Elliot leapt from his seat, and both men stared at her, the words paralysing them and sending cold, sickening dread through their veins. She seemed captivated by the photo in front of her, the paper trembling softly as though blown by a breeze, or the whisper of one.
"Alex," Elliot grabbed her shoulders and turned her to look at him, "What do you mean you saw him?"
Her eyes refused to meet his, avoiding the question as if guilty about something, and he wanted to shake her violently, to get all the information he could out of her, forgetting for a second that she had become a good friend through the years. Over her shoulder he was aware of Don moving, and when he began to direct her into the chair Elliot had just vacated, he was forced to spin away and clench his fists in an attempt to regain control, before taking a breath and turning back.
"Alex," Repeating her name, he leant on the desk and looked at her again. Slowly, she started speaking but her voice sounded strange, as if devoid of all humanity. Like she was relaying someone else's story, without care or compassion.
"I went there to pick up a file that Olivia had. I needed a piece of information to postpone one of the cases. It was due to start the next day. She was the arresting detective. "
Elliot remembered the chaos that her disappearance had caused, the cases that had been indefinitely postponed. The two guys that had got off because she wasn't there to testify and their ridiculously expensive lawyers had used it to their advantage.
"There was a crowd outside. People were already leaving flowers, seemed to have done so since the press release. Like they knew already that she was dead. It make me feel so sick, that strangers were giving up on her. He was just standing there, looking at them. The flowers. Reading the cards people had attached."
Listening to her, Elliot could feel the shock radiating from her in waves. He was so familiar with that numb feeling, the cascade of fear as the blood drained from the face, the chill settling onto the skin.
"When one of the uniforms standing outside happened to look at him, he was really edgy. And then he left."
Her voice had dropped to a whisper at the end, and the final words hit the desk like an anvil dropping from the sky. Before he could help it he had spun away from the desk and was staring blindly across the room, so ingrained into his life and yet so eerily strange.
"Son of a bitch."
His voice was fury. "Why did nobody see him, pick up on him, recognise him?" No answer came and his anger and frustration was accelerating fast, rolling with no brakes.
"She might have still...."
A deathly hush fell as his unspoken words reverberated round them. He could hear the echo, and he was pretty sure Don and Alex could as well.
"She might have still been alive then."
Alex deflated in her chair, pressed down by the silence. Her voice was little more than a murmur but clear as a bell in the air.
"I didn't know. The rapes never got to me. You never had anything for me to act on."
"Nobody's blaming you," Don said. Elliot shook his head and turned away, resting a hand on Alex's shoulder and sighing apologies.
"I'm sorry.....I didn't mean....it's just...."
There was no end to the sentences, and yet those who heard them, who were sitting in that space knew exactly what they were without needing the words. They were a feeling, an understanding born of the nightmare.
He sunk down at another desk. Alex's guilt was igniting his yet again. It was always there, from the very first minute of her disappearance to that very second. Suddenly, Huang's words flooded into his mind from the the evening after the press conference. The second day.
"He's sitting in the locker room when Huang finds him, having just got out of the shower. After changing into fresh clothes, instead of going back and listening to useless information from well meaning people, he is staring at her locker.
It had been opened, the first day, to look for clues, or any answer that might be hidden inside. Of course, there had been none. Now it's locked again and he's thinking about how many pieces of her are sealed behind the door. Spare clothes for the nights they never get a chance to leave. Deodorant that makes up part of her scent. Make-up. A lipstick with traces of her still on it. Her gym clothes.
Huang comes in and leans against the lockers, looking at him. El doesn't look back.
"Should I ask how you're doing?"
He shrugs.
"Well, let me know when you're about to lose it. People are falling apart down there so some warning would be good."
Elliot is shocked by the blasé attitude that George is showing in the face of such a situation, the gallows humour that is mildly inappropriate at the best of times but seems horrific now. However, when he dares a glance, he sees the other man's careful look and realises that he's being pushed. Tested.
"You not going to tell me it's all going to be okay? Or that it's not my fault?" He sounds bitter but he doesn't care.
"Is it?"
Elliot shakes his head and balls his fists for just a second before releasing. His partner is missing and he can't be doing with the psych approach of questions in reply to questions, but he also knows that the moment he loses it is the moment he is off the case, sent home, maybe locked up. And this is too important. A dazed silence falls for a minute before Huang speaks again.
"It's probably not going to be okay. And you won't let go of the guilt, no matter what. Not even if I stood here talking all night."
He sighs.
