Fragments part two

When he had reached the doctors' lounge after leaving the OR, he had found Amanda and Steve huddled on one of the couches. Steve looked drained of life. There was no animation in his face, no hint of energy in his long, lean body. It was as though someone had switched him off. Mark had blanched at the sight, realising that since his son's arrival here, he had not had any opportunity to talk to him about Ellen's brutal murder. There had been no time to comfort him. Jesse had required his complete attention.
Now he had to face that abandonment. He regretted having had to leave Steve to cope with his loss, but he did not regret the reason. The young doctor was almost as important to him as his son was.
Amanda had glanced up as he entered, her expression questioning. He had nodded reassuringly and taken a seat on the chair next to them.
"He came through surgery," he said, quietly.
"Oh, thank god!" The young pathologist closed her eyes as relief swamped her. The tension which had been radiating from her was released and she tightened her hold on Steve's hand.
"He's not out of danger," Mark cautioned. He heard his own words and flinched slightly. "There are any number of things that could go wrong. You know that, honey …"
She nodded. "I know. But Jesse's a fighter. He'll be fine. He has all of us."
Mark wasn't so sure about that. His announcement that Jesse had made it through surgery had prompted a flare of emotion in Steve's eyes which Mark didn't like. It had almost looked like … resentment.
"Steve?"
The detective was slow to raise his eyes to his father. When he did Mark winced at the desolation he saw in the blue orbs. "I heard," he said, in a low voice. "He's gonna be fine." He seemed to rally a little. "Can I see him?"
Mark smiled thinly. That was more like it. "He's sedated," he said. "He's not going to be awake for some time."
"Well, I need to question him."
The relief at Steve's announcement that he wanted to see Jesse was swept away by the realisation that all he wanted to do was ask him about the shooting. Steve didn't seem to care about the young doctor himself. He was acting as though Jesse was just another nameless victim - not his best friend.
"Steve … I don't think that's a good idea," he temporised. "I don't want him upset right now. The bullet penetrated his heart and I'm concerned that he might develop arrythmia. If he does …"
"He was the only witness," Steve growled. "I need to ask him …"
"But you're not on the case, Steve," pointed out Amanda, gently. "You should leave that to the detectives who are."
"Keep out of this, Amanda!"
She stared at him in shock. "Steve …"
"Son, you're exhausted. Why don't we …"
"Stop coddling me!" he barked. "I'm fine. I'm … just fine."
He didn't sound fine. He sounded terrible. Mark reached out to put a comforting hand on his son's arm - only to have that arm snatched away as though the detective had been burnt. "Steve …"
The younger man shot to his feet. For a moment he didn't seem to know what to do with himself, then he paced to the other side of the room, figuratively and literally putting some distance between himself and his would be comforters. "I … I don't want to hear it, dad." His voice was shaking with unspent emotion and all Mark wanted to do was take him in his arms and hold him until the hurt went away. "I … I need to do something. Doesn't anyone understand that?"
"Son, you've just lose your fiancée," Mark pointed out, gently. He wished he hadn't said that as Steve turned to him with a devastated expression.
"I know that, dad." It emerged as a half-sob. It was evident to both Mark and Amanda that he was desperately trying to retain control of his emotions - and failing miserably. "God, don't you think I know that?" He ran a shaking hand through his hair. "I … I don't know what to do … how to feel … I need … I need … god …"
The next moment he was in his father's arms, his hands grabbing onto the other man's scrubs, fingers digging painfully into Mark's back as he sobbed helplessly. His face was hidden in the older man's shoulder and his whole body shook with the force of his grief.
Amanda felt tears spill down her own cheeks as she watched her friend disintegrate in his father's loving embrace and silently left the room. Steve didn't need a witness to his suffering. She might be his friend but there were some things that were too private even for such a loving friend as herself.
Mark didn't even notice her departure. His entire focus was on his son. He ached for Steve. His heart hurt for his son even as the younger man's own heart irrevocably splintered. All he could do was hold him, whispering words of nonsensical comfort which did nothing to dent the pain. He tightened his grip on the younger man, ignoring the tears which streamed down his own cheeks. Steve's hands clenched and unclenched in his scrubs as wave after wave of agony spilled forth and all Mark could do was hold on.

Three hours later he spread a blanket over Steve's somnolent form. The detective had cried himself out, finally and Mark had easily persuaded him to lie down on the couch. Completely spent, physically and emotionally, the younger man had acquiesed almost immediately.
Mark felt drained.
Sinking down onto the other couch, he put his head in his hands for a moment, contemplating the cruel tricks that life could play.
Ellen had been a radiant light in his son's life and that light had been brutally extinguished.
He didn't know how Steve was going to carry on without her luminous presence beside him.

