Back to Part 1 SVS2-07: A Little Fault's a Bitter Sting by Fox, Part 2 "We've got to be missing something," Rafe said, leaning back in his chair and staring at the blackboard. "You keep saying that, buddy," Brown yawned. "We know we're missing something. We're missing a suspect. We don't have anyone we like here." Rafe threw a pencil at him. "Everybody, everybody, look," Simon said. "It's late. We're not getting any further with what we've got here tonight. Tomorrow the written demands should come in; as soon as CVL gives them to us, we can start analyzing the document, the language -- shoot, maybe we'll get lucky and get a print. Meantime, everyone go home and get some rest." The Major Crime detectives started to disperse. "Ellison, Sandburg -- got a minute?" Blair looked at Jim; both shrugged. "Sure, Simon. What's up?" "We're going to have to have everyone at the parade this weekend, guys. I need to eighty-six your ersatz travel plans." Jim's eyes had narrowed; Blair knew he'd seen this coming. "I figured. What's the plan?" "I don't know until we see what these jokers say they're planning to do," Simon admitted. "But there will be one, and I'll need you both. I'm sorry." "Hey," Blair said with a slight, tired smile, "work is work, right?" "He's right, Simon," Jim said, laying a hand on Blair's shoulder. Blair fought the impulse to drop his head forward so Jim could rub his neck; he'd just finished saying work was work, after all, and in Simon's office they were Ellison and Sandburg first, Jim and Blair second. But Jim's hand was warm and heavy and felt really good after the day they'd had... Blair concentrated on listening to Jim's voice, rather than nod off on his feet. "We want a bomb to go off even less than we want to seem to be supporting the local vets' organizations." "Yeah," Blair agreed again, yawning. "We can march. We'll survive." Simon raised his eyebrows and sighed through his nose. "I sure as hell hope we all survive, gentlemen. I knew you'd understand. As your captain, I'll dismiss you and see you tomorrow." He made a sympathetic face. "As your friend, though, I'm sorry. I know this isn't how you wanted it." "Thanks, Simon. We'll see you tomorrow." Jim squeezed Blair's shoulder once. "Come on, Chief. Let's roll." "Rollin'." They grabbed their jackets on the way through the empty bullpen; everyone else had beat a hasty retreat. When the elevator doors closed behind them, Blair finally did hang his head, knowing Jim would automatically slide a hand up under his hair and massage the nape of his neck. "Listen, Jim," he said after a moment, pressing his chin into his chest. "I'm sorry about earlier. This morning. I didn't want to --" "No, Chief, you were right on the money," Jim said. "I shouldn't have flown off the handle like that. I meant what I said about being glad you're here to yell at me." "Yeah, I know it's the yelling that makes you really glad you have me," Blair smirked. The elevator doors opened onto the parking lot. "You better believe it." "I wonder why you got so upset about that, though," Blair mused. "Because it was misguided and wrong and I didn't want any part of it? You wouldn't be surprised if Simon flipped out over racial profiling, would you?" "I'd flip out over racial profiling. But anyway, I'm not surprised at the reaction -- just the magnitude." Blair shoved his hands in his coat pockets. "I mean, you see mistreatment and injustice and all that nasty stuff all the time, and it always strikes some wrong chord in you, which is why you're a cop in the first place, and that makes sense. You're hardwired, as a Sentinel. You have like a turbo-motivated sense of justice. We know that. So you're all about protecting the tribe, which isn't news. But what I don't get is how different impetuses, different emotional stimuli, trip that wire to different degrees." They reached the truck, and Blair slapped the passenger-side door with an open palm. "Hey, maybe that's it -- maybe your sense of fairness and justice and stuff is as enhanced as your external senses, man. I'll have to think of some ways to monitor --" Jim pulled him close and kissed him. It took Blair a startled second to shift gears; Jim had reached for his collar with no warning, so he was still speaking when their lips met, but it was only an instant before he closed his eyes and opened his mouth and lifted his hands to hold onto Jim's jacket. Just as he was getting in the groove, though, just as he was about to push with his tongue and take control of the kiss, Jim pulled away. "Get in the car," he whispered, pulling on a lock of hair. "We can talk about my sense of honor and my sense of propriety and my sense of humor when we get home. It'll be much more... comfortable there than in the garage." Blair