Chapter Twenty-One - Conclusion
He was still settling in his wheelchair, pulling the robe's belt ties from under his legs, when they suddenly stopped moving. Looking up, he could hardly argue with Marella's decision. It was always best to make nice with the boss's family and in her case, the people who might possibly one day be her in-laws and Marella was no fool; she showed the proper level of deference and affection to Archangel's mother. Hawke didn't mind either; there was something in Elisabeth Hayden's smile that was reassuring and calming, enough that it almost made up for the humiliation of meeting them in his pajamas and robe. It'd been so many years since Hawke's mother died that he'd almost forgotten what it felt like to bask in maternal warmth.
Mesmerized by bright blue eyes and wispy, white hair clipped stylishly short into loose curls, Hawke felt his left hand gathered into a delicate two-handed clasp, surrounded, encompassed by affection and gratitude. He blamed his pain meds for how slowly his brain was processing what was simply social interaction, his thoughts stumbling over each other. Mrs. Hayden smelled like powder and something sweet, yet not cloying.
"If I'd wondered how it was that you and Michael are friends, I wonder no more." Elisabeth Hayden's gaze was soft and affectionate, but her words were velvet over steel. Those who might harm her family did so at their own peril. "Thank you, Hawke. I am grateful beyond words. My son is extremely important to me."
Embarrassed, Hawke felt obligated to reply with an honesty that surprised him as much as it probably surprised Marella. "Michael's important to me, too."
Porter Hayden was gruffly grateful, a clap on Hawke's shoulder and a stiff nod. "Got yourself hurt in the bargain, I see. Michael's lucky to have such loyal friends." His brown eyes ranged over Hawke and briefly over Marella before returning to his wife. "We're heading back to the house. I think Elisabeth might have a nap and I could go for a dip in the pool. We'll be back later to visit with Michael."
Mrs. Hayden's hands were still wrapped around Hawke's. "You take care of yourself now, young man." Leaning forward, she placed a light kiss on Hawke's cheek. The blush was immediate and completely outside his control.
Marella hugged the other woman, exchanged a quick peck on the cheek with General Hayden. Watching the Haydens made their way out of the ICU, towards the building exit, Hawke shook his head, sensations still sluggish, mind a little blurry from the pain meds.
"What is it?"
"Nothing," Hawke said. At her raised eyebrow – she knew there was something there – he relented even if it was weird. "Is it me or does Hayden smell exactly like Michael?"
The way her jaw shifted to one side as she blew out a breath, frustration, annoyance, told Hawke he wasn't imagining things.
"Yes. He did," Marella said, wheeling Hawke towards Briggs' room. "He must have 'borrowed' Michael's aftershave. It was probably sometime after he polished off all of the bourbon, single malt, and rum in the house. Poor man will have to make do with whatever alcohol remains even if it's not top shelf."
"Parasite," Hawke muttered, drawing a laugh. "I didn't know Michael wore aftershave."
"Pretty much every day, except sometimes when he's not working," Marella replied. She sniffed a little, a delicate snort. "And not here, of course. Why? What of it?"
Hawke shrugged, reached up and rubbed his shoulder where Hayden's friendly clap had awoken bruises that had been previously quiet. "Most aftershave smells like crap, like salesmen or politicians." Which, considering Archangel's chosen profession, almost fit, except that Briggs just smelled like…. Briggs. Which was to say, not like aftershave, just clean and something else that eluded Hawke.
"It's a custom blend."
That was surprising, and then again, it wasn't.
"Custom blend?" Hawke whistled, craning his head around to look up at her. Vanity, thy name is Michael. That would serve as rich material for a long time; Briggs would never hear the end of it.
She stopped the wheelchair just outside the door to Archangel's room and spun it, wheels squeaking in protest, so that Hawke faced her.
"I can't believe I'm asking this," she said, pushing her hair back away from her face with one hand as she gripped his wheelchair with the other, "and God knows, this is hardly your strong suit, but Michael's a little out of sorts and I'm hoping you can distract him because I don't think cheering up is in the cards."
Hawke rubbed his mouth, trying to hide his amusement at Marella's all too accurate assessment of his emotional influence. "He's pissed about Laban?"
Her hair bounced as she tilted her head, thinking about it. "Somewhat," she finally answered. "I think I'm a lot more angry about that than Michael is."
