Author: Sam

Story: Moral Judgements: 2 of ?

Series: Speed-Burn

Setting: AU: Speed-Burn: Wednesday, September 28, 2005 to Wednesday, October 5, 2005: New York City

Note: Mac’s injuries occurred during “Speed Trap”, if anyone wondered. Stella’s attack was in “Life Altering”. Both stories are in the Speed-Burn time line.

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

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

Wednesday, September 28, 2005:

It was nearing the end of the shift when two calls came in, pretty much back to back. Dispatch was quick to log them and notify the detectives on duty. The day shift would be required to field both cases, despite only having half an hour left on the clock; crime waited on no one’s schedule.

Detective Don Flack, Jr. took the call slips and signaled Detectives Thacker and Scagnetti to follow him up to the Crime Lab. It would be easier to draw the investigators’ attention in person this late in the day. Before he could take more than a couple of steps; however, the tall, dark-haired officer came to a halt, nearly causing Thacker to collide with him. Don ignored his fellow officer in favor of turning a harsh glare on the rookie at Dispatch.

“Why is this only coming in now?” He waved the slips of paper in the air, agitatedly. “It says the woman’s called four times about her missing kid!”

The Dispatch worker shook her head and gave the senior officer a frown. “The woman says her daughter is missing, but can’t provide any tangible reasons why her kid would be threatened or kidnapped. We’ve had a full shift of priority cases, so a runaway gets shunted back. I’ve already explained to her that most often in these runaway cases, the kid comes back by dinner or bedtime, or in a couple of days.” She continued to glare at the detective. “And that other slip is an active assault case, so the runaway gets prioritized behind it.”

Don spun on his heel without further comment and bolted into the elevator, with Thacker and Scagnetti trying to stay right behind. The tall officer impatiently slammed the button for the 35th floor Crime Lab while simultaneously pulling out his cell phone and dialing. “Damn that woman! C’mon, Mac, you better not be buried under some sorta gunk!”

Thankfully, the calm, neutral voice of Detective Mac Taylor, head of the Crime Lab, came through the connection. “Detective Taylor.”

“Mac,” Don’s voice was agitated, his manner urgent as he glared at the slowly rising numbers above his head. “We’ve got an assault in progress and a possible kidnapping that’s been shunted for over twelve hours. I need CSI’s ASAP! I’m on my way up with the slips.”

“You’ve got the entire team, Don. We’ll be ready when you get here.”

Again, Mac’s voice responded, cool and collected despite the seriousness of the delay… most child abductions went quickly downhill after the first twenty-four hours. The kid’s life could be in very real danger if she wasn’t a runaway, and some kind of gut instinct told Don that this case was probably going to turn into one of the bad ones. He didn’t even bother to thank the investigator before shutting off his connection and pocketing the cell phone.

The door opened, revealing Mac Taylor, himself, standing with kit in one hand as if he hadn’t any other case to keep him, which was a far cry from the truth; the Crime Lab was always swamped under current and cold cases. It was evident by the bulk around his left shoulder and his right thigh that he was still sporting bandaging from his recent run in with an FBI agent who’d gone bad. His right hand was in a cast, and Don knew that underneath that plaster covering, his hand had wires and rods running through it due to a through-and-through he’d received during that same encounter. The injuries hadn’t prevented the Detective from processing lab work and crime scenes though the man was required to have a secondary investigator to assist him at all times until his hand healed enough to remove the rods and wires. He was still a very welcome sight to Don; they needed to make up for over twelve hours on the missing kid call, and, injured or not, Mac Taylor was one of the most efficient and thorough investigators he’d ever met.

Just behind Mac were his day shift investigators: Stella Bonasera, Danny Messer, and Aiden Burn… all hand-picked by the department head and all well able to handle either case on their own, if necessary. Rushing up to join the team at that moment were the newest investigators: Sheldon Hawkes, who’d just switched out from the Medical Examiner’s office, and Lindsay Monroe, on loan from Bozeman, Montana while Mac recovered from his injuries. Don nodded his appreciation, handing the slips over to Stella, rather than the temporarily one-handed Mac. The tall man spun on his heel and led the motley bunch into the elevator to join his two officers.

Pushing the button for the ground level, Don started speaking without turning around. “We’ve got a girl missing over twelve hours, but the rookie on Dispatch figured she was a runaway and kept putting off assigning her. The other’s an assault in progress, if it still is… an open 9-1-1 without any response, but apparently the noises Dispatch heard,” he repeated from memory, “‘sounded like a bar brawl’. I’ll send Scagnetti to help with the missing kid, and Thacker and I will go to the assault.” He impatiently glared at the slow moving numbers above him.

