DISCLAIMER: The characters of "The Sentinel" belong to Bilson, DeMeo, Pet Fly and UPN. This work of fiction is not made for profit or any form of negotiable compensation, but for entertainment purposes and as a writing exercise.
SPOILERS: "Night Train, "Cypher," Spare Parts, "Blind Man's Bluff," "Survival."
RATING: PG
BETA'ED?: Yes. I know better than to let anything out of the pen without a proper inspection. Thus, not only was this checked by my regular beta (Hi, Andrea!), but technical assistance was ably rendered by Charli, 911-dispatcher with the Seattle PD and Sentinel fanfic author. A doff of the Fargo hat to both of them!
COMMENTS: jassmoris@yahoo.com
Linda Stoops
Officer Raymond da Silva, halfway into his third week as a Cascade patrol officer, watched the sidewalks for suspicious activity while mentally translating the radio calls.
"Three-Robert-3, we have a report of loud music and public drinking at 209 West Draver..."
Think that's near Campus Row. Post-midterm blowout, I'll bet.
"Three-King-1 investigating possible abandoned vehicle at the A-1 Storage on Northern between Green and Avery..."
Maybe stolen.
Two tightly-dressed women in front of a closed fast-food restaurant traded insults as the cruiser passed, but did nothing more.
"Dispatch, 3-David-1 is returning to station with Indecent exposure suspect in custody..."
In this weather? At two in the morning? Either drunk or stupid.
"Three-Mary-2, 3-Ocean-2, we have a silent alarm at 3215 Farmingham Parkway, Building 4C..."
Office or industrial park. After the computers, most likely.
"Three-Henry-4, in pursuit of a stolen dark blue Dodge Durango, Oregon 446 Nora-Robert-Adam. We are eastbound on 600 block of Coleridge, coming up on the Interstate. Henry-4 requesting assistance, all available units in area..."
Ray glanced in his senior partner's direction, and got a headshake in reply.
"Too far and heading in the wrong direction," Albert Santiago explained, signalling a left turn at the light. "They'd probably have him by the time we got there."
"Yeah, probably." He flicked a glance at the on-board computer screen, then went back to watching the sparse human traffic still roaming the streets. After about five minutes' travel, they pulled up behind a small car sitting at the intersection under a green light. Al flashed their lights and honked the horn. The car jerked forward, braked and accelerated to the posted limit.
"Pull him over?" Ray shifted in his seat, right hand brushing the strap on his weapon.
"Yeah." Al added the siren this time, and followed the vehicle to the first parking spot it could reach.
Meanwhile, Ray got on the radio. "This is 3-David-2. We're initiating a stop on a dark green Volvo, Washington 743-Frank-Sam-Union, at the 1300 block of Green Street. Possible DUI."
"Copy, 3-David-2."
A run on the license plate came back that the vehicle was registered to a Blair Sandburg, 857 Prospect, Cascade, with no wants or warrants. When he read off the information to Al, he got an amused snort in response. "What?"
"Well, let's see who we've got driving, first." Leaving the engine running, Al got out of the cruiser, with Ray a second behind.
Following standard protocol for a traffic stop, Ray came up on the car's passenger side, popping the snap on his holster and checking the back seat for any other riders. It was the field training officer's job to conduct the initial interview, so Al took the driver's side, going through the same motions.
The driver's window was already rolled down, and Al leaned forward, shining his footlong flashlight into the car. "Good evening, sir. Can I see your license and reg--? Oh, hey, Sandburg. Out kinda late, aren't you?"
Ray couldn't quite hear the driver's muffled reply, but his FTO's casual demeanor signaled that this stop was no threat. Al gestured him over as the conversation continued.
"Looked like you were taking a nap at that last light. You been celebrating end of midterms, or what?"
"Nah, you kidding? They threw me out of the library at one, and I thought I got enough coffee in me to make it home." The speaker was a grunge-dressed white male, mid-to-late twenties, with shoulder-length curly dark hair and light eyes who appeared either worn-out or wasted. He waggled a paper coffee cup at them for evidence. "Musta given me decaf."
"Probably built up a tolerance, more like." Al glanced up and down the street with a thoughtful frown, then said, "Look, why don't you come to the station, grab a nap, and if you're still there when we get off, I'll drive you back here and you can go home?"
"No, I think I can make it. Thanks, anyway."
