JUST THIS ONE (2/3)

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Just This One (2/3)

“One-Adam-12, clear,” Jim reported. He'd barely gotten the words out of his mouth when he yawned so loudly it covered up the dispatcher's acknowledgment. “Sorry,” he apologized as Pete rolled his eyes and shook his head.

“No need to apologize. Just don't let me catch you nodding off over there.”

“After that heavy lunch at Duke's, I'm even more ready for a nap. Maybe I'll stick my head out the window and the breeze will keep me awake.” Reed paused, then turned to Pete. “Dogs do that, you know.”

“Do what?”

“Stick their heads out of the windows of moving cars. You ever wonder why dogs do that, Pete?”

“Can't say that I have, Jim.”

“One of life's great mysteries, I guess,” Jim commented. He leaned into the window a little further so that the breeze ruffled his hair.

“So, how was Jimmy doing when you called from Duke's?” Pete asked.

Jim pulled his head back and frowned. The breeze had caused the front of his hair to stick straight up. Pete started laughing at the comical sight.

“What?” Jim demanded.

“You look like Alfalfa,” Pete guffawed. “And that won't do. If you look like Alfalfa, it's just a matter of time until Wells or some other wiseguy calls me Spanky, and I'd have to hurt him.”

Jim frantically finger-combed his hair back in place.

“Much better. Now tell me about Jimmy.”

“I never got an answer,” Jim told him, leaning into the rear view mirror to double check his hair.

“You're obstructing my view, Reed.”

“Sorry, Spanky,” Jim shot back.

“You remember what I said about what Wells would do to you if you were riding with him today?” Pete asked with a growl. “You're about two seconds from meeting that same fate with me.”

“One-Adam-12, one-Adam-12, a 415-juvenile. 569 Eden Way. One-Adam-12, handle code 2.”

“One-Adam-12, roger.” Jim acknowledged, scribbling down the address. “Isn't that a dead-end street?”

“I think so.”

“There's a couple of vacant houses there, I think. What you want to bet they're missing a few windows now?”

“No bet, partner.”

Jim glanced at his watch. “Not quite 2:30 -- looks like we might have some more truants. What is it with kids, anyway?”

“If I had the answer to that, I'd write a book and get rich.”

“Yeah.”

They rode the remaining eight blocks in terse silence. When they made the turn that brought the street in sight, it looked deceptively calm. Malloy steered the car to the end of the street where a vacant two-story house stood, a crooked “For Sale” sign staked in the front yard.

“Nobody out front,” Pete observed. “Let's walk around back.”

Suddenly a series of sharp pops and the sound of crashing glass, punctuated by assorted masculine whooping and hollering, shattered the quiet. The two shared a quick look, and opened their doors. Jim grabbed the mic, reported them Code 6, then joined Malloy as he walked toward the backyard.

When they cautiously rounded the corner of the house, they found three teenaged boys standing in the grass in the backyard. One of them used a b-b gun to take random shots at the windows of the house. The other two boys hurled loose rocks at the glass, taking out the few intact panes that had survived the b-b gun. They all appeared to be enjoying themselves immensely. Pete and Jim could hear the young vandals as they laughed, joked, and egged each other on. A quick look revealed that almost all of the rear windows on the first floor had been broken, and about half of the second floor ones had shared a similar fate. The boys seemed oblivious to the officers' approach.

“Great. Just great,” Jim muttered.

“Nice, wholesome entertainment,” Pete sighed. “Watch yourself, Jim. It might just be a b-b gun, but a b-b could still put your eyes out.”

“Yeah, that's what my mom used to say.”

One boy finally noticed the pair, dropped the rock he had in his hand and shouted a warning to his partners-in-crime.

“Freeze! Police!” Reed barked.

Of course, the three did no such thing. They bolted, speeding around the opposite corner of the house, with Pete and Jim in foot pursuit.

“Hold it, boys, hold it!” Pete yelled.

Heedless, the boys sped on, running down the street away from the house. When they reached the end of the street, the boys split up. The boy with the b-b gun peeled off to the left, and the other two turned right.

“I'll take the one with the gun!” Pete yelled, and motioned for Reed to follow the other two.

Pete banked left and was just vaguely aware of Reed speeding past him on the right. Malloy found himself on a broad residential street, about a half a block behind the youngster with the b-b gun. He called out again for the kid to halt, but again, the youngster ignored his command and ran on. The teenager glanced over his shoulder once, then tossed his b-b gun aside and kept going. Pete made a mental note of where the gun landed so he could pick it up later.

The pursuit continued, taking them toward a major intersection for a busy traffic artery, and Pete hoped the kid might slow down as he made a decision whether to cross or turn. Pete picked up his speed a notch. He knew he couldn't match his partner's speed, but his own brand of stubborn determination drove him to make sure this kid wouldn't elude him.

Malloy got his wish from the fleeing teenager. Faced with a street filled with rapidly moving traffic, the boy slowed long enough to check the conditions and Pete gained on him. Pete also gambled that the boy wouldn't chance getting killed crossing the street and he angled his pursuit to the left, the only direction the boy could run in relative safety. His gamble paid off. The youngster turned left, taking him directly into the path of Pete's altered trajectory. Within a half-dozen strides, Pete drew within lunging distance of the kid. He took the boy down with an awkward tackle that sent them both sprawling on the sidewalk. They rolled over once, then Pete had the young suspect pinned with a knee to the back. He pulled the teen's hands behind his back and cuffed him.

“All right, son, on your feet,” Pete snapped, pulling the boy up.

“Don't hurt me!” The boy pleaded, genuine fear in his face.

“Nobody's gonna hurt you, son,” Pete assured him between deep breaths of hot, heavy air. How'd Jim run twelve blocks in this torture? “Why'd you run?”

“You saw,” the boy said, hanging his head. “I had to.”

“What's your name, son?” Pete asked.

“Richard. Richard Knighton.”

“Richard, why were you shooting up the house?” Pete leaned over and retrieved his hat, which had fallen off during the tackle. “What's going on?”

“Don't I get my rights?” Richard demanded.

“Well, I haven't arrested you yet,” Pete drawled, “But if you insist, we'll go that route.” Pete pulled the Miranda card from his pocket. “Listen up. You're under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. If you give up the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney and to have the attorney present during questioning. If you cannot afford one, and so desire, one will be appointed for you by the court at no charge. Do you understand these rights as I have explained them to you?”

“Yeah, yeah, I understand.”

“Do you wish to give up your right to remain silent? Do you wish to give up your right to an attorney and to have him present during questioning?”

“I . . . I..maybe you should call my parents,” Knighton stammered.

“Don't worry, we will. But you can answer this question for me.” Malloy took the boy by the elbow and steered him back toward Eden Way.

“What's that?”

“Aren't you supposed to be in school?”

“Uh, well, you see, well, I, ah . . . ” The boy couldn't seem to string a coherent sentence together.

“Yes or no will do,” Malloy drawled.

“Yessir.”

“Hmmm. How old are you, Richard?”

“Sixteen.”

“Where can I reach your parents?” Malloy asked.

“My mom should be at home. My dad's at work, but she can reach him.”

“We'll call from the station,” Pete said. “Who are your buddies back there?”

Richard cut his eyes over at Pete but didn't answer.

“Nothing to say, huh? Well, that's all right. My partner's a lot faster than me. I'm sure he's dragging them both back even as we speak.” I hope he got them both.

“They're pretty fast, too. They play football.” Richard offered.

“So did my partner. And he doesn't give up easily.”

They walked back to the street the rest of the way in silence, stopping along the way to retrieve the b-b gun. When they arrived at Eden Way, Reed and the two boys weren't in sight, so Pete put the b-b gun in the trunk, strapped Knighton in the front seat next to him and drove in search of Jim. He had the radio mic in his hand preparing to report their status and request assistance when he spied Reed walking up the next street, both suspects in tow.

“He got 'em,” Knighton said in surprise.

“Never doubted it,” Pete responded. He made the turn up the street and met Jim halfway. As he got closer, Pete could see that the suspects Jim had handcuffed together looked exactly alike.

“Everything okay?” Pete asked through the open window.

“No problems,” Jim assured him. He opened the back door of the unit and helped the boys get into the back. “We got two for the price of one, today Pete. Meet Daniel and David Miller. Identical twins.”

“So I noticed.”

“And in identical trouble, I might add,” Jim continued grimly. He opened the front door, took Richard out and settled him in the back seat along with his companions. He then tossed his hat in the front seat and slid in beside it. He reached for the mic, which Pete had replaced on the holder.

“One-Adam-12, show us out to the station.”

“One-Adam-12, roger.”

****
A half-hour later, Malloy sat with Richard Knighton and his parents in Mac's office. Reed was down the hall with the twins, waiting on their parents to show. When they'd returned to the station, they checked in with juvenile detectives, but none were available. They next contacted the realty company, who in turn contacted the owner of the house. The owner showed up, as angry as they'd expected, as he had every right to be. They'd left the owner in Mac's care, letting their sergeant discuss his options with him.

When they'd run the kids, they'd found that none had records. A call to the school revealed a stellar record there, too. Richard maintained a straight-A average, held membership in the honor-society and had a good reputation. David and Daniel were above-average students and lettermen in both football and wrestling. The principal reported that the twins were well-liked by their peers, though they had a few minor office referrals for tardiness and talking. Nothing to get excited about, and definitely not the profiles of typical juvenile vandals.

A perplexed Pete watched Knighton's parents as he conducted the interview. They were in a lull right now, waiting for Mac to return. What happened to the young vandals pretty much depended upon the outcome of the discussion with the owner, and the Knightons appeared particularly anxious. Mrs. Knighton seemed to be on the verge of tears and the father, a dentist, paced the floor relentlessly. Their faces revealed puzzlement, anger, and despair, but Pete got the feeling that something was missing in the relationship with their boy.

“Richard, I just don't understand it,” Dr. Knighton said for the tenth time, as he paced the length of Mac's office again. “You cut school, took your b-b gun and shot up windows in an empty house. Why? And why were you hanging out with those Miller boys? You aren't friends with them.”

The answer from Richard echoed his responses from the previous times. “I don't know why. I just did it.”

“That's not acceptable, Son! You just don't go out and throw away everything you've worked for without a reason!”

“Thad, please,” Mrs. Knighton sniffed.

“Then you talk to him!” Dr. Knighton roared.

“Sir, try to stay calm,” Pete interjected, his voice measured and quiet.

“Easy for you to say, officer!” Dr. Knighton whirled and glared at Pete. “This isn't your son sitting here! Your straight-A, honor-society, Stanford-bound son!”

The younger Knighton rolled his eyes and crossed his arms in a defiant gesture.

“All I'm saying is we'll make more progress here if we all keep our heads,” Pete insisted.

“Son,” Mrs.Knighton said through her tears, “please talk to us. Haven't we given you everything you've ever needed? The best schools, the best clothes, the best neighborhoods? We've sacrificed so much for you. All we've asked in return is for you to work hard and do what's right. Help us understand what's wrong.”

