Written for fun, not money.

Heartfelt thanks to Nestra and Pares for excellent beta-work. Thanks to friends who listened to ideas in chat. Please send feedback to gritkitty@hotmail.com.

Jim rarely caved to fear, but his inability to overcome a formless menace threatened to unmake him. His troubles began on the last night of a solitary camping trip. Water boiling over the fire caught his attention and held it suspended in an amber of myriad, aqueous noises. The soft crack of a settling log in the fire sounded like a bomb and broke the spell; shortly after that, the sudden, muffled applause of a pheasant's flight startled him so he jumped up, heart sprinting until he identified the sound. Jim began to suspect his dirty hands of transporting the spoors of hallucinogenic mushrooms to his supper -- he had, after all, stumbled over a root that afternoon; his steadying hand had sunk deep in the loam of the forest floor. There was thin logic in that theory, but he clung to it, and when he returned home, cleaned up and rested, he'd felt normal the next morning...until he filled his hand with shaving cream.

The white puff felt like an alien life form invading his palm. Jim's skin shuddered from scalp to toes, at once roused and repulsed by the complicated tickle in the bowl of his hand. He shook his hand violently and rinsed it clean -- and then used the electric shaver. For the rest of the day, odd things leapt to his attention: a pigeon's coo from above, a glint of light reflecting off the faucet in the kitchen, the thick seams of his jeans that drew lines down each leg.

And then the pain began.

Headaches flared with the twinkle of sun on chrome, the smell of strong perfume, or the burn of gasoline fumes on his hands. Jim ignored as much as possible and found he could cope; he could hide it all from his co-workers, and by the time one week had passed, he hit a weary stride that felt like drudgery rather than illness. Felt like the deserved fate of a divorced, lonely man with hard miles behind him, skating the edge of forty.

The weekend brought a measure of boring calm, but headaches dogged him into the next workweek, beginning with a stunning specimen that started on Monday morning as soon as he walked into the bullpen. The headache never fully abated, and he associated his pain with the flickering of the florescent bulb above his desk. Maintenance changed the tube at his insistence, but the light still oscillated, painfully tattooing his retinas. As the week aged, it seemed the harder he tried to cling to the serenity he'd gained on his camping vacation the worse his head throbbed, blunting his productivity. Yet on Thursday, when H begged off for a date, Jim ignored his brain's uncooperative neurons and took the swing shift.

He rode a mild sense of restlessness into the bullpen, abraded by a vague dissatisfaction he could not identify that work usually cured when solitude couldn't, even now while operating under this strange burden. Resigned to his divorce at last, his anticipation for some unknown, missing element roused more often of late, unrecognized but insistent. Perhaps it was simply loneliness. Or maybe he was just waiting for normalcy to return. Paperwork and florescent lights held no allure but neither did another night wasted, alone, sprawled on the couch, zoning on yet another rerun of Cheers. Then a call came in about an explosion by the waterfront, and his uncertainties shook loose, dislodged by a different kind of expectation.

At the scene, Joel emerged from the hustle of emergency response personnel and flashing lights to meet Jim, a small notebook in his hand and that expression he often wore on the job that was half worry and half resignation.

"It's arson, no doubt. They doused the place in kerosene and torched her up. Simple." He looked with weary deliberation at the charred warehouse. "It looks like when the gasoline went up, the chemical precursor exploded too. That's what took out half the building. You know, with all the stuff they had around here, man, this was a major drug lab. Too bad the drugs are all gone."

Jim frowned heavily. "Who's here, then?"

"Mackenzie was first on the scene. And now Williams is here from anti-gang." Joel's voice was tainted with the mildest wash of sour tones. Jim glanced up, surprised; the big man seemed naked without his usual affable nature. Then again, Jim had worked with Williams before; it seemed even Joel had his limit. "He's saying this was a 3-5-7s lab."

"He sure about that?"

"Seems so. He's got a golden boy on his team, name a' Earl Gaines. He identified the bodies."

"I bet Williams got a theory already, huh."

"Yeah, he likes the Deuces."

"Big surprise. He's probably right, though." Jim itched to take his own look around. "Any witnesses?" he asked."Yes, just one. He's with the EMTs. Seems he's been living in the front part of the building. He claims he had no idea about the gang activity."

"Really. Williams have a go at him yet?" Joel shook his head. "Well. I'll just have a word with the guy. What's his name?"

Joel glanced at his notepad. "Sandburg. Blair Sandburg."

Blair Sandburg sat on the rear step of the ambulance, dejection weighing heavily on his rounded shoulders: a familiar pose of injured woe to Jim's practiced eye. Alfred Kim's rig had responded. Stolid as a boulder, clipboard in hand, Al stood by while his new partner, Charlie, offered a cold pack to Sandburg, who applied it to a respectable scrape on his forehead. Al nodded at Jim's hello.

"Helluva blast, huh?" said Charlie. He stood and put his back to the witness, practiced privacy in close quarters. "It a gang thing?"

"Too early to say, but looks like. Unless something else turns up, of course." Jim's eyes narrowed in lazy speculation. "Then again, where were you a couple hours ago? You're supposed to be with the 15th, not bugging us working folks on this side of town. What'd they do, kick you out?"

Charlie grinned. "Ha, you wish. Nah, I amscrayed -- the 15th is loony bin. I'm an adrenalin junkie, not a nut case, and hoo, boy, there is no lack of action around here. First night out and we catch an exploding drug lab." He jerked his head, indicating the seated man. "I don't think monkey boy's your perp, though."

"Monkey boy?"

"I'll let you discover the tragedy. I've got to make nice with Al; he hates to lose one on his shift." Charlie laughed, a hyena burst as irritating now as it had been when Jim first met him during his stint in Vice five years ago. Charlie wouldn't elaborate. He never did.

The colorful skater-dude had a reputation for being a clown that was known throughout the city's network of emergency personnel, cutting across departmental lines. Jim wondered how Al managed to draw the short straw. As Jim recalled, Charlie's last partner, Ollie Ford, had been a wild card himself. Rumors whispered the shenanigans at his retirement party included a karaoke, a stripper, and a pony. Those two had worked well together, but Jim wondered now how Al tolerated his brash new partner and smiled, lips closed, only mildly amused as he contemplated the contrast: Al's stalwart dependability, Charlie's bleached hair; Al's stoicism, Charlie's motor-mouth. He turned his mind to the crime at hand as his body turned to the man sitting on the step at the end of the ambulance. Monkey boy, monkey boy, he thought as he slid past Charlie, eyes on the witness.

