Note : I'm aware that up till now the stories have sort of been from alternate perspectives every other chapter. However, for obvious reasons, Polly won't be narrating this chapter and if you have read the previous one and can't figure out why, then bless you. :)
Alice : I'm sorry my chapters are so long. It's just that when I read stuff I tend to like to read loooooong stuff, so I write that way too. Will try to snip off irrelevant stuff.
And nowwwwww...Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you my absolutely made up, barely believable excuses to fill in the blanks I've made and forge on as if I'm not a sucky plotter. I'm having too much fun writing to stop. Whether you enjoy it or feel like you want to stab me in the gut –can be explained with three words : Satisfaction not guaranteed. =X
How did I die, sir?
Well, to tell you the truth, I ain't rightly know meself;
***
VIII : Twenty Questions.
A long time ago Kristoph had seen a show. He had been sixteen, or seventeen, or something of that sort, and had found himself with an unexpected window of spare time; so he had turned on the television – something he did not do very often, and watched whatever it was that was showing at the time. It was some kind of detective movie, he couldn't remember, but someone was being interrogated and the premise was a small room with only one door and one tiny window near the ceiling with bars streaking down it. It was the first time Kristoph had seen such a thing – leading his sheltered, studious life, and the image of it stuck into a corner of his mind like gum to shoes.
The real thing was a little different though.
Upon entering Apollo into the hospital – still breathing but was obviously not going to be doing so for much longer without help – he had grappled with the administrators of the hospital and for the first time in his life – he came to curse paperwork and correct procedures. They entered Apollo into the emergency ward, but first they wanted to know who he was, and when he explained that he was his adopted father, they wanted paperwork to prove it and sat on their hands while they await the paperwork to be produced. Then he had to sign here, and sign there, and sign everywhere before they finally did something more than sticking life support on him to keep him from death.
When Apollo was finally admitted into the operating ward, Kristoph was a wreck. As if it wasn't enough that he had to live with the knowledge that he was the reason Apollo was in the hospital and not happy and safe at school, he had to endure prodding questions from the hospital. How did it happened? Did he see anyone suspicious near anything Apollo ingested? - Do I count? He wanted to snap at them. Because that's the only person I can think of - . And then came the magic question – How DID he found out that he was – and this was informed sadly with a shake of their contemptible head as if they were speaking to a child – poisoned by a terribly lethal substance? Kristoph had no answer, staring only at a spot behind their shoulder. They gave up, leaving him alone to stare stonily at the half-glass separating the ward from the hallway.
There were blinds pulled to covered the glass, but between the tiny lines he could see green-clad doctors running around in a hurry. For once he made no comment about how ugly the colour was. Today was a day for firsts indeed. He squirmed in the uncomfortable row of plastic chairs in the hallway and tried to look appropriately distraught. This, unlike the questions, was a problem answered without effort. He was appropriately distraught.
He was staring at the white washed walls when heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway and someone emerged from the end of the dimly lighted place. It was a man, donning a rolled up shirt with his tie askew. He was either an accountant wandering around the twentieth floor of a hospital, lost, or a plainclothes detective here to round someone up. Kristoph would hedge his firm on the latter.
"Mr. Gavin?" A voice called out. The man emerged from the shadows, displaying the face for it's voice – a face that were it entirely up to Kristoph, he would have it deemed illegal in the States – a face that was askew like his tie. Yellow teeth, remnants from a decade – or judging from his age, two – of smoking.
"That would be me." He inclined his head, arms folded.
"Detective Dirk. E. Brown. " He thrust his hand forward. Kristoph didn't offer his, and the offer was rescinded. "I've been sent down from the precinct to talk to you a bit."
At least the man was straightforward and to the point. Kristoph hated beating around the bush when he wasn't the one doing it. "Regarding?"
Brown jerked a thumb in Apollo's direction. " 'bout that kid. Heard from the folks here he's been poisoned."
"Has he?"
"Yeah, seems so. So we'll like to talk to you, ask you a few questions, you know, the works. Down at the precinct."
"And if I refused?" Kristoph sneered. "You have no reasonable grounds under which you can arrest me, or 'talk' as you so nicely put it."
"Really? Kid down at the school seems to disagree." Brown sneered back, and it was an unpleasant expression.
