Title: Closure

Title: Closure

Author: Tracy (hmtomcat@hotmail.com)

Rating: PG-13

Classification: 2002 Virtual Season Finale

Summary: Harm defends a murder case, which brings up uncomfortable memories for Mac as she receives some things that belonged to her mother. Also, Sturgis still struggles with the aftermath of his actions in ‘The Human Element’

Spoilers: It helps if you’ve been following the virtual season this year, as there will be references to previous stories, especially ‘King Of Infinite Space’, ‘The Human Element,’ ‘Consequences,’ and ‘Secondary Objectives’. There's also a minor reference to 'In Country'

Disclaimers: Not mine (don't I wish!). They belong to Donald P. Bellisario, Paramount and CBS.

Archiving: At my website, Dress Whites and Roses and at the virtual season archive at http://www.wtv-zone.com/trgarchive/vs/season3/season3.html.

Copyright: This story is copyright by the author and may not be reproduced or archived in any format without the express written permission of the author. Is everyone clear on that now?

Author’s Notes: While the ‘A’ storyline isn’t exactly ripped from the headlines, I did come up with the idea after hearing about the rash of murders at Ft. Bragg (you’ll see differences as the story progresses). I’m not a pharmacist, but all the drugs mentioned are real as well as the possible side effects (and that comes from personal experience – except for the psychotic episode thing). And no, it’s not like the early spoilers put out on ‘Family Business’ (or ‘In Defense Of Others’ or whatever they’re calling that episode this week).

~*~*~*~

15 AUGUST

OFFICERS’ HOUSING

QUANTICO MCB, VIRGINIA

“Military police,” a voice shouted through the closed door over the loud pounding on the door. “Open up in there!”

The solitary man sitting at his desk stared down at his hands, his _expression blank, acting as if he didn’t even hear the demands to open the door, the pounding on the door. He didn’t even flinch, showed absolutely no sign of visible reaction as the door was broken in, armed MPs fanning out.

“Drop the weapon,” one shouted, aiming his gun at the man’s head. When there was no response, he motioned to his partner to cover him as he slowly inched forward until he was close enough to reach out and lift the gun from the man’s opened hands without so much as a look. “Malloy, check upstairs.”

“Aye, Sergeant,” Malloy called out as he headed up the stairs, his weapon held at the ready. The upper floor was quiet; the thud of his foots against the hardwood floor the only sound. Cautiously, he approached the first door, easing his gun through the partway-open door. Slowly, he followed, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. It was a child’s room, filled with stuff animals and toys. A small girl lay, apparently peacefully, close to one edge of the bed in the center of the room, the covers kicked off. Noticing no visible sign of injury, he sighed inwardly in relief as he made out the steady rise and fall of her chest.

Slowly, he backed out of the room and made his way down the hall to the other room, his grip tightening on his gun as he looked into the room through the wide open door. At first glance, the woman in the queen-sized bed appeared to simply be asleep, until Malloy’s eyes adjusted and he noticed the dark splotches on the light colored sheets. Easing forward, he already knew what he would find, but he pressed his fingers to her neck anyway.

Unclipping his radio from his belt, he turned it on and said in a quiet voice, “Sergeant Jones, this is Malloy. I’ve got a dead woman up here – one, maybe two gunshot wounds, probably shot while she slept. Estimate about thirty years of age. There’s a young girl in the other room, maybe eight to ten years of age, who appears to be unharmed. She seems to be sleeping peacefully.”

Jones removed his handcuffs from his belt and, holstering his gun while another MP covered, he yanked the man to his feet, handcuffing his wrists behind his back without the slightest hint of resistance. He passed the man off to two MPs to be taken out to the car. “Radio HQ,” he ordered. “Inform them we need an ambulance to transport a victim to the morgue. And we need to arrange for a foster family for a young girl. Mother deceased, father being taken in on suspicion of murder.”

~*~*~*~

Cue opening credits. And a few commercials that no one pays attention to anyway (and I’m not good at making up that kind of thing).

~*~*~*~

16 SEPTEMBER

JAG HEADQUARTERS

“Let’s get started people,” AJ ordered as everyone settled back into their chairs. He dropped several files on the table in front of him and took his own seat at the head of the table. “Shelly Donaldson was found shot to death in the on-base quarters at Quantico she shared with her husband. The husband, a Major Jefferson Donaldson, called base police to report the crime covered in his wife’s blood and was holding the murder weapon when the MPs arrived. The staff judge advocate’s office at Quantico is a little overwhelmed due to all those drug cases they’re trying to process, so I said we’d take this one.”

He glanced around the table before settling his gaze on Lauren. She tried not to look too expectant. She suspected she was being watched closely and had tried to take what Harm had said to heart. It wasn’t easy going against instinct, but AJ had seemed considering her more and more for higher profile cases, especially after whatever had happened with Sturgis. She wasn’t sure of all the details and had tried to tell herself that it wasn’t any of her business, but her curiosity had gotten the best of her after Harm had shown up for work a while back looking like he’d gone 10 rounds with both Mike Tyson and Evander Holyfield.

But instead of being glad that Sturgis’ problems had led AJ to lighten his caseload – which led to a few extra cases for her as well as Harm and Mac – she found herself thinking about what he had done. She might have been in the military and she’d received her expert rifleman and pistol ribbons, because she wouldn’t let herself achieve any less, but she couldn’t imagine actually holding a gun in her hands, pointing it at another human being and pulling the trigger. Even during the mess in Norfolk, she’d been content to let Harm and Mac be the ones with weapons in their hands. While a part of her was disgusted at the sudden introspection, another part was patting herself on the back for trying to think about others.

“Lieutenant, I want you to prosecute this one,” he said, sliding a folder across the table towards her. She took it and set it on top of the stack already in front of her. “Commander Turner, I want you to second.”

