Auschwitz Of the Mind

Logan's Days Of Reckoning

A full moon had angrily pushed its way through a caustic, dark indigo sky, as detective Mike Logan wandered through Riverside Park on his nightly walk. He only took this constitutional on his days off, as often he and Lennie Briscoe worked well into the early morning hours. Feeling content and healthy, probably better than he’d been in a long time, Logan bent down to pick up one of the first, colourful leaves of Autumn.

Yes, he may very well be underpaid, underappreciated and stuck in a job that offered few perks, but he felt good. It was going to be a good fall and, God willing, a winter not overly fraught with snowstorms and sub-zero temperatures. New York City could be brittle and cruel, but it had its soft and comfortable side as well and that was what the young detective noticed on this early October night.

Suddenly, Logan glanced up, just in time to see a somewhat disshevelled man in the distance, tossing something into the river. Curiosity getting the better of him, Mike Logan quietly approached, to make sure the tattered gentleman was not littering. There were strict laws, after all and even though not technically on the job, Logan felt it to be his right and responsibility to stop any untoward action that might result in a sullying of an otherwise neat and orderly park.

When Logan was within earshot of the man, who was half-hidden with a large, threadbare fedora and Columbo-like, beige trenchcoat, he hollered out, “Hey, just what are you up to, sir? You can’t go dumping trash here.”

The man’s face was etched with deep wrinkles, even though he didn’t appear to be any older than Logan, or, maybe, just five or so years his senior. Logan couldn’t understand why he suddenly felt an odd tightness in his stomach and a peculiar dryness in his mouth. He chalked it up to fatigue---after all, he’d spent the better part of this day off doing renovations to his roomy, somewhat expensive apartment.

Logan was just yards away when the mysterious gentleman struggled to his feet and readied himself to flee the scene immediately. What was the big idea anyway? Why was littering such a major reason to get the hell out of the park as fast as his short, slightly-bowed legs would carry him? Then, he saw something floating on the surface of the river, the ruthless moon shining on it, in a semi-realistic glow: What Logan had perceived as garbage was, instead, the dismembered limbs and head of a newborn infant.

Mike Logan was not certain what happened after that. He recalled screaming, but having no sound come out of his mouth. The man had dashed off into the dark blanket of the night, leaving the distraught detective knealing by the river’s edge, vomiting, shaking violently and feeling everythinng he’d ever known about his life and the condition of the world, a world that had so terribly betrayed some poor, lost child who would never get to grow up, never play baseball and whose mother would never, ever get over this type of satanic carnage.

After he’d finished puking his guts out, Logan looked around him with fear and apprehension. Who was he? Did he have a name? Was his home some cardboard box in the park somewhere? He stared at his clothes, faded black denim jeans, a black shirt and black leather coat and had no idea where the garments had come from. His head swam and the acute dizziness was so great that he immediately sat down on a park bench to collect his incredibly jumbled thoughts.

Just then, a street man approached and tapped Logan on the shoulder. Logan jumped up and cried out, “Hey, get the hell away from me!”

“Take it easy, brother,” the grimy man said, smiling to show more than afew missing teeth. “I was just wonderin’ if you had some hooch on you. You got something to drink for old Charlie Bates?”

Logan shook his head. “No, I don’t have anything. Oh, wait a minute.” Mike had no knowledge of having any spare change, even, but decided to look through the pockets of the clothes he couldn’t remember ever having, much less dressing himself in. He pulled out a billfold with twenty dollars in it.

Before he had a chance to say anything, the toothless man swiped the bill from Logan’s hand. “Mighty kind of you, brother,” he said, the grin growing even wider. “When I get me a quart, I’ll share it with you, okay, bud?”

Logan, his head awash in confusion and total memory loss, replied slowly, feeling the thickness of his tongue as he did so, “Sure, you do that. It’s getting real cold out here.”

“There’s a shelter about two miles west of here,” the grateful man said. “They’ll give you something to eat and a bed to sleep on. I go there all the time, but they don’t allow us to drink the nectar of the gods. That’s how come I’m here tonight, see?”

Logan’s eyelids slid to half-mast and he was overcome with a kind of fatigue that he’d never before experienced in his life. He lay his head on the bench and pulled his knees up to his chin. The night was growing nippier by the minute, it seemed. Who the hell was he? Did he get sent down to earth from a UFO after experiments were done on him? Was he always like this---no friends, no home, no job? Why were his clothes so expensive-looking? How could he afford to wear leather?

The street man had taken Logan’s billfold, wherein he’d kept his driver’s licence, birth certificate and everything else that would identify who he was. But suddenly, the overwhelming fatigue got the better of him and he drifted off into an uneasy sleep in the middle of Riverside Park. Mike Logan had lost himself, after witnessing the worst act of cruelty and degradation that could ever befall anyone, let alone a helpless and innocent baby. For better or for worse, the part of the brain that dictates emotions and memories, had just quickly shut down. Would he ever come back and rejoin the world he’d once been such an integral part of?

* * * * * *

* The next morning, Lennie Briscoe, his sleepy-eyed grin greeting both Captain Donald Cragen and the perpetually hyperactive Profacci, tossed his coat on his desk and greeted his co-workers with the briskness of a man who knew exactly how his workday would be planned out. “So, are Mike and I going after the dumb sonofabitch who iced his wife for her billion-dollar inheritence, or the ho-hum, run-of-the-mill gambling scam downtown?” Briscoe was joking about the lack of “exciting” cases that he and Logan had been stuck with lately. Lennie liked a case that he could really sink his teeth into.

Cragen smiled and retorted, in jest, “Well, Lennie, I guess you’re just going to have to go out there and stir up some rich, white-collar crime for you and Mike to look into. By the way, where is your partner-in-arms? Logan’s usually here before you.”

“Probably had a wild day and night off. Give him fifteen minutes or so. He’ll show up, most likely hung over and fierce as a mountain lion.”

Fifteen minutes came and went, then half an hour, followed by an hour. Cragen glanced at the clock and remarked, "Hey, Lennie, you want to give Mike a call and remind him that he has eight hours of work to do today?"

"Okay, I'll give him a call---he must have had one of his big nights." Lennie picked up the phone and dialed Mike's number. He was surprised that he knew it by heart, as the two of them didn't socialize much, outside of work. After listening to it ring, then go into "answering machine mode", Briscoe replaced the receiver back, muttering, "He must be on his way. Evidently, nobody's home."

"Well, if Loverboy doesn't put in an appearance in a half hour, I think that maybe you should go check on him." Van Buren, personal issues with Logan notwithstanding, had a gut feeling that something might be wrong. Mike Logan was never late for work and if, by chance, he slept through the alarm, he always called in. He was a conscientious officer, professional at all times, so his absence made the lieutenant uneasy.

"If you say so," Briscoe said, shrugging, "But I'm sure he's just fine. Mike knows how to take care of himself." Lennie had other matters on his mind---lately, he'd found that he'd been having recurring dreams surrounding his foraging into his neighbourhood bar and getting drunk as the proverbial skunk. His mood had clouded dramatically in the past several weeks. Was he still grieving for his daughter? Of course he was---that would be a lifelong ache. No, it was something else.

After thirty-eight minutes had elapsed, Lennie grabbed his oovercoat. "Okay, here I go. Hope I don't have to have his door battered down or anything." His voice held more than a bit of sarcasm.

When he reached Logan's apartment building, Briscoe hesitated before pushing the button. There was no response and since the pplace had controlled entry, he kept leaning on the buzzer until the superintendent appeared from around the corner.

"Hey, buddy. Don't you take a hint well? Either there's nnobody home or the tenant doesn't want to answer. Move along, now. I don't want you hassling anyone in my building."

"Look, pal, the tenant happens to be my partner. We're mmembers of the New York City police department and he's very late for work. So, if you don't mind, I'd like to take a look to make sure everything's okay."

The super, a short, squat man with a balding head and face full of sweat beads, shook his head adamantly. "Hey, you can't just bust into someone's place like that. We got rules, you know."

Lennie flashed his badge. "Well, you know what? This says that I can. Capiche?" He had no use or patience for such an ignorant sonofabitch.

Briscoe took the elevator up to the eighth floor and rapped heavily on Logan's door. There was dead silence. He ordered the super to unlock the door, then entered cautiously. Lennie was siezed with the strange sensation that Logan had not been here since yesterday. His brown leather coat hung on a hook behind the door and his badge and piece lay, in plain view, on the coffee table. Logan would never just leave the gun out in the open like that.

Briscoe began to worry and made his way toward Logan's bedroom. The bed appeared not to have been slept in, but that could just mean that his partner had arisen early and made it. But the gun---Lennie felt a tight lump rise in his throat, as a fear gripped him. Where the hell was Mike Logan and why had he not called anyone?

Briscoe's mind began racing. There was no point in calling all the hospitals, as the police department would be informed of any accident or emergency. But it was looking more and more like some kind of foul play. Briscoe used Logan's phone to call Anita. "I'm here at Mike's place and something just doesn't feel right about this. I don't mind telling you that I'm getting kind of scared."

"So am I," Van Buren responded. "We'll wait twenty-four hours and then start scouring the city for him."

"Twenty-four hours??" He could be dead by then!" Briscoe knew, as he said this, that it was standard police procedure to do that, so wait they must. But Briscoe knew that something pretty terrible must have happened to the partner to whom he'd gotten quite close in the past three years.

Lennie was seized with a powerfully intense feeling of dread. Had something terrible happened to his partner, the man to whom he’d grown to trust implicitely? Logan had always seemed invincible, somehow. It’s an extremely tenuous life as a police officer, but yesterday had been Logan’s day off. What the hell had happened to him?

After rummaging around Logan’s apartment, in a vain hope of picking up clues as to the young officer’s whereabouts, Briscoe returned to the twenty-seventh precinct. His heart weighed heavily in his chest. God, he thought, desperation gripping him like an iron vice, I’ve lost my sweet daughter. I can’t go through another senseless death. This just can’t be happening.

