Zimmerman's Algorithm

1.04 Wed. Feb. 25

Gideon was sitting on the couch, watching the third episode of General Hospital he'd ever seen, when the doorbell rang.

He made no move to answer it, he had no desire to see any reporters, and he fully intended to remain sequestered in his house as long as his food held out. By then he hoped that the press would've backed off a little.

He turned the volume up on the remote, but too late to miss hearing a familiar voice call out, "Detective Malcolm."

"Damn it," Gideon whispered to himself. He turned off the television and grabbed the crutches that leaned on the couch next to him. The doorbell chimed again and Gideon called out, "Hold on!" as he levered himself up and began hobbling to the door.

The meeting was inevitable, but he had hoped that it might wait until he was off of disability leave.

It took a bit of maneuvering to open the front door one-handed while balancing on a crutch with his busted arm, but he managed to swing the door open on Captain Davis, who was accompanied by a dour-looking plainclothes detective. Davis was a large man with thick hands who looked more like a steelworker than a cop, the detective with him was thin and about a head shorter than he was.

"Detective Malcolm," Davis said, "I would have called first, but your phone seems to be busy. May we come in?"

Gideon nodded and lurched back a few steps.

Outside, past the Captain and his companion, Gideon could see the mass of reporters—somewhat thinner now, but still camped on his doorstep.

Gideon led them to the living room and let them have the couch while he collapsed into a recliner facing them. He didn't offer them anything, he didn't feel up to hobbling around to fetch drinks when this wasn't a social call.

"What can I do for you?" Gideon asked.

"I hope you're feeling better," Davis said. "If you aren't up to talking, we can come at a better time."

"I doubt there'll be a better time."

"My condolences about your brother," said the man with Davis.

Gideon looked at him. "You are?"

"This is Detective Charles Magness, Internal Affairs."

Gideon looked back at Davis, and felt as if he was being shot at again. "Why are you bringing him here?"

"Calm down," Magness said. "IA investigates every incident where there's a weapon discharged. It's

sop."

Yeah, standard operating procedure. Otherwise known as "bend over, you're fucked."

"There are a few things we want to go over—" Davis began. "Like this 'Lionel' who tipped you to the location of the Daedalus."

"Bastard," Gideon muttered. "Have you picked him up yet?" Gideon would've liked a few hours with Mister Kareem Rashad "Lionel" Williams alone in an interrogation room, preferably with a baseball bat. Not that he'd mention that to Mr. Internal Affairs here.

Magness shook his head. "No. Apparently Lionel went on the lam shortly after news of the shoot-out was made public. We were hoping you might provide some leads to his location. . ."

The moment Magness said that, Gideon knew he was in for a very long afternoon.

He went over the whole shooting in excruciating detail for Magness. Not just the event—reliving Raphael's death—but the events leading up to it as well. The tip from Lionel, his attempt to get backup in place from the District's excuse for a SWAT team—which was refused—and his attempt to call in the FBI through his brother.

Magness made a few comments about the irregularity of the situation, but Gideon knew that they couldn't fault him for procedure. He'd jumped through all the right hoops and had done the right paperwork. Somehow, Magness' demeanor made Gideon feel as if he were still the one to blame for everything that had gone wrong.

After it had gone on for an interminable hour, Davis said, "I think that's enough. Why don't you go wait in the car. I have a few more things to discuss with Detective Malcolm."

Magness nodded and looked at Gideon as if watching for telltale signs of guilt. "I'll probably have a few more questions once you file your official statement."

I bet you will.

When Magness left, Gideon tried to suppress a smile as he heard the reporters descend on him outside.

"Gideon," Davis said, once Magness had left. "The administration has some issues with your handling of the media."

Whatever amusement Gideon had in Magness' plight evaporated. The memory of his homecoming was fresh in his mind. What were the words I used? "Shanteless parasites?" He cringed inwardly at the memory. "I suppose so." He'd hoped that his tirade would've faded from the spotlight by now. Apparently, he had underestimated the press' interest in a completely irrelevant temper tantrum, and the District administration's interest in the Press' interest.

"Have you seen the papers?" Davis asked.

"No." Gideon's stomach sank.

"Yesterday's headline in the Post, 'Wounded Cop says someone "screwed up,"' apparently they decided to clean up your language. The Times has a picture of you waving a crutch captioned, 'shameless parasites—' Did you actually club a reporter with a crutch?"

"He tripped me," Gideon said. "I lost my temper."