swallowed and smiled and got in the car. They didn't speak the whole way back; Jim watched the road, and Blair watched Jim. Each kept his hands in his pockets as they rode up the elevator and walked down the hallway. It seemed that each was trying to win some sort of masochistic endurance contest, and that seemed particularly foolish. Blair knew both he and Jim were in favor of delayed gratification on principle, but the trouble was that there was a very real possibility the gratification would be delayed past a point where the delay was worth it. But, of course, Blair knew his desire for sexual gratification -- why couldn't he have it both instant and delayed, another part of his mind wondered -- competed with his desire to defeat Jim, just to have something to tease him about. Blair smiled to himself as he hung up his coat and kicked off his shoes. He went into the office to see if Burton or anybody had anything to say about senses other than the five basic ones; he could hear that Jim was untying his own shoes and setting everything tidily by the door, and that made him smile even more. "Jim, look at this," he said, marking a page with his finger where there was a discussion of a case in an Andean tribe where a woman had been abducted and killed. The village Sentinel had called louder than anyone, even the woman's husband, for the kidnapper's blood. "This is another one -- your sense of vengeance," Blair went on, stepping out into the living room just as Jim turned around from the kitchen. Of course it didn't really matter who won the contest. The part of Blair's mind that was always interested in thorough, unbiased research would probably have given the edge to Jim, since Blair did drop the book before either of them had taken a step. Anyone else in the circumstances in which Blair found himself would dispense with the analysis, call the thing a draw, and move on -- which, after that briefest of moments, Blair did. He couldn't get enough of Jim's kisses. Partly it was the taste, but ultimately the taste of Jim's mouth was only a fraction of the totality of the experience. Blair remembered discovering, as a kid, that kissing really was a fun and exciting thing when you got to kiss a girl instead of your mom or your Aunt Esther. The first time he'd slid his tongue into a girl's mouth, she'd squeaked and wrapped her arms around his neck, and his head had spun. It had only gotten better from there -- and being kissed by Jim Ellison was just something else. It was the Big Rocket Thunder Coaster next to the Coney Island kiddie ride that had been that far-off kiss with whatshername, whose mother ironed her hair. Jim kissed like he couldn't even entertain thoughts of doing anything else. Every sort of attention he could focus on the kiss, he did. He looked at your lips, and then he closed his eyes and leaned forward and inhaled through his nose, right before parting his own lips just slightly and pressing them to yours, where he could get to them with the tip of his tongue. He grabbed your head with his hands and held on, and of course it was all so fantastic that you moaned out loud and he heard you. Blair loved every second of it. He placed his hands on Jim's hips and opened his mouth enough to draw Jim's tongue inside. In his hair, Jim's hands tightened. Their lips parted; each took a breath; and they met again in the next instant, like a graph resuming after a gap where the result had been nonexistent because you couldn't divide by zero. Blair closed his eyes and held on tight and soaked up the taste of Jim's mouth. Betcha can't eat just one. Blair unbuckled Jim's belt, unbuttoned his pants, and pulled his shirt out of his waistband. The move was successful; Jim's lips left Blair's and moved over his jaw, down his neck, toward his throat. Blair started with the bottom buttons on his shirt when Jim started with the top, and between them they had Blair bare to the waist in seconds. Jim's mouth was right back on him. He mumbled something that sounded like "always taste so good" and gnawed on Blair's collarbone. Blair unbuttoned Jim's shirt and pushed it off his shoulders and down his arms; it turned inside out and hung from his wrists, even when Jim reached behind him to pull his hands out of the sleeves. "Damn. Damn. Cuffs." Jim took a step away and twisted back into his shirt in order to get it off properly. While he had the chance, Blair pulled off his socks and hurried up the stairs. Given the choice, he usually preferred the bed to the floor. Jim was about three steps behind him; they tumbled onto the bed and let their arms and legs tangle together, squirming out of their pants and under the blankets. You touched a man differently than you touched a woman, Blair reflected. And not just in