This is the first Turnbull story I've written in a very long time that is not part of the 'Layers' universe, so if you're familiar with my 'Layers' series, forget it for the duration of this story! And if you're not familiar with 'Layers' good, then you have no problem!

Teaser: Constable Turnbull proves the old adage 'innocent men don't run'. First posted to RSY and RacineStreet under the title 'Turnbull's Story'. Rated PG-13 for a four letter word or two.

Obfuscation

by Shirley Russell

mailto:robsure@earthlink.net

Constable Renfield Turnbull ran down the street and up the walk to the Canadian Consulate as if the hounds of hell were nipping at his heels. With one hand he held his Stetson hat hard against his head to prevent it's flying to the pavement. He stumbled slightly as he rounded the corner to the front walk and found it necessary to grab the gate rail with his free hand to steady himself. His forward momentum slowed only slightly as he rushed to the front door.

He burst into the Consulate foyer so violently that his feet became entangled in the Persian area rug and he launched himself face first on to the hardwood floor. His fellow officer, Constable Fraser, and Fraser's quasi partner, Chicago Police Detective Ray Vecchio, who just happened to be standing in the hallway at the time, stood paralyzed in stunned silence at the intrusion.

Upon hearing the commotion, Constable Turnbull's superior officer, Inspector Margaret Thatcher, rushed from her office just in time to see Fraser and Vecchio spring into action to help their fallen comrade to his feet. They had gotten the Constable as far as his knees when their superior officer began to yell.

"Fraser! What in heaven's name is going on...?" Upon seeing Turnbull on his knees in the middle of her hallway Thatcher had the answer. "For God's sake Constable, get up!"

Turnbull was panting so hard he could not speak, but the other three occupants of the foyer could tell the man was terrified. "Constable! What is the meaning of this? Where is your uniform?" Thatcher had never seen the man dressed in anything other than the red serge uniform he had worn every workday since, well it seemed like an eternity. As a matter of fact, if asked, she would have had to admit that she didn't know if the man owned any other items of clothing.

Turnbull's inability to speak left Fraser to answer the Inspector's question. "Ah, remember Sir? It's his day off?"

Still gulping for air, Turnbull could only nod his head in agreement. Thatcher was sure she could hear the marbles rattling as he nodded vehemently.

"On you feet, Constable!" 'What a total idiot,' she thought.

She had just turned away when Turnbull finally found enough air in his lungs to speak. "Sir!" he gasped. "You have...have to...to protect me! They might...might still...be... be after me!" Still on his knees, he crawled after her, begging as he went. "Sir, PLEASE!"

Turnbull made such a pitiful sight Fraser was actually embarrassed for the man. Detective Vecchio, on the other hand, felt very strongly that the word doofus applied in this case.

Still on his knees, Turnbull tugged on the hem of her blazer as he pleaded with her, "PLEASE, sir?"

'God! He's gonna cry,' Vecchio thought.

"Constable, I do not have time for this nonsense! You are embarrassing yourself, and me! Get up, and that's an order!"

Sweating profusely, and still obviously scared to death, Turnbull got to his feet. Once stretched to his full height, however, his legs seemed to fail him, and it was necessary for Fraser and Vecchio to support the larger man.

"Oh, for heaven's sake! Bring him in my office and get him a chair."

Once settled in her office Constable Turnbull could not be still. He jumped at the slightest noise, and continued to breathe heavily. Vecchio thought the young Constable looked like a cornered animal.

Inspector Thatcher took her seat behind her desk and studied her junior officer briefly before getting on with this - whatever it was. Even flushed and perspiring, she had to admit he was a rather attractive man. Not as attractive as Fraser of course, in her experience no one was as attractive as Fraser. But Turnbull was easy to look at, as long as one didn't look past the surface. Of course, there would have been nothing to see, under the surface, Thatcher was sure. Just a vast emptiness, under that thick skull.

