Broken Wings

‘I know, when they prove bad, they are a sort of the vilest creatures: yet still the same reason gives it for Optima currupta pessima: the best things corrupted become the worst.’

Owen Felltham (Feltham), Resolves (XXX, Of Woman, p. 70)

The first soft rays of light slowly encroached across the somber heavens, announcing the start of the day. The events of the night had been washed away, leaving December to start anew. The tranquil silence was once more shattered as the city awoke to greet the dawning of a new day. The once deserted streets was once more filled with life as the people begin their morning commutes. The low growl of shop owners opening their stores and the rumbling of a nearby construction crew shattered the last illusions of tranquility in the corner of Manhattan.

The growing light of the day filtered inside the Spartan apartment far above the city sidewalks, rousing him from his slumber. Blurry eyes blinked as his tired eyes opened from the dreamless slumber. Stretching, he clicked off the television set before wandering into the apartment’s bathroom. Hollow eyes gazed back at him in the mirror’s reflection as the day loomed before him. A faint smile spread across his features as the cool water from the sink was splashed across his face. “No rest for the wicked, huh?” Munch asked himself as he dried his face before wandering back into his bedroom.

The closet door swung open to reveal the seemingly endless ocean of dark shirts and suits. Frowning, his fingers traced over several ties on the inside wall before selecting one. Turning to stand before the mirror, he frowned before choosing another. After several minutes of contemplation, he gazed absently into the mirror again. Satisfied with the outfit, Munch made his way into the kitchen. As the coffee maker heated, he sat at the table lost in oblivion. Lost in his thoughts, the knocking on his apartment door went unanswered as spilt coffee sizzled on the coffee maker’s burner.

The loud buzzing of the door bell broke through the thick silence he had lost himself in. Rubbing the bridge of his nose, Munch strolled lazily to the apartment door. “Yes?”

“Sorry to disturb you, but the mail man delivered your mail to me by mistake. I was wondering if you had a chance to check yours, just in case mine is there.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Reed, but I haven’t been downstairs yet.”

The elderly woman smiled at him, “that’s okay dear. When you get a chance, give me a call.”
PromPromise.” He smiled weakly before closing the door. Leaning against the door, Munch sighed. “It is going to be a long day.”

Leaving the coffee pot untouched, Munch slipped his coat on before walking out of the apartment. The door slammed behind as he walked down the hallway. “Mr. Munch?”

Munch stopped at the landing and turned in the direction of the voice. “Yes?”

“I just wanted to remind you about Mrs. Evers Christmas party next week. I was hoping that we’d see you there.”

“More then likely, unless work calls. Good day, Ms. Starling.” His footsteps echoed in the quiet morning as he descended the staircase. Stopping momentarily to check the post, Munch drew his coat tightly around himself as he stepped out into the crisp morning. A cloud of hot air trickled from his mouth, engulfing the empty air before and slowly evaporated. Ignoring the cold creeping into his bones, Munch stepped to the curb of the cracked sidewalk and hailed a cab.




Closing the door behind him, Munch gave the woman the address to the police precinct. The cab driver nodded her head before turning into the Monday morning traffic. Static filled the silent atmosphere of the cab in between the verbal traffic of the cab’s radio. Munch frowned slightly as he stared out the window, if his car wasn’t in the shop he could’ve driven himself in. Fin had offered to pick him up in the morning, but he had wanted the time alone to think. With his partner around, it always seemed to Munch that the noise from Fin’s presence distracted him to no end.

December was the worst month, a month that always brought back all the pain. The nightmares always seemed to be worse in the twelfth month, the cases always appeared to be the worst. Although it could have been the result of his own state of mind manifesting, Munch didn’t know and his distrust of psychologists in general prevented him from seeking Hung’s counsel.

Munch shook his head sadly as the cab driver drove them past an endless sea of flags hanging in the shops windows along the densely packed street. He found it ironic that a country such as this could suffer such a drastic decline of patriotism and only have a surge to such a state of popularity that mirrored the wake of the attack on Pearl Harbor with anotheror, or, unexpected tragedy on native soil. Munch was privately afraid. Afraid not so much for his personal welfare, but rather for the direction of the country itself. His instincts quivered at the thought of the direction his countrymen were taking.

Being a man of few real beliefs, Munch always tried to prepare himself for the worst case scenario. As he followed the news, Munch’s instincts cried out to him that all the protest rallies he’d attended and participated in during his college days, had in the end achieved nothing. Not that he was really surprised, if he was honest with himself. Even with the proof being spewed out over the televison and radio or seeing it written in the papers, Munch didn’t feel like gloating. For him, the events taking shape around the world and in his own country were obviously predictable. After paying the driver, Munch closed the passenger door.