the obvious sense that there were different things to touch. Of course, his experience with men was as limited as it could get -- so at least, he amended, he touched Jim differently than he had ever touched a woman. He'd found women to appreciate a light touch, almost frustrating -- that old instant-versus-delayed gratification thing again, no doubt. There had been girls who occasionally liked it rough, of course, but he'd never gone wrong with just skating the pads of his fingers over a variety of sensitive spots that had reduced a series of women to trembling heaps in his arms. Now he found himself running over Jim's body with the flats of his hands, almost what he'd call feeling instead of touching. He idly wondered whether that was a difference between men and women or a difference between Jim and other people or what; then Jim reached over to the nightstand and pressed what he found there into Blair's hands, and even the mostly-continuous scholarly-observation part of his brain quit thinking for a while. By the clock on the nightstand, it was five-thirty when Blair woke up. Jim's head rested on his chest, one hand on his opposite shoulder, legs wound together in a jumble. Blair wiggled his toes and could feel that Jim hadn't even kicked his socks off in his sleep. He grinned. Every so often Jim surprised him -- a new place, or an inventive use of food, or something like that. Leaving his white crew socks on had been a nice touch. Blair had rubbed his face against Jim's ankle like a cat while Jim had lain on his back with his knees around his ears. Blair stroked Jim's forehead and neck. Jim stirred. Blair let his fingers drift back up to Jim's face and watched as Jim, coming up out of sleep, turned his head to lean into the touch. When he was sure Jim was awake and just basking, Blair brushed his thumb across Jim's lips; Jim opened his mouth and drew the thumb all the way in, but he only sucked on it for a moment before opening his eyes and grinning at Blair. "Morning," Blair murmured. "Morning," Jim said, pulling his mouth off Blair's thumb and pushing himself up onto his elbows. "You astonish me." "Do I?" "Frequently." Jim leaned down for a quick but thorough kiss and rolled over so Blair was on top. "I love you." Blair licked Jim's ear. "I love you. So much... and we have to be at work asap this morning. Better get up." Jim rolled them over again. "Ah, Jim..." "Nope. No wheedling." Jim kissed Blair once more, and moved off him and out of bed. "You want to shower first?" "Yeah, okay." Blair yawned extravagantly. "In a minute." "Now, Sleeping Beauty," Jim said, yanking the blankets away as Blair groaned and turned over onto his stomach. "We've got a time to beat." Blair dutifully got up and went through his morning routine. He didn't linger in the shower; dawdling under the spray just made him drowsy, and Jim was right -- they had to be at work pronto. Blair sighed. He'd sort of planned to get some writing done over the weekend, but police work had trumped the dissertation yet again. At least the paper was almost done, he thought, turning off the water and wrapping towels around his hair and his waist. He couldn't keep this juggling act up forever -- though of course he'd probably always be juggling something. The smell of coffee drew Blair to the kitchen rather than up the stairs to dress, but it was still brewing. The coffeemaker hissed and clicked from its perch on the counter. "It'll be ready by the time you're dressed," Jim said, tapping him on the head with the newspaper. "Drink your algae." But by the time Blair was dressed and had drunk his algae, Jim was showered and dressed and heading out the door. They took their coffee to go. The Major Crime division had spent two more frustrating hours looking at the phone records, talking to snitches, and making no progress when Jim's phone had rung at eight-thirty. "Ellison." "Good morning, Detective. This is Andrew Davis." "Yes." Jim had been instantly alert and rummaged in his drawer for a note pad. "Has something happened, Colonel?" "Just what we expected -- we have the demands the caller promised would be delivered today." "Great," Jim had said enthusiastically. "We'll be right down. Try not to handle the document too much, if possible. We'll see you in just a few minutes." He'd hung up the phone and called for Sandburg and an evidence bag as he made for the door. Now, with the original document at Forensics ("Downtown postmark and a self-adhesive stamp? We're thrilled you have such high opinions of our diagnostic capabilities, Detective") and copies faxed or delivered to the police department psychiatrist, the chair of the university's criminology department, and Joel Taggert, Jim rubbed his eyes as his team went over the text with