Jim Ellison pushed through the door to Major Crime to see Rafe and Brown holding court to a crowded bullpen. "--Forensics found a single fingerprint on a glass tumbler of all things," the tall cool detective was saying, "and most of the other relatives say that Theresa Washington was almost fanatical about cleanliness where the kitchen and bathroom were concerned." The sentinel recalled that Theresa Washington was the mother's name in the latest home invasion murder case. "There was no way in hell that she would have left dishes in the sink overnight, according to them, and that's a direct quote."

"What about other family members or guests?"

Henri Brown turned around to smile at Ellison in greeting before answering the question. "No matches there, and the Washington's next-door-neighbor is one of those elderly ladies with a set of binoculars that watches the whole neighborhood's comings and goings." Moving across the room to his desk, Ellison could see the eyes of the room's occupants lighting up with mirth and the accompanying grins at his co-worker's statement. The tension in the bullpen had been growing steadily since Simon had disappeared. They were all upset and angry and nervous, but if it wasn't released through humor, all that stress was going to be released in some other way. The sentinel knew that from bitter experience. "She says that the Washingtons haven't had guests since last week."

"So the print must be one of the home invaders." Joel Taggart seemed totally unruffled by what was going on in the city lately. Of course, Jim had to remember that he'd been the captain of the Bomb Squad before choosing to come to Major Crime. There was probably very little that could ruffle the man's feathers.

"That's what Forensics thinks. That's what we think, too."

"Well?" Megan Connor stood there, her hands firmly on her hips, in a menacing manner that suggested that the detectives had better finish the story without delay. "Don't keep us waiting for the rest, mate."

"The print comes back to a Lawrence Erving, a.k.a., Larry Erving, a.k.a. Larsen Erving, a.k.a. Larry Erwin, et cetera ad infinitum. His criminal records come out of some hole-in-the-wall town called Icicle in Maine." Rafe shook his head in dismay and disbelief. "We couldn't even contact them directly. We had to call the PD in Springfield, Maine, which is the next town over and relay our call to them by way of a police scanner."

Brown picked up the story again. "After we finished discussing the current situation with the two police chiefs -- not to mention everyone in the area with access to a scanner that was on our frequency -- we had to get the criminal records. They don't have the funding for computers yet, but they're going to make photocopies of everything and send them to us via Fed Ex."

"Can you believe that, in order to fax us preliminary copies for a warrant, the police chief there had to use a public fax machine at a local convenience store? Their own machine isn't functioning right now." Rafe still looked like he was coming to terms with it. "I just can't believe how a town can be so... out of the loop."

"It's Maine," someone commented, causing laughter from others in the room. "It must be like Mayberry, R.F.D. or something way up there."

Ellison wasn't laughing, though, since something felt wrong about that. What were the odds of two criminals traveling from the same small backwoods town to commit two different major crimes in the same city in the course of the same week? A shiver went down the detective's spine as he answered his own question. None, that's what. "What if this is all just a smokescreen to distract us from the real action?" He spoke softly, almost to himself, thinking out loud. Out of the corner of his eye, Taggart had turned in his direction and had a thoughtful expression on his face. "What if this is just another... three-ring circus? Focusing our attention in one place while the most important action is taking place elsewhere?"

"Like Galileo?"

Of course, Joel Taggart would remember the bomber of Wilkinson Towers. Jim knew he would remember that day for as long as he lived, that horrible feeling when the bomb exploded and they'd all been so sure that Blair was dead. How he'd wanted to drop the scum responsible out the window, and only Blair's voice in his ear prevented him from taking that step, from betraying everything a Sentinel was for the sake and safety of his Guide.

Galileo had kept them busy though, running around in circles and trying to keep the hostages in the elevator alive. The man had wanted the ransom money in exchange for the hostages, but no one had known that he planned to kill them all anyway as soon as he was out of reach. His wife -- who happened to be the daughter to Wilkinson of Wilkinson Towers -- had been his co-conspirator in the plot to wring more money from Daddy.

A cell phone trilled, breaking the moment, and everyone present immediately reached into pockets and purses to check to whom the offending machinery belonged. Joel answered his, while everyone watched with bated breath. Chances were, the call was about Simon. "Taggart."

