Ok, well, I spent sometime revising this before posting it. I also spent sometime writing it, considering it was only meant to be a page. But once the bunnies bit and I really got into Mike's head (I hope), it just kept going. I hope it's in character and all. After I finished it, like everything I write, I looked back on it and thought it's not as good as it should be, hence me not liking all of about three of my own stories. This is partially one of them. In some ways it turned out pretty good I guess. It's long for one, which is always good for me. But I think I didn't quite capture Mike's angry side enough, it's a little too quiet. Although, that too has its place. So bare with me please, I'm such a new fan it's not even funny. Mike Logan was my first favourite character when I first started watching with the original original L&O this summer, and I was thrilled that he was coming back. This made the bunnies de-lurk after his first full episode on CI. Please review if you like. But don't eat me if it's out of character or anything...I don't taste very good, trust me. Enjoy
Errand Boy
Days like this almost make me hate New York, you know? The days when you just know that your nose is going to freeze off because it's about the only thing you can't cover up. Of course, I shouldn't just blame the stupid weather or the city…I mean, you gotta love New York. And I do, I wouldn't go anywhere else. It's just not the best city to be in when it feels like the whole world is just about to squash you with its foot like a bug. Then again, maybe it really is. Either way, what the hell, it doesn't matter anyway.
About the time you get past 50, a lotta things change. My old partner, Lennie, said once, "what's wrong with turning 50?" I laughed then, but now if he had said it again, I don't think I would have laughed. Your whole life you go along thinking you're not a child anymore. Until you're 51 years old and wake up screaming after some nightmare of a hellish childhood. Yeah…what's wrong with turning 50, Len? I mean, what the hell? I'm not a child anymore. Cops don't have nightmares, they're not afraid of anything.
Then it all starts again. I know exactly how it goes; it's the same every time. Headache…right in the back. Right where the scar is – I can still feel it back there.
Squinting, I try to make out the glowing green numbers on the clock next to my bed. "Ah crap…" 7:30. I'm goina be late. Sighing, I sit up only to feel like I just whacked my head on a shelf. Geez that hurts…
I half roll out of bed. If things were different this would have been the result of one really good wednesday night. But..I don't drink. Or at least not much. Having two alcoholic parents kinda makes ya scared of the whole thing. My parents. That's really not what I wanted to think about right now.
So we get a case about a kid being utterly controlled by his mom. An errand boy, huh? He was only there just to get whatever could keep his mom happy with her drugs. That's just all too familiar.
Ok, quit thinking about that Mike…gotta get ready for work. Yeah, anything to keep my throbbing head occupied at the moment as I pull on my light blue shirt and grab a red plaid tie. Not bothering yet to tie the tie, I shuffle out into the kitchen…where the hell are my shoes? For a moment, I stop when the room spins. Damn headache.
I pull up a stool to the counter and reach for the aspirin, swallowing a few and holding my head in my hands, waiting for them to work. Yeah, now the pain moves to the front too. You know…maybe I oughta call in and tell Deakins I'm goina be late. Won't he be thrilled. In fact, maybe I should just stay home, I won't get any work done like this. What a hell of a way to start off in the Major Case Squad. They pulled me out of Staten Island (thank God!) and I came back here only to look like I don't have the stomach to handle this kind of work. I've been a cop longer than most of the detectives in there, I think I can handle this…
Way to go…shouldn't have thought of 'stomach' either. That's next. There's no way I'm going into work today. Sighing again, I reach for the phone with one hand, the other still holding up my aching head. I dial the number and then close my eyes, listening to the faint sound of ringing on the other end.
The conversation was short. Deakins didn't sound too thrilled, but at least he wasn't pissed either. We haven't known each other for long, but evidently there must have been some reason he brought me into his precinct. Not a lot of captains and lieutenants are too eager to have a bad luck, hot-headed detective around, especially one that punched a city councilman. That makes me wonder about Deakins. But at the moment, any type of wondering just succeeds in making my head hurt more.
I hate this. Hate it. It feels like I'm running away, but there's nothing to run away from. From that kid and his druggy mom? How the hell would I be running away from them. She's in jail and he's got help now. If anything, we helped them more than just bringing them to justice since jail is better than her ending up on the streets again. We fixed it. But if we coulda fixed it sooner-…
Stop thinking about this, you'll give yourself another stupid, childish nightmare. Come on Logan; be a man, suck it up. Slowly, like some sort of stroke victim, I drag myself back to bed.
Whoever that idiot is honking their horn outside my window, I'm goina kill them. If it didn't hurt more to sit up or move, I'd yell at the guy. The aspirin must have worn off by now. What a wonderful day to spend off work. You'd think that a day at home could be spent relaxing, watching tv, going somewhere…no, instead it's spent laying in bed waiting for my head to explode.
