Detective Lennie Briscoe got out of the car, Detective Rey Curtis just behind.
They were met at the murder site by the lead police officer on the scene.
"Guy was sniped. Shot right through the head. Armor Piercing bullet. We're still trying to determine the shooter's location."
Briscoe looked over to where the body lay, a sheet draped over it.
To hide the fact that the armor piercing bullet exploded the victim's head…
"Any witnesses to the crime?" Briscoe asked.
"Quite a few, actually. One of them, though…think he's in shock. He hasn't moved, or said a word since we got here."
Briscoe followed his pointing hand.
Shit…
Jack McCoy…
"I'll see to him," Briscoe walked up to Jack McCoy.
McCoy was just standing there, white as a sheet, hands in pockets, staring fixedly at the M. E. working on the body.
"Counselor…"
McCoy turned his head slowly to Briscoe; numb shock in his eyes.
"There was this sound…" the attorney whispered. "Like cracking glass, and Paul…"
He shuddered, eyes squeezing shut.
"Counselor…Jack…" Briscoe gently took him by the arm, guided him to the nearest Bus Stop Bench, half afraid the man might faint.
"You okay, Counselor?"
"I'm better than Paul is right now…" McCoy's voice was shaky.
Gotta love gallows humor…
"We've figured out where the shooter was," Detective Stan Profaci walked up. "Top floor of the building right across…"
He pointed at the thoroughly modern-looking building.
"Couldn't be the same killer as all the others," McCoy muttered, and Briscoe had to agree.
Those were vigilante killings. Unless they're broadening their scope to include Defense Attorneys…
A chill ran through Briscoe. The killer might have been trying to subvert or destroy the legal system…
Fuck…
Jack McCoy was sitting in Dr. Elizabeth Rodger's office. He still felt numb.
It sounded like a cross between cracking glass and an exploding melon…
He knew what that odd sound was now.
The sound of a bullet cracking Paul Kopell's skull open like an egg…
He shivered again. He'd never witnessed death up close like this before.
Anna was coming, would be here soon.
Anna Kopell, Paul's wife…
Paul's widow…
There she was, running up, terror in her eyes.
"Jack! A Detective Briscoe called me about Paul. Is he…"
Her voice trailed off.
She doesn't want to hear this…
There were no comforting lies to be had here.
"Anna…" McCoy couldn't think of any way to ease the blow. "Paul's dead. He was shot."
"Shot? My God..." Anna gasped. "Where is he?"
"In the morgue. Anna…" McCoy hesitated. "You don't need to see this."
But, of course, she had to. So Jack McCoy stayed with her, holding her hand, keeping her steady when she saw what that sniper's bullet had done to Paul Kopell.
His head looked more like a quashed melon than anything human…
"God…"
McCoy took her back to the row of chairs at the wall and got her a glass of water. That was all he could do. He still had no words of comfort to offer. But he could tell her this…
"I'll find out who did this, Anna. I promise you, I'll find the bastard."
Two days later
Keeping his promise to Anna Kopell meant committing a felony.
Breaking and entering, to be exact…
Jack McCoy felt a little odd about doing this; sneaking into the building after hours.
But this was the building the sniper had used when he had shot Paul Kopell.
McCoy snuck all the way up to the top floor, armed with a flashlight.
Fortunately, the rooms on the top floor weren't occupied yet, so the empty office rooms weren't locked.
This room, a corner office, had all the makings of a CEO's Office, aligned just right to take advantage of the sun's light.
It was also the room the sniper had used when he shot Paul Kopell.
Jack McCoy had no idea why he was doing this. He was the Executive Assistant DA, not a cop, not a detective. But he had to.
This time, it was personal…
So, Jack McCoy quietly slid into the corner office, at a little after three in the morning, and tried to look around, his flashlight making little pools of illumination to see by.
The floor was bare of everything, including carpeting…
No fingerprints on the windows…no shell casings…
McCoy's shoulders slumped wearily.
There must be something…somewhere…
He heard the sound of an elevator door opening...voices…the crackling sound of radio.
Oh…shit.
Police…
McCoy turned his flashlight off, tried to creep out of the room without attracting notice.
"Police! Freeze!"
He was right by the stairs, so he slid through the door, began to run down the stairs…
But he ran into a brick wall instead. A man-sized brick wall, a police-sized brick wall…
Slammed hard into a wall, wrists pulled behind his back, handcuffs snapped shut, flipped around, a flashlight beamed into his eyes, blinding him.
"Shit!"
He knew that voice.
