The Victims Game
Part Eleven - the Badge
By Scott J. Welles
scottjwelles@yahoo.com

DISCLAIMERS:  Hi. We've got some legal stuff to wade through before we can jump into things. Mostly the usual prerequisite jazz: ER and all related characters are the property of Warner Bros., ConstantC Productions, and Amblin Entertainment Television, a bunch of really swell, understanding guys who won't sue me if I mention that the aforementioned characters and institutions are being used without their permission, but only for entertainment purposes, and that no form of profit is being made on this work. For the benefit of the content-conscious amongst you, I'll assure you that there's nothing here that you couldn't see on the show, anyway. Except maybe some language, I'm not sure yet. Depends what kind of day I'm having as I write. Beyond that, I make no promises about what's in store. Could be silly, could be scary, could be sexy, could be sad. I'm not telling. Come on, live dangerously...

The phone rang. Then it rang again. Then it clicked and I heard the voice that always reminded me of Brian Blessed or John Rhys-Davies.

"Greetings and felicitations," it said, "You have reached the home of one Richard Wintergreen, esquire. If you have reached this number in error, please hang up and do not call back. If, on the other hand, you wish to leave a message, please feel free to do so immediately following the less-than-musical electronic tone. Good day."

The machine beeped.

"Richard, it's me. I'm in the Sheriff's office in Orson County, Illinois. Kerry Weaver's with me, and you wouldn't believe what we've been through." I outlined things as briefly as possible, and told him to get in touch with me as soon as he could. Knowing Richard, that could very well be next week.

I hung up the phone, and a deputy escorted me back to the interview room - read: holding cell - where I had given my statement. Kerry was in another room, so they could interview us - read: interrogate us - separately. That way, they could compare my statement to hers and see if there were any discrepancies between the two, indicating some degree of falsehood. I always expected to run into Dennis Franz in rooms like these. Of course, I'd rather run into Andrea Thompson, but neither had happened yet.

Kerry Weaver and I were kinda, sorta, maybe in custody, a phrase that may or may not have meant 'under arrest'. I don't think that the Sheriff had made up his mind yet whether to charge us with anything. I had been carrying a firearm that wasn't registered to me, and we both looked pretty suspicious when the cruiser picked us up, trudging along the side of the road like vagrants. With the black marks on her face, Kerry probably looked to them like some kind of cultist or something.

The deputy watching over me had been polite enough to offer me a soda. I accepted a can of Coca-Cola, making a point of giving him back the empty can. "For recycling," I said, in a tone that said we both knew he had given me the can in hopes of getting my fingerprints. I had deliberately left several good ones, to be helpful, careful not to smear. I figured, let 'em run the prints, I've got no criminal record.

Some time around late afternoon, the deputy brought me into the Sheriff's office. The Sheriff's desk nameplate read William L. Robinson. Poor guy. It was a good thing that I was too tired to crack wise, or I'd probably have flailed my arms around and intoned, "Danger, Will Robinson! Danger!" and he'd have locked me up on general principle.

Kerry Weaver was sitting in a chair in front of the desk. Her face had that pinkish look when you've scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed, with nothing but paper towels and that powdery hand soap that comes out of the bathroom dispensers. She looked better without my name written across her like graffiti on an overpass. The deputies would have already taken Polaroid pictures of the lettering, for evidence.

I took a seat next to her. "How's it goin'?" I said.

"I think they're having a little trouble believing our story," she replied, a little crossly. "Not that I can blame them for their skepticism."

The Sheriff arrived a while later, and sat behind his desk. Robinson was a six-foot black man in his fifties, with hard eyes, a boomerang mustache, and iron gray hair, cut military short. Ex-drill sergeant, I bet. One look at him and you wouldn't dare make any 'Lost in Space' jokes.

"Dr. Weaver, Mr. Fox," he said, in a curt greeting, "I wanted to update you both on our progress." The words were polite, but there was little warmth in the voice.

"We appreciate your help," Kerry told him, in an equally cool tone.

