Author: Daydreamer
Posted: 2 April 2003

The Briefing

The phone rang and I groaned, rolling over to reach for it blindly. I'd just gotten to sleep. "Banks," I said, hoping this wasn't going to involve getting up and going to a crime scene. I was not a happy camper when I was awakened in the middle of a REM cycle.

It's me, Simon."

Jim? Jim would never call me in the middle of the night unless there was a critical situation. I knew he wasn't on duty, so that only left one thing -- Sandburg. Something must have happened to the kid. I pulled myself up in the bed, then fumbled on the table until I found my glasses. I turned on the lamp and slid the glasses on my face. The room leapt into focus. "Jim? What's wrong?"

He was quiet for so long, I began to wonder if we'd been disconnected. Then he said, "Nothing. Everything," followed by a heavy sigh. Silence stretched between us again before he admitted, "I need a favor, Simon. It's about Blair."

I knew it. Damn -- lately it had been one thing after another for Sandburg. More trouble just didn't seem fair. "Is the kid all right? What's going on, Jim?" I asked. He was quiet again, another long, drawn out silence and I couldn't keep myself from fidgeting. I was trying to be patient, to let him tell me in his own way, but I was coming up with way too many scenarios in my head -- none of them good, I might add -- to wait much longer. Finally, I gave in and growled a warning at him. "Jimmmmm..."

I got that same heavy sigh in return, and an apology. "I'm sorry, Simon," he said, "I don't know how to explain it."

C'mon, Jim, you can do better than that. I glanced at the clock -- quarter to one. "You better try," I said, the concern in my voice letting him know what I was feeling. I was beginning to wonder if he was going to talk to me, so I roughened my voice and growled, "You call me in the middle of the night, you better have something to say."

It was quiet again, then he said, "Remember when we talked about the Costas case -- about what happened to that little girl?"

Did I remember? Oh, man, did I remember .... Jim had been in my office -- he'd been telling me what was going on with his partner who'd been acting weird, even for Sandburg. It was the day he told me the kid had been abused -- beaten -- as a child. The Costas case had been dredging up memories. I groaned. Olivia Costas had been raped. I'd asked Jim if ... I didn't want to go there. My mind skittered away from the thought. All I could choke out was, "Sandburg?"

Jim's voice was tight -- he had a stranglehold on his control -- as he answered me, confirming what I'd already suspected. "Yeah. He just told me tonight."

I didn't know what to say. What do you say when you find out that someone you care about -- someone you consider a friend, a member of your family -- what do you say when you find out that not only were they beaten as a child, but they were sexually abused as well. Oh, God -- how old had he been? Thoughts raced chaotically through my head, but all that made it to my tongue was a squeaky, "When?"

"He was eight," Jim said, and I could hear the pain in his voice. "Eight years old."

All I could see was my son. I rose and walked to the dresser, picked up a picture of Daryl. It was an old one, but I loved it because he was missing his two front teeth, and that gap-toothed smile was just adorable. I ground my teeth for a minute, knowing that if someone had done that to my boy, to my son, they would have to die. It didn't matter if I was a cop, sworn to uphold the law. Being a father would always come first. I took a deep breath and asked, "Who do we have to kill?"

My heart was hammering in my chest as I listened to Jim break down and sob. I was embarrassed and at the same time angry with myself for feeling that way. The fact that my detective was six two and the epitome of the so-called societal Alpha Male should not mean that he wasn't entitled to let his emotions loose every now and again. I sighed as I thought of all the times I'd been reminded, 'Men don't cry, Simon.'

"God, Simon!" he gasped into the phone, "I -- I -- can't ..."

I felt so helpless -- I didn't know what to say. I keep telling the heavens that I'm no good at this kind of stuff. Hell, if I was the kind of man who could talk about this stuff, I'd tell anyone who would listen that I'm no good at this kind of stuff. But I'm not that kind of man, so I end up doing nothing more than bitching and moaning to myself that I'm no good at this kind of stuff. I hate this kind of stuff. And I keep finding myself smack dab in the middle of this kind of stuff more and more often. And wishing that I were the kind of man who was good with this stuff, because then, maybe, I wouldn't feel so damned helpless.

As it was, I listened to Jim cry for a bit longer, then tried to go for practical. Practical I can do. "Well, that is what you called me for, isn't it? For help to hide the body?"

Jim gasped a time or two more, then strangled off the last of the tears. I wondered at his control. If it had been Daryl, if I'd been the one confronted with abuse like that, I'd probably still be crying six weeks later, and to hell with my father's teachings on 'men don't cry.'