Hawke would bet she was. Laban's continued existence owed a great deal to Marella's disciplined professionalism. He'd no doubt she would have preferred to have emptied the entire clip into Laban for what he'd tried to do to Archangel. It was possible that only the need to 'debrief' Laban had kept the sorry son-of-a-bitch alive.
"You get anything out of him yet?"
Marella shook her head distractedly and Hawke wasn't sure whether the negation meant that they didn't get an answer from Laban or they didn't get an answer that could possibly explain what he'd tried to do.
"Why potassium?"
"The cardiac arrhythmia," she paused and took a steadying breath, "and the cardiac arrest that followed would have appeared to be an outcome of his kidneys difficulty processing potassium. Cause of death would probably have been deemed complications from acute renal failure."
Hawke thought about the call button for the nurse, deliberately moved out of Briggs' reach, while nearly everyone closest to Briggs was nearby but unaware he was in trouble. Laban might have gotten away with it.
"Sounds like he did some research," he ventured carefully.
Marella's attention snapped back to him. "As opposed to a panicked and desperate attempt to keep his job after you'd humiliated him in front of Zeus and half the Committee and then rigged Airwolf to explode, both within the same four to six hour window?"
Hawke swallowed. He'd already arrived at that realization.
"Yeah."
Her lips quirked and she nodded. "He'd obviously thought about it before that. I doubt he would have easily acquired the dosage he used in such a small window of time."
But I was the catalyst; I gave him the excuse to use it, Hawke thought.
"And of course, we both know that Laban only thought he'd seen Airwolf destroyed."
Hawke studied her, and then blinked almost innocently. She laughed.
"Right. Well, getting back to the favor I'd asked. The doctors told Michael this morning that he's going to be on full bed rest for at least another six to eight weeks before the pelvic fracture is sufficiently healed to support any weight on it. And then crutches for weeks, possibly months after that, while he does physical rehabilitation for it and his leg."
Ouch. Two months flat on his back wasn't something Hawke would have taken all that well either. Adding rehabilitation to the equation at least doubled the length of the recovery period.
She acknowledged his wince. "It's not entirely a bad thing. It's going to take time to recover from some of the internal injuries." She sighed heavily. "That and additional treatment."
"I thought he was getting better," Hawke said, taken by surprise.
"He is," she said immediately, sinking to a squat by Hawke's chair and balancing her weight carefully on heels high enough to make Hawke nervous for her. "He's better than he was, but he's a long way from being healthy. I think he's just realizing how badly injured he was. Still is, really." She smiled ruefully.
"And you're sending me to cheer him up?" Hawke's expression was just as incredulous as his voice.
Marella laughed softly. "It's counterintuitive, I know. Pick a fight, bait him a little, do whatever comes naturally between you two."
Five doctorates, Hawke reminded himself, one of which was in psychology, not to mention a medical degree, plus intimate knowledge of a man she loved and probably knew better than anyone else in the world. He still thought she was crazy and he grumbled as he wheeled himself to the door.
"Don't blame me if he gets worse."
Hawke pushed open the door, scowled at the still depressing quantity of monitors and tubing surrounding Briggs's bed. The man himself was horizontal, hospital bed angled just enough that Briggs didn't have to raise his head to interact with his doctors or visitors.
"Your stepfather's borrowing your aftershave," Hawke announced, wheeling himself slowly into the room.
"He's probably drinking it; I'm sure there's some amount of alcohol in there," Briggs said flatly, opening his eye and regarding Hawke with disbelief. "You look like hell. Who let you out of bed?"
"Dr. Duval," Hawke replied, positioning the wheelchair on Briggs' right. He wondered if the monitors and equipment were grouped on Briggs' left so that they wouldn't obstruct the patient's eyesight. "You still look like shit yourself."
"Marella doesn't have privileges at this hospital."
"You think that stops her, or stops the staff here from listening to her?" Hawke crooked an eyebrow.
Marella was senior enough in the Firm that she could throw her weight around the clinic, even before she had finished medical school and passed her boards. The inference that she had the full support of a Deputy Director only amplified her influence.
Briggs scowled and said nothing. He was drawn and obviously ill but there was actual color in his skin tone, nowhere near normal but enough to serve as a distinct contrast with the pallor he'd had when Hawke had last seen him. Someone had washed his hair and shaved him recently enough that Briggs might past for normal if he weren't in a hospital gown, in a hospital bed, and squinting without benefit of his distinctive glasses. And if normal included the oxygen tubing under his nose and the central line just below his collarbone.