Robinson glanced at a manila file folder in his hand, but more like he was considering something he'd already read than looking for information. "There's been no reported sign of the vehicle you both claim to have escaped from," he said, looking back at us, "and no one at your hotel corroborates the story of your abduction."

"Are you saying you don't believe us?" Kerry asked, in a soft voice calculated to intimidate interns and med students.

"It's not a question of belief, Dr. Weaver," he said, unfazed, "I'm simply informing you of what we have to go on. Mr. Fox, we found no fingerprints on the Glock pistol other than yours. That doesn't mean much; handgun grips are notoriously lousy for retaining prints."

"What about the bullets?" I asked.

His eyebrow raised a fraction of an inch. Impressed. "We did find some partials on the ammunition," he admitted casually, "While we haven't been able to match them, it's clear that they aren't yours."

I gave him the Billy Crystal smile and let it go at that.

"Were you aware that the firing pin of the gun had been filed down?" Robinson asked, out of nowhere. Blindside the subject with a sudden revelation, and see if he reacts.

"No, but that explains why the damn thing wouldn't fire," I said. Pull the trigger all you want, it wouldn't strike the primer on the bullets, and you've got yourself a 9mm-caliber paperweight.

"Mr. Fox, why would this man, whom you both claimed to have been abducted by, be carrying a nonfunctional handgun?"

"Now how are we supposed to know that?" Kerry snapped. "That's a truly stupid question."

"Yeah, you'd have to ask the guy yourself," I added. I knew Robinson wasn't dumb; he was trying to poke holes in our stories, and see if they held up.

He turned that over in his head for a moment. Then, "Let's go back to last night," he said, with the patience of a career cop, "Dr. Weaver, you claim to have been assaulted by a pair of blond-haired male suspects...?"

"No," she said, "one of the men was Caucasian, with short blond hair. The other was African-American. Both were heavily built, wearing dark blazers."

Robinson nodded. "Could you describe the assault again for us?"

Kerry let out a tired breath. "Once again," she said, "I saw these two men lifting Mr. Fox's body off the ground..."

"This was in the hotel parking lot?"

"That's right."

"And what were you doing there?"

"Like I told you, I had come to speak to Mr. Fox..."

"About what?"

"I wanted to apologize to him for some harsh words at our previous meeting," she explained patiently.

"What was the cause of the harsh words?"

"Excuse me, but I don't believe that's any of your concern," she archly informed him, "It was a personal matter. Do you want me to tell this, or don't you?"

Robinson nodded, in a 'go ahead' way.

"I inquired at the front desk of the hotel," she continued, steadily, "and Mr. Fox wasn't in his room. I waited for him a while, and then decided to go home and try him the next day. When I reached the parking lot, I witnessed the two men lifting an unconscious body whom I recognized as Mr. Fox." Kerry recited the events in a level, dispassionate tone, as if she were presenting a medical case study.

"And what did you do then?"

"The two men noticed me," she went on, "and I turned to run, yelling 'fire' in the hopes of drawing attention..."

"You yelled 'fire'? Not 'help'?"

"Sheriff Robinson, I would think that you, of all people, would know the statistics. People are more likely to come running toward cries of 'fire' than 'help'. I thought everyone knew that by now. And if you're trying to distract me with these continual interruptions in hopes that I'll make a mistake in my story, I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't bother. Whether you believe it or not, we're telling you the truth."

"Stranger than fiction, y'know," I put in.

They both glared at me in a silent 'shut up' look. I complied.

"I tried to run, as I said, but the blond man caught up with me and held me in a bear hug from behind. He spun me around, and the African-American man pressed something against me that gave me an electrical charge, and that was the last thing I remembered."

"Probably a stun gun," I said, "Same one they used on me."

"And after that, you woke up in the trunk of the car?" Robinson asked her.

She nodded, tight-lipped. Not enjoying the memory.

He turned his gaze to me. "And these are the same men who assaulted you, Mr. Fox?"

"Yeah. They just about blindsided me."

"And you had never seen these men before?" A little extra disbelief in his voice.

