Broken Blue Lines: Love. Hate. Criminal Justice.: An FBI Crime Drama / LGBT+ Love Story

by Ariadne Beckett

  John nodded. “I know lots of serial killers, rapists, and torturers have frontal lobe damage. Nick is none of those.”

  Dr. Patton sat down. “The brain is a complex system that even advanced medical science knows very little about. Please understand that I’m not making any kind of case for your being a killer or a psychopath, all right?”

  “Okay,” said Nick with great caution.

  “You ever suffer a head injury?” asked Dr. Patton. “Perhaps as a child?”

  Nick laughed so hard it was almost a snort, then grimaced in pain. “Which one might we be talking about here?”

  “Okay.....I’ll take that as a yes?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, Mr. Aster, these scans show some distinct irregularities in the frontal lobe.” She pointed out several irregularities in the scans. “It’s likely this damage informs more of your behavior than you know.”

  Nick blinked. And blinked again. “I’m brain damaged?”

  “Mildly so.”

  “Nick's one of the most intelligent men I know,” said John.

  “Brain injury doesn’t automatically make you incompetent,” said the doctor. “Any more than a paper cut automatically leads to limb amputation. There’s a wide range in severity of injuries and the effect they have, and it’s possible for there to be no effect on intelligence or reasoning.”

  “Is it a criminal defense?” asked Nick.

  “Oh - of course that’d be your first real question,” said John.

  “I’m not a lawyer, but - no. There’s a difference between being able to understand and possibly treat the origins of criminal behavior and using it as an excuse. If a behavior is completely out of a person’s control, the best we can offer as a society is to try to put that person where they’ll receive treatment and training. Quite probably, that would consist of a prison with specialized care facilities if you’re lucky.”

  “But you’re not saying I’m a psychopath?” asked Nick.

  “No. You have frontal lobe damage, a brain injury associated with psychopathy. Your symptoms are slightly different. As you and Agent Langley pointed out, you’re a nonviolent and empathetic man, and you feel love for other people. You won the lottery in that respect.”

  “Can I be treated?”

  She sighed. “Are there medications that might alter your behavior? Yes. Would a highly functioning individual be advised to take them? No. Behavioral therapy would be more effective, without the side effects.”

  “Uh - I’m sorry,” said John. “Nick Aster and behavioral therapy? This's one of the most brilliant minds in white collar crime you’re talking to.”

  Dr. Patton addressed John. “What’s your role in Nick’s life?”

  “Uh -” That seemed like an awfully big question. “I caught him, he went to prison. He escaped, I caught him again. I threw a tracking anklet on him for take your con to work day. It turns out we like catching bad guys together, so he's serving his sentence in my custody. I'm his boss, but he's also my best friend, he’s my partner at work....we're family.”

  “Are you trying to be a positive influence in his life? To show him right from wrong and give him feedback on his behavior?”

  “Constantly,” said John.

  “Nick, do you listen?” asked Dr. Patton.

  Nick grinned. “Sometimes.”

  “Let me put it another way. Do you respect Agent Langley, and recognize that he cares about you and is trying to help you become someone who can have a life that doesn’t involve prison?”

  The grin vanished. “Yes,” said Nick.

  “Then you’re already in the best behavioral therapy program imaginable,” said Dr. Patton.

  “Can we move off the topic of me as the brain-damaged pet criminal and onto what’s wrong with my hands?” asked Nick. He sounded pissed.

  “The superficial radial nerve is damaged on both wrists, and the median nerve on your left. You’re suffering what we call handcuff neuropathy.”

  John froze. He tried, hard, not to let his seething fury take hold, because Nick would see it and be afraid it applied to him in some way, not his attackers. He failed.

  “Those - mother - fuckers,” he said through clenched teeth.

  “The cuts on his wrists came from landing hard on his back while cuffed,” explained Dr. Patton. “But the damage to the nerves came from being dragged by overtightened handcuffs. It effectively crushed the nerves against the bones of his wrists, which was both agonizingly painful and physically damaging.”

  “Will I get better?” asked Nick.

  “It’ll take anywhere from a month to a three years to fully heal, but it’s not permanent. There’s no loss of function, just parasthesia - loss of sensation along the backs of your hands. It feels like having pins and needles from cut-off circulation.”

  “He could be in pain for three years from this?” asked John.

  “It’s not so much painful as annoying,” said Dr. Patton. “I don’t think it’ll take more than six months to heal.”

  Nick broke in, trying to reassure John. “You know when they give you Novacaine at the dentist, and it starts to wear off, but you’re still cold and numb? It’s like that, only - prickly.”

  “You can still use your hands okay?” John asked.

  Nick smiled, and held up his right hand. It held John’s watch, which only moments ago had been securely around his wrist.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Shelter

  JOHN

  John supposed Nick is brain damaged and the nerves in his wrists are crushed probably wasn’t the best thing to lead with.

