Perlmutter

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Oh great, the highlight of my day. Beckett and her shadow. And here I thought I'd get out of here at a decent hour.

"That's kidnapping," Beckett said, stepping into the morgue, Castle right on her heels.

"I see it as more of a citizen's arrest," Castle argued. "Potato, po-tah-to."

I don't know how Beckett puts up with Castle. Personally, I think she needs to tighten his leash. Castle only carries on like that to get a rise out of her. Or maybe it's being a celebrity; always needing to be the centre of attention - at least the centre of Beckett's attention. He's a big bloody untrained puppy. Either way, I'd like less commentary and more professional conversation. I don't do flirty banter. I cut up dead people. And I have a long line of dead bodies waiting. This is New York. Although I should be grateful she didn't bring those two clowns along with them. Frik and Frak and puppy-dog here tend to significantly increase the proportion of wasted time.

Last time they were all here, I think it was the Rutledge case, writer-boy was so busy trying to convince those two clowns he was right he started yammering on, making up another long-winded story, hands flying all over the place -- knocked my instruments right off the table. And that's not the first time. What don't they get about proper sanitation?! I really wish Beckett would handcuff him (and gag the man) before entering my room. I almost lost an eye from his wild gestures.

"Perlmutter?" Beckett asked, slipping past Castle towards the table holding their latest victim: Victor Drummond, 52.

I turned to her. "Cause of death appears to be from potassium chloride poisoning."

Castle furrowed his brows, apparently thinking hard. It was too bad it wasn't actually possible to pull a brain muscle. I would have enjoyed that. If he asked another CSI-related question, I was tempted to use one of the many sharp instruments at his disposal. The writer piped up, "But isn't that--"

"Almost undetectable, yes. It leaves little trace in the blood stream." As if he would have known that. Better to cut him off and keep him focused. The faster he loses interest, the faster he leaves.

Beckett stepped closer. "Making it appear as if our vic had a heart-attack. But that still doesn't explain the marks on his neck." She bent down closer. "It almost looks like..." she hesitated, "...hickeys with puncture wounds."

Great. She had to give the writer an opening, and of course he took it.

Castle looked positively gleeful. "Puncture wounds and hickeys. Best. Case. Ever."

Beckett glanced up at him. "You say that every case."

"Not every case. Only the ones with really good stories."

"Fine, most cases then."

Castle thinks every story is a good story. Especially the ones he tells. And the stories he tells... I don't even want to think the amount of hours of my life I'll never get back having to listen to him try to convince Beckett he's right because he tells a damn story with gestures. Lots of gestures. And that includes those eyebrows. I miss the quiet and the lack of inane commentary after anything I say. Beckett doesn't waste my time with extraneous chit chat. Or ask me random questions about what would happen to a body if this was done to it, or that was done to it. And no, CSI is never right. I'm not a damn encyclopedia here for Castle's benefit. I have a job to do. A damn important one.

"Do you want to experiment? I'd be willing to allow you to give me a few hickeys. You know, for scientific purposes."

Beckett seemed to consider it. "Okay." She agreed.

"Really?"

"Sure, as long as I get to do the puncture marks as well." She rolled her eyes and turned back to the body.

"What if I gave you a few hickeys instead? We could practice until I got it right."

And there's the flirting. The man has no shame. Really, who in their right mind would flirt over a dead (and questionably-smelling) corpse? I don't think Richard Castle has ever heard the word etiquette. The last thing I want to do is watch him flirt shamelessly in my place of business. Especially after I've eaten. But if he likes Beckett that much, he should ask her out, bring her flowers, books, take her out for a nice dinner, whatever. Just no pussy-footing around trying to charm the woman over a dead body in my office. Like that would ever work.

Oh great, now Rich-boy's leaning in close, whispering something to Beckett. It's only a matter of time until her ignoring him results in more wild hand gestures and another fifteen minutes of story-telling.

Time to end this and get them out of my lab. I may have survived one year, but I'm not sure about another. "How about you practice that on your own time? Some of us have a real job to do."

Author: kiki39