"You look better than you did last time I saw you."
"I thought I looked like shit," Briggs said, expression softening with a smile and a trace of his normal humor.
"You do," Hawke said, unwilling to go into a detailed comparison. "Last week you looked like something Tet dug up."
"What's this I hear about you going to jail?"
Hawke coughed into his hand, a fake cough, trying to cover a sudden and unexpected surge of embarrassment.
"Thought I'd try working with you for a change."
Then he wondered if Briggs even remembered that line. Marella had said something about memory loss from the trauma.
"Sorry I missed the occasion," Briggs said, his tone that unique mixture of dry warmth that was patented Archangel. "Any chance of a repeat performance?"
"Maybe," Hawke grinned back at him. "It's kind of like Halley's Comet. Try again in about 75 years or so."
"Hmmmph. That's what I thought."
Hawke felt good, felt a surprisingly strong sense of well being considering the environment and the circumstances. He might go weeks or months without talking to Briggs, and usually complained when circumstances demanded that he do so. He hadn't even realized that the vague feeling of unease, the tension that had been living in the back of his neck for the last few weeks had anything to do with the thought he might never again toss words back and forth with the other man in the easy banter that they'd developed.
He rubbed the back of his neck, felt a little of the tension uncoil. "So, how you feeling, Michael?"
Briggs sighed, deflating a little. "Besides the fact that I'm tired of answering that question," he said with more than a hint of irritation, "I'm grateful to be alive and more or less in one piece." He glanced at his lower body. "Or at least reassembled."
Hawke raised a brow in patent disbelief. "Really?"
Briggs scowled. "I'm being fed through one tube, pissing into another and -- Christ, there's not really a good way to say this, alright, maybe there is -- excreting waste into a bag. I'm stuck in this goddamn bed for another six weeks and I can't move an inch or take a deep breath without everything hurting. What do you think?"
"That about it?" Hawke said, after he'd caught his breath.
"Did I mention sleeping twenty hours out of every twenty-four?" Briggs grumbled. "Even when I'm awake, I'm tired. And the drugs are making me queasy."
Hawke bit back a smile. "Bitch, bitch, bitch."
Briggs said something under his breath in a language Hawke didn't recognize. He was sure it wasn't complimentary.
"You're getting nothing but sympathy from Marella, from your family, and from your entire staff. You're probably drowning in feminine concern while you're doing this stoic 'just glad to be alive' bullshit." Hawke smiled. "Am I glad you're alive? Hell, yes. Considering that you weren't expected to live, I think you're doing pretty damn good."
"Did you come here just to piss me off?"
"Nope," Hawke replied. Keeping his face straight was something of a strain. "Marella wanted me to cheer you up. Or at least distract you."
"Oh, God," Briggs said, his voice soft and despairing. "And she asked you to do it? Tell me you're joking." He grabbed at the hospital blanket with his right hand as if he considered pulling it over his head. A quick tug yielded only a corresponding wince and Briggs rested his right arm protectively over his midsection.
"How come you never mentioned you're related to Porter Hayden?"
"What is this? Twenty goddamn questions?" Briggs glared at Hawke, at the thin cotton blanket, the wave pattern on a monitor, and the room in general. "I'm not. His marriage to my mother doesn't construe a family relationship."
Hawke almost gave up then and let Briggs go back to sleep or glower at the walls or whatever the man wanted to do. Taking a deep breath, he pressed on.
"You know, Hayden was in Nam the same time I was there."
"I thought that might be the case." Briggs stared sullenly at the ceiling for a few minutes, and then finally dragged his attention back to his visitor with a sigh, manners or curiosity overriding his bad temper. "Did you know him then?"
"Knew of him," Hawke said, leaning back in his wheelchair and kicking the brake on with his hospital slippers. "He was a full bird then, before he got the star. Not a bad pilot or commander," he said, lying through his teeth.
"When he wasn't hitting the sauce," Briggs said, "and then he became something of a autocrat." He rolled his eye in Hawke's direction. "I read his OERs before he married my mother and I talked to people who flew for him."
Of course he had.
"OERs? Didn't know you spoke Army."
