Disclaimer:All of the characters are the property of Dick Wolf. I thank him, the writers, the directors and all the great actors who brought them "to life" for our benefit. Any "liberties" I have taken with them is motivated only by my fond admiration (and a few personal quirks I will seek "help" for).
AN: This story is not set within the accepted "canon" for the characters as it is only officially portrayed by the TV series. So I get to "fool around" with them in ways in which they've never been seen, stretch the limits of that and totally suspend the "reality" that is "fiction" to start with…now there's a contradiction in terms!!!
(And yeah Goren I know the proper word for that is oxymoron…never mind what I want them for just don't forget to buy those batteries)
I know Bobby makes "it look easy" at times but I suspect those interviews are pretty tough on him…
APARTE
Bobby shut the stall door behind him, stuck his head over the bowl, folded his arms across his stomach and retched hard three, no, four times. He never had been really sick prior to a critical interrogation of a suspect, but the nauseous sensation and boiling in the pit of his stomach happened quite often. He didn't enjoy the brief taste re-acquaintance he got in his mouth of rye bread, pepperoni, lettuce, mayo and a pint of milk as he summoned what saliva he had and spat. He flushed the toilet and stepped over to the basins.
The frown that greeted Bobby in the mirror above them was down to two things. Firstly, the indigestion inducing lunch he'd had to bolt down when he was summoned urgently back from the ME's office and had barely tasted at the time. And secondly being ordered to handle this interview he wasn't the only one in Major Case severely doubted he was the right person to be doing.
It was easy enough for the Captain to say, "step into" this person or that. He wasn't the one having to do it. Having to tiptoe, skip or stomp or whatever styles the situation demanded, through the minds and psyches of suspects. A journey that often left him emotionally drained, wondering whether when it came to "devious" he wasn't as bad as some of the criminals he dealt with and with the sense something nasty was stuck to his shoe. You might leave a few tracks psychologically speaking in their heads, but Bobby knew he trod things out with him. That nasty residue of the dark forest, the cesspit or the filthy basement and any of a hundred unpleasant scenes could haunt the dreams or imagination every night if you allowed them to.
Bobby turned the taps on, washed his hands under the running hot and cold streams in alternate temperature sensation and then cupping them, used the cold only. Over his face and also sucking in the water four or five times to rinse and spit. To rid himself of the taste of his lunch before he stood up and grabbed a handful of paper towels. The sound of them rubbing over a face shaved too many hours ago, loud in the empty echoes of the tiled room.
He fastened the top couple of buttons of his shirt and re-tied the grey striped tie, since straightening it alone never seemed to meet his personal definition of "neat". Or the one the US Army taught you qualified as that, as for a moment, he tried to see in the mirror some vestige of that kid reported for basic all those years ago. It wasn't there. Lost in the years, altered by life's successes and failures and perhaps by what Lewis always said applied to a car. It wasn't the age, it was miles on the clock and the way the gearbox had been used.
Right now, anticipating what or rather who he had to face in the interview room, Bobby felt like his own chassis had done two hundred thousand miles in rough terrain and his brain been used by someone never fully mastered the correct use of the clutch. He rolled down his shirtsleeves and fastened the cuffs. Knowing when he got home he'd be lucky not to rip the buttons off that and the rest of his clothes in his haste to get into the shower quickly. For as many minutes as the hot water lasted of trying to scald away the "dirty feeling" he knew he would feel all over his body after this encounter. But just as no one knew the nature of his rest room visits prior to many interrogations, none knew about the showers or the frantic stuffing of his socks, shirt and shorts into the washing machine at home.
Nor of the dash to the dry cleaners on the end of the street with whatever suit and tie he'd been wearing. Even when he'd only picked them up the day before and worn them once. Bobby suspected Mrs Chang knew. From the almost sympathetic look she gave him when she recognised clothes she'd seen very recently and he quietly confirmed there was no special repair or stain treatment required. His hair still damp from the shower when he got there and just about dry when he got home from the market on the far corner. With a six-pack to complete his latest purification ritual.
There was slight hush fell over the Squad Room when he returned to his desk. Of course everyone knew of his history with the suspect and how that made him the only one likely to be able to break her on the crime that had so exercised Deakins' mind, temper and patience for two days. There were a few kindly comments Bobby didn't really hear thrown his way as he removed his gun into the top left drawer of his desk and slipped on his jacket.
