Habeus Corpus 1
Sep. 25th, 2005 04:55 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bedlamsbardLook, I said I would do it. And I did. In my timeline, this takes place between Omerta and Bloody Sunday, but it might actually take place before Black Monday. I don't know yet. I'll see how things go. But yes, anyway, Mac and Stella and Mac's issues.
There was something vaguely sickening about the bright flush of blood on the bedroom carpet, about the thicker ridge where it had pooled around the body. Mac didn’t know what it was, what made it so different than all the other crime scenes he’d been to, but there was nothing particularly special about it. Just another dead boy in New York City, just another ghost in a city of them.
According to the pictures on the mantelpiece downstairs, Peter Osborn had been a handsome boy, with curly black hair and bright blue eyes. He’d been an honor student at St. Aidan’s School for Boys and Girls, an Eagle Scout, star runner for the cross country team, active in his church and community, already accepted to Georgetown University. He should have lived a long, successful life, not ended up murdered at seventeen. That was too young, far too young, and something about that terrified Mac far more than the apparent brutality of his murder.
Apparent, because of the disappearance of the body. Peter Osborn was missing, but with the amount of blood left behind in his room there was no doubt that someone was dead, and probability after probability stated that it must be Peter. They’d have to run DNA tests to be sure, but the tests he and Stella had run at the scene gave the vic the same blood type as Peter Osborn.
“Mac?”
He wrenched his eyes from the blood pool and turned around. “Stella?”
She frowned at him. “I’ve been calling your name for the past five minutes. Are you all right?”
Mac swallowed past the acrid taste in the back of his throat. “I’m – I’m fine. Just – tired.”
Stella frowned some more. “Maybe you should get some sleep, Mac.”
“Maybe,” he said dispiritedly, and glanced over at the pile of textbooks on Peter’s desk. One of them was open, an unfinished calculus assignment and a TI-84+ graphing calculator in front of it. On the bulletin board behind the desk were an assortment of familiar scout badges and cross country ribbons; a letter jacket hung off the back of the chair and there were two trophies sitting on top of a bookcase. Peter had been a successful kid, in school and out of it, and there was something very, very familiar about that. It made him almost sick to his stomach to think about it, but it was true. Peter Osborn could have been Maclarin Taylor thirty years earlier.
Mac swallowed. “I think I’ll go talk to the mother again,” he said.
“Again?” Stella said. “She said she killed him –”
“But not where she hid the body,” Mac said quietly. “Until then –” He shrugged awkwardly. “Well, we can’t be sure Peter Osborn’s dead.”
Stella looked over at the blood on the floor. “Nobody loses that much blood and lives, Mac.” After a moment – “I’m sorry, Mac.”
“I know that,” he said. “But I still –”
“Mac.”
“What?”
“She’s gone. The uniforms already took her away.”
“Oh,” Mac said quietly. “I –”
Stella reached out for him tentatively. “Mac – if you need – anything – I’m here. You know that. I’m not going to turn into one of those cop wives, always begging you to talk, but –” She paused at the stricken look on his face. “Aw, jeez, Mac, I’m sorry.”
He shook his head. “Claire wasn’t like that,” he said. “She just – she used to ask, at the beginning, but then she gave up.” He paused. “For a while we weren’t – weren’t talking. And I think – I used to think – well, never mind.”
Stella shook her head. “No,” she said. “Go on.”
“She used to ask me to – to stop. Being a cop. Because it was so dangerous. Maybe it is. Maybe she was right. I don’t know. Maybe if I had, she would have – she and I – maybe she’d –” He shook his head again, trying to bring his wife’s face up in front of him. “When she was in college, she was a med student. One day she was doing an internship in the ER and they brought in an injured officer. He wasn’t – screaming, but he – there was a bullet in his neck. They didn’t know if he’d make it. His partner wouldn’t leave him alone, just kept holding his hand, and the doctors just – took it for granted. Worked around him. There was blood everywhere. The next day, Claire changed her major to business. She told me she didn’t want to get a phone call and find out that it was me in that emergency room. I told her that it wouldn’t happen, that I wouldn’t – get hurt – that you wouldn’t let me get hurt, but I don’t think she believed me. She went to her death not believing me. And if I’d done what she wanted – quit the force – then maybe she’d – she’d –”
“Mac,” Stella said quietly. She reached out and tangled her fingers in his sleeve, pulling him closer to her. “If you had quit the force, would you be –” She paused for a moment, obviously fumbling for a word “– happy?”
“Claire would be alive,” he said dully.
“Would she?”
The words hung between them like a death-knell Mac closed his eyes, then opened them again, panic coursing through him. “I can’t remember her,” he said.
“What?”
“I can’t remember her.” Desperately, he grabbed at some thread of memory, something to let her know what he was talking about. “I can’t see her – I can’t – I don’t remember – I can’t see her face. I don’t remember what she looks – looked –” he corrected himself mercilessly “– like. Stella, I can’t –”
Stella stepped even closer to him. “You’ll remember,” she said. “Mac, you’ll –”
“I can’t remember,” he said desperately.
