AFTERMATH:- A Diagnosis Murder Story.
Disclaimer:- This story is written for pleasure not profit. The background and characters of Dr. Mark Sloan, Lt. Steve Sloan, Dr. Jesse Travis, Dr. Amanda Bentley and Captain Newman belong to someone else. All other characters and the plot are my own.
Author's note:- Once again my brain/muse/whatever began writing this story before I had even finished the last one, so blame it/them and not me for all of the angst involved. I did however persuade it/them to let me finish the last one before actually starting to put this into cyberspace. There is less intrigue involved but hopefully just as much action. As usual Steve and Jesse will be getting themselves into lots of trouble.
Synopsis:-Steve is involved in a fatal shooting incident and blamed for what went wrong. It's up to the others to piece together what really happened and help Steve to come to terms with the event. As Steve begins to recover, he and Jesse are plunged into a life or death fight.
Warning:- this is rated PG 13 for violence. The first chapter is not pretty, don't say I didn't warn you.
Part 1: Massacre
Mark pulled up as near as he could to the parking lot leaving his convertible illegally parked at the end of a growing column of media vans. He rushed towards the police cordon where reporters, armed with microphones, were questioning the officers whose job was to keep them out, badgering for the merest scrap of information, as their cameramen jockeyed for position with those taking stills, but the officers, who had done this a thousand times, just watched them impassively, unable to give out information even if they had it.
Mark pushed his way through the melee ignoring the comments as he shoved past and not even feeling the knocks from elbows and shoulders. He got to the front and gave his name. "Dr. Mark Sloan," he said urgently. "Captain Newman called me."
"I'm sorry Doc," the officer said apologetically, "I'll still need to see some ID"
Mark was frustrated by the delay but nonetheless reached into his pocket to retrieve his wallet. The action was redundant however as at that moment a voice shouted, "Dr. Sloan,"
He and the two officers turned to see Captain Newman approaching. "Let him through," he said and Mark instantly had the cordon lifted for him.
Seeing the police Captain sent the waiting Media into what resembled a feeding frenzy as they all attempted to get the his attention and get him to answer some of their questions.
Newman turned to them and issued a standard reply. "I have no comment at this time. We are still investigating the incident. You will be kept informed when we have something to tell you."
Mark was level with him by this point and the captain put his arm around the older man's shoulders and led him away from the press and towards the building.
"Thanks for coming," Newman said, "It's a real nightmare in there and we weren't sure what to do, the EMT's are pretty stretched."
Mark felt like he was walking through another world. He was listening to Newman but his voice seemed a long way off. He took in the details of his surroundings in the eerie pulsating red and blue lights of a dozen police vehicles. He noted the four ambulances and the coroners vehicles and the myriad of people moving back and forth purposefully across the crowded lot. He spotted Steve's truck and his heart skipped a beat. Then he was past it and approaching the white fronted building where he noticed at least three officers losing their dinner into the gutters and bushes skirting along the sides.
He braced himself, knowing that this was going to be bad. In his years as a doctor and a consultant for the police department he had seen his fair share of grisly scenes but that didn't make facing death on a large scale any easier and knowing that Steve was somehow involved...
The call from Captain Newman had come less than fifteen minutes earlier and Mark had felt as though his heart had leapt into his throat as soon as he heard Newman's voice. There was something about the tone that told him that the call was about Steve and it wasn't good.
"There's been a shooting incident, large number of casualties," Newman said, "Steve's not seriously hurt," he continued hastily, attempting to be reassuring, although those first few words had sent Mark's mind reeling. "But we could do with you coming down here. We may need your help."
Newman had then given him the address without any further explanation. The building in question was a private practice less than ten minutes up PCH from the Beach house. Both Mark and Steve passed it every day on their way to and from work. Without pausing Mark had grabbed his keys and headed for his car.
He had made the drive in a dazed and slightly panicked state, wondering how his son was involved. He replayed the Captain's words 'Steve's not seriously hurt' but he didn't say 'not hurt at all,' just not seriously.
Now he stood and gazed at the building wondering what he was about to face, the fear for his son's safety predominant in his mind.
