Disclaimer: All characters who have appeared in the UPN-TV series, "The Sentinel" are the properties of UPN and Pet Fly Productions. All original characters belong to the author. No infringement on the rights held by any to "The Sentinel" characters, name or stories is intended. No money is changing hands or profit being made on this story.
Rated PG-13.
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Carolyn
The extent of one man's guilt may be defined by how much of it is experienced by the
party he injured.
-- Ryszard Kapuscinski
Simon Banks sighed deeply and placed his unlit cigar in the ashtray on his desk.
His cigars always brought him pleasure during those times when the trials of being a police captain got to be almost too heavy to bear. This was one of those times, but he felt he did not deserve any pleasure right now. The department shrink would call it an unnecessary penance, but Simon was feeling especially bad right now, and did not want to be made to feel better in any way.
He had screwed up. Big time. He had allowed his anger to take control of him and override his sense, his judgement, his control. That this had happened in front of his men was bad enough. That it had been directed at a man who did not deserve an ounce of it was almost too much to handle.
Instead of chewing out Jim Ellison for turning vigilante, he should have been thanking the man for saving his life.
He closed his eyes tightly and recalled the events of the past evening.
After tearing Jim's badge and service revolver from his hands, he had stalked over to his car and began dialing Rhonda's number. He was going to have her start the paperwork on Ellison's suspension immediately. He had not counted on being followed by Officer Truffaut, and shortly thereafter, by Officer Blake.
Looking back, he was sure some of his anger was directed at himself for allowing Ellison onto the case. He had imagined the worst, and it had come to pass. Instead of kicking himself, though, the anger had focused outward.
Simon's ears still rang from some of the invectives he had hurled in Blake and Truffaut's direction. But the two men had persisted until Simon knew the truth of what had occurred that night. He definitely needed to rethink his opinion of the two men. It was a shame there were no medals for bravery in the face of your captain's unreasonable anger.
When it appeared to the men that their superior was neither going to kill them with Ellison's confiscated gun nor shoot an embolism and fall down dead in front of them, they explained to him what they had witnessed.
Simon had learned a great deal more than just the facts about the shooting.
He knew now that all of the officers in his command understood that Ellison and Sandburg were a special case in Simon's eyes. The fact that the other detectives did not hold it against the captain was nothing short of amazing. Apparently, they held the Sentinel and the anthropologist up as examples of partnership and dedication. The trials and tribulations of his best team had not gone unnoticed by the rest of Major Crimes. In fact, they had won them the admiration of their peers. Blair would be pleased to know how many people he had rooting for his swift recovery.
Andre Truffaut had calmly informed Simon Banks that just about every other officer in the precinct kept half an eye on whatever Ellison and Sandburg were up to. Their knack for solving the toughest of cases was a source of pride, not envy, as Simon had wrongly imagined.
After they had reported every detail, they left him alone. Just about everyone at the scene was avoiding him, in fact. His earlier behavior pretty much assured him of complete solitude for a few days at least.
And so he sat in his office, the detectives in the bullpen avoiding any unnecessary contact with him, allowing him to stew over what he had learned and how that made him feel. Jim Ellison was the only man who might have dared to brave the captain's mood had he been there, but Jim was more than likely at his partner's side, getting more comfort from his unconscious roommate than his superior and supposed friend had offered him in days.
Simon felt shame flood his whole person.
Ellison. His best detective. His Sentinel detective. His friend. An honorable, trustworthy man. A man unworthy of the treatment he had been given. How could Simon ever hope to make things right with him again?
He should go down to the hospital right now and explain to the man what had occurred the night before -- tell him that he was perfectly justified in the shooting, and had, in fact, saved the lives of two of his fellow detectives. He had also saved the sorry ass of his miserable captain.