"I'm Detective Ellison." He offered his badge, an obligatory flash, but the young man took the wallet from his hand for a close examination before returning it. "You're Blair Sandburg?"

"That's right."

"What can you tell me about what happened tonight?"

"Again, huh?" Sandburg lowered the ice pack from his head and contemplated the streaks of blood marring its white cover. "Larry and I were watching TV on the couch. When I got up to get more popcorn, I heard noise coming from the other side of the wall, from the main part of the warehouse. There was an explosion, and then the cops came." His recitation had the dry cant of a story oft repeated.

'"Noise? Like what?"

"Like, I don't know." His voice gained animation, mostly irritation. "The TV was on pretty loud. I was worried that some animal found its way in, something bigger than the rats." He looked up at Jim and perhaps read the pinch of impatience in Jim's frown because his tone capitulated and he added, "I guess it sounded like stuff getting moved around. There might have been gunshots, but like I said, the TV was pretty loud."

"What about Larry? What did he hear?"

"He was zeroed in on the TV. Didn't even flinch." Sandburg looked away and took a messy breath. "God. I can't believe he's gone, man. Just out of the blue like that, wham. Gone."

Jim sliced an inquiring look at Al as he continued paperwork. Al's eyes never left the clipboard, but he shook his head slightly, one corner of his mouth curled. Dryly, he said, "Larry's a monkey. Died due to injuries sustained in the blast."

"He was a Barbary ape," Sandburg contradicted, his voice deeply aggrieved. "What kind of medical training do they give nowadays if you can't tell a monkey from an ape?"

Al remained unfazed but looked up coolly. "Enough. A primate's a primate, including you." Jim quelled his amusement with a light cough. Sandburg diverted his glare from the paramedic to Jim, his eyes noticeably blue and pissed.

"So," Jim prompted. "You heard some noise, then...?"

"Then my kitchen hit me in the head," he said, thickly sarcastic. "I was kind of out of it for a while, then I climbed out from under what's left of my table and found poor Larry."

"Did you see anyone?"

"No. I wasn't exactly looking -- I was trying to resuscitate Larry. Then the cops showed up."

"Who used the warehouse?"

"I don't know. C'mon! How many people do I have to explain this to? Go ask that Chief Wiggims-wannabe who took my statement the first time."

"Hey, just doing my job, here, Chief."

"Yeah, well, I've got a big fucking headache, kemosabe, and not even a clue about where I'm gonna sleep tonight." He pressed the cold pack onto the scrape on his forehead once more and his shoulders suddenly folded, a white flag. "Look, nothing personal. It's been a lousy night. Ask my landlord about the warehouse. He'd know if there were legitimate tenants using the space." Sandburg set his elbows on his thighs and bowed his head, resting it on his hands so that his long hair fell forward, obscuring his face.

Jim saw 'grunge slacker' in the kid's wardrobe, but he sensed focus in his manner and so looked harder for a clue to the dichotomy. An expensive pen stood tall out of his shirt's breast pocket, gleaming against the plaid next to wire-rimmed glasses. Jim looked again; the exposed lens was cracked.

"Okay. Give me your landlord's name and number, and we'll question him." Sandburg did, thinking a moment before reciting the number from memory. Jim jotted the information in a small notebook. Sandburg's continued dismay was hard to ignore, and Jim heard himself speak. "Look, I'm sorry about your ape."

Sandburg looked up and frowned, his shoulders rising as if reaching for his ears. His squint spoke more of pain than myopia. "Thanks. It wasn't like he was a pet or anything, but still."

Jim moved forward and sat next to the man, sympathetic for the crick Sandburg seemed to have in his neck. "So why have an ape around? Experiments in the laboratory?"

"Uh, actually, sorta, yeah. I'm studying the effects of prolonged visual violence on primate behavior." He scrubbed his chin with bloody fingers. "Or I was. Damn it, this is gonna screw the semester all to hell." Sandburg looked at a bloodstained bundle on the ground lying several feet from the ambulance. "I should do something with him." He scowled. "Denise would be interested, the ghoul." He looked back at Jim. "Her gig is comparative primate anatomy. Dissection, you know. Or...no, I guess you wouldn't. I'm sorry. I--um. Look, this really sucks, and I have god knows how much crap to deal with before I'll probably have to crash in my office anyhow. Am I done yet? Can I go now?"

"Sure. Just give me a phone number and address where we can reach you."

A humorless laugh erupted from Sandburg as he tossed the ice pack onto the floor of the ambulance. "You're not kidding, are you? Shit." With an effortful heave, he stood up and patted his pockets, and then looked around. "If my backpack survived the carnage, I've got a cell phone." At Jim's insistence, he rattled off the number as well as the number to his office at Rainier University where, he explained, he was a graduate student in the anthropology department.

"Ah. The monkey makes sense now. Ape," Jim corrected himself.

"Yeah," said Sandburg sadly. He stepped close to the small bundle wrapped in a bloody towel and stared down at it. "Sorry, Larry. Hate to let Denise go all Hannibal on you, man, but maybe some good will come out of it."

"So, I can reach you at your office?"

"Uh huh," grunted Sandburg, distracted. "Until I find some new digs, it's the best way to get a hold of me."

Jim stood. "You okay? You want to call someone for a ride?"

"I'm okay. I just got to get Larry taken care of. I need a phone, and my car." He looked around, fresh worry on his face. "Jeez, I didn't even find out if my car is okay."

"There's a silver Corvair around the corner. That yours?"

"Yeah, yeah, that's mine, is it okay?"

"It looked okay to me when I passed it on the way in," said Jim.

"Thank god. Good to know the night's not a total loss."

Jim hesitated. His duty to this witness had been discharged, yet he felt unfinished somehow. A lone wolf since Jack died, Jim knew his people skills were minimal at best. He treated victims as gently as he knew how, and then left them to make their way as best as they could. Usually. He laid a hand on Sandburg's upper arm. "You sure you're okay, Chief?"