"And that would be because...?"
"Because you came into the school, all hurried like according to the guard, and then this kid sees you drag his friend, shouting some shit about hospitals. Now, what we want to know is, how the hell did you know the kid was poisoned before it's effect kicked in?"
And under those grounds, they could probably produce a warrant within the next twenty-four hours, signed and stamped and ready to haul a bit of Kristoph Gavin into the department. No sense in delaying the interrogation then – it wouldn't serve his cause to have a warrant issued – they'll probably get a search warrant to accompany it too, and even if the evidence that could implicate him severely enough to prove a case was all lying somewhere in the city sewers, he had no intention of having his things mucked around with and dug through.
He glanced at the detective scornfully. "That's the same thing you guys are going to repeat for the next hour, aren't you?"
"We have our right to ask." He hadn't nod, but it was an affirmative.
"You may ask, but I don't have to answer."
With that he walked out of the hospital with the detective – the great Kristoph Gavin, reduced to barely an inch above a direct arrest.
How far he had fallen in a few hours indeed, he mused.
Back to present and to the room – the room they placed him in was a severed room – or at least that was what it felt like to Kristoph. It was a small room - that much the show was correct about - with one oval-edged table and a grand total of nine folding chairs tucked into it. The room had a half-glass similar to that in the hospital, except the blinds were folded up and it looked into the police department's hallway which, unlike the hospital's was bustling and heavy with activity.
Night time is always their busiest time, someone commented to him. Kristoph had answered with a non-committal shrug and a realization that it was already nine at night.
They led him into the room and placed him in a chair – any chair at all, they don't mind. Not a bit – and Kristoph had chosen one that allowed him to look out into the hallway. The two detectives assigned to squeeze information out of him immediately took the seat opposite his and adopted a fighting stance. On their faces, that is.
What followed immediately bored him. First they would launch a series of questions not unheard before – How did he know? Did someone told him? Where did he get his information? Was he the one who poisoned the kid? He answered with a threat of pending lawsuit, telling them they had no right to question him without a lawyer present. They answered with a sneer that he was a lawyer himself. He shot back that he still had a right to an attorney and then they go like two fighters in a ring, on and on and on. One side would ask a question, and one side would deflect it. Rinse and repeat.
An hour later they started into the whole good cop-bad cop routine.
"Look, if you say you didn't do it, then why the hell are you so damned defensive?" One yelled, slamming his palm onto the table.
Kristoph examined his nails to hide a smile.
"Because I can." He said simply.
This irked them greatly. One, the supposed 'good cop' came to the rescue with a put-on smile. "Really now," he admonished his fellow officer before addressing Kristoph. "We understand that you have a right to remain silent – but I'm sure you want us to nab the guy who did this to your son, don't you?"
Uh...That would be a no. With a capital N.
The other guy glanced at the file with Apollo's information on it, and snickered when his eyes scrolled down to Apollo's name. Kristoph felt a sudden need for more Atroquinine.
"I do. Which is why I would rather you spend time on the streets, digging up information on the culprit, and not sit here wasting your time, talking to a person who won't answer. " He replied.
And then they started another rant, then another question, and it went on for another hour. Another detective joined the table, making it three. One more hour. It was twelve now, and the police department visibly became busier. People were led in by the dozen with handcuffs or paperwork on. Some visitors sat in the waiting area holding onto papers with a nervous expression, probably there to bail someone out.
Still Kristoph did not talk.
So they carried on the facade. They wanted the culprit, he knew. An innocent kid – one with a bright future from a prep school at that – suddenly dropping dead in the middle of school? Every rich bastard who has a kid in the school and it's clones in the area would want to know how and why and when it happened, and more importantly – when it surfaced that it was an attempt on his life – WHO? Who, they would want to know, was the one who had poisoned this child, who could have easily been their million-dollar child. They would go to newspapers and be interviewed by journalists, railing against society, and some senator. Which senator is not the question – someone will take the blame on the apparent abortion of justice and the rapidly failing society, and someone will resign his position, to be immediately lapped up by the hungry wolves on the fringe. Then the attention would turn to the police department and you'll hear cries far and wide asking and demanding answers from the police.
They would have to produce a culprit, someone for the public to spit on as a horrible child killer, and they would have to produce it fast – so they're hoping that Kristoph would volunteer.
