Surgeon – Chapter Thirty-Three

NOT EDITED

Chapter Thirty-Three

Saturday: January 18, 2020

8:00 AM; WEST LOS ANGELES POLICE DEPARTMENT, PARKING LOT

With his own car in Clinstone, Bo had picked up a rental to drive to the police station. Bridget had done more than enough driving him around the day before. He could have walked from his place to the station with relative ease, but he hadn’t minded the possibility of getting stuck in traffic. Prolong the inevitable. Of course, that morning, traffic had moved along quite smoothly, and Bo had made it to the station without delay.

Go figure.

Bo shut off the engine and pulled the key from the ignition. He dropped his hands to his lap, blue eyes focused on the front doors of the station as he fiddled with his ID lanyard. Almost two years ago, Jamal and walked Kathy and Dallas through those doors in handcuffs. Bo wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to truly forget the daggers Kathy had shot at him as they walked past. He’d seen a lot of hatred in that woman’s eyes over the years, but it had truly all accumulated right there on her face in that moment. As if Jamal had told her on the flight back to Los Angeles that Bo was the only reason they were caught. Like it was all Bo’s fault. Like she hadn’t run away with a serial killer, fled the state, harbored a fugitive, and endagered her children in the process.

And maybe Jamal had told her all of those things. Maybe he had said it was all Bo’s fault, that he was the one to hate, to blame. Bo had never asked.

He’d never forget the smile Dallas had given him, either. Permanent nerve damage from his childhood made it so only one corner of Dallas’s mouth ever lifted when he smiled, but that hadn’t made the one he had given Bo any less bright. Or breathtaking. It had crinkled the corners of his eyes and shined so brilliantly through those crystal blues. Like it hadn’t mattered that he’d been arrested, that he was going to lose his children, that he was going to spend the rest of his life in jail. Hell, if Jamal had a true say in it, he would have found a way to legalize the death penalty in California again just for Dallas.

It had almost been like Dallas had been happy to be arrested. Maybe he had been. Bo was sure he had probably asked the man about that, or maybe Dallas had told him, but it was so incredibly hard to focus on what Dallas was saying nowadays. Over a prison phone. Behind bars. Behind bulletproof plexiglass.

It was hard to focus on his best friend’s words when they were coming out of a murderer’s mouth.

Bo blew out a harsh breath and lifted his ID lanyard over his head. He gave it a gentle tug to even out the sides, allowing the ID itself to rest dead center on his chest. He climbed out of the car, closed and locked the door, and pocketed his keys. There were so many times he had dreaded walking into the police station, and he couldn’t quite place a direct comparison for where today fell, but it was definitely toward the top of his list for ‘most dreaded’.

Inside the station, Bo hesitated outside the closed door of Jamal’s office. Maybe he’d do a lap around the place, just to fully settle things, make sure he was doing the right thing. He made his way downstairs to the lab. The lights were off, but the door was unlocked. Despite knowing Regina was dead, the emptiness still left him a little surprised. Though Regina hadn’t been the only forensic analyst in the West Department, she had been the one who spent the most time inside of the lab, even with an office of her own sitting upstairs. A part of him had almost expected to still see her there behind one of the tables. Maybe a part of him had even hoped Jamal had been lying about her death to try and lure Bo back to Los Angeles.

He and Regina hadn’t exactly been the best of friends or anything, but she had always been cordial and understanding and polite. She certainly hadn’t deserved to be murdered. Nobody did, for the most part, but Regina was one of the only bodies that had ever been in the LAPD morgue that he had actually, truly known. And there would always be something about the dead person being a familiar face versus a stranger that settled in his stomach a different way.

Bo blew out a breath and stepped into the room, flipping on the lights. No flickering. No buzzing. The floors, walls, and counters were clean. The drawers were well-organized. Everything was perfectly in its place. It smelled clean, but not the horrifically strong, overwhelming chemical smell. Just… clean.

