Notes see Chapter 1

Also, I'm not going to try to excuse the delay. I'm a busy woman. :-) But here we (finally) go.

Oh and sorry about another cliffhanger. They just happen.

Bitches!

Chapter 3

Sunday, 1:55PM

Being locked in a room with a lunatic wasn't something Henry had anticipated getting up this morning. Neither had he anticipated being responsible not just for his own illusion of normalcy but also the well-being of a subordinate who was sitting on the floor knocked out cold with a bleeding head wound.

So yes, he was a little worried. It wasn't everyday that your secret was in concrete danger to be revealed to the world like proof for Aliens on a silver plate.

The clock over the entrance to the morgue was ticking away happily while the tension inside this room was almost palpable. And that wasn't purely the result of the blocked ventilation that made the air in their prison staler and staler. Not enough to lead to suffocation anytime soon but enough that Henry could have sworn he already felt the difference.

Usually the morgue was a/c'd to a steady temperature of 16,7 degree Celsius to avoid too quick decomposition while still allowing the Medical Examiner to work in a more or less habitable climate. With the shut-down of the a/c the formidable insulation of the basement was showing and the rising of the temperature would soon intensify the smell of the body.

If only the smell were my only problem, Henry thought ironically recapitulating the last hour for the umpteenth time hoping to think of something that would help him.

The man had stormed in, knocked out Lucas, threatened Henry with the scalpel and kept creeping around the room, checking out the walls and glass doors before turning back to the table to stare at the dead body.

Rinse, repeat. Except for the knocking out Lucas part.

Henry had chosen the strategically best way to stay out the crazy mans way and had taken place next to his fallen assistant, sitting on the floor and trying to look as little intimidating as possible. Which wasn't that hard as he was scared – for himself as well as for Lucas – and without any other option.

The stranger was looking for something, that much was clear. After getting a few good looks at him Henry at least was able to decipher some facts. He was obviously another homeless. A very confused one at that. That much was easy. His attire was similar to the vic's. Several layers of run-down clothes, wildly combined. Two different shoes, causing him to hobble slightly. His face showed deep lines and he had a bad overbite that didn't look natural. Probably the remainder of a badly treated fracture of both jaw bones. He had worn a hat which he at one point had taken off to rub over his face constantly as if to clear his eyes. Not a gesture of physical necessity but a quirk nursed by many years of unhealthy use of substances that weren't available at the grocery, mental instability and a life specked with more devastating milestones than existing moon craters. If Henry had to live a life like that – no matter how short – death would've sounded even more like a good friend to take you when you had nowhere else to go.

Eyes that were lying deep in its sockets, dry and bloody lips, a nose that looked too large for the haggard face. Henry estimated the man to be in his early 70's. But there was a restlessness, an agitation in him that made him seem more energetic than his bodily status allowed.

The man kept mumbling in his non-existent beard while roaming the room. Henry tried to listen closely to the erratic monologue but most information came from jumbled memories of Vietnam or the insubstantial replay of random situations out of the past. Names and numbers were thrown in the mix; Foreign places that Henry didn't recognize. A few times it sounded like he was talking directly to the dead man, other times he stared at random corners of the room, yelling like he could see someone standing over there, having full conversations with invisible people about every day topics. Food. Magazines. Women.

A lot of information but too random for Henry to form a concrete picture. At least nothing that could pinpoint why they were here, in this particular situation. Most of the time Henry doubted the man knew that there was someone with him in the room. But he did learn enough from the mumbling, shuffling and gesturing that he could paint himself his own picture.

The vic and the stranger had once been friends, brothers in arms in Vietnam and Henry knew what war could do to people. In this respect Vietnam was special in its own, gruesome ways. It wasn't just the blood and the death that had broken the men. It was the fact that they were still alive after being in constant fear for the very same. The fact that the danger didn't solely lie in bullets or explosions or enemy territory but in the sole expectation of it all. All the time. It was his own son who had been one of them and even though he had come back unharmed he was still broken enough to suffer the consequences. Henry had been there for him, had managed to mend the pieces and scrape the remains of his son's mental health back without digging too deep in memories that were better left buried.

Abe had never initiated a talk about his time in Vietnam and Henry knew when to step back and hope for the best. Never did he question his sons alienation from this chapter of life, had never asked about the experiences that Abe found too awful to retell and therefore relive. And from what Henry could tell there were a lot of those that were merely scratched during many hours of chess and good wine and careful prodding.