He didn't say anything further, just listened before turning the phone off and putting it safely away. "Simon's come to a stop," he announced. "The tail lost him in the warehouse district, but they're tracking the homing device attached to the wire as we speak. Headed east of the city." With a glance in Jim's direction, the former captain brought all his authority to bear and took charge. "Let's go."

Jim Ellison didn't mind Joel taking the temporary captain position; even for a few hours, the stress of the job would give him a headache. Headaches and Sentinel senses did not mix. He checked to see if his cell was fully charged -- it was -- and if he had extra clips for his weapon with him -- he did -- before following the others out the door and heading downstairs to the garage.

Looking back from the threshold, he noted that Connor and Rafe hadn't moved from their respective desks. He stopped and raised an eyebrow at the pair in wordless question.

"Can't, much as we'd like to." Megan gazed at him in frustration, a look in her blazing eyes that he'd last seen directed at the punching bag in the workout room. "Bloody feds, they pick now of all times to take an interest!"

"The feds called about the bank robbery yesterday," interpreted Rafe with a similar frustrated expression on his face. "Taggart wants me to stay so that Connor won't kill them."

"You'll probably help me."

"That's not likely."

"Ha!" Connor pounded the desk with her fist, making a pile of case files tremble dangerously. "They get to leave us here with those... those pigs, who think they're going to keep us away from the case, one that involves the kidnapping of our captain. I don't think so, ta very much."

Jim struggled to keep his lips from twitching into a smile. "I guess you both will just have to lead them through all of the extra paperwork necessary in such a complicated case."

"And going over all the evidence..."

"It should keep the feds busy until we get back with Simon." Jim edged toward the door again and made a break for it as soon as the redheaded inspector looked away. Only when he had made it to the relative safety of the elevator did an unholy grin reach his face. It was so nice to see other people stuck with the federal paperwork in triplicate for a change. Besides, the feds would be getting a lesson of their own in misdirection and time wasting. Revenge was sweet.

At least this time he remembered to turn the rolling light on and throw it on the dash before breaking the speed limit. Sandburg knew that the presence of those lights -- and the fact that he was forcing all the speed out of his car that was possible without killing himself or anyone else -- got him back into the city as quickly as he did. If he was lucky, he would get there just as Jim and the others were leaving. Sparing a glance from the road, he checked quickly to make certain that the cell phone had remained on the passenger seat where he'd left it and that it was fully charged.

It was, and he stole another moment to glare fiercely at it. No one had called yet. Jim had promised to call. That meant that there was no news, yet, unless something had happened and no one had been able to call. Sandburg chewed on his lip, considering that for a moment before dismissing the possibility. I've seen Jim call on his phone while driving one-handed along the Cascade Mountain Highway at eighty miles an hour in the rain, the detective mused, so he would find the time to call me.

Especially if it was about Simon.

Simon was far more important than the talk he'd been giving when everything had happened. True, it was nice and more than a little weird to be teaching again, even if it was at the Police Academy. Truthfully, it was more of an extended question-and-answer session or a discussion than it was a lecture, but that was all to the good as far as he was concerned. With a subject like 'Partners: The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly', Blair knew that he was lucky no one had brought up any of several incidents between himself and Jim. For example, that argument in the middle of the Major Crime bullpen. Still, he and the class had also discussed how to be a good partner and what that meant on the street when your partner might be the only thing between yourself and death.

He thought the class had been enjoying the discussion when his cell phone rang and Jim had delivered the shocking news. "Joan and Daryl have been kidnapped. Now Simon's missing, Chief. Get back here pronto."

And he did. He was. Still, Blair couldn't help feeling a bit guilty for enjoying himself in front of a class of students just like -- well, maybe not exactly like -- in the bad old days, while Simon was being kidnapped by God knew who and God knew why. He turned the sharp corner onto First Street, which led right from the highway into the city and turned onto Pender Street where the precinct was located. It was the fastest route possible.

If anything happens to Simon because of this, I'll never

A blurred flash in front of his eyes, a person, and Blair slammed his foot down on the brake. With a squeal, the car shuddered to a sliding stop just inches away from the tall blonde woman standing in the middle of the road. He wanted to yell at her, but couldn't bring himself to speak; it was a minor miracle that he hadn't hit her as fast as he'd been driving.

"Hey," the blonde said sweetly. A knowing grin graced her face as she approached the idling car. Opening the passenger door, the woman hopped into the seat, stretching her legs out in a negligent manner and smoothing her short skirt. "Let's go, honey, what'cha waitin' for?"

