Ex Scientia Vera

He sent Jimmy home promptly at five o'clock. There was still work to do, confirming the identity of the man in Anthony's car, but that could wait for the morning. Though well meaning the boy's constant chatter and periodic "can you believe it, Doctor Mallard?" was wearing on him. Strange, but once he left it was almost too quiet. It wasn't often that he felt cut off being so far away from the rest of the team. Tonight he was almost tempted to take the elevator up to the bullpen and see if anyone else was still around. They were probably all gone or getting ready to leave. It had been a long day.

"A glass of scotch," he muttered to himself as he made his way to the cabinet next to his desk. He would make a toast to misfortune avoided and relax with a drink before he started filling out the paperwork on today's autopsy.

The autopsy that had almost been Tony's. He'd never been so glad to see clean and scar free lungs in his life.

He didn't think he'd ever be able to forget standing in the middle of 64th avenue starring at the burned shell of blue Chevy, watching his friends slow reactions out of the corner of his eye.

He poured himself two fingers of liqueur into a glass before holding it up in the air.

"May God grant you many years to live, For sure He must be knowing, The earth has angels all too few, And Heaven is overflowing." As he had the other night he let his brogue come out in the words. Old habit. The drink was warm as it coated his throat and he took comfort in it.

"Is this a private toast or may anyone join in?"

"Ziva, my dear, you are more than welcome to join me." He poured a second glass and handed it to her. "Perhaps this time you would like to offer a toast?"

I'm never drinking with Ziva again.

“Autopsy, Mallard speaking.”

“The Director asked me to call you, Doctor Mallard. Special Agent Gibbs and his team are leaving for a scene and they need you.”

“Cynthia?” He knew the Director’s secretary well enough to recognize her voice, but he couldn’t recall ever having talked to her on the phone before. Certainly she had never called him out to a crime scene before.

( Cut for spoilers- 4.24 (Angel of Death) and the promo for season 5 )

First of all, the bad news: David fled from LA on JetBlue before I could kidnap him. Something about celebrating his 40th anniversary with his wife.

Other than that I had an amazing weekend. On Friday I attended a seminar with four real life NCIS agents (when I type up my notes I'll link them here, in case anyone's interested) After the NCIS agents was a semminar with Creig Harvey who is the Chief Coroner for LA county and an advisor for the show. He is an awesome guy. Told us some great stories, answered questions, and brought in real liver probes to show us. He explained exactally how to use it too.

The highlight of the weekend was Saturday morning when we took a bus to Bellosario studios and toured the set. Abby's lab was first. One of the notes on the calendar behind her desk says "Lunch with Ducky" (another says 'Untie McGee for work Monday') I got to sit in MTAC (which is tiny) This year the screen was running (last year it was dark) and it was hooked up to a camera in the room. I got to see myself and my friends on the MTAC screen!

I climbed the stairs of Gibbs' basement and the ones from the bullpen to MTAC. Oh wait, there was a third set in the haunted boat...

Sat in Gibbs' chair. Looked at all the notes and picutres hung up in the bullben. Behind Tony's desk is a picture of a golfing foursome. Two of the people are Michael W and David M (Tony and Ducky). One of my favorite places, of course, was autopsy. I got to open one of the drawers and see where the bodies go.

I ate lunch in the garage set, sitting just about where Otto the car tried to kill Abby last year.

Saturday night Liza Lapera (Special agent Michelle Lee) came to the hotel and signed autographs.

There are a million other things, but those are the highlights. PLease ask any questions you want.

Sarah (Ducky's mun)

Ducky's mun is leaving now for L.A. where she plans to kidnap David McCallum. If she is successful she invites you all to a party. If not she might need bail. Either way she will make another OOC post later this week to tell about her adventures. Until then she hopes you all enjoy the weekend.


art by geometricfandom

The true magic of this broken world lay in the ability of the things it contained to vanish, to become so thoroughly lost, that they might never have existed in the first place." The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay, by Michael Chabon.

*Classified and confidential. Locked from everyone*


“Illya?”

Lost in memories, it took him a moment to hear the voice calling him. He shook his head. Sloppy, for an agent to be so unaware of his surroundings. He was no longer in enforcement, but it was still stupid.

