Fic: Law & Order SVU: Five Things That Never Happened to John Munch
Just as the title says. I'm irritated that Munch is always on the periphery, so I changed a few stories to make him the center of attention, as he so richly deserves. There's some crossover with Homicide: Life on the Streets. If you're not familiar with it, do yourself a favor and go rent it today!
I.
His ears were ringing, and there was blood on his shoes. The shoes that he’d so carefully polished with Kiwi and a damp rag the night before were dark and dirty, their mirror shine rendered matte in the space of a second. Now that is just never going to come clean.
You’re obsessed with your damn shoes, Bolander had griped. Who are you trying to impress, anyway?
Hey, not all of us can pull of that rumpled old man look, he’d answered. Some of us like to show a little style, a little class.
Now Stan was staring at him with open, empty eyes. Most of the contents of his head were smeared across the door jamb.
Someone was making choking, gurgling sounds to his right. With great effort he managed to turn his head, but he couldn’t be sure if the awful sounds were emanating from Kay’s ruined chest or Beau’s ruined neck.
His shoes weren’t the only thing that was ruined. There was a large red stain spreading across his shirtfront and staining his tie. He liked that tie. Gwen had given it to him on their first anniversary, right before ordering him to take her to dinner. That Gwen sure knew how to take charge. He’d really loved that about her.
There wasn’t just blood. Where his tie had been pushed askew he could see an eruption of meat, like a second, violent navel. An exit wound, he thought with mild interest.
The gurgling had stopped. He wondered which of his friends had just died. No offense to Beau, but he really hoped it wasn’t Kay. He was half in love with her, though he’d never told her out of fear she’d slug him. Now he kind of wished he had.
Then again, maybe it was all for the best.
He switched his gaze from the spreading crimson on his chest to his dirty shoes, the ones stuck on the ends of the motionless lumps of flesh that used to be his legs. Somewhere in the distance he heard the familiar wail of a siren, slowing growing closer. Slumped awkwardly against the wall where he’d fallen, Munch closed his eyes against Stan’s accusing stare and idly wondered if the bus would get there before he bled out.
And if he really wanted it to.
II.
He knew exactly what he’d been thinking when he volunteered to view the damn tapes. After all, he was the experienced one, twenty-plus years of police work under his belt. He’d seen plenty of horrific things in his time, thought he was prepared for every brand of misery one human being could inflict on another. He’d wanted to spare his younger colleagues this latest atrocity.
And hadn’t it been selfish, too? He really couldn’t stand the thought of Elliot’s jaw-clenching, impotent anger, didn’t want to touch a match to the violence that was always simmering just under the surface. And he really didn’t want to see Olivia’s face after such a viewing. Those wide, emotional eyes would be flooded with tears she wouldn’t let fall, at least not in the squad room. That lip would tremble just a little, the throat swallow hard…
God, had he ever been that young? That naïve? For all they’d seen, both his coworkers still held on to a shred of innocence, an iota of hope that there was something redeeming about the human race.
But he knew better. Even before viewing six straight goddamned hours of little boys being molested in front of a piano, he knew that men were little more than animals, beasts in suit coats and leather shoes. You could send a man to school, teach him to use his mind and act like a civilized being, but in the end they were all animals, reverting to savage, instinctual behavior. Take from the weak. Kill or be killed. Satisfy whatever sick urge -
He poured another three fingers of Scotch into the glass tumbler sitting before him on the kitchen table. Next to it, laid out in perfect alignment, were the cordless phone and his service weapon. He pondered them both as he drank.
Who would he call, really? Now there was a depressing thought, as if he needed another one. He supposed he could call Cragen. Don would understand, he’d been around the block a time or two himself. He’d tell him to stop drinking, that he’d be right over. Don’t do anything rash, John. We can get through this together, John.
But the fact remained that there really wasn’t a “we.” In fact, safe to say there wasn’t a person on the entire planet who would shed a tear over John Munch’s passing. Okay, four women might tear up over lost alimony checks, and Olivia would probably cry, but didn’t she cry over everything?
