A/N: This was a difficult one to write, but I finally managed to arrive at a point where I could distance myself enough from the finale to get it down.
Unscripted
Strategic Response Unit Commander Norman Holleran reluctantly left the relative safety of his black police SUV and entered the main lobby of CP Information Processing, the I.T. firm that was the current employer of Henry 'Hank' Gerald. Holleran felt every day of his fifty-two years, and thought that his already-grey head of closely-cropped hair probably turned even greyer in the past four hours. Three bombs had already exploded; an unknown number of lives had been lost, and Holleran knew the threat was still not over.
The errand that brought him to CP Information Processing was not one he wished on anyone else, but the responsibility was his, and he would not shirk it. The message he carried with him was terrible, and Norm hoped that once he'd delivered it, he'd feel some measure of relief, but in doing so, it would infect the recipient like a virus, causing unbearable pain and suffering for which there would be no cure.
Accompanied by a baby-faced constable named 'Swanson' who seemed to be relieved to be on this ride as opposed to out there amongst the panic and chaos besieging the city, Norm approached the admittance desk. The twenty-something woman seated there looked up with surprise at the officers. Doubtless, she was aware of the spate of bombings occurring, and Norm thought he detected a look of panic on her face.
"May I help you?" she asked them tremulously; eyes wide.
"Yes," the SRU veteran said in the most official tone he could muster, "I'm Commander Norm Holleran; Strategic Response Unit. It is imperative that I speak with one of your staff members: Mr. Hank Gerald."
At the mention of Hank's name, another woman poked her head out of an office just down the hall. She saw Norm and quickly approached him.
"I'm Ginny Foster, Hank's boss," she announced with some measure of concern when they were face to face. "Is everything all right? What's this about?"
"Ms. Foster," Norm stated calmly, not revealing anything, "is there a private area where I can speak with Hank? The matter is urgent and sensitive."
"Of course, Commander," Ginny replied, turning and gesturing down the corridor, "you may use my office. I'll get Hank now."
"Thank you," Norm said, grateful for her tact. Leaving Swanson at the front desk, Holleran followed Ginny to her office, and stood inside while she left to fetch Hank.
With a heavy heart and stoic face, he waited, his stomach roiling in anticipation; his thoughts churning. This was the sort of thing that ought to be somehow scripted, but the fact of the matter was no script was perfect, and no words could ever be right for the sort of lines he would have to deliver in the next few minutes. No amount of sensitivity training could suffice, and Norm decided he would be as direct as possible, as ambiguity and 'beating around the bush' would be the worst thing to do in this circumstance.
In spite of his resolve to be direct, Holleran found himself to be nervous and dry of throat when Hank Gerald quietly entered the office, his face revealing an expectant demeanour. Their eyes met for a brief moment, and Hank raised his eyebrows, the unspoken question 'What is he doing here?' flashing on his dark features.
The SRU commanding officer could see the wheels turning in the other man's head. Fear of that dreaded, unspoken subject crept forth, but was pulled back by a certain pragmatism and rationality. Hope surfaced, bringing with it assurances backed by a strong will not yet ready to succumb to the worst-case scenario before all the facts were known.
Norm cleared his throat and swallowed several times. Further stalling for time, he plucked his glasses from his face and massaged his temples with his free hand.
"Hank…" he started softly, and suddenly couldn't continue. He knew if he started speaking again, he would be overcome with emotion. Norm mentally kicked himself for the delay as he met Hank's questioning eyes again. Unable to hold the other man's apprehensive gaze, he let his vision veer off to some indistinct spot on the ceiling. Heaven, help me…
"Norm…" Hank murmured in a tone of warning and dread, "…tell me she's all right…"
The words were more of a plea, and every one of them stabbed at Holleran's heart, because he knew…
Holleran sucked in a shaky breath. Good Lord, why doesn't this ever get easier, he lamented silently. He cleared his throat again, in vain trying to tamp down the rising flood of tears that was starting to blur his eyesight and choke off his voice.
"You tell me she's all right!" Hank demanded furiously, abandoning all prior reserve. His voice was dangerously sharp, yet cracking with anticipatory horror of the knowledge he sensed was being kept from him, but could not yet bring himself to fully contemplate and accept.
"I can't, Hank," Holleran finally managed to articulate, slack-jawed, with a slow shake of his head, sorrow and regret drenching his words. "I'm sorry. She's dead. We lost her."
We 'lost' her? Holleran was appalled by the euphemism; sickened that the words had rolled off his tongue like that, so thoughtlessly. No, we didn't 'lose' her, he silently seethed. She was taken from us in a despicable, deliberate act of cunning and murder.
