Author: Sam

Story: Speed Trap: 5 of 23

Series: Speed-Burn

Setting: Early January, 2005. New York City.

Note: In the episode guide, Speed is shot on September 20, 2004, while Aiden was fired on October 3, 2005. These dates are important to understanding the story timeline.

Feedback: Yes, please? Especially constructive. samwise_baggins@yahoo.co.uk

Webpage: http://www.geocities.com/samwise_baggins/index.html

At the sound of the door, Flack's head raised and his piercing blue eyes fell on the soaked, huddled figure staggering inside. With a frown, he straightened, pushing away from the dispatch desk. His senses were telling him that bad news had just walked in, and Detective Don Flack always trusted his senses. With a wary eye, the young officer strode purposefully toward the pale, bent-over figure in the too-thin jacket.

Maybe that was it... maybe it was the fact that it was January and this guy had nothing warmer on than a denim jacket and newly pressed, yet worn-out blue jeans. The man had seemed to make a concession to the cold by putting on a flat cap, but it wouldn't help much in the sleet raining down outside. Old boots, so worn the original design was unidentifiable, clung to slowly shuffling feet, and a hand, almost blue with cold, clutched at the area around his heart.

Shit! Is this guy having a heart attack right in the NYPD lobby?

Flack jumped forward the last remaining steps and encircled the man with his arms. "Sir? Do you need help?" He was prepared to call 9-1-1 at the first indication of distress, but had to be sure it was injury, not cold, which caused that clasping gesture of that too pale hand.

"No," the man gasped out, leaning heavily into Flack and trembling from exertion. He lifted his head slightly, revealing deep, chocolate colored eyes in a face gaunt with recent illness. Black-brown curls were plastered to his forehead and nape, giving him an almost boyish look. At the doubt in the New York detective's eyes, the man clarified, "I'm out... of breath... from walking..."

Then, without warning, he pushed away from the helpful detective and shuffled to a nearby wooden bench. Sinking onto its hard surface, he made an appreciative noise. "Forgot... what work... subways were..."

This did not ease the tension one iota for Flack, however. He merely frowned, his handsome features twisting in consternation. Walking over to the bench, he looked down at the wretched man and grunted out, "Okay. Why the police department? Are you here to shelter from that storm or do you need something?" He couldn't help the distrust in his voice, it had been bred into him from generations of New York City cops, each one living and working in an ever more dangerous city.

A soft chuckle, sounding rather bitter, escaped the man, causing Flack's brows to furrow in confusion. Looking up, the man slowly said, "I've got an appointment on the thirty-fifth floor." He seemed to have regained the ability to breathe at least. "Please tell me there's an elevator?"

An appointment on the thirty-fifth? Why would he have an appointment at the Crime Lab? That didn't make sense. It certainly couldn't be for a job; Mac was fastidious about appearance, and this guy looked like a hobo. He also looked like he couldn't work his way out of a paper bag... and a guy needed big brains to work for Mac Taylor. Flack crossed his arms, his face registering his disbelief.

For his part, the man had reached his right hand into an inner pocket, apparently quite aware of Flack's wary eyes following his every movement. He took out a pair of thin-wire-rimmed glasses and perched them on his nose, blinking owlishly up at the still distrustful detective. The glasses were so new as to be contradictory to the threadbare clothes he wore. "I've got an interview." The man once more reached inside his coat.

Quickly, Flack's hand shot towards him, grasping the too thin wrist in a secure, but painless grip. "I wouldn't do that too often in here, buddy. You might get a bullet for your trouble."

Brown eyes widened then the man lowered his lids to half-mast and nodded slowly in understanding. "Okay. I was reaching for my papers from the agency. I've got references and an interview slip." He waited patiently, not pulling away from the strong detective.