“I thought I would find you up here.” April rested her hand on the sleeve of his ill fitting coat; he had lost weight in the past months.

“There were too many people in the apartment.” He hadn’t been able to breath in the crowd, had needed an escape. The fire escape outside his bedroom window lead up to the roof; he hadn’t expected anyone else to think of it.

“They all care about you, as they cared about Napoleon.” It had been no surprise that the funeral of Napoleon Solo, Number One of the North America branch of U.N.C.L.E. had been attended by so many. People had flown in from the far corners of the globe to pay their respects, and many of them had gathered after the service in Illya and Napoleon’s penthouse.

“Napoleon would have appreciated a party held in his honor with such a guest list, but to be honest I just wish they would all leave.” Illya wanted nothing more then to be alone with his memories in the home that he had shared with his partner for so many years.

“Shall I go clear them out?”

“I would appreciate that.”

“I’ll get Mark to help. Give us half an hour, okay?” She used the pressure of a single finger against his chin to make him look at her. She was the first person to touch him, skin to skin, in three days. Her finger inadvertently brushed the same place where Napoleon had kissed him goodbye.

“Thank you.”

“I miss him too,” April said before leaving him alone on the roof. Illya turned back to the view of the city. He waited almost an hour before returning to the apartment.

True to her word April had gotten rid of all the guests. When he entered the living area from the bedroom only Mark and April still remained. The former was washing glasses in the sink while the later was moving efficiently around the room picking up plates and trash.

“You don’t have to do that. I will clean up.”

“No bother, old man. We’re almost done here.” Mark rinsed a dish and set it in the rack to dry.

“There’s a bottle of merlot on the counter. Why don’t you pour three glasses for us? Mark and I will be done in a minute.”

“I’d rather...”

“Don’t even try, Illya,” April interrupted. “I got rid of the masses for you, but we are not leaving you alone tonight.”

“I was alone yesterday, and I’ll be alone tomorrow. What difference does tonight make?” Even as he posed the question he uncorked the wine and lined up three of the crystal wine glasses that had been a Christmas present from Napoleon one year.

“Because Napoleon wouldn’t want you to be alone tonight.” Though he wanted to protest further, Illya couldn’t. He knew that she was right.

After throwing the the last of the garbage away April helped herself to one of the glasses of wine. She nudged Illya in the shoulder, directing his to the couch. Mark turned off the sink, following the pair with a glass in one hand and the open bottle in the other.

“To Napoleon,” Mark proposed when they were all seated.

“To Napoleon,” Illya repeated when the three glasses clinked together.

“You know, you should think about taking a vacation before coming back to work,” April commented as she refilled the wine glasses.

“That won’t be necessary. I shall be at work on Monday.”

“If anyone deserves some time off it’s you, Illya. The office can run for another week or two without you running security,” Mark commented.

“There is no reason to put off the inevitable. Monday is just as good a time as any to handle the details of my resignation.”

“Your what?” April’s mouth gaped and her eyes widened. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m very serious. I will give my notice and stay until a replacement can be found, and then I will leave U.N.C.L.E.” The letter had been typed for months, waiting for this day. He couldn’t stay at the same job, work in the same building, when a part of him hoped to turn the corner of a hallway and meet his partner.

“You’re not just talking about leaving U.N.C.L.E. are you?” Placing the wine glass on the coffee table- without a coaster, which would have incited a lecture if Napoleon was here- April turned to face him. She rested one of her hands on Illya’s forearms. “You’re talking about leaving.”

“I can’t stay here.” His gesture encompassed the room and the view outside the panoramic window.

“Where will you go?” Mark questioned softly. “Back to Russia?”

“No. Russia is a lifetime ago, no more my home then any of the other places I have traveled. I don’t yet know where I will go. Perhaps London or Paris, or maybe California. Napoleon always did like the sun there; we talked of retiring and buying a place in San Francisco or Monterey in a few years. That was before...” Before the cancer that had ravaged his body, destroying all their plans.

“I could see Napoleon living in California. He’d spend his days lazing on a beach and his nights at those posh Hollywood parties you read about in the fan magazines. He always did wear a tux well.”

“Yes, he did.” He had been buried in a tux, his favorite. For old times sake Illya had fastened the cuffs with exploding cufflinks.

