Written In the Starlight
Logan's Dark Night Of the Soul
"Oh, Mama, sit down, I think that it's time you knew,
The day I first came to you, I was dead on arrival.
And now I can hear you, pleading on the radio.
Mama, I've joined the church, you know,
I've been passing out Bibles—take one away."
. -----Burton Cummings
Detective Mike Logan stood squarely in front of the full-length mirror that had once belonged to his late mother. There was most assuredly no love lost as far as Logan was concerned: She'd long ago beaten any remnants of adoration he might have had, with her two meaty fists. She remained unforgiven—Logan felt he would despise her forever. It certainly didn't produce a comfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach, all that hatred and rage, but it was familiar.
Dressed in a black t-shirt and pants, Logan saw himself as a jaded New York City cop, a man who'd seen far too much of the dark and satanic underbelly that was the seething mass of a humanity lost and forever corrupted beyond repair. Logan felt himself moving in a surrealistic mode of slow motion. Bending down, he grasped the seat of a heavy wooden chair standing nearby, then continued glaring at his much-hated image in that unrelenting mirror. Then, suddenly, he lifted the chair high into the air, poised for a moment, then heaved it violently into the mirror, where he expected it to explode into millions of sharp, tiny fragments.
But, to Logan's horror and disbelief, the mirror retained its form, while Logan himself burst apart, leaving sharp shards of himself scattered all over the floor. It was finished. Self-destruction had finally reduced detective Mike Logan to a lifeless pile of transparent glass.
Just then, Logan sprang into consciousness and realized that he had been experiencing a bizarre and mysterious nightmare. Bathed in sweat and trembling violently, Logan rocked back and forth, clutching his pillow and knowing that he would never be free. For him, the Logan family curse would never be over.
* * * * * *
Detective Mike Logan was, in fact, at a crisis point in his life. He'd recently arrived home after a difficult day at work. Rubbing his hands together briskly and then blowing on them in an effort to feel warm, Logan walked over to where he'd mounted the cross on his living room wall and stared fixedly at it for the next several minutes. He murmured, somewhat dejectedly and morosely, "Why did you do what you did, my angel?. I really cared about you. Didn't you realize that? Sure, you were very young, but I could have stepped in as your big brother, Mike. If you'd only waited a bit longer, while that crazy asshole of a religious quack went off to prison, where he belonged. Instead, you and his other followers offed yourselves with cyanide—and for what? For some trickster who proclaimed to be the Second Coming. He was scum, sweetheart, nothing but scum. And you were so trusting and loving that you believed him."
Logan was well aware that the girl had suffered with a most difficult life, having a stepfather who didn't give a rat's ass about her, so that she was finally forced to leave that unloving home. Sure, she needed a father figure and he had provided it. If only he'd gotten to her first. Running trembling hands through hair that could stand a wash, Logan made his way over to his favourite chair and collapsed like a house of cards. The beer was not taking the edge off his pain and anger, so he entertained thoughts of getting another. No, I'll just end up drinking the two six-packs in my fridge and be a sulking drunk. Surely there had to be a better way of blocking out the past week.
Just then the phone rang, a shrill, intrusive sound that snapped Logan from his dismal thoughts. He picked up the receiver, hoping it wasn't someone wanting to fill out some lame survey. As it turned out, Lennie was on the other end of the line.
"Hey, Mike," came his partner's easygoing voice. "I know you've been having a rough time. Need any company? My dance card appears to be full."
Logan didn't want Lennie Briscoe or anyone else, for that matter, interrupting his misery. Sometimes, one needed just to be left alone to work things out. He twisted the phone cord in his left hand and let his head fall backward in his chair. "Not tonight, pal," Logan responded, noticing that his mouth felt as dry as the Mojave desert. "I'm pretty tired. Probably turn in early."
"What? Turn in early? It's Friday night. We've got two days off, Mike. You can sleep all day tomorrow if you want. Listen, I know this great little place where we can have a late dinner and watch this friend of mine who's an aspiring comedian. Come on, it'll be lots of laughs. Besides, I want Todd to know that there's at least two people in the audience who won't boo him off the stage."
