Chapter 1 – Captain Edmond F. Trunk
Captain Edmond F. Trunk was alone. Completely alone. He'd checked twice, and was certain the elevator was empty, except for him. And his thoughts. His thoughts went everywhere with him In otherwise quiet moments, like riding the elevator up to his precinct office, they took particular delight in tagging along.
Is it my imagination, or is this thing slower than usual?
No matter what was on his mind when he got in; no matter what he tried to focus on during the journey; inevitably as he neared his destination, like a moth to a flame, his thoughts veered in one direction: Inspector Sledge Hammer.
He focused on the lighted indicator showing that he was passing the third floor, and willed his teeth not to grind.
Captain Trunk considered himself an optimist – at least in the sense that he was certain things had to get better.
When you already have the most adolescent, boneheaded, trigger happy, misogynistic Inspector in the department reporting to you, then things couldn't possibly get worse – could they?
Yet, somehow, his sense of optimism never seemed to be rewarded. Every day spent in the presence of Inspector Hammer seemed to redefine disaster, often in unusual and spectacular ways. It was only a question of time ...
The elevator continued its upward crawl.
Over time, Captain Trunk had come to think of Inspector Hammer as the proverbial lemon in his life. Well, if Hammer was a lemon, Captain Trunk was determined make lemonade. This morning he was trying a new recipe. Hammer is always late, he reasoned. I can escape him, for a while at least, by coming in early ...
The elevator reached its destination and paused. Slowly, after due consideration, the doors slid open. Trunk checked his watch again, confirming that he had indeed arrived early. Thirty minutes early, to be precise. Since Inspector Hammer was dependably thirty minutes late, he should have one hour .. 60 minutes .. 3600 seconds .. before his day descended into chaos.
As he stepped from the elevator and into the familiar surroundings of the precinct office there was a smile on his face and a spring in his step.
Happiness, he thought, is a morning without exploding buildings. I might .. just might .. have time to savour the hot coffee he was carrying before it turned cold.
Without being consciously aware, he started to whistle a cheerful tune.
"Btfsplk!"
His happy tune cut off abruptly as he swore under his breath, stopping so abruptly that hot coffee slopped over the side of the cup and onto his hand. He cursed silently again, taking the cup with his other hand and quickly rubbing the injured one against his jacket.
The lights are on. Somebody must be home. Probably Doreau.
Captain Trunk reached for an optimistic conclusion.
Doreau is often in early. Hammer is never in early. Nothing to worry about, he reassured himself.
Still, he was nagged by the feeling that his happy whistling had hexed the morning. Silent now, he resumed his journey. He was almost relaxed when he turned the corner.
"Btfsplk!"
For the second time this morning he stopped abruptly, once again splashing hot coffee on his hand.
HAAAMMMER..AMMER..MER!
The word seemed to echo in his skull. Like a sneeze, holding it in only made it worse. He was only partly aware that he was juggling his coffee and now had burns on both hands.
Hammer? Here? Now? WHY?
Trunk felt like someone who had experienced a magnitude 3.1 earthquake during an L.A. video session - badly shaken and unable to stir. Each morning, as dependably as a Swiss made watch, the most unpredictable officer on the force would stroll in at precisely 8:30 a.m. Captain Trunk had come to count on it, the same way he counted on his alarm clock. Of all Hammer's character traits, the only one that Trunk found even faintly endearing was his tardiness.
The later the better. In fact, I wish Hammer had a "Snooze" button. Something .. anything .. that I could punch without getting into hot water with HR.
You're a COP! He chided himself, as much as anything to shake free of the reverie that held him entranced. ACT like a cop! This is a crimescene!
Certainly what Hammer had done to ruin his morning plans felt criminal. He pinched himself, and suppressed a startled jump.
Nope. I'm definitely wake. So unless I've stumbled into a remake of The Twilight Zone, this is real.
Pensively he sipped his coffee, determined to not spill all of it before he reached his desk. He used the moment to survey the scene more closely. That was the moment he realized that Doreau was also present. Seeing her was a second shock. Somehow, even without the stubbly, unshaven face, she looked worse than he did.
How did I miss that?
Neither of them, he noted, were taking any notice of his presence.
Have they both gone blind? And deaf? Are they ignoring me? BOTH of them? Do I want to know?
Theories and consequences chased each other in his thoughts. The old adage about sleeping dogs ultimately won out.
I need a coffee first. And my blood pressure pills. And maybe SWAT and the Bomb Squad. It's Hammer, after all ...
