|
|||||||
|
|
|
|||||
|
|
|||||||
Wasn't That a Party
By: Gerry Wolfson-Grande
e-mail: gawolfson@earthlink.net
Disclaimer: The characters of Mark Sloan, Steve Sloan, Amanda
Bentley, Jesse Travis and Jackson Burleigh do not belong to me
but to CBS, Viacom et al. Chris Abbott, Geoffrey Colo, Dick van
Dyke, Barry van Dyke, Victoria Rowell, Charlie Schlatter, Shane
van Dyke and Carey van Dyke are real people, who spend a lot of
time and effort in putting together a quality series, and I hope
they will not object if I borrow them for the purposes of this
story; all references are with utmost respect and great
appreciation of their talent and dedication. Any other named
personnel who actually show up in this bagatelle are wholly
fictional, and any resemblance to any living person is totally by
accident.
Rating: PG (occasional language).
Spoilers: None.
Challenge: #91 - The Sloans meet
the Van Dykes. Steve Sloan ends up having to impersonate Barry
Van Dyke. - Betty
Summary: Dick, Barry, Victoria and Charlie are mysteriously
transported into the roles of their series counterparts, only to
chase a body which keeps disappearing without warning.
Chapter One
Sunlight was pressing gently at his closed eyelids. He stretched
sleepily, becoming slowly aware of a stiffness in his back. Eyes
still closed, he reached down to rub it, and his fingers drifted
across a strange material which didn't feel like the cool sheets
newly put on the bed. Intrigued, but still reluctant to open his
eyes and face the day, he reached over towards the other pillow,
only to feel empty space as his hand dangled off of the bed. That
was strange, he thought drowsily; usually he was up first, and he
didn't usually hog the bed on the rare occasions she rose before
he did. He explored some more, only to discover that, instead of
his customary sleepwear, he was wearing jeans and a silkily soft
shirt.
Uh-oh. The wrap party must have gone longer than he thought. They
had all been so pleased at not only finishing the three movies,
but with the firm commitment for yet another season, with the
likely possibility of a successive one, even if his father's role
had been revamped slightly to allow for a less demanding shooting
schedule. Chris had been ecstatic, and had flitted happily from
person to person, lavishing praise and enthusiasm in her
customary manner. He supposed he must have simply decided to bunk
down on the couch in the den rather than disturbing his wife at
whatever late hour he had arrived home.
Mystery solved to his satisfaction, he stretched again, and
opened his eyes. And promptly slammed them shut again. And
reopened them, to stare around himself in total bewilderment.
This wasn't his den. It wasn't even his house. But it was
jarringly familiar. He had spent how many hours in this room, all
three walls of it, over the last nine years?
Barry van Dyke scratched his chin in puzzlement as his eyes
traveled from wall to wall, to the couch he lay on, and the black
jeans and t-shirt he was wearing, down to the police badge on his
belt. All very familiar, and all very wrong. He couldn't believe
he would have decided to spend the night on the set, and surely
someone would have woken him and sent him home to his family.
Shane and Carey certainly would have, if no one else; they had
been at the party too, and they had teased each other about
staying out too long. For that matter, who had taken the kids
home? He considered for another moment, then shrugged; there was
undoubtedly some reasonable explanation. He swung his long legs
off the couch and stood up, wondering just what it might be, and
how he was going to relay it to his wife.
And stopped, cold, in astonishment. The room no longer had only
three walls. Instead of an open fourth wall, as a proper set
should have had, it now looked just like any other normal room,
except this was the den of the Sloan beach house. This was too
damn weird, he thought, wondering if he was really asleep in his
own bed and just dreaming. It was a good thing they were done
shooting for a few months; obviously, he'd been working much too
hard.
Then he heard a familiar voice, and momentarily was convinced
that he'd fallen victim to a crew prank.
"Son?" The sound of a door closing as he heard his
father's voice.
"Yeah, Dad, I'm in here. You're not going to believe this --
I almost fell for it --"
His father entered the room, and stared at his son with a look
Barry was convinced was mirrored on his own face.
"I don't believe it," his father stated.
Barry was starting to get a very strange feeling. "Believe
what, Dad?"
Dick glanced around. "This room doesn't have an open wall
either."
Oh, no. "Uh -- what do you mean, either?"
Dick shrugged. "I just woke up out on the deck, and came in
here through the kitchen. No signs of any of them being part of
the set; it's like we're in the real beach house." He gave
his son a critical glance. "Is this some end of season
stunt? If you're in on it, take my agreement that it's pretty
spectacular as read, and 'fess up now."