Briggs turned an indignant glare in Hawke's direction. "I did my two years like everyone else."
This Hawke hadn't known and he knew his face showed his surprise.
"Not Nam," he protested.
"No." Briggs exhaled slowly. "Vietnam was still heating up in the early sixties. I spoke fluent German, passable Russian, and expressed a strong interest in Intel." He smiled. "So the Army decided I should learn to fly helicopters and then shipped me to Korea."
Hawke shook his head and clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth.
"Michael, if the Army wanted you to have an Intelligence career, they would have assigned you an Intelligence career."
"Someone was paying attention. The Firm was waiting, offer in hand, when I got out."
"Which is how you got access to Hayden's OERs. Must piss him off that you have access to all that material. Not to mention a higher security clearance." Hawke grinned suddenly. "Not that you'd rub that in or anything."
Briggs tried to control the smirk that was fighting to come out, finally gained control by clearing his throat. "Tempting though it may be to do so, I restrain myself to maintain family harmony. My mother's husband may be overly fond of imbibing, Hawke, but he is good to my mother and he makes her happy." The grin hardened, so did the gaze. "And he knows that his own health and well-being are contingent upon her continued happiness."
"She's a great lady, Michael. I've no idea what she sees in Hayden, but if he makes her happy…" Hawke just shook his head, in amusement and mock-pity. "Did the poor bastard know what he was getting into with you when he married her?"
Briggs shrugged, winced as if even that small amount of movement was painful, and closed his eye. "I've no idea. It's possible he really did think I was in overseas investment, but I doubt it. He was still active duty and not without connections." He sighed. "Why are we talking about this, anyway?"
Hawke exhaled in frustration. Marella should have sent someone else if she wanted Briggs distracted, entertained or cheered up. Hawke wasn't all that good at doing any of those things, for himself or anyone else -- that was Dominic's job, or Caitlin's – and pissing off a man in pain wasn't his idea of helping the healing process.
"Still digesting the idea that you have a family," he said, tossing the conversational ball back to Briggs. "Outside the Firm, I mean. Any brothers or sisters?"
Briggs shifted his head and turned an icy blue glare on Hawke. "Why did Marella really send you in here?"
Hawke shifted a little uncomfortably. "I was asking about you and she said you were awake."
"You're a terrible liar, you know." The voice was gentle, almost friendly; the glare was not. "I suppose it's one of your better qualities, few as they are."
Considering that he lied, semi-professionally and very successfully for Archangel on a regular basis, Hawke wasn't quite sure how to take that.
"I was asking about you and she said you were awake," Hawke insisted, getting a little annoyed. Briggs wasn't the only one injured and in pain.
"I'm fine, just a little tired."
It was a clear dismissal; Briggs was studying the white hospital blanket with sullen resentment, the fingers of his right hand worrying at a rough seam. Hawke recognized the signs of an impending brood, though he was usually the one brooding and if there was a magic trick to banishing them, he sure as hell didn't know the secret password. Mentally groaning, he went for the obvious.
"So, that mole in your organization worked for the Committee." Hawke paused for a beat, waiting for a reaction. "Someone you trusted?"
"Penetration agent," Briggs corrected almost automatically, without any real passion. "Mole is a term used in spy novels. I never said I trusted her." His attention returned to toying with the blanket.
"You don't trust anyone on the Committee, do you?" Hawke shook his head in disgust. "Even grunts in a foxhole trust the guys in there with them."
Briggs pulled away. Not physically because he was nearly immobile in the hospital bed, but everything in his gaze and his expression went distant, the door slamming shut behind him. In the veritable minefield that was Archangel's psyche, Hawke had stumbled upon a major tripwire. Gritting his teeth, he pulled it.
"You know, in a piranha feeding frenzy, they strip the flesh off their prey in minutes and they take bites out of each other while they're doing it. You work there." He paused for emphasis and to gather the rest of his thoughts. "I don't know why the hell you do it, or why anyone would fight tooth and nail to do it. I don't know why Laban would try to kill you to take your job, where you trust no one and you're constantly attacking or being attacked. It's a Hobbesian environment."
"Hyperbole doesn't suit you," Briggs said, politely calm in an unnerving way. "Understatement is more your forte. You may want to keep that in mind."
Pick a fight, bait him a little, Marella had said. Hawke took a deep breath and pulled the next tripwire.
