Chapter 2
A/N As I said before this story makes more sense if you read Puzzles of the Heart first. Please read and review and let me know what you think, good, bad, or ugly. :)
Working with Declan, going over and over the copious amount of photos and material he had of his cases taught me to inure and detach myself from the bodies, from the blood spatter, the bits of strewn-about brain. I learned to separate myself from the gore of the brutal murders that we investigate. The case of John Tagman was no exception.
When you are dealing with a suspected serial killer, even a small delay might cause another life to be lost. Once Eames and I pegged Tagman as our suspect, we bent the rules a little to get inside the man's house. The search convinced the two of us we had found our man but we discovered precious little to impress Carver. At that point, something Alex had said about Tagman clicked in my head; the guy was as shy as a kid in short pants. Maybe the way in with this guy was as a mentor or a big brother type. I had already seen all the empty beer bottles at his place and knew the guy was struggling with his nature. Real serial killers don't drink a lot, why should they? Their killings are moments to shine, they are crowning achievements, something to be remembered and savored like the memory of a touch down pass caught long ago. John Tagman was a sick man but he wasn't exactly a serial killer in my book, at least not yet.
I got a meal voucher and went to Tagman's in the guise of offering an unofficial departmental apology for the guy's false arrest. I watched him struggle to make eye contact with me as we talked and I listened to him stammer out his order to the waitress. The kid was so shy that it was hard to believe he had ever made it through school alive. I got him talking about picking up women and saw that he was anxious to know what to do but couldn't really bring himself to ask for advice. I asked him if he knew why he was drinking so much and his answer surprised me. He said that he didn't think it was possible for a man to know himself or to explain himself to himself. He was saying that a man isn't capable of judging his own actions or the motivations for those actions.
We went back to his apartment and while Tagman was getting me a glass of water, I found the guy's porno stash. He was upset when he got back from the kitchen and found me watching one of his DVDs. This was another revelation, this guy was enamored with the idea of intimacy which was another thing that differentiated him from a serial killer. Those types of criminals are all about forming connections too, but they are looking for ways to make the victim connected to them. They aren't interested in being connected to the victim. In other words, the victim isn't seen as a person to share intimacy with but rather as an object to be owned, used, enjoyed and sometimes consumed.
That's when it hit me exactly what John was trying to do and why. Again it was Alex who had figured it out first. He was trying to create a living doll. The first victim's death had been unintentional. The very last thing John Tagman wanted in the world was for Amanda to die. He was merely looking for someway to remove a woman's objection to him, to remove her need to reject him. I understood this need, it was something I had been searching for with my mother since I was seven years old.
The Captain, Alex and I met with Carver to insure we had enough to bring John in for questioning. That was when Carver revealed the fact that he intended to make this a capital case. Carver and I had butted heads before over his degree of charge in cases before. When we arrested Father Mc Shale for murdering his own son, Carver had even threatened to have my badge if I ever interfered with his case after arrest again. Well, we hadn't arrested John yet and it was wrong to convict a guy of cold blooded, pre-meditated murder when that had never been his intent. Afterall, isn't that what we were supposed to be doing here? Determining criminal intent?
Alex and I entered the interrogation room and it went text book. We used the reverse photo to trip John up. We got him to lie enough to satisfy Carver and then we got up to leave. Why didn't I tell Eames what I had planned? It was simple. I told her ahead of time what I was going to do with Nelda Carlson and it had turned out all wrong. I was afraid. Here I was thinking I was right again, but this time I wasn't going put her in the position of covering for me. This time she would be just as surprised as Deakins and Carver of the left turn I was about to take.
After I obtained Tagman's confession, walking into the Observation room felt like entering a meat locker. I expected to see my breath there was so much ice emanating from the three people inside. I said my piece quickly and left. At that moment, I neither knew nor cared how much damage I may have just done to my career.
I was raised Catholic but I read the books about the life of ole Mr. Sid Artha and I understood the Buddhist concept of karma. Carver was on speaking terms with me again as we sat initialing and signing the endless forms that are needed before a case can be released for trial, but our conversation was very much to the point and extremely civil . When the call came through about Tagman's murder, it was impossible not to wonder if this was, in fact, karma in motion. I think, perhaps Carver wondered the same thing. I know I did. I wondered if karma had sought revenge for the lost and damaged lives John was responsible for or if, just maybe, karma had sought to release John to his next life because he had finally learned his lesson in this one. That lesson may have been the lesson of true remorse.
