-000-
His stomach soured as he pulled the first item from the box. A blood-coated pipe. His hands shook as he lifted it from the box. The pipe didn't look like a traditional pipe used for plumbing. It appeared to be thinner and smaller.
Shell casings. A tarp. A bent wire hanger?
His throat felt swollen, and he couldn't seem to swallow. The wire hanger was a bit of a mystery, the shell casings made him nervous, and the tarp sent him into a standing position. Visions of Olivia wrapped in a tarp made him want to punch the wall. He clenched and unclenched his fists, and tried not to jump to any premature conclusions.
The next item seemed a little puzzling. A key? There could be multiple reasons for a key to turn up as evidence. Some strange discoloration on the key's surface warranted closer inspection. He lifted the bag up to the light to better see its contents. He knew that key. He had an exact copy on a jump ring next to his for years. He remembered the stern look on her face when she pressed it into his palm. "For emergencies only, El." It was her house key.
He kept the key for a while after he left. He never planned on using it, but it served as a reminder of the life he lived before turning his whole world upside down.
He kept the key in the bag but turned it over in his hands. There was a sort of weird distortion evident on the surface, and it was not what you would expect from normal wear and tear. He made a mental note to check the contents file that was probably buried at the bottom of the box. That would have the item list and whatever notes the crime scene tech thought might be relevant. He set the bag on top of the box lid and moved on to the next clear bag.
His stomach churned as he brought the bag closer. Duct tape. He reached back into the box and pulled three identical evidence bags, all containing carefully preserved duct tape. He didn't need to look closely to see the hair still plastered to the tape. The strands were brown and slightly darker at the roots. He knew the hair belonged to Olivia.
He swallowed the rising bile and continued. The next bag contained the shattered remnants of a bottle of vodka. He set it aside with the other items and pulled out two more bags. Each bag contained an empty prescription bottle. Her name wasn't the one stuck on the bottle, but the name of the medication screamed at him. OxyContin. He really didn't like the direction this evidence was leading him.
He tossed the pill bottles aside and into the now growing pile of mysterious evidence. He really didn't like the picture this evidence was painting. His heart pounded mercilessly when he lifted her sidearm from the box. His mind instantly conjured a montage of memories, most of which had Olivia, her weapon drawn, saving his ass.
He was about to set the gun aside when he stopped breathing. A familiar fleck of color flashed on the butt of the gun. He carefully turned the weapon over, and tears began to cloud his vision. A choked cry escaped his lips when he identified the item clipped to her gun.
A mini badge with the numbers 6313 engraved on the surface.
That was the first time he vomited that night. It wasn't even close to the last.
He leaned his forehead against the toilet momentarily, waiting to see if his stomach settled enough to move, but the idea of Olivia carrying his badge around with her was too much. Too humbling. Too devastating.
He took deep breaths through his nose, eventually quieting his pounding heart and settling the violent clenching of his stomach. His body began to shake when he finally pulled himself back onto his feet. For a moment, he wondered if a person could go into shock from guilt.
He returned to his bed and lifted the evidence bag containing her firearm. He knew the gun well. He'd held it many times in the course of handing it to her as they rushed to one dangerous situation or another.
He carefully peeled the ziploc open before sliding it onto the bed. For a moment, he just sat there, eyes fixed on the still-shiny black metal of the long forgotten firearm. His fingers brushed the cool metallic surface. There was no need to worry about fingerprint contamination. This case was long closed and buried in a sea of boxes. No one would miss this box of horrors or the terrifying narrative his mind was beginning to string together.
He swallowed deeply before lifting the pistol in his hands. His heart ached at its familiar weight. It was as if his muscles remembered the exact weight of the item he currently held.
He turned the gun over, unclipped the mini badge from the butt of her gun, and set the firearm aside. Tears gathered as he ran his fingers over the badge's face. They curled around the badge, fisting it so hard that he knew its shape would indent the skin of his palm. He shook his head as a familiar feeling of self-hatred washed over him. Thirteen years and a tiny clump of useless metal were the only things he left her.
Semper Fi, indeed.
He relaxed his fist enough to slip the mini badge into the front pocket of his jeans. It wasn't like it was needed for anything anymore. He doubted anyone looked twice at the badge before tossing her side arm into an evidence bag. Why would they? Its presence was a useless detail, but a detail that was eternally important to him.
He carefully put Liv's side arm back into the plastic bag it had called home for more than a decade and set it with the growing pile of forensic evidence.
