Wonderful
AUTHOR: Lucky.
DISCLAIMER: Except for the creations of the author, all characters, characterizations, situations, and locations described in this unsolicited and not-for-profit work of fiction are the property of ABC Television, Capitol Cities, Inc., Steven Bochco Productions, the many talented people who created the world of NYPD Blue, and the actors who have made that world such a lively place. The author would also like to extend her personal gratitude to Mr. Scott Cohen for his light, his vitality, his inspiration, and for being such a compelling muse. Thank you, sir.
FEEDBACK: To Lucky
John popped open the ringing line with an expert peck. "Fifteenth Squad, this is John... Mm-hm. Let me see if she's available at the moment." He pecked again, dropping the call into momentary limbo and twisting in his chair. "Detective Russell?"
"Yeah," she lifted her head out of the welcome numb of paperwork and dragged herself back to reality, hoping to leave it again as soon as possible.
"I have a Doctor Clarence at St. Johns on the telephone for you. Are you available?"
Dammit, if they got me a shrink, I'm gonna quit... She managed to disengage her clenched teeth long enough to sound civil. "Yeah. Put it here." John gave her a nod and pecked another few buttons, making the phone in the corner of Diane's desk bubble at her. She snatched at it.
"Diane Russell."
"Detective Russell? This is Dr. Angela Clarence, Post-Trauma, St. Johns Hospital. How are you?"
"Fine, you?"
"Well, thank you. The reason I'm calling is that I was going through the file on one of our inpatients and your name is mentioned... um... It's right in here with..."
Diane pushed her hair back and sighed, unable to keep from being brusque with the woman. "Mentioned how?"
"Reason for admittance."
I put someone in the hospital? Who did I..? "You must be mistaken."
The doctor sounded like she was reading. "Reason for admittance: Cracked ribs resultant from three shots into a Kevlar vest by Detective Diane Russell of the Fifteenth Precinct, NYPD. Posterior closed-head trauma resultant from slip-strike injury probably sustained in a fall subsequent to being fired upon. General cardiac arrhythmia. Chemical, systemic and cosmetic damage consistent with recent cocaine use and chronic alcohol abuse."
Diane wanted to hang up. Just hearing it described played the scene in her head.
Again... except...
Kevlar? He couldn't have. Arrhythmia? He had no pulse. He fell. He's dead.
"Harry Denby is dead," she repeated, aloud this time, suddenly too loud in the too-quiet office, glancing up quickly to catch veiled shock from everyone around her, unable to tell if the shock was because she sounded like she wanted it to be true or because she didn't.
Dr. Clarence's voice came again, soothing now. "Then there's been a mix up, and you're the only witness to Detective Denby's death we have a name on. If you could see your way to coming down here..."
"No."
"But if Harry Denby is dead, we need to know who we have in our post- trauma ward."
"No. Why don't you ask him?"
"He's suffered partial amnesia as a result of his closed-head injury. He's coherent, but unable to tell us anything about himself except..." The doctor fell silent for several seconds and Diane could hear her flipping uselessly through pages of hospital file, making small popping noises as her mouth fell open and snapped shut again and again.
"What?"
"He's asking for Diane." She took a deep breath. "We think he might mean you."
He might... but he's not there. "But there's no way it can be Denby, right?"
"I honestly can't make that judgment anymore. If Harry Denby is dead, then no. The man in our care is very much alive."
If... Diane switched her hands around on the phone quickly, hiding her mouth as she responded. "Okay. I'll be there after five."
"Thank you." And indeed, the doctor sounded truly grateful. "Come in at the trauma door and ask for Dr. Clarence at the nurses' stand."
"Fine." Diane hung up before she had to hear any more. She could feel every eye in the room as if they were throwing them at her, but she couldn't look back. Staring back down into the white hole of paper on her desk, she saw handfuls of nothing and unfrightened emerald-blue.
It's not him. It can't be him. I saw him go. I made him go.
She was able to get her pen back onto the paper, but couldn't get it to move, watching the tiny blot of ink seep through the blank like black blood from a tiny bullethole.
Blood... No blood. There was no blood. Diane had a sudden urge to let her head pound into the desk, to bludgeon the buzz of missing information into silence. To make it not true again instead of just not there.
Instead, she stood up, knocking her chair back with a skittering thud, rustling her paperwork with the tiny tempest she raised as she whirled herself away and into the locker room. Before the door had swung shut behind her, she heard Danny's chair scrape on the floor and Andy's voice answer the sound.
"Sit down."
In the small room, Diane stared at the ceiling and walked around in little circles, avoiding her tears, avoiding her image in the mirror, avoiding everything.
The door opened and closed again quietly. A soft, masculine voice, edged rough like barely thawed ice, steeped along the south beaches of Lake Michigan.
"Hey..."
"He's dead, Andy," but her voice caught sharply, broken by a truth she thought she'd never live to doubt. "I swear he's dead."
He watched her in silence for a moment, then opened his arms to his sides.
"Come here."
She wobbled over to him, feeling like the child she'd become, crying, putting herself squarely into the center of his solid presence. "You saw it, didn't you? He's dead."
He did his best to comfort her, silently begging for the right words with upturned eyes. He might have been able to agree in part, but he heard the belief behind her assertion. He heard the pain and shock in her voice, but he recognized the little star of hope she tried to smother. She was right. He had seen it. He just didn't believe it anymore.
Not it she didn't want him to.
Continued in Part 3.
