A DAY IN THE LIFE by Cheryl Rabin

TIME FRAME AND DISCLAIMER "A Day in the Life takes place during season four, probably shortly before Mike Kellerman comes into contact with Luther Mahoney. He hasn't become completely jaded yet. He still lives on his old houseboat. Characters used from "Homicide: Life on the Street" belong to Baltimore Pictures and NBC Productions and are used without permission. This story may be copied or placed in public domain so long as the author's original name and story remain intact.

A DAY IN THE LIFE

The bedside radio alarm blared the national anthem breaking the still of the quiet night, bouncing off the walls of the small cabin in the boat Mike Kellerman called home.

He sat bolt upright in his bed, his right hand automatically going to the right side of his forehead in a salute before he sheepishly let it drop.

"Shit," he said to nobody but himself. "I forgot to change that damn radio station again. When am I going to learn?"

Once the adrenaline of his rude awakening began to dissipate Mike began to remember how lousy he felt. He'd been achy and feverish with a runny nose, sore throat and intermittent sneezing the night before. Now it was his turn to get the dreaded flu that was decimating the Baltimore City Police Department and running rampant in the Homicide Unit. He'd hoped the swig of NyQuil he'd taken before he'd gone to bed had worked its magic, but his general malaise proved it hadn't.

What a time for this to happen. No matter. He had to be in court in three hours.. A big murder case. Hell, they were all big. Even the shitty drug take-downs. That's what he had today.

Actually it was a routine homicide. Not a big deal except for the players. It should have been a plea bargain, but the money behind this particular scrote decided this miserable excuse of a human being, Lindell James, was too valuable to his organization to be hidden away in prison. Ergo, the not-guilty plea and the request for a jury trial.

Court was a necessary evil, and, on occasion a decent break from the routine of murder investigations. Once you got into the rhythm of testifying and playing mind games with the defense attorney, it actually could be a lot of fun.

Mike doubted that today would be fun, though. He'd received an anonymous tip that there would be trouble at the courthouse today. The victim's organization hadn't been very pleased losing one of their key players. In fact, there had been a few killings here and there between the two factions since the killing six months ago of Mohammed Jabbar, born Cleotis Jones. Mike had been primary on two of the other homicides because of his familiarity with the rival gangs. He'd been on vacation when two of the others went down.

He banged his hand on the mattress muttering to himself, then swung his legs off the bed. Mike leaned forward, elbows on his knees, holding his aching head in his hands.

Of all times to be sick. He had to have his wits about him. Especially today.

A quick shower later, Mike stood in the small bathroom in front of the mirrored cabinet preparing to shave. As the fogged mirror began to clear, he winced at what he saw.

"Shit," he said succinctly. "Double shit. Make that bloody shit. That's what I look like." He moaned as the image became clearer.

Blue eyes swimming in what he thought was a sea of red stared back at him. His nose, rubbed raw at the nostrils, blared red. His face appeared pale, but his cheeks were red. And, to make matters worse, his hair badly needed a trim. If he didn't get one soon Gee would be on his case. He made a mental note of it, wondering when he'd find the time.

He finished shaving and managed to tame his hair the best he could with the blow dryer. He just didn't have the energy to style it, and right now he honestly didn't care how it looked, which surprised him because he'd always been a bit vain about it.

His hair was a babe magnet. At least it had attracted Annie. That's what she'd told him. He wished she were here with him now, instead of that funky musician she took up with. He needed her. He wanted her.

Now, more than ever, he knew he was sick. Thinking about Annie. Being maudlin. Hell, he'd survived the divorce, he'd survived her. He had a life, even though most of it was centered around work. Why did she even come to his mind? Must be the fever. A waking nightmare. Mike shook his head trying to make her disappear. A wave of dizziness struck him and he held on to the porcelain sink until it passed. Then he brushed his teeth and gargled with the mouthwash, giving his sore throat relief for the present.

With a towel wrapped securely around his waist, he headed for the galley. He didn't have the strength to make coffee. He'd get some at the Grind before he checked in at the squadroom prior to heading downtown to court. He opened the tiny fridge and removed a carton of orange juice. Taking a gulp, he looked out the door of his living quarters and noticed his new neighbor picking up the morning newspaper that had been thrown on her deck.

She looked lovely, her long legs visible to him from where her short robe stopped.

Shoulder length blonde hair, nice face. He wished he knew her name. She'd just moved in a week or so ago, houseboat-sitting for her uncle. Mike guessed her to be in her late twenties or early thirties, close to his own age.

He made a move to go out on his deck, then realized he wasn't dressed either. What an impression he'd make, anyway. He put the orange juice carton back in the refrigerator, and headed back to his bedroom.

