An Ill Wind
OOO
Chapter One
Devastation
OOO
Residence of Muriel Faringo
154 Clinton St., Manhattan
9:47 P.M., November 18, 2005
He came to and knew he was in trouble. The house was quiet, far too quiet, and he knew he was alone.
His wrists were throbbing and his hands were numb from being cuffed around the heavy bottom post of the banister, for how long he didn't know. He tried unsuccessfully a couple of times to reach the key in his pocket, and then he remembered that it had been taken along with his car keys and his gun.
He looked to his right and left. His cell phone lay shattered against the baseboard, but the house phone wasn't too far away. If he could kick it out of its cradle he might be able dial his partner. Not wanting to waste any more of his rapidly waning energy, he followed the cord back to the outlet with his eyes and discovered that it had been ripped out of the wall.
He smelled blood, lots of it, and remembering what he had seen when he first walked in, he could only imagine the worst.
No one at work would miss him for four days, except maybe his partner if she decided to check up on him. He had taken Friday and Monday off this weekend and volunteered to work on Thanksgiving so that he didn't have to face the holiday alone for the second year in a row. There had been no one at home for a long time to notice if he didn't come back at some ungodly hour, and unless Olivia started worrying about his state of mind, nobody would bother looking for him until Tuesday.
He could see only one way to get free. Fiddling with the cuffs, he discovered that the left one was slightly looser than the right. He wrapped the fingers of his right hand snugly around his left wrist, hoping to prevent the cuff from turning at an angle and digging into his flesh. Taking a few deep breaths to steel himself, ignoring the knifing pain from bruised and battered ribs, he willed his left hand to relax and began a strong, steady pull.
He wished he could just yank hard and free himself, but he knew it didn't work that way. It was going to take unrelenting pressure and probably a couple of broken bones to get out of the cuffs. Despite his best effort to prevent it, he felt the metal biting into the fleshy parts of his hand, and he blinked back the tears that stung his eyes.
He felt the snap more than heard it, and when his left hand flew free he lost his balance. As his right arm slid under the bottom rail he scraped the top of his forearm, banged his elbow on the step, and bruised his shoulder and bicep against the banister. For one blinding moment, even his tortured left hand was forgotten as he whacked his funny bone on a sharp corner. Then that fleeting anguish left him and his other injuries assailed him in concert, each of them competing for his attention by suddenly growing exponentially more excruciating.
Curses muffled his screams as he fought back the nausea that resulted from the sensory overload. Blinking rapidly to clear his vision as stars of agony danced before his eyes, he cradled his injured hand to his chest. In his pocket he found a handkerchief and awkwardly tied it to cover the wounds the cuff had gouged into his flesh. He wasn't bleeding badly, but he figured he ought to do what he could to treat his injuries. He didn't know if his left thumb was broken or dislocated, but it hurt so much he couldn't bear to move any of his fingers and it overshadowed any pain he might have felt from the bleeding wounds. He tried to think what to do about the abrasions on his forearm, but when nothing came to him immediately he turned his attention to more pressing matters.
It was difficult to pull his shorts up with one hand, but he managed and slowly turned to face the room, stepping gingerly as he became aware of a sharp pain in his right ankle. What he saw was exactly what he expected, but he still felt the bile rising in his throat and had to hobble over to a corner where he could be sick without interfering with the forensic evidence. The pain of his damaged ribs made the nausea worse, and he had to vomit twice.
Finally catching his breath, he turned and looked again, considering his options. No phone. His car was probably gone, so he had no radio. But his partner lived only a few blocks away. He hated to leave the scene unsecured, but he could think of nothing else to do. He found his trousers slung over the arm of a chair, stumbled back to the banister, and leaned against it while he put them on, but he couldn't locate his socks or shoes. Terrified that his attacker might come back, he finally gave up the search and staggered out onto the front stoop, surprised to find that it had grown dark. He pulled the front door securely shut behind him, and began his hobbling, barefooted march to his partner's apartment.
He was almost halfway to his destination when he realized that he was cold. His overcoat had been taken from him, and his thin suit jacket was doing little to protect him from the raw November wind. The cold on his bare feet was creeping up his legs and making him ache all the way to his knees. He wavered a moment as he considered returning to look for his coat, but he had come four blocks and had only six to go. Going back now and getting to this point again would require more walking than just finishing his journey, and he wasn't sure his throbbing ankle would take the strain. With a miserable sob, he pressed on, head down against the wind.
