Video | By : kattanon Category: S through Z > The Shield Views: 1116 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0 |
Disclaimer: I do not own The Shield, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story. |
Disclaimers: - I don’t own any of the characters of The Shield, they all belong to Shawn Ryan and FX.
Video – Chapter 6.
Claudette stood in the middle of Dutch’s living room and tried to rub away the headache that was throbbing behind her eyes. Vic had left a couple of hours ago after he’d helped her put Dutch to bed, after he’d passed out. He’d returned to the Barn to fill Aceveda in properly on what had happened and to try and figure out where they go from here. She turned towards the silent television watching as a muted newsreader mouthed words while accompanied by pictures of people carrying placards protesting about low wages or ruined rain forests or to many car emissions or something or other rea really didn’t interest her too much.
She rolled her shoulders trying to release some of the tension from her body. These past hours, waiting for Dutch to wake up, had been amongst the longest in her life. She paced through the room moving over to stand in front of the alcove by the fireplace. It had shelves built into it and on the shelves were books, and some of the few photographs she’d seen in the house. Her eyes skimmed over the book’s titles and she smiled to herself, psychology, sociology, forensics, nothing that could be termed "light reading", somehow she wasn’t surprised. Turning her attention from the books she studied the photos. The biggest one was a group shot, very like the one she had hanging up on a wall in her own apartment. Rows of faces stared out of it, and as she peered closer she was finally able to pick Dutch out from the crowd, in the middle of the back row. At the bottom of the picture were the words "Los Angeles Police Academy Graduating Class of 1991". The second picture was the individual picture that everyone had taken upon graduation from the academy, a head and shoulders portrait in uniform. Claudette smiled at Dutch’s serious face in the picture, he hadn’t really changed much in the following 12 years. However, it was the third and final photo that really grabbed her attention, and reaching forward she picked it up.
Two age age boys were standing side by side in the sunshine, smiling at the camera. The one on the left was obviously Dutch, the other boy a complete contrast to him. They were both roughly the same height, but the other boy was blond to Dutch’s dark hair, with a bigger, more robust build. Even their smiles were a contrast to each other. Dutch’s reticent, just a slight curve of his mouth, while the other boys was a wide, beaming grin. As she studied the picture she heard Vic’s voice in her head, "A teenager, about 14 or 15 I’d guess." That’s what he’d told her when she’d asked how old Dutch had been in the tape. Nowkingking at this photograph she’d guess that was probably about the age he was when it was taken. She studied his face. His eyes squinting slightly into the sunlight, the shy almost nervous smile, and wondered if it had been taken before or after that damn tape had been made. Aceveda had told her that one of the men in the tape had been Dutch’s father so no doubt the abuse he’d suffered had been going on for years. She studied the picture trying to see some clue, some indicator of what was happening behind closed doors. Trying to find something that the other people in Dutch’s life at that point should have seen. Something that should have alerted his teachers, his doctor, his friend’s parents. Something that would’ve meant someone stepping in and rescuing him from the hell he must have suffered. She stared at the picture but couldn’t see anything other than a tall, slim, slightly awkward teenage boy. Putting the picture down with a sigh she found her mind had suddenly turned to little Jenny Reborg. She remembered sitting on the floor holding the terrified, traumatized little girl while waiting for the ambulance to arrive. She thought about Jenny and glanced once more at the boy in the photo, knowing sadly that there’d been no one there to hold him or comfort him when he’d needed it most.
A noise upstairs grabbed her attention and she pushed away her morbid thoughts. It sounded like Dutch was being sick, and she hoped that most of it was ending up in the bucket that Vic had suggested they leave by the bed. Walking to the bottom of the stairs Claudette paused for a moment and was surprised to realise that she was a little afraid to go up. She was a cop, she’d dealt with difficult situations, traumatized people on countless occasions, but she realised those times had all been different to what she faced now. All those times she had been dealing with strangers, and had her professional persona to fall back on. This was different. Dutch was her friend and that was how she needed to treat him, not just as a crime victim. She knew that once any investigation into that tape got underway Dutch would have enough people treating him as a case-number. What he’d need most was someone on his side who was first and foremost his friend, and she was determined that that was exactly what she was going to be for him. So taking a steadying breath she went up the stairs and headed towards Dutch’s bedroom.
