This work of fiction is owned by the author, and may not be reproduced without the author’s express written permission. The Sentinel is owned by UPN, Paramount Pictures, Pet Fly Productions, and its executive producers, Danny Bilson and Paul DeMeo. No copyright infringement is intended by this work of fiction. Copyright September 2000.
Jim/Blair, but slash is ambiguous at best. Based on an Urban Legend Challenge on one of Peja's many lists, Deathfic, I think it was. Major Character Death Warnings, obviously.
Many thanks to Mel and Beth for beta-reading this puppy. Extra thanks to Mel for putting on her Paramedic Hat for my shameless use.
John Edmonds, police department dispatch trainee, was bored. True, he'd only graduated from the academy three weeks ago but usually things were far more active in Cascade on a Friday night. Bar fights, shootings, stabbings, and domestic violence were the rule most nights in this urban northwestern enclave. Tonight, though, it seemed most of the criminal element had taken a night off from causing trouble.
Apart from the five drunks caught and three MVAs this Christmas Eve, it was looking so far to be a quiet night shift. His supervisor - on the other side of the room - firmly believed that peace on Christmas was a good thing. The other trainees seemed to agree with him. John wasn't so sure. While he didn't want innocent people to be hurt, he'd expected more from police work than this.
What's-his-name from NYPD Blue never answered phone calls from 911. He probably never got shafted with the holiday shift, either, and if he ever did, it was to work some juicy and hugely tragic triple murder. Drunks making crank calls into the station house never entered into the picture.
John didn't want to work dispatch; he wanted to be right there in the thick of things, being heroic and doing hero-type things. He wanted to be the best detective in an important division, Narcotics, S.W.A.T., Homicide, or, yes, Major Crime. That's what John wanted from his chosen life's work.
To be a hero.
Wasn't that what most rookie cops wanted? He supposed some wanted a steady paycheck with good benefits, others looked forward to the city pension, and some even hoped to serve their city or to make a difference, but most had to get off on the excitement. Knowing that your day would never be boring had to be a big draw. After all, if you wanted same-old same-old, you could have become an accountant.
When was the last time an accountant had an adrenaline rush?
Well, not including Tax Day. Grinning mentally, John still didn't know how he'd gotten stuck with dispatch rather than patrol. Sure, they'd said it was because dispatch was way understaffed and anyone multilingual had to be prioritized for the street, but they'd also said that it would be temporary. It wasn't looking that way, though. He wanted to know the real reason so that he could get onto the streets, like most of his academy classmates. They were laughing at him, out there in their cars - their sirens screaming and lights flashing - just laughing at him, stuck behind a desk with a headset glued to his ear.
John knew his supervisor had no problem with the situation, but then there'd been little choice in his case. A decade ago or so, a drug-dusted perp armed with a shotgun had cost him both legs and some back muscles while permanently rearranging his abdominal cavity. Faced with permanent retirement or riding a desk for the rest of his career, he'd taken the latter. John figured he'd have done the same. At least it kept his hand in the till.
So to speak.
At least he was doing police dispatch rather than 911 dispatch; John could still call himself a police officer with pride. Dispatchers who handled 911 calls were stationed on the opposite side of the aisle from each line of police dispatchers. This arrangement sounded odd, but it provided easy access for both divisions. At least he didn't have to explain to a caller that being caught in a traffic jam did not qualify as an emergency, no matter how late it would make you for work. At least he got to work with professionals.
A sharp beep sounded through his earpiece, signaling a call. Now maybe some action would start. John could hope so. "Central." He tried to keep the frustration in his voice to a minimum.
The caller on the line didn't bother, shouting in a voice filled with command, broken by static and scratchy noises. "One David fifty-two, we are under fire! I need some back-up sent here now!"
John sat up so fast his vertebrae cracked. "Roger that, one David fifty-two, what's your location?"
"East of Brook Park on College Avenue. Near Rainier University ... where the hell is my back-up? We're under fire!"