Half an hour later he sat in a different room, watching over another young man. Jesse was oblivious to his presence, lost in his own nightmare world where he was devoid of comfort.
Jesse looked awful. It was the only word Mark could think of. His diminutive frame was dwarfed by the medical paraphernalia which was helping to keep him alive. The mobile features were contorted by the pain which reached him even in his unconscious state and his complexion was a ghastly white. Long eyelashes fluttered sporadically on the high cheekbones and the occasional whimper escaped from his abused throat.
The sedation should have been sufficient to render him completely immobile and the fact that it didn't attested to the agony of his wounds and the mental torture he was undergoing.
Mark couldn't stop thinking of the way Steve had reacted to the news of Jesse's survival. He knew he hadn't imagined the look in his son's eyes and a shiver ran down his spine now at the memory of it. A terrible sense of foreboding filled him as he stared at his friend and as much as he tried to dismiss it as being ridiculous, it persisted. Jesse was going to have enough to contend with when he finally awoke, without Steve's anger at Ellen's death.
He wiped a shaking hand over eyes gritty from too little sleep and too much spent emotion. How could things have gone so wrong so completely? Only a few hours ago, his small family had been basking in the warmth of the love between Steve and Ellen. Amanda had been organising the girls' night out and Jesse had been hard at work planning a batchelor party to end all batchelor parties for his best friend.
Now Ellen was dead - her mutilated corpse lying in Amanda's path lab; Steve was distraught and angry at everyone, including himself and Jesse was hovering between life and death and, if Mark knew him as well as he thought he did, upon awakening, his guilt would be all-encompassing. It would not occur to him how badly he had been injured. All he would see would be the failure to save his best friend's wife-to-be.
It was all going to get a lot worse before it got better.

Mark didn't know how prophetic that thought was until after the funeral.
It was a difficult and incredibly painful affair for all concerned. Ellen's parents and brother were inconsolable. They supported each other during the procession to the grave. Mark had introduced himself solemnly. This was not the manner in which the two families had been intended to meet for the first time. It should have been an occasion of joy, not this tragic, tearful affair.
Amanda had attended and together they had formed a wall of support of their own for Steve. But the detective had shunned their attentions. He showed no emotion. His face was shuttered, his eyes frightening empty of any feeling. Mark, recognising it as a coping mechanism, worried that his son would break under the weight of all the guilt and rage which he was suppressing. But he could not find a way through the shield behind which Steve had taken refuge. All he could do was stand close beside him and watch carefully for any signs of a breakdown.

The explosion was not long in coming. Unfortunately, the recipient was both totally undeserving and too steeped in his own guilt to retaliate.

Jesse had been making slow progress. His condition had been downgraded from 'critical' to 'comfortable', although the latter description was a misnomer. 'Comfortable' was the last thing he felt.
Everything hurt. From the healing wound in his chest to the cracked ribs to the repaired lung and the bruises and contusions he had sustained in the beating. Tubes were still attached to every part of his body, carrying fluids in, draining more out. He had regained consciousness a few days before, awaking to a world which was full of pain and discomfort. His heart had developed a disconcerting habit of falling into arrythmia every now and again and he had to be kept calm. This entailed restricting his visitors and making sure he rested as he healed.
The lack of people around him was not as bothersome as it should have been. He really didn't feel like seeing anyone and the one person he did want to see was conspicuous by his absence.
Until the day of the funeral.

The young doctor was dozing. He had spent a restless night. He had spiked a fever. One of the catheter sites had become infected and he had been placed on broad spectrum antibiotics. He felt hot, uncomfortable and queasy and every time he shifted in bed he experienced a new adventure in pain.
He was concentrating on fighting this pain when the door quietly opened and someone stepped inside.