"It's at least another ten-fifteen minutes to your area of town. If I let you go, and you doze off again and get in an accident, I'm going to have to explain why to Ellison and Captain Banks. Do us both a favor, huh? Save me the extra paperwork, at least."
The scruffy-looking man seemed to consider this either that, or he was dozing off again -- and grinned. "Okay, you win. I should know better than to argue with people who carry badges and guns." Sandburg reached for a bundled object on the passenger seat, and Ray tensed, hand moving to his weapon. When he recognized the straps of a backpack, he relaxed. College student. Kinda old for it, though. Post-grad, maybe.
Al laughed, stepping back to let Sandburg open the door and get out. "Finally sunk in, huh?" He scanned the surrounding area once more and made another suggestion. "On second thought, maybe we'd better bring the car with us. Even a heap like this has parts worth something to somebody, and there are people around here who'll trash a car just because they can. Especially on a weekend. My partner can follow us to the station."
Sandburg turned toward Ray and blinked a few times, apparently just noticing the other's presence. "Oh, right. You sure it's okay?"
"We call it 'getting you off the street.' Just give him the keys."
Sandburg scrubbed a hand over his face, drew in and blew out a deep breath, then held out the appropriate key on the chain. "You may have to pump the gas pedal a little before it'll catch. 'Course, I just shut it off, so..."
"I'll be careful, sir," Ray assured him, falling back on protocol when dealing with the public.
True to the driver's prediction, the carburetor was still primed enough to spray fuel and ignite the spark plugs, and Ray pulled out into the sparse traffic behind the cruiser. On the way to their precinct, he turned on the overhead light and scanned the car for anything suspicious or -- at the very least -- some clue as to Sandburg's apparent reputation within the department. Food wrappers, mail, newspapers, old parking card from Rainier... pill bottle? Empty... '97, whoa, Percocet. Wonder what he's had in there since then? He set the bottle down carefully, deciding to check with Al on the finer points of probable cause before claiming it as evidence.
He left the car on the visitors' side of the parking lot and joined Al and Sandburg in the front lobby. They were talking to the desk sergeant and two other patrol officers while Sandburg wrote in the Visitor's book. "Your keys, Mr. Sandburg."
"Thanks, man." Sandburg pocketed them, then dug into his backpack and produced a clip-on ID with the Cascade department insignia, the words 'Major Crimes', his photo, name and the word 'Observer'. "Good thing I left this in the pack yesterday," he yawned, attaching it to his belt loop. Saved me the extra paperwork." He grinned at Al, sharing the weak joke.
"Assuming you don't fall asleep writing it. C'mon, I'll show you where the breakroom is. The couch should be free at this hour. Shift change is at 3:30, so you've got about seventy minutes." Al gestured to Ray to remain where he was, and led the smaller man to the elevators.
"I see you met the Professor," one of the two uniformed officers, his name tag reading 'Nelson', commented to Ray, making some notes on a clipboard. "Not many rookies run into him so soon."
"Who is he? I saw the 'Observer' on his tag. What's he observing?"
"Us, supposedly. Some paper on the police as a 'closed society,' whatever that is." The desk sargeant, a thin man named Loomis, shrugged at his own explanation. "They handed him off to Major Crimes, and Banks let him tag along after Ellison. That was back in '96, and he's still at it."
"He's doing more than observing, from what we've heard," Schlein, the second officer, put in. "Banks has had him working cases with Ellison. That witness transfer on the Murdock arson case, the Yellow Scarf murders, the car theft ring, Golden. Keisley over at the Fourteenth said she'd heard him referred to as a special consultant."
"Couple of guys over in Narcotics have another name for him, but that's them." Loomis transferred a call and noted it in a log.
Nelson shook his head. "Is that the 'rent boy' crap? Valenti said Saunders started that right after the Golden wrap-up. Probably pissed off because he was looking to take over from Vice's investigation, but then it got handed off to Major Crimes. Sandburg was with Ellison in the field, making the connections, everything but the bust itself. Narcs don't like it when other cops move in on their territory, but a civilian?"
"So, what, they live together?" Ray felt his back stiffen reflexively and a chill gloss the hairs on his neck.
"Well, there's living together, and there's 'living together,'" Nelson answered, the difference implied in the inflection. "Ellison's ex-Army; Special Forces, I think I read somewhere. It's not 'don't ask, don't tell' with them. It's more like 'don't go there if you wanna keep breathing.'"
Schlein chuckled. "Terkel in Dispatch says Sandburg's got something of a reputation for being a horndog around women. No sniffing after guys, that she's heard."