Sturgis nodded. As much as he was being assigned to provide a guiding hand for Lauren, he knew that AJ still had concerns about him taking on too much while he was still dealing with the events surrounding the transport of Commander Connor. In a way, he was even grateful. He wasn’t sure he wanted to sit first chair in the prosecution of a man alleged to have shot his wife to death. It still hit a little too close to home.

Another folder was pushed towards Harm. “The civilian attorney Donaldson had retained had a family emergency come up, so he and his client mutually agreed that Donaldson would request military counsel, so Commander, you’ll defend,” AJ ordered. “Your client is sitting at the brig at the Navy Yard. No room at the inn in Quantico.”

Finally, he turned to Mac. “I’m going to be in and out of the office this week,” he said, passing over the rest of the folders in front of him. “The Pentagon wants JAG input on the legalities of possibly going to war with Iraq. In the meantime, you’ll be in charge when I’m not here.”

“Yes, sir,” she replied, accepting the folders with an inward groan. She hoped they wouldn’t be anything more than reports that needed to be signed off on. She already had her own pile of cases on her desk.

“That will be all, people,” AJ said in dismissal. Lauren quickly cornered Sturgis to begin working on their prosecution while Harm and Mac walked out together.

“We still on for dinner tonight?” Harm asked quietly as they walked towards the bullpen.

“You sure you still want to cook?” she replied, just as quietly. Although they weren’t really hiding it, they didn’t go out of their way to broadcast their still-new romantic relationship. If asked, they weren’t going to lie. They just weren’t going to announce it at staff call either. “You’ve got a big case to prepare, if what I’ve been hearing on the news is any indication.”

“If what I’ve been hearing on the news is any indication,” he countered, “it’s a slam dunk case – for the other side. The man was covered in her blood, holding the gun when the police arrived and claims not to remember what happened that night. Unless I find something in mitigation, the trial is probably simply a matter of the members determining how long he goes to Leavenworth for.”

“Don’t tell me you’re giving up already,” she teased. “I wouldn’t want to have to call you on the carpet for not vigorously defending your client.”

He leaned closer, his mouth near her ear. “As I recall, you have a fondness for the carpet,” he whispered, delighting in the pink color tingeing her cheeks before he strolled off to sign out a government vehicle from Harriet, whistling ‘Anchor’s Away.’

~*~*~*~

1 HOUR LATER

WASHINGTON NAVAL YARD BRIG

Harm studied the man in the grey jumpsuit being escorted in by two Marine guards, his hands shackled in front of him. Major Jefferson Donaldson. Academy graduate. Went the Marine route because that’s what his grandfather had done. A distinguished career in Force Recon, including a Bronze Star during Desert Storm. Every fitrep ever written on the man had spoken of a dedicated Marine who never caused trouble and looked out for the officers and enlisted serving below him. A man who had never given any indication that he was even capable of pumping two bullets into his wife while she slept.

“As you were, Major,” Harm said, taking a seat the one end of the table in the center of the room, snapping open his briefcase, pulling out a legal pad and pen while one of the guards removed Donaldson’s shackles and pushed him, not exactly in a gentle manner, into the other chair at the table. Harm gave the guards a hard glare. His client was hardly acting in a threatening manner. “That will be all.”

Harm took a moment while he was getting organized to surreptitiously study the man in front of him. He looked, while not exactly the stereotypical picture of the rough, cigar-chomping devil dog Marine, physically fit enough to hold his own in battle. His blond hair was trimmed in a buzz cut, the light color a stark contrast to his tanned skin tone. But his clear blue eyes were what struck Harm the most. Donaldson looked confused, for lack of a better term. His _expression held the look of a man not entirely sure where he was or how he got there.

“Major, I’m Commander Harmon Rabb,” Harm introduced himself, holding out his hand. Donaldson took it, surprising Harm with the weakness of his grip. “I’ll be your defense attorney. I’d like to start by getting your version of what happened the night of 15 August.”

“I’m not sure how much I can tell you, Commander,” Donaldson said wearily, rubbing his forehead. “I don’t remember a lot of that night.”

“Just tell me what you can remember,” Harm encouraged him, making notes on his impressions of his client. Confused, as if not sure of anything. Seems weary and tired. He wasn’t angrily defending himself, nor was he throwing himself on the mercy of the court. If Harm didn’t know better, he’d swear the other man didn’t care what happened to himself. “The day was a Thursday. Were you at work during the day? What time did you arrive home?”

“I spent half a day at work,” Donaldson recalled, searching his memory. “I had a doctor’s appointment that afternoon.”

“For what?” Harm asked, making another note on his pad – Medications? He underlined it twice, remembering seeing the Early Bird briefs on the situation at Ft. Bragg. He glanced at the case file, noting that Donaldson had returned from Afghanistan at the beginning of the summer. Look into that malaria drug with possible ties to the Ft. Bragg case.

“My back,” he replied. “I was involved in an truck accident while I was deployed and I have a herniated disk. It doesn’t look that bad on the MRI, but it is causing a lot of pain, so the doctor has been trying some different medications to try to dull the pain.”

“I’ll need a list of any medications you’ve been on in the last couple of months,” Harm said. He stole another look at the file. A blood sample had been taken the night of the shooting, but the report only made a note that there was no alcohol in Donaldson’s system. It didn’t say anything about being screened for drugs, legal or otherwise. Check with lab on whether blood screen for drugs. If so, get complete report. If not, have blood screen for drugs and compare to the list of prescription drugs.

“I can give you the name of the doctor at the clinic,” he said. “He can tell you he’s prescribed. I don’t remember all the names. I didn’t think to ask to bring the medication with me to the brig and my back hasn’t been bothering me, so I didn’t see the need.”