Olivia Benson's Apartment Downtown Manhattan10:42 P.M. November 18, 2005
Olivia sat on the sofa with her legs curled up under her, wearing her favorite navy blue tracksuit. A glass of expensive, at least for her, red wine was in easy reach, and a bluesy jazz CD played softly from the sound system in the corner. She was reading a light, predictable romance novel, her one guilty pleasure. It was precisely the kind of ridiculous fluff that John Munch would berate as "the frustrated modern housewife's ludicrous foray into a fantasy world of heaving bosoms and throbbing loins, where rape and unprotected sex at best have no consequences whatsoever and at worst lead by some convoluted path to a perversely happy ending."
She laughed to herself, actually hearing his voice in her head, indignant and a little whiny, certainly superior, and if she told him that she read such novels precisely for the pure escapism, she knew he would just shrug and say, "Who am I to judge? If you want to read that garbage, by all means, be my guest. The First Amendment guarantees you that right, but it doesn't have a minimum standard of quality."
A particularly strong gust of cold November wind rattled the glass in the single-pane windows of the old apartment building, and Olivia shuddered. She wasn't particularly cold, but the noise made her pull the chenille throw off the back of the couch and drape it over her lap. She felt bad for Munch and Fin, who had probably been out to at least one crime scene by now, but she was glad she and Elliot weren't on call this evening.
She wasn't sure what her partner planned to do with his extra days off, other than spend some time with his kids. She hoped he would spend some time with his wife, too, if Kathy would let him. She wished Elliot hadn't volunteered to work on Thanksgiving, but she understood why he had. It would be easier to spend the holiday at work trying to ease some victim's suffering than at home alone trying to endure his own.
Olivia frowned and took a swallow of wine. A year ago, she had been surprised to find out Kathy had taken the children and moved back to her mom's house after twenty years of marriage, but looking back now she realized she had seen it coming. At the time she'd been more than a little hurt that Elliot hadn't told her himself, but instead let her find out when a rape victim had made harassment allegations against him. It was typical of Elliot to keep things to himself, though, and Olivia knew it had a lot to do with why his wife had left him.
Kathy Stabler was an incredibly nurturing woman. An amazing mother to four active kids, she was involved in the P.T.A. and in her church, and she had tried her best to be a good wife to her husband. She wanted to be his helpmate and his source of strength. The problem was that Elliot Stabler was a hard man to nurture. He didn't accept help graciously and would die before admitting weakness, so he had little use for what his wife had to offer. Instead, he would bottle up everything he saw and did at work, all the pain and suffering he witnessed, all the misery and grief it caused him, and he would go home to his family at the end of each day. Then, while he was working hard to be a good dad and husband, those wretched feelings would turn into a simmering, frustrated anger that he could never quite get rid of. In trying to protect Kathy and his kids from the horrors he saw every day, Elliot had shut them out. Eventually, Kathy had become the person who put leftovers in the fridge for him to heat up when he came home at night, and Kathleen, Dickie, and Elizabeth were simply the little people who ran up the electric bill, generated heaps of dirty laundry, and left their clutter all over the house. Maureen, his oldest daughter, who had gone off to college, was now little more than a stranger whose life occasionally intersected with his.
Before Kathy had moved out, Olivia knew her partner had gone to a priest for counseling, but she also knew he had just been going through the motions, doing what he was supposed to do to try and save his marriage. Kathy was a shrewd woman, though, and Elliot's charade hadn't washed with her. She'd wanted a real effort out of him, a real change, and at the time he hadn't been able or willing to make one. After Kathy walked out, Elliot had begun a slow descent into rage, depression, and reckless disregard for procedure and his own personal safety that bordered on self-destruction. More than once in the past year, his long-standing friendship with Captain Cragen had been the only thing that prevented him from losing his job and his pension.
Then, on the day that he'd beaten the living hell out of Pete Breslin, his former radio car partner, he had frightened himself with the realization that he would have killed the man with his bare hands if other cops hadn't arrived to pull him off. Knowing he had finally hit bottom, desperate to save his sanity, and with nowhere else to go, he had dropped himself on Rebecca Hendrix's doorstep and pleaded for help. Over the past few weeks, he had been working hard with the psychiatrist to figure out why he was so damned angry all the time. Since he had been seeing her for counseling he had seemed less on edge and more relaxed, and though no one in the squad ever mentioned it, they all tacitly agreed that it was a welcomed change.
Olivia knew it hadn't been easy for Elliot to go to Rebecca, and she could always tell when they'd had a difficult session by his demeanor when he came in to work. She never questioned him about what he and Rebecca discussed, knowing he would tell her if he had something he wanted to share. She often wished she could do more to help her partner, but she knew he had to do all of the hard work himself. She wanted to tell him that she could see his efforts paying off and that she was proud of him for having the courage to deal with his troubles, but she was afraid that would embarrass him, maybe even enough to stop seeing the shrink. So, she never told him that he was returning to the kind and compassionate man he had been when they first met, and she didn't mention that his barely contained rage, a part of his nature which had gotten him into trouble so often, wasn't boiling just beneath the surface all the time any more. Instead, she encouraged him with a welcoming smile and a cup of coffee every day when he came to work and silently accepted the changes that she saw taking place.