"Jesse."
Blinking rapidly, Jesse focused his bleary eyes on his visitor and managed a wan smile of greeting. "Steve!"
He was so glad to see his friend. But Steve looked terrible. He was gaunt and pale and there were deep, dark shadows residing under his eyes. The young doctor swallowed hard, feeling suddenly responsible for his friend's condition.
"I thought you'd like to know we buried Ellen this morning."
The voice was cold and unfriendly and Jesse shivered at the intensity in it. "I … I'm sorry, Steve," he managed, in a hoarse voice. "Ellen …"
Hearing Jesse say her name suddenly triggered something dark and ugly in the detective's soul. "Don't!" he erupted. "Don't you dare say her name! You have no right - no right at all!"
"I …" Jesse was virtually rendered speechless at the sudden attack but he tried to interject - to no avail.
"You killed her," snarled the detective, his anger so great that it left him little energy to yell and was making him tremble uncontrollably. "You killed her as surely as if you fired the gun that took her life. You were right there, Jesse and you didn't do a damned thing to save her! She was raped and murdered and it's all your fault!"
"No .." came the tortured gasp. "No, please …"
"I'll never forgive you for this," Steve went on, ignoring his friend's plea, oblivious to the face blanched free of all colour and his increasing physical distress. "You're alive and she's dead. It should have been you! I wish it had been you!"
"Steve … I … oh god .. "
He couldn't breathe. Every gasp of air he inhaled into his tortured lungs hurt. His heart was racing out of control and he felt dizzy and nauseous. It was true. It was all true. He had lain there, helpless, whilst Ellen had been … had been … He deserved this. He deserved Steve's hatred. He hated himself.
Faced with the overwhelming evidence of his own culpability in Ellen's death, Jesse let out a sob of anguish and paid for it with a bout of coughing which left him struggling to breathe at all. The heart monitor was going crazy, its strident alarm alerting the medical staff to his deteriorating condition.
A nurse rushed in, followed by Mark, who took one look at his patient and ordered his son outside in a tone which brooked no argument. Steve merely shrugged. He couldn't summon up any compassion for the small, pitiful form in the bed. Without a backward glance, he spun on his heel and strode out of the room.

"What the hell did you think you were doing?" Mark's fury at his son's actions had for the moment superseded his concern over Steve's own welfare. He had finally located the detective in the doctors' lounge. He was sitting at the table, sipping a cup of coffee, apparently completely unconcerned about his behaviour and its consequences.
"What?" Steve replied, icily. "Poor Dr Travis couldn't take the heat?"
The older man was stunned into momentary silence at his son's heartlessness. He stared at Steve incredulously, insanely wondering for a moment if an alien had come along to replace the kind-hearted, loving man he so admired and on whom he doted. "Steve … " He shook his head, searching for the words which would force Steve to understand the ramifications of his actions. "I .. I can't believe you did that. When you left him, not only was Jesse's heart and pulse rate so elevated that they nearly shot through the roof, but his breathing was so depressed that I've had to put an oxygen mask on him. He's collapsed. I've had to sedate him and his recovery has been put back by weeks. Not days - weeks. You nearly killed him. Is that what you wanted?"
"Yes."
If Mark had been speechless before, now he couldn't even summon up the wherewithawl to form thought. He simply stared at Steve as though he were looking at a stranger.
And indeed, he was.
A stranger who not only hated his best friend but wanted him gone from their lives for good and had just done his best to facilitate that.
"I .. I'll be with Jesse," he managed, eventually, in a strangled voice. "Probably for the foreseeable future. He's going to know that someone cares about him."
"How nice for him," said Steve, stonily.
With another disbelieving shake of his head, Mark left the other man.
He didn't see Steve run a shaking hand over his face.
He hadn't seen the utter torment concealed within the glacial blue eyes.

"You nearly killed him. Is that what you wanted?"
"Yes."
"Is that what you wanted?"
"Yes."
The words reverberated around his head until he felt like screaming.
No! It wasn't what he wanted!
Why had he said that?
What had possessed him?
Of course he didn't want to kill Jesse.
He might wish that Jesse had died with Ellen - but that didn't mean that he wanted to finish the job that those bastards who had attacked them had started.
And yet … 'didn't you know that would happen when you yelled at him?' his conscience demanded.
"Yes," he conceded. "I did."
He couldn't believe what he had done.
He could still hear Jesse's painful attempts to breathe, could still see him gasping for air, clutching his chest with his right hand, his face a picture of despair.
'You did that,' came the painful reminder.
He steeled himself. "I don't care."
He could have sworn he heard a snort of laughter.

"He should have died with Ellen. Why didn't he die with Ellen? How did she die and he live?"
His mind conjured up the unwelcome image of Jesse's grievous injuries at the scene. How he had managed to survive was nothing less than a miracle. Bullet to the heart, punctured lung, cracked ribs, severed kidney, ruptured spleen, shattered left arm and a concussion which had left him with a bruise the size of half an egg on his fragile temple. It was a catalogue of utter brutality and it sickened Steve.
Yet he had lived and Ellen had died.
It wasn't fair!
None of this was fair!
Jesse should have done something.
He ignored the raucous laughter.
He was there. He was right there. Why didn't he do something?
It was his fault. Because he had not saved Ellen. He could have saved her if he'd really tried.
The laughter grew louder.