Out of all the office buildings in Manhattan, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera…
Detective Rey Curtis looked McCoy up and down, and if looks could kill…
"Lennie," Curtis spoke into his communicator, smiling evilly. "You're not gonna believe who I just picked up…"
Detective Lennie Briscoe was in a foul mood.
Why did the Counselor have to do this?
Standing at a payphone, he dialed the DA's home number, knowing he would be waking Adam Schiff up. But there was no choice.
We could keep Jack in jail overnight. Maybe that'll teach him to think before he tries a stunt like that again…
But, he still had to tell the DA what happened.
That we caught his Executive Assistant DA breaking into the top floor of an office building at three in the morning. Yeah…that's gonna go over just fine…
The phone rang three times.
"Who the hell is calling at four in the morning?"
Adam Schiff certainly sounded grumpy.
"Detective Briscoe calling, Counselor. We have a…slight problem."
"Call Jack McCoy. He's the Night Owl, not I."
"I can't!" Briscoe snapped. "He's the problem."
A moment's silence from the other end.
"What did he do?"
"He broke into the office the sniper used to shoot Paul Kopell. We have him in custody."
"In…custody?"
"Yeah…handcuffs and all. So…What do we do with him?"
He heard Schiff's sigh.
"Bring him to Hogan Place. The back entry. I'll meet you there at my office. Don't uncuff him. If Jack wants to be an idiot, he can pay the price."
Jack McCoy sat in the back seat of the unmarked cruiser, wrists firmly cuffed together, and his arms and shoulders hurt like hell. But he knew he was unlikely to get any sympathy from Detective Curtis.
The detective was sitting in front, riding shotgun, and Detective Briscoe was walking back to the car.
He got into his car without a word, and started the engine.
"Where are we going?" McCoy asked.
"You'll see," was all Briscoe would say.
Fifteen minutes later, McCoy knew where they were going.
Hogan Place…
Oh…
Shit.
Might be in real trouble here…
At least Briscoe parked the car in the rear entrance.
Both detectives got out, then helped McCoy out.
It was difficult to get out of a car when your hands were cuffed behind your back…
Briscoe and Curtis guided McCoy into the building, to the elevator, and up…
Adam's going to kill me…
Curtis was the one who had the honor of knocking on Adam Schiff's office door.
"Come in…"
Curtis opened the door, and led the trio into the office; pushing McCoy forward.
"He's all yours, Counselor," the man said.
Schiff didn't look happy at all.
"Toss me the keys, Detective," he said. "I'll get them back to you later this morning."
"Yeah…" Curtis drew the keys-the handcuff keys-out of his coat pocket, and tossed them to Schiff, who caught them easily, and set them casually on his desk.
"Thank you, gentlemen," the DA glared at McCoy. "I'll deal with this…situation."
"Goodnight, Counselor," Briscoe herded Curtis out, and closed the door quietly behind him. Now, it was just Jack McCoy, alone with an absolutely furious Adam Schiff.
"Uh…Adam..?" McCoy was beginning to loose sensation in his hands.
"Stay right there," Schiff commanded. "I want to savor the situation. How could you be so…so…dumb?"
McCoy actually felt himself flinch at the fury in Schiff's voice.
Then, he heard Schiff sigh…
"Okay, Jack. Come over…"
Relieved, he walked over, felt Adam Schiff fumbling with the keys, and the cuffs released their grip…
Now, it was Jack McCoy who sighed in relief, rolling his shoulders and rubbing his wrists. Until he felt Schiff's hands on his shoulders, spinning him around…
"What the hell were you thinking?" Schiff demanded.
"Adam, I-"
"Not…one…word!" Schiff could roar quite loudly when he wanted to. "It's clear to me. You weren't thinking! I know Paul Kopell was your friend! I know you want justice for him! But you…are…not…a…cop! You're my Executive Assistant DA! So, leave the derring-do to the cops. They'll do the slicing, and you'll do the dicing! Got it?"
Still rubbing his wrists, McCoy felt exactly the way he did when he was a kid at school, called before the Principal to account for his misdeeds; even his feet were shuffling.
"Yeah, Boss…" he muttered, bowing his head, feeling his face flush.
Again, Adam sighed.
"It's almost five in the morning," he said. "Go home, get a little rest. I'll expect to see you, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, at eight AM."
"Okay Adam…" McCoy nodded, turned to leave.
"And, Jack?" Schiff's voice stopped him at the door.
"Adam?"
"Don't ever do that again."
"Right, Adam…"
Jack McCoy beat a hasty retreat, grateful things didn't turn out as badly as they could have.