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Charles had never actually been inside a police station before. He had been inside CIA buildings, however, and found the police station to be quite different. It was busy in spite of the late hour, not particularly crowded but occupied by people addressing tasks that seemed to be very important to them. Or, he thought, perhaps these were simply self-important people.
There was less sense of money here than in the CIA, though. Few people wore suits. The building looked perfectly serviceable, but used, also, stains on the floor and missing ceiling tiles. It had a feeling of real life to it.
"Miss MacTaggert! We've been looking for you! There's…" The speaker, a young and very tired-looking man in a police uniform, took a look at Charles and trailed off. "Um, there's been some developments."
…real life and a busy atmosphere! They had barely walked in the door before they were swept up in it.
"I'll be there as soon as I can," Moira replied. "The suspect brought in earlier, this man is an expert on such unusual conditions, I think he can help."
Charles noticed that Moira did not specify who the recipient of his assistance might be. It was as well she didn't: they both knew he had no intention of helping the police. Even if this young mutant proved to have the worst intentions, Charles would protect him. Mutants needed to look after their own.
The young policeman looked from Moira to Charles, obviously uncertain.
Charles extended his hand. "Professor Charles Xavier," he offered.
He wasn't, technically, because he still had no teaching position, but the title at least earned him a handshake and a response of, "Officer Peter Sullivan."
"I can take him back," the officer said. "Lucky they've kept the freak on the first floor."
Moira nodded and said a hasty goodbye before returning to her own work, leaving Charles with the policeman. The young man seemed unsure what to do. Charles simply waited, watching patiently.
"It's, er, this way."
"Lead on," Charles prompted, when the policeman didn't move.
"Right!" Officer Sullivan seemed almost surprised. "Of course." Apparently involving strangers in police business at the request of a CIA liaison, and a woman at that, was not usually in his job description. Prompted, he led the way to a dim room. Through what he guessed to be a two-way mirror, Charles had a clear view of the young mutant, as well as the two policemen questioning him.
"That's your idea of a Communist?" Charles asked.
Sullivan looked uncomfortable with the question. "The Soviet threat to this country—"
Charles looked through the window again. The probable mutant, proposed Soviet weapon was handcuffed to a desk, hunched over and trembling. What sort of weapon was that? She looked halfway to wetting herself.
"The Soviets," Charles interrupted the officer, "have nuclear missiles."
"I saw what happened out there. It wasn't human."
"I'd like to speak with your suspect." The word dripped disdain. Suspect, that frightened child?
"Probably not a good idea."
"Let me speak with her."
A telepathic suggestion accompanied the request. Bureaucracy was annoying at the best of times. Since the police obviously had no idea what they were dealing with, Charles felt no guilt for cutting through the red tape.
Policy turned out not to be the biggest challenge. That he handled with a slight nudge, barely a twitch in his power. Officer Sullivan stepped in first and explained, "We've got a CIA contact, some professor, wants to speak with the kid."
By the time Charles maneuvered his wheelchair through the doorway, the rather impressive impact of that statement had worn off.
He missed his legs.
Pretending not to notice the stares of the other policemen, Charles made his way over to the desk. Up close, the child looked even more pathetic. For all she tried to hide behind a curtain of filthy hair, she clearly bore signs of a beating: a fresh cut on her lip; an eye bruised, maybe swollen, but it was difficult to gauge with both eyes squeezed shut. She was filthy, her face smeared like she had tried to wash but not quite managed it, and she had the look of someone who had not one day in her life had enough to eat.
And she stank like a dumpster. This, more than anything, Charles noticed, a smell so thick he swallowed the urge to gag.
This was Public Enemy #1? A cowering, homeless-looking kid? This frightened the police?
Charles hoped he would never need the police's help in Westchester. Their sniffer dogs were probably Pomeranians.
"Hello. I'm Charles Xavier."
The girl did not respond.
"I'm not going to hurt you."
The response this time was a scoff from one of the police officers. Really, Charles agreed that the chances of the girl believing him were slim. He agreed because of the cut on her lip. It was fresh. The police were responsible for it.
"And should you have treated a young girl that way, Officer?"
The response was a snicker.
Charles narrowed his eyes, but the officer made a transparent show of stifling his amusement. "As I was saying—" Charles continued, turning back to the girl, "—I won't hurt you. You don't need to be afraid of me."
And I'm not afraid of you, either, Charles offered, a thought in her head. At the very least, it should have been startling enough for the girl to look at him. She just flinched. I'm a mutant, like you. I have the ability to read your thoughts. You have an ability, too, don't you? After a silent pause, he added, If you'd like to tell me here, no one else will know.
"How much are you planning to get out of this one-sided staring contest?"
"Be quiet, please, you're not helping," Charles replied, not looking at the policeman with the big mouth. In a very different tone, he suggested to the girl, "Why don't you tell me your name?"
