CHAPTER 5: FUNERAL

Back to work.

No new cases to catch today. Just a whole crapload of leads to follow from currently open cases. Rey was already there, of course, not a hair out of place, working the phone, and he greeted him and took out a file. He looked at his notes.

Anderssen: 'Super, vent? 555-0386'. The super in the building had said Anderssen asked him to fix a heating vent the day of the murder, but hadn't known at what time. He'd offered to check his log, but hadn't gotten back to Lennie yet. Better call him back.

Also Anderssen: 'Neighbour TV? 555-3718'. His neighbour said she'd been watching TV at the most probable time of the murder. The neighbour hadn't mentioned that she used to date Anderssen – the super had told them that. Better call her back and ask what show she was watching. Ask it casually, just trying to establish a timeline, not like she's under suspicion, and don't forget to ask if it was a rerun or a new episode.

Nelligan: 'Prints?' "Rey, did you get the prints from the lab for Nelligan?"

"Uh, no, I thought you were getting them," Rey answered distractedly, scribbling in his notepad.

"No." He looked at the date – the lab had been called twice already. He sighed, feeling weary.

"Here, I'll do it," Rey offered.

"Thanks." There was a pause for a moment, and Lennie rubbed his eyes. Not even ten o'clock and his head was already starting to throb.

A little whiskey would take that away, said a small, sly voice.

Shut up.

"Lennie, you OK?" Rey's voice broke through his brief internal dialogue.

"Yeah, yeah, fine," he muttered. "I just have a headache."

Rey looked at Lennie, worried. He didn't look fine. He couldn't possibly still be hung over from the other day, but he looked… old. As much as Rey teased Lennie about his age, Lennie didn't usually look old. He normally wore his age well, and his expression was usually one of cynical amusement. This just wasn't like him. He looked downtrodden, weary, had no sense of humour. Rey suddenly felt a prickle of suspicion. What if Lennie wasn't just tired or upset, but actually hung over again?

No. Of course not. He couldn't be. He was just tired, probably still feeling the effects of the last couple of days, feeling sorrow or guilt over Claire's funeral today.

Right. Back to work.

ooo000ooo

Lennie sighed. Again. It was turning into one of those days – when nobody's home to return calls, people you're depending on aren't doing their jobs, and nothing's working out.

"Ah, fuck this," he muttered, and got up to get himself a coffee. He could feel Rey's eyes following him with concern, knew he wasn't behaving the way he usually did. For one thing, despite being a cop and being around often foulmouthed criminals and coworkers, Lennie didn't usually feel the need to swear. Especially not for something as minor as finding out that prints pulled from what had looked like an easy crime scene didn't match their main suspect after all. Usually all that rated was a sarcastic quip that Rey wouldn't react to.

OK. Get a grip. He sipped his coffee, returning to his desk.

"Lennie? You OK?" Rey asked quietly.

"Yeah, I'm fine, but this-" he bit back another expletive, "uh, this Salinas case just went down the toilet." He filled Rey in on the info from the lab.

"Damn," Rey said when he was done, "I really thought we had that guy."

"Yeah, well, think again," Lennie sighed. Rey waited for a Lennie-ism, but there was nothing. Just Lennie burying his face in the file again, looking for clues.

"I'm gonna go get a hot dog or something – you wanna take a break?" Rey asked, hoping to jar Lennie out of his bad mood. Lennie could always be counted on to brighten up at the mere mention of food.

"Nah, you go ahead. I know there's something in here…" Lennie said distractedly, poring over the file. Rey felt a pang of alarm.

"Want me to get you anything?"

"Yeah, sure, hot dog, whatever," Lennie replied, still reading. Thank God. If Lennie actually turned down his offer, he'd seriously consider taking him aside and asking him point blank if he had been drinking again the night before. Still, it wasn't like Lennie to be so casual about food. A normal request for a hot dog should be followed by, 'and don't skimp on the relish, and none of that low fat mayonnaise crap'. 'Whatever' was just not a word Lennie ever associated with food.

ooo000ooo

Later, hot dogs consumed and absolutely no progress made on any of their cases, Lennie sighed for the umpteenth time that morning.