Logan started to feel pressured and that familiar tightness in his chest let him know for certain that he most definitely was going nowhere that night. "Thanks for the offer, Lennie, but let me take a rain check, okay?"
Logan decided to go to bed early and put the depressing day to rest at last. He feared having another disturbing and realistic nightmare, but was willing to chance it for eight hours or more of uninterrupted sleep, nature's painkiller.
The night turned out to be long, lonely and emotionally draining, as detective Mike Logan lay on his messy bed, replete with tousled, somewhat dirty hair, the rumpled clothes he'd worn for the entire weekend and a pervasive feeling of helplessness. Earlier that afternoon, Logan had finally tied up the case with, the bogus religious freak named Stuart Melnick, who'd managed to convince a young and eager congregation of boys and girls that he was, indeed, the Second Coming of the Messiah.
Logan, along with his partner, Lennie Briscoe, had figured that the pathetic excuse for a human being who was no more effective or believable than a snake oil salesman and would spend at least fifteen years in prison for his involvement in the bombing of a building, in which one of his devout followers, a young girl, had been killed instantly. Logan recalled telling Lennie that the verdict, "Couldn't have happened to a more deserving piece of crap," and felt a certain amount of pride in being instrumental in the lunatic's conviction.
But very soon, Mike Logan's sensations of self-satisfaction would do a sickening, one hundred eighty-degree turn, when Lennie called his partner at home with the terrible news that the young boys and girls who had turned themselves completely over to the man they deemed as their blessed salvation from a life of poverty, prostitution and drugs, had taken a fatal dose of cyanide and were lying, face up, outside the courthouse.
"What??? You absolutely sure about this?" Logan asked, his voice ripe with pain, anguish and confusion. "Why? Why would they end their lives because of that freaking piece of crap??? Lennie, please tell me this is some kind of misunderstanding!" Logan twisted the phone cord around his left hand and pulled tight on it, while beads of sweat sprang onto his forehead and coursed down his pale, horrified face.
"Mike," Lennie began, softening his voice, "I can't answer your questions. All I know is what I just heard Stone tell me a few minutes ago. I----"
"Are they still there? Is my little buddy with them?" Logan's mouth felt cracked and dry, while his heart thudded so quickly and with such force as to make the detective feel as though he were experiencing a heart attack. Without waiting for Lennie's response, Mike tossed the phone on the floor, grabbed his well-worn brown leather jacket and hurried to the courthouse as fast as he could hail a cab. Normally, the detective would have driven his car, but he was so upset and shaking so violently that he didn't trust himself on the road.
Upon arriving, Logan saw six forms lying, unmoving, on the grassy lawn near the courthouse steps. Running forward, Logan tripped several times while making haste in reaching the figures and was finally able to witness a sight so heinous and heartbreaking that he fell on his knees and sobbed uncontrollably. All of them were dead, but even worse, the shy, pretty young girl who'd captured his heart earlier that week. Mike's mind rolled backward to that afternoon in the interrogation room, when the blonde, blue-eyed woman-child exchanged Catholic school stories with a detective well versed in the uniform of choice and shared a knowing grin while talking about the often-uptight nuns.
Later that day, Lennie had mentioned that this sweet-faced lass that Mike had "bonded with" had a prior conviction regarding the incident involving the stabbing of her pimp with scissors. "Two to one he deserved it," Logan said, defending his sensitive friend. While he'd said to both Cragen and Briscoe that "That girl I talked to should be giving rave reviews to her boyfriend instead of this loser." Yes, the delicate little follower had captured the jaded detective's heart. That was not something that happened every day, not by a long shot.