He looked like a snappy dresser, out of the red serge. He wore a brown leather flight jacket with a lamb's wool collar over a beige cable knit fisherman's sweater. His jeans were stylishly faded and very form fitting. The first thing she had ever noticed about Turnbull no, actually, the second thing, after his height, was the size of his hands. She had always heard that the size of a man's hands directly equated to the size of his...Well, the tightness of his jeans had her wondering if that might just be the case.

'God, Meg, get a grip!' She thought as she cleared her throat and tore her gaze away from Turnbull's crotch, just in time to see Vecchio leering at her. She felt herself blush all the way to her toes as she realized Vecchio knew exactly what she was thinking.

Thatcher cleared her throat once again. "Constable you are wasting my time! PLEASE, tell me what's the matter with you, or get out of here." She surprised even herself with her harshness.

At that precise moment all occupants of the room heard the faint wail of a siren. As the sound came closer Turnbull panicked. "They're coming to get me! Please, please Sir, you have to protect me!" This time even Fraser thought Turnbull was about to cry. By the time the vehicle raced past the building, Fraser and Vecchio had to hold him down to keep Turnbull from flying out of his chair.

Thatcher stood abruptly, and as the siren died in the distance, slammed both palms on her desk. "Damn it Turnbull! Who is after you?"

Startled almost beyond words, Turnbull finally spit it out, "The police...the police are after me! They're coming to get...to take me away! You have to protect me! PLEASE! You have to grant me asylum."

Thatcher fell back into her chair in stunned silence, as Fraser rolled his eyes toward heaven and shook his head.

~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~

"Turnbull," Fraser whispered as he gently patted the agitated man's shoulder, "you don't need to seek asylum, you're on Canadian soil here." Fraser was at once embarrassed for his fellow officer, and embarrassed that he was a fellow officer. What was the RCMP thinking, allowing such an obviously mentally deficient man among their ranks?

Vecchio just thought the man was a doofus.

"But you granted Detective Vecchio asylum." He cast his glance between Fraser and Thatcher as if he were watching a ping-pong match. "Please Sir, I need your help, both of you..." He spotted Vecchio standing toward the back of the room, and lowered his voice to a whisper. "He's a policeman, Sir," pointing in the general direction of Vecchio, "should I be telling you all of this with him here?"

"You haven't TOLD us anything! You don't need asylum, this is Canadian soil, and you are a Canadian citizen." She shook her head and muttered, "more's the pity."

Fraser stood directly in front of Turnbull's chair, looked straight into his eyes, and spoke to him in a calm, controlled voice. "Turnbull, you are safe here. Detective Vecchio will help you with whatever has happened, we all will. But you have to tell us what has transpired to upset you so."

Turnbull calmed dramatically. He took several gulps of air and began to speak slowly. "Today's my day off, so I thought I'd get an early start on my Christmas shopping. You know, Sir, take advantage of the American's Columbus Day Sales?"

Thatcher didn't respond, she just glared at him. And Vecchio continued to think Turnbull was a doofus.

"I went to the Mall, the one out on I-94? I was just strolling through the stores, window shopping, as it were, when I remembered that lovely blue dress you wear, the knit one with mock turtle-neck and the gold metallic belt?" He smiled at Thatcher before he continued, "I thought of a scarf I had seen on a mannequin in the window of that cute little boutique at the north end of the mall, by the Magic Pan Restaurant, you know the place where they serve that delicious..."

"Turnbull!" Thatcher yelled. "Get on with it!"

Turnbull jumped as he was brought back to the tracks of his train of thought. He pouted a moment before continuing. "I started back toward the boutique when I caught sight of the most delightful display of Thanksgiving decorations. I thought 'while in America, do as the Americans', and celebrate not only in October but November too. The display had the cutest turkey candles, with...

"Turnbull!" Vecchio yelled, before the train of thought was derailed once again.

Turnbull smiled sheepishly. "Sorry," he whispered. "Anyway, I was drawn in to Bloomingstrom's. I don't usually shop there, you understand, much too pricey for my meager salary. But I really was taken with those candles." He looked to Thatcher for confirmation of his love of lumps of brown and orange wax molded in the shape of Thanksgiving fowl, but shivered as he saw the intensity of her glare.