He decided on charcoal slacks, gray shirt and tie, and a houndstooth tweed jacket. Not that he had a big wardrobe to pick from. Let Pembleton and Munch be the stylish dressers. He always was a lot more comfortable in jeans. In fact, when he was in Arson he'd been able to wear denim as long as he wore a jacket and tie with them. Gee put his foot down when he'd shown up on his first day in Homicide with his standard outfit. So, no more denim. He'd had to make a quick trip to the mall to put together some decent clothes to make his boss happy.

Knotting his tie, he slipped on his shoulder holster and checked his Glock to make sure it was loaded. He knew that it was, but it was force of habit. He double checked the safety and then holstered the weapon. Mike clipped his badge to his belt, put on his jacket, grabbed up the paperback he'd saved for just such an occasion, and exited his living quarters locking the door as he left.

Standing on the deck of his modest houseboat, Mike surveyed his surroundings. He still marveled at the luck he had acquring a slip in Fells Point near Henderson's Wharf, walking distance from the stationhouse. The sun blazed red in the east as it was slowly rising. Mike shivered a little, but he wasn't about to go back and get a jacket or overcoat. Hell, it would probably get up to seventy today, a typical April day, and he wasn't going to let this miserable cold of his make him a wimp.

He walked on the pier by his neighbor's boat. The blonde waved at him. He started to wave back, but instead hurriedly reached for his handkerchief as a big sneeze engulfed him. After wiping his nose, Mike sheepishly waved at her and headed toward Thames Street.

"Great first impression, moron," he muttered to himself after passing out of her eyesight.

In less than three minutes, Mike arrived at the Daily Grind on Thames Street, directly across from the stationhouse. The old city pier housing the Homicide Unit and various other sections of the police department used to be a neighborhood center and dancehall. It had a long pier going out of the back of the building with a door adjacent to his office making it easy to go out and grab a smoke when he needed one. Most of the large brick building was along the water of the Inner Harbor. The front faced Thames, the heart of Fells Point. It looked like no police station Mike had ever worked at before--none of the district stations had the character of this one.

There was a good-sized crowd at the Grind already, even though the establishment had just opened. He noticed his partner, Meldrick Lewis, near the front of the line.

He tapped him on the shoulder. "Do me a favor. Order a large coffee for me."

Meldrick turned, "Yeah, sure, Mikey." Then, "You look like shit, you know that?"

"Yeah?" Mike answered. "You must be a detective. And, guess what? I feel like shit, too. How's that grab you?"

"Right in the gonads, Mikey. Right where it hurts. You want anything with the coffee?"

"No. Not sure I could hold it down."

"Why're you even here? You heard of sick days?"

"Right. Sick days. I've got the Jabbar trial today. Can't afford it."

Lewis groaned. "I forgot about that. Guess I'll be without a partner for a while, huh?" He made a face.

"Miss me already?" Mike laughed.

"Nah, I'm just thinkin' I'll be makin' calls with the Munchkin. Might as well check the ink in my pen cause I know I'll get stuck being the primary."

"Very funny. I'm dying of laughter." Both men turned at the sound of the new arrival.

John Munch, tall, thin and dressed as usual in his basic black, stood there. "For that, you can order me a double latte so I can get to work and be in place when the first call comes in." Sarcasm, his normal tone, dripped from his lips.

"If you agree to be the primary, Munch, my man, your caffeine fix is on me," Lewis said, a smile breaking out on his face.

Munch shrugged. "I'll go on up to the room. Remember, it's a double."

"Well," Mike said, "that was easy."

"Too easy, Mikey, too easy. I've got a bad feeling about this. I bet that wily work of art got me again. I'll be out three bucks and stuck with the reports to boot. Sure you don't need me in court?"

"Not that I wouldn't want the company, Lewis, but you didn't do jack with this one. You're on your own." Mike waited while Lewis gave the order to the clerk and then slipped him two dollars.

"Thanks," he said, when Meldrick handed him the paper cup full of the house blend. He took a sip. His stomach roiled, but Mike thought it could stand the brew. He rarely threw up anyway.

Mike walked with Lewis across the cobblestoned street to the door of the station. He could either walk up the long flight of stairs to the second floor or he could take the side ramp. Normally the stairs didn't put him off, but today they looked daunting. He took a deep breath, and put the coffee cup in his left hand, so he could grip the rail if he needed to. He didn't ever remember feeling this weak. He hoped no one noticed he was wheezing when he made the top step. Then Lewis looked at him, worry in his face, but his voice was humored when he said, "Time to think about giving up smoking, huh, Mikey?"

"I did. Two weeks ago."

"Wonder how long that's going to last," Lewis said under his breath.