“The first time I ever met him Napoleon was wearing a tux. We were protecting a delegate and...” Mark told a story, and it was followed by one of April’s. For hours they exchanged reminiscences as they made their way through three more bottles of wine and part of a bottle of vodka. After she almost choked on a sip of alcohol because she was yawning, April decided it was time to call an end to the storytelling.

“If you boys don’t mind I’m going to hit the sack,” she announced.

“Good idea, mate. Why don’t you take the guest bed and I’ll take the couch.” At the mere suggestion of sleep Mark felt his eyes grow heavy.

“This isn’t necessary, either of you. You said you would stay with me for the night and you have. The sun will rise in an hour.” It had felt right to share stories of his many years with Napoleon with two of the few people he truly considered friends, but now he needed to be alone.

“Now Illya, you’re not really going to send us out in the cold, are you? Who knows who could be waiting for us around the corner, and neither Mark or I are exactly at out fighting best.” As if to prove her point April tried to stand up but stumbled and fell back to the couch.

“Besides we were hoping to talk you into making us those pancakes of yours tomorrow. Great hangover food, and I’ve got a feeling we’ll need that.”

“Fine you may stay, but I make no promises about breakfast.” His own walk was barely affected by the alcohol, despite the fact that he had eaten little that day, and he headed straight for the bedroom door. Before he closed himself off from the others he turned his head and looked back over his shoulder. “Goodnight and... thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” April and Mark responded, but it was too late. The bedroom door was closed.

II

Two weeks later the blue eyed blond driving south from New York City carried a driver license proclaiming him to be Donald Mallard. An expertly forged diploma gave him an MD from Edinburgh University and a passport, similarly forged, made him Scottish by birth and an American citizen by choice. Hacked computer records would back up the papers.

A new job and a new life waited for him in Virginia. His old life was so thoroughly erased that Illya Kuryakin might never had existed.

-Revenge-

I can't wait to weigh your liver.

He'd meant it, two years ago when Gerald had been laying on the floor, bleeding. His feelings hadn't changed, unless they'd deepened. He wasn't sorry Ari was dead, not even knowing that it might cause Jethro problems, knowing that the Director was angry, knowing that Officer David was grieving. He felt it fitting that Ari's body was on his autopsy table, but he took no pleasure in the fact.

Ari's liver weighed 1426 grams.

Kate's had weighed 1257.


-Vindication-

He could have been wrong. He wasn't. He'd rerun the tests twice, once to check his own work and once when Abby had asked him to. He rarely could say no to Abby. She was so sure that the young woman had been murdered, and equally sure that the man stalking the Private was to blame.

Jimmy Palmer offered to take the results upstairs. It was sweet, how protective the boy was sometimes. He had refused, and though Jimmy had opened his mouth to protest he had thought better of it. He could feel the boy watching him as he left the room and opened the door to the stairwell. The single flight of stairs was good exercise, but more importantly it was a few minutes of reprieve.

Abby looked up from her desk when he walked through the second set of automatic doors, her smile of greeting falling away when she read his expression.

"I'm sorry, Abigail."

He was right, but that didn't help a young Marine who had taken her own life and it didn't help the woman in front of him, grieving for a lost soul even though they'd never met.



-Relief-

He still dreams about it. Not often, but when he's exhausted from a particularly long work week or worrying about his mother the memories invade his sleep. Sometimes it's the darkness closing in around him, the tape over his mouth keeping him from calling out. Sometimes it's the madness in twin eyes. Most often it's the smell of copper that overwhelms him, the knowledge the his life is being siphoned away.

The nightmare doesn't linger once he awakes. He knows something the demons don't- the ending of his dreams. He knows that his friends arrives in time, that Jethro's strong hands staunched the flow of blood. He remembers the concern, the tender care, the chicken noodle soup that was forced on him every time he turned around.

In the end the nightmare is only a reminder that he is not alone.


I apologise to anyone whose threads I dropped with Ducky. His muse has not been speaking to me lately. Either he's a bit cantancerious that I killed him in my last post, or my brain is so full of Doctor Who that he just can't be heard. I am still around, and hopefully will be more active. I do read all your entries, even if I don't comment.