"You'll hold onto this forever. Guilt gives you the illusion of control in an uncontrollable situation. The 'if I had done this, or that' creates an escape. It stops this being unanswerable. A random event. Except, it's already happened, and the truth is there is nothing you can do. And you're going to have to work out some way of living with that for the rest of your life. Whatever happens. Or it will destroy you."
Elliot is still hanging on for now, but the mention of destruction makes the thought sneak into his mind again. What if? What if this is life now? This dread, this guilt, this fear. Isn't destruction far preferable right now?"
Elliot sat and looked at the other two people, both consumed by their own thoughts. He didn't doubt for a second that both carried the same guilt as him. Alex's was clear to see, she seemed smothered by it in light of the new information. Don's ran much deeper, and encompassed them all, not just Liv. The accumulation of years of death, despair and tragedy that the job had brought into their lives weighed him down. Olivia's disappearance and his helplessness within it was only a part.
Capt. Price came out of her office as they sat, and looked at all three of them in their various stages of disintegration before speaking.
"It shouldn't be too long now."
Elliot knew her calm, professionalism should be calming, but instead he found it suffocating. Part of him wanted everyone to be falling apart, the whole world, instead of just him. Escaping, he muttered something unintelligible that nobody could hear, that no one would bother to try and decipher.
Walking on autopilot, he found himself at the door of the crib, that hadn't changed a bit in the years since he had set eyes on it. Gazing in, he imagined he could see her, lying there, fast asleep from a case. The scene he could visualise before him was so peaceful, so real, and he wanted to hang onto the image forever but it transformed before his eyes and then it was him lying there. Him on the first night he got some rest, over 72 hours since she had last been seen. And, yet again, the thought danced through his head that perhaps this was the time insanity was going to take him. That seeing himself as if from above was the next step toward a psychiatric unit. Just as it might finally be over.
He's stayed at his desk while first Fin, then Munch, step into Cragen's office for fleeting moments before taking their coats and walking out of the door. The first time since...
He can't finish the sentence, even to himself.
Part of his brain tries to argue that their leaving isn't the next, bitter step towards defeat, but just because they need the rest. The crib is almost full of extra detectives and uniforms that have come in to help, both those ordered too, and those that are giving up their spare time. But it doesn't help much.
Within his own mind, he cannot, dare not think of going home. Of lying in his bed with Kathy breathing next to him, with Olivia out there somewhere. Walking out will feel like leaving her behind. Cragen had told him to call her earlier, had dialled his home number for him and handed him the phone as Kathy answered.
But whatever Cragen had been trying to achieve hadn't worked. Her worry simply frustrated him, not only for taking up his time but for sounding like she was more concerned with him than with Olivia. He was fine, it was her that people should be focused on. For a brief, fleeting moment it occurs to him that he would have been annoyed whatever her response was. Had she shown understanding he would want to yell at her, to shout that she couldn't possibly know what this feels like. And had she shown more concern about Olivia, he would feel stupidly possessive. She was his partner, his to worry about, not hers.
It's 2am and the words in the sentence in front of him have warped into one, indeterminate scrawl across the page when Cragen steps out of his office.
"Crib. Now." When he looks up at him, the older man shows all the signs of exhaustion that Elliot feels, but his stance is firm and his jaw set. Elliot attempts to argue, to negotiate, in words reminiscent of hearing his children plead for a later curfew.
"One more tip," He holds out the sheaf of papers in front of him. "What if the next one is it?"
Cragen takes the papers off him and scans the next sheet on the pile.
"It's not. And you're so far beyond tired that you're liable to miss it if it were." He seems sad, resigned, but Elliot can tell he knows he's won this. He's said the one thing that will make him obey the order. The thought that he might miss finding her because of his own, stupid stubbornness isn't worth it.
Without another word or look he stumbles upstairs, but before stepping out of sight he looks at the room from above. There are strangers at all the desks except hers, his place having been taken already. He wonders if this is some kind of premonition, if he is seeing before him what is to come. Them all gone, and an empty space at Liv's where no one dares to sit.
Making his way to an empty bed in the crib, he carefully avoids looking at the younger homicide detective fast asleep where Liv would normally be, and lies down. The room is full of gentle breathing and he tries to close his eyes and simply focus on that sound. The sooner he gets to sleep, the sooner he can get up again and find her.
Instead, his mind begins to work, but not as he had feared. It is both better and worse than letting his imagination have full rein to see all the things that could have happened to her. In lieu if the nightmare scenarios, it trawls through his memories and begins tossing ones of her at him. Good ones, bad ones, events that meant nothing at the time. Ordinary days that he should have forgotten but for some reason didn't.