He forced himself to move, starting towards his office again. He took another sip of his coffee, trying to act like everything was normal. Along the way, he covertly noted details. Hammer's unshaven, drawn visage. Doreau's rumpled clothing. Her tousled hair. Her complete lack of make-up. A stack of Snickers wrappers.
He looks like someone who hasn't slept in 24 hours. She looks like something the cat wouldn't drag in. And ... Snickers?
There was something positively icy in the way she was ignoring her partner, and something unnatural in her failure to notice Trunk's presence.
Given the mayhem Hammer could be responsible for during his normal drive to work, Trunk was aghast at the potential destruction Hammer might be responsible for during an all-nighter. The very last thing he noticed was the case files.
What's he trying to hide under those files?
On any other morning, we would have dismissed the open case files as irrelevant. The ones on Doreau's desk would have seemed perfectly normal and as for Hammer, well, Hammer often failed to make any sense. Today, something else was going on with both of them. He just couldn't quite see what. He looked away and blinked. He closed one eye, opened it and closed the other, mentally checking his vision. Nothing changed. As he reached his office, he risked a final glance over his shoulder.
There's something else, too. I can see it, but I can't put my finger on it. Yet. She doesn't actually look worse than Hammer, he decided. It's the contrast with her normally neat, well groomed appearance that makes her look worse. Something is definitely on her mind, and under her skin, to make her oblivious to her surroundings. Something? Or someone? Did her appearance have anything to do with Hammer's presence at this ungodly hour? "Coincidence" was certainly not the name of a dog that followed Hammer around.
Trunk opened the door and entered his office. He flicked the lights on and let the door swing shut behind him. He drew a deep breath. It took every bit of restraint that he had to resist screaming "HAAAAAMMMMEEER!" at the top of his lungs, but he succeeded. Instead he released a long slow exhale. He sat down and sipped his coffee.
I will not have a migraine. I will not have a migraine. I will NOT ...
Slowly he massaged his temples and tried to put his thoughts in order.
Hammer? PAPERWORK?! What the hell rabbit hole have I fallen into? Doreau might have come in early, planning to use the time to catch up on paperwork, but Hammer? Not a chance! Hammer is more likely to ignore a scumbag sea urchin jaywalking to an illegally parked getaway car with a bag of loot in each hand than to willingly do paperwork. Yet, there he is, and there IT is. He's hiding something ...
The notion that Hammer was working on those cases never entered his mind. Trunk was tempted to march back out and look for himself, but something warned him to hang back, at least until he knew what was going on. The very concept of Hammer. at work early, was .. unsettling. Actually seeing it, with his own eyes, was worse. Worse still, was the thought of whatever it was Hammer didn't want to be seen working on. Trunk pinched himself again. And again decided he wasn't dreaming.
It was not unusual for Detective Doreau to arrive early. I said that already. It wasn't unusual for her to leave late, either. Even after working through her regular shift, it wasn't unusual for her to be found analysing crime statistics on her computer. It was not unusual for her to put in extra time organizing her case notes. It was simply easier to put in extra time than to listen to Hammer explain all the ways she was wasting time that they could be using to patrol the streets, like real cops.
It was unusual for her not to notice another officer, in this case her superior officer, no more than a dozen feet away. It was unheard of for her to arrive at the precinct looking ruffled and unkempt. The way she was studiously ignoring Hammer was, for some reason, particularly disturbing. A deepening foreboding filled Captain Trunk as it slowly dawned on him that Inspector Hammer might be the least of his concerns this morning.
Finishing his coffee, Trunk leaned back and stared sightlessly at the ceiling. The ceiling stared back, offering no answers.
I wish you had more to say, he mused, while counting plaster patches. It's okay, I get it. Trunk counted seven .. no, there's another .. eight, patched holes in the ceiling. If he'd shot me that many times, I wouldn't help me either. I need to think. What do I know?
A sudden screech of pain brought him bolt upright. He was out of his chair and halfway to the window before the source registered.
HAMMER! No surprise there. What was that numbskull done to harm himself this time?
He parted the blinds to take a peek The tension outside was palpable. Most officers were frozen in place, staring. Two younger detectives poked their heads up from under desks. Doreau sat, undisturbed. The only other person as unconcerned as she was, was the source of the disturbance, and he was busy pretending to not be the source. Trunk sighed and let the blinds close.
Situation normal ... he thought, leaving the rest hanging.