Davis for what must have been the fifteenth time. "We're trying to help, Colonel," Simon was saying. "And we know you're trying to help us. You know a lot that we don't know about the veterans' community in this town, and we appreciate your being so cooperative. But you're going to have to believe that we know a lot that you don't know about investigative procedure. We've spoken to Mr. Brandt, and he does not seem to be involved with this incident." "I don't know who else it could be. He's the only one I can think of who --" "Think harder." It was Rafe who had interrupted -- not loudly, not forcefully, just with a sort of no-nonsense air of pointing out the obvious -- and Jim stared. Rafe glanced over, caught Jim's eye, and gave a little nod. "We know you're a busy man, Colonel," Simon said, showing Davis to the door. "We'll let you get back to your regular schedule. Our bomb squad is going over your building, and I'm sure he has some things to talk about with you also. We'll be back in touch. "All right." Simon closed the door, folded his arms, and nodded. Sandburg turned the blackboard to its reverse side and grabbed a new piece of chalk. "What have we got," Simon went on. Jim gave Rhonda a stack of copies to hand out. "The Cascade Veterans League does not represent all veterans in the Cascade metropolitan area," he read. Sandburg drew a line down the middle of the board and wrote 'DOES NOT REP ALL VETS' on the left side. "Assuming this complaint is made by a veteran, who might make it? Besides the gay veterans, as the colonel was thoughtful enough to point out. Anyone?" "A homeless veteran," Ramos suggested. Sandburg wrote 'GAY' and then 'HMLS' on the right-hand side of the blackboard. "Homeless guy isn't going to be able to follow through with the bombing plan, though," Brown pointed out. Sandburg put parentheses around 'HMLS.' "But a disabled vet? Maybe his insurance didn't cover all the medical expenses and the lost earnings and all that stuff." Sandburg wrote 'DSBLD' underneath 'HMLS'. "Could be someone who fought in, like, Korea, couldn't it?" Sandburg suggested, tapping the chalk against the board twice, pensively, and then turning and gesturing with it. "The forgotten war? Or someone who didn't fight at all, and thinks there's disproportionate attention given to, I don't know, World War Two, greatest generation, Vietnam, always a crowd favorite, and the Gulf War, since it was so recent?" "You're saying someone who didn't fight in one of those wars?" Simon verified. Sandburg waited for his nod before writing 'NON WWII VIETNAM GULF' in the right-hand column. "Actually," Jim said, "that brings us nicely to the second complaint: the Cascade Veterans League glorifies wrongs, injustices and atrocities committed by and in the name of the United States Armed Forces." "You know they're called 'uniformed services' now," Sandburg said. Everyone glared at him. "What? They are. Same time 'personnel' turned into 'human resources.'" "Wrongs committed by and in the name of the armed forces," Simon repeated, and Sandburg wrote 'INJSTC US ARMED FORC.' in his left-hand column. "Come on, people." "Well, there's a ton of things people complain about," Rafe said. "They're not all so reasonable, though." "We'll worry about reasonable later. Let's hear it." "Hiroshima and Nagasaki, for a start," Rafe said. "My Lai. Mekong. Saigon," Jim offered. "Go ahead and just put Vietnam civilians," Simon said. "Bombing Iraq." "Air strikes in Bosnia." "Israel," Sandburg said, when he had finished writing 'A-BOMB VIETNAM CIVS IRAQ BOS.' Everybody seemed a little surprised. "We're allowing for unreasonable thought processes, right?" Sandburg said, defending himself. "There are people who hate that the US is pro-Israel. And they'd actually have a decent point, if they didn't take it to absurd lengths. But there are civilians getting just as dead there as they did in My Lai." He folded his arms and raised an eyebrow. "And those guys are always bombing stuff," Brown pointed out. "No, come on, there's no 'those guys' here," Simon scolded. "If you mean Islamic militants, they tend not to send warnings ahead of time. Put it on the list, but I think it's a reach." Sandburg added 'MID EAST' to the board. "What about women?" Connor asked suddenly. "What about them?" Jim said. "It's just a guess, but isn't the army a bit of a tough place for a woman? I have enough trouble sometimes being around the lot of you, and this is sort of... Army Lite." "She's got a point," Sandburg nodded. "It's got to be hard for young guys to think of the woman at the other end of the table as a fellow-soldier rather than as a girl. That kind of expectation of gender roles is very resistant to change. And, I mean, the Tailhook thing -- I know that was a