She's opening the car door and getting in, handing him his coffee before settling in with her own. All the noise is their sips as they sit and watch to see if their suspect is going to move. It's quiet and settled, and even though it was just a standard day, in the face of the last 72 hours it is sprinkled with gold dust.
Now he's tossing a wad of paper across the desks to Munch, and she snorts when he misses an easy catch. Looking at her, he sees she has a resigned smirk on her face as she settles back down to her paperwork. He resists the temptation to throw the paper at her.
Her rage is filling up the interrogation room and, sitting next to her, he can see why the suspect looks scared. Her muscles are tense throughout her whole body and there is bite to her words as she works him over. All he has to do is sit and watch. Finally the guy snaps, breaks down, and begins to cry with regret. She shoots him a witheringly disgusted look and leaves the room, slamming the door behind her. His job is easy, the perp wants to tell everything now she has shattered him.
All these and a hundred other fragments are bombarding him, and he lets himself begin to drown. It's easier than facing the truth. He goes to sleep in a bar, her sitting across from him drinking beer and listening to Munch rant and rave. He doesn't dream.
The ache in his back signals that he is in the crib the instant he wakes up, but he hasn't got a clue what time it might be. The moment he remembers fearing the previous evening hasn't occurred; the knowledge she is missing has been lurking since he first began to surface from the depths of sleep and he doesn't have to bear the split second where everything is as it should be before the hurricane hits. It's already ripped him to pieces and settled in what is left.
Still, he keeps his eyes closed, even though he knows he should get going. Perhaps she's lying next to him, in another bed. He'll open his eyes and see her. She'll laugh when he tells her his dream. But he knows it's not true, and his attempts to kid himself make him want to hit the man he is becoming. Self pity is weak, and weakness isn't going to get her back. Nor is longing or dreaming or imagining.
He drags himself out of the bed and goes to freshen up. Glancing at his watch once he's splashed his unshaven face with water, he sees that it's almost 7am. Some water drips on his shirt and he mutters under his breath for getting the clean one wet, before stopping himself. It isn't clean at all, it's been about 36 hours since he showered and changed. It's now creased and slept in, and he knows he hasn't got another one in his locker. How can it be that it is so long since that shower. Where has the time gone? How can she have been gone for so long?
When he goes downstairs, a shift change has occurred again. Fin and Munch are sitting at their desks, coats still on, talking. He suspects they have come in together, as moral support, though he has no reason to think that they would, he just knows. When he looks at them, and then at Olivia's still empty desk, rage begins to swell slightly. They have each other and he is alone. It's more self pity, and he shakes his head to rid himself of it.
Walking over to the coffee machine to pour himself a cup, he gestures the pot towards the two of them, offering it. Both shake their heads.
"We're off to follow up on some of these. Maybe..." Fin lets his voice trail off. The words imply hope, his tone and sadness in his eyes don't. Munch doesn't say a word as they leave, his shoulders bowed. He looks defeated. The sight of self pity in someone else makes him feel nearly as angry as it did when it flared in himself.
After an hour of renewed searching through the incredible amount of paperwork generated, Cragen walks in with two people behind him, a woman and a man. He comes up to Elliot's desk and gestures to the woman, introducing her first.
"This is Detective Sarah Harris, from Brooklyn SVU. She's come in to pick up some of the other ongoing cases we have. And this is Ken Adams. He's gonna be....well......I thought you could do with someone to help while you follow a few leads. So you can get out of this building."
Elliot sizes him up. The guy is older than him by a few years, still firmly built, with a scar on one cheek. He knows he should like him, that he would in any other situation, but he knows also knows the word that Cragen has avoided saying. Partner. This guy was his new partner, temporary or not. That whatever was going to happen, even if they found her alive, she probably wasn't going to be okay to come straight back to work. This knowledge feels like a band-aid he has been carefully constructing being ripped off, the first beginning thoughts of a future scalding the open wound.
When they get back from a day chasing wild geese round Manhattan, Cragen seems half surprised when they walk in together. Elliot suspects, no, knows, that he was expecting trouble. In truth, they had worked fine together, not that there had been much to do. The other man had let Elliot drive, stayed silent and backed him up when needed.
As they settle down to work, he hasn't even made the mistake of sitting at Liv's desk. Neither has the female detective, Harris, who is sitting and looking through the files of their cases. She asks a few questions of Elliot as the day draws to a close, and when he looks over at her once, his eyes are drawn to the paperwork on her desk, and the fact he can see Olivia's handwriting there. For a second he can't breathe, so he looks away.