To the effect he had their sympathy and understanding for what he'd been ordered to do. And that the Captain's words "this will be hard Goren but I need you on this" had rung a hollow knell across the whole room. Given an hour to skim the file, the reports and the evidence and then told to go into the lion's den yet again. Though on this occasion the lioness might be more accurate.
Bobby looked over the cardboard box with its various residues and stains one final time before replacing the lid. Putting it on top of his folder that contained the numerous witness statements and forensic reports, he'd digested rather better than he had his lunch. Though as he buttoned his jacket, squared his shoulders and placed the whole bundle of material under his arm, that was suddenly a faint memory. It was as if his stomach had suddenly gone to warp speed. The milk curdled mass of rye and pepperoni was gone, leaving just that familiar and hollow, empty feeling as Bobby left for the interview room.
Inside, with a slow and methodical care, which belied the rate of his fast and irregular feeling heartbeat, Bobby arranged things on the table. The box, which was the primary piece of evidence to his right, the thin file of reports to his left and in front of him the open folder. Trying to think of this as just "another day at the office" and not about the woman who would soon step through that door, he made sure it was right. All of the contents in perfect order. A virgin sheet of paper on top of the pad and his pencil "propelled" on a fresh piece of lead.
Not so long it was in danger of snapping if, in the tension of the situation, he pressed too hard and not too short. Such he'd be working the top after just a line or two of writing in that mix of conventional words and personal shorthand he'd developed over the years. Bobby unfastened his jacket, hitched his pants, sat down in the chair and waited. Folding his hands together trying not to grip them too tight. Not to show the tension coiling like a giant spring inside him with give away white knuckles or any signs of wringing them together. Though that was exactly what he wanted to do as he stopped his thumbs twiddling round each other.
Bobby twitched, he hoped minutely, as the door opened. Whatever else this woman was she had great powers of observation and would see that. See it as sign of his nerves she would twist and use against him as a weapon given any slight opportunity. Somehow he kept perfectly still as she was ushered to the seat opposite him. Not affording her the victory of any glance of interest and making her come into his line of sight and not going voluntarily into hers.
He suspected the muscles along his jaw visibly tightened under the stubble as he clenched his teeth to be sure of remaining expressionless. But in the face of that little lick of her glossed lips and a casual toss of the blonde hair it was very hard to achieve. Even for him as the word "lioness" came to mind again and the table immediately felt as narrow as a plank. They didn't have manes but she certainly did as it sat on her shoulders with that slight lean forward towards him. And Bobby knew how a lame zebra must feel out on the plains as the pink tongue flicked across her lower lip again.
"Hello Bobby" she said softly. Using the words in a tone that was soft as a caress yet as harsh as snakeskin whip on his bare skin at the same time.
It made no sense and yet his urge was both to yelp and sigh at the same time. And it was the same with the look she gave him. Her pupils wide and dilated in that glance that left even his hair feeling naked and exposed. But at the same time there was challenge and contempt. An invitation for him to try and "play her at her own game" for all the good his feeble efforts would do him.
Bobby swallowed dryly. Trying to push down the thoughts about how well she did really know and understand him. To help her withstand whatever he threw at her in the minutes to come. To be able to use that back at him. What she knew about his faults, his weaknesses, his demons and his self doubts. Those things that could distract him if he allowed that to happen. Things that could send his train of thought to places he didn't want it to go and potentially derail his careful plan for this interview.
"I…I have" he began before quickly clearing his throat. "I have just one question to ask you"
"Really Bobby?" She managed to purr his name seductively at the same time as spitting it out with ill-disguised challenge and defiance.
Bobby almost felt the stroke of a feather and the cut of a lash down the middle of his clammy back as he reached for the box and pushed it into the middle of the table. The light as it caught the highlights in her mane was almost blinding him.
"Eames" he snapped. "You took the Captain's special order vanilla cream and chocolate sprinkle doughnut from this box on Tuesday didn't you?"
"Maybe" she shrugged putting her right index finger into her mouth and pulling it out with a wet, sucking sound.
Bobby sighed, knowing he was in for a tough time. "Just so long as I don't miss the first pitch at Shea" he thought as he turned to the fingerprint analysis.
AN : "Aparte was, for the Ancient Greeks, the semi-human incarnation of deceit" said Bobby thinking again of sparing the over worked servers at Google.