"You got the reports?" Haseejian bellowed as he strode into the Homicide squad room.
Lessing glanced up from his desk. "Yep," he said quickly as he got to his feet and picked up a stack of files.
Haseejian pulled the chair out from under his own desk and dropped into it. "Let's have a look," he said briskly as Lessing tossed the files down and took the guest chair at the side of the desk. The senior officer picked up the top folder and opened it.
Tanner hung up his phone and turned in their direction. "Bowman and Johnson are out on patrol and I'm having them come in. They were first on the scene and took the initial reports."
"Good," snapped Haseejian. "I want to have this little bastard in custody by the end of the day."
# # # # #
Steve was leaning back on the couch, staring at the ceiling. As tired as he was, he didn't dare close his eyes. They were all back in their usual places: Jeannie sitting very close beside him and Dan in a chair nearby, waiting, worrying. He didn't have to look at his watch to know that too much time had gone by and still no word.
He had returned to the waiting room after he and Maggie Jarris had left the bar the previous night, his mind racing. He had learned so much about his former partner that had heretofore been unknown and as he tried to relax on the old leather couch, sleep wouldn't come.
They had decided to keep Maggie's presence from Jeannie until Mike's health improved; having to deal with the fact that her father had an inamorata of whom she was unaware seemed an unfair burden to bestow upon the already overwhelmed young woman.
But Steve was dying to talk to Dan about it all. Unfortunately, Jeannie and the young cop had arrived together and there hadn't been a natural way of separating them that wouldn't arouse her suspicion.
Now, once more, concern had taken over and all they could do was wait. Dr. Somerset had been in to tell them that they wanted to start weaning Mike off the ventilator but in order to do so he needed to be conscious. So the decision had been made, in consultation with Mike's 'family', to reduce the sedative medications he was currently receiving and allow him to wake up, in which case morphine would be used to control the pain.
The procedure had begun a couple of hours earlier, and they were now awaiting word that Mike was conscious. They all knew it was going to be a very long day and a very long process but, indeed, it was progress, something that had seemed in short supply recently.
Close to noon, Dr. Somerset entered the waiting room and approached them with a tired smile. "Your father is a very stubborn man," he said lightly to Jeannie, trying to break the tense mood as he sat beside her on the couch, glancing at all three. "So, we took him off the sedation medication but, unfortunately, he's still showing no signs of consciousness which, I have to admit, is a little worrying." At Jeannie's almost imperceptible gasp, he continued quickly, "But it's not surprising and not unanticipated. The body has a tendency to shut down when grievously injured, trying to heal itself, and one of those mechanisms is to protect itself from extreme pain. So we're going to increase his morphine drip and hopefully his brain will be fooled into thinking his body is healing and allow him to wake up."
With an avuncular sigh and patting her on the arm, Dr. Somerset said gently, "Don't worry, Jeannie, he's not the sickest patient we've had and we're pretty good at getting all our patients back on their feet and out of here. It's just gonna take some time, okay?"
She tried to nod hopefully, only partially succeeding. She felt Steve's arm snake around her shoulders and squeeze.
"Thank you, Doctor Somerset," Steve said, pulling Jeannie a little closer. Dan stood and shook the doctor's hand as the surgeon rose and, with one last pat of Jeannie's shoulder, left the room.
She laid her head against Steve's chest and he felt her hot tears soak through the thin fabric of his shirt. He kissed the top of her head. Dan, seeming at a loss for what to do or say, turned slowly, crossed the room and wandered out into the corridor, moving in the direction of the bank of payphones. Steve smiled to himself.
# # # # #
They were flanking either side of the brown wooden door with '2B' crudely written on it in magic marker. Their .38's were pointed up, their fingers on the triggers. Haseejian nodded to Tanner, then moved quickly in front of the door, raised his right leg and drove his foot into the door. The flimsy wood around the lock splintered and the door shot open.
As Haseejian caught his balance, Tanner pushed past him into the room, his .38 now shoulder-high as he crouched, both his gun and his eyes sweeping the empty room. Then Haseejian was behind him and they fanned out, quickly checking the rooms, the closets, under the bed. But the place was empty.
"Damn it," Haseejian growled as he strode back into the filthy, cluttered living room, holstering his .38. "Let's just hope this little dirt bag is still in town. I want an APB out now and I want everybody to know we want this little bastard and we want him alive."
# # # # #
The detectives walked into an almost empty Hall of Justice and took the elevator up to the third floor. Mayor George Moscone's funeral had been held that morning, and those whose presence at the Hall was not mandatory had been in attendance. As Tanner peeled off towards the Homicide Bureau, Haseejian made his way to Captain Roy Devitt's office, needing to bring his superior officer up to speed.