"Um, yeah, yeah, really." He looked up. Jim saw his pupils contract, saw Sandburg see Jim's face and acknowledge him beyond the veil of shock. The register of Sandburg's voice dropped. "Look, don't worry, I'll be fine. Just gotta process this, you know?"

Jim let his hand drop. "Good. I'll call you if I have more questions. If you remember any details, call me, okay?" Jim handed him a business card. "That's my desk, that's my cell. Anything could help."

Sandburg stared at the card a moment before tucking it into the pocket with the pen and broken glasses. "Okay."

Jim nodded and stepped away, catching Al's attention as he rounded the side of the ambulance. They walked together to the front of the rig. "The kid okay?"

"Sure. He got knocked in the head but didn't lose consciousness. Bruises and scrapes. He's young. He'll be fine." Al shook his head again. "Him and that monkey. Damndest thing. He was giving it mouth-to-mouth when we pulled up. Talked me into trying a few things before he finally realized it was useless. Now I gotta fix the inventory. Because of a monkey!"

_.__._

They noticed Sandburg walking to his car, arms loaded with a box of singed books, a pillow in a stained pillowcase, a carved, wooden article that looked vaguely mask-like, snapshots in frames, balled-up clothes, the wobbling pile topped by some variety of thin ivy in a red pot. Joel shrugged and flipped a slow look of expectation on Jim. Jim rolled his head to one side until his neck crackled, a cranky popping sound, but he read the man's unspoken lecture about lack-luster people skills in his mournful brown eyes and rather than endure that, he broke from Joel and converged with Sandburg. Joel continued to his car. Jim heard him chucking softly.

"You save much?" asked Jim as he fell in step. Without comment, he took the teetering plant.

"Thanks." Sandburg shot him a quick glance. "They wouldn't let me in until ten minutes ago. There ain't much left that's not scorched or soaked."

"Sorry to hear that." He patiently held the plant while Sandburg set his load into the open trunk of the Corvair. "You decide what to do about your ape?"

"Um, buy a cooler, put him on ice, I guess. Denise can't take him until tomorrow."

Jim shied away from thinking about the details of Larry's storage, repulsed by the absurd creepiness of a dead monkey -- ape -- shoved in a cooler full of ice. He wedged the plant in a corner of Sandburg's trunk, tucking in an errant tendril. "Well, good luck, Chief. And this time when you go looking for a new apartment, check the references."

"Um, yeah. Sure," said Sandburg absently.

_.__._

Jim enjoyed work the rest of that week. The case wasn't easy: finding out that Williams was a bad cop willing to lie, steal, and murder, and then hang his sins on a good cop's head offended Jim an a basic level, but the headaches that had dogged him vanished as if they'd never grabbed his head in a vise grip. He worked the case with a clear mind and helped earn Gaines an unclouded future in the department. He worked hard, and he got the kind of results cops pray for in a mess like this.

The respite didn't last.

Two weeks later, heading for his desk, Jim walked into a wall of odor and flinched as if physically struck. Sweet, rich, and overpowering, the scent of Simon's cigars permeated the entire bullpen. Taking shallow breaths through his mouth, Jim backed out and beat a hasty retreat to the break room. He leaned against a wall, gulping untainted air and wondering what just happened. H passed through the door looking for coffee. Jim tossed a curt morning his way and braved the bullpen once more.

The stench was gone.

For the rest of that day, and the days following, headaches set teeth in Jim's head, almost always prefaced by a bright light, or a harsh smell, or a piercing sound. Worry drove him to a doctor, but he got no relief, just a prescription for a mood elevator that he never filled. When the pain came, he ate aspirin. When practical, he avoided loud noises; he wore sunglasses. The intermittent nature of his attacks distracted him, but he managed to perform his job, although he noticed sharp glances from Simon. Jim wasn't surprised at the summons to his office a week after the cigar-smell incident.

"Close the door."

Jim closed the door before leaning with casual nonchalance against the windowsill. "What's up, sir?"

"Apparently not you." Simon gestured. "You want some coffee?"

Jim shook his head. "Nah. Just cut to the chase."

Simon folded his hands on the blotter. "Are you okay?"

"All this drama for a social call? Simon, I'm disappointed in you."

"Cut it out. This isn't serious -- yet. But I will know what's up with you before it does get serious."

Jim crossed his arms. "I'm fine."

"You're not, so don't bother trying to sell me that bull. I've seen you put up with a lot, but you've been hit or miss for weeks now." Simon leaned back in his chair. "Have you seen a doctor?"

"He...found nothing wrong."

"Look, I'm here to help you, as your friend, and as your friend, I don't want to stick my nose into your business..."

"I know that."

"...but if you don't pull yourself out of this, as your captain, I'm going to have to take steps."

Jim forcibly stopped his jaw from milling his teeth smooth and then gritted out, "I understand."

"Do you?" Simon looked defeated. "You know I hate having to tell you this."

"I know," replied Jim, his voice looser in his throat. He heaved a sigh and untied his arms from their knot. "I'll snap out of it."

Softly, Simon said, "I know you will. Now, go catch some more bad guys. Make the streets safe."

_.__._

Jim's chance to prove himself came the next day when he caught a double shooting not far from the waterfront. He ruthlessly ground aspirin between his teeth and washed the bitterness down with a swig of cold coffee. As he arrived at the scene, the first ambulance began its sputter and wail towards the hospital. The noise knifed through his ears straight to where his latest migraine threatened. He found the usual orderly chaos on the scene irritating and longed for simplicity. He had no desire to revisit the restrictions he'd endured during his brief tenure as a uniformed cop on the street, but he did miss the mobility, missed the satisfaction of patrolling a beat. He wished for that simpler satisfaction now.

Jim ducked under the police tape and cut through the press of people with the casual entitlement of his rank. The crowd thickened as he approached ground zero. In the hall outside the apartment, he recognized Charlie coming out of a door, laden with medical equipment.

"Charlie."

"Jim. We gotta stop meeting like this. People will talk."

"You're asking for it with that hair, Junior. What color is that?"

"Ah, don't screw with me -- I'm in a bad mood."