"Laban was your friend, wasn't he?"
"He worked for me," Briggs corrected.
Hawke couldn't resist.
"So does Marella and the two of you seem tighter than most married couples."
A single narrowed eye studied Hawke until Briggs finally blew a breath, frustration and concession. "Eric and I were friends at one point."
Hawke held back a smile; Briggs had ignored or dodged the Marella question yet again.
"Did you trust him?"
And was disappointed at the lack of reaction; Briggs had his shields in place and he was all cool disinterest.
"I trusted Laban within the parameters of certain situations."
Ah hell, Hawke wasn't all that good at trying to understand the types of sociopaths who'd kill a friend to advance a career and Briggs was talking this way too calmly.
"Did your situational trust include trusting him not to kill you?"
Hawke could see the color rising in Briggs' neck, saw his jaw clench, even heard his teeth grinding. And then it was all gone, as if it had never been there, blue eye a little darker or maybe it just looked that way from the way Briggs was squinting, studying Hawke as if he were a specimen.
"Marella sent you in here to pick a fight with me, didn't she?"
Hawke wasn't entirely sure how to respond; it was a little eerie to hear and see that level of control, emotion shut down abruptly and replaced by razor sharp analysis. The only emotion Hawke could read from Briggs now was satisfaction; Hawke's motive established and the source identified.
He shrugged. "Obviously there was no head trauma."
"Nothing serious."
"Just everything else," Hawke said.
"Not everything," Briggs said, exhaling softly. "Though it certainly feels that way."
"You work in a piranha tank, Michael."
Briggs growled somewhere deep in his throat. "Piranhas may be predators, but they are carnivorous, not cannibalistic."
"You know what I mean."
"I know that you are attempting to psychoanalyze me, which is without a doubt one of the single largest cases of irony yet recorded. The Department of Psychology at Stanford could study you for the rest of your life without running out of material. As could the NIMH."
"Yeah, but none of my friends have tried to kill me in the last week," Hawke said, and held up his hands anticipating the obvious response. "You're not in any shape to try, so don't." He watched Briggs for a second. "If you fall out of bed, I'll get my ass kicked by your girlfriend."
Briggs winced, whether in pain or from Hawke calling Marella his girlfriend, Hawke wasn't sure and he wasn't worried that Briggs would even try to get out of bed. The conversation overall and the current topic in particular were draining energy the man didn't have to spare; Hawke didn't remember seeing those faint purple shadows under Briggs' eyes when he first rolled in.
"I'm not going to try to explain my job or my choices to you, Hawke," Briggs said with strained patience. "And I'm not going to attempt to explain Eric's behavior because I don't wholly understand that myself. This isn't some daytime soap opera; there's not going to be an emotional catharsis or Come to Jesus moment triggered by you picking a fight with me, no matter what you or Marella might think."
Hawke felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth and he let it show. Whatever Marella's motives were, he was pretty sure they were something a little more complex than sparking a cathartic moment.
"Okay, Michael. One last question. You have anyone in your life that you trust completely? Not situationally, but completely? Even one person?"
Briggs licked his lips, but if he was thinking the question over, it was a rapid decision. "Yes."
Hawke sighed, mostly with relief. "Okay then."
Briggs crooked an eyebrow. "Do you?"
"Yeah."
Briggs smiled, a weary smile in a face that had lost a little color since Hawke came in. "Glad to hear it. You going to let me sleep now?"
At the mere mention of sleep, Hawke was blindsided with an onset of exhaustion, born of blood loss, emotion and the gradual erosion of pain meds in his system. That he lingered was probably due to some perverse quality in his very nature.
"One last question: did they find the guys who shot down your helicopter? The last I heard from Marella sounded like the Firm knew who they are."
After a moment, he realized he was talking to himself. Briggs had slipped back into analgesic-flavored dreams and the sight of and sound of Briggs sleeping were a potent reminder to Hawke of his own desperate need to get back to bed.
"Or were," he amended, fully aware that those loyal to Archangel might have taken a more extreme methodology with the men who'd nearly killed him.
Hawke pushed at the wheels on his chair for a frustrating minute or two before remembering he'd engaged the brake. Annoyed, frustrated and definitely fading himself, he kicked if off and wheeled himself jerkily to the door.