* * * * * * *

Logan wandered aimlessly through Riverside Park, dazed and hopelessly confused. Where was he, and, more importantly, just who was he? Suddenly, an elderly bag lady accosted him, a pinched look on her wizened face. “Hey, there, brother. You got some spare change?”

Logan was taken by surprise and nearly bumped into a tree. He stared blankly at the woman, who grinned broadly, showing a row of broken teeth. His mind reeled in a desperate fog. It was as though he were a child again, unable to communicate by speaking. As he reached into his jacket pocket, Logan procured a ten dollar bill. Was this what she wanted?

As soon as the old woman spied the money, she quickly grasped it out of Logan’s hand. “Bless you,” she said, her voice, though extremely throaty from too many filterless cigarettes, “Now I can give myself a little party.”

After the bag lady had wandered off, giggling and talking to no-one in particular, Logan began to hear strange sounds, which appeared to emanate from a nearby water cooler. It was as though someone was groaning in a disturbing monotone, a male voice that appeared, to Logan, to be in terrific pain. Then, all of a sudden, Logan noticed the sound of a baby crying. The sobs grew louder and louder with each passing second. Logan covered his ears to block out the wails, but they persisted, grasping his already addled mind in a sea of tumultuous despair.

“No---please, stop crying! Stop, please! I can’t help you! God, if I could save you, I would. I’d give my life if there was something I could do for you. Just please, please don’t cry like that!” Logan began running, feeling as though his feet were made of lead. It seemed as if he were moving in slow motion, with the mysterious infant’s sobs growing ever more distressed and frightened.

Just then, Logan accidentally stepped in a chipmunk hole and fell headlong into the snow. He buried his face in the white powder and lay there, trembling violently and feeling powerful waves of nausea wash over him. As he lay there, Logan began pummelling his fists into the snow, as the baby’s wails escalated to an overwhelming cacophony of white noise. He was completely unaware of two officers, who had seen Logan and were slowly and carefully approaching him.

The younger of the officers said quietly to his partner, “What the hell have we got here? Looks like an escapee from Bellvue. What do you think, Tom?”

The elder of the duo was possessed with somewhat more compassion, which had come from years of working with indigent people before he’d joined the police force. “Come on, pal. Can’t you see he’s in really bad shape? Let’s see if there’s something we can do for him. He

“Okay, Gerry. It’s your call. But if he attacks us with a knife in the gut, I’m holding you personally responsible.” Tom, a somewhat brash and insensitive man, called out in a voice laced with impatience, augmented by a certain revulsion for people who demonstrated what he termed, “bizarre behaviour,“Hey, come over here for a minute. What the hell are you doing out in sub-zero temperatures without a coat? You'll freeze your ass off."

Logan turned toward the voice and bagan to run. "No, wait just a minute!" Gerry began to take off after the frightened man, while snide Tom stood still, hands on his hips while he shook his head in exasperation. Foot patrol really sucked the big one," he thought desparagingly. Some crazy bagman that would be doing the city a big favour if he did actually die of hypothermia. Needless to say, Tom was a heartless jerk.

Gerry caught up with the terrified Logan and put his hand gently on Logan's arm. "Hey, I won't hurt you, I promise. Your lips are blue----you want to wear my jacket until we get you to the Mission?" As he said this, Gerry realized that this poor guy really needed hospitalization. He appeared totally disoriented, confused and most likely, psychotic. Gerry'd seen quite a few men and women like Logan: Homeless and mentally ill, not able to take medication because they have no money and no home. Gerry looked Logan right in the eye, saying calmly and quietly, "Listen, buddy. I'm not going to hurt you. I promise." He saw the extreme fear in Logan's large, expressive eyes, eyes rimmed with red, with dark circles underneath.

"My God, Gerry, why do you give a rat's ass about this indigent? Every month that goes by sees hundreds more of him leaching our hard-earned money while they live the life of Reiley."

Gerry turned about angrily. "Now, you listen to me. I've been your partner for three months now and during that time, I haven't exactly grown really fond of you. As a matter of fact, you're one of the most insensitive assholes that it's been my ill fortune to meet. This just ain't working, kid. When we get back to the station, I'm asking for another partner, one with a little bit of heart."

Tom shrugged. "Suit yourself. Why you waste your time like this is beyond me. It's live or let die in this damned city."

Gerry turned to face his cold-hearted partner. "That's a song by Paul McCartney. You're quoting lyrics to me now, Tom?" Gerry turned his attention back to Logan. There was a reason why he'd taken such a strong interest in this poor man's sad plight. When he was a boy, his fourteen-year-old brother, once a happy, healthy boy with a brilliant future in medicine who aced every exam, had a wonderful girlfriend who adored him and to whom Gerry, then eleven, could always trust and go to for advice. He was just so damned proud of Ronald, for he was everything Gerry was not: Extraordinarily intelligent, talented, outgoing and sporty. There just didn't seem to be anything Ronald could not do. He likely could have made the Olympics, on their basketball team, but Gerry never had even a twinge of jealously for the brother who had the world by the tale. He just adored him and basked in Ronald's shadow.

Then, one day, shortly before his fifteenth birthday, Ronald began to change. He became secretive, hiding in his room for hours at a time and not wanting anyone near him. That was definitely out of character and Gerry was worried. Chalking it up to "adolescent moodiness", their parents thought nothing of it, until one day, Ronald came downstairs, sporting black eye make-up, lipstick and fingernails and announced that he was a High Priestess Of Satan.

Things went from bad to worse after that. Once outgoing and brilliant, Ronald grew more confused and scattered by the day, often lapsing into severe depressions and neglecting his hygiene and homework. Finally, the boys' parents realized that something was terribly wrong with their elder son and they took him to the doctor, who then had him see a psychiatrist.

Ronald was diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia and, after spending six months in a horrible, state-run psychiatric hospital, Ronald came home, drugged into submission. He spent his days smoking, a habit he'd recently taken up and listening to dark and disturbing music until one afternoon, alone in his room as always, he took a shotgun from his father's gun shed and blew his brains out. Gerry never forgot, or got over, such a family tragedy of insurmountable proportions as the horrific spectre of suicide.

Gerry saw a lot of Ronald in Logan and was not about to have another sick person off himself as poor Ronald had. Did this stranger go AWOL from a hospital? He only had a day or two of stubble on his face and his clothes, faded black demim jeans and a black dress shirt, were fairly clean and free of holes. Somehow, he'd been recently looked after. The only answer, as far as Gerry could see, was to take Logan to the nearest hospital to be looked at by someone in psychiatry.

"Hey, are you hungry? Would you like to go get something to eat?" Gerry knew that he was not supposed to take time off his beat for such activities, but Logan was really getting to him. Tom, on the other hand, had radioed in to the precinct that they were "having difficulties with an indigent," and would be taking him straight to the hospital.

"Gerry, we have no time for that crap. They've got food at Bellevue. Let's get this over with, dammit."

"Will you shut the fuck up? Gerry snapped, his patience all but lost. "You truly have a heart of stone. Who's to say you won't end up like him some day? You think you have a charmed life, into which no tragedy or misfortune will fall? He could be you someday--ever think of that? Nobody's guaranteed a charmed existence. You've had it so damned easy all your life that you don't give a damn about anyone but yourself. I don't call that any kind of a partner that I want to have watching my ass for the next few years."

* * * * * *

As Gerry and Logan walked into the emergency department of a busy, inner-city hospital, Logan looked around frantically and when he saw the many people milling about, he bolted for the exit. "Hey, bud, get back here. Nobody's going to hurt you. I promise."

Just then an attractive, sweet-faced nurse approached and went straight for Logan. Noting that he seemed disoriented and scared, she turned to Gerry and asked, "Are you bringing him in to the ER?"

"Yes. Me and my partner found him wandering around Riverside Park this morning. He has no ID, no memory of anything, doesn't know who he is, and----"

The nurse smiled and interjected, "I get the picture. Why don't the two of you go over to the waiting room and you can fill out some papers, if you don't mind."

Gerry obliged, while Logan, looking around, frantically, to see if there was a way out of the extremely brightly-lit and noisy environment. Why was he here and what was this hellhole? The price for not finding the crying baby?

Gerry waited the two hours that it took for someone to talk to Logan. In a small treatnment room, a male resident, East Indian with compassionate, soft brown eyes and a ready smile, introduced himself to the two men. "Hello, I'm Dr. Bhayana. So, what can I do for you fellows tonight?"

Gerry began by telling the resident that he'd found Logan wandering aimlessly in the park, scantily dressed for the extremely cold weather, having no ID on his person and no memory of who he was, where he lived or what had transpired during the past forty-eight hours. "I'm pretty sure he's mentally ill," Gerry attested, watching Logan as he clutched the small crucifix to his chest and began muttering incoherently.

"You're an officer with the New York City police department, take it," Bhayana said, scribbling away on his clipboard. "You found this gentleman in the park. Is he suffering from exposure?"

"You tell me---you're the doctor," answered Gerry, wondering if it was really a good idea to bring this man here.

After an intense physical exam, Bhayana determined that, although Logan showed signs of hypothermia and rather severe dehydration, he recommended that the troubled police officer should be placed on the psychiatric ward of the hospital and be certified for seventy-two hours.

"What, you mean, force him to stay against his will?" Gerry was beginning to think that this had been an extremely poor decision. "He's not dangerous to himself or anyone else, is he?"

"Do you want to take a chance that he isn't?" responded the suddenly rather cold and abrupt resident. "The people on the sixth floor can determine whether or not this man is safe to leave after a period of three days. It's nothing to sweat about, officer."

Gerry smiled wryly. "Nothing to you, maybe. But I've seen those wards---they fill a person with drugs that turn them into zombies. That's not what I would call humane treatment of the mentally ill."

"That's the system we've got," Bhayana replied, seemingly eager to get onto his next patient. "They'll be an orderly to escort him upstairs in a half hour or so. Just make yourselves comfortable. There will be a security guard posted outside this examining room, just in case."

"Just in case he attacks me with a meat cleaver, a la Norman Bates?" Gerry could not help interjecting this bit of dark humour into the conversation. "Don't worry, fella," he told Logan, who was off in his own little world and totally oblivious to what was going to happen to him.