He turned to his office door, slipped his jacket off, and hung it up. Knowing the source of the disturbance, and knowing the cause were two entirely different things. The officers outside were probably as much in the dark as he was. That knowledge wasn't helping. Trunk felt trapped.
Did a deer, in a staring contest with unblinking, onrushing headlights, want to know what was coming? Could it stop staring, even if it knew?
Trunk was just as powerless. He turned back to the window and again parted the slats. This time, he took his time, cataloging his observations.
He was surprised how much time had already passed. The bullpen was perhaps half full already. He glanced around, mentally checking off names. Officer Krupke from the west side district. Detective Foley from the hills. Inspector Avraham ... it took Trunk a moment to place him in Chinatown district. Dunbar from Traffic and Lowry from Narcotics/Vice rounded out the bullpen. The new guy ... from the Canadian exchange program, being rotated through the department to "observe" ... was working the front desk with Majoy.
What was his name? Grenache? Ganache? Gamache! That was it!
Trunk focused on Hammer and Doreau. That scene was basically unchanged. Doreau feigned labor. The 'papers being shuffled, pen making marks, clicking keyboard' kind of labor; not the soul searing, screaming, wishing your partner was dead kind. Or maybe she just hid it better. In either case, there was no sense of progress toward a goal.
Every so often he saw her cast another furtive glance in Hammer's direction. Once, he saw Hammer shrug, and was sure that Doreau noticed, too.
More officers were arriving. A civilian was escorted to Inspector Avraham's desk. Avraham was now busy, probably taking a statement. Occasionally, when a new arrival seemed a bit too curious, Doreau would make eye contact, glare, and shake her head. Each time, the officer retreated. The one time her warning glare was ignored, he saw her pointedly wave the officer away. While he was watching Inspector Perkins from IA appeared. Doreau let him come. From his vantage point, Trunk saw Perkins approach. He saw Hammer start to reach beneath his jacket. He saw Doreau's panic. His own mouth opened, preparing to voice his dissatisfaction.
Before he could voice his own protest, Hammer's hand jerked away from his gun. Doreau had just enough time to avert her eyes. And Perkins escaped with his skin unperforated.
I've fallen into an episode of Pinky and The Brain, Trunk mused
Hammer swivelled his chair left and right, apparently checking to see if anyone had noticed. Doreau had already averted her gaze. Trunk let the blind close, just in case. He realized his mouth was still open, closed it, and reflected on what he had just seen. As clear as day he caught sight of the white grips of Hammer's magnum!
Well, at least I know he hasn't lost his gun, again he thought, wondering what he had lost. As long as he's still upright, I think we can eliminate poison. So what else is there? Hypnosis? Reality TV? I didn't see a camera crew.
Hammer's rumpled, mismatched clothes were, if not expected, not unexpected either. His ties, his socks, his jackets often looked like he could have dressed himself from the "Lost and Found" box in the basement rather than the closet in his apartment. When it came to Hammer's wardrobe, any semblance of coordinated was coincidence. Seen through that lens, Hammer would have appeared normal this morning ... if only he'd arrived an hour later. He was the right man, just at the wrong time.
Doreau's timing might be plausible, but every other aspect of her appearance cried out for an intervention. His fingers pried the blind slats apart again. This time he focused his attention on her. Her hair looked like something she'd just thrown on. And then, there was her clothes! Unless the "slept in look" was some new fashion trend, he had no explanation for her appearance.
No explanation that I'm willing to accept, he qualified himself.
And her face! If there was a time before when he'd seen her without makeup, he couldn't recall it. It only served to emphasize the redness in her eyes; the drawn features, the ... what?
She looks just like Hammer!
The realization of the similarity in their appearance came as a shock. Trunk's face twisted in a grimace as he let the blind drop. He spun on one foot, reaching for a desk drawer which he flung open. Seizing the pink bottle laying inside he spun off the cap and tipped it to his lips.
Empty!
Fingers trembling, he searched for his keys. Fumbling, not daring to breath, he selected one and jabbed in into the lock on his cabinet. Only when it turned did he exhale. With a quick glance over his shoulder to confirm that his door was closed, he opened the cabinet door, revealing that it was filled with neatly stacked rows of pink 'Pepto' bottles.
Good thing I stocked up, he thought, as he chose one bottle and turned back to his desk.