There was no response.
Charles tried not to let his concern show. This was not the situation for him. What was he supposed to say? 'Trust me'? How much weight could that possibly carry with someone who would not so much as look up?
He thought of speaking with Hank. The trouble was that Hank always responded quite clearly. Even if he did not know what to say, his face was an open book and given enough time he would work his way around to the words. The boy sitting across from Charles now had more than shyness to contend with.
"I think you know how much trouble you could be in right now. You've committed some very serious crimes tonight. I want to help you, but I can't do that without knowing your side of the story. Just tell me what happened."
"Don't know why you bother, wouldn't believe a word even if you can eke it out," one of the officers commented.
Probably the same one who had scoffed earlier, Charles guessed, but more important was the sudden flood of images in his head.
"And why on earth should she trust you?" Charles queried. The response was more laughter. "What—"
"'maboy."
"I beg your pardon?" he asked, more gently. The 'suspect' had finally spoken and the last thing Charles wanted was to frighten her into silence again.
"I'm a boy," she—or rather, he—repeated. "That's why they're laughing."
"I'm so sorry."
Not that he was a boy, but for repeatedly referring to him as a girl. Oh, that hadn't helped anything, had it? But the child was fine-featured and long-haired—an effeminate boy, then, rather than a masculine girl.
"Will you tell me your name?"
"Like I said," the officer remarked, "does it matter what he says? I never met an honest man so keen to look me in the eye."
A flood of images responded: the boy's thoughts. 'Look me in the eye' had triggered a strong reaction in him, and with a link already open, Charles suddenly knew why. The memories were jumbled, but one thing stood out clearly: the boy couldn't open his eyes. It seemed his control was limited, and use of his powers would be very destructive.
Charles looked from one officer to the other. "He came in with a pair of glasses, where are they now?"
"They were sunglasses, it doesn't—"
"Where?" Sometimes he did not need telepathy to have his way. Charles was younger than either of the officers, but his voice carried the authority of one not used to being disobeyed.
The officers exchanged an uncomfortable look and one of them handed over a pair of glasses with unusual red lenses. Charles took them and offered them to the boy, then realized first that he couldn't see and second that he couldn't reach with his hands cuffed to the table.
"I'm going to put your glasses on for you, all right? Nod if you understand, please."
The boy nodded.
Charles had never before put glasses on another person. It was awkward and although he tried to avoid the bruise under the boy's eye, he could not help poking the glasses against it.
A whimper and an awkward maneuver later, the lenses obscured the boy's eyes, but anyone could see when he lifted his head. He was still dirty and shaking, but that much engagement made a tremendous difference. Charles felt much more hopeful about this. He wanted to help, he truly did. His powers could only do so much, though. He needed the boy to cooperate.
"There. That's better, isn't it?"
The response was a soft, tense, "I didn't want to do it, I swear."
"I believe you."
"I don't."
Charles turned to face the police officer who had been so eager to add a negative comment to every attempt made at actually communicating with the kid. Yes, he was a homeless-smelling possible criminal with a frightening power, but he was also a scared child.
"Don't you have something better to do?" Charles asked.
"Nope."
"Go."
His telepathic suggestion helped scoot the officer out of the room.
When he looked back, he saw that the boy was grinning. "Very, very far out."
"Thank you. Speaking of far out, you're not from around here, are you?"
Charles did not need to see the boy's eyes to know what his expression said: neither are you.
"Nor am I," he agreed cheerfully enough, "I'm from England originally. And you… Illinois?" It was a complete shot in the dark. The boy's accent was Midwestern. It was slight but noticeable on certain vowel sounds. More than that, without delving into his mind, Charles would simply have to use process of elimination. "Wisconsin?" He really should have paid more attention in geography classes.
"Please."
"All right. We can talk about something else, perhaps what's happened tonight? I understand if you wouldn't like to, but it's rather important at the moment. There was someone else with you. Someone who got away."
The boy nodded.
"Was he the one who hurt you?"
Another nod, more hesitant this time.
"How old are you really?"
"Eighteen." The response came too quickly, and without enough indignation to be true.
"No," Charles replied, a note of amusement in his voice, "you're not eighteen." Eighteen was not even close to plausible. "Thirteen?" He intentionally guessed low. At that age, he had hated being thought of as younger. Maybe the boy would be keen to correct him.
He wasn't.
"Then how about your mutation. You've experienced what my mutation can do. It looks like you have a considerable power—"
"No."
Charles suppressed a sigh. They did not have time for this. Didn't the boy realize he could land himself in juvenile detention? Prison, if he insisted on claiming to be eighteen.
A moment later, Charles realized the 'no' had not been in answer to his question. The boy repeated it, this time trying to yank his arms free so hard the desk shifted and the handcuffs left red marks on his wrists.