Jesse had let Ellen die.
He had let her die.
Because Steve wasn't there.
He hadn't been there. No, he'd been called away.
And he had left Ellen and Jesse defenceless.
He could have protected them if he'd been there.
Then Ellen would still be alive and Jesse wouldn't … wouldn't …
He could still remember how Jesse had looked last time he had seen him - only thirty minutes ago.
He had left his fiancée in the capable hands of his best friend.
And his best friend had failed her.
He had failed them both
And Steve had failed everyone.

His mind was running in circles. He could feel a headache coming on. He rubbed his temples with his forefingers, trying to alleviate the pain. But nothing would alleviate the pain in his heart.
He had lost his fiancée and his best friend. They were both dead to him.
One in the morgue.
The other … the other …
'Jesse was shot, you moron. In the chest. What did you expect him to do, shrug it off and tackle the bastards who attacked them? They'd already beaten him to a pulp. By rights he shouldn't even have been alive … '
He couldn't think about this any more. It was driving him nuts.
He didn't want to think about this any more.
He wanted to crawl into the nearest hole and stay there until everyone and everything disappeared.
He wanted to die.
He deserved to die.
His mother had loved him. She was dead.
Carol had loved him. She was dead.
Ellen had loved him. Hey, guess what? She was dead.
And Jesse … god … if he hadn't been Steve's friend then he wouldn't have been there and he wouldn't be …
It was their fault for loving him. They shouldn't have loved him and then they wouldn't be dead. Or dying.
God, he had to stop thinking about this ….

With a conscious effort, he forced all these recalcitrant thoughts back where they belonged - behind the wall he had built to shut people out. It was safer that way. Safer for them. Safer for him. Then they wouldn't die and he wouldn't have this immense void where his heart used to be …

Mark had returned to Jesse's bedside. The young man was heavily sedated. After Steve's bitter tirade, his condition had worsened to the extent that for several anxious moments, Mark had been convinced that they would have to re-intubate him.
He had been gasping for every breath by the time the older doctor had got to him, his cheeks red from exertion - that unhealthy flush the only colour in his ashen face. Tears had been seeping from tightly closed eyes and Mark wasn't sure even now if they had been from the strain of trying to breathe or the utter desolation of knowing his best friend wanted him dead.
The machines monitoring his pulse and heart rate had been hovering at levels that Mark had rarely seen and it had required several pairs of hands to restrain him as he writhed helplessly on the bed.
Now he lay motionless. The heart monitor beeped a reassuringly regular rhythm and the mask over his nose and mouth fed him much needed oxygen and air. His physical body was held in stasis whilst his psychological state …
Mark didn't even want to consider the landscape of his friend's agile mind. Jesse had barely had the time to start recovering physically from the sadistic assault. His emotional state had been precarious prior to Steve's cruel diatribe. The seeds of self-doubt and self-recrimination had been sown at the crime scene, as Mark had known they would be and Jesse had already shown signs of withdrawing from everyone. Then Steve had turned up, told him he blamed him for Ellen's death - virtually confirming everything Jesse already believed - and wishing that he was dead.
Mark rubbed a weary hand across his eyes. Steve was unreachable at the moment. He had closed himself off from everyone and everything. His anger was palpable - like a living thing. He exuded it in every action, every word and it frightened his father.
Jesse, on the other hand, had been retreating in a different way. As soon as he had been able to speak he had expressed his deep remorse about not being able to save Ellen. Mark had tried his best to reassure him that there had been nothing he could do. He had sustained dreadful injuries himself and no-one expected him to be Superman. But the young doctor could not be placated. His remorse had quickly turned to self-condemnation. As far as he could see he had failed not only Ellen but Steve too. Steve's continued absence from his bedside had only served to fan the flames of guilt and even taking his wounds into account he had become one very subdued young man.
Then Steve had told him outright that he was to blame - for everything. Mark still couldn't comprehend how his son could behave that way toward his best friend. But that could very well have been the catalyst to push him over the edge and Mark didn't know if he was qualified to deal with it. He was not going to desert Jesse - he needed his friends right now - but he was not exactly an impartial observer. Jesse was going to need help to deal with all of this
The problem was that even if he got that help, Mark wasn't convinced that they could bring him back from the abyss toward which he was sure Jesse was headed.

