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Cries of a Shadow	By : OpenPage Category: 1 through F > 21 Jump Street Views: 2757 -:- 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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Five days later
In an unspoken agreement, Tom had packed a bag and officially moved into Booker’s apartment. The dark-haired officer tried his damnedest to make the living arrangement work, but life in the cramped quarters was proving problematic. Tom spent most of the day asleep in the bedroom, the door closed, the defiant act a clear warning for his friend to leave him alone. It wasn’t ideal. Being relegated to the couch in his own home was an inconvenience Booker could have done without, but he understood the reasons behind Tom’s behavior. The young officer needed time to process his brother’s death. Time and space. But as the days dragged by, he realized he could no longer ignore the elephant in the room. The coroner had cleared Will’s body for release, but Tom still hadn’t organized a funeral. The dark-haired officer had considered broaching the subject with Fuller and asking for his help, but the more he thought about it, the more he realized it was a bad idea. As much as Tom respected their captain, they weren’t close, and discussing personal details about his brother’s life might prove awkward with their commander in the room. And so, after much soul-searching, he rose early, showered, dressed, and with the words of his scripted speech playing through his mind, he knocked on the bedroom door.
Silence met his first knock, and for the briefest of moments, he almost took the coward’s way out and walked away. But he knew he couldn’t avoid the conversation forever, and knocking again, he turned the handle and cracked open the door. “Tom? Can we talk?”
The smell of stale sweat and fevered nightmares greeted Booker, the sour, pungent odor hitting him in the face like a fist. Wrinkling his nose, he walked into the room and pulling back the curtains, he threw open the window. A warm spring breeze wafted into the room, the channel of air rhythmically caving and billowing the sheer drapes adorning the glass pane. He breathed deeply, the scent of hickory and oak intermingled with exhaust fumes preferable to the musty smell of body odor. He couldn’t remember the last time Tom had showered, but judging by the smell, it was a least a few days. But all that was about to change. Grief was one thing, depression was another, and he’d be damned if he’d continue to sit idly by and watch the dreaded black dog drag his friend into the dark, empty void of reckless despair. Life was a gift, every new breath a blessing, and it was time to support Tom by actively helping him move forward. Laying Will to rest was the first, and probably the most challenging step of the intervention, and though he questioned his ability, he knew he had no choice but to man up and give it his best shot.
Turning around, he stared at the rumpled bed. Tom’s brown hair peeked out from beneath a swathe of covers, the sleep-mussed tresses bringing a sad smile to the dark-haired officer’s lips. The vision reminded him of a small, vulnerable child and his heart skipped a beat. Shutting out the world wasn’t helping Tom deal with his grief, it was only masking the symptoms. The problem was, sleep did afford his friend some peace from the horror of his brother’s death and waking him would cast him right back into the harsh light of reality. It was a no-win situation, and he felt like a complete bastard, but needs must when the devil drives, and moving forward, he laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder and gave it a shake. “Tom.”
A disgruntled moan sounded from beneath the covers. Encouraged, Booker gave another shake. “Tommy, wake up.”
Seconds passed before the duvet moved and Tom’s bleary eyes peered out from beneath the protection of the bedclothes. “What?”
Perching on the edge of the mattress, Booker exhaled a weighty sigh. “We need to talk.”
Disinterested, Tom snuggled back down beneath the covers. “I’m sleeping.”
“You’re always sleeping,” Booker pointed out. “And it’s not healthy. It’s time for you to sort things out.”
Slowly pushing himself to a sitting position, Tom rubbed the sleep from his eyes. “What things?”
Known for his forthright approach, Booker came straight to the point. “Will’s funeral. The coroner has officially ruled his death a suicide. It's time to lay him to rest.”
Tom’s eyes bugged ever so slightly, the pale pink of his sleep-warmed cheeks slowly fading away. He couldn’t believe he’d actually left his brother lying in the morgue of the local coroner. His bereavement was so consuming, his mind had switched to survival mode, and he’d blanked out all conscious thoughts of his brother’s death. It wasn’t unusual. Grief was a profound and complex mixture of emotions. But now his mind was back in the game, he had no choice but to face the cold hard truth yet again. He’d buried both his parents, and now he found himself facing the daunting task of burying his brother. It was like experiencing Will’s death all over again and his eyes glassed over with unshed tears. But he bravely blinked them back, and mustering all his courage, he offered his friend a shaky smile. “I can’t believe I forgot about the funeral.”
Booker laid a reassuring hand on his knee. “It doesn’t matter. We can organize it together. Do you want me to set up a meeting with a funeral home?”
“Yeah, thanks.”
A relieved smile relaxed the muscles in Booker’s face. “Okay, I’ll do it today. Now, how ‘bout you take a shower, ‘cause I hate to break it to you, man, you really stink.”
The observation brought a faint flicker of amusement to Tom’s eyes. “Yeah, I really do, don’t I?”
“Little bit,” Booker laughed and rising to his feet, he headed toward the door. “Get cleaned up, and I’ll make us some breakfast.”
“Okay,” Tom murmured. But his mind wasn’t on the bacon and eggs he knew Booker would offer up as a bribe to get him eating again. It was on an image of his dead brother’s face, once again screaming at him that he’d let him down.
