Tandem
Chapter 11
Dr. Emil Skoda, on his way to George Atkinson's house. It was almost one in the morning now. A serious multicar pileup had occurred on the highway, clogging all the alternate routes for miles in every direction.
I should have taken a plane…
Feeling weary on arrival, Skoda was faced by an alarming sight. Scores of police cruisers everywhere, lights awhirl, police everywhere, and the FBI too.
Alarm sliding along his nerves, Skoda got out of his rental car. A cop walked up to him.
"What happened?" Skoda demanded.
"Home invasion," was the cop's terse response. "Several casualties."
A home invasion. Dear god…Jack McCoy…
"A friend of mine was here," Skoda began. "I-"
"Dr. Skoda…"
He turned, to see George Atkinson's chauffeur walk up, accompanied by a young FBI agent. The FBI agent looked a little green about the gills.
"FBI Agent Jeffrey Spender," Alex made the introductions. Skoda nodded impatiently.
"What happened?"
"Home invasion," Agent Spender's voice trembled. "We think four men. They killed George Atkinson."
"What about Jack McCoy?" cold dread filled Skoda.
"There are three bodies out back," Alex took over. "All three burned, all three unidentifiable."
"Let me see them," Skoda had to see, had to make sure one way or the other…
Agent Spender led Skoda into the house. A body lay in the living room.
George Atkinson?
It looked like him…sort of…but the face looked like it had been made of melted wax.
The three other bodies lay at the back of the house, all burned, and charred to blackened crisp, all unidentifiable.
Skoda drew in a deep breath.
Two of the bodies were too big…too heavily built to be Jack McCoy. The third body, though…
Around six feet tall, and lean…
No…please…no.
Skoda knelt by the body, looked it over. The charred body lay on its left side, right arm flung up as if to shield its face, right hand clearly visible.
The Ring finger was bare.
No signet ring.
Not definitive proof by any stretch of the imagination…
But Jack McCoy always wore that signet ring. Even through the breakdown, and the subsequent hospitalizations, he had never taken that signet ring off.
Skoda heaved a sigh of relief.
"It's not Jack McCoy," he stood, faced Agent Spender. "Did you find anything else?"
"Someone apparently fled the scene," Spender nodded. "Initially we thought it might be one of…them. But if Mr. McCoy is missing, maybe he just…ran for his life."
He stepped outside, onto the back lawn, Skoda following.
"There's a bit of a drop at the back of the lawn. If he ran straight through, there's another drop about a hundred yards past the first one. That one would dump you out onto a major street. It's a major thoroughfare. Busses use it, including the Interstate ones, like Greyhound."
"Did you check the nearby police stations or hospitals?" Skoda asked. "Running away like that…"
Running, possibly in terror for his life…That's a good way to get killed.
"We checked," Spender nodded. "The only out-of-tune thing is here. No John Does found anywhere, in police stations or hospitals. I think he found a bus."
Skoda stood, thinking.
I need to tell Adam…
"May I use a phone?" he asked.
The phone rang three times…
"Who the hell is this?"
Adam Schiff's voice sounded a touch testy.
Phone call close to two in the morning? I'd be grumpy too…
"It's me, Adam," Skoda apologized. "We have a problem…"
He heard the catch in Schiff's breath.
"There was a home invasion, Adam. George Atkinson's dead. Jack McCoy's gone. The cops think he fled the scene, and I don't really blame him. He might try to come home."
"I see…"
There was a minute's silence. Then Schiff spoke again.
"You coming back?"
"Yeah…" Skoda sighed. "I'll get in touch as soon as I get back."
He hung up, rubbed his face wearily.
"I can drive you to the airport," Alex offered.
Port Authority, NYC Seven AM
Jack McCoy stepped off the bus, feeling...fried.
There were things he had to do, decisions he had to make.
There was George Atkinson's gun, tucked in the waistband of his jeans.
Is that what I'm supposed to do?
McCoy looked through his wallet; less than three dollars left.
He went to his banks nearest 24-hour ATM, and withdrew some cash. If he had to die…
Convicts on Death Row get a Final Meal…
From there, he found a decent diner.
There was a TV playing, showing a news program, so McCoy perched on a stool and gave his order.
He was watching the news as the waiter placed his order-bacon, eggs, toast, and coffee-in front of him.
A breaking news story was on, helicopters hovering over an abandoned airbase.
El Rico…
Jack McCoy remembered El Rico now. He remembered all of what had been done to him there. He stared at the TV screen, fork halfway to his mouth.
