A Bitter Suite
Rating: PG13
Fandom: Homicide: Life on the Streets
Category: AU
Series: The Power of If, number one.
Summary: 'If' is the most powerful word in the English language. With
it, anything can be made to happen and new possibilities unfold as from
Mary Poppin's carpetbag. What if ... Tim Bayliss failed to survive his
childhood? How might things have changed in the unit?
Archive: yes, to TRIS. All others please ask.
Warnings: Major Character Death. Major AU. Child-rape,
child-molestation. Bad language.
Spoilers: "City That Bleeds", "Partners and Other Strangers"/
"Strangers and Other Partners", "Betrayal", "Three Men and
Adena"
Disclaimer: This work of fiction is owned by the author and may not be
reproduced in any fashion without the author's express written permission.
Homicide: Life on the Street, its characters, and its situations are owned
by NBC and Baltimore Pictures. No copyright infringement is intended.
All other rights available under the law belong to the author. Copyright
June 2000.
Notes: Thanks to Iris Gray and Indalia for beta reading. Many many
thanks to Beth, who must have read four drafts of this puppy, at least.
Beth is Super-Beta. Also, this is for Maggiecat, who asked me for
a happy story ... but this ain't it.
A Bitter Suite
Pembleton was sulking behind his desk, that was the only way to
describe his behavior. He stands there, arms crossed stiffly, a
stormcloud on his brow, practically daring someone to cross his
path. But, then, Pembleton had always had a foul temper, and it
had gotten worse with each passing year in the Homicide Unit.
Fortunately -- or perhaps unfortunately, depending on your point
of view -- he also became a better detective with each passing
year.
It was no wonder the man couldn't keep a partner. I would assign
a rookie, and then start counting days before said hapless rookie
returned to my office, begging to be transferred anywhere so long
as Pembleton didn't work there. So far, the record for shortest time
stands at three hours fourteen minutes, and the longest time stands
at fifteen days. Each time, a little more of the man got locked away
behind a cast-iron wall, never to be seen or heard from again. It
would be a shame to lose him to sheer standoffishness, arguing
with everyone, regardless of rank. I've tried to put Pembleton back
in his place, telling him to just get over himself, and simply accept
a partner, any partner, but all to no avail. Apparently, the perfectionist
didn't want just any partner; he wanted the right partner.
Too bad there's no Partner Fairy in Baltimore.
All of this made me more determined to keep a close eye on the
Homicide Unit, particularly after losing Howard last year.
A senseless death, too. Kay had been serving a warrant on a
murder suspect when everything that could go wrong, had gone
wrong. Felton and Bolander had both been injured, but not as
seriously. Thank God for that. One of Lieutenant Jasper's QRT
units had been present, but something about their actions had been
off somehow, like they were all out of order with each other. Call it
whatever you damn please, miscommunication, internal tension, or
dumbass natural stupidity, but no one talked to anybody else about
anything. Naturally, Jasper's now going on about how this is his
problem and he'll solve it.
Bullshit.
When one cop, any cop, dies, it's a tragedy. When a cop dies
because a fellow cop was careless or negligent, it's criminal. And
Jasper has the nerve to say it's his problem to solve. One of my
people died -- that makes it my problem. It's every cop's problem
because next time it could be you or one of your own people.
What exactly happened, he won't say, but apparently the three squad
members neither liked nor trusted nor even respected their squad
leader. Besides which, Hutchinson rarely attended the drills, using
his rank as a way to avoid work. This man had been a fine officer,
once upon a time, but he'd been in the role too long, and his mates
no longer trusted anything he said. Given everything I was told later,
I wouldn't trust him either ... but, in this case, that dislike cost a good
detective her life.
Hell, a great detective. No one else, before or since, has had a
perfect closure rate three years running. Of course, her rate
staggered a bit, but that was due to taking on some of Crosetti's
cases. Another fine detective lost from the same unit. When was
that, exactly? Some two years before?
I suspect we'll lose Munch in another year or two. He hid it well,
but he had been fond of Kay Howard. When news of her death
reached the squadroom, it hit everyone hard, but him most of
all. After all, he'd been there, on the scene when it all went down
and in the line of fire, but he hadn't even been touched by a bullet.
John paled, whiter than I ever believed possible, and fled to the
men's room. Eventually, pain and grief gave way to rage and
fury, and only the bathroom appliances were there to take the
abuse. It's just as well he hadn't had a suspect waiting; I can
just see the lawsuit coming from that.
Now, Munch is angry and somewhat resentful. He hides it well,
but the anger simmers underneath his skin like a slow cooker.
Outwardly, he hasn't changed much -- possibly he's become
more of a sarcastic bastard than he was before, but otherwise ....
And now the Felton matter. This unit is destructing before my
eyes and there's nothing I can do to prevent it. True, Felton
had been working undercover but he still should have had a
proper back-up in place. Auto Theft and IIA should have had
their asses before a goddamned firing squad for a fuck-up
of this magnitude. All I can do is make sure none of the people
responsible for this fiasco ever wind up assigned to the Homicide
Unit -- except as a name on the board -- because I can just hear
the accusations flying. I can't say it's completely impossible, though,
that Falsone might have arranged Felton's death solely to win
his spot in the unit.
