"Law and Order: SVU" belongs to Dick Wolf and Universal Television. No profit is being made from this story.
December 2019
Olivia checked the time as she poured coffee into a thermos. She was getting close to being too late leaving if she wanted to get work on time.
"Hustle up, Noah," she told her son, who was still sitting at the table eating breakfast.
The 6-year old was busy working out the "Brain Teaser" puzzle that was on the back of the Coco Puffs cereal box next to his bowl and didn't answer. He lifted another spoonful of soggy cereal into his mouth slowly, eyes glued to the words at eye level with his face.
She turned back toward him. He hadn't moved.
"Noah," she chided, reaching out and lifting the box up.
Noah started and looked up sheepishly. "I think I almost figured it out, Mom," he insisted with a coy grin.
She returned the smile endearingly, as she always did when he looked at her that way. He was too cute not to give in to. She had a hard being firm with him because his smile had made her melt from the first moment she had laid eyes on him.
"I'll bet you did," she said. "You can keep working on it. We've got to go, though, and you've still got to brush your teeth. Hurry, hurry!"
He jumped down from the chair and ran noisily down the hall. Olivia lifted the bowl and placed it into her sink, gathering up the files she had been working on the night before and sliding them into her bag.
His stomach rolled as he hunched next to the curb and heaved into the street. He was shaking, his entire body drenched in sweat, and he felt his skin crawling.
Groaning, Elliot stumbled back onto the sidewalk and sank down against the side of the nearest building, panting miserably.
"Christ."
A man sitting inside a makeshift "hut" fashioned out of old cardboard peered around it to look at him.
"You look like you got shit out the wrong end of a coyote, my friend," he said in a rough voice.
Elliot didn't reply.
The man hauled himself feebly to his feet, moving like a geriatric patient even though he was, at most, maybe 60, and made his way over. Elliot scooted over defensively when the man approached, hoping he wasn't going to have to curtail an attack. He felt too dismal to even consider trying at the moment.
The man stopped beside his feet and stood silently. Elliot looked up to see that he was being offered a bottle of liquid from the stranger.
He looked into the man's tired eyes for a long moment, gauging him, and then warily reached out to take it. The bottle was warm and the liquid looked like it had equal odds of holding either urine or alcohol.
Elliot swigged it without looking, using it to wash the taste of puke out of his mouth and then turning to spit onto the concrete. He nodded his thanks.
"Tips", as the man who regularly squatted on the corner they sat on referred to himself, had over 20 years of hardened experience with the transient life. The two had never met (in fact, the only reason "Tips" was even awake was because Elliot had come out of thin air to vomit next to his space), but he recognized a "jonesing" when he saw one.
Aside from the tattered clothes and unmistakable odor of a fellow like himself with limited access to a shower, the trembling hands and wild eyes were easy to recognize. This guy was struggling through withdrawal.
He stooped down. Elliot jumped, his hands flying out defensively, and "Tips" had to duck quick to avoid a whack to the face.
"Easy, man, chill," he said in irritation. "I'm just getting my sandwich."
Elliot looked at him warily, his jaw clenched.
"Tips" pulled open his jacket and retrieved a white napkin. He held it out.
"You want some some? Ham isn't my favorite."
That time, Elliot didn't hesitate. He tore open the napkin and gobbled the half of sandwich so quickly that he nearly didn't chew it.
"Thanks," he mumbled.
"Don't puke it up," "Tips" warned. "I've been saving that for three days. Be a shame if it went to waste."
Elliot turned away from him, huddling deeper into the dirty sweatshirt that did a lousy job of warming him against the chill of early winter. He apparently was finished interacting.
"Tips" narrowed his eyes and reached back into the pocket of his camouflage jacket. He discreetly pulled out a small bag full of white crystals.
"You need something?" he went on, watching Elliot's eyes zero in on the bag hungrily.
Elliot stared at it silently for a minute. He swallowed and licked his lips.
Don't. You know how this ends. Don't do it.
Seeing the uncertainty, "Tips" raised an eyebrow. This guy was headed for a bad way and looked like he didn't know how to handle it.
"Just one," he went on. He plucked a single crystal and held it out. "You obviously need help. You're only going to feel even worse if you go "cold turkey," trust me."
Elliot felt close to vomiting again. He ducked his head, shame coursing through him.
"I...don't have any money," he said finally.
"Tips" regarded him suspiciously. His adrenaline surged and he prepared to either run or block a punch.
"Well..." he said after a minute. "What do you have?"
Elliot fumbled in the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a crumpled mess of papers. A few fell to the ground. "Tips" picked them up and looked at them. They were photographs, obviously worn down by time.
"Mmm... " he said, grinning, as he gazed at the smiling young blonde woman. There were three other photos of blonde women, too, and one of a brunette. "I wouldn't mind a pretty face to keep me company."
Elliot grabbed them away fast, almost ripping them.
"Don't touch those," he snapped angrily. "They're mine."
"Tips" held up his hands.
"Whatever, man," he said.
Elliot set his jaw tensely. After a moment's pause, he reluctantly handed over the VISA card and prepaid cell phone, neither of which had been used. "Tips" considered them, then nodded.