"I heard that." Mike answered after a coughing fit.

. . . . .

There was a new general order and a special order announcing the captain's promotional exam in his mail slot. He glanced at them momentarily, then put them back in the slot. Going to the desk he shared with Tom Collins, a detective on the other homicide squad opposite his shift, he rummaged in his drawer for the case file on the Jabbar murder.

Mike sat down in his desk chair and stretched back, nearly tipping the chair over. Nobody was startled. He did this every day at the start of the shift. Mike knew if he ever did fall over he'd be the butt of every joke on the floor. Being the new guy he already was the butt. If he didn't cause it himself, someone would manufacture something so he would be. He couldn't wait until there was a new transfer to the unit so he wouldn't be the new guy any longer. He doubted that it would happen for a while. Manpower was short throughout the department and Gee had pulled a lot of strings to get him up here. Crosetti's position had been empty a long time before he got the call.

His sergeant, Kay Howard, came over to his desk. He thought she had the most beautiful red hair he'd ever seen, and if she'd wear some makeup she'd be stunning. As it was, Mike found her attractive. He felt she should emphasize her femininity more instead of wearing mannish clothing but he knew his opinion was worth jack squat to her so he always kept his mouth shut on the subject.

"You've got the Jabbar trial, right?" she asked. She leaned her hip against his desk.

"I'm on the way downtown. Just stopped by for the file," Mike answered. "You got my memo yesterday?"

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about," Howard answered. "Need some help?"

"No. We're short anyway. I think Pembleton and Bayliss are still on sick days," Mike said.

"Frank's supposed to be back today." Kay looked at Mike, worry on her face.

"You look awful. I heard you coughing. You sound awful, too."

"Thanks. I needed to be reminded. I'll be fine. Wild horses couldn't keep me away from this trial," Mike assured her.

"If you're sure..." Kay said.

"I'm sure," Mike said, hoping that he could convince himself. "Where's Gee?"

"He's laid up, too. Guess I'm in charge today. If you need anything, just yell," she said as she pushed off the desk to leave.

"Ten-four, Sarge." Mike responded with a mock salute.

Kay left laughing.

. . . . .

Kellerman made arrangements with a district car to drive him to the courthouse. Didn't anybody have anything better to do than to comment on how lousy he looked? That's all he heard from everyone in the squadroom and the other officers and station personnel he'd bumped into.

He asked the patrol officer to stop at the Seven Eleven on Broadway and Lombard so he could get a box of Puffs. He hoped that they had the stuff with the cream or whatever that wouldn't hurt his nose, but they didn't. He settled for the generic tissue they had on hand. Ten minutes later the car pulled up to the front of the courthouse and Mike thanked the officer and entered the building. He still had to be checked by the deputy on duty but at least he didn't have to go through the metal detectors.

He headed immediately to the Prosecutors Office.

"Is Danvers in?" he asked the white-haired receptionist. Damn the cold, he couldn't remember the lady's name to save his life.

"No, he's already up in the court room. You know which one?" she asked.

"Yes, thanks," Mike said, his voice a croak.

"You need some chicken soup, hon," the receptionist said.

. . . . .

Danvers always wanted a briefing with all department members before jury selection. Mike knew the routine. He also was familiar with the order of testimony. In this case Danvers would probably start with the witnesses to the shooting if he could get them to cooperate, then the first officer on the scene. If the first officer was not the reporting officer, then the writer of the original police report testified next. The primary homicide detective came after that, then the various members of the crime scene investigating team and the laboratory personnel. The defense could then present their evidence if they had any or they could just rest.

Mike wished he could play like the defense and just rest right now. What he wouldn't give to be able to crawl into bed under nice warm blankets and sleep this miserable flu away. Oh well, if wishes were horses....

He was stuck here for the duration of the trial. Danvers would want him to be close by in case a questions came up or reinforcements were needed. Trials never ran smoothly. That's what made them interesting. If the defense didn't invoke 'the rule,' Mike would be able to sit in the courtroom directly behind Danvers. If they did, of course, Mike and any other potential witnesses would be barred from the courtroom usually until the prosecution rested. That way, no one could tailor testimony to match others given, or so goes the reasoning as why the rule was invoked. Mike didn't really care. He'd just bought Tom Clancy's new paperback, a behemoth of a book. If he played his cards right, that book should get him through several trips to court.

Danvers was inside the empty oak-panelled court room talking to the court clerk. He looked up as Mike entered. Danvers was a short man, with thinning brown hair, very nondescript. Mike found it hard to believe that Danvers and Kay Howard were once a hot item, but that was the station scuttlebutt.