Dominic Altavista had been running towards the car behind which the officers and Simon were crouched, firing continuously. Several bullets had punctured the body of the car, one missing the gas tank by centimeters. Jim's bullet had found the ex-con's forehead just as he had rounded the corner of the vehicle, allowing him a clear shot of the men. Blake had pressed Simon against the car and shielded him with his own body while he frantically tried to reload in time to save them. Truffaut's gun had jammed and had been dropped to the ground while he tried to find a way to safely reach the rifle lying under the seat of the car.
By all accounts, they were dead men. Altavista had carried two guns, both fully loaded, and it would have been a slaughter except for one James Ellison.
Jim had not been himself. Even after the bullets had stopped flying, he was unaware of what had happened. The Sentinel had reached a sort of walking zone-out state, where his actions were instinctual, deadly, perfect. What the man himself had described to the paramedics as a sort of gray haze, Simon knew to be his protective instincts operating of full automatic.
That was how Simon had explained it to the IA representatives who had swarmed over him last night and this morning. Word had gotten out about the shootings of Detectives Sigerson and Juarez, and the Chief was all over his case to explain. Simon had painted Jim as a hero, and himself as the villain. Good thing his superior knew a guilt trip when he saw one, since his reprimand was mild compared to what Simon had imagined it would be. The Chief knew that Simon would punish himself worse than he ever could, so the man had left it at that.
Simon rubbed his hands over his face. There was nothing for him to do now except go and see Jim -- force his way in to see him if necessary -- and somehow make him listen. He would beg his forgiveness and try to repair what his thoughtless words and actions had destroyed. Even if the Sentinel chose to never speak to his captain again, Simon owed him the truth and an apology.
Whether those things would appease his own guilt, Simon did not know.
In the small circle of pain within the skull
You still shall tramp and tread one endless round
Of thought, to justify your action to yourselves,
Weaving a fiction which unravels as you weave,
Pacing forever in the hell of make-believe
Which never is belief: this is your fate on earth
And we must think no further of you.
-- T. S. Eliot
Blair Sandburg finally felt the trappings of his unconsciousness slowly beginning to lift. The knowledge brought him only a little joy, though, since it seemed he had been too late to help his partner.
He had listened, distressed, as Jim explained to him what had happened to him the night before. Jim had zoned. There was no other reasonable explanation for it. The despair and fury the Sentinel felt over his partner's injuries and his unwitting callous treatment of the younger man had pushed him into a major zone out, and a man was now dead because of it.
To make matters worse, Jim was not sure if the man had deserved to be killed. True, he had fired on two officers, but a policeman's duty was to apprehend, not kill, if possible. Jim simply could not recall the events leading to the death of Altavista, and Blair was of no help to him at all.
Even if Blair opened his eyes this very moment, the deed had already been done and Jim's soul would have to bear the consequences. No amount of discussion or support from his Shaman could erase the blame the Sentinel had placed upon himself.
Simon Banks was another problem. Jim had chuckled as he described the scene when the captain had ripped the gun from Jim's hands and held out his hand for the detective's badge. The laugh was bitter, though. It had hurt Jim, that Simon had had so little faith in him. Jim's train of thought was leading him to believe himself unworthy of trust at all. Unchecked, the guilt would grow to the point where Blair would be unable to counter it, and something vital would be lost within the Sentinel. Damn Simon Banks for that, anyway.
No. Blair couldn't blame Simon. The captain had been doing his job. Detectives could not go around killing people because they were merely suspected of a crime. That was what the courts were for. Lawyers and judges were paid to find out the truth. The detectives of Major Crimes were expected to bring the alleged perpetrators to trial, not land a bullet between their eyes.
The anthropologist wished he could talk to Simon, or the other officers who had been at the scene, and find out exactly what had happened. Maybe Jim had been confused by something he saw, or had imagined a threat to a civilian or a fellow officer? There were so many possibilities to consider, so many avenues to explore with Jim once he was able to speak to him. But to offer him comfort, he had to wake up first.
Focusing every bit of his energy, he willed himself toward consciousness. A bare fraction of the distance he needed to travel was passed, and a long road still loomed ahead.