"These will do," he said, pocketing the items.
He held out the meth crystal and placed it in Elliot's palm.
"I'm 'Tips,' by the way," he said . "You got a name?"
Elliot hunched deeper into his sweatshirt.
"No," he replied shortly.
"Tips" walked back to his cardboard residence and dismissed him. Elliot stared at the crystal in his palm.
He hated himself.
"Morning, Cap!"
Detective Kat Tamin was typing away at her desk when Olivia walked in. She didn't break her stride, fingers flying across the keyboard without having to look as she beamed a bright smile the moment Olivia came through the door.
Having learned just as she had been dropping her son off at school that not only was he in trouble with his teacher for not turning in his homework assignments from the previous week but that he also had lied to her about not having any in the first place, followed by being stuck in the subway because of a power outage and having to get a cab from the wrong end of town, Olivia was definitely not in a cheerful mood.
Normally, the newest detective's usual naive, good-nature attitude was (mostly) bearable. But not that day. Olivia held up her hand, a clear "don't" message if Kat had ever seen one, and strode past into her office.
Sargeant Fin Tutuola rolled back in his chair and craned his head toward the captain's office, trying to gauge her apparent mood. After a minute, he stood up and walked over.
He knocked on the open door frame and raised an eyebrow. Olivia looked at him for a minute and he could tell she was frazzled, but not stressed. That eased his mind.
"Rough morning?" he asked, stepping inside fully.
She looked at him. "Did you know that first graders are eligible to receive detention now?" she asked in rhetorical exasperation. She scoffed and shook her head when he shrugged. "Yeah, me neither. I do now. First graders. God in Heaven."
He winced. "Yikes."
She inhaled, visibly getting herself together.
"How did the Bursten interrogation go?" she went on. Fin and Rollins had been trying to get information from a suspect for most of the previous day and he had obviously given them a hard time, because they had still been at it when she'd left for the day. "Did he finally cave?"
Fin shook his head.
"I told Rollins to take a few hours in the crib at around 5 am," he told her. "We'll have to have another go at him. I'm hoping a night in the 'tank' has loosened his tongue."
Olivia saw that it had been four hours since then. "Go wake her up," she ordered. "Get started."
He nodded and left the office. Olivia picked up the desk phone and began listening to the messages that had been left before she'd arrived.
Elliot lay on his back in the cold grass on the back edge of the church property of Saint Athanasius Roman Catholic Church and stared up at the trees. He felt euphoric and fuzzily warm, lazily watching the dewy drops on the leaves sparkle in the sun.
He liked resting near churches whenever he could. They usually had large lots that were easy to disappear into and the chances of parishioners and clergy coming out behind the building were small.
Plus, they made him feel...like he could drop his guard, if only for a small window of time, even though he never dared to truly do it fully. He came when he was on the brink of collapse from not staying still long enough to actually sleep. He never slept intentionally, choosing instead to close his eyes when he reached the churches and let it overtake him for a little while.
He figured, if nothing else, maybe God would keep trouble away from him a little while. Not that he deserved it.
A lazy smile drifted over his face as he rode the high from the crystal that he had finally given into after a few hours of trying to resist.
Detective Rollins knocked on the glass pane of the office door as Olivia was taking a bite of her lunch. She waved her in and swallowed.
"I just got a call from Bellevue," Olivia said. "Teenage girl came in to the ER this morning. They think she was raped. Take Kat and go interview her."
Amanda nodded.
It was easy in the daytime to keep to himself. He had found that as long as he didn't try to get too close to people camped out in tarp tents or boxes as he walked the streets, he could usually take up a space without anyone really bothering him.
Most of the homeless seemed to find him agreeable, if not a little strange, because even though he never spoke, he also never caused trouble. They didn't really know what to make of him. He didn't panhandle, didn't have any track marks, and rarely was seen accepting food from anyone who didn't offer it to him first. Usually, he would just pick a place to sit and stare at the photographs that he had in his pocket.
He couldn't look at them for long, especially the ones of his daughters, and the one of Olivia usually made his chest hurt with loneliness and despair.
Eventually, he would then get up and walk away, disappearing down the street. Sometimes he returned to one spot, sometimes he found another.
Nighttime, though...well, nighttime was the most difficult part.
He was terrified of being out in the open and not able to see. He always tried his hardest to get somewhere underground, like under a bridge or in a subway tunnel, where he could wait out the night without being an obvious mark. He didn't always make it.
One time, he crouched until sunrise between the back of an SUV and a concrete wall in an overnight parking garage. He was too afraid to attempt crossing the wide expanse of the garage to get to the exit in the dark, not knowing if anyone would see him. Another time, he wedged behind a dumpster in a dead-end alley, keeping his eyes glued to the path leading out to make sure no one snuck up on him.
He was a complete wreck. His nerves were shot, he was paranoid of everyone, and he couldn't make it through the withdrawal even though he would rather die trying.
He realized he wasn't going to make it much longer the day that he wandered, craving sleep and bone-weary exhausted, close to the Brooklyn bridge and wondered if he'd ever get the guts to jump.