He took off his glasses and folded them, carefully setting them on the table. He checked that the knot in his tie was neat, then sighed and picked up the Glock. Never let it be said that he was a procrastinator - once he’d made up his mind on a course of action, there was no time wasted. He did spare a moment to think of his father and wonder whether this end hadn’t always been in the cards for him.
He flicked the safety off and chambered a round. In that last second he thought he heard someone knocking at the door, but the barrel was in his mouth, his finger tightening on the trigger. His very last thought was, like father, like son…
III.
The phone call he’d been waiting on for more than a year came on a Tuesday morning, just after ten o’clock.
He had planned for this moment down to the smallest detail, but the reality sent his heart racing. He took a moment after hanging up to settle himself, wiping his palms on his trousers and straightening his tie. Opening his top drawer and taking out an envelope, he turned it over in his hands a few times, then rapped its edge sharply on the desk blotter. A smile - a genuine smile, not his customary smirk - crossed his face as he stood and headed for Cragen’s office.
“Cap, got a minute?”
Cragen looked up, his eyes coming to rest on the envelope. “It’s time?”
“It’s time,” Munch confirmed, handing the letter over. “My application for retirement, effective immediately.”
The captain stood and held out his hand. “I’m sorry to be losing you, but I’m happy as hell for you. Good luck, John.”
“Thanks, Cap. It’s been an honor.”
He said a quick goodbye to Benson and Stabler and headed out to the car. On his way to the LIE, he dialed his cell and waited impatiently while it rang on the other end. “Hey, it’s me. I’m on my way to Queens.” He grinned and held the phone away from his ear at the excited squeals. “I know, me too. Are you gonna…? Okay, I’ll see you there. Bye.”
When he pulled into the driveway of the neat two-story home in Astoria, Emily and Mrs. Manetti were sitting on the porch steps waiting for him. The older woman leaned over and whispered, and the little girl’s face lit up. “Mun! Mun!” she shouted, running clumsily toward him with outstretched arms. Munch met her halfway across the lawn and scooped her up into his arms.
“There’s my girl!” He kissed her noisily on the cheek, grinning at her giggles. “Did Mamanetti tell you the good news? You get to come home with me. For ever and ever.”
Her face went slack for a moment as she worked through his words. “Yay!” she chirped, latching onto his ear and planting a wet smooch on his nose. “Love Mun!”
“I love you too, sweetheart.” Munch shifted her to his hip, wincing as her leg brace caught him uncomfortably close to his groin. “Hi, Mrs. M,” he greeted, approaching the steps.
The foster mom stood and brushed off the seat of her pants. “Hello, John. Big day.”
“Yeah, we’ve waited a long time for this. Haven’t we, pumpkin? Are you ready to go home? Say goodbye.” Emily leaned over and gave the older woman a kiss. Mrs. Manetti smiled and handed John a small suitcase.
“Take good care of her, John. She’s a precious little angel.”
“I know. And I will.” Once the suitcase was stowed in the trunk and Emily was snug in her new car seat, Munch drove them to their new home in Westchester.
Later that night, he found himself leaning against the pink-painted wall of her bedroom, watching her by the glow of the nightlight. Nestled amongst the frilly bedding, dolls, and stuffed animals, his new daughter was sleeping deeply. On the nightstand was a book he’d been reading to her: Oh, The Places You’ll Go!
Munch felt so content, so warm and fuzzy, that he was almost embarrassed. “What a marshmallow I turned out to be,” he muttered. Arms slid around his waist and a warm body leaned into his. He returned the embrace automatically. “Everything changes today,” he murmured into his wife’s hair.
“We’re gonna be so good at this.”
He couldn’t help but smile. That cocky streak of hers never failed to knock his socks off. “Thank you for understanding why I had to do this.”
“We had to do this,” she corrected. “It’s the right thing. For her, and for us.”