She thought about going in to the office on Thanksgiving and taking Elliot a turkey sandwich. It hadn't been that long since her mom had died, and she wasn't looking forward to spending the day by herself either. But she rejected the idea almost immediately, knowing that her partner would perceive it as her checking up on him. She hoped he had at least scheduled some extra appointments with Rebecca to help him through the holidays, and she wondered if and when she should look in on him during his long weekend.
She knew, no matter how bad things got, he wouldn't eat his gun because suicide was a sin and he was a devout Catholic. However, this time of the year was stressful even for people who weren't as troubled as her partner, and despite the changes that were coming out of his work with Rebecca, she could still imagine him losing his cool with some idiot at the local grocery store and getting into a conflict that could destroy his career.
With a reluctant sigh, she decided she'd leave him alone. He hadn't wanted her help a year ago, hadn't even told her that his wife had left him, and she knew he would rebuff her now if she were to offer any kind of moral support. He had never wanted to talk with her about his situation at home, and he had never wanted to discuss his work with his wife, either. As much as she loved him, Olivia knew that she couldn't save Elliot from himself.
Olivia still hoped the Stablers could save their marriage. She knew she was being naïve, but she had to believe that if Elliot could just learn to talk to his wife, if he could learn how to share his feelings with her the way Kathy needed him to, they might have a chance to get back together. She'd never mentioned it to anyone, but Elliot and Kathy had always been her heroes in a way.
High school sweethearts, the football player and the cheerleader had accidentally gotten pregnant while still in their teens. A few weeks after their senior prom, they had decided to "do the right thing" and get married as soon as they graduated high school. That marriage, as ill-timed and poorly planned as it had been, had survived Elliot's service in the Marines, his even more stressful return to civilian life, some hard times when he was out of work transitioning between the Marines and the NYPD, and three more children. Olivia didn't think Elliot could ever understand how much it hurt her to see his family coming apart after all this time, and not just because she had to watch her friend and partner suffer. Until last year, his nuclear family had been her proof that decent, hardworking people could get it right if they just loved each other and their kids enough to do what was necessary to make things work. They had been her hope that someday, maybe she could have a real relationship and a real home and family of her own. Now, that dream was all but lost.
Olivia sighed and opened her book again. If the Stablers couldn't fix things, at least she would still have her trashy romance novels.
She scanned the pages quickly, reading every other line most of the time, just enough to have some rudimentary grasp of the plot, and slowing down only when she came to the sexy parts. After all, this wasn't the kind of book one read for the story. She shook her head when she heard Munch's voice again, ". . . socially acceptable porn for housewives . . ." and paused for a sip of her wine.
" . . . sitting on the couch eating bonbons and getting off on some hapless innocent's sexual misadventures in Elizabethan England while their hardworking soon-to-be ex-husbands are out earning a living so they can blow it on . . ."
"Oh, shut up, John," she muttered to the no longer amusing voice in her head.
The buzzer from the outside door sounded, its harsh noise in the quiet causing her to jump. A few drops of the wine splashed onto her top, and she frowned at them, but decided that no one would ever notice after she'd washed it. That was the nice thing about wearing dark colors, besides the fact that they made her look slimmer.
Her caller buzzed again and she put her wine down muttering, "All right, all right. I'm coming."
She shoved the cheap paperback behind a sofa cushion, hiding her dirty little secret in case the visitor was someone she wanted to invite in, and crossed the apartment to the intercom.
"Yes?" she said as she pressed the talk button.
"Liv . . . help me."
"Elliot?" Her heart was in her throat. The voice had sounded like her partner, but she wasn't sure, and it wouldn't be the first time some perv from one of her cases had found her home address and come over to bother her.
"Please."
She took a deep breath and grabbed her coat, keys, phone, and gun. If it was someone in need of help, she could make a call, and if it was someone looking to cause trouble, she could deal with that, too.
An Ill Wind
He couldn't stand up any more. He just couldn't do it. "Please," he moaned into the speaker and let himself slip down the wall to the concrete step. He closed his eyes and hoped she would come soon.
"Elliot?"
He opened his eyes a little and looked in the direction of her voice.
"Elliot! My god!" She sat down beside him and gently turned his head so she could get a better look at him. He had two black eyes, a bloody nose and lip, and a lump the size of Manhattan on his head. He met her gaze just for a moment, and then let his chin drop to his chest again.