Barry wasn't sure this was what he wanted to hear. "Dad --
I'm just as much in the dark as you are."
They exchanged looks, then Dick let his gaze travel around the
room. "I guess sooner or later we'll find out. In the
meantime, I'm going home."
Barry nodded, and was about to speak when the phone rang. After a
quizzical glance at his son, Dick picked it up.
"Hello?" he said curiously.
"Dr. Sloan, is that you?"
"Who is this?" Dick demanded, starting to wonder how
long whoever was responsible was going to stretch out the joke.
"It's Annie, Dr. Sloan. You're needed at the hospital right
away."
Dick's face took on a very peculiar expression. "The
hospital," he repeated stupidly. His son, watching with
equal bemusement, started getting that weird feeling again.
"Yes, doctor. Dr. Travis specifically requested I call
you."
"Dr. Travis." Dick was starting to feel a close kinship
with a parrot. A confused parrot. "I don't suppose Dr.
Bentley is there yet," he commented, not particularly
seriously.
"Well, yes. She was rather insistent also that I reach
you," said the flustered receptionist.
Dick glanced over at Barry, who spread his hands and gave him an
"it's your call" look. He gave up. "All right,
Annie. I'll be there as soon as I can. And, if anyone asks, Steve
will be with me." He disconnected and looked at his
intrigued son again. "I think we'd better stick together
until we get to the bottom of this. Whoever's behind the prank
obviously works on the CGH set." He waved in the direction
of the door. "Shall we?"
Chapter Two
The mystery showed no signs of clearing up as they walked
outside. They still weren't on a television set. The street
stretched in both directions from the driveway, houses lining
both sides of the road. The van Dykes exchanged another glance,
then Dick's eyes were drawn to the convertible sitting
contentedly on the tarmac. Out of curiosity, he stuck his hand in
his pocket, and pulled out a very distinctive set of keys. How
the hell had those gotten in there? he thought. A look at Barry's
face was unenlightening. He shrugged, and started over to the
car.
"Oh, no, you don't," his son said in a rush. "I've
seen the way you drive that thing on the set."
Dick waved a dismissive hand. "Sorry. It's mine on the show,
and I'm driving it now. Get in if you're getting."
Barry got into the car, not without reservations. "Dad --
just where are we going?"
"Good question," his father answered. "I'm
assuming we'll hit the CGH set at some point."
"So you're just going to point the car down the road and
drive." Barry experienced a brief moment of solidarity with
his fictional counterpart following his equally fictional
father's more eccentric path.
Dick swiveled a look at him. "You have any better ideas,
son?"
He laughed and buckled his seat belt. "Not a clue, Dad.
Drive on."
At the end of the street, however, was another street. Dick
arbitrarily turned right, soon found himself at another unhelpful
intersection, and turned again. After a few minutes, he found
himself staring at a stop light at what was undeniably Pacific
Coast Highway. He scratched his mustache, glad there was no one
behind them in any particular hurry to get anywhere. A sideways
look showed his son was as bewildered as he was.
"Dad. This is PCH."
"I know."
They looked at each other, both feeling stranger and stranger,
then Dick turned onto the highway. "You know, son, just for
laughs, I'm going to actually drive to the hospital. After all,
it's not like we don't know where it's supposed to be."
Barry stared at him, an awful thought rearing its ugly head.
"Dad -- please tell me you're not in on this; whatever I did
to deserve it, I'm sorry."
Dick shook his head. "I can't claim any responsibility. I
wish I could; I'd really like to know how they pulled it
off."
They drove in silence for a while, until Dick finally slowed to
pull into the entrance of a hospital wearing a sign labeled
"Community General Hospital." He gave his son a
quizzical look, then rolled through the parking lot to the space
marked "Dr. Sloan." He shrugged. "Guess I may as
well use it."
They walked into the hospital, which was giving every indication
of being a busy medical center. A woman at the round reception
desk greeted them with a sigh of relief. "Dr. Sloan! Dr.
Travis and Dr. Bentley are waiting for you in her office."
The van Dykes exchanged another look. Was this going to be the
denouement? After a couple of false starts, engendering a few
strange looks from the medical personnel, they found their way to
pathology, still amazed by the lack of any TV equipment
whatsoever.
Dick threw open the door. "All right, people. Great joke.
Want to tell me how you did it?"
