8TH Precinct Homicide
"I want a psych check before he goes back on active duty." Tunney ordered.
Fisk nodded already thinking forward to his call to Dr. Galloway. He could probably have one on his desk before the end of the tour.
"And not that doctor that gave him the go ahead before."
"Well, clearly Dunbar has some kind of death wish going."
"Based on what evidence? The MPU were way off mark with their theory." Fisk was disgusted.
"Dunbar gets into more scrapes than any other detective in the NYPD. Now the way I see it, that's either because his disability is getting in the way, or because he's not overly concerned with sticking around. Which one do you think it is, Lieutenant?" Tunney baited both ends of his arguments.
"Neither. If his percentage of scrapes is above average, it's no different than his years on the job before he lost his sight."
Tunney shook his head and looked pityingly at the 8th's Lieutenant. "Protecting him, it's going to end up costing you big time."
Fisk met his gaze with a steady look. His detectives sometimes met hostility in the streets, Fisk met in the halls.
"Look, Gary, a female almost killed him this time, a single female acting on her own. His disability, it's showing up as a major liability."
"That single female killed a sighted cop last year, Chief. Anyone can be hit in the back of the head, blind or not."
Tunney was unconvinced. "I don't think he's got what it takes to defend himself let alone take down suspects."
They stepped out of the office, just in time to see and angry perp try to break free from Tom and Marty who each held one of the arms that met in cuffs behind him. The guy stood six three and strong. His head was shorn down to an inch of blonde, tattoos traced the curve of his muscles proclaiming him modern day Klu Klux Klan. Tom shoved him toward the holding cell, and he turned back with a sneer in his face, "Get out of my way, boy."
"You watch your mouth-" Marty began but the guy surprised them by shrugging both detectives from his arms with a roar. Tom hit the floor ass first and Marty stumbled into the holding cell.
With speed that belied his size, the tattooed man made off down the corridor. His boots thumped a swift beat.
Both Tunney and Fisk pulled their weapons. "Freeze!"
But he just laughed as he zigzagged down to the end of the hall.
In the same moment, Dunbar stepped around the corner. He dropped his right shoulder and ploughed into the guy's centre, then lifted him up and over.
The man hit the floor with a thud. "Aghh! You broke my fucking shoulder!"
"Shut up." With his knee in the man's back, Jim pulled his cuffs out with one hand while following the guy's arm down to his hand with the other. Finding the guy was already secured he abandoned his cuffs and applied upward pressure. "Get up."
"Then get up and it won't hurt so much," Dunbar hissed.
The perp scrambled to his feet, trying to relieve the pain that drained the blood from his face. Dunbar shoved him into the wall next to the locker room.
"Tom? Marty?" Jim called out, knowing the guys were close but needing a direction after the scuffle.
"Here, Jim, holding cell's open."
With Dunbar directing him, the man hit a file cabinet and the water cooler on the way to the cell. "Oh, sorry. Oops."
As Jim pushed the perp face first into the heavy bars, Marty took over. "I got him, Dunbar."
Tom dusted himself off and grinned at Jim, while Marty shoved the swearing criminal into the cell and pulled the door shut. "Thanks."
"No problem." Jim straightened his jacket and his glasses, and turned back to the corridor. "Hey Tom, can you see my cuffs?"
Tom chuckled. "Yeah, I'll drop 'em off for you."
"Thanks." Jim returned to his desk and lifted his earpiece.
Tunney turned a sneer on Gary Fisk before stalking off.