…As Peas in a Pod
Justice had been served today; of that Executive Assistant DA Jack McCoy had no doubt…
Mickey Scott was a rapist and a murderer. If anyone deserved execution, it was he.
So…why, several hours later, was Jack McCoy here, in this bar, telling his life story to a stranger?
Sure, Mike was a real standup guy, like the family Jack McCoy had grown up with when he was a kid.
There was a blocky steadiness to the guy that put Jack in mind of his Uncle Joe…
But Jack McCoy had never been the kind of man to bare his soul to anyone, least of all a man he had only met that afternoon.
Detective Lennie Briscoe was also here now, Club Soda in hand, looking at Jack with disapproving eyes.
So, I'm drunk…McCoy thought savagely.
Drunk…
Scratch that. I'm well and thoroughly plowed…
Briscoe was peering at him disapprovingly over the rim of his tumbler of Club Soda.
Hell with him…
"Barkeep! Another scotch, please."
"How many of those have you had already, Counselor?"
"Gee…Detective Briscoe…It never occurred to me to keep count…"
"Uh-huh…" Briscoe sipped his non-alcoholic beverage of choice.
"I think I should see you to a cab," the detective added.
"Claire's on her way," Jack picked up his fresh scotch; and maybe Lennie had a point. There was two of Lennie Briscoe perched on that barstool now, so either Jack McCoy was way over his limit…
Or Lennie's an amoeba that's just split two for one…
McCoy couldn't quite smother the snort of laughter.
"That's it," Lennie growled as he slid the tumbler of scotch out of McCoy's reach.
"When you start giggling like a schoolgirl, Counselor, it's time for you to go home."
"You want to tell me my limits?" McCoy leaned over, tried to put a little more authority into his voice, almost tipped right off the barstool.
The bar's door opened and closed several times, people coming and going; none of whom were Claire Kincaid.
"To hell with her…" McCoy muttered. He slid off the barstool, only wobbling a little, and pointedly ignoring Briscoe's supporting arm.
"Where are you going, Counselor?"
"Home, Detective Briscoe. I'll hail a cab."
"I thought you called Claire Kincaid to come and pick you up," Briscoe protested.
"She's not here," McCoy slipped on his jacket. "And, suddenly, I feel the need to be…elsewhere."
"You called your lady friend to come pick you up, and you're going to leave her in the lurch?"
The new voice, speaking directly behind Jack McCoy, shocked the attorney right down to his toes…
It was his own voice, touched with more than a hint of reproof. There was also a hand resting on his left shoulder.
Lennie and Mike…
Both staring at Jack McCoy as if he had sprouted a second head…
McCoy looked at that hand, resting on his shoulder, followed the arm that hand belonged to, saw the man's face…
Jack McCoy's own face, the face he saw every time he looked in a mirror; the eyes-exactly like his own-but very disapproving.
The same eyes…the same jaw…and the same hawk nose…
"Yeah…" Jack McCoy muttered. "Right…"
Things went dark after that…
Detective Lennie Briscoe was on the ball tonight. He caught Jack McCoy before the man hit the floor, Mike moving to help. Between the two of them, they got the Counselor moved to the nearest booth, Lennie sliding in next to him to keep him sitting mostly upright. The…doppelganger…slid in next to Mike on the other side of the table, dark, worried, eyes going to McCoy.
Briscoe looked the other man over. He really did look exactly like Jack McCoy
They could be twins…
"Lennie Briscoe," he offered a hand.
"Charlie Skinner," the doppelgänger said. Then he looked at McCoy, the unspoken question clear in his eyes.
"This is Jack McCoy," Briscoe nodded at his unconscious companion. "And he's usually in better shape than this. But today was…an unusual day."
We all saw a man die today; and we were all instrumental in that death…
Jack McCoy was perhaps a little more instrumental than the others. He had prosecuted Mickey Scott, had sought, and won the death penalty.
And now, here he was, drunk out of his skull, and unconscious.
Even Hang'em High McCoy has feet of clay. Who would have guessed?
"Jack McCoy…" Charlie Skinner repeated the name thoughtfully. Then, he looked up, at the front of the bar, dark eyes widening.
"A beautiful woman just entered the bar," he announced. "And she's looking at me like she knows me…"
"And that would be Claire Kincaid," Lennie smiled. "Let me explain things…"
Claire Kincaid was…irritated.
Jack McCoy had called her, clearly expecting her to drop everything, and come right away…
Sometimes, I think I hate him…
There he was, sitting at a booth at the back of the bar, grinning like a loon. Then, he stood and walked over to her.