"You? Never happen."

"Martinez beat us here."

"That old contest? It's been what, years now. You bring that with you from the 15th?"

"It's way past a contest or territory lines. This is about pride. You know, if Al'd driven faster..."

Jim rolled his eyes, mouth thin.

"That, and my Sherpa's horking his guts out again." Charlie clumsily pushed past.

"Since when did you rate? You're Al's pack animal."

Over his shoulder, Charlie grinned. "Ohhh, you haven't heard. I'm talking about my monkey boy."

Before Jim could respond to that, Charlie passed through the door and left him frowning in the hall, puzzled. Jim was suddenly reminded of the warehouse explosion case and the young man and his monkey. Ape. He almost expected to find him sitting by Al in the midst of the crime scene. When he opened the door to the apartment, he saw Al kneeling, grim-mouthed and alone, next to a man's body as he re-packed the cardiac monitor. The body was gruesome in a complicated way: tubes arced out of his mouth and arms, burn marks marred his blood-streaked chest, and the top of the man's head was pulped, gray matter clearly visible.

"What about the other victim?" asked Jim.

Al glanced up. "GSW to the chest. She's got a chance, though I doubt the fetus will make it."

"Pregnant, huh. What about this guy?"

Al turned his eyes to his task. "Coroner'll tell you he got his head blown off."

"And you?"

"Yep, that's what killed him."

Jim grunted, amused but still too distracted by his headache to do more. The cold blood stench of meat was an overlay of misery on his pain. His nostrils flared and the scent hit him like a truck. He masked his panic with a hand over his eyes.

"Hey, Al. Anything else ready to go out to the rig?"

Jim involuntarily turned to the speaker and saw the young man from the warehouse explosion standing in the doorway. Monkey boy, thought Jim, only mildly surprised since hearing Charlie's broad hints; he was more curious than anything, and yet never noticed when his headache abruptly died. He watched him move to Al's side and deliberately turn away from the corpse. Jim marked the navy jacket with the block letters EMT on the back, noticed the hair was different -- pulled into a ponytail rather than loose about his shoulders. The voice and the eyes were the same, though, both unexpectedly deep and noticeably strained.

Al indicated which boxes were ready with a shrug and the young man edged just close enough to take their handles, his eyes lowered and his mouth tight.

"Hey, Chief. I thought you were a professor or something," said Jim. "You change careers?"

The face tilted up. "Oh, hey, hi. I remember you. It's detective, right? Detective...?"

"Ellison."

"That's right." He straightened with his load, hands full, and nodded. "And yeah, I'm not a professor, but I am something." His laugh was brief and wry. "I'm still a grad student at Rainier."

Jim frowned, trying to determine which question he needed to ask to explain the young man's presence. Al interrupted, dismissing the young man to go fetch Charlie, and once he'd left, threw a laconic explanation to Jim: "Civilian ride-along." He added a firm qualifier. "Temporary."

Nodding his head in comprehension, Jim returned his attention to the corpse. Unease prompted him to an uncomfortable curiosity he could neither explain nor define. His last partner, Jack Pendergrast, had assured Jim that such hunches were evidence of a healthy cop instinct. Now that his perceptions had become afflicted with their odd intensity, Jim wondered what Jack might have said about his hunches and the strange potency they'd gained. Jim inhaled deeply, not quite a sigh. Four years' passing had mellowed the pain of Jack's loss, but Jim still missed him.

"Is this where the body was found?" Even as he asked, Jim's face turned to the kitchen, drawn by an acrid scent.

"Yeah. We flipped him over to work on him, but this is where we found him."

"The woman?"

Al pointed to the bedroom door opposite the kitchen. Jim saw Nick Roma pacing within and padded to the doorway, looking hard at the rumpled bed and gaping drawers spilling clothes, the mist of dried blood on the carpet. Nick hovered by the man dusting the window for prints for a moment before resuming his restless pacing from beige-tiled bathroom to the window and back again.

"Ellison. How's it hanging?"

"Longer than yours, Nick."

Nick laughed stiffly. "You've always gotta be the best, don't you?"

"Nah, just truthful." Jim stepped into the room, forcing Nick to stop his volley. He recognized the same whiteness around Nick's mouth he'd seen on Sandburg and felt a mild surprise to have found that fear on a cop's face. He glanced over his shoulder at the corpse. "Nasty one."

Nick cleared his throat and looked down. "Yeah. It's not the usual catch."

"Since the sun's shining, I'm surprised you're here. What happened to the original night owl?"

"By God, this sure isn't hooker duty. Not by a long shot." Nick rounded Jim to examine the bathroom yet again. "The wife wanted me to switch to days."

Jim nodded, but he hadn't known Nick was married, hadn't known Nick worked days now. He struggled to find the right thing to say that wouldn't betray his ignorance, hampered by Nick's puzzling distress. They had shared a few ghastly cases in Vice, maybe not this grisly, but Nick was a seasoned cop. "Why were you called on the case?"

"I was looking at the victim for dealing. Nothing too big, mostly blow, but you know how it is. You throw back the little fish and hope to catch a shark."

Jim heard additional footsteps and voices near the apartment. "Let's see what the ME's got to say."

"He's here?"

"You can't hear him? Sounds like an elephant."

Jim and Nick walked out of the bedroom just as Dan Wolf walked into the living room from the hall. Charlie and Sandburg had reappeared and were packing up the rest of the paramedic equipment under Al's sharp eye. Dan knelt next to the body, gloved hand gently examining the head wound, but Jim's eyes flicked to the graduate student when he heard that deep thrum of voice.

"Nick, I didn't know you were here," said Sandburg.

"You were too busy examining your lunch to notice anything," ribbed Charlie.

Sandburg ignored him. "How's that new baby of yours?"

Nick grinned. Jim could see the tension melt from the man's shoulders. "Oh, he's a brute. Gaining weight every day. My wife, she complains her back's going out."

"A real Buddha baby, huh?"

"You know it. He rolled over yesterday."

"That's great, man."

"Hey, shut up, Sherpa. You're just encouraging him. Let's get a move on before he whips out baby pictures," complained Charlie.