It wasn’t going to be easy. It would take years of physical, occupational and speech therapy to repair the damage done to Emily’s brain when her idiot mother had nearly shaken her to death. Some damage, like the partial hearing and vision loss, would be with her for the rest of her life. She’d need constant attention and support, and that’s what she would get.
At age fifty-five, John Munch was becoming a stay-at-home dad. The thought didn’t bother him as much as he’d thought it would. He’d loved being a cop. It had been the most important thing in his life for more than twenty years.
This was more important. For once in her life, someone was going to put Emily McKenna first.
“Come to bed,” his wife whispered, tugging him from the room.
Later, his tall, lanky frame curled around her smaller one, he kissed her deeply and told her that he loved her.
“I love you too. Good night, John.”
“Good night, Sarah.”
IV.
Leaving Finn to take Damon to booking, Munch headed for the locker room. He’d change into his own familiar black clothing, maybe freshen up the old deodorant, then it was back upstairs to interrogate the slimy little miscreant.
Except that he’d ended up on his knees in a stall, gripping porcelain with both white-knuckled hands and puking his guts out like a rookie faced with his first stiff. He could hear his own smiling voice telling Damon how he preferred boys, eleven to thirteen.
Gag
Damon didn’t blink, bragging about the orphanage that supplied children as young as five.
Wretch
Finally he slumped back on his heels, trembling and wiping at his streaming eyes. He flushed the toilet and rose to his feet, his knees creaking in protest. Enough with the dramatics, he told himself. Rinse your mouth, change your clothes and get the hell back to work.
Standing in front of the sink, he rinsed and spit into the basin. When he straightened, he caught a glimpse of his reflection and froze.
Who the hell was that god damned pervert in the mirror? The strangely parted hair, the cheesy polyester sports coat, the beady eyes all belonged to a sick bastard who preyed on kids. For a second he thought he’d be sick again, his stomach spasming, then he clenched his jaw and reached for the pale, ugly tie. He tore at the strange clothes, desperate to rid himself of every last vestige of his assumed identity. ‘John Blackmun’ had to die.
He practically ran to the shower and stood under the hot water, scrubbing until his skin was scalded red and raw. It took a long time, but eventually he calmed down , turning the water temperature down and leaning heavily against the wall. Another few moments and some deep breaths, and he shut the water off.
Wrapped in a towel and still dripping, he looked in the mirror again. It’s you, he thought. Just John Munch, acting like a total jackass. Sighing, he retrieved his glasses from where he’d thrown them - I threw them in the sink? Brilliant - and headed for his locker to dress. He didn’t keep much in the way of clothes at the precinct, so he settled for a long-sleeved black shirt and casual pants.
Once he’d combed his hair into its usual neat style, he finally felt like he was back in his own skin. A quick gargle with the viciously strong mouthwash he favored and he was ready to face Damon.
It wasn’t until later, when the last of the pedophiles had been booked and the reports were being completed, that Munch found himself sitting across the desk from his captain.
“You did good work today, John. We’ll have to get you some more undercover work, you have a knack for it.”
“No thanks, Cap. Actually…” he trailed off, sighing, then forced himself to meet Cragen’s gaze. “I think I’m done here. I want a transfer.”
V.
Finn and Munch entered the one-six, stamping their feet and brushing snow from their coats. Their argument carried seamlessly from the car to the street to the precinct without missing a beat.
“Every time you see a light in the sky, you immediately think little green men.”
“Excuse me,” Munch replied, hanging up his coat. “UFO does not mean alien aircraft. It means it’s unidentified. As in Unidentified Flying Object? There are plenty of things out there more worrisome than aliens, and most of them were cooked up by our very own government.”
“Here we go. It’s always the same with you, either aliens or a government conspiracy. Don’t you ever get tired of looking over your shoulder?”
“Just because you’re paranoid…” Munch trailed off. He spotted Cragen standing in the doorway to his office, sporting that carefully blank look he reserved for when things were well and truly in the crapper. “…doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you,” he finished softly.
