New York Minute 4
May. 9th, 2005 04:24 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bedlamsbardGod, my day has been such an emotional rollercoaster it's not even funny. I went from extremely depressed to extremely angry to extremely annoyed to mildly annoyed to frustrated to happy and relieved to extremely annoyed to tired back to extremely depressed. All in one day. And it's all my bitch of a German teacher's fault. I swear to God, I would take Spanish next year if I could fit two more years into my schedule, but I can't. Which means I have to put up with Frau R for another year, then I can take Running Start at the college or something. I can get away from her.
And I know I'm doing something right when I manage to make myself teary. Mac may have a heart after all. Although that part was in Chapter Five, which I haven't finished yet.
Like all hospitals, this one stank of disinfectant and horror. Mac shuddered as he walked in, then chided himself for the thought. Doctors moved back and force, hustling patients in and out and back again.
A nurse stopped to look him over, obviously puzzled at the lack of any visible injury. “Can I help you, sir?”
“I’m looking for Detective Stella Bonasera.”
The woman looked puzzle for a moment.
“The detective who was hit by a car,” Mac qualified.
“Oh! Right, she’s down the hall, second door on the left.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said. He followed her instructions, only to be met by a stony-faced uniform at the door.
“Detective Taylor?” the man said, glaring at him like he was a perp.
“Yes.” He flashed his badge.
“The doctors are working on her, sir.”
“Can I see her?”
The uniform – his name-tag read Mark Newell – shrugged. “They wouldn’t let anyone in.”
Mac leaned against the wall. “I’ll just wait here, then.”
*
“Who the hell are you?” the detective demanded, looking up and down Aiden as if she was a particularly appetizing cut of meat, rather than a CSI.
Aiden glared right back at him. “Detective Aiden Burn, from the Crime Lab. Somebody called for a CSI?”
“Yeah, and I’m supposed to believe that?”
“Yeah, you are.” She shoved back her coat so he could see her badge and let him stare at it for a good thirty seconds. “Seeing’s how it’s true and all.” Aiden glanced around the dark stairwell, wrinkling her nose. “I don’t suppose you’d maybe consider letting me know what’s goin’ on, huh?”
“I called for a CSI, not for some hotshot female with a badge who thinks a diploma makes her a cop.”
“Ya’ got a problem working with a woman, punk?”
“I got a problem working with a rookie, and I gotta problem working with a girl.”
Aiden scowled at him. Who does this son of a bitch think he is? “Well, I’m sorry if you were expecting Detective Taylor or Detective Messer, but they’re all tied up on other cases. One dead and five injured in a shooting takes precedence over your personal problems, thanks. So does one of our detectives in the ER. And I’m not a rookie. I’m an NYPD detective and a CSI.”
“I want a real detective.”
“You’re talking to one. What’s your crime and where’s your crime scene? The quicker I get this over with, the sooner we’ll be out of each other’s hair.” Aiden glanced over his shoulder at the uniform behind him when the detective didn’t reply. “Hey, officer. What’s the problem?”
The patrolman looked at the detective, then at Aiden. “Rape-murder, Detective Burn. The victim was an undercover narcotics officer.” He looked a little sickened. “Officer Delia Shelley.”
Aiden glared at the detective. “You were bitching about me being a woman when you got a dead cop back there? Man, you are one sick son of a bitch.” She moved to push past him, but he stepped in her way.
“Go back to your white lab, bitch, and tell them to send me a real detective.”
Aiden put her hand on his arm and shoved him to the side. “Go back to your momma and tell her to send the NYPD a real man. We need cops, not sexist bastards.” She looked over at the officer again. “Lead me to the body, officer. I got a job to do.”
*
“Blood spatter here too, Danny,” Flack called. “That’s – what, seven? We got the DOA and the other five that were injured, but who was the seventh?”
“That’s the question, I guess,” Danny said. He frowned at the interrupted blood spatter on the wall, the same blood spatter he’d been looking at when Stella – his mind shied away from the thought. “Why would anybody run away when EMS is coming? Why not just stay and wait to be taken to the hospital?”
“Maybe they ran out before the shooter left?”
Danny shook his head. “No, that’s impossible. The shooter was standing in the doorway, nobody could get past her. So the JD left after the perp but before the cops arrived. Why?”
Flack shrugged. “Had somethin’ to hide?”