In the days following Steve's visit, it became difficult to gauge Jesse's emotional response to it. The only clues to how he really felt came in the form of nightmares, which woke him up screaming over three consecutive nights.
His fever did not abate. Despite the administration of antibiotics, it actually worsened. Mark wasn't convinced that this was entirely attributable to his weakened physical state. It was almost as though his young friend had given up.
His condition continued to deteriorate. Mark and the medical team battled constantly to bring him back from the brink of death. Sometimes he seemed to rally, on other occasions, he slipped deeper into the chasm.
He was dangerously ill. His heart stopped twice. Each time they brought him back but it was taking longer and longer and Mark didn't know how much more his body could withstand. The older doctor kept a constant vigil at his bedside, refusing all entreaties from the nursing staff and Amanda to go home.

The beach house lay practically deserted during these dark days. Steve spent most of his time at the precinct. He had thrown himself into his work with an intensity which bordered on obsessive.
He wasn't on Ellen's murder case, but that didn't prevent him from making discreet enquiries of his own. He rattled every cage in LA, probing, questioning, sometimes even threatening. All of his informants were ordered to keep their noses to the ground and report only to him if they found anything. By this time he had intimidated so many people that they had dared do nothing else but comply.
Word got back to Captain Newman. The lieutenant's efforts to uncover the identities of the murderers were becoming more blatant by the day and it was only a matter of time before those in higher authority heard about it.
Scrutinising his detective from the sanctuary of his office, Newman made the very difficult decision to leave things alone for the time being. Steve Sloan was a good cop with a strong moral sense and excellent judgement. Although both sense and judgement were severely skewed right now.
He did have some serious concerns about his lieutenant's state of mind. Steve had developed a rather worrying habit of carelessness about his own safety during the recent arrest of a psychotic killer. The man had managed to draw on Sloan and only the quick thinking and equally quick draw of his partner had saved him from being killed.
Newman didn't want to admit it, but he was very much afraid that Steve Sloan was becoming suicidal.
So far, however, his record had been exemplary - that one incident aside - and in his spare time, he followed leads for his fiancee's killers. Newman didn't like it, but deemed it better to leave him to deal with things his way for the time being - even if it caused him a few headaches personnel wise.
It would be pointless forbidding him in any case. He would simply continue to do what he was doing, and the last thing Newman needed was for Steve Sloan to become a rogue cop.

Everyone in the precinct understood his motivations and his fervour to catch the killers. They didn't necessarily approve of the way he was being allowed to run free, but they could certainly sympathise with him. And if Captain Newman had fielded a couple of complaints about Steve Sloan interfering in the investigation proper, then he wasn't saying anything - yet.

He was running himself ragged, however. He snatched hurried meals here and there, mostly subsisting on caffeine and nervous energy. Since the murder, he had become completely unapproachable and only the very brave dared attempt it.
Tanis and Cheryl were the only two people fearless enough to stick around and even when they were individually rebuffed they didn't desert him. Their warnings to take it easy, get some sleep, however, were ignored. He couldn't rest until the murderers were caught and brought to justice.
It was the last thing he could do for Ellen and quite possibly - as the detectives actually working on the case let slip one day - for Jesse as well.