I do not have time for this. "Excuse me, ma'am, but this is police business." Blair tried to stay calm and not just throw her out of the car onto her ass on the sidewalk like the irresistible urge was screaming he should. She might look like a prostitute, but she was still a Cascade citizen. "I need you to get out of the car--"

"Baby, we're wasting time. I know where your missing captain is, an' I know who took him away."

Blair didn't need to hear any more. He gunned the motor, tossing his grinning passenger back in her seat and reached for his cell phone.

When Simon Banks opened his eyes next, the first thing that entered his mind was that his head ached. His nerves immediately informed his brain that he was seated in and bound to a straight-backed chair of some sort, his ankles shackled with heavy rope, and he was handcuffed with his hands in front of his body. Looking down, he saw that, at some point, his clothes -- and presumably the wire he'd been wearing -- had been removed since he now found himself wearing a patrolman's uniform.

The outfit was even more uncomfortable than he remembered.

Naturally, his captor had neglected to provide a baton and the weapon holster was empty. Not that that was a surprise. Joseph LaCasse stood in front of him, and Simon worked to control his reaction on seeing him. He hadn't recognized the place when he first opened his eyes, but his memories crashed into his mind with the force of a tidal wave. The memories overlaid onto the present scene showed him the remains of the Zodiac Club.

Joseph LaCasse smiled without showing his teeth, the grin of a confident predator, and he motioned to his own clothing which was that of a patrol officer like his captive's own. Of course, the militia leader's possession of both a baton and a handgun made a noticeable difference. The gleam in his former partner's eyes lit the nervous tension that had been building with each inked letter into a burning fury. "Where're Daryl and Joan?" Simon clenched his teeth in an effort to better control his emotions. "If you've hurt either of them..."

"Your ex-wife and son are perfectly well. Whether or not they remain so," he shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly, "that is up to you."

"Where are they?"

"Safely away from many of my colleagues, I assure you." LaCasse smiled a second time. His accompanying expression reminded Simon of a doting parent watching his child figure out a difficult math problem. "I suspect that none of them would be particularly cautious with the safety of their prisoners, so I hand-picked my own associates for this matter. After all, it isn't really a situation involving the cause as a whole, is it?" Glancing at his captive with a quick look, he continued without waiting for an answer. "No, indeed, this is a personal matter."

"As it happens, your lovely little family is safely held by me. Some of your phone calls never made it to their destination; I simply had one of my employees, Daniel, re-route the calls so that one of our people could misdirect you." Keeping his eyes focused on his prisoner, LaCasse pulled a cigarette from a crumpled pack, stuck it in his mouth, and struck a match on the wall. He touched the lit match to the cigarette and inhaled the wafting smoke. "Ah, yes, I knew you would make them -- I rode with you for how long, and you don't think I could guess that! -- and I'll let you figure out for yourself which ones they were. Quite a brilliant young man, really. Isn't it nice to see today's young people apply themselves and take pride in their work?"

"Where are they?"

"Don't you know patience is a virtue?" He made a tsking sound, and watched long smoke rings drift hazily upwards toward the ceiling. "Relax, partner."

"You and I are not partners. Not any longer." Simon's voice was cold. This conversation had been a long time coming, a whole year, and yet it was one that the captain had never expected to ever happen. "In fact, I sincerely wonder if we ever really were."

"Is that so?"

Simon made no reply. There was nothing else he could say on that subject.

"You may be correct. After all," LaCasse gestured with his lit cigarette at the building around them, "see what we made together."

"I had nothing to do with that."

LaCasse jumped to his feet to tower menacingly over the bound man. "You had everything to do with it! You accepted the call that brought us here--"

"You were the one who wouldn't wait for backup--"

"Someone was being murdered in there," roared LaCasse, "and you wanted to wait--"

"No one was being murdered," hissed Simon in reply. "The only thing that died that night was your career, and if you had done as I'd suggested, that wouldn't have happened either."

That sharp remark brought the former policeman under control with a shuddering breath. "I would say that it is well past time to settle this once and for all. Do you recall the incident in all its glory?"

"Unfortunately." Simon Banks was certain that he would never forget what happened that night. Those memories would go with him to the grave.