"Elliot, what happened?" she demanded gently. As she spoke, she flipped her cell phone open.
"Have Dispatch send someone to 154 Clinton Street. She's dead."
"Clinton you said? Here, in my neighborhood?" From his condition, it was clear he couldn't have reached her building from any further away, but she was so shocked to see him in such a state that she didn't realize the answer was obvious.
Elliot nodded, and Olivia dialed 911, not bothering to ask what an off-duty SVU detective had been doing at the scene of a homicide. When the operator answered, she identified herself, reported the crime, and gave the address.
"Please be advised, I am not on-scene, nor will I be. Someone . . . in the neighborhood notified me, and he needs medical attention." She requested an ambulance at her own address and closed her phone.
"Elliot, can you tell me what happened?" Liv asked as she threw her coat around his shoulders.
"Muriel Faringo called me. Roger DeVane is out on parole. I came over, just to reassure her, you know, and DeVane was already there."
"Muriel Faringo? Roger DeVane? I'm sorry, El, I don't know those names."
"It was twelve years ago, one of my first SVU cases."
"Ok. Then what happened?"
"DeVane was waiting for me. Clubbed me with something . . ." He wavered a moment as if searching for the words to continue. "He . . ." A deep breath followed and then the softly whispered words, "he assaulted me."
Suddenly taking in the rumpled clothes, the unbuckled belt, the handcuffs hanging from her partner's wrist, the hunched posture, and the lack of eye contact, Olivia felt new alarm bells go off in her head. Her partner hadn't just been beaten up.
"Elliot," she said gently, praying she was wrong, "are you saying he sexually assaulted you?"
There was a long moment when nothing seemed to move, not even the wind, then he nodded slightly, just the once. For a moment, looked like he was going to cry.
Carefully, she put an arm around his shoulders, feeling gratified that he didn't pull away, and said, "You're safe now, Elliot, and the ambulance is coming. We'll take you to the hospital and have you checked out."
"NO!" he yelled and tried to pull away. "No! I don't want anyone to know. Please."
He was totally spent, shivering in the cold, too weak to even stand. "Hey, hey, come on, you're safe now, El," Olivia spoke as gently and soothingly as she could. "You know how it works. You don't have to press charges. You don't even have to report what he did, but you have to have a medical exam at least. You have to make sure you don't have any injuries that require attention."
"I'm ok, Liv, trust me."
"Elliot, you just walked ten blocks to have me call in a homicide when you could have gone next door and borrowed a phone," she pointed out to him. "You're in shock, and I don't think you're capable of exercising very good judgment right now. You need to see a doctor, El, and you know that." She kept her voice soft and singsong, but she was determined that if nothing else he was going to be examined and have his injuries treated.
After a moment, he nodded, then looked at her, his normally bright blue eyes shadowed and pleading. "Will you go with me?"
She smiled encouragingly. "Of course I will."
As they waited for the ambulance to arrive, she fished the keys out of her jacket and unlocked the handcuff from his right wrist, gave him a tissue to dab at the blood on his lip and nose, and did everything she could to give him a quiet few minutes before his next ordeal began.
An Ill Wind
"Jesus," Officer Benito "Benny" Rodriguez gasped as he stepped into the apartment at 154 Clinton Street.
"He ain't had nothin' to do with this," his partner, Wanda Blackwell, whispered.
The victim appeared to be in her mid twenties. She was stark naked, her legs spread obscenely wide and her feet tied to the back legs of the chair on which she sat. Dozens of thin red welts on her breasts and abdomen indicated that she had been whipped with something, and large purple bruises on her thighs made it clear what else had been done to her before her throat had been slit.
"Let's check it out," Wanda softly.
First, they moved through the apartment making sure all was clear and that the killer wasn't lying in wait for them somewhere. Then they met again in the front room where they radioed Dispatch to send a CSU, an ME, and someone from homicide before beginning their initial search for the murder weapon and any other evidence.
"Hey, Benny!" Wanda called after about minute, "Come have a look at this."
"Whatcha got?" Benny asked as he came to join her over by the love seat.
"Man's coat. ID's still in the pocket." She flipped it open.
"Detective Elliot Stabler, Manhattan SVU," Benny read over her shoulder. Glancing back at the victim, he wondered aloud, "D'ya think one of the sex police finally snapped?"
"I dunno," Wanda replied, "but he's sure as hell gonna have some explainin' to do."