“John. Can I see you in my office, please.”
It wasn’t a request, and Munch didn’t treat it as such. Exchanging a raised eyebrow with Finn, he walked into the office. Cragen shut the door behind him.
They weren’t alone.
Munch had never been particularly close to Frank Pembleton and doubted anyone else had been, either, but the surprise of seeing a familiar face from Baltimore had him grinning anyway. “Frank! What brings you to the Big Apple?”
Pembleton hadn’t aged well. He’d apparently given up on keeping his head shaved egg-smooth. His scalp was now covered with gray stubble. He’d gained weight since Giardello’s funeral, thickening around the middle and the neck. That stare was the same, though. Munch felt those eyes on him, like a pair of bloodshot hard-boiled eggs, and he started to remember why the man had always irritated him.
It was Cragen who spoke next. “Detective Pembleton isn’t here on a social visit, John. I’m going to need your badge and gun.”
Bewildered, Munch looked from one to the other. “Cap, what the hell’s going on it?”
“Your gun, Sergeant,” Cragen repeated, a hard edge to his voice. Munch unclipped the badge and gun holster from his belt and laid them on the desk. “Backup too.”
Wordlessly, he propped a foot up on the nearest chair and took off his ankle holster, passing it to his captain. “You want to tell me what’s going on now?”
“John Munch,” Pembleton intoned, “you are under arrest for the murder of Gordon Pratt.”
His skin crawled with a sudden chill, and the bottom seemed to drop out of his stomach. His mouth, as usual, carried on without him. “Pratt? God, that went cold years ago. Bayliss never turned up any evidence.”
Pembleton’s jaw jutted out in that familiar, aggressive way. Munch was struck with the wild urge to smash the man in the face. “Lot of advances in forensics since then,” he said, enunciating every word to death. “Ballistics. DNA. It’s getting harder and harder to get away with murder.”
“You’re being extradited to Maryland,” Cragen said. “The D.A. is seeking an indictment for murder one. I’ve contacted the union, they’ll have a rep waiting for you in Baltimore. Until then, keep your mouth shut and cooperate.”
Munch studied his captain, but the man’s face gave no indication of what he was thinking. Pembleton’s expression was hard and distant, and Munch knew any history he had with the man was irrelevant. To Frank he was now just another perp. Despite his captain’s warning, he couldn’t resist needling the man. “So what now, Frank? You gonna cuff me? Drag me out of my squad like some piece of shit junkie?”
“John,” Cragen sighed.
Pembleton just stuck his jaw out further. “Do I need to? I assumed you could walk out of here on your own like a gentleman.”
“Sure. We’ll walk out together, just two old colleagues going for coffee.” Munch rubbed his forehead, eyes closed. He stayed that way for a minute or two. The other men remained silent as he collected himself. “Okay,” he said eventually. He reached for his tie, making sure the knot was straight and tight, then he buttoned his jacket and brushed off his cuffs. “Okay.”
As Pembleton read him his rights, Munch thought back to his last trip to Baltimore. G’s shooting and subsequent death, the bittersweet reunion of the old squad, and the shocking news that Bayliss had confessed to murdering Luke Ryland. Suddenly, he understood the set to Frank’s jaw. He knew what had put gray hair all over that proud head.
Just before they reached the office door, Munch turned and looked the man right in the eye. “I’m not Bayliss, Frank. My conscience is clear.”
Pembleton tilted his head and met his gaze. “I’m here to serve an arrest warrant, Munch. Your conscience is not my concern.”
Maybe he was imagining it, but something in Frank’s face spoke of relief. There would be no confessions, no begging for absolution. It would come down to the police work. The burden would be on the State of Maryland, not on Frank Pembleton.
Munch opened the door and stepped into the squad room.
The people, hunched over computers and files or sitting around bullshitting.
The new high-tech AV equipment that no one but he seemed to be able to operate.
The interrogation rooms. The crib. His desk.
His partner.
