thinking, he'd had a report to fill in and hand to the Chief, he would then have to explain his actions to his superior, an investigation would in turn take place in order to assess if his actions were justified.
It was protocol that he handed his service weapon over to the detective in charge of the investigation, and he had done so. Frank's face conveyed his displeasure at having to carry out such an unpleasant duty. He merely nodded to his old friend as he unclipped his holster and handed his Sig over to him. There would be no need to draw the process out by filling the uncomfortable silence with meaningless platitudes.
The thought occurred to him that handing over his gun might be the first step in relinquishing his position at the Lab. It would soon become clear as to why he'd been at the doctor's office, first it would be his gun, and then would they take his badge. Like a boulder rolling down a mountain, he would be unable to stop the series of events as they unfolded, one by one. He'd be no more than a bystander to his own downfall, looking on in detached silence as his life and career fell apart before him.
He hadn't wanted to bring the unpleasant task of giving his statement and writing his own report in regards to the day's events to his office, and so he sat at Frank's desk and completed them instead, grateful when his old friend left him to his own devices after questioning him. He'd sat and stared at the form in front of him for an hour or more, before he finally found the courage to put pen to paper, feeling for all the world as if he were signing his own death warrant.
Common sense dictated that he should tow the party line in regards to the statement Jeff had given, even though it galled him to do so. His need to put others before himself once more won out, he would not sacrifice Jeff's career as well as his own. It wasn't so much the fact that Jeff had been dishonest that ate at him, more the fact that he had done it willingly to protect him. How many more people were going to risk their careers and reputations for him?
He was meant to be the protector of others, it was his job to take the risks, not them. What did any of them see in him to warrant chancing their own futures for him?
He pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration, much too tired to comprehend such complex questions at the moment. Most of the day shift had left, the only ones remaining were those involved in the investigation of Cesar Donato's death. He could hear the members of the night shift bustling around, no doubt some of their chatter venturing towards what had transpired today.
He leaned his head back against the sofa as he let out a tired sigh, closing his eyes as he tried to let the stress of the day drain away from his weary body.
"Hey," a soft Southern voice called out to him.
He felt the cushions of the sofa dip noticeably as she sat next to him, leaning back and mirroring his posture.
"You ok?" she asked as she placed a hand on his thigh and gave it a quick squeeze. His left eye opened a crack, and even in the dim light of the office, he could see the warm smile that lit up her face.
"It's been a long day," he replied eventually. Even stringing a sentence together was becoming hard work now.
"You handed your report in, gave your statement?"
He hoped she could see the faint nod he gave, he was too tired for words now.
"Frank took your gun?"
Again, he nodded but said nothing.
"It's just formality you know, we all have to go through this every time there's an officer-involved shooting."
"People aren't stupid, Calleigh. They'll figure it out sooner or later, if they haven't already. It's just a matter of time before they put me on administrative leave, and we both know that they'll never let me back on active duty, let alone run the Lab."
"You don't know that, Horatio."
"Yes, I do. I might as well face it, my career is over. It was foolish to think that we could hide this." He reached out blindly and covered her hand with one of his own. "I appreciate everything you've done for me since I've come back...but it's over. There's no point fighting it anymore."
"You told me you wouldn't give up."
He could hear the genuine sadness, tinged with disappointment as she spoke. He'd hurt her again. "I'm not giving up, I'm just being realistic. I'm not right, Calleigh, I was fooling myself if I thought I could handle coming back. There's still so much that I can't deal with...maybe it's better this way…."
His next words were cut off by the shrill ringing of his phone. One look at the caller ID told him all he needed to know. He gave Calleigh a sad smile as he answered it.
"Yes, Chief. I understand, I'll be right up."
He stared at the phone for a number of moments before he glanced over at Calleigh. "Chief wants to see me straight away," he said by way of explanation as he put his phone back in the breast pocket of his jacket and made his way to the door. "I'll call you when I'm done, ok?"
She watched him sadly as he trudged from the office. There was no mistaking the deflated posture of his body, his shoulders visibly sagged as he closed the door quietly behind him. There was an air of defeat surrounding him, following him around like some kind of dark storm cloud, clinging to him like a shadow. She could tell by the way that he carried himself that he had resigned himself to the fact that his career was all but over.
But he had promised her that he would not give up, and here he was at the first sign of trouble, running away and giving up without a fight. It certainly wasn't the man that she had come to know and respect. The man that she had grown to love.
Perhaps she had pushed him too far yesterday in her quest to hear the truth about him and his ex-wife. He had admitted to things that he hadn't expected to, and had been shocked by the realisation of how badly he had nearly lost control that day. He had convinced himself that he was no more than a monster, the type of man that he had always held a special kind of revulsion for.
He'd been quiet since he'd woken this morning, she could see in the shadows on his face, and the tiredness in his eyes, that something had changed within him overnight. It felt as if he were pulling away from her, once more retreating into his solemn silence, berating himself for another of his perceived failings.