After forty-five minutes, an orderly entered the room and said, in tired tones, "Is this the patient?"

"Yeah, I don't know his name, but he's a cool sonofabitch. You guys take good care of him, okay?" Gerry hated to leave Logan at this sterile, anonymous hospital. As he prepared to leave, Logan handed him the crucifix key chain.

"No--no, that's yours," Gerry insisted, closing it around Logan's white-knuckled fist. "You need it more than I do. You take care of yourself, you hear me? Do what they tell you and you'll be out of this place before you know it. You can do three days standing on your head."

"You want me to stand on my head?" Logan had spoken for the first time since they'd gotten to the ER.

"Of course. It's a gift, because, well, because you remind me of someone I used to know and love."

Logan smiled, the open and innocent grin of a small child. "I think you have a sweetheart."

Gerry shook his head. "Not anymore, friend. But that's a whole other story. I want you to concentrate on getting your memory back and finding your way home. I bet you had a pretty good life before all this happened to you."

After Gerry left, Logan followed the orderly up to the psychiatric ward on the sixth floor, where he was examined briefly, then told to go and rest. The head nurse of the floor, Wanda Everhart, a brisk, middle-aged, no-nonsense professional who obviously knew her way around the place. "Since we don't know your name, you'll be referred to as "John Doe." I know that sounds rather cold, but we have no other choice until you regain your memory."

Logan was so tired that he couldn't keep his eyes open, so Wanda told him that there was no need to interview him further until the next morning. Although it was just late afternoon, Logan collapsed onto his assigned bed and drifted off into an uneasy sleep.

* * * * * * *

back at the twenty-seventh, pandemonium had ensued, as they were trying to locate Mike Logan, while at the same time, making attempts to handle the heavy caseload that had piled up to an alarming rate. Van Buren kept in close contact with the officers looking for Logan, while balancing the nagging case of a serial kidnapper, who'd absconded with over a dozen babies and small children. Nobody could find any of them, which caused Van Buren to surmise that they were likely dead.

Word on the street was that whoever the criminal was, he probably wanted the children for pornographic purposes and that he or she would be difficult to locate. Lennie Briscoe was pretty certain that the perp was a male, as they were the ones who handled the kiddie porn market in New York. Some of these victims were little more than infants, a fact that sickened even the most hardened officer. Van Buren felt the pain particularly hard, as both her sons were very young.

Briscoe, alhtough involved in the case, was constantly thinking---would Logan be found alive? What if he had inadvertently stumbled onto the sorry sonofabitch responsible for such heinous acts toward the innocent. He had to stop obsessing and learn to put his faith in the officers out combing Logan's haunts. But hope was fading with each hour that elapsed.

Lennie sat at his desk, trying to appear busy, but, in actuality was so wrapped up in the Logan disappearance that he knew he shouldn't be on the job at all. Losing a partner by gunfire was bad, but having one disappear without a trace was worse. There was no closure, no way to say good-bye. He half wondered whether or not Van Buren would assign him to a new one.

He didn't have to wonder for very long. Anita approached Lennie, with a very young, baby-faced kid who appeared to still be wet behind the ears. "Lennie, I've assigned Billy Scheffield as your temporary partner. She waited for Lennie to respond, but it took a moment or two.

"Oh, hi there, Billy," Lennie responded, not the least bit interested in getting to know this youngster.

"Sorry about your other partner," Billy said, appearing somewhat nervous.

"Yeah, well, the opera ain't over until we see that fat broad croon," Lennie shot back, in a tone more stern than he intended. "Hey, look, don't mind me, kid. It's been a rough couple of days."

Billy shrugged, in a nonchalant manner. "That's okay. I understand."

Lennie couldn't help feeling peevish. "No---you don't understand. Have you had a partner just vanish into thin air, with no traces, no signs, no hope? Have you, Billy Boy?"

Van Buren interrupted. "Lennie, just cool your jets. Billy didn't have anything to do with Mike's disappearance, so there's no need to go jumping all over the poor guy."

Lennie mumbled a half-baked apology and then briefed Billy on the case. Maybe, if he threw himself madly into his work, he could forget the burning rock of pain that assaulted his entrails constantly and unrelentingly. Something had to work if Lennie was going to keep himself from crawling back into a bottle and drowning there.

* * * * * *

At the hospital, where the time had crawled to nine at night, Logan lay stiffly on his assigned bed, a roommate snoring away in the one beside him. Just when he thought he could finally get some much-needed sleep, the infant's wailing began again, getting gradually louder and more frantic. Something was wrong with this child, Logan thought, sweat springing onto his upper lip. His breathing became laboured and he clapped his hands over his ears, calling out, "Oh, please, please stop! Why do you keep crying. What is wrong with you? Why won't you just go to sleep. Logan stared over at the next bed where the snorer slept on, oblivious to his roommate's despair.

Suddenly, Logan sprang out of bed, rushed over to the other man in the room and began hitting him with his fists. "Stop making that baby cry!! Stop it or I'll stop you!!" Logan was screaming at this point, alerting the night staff, who rushed madly into his room.

Two burly male orderlies rushed in and pulled Logan away from the now wide-awake roommate. "He's fucking crazy!" the heavyset patient cried, terrified at having a dangerous roomie.

Logan's strength was astronomical and he broke away from the two muscled men and dashed out into the hall. He spied an elevator down the hall and decided to make a break for freedom. All he was certain of now was that he could not stay in this terrible place where babies were being tortured. By the time the orderlies caught up with Logan and caught him in a strong grip, Logan was incoherent and quite psychotic.

Suddenly, one of the floor's psychiatrists was on the scene and ordered a stiff dose of Thorazine, a powerful anti-psychotic drug and one commonly used to calm sick patients down. By this time, four more hulking men had rushed in and they pinned the struggling Logan to the bed, facedown, while one of the nurses injected a heavy dose of the medication into Logan's hip. He struggled and screamed for another forty-five seconds or so, then began to grow extremely sleepy and weak. Once subdued, the doctor ordered him to be placed in four-point restraints to keep him from hurting anyone else, or himself. The restraints were tied tightly around both wrists and ankles, leaving the drugged Logan pinned down like a wild animal. Then, everyone left the room, the light was turned out and he was put on constant observation. Logan's life was clearly spiralling downward into a horrific black hole.

The next morning, Logan awoke slowly, feeling the worst headache he'd ever imagined. His muscles were sore and felt as if they'd been pulled like a piece of toffee. He had no remembrance of the night before and couldn't understand why he was in cuffs and leg irons. True, they didn't look like police-issued ones, but he was just as confined as though they were.

"How are you feeling today, John?" a sunny-faced nurse asked chirpily, as she came to check on Logan. "They tell me you had quite the night. Well, do you feel save enough to come out of the restraints now?"

Logan nodded vigorously. The nurse untied his wrists and ankles, then said, in quiet, even tones, "Now, you're on the honour system here, John. If I let you leave this room and join the other patients in the common area, can I have your word that you won't try to hurt anybody else?"

Logan looked at the nurse with a puzzled look on his face. "I wouldn't hurt anybody," he responded in quiet, halted tones. "Honest, I really wouldn't."

The chirpy nurse said nothing as she opened the curtains, letting a strong beam of light bursting into the sterile starkness of the ward. Logan had never been more confused in his life. He was a nameless entity, apparently doing things of which he had no recollection, stuck in a strange place where people tied you up as if you were a condemned man awaiting the lethal injection. What was going to happen to him? Was this the end of the road? Would he really have to spend the rest of his life in this disturbing environment, where nurses smiled when they told you terrible things? God, I'd rather be dead," Logan thought, misery enveloping him. This just can't be happening. Surely, I'll wake up any minute and everything will make sense again."

But it didn't, and as Mike Logan awoke to another day of hell on earth, he refused to attend the cafeteria for breakfast, preferring to rock rhythmically back and forth, while knocking his head hard against the stone wall.

"Hey! Buddy! You can't go doin' that! Geez, you want to knock yourself out?" The orderly who had been kind to Logan grabbed him by the shoulders and said in even, soft tones, "Now listen. You keep that up and they'll put you in a fucking padded cell. There really are such things, you know---trust me. Now, why can't the two of us just sit down and you tell me who the hell you are. There MUST be someone out looking for you. You just don't seem like an indigent street person to me. Call it gut instinct or whatever, but you, my friend, have a life somewhere, far, far away from this place."

Logan stopped the head-banging and stared intently at the gentle man who seemed to think Logan was worth talking to. He opened his mouth to speak but then changed his mind, letting his head drop while he sat staring at the floor.

"Look, I know you're not retarded. You don't look it. So what the hell's got you so screwed up?" The orderly, whose name was Ben, stared at Logan's clothes. They weren't the kind sold at Goodwill or any of the give-away places like the Sally Ann. Although his shirt and pants were dirty and torn, they appeared to have once been in good condition. If this man had been on the streets for a long time, the clothing items would be far more ratty and filthy.

"You coming for breakfast?" Ben asked. "You should, you know. Judging from your clothes, you must have lost weight in the recent past. Eating won't hurt you. Would you like me to go with you to the cafeteria?"

Logan shook his head violently. "No! Don't like it there. Too many---it's too, um, too---" Logan was obviously struggling to find the right words but was having a difficult time.

"Too crowded?" Ben took the liberty of finishing Mike Logan's sentence. He was becoming aware that this patient was having great difficulty forming sentences, a sign of mental illness. Of course! Ben slapped his knee and spoke aloud, "You're in some kind of psychotic fog. I've seen it before. All kinds of people just suddenly snap, usually because of some terrible trauma. Is that what's happened to you, my friend?" Ben stared intently into the bloodshot eyes that looked back at him. They were covered with a myserious mist, a mist that camouflaged any kind of emotional activity that might be lurking behind this curtain.

Logan didn't seem to hear him. He turned away from Ben and began rocking back and forth again, speaking in broken and halted tones, "Go, go a-way. Don't like this talk. Please leave me alone."