When Richard still didn't respond, Dr. Knighton became angry again. “Aw, Evelyn, you always soft-pedal the boy! Don't be so mewling! Of course he's had the best of everything! We've seen to that! But apparently he doesn't appreciate it!” The dentist moved to stand over the boy and looked down on him in anger. “I demand that you tell us what's going on in that head of yours!”

“Yeah, that's just your style, isn't it, Dad?” Richard said bitterly. “Yell and stomp and demand that everything goes just your way. Well, maybe I will tell you. Maybe I don't want to go to Stanford. Maybe I'm tired of making straight-As. Maybe I don't want all 'the best of everything'.”

Both parents looked at their child as if he'd grown a second head. Dr. Knighton looked at Pete and motioned toward his son. “What did I say? What did I say? Ungrateful. Selfish and ungrateful. What else can we do? What else can we give a child who has everything?”

Pete had to bite his tongue to keep from screaming the obvious answer at them. In all of the dialogue, Pete hadn't heard the word “love” one time. It was looking more and more like this was a child in desperate need of some.

Instead of screaming, though, Pete merely shook his head and asked quietly, “Why don't you ask your son?”

******
“Let me get this straight,” Jim said, suppressing a sigh. “You have a good home life. You love your parents. You know your parents love you. You like school and love playing sports there. You have lots of friends. Did I miss anything?”

The twins shared a quick look, then both shook their heads in the negative.

Reed leaned on his elbows at the table where he sat across from the Miller twins. Two pursuits in the heat, no sleep, and questioning the identical vandals had given him a king-sized headache. He was still waiting for the parents to arrive, or Mac to come back with some direction, or for juvenile detectives to finally show up and relieve him. He felt on the verge of falling dead asleep right where he sat. The only thing that kept him from doing that was his irritation at the two boys sitting across from him. The twins had smug, all-knowing smirks on their faces, and it didn't sit well with Reed. The young officer struggled to keep his irritation in check.

“And you still have no explanation for what you did today? You didn't have a fight with your mom or dad?”

“Nossir,” the twins chorused.

“Teacher tick you off? Your coach, maybe?” Jim probed.

“Nossir.” The twins' simultaneous response echoed their previous ones. Their habit of talking and moving in concert almost unnerved Jim.

Jim narrowed his eyes at them. “What about your friends? Someone put you up to this? A dare, maybe? Or a club initiation?”

The twins didn't say anything but looked at each other.

“You know, you and the Knighton kid -- you don't have much in common,” Jim pressed this line of questioning, thinking he may have hit on something. “According to what we hear, you don't hang out together. You run in different circles. Why all buddy-buddy today? You wake up this morning and suddenly decide to broaden your circle of friends?”

“Man, you're nuts,” David, the more outspoken one, finally said. “We don't have to say anything.”

“That's right, you don't.” Jim rubbed at his head. “Not to me. But your parents are on their way. I'm sure they'll have plenty of questions of their own.” He paused as the twins shared yet another look. “And by the way, your coach is on his way down here, too.”

“Coach?” The boys sat up straighter and finally looked a little nervous.

“Yeah. And let me tell you, he wasn't happy to have to leave football practice to come down to the police station to check on two of his athletes,” Jim informed them. “In fact, he was pretty steamed about the whole thing. I don't think you two are gonna be high on his hit parade after this.” Jim waited for some response, some hint of contrition from the boys. When he got neither, Jim hardened his voice and went into full lecture mode. “You know, I'm not that much older than you two. It hasn't been so long since I was sixteen, going to high school, playing sports. When you put on a uniform, whether you like it or not, people start to notice you. You automatically become a role model. You have extra responsibilities that most students don't have. You have teammates, and coaches, and fans who watch you, depend on you, and expect you to perform in a certain way. To always give your best. That goes for both on and off the field.”

“Hey, man, what we do off the field doesn't affect how we play on the field,” Daniel sneered.

“Oh, no? You don't think so? You make choices every day that affect your on-field play. I can look at you both and tell you're in pretty good shape. That means you must eat right, work out, get your rest. I make the assumption you aren't involved with drugs . . . I hope I'm right about that . . . your grades are good, you generally behave in school. You're making wise choices for the most part. But this thing today . . . it wasn't very smart. Even if it was just for a lark, it was stupid. And if it was on a dare, it's even more stupid. You're risking your reputation, your athletics, your future!”

David snorted in derision. “You cops are always so dramatic. It was nothing!”

Jim suppressed another sigh. He wasn't getting anywhere. If they'd only listen. They still don't understand that they could be in serious trouble. If not now, maybe in the future. Kids! What's wrong with 'em? Why don't they listen? Pete's right . . . teenagers must turn into creatures from another planet. Funny, I don't remember being this stupid when I was sixteen.

Reed leveled the boys with a stern look when he came back from his musings and realized the boys still appeared to treat the whole situation in a cavalier manner. He made an effort to stay calm, but he spoke to them again. “I don't think you two realize that what you've done is serious. Destroying other people's property isn't a joke. If we file charges, you could wind up in a juvenile facility for a while.”

“Oh, man, not on a first offense misdemeanor,” David objected. “Look, we'll make good on the damages! We were just blowing off a little steam, that's all. Nobody lives there, nobody got hurt, and how much can a few little windowpanes cost?”

Jim scowled at the cocky young man. The kid was right and he knew it. It seemed likely that about the only punishment these kids would get would be another lecture from a judge. Jim felt ambivalent about that. He believed that the boys should have a second chance, but somehow they also needed to be held accountable.

“Nobody got hurt, huh?” Jim asked, with a little heat in his voice. “Maybe not with your rocks and b-b gun but what about your parents? How do you think they're going to react? You think they won't be hurt by this? And what about your teammates? You might be warming the bench come Friday . . . or maybe the rest of the season. You think they won't be hurt? Disappointed?”

For the first time since they'd been brought in, the twins actually looked contrite. They didn't say anything, so Jim continued.

“Sometimes the hurt isn't physical. It's emotional. And sometimes that hurts a lot worse.”

The door to the interrogation room opened and an officer stuck his head in. “Reed, the Millers are here.”

“Thanks. Baby-sit these two while I talk with them, will ya, Jack?” Reed pushed away from the table.

“Sure. They're out front.”

Reed made his way to the front desk to pick up the Millers. When he passed Mac's office, he noted that Pete was still in there with the Knightons and Richard, and it appeared the discussion was heated. Pete didn't see him as he passed, so Jim moved on, absently rubbing his aching head.

Reed had no trouble finding the Millers. They stood in the lobby, the husband holding his wife with a comforting arm around her shoulder. They both looked worried and anxious.

“Mr. and Mrs. Miller?” Reed walked up to them and stuck out his hand. “I'm Officer Reed.”

“Officer,” Mr. Miller shook his hand. “Are our sons all right? Where are they? Can we see them? Are they under arrest?”

“Calm down, Mr. Miller,” Reed suggested calmly. “Your sons are fine. You can see them in just a minute. Technically, they're under arrest, but no charges have been filed yet.”

“What did they do?” Mrs. Miller almost wailed. Tears pooled in her eyes. “The officer that called said something about vandalism?”

“Why don't we step over here, out of the way?” Jim motioned for them to follow him back beside the front desk into a quieter hallway. He then explained to them, briefly, what happened.

“I just don't understand it,” Mrs. Miller sobbed, her tears spilling over. “They've never done anything like this before. They've never skipped school, or been destructive . . . they're good boys! They sing in the youth choir, and volunteer at school for things. I'm so confused.”

Mr. Miller held her close, and tried to comfort her, but he seemed distressed as well. “Officer, did they say why they did it?”

“Sir, they don't seem to think there's much to it. They thought it was almost a joke. Said they were blowing off steam.”

“Blowing off steam? They were supposed to be in school!” Mr. Miller's face reddened.

“We talked to the principal and he said that they were present through the lunch period, but didn't show up for their fifth or sixth period classes. Apparently they just skipped out and went looking for trouble.” Jim paused. “Personally, I think maybe they were put up to it by somebody, but they're not talking.”

“Oh, my God,” Mrs. Miller sniffled. “I can't believe this. We've never had a moment's trouble out of them before. Nothing more than a couple of tardies, or some talkativeness in class. They're so obedient and hard-working.”

“And they know they're loved, by God. It's not like we neglect them or anything. We go to church together. We take vacations together. We eat our meals together. We're at all their sports events. It's one of our priorities . . . to be together. And they've never complained.” Mr. Miller sighed out of obvious frustration. “Can we see them now, Officer Reed? Maybe if we talk with them we can get some answers.”

“Of course. I just wanted you to be aware of what had happened before you talk with them.”

“Will you file charges?” Mrs. Miller asked, her voice quavering.

“I don't know yet. The owner of the house is here and our Sergeant is speaking with him. Maybe you can work something out with him, but unless my partner and I feel that these boys realize what they did was wrong and understand the consequences, we'll feel compelled to file charges.” Jim tried to look reassuring. “We just want what's best for your children, Mr. and Mrs. Miller. Believe me, that's what we want.”

*****
It took another half an hour to get the situation sorted out. After several separate questioning sessions and a joint discussion with all parties involved, the owner of the home and the parents worked out an agreement to cover the damages and to help in clean up of the house. The owner agreed not to file a complaint, which meant no charges would be filed by the D.A. The twins' football coach came down and assured the officers that there would certainly be consequences for them at school and on the field, and that it would be a long time before they'd forget this day. In the interest of second chances, all agreed that keeping the incident off the boys' records was best.

Pete had his doubts that the Knightons really understood what motivated their son to suddenly act so out-of-character. He hoped that this incident would be an eye-opener for them, because as eye-opener incidents went, this one was pretty tame. It would be a small price to pay if they all could learn something from it. His limited exposure to the Millers gave him a little more favorable impression of that situation. The twins' interest in athletics and their coach's willingness to become involved made Pete feel that hope existed for a good outcome.

“For what it's worth, I think we came to the right decision,” Mac assured both Pete and Jim as the three of them stood in the hallway after it was all over. “I really think that this is a one-time thing. Especially for the twins. I think it really started sinking in once their parents and coach started in on 'em.”

“I'm not so sure about the Knighton boy,” Pete said.

“That situation seems a little less stable,” Mac agreed. The big Scotsman gave his head a shake. “My own Billy's not too far away from sixteen,” he sighed. “Scares me, sometimes, seeing all these kids file through here. No matter how good a parent you are, you just never know when they're going to do something really stupid.”

“I need some aspirin,” Jim suddenly announced. “I'm going to my locker and get some. I'll meet you at the car, Pete.” He turned abruptly on his heel and walked off.

“He okay?” Mac asked after Jim was out of earshot.

“Long night and a bad day,” Pete shrugged. “He'll be okay.”

“He still brooding over losing that 211?”

“Yeah.” Pete didn't want to tell him the other things Jim was brooding over.

“Maybe I can make him feel better. I haven't had a chance to tell you that Tourino made the guy from the mug books. Spotted him right off. Detectives are working on it and with any luck he'll be in custody before dark.”