long time ago, but it was symptomatic of what must be totally routine, unexceptionable objectification of women in the armed forces. For every Tailhook we hear about, there's probably ten or fifteen incidents we don't." "We get it," Simon said dryly. "Just scribble." Sandburg grinned and wrote 'WMN' on the blackboard. "Okay, and the third complaint," Jim said. "The Cascade Veterans League and the Defense Department it supports seek to limit free speech that could only enlighten Americans and would not jeopardize their national security." He looked up. "What does that mean?" "They try to shut people up," said Sandburg, writing 'RSTRCT FREE SPCH' on the left side. "I ought to sic them on you," Jim grinned. "Ha ha." "So, who gets up in arms about free speech?" Simon asked. "College students," three people at once said. Sandburg pretended to reel under the impact, then wrote 'STUDENTS' on the right. "Journalists," Megan suggested. "Do journalists set bombs?" Brown asked. "Worry about patterns of behavior later," Simon reminded them. "Are there still any communists left?" he asked. Sandburg wrote 'JRNLST COMM.' "Scientists?" Jim said. "I don't know, physics, biology, they might know things about weapons and defense and stuff." "I don't know," Sandburg said. "It's a common thing to keep a lid on one's research while it's in progress, you know, until you're ready to publish." He coughed twice. "Or until you're not ready to publish." Jim looked sharply at Sandburg, but Sandburg was apparently at ease with the subject of his dissertation and the fiasco surrounding its publication; his heart rate hadn't sped up at all. "But Sandburg," Brown said, "you weren't researching drugs and vaccines and stuff. Your projects weren't impacting public health." "So? I still wasn't talking about it while I was working on it. I'm just saying scientists might not be as all about the people's right to know as you all think." "Okay, but that was a self-imposed gag order you were working under," Simon said. "If you'd wanted to talk about it, you'd have been allowed to." "Yeah, okay." Sandburg wrote 'SCI.' "Who else?" "Anti-war protesters," Rafe said. "And flag-burners." Sandburg wrote 'ANTI-WAR (burn flags, draft cards, sit ins, vandalism)'. "I'm going to put homosexuals here, too," Sandburg said, writing 'GAY' again, "because that's the whole thing about the Don't Ask, Don't Tell policy -- it criminalizes, or at least under the UCMJ, you know, the discussion of homosexual orientation, and a lot of people, a lot of gay service members, opposed it for that reason. Didn't feel like it really solved anything -- actually made it worse in some cases. Anyway. Just being thorough." "Thank you, Sandburg," Simon said, standing up and taking out a cigar. "So." He looked at the board. "We've got 'gay' twice; we should probably have women up in the first set, too; I'd tie 'a-bomb' to 'science;' and three 'Vietnams'." "No, that's just two Vietnams, Simon," Sandburg said, making the additions and drawing the circles and lines Simon had indicated. "This one up top's a guy who didn't fight in any of those three wars." "Put Vietnam by itself, then," Simon mused. "Like you said before, it's never been a popular war -- there are people who still get worked up over it." "So okay," Jim said, folding his copy of the letter into his pocket and coming to look at the board. "We've already talked to Brandt, so the gay angle is covered. I say we send Connor out with Ramos to a few of the female members of the outfit, and Sandburg and I hit the university and talk to some physicists." Simon nodded. "And Brown and Rafe, you two get on the Vietnam-era vets. Good luck." Jim let Sandburg take the lead when they got to Rainier. "Hey, your turf, Chief," he said. "You're not just my sidekick, right?" "Right, right." Sandburg chuckled. "I still keep expecting to have to remind you of that." "You can't write your paper about police society without me; I can't investigate effectively at the university without you. Mutually beneficial." "I knew I'd always have to remind you of something," Sandburg said, swatting Jim's arm with the back of his hand. "Of course we'd both be able to do our jobs without the other. It'd be harder, but not impossible. It's a mutually beneficial relationship we have, but -- heh -- not on a professional level. Here's the science building. Dial down smell." Jim blinked and obeyed as Sandburg led him into a building with wide tiled hallways and painted-cinderblock walls. "You spend much time over here?" "Not really. Some, as an undergrad -- lab work, carbon-dating, that kind of thing. But that's not really my speed. Got the requirements out of the way early. These extreme physics people... no idea what they're talking about." He knocked