But history did statistically speak a harsher language when it came to long-term consequences caused by the pressure 'Nam had initiated. A whole generation of young men broken to the point that supporting them was too much to ask for from a glorified power such as the United States. A failed system of giving and taking and more taking.

Yes, Henry recognized a PTSD afflicted veteran when he saw one. Even more when the very angry and confused veteran kept waving his own scalpel in front of his nose.

"So…" Henry cleared his throat, trying once more to get the man's attention. Trying to get him speak, to have his attention. "What does T.B. stand for?"

It took a few long seconds, long enough that Henry was about to repeat the question but to his own surprise he got a straight answer.

"Teddy," the man said hoarsely and it was the first time that his voice was clear and loud. "His name was Teddy." He spit the name more than he pronounced it.

It was a start nonetheless and Henry hoped he wouldn't lose him so soon by nudging carefully. "May I assume that you didn't actually like him?"

"Teddy was a great man. Great, great yes. A great guy. Saved my sorry ass," The man muttered, this eyes flickering from one side to the other as if he didn't really realized where he was. "Where is the list?"

Okay, so they were back to square one. What kind of a list? Henry really hoped Jo and Hanson were doing something useful while he was sitting ducks on the floor, getting cramps in his backside and fishing in troubled water.

"What list?" He asked, making his voice loud and clear. He knew from experience with PTSD victims that it was possible to get them out of an episode by having their attention on something else, something steady. The ticking of a clock, the swinging of a pendulum or the calming sound of a voice. Something concrete and stable. Non-threatening. "What was on the list, can you tell me that?"

"No, no, no," the man muttered and grabbed for the sides of the table in front of him, his right hand still clamped around the scalpel. Henry could see the tremors of his hands as the left one grasped past the edge, causing the old man to stagger with a cry of anguish. Almost toppling over he managed to get his balance back and moaned pitifully.

And suddenly things were getting clearer. The man's symptoms – besides screaming PTSD – pointed to the murder weapon: dizziness, confusion, hand tremors and a panic attack that led to storming the morgue and attacking Lucas. The man had obviously used his own medication Lorazepam to knock out T.B. Walner and was now suffering from withdrawal as he had wasted the pills on a homicide. But what was important enough to risk his own health and sanity?

Danger forgotten Henry got up, bracing himself on the wall and rounded the table, reaching his arms out to help the man get his footings. He was a Doctor after all. Even though he cut the dead open it was the living he was it doing for. Well, and because everyone had to die except for him. Which in itself was a motivator: to know everything death had to offer.

"Don't touch me!" the man roared suddenly and Henry stepped back, lifting his arms back into a non-threatening gesture that he was slowly but surely getting tired of. This was getting ridiculous. He needed a plan. He needed to do something to get himself and Lucas out of this situation without drastic measures. Never having been a man of violence there wasn't much left but words and the hope to get some sense into the disoriented perp.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Please, just…" Henry swallowed hard. "I'm sorry. Okay, maybe we can just talk about it. Let's find out together where the list is, okay?"

The man nodded jerkily and wiped his nose on his dingy sleeve, acting not unlike a little child that expected to be comforted after being scolded for stealing cookies. Another groan and a pained moan from another source and Henry met the eyes of a confused but very much awake assistant.

"What the…" the young man moaned again and his hand met the back of his head. "Wow, I wouldn't have expected it to hurt so much," Lucas mumbled, sounding more awed than confused. Henry suppressed rolling his eyes. This young man had the timing of a stomach flu.

"Nice of you to join us, Mr. Wahl," Henry said without taking his eyes of the stranger, hoping that Lucas was lucid enough to assess the situation quickly and without causing more excitement than necessary.

"Can't say it's my pleasure," Lucas merely said, his eyes growing wide as he realized the mess he was in. "Doctor Morgan?", he addressed his boss more formally than usual, asking without words for an explanation, which Henry neither had the time nor the nerve for. So he decided to ignore it for the time being.

"How's the head?" Henry asked, still watching the other man, who had retreated into his shell of stammering confusion.

"Still attached."

"That's good."

"Says the man with a head without an extra air vent," Lucas grouched and hissed in pain as he carefully prodded his injured scalp. "What's his deal?" he lowered his voice and kept his eyes on his attacker. Then his brows furrowed. "And where's the cavalry? How long was I out?" Followed by a whispered "I always wanted to ask this in real life" and a crooked grin that was quickly dampened by a hiss.

