A/N: This fic is pretty much all angst. Unlike my other two DM stories, I don't fall back on humor—even the dry kind—very much. With that out of the way, please review and give me feedback, especially constructive. That's your job as a reader, just as it is mine. Thanks in advance, and please enjoy the story. –your humble author.
Grey-Handed
"Go to the left! Go to the left! Steve! Go to the—aw, man. Steve, I clearly told you to go to the left," Jesse admonished, pointing at the television, where Mario had just died.
"And I told you that I can't get the hang of this stupid controller. Seriously, how many buttons and joysticks does one person need?" he demanded, turning the new Nintendo 64 controller around in his hands. "Soon we're just gonna be plugging these things into our heads to play."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Hand it over, old man."
"Old man?"
Jess ignored his friend's indignation and instead sent Mario into Princess Toadstool's secret tower to get an extra life. He'd got the N64 and its new Mario game only a week ago, but already knew exactly what to do. This eluded Steve.
"Now, why on Earth would anybody put a giant slide—that you can easily fall off of and die from—in their castle? I've arrested people smarter than that. Can we please plug the Super Nintendo back in?"
Jesse fell back against the sofa and turned to look at Steve after accidentally sending Mario careening off the edge and into a bottomless pit. "Yeah, I guess. D'you wanna just go surfing instead?"
"I think dinner's gonna be done soon. Hey, dad!" Steve yelled, feeling more like an impatient and needy teenager than an "old man."
"Yes?" Mark called, making his way from the kitchen to the living room, where his two favorite boys sat expectantly on the couch.
"When's dinner gonna be ready?" the youngest queried, leaning over onto the sofa's arm to get a better look at Mark.
"Do we have time to go surfing?" the oldest asked.
"No, the lasagna's just about finished. Why don't you two set the table while I wrap up in the kitchen—and let's not see who can set the table the fastest again, okay? I haven't lost that many dishes since you boys tried to find out how many cups and plates could be balanced on each other without falling." As he walked out, Mark could hear them arguing.
"I totally won that table setting game."
"What? I had you beat by at least the silverware."
"In your dreams, old man."
Mark moseyed down the hall at a leisurely pace a few days later. He found that, if he walked unhurriedly during rounds, he tended to give his patients a little more time. It wasn't easy; the ER atmosphere permeated every hall in the building. Even visitors walked quickly.
One of those visitors, a haggard looking mother who couldn't seem to juggle her purse, tote, cell phone, day planner, and PDA, stepped into his path.
"Uh—excuse me, doctor, but I was hoping you could go in there—" she tipped her head to the door on his left— "and find out what the doctor is doing to my daughter. He asked me to leave, but neither Lily nor I were comfortable with that. He said it was necessary."
Mark smiled paternally. "I'd be happy to. Do you know the doctor's name?"
"Dr. Ch…Chr…Travis. Dr. Travis."
His grin widened. A chance to see his protégé in action—and without any warning. He knew that whatever Jesse doing wouldn't be invasive, since that required the presence of a female nurse. Although it did seem a little odd that he asked the mother to leave. However, given that she had explicitly asked the older man to go in there, he didn't feel apprehensive about intruding.
As he poked his head through the dividing curtain, he geared up his throat for a presence-announcing cough. He couldn't hear them speaking—maybe it was a private matter. Maybe…
Mark stopped dead as soon as his eyes landed on the sight before him. His mouth hung open from the half-emitted cough, unable to get the rest out because of shock. There, right in front of him, was Jesse Travis fondling a girl who lay statue-like, crying with silent grief.
Jesse turned and faced Mark for just a split second, his hands moving quickly from their criminal position. Each doctor gasped the other's name before Jess walked briskly out of the room's other door. Mark stood in stunned silence until he finally heard the girl's weeping. Instantly, he went into action, getting the mother, calling for a female nurse, a psychologist, and a hospital lawyer.
He couldn't understand why or how, but Mark Sloan knew he'd just witnessed his best pupil, friend, colleague, and son sexually assault a young woman.
Both Mrs. Driver and her daughter Lily cried as Lily recited Jesse's deeds. They held hands, while Nurse Mary—an elderly and compassionate woman who couldn't help share their pain—kept an arm around the teenager. The lawyer, Ms. Hicks, took notes along with Officer Catskill. Mark sat quietly, trying to make sense of the obviously true accusations. He couldn't deny his own eyes, no matter how desperate his desire.
"He s-said he needed to check my vitals privately, so we could t-talk about stuff I might not want my mom to hear." She gripped her mother's hand tighter and choked back another sob. Mrs. Driver ran a shaky hand over her daughter's hair. "He checked my heart and listened to my breathing. Then…then…" She couldn't seem to reach the next revelation. Nurse Mary gently turned the girl's face in her direction.
"Just tell me, Lily. Pretend I'm the only one in the room and just tell me."
Lily took a deep breath, looked into Mary's eyes, and whispered, "He touched my breasts." She said it loud enough for everyone to hear, but quiet enough to convey her shame. "He said he needed to check for tumors. I asked him to stop. I told him I just turned eighteen. He stopped. Then he put his hand on my thigh. He asked—he asked if I'm…y'know…if I've been with a guy before. I told him I haven't. I asked if my mom could come back in. He said no. He started to move his hand. He said, if I told anybody, everyone would think I'm just trying to get money and attention, and that he'd find me and hurt me even worse. He said, if I stayed quiet, he would be quick and give me a prescription for something "good." Then he moved his hand…up…" Mary gasped. Lily turned away and buried her face in her mother's shoulder.