Harm took a form out of his briefcase, filled in some information and passed it to Donaldson. “I need you to sign this release to authorize my obtaining your medical records and talking to your doctors,” he explained. Donaldson barely glanced at the form before signing it, his hand slightly trembling, and passing it back to Harm. Harm noticed and noted his theory on his pad. Possible withdrawal from medication? He needed to get that list of medications.

Then Harm began having second thoughts. Donaldson had been in the brig for a month, more than long enough to get over any withdrawal from his medication. There was something he was missing, but how much of an impact it would have on his case, he couldn’t begin to say.

He looked at his list of interview questions to orient himself, then continued. “What time did you get home from your doctor’s appointment?” he asked.

Donaldson thought for a moment, then replies slowly, “Around 1700, I think …. no, I’m sure. My daughter has Brownies after school on Thursdays and Shell returned from picking her up a few minutes after I got home.”

Harm checked the file – Stacey Donaldson, age nine. Home at the time of her mother’s death, but in bed when the MPs arrived. He looked further and discovered there was no report of a silencer on the gun, nor any indication a pillow had been used to muffle the shots. Did she actually sleep through her mother being shot twice or did she hear and was too scared to leave her bed? She was old enough that if she had heard something, she might have feared for her own life and burrowed into bed until she deemed it safe – or until the MPs got her out of bed. According to the MP report, she had been placed with a foster family on base when her father was arrested. He made a note to arrange a time to talk to her, perhaps with the assistance of a psychologist.

“So you arrived home about 1700 and your wife and daughter a few minutes later,” Harm repeated. Donaldson thought for a moment, then nodded. Seems unsure, as if he’s forgotten what he just told me. “So what happened next?”

“I went to lie down ….” he replied, pausing. “Yes. I was sore from the doctor’s poking and prodding and the physical therapy. I told Shell to go ahead and fix something for herself and Stacey for dinner, that I would get some leftovers later.”

“Did you get up at some point?” Harm asked.

“No,” he said. “At some point, Shell came upstairs. Wait …. Stacey was with her. They wanted to see how I was. Stacey started bouncing on the bed and I yelled at Shell to get her out of there. The shaking of the bed was making my back hurt more.”

“Did you take any medication for your back at any time that evening?”

“Yes,” he said without elaboration.

“What did you take?” Harm pressed. “Something over the counter, a prescription, what?”

“A prescription,” Donaldson replied, rubbing his forehead. “But I don’t remember the name of it. My doctor had rattled off some technical explanation when he prescribed it a few days earlier, something about depressing neuro …. something or another in my brain. Something about increasing my tolerance to pain.”

“So you took some pills,” Harm said. “Did you get up or did your wife bring them to you?”

“Shell brought them,” he recalled. “We argued …. well, not really argued. Shell is very much into herbs and natural healing. She would have to be on death’s …. on ….” He broke off, turning his head away as he struggled to compose himself. After a few moments, he turned back around, his eyes obviously red. “She would have to be really sick before she would go to a doctor. And she thought I was taking too many pills for my back. I told her, I guess you could say I snapped, that she had no idea how much pain I was in. She got me a glass of water and a pill then said she was going downstairs to watch TV.”

“Did you go to sleep?” Harm asked.

“I guess I fell asleep at some point,” he said, “because I don’t remember Shell coming to bed. But I couldn’t fall asleep right away. I felt like I was going to crawl out of my skin. I couldn’t get comfortable ….”

Could the pain have caused him to snap? Donaldson had never denied that he had committed the crime, had just said that he couldn’t remember doing it. Harm was beginning to see the beginnings of a case for mitigation taking shape. Although he had no doubt that his client had killed his wife, he had a feeling that he hadn’t meant to kill his wife, and not in the sense that he wanted to kill her at the time and was remorseful only after the fact. Something had pushed him to it. Harm felt it in his gut and his gut was seldom wrong. Just to make sure, he’d do a search for any reports of domestic incidents between the Donaldsons, but he didn’t think the answer would lie there. It didn’t feel like truth. See about a psych consult.

“What’s the next thing you remember?” Harm asked while making himself a list of things to do in the case.

Donaldson’s gaze took on a dreamy, faraway look. “It was dark outside,” he said as if in a trance. “I could hear a dog barking outside somewhere. There was something warm and sticky and wet on my hands and my pajamas felt like they were sticking to me. Then I looked down and I saw it. I realized that it was so cold, so heavy in my hands. It was just there, in my hand.” He looked down at his hands, as if he was seeing the events of that night again in his mind. “I picked up the phone and called 911. I didn’t know, but I knew it had to be bad.”

Harm took the moments while Donaldson composed himself again to read the initial response report from the MPs. When they had arrived, Donaldson had been sitting in a desk chair in one corner of the living room, staring at the gun in his hands. He hadn’t even looked up when the MPs had broken down the locked front door, their guns drawn. He hadn’t resisted when, after an MP had gone upstairs and found Shelly Donaldson lying in bed in a pool of her own blood, handcuffs had been slapped on him and he was read his rights. In fact, according to the reporting officer, the only words Donaldson had spoken that night were to ask one of the MPs if they were going to find someone to look after his daughter since he and his wife had no family in the area.

“Commander?” Donaldson asked quietly. Harm jerked his head up, his gaze settling on his client. “Sir, I want to know what happened to Shell. The MPs tell me that I took my service weapon and fired two bullets into my wife. But sir, I don’t remember and I can’t think of a single reason why I would do that to Shell. She’s …. Commander, she could light up a room just by walking into it. She was the one who kept everything organized when I would come down on orders. We’ve lived in six different places in three countries in the ten years we’ve been married and she never once complained. Why ….?”