He burned it into his memory, greedily storing every detail against the nightmare to come. When he turned to Pembleton, he saw the first sign of sympathy in the other man’s face.
“I’m ready,” Munch said. “Let’s go.”
End
I.
His ears were ringing, and there was blood on his shoes. The shoes that he’d so carefully polished with Kiwi and a damp rag the night before were dark and dirty, their mirror shine rendered matte in the space of a second. Now that is just never going to come clean.
You’re obsessed with your damn shoes, Bolander had griped. Who are you trying to impress, anyway?
Hey, not all of us can pull of that rumpled old man look, he’d answered. Some of us like to show a little style, a little class.
Now Stan was staring at him with open, empty eyes. Most of the contents of his head were smeared across the door jamb.
Someone was making choking, gurgling sounds to his right. With great effort he managed to turn his head, but he couldn’t be sure if the awful sounds were emanating from Kay’s ruined chest or Beau’s ruined neck.
His shoes weren’t the only thing that was ruined. There was a large red stain spreading across his shirtfront and staining his tie. He liked that tie. Gwen had given it to him on their first anniversary, right before ordering him to take her to dinner. That Gwen sure knew how to take charge. He’d really loved that about her.
There wasn’t just blood. Where his tie had been pushed askew he could see an eruption of meat, like a second, violent navel. An exit wound, he thought with mild interest.
The gurgling had stopped. He wondered which of his friends had just died. No offense to Beau, but he really hoped it wasn’t Kay. He was half in love with her, though he’d never told her out of fear she’d slug him. Now he kind of wished he had.
Then again, maybe it was all for the best.
He switched his gaze from the spreading crimson on his chest to his dirty shoes, the ones stuck on the ends of the motionless lumps of flesh that used to be his legs. Somewhere in the distance he heard the familiar wail of a siren, slowing growing closer. Slumped awkwardly against the wall where he’d fallen, Munch closed his eyes against Stan’s accusing stare and idly wondered if the bus would get there before he bled out.
And if he really wanted it to.
II.
He knew exactly what he’d been thinking when he volunteered to view the damn tapes. After all, he was the experienced one, twenty-plus years of police work under his belt. He’d seen plenty of horrific things in his time, thought he was prepared for every brand of misery one human being could inflict on another. He’d wanted to spare his younger colleagues this latest atrocity.
And hadn’t it been selfish, too? He really couldn’t stand the thought of Elliot’s jaw-clenching, impotent anger, didn’t want to touch a match to the violence that was always simmering just under the surface. And he really didn’t want to see Olivia’s face after such a viewing. Those wide, emotional eyes would be flooded with tears she wouldn’t let fall, at least not in the squad room. That lip would tremble just a little, the throat swallow hard…
God, had he ever been that young? That naïve? For all they’d seen, both his coworkers still held on to a shred of innocence, an iota of hope that there was something redeeming about the human race.
But he knew better. Even before viewing six straight goddamned hours of little boys being molested in front of a piano, he knew that men were little more than animals, beasts in suit coats and leather shoes. You could send a man to school, teach him to use his mind and act like a civilized being, but in the end they were all animals, reverting to savage, instinctual behavior. Take from the weak. Kill or be killed. Satisfy whatever sick urge -
He poured another three fingers of Scotch into the glass tumbler sitting before him on the kitchen table. Next to it, laid out in perfect alignment, were the cordless phone and his service weapon. He pondered them both as he drank.
Who would he call, really? Now there was a depressing thought, as if he needed another one. He supposed he could call Cragen. Don would understand, he’d been around the block a time or two himself. He’d tell him to stop drinking, that he’d be right over. Don’t do anything rash, John. We can get through this together, John.
But the fact remained that there really wasn’t a “we.” In fact, safe to say there wasn’t a person on the entire planet who would shed a tear over John Munch’s passing. Okay, four women might tear up over lost alimony checks, and Olivia would probably cry, but didn’t she cry over everything?