**
Two phone calls later, and Booker had not only organized the same biohazard remediation contractor to clean the bedroom in Tom’s apartment, but he’d also managed to set up an appointment with a local funeral home. He felt relieved Tom had managed to pull himself together long enough to take some of the responsibility off his shoulders. But as they sat in the funeral parlor, the bright sunlight streaming in through the glass patio doors warming their flesh, he could sense his friend’s growing unease. Anxiety rolled off the young officer in powerful waves, his newly-acquired habit of linking his fingers and rolling his thumbs in a rhythmic cycle of three rolls forward, three rolls back, slowly driving him crazy. But instead of slapping a hand over the offending digits, he averted his gaze to the small patio garden. His clouded expression turned to one of curiosity as a lone house sparrow hopped over to the glass doors and peered in. While not a pretty bird, the chestnut brown plumage flanking its dark gray crown gave it a certain air of nobility. The two eye-balled each other for several seconds, their heads tilted, their eyes communicating a silent message of interspecies unity before the sparrow turned and hopped into a bush, leaving Booker wondering if it had a family nesting in the foliage.
At that moment, a door at the side of the room opened, revealing a tall, thin man with a large hooked nose. He was the epitome of an undertaker, and Tom stifled a giggle. He could feel his hysteria rising, the violent tide of emotion coiling through his body squeezing the air from his lungs. But when Booker’s hand covered both of his, he drew strength from the warmth of his touch, and inhaling a deep breath, he stood up.
“Please, take a seat,” the man instructed after shaking Tom’s hand. “My name’s Terrance.”
“Tom,” Tom murmured. “And this is my friend, Dennis.”
Terrance gave Booker’s hand a limp shake before turning his attention back to Tom. “Firstly, please allow me to express how sorry I am for your loss. Losing a loved one is never easy, but you can trust the staff at Fereday Funeral Home to guide you through the arrangements necessary to create a meaningful ceremony that celebrates the unique life of...” He glanced at his paperwork before continuing his spiel. “Your brother, William.”
“Will.”
A frown creased the man’s brow. “I’m sorry?”
“His name’s Will. Not William. Will.”
“Of course. My apologies,” Terrance murmured, his hand surreptitiously sliding a glossy folder across the coffee table. As he continued to talk, his fingers flicked through the pages of the booklet before coming to rest on a page of expensive looking coffins. “I’m sure the two of you were very close, and I know you would want to give him a send-off befitting a valued member of our illustrious police force. May I recommend this magnificent mahogany casket with ornate bronze handles. It’s one of our most popular, and I think it speaks of your love for the deceased.”
Tom rubbed a nervous hand over his mouth. “I...uh...I don’t—”
Booker’s palm slammed down on the glossy pages, the sudden thump cutting Tom off mid-sentence. Poker-faced, Terrance turned his attention to the dark-haired officer, his right eyebrow rising in question. “Is there a problem?”
“Yes, there’s a problem,” Booker snapped. “I won’t sit here and watch you guilt my friend into spending more money than he needs to. So, why don’t you take a hike and let us talk in private.”
Terrance’s enormous nostrils flared ever so slightly and rising to his feet, he gave a brief nod. “As you wish. Please press the buzzer next to the door when you’re ready to discuss details."
As he watched the man walk into the adjoining room and close the door, the muscles in Booker’s shoulders relaxed. And while he felt bad for losing his temper, he didn’t feel bad for protecting Tom. The young officer was in a vulnerable mindset, and he wasn’t about to let an unscrupulous funeral director take advantage of his friend, even if Fereday’s did have a reputation for being the best in the city.
“You shouldn’t have done that.”
Booker turned, a reassuring smile curling his lips. “Don’t worry, we can find another funeral home. You don’t have to put up with that shit.”
A deep sadness projected from Tom’s eyes. “No, it’s not that. It’s just...I don’t know what casket to choose because I don’t know what Will would like.”
Pain stabbed at Booker’s heart and placing an arm around Tom’s shoulders, he gave a friendly squeeze. “Maybe this time, it's not so much about what he’d like, but more about what you like. And you don’t need some asshole undertaker to help you figure it out.”
“Do you really think so?”
The pitch of Tom’s voice reminded Booker of a small child seeking reassurance, and widening his smile, he offered up one of his lame jokes. “Of course. I’m Dennis Booker, I know everything.”
It was the lighthearted interaction Tom needed to keep battling through the dark curtain of depression enveloping him, and he offered his friend a faint smile. “Dream on, hotshot.”
Pleased his friend hadn’t buckled under the strain, Booker posed the obvious question. “So, what do you want to do? Do you want to stay here and deal with Gonzo, or shall we find another funeral home?”
“Stay here. I just want to get it over with.”
With a nod, Booker picked up the display book and handed it to Tom. “Take your time.”
In a daze, Tom leafed through the glossy pages, his mind barely registering the different caskets and coffins displayed within. He was about to choose Will’s final resting place, dooming him to an eternity inside a seven-foot taffeta-lined box. And as one photo blurred into the next, he hoped whatever casket he picked, his brother would finally find peace.
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Cries of a Shadow