Blair cursed his weakened body. He had not been strong enough to offer his friend support when he needed it, and he was not strong enough now. If only he had been able to open his eyes, to stir just a little bit the night before. Jim would never have left him and this would never have happened.
Burying his guilt more deeply inside his mind, Blair pressed again, determined to help his Sentinel and friend.
True guilt is guilt at the obligation one owes to oneself to be oneself.
False guilt is guilt felt at not being what other people feel one
ought to be or assume that one is.
-- R. D. Laing
Jim Ellison pulled at the straps which held his arm immobile. They were too tight, and the confining sling seemed to hurt worse than the healing bullet wound it protected. He didn't dare remove it, though. The sympathy it garnered with the ICU nurses had gained him an unprecedented hour long visit, and they didn't seem to be in any hurry to come in and remove him from Blair's side.
That was just as well. He wasn't going anywhere today. When they did kick him out of the room, he was just going to stand by the windows until they let him back in again.
He needed to spend as much time with his partner as possible, since he knew he was way overdue for an extended stay away from Blair's side. Eventually, Simon would come and find him and he would be escorted to the precinct to endure a grilling from the folks in IA about his part in the shooting of Dominic Altavista and undergo a damnable psych evaluation to determine the full extent of his feelings about his partner's injuries and the shooting which took the ex-con's life.
He knew the reason for the captain's absence. After the shootings of three of his detectives -- four if you counted Blair -- he would be going through his own bureaucratic hell right now. Jim grinned slightly at the thought of the grilling the Chief -- hell, maybe even the Commissioner -- would be laying onto his captain. But as the old saying went, 'shit flows downhill' and he was the next rung on that particular ladder.
He wished he knew if he deserved the blame.
Despite his best efforts, no memory of the frantic minutes from the night before would surface. Even the close proximity of his Shaman had no affect on the haze which clouded his mind. As they had right after Blair had been shot, his memories had shut themselves down and refused his attempts to summon them. Simon had made it pretty clear last night that he held Jim responsible for the unwarranted death of a suspect. Whether anything had changed since then, he didn't know and frankly didn't care. His greatest concern at the moment was for his partner. He prayed silently that that Blair would wake up soon. He imagined that the guilt he was carrying might fade once those caring blue eyes opened and looked at him.
He felt guilty for so many things, though. First and foremost, he had never seen the shooter at the warehouse, and then had left his gravely wounded partner alone. Afterwards, he had set off to kill the man he thought was responsible and had done just that, against the direct orders of his captain. Added to that was the fact that he could not recall a single event that might have helped to make the situation more clear in his head. Instead he had plunged himself into a fugue state to get the job done, perhaps throwing away his honor, his sense of duty, his dedication to justice.
Who was he to lay all of this on Blair? What kind of a friend would set this heavy a burden on another's shoulders? And how could this one man hold the key to Jim's peace of mind? Perhaps it was the Shaman in him. Despite Blair's insistence that there hadn't been anyone else handy when Incacha died, and that the Indian's blessing had fallen onto him by default, Jim knew otherwise. Blair kept his sanity, why not his soul as well?
This revelation, too, filled the detective with remorse. How selfish was he, that he hoped his critically injured friend would wake up so his guilt could be eased? What if Blair held him responsible for what happened? How could Jim possibly stand the censure of Blair's gaze if that was the way his feelings turned?
Jim shook his head. Blair had stood by him before, had been hurt before, though never so badly. All Jim had right now was faith that Blair would understand, and maybe someday would forgive him for what he had done, for what he had let happen.
His vigil had been in silence for a while now. He had exhausted words, and sought instead to soothe his friend with his touch. He held Blair's hand in his, squeezing every now and then to reassure the younger man of his presence and to assuage his own concerns by feeling the physical presence of his Guide by his side. It was after one of these clasps that he thought he felt the pressure returned.
"Blair?"
Sin, guilt, neurosis-they are one and the same, the fruit of the tree of
knowledge.
-- Henry Miller
The End. (To be continued in "Healing")