on a door, and a man's voice invited them to enter. Sandburg opened the door and stepped inside with his smile beaming and his hand outstretched. "Professor Dodge? We spoke on the phone. Blair Sandburg. I don't know if we've ever met." "I don't think we have," the professor said, rising and shaking hands, "but of course I know your name. Come in, come in." "Thank you. This is Detective Jim Ellison, from the Cascade Police Department." "Professor." "Detective. Please, have a seat." "We wanted to ask you some questions, Professor, just theoretically, about the scientific community in general. Do you know if there are researchers in the Cascade area who have defense contracts?" "Defense research. Hmm." Dodge pulled on his beard with two fingers. "Well, government-funded research, sure, where there are government grants involved," he said. "Or after the fact, someone comes up with something, it gets approved later. But that's not really contract work, I guess. And there's probably not too many people who I'd say work for the defense department, unless they do research at the VA hospital. I couldn't say." "I see. But there are defense grants for research? What kind of research?" Dodge made a hesitant face, and Sandburg hastily amended his question. "Just generally speaking. We know there are things you're not supposed to talk about -- we wouldn't understand the details anyway. But broadly." "Space program, for one thing," the professor said. "I assume that's why you called me -- to get the physics angle?" At Sandburg's nod, he went on. "Used to be they were interested in nuclear physics, but now it's all astro. Is there other life out there, could we communicate, can human life be possible on other planets, where if at all does the universe end, that sort of thing. I know there's some stuff going on up in biochemistry, too, but I don't know anything about it." "We're very interested in the scientific community's perception of the military's attitude toward scientific discovery," Jim said, dispensing with the tiptoeing. "What can you tell us about that?" Sandburg kicked him under his chair, but picked up the question. "For example, how dangerous is it that people in general don't know what goes on in your labs with government funding -- which is, after all, just a bunch of taxpayer dollars?" "Dangerous? I'd say not at all." Dodge scratched his eyebrow and looked back at them. "This is all theoretical. I mean, if it gets to where we Know Things --" he made theatrical gestures with his hands -- "and keep the public in the dark, you know, that'd be dangerous. Might be even more dangerous to make them aware, but that's something to decide on an individual basis. But right now, we're just sort of speculating and looking at things and doing a lot of math. Maybe it would be dangerous if the public knew how their tax dollars were being spent with hardly any concrete results, but it's not like there are concrete results for them to object to the money's being spent on in the first place. You follow?" Jim replayed the comments again and found that he did follow. "So the fact that you have an obligation to keep quiet about your research doesn't pose any ethical problems for you?" "Nah. And I think most scientists would say the same. If we hit something big, it might be different, but right now I don't think anybody's keeping anything from the public that the public would much care about. People might object on principle, but the easy way around that is not to accept a government grant." "Sounds reasonable," Sandburg said, standing up. "Thanks for your time, Professor." "I'm glad to help out -- that is, I hope I've been helpful." "Yes, sir," Jim said, rising and shaking the professor's hand again. "Thank you very much." "Close the door on the way out?" Sandburg asked. "Please." "Well, Chief," Jim said, following Sandburg down the hall and shoving his hands in his pockets, "where to now?" "Biochem," Sandburg replied. "Talk to someone who might know about vaccines and germ warfare and arsenic in the drinking water, and hope we get answers like we just got from him." The biochemistry professor was six floors up and clear on the other side of the building. Along the way, they passed lab after lab with windows in the doors through which Jim could see smocked and goggled students conducting experiments whose purpose he couldn't even begin to guess. Once again, Sandburg knocked on the door and led the way when they were invited in. He made the introductions, as before, and Professor Manzanilla turned from the papers she'd been grading to give them her full attention as they took their seats in her visitors' chairs. "Hmm. Government-funded projects the people ought to know about. Interesting question," she said, when