He forced his hands to be steady as he unscrewed the cap and pressed the bottle to his now desperate lips. He tried to force himself to sip, to swallow each mouthful slowly, deliberately; to feel each soothing wavelet of fluid. Instead he gulped, trying to drown the acid feeling in his gut. Regretfully, he added that bottle to the one already in his trash and withdrew a second bottle, which he placed in his desk. Then, like an elaborate ritual, he closed the cabinet door, carefully locked it, and returned the key to his pocket. Involuntarily, his fingers found his temples and began massaging.
It's coming. A migraine. I knew it.
He rose and began pacing, while at the same time massaging his temples.
Up until a moment ago Trunk had been treating Hammer and Doreau as separate problems. And why not? The two of them were as different as night and day. They had different approaches to their work, different interests ... But, looking at their red eyes, their drawn features, their rumpled clothes, the unthinkable occurred to him. What if it's ONE problem?
Captain Trunk returned to the window again.
Like a moth to a flame, he thought for the second time, hoping for a different ending.
He peeked through again, just in time to see Doreau leave her desk. It only took a moment to realize that her target was Officer Daley.
He couldn't see Doreau's face, but he saw Daley's clearly. He knew that look from his wife. It was the look of a woman who knew something juicy, and couldn't wait to tell someone. As soon as Doreau reached her, he saw Daley start speaking. He didn't read lips, and couldn't hear, but Daley was clearly excited, animated, as she spoke. Doreau had turned, only slightly, but enough for Trunk to spot the blush on her cheek. Whatever Daley was saying, it had immediate effect.
He caught his breath, as Daley aimed a playful punch at Doreau's shoulder. Doreau moved faster, gripping Daley's shoulder, turning her and hustling her down the hall towards the lady's room. Whatever news Daley had, Doreau wanted it kept private.
Which left him with Hammer. Hammer was scribbling notes on the pad in front of him. Obviously, he had waited until Doreau couldn't see what he was writing. He finished something, paused as if in thought, and then scribbled some more. Then he ripped the page free, glanced in the direction of the lady's room. The same place Doreau had vanished.
He's hiding something ... from her, Trunk concluded. Sure enough, as soon as he'd confirmed his partner was still out of sight, Hammer opened a desk drawer, dropped the notes inside, and pushed the drawer closed. Then he leaned back in his chair.
Comically, the drawer in question started rolling open, slowly, as if teasing. Hammer looked at it, looked around, and with one foot, pushed it closed again. As soon as his foot returned to the floor, the drawer once again slowly rolled open, as if taunting him. Hammer raised his foot, and pushed the drawer closed for a third time. He drew his Magnum, as though for emphasis, before removing his foot.
Trunk wanted to scream at Hammer, but he didn't want Hammer to know he was watching. He held his breath. The drawer remained closed. With a satisfied smile, Hammer holstered his gun.
Trunk let the blind close, and exhaled slowly. He turned and strode back to his desk, considering what he had just seen.
That man ... can intimidate ... inanimate ... objects!
Trunk couldn't help it. He was impressed. He looked at his desk, decided he was too wound up to sit, and began pacing.
Captain Edmond F. Trunk paced the way some people smoked, or chewed gum, or ate erasers off their pencils. Habitually. Instinctively. To an extent, relentlessly.
Over the time he'd spent around Inspector Sledge Hammer he'd found himself doing it more and more often. He did it to calm his rattled nerves. The repetitive motions brought a sense of order, and even peace, in the midst of chaos. He did it to focus his thoughts. The physical release left his mind free to consider other problems. Right now he was using it for the most common reason he had, to keep from beating his head against the wall.
Just keep moving. He told himself.
Without intending to, he picked up his pace. An outside observer might have seen him become increasingly driven, frantic, almost desperate. However it was described, the result kept him away from the concrete wall. However, it left him neither the time nor the energy to wrestle his thoughts into submission. Uncontrolled, they swirled; a vortex drawing him in; becoming darker by the moment. They filled him with a sense of foreboding. Slowly, inexorably, the black cloud seemed to thicken around him. Smothering him, weighing him down, threatening to engulf him. With a sense of inevitability he felt it tightening around him, like a noose he couldn't escape, choking off any attempt to solve the problem before him, or even to seriously consider what the problem was. He needed to free himself from that cloud before...
He clenched his fists, ground his teeth, and came to a halt.
HOW? How could something like this happen? This? I don't even know what THIS is. Do I really believe that Hammer and Doreau...?
His thoughts trailed off, leaving the conclusion unspoken. He would have preferred to leave that particular thought unthought, but it was too late for that, so unspoken would have to do. He'd undoubtedly have nightmares tonight to go with his migraine.