It was a toss-up over whose complaints over the mishandling of the missing girl were more incensed: Danny’s or Stella’s.

“Twelve hours! That’s insane!” Danny’s anger was very evident. “The twenty-four hour rule was ended years ago; how can dispatch…”

Stella overrode him, “How old is this kid? The mother called four times and no one thought to ask?”

With a frown, Mac’s voice calmly cut through them both. “Stella, Sheldon, Danny… go to the assault. Aiden, Lindsay, you’re both with me on the missing kid.” He’d deliberately assigned the two protestors to the other case; it would be easier if they weren’t so emotionally involved before showing up. After all, just as Flack was right in assuming it could be a kidnapping, the missing kid could just as easily turn out to be a disgruntled sixteen-year-old angry over not being allowed to see her boyfriend on a weeknight. Mac wanted cool heads covering this case. Stella and Danny could handle the assault case without getting too emotional about it, despite the assault Stella had endured in May.

Mac didn’t comment when the only response to his directives was Aiden’s tired sigh; it had already been a very full shift and it looked like they’d have an equally full double.

When Don and his team arrived at the Brooklyn address, an ambulance was already there. One EMT was trying to talk to a hysterical older woman. The ride-along medic was merely standing by impatiently.

“What’s going on?” The detective had no qualms about cutting in.

The ride-along turned a frustrated glare on Flack. “No one knows who could have called. We’re about to canvass.”

“That’s our job.”

Don nodded to Thacker, who clung to Stella’s side as if afraid the woman would disappear if he took his eyes off her. Thacker was a damn fine investigator, be he was always a little on the shallow side on how to handle their female CSI’s. Don chose to let Stella handle Thacker; she’d ask if she needed his intervention. Instead, he looked at the woman being questioned by the other EMT and asked, “So what’s her problem?”

With a shrug, the ride-along disgustedly said, “Her cat’s been missing for a couple of hours and she’s afraid it’s been…” with a malicious grin which he hid behind his hand, the man rolled his eyes at Flack, “cat-napped.”

Frowning repressively at the other man, Don said, in a disapproving manner, “And you’d laugh if your Grandma lost her poodle?”

That shut the ride-along up and Don turned his attention to the gathering crowd. “Anyone call 9-1-1?”

Bustling over, a man with greasy hair and a thick, dark mustache called out, “I checked the switchboard and there ain’t no open phone lines in the building.”

“You’d be the super.” It wasn’t a question.

“Damn straight! Used to be, you’d be able to tell everything what was goin’ on in a building this small. Eight floors and everybody’s using cell phones. Ain’t nobody got no pride no more?”

“Yeah, well I ask the questions,” Don merely looked at him with no expression, “so shut up.”

It worked; the man spluttered off into silence. Don looked towards Stella, who was indeed on her cell phone. She hung up and nodded. “I’ve got them trying to trace the call to a more specific area or user. It’s still open.”

“Which means the guy’s still waiting for help,” Sheldon jumped in.

Danny frowned. “Or he can’t hang up any more.”

When the door swung open to Aiden’s firm knock, the appearance of the person answering the door of the Manhattan Penthouse was a surprise. Standing on the other side was a petite woman… if she was old enough to be called an adult... she looked no older than sixteen, dressed in a flowing, white nightgown and no shoes. She was pale with dark green eyes and tangled waist-length blonde hair, and her face was streaked with tears, both old and new. She blinked at them as if in a daze, and an older woman dressed in the typical uniform of a housecleaner hurried forward to gently push the girl… woman… away.

Mac stepped forward to draw attention to his self. “My name is Detective Mac Taylor. We received notification that there’s a possible missing child from this residence.” He wondered if that younger woman in the nightgown might be their missing girl, she certainly looked like she could be.

The housecleaner nodded and briskly said, “I need identification, Sir, Madams.” Her accent was pure Manhattan, and her manner no-nonsense.

After presenting their credentials, which seemed to satisfy the older woman, the officers were let into the beautifully appointed Penthouse. The art work on the walls and individual pedestals were worth five times any detective’s annual salary or more for just one piece. There was a grand piano, though it was closed and looked unused, if clean. To the side was a set of doors, across the vast thickly carpeted space was a hallway leading to more doors. There was a second hallway, leading towards the back of the house and presumably the kitchen or service area. The entire place was done in blues and rich, wood-tones, making it far more practical than the showy white-colored homes the rich seemed all too fond of. Lindsay kept her lips pressed firmly together, intent on not displaying herself as some yokel, while Aiden merely ignored the aesthetically displayed wealth.