Frantically trying to recall his instructions for issuing back-up and whose car was closest to Rainier, John struggled to stay calm, telling himself that the officer had a right to be demanding. A rapid chatter of machine-gun fire spewed angrily into his ear. John's hands shook as he punched in the appropriate computer codes to locate the two closest units ... why wasn't the computer bringing up information on the officers in trouble? Why wasn't the supervisor here to help him? The system was practically automated to handle locations and routing. It was all taking too long, and keying back in to the current call confirmed that.
"Where's our back-up, damn you! My partner's hit, we're outnumbered and outgunned -- where the hell are they?" More shots echoed over the line, drawing a choked gasp from the officer.
"Officer, where are the perps located? Can you tell me how many of them there are?"
"Eight of them, all armed with full automatics -- they're also wearing body armor." A spate of silence put John on the edge of his seat; there was no way that only two cars would be enough, not under those conditions. He tried again to get the supervisor's attention. "They're located just west of us, using the wooded edge of Brook Park as cover. We're pinned down behind our vehicle."
"Roger, one David fifty-two. Stand by. Switch." He knew it was a stupid thing to say, telling the officer to stand by, but there was no alternative. His hands wouldn't stop shaking as he keyed in codes to alert the S.W.A.T. team and get a rescue unit rolling. John switched to an all-vehicle frequency before speaking. "Officers under fire at Brook Park on College, all units, officers under fire. Do not approach via Cleveland Street." Cleveland Street intersected College on the eastern edge of Brook Park along a wooded area; if the new units came from that direction, they'd run right into trouble. "Repeat, do not approach via Cleveland. Approach via either East or West College. Use extreme caution." Several units sent notice that they were responding. According to their locations on his screen, the closest car was at the corner of 12th and Bristol, about ten blocks east. "Switch." God, he thought, they're getting slaughtered and there's nothing I can do about it. I'm useless sitting here behind a desk.
Another gasp came over his line, followed by panting breaths. "Where are they?" Static flooded in for a minute, and mercifully, the computer surrendered up data on one David fifty-two with a 'CONNECTION' acknowledgement.
"They're on the way, Detective, they're on the way to you right now." John hated himself that minute, unable to do more than reassure the man. "I've sent several units to your location, and they should be there any minute." He waved frantically with one hand, hoping to draw the supervisor's attention to his distress. One of the cars responding was an Emergency Response Unit - officers crosstrained as EMTs - and S.W.A.T. had reported in as on stand by. "Paramedics are on the way, too." He didn't mention that they would stage well away from the danger zone.
A gurgle answered him. "I'm hit, my partner's down, god, Blair's down...." Then, a bit stronger, "Where's my back-up? Don't hear em...."
Sweat running in torrents down his back, John didn't know what to say. Is this what happened to heroes? How else could he reassure this fellow cop that help was coming - he glanced briefly at his watch - at 11:45 pm on Christmas Eve ... god, not even five minutes after initial contact. Seemed like at least a half-hour had gone by.
Static and more gunfire broke up the detective's next words, and John couldn't make out what he was saying. Probably cursing the stupidity of dispatch officers. Then there was only a faint whisper of sound, then only a crackling series of hissing clicks could be heard. Finally those too faded out.
Shocked by the awful silence, John could only stare at his computer. The words 'CONNECTION LOST' flashed angrily at him, demanding action, demanding recompense. He had neither to give. Nor had he'd heard sirens over the line, something he should have been able to hear, if any units had actually arrived on the scene. That painful realization ached in his back with betrayal as much as in his heart.
"Something wrong, Babe?"
Startled, John wheeled about backwards in his chair to face his supervisor's kind eyes. He wasn't sure he could face them. "I ... I...."
"Bad call?"
"They were under fire and I couldn't help them!" Words poured from his mouth before he could mind them. "I couldn't do anything!"
The supervisor smiled sadly; a grim reminder perhaps of his own injuries, thought John. Had back-up come to his aid in time? "You sent them back-up as soon as you could, didn't you?" He then calmly reached over and switched off John's station.
"Sure," John answered with a scoffing sound. "After I finished panicking and remembered how to do it. By then, it was too late. I," he emphasized the word, "was too late." Bowing his head, propping it on his clenched fists, he didn't know what to do. "His partner was dying, he'd been hit."
