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Chasing a Butterfly	By : OpenPage Category: 1 through F > 21 Jump Street Views: 2592 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own 21JS or the characters. I do not make any money from the writing of this story. All characters and events in this story are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead is coincidental.

Chapter List
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Tuesday February 28th 1989 (9.16 p.m.)
A gentle breeze ruffled the curtains in Tom Hanson’s apartment. Taking a sip of beer, the twenty-three year old undercover officer stared out of the open window at the waning moon sitting high in the night sky. It was the one-year anniversary of Amy’s death, but he felt nothing, no sadness, no regret, no anger. All he had inside was emptiness, a void in his heart and soul that he seemed unable to fill. It was no mystery to him, he knew the reason why he felt so detached and he was man enough to admit it; he had not loved Amy and although he knew he should, he felt no responsibility for her death.
Taking another sip of beer, he thought back over the months following her murder. He had immediately put the past behind him and moved forward by having other relationships, but he found himself unable to commit and the women in his life soon grew tired of his aloofness. Jackie had been the latest to walk out the door, but even her parting words had little impact on him. She had accused him of being emotionally stunted, immature and selfish, but the words did not hurt because he knew she was speaking the truth. Over the past twelve months, he had found himself becoming more and more detached from his emotions. On the outside, he managed to portray the Tom Hanson of old; he was fun loving, diligent and fiercely loyal to his friends. But on the inside, he was hollow, devoid of any feelings or ambition, other than the overwhelming need to numb his mind with alcohol. It had been a slow decline, but he knew he was about to reach rock bottom. The alcohol no longer blocked out the nagging voice inside his head that mocked his inadequacies as a man. He was incapable of love; the real, unbridled, raw love, the love that hurt because you felt so deeply for another person you experienced their physical and emotional pain as though it were your own, and the reason he was incapable of feeling that deeply was because his heart had turned to stone. He had become a ghostly effigy of his former self and no one in his life, including his best friend, seemed to see that he was holding onto his sanity by a thread.
He was the consummate actor.
Stepping away from the window, he finished off his beer and tossed the empty bottle onto the floor. His apartment was a mess, even by a bachelor’s standards and picking his way through the trash littered floor, he grabbed a glass and a bottle of Jacks from the kitchen and sat down on the couch. He filled the tumbler to the rim and downed half the whiskey in one gulp. As the alcohol made its way down, his throat burned and the glowing warmth that radiated throughout his body instantly calmed him. Flopping back against the cushions, he let out a sigh and stared blankly at the muted television. He was living in an empty world, but he told himself he was past caring. It no longer bothered him if he lived or died and he often lay awake at night staring down the barrel of his gun, contemplating whether pulling the trigger would finally give him the peace he craved.
**
Wednesday March 1st 1989 (8.13 p.m.)
Inside a dimly lit warehouse in downtown L.A., Tom pulled out a switchblade and flicking it open, he cut a small hole in the plastic bag that lay on an upended crate in the middle of the room. White powder spilled from the slit and licking his finger, he dipped it inside. Placing his finger in his mouth, he suppressed a smile when his tongue went numb, the sensation signaling the presence of cocaine and slowly pulling the digit from his mouth, he addressed the man sitting in front of him. “Seems pure. When’s the full shipment coming in?”
Juan Álvarez tilted his head to one side and gave Tom a sinister grin. “Don’t you wanna try before you buy, pretty boy?”
Tom glanced furtively at his undercover partner. He had only seconds to make a decision and if he made the wrong one, he risked blowing the whole case. His training at the academy had not prepared him for this type of situation and his heart pounded in his chest as adrenalin coursed through his veins. But outwardly, he was a picture of calm and smiling sweetly, he nodded his head. “Sure, set up a line.”
Dennis Booker stepped out from the shadows, a look of annoyance marring his handsome face. “C’mon, Tommy, we don’t have time for this,” he growled. “The stuff looks good, place an order and we can be on our way.”
Álvarez's brow creased into a deep frown and reaching into the waistband of his jeans, he pulled out a gun. “Your boyfriend seems mighty keen to hot-foot it outta here,” he murmured as he pointed the gun menacingly at Tom. “Makes me kinda nervous, ya know?”
Tom scowled and picking up the knife, he placed the flat edge of the blade against his tongue and slowly drawing it across the moist flesh, he licked the remnants of powder from the shiny steel. “He’s not my boyfriend,” he snarled, “but he does need to learn to keep his mouth shut.”
Álvarez narrowed his eyes and waved the gun at Booker. “Want me to take care of him?” he asked Tom in a low, intimidating voice. “We could dump his body in one of the oil vats and no one would ever know.”
Seemingly unfazed by the threat, Tom shook his head. “Nah, it’s all good. I’ll deal with him in my own way.”
