Chapter Text
For twenty-four seconds, Sam had his gun aimed at an innocent man before he finally lowered it. If he'd been asked why, he'd have said it was because he was making sure Kimble posed no threat first. But in reality, he was getting the first good look he'd had of Richard, for all he'd been hunting him for over a week. Richard was shaking, breathing heavily from the exertion—a brawl across a rooftop (concluded with wielding a pipe against an armed man's back) would do that to a man younger than his fifty-one years—and his face was bloody, a cut across one eyebrow. His eyes stared almost through Sam; flickers of Helen's dying form reflected in them, perhaps.
"They killed my wife," he said, as if he hadn't heard anything Sam had said to him in the past three minutes.
"I know it, Richard," Sam said calmly. "I know it." And wasn't that the strangest truth—the U.S. Marshal's Office conducting an investigation that discovered the innocence of the man they were hunting? (If only because the CPD was so incompetent—or worse—that they'd railroaded an innocent man to the death penalty. Heads would roll for that, if Sam had his way.)
"But," he continued, "it's over now." He let out an exaggerated breath and mopped his forehead of the sweat that had accumulated while chasing Richard up and down the hotel. "You know, I'm glad. I need the rest." (It didn't occur to him until later that for Richard, it could never be fully over; catching her killers would never bring Helen back.)
Then Sam performed his second aberrant action of the evening—he turned his back on a fugitive. Even more absurd, he turned his back on one with access to a weapon. The funny thing was, he didn't even think about it at the time. It was only when he relayed the events in the laundry room to Poole later that it hit him, just what he had done (she looked at him strangely when Sam's usual smooth delivery stuttered). The only thing he could think of was that his brain had already categorized Richard as not-a-threat, a mental status generally accorded only to those on his team and a scant few other members of law enforcement. That and he needed to figure out what had happened to Cosmo, who hadn't reappeared at the commotion.
The mystery of what happened to Cosmo was apparent when he rounded a corner to find him lying on the floor. Blood was starting to pool by his head, and a bloody streak on a nearby hanging girder used for ballast in the laundry room told the tale. (He would bet anything that Nichols's fingerprints were all over the other end of that girder.) He had the presence of mind not to shout, but rather ran back to where Richard still stood, slumped against the pipes. He plucked a pen from his pocket and used it to lift the gun up and away from Nichols' reach, should he wake up. "My deputy's unconscious and bleeding—I need your doctor skills," he told Richard.
The thousand-yard-stare faded as Richard's eyes tracked back to the laundry room. He gave a slight nod as the words sunk in, and followed Sam—limping a little—to where Cosmo lay.
Sam let the gun slide off the pen onto a patch of floor where it was unlikely to be in the way or be accidentally trampled on, and reached for his radio. "Kimble's secure. Get me paramedics right away—my deputy's down—and so's Dr. Nichols," he added, a bit of reluctance seeping into his voice. The man needed medical attention, but he'd also tried to kill Sam, so Sam was not feeling particularly charitable toward him at that point.
Richard flicked his eyes up briefly toward Sam at the mention of his name but continued his deft examination. "It could be just a bad concussion, or there could be a linear break in the skull. The blood's from a cut in the skin—head wounds bleed a lot," he told Sam. He whipped his jacket off, turning it inside out and wadding it up before pressing it tightly against the wound. "Have to keep pressure on it, and get him to a hospital where they can do a better assessment, replace some of that blood if he's lost too much." Richard's hands, formerly shaky from the adrenaline, were now steady as they cradled Cosmo's head.
Biggs and Poole rounded a corner and stopped short. "What happened to Cosmo?" Biggs asked.
"Got hit with that girder." Sam waved an arm in the general direction of the offending object. "Need to get prints on the other end, prove who did it."
Biggs's eyes glanced down at Richard and back up; Sam did a quick shake/tilt of his head. "Around that corner," he said. "Go sit with him."
Biggs drew his gun as a precautionary measure and headed off to where Nichols lay.
Poole watched Richard holding the jacket tightly against Cosmo's head. "C.P.D. wants in here bad."
