SquidgeWorld Archive

Leaving 10

A Man Can Feel Anger, A Man Can Feel Pain

He knocks and then comes in and I look up, scowling impatiently. Unless Jim is about to tell me he has the Costas case sewed up, I don't have time for this. I don't have time for anything other than Costas and all the attention that his family had put on this case.

But then I notice his hand is swathed in white gauze and there are circles under his eyes and new worry lines etched in his face. He looks -- bad. "What happened to your hand?" I ask as he shuts the door.

He just shrugs. "I need a few days off, Simon." I hate when he does that -- ignores my question and drops a ticking bomb in my lap. I'm not as young as I used to be and I don't change gears as quickly anymore. Ellison and Sandburg both know that and more than a few times I feel that they have used it to their advantage.

None of that matters right now, though, because there is no way in hell I am going to let Jim have time off. I know it, he knows it. Hell, the mayor and city council know it and I would bet that I could take a poll on the street and Joe Citizen would know that Jim Ellison could not take time off right now.

"The time isn't right, Jim," I say, letting the anger show in my voice. "You know that."

Why would he even ask? I stand and level my best glare at him, but I should know better. Sandburg is immune to the Ellison stare and Jim is immune to mine. He just gazes back at me and there is such sadness in his eyes, I had no choice but to ease back. I sigh and ask, "How can you ask for time off in the middle of what's rapidly becoming the case of the year around here?" Just saying it makes me mad again, and I turn and stare out my window, trying not to destroy the unlit stogie clenched between my teeth. "Everyone's watching this one -- we're getting national attention and the last thing I can do is pull my best detective and let him take off in the middle of the investigation!"

Then I hear the words I've been dreading. He'd used them on me once before, when all this Sentinel crap first started. It annoyed the shit out of me then, and it annoyed me now.

"I need to do this, Simon," he says. His voice is so soft, I have to strain to make out the words and it's then I realize how serious this is. Whatever this is. "If I have to, I'll just go, but I'd rather work it out with you first."

Well, shit. What do you say to that? Nothing. So I just grunt. I have an amazing repertoire of grunts -- sounds that can convey meanings from 'What the hell?' to 'Get the fuck out of my face!' to 'I'm sorry.' This one said, 'Okay, I understand. I think.' I'm not so good with expressing myself at times, and I like to think my wide variety of grunts not only gets my point across, but adds to my mystique as a man of few words. But this needed some clarifying.

"So you weren't really asking then, you were telling." I just want to make sure I've gotten his message.

Jim shrugs and I think he is embarrassed that he's pulled that shit with me -- again. "I don't mean it like that, but Simon, this is something I have to do."

There is something urgent, almost desperate, in his words and I'm willing to bet this involves Sandburg. The kid is the only thing that would make Jim even consider coming off this case for an hour, let alone a few days. I choke back my frustration and sigh, then try to sound like I'm willing to listen as I sit back down. Wasn't any point in staying on my feet anyway; I've never been able to use my size to intimidate Ellison. "Can you tell me what's going on?" I ask.

Jim's mouth is open and I'm waiting when my door bursts inward and the man I knew was going to be the subject of this little tete-a-tete pops in. He has a piece of paper in his hand and looks like he's about to explode.

"Jim! Simon!" he cries, "this just came in. Olivia had been to the hospital for injuries twice in the past year and it had been reported to Child Services under the Mandatory Reporting Act."

My stomach does flips and I fight back the nausea that still, after all these years, rises in my throat when I am faced with child abuse. How has our society become filled with so many people who do not understand what a great privilege and trust it is to be given a child to raise?

Sandburg is practically vibrating where he stands, swaying back and forth and waving the paper in the air. It irritates the shit out of me that he can never be still, never knock on a door. Never just give a report, but always has to embellish with weird, off-the-wall commentary. I mean, I like the kid, don't get me wrong, but he really needs to settle down and act like an adult. I can't believe he's this active in front of his classes -- how could his students keep up with him?

"Who knows how many other times didn't get reported because her father was a doctor? I mean, we talk about the blue wall, but there's a white wall in the medical society as well."

Ah -- here it comes. I knew he'd wander off on some anthropological tangent, and honestly, there are times it's been useful, pointing out things that the rest of us would never have seen. But I can't see that happening now, and I would really like to look at the report he's waving around.