After several uncomfortable seconds spent staring down the barrel of Álvarez’s gun, Booker let out a silent sigh of relief when the Latino tucked the weapon nonchalantly back in his waistband. He was furious with Hanson and he could not believe how recklessly his partner was behaving. He had no idea how Tom was going to feign snorting a line of cocaine and he felt as though they were rapidly losing control of the situation. They had spent weeks integrating themselves into the seedy life of drugs and crime and they were so close to a bust he could almost taste the victory. But over the past few weeks, he had noticed a marked change in Tom’s demeanor and he wondered if the drug dealers and gang members associated with their case were having an effect on him. He had always considered Tom to be a by the book cop, but now he was not so sure. The young officer seemed to be enjoying the thrill of the criminal activity a little too much. However, he did not completely blame Tom for that, it was exhilarating being legally on the wrong side of the law and he too got a buzz from the adrenalin rush.   But Tom had pushed it too far. Drug taking was not an acceptable part of their undercover assignment and when their Captain found out, there would be hell to pay.
Turning his attention back to Tom, he watched his partner pass the switchblade to Álvarez.   All their training had taught them that they should make the deal as quickly as possible and leave because any unnecessary contact only made them more vulnerable to detection. Their orders were simple, they were to set up the buy and when they came to collect, they would bust Álvarez and his partner Manny García and two drug dealers would be off the streets. But now Tom was playing a dangerous game with a well-known criminal and watching it unfold made him nervous.
Unable to intervene without completely blowing their cover, he looked on in silence. Álvarez crushed the drug and lined up two rails of approximately an eighth of a gram on a small mirror. The dealer then removed two ten-dollar bills from his wallet and rolling one, he handed it to Tom. “Bon appétit.”
Tom took the rolled banknote and before he could overthink what he was about to do, he lowered his head and placing the cylinder against his nostril, he inhaled deeply through his nose. He felt a slight burning sensation and lifting his head, he pinched his nostrils between his thumb and forefinger and sniffed loudly. When he felt no effects from the drug, he started to relax and he watched with interest as Álvarez snorted his line. However, a few minutes later the cocaine entered his system and a feeling of euphoria washed over him.   Grinning happily, his leg started to jig up and down as nervous energy coursed through his body. “That’s good shit,” he commented with a smile.
“It’s the best,” Álvarez replied as he wiped the telltale signs of the drug from his nose. “So how much can I put you down for, Tommyboy, a hundred grams?”
“Make it two,” Tom replied casually and ignoring Booker’s exasperated expression, he held out his hand, “and if we move it quickly, I’ll be back for more.”
Álvarez shook the proffered hand. “Deal. The shipment arrives Sunday. Meet me here at ten.” Turning his head, he gave Booker the once over. “And if I were you, Tommy, I’d leave him behind. He makes me nervous and when I get nervous, I sometimes kill people… ya know, by accident.”
Tom stood up. “Consider it done. Pleasure doing business with you.”
Álvarez nodded and he watched in silence as the two young men left the building.
**
As soon as they were out of earshot, Booker grabbed Tom forcefully by the arm. “Are you fucking crazy?” he snarled. “You could have got us killed.”
The cocaine in his system fueled Tom's aggressiveness and he angrily yanked his arm away. “Fuck you!” he spat. “You could have got us killed. I was playing along… you were acting like a fucking nark!”
“Playing along?” Booker exclaimed in disbelief. “You snorted a line of coke! You could lose your job over this!”
Tom’s eyes darkened and stepping forward, he pressed his index finger menacingly against Booker’s chest. “If you say a single word about this to Fuller, I promise you, I’ll make your life a living hell.”
Although surprised by the threat, Booker was not intimidated and he slapped Tom’s hand away. “You and who’s fucking army, Hanson?” he growled. “You can’t take me and you know it.”
“Maybe,” Tom murmured. “But there are more ways of killing a cat, if you know what I mean.”
For a fraction of a second, Booker wondered if Tom was dangerous, but he quickly pushed the thought aside. It was obvious the case was getting to him and once it was over, they would go back to treating each other with indifference and contempt. Except he knew that was a lie. Tom would go back to treating him with indifference and contempt, but he would have to hide his true feelings, the feelings that made him moan at night as his fingers played with his cock, teasing it to hardness until his life-seed exploded from within as he cried out Tom’s name. It was his dirty little secret that he kept hidden from everyone except his family; he was bisexual and he was completely infatuated with Tom.
However, despite the crush he had on the man standing in front of him, he was not blind to his imperfections. Behind Tom’s seemingly laid-back disposition, there was a veiled darkness that was somewhat unsettling. They had only worked together for four months and during that time, he had seen flashes of craziness in his partner’s brown eyes. It was a mystery to him why no one else seemed aware of it, and he wondered if Hanson had always been a little maniacal or if something had happened to change his personality. But he did not feel close enough to any of his colleagues to ask, therefore, he remained ignorant to the true nature of the young officer’s pain.