He took off his glasses and folded them, carefully setting them on the table. He checked that the knot in his tie was neat, then sighed and picked up the Glock. Never let it be said that he was a procrastinator - once he’d made up his mind on a course of action, there was no time wasted. He did spare a moment to think of his father and wonder whether this end hadn’t always been in the cards for him.
He flicked the safety off and chambered a round. In that last second he thought he heard someone knocking at the door, but the barrel was in his mouth, his finger tightening on the trigger. His very last thought was, like father, like son…
III.
The phone call he’d been waiting on for more than a year came on a Tuesday morning, just after ten o’clock.
He had planned for this moment down to the smallest detail, but the reality sent his heart racing. He took a moment after hanging up to settle himself, wiping his palms on his trousers and straightening his tie. Opening his top drawer and taking out an envelope, he turned it over in his hands a few times, then rapped its edge sharply on the desk blotter. A smile - a genuine smile, not his customary smirk - crossed his face as he stood and headed for Cragen’s office.
“Cap, got a minute?”
Cragen looked up, his eyes coming to rest on the envelope. “It’s time?”
“It’s time,” Munch confirmed, handing the letter over. “My application for retirement, effective immediately.”
The captain stood and held out his hand. “I’m sorry to be losing you, but I’m happy as hell for you. Good luck, John.”
“Thanks, Cap. It’s been an honor.”
He said a quick goodbye to Benson and Stabler and headed out to the car. On his way to the LIE, he dialed his cell and waited impatiently while it rang on the other end. “Hey, it’s me. I’m on my way to Queens.” He grinned and held the phone away from his ear at the excited squeals. “I know, me too. Are you gonna…? Okay, I’ll see you there. Bye.”
When he pulled into the driveway of the neat two-story home in Astoria, Emily and Mrs. Manetti were sitting on the porch steps waiting for him. The older woman leaned over and whispered, and the little girl’s face lit up. “Mun! Mun!” she shouted, running clumsily toward him with outstretched arms. Munch met her halfway across the lawn and scooped her up into his arms.
“There’s my girl!” He kissed her noisily on the cheek, grinning at her giggles. “Did Mamanetti tell you the good news? You get to come home with me. For ever and ever.”
Her face went slack for a moment as she worked through his words. “Yay!” she chirped, latching onto his ear and planting a wet smooch on his nose. “Love Mun!”
“I love you too, sweetheart.” Munch shifted her to his hip, wincing as her leg brace caught him uncomfortably close to his groin. “Hi, Mrs. M,” he greeted, approaching the steps.
The foster mom stood and brushed off the seat of her pants. “Hello, John. Big day.”
“Yeah, we’ve waited a long time for this. Haven’t we, pumpkin? Are you ready to go home? Say goodbye.” Emily leaned over and gave the older woman a kiss. Mrs. Manetti smiled and handed John a small suitcase.
“Take good care of her, John. She’s a precious little angel.”
“I know. And I will.” Once the suitcase was stowed in the trunk and Emily was snug in her new car seat, Munch drove them to their new home in Westchester.
Later that night, he found himself leaning against the pink-painted wall of her bedroom, watching her by the glow of the nightlight. Nestled amongst the frilly bedding, dolls, and stuffed animals, his new daughter was sleeping deeply. On the nightstand was a book he’d been reading to her: Oh, The Places You’ll Go!
Munch felt so content, so warm and fuzzy, that he was almost embarrassed. “What a marshmallow I turned out to be,” he muttered. Arms slid around his waist and a warm body leaned into his. He returned the embrace automatically. “Everything changes today,” he murmured into his wife’s hair.
“We’re gonna be so good at this.”
He couldn’t help but smile. That cocky streak of hers never failed to knock his socks off. “Thank you for understanding why I had to do this.”
“We had to do this,” she corrected. “It’s the right thing. For her, and for us.”
It wasn’t going to be easy. It would take years of physical, occupational and speech therapy to repair the damage done to Emily’s brain when her idiot mother had nearly shaken her to death. Some damage, like the partial hearing and vision loss, would be with her for the rest of her life. She’d need constant attention and support, and that’s what she would get.