Silence greeted his words. Shock and disappointment, John thought. On tentatively raising his head, he saw the supervisor sitting straighter up in his wheelchair than usual and leaning forward with some disgusting excitable emotion. "Where did you say the location was?"
A glance at his still-blinking screen burned the address into his brain. "I didn't ... but it was College Ave, east of Brook Park. Near Rainier." Whatever that had to do with the price of tea in Taiwan, John didn't know. Wasn't sure he really wanted to know. After all, it was Christmas Eve. Whatever happened to peace and goodwill toward men anyway? "Why do you ask?" Who knew, maybe it was a gang area or something. "Do you know Detective --"
"Detective Jim Ellison," began Dispatch Supervisor Henri Brown, "and his partner Blair Sandburg were gunned down nearly twenty years ago." His voice was soft, almost reverent with love and admiration and oft-remembered memories. "There was nothing you could have done that would have gotten help to them in time."
John Edmonds didn't know what to say. He'd received a call for help from a ghost? A call from beyond the grave? "What happened?" His voice didn't sound like his own, like someone else speaking through his mouth.
"They didn't make it." Brown looked away, staring at memories, choosing his words with the care they deserved. "Back-up didn't come until it was too late, and we -- the rest of Major Crime -- weren't working the holiday shift. Jim and Blair usually took it since the rest of us had plans with our families. They," he fidgeted a little with the explanation, "they only had each other." John nodded to prove he understood, even though it wasn't real clear. The uncomfortable moment over, the supervisor continued. "We didn't find out until Christmas morning that our friends were dead. No one even notified Simon Banks, our captain and their closest friend."
Now John was even more confused. "I didn't think that Major Crime worked the holiday shift at all." He remembered that major departments -- with the exception of Patrol and Dispatch -- had only a skeleton crew working Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. Even Homicide had only four detectives and a lone secretary working those hours. Certainly the much smaller Major Crime didn't keep a pair of detectives working as opposed to being merely on call? "Were they doing overtime? Did they have an important case?" That seemed most likely, considering Major Crime's usual load of cases.
A faint smile flitted at the corners of Brown's mouth, arcing across his eyes. "Babe, Ellison and Sandburg treated every case like it was important. They considered themselves on duty every minute of every day, whether they were officially working or not. Ellison believed it was his duty to his city, and Hairboy -- that is, Sandburg -- followed along because Jim did. They were the best detectives and the best partners I've ever seen." He sighed, a mournful sound in contrast to the almost joyful expression on his face. "Best damned partners anyone's ever likely to see." Bowing his head in what looked like prayer, Brown was silent for a few moments. "Neither survived long enough to give any information to the first-responders. I still remember being told that Jim had Blair cradled in his arms, trying to stop the bleeding, ignoring his own, his gun in one hand, a useless radio resting in the snow - and the bastards who killed them were never caught."
He waved a wrinkled hand toward the flashing computer screen. John felt chilled to the bone, but his supervisor hadn't finished. "I know they're not resting in peace. Every year on the anniversary of their murder, Ellison calls in to remind us all, making sure we don't forget that justice still hasn't been served. Right on time, Ellison's punctual as always."
Somewhat horrified, John couldn't help but interrupt the ironic amusement his supervisor apparently felt. Now he thought he remembered hearing the names Ellison and Sandburg, legends of the department. Highest closure rate in the PD's whole history, in the state of Washington, possibly even in the whole damned Pacific Northwest. Partners of the Year, five years running. "What do we do?"
An eloquent shrug answered him. "Unfortunately, there's not much we can do. The lot of us, their co-workers, we worked it for months, for years with no results. It's twenty years old but it might as well be two hundred. All our leads went nowhere and some of our most promising suspects have died but Jim still calls every year." Brown followed up on the shrug with a sigh and another fidget. John couldn't imagine how he would feel in the same situation. "Twenty years with no justice in sight. No closure. It's not fair. It never was."
After patting his shoulder gently, the supervisor moved away, presumably to his office to handle the fall-out from this incident. John watched him go for a moment before switching his system into the 'on' position. He had a job to do, dammit, and sometimes all you could do was your best.
Even it was from behind a desk with a headset glued to his ear.
Don't forget to feed the Muses.
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