"I walked past the jewelry counter, where I spotted the most glorious strand of pearls. My mother has always wanted pearls, so I asked the clerk to show them to me. She was very attractive, with blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes," he giggled to himself, "the clerk, not my mother. Anyway, she handed me the pearls, and we admired them together." He blushed slightly, "I'm afraid we flirted rather shamelessly, before she was called away to help another customer."

Turnbull began to fidget in his chair and assumed the cornered animal look again. "I put them back on the counter! I really did. I decided there was no way I could afford such a gift, so I laid them back on the black velvet board, and continued on my way." He looked at the rest of them with eyes that pleaded for them to believe him.

The three other occupants of the room suddenly didn't look upon Turnbull's predicament quite so lightly. Fraser, the most perceptive of the group, was actually slightly worried at where Turnbull's story might be leading.

"Constable, please get to the point." Fraser begged.

"I left them on the counter, but no one would believe me," he muttered. He looked around the room to see three sets of impatient eyes boring holes into him. "I proceeded on to purchase the candles, when I heard someone shout. I didn't think they were shouting at me, so I continued toward the display of candles. Then two rather burly gentlemen stepped into my path. I excused myself and tried to walk between them, but they grabbed me by the arms. Did you know that retail store security officers wear guns in America? Under their coats, in holsters that..."

"TURNBULL!" Thatcher, Fraser and Vecchio yelled in unison.

He began fidgeting again. "They detained me," he whispered. "They said I took the pearls, and manhandled me to a tiny room in the back of the store. I was so embarrassed! Oh, Sir, I was so mortified, and so glad I wasn't wearing my uniform. Oh, the shame of it all!"

"They kept me in the tiny room while they searched me! Oh," he wailed, "it was so degrading. I told them I was a Constable, and they laughed! They laughed at me! They took my parcels, all the Christmas gifts I had purchased and searched everything." He hung his head and began to cry. "They found the pearls in the bag with the Yanni CD I purchased for Ms. Vecchio."

"Oh, dear." Fraser sighed.

~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~

"Constable, pull yourself together and finish the story!" Thatcher's words were not quite as harsh as previously, she was actually becoming concerned, whether for her junior officer or the reputation of the RCMP, she wasn't sure.

Turnbull pulled a handkerchief from his inside jacket pocket and wiped his tears. He then blew his nose loudly, hiccupped once, and began again. "I tried to show them m...my I...D," he stuttered, "but they must have thought I had a firearm. You know it's against the law for us to carry firearms without a permit, and I told them so. But I don't think they could hear me, lying on the floor as I was." Turnbull sighed and rubbed his back. "The biggest of the two men sat on me until he determined that I was not armed. I don't think I care for the tactics of store security! They just wouldn't be...believe that a Mountie would be in Chicago, and...and they just kept at me. They 'broiled' me, as Ms. Vecchio says, in that sweet way of hers." He turned in his seat to look at Detective Vecchio, who was still standing behind him. "Your sister is a very lovely woman, Detective. You should be..."

If there hadn't been a desk between them, Thatcher would have strangled Turnbull at that very moment, and put them all out of their misery. Fraser noted the death wish look in her eye, and promptly got Turnbull back to the matter at hand. "Constable, you were telling us about your interrogation...?"

"Sorry, Sir. The interrogation lasted forever. They asked me where I was from, and who won the World Series, and who the President is." He leaned closed to Thatcher, who was still several feet away behind the barrier of her desk. "They treated me like a spy! Can you imagine? Me? A spy? I've always been interested in subterfuge, and pretending to be someone I'm not. I was in a play once, in school, where I played an artichoke. I think I was actually very good, but..."

"TURNBULL!"

He hung his head and pouted for a brief moment. He just hated it when everyone yelled at him. "I...I'm sorry. I...I'm just n...nervous, and I tend to babble when I...I'm upset."