"Jim?" I asked when I could tell he was calmer. "You there?"

There was a single, garbled sound through the phone; a laugh, a cry, a gasp of breath -- I don't know. But then he said, "Yeah. I'm here. And the bastard is already dead."

Well. That was a relief. I really didn't want to spend my so-called golden years in prison, even if I could wangle Jim as a cellmate. And it was as that thought crossed my mind that I realized, I'd been serious when I'd made the offer earlier. If Jim had asked me to help him take out the sick SOB that did this to Sandburg, I'd have done it. It made me shudder to think about, so I just asked, "How?"

"Died in prison," Jim replied. "Child molestation."

"Fuck." Actually -- fucked. I hope he was fucked, brutally, painfully, repeatedly for however long he lived in whatever prison he had called home. I hope it was one long, unending nightmare of misery and abuse for him, and I am not going to feel guilty for feeling that way.

"Yeah."

It was quiet again, a heavy quiet, and I wondered what he was thinking. My thoughts were obsessed with images of my son, images that were overlaid with a white face framed in curly brown hair as that defenseless small body was beaten and brutalized. It turned my stomach. "How's Sandburg?" I asked at last.

There was that quiet between us again, and then Jim said, "I need a haircut."

Okay, I have to admit, the non-sequitur got to me. Made me wonder what was really going on. Maybe Jim wasn't just calling about Sandburg. He'd sounded kinda lost, a little shocky, when he said he needed a haircut. It took me a minute to work through it, but then I asked, "Jim? How are you?"

"I really need a haircut, Simon," he replied. "I can't believe I let my hair get this long."

I wondered if this was some new kind of zone that only I was privy to. I mean, I know Jim doesn't talk when he zones, but all this talk about haircuts in the middle of everything else was a little surreal. If this were something new, if he were losing it, I was across town. There was only one person who would be able to help him. "Jim," I asked, "where's Blair?"

There was another pause, then he said, "Sleeping." He sounded satisfied at the thought, then added, "He was exhausted."

I decided it was time to be practical again. I can do gruff and practical, and anyone who knows me knows how to read between the lines when I growl. So I growled, "And you want me to come over -- at quarter to one in the morning -- and what? Give you a haircut?"

Jim made this noise, something between a laugh and cough, then said, "I have no idea what I'm talking about."

"I do," I told him. I'd seen it before. When I was in Nam. We'd emerge from a fire fight, half the unit dead or dying, and guys would be talking about needing to shine their shoes. They'd be standing ankle-deep in blood and gore and talking about shoe shines and inspections. It was a coping mechanism. "You're having trouble taking all this in, and your mind just wants to deal with something safe. So -- haircuts."

He was quiet for a minute, and then he asked me, "Where'd you buy that psych degree?"

There was some derision in his voice, and I put it down to the emotion of the moment. I wasn't going to take it personally. I had a feeling that Jim was in desperate need of something -- someone -- he could strike out at. "You could just as easily have started talking about grocery lists or the latest case you're working. It's another form of self-preservation," I told him, and despite my earlier vow not to take his sarcasm to heart, I couldn't help adding, "You should know something about that."

"I hate this!" Jim's words burst through the wire, heavy with pain. "I feel so damned helpless."

"I know," I said, suddenly thinking of Lou and how many times he'd uttered those same words to me. How he'd wished he could hunt down Sandra's uncle and kill him a thousand times over. How hard it was to see her go from the lovely, intelligent, sparkling woman that she is to the shattered child that she became when the memories overtake her. How useless and helpless my brother feels facing an unseen enemy who committed this atrocity thirty years ago. Jim had to be going through the same things. He'd be walking down the same road Lou had walked, and Jim was just at the beginning of the trip. My voice was choked as I added, "It's -- hard."

"What would you know about it?" Jim snarled.

This time, Jim's emotion surprised me. He sounded angry -- at me. And I really didn't know anything about it. I'd been lucky. My father may have raised me to be a repressed bastard when it came to my emotions, but he never abused me. Never abused any of us kids. And Joan, thank God, had never faced those issues either. And Daryl -- I bowed my head and offered a little prayer of thanksgiving -- my son had never know anything but the touch of love. Touch the way it was meant to be.

But my brother ... I'd been his sounding board for years, the only one he could talk to, the only one he shared the nightmares with. My throat tightened and I choked out, "My brother -- his wife ..."

"Aw -- shit. I'm sorry, Simon," Jim said contritely. "How ...? I mean ... are they ...?"