"Lennie? You doing OK?"

"Yeah."

Rey checked his watch. "It's almost one o'clock. We should get ready to go to the funeral."

"Right." The funeral of the young girl I helped put into the ground. That'll be a real treat.

"You sure you're all right?"

"Rey, cut it out. You don't do nursemaid real well," Lennie snapped. This was getting really tired. Rey had been overly polite, looking at him like he was gonna break, offering to do stuff for him… it was really getting on his nerves. He was just tired and out of sorts, he wasn't that pathetic, he didn't need this… whatever the hell it was.

The worst part was that he'd also caught a couple of slightly suspicious looks from Rey over the course of their morning. Like he was worried not only about Lennie's mood, but about Lennie drinking. This was a hell of a working relationship – he was out of sorts but he couldn't really act it out in peace, because 'out of sorts' looked like 'hung over' and his partner had been told to keep an eye on him in case he slipped back into a bottle.

And Lennie had nobody to thank for that but himself. If his partner was having doubts about his sobriety, it was entirely Lennie's fault.

"Sorry," Rey muttered, looking chastened.

Ah, crap. Lennie felt like he'd just kicked a puppy. He closed his eyes for a moment. Get past this, apologize, don't think about how awkward this is and how much easier it would be if you just had a little booze to loosen you up. "No, I'm sorry. Let's go."

ooo000ooo

Ginghampton Funeral Home: soft flute music playing, flowers, tastefully subdued funeral home attendants with tastefully subdued voices and tastefully subdued smiles. And there were Claire's parents, McCoy, Van Buren, Adam Schiff, and a bunch of other lawyers he'd seen around Hogan Place. Mostly ADA's, some defense attorneys too. They went and sat with Van Buren.

Claire's parents. Lennie still couldn't look at them. Although at the hospital they'd both been gracious and reassured him that they didn't blame him, the fact was that he was the cause of their loss. He didn't know if he could have faced the person who caused the death of one of his children without wanting to shoot them, whether it was their fault or not.

He also knew from experience that grieving families went through several conflicting emotions after the death of a loved one. A mother who was forgiving at the moment of her child's death might very well change completely overnight. He was going to have to face them anyway and hope neither one of them tried to kill him.

And McCoy. He was going to have to face McCoy too, if not today, then eventually, in the course of their job. He wondered if McCoy would take time off to deal with Claire's death. Probably not – McCoy was one of the most driven and obsessive people he'd ever met, and he would probably just bury himself even further in his work, if that was possible.

"This is play, pure and simple, I bet you didn't think I had it in me," McCoy had proclaimed drunkenly just two days ago. And look what had happened. He probably wouldn't be doing that again for a while.

Or he might do it a lot more often. Lennie wondered, not for the first time, if McCoy would deal with Claire's loss by dropping into a bottle himself. Then he mentally reprimanded himself for, what was it Mike had once accused him of, 'seeing a drunk behind every bush'.

The funeral director, a nice motherly-looking lady, got up at the podium, welcomed them, and launched into the eulogy. "We all like to think well of the dead. In this profession, we often come across people who are eulogized in death and whose lives are whitewashed to an extent that makes them unrecognizable to those left behind. And those of us who try to find out a little bit about the deceased become rather cynical, used to hearing the half-truths, the little sidesteps of the real person in an effort to make them seem like saints."

Not unlike detectives, Lennie thought. Ugliness comes out most of the time after you're talking to people about the deceased for the second or third time. The funeral director was saying that this hadn't been the case with Claire, and was pointing out all the ways in which Claire really had been as good as she seemed at first glance. How she'd taken on a job at the DA's office even though she could've made more money as a defense attorney. How she always tried to stand up for what was right.