"In a police station? Not if he's got a death wish. Besides, the type you usually see hanging out in the Turner Street area look more like Artie here than Sandburg." Nelson cast a nod and a sly grin in Schlein's direction, and got a backhanded swat on the arm for the comment.
"C'mon, sweetcakes, back on the street." Schlein growled.
"Ooh, rough stuff! I'm all a-quiver!" Nelson cackled at the other man's eye-roll and followed him out, adding a marginal farewell wave to Ray and Loomis.
A minute or so of silence reigned, then Ray ventured a question to the sargeant. "So, what do you think?"
"About what?" The officer glanced up from his monitor.
"You know... Sandburg. Ellison. Do they or don't they?"
Loomis shrugged. "That's Central's problem. So long as they don't scare the horses, it's none of my business. Or yours. You read departmental policy on that in the Academy, right?"
"Yeah."
Loomis must have heard the hedging tone in his voice, because his "Then that's all you need to know, rookie," had a sharp edge.
Al reappeared a moment later, walking past the desk with little more than a pause and a "Back in an hour, Sarge."
"Right."
Ray waited until they were back on the street before he spoke. "They were telling me some stories about Sandburg back there. Seems kinda weird, having a civilian that involved in police work."
Al shrugged. "Cascade's a weird city, crime-wise. Check the stats compared to other places the same size, someday. It's probably why he's doing that research into how we deal with it." He made a right turn at the city's oldest church. "Did they tell you about Officer Zigler?"
"No, just some of the cases I'd heard about in the media."
"Well, they weren't there when that happened, so it probably slipped their minds. Last year, we had a string of bank robberies on the west side. Evidence tracked them to where they lived, but as the units started to move in, one of them inside spotted us and opened fire with one of those machine pistols. The rest of us dove for cover, but Zigler was caught out in the open. He took three hits in the vest and one in the leg. The other perps started shooting, and we sorta had our hands full.
"All of a sudden, Sandburg comes running out -- down low, like a duck walk -- in the middle of a firefight, grabs Zigler and drags him behind the nearest car. No vest, no gun, just runs out there. From what I heard, he used a shirt for a tourniquet, since the leg wound was up in the thigh and bleeding heavily. It didn't take us long to rush in and subdue those guys, but it felt like an hour, 'cause none of us could get to Zigler and Sandburg.
Well, when the area was secured, and the paramedics took Zigler away, Ellison lit into that kid like a freight train. And you'd think Sandburg, being a civilian, would have bowed his head and took it." A snort. "Like hell. You could hear them halfway down the block. Back and forth, back and forth. I think Ellison conceded, but I'll bet Banks ripped them both new ones when they reported in."
Al sighed. "Civilian or not, if it hadn't been for that dumbass stunt, Lieutenant Jonas' daughter would've been another cop's widow. And that's why we drove Sandburg to the station. Professional courtesy."
"Looking out for each other." Ray's mind swirled a bit as he tried to fit the reputation to the image. It also explained why part of the Eighth Precinct's personnel knew the man on sight: a civilian saving an officer would rate some level of recognition and consideration on its own, but the Watch Commander's son-in-law added a few points to the score.
"Yup. 'Course, that means he qualifies for our usual fun and games." Another snort. "Cadell and I made up a sign for the break room door once Sandburg hit the couch. 'Enter Quietly: Sleeping Major Crimes Mascot. Do Not Poke or Feed.'"
Ray chuckled. "Think someone'll take it down before he sees it?"
"Hope not. He's part of the group; he gets the full treatment."
About two hours after being pulled over, Blair let himself into the dimly-lit loft apartment. He laid his keys gently in the basket, slipped out of his shoes, turned off the light Jim had left on near the couch and went to his room. He set his backpack down in its usual spot and switched on the desk lamp to look at the handwritten sign he'd found on the break room door. With a grin, he laid it on the desk, turned off the light and got ready for bed.
END
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story was inspired by an actual incident, namely me getting my drowsy butt pulled over by a small-town police officer while I was making my 40-mile commute from college to home about three decades ago. I've had several close calls with falling asleep at the wheel since then, the last one two years ago being the scariest. Having finally taken the hint from an incredibly generous universe, I decided that I'm far too old to be doing something that stupid again, and now make a point of stopping in a rest area or parking lot somewhere and taking a nap. Being in a pulled-over car is preferable to being in one upside-down and on fire.
Thus endeth this PSA on driver safety.