Kristoph zoned out after a couple of hours more in conversation with them. He had been saying the same thing for the past hour, and he could repeat it without slip of tongue. Even outside, the crowd was thinning a little. Either the criminals took a rest at late night, or the police took a rest at late night - Kristoph bet it was the latter.
He tried his best not to think of Apollo. Was he dead? That was the question running through his mind. If his mind had been a piece of blank paper and the question in words, it would no doubt be in bold and underlined, demanding to be answered.
"How is Apollo?" He abruptly asked, looking up from where he had been ignoring the officer and staring at the table with no expression.
The room froze, an officer who had removed his tie a couple of hours earlier and now had his sleeves rolled up in frustration stopped in mid-sentence.
"Huh?" Someone grunted stupidly.
"How is Apollo?" He repeated, when no one seemed inclined to answer him. "As in, his condition. Is he alright?"
He had gotten him to the hospital in time, so maybe there was hope – or at least he wanted to believe that. The detectives exchanged looks. Then one – Brown – stated. "We don't know. The hospital called a couple of hours earlier that he survived the worst of it, but he's in a coma or something."
Kristoph nodded, and the detectives took this concern with zeal, resuming their pounding questions. Kristoph went back to ignoring them, gathering himself.
Apollo was alright. Well if he wasn't exactly alright, at least he wasn't dead yet. Which meant that he had no reason to continue torturing himself. He had done his best to save Apollo, and now he had to take care of himself. He had been alright with the notion of being hauled off in handcuffs – partly because he wanted to punish himself and partly because he was amused at the idea of what reaction those parents would have. - Who's the murderer, you asked? Why, it's your attorney, sir! - Rushes would be made to firms to check if Kristoph the Gruesome had somehow displaced them of their funds. Wills will be double-checked in case Kristoph manhandled them and arranged to have everything sent to himself. Trials will be dug up under the alleged label of 'not being conduct by a rightful lawyer' before being buried again on the grounds that he had was perfectly fine during the trial. Lawsuits will be filed. Lawyers would bill. And then the lawyer jokes would start.
Well, time to nip it in the bud.
"Can I make a call?" He asked. The officers exchanged glances with each other again.
"Who do you want to call?" One said cautiously.
"Someone in charge." More glances. They were all aware that Kristoph had a reputation, and no one wanted him crying to their superior officer.
"We're in charge of this case."
"I'm not talking about this case. I'm talking about this department as a whole." Instinctively they slid their glances at a door outside, which had the words 'Serious Crime' embedded in gold onto a handsome black plate. Inside was a harried-looking man, whom Kristoph presumed to be their head.
"Who do you want to call, precisely?"
"The chief police," Kristoph said, and leaned back to watch the emotions played across their face. Incredulous, fear, and worry, then bravado paraded over their stricken faces.
"You know the chief." It wasn't a question – it was a statement, one that hopefully, he would refute.
No such luck. "I believe so. Now, may I or may I not make the call?"
They huddled in a corner to discuss the merit of refusing him that right, and came to the conclusion that it wouldn't work with him.
"Alright, alright, but only one."
With a hurried motion of chairs scraping the ground and people rising up, they shepherd Kristoph into an adjacent room – an office, with a desk phone. He picked up the receiver, then looked behind where they were all huddled outside the room with nervous expressions, and with a touch of his trademark subtle condescension, commented, "And don't eavesdrop now or I'll have your jobs, hmm?'
He chuckled at their expressions and punched in the chief police's number.
The chief police was not the intimidating, street-walking, fear-striking kind of police – neither now nor in his youth. He was the paper-shuffler, the person sitting behind the desk because he was one sheet of paper above your average police. He was a university graduate, and proud of it. So proud in fact, that he would tell any man unfortunate enough to happen to sit in the chair in front of his desk. He was a head of department when he joined the force – and in the years to come, he would climb and claw and spit his way up to the pinnacle of law enforcement – he would be the police chief. On his way, he would accumulate golf buddies, wives, more wives, and sadly, Kristoph as an attorney.
When he first approached Kristoph, it was something simple. He had slept with a streetwalker, and she got pregnant, and now she wanted to press charges against him for rape, with the child's DNA as proof. He wanted it settled, and he wanted it settled quietly, so he went to Kristoph. Kristoph had never seen fit to destroy the paperwork of the case, just in case he ever needed it to ah...request of him. Like now, for example.