Danvers motioned Mike to come up to the bench. "Glad you got here early," he said. "I was just telling Ms. Bock, here, about the potential problems we might have today. The bailiff will be arriving in a few minutes. I'm relying on Ms. Bock to give the information to the judge. Do you have anything else to add?"

"Just what was in my report," Mike answered.

Danvers blinked twice as if doing a double-take. "You look bad, Kellerman. You going to make it? I don't think the judge'll go for another continuance, but maybe if he gets a look at you..."

Mike cut in. "Don't bother. I'll make it. What is it with everyone? It's just a damn cold." He looked at the clerk. "Excuse me, ma'am, I meant darn cold."

The clerk smiled. "It's okay, Detective. I've heard the word before. And Mr. Danvers is right. You don't look so good."

Mike smiled at her, liking her grandmotherly concern but still feeling embarrassed. "If my nose still looks as red as it feels, maybe Santa Claus might have an off-duty job for me as Rudolph's double."

The laughter rang hollow in the huge court room.

The bailiff, a big burly man in his mid-to-late fifties came through the door leading to the private hallway that connected the room to the judge's chambers and other offices.

He had a copy of Kellerman's report in his hand.

Why is the last line of defense in a court room always up to an older out-of-shape man? That question always puzzled Mike. In this day and age with the amount of violence occurring in the court rooms across the country, the courts should be wising up and hiring younger in-shape personnel or at least have more than one on duty as back up. But no. The powers that be still relied on the hope that sworn law enforcement personnel would be in the vicinity when trouble broke out. At least in this case, the bailiff looked like he could handle himself in a fight if he didn't have a heart attack first.

Danvers made the necessary introductions. The bailiff, Bob White, said he'd pay close attention to the crowd in the court room. That was all Mike could expect. He didn't have a lot of faith in metal detectors. Too often, sometimes tragically, the operators missed a firearm or a knife. That came from the dullness of routine. Routine frequently breeds a lackadaisical attitude that can become fatal. That's why another canon of the police academy taught recruits to be systematically unsystematic.

Hearing commotion outside the court room, Mike hurried to the door. He opened it and caught sight of the news media setting up their equipment. "Tee-riffic," he muttered, drawing out the word as Danvers patted him on the back.

"It's to be expected," Danvers said.

"Who leaked it?" Mike asked.

"Probably no one. It doesn't take a genius to put two and two, or in this case four,

together to figure there might be some action in the courts today. The papers have been playing up the revenge factor."

"I guess you're right." Mike couldn't wipe the sullen, pouty look off his face. "I just didn't need this today."

"You need to learn to use the media to your advantage," Danvers said. "Works wonders sometimes."

"That's because you're a politician, Danvers. I'm not. I'd be happy if I'm never mentioned in the paper or seen on the news."

"To each his own," Danvers answered as he waved to the media personnel.

Danvers led Mike through the gauntlet of reporters as they headed for the witness room. Mike gritted his teeth and forced a smile, secretly ready to choke Danvers for going this way when they could have used the private passageway.

Once inside, Mike looked around and his heart leapt, then fell. Annie, his Annie was seated at one of the tables holding a conversation with another lab technician whose name failed to come to mind. Of course, this would happen the way his luck was running today. Of all the lab people, she'd be the one of the ones testifying today. Why hadn't he paid more attention to that particular report? Then he would have been prepared to see her.

That's what he always did when they had to cross paths. Prepare. That way he didn't wear his heart on his sleeve to her. Mike knew he was easy to read. Had been since he was a baby. His family, especially his two derelict brothers, took advantage of that.

He tried to mask his emotions now, but knew he was probably failing. "Hi, Annie," he said as coolly as he could.

"Hi, yourself," she answered. "What's wrong?" She studied him closely.

"Nothing." He tried not to rasp. "Just a cold." He couldn't stand it if she became solicitous of his health. Not now, when he knew she didn't really mean it.

The first-responder officer and a dispatcher entered the room then, cutting off further comments.

Danvers briefed them on the order of testimony. He dropped the bomb that the witnesses to the shooting could not be found and warrants had been issued for them to be brought forward. The information had been sent out to all the precincts and at this minute officers and detectives alike were out combing the streets for them. Mike hoped at least one would get nabbed. After all, a hostile witness is better than no witness at all. But he could sure understand why nobody wanted to testify in this case. Lindell James, the man on trial for the murder of Jabbar, was an asshole-deluxe, and would get his revenge somehow, some way if anyone turned on him.