His hands began shaking, and he wondered if he could tolerate any more of this. He needed to find the paperwork because all he had was a pile of evidence that, in his professional opinion, indicated that, at the very least, Olivia was disarmed and held captive. The drugs and alcohol were probably used to keep her compliant. His chest tightened as he began considering worst-case scenarios. Assault. Rape. Torture. Real physical pain gripped his chest, and he felt as if he were sucking air through a capri sun straw.
He clenched his jaw, willing control back over his body. He had to slow down or he would be headed straight for a panic attack, and that's the last thing he needed to deal with at the moment. He stood up for a moment, needing to put space between him and the box of horrors. He found an old wood chair tucked next to a tiny desk where the nonfunctional TV sat. He dropped his head down and tried to calm his body, which felt deprived of air. In….out….in….out. It took a few minutes, but his nervous system began to relax, and his heart rate began to gently decline.
He lifted his head and watched the box sit on the bed, looking completely innocuous,half emptied of its contents. The inanimate object had no comprehension of the turmoil its existence had caused.
He needed to dig to the bottom of the box and pull out the file. Maybe if he had a clear picture of what happened, then his mind wouldn't run away with the worst-case scenario. If he could gain more context, then maybe he could work through the rest of the physical evidence without imploding.
He returned to the edge of the bed and pulled the blood closer. He looked in the box to see if he could easily locate the reports, but before he had a chance, another evidence bag caught his attention.
A bloody sheet.
He had never been a squeamish person. A life in law enforcement would allow for that, but the bloodied sheets, sealed in a plastic bag, made him rush to the trash can to lose the rest of his stomach contents.
There was no doubt in his mind who the blood belonged to. A hopeful part of him wanted to believe that it wasn't hers. He wanted to believe that she got a piece of whoever took her, but his gut said it wasn't the perp's. He knew it was hers.
Tears flooded his eyes as if it were his own blood splattered over the sheets. He choked on his tears as a favorite memory rushed to the forefront of his mind.
You know, we've been partners all these years. I don't even know your blood type.
A-postiive.
How 'bout that? Me too.
I'd give you a kidney.
Not if I gave you mine first.
He would have given her a kidney if he could have spared her from this. He would have given her anything, everything. He would have given his own life for her if it was asked of him.
He would have given her everything, but he abandoned her instead.
He set the sheet aside and reached deeper into the box. He needed answers because the evidence only left him with nightmarish questions. He pushed items aside until he finally felt what he was looking for. His fingers brushed what felt like a thick report shoved into a folder that was too small.
He lifted the folder, but as he pulled it from the box, something fell off of it and onto the mattress. The motel room light reflected off the delicate gold chain of a necklace sealed in plastic. He set the file down and picked up the oversized evidence. The necklace looked so small,gathered in the corner of the large plastic bag. Visions of the gold Fearless necklace dangling just above the neckline of her favorite shirt brought another wave of tears. How could he think leaving was what was best for all of them? For thirteen years, he vowed to have her back and keep her safe, but he abandoned her, leaving her to contend with the worst sort of demon on her own.
The fat file filled his heart with dread. It meant a complicated case. It meant nothing was straightforward or simple. With a slow exhale, he flipped the file open. The name stood out with glaring clarity. William Lewis.
-000-
After four text messages were unanswered, Ayanna decided to call. Normally, his lack of response wouldn't be concerning. It would just be Stabler being Stabler, but he was bitching one moment and silent the next. It made her nervous.
She dialed his number and lifted her phone to her ear. Straight to voicemail. "Damn it," she muttered under her breath. She tucked her phone into her pocket and looked for Jet, hoping she hadn't gone home for the day.
She pushed her chair away from her desk, and stuck her head out the door so she could call Jet over. "Jet, come in here for a sec."
She was met with an obedient "Yeah Sarge" before Jet made her way towards her office.
Once she was inside, Ayanna leaned against her desk. "Heard from Stabler?"
Jet's dark doe eyes narrowed a little. Ayanna had no misconceptions about where Jet's loyalty ultimately lay. It would be with Stabler. 100%. Jet considered the situation for a moment before she finally answered. "Not since this morning. Should I have heard from him?"
"No, no." Ayanna waved her off and tried to minimize her worry. "I just haven't heard back from him since he hit up long-term storage earlier."
Jet shrugged as if his silence wasn't a big deal. "He probably gave up and went back to work. He probably wouldn't be able to answer if he dropped back under."
Jet's explanation sounded so logical. "Yeah, you're probably right," Ayanna agreed. "I'll try him again later. He's probably got himself caught up in something."
"Probably." Jet stood in the office for a few silent moments before asking, "Can I go back to my desk now?"
"Yeah, of course, sorry."
Jet retreated to her desk, leaving Ayanna with her own stewing thoughts.
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