I put on the best poker face I had and lied to him. "No."

Robinson held the look, designed to reduce guilty suspects to tearful confessions. It took most of my nerve to hold up under it. Then he looked down and scribbled a few notes.

Lying to the authorities is not something I do often, or lightly. I hadn't said anything to Robinson or his deputies about Walter Montgomery, or 'Joan', or anything else relating to the whole clinic affair. I had just said I was in town, visiting Kerry and friends, and that I was unaccountably attacked in the parking lot.

If there really was a covert government agency behind it all, then I had no choice but to back off. I couldn't possibly go up against anyone like that. Those agencies tended to be infinitely patient, infinitely resourceful, and infinitely ruthless. On that scale, I was zero for three. I wouldn't stand a chance.

If they didn't want to be found, I couldn't find them. If they wanted me dead, I was worm food. No contest. They wouldn't even have to deal with me directly. They could have hacked into the national criminal investigation databases, and my fingerprints would have shown the Sheriff's Department's computers a falsified criminal record filled with crack dealing, kiddie porn, and assorted other straight-to-prison offenses.

What really convinced me to back off, though, was the memory of my name scrawled on Kerry Weaver's forehead. I had only been able to think of two possible reasons for it. First, it was a warning, directed at me. 'Mess with us, and someone you care about gets hurt', or something like that. Second, her body was meant to be found somewhere, and suspicion for the murder pointed at me. Either way, I couldn't ignore it. And I knew I wouldn't risk anything else happening to Kerry on my account.

So, that's it. Kerry Weaver loses her job. Maybe Mark Greene and the others do, too. Maybe Carol Hathaway goes to prison for embezzlement. While 'Joan' and her crew get away with it. They win, we lose. It goes that way, sometimes. As Randi Fronczak put it: Sucks, huh?

"Look, Sheriff Robinson," Kerry said, showing the first signs of impatience, "have you talked to anyone at the hospital? They can vouch for us, if you're still thinking we're a pair of highway robbers or something."

"Yes, I did," he allowed, "I spoke to a Dr. Romano, who informed us that you were fired from your position at County General yesterday."

He would, wouldn't he? I knew Romano didn't think much of me, but you'd think he'd at least stick up for a former colleague, instead of leaving her twisting in the wind.

"I also spoke to a Sgt. Jacobs, LAPD," Robinson added, looking at me. "He told us you were a straight guy."

"Tell him my sexual orientation's got nothing to do with it," I quipped, trying to lighten the mood. As before, nobody so much as cracked a smile. Robinson clearly wasn't swayed by Stan Jacobs' opinion of me. Stan's not much of a gusher. "Look, you want the word of somebody local? Try Steve Wasserstein. He used to be a Robbery-Homicide lieutenant in Chicago. He's private, now, but he'll probably tell you I'm okay." I hoped.

Robinson's 'tough-cop' look cracked, just for a second, at the mention of Wasserstein's name. "You know Wasserstein?"

"Yeah, a little." Wasserstein and I had never been on very good terms with each other, but I didn't think he'd really believe I was a bad guy. "Why don't you give him a call and see what he has to say?"

Robinson glanced behind me, at a deputy who'd been standing in the doorway. The deputy cleared his throat, uncomfortably. Robinson looked back at me, measuring, then he said, "I don't think he'll have much to say."

"Why not?"

"Because he was murdered sometime last night."

My poker face disintegrated. "What...?!"

"A neighbor heard a gunshot, and then later found him in his apartment. Looks like a .38 round to the head, at close range. He had a .45 in a drawer near the door, but his hands were empty." Meaning, he let in someone he knew, and died for it.

Oh, God, they killed him, I thought. It could have been a coincidence, except that there is no such thing. "Oh, damn..."

"Daniel?" Kerry put a hand on my arm. "Was he a friend of yours?"

"No, not really, I just..." I knew it was my fault, since I brought him into this. That's why they came after me at the hotel...he called Buzz Cut and Broken Nose to ask their side of it, he got suspicious, and they killed him. Why, why, why, why...?