Bo flipped off the lights and closed the door before making his way upstairs. He walked down the main hallway off the detective desk hub. It was still lined with newspaper articles of the achievements of the people who worked there. Including Bo’s. That… was surprising. His achievements had been noted there, framed alongside everyone else’s, before he had moved to the West Department, but Bo hadn’t spent much time down this hallway during his last several years at the station. He had entirely expected that Jamal had removed them during the Kathy and Dallas manhunt. Finding them all there, pristine and still in the exact place they’d been the last time he’d seen them was… shocking.

Bo stopped at his office door. His name was still stenciled neatly onto the window at the top of the door. Bo stuck his key in the door and turned, surprised once more to find that Jamal hadn’t changed the locks during the manhunt period of things. Or maybe he had, simply changing them back to the old ones when Bo had promised to come back to L.A. within a week of finishing the case in Clinstone.

He only bothered opening the door all the way to confirm his desk was still there, that his file cabinets were still locked, that Jamal hadn’t planted a booby trap in the room for when he finally returned. Everything was perfectly normal. But the way ‘normal’ made him feel in every corner of the station was more than enough proof that what he’d come here to do was still the right call.

Bo locked his office back up and made his way to Jamal’s. The door was still closed, but Franklin, Jamal’s personal… Assistant felt like the wrong word. Driver? Bo had heard ‘bodyguard’ tossed around a time or two by other people, but he wasn’t sure how true that was. Jamal could guard himself more than well enough without another man doing it for him. Regardless of his title, the man had just come back from the breakroom, two coffee cups in hand.

“Mister Austen,” Franklin greeted. “It’s good to see you.”

Bo offered a smile. “You too, Frank.” He nodded toward the door. “Is he busy?”

“No.”

“How… is he today?”

“No better or worse than usual, I suppose.” Franklin cleared his throat. “How are you, Mister Austen?”

“Oh, you know… Surviving.”

Franklin nodded, looking back at the door almost nervously. “I’ll come in with you.” Franklin spent the majority of his time in Jamal’s office, even for meetings Jamal had with other people, but something about the way he said it made it seem so damn ominous.

When Bo made no move for the door, Franklin opened it and walked into the room. “Mister Austen is here to see you, sir.”

“Well, send him on in,” Jamal said.

Franklin looked back at Bo. “Come in.”

Bo drew in a long breath before forcing himself to step over the threshold, out of the lobby and into the lion’s den. Franklin reached past Bo to push the door closed. He crossed the room to set one of the coffee cups on Jamal’s desk. He grabbed the newspaper from the corner of the desk and settled into the chair pushed against the wall opposite the door.

“Bo,” Jamal said after a moment. “I wasn’t expecting to see you so soon. I figured you’d draw out the week after the case was over for as long as you could.”

Bo cleared his throat, fiddling with the strap of his satchel. “I considered it. But, in the end, I figured that… the sooner I get this over with, the better.”

Jamal’s hand, about halfway to grabbing his coffee, froze. His dark eyes lifted to Bo’s face. “What do you mean, ‘get this over with’? That doesn’t exactly sound like the words of a man planning on working at the station.”

Bo offered a smile. “They aren’t.”

Jamal stared at him for entirely too long before picking up his coffee. He took a sip, clearing his throat as he set the cup back down. “So what is this? You’ve come to tell me the CPD Dork Squad won you over?”

Bo couldn’t help but snort. “No. It isn’t about Los Angeles versus Clinstone. It’s just…” He let out a heavy breath, shoulders sinking. “I walked through the station to see if I was wrong. I went into the lab and the morgue. I went into my office. I walked the halls. I just… The West Department no longer feels like home to me. It’s cold and foreign a-and I don’t want that. That’s why I left. It’s why I left Clinstone too. I want… to belong, a-and I don’t… belong here.”

“You belong here just fine.”

“Respectfully, Mister Pitman, you have a funny way of showing that these days. The West Department hasn’t been my home in… a very long time.”

Jamal cleared his throat again. “What do you want me to do? Transfer you somewhere else?”

“No.” Bo pulled his ID lanyard over his head and walked up to Jamal’s desk to set it down in front of the man. He took a few steps away from him, tucking his hands behind his back. “There isn’t a department in the LAPD that would welcome me. For just a little while, I don’t want to live and breathe life as an outcast. I just want to be… free.”