The line beeped, and someone picked up the phone – a woman.
"Who the hell is this?"
"Kristoph. Kristoph Gavin."
"What business do you have with him?" She snapped, loudly. Ah, he mused. This must be the proverbial wife, the one he wants to divorce but cannot because she'll get everything.
"I wish to speak to him about...stuff." He finished vaguely.
"Then maybe you can have the decency to call at a decent hour."
Bored, he ordered her blandly, "Pass the phone to him, and tell him my name, and that I am an attorney he consulted if he cannot remember."
He doubted the man would have trouble remembering him though. He knew enough dirt on him that half his sleepless nights would be because of him. The woman grumbled, before passing the phone to someone. Shouting ensued in the background before it was picked up again.
"Hello, hello! How've you been Kristoph?" The voice greeted him jovially – like he was an old friend whose call he had waited for the whole day.
"I am fine, thank you." He answered with matching political correctness. They started yet another facade – this time of small talk for ten minutes, before the man on the line mustered the courage to ask him what he must have been dying to ask.
"So, what can I do for you today, friend?" Not Gavin. Not Kristoph. Friend. He must truly be terrified. Kristoph smiled.
"I seem to be in a bit of trouble."
"Trouble?"
"Yes, I've been arrested. Well, not really, since your minions insist that it's merely a 'talk' but in all essence, yes, I have been."
"I-I see." the man squeaked. "Is there something I can do to make you more comfortable?"
"You could call them off, for starters. I am capable of bailing myself out, but I want more than that. I want them to stop harassing me the moment I'm out of this place, like I'm sure they would."
"What do you mean?"
"Must I spell everything out for you? No search warrants. No arrest warrants. Period."
"Uh," a hesitant pause. "What was the crime you're questioned for again?"
"Murder." Kristoph stated simply.
"Oh."
"Who's the victim?"
"My son."
Another pause. "A-And you want me to stop them from investigating you?"
"That would be the idea, yes."
This time, there was a visible lapse in speech. Kristoph could practically see the man's mind reeling, weighing the consequences of refusing and accepting. If he refused, he risk incurring Kristoph's wrath and he could do a lot of damage to his career with the information he had. One the other hand, if he did cover it up and it was found out, he would be under fire from all directions. He could even be relieved of duty.
He seemed to have decided that the latter was more terrible, because a moment later he summoned the courage to challenge Kristoph. "And why should I do that? For all I know, you're the real murderer and I would be helping you get away if I helped you out."
So he was going to play that game? "Need I remind you that you contacted me a number of years ago to help you erase a certain...problem?"
"What are you talking about?"
"Don't play dumb with me," Kristoph snarled into the phone.
"A-Alright. So I did. What about it? It's already been so many years ago."
"My memory survives for more than half a decade, unfortunately." He added before the man could make more excuses. "And rest assure that I keep many records, some of which, if examined, will be extremely revealing for you."
"Are you BLACKMAILING me?" The man was incredulous.
Kristoph examined his nails. "It's an inelegant term, but yes, it is appropriate."
"Y-You--" the voice stuttered, then someone said something in the background, probably the woman from earlier and he shouted for that person to leave.
He returned to the receiver and hissed through gritted teeth. "You can't do that."
"And why not?"
"If you get convicted, then you'll be a criminal, and no one in their right mind would believe your allegations over a chief of police. I don't care who you are or how famous you are as an attorney – once you're convicted, you're shamed. A liar and a crook. No one will even LISTEN to you."
"How sad, is that so?" Kristoph offered with feigned sadness. "How unfortunate then, if I were to be convicted."
"Yes, which is why I said --"
"Ah-ah, don't interrupt me, that is to your disadvantage." Kristoph held up a hand – a habit, even though there was no way the man could see him.
"MY disadvantage? Need I remind you you're the one under questioning right now, and would be arrested as soon as they can pin it on you?" He retorted hotly.
"Yes yes, but that's the thing with what you just said : 'If you get convicted, then you're a criminal' and no one would believe me, no? But here's the rub, what if I'm not convicted?"
Complete silence from the line.