Autopsy was empty when he arrived, and Ducky wondered where Jimmy Palmer had disappeared to. The body was already laid out on the middle table, still dressed in bloody clothing, so he must have come back to NCIS. Probably in the loo, or perhaps in Abby’s lab. This autopsy was going to be a difficult one, and Ducky didn’t blame the young boy for needing some time to prepare mentally. Though there was no such thing as a routine autopsy, some were harder than others. He still remembered seeing Caitlin on the aluminum table, and having to force himself to pick up the scalpel after Jethro left him alone. It had been the first time in years his Y incision started with hesitation marks. He suspected young Mr. Palmer might feel the same way today.

“Mr. Mallard.” The doors opened in ghostly silence, and Ducky was no longer alone.

“Doctor Mallard, actually,” he corrected. “But you may call me Ducky.”

“My apologies, Ducky.” The stranger’s voice was soft, and carried a hint of an accent that Ducky couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t so much that he was from another place, but another time; his speech pattern just a little out of sync.

“I’ve seen you before. You were at the crime scene earlier.” Something nagged at Ducky, something he should remember, or should know, but like a wisp of a cloud he couldn’t grasp it. “If you’re here for an interview you should go upstairs. I don’t know how you even got down here.”

“Oh, I’m in the right place, doctor.” He carried a cup of coffee in one hand, and Ducky winced when he stepped farther into the room. No food or drink in autopsy was one of his strict rules. Jethro was a rare exception, and it had taken a few years of careful observation before he stopped worrying about spilled coffee. This man, this stranger, obviously didn’t have a clue.

“Who are you?” Ducky demanded, stepping between the man and the occupied autopsy table.

“Rube,” he answered with a half smile. “I’m here to guide you home.”

“I know my way home perfectly well, thank you, but I have work to do first.” Where was Mr Palmer? They needed to start the autopsy. Jethro would be storming down any time, wanting answers, and his patience today was going to be very thin.

“It’s someone else’s job now. Perhaps that young man who accompanied you earlier, perhaps someone else,” Rube said with a shrug. “It really doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters. I can’t leave Jimmy alone to face this. It will be hard enough even with me standing beside him.”

“There is nothing you can do.”

“You’re wrong, Mr. Rube.” The autopsy door opened again, this time admitting Jimmy Palmer, attired in fresh green scrubs. He came straight for the autopsy table, but slowly, almost hesitantly. His hands ungloved, he didn’t touch the body yet, but studied it carefully.

“I’m sorry, Doctor Mallard,” Jimmy said without looking up.

“You don’t need to apologize, my boy.” Ducky looked his assistant over carefully, for the first time noticing how he had aged in the last three years, become less of a boy and more of a man. “You’re going to make a fine doctor someday soon.”

“Ducky...” Rube rested a hand on Ducky’s shoulder, but Ducky shook it off.

“I’ve always talked to them, the men and women who have found their way onto my table. It helped me to remember who they were and why I needed to do this job. I was never sure if there was anyone to listen, or if I was speaking to nobody. It didn’t matter really, but I still always wondered.” Ducky took a step back when Jimmy returned, his hands scrubbed and covered in latex. “Today, if Mr. Palmer wishes to talk there will be someone here to listen.”

Rube nodded thoughtfully and moved back to stand in the corner of the room. Ducky stayed where he was and listened.

He listened to the silence, and then to Jimmy’s halting monologue, a mix of reminders about procedures and memories of shared experiences. “You’re doing well,” he said, and knew it was true. His job was passed on to the right man.

He listened to Jethro’s demands for answers and railings against the killer who returned to the scene of his crime to take one more life before losing his own. “I wish you peace, my friend. You got the bastard, and now you need to let it go. Let me go.” There was so much more to say, but it would have to come from other lips. Ducky only hoped that Gibbs would listen.

He heard Tony’s self-recriminations and whispered goodbye, Tim’s denial, Ziva’s request for him to look up the young man in the jogging cap. “If it’s possible, I will,” he promised. They would be all right, those three. They would miss him, to be sure, but their lives would continue and their grief would fade.

When the lights were turned off and the day was almost over it was the muffled sobs of a woman who never cried that filled his ears. Her face was buried in the gray plush of her stuffed hippo, her knees pulled up to her chest as she huddled in the corner of the room.