“Yeah, I guess.” He scowled. “Christ, this scene’s tellin’ us nothing. We got six known vics: Shannon Akers, Alicia Martinez, Jordan Hansbrecker, Luz Morales, John Young, and Syd Watson. Akers is the DOA, the others get taken to the hospital by EMS. Meanwhile, we got another vic, a myserty vic, who gets hit –” He glared at the blood spray. “– probably not anywhere too important, there’s not enough blood for it to have hit an artery. Our mystery vic then runs off after the perp runs, sometime between 1:47 when the shooting started –” He nodded at a broken clock on the wall. “– and 1:56, when PO Velasquez arrived.”
“That’s a nine minute window,” Flack said. “If the evidence we got ain’t telling us a damn thing, then maybe we gotta follow the evidence outside.”
“The JD’s blood trail,” Danny agreed. “We’ll make a CSI of ya’ yet, Flack. You got anyone out there looking for the gun?”
“Put some uniforms on it, yeah. They’re going over the next three blocks with a fine tooth comb.” He looked thoughtful for a minute. “Look, Danny…”
“What?”
Flack shook his head. “I don’t know. Forget it. Let’s go huntin’ wabbits, huh?”
Danny slung his camera around his neck. “Well, lead the way.”
*
“Detective Taylor? I’m Doctor Johnson.”
Mac turned to the doctor coming out of the room, his face pale and exhausted. “I’d say it’s a pleasure, but under the circumstances…” He held out his hand.
Johnson shook it, warmly. “I’m afraid I have some good new and some bad news about your partner, Detective.”
Mac swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. He licked at his lips. Stella… “Will she live?”
“Almost certainly. The car caught her a glancing blow, too light to do any major damage – Detective Bonasera’s quite lucky. She has two broken ribs, a broken collarbone, and a fractured tibia, but no internal damage. Numerous scrapes, of course, but that can only be expected.”
“Is that the bad news?”
The doctor shook his head sadly. “I wish it was, but I’m afraid not. Detective Bonasera sustained a head injury. There’s no way to tell when she’ll wake up. It could be ten minutes, it could be ten days.”
Mac leaned back, struck as if by a physical blow. He could almost see himself falling, responding to the punch, and the slow spray of blood across the wall. Large, slow blood droplets, from a low-impact injury, not the vast fog of tiny droplets from a gunshot. Blood spatter, and when he blinked and looked again it was gone. Ghost spatter. “Stella’s in a coma,” he said, trying to understand the words. “Stella’s –”
Stella. In a coma. Stella, bright eyes closed, perfect skin and high cheekbones marred by cuts and bruises. Stella, in a hospital bed, hooked up to this machine and that machine, with a cast on her leg.
Stella. Dying, maybe. Maybe dead, inside.
“It’s highly likely she’ll recover fully,” Johnson was saying, looking at the wall behind Mac. “There’s just no way to tell –”
“Can I see her?” Mac interrupted.
“I’m sorry?”
“Can I see her?” he repeated, patiently.
Johnson looked hesitant. “Well, of course, but she’s not –”
“I’m not going to do anything,” Mac said. “I just want to be with her. Talk to her.”
“She can’t hear you, Detective.”
“I don’t care,” Mac said, swallowing past the surprising lump in his throat. “She’s my partner.” And she is, he realized with dull shock, even though the Crime Lab doesn’t do partners. Stella’s his partner, and she has been for years. She’s always had his back and he hadn’t realized it –
– until now. Until she’s lying, broken and bruised and maybe forever, in a hospital bed in a New York ER.
You don’t know what you have until you’ve lost it.
“She’s my partner,” Mac repeated with dawning comprehension.
Johnson shook his head reluctantly. “I don’t suppose it can do any harm,” he said, pushing the door open. “Just don’t expect any miracles,” he added. “I’ll leave you alone, Detective.”
“Thank you,” Mac said softly, as the door closed behind him.
All forensics information is from The Forensics Casebook by N.E. Genge. It's a really good book, I highly recommend it. I'm also going to add this quote, from Cop by Michael L. Middleton, an ex-LAPD sergeant:
(After an injured cop has been taken to the hospital and the nurse orders Middleton to leave): "No, I'm not. I'm not going anywhere unless he goes somewherem and if he does, I'm going with him. He's my officer, and I'm not leaving him."