I trust Doreau, he reminded himself. Not just her police skills, but her judgement as well. More than any other officer in the precinct. More than I trust myself. I have to trust her because I certainly can't trust her lunkhead of a partner.
More than he would ever admit, he depended on her to keep Hammer under some semblance of control.
Every day she faced the same risks as her male peers, without complaint and certainly without asking for anything resembling special consideration. By any reasonable measure, she was their equal in every way … except one. And there she exceeded them all. No one else had a partner like hers.
No one knew better than Captain Trunk how dangerous that partnership was. Captain Trunk had, more than once, found himself collateral damage to Inspector Hammer's casual, even willful, disregard for department policies and procedures. One glance at the patch marks in his office ceiling provided a measure of some of the less destructive incidents in which Trunk had been an unwilling participant. He was certain that there remained a backlog of additional events that he had yet to discover.
Knowing all of this, he also knew that by partnering Doreau and Hammer he was effectively tossing her into the lion's den. Even he was surprised in her ability to somehow, each day, escape unscathed. Mostly unscathed, anyway. Her consistent success in that had created a sense of ... confidence ... that she had at least some control over her partner. Well, mostly. There was that one incident …
That was then; this is now.
Based on what he had seen this morning, Trunk felt his confidence quickly slipping away. His agitation was clear, he was certain, to anyone who could see him. Behind his closed door and blinds, he felt safe from the prying attention of his staff and thankful that no one could see his stressed state. The tenuous equilibrium he had forged between Hammer and Doreau had clearly been disturbed. If he couldn't fix it, and soon, the disturbance would be felt throughout the entire Police force.
"BTFSPLK!" He swore, yet again.
The Captain tried again to force himself into some measure of calm. Stiffly at first, he forced himself to move again, this time measuring his steps to conform to a specific rhythm. A rhythm he knew from past experience would relax his body and free his mind. Ironically, it was a rhythm he had learned from Doreau, when it had proven impossible for him to copy the breathing techniques she used for her meditation. Back and forth; from one side of his office, across in front of his desk to the door on the other side, and back again. Each time he returned to his starting point, he glanced at the clock on his wall; timing himself; confirming that had the measured pace was exactly right.
Lather, rinse, and repeat ...
Slowly, he felt a measure of control returning. Seven seconds to cross the room in seven measured steps. A moment to turn and then seven more to return to his starting point. Tick … tick … tick. The same regular motion as a pendulum.
Although, he calculated quickly, it would have to be a 40 foot long pendulum. Trunk sighed. Although the clock said he had it right, it still felt wrong, as though time was somehow speeding away from him.
Must be the gravity of the situation, he thought wryly.
Trunk passed his hand over his eyes, combing his fingers through his hair, and shook his head.
I really need to cut back on the prime time television sitcoms, he told himself.
Ever so slowly, instinct began to assert itself. Gradually, his steps became more natural; his pace less forced. As his body began to relax, so did his mind, and he found he could now consider what he had seen earlier. At least, what he thought he had seen.
Perhaps I imagined it? That would actually be easier to believe.
He stopped pacing, and turned toward the window separating his office from the bullpen area. As he reached toward the blind, he hesitated.
I have to know, he decided, pushing his fingers between the slats and gently prying them open so that he could peer through – unnoticed, he hoped!
His eyes slowly scanned the room outside. His first order of business was to assess the mood in the room. His eyes narrowed. Things were quiet … too quiet. Instead of the normal office camaraderie with officers milling about discussing cases or engaged in idle gossip, everyone was at their desks, heads down. It was probably just coincidence that their posture also presented the smallest possible target.
Those officers who found it absolutely necessary to leave their desks moved strangely, as if zigging and zagging randomly and making maximum use of the little cover afforded by office furniture. While the "What" behind their actions might be obscure, Trunk was certain of the "Who", "Why" and "Where".
Trunk pondered that to himself. Hammer was unpredictable, everyone knew that. As someone who resorted to shooting the precinct vending machine for not promptly dispensing his purchase, Hammer commanded a certain deference from his peers. As well as from the office machinery. Hammer had once arrested a pair of plain clothes officers, when they had strayed into his personal space, Trunk recalled. Something about his "gut instinct" telling him the two were drug dealers.
Well, Trunk remembered, they were from narcotics division, in to brief Detective Lowry on the apparent drug overdose death of one of their informants.
