Warning! This story contains instances of cursing and violence which may be inappropriate for some readers. This story is voluntarily rated PG for parental guidance.
"Hey, Jas!" The intern tossed a Subway bag to the detective. "Lunch!" The man nodded thanks but didn’t wait for the intern to leave before tearing into his sandwich.
Jason Cole was tired and he hated working through lunch. He sat in his office, playing with a Bic pen and trying to focus on the files in front of him. The P.S. 116 case. What kind of sick son of a bitch would do that to a bunch of little kids? Cole had his own reasons to want this case closed: two teenage sons and a little daughter who had just started kindergarten. He looked at the family portrait on his desk. Amy was a sweet girl. He suddenly had a vivid and unwanted fantasy, picturing himself rushing to the morgue to identify the warped and torn body of his baby girl-
Cole cut himself off with a shudder and concentrated on his work again. A psychotic child-killer loose in the city; every parent’s worst nightmare. He wanted this asshole bad.
The phone ring and Cole snatched it up. "Yeah."
"Jas, I got a call here, somebody wants to talk about the school bombing t’other day."
"Put him on." This could be it. What I wouldn’t do for an eye witness, Jason thought.
A second later, he heard tentatively, "Hello?" Cole instantly catalogued the voice. Young, probably a teenager. Male. Scared. What was there to be scared about? Sort of made him wonder who might be on the other end....
Donatello clutched the receiver with sweaty hands, his eyes on the kitchen doorway. Please let them not hear me. I don’t want to explain this to Raph or Mike; and especially not Leo!
"This is Detective Cole," the cop barked. "You a witness?" No preliminaries even. Don figured the police must be pretty worked up over the bombing yesterday. The guy who had answered the phone first had been positively thrilled to hear him mention the P.S. 116 bomb. And the information he had to impart did connect, in a way.
Don felt like a frightened deer. He still wasn’t even sure if he was making the right decision, calling the police. He had the sudden urge to bolt. Stop panicking, he scolded himself. "Uh, sort of." He probably knew more than anyone about that bombing, but dreams-even vivid ones-wouldn’t stand as evidence in any court he’d heard of.
"What does ‘sort of’ mean?" the brusque voice of Cole demanded to know.
Don snapped, "It doesn’t matter." He took a deep breath and said the critical words: "I called to warn you."
"Warn me?" The voice carried a note of suspicion now. Don pressed ahead.
"Yeah, I think there’s gonna be another bomb."
The detective paused a beat. Bet he wasn’t expecting that. Don didn’t know if he should feel smug or scared by that reaction. "What?" Cole finally asked.
"It’s gonna be at P.S. 51. 12:07 this afternoon." Don held his breath and waited for the reaction.
A heavy sigh. "Look kid, I am very busy with this case. I don’t have time to play games with you and your cute friends." He doesn’t believe me. Don felt sick. He thinks I’m pranking him! "Now do you have any information on the P.S. 116 bomb or not?" Don briefly considered detailing his dream to the detective, but why bother? He wouldn’t believe it.
"This isn’t a game!" Don’s voice was harsh, and it almost broke in the middle. He needed this cop to understand him, to believe him. But Cole was wasting precious minutes questioning his statement, and Don had a feeling that it would not be easy to convince the man that he was telling the truth. After all, if someone called Don and claimed to be able to predict the future, he’d be skeptical too...
"Who is this?" Cole demanded. Great, the identity question. Now what should he say? I’m a mutant turtle? He paused, struggling to think of something plausible, hoping that Cole wouldn’t get disgusted and just hang up on him.
Inspiration suddenly hit. "This is Oracle," he told the cop.
"What the hell-"
And all Don’s fearful frustration suddenly melted into apathy. Screw ‘im, he thought, and neatly plunked the phone back in its cradle.
Cole finished his sandwich in one huge bite and sent the crumpled wrapper arcing towards the trash can. Missed. He sighed, swigged his Dr. Pepper, and went over to pick up the paper. He paused, hearing footsteps in the hall. Lots of footsteps.
There was a hammering on the door. "COLE!" a voice howled at top volume.
Cole, head close to the door, winced in pain, stood up, and flung it open. The uniformed officer standing outside didn’t give him a chance to open his mouth. "Cole! Another bomb, P.S. 51 this time. This is big; they’ve already got like 30 bodies, they’re callin’ out ever cop in the city!"
Cole froze. P.S. 51. Impossible. And yet- "What time?"
The officer frowned. "Huh?"
"What time did the bomb go off?" Cole asked, annunciating each syllable clearly, as if the officer was hard of hearing.
"Ah..." The officer squinted at the hastily scribbled message in his hand. "Dempsey can’t write for shit. Looks like-12:07?"
Cole leaned against the door frame and closed his eyes, squeezing the wrapper in his hand. Oh, fuck.
"Holeeeeee shit!" said Raph. "Yo, Leo, Donny, check this out!"
Donatello slowly finished his meal and set his dish in the sink. He walked into the living room knowing full well what he’d find.
Leo, Raph, and Mike sat staring at the breaking news bulletin. The camera took in shots of flaming wreckage, anxious parents, busy firemen, and crying children. Cut and bleeding children. Dead children. Don leaned back against the door frame, feeling suddenly weak. If only he had called earlier. If only he had sounded more convincing and less like a panicky kid. If only Cole had believe him. If only-
He suddenly realized that Splinter had entered through the other door and was carefully watching him. Don cut off that line of thought, remembering Splinter’s words: Games of "what if" will not ease your mind. Don took a slow, deep breath and tried to calm himself. He’d tried. He was not responsible for those lives. He did not set that bomb.
Rage suddenly filled him. Rage for the person who HAD set the bomb, who HAD killed those children. The man who the police might never catch, who might be forever free from the justice his actions had earned him, leaving Donatello to feel the weight of his responsibility. In that brief moment, Don’s new mission solidified in his mind.
He was going to find the man in the black trenchcoat.