Sam snorted. "'Course they do. You tell them we got custody?"
"Sure did."
"Good. Go check on those paramedics—Richard's going to need them as well, I think."
Poole raised her eyebrows at "Richard" but immediately followed the order. As she rounded the corner, she nearly ran into Detective Kelly, who was followed by Detective Rosetti.
Sam groaned inwardly. Who let those clowns in, he wondered?
Detective Kelly caught sight of Richard—uncuffed, hands still holding Cosmo's head—and immediately drew his gun.
"Put that thing away," Sam snapped. "He's keeping my deputy from bleeding to death. You get in the way of that, I'll shoot you myself."
Detective Kelly's expression was somewhere between a glare and a grimace, but he holstered his gun.
"You want to be helpful, start collecting evidence," Sam told him. "Get someone to dust the far end of that girder for prints. Someone shoved it at my man and hit him in the head. Get someone else to collect my man's gun"—Sam pointed at it—"which I found in the hands of Dr. Nichols over there." Sam waved in the general direction of where Dr. Nichols lay. "Had it pointed at me."
Kelly motioned a couple uniforms in to collect the evidence. They were followed shortly thereafter by paramedics, a most welcome sight. Richard quickly explained Cosmo's condition and turned him over to them once they had their equipment in place to maintain the pressure on the wound. He backed up and stood out of the paramedics' way, eyes dropping to his hands, streaked with blood. His body froze and his gaze unfocused.
The detectives tensed at the sight of Richard uncuffed and unoccupied. Sam stepped in before things could escalate. He gripped Richard's arm tightly above the elbow. "Gentlemen," Sam said, nodding towards the cops, "I believe someone needs to test Dr. Kimble's hands before they're washed."
Detective Rosetti beckoned someone over and Sam made sure to keep his grip on Richard's arm firm. He figured if he glued himself to Richard's side that it would prevent any further shooting; he didn't think even these cops would risk shooting a U.S. deputy marshal in their eagerness to get a supposed cop killer. Richard's eyes stared through everyone, up and to the left a bit—trapped in a memory, Sam supposed.
The evidence collection was mercifully brief. As soon as they finished, Sam held his radio up to his mouth. "Newman, where's the nearest bathroom?"
He memorized Newman's response, then, quietly, "Come with me, Richard." Richard seemed to return to himself at those words. Sam left the two detectives gazing at Richard with undisguised hostility as he steered Richard, following Newman's directions.
The laundry floor bathroom was small and less glamorous than a public-facing bathroom would've been, but all that mattered to Sam was that it was vacant. He rapped on the door to confirm, then pushed it open ahead of Richard, mindful of the other man's still-bloody fingers. "Here," he said, turning on the water and tugging Richard a bit closer.
Some sense of automatic memory must have taken over, as Richard began to scrub, water swirling down the drain turning from clear to red to pink to clear again over the next few seconds. He glanced in the mirror and used a damp paper towel to dab at some of the blood on his face. "The rest… I need a first aid kit," Richard said.
Sam lifted his radio again. "Poole, are the paramedics done with Cosmo and Nichols?"
"Cosmo's nearly ready to be moved; they're still looking at Nichols," came the reply.
"Good. Biggs, make sure the cops arrest him when he's conscious. If they ask for what, tell them 'attempted murder of a U.S. marshal' ought to be a good start." Sam figured "conspiracy to commit murder" could wait.
"On it, boss."
"Anyone free to look at Richard?"
There was a few seconds' pause before Poole's voice sounded again. "Someone's headed your way now."
Sam beckoned Richard out of the bathroom and found an upturned bucket. "Sit down, before you fall over." Richard did so, looking particularly shaky at this point. His fingers vibrated just a hair below trembling.
The paramedic was young but professional as he carefully examined Richard's head. "I think most of this blood is from the cut on your forehead. I'm going to clean it first." Richard simply nodded, sitting calmly as the paramedic cleaned his face and examined it. "The cut's a bit long, but it's fairly shallow; I think it will heal fine with just a steri-strip. Your lip will heal on its own but you should probably apply a cold pack to keep down swelling."