Examination Room
St. Vincent's Hospital, Manhattan
3:22 A.M., November 19, 2005
"Ok, you all right?" Olivia asked as she helped her partner up on to the examining table. The answer to the question was obvious, but she needed to know if he was able to continue. He nodded. Still holding his right hand, surprised at how cold it was, she helped him ease himself back against the cushioned top. Cracked ribs and inflatable splints on his left arm and right ankle made his movements awkward. He winced as he reclined, probably because his ribs were complaining, but she didn't say anything more, trusting him to speak up if he was too uncomfortable.
When they'd gotten to the hospital, she'd stayed close, and tried to be supportive. She'd completed the admission forms for him, talked to him from the control room while his ankle, hand, and ribs were x-rayed, and walked along beside his wheelchair when they moved him from one room to another to do a CT scan. As the medical exam wound down, she'd gently coaxed him into asking for a rape exam. When he consented, she'd offered to call Melinda Warner to do the evidence collection, but he begged her not to contact the ME. Warner was a friend as well as a colleague, and he didn't think he could ever face her again after she'd asked him the questions and performed the procedures that were part of the standard rape kit. Understanding his concern, Olivia had offered to wait in the hall, but he pleaded with her to stay.
"I need you here, Olivia," he had tried to explain, "but just you."
She'd nodded, feeling honored and deeply moved by the trust he was showing her, and offered a small, supportive smile. She spent the next couple of hours holding his good hand while they waited for the Sexual Assault Nurse Examiner to arrive; staying where he could see her, but with her eyes averted, as he stood on the catch papers to strip and bagged his clothes for evidence; and reminding him every chance she got that he was safe now. Once all the evidence bags had been sealed, she moved behind the screen and helped him put on the paper-thin gown, securely tying it in back for him and making sure she didn't leave a vent that exposed his bottom. She'd kept a reassuring hand on his shoulder as the phlebotomist had drawn blood to check for drugs and alcohol, and she'd held his hand again as the SANE had photographed his injuries, combed and plucked his pubic hair, and taken hair samples, oral and nasal swabs, and nail scrapings.
Now they were at the worst part of the process.
"Elliot," the SANE asked, "Could you turn over on your left side for me?"
Olivia was grateful to the woman for the compassion and patience she had shown. She knew that with a man, this last part usually took place with the victim bent over the table, but considering her partner's injuries, the SANE had opted to have him lie down. Somehow, Olivia felt this was a slightly more dignified approach.
"Wait," Elliot said once the SANE had draped him with a sheet and was about begin the rectal examination. Looking up at Olivia he said, "Turn around, Liv."
She frowned in confusion, and he explained, "I don't want you to leave, but I don't want you to watch, either."
"Oh, ok." There didn't seem to be anything more to say, so she turned away, still holding his hand.
"All right, Elliot, I'm going to start now," the SANE warned him. "It's going to be cold and probably uncomfortable, but you need to tell me if it hurts, understand?"
"Yeah, ok," he grunted.
Apart from their brief conversation on the stoop in front of her building, Olivia hadn't asked him any questions about the assault, but she had heard all of his answers to the SANE's questions. She knew this humiliating procedure was necessary to check for abrasions, possible colon perforation, foreign objects and debris, and to obtain a sample of his attacker's DNA, if he'd left any. Olivia struggled to contain her tears as she listened to her partner's reactions to the intrusive examination and felt his grip tighten on her hand.
"Ok, all done," the SANE said after a few eternal minutes.
Olivia could feel the shudder pass through her partner's body. She took a moment to compose herself and turned toward him again. Then she helped adjust the table so that Elliot was now sitting up.
"I want PEP," Elliot told the SANE.
"Post-exposure prophylaxis is usually indicated only when the assailant is known to have HIV," she said with a frown.
"He's . . . a convicted child molester who was just released from prison this week. I'd . . . I'd say the odds are good," he told her.
The SANE frowned again and made some notes on her chart. "Ok, I'll make sure you get the meds. I'd also like to give you a shot of penicillin to protect you against gonorrhea and syphilis."
"Then can I go home?"
Olivia heard the quaver in his voice, and knew he wasn't equipped to cope with an empty house right now. Staying at her place wasn't an option, either, because she knew he was just too damned proud to lean on her that way. Since Elliot was looking at the SANE and not at her, she shook her head no. The woman's eyes lit with understanding, and she said, "That's not my call to make, Elliot, but your x-rays have to be back by now. I'm sure a doctor will be in to see you soon and you can discuss it with him, ok?"
Elliot nodded. He wasn't pleased with the response, but he wasn't ready to push it, either. The SANE left and it was up to Olivia to look after her partner again.
"You hanging in there?" she asked. They had been at the hospital for almost five hours, and he had held up quite well, but she thought she ought to ask, just to be sure.