It had been a frustrating few days for the Armenian detective. The back-to-back shocks of the assassinations and the shooting of his boss had shaken him deeply. And then, with the realization that Mike Stone's injuries were severe enough that he would no longer be allowed to work the streets, the final straw.
Now, he had only one goal, one thing he needed to get done: to oversee the arrest and conviction of the punk who had put three bullets into Mike's chest - the last one, he had since discovered, at extremely close range. Then, and only then, would he take the time to decide his future. He couldn't conceive of San Francisco Homicide without Mike Stone at the helm; it might be time to transfer to Robbery, like Healey, or pull the pin altogether.
# # # # #
The half-wheel of pizza lay in the open box on the table near the couch, the cheese congealing, and a handful of soda cans were scattered nearby. The long afternoon had dragged by, punctuated only occasionally by brief, innocuous snippets of conversation.
They had all tried to sleep at one point or another, unsuccessfully. It was impossible to drag their thoughts away from what was going on mere yards away in another room. Though they would have denied it, a pall of helpless inevitability had seemed to settle over them, and it was becoming more and more difficult to feel any sense of optimism.
As the sun began to set, Steve crossed to the window, leaning against the sill and resting his forehead against the cool pane. The strain of the past few days was starting to seep into his soul and there was a feeling of impending doom washing over him that he was finding almost impossible to dispel. He'd never felt this way before and it scared him.
He stared at Jeannie's reflection in the window. She was curled up on the couch, staring into space. He knew exactly what she was thinking. His heart was breaking, for her, for Dan, for himself. He closed his eyes and drew in a slow deep breath, trying to control the shaking that had just begun - the product, he knew, of fatigue and worry.
He turned away from the window and was just about to head back to the couch when a very weary-looking Dr. Somerset appeared in the entrance and scanned the room. Jeannie's head came up quickly and she sat up; Dan got up from a nearby chair and crossed to her.
Steve joined them as Dr. Somerset approached. The surgeon sighed heavily, as if collecting his thoughts, then, dispensing with formalities, looked the young woman in the eyes. "Miss Stone, how would you and Mr. Keller like to come with me and talk to your Dad? I think he really needs to see you both right now."
# # # # #
As Steve and Jeannie donned the protective clothing once again, Dr. Somerset continued to fill them in. "Now remember he's not going to be able to talk to you, and he's still very groggy, but he's awake and responding to commands, which is all we can hope for right now. I told him to blink once for yes and twice for no."
As Jeannie nodded, unable to stop smiling, and pulled the mask over her mouth and nose, Dr. Somerset pushed open the heavy wooden door and they entered the room ahead of him. Jeannie crossed quickly to the bed, Steve a little more sedately behind her, trying to get his relieved trembling and pounding heart under control.
Head back on the upraised bed and eerily still, Mike's eyes were closed. Bandages encircled his entire chest; he was still hooked up to the heart monitor and electrocardiogram, the IV and the ventilator, but somehow he looked different. As Jeannie reached out and grabbed his left hand, his eyes fluttered open.
"Daddy," she said tentatively, then more firmly, "Mike…"
She was too short to lean over the bed so he could see her and she glanced back at Steve anxiously. But to her overwhelming relief, Mike slowly turned his head in the direction of her voice and when their gazes locked, she could see the recognition in his eyes.
"Daddy," she whispered with a catch in her voice as he stared at her and she felt his fingers close around her hand.
"Here," she heard Dr. Somerset say quietly, and she felt the crossbar of a wooden stool touch the back of her legs. Grateful, she stepped onto the crossbar and then knelt on the stool, now tall enough to lean over the bed. Resisting the urge to take off her mask and give her father a proper kiss, she settled for staring into his eyes.
Steve had crossed around to the other side of the bed and gently slipped his hand into Mike's, careful to avoid the IV line. When his other hand came to rest lightly on the top of Mike's head, the older man briefly closed his eyes, turning slightly to look in Steve's direction.
Suddenly, disturbingly, a feeling of déjà vu washed over Steve – he was in the bed, with a masked Jeannie and Mike looking down on him, a relieved Mike smiling and giving him a comforting wink. And he could remember very clearly how terrified he had felt, knowing he had been wounded but not knowing how badly, needing the reassurance of a familiar voice, a familiar touch.
Shuddering, he gave Mike's hand a tight squeeze and leaned a little closer. He smiled broadly under the mask, knowing it would be reflected in his eyes, and he winked. The hand in his tightened its grip. "Hi," he said quietly, and Mike blinked.