Chapter 8
Friday 9:18 am
Jesse screamed a warning, breaking into a run, although it was a futile gesture given the distance, but he was unable to stand by passively. It was all over in a split second, but to Jesse, it was an eternity. The lump seemed to tumble lazily end over end like an asteroid approaching Earth in a science-fiction movie, then abruptly, with an earsplitting crash, it smashed onto the hood of Mark's car. Jesse stopped and blinked, suddenly disoriented. He had been as focused on the block as an out-fielder catching a fly ball, and hadn't even seen Mark throw himself to the ground with admirable reflexes for a man his age, just before the missile passed through the space where his head had just been.
By the time Jesse reached him, Mark was on his feet again, picking pieces of mulch off himself while inspecting the damage to his car. He glanced up as Jesse approached him. "That's quite a dent," he observed ruefully, gesturing at the crater in the metal work of his car. "I don't think my head would have fared as well. Thanks, Jess." He gazed up at the roof, frowning. "Maybe there was another aftershock. Well, I'm not going anywhere in my car. Can I borrow yours?"
Jesse was amazed how easily the older man could dismiss such a narrow escape, while he himself was still shaking. Neither was he so ready to discount the episode as an accident. "Mark, I'm not sure, but I think I saw someone up there just before that thing fell. I don't know, it all happened so fast, it might have been a trick of the light as it started to fall."
Mark looked doubtful. "You think it was deliberate? I wouldn't rule anything out, but it seems unlikely. I can't think of anyone who would want me dead ...at the moment anyway. I'll keep a look out, but..." He broke off, but Jesse understood what he had left unsaid. With Steve missing, worrying about his own well-being would not be on top of Mark's list of priorities. Jesse promised himself a look at the roof at the first available opportunity, and, after watching Mark drive off in his car, he returned to the building.
The traffic was extremely light on the roads, as most people had obeyed the police advisory to stay home. The main streets had been cleared of debris, and Mark experienced few difficulties en route. He noted that the residential homes, with their wooden frames, had fared well in the earthquake, but here and there, brick chimneys had collapsed in pathetic heaps of rubble, poignant reminders of the larger destruction that seemed to have engulfed his son. The silence in the car and the routine task of driving provided no distraction from the fear that pounded in his heart and pulsed agonisingly along his veins in cruel jabs, and Mark was relieved when he finally arrived at the station.
The building seemed to echo emptily, and despite Mark's eagerness to hear any information that Newman might have, his steps faltered as his eye fell on Steve's vacant desk. Even knowing his son wouldn't be there, the room was so inextricably linked to his presence that Mark expected him to walk in at any minute, and his sense of loss at his son's absence intensified unbearably.
"Dr Sloan." Captain Newman's voice broke through his reverie, and Mark spun around, a lifetime of experience in breaking bad news to families allowing him to instantly read the Captain's face. There was sympathy there, so there was no good news, but there was none of the deep gravity mixed with evasion of eye contact that would signal a man trying to soften a fatal blow, and a spiral of tension unwound slightly in Mark.
Newman ushered Mark into his office and gestured towards a chair, but before he had the chance to speak Mark jumped in. "You haven't heard anything about Steve." It was a statement, not a question, and Newman eyed him appreciatively.
"If you ever decide that you've had enough of doctoring, I can predict a wonderful career for you as a cop."
Mark smiled at the vivid mental picture that popped into his mind of Steve's reaction to the news that his father had been accepted into the police academy. However, the accompanying realisation that he might never have the opportunity to discuss anything with his son again wiped the grin quickly off his face, and he attempted to concentrate on Newman's words.
"I've talked to Captain Peters who's in charge at Hilton Heights, and he's put the word out to his men. It's hectic over there, and you know Steve, he's always in the middle of things, it's possible that he just hasn't had the chance to contact you."
"No," Mark said with certainty. "He would have got a message out with one of the helicopter crews if nothing else. Something's happened to him."
Newman looked at him warily. "I suppose you've heard that the bridge..." He broke off as the look on Mark's face made it obvious he had. "Well, I don't need to tell you how resourceful Steve is. He always turns up. However, I don't expect you're going to sit at home waiting for him." He received a small but unequivocal headshake at this hopeful suggestion. "So how can I help?"
Mark had already considered that. "To start with, I need to know who's in charge of the rescue efforts at various places, and a list of your contacts and where they have already searched."
"No problem, there are a couple of officers there who..." Newman broke off as the telephone rang. "Excuse me."
Mark was mentally planning his next move when he noticed the involuntary sideways glance that Newman slid in his direction. All his senses snapped alert, and he leaned forward, every instinct telling him that Steve was the subject of discussion. His heart lurched painfully, then seemed to hang inert, heavy and aching with fear as Newman turned slightly away, his side of the conversation consisting mostly of a series of noncommittal grunts ending with "I'll see you in about an hour."