So, it was no surprise to see officers taking the long way around the office rather than chance Hammer's literally hair trigger "instincts". The vending machines were less mobile. They remained still and hoped Hammer would not get thirsty. Something there caught Trunk's attention. It took him a minute to realize one of the machines was missing. The candy bar machine, he realized.
Where can it have gone?
He wondered, all the while suspecting that the absence was connected to all the other strange goings on. Satisfied that he could learn nothing more from the rank and file outside, Trunk's eyes moved to area Hammer and Doreau shared. He forced himself to view the scene objectively, to analyse what he saw like a detective, and not like a covert superior officer.
Instinctively, his eyes went first to Inspector Sledge Hammer. He easily made out the white grips on the butt of Hammer's infamous "Amigo" peeking from beneath the left lapel of his sports jacket, nestled as close to Hammer's heart as anything or anyone ever got. Whatever was wrong with Hammer had nothing to do with his Gun then. Once again he confirmed Hammer's unshaven features, his tangled hair, and rumpled everything else. Everything spoke to Trunk of a long and probably sleepless night.
Doing what? He wondered. There is no way that lunatic spent the night here doing paperwork. I'm surprised he was able to find paper! It's more likely he was out scouting sniper's roosts, or ambushing joggers in the park.
Trunk made a note to check with Mayjoy and find out if Hammer had delivered his regular assortment of riff-raff this morning.
Usually, Hammer's desk was immaculate. Virginal, even. Hammer would pass time in the office impatiently, loading and unloading his Gun, spinning the cylinder, and practicing his draw. He would check the pins in his grenades and play with the oversized ammunition he kept on display. In all of this, his desk was largely inconsequential, playing at best a supporting role.
Today the desk in front of Hammer was strewn with what appeared to be case files. Hammer had set aside his mutilated pencil and was waving a police baton around like a light sabre. As he was watching, in one particularly aggressive stroke, Hammer swept the WWII cartridges off his desk. They clattered noisily across the floor. Everyone started, and Hammer shrugged.
That may be the closest thing I've seen to normal this morning.
Hammer went about retrieving his cartridge collection. Trunk saw no sign that Hammer had been playing with his gun, or of his other toys. He saw no sign that he was making any progress on any of the files on his desk, either. In fact, Hammer didn't even seem particularly focused on ... anything. They, had the glazed, unfocused, and in Hammer's case, totally unheard of, look of a man lost in thought.
Unknown territory...
Involuntarily, Trunk's lips twitched in a half smile.
How far, he wondered, would Hammer have to wander into that unfamiliar realm to become thoroughly lost? His smile
turned abruptly to a frown as he reflected on the dangers of underestimating anyone – much less Inspector Hammer. Hammer was dangerous enough in a thoughtless state God knows what mayhem is possible if he applies himself. Even Hammer's unfocused stare had a burning intensity that left Trunk certain that bad things would happen when Hammer finished his contemplations.
Trunk shook his head, determined not to get lost in Hammer's forest of failings.
There is only one person, Trunk reflected, normally unfazed by Hammer's often unpredictable behaviour.
Reluctantly, he forced himself to eveluate the other individual at the heart of his concerns – Detective Dori Doreau. She seemed, as usually, consumed by her work. Normally she was Hammer's polar opposite. He was rash, she was cautious. He was cavalier, she was meticulous. She drew conclusions; he drew on them. Trunk wasn't, he realized, even certain that Hammer's mind actually drew a conclusion before his hand drew that hunk of metal he referred to as his "Amigo", but "conclusion" was an apt description for what always followed.
Trunk forced himself to study Doreau systematically, dispassionately; cataloguing every detail that his eyes and mind observed. What he saw confirmed his earlier impression.
Hammer is definitely the least of my problems this morning, he realized.
Doreau, normally impeccable in her grooming, was looking positively rumpled this morning. Trunk had noticed that before, but he went through it again, hoping to catch something he had missed. Her clothes were actually wrinkled. Her hair looked like ... it looked like she had taken the time to brush it during her time in the lady's room. Come to think of it, it looked like she'd done something with her makeup as well.
That created a new puzzle, he realized. What had kept her from those things earlier? What was occupying her time up to now?
What is different about today? He asked himself.
Unlike Hammer, whose attention appeared to be loosely focused on a point somewhere beyond the ceiling, Doreau's attention appeared firmly fixed on the papers spread before her.
Too fixed? He wondered. More intent on not seeing someone than on seeingsomething?