Captain Newman's voice pulled him out of his pondering and he turned to face him. "There are twelve dead and four who are still clinging to life." He stared into Mark's concerned eyes. "It looks like Steve was in there when it happened but he won't let anyone get close enough to him to check him out." He paused briefly, "I figured that since you were so near..."
"Thank you," Mark replied, "I'll do what I can," and he turned to head into the building.
"Mark," Newman grabbed his arm, stopping his movement and turning him to meet his gaze again. "It's pretty gruesome in there."
Mark nodded in acknowledgment of the warning and as Newman returned to coordinating his officers, he entered the building.
The first thing that hit him was the smell, working in a hospital he was used to the smell of blood but rarely did it get to such overpowering levels. That, and the lingering smell of cordite in the air, reminded him more of a battleground than a clinic in Malibu.
Then he saw the bodies. Most of them were still uncovered being photographed and checked before the coroners teams moved them away. Each lay in a pool of their own blood except where they were close enough for the fluid to have run together. There were two smeared patches where the bodies had been removed. Probably by the EMT's.
In two different places EMT crews worked frantically to try to stabilize the only other two victims who remained alive so that they could be transported. There was an on scene doctor working with one of them.
As Mark looked around he realised that there was no urgency to do anything with the other victims. They were all beyond help. Mark felt the bile rise in his throat, fought back the nausea which still came, no matter how often you saw something like this, and tried to remain professional, but for the briefest of moments all he could see was the despair and futility of it all. So many innocent lives lost without reason.
He gazed around the room again, on his first sweep his eyes had been drawn downwards but now, he looked for Steve. It took him a third sweep before he realised that the stooped and huddled figure leaning against the far wall was actually his son.
"Steve," he whispered to himself barely able to acknowledge that the pathetic figure he saw opposite was actually his tall strong son. Then he remembered Captain Newman's words 'We think he was in there when it happened' and he glanced around once more. To see this terrible sight now was bad enough. To have been here when these people screamed and died was too horrific to contemplate, and if Steve had witnessed that... "Oh Steve," he whispered again compassionately and he began to pick his way across the blood strewn floor to Steve's position.
He was barely halfway across when he heard one of the paramedics working to his left curse. "Dammit we're losing her," he said before shouting across to the doctor at the other side of the room. "Doc we need your help here or she's not going to make it."
Mark looked across, but the young doctor was involved in a life or death struggle of his own. Mark glanced at Steve momentarily, regret in his eyes, but Steve did not appear to be in any immediate danger. He was still standing under his own power, albeit leaning against the wall. Mark had no choice, he turned away from his son and moved in to help. "I'm a doctor," he said as he approached. "What have you got?"
As Mark retrieved a pair of gloves and pulled them on the young paramedic gratefully explained the girl's condition to the old doctor. Mark looked at her. She couldn't be more than twenty and she had three gunshot wounds. Two to the chest and one to her left arm. He made a hurried assessment and set to work to try to save her life, repressing his concerns for his son as he focused on the task at hand.
Mark worked for the next fifteen minutes until he was happy for them to move the girl. The EMT's had made the right decision, if they had moved her without treatment Mark was in no doubt that she would have bled to death in the ambulance. Now at least she had a fighting chance.
He remained kneeling on the floor whilst they wheeled her away on a gurney, allowing his racing pulse to settle as the adrenaline his body had pushed out to help him deal with the life or death situation gradually dissipated. He felt a gentle touch on his arm.
"Mark?" a familiar voice questioned.
He looked up into the tear filled eyes of Dr. Amanda Bentley and pushed himself to his feet.
"They paged me about Twenty minutes ago," she said explaining her presence. She was there in her official capacity as medical examiner. She couldn't help looking round as she spoke. "I've seen a lot since I took this job on but I think this is the worse crime scene so far." She looked back at Mark "Two of them are children," she said quietly.
Mark squeezed her arm knowing that her reaction was the same as his. It wasn't the bodies or the spectacle of death, they were both used to dealing with that. It was the scale of it, the pointless loss of so many lives, most of them young.