Harm decided to conclude the interview, sensing he wasn’t going to get anything else useful out of this interview. But he did have enough questions whose answers might help him formulate a strategy and find the answers that Donaldson sounded so desperate to find.

~*~*~*~

~*~*~*~

THAT EVENING
MAC’S APARTMENT

Mac tried to balance a stack of files in one arm, her briefcase dangling from two fingers, while she struggled to get her key in the door lock. She had just about got it in when she was startled by the voice of her landlord. Struggling to keep her grip on the folders in the crook of her arm, she turned and smiled, the warm _expression turning to a puzzled frown when she saw the dolly of boxes he was lugging behind him. “Colonel, FedEx delivered these boxes for you about an hour ago,” he reported. He nodded towards her door. “Here, let me get that for you.”

She moved aside, letting him unlock and open her door. She walked in, dumping the files on her desk while her landlord wheeled in the boxes, nudging them off the dolly with his foot in front of the desk. He handed her a small FedEx envelope. “This also came with the boxes,” he said. “Good day, Colonel.”

As her landlord let himself out, Mac turned the envelope over in her hands, reading the return address with trepidation. She didn’t recognize the address itself, but she recognized the city and state. Portland, Oregon. Where her mother said she had ended up after leaving all those years ago. She ripped open the envelope, withdrawing a single sheet of paper.

Ms. MacKenzie,

My name is Darla Conners and I was a neighbor of your mother’s. After I was notified that she had passed on, I asked her brother what I should do with what little personal belongings she had. He gave me permission to sell the furniture – a check for that money minus what it cost to ship these boxes is also in the envelope – and gave me your address. I know Deanne was on her way to visit you when she passed and I know she would want you to have this stuff. She was always talking after your father’s funeral about her daughter the Marine lawyer and how she hoped to be able to see you again.

My sympathy at your loss.

Darla Conners

Mac shook out the envelope, a check falling into her hand. $198.35. Was that all her mother’s things had been worth? In the end, her life came down to two hundred dollars worth of furniture and the contents of four boxes. She stuffed the letter and check back into the envelope and set it on the desk, picking up the phone. She searched her memory, then dialed a number.

“US Disciplinary Barracks,” said a bored male voice on the other end when the phone was picked up after a couple of rings.

“This is Lieutenant Colonel Sarah MacKenzie, JAG Corps,” she said. “I need to speak to a prisoner, Colonel Matthew O’Hara.”

“The reason for the call?” the voice asked.

“I’m his niece,” she replied, “and I need to talk to him about a death in the family.” Not exactly the entire truth, but close enough that it should satisfy the prison.

“You do understand that all phone calls are subject to monitoring,” the voice droned on.

I just said I was a JAG lawyer, she thought. I know the rules. Aloud, she said calmly, “I understand.”

“Please hold,” the voice said, quickly replaced by elevator music. Knowing that it would take a few minutes to bring Uncle Matt to the phone, she sat down at her desk and opened up the top folder on the stack she had brought home with her. They never seemed to get caught up on paperwork and it always seemed to follow the biblical admonition to ‘be fruitful and multiple,’ especially when the Admiral was out of the office. Within an hour after he had left for the Pentagon, three more reports to be signed off on had been dumped on her desk, with five more to follow by the end of the day. Some days, she thought that she wouldn’t mind someday holding the title of Judge Advocate General. But other days, she couldn’t imagine how anyone, especially someone used to taking action against the enemy, could remain sane in the job. For a man like the Admiral who was used to facing people across the field of battle, facing the enemy of never-ending paperwork had to be galling. And someone like Harm? He’d probably be bored out of his skull within an hour of taking over the job.

Finally, the music on the line ended and the same bored voice came back on. “Colonel MacKenzie, I have Colonel O’Hara,” he said. “Go ahead please.”

“Sarah?” Matt said, concerned. Not that they didn’t keep in touch, but it wasn’t like her to call out of the blue unless something was wrong. “What is it?”

“I got some boxes from Darla Conners,” she said. “I understand you told her to send them to me.”

“Your mother’s things,” he said, comprehending. “I thought you needed to have them.”

“Why would you think that I would need them?” she asked. “Uncle Matt, I’m sorry that she’s dead. But she was not a part of my life for so long …. I don’t know why you would think that.”

“Maybe so you could understand her,” he said. “You know I don’t condone what she did. I was with you at Red Rock Mesa. I know what her leaving did to you. But since she initiated contact with me after Joe’s funeral, I understand some things better than I did before and I think you need that, too.”

“Uncle Matt, what is there left to understand?” she asked, biting back her frustration. “She left, she drifted back into my life three years ago when Dad died and she was trying to drift back in again. What makes you think this time would have turned out any differently than it did the last time I saw her?”

“Sarah, that’s not what I said,” he said in a soothing tone. “Your mother had her own demons that she was fighting, demons that tormented her as much as the ones that drove you to the bottle. I think you might understand her better if you could understand what drove her.”

“And forgive her?”

“That’s entirely up to you,” he said. “I’m not pushing you one way or the other. But shouldn’t you let yourself have the option to …. Sorry, Sarah, but I can’t stay on the phone. Someone else needs to use it. I’ll talk to you on Sunday as usual?”

“I’ll talk to you Sunday,” she said. “Goodbye, Uncle Matt.”

She clicked the phone off and set it on the desk, staring hard to the boxes in front of it. She had seen to all the arrangements for her mother. She’d made her peace when she scattered her ashes. What was the point in dredging all that up now?

~*~*~*~

AN HOUR LATER

Mac had buried herself in paperwork, studiously avoiding looking at the boxes stacked in front of her desk. She carefully read over each report before signing her name, making mental observations as she did so. Sturgis’ report on the Martin appeal was clear and concise, saying no more than it needed to. Sometimes she wondered how he and Harm had become such good friends – they seemed to be opposites in just about everything.

