a . ha i k u . o f . c o l o r . a n d . v e n g e a n c e

A Haiku of Color and Vengeance
[by victoria p.]

Rating: PG-13

Summary: Five things that never happened on "Homicide: Life on the Street"

Notes: Written for Vanzetti for the Yuletide challenge. Title from Gee's description of the Board in "The Damage Done." Thanks to Destina and Snacky for the beta.

Date: December 20, 2004

1. Redball

"You know, the murder of an eleven-year-old girl is a tough, tough case to lose your nut on." Crosetti, "Night of the Dead Living"

Bayliss has his coat on; he's ready to go home after a long day. He's tired of being mocked, tired of Frank Pembleton's unconcealed disdain, tired of the dead bodies that pile up in this city, and the people responsible for them.

The phone rings, and Kay, who's been nothing but kind to him since he arrived -- skeptical, but kind -- says, "You ready?"

It's the question he's been asking himself since he walked in the door, and the shrill urgency of the ringing phone is making his head pound.

Kay snorts at his hesitation and grabs the phone herself. "Howard, Homicide." When she hangs up, she looks at him and jerks her head toward the door, the wild mane of red hair surrounding her pale face like a fiery corona undulating with the movement. "Wanna come with?"

He says yes, because he needs this chance to fit in, to get someone in the squad room on his side.

Twenty minutes later, Tim finds himself standing in the rain, watching Howard walk around the body of an eleven-year-old girl found dead in an alley.

"She has the face of an angel," he whispers, and Howard shoots him a look that may be sympathetic, but may also just be annoyed. He's not sure. He thinks the hardness he sees in her face is overcompensation, her way of proving she's as tough and capable as any man, but he doesn't think it's necessary. He can't imagine who could do something like this to a child, and would think less of anyone who wasn't moved by the sight of her. He's shocked at the callous disregard of the crime scene techs, the coroner, and his fellow detectives, who joke about overtime while a little girl's body lies in the street.

His whole career, he's been aiming for Homicide -- the best of the best, cops who think, use their brains instead of their guns. And now he stares down at Adena Watson's lifeless body and wills himself not to be sick as the crime scene techs try to gather whatever evidence hasn't been washed away by the rain.

Lewis and Crosetti are urging Kay to release the body, but she's not done yet; she watches as the coroner takes Adena's internal temperature, and fills page after page of her notebook with details that may be important.

"That's the problem with this job, huh," she says as they're riding back to the station. "You never know what's going to be important, what will close the case. So you have to train yourself to notice everything."

The case is all over the news, and Bayliss is thankful he is not the primary. He has never led a murder investigation, let alone such a high profile one -- he doesn't even have a desk, for Christ's sake. But Howard is graceful under fire, and Bayliss learns a lot from her careful, dogged investigation and her occasional leaps of faith.

When he asks her how she does it, she laughs and says, "Keen detective instincts."

When she asks him who he thinks the murderer is, he ponders of all the evidence they've gathered, all the people they've spoken to, and then answers, "The Araber, Risley Tucker, killed Adena," and she nods.

A week later, the Araber confesses, and Kay Howard is the darling of the Baltimore media. Bayliss rides her coattails, sure in his belief that Homicide is where he belongs.

2. Partners

Howard: "You're a man." Felton: "I'm your partner." Howard: "I'm a woman." Felton: "You're a cop." "Night of the Dead Living"

"C'mon, Kay. Lemme in."

She fumbles with her keys. That last shot of Jack Daniels was a mistake, and she knows he can sense the exact moment she weakens. Because she wants to let him in, wants to make it hurt less for him.

"It's just coffee. Just a cup of coffee and I'll go." His voice is soft, rough. He doesn't slur, though he's had more to drink than she has. "I just don't want to go home yet."

She nods and lets him follow her into the house. It's a bad idea. It's always a bad idea, and Kay doesn't do bad ideas anymore, but Beau is the exception to all her rules. When he stumbles into her, and grabs her hips, she pushes him away.

"Beau." It's a warning, a reminder. She doesn't want this, and even if she did, she can't have it. For a whole list of reasons she knows he already knows.

His breath smells of whiskey and they both reek of smoke. She knows when she washes her hair, the scent of it will rise in the steam, choking her with cravings she pretends have passed. She pretends to not want a lot of things these days, even when desire hums beneath her skin, threatening to burst from her body like a bullet fired from a gun.

But Beau doesn't give up the way he usually does when this happens. He reaches for her again, presses her against the door, his mouth hot and wet against her neck, his hair stiff and brittle from too much styling gel, scratching at her skin. It tickles, and she shivers.

"Please," he whispers, and the hand she's brought up to push him away again instead pulls him closer, stroking over his hair and down to his shoulders.

