SUMMARY: A pair of police detectives pay a visit to Dr. Wilson.
CHARACTERS: Wilson, Cuddy, OMCs
RATING: R for language and themes.
WARNINGS: Details the aftermath of events in Bad Company, a rough, violent story. Aftermath isn't always pretty; may distress some readers. Adult themes and adult language.
DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Never will.
NOTES: The pieces of this shattered story are numbered. The first number signifies the number of days that have elapsed since the original event in Bad Company; the second number signifies when the fic occurs during that day.
The two cops sit in the Dean of Medicine's office, listening to her talk about her critically injured Head of Oncology.
Bennie can see Trevor out of the corner of his eye; his partner's got his notebook open and is pretending to write stuff down, but in reality he's doodling. Tiny ballpoint sketches of animals populate half the page; Bennie squints at a particularly good rendering of a horse. Unless it's a cow, of course; it's hard to tell.
"And I'm afraid I can only allow you a few minutes with Dr. Wilson."
Bennie forces his attention back to the Dean of Medicine—Lisa Cuddy's her name, and she's a real looker. Dark-haired, high cheekbones, a strong nose ... she looks a lot like the woman who married his Uncle Pete, and he wonders briefly if she's Sephardic like Natalia.
"That'll be fine, Dr. Cuddy," Bennie says politely. "We're just looking for a preliminary statement."
Bennie is surprised for a moment that this Wilson doc's not on a vent. He's seen plenty of beating victims in his line of work, but this guy looks like absolute shit. Worse than something the cat dragged in—more like something the cat ate, hacked up, and then ate again. Maybe not even a cat. Something bigger, meaner. A saber-toothed tiger. A velociraptor, like in that Michael Crichton movie. Trevor hands him the doc's file, but Bennie shakes his head. He's already seen it. Fractured ribs, ruptured spleen, broken jaw, broken left hand, badly bruised kidneys—and that's just the first page. The man'll be pissing blood for a week. The crazy fucks who did this must've been high as kites; they'd taken the guy down and then kept beating him, kicking him. Fucking amoral society when even doctors aren't safe on the streets.
"Hey. Dr. Wilson, can you hear me?" Trevor's talking to the guy; his voice is low and very gentle. "Dr. Wilson?"
The doc stirs; his eyes open, barely visible through the swollen flesh surrounding them. He looks at them blankly.
"Uh," Dr. Wilson says. His voice is rough, barely above a whisper, even with the PMV on the trach tube that allows him to speak. Bennie steps forward.
"Dr. Wilson, I'm Detective Kafka and this is Detective Nottingham. We're with the Princeton Borough Police Department and we'd like to talk to you for just a minute. Do you understand what I'm saying to you, sir?"
The doc blinks. "Uh," he says again.
Bennie decides to take that as a yes.
"Doctor, can you tell me what happened to you?"
The Wilson doc stares at them for a moment; the low hums and beeps of the ICU are the only sounds. Then the guy sighs, a shallow rise and fall.
"'Ugged," he whispers. "Kids. 'Ugged."
And they can't get much more out of him than that. He didn't see their faces. Doesn't know how many. No identifying features, marks, or tattoos. He'd gone down and they'd just kept hitting him, stomping him. Just a particularly brutal ... mugging.
Through it all Bennie and Trevor keep perfectly straight faces, and at the end they thank the doc for his time and wish him a speedy recovery. The doc falls asleep again even as they're talking.
"He's lying," Bennie says, and opens the lobby door. He and Trevor stand outside the hospital for a moment, watching sick people come and go.
"Fuckin' A he's lying," Trevor replies. He fishes a cellophane bag of sunflower seeds from a pocket and pops one in his mouth. "He's left-handed. You think it was a coincidence they smashed his left hand into a million little doctor pieces?" He spits; the wet seed hull goes flying.
"Christ, please don't tell me you're gonna be eating those things in the cruiser again."
"Fuck you, whadda you care?" Another zebra-striped seed goes into Trevor's mouth.
"Because it's a goddamn filthy habit, that's why," Bennie says. "And I gotta live with you and your filthy habits because you're my fucking partner."
"Lucky you," Trevor replies. "All cops should have a partner like me. Do 'em good. Elevate their psyches or something."
"Elevate their blood pressure is more like it," Bennie mutters. "So why is this Dr. Wilson lying?"
Trevor shrugs. "Who knows? Ex-wives got together, hired some badass regulators? Jealous lover? Somebody wanted to put the fear of God into him."
"You got that right," Bennie says. "Guess we'll find out soon enough. I'm betting this Wilson doc'll break down soon enough with the right questions being asked."
"And you're the man to ask those questions." Trevor grins, and spits out another hull.
"Fuckin' A," Bennie replies. "You eat those things in the car, I'm killing you."
"Like to see you try," Trevor says equably. "Like to see you try."
The next morning there's an internal Police Department memo on both their desks. The Wilson case is closed; the mugging has been linked to similar cases in Trenton, Atlantic City, and Weehawken. The gang of teenagers has been apprehended in Peapack. No further action is to be taken.
Bennie and Trevor exchange long looks, then shake their heads.
Theirs is not to reason why. There's always another case, just a phone call away.