Much like Harm and yourself, a tiny voice in her head reminded her. But she knew that she and Harm had a lot more in common than it appeared on the surface. Both were largely defined by their childhoods. Both had issues with their parents. Both had overcome personal demons to become what they were today. On the surface, they might have seemed like oil and water, but underneath they were more compatible than anyone could imagine.

Pushing aside the sudden introspection – if she thought too much about it, she might start thinking about how much time they had wasted – and picked up the next report, Loren’s recommendations on the Barber investigation. If Sturgis was concise in his writing, Loren tended towards the opposite extreme. She often included too much information, as if she were a student trying to impress a teacher with the breadth of her knowledge. Sometimes it could give a person a headache, trying to discern the truly important from the utterly trivial in her reports.

But she had been getting better and Mac wondered if Harm had been helping her. Ever since Norfolk, although he hadn’t gone so far as to take Loren under his wing, he had been a lot more tolerant of her and had actually let her help out on one or two of his cases. Well, if he had the tolerance for that sort of thing, more power to him. She wasn’t holding her breath waiting for evidence that the change was permanent.

Signing off on that report as well, she picked up the next one and grinned. If they had been handwritten, Harm’s reports would be sloppy and hurriedly written out, with the final ‘T’ crossed probably as he was dropping the report in the inbox on Tiner’s desk. Coming from the printer, the paper would still be warm as the report was turned in. She need that because she knew paperwork of any kind was anathema to Harm. It was a mundane task which wasted time that could have been spent doing other things.

Other than that, his reports were just as concise as Sturgis’, probably because the shorter the report, the less time it took to write. Despite the rush in which he produced them, his recommendations were usually right on the money.

She looked up from the report at the knock on the door, frowning when she heard Harm’s voice through it. “Mac, are you there?” he called through the door.

He sounded worried and she tried to think of a reason …. “Oh,” she gasped, calculating the time in her head. She was supposed to have been at his apartment for dinner forty-five minutes ago. Dropping her pen on top of the report, she got up and answered the door, mentally rehearsing an apology. “I’m sorry,” she said as she opened the door, shrugging apologetically. “I got caught up in something.”

Harm was standing in the hallway, dressed casually in jeans and a ribbed cotton shirt that emphasized the blue of his eyes. He carried two grocery bags, balanced in the crook of one arm. He was about to make a flip comment about her losing track of time when he noticed the thinly veiled pain in her eyes. Something was troubling her and he was glad that he had decided to just come over rather than calling first.

“That’s okay,” he assured her, stepping past her into the apartment. He immediately noted the unopened boxes in front of her desk as he headed towards the kitchen. “Why don’t you finish whatever you were working on and I’ll get dinner started?”

He set the bags on the kitchen counter and started unpacking them, while Mac called out from the other room, “Harm, would you mind if I took a rain check? Some things came up today that I need to get caught up on.”

Harm came out of the kitchen and walked over to the desk, glancing down at the folders then at her with raised eyebrow. He recognized the open one as one of his own reports. It required nothing more than to be signed off on. “Mac, what’s going on?” he asked.

Mac sighed. She should have known she wasn’t going to get past him that easily. But she didn’t really want to talk about it either. “Nothing,” she said. “I’m just not up to ….” She trailed off as his gaze fell on the boxes and he read the return address on the label of the top box.

“Wasn’t your mom in Portland?” he asked, taking her silence as a ‘yes’. He closed the distance between them and put an arm around her shoulders, leading her to the couch. He sat sideways, one leg tucked under the other, one arm draped over the back of the couch, his other hand holding hers, his thumb moving lightly back and forth over the back of her hand. She was sitting forward on the couch, her head leaning back, her eyes closed.

It was several minutes before she finally spoke, her voice tightly controlled, only the firm set of her mouth betraying her internal struggle for control. “After she died,” she said, “Uncle Matt had contacted the place where she lived and somehow was put in touch with a friend of hers. He authorized her to sell of what little furniture she had and told her to send the rest of Mom’s things to me.”

“So what bothers you about this so much?” he asked.

“Who said it bothered me at all?” she retorted. “Assuming facts not in evidence, Counselor.”

“Let’s see,” he said, keeping his tone soothing and gentle. “You haven’t even touched the boxes, you buried yourself signing off on reports that could have waited until tomorrow at the office, you haven’t even changed out of your uniform and you forgot about dinner with me.”

She pulled her and away and got up from the couch, tugging down on her uniform shirt. “I just don’t see the point in rehashing all this,” she said. “What am I going to learn from those boxes that I don’t already know? I already dealt with all this earlier this summer.”

“If you’ve dealt with this, why are you so afraid of opening those boxes?” he asked calmly.

“I’m not!” she said, her voice raised. She took a deep breath and continued in a more normal tone. “She wasn’t a part of my life for over half of it while she was alive. Why should she be now that she’s dead?”

Harm realized they weren’t getting anywhere. Instead, they were simply going around in circles. He knew her well enough to know that she would face it eventually, resolving to be there for her when she was finally ready. “Why don’t you finish up with those reports while I get dinner started?” he suggested in a conciliatory tone. “No more talk about your mother or those boxes. In fact, I could get them out of here for you.”

“No,” she said quickly, responding just as he thought she would. It might take a little time, but she would come around. “But maybe we could get them out of the way. I think I have enough room in the bottom of my closet.”

They made short work of moving the boxes, Harm making the obligatory joking comment about all the shoes they had to move out of the way to make room in an attempt to lighten the mood, then adjourned to the kitchen, Harm shredding the cheese for their lasagna while Mac leaned against a counter, watching and occasionally snatching some cheese and popping it into her mouth.

“Stop that,” Harm said, playfully slapping her hand away as she snuck some more cheese.

