"They're under arrest."
"Then you can watch while I check them for injuries. And cuff his hands in front. I can't examine him like that."
"He's dangerous."
"He's been here for hours with his sick father, and hasn't hurt anyone. You're not going to hurt me, are you, Don?"
"No, ma'am," he mumbled, his face flashing pain. He could barely move his jaw.
"Who are you to give that order?" the cop bridled.
"Charge Nurse of the Emergency Department. You assaulted him in front of dozens of witnesses. You give me shit, sonny, I'll have your badge."
Someone came over with a wheelchair for Anton. As much as he didn't want to show weakness, he couldn't stand. He was groggy and his ears rang. Nausea gripped his stomach. He clutched the orderly's shirt.
"Gotta hurl," he gagged.
The young man expertly dodged as Anton vomited over the side. The cop, who was a little too close, got his jackboots baptized.
"You prick, you did that on purpose!" He raised his hand to strike.
"Officer Oats, you move away from the prisoner. Get your gear. You're relieved of duty. Report to the desk sergeant. Newton!" the commanding officer's voice barked the order.
Another officer trotted up.
"I need you to take Oats to the precinct. Can you handle that?"
"Yes, Lieutenant. My pleasure." He grabbed the other officer by the elbow, perp walking him to a vehicle.
Oats yelled the entire time, still in full voice when the door closed.
"You must not like Newton much," Susie said in an aside as they walked to the ER.
"Newbie," the lieutenant flashed a smile.
The lieutenant and a female sergeant, handed their weapons to other officers before following.
"Maintain a perimeter," the lieutenant commanded.
"Sir," Anton said, his jaw stabbing with pain as he spoke. "I'm not going anywhere. For one, I hurt too damn bad. For another, there's an old man in there, who needs me. And needs the doctor, too."
The lieutenant sighed. "Doing my job, son."
"I understand. Just don't wanna put you folks out."
He was wheeled away by the orderly, so missed the lieutenant's surprised expression. "I never had a perp apologize for inconveniencing me," he mused to his sergeant.
Lieutenant Lewis Canon, nicknamed Loose, had a reputation as a hard leader, but a fair man. His calm, level head and accurate read of people, had saved a lot of volatile situations. He didn't see violent criminal on Donald Winthrop. He could believe that the younger man was a thief, that wouldn't surprise him. But he was calm, even docile and resigned, when he was arrested.
"Then Oats had to f**k it up!" he fumed and muttered.
The woman with him, Sergeant Eilene Stafford, looked up at him.
"You okay, sir?"
"Totaling the hours of paperwork due to Oats' stunt."
"Make Newton do it," she suggested with a sly grin.
"Tempting, but I don't wish it on my granny's dog. If I could make Oats do it himself, I would."
"I'll help," she offered.
He looked surprised. "You never volunteer for that."
"If it gets Oats off our team, I'll do it solo. He's a liability."
Canon nodded. "You know I had little choice."
"Even with his connections, that stunt was too much."
They stood in the ER doorway, looking for a spot to wait.
"Over there," Susie directed. "We'll be in Treatment One."
The officers stood in the corner, wall to their backs, where they could see the whole room. The blinds on the window to Treatment 1 were open. They could see the medical team examining Donald Winthrop. An orderly collected him in a wheelchair once more.
"Radiology," the young man announced. "Susie said one of you can come."
"You go," Canon said. "I'll get the laptop and start the write up."
"Yes, sir." She followed the orderly, who waited a few feet away.
"You can walk up here, Officer," Anton said. "I don't bite."
The orderly snorted. Anton chuckled.
"Well, been known to from time to time, but in a completely fun, consensual, way." He sighed. "Sorry, ma'am. Susie shot me up with the good shit."
Stafford laughed, moving up so she walked by the chair. Anton tried to look up at her, but winced. His cheek was a mess of torn flesh and bruises, his ear a bloody tatter. A particularly livid patch was at the crest of his cheekbone. Stafford couldn't help thinking what a handsome man he was. Even with half his face damaged, he could take center stage, or strut a runway. His eyes were soft, but held pain―emotional, as well as physical.
©2021 Dellani Oakes
No comments:
Post a Comment