"On the last day of her life, Claire Kincaid witnessed an execution. She went because she felt she had an obligation to do so. She had helped to convict a man, helped to bring him to the executioner's table, and she felt she had to witness for herself what her actions had helped to bring about. And this in spite of the fact that Claire didn't agree with the death penalty, that she had argued against it, that if she had had a choice that man would not have been executed."

Lennie remembered how passionate Claire had been about the death penalty. What was it her stepfather had said – she'd told him what she'd seen that day would be with her for the rest of her life.

Damn it. They shouldn't have gone, none of them should have gone. They should have just stayed home, like Van Buren. Their going hadn't had a single positive result. Mickey Scott was dead, Claire was dead, McCoy was alone, he had lost the one thing in his life he'd worked the hardest to gain, his sobriety… his partnership with Rey was in the crapper…

They shouldn't have gone. None of them should have gone.

The funeral director was wrapping up. "The world needs more people like Claire Kincaid. She will be sorely missed, not only for her warmth and her caring, but for her courage and conviction. She will be missed, not only by her friends and family, but by all of those people in this world who need someone like her to fight for their rights, for justice, for a better world."

A better world. One where people like Mickey Scott are never born, never rape and murder young women, one where they don't get put to death by the State and where the chumps who go to see that death don't have their own lives go to hell because of it.

ooo000ooo

After the funeral, Lennie, Rey and Van Buren got themselves coffees. McCoy joined them for a few moments. Lennie concentrated on his coffee while McCoy chatted briefly with Van Buren, pricking up his ears when he heard his name. Van Buren was telling McCoy that Claire had come to the precinct the day she died, to talk to him.

"Why'd she wanna talk to me?" he asked, curious.

"I think it was probably about the execution."

Lennie nodded. Damn it. Damn it, damn it. There was no way he could have known, but if he'd been there, if he'd just been at the precinct instead of out getting drunk… Damn it.

Don't think about how much less painful this would be if you were out getting drunk again. Just don't think that way.

"What did she say?" McCoy asked.

"We talked about the system," Van Buren told him. "Dealing with people's lives, knowing how much our jobs affect them. How we each cope with that." McCoy nodded and Lennie suppressed a sigh. Well, as far as he knew Van Buren and Rey seemed to have coped OK, though he wasn't sure about Rey. Claire had agonized, and he and McCoy had gone and gotten plastered. Good coping.

"She was having a hard time with it," Van Buren said.

"I know," McCoy said, his voice distant.

"McCoy… if there's anything we can do…"

"Yeah. Thanks," McCoy excused himself and after a short pause, Van Buren cleared her throat and turned to Lennie.

"Lennie? Did you call the PBA rep?"

"Huh? Oh, yeah. How's Monday sound?" He'd called his rep, Larry, earlier in the day and Larry had said Monday was good for him.

"Fine."

"Two o'clock?" Van Buren nodded. "Just so you know… I don't, uh, I don't have a problem with what you said."

"Which part?"

"The PBA rep said I could make a case that you can't make me go to AA or check in with you, but I don't have a problem with it." They'd had a very brief conversation, which Lennie had cut off in disgust because Larry had very quickly demonstrated he didn't know his ass from his elbow when it came to alcoholism.

"OK."

"Just set it up however you want."

Van Buren paused for a second, then said hesitantly, "Lennie… I'm not trying to give you a hard time. I'm not trying to belittle you."

"I know." Oh, not this sympathy crap again. He'd rather be forced to eat a tub of salad greens with low-fat dressing than get that voice from his coworkers.

"I'm just worried about you. You're a damn good detective, I don't want to lose you to a bottle."

"I know. Thanks," he said awkwardly, feeling warmed by her words and her concern despite his discomfort and annoyance at her solicitous tone.

Rey cleared his throat. "Want me there too on Monday?"

"Yeah, might as well," he said heavily. Let's bring Profaci in too, he thought, and while we're at it, why not videotape the whole thing and show it to the precinct at the next departmental party?