"Did they call you in too?" Amanda asked. It wasn't so unusual to see Mark at a crime scene but he usually turned up after her and frequently in the company of his son, and she had known that Mark had left work early because he had promised to cook an early dinner so that he and Steve could go to a movie that they had been trying to catch. Their work schedules had meant that they hadn't seen a lot of each other recently, so they had planned to spend a little quality time together.
Mark looked at her. "No, not exactly," his eyes were already scanning the room. "It's Steve," he said quietly, "he was here when it happened."
"Oh my God," Amanda exclaimed, "Is he all right?"
Mark's gaze had stopped moving and he began to walk toward a figure huddled against the wall. "I'm about to find out." he said.
Amanda looked in the direction he had headed and was startled by Steve's appearance. He had a blanket draped over his shoulders and his arms were crossed in front of him gripping it tightly as he hunched down leaning against the wall.
As Mark approached his son his concern and anxiety deepened. Steve did not appear to have moved since Mark had first spotted him. He was staring into space, his eyes fixed and glassy, his knuckles were white where he gripped the blanket as though it were some sort of lifeline. His skin was extremely pale and he had a thin sheen of sweat covering his face, despite the fact that he was shivering.
"Steve," he said gently, reaching out his hand to touch Steve's arm.
Steve's reaction was swift and shocking. He jerked back from the touch as though he had been burned. "No, stay away, " he mumbled barely coherently.
Mark was bewildered by the response but he persevered. "Steve," he said, slightly more firmly. This time not risking the touch. "Steve, it's me. It's your dad. Can you hear me?" He paused studying his son's panicked features for a sign that he was getting through. "Steve, I'm here to help you."
Steve's eyes were still defocused. Unable to cope with the thoughts and emotions assaulting it the conscious part of his brain had retreated within itself and did not want to return to face the distress and confusion, but even as he fought it, the urgent familiar tones began to penetrate.
"Steve," Mark repeated, "Can you hear me? I'm here to help you."
Steve blinked and turned to look into his father's eyes as his own slowly refocused on the world.
Mark held his gaze briefly, more frightened than he would care to admit by the look of abject despair that crossed his son's features. His eyes held none of the intelligence and sparkle that he was used to instead they were hollow, empty, even as he focused them on his father's face.
"Dad," he whispered softly. Then his panic returned. "No," he said backing away but hitting the wall so he could go no further. "You can't help me." He said his eyes darting about wildly. "I don't deserve.... Please you shouldn't.... I can't.." Each phrase was accompanied by increasing agitation as Steve once again fought to order his thoughts into some semblance of coherence.
Mark instinctively stepped forward. "Steve, It's all right," he said keeping his tone calm and even despite his own rising panic at his son's irrational behaviour. "Come on son," he tried encouragingly. "Let me help you."
"No," he repeated, finally managing some semblance of lucidity. "You don't understand. You can't help me."
Mark was aware that his son was still not making sense. He had to find some way to reach him. He did not want Steve to have to suffer the ignominy of being restrained or sedated but if he could not calm him down then he would have to. "Steve, you have to listen to me. I need you to calm down."
Steve leant his head back against the wall fighting for some sort of emotional control that would not come. He looked once again into his father's eyes. "It's all my fault, dad," he whispered fighting back the tears. He looked down at the ground. "I killed them all." There was a brief pause as a sob caught in his throat. "It's all my fault." He repeated a chilling hopelessness in his tone.
Mark stepped forward needing to do something to comfort his son but unable to decide what. Wary of touching him again in case the previous response was repeated.
"I.." Steve started to speak again but his system was in no condition to deal with the strain he was placing it under and he pitched forward as a swirling darkness engulfed him.
Mark caught him but was unable to counter the downward action as Steve's weight pulled him toward the ground, instead he went with him, lowering him gently until he lay unconscious on his back.
Mark gasped in shock as the blanket fell away to reveal four large ragged holes running across Steve's chest, torn into the kevlar vest that he was wearing where the bullets had penetrated. Running freely down his right arm was the unmistakable bright red stain of blood that had already soaked his sleeve and turned the side of the vest from a deep navy to black.
Amanda gasped too as she knelt down at the other side of her friend.
Mark looked up the anguish clear in his eyes. "Get another Ambulance here." He shouted to the nearest officer. "Now!"
