Cragen sat in his office staring at the phone, waiting for a call from one of his people at the crime scene. The bottom drawer of his desk remained open, just as it had for the past two hours, but he hadn't laid a hand on its contents.

He glanced into it briefly, making sure that the bottle and glasses were still there. If he'd managed to leave them untouched before and after calling Vanessa Southern's parents, he certainly couldn't justify having a drink now. No, not having a drink – just taking the bottle and placing it on his desk. He didn't even have to take a glass out. Its presence would be enough.

An unstoppable, almost gravitational force drew his hand toward the bottle. His fingertips brushed the cool glass. The clear contents shifted ever so slightly. He yanked his hand back suddenly, as if he'd been burned. He hated needing a drink this badly. This case was steadily decreasing one day at a time to one minute at a time.

A blessed distraction, a movement in the squad room caught his eye. A moment later Olivia entered his office without knocking. She sat without acknowledging Cragen, pinching the bridge of her nose and closing her eyes. He allowed her the time, thankful that her presence prevented him from diving into his desk drawer. He finally said, "You looked wiped."

"Uh-huh. I'll feel better once I've got my coffee." Almost on cue, Eckerson walked into the office carrying two cups. She smiled, took a few sips and turned back to Cragen. "Did Missing Persons get back to you yet?"

"Yeah. From what they were able to tell me, she got on a train around five on Sunday evening but never made it back to Boston. Took me a while to track down the report. It ended up getting filed in Providence."

"You honestly think she got to Rhode Island before Paige's son grabbed her?" Olivia sounded disgusted.

"I doubt she made it as far as Bridgeport, but that's not the issue. A ticket agent in Providence thought he saw a girl matching Southern's description leaving the station after her train stopped, and that's where the report got dumped."

"Well, that explains why she didn't make our list." She sighed. "She from New York?"

"New Jersey," Cragen provided. "Her boyfriend goes to college in the city. She was visiting him last weekend."

"Did you, uh, call yet?"

Cragen nodded, understanding the vague question perfectly. "Her parents are coming in to make the ID in the morning."

A thick silence fell in the office, punctuated only by Olivia's irregular sips of coffee. Just as Cragen was about to reach for the comfort of the bottle again, Eckerson asked, "You think Paige got the ticket guy in Providence to give a false statement?"

Olivia gave him a weak smile. "You sound like Munch."

Cragen crossed his hands in front of him, willing them both to remain on the desk and asked, "Speaking of John, where is everybody else?"

With a glance toward the squad room, Olivia replied, "Munch and Healey should be back any minute. Elliot and Fin stayed to work the block with the unis one more time."

"Anything I should know from the scene?"

"It looks like there's a new drop car – a white Volvo wagon," Eckerson said. "Other than that, nothing new."

Olivia cleared her throat. "Well, Warner said that it looked like there was more blood this time…but she won't know the exact reason why until the autopsy…"

Cragen knew why she'd trailed off. Discussing Paige's increasing level of violence wasn't exactly a conversation calculated to lift the spirits. His hand felt the familiar pull as he said, "You two sound like you could use more than coffee." The bottle appeared on his desk almost before he knew he was grasping its neck. He was filling the first glass when Olivia shook her head.

"Cap, we've got to go to the morgue later."

"You two have been working hard. I think you've earned one drink." He poured the second glass as he spoke. Olivia didn't object further as he pushed the glasses across the desk to them.

Cragen tried not to watch jealously as Eckerson swallowed his and Olivia sipped hers. He licked his lips, his mouth suddenly feeling very dry. Living vicariously certainly had its limits.

He was mercifully distracted again as Munch poked his head into the office. "Did my invitation get lost?"

Cragen nodded to the bottle on his desk. "I'm outta glasses. You better grab your coffee cup."

Olivia opened her mouth to speak, but Munch raised his hand. "I'll insert my own joke about how I'll need something stronger to erase the taste of what's usually in it."

As Munch returned with his cup, Cragen realized what was wrong. "Where's Healey?"

"Gone. Thank God."

Eckerson seemed furious. "She left again?"

"Mm-hm. But not before expressing her firm belief that the autopsy results will be the same whether she hears them tonight or tomorrow morning." Munch held his cup out for Cragen to fill. Olivia nudged hers forward, and he obliged her as well.

"I'd hate to be the odd man out," Eckerson said, passing his glass too. "You're not having any, Captain?"

"No," Cragen said a little too quickly. Taking a deep breath, he spoke more carefully. "I don't drink anymore."

Eckerson nodded slowly and finished his drink. Placing the glass firmly on the desk as he stood, he said, "I'm gonna call Healey and find out why she thinks she can keep ditching her job."

He opened the office door and a voice echoed in the squad room, "Hey! Hey! Is there anybody here?"

Olivia placed her own empty glass on the desk and was out the door behind Eckerson. Cragen heard her say, "I'm Det. Olivia Benson. Is there something I can do for you?"

"Yeah, I'm looking for a guy named Cragen."

He sighed, stood and walked out of his office, knowing he wasn't going to like whatever was about to happen. "I'm Capt. Cragen."

A tall, dark haired young man turned to look at him. "My girlfriend's parents just called me and told me that you called them and said you think she's dead. What kind of sick shit are you trying to pull here?"

Cragen frowned. "What's your name, son?"

"My name's Mark Williams and I'm not your son."

"Mark, if you'd step into my office, I can explain the situation to you."

Munch stepped out the door just as Cragen turned back to it, ushering Mark Williams in before him. As he sat down behind his desk, he realized why Munch had remained behind – the bottle was back in its drawer. He was momentarily relieved; it hardly seemed right to allow the young man seated in front of him to think that the people assigned to catch his girlfriend's killer were sitting around downing shots of vodka on the job. He made a mental note to thank Munch for his forethought later.