“There’s a method to my madness,” she said, her voice a bit lighter and more carefree than a few minutes earlier.

“And that would be?” he asked with lifted eyebrow.

“The more cheese I eat,” she said, “the more room you have to put meat in the lasagna.”

She slipped through the doorway into the other room just as the dish towel he threw at her it the door frame with a soft thud.

~*~*~*~

THE NEXT MORNING

JAG HEADQUARTERS

Loren knocked on Sturgis’ open door. “Sir, if you’ve got a few minutes,” she said, “I’d like to sit down with you and map out our strategy on the Donaldson case.”

“Actually, Lieutenant,” Sturgis said, barely looking up from a file he was reading, “this really wouldn’t be a good time.”

“Well, then what would be a good time, Commander?” she asked, not reading anything unusual into his statement. “I’ve got a hearing on the Bradford case later this morning, but my afternoon ….”

“I’ll let you know, Lieutenant,” he said, his tone clipped. “Dismissed.”

In a huff, Loren retreated from his office, walking right into Harm as he was strolling into the bullpen. Harm put a hand on her arm to steady her. “Where’s the fire, Lieutenant?” he asked.

“Sorry, sir,” she said, her tone not exactly apologetic. “Commander Turner just …. he really needs to get over what happened. Sir.”

“My office, now,” he ordered, his voice taking on a dangerous edge. He closed the door behind them, flipping on his light and dropping his briefcase and cover on top of a filing cabinet. “Have you ever killed a man, Lieutenant?”

Harm took his seat, looking at her expectantly as she stood in front of his desk, her hands clasped behind her back. She stared back, her gaze steadily meeting his. “No, sir,” she replied.

“Then how can you judge what Commander Turner is going through?” he asked.

She pondered that for a moment, carefully considering her response. “Permission to speak freely, sir?” she asked.

It was on the tip of his tongue to say ‘denied,’ but he changed his mind. He had killed a man before, so he could imagine what Sturgis was going through and was worried about him. He just expressed it a little more diplomatically than Loren did, or he tried to. He had tried getting Sturgis to open up ever since the day he had shown up drunk, but the other man had resisted. Harm did know that he had been going to see a counselor at the Admiral’s urging – Sturgis had let that much slip one night over beers at McMurphy’s – but little else. If Sturgis was snapping at junior officers, apparently the sessions weren’t having the effect hoped for.

“Granted,” he said, gesturing towards the chairs behind her. “Take a seat.”

Loren sat, folding her hands in her lap. She had no illusions that she wasn’t still on thin ice with most of the staff at JAG and she had been trying. She knew Sturgis had been assigned second chair to keep an eye on her, and she would deal with that. But she had tried to include him in the case in the spirit of ‘teamwork’ and had been summarily rebuffed. Leaving him out of the loop was an option, but if he wasn’t engaged in the case, the Admiral might notice and it could reflect back on her. “Sir, I went to Commander Turner’s office this morning to ask about sitting down and mapping out our strategy on Donaldson,” she said. “He said it wasn’t a good time and when I tried to ask when would be, he snapped and dismissed me.”

Harm leaned back in his chair. For someone who was usually focused on herself, Loren’s instincts seemed to be right on the money. Of course, there was always the chance that she was put out by Sturgis’ attitude, so he felt compelled to play devil’s advocate. “Have you considered that he really was too busy to work on the case right now?” he suggested. “We are short staffed here and with the Admiral out this week, things are tighter than usual.”

“With all due respect, sir,” Loren said, “Commander Turner has been moping around here for the last two months. Everyone knows he’s been seeing a psychiatrist at Bethesda.”

“It seems to me, Lieutenant,” Harm said, his tone firm, “that any counseling Commander Turner may or may not be receiving is between him and the Admiral, as are any concerns about his work performance.”

“Yes, sir,” she replied, managing to sound a little chastised.

“Dismissed, Lieutenant,” Harm said, hoping but not entirely optimistic that he had gotten his point across. Loren was definitely very much a work in progress and when it came to hardheadedness and having a one-track mind, she definitely gave him a run for his money.

She got up to leave, pausing with her hand on the door knob as she turned back to Harm. “Sir,” she said, “I only wanted to bring this to someone’s attention. Commander Turner …. he needs help, sir. Everyone can see that.”

Harm stared off into space for a few minutes after Loren left. Sturgis did seem to be wallowing in guilt over killing the gunman. Harm was grateful that he had, for it could have meant Mac’s life and perhaps his and Sturgis’ as well. As he had told Loren, he knew what it was like to take a life, to have another person’s blood on your hands. In his line of business as a pilot, it was to be expected. You tried to prepare yourself for the eventuality that you might someday take a life, although he had learned after the Gulf of Sidra that it wasn’t quite that simple. He couldn’t really pinpoint exactly when he had stopped wondering about the other two pilots, wondering about the families they had left behind. There just came a day when he realized that he hadn’t thought of them in several days. Then several days became a week, then a month and life went on – at least until he had killed his RIO. That was another story and it had taken him years, and the grudging respect of Mace’s brother, before he could start to put that behind him.

Sturgis might have intellectually understood that he might someday be called upon to take a life in defense of his country, but when he had been on submarines, he had been a sonar officer. If lives were lost because of the actions of someone on his sub, he could always say that he wasn’t the one who pushed the button. And Sturgis had never served in the Gulf during the war. Most of his service aboard subs have been spent playing peek-a-boo with their Soviet counterparts.

In addition, being raised as a preacher’s kid possibly provided another detriment when it came to how Sturgis handled what had happened. Since before he could probably understand the concept, he had been taught to value life as sacred. Only God should be able to make the choice that it was someone’s time to die. Perhaps it was the ultimate contradiction in the military – providing chaplains on the one hand to minister to the troops spiritual needs while handing out weapons with the other hand.

