Part 1
"Got another one, Peter," a gruff voice announced as Peter Caine answered the phone.
"What?" It was hard to go from sound sleep to alertness in a matter of seconds. Peter rubbed his eyes, hoping the action would wake him enough to understand why someone was calling him at 6 a.m.
"Wake up, Detective." Frank Strenlich's voice was harsh, a tone he used to wake up late sleepers. "They just found a stiff hanging in his townhouse. Skalany's on her way to pick you up."
An audible click and the tone of a disconnected line sounded too loud to the young detective's ears. As he hung up the phone, there was a knock on the door. He groggily trod to the door.
Mary Margaret grinned at the sight when Peter opened the door. She took in his boyish appearance -- mussed hair, bare chest with muscles that rippled with each slight movement, plaid boxer shorts. She quickly shifted her eyes back to his face. "I take it you're not ready to go." Her impish grin didn't distract any from her light blush.
"Uh, no." Peter hesitated, feeling warmth rising from his neck to his cheeks. "Could you wait? I want to take a quick shower." He started backing up from the door. Finally turning away, he mumbled, "And put some clothes on."
"Oh, I don't know. I kind of like the plaid look." The playfulness sparkled in her brown eyes as she watched Peter's step quicken to escape into his bedroom. Hearing the door to the bedroom close, she allowed herself to walk on into the apartment. "I'm going to make some coffee. I don't think the victim is going anywhere soon."
Townhouses lined the street down which Mary Margaret drove. The one they were looking for was not hard to find. Two marked police cars and a coroner's van waited outside the residence.
Mary Margaret pulled over to the curb. "Wonder what happened here," she murmured as they exited the car.
Peter let his partner's musing pass, knowing their questions would have to wait until the scene was gone over thoroughly.
Both detectives showed their badges to the uniformed officer standing watch near the front door.
Entering the two-story home, they noticed its poshness. Paintings with gold frames decorated the short entry hall. It ended in an opening splitting left and right. Sobbing brought the detective's attention to the left where they saw a female officer consoling a woman. Seeing the detectives' questioning glances, the officer commented, "This is Mrs. Turner."
Both officers nodded and turned around, uncomfortable with the grief that was filling the room. Entering the living room, they saw what the wife must have seen earlier. Hanging from the banister lining the upper level walkway was a man whose face was dark gray. The rest of the man's exposed flesh was waxy giving the appearance of being cold to the touch.
"Hey, Pete, Skalany." Nickie Elder greeted, when he saw the two officers enter the room. "Got one, Mr. Frank Turner. Looks like a suicide. Guess you guys will have this wrapped up quick." Nickie said, looking through his small pocket notebook, then writing down information he would need for his own reports later. "Time of death, probably an hour or two. I'll know more when I get him back to the office."
"Where was the wife when all this was happening?" Skalany asked as she watched her partner start up the steps to the second level.
Hearing the questions from Skalany, an officer stepped toward the two detectives and flipped back a page and read his notes. "Said she had worked for a friend at the hospital until 5. She's a nurse." He quickly added. "When she came home, she found her husband like this."
Skalany walked over to the body as the crime team took pictures of the dead man, bagging jewelry and other articles from the victim's pockets. As they were zipping up the black bag they had put the victim in, Skalaney motioned for them to stop at his chest, allowing her to view the rope burn to his neck. She noticed the dog tags that hung from his neck. "I want these tagged and sent to the precinct, OK?"
"Sure," Nickie looked over, "That guy the other day had dog tags also. Any connection?"
Mary Margaret studied the victim one more time, then looked up when Peter down called to her.
"I don't think he jumped," Peter, leaning on the banister. Watch this." He pushed on the banister, feeling it give way under his weight. A slight dizziness washed over him as he looked down. Closing his eyes to his fear of heights, he continued, "He couldn't have jumped off. The railing would have broken." He let go of the railing and headed down the steps, continuing his observation. "And I take it there was no chair or anything for him to step off to hang himself."
Nickie and the other officers shook their heads, answering the detective's thoughts. "No, the only thing is that lamp was knocked off." The reporting officer pointed to a broken lamp that had once stood on a nearby table.