The two occupants of the room stared at him in horror. "Oh,
no," groaned the blond young man dressed in scrubs.
The attractive African-American woman with him, also in scrubs,
stared in consternation at the newcomers. "Dick?
Barry?" she ventured hesitantly.
Barry sank down on the edge of the desk. "Don't tell me.
You're really you too."
Charlie stared at him. "I don't understand. How did we get
here?"
Dick had been prowling around the room, examining it for hidden
microphones. "Let me get this straight. Neither you nor
Vicky know anything about this, you're not in on the joke."
She shook her head. "I woke up at my -- I mean Amanda's --
desk. Dressed like this. And the last thing I remember is giving
you a hug last night as I was leaving the wrap party."
"At least there weren't any corpses in here at the
time," Charlie pointed out. "I woke up in ER, staring
at a great sucking chest wound. Luckily, I managed to convince
the nurse that I'd eaten something that disagreed with me and got
the hell out of there before I totally disgraced myself."
Barry folded his arms. "Great. All we need now is a murder
victim, and I'll know I'm going out of my mind."
Just then a voice came over the intercom. "Lt. Sloan, please
report to the ER immediately."
He stared at the others in shock. This couldn't be happening.
Chapter Three
The page came again, more insistently. "Lt. Sloan. You're
needed in the ER urgently."
Barry gave the others a look. "Okay, I'll bite. Anyone want
to come along?"
All four actors crowded into a busy ER. The sights and sounds
were definitely real. Barry walked over to where a uniformed
officer stood beside a gurney, hoping he would know what the hell
was going on.
"Lieutenant? We've got a double gunshot wound to the chest.
Victim was blown away more or less in broad daylight, but all the
eyewitnesses swear the perp disappeared into thin air. The
victim's name is George Durning, 52, owns a computer store in the
Valley. He was DOA."
Barry glanced at the body on the gurney, secretly relieved that
it had been covered since arriving in the ER. How many times had
he played this scene in one form or another? "All right
--" focusing on the officer's name plate -- "thanks,
Johnson. Go ahead and start getting complete statements from the
witnesses, and check out Mr. Durning's activities, see if he made
any recent enemies."
Charlie raised an eyebrow at him; he scowled at the younger man.
The byplay was interrupted by the officer. "You going to
wait for the autopsy, sir?"
Relieved, he nodded, although the involuntary drawn-in breath he
heard coming from Victoria probably meant trouble. However, this
would at least get them out of the immediate public eye.
Back at pathology, Victoria glared at him. "What makes you
think I'm going to touch that dead body, much less cut it
open?" she hissed.
Dick turned from his inspection of the desk. "You have to
admit it was pretty quick thinking. Otherwise, Charlie would have
had no reason to escape ER duty, for one thing."
"Oh, but it's okay for me to perform autopsies?" she
asked, outraged.
He held up a calming hand. "Sooner or later, the joke has to
run its course. I suggest we just lay low until then. I think my
office would be a good place."
Barry quirked an eyebrow at his father. "*Your*
office?"
Dick gave him the famous serene smile. "If you're going to
play along, son, do it thoroughly."
They all laughed, then followed him down the hall, suppressing
the urge to look like they were sneaking around somewhere they
weren't supposed to be, until they reached the sanctuary of Mark
Sloan's hospital home, complete with magic paraphernalia, toy
airplanes, and everything else. Victoria shivered. "You
know, this attention to detail is starting to give me the
creeps."
Barry had been thinking the same thing, but it was Charlie who
voiced the unthinkable. "What if -- what if this isn't a
joke, guys?"
They stared at him. "And?" Barry prompted.
"Well," the younger man pointed out, "what if this
is some kind of alternate universe or something like that?"
Barry laughed. "Charlie, you're starting to let Jesse rub
off on you."
"Hmmfph." He looked unconvinced. "Okay, Barry, you
explain it."
Barry shook his head. "It's a gag, guys. Has to be. We just
don't know how far they're going to take it -- but if the whole
crew is involved, they certainly should have the capability to at
least make it seem real." He stretched. "I just hope
they called home and gave my wife the heads up first."
Victoria suddenly sat up. "Oh, no. I left my purse
downstairs."
Dick stared at her. "You had your purse with you?"
She nodded. "I was surprised that it was there, and was
about to check it, when Charlie came in. Then I forgot all about
it when they paged Steve -- I mean, Barry." She stood up.
"I'd better go get it before this gets any weirder."
Barry rose also. "I'll come with you."