This whole gang situation rankled Mike. If they wanted to kill each other, it was no skin off his nose. But, a job was a job and it was his job to investigate the taking of a human life, even the taking of a scumbag human's life. And these drug-dealing gang members were just that--scum. They didn't think before shooting, and they didn't care who was in the path of their bullets. As often as not, some poor schmo, out to buy a pack of cigarettes at two in the morning, was the unwilling and unwitting victim du jour. But this time, Jabbar, as big a scrote as James, was the victim. Poetic justice. Still, he worked the case as thoroughly as he did any innocent victim's. That's just the way it was.

"Why didn't you say something sooner?" Mike asked Danvers a little testily.

"I didn't know for sure until early this morning. I got the judge to issue the warrants, but I think we've got a decent case with the evidence at the scene. We've gotten convictions on cases with less circumstantial evidence and no witnesses."

Mike had to admit Danvers didn't look worried. If Danvers didn't care, why should he? Walking over to the coffee urn, he took a styrofoam cup and filled it with the hot liquid.

He sat at another table and spread his reports out pretending to read them, but sneaking glances at Annie. God, she was beautiful even if her twisted evil heart wasn't. He hadn't known it was coming. He'd taken his marriage vows seriously and was home whenever he wasn't at work. He never looked at another woman. Well, he conceded, maybe her heart wasn't twisted and evil, not altogether. He had to have done something wrong to make her stray. But, what? She'd never said she was unhappy with him, that he was lacking in some department, until she left him for that musician.

Maybe the fever was making his thoughts stray in that direction. He could handle this in a professional manner. After all, they still had to work together sometimes, like this. As long as he was in Homicide, he'd better get used to it. He sipped his coffee willing himself to change his thoughts back to the case in hand.

He wasn't sure what he needed to be looking for. Probably the obvious. James would have his family at the trial--his momma and maybe his girlfriend, his siblings, but would his gang make a show? Probably, and that would set up the scenario for Jabbar's cohorts to even the score. That was another thing that got his goat. Why couldn't they allow the system to take care of Jabbar's murderer? Why did they have to be judge, jury and executioner? The question today was whether they would take their gang warfare into the halls of justice.

Hell, the problem was a lack of respect for human life. The gangs lived for the present only, and death or life made no difference. They had to know if they came in guns blazing in the court room that their own lives wouldn't be worth a plugged nickel. These fools didn't care and that's what made them so dangerous to people who cared about living--to people like cops.

Mike had no great desire to leave this mortal earth. He took the oath to preserve and protect, but he wasn't the Secret Service, and he had no plans to throw himself in front of anyone to take a bullet. He, along with all other police officers, regularly put his life on the line but the bottom line was making sure he made it home at the end of his shift.

Of course, if it was God's will, then that was that, but he'd do his darndest to survive and make sure his partner survived.

He gave himself a mental kick in the butt. Not only did he feel like death warmed over, now he was thinking about death. Why did he always get philosophical when he was sick?

The answer was rooted in this room. All he wanted was Annie back but that would never happen. He wanted to feel her cool hands on his fevered brow, he wanted to be fussed over by her, and he wanted to feel the warmth of her body as she held him when the fever chills began. He wanted everything he could no longer have. It hurt.

"Damn it, Kellerman," he mentally told himself. "Grow up. It's over." Standing up, he gathered the reports together, then put his book and box of tissues on top of them. He got a refill on his coffee and walked out of the room. He needed to get some air, and he noted dully that Annie didn't seem to pay any attention that he left.

He walked to the back door of the court house and nodded to the deputy on duty, then he exited the door. He leaned against the building and let his head fall forward. If he could just get through today, and if the trial went quickly, he'd have his regular days off. He was coming up on a three-day weekend. That would give him time to recuperate.

Mike raised his head and took in the bustling scenes around him. Downtown Baltimore was something else. People-watching gave him a perspective.

Of course, the perspective wasn't a positive one. He, like most police officers, found the general population to be clueless. Not necessarily dumb, but going through life in blissful ignorance. For example, you could be at a crime scene with a suspect holed up

inside. Buffy or Biff might walk up to you as you have your gun drawn, and say "Is something going on, officer?" It was a miracle that some of these people made it through life as long as they did in one piece.

Mike longed for a cigarette but he'd vowed to give up smoking and he meant it this time. He finished his coffee and then tapped on the door. The deputy let him back in. He scouted the hallways and then made his way back to the witness room.

Danvers was back. "Where were you?" he asked.

"Just getting some air," Mike answered. "I gave the floor another once over. No action."

"They've started jury selection. I'm guessing we'll be ready to go at about 10:30 or 11:00. So, be ready."

Everyone in the room nodded. Nobody said a word.

"I offered the defense a deal. We'd plead down to second-degree murder with a life sentence." Danvers had a smug look on his face.

"And...?" Mike asked.

"If looks could kill, James would have planted me three times over, but his attorney looked reasonable. Maybe he can get through to his client." Danvers shrugged. "Remember, don't go anywhere. Be ready to testify."