It was her posture that gave her away. Normally erect, today she hunched over her desk, her shoulders and neck rigid. Her left hand grasped a pencil about as delicately as a stonecutter held a chisel while carving an inscription on a granite headstone. All in all, her body language spoke of a tension usually found only in spring steel just before it snapped. Trunk shivered.
The headstone allusion was perhaps a little too apt, he thought, as he pondered what could happen to whatever, or more likely whomever, had put Doreau in this uncharacteristic frame of mind.
Since her face was turned away, Trunk took the time to examine her clothing more closely. This time it was not the uncharacteristically wrinkled appearance that caught his attention, but something else.
The style, the color ... am I turning into a fashion commentator? No, he decided, details were important. Something in those details is important, or it wouldn't keep nagging me.
Then it hit him!
Her clothes! They are exactly the same as yeasterday!
He closed his eyes, and mentally recreated an image of Doreau as he had last seen her.
Seated at the bar, with her back towards him as he was leaving, Doreau had been wearing an off-white dress, with some sort of pattern on it; the same dress that she had worn to the wedding and …
He opened his eyes again, checking his memory against the present reality.
Yes, she was still wearing that same dress this morning.
He closed his eyes again, recalling another detail that made him cringe.
Hammer had been there, too. The two of them were definitely together when I left! Hammer was wearing – his mind remained stubbornly blank on details – leaving him unable to confirm if Hammer's unmatched jacket tie and trousers were also the same as the previous day. Besides, the implications of that were … unthinkable!
Trunk's attention was drawn by a subtle movement. Had he not already had his attention focused on them, he might have missed it. Unmistakably, Doreau had cast a another furtive glance in her partner's direction. Involuntarily, Trunk held his breath and let the blinds partially close, afraid that he might b caught, even if he wasn't the target of her brief inspection. But her attention returned to her desk, with no indication she was aware of anything, save for her partner and the top of her desk.
Trunk let the blinds close completely and turned slowly toward his desk, considering carefully what he had seen in that brief instant. Doreau had been casting occasional glances in Hammer's direction all morning. Trunk knew that glance, from his own time as a Detective on stakeouts. It was the "watching, but hoping to not be seen watching" glance.
She has her partner under surveillance.
The weary look in her eyes was something he'd noted as well. But this time, he'd noticed something else.
Anger? For sure. That wasn't new. Her whole body language suggested that she could karate kick him all the way to the parking lot. And probably enjoy it. But why? What else did I see?
Confusion? Maybe.
Betrayal? Closer perhaps.
Sadness? Loss? Sadness AND loss!
That felt closer to the truth. The complex of emotions he thought he had seen in Doreau's glance at Hammer left him with the feeling of ... expectations? ... hopes? ... somehow shattered beyond repair.
Face it, with any other pair of officers, the conclusion would be obvious. Thus is the aftermath of a breakup. What was there to break up? Sure Doreau had been happy to see him at the wedding , but not THAT happy. Still there was no denying that something was different now. Which left the obvious conclusion that SOMETHING had happened last night.
Trunk slumped into his chair, realizing that he faced with a situation beyond his worst nightmares. Today ceased to concern him. Last night consumed him.
HAMMER – WHAT HAVE YOU DONE NOW?
Unspoken, the words echoed and re-echoed in his mind. Trunk found himself seriously considering the unthinkable.
The fact was that the two of them had been together when he had last seen them the evening before, and again when he had first seen them this morning.
Hammer's very presence here, at this hour, could be explained if the two of them had arrived together. His unshaven face and barely combed hair matched Doreau's superficial attempt at makeup and grooming, and both suggested a rushed morning, at a location where perhaps razors and makeup and hairbrushes were missing unless you brought your own. But, Doreau must have a hairbrush and makeup in her purse, with her. Why didn't she use it earlier, if only to avoid suspicions?
Trunk filed that thought under "hopeful alternatives".
How could it have happened? He asked himself. OK, I know how it happens, how could it happen withHammer? Or Doreau, for that matter, especially when it involves someone she works with? I had more faith in her judgement. And in her choice of men. What was she thinking … or drinking? Was that it?
Again, Trunk closed his eyes and tried to re-create the scene from the previous day.
What had they been drinking? Doreau had a glass with something dark in it. Hammer had been buying her root beers all night, he recalled. Hammer's glass appeared to be – white? Milk?!
Trunk couldn't believe that he was even considering the possibility.
If a champagne fuelled night in the bridal suite while undercover hadn't thrown them into each other's arms, do I really believe that root beer and milk would have that effect?