She glanced at him. "That's very chivalrous, but hardly
necessary, don't you think?"
He shook his head. "Even for a prank, this is getting a bit
far out. Just to be on the safe side."
They departed, leaving Charlie and Dick to continue to
contemplate the mystery.
Chapter Four
Victoria pushed the pathology department door open. "It was
on the table right over here --" her voice trickled to a
stop as she beheld the slab which had previously held the gunshot
victim, now miraculously empty except for the sheet which had
been drawn over him.
Barry followed her in. "Where'd he go?" he asked.
"I don't know. He couldn't have just walked away." She
caught herself with a start. "Barry, I don't care where it
is. Why are we talking like we're on the show?"
He shook himself. "Hell if I know. Habit, I guess." He
glanced around. "Let's get your purse and get out of
here."
She couldn't help but laugh. "Boy, did the writers get that
wrong. You usually like it down here."
"So do you," he retorted. "Want me to see if I can
find that body after all?"
She shuddered delicately, and scooped up the offending purse.
"Come on. Let's go."
Chapter Five
"You'll never believe this, Dad," Barry said as he
opened the door to his father's character's office, "but the
body wasn't in pathol--" He stopped as his father held up a
warning finger.
Dick was on the telephone; his brows first went up in surprise,
then lowered in annoyance as he repeated, "Who is this?
What's going on?"
Barry and Victoria eased into the office and sat down, both
looking at Charlie inquiringly. The latter shook his head and
mimed the phone ringing.
"This is now starting to become ridiculous," Dick said,
terminating the phone connection. He looked up at the returnees.
"Did you find it, Vicky?"
She nodded, riffling through her purse to make certain nothing
had disappeared. Barry cleared his throat. "Dad -- a funny
thing happened, though. That body -- seems to have
vanished."
Dick looked up sharply. "Vanished?"
Barry nodded. "The sheet was there, but the body
wasn't."
Dick started muttering to himself until the others persuaded him
to share. "The lunatic on the phone told me that the mystery
we needed to solve involved the dead man's corpse."
Charlie stared at him in horror. "You mean we've got to find
the body?" he asked.
Dick sighed. "Apparently so. Although I'm not sure what
we're supposed to do with it once we locate it."
There was a startled exclamation from Victoria. "What the
hell kind of joke is this?" she demanded, waving a small
plastic card which looked like a driver's license at them.
Barry reached over and removed it from the wildly gesticulating
hand. It was Victoria's picture, all right, but the license was
issued in the name Amanda Bentley. Instinctively, he felt for his
wallet, to find not only a driver's license but a police
identification card as well, both in the name of Steve Sloan. If
the bemused expressions on the faces of his father and Charlie
were any indication, they had found similar evidence. "I
don't believe it," he breathed.
The four actors all looked at each other in consternation; then,
as one, they all leapt up and raced for the pathology lab.
Chapter Six
Which proved to be unhelpful in the absence of the traveling
body. Victoria closed the last of the desk drawers.
"Nothing. Not a thing. Just what," she added acidly,
"am I supposed to be looking for, anyway?"
Barry shrugged. "Anything, I suppose, which would give us
some idea as to why the dead man's important."
The other three stared at him. He sounded more -- authoritative,
focused. Not at all like his usual self, doing his best to crack
them up when they were least expecting it. "Uh -
Barry?" Charlie ventured cautiously.
"Mmmm?" He was flipping through a pile of folders
absently, not particularly paying attention.
Dick raised an eyebrow, and winked at the other two.
"Steve?"
"What is it, Dad?" Barry said automatically, then
caught himself, glowering at his companions, who were laughing
semi-hysterically.
"And you were picking on me," Charlie said accusingly.
"Look who's having an identity crisis now."
Dick stepped in between them, chuckling. "Children. Not a
good time, okay?" He sobered. "You know, though, you
two may be onto something. Whoever's gone to all this trouble to
stage this is obviously expecting us to act our parts."
"Only without a script," Victoria supplied.
"Yes. But there's obviously got to be something, either
lines or suggestions, in the clues we've been told to find, and I
wouldn't be surprised if there are more."
"Like a wacked-out scavenger hunt," Charlie remarked
with excitement.
Barry looked perturbed. "Dad -- that's all very well and
good, but a body which was leaking a fair amount of blood and
definitely not breathing was on that table a little while ago,
and now it's not there anymore."
"Yes, I know," his father said thoughtfully. "I'm
working on that."