  He plastered a bright smile on his face. “Nick’s just been listed as stable. He’ll make a full recovery.”

  After the celebrating, he told Mari and Theo the rest of the story. Theo looked as stunned as John, who sat down beside him.

  “Satisfied now, Fed? You arrested and prosecuted a brain-damaged individual, who has now been beaten and stabbed for it as well.”

  “I am not ‘satisfied,’ Theo,” said John, trying to have patience with Theo’s returned inclination to lay all the perceived evils of the government at his doorstep.

  Theo exhaled with what almost sounded like a low growl under his breath. “How hard would it have been for one single person, for example the arresting agent who claims to know all about Nick and care about his fate, to see if -”

  “Theo. He didn’t know,” said John. “I didn’t know. You didn’t know. And he still would have been convicted, minor brain damage isn’t a free pass out of trouble. Especially not if you’re clearly one of the most intelligent, cunning, and talented criminals alive.”

  Mari interrupted the futile semi-argument. “Has anyone told you when he can leave?”

  “Possibly this evening,” said John. “They’re waiting for him to be able to walk a little on his own, and things like that. He’ll need to have someone with him-”

  “Us,” said Mari with steel resolve that dared anyone to challenge her. “He stays with us.”

  “Our guest room and bathroom are both upstairs,” John pointed out.

  “So is his entire apartment,” said Mari. “And it doesn’t have room for both of us and Ochre.”

  John shuddered at the mental image of their energetic boxer wreaking havoc on the floors and furniture of Nick’s immaculate apartment. It was the penthouse suite of a mansion owned by a world-famous artist.... whose son happened to be imprisoned. Wrongly, she claimed.

  “What am I?” complained Theo. “Cottage cheese? Call me charmingly delusional, but methinks he might be more at ease with someone who doesn’t have a track record of cruelly imprisoning-”

  “Theo.” Mari put her hand on his arm and gave him her most endearing smile. “You’re always welcome in our home, and-”

  “What?” John said, glaring at them both. “No he’s not. Do you know what this little guy gets up to when he’s not charming you with unwanted home decor?”

  “Do you?” asked Theo with a pointed
glare.

  “Well - no,” John had to admit. “But so long as he can get upstairs, Nick’s with us.”

  Theo rolled his eyes. “With all Mari’s TV money, you guys can’t afford a house with a downstairs guest bedroom?”

  Mari chuckled. “I’m a cooking show producer, not an A-list actress. We live in New York City and own a beautiful brownstone. I’m not going to complain about where the guest bedroom is.”

  Theo grabbed John’s sleeve and yanked it, hard. “You listen to me, Fed. His friendship with you marks the first and only time he’s put himself in the hands of another person. Imagine you fought for your own life for twenty-five years, and suddenly someone capable and kind was willing to hold the world at bay for a little while. That is a trust Nick has never extended to anyone, and if you break it, I’m going to make the mythical angry father with a shotgun look like Miley Cyrus.”

  JOHN

  “You’re agent Aster’s supervisor?” asked yet another doctor.

  John nodded. She handed him a carbon yellow slip.

  “I’m putting him on restricted duty for the next five weeks. No lifting, running, or operating vehicles or machinery. No whatever FBI agents do - fighting or shooting.”

  “How long does he need to stay home?” asked John. “There’s - the boss is fine with him taking as much time off as he needs.”

  She smiled. So did Nick. “My advice would be he takes at least three weeks off, but he doesn’t want to. He wants to be at work to take his mind off it as soon as he can. So just be nice to him, and bear in mind he’s incredibly sore. The bruising on his lower body looks like he’s been hit with a car. It’s not going to heal quickly. There are the three surgical sites, and his shoulders were wrenched hard enough to strain the muscles. He absolutely has to stay on schedule with his pain medication and anti-inflammatories. If you let anyone put him in handcuffs or leg irons again before those wounds heal, I’ll track you down and kill you.”

  Nick shot John an anxious glance. “I need to get tested a bunch for HIV and Hepatitis in case there was infected blood on what was used to stab me, or in that cell. It’s - unlikely that I’ll ever come back positive, but it’s scary.”

  He hesitated for a moment. “And - in the meantime, you’ll want to be careful about getting my blood on you.”

  John shivered. “I know agents who’ve been through that waiting game. They never tested positive, but I remember how scared they were.”

  Nick looked away. “Just be careful, okay? If I get shot or something.”

  She faced John. “I’ve written scrips for pain meds, muscle relaxants, antibiotics, and anti-inflammatories. Fill them on the way back to wherever you’re taking him, they’ll make him sleepy and a lot more comfortable but he needs to be in a safe environment.”

  “He’s coming back to my house,” said John. “Anyone wanting to mess with him there’s gonna have a very pissed-off FBI agent to contend with.”

  The doctor grinned, the last of her reserve crumbling. “Perfect. You might want to invest in a case of ice packs, too.”