“That is good news.”

Mac's expression turned wry. “Brinkman couldn't wait to tell me about Jim's nap in the break room this morning. What's the story there?”

Pete rolled his eyes. “Brinkman has a big mouth,” he declared.

“That's no story,” Mac laughed. “Everybody knows that!”

“No kidding. It's nothing, Mac . . . Jimmy's learned to climb out of his crib. He went AWOL last night and wreaked a little late night havoc in the kitchen. Jean thought it was a prowler, so Jim took his gun to check it out and about had heart failure when he found Jimmy in there, cleaning out the refrigerator. It took them quite a while to get it -- and Jimmy -- all cleaned up. Apparently he sampled all the food as he tossed it out. That is, after he managed to break several glasses, their canister set and assorted other kitchen items.”

Mac laughed so hard he was literally holding his sides. “Welcome to parenthood!” He gasped between chuckles. “Oh, I bet that was a scene. What a gas.”

“Jim's a little too tired to see the humor in it. I think he's convinced that Jimmy's going to grow up to be a juvenile delinquent. All these crazy kids we've been dealing with all day hasn't helped any.”

“What I just said probably didn't help any, either,” Mac took a deep breath and wiped tears from the corners of his eyes. “I hate to tell him, but Jimmy'll have a lot more tricks like that up his sleeve before he grows up. He's almost to the 'terrible twos' -- so Jim had better relax.”

“You try telling him that!” Pete grinned.

“I just might -- after he's had a good night's sleep.” Mac glanced at his watch. “But it's time you two got back on the air . . . you've got forty-five minutes left on your watch.”

“On my way, Mac,” Pete assured him. He snapped to attention and gave his Watch Commander a jaunty salute, then laughed and headed for the door.

“Wise guy,” Mac muttered.

****

“One-Adam-12, clear.” Jim reported.

“One-Adam-12 clear.”

“You only have to last another forty minutes, partner, then you can go home and crash. By that time, the aspirin will have kicked in and you'll sleep like a baby.”

“Yeah, unless I go home and find another disaster spawned by Jimmy the Menace.” Jim's voice matched his sour expression.

“Hey, don't talk about my godson like that,” Pete scolded playfully. “I might just have to take him to my apartment for a few nights.”

“Tired as I am right now, I wouldn't argue with you.”

“Only thing is, I might teach him some new tricks while I have him,” Pete laughed.

“Some friend you are,” Jim groused.

“I just don't want you to go home in a bad mood.”

“Too late, Pete.”

“So I gather.”

“One-Adam-12, One-Adam-12, a possible DB. See the woman, 1578 Delmar. One-Adam-12, handle code 2.”

“One-Adam-12, roger.” Jim replaced the mic and looked at Pete. “A dead body. What a perfect way to end this shift from hell.”

“Maybe it's just a bag of Pacific Mackerel,” Pete grinned.

“You're never gonna let me live that one down, are you, partner?”

“Nope. It's too good a story.”

“Like I said, some friend you are.”

“Personally, I hope it is a bag of Pacific mackerel.”

Jim considered. “Yeah, me, too,” he agreed.

Delmar was a normal, middle-class neighborhood not known for crime. The houses were generally well maintained by their generally law-abiding owners. Adam-12 didn't frequent this neighborhood often for calls, but patrolled it periodically as they did other residential streets on their beat.

When Pete pulled the car up to 1578, an attractive, middle-aged black woman motioned to them from her front porch. The well-dressed woman fiddled with a string of pearls around her neck as the officers approached her.

“You got here quickly,” she said. Her quiet voice held an edge of nervousness.

“We were close by,” Pete said conversationally. “Why did you call, Mrs.?”

“Johnson. Betty Johnson. I told the officer on the phone . . . .I think somebody's dead next door.”

Reed scribbled in his notebook as Pete questioned Mrs. Johnson. “Why do you think that?”

“Well,” Mrs. Johnson hedged, “I don't want you to think I'm a busybody or anything, but the people who live there are very unusual.”

“How are they unusual?” Pete asked.

“They acted odd,” Mrs. Johnson declared. “They were never outside except to get in their car and go someplace, usually at night. They didn't socialize with anybody in the neighborhood. They'd go out and get the mail in the middle of the night.”

“Maybe they work the swing shift somewhere and they just have odd hours.” Pete suggested.

“Well, that could be, but usually a neighbor will let you know these things.”

“Maybe. Why are you referring to them in the past tense?” Malloy questioned.

Mrs. Johnson looked startled at Pete's question. “Why . . . because I think one of them is dead and the other has taken off.”

“All right. Now tell me why you think somebody's dead over there.” Pete prompted.

“Well, three nights ago, I got up in the middle of the night to get a drink of water. I heard this commotion outside, and when I went to the window, I saw their car come tearing out of the driveway. Whoever was driving it burned rubber all the way down the street -- I mean they were speeding!”

“What do you mean, 'whoever was driving it?'” Reed looked up from his scribbling and asked.

“It was dark and I was half-asleep. I don't know who was driving or if there was anybody in the passenger side. But I'll tell you this . . . .no one has been back since, and I haven't seen any activity in the house.”

“You're sure of that?” Pete questioned.

“As sure as I can be. Then, this afternoon, my little boy came home from school. He was throwing the ball around and it went into the Winstead's -- that's their names -- yard. He went after it and came back telling me that something smelled funny over there.” Mrs. Johnson twirled her pearls again.

Pete caught Jim's eye as the younger man looked up from his notebook again. Maybe this was a Pacific mackerel case, after all.

“Had you ever noticed the smell before?” Pete asked.

“No, but I'll be honest with you, officers, I never went over there, and I never let my boy go over there either. I just didn't trust them!”

“Do the Winsteads have any children?” Jim asked.

“No. At least I don't think so. I never saw any. If they had one, it didn't go to school.”

“Okay, go ahead,” Pete urged.

“So I went over there to check it out,” Mrs. Johnson continued, still fiddling with her pearls. “I went up on the porch . . . and the stench just about overwhelmed me. It was putrid, like a decay smell. I knocked on the door, but there wasn't any answer. I'm telling you, officer, there's something dead over there. Maybe it's just a dog, but something's dead.”

“Did the Winsteads have a dog?” Jim asked.

Mrs. Johnson laughed humorlessly. “I never saw one. I was just using an example. I'm telling you, those people could have had a football team hidden over there and I wouldn't have known it. Will you please just check it out? I'm afraid if it gets any worse, it's going to start smelling over here.”

“Yes, ma'am, we'll check it out,” Pete assured her. “Most of the time, it turns out to be nothing. But we appreciate your concern.”

“If you'll just stay in your house, ma'am, we'll drop back by if we need any more information.” Jim informed the woman.

“You'll let me know what you find? I mean, besides being concerned, I don't mind admitting, I'm curious, too.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Jim assured her.

“Thanks.” Mrs. Johnson smiled and went into her house.

Pete and Jim walked across the lawn to the Winstead's house. As they got closer, they noticed the putrid smell described by Mrs. Johnson.

“Phew. Something does smell pretty bad,” Jim commented.

Pete sniffed. “Yeah.” They walked up the short steps and the smell became overpowering.

“Oh, good grief,” Jim moaned. He fished in his pocket for a handkerchief to cover his nose and mouth.

Pete went for his handkerchief, too. But he sniffed at the air again before he used it. “You know, Jim,” he said, his voice muffled by the fabric, “this doesn't smell like Pacific mackerel to me.”

Jim's eyes widened briefly over his handkerchief, then he cautiously removed the square of cloth and sniffed again. He coughed and recovered his face, but nodded. “You're right. It's not fish and it's not a DB, either.”

“Right. It's more like, I don't know . . . like the cages at the zoo before they get cleaned out.” Pete reached up and knocked on the door.

“Except a thousand times worse.”

Pete grunted, waiting for a response from inside. None came.

“This is the police! Open up!” Pete pounded harder on the door. After a few more silent seconds, Pete turned to his partner. “Check around the house. See if you can see anything in the windows. And see if there's any under-the-house access.”

“Right.” Jim moved off.

Pete tested the door while Jim checked out the windows. Locked. If they went in, they'd have to kick it. He remembered Jim's leg injury, so Pete decided he'd do the honors himself if it came to that.

Pete didn't have to wait long for his partner to return. “Nothin',” the younger man reported with a shake of his head. “All the blinds are down and shut. I can't see anything. I couldn't find an entrance to the underside, either.”

“Looks like we'll have to go in,” Pete said. He drew his revolver and Jim followed suit. “Watch yourself.”

Pete backed up a step, raised his leg and kicked in the door. Leading with his gun, he eased into the room, but stopped almost as soon as he did so. “Oh, my God,” he breathed.

“What?” Jim asked anxiously, appearing at Malloy's side. Then, he, too did a double-take. “What the hell?”

The room they stood in looked more like a garbage dump than a living area. Trash, old food, dirty clothing, and papers littered the area, over ankle-deep in some places. Not a square inch of escaped being covered in some type of nasty mess. Two pieces of old, crooked furniture sat against the wall, covered in the same filth that filled the remainder of the room.

“Who could live in this mess?” Jim went on, talking through the handkerchief.

“Mrs. Johnson was right about one thing,” Pete declared. “These people are unusual.”

“More like sick. Look at this place, Pete.”

“It certainly explains the smell. If I'm not mistaken, some of this is dried feces.”

“You're not mistaken.” Jim looked down at his foot, where something sticky had attached itself. “Ah, man . . . ”

“It's hot as hell in here. Let's check out the rest of the house and get out. We'll call the health department and get them out here.” Pete nodded. “I'll go left, you take the hallway.”

“I feel like I need to take a bath in Clorox,” Jim muttered.

“With a Lysol chaser,” Pete seconded.

Pete stepped carefully through the main room through to a dining room, which had no furniture in it, but was just as foul and trashy as the first room. The closed blinds made it dim inside, and he reached for the light switch. Nothing happened when he flipped it., except that his hand encountered something sticky and disgusting. Figures. These people apparently didn't believe in cleaning OR paying their bills. He wiped his hand on his thigh, feeling even more contaminated. The lack of electricity made seeing difficult, and the heat made the closed up house feel like a sauna. Pete felt sweat trickle down his back.

Pete reached for his flashlight and flipped it on. He entered the kitchen and found more of the same disgusting, smelly mess. In addition to the floor being littered with papers, food and gunk, the cabinets and the sink held molded food, piled to overflowing. Splotches of dried food littered the walls, and it looked like a whole clan of roaches had set up shop. The nasty brown bugs crawled everywhere.

Never in his eight years of being a cop had Pete seen anything remotely as disgusting as this foul mess he ploughed through. He'd seen lots of dirty apartments and bars, and lots of bloody situations, but it all paled in comparison to this. Pete put his gun back in the snapcase and pulled his baton out of the ring so that he could open up the cabinets and check them out. It wasn't a job he was looking forward to.