Newman replaced the phone but didn't look up, toying with a pencil on his desk, clearly considering what to say. The silence stretched between them, swelling up and encasing them in a bubble of tension which Mark couldn't bring himself to shatter as it offered the only protection from the reality that words would bring.
Finally, the Captain forced himself to meet the unspoken plea in the eyes across his desk. "It may be nothing," he offered lamely. The news was some of the most difficult he had ever had to convey, knowing the devastating effect it would have on the other man. "They've recovered a body from a building; they, um, think it was an aborted rescue attempt. Identification is inconclusive on account of the.." he cleared his throat uncomfortably, "..the severity of injuries sustained, but he matches Steve's description."
The past and future coalesced into that single second of time, and everything seemed suspended in an unbearable yawning emptiness as the words dropped into the well of Mark's soul, rippling outwards in acid waves of anguish. It was the culmination of Mark's worst fears, fears that had taken shape many years before when the Police Commissioner had pinned a badge on his son and sent him out onto the streets to face drugged-out gang members armed with automatic weapons and ruthless murderers with vengeful agendas. These fears had been frequently thrown into sharp relief as Mark saw other officers fall in the line of duty and his own son receive terrible injuries and still return to the job. However, this was no criminal act that might be avoided by professionalism and a modicum of good luck, and it seemed to make it worse that this was so senseless. It was an "Act of God", a demonstration of the power of nature at its most relentless and capricious, ultimately a stupid, pointless accident.
Newman averted his gaze from the grief-stricken man in front of him in an effort to afford him the privacy that his innate dignity demanded. He had seen people react in many different ways to the news of the violent death of a loved one - with anger, tears and disbelief, but after an initial flinch, Mark hadn't moved, just sat as rigid as a statue, his eyes dull and unfocused. However, there was an indefinable sense of diminishment, as if something irreplaceable had drained out of him. The Captain waited for several minutes to allow him time to process the information, then started speaking with gruff sympathy.
Too many hours without sleep, and the series of shockwaves that had battered at the inner bastion of his emotions all evening, had lowered Mark's normal resilience, and this last news had been the tidal wave that swamped his defenses. He was tempted to surrender and slide beneath the swell of despair, but he clutched at the lifejacket of hope that floated in his direction. There was no confirmation that it was Steve, no matter how likely it looked. The intensifying mental chant of denial rang so loudly in his head that it drowned out all external noises, but he gradually became aware that Newman was talking, and he knew it was important that he listened, yet, although he could hear the words, he had to concentrate to decipher them almost as if they were spoken in a foreign language he'd learnt a long time ago. It took a while to register that the Captain was talking about going to the morgue.
"I'm going with you," Mark said abruptly, the words shocking in their clarity and forging a bridge for him back to lucidity. The intent to accompany the Captain had formed before conscious awareness of the fact.
Newman instantly objected. "Mark, you know that's not necessary at the moment. I think it would be best if..."
"I'm going with you," Mark repeated with quiet insistence. He had to do this. If it was the last interaction of any kind he would share with his son, he would do it, even if every atom in his body rebelled at the notion.
Newman watched him in resignation. He knew that despite his boundless amiability and good-humour, Mark possessed a steel core of determination and tenacity, and, if his son was in trouble, all the logical arguments in the world would not dissuade him from his resolved course of action. He picked up the telephone. "I'll have a car brought around."
The journey to the morgue seemed interminable to both driver and passenger. Newman could think of nothing appropriate to say, and Mark discouraged desultory conversation by leaning back in his seat and shutting his eyes. It was sheer torture for him to sit still as the aching fear of loss ripped through his gut and the anticipation of the coming ordeal clamped a vice around his heart. He craved the oblivion of sleep, but his mind was a jumble of disjointed thoughts, visions and memories and provided no respite from the pain that cut deeper into his soul with every passing mile.
Newman pulled up in the parking lot outside the dilapidated set of buildings that housed the Coroner's Office for Los Angeles County. He looked across uneasily at his passenger whose eyes were still closed, though the tension emanating from his rigid form belied the appearance of rest. As the cessation of movement registered, Mark opened his eyes, a terrible bleakness in his expression reflecting his inner turmoil. Newman got out of the car and moved around to assist him, arriving just in time to steady the older man as he stumbled.
Mark felt such a sense of revulsion for the cold hard building ahead, he could scarcely force his legs to move. He wished he had the comfort of ignorance, but he knew it intimately, from the storage capacity for dead bodies to the exact procedure for the arriving corpses and the autopsy - Oh god, he hadn't thought about the autopsy, the final indignity inflicted on the dead. Grief built thickly in his chest, choking the breath from his lungs, and he sat down numbly in the chairs provided, while Newman filled out the paperwork necessary to receive a visitor's pass. Mark inhaled deeply, trying to steady himself, but the effort backfired as he became abruptly aware of the unique odors of the morgue. Under normal circumstances it was too familiar to impinge on his consciousness, but now the components of the smell had personal implications that sharpened his awareness: the mixture of stale urine, bleach, formaldehyde and, worst of all, the whiff of decay that lingered so abhorrently in the nostrils. It all added up to the smell of death, that beckoned to the living from beyond the grave, and Mark felt bile rise in his stomach, but somehow it couldn't get past the pain in his chest.