Mike sat at the table with his back against the wall. He opened the Clancy book, another epic about Jack Ryan. He might as well settle in for the duration. He read a couple of chapters. It would take a while for the story to kick in. The words swam in front of him. His eyelids felt heavy. It wouldn't hurt to close them for awhile.

. . . . .

He heard someone calling his name. Someone was shaking his shoulder. Not someone. Annie. Annie was calling him. It took some effort but he managed to open his eyes.

"Mike? Are you all right?"

Was that concern he heard in Annie's voice? It must be. Concern was definitely in her eyes as he looked straight into hers.

"Sure. I was just resting my eyes," he said, somewhat embarrassed.

"I don't think so, mister, " she said, not unkindly. "You're burning up and talking in your sleep. I'm not sure if it could be considered delirium but at the least you sure were having a nightmare."

"I'm fine," he said, feeling his face heat up even more. He didn't get sick very often but when he did, he'd been told he talked in his sleep. He hoped what he said didn't concern his feelings for her. Then she and everyone in the room would know how lost he'd been without her. That would be his ultimate shame.

If he had, he couldn't read it in her face or in the faces of the others in the room. They just looked concerned about him.

"I'm fine," he repeated. "It's just a damn cold."

After that little fiasco, he knew he had to stay alert and the best way to do that was to stay on his feet. He took some more coffee and went to stand out in the hallway.

He stood there, idly, sipping the caffeine-laced brew hoping it would give him a lift. He watched people filter into the court room and wander out. He knew it would be too easy for him to have the defendant accept the plea bargain. He couldn't be so lucky.

He paced the hallway. He visited the men's room and relieved himself, knowing that the extra liquids he was consuming meant more frequent trips to the room. Afterward, he checked himself in the mirror and understood why there was concern about his well-being. He looked even worse than he had that morning. The sockets around his eyes looked bruised and his face was pale, sweat beading on his forehead. His nose looked like bas relief in red. He splashed cold water on his face in the hope that it would

help and it did, at least for a few minutes. After wiping his face off with the rough paper towels, he resumed his pacing in the hallway.

He wasn't really sure what he was looking for. Gang members from either team had the right to be in the court room, just like other friends and family members. As long as they didn't start a ruckus, things would be all right. Even a fight could be handled. But weapons. That was another story. How the hell would he know if the deputies downstairs failed to do their job until the shit hit the fan? Then it would be too late.

He saw a couple of men he recognized from James' organization walk down the hallway. Cameras started and lights flashed. Sheesh, you'd think they were rock stars or visiting dignitaries or something. It must be a slow news day in the city.

He checked his watch. Eleven thirty. He must have been out of it awhile. He guessed from the activity that the trial had started. Why hadn't Annie said something?

The court room door opened and the dispatcher exited, shaking her head. Mike made eye contact with her but she just shrugged and said she hoped he'd be feeling better and she had to get back to work.

Danvers' assistant had gotten the district officer out of the witness room and he was at the door ready to go in. Danvers came out in the hallway, saw Kellerman and smiled.

"Glad you're back among the living. You were zonked for awhile. You okay?"

"Yeah, fine," Mike answered. He was getting damned sick of making that response. Too bad he couldn't tell him how he really felt. Too many reporters around.

"Keep it together, hot shot. You're next in the barrel," Danvers said as he headed back into the court room.

"Who's calling who hotshot?" Mike retorted.

Mike went back to the witness room for his reports. Even though he knew the reports verbatim, he always carried them with him when he testified, even as he carried his notebook with him when he testified as a patrolman. He resumed his position outside the court room.

About twenty minutes passed before the district officer walked out the door. Danvers followed.

"We're going to try to get you finished before the lunch break. The defense will pick you up after lunch. You ready?"

"As ready as I'm ever going to be," Mike answered as he followed Danvers inside.

. . . . .

Thirty minutes later after Danvers had led Mike through his investigation, the judge called for the lunch recess. Court was to resume at 1:30.

"You did just fine," Danvers said. "Hopefully, the defense will be easy on you."

"What's there to be hard on? It was a by-the-book investigation."

"True, but in your condition, he might try to trip you up."

"In my condition," Mike snorted. "For God's sake, it's just a cold."

"Whatever," Danvers said. "Just take your time on the answers. You doing anything for lunch?"

"No. I better not. I'm not sure I could hold anything down," Mike admitted.

"And you think you're all right. Just don't get any sicker on me in the next hour."

Mike laughed.

. . . . .

