Chapter 2

"Dr. Sloan, I regret to inform you that your son, Steve, was killed in the line of duty."

The words, so cold, so formal, so unrelenting, and the soul-devouring despair they spawned, had haunted Mark's nightmares for so many years that, for a moment, he hoped it was all a dream, that he could wake up as he had many times before, trembling and exhausted, but that none of it would be real. He stood still, waiting, but the slight chill of the morning air on his face and the hardness of the door under his hand as it clenched spasmodically against the wood convinced him of the true story.

He stumbled backwards, oblivious to the long arm Masters put out to assist him, to sit awkwardly on the stairs leading up to the main room. He strained to draw in a lungful of air, but his chest was suddenly too small, his ribs locked tight on something threatening to break loose.

A small, analytical part of his mind told him he was in shock, but he merely gathered it round himself as a shield to ward off the pain. If he could just sit still enough, unmoving, unthinking, then he could elude the daggers of knowledge that surrounded him, waiting to stab him with the agony of awareness.

The Chief sat down beside Mark, for a moment hating the responsibilities that accompanied his job. He knew the strength of the bond that linked father and son, and had always grudgingly admired Steve for his uncompromising loyalty to his father, even while occasionally resenting the actions that resulted. But now the bond had been brutally shredded, and he was concerned for Mark's well-being. He was gray-faced and rigid, no movement ascertainable, and his usually expressive eyes were oddly blank.

Masters wished he could leave the doctor to his grief, but the knowledge that worse was to come denied him that opportunity. Of all the times he needed the doctor to be alert and at full mental capacity, this was the most crucial. "Dr. Sloan?" He shook the tense shoulder under his hand, not ungently.

A pair of stricken eyes traveled slowly to meet his, gradually focusing. "Where......where did they take...him?" Mark's throat closed tightly, the last words coming out in a gasp.

"Dr. Sloan." Masters spoke with force and precision, hoping it would allow his meaning to slice through Mark's dazed distress. "This is important; you must listen carefully. Last night, I sent my task force to a warehouse down by the Port. We had information from an impeccable source that the head of one of the largest organised crime families in the area would be receiving a large shipment of smuggled drugs. The tip seemed legitimate and an opportunity that would not soon be repeated. However, it must have been a trap. They were expecting us. Once they were inside, the warehouse exploded and everyone was killed - all my people. The only survivor was Tanis Archer who was outside the building and sheltered from the full force of the blast. She's been taken to Community General, but her injuries are severe, and she's not expected to survive. They were my people, Dr. Sloan; there on my orders."

The Chief's own rage and grief showed clearly in his usually calm and somewhat sardonic voice, but Mark was unable to respond. Nothing mattered anymore, but at the same time emotions overwhelmed him, agony thrumming violently through his veins.

"It was quick, they wouldn't have felt anything." Masters wasn't sure if he was trying to convince himself or the doctor.

Mark nodded. It should have been a consolation and, in truth, he was relieved that his son hadn't suffered, but his grief was too intense, too consuming for him to take comfort in anything but the news that it had all been a big mistake and Steve would be coming home. Mark closed his eyes as fresh waves of anguish washed continually higher on the shores of his mind, carrying the flotsam and jetsam of his son's life and haphazardly depositing images and thoughts tumbled clean as driftwood for his inspection. His son wasn't coming home again, he would never get that captaincy, never enjoy children of his own. Mark would never work with his son again, play with him, laugh with him. The list of nevers stretched into a future dreary and bleak, devoid of posterity, and Mark's mind skittered away from awareness of that prospect.

Masters could almost feel Mark collapsing in on himself, although he still sat taut and motionless.

"Mark." He hoped the uncharacteristic use of the doctor's first name might break through his abstraction. "Do you have a lawyer?"

"A lawyer?" Mark echoed in dazed incomprehension at the seeming non-sequitur.

"The men outside are from Internal Affairs, it's their investigation now." The sour expression on his face intensified. "Although they may be technically under my command, I have little influence over their inquiries. They have a search warrant for your house."

"Search warrant?" Mark was vaguely aware he was parroting stupidly, but nothing seemed to make sense, and it required more effort than he could summon to sort through the mystery. His mind felt torpid and was unable to encompass anything more than the enormity of his loss.

Masters watched the dull befuddlement on Mark's face, realising he'd never seen the older man with that expression before. It increased a guilt he was unaccustomed to feeling. He was aware that Steve had only been at the warehouse as a personal favor for him and now, in return for his sacrifice, he was about to throw his father to the wolves. He wished he could do more to warn Mark but "trust no one" sounded too cryptic, and explanations would take too long, and he didn't think Mark could process them in his state of shock. Masters had lost his hand-picked team and needed an ally from outside his organisation, a civilian he could trust. It was ironic that Steve's death had deprived him not only of an excellent officer, but also of the one man who was in a position to assist. He doubted that Mark would be able to work through his grief and emerge from mourning quick enough to help.

Masters knew that the time he had demanded to personally break the news of his son's death to Mark was nearly exhausted, and Internal Affairs would soon be at the door. He assisted Mark to his feet. "You need to go to the station with IA and answer some questions," he told him with gruff compassion.

