Sins Of the Perpetrator
Chapter Two
Logan got his HIV test and then tried desperately to put the whole miserable situation behind him. After all, he didn't have to make any rash decisions until he knew for certain that he had become infected by the perp's nasty bite. Thinking about that fateful night while biting his lower lip so hard that he drew blood, Logan could once again see those sharp teeth sinking into the muscle of his forearm. He usually only rolled up his shirt sleeves in the precinct, as it had a tendency to be quite hot, even in winter, when the thermostat was turned way up. But that day had been unusually warm for October and Logan had left his suit jacket in the squad car. Damn! Why hadn't he just put up with the uncomfortable temperature and then this nightmare would not be unfolding.
Although he was putting on a very convincing front to both Max and Cragen, the two of them couldn't help noticing that Logan was much quieter and more subdued than usual. A normally cheerful man with a wicked sense of humour, Mike Logan merely sat at his desk in silence that day, going over his notes and keeping his head low.
Finally, Max Greevey said to his partner, "Hey, what's with you? Cat got your tongue or are you just in a pissy mood?" Greevey touched Logan on the forearm with his beefy hand, only to have it snatched back horridly.
"Hey, what the fuck's your problem?" Max asked, exasperation lacing his voice. "You think I was propositioning you or something. Well, Mike, I'll have you know that I'm very happily married and straight as an arrow."
"Shut up!" Logan shot back. "Of course I don't think you're coming on to me. I just don't like being touched sometime. Get back to work and stop trying to psychoanalyse me for God's sake." Logan rose to his feet and wandered over to the Xerox machine, where he had to make several copies of some of the carefully written notes. His hands trembled as he did this and he felt a dizzy and nauseous sensation submerging him. He was like a man drowning in the middle of the ocean and having nobody to rescue him. After all, who could rescue a person infected with HIV? The answer was, no-one. For all intents and purposes, he was alone in his own horror film.
The following three days crawled like a wounded boa constrictor, inching its way across a vast desert in search of water and food. Logan merely went through the motions as far as work was concerned and on his own time, he broke two dates that he'd had planned for Friday and Saturday night, fearful of having to squirm out of making love with them, lest they pick up his deadly germs. Logan was beside himself, wondering if this was the end of his life as he knew it and the beginning of a celibate life filled with illness, dying and death. Surely the test would be negative. Surely this entire nightmare that he was keeping to himself would have a happy ending.
As it turned out, that wasn't to be the case. As his phone rang at home late one Wednesday afternoon, twenty minutes after returning from work, the news on the other end caused Logan to feel as if he'd been transformed into a jagged rock, devoid of life and a future. "Is this Mike Logan?" a female voice asked, a rather gentleness colouring her tone.
"Yes, this is Logan. Who am I speaking to please?"
"This is Dr. Solomon's office. We have the results of your HIV test. Do you wish to hear them over the phone, or should I make an appointment for you with the physician?" Just hearing that last statement said it all for Mike Logan. "Just spit it out," he responded, his hands suddenly feeling clammy and cold.
"I'm afraid that the test came back positive. I assume you understand what that means, Mr. Logan?" Her voice continued in its soft compassionate tone. "I think you should come and see Dr. Solomon, so that he can let you know about treatments and medications available to you, should you develop full-blown AIDS sometime in the future."
"Y–you mean that there's a chance I might not get AIDS at all? That it could be, what is it? Um, it could be dormant forever?" Logan wanted to clutch onto as many loose straws as he could to assuage the anxiety and panic that were welling up inside him, threatening to blow him into a million jagged fragments.
"One should always have hope," the woman responding, choosing her words carefully. "And they're working on medication that will, hopefully, extend patients' lives and improve their quality of living. However, they're still several years in the future."
"So, what you're saying is that I haven't a chance in hell of living through this, right?" Logan's voice was tinged with anger as he began shaking violently. "I'm going to die one of these days, huh? So, like I need to start planning for my funeral and as far as women are concerned, I'll be off-limits to any lovemaking for the rest of my days?"
