Chapter 2: The Investigation

CONTENT:
Rating: Teen
Flavor: Drama/Family Drama
Language: yes
Violence: some implied violence
Nudity: none
Sex: none
Other: references to drugs, physical child abuse


"Mr. Merlyn, do you know what it means when a child is always having accidents and falling down?"


The Investigation

(Tommy is 12; Rebecca has been dead 4 years)

Malcolm's blood ran cold. He turned, keeping both detectives in sight, like a wolf cornered by a pack of dogs. "That is not what is going on here! I demand to see my son!"

Eames said, "Well, that's not going to happen until we determine you're not a danger to him." She flicked her head, tossing her hair back from her eyes, giving him a clear view of the steel determination in them.

"Why don't you sit back down, Mr. Merlyn," Gorem said, adopting his deceptively bumbling tone. He was like a bear, Malcolm realized; giving nothing away of what he was thinking, remaining friendly and harmless-looking until he was ready to lash out.

"I don't want to sit down," he growled. "I want to know how badly my son is hurt. I want to talk to Dr. Croft."

"And we understand that," Gorem soothed. "But you understand, we have to investigate."

"Investigate what? I told you what happened. You heard Tommy's side of the story, or so I presume. Have you actually spoken to him?"

Eames said, "Not yet. Dr. Croft needs to finish treating him."

Malcolm spread his hands. "Well, it's only Tommy's word against mine."

"Are you saying we shouldn't believe him?" Eames asked pointedly. "Because he's a child? And children lie? Making up things all the time?"

Malcolm raked a hand back through his hair. He couldn't believe this was happening. When he got ahold of Tommy...! "That's not what I'm saying. I'm saying... Look,

I know what this sounds like - I know what it looks like. But I did not beat my son. I didn't push him down the steps!"

"Why would he lie?" Gorem asked in an annoyingly neutral tone.

Malcolm took a deep breath, knowing what this would sound like, too. "Tommy... We haven't been getting along. He's charging headlong into his rebellious teens, and he knew saying such a thing would hurt me." He lowered his head. They weren't going to buy this.

Indeed, the detectives shared another look, on that Malcolm interpreted as stark disbelief. Then Gorem turned to him. "We'd like to see where this incident took place, if that's all right with you."

Alarm bells went off in Malcolm's mind. He should have a lawyer; they needed a warrant. He pursed his lips to keep from grimacing, and swiftly weighed his options. Refusing would only look more suspicious. Besides, he had nothing to hide. "Yes, of course." He gave them the address.

==#==

Malcolm didn't know the protocol in such situations, so he waited for the detectives outside. Hid didn't want them to suspect he'd tampered with any evidence.

He unlocked the door and led Gorem and Eames inside, through the foyer, down the hall, and into the large dining room. A glass-topped mahogany table dominated the area in front of the French doors and floor-to-ceiling windows. Tommy's backpack and jacket were gone, the chair straightened to military precision.

"Where did the incident occur?" Gorem asked, his oval face blank.

"Out here, on the back porch."

The back porch was a massive edifice of dressed colonial stone. Slate lined the eight by sixteen floor, with massive planters built into the stone wall that housed yew trees, trimmed and tamed like Western bonsai.

Malcolm and the detectives walked the few paces to the broad steps that led down to the back lawn. They were flanked by thick stone rails.

This had been Tommy's castle parapet when he'd been a little boy.

Gorem ambled down the steps. "This is where he fell?"

"Yes."

The detective peered at the stone bannister, where Malcolm could see a wet spot that definitely was not blood. "It looks clean."

"The housekeeper must have...," Malcolm explained lamely.

"Can we speak to her?" Eames asked, while Detective Gorem continued to look around on the stone steps.

"Of course." Malcolm led her back inside and called for Vivienne.

"Vivienne, did you clean up on the porch?" he asked her when she appeared.

"Yes," she said, wringing her hands. "Poor Tommy, is he all right?"