Disclaimer:- This story is written for pleasure not profit. The background and characters of Dr. Mark Sloan, Lt. Steve Sloan, Dr. Jesse Travis, Dr. Amanda Bentley and Captain Newman belong to someone else. All other characters and the plot are my own.
Author's note:- Once again my brain/muse/whatever began writing this story before I had even finished the last one, so blame it/them and not me for all of the angst involved. I did however persuade it/them to let me finish the last one before actually starting to put this into cyberspace. There is less intrigue involved but hopefully just as much action. As usual Steve and Jesse will be getting themselves into lots of trouble.
Synopsis:-Steve is involved in a fatal shooting incident and blamed for what went wrong. It's up to the others to piece together what really happened and help Steve to come to terms with the event. As Steve begins to recover, he and Jesse are plunged into a life or death fight.
Warning:- this is rated PG 13 for violence. The first chapter is not pretty, don't say I didn't warn you.
Part 1: Massacre
Mark pulled up as near as he could to the parking lot leaving his convertible illegally parked at the end of a growing column of media vans. He rushed towards the police cordon where reporters, armed with microphones, were questioning the officers whose job was to keep them out, badgering for the merest scrap of information, as their cameramen jockeyed for position with those taking stills, but the officers, who had done this a thousand times, just watched them impassively, unable to give out information even if they had it.
Mark pushed his way through the melee ignoring the comments as he shoved past and not even feeling the knocks from elbows and shoulders. He got to the front and gave his name. "Dr. Mark Sloan," he said urgently. "Captain Newman called me."
"I'm sorry Doc," the officer said apologetically, "I'll still need to see some ID"
Mark was frustrated by the delay but nonetheless reached into his pocket to retrieve his wallet. The action was redundant however as at that moment a voice shouted, "Dr. Sloan,"
He and the two officers turned to see Captain Newman approaching. "Let him through," he said and Mark instantly had the cordon lifted for him.
Seeing the police Captain sent the waiting Media into what resembled a feeding frenzy as they all attempted to get the his attention and get him to answer some of their questions.
Newman turned to them and issued a standard reply. "I have no comment at this time. We are still investigating the incident. You will be kept informed when we have something to tell you."
Mark was level with him by this point and the captain put his arm around the older man's shoulders and led him away from the press and towards the building.
"Thanks for coming," Newman said, "It's a real nightmare in there and we weren't sure what to do, the EMT's are pretty stretched."
Mark felt like he was walking through another world. He was listening to Newman but his voice seemed a long way off. He took in the details of his surroundings in the eerie pulsating red and blue lights of a dozen police vehicles. He noted the four ambulances and the coroners vehicles and the myriad of people moving back and forth purposefully across the crowded lot. He spotted Steve's truck and his heart skipped a beat. Then he was past it and approaching the white fronted building where he noticed at least three officers losing their dinner into the gutters and bushes skirting along the sides.
He braced himself, knowing that this was going to be bad. In his years as a doctor and a consultant for the police department he had seen his fair share of grisly scenes but that didn't make facing death on a large scale any easier and knowing that Steve was somehow involved...
The call from Captain Newman had come less than fifteen minutes earlier and Mark had felt as though his heart had leapt into his throat as soon as he heard Newman's voice. There was something about the tone that told him that the call was about Steve and it wasn't good.
"There's been a shooting incident, large number of casualties," Newman said, "Steve's not seriously hurt," he continued hastily, attempting to be reassuring, although those first few words had sent Mark's mind reeling. "But we could do with you coming down here. We may need your help."
Newman had then given him the address without any further explanation. The building in question was a private practice less than ten minutes up PCH from the Beach house. Both Mark and Steve passed it every day on their way to and from work. Without pausing Mark had grabbed his keys and headed for his car.
He had made the drive in a dazed and slightly panicked state, wondering how his son was involved. He replayed the Captain's words 'Steve's not seriously hurt' but he didn't say 'not hurt at all,' just not seriously.
Now he stood and gazed at the building wondering what he was about to face, the fear for his son's safety predominant in his mind.
