A murder in Manhattan, and a killer fled to Puget Sound.
And an ADA on his way to Puget Sound to extradite said killer…
Jack McCoy was flying Coach. The DA's office didn't have any extra dosh to spend on fripperies like Business Class.
So, there Jack McCoy was, jammed in between various other harried travelers who just wanted to get from Point A to Point B…
Chris Metzler-the Suspect Du Jour-had apparently flown Business Class coming and going, the lucky sod.
Eventually, McCoy arrived at his chosen destination; and not a moment too soon…
Several hours crammed in with a harried-looking mother, and her little baby, who didn't stop screaming through the entire trip…
Any longer, and I'd be facing murder charges…
…..
"Seen our guy yet?"
Detective Frank Randazzo was taking his ease while his Junior Partner, Steve Carey, kept lookout.
The plane from Manhattan had come in. So, assuming he hadn't missed his flight, the Executive Assistant DA should be turning up any minute.
"I see him," Detective Cary pointed as Randazzo stood.
Detective Randazzo saw a man very close to his own height, but lean of build, hawk-featured, and dark of hair and eye.
Jack McCoy was apparently traveling light, with only the one duffle bag slung over a shoulder.
My, my…aren't we optimistic…
"Jack McCoy," the man made introductions, so Randazzo responded in kind.
"I'm Detective Frank Randazzo, and this is my partner, Detective Steve Carey. You're here for Chris Metzler?"
"Yeah," McCoy nodded. "He in custody yet?"
"Not yet, Mr. McCoy. But we can pick him up now. Provided you brought the warrant with you."
McCoy reached into the pocket of his shabby green jacket, produced the papers.
"Good," Randazzo pocketed the warrant. "Hope you're not seasick, Mr. McCoy…"
"No, I'm not," McCoy tilted his head slightly. "Why?"
"Metzler teaches at the Island School," Randazzo said. "As its name suggests, it's situated on an island, and there aren't any bridges. We'll have to make the trip by boat."
…
Three hours later
"Mr. Elliott!" the Head Mistress, Emma Weir, exclaimed. "How surprising to see you here after so long a time!"
"Uh…excuse me?"
It was the second time he'd been mistaken for someone else, and it was beginning to alarm Jack McCoy.
Does this have anything to do with the ghost?
She was here too, silently glaring at McCoy.
Emma Weir led the visitors up to her private quarters, talking all the way…
"I never expected to see you again; especially after the tragedy of Claire's death."
McCoy stumbled.
Claire?
How did she know about Claire?
"Still…" Weir continued on, blithely unaware to the bombshell she had just dropped on McCoy.
"We all knew you weren't happy here, Mr. Elliott. It was no surprise to us when you sold the School."
Heart pounding, mouth dry, McCoy held up a hand.
"I'm not this…Mr. Elliott you seem to think I am. I'm Jack McCoy, and I'm the Executive Assistant DA for the District of Manhattan."
"Really?" Emma Weir stood there, eyes wide.
"Really, and truly," McCoy affirmed.
"Well…" Weir looked up at McCoy. "This has got to be the most amazing thing I've ever seen. You look so much like Michael Elliott…it's kind of frightening, actually. Here…let me show you."
"Uh…"Detective Randazzo cleared his throat. "You can do that, Ms. Weir. Detective Carey and I have a warrant to arrest Chris Metzler. Do you know where he is?"
"Down at the Gymnasium, I think," Weir said. "Or in the Dorms…"
"Okay…" Randazzo nodded. "We'll collect him and come back here."
Then, they were gone, leaving an uneasy Jack McCoy with Emma Weir. The woman rummaged around in her desk, came up with something that looked like a high end version of a School Yearbook.
"We're a small school," she explained as she handed the yearbook over. "We generally have no more than around fifty students, and only three, or four teachers."
The yearbook looked expensive, bound in tooled leather, the year, 1974, etched in gold ink on the leather.
"This was Claire Elliott's last year," Weir spoke sadly. "She died suddenly at School-year's end…"
Claire Elliott...not Claire Kincaid...
McCoy felt sort of relieved. It would have been more than he could bear if strangers had somehow learned of his bereavement...
Sighing, he opened the yearbook, the pages falling on the photos of the faculty.
McCoy's mouth went dry on seeing Claire Elliott's photo.
It was the ghost who haunted him, glared at him with hate-filled eyes; and the reason wasn't far to seek…
Michael Elliott…Oh, my god…
His face looked up at him; in every respect, it was his face...
His eyes, his nose, his jawline.
Michael Elliott's face looked younger, though.
But, that photo had been taken back in Nineteen Seventy-four.
I was younger then too…
He put the Yearbook down; truly stunned by the resemblance between himself and Michael Elliott.
We could have been identical twins…
"May I use the bathroom?" he needed to be alone for just a few minutes, to wrap his brain around what he had just seen.
"Yes, Mr. McCoy," she pointed. "It's right over there."
Inside the bathroom, with the door closed, he stared at the tub.
That tub…My god…
It happened here.
Jack McCoy stepped up to the tub, looked around. This was the place of his nightmares…
The place where a woman had died, where his doppelgänger had risen out of the tub with un-natural eyes…
Michael Elliott killed his wife; and he got away with it…
He got away clean…