It is grey with sharp angles thrown into high contrast by harsh fluorescent lights. There is a sense of order, of discipline, of purpose. The room all but screams "serious". He strides into the lion's den, pleased with the sheep's clothing he has donned. Grimacing at the clumsy metaphor, he heads towards the corner office, aware of the turning heads, watching eyes and whispered comments.
He had spent a couple of weeks preparing for this latest role. In the military, it had been easy; uniform, regulations, strict codes. Not unlike his early days in the NYPD. Narcotics had been harder. Informal dress, irregular hours, nights spent undercover on the streets, close to the edge. It uncomfortably mimicked his very private life and it had taken a while to find his balance, not to blur his personal boundaries. That and a couple of close calls: finding himself on the street, the scent in his nostrils, the beast raging. Fortunately, junkies were plentiful and not known for their longevity. Like all predators, he had learned, adapted. Used his skills to gain distance from the street, to plan and run the operations.
Leading him to here: to the Major Case Squad. To now: to the debut of the latest refinement of his public persona. It had taken careful thought, meticulous preparation but this was the kind of task he enjoyed, relished. He had examined every detail, assessing relevance, rightness. Ruefully, he thought of the opened carton of smokes, abandoned on the kitchen table, soon to be passed onto Lewis and his cronies. At least, he could once again indulge his taste for 18 year old Glenlivet...
These thoughts had led him across the Squad room and to the Captain's office door.
Damn! Silently, she cursed the 'powers that be' that had decided to saddle her, not only with an oddball, but a fucking tall one at that. She mentally girded herself against the numerous times in the future she would hear the phrase "the long and the short of it." Cops never let things like that slide. At least he was not foaming at the mouth. In fact, he was not unappealing. Good suit, well cut, carefully co-ordinated shirt and tie combo, scruffy unshaven chin saving him from glibly being labelled "metro sexual".
She watched him draw himself to his full height and square his shoulders as he shook hands with the Captain. She recognised the action for what it represented, a display, a puffing out of feathers, a brief demonstration of power. Wondered at what drove the need to flout physical superiority to an authority figure. Holding out her own hand, she expected him to loom over her, but he tilted his head, dipped a shoulder, subtly trimming several inches from their height difference. "Bobby" a childlike name coupled with a snub nose, eyes crinkling as the shy smile formed. He had reduced his potency as effectively as he had reduced his height.
An alarm bell begins to ring at the back of her mind, cop instincts registering how his skilful manipulations have charmed her, drawn her in. Fuck, she was going to have to watch out for him.
She was going to have to watch herself, too.
He loved it.
Eccentric, unconventional identity established, he was giving it free rein. Each case brought him new ways to play. He undermined authority, deflated pomposity, charmed and bumbled and stuttered his way through interviews, snooped and pried into personal effects, fidgeted and fiddled with treasured possessions. All this physical activity was punctuated by periods of stillness, while his razor sharp mind got busy instead. Busy with collating information, assessing relevance, re evaluating hypotheses, identifying patterns, further research. At crimes scenes, he barely acknowledged the living and flouted every sense of propriety, as he straddled corpses, incubus –like, eager to touch, to feel, to smell. And the icing on the cake? He got results.
The exhilaration inflamed his other desires, his other needs. He became both the sweetheart and the scourge of the Support Staff, devastatingly sexy and charming in pursuit, cold and indifferent post conquest. And on other, more intimate occasions, the predator stalked...
He had always been a monster, but it had never been so obvious.
She hated it, hated him.
Hated how he overwhelmed everyone with his presence, how he swept her along until he became bored, or distracted, or too lost in his own internal dialogue and then he just zoned out, leaving her to pick up the slack. Hated how he would re-emerge, charging off at a tangent, leaving her floundering in his wake. Maybe it was his observation, his insight, that cracked the case, but it was her legwork that provided strong enough evidence to secure a conviction. But it was never acknowledged, not even expected.
The frustration was leaving a bitter taste in her mouth, as bitter as the bile that had risen the first time she had seen him handle a corpse. She had seen the eagerness as he crouched, broad shoulders and black coat making her think of a huge vulture picking at carrion. She had seen him reverently cradle the head, gently smooth back the hair, latex clad fingers probing, exploring. And then he had bent down, even closer if that was possible, and for fucks sake, he had sniffed the gaping wound. Not a tentative, cautious sniff, but inhaling deeply, eyes closing as if savouring the aroma.
Grimacing at the memory, she made her decision. Inserting a piece of paper into the typewriter, she began to write her request for a new partner. In the meantime, she would fight back, Eames style.
Another crime scene and again he all but shoves her out of the way, keen to get at the corpse. But this time she's ready.
"There's no hurry, he's not going anywhere."
He pauses, shoots her a look and opens his mouth to retort. She turns her back on him and begins to question the building manager, who is ashen faced and shaking following his grim discovery. After eliciting a few pertinent details, she hands him over to the care of one of the uniforms.
She moves across the room to stand beside the body.
"So what gems of knowledge does the great Detective Goren have for us today? That the deceased embroidered throw pillows, favoured salt on his food and walked with a slight limp on rainy days? Or merely that he was beaten to death with a blunt object sometime last night?"
He raises his head to look at her, really look at her, as if seeing her for the first time. She looks back, her hazel eyes challenging, but softens the impact of her sharp words with a raised eyebrow and a half smile. He swallows, ducks his head and hesitantly begins to speak, to explain, to share his discoveries.
And so it begins.