He sounded confused. "They're still together," I said. "They're still dealing." I took a deep breath, and plunged ahead. "It doesn't go away overnight. It's not something you pull out and deal with one time and it's over. It keeps coming back -- over and over again." I shook my head, remembering the call I'd gotten about a month ago. "Every time Lou thinks they've got a grip on it, thinks things are going along okay, something happens, and it's right there between them again."

I agreed with Jim -- I hated this.

"Simon," he said, his voice soft and a little scared, "What if I'm not strong enough for this?"

Okay, I'd had enough. The whole situation was pissing me off. I couldn't do anything about it, and all this talking was just annoying the shit out of me. Did I mention that I'm really not good at this stuff? So, I did what any emotionally repressed jerk would do. I jumped down Ellison's throat. "Fuck that," I said, in my best 'quit yer bitchin' voice. "You don't have a choice. Just like Blair didn't have a choice -- you're in it -- you deal with it."

Of course, as soon as the words were out of my mouth, I felt like crap. Jim had grown up like I had, being told men don't cry and deal with it -- talking about this shit had to be hard enough for him without me throwing the old 'suck it up, Ellison' attitude at him. I tried to make amends. "And it's not like it's there between them nonstop," I said in a slightly softer tone. "I just meant that they can go months, sometimes years with no problems, and then something will happen. Sandra hears something or sees something, or has a dream, and it's suddenly there again -- the elephant in the living room that won't go away."

Must've said the right thing because when Jim spoke again, his voice was stronger, more hopeful.

"Years, eh?" he asked.

I wanted him more positive, but I didn't want to raise false hopes either. "At times," I told him. "But they've been working on it a lot longer than you and Sandburg."

We did the silence thing again, and another few minutes ticked by. Then Jim said, "Naomi was here tonight. She showed up on her way to Alaska."

Now it was my turn to think in non-sequiturs. Alaska? Why was she going to Alaska? What was up there that would interest her? I recognized the elephant-avoidance syndrome and forced myself to stay on the topic. "Did -- did he talk to her?"

Jim cleared his throat, and then I heard water running for a second. "Yeah, he talked to her," he said.

I waited for a bit, listening to him rummaging in his kitchen, then added in a slightly impatient voice, "And?"

"I don't know!" he growled in frustration. A second later I heard a slam as he hit something or slammed something down. Had to wonder if he woke the kid, but he didn't say anything about it so I just waited. Eventually he started talking again. "She's -- she just can't be what he wants -- what he needs."

It was the way he said it, the way he paused as if he were choosing his words so carefully. It made me think, and I had to ask. "Jim -- this is important. Did she know this was going on? Did she know he was being abused?" I couldn't imagine a greater sin than for a parent to be aware of this kind of abuse, of any abuse, and let it continue.

He was quiet for a long time. I stared at the clock as first one minute, then two went by before he heaved a sigh and said, "I don't know, Simon. I think so -- maybe. But -- maybe not. She's ..."

His words trickled out, as if he had run out of steam, and I could hear him prowling the loft, his feet against the wooden floors loud enough to carry through the phone.

"She's incredibly self-centered," he finally said. "Everything, and I do mean everything, has to revolve around her or she just -- dismisses it."

It was just not right! The kid had gone through so much -- the least his mother could do was be there for him. It was her selfishness that left him in the situations where he got hurt. You'd think she'd at least be able to reach out to him now. She was supposed to be the queen of processing. Maybe she could help Blair do a little processing of his own. Help him understand -- as if there were a way to understand what had happened to him. The whole situation was getting to me -- and I'm not good with this stuff at all. It makes me want to hit things.

I walked over to the dresser again and lifted the picture of Daryl. His toothless face grinned back at me from the wooden frame, and I found myself squeezing it as if by holding it tight enough, I could protect my son from the evil in the world. I closed my eyes, trying to sort out Daryl from Blair and figure out what to do with a woman like Naomi. There was a sound of wood sheering, and I opened my eyes and looked at my hand. The frame had splintered in my grasp. I licked my suddenly dry lips, swallowed to wet my equally dry throat, and asked, dreading the answer, "Did she -- dismiss -- him?"

"Oh, yeah," he said angrily. "You could say that."

I scrubbed at my face, unseating my glasses and then having to settle them back on my nose. I was at a loss. "Jim?" I said finally. "What can I do?"

His voice was tight again as he struggled for control. "She left last night -- wouldn't talk to him, wouldn't listen to him. Simon," he said, his voice cracking from the strain of holding himself together, "he was standing there, telling her about what this -- this bastard did to him, tears pouring down his face."

I closed my eyes in pain. It was a physical hurt, deep in my chest, and I didn't want to hear this. I didn't want to know. I wanted it to have never happened. Not for Blair -- not for any child. But especially not for someone I knew -- someone I loved.