Captain Newman's voice pulled him out of his pondering and he turned to face him. "There are twelve dead and four who are still clinging to life." He stared into Mark's concerned eyes. "It looks like Steve was in there when it happened but he won't let anyone get close enough to him to check him out." He paused briefly, "I figured that since you were so near..."
"Thank you," Mark replied, "I'll do what I can," and he turned to head into the building.
"Mark," Newman grabbed his arm, stopping his movement and turning him to meet his gaze again. "It's pretty gruesome in there."
Mark nodded in acknowledgment of the warning and as Newman returned to coordinating his officers, he entered the building.
The first thing that hit him was the smell, working in a hospital he was used to the smell of blood but rarely did it get to such overpowering levels. That, and the lingering smell of cordite in the air, reminded him more of a battleground than a clinic in Malibu.
Then he saw the bodies. Most of them were still uncovered being photographed and checked before the coroners teams moved them away. Each lay in a pool of their own blood except where they were close enough for the fluid to have run together. There were two smeared patches where the bodies had been removed. Probably by the EMT's.
In two different places EMT crews worked frantically to try to stabilize the only other two victims who remained alive so that they could be transported. There was an on scene doctor working with one of them.
As Mark looked around he realised that there was no urgency to do anything with the other victims. They were all beyond help. Mark felt the bile rise in his throat, fought back the nausea which still came, no matter how often you saw something like this, and tried to remain professional, but for the briefest of moments all he could see was the despair and futility of it all. So many innocent lives lost without reason.
He gazed around the room again, on his first sweep his eyes had been drawn downwards but now, he looked for Steve. It took him a third sweep before he realised that the stooped and huddled figure leaning against the far wall was actually his son.
"Steve," he whispered to himself barely able to acknowledge that the pathetic figure he saw opposite was actually his tall strong son. Then he remembered Captain Newman's words 'We think he was in there when it happened' and he glanced around once more. To see this terrible sight now was bad enough. To have been here when these people screamed and died was too horrific to contemplate, and if Steve had witnessed that... "Oh Steve," he whispered again compassionately and he began to pick his way across the blood strewn floor to Steve's position.
He was barely halfway across when he heard one of the paramedics working to his left curse. "Dammit we're losing her," he said before shouting across to the doctor at the other side of the room. "Doc we need your help here or she's not going to make it."
Mark looked across, but the young doctor was involved in a life or death struggle of his own. Mark glanced at Steve momentarily, regret in his eyes, but Steve did not appear to be in any immediate danger. He was still standing under his own power, albeit leaning against the wall. Mark had no choice, he turned away from his son and moved in to help. "I'm a doctor," he said as he approached. "What have you got?"
As Mark retrieved a pair of gloves and pulled them on the young paramedic gratefully explained the girl's condition to the old doctor. Mark looked at her. She couldn't be more than twenty and she had three gunshot wounds. Two to the chest and one to her left arm. He made a hurried assessment and set to work to try to save her life, repressing his concerns for his son as he focused on the task at hand.
Mark worked for the next fifteen minutes until he was happy for them to move the girl. The EMT's had made the right decision, if they had moved her without treatment Mark was in no doubt that she would have bled to death in the ambulance. Now at least she had a fighting chance.
He remained kneeling on the floor whilst they wheeled her away on a gurney, allowing his racing pulse to settle as the adrenaline his body had pushed out to help him deal with the life or death situation gradually dissipated. He felt a gentle touch on his arm.
"Mark?" a familiar voice questioned.
He looked up into the tear filled eyes of Dr. Amanda Bentley and pushed himself to his feet.
"They paged me about Twenty minutes ago," she said explaining her presence. She was there in her official capacity as medical examiner. She couldn't help looking round as she spoke. "I've seen a lot since I took this job on but I think this is the worse crime scene so far." She looked back at Mark "Two of them are children," she said quietly.
Mark squeezed her arm knowing that her reaction was the same as his. It wasn't the bodies or the spectacle of death, they were both used to dealing with that. It was the scale of it, the pointless loss of so many lives, most of them young.