"So why did you call Vanessa's parents and tell them she's dead?" Mark was perched on the edge of his seat, his knees bobbing up and down relentlessly as his heels bounced off the floor.

Cragen took a deep breath. He wished he'd asked John or Olivia to sit in, lend their silent support. His voice was quiet as he said, "Mark, I know this is going to be difficult, but…" He cleared his throat. "We found a body matching Vanessa's description at St. Patrick's this afternoon."

Mark gave a nervous snort of laughter. "You got everyone all worked up over someone that might be her? I mean, no one's even identified the body right? You guys don't just say people are dead unless someone recognizes the body. I've seen enough cop shows to know…"

"We found her wallet with the body," Cragen interrupted, wishing there were an easier way to break the news, but knowing that dragging it out would just intensify the cruelty of the shock.

Mark's eyes went wide. "That…that doesn't prove anything. Someone could have stolen her wallet." His voice cracked. "It isn't her."

"I'm sorry," Cragen replied, working hard to make his voice more than a whisper.

Hanging his head, Mark repeated, "It isn't her. She's not dead." He suddenly looked up, his eyes shining with unshed tears. "You have to let me see her. I can tell you it's not her."

"We've asked Vanessa's parents to come in the morning, so that won't be necessary." Cragen tried not to think about the condition the body was in right now – filleted on a cold table in the morgue, the cuts on her face not even cleaned yet. He shook his head to clear the image. "I know this is difficult, but if there is anything you can tell us about the last time you saw Vanessa, it would really help us find the person who did this to her."

"Did what to her? She's not dead. SHE'S NOT DEAD!" He stood as he shouted, slamming his fists against the desk. "Why do you keep saying she dead when she's not!"

Cragen stood slowly, waving off Olivia and Eckerson, standing in the doorway, presumably drawn by the yelling. "Mark, I know it's hard, but I need you to calm down. How about you sit down, and Det. Benson will get you a soda, or a coffee, or whatever you want."

Mark's voice broke with a sob. "I want to see Vanessa." All the commanding desperation had disappeared from his tone, replaced with something sad and vulnerable.

Cragen stepped around his desk, squeezing Mark's shoulder as he reached him. "In the morning. Her parents will be here in the morning and you can see her when they do. And we can talk in the morning too. We'll, uh, give you a few minutes alone." He noted that Olivia placed a box of tissues on his desk before leaving, and wondered why he didn't have any of his own. He shut the door to give Mark some privacy.

As he glanced around the squad room, Cragen saw that the evidence boards had been turned around to conceal the grisly photos they contained. Munch sat at his desk, eyes fixed on the computer screen as his fingers tapped the keys. Eckerson was at Olivia's desk, drumming his fingers on her blotter.

Olivia suddenly stepped in front of Cragen, offering him a cup of coffee. "I take it we're not going to be asking him any questions tonight?"

"Nope. Thanks." He lifted his cup in a small salute. "In fact, can you see if anyone is available to take him home?" She nodded and walked over to her desk.

Cragen paused in front of his own door, jiggling the knob to give Mark fair warning of his entrance. He kept his eyes averted as he moved slid behind his desk, giving Mark the chance to wipe his cheeks and conceal the damp ball of tissues with his fist. "You're in college in the city?"

"Yeah. NYU."

The small talk was painfully forced, but Cragen wanted to be delicate. "And you live in the dorms?"

Mark sniffed. "Uh-huh."

"It's probably pretty noisy there on a Friday night."

"Yup."

"Is there somewhere else you could stay?"

He finally looked up. "My sister and her husband have an apartment in Chelsea."

"Okay. Would you like us to give you a ride there?" Cragen asked gently.

"Yeah. That would be…but what about…what about Vanessa?" His voice cracked with a fresh sob as he said her name.

"You leave us your sister's number and we'll give you a call in the morning, tell you where to go and what time."

Mark had to check his cell phone for the number, but managed to write it down shakily. As Cragen guided him out of the office into the care of two uniformed officers, he said, "You promise you'll call."

"We'll call. Try and get some rest."

As soon as Mark and the officers had left the squad room, Olivia said, "Captain, I think maybe you should come to the morgue with us. Warner just called and she sounded…well, not upset, but…it sounded like something's wrong."

Cragen checked his watch. "She can't be done with the autopsy already."

"Well, whatever she found sounds serious," she replied, pulling on her coat.

"Let's hope it busts the case wide open. I hate to call the shockingly large number of white-Volvo-wagon-driving individuals living in the city," Munch said, standing and stretching.

"I'm gonna hit the john and grab my coat. I'll meet you three downstairs," Cragen said, waving the small group toward the hall.

As he retrieved his coat from his office on his way back from the bathroom, he noticed that Munch's coffee cup was still sitting on his desk, untouched. He contemplated the contents for a moment, indecisively raising the cup to his lips. He inhaled, smelling nothing, but feeling the heavy fumes invade his sinuses. Just as he was about to break down and tip the clear liquid into his eager mouth, his glance fell on the chair Mark Williams had been sitting in not fifteen minutes before.

Cragen nearly gagged. His head swam as he searched for someplace, anyplace other than his own body to deposit the liquor. He saw the trashcan and stood over it, forcing his hand to invert the mug. The vodka made the barest splash as it came into contact with the plastic liner. He let out his breath as the moment of weakness passed.

Taking the stairs instead of the elevator on his way to the lobby, he used the time and exercise to clear his mind. 'One minute at a time, Don. One minute at a time.'