"If I'm not – and this is a high chance since we're both aware of my ah...reputation – then you'll be - I'm sorry for the vulgar term, but it's a fit one – dead meat."
"You mean you'll really do it?"
" I assure you that I'll run to the reporters at every turn."
The chief police was silent, then he gave a heavy defeated sigh. "Alright, you win, Kristoph Gavin. I see why they call you the 'coolest defense attorney in the west'. It's a bit of an understatement actually – You're also the coldest."
Kristoph flinched at the reminder of his words to Apollo, and pressed on. "Then you will see to it then I am no longer a suspect in this case?"
"I can't promise that much, but I'll try my best. I should at least be able to press them in another direction."
It would only make them more determined to make Kristoph out as the culprit, but at least they would have to do it discreetly.
"One last thing, however. I want no part of this in the public."
"You mean the press?"
"No, I mean the public as a whole. I don't want people to know about the incident – no part of it – especially not the victim's profile."
"W-well, that's slightly harder to do. I can't exactly stop the detectives from blabbing, and the reporters are always hot on the scene one time or another." He wheezed, all the past two decades worth of good life coming back in vengeance in the form of one Kristoph Gavin.
"I don't care about what the detectives say, as long – and this is an important one – no part of it is to the public. As far as they are concerned, no boy have been poisoned and no survivor of Atroquinine exist. Do you understand me?"
"The victim is this case is poisoned by Atroquinine?" The chief voiced, alarmed. "And he survived it?"
"Do youunderstand me?" Kristoph repeated with a savage snarl.
"Alright, alright, I'll do my best. Get them off you, get it out of the press. It's as good as done."
"Excellent."
More silence.
"U-Uh, I'll hang up now. I need to start making calls." He stammered as if speaking to a strict schoolteacher. The man hadn't been intimidated for the past decade.
"Please do," Kristoph stated simply and hung up the phone himself. Then he turned around at the mass of detectives huddled together outside the room and opened the door to speak to them.
"Why don't you gentlemen come in? I believe the chief police will be giving you a call soon." The men shuffled in like naughty school children, and sure enough, the phone rang. They jumped out of their skin, and one hurried forward to answer the phone.
"Uh-huh...But sir, if you'll excuse my rudeness, he's one of our most promising suspects – we can't just -"
"Yes, of course, but there's no rule against questioning – huh? Alright."
He passed the phone to another detective, one more silent and composed. He listen, then nodded. "Yes, I understand, sir." He looked up at the rest. "Chief says to free the guy."
The rest of them cursed – one stomped off in disgust - but they all unanimously agreed that as the chief have spoken, and the chief have ordered, they have to release him. No one mentioned a word about their salary jeopardy if they refused to comply.
Five minutes later, Kristoph walked out of the building a free man.
When he returned to the hospital, the visiting hours were already long over and the nurse refused him entry. Apollo hadn't reacted to any stimuli, and he isn't going to wake up soon, they told him, and while they were at it, they told him to go home. Wash up and refresh himself, then come back tomorrow. The nurse stressed the 'wash' part, and Kristoph was vaguely aware that he smelt like the police department – sweat from clogged up space and something burned. He couldn't care less. He threatened lawsuits, and he threatened bad press, and in the end the exasperated nurse allowed him up to the thirtieth floor, where Apollo had been moved to – but just for half an hour, she added.
He acquiesced with a quiet nod – too worn out from his debacle at the precinct to do anything more than that and walked dejectedly to the elevator. He had trouble even maintaining his usual posture, and his back slumped a little when he pulled himself into the eighth floor. The hallway was silent as well – as night – since it was already pass visitors' hours and all that. Not that it made any differences though. To the people on this floor, night meant very little and visitors even less. At least the night may disrupt the Melatonin cycle of the patients – the visitors didn't even leave any effect on them. All they did was to lie on the bed, with the sheets pulled up methodically to their chests and listen to the gentle beeping of the machine beside them, measuring their heartbeat until someone decides it should stop.
For want of a better word, they were vegetables now. That was what Apollo was – a vegetable.