Hank just stood there, frozen in place, his unblinking gaze fixed on some spot behind Norm's head. Then his fists curled into tight balls at his side, and he began to tremble uncontrollably.
"I'm sorry," Norm whispered again, unable to keep his own tears in check. He recalled the previous occasions he'd had to deliver such a notice. During his tenure with the Strategic Response Unit, he'd been the bearer of bad news to parents only, most recently, those of Constable Lewis Young… but never a spouse, until today.
Hank wept. Quietly and uncontrollably, the tears streamed until he finally had to blink and gasp for air. He seemed to crumple from within, an unfathomable, staggering grief causing him to deflate and sink to the floor, oblivious to his surroundings. Norm crossed over to the stricken man and knelt down beside him, taking him in his arms, knowing that no gesture on earth could possibly begin to console him.
"How?" Hank asked finally, looking up at his dead wife's commanding officer, his voice coming out in a raw, painful rasp. "How could this… have happened… to her?"
Pityingly, Norm looked at Hank and sat back on his haunches. How, indeed? How to explain to the man before him that his wife had simply been doing her job when the unthinkable had happened? How to tell him that she was simply following orders when she was killed?
"Team Three was pursuing a lead on the location of the man we believed to be responsible for the bombings today," Holleran began. "The trail of evidence led to Brookfield University, and when they entered one of the laboratories, they found the suspect was wearing a suicide bomb vest. Donna and Jimmy stayed back to try to get the suspect to talk; tried to disarm the bomb. I don't know what went wrong, Hank, but… the suspect wasn't the bomber, he was bait. They were still inside when the bomb was detonated."
"No…" Hank shook his head disbelievingly. "God… a bomb? Donna and Jim?"
Norm closed his eyes and nodded, feeling suddenly weary and defeated, thinking that his next stop would be Jimmy's widow; thinking he didn't know how much more grief he'd be able to shoulder.
"Did she – did she even have a chance? Did she know?"
Norm knew what Hank was asking; read between the lines. Hank wanted to know if his wife's last moments had caused her to suffer, so he chose his words carefully. "If she knew anything, Hank, it would have been quick. It would have been over in an instant. There wouldn't have been time for anything else."
"You find this maniac, Norm," Hank's voice dropped in pitch, his eyes burning with a hatred projected towards the unknown man responsible for his terrible loss. "Swear to me that you'll find him and that you'll make him pay!"
"We'll find him, Hank," Norm said passionately. "The whole SRU is out there right now. Every cop in the city is on the job. We're going to get him. We're not going to let him get away with this."
Holleran then advised him as gently as possible that he could expect a follow-up call soon from the people with the Toronto Widows and Orphans Fund. He wondered if the name sounded as woefully inadequate to Hank's ears as it did to his own. Would the name of the organization be somehow offensive to Hank because he was not a widow, but rather now a widower? Complex and complicated emotions would be Hank's miserable lot for the foreseeable future as he dealt with the fallout of his loss, and Norm didn't envy the other man the process of grieving. But Donna had paid her dues from the time she was a rookie; Hank was entitled to every benefit the Fund offered to the surviving spouse.
He eventually left Hank in the office, feeling no less divested of his burdensome news than when he'd first arrived. Later, Holleran would describe Hank as a man who looked like he'd been mauled by a wild beast, as if his heart had been gouged right out of his chest, leaving behind a wide, gaping cavity that could never be filled.
It was with a sense of grim satisfaction that Holleran received word that the bomber had been brought down by Team One's Edward Lane. For quite a while, he thought that a bullet to the back of the head was too good a fate for Marcus Faber; that he deserved much worse for the terror he'd wrought on the city. Would a trial and a life sentence in prison have been better? Would it have alleviated the anguish of all those whose loved ones had been killed? In the end, neither scenario could bring back the dead.
But no one would mourn Marcus Faber; of that, Holleran was certain. The young man's parents were deceased, and he was friendless and single. There would be no one to inform about his death; no knock on a door, no work day unceremoniously interrupted; no marriage brought to a sudden and brutal end, no unscripted words reluctantly delivered. There would just be a body in a morgue until it was buried in a plot in Potter's Field. Perhaps that was justice; Norm couldn't be sure. All he knew was that he loathed being the messenger of death. He wished it did not fall under his purview as commander of the Strategic Response Unit, because no words could ever mitigate the suffering they would inevitably inflict upon those left behind.
END