His reverie was interrupted by Charlie. "I've found
something!" He waved a piece of paper which had fallen to
the floor and had been accidentally kicked half under the desk.
It bore a few liberal blotches of blood, but the message on it
was decipherable.
Bloodspot removal:
40 boxes of sponges
30 boxes of catheters
20 boxes of iodine
10 boxes of prescription pads
"The second floor supply room," breathed Victoria. She
glanced up. "D'you suppose --"
Once more, they were off and running.
Chapter Seven
Barry looked disgustedly at the shelves he had been examining. He
had picked up, opened and scrutinized every single box of sponges
on them, even extracting the sponges and squeezing them to make
sure no mysterious notes were huddling coyly inside. "This
is insane," he grumbled.
Dick glanced over from the boxes of catheters. "These are
packed in pretty tightly." He rubbed his mustache. "Not
much room for anything else."
Victoria had drawn iodine duty. Lifting out the last bottle from
the last box, she made a small sound of exasperation.
"Nothing here."
As one, they swiveled to stare at Charlie, who was riffling
through the prescription pads. "I don't know, guys," he
started to say, "this doesn't look encouraging -- wait a
minute, here's something!"
They crowded around him while he carefully flipped the excess
pages out of the way. "To kill or not to kill, on TV that is
the question. Seek where hourly mayhem has taken place to find an
answer." The young actor glanced around at his companions.
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
Victoria was examining the paper itself with some distaste.
"You know," she remarked, "if I didn't know
better, I'd say that was iodine --"
Dick started to laugh. "And I'll bet you it was written with
a catheter, from the slightly jagged tears on the paper."
Barry was thinking about the message on the paper. "Hourly
mayhem." He exchanged a look with his father. "Do you
suppose we're dealing with a deranged fan?"
Dick looked dubious. "Seems an excessively extreme approach,
don't you think? I'm still more inclined to put credence in the
crew prank theory, even if I can't figure out yet how they did
this."
Charlie looked smug. "They're talking about the show,
guys."
"I know that," Barry said with a touch of exasperation.
Charlie shook his head. "No, Barry, the show. The actual
episodes. They're referring to the one where people were getting
killed every hour, you know, where that girl tried to strangle
you."
"Strangle Steve. Not strangle me. I'm Barry, remember?"
He sounded irritated.
Charlie shrugged. "Whatever. Anyway, we obviously have to go
to the places where the victims were murdered, and one of them
will have the next clue."
"Or the body," Victoria commented wryly. "Not what
I'm looking forward to finding."
Dick had finished replacing the boxes on the shelf, idly
wondering why he was bothering to do it. "Come on, folks.
Let's see if we can remember where the murders took place."
Chapter Eight
Ironically, it was the hall where Steve Sloan had fought off the
killer where they hit pay dirt. The scrip was secured with a
piece of tape to the wall under the window. For a minute, they
stood frozen, watching the tantalizing bit of paper flap against
the concrete from the slight breeze of the air conditioning. Then
Barry realized with a slight shock that the others were waiting
for him to remove it. He moved forward, muttering under his
breath about people getting carried away with their roles, and
yanked the inoffensive note from the wall.
"When a mechanic can't find the mysterious thump in the
back, does that mean he's missed his diagnosis?" He gave his
fellow sufferers a telling look. "Anyone want to let me in
on this one? Charlie?"
The younger man looked puzzled. "Why me, Barry?"
Dick was laughing again. His son gave him a critical stare.
"Glad you think this is funny, Dad," he commented
sourly.
His father leaned against the wall and folded his arms.
"Where do you always hear that kind of noise in the
car?"
"The trunk!" they chorused, and Charlie added,
"Now I remember! The episode where I was seeing bodies and
everyone thought I was suffering from sleep deprivation."
"Misdiagnosis Murder," Dick supplied. "Whoever
this is, they're up on their episodes, even if the references are
a bit strained."
Barry groaned. "The garage, I take it. Let's go see how many
car alarms we can set off."
Chapter Nine
They were on their way downstairs when they heard the page
calling Dr. Sloan to his office. Dick threw up his hands in mock
surrender. "I think I could use some more coffee anyway.
Shall we?"
Officer Johnson was waiting for them when they arrived back at
the office. "We found something on Mr. Durning which might
give us the motive for his murder, Lieutenant."
Barry waved him to a chair. "Let's have it."
"Mr. Durning apparently was running a black market video
production under cover of his legitimate computer business. We
found several boxes of illegal copies of movies, as well as TV
shows which have not yet been licensed for reproduction. We're
checking out some of the known individuals who engage in this
sort of thing now." He handed a baggie with what looked like
business cards inside it to Barry. "We also found
these."