In fact, the worst outcome that Trunk could foresee involving a glass of milk, was if Hammer was lactose intolerant.
That would hardly lead to a romantic tryst later that night. What then? What could have caused the unthinkable?
It must have been something that had happened earlier in the day, Trunk mused. Hammer avoided his wife. He was upset with Scott. And he hated weddings. So how did he end up there? Why did he end up there? "Someone" must have convinced him to come? The only possible suspects he could come up with were Doreau, or his Gun! Why would his gun want him at a wedding? Great. Now he has me doing it.
From the moment that he had learned about the wedding, Hammer had been .. well Hammer .. but somehow amplified. Trunk knew that dinner with Scott, Susan and Doreau had gone badly the night before. Doreau's description of events, of how Hammer had drawn his gun on his ex-wife and shot up the restaurant, had seemed comical at the time, but now took on more serious overtones.
Hammer had obviously been ill at ease throughout Scott's bachelor party, culminating in his ridiculous attempt to arrest all of revelers, including Trunk himself. That also ended badly, he recalled, remembering Susan's stiff right to Hammer's jaw. What would it have taken to get Hammer past the fact that a woman had nearly broken his jaw in front of half the precinct? Few women had ever stood up to Hammer like that, and all of them …
All of them had one thing in common – Hammer fell for them, Trunk finished his own thought. Susan Hilton, Angelica DelMonte; both were women who had faced Hammer in a physical confrontation. In Susan's case, Hammer had ended up married. The same might have happened with Angelica had she not reconciled with her mobster boyfriend leaving Hammer crushed. Not even that had resulted in Hammer arriving early the next morning.
Doreau was stronger willed than either of them, Trunk was certain. Hammer did respect her fighting skills. It was common knowledge that Hammer had said he'd like to fight her someday – and she'd agreed to take him on. Did they fight? Did Doreau win? Hammer was limping when he entered the church …
News of something like that should have spread like wildfire. There was an office pool on the outcome of that fight. Captain Trunk wasn't supposed to know about it but ...
Trunk always tried to stay in touch with the office grapevine. That's how he knew that the "smart money" was all on Doreau – that without his gun Hammer would go down in a flurry of martial arts kicks – the "high heel to the nose" that Doreau had threatened to some other chauvinist officers on several occasions. Without his gun, Hammer was just another granola sucking wuss – that was their theory, anyway.
Trunk wasn't so sure and had put his money on Hammer. There was no one else in the office that came even close to Hammer in terms of treating men and women exactly the same. "Equal opportunity offenders" he called them, and arrested them all without a hint of gender bias. Trunk knew Hammer considered himself a gentleman, but Trunk also knew that, in any fight, instinct played a large role. Trunk's bets were on Hammer's instincts.
Trunk briefly considered the possibility that he had won the office pool and someone was holding out on him.
OK, a fight might explain Hammer, Trunk rationalized, but what about Doreau? There's not a mark on her. Do you suppose she won? He sighed, realizing that he was chasing in circles. I need clues, not wild conjecture.
Captain Trunk returned to his desk to consider his options.
Maybe I could just ask them to open up and tell me what was wrong?
Trunk couldn't help himself. He giggled.
What am I thinking? Ask Hammer to open up? I might as well ask a walnut to open up. Hammer will simply deny there is anything wrong. He will never talk, certainly never in front of Doreau – at least not without leverage. Doreau … I've never seen Doreau like this, so I have no idea what to expect. She might give me something, but not in front of her partner – especially if her partner was the problem.
The trouble is, if I call her in here now Hammer will assume it's a new case and barge in anyway. If I try to lock him out, he will listen at the door … or shoot it open.
Trunk sighed. He liked his door. He didn't want it shot. If he wanted to talk to Doreau alone he would have to bide his time until Hammer wasn't around.
Maybe if I knew where they were last night …
It was a long shot, but Trunk made a mental note to make some discreet inquiries to the Traffic Division.
If either officer's car had been left on the street or had been driven erratically overnight it might have attracted someone's attention, he thought. It might offer some clue to where they had been. That, in turn, could confirm his worst suspicions or … well, it never hurt to be thorough.
Aside from that, he had … nothing. All he could do was wait, and watch, and act like this was just another day at the precinct. Which it was. Maybe one of them would slip up and leave him some clue as to what was going on, but until then ...
Captain Edmond F. Trunk was not used to waiting. It left him with the kind of impotent feeling that no blue pill could cure.
I do not like it, he decided. Not one little bit.