Hundreds of men and women, all dead, all burned to death…
It was the body of a woman, found strapped to a gurney, which sent McCoy's pulse racing.
Burned alive like all the others, but, even through all the char, Jack McCoy recognized her, knew who she was…
Cassandra Spender…
McCoy stood shakily, fumbling for his wallet, hunger gone. He threw a twenty on top of the half-full plate, and fled outside.
He remembered Cassandra now; all of the times they had met as fellow prisoners…
The times she had cried in his arms…
The times he had cried in her arms…
The one time they had kissed…
Cassandra Spender…dead.
He fell to his knees just outside the diner, rested his head against the faux brick wall, and wept.
Cassandra Spender was dead now. There was only one Human Alien Hybrid left.
Me…
No choice but to go home, and do…what he had to do…
Jack McCoy quietly left himself into his apartment, closed the door softly behind him. The morning sun was just beginning to brighten the windows in his living room with all the bookshelves…
There were new messages on his phone; four of them.
He pressed play.
All four from Adam Schiff, all four variations on, please call me as soon as you can!
Jack couldn't, of course; not with what lay ahead, with what he had finally decided to do.
He grabbed a sheaf of blank paper, began to write feverishly.
Dear Adam,
I know this will hurt you. I wish this wasn't necessary. Even more, I wish I could explain this to you, make you understand. But I can't. All I can say is this…
I'm sorry.
With love,
Jack
The phone rang. McCoy picked it up.
"Jack?" Adam Schiff. "Is that you?"
McCoy blinked the tears away.
"Adam…" he sighed.
"Jack…I'm coming over. I'll-"
"No, Adam! Everything's…"
No…
Nothing was fine. He was preparing to die…
"I'm sorry, Adam," he muttered. "So sorry…"
Jack McCoy hung up and stood, the grip of George Atkinson's gun poking him in the ribs. The phone rang again, but he ignored it as he picked up the gun, and held it in his hands.
I'll stand between the table and the heavy bookshelf. The bookshelf will catch the bullet…
He didn't want to do this. He didn't want to die.
They'll take me again…
He knew they would; with Cassandra dead, McCoy, himself, was their only success. They would take him again.
He shivered at the memories; memories of how they had taken him, stripped him of everything, including his dignity, how they had bound him, naked, upon that cold hard slab…
The tubes…the tests…and the drills…
The migraines had started after El Rico. Before El Rico, migraines were things that happened to other people…
McCoy shivered.
They drilled into my brain, made me into something other than human…
I…won't…
Not any more…
Jack McCoy carefully placed himself, back against the wall, bracketed by the heavy bookshelf on his left, and the table, with the lamp, on his right.
Gun in his right hand, he lifted it slowly.
I don't want to die…
He was a Human Alien Hybrid. As long as he lived, all of humanity was endangered; those he loved most in the world…
Sighing, he placed the barrel of the gun firmly against his right temple; forcing the shaking out of his limbs.
Adam…Claire…
I'm sorry…
Adam Schiff glared at his phone.
Not answering…
Fearful, he dialed another number.
"Detective Lennie Briscoe…"
"It's Adam, Lennie. Meet me at Jack's place."
"Isn't Jack McCoy at a friend's place, Counselor?"
"No time to explain!" Adam snapped. "Jack's back, and I…I think he's going to do something…suicidal."
"I'm on it, Counselor,"
Adam Schiff hung up too, and dashed outside to catch the first cab he found.
He arrived at Jack McCoy's apartment building just as Briscoe and Logan pulled up in their sedan; and all three ran into the building, taking the elevator to the third floor.
Adam Schiff stepped out of the elevator, just in time to hear a gunshot ring out…
He stopped, right there, in the hall, shock paralyzing his limbs.
"Stay back, Counselor," Briscoe and Logan surged forward, guns drawn.
"Jack!" Lennie pounded on McCoy's apartment door. "You okay in there?"
No response…
He nodded to Logan.
Then, he yelled, "Police!" as Logan kicked the door in.
The two detectives slipped inside, and Schiff heard nothing. Feeling hesitant, he stepped forward.
Detective Briscoe stepped outside a minute later, features grim, and…sad…all at the same time.
"Jack..?" Schiff moved forward, only to feel Briscoe's hands on his shoulders.
"You don't want to see this, Counselor…" the detective said.
Grief keened deep in Schiff's chest.