Barry glanced quickly at the cards, then did a double take as the
lettering registered. "Van Dyke Productions -- Barry van
Dyke and Dick van Dyke, contact information --" He broke off
and stared at his father in astonishment. "What the
hell?"
"Yeah, the van Dyke boys apparently have quite a rep,"
the police officer remarked, causing Dick to choke on the coffee
he had just started to sip. "Are you all right, Dr.
Sloan?" he asked solicitously.
Spluttering, Dick nodded. "Mmpfh. Fine. Quite all
right." He waved Johnson away, still wiping coffee from his
mustache.
Barry looked grave. "Officer, I think I'll check this one
out myself. Thanks for checking in." Smilingly and
persuasively, he ushered the overly helpful police officer out,
then returned to the refuge of the office, where he sank down in
a chair and stared at his father. "Dad, this is starting to
get totally out of hand."
Dick started to laugh. "Yeah, but you've got to admit
"the van Dyke boys" was a nice touch!"
"Oh, right. And how are you planning on answering officer
Friendly there when he comes looking for you?" his son asked
grumpily.
"That's easy," Charlie said breezily. "He'll tell
them you're in charge and he's just along for the ride."
Barry smacked the top of his head lightly. "Watch it. I play
a police officer on TV."
Victoria interrupted them before they sank into lower levels of
silliness. "Weren't we going to the garage, you guys?"
"Right you are," Dick replied, tossing the empty cup in
the wastebasket. He opened the door and ushered her through it,
then turned to motion at the other two. "Come on, you
clowns. Let's hope our mystery prankster's doesn't make us wander
all over the garage."
Chapter Ten
The mysterious mastermind was obviously giving them a break,
Barry thought, as he squatted by an electric blue Beemer whose
trunk was obligingly cracked, apparently to accommodate the arm
dangling from it. "Got a handkerchief, Dad?"
"No gloves?" Charlie snickered, unable to resist.
"And you play a cop on TV."
Victoria giggled, and Barry shot them both a look. "Thanks a
lot, guys. Support is such a wonderful concept." He accepted
the proffered cloth from his father, then carefully eased the
trunk lid up. Time to get Charlie back a little.
"Hey, Charlie. You play a doctor on TV. Come take a
look."
Charlie shot him a vicious glance, then figured if Barry could
check it out without tossing his cookies, he could too. He eased
over to the car, telling himself as he did so that what he was
seeing was really just like the fake corpses he looked at on the
set all the time. In fact -- he looked at it more closely,
puzzled. "That's strange."
They looked at him expectantly, so he elaborated. "This is
our same dead guy. It's been, what, at least three-four hours, if
not more, since he was shot. But there doesn't seem to be any,
any rigor mortis or anything like that."
"The stiff's not stiff?" Barry asked, deadpan. Victoria
poked him in the ribs with her elbow; he smiled down at her
affectionately. "Sorry. Couldn't resist."
They all crowded around Charlie now, curiosity temporarily
getting the better of prudence. Dick shook his head. "I hate
to say this, but isn't that a scrip clutched in his other
hand?"
Prudence started to make progress in the battle, as they all
stepped back involuntarily. Then Barry found himself once more
the object of everyone's regard. "What is it with you guys
today? Why do I get the feeling that you all expect me to reach
over and snag that piece of paper from an obviously dead
fist?"
As one, they sing-songed, "You're not a cop. But you play
one on TV."
"Fine," he grumbled. "Just wait. You all just
wait, you'll get your turn." Carefully, avoiding the arm
slung over the edge of the trunk, he edged closer and leaned
inside, reaching with the handkerchief wound around his hand,
trying not to touch anything but the tantalizing note. He
succeeded in getting hold of it, and tugged gently. And banged
his head on the trunk lid as the hand jerked, not quite ready to
give up its grip, and he jumped. Steadfastly ignoring the
snickers he could hear behind him, he reached for the paper once
more, this time pulling quickly as soon as he grasped it, and
retreating hastily with his prize, having successfully avoided
the sight of the flapping hand.
"Self-murder is difficult to guarantee in a crowded room.
You must first ensure the liquid is undetectable."
"Self-murder," Dick mused. "Why not say suicide,
and why? Or is it the wording that's important?"
Victoria looked thoughtful. "And undetectable liquid, and
crowded room -- I've got it!" she crowed triumphantly.