  “I’m coming back to your house?” asked Nick almost shyly when she left.

  “Where else?” asked John.

  “I thought - I was headed for Sing Sing until I can work again. You - don’t have to do this.” It wasn’t his most sincere attempt, in fact John thought he detected a slight longing.

  “Unless for some reason you actively want to be in prison instead, you’re coming home with me.”

  Nick tried hard not to smile, and failed. “Is the FBI really going to allow that?”

  John smiled. “Curry already cleared it. If any higher-ups complain, you can consult from my living room couch. He’s letting me stay home from work to be with you.”

  JOHN

  Nick made it up the stairs with help from John and Mari, and crawled into the Langley’s guest bed like it was shelter from a blizzard.

  “Nick,” said John softly, holding up the anklet. Nick, eyes closed in exhaustion, stuck his ankle out from under the covers. Unless John was mistaken, Nick actually relaxed when clicked on.

  Mari reached down to tuck him in, and he was already half asleep.

  She unpacked the clothes and toiletries she’d coerced Theo into fetching from Nick’s apartment, and the frightening collection of orange prescription bottles, and placed them all within easy reach in the nightstand.

  Then she knelt down by the side of the bed and stroked his shoulder. “We’ll wake you up when you need to take your meds. You yell for us if you need anything, even someone just to sit with you.” Nick nodded, his eyes still closed.

  “Good night, sweetie.”

  “Night, Nick,” said John from the doorway.

  “Good night,” whispered Nick.

  NICK

  Nick swallowed his pills to put at bay the ache that had awakened him and lay motionless on the bed in the dark. He tried to ignore the tremor in his muscles. His body was trying to tell him something horrible had happened, while his mind ignored it with dogged determination. He was using the pain medication to block out one ache trying to overwhelm him. The other wasn’t so easy.

  His father’s death when he was just five had enveloped him completely in trauma. He'd understood even before that what a gun was, what bad guys were, and that it was dad’s job to fight them. He had comprehended the horror of what had happened, and seen grief and anger overwhelm his mother, and been left sobbing and trembling in unstoppable shock in his upstairs bedroom.

  He’d known even then that something was seriously wrong, even before it occurred to him that adults could lie. That what had really happened was far darker and more twisted than a cop shot down in the line of duty. Something in the way they glanced at Nick before speaking, and moderated their words around him.

  It wasn’t until Nick was eight that a US Marshall told him the truth. Yes, his dad had been a cop. He’d also been an arms trafficker, and he’d murdered a police officer who found evidence of his illicit activities.

  His father was murdered in prison for agreeing to testify against his co-conspirators. Nick and his mother were placed in Witness Protection after his mother revealed his father had left evidence with her as insurance.

  But at age five, he’d been nearly alone to process the grief that his hero cop father had been murdered, and the terror that the bad guys would come for them next. The adults didn’t think he understood exactly what happened, thought that he was too young to grasp it fully enough to feel the pain

  He’d recovered, and gone on to say goodbye to home after home, to watch their house burn and his mother try to kill herself.

  He learned that grief and terror and poverty were part of everyday life, and got very good indeed at shortening that process and bouncing back. Locked in a cell, he’d learned to do it silently and invisibly.

  This would be no different. He would lie in bed and shake, and at some point he would cry uncontrollably, and he would very soon get up and on with his life. The trauma, the fear of sudden movements and specific little sounds and tones of voice, would be with him for a while until it wasn’t. It was a process he was so familiar he could count down the steps, and he no longer feared it.

  Having John at his side would help too; the agent had a flawless instinctive grasp on when to push and when to comfort. If a person didn’t listen to a word that came out of his mouth, just saw the caring behind his warm brown eyes and the gentle sound of his voice and the comforting strength with which he’d hug Nick....John was a safe haven like no other.

  And right now, that was breaking his heart. He sniffed. He couldn’t stick around for this. He remained in New York because of John and the FBI and Alice and that beautiful apartment she let him live in. Slowly, something precious had been building here.

  Friends. A family. A home.

  But he couldn’t keep putting himself through this. Five years of prison had taken enough of a toll. It never ended. Working with John offered the illusion of freedom and friendship, s
o long as he didn’t think John slapping cuffs on him the minute an antiquities looter decided he wasn’t a human being but a chess piece.

  Not only did Sasha murder Nick’s girlfriend, she’d framed Nick for it.... and Nick had been thrown in prison to grieve.

  Then there was the corrupt FBI agent who’d tried to blackmail him in the infamous incident that had culminated in the guy going completely off the rails and shooting him for refusing to file false paperwork.

  The hilarious story in the press about him “escaping to Bermuda because he didn’t want to do paperwork” glossed over the bits about winding up in a Bermuda jail with an infected gunshot wound and the near-miss of Nick’s almost winding up extradited back into a US Supermax facility.