For a moment Henry pondered over the "real life" remark before he gave an almost imperceptible sigh. "I can see the blow against your head did not impair you in any way that I should concern myself with."

"Who… is this?" the old man grunted and for a moment Henry had no idea what he was talking about. "Who are you!" The old man repeated and started to round the table to look at Lucas as if he was seeing him for the first time.

Impaired memory, Henry pondered, his brow furrowing even further when he watched the man press his hand first against his temples, then his chest as if he was trying to rub a constant pain away.

"Sir, you really should…" he started but was cut short by the nervous twitching of the scalpel dancing in front of him like an epileptic puppet on strings. He took a step back, hoping to draw the attention to himself and at the same time get some more space between himself and the sharp instrument that now seemed to have developed a life of its own. Like it was the old man who was attached to it not the other way around. "You really need to calm yourself. You're suffering from withdrawal symptoms caused by…"

"I don't suffer ANYTHING!" A jab from the knife, spit running from the old man's lips and Henry backed away even further, trying to tell his younger assistant to stay away by a meaningful look. "Don't you talk to me like you know what I've been through. They know who you are. They know. Because they're on the list. They tell me." A quick look at the dead body. "You have the list. Now give it to me!"

"I assure you that we're going to…" Behind him the instruments rattled loudly, glass vials clanking dangerously and the stack of paper towels swayed dangerously as Henrys back hit the cabinet with his back.

The man formed another soundless word before pressing his right hand against the left side of his torso again. Then, a jerk went through his stature and he stumbled forwards, trying to hold onto the side of the table. The tablet with incomplete set of instruments flew on the ground, the shining equipment flying everywhere. Again, Henrys sense of self-preservation was overrode by the worry for another human soul as he reached out, trying to keep the man from falling over and he sagged under the sudden weight, grunting with the effort.

"Don't touch me!" the other man yelled and quickly regained his balance. Henry felt a strong push against his torso and a sharp but strangely subdued pain just below his ribcage, then - unable to keep his balance - he fell backwards and with a sound of stunned surprise found himself sitting on the floor with his back against the cold tiles of the wall.

He heard Lucas yell "Doctor Morgan!" and the young man came scrambling towards him, his eyes not on his face but his upper body, where a mildly stinging sensation made him apprehensive to look down. When he did, the small red dot that was getting bigger by the second made him regret it immediately.

oOoOo

Sunday, 2:41PM

The colleague from the CDC wasn't happy to be here. He was a thin man with slim styled clothes that still looked too big on his frame. The only things not hidden under multiple layers of clothes were his high cheekbones and deep set eyes that were of such an unsettling watery blue color that they looked almost white. The bones in his fingers pressed painfully against her joints as Jo shook his hands after his arrival. With clattering teeth he had mumbled some unintelligible syllables into a woolen shawl which was being wrapped around his neck and almost up to his eyes.

After having been given a quick update on the situation and an affirmation that No, there really was medically speaking no explicit reason for having to keep up the quarantine he had asked for access to the internal network passwords and had gone to work without even taking off his clothes. His gloved fingers jumped over the keyboard, then paused as he flashed an annoyed glance over his shoulder at Jo, who was standing at his side, watching impatiently for him to finish his job so she could do hers.

"Look lady," he complained. "This is no trivial Hello World program I'm implementing here. There's some really mean coding I have to overrun and little time to do so. There's more freaking subroutines in there than breakpoints in a debugging procedure. I'd appreciate more space and less hovering. Thanks." He turned back towards the screen and Jo realized he hadn't even stopped typing during the rebuke.

"Oh… okay," she replied, irritated, and suppressed another question of "How long", which he'd answered her with a stern "as long as it takes" already – twice. "I'll be…" She was about to step aside when she saw Hanson come running through the bullpen towards her.

He had left almost an hour before after a promising call to Pennsylvania Station. Her hope surged as she wondered whether maybe he'd shed some light onto their mysterious list after all.

"Found something?" she yelled across the office and walked in his direction.

Hanson, walking purposefully towards the tech room, held up his right hand in which Jo could see a small leathery notebook, worn around the edges with blotchy stains on the cover and ignored her question completely. "Where's Mr. Morgan? He still in the tech room?"

"Abe, yes. Why?" She asked, now even more confused. Why was everyone so damn irritating? "What's going on?"

"We found a notebook with a list of names. Among others, his name is on it."

What? "What?"