*****

As Jim made his way carefully down the trash littered hallway, he unconsciously pulled the handkerchief square a little closer to his face. He felt contaminated just walking in the house. He looked behind what little furniture there was, and checked in closets for anything that might be a dead body, but he doubted he'd find one. The refuse and mess covering the floors and walls easily explained the nauseating smell. Each room he checked turned out to be just as foul and trashy as the living area. The master bathroom almost made him vomit -- feces, urine, and other body fluids coated the room in a thick paste. Bugs crawled freely over the mounds of refuse. Jim, like Pete, had to go for his flashlight, and since he didn't want to remove the handkerchief, he, too, put his service revolver away. He took a quick look in the bathroom cabinet and closet and quickly left when he didn't find anything. The stench, if anything, increased and he really felt on the verge of being sick. Having the headache didn't help, and neither did the sweltering temperatures in the house. When's that aspirin gonna kick in?

Jim thought fleetingly of his own home, always kept so neat and clean by his wife. Suddenly the mess his toddler had made last night looked pretty darn tame compared to this scene, and he resolved that when he got home he'd hug and kiss his wife and thank her for all her hard work. Jim knew he took her for granted sometimes, but he'd try harder to be more appreciative in the future, starting tonight. Then he'd play with his boy and stop worrying about his childhood explorations.

Jim came to the last room of the house, a small, back bedroom. There a tiny, bare bed stood against one wall. The mattress bore stains of feces, urine, and even blood. Jim shone his light around and decided that this room was the worst of them all that he had seen. Less paper and food littered the floor in this room , but it held more of the feces and urine traces on the floor and walls. The carpeting held a thick layer of gooey stench. He also saw several soiled white cloths that looked like diapers.

Diapers? Jim poked one with his toe and bugs ran out. Oh, God, this is terrible. If this is a diaper, where's the baby? Surely nobody would raise a baby in this disgusting filth! He felt his stomach lurch again at the thought of it. He shone his light under the bed, found more mess but no body. An unsettled feeling smothered him, but he dismissed it as disgust at the unsanitary conditions. He sure couldn't touch Jean or Jimmy until he'd showered. He got down on his haunches, and checked the back corner under the bed. He found nothing, but suddenly a tiny mewling sound came from the closet behind him.

Jim nearly pulled a muscle straightening and turning toward the source of the sound. He thrust his right hand out, then felt stupid when he remembered that he was holding the flashlight in it and not his gun. Another noise from the closet got his heart beating faster. A metallic rattling, again accompanied by the mewling came faintly from behind the closed door. Jim swallowed, shifted his flashlight to his left hand, and reluctantly stuffed the handkerchief in his pocket. He tried to slow his breathing, but his pumping adrenaline forced him to automatically breathe faster and more deeply. Jim reached for his revolver and leveled it at the door.

It's just a cat. It sounds like a cat. It's probably on a chain. It's trapped in here. Maybe that's where all the feces came from . . .

He debated calling for Pete, but decided to wait until he knew what he faced. He'd catch more flak from his partner for drawing his gun on a cat than he did for the Pacific mackerel incident. Jim reached for the doorknob to the closet, but the goo-encrusted handle made him decide not to touch it bare-handed. He needed three hands. Instead, he tucked the flashlight under his right armpit and retrieved the handkerchief. Using it as a guard, he twisted the knob and pulled the door ajar, bracing himself in case some feline came tearing out.

None did. But the sound repeated.

Jim put the handkerchief back in his pocket, took the flashlight back with his left hand, and used his toe to pull the door fully open. He shone his light inside and stared in horror at what he saw.

It was a child. At least, it looked like a child. Stunned, he played his light over the length of the still figure. The figure belonged to a little girl, nude, covered with the same filth that covered the house. He could not accurately gauge her age, but she couldn't have been over three years old, if that. The tiny girl's ribs protruded severely from her bone-thin body. Her bloated, distended abdomen revealed that she suffered from severe malnutrition. She reminded Jim of children he'd seen in television ads for feeding the hungry in third-world countries. A rusted chain connected to the clothes bar led to a shackle on her left wrist. Bruises, cuts, and abrasions covered her emaciated form, the blood from the injuries dried and sticking to her. The dried feces that stuck to her body made it difficult to determine just what was a bruise and what was filth.

Jim shone the light on her face. The little girl shut her sunken eyes against the intrusion of light. He moved the light quickly away, but remained almost frozen in shock at the sight. His mind refused to process the unthinkable sight.

“Oh, my God,” he whispered aloud. “Oh, dear God . . . ”

A whimper and the mewling sound coming from the girl spurred him to action. Somehow, he found his voice. “Pete! Pete! Get in here!” He yelled. He hoped he didn't sound as shaken as he felt.

Ignoring the filth and the stench, he knelt down, reached into the closet and gently lifted the child into his arms. She flinched from his touch and whimpered more loudly. “I'm not gonna hurt you, honey,” he soothed the battered child. “Pete!”

Jim cradled the child to his chest. She felt feather-light; not even as heavy as his own little Jimmy. He took the handkerchief and tried to wipe some of the dirt and dried filth from her face. She whimpered some more, but didn't have the strength to fight him. A bug skittered across her leg and Jim swatted it away. He heard Pete's footsteps running through the trash toward him. “In here!”

Jim looked up as his partner entered the room, breathless. “What?” Pete demanded, then, as he took in the scene, his eyes widened in the same shock Jim had felt at his first sight of the child. “Oh, God . . . is she alive?”

“Barely,” Jim's responded in a tight voice, hardly more than a whisper. He could barely get the words out over the dry lump in his throat.

“I'll get an ambulance!” Pete turned and made a dash for the front door.

“Oh, honey, who did this to you?” Jim asked as he held the shivering child close to him. He looked for something to cover her with, but found nothing. He wrapped his arms around her the best he could, but she mewled again. “I'm sorry. I don't want to hurt you.” Jim decided to wrap her in his uniform shirt. With one hand, he fumbled with the buttons as he tried to comfort her and not jostle her too much.

Now that Jim had the child out of the darkened closet, he could see the extent of her injuries and her condition. Her transparent skin, stretched tight over bones that shouldn't even be seen in a human child, graphically revealed the network of vessels underneath. She had almost no hair, just patches of dark fuzz, tangled and matted from dirt and neglect. Dark bruises stood out in stark contrast to her pale skin over almost all of her body. The cuts he could see now appeared to be inflicted by an object like a belt -- angry red welts covered her legs and chest. Jim noted her labored breathing with alarm. Her distended belly and sunken chest moved rapidly in and out in a shallow pant. Jim reached for her neck to check for a carotid pulse. It was weak, thready, and fast as a hummingbird's.

She's dying. She's dying right here in my arms. Please, God, don't let this child die.

Jim finally got his shirt unbuttoned. He ripped it off his back and pulled it from his waistband, trying not to move the girl any more than he had to. She still whimpered at the pain. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry,” Jim found himself saying over and over as he wrapped the little victim in his shirt. He hoped the shooting brass and nameplate didn't hurt her. He didn't take the time to remove them, or the notebook and pen, from his pocket.

Jim finished wrapping the child and cradled her gently in his arms again. The chain that secured her to the closet rod was in his way, and kept him from moving too far from the door. When Malloy got back, he'd ask him to try and get it off her hand. Right now, he just held the girl, unconsciously rocking her back and forth while he tried to push the horror of it all out of conscious thought.

Jim looked down at her and saw that she was looking at him. The pain in those red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes tore Jim's heart out. He blinked back hot tears and fought against the surge of rage swelling within him. He wouldn't cry. He wouldn't yell in anger. Not now. He would just hold her. He would hold her and protect her. He would not let anyone else ever hurt this child again. He couldn't even think about what kind of monsters would do this to a defenseless little toddler. Jim blinked back his tears and tried to smile at the tiny girl in his arms.

“Hi, there, honey. My name's Jim. I'm here to help you,” he told her quietly. “Don't be afraid. Don't be afraid. Nobody's going to hurt you any more. I'm going to protect you, don't worry.” He gently patted her as he crooned to her. “It's okay. It's okay, pretty girl. You're gonna be all right.”

She responded with a pitiful whimper.

“Ssssh, it's okay. You're safe now. It's okay. I'm gonna take good care of you. We're gonna get you all well, and you'll go live somewhere where people will love you and take care of you. It's gonna be okay, sweetheart.” As he said that, Jim wondered if this poor child had ever been told she was loved in her whole life. He wondered if at any time anyone had ever been kind to her and held her with love. Somehow, he doubted it. Deep in his heart, he really didn't believe this child was going to make it, but maybe if he said the words, God would hear him, and make a miracle happen. Yes, please, God, a miracle. A miracle for this one little girl.

Even as he prayed silently, a feeling of urgency overcame him, that if he didn't tell her now, she would die before she ever heard the words, “I love you.” Jim didn't know if he could ever live with the memories of this moment if he didn't do everything he could to comfort her. He continued to rock her gently, patting her reassuringly, holding her in the most tender embrace he could give her. She continued to look up at him with those sad, sunken, hopeless eyes.

Jim swallowed. “I love you,” he managed to get out. Maybe he didn't know her, or love her like he loved his own son, but Jim knew the words weren't a lie. He did love her, as he loved all children. He loved their innocence, their spirit, their unconditional loving attitudes, and their potential for becoming wonderful human beings. “I love you, little girl,” he repeated. “Stay with me.” He gently stroked her matted hair and smiled at her. “Stay with me.”

Something in the expression of the child's face changed then. Her eyes closed, but her mouth seemed to turn up ever so slightly into the tiniest ghost of a smile. It was so subtle he feared he'd imagined it.

“That's it, little girl. Don't give up. Please don't give up. It'll be okay. It'll be okay.”

But even as the girl's expression changed, Jim could sense a change in her breathing. It seemed shallower and more labored. “Keep breathing, sweetheart. Come on, don't give up on me, honey.” Please, God, the ambulance is coming. Don't let her die.

Jim heard Pete pounding back into the house and within seconds he was in the room, breathlessly kneeling beside them both.

“I called an ambulance,” the older officer reported. “Informed Mac what was happening. He's sending out detectives and a photog. He's calling DHR and the Health Department, too. He's gonna meet us at Central Receiving.”

Jim nodded absently as he rocked the girl. “Pete, get the chain off her wrist,” he asked. Again, the sense of urgency nearly suffocated him. He would not let this child die in chains! Not if he had to rip it off with his bare hands.

****

From the moment Pete had first seen Jim with this little girl, he'd been as concerned over his partner as he had been the little victim. Pete didn't think Jim was even aware of the look of stunned horror on his face, or of the stricken look in his eyes. That look told Pete all he needed to know -- that Jim knew this little girl was dying and that there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. Jim always took the pain of others too much to his own heart, but when it involved a child it always seemed to hit his young partner doubly hard.

Of course, though Pete was loathe to admit it, seeing children in pain hurt him, as well.

And this -- this was the worst situation Pete had ever seen. They'd both encountered their share of hurt, sick, and abused children, but never had Pete seen a child in this bad a shape. The little girl looked like a shriveled shell of a child, starving and suffering from some of the worst beating scars he'd ever seen. What kind of a sick human being would do this to a child? Pete clamped down on his anger and despair over the hopeless situation to help Jim ease this pathetic child through what looked like the last moments of her life.