"Yeah, well, nice and easy then. Show them to me." Flack let the man's wrist go and unconsciously wiped the hand down the side of his trousers. The guy was cold and clammy, and it was like touching a dead body... almost... if one discounted the movements and the strong pulse Flack had felt under his fingertips.

With the recommended slow gestures, the man pulled a folded sheaf of papers from his inside pocket, brandishing them for Flack's benefit then smoothing them out on the bench next to him. At least he'd been smart enough not to lay them on his drenched pants leg. Finally, the man looked up and spoke in a quiet, almost amused sounding voice, though exhaustion tinged the sound. "My name is Joe Avery, and I'm here to interview as a lab tech for a Detective Taylor?"

The name didn't ring any bells for Flack, not that it should. Unless someone deliberately hunted him down to spread the word, Don was out of the loop concerning the lab. He didn't work for Mac, after all. Looking over the worn-out gentleman again, Flack had some serious doubts about this situation. If he was looking for an interview, even came with recommendations, he wasn't going to make a good first impression on the ex-Marine upstairs. His clothes alone screamed "homeless".

After a long moment, the seconds ticking into minutes on the standard issue wall clock above the dispatch desk, Don nodded. “I’ll call Mac. You wait right there, Mr. Avery.” He didn’t move away from the man’s side, not liking the idea of leaving this guy unattended in the police department. Instead, he pulled out his cell phone and dialed the too familiar number of the New York City Crime Lab.

In his office, overlooking the entire wide-open layout of the lab, Mac Taylor sat working at his desk. He was catching up on some paperwork he’d had to put off due to three recent homicides found all on the same day, but not connected. Mac loved this city; he loved his job; what he hated was the paperwork. Still, it had to be done, and with the unexpected, and extremely rare, quiet, he was taking advantage and finishing early. Maybe he wouldn’t be working late tonight.

Not that working late really mattered to the tired man. He rarely, if ever, slept anymore. The most sleep he could boast was an hour or two snatched here and there. It wasn’t that he was overworked… he was an insomniac, had been ever since the Trade Center went down. Mac didn’t like to dwell on the reasoning for the insomnia. Everyone knew he’d lost his wife, Claire, in the terrorist attack; why dredge it up daily, four and a half years later?

For that very same reason, his desk and office were clear of any personal mementoes: why dredge up old memories? After Claire had been killed, Mac went into a severe depression. Anger and grief had nearly torn him apart, and all he wanted to do was lash out and destroy anything that reminded him of the woman he’d loved and lost. He’d trashed most things, put the photos in storage. Then he’d tried to bury the memories, as he couldn’t bury the body; she’d never been located.

Damn! Work was supposed to be the catharsis he used to get rid of the aching memories. He couldn’t take that dark road again, not now, now when he was starting to heal. Starting to heal… after four, long, painful years. He had to clear his mind, get a grip before he broke down in front of his people. Mac always tried to present the strong front, the tough ex-Marine with no heart. He did his job and did it well, emotion and heart be damned; they had no place in the life of a criminal investigator.

Standing, the dark-haired man strode quietly to one of the glass office walls, watching the scurrying in the lab without really seeing it. Trying to distract himself, he mentally reviewed the recent memo he’d gotten. It had been unexpected and not entirely welcome and he didn’t like the idea of cooperating with the politely veiled orders. Orders, however, they were, and Mac followed orders, no matter how distasteful, despite needing investigators not lab techs.

The ring tone signaling a call broke through his silent reveries, and Mac snatched up his phone. Quick fingers flicking the proper button, Mac simultaneously brought the phone to his ear, pausing briefly to hear the signal that the call had come through then firmly said, “Detective Taylor.”

As Mac had programmed ring tones for each of his frequent callers, Flack’s voice breaking through the connection was no surprise. “Mac? There’s a guy down here, claims he’s got an interview with you?”

