Jack McCoy was feeling fine on a Friday night. A little too fine, if the truth be told.
However, McCoy came from a long line of hard drinkers, and the casual observer might not have realized how inebriated the Executive Assistant DA was.
McCoy's speech wasn't slurred, he wasn't staggering; most people might have thought him stone-cold sober.
He wasn't. Not by a long shot.
Even drunk, McCoy was, however, quite sensible. He stood outside the bar he had just exited, waiting on a cab, breath misting in the chill air, a small group of like-minded revelers coming out, braving the late night air.
McCoy moved away from them. Claire had died last month, and he was in no mood to share their joy…
That was when he heard the screeching of tires, screams and shouts.
He turned, just in time to see a sedan-a Mercedes-go off the street, onto the sidewalk, tearing right through the small group, and continue on, bearing down on him…
McCoy moved. He wasn't quite fast enough…
The sedan clipped him, sent him careening right into a brick wall…
…..
Detectives Lennie Briscoe and Rey Curtis stood looking down at the three dead bodies.
"We got a witness," the cop on the scene said. "Says a Mercedes plowed right through them like a knife through hot butter."
"Where is he?" Briscoe asked.
"The EMTs have him," the cop said. "He got dinged up a little."
Briscoe nodded, turned to the ambulance, the EMTs, and their patient.
"Counselor?"
Jack McCoy, lying on a stretcher, was just about the last thing he expected to see.
The man's face looked bruised, and his right leg was immobilized.
Broken, or a bad sprain…
"Detectives," McCoy managed a pale smile. "Not quite our usual routine…"
"What happened, Counselor?"
"Mercedes went off the street, right onto the sidewalk," McCoy rasped, hand to his head. "Went right though those people, then knocked me right into that wall over there."
He stopped, looking at the three bodies.
"They didn't have a chance…"
Briscoe looked McCoy over.
"Got to ask you a personal question, Counselor. How sober are you?"
McCoy sighed.
"Not very," he admitted. "Will that ruin my value as a witness?"
"It might," Briscoe nodded. "How much did you have?"
"Enough to know my credibility as a witness might be shit…"
"We can talk later, Counselor."
"Yeah," McCoy sighed again. "The EMTs are ready to go now. Guess I'll be at Bellevue."
Briscoe watched as the EMTs loaded the stretcher into the ambulance.
…..
Two weeks later
"Jack!" Adam Schiff's voice, scolding. "I thought the orthopedist said you couldn't go to work until four more weeks."
McCoy settled his crutches by the desk, tried his best shit-eating grin on his boss.
It didn't work.
"I was going nuts at home," he finally said. "Don't worry, Adam. I'm not going to go tearing around Hogan Place."
"You'd better not," Schiff spoke sternly. "Bones take time to heal…"
"Speaking of which…" McCoy looked at Schiff, standing just inside his office. "Did they ever find the sonofabitch?"
"A Mercedes, of indeterminate color," Schiff grunted. "It's not like we don't have thousands of those in Manhattan, do we?"
"He killed three people," McCoy growled.
"Yeah…"Schiff nodded. "And he could've killed you too."
"Someday…" McCoy rubbed his face. "Someday we'll get them all…"
"Jack…that won't bring Claire back…"
McCoy sighed.
"I know," he sighed.
Without her, it's empty here too…
"You shouldn't be here, Jack," Schiff walked up, laid a gentle hand on McCoy's shoulder. "Come on, let me take you home."
McCoy let Schiff gather his crutches, and shepherd him home; to his empty apartment.
It didn't matter anyway.
Everywhere was empty now.
Claire Kincaid was gone…