“Oh dear. Oh my dear, please don’t. Not for me.” He tried to reach for her, to pull her into a comforting hug like he had so many times before, but his hand passed through her. For the first time in hours he sought out his silent companion.

“Sorry, but there really is nothing you can do.”

“Don’t you get tired of saying that?” Abby’s sobs were breaking his heart, and he needed to make sure she would be all right before he left. She was so very strong, so wonderfully strong in mind and spirit, but she also had so much to carry. He had to know that this loss wouldn’t be too much for her to bear. If she crumbled Jethro would too, and they were the most important people in the world to him. He couldn’t be their downfall.

“I don’t make the rules. I’m bound to them the same as everyone else.” His coffee long gone, Rube still carried the paper cup. He rolled it between his hands languidly.

“Not quite the same. You’re different than most. You speak to the living and the dead, don’t you?” Ducky crouched on the floor before Abby, his hand hovering just above her hair.

“And what, you think it will make her feel better to have some stranger walk up to her and say ‘your friend Ducky says hi’? It doesn’t work,” Rube said dismissively.

“You don’t know Abigail,” Ducky muttered, though he knew Rube was right for the most part. “You could do something smaller for me, something more subtle, couldn’t you?”

“You had something in mind?”

“The books over there,” Ducky nodded towards the bookcase that contained medical texts mixed in with a few of his personal volumes. “Could you make one fall? Perhaps even open to a particular page.”

“I could do that,” Rube agreed.

A moment later when a book fell Abby started, her head jerking up. Ducky bit his lip upon seeing the red eyes and running makeup, but refrained from trying to touch her again. It was too hard, knowing that he would fail. Hugging the stuffed animal close to her chest, Abby rose from the corner and moved across the room to the bookcase, only loosening her hold on Bert to pick up the book.

It hadn’t been hard for Rube to make the book of poetry fall open to the right page, as it was well worn. As Ducky had hoped, Abby’s curiosity got the better of her and she read the poem written there. He hoped it would speak to her as it had so often spoken to him. His mother had given him the book a lifetime ago. His lifetime. She read it aloud, her voice shaky but clear.

Remember me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day
You tell me of our future that you plann'd:
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.*

“Abbs?” Ducky sighed in relief when Jethro came into the room. His eyes were dark with exhaustion but he no longer radiated the anger from earlier. And more importantly he was here, and his dearest ones were not alone.

“Did you know that Ducky kept poetry books at work, Gibbs?”

“No, I didn’t. Sounds like him though.”

“What are we going to do?” Abby squeezed Bert a little harder, and Ducky had to smile at the noise. Such a little thing, but so reassuring in its familiarity.

“We’re going to go home and sleep. It’s been a long day.” Ducky wondered if Gibbs really would sleep anytime soon, or if the repetitive motion of sandpaper against wood would be as relaxed as he got.

“I don’t...”

“You’re coming with me, Abbs.” It was almost an order, definitely a promise. “You don’t need to be alone tonight.”

“Neither do you.” She kissed him on the cheek and, after transferring hippo and book to one arm, looped the other one around his waist. “Will you tell me a story tonight, Gibbs? Something about Ducky before I joined NCIS? We need to remember.”

“We couldn’t forget him, Abbs.”

“Gibbs...”

“Did Duck ever tell you about the first assistant he had here? The guy didn’t even last a day.”

Ducky listened as they walked away and the doors of the elevator closed behind them. When silence fell once again he turned to look for Rube but the man was gone. The room was filling with light, though, and Ducky could almost make out the sound of bagpipes. His mind finally at peace, he walked into what looked like the forest behind his childhood home.

*Remember Me, by Christina Rossetti

"You have a strange sense of humor, Jethro."

"Not a joke, Duck. I thought you might want to know ahead of time. Apparently it's supposed to be a moral booster." Gibbs lookedexasperatedly at the ceiling of the room, as if he could see through the three stories that separated them from the Director's office.

"That might work for University students working part time jobs in retail. I hardly think a plaque naming one 'employee of the month' is going tomotivate anyone here to work harder."

"Take it up with Jen. You know this wasn't my idea."