Jim's request for him to remove the shackle from the little girl's wrist had been spoken in a tone of voice almost near panic. He hadn't yelled, or been tearful, but Pete had heard an undercurrent of emotion in Jim's voice that scared him.

“Take it easy, Jim,” Pete said, as calm as he could make his voice. He reached in his pocket for a small Swiss Army Knife he kept there and chose a tool he thought he might could use to pick the lock.

Pete moved to where he could reach the bony little hand without moving it too much.

She whimpered when he moved her arm to get to the lock but before he could react, Jim spoke to the little girl in a comforting, sing-song tone.

“It's all right, honey. He's not gonna hurt you. He's gonna take that thing off your wrist, and you'll feel better. It's okay. Don't be afraid.”

Pete worked on the lock while Jim continued to talk to and comfort the child. While he fiddled with the mechanism, it appeared that the girl's breathing was slowing and getting more labored.

“Stay with me, sweetheart,” Jim whispered. “Help is coming.” He gently stroked her head. “Pete, can't you get that off?”

“I'm working on it.” Pete looked up from his efforts, but the look in Jim's eyes was too painful for him to watch. He quickly turned back to picking the lock.

“Pete, she's . . . .”

“I know.” Pete spoke up before Jim had to state the painful truth. “I'm hurrying.” Neither of them wanted that baby to die with a chain on her wrist.

Jim kept up his soothing conversation as Pete struggled with the lock mechanism. The sweat poured down his back, and he had to use his forearm to wipe the stinging liquid from his eyes.

“What's keeping that ambulance?” Jim asked, the fear and frustration in his voice coming through loud and clear to Pete.

“It's rush-hour, Jim, so it might take a while. Besides, she's not going anywhere until I can get this damned thing off her!” Pete grunted as he twisted the knife again. Even though he accidentally jerked the child's arm, this time the little girl did not respond.

“She's fading fast,” Jim whispered.

Pete looked up from his work and into his partner's eyes. They were troubled, but clear. “Nothing either of us can do about that, Jim,” he said firmly, but not without sympathy.

“I know.” Jim patting the little girl's back and he resumed talking to her.

“Come on, come on,” Pete muttered at the stubborn lock as he went back to his work. Several long, hot minutes passed. He continued to work on the lock and Jim talked lovingly to the tiny girl. Finally, he felt something give, and the lock fell open. He blew out his breath in relief.

“Thank God,” Jim's relief mirrored his partners'.

Pete removed the shackle and couldn't resist patting the little girl on the arm. “Look how it marked her arm.” He pointed out the red, scarred, indented section of her right arm where the metal had bit into the skin. “This has been on a long time.”

“What kind of . . . sick . . . .monster . . . could do this?” Jim asked through clenched teeth.

Pete shook his head. He had no answer when he'd asked himself the same question earlier. He knew that Jim really didn't expect one. “I don't know, Jim. But I'll tell you one thing, I'm gonna turn every rock in this city over to try and find whoever it is.”

“I'm right with you, partner,” Jim assured him.

A siren wailed in the distance. “It's coming,” Jim said, then looked down at the little girl. “Hang on just a little bit longer, little one. Just a little bit longer.”

“I'll go flag them down,” Pete began, but Jim cut him off with a shake of his head.

“I'm not letting go of her, Pete,” the younger officer declared.

“Jim . . . ”

“I'm not letting her go,” Jim repeated with conviction. “She's been laying in that closet alone for God only knows how long and I'm not gonna put her on some cold stretcher. Help me up, and I'll carry her in the ambulance. They can put oxygen on her or whatever, but she's not riding in that ambulance without me holding her.”

Pete took one look at Jim's clenched jaw and determined expression and he knew there would be no changing his partner's mind. “You're setting yourself up for a really big hurt,” he told him.

“It doesn't matter. Right now, all that matters is this little girl and making her comfortable.”

The siren grew louder. Pete reached down and helped haul Jim to his feet. “I'll stay here and wait on Mac. I'll come to the hospital as soon as I can.”

Jim nodded. “It's the right thing to do for her.”

It was Pete's turn to nod. “Just try to keep it in perspective, Jim.”

They walked to the front door and Pete opened it. Jim adjusted his uniform shirt around the tiny form so that not even the late afternoon sun would strike her ultra-pale skin.

The ambulance pulled up, its siren stilled, and backed into the driveway. Even before the doors opened, Jim was halfway to the ambulance.

“What's going on?” the passenger side attendant hopped from the ambulance, a puzzled expression on his face.

“Abused baby, she's critical,”Jim informed him tersely, heading for the back doors. “I'm going to hold her on the way.”

“Wait a minute,” the attendant objected, but Jim brushed past him.

“Just open the doors, pal. This baby's dying. There's no time to waste.”

The attendant opened the doors, then he and Pete steadied Jim as he climbed into the back. The attendant followed.

“I'll see you at the hospital,” Pete called. “Take it easy, Jim.”

“Right.”
Pete closed the doors securely, then gave them a slap. The ambulance eased into the street, then sped away, siren wailing again.

Pete watched it go. God be with that little girl. And with Jim, too. It's a toss up as to which one of them is hurting worse.

*****

The ambulance attendant visibly paled as Jim pulled his uniform shirt back from the girl's face. The attendant held an oxygen mask to put over the little victim's face, but was so stunned by her appearance that he stopped the motion.

“Good Lord! What happened to her?”

“I found her chained in a closet,” Jim explained.

“Chained? My God.” The attendant put the mask on her face, but hesitated with the strap.

“I'll hold it there,” Jim said, placing his hand on the plastic.

“Turn her a little so I can listen to her chest.”

Jim gently shifted the baby, noting that her breathing was even more shallow. She didn't whimper or cry at the movement. Her closed eyes seemed even more deeply sunken into her skull. The cast of her skin had turned a bluish-gray; he feared that even now, she was on her last breaths. Oh, God, please, where's my miracle?

“I've never seen anything like this,” the attendant said. He slipped the earpieces of his stethoscope in his ears and listened, moving the amplifying end around. When he was finished, he shook his head. “Not good.”

“How long?” Jim asked, knowing the answer already.

“Any time.” The attendant offered him a blanket for the girl, but Jim shook his head.
“No, not now.” Jim pulled his uniform shirt back over her and held her to his chest.
If only Mrs. Johnson had called us earlier. If only we could have gotten there sooner. Just an hour might have made a difference. God, why does it seem like we're always one step behind these disasters? God, why do the little ones always have to suffer? Please, God, if she has to go, please let her go without pain.

Jim looked down at the tiny little bundle. Despite her condition and her injuries, somehow, she looked peaceful. Her breathing, which had been rapid and labored now was slowed and shallow. Jim knew that to be bad, but it did make her appear more at ease. He felt like he should do something for her, like sing, but he felt stupid doing that in front of an audience. So he just sat on the bench and rocked her, holding the oxygen mask with one hand and patting her leg with the other. He cradled her against his chest.

On impulse, he reached down and gave her dirty forehead a light kiss. “Rest easy, little girl. It's going to be okay. No one's ever going to hurt you again. You're going to a beautiful place, where it's clean and bright, and children are loved and cherished. You'll never feel pain again. Never for all eternity.” Jim's throat tightened and again he blinked back burning tears. “You can rest now. You don't have to hurt any more.”

Almost as if Jim's words gave her permission to go, the tiny little form spasmed once, then shuddered as she drew in a long, shaky breath. It came out in a long-high pitched sigh, then she went very still. Jim stared at her for a long moment, then removed the oxygen mask from her face.

The attendant put the stethoscope back on the child's chest, but removed it almost immediately, shaking his head. “She's gone, officer.”

“I know,” Jim whispered. He didn't relinquish his hold on the little girl. If anything, his grip tightened. God take her. God take her into your hands and keep her there. Oh, God, I just don't understand why.

****

Pete Malloy rushed into the emergency entrance to Central Receiving Hospital a little over an hour after he'd watched the ambulance take the child and his partner away. He and Reed both should have been off-duty long ago, but concern about overtime took a back seat to concern about the child, not to mention his partner.

Malloy felt a huge sense relief just being away from the Winstead house. Its stench and filth had sickened him, but not nearly as much as the sight of the emaciated, beaten child. The smell still clung to him like a foul cloud, even miles away from the location. His skin crawled at the memory of the nastiness of the house, and his gut twisted as he remembered the pain in Jim's eyes.

Malloy stopped just past the admitting desk and searched the area for Jim. He didn't see the younger man in the main waiting area, so he walked forward and looked in the back He still didn't see Jim anywhere, so he returned to the admitting desk.

“Excuse me,” Pete flagged down a pretty nurse who he didn't recognize. He fought down embarrassment at the odor that she had to notice.

“Yes, officer?”

“Malloy. Pete Malloy.” He flashed a smile at her. “I'm looking for my partner. Name's Reed. He came in maybe an hour ago with a little child . . . an abuse case.”

“Oh. That one,” the nurse's face went solemn. “Little Jane Doe.”

“Yeah. How's she doing?”

The nurse shook her head. “She isn't. She died en route.”

Pete closed his eyes as he gave in for just a moment to a wave of despair. What a day this had been. Every call held a calamity. And despite the lectures he gave his partner, these days got to him, too.

“I'm sorry,” the nurse continued. “But I have to say, I've been a nurse for six years and I've never seen anything like it.”

“I've been a cop for eight and I haven't either.” Pete paused, feeling like a ten-ton weight was sitting on his shoulders. A fiery rage began to burn inside him. Oh, how he wanted the Winsteads. “Do you know where my partner is?”

The nurse nodded. “He was pretty shook up. The doctor sent him to the staff lounge to wait. I'll take you to him.”

“Thanks.”

Pete followed the nurse down a couple of hallways to a door marked “Private.”

“Go on in,” the nurse invited. “Help yourself to some coffee. You look like you could use some.”

“Thanks again.”

“No problem, officer.” The nurse smiled at him kindly, then left him.

Pete opened the door to the lounge. His partner sat, alone, on the edge of a small couch, elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. He'd put his uniform shirt back on, the stains of the dirt and filth from the Winstead home splotched across it. Some of the smell had followed him, as well.

Jim didn't even move when Pete stepped inside.

“Jim?”

Reed looked up, his face pale and his eyes bleak. He looked utterly exhausted, and a decade older than his twenty-five years. “She died on the way in, Pete.” He whispered.

“I know.” Pete covered the short distance to the couch and dropped a comforting hand on Jim's shoulder. “The nurse told me.”

Jim didn't answer for a long moment. Pete stood silently and patiently beside his partner, hand still on his shoulder for support. Finally, Jim spoke again.

“The doctor wouldn't make any kind of preliminary diagnosis on cause of death. He said to wait for the official autopsy.” Jim rubbed at his temples with his hands.

“Yeah, that's procedure. You still have that headache?”