Mike headed for a nearby deli and got a large Sprite. If anything, that should help settle his stomach. He spent his lunch hour on a bench near the court house letting the cold liquid soothe his throat and letting the gentle breeze cool his body. He couldn't lower his guard again. Falling asleep like that made him vulnerable and he hated feeling vulnerable.

Fifteen minutes before court was to resume, he headed back into the building. He wasn't nervous but he was a little edgy about dealing with a defense attorney when he wasn't at the top of his game. He was far from that now. His stomach rumbled and turned. He could taste the bile. Fine time for that to happen. All he needed was to lose his cookies in front of judge and jury. He swallowed convulsively until the feeling passed.

He saw three members of Jabbar's gang come around the corner. He thought they looked a little jumpy but maybe that was because of the news media. Nothing out of the ordinary. So far.

One of the reporters called to him. "Hey, Kellerman, care to give us a statement? How's the trial going?"

"No comment, guys." They were a massive pain in the ass.

Then he was back on the witness stand. The defense attorney wasn't playing word games with him. Cut and dried. The questions kept coming and he kept answering as if by rote. He kept his eyes on the Jabbar allies. It wasn't his imagination. They were jumpy. They were whispering to each other. Something was going to happen. Mike had that feeling, that sixth sense that many police officers seem to be born with.

Two of the men suddenly left the court room. Mike was itching to follow them but court decorum had to be followed.

"Excuse me, judge, " he said, turning toward the elderly Judge Pickett. "I'm not

feeling very well. May I have permission to take a quick restroom break?"

The judge pounded the gavel. "We'll have a fifteen minute break." He turned to Mike. "Go ahead, son."

Mike hurried out of the court room. He'd had an epiphany of sorts while watching the three men in the court room. If they were to get a weapon, it had to already have been planted. And what better place to plant something than in a toilet. At least that's what he'd always seen in the movies and television shows he watched. He hoped he was in time.

Shit. They were coming out of the men's room. He thought he could see a flash of silver as one of the men straightened his pants. It was now or never.

He drew his gun. "Police officer. Freeze. Yeah, you. Freeze scumbags," he yelled at the three men.

He watched as the man straightening his pants started to pull a gun out of his belt.

As if in a comedy of errors, the gun caught and the man shot himself in the foot. The gun dangled out of his waistband, and Mike raised his weapon towards the second man.

"Don't even think it," he said as he advanced towards the injured gang member. By this time, the bailiff had exited the court room and took the second man into custody.

Mike unhooked the gun from the belt of the injured party. He clucked at him. "A lesson to be learned, my man. Never put your piece near your piece. You know what I mean? This time you're lucky." He handcuffed the man as they waited for the paramedics.

The adrenaline rush over, he realized he'd been filmed by the media. He'd be all over the news tonight. He became weak in the knees. Not from the overexposure. That came with the job. He was beginning to remember that he didn't feel so well. In fact, he felt downright nauseated. He guessed he hadn't lied to the judge. By now, there were more law enforcement in the hallway. That's good, he thought. Real good. He gave one of the uniformed officers a meaningful look, then lunged for the door of the restroom. He barely made it to the porcelain throne before he upchucked the contents of his stomach.

Several dry heaves later, Danvers tapped him on the shoulder. "You done good,

Kellerman," he said. "You captured the 'Dumbshits from Doofus County.' Gads, where did they get those guys? It must have been some initiation stunt or something."

"Makes sense. They did give a new meaning to the word 'dumb,' didn't they? I guess I got lucky."

"Maybe. Even as sick as you were, you were more observant than me. I didn't have a clue." Danvers winced. "I don't even want to think what that court room would look like now if you hadn't been on your toes."

"Yeah? Well, you do what you have to do. I'm just glad it ended the way it did. I hate to think of the paperwork I'd have to do if I'd fired a shot," Mike sighed. "As it is, I'll be lucky to get home before midnight."

"You're finished here as far as I'm concerned. After this little episode, Lindell James figured he'd be safer in prison than on the streets. He's taken our offer. He figures wrong, me thinks. He's not long for this world inside or outside the pen." Danvers slapped him on the back. "There'll be a letter from my office and I'm sure one from the judge. Maybe you'll get a commendation out of this."

"I'm not looking for glory, Danvers. I'm just looking for the guts I think I've lost to the porcelain god," Mike whispered.

. . . . .

Three hours later, still feeling like warmed over cat dung, Mike finished the last of his reports. He'd already given his statement to Lewis who was still grousing over the fact that he got stuck as primary, even though it was a dunker.

"For you, Mikey, I don't mind. You know that. It's just that nothing happens all morning and then Munch has his annual appointment for his physical. Ten minutes out the door, and the call comes in. Shootin' at the court house. And I'm up. And out three bucks for that damn double latte, too. He's got the gift, man. He's got the gift. And I got the luck." Meldrick moaned.