"Of that there's no doubt, my friend," Ducky allowed himself a chuckle. "Still, it's not worth bearding the lion in her den. Not for something this trivial. I am curious, though. How did I get chosen as the first person to get the award?"

"Why, don't you think you'd be my first choice?"

Ducky folded his arms and lifted a single eyebrow.

"Apparently Tony is ineligible because of that incident last week, McGee's going on vacation tomorrow, Ziva told me exactly what she would do if I gave it to her, and I sure as hell wasn't going to give it to myself."

"And Abigail?"

"Abs said she wants your name on it first, because Mallard comes before Scuito in the alphabet. She'll get it next month."

"You can't decide who the employee of the month is ahead of time," Ducky scolded.

"Sure I can. You, Abbs, McGee, DiNozzo, if he ever qualifies, Palmer, and then I believe it goes to one of the guys in the mail room. Abby made a list."

"I'm sure that's not at all what the Director intended."

"I'm sure it's not, but since when do I play by her rules?"

"It is rather too warm outside for Hades to have frozen." A thought occurred to Ducky, and he offered his friend a smile. "Well, I suppose there is a positive side to winning a pointless award."

"What's that?"

"We shall have to go out after work and celebrate. First round's on me."

"Sounds good, Duck," Gibbs agreed. "Second round can be on DiNozzo."

You Are a Centaur

In general, you are a very cautious and reserved person. However, you are also warm hearted, and you enjoy helping others in practical ways. You are a great teacher, and you are really good at helping people get their lives in order. You are very intuitive, and you go with your gut. You make good decisions easily.

I would agree with cautious and reserved (I am British, after all)
I hope that both warm heared and good teacher are true.
Go with my gut? That's much more Jethro than myself. How many times have I explained to him that I won't make hypothetical guesses until I have evidence?

My mother forgot me on a bus when I was nine months old. By the account I was given she was halfway down the street when one of the passengers came running after her, carrying me in her arms. Mother used to laugh when she told me about that day and the scoldings she received from the passenger, the bus driver, and my father.

Flighty, my father called her. Absent minded, she labeled herself. I wouldn't have traded her for anything. True, the sandwiches she included in my lunch tin were sometimes nothing more than two pieces of bread with nothing in between. Dinner was never served at an exact time and she didn't always remember my birthday. But oh, what a jolly time we had together.

We built a fort in the back yard, just the two of us. It was a haphazard affair, two sides made of fallen logs, the rest comprised of rocks in varying sizes. There was a roof of sorts, a tarp nailed to a tree branch. An old bookcase, rescued from the cellar, stood in one corner. We kept our 'provisions' there. Canteens of water, tins of fruit, a can opener, long sticks that served as swords or fishing poles.

We were pirates sailing the seven seas, Robin Hood and his merry man running through the forest, spies hiding behind trees and gathering intelligence that would defeat the enemy. Sometimes we would bring a collection of Shakespeare's plays out from the house and read them aloud. Mother was a wonder at doing different voices.

I remember one night when I was about nine, Mother woke me up from a sound sleep. We tiptoed down the stairs, careful not to wake up Father who had no patience for our games. She had a quilt laid out behind the house. We rested on it and watched meteors shoot across the sky as Mother told stories of the Greek Gods and their habit of memorializing heros in the constellations.

I miss her, that sparkling woman who was my best mate growing up. It’s hard, sometimes, to see who she is now and remember who she was.

Would I ever kill another human being?

Yes.

Does it come as a surprise that I didn't stop to ponder, to deliberate, the idea?

I signed an oath. When I choose to enter the medical profession I studied the Hippocratic Oath, and swore to abide by it. I believed in it then. I still do. Life is sacred, and I will do anything in my power to protect that sanctity.

True, as a medical examiner I do not come across living patient often, but I see my share. I've stitched Jethro up on multiple occasions. When Abigail and Timothy were exposed to cyanide gas I looked after them. I constantly scold Anthony abut his diet. Every two years when the team needs to take physicals to prove that they are able to be in the field I am the one to conduct them. And Gerald, when Ari made his first appearance.

It is my job, my calling, to relieve the pain of those around me. Physical, mental, emotional.

So why do I so easily agree that I would take a life? Two reasons.