I should get outta here, maybe that'd help. On the other hand, it could make it worse. I mean, who in their right might goes outside with a headache the size of the whole city…but what's worse than this right now, huh? Yeah…maybe that is a good idea. Getting up and taking some more aspirin, I get dressed finally and grab my leather coat. I smile a little; Max Greevey would be amused if he saw I still had this old thing. He used to tease me about it back in the day.
We were partners-..geez, at least fifteen years ago. Back in homicide with Captain Don Cragen at the 27th in Midtown. The good days. That makes me sound old to say it too. I miss those days, Max was a good partner – a good friend. Then, like everything else in my life, that ended. Max was murdered. My next partner, Phil, he was shot too. At least he lived but he had to get transferred to a desk job.
Then there was Lennie. He was a good man too, but took some time to get used to. A couple of years after we partnered, some bastard city councilman really pushed my buttons. I socked the guy in the jaw. He deserved it anyway. That little stunt got me transferred to going after stolen lawn mowers on Staten Island. A couple of years ago Lennie died. I wish I coulda been there for him.
That was an odd tangent…must mean that the aspirin is working and I can think again. Damn it…it's raining. Oh well. I pull the collar up on my coat and make my way down to my car in the underground garage. It cost a lot of money to park here, and even more with gas prices as freaking high as they are. But I don't even want to try to wrestle with the subway today.
I used to have a motorcycle you know. It kinda got totaled. I also used to be certified to shoot a gun with both hands. That's another rant though.
My car starts after some effort. Music blasts through the CD player that's well hidden to keep it from being stolen. I cringe as the noise felt like getting smacked upside the head with a plank of wood. Probably one with nails sticking out of it too. Quickly, I reach to turn down the music but I don't completely turn it off. It's a good song. U2's Numb…that I can relate to.
Fortunately, it had stopped raining by the time I got to the park. That also means there won't be a lot of people out here with all of the grey clouds swirling up there. Which is a good thing. I found a bench to sit on that was relatively dry. I always liked the park, it felt open. I guess maybe I've become claustrophobic over the years. At least my dreams are always that way.
It's nice out here, like an escape. No reminders of the past haunting me, no loud news broadcasts about 'family issues'. None of that. Just…quiet. And my still-pounding head.
I rest my elbows on my knees and hold my head in my hands again, closing my eyes. For a few moments it provides peace. But the images come back. I knew a long time ago that I could never run away from the pain. It would always come back. Unlike some of the idiots out there, I also figured out without trying (maybe being a cop and seeing the results actually has a plus side) that I can't drown, numb or drug the pain either. It's not going away…ever. Well. There is one way.
Sometimes I wondered about that. Would anyone miss me? Haven't seen Danny in a long time, he's probably busy and stuff, you know? Shelly…left. Sometime ago. Phil and I lost touch over the years. Lennie and Max are gone. That's about the whole list. After the last case nearly bombed, I'm sure Barek wouldn't care if she got a new partner. I mean, who would care if some rundown, inefficient cop just up and disappeared?
It still makes me wonder why Deakins even got me into this. I know he had to pull strings to do it. It's not that I'm not grateful or anything to be away from the boredom of the Island, but it makes ya think. He's probably wondering if it was worth it. So am I.
After the case was over and we got it all packed up, not even a "job well done". Not even to Barek. Now that kinda makes me mad. I can understand if Deakins wasn't thrilled with how damn long it took us, but that falls on my shoulders. In the end, we got 'em. She did a good job. Me? I dunno…maybe I'm finally loosing it. Must run in the family. I hope to God this never happens to Danny…
I don't notice the footsteps on the wet gravel coming closer to my bench until the other person spoke. "Logan?" a woman's voice asks.
Oh go away.. I think, I'm really not in the mood to talk to anyone. Slowly I look up, squinting even at the muted light. But the original thought of wanting her to go away disappears. I grin, standing up to greet her. "Hey Liz, how's stuff? Haven't seen you around for a long time."
Elizabeth Olivet, police shrink. We used to work with her a lot at the 27th. Real smart lady…sometimes too smart for me. But she's a good friend. She helped me get through it all when Max was killed. Of course I gave her a hard time at first. It did help though. I honestly don't know how I would have handled it otherwise, despite my original protests…and considering on my own I nearly blew the perp's brains out. I winced internally at the thought, especially when I realized that I really haven't changed much since then.
She smiles back and sticks out her hand before replying. But hey, it's Liz, we've known each other longer than that. I give her a hug instead. She laughs, making me smile too. "It has been a long time, hasn't it. I'm fine," Liz replies when we pull back again, "Things are going well. How are you doing? I heard you got transferred back to Manhattan."
I nod and motion for her to join me on the bench. We both sit down. For a few moments I just look at her. She doesn't look all that different, maybe a little older, but she was still the same Liz Olivet that I remember. "Yeah, Deakins got me into the Major Case Squad. I would have taken anything though to get off of the Island."