“Don’t you have –”
He shook his head. “I can’t remember,” he said again, the words blending together into a never-ending chant resonating through his head. He dragged through file after file of memory, box after box, and saw nothing but blurs of dark hair and pale skin. “Stella, I –”
Her grip tightened on him. “You’ll remember,” she said fiercely – not a prayer, not reassurance, but a demand. A fact, straight and simple. “You’ll see her again.”
“But I can’t –”
“I won’t let you get hurt,” she snapped, and the words thrummed through him for a moment. Truth there, truth and faith, and he grabbed desperately for it with both hands. Fidelis ad mortem. Stella wouldn’t let him die, wouldn’t let him get hurt. She wouldn’t leave him.
He wasn’t aware he’d spoken the words out loud until her voice shocked the crisp fall air again. “No,” she said. “I won’t leave you, Mac.”
There was something vaguely sickening about the bright flush of blood on the bedroom carpet, about the thicker ridge where it had pooled around the body. Mac didn’t know what it was, what made it so different than all the other crime scenes he’d been to, but there was nothing particularly special about it. Just another dead boy in New York City, just another ghost in a city of them.
According to the pictures on the mantelpiece downstairs, Peter Osborn had been a handsome boy, with curly black hair and bright blue eyes. He’d been an honor student at St. Aidan’s School for Boys and Girls, an Eagle Scout, star runner for the cross country team, active in his church and community, already accepted to Georgetown University. He should have lived a long, successful life, not ended up murdered at seventeen. That was too young, far too young, and something about that terrified Mac far more than the apparent brutality of his murder.
Apparent, because of the disappearance of the body. Peter Osborn was missing, but with the amount of blood left behind in his room there was no doubt that someone was dead, and probability after probability stated that it must be Peter. They’d have to run DNA tests to be sure, but the tests he and Stella had run at the scene gave the vic the same blood type as Peter Osborn.
“Mac?”
He wrenched his eyes from the blood pool and turned around. “Stella?”
She frowned at him. “I’ve been calling your name for the past five minutes. Are you all right?”
Mac swallowed past the acrid taste in the back of his throat. “I’m – I’m fine. Just – tired.”
Stella frowned some more. “Maybe you should get some sleep, Mac.”
“Maybe,” he said dispiritedly, and glanced over at the pile of textbooks on Peter’s desk. One of them was open, an unfinished calculus assignment and a TI-84+ graphing calculator in front of it. On the bulletin board behind the desk were an assortment of familiar scout badges and cross country ribbons; a letter jacket hung off the back of the chair and there were two trophies sitting on top of a bookcase. Peter had been a successful kid, in school and out of it, and there was something very, very familiar about that. It made him almost sick to his stomach to think about it, but it was true. Peter Osborn could have been Maclarin Taylor thirty years earlier.
Mac swallowed. “I think I’ll go talk to the mother again,” he said.
“Again?” Stella said. “She said she killed him –”
“But not where she hid the body,” Mac said quietly. “Until then –” He shrugged awkwardly. “Well, we can’t be sure Peter Osborn’s dead.”
Stella looked over at the blood on the floor. “Nobody loses that much blood and lives, Mac.” After a moment – “I’m sorry, Mac.”
“I know that,” he said. “But I still –”
“Mac.”
“What?”
“She’s gone. The uniforms already took her away.”
“Oh,” Mac said quietly. “I –”
Stella reached out for him tentatively. “Mac – if you need – anything – I’m here. You know that. I’m not going to turn into one of those cop wives, always begging you to talk, but –” She paused at the stricken look on his face. “Aw, jeez, Mac, I’m sorry.”
He shook his head. “Claire wasn’t like that,” he said. “She just – she used to ask, at the beginning, but then she gave up.” He paused. “For a while we weren’t – weren’t talking. And I think – I used to think – well, never mind.”
Stella shook her head. “No,” she said. “Go on.”
“She used to ask me to – to stop. Being a cop. Because it was so dangerous. Maybe it is. Maybe she was right. I don’t know. Maybe if I had, she would have – she and I – maybe she’d –” He shook his head again, trying to bring his wife’s face up in front of him. “When she was in college, she was a med student. One day she was doing an internship in the ER and they brought in an injured officer. He wasn’t – screaming, but he – there was a bullet in his neck. They didn’t know if he’d make it. His partner wouldn’t leave him alone, just kept holding his hand, and the doctors just – took it for granted. Worked around him. There was blood everywhere. The next day, Claire changed her major to business. She told me she didn’t want to get a phone call and find out that it was me in that emergency room. I told her that it wouldn’t happen, that I wouldn’t – get hurt – that you wouldn’t let me get hurt, but I don’t think she believed me. She went to her death not believing me. And if I’d done what she wanted – quit the force – then maybe she’d – she’d –”
“Mac,” Stella said quietly. She reached out and tangled her fingers in his sleeve, pulling him closer to her. “If you had quit the force, would you be –” She paused for a moment, obviously fumbling for a word “– happy?”
“Claire would be alive,” he said dully.
“Would she?”
The words hung between them like a death-knell Mac closed his eyes, then opened them again, panic coursing through him. “I can’t remember her,” he said.
“What?”