Making a decision, Harm left his office and crossed the bullpen, mouthing ‘Later’ to Mac when she tried to stop him on her way out of the Admiral’s office. He continued down the hall to Sturgis’ office, not completely surprised to find the other man staring off into space, his casted left arm resting on top of his desk. “The courtyard,” he said quickly, determined not to give Sturgis a chance to argue or beg off. “Meet me there after work in your running clothes.” He turned and was gone before Sturgis could reply. He was counting on Sturgis considering it impolite not to show up. That gave him the rest of the day to figure out what he was going to say.

He headed for Mac’s office, dropping into a chair in front of his desk. “Has Sturgis talked to you recently?” he asked without preamble.

Mac looked up from her computer, her initial temptation to make a flip comment about his lack of decorum squashed by the question. “No,” she replied, “at least not about anything non-work related.” She thought for a moment. “I think the last time I talked to him about something having nothing to do with work was when I asked him how he broke his elbow.”

“That was a month ago,” Harm said thoughtfully. “He snapped at Singer this morning.”

“And this is cause for concern?” she asked, smothering a grin. Loren had a tendency to bring forth that kind of reaction in people.

“Since when have you known Sturgis to snap at anyone?” he asked. “Even under tremendous pressure, Sturgis has got to be the most even-tempered person I know.”

“Until the incident with Commander Connor’s transport,” Mac finished.

“Exactly,” Harm said. “He’s been seeing someone at Bethesda for just over a month, but he still won’t talk about it. Anyway, I invited myself to go running with him this afternoon after work. I know he’s still running, even with the cast on his arm. I figured I’d wear him out, then maybe he’ll open up to me. Do you mind picking me up tomorrow morning?”

“No, why?” she asked.

“Sturgis runs to and from work,” he explained, “so I thought I’d continued on to my place from his and just leave my car here tonight.”

“Not a problem,” she confirmed. Sensing the end of that conversation, she changed topics. “Would you like to have lunch with me today? There’s a new vegetarian place that just opened up about a mile away that I thought you’d like to try.”

“Sorry,” he said, “but I need to take a rain check today. I’m going to Quantico to meet with Major Donaldson’s doctor to get a list of prescriptions he was on, then I’ve got an afternoon appointment with a child psychologist to help me interview the defendant’s nine-year-old daughter.”

“Prescriptions?” Mac asked, drawing the obvious conclusion. “Harm, this isn’t Ft. Bragg.”

“I don’t know what this is,” he countered, “but in talking to Donaldson yesterday, there’s something going on here. What makes a man wake up in the middle of the night and pump two bullets into his sleeping wife? Something had to have caused him to snap. Maybe it is like Ft. Bragg. Maybe not. But I need to find out.”

“He was abusing her?” she shot back. “That’s typically the reason a person kills their spouse. Either the husband snaps and finally kills the wife he’s been abusing or the wife kills her abusive husband just to make it stop.”

“Abuse isn’t always the answer, Mac,” he patiently reminded her, beginning to think that he never should have brought this up with her. You didn’t bring it up, a voice reminded him. You told her why you couldn’t do lunch and she reacted. “I’ve already checked. There’s never even been a report of raised voices coming from the Donaldson’s quarters, let alone any kind of violence.”

“He killed her, didn’t he?” she asked, barely concealing her anger. “I’d call that abuse. Don’t try too hard for this one. He’s not worth it.”

“And who was it that only yesterday was joking about me not defending my client to the best of my abilities?” he returned in a clipped tone, beginning to respond to her anger. “I may not like what he did, but if there’s a reason why he suddenly snapped, I’d like to find it so he can get the help he needs.”

“Some people aren’t worth saving,” she said, turning back to her computer screen.

Feeling that he’d been dismissed, he silently withdrew, knowing this really wasn’t the place to discuss this. She was sensitive, he knew, because of her mother’s belonging showing up unexpectedly. He would have to remind himself to tread carefully. He grabbed his cover and briefcase from his office, closing the door behind him.

“Lieutenant,” he said as he stepped up to Harriet’s desk, “I need a car today.” She handed him a set of keys and the log for him to sign. “And if anyone calls for me, I will probably be out all day and for part of the day, I probably won’t have my cell phone on.”

“Yes, sir,” Harriet replied, taking the clipboard back.

~*~*~*~

~*~*~*~

LATER THAT MORNING

NAVAL MEDICAL CLINIC

QUANTICO MCB, VIRGINIA

“I appreciate your taking the time to see me, Doctor Drake,” Harm said, shaking the younger man’s hand.

“Take a seat, Commander,” Drake said, gesturing to the chair in front of his desk. Harm did so and handed the Marine Major the signed release form. Drake passed a green folder across the desk, which Harm took without opening. “I consolidated the list of prescriptions and put it on top inside.”

“Thank you, Major,” he replied. “Can you give me a brief overview on Major Donaldson’s condition and treatment?”

“Major Donaldson had been involved in a truck accident while he was deployed to Afghanistan,” he said. “According to the major, this was about a month before he left the theater. He was initially diagnosed in country as suffering from simple muscle strain due to the accident. He completed his tour without incident. I saw him for the first time the day after he returned. Apparently, the flights back were too much for him and his wife convinced him to come into the clinic. The man could barely walk when I first met him and he reported waking up that morning with numbness in his left leg.”

“What was your initial diagnosis and treatment?”

“It had been more than a month since the accident,” he continued, “so I immediately discounted the muscular strain theory and sent him for an MRI to a civilian doctor that TriCare contracts with. The results showed a herniation between L4 and 5. Although it wasn’t apparently on the scan, it was possibly pressing on the sciatic nerve, resulting in the numbness he reported.”