"It's almost as much a closed society as the police."

I look over at Jim, expecting to see my own growing irritation mirrored on his face, but he's smiling this half-amused, half-pleased smile and looking at Sandburg like he's the greatest thing since sliced bread. What the hell is going on here?

Sandburg, of course, is oblivious to me, oblivious to Jim. He's just talking on and on and on about mandatory reporting and blue walls and white walls and child services and the obligation of society to protect its young and my head was already starting to pound because of Jim, but the headache has set in for real now.

"You're talking life and death situations, split second decisions -- medical people don't want anyone looking too closely at what they do and why. You know, they have their own version of internal affairs -- internal reviews. Doctors reviewing doctors. After all..."

"Sandburg!" I say sharply and he stops. "Enough! Can't you ever just walk in like a normal person and drop off a report? Just sit down and be quiet and let Jim and me look at what you've got."

I look over at him and my mouth drops. I have absolutely no idea what just happened, but the kid looks like he's going to pass out. I start to move, but of course, Jim is there first. He jumps in front of Sandburg and I hear him order, "Breathe," which Blair does, at last.

I move a little so I can see what's going on and I'm gratified that the color is coming back to his face. Jim's holding him and I can see that he's pushing him down. I hadn't realized he'd been balanced on his toes.

"Simon doesn't know, Sandburg," Jim whispers. I can just barely make out the words. "He doesn't understand."

Don't know what? Don't understand what? I bite my tongue to keep from interrupting.

"But you didn't do anything wrong. You're not screwing up."

Jim is still holding Sandburg and the kid is not moving. He's just frozen in place and I can't begin to pin down my thoughts on what the hell is going on here. But I know, sure as shit, this is exactly what Ellison came to talk to me about and it is intimately tied in to why my best detective suddenly needs time off in the middle of the biggest murder case of the year.

Jim steps even closer to the kid, until his body is pressed up against him and in this quiet but intense voice, he says, "You. Didn't. Do. Anything. Wrong."

I can see Sandburg shudder and he almost falls against Ellison, but Jim's got him, he's holding him up. "I was getting ready to talk to him -- to explain," Jim says softly.

Sandburg almost panics. He shakes his head and his whole body stiffens.

Jim has one hand holding the kid's arm, the other one is running up and down the other arm. "Yes, Blair," I hear him say, his voice still low. "I need to tell Simon."

Damn straight you do. I am still barely able to control my need to ask what the hell is going on, but I know that Jim needs to get Sandburg settled, get him over this, this -- whatever this is. Then we'll talk.

Blair shakes his head again, and then he sorta collapses against Jim, his head falling forward to rest against Jim's chest. This is beyond weird, and I am certain there is some strange Sentinel crap going on that I really don't want to know about, but I guess I'm going to find out.

Jim's still murmuring to him, "It's okay. You didn't do anything wrong. Simon will understand. It's okay." It reminded me of times when Daryl had a nightmare and I'd gone into his room and held him, not really saying anything specific, just making soothing sounds and filling the silence with words of comfort and safety. Jim keeps it up and finally, I see Sandburg relax and he nods.

He lifts his head and backs a step away from Jim, then gives him the report. His eyes dart from Jim to me and back to Jim and then he seems to sort of sag in place, as if he's not sure of what to do next. I want to grab him and make him sit down -- he still looks like he's gonna fall over and he's way too pale, but I don't think my interference would be welcome right now. So once again, I bite my tongue and wait.

"Just go, Chief," Jim says in that same gentle tone. He pats the kid's shoulder, and adds, "Go on down to the truck and wait for me. I'll be down shortly. It'll be okay."

I would certainly like to be let in on what it is, and how we're going to make it okay.

Sandburg nods and disappears and I wait a respectable three seconds before I blurt out, "What the hell was that about?"

Jim's watching Sandburg disappear into the elevator and then he shuts the door and drops wearily into the chair in front of my desk. "That was why I need to take off for a few days," he says.

I need to do something with my hands. I grab my coffee cup and refill it, then wave the pot at Jim, who shakes his head. "I don't understand ..." I say. "Is the kid all right? That was -- weird -- even for Sandburg." I don't know how else to explain it. It was just downright -- weird.