Their visitor's passes were swiped over card slots and permitted them access to the elevator that carried them to the third floor. There were approximately a dozen people of varying ages already sitting in the room, and Mark realised with dismay that the waiting wasn't yet over. The area was unnaturally silent, a pall of depression smothering the room, and none of the occupants made eye contact, merely clinging to a loved one, if available, for comfort. Mark sat heavily on a salmon-coloured vinyl sofa, the closest seating accessible.
Newman cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Mark, I really think it would be a good idea for me to call Amanda."
Mark merely shook his head, unable to summon the energy to explain that no one could make this easier, although part of him yearned for the brand of support that only Amanda could provide,
Periodically, an assistant would approach a set of mourners, carrying a clipboard which held a white card and a Polaroid photograph face down. She would introduce herself quietly and then usher them into a private room from which they would emerge some minutes later, usually white-faced and tearful. The whole occasion took on a surreal edge for Mark. The choreography of death was all so familiar, yet he had always been an observer, never a participant, and it seemed impossible that he was actually here to identify his son's body. This can't be happening, this can't be happening , the mantra ran repeatedly though his head, and he prayed with no awareness of doing so.
All too soon, the woman was moving in his direction, and Mark eyed her with the mesmerised fascination of a mouse watching an approaching snake. He noticed a gap between her front teeth, a smudge of ink of her forefinger and an odd-shaped mole on her neck - a plethora of minutiae, as if his mind were trying to bury all emotions under the landslide of trivia. He followed her into the private room, his mind still preternaturally aware of the unimportant details like the pattern of rust in the pipes leading to the sink in the corner of the room and the chips knocked out of the small table at which they sat.
"Dr. Sloan?" Mark started, and his eyes were drawn unwillingly upwards from the clipboard she held till he met her sympathetic gaze. "My name is Holly Mitchell. On behalf of the Los Angeles Medical Examiner's office, I offer my condolences."
Mark wanted to protest that they weren't even sure yet that it was Steve's body, but no words could make it past the constriction in his throat, and after a short pause, Holly continued. "I want you to know that we have professional grief counselors on staff here, and we strongly recommend that you meet with one. They can not only assess your needs, but also help you with some of the practical aspects of losing a loved one. They can also give you details from the autopsy so you are not left to imagine the worst. I can tell you that, in this case, death was instantaneous, there was no suffering. Now, Dr Sloan, I understand you are familiar with the regular process here."
Mark nodded. He knew that the scene, so beloved of TV shows, of the bereaved family identifying the corpse in the morgue, was more fiction than reality. Most identifications were verified by fingerprints or a recent driver's license, and if a family member was called in, they made the identification from a Polaroid picture taken by a staff member and presented on the clipboard.
"In this situation, I'm afraid that the injuries to the head and torso are too severe for a photo identification. Did your son have any distinguishing marks that would help us, a birthmark or tattoo?"
"Nothing obvious," Mark answered dully, unable to bring himself to describe the innumerable scars Steve had picked up in his career. "I need to see him; I'll know if it's him."
"I'm sorry, sir," the response was delivered automatically. "Viewing is not permitted in the Coroner's Office."
"Excuse me, Ms Mitchell." Newman pulled out his credentials. "Could I talk to you in private for a minute?" He escorted her out of the room, leaving Mark alone with his misery. The need to see the body for himself was painfully urgent for many reasons he didn't try to analyse, but most importantly, he couldn't face the long wait in this limbo of uncertainty for a fingerprint identification.
It wasn't long before Newman returned with a rather bemused-looking assistant. "Dr Sloan, the Captain has convinced my superior that, considering the circumstances, and your position in the department, we can be flexible in our policies. I'll take you downstairs to see the body."
Mark didn't question the 'circumstances' but followed her into the elevator on unsteady legs that no longer seemed connected to his nervous system. The elevator descended to the basement where the stench of death intensified, as did Mark's nausea, although the cause was more psychological than physical.
The body had already been laid out on a table, decently covered by an off-white sheet. Holly tried gently to prepare him for what he would see. "I suggest that you look for identifying marks exclusively on the lower half of the body, since there is so much damage elsewhere. You'll still see some gashes and bruises from injuries sustained in the earthquake. When you're set, lift the sheet. Take all the time you need. We'll wait until you're ready."
She then faded into the background, and Mark was left to face the worst nightmare he could ever imagine. Now that the moment had arrived, he would have given anything to postpone it, to preserve the semblance of hope just a little longer. The next few minutes could see his world shatter into a million pieces, and he would have bargained his soul to see his son alive again. It was hard to breathe with the sick vice of dread constricting his lungs, and the pain in his heart was so intense that he idly wondered if he was having a heart attack, but neither sensation seemed relevant as, bracing himself for what he might see, he raised a leaden arm towards the table.