Being a doctor was my mother's dream. Her dad had been a doctor and my own father was a surgeon, so you could say it ran in the family. Even at an early age, I was never as interested in the living or near living as I was the dead. They speak to me in a language that few people hear. My mother never tells people that I am a medical examiner; she just calls me, her son the doctor. But when women find out you spend your day taking dead bodies apart for cause of death, well, they sort of run in the opposite direction. A bachelor I shall remain…
Excuse my manners, I'm Dr. Jim Mackey and I've been with UNCLE for about fifteen years now. At first it was very exciting to be working for an international agency, one fraught with spies and counter intelligence, with secret rendezvous and stolen code books. Then I saw what a bullet would do to a man's insides, or the damage a human would inflict upon a fellow being for a scrap of paper or bit of knowledge. That's when it stopped being glamorous and became a serious career. I couldn't help these young men in life, but perhaps by understanding their deaths a bit more, I could do some good.
It was a bitterly cold morning when I got the early call. Having to get out of bed at my alarm's bidding is one thing; it was totally different to receive the call. "An agent is down, you're needed," was all that the communication specialist told me. It was all she needed to tell me. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and stumbled to the shower. Within half an hour, I was on the subway, the car still mostly empty at this time of the morning. I hid behind an edition of the Daily News, its pictures cloaking me from the world.
I walked into Autopsy and hung up my coat. The young man was already laid out on a stainless steel table, his face nearly as colorless as the metal he lay upon. Tom Jerrolds, my assistant, had assembled the necessary equipment and started the paperwork that always occurs when an agent goes down.
I stared down at the impossibly young face and felt a pang. It always hurt more when it was someone I knew and liked. This had been one of UNCLE's stars, a step forward in détente. His government was not going to be happy with this.
'I'm so sorry, my friend. I'll miss you," I said, softly, even as I undid my tie and started to unbutton my shirt. "Tommy, do we know the cause of death?"
"Back of his head is gone." He respectfully brushed aside long bangs off to reveal a tiny entrance hole. Waverly was always after him to get his hair cut. Said it looked unprofessional for an agent to wear it that long, but it suited him and the women liked it. "He never saw it coming. It doesn't seem quite fair."
I hated myself for having to ask this and prayed for the merciful answer. "His partner?"
"Psych has him now. They're trying to hold him together long enough to find out what happened." So much for mercy. These two had been close, extremely close, almost from the very beginning, one helping the other to make his way through the assimilation of a new country, their habits and rules, reassuring him with a quick smile and a supportive hand.
"Well, let us begin then. Tommy, has his government been informed?"
"Waverly did. He looked about a hundred and two this morning when he came in. it must have been a bad night for him." Tommy used a pair of scissors to cut clothes away revealing a battle-scarred body. Too many scars for someone so young. He'd seen much more than his share of abuse, that was certain. There were bruises of various colors depending upon where they had been in the healing process, a still red splotch of still-healing tissue on one thigh.
"He shouldn't have been allowed back into the field. Not like this." I pointed to the leg wound.
"You know how he is… was, sorry. He always said we coddled our agents. Back home, if you could stand, you were back out in the field. He pushed himself too hard."
"And this is his thanks – an early death, but at least a quick one."
Just then the door whispered open and I glanced over. His partner, disheveled and broken, stood there.
"Don't touch him." Thankfully, they'd taken his gun away, but I knew he could kill us a hundred times over with just his hands. "Did you hear me? Leave him alone."
I pulled Tommy back, away from the table, knowing that it would end badly for us if I didn't. The emotion I saw was raw, painful even to look at. He half staggered to the table and looked down for a moment before scooping his partner into his arms, sobbing and rocking.
"I'm sorry, oh, God, I'm so sorry." It was a mantra for him, both a prayer and an apology. He repeated it again and again, rocking back and forth. I immediately felt tears spring to my eyes, not so much at the tragedy before me, but that I would never have that sort of connection with another human being. If I died tomorrow, no one would mourn me like this.
Compassion wanted to send me to the man's side, but common sense told me otherwise. Then, I noticed the other man and smiled. It would be okay now.
"C'mon, Harry, you've got to let him go. Quon Shen is gone."
"I can't. Napoleon, I can't."
"You have to. You can't go where he's gone, Harry." Slowly, gently, I watched UNCLE's CEA pried the agent's hands from the lifeless body of his partner. "We need you to make a report."
"No, I can't... " He struggled, trying to break free, but his will was gone, ripped out of him, just like his heart. Two other men entered, Section Threes, I think, and they half pulled, half carried Agent Hennessy away.
"Sorry, Dr. Mackey, he was out of Medical before we even knew." Napoleon turned to me with sad smile as he watched the agent being led away.
"Wasn't he being watched?"
"Yes, well, Illya's head is hard, but not even his is hard enough to stand being cold cocked with a metal carafe."
"Is he all right?"
"From the carafe or the other?" It was no secret that Kuryakin and Quon Shen had been fast friends, especially since Kuryakin spoke his language and knew the feeling of being on the outside. He'd been with the organization for years now and was still not entirely accepted by everyone. "He's far from happy, but he understands the rules of war, possible more than others."
"Will Agent Hennessy be okay?" Tommy had resumed his work on removing clothes.
"I don't know. When you get two this close, it's anyone's guess." Napoleon became very still suddenly and it didn't take a rocket scientist to know what he was thinking. He and his partner held the same bond, shared the same closeness and they'd been together so much longer. There was fear in Napoleon's eyes for just a moment and then it was gone. Well, not gone, just… hidden from view. Instead, he cleared his throat. "His government will want a full autopsy?"
"That will be Mr. Waverly's call. Cause of death is rather straightforward, but we'll do what we must to keep this door open between us. 'Quon Shen'. It means bright meditation."
"He certainly was that."
"Napoleon?" We all turned at the voice. Illya Kuryakin stood there. He was holding an ice pack to his head, looking a little green around the gills. "We need you."
"Illya? Why are you even out of bed? What's wrong?"
"It's Harry. He took the Section Three boys down and got a gun… They couldn't stop him. He's dead, Napoleon…" Illya avoided looking anywhere but his partner's eyes.
"Oh, Harry…" Napoleon sighed and rubbed his face with his hands. I had a feeling that even my worst day in autopsy was nothing compared to what Napoleon was going through.
Illya rested a hand on his arm and then walked over to the examination table. "I spoke with his family this morning," he said without prelude as he stared down at the body of his friend. "I assured them that his body would be returned to them quickly. Can you make that happen, Doctor?" Blue eyes flicked in my direction and then back down.
"I'll do my best, Mr. Kuryakin. He was Buddhist?"
"Yes."
"A strange profession for a man of peace."
"These times make warriors out of all of us, whether we want it or not." He glanced over at his partner and then back down at the body. "Good bye, my friend, peace go with you." And he turned quickly, but he was blinking sharply, too sharply for it to be anything other than tears that he was trying to mask. He joined his partner and they left quietly.
I knew they would spend tonight together, sharing a moment, sharing a memory or two of their fallen colleague. Perhaps they'll question the depth of their own friendship and the wisdom of being so close with one another. Maybe they'll get drunk or go dancing or just keep running, trying to stay one step ahead of the Grim Reaper and my table. And I wished them luck. And I envied them. And for a moment, I even hated them just a little. But every one of them ends up on my table, talking to me.