Something in my reaction must have rung true, because Robinson seemed to make up his mind. "Chicago Police are looking into the matter," he said, "Believe me, when a cop, even an ex-cop, is killed, there's nothing they look into harder."

I asked, "You said it was a .38? The cause of death?" My own gun was a Smith & Wesson .38, and it had been missing since I was zapped in the parking lot.

"That's right," he confirmed. "No sign of the murder weapon yet."

There will be, I thought. Bet you a dollar that my gun will turn up someplace where the cops can find it, with my prints all over it. The bullets will match, and the serial number on the gun will be registered to me. Then the cops will discover that Wasserstein and I had argued in public on occasion. They'll put two and two together, and guess who they'll look at for the murder? 'Joan' and friends had set this one up nicely.

I had already reported my gun as missing to the deputies, a fact that I didn't bring up now. You could see in Robinson's eye that he was already thinking about it, though. Either he'd hold me on suspicion, or he wouldn't. No point in my arguing about it, either way.

I spent the rest of the conversation in a guilt-induced haze. Kerry insisted, politely but firmly, that Robinson either tell us what charges we were being held on, or let us go. Robinson did the latter, though it was clear that he wasn't intimidated by Kerry Weaver. Nor she, him, for that matter.

Kerry called John Carter, and he said he'd drive out in the morning and pick us up. It was after sundown, now, and it was a couple of hours' drive from Chicago. Robinson recommended a nearby motel, and offered to have one of the deputies drive us there.

We sat, quietly, during the ride, wrapped up in our private thoughts and personal depressions, until we reached the motel. It looked kind of run-down and seedy, and I suspected it did most of its business on an hourly basis. It matched our mood.

When the car stopped, the deputy turned and looked at me. "You're Fox, from Los Angeles, right?" he said.

I nodded.

"You did good with the Bledsoes, you know. Papers said it was CPD, but every cop in the state knows it was you who did that one. Anyone drops the hammer on scum like Lonnie Bledsoe is okay by us."

"Actually, that was..." I began, but I saw Kerry give a tight little shake of her head. "...my pleasure," I finished.

We got out of the car and went into the motel's office. While we waited for the fat manager to appear, I said to Kerry, "What's the matter, don't you believe in credit where credit is due?"

"I don't want some macho deputy congratulating me for killing a man," she muttered, inviting no reply.

"Okay," I said.

Kerry's purse was locked in her car, still parked back at my hotel in Chicago, but I used my credit card to get us two adjoining rooms, the cheapest they had. Which was saying something.

We took our keys and shuffled to our rooms, still not talking. Between the kidnapping, the morning's hiking, and a day of police custody, our physical, mental, and emotional reserves were nearly exhausted. We both felt like we'd been ridden hard and put away wet.

I caught a glimpse of the deputy's car, still in the drive, watching us until we rounded a corner. So Robinson didn't trust us. Big surprise.

I said goodnight, and went into my room. My door was almost closed, but I realized I didn't hear Kerry opening her door.

I opened mine again, and looked out. She was still leaning against the door to her room, seemingly without the energy or will to go inside. Or do much of anything. The world had caught up with her.

Kerry realized I was watching her, and raised lifeless eyes to mine. In a voice barely above a whisper, she said, "Danny...?"

It was, I realized, the first time Kerry Weaver had ever called me that. It was the gesture of one who needed help, but had no words in her vocabulary to ask.

I went to her and held her, feeling her put her arms about me. It was intended just as a supportive hug, but when we came into contact, that little something sparked between us again, and this time it didn't go away, and the tone of the embrace changed.

My face went down, and hers came up to meet me in the middle, and from then on, all thought of restraint or propriety went out the window as our passions took over. We made it into my room without breaking the kiss, and proceeded from there.

Her room went unused that night.



"I don't know how to thank you guys!"
--- Fozzie Bear, 'The Muppet Movie'
"I don't know WHY to thank you guys..."
--- Kermit the Frog, Ibid