"He's really stressed right now, Simon."

I can understand that. I just got finished fighting my stomach to hang onto my breakfast, so I can understand how someone like Sandburg, who's not used to seeing these kinds of atrocities, would be a little freaked out. "This case is enough to stress anyone," I say.

"It's not the case," Jim says and now I'm really wondering what the hell is going on. He stands and starts to pace, which is hard to do because my office is not that big. He gets to the wall, stops, and looks at me. "It's not just the case."

I don't think I'm going to like this. Jim's controlled. He doesn't get bent out of shape over little things. So for him to be wound this tight? Well, I just know something major is coming. I heave a sigh and say, "You better tell me, Jim."

"He was -- abused."

Well -- fuck. I wince and fight the urge to close my eyes. Jim is watching me, watching my reactions. I'm tensed, waiting. I know there's more.

"As a child."

Well -- fuck again. I drop my cigar and take my glasses off so I can scrub at my face while I think. I don't know what to say. "I take it we're talking more than a spanking here," I say, thinking of his free-spirited, non-violent mother.

"He's got scars, Simon," Jim says, the words whisper soft as if saying them out loud would make it all real again. His jaw begins to twitch, a sure sign that he's working hard to keep from exploding.

"Well -- fuck!" I say it out loud this time and Jim nods in grim agreement.

"Naomi was living with some guy; Blair was only four."

Oh, God! "Four?" I can't believe this. I mean, I know it happens. It happens all the time. I arrest people for this crime continually, but I am shaking with disbelief over this. "Some guy hit him hard enough to leave scars when he was four?"

"Beat him, Simon." Jim says, and I can see it coming. He's getting ready to unload. I look at Jim, a man who's been my friend for many years now, and I can see that he needs to unload this. So I grab a tight grip on my stomach and settle in to listen.

"With a belt," Jim adds. "Repeatedly. I look at the Costas girl, I mean ..."

He turns away and I'm glad. It gives me a chance to wipe my eyes. 'A man can feel anger,' my father always said, 'and a man can feel pain. But a man doesn't cry.' It's crap for advice, I know, but I've lived by it so long, I don't think I can change. At least I never said those words to my son. Jim's talking again and I push my focus back on him.

"I see her, so small and alone. So -- damaged. And all I can think is, he was half her age." He's looking at me again, shock and disbelief etched in his face. "Half her size." Jim is shaking now and I wish I was strong enough to go to him and hold him, the way he held Sandburg. But I still hear my father's voice, my conduct is still dictated by outdated conventions and I hold my place. "I see her, and then, I see him, my friend -- my guide ..."

Jim stops, turns away again as he struggles so hard with the words. "I see my Blair, and the picture -- the image -- of him, battered, bruised, bloodied, like she was -- I just can't ..."

I think I'm going to be sick.

Jim must feel the same way because when he looks at me again, he's slightly green around the gills. And while I can see he feels sick, he feels a lot more than that. His hands flex unconsciously at his side, hands that I know can kill with a single touch. "God, Simon! How did Naomi miss it? How could people ignore that? How could anyone let him suffer like that?"

I point wordlessly to his hands and he looks down, surprised. The flexing stops as he curls them into fists and I think I have a good idea what caused him to need that bandage on his hand. "How's he dealing with it?" I ask.

"Not so good, to be honest," Jim says, shaking his head sadly. "He's not sleeping and more and more stuff keeps coming up. He's got major issues with Naomi leaving him behind whenever she wanted to take off, and of course, now he's remembered the beatings."

Oh, God, I don't want to say this. I don't want to be the one to bring it up -- to make it real. But it has to be said. "The Costas girl was raped." I let it hang in the air between us and I know Jim follows me.

"He hasn't mentioned anything like that," he says, nodding, "but shit! Two months ago, I'd have never imagined any of this stuff. So, who knows what else is lurking?"

I rub my face again as I feel this incredible rage continue to bubble up in me. Sandburg is my friend. Yeah, I ride the kid hard, give him a rough time, but I care about him. It's killing me -- killing me -- to have to hear this shit. I mean, he comes across kinda vulnerable. Not that he's a wimp by any means -- the guy's one of the bravest men I know -- but he's fairly small sizewise, and he's not trained the way the rest of us are. He's an academic, for Christ's sake! It makes all of us rather protective of him. And to know someone hurt him when he was so young, so small, so vulnerable and dependent, it's almost too much to bear.

