O'Hare International Airport, Chicago
Duffle-bag slung over a shoulder, Jack McCoy walked through the airport, keeping eyes peeled for either of his brothers.
He found Pat, the youngest of the McCoy brothers.
Seen together, strangers generally found it hard to believe Jack and Pat were brothers.
Pat McCoy was the one who looked the most like John Senior; blondish and blue-eyed, with typically Irish features. Standing in at six foot four, big and burly, built like a stevedore, people were often surprised to see he was a priest.
"Jack!" Pat strode up, taking Jack's duffle-bag up easily in his huge hands...
"You didn't waste any time getting here," he added.
"I took the Red-eye," McCoy explained. "How's Mom?"
"Rattled…but she's fine. What do you want to do, Jack?"
"I think I should see the body first, then where you and Joe found it. Give your statements to the police yet?"
"Yeah…" Pat shifted McCoy's duffle to the other shoulder.
"I'll want to look at those too." McCoy sighed.
…..
Chief ME Jonas Brandt stood next to the visitor as they both stared down at the skeletal remains on the table. There was still a small amount of cement embedded in parts of the bone, what the experts hadn't been able to chip off without destroying bone, i.e. evidence.
The visitor, an ADA from Manhattan, stared down at the remains impassively.
"Were you able to find the cause of death?" McCoy asked.
"Yes," Brandt pointed to the skull. "The victim was male, and he was bludgeoned to death. You can see where the skull was caved in. The spinal cord was severed too. This was a brutal attack. Agonizing."
"The victim suffered?"
"Utter and complete agony, I'm sad to say." Brandt nodded. "The victim's hands were crushed too."
McCoy winced.
"He tried to defend himself…" he muttered. He sighed.
"Anything else?"
"Yes," Brandt drew the sheet back over the remains. "He was African-American."
McCoy looked down at the now sheet-draped form.
"The police are going to have a tough time identifying him."
"I was able to retrieve from DNA, so we're looking through all Missing Person Reports from the late Thirties up to around Nineteen forty-three; see if we can locate any relatives. Nineteen forty-three is the last time the basement in the McCoy Residence was worked on, wasn't it?"
"Yeah…" McCoy nodded. "That's where I'm going now. Tell me if you find anyone who can identify the victim."
"I will. One question before you go. How old were you when the basement was worked on that last time?"
McCoy paused in the act of turning away.
"Think I was around three," he said. "It's one of my earliest memories, watching my father, and Uncle Jerry pour the cement."
"Uncle Jerry?"
"Jerry Cochrane," McCoy explained. "He was a cop, like my old man."
…..
The old family homestead…
Jack McCoy sighed as he paid the cabbie and got out. Approaching the old house brought with it an attendant host of memories.
Pleasant and unpleasant alike, they swirled up in his mind.
His Father holding him as he threw darts until he got too sleepy, and drowsily aware of strong arms carrying him up to bed, tucking him in for the night…Older, hiding with his Mom, in the brand-new basement, door locked to protect them both from his Old Man's rage…The pride in John Senior as Jack brought his Law Diploma from NYU to him…The crushing sensation when Jack realized his father was a bigot, and a misogynist…
It was jarring to see the old family home surrounded by Police Tape.
The Middle brother, Joe, wearing his police uniform, was waiting for him at the front door.
"Joe…"
"Jack. Glad you could make it."
Joe McCoy was a little taller than Jack, and a little bulkier; but in them, the family resemblance was clearer.
"Ready to take a look?"
McCoy nodded.
"Yeah…Let's get this done."
The two men walked briskly down to the basement. Other detectives were down in the basement too, poring over everything; and McCoy knew what they were doing.
Looking at everything. No matter how small. Sometimes, it's the tiniest trace evidence that brings the case home…
"We found the body at the back part of the basement," Joe led him over, stepping around detectives as they dusted and polished for prints.
McCoy stood there, looking down at the torn-up cement floor. And then…
He couldn't breathe, the walls and ceiling closing in.
"Jack?" he barely heard his brother. He had to get out…out of this place…
Then, he was outside, in the Sun, the blue sky, and the fresh air.
"Jack!" Joe's hand on his shoulder.
"I'm okay…" hands on knees, breathing deeply, swallowing the bile back.
The feeling of panic…of…terror…slowly faded away, leaving Jack McCoy shaking.
"I'm calling a doctor!"
"No!" McCoy grabbed Joe's hand. "I'll be fine."
…..
One Hogan Place, Manhattan
The phone rang, and Adam Schiff picked it up.
"Adam Schiff speaking."
"Adam…"
"Jack, my boy! How are things?"
He heard McCoy's sigh over the line, heard the stress in his voice.
"Things are…complicated…Adam. An African American man was apparently killed in the house I grew up in. I'm…I…"
"I'm coming down Jack."
"Adam…you don't need to…"
But Adam Schiff knew otherwise. He did need to come to Jack's aid.
He'd never heard that tone in Jack's voice before.
Naked fear.
"I'm coming down," Adam spoke firmly, implacably. "I'll see you tomorrow."
He heard McCoy's rueful chuckle.
"Right, Boss," the other man said. "See you then."
He hung up, and Schiff put his phone down too. He sat for a moment. Then, he picked up his phone again, dialed a number.
"Dr. Emil Skoda," the man, himself, picked up the line. Schiff sighed.
Jack's going to be furious…
The fear Schiff had heard in McCoy's voice, though, the fact of an apparent murder done in the McCoy household back in the early forties…
No choice...
"Emil…" Schiff sighed. "I need your help…"