When he spoke, his words just made no sense.
"I'm sorry, but I'm not who you think I am…"
"Uh..?"
"Over here, Counselor," Lennie Briscoe's voice guided her to the booth. Jack McCoy, slumped against the wall, Lennie Briscoe keeping him upright.
Claire, eyes wide, went from McCoy, to the man who had greeted her, back and forth between the two.
"You've noticed," Lennie was grinning. "That's Charlie Skinner, by the way…"
Charlie Skinner…
The man was a complete Jack McCoy clone. The only difference Claire could see was that he parted his hair on the other side…
Charlie Skinner took her hand, shook firmly. Then, he glanced back at McCoy.
"Is he yours'?"
"Mine?" Claire Kincaid floundered. "I…"
This was getting surreal…
"I'd better get him home," she finally sighed. "How drunk is he? He usually handles his liquor better than this."
"Today wasn't a normal day for anyone, Counselor," Lennie shrugged. "Even Jack McCoy isn't immune to…that."
No…Perhaps not…
With Charlie Skinner's help, Lennie managed to get Jack McCoy safely stowed in the back seat of Claire's car.
Claire sighed again.
I may as well be charitable…
"Where are you staying, Mr. Skinner?"
"The Atlantic," Skinner said.
"Hop in. You too, Lennie. If Jack's going to be like this, I'm going to need help getting him into his apartment."
"Thanks…"
Charlie Skinner slid in next to Jack McCoy, who was finally beginning to show signs of life.
"Wha…what…where the hell am I?"
Skinner had bent over, to make sure McCoy's seat belt was secured. McCoy looked up at him.
"Not real…" he muttered. "I'm dreaming…"
"Nope. I'm real. Name's Charlie Skinner."
"You're a drunken delusion. Go away…"
"I'm not a delusion. I'm…talking to you, aren't I?"
Claire laid her head against the steering wheel. Those two voices in the back seat sounded a lot like a drunken man having a conversation with himself…
She wanted to scream.
"Tell you what, Counselor," Lennie's voice to her right. "You kill the one on the left, I'll kill the one on the right, and we'll stuff the bodies in the trunk…"
Kincaid barely smothered the laughter.
"Thanks, Lennie," she started the ignition, and the car began to move.
"What a day this has been," Lennie sighed, and Claire nodded. She looked into the rear view mirror. Jack was out again, Skinner keeping an eye on him. That was when the car behind her surged ahead, passing her at speed, and cutting her off, only to be stopped by a red light.
"Sonofabitch!" she slammed on the brakes. There was a growl of protest from the semi-conscious Jack, a whoa there from Charlie Skinner, and a very ripe four letter word from Lennie.
"He cut me off!"
"Let him go, Counselor," Lennie advised. "He's not worth it."
The red light turned green, and traffic moved ahead, Claire taking special care to give the car ahead of her some extra leeway.
Then the car ahead of her crossed the intersection.
Only to have another car barrel right into it…
Again, Claire slammed on the brakes, this time in stunned shock.
"I'll deal with this…" Lennie Briscoe undid his seatbelt, got out of the car, and ran over to the wreckage, already dialing 911 on his cell phone.
Claire Kincaid sat there, hands stiff on the steering wheel.
If he hadn't cut me off…
If he hadn't…
I would have…
I…
"Fuck…" Claire Kincaid whispered.
Charlie Skinner stood there, Jack McCoy's body draped unceremoniously over his shoulders.
"Why do I have to carry him?" he complained.
"You broke him, Mr. Skinner," Lennie Briscoe spoke bluntly. "He was ambulatory at least, until he met you. You made him faint."
Claire Kincaid, still shaken after their near-miss, got McCoy's apartment door open, and Skinner staggered in looking for something…anything...to lay Jack McCoy down upon.
Even a Dining Room table would do…
The apartment was a crow's nest, law books stacked everywhere, on chairs, tables, shelves, even the floor.
"Put him on the couch," Clair Kincaid swept a few books off the couch, and Skinner was only too glad to comply.
He watched as Kincaid stripped the unconscious attorney down to tee and boxers.
"I think I'll see if I can get a cab," Skinner announced.
"Yeah," Briscoe nodded. "I'll split the fare with you."
Charlie Skinner kept silent through the trip back to the Atlantic Hotel.
The shakes only started when he was alone in his hotel room.
It had been dumb luck that Charlie Skinner had chosen that particular bar to stroll into. Any other bar, and he wouldn't have found Jack McCoy.
Skinner had been searching for so long now, almost his entire life.
Was it possible his lifelong search was done?