notes/disclaimers
Lieutenant Harding Welsh strode across the squad room at the 27th precinct-house
to his office, tossing his lightweight beige coat over the chair that stood just
inside the door. It had been a long day, but Welsh felt a certain amount of
satisfaction knowing that he had taken care of everything he had to. No loose
ends. He could safely go off on a well-earned fortnight's vacation, secure in
the knowledge that any problem which might be brought to the Captain's attention
during his absence would have occurred after - and only after - he'd left.
Turning towards his desk, the Lieutenant's sense of satisfaction faltered, a
slight frown pulling at the corners of his mouth. There, lying dead-centre on
the polished wooden surface, was a single manila-coloured folder. The type of
folder used for case files. It most certainly hadn't been there earlier in the
day, the big man knew; when he'd left for meetings several hours before, Welsh's
desk had been completely clear.
Stepping back to the door, the Lieutenant glanced towards his secretary's desk.
It was as neat and uncluttered as his own had been, the chair primly tucked up
beneath, the computer screen turned that odd nearly-but-not-quite black it
always did when not in use. Glancing at his watch, Welsh frowned again. He
couldn't fault the woman for not being there; the day shift had ended some
twenty minutes ago, and besides Janie had told him in no uncertain terms that
she had to 'leave on time tonight!'. No ifs, ands or buts. His lips pursed,
remembering the piercing look the woman had given him as she laid down the law.
Was he really getting as bad as the Captain as she'd suggested, Welsh wondered?
The other man was noted for being humourless, demanding, pugnacious... Welsh
seriously hoped he hadn't fallen that far yet.
His gaze returned to the folder which unfortunately hadn't disappeared in the
scant few minutes since he'd last looked at it. Damn, better find out the worst
now, Welsh decided. It wouldn't do to leave a potentially important matter
sitting in his office unattended for two weeks. Crossing into the room, the
Lieutenant snagged his chair out from under the desk with one foot in a
practised move, seating himself and sweeping up the file in a single fluid
motion. The folder, Welsh was pleased to see, contained only two sheets of
paper. The second was a short list of names - six in total; the first, a
politely-worded request that an officer be assigned to carry out a routine
background check on the persons named, followed by a brief summary of the case
the information would be appended to.
An accidental shooting. Welsh swallowed back his distaste. It was bad enough
when officers died in the line of duty, but this...? Still, it wouldn't take
long to fill the request. It was the sort of thing Elaine could handle easily;
it probably wouldn't take the dusky Civilian Aid worker more than forty minutes
maximum to run the checks. Except, Welsh realised, cursing himself for a fool
as he stood once more in the doorway to his office, Elaine too had gone.
The squad room seemed almost unnaturally quiet at this time of the day, so
different from the normal bustle of sounds he was used to. Typically for a
Friday evening, most of the day shift had already left for home - their families
and weekend plans ahead of them - while the night shift had not quite managed to
drag themselves in yet. Welsh sighed heavily and looked about the nearly
deserted room. Much as he was tempted to, he couldn't just leave the file on
Elaine's desk till Monday. A lot could happen in two days and files had been
known to go astray before.
Some voices caught his attention. At the far end of the room, a small group of
uniforms were just packing up, those already on their feet calling to the others
to hurry themselves along. The Lieutenant picked out the name of a local bar
from their informal banter. He shook his head, slightly amused, and let his
gaze move on to the only other man still at his desk. Well, not exactly at his
desk, Welsh amended silently as he studied the figure. More like slumped over
it, his head cradled in his up-turned hands.
The big man felt his lips purse again. If there was one thing Harding Welsh
hated more than anything else, it was having to watch a good cop go bad. Not
that Detective Raymond Vecchio was actually corrupt, mind you. And not that
what had happened was his fault. Nearly a year, Welsh thought. Nearly a year
since the incident that had cost Ray Vecchio his partner and two and a half
months of his own life, spent near death in a hospital bed...
The whole thing had been a matter of luck, initially good, then very, very bad.
To begin with they had almost literally stumbled across the case - a huge drugs
buy with the added bonus of a murder, or maybe two (they had never had a chance
to confirm the second one), tied to it. It was the sort of thing that any cop
in the Serious Crimes Division would have taken and run with. Welsh could still
remember the two men standing before his desk, animatedly reporting their
discovery, the twin voices overlapping and alternating with each other. Get the
details, he'd told them. Find out when, where, and he'd sort out the extra
manpower the operation would require.
But somehow, somewhere, they'd been made.
From the despatcher's report and what Ray had eventually been able to tell them,
it had seemed at first nothing more than a domestic which got out of hand. As
the two officers sat in the nondescript mini-van they'd signed out from the
Division's motor-pool, waiting for their quarry to reappear from the building
they had tracked him to, a man and woman, arguing furiously, had erupted from
the apartment block across the street. The scene rapidly turned ugly, a gun
appeared, and in less than a heartbeat they had been forced to make a choice.