"Well, we don't recommend you engage in sexual activity, but if you ever were to, a condom is a necessity."
"Forget it. I'm not taking chances with one of those. I've had them break on me sometimes. It's too damn risky. Guess I might as well join the priesthood, right? I'm going to be this sexless guy who can't even look at a woman for the rest of my fucked-up life."
After Logan hung up, he collapsed on his couch, the full impact of the woman's words still refusing to make an impact on the detective. He decided to believe that he would be one of the lucky few that would never develop full-blown AIDS. After all, he'd been pretty healthy all his life, aside from the common childhood diseases and getting shot three years before. "No damn HIV germs are going to penetrate my immune system," Logan thought to himself, staring off into space. "Maybe if I was to start praying or something."
Logan surprised himself with that last rumination. A devoid detested of the Catholic faith, for some very good reasons, Mike Logan thought that he'd never have anything to do with a Lord that allowed him to have been born to such a terrible mother and to have been an alter boy to a pedophile priest.
The next day, Logan arrived at the precinct looking pale and with dark circles under his large, sad eyes. When asked if he was feeling alright, the detective replied, "Yeah, sure. Never felt better, actually. Well, come on guys, let's get to work."
Logan found himself acting like an android, devoid of feelings and dark emotions. He said little to Donald or Max and kept to himself as much as was possible. One afternoon, as he and Max were staking out a warehouse which had been transformed into a filthy, rundown crack house, Max ventured to figure out what was the matter with his usually funny and urbane partner.
"Hey, Mike. You gonna tell me what's eating you alive, or do I have to play a lame guessing game with you?" He smiled warmly at Logan, hoping that, since it was just the two of them together in the squad car, that Mike might open up to him. He was dead wrong.
"Nothing. Nothing is eating me alive, as you put it, or bothering me at all. Go take your fishing rod somewhere else, Max, okay?" Logan folded his arms protectively against his chest and fell silent.
Greevey knew that no amount of coercing would drag any information out of Mike Logan if he didn't wish to share, so he wisely changed the subject. "Don't you just hate these stake outs? He asked Mike, shaking his head wearily. "I mean, they hardly ever nab us a perp anymore. We ought to just sneak in there and nab them as they light up their pipes. What do you say?"
Mike's answer stunned his partner. "Okay, sounds like a great idea. I'll go in ahead of you and we'll break up their little crack party. Good thought, Max." Logan patted Greevey on the back and started to get out of the car.
Max grasped him tightly by the sleeve of his jacket. "Whoa, whoa, hold it right there, Mike! I was just kidding! Going in there now would be suicide. You know that. What the hell's the matter with you anyway? You got some kind of death wish or what?"
Logan realized that he'd made a mistake and was dangerously close to revealing his terrible secret. But then, shouldn't Max know? What if Logan's blood got on Greevey by mistake and Greevey ended up having a cut on his hand or whatever? Did he have a moral obligation to let his partner in on everything? Logan didn't think he could withstand knowing that he got someone else sick. "Naw, nothing like that, Max. I guess I just wasn't thinking."
Later, when one of the drug dealers emerged from the former warehouse, both detectives saw their opportunity to nab him and so they did. The perpetrator's magnum was confiscated and then, Logan and Greevey, after putting handcuffs on the guy and locking him in the back seat of the squad car, entered the building and found three crack heads, lying on the floor with their tongues lolling out of their mouths. "Sorry to break up your little party," Max said, kicking a..22 away from a stoned druggie who'd tried to reach it in time, "but you're all taking a little trip downtown."
"Anymore of you in this building anywhere?" Logan asked, knowing that they'd already apprehended the dangerous person. The two cops had taken a chance by bursting in on the crack addicts, but they'd been told that the only one not to encounter was Lexus, the white dealer. Fortunately, he was in no position to hurt either Greevey or Logan.