“I can’t remember her.” Desperately, he grabbed at some thread of memory, something to let her know what he was talking about. “I can’t see her – I can’t – I don’t remember – I can’t see her face. I don’t remember what she looks – looked –” he corrected himself mercilessly “– like. Stella, I can’t –”
Stella stepped even closer to him. “You’ll remember,” she said. “Mac, you’ll –”
“I can’t remember,” he said desperately.
“Don’t you have –”
He shook his head. “I can’t remember,” he said again, the words blending together into a never-ending chant resonating through his head. He dragged through file after file of memory, box after box, and saw nothing but blurs of dark hair and pale skin. “Stella, I –”
Her grip tightened on him. “You’ll remember,” she said fiercely – not a prayer, not reassurance, but a demand. A fact, straight and simple. “You’ll see her again.”
“But I can’t –”
“I won’t let you get hurt,” she snapped, and the words thrummed through him for a moment. Truth there, truth and faith, and he grabbed desperately for it with both hands. Fidelis ad mortem. Stella wouldn’t let him die, wouldn’t let him get hurt. She wouldn’t leave him.
He wasn’t aware he’d spoken the words out loud until her voice shocked the crisp fall air again. “No,” she said. “I won’t leave you, Mac.”
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2005-09-26 01:06 am (UTC)You make me scare my roommate laughing. Macfetti! ...except it's not *supposed* to be funny, is it. Um. Oh well. And you do it so *well*, you know.
I actually have no idea how Claire got dragged into this, since this story was supposed to be about Mac's mommy issues.
Well, like I said with remembering, it kind of is related to his mommy issues (and family issues), if you want to stretch it a bit. He remembers his childhood and youth so clearly, and all the span of clusterfuck *that* was, and yet this woman he loved, he can't. She just *gone*. What made him-- or what he knows made him happy, something that should be held onto, and he can't. It's like god cheated.
Heart that image, and it may actually be foreshadowing.
Have I mentioned how much I love your writing? 'Cause yeah. Big time.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-09-26 01:23 am (UTC)Aw. Yes, well, Mac's going to friggin' lose it. Like, gone. Whatever little shreds of it he had. *rubs hands together* There's no way he's going to come out of this one looking even remotely sane.
Well, like I said with remembering, it kind of is related to his mommy issues (and family issues), if you want to stretch it a bit. He remembers his childhood and youth so clearly, and all the span of clusterfuck *that* was, and yet this woman he loved, he can't. She just *gone*. What made him-- or what he knows made him happy, something that should be held onto, and he can't. It's like god cheated.
Exactly. He can't remember Claire, and that scares him to death, because he should remember her. You remember the good things, not the bad. And yet...he can't. Oh, I suppose he can in an intellectual sort of way, knowing he loved her, seeing snapshots of his time with her - but he can't emotionally. He has trouble feeling for her anymore.
On a side note: Peter Osborn was actually supposed to be a lot, lot younger - like eight - not seventeen. And is obviously supposed to parallel Mac.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-09-26 01:35 am (UTC)Yay! I wanna see what you do to him. (:D
You remember the good things, not the bad. And yet...he can't. Oh, I suppose he can in an intellectual sort of way, knowing he loved her, seeing snapshots of his time with her - but he can't emotionally. He has trouble feeling for her anymore.
Right-- as I said, it is a very real thing. We forget people who die--not like, *forget*, but forget faces, voices, and it's not as if it was because they were bad, or good, or because we didn't love them or did, but... they're gone, and they fade, and when you recognize that it's terrifying. For Mac, especially so, needing normalcy, needing to be good. Claire's a safety catch on his brain.
On a side note: Peter Osborn was actually supposed to be a lot, lot younger - like eight - not seventeen. And is obviously supposed to parallel Mac.
*nod* Admittedly I did see him as like, he should be younger, but only because seventeen seems too close to adulthood, to getting out, to being independent. Younger like 8, there's still control under family, and younger teens are... searching for identity. *shrug*
(no subject)
Date: 2005-09-27 03:01 am (UTC)Ooh, like when he *sporflesporfle* gun to *sporflesporfle* head?
Right-- as I said, it is a very real thing. We forget people who die--not like, *forget*, but forget faces, voices, and it's not as if it was because they were bad, or good, or because we didn't love them or did, but... they're gone, and they fade, and when you recognize that it's terrifying. For Mac, especially so, needing normalcy, needing to be good. Claire's a safety catch on his brain.
Exactly. It's home. Only home has changed, and - you can't go home anymore, you know? Home has changed, and Mac has changed, and God does he ever hate it, but it's true. He can't do anything about it, he has no control over it, and it freaks him the hell out.
*nod* Admittedly I did see him as like, he should be younger, but only because seventeen seems too close to adulthood, to getting out, to being independent. Younger like 8, there's still control under family, and younger teens are... searching for identity. *shrug*
*prods* I think, in some ways, an older teen might feel even more trapped, depending on how controlling his family is. I mean...an eight-year-old might not really understand (yeah, me and kids? don't get along) that no matter what he does he'll still be trapped, but in some ways it's even worse seeing this seventeen year old kid, that was so close to getting away, dead on the floor. Even if they don't actually see him.