There are times when the pain that a person feels is so overwhelming that it crushes them. Humans have tremendous endurance, but when pain has no end, when one knows that it will continue forever and only get worse, it is unendurable. Some call it euthanasia, some call it mercy killings, and some call it murder. I call it granting the dying dignity.

It should only be a last resort, when there is nothing left to be done and the morphine isn't helping and all that the person has left is a life time of chronic pain.

If anyone ever asked for my help in this regard I would have to search my soul, to determine if it was truly the only avenue left. And if it was? I would help them.

A doctor who believe in euthanasia probably doesn't come as any great surprise. But I said two reasons, didn't I?

I remember, vividly, the first time I realized that I would willingly take the life of another human being. Ironically it was the man I was contemplated who first said the words out loud. I didn't know how serious I was when I asked if I could have a turn attacking him with the dissecting tool.

I think not, Doctor. You would kill me without hesitation.

Ari. The bastard was right. Though I might not have killed him for my own sake, I would have done it for Gerald. If I had been able to look into the future I would have done it for Caitlin too. To protect my family I would do anything, even kill.

Would I have regretted it, as Ari predicted? Perhaps, but one can live with regret. Living without friends, without family, is so much harder.

Amazing how true this turned out from a few picture choices.

Doctor Wilson, whose nick name of pancake_master is so amusing, had the most intriguing entry in his journal the other day. I believe you call it a ‘meme.’ It had to do with interviewing another person, asking them any five questions you desired. The idea appealed to me and I asked if he wouldn’t mind asking me five question. He consented, and came up with the most thought compelling questions. Both question and answer are listed below.

If there is anything else anyone would like to know, please ask.


01. Even when it's for med school and even when they end up working with them closely, a lot of people have pretty interesting and often negative reactions the first time they see a dead body. What was your reaction?

I was nauseous, that first time. Oh, it was so long ago- half a century ago if one chooses to look at it that way. I don’t think I will. My professor was a firm believer in ‘throw people in the deep end to see if they can swim’ method of teaching, and so my first viewing of a body began with a scalpel in my hand and the instruction to perform a Y incision.

I was afraid my hand would shake, and so I started talking to the dead man. I learned his name form the tag on his toe and asked him how he died, observed the physical features of his body, and even spoke of the weather, I believe. And somehow that made me calmer, and I got through the whole procedure without a problem. My professor said it was one of the best first time autopsies he had ever seen. I should have known then that I was destined to become a Medical Examiner.

Now the first time I had to look a person in the eye and tell them they were dying I threw up in my waste paper basket the moment they left the room.

02. As a medic in the military, did you find that the urgency made it harder or easier to deal with the incoming death and traumatic injury?

Dealing with death is never easy, of course. But yes, in some ways the urgency helped, at least when I was on duty. Moving from patient to patient there was very little time to think. It was almost like being on automatic pilot, simply doing what needed to be done. The hard part came when work was over and the hands were no longer busy. Then there was nothing to stop you from thinking about the wounds and death, to question the decisions made under duress.

We drank a lot during our off hours. We also did everything we could to come up with entertainments to distract ourselves.

03. What was your closest personal brush with death?

I can answer that almost to the second. I was about two and a half minutes from death once. Duct tape on my mouth, tied to an embalming table, with a catheter inserted directly into my carotid artery. I could almost feel the blood flowing out, and the smell of copper was so strong.

Fortunately for my continued existence Jethro, Tony and Caitlin arrived in time and once my hands were free I was able to stop the bleeding until we could get to the hospital. I was so very pleased not to wind up on my own autopsy table. I do wish the same could be said for Grant, Judge Davis, Foss and Cesaretti.

04. Is or was there ever a Mrs. Ducky?

The only Mrs. in my family is Mother, who I live with. I know that sound odd for a man of almost seventy to say, but the poor dear suffers from dementia and needs such a lot of looking after.

I’ve dated my share of people, but there never was anyone I felt serious enough about to propose. For the most part I am content, but I do wish I had had the opportunity to be a father. But then again young Mr. Palmer certainly acts enough like a child sometimes...

05. Has anyone ever told you that you look kind of like that one guy from The Man from U.N.C.L.E.? My mom used to love him and always said he was my dad's only competition. Hah.