"Constable, we understand how upsetting all of this must have been." Fraser spoke to his fellow officer as if Turnbull were a ten-year old child. He figured that mentally and emotionally that was just about right. "But, you have to tell us the whole story, or we won't be able to help you. Now, you were on the floor with one of the security guards sitting on you because they thought you had a gun. After they determined that you did not have a weapon, they let you up? Did they continue the questioning?"

They all could see Turnbull respond to Fraser's uncomplicated explanation of the events thus far. "Yes, Sir. That's exactly the way it happened. The questioning continued for what seemed like hours. You see they apparently thought I was part of a shoplifting ring. Me! Constable Renfield Turnbull, RCMP, part of an international ring of thieves! Me! Of all the nerve! I would never do anything to besmirch my uniform."

'Just wearing it is besmirchment enough' Thatcher thought.

"Anyway, this went on for a very long time. They wouldn't allow me to have anything to drink or eat, not even bread and water. Isn't that against the Geneva Convention?" He asked to no one in particular. "They also wouldn't allow me to use the, excuse me Ma'am, the washroom. I was growing very ah, uncomfortable." He sighed, "they even sent Gretchen in to identify me..."

"Gretchen?" Asked Vecchio.

"The nice looking young clerk, who first showed me... those DARN pearls!" The other occupants of the room were shocked at Turnbull's language, well, maybe not the words, but definitely at the thought behind them.

"Oh, my! Forgive my language, Sir. I must really be upset, I've never used such language in mixed company." He hung his head in shame.

"Constable," Thatcher had finally reigned in her anger, "please, we want to help. Please tell us what happened."

"Yes, sir. Before Gretchen left she whispered something to the guards, and they all left together. I was alone in the room, and I don't mind admitting, I was becoming really scared. I don't when the idea occurred to me, but the longer I sat there, all alone, the more panicked I became. There was this small window, and I began to wonder if I could fit through it." He cast a worried look toward Thatcher.

"Oh, no. You didn't?"

"I'm sorry Sir, but yes I did. To my frightened eyes, it was the only way I could ever keep from disgracing the RCMP and myself. I finally decided I had to get out of there, and the window was the only way I could see to do it."

"Oh, dear." Fraser whispered.

"Holy shit!" Vecchio muttered under his breath.

"Was that why you were running?" Thatcher was glad she was sitting down, because she felt her knees and her career slipping out from under her.

"Well...not exactly. You see I rather underestimated the size of the window. I moved a chair quietly over to the window, and stood on it as I wiggled through the opening. I had gotten my head and both arms on the outside, and was trying desperately to get my shoulders through when I heard the door open and people started shouting." He hesitated just momentarily, but there was enough time for Fraser to catch an uncharacteristic gleam in Turnbull's eye. He frowned and cocked his head slightly to one side and he scrutinized the younger man.

"Turnbull?"

"Gretchen and the guards raced into the room, knocking the chair out from under me as I struggled to get the rest of the way out of the window. The burly one, the one that sat on me, grabbed me and pulled my leg for all he was worth." Turnbull straightened up in his chair and smiled broadly. "Just exactly like I am pulling yours."

~~*~~*~~*~~*~~*~~

Renfield stood, stretched to his full height, yanked on the bottom of his jacket, just as he had seen Captain Picard do countless times, and left the room, leaving three stunned police officers behind him.

He didn't stop until he had closed the front door of the Consulate soundly behind him. He stood on the steps and carefully tugged on his leather gloves. He took the time to snug the fingers in place before he inhaled deeply of the cold, polluted Chicago air.

Doofus? Blithering idiot? Swiss Cheese for brains? He chuckled to himself as he strode down the steps. "Hardly!"

The End

Note: anyone who has read any of my Turnbull stories has to know how much I love the character. I certainly hope you weren't anticipating any other possible end to this?<vbg>

Feedback, as always, is deeply appreciated at robsure@earthlink.net