So now Logan sat, putting his head in his hands and rocking back and forth, humming an old hymn from his childhood. He kept seeing the girl, talking and laughing, acting as carefree as a bird as she swooped through a forest just dressed with raindrops and saw only the good in people, never the bad. Then, the image took a dark turn as she glanced furtively over her shoulder, her smile disintegrating and her large eyes widening with fear and pain. There, between the girl and Logan, was a menacing force, a man who looked more like crude sketches of the devil than a religious saviour. Pulling out his gun, Logan pointed it directly at the con artist, but just as he pulls hard on the trigger, it's the girl who gets shot. "No!!! No!" Logan cried, kneeling down to look at her lifeless body. "I'm sorry—I'm so, so sorry!"
Then, Mike Logan snapped back to what was actually transpiring, hoping everything he'd experienced was a hideous nightmare, to face a sight that tore asunder any shreds of toughness that he'd relied on during his entire career as a New York City cop. He knelt down beside his dead friend and just stared emptily at her for the next fifteen minutes, as though she'd miraculously spring back to life if he just wanted it badly enough. Logan turned away and vomited, then, slowly and carefully, he reached down and kissed her forehead.
When Briscoe arrived on the scene, he gazed at his distraught partner and then, feeling that Logan had had enough grief for one day, put his hand on his partner's shoulder and said quietly, "Let's go, Mike." So, as Logan prepared to leave his friend to heaven, he crossed himself with a final, sad Hail Mary.
* * * * * * *
Six weeks elapsed and the rabid media frenzy surrounding the convicted religious leader and his unfortunate followers. Life was finally resuming in its petty pace, with New Yorkers forgetting the hoopla and settling back to their anonymous lives, ripe for the next metropolitan feeding frenzy. Detective Logan, however, was not as adept at putting the past behind him—indeed, he'd slept little, lost twenty-five pounds and came to work with dark circles under his eyes.
"Geez, Mike, you look like this guy I zipped into a body bag last week." Briscoe wasn't known for being sensitive—in fact, his caustic one-liners were often inappropriate. But that was Lennie, take him or leave him.
"Shut up!" Logan cried, taking his mug full of coffee and slamming it hard against the wall where Briscoe was standing. "Just because you don't give a rat's ass about anyone but yourself, doesn't mean you can make sick jokes and pretend that life's just one big, freaking party!"
Donald Cragen wasn't about to let his precinct dissolve into a Lennie/Mike fight. "Hey, hey, hey! Mike, you can't just go throwing things like that!! What the hell's the matter with you? One more outburst like that and you're riding a desk for a freaking month! The captain picked up a file folder and slapped it on Mike's desk. "Okay, now pay attention, guys. I don't want to have to go over this twice."
Logan was not to be easily appeased. Running shaky hands through his thick, dark hair so that his prominent widow's peak was clearly showing, he mumbled under his breath, "Six kids kill themselves and now, all of a sudden, it's freaking business as usual. You two have to be the coldest human being's I've ever known."
"Okay, Mike, that's it! You're hereby off rotation. I know what happened was terrible—it's always real tough when young people die, particularly if it's by their own hand. But it's over. Part of being a good cop is being able to put awful events behind us, otherwise we couldn't do our jobs. I'm not being cruel, Mikey, just trying to tell you that we all have to get past this."
"Well, I guess I haven't gotten "past this" yet. Do you guys know that last Sunday I actually went to Mass? Yeah, I sat there, staring at the statue of Mary and I swear, I swear to God that she cried real tears. No, I'm not losing it, just saying that maybe if I got back to church, then I'd have some answers. Answers to questions like, why did a pretty, intelligent and charming young girl bite a cyanide capsule, erasing the rest of her life? But when I prayed, there was nobody listening. I tell you, NOBODY was listening to me! Church is a freaking crock. I hate it—I hate, I hate----" Logan paused and saw that both Cragen and Briscoe were staring fixedly at him. "What? You don't want to hear this? Well, fine! Don't listen. I'm out of here!" With that, Mike Logan, leaving his coat on the chair, walked out of the twenty-seventh precinct and into a world where terrible things happened to good people.