Ben knew that he'd overstepped the invisible line that marked his patient's tolerance for reality. He rose to his feet and, before shutting the door, said, "Just take your time, friend. Nothing's as bad as the prison you've put yourself in. This isn't living---it's a slow and agonizing kind of death. I want to liberate you. The doctors here, they don't know squat. Us orderlies, we're the ones who spend time with you guys. We know so much more than they do, but yet, try to tell them stuff and they pull rank on us. Fools, that's what they are. Damned fools. It's a wonder how anyone ever gets out of this concentration camp."

Logan watched Ben leave his room, after which he crawled under the covers of his bed and murmured softly to himself, predicated by sudden outbursts of crying. Curling up into a protective fetal position, Mike Logan just wanted to sleep. In sleep there was peace; in sleep, he could forget about the baby crying. Why, why won't someone feed it? He wondered, putting his hands over his ears to make sure he wouldn't hear anything. Then he dropped off into a troubled sleep, where horrific nightmares would plague him for the next few hours.

* * * * *

Lennie Briscoe sat at his desk, growing more frantic by the hour. Nobody had either seen or heard from Logan for many hours. His house was deserted and he'd not called in to say he'd be absence from work. Did his partner meet with foul play? Surely his police training would have protected him, would it not?

At the same time, downtown, Captain Phil Cerreta and his wife, Elaine, were doing some Christmas shopping. Christmas day was only three weeks away and the two were determined to finish before the whole of the city was jammed into a relatively small space, rabid and voracious with the obsessiveness of getting that gift which was "just right" for varied loved ones.

"Good you have today off," Elaine said, smiling and grasping her husband's hand. "How did you swing it anyway?"

Cerreta smiled. "I had a lot of overtime coming to me, so I got let out of class today. I'm all yours, sweetheart. Just point me in the right direction."

Elaine Ceretta pointed straight ahead at a particularly expensive department store. "Phil, hon, let's check this place out. I want to get something really nice for your nieces."

Cerreta relented, knowing that it was futile to argue with his wife when she was shopping. "Sure, then maybe we can stop for coffee or something?"

"Don't you get enough of that stuff at work?" Elaine asked, grinning and squeezing her husband's hand.

"Nope. A shot of caffeine now and again is good for the attention span."

* * * * *

Meanwhile, back at Bellevue, Logan had made up his mind that he had to leave and reclaim his freedom. Though hopelessly confused, with his eardrums bombardied with the mysterious infant's wailing, he was aware of reality enough to know that this place was worse than being on the streets. After summoning Ben to come see him in his room, Logan tried to verbalize that he wished to go outside for a walk. "Need fresh air," he said slowly and carefully, "Please, can I walk out there? For a half hour? Please?" Logan's gaze fell to the floor.

"Outside? It's pretty cold out there, my friend. But if you want, I can get one of the nursing assistants to take you. Just hang on a minute."

As Ben began to walk away, Logan said loudly and somewhat desperately, "No! I need to be with myself only. I---I don't need a, a--I don't need--"

Ben smiled broadly, showing a row of straight, white teeth. "I get it---you don't need a chaperone. Well, I guess you won't go far." Ben knew that there was a chainlink fence surrounding the place and that his patient was not a serious AWOL risk. "Okay, just to show you what a decent guy I am, you can have a half hour outside. I'll come and meet you soon to bring you back here. Now remember, just walk around slowly and don't get too out-of-breath. The temperature's pretty cold out there."

Ben really should not have trusted Logan, for, five minutes after stepping outside the doors of the hospital, he took off as fast as he could go toward the fence that loomed before him. Could he climb it? At least there was no barbed wire at the top, like there was at the Attica Correctional Facility. Upon reaching the fence, Logan began climbing it, falling several times before finally ascending to the top and then letting himself fall down the other side. My God, he thought, his heart racing madly, "I'm free from that awful place. Now where do I go?

Logan decided just to wander around, then maybe walk along the highway until he figured out where he lived. His attention span was shortened dramatically and he still had no idea who he was or where he lived, so maybe this was not going to be such a good idea after all. Sitting down on a curb, Logan decided to take a short nap before heading out. Then he thought, "Damn, the hospital people will find me for sure if I stay here," and then made up his mind to ask someone for a ride into town.

As luck would have it, Logan soon hit pay dirt as the driver of a huge semi stopped along the highway and picked him up. Unaware that hitchhiking, particularly in New York, was foolish and dangerous, Logan sat and tried to talk to the driver as he made his way into the heart of Manhattan.

"Look, pal, if you don't mind, I'm not the chatty type. Just let me take you where you want to go and you keep your mouth shut, okay?"

Logan's face fell. "Okay, you want quiet. I won't talk. I don't have to. I just thought--"

"Well, I've told you, so let's drop it there."So, for the remainder of the ride, the two rode in silence. Finally, Logan was let off in downtown Manhattan, with absoultely no idea what he should do next. "Thank you," Logan said to the truck driver, a burly man with tattoos all over both bared arms. "I like you, you're nice."

"Yeah, yeah, just beat it now, okay? Geez, you don't sound like the elevator goes all the way up to the top floor. You're not one of those Bellevue nuts, are you?"

Logan smiled, oblivious to the unkind question. "Bye," he responded, walking away from the semi, "You have a nice day."

After the large truck roared off, Logan looked around him, dazed and nervous. All around him, people bustled by in both directions, bumping and jostling Logan as he made an attempt to figure out where he was. He felt suddenly very hungry and spied a coffee shop a block or so away. He walked slowly and unevenly over in the shop's direction and then, upon entering, became confused and disoriented.

"Yeah? What do you want, fella?" A middle-aged man in a white apron asked, seeing Logan wander over to the counter. "The special for the day is a Spanish omelette."

Logan looked quizzically at the balding man, who was chomping vigorously on a stick of gum. "I--I don't know. What's a---a special?"

A group of men sitting at the counter began laughing. "Hey, Bruce, this guy's nuts or something", the largest of the group said, giving Logan a disdainful look. "You got any money on ya? Nobody eats for free here, ya know."

Logan stared at the tiled floor and mumbled incoherently. The waiter who'd spoken to him first said, "That's right you know. No money, no eatie. Got it, son?"

Just then, who should walk into this somewhat obscure establishment but Phil and Elaine Cerreta. They sat down at a table by the window and asked for two menus. Neither one noticed Logan standing at the counter, until the rude man who'd been nasty to Logan began to laugh again, spitting out, "Go hit the soup kitchen, looney-tune. We don't want or need the likes of you here, okay?"

Cerreta pricked up his ears when he heard this and turned in the direction of the voice. Logan had a few days' growth of beard and his clothes were torn and filthy---he'd refused a bath or change of clothes at the hospital---so Phil didn't recognize his former partner. What he did notice was a poor soul being taunted for having some kind of difficulties. He stood up and said, "Hey, there's no need to talk to him like that."

"Oh yeah? Well, why don't you buy this guy something to eat. I can pretty well guarantee you that he's flat broke. Can't even afford a shave and some clean clothes."

Ignoring Elaine's words of caution in getting involved with street people, Cerreta rose from his seat and approached the man who'd been so unfairly maligned. "Hey, you want to join us for breakfast? It's just the wife and myself."

Logan couldn't look this kind stranger in the eye. He backed away, but Phil grasped him gently by the arm.

"No, it's okay. I'm not going to hurt you. You look as if you haven't eaten in a long time. We just want to buy you a decent meal, that's all."

Logan relented and sat down with Phil and Elaine. However, before Phil could order, Logan's eyes fluttered and he fell over, landing on the floor of the restaurant.

"That's it. We don't allow no drunks in this establishment," He went over and shook the unconscious Logan. "Get up and get the hell out of here! Now!"

Elaine spoke up angrily, "Now just you wait one minute, mister!" She stood on her feet with her hands planted on her hips. "For all you know, this man might be sick or weak from lack of food. I don't smell any liquor on him. If you don't mind, we'll take our business elsewhere."

The three of them left the greasy spoon, after which both Elaine and Phil helped Logan to his feet. Knowing that they could not carry Logan very far, they caught a cab. Phil looked closely at the unfortunate stranger and felt a strange sensation of deja vu. Dismissing it as nothing major, he directed the driver to take them to his favourite restaurant, an Italian place several miles west.

Logan slowly came to and reacted violently, not knowing where he was or how he got there. "No! Where are you taking me? I---I don't want to go back there!" He struggled to a sitting position and looked Phil straight in the eye. "Please don't take me back there. It's a bad place."

Ceretta said softly, "Don't worry, son. We're just taking you for something to eat where they aren't nasty, that's all. We're not taking you to a bad place, I promise." Ceretta figured that this unfortunate soul was mentally retarded or deeply disturbed. He had fleeting thoughts that this man might be dangerous, but something about his eyes----he'd seen those eyes before. Or had he? Was his mind simply playing tricks on him?

After the three of them had had breakfast, Cerreta wondered what to do with his new friend. He was curious as to what ailed him and if he'd been on a psychiatric ward or in a special home. "Elaine, what do we do? Report him as a missing person? I mean, what if someone's looking for him? We shouldn't just leave him on the street to fend for himself. I don't think he's capable of looking after his best interests."

"Dear, I don't want to be a wet blanket, but what do we know about this man? Suppose he's dangerous and has a knife or a gun? We can't be responsible----but then, if we take him to the nearest precinct, perhaps there's a missing person flier on him."

"Italian cookies," Logan muttered to nobody in particular.

Phil Cerreta turned quickly to stare at Logan. "What did you say about Italian cookies?" Something was tweaking his memory and nagged stubbornly on his mind.

"The ones you say you like but never eat," Logan continued, giving Ceretta a very brief and shy smile, before turning away to chatter to himself about nothing in particular.

Phil looked intently at his wife. "Elaine, someone, somewhere has said that to me. But who? My God, do we KNOW this poor fellow?"

Elaine looked quizzically at the battered and beaten man standing before her and responded, somewhat hesitantly, "Mother of God, honey, I think we DO know him. Alhtough how could we? When you were a detective, you came into contact with all kinds of street people who had nothing and went nowhere. But not me. Still----"

Phil couldn't help interrupting his wife. "Dear, I look into his eyes and see---I see someone I've spent time with in the not-too-distant past. But I still don't know who he is. But the Italian cookies....let me think about those. Where did I ever have a cannister of those, Elaine?"