"He was crying, begging her to talk to him, to tell him it wasn't his fault."

I could hear Jim sob, a great, gulping, gasping sound that seemed to have been pried from the depths of his very soul. It echoed in my ears, adding to the band of steel that wrapped around my chest, squeezing, tightening with every breath I took. I didn't want this to have happened, and I was powerless against it.

"He called her 'Mommy,' Simon," Jim said, the words wrenched from his throat. "He's twenty-seven years old, and he stood in the kitchen, snot running down his face, crying, trembling, in so much pain, I thought he was going to shatter."

My fist clenched at my side, the phone cracking in my other hand from the grip I held. I wanted this to be over -- to be done. I didn't want it to hurt anymore -- not for me, not for Jim, and, most of all, not for Sandburg.

"He called her 'Mommy,' and she -- she ...."

He stopped, as if he couldn't face the next words. As if it were all too much for this big ex-Ranger. As if he couldn't bear the pain anymore than I could.

"She fucking walked out the door without a backward glance." His voice was filled with rage -- I could imagine the very walls of the loft shaking from his fury. "She abandoned him!" Another choked sob. "Again!"

I couldn't take it any longer -- I couldn't stand another word. I needed to vent, I had to have an outlet for the emotions that churned through me. I lifted my fist and swung. My arm sunk into the wall midway to the elbow. Pain exploded in my fingers, my hand, and I welcomed it. It was a blessed change from the emotional turmoil that I could do nothing about. At least this pain -- this emotion -- I could control.

I was standing there, shaking when I realized that the sound in my ear had changed from sobs to laughter. Dry, brittle laughter, but laughter nonetheless.

"Simon?" Jim said, his voice as broken as I felt. "Which wall?"

How does he do that?

I grunted out a brief, but oh, so articulate, "Huh?"

"Which wall?" he repeated.

I felt my face flush, embarrassed to have been caught this way. How does he do it? Duh! Sentinel ears. I sucked it up and answered. "Oh, the one behind the bed."

He was quiet for a while, then he said, "I know how to drywall now. I had to learn to redo the hall."

It almost made me laugh, but the pain was still too raw, too fresh for laughter. I pulled my arm from the wall and sank to the bed. "Fuck," I said, asking again, "What can I do?"

I could hear him walking again, and then he said, "I told Naomi when she left that she needed to get a room and stay in town. I have to go talk to her tomorrow."

We must have had the same thought, because his words made me look at the clock and see that it was nearly 1:30.

He added, "Well, later this morning," then took a deep breath. "But I don't want to leave Blair alone. Can you come stay with him for a while?"

That wasn't the answer. I'd found that out when Jim went to North Carolina a while back. Blair liked me, cared for me, respected, even trusted me -- but I wasn't Jim. I couldn't be what he needed. We were going to have to handle it differently this time. "No," I said.

"No?" Jim echoed back at me, shocked at my refusal.

"No," I told him, struggling frantically for the words to explain. "You need to stay with Sandburg." Flashes of conversations with my brother passed through my mind. "I'd be willing to, but he's going to get up in the morning and act like everything is all right, yet before the day is over, he's going to fall apart."

Jim snorted as if he didn't believe me. "Why do you say that?" he asked.

I tried to explain. "Lou says that's what happens with Sandra. She'll tell him something -- drop some bombshell in his lap -- then pretend everything is fine." I'd tried to explain to my brother about coping mechanisms and the need to distance oneself from the pain, but I'm not good with that kind of stuff, and I don't know if he ever understood what I'd been trying to say. I just remembered his pain and frustration at hearing Sandra's anguish and then seeing her pretend that nothing was wrong -- that nothing had ever happened. "He'll be tied up in knots and want to talk about it, and she'll be lost in her own world of denial." Of course, she couldn't hold onto her denial forever, and when she grew too tired to pretend, the results were .... There just weren't words for what my brother had told me his wife went through. "But eventually, it would all creep up on her and wham! Meltdown."

"Sandburg may not be like that," Jim said, but I could hear the uncertainty in his voice. We were both treading on unfamiliar territory here.

"No, he might not," I said, nodding as I spoke. "But what if he is? What if you take off, and he falls apart and needs you? You know I don't mind coming over -- you know I'm glad to do anything for the kid -- but, Jim ...." I had to make him see, make him understand. "If he really does suddenly need to talk about this, need to get it out -- you're the one he needs there, not me."

He was pacing again, his bare feet slapping angrily against the hardwood floor. "I've got to talk to Naomi," he insisted.