* * * * * * * *
After walking in the crisp, cold New York air for over an hour, Mike decided to stop at a small coffeehouse to warm up. He entered and found a room filled with high school students. There was a school nearby, a small, red brick building known for its high standards of scholastic achievement. As Logan took a seat at the counter and ordered a hot coffee, he wondered if any of these school kids could ever get mixed up with a man like .Rubbing his cold, reddened hands and blowing hard on them in a vain attempt to warm them, he glanced about at the young kids who laughed, ate burgers and simply enjoyed one another.
But then, suddenly, Logan's gaze fell upon a young girl of about sixteen, sitting alone in the far corner of the room. Her head hung down, with strands of her long, brunette hair getting into her coffee. Nobody else noticed that she even existed. Logan sipped at his coffee and wondered if the girl was one of the outsiders of her school, a young loner who felt out-of-place and unwelcome into the inner sanctum of her class's "In Students."
As it turned out, Logan's instincts were right-----one boy, approximately her age, stood up, looked over at her and hollered, "Hey, Greta----Is your real name "Gretel"? How's Hansel? Can we come over and help you eat that cool gingerbread house?"
Greta hid behind that long hair and said nothing, so the boy continued his verbal tirade. "You know what your problem is, Gretel? You just can't find your way back from Grandma's house. You will NEVER find your way back. The wolf will find you and he'll eat you in one freaking mouthful. And you know what, chick? NOBODY CARES!!" Then the group exploded into taunting laughter, making faces at the poor girl and calling her a variety of unsavoury names.
Logan hadn't been out of school that long. He knew that if he came to Greta's defence, the group would just ride her harder. Instead, he got up and moved over to the table next to the girl's and said nothing. His heart went out to her----it was all too painfully familiar. As a teenager, Mike had been unpopular for having what the kids called a "fairy face", which meant that his large, luminous eyes and full lips looked somehow feminine to them. He recalled cringing and wishing he could be transported anywhere in the world but in that classroom from hell.
After Logan had finished his coffee, he decided to make eye contact with the timid Greta. She was attractive in a somewhat eclectic fashion, with dyed, purple hair, dark lipstick and eye liner and was dressed in army fatigues. He figured that she had the potential to be really pretty and hoped that someone would tell her that. Logan knew that it wouldn't look good for a strange man to start talking about a young woman's appearance.
Then, unexpectedly, Greta looked over at Mike and smiled slightly. He returned the facial gesture, whereupon the girl said softly and slowly, "I guess I look really weird to you, right?" Greta reached into her knapsack and pulled out a wallet picture of herself that had been taken a year ago. She had light brown hair, long, straight and parted in the middle, wearing next to no make-up and sporting a midi blouse. She could have been someone else, the difference was so striking. "What do you think? Before or after?"
Logan wasn't sure how to respond, so he sat squarely on the fence. "They're both unique looks. Each one has its own, well, it's own charm, I guess." The detective watched as Greta put the photo back, but then turned white with alarm as he spied a gun in her knapsack. Logan clenched his teeth, a behaviour that caused him terrible headaches and his head spun wildly. "Oh, God, what's she doing with that weapon! I don't have either my badge or my gun—I've got no proof that I'm a cop!"
Greta began doing up the knapsack, but before she stood to leave, Mike said quietly, so as not to cause the girl to panic and run, "Won't you stay here and talk for awhile? Don't worry, I'm not some pervert. I'd just like to know what classes you have this afternoon." Logan cracked his knuckles, another nervous gesture of his. Sweat poured down his back and his stomach turned over several times. Should he just make a grab for the knapsack? Should he detain her long enough to call Cragen and Briscoe? There was so little time and matters like this had an alarming tendency of mushrooming fast.
To Logan's relief, Greta sat back down. "I have no idea why you're talking to me or who you are, but I can handle the matters of my own life, thank you. Besides, school's freaking boring. I only go because my dad's a jerk and I like to stay as far away from him as possible." A flash of anger made it's way across the girl's face as she spoke those words. Then, as though speaking aloud her feelings would someone cause something terrible to happen, Greta corrected herself quickly, "I guess he's not that bad. Maybe I'm just selfish. He's busy with his job and doesn't have any hobbies—at least, not regular, good ones." Then suddenly, as though Greta had discovered she had said far too much, she grabbed her knapsack and rushed out the door of the coffeehouse.
