[February 23rd] [Perry Mason] Candles and the Snow, 23

[insaneladybug.livejournal.com]

Title: Candles and the Snow, scene 23
Day/Theme: February 23rd - Fire, though it may be quenched, will not become cool
Series: Perry Mason
Character/Pairing: Hamilton Burger, Mignon Germaine, Lieutenant Tragg, Lieutenant Anderson
Rating: T/PG-13

Time Period: Not long ago, during the era of season 7. I wrote it as an experiment, an attempt to determine what might have become of Lieutenant Tragg when his character vanished from the series mid-season 7 and was never mentioned again.

Referenced: Season 1, episode 30, The Screaming Woman. The technology has been updated to be a CD rather a Dictaphone cylinder.


By Lucky_Ladybug

Hamilton was still furious as he left the courtroom. The first day of the hearing had not gone well. Being tripped up by the defense did not happen to him as much now as it once had, but today had been one of those days. He had ended up looking the fool after a disaster with one of the witnesses, and he was not at all happy. He had managed to keep himself from blowing up, but it had taken every bit of his willpower and resolve. Right now he felt ready to throw something or kick a wall.

“I’m glad you don’t have a CD at the moment.”

He looked up with a start at Tragg’s voice. The police lieutenant was strolling out after him, ignoring the slight rain tapping on the windows outside.

Hamilton realized in an instant that Tragg was referring to a doctored CD Perry had once tricked him into introducing in court. Afterwards, he had pitched it at his office wall in a fit of rage. It had almost accidentally struck Tragg in the process. Hamilton had been a lot younger then—younger and far more prone to temper-snapping outbursts. He had gradually come to respect Perry’s creativity and prowess through the years and had become, as Mignon had observed, more relaxed and less stressed. But today, as then, he was angrier at himself than anyone else.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I guess I deserved that one,” he said ruefully. “Actually, throwing something sounded pretty good a minute ago. Maybe this will bring me to my senses so I won’t.”

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t get too close,” Tragg smiled. “Although that didn’t help much in the case of that CD.”

In spite of his good-natured ribbing, he patted Hamilton on the shoulder as he walked by. “There’s still tomorrow, Hamilton.”

Hamilton blinked in surprise. Tragg did not tend to call him by his first name, even though they were close. They usually addressed each other more formally, or in Hamilton’s case, by Tragg’s last name only.

“Thanks,” he said at last, deciding not to question it.
****
It was later that evening when he received a call that left him sheet-white and in disbelieving denial. Andy’s voice was taut and shaking. He sounded heartbroken.

“Mr. Burger?” he said when Hamilton picked up.

“Yes?” Hamilton frowned. “Andy, something’s wrong. What is it?”

“Lieutenant Tragg,” Andy said. “He’s . . . there was a shootout with two murder suspects. Lieutenant Tragg is dead.”

Hamilton almost dropped the phone. “What?!” he burst out. He could not believe it. It was simply not possible. Lieutenant Tragg had been with the force for years, decades. And he had been a close friend of Hamilton’s ever since Hamilton had first secured a job in the district attorney’s office as an assistant. Tragg had taken an interest in Hamilton, tucking him under his wing, so to speak. Hamilton had flourished in his tutelage.

“I . . . I was watching the medics try to revive him,” Andy said. “They pronounced him dead on the scene.” Hearing Hamilton’s pained, harsh breathing, he hurried to ask, “Mr. Burger, are . . . will you be alright?”

“I . . . y-yes,” Hamilton stammered. “What about you, Andy? Are you hurt?”

“Not physically.” Andy drew a shuddering breath. “If I’d only seen the bullet coming. If I could have warned him! If . . .”

“Andy, there’s no sense in ifs,” Hamilton interrupted. The truth was just starting to close in on him. Tragg was gone. That brief encounter after court was the last time Hamilton would ever see him. The anger that had risen in him earlier was coming back now, stronger than ever. He fought to push it aside. “Where are you? I’ll come out.”

“There’s no need for that,” Andy said. “They’ll have taken him away by the time you come.”

“Yes, but you’ll still be there,” Hamilton said.

Andy, though grateful for and touched by the gesture, was still reluctant to drag Hamilton away from the house. It showed in his voice. “Mr. Burger, I . . . I don’t know what to say,” he managed at last.

“Just give me the address,” Hamilton requested. “I need to come out anyway, to look at the . . . the crime scene.”

At last Andy relented. He recited the location and approximate address.

“I’ll be there,” Hamilton promised. He hesitated, wanting yet dreading to ask his next question. “Andy . . .” He ran his tongue over his lips. “Did . . . did he say anything, before . . . ?”

“No,” Andy said. His voice lowered to a whisper. “He . . . he was just gone when I knelt by him right afterwards. There was no chance to say anything.”

“Alright,” Hamilton said, his heart twisting. “Thank you, Andy.”

He hung up, catching sight of the evening paper out of the corner of his eye as he did. For a moment the urge to pick it up and hurl it across the room was almost overwhelming. But it passed. Instead he slammed his palm on the tabletop and then shakily dug his fingers into his hair as he leaned forward.