“'Fraid so.”

Pete patted Jim's shoulder once in sympathy, then dropped his hand. “Sorry. Did you call the coroner?”

“The doc said he'd take care of the notifications.” Jim straightened. “What was happening at the house?”

“About what you'd think,” Pete replied. He respected Jim's attempt at normalcy. Pete understood the effort it cost him. “Mac showed up with detectives and a photographer, the DHR rep was there, and the usual crowd of neighbors showed up.”

“What about the media?”

“Not yet, but it's only a matter of time.”

“Yeah.” Jim sighed heavily, then stood. “I guess there's nothing left for us to do here. We've got a report to write.” He headed for the door.

Pete took him by the arm, gently stopping him. “Jim, maybe we should talk first.”

Jim shook off Pete's hand. “I can't, Pete. Not right now.”

Pete bit back a sigh of his own as Jim walked past him and on out the door. After a day like today, they both had a lot of unloading to do before they tried to go home, and Jim already had a burden on him before a the little nameless abused girl died in his arms. Sometimes there just wasn't any justice. It had taken Pete a long time on the job before he accepted that fact. Not that calls like this last one didn't get to him -- they did. But just like he'd told Jim earlier in the day, having a big heart wasn't a crime, but it sure made it easier to get it stomped on. Both of their hearts had been stomped on but good just now, and the problem became how to stop the bleeding before it got too bad.

******

After checking in with Mac via the radio, they rode back to the station in an uncomfortable silence. Jim stared out the passenger side window, his jaw clenched tight, his hands balled into fists in his lap. Pete noted that the younger man kept swallowing hard and taking deep breaths, obviously trying his best to deal with the pain he was feeling inside.

Pete remained silent as well, dealing with his own inner turmoil. He felt more anger than anything at this point. His blood boiled at the thought that anyone could treat a helpless child like that; beat it, starve it, lock it up like an animal in the dark and then abandon it. And if it turned out that the child was the biological child of the Winsteads, it became all the more unthinkable. Pete glanced over at Jim, and thought of healthy, happy little Jimmy; he thought of how his parents and extended family loved and cared for him. He knew that's where Jim's thoughts were, too. How could they not be? Again, the rage surged inside him, but he beat it down. He had to get it under control, because he had to stay calm for Jim. Pete often lectured Jim on controlling his emotions; now he needed to follow his own advice. Despite himself, he took a deep breath and let it out in a rush.

Jim didn't even look over.

When they reached the station, Pete pulled the unit into their designated parking space. He glanced at his watch. Two hours and five minutes over. And still a report to write. Jim hadn't had a chance to call Jean; she was probably standing on her head.

They gathered their briefcases, helmet bags and the shotgun in silence and went into the station.

Mercifully, it was practically deserted. Most of Daywatch had come in and gone home, and the PM watch had been on the street for two hours now. Jim wordlessly took the shotgun for check-in while Pete set the cases down under the report desk. He pulled out the appropriate forms, including the partial report he had taken at the scene, and sat down, waiting for Jim to get back. He glanced into the watch commander's office where Sergeant Kirkland sat, today's PM watch commander. Pete wondered idly when Mac would get here. He hoped he made it before the reporters.

Pete heard Jim's long, measured strides coming down the silent hall and pulled out the neighboring chair for him. Jim sank into it, pulled out a form and stared at it.

“Here,” Pete pushed his own half-completed report over to his partner. “You can get the address and the other background info from this.”

“Thanks.” Jim pulled the paper within eyeshot and began writing.

Pete watched him surreptitiously, concerned. Not yet. He's not ready yet. Give him some more space. He turned to his own work.

The sound of rapid footsteps coming down the hall and a cheery, off-key whistling put Pete on alert. He recognized both the short stride and the bad whistling. Oh, no. Not Ed. Not now. Pete looked up and sure enough, Ed Wells, in his street clothes, ambled in their direction. Pete cringed internally. Even though they basically got along all right, Jim and Ed were like oil and water even on their best days -- Jim sure didn't need to have to deal with the irritating little man right now. And Pete didn't want to, either.

“Well, it's the Bobbsey Twins!” Ed stopped when he came even with the two, and predictably, started in on them. “Or is it Tweedledum and Tweedledee?” Wells laughed at his own bad attempt at humor. “But I'd be hard pressed to choose which one of you would be Tweedledum .”

“Goodnight, Wells,” Pete said, waving him on.

“Although,” Ed continued, oblivious as usual to anyone's displeasure, “I should probably call Reed here, Rip Van Winkle. Heard you took a little nap in the break room this morning, kid. Whassa matter, old age catchin' up with ya?” The short officer popped Jim on the back with the flat of his hand.

Jim merely grunted and ignored him.

“We're busy, Wells,” Pete said again. Take a hint, lamebrain!

“Why're you two clowns so late? You're two hours . . . ” Wells broke off and suddenly sniffed. “What's that smell? Awww . . . it's awful!” He looked at his hand, then looked Jim and Pete over with a critical eye. Finally, Ed noticed Jim's dirty uniform. “It's you, Reed! My God! What have you been doin'? Swimming in the sewer?”

“Knock it off, Wells,” Pete snapped. As usual, Ed refused to be deterred.

“Can't Junior speak for himself?” Ed asked. “What's wrong with you, kid? You need to get out of that nasty uniform, 'cause you're stinkin' up the place! Looks and smells like your kid's diaper exploded on you!”

Jim pushed away from the desk so hard that the chair clattered halfway across the hall. He shoved Ed aside without a word and rushed off toward the locker room.

“What'd I say?” Ed asked, all innocence, gaping after Jim's retreating back.

Pete stood up and impaled him with a dagger glare.“Ed, if you'd just think before you talk!” he growled.

“So what's to think about?” Ed truly looked confused. “I was just teasing.”

“Ed, we just found a starving, naked, beaten little girl chained up in a closet, covered in dirt and bugs. Jim wrapped her in his shirt to cover her up and try and keep her warm. She died in his arms on the way to the hospital.” Pete's face reddened as his own emotions boiled over. Resisting the urge to smash Ed Wells' face in, he turned and hurried after his partner.

“Oh, God . . . I'm sorry, I didn't know,” Ed apologized. “Pete . . . ”

“Later, Ed!” Pete growled over his shoulder. If he follows me in here, I'm gonna have to deck him.

Pete opened the door of the locker room and looked around, expecting to find Jim at his locker. But the sound of someone being violently ill in the bathroom told Pete without a doubt where he'd find Jim. Torn between giving Jim his privacy and making sure that he was all right, Pete only debated for a few seconds before he decided to intervene.

Pete eased into the bathroom area, found Jim on his knees in one of the stalls, hugging the toilet. “Jim?”

“Go 'way,” Jim managed between coughs and gagging, gasping breaths.

“No way, partner.” Pete grabbed a couple of paper towels from the dispenser, ran cold water over them, and wrung them out. He stepped over to Jim and gave them to him. “Here.”

“Thanks,” Jim took them with a shaking hand and wiped his mouth and face. “Oh, God,” He gasped into the towels as he tried to get his retching under control.

Pete knelt beside him, just outside the stall. “Take it easy. Relax,” he urged quietly.

Jim scrubbed at his face with the dampened towels and took deep breaths. After a few minutes, the sickness apparently passed, for he reached up and flushed the toilet, then leaned back against the wall of the stall, looking drained. His face was red and tears leaked from the corners of his eyes, whether from the vomiting or the emotion, Pete couldn't tell. But the young man hugged himself around the middle, trying to hide his violent shaking.

“You okay now?” Pete asked, full well knowing the answer.

“Hell, no,” Jim croaked. He took a fist and, for the second time that day, slammed it against something in frustration. This time, the bathroom stall took the brunt of his anger.

“Jim . . . ”

“What good is it, Pete?” Jim demanded, his voice tight, and raspy from the vomiting. “What good am I? Why are we even out there?” He had to stop and cough, and he wiped his face again with the towels. “I became a cop because I wanted to help people. To make a difference . What the hell difference have I made today? A pregnant woman is dead, and I let her murderer get away because I was so stupid to get caught on a nail. And I couldn't help a poor . . . little . . . child . . . ” Jim's voice cracked.

“You can't save them all, Jim,” Pete reminded him, his voice calm and even. How many times had he had to tell his partner that?

To Pete's surprise, Jim rounded on him, anger blazing from eyes bright with unshed tears. “I know that!” He yelled, but it came out hoarse and ragged. He punched the bathroom stall again. “Dammit, I know that! But, dear God, is it too much to ask to just save one? Just this . . . .one . . . . poor little girl . . . just this one?” His voice ended in a sob and he fought for control.

Pete had to make sure his own control was firmly in place before he said anything. Jim appeared as shattered as he'd ever seen him and Pete sure didn't want to say the wrong thing. Jim was too good a cop to lose his focus and faith in himself and his considerable abilities, and too good a friend for Pete to allow that to happen.

“A wise person once told me, Jim, that you can't worry about the ones you can't save, because then you can't concentrate on the ones you can,” Pete stated, keeping his voice light.

“I just feel . . . .so . . . useless, Pete.” Jim leaned his head back and pinched the bridge of his nose between a thumb and forefinger. “This whole watch . . . .a day late and a dollar short. One step behind the disaster instead of one step ahead of it. What's the use? What's the use?”

“This has been a bad day. A very, very, bad day. In all my years on the force, I've never been through anything like what we just went through. But you can't judge your usefulness based on one day. That little girl was a lose-lose situation from the beginning. We both knew there was no way she could survive. I'm just so damn sorry she died in your arms.” Pete had to stop and swallow hard himself. “I know you were thinking of little Jimmy. I know you were, because I was, too.”

“Hurting a child. It's something I'll never understand.”

“You're not alone there, partner.”

“If I had the Winsteads within reach . . . .I swear, Pete . . . right now, I could kill them with my bare hands.” Jim hung his head, apparently shamed by his admission.

Pete allowed himself a little smile and a small chuckle. “You'd have to get in line behind me, Jim.”

Jim looked up, surprise on his face.

“Don't look so surprised. You're not the only cop who has feelings like that,” Pete assured him.

“But I'm the only one sitting on the floor of the bathroom barfing his guts out and trying not to make a fool out of himself by blubbering like a baby,” Jim said derisively. “Some cop I am.”

“That's right. You're some cop.” Pete's voice held true sincerity, and again, Jim looked at him in surprise. “If you're going to prosecute yourself, somebody's got to present the defense,” the senior officer went on. “You're bent out of shape at yourself because you lost a murder suspect and couldn't heal a dying child, so let's list the things you've managed to do in two years that have made a difference.”

“Pete!”

“No, no, let's start. Let's see, you've managed to help save my life twice. That makes a lot of difference to me. If you pressed Ed Wells hard enough, he'd say the same about the time you helped save his life. Remember little Harvey Ward? You sure made a difference in his life -- and his family's. Three bucks for a yellow dump truck and pressing Jerry Miller not to book their stolen toys as evidence on Christmas Eve are the acts of a hero in that little boy's eyes. Not to mention his mother's. And then there was Carl Robinson, who we just ran into again last month. You let him go that night in the used car lot and now he's married, with a steady job and he has a second chance at being a productive citizen because of you. And then there's . . . ”

“All right, all right,” Jim interrupted irritably. “I get your point. Maybe I have had more good days than bad. But it still doesn't make what happened today all right.”