The bar nearest to the station was already filling up as Alex and I found stools down near the end of the bar. I knew Alex hadn't approved of my defense of Tagman. I knew she didn't understand and I couldn't understand why she had asked me here. Her apologizing for not comprehending my motives was the last thing I expected but after I thought about it for a moment, I was really ashamed at my surprise. At every turn, Alexandra Eames proved herself to be a person of impeccable integrity and this time was no different. She took hold of my hands and was caressing her tiny thumbs over my palms. It was the most intimate contact we had ever shared. I have to admit to losing track of the conversation at that point. She was saying something about Carver being overzealous, I didn't care. Her face was solemn and intense with her obvious regret and she was heartbreakingly beautiful.
I smiled at her because just knowing that I hadn't screwed up this time and knowing she was again on my side was more than enough. My hand moved forward of its own accord to stroke a lock of her hair back behind her ear. My brain reeled and for the space of a few seconds I experienced the strange sensation of a split personality; one side of myself indulging in the silkiness of her hair and warmth of her skin while the other side of my brain stood back in shock at my own behavior not believing in my own audacity.
"Thank you, Eames." I murmured close to her ear I and allowed myself one final luxury by trailing my lips ever so softly across her cheek. I left without a backward glance, too much of a coward to stay and see the results of my actions.
On Sunday when I saw her number on my cell phone I weighed the reasons she might be calling before I answered. Was there a case? Or had she finished compiling the list of all the names she wanted to call me for my behavior at the bar? Should I answer or not? My mother taught me that a classical education is never wasted. I found the solution in Latin; Audaces fortuna iuvat. Fortune favors the bold. I pushed the answer button on the phone.
"Eames?" I held the phone tentatively as if it might bite.
"What are you doing?" She asked. I laughed nervously. Did I really want to tell her what I was about to do? Bobby Goren going to see Breakfast at Tiffany's on his day off could be the next water cooler joke around the station on Monday morning. Then I got an idea. She couldn't joke about it if she came with me.
I waited for her outside the theater, pacing restlessly. Why had that Nickels guy suggested I see this movie? What had possessed me to asked Alex to come? Why in the world had she said yes? The autumn air was still warm and I watched a slight breeze chase leaves and loose paper around the eddies created by the buildings and spaces in between. I loved this time of year. As a kid, the start of a new school year in the fall meant more time spent with my friends and less time at home. It had always been the summertime I dreaded the most.
I caught sight of her as she came around the corner from the parking garage. She looked like a catholic school girl in her plaid skirt and white blouse but those boots were definitely not something approved of by the pope.
"Why, in God's name, are we seeing Breakfast at Tiffany's?" She asked as she walked up, a sarcastic smirk on her face.
"You figured it out, huh?" I held the door open for her and got to see the skirt from the other side. I made a mental note to chalk one more possible personality disorder to my list; masochistic tendencies. Why did I torture myself this way?
"Well, considering they only have three movies playing here and I don't think High Plains Drifter or The Godfather Part II are considered chick flicks, it was a fairly easy assumption."
There were only about a dozen or so other people in the theater so we had our choice of seats. "Thanks for the popcorn." Alex said popping a piece in her mouth and offering me a handful from the container.
As the movie started, I battled with age old dilemma of where to put my arm; leave it pinned at my side or slide it more comfortably around her seat or put it where I wanted it, around her shoulders. I finally opted for putting it on the seat. When the movie reached the Moon River number, Alex scooted closer to me and let her head fall back onto my arm. A deep sigh escaped her lips.
"Isn't that still just the prettiest song?" She asked.
The movie was over all too soon and I talked her into going for ice cream. A big gust of wind came along and blew a playbill onto her leg where it lodge in the top of her boot. Being a gentleman, I leaned down to get it for her. My fingers touched the inside of her thigh just above her boot. I felt rooted to the spot, feeling her smooth skin, breathing in the scent of her. She smelled like jasmine, autumn rain and freshly baked chocolate chip cookies all rolled into one. I felt the urge to throw her over my shoulder like some Neanderthal. I stopped myself but only because I didn't want to get shot. I stood up and looked into her face. Did I imagine the color I now saw in her cheeks and the sparkle in her eyes? I repositioned her scarf, giving me another opportunity to touch her. This was dangerous. I could feel the heat rising to my face. The best cover I could think of was to start running. I pulled her along with me the next two blocks to the ice cream parlor.