Sandburg just smiled and waved his hand, a silent whatever before he picked up a load of equipment and left. Jim watched him go and noticed one of the worn spots on his jeans had thinned to a small hole at the top corner of his back pocket. He turned to Dan, refocusing on the task at hand, but Jim could hear Charlie tease Sandburg as they clumped down the hall.

"You're such a nosy little guy."

"I'm such an anthropologist."

"That's right. Indiana Jones."

"Riding with you guys? Ha! More like Jane Goodall."

"Hey, waitaminute. She was the one who hung out with the monkeys."

"Chimpanzees."

"That's what I said. Monkeys."

Sandburg made a disparaging sound at that. Jim could still hear them, even though he guessed they were nearly to the street.

"But Jane Goodall? Indiana Jones is way cooler."

"It's the whip, isn't it?" said Sandburg dryly.

"You got me pegged, monkey boy."

Jim blinked, surprised to find himself back in the living room, crouched over a corpse. Dan was speaking and Jim had never noticed. It was as if he had walked down the hall without moving a muscle. When Dan paused, Jim grunted a neutral response in pretense of listening.

"Yep. Look at that," Dan continued. "You want your cause of death, well there it is: he got his head blown off."

Jim heard a soft, disparaging rumble from Al and smiled.

"From the angle, it looks like he was hit from over there." Dan gestured to the bedroom door.

"The going theory is they tried to off each other," said Nick.

"She's the quicker draw, huh." Jim involuntarily looked toward the kitchen again, drawn by the smell of gunpowder.

"Makes me sick," Nick said thickly. "In her condition, doing shit like that."

Jim climbed to his feet, intent on the kitchen but ruminating on Nick's comments. He followed a path of bitter-hot powder with his nose, adjusting his trajectory to within inches of the invisible vapor trail. He could have closed his eyes and not lost his way, the smell was that strong. In the kitchen, two chairs huddled near a small, round table, and one chair stood aloof. The scent path curved down into the lone chair. He knelt, and Jim could smell gunpowder concentrated above the chair seat. He glanced around the kitchen at the leftover trash of a cheap end: broken stove, a motley collection of novelty drink glasses, empty Doritos bags, crushed Coke cans, and a lone milk carton laying on its side, contents bled out onto the counter and floor. The milk fired a connection between the conversations, the new baby, and Nick's belligerence. Maybe, thought Jim, Nick didn't want to take the memory of a gore-spattered corpse home to his newborn son.

"Has forensics gone over anything in here yet?" Jim asked. The window attracted his eye. An infinitesimal movement pulled him closer. Before he realized the improbability of his own perception, he saw three yellow hairs gently waving in the ambient breeze, caught in the seam where window met sill.

"Uh, no, not yet."

Jim stood abruptly, reaching for an evidence bag as he said, "Have them give this window a look. Could be a point of entry for a third suspect."

_.__._

Simon called Jim to his office ten days later to congratulate him on a job well done. Jim's hunch about the kitchen had paid off, opening a new direction in the investigation, and now a blond-haired suspect awaited trial in prison.

"Mother hen doesn't look good on you, Simon."

"Don't get cocky. The commissioner's happy, the prosecutor's happy, the perp is distinctly *un*happy, and as your captain, I'm thrilled."

Jim shrugged, mildly smug.

"But. I'm also your friend, and I can see you're not past this, whatever this is. Not all the way."

"Simon, c'mon..."

"Jim, you're better; you're getting better. I'm proud of you. All I'm saying is keep it up. And be careful until you do get past this."

_.__._

When he got a message from a Blair someone later that week, Jim thought hard for several seconds, trying to place the name. He felt a vague recognition, but couldn't recall any women by that name; the intelligible scribble that stood in for a last name was grounds enough for dismissal. If not for Simon's insistence, he would have ignored the note. Instead, he obligingly called the number and identified himself to the cheery hello.

"I'm returning a phone message from Blair...uh, Blair."

"Detective Ellison! I'm so glad you called." Though pitched with excitement, the voice sounded familiar, not a woman at all.

"So what's this about, ah, Blair..." Jim stumbled on the name again.

"Blair Sandburg. My apartment got blown up with the drug lab...?" he said when Jim hesitated.

Realization bloomed as the voice dropped into the register that once had taken him down a hallway without moving. "Oh, yeah, Sandburg. Monkey boy."

Sandburg chuckled. Jim remembered the unexpectedly low notes. Distracting music. "Yep, that's me. Look, I --"

"If it's about that case, we closed that out weeks ago. Thanks for calling, though."

"No, no, I know that. I read it in the paper. Good one, man." He paused long enough to audibly swallow. "No, I'm not calling about that. I was hoping I could talk to you. Can I make an appointment to come in? Or we could meet somewhere, say for lunch or coffee."

"What's this about?"

"Well, it's kind of hard to explain on the phone, but it's got to do with my education. That explosion took out just about all of my notes and research data along with my apartment, but life goes on, or so my committee says, and I still have to produce." Jim heard him take a deep breath. "Anyhow, I've come up with a new subject for my doctoral thesis, and I'm hoping that you can help me out."

"I'm not sure what it is you're asking for, exactly, but I doubt that I can be much help." Jim settled the phone to a comfortable angle against his ear. "Hey, aren't you riding with Al and Charlie?"

"No, I'm done with them; that's why I wanna talk to you. Please, hear me out. I spoke to Captain Banks, and he gave me permission to contact you about this. Look, over the phone isn't the way to do this, really. Meet me for lunch, and I can explain it to you."

Bemused, Jim leaned back in his chair and looked around the bullpen. He shied away from thinking too hard about their encounter at the murder scene. His hearing irregularly continued the strange, telescoping effect he'd first noticed while listening to that rich voice recede down the hall, and he wasn't ready to face whatever that implied. Instead, he easily recalled the warehouse case. Sandburg with his hair and scraped forehead and broken glasses and concern for a dead monkey. Ape. During the case he'd been known as the witness who'd given mouth-to-mouth to a monkey, and monkey boy jokes had circulated freely for a day or so. Jim had laughed with the rest of them, but he remembered that the young man had an edge to him, a weirdly pragmatic bent that got him up from the floor, try to save his ape, and then carry on from his burned-out residence.

"Okay, come on down to the station. I'm yours for lunch."