In a tight voice, he responded, "Barely."
As she watched, his face crumpled into a mask of pain and humiliation. She thought the tears would surely come now, so she hooked the stool that the SANE had been using with her foot and wheeled it over to where she could sit on it. Now at his eye level, she reached up and gently rested a hand on his shoulder, ready to pull him into a hug or brush his tears away if that's what he needed.
"I never thought . . ." he began, and stopped when he ran out of words. After a moment he burst out, "This wasn't supposed to happen to me!" He pounded the exam table with his good hand, and his expression contorted in physical and emotional pain, but he refused to let the tears fall.
"I know, El. It shouldn't happen to anyone, ever, but you're going to get through this," she promised. "You're safe now, and I'm going to be here for you as long as you need me."
The door to the exam room banged open making them both jump. Elliot groaned in pain as his various injuries protested.
"Elliot Stabler?"
"Yeah, can you give us a minute?" Olivia snapped over her shoulder at the intruder.
"Oh, uh, sure. Sorry."
It was more like five minutes before they were disturbed again, and in that time Olivia had managed to calm her partner considerably. This time, there was a knock at the door, and when the doctor came in, he was extremely apologetic.
"I'm Doctor Peter Dombrowski," the tall young man said. "I'm so sorry I startled you earlier, Mr. Stabler. Would you prefer that I call you Elliot or Mr. Stabler?"
"Elliot is fine. Where is the other doctor . . . The woman who saw me when I first came in?"
"She went off duty about three hours ago, but I've read her notes and seen your x-rays and test results. You can call me Peter if you like, or I can find another female doctor if that would make you more comfortable."
At a fit and athletic six feet, two inches tall, Peter knew he was physically imposing. According to the chart he held in his hands, his patient wasn't any shorter, and judging but the amount of lean muscle mass he obviously carried, the guy had to be considerably stronger. Peter couldn't believe a guy like that could be the victim of a sexual assault, but whatever had happened, he'd clearly been traumatized, and Peter would do whatever he could to make the poor man more comfortable.
"No," Elliot said hesitantly, "uh, you can stay."
Peter smiled and looked to Olivia, "And you are?"
"Olivia Benson. I'm . . . a friend," she said, getting up from the stool on which she was sitting and moving it over toward the physician.
He nodded in acknowledgement as he took the seat and asked, "Do you want Olivia to stay, Elliot?"
Elliot swallowed hard and said, "Yes, please."
"Ok, I just want to talk with you a minute, and then we'll decide together what kind of treatment you need, all right?" When he got a silent nod, he continued. "First, how are you feeling?"
After a moment's thought, Elliot responded with surprising honesty. "My ankle is throbbing and my hand is killing me. It hurts to breathe and I have a headache."
Peter nodded, pulled out a penlight, and moved forward. Elliot cowered back against Olivia, and she gave his uninjured hand an encouraging squeeze.
"I just want to check how your eyes respond to the light, Elliot," the doctor informed him, and moved closer again. After flashing the light in his patient's eyes and grunting softly to himself, Peter sat back and said, "Your x-rays show a hairline fracture of one of the tarsal bones in your ankle. The air cast will effectively stabilize that. You've dislocated your thumb, broken two metacarpal bones, and torn some ligaments in your hand. That's going to take surgery to repair, but I've consulted with an orthopedic surgeon, and she says that, unless the pain is just unbearable, she'd recommend waiting until the swelling goes down."
Peter paused, and after a moment, Elliot realized he was expected to respond, "I can live with it for a while, but some kind of pain reliever would help a lot."
Checking the chart, the young physician asked in surprise, "You mean you've been here for five hours and they haven't given you anything yet?"
Elliot shook his head and said, "I haven't had any medicine, or even a drink of water."
"The other doctor didn't want to give him any pain medication until his tests results were back in case he had a brain injury," Olivia broke in, "and eating and drinking can interfere with evidence collection."
Scribbling furiously on the chart, Peter said, "We've been slammed tonight, but this is inexcusable. I'm going to take care of it right now. I'm so sorry." Pushing off with his feet as he continued to write, he rolled the stool he was sitting on across the floor to the door, swung it open, and called into the hall, "I need a nurse, right now!"
He held a short conversation in the hall and then rolled himself back to Elliot and Olivia. "Someone will be back shortly with a snack and something to make you more comfortable."
Elliot sighed gratefully. "Thank you."
Peter nodded and said, "You're welcome. I'm sorry no one took care of that sooner."