"As do I, no doubt partially due to my permanent reminder." He gestured at his damaged knee, a dislocation injury so severe that it had torpedoed his career. "I'm glad you recall everything so clearly, Simon. It may serve you well in the little game I have planned."

Before he could formulate a response, LaCasse grabbed the captain by the shoulders and, after cutting the bonds, hauled him out of the chair and dropped him to sit on the floor near the long bar counter. Simon could smell the alcohol all over the counter, and there were still quite a few whiskey bottles lined up on the bar. Once there, he crouched awkwardly down on his haunches to be on eye level before speaking. "You are going to play my role, of the police officer that I was." Banks thought his former partner had to be suffering some considerable pain in that position.

Good.

"I," he continued, "will play the role of the dashing, yet tortured, criminal." Loosening but not removing the ankle bonds, he straightened up and flashed a smirk at his former partner.

Several remarks appeared in the back of Simon's mind as potential comebacks, but he decided to save his breath and test his bonds. The right moment would come. For now, he needed to figure out what the man was talking about. Watching his former partner set his burning cigarette in a battered tile ashtray, as if saving it for later, he was pretty certain the answer would not be one he would like.

"You remember that night, don't you?" LaCasse swept an arm at the empty room. "Here, it is a blank canvas, but that night, the Zodiac Club was crowded with people, hot, sweaty, drunk people, all out carousing for the evening. Loud music pounded through our eardrums, wild colored lights flashing in senseless sequence, and all of it interspersed with darkness." He walked in a tight circle before wandering toward the back of the room where the stage used to be. "We'd received a call about a fight, a male beating on another male and a female. You remember them?" LaCasse grimaced. "We never did find out exactly what was going on that night or even why they were fighting. They didn't stick around to be questioned later. No one would tell us anything about the fight, just that it was 'complicated'."

"They wouldn't say because they didn't want the police involved." Simon Banks had heard that excuse far too many times, usually when the crime was something exceptionally vile. A private matter, after all.

LaCasse looked wistful. "I didn't understand that sentiment at the time. I do now." For just a moment, Simon thought he glimpsed the shadow of the friend his enemy had once been and saw something hopeful shining inside those dark eyes. The moment didn't last, and a split second later, only the stranger remained. "Run." He pulled the handgun, and unlocked the safety.

Knowing that his captor expected him to bolt for the nightclub's back entrance as it was less than ten feet away, Simon Banks feinted to the left and launched himself into a loping run toward the kitchen entrance. He didn't hear the shot but he saw the slug rip into the wood paneling around the doorway just as he flew through it. Now, to think of a plan. Simon hadn't set foot in the building after that night and he'd never had any reason to look up the architectural plans. I don't remember there being a kitchen entrance, but isn't there a second way out into the upstairs rooms? The rooms had originally been rented out by the hour, like a hooker hotel, but college students had been caught using the facilities as well. Back then, the cops were far less lenient with kids caught parking at any of the lovers' lanes. First, though... Seizing a large kitchen knife, he cut through the heavy rope around his ankles and suppressed a sigh when the material parted. Can't stay in one place too long, he's following.

Taking the edged weapon with him, ignoring the protesting aches in his lower legs, Simon hurried the length of the kitchen and through the doorway into a small stairway. At the fourth step, he could hear Joe speaking again, telling the story to himself, to his listener, to the building's ghosts. "They were angry, at us, at the people fighting, at each other, at the world. Some were frightened." Moving as quietly as possible, the captain took the steps two at a time and rushed through the door at the top.

The hallway he found himself within was long and dark with overwhelming smells of must and urine. Apparently, someone was using the rooms for something, probably homeless people. Good thing Ellison's not here. I can just see the look on his face. The image of Ellison with his nose all scrunched up like a four-year-old facing a plate full of broccoli made him grin. Breathing shallowly, Simon hurried down the hallway and headed for the stairway leading down to the main floor.

The creaking of the steps accented LaCasse's continuing story. "I remember how scared they seemed. The men fought each other and screamed obscenities at everyone while the woman just yelled herself hoarse."

Simon tried not to remember what his former partner was dredging up. Don't listen any more, concentrate on what you're going to do, concentrate on Daryl and Joan. You need to grab him and force him to release them.

Well, grab him, beat the shit out of him, and then force him to release them.