Now -- finally -- something I could do. "Let me do that," I offered. "Maybe I can get through to her -- one parent to another." I'd already considered this -- that maybe I should talk to her. That maybe she would listen to me when she wouldn't hear anyone else. I didn't think it was false hubris on my part -- it's just that I could relate to being a parent. Maybe I'd never run away and left my kid to the not-so-tender mercies of strangers, but I'd been so tired, so frustrated at times, that I'd wished I could. So maybe I could understand a little -- maybe if I could understand her, she could begin to understand what went wrong with the way she tried to raise her son. Maybe she could grow up a little and help him through this.

"I don't know where she is," Jim said with a sigh. "I told her to get a hotel."

"I'll find her," I told him. I was a police captain, after all. A few phone calls, a couple of inquiries, I could track her down. But there was just one thing -- no way was I taking on this mission without a full briefing. "Once I do, what do you want from her?"

"I -- I .... Damn!" I could hear him swallow, and then he said, "I'm not sure. I just ... I hadn't really thought that far ahead."

"Well, think now," I told him. "I can talk to the woman, but I need to know what I'm supposed to say. Do you want her to come see Sandburg? To talk to him? Or do you want her to go away and stay away a while? Or never come back?" I had no doubt I could accomplish any of those objectives, but I needed to know which one I was going for.

"No -- not never come back." I could hear the indecision in his voice, hear how much it hurt him to say those words. I'm sure in Jim Ellison's mind, the best place for Naomi Sandburg was six feet under. Barring that, he would have settled for six or seven thousand miles away and totally incommunicado. But he was trying to put his own feelings aside, to concentrate on what was best for his partner.

"He really loves her, Simon," he said. "It would kill him if she never came back."

"Okaaaaay," I said, crossing off 'never come back' on my mental checklist. "So what do you want? A little time before she visits again?"

A crack rang out, and I wondered if Jim's hand was in a wall at the moment. "I want her to tell him it wasn't his fault," he said fiercely. "I want her to hold him and kiss him and tell him he didn't do anything wrong." His voice grew even more intense as he went on. "I want her to lie to him and tell him she didn't know. I want her to convince him she would never have left him alone like that if she'd really known what was going on."

I dropped my head. Jim believed that Naomi had known -- that she'd deliberately continued to leave him with people who hurt him just so she wouldn't be inconvenienced by the responsibility a child entailed. Jim wanted her to lie. I sighed. Well, if he wanted lies, I'd make sure they were good ones. Naomi was in for a day of practice.

"If she can't do that, and make him believe, then I want her to stay away for a while -- until I contact her and tell her she can come back."

"I can handle that, Jim," I promised him.

I stared at the clock again, watching the seconds turn into minutes, until at last he said quietly, "Thanks, Simon."

I grunted. He'd know it meant 'you're welcome.' Then I asked, "What are you going to do now, Jim?"

Water ran again in the background and he said, "I'm going to watch the sun come up."

"It's two in the morning," I reminded him as gently as I could.

"So I'll wait," he said.

I was tired, but I knew how he felt. I didn't think I'd get any more sleep this night either. Still, I had to try. "You should sleep," I nagged. "Try and get some rest."

I think he just ignored my words, and I wasn't offended. I hadn't expected him to listen. At length he said again, "Thanks, Simon. You're a good friend."

I didn't know what to say. I took refuge in being practical again. It didn't make me so -- uncomfortable. "I'll call you tomorrow -- on your cell, okay?"

"Yeah. That'll be good," he said, and then for the third time, "Thanks, Simon."

The phone disconnected, and I stood in my room and looked around. The wall had a hole in it. The picture was broken. I felt like both of them. There was a hole in me that ached, and I had no idea how to fill it. It was like something had been ripped from me. I should be used to this, I told myself. I'm a cop. I deal with this kind of thing all the time. Hell, I've taken kids to the hospital, beaten and brutalized, pulled teddy bears from the trunk of my car to give them something to hold onto. But none of it was the same. This was someone I knew, someone I cared about. Someone I loved. The hole in my heart just kept getting bigger, and I felt more broken by the minute.

A piece of me that stood apart from the pain, a tiny, naive part of my heart I hadn't even known existed, had believed that this kind of evil couldn't touch me -- couldn't touch those I loved.

I'd been wrong.

So wrong.

I walked into the kitchen and pulled out a coffee filter, adding the grounds, and setting it up to brew. I filled the carafe, then the reservoir, and finally turned the machine on. The smell of rich, ground coffee scented the air, and I settled in to wait.

It was still hours until morning, but I hadn't seen the sun come up in a long time.