I have heard that for forty years. My friend Jethro likes to tease me about it. Back when the show was on the air I actually had to run from mobs of fans who were convinced that I was David McCallum. Once I stayed and tried to convince them that I was a doctor, not an actor. My shirt ended up being torn in little pieces. It was a nice shirt, too.

Thom E. Gemcity
c/o: Lyndi Crawshaw

Dear Mr. Gemcity-

It's not often that I get the opportunity to write to an author whose work I so enjoy. Most of the books I read are written by those long departed from this mortal coil. This is, indeed, a pleasure.

The cover of your book caught my interest a few weeks ago when I was browsing among the employee recommendations. When I read what the story was about I couldn't resist buying it- I have a bit of an interest in crime scene investigation, particularly as it relates to the Navy. When I settled into my chair that same evening I only intended to read a chapter or two. It was almost three o'clock when I finished the book.

You tell a very engrossing tale, Mr. Gemcity. The plot was complex and it wasn't until almost the very end when I guessed who the killer was. I was wrong. You also have a good grasp on the ins and outs of investigation. You must have done quite a bit of research.

More than the story what held my interest were the characters. They were wonderfully three dimensional. I feel like I could meet them on the street and know them. LJ Tibbs, of course, was a wonderfully complex character. It was intriguing the way you chose to make him your central character, but did not feel the need to soften the edges that might have made some people feel uncomfortable. Very brave of you, and yet it works. One feels empathetic for the man, despite the fact that his methods are sometimes questionable. I particularly like the way you showed his softer side when it came to his interactions with Amy Sutton, the lab tech.

The banter between Tommy and Lisa was entertaining, though I hope you don't plan to take their flirting to a more serious level in the next book. They are good sparring partners but would make horrible lovers.

The one part that disturbed me in the book was the insinuations you made about the character of Pimmy Jalmer and his inappropriate relations with the corpses in autopsy. Really, my boy, did you need to include that line?

All in all, though, I am looking forward to the further adventures of Tibbs and his team.

Yours,

D. Mallard

PS- Perhaps in the next novel Peter Finch, the ME, can have a date with a woman who does not try to kill him?

Once upon a time there was a girl.

No, she'd hate that. A woman. A wonderful strong talented and intelligent woman. Though the distance of forty years made her seem so young she was not a child. Far from it.

I first met Caitlin when she was a Secret Service agent, fighting for jurisdiction of a case that involved the death of a Navy officer protecting the President. The young man had died on Air Force One, which she said made it her case. The man was Navy, and Jethro claimed that made it our case. She stood up to him, didn't let him push her around. I knew then that she was something special. Of course Jethro solved the problem by hijacking the plane...

I've been thinking of Kate quite a bit in these last weeks. This May will mark two years since she was taken from us by that bastard Ari. Two years since she's walked through the doors of autopsy with a bright smile and an inquisitive mind. Two years since she's sat across from me at a table, drinking tea or eating lunch. We used to have the most interesting conversations about her family, my travels, and the faith we both shared.

Just a week before she died I held her in my arms as she cried, worried about Tony's fate. I didn't know then that the next tears to be shed would be over her body.

I do wish her grave was close enough to visit more than once a year. She deserves flowers...

Oh Caitlin, you are missed my dear. Sorely missed.

For all the strength and energy people exude the human body is so very fragile. Fragile. The root of the word comes from the Latin frangere, meaning “to break.” I’ve seen a lot of broken bodies in my life. I would say that I’ve seen everything that can be done to the human anatomy, but too often I am surprised with the new ways that people come up with to hurt each other. Dissected bodies in vats of acid, mummified corpses, bodies shot after they are already dead. There doesn’t seem to be a limit to mankind’s imagination when it comes to murder.

In my younger years, when I was still practicing my craft on the living instead of using my skills to determine their deaths, I traveled to Turkey. They have a proverb there: “Man is harder than iron, stronger than stone and more fragile than a rose.” In the men and women I work with everyday I see the iron and stone. But I see past it, to the fragility underneath. It makes me appreciate them so much more.

It’s been almost two years since the broken body on my table has belonged to someone I’ve loved. I say a prayer every morning that this will not be the day that changes.