(And, from another section, about where a SWAT officer is injured): The news camera caught not only his fall but also the reactions of the other officers. For a brief moment officers were more concerned with the wounded officer than with the fact that additional suspects could still be inside. The traumatic impact of the officer's injury extended much beyond him. The whole group was affected, and that's usually what happens."
And I know I'm doing something right when I manage to make myself teary. Mac may have a heart after all. Although that part was in Chapter Five, which I haven't finished yet.
Like all hospitals, this one stank of disinfectant and horror. Mac shuddered as he walked in, then chided himself for the thought. Doctors moved back and force, hustling patients in and out and back again.
A nurse stopped to look him over, obviously puzzled at the lack of any visible injury. “Can I help you, sir?”
“I’m looking for Detective Stella Bonasera.”
The woman looked puzzle for a moment.
“The detective who was hit by a car,” Mac qualified.
“Oh! Right, she’s down the hall, second door on the left.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” he said. He followed her instructions, only to be met by a stony-faced uniform at the door.
“Detective Taylor?” the man said, glaring at him like he was a perp.
“Yes.” He flashed his badge.
“The doctors are working on her, sir.”
“Can I see her?”
The uniform – his name-tag read Mark Newell – shrugged. “They wouldn’t let anyone in.”
Mac leaned against the wall. “I’ll just wait here, then.”
*
“Who the hell are you?” the detective demanded, looking up and down Aiden as if she was a particularly appetizing cut of meat, rather than a CSI.
Aiden glared right back at him. “Detective Aiden Burn, from the Crime Lab. Somebody called for a CSI?”
“Yeah, and I’m supposed to believe that?”
“Yeah, you are.” She shoved back her coat so he could see her badge and let him stare at it for a good thirty seconds. “Seeing’s how it’s true and all.” Aiden glanced around the dark stairwell, wrinkling her nose. “I don’t suppose you’d maybe consider letting me know what’s goin’ on, huh?”
“I called for a CSI, not for some hotshot female with a badge who thinks a diploma makes her a cop.”
“Ya’ got a problem working with a woman, punk?”
“I got a problem working with a rookie, and I gotta problem working with a girl.”
Aiden scowled at him. Who does this son of a bitch think he is? “Well, I’m sorry if you were expecting Detective Taylor or Detective Messer, but they’re all tied up on other cases. One dead and five injured in a shooting takes precedence over your personal problems, thanks. So does one of our detectives in the ER. And I’m not a rookie. I’m an NYPD detective and a CSI.”
“I want a real detective.”
“You’re talking to one. What’s your crime and where’s your crime scene? The quicker I get this over with, the sooner we’ll be out of each other’s hair.” Aiden glanced over his shoulder at the uniform behind him when the detective didn’t reply. “Hey, officer. What’s the problem?”
The patrolman looked at the detective, then at Aiden. “Rape-murder, Detective Burn. The victim was an undercover narcotics officer.” He looked a little sickened. “Officer Delia Shelley.”
Aiden glared at the detective. “You were bitching about me being a woman when you got a dead cop back there? Man, you are one sick son of a bitch.” She moved to push past him, but he stepped in her way.
“Go back to your white lab, bitch, and tell them to send me a real detective.”
Aiden put her hand on his arm and shoved him to the side. “Go back to your momma and tell her to send the NYPD a real man. We need cops, not sexist bastards.” She looked over at the officer again. “Lead me to the body, officer. I got a job to do.”
*
“Blood spatter here too, Danny,” Flack called. “That’s – what, seven? We got the DOA and the other five that were injured, but who was the seventh?”
“That’s the question, I guess,” Danny said. He frowned at the interrupted blood spatter on the wall, the same blood spatter he’d been looking at when Stella – his mind shied away from the thought. “Why would anybody run away when EMS is coming? Why not just stay and wait to be taken to the hospital?”
“Maybe they ran out before the shooter left?”
Danny shook his head. “No, that’s impossible. The shooter was standing in the doorway, nobody could get past her. So the JD left after the perp but before the cops arrived. Why?”
Flack shrugged. “Had somethin’ to hide?”