Mark suppressed the urge to repeat 'questions', and merely nodded as Masters ushered him to the door and delivered him into the hands of IA. He followed their clipped instructions almost as if he were in a hypnotic trance, obeying and observing in a eerie surreal calm even as internally a small voice gibbered an insane scream of denial. He was maneuvered into the back seat of a police car and sat staring out the window, seeing nothing of the streets they drove through to the station. The black hole of grief residing in his chest allowed no spark of interest or vitality to escape its gravitational pull. It consumed all his normal curiosity and intelligence, so it did not occur to him to question the reasons for IA's actions. He vaguely supposed that it concerned a case Steve was working on, but it seemed irrelevant under the circumstances.

His last conversation with Steve replayed in an endless loop in his mind. A disbelief in its finality, in the idea that his beloved son could actually be gone, warred with a bone-deep regret that he hadn't done something differently -- prevented Steve from leaving or, at the very least, told him how very much he loved and respected him. He was aware that it was an exercise in cruel futility, but he seemed to lack the mental discipline necessary to control his wayward thoughts.

Mark was accompanied into an unfamiliar, nondescript building and up to the second floor. He felt disconnected from the world around him, floating through a separate reality, a womb-like bubble containing only the amniotic fluid of pain, which deadened all external stimuli. But, as he entered the interrogation room, the familiarity of the setting punctured the illusion of remoteness. It looked so similar to other rooms in which he had often watched his son work that Steve's ghost seemed to haunt it. He felt as if he could no longer breathe, no longer remember how to suck oxygen into the stunned, starving tissues of his lungs. He sank into a chair, grateful for a few minutes of privacy as his escort left, but he was only alone for a few minutes before three dour-faced men entered. Two took the seats opposite Mark, while the other walked over to the bar-covered window and leaned against the wall staring through the glass.

A heavy-set man with beetling eyebrows and a distinctly unfriendly expression introduced himself as Lieutenant Andrews and his companion as Lieutenant Marran. The tall man near the window was Captain Simmons. Andrews placed a tape recorder in the middle of the table and, after asking Mark if he minded, pressed the record button. "Dr. Sloan, would you mind telling us your movements yesterday evening?"

It wasn't a question destined to promote easy discourse. Mark's mind was only too willing to be directed back to the night before, but to him it meant only the opportunity to relive his last interaction with his son and the realisation of his loss impacted anew, temporarily paralysing him.

Andrews jumped on Mark's silence as a sign of intransigence, and his manner became even more antagonistic. "I suggest you cooperate, Doctor. Don't make matters worse for yourself."

Sorrow bleeding from his soul, Mark sat motionless, unable to contemplate any way in which his life could be worse. Struggling with hopelessness, he obediently tried to cast his mind back beyond the immediacy of his son's death. "I went out to dinner with a friend," he remembered in a voice quiet and flat. It seemed a lifetime ago, when his world was still intact.

"Was this the woman?" Andrews slapped down a photograph of Mark and Elise holding hands across the table at La Fleurie.

The question was ridiculous, clearly they knew whom he'd been with and Mark's sluggish mind was kickstarted by the incongruity of the inquiry and the underlying puzzle of why IA would have photographed his date. Masters' warning stirred in his mind as he realised that this meeting was not about Steve. "What's going on?"

"Please answer our question, Dr. Sloan. Who is this woman?" This time the other man seated across from Mark took control of the interrogation.

"Her name is Elise Latiere. She's an old friend."

"Please tell us the nature of your relationship with Mrs. Latiere."

Mark stared at Marran, the embers of anger fanned by his obtuseness and the insensitivity of the interrogation at this time. He needed to be alone, to mourn in the privacy of his own home. "I just told you, she's an old friend." For the first time, there was an edge matching the weariness of his voice, but, even as he spoke, a possible explanation introduced itself, his mind making connections of its own volition. Most likely, Robert Latiere had been murdered and, presumed to be having an affair with his wife, Mark was now the chief suspect. But why had the police followed Elise to the restaurant and what was IA's involvement in this?

Sensing a change in Mark's previously lacklustre demeanor, Andrews leaned forward. "The truth is, Dr. Sloan, that Elise was a go-between, isn't that right?"

Mark's former conjecture evaporated, leaving behind a vacuum of comprehension. "Between what, between who? I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Dr. Sloan, a man of your intelligence should realise that denial is pointless now. We know what's been going on."

"Well, please enlighten me," Mark replied tightly. "Because I have no idea at all." His patience at this point was nonexistent, and it was only a prevailing apathy that prevented him from losing his temper.

There was a sudden movement, and the man who had been staring disinterestedly out of the window approached the table. With a thick finger, he pressed the pause button on the tape recording, then loomed over Mark intimidatingly. His tone was soft, almost intimate. "Off the record, Doctor, did you sell out your son? Did you tell him there was a bomb, or did you send him out to die with your lover's husband?"