At age fifty-five, John Munch was becoming a stay-at-home dad. The thought didn’t bother him as much as he’d thought it would. He’d loved being a cop. It had been the most important thing in his life for more than twenty years.
This was more important. For once in her life, someone was going to put Emily McKenna first.
“Come to bed,” his wife whispered, tugging him from the room.
Later, his tall, lanky frame curled around her smaller one, he kissed her deeply and told her that he loved her.
“I love you too. Good night, John.”
“Good night, Sarah.”
IV.
Leaving Finn to take Damon to booking, Munch headed for the locker room. He’d change into his own familiar black clothing, maybe freshen up the old deodorant, then it was back upstairs to interrogate the slimy little miscreant.
Except that he’d ended up on his knees in a stall, gripping porcelain with both white-knuckled hands and puking his guts out like a rookie faced with his first stiff. He could hear his own smiling voice telling Damon how he preferred boys, eleven to thirteen.
Gag
Damon didn’t blink, bragging about the orphanage that supplied children as young as five.
Wretch
Finally he slumped back on his heels, trembling and wiping at his streaming eyes. He flushed the toilet and rose to his feet, his knees creaking in protest. Enough with the dramatics, he told himself. Rinse your mouth, change your clothes and get the hell back to work.
Standing in front of the sink, he rinsed and spit into the basin. When he straightened, he caught a glimpse of his reflection and froze.
Who the hell was that god damned pervert in the mirror? The strangely parted hair, the cheesy polyester sports coat, the beady eyes all belonged to a sick bastard who preyed on kids. For a second he thought he’d be sick again, his stomach spasming, then he clenched his jaw and reached for the pale, ugly tie. He tore at the strange clothes, desperate to rid himself of every last vestige of his assumed identity. ‘John Blackmun’ had to die.
He practically ran to the shower and stood under the hot water, scrubbing until his skin was scalded red and raw. It took a long time, but eventually he calmed down , turning the water temperature down and leaning heavily against the wall. Another few moments and some deep breaths, and he shut the water off.
Wrapped in a towel and still dripping, he looked in the mirror again. It’s you, he thought. Just John Munch, acting like a total jackass. Sighing, he retrieved his glasses from where he’d thrown them - I threw them in the sink? Brilliant - and headed for his locker to dress. He didn’t keep much in the way of clothes at the precinct, so he settled for a long-sleeved black shirt and casual pants.
Once he’d combed his hair into its usual neat style, he finally felt like he was back in his own skin. A quick gargle with the viciously strong mouthwash he favored and he was ready to face Damon.
It wasn’t until later, when the last of the pedophiles had been booked and the reports were being completed, that Munch found himself sitting across the desk from his captain.
“You did good work today, John. We’ll have to get you some more undercover work, you have a knack for it.”
“No thanks, Cap. Actually…” he trailed off, sighing, then forced himself to meet Cragen’s gaze. “I think I’m done here. I want a transfer.”
V.
Finn and Munch entered the one-six, stamping their feet and brushing snow from their coats. Their argument carried seamlessly from the car to the street to the precinct without missing a beat.
“Every time you see a light in the sky, you immediately think little green men.”
“Excuse me,” Munch replied, hanging up his coat. “UFO does not mean alien aircraft. It means it’s unidentified. As in Unidentified Flying Object? There are plenty of things out there more worrisome than aliens, and most of them were cooked up by our very own government.”
“Here we go. It’s always the same with you, either aliens or a government conspiracy. Don’t you ever get tired of looking over your shoulder?”
“Just because you’re paranoid…” Munch trailed off. He spotted Cragen standing in the doorway to his office, sporting that carefully blank look he reserved for when things were well and truly in the crapper. “…doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you,” he finished softly.
“John. Can I see you in my office, please.”
It wasn’t a request, and Munch didn’t treat it as such. Exchanging a raised eyebrow with Finn, he walked into the office. Cragen shut the door behind him.