Mark stepped out of the room, too disturbed to hear any more. Officer Catskill stepped out as well, walkie-talkie in hand. He brought it up to his mouth and spoke gruffly, his disgust for Jesse evident in his tone.
"You find him yet?"
Instead of sounding some sort of alert, a group of officers roamed the halls looking for Dr. Travis, while others went to his condo, assuming he'd left the hospital premises. The goal was to find him quickly and quietly. In nearly half an hour, they'd come up with nothing.
"Not yet, sir. It's a big place."
"Don't gimme that crap. I want the pervert found. Now."
"Yes, sir."
Mark spoke up softly. "He's not a pervert."
"What?"
"I know Jesse. This isn't like him. It could be…a brain tumor." Even as he said it, he didn't believe it. The facts didn't support his hypothesis. Sure, Jesse exhibited conduct entirely out of line with his usual behavior, but only about 40,000 people every year got brain tumors. Of those, most showed at least some symptoms. Headaches, seizures, weakness, pain, numbness, paralysis, vomiting—something. Yet Jess had seemed the picture of good health for at least the last six months! Besides, if a tumor affected Jesse to such a degree that he would attack a child, it necessitated other, more physical problems.
The officer's face hardened. "I don't care if he's at death's door; he molested that girl and I am gonna personally testify at his trial."
The walkie-talkie interrupted them. "Sir, we've found Dr. Travis. Kyle's reading him his rights and we'll have him down in a car in five minutes."
"All right. I'll meet you there."
Mark put a hand on the officer's arm to stop him. "May I come?"
"You're gonna have to, doc. You're the only eyewitness besides that girl and you might come in handy during the interrogation. What's your name again?"
"Mark Sloan."
Catskill nodded slowly. "That's a popular last name. Guy on homicide named Sloan, too. Actually, you two look kinda—"
"He's my son. And Dr. Travis is his best friend."
Officer Catskill turned to look at his morose companion. "Not for long."
Jesse seemed genuinely dumbfounded and increasingly agitated. "I did not molest that girl! I didn't molest anyone!"
"Then what were you doing for the hour before we found you?"
"Didn't you write it down? Don't you record these things? I told you that I was helping an older woman who had some…emotional problems. I must have been sitting with her for at least an hour—she wouldn't stop crying. Why haven't you asked her?"
"We can't find her."
They had been interrogating him for the last two hours. He decided not to ask for a lawyer, because that might seem indicative of guiltiness; he knew what they would think. They denied his insistent pleas for Steve. They assured Jesse that Steve couldn't help him and, besides, why would he want to help a pedophile? They called him names, they threatened the harshest punishments, they guaranteed his fellow prisoners would not look favorably on a child rapist. They promised him leniency if he would only confess.
Finally, they left him in the interrogation room. Jess buried his face in his hands but didn't cry. He felt bewildered and frustrated, but he knew in his heart of hearts that everything could be sorted out soon enough. With Mark and Steve and Amanda's help, the four musketeers would prove his innocence beyond a shadow of a doubt. He took a deep breath as the door swung open and Officer Catskill and Officer Barman walked through the door. Behind them followed—Mark!
Jesse ran to his mentor, silently thanking God for sending in the cavalry. Of course, both officers blocked Jesse and actually threw him to the ground, assuming his intent was to escape or hurt Mark. Jess expected Mark to protest the interpreted brutality, or at least move in his friend's direction. Instead, the young doctor's only father figure stayed quiet, and moved back to the doorway. He looked hesitant and disturbed.
Catskill hauled Dr. Travis up and threw him into a chair. "If you try anything like that again, I will shoot you in your head. Do you understand me, pervert?" Not bothering to listen for an answer, he turned towards Mark and Officer Barman. "You can come in here, Dr. Sloan."
"Mark," Jesse whispered, his face a mix of fear, hope, and uncertainty. He decided to approach the matter with hope. "Mark, you've got to tell them I wouldn't do what they're saying I did. I would never hurt any patient!"
Mark bowed his head. "Jesse…you know I saw you do it. You've got a disease, son. If you let us help you—"
"What are you talking about?" He almost shot from his seat, but stopped, all too aware that Catskill would shoot from his seat, only not in a figurative sense. "I haven't seen you since the start of my shift—that was six hours ago!"
"I saw you, Jesse—I heard your voice—and I can't deny that. Neither can you…unless you don't remember." Mark suddenly felt hopeful; memory loss is a common side effect of a brain tumor.
"I don't remember because it didn't happen! I spent the last hour of my shift, before being arrested, consoling a Mrs. Orła-Bukowska whose husband recently died. Mark, I don't know who you saw, but I swear to God—" this was not an oath he made lightly "—that person wasn't me."
Mark couldn't help feeling torn. Jesse seemed so sincere, but he saw the molestation in progress. Wasn't there any chance he'd been wrong? Perhaps someone was impersonating him to such a clever degree that it outsmarted even the perceptive Dr. Sloan? But what about Mrs. Orła-Bukowska, whom nobody could find? The hospital had no records of anyone under the name of Orła or Bukowska. Over the years, Mark had trained himself very carefully to notice anything out of place; he saw with a clarity and perception that rivaled most people in law enforcement. He couldn't refuse to acknowledge what his own eyes had shown him and his own ears had heard in that examining room.
As Mark looked into Jesse's hopeful, pleading eyes, he found himself looking into the eyes of every other suspect he'd encountered over the years. Silently, Mark got up and left.
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