Returning his thoughts to the present, he gazed into Hanson’s eyes. When he saw the dilated pupils, he knew his partner was experiencing a cocaine buzz and his anger intensified, but so did his fear. Although no one would believe it, he cared deeply about Tom and he did not want to see him risking his career for the sake of a drug bust. However, he was too stubborn and proud to admit his fears to the man who constantly treated him with disrespect, so instead, he behaved the way Tom expected him to and shoving forcefully past him, he gave a derisive snort. “Don’t threaten me, Hanson, ‘cause I’ll whip your ass so bad, you won’t be able to sit down for a fucking month.”
When a hand grabbed his arm and spun him around, he fully expected Tom to strike him, but the rage in the dark eyes glaring at him slowly disappeared and he found himself gazing back at rational Tom, the respected police officer. He started to turn away, but Tom grabbed him again, this time a little less forcefully and a heavy silence hung in the air as the two men stood staring at each other.
Eventually, Tom flashed his trademark half smile. “C’mon, Booker, don’t be like that,” he purred. “I only had a split second to make a decision. What was I supposed to do? I took a risk, but it paid off, so no harm no foul, right?”
Booker did not agree with Tom’s reasoning in the slightest, but he was through arguing. “Whatever you say,” he muttered and pulling his arm free, he walked towards his car.
**
Thursday March 2nd 1989 (9.36 a.m.)
“What exactly are you trying to tell me, Booker?” Penhall growled. He was in no mood for one of Dennis’ rants about Tom and he wished the two officers would settle their differences with an old fashion fist fight instead of continuously whining to him about each other.
Casting his eyes furtively around the empty locker room, Booker leaned in close. “He’s losing it, Penhall. Last night at the warehouse, he snorted a line of cocaine.”
Staring into Booker’s worried eyes, Penhall felt a moment of uncertainty before he burst out laughing. “Oh come on, Booker, if you’re gonna accuse Tom of something at least make it believable! He doesn’t even take aspirin, he hates drugs.”
Dennis let out an exasperated sigh. “I know that! But since we’ve been on this case, he’s changed. I can see it in his eyes, he’s getting off on the thrill of being on the wrong side of the law.”
Penhall looked Booker up and down. “Tom told me what happened at the warehouse so don’t try and bullshit me,” he warned in a low voice. “You got twitchy and almost gave the game away, so Tom had to improvise. He pretended to do a line so the guy wouldn’t be suspicious.”
“He’s lying,” Booker murmured softly. “There’s no way he could have faked it. The coke had to go somewhere and from where I was standing, it went straight up his nose.”
Penhall forcefully slammed his locker closed and gave the dark-haired officer a penetrating look. “You’d better watch what you say,” he muttered in a threatening voice. “Fuller’s already replaced you on this case, one more fuck up and you might find yourself back at Internal Affairs. Come to think of it, maybe you should go back ‘cause snitching seems to be what you do best.”
It took all of Booker’s self-control not to punch Penhall in the face and stepping in close, he gave him an insolent look. “Fine. But if anything happens to him, it’ll be your fault. I could’ve gone straight to Fuller with this, but I didn’t… don’t make me wish I had,” and turning away, he exited the locker room.
**
Sunday March 5th 1989 (9.22 p.m.)
A tremor of excited anticipation surged through Tom’s body and leaning forward, he snorted the line of cocaine. In his mind, he told himself it was research; he was getting into character so he could effectively play a part and bust Álvarez and García in the act of dealing. However, the reality of it was far more sinister. Since his initial high just six days before, he had found himself wanting more. At first, he had managed to suppress his urges, but as he lay in bed at night remembering the euphoria the drug had awakened within him, he found the yearning harder to resist, until eventually, he had surrendered to his desires and gone in search of a street dealer. It had not been difficult to find one, he knew all the usual hangouts and within fifteen minutes, he had scored an eight ball for a hundred dollars. The high he had experienced after snorting a line had been exhilarating and for the first time in almost a year, he had felt fulfilled. He was no longer the hollow man; he was once again, alive.
That had been three days ago and he had been snorting three rails a day ever since, one in the morning and two in the evening to help him unwind. Although he had always been a staunch opponent of drugs, he realized he had fought against a culture he knew very little about and now that he had experienced it, he was certain there could be no harm in taking a little blow. After all, how could something that made you feel so good, be bad?
It was the flawed ideology of every drug user on the planet, but in his mind, it made perfect sense and as a blissful feeling washed over him, he swiped the back of his hand under his nose and holstering his gun, he left his apartment.
**
Sunday March 5th 1989 (10.08 p.m.)