"We tried to stop the fight, I got between the two men while you tried to calm the woman. The slight little man -- remember him?" Simon heard LaCasse laugh, a harsh bitter sound with none of the joy it had meant once. "What irony, I was so certain that he wasn't a threat."

"He didn't look like a threat," Banks heard himself admitting. Just as quickly, he cursed himself for speaking at all, for making the slightest sound to lead the hunter toward him. That would change though as a plan occurred to him; soon the hunter would find himself caught in his own trap. "But, then, neither does Sandburg."

"True. Tell me, Simon, how did he fare at the Academy? I imagine it's a far cry from the cushy university life."

Banks eased open the door and slipped through, pausing to answer the question. No one insulted one of his detectives, let alone someone like LaCasse. "Detective Sandburg is a damn fine officer -- he lived up to my every expectation and then some. And how the hell do you think he did? He works with Ellison." As far as he was concerned, Ellison and Sandburg deserved each other; no one else could picture them with another partner. Connor had used the phrase "made for each other" once to her great embarrassment when Brown overheard the comment and promptly announced it to everyone else. No one realized that either Ellison or Sandburg had heard or been told about the remark until the day Ellison grabbed his junior partner right there in the middle of the bullpen and bent him into a dip. The kiss hadn't come, though -- something that Connor had actually appeared frustrated about -- and Ellison had just grinned. "What?" he'd said. "I couldn't stand waking up with hair in my mouth. Besides, he sheds." Blair had smacked him on the arm, and Jim had retaliated by dropping his partner to the floor. The younger man had upped the ante by wrapping his arms around the other man's legs and crooning, "Now, sweetums..." Personally, Simon had chosen that moment to retreat to his office and hadn't seen anything else of what had happened.

LaCasse's voice yanked him out of his reverie with a start; he was much closer than Simon had thought. "He lashed out at a passerby, who hit back and knocked me against the wall." Simon took the stairs down at the same reckless pace he'd taken the ones upstairs, and rushed through the doorway. "At the same time, the woman upended a passing waitress holding a tray full of drinks before throwing her beer bottle at you."

Simon held his breath and flattened himself against the wall to the right of the doorway to wait for his pursuer.

"Everything deteriorated after that. We pulled our weapons and radioed for backup but it was all too late. Confusion and chaos reigned."

If only Joe is just as reckless now, as he was then. If only he just runs through the door instead of doing it like they taught us...

"The little fight spread like a disease and within a few minutes the place looked like a mob scene. We were caught in the middle of it, and the crowd engulfed us."

Simon's own memories surfaced, and he struggled to keep himself in the here and now instead of being lost in them. Daryl's and Joan's lives, his own life, they all depended on him keeping his head. Unbidden, the memories surfaced.

The sound of someone being punched, flesh against flesh.

A gunshot.

The sound of his partner screaming and the sudden silence that followed. Simon had known all too well the horror that Ellison had faced at the fountain, had seen that nightmare play out night after night in his own personal hell. Not only had he felt the pain of Blair's loss and Jim's anguish so deep that it was a wonder the city didn't tremble and quake, but he had re-lived the tragedy of knowing your partner was down and the certainty that there was nothing anyone could do. Simon Banks reached out, lost in his memories, to grab the shooter, to put out the flames--

And found himself with his knife blade to the throat of his former partner and looking into the business end of a police .45 handgun. "Don't take another step," Simon ordered. Just once, dammit, listen to me.

"Or you'll what? Slit my throat with your butcher knife before I shoot you?"

"You know I will."

"I don't particularly care if you do or not." LaCasse's words admitted defeat but his dark eyes held no such emotion. "After the shooting, the burns, I thought that everything would be fine. I stupidly," he spat the word in disgust, "believed that I would heal and go back to work. Back to the job I loved." Neither of them moved, listening and learning and trying to find a way out that wouldn't involve more suffering. "I should have known better. Everything that came out of the doctors' mouths was a lie. Therapy. Drugs. False hope and failure. Surgeries. More therapy. Nothing worked. All I could think of was that something should have gone differently."

Simon had known it had been bad; he remembered those months after the shooting. He had been reassigned to another district and given a temporary partner; about six months later, he had taken and passed the sergeant's test. It had been hard to stand by and watch his friend, his partner's suffering, but Simon had done his best for as long as he'd been able. "You checked yourself out of the hospital AMA. I came to visit and you were gone."