She had struggled to get more than one or two word answers out of him for most of the day. She'd hoped that leading the Jesus Fernandez case would be the gee-up that he needed to get his confidence back in regards to his job. From the reports she'd read, she certainly couldn't fault the way he had handled the investigation, even the chatter around the Department reinforced the opinion that Horatio was returning to the lieutenant of old.
He might have been returning to the old Horatio professionally, but personally was another matter entirely. There had been something about him that just hadn't been right all day, yet she had become far too busy to find the time to question him about it. She promised herself that she would do so tonight when they were in the comfort of her home.
Our home, she corrected herself.
Horatio's meeting with the Chief would be nothing more than a formality, according to the reports, he'd acted according to protocol. It was something of a relief to hear that there had not been a repeat of the incident at the warehouse. Horatio had been confronted with another hostage situation and had taken decisive action, had he not, the outcome could have been much worse.
But how could life throw him yet another curveball? He'd done everything possible to deal with his issues head-on over the last few weeks. Today's events had proved to her, if she had any linger doubts left, that Horatio was able to handle himself in the field from now on. His confidence in dealing with potentially dangerous situations had obviously come on leaps and bounds, so why would he be forced into Department-sanctioned psych evaluations when he'd already proved that he could cope?
She knew that Horatio was right, the team would piece it together sooner or later, and then word would spread that he had been using the services of a psychologist. It would be a step too far for Horatio, he would likely want to curl up and die at the embarrassment of his colleagues knowing his vulnerabilities. Why was life so unfair to the man she loved? When would he ever catch a break?
He felt as if he were travelling along dead man's alley as he made his way from the elevator to the Chief's office. Was it wrong to want to slow his pace just so that he could stave off the inevitable for a little while longer?
This is it, he thought to himself as he walked along the darkened corridor. The sun had begun to set a few hours ago, all that was left was the dim light of dusk as the powerful Miami sun lowered its fiery glare for another day. The Chief should have left hours ago, but he had stayed, and Horatio was under no illusions as to the reason why.
Chief Martin would want to deliver the news personally, and he supposed that he was owed that much at least. He would be thanked for his services to the Department, and the city, then he would be asked to hand over his badge, shield and back-up weapon. He'd be escorted from the building with a firm handshake and a pat on the back before being pushed in the direction of the sprawling city, no more than a citizen in the great metropolis that he used to protect.
He'd reached the door all too soon. Taking a deep breath, he raised his right hand and knocked firmly. Even in the dim light, he could see his hand shaking slightly. Of all the ways he'd imagined going out, this was not one of them. Ego, and his own sense of pride, would dictate that he would've liked to have retired some kind of hero, or killed in the line of duty, sacrificing his own life to save another.
Being relieved of duty for psychiatric reasons was not at the top of his list of ways to end his career. Hell, it had no place on his list at all. He would forever be viewed and remembered with a sense of pity, as the man whose career had broken him. People would look at him with those patronising eyes, giving sympathetic winces when they heard that the stresses of his job had been more than he could cope with. They would no longer see him as the strong one, he'd only be remembered for being weak and feeble.
But how much of that was his ego talking? A better man would take the hand he'd been dealt and play it regardless. Was it just greed and his own need for gratification that made him think that going out any other way would have been any less hard to deal with?
A part of him had hoped that Chief Martin had tired of waiting for him and had gone home, thus staving off the inevitable for a few more precious hours. Maybe, if he was given the chance to sleep on the idea, he would be a little more accepting of the hand that fate had dealt him.
It was not to be. He heard the deep voice of his superior instructing him to come in. Man up, you idiot, he told himself as he puffed his cheeks out and exhaled, slotting his game face into place before opening the door. It was almost symbolic, opening this door would signal the end of his career, and when he closed it on the way back out, he would be doing the same for his career.
He stood in the doorway, fiddling with his sunglasses and not wanting to make eye contact with the man who would dictate as to which way his life would head in the future.
"Horatio, glad you could make it. Take a seat, please."
He looked up briefly and suddenly wished that he hadn't. The look that the Chief was giving him was tinged with slight discomfort. He knew what would be coming shortly, he gulped deeply and took a seat, waiting for what he knew was to come.
"First up, how are you?"
Shit, here it comes. He risked another glance up at his superior and saw genuine concern in his gaze. That isn't good.
He cleared his throat to speak, "It's been a challenging day, Chief," he answered honestly.
"Indeed, Lieutenant," Chief Martin replied before resting his elbows on his desk and leaning forward. "I called you in for a couple of reasons. We have some business to conclude that couldn't wait until morning."
He nodded his head sadly, "I see." He could feel it in his bones, the Chief couldn't have been clearer in his meaning if he'd tried. He just hoped that his old friend had enough respect for him to get it over with quickly.