"Mark, why don't you go and get some rest?"
The doctor glanced up at Amanda as she entered the ICU where Jesse was once again ensconced. He smiled wearily. "I'm all right, honey."
She frowned as she studied him. His face, grey with fatigue and haggard with the strain of the last two weeks; his blue eyes clouded by exhaustion and fear. "No, you're not," she disagreed. "Mark, it's been three days. You can't keep on like this!"
"I need to be here, Amanda. He needs to know that there are people who still care for him."
She could have cried at the desolation in his voice. "Mark … " She swallowed hard. "Steve does care."
She didn't sound very convinced of the validity of her own words and he shot her a bleak look. "Does he?" he demanded, softly. "I thought I knew my son, Amanda. I know how much he loved Ellen. I knew he would blame the world for her death. But first he ignores Jesse when he's fighting so hard to live, then … then … "
"I know. I know," she interrupted, her heart breaking at his inability to voice what Steve had done to his best friend. She had barely been able to believe it herself. Bursting into Jesse's room when he was barely one day out of ICU, not even asking how he was, nor seeming to care and then telling him in no uncertain terms that he wished Jesse had died. She had been stupefied by his actions, although she had balked at seeking the detective out to demand what the hell he thought he was doing. He had changed since Ellen's murder. He had become cold and unreachable and … hateful. The Steve Sloan who had been her friend for so many years had been taken over by a total stranger - and he was no longer someone she wished to know.
But Mark had borne the brunt of it. He had been first on the scene to find Jesse once again fighting for his life. He had been the one to face down his son after he had brought their young friend back from the brink And he had been the one who had turned his back on his son in favour of the young man who needed him so desperately right now. All of this must be killing him.
"Mark, I can stay with him." She tried again. He had to get some rest. He would do Jesse no good if he collapsed. "Please go and get some sleep in the on-call room at least."
"Amanda …"
"Please," she persisted. "Mark, Jesse is my friend, too. Let me stay with him. Don't you think it's my turn?"
Put like that, he could hardly refuse. It wasn't like he had the monopoly on the young doctor - but he felt responsible for what had happened. Jesse had been beaten and shot in his home. His son had caused the relapse. And Jesse was, after all, his patient, as well as being practically a second son. Reluctantly, he acquiesced to Amanda's demand. "All right. Thank you, honey. I am tired. I'll be in the on-call room if you should need me." As he rose, he laid a gentle hand on Jesse's arm. The skin was hot and dry and he knew that if this fever didn't burn out soon then nothing they could do would save him. "Take care of him for me."
"Always," she vowed, fervently as she took his seat. She watched as Mark left then turned back to the still, small figure in the bed. "Now, Jesse Travis, I want you to listen to me." Taking a slender hand and holding it in both of hers she went on, "Jesse, you need to know that you were not to blame for Ellen's death. You did everything you could. We all know that. And Steve - well, he's just angry at everyone right now - you were just a … convenient target. He didn't mean what he said. How could he? He thinks the world of you. We all do. Remember when you were lost for 5 days when Paris Pharmaceuticals kidnapped you? Steve never stopped looking. He enlisted about 150 men just to search for you - the Ranger was livid when he found out he was only looking for 'one hiker who got lost'. He loves you, Jesse. We all love you. And I need you to know that. You need to fight this and come back to us. We miss you, honey. We miss you so much …"

Whilst Amanda was desperately trying to get through to Jesse, Steve was chasing down yet another lead in the murder case.
His involvement in the case, a direct disregard of Newman's orders, had caused some conflict with the two officers who were actually in charge of it. He constantly harangued them for any word, chased up their informants and did everything but breathe down their neck. More than once, one or the other of them had been on the verge of telling him exactly where to go. Only their sympathy for what he had endured - the loss of his fiancée, the potential loss of his best friend - interceded on his behalf.
But they were growing less and less tolerant and it was about to lead to a showdown.

"I want Steve Sloan off this case."
Captain Newman looked up as Detective Malone stormed into his office, slamming the door behind him. He arched an eyebrow. "Is there something I can do for you, detective?" he asked, caustically.
Malone glared at him for one more full second before he seemed to realise where he was and who he was yelling at. Newman's significant glance toward the door - where the blind was still swinging to and fro - aided in this sudden awareness. "Uh …" he managed. "I … uh …"
Newman smiled humourlessly. "Right," he said. "You were saying? Steve Sloan?" he prompted when Malone remained silent, his eyes fixated on the door, a sickly look on his face.
"Uh?" he asked, returning his attention to the Captain. "Oh - right. Sloan. Look, sir, I understand how much he wants these guys - really, I do. And I sympathise. But … how long are you gonna let him run?"
Another arched eyebrow. "'Let' him run?"
"He's compromising the investigation, Captain. He's following up our leads, he's talking to our snitches. He's making it impossible for us to do our job. Every time we turn around - there he is. Sir, I know you've given him some leeway because of what happened but … Stan and I think it's time you reigned him in."
Newman was giving nothing away. "You think so, do you?" he demanded, impassively.
"Yes, sir. I do."
The Captain leaned back in his chair, chewing on the end of his pen, looking contemplative. A few uncomfortable moments went by. Malone was beginning to think he had overstepped the mark and wondered what his punishment was going to be. Then the other man nodded. "You're right," he said, thoughtfully. "Lieutenant Sloan is interfering with the investigation. I had my reasons for 'letting him run', as you so quaintly put it … but you need to get on with this investigation without interference and he needs to get on with his own cases."
Malone sighed with relief. "Thank you, sir."
"Oh, don't thank me, detective," said Newman, dryly. "I may order Steve Sloan off this case officially but unofficially? He's still going to be watching every move you make. He's still going to be a thorn in your side. You better learn how to deal with it and still do your job. Because after today, officially, I can't do a damned thing to help you."

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