Blank stares met her announcement. "It's an OR," she
said, slightly impatiently. "Self, as in "Physician
Murder Thyself" -- remember, the one where the nurse killed
the surgeon with the iodine on the sponge?"
"Right!" Charlie agreed. "Which makes sense,
considering the first clue we had."
Chapter Eleven
Sense, however, was less apparent once they trooped back up into
the hospital proper. All of the operating rooms were occupied,
apparently by legitimate doctors operating on legitimate
patients. The four interlopers exchanged puzzled glances.
"Now what?" Barry asked. "We can't just barge in
and start looking around."
Dick rubbed his chin. "You're right. But the next clue has
got to be in one of those." His gaze slid upward, and he
smiled. "But we could probably start from the observation
deck and see if anything looks out of the ordinary."
His son made an exasperated sound. "Dad -- just how do you
propose to determine if something looks unusual?"
Dick sighed. "Good point. Well, we can start there anyway.
Who knows, maybe something will turn up."
A few minutes later, his son stared into one of the operating
rooms, rubbed his eyes, and looked again. "Dad -- I could
swear the patient is our dead guy. And -- one of the assistings
looks a lot like officer Johnson."
"What?" the others chorused, rushing over to where
Barry was standing, brow creased, obviously perturbed. He pointed
to the glass.
"And they're operating on his chest," Charlie said
excitedly. He glanced around at the others. "This is too
cool, guys."
Barry muttered something about not getting out enough, and
started for the door. "I'm going down there now and getting
to the bottom of this."
Dick cocked an eyebrow at the other two. "Guess we may as
well go along for the fun."
Barry pushed open the OR doors, and was immediately greeted by a
nurse trying to push him back out. "You can't come in here,
sir! Especially in street clothes!"
He pulled out his police ID, inwardly appreciating the irony.
"Lt. Sloan, LAPD. I'm investigating a possible homicide --
and a perpetration of a gross practical joke." His
peripheral glance found what he was looking for, and he firmly
put the woman aside, heading for the flicker of movement which
had caught his attention.
Sure enough, just past one partition stood what was undeniably a
TV camera, cameraman in attendance. "Do you want to explain
what's going on here?" Barry asked, with a touch of menace
in his voice.
"Cut!" A young woman strode out from yet another
direction. "Who the hell are you, and what are you doing
interrupting the scene?"
He stared at her in disbelief; he had never seen her before.
"Who are you?"
Her look grew from slight irritation to outright annoyance.
"Jacquie Burlington," she said in one of those
don't-you-know-anything tones of voice.
He was no more enlightened than he had been before.
"Who?"
Now she was pissed. "Jacquie Burlington. The director.
Reality shows, documentaries. Ring any bells in that thick skull
yet?"
Dick intervened before his son lost his temper. "Reality
shows? Your patient there was supposedly dead a few minutes
ago."
She had the grace to look uncomfortable. "My budget's not as
big as I'd like; we have to make do."
Charlie had sneaked up to the operating table while everyone's
attention diverted. "Uh, Mark -- this guy is really
dead."
Doctor/cop Johnson looked startled. "He's not supposed to be
dead."
Charlie slid into Jesse mode automatically, checking the
patient's vitals. "Well, he is. And I'd say for at least
several minutes, before Steve came in here."
Jacquie Burlington began edging towards the door. "That's
crazy. He's just acting. But I'll go get a real doctor." She
turned to leave, and found her way blocked by the tall man who
had introduced himself as a cop.
Barry smiled down at her, not particularly nicely. "I don't
think so. You remind me of someone." He had had a long day,
and this scene was reminding him strongly of the satiric episode
they had done about garbage reality shows. And she -- lengthen
out her face a little, give her a beard and a longish brush cut
-- "Jackson Burleigh," he breathed in astonishment.
Her reaction caught him by surprise; she leapt for him, nails
extended, and only his quick reflexes saved him from a nasty
gouging. As it was, he had to hurriedly twist her arms behind her
back, securing her wrists with the handcuffs from his belt (again
ironically noting the benefit of the thoroughness of the props
department), in order to make sure that the reaching fingers
didn't find their target. "Jacquie Burlington," he said
automatically, "I'm placing you under arrest for the murder
of George Durning. Anything you say --" And he rattled off
the remainder of the Miranda speech, while the others stared at
him with barely suppressed laughter.
"But why?" Victoria asked.