Blow their cover or watch a woman get shot down in cold blood? The answer had
been easy, and inevitable.
Vecchio called for back-up while his partner went to the woman's aid. A moment
later a gun-shot rang out and Ray had looked up to find the woman beside his
window, a second gun in her hand... pointed straight at him! There had been no
time to react.
Luck, Welsh thought sombrely. It had been pure luck that Ray had not finished
radioing in when the gun went off, that his hand had convulsed around the mike
keeping the transmission open, instead of allowing it to drop from his nerveless
grip, that the despatcher had heard and recognised the sounds coming over the
link and had acted accordingly. Within minutes the area had been swarming with
police cars and ambulances, reacting to that most hated of police summonses:
Officer down!. They had been in time - just - to save the detective's life; his
partner had not been so lucky.
Watching him now, the Lieutenant wondered whether it might not have been easier
on the man if Vecchio too had died that night. Certainly he had never been
quite the same since. Sure, there were still flashes of intensity, the same
nervous energy, the slightly abrasive manner, but the direction, the focus, the
determination, that had categorised the man's earlier police-work was gone. He
seemed no longer able to follow a case through to its conclusion, although he
tried, God knew he tried. Perhaps too hard. As his success-rate dwindled to
nothingness, so had the relative importance of the cases he was assigned to.
Welsh wasn't even sure if Ray had noticed the change. The sympathy with which
he had been welcomed back to the precinct four months after the shooting had all
too quickly dried up. Now, seven months on, no one wanted to know. His fellow
officers avoided him.
The situation wasn't good. Over-stressed, on the edge, so very nearly but not
quite burnt-out, Ray Vecchio had seemingly lost the ability to be even an
effective, let alone a good, cop. This couldn't go on much longer. Unless
something changed - and soon - Welsh was going to have to recommend a disability
discharge. He didn't like the idea, but he liked the alternatives even less. A
mistake out on the streets? Another bullet, just a year too late? Or worse
still, Internal Affairs? They'd be a lot less forgiving on the man than the
police psychologists had been...
The big man shook his head, uncomfortable with even thinking such a thing. I'll
have to have a talk with him when I get back, Welsh decided. Give him one last
chance to straighten himself out before cutting short a fine career. But in the
meantime... The Lieutenant's fingers drummed against the slim folder in his
hands. A routine investigation, back to basics, some standard, low-level,
mundane police-work. His mind mulled over the possibilities. It just might
help, and besides there was no longer anyone else in the squad room.
Lieutenant Welsh moved across to stand above the seated officer. "Vecchio?" he
asked quietly.
The other man raised his head slowly, pale hazel-green eyes blinking in
confusion, one hand moving instinctively to smooth back his thinning hair.
"Sir?"
"Are you all right, Detective?" The Lieutenant's tone was gentler than normal.
"I'm fine, sir," came the immediate reply, although the tired voice lacked any
real conviction.
Welsh sighed inwardly, noting the dark smudges under the other's eyes. Yeah,
sure you are, Vecchio! But now was not the time to pursue the problem. Instead
he held out the manila folder. "I'll be away two weeks. Take care of this," he
instructed brusquely.
"Yes, sir," the detective acknowledged, and then, almost belatedly, "Have a good
trip, Lieutenant."
Welsh nodded absently - the last thing on his mind right now was his vacation -
then turned away. Moments later he had collected his coat and was leaving, just
as the vanguard of the night shift arrived.
Ray Vecchio watched him go. The detective was not quite as unaware of his
tenuous position as some thought. It just didn't really matter to Ray anymore.
He had become a cop to make his mother proud and spite his father - the senior
Vecchio had been less than enamoured by the idea of his son, the cop - and found
the lifestyle suited him. But his father was dead now; his partner and best
friend dead too. There seemed no reason left to try. And Ray was finding it
harder these days to summon up the energy to care, to look beyond himself to the
needs of others. A good policeman couldn't operate without compassion...
Idly he toyed with the folder in his hands, eventually opening it. Might as
well read the thing, he thought, without any great enthusiasm. His eyes took in
the meaning of the first few paragraphs, narrowing as he came across one
particular phrase - 'hunting accident' - before turning the page to read the
list of names attached. Ray sat up straighter, an unexpected flash of
indignation surging through him.
"Dentists?" he spat the word out not caring if anyone else heard him or not.
"Great, just great! I'm supposed to check out a bunch of dentists who couldn't
even tell the difference between a moose and a Mountie! Just what I need.
Canadians!" He threw up his hands in utter disgust.
Thrusting the papers back in the folder, Ray Vecchio stood up abruptly, tossing
the rectangular piece of card to the top of a stack of similar files occupying
one corner of his desk. The pile swayed a moment but didn't spill over.
Grabbing his jacket from the chair behind him, the lean detective headed for the
door. He didn't look back. There seemed no reason why he should.
The End