_.__._

Jim recognized the man entering Major Crimes as the one he'd seen the night of the explosion and at the scene of the homicide two weeks ago: jeans, flannel, hair. He sensed the same air of intelligence, this time unveiled by injury or shock. The kid shook his hand in a firm grip and, without preamble, began to talk.

"I'm so glad you agreed to see me. The police department has real potential for my research." He glanced around, his gaze interested and sharp as he talked about sub-cultures and closed societies and authoritarian structures, a storm of words that lashed Jim's ears like rain after drought. Jim remembered the blue eyes and looked again, comparing those other times they'd met with now. The faintest streak remained on Sandburg's high forehead, narrow and pink, hardly to be seen, but Jim noticed it. Sandburg turned back and said, "Let me take you out, just name the place. My treat, all the way. All you have to do is listen."

Jim chose Wonderburger, and Sandburg accepted a ride in Jim's truck. The trip gave them time to list the niceties: the improving weather, the Jags' lackluster season, and the ultimate fate of Larry the Barbary ape. His battered body eventually made it to the dissection table, to the betterment of primate studies at Rainier.

"That's good," said Jim. "I mean, that something positive came from his death."

"Silver lining, I guess," replied Sandburg. "Still, I wish he'd made it. He was the best roommate I've ever had."

"You found a new place, then."

"Oh, yeah. Like I said, I wish Larry had made it."

"Roommate's that bad, huh?"

"Oh, yeah," he repeated dismissively, but Jim heard a world of annoyance in the depths. "That's not what I need help with, though."

Sandburg said nothing more about this mysterious help he needed until they sat across from each other over burgers and fries. By now, adding up Sandburg's words with the incidences of their past meetings, Jim suspected he knew what the kid wanted, but he sank into his hamburger with delighted gusto, the subtleties of bread and meat and condiments filling him from gut to nose, borne by the savor of fat. He was ready to listen to anything.

"The explosion at the warehouse pretty much sank my research project. Most of the work burned up, and I couldn't reproduce it without Larry anyhow, so I had to find a new subject." He gestured at Jim with a french fry. "Now I'm studying contemporary urban sub-cultures."

"You'd said something about that." Not that Jim had listened so much to the words as to that voice. "So, what does that have to do with me?"

"Well, I got in touch with the EMTs, the fire department, and now you. I rode with Al and Charlie for two weeks, and before that I rode a week with the 51st fire department."

"You're spending time with everyone who showed up at your place that night?"

"It's not exactly that simple, but yeah. The cops, the paramedics, and the firefighters who responded when my apartment blew up, well, I watched you guys interacting, and it was fascinating. For instance, everyone was friendly with the paramedics, but the firefighters were like, way standoffish, and most the cops had a very clearly defined set of appropriate behaviors while interacting with civilians, so." Sandburg paused long enough to eat the fry.

"So?" Jim cut in and eyed him skeptically. "When did you notice all this? I seem to remember that you were all broken up over your monkey. Ape. Larry."

"I noticed." The tone was mild, but the eyes weren't. "It's my profession to notice."

"Okay. So you noticed. This all means...?"

Sandburg leaned forward. The cadence of his words accelerated. "I want to observe you. I'll look at how you relate to the various agencies, how you define lines of proximity, who is part of your group, who isn't, how you view criminals and victims and --"

"Whoa, hold on here. You want to observe me?"

"Yes, I told you. I already spent time with the paramedics and the firefighters. It's your turn, now."

"Oh, I don't know, Chief. I don't think it's a good idea--"

"Yes, sure it is! I mean, out of all the candidates, finding you is like finding the Holy Grail here." Sandburg's voice rushed faster. He held up his open hand and folded each digit with the opposite finger as he began listing. "You were in the army, you were in the Rangers, you spent time with the Chopec in Peru, man!" He hung on tight to his own middle finger for emphasis.

"You sure did your homework."

"Of course I did." The charged enthusiasm never waned. "And I found out you're the best cop in the police department. Between that and all your past experiences, you're like the superman of closed societies, man."

Jim felt a frown petrify on his face. Sandburg looked perplexed a moment and continued. "Look, I know the deal. I'll sign whatever waivers you want me to. I understand completely about liability -- risking life and limb during fieldwork is nothing new, trust me. I did it for the other ride-along tours so it's no problem for me, really."

Sandburg's words stung, and hurt worse for being delivered in that luxuriant voice. Jim found himself on his feet, hamburger forgotten. "No problem for you, huh? Well, it's a problem for me, Geraldo. 'Superman'? You make me sound--!" Jim lowered his voice but anger kept the words tight as he loomed over Sandburg. "You make me sound like a freak. What right do you have, dragging me down here --?"

"Hey, hold it right there," protested Sandburg. He put up his hand, palm out, and pushed against Jim's chest. "Just calm down! Okay, maybe 'superman' is a little hyperbolic, but I never said anything about you being a - a freak."

Jim squared his shoulders and grudgingly sat.

"Now, what I'm trying to say is that you have participated in more militaristic sub-cultures than the average person -- a lot more. Your experience in Peru is invaluable; hell, I could do a paper on that alone."

Jim crossed his arms and looked out the window. A reluctant admission escaped him. "I...don't really remember much of that."

"A year and a half spent in the bush? The sole survivor of your unit? I mean, I'm not a psychiatrist, but that sounds pretty damn traumatic to me. And trauma tends to get repressed."

"So what are you looking for here? A ride-along?"

"Captain Simon said I'd be eligible for an observer's pass."

"But you'd be riding along with me."

"Yeah, like your partner." Sandburg smiled, radiating friendliness.

"Partner? No. No way." Jim stood up again. "That's an earned title. For cops."

Sandburg's palms came up. "Okay, okay, I retract the term 'partner'. I'd just be an observer here, hanging back, taking notes." He shook his head, a deferential bob.

"No. No. It's still a bad idea." Jim turned, folding his arms in a gesture of dismissal. "Look, I've had enough. Let's go. I'll give you a lift back to your car."

"Okay, sure." Sandburg gathered their half-eaten meal and threw the mess into a trash bin.