“Free,” Jamal echoed. He glanced over at Franklin. If looks could kill, the glare Franklin met him with surely would’ve yanked Jamal’s soul right out of his body. “Well, you’re free to do whatever the hell you want, Austen. But when you decide that you can’t live without this place for the upteenth time, don’t come crying to me. I will no longer entertain your games, and this time, your job won’t be waiting for you when you’re done dicking around.”

The words stung, but they were far from the worst thing Jamal Pitman had ever said to Bo. Hell, they were far from the worst thing anyone had said to him. Still, the way those words affected him from anyone else would never compare to the way Jamal’s calousness made him feel. Once upon a time, Jamal had been a police chief who had hired a child genius fresh out of college without question. Once upon a time, Jamal had put his career on the line for a teenage forensic analyst making stupid, teenage decisions.

Once upon a time, Jamal had seen Bo as some sort of invaluable addition to the LAPD. But those days were long gone, and Bo was painfully aware of it.

“I understand, Mister Pitman.” Bo sunk his teeth into the scar inside his bottom lip, trying his best to keep his emotions in-check at least until he made it back out of Jamal’s office. “Thank you, umm, for taking a chance on me all those years ago. No matter how things… turned out between us, I will never forget the incredible opportunities you allowed me. And I thank you deeply for that.”

Something flickered across Jamal’s face before it was gone again, replaced with the hard, unreadable expression his face usually carried. “Your time at this station since Katherine and your BFF fled is more than enough proof that you wasted all of those opportunities you were given. You flushed everything you were ever given down the drain, and you were not worth the chances I gave you.”

Bo did his very best to bite back the pitiful sound that squeezed past the lump in his throat, but his best, as per usual, wasn’t enough. “Of course, sir,” he whispered. “I’m sorry you wasted so much time on me. I’m still grateful and thankful for… said wasted time, regardless.” He took a small step back before turning toward the door.

“Jamal is an alcoholic piece of shit.”

“Franklin,” Jamal bit out.

When Bo turned to face the man, he was still seated in his chair, newspaper unfolded in his hands. “Umm… pardon?” Bo asked.

Franklin cleared his throat, gave the newspaper a small shake. “Jamal is an alcoholic piece of shit who believes that his karma in life is to lose everyone he cares about. He believes that being an absolute horrid asshole to the people he cares about will prevent the universe from harming them, twisting them, or making them leave him. He, however, cannot admit that this is what he believes or what he does, because if he admits that, he would also have to admit that he has still lost people while being horrible to them, including you, multiple times, and if he admits that, then he would also have to admit that the way he has treated and continues to treat you has been entirely pointless and nothing but cruel and abusive. He would have to admit that he has never once protected you or kept you safe with this method, only harmed you and pushed you away.” Franklin turned the page of his newspaper. “But what do I know?”

Brow furrowed, Bo turned back to Jamal. He sat back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, eyes shooting daggers at Franklin. “Are you drunk now?” Bo finally asked.

Jamal’s gaze shifted to Bo’s face. “Get the hell out of my station.”

“He’s buzzed. You came in before he had the chance to spike his coffee,” Franklin said. “I used to spike it for him, but I stopped that particular form of enabling when he continued to be an old bastard even after the Silvers were convicted.”

A low growl rumbled in Jamal’s throat, but he didn’t offer up a defense.

“This… thing you do, thinking you’re protecting people? Your words eat me alive every single day. I wake up knowing that Jamal Pitman believes I am worthless. Useless. Not even worth the water it would take to extinguish a small desktop garbage can of fire. Who the hell do you have to protect me from for the way I feel to be worth it?” Bo asked, unable to stop the shake of his voice.

Jamal didn’t answer, simply picking up his coffee for a sip instead.

“Since you started acting upon this belief of yours? The only person in the entire world I have needed protecting from has been you, Jamal. You.” When Jamal stayed silent, again, Bo turned and left the office, closing the door behind him. He made it outside before his legs simply couldn’t carry him any further, and he sunk to the ground just outside the doors, his back pressed to the brick wall. He needed a moment to collect himself, and then… well, maybe he’d take a page from Jamal’s coping mechanism book and go get wasted.

---

Enjoying the story? Consider dropping a comment or a like down below!!

---