"No, nobody else is here," the stoned man, an African-American of twenty-five or so, mumbled as he was handcuffed. "You guys will pay for bustin' up our little soiree."
"Oh, gee, I'm just so terrified," Logan responded, shoving the man out the door. "Aren't you scared too, Max?"
"Yeah, I just might have a coronary," Greevey responded, rounding up the other two who were so stoned that they didn't seem to realize what was happening to them.
Back at the precinct, the two detectives recorded what had gone down at the crack house and then had lunch with Cragen—take out Chinese this time. The cops at the two seven weren't known as health food advocates.
Logan was silent throughout the meal and merely picked at his food. This was not lost on Donald Cragen. "Hey, Mikey. Since when are you not hungry, particularly after a stake-out?"
Logan stopped pretending to eat and set his chopsticks down. "I'm just kind of feeling like crap," he responded, handing the rest of his food to Max, who absolutely never was absent of an appetite. "Maybe I'll take off early today, if that's okay with you." Logan was dog tired and had begun feeling the full effect of the harrowing news he'd recently received. He just needed to get away, go see some film that might distract him from the knowledge that was becoming more and more difficult to keep to himself.
"Sure, sure," Cragen responded, a look of concern on his kindly face. "You sure there's nothing wrong, Mike? You just haven't been yourself today."
"I can't talk about it," Logan answered, grabbing his jacket and starting to walk out of the precinct. " Just let me work it out, okay?" His stomach was churning uncomfortably, partly from fear and partly from lack of food. "I'll be in tomorrow, okay?"
"Okay, sure," said Cragen, turning his gaze on Max. "You and Profaci won't mind working together this afternoon, will you?"
"No, I think I can stand him for a few hours," Greevey joked. "As long as he doesn't ask us to make too many donut stops." He laughed for a minute, then looked over at Logan as he approached the door of the station. "I'll call you tonight," he told his partner, "and then maybe you can come over for dinner with Marie and me. How's that sound?"
"Um, sounds good. See you guys later," and with that, Logan was gone, leaving both Donald Cragen and Max Greevey to wonder what had transformed the affable Mike Logan into a quiet and morose person.
"Something's buggin' him," Max remarked, rapping his fist on the desk. "He's just not himself. Yesterday, I asked him what hot number he had in mind for a weekend in Paradise and he told me to "fuck off". I tell you, Donald, there's something going on with Mike and he doesn't seem willing to open up to us."
"Do you think if I talked to him privately that he'd come around and spill the beans?" Cragen asked, fearful that there might have been a death in the family, like his beloved father. He'd had a pacemaker put in several years ago, after all. Suppose something had gone wrong. Cragen decided that the next day, he'd go with Mike to their favourite pub after work and see if anything gets uncovered.
"Good idea," responded Max after he'd heard of Donald's plans. "He just might open up to you. You've been a confidante of his before.
So, at seven in the evening on the following day, Cragen and Logan sat across from one another at "O'Hara's Pub". Cragen, a recovering alcoholic, had a coffee sitting in front of him, while Logan was drinking double bourbons on the rocks. The place wasn't busy at this hour, so there was no loud din of voices and Irish music to drown out the men's voices. Cragen took a sip of his coffee and then, following some banal and superficial chatter, came straight out and asked, "Mike, both Max and myself have noticed that you haven't been yourself lately. Is there anything you might want to talk over with me? I promise, anything you tell me goes no further than here, okay?"
Logan stared at his drink and remained silent. Finally, he said to his boss, "Listen, I'm not one of these people who goes around letting people know stuff. I mean, it's just not me, you know? So, although I appreciate your concern, I think I'd prefer to handle things on my own."