In your dreams, boy.
Unpacking his desk, Lewis is on the edge of tears. This is
the second partner he's lost in less than five years -- Crosetti
and then Felton -- so I suppose I can't blame him for being
upset. Now this forced transfer to Vice, not even to Fugitive
Squad where there was some chance he might catch the rat
bastard who slaughtered his partner, but instead to Vice.
That's something else I wish I could change, but it's out of my
hands.
Bolander is quiet, seated at his desk, listening to a small transistor
radio. He's due to retire any time now, in fact, he could retire any
time he wished in the time it took to type up and sign the papers.
Most people don't know why he's still here even, why 'Stan the
Man' is still working the dreary dismal job of murder police when
he could be out somewhere fishing or practicing his cello or visiting
with old partners.
I know why he's still here, after all this time.
From here, I can catch the whiff of old paper, yellowed and cracked
with age. Here and there in places, someone -- probably Bolander
himself -- has added plasticine covers in a vain attempt to protect
the scratched and spidery handwriting and dulled typeface in the
old records. The music swells in the background, a delicate blend
of strings, but the gruff detective isn't hearing the notes.
Instead, he's remembering one of his early cases, the one he
couldn't close. The one that haunts his days and nights to this day.
You never forget your first case.
You never forget your first murdered child.
And, if that same first case and same first murdered child add up to
an open case after twenty-eight years, that's cause for a detective's
hell.
Bayliss, Timothy James. Nine years old. Found by a jogger early
one snowy January morning, laying there face down in a snowbank,
half covered by the evil white stuff, like it was in collusion with his
murderer. Frost hung off his eyelashes, miniature icicles of
sorrow; yet the snow continued to fall softly, a crying sky's weeping
gone cold to ice. Dressed in little dungarees, a red-and-white
baseball shirt, and sneakers. Raped and strangled, then dumped
on a street like yesterday's garbage.
The coroner found one strange thing, though, something that
should have closed the case. Timmy had fresh toothpaste in
his mouth, along with fluid that no child should know about.
This crime had occurred at home, that much was clear,
but the family wouldn't talk.
They had no idea who had hurt their little boy. They had
no idea how this had happened. Yes, he had eaten and
then gone to bed. They had no idea how he wound up
outside.
Bolander had been certain that both parents and several
of the other family members knew exactly what had happened.
At least, they knew who had done this, but they weren't talking.
They never did ... and a child's murderer got away clean. That
had been a terrible thing for the unit, but Bolander bore most
of the pain and guilt. The scene was cleared too soon, he
said. Too many people had trampled it before the crime
scene unit arrived, he said. Much of the evidence had been
lost in the snow or compromised or otherwise ruined, he
said. Lots of witnesses and no one would talk, he said.
And Stan Bolander couldn't let it go.
Dead children are hard to handle. Everyone on the case
suffers from something while working it, and the effects are
ten times worse if you have children yourself. You see each
dead child as your own. I know. I have three kids myself, and
I dread every call about a murdered child.
Another bad child-murder case some five or six years ago,
the Adena Watson case, ruffled lots of feathers. Luckily,
Pembleton had been in the squadroom that evening and in
a reasonably good mood. He took that case, and ignored
everyone else on the scene, damn the pouring rain and the
fact that everyone sane wanted the scene closed so they
could get in under cover. It was just him and the girl, no one
else mattered, that much was clear. But it paid off -- the smug
bastard found a tiny scrap of evidence that otherwise would
have gotten lost in the rain or during collection -- and closed
the case.
Bolander looked into getting Risley Tucker for the Bayliss
rape/murder, but it didn't wash. So, the man stays here
in this damned job, hoping for a lead. After waiting so long,
I know that call will never come. I also think that, after Stan
finally does retire, he may turn to the bottle and drown the
nightmares of a cold little dark-haired boy with big hazel
eyes. A little boy, asking 'why?'
Now, though, a new detective will be joining my angels of
justice to replace Lewis. I'll probably have to pick out a few
more people to fill all the empty slots; the detectives have
done well picking up the slack, but they can't keep those kind
of hours forever. Even though they're my people, they're not
perfect; we are only men, speaking for the dead. He's a good
detective with some investigative experience. That sort of
experience will do him good in this division.
He's recently come off an extensive undercover job, and by
all accounts had done a great job of it. Such behavior might
even merit him a small recognition of some kind, at the very
least a notation in his record. Hopefully, he's retained some of
the patience that sort of long-term undercover demands.
Mike Kellerman will be a good addition to the unit. True,
he talks a bit excessively, and he's given to overemotional
responses. Still, he's a good detective with a mostly good
record in Arson and a short span in Auto Theft.
I'll have to pair him with Pembleton, and this time Frank will
just have to deal with it. The higher-ups are starting to look
sideways at me, and I won't have that. Time to get in his face
and make him deal with it, come hell, high water, and
bureaucratic B.S. red-tape.
It just wouldn't do to have one of our detectives hauled off
for murder.
END
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