"Not that he needs any more shit in his life," Jim hastens to add. "I mean, God! Not that too! Please, not that."

Jim's use of 'God' here is not an exclamation. He's addressing the Almighty and I add my fervent prayer as well. Please don't let there be anything else. Please.

Jim takes a couple of deep breaths, and I can see him struggle to sort through the hash of emotions that this is churning up -- pain, sorrow, fury, frustration, helplessness. I take a few deep breaths of my own and wonder if Sandburg taught Jim this -- this breathing as a tool to calm down. What am I thinking? Of course he did.

"He does have other things that are coming up now -- like what you said."

"What I said?" I blink in confusion. What exactly did I say?

Jim does the breathing thing again, then says, "Yeah. You told him to sit down and be quiet."

Okay -- I remember that. I'm trying to make the connection to what my innocent words, maybe spoken a little harshly, I grant you, but innocent words nonetheless, have to do with Sandburg's issues.

"Apparently, being active and talking a lot were punishable offenses when he was younger."

Well -- fuck! I can feel the blood drain from my face and I'm suddenly lightheaded. No wonder the kid looked like he was going to pass out when I spoke. Shit! I just can't deal with this. A man can feel anger, a man can feel pain. A man can feel anger, a man can feel pain. My father's words echo in my head and I can't contain it anymore. I rise and without thinking, turn and slam my fist through the wall behind my desk.

Jim's laughing at me and I have to smile as I shake my head. Oh yeah. Dad was right. A man can certainly feel anger and I'm doing real well with the feeling pain thing right now. I definitely know where Jim's bandage came from now. I just hope he didn't try and put his fist through those brick walls in the loft.

I wince as I slowly pull my hand out, then reach in my pocket and grab my handkerchief and wrap it around my fist. The rage is contained somewhat -- I no longer feel like I'm going to explode. I plop down in my chair and look at Jim. Lifting my cup, I drink, then ask calmly, "That what happened to your hand?"

"Let's just say there are a few holes in the wall outside the loft," Jim says with a tight smile. "I'm gonna have the opportunity to check out my skills with drywall." He looks at my hand and frowns. "You need to wash that, you know."

"Later," I say, nodding. "For now, how are you?"

"Angry. Furious. Full of rage." He shrugs as if to say 'what else?' but his hands are flexing again and I know the rage simmers just below the surface.

I can't help it. I laugh. "Yeah. I can see that. So -- if I let you go, what exactly are you going to do?"

He tenses visibly and stares right at me. "I've got a name and a place. I'm gonna go see if I can't get Blair a little closure over this whole thing."

Oh, yeah. Get Blair a little closure. I don't doubt there's a lot of that in what drives Jim, but I know this is just as much about his feelings of helplessness as it is about Sandburg. "And you?" I ask, letting him know I'm on to his game.

"And me," he admits, not the slightest bit embarrassed to have been found out.

Oh, shit. He's not worried and I'm mentally reviewing my bank account, trying to figure out what the bail for assault, or God forbid, something worse, will be. "Is this going to involve bail or something more serious for you?"

He just looks at me like I've lost my mind and I start laughing again. Of course -- what was I thinking? This is Jim Ellison, Ranger-trained in covert ops. If he doesn't want the body to be found, the body will never be found. "Sorry. Dumb question," I say by way of apology and he nods his head slightly. "Why now? Why right this minute? Don't you think the kid needs you here right now?"

Jim's nodding. I can see I've struck a sore spot -- he doesn't want to leave Sandburg, but he feels he has to. "It's got to be now," he says. "Remember that invitation you got a couple months ago -- to that convention in Virginia?"

Yeah. I remember. And I remember how relieved he was when I said I wasn't sending anyone. I nod.

"Well, I looked it up," Jim says. "It's only an hour away from where I need to be. And with all the attention the Costas case is getting us, it would be logical that the Chief would decide to send someone after all -- maybe even the lead detective on the case."

Gotta hand it to Jim. When he comes up with a plan, he works out all the angles. "You gonna take Sandburg?" I ask.