Harm held up a hand to stop the doctor’s recitation. “English, please,” he requested. High school biology was a distant memory and he had been too out of it after his first crash to know much more about his injuries than the fact that he hurt all over.

“L4 and 5 would refer to the bottom two lumbar vertebrae at the base of the back,” the doctor explained. “The sciatic nerve is a major nerve in the lower part of the body. It branches off from the spinal cord at that juncture and travels down the left leg. Anyway, I gave him an order for physical therapy and prescribed Vicotin for the pain.”

“And did he attend the physical therapy?” Harm asked, recalling his own torture sessions.

“Religiously,” Drake replied. “He was worried that if he didn’t do everything possible, that he would be forced to be medically discharged from the Corps.”

“Would that have even been considered that soon after his accident?” Harm asked. “Medical discharge, I mean?” He remembered how he had kept the Navy hanging on for months while he recovered sufficiently from his first crash to be able to determine what he wanted to do.

“No,” Drake said, shaking his head. “In a case like Major Donaldson’s, we would first treat through medications and physical therapy. After about four to six months, if there was little or no effect, we would begin to consider surgical options. Only after that would we start to consider a medical retirement. By then, you’re talking probably about a year down the road.”

“What about the Vicotin?” Harm asked, recalling his observations of Donaldson from the day before. “Can’t that be addictive?”

“In certain dosages and after a period of time, yes,” he confirmed. “But Donaldson wasn’t on the Vicotin for that long. It wasn’t having any effect, according to him, so I prescribed a Duragesic patch. Now that is addictive, being an opioid. But about a week later, his wife brought him back in. He had to be wheeled in here. When he tried to stand, he was nearly doubled over the pain was so severe. I suggested Oxycontin, but he refused that.”

“I’ve heard of that one,” Harm said. “Highly addictive as I recall.”

“Very,” he agreed. “In fact, Donaldson was worried about becoming addicted so we bypassed that and settled on a new approach involving a drug called Celexa. It’s an anti-depressant, but has recently begun to be used as a pain inhibitor. It works to inhibit the release of certain chemicals in the brain, chemicals which are linked to pain. It helps increase the patient’s tolerance to pain, much as it lifts the mood of a depressive person.”

“And that’s the most recent medication you prescribed?” Harm asked.

“Yes,” he replied. “I prescribed it three days before the shooting.”

“And you also saw him the day of the shooting, is that correct?” he asked. “How would you describe the major’s mood?”

“Yes, he had an appointment with me at fourteen hundred, then with his physical therapist at fourteen thirty,” Drake said, taking a moment to check the calendar on his computer. “He seemed in good spirits as I recall. The Celexa did seem to be having an effect. My exact notes will be in the file.”

Harm made a note on his pad about the apparent contradiction. Drake reported that Donaldson had seemed up and in less pain, yet Donaldson went straight to bed when he got home because he was in so much pain after his appointment. Had the physical therapy been that bad or was there something else? Was the medicine not working as well at thought or did he have a reaction to it? He glanced at his watch. Things seemed to be wrapping up here, which he thought would give him enough time to stop by the physical therapy department before he met with the psychiatrist who would be accompanying him to question Stacey Donaldson.

“I think that’s everything,” Harm said, closing his binder and capping his pen. He took a card out of his pocket and handed it to Drake. “If you think of anything else that might be useful, I’d appreciate it if you could give me a call.”

“Will do, Commander,” Drake said, standing and showing him to the door. “Major Donaldson is a good man and always seemed grateful to have his wife’s support. There were a lot of people suddenly deciding they couldn’t handle being a military spouse after the war started, but she didn’t seem to be one of them. I can’t imagine him doing this to her, despite what all the news reports say.”

“Thank you, Major,” Harm said, taking his leave. All he had now were more questions and no clearer idea of what the puzzle he was putting together was supposed to look like when it was finished.

~*~*~*~

PHYSICAL THERAPY DEPARTMENT

“The session wasn’t really any better or worse than usual,” the physical therapist, Lieutenant (j.g.) Janie Tallet, said after Harm showed her the signed release, authorizing her to talk to him about Donaldson. “Major Donaldson was a very determined patient. He was afraid of being made to leave the Corps so he worked especially hard to get back up to full strength. Sometimes too hard, I think.”

“Did he work too hard that day?” Harm asked.

“He seemed to have a lot of energy that day,” she replied, nodding. “Not quite superhuman, but more than usual. I make a comment about it and he said he was on a new medication which seemed to be having an effect. But it’s possible he was pushing himself too hard. I’ve seen it often with patients when they’re on a new medication, especially if it’s one that’s having an effect after failed attempts with other medications.”

“So it wouldn’t have been unusual for him to have gone home and crawled into bed because he was in pain?” he prodded.

“No,” she replied, “not unusual at all. Sometimes patients don’t know their own limits, especially with new medication. They feel better, but the problem that was causing the pain still exists.”

~*~*~*~

THAT AFTERNOON

OFFICER’S HOUSING

QUANTICO MCB, VIRGINIA

Stacey Donaldson was clinging to a teddy bear as she was brought into the living room by her foster mother, Lisa Forrester, the wife of a Lieutenant who was a Cobra pilot. Her eyes were wide and she regarded Harm and the psychiatrist, Laura Webster, warily. Despite the fact that she had grown up on military bases – she had lived on five in her nine years – she had probably had too many people in uniforms intruding on her life in the last month.

“Stacey, this is Commander Harmon Rabb,” Lisa introduced them as Stacey took a seat in a chair opposite the couch where Harm and Laura were sitting, staring down at her lap, “and this is Lieutenant Laura Webster. They’d like to talk to you about your daddy.”

“Stacey,” Harm said gently, “I want to help your daddy. Can you help me do that?”

“You want to help daddy?” she asked timidly.