He glanced down at the chart again. "Your nose is broken, but with the proper precautions, it shouldn't require any surgery to heal properly, and, I don't know if you realized it, but they had a specialist check your eyes when you first came in, and there was no indication of a detached retina or retinal bleeding," he said. "Have you noticed any cloudy or blurred vision, unusual blind spots, or any objects floating across your field of view?"
Elliot shook his head no, and Peter continued. "Then it is safe to assume that your vision is fine. I know your cracked ribs are uncomfortable, but there's no sign of any significant soft tissue injury or internal bleeding. The cuts and abrasions on your feet are all superficial. My only real concern is that knot on your head."
"So, does that mean I can go home?" Elliot pleaded, and again Olivia heard the fear in his voice.
"Now you know they usually keep people in overnight when they get whacked on the head," she told her partner and shot the doctor an imploring look.
Peter nodded again and said, "Olivia is right, Elliot. You probably have a concussion, and I suspect you're still in a mild state of shock. I'd like to hold you for observation."
Elliot sighed and nodded. "Ok."
Olivia could hear the relief in his voice and see some of the tension leaving his frame. She knew she had done the right thing by nudging the doctor to keep him in the hospital.
"All right then." Peter consulted the chart once again, and said, "Deb tells me you want the PEP protocol."
"Deb?" Olivia inquired.
"The SANE who did the exam," the doctor supplied, and Olivia nodded, remembering now that the woman had told them her name before she began the exam. "The protocol isn't really for everybody, Elliot."
Elliot nodded again. "I realize that. I don't know for certain that the guy had AIDS, but he just got out of prison, and he was put there for molesting seven little girls. I've been exposed before, in a medical emergency situation, and I know the risks and side effects."
Understanding dawned on the young physician's face as he finally realized that the man before him wasn't just some generic traumatized patient, but a knowledgeable individual capable of making informed decisions on his own.
"Ok, that sounds like a wise course of action," he agreed. "I'll make sure you get your first dose of meds as soon as you get to your room. Now, do you have any other questions or concerns you need me to address?"
Elliot shook his head. "I just want to go somewhere and sleep."
Peter made a final note on the chart and said, "Because of the head injury, the floor nurse is going to have to wake you up periodically. I'm sorry."
"It's ok. I knew that would happen."
Peter nodded. "Ok, then, you wait here and rest. Someone will come get you when your room is ready." With that, he gave Olivia an encouraging smile and a nod and was gone.
After a few minutes of silent waiting, Elliot realized he had something to say. "Liv?"
"Hmm?"
"Thank you . . . for being here. I couldn't have gone through this alone."
She gently squeezed his hand, which she had been holding since the SANE had left the exam room, and said, "You don't need to thank me. There's nothing I wouldn't do for you, El."
A few minutes later, a soft rap on the door announced the arrival of a nurse bearing a tray that contained a bagel with cream cheese, a glass of orange juice, and a hypodermic needle.
"Is it breakfast already?" Olivia asked in surprise.
"No, the cafeteria is closed for the night, but I'm resourceful. I managed to rustle something up," the young woman, whose badge read Mindy Weaver, R.N., replied with a smile as she injected Eliot with the pain medication.
"So, you had to run out and get me something," Elliot said. "I'm sorry."
"Don't give it another thought," she said, waving away his concerns as she disposed of the needle and her gloves. "We keep a stash of food on hand in a fridge in the supply room just for times like this, when a patient is hungry and the cafeteria is closed."
Elliot smiled slightly and said, "Well, then, thank you."
"You're welcome," she said as she moved to the door, "and eat up. Someone will be here shortly to take you up to your room."
Again, they were alone. After letting her partner finish his snack, Olivia spoke up. "El?"
"Yeah?"
"I think you should give your statement tonight."
"No!" he nearly shouted. "I don't want to talk about it."
"You're not going to have a choice," she told him, trying to quell an out-of-place smile as it occurred to her that the words he had just spoken were practically his motto. "You had me call in a homicide. Someone's going to want to know what happened."
"Yeah, but that doesn't mean I have to tell them tonight."
She took his hand once more and gently rubbed the back of it. At least it wasn't so icy now. "No, but if you give your statement tonight, at least it will be done."
"Don't give me that crap, Olivia," he sneered. "I'm not some naïve civilian. I know how the system works. I'll give my statement tonight and then someone will be here in the morning with more questions."
His throat tightened up and he choked on his words for a moment as he realized that the nightmare awaiting him could be as frightening and humiliating as the assault itself.
"Then they'll ask me to stop by the precinct when I get out of the hospital." He kept his voice low, hoping it wouldn't crack and reveal his fears. "And they'll show up at the house a week from now, I'll have to talk to the DA, there'll be depositions and discovery, and the DA will want to prep me for trial, and I'll have to testify before the grand jury, and then in court, and . . . and . . . Oh, God, what if my kids find out?"