She opens her mouth, unsure of what's going to come out, and disliking the feeling. He takes advantage of it to kiss her, his tongue hot and thick against hers, heady with sour mash. She's startled by the mewling sound of want that rises from her throat, but knows she's let it go too far this time, that now there is no turning back.

It's quick, and hard, and better than she expected, given how much both of them have drunk; the alcohol softens everything, makes the details hazy, and hard to remember. She tells herself it will be easy to make herself forget in the morning, and he will do the same. For now, there is only the slick slide of skin on skin, the scrape of her nails down his back, and then the one word he says as he comes inside her.

Not Beth. No. That would have made it okay.

But he says, "Kay," as if he's praying, confessing, asking for absolution, which is something she can't give.

For a few minutes afterward, she thinks about asking Gee to give her a new partner, but she won't. She and Beau are partners, and all the whiskey-soaked mistakes in the world can't change that.

3. Going to Disneyland

"I don't need this job. I've got options." Bayliss, "Stakeout"

Tim loves California.

He's not just saying that to convince his mother, Frank. Himself.

He loves the weather and the perky, tanned twenty-year-olds who seem to think he's important. He tells them he's a director at Disney (he never mentions he's director of theme park security), and they think he can somehow help them get a leg up in show business. They get a leg up, he gets a leg over.

He imagines Frank's groan at the bad pun and sits up, pulling the sheet from his companion's body to cover himself. He picks up the phone, fingers flying over the keypad; he knows Frank's number better than his own, which sometimes worries him. The phone rings and rings, and he realizes that midnight in Anaheim is three a.m. in Baltimore, so he hangs up.

He does that a lot, lately. And even when he doesn't, the conversations he and Frank have now are even worse than the conversations they had back when they worked together. He talks about his job, about the weather, about the problems inherent in policing an amusement park, and Frank makes impatient noises, mellowing out only when discussing the baby.

Tim knows he should let it go, but amid the sea change his life is undergoing, Frank is the one steady thing. He thinks Frank would be simultaneously pleased and irritated by that, because Frank wants no encumbrances he hasn't chosen for himself, and Tim knows Frank has never chosen him -- he was foisted on Frank when he arrived in Homicide, and while Frank eventually made some accommodation for him, he is still only in Frank's life on sufferance. They are family, more than friends -- they are partners -- though Tim thinks he's exiled himself from that by moving across the country to get away from the memory of Adena Watson's body, lying in the rain, and the sour taste of failure those memories bring.

His whole life is tainted by that case, by his inability to close it. Risley Tucker is dead, and Adena Watson's name will never be written in black on the Board. He wonders sometimes, if Frank would have closed it, or Kay, or even Lewis, and when those thoughts hit, he trawls Los Angeles for something -- someone -- to ease the pain. He's discovered a partiality for the typical California blond beach bunny, as far removed from rain and blood and Baltimore as possible, someone who knows nothing about homicide and the cop Tim used to be.

Which is how he finds himself sitting on the edge of a bed in a motel room lit only by the lights of the city outside his window, like some bad eighties noir starring Nastassja Kinski, clutching the cheap plastic phone and craving the sound of Frank's voice.

The warm glide of hands on his shoulders and lips on his neck draws him out of his reverie.

"Come back to bed, Tim." Deep and slow like honey, his voice sends a shiver down Tim's spine.

Tim turns in the embrace and presses a fierce kiss to the man's lips, pushing him back against the pillows.

He can always call Frank in the morning.

4. The Coffee Is Killing Me

Mary Pembleton: "God got you through your stroke." Frank Pembleton: "No. God, as usual, was in the next county making hurricanes and hunchbacked babies." "Valentine's Day"

Tim visits twice a week. He always brings something for Olivia -- a toy or a piece of candy or ribbons for her hair. He brings small gifts for Mary, too, though she's asked him not to on more than one occasion. His visits are enough. He spends a half hour talking to Frank, reminiscing about cases they worked on together, the cases he's working on now, bringing Frank up to speed on gossip about their fellow detectives, and Frank always perks up when Tim's around. The others stopped visiting after Olivia's first birthday party -- even Giardello -- but months later, Tim still shows up on Wednesdays and Fridays, every week like clockwork.

Mary loves her husband, stays with him because she loves him, and because he needs her now, and she believes in her wedding vows -- in good times and bad, sickness and health. She tells herself Frank would do the same if their roles were reversed.