"The doctors are taking care of him," Malcolm answered her. "This is Detective Eames. She'd like to ask you a few questions about the accident."

Vivienne's eyes widened, but she composed herself and nodded to the detective.

Eames smiled softly and said, "Thank you for agreeing to talk with us. Perhaps we could get a glass of water and talk in the kitchen?"

As if on cue, Detective Gorem poked his head in the door and asked, "Mr. Merlyn, can you show me exactly what happened?"

"Of course," he replied, a wry twist to his lips at the maneuvering. Vivienne caught his eye as he began to turn. She looked uncertain. "Please help the detectives with whatever they need," he told her. She nodded.

Malcolm joined Gorem on the porch.

"Tommy fell down, here?" the bearlike man asked, looking down the steps.

"Yes."

"This would be after you grabbed his arm."

"Yes."

Gorem turned to Malcolm. "Why did you do that?"

"I... we were arguing. He turned away, to leave."

"Tommy, what is this? Is this marijuana?"

"You went through my stuff?"

"That is not the point!"

"You can't just pry into my personal life, Dad! As if you care!"

"Of course I care! Where did you get this? Have you been smoking pot?"

"You don't care about me, you just want to run my whole life so you don't look bad."

"That is not-!"

"Go to Hell, Dad!"

"TOMMY!"

Gorem asked, "What were you arguing about?"

"I'd rather not say."

The detective just looked at him, with that bland expression, those hooded eyes. Judgemental eyes.

Malcolm squirmed slightly. What was going through the detective's mind? Nothing good. "It's... I... I don't want him to get into trouble. I found, well, a joint in his jacket pocket," he confessed.

"You found marijuana in his possession."

Malcolm grimaced at the legalese. "In his jacket. I don't know where he got it."

"You thought he was smoking pot."

"I don't know!"

"But you found this joint and got into an argument over it." Gorem tipped his head slightly, his eyes trying to drill through Malcolm's facade.

"I got upset."

"You yelled at him."

Malcolm did not like this man putting words in his mouth, but the damnable thing was, he couldn't deny them. "I confronted him about it."

"Here?"

"No, inside." Malcolm nodded at the dining room. "He came out here."

"To get away from you."

Dammit! "Yes."

"So you chased him out here and grabbed him."

"I thought you wanted me to tell you what happened - not for me to stand here and listen to you dictate it to me!" Malcolm snapped, past the end of his patience.

"Sorry," Gorem said, in that same neutral tone, without contrition. "Occupational hazard. We... deduce things."

Malcolm took a steadying breath. "Yes, I did grab his arm, to try to make him stop and talk to me. He... he pulled away, too hard." Malcolm swallowed, replaying the scene in his mind. "I guess his feet got tangled up and he tripped and fell down the stairs."

"Can you show me? Where was he standing when you grabbed him?"

"Well, here."

Gorem shuffled into place, nudging Malcolm back. "So he was facing this way? Can you grab me like you grabbed him?"

"You're rather larger than he is." Malcolm knew better, but could not resist the snide comment.

Gorem seemed unfazed. "Just so I can get an idea."

Malcolm gripped him above the elbow, none too hard.

"And you pulled him back?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure you didn't unconsciously push him forward?"

"I'm sure!" Malcolm snapped. "I tried to get him to face me, this way." He was clearly standing behind the man's elbow. He tugged in demonstration.

Gorem half turned. "Then what?"

"I told you, he yanked away."

The detective broke swiftly from his grasp, and Malcolm opened his hand before he could reflexively grab the man. Now if the detective only pitched himself down the steps and cracked his skull, that would be the end of that.

But Gorem only turned, still placid, like that circus bear. "So he yanked away too hard, his feet got tangled together..." He took a shuffle step forward. "And then he fell." He mimed a sort of dive. "This way?"

"Yes."

"Can you describe to me exactly how he fell? Show me."