Working purely on instinct and because he'd seen the same look on the girl who'd killed herself, Logan ran after Greta and made a wild grab for her knapsack. However, before he had a chance to forcibly take it from her, Greta reached into the bag and pulled out her gun. It was a 38 and it didn't look as if she would be averse to using it if necessary.
"Stop it!! Get away from me, you freaking creep, or I'll drop you right here and now. You understand me?" Suddenly, the shy young high school student was a gun-toting would-be murderer. Logan knew he had to act quickly. Working on the assumption that someone in that coffeehouse would be calling the cops, he began to walk slowly toward the distraught girl as she pointed her weapon directly at his head.
"I'm not going to hurt you, Greta. Please, just put the gun down and kick it over here. I'm a cop and I can help you." Logan's voice was becoming hoarse and he began to feel as though he were experiencing all of this in slow-motion.
"That'll be the day a freaking cop is gonna do that," Greta hollered, "You just want to put me away in some looney bin. Right? Now just let me out of here and nobody will get hurt." Greta was scared, obviously and this meant that, since she was brandishing a gun, she could and very likely would just start randomly shooting innocent bystanders.
Just then, the woman behind the counter yelled, "Ain't no use, little girl. The police are on their way!"
Logan cringed at the utter stupidity of someone who would blurt out something like that when Greta was so fearful of the cops. He couldn't wait for back-up. Logan took three more steps toward the hysterical girl, whereupon she shot him at point blank range. As Logan fell to the floor, Greta put the gun under her chin and muttered, somewhat sadly, "Well, guy, whoever you are. This was supposed to happen today at school. Now it's my turn." She pulled back the trigger and Logan heard that ominous click, click. "NO!! Greta don't!!" Weak from loss of blood, which was pumping quickly from his chest, Logan knew he had to delay this girl until help arrived. "Don't kill yourself, Greta! I just can't handle another beautiful young girl ending everything that way! You have your whole life—you're way better than this. Please, Greta, please!!"
Struggling to get closer to Greta, Logan managed to say before passing out, "When your life is over, you don't get another chance. You----you want to, to kill the pain----not" then he lost consciousness.
As Greta paused and lowered the hand that held the gun, both Cragen and Briscoe rushed in, saw Greta with her weapon and, in an instant, Briscoe had grasped her tightly, while Donald Gragen wrenched it out of her hand.
"Get an ambulance," Cragen shouted, visibly shaken when he saw how badly Mike was hurt. "Then read this young lady her rights."
* * * * * * *
Two weeks later, Mike Logan was released from the hospital, after a near-fatal gunshot wound in his abdomen. As Lennie drove him home, Mike looked out the side window and, to his shocked surprise, the image of the girl who'd killed herself for the sake of her twisted saviour-to-be was right there on the glass, looking alive and smiling. As he reached out to touch her face gently, she began to fade slowly away. As this miraculous holograph dissipated, she said softly, "We weren't going to let Greta die. Yes, I'm gone now, but I was sent to save someone from doing what I did. Funny how that works."
Then she was gone. Was it a hallucination? Was he, Mike Logan, losing his marbles? Settling back in the car, Logan turned to Lennie and said, "I learned something over the past several weeks."
Lennie turned to look at his partner. "Yeah? And what was that, pray tell."
"Well, there are just some things that we can't explain away. Even my jaded way of thinking's just a little more, well, tuned in to stuff we'll never understand."
"Well, Mike, I'll tell you what I don't understand, and that's why you keep getting mixed up with troubled young women. You should give some serious thought to becoming a priest."
"Hey, no way, man," Logan responded, his familiar twinkle finally finding its home in the detective's striking eyes. "What would all my little black book entrants ever do without me?" Yes, it was good to be finally going home.
As the two detectives drove on, they neglected to see a young woman with long, flowing hair standing by the side of the road. She looked cold and was holding a sign that read: "Simon Russell is the way and the life. Believe in him and you will live forever."