The brutality of the unexpected verbal attack impacted cruelly, but the intent of the accusation was as incomprehensible as its meaning. How had the interview changed to involve Steve? The thrust of the charge, however, was unmistakable. Under different circumstances, the idea that Mark could have colluded in his son's death would have been ludicrous and laughable, but in the face of his loss, there was no humor in the unimaginable. Already foundering in the quicksand of grief, the mere idea that he could in any way have been involved in Steve's murder was enough to force Mark under, and his heart pounded heavily, aching as if a great weight were crushing it.

"He's my son," he faltered, the defense self-explanatory to him. The devastation of loss in his eyes would have softened the hardest of hearts, but it scarcely deflected the Captain, merely changing his angle of attack.

"Or was Lieutenant Sloan involved from the beginning. Was he a dirty cop?"

In an instant, Mark was on his feet in defense of his son, the slur on Steve's reputation tipping the reservoir of grief over the fine line into a limitless depth of anger. "My son is the finest cop and the most honourable man I've ever known. If you EVER repeat that baseless slander, I will not only have your badge, I will sue you for every penny you own. Do you understand me?" The words were spat out in white-hot fury and bolstered by the considerable authority that Mark unconsciously carried. Even the hard-bitten Captain backed off slightly.

"Please sit down, Dr. Sloan. If you and your son are as innocent as you claim, why are you obstructing a police investigation?"

"I'm not obstructing anything. My son is dead." Mark swallowed down the mass of grief that the words dragged into his throat. "And none of his colleagues have had the courtesy to even explain what this is all about."

"All right, Doctor." The Captain nodded to Andrews who placed another photograph on the table. "Last night Elise Latiere gave you a package. What was in it?"

Mark looked up from the picture of the exchange to meet the Captain's eyes guilelessly. "Photographs." The lie was immediate and facile, as his instincts guided him quicker than reason.

He expected to see skepticism in the eyes of his interrogator, but instead he noticed a flicker of emotion that was gone too quickly for Mark in his emotionally exhausted state to decipher.

"Photographs of what?" Simmons demanded curtly.

Mark shrugged. "Nothing important. Some old pictures of the two of us together."

Simmons stared speculatively at Mark, then pulled out a cell phone and moved back to the window as he dialed. Mark didn't try to follow the conversation; it would take more effort than he was capable of at that moment. He was aware that he had just lied to a police officer and compounded that offense by concealing evidence, but the legal consequences of his actions didn't concern him. He sensed that the notebook was the key to discovering what had happened to Steve and to clearing his name if that proved necessary. Mark was going to find the person who killed his son. It was the only thing left to him, the only thing he could still do for Steve, and no one was going to stop him.

Simmons returned to the table. "Where are the photographs?" Until that moment, Mark had given no thought to the search warrant Masters had presented. Luckily, his subconscious had presented him with a defensible lie.

"Look in the third drawer down of the filing cabinet near the window of my study. They're in a folder near the back."

Simmons relayed the directions, and they waited in silence for the result. It obviously left the Captain unconvinced since he leaned threateningly towards Mark. "That wasn't the envelope Elise Latiere gave you."

"No," Mark agreed easily. "I placed the photos in with some others I had and threw the envelope away. Look in the trash can." The notebook seemed to be burning a hole in his jacket pocket, but he met Simmon's gaze openly, the numbness that still held his mind prisoner helping in the deception.

With the confirmation of the existence of the photographs, Simmons seemed to accept that Mark had no more useful information and, after a few more desultory questions about his relationship with Elise, dismissed him with a warning to stay in town.

Mark walked out of the room, his legs seeming to belong to someone else. The floor swayed beneath him like the deck of a ship, and he was unsure if he was going to throw up or fall down. He put out a hand to steady himself against the wall, but the movement was arrested by a call of, "Dr. Sloan?"

He turned, weary beyond measure, and was surprised by the sight of a fresh-faced, young uniformed officer.

"Dr. Sloan. I'm Fred Gillespie. The Chief asked me to make sure that you got home safely."

Mark was vaguely appreciative of the consideration and allowed the youngster to guide him to a car, settling him in the back seat. He leaned back, eyes shut, not wanting to think, but needing the distraction from the vast, unendurable emptiness inside. Lethargically, his mind attempted to make sense of recent events, but instead of ideas making the intuitive leaps he was used to, it felt as if they were oozing stickily round his brain like boulders in molasses.

The questions had first been about Elise, but IA wouldn't be interested in her; Steve must be their target. But what was the connection between Steve and Elise? The answer slid into his brain, bobbing and weaving past defenses that tried to deny the possibility.

He leaned forward and cleared his throat, struggling to shape the question so sharp to its utterer that it threatened to gut him before he could even speak. "The warehouse where...." He couldn't finish the sentence, but the young officer understood the half-formed inquiry.

"Pier 62, down by the Vincent Thomas Bridge," he supplied helpfully.

The response echoed in Mark's mind, melding with another remembered voice saying exactly the same phrase "Pier 62, down by the Vincent Thomas Bridge." The words impaled him on the agony of guilt, leaving him to twist brokenly on their ramifications, a tormented refrain running through his mind. "What have I done, what have I done?"