They weren’t alone.
Munch had never been particularly close to Frank Pembleton and doubted anyone else had been, either, but the surprise of seeing a familiar face from Baltimore had him grinning anyway. “Frank! What brings you to the Big Apple?”
Pembleton hadn’t aged well. He’d apparently given up on keeping his head shaved egg-smooth. His scalp was now covered with gray stubble. He’d gained weight since Giardello’s funeral, thickening around the middle and the neck. That stare was the same, though. Munch felt those eyes on him, like a pair of bloodshot hard-boiled eggs, and he started to remember why the man had always irritated him.
It was Cragen who spoke next. “Detective Pembleton isn’t here on a social visit, John. I’m going to need your badge and gun.”
Bewildered, Munch looked from one to the other. “Cap, what the hell’s going on it?”
“Your gun, Sergeant,” Cragen repeated, a hard edge to his voice. Munch unclipped the badge and gun holster from his belt and laid them on the desk. “Backup too.”
Wordlessly, he propped a foot up on the nearest chair and took off his ankle holster, passing it to his captain. “You want to tell me what’s going on now?”
“John Munch,” Pembleton intoned, “you are under arrest for the murder of Gordon Pratt.”
His skin crawled with a sudden chill, and the bottom seemed to drop out of his stomach. His mouth, as usual, carried on without him. “Pratt? God, that went cold years ago. Bayliss never turned up any evidence.”
Pembleton’s jaw jutted out in that familiar, aggressive way. Munch was struck with the wild urge to smash the man in the face. “Lot of advances in forensics since then,” he said, enunciating every word to death. “Ballistics. DNA. It’s getting harder and harder to get away with murder.”
“You’re being extradited to Maryland,” Cragen said. “The D.A. is seeking an indictment for murder one. I’ve contacted the union, they’ll have a rep waiting for you in Baltimore. Until then, keep your mouth shut and cooperate.”
Munch studied his captain, but the man’s face gave no indication of what he was thinking. Pembleton’s expression was hard and distant, and Munch knew any history he had with the man was irrelevant. To Frank he was now just another perp. Despite his captain’s warning, he couldn’t resist needling the man. “So what now, Frank? You gonna cuff me? Drag me out of my squad like some piece of shit junkie?”
“John,” Cragen sighed.
Pembleton just stuck his jaw out further. “Do I need to? I assumed you could walk out of here on your own like a gentleman.”
“Sure. We’ll walk out together, just two old colleagues going for coffee.” Munch rubbed his forehead, eyes closed. He stayed that way for a minute or two. The other men remained silent as he collected himself. “Okay,” he said eventually. He reached for his tie, making sure the knot was straight and tight, then he buttoned his jacket and brushed off his cuffs. “Okay.”
As Pembleton read him his rights, Munch thought back to his last trip to Baltimore. G’s shooting and subsequent death, the bittersweet reunion of the old squad, and the shocking news that Bayliss had confessed to murdering Luke Ryland. Suddenly, he understood the set to Frank’s jaw. He knew what had put gray hair all over that proud head.
Just before they reached the office door, Munch turned and looked the man right in the eye. “I’m not Bayliss, Frank. My conscience is clear.”
Pembleton tilted his head and met his gaze. “I’m here to serve an arrest warrant, Munch. Your conscience is not my concern.”
Maybe he was imagining it, but something in Frank’s face spoke of relief. There would be no confessions, no begging for absolution. It would come down to the police work. The burden would be on the State of Maryland, not on Frank Pembleton.
Munch opened the door and stepped into the squad room.
The people, hunched over computers and files or sitting around bullshitting.
The new high-tech AV equipment that no one but he seemed to be able to operate.
The interrogation rooms. The crib. His desk.
His partner.
He burned it into his memory, greedily storing every detail against the nightmare to come. When he turned to Pembleton, he saw the first sign of sympathy in the other man’s face.
“I’m ready,” Munch said. “Let’s go.”
End