As the cab drove away behind him, Munch climbed the stairs to the building’s front doors. The glass door swung lazily close behind him as he walked past the desk sergeant with an absentminded “morning.” As he waited for the elevator doors to slide open, his thoughts strayed to the case they were currently working.

Three weeks ago a concerned neighbor had dialed nine-one-one after hearing an argument across the hall of her apartment. The neighbor had informed the operator that only after hearing a gunshot that she had been prompted to summon authorities. When theformformed officers had arrived on the scene, the discovered thirty-four year old Mary Ellen Finnie dead on her living room floor. The medical examiner had ruled her cause of death as the result of single gunshot wound to the back of her head.

It was only after a neighbor had inquired into the welfare of Ms. Finnie’s three children had the chief of detectives redistributed the case to the Special Victims Unit. A week had past without any promising leads as to the location of the missing children or Ms. Finnie’s killer. For all intense purposes the case had gone colder then a well digger’s ass in January as far as Munch could see. The elevator door chimed as its doors slid open to admit him.

Stepping inside, he absently pushed the button that would bring him to the floor that housed the squad room. If the case was frustrating for him, Munch could see the frustration in the eyes of Elliot Stabler. As he watched the younger man, Munch felt only sympathy for the man as the case stretched out and days were spent desperately trying to dig up a lead.

The elevator doors chimed as the floor beneath him jerked gently as he arrived in the hallway leading to the squad room. The sound of ringing phones filled his ears as Munch stepped into the hallway. As he walked into the squad, Munch slipped off his coat and hung it on the coat rack as Captain Cragen approached. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the anguished expression on the other man’s face. On instinct, Munch winced inwardly and waited for the evitable.

“John, the ME’s office just called and they say that they may have some new information on the Finnurdeurder. Fin is already there, but I want you down there as well.” As Cragen spoke, he fished in his pants pocket before withdrawing a set of keys. “Bring her back in one peice, Detective.” He said, handing the keys to his car the seasoned detective.

Rolling his eyes, Munch quietly accepted the key ring as he retrieved his jacket from the coat rack. Nodding his head, he quietly retreated back in the direction that he had just come from. As he reached for the button on the elevator, the metal doors slid open.

“Good morning, John.” Olivia smiled warmly at him as up at her from the panel. “Where are you headed this early in the morning?”

“Warner’s office called, the boss wants me to get down there.” Munch shrugged nonchalantly as he brushed past her into the elevator. Not waiting for or wanting a response, he pushed the button. Olivia’s bewildered face slipped away as the metal doors slid closed. Munch quietly belittled himself for the treatment he’d just given to Olivia as the elevator hummed. It wasn’t like him, he knew, to bring his personnel life into the squad room or to vent his frustrations out on those he worked with. He rather relied on his dry wit and intelligence to draw suspicion away from the truth. Munch had long ago learned that more people believed they knew him, the less they really did. He absently pushed the button that would take him to precinct’s lobby as his mind wandered.

As the elevator hummed, descending further to the ground floor, Munch fought the idea that perhaps the old case had effected him more then he had first thought. An objective bystander might have argued that the detective’s past experiences had helped him in current position with the Special Victims Unit and helped protect him, keeping him from allowing his personal feelings to interfere with the job at hand like his colleagues Detective Stabler or even Benson. By conscious allowing himself to ‘feel’ for the suspects of these crimes, Munch felt that he served the victims’ better when the accused persons were in his interrogation room.

The elevator whined, grating on his nerves as floor after floor passed him just on the other side of the doors. Munch had read enough textbooks on psychology to realize that he was the perfect example for transference. Unconsciously, he shock his head knowing that he was the last person who should be psychoanalyzing the innermost workings of his brain. With his rationalization was simple to his mind, he distrusted many professionals. Hung would casually explain in his almost childlike empathy that the suspects that were routinely interrogated by any member of the law enforcement community, those personally by himself, that he was subconsciously substituting strong emotions probably felt since his adolescence onto the criminal element enlarge that he came across.

The floor beneath him jerked slightly as the elevator came to stop at the building’s ground floor. The doors slid effortlessly open to reveal the morning traffic at the precinct’s lobby. Munch stepped out of the confining space, absentmindedly as he made his way outside the building. Lost in his thoughts, he was unaware of the desk sergeant calling his name as the glass doors swung slowly closed behind him. His eyes scrunched together beneath the overwhelming bright glare of the morning sun as he waited for his glasses to tint. “It’s going to be a long day,” he sighed.