"He fell at this angle." Now Malcolm crowded the detective, forcing him to move down the steps. "He hit his head, here." He pointed at the damp spot, but Gorem didn't seem interested in looking at the stone, he only stared at Malcolm. "And then fell forward, down here."

"He couldn't catch himself?"

"That's how he broke his arm."

"I see," was all the detective said, in that infuriating bland tone. He then fished out a notepad and pen, and began scribbling notes.

Malcolm waited, patiently, or tried to. He glanced back up the steps, trying to give the detective a hint to move back inside. Wouldn't it be easier to take notes on the dining room table?

"After he fell," Gorem finally asked, still writing, "what did you do?"

"Well, I... panicked, basically. I came down the steps to check on him. He was crying... blood all over his face. I- I picked him up, put him in the car, and drove like a madman for the hospital."

"You didn't think to call 911?"

"I didn't want to wait for an ambulance to get out here, my son was bleeding."

Gorem nodded, dully, Then he stopped and looked up at Malcolm. "And where is this joint you were arguing over? Did your housekeeper pick it up?"

Malcolm's face heated in guilty anger. "No, I had it. I put it in my pocket - it must have been by reflex - and then I flushed it."

"Was this all before you picked up your bleeding son and carried him to the car?"

"Of course not! It was at the hospital. While I was in the wash room."

Gorem just nodded again, writing, writing, writing... And Malcolm prayed for patience.

==#==

Alex Eames followed the housekeeper to the kitchen, reminding herself that a hallway was just a hallway, no matter how grand; a kitchen was just a kitchen, no matter how large and gleaming; and a man was just a man, no matter how rich.

Vivienne got her a glass of water, and she thanked the woman. She took a sip and said, "Would you like to sit down?" They moved to the corner of the kitchen table.

Eames smiled at the woman to put her at ease. "How long have you been working for Mr. Merlyn?"

She didn't look at ease. "Ten years," she replied.

Quite some time to build up loyalty. But would she be more loyal to her employer, or the child that had been in her care for so long?

"Do you know what happened this morning?"

"Tommy was hurt." Her face creased in concern. "He is all right, isn't he?"

"He has a broken arm and a concussion," Eames informed her. "Did you see how it happened?"

Vivienne shook her head.

"Did you hear anything? Any yelling?"

Another head shake. "I was in the front wing."

An entirely different place in the mansion that probably contained room for three or four modest houses. "But you knew Tommy Merlyn was hurt."

"I saw them leave. It was terrible - I was so afraid for him."

"And Mr. Merlyn? How did he seem?"

"I have never seen him so pale, so afraid."

Still, a man could break his son's arm one moment and feel panic over it the next. Eames leaned on the table, creating a closer, more confidential space between them.

"Vivienne, how do Mr. Merlyn and Tommy usually get along?"

The housekeeper shifted, glancing away uncomfortably. "Things have been... hard. Since they lost Mrs. Merlyn. Mr. Merlyn hasn't been the same."

Missing his wife and taking it out on his kid. Eames worked on keeping her expression neutral.

"Tommy...," Vivienne continued, "is a quiet boy. But headstrong, sometimes." She tipped her head, questioning if Eames understood, and Eames nodded.

"Did you ever notice any strange bruises on him?"

"N-No..." Her brow creased.

"Never?"

"No, he plays outside. Boys..." She made a vague gesture with her hand. "Play rough."

"So any bruises he had could be explained by that?"

"He used to get in fights, when... when his mother passed away. The other children..." She pinched her lips in disapproval. "Tommy was a sensitive child."

"Does Mr. Merlyn lose his temper often?"

"Oh, no." Vivienne looked directly at her. "Mr. Merlyn never loses his temper. That man has the patience of a saint."

Interesting, and unexpected. Then again, Eames mused, it was always those with the longest fuse that blew up most violently. She would have to compare notes with Bobby, later.

For now, she steered the interview towards more practical matters, liked the wiped crime scene.

==X==