"You look terrible," Marella said, with obvious concern as she rose from her chair in the hall and dropped the news weekly she'd been scanning.
"Some idiot doctor let me out of bed," Hawke agreed. "Think you can get me back to my room before I fall asleep?"
She had him halfway down the hall before he finished his request.
"How did it go?"
She still sounded worried but Hawke knew it wasn't all for him. Probably most of it wasn't for him. Sourly he wondered if any of the worry was for him.
"He's fine. He's cranky and uncomfortable and might be a worse patient than I am…"
"I'm not sure that's possible."
"… but he gave me crap about trying to psychoanalyze him or provoke him. Let him sulk, he'll get it out of his system and then he'll be fine."
Marella just hummed a bit as she steered him into his room, but she sounded a little happier.
"Let me help you," she insisted, kicking the brake on quickly as Hawke pushed himself up from the wheelchair.
He opened his mouth to argue, but the room began spinning and he felt himself start to sway before a steadying hand caught his arm, and another supported his back. Hawke would have been embarrassed how much he leaned on her if he wasn't so darn tired.
"I'm sorry," Marella said as she pulled the sheets and blankets back and eased him into the bed. "You're really not up for this yet. I wore you out and I know better."
Hawke groaned with pleasure as he sank into what now seemed like the most comfortable mattress he'd ever slept upon. Sleeping twenty hours out of twenty-four didn't sound like a bad thing at all; he wondered what the hell Archangel was complaining about.
"Yeah," he griped, "and you'd ask me to do it again in a heartbeat if you thought it would help Michael even a little."
He glanced up at her, pleased that she had the decency to look embarrassed.
"I probably would," she admitted as she gently laid the blanket back over Hawke and tucked the ends under the mattress "But that doesn't make it right."
Hawke smiled. He had just enough energy for a parting gift. "He's madly in love with you too."
She flushed right down to her roots and looked away until she regained her composure. "Thank you," she said, meeting his eyes with an earnest gaze. "I owe you, we owe you. For helping us identify our leak, for tracking down the bogus Airwolf and finding Zinn, for chasing after and stopping Laban." She bit at her lower lip. "For visiting with Michael just now. Thank you, Hawke. I won't forget it."
"Until the next Airwolf mission."
"That's business," she said emphatically. "This is personal and I mean it. I won't forget."
Find my brother, Hawke thought wearily, but there wasn't much point in mentioning it. From the size and thoroughness of the file he'd read, he knew Archangel was looking and if Archangel was looking, Marella was too. He wished there was something they could offer that he wanted, but he couldn't think of a thing he needed from the Firm, or from either of them individually.
Marella smiled and smoothed Hawke's hair back from his forehead with a gesture that was almost affectionate. "Get some sleep. I'll check on you later, see if you want me to smuggle in some non-hospital food."
He mustered a smile for her. Watching her leave, knowing she was heading back to Briggs, he thought with longing of Gabrielle and wondered what might have been, if Gabrielle would have sat with him in the hospital and looked at him the same way Marella looked at Briggs.
The way that Caitlin had looked at him when he woke up yesterday after the emergency surgery: a look of worried pride, anxiety and strength and fierce protectiveness all mixed together in an unwavering blue gaze, a look just for him.
The softness of the bed and the exhaustion he'd been fighting were pulling him into someplace warm and safe. Blue sky flying, late afternoon sun spilling over Eagle Lake, the quiet whisper of wind through pine trees and for the first time in a long time, something very much like hope.
Author's Notes
A/N: Once again, sincerest apologies for the significant gap in posting between Chapters 13 and the remaining 7 chapters of the story. Real life, that job thing, and a bit of a writer's block of how I got from Chapter 13 to the beginning of what turned out to be Chapter 20, the penultimate chapter that set up Chapter 21 delayed the story far longer than I'd ever thought.
For those who like the details as much as I do, Marella's 5 doctorates were mentioned in "Fallen Angel." They are Aeronautical Engineering, Electrical Engineering, Psychology, Microbiology and French Literature. In the same scene she states that she has a year of classes remaining before she completes her Medical Degree. In another of my stories, ab ovo, I explained her disappearance from the series at the end of Season 2 as her completing the degree and then moving onto a job at Walter Reed.
OER = Officer Evaluation/Effectiveness Review
NIMH = National Institute of Mental Health