They met, never stopping in their stride, and kept walking on towards the open door of the tech room.

"The name "Abraham Morgan". On a list with a bunch of other names."

"Why?"

"That's what we should ask Mr. Morgan." Hanson's face was dark with tension when he reached the room with the numerous screens.

The old man was sitting in a chair – exactly where Jo had seen him since the whole ordeal had started – anxiously bouncing his legs while he kept wiping his hat over his eyes then went back to kneading it furiously.

"Jo?" His head shot up and with a small groan he stood up, as if his bones were as tired as Jo felt. "What's going on?"

"I was hoping you could tell us," she replied and her head went back and forth between Henry's son and her partner.

"The key we found with the vic led to a storage depot at Pennsylvania Station." Hanson explained. "There was an old notebook inside as well as a bundle of seemingly untouched money. Lots of money for a homeless."

"How much are we talking about?" Jo intervened.

"12.500 Dollars in a closed envelope. From the looks of it had been laying for a decade, at least. Maybe even longer."

Jo's confusion grew. Money? There was a dead homeless lying dead in their morgue who had money stored away? For what? Hard times? She almost snorted but braced herself.

"12.500 Dollars?" Abe repeated and blinked. Jo could see in his eyes recognition and something else. Fear. Trepidation. A distant yet painful recollection that suddenly came to the surface like a giant kraken extending his long arms from a deep, dark ocean of suppressed memories. "That makes twenty-five soldiers." His voice was raspy and almost inaudible. Jo's heart almost broke at the vulnerability the old man radiated in this very moment as he sank back on the chair . "Wha… what was the man's name again? Uhm, the dead man?" He asked and Jo and Hanson looked at each other, confused.

"T.B. Walner," Hanson answered, his own voice now more careful, less intimidating. There was something going on here and Jo had the feeling there was more behind the story. "His file says he was stationed in Vietnam from '70 till late '72. Honorable discharge from duty in '73. Got shot in the leg while he was trying to save his comrades during an ambush," Hanson repeated the information they had gotten from the vic's file earlier. "He was in the system for a few years afterwards. Had some mini-jobs and two or three registered addresses but nothing since the late 90s. He must've been living on the streets since then." He stopped and threw Jo a glance, prompting her to continue as he seemed uncomfortable with the old man's reaction.

"Abe?" Jo asked carefully and when the addressed didn't look up she kneeled down in front of him. "Abe, do you know who he is? Do you have an idea what the money means? What all of this means?"

Instead of replying Abe looked over her shoulder at the screen in the back and shuddered almost invisibly. "It's been 40 years." His voice sounded scratchy and disbelieving. He looked back at his fingers, staring at them as if seeing them for the first time. His hat now lay on his lap, forgotten. "I'm an old man, aren't I?"

He looked at her with a sad look full of regret and Jo was about to shake the old man to get him back to his senses when he sighed. "T.B. Walner was a murderer and a coward. He killed 25 of his own comrades in Vietnam to save his own neck. If my name was on the list… I'm very glad to be alive then."

For a moment neither of them spoke.

"You know him?" Jo looked back at the screen, her interest suddenly spiked as she saw that Screen-Henry had left his sitting position and was now standing a few feet away from the attacker. In the background she could see Lucas, eyes wide open and obviously talking. That was a good thing, she guessed, and it meant that Lucas's injury was less threatening as it had looked. Nevertheless she didn't like the way the crazy man was swaying on his feet and Henry getting close to him. Too close. The suspense of the digital pictures – soundless yet alarmingly tense – was almost palpable.

Anxiously she got up, turned towards the screen and felt her stomach clench painfully as she watched Henry approach the crazy, scalpel wielding psychopath.

"No, Henry!" She wanted to yell at him but it came out as a mere whisper. Why couldn't he just stay the hell out of the way? Just sit tight and try to be as invisible as possible? Why did he have to get up?

But Jo knew Henry. She didn't hear the scene but the action spoke in itself. So when the shabby figure all but fell into Henry's arms, then pushed him away and tumbled into the other direction she watched in terror as Henry's steps faltered and he fell backwards out of the camera's view. Lucas was moving quickly, scrambling shakily towards his boss. She could see Henry's legs stretched out on the side of the screen but anything above his knees was out of view. She could see half of Lucas kneeling next to him and pressing down on something. From the angle it was somewhere at Henry's stomach.

Abe emitted a stifled groan next to her and she met his eyes. Things had just gotten from worse to unthinkable.