But she occasionally wonders at Tim's devotion. Frank is not easy to love, or even to like. He'd never cared much about other people's opinions (except hers, of course, and not even that, sometimes), never felt the need to compromise or be diplomatic in disagreement. She remembers Frank's disdain for his new partner, and then the slow growth of his grudging respect as Tim matured into the job. She's watched them over the past four years, and she knows Tim is the closest thing Frank has to a best friend. She wishes she could be that for him, but knows she doesn't understand -- has never understood -- the bond between police. She sometimes thinks it's stronger than the bond between husband and wife. She never worried about Frank stepping out on her, because the job was his first love, and maybe, just maybe she used to be jealous of that. Of Tim, who got to know sides of her husband she never did. Never will, now.

Tim gets down on the floor and plays with Olivia. Today he's trying to teach her to play cat's cradle, though she's really too young for it; each time he gets it set up correctly, she pulls until the string unravels, and Tim has to start over.

When he notices she's watching, he looks up and smiles sadly. "Frank taught me how to do this. I mean, I must have learned it as a kid -- most kids do -- I just didn't remember. But he said it helped him think." He lets out a long sigh, long fingers weaving the string into shape again. "Maybe, maybe we could try it with him, when he wakes up."

Mary nods, though she knows Frank no longer has the dexterity to play, nor the mental acuity to follow the twists and turns of the thread.

Frank Pembleton was a great detective, a master of the Box, his ability to elicit confessions from suspects second to none. And now he cannot play a simple child's game, can't feed or clothe himself, or make love to his wife.

It is at times like these when Mary is most grateful for Tim's visits, so she can lock herself in the bathroom and cry.

5. The Damage Done

"The gun was down." Frank Pembleton, "Fallen Heroes, Part 2"

Mike can't keep still as the elevator carries them up to the penthouse. He almost wishes he'd taken the stairs. He has enough adrenaline to make the trip. This is what every cop dreams of -- the kind of arrest that leads the evening news and makes people forget about nasty rumors and headlines. They have Luther dead to rights this time, but anything can go wrong.

His stomach flips in a combination of excitement and anxiety, and his heart is hammering so hard against his ribs he thinks it's going to explode as he and Stivers burst into the room.

Mahoney has a gun -- in fact, he has Meldrick's gun, pointed at Meldrick's head.

"Drop it! I'm aiming right at your head, Luther. Drop the gun! Drop it! Drop it now," Kellerman says, keeping his voice steady. Be cool, he tells himself, willing his hands to stop shaking.

Mahoney lowers the gun and laughs like a crazy man, blood streaming down his face. "What you going to do, detective? Read me my rights?"

Mike walks toward him slowly, mouth dry and fingers itchy. He hates that Mahoney's going to get away again, can't believe Meldrick was stupid enough to get his gun taken.

He takes a deep breath and says the words he's said a million times before. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be held against you--"

It happens so quickly. Even months later, he can't piece it together. Some people say time slows to a crawl during the big, traumatic moments of their lives, but for Kellerman, everything moves at the speed of light: Mahoney's hand comes up and the sound of the shot echoes through the apartment, ricocheting through Kellerman's brain forever. He thinks he may never stop hearing that sound as the bullet penetrates Meldrick's skull, blows off the back of his head.

He reacts before he has time to think about what it is he's doing, still riding that adrenaline high. He squeezes the trigger so hard his finger is sore later; from the corner of his eye he can see Stivers is shooting, too. Luther's body jerks from the impact and sprawls backward, blood blossoming from the bullet holes.

Stivers goes to Mahoney, checking to make sure the bastard is really dead. Mike runs to Meldrick's side, hands still shaking, bile rising in his throat.

"You stupid bastard," he says, choking back tears. "You stupid fucking idiot."

Afterward, there's paperwork, and more paperwork, and then endless rounds of meetings: meetings with the departmental shrink, with the Feds, with Gee, with Meldrick's wife and mother. That one is the hardest, and he comes home shaking and sick from it, until he drinks enough Jim Beam to steady himself, to erase the blame he sees in their eyes, the accusation that Meldrick died because of him.

He sees the same thing in his own eyes when he looks in the mirror every morning, and all the Jim Beam in the world isn't enough to get rid of it for long.

He partners with Munch now, Munch who watched his partner get shot and live through it. They try to make it work -- Mike realizes how hard it must have been for Meldrick to accept him, after Crosetti died. Meldrick had always needed a partner; he hated working alone. Mike was the same way, but now all he can think about is how he couldn't pull the trigger when Meldrick needed him, how he was half a second late, how he played by the rules for once and all it got him was a dead partner.

Now, no one else will partner with him -- it's worse than being the new guy, worse than during the arson investigation. Then, he was possibly dirty; now they know he's incompetent, a nervous cop, unable to protect his partner.

This time, when Mike cleans his boat and puts his gun in his mouth, there is no one to stop him from pulling the trigger.

end

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Disclaimer: All Homicide: Life on the Street characters belong to Tom Fontana, Barry Levinson and Baltimore Pictures. This fan-written fiction intends no infringement on any copyrights.