"I understand," Liz replies. She pauses for a moment, cocking her head to the side a little like she always did when studying someone closely. That's the thing about Liz – she knows how to read people pretty good. I can read people too, but in a different way, more for telling if they're about to explode and pull a gun on me. "Are you all right?" she asks curiously and concerned, "You look a little pale."
Had it been anyone else but one or two people I would have either gotten mad and left or denied it. Of course if it had been anyone else I wouldn't still be sitting here talking to them either. I smile a little, she can probably tell it's forced too, "Just a headache."
She nods slightly, "Ah, I see." She can tell, I know she can. It's not just a headache. "What about everything else?"
I sigh softly and look around at the trees for a moment. It's hard to hide stuff from her, usually she figures it out. "Nah, everything's good."
Liz smiles a little. "I've known you too long for that, detective," she replies and then pauses a moment, "Where does your head hurt?"
"In the back somewhere.." I say, not wanting to mention the scar.
"Do you get these headaches often?"
I shrug a little, "Sometimes."
"Does something trigger them do you think?"
Glancing at her, I raise a sarcastic eyebrow, "Should I lay down on the bench and get comfortable for this session, Doc?"
She rolls her eyes slightly, but smiles too. "I only want to help you."
"I know, Liz. I'm fine."
It's obvious that she doesn't believe me. Liz is a unique person. She actually cares – or at least appears to care. I mean, it's part of her job. But that's more than you could say about most people.
There's an awkward silence for a moment. I look off towards the trees still, and I can feel her watching me. "Come on, talk to me Michael. What's going on."
God, I love you Liz, you're a great friend, but…oh what the hell. "We uh…" I pause for a moment to swallow hard, trying to think through my pounding head, "We had a tough case, that's all."
"Do you want to talk about it?" Liz asks softly.
I sigh and run a hand through my unusually short hair, "No, not really. But I should talk about it, right?"
She nods slightly, encouragingly, "It's up to you."
"Yeah…" I trail off for a moment. "This kid-..his mom made him rob jewelry stores to keep her drug habit. He was her little pet dog. The kid killed because his mother forced him, and because he was pissed off. When we were interrogating the kid, it was like looking into a mirror of pain. Do you know what that looks like?" I stop again and look over at Liz, "That could have been me. Or it could be me someday."
"But there's a big difference between both of you," Liz explains calmly, "Your mother isn't here anymore, she can't touch you or scare you."
I almost cringe when my head pounds harder. "I'm not afraid of her," I reply, sitting up straighter like a terrified child trying to be brave in the dark.
Liz just nods. She knows. "Do you think maybe this causes your headaches?"
Looking up towards the dark clouds, I close my eyes and sigh. I don't want to talk about this… "Look, what do you want me to say, Liz? Nightmares about hiding in a closet and then getting the crap beat out of me? We've talked about this, formally and informally. I was over it."
"Until what? Michael, sometimes, there are things like this that we never get over."
"Don't you think I know that by now?" I snap without thinking, quickly looking at her. Good Liz…nothing ever seems to phase her. I sigh again and said softly, looking away, "I'm sorry Liz.."
She only watches quietly. "You know, a lot of these things are triggered by something. It's very common, it happens to a lot of people."
"Oh yeah, sure," I laugh bitterly.
After another moment of awkward silence, Liz looks down at the ground. "Have you considered talking to someone else?"
"You mean like a shrink? I talk to you Liz."
Liz smiles a little, "I mean someone other than a police psychiatrist. There's only so much I can do for you that a personal psychiatrist can do more of."
I look at her out of the corner of my eye, "I don't need a shrink. I need my head to stop pounding and I need all of this to go away."
"It's not going to go away on its own," she shakes her head slightly.
There was a time when I really considered it. All of this shit…I know I'm depressed. I know there's probably some fancy term like that Post Traumatic Stress syndrome that they always say 'Nam veterans have. But I thought it was under control. I thought I had a grasp on it for once in my life. All it took was just one kid…one kid to make me stay home from work with the worst headache I've had in a long time and to sit in the park wondering if I should really just give up and end all of this pain. Liz can probably tell that too, what I've been thinking. She doesn't need all of this freaking junk on her shoulders too. She has enough to handle, her days are spent talking to psycho criminals.
"Look, Liz," I start, standing up, "I can't talk about it." I know she'll understand.
Reluctantly, she nods. "All right…but Michael, if you need to talk, or anything, call me, all right?"
"Yeah..I'll do that," I nod too and start to walk away. I knew her look without having to turn around – I had seen it many times before. Other women; Maggie, Sarah, Shelly. Sometimes even friends or colleagues. It was all the same. 'There's another guy I can't help.' No Liz. Here's another guy who won't let you help him. I didn't turn around to tell her, but kept walking through the damp, green park, out into the loud world of pain. Back to being an errand boy.