"I don't know. You never eat them. Except, except---Oh, God, Phil---didn't your former partner, Mike Logan give you some when you were laid up in the hospital aftet being shot in the line of duty? But that was three years ago. Surely---"

For the second time, Elaine was interrupted as Ceretta stared intently into Logan's bloodshot, dark-circled and tired eyes and then felt his stomach tumble down into his shoes. "Jesus, is that you, Mike?" Phil caught no glimmer of recognition in the scruffy man's face.

Mike looked straight into Phil's eyes but didn't react as a man who had worked a year with the robust Italian cop. "N-no, I'm not Mike. I don't know him." Logan then sat down on the sidewalk and began rocking back and forth as people paraded by, some staring and others shaking their heads in disdain. "I do not know my name. But it's not Mike. I know it's not, okay?" Logan seemed to be growing aggitated, causing Phil to change the subject. First, however, he whispered into Elaine's ear, "It's Mike Logan---I'd stake my pension on it. But he's suffered some kind of amnesia. Something must have happened to him."

Elaine pulled on her husband's sleeve. "Yes, this all makes sense now! The two seven called me the other day and told me that Mike Logan had been missing for over a week. Remember? I told you and you said he probably went up to Connecticut to visit his niece and her husband."

"Except I don't think he ever got there. Was he slated to take vacation time and if so, why would he neglect to tell Cragen and Briscoe? Since when does anyone take off for a holiday unannounced? This all sounds so damn fishy to me, Elaine."

Just then, Logan began chanting over and over, "Mike's not here. Mike is dead. Mike is gone. Forget him, just please forget him."

Phil Ceretta knew for certain that this pitiable creature was his former partner, the streetsmart wiseguy he'd come to know very well in the year that they worked together. Grabbing Logan by his shoulders and shaking him gently, Ceretta said, with more than a hint of desperation in his voice, "Mike, listen to me. You seem to have lost your memory for some reason. But there are people out looking for you, people that think you're likely dead. Look at me---right into my eyes. I need to you listen carefully."

But Logan was not ready for any listening from someone he saw as a total stranger. "No! Let go of me!! I'm not who you say. My name is Billy. Yes, that's it. I'm billy and I don't know any of you. Go away! Thanks for the food but I have to go now." Logan twisted his fingers and rocked on his feet. He seemed incapable of either standing or sitting still.

Cerreta didn't want to cause a screaming session with Logan, so he decided that the best thing to do would be go to the twenty-seventh precinct and let Lennie and Van Buren know that Mike was, at the very least, alive and fairly well. "Come on, hon," he said to Elaine, "There's no point in trying to drag him anywhere. Let's go talk to the others at the station."

"What? And just leave him here? How is anyone going to find him?" Elaine looked at the completely frazzled young man she'd known so well in another life and her heart went out to him. "Phil, he has to come with us. We have to convince him, somehow."

However, that would not be necessary, as who should come ambling down the road but Lennie Briscoe. "Hey, guys! Fancy meeting you here!" Cerretta and his wife were not certain whether or not Lennie recognized his current partner. As it turned out, he did.

"Good God! Mike! Where in the hell have you been all this time??? You know that we all wrote you off as dead?? What kind of fucking game are you playing here anyway?"

Cerreta was quick to jump in. "Lennie, listen to me and listen carefully. Elaine and I found Mike downtown, looking like this. He's got amnesia---something awful must have happened to him. I would imagine he's been sleeping in the park, he's filthy and was extremely hungry and thirsty when we found him a few hours ago. So please, Lennie---he needs compassion and understanding, not a lot of guilt-tripping."

Lennie stared intently at Logan and remained silent. He took Ceretta aside and asked, softly, "Where the hell did you find him? And why's he gone off the deep end like this? Come on, you have to know something!

Phil Cerreta shook his head. "I'm afraid not, Lennie. He's been living on the street all this time, as I've told you already. My guess is that he may have been in a place like Bellevue and escaped, because he has a hospital bracelet on his left wrist. He needs help, Lennie, not rebuking. Can't you see that?"

Mike Logan in days of yore, before his catastrophic breakdown:

Logan stared at Phil and smiled. "Thanks, Phil Cerr---cerr---um, uh----"

"Cerreta," Phil finished, squeezing his former partner's forearm.

Briscoe was extremely upset upon seeing his partner talking like a small child or someone who was mentally retarded. Whatever could have done this too him? "Well, Bellevue's the way to go then. We can't have him wandering through New York City. He'll be killed for sure."

"You really think that's best? Elaine and I were going to bring him home with us. It would be a lot less upsetting than a cold, institutional facility."

"Yeah, right. Let him stay at your place and then he walks out in the middle of the night and gets lost again. Look at him, Phil----he's regressed one hell of a lot. Good God, you have NO idea what happened to him?" Lennie was growing more distressed by the minute, seeing his partner standing there, looking like the patients he had witnessed at the facility for the criminally insane. But then, Logan hadn't committed any crime, at least not one that they knew about.

"So what do you want us to do? Have him committed for the next few years? That's not what I would call compassionate, Lennie." Ceretta felt that Lennie could be coldhearted at times.

Briscoe stared intently at Logan, seeing the unfocused eyes, observing the simpleton smile and the total lack of recognition. What should be done with him? At least at the hospital, they could keep a close eye on him. Lennie wondered whether or not Mike had done any street drugs, then hated himself for jumping to conclusions.

After talking awhile more, the consensus was to take Logan back to Bellevue. They decided that it would be the most logical place to put someone who had no memories of his past life and who appeared to be five years old or less. Lennie didn't call Van Buren until he arrived back at the precinct. When asked where he'd spent the past hour, Briscoe's answer was, "I took a long lunch. Hope you don't mind.

"I see," responded Anita, giving Lennie a wry look. "Well, if you've done squandering your offtime, there's something I'd like you to look into."

Lennie was distracted and it showed. As Van Buren began berating him for daydreaming, he blurted out, "Hey, in case you just might be the least bit interested, I came across Mike earlier today."

Anita Van Buren had to sit down in order to absorb the shock. "What??? Where?? What's going on? Lennie, have you got information? Was he hurt?" She was a great deal more concerned than she wanted to let on, but she'd spent more than one sleepless night since Logan had gone missing.

"Believe me, you don't really want to know all the details. Hell, even I don't. I ran into him with Phil Cerreta and his wife. Mike didn't recognize me or even seem to be in the same orbit as you and I are. I tell you, lieutenant, our guy's in big trouble. He's just impossible to reach. I suggested that the Cerretas take him to Bellevue---"

"Bellevue?? That psychiatric place that's got this really negative rep? I don't know, Lennie. Just what is Mike doing? Is he a danger of hurting anyone or himself? Those are the only ways you can commit someone."

"I don't know about that, but he's definitely endangering his life by living in Central Park. You take your life in your hands in that place after the sun sets. You think we should just leave him there? He won't recognize you, Anita. He didn't know who I was. This is tearing my guts out but, dammit. We were good friends, along with being partners. He always reminded me of myself when I was his age. I can't tell you how crappy I feel."

Anita Van Buren let Lennie's information sink in, then looked intently at the addled detective. "Okay, the hospital is most likely the way to go here. Did you say where he and the Cerettas were?

"At Phil and Elaine's. They think they can somehow jostle him out of whatever the hell kind of fog he's in. I really don't think they're qualified, if you ask me. Mike will just keep wandering around with no identity and he'll never work here again. You haven't got any better ideas, have you?"

"Frankly, Lennie, I don't. We have no idea what caused this amnesia or if it is curable. Perhaps Bellevue can unlock the doors---I don't know. But I'll call the Cerettas and arrange for Mike to be transported to the hospital."

Just then, Phil and Elaine, along with Mike Logan, walked into the precinct, right out of the blue. Van Buren did a double take when she saw Logan's pathetic appearance. "Phil Ceretta? I assume that's you. I'm Lieutenant Anita Van Buren--I took over for Donald Cragen some time ago, and---"

Phil butted in, "Yes, I'm aware of that. I've got someone here that you know pretty well---Lennie wants Elaine and me to take him to the mental hospital. We're not certain that's in Mike's interests. He needs to be in familiar surroundings, not locked away in some sterile environment that's pretty well guaranteed to make him worse."

"And just what do you propose we do with him?" Van Buren felt sorry for Mike but, as far as she could tell, he was nowhere near being well enough to take over his job at the two seven.

"I suggested taking him home for awhile," Phil replied, grasping Mike by the forearm as he began wandering off. "Elaine and I don't feel that an insititution will make him better, that's all."

"But taking him home with you is a tremendous responsibility. I mean, it's not like taking a cat or a dog home from the pound. This is a human being here, a very sick one. How can you say that the two of you can manage him if he doesn't know who he is or where he lives?"

"Don't you care anything about what caused Mike to get like this? Is he just a job to you, Lieutenant?" Ceretta was growing exasperated with this woman.

Just then, Logan walked awkwardly over to what had been his desk and picked up his name plate. "This yours?" he asked Phil, smiling in that crooked way he'd recently learned.

"No, that's yours," Phil told him softly, while Lennie and Anita each folded their arms and shook their heads in dismay.

Logan stared intently at the plate, then laughted and said, "You're just----you're just funnin' with me, Phil Cer--Cerret-Ceretta." He had great difficulty placing Phil's name and the comment about the Italian cookies seemed to have sifted back into his unconscious mind.

Then, just as Ceretta was about to respond to his former partner, Profaci entered the precinct. As soon as he spied Mike Logan, he rushed over to him and threw his arm around Logan's neck. "Hey! You're found! Geez, you had the joint jumpin' for the past week. What did you do---sail away to Coney Island and play on the rides all day and night?"

As soon as Profaci touched Logan, he grasped Profaci around the throat and began choking him in earnest. Squeezing the unsuspecting cop harder and harder, he cried out in broken tones, "You killed him! You cut him up! I hate you and I want you dead!"