Already? Mac withheld the sigh that wanted to escape. Instead, he merely responded, “I’ll be right down, Flack.” With that, and Flack’s surprised affirmative, Mac shut off the phone. He slipped it back into his pocket, grabbed his suit jacket, and headed out of the office for the elevator. While waiting for the cab to reach the ground floor, he slipped into the black coat, the only expression on his face one of withdrawn disapproval.

He would have actually been surprised if someone had let him know that it was his standard expression nowadays.

Don waited impatiently for Mac to show up. He eyed Mr. Avery warily the entire time, noticing how the man seemed to be content to merely re-read his own paperwork. The color was coming back into the man’s face, but no amount of calm was going to change the fact that he was dressed like a Salvation Army reject. There was absolutely no way he’d get a job, on principal alone, recommendations or credentials be damned.

Finally, Mac approached from the rear elevator. The closed look on the investigator’s face became even more shuttered at the sight of the man sitting in a puddle of melted sleet on the hard wooden bench. Flack had to admit; he’d been right about Mac’s disapproval. With a shrug, the younger detective looked to Mac as if to say “What can you do?” The other man merely nodded once in acknowledgement and said, “Mr. Joseph Avery?”

Flack had to clench his jaw to prevent it from dropping. This guy’s expected? No way’s he getting on that elevator. Mac won’t let him in the lab, no way. Don was finding it hard to believe that fastidious Mac Taylor hadn’t just taken one look at the wreck of a man and sent him packing. The investigator’s next action nearly sent the detective into permanent shock.

“Follow me, Mr. Avery. You need to get dry before you can tour the lab.”

With that almost pleasant sounding command, Mac led the drenched, worn-out man towards the rear elevator, leaving a shell-shocked Don Flack to watch after the pair.

It was only a few minutes after that Don jogged after them, intent on finding out just what Mac was up to, though the shock had yet to wear off. He was sure Mac would refuse the guy, but this odd gesture of compassion? Yeah, it was sleeting like a bandit out there, but Mac wasn’t usually the compassionate type. Maybe he feels obligated ‘cause the guy has an appointment? Flack vowed he’d understand before the day was out; he didn’t like it when Mac pulled a surprise on him.

Mac nearly cringed at the sight of the wreck of humanity sitting by Flack’s side. He held his reaction in check, however, and quickly sized up the applicant.

Mr. Avery looked as if he should be in a hospital, not running through the driving freezing rain to get to a job interview. He was drenched, dressed in old clothes, and trembling with fatigue. Mac was sure it was fatigue; he was used to the sight from back in his Marine days. The man actually reminded him of a soldier at the end of a seventy-two hour patrol under threat of sniper attacks.

Normally, Mac wouldn’t have let such a disreputable looking figure past the dispatch desk; however, the memo he’d received concerning this interview kept him from following his normal procedure. He had to at least give the man a chance to prove himself. If he didn’t work out, Mac would have no qualms about contacting the agency and sending Avery packing.

First things, first, though. He couldn’t go into the lab like that. Aside from the professional reputation of the lab, which this man certainly didn’t seem to represent, he’d bring contaminants in with those soaked clothes. Once Avery stood, though, Mac knew that offering his own spare suit wouldn’t work. Joe Avery was at least six foot tall, while Mac was 5’10”; the height difference alone would cause problems. He’d have to offer him one of the standard blue jumpers they kept on hand for garbage sorting.

With some detachment, Mac was aware that Flack didn’t immediately follow, jogging to catch up a few minutes later. Not wanting an audience for this interview, the investigator stopped and turned, waiting for the detective. He absently noted that Mr. Avery came to a halt to his right, an observation that really meant nothing and was pushed away just as quickly.

When Don caught up, Mac gave him a neutral look. “Did you need something, Flack?” The look of surprise and the shuttering of his expression which followed let Mac know Flack was aware that he was getting the brush off. To the younger man’s credit, he merely shook his head and waited, watching as Mac and Joe Avery continued into the elevators.

The door slid shut, blocking out the sight of his colleague and friend.