Peter stepped onto the table, grabbed the noose, and then tugged at the rope. "That man weighs what? 200 pounds?" He didn't wait for an answer. Instead, he jumped off the table while holding onto the rope. The railing held him, though he could feel it swaying as he swung from side to side. He dropped to the floor. "Nickie, how long do you think it took him to die?"
"Maybe about five minutes. Why?"
"I don't know. Something bothers me about this. If he jumped off the table, it wouldn't have been hard enough to snap his neck and it would have taken about 30 minutes for him to die." Peter paused in his musings, looking around the room. "Get us that report as soon as possible, all right?"
Nickie nodded. "Sure, Pete."
"I'll go talk with the wife. See what she can tell me." Skalany stated as she left the room, leaving her partner to look around the living room.
It might have been a suicide, but Peter wanted to follow his hunch and Mary Margaret had learned to listen to her partner. He'd been with the 101st for three years before Blaisdell partnered him with her, thinking that she might be able to teach Peter more about that 'female intuition' that Skalaney was known for. Maybe even curb his recklessness, though Paul did not hold out hope for it.
The pair entered the police station, oblivious to the swirl of chaos that inhabited the building.
"Want a cup of coffee?" Peter asked as she walked over to the coffeepot, briefly scanning the message board above the machine as he reached for an empty cup.
Mary Margaret reached her desk. It would be a long day. "Sure, I need something to jump-start my brain." She pulled out her notebook and reviewed what she had learned from the bereaved spouse.
Peter walked over and gave her one of the cups. He then reached over, grabbed his chair, and pulled it to him. Sitting down, he let out a long sigh. "Well, I guess we can put it away as a suicide if Nickie can't find anything."
Mary Margaret studied the junior officer in front of her. "You still don't think it was a suicide, do you?"
"I…I don't know. There is just something there, I just can't put my finger on it. We have a man who is not in debt, well, at least not a lot. He has few enemies and a wife that says they were deeply in love. The only problem he had was flashbacks to 'Nam." Peter looked around, absently tapping his fingers on the desktop.
Mary Margaret laid her hand on his, calming the rapid drumming of the five fingers. "I know what you mean. He doesn't fit the suicidal tendency chart, does he?"
Peter grinned; he liked working with Mary Margaret. He had balked at the idea of having a partner after Epstein transferred out of the district. Preconceived ideas of a partner being a liability and Epstien's constant remarks about women needing to be at home instead of on the force were hard to remove from Peter's memory.
"Peter," Captain Blaisdell called from the doorway of his office. He watched as Peter turned toward him.
"Yes, Captain?"
"I think this belongs to you." Blaisdell handed the young officer a file folder. "The clerk sent it to me. Hope you weren't in a hurry for it."
Peter flipped through the file. "It's on that transient they pulled out of the water. Humph, wonder if he and this Turner fellow served together."
Mary Margaret and Blaisdell watched as Peter continued to read the pages, waiting for him to include them in his ramblings.
Realizing he was the only one talking, Peter looked at the two faces that were smiling back at him.
"Care to let us in on this conversation, Partner?" A light blush covered Peter's cheeks and neck. "Oh, uh, I was just noticing, this is the second person in the past two days who's been found dead with dog tags. Wonder if we can get some information on what units they served in from these dog tags."
"You think a drowned transient and a white-collar worker's deaths are related? Peter, you don't even know that either one died by suicide or accident, much less murdered." Paul answered.
Peter grinned at his superior, holding up the file and pointed to a sentence. "Fractured skull by blunt instrument led to death. Though water was found in the victim's lungs, it is my opinion that the victim was knocked unconscious and placed in the water. Rope fibers were found around the wrists, some imbedded. He wasn't bound when they found him."
"OK, so now we have him as a murder victim. What about the man this morning?" Paul asked while he walked over to the coffeepot.
Mary Margaret and Peter followed Paul's steps. "We don't have Nickie's report yet, P-Captain." Peter defended his theory.
"I'm with Peter. Turner didn't really have any reason to kill himself." Mary Margaret gave her support.
Blaisdell looked at his watch, then asked, "Are we still on for lunch?"
"Always," Peter smiled. "Mary Margaret, you want to come?"