Sam watched Richard, a skilled vascular surgeon, listen to simple medical instructions he would not be able to follow, and made a mental note. Another flicker of memory—"Newman, you still in the security office?"
"Yeah."
"Get downstairs, make sure the cops have Sykes in custody. Then join us in the laundry."
"On it, Sam."
All but one accounted for. "Henry?"
"Just getting to the laundry now."
"Good. Head for the bathrooms," Sam told him.
"Watch him for a minute," Sam said once Henry arrived. "He won't go anywhere." Henry's face didn't show any of the shock he must have felt at such a world-ending statement coming from the mouth of Samuel Gerard. Sam patted Henry's arm once and went back to find the others.
He found Biggs talking with a few cops as the paramedics prepared to move Nichols. Poole stood on the sidelines, observing. Sam walked up to her. "Find me a cold pack, but don't activate it yet. Just bring it to the car. Then make sure Newman gets a ride in one of the ambulances. He can stay with Cosmo till one of us can join him."
Her eyes were more expressive than Henry's face, but Sam ignored them. "All right," she said.
Sam left Biggs and Poole there and went back to where Richard sat. The paramedic was standing up. "How's he doing?" Sam asked.
"The cuts are minor, and his knee's just badly bruised. It'll be painful for a few days. He should ice it as much as possible to keep the swelling down. Hands, same thing."
"And the concussion?" Sam asked.
"He didn't mention that," the paramedic said, looking back at Richard.
"I wasn't out for over a minute, and I only have a mild headache," Richard pointed out.
"You really should get examined at a hospital—" the paramedic began.
Richard began to shake his head, then thought better of it. "I know the signs to watch for. They'd only tell me the same thing."
Sam nodded and lifted his radio. "Biggs, Newman, join us at the bathrooms when you're free. We're going to walk him out all together. I don't want the C.P.D. getting restless."
"Be there in a moment."
Sam let Newman and Biggs escort Richard through the crowd behind him. His eyes were on the cops first and foremost. He didn't think it likely they would fire on a suspect in custody, but he wouldn't put it past any of them at this point. And he wanted to be sure Nichols hadn't recruited someone besides Sykes, to eliminate the threat Richard posed. He and Henry formed a shield wall on either side of the two with Richard, preventing any unwanted contact with the masses of reporters calling out questions. Richard seemed bewildered, glancing once at the crowd but mostly over at Sam, as if he was afraid the next time he looked, no one would be there. Sam's gut clenched.
Biggs and Newman hesitated, and Sam gestured toward the back seat of their car. No way in hell was he putting Richard in police custody until the cops knew for a fact that Richard hadn't shot one of their own. At this point Sam was positive that Richard hadn't shot the cop, but he suspected he was in quite a minority.
Sam opened the door and left Biggs and Newman to get Richard seated. He rounded the back of the sedan and did a quick scan for Poole before climbing in. Ah, there she was. "Poole, where is that thing?" he demanded, fishing in his pocket for the key to the handcuffs.
"Let me see those hands, Doctor," he said, lowering his voice so the crowd outside wouldn't be privy to the conversation.
Richard sat for a second, eyes looking at him blankly before the meaning of his words sunk in. Mutely, he lifted his wrists, watching Sam with questioning eyes.
Sam made short work of the cuffs, tossing them up front where someone could deal with them. When he looked left, Poole stood by his door, patiently holding the requested cold pack. He took it from her hands without a word—he'd explain later—and twisted it to activate the chemical reaction. He laid it on Richard's hands, accidentally meeting Richard's eyes as he did so. They seemed to stare inside him, a silent interrogation, and he glanced away. He lifted an arm behind Richard's seat and nodded once. It was an "everything is professional, I treat all captured fugitives like this" nod which probably fooled no one. It would've been a perfect time for Biggs to drive away—but Poole wasn't back yet. Biggs's expression promised an inquiry later; Sam ignored it.
Richard's voice would've startled him if he hadn't been watching out of the corner of his eyes. "I thought you didn't care."