Nodding at the older woman in the uniform, who seemed to be in her forties or so, Mac noted the girl hadn’t gone further than a few steps from the door; she still looked dazed. There was one other female in the room, also in uniform, and no males. The third woman appeared to be in her early thirties, and also Caucasian, as the other two seemed to be. The detective turned his attention back to the eldest of the three, but remained aware of the actions and reactions of the youngest.

“We were told there was a missing girl? Her mother called it in.”

With a firm nod, the housecleaner nodded and turned. “Madam. The police are come.” She approached the dazed-looking girl and touched her arm gently, eliciting a scream none-the-less. Wincing, the servant looked at Mac then back to the girl. “They’ve come about Celeste, Madam.”

“It hasn’t been twenty-four hours,” came the soft, confused reply. The girl was acting as if drugged. She turned dazed eyes on the three detectives and moved slightly toward them. “I thought it took twenty-four hours to be considered a missing person.”

“Actually, that’s not true, Ma’am,” Mac replied, studying the girl. “The procedures have changed in recent years. Are you the mother?” If she was, then it was no upset teenager who had run away in a pique.

The servant nodded firmly, interrupting. “She is. May I present Josephine Imogene Standish? Madam, this is Detective Mac,” the servant made a very slight face at the apparently abbreviated name, “Taylor. Celeste is the only child of Mrs. and Mr. Charles Beauregard Standish the third. We are all terribly worried about her, Sir.”

Josephine nodded, the dazed look lessening only marginally. She moved her hands restlessly, and Mac noticed the bandaging on both. “I called the police when I didn’t see her this morning. The woman told me to wait until supper, but I couldn’t. I called again every two hours, and was told the same thing. I was told she would probably come home for dinner or bedtime, or she would come home in a couple of days.” The young woman’s voice was light, soft, and sounded on the verge of tears. She looked straight at Mac then, her eyes still confused, almost haunted. “The woman asked me if anyone I could think of would want to hurt Celeste or take her from me, and I told her that I couldn’t think of anyone who would want to harm her. Only Charles would try to take her, but he’s been working all day, and he’s not able to have Celeste at work, so I cannot think he would have taken her.” Again, Josephine restlessly moved her injured hands. “The woman would hang up on me; I was never asked anything else. But,” she turned her eyes towards each of the other investigators then back on Mac, “how would a six month old run away from home?”

“Six months!”

Officer Scagnetti’s explosive comment seemed to break the woman’s daze, coming from behind the investigators where he hadn’t been noticed until then. Josephine shrieked then fainted, Mac unable to catch her, it happened so quickly. The older woman gasped, her hands flying to cover her heart in an age-old gesture of shock; she recovered quickly, to her credit, and knelt by her mistress, checking the woman for additional injuries. The woman’s shriek had made Lindsay jump, but Aiden’s attention was riveted on the second servant, who merely stood by with hands quietly folded, watching the entire scene as if detached from her surroundings. Mac squatted down beside the prostrate woman; it wasn’t long before the mother of the missing infant was awake once more; however, she stayed lying on the floor.

Mac remained squatting next to the young mother. He gentled his tone as he asked, “Are you okay?”

She turned dark green eyes up to his worried face then shook her head. “I think so.”

Definitely confused, her actions didn’t fit her dazed words. Mac frowned. “Would you mind if we examine the apartment and ask a few questions?”

“Please?” With a brief nod, Mac put his case on the floor and offered the woman his good hand, to help her up. He waited patiently as she looked down at the hand, confusion on her face. Finally, she slipped her own bandaged hands onto his forearm and held tight, standing as he did. It was an unusual way for her to let him support her, but that wasn’t the oddest thing about this situation by far. What worried him more was the blood soaking through her bandages and onto his sleeve when she pulled her hands back.

“Ma’am? Your hands… do you need a doctor?” His voice was gentle, concerned, but he mentally filed the information with the other oddities: her confused affect, the missing infant, her injuries; somehow, Mac couldn’t help but wonder if the mother had something to do with her own infant’s missing status.

With a gasp, the housecleaner gripped her mistress’s wrists and held her hands up, above her heart. “Madam, we should call Mr. Standish so he can get a doctor. How did you cut your hands?”

“I think… I don’t know, Abigail. I…” Josephine frowned and looked helplessly at her hands, still being held at shoulder height. With a shake of her head, she looked to Mac, as if for clarification, but he remained stoic. “Charles will already be angry I called the police; I can’t call the doctor, too.” Her voice was apologetic, though she didn’t take her eyes from the detective.

Unable to hold back any longer, Lindsay said, in some surprise, “Why would your husband be angry that you called the cops? Your daughter’s missing!”

“Well,” the younger woman replied, her voice as confused as ever before, “because I think I killed her.”