Michael Martin was a man who had risen through the ranks over the course of his career. He'd worked hard to get into a position of power and authority, but not through any sense of need to wield it like some weapon of ferocity, cutting those beneath him down to size in an attempt to reinforce his superiority over them, more for the fact that he wanted to be in a position to affect real change within the Department and the city as a whole.
He was a Miami native, he'd grown up in this great city, yet he was under no illusions as to the seedy underbelly that hid shallowly beneath the surface. Miami was a city for the rich and the beautiful, a mecca for tourists, a place which had a great deal of aesthetic charm about it, welcoming all with its bright décor and sense of abandon. It was a holiday destination for those looking for a little fun, the spice of life with a Latin twist.
It didn't take much to scratch beneath the surface and see the ugly nature of the beast that was hidden behind palm trees, endless sandy beaches and thumping nightlife. Miami was a city divided, people separated by culture, creed and wealth. The place of his birth was the classic tale of two cities forced into one, divided between the rich and the poor, and not always equally.
Social standing was everything in a place like this, those that were well to do kept to their own little areas of Miami that they considered safe, mooring themselves in their fancy little boats and beach houses, drawing a definitive line between their idea of the city and the harsh realities that existed on the other side. The rich held themselves with an air of authority and self-importance, more concerned with their image than with the problems of this great place. It was just not acceptable to be seen in the poorer areas of Miami, not unless you belonged there, of course.
Miami was a city of culture with a high population of Latin Americans, refugees from countries less stable than this side of the border. Immigrants that had begged, crawled and swam their way across inhabited the less affluent areas of the sprawling metropolis, were often viewed by the rich as something to be ashamed of. Poor people had no place in a city as illustrious as Miami.
It was a social stigma that Michael Martin found hard to swallow. He'd been on both sides of the fence at most points during his life. His parents had never been particularly well off, and so they lived in a small area of Miami that dissected the rich from the poor, living on the fault line of what had the potential to be a highly explosive situation.
His parents had scrimped and saved enough money to put him through college, but they had also imbued him with the attitude that he would have to work in order to achieve his goals. His parents never gave anything to him freely, he would be expected to earn his keep as he became a teenager, helping his parents with chores around the house. It was this sense of structure and hard work that stood him in good stead when he applied to join the Miami Dade Police Department.
From the moment he graduated the academy, he knew what it was that he wanted to accomplish in his career. He'd kept his head down and worked his way up through the ranks, biding his time until the right opportunity presented itself. Too many of his peers were far more concerned about the politics that the role of Chief presented, but he paid it no mind himself. Should he be fortunate enough to be offered the position, he knew that he would not let his actions in that role be dictated by the internal bitching and backstabbing that was rife within the Department.
He had only been in the job for a few years, but he had already seen his fair share of the less than pleasant side of the job. It was his hope that he had treated those beneath him with a sense of respect and had dealt with them fairly. Handing out disciplinary orders had never been something that he'd particularly enjoyed, yet it came hand in hand with the job. Every once in a while, he would be forced to get his hands dirty, only hoping that the mud wouldn't stick to them and come back to haunt him in the future.
Running the Department was certainly made a lot easier when he had men of the stature of Horatio Caine to rely on. He'd always had a soft spot for the man, they seemed to share the same moral code and sense of ethics. The lieutenant had built a crime lab that rivalled any in the country in terms of accuracy and success. He respected the man and trusted his judgement when it came to running the facility.
Why then, was the man sitting in front of him looking as if he were being escorted to his own execution? What had happened to him recently was common knowledge, Michael Martin wasn't that far removed from the Department scuttlebutt that he was unaware as to what people were saying about the poor man. Most of the chatter had been of the concerned variety, along with a large amount of relief that stoic and stable leader of the Crime Lab had returned to the facility that he had worked so tirelessly to build.
He wasn't naïve enough to believe that Horatio's ordeal hadn't affected him on a deeply emotional level, it was obvious to see that the men that had taken and tortured him had damaged his confidence not only as a man, but as police officer too. The man sitting in front of him seemed unsure of himself, as if he had resigned himself to the fact that his superior was about to deliver him some upsetting news.
The truth was that he didn't know how Horatio would react to what he had to say. He'd stood by the last couple of weeks, holding back on his desire to ask the man if he was alright dozens of times. The phone call he'd received this afternoon had certainly come out of the blue and he'd been reluctant to even mention it to Horatio for fear of setting him back further.
But he had far too much respect for Horatio than to keep something so important from him, the words that he was about to say would likely make or break the man in front of him. There would be no point in prolonging his agony, he needed to steel himself for what was to come.
It was with baited breath that he pulled the manila file from the top drawer of his desk, placing it before him as if it would act as some kind of barrier between him and the man sat opposite, as if the flimsy cardboard would protect him from the reaction he might get from the person he'd grown to have a deep admiration for.
"Ok, Horatio," he began, trying to keep an air of professionalism about him while hiding the uncertainty from his voice. "Let's get down to business."