He opened the door into Apollo's room and paused at the door, leaning against the frame for support. He looked so pale. Was that how the dead – or nearly dead look? He had never had a chance to see his victims during their last moments but he never expected death to look so...still. So very still. Apollo looked normal enough that at one glance, you would have expected him to open his eyes and jump up. In Kristoph's case, some part of him expected Apollo to climb out to greet him – or accuse him or point his finger at him and shout at the top of lungs and display his vocal cords to his advantage - or anything at all.
All he did was lie there.
Tubes were stuck into him and it looked horrible. He looked like a mutation – a freak of nature – with the series of coloured lines running around him and the machines stuck to him. Even the oxygen tube plastered to his nose looked unnatural.
His fingers closed around one, determined to pull it out of Apollo. The rubber squeaked in protest and the whole thing shuddered as his fingers tightened around it.
A beep sounded from one of the machines, and he released it, startled. He looked down at his hand.
He had nearly ended Apollo's life again.
The knowledge made him feel tired all of a sudden – energy wooshing out of him – and he swayed, falling into the embrace of a chair.
He never had to face this, he thought. He liked poison – so handy, so simple, so...so...Controllable. You put it into something, and you leave it there. In the mean time, you move yourself to a place where people can provide alibis for you, if you're even suspected in the first place. This time he hadn't bothered with as much sneakiness – since there was no way he can stop the police from fingering at him since he was closest to Apollo. He had planned to point out that Apollo bought his juice from the school cafeteria, why should it have been any different that day? Except of course it was.
God, how did it go so wrong? And how did it become so Goddamned complicated?
It'd never been like this before. He had never needed to see his victims, or look them in the eye or be remotely related to their dead self. Once they were gone, they became a thing of the past for him, and he moved on while they don't and life went on. This time it was different – he had to face Apollo – and probably his dead body too for identification, if things had proceeded as planned. He had to live with the knowledge that he poisoned a boy who had trusted him – who had looked up to him.
Maybe it meant that he was a coward – the fact that he could kill when he didn't have to face them, but chickened out when it was someone he knew. Someone he cared for.
Cared for?
Did he cared for Apollo?
Perhaps. Probably. In his selfish little way of caring after people, he suppose. Everyone was a pawn to him – even Klavier. He was just a pawn that he cared for, that's all. He leaned forward in the chair, putting his head into his hand, and stayed there for a long time. Is this how guilt feels like? He never thought he was capable of feeling guilt, and others never thought so either. Killing is a merciless trade, except now all of a sudden he didn't have that protective little bubble of distance anymore. He sighed, exhaling a deep shaky breath. If this was how it was going to be, he wouldn't kill anyone in the future. He doubted that he could anyway – all he had to do was think of Apollo as white as his sheets and he'll turn white himself.
He'd stop killing – and when Apollo wakes up, maybe he can stop himself from forging too. Turn over a new leaf, be a better person and all that.
Hah! What next? Charity to the underprivileged? He mocked himself – but it was done with a small smile. He climbed up from the chair – glancing briefly at his watch. Half an hour almost up. He had gotten what he come for - relief.
He walked towards Apollo and glanced down at him. He hadn't change in the past half an hour, still white as sheet – but Kristoph thought he looked rather happier, then scolded himself for acting like a fool. He prodded Apollo's hair back into a vague impersonation of his usually antennas and smiled. Behind him, the nurse cracked open the door and poked her head in.
"Time's up." She chided gently. Kristoph nodded and turned back to Apollo. He smoothed the boy's hair off his usually gleaming forehead and took a long look at the boy who had been the closest thing to him this past few weeks. Then he lowered his head, whispering softly to him.
"Wake up soon, son."
It was as tender as he could be. Apollo wanted a family – the least he could do was be one. He pulled the covers a little higher, then with one last glance at the sleeping figure, walked out of the room.
...And more OOC-ness. Well that's one question – the "Why doesn't anyone know about it?" question answered. Kinda. And now I dig myself another hole – He swore he's not gonna kill any more but what the hell – who's Zak then? Chopped liver? Eh, I'll get around to it. Sorry if there are more plot holes – my plot-making skill suck. I don't even have a master plan - just the general idea of what's going to happen, write a story, and then spin a whole yarn until it resembles nothing like the idea. =X
Also, I kept my promise Alice! This is 500 words lesser than the last chapter! xD
Let's answer the next one in the next chapter then – Why doesn't Apollo know about the forgeries during the game? You can guess the answer already, right?