“No, it doesn't,” Pete conceded. “But it should help you better deal with what happened today. Seems like just a few hours ago in this very room, I was giving you the standard 'let it go, don't let it eat at you' lecture and telling you it was okay to have a big heart, but you gotta learn to deal with the emotions that go with it. You've got a really short memory, partner.”

“So trade me in,” Jim snapped.

“Uh uh. I got too much invested in you now.”

Jim snorted. “You're not getting much of a return, Pete. Look at me . . . sittin' here on the floor like a fool, throwing up, can't stop shakin' . . . ” The young man held his hands out, to confirm that statement. “I don't know why I do this . . . when I get upset, I can't stop shakin'.”

It's called trying to hold it all in, partner. Pete didn't voice that particular opinion aloud. He knew that there would be no reasoning with Jim in his current emotional, exhausted shape. Better just to patch him up enough to send him home to the comforting arms of his wife and family and a good night's sleep. Tomorrow would be a better day. “You'll feel better if you change, go home, and get some sleep. Things'll look better tomorrow.”

“How can I sleep? Every time I close my eyes, I'm gonna see that little girl.”

“No,” Pete said firmly. “You're gonna see your son, because you're gonna go home and hold him and play with him and let that be your vision for the night. You've gotta get some sleep.”

The door to the locker room creaked open, strong footfalls sounded, and Mac's voice called out. “Pete? Jim?”

“Great, it's Mac,” Jim started to scramble up off the floor, and Pete offered him a hand. Before he could make it up, though Mac entered the bathroom.

“What's going on, here?” MacDonald demanded, not unkindly. “Jim, you okay?”

“Yeah, Mac, I'm okay,” Jim got up the rest of the way and unconsciously tried to smooth his rumpled, dirty uniform. He then crossed his arms over his chest to keep the shaking from showing.

Mac crossed the room to stand beside his two officers. He studied Jim carefully. “You don't look okay,” he observed.

“I'll be all right,” Jim repeated.

“Yeah,” Mac allowed. “Yeah, I know.” He nodded toward the door. “It's starting to be a circus out there. The media's arrived. The Lieutenant and I are about to go talk to them. I assume you don't want to.”

Both Jim and Pete shook their heads vehemently.

“We're keeping your identities under wraps for now,” Mac informed them, “But we won't be able to do that for long.”

“We understand,” Pete said.

“All right. But as of right now, you're both off tomorrow.”

“Mac!” Jim and Pete objected in unison.

“No arguments. It's administrative sick leave. Jim, take your family to the beach, or the park, or wherever, and take your partner with you. Just do something to relax. It'll be better for you both and it'll keep you out of the limelight until the furor dies down.” Mac continued when it looked like the pair of them would continue to object.

“All right, Mac,” Jim nodded reluctantly. “I won't argue with you. It's been a day and a half.”

“That's an understatement. Just get out of uniform and slip out the back.”

“But our reports aren't finished,” Pete reminded. “Our books are sitting at the report desk.”

Mac considered. “I'll bring them in here to you and you can write it up and leave it on the bench. Then slip out the back.”

“All right. Thanks, Mac.” Pete said.

“Be right back.” Mac reached out and clapped them both on the shoulder, then headed for the lobby.

Pete turned to Jim when Mac vanished. “You get out of that uniform and cleaned up and I'll go call your wife and tell her you're okay.”

Jim's face looked stricken again and he checked his watch. “Oh, Lord, she's probably either hysterical, or she's thrown out my clothes and changed the locks. I just keep screwing up today.”

“Don't start that again,” Pete took Jim by the arm and pushed him toward his locker. “Just go get changed. I'll smooth it over with Jean.”

Jim looked at his partner gratefully. “Thanks, Pete. You're a good friend.”

“Now don't get all mushy again,” Pete chided. “Just get out of that uniform, because unfortunately, Ed was right . . . it smells bad.”

******
Jim pulled his car into the driveway of his home and killed the engine. Instead of getting out and going in to his wife and child, he sat clutching the steering wheel, still trying to get himself under control. He had taken the longest way home he could create, driven slowly as he could without being dangerous, and tried his best to still the turmoil raging inside him. But it hadn't worked.

The memories clung to him like leeches, sucking out his energy. He couldn't regain his emotional bearings. No matter what Pete had said, he still felt pretty much useless as a police officer. The shame of losing the robbery/murder suspect still burned hot in his gut. The sight of that twelve-year-old girl half-dead from pills and pot and in a sexually compromising situation still swam before his eyes, as did the memory of three supposedly good kids destroying property on a whim. But the most overwhelming emotions came from the memory of little Jane Doe dying in his arms. The look of pain and fear in her eyes, the layers of dirt and feces that covered her gaunt, starvation- wracked body, the feel of her bones against his arms, and the overwhelming stench that permeated that house weighed on him like a load of bricks. He felt as tired as he ever remembered being in his life. His head still pounded, he still felt like he needed to throw up, and tears still burned the back of his eyes.

Get a grip, get a grip. Jim didn't want to walk in his house and fall apart in front of his family, but he feared he would do just that. It wasn't fair to Jean for him to come home and unload on her. He didn't want to burden her with the sickening reality of what he'd seen today. Jim had sworn that he wouldn't bring his job home with him and take out his frustrations on his family, and most of the time, even on the tough days, he kept that vow.

Pete's parting words of advice were a reminder to go home and let Jean help him get through this. When Jim protested, Pete reminded him that the marriage vows were 'for better or for worse', and this definitely qualified as 'for worse'. Jim frowned at the steering wheel; Pete was right, but he hated the thought of Jean feeling even a fraction of the pain he felt right now.

Sitting out here in the car isn't the answer. You gotta go in sometime. Jim took a deep breath and got out of the car. Help me not to fall apart.

Jim turned the key in the front door lock and walked into his living room. The sight of his home brought on a fresh rush of emotion. The house, clean and inviting, as usual, was filled with the rich, comforting aroma of a home-cooked meal. The stark contrast to the Winstead home with its filth and rancid smell overwhelmed him. He blinked back tears yet again and silently thanked God for his wife. Somehow, I have to tell her how much what she does here means to me. I swear I'll never take it for granted again.

“Jim? That you, darling?” Jean's muffled voice came from the bathroom, where he could hear Jimmy squealing and splashing in his bathwater.

Jim swallowed and cleared his throat before answering. “Yeah. I'm home.”

“I'm giving Jimmy his bath. I'll be done in a minute, honey.”

“Da-deeeee! Da-deeeeee!” Jimmy squealed. The water splashing got louder and Jean started laughing.

Jim walked to the bathroom and stuck his head in. Jean was on her knees, bathing Jimmy, who splashed his bathwater vigorously.

“You little wiggle worm, be still!” Jean fussed happily. She had as much water on her as Jimmy, but Jim thought she'd never looked more beautiful.

“Da-deeee!” Jimmy caught sight of his father and reached chubby arms up to him. Jimmy seemed to love the sound of the letter “e.” He stretched out any “e” sound for as long as he could.

“Hey, buddy,” Jim managed to get out.

Jean looked up at the sound of his strained voice, a look of concern on her face. “You all right, honey?”

Jim nodded, once. “I'm gonna put up my gun,” he said, diverting the conversation to neutral ground.

“As soon as I'm through here, I'll fix you a plate.” The worried look didn't leave her face.

“I'm not hungry, honey,” Jim called over his shoulder as he made his way to the bedroom to lock up his gun.

Jimmy howled and began to cry as he lost sight of his daddy. “Da-deeeee come back!” he wailed.

“Hush, now, little Jim, daddy will be right back,” Jean shushed him quietly.

Jim unloaded his gun and locked it in the box in the top dresser drawer where it stayed while he was at home. He wondered idly if he needed to move it to the top of the closet now that Jimmy was getting more adventuresome. The thought of something bad happening to his little boy almost caused him to break down right there, but he pushed the thoughts aside and swallowed his fears. He heard his son calling for him and that, too, brought back thoughts of little Jane Doe. No one had heard her calls for love.

Oh, God, please don't let me ever hurt my son. Please don't let me screw up being a father. Or a husband. How can I ever express what they mean to me? Jim took another deep breath and went back to the bathroom.

Jean had just lifted Jimmy out of the tub and wrapped him in a towel when Jim got back, and the toddler set up a happy squeal when he saw his daddy again.

“Da-deeee! Da-deeee home!” Jimmy reached out for Jim again.

“Come here to Daddy, buddy,” Jim lifted the boy from his mother's arms and held him tightly. The child wrapped two wet, chubby arms around his daddy's neck and snuggled up to him.

“Da-deeee home,” Jimmy cooed.

Jim squeezed his eyes shut, completely overwhelmed by his son's affection. He buried his face in the towel to smother the sob that threatened to burst from his throat. The smell of his boy's clean, healthy, chubby body, the bright happiness in his eyes, the cheerfulness in his baby-voice, and the trust he had in his mother and father again brought the sharp contrast of little Jane Doe to his mind. Despite his resolve, he couldn't keep tears from escaping his eyes as he held his son close.

He felt Jean's hand on his arm. “Honey?” She whispered, her concern evident. “What is it?” She reached up and brushed a tear off Jim's cheek that the towel didn't quite hide.

“I'm okay,” Jim insisted, his voice choked. “I'll dress him.” He brushed past his wife, hating himself for being so brusque. But he didn't trust himself to speak further.

“Jim, honey,” Jean followed him into the nursery, “will you please talk to me?”

Jim nodded. “Later, ” he whispered. He swiped at his eyes quickly, then lay Jimmy on the dressing table and started drying him off, as the boy giggled and smiled up at his daddy.

“I'll go clean up the kitchen. You sure you don't want me to save you a plate?”

“I'm sure, baby. Thanks anyway.” Jim looked at his wife as she sighed, and he tried to smile at her reassuringly. But he knew that the brightness of his eyes gave away his distress.

“Don't forget lotion,” she reminded, then left the room with that look of concern still on her face.

Jim reached for the bottle of lotion and squirted some on Jimmy's chest. The boy laughed as the cold substance hit his body, still warm from the bath.

“Cowd, da-deeee,” he giggled.

“Sorry, buddy,” Jim apologized. He rubbed the lotion in and goosed him a little, just to hear that laugh again. When Jim reached the little boy's feet, Jimmy started wiggling his toes and waving his feet around. “Hey, sport, how can I put lotion on your feet if you're kickin' like that?” It was then he realized just how much Jimmy was growing. His legs hung over the end of the dressing table. He's almost too big to fit up here anymore. When did that happen? Why haven't I noticed? What else have I missed?

“Do piggieees, da-deeee, do piggieees,” the toddler begged.