"I couldn't take it any longer. I'm sorry." Joseph LaCasse smiled softly. "Just like I'm sorry for this." He suddenly pulled back and simultaneously lashed out with one hand, striking Simon in the face with his weapon. The captain staggered backward into the main room, and LaCasse dragged him forward, raising the weapon to aim--

"Freeze!"

"Drop the gun, LaCasse."

The former cop's smile got even wider, noting the entrance of three Major Crime detectives. "Ah, detectives, I wondered when you would arrive." He shot a fierce gaze at Banks of something that looked like envy and hauled the captain to his feet. "You have some excellent detectives in your division. I hope you can manage to hold on to them."

Simon's eyes widened at what sounded like a veiled threat but before he could reply, LaCasse fired his weapon and the entire bar counter burst into flames. He shoved the captain toward it without another word and fled toward the nearest upstairs exit. Three gunshots sounded out in a roar. From the suddenly pronounced stagger in his step and a metallic clatter on the hardwood floor, Simon Banks knew that Joe was injured and that he had dropped his weapon.

The door wouldn't open, though, and LaCasse fled toward the rear entrance. Simon felt someone -- Joel Taggart, from the soft voice and firm grip -- grab him and pull him away from the heat of the rapidly spreading flames. Every bone in his body hurt. Even his hair ached. Still, he had to find Daryl and Joan. To do that, they had to capture Joseph LaCasse, which meant he had to say... "Go after him," Simon croaked in a smoke-choked voice. "There's attic access to the roof up there!"

Ellison charged after the fleeing man, hurrying up a tiny set of back stairs to the attic. He could hear Sandburg running behind him, quick on his heels. There the detectives rushed to a drop-down door and climbed its attached ladder for access to the roof. As they emerged onto the remains of the damaged building's roof, Ellison could smell the acrid tang of alcohol-tinged smoke below them as well as the sharp clove smell emanating from their suspect.

He spotted LaCasse crossing to the building next door and spared a glance at his partner. "You okay with this?"

"Hey, man, don't make me think about it. Let's just go!" Sandburg made the leap to the other building, and Ellison quickly followed without another word. He could hear confusion on the street below them, but it was clear that the police were gradually taking control of the scene. Fire rescue sirens were getting closer, about a block away at his estimate, so they would arrive shortly to battle the fire LaCasse had started. Down the attic access on this building, Ellison trailed the distinctive clove smell in addition to line of sight of their suspect, only to run down and around three flights of stairs before the scent took an abrupt detour.

He stopped dead, grabbing his partner by the shoulder. "This way, Chief." Ellison looked closer at the faint red striping on the heavy door. "He went out the fire escape."

In the few minutes it took them to sprint down and take steps at a jump down the fire escape to the street, their quarry was already heading toward a squad car. Even though the patrolman's uniform he was wearing helped him blend in a little, it couldn't work miracles.

Besides, the smell of clove wafting from him was almost as good as a homing device.

"LaCasse, stop!"

The tall man wheeled around, his eyes wide and shocked, and he said something unintelligible due to the whining noise that sounded... Familiar. His own eyes widening, Ellison grabbed Sandburg and tumbled him to the ground, staying on top to protect the guide, and everywhere along the immediate area everyone else ran for cover or hit the deck. Sandburg's hand grazed his ear, and he understood the request. Turning his hearing down just in time, Ellison looked up at the former cop only to watch him disappear in a bloom of fire, choking black smoke, and shattering sound.

When the hail of shrapnel and whatnot was finished, Jim warily opened his eyes and got to his feet. Others were doing the same around him.

"Hey. A little help, here."

Sandburg lay sprawled on the asphalt, his hair spread out like on a pillow, his body just a bit bruised but otherwise unhurt according to his senses. With a pleased grin, Ellison extended a hand and hauled his guide to his feet. "LaCasse is gone, Chief."

"He is? Where's Simon? What the hell happened?"

"He is, over there with Taggart, and a squad car exploded." Ellison considered his words for a moment. "Probably by way of explosives."

"Oh man. This gets better and better."

Just then, Simon appeared with Taggart hovering close by -- though without appearing to be hovering, since Simon needed to look like he was perfectly in control, even though he was wearing a patrolman's uniform -- and took charge. Delegation was definitely one of those things captains did well.