It took Lennie and three other officers to pull Logan off Profaci. Profaci straightened his tie and cried out breathlessly, "Fuck, that guy's gone totally loco! I don't care who he is---get him the hell out of here and into a straitjacket!"

The writing was on the wall. There would be no choice other than to take Mike Logan back to Bellevue.

That's exactly what happened: Logan was escorted into a van by two attendants who'd been summoned a half hour before. He screamed, kicked and spouted every profane word in the English language.

"Let go of me, you Goddamned sonofabitch! I won't go there. People bad there. They hurt me!" Mike logan struggled and, because he was in better-than-average shape, was able to free himself from the attendants' steely grasp and disappear, out of the precinct and into the blanketed sanctuary of the night.

"Go get him!" Profaci hollered, sweat beading on his upper lip.

Van Buren shook her head. "No, we'll never catch him. We'll have to get in touch with the people at Bellevue. Lennie, I strongly suggest that you go home and get some sleep."

"Sleep! You honestly think I can go home and sleep??" Briscoe slammed his fist on his desk and said, in a particularly nasty tone of voice, "Nobody should have mentioned the name of that hellhole. Dammit, we almost had him! Now it's gonna be really hard to find him before someone hurts him or something."

Told by Van Buren that he was being completely negative, Lennie responded, "Well, I happen to know Mike very well. He's not one to thrive in an inclosed environment where he can't come and go as he pleases. Thank you, Anita and Profaci. You just might well have signed Logan's death certificate." With that caustic remark, Lennie Briscoe left the precinct and decided that he'd go on his own hunt for the elusive, exceedingly troubled partner, of whom he had grown quire fond over the past few years.

Lennie Briscoe stared blankly at what used to be his brash and vital partner. Logan’s eyes had misted over, much like that of a man facing his own mortality and who was about to come to the conclusion of his life. What the hell had happened? Where had Mike been for the past week and why couldn’t he recognize a man with whom he’d worked side-by-side with for the past three years?

"If you're going to look for Mike, I'll join you," said Phil, doing up his thick winter coat and donning the trademark hat. "So let's go. Time's a wasting."

The two cops set off, promising Van Buren that if they couldn't locate Mike, they were to return. Other officers had been alerted, after Anita had called 911 several minutes ago, so everyone was confident that the prodigal detective would surface, hopefully in no worse condition than before he took off.

* * * * * *

After three hours of wandering about the city, in what Lennie had to admit was a wild goose chase at best, it suddenly struck him, with the force of an iron pipe striking him on the head, that Logan would go someplace where he felt safe and comfortable. Reflecting back on a conversation he and Logan had had many months ago, months that now seemed a lifetime away, Briscoe recalled it now, word for word.

"Hey, Lennie, if you were some kind of nomad and came here to New York to pitch a tent, where would it be?" Briscoe shook his head. "That's some kind of question, Mike. Let me ask you first. Where would you set up camp?"

Mike Logan had smiled, responding right away. "Gramercy Park. I love it there, although on our salary, Lennie, we can just drool at the homes and condos around that area. What about you?"

"Yeah, well for me, it's anywhere far, far away from where any of my ex-wives live," Lennie responded in his caustic and sardonic way with the one-liners.

Gramercy Park seemed to be the logical place. If he and Cerretta found Mike there, they'd meglect to mention the word "Bellevue" and would try to engage him in conversation. Only Mike Logan knew what had trasformed a vital and duable man into a whimpering child.

Lennie had been right about Gramercy Park. It only took him and Cerreta an hour or so before Phil spotted Mike sitting in the frozen snow, feeding squirrels dried leaves, which the happy little rodents chewed with gusto. When Logan spotted Briscoe and Cerreta, he struggled quickly to his feet and hollered hoarsely, "No! Go away! I don't like you. You are not my friends. I hate you! Go away and leave me alone!!"

Lennie stopped in his tracks, so as not to frighten Logan anymore than he and Phl had to. In foreign soft tones (Lennie Briscoe was certainly not known for his sentimentality and displays of kindness and compassion. "Hey, we're not here to hurt you. Wr just want to talk to you for awhile. This is my friend, Phil. He wants to get to know you. There's no reason to run away."

Logan glanced quickly at Briscoe, then turned away with a shy, insecure smile on his grimy face. “Don’t---don’t stare, Mr. Please don’t stare at me. I don’t like it.”

Lennie turned his gaze away from Mike and cleared his throat. He’d figured out, by this time, that the younger detective had no idea who he was, so continuing any kind of normal conversation with what had become a virtual stranger was futile. Lennie then decided to back off and slowly move away to where his squad car was waiting. He then put in a call to Van Buren, to let her know that Mike had been found, safe, if not sound.

“Hey, I need to ask you a few questions!” Briscoe called out, fearful lest Cerreta leave him to deal with who was nothing but a stranger and a disturbed one at that. Lennie Briscoe had always felt extremely awkward when confronted with overly emotional issues---his way in handling situations like this was to make himself scarce and let someone else take over. Thus, Phil Ceretta would be an excellent choice for the man who could take charge of this terribly confusing and disturbing situation.

Cerreta looked up from where he’d been jotting notes on a yellow pad. “What kind of questions?”

“Okay, let’s start with this one: What, in freaking hell is my partner acting as though he’d been transferred into a retarded man for no apparent reason? And, along with that, where’s he been for the past week?”

Phil Cerretta shook his head slowly. “Lennie, I don’t know what to tell you. I met up with Mike and didn’t know who he was. I wanted to direct him to a soup kitchen, as he’s obviously not been eating. When he said something that I remembered, it didn’t take long for me to see who this supposed street person was. Now, just what caused all this, I have no idea. But I feel it would be best if we took him to a nearby hospital to get checked over for hypothermia. I notice that he’s not wearing a coat and it must be only twenty degrees out here.”

Lennie Briscoe sublimated his emotions, just as he had when Claire Kincaid had been killed in a car accident and his beloved younger daughter was murdered by a nasty drug dealer. He simply could not afford to let himself get too involved with the tragedies of loved ones. He loved Mike Logan like a son. Seeing him in this terrible state would tear Lennie apart if he didn’t steel himself against the tremendous pain. “Right. A Hospital. Surely they can make some sense out of him and fix him up physically. Lord knows, taking him home or to the two seven wouldn’t be in Mike’s best interests.”

“No, that’s true, Lennie.” Phil wrapped his winter coat around Logan’s trembling shoulders and said softly to him, “Come on, we’re going to take care of you. There’s no need to stay out here freezing and starving to death. Just let us help you, okay?”

Logan smiled at his former partner, then looked straight at him as he muttered, almost incoherently, “Where’s the Doctor Zhivago hat?” Then, having asked the question, Logan seemed to delve deeper into his own little world where things like dismembering babies never happened and never would.

Phil exclaimed to Lennie, “Hey, he did it again! Some part of Mike knows who I am. First the mentioning of the cookies and now my hat. Mike always teased me about it, saying I looked like a Russian from Siberia!”

Lennie put his hand on Phil’s shoulder. “I wouldn’t get your hopes up too much, pal. Even Alzheimer’s patients can recall random incidents and conversations. Face it----Mike’s gone totally off the deep end and the very best place for him, after taking him to the hospital, would be to have someone on staff there keep him for observation.”

“Hey, wait a minute, Lennie. Mike Logan may have temporarily lost his way, but he doesn’t deserve to be locked up in one of those awful places. I think that if he’s surrounded by the people he knows, then his memory will return, little by little.”

“Oh, and where did you get this information?” Briscoe snapped, instantly regretting his short fuse. “Look at him, Phil. He’s had some kind of shock that’s made him crawl into a mental black hole and stay there. You really think he’s coming back to us?” Briscoe’s protective wall came crumbling dramatically to the ground with this last statement. He knew that burnout could be and usually was permanent. Mike’s prognosis would not be good and no amount of self-deception could hide Lennie from this cold and damning reality.

* * * * * * *

Back at the twenty-seventh precinct, Van Buren was talking to Captain Donald Cragen. She’d had a busy morning, what with two of her best detectives absent, but she decided to use her lunch period to tell Cragen about the disturbing fact that Mike Logan, long an associate of the captain’s, had been mysteriously missing for a week, with no sign of reappearing.

“Mike’s missing??” Cragen sat up straight in his chair. “What’s going on, Anita? People don’t just vanish into thin air without some logical explanation.”

“Well, apparently, that is the case with Mike. He left early last Wednesday, at about sunset. He told Lennie and me that he was going home to relax and watch the Nicks game on television. Then, the next day, he doesn’t show up for work. One day turns into two, then three---all the way to seven. We’ve sent out bulletins, had people out looking for him and--”

Cragen interrupted. “Wait a minute, Anita. You mean he’s not at home? Perhaps he’s in a hospital somewhere. Ever think of that possibility?”

“Yes, Donald, we have. Lennie went to Mike’s apartment the next day and saw that his leather coat, gun and beeper were there. He brought them back here. But no Mike. Lennie figured that he must have gone home, changed into casual clothes and went out for a walk.”

“And you’re thinking that maybe Mike got mugged or worse?” Cragen rocked back and forth in his chair, growing more frantic as the conversation ensued. “Anita, absolutely anything could have happened to him in a city like this. New York isn’t known for its law-abiding citizens.”

“Donald, I don’t know what to think. I mean, Mike’s a tough guy---not someone who’d roll over and play dead. He’s a fighter--always has been from what I hear.”

“Anita, those are the very people who get into serious trouble. It’s not worth it to fight. And what the hell was Mike doing without his piece? Nobody in either this department or yours is foolhardy enough to do that.”

“That makes me wonder if he just went out for a short walk. Surely he wouldn’t feel the need to be armed in his own neighbourhood.” Van Buren could feel her blood pressure rising by the second. Things did not bode well for the tempestuous Irish cop whose killer smile could melt even the lieutenant’s somewhat stony heart.

* * * * * * *

When Lennie, Phil and Mike reached the hospital, Mike was having difficulty walking. He would take a few steps and then lose his balance, nearly falling, face first, into the hardened and dirty snow. When the three of them walked into the emergency room, Phil called out, “Hey! Can somebody help us here?”