Someone had deliberately gunned Tragg down. They had instigated the shooting; Tragg or Andy wouldn’t have fired until being fired upon—or in trying to apprehend a fleeing suspect. And right now there was nothing more Hamilton wanted than to see that the death penalty was handed down by a judge, if the murderer was still alive. He had forgot to ask.

Would he even be able to prosecute the case? Maybe he was too close to it to be able to do an impartial job.

A soft knock on the door brought him back to the present. He pushed himself off the couch, walking in a daze to the front door. He flung it open without any thought or idea for whom he would find.

“Hamilton.” Mignon stepped up to the doorway, her eyes filled with sorrow and heartache. “I just heard. I’m so very sorry.”

Hamilton stared at her for a long moment. Without fully thinking about it he threw his arms around her, shaking as he pulled her close. “I . . . I can’t believe he’s gone,” he rasped. “I . . . I was just talking to him today. I . . .”

Mignon embraced him calmly, kindly, withholding her own emotions. “He’ll never be truly gone,” she said quietly. “Not as long as you remember and love him.”

That sounded hollow more than anything else right now. Hamilton trembled.

“There’s still tomorrow, Hamilton.”

That was what Tragg had said to him in that easy-going manner he had.

Tomorrow, Tragg? Hamilton could not help thinking. And what kind of tomorrow will you have now? What have we been left with?

He continued to clutch at Mignon—his dear friend, his current lifeline to sense and logic. Suddenly everything had turned on its head. Right now he did not know how to even begin to get it back on track.

“Will you come with me?” he said at last. “I was going to see Andy.”

“Of course,” Mignon said. “I’ll come.” She paused. “I’ll drive.”

Ordinarily Hamilton might have protested. But right now he wondered if he really was too shaken to operate a moving vehicle.

“Alright,” he consented. “Thank you.”

The phone rang again. He pulled back from Mignon, frowning suspiciously at the object. What now? More condolences, perhaps? How was everyone finding out so fast? Were the police already releasing Tragg’s name to the press? Or was Andy calling all of their friends? Perry, Della, and Paul needed to know. . . .

He went over, lifting the receiver. “Hello?”

“Mr. Burger.” It was Andy again. He sounded different now, still worried and tense, yet cautiously hopeful.

“Andy,” Hamilton said in surprise. “What is it now? Has something else happened?”

“Yes,” Andy said. “At the last minute the paramedics found an extremely weak, thready pulse. They’re rushing him to the hospital, wondering if there’s any possible chance they can still save his life. It doesn’t look good, but . . . well, I don’t have to tell you it’s better than it was.”

“Why, that . . .” Hamilton gripped the phone. It was too slim a possibility for him to fully be able to believe. Not now, not yet. But there was a seed of hope, the same seed that Andy had. “I should have known he wouldn’t give up that easy.” His own voice was thick with emotion.

“He’s a scrapper, alright,” Andy said with a faint chuckle. “I used to think he would still be on the police force, raring to go, when I was ready to retire. Who knows; maybe he will be.

“I’m on my way to the hospital now, following behind the ambulance.”

“I can hear it in the background,” Hamilton said. “Mignon’s with me. We’ll meet you there.”

He hung up, having sensed that Mignon had come up beside him. He turned to face her. She stared back, amazed.

“Tragg doesn’t want to die,” Hamilton said, crossing the room and snatching his hat and coat. “And he’s decided he still has something to say about it.”

Mignon hastened after him. “Do they think he’ll live?” she asked.

“They don’t know,” Hamilton admitted, stepping onto the porch. “But he has a chance, and that’s more than we thought a few minutes ago.”

“Thank God,” Mignon said softly as she followed him out. She began a silent but fervent prayer that the Lieutenant would make it. It would be far more crushing for him to pass on now than even before.
****
It was hours later before anyone was allowed into the hospital room to see Lieutenant Tragg. Of course his niece Lucy was given first priority. Andy, considered a surrogate son by Tragg, was next.

“How is he?” Hamilton asked Andy quietly when it was Hamilton’s turn.

“Still unconscious,” Andy answered. “It’s very touch-and-go. It’s a miracle he made it through the surgery at all.”

Hamilton nodded. “I won’t be long,” he assured.

It was so surreal, so wrong, to see Tragg lying so still in the bed. He should be awake and up, giving Hamilton that mischievous smile and perching on the edge of the bed, wanting out. Hamilton stood over him, gripping the metal railing, and heaved a sigh under his breath.

“You made it this far,” he said, not even fully aware he was speaking aloud. “And knowing you, you didn’t stay alive all this time to die now. You’re going to make it.” He prayed he was speaking the truth.

Tragg’s eyes opened halfway. He looked up at Hamilton, managing a weak smile.

Hamilton perked up, stunned and in disbelief. “Arthur?!” he gasped. “Can you understand me?”

Tragg raised his left hand just slightly off the bed, for one moment trying to make a shaky grab as he brushed it against Hamilton’s wrist. There’s still tomorrow. He lay back against the pillow, his eyes closing as he slipped back to sleep.

Mignon noticed how at peace Hamilton was as he came out of the room moments later. “What happened?” she asked.

“He woke up,” Hamilton said. “Oh, just for a minute. But he knew me. He’s going to be alright.”

Mignon smiled. “Good.”