Burlington glared at her. "He was my partner, but he was
ripping me off, making black market copies of the videos and
selling them without telling me. Do you have any idea how hard it
is to become successful in the TV business, even if your uncle is
Jackson Burleigh?"
Dick laughed. "More than you can possibly imagine, young
lady. More than you can possibly imagine."
Chapter Twelve
"Cut! That's a wrap! Great show, people!" The director
rose from his chair with an air of finality.
Barry, Dick, Victoria and Charlie stared at each other in
disbelief. The fourth wall had suddenly disappeared, replaced by
cameras and crew. Barry yanked out his wallet, but found no
evidence of his alter ego's identity whatsoever other than the
props he wore. The others followed suit, with similar results.
Dick started to laugh. "I don't think I even want to know
how they pulled this off," he chuckled. "It's just too
perfect."
Victoria shook her head. "Speak for yourself, Dick. I'm
still not sure who I am right now!" She couldn't suppress an
appreciative giggle, however.
Charlie grinned. "Far out. Let's see them top this one next
year." He glanced around at his fellow questers. "I
don't know about the rest of you, but the party's starting, and I
smell food." He offered his arm to Victoria, and they
wandered off.
Dick looked at his son quizzically. "Barry? You look --
preoccupied."
Barry shrugged. "I don't know, Dad; I still want to know how
--" He broke off, noticing just the individual zipping by
whom he wanted to see. "Catch you in a minute," he said
hastily, and moved quickly on an interception course.
"Geoffrey! Hold up a sec!"
Geoffrey Colo turned, his face enigmatic. "What's up?"
he inquired.
Barry grinned at him, with teeth. "You rule. You are the
king of pranks, the all-time leader. Now tell me you did
it."
Geoffrey looked at him blankly. "Did what?"
Barry slung his arm around Geoffrey's shoulder, pal to pal.
"You know. The stunt. Making us think we were --" His
voice trailed off as absolutely no glimmer of recognition, guilt
or any awareness whatsover concerning their earlier predicament
showed in Geoffrey's eyes.
"Barry, what are you talking about? Making you think
what?" Geoffrey asked, totally at a loss.
He was getting the now-familiar feeling of weirdness afoot. Maybe
it would be better not to pursue the matter just yet, or at least
not until some weak link in the chain of plotters cracked and
delivered up some clue. "Never mind. Enjoy the party."
Geoffrey nodded, still puzzled, and went on his way.
Barry returned to where his father was standing, contemplating
the set. "You know, Dad, I think this is one mystery that
can wait until later to be solved."
Dick looked amused. "Didn't get anywhere with Geoffrey, did
you?"
His son shook his head. "No, and I would swear he had
absolutely no idea what I was talking about. Which worries me,
since they couldn't have put together anything this big and
successfully without his help."
His father shrugged. "You're probably right. Best left for
another day. In the meantime, we've got a party to attend."
* * *
Barry opened the back door softly, trying not to make too much
noise. It was late; his good intentions to get home earlier
notwithstanding, the party had been one of the best wraps they
had ever had, and he had been reluctant to leave too early,
especially considering what had happened the last time he thought
he had left it. He poked his head in the kids' rooms; Carey had
given them a ride home earlier, and both were asleep. He smiled
and continued down the hall, surreptitiously checking the den to
make sure no one was lying on the couch.
She was soundly asleep, hair sweeping down over her face. He
brushed it back and gazed at her with affection and relief. He
hadn't been totally sure he was really in his own home until now,
but the reality of his wife sleeping in their bed reassured him.
He undressed quickly and quietly and slid in, slipping one arm
over her shoulder, smiling as she snuggled against his body
without waking up. He thought about waking her up anyway, but the
long, unusual day caught up with him all at once, and he drifted
off almost immediately, still wondering what had really happened.
* * *
Steve Sloan came padding up the steps to his father's part of the
beach house, appreciatively sniffing the aroma of fresh-brewed
coffee. Cradling a steaming mug in his hands, he stepped out onto
the deck where his father sat contemplating the Pacific.
"Dad," he said, "I had the strangest dream last
night."
End
Copyright 2001 by Gerry Wolfson-Grande
All characters who have appeared in the series Diagnosis Murder,
together with the names, titles and the original back story are
the sole copyright property of CBS and Viacom. Please see
disclaimer above with regard to any actual individuals included
herein. This fanfiction is not intended as an infringement upon
those rights and solely meant for entertainment. No profit is
being made or intended to be made by this story. All other
characters, the story idea and the story itself are the sole
property of the author.