"Did you actually use the words, 'rating orgasms?' "

Gideon wasn't able to come up with an appropriate explanation. He tapped his cast against his crutch, shaking his head. He felt the anger burning again, at the reporters, at the bastard who set them up, at the men who shot them, and most of all, at himself.

"Gideon?"

Gideon closed his eyes and nodded. Through clenched teeth he said, "Yes."

"You threatened to arrest them?"

"Can you blame me?"

Davis sighed. "No. Not after what happened. But do the words, 'public relations disaster' mean anything to you? The only thing that mitigates your little tirade is that you went off on the media, which lies in the public affection somewhere between politicians and lawyers."

It felt as if Gideon had to physically swallow his anger to speak. Slowly, he started to say, "I apologize for—"

" /don't need your apology. I agree with you."

"Captain?"

"But. . . Look at the big picture. This is a damn delicate situation. Right now we have the public—the national public—on our side. This can mean a lot for our department."

Gideon stopped rapping his cast on his crutch. "I don't follow you."

"The administration has a chance to take its case directly to Congress with these hearings—"

"What hearings?"

"—we could finally get some decent funding for this department."

"What hearings?"

"There are going to be Congressional hearings investigating the incident. It's an opportunity for us to gain some sympathetic ears on the Hill."

That was the last thing anyone needed. Congress. Gideon couldn't believe that the body responsible for the crippling of the D.C. civic government would do anything but mangle a criminal investigation. They would probably end up giving immunity to the people responsible for the screwup that led to the shooting, all in the name of getting at the "truth." A "truth" that would be little more than a bludgeon tailored to club someone's political enemies.

"What do you mean, 'opportunity'?"

"First off—and this is coming down straight from the Mayor—you aren't to talk to any more reporters, period. You aren't to say anything to anyone that might lose us sympathy on the Hill."

"Oh, God," Gideon whispered.

"I don't like it either," Davis' voice softened. "But I'm not the one with the ultimate decision about what happens to you after you come off of disability leave."

Gideon's jaw was clenched so hard it ached. It was an effort to speak. "Is that some sort of threat?"

"That's just how things are. It's not worth it to fight the administration on this. You know that Congressional hearings are just a sideshow anyway, right?"

Gideon lowered his head. "Okay. I won't go around bad-mouthing the department."

"There's more."

"God help us. What?"

"Harris had his speechwriter prepare a couple of statements—"

There was a long pause before Gideon realized what Davis meant. He whispered, "Oh shit."

Davis reached into his breast pocket and removed two folded sheets of paper and set them down on the coffee table. "Look them over. First is a draft apology for that tirade yesterday. Second is an opening statement for when you're called before the hearings."

Gideon stared at the papers on the table. "I don't believe this."

Davis stood up. "Take some time to consider it. All we need is your approval, and they'll release the first one to the press. Call me sometime today or tomorrow to okay it."

Gideon nodded. He felt numb. He looked at the second statement, laying on the table, and asked, "Have they even scheduled these hearings yet?"

"There's going to be a press conference next Friday. That's when we expect the hearings to be announced."

"Wonderful. Nice to know the administration is a step ahead of Congress." It was hard to keep the irony out of his voice.

Davis sounded relieved. He stepped over and held out his hand. "Thanks for cooperating with this."

Gideon didn't take the offered hand. "Good-bye, sir."

Davis was quiet for a moment and finally said, "You're a good cop, Malcolm. I'm sorry this had to happen."

"Yeah, thanks. You know where the door is."

Davis stood a moment, apparently having run out of things to say. He walked off, leaving Gideon alone with the two statements. In the distance, he heard the front door close, and the sounds of massing reporters.

Gideon wondered if Davis knew how demeaning this all was. Asking him to mouth someone else's predigested political bullshit. He bent over and picked up the first statement. Glanced at it without really reading it, and decided that it didn't really matter what it said. They had his job in their hands, he pretty much had to call Davis back and okay the thing.

He balled up the statement and tossed it aside.

It landed on a short table next to his chair. On the table were the personal effects that he'd carried back from the hospital—his keys, a scattering of loose change, his wallet, and his badge.

Gideon picked up his badge. It had been clipped to his belt above his wounded leg. It was splattered with his blood. Maybe also with Rafe's.

In the dim daylight filtering through the curtains, the blood gave the appearance of being tarnish. Gideon slowly clenched a fist around the badge, until the tension made his hand shake.

He threw the badge against the wall.