they cut right to the chase. "I don't know that I can think of any. The thing is, there are certainly things happening up here that are going to be made public some day, and when they are, there are going to be people who think they should have known sooner. It's inevitable." "But what do the scientists themselves think, Professor?" "I believe, and I know many of my colleagues agree, that it would actually be quite dangerous in most cases to bring the public in on our research any sooner than we do. We tend not to keep secrets, gentlemen -- we make our findings public, just not our procedures." "That's basically what Dodge told us," Sandburg murmured. Jim nodded. "I assume there are solid reasons for that?" "Well, yes. We want to give people solid information, not speculation. People in general, and the media in particular, they have this habit of seizing on a tiny fraction of what you tell them and making that the centerpiece of their focus on the issue. If we tell them we're working on, I don't know, a drug that we hope will be able to eliminate pneumonia, someone will try to figure out why we're trying to eliminate pneumonia. There'll be nostalgia pieces on the major flu epidemics of the past century, setting aside the fact that influenza and pneumonia are different illnesses, and there'll be a whole series of special focuses on pneumonia in the Third World and pneumonia in AIDS patients. But you have to understand that the percentage of experiments that go all the way through to a successful drug and FDA approval is very, very low. The number of things that can go wrong is huge. A chemical compound can be too unstable for medicinal purposes. Or it can cause horrible side effects. Or it can be too expensive to produce, and we have to figure out a way to make it affordable. That takes time. It's often much safer to keep the research out of the spotlight and make people aware of the results." "I see." Jim mused for a minute to give Sandburg a chance to catch up with his notes. "So you don't have ethical problems with not discussing your research -- that doesn't strike you as the government stifling free speech, for example." "I... no, I don't." "And what about others in your field?" "Well... I don't think so. I mean, I guess I can see where they might, but I don't think anybody does. At least, I haven't heard anybody say so." "Ah." Jim stood; Sandburg wrote another 'X' in his notebook and rose as well. "Thanks for allowing us to intrude. We'll let you get back to the, ah..." Manzanilla grimaced. "Freshman midterms. I should keep you here talking for the rest of the day, if I know what's good for me." She stood and shook both their hands. "If I can be of any more help, Detective..." "We'll be sure to call you, ma'am," Sandburg smiled. "Thanks." He closed the door behind him and rolled his eyes at Jim. "Back to the station now, right, Wally?" he asked. "I dunno, Beav, I have a quarter to twelve," Jim said as they headed back to the truck. "I bet it'd be okay with Dad if we grabbed some lunch before getting back to our chores." "We'll get sandwiches for everybody," Sandburg said. Jim was about to tug on his hair and call him an apple-polisher, but Sandburg had pulled out his cell phone and was dialing. He really was a thoughtful little sonofabitch, Jim chided himself. He looked out for Number One, sure -- hardly surprising given Naomi's me-first approach to life -- but on the other hand Jim had never known Sandburg to hesitate before doing a friend a favor. Jim himself had received unscented shaving cream, dye-free laundry detergent, all-cotton socks, food without weird chemical preservatives, and white noise generators without ever having so much as mentioned to Sandburg that he needed anything of the kind. And of everybody in the Major Crime division, he couldn't think of anyone else who would automatically volunteer to fetch lunch for everyone else. Maybe Rhonda offered to bring everybody lunch if she was already running out for Simon. Everybody else -- well, they invited you along when they were going out, sure, but normally the expectation was that you and your lunch would be in the same place at the same time. Jim reached for Blair's free hand, but Blair shook him off with a slight smile. "Okay. ... Okay. ... Uh-huh," he was saying into the phone. "Okay. Roast beef... turkey, right -- is that for Meg -- yeah, the avocado slices," he grinned. "Got it. Hang on, let me write this down, if everybody's ordering." Jim pulled out his own note pad and winked. 