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.”
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(no subject)
Date: 2005-09-27 03:49 am (UTC)Oh, I know *exactly* what you're going through, and sympathize greatly. It's why I'm so antsy about "BoS," because I *am* almost finished with the outline, and am thinking that I can/should start writing by the weekend, at the very latest. And I know it's just going to drain me once I get started on it in earnest.
Mrs. Osborn and Mrs. Taylor are so very similar, as are Mr. Osborn and Judge Taylor, and Mac can see the resemblances, which freaks him out so very much. "Habeus Corpus" is Mac's "Crime and Misdemeanour" - only he takes it to a completely different level than Danny did.
Ouch. *wince* As painful as it's going to be for him -- for all of them -- I can't wait to see how it all plays out. Because it also sounds really, really compelling and moving. I also like the idea of parallels and echoes and...resonances, and the idea of Peter Osborn and his family paralleling Mac and his.
Claire shouldn't even have been here. *glares* But I think she fits in with the theme of the book, and because the boy's body is missing, Mac immediately thinks of her. If you don't see the body, it can't be true.
Exactly, and that always struck me as one of the great, sad ironies of what happens to Mac and Claire: this man, who bases his life around the putting together of evidence, around affording closure to the dead and to the people they left behind, can't ever get any of that closure himself, because there's no body, and never will be.
*facepalm* ohgodamievergoingtoputmacthroughhell. *zips lips shut*
Yay! I like it when they suffer.I sort of suspected that, from some of your comments above and just...general themes of this 'verse and whatnot. Sometimes they *need* to suffer.(no subject)
Date: 2005-09-28 01:01 am (UTC)I think there are reaons why I'm writing crack!fic AUs instead of working on HC. *glares* However much fun a Western AU may be, HC is more important and contains more emotional agony. Mental stability is for wimps.
Ouch. *wince* As painful as it's going to be for him -- for all of them -- I can't wait to see how it all plays out. Because it also sounds really, really compelling and moving. I also like the idea of parallels and echoes and...resonances, and the idea of Peter Osborn and his family paralleling Mac and his.
Mrs. Osborn is on the special crack previously reserved only for Mac. I'm hoping the parallel isn't too big clunk over the head, but...I'm afraid to go for too subtle either. That and the fact I'm not sure I could write really subtle. Peter Osborn is how Mac could have gone - and maybe, in his mind, should have gone.
Exactly, and that always struck me as one of the great, sad ironies of what happens to Mac and Claire: this man, who bases his life around the putting together of evidence, around affording closure to the dead and to the people they left behind, can't ever get any of that closure himself, because there's no body, and never will be.
It is. It's one of the saddest things about their story; that she was lost and he, the one who finds things, deals in the dead, can't find her. Can't give himself the closure that he awards others. It's all about the evidence, but when there isn't any evidence there's still hope - but hope has been terribly perverted and twisted, because she can't have survived. Which is another reason the Peter Osborn case hits him so hard.
Yay! I like it when they suffer. I sort of suspected that, from some of your comments above and just...general themes of this 'verse and whatnot. Sometimes they *need* to suffer.
*flinches* Suffer may be a mild term...canon's got nothing on me.