"I know, Detective Briscoe…I know…"
He didn't want to see it. But…he had to…
Perhaps Briscoe understood. He shook his head, sighed softly, then stepped out of Schiff's way.
Detective Logan stood just inside the messy living room, staring off to the right, numb horror in his eyes. Schiff simply followed the younger man's gaze…
Jack McCoy…slumped against the wall, sitting more or less upright, right shoulder caught on the edge of the table, right knee folded under him.
The gun dangled from the fingers of his right hand; the dark head was bowed, and there was so much blood…
God…
Schiff knelt before the body. Blood had sprayed down from the bullet-hole in his right temple; the right side of his body drenched with it, along with the blood that had poured from his nose; bright, arterial red, but with an odd, slightly greenish cast…
The eyes were open…staring…dead.
Jack…my boy…
He heard Lennie Briscoe behind him, dialing on the phone.
"Detective Briscoe here. We need a ME…dead on the scene…Jack McCoy's place…"
Dr. Elizabeth Rodgers picked up the phone, smiling at a crude joke made by one of her assistants.
Then, she heard Lennie's voice on the line; and felt all the color flee from her face, taking her smile with it…
Jack McCoy…found dead in his apartment; a single gunshot to the head…
Rodgers could have sent one of her assistants out. But Jack McCoy was one of their own…
So, she went out herself, driving the big van, with its gurney…and the body bag…
It was a terrible thing to see, Jack McCoy slumped against the wall, his blood making a smear on the wall.
"Did you touch anything?" she asked.
"Just the gun," Adam Schiff spoke from his place at McCoy's side.
"Not to worry," he added. "We're not going to hide that he killed himself. Jack wouldn't have appreciated the dishonesty. Lennie has the gun."
Briscoe mutely held up the plastic baggie with the gun inside, and Rodgers nodded.
She knelt next to Adam Schiff, looked at Jack McCoy, looked at the open eyes, with their dilated pupils, looked at the still chest.
As gently as possible, she took McCoy's head in her gloved hands.
Gunpowder residue clear on the right side of McCoy's head, on his right hand, and all over his shirt, mixed now with all of the blood.
"I'm sorry," she turned her head to face Adam Schiff. "It's suicide."
"I know…" Schiff reached out, hand cupping the left side of McCoy's jaw. "Please, let me have a minute before I consign him into your care…"
"Yes…" Elizabeth Rodgers stood and stepped back, giving Adam Schiff the space, and time, to grieve…
Adam Schiff knelt there. The hand caressing McCoy's jaw moved, fingers gently pressing eyelids closed.
We did everything we could to save him…
It wasn't enough…
Schiff reached out, took McCoy's body by the shoulders, pulled the body to him, held it close, and felt the man's forehead come to rest upon his shoulder.
My boy…my dear boy…
He held Jack McCoy for a few minutes more, the body still warm in his arms…
It was time…
"Lennie," he asked. "Help me…"
With Briscoe's help, he moved Jack McCoy's body away from the wall, laid him down properly, on his back, arms and legs straightened out.
Then, it was time for the ME's assistants to do their job, to slide the body into the body bag, and zip it closed…
JFK Airport
Exhausted, Dr. Emil Skoda stood in the airport, travel bag slung over a shoulder. He had planned to take a cab back into Manhattan.
But Lieutenant Anita Van Buren was there, waiting for him.
"Anita?" somehow, he knew he wasn't going to hear anything good.
"Adam called," grief in Van Buren's eyes. "Jack's dead. He killed himself this morning."
Emil Skoda stood there, travel bag fallen from suddenly numb fingers.
Now, here, in the Morgue, looking at Adam Schiff and Claire Kincaid, as they stood over a sheet-draped body…
Skoda was aware of Liz Olivet standing right next to him.
"Do you want to talk about it?" Olivet's voice trembled slightly.
"Do you?" Skoda snapped back. Then, he sighed.
"Sorry, Liz…"
Physician, heal thyself…
"I suppose I could carve some personal time out for…counseling…" he finally admitted.
We worked so hard, all of us, trying to save him…
"How about you?" he asked Olivet.
She nodded sadly…
"I'll counsel you," she said. "And you'll counsel me."
She drew in a breath, and wiped her eyes.
"And, then…" she continued, looking at Adam Schiff and Claire Kincaid. "We'll counsel them."
Skoda nodded. He looked through the window, at the grieving pair
"Yes…" he sighed. "They'll need it…"