Juan Álvarez cast an appreciative eye over Harry Ioki’s taut body. “Where’s your other boyfriend?” he smirked at Tom. “Did you take my advice and waste him?”
With a slow grin, Tom shook his head. “Nah, but I did shove my boot up his ass for showing me up in front of company,” he replied placidly. “He’s lying low, nursing his wounds.”
Secreted in a shadowy corner with Penhall by his side, Booker tightened his grip on his Glock and glared angrily out into the darkened warehouse. Hanson was purposely making a fool out of him, knowing he could hear the conversation. He had been furious when Fuller had pulled him from the case and he now wished he had gone straight to his superior about Tom’s impropriety instead of telling Penhall. But it was too late, the bust was about to go down and he had no choice but to watch from the shadows and hope that Tom and Harry did not fuck it up.
Taking a step forward, Álvarez placed the tip of his finger against Tom’s chest. “Are you sure it wasn’t your cock you shoved up his ass?” he taunted as he slowly trailed his finger down Tom’s torso. “You two sure would make a pretty couple.”
Tom was beginning to lose patience and he angrily slapped Álvarez’s hand away. “Are we here to do a deal or talk about your fantasies?” he growled. “I’ve got five grand burning a hole in my pocket and if you don’t want it, I’ll find someone who does.”
Álvarez scratched at his chin and pulling his gun from the waistband of his jeans, he waved it lazily at the two undercover officers. “Yeah, well, here’s the thing, Tommy. García’s a twitchy sonofabitch, he thinks you and your butt buddies are setting us up. Are you on the up and up, pretty boy, or am I gonna bag myself a couple of cops?”
Sweat prickled under Tom’s armpits and he rubbed a nervous hand across his mouth. With the cocaine now coursing through his bloodstream, he had trouble concentrating and his chest constricted in panic. He could feel himself losing control of the situation and he had no idea what tactic to use to gain the upper hand once again.
Sensing that something was wrong, Harry stepped forward. “Do we look like cops?” he asked in an infuriated tone. “Now how ‘bout you call your friend out from wherever he’s hiding and we make the deal ‘cause I’ve got better things to do than argue with a spick.”
Álvarez lifted his gun and pointed it straight at Ioki. “Who are you calling a spick, you fucking chink,” he snarled. “I oughta blow your fucking head off right now.”
As the scene played out before his eyes, Booker glanced anxiously at Penhall. “This is getting out of hand,” he hissed. “We need to do something.”
Tightening his grip on his gun, Penhall nodded. “I wanna get closer. If it all turns to shit, Hanson and Ioki are gonna need backup. Cover me.”
A trickle of sweat ran down Booker’s back. “Okay,” he whispered. “But be careful."
Penhall gave a lopsided grin. "Always am," he murmured and with a quick glance at his surroundings, he moved stealthily away from the concrete pillar he had been hiding behind and crept across the darkened warehouse.
Out of the corner of his eye, Tom saw movement and in a moment of fear and impaired judgment, he whipped out his gun, aimed and pulled the trigger.
“NO!” Booker screamed as Penhall crumpled to the ground and breaking cover, he trained his gun on Álvarez. “Police! Drop your weapon!"
Without hesitation, Álvarez fired his gun, hitting Harry, who immediately collapsed. Confused by the gunfire, Tom spun around and shot the Latino. With three men now on the ground, he set his sights on the fourth figure.
“HANSON, IT’S BOOKER! DON’T SHOOT! DON’T SHOOT!” Dennis yelled, his voice rising in panic.
Convinced that García was lurking in the shadows, Tom continued to point his gun in Booker’s direction, ignoring Harry who lay at his feet with blood oozing out of a bullet wound in his stomach. But Manny was long gone, having slipped out the back after hearing the first gunshot. Tom’s hands shook uncontrollably, but he was unable to move and he watched with increasing horror as Booker dropped to his knees next to Penhall’s lifeless body. Sirens rent the night air and several uniformed officers stormed the building, but to Tom, everything appeared dreamlike, with people moving in slow motion. Lowering his gun, he stared in confusion as his two colleagues were loaded onto stretchers and carried out to a waiting ambulance and it was not until Booker was standing right in front of him that the world returned to normal speed.
Still stunned by what had taken place, he nervously licked his lips. “I—” he began, but a fist slamming into his face immediately silenced his words and staggering backward, he clutched his aching jaw.
“YOU FUCKING IDIOT!” Booker screamed hysterically. “WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU THINKING? YOU SHOT PENHALL! YOU FUCKING SHOT PENHALL!”
Tom’s gun slipped from his fingers and clattered to the cement floor as Booker’s words resonated throughout his cocaine-addled brain. He had shot his best friend and he had no idea if the wound was fatal.
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Chasing a Butterfly