"Oh, so there IS something troubling you," Donald deduced, putting his cup down and looking Mike right in the eye. "Don't just let things fester. I know from past experience that it can only make things worse. I'm not here to judge you, to offer advice or to react in a negative fashion to whatever it is you tell me, Mike. You have to trust me on this." Cragen watched as Logan's hand shook as he picked up his glass and that he was having great difficulty keeping his composure.
"Donald, it's just that----well, that this kind of information could affect my life in so many bad ways. I doubt if I'd be able to keep my job as detective at the two seven or that either you, Max, Profaci or anyone there would look at me the same way again. I don't want to be a fucking outcast, man. And that's just what I'd be if this got out." Logan was having a difficult time preventing his eyes from welling up.
"Look, Mike, whatever it is, we'll deal with it---we'll all deal with it together. But if it's all kept locked up inside you, you are going to experience a great fall, a fall you might not recover from."
Logan looked Cragen right in the eye before saying, "Okay, okay. But whatever you decide, after hearing this, is something I will respect, whether I like it or not. I--I am just having such a hard time accepting this myself."
"Go on, Mike," Cragen urged, putting his hand on the very forearm that had been bitten. "Just get it all off your chest, here and now."
Logan took a long drink and then said, with his trademark bluntness, "I'm going to get real sick, Donald. Really, really sick." He could no longer control his emotions and his eyes overflowed with the tears he'd tried so hard to keep in check.
"What kind of sick are we talking about, Mike?" Cragen asked, fear and anxiety gripping him in the chest.
"Remember that perp that bit me on the arm and drew blood?" Logan took another swallow and continued, "Well, I discovered that the guy's HIV positive."
Cragen's face showed shocked surprise. "Are you saying what I think you are, Mike?" he asked, not wanting to hear anymore. "Did you get infected from that guy's bite?" Suddenly, the universe didn't seem to be orderly and predictable anymore. Now, with this chilling news, Cragen knew that anything could happen---anything from global thermonuclear war to coming under the spell of Big Brother.
"Yeah," Logan replied. "So I suppose you won't want me working at the precinct anymore, at least not as a detective working the streets. Right?"
Cragen sat silently for a couple of minutes that seemed to last forever, before responding, "Well, Mike, I--I'll have to think about this for awhile. But what's important here is your health, Mike. Being HIV positive doesn't imply that you have AIDS right now, does it? It just shows that your body is housing the virus that causes the disease."
"Yeah, that's true. I'm supposed to have regular appointments from now on to see how I'm getting along. Oh, and they want me to see a shrink. Donald, I don't need one of those. What I need is to wake up and find out that this is one terrible, horrible dream. But that's not going to happen, is it?" Logan began sobbing gently, careful not to make a public scene in the bar.
Donald Cragen's voice was calm and kindly. "Look, Mike. Give me a day or two to figure all this out. Go home and take the time to decide if you wish to talk to Elizabeth Olivet. Try to eat healthily, for a change and maybe even start a journal. I've heard that helps people in dire situations. Then I'll give you a call on Thursday when I figure out how we're all going to handle this and whether or not you can resume business as usual with Max. By the way, do you want me to tell him?"
"No, I will," Mike responded, downing the remainder of his drink. "He should hear it from me. I'll envite him and Marie over for dinner tomorrow night." He arose and left a two-dollar tip for the waitress and then he and Cragen left the pub and went their separate ways.
Logan walked home that night, as the air was warm and dry. As he went along, he thought of all the things he'd planned to accomplish over the course of the rest of his life. Guess there's no point to doing that anymore, he thought dejectedly. "What's left to do now is figure out how to cram a lifetime into the next few years.
When he reached his apartment building, Logan paused for a moment before entering. How was he going to tell his partner, a man with whom he'd gotten close over the past several years, that he was probably going to die before he turned forty?
I'll just come right out with it, he decided, his key turning in the lock. Knowing Max Greevey, he'd be a good source of support. That was Max: He thrived in times of crisis.
Too bad Mike Logan didn't.
Stay tuned for Part Three.