She shook her head. "As much as I would love to go and have lunch with you two, I have to go shopping for a wedding present. So, I'll just meet you back here, Partner."
Lunch at Shish Kabob Palace was crowded with patrons. The many voices of people talking at once, was interrupted by an explosion that rocked the building. It blew out the windows and sending customers and employees to the floor. Debris from the ceiling and walls, dishes and utensils flew away from the blast, striking into both humans and inanimate objects. Flames licked out from the kitchen, its roar could be heard over the screams of the people inside the building.
Paul was knocked backwards in his chair, the table landing on top of him. A section of wall struck Peter in the back of the head, throwing him to the floor.
"Peter!" Paul yelled between coughs, having last seen his foster son sitting with his back to the kitchen.
The air was thick with smoke. Sirens screamed in the distance. He heard Paul's muffled plea. "Paul?" Crawling on hands and knees, Peter went around the table and found Paul. Both coughed and gagged on the smoke combined with the burning materials of the building.
He lifted the table off Paul. "Are you OK? Are you hurt? Don't move. Let me help." Peter's words spilled out without stopping for breath. Running his hands over Paul's body, Peter noticed cuts to Paul's hands and face and blood smeared on his shirt.
"I'm…all right. Go…help…" Paul coughed again, and retched as he turned onto his side.
Peter brushed at Paul's hair, trying to calm himself from the fear and nightmares that returned with a vengence. In his mind's eye, he saw another explosion, one where he was trapped beneath a friend -- a memory in which he saw his father through a hole in the temple wall and screamed, unanswered, for his father's help, pleaded for his father who died in that fire. "No, I won't leave you. I won't let it happen again," he vowed to himself out loud.
Firemen walked into the building, armed with fire hose, wearing protective gear and breathing masks that prevented a faster pace. Two went to the kitchen with the hose as others started removing the injured and encouraging those who could, to help with evacuation of the building.
The fire spread quickly up the walls of the kitchen, threatening to take up its consuming hunger to the dining area while more hoses were brought in to battle it.
Peter pulled up his foster father and laid Paul over his shoulder, carrying him out the doorway to fresh air and safety. Once outside, paramedics descended on the two, just as Peter's strength ended and he began to fall to his knees. He never lost his hold on Paul. Hands pulled Paul away from Peter. More hands held Peter and lowered both the men to the ground. Peter fought to stay with Paul, to protect him and make sure he was all right. Plastic oxygen masks were put over their mouths and noses, giving them pure air to breathe, flushing out the smoke that had invaded their lungs.
Paul was placed on a stretcher, no longer aware of the noise and chaos around him or of the needles that punctured his skin.
Peter struggled to sit up, then stand.
"Whoa, fella. We need to take care of that head wound." One medic stated, pushing Peter back down.
"I gotta go with Paul. He needs me." Peter fought against the medic's hands and won. Standing, he held out his hand as a wave of dizziness passed over him. The fireman allowed Peter to hold his shoulder, prepared to grab the young man if he should pass out.
"You really need to get checked out. You can ride in the ambulance with him," the paramedic attempted to coax Peter.
"I want to ride with him. He's my dad."
Taking this as Peter permitting himself to be treated by the medics, the firefighter/paramedic escorted Peter to the waiting ambulance as Paul was being loaded into it.
Frank Strenlich pulled up just as Peter entered the back of the ambulance. Getting out of his car, he watched as the emergency vehicle pulled away, siren going and lights flashing.
Spotting the fire chief, Frank walked over. "Chief, what have you got?"
The fire chief recognized the chief of detectives and gave a nod. "Right now, I have one dead man and several wounded. They just took your Captain Blaisdell out. Had a belly wound, from what I could tell. A young man brought him out and wouldn't leave Blaisdell's side."
"Must be Peter." Frank shook his head. "No, Peter wouldn't leave Paul if he was injured. Know what happened here?"
"No. From the reports, the owner said the explosion happened in the storage room. Said it was powerful enough to bust the windows out front. I'm going to have the fire investigated. Off the record, I'd say it was arson."
Taking a deep breath, then coughing out the smoke that had escaped the building, Frank nodded thanks and got back in his car to go check on his friend and commanding officer.