"Did they call you in too?" Amanda asked. It wasn't so unusual to see Mark at a crime scene but he usually turned up after her and frequently in the company of his son, and she had known that Mark had left work early because he had promised to cook an early dinner so that he and Steve could go to a movie that they had been trying to catch. Their work schedules had meant that they hadn't seen a lot of each other recently, so they had planned to spend a little quality time together.
Mark looked at her. "No, not exactly," his eyes were already scanning the room. "It's Steve," he said quietly, "he was here when it happened."
"Oh my God," Amanda exclaimed, "Is he all right?"
Mark's gaze had stopped moving and he began to walk toward a figure huddled against the wall. "I'm about to find out." he said.
Amanda looked in the direction he had headed and was startled by Steve's appearance. He had a blanket draped over his shoulders and his arms were crossed in front of him gripping it tightly as he hunched down leaning against the wall.
As Mark approached his son his concern and anxiety deepened. Steve did not appear to have moved since Mark had first spotted him. He was staring into space, his eyes fixed and glassy, his knuckles were white where he gripped the blanket as though it were some sort of lifeline. His skin was extremely pale and he had a thin sheen of sweat covering his face, despite the fact that he was shivering.
"Steve," he said gently, reaching out his hand to touch Steve's arm.
Steve's reaction was swift and shocking. He jerked back from the touch as though he had been burned. "No, stay away, " he mumbled barely coherently.
Mark was bewildered by the response but he persevered. "Steve," he said, slightly more firmly. This time not risking the touch. "Steve, it's me. It's your dad. Can you hear me?" He paused studying his son's panicked features for a sign that he was getting through. "Steve, I'm here to help you."
Steve's eyes were still defocused. Unable to cope with the thoughts and emotions assaulting it the conscious part of his brain had retreated within itself and did not want to return to face the distress and confusion, but even as he fought it, the urgent familiar tones began to penetrate.
"Steve," Mark repeated, "Can you hear me? I'm here to help you."
Steve blinked and turned to look into his father's eyes as his own slowly refocused on the world.
Mark held his gaze briefly, more frightened than he would care to admit by the look of abject despair that crossed his son's features. His eyes held none of the intelligence and sparkle that he was used to instead they were hollow, empty, even as he focused them on his father's face.
"Dad," he whispered softly. Then his panic returned. "No," he said backing away but hitting the wall so he could go no further. "You can't help me." He said his eyes darting about wildly. "I don't deserve.... Please you shouldn't.... I can't.." Each phrase was accompanied by increasing agitation as Steve once again fought to order his thoughts into some semblance of coherence.
Mark instinctively stepped forward. "Steve, It's all right," he said keeping his tone calm and even despite his own rising panic at his son's irrational behaviour. "Come on son," he tried encouragingly. "Let me help you."
"No," he repeated, finally managing some semblance of lucidity. "You don't understand. You can't help me."
Mark was aware that his son was still not making sense. He had to find some way to reach him. He did not want Steve to have to suffer the ignominy of being restrained or sedated but if he could not calm him down then he would have to. "Steve, you have to listen to me. I need you to calm down."
Steve leant his head back against the wall fighting for some sort of emotional control that would not come. He looked once again into his father's eyes. "It's all my fault, dad," he whispered fighting back the tears. He looked down at the ground. "I killed them all." There was a brief pause as a sob caught in his throat. "It's all my fault." He repeated a chilling hopelessness in his tone.
Mark stepped forward needing to do something to comfort his son but unable to decide what. Wary of touching him again in case the previous response was repeated.
"I.." Steve started to speak again but his system was in no condition to deal with the strain he was placing it under and he pitched forward as a swirling darkness engulfed him.
Mark caught him but was unable to counter the downward action as Steve's weight pulled him toward the ground, instead he went with him, lowering him gently until he lay unconscious on his back.
Mark gasped in shock as the blanket fell away to reveal four large ragged holes running across Steve's chest, torn into the kevlar vest that he was wearing where the bullets had penetrated. Running freely down his right arm was the unmistakable bright red stain of blood that had already soaked his sleeve and turned the side of the vest from a deep navy to black.
Amanda gasped too as she knelt down at the other side of her friend.
Mark looked up the anguish clear in his eyes. "Get another Ambulance here." He shouted to the nearest officer. "Now!"