A nurse hurried toward them and called out for a gurney. Mike was placed upon it, but not without a scuffle in which Phil got a black eye and Lennie had his hair pulled.

“Hey, take it easy!” Lennie cried, doing his best to disentangle his partner from his hair. “Nothing bad will happen to you here. I promise.”

Lennie Briscoe should not have done that, for, after an intern examined Mike and then went off to make a phone call, Logan was prepared for transport to Bellevue again. As soon as Mike heard that dreaded name, he unsteadily sat up on the gurney and cried out, “No! Not that place!! I thought you were my friends! I hate you! I won’t go there, hear me? You go to hell. You are very bad men!”

Somehow, Phil managed to talk the hospital staff into letting him see Mike again. Phil had just come from Cragen’s house, where Donald had told him in hushed, morose tones that he couldn’t bear to see Logan as he was now. He was so tortured, confused and with a somewhat frightening vaccuous expression that Cragen vowed to stay away from Mike. He had to, for contact with the former detective only intensified his sadness and heaviness in his heart.

Logan was busy sketching in the sunroom when Ceretta entered. Actually, it was more like scribbling than anything creative, but just the same, he appeared totally engrossed in what he was doing.

“Hi,” Phil began, moving closer to the table where Mike was diligently working. He sat down at Logan’s table and asked, in gentle tones, “May I see what you’re drawing?”

To Phil’s pleasant surprise, Mike looked up and smiled at him. His hair was dissheveled and he was dressed in hospital-issued pajamas. “Hi,” he responded, running his fingers through his thick mat of hair. “You want to draw with me? Are you my friend?”

Phil, who’d been sitting quietly, nodded and remarked, “Sure. Do you have extra paper and crayons?” Cerreta thought that he might cause some kind of remembrance in Logan. Nurses had told him that the more time he spent with the confused and troubled detective, the more likely it was for his life to gradually, piece by piece, begin to fall into place, thus completing his emotional puzzle.

Looking about at the other patients, Some appeared almost normal to Phil and quite a few were engaged in such activities as writing, drawing or playing cards. Phil decided that this could not be a ward for desperately sick people, but just as that thought was wafting through his mind, there began a loud commotion over in the corner of the room.

To the horror of the other patients, including Logan and his visiter, Phil Cerreta, an out-of-control man had lunged at another who had been peacefully listening to music on his Walkman. He got the unfortunate soul down on the floor and hollered, “You fucking bastard! You took my thoughts away!! How ever could I let anyone do that---you’ll pay, you useless sonofabitch!!”

Two minutes later, a male nursing assistant, muscular and rather tough-looking, had grasped the attacker away from his breathless victim and said angrily, “That’s your ticket to the seclusion room, my friend. You can’t just jump someone’s bones and squeeze the daylights out of him. Let’s go, Percy. You know the drill well by now.”

After the fallout, Phil was surprised that Logan hadn’t gotten into the fray, but then remembered that he’d never been anything close to violent since his catastrophic breakdown. Finally, Cerreta spoke again. “Are you okay about what went down here a few minutes ago?” Phil’s face had developed small droplets of sweat and his hands began to tremble. Wishing he could get his former partner out of that madhouse, where nobody was safe from psychotic attacks, he put his hand gently on Logan’s shoulder and said softly, “Don’t worry. You’re definitely going to get better and have your life back. This is no kind of existence, my friend. Just be patient and do as they tell you. If you keep your nose clean and take the pills they give you here, then you’ll be well. Okay?”

Mike put down his red crayon and looked quizzically at Phil. “No, I live here now. I feel safe even with the---even with bad stuff happening. Please don’t put me on the street. It sucks there. Drugs, sick people.” Mike still couldn’t look Phil in the eye, but then, all of a sudden, one of those obscure, enlightened moments occurred. Logan, suddenly able to look into his f riend’s eyes, remarked slowly and with his “little boy voice,” a name given to him by the sometimes insensitive Profaci awhile back. “Did you eat the cookies?”

Phil pretended that he didn’t know what cookies to which Mike was referring. “Cookies? What kind of cookies? Did you really give them to me?” Cerreta’s heart took a giant, upward thrust and he was left breathless and he nervously drummed his fingers on the table. Here was Logan talking about those Italian cookies he’d brought Phil when he was hospitalized after being shot twice by a crazed drug dealer.

”You know,” Logan responded, a vacant smile on his once animated face. Even his features looked dulled and lifeless, “You know I saw you in a place like this. You have a funny name. How do you say it right?”

Phil wanted to return to the subject of the cookies, but Mike was off on his own mental travels. Well, it’s “Cerreta. Can you remember it?”

Logan moved his lips in slow motion, taking his glance away from Phil’s eyes as if it was far too threatening. “Okay, okay then. Your name is Phil Cer-ret? Sounds weird to me. Can I call you Phil?” Logan stared at the floor and then, out of nowhere, he exclaimed in muted, but emotional tones, “I wonder if his name was Phil-----Phil, um, Cerr--et?”

Phil leaned forward. “Who are you talking about? Have you made some friends here already, Mike?” This was something new. Phil didn’t care that Mike was having trouble with his last name, but the mysterious person to whom Mike was referring was a complete mystery to him. Shuffling around in his seat in an effort to get more comfortable and trying to emotionally squelch his gnawing hunger. He remembered having skipped breakfast.

Mike suddenly grabbed the hair on his head and began screaming, a loud, pathetic noise that brought two attendants running up to the table where he and Phil were. As he hollered maniacally, Logan cried, letting one sentence out. “He was a bad man! He threw garbage in the river!! I hate that man! He’s bad and going to hell!”

The attendants each grasped the frantic Mike Logan’s arms and began walking with him out of the dayroom. “Okay, I think you need some time out. Sir,” he said to a shocked and concerned Phil Cerreta. “I think you’d better go. Obviously, this patient gets too stimulated when people visit him.”

Phil couldn’t help feeling somewhat defensive. After all, the visit was going well until something triggered a nasty part of his life. As he rose to his feet, Cerreta commented in a practised, even voice, “His name’s Mike---Mike Logan. You shouldn’t just refer to him as “a patient.” It’s pretty dehumanizing.”

Ignoring Phil, the attendants led Logan away. Just as they reached the door that would lead them to the seclusion room for some “quiet time” for him, he turned to Phil and cried in a terribly painful state of his mind, “Go find that bad man! Put him in jail! Riker’s Island or something!”

Phil called out, both to Mike and the burly, tattooed attendants, “Hey! He remembers Riker’s and what it’s for. Isn’t that making progress? Cerreta wiped sweat from his forehead before it trickled down into his eyes, stinging them and blurring his vision.

”Yeah, progress. Whatever you say, mac,” and with that, they disappeared with Logan to a place into a place where nobody deserved to be tossed. Phil was left standing, feeling now that either Mike’s memory was gradually returning, or that the terrible memory that set him into “semi-catatonic mindset” would end up causing Mike to retreat even further into his own little world. Phil donned his coat, hat and gloves and decided to go back to the twenty-seventh precinct with the details of his visit with Logan. He had wanted to report good news, but knew that he would be lying if he glossed over anything. Perhaps that was the way in the Ceretta household, when Phl was growing up, but, fortunately, times had changed since then.

Cerreta did go to Mike’s precinct and ran into Lennie Briscoe. He knew that Lennie would want to hear about the visit, even with its dire and depressing results, so he began with, “I saw Mikey today at the hospital. They have a nice common area with lots of light from many windows. Things could be worse for him. Phil knew he was spouting bullshit, but didn’t have the heart to tell the whole tale. Instead, he finished with, “He’ll be out soon. I’m sure of it. He doesn’t seem that sick and I bet they’d even let him out soon.” Phil cringed inwardly at such blatant falsehoods.

But Cragen and Briscoe were unconvinced. Lennie replied somewhat caustically, “ ”Yeah, Phil, and I just won the lottery. I’m afraid we’re not terribly convinced about anything you’re telling us. If Mike’s on a form, that means that he's been certified. If that's the case, he won't get released until the doctors there decided that he was well enough to be released.

Ceretta had to grudgingly admit that, yes, he’d more than embellished Mike’s predicament, but he wanted to spare Cragen and Briscoe the pain of hearing that their friend was not only not improving, but that he’d regressed in the past week. However, Phil did have one piece of positive news. “Hey, maybe Mike isn’t all that well, but you know what? He not only remembered about the Italian cookies he brought me when I was in the hospital and, another thing is that he admitted to me that he’d seen what he called a “bad man” throwing garbage into the East River.”

”Garbage? Cookies? Phil, you’ll have to do better than that to convince me that Mike’s not lost in his own torture chamber. Why would someone pitching garbage into an already polluted body of water.”

Before Phil had a chance to respond or to defend himself to those two skeptics, the phone rang. Cragen answered it, thinking it was some information on a case for which the precinct was waiting to hear. As he listened, Cragen’s face seemed to drain blood and leave it ghost-like and haggard. Phil and Lennie wondered what could possibly be causing such a dramatic reaction. Cragen, after listening for several minutes, said defeatedly, “Okay, I guess I appreciate your call, but pardon me if I don’t jump for joy.”

Phil and Lennie looked at one another and tried hard not to lose their composure. Was the call about Mike, or could it be someone with a lead on the case? They didn’t have to wait long for the answer.

After hanging up the phone, Cragen slumped into his chair and said slowly, seeming to carefully keep his emotions under wraps, something he’d learned from his training at the police academy many years before. “Guys,” he began, the top of his bald head shimmering from a sweat shampoo, “I’ve got some crappy news. When they tried to get Mike into the seclusion room, where they seem to put peope who are disruptive and can have an hour or two away from the stimulating sunroom, he got extremely aggitated and refused to get into the room. Well, I guess there was some kind of fight and Mike hit his head on the floor. They said he was unconscious and he’s on his way to the general hospital for a CAT scan and other tests. I don’t believe this.”