As he spoke his words came faster betraying his panic, and Olivia had to interrupt to calm him down.
"Shhh. Easy, El," she said, giving him a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder. "You're safe now. Let's just take one step at a time, ok? It's all right, you're safe."
After a few more minutes of gentle shushing, she told him, "If you give your statement tonight, you'll be able to rest knowing that you can talk about it when you have to. You won't have to go on dreading it."
It took a moment, but Elliot eventually nodded his consent.
"Ok, who do you want me to call?"
"Not Fin," he said immediately. "There's no way I could talk to him about this."
"Ok, what about Munch?" Olivia prompted.
Elliot considered the suggestion and then shook his head. "John and I, well, we're friends, I guess. I don't think I would ever be comfortable around him again if I had to tell him what DeVane did to me."
Olivia frowned. Elliot was quickly running out of options. "Do you want me to take your statement?"
"Oh, God, Liv, no!" He began panicking again. "I work too closely with you. I don't want you to know any more about this than you already do. I won't be able to work with you knowing that you have those details in your head. Please, promise me you won't work this case and you won't read my statement. Please, Liv, promise me!"
"Ok," she said soothingly and began rubbing the back of his good hand again. "Ok, El, I promise. It's all right. I won't."
She gave him a minute or so to regain some composure and then pointed out, "There's only one person left unless you want to go to a junior detective or someone outside of the squad."
Elliot considered her implication for a moment, and then nodded. "I can talk to Cragen."
She smiled. "I kinda thought you were going to say that. He makes you feel safe, doesn't he?"
Shrugging, Elliot said, "He looks out for all of us."
Olivia nodded, understanding what he meant. The captain was something of a father figure for both of them, and they'd each turned to him in difficult times before. "He's a good man." She let go of her partner's hand and flipped open her cell phone but then realized that she couldn't recall whether she had seen a sign banning them or not. Deciding to be on the safe side, she crossed the room to the phone that hung on the wall, pressed zero for the switchboard and requested an outside line. Then she turned and asked, "Do you want me to tell him why you need to speak to him?"
Elliot hesitated briefly and then said, "Yeah. I think it will be easier if I don't have to do it myself."
Then he closed his eyes and laid his head back against the cushioned exam table and wondered how in the hell he had let this happen to himself. He could hear the soft beeps as his partner dialed the phone and her hushed voice as she spoke to their captain. He could tell by her responses that Cragen was agitated, but by the end of the conversation, she had smoothed his ruffled feathers.
"What's up?" he asked when she returned and took his hand again.
"The uniforms Dispatch sent to the scene found your coat with your badge in it. The investigating detective had already called him to ask about it."
"He's not mad, is he?"
"No," she assured him. "His only concern was to know that you were safe. I told him you are now. He'll be here in about twenty minutes. Why don't you close your eyes and try to rest?"
Suddenly, there seemed to be nothing left to say. Until the captain arrived to take his statement, all Olivia could do was be there to support her partner. Gently, she stroked the back of his uninjured hand, hoping the contact would soothe him. She knew he was in for a long, difficult journey, but she would be there for him no matter what. Many rape victims never really recovered, and for a guy like Elliot it was going to be even harder because the assault had been so unexpected. The attack had been devastating and he would be changed forever by it, but Olivia was determined to do whatever she could to make sure that someday, he would feel safe, strong, and happy again. When his eyes finally slid closed and he drifted off to sleep, she smiled sadly and let her own tears fall for him.
Disclaimer: All SVU characters are property of Dick Wolf and NBC. This story is written for entertainment purposes only and no profit is being made from its distribution. Reviews are appreciated.
Author's note: I started this story over two years ago intending to post it during the holiday season of 2005, but one thing led to another and I didn't get it done then. Then, needing some feedback to help me stay motivated, I showed this to my friend Future Mrs. Stabler. She was very sweet in her praise of it and kindly let me know that she was working on something with a similar premise.
Future Mrs. Stabler and I work differently. She usually posts as she writes, while I usually like to finish something, or be close to finishing it, before I post. Then she started posting "Trip Wire," which is a remarkable epic you should read if you haven't already. I think the site only has room for one story of this nature and magnitude at a time, so again, I put this story on the back burner.
Now the holiday season is rolling around again. Future Mrs. Stabler assures me "Trip Wire" is winding down, and I am in need of some feedback if I am ever going to finish this story. The first twenty-two chapters of this story were written before "Trip Wire" ever saw the light of day or your computer screens and anything in them that bears a resemblance to that story is just coincidence. After chapter twenty-two, any similarities are an homage.