Jim marched out to his truck, still annoyed that so beautiful a voice could utter such irritating words. He turned when he reached his door, expecting to have to wait for Sandburg, but he stood at Jim's back, looking a little wind-torn but ready. Jim softly hummed deep in his throat, a neutral approval, and got in the truck. He found Sandburg's equitable acceptance of rejection surprising considering how eager he seemed about this school project.

When Jim turned off his truck in the police garage, Sandburg asked, "Can I follow you up? I've got to speak to Captain Banks."

"Yeah, sure." Enduring Sandburg in his wake, Jim entered Major Crimes, ready to send the kid off with no hard feelings and some surprising regret that he'd miss out on hearing that voice on a regular basis. Simon strode from his office as if anticipating Jim's return.

"Jim, I see you've met Mr. Sandburg. Good. Saves me introducing you two." Simon smiled wide. Jim began to worry.

"It's good to see you again, Captain." Sandburg extended his hand; Simon shook it.

"Same here. Did you fill in Jim on the details?"

"Ah, he did, actually. I declined," said Jim.

Simon's smile vanished as he glared at Jim. "That's something we've got to discuss. In my office. Could you wait out here a minute, Mr. Sandburg?" He turned without waiting for an answer and gestured to the open door. Jim tipped his head, letting his annoyance announce itself to the entire bullpen, but he stepped into the office. Simon entered behind him and closed the door. He skirted his desk and reached for the coffeepot. He poured a cup and put the pot back, ignoring Jim.

"Simon --"

"Hear me out, Jim." Simon set his mug down, untouched, and worried a pen on his blotter. "Mr. Sandburg comes well-recommended."

"And what does that mean, exactly?"

"It means that he's got the backing of his school. He got thumbs up from the boys at the 51st; hell, he survived riding with Al and that clown he calls a partner."

"Can I say something here?"

"No." Simon reinforced the word with another glare. "The thing is, he can do a lot of good for Major Crimes. It's good PR, it's something we can parade in front of the mayor, and it's something your reputation could use, frankly. Your lone wolf act hasn't bought you many friends outside this department. You know there are some in IA who'd love a piece of you." Jim gripped the edge of the table he leaned against, thinking back, thinking of Jack's suspicious disappearance. "The kid has legitimacy. Did you know he's working with Jack Kelso, too? Your career couldn't get a better boost. This is a prime opportunity." Simon looked up from his fingertips spidered on the desk. "It's also not a choice, Jim."

"Damn it, Simon, this is ridiculous."

"Is it? Having this civilian ride along keeps you out of the fast lane. It'll buy you time to get your bearings again."

Jim leveled his own glare at Simon, but it did little good.

"Just do it. Two weeks; you can handle it that long."

"Fine. Sir." Jim stood up from the table and marched stiffly to the door.

"Send in the kid," said Simon. Jim paused, then left.

_.__._

"I'm sorry this is awkward for you." After hours spent dealing with paperwork, Sandburg returned to the bullpen. He seemed to sense Jim's anger for his sustained enthusiasm at lunchtime had thinned to careful neutrality as he stood near Jim's desk, shifting from foot to foot.

Jim forgot the voice ever had allure. Anger bit deep, uncaring about collateral damage. He said brusquely, "Yeah, well, you got your pass."

"Tomorrow, at any rate. I don't get it until the drug test comes back."

Jim flicked his eyes over long hair, worn coat and Goodwill flannel, earrings and leather bracelet: the patina of a sixties hangover. "Riiight."

"Look, maybe we got off on the wrong foot here. Let me make it up somehow. It's, um," Sandburg glanced around until he spied the clock, "it's almost five. I don't know about you, but that burger was a while ago. I'll buy you dinner at Morton's Prime Steakhouse -- you know Morton's, right? I'll make it all up to you, really."

Independent of Jim, his stomach rolled forward, interested. He calculated the price of two dinners at Morton's, figured it against the wardrobe swaying in front of him, and considered it a reasonable down payment on restitution for the irritations of the coming weeks. He pushed the last of his paperwork around his desktop in a desultory way, considering. Diffidently, he said, "If we go now, we'll beat the rush."

"Oh, good, good, great." Sandburg bounced up on his toes. Jim canted a wary look at the renewed energy. "I can take my car, meet you there."

"That works."

After making additional noises, the young man left. Jim cleared his desk, almost appeased by the day's final turn until Simon approached.

"Done for the night?"

"Yessir." Crisp, mocking.

Simon looked pained. "Jim..."

A quick glance showed no one within earshot. Jim said, "I can't say I'm thrilled with the job right now. The politics, the bullshit."

"You think I am?" Simon shifted, a subtle reminder of his greater height. "You've endured worse for the job."

Jim let the moment grow between them, mentally fingering all the injustices on both sides of this line between friendship and professionalism that he could never forget. Couldn't forget, maybe, but he ignored it sometimes. He sighed and then said, "The kid's taking me out for steak at Morton's."

A smile split Simon's face and he leaned back, chuckling. "Oh, that helps, doesn't it."

"It doesn't hurt."

"Sounds like you've got him right where you want him already." The smile dimmed. "Look, it's only two weeks."

"Two weeks."

Traffic flowed like the odd irritations and unexpected small pleasures of the day running through Jim's head, taking him away from station politics and carrying him in fits and starts to the strip mall where Sandburg and steak waited. He turned the truck into the lot, creeping along behind a rusty, sluggish Mazda, eyes tuned to the pedestrian traffic since he'd already spotted the parked Corvair. A low bounce of abundant hair made him look hard at someone browsing a table outside the craft store next to Morton's, but then the person turned; it was a woman. She reached up to finger a display of some dangling things, and Jim's vision followed the movement just as it had found those hairs in a window. A shard of iridescent light struck his inquiring gaze and through it dragged him into a nameless depth where all he could see was the swirl of colors beyond visible light and hear an echoing chime as of struck crystal.

Jim would have panicked if he could have remembered how, for he had lost his way and had no idea which direction led back to his universe. Dull thuds and wooly touch reached him from a great distance. Numb impact jostled him, but it had less direct meaning to him than the sparks of blue, violet, and red that spiraled and danced in his vision. Worse, a sense of urgency pulled at him, demanding that he pay attention, demanding that events were transpiring even now, despite Jim's little detour into his own private fantasyland.