No, that wasn't fair. Rey had a right to be there. And he'd been pretty helpful at yesterday's 'raking over the coals' session. Van Buren excused herself and went to pay her respects to Claire's parents, and a few minutes later, he and Rey went to pay their respects too.

ooo000ooo

Later, back at the precinct, Lennie took a breather before plunging back into drudgery, trying to shake the mood he'd been in all day. Rey had gone off to follow a couple of leads in person, giving Lennie a break from his watchful presence. He took a moment to get himself a cup of water at the cooler, reflecting on the funeral and on the last few days.

He suddenly realized that at some point during the day, he'd decided not to throw in the towel. It wasn't a simple decision – and it would have to be made over and over again, every single day – but it was a start.

He thought again about his conversation last night with Phil.

"Why'dja stop before?"

"I dunno. I was tired of living like that. You know, being a screw-up at work, throwing up every morning… hangovers."

It hadn't just been that, though. It had also been the despair, the damn near suicidal feeling of hopelessness that accompanied being so out of control. Knowing that you were completely powerless to function day to day without this poison that was killing you, killing everything you cared about.

And not just 'damn near' suicidal feelings, either. Phil hadn't brought it up, hadn't needed to. Phil knew he just needed to get the ball rolling and Lennie would come to it eventually: the fact that at some points during his sodden existence he had been suicidal. Not actively, not obsessively or constantly, but there had been days when he'd really wondered what was the point of going on. Being drunk all the time was really no way to live. It was a way to die. Slowly, incoherently, and often thinking you were having a great time while you were doing it, but it was a way to die nonetheless.

And there had been that one night that Phil had alluded to, when he'd called Phil at three in the morning. When the night had been just way too long to get through without either a whole bottle of vodka or a bullet to the temple. He and Phil hadn't talked about it much that night either, but Phil had known what he was thinking, where he was going. He'd gotten a laconic, "Lennie, it ain't worth dyin' for," at one point during the night, and it had been true then and it was true now.

Alcohol wasn't worth dying for. And it wasn't worth living for either. The life of a drunk wasn't good enough for him. He was better than that.

Comes down to you, Phil had said.

It came down to him.

So what was he? The funeral director had said that the world needed more people like Claire Kincaid. Did the world need more people like Lennie Briscoe?

What was he? For one thing, he was a good cop. The world needed more of those. Somebody had to protect and to serve, and although Lennie generally took his job with a grain of salt and was under no illusions that he was out single-handedly saving the world, he knew that he did make the world just a little bit safer at the end of the day. Somebody had to catch and put away the Mickey Scotts of the world. Maybe not help to kill them, but at least put them away.

And as a person? He knew he was generally pretty easy to get along with, although you wouldn't find a CSU tech in New York who thought so. He'd been told he had a good sense of humour. He had lots of casual friends and some close ones. And ever since he'd sworn off marriage, he'd also had a string of women who had passed in and out of his life, not frequently enough for his liking, but at least semi-regularly, and when they were gone they usually seemed to leave with fond memories of him.

Not such a bad guy. Not such a bad life.

It could be worse. It had been worse. A lot worse.

He was worth enough, was good enough, for two people to have put their trust in him. That wasn't nothing. Somewhere in the last year he'd gained Rey's respect and trust, and somewhere in the last three he'd earned Van Buren's. That meant something. They had trusted him enough to give him another chance. He shouldn't fuck it up.

As for Claire… nothing would ever erase his sorrow over her death, or his feeling of guilt. But her parents were right, and they had repeated at the funeral home what they'd said at the hospital. He wasn't to blame. There was a difference between being responsible for killing a person and just having done something stupid in the wrong place, at the wrong time.

And as for his daughters, as for Cathy… well, he'd have to work on that. One step at a time.

He threw his paper cup into the trash can, went back to his desk, glanced at a file, and picked up the phone.

ooo000ooo

Author's Note: If anybody wants the actual script for Aftershock, e-mail me at