'Thanks,' Blair whispered as Jim dialed up his hearing. "Go ahead. From the top." "Roast beef with brown mustard on white toast for Simon," Rhonda said, sounding patient and not at all annoyed. "Turkey with tomato and avocado on white toast for Connor. Tuna salad on pumpernickel for Rafe." "That's so disgusting," Sandburg muttered. "Heal thyself, Mr. Algae Shake," Jim shot back. Sandburg crossed his eyes and grinned. "Turkey on wheat for Ramos. Corned beef with yellow mustard on rye for Brown, and he says to make sure it's the kind of rye bread that has the seeds in it." "Rye with seeds, check," Sandburg said. "What about you, Rhonda?" "Me?" "Yeah, you. Are you not eating lunch today for some reason?" "I just didn't realize you meant me, too, is all. Um... if I said turkey on sourdough would you yell at me?" "Of course not. Mustard? Mayo?" "Both, actually. Why don't I live dangerously." Jim could hear her smile. "I think that's everyone -- I'll grab some sodas and put another pot of coffee on." "You're beautiful, Rhonda." "A saint," Jim agreed, loudly enough for Rhonda to hear. "We should be there in forty-five minutes, an hour, depending on the line." In fact, they were back at the station in thirty-seven minutes, sandwiches in hand, thanks to the good graces and quick sandwich-making of Ethel Shipman. The team collected in Simon's office, where Sandburg distributed the sandwiches, set three large orders of onion rings in the middle of the table, and tossed two pickle spears to each detective. "Now you each have your own, so no stealing from your neighbor," he warned with a smirk. "That means you, too, Ellison." "Yeah, yeah, rave on," Jim said, ruffling Sandburg's hair as they took their seats and dug in. "Anybody get anything good from the interviews?" "The women angle was a total bomb," Ramos said through a mouthful of sandwich. Thankfully, he swallowed before continuing. "Even the girls who --" "Women," Connor interrupted, with a tone that suggested she'd corrected him on this point before. "Even the women who came right out and admitted that they thought the CVL was an old boys club and --" he checked his notes -- "a total disgrace to the uniform its members once wore --" "These were women who'd been enlisted service members and women who'd been high-ranking officers," Connor interrupted again. "Even they thought bombing the place was a stupid idea. They weren't too sold on the idea of retribution, I guess." Ramos shrugged and reached for some onion rings. "Yeah, we got nothing either," Sandburg said. "They could be building a bomb or breeding the plague down there, and they'd say the Defense Department would be right to keep it hush-hush until they were sure it was going to work." He didn't sound pleased, and tore a crust off his sandwich with a surprisingly harsh twist of his wrist. "Like the process doesn't matter, it's only the goal that's important. Stupid way to conduct research." "Didn't you just remind us that you were keeping your own research quiet, Sandy?" Connor asked, amused. "Sure, but Brown was right -- there was no public health issue. I kept it quiet for my own reasons, not because I thought I knew what was best for the whole population of the city." "But anyway, it doesn't sound like it's the mad scientists plotting the CVL's downfall," Jim said. "Maybe we got all the cards, then," Brown grinned. Everyone looked at him. Simon sat forward and very nearly put his elbow in a splotch of mustard on his sandwich wrapper. "You hit something, Brown?" "It's a little too soon to tell, actually, sir," Brown said, "but it looks like it could be something. We talked to a guy who served in Vietnam and still keeps in touch with most of his outfit. And he says he does know one guy who's had some complaints over the years, and some of the things he said sounded -- to us, anyway -- a little like some of the things in the letter the CVL got." "We're going to go talk to the friend next," Rafe nodded. "Is there a reason you're not talking to the friend now?" Simon asked. "'S lunchtime, Simon," Rafe said. Simon was clearly not amused. "Whoa," Brown said. "Okay, then. We've got a couple of cars keeping an eye on the house, and if the guy gets home before we get back they'll give us a holler. We came back here to dot some i's and cross some t's. And Sandburg brought us sandwiches." He grinned, but quickly sobered. "Seriously, though. In case this guy turns out to be someone we're interested in, we wanted to be sure everything was kosher." "I appreciate that," Simon said. "But we are running against the clock here. Soon as you finish those sandwiches, I want you back down there on the double. Ellison, Sandburg, you too." "Huh?" "Did you have some other plans for this afternoon?" "No, sir." "Good. What's this guy's name, Brown?" "Landry. Benjamin Landry." "We seen his phone records yet?" "They're coming up. CVL didn't call him, but once we talked to this other guy, we pulled 'em." "Excellent," Simon said. "Pass the onion rings."