At 8pm, Cragen comes out of his office again and says those who need too should go home, looking pointedly at Elliot. Adams stands and leaves, but Harris makes no move and neither does Elliot. Cragen doesn't take his eyes off him.
"You too."
He doesn't even bother to reply, or indeed to look at his boss. Ignoring him isn't something that he would normally do. Argue, disagree, disregard orders perhaps, but not act as if he didn't exist. But these aren't ordinary circumstances, and normal rules, both professional and personal, don't apply.
"Elliot."
This time he does glance up, but only to shake his head. He hasn't the energy to argue, but he wants to catch up on what happened in the squad room while he was running round the city in a pointless, desperate search.
Cragen sighs and walks back into his office.
An uneasy tempo settles over the squad room, made up of exhaustion, adrenaline, sickening fear and anxiety. Harris asks him for some information on one of the cases she is covering and despite the fact it draws him away from Olivia's case, it is almost a relief to pay attention to something else. However, it is a relief covered in a coating of guilt for failing her, letting his tenuous hold on her go for even a second.
Suddenly, through the atmosphere, he hears his name and looks up in surprise. Kathy is standing in the doorway of the squad room, concern plain across her face. Cragen appears.
"Thanks for coming Kathy."
He stares at them in disbelief. Cragen had called his wife. Like the school might call a parent when the child was sick or acting out. He feels useless, demeaned, like all elements of control are being stripped from him. Kathy approaches and takes his hand, but he carries on staring at Cragen.
"Go home Elliot. Please. Or I'm going to have to force you too." He wants to fight it, wants to rage and scream and argue. How can he explain the feeling that Olivia is within this room, that she needs him here, that him staying here is keeping her here as well. If he leaves, she is gone. He tenses his weary bones for the fight, before something changes before his eyes.
Cragen looks old. Old and weary and defeated. It's the same look as Munch's back had shown as he walked out of the room. Without a conscious thought to it, Elliot doesn't have it in him to weigh more pain and pressure on his shoulders.
Nodding, he goes to his desk and picks up his jacket, but he has still not acknowledged Kathy.
"Call me if.... even if its nothing."
Cragen gives a small nod, and without daring a look at Olivia's desk, Elliot walks out of the room, Kathy beside him.
The journey home is silent, Kathy driving and him sitting with unseeing eyes at the night time sights and sounds. He is aware of one part of his brain searching, searching every section of the views in front of him for her, for any sign. Maybe a huge sign illuminated in the darkness, directing him to her.
When they arrive home, it's to a silent house. At first he thinks that all the children are in bed, but as they walk into the kitchen he sees Maureen and Kathleen sitting at the table. Without speaking, both walk up and hug him, and he almost allows himself to lose himself in their arms. To break down in their love and the change of role. They are offering him comfort and care, but it becomes too much. Pulling away, he sees them look worriedly at him before turning their glance to their mother, searching for advice. He is aware of her shaking her head and gesturing to the stairs, and so both gently leave.
All he wants to do is grab a beer, something stronger, anything, but again that feels like waving a white flag. Admitting that there is a reason to destroy himself. Instead he goes and sits down on the couch, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. Silence hangs for minutes as he feels his muscles relaxing and his mind beginning to venture to unwanted scenarios. As an attempt to combat it, he opens his eyes. Kathy has moved, is standing looking at him, and he can see tears in her eyes.
He closes his. He cannot see this. He won't.
As the memories stopped and the reality of the day began to take over him again, Elliot realised he had moved, and was now sitting on a crib with his head in his hands. It didn't surprise him, that he had acted without being aware. He had lost himself so many times within the past that he was used to it.
Taking a deep breath in, he braced himself to go downstairs again. The time was approaching, ever slow, the seconds taking hours as he sped through the past in his mind. Nevertheless, he knew that it was coming.
As he left the room and went to face the music, it occurred to him that after the past five years, it felt somehow too easy, trapped in the midst of excruciating pain. Part of him had become so inured to what could be thrown at him. It hadn't been the same in those first few, vicious days, when every second got worse and worse.
Like the day after the last flashback. The day of the body.
Even the thought of that memory sickened him, and despite knowing that it was pointless to attempt distraction, that the flashback would claim him no matter what, he made his way downstairs to the present hell.
Needing every second he could get to ward it off, he wasn't sure how much more of the memories he could take. He remembered somewhere that working back through painful trauma was supposed to be therapeutic but it wasn't. It was simply an ongoing torture that he knew would never end. No matter what the outcome or what waited down those stairs.