Both Briscoe and Cerreta looked at one another and said nothing. What, in essence, was the point of talking. Phil broke the silence, a minute or two afterward, “You guys can’t leave the precinct by now. I’ll go to the hospital to keep Mike from getting too unstrung.”

”Thanks, Phil,” Cragen responded, sighing deeply and fearing the worst. “Please keep us in touch. I’m sure he’ll be alright. He survived getting shot, so anything’s possible.”

What’s coming up next for this story? Well, Phil visits Mike in the hospital and after talking to some of the doctors and nurses in the emergency room, learns that he would recover fairly quickly because it wasn’t a serious injury.

However, Logan has an overwhelming desire to look at the newborn babies on the maternity floor, so, after getting a clean bill of health and is told he could leave the hospital in a couple of days, Mike Logan goes to see the adorable infants.

Please accept my apology for waiting for the rest of this story and not seeing it continued just yet. My computer was at my friend's place for nearly three weeks and I am also in the middle of moving into my own apartment, finally. Expect to see another segment by this coming weekend. I have it all written out in longhand, as I always do when writing, so it just needs to be transcribed here on this page. Again, I'm sorry for the delay.

Well, finally i'm back and here's the rest of the story:

As he stood at the maternity window, were two dozen newborn babies lay, with some crying and others sleeping, Logan felt something powerfully indidious welling up in the pit of his stomach. He felt an overwhelming wave of nausea washing over him like a tidal wave and he was forced to run and seek out a bathroom as quickly as possible. Unfortunately, he didn't make it in time and became violently ill in the hospital corridor.

"Hey, are you alright? Well, that's a stupid question. Obviously you're not." Logan looked up and his bloodshot eyes met the face of an attractive and kind-faced nurse. She summoned for someone to get a mop and then led Logan to a chair so that he could pull himself together. "Having a bad time?" she asked, feeling his forehead for signs of a fever. "Or have you been hit with that flu bug that's going around?"

Logan shook his head, the acrid taste of bile filling his mouth. "No, I just---well, I really don't know what's the matter with me. Guess I'm just tired." He tried to stand up but his knees gave out and he tumbled back onto the chair.

The kindly nurse, a thirty-five-year-old woman who worked on the maternity ward, pointed out a new mother in a wheelchair as she passed by them, holding her tiny infant in her arms and smiling broadly. "Well, hello, Mary," the nurse said, gently nudging Logan. "That's one beautiful child. You must be so very happy."

As Logan's gaze fell upon the angelic face of the newborn baby, he suddently leapt off the chair, crying out in loud and broken tones, "No!! I can't---I can't do this again! I got to get out of here!!" Then Logan began running down the corridor, bumping into people as he made his mad dash for the front door of the hospital. Deirdre, the compassionate nurse, called out after Logan, but by that time he was long gone.

"What on earth was his problem?" the mother of the baby asked, clutching her child close to her chest. "Is he a mental patient?"

Deirdre shook her head slowly and bit her lower lip. "I don't know. There's just something about him---something sad, tragic, really. He's obviously traumatized. I hope he can get some help."

* * * * * * *

Back at the twenty-seventh precinct, Van Buren and Briscoe went about their business, trying to put their concern for Mike Logan on the back burner. It wasn't easy.

"What do you think is going to happen to Mike?" Van Buren asked, noticing that Lennie had been sitting motionless at his desk, staring blankly at a report that Profaci had just given him.

Lennie sighed deeply, concern etched on his lived-in face. "He's safe right now and that's something to be thankful for. Mike's going to get the help he needs---God knows, we can't do anything---we have no idea what happened to him. Is there any way that Liz Olivet can try to unscramble Mikey's brains?"

"You mean, have her visit Mike at the hospital? Hey, that's not a bad idea. Donald told me that Mike's talked to her before, after his partner, Max Greevey, was gunned down. From what I've heard, she really made a great deal of progress in helping him get closure after Max died. You may be onto something, Lennie."

"Glad to know I'm useful for something," Lennie quipped, straightening out a pile of papers on his desk. "Are you going to go see the good doctor?"

"Yes, right now. I'm pretty certain she's in her office." With that, Van Buren went to talk to an extremely competant psychiatrist, one who'd had much success in unlocking many closed minds over the years she'd worked at the two seven.

Phil Cerreta hadn't gone home yet, but had gone to a nearby restaurant with Elaine to try and piece together thoughts on what may have caused Logan to retreat into a terrifying world where he was obviously being psychologically tortured. "Do you think he's still at the hospital?" he asked his wife, stirring his cup of coffee in a mechanical kind of motion.

"I don't know, hon," Elaine responded, sighing wearily. "We could go see him. He does have flashes of memory with you anyway. You may be Mike's ticket back from wherever he's become so hopelessly trapped."

Logan, meanwhile, had run as far and as fast as he could after the incident on the maternity ward. He wasn't familiar with the area and had no idea where he was going or how he'd get there. Although the weather was quite cold, with that dampness that creeps into one's bones like chilled fingers of ice, Logan suddenly felt a strong and powerful urge to undress. As he stood on the curb, with people passing by, in front of him and behind, Mike Logan removed his sweater and tossed it into the crowd, but because he was in New York City, nobody paid any attention to this bare-chested man who was obvioulsy not thinking clearly.

Even when he then got out of his jeans and then his underwear, he might as well have been disrobing in his own apartment, for all the attention he was receiving here on the street.

But then, Logan felt someone or something tugging on his left arm. He turned his head and met the eyes of an elderly bag lady, wearing a torn scarf on her head and a ragged coat on her thin body. "Hey, son, you wanna die out here? You can't go running around in this terrible weather wearing nothin' but your birthday suit. It ain't good for you."

Logan struggled to release himself from the woman's strong grip. "Go away! I don't like you. You just go away, okay? You just go away now." Logan was so confused that he didn't feel the dramatic sensation of cold that was assailing him. A strong north wind had suddenly erupted in icy gales, nearly knocking both Logan and the bag lady off their feet. He was barefoot, as Mike had had to remove his shoes to get his pants off. His socks lay a few feet away, quickly becoming frozen in this unusually cold weather.

Just then, the duo was joined by two police officers on foot patrol, who approached Logan with exasperated looks on their faces. "Okay, buddy boy. What's with the streaking routine? We're not amused in the least." One of the cops grasped Logan by the right forearm and cuffed him. "You're under arrest for lewdness and exposure. Come along with us and grab your clothes. We can't have people making spectacles of themselves in public."

The cop's partner added, somewhat snidely, "You know, Marty, I think this guy's pretty much out of touch. Wouldn't you say?"

"Yeah, he's a nutcase alright." Marty called for a squad car to come pick Logan up, but, before he realized what was happening, Logan broke away from his partner's grasp and took off, in a mad pace, eager to escape being locked up in some horrible place again.

"Hey!! Get back here!!" Marty shouted angrily, scooping up Logan's clothes and starting to run after the naked figure.

"Never mind. Someone else will get him."

"Yeah, some other loco guy'll stick a knife in him," Marty responded somewhat sadly. "He needs help but I doubt if he'll get it. He should be on medication. I just see way too much of this shit---mentally ill people being forced out of hospitals too soon, without a source for their meds. They fall through the cracks and that's the end of them. They have no family support so we bury them in Potter's Field."

"Since when did you become a bleeding heart?" his partner asked, somewhat dryly.

"Since my kid sister became schizophrenic and ended up dead when they let her out to go live on the streets. Some fucking perp shot her because she was so hungry that she stole from his hotdog machine. Can you believe that?"

Marty's partner fell silent. There just didn't seem to be anything left to say.

As it turned out, the very bare Logan made it onto the evening news, as a television reporter encountered him walking non-chalantly down the sidewalk. After filming the naked and rapidly turning blue Logan, he gave him a pair of pants and a sweater to wear. The reporter was a woman, a young, fresh-faced journalist who'd done a lot of stories on indigent people of New York. Obviously, this poor man had no home and was quite ill, thus the stripping routine. She gave Logan a sandwich and coffee, then tried to talk to him.

"What is your name?" the reporter, whose own name was Emily Fielding, asked. She had gorgeous, red hair, swept up into a bun on her forehead, large, green eyes and a warm and engaging smile. Logan immediately felt safe in her presence. She wasn't a cop or a shrink, just some nice lady who was being kind to him.

"I---I really don't know," Logan replied, smiling shyly. "I don't know much. I'm just stupid, I guess." He stared at the ground and kicked a mound of snow, frustration colouring his scruffy face.

"Well, I don't happen to think you're stupid at all," Emily said softly. "Come on into my van where it's warm. I want to ask you a few more questions---if you don't mind, that is."

After spending an hour with Logan, Emily decided not to use the film that showed him naked, even though parts would have been shaded, obviously. She didn't want to exploit this poor man, who'd most likely been treated pretty badly all his life. But she did want to feature him on her news show, in case someone recognized him. Sometimes the indigent mentally ill had family or friends who might wish to claim him. It was a longshot, but a chance Emily was willing to take.

.....To be continued.

Coming Up Next

Lennie, at home after work, sees the segment with Logan on the television news and immediately gets in touch with the station. He brings Logan home with him, where he tries desperately to get through to his partner and friend. Lennie doesn't know that Logan had been certified. He knew only that if he couldn't get into that terribly screwed up head of his, then he'd have no choice but to leave him in the hands of the psychiatric community. He detests the idea of his much-loved partner spending the rest of his days, locked in a mind awash in the drowning waters of insanity. Something specific had spun Logan into this horrible, lost hell on earth and Lennie knew for certain that if he couldn't reach Mike, then nobody ever would.

Well, I've finally returned to this story, after an extremely busy holiday season, a season that also has seen me move and therefore had no time to be online until now. So, I'm almost finished the next installment and will have it posted by this Sunday, January 21st. This story is turning into a novel, so I'm writing it as such. Thank you for being so patient with me.

Finally! Here I am with the next installment to this story---I hope you enjoy it and since this is going to be a novel, there's much more to come. Just click on the link below and you'll find it:

---

Scattered Pieces Of A Former Life
Logan Struggles For A Way Out Of the Maze

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