Sam shook his head. "I don't," he said. He caught the beginnings of a smile on Richard's face, which prompted a short laugh. Who'd have thought this was how the hunt would end? "Don't tell anybody, okay?" He tapped Richard's shoulder conspiratorially, pleased to see the smile deepen slightly.
Poole opened the front passenger door at last. Sam refused to look at whatever expression might be on Biggs' face, choosing instead to rap on the roof of the car to signal "let's go".
Biggs pulled away from the Hilton. "Where to?" he called back to Sam.
"Our office." This time Biggs gave Sam a look that could only be called incredulous. "Safest place for Richard right now is the couch in our break room, and he'll technically be in our custody there. We'll be up half the night anyway." Between the paperwork and the debriefing, this was generally true, though they never before had brought a fugitive there.
Sam glanced back over at Richard. Richard's gaze was unfocused, but he shifted the cold pack from his knee up to his lip. "You hungry at all?" Sam asked.
Richard gave a little shrug.
Sam eyed the cold pack, and mentally inventoried the food he had stashed at the office. If he was lucky, he still had at least one instant soup package somewhere…
During the daytime, the office building the marshals shared with other government and non-government offices was a beehive of activity. Phones rang, keyboards clacked, and papers rustled. At this hour, however, only a few solitary souls still inhabited the odd office. The security guard for their floor blinked in surprise as Sam ushered Richard past.
They came to a stop in the middle of the office, Richard limping slightly. Sam eyed him, wondering if he was about to fall over, and decided the soup could wait. "Here," he said, taking Richard's arm and propelling him into the small break room. They were fortunate to have a couch at all, a nondescript piece of furniture that had lived in the break room probably since the day it was built. It wasn't much to look at, and it certainly wasn't the greatest for sleeping on, but Sam figured it beat a jail cell. "You can rest here for a bit," Sam told Richard. "Sleep if you can."
Richard nodded blankly, letting himself sink onto the couch. His face had moved beyond lost to numb—no telling how much of that was simple physical exhaustion and how much was the emotional effects of discovering Nichols's betrayal.
Sam checked the cold pack still clutched in Richard's hand. It was still fairly icy to the touch. "When you need more," Sam said, tapping it, "check the freezer. We keep a few packs in there somewhere."
Sam patted Richard on the shoulder and exited the break room, flicking the light off as he did so. He stopped short at the sight of Poole and Biggs staring at him, both pairs of eyebrows raised.
Henry entered the room at that point. "C.P.D. has all the evidence. They'll have the results for us as soon as possible."
"What I want to know is what the hell was going on tonight," Biggs said. He glanced at the break room and hushed his voice a bit. "None of this makes any sense. Nichols was covering for Kimble but also attacked him?"
"It's all in the arrest report," Sam said. "The idiots at the C.P.D. never followed up on the obvious. The night of Kimble's wife's murder, Nichols had borrowed his car. Car phone called Sykes at 7:30 p.m.; Nichols still had the car then. Extra set of keys in the car, so no forced entry. Nichols let him in," Sam concluded.
Biggs shook his head. "So he sent a hitman to kill his friend - and when that failed, he let him be sent to prison for his wife's murder. For what, the drug study?"
"Probably fraud of some kind," said Sam. "Henry, could you follow up on that tomorrow? Find out who's the person to analyze that and prove it."
"You're trying to prove he's innocent?" Poole asked. She looked at Sam like she'd never seen him before.
Sam huffed a little. "I already know he is; don't you?"
Poole dipped her head slightly.
"Hardly anyone has believed him for months," Sam said, dropping to a quiet voice. "He had to solve his own wife's murder. I intend to make sure he isn't sent back to death row for it."
"I'm with you," said Henry.
Biggs and Poole nodded.
The absence of part of his team was a sharp reminder. "Someone call Newman, see how Cosmo's doing."
"I will," Henry said, moving to the nearest phone.
"What happened in the laundry room, anyway?" Poole asked.
Sam stared beyond her, the image of Cosmo's blood on the laundry room floor in front of his eyes. "I underestimated the danger Nichols posed…"