"...im, God, Jim, c'mon, what's wrong? Hey, hey, hey!" Sandburg's urgent voice scattered the beams, banished the ethereal chimes. Urgency devolved into panic. "No, wait, he's a cop, let go, I'm with him, I gotta see if he's okay, damn it!"

Jim shook his head, abruptly aware of every detail around him. He found himself leaning to the right, nearly flat on the seat. Sandburg stood next to him, the driver's door open wide and his hand fisted in the fabric over Jim's coat sleeve, pushing him off center, his other arm in the grip of a uniformed cop Jim didn't know. He rose and saw his bumper kissing the back of the old Mazda. The truck was still in gear, but his food had slipped off the gas. The Mazda held it in place. With an abrupt move, Jim threw the gear stick into park. To his right, two more cops stood over a man on the ground, their guns straight-armed, their bodies drawn into taut lines. Then, Jim noticed the crazed, splintering web that crawled out from the bullet hole in the passenger window. Acrid smoke lightly blurred the air around the uniformed cops and stung Jim's nose, confusing him with its apparent proximity.

He straightened fully, following the pull from Sandburg's gripping hand on his coat. "What the hell happened?"

Still edgy, the cops took several moments to dismiss Jim and Sandburg as threats before they left them alone. In that time, half-a-dozen Cascade patrol cars converged, the lights clicking, weirdly audible with each revolution. Jim could hear every one, click, click, click.

"Are you okay?" Sandburg reached his hand toward Jim's head, not touching but aiming for the forehead. "I don't see a bump; is it in the back?"

"I didn't bump my head."

Sandburg looked worried. "You drove into that car -- and you never even touched the brakes. And when I came over to see if you were okay, you were out of it, man, just...just staring. I was yelling at you for like five minutes, and while I'm doing that, the guy driving the car jumps out, and then this cop comes, like, right out of nowhere and he chases the guy, and then the guy yanks out a gun, and he starts firing, and damn! The guy, he was firing right at us, it was like...and you wouldn't move, you were a zombie!" Worry had been a mask; panic poured out the eyeholes. "I-I couldn't get you to snap out of it, so I pushed you down on the seat."

Jim soberly surveyed his ruined passenger window. The angle looked about right. He turned and examined the driver's unblemished side window, the smooth windshield, and then ran his fingers over the metal strips between the glass, over the ceiling, until he felt a roughness and a lump. The angle had been deadly.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"I didn't hit my head," Jim repeated. He slid from the truck and looked around until he caught Mackenzie's eye. The big man walked over with his rolling gait.

"Ellison. So that is you. What are you doing here? You in on this, or what?"

"No, just took a wrong turn. Who is that, anyhow?" Jim indicated the cops he didn't recognize.

"It's Springfield. They were looking to pick up a perp, bring him back home. The call for backup came in five minutes ago." Mackenzie looked over the scene. "Guess they managed."

"Was it clean take-down?"

"You didn't see?"

"No, I, uh, I bumped my head when..." He indicated the truck and Mazda with a gesture, lying badly and knowing it. Mackenzie didn't seem to notice; Sandburg did.

"Damn. They'll be looking for witnesses to clear this shooting quick."

Jim heard Sandburg swallow. "I saw it."

Mackenzie looked at him hard. "Don't I know you?"

"Um, no... Wait. Wait. You were there when my apartment blew up."

"Monkey boy," provided Jim helpfully.

"Oh, monkey boy, of course."

Sandburg's smile looked unbalanced. "Yeah, I was standing over there when this fender bender happened. When I came over to see if Jim was okay, these cops came up and tried to arrest that guy over there. He pulled out a gun and all hell broke loose."

"Stick around until the detectives get here and take your statement."

"Yeah, sure. Glad to help." Sandburg's eyes tracked the yellow police tape as it went up, fencing them in the center.

"Can you keep an eye on him, keep him isolated?" Mackenzie asked Jim, who assured him he could, allowing him to return to more interesting things as two ambulances rushed up.

"Hey, it's Al and Charlie." Sandburg's voice skated the edge of hysteria.

"You gonna make it, Chief?"

"I'm fine, just coming down." He mimed a plane landing with one hand.

The two paramedics rushed up then, Charlie in a flat-out run, Al seemingly walking but hustling nearly as quickly as his younger partner.

"Hey, Ellison, Sandburg," said Charlie, serious as he set down his case.

"Where's the fire, Speedy?"

"Shit, we got a call of shots fired and officer down; Big Mac points over at you -- I get worried, okay?"

"I didn't know you cared, Charlie, but I'm fine. You busted your hump beating Martinez' for nothing." Jim looked at Al. "Tell me you didn't let him drive, Al."

Al shrugged. "Nope."

"So, you're okay," said Charlie.

"Yeah."

Charlie looked over to where the second ambulance crew worked on the suspect. "Fucking glory hounds."

"Let me look at you anyhow," insisted Al, and Jim submitted with stiff grace.

"Sand-man, what are you doing here. You slumming with the po-leese now?"

Despite the light Al shined in his eyes, Jim could see how Sandburg stared at him even as he distractedly answered Charlie.

"Yup, I've moved on."

"And you're riding with Ellison? Hoo! He keeps you busy, I bet. At least it isn't pack-mule duty; more like homework boy. I bet he has you fetching coffee and doing all his paperwork."

"You're fine," Al said to Jim, and put away his light.

"Yeah, fine. I'm...fine," replied Jim. Since he'd been out of it when the bullets flew, he had no adrenalin surge, no reaction goading him to fight or flight -- no memory at all. Dying without even knowing what hit him seemed a horrible fate. He glanced to the neat bullet hole in his truck, lined up the angle of fire again while Charlie warmed up to his friendly baiting. And then, he looked at Sandburg, looking at him.

"Hey, Charlie." Jim made his voice dry and hard, but his eyes felt like windows as he held Sandburg's nervous gaze. "Quit messing around with my partner."

End Primates by grit kitty: gritkitty@hotmail.com

Author and story notes above.

Disclaimer: The Sentinel is owned etc. by Pet Fly, Inc. These pages and the stories on them are not meant to infringe on, nor are they endorsed by, Pet Fly, Inc. and Paramount.