Title:
Evidence of Absence
Rating:
G
Spoilers:
None.
Disclaimer:
Neither 'Without a Trace' nor the characters who bring
it
alive belong to me; I write about them for love, not money.
Summary:
The absence of evidence cannot be taken for evidence of
absence
- can it? (M/S pairing, Jack
POV)
-
The
absence of evidence cannot always be taken as evidence
of
absence.
One
of his trainers at the Academy taught him that. Just because
a
suspect's
prints aren't on the murder weapon doesn't mean he didn't
touch
it. Just because a witness lacks a credible alibi doesn't mean
she
was doing anything other than what she claimed. Proof needs
something
more positive: a suspect's alibi for the time of the
murder,
someone who saw the witness at the scene instead of wherever
she
said she was. Absence of evidence may be thought provoking, but
it
is not evidence of absence.
Except
in this case. However he looked at it, the absence of
evidence
was damning. Even when they tried to be discrete, Samantha
had
always left inadvertent traces of herself in his life. A half-
eaten
danish in his car. Marks on his back, his arms, his
shoulders.
Messages
on his cell-phone. Scraps of evidence that soothed his
investigator's
heart and proved that she was really there. Really
his.
Now
her unconscious traces were left for someone else, with
someone
else. He'd stopped at Martin's apartment yesterday with
a
manufactured
excuse and seen it for himself. His own apartment was
empty
of her and her things, but Martin's home was full of her.
Two
mugs, two plates, two bowls, sitting side by side on the
draining
rack.
A woman's running shoes, kicked carelessly under the sofa.
The faint smell of orange peel in the air. Samantha loved oranges.
He
made his excuses and bolted to his own home. His empty home. He
had
a picture of her, taken years ago, but that was all. Nothing
else.
She'd never even set foot here, though he could imagine her
around
every corner. His coffee mug sat alone in the sink. There
were
shoes under the sofa, but they were his shoes. The only thing
he
could smell was the lingering scent of charcoal from last
night's
burned
potatoes.
He
wanted to believe that she still wanted him, but there was no
real
evidence to support it. A few sympathetic looks, a little
tension,
a little strain around the eyes when he was in the room.
That
was all. At the end of the day, she still went home with
Martin,
while he came here.
Alone.
Empty.
Absence of evidence. Evidence of absence.
Jack sat alone in the darkness and stared blankly into space.
THE END