"Can't. It's midterms. He's taking 'em and he's giving 'em all week."

And you don't want to expose him to anything else that may dredge up more crap from his childhood. Ellison, you're becoming downright soft-hearted in your old age.

"Guess you want me to babysit, eh?" I say and the words are out of my mouth before I am even aware of it. God! Guess Ellison's not the only one getting soft-hearted with age.

He's laughing now, a normal laugh, not that brittle, bitter one he used earlier. It makes me smile. "Yeah," he says, "just don't tell him that's what you're doing. Don't you need to have your place fumigated or something?"

Oh, yeah. Like I'd live with bugs. I snort but play along. "Yeah, well, I've been putting it off, but I guess now is as good a time as any." I don't know what else to say so I look at him and ask, "When are you leaving?"

He rubs his face and I can really see that Sandburg isn't the only one who hasn't been sleeping. "Tonight, if I can get the red-eye. The conference starts tomorrow."

"What're you gonna tell Sandburg?"

"Same thing I told you. National attention on the case, good publicity, yadda, yadda, yadda. Oh, and you're staying over because you've got bugs."

Wonderful. Bugs. I just love Ellison's plans. "Thanks," I say, as sarcastically as I can. "Need a ride to the airport?"

"Yeah. You and Sandburg can take me." Like not taking the kid would even be an option. "I'll be in touch once I'm out there." His jaw is twitching again. I hate to think of what his dental bills must be like. "I don't expect this to take long."

It occurs to me then, that this happened twenty or more years ago. "You sure you can find the guy? What if he's moved on?"

"He's in the fucking phone book," Jim mumbles. "Already checked."

Of course. Why did I even question it? "All right, all right." If I'm going to be on call for Sandburg and he's having as rough a time as Jim indicates, I sure as shit better clear my desk before I leave today. I start back on the never-ending pile of paperwork that seems to breed when left unattended and wave him toward the door. "Let me know what time we need to leave for the airport."

Jim's at the door, but he hasn't opened it yet, and I look up to see the fear in his eyes. They never tell you about the intensive hand-holding that is required as Captain of a Major Crimes squad. It's something that takes everyone by surprise. You study facts and figures and work out scenarios and bust your ass getting your conviction rate up so you can be the best when it's time for the exams, but then when you actually have the job, you find it's paperwork and psychological damage control for all the men and women who work for you. They never tell you that part. I sigh as I look at Jim -- "Stoneface" Ellison who's grown a heart since a certain long-haired grad student came around. "And don't worry about your partner. I'll take care of him."

Jim nods and I can see the relief in his face before he opens the door to leave. I go back to my paperwork.

"Uh, Simon?"

I look up and wait. Jim looks -- embarrassed.

"Something else you need to know," he says. Sandburg's been, uh, sleeping with me. Upstairs."

Well -- fuck! What can I say to that?

"Because of the nightmares." Jim's words come out in a rush, as he runs his hand through his hair making it stand on end. "I got tired of sitting up in his bed all night and I just moved him upstairs. It, uh, works."

Well -- fuck again! "I'll watch him, Ellison," I growl, "but I'm not sleeping with him." Actually, I'll do whatever it takes to make this easier on the kid, but Jim looks so damned uncomfortable, I can't resist the urge to yank his chain a bit.

"No, no," he says quickly. "I didn't mean that. Just wanted you to know. You're gonna have the downstairs, and be prepared -- you might not get much sleep."

Great. I'm out of my house and I get my choice of the too-short sofa or the too-short futon. These guys have no idea how much I care about them. "Wrap it up as fast as you can out there, okay?"

Jim nods, relaxing a little at my words.

"And don't get into trouble," I add. "You don't need it. I don't need it. Sandburg doesn't need it."

He nods again, but still doesn't move, so I verbally nudge him. "Now -- get outta here. Your partner's waiting."

He moves then, out of my office like a shot. When the door closes, I get up and slowly close the blinds, then stick my head out the door to tell Rhonda to hold all my calls for the next thirty minutes. I come back and sit at my desk and let my head fall to rest on my crossed arms.

A man can feel anger, a man can feel pain, but a man doesn't cry. I hear my father's words again as the tears well in my eyes.

Guess what, Dad?

You were wrong.

I take a deep breath and let the tears fall.