Claudette paused outside the door, but couldn’t hear anymore sounds of sickness, so reaching up she gently knocked on the slightly open door and went in. The smell of vomit assaulted her nostrils, and she wrinkled her nose slightly. However, this was forgotten when she saw the tightly curled figure on the bed.
Despite the fact that his eyes were squeezed shut silent tears still managed to leak out and run down his face. The deep unhappiness that was coming from Dutch was palpable and Claudette sighed,
"Oh Dutch."
At the sound of her voice a sob escaped him and he managed to stammer out,
"Go…just go Claudette. I’m…I’m sorry…what I did…you must hate me."
Concerned and confused Claudette moved closer and sat down on the edge of the bed. She reached out to touch him, but then thinking better of it she pulled her hand back again.
"Dutch…what do you mean? Of course I don’t hate you…why would I hate you?"
"What I did…I…I aimed my gun at you. Jesus I could’ve killed you. How can you even speak to me?" Dutch wailed his distress evident.
"It’s alright…it’s alright. You didn’t mean it…I know you’d never hurt me. Look at me Dutch please…please open your eyes…look at me please."
Slowly and hesitantly he did and Claudette was stunned for a moment at the abject misery in their depths. Wanting to reassure him she continued,
"You were confused, upset…you didn’t mean it. Let’s forget about it ok?"
She saw a flicker of hope pass over his face as he asked,
"Are…are you sure. Cause if you want to report me…press charges I’ll understand…I wouldn’t contest it…"
Claudette interrupted,
"Shh…that’s enough of that talk. No one’s reporting anyone ok?"
Dutch nodded obviously relieved. Claudette looked at him and said,
"Come on Dutch time to get up…we need to talk."
She saw the shutters begin to come down as he pulled back from her shaking his head,
"No…no…there’s nothing to talk about."
There was a note of annoyance in her voice when Claudette replied,
"You can’t keep denying it Dutch…you can’t keep hidingm thm this. It’s too late for that now…the Captain and Vic have both seen that tape."
"Oh God." Dutch breathed miserably.
Then he looked up at her, not quite able to meet her eyes as he asked,
"Have you…have you seen it?"
"No…no I haven’t."
She barely heard his whispered,
"Thank God."
"Come on." She said. "If you go downstairs I’ll clean out that bucket and make you some coffee."
Carefully sitting up, wincing when his headache got worse, he slowly shook his head,
"You don’t have to do that. I’ll clean it up it’s my mess."
"It’s ok," Claudette assured him. "Just go and sit down in the living room and I’ll be there in a minute. Then we really need to talk Dutch."
Nodding he admitted,
"Yeah…I know."
Ten minutes later Claudette was placing a cup of coffee and a couple of Tylenol on the table in front of him.
"I found these in your bathroom cabinet and thought you could probably use them."
"Thanks." He mumbled, taking them and washing them down with a sip of hot coffee.
Claudette stood by the fireplace looking at her disheveled partner as he sat on the couch, his hands on his knees, his eyes on the carpet. Trying to break the ice, ease into the subject, she turned towards the photo of the two boys.
"I was…ah…looking at your pictures over there. The one with you as a kid with your friend."
Dutch glanced up, his eyes flicking over towards the picture.
"Sam," he said a sad smile on his face. "We grew up together. He lived next door and was just a couple of months older than me."
"Do you still see anything of him?" Claudette asked.
Dutch looked away from the photo and looked down at the floor once more before answering.
"No his dad got a promotion, but it meant they had to move to Boston so…"
"You didn’t stay in touch?" Claudette asked.
"We did at first but…well you know how it is. After six months or so…" Dutch shrugged. "I missed him though. Before I used to like to spend time at their house. They were nice people, good people. Sometimes they’d persuade my parents to let me sleep over. That was the best…a whole night knowing that no one would…" He stopped his face reddening and he bit his lower lip.
"Knowing that no one would hurt you." Claudette finished for him.
He nodded and said nothing.
"How old were you when…when…"
Suddenly Claudette was tongue-tied. Damn it she’d had this conversation before, she’d interviewed victims of sexual abuse too many times. However, as she looked at Dutch, as she saw his discomfort, she suddenly didn’t want to have this conversation, she didn’t want to force it on him.
"Look," she said, "if you don’t want to talk about it yet then that’s ok."
As she said it she felt like a coward.
Dutch took a deep breath and looked up at her shaking his head.
"No you’re right Claudette I do need to tell someone. It’s been buried inside me for too long."
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