“Okay, buddy.” Jim pulled himself away from his musings, cleared his throat, grabbed the boy's big toe and started the familiar rhyme. “This little piggy went to market, this little piggy stayed home, this little piggy had roast beef, and this little piggy had none. And this little piggy said whee-whee-whee all the way home!” Jim tweaked Jimmy's pinky toe and tickled his foot, and the little boy squealed happily in response, his delighted laughter filling the room. Again, Jim's eyes spilled over, and he gathered up his son in a fierce hug to keep him from seeing the tears. “I love you, son,” he whispered. “I love you.” How could he have ever been angry at his son over something so stupid?

“Wuv you, da-deeee,” Jimmy responded sweetly, giving him a sloppy kiss on the cheek.

Jim continued to hold his boy until the toddler finally tired of being cuddled and started to squirm. “Da-deeee . . . put jammieeees on . . . ”

“Okay, okay,” Jim wiped his eyes again and finished the job of dressing Jimmy. After he'd combed his son's hair, he set Jimmy down on the floor.

The toddler immediately rushed to his bookshelf and pulled his favorite book from the low shelf where they were stored. “Weeead, da-deeee, weeead.”

“Okay, buddy.” Jim took the book, then turned the low nursery light on and the overhead light off. He sat in the rocker as Jimmy toddled around, gathering the loveys he needed to settle down and sleep. The boy took his stuffed blue-and-white dog, Boo, and his cuddling blanket and crawled up into his daddy's lap. Jim settled him in the crook of his arm, wrapped the blanket around him and started rocking and reading Goodnight, Moon.

Jimmy slipped his thumb into his mouth, clutched his doggie, and leaned back into Jim's arms. He was tired from his late-night escapades the previous evening, and it didn't take long, only twice through the book instead of the usual five or six times, for the baby-blue eyes to close and for his little body to relax into a deep sleep.

Jim held him close, staring at his child's peaceful face. He continued to rock his boy while he battled a variety of emotions. On the one hand, being able to hold his healthy, happy son took the edge off some of the pain that the death of the abused girl had caused him. On the other hand, it also made him feel an irrational sense of guilt. It was so irrational he couldn't understand it himself. His thoughts were jumbled so that he couldn't make any sense of anything. Jim knew that part of it was exhaustion, but the other part consisted of that sick feeling of despair and uselessness that still shadowed him. Not even the comfort of holding his son could ease that.

Jim closed his eyes as his roller-coaster emotions cascaded again. He rocked his child and silently prayed for help and understanding as he fought to keep the tears at bay.

He didn't know how long he sat there, rocking Jimmy and silently praying, but Jean's quiet voice caused him to open his eyes.

“Honey,” she whispered, laying a soft hand on his shoulder. “He's asleep.”

“I know,” Jim whispered back. “I just needed . . . needed some time with him.”

Jean looked down at him with love and concern, brushing away a tear that has leaked out despite his best efforts. Her simple look and heartfelt gesture pushed him over the edge, and the last of his resolve crumbled completely away.”

Jim bowed his head and started to tremble as he made one last ditch effort not to break apart. He handed Jimmy over to her and almost leaped from the chair, heading for the door. He made it to their bedroom before the weeping that he'd been holding back for hours finally broke out. Jim sank down on the edge of the bed and gave into his pain and sorrow, sobbing into his hands.

After only a few seconds, Jean joined him on the edge of the bed. She put her arms around him and cradled his head on her shoulder, stroking his hair and offering him wordless comfort. Jim clung to her, pulling her close to him, accepting support as he cried out his distress.

After a short time, Jim calmed himself and his weeping subsided. He still kept his face buried in her softness and held her close, soaking up her love, his anchor.

Jean pushed him away enough and took his flushed face in her hands so that she could kiss him. She kissed his forehead, then both eyes and cheeks, and finally brushed his lips with a light kiss.

Jim opened his mouth to offer a feeble apology, but Jean covered it lightly with three fingers.

“If you say 'I'm sorry' I'm going to be really, really mad,” she warned, her own voice a little wobbly. She kissed his cheeks again and used her thumbs to dry the tracks Jim's tears had left on his face.

Jim noted that his wife's eyes brimmed with tears as well. He really was sorry that he'd burdened her with his own weakness; but instead of apologizing, he simply husked, “Thank you.”

“I hate it when your job does this to you,” Jean whispered back. “I hate seeing you hurting like this.” She pushed Jim's hair back from his face. It was damp from his distress.

“I hate it when I dump it on you, honey.” Jim's voice was stronger now that his initial grief had subsided, but he still trembled slightly, and Jean pulled him back to her in a tight embrace.

“You don't do it nearly enough, baby,” Jean contradicted. “Instead, you go to bed and stare at the ceiling half the night, or wake up in a sweat from some nightmare I can't imagine.”

“I don't want the ugliness to touch you. Or Jimmy.”

“The world's an ugly place, sometimes, love,” Jean pointed out. “You can't always shelter me. Or your son, as much as you might want to.”

Jim fought back more emotion as he thought of what his little boy might have to face in the future. But he had no response for Jean's words; he knew they were true.

“Will you please talk to me now? Please tell me what happened today. Pete didn't say anything except you'd been held up on a bad call. But when he called instead of you, I knew whatever it was had you upset.”

“I hardly know where to begin,” Jim sighed. “The whole day has been a nightmare.”

“You started off exhausted and mad at your son,” Jean prompted gently.

Slowly, haltingly, Jim recounted the lowlights of his day. Jean listened with a sympathetic ear as she rubbed his back for comfort. He stopped when he got to the part of the story that took him to the door of the Winstead house.

“Don't stop now, honey,” Jean prodded.

“Jean, honey, I have to warn you,” Jim sighed deeply and took his wife's hands, “it's terrible. I can hardly think of the words to tell you what happened. I don't think there's enough negative adjectives to describe what I saw.”

“Try, baby. Just keep talking to me.”

Jim held onto Jean's hands tightly as he recounted the nightmare in the Winstead home. By the time he reached the part where he was holding the little girl while Pete went for the ambulance, both he and Jean couldn't stop fresh tears from falling. Jim told Jean that he had talked to the nameless child and tried to comfort her, and in a broken voice he recounted how he'd told the poor girl that he loved her. Somehow, admitting that to Jean broke some kind of barrier within Jim. His words came faster through his tears as he finished the story, recalling the ride in the ambulance where the little girl died in his arms.

“Oh, Jim, oh, Jim,” was all Jean could say, now as choked with sorrow as her husband. They held each other in silence for a long while, sniffling and calming down from the emotional overload.

Finally, Jean gathered herself and got down to the business of fussing over Jim. She kissed him gently, then suggested, “Honey, why don't you go take a shower and get comfortable? Maybe a long, hot shower will make you feel better. Maybe you could even eat something.”

Jim shook his head. “I cleaned up at the station,” he explained, “when I changed out of the uniform. I felt so dirty, I had to. And I'm not hungry.” He hugged her close again and leaned heavily on her. “I'm just so tired. And my head feels like it's about to explode.”

“Let's get you to bed, then.” She rubbed Jim's back again. “Come on, sit up and I'll help you get undressed.”

“I'm not helpless,” Jim protested.

“I know that.” Jean leaned down, untied his shoes and pulled them off, tossing them into the corner.

“I can undress myself, Jean.”

“Just sit still,” Jean ordered sternly. “Let me do this much for you.”

When Jim didn't object further, she removed his socks, then helped him strip down to his boxers and t-shirt, though he pushed her hands away gently when he started unbuttoning his shirt. She got him to his feet long enough to turn down the bed and fluff his pillows, then fussed about the angry scratch running down his left leg. He assured her he was fine, crawled into bed, and settled back tiredly against the pillows. Jean tucked the covers around him with gentle hands. “How about some hot cocoa? Aspirin for your head?”

“Too hot for cocoa. And I've already had aspirin.” Jim patted the empty side of the bed. “Stay here with me.”

“All right.” Jean kicked off her own shoes and crawled into the bed beside her husband. She slipped her arms around him and leaned against his chest as Jim reciprocated the embrace. After a few moments of silence, she asked, “What's going to happen now?”

“We hunt down the Winsteads. If that's their real name,” Jim's voice was bitter. “And we dodge the press. They were already at the station by the time Pete and I left. It's gonna be a media event.”

“But in a way that's good, isn't it? I mean, when the public hears this story, they'll be just as hot to turn in creeps like that as you are to find them. I know I am.”

“Maybe.” Jim was noncommital.

“Maybe, but . . . .?” Jean prompted.

“But . . . .I dunno,” Jim sighed and rubbed at his tired, swollen eyes. “What's the use?”

“What's the use?” Jean repeated, her voice puzzled. “What do you mean? You put the bad guys away, that's what's the use.”

“It's not gonna bring that little girl back.”

“No, it won't.”

“And if we find our 211 that I lost this morning, it won't bring back that pregnant woman and her unborn baby, either,” Jim spat out, an edge of anger coloring his voice. “I might as well not even had been on the streets today for all the good I did out there.”

“So, you're just gonna give up?” Jean asked pointedly.

“What would it matter if I did? What am I accomplishing? Who am I helping? If you ask that dead woman's husband, or that little girl, I'm sure they'd say 'nothing and nobody.'”

Jean pushed away and propped up on her elbow, looking at her husband in surprise. “Jim, you're so wrong,” she declared quietly.

“Am I?”

“Yes, you are! You know I'm not crazy about your job, and you know why. But honey, you're good at what you do. I've heard Pete say it, and Mac -- you've got it all to be a great police officer. You've got brains, and speed and strength, and common sense, and compassion . . . ”

“What good is all that if I'm not saving lives or keeping people from losing their property? I want to help people, honey. It's why I became a cop in the first place.” He paused and his voice turned bitter. “I couldn't help anybody today.”

Jean sighed and shook her head. “Jim, no. You did help. You're just so upset you can't see it.”

“How?” Jim demanded. “How did I help anybody today?”

“Honey, you helped a little girl die in peace, that's what.”

“But I wanted to save her, Jean! Not help her die!”

“Life and death is in God's hands, Jim. That decision was made before you even got there. And no matter how good a cop you are, darling, you aren't God. You can't save everybody. You can only do what you can do -- what God sends you there to do. And that's what you did today.” She went on as Jim looked at her in confusion. “You were willing to sit in the filth and hold a dirty, naked, starving girl -- literally taking the shirt off your back to wrap her in it -- and make her last moments on earth probably the best ones she'd ever had. Instead of dying in a dark, cold closet, covered with bugs, she died in the strong arms of a warm, caring, loving man . . . who cared enough to tell a perfect stranger that he loved her. If that isn't helping someone, I don't know what is.”

Jim swallowed and stared hard into Jean's eyes. He didn't want to lose control again, but her words gave him some hope that maybe he wasn't so useless after all. “I want to believe that,” he whispered.

“Believe it, darling,” Jean caressed Jim's cheek, then reached up and kissed him.

Jim pulled her back into a close embrace and buried his face in her neck. “I'll try, Jean. I'll try.”

****

Part 3