Ridley Pearson - Middle Of Nowhere

Sanchez's haunting eyes had come to plague Boldt. Pleading. Silent. Saddened. A young, vital woman had been sacrificed. Maria Sanchez was trapped-her spirit was confined to a body that would not release her. Within the next few days or weeks, surgeons would apparently know if her surgery would reconnect this woman to the life she had previously known.

"We know this is difficult for you, Officer," Daphne began after greeting her. The reference to the patient's rank was intentional. They needed the participation of a policewoman. They needed honest, difficult answers.

"We've had several important developments in the case," Boldt informed her. Her eyelids shut with some difficulty, and as they opened her dark brown irises fo cused intently on Boldt, whose voice caught as he said, "Some questions we'd like to ask you."

Her eyes shut and then reopened again, her pupils fixed to the right. "Yes," came the woman's answer. She seemed worse today than the last time he'd seen her. He reeled.

"There have been two more assaults," Daphne said, stepping closer to Boldt at the foot of the bed to make it easier on the patient. "Both officers. Both badly off."

The eyelids shut.

Boldt said, "There seems to be the possibility of a connection that we would prefer not to face, but face it we must. Our primary interest remains this burglar- especially in your case, where your possessions went missing. We're pursuing all relevant leads. But unfortunately, another possibility has raised its ugly head- that these assaults on officers, my own included, have to do with an I.I. investigation. That this investigation, whatever it is, or was, is the common thread we've been missing."

"And that's why we're here," Daphne said.

Boldt said cautiously, "Sometimes the system itself can stand in an officer's way. We need answers, and we're not getting them from upstairs."

"We need your help."

When her eyes opened this time, they aimed to the right. "Yes."

"Prior to your assault," Boldt began, "were you involved in an Internal Investigation?" Her eyes fluttered shut and remained so.

"Please, Maria," Daphne pleaded.

"Yes," came the answer.

Boldt experienced a combination of relief and anxiety. Sanchez had been working an I.I. prior to her burglary assault. A dozen questions danced on the tip of his tongue.

"Did the investigation involve Property?" he asked.

She stared at the ceiling. Unable, or unwilling to answer? Boldt wondered. "Krishevski?" Boldt asked quickly, for his suspicions remained with the Property sergeant.

The ceiling. But he thought she struggled not to answer.

"Pendegrass?"

The ceiling. Perhaps she was overmedicated, he thought.

"Chapman?"

Her eyelids fluttered, she squeezed them shut tightly. When they reopened, she stared at the ceiling.

"Maria…" a frustrated Boldt pleaded. "Please. You're the only one who can answer these questions." He allowed this to sink in. "Do you believe someone- anyone-from Property was involved in your assault?" He asked this with as little emotion as he could summon, and yet his own convictions surfaced.

"No," replied the injured woman.

Daphne glanced at Boldt-Sanchez's first definite answer took Property out of the assault. A part of him felt satisfied. He could focus on the burglary and let others turn over the rocks-if those rocks even existed. But Chapman's anxiety the night before remained in the forefront of his thoughts, and cautioned against accepting Sanchez's answers.

"Do you believe your assault was related in any way to your I.I. case?" Daphne inquired.

Again, she stared at the ceiling. Boldt's frustration built.

"Maria, we have two more officers in this hospital this morning. We have suspicious movements from officers in Property. We have far more questions than answers, and you're apparently one of the few people who knows what's going on. I know it's asking a lot-too much even-but please, help us out here!"

Her eyes shone. A tear escaped down her cheek.

"We've upset you," Daphne apologized to the woman. "Are you avoiding answers, Maria, because we are not I.I., not directly your superiors on this case?"

"Yes!" Somehow those eyes shouted.

Again Maria stared at the ceiling, tears running.

"But we want to help!" an exasperated Boldt pleaded.

Daphne repeated softly, "Do you think your assault might be connected to your I.I. case?"

Her eyes shut and reopened. "Yes," she replied, now staring directly at Boldt.

Daphne looked across to a relieved Boldt and said, "We need this burglar in custody. If he can give us an alibi for the night of her assault, then-"

"Maybe that would be enough to take a good long look at whatever case she was working," Boldt interrupted. The secrecy surrounding I.I. cases was notoriously impossible to crack. He said, "You're right about the order of things-this burglar just might become our star witness."

Anthony Brumewell caught a glimpse of himself in the driver's side mirror as the garage door flipped shut electronically and he stepped out into his garage. Working nights was not his thing; he felt exhausted. He entered the home's small kitchen, dumped his briefcase onto a kitchen chair, and headed straight for the refrigerator and a Coors Lite. He yanked down a jar of dry-roasted peanuts, popped off the yellow plastic lid and spilled out a handful. He blindly reached over for the TV's remote and came up empty. When he turned toward the TV itself he realized there was no remote control because there was no TV. And that was when the first pang of dread overcame him.

What the hell? he wondered, his mind fishing for a recollection that might explain its absence. He dropped the beer can on the counter. The peanuts spilled like pebbles onto the floor, and his heart raced furiously. The television had been stolen, he realized now. Was someone still inside the house? He panicked.

He picked up the wall phone. No dial tone. "Hello?" It was off the hook somewhere else. There were two other phones: one in the living room, one in the bedroom. He scrambled to get out of the house. Only then did he notice his home security box had been smashed up.

Terrified now, Brumewell hurried back out to the garage and into the safety of his car. He locked the car doors, tripped the garage door to open, turned the key and shoved the car into reverse, knocking a mirror off in the process. He reached for the car phone, already stabbing the three numbers he had never before dialed: 911.

Another break-in. Boldt contacted the Brumewell crime scene by cell phone and uncharacteristically drove over the speed limit to get there. Phil Shoswitz had caught him while he was on his way to the Jamersons' for breakfast. Shoswitz's burglary unit had drawn the investigation on a chaotic morning when nearly nine hundred officers-out of the eleven hundred who had walked out-had returned to work "unexpectedly." The media was camped in the lobby of Public Safety, making a zoo out of the place. The victim-the owner of the house-was waiting for their arrival. The radio led with "breaking news" that the strike had been broken by a tough stance from the new chief. Rumors and stories abounded.

Without asking if the victim's home had a garage, Boldt requested that the garage's clicker be waiting for him.

SID had not yet arrived. The sunrise had brought rain, then sunshine, now rain again-like Boldt, it couldn't make up its mind. There had been no assault and therefore no detective initially assigned. It was only through the diligent eye of a dispatcher that Shoswitz had been notified at all. With Flu-time burglaries at an all-time high, and low on SPD's priority list, Anthony Brumewell might have been missed by the radar entirely.