“Yeah, I guess.” He scowled. “Christ, this scene’s tellin’ us nothing. We got six known vics: Shannon Akers, Alicia Martinez, Jordan Hansbrecker, Luz Morales, John Young, and Syd Watson. Akers is the DOA, the others get taken to the hospital by EMS. Meanwhile, we got another vic, a myserty vic, who gets hit –” He glared at the blood spray. “– probably not anywhere too important, there’s not enough blood for it to have hit an artery. Our mystery vic then runs off after the perp runs, sometime between 1:47 when the shooting started –” He nodded at a broken clock on the wall. “– and 1:56, when PO Velasquez arrived.”
“That’s a nine minute window,” Flack said. “If the evidence we got ain’t telling us a damn thing, then maybe we gotta follow the evidence outside.”
“The JD’s blood trail,” Danny agreed. “We’ll make a CSI of ya’ yet, Flack. You got anyone out there looking for the gun?”
“Put some uniforms on it, yeah. They’re going over the next three blocks with a fine tooth comb.” He looked thoughtful for a minute. “Look, Danny…”
“What?”
Flack shook his head. “I don’t know. Forget it. Let’s go huntin’ wabbits, huh?”
Danny slung his camera around his neck. “Well, lead the way.”
*
“Detective Taylor? I’m Doctor Johnson.”
Mac turned to the doctor coming out of the room, his face pale and exhausted. “I’d say it’s a pleasure, but under the circumstances…” He held out his hand.
Johnson shook it, warmly. “I’m afraid I have some good new and some bad news about your partner, Detective.”
Mac swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. He licked at his lips. Stella… “Will she live?”
“Almost certainly. The car caught her a glancing blow, too light to do any major damage – Detective Bonasera’s quite lucky. She has two broken ribs, a broken collarbone, and a fractured tibia, but no internal damage. Numerous scrapes, of course, but that can only be expected.”
“Is that the bad news?”
The doctor shook his head sadly. “I wish it was, but I’m afraid not. Detective Bonasera sustained a head injury. There’s no way to tell when she’ll wake up. It could be ten minutes, it could be ten days.”
Mac leaned back, struck as if by a physical blow. He could almost see himself falling, responding to the punch, and the slow spray of blood across the wall. Large, slow blood droplets, from a low-impact injury, not the vast fog of tiny droplets from a gunshot. Blood spatter, and when he blinked and looked again it was gone. Ghost spatter. “Stella’s in a coma,” he said, trying to understand the words. “Stella’s –”
Stella. In a coma. Stella, bright eyes closed, perfect skin and high cheekbones marred by cuts and bruises. Stella, in a hospital bed, hooked up to this machine and that machine, with a cast on her leg.
Stella. Dying, maybe. Maybe dead, inside.
“It’s highly likely she’ll recover fully,” Johnson was saying, looking at the wall behind Mac. “There’s just no way to tell –”
“Can I see her?” Mac interrupted.
“I’m sorry?”
“Can I see her?” he repeated, patiently.
Johnson looked hesitant. “Well, of course, but she’s not –”
“I’m not going to do anything,” Mac said. “I just want to be with her. Talk to her.”
“She can’t hear you, Detective.”
“I don’t care,” Mac said, swallowing past the surprising lump in his throat. “She’s my partner.” And she is, he realized with dull shock, even though the Crime Lab doesn’t do partners. Stella’s his partner, and she has been for years. She’s always had his back and he hadn’t realized it –
– until now. Until she’s lying, broken and bruised and maybe forever, in a hospital bed in a New York ER.
You don’t know what you have until you’ve lost it.
“She’s my partner,” Mac repeated with dawning comprehension.
Johnson shook his head reluctantly. “I don’t suppose it can do any harm,” he said, pushing the door open. “Just don’t expect any miracles,” he added. “I’ll leave you alone, Detective.”
“Thank you,” Mac said softly, as the door closed behind him.
All forensics information is from The Forensics Casebook by N.E. Genge. It's a really good book, I highly recommend it. I'm also going to add this quote, from Cop by Michael L. Middleton, an ex-LAPD sergeant:
(After an injured cop has been taken to the hospital and the nurse orders Middleton to leave): "No, I'm not. I'm not going anywhere unless he goes somewherem and if he does, I'm going with him. He's my officer, and I'm not leaving him."
(And, from another section, about where a SWAT officer is injured): The news camera caught not only his fall but also the reactions of the other officers. For a brief moment officers were more concerned with the wounded officer than with the fact that additional suspects could still be inside. The traumatic impact of the officer's injury extended much beyond him. The whole group was affected, and that's usually what happens."