Mike laughed. "I know. If it wasn't for bad luck, you'd have no luck at all. Kind of the way I felt all morning. Being sick, seeing Annie, wondering about the gang hit. But it works out, partner. Keep the faith. You'll get him tomorrow." His laughter turned into a fit of coughing.

"Better get home, Mikey. Get yourself a pretty little thing to nurse your sick ass well." He winked.

"Right," Mike sighed. He picked up his paperback and his box of tissues and headed for the ramp. He couldn't even think about walking down the flight of stairs. Kay Howard came over for what seemed like the thousandth time to make sure he was all right and thank him again for his actions. It was beginning to get old.

"Take care of yourself, Kellerman," she said. "See you in three."

"Right, sarge," he answered, and headed down the ramp.

. . . . ..

Dusk turned into twilight as Mike made his way home. He was so tired he had to remind himself to just keep putting one foot in front of the other. He hadn't eaten in over twenty-four hours but food was the last thing on his mind. He just wanted to crawl into bed and sleep for a thousand years.

He made it back to his boat and unlocked the door to his living quarters. The red light on his answering machine was blinking.

He replayed the messages. Several were from friends who'd seen the news footage. They congratulated him and had some off-color but funny remarks regarding the incident and the idiot gang member.

Then the clear voice of his mother. "Michael, this is your mother."

"Damn it. Why does she do that all the time?" he said to the walls. "Like I don't know what she sounds like."

"Michael, I saw you on television. You looked terrible. I know you've got that flu going around. You come home and let me take care of you. Call me when you get home. Your father and I are so proud of you."

Tears welled up in Mike's eyes. It wasn't often that he heard those words out loud. He knew he was considered the 'good' son but that was it. It meant a lot hearing her say that.

As for going home and letting his mother baby him while he was under the weather...well, it was tempting but no cigar.

He played the rest of the messages and then walked over to the fridge and took out the carton of orange juice and took another swig of it. He swallowed down another dose of NyQuil and went into his sleeping quarters and changed into his sweats.

Mike went into the small living room and plopped down on the sofa. He turned the television on and watched one of the many mind-numbing situation comedies that proliferated on the networks. He couldn't tell which. Now, when he had the chance to sleep, sleep wouldn't come.

He coughed, sneezed and wheezed and watched another sit-com.

The doorbell rang. He struggled up from the couch and stumbled to answer it. "Oh, great," he mumbled. "It's her.

Standing at the door was his knockout neighbor from the next boat. She was lovely, cool and healthy, and he looked like exactly what he felt like...shit. A great way to make a good impression on her as if he hadn't done that already this morning.

She was holding a large pot in her hand.

He opened the door.

"Hi," she said. "Are you going to ask me in?"

"If you don't mind coming in to the quarantine deck, be my guest." He opened it wider and she stepped in.

"I brought you some chicken soup," she said. "I don't think we've met. I'm Danielle Davis, Danny's niece."

"Hi, Danielle. I'm..."

"Mike Kellerman," she broke in. "I knew that from Uncle Dan, but even if I didn't I'd know it from the news. You're quite the hero."

Mike turned red. "I don't see myself as one. Just lucky."

"I noticed this morning you were sneezing and on the news you didn't look so well so I made you some soup. I hope you don't think I'm too forward."

"No, not at all. I didn't have anything to eat or cook around here. Thank you." The phone rang.

"Kellerman, here."

"Michael, this is your mother."

"Mom, why do you keep identifying yourself to me? I know that," he said like he always did.

"Michael, you sound horrible. You want me to come over? Or you come home?"

"No, mom," he said wearily. "I'm okay."

"It's times like this I hate Annie," he heard her say. "She should be there taking care of you."

"Not now, Mom. Please."

"Well, if you're sure," she said. "I just hate to think of you all alone and sick. Good night, son. Call me if you need anything."

"I will, Mom. Thanks. And," Mike smiled at Danielle and said," I'm not alone now." He hung up the phone.

"Funny. The chicken soup's already made me feel better and I haven't had any of it yet."

"Let me get you a bowl," Danielle said. "Then you're going to get some rest. I'll sit up with you for a while. Uncle Dan wouldn't appreciate it if anything happened to our local hero."

Mike smiled. It really was his lucky day. Too bad he'd have to wait till tomorrow to see how it panned out.
 

AUTOBIOGRAPHY The author retired after twenty-five years on the KCMOPD. She spent three years as a Crimes Against Persons detective (Homicide) and the rest as a patrol sergeant. She writes romances and belongs to RWA and MARA. She has watched "Homicide" from day one. She is one Homicon's founders.