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Chapter 9: Breakthrough

noun
1: a sudden advance, especially in knowledge or technique
2: a person's first notable success

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Bobby stood at the bank of phones for an eternity, his head resting against the receiver, his eyes closed. It was the deepening concern in Bambi's voice that finally convinced him to rouse. He straightened and turned to face her.

"Lord, sugar, you about gimme a heart attack!" She patted a large hand against her larger chest." I been calling your name for five minutes. I thought maybe your ears done gone deaf or something. You okay?"

Bobby tried to smile to allay her fears, but it was just too much effort. He settled for a short nod. "I'm fine. Really."

"No, you ain't fine. You look like you're gonna keel over any minute. Come on. I'm gonna get you back down to Donald's lair and off your feet."

Bobby did find a smile then, but it was so filled with sadness that it stopped Bambi in her tracks. "I can't go back."

"Wha'chu mean, you can't go back?"

"The friend I called, he's a cop. He's going to have to report my call. They're going to know I'm not dead now."

"Now wha'chu go and do a damn fool thing like that for?"

"He was the only one I could think of that wouldn't hang up on me who would have the information I need."

"About your partner."

"I had to know if she was all right."

"And is she?"

Bobby's smile was real this time. "He said she was."

"Was that worth risking getting arrested for?"

He didn't hesitate. "Yes, it was. That's why I can't go back to Donald's, though. They're going to be looking for me now."

"All the more reason you got to go back. Where else you gonna go? Ain't nowhere safer than down in the tunnels, you know that. Cops don't never go down there unless they have to, and even then, they think twice."

"I can't take that risk. You and Donald... Doc... you've risked enough already. I won't put you in further danger."

"Honey, you think Donald cares about that? Hell, he ain't scared of nothing. And me. Shit, sugar. I quit caring what anybody thinks a long, long time ago. Hell, look at me." She took a step back from him and waved a large hand up and down her ample frame. She was clad in black jeans that were at least a size too small, knee high silver boots with heels so high she teetered drunkenly with every step and a pink fur trimmed, very tight and very low cut sweater. A black velvet, waist length cape completed the costume. "Now, do you really think this is the look of someone who gives a clown's crap what anyone thinks about her?"

Bobby gave her a serious look. "I think that is the look of someone whose heart is large and filled with goodness."

Bambi ducked her head, her blonde ringlets swinging forward to hide her face. "Hell... you done got a double helpin' of charm, ain'cha?" She lifted her head. "Come on, before you fall down. And I don't wanna hear no more 'bout it."

"Not yet," Bobby forestalled. "This is the first time in more than a week I've breathed anything but tunnel air. It's... it's kind of nice." He looked at Bambi. "I know the way back. I'm just going to walk around for a bit, maybe see if I can find a paper or something, then I'll head back. I'll be all right. Really." At her skeptical expression, he lifted his hand, three fingers held up. "I promise."

Bambi laughed. "Somehow, sugar, I doubt you was ever a boy scout. How long you figure you got until the cops track that call you just made?"

"My friend, he'll stall, I think. I'm okay 'til morning."

Bambi grabbed the sleeve of his coat, and turned him around. "Come on, then." She led him to a tiny diner squeezed in between a clock repair shop and a print shop. The faded sign over the door declared it to be "Rose's Diner." Bambi reached into her sweater, and from her large breasts pulled a small roll of bills. Peeling off the top few, she leaned forward and tucked them into Bobby's coat pocket. "Get in there and sit down before you fall down. Get yourself some coffee or soup or something."

Bobby reached for the money. "I can't--"

"Don't you dare insult my generosity!" Bambi looked truly offended at the aborted suggestion.

Bobby dropped his hand like it had been slapped. "Coffee does sound good. Thank you."

A gapped-tooth smile graced Bambi's round face. "Make sure you get some food in you, too. Something hot. 'Sides, you can always pay me back after you get your life back on track."

Bobby lifted her hand, touching it lightly to his lips. "You can rest assured that I will, Miss Rochelle." He turned and entered the diner, pausing to look around. It was nearly empty at the late hour, so he had his pick of booths. He chose one in the back, but with a clear view of both the door and the street beyond the window. He slid into the booth and took a moment to pull his splinted arm out of the coat pocket and settle it gently onto his lap.

"You actually got money?" a female voice asked. "Or you just in here for the heat?"

Bobby looked up into a pair of tired brown eyes. They were set into a face that looked like it had seen too far much life for its three dozen or so years. "The heat is nice, but yes, I do have money."

"Sorry, hon," she said, looking only slightly sincere. "In this neighborhood, I get a lot of 'I'm just waiting for someone' types that never order anything." She tucked a strand of dull brown hair behind her ear and pulled a small notepad out of her jeans pocket. "What can I get you?"

"Coffee and whatever you've got that's hot."

The woman lifted an eyebrow. "Whatever, huh?"

Bobby smiled. "Your hands look more than capable-" he glanced at her name tag, "-Lois, so I'm putting myself into them. Surprise me."

The woman's laugh lines deepened. "You may well regret that decision, but far be it from me to argue with a customer." She turned away, returning a few minutes later with a cup and a pot of coffee. Setting the cup on the table in front of Bobby, she filled it to the brim. "You want cream?"

Bobby ordinarily took his coffee black, but figuring he needed as many calories as he could pack into one small meal, he nodded. She set a couple of individual cream containers beside the cup.

After she'd gone again, Bobby busied himself lacing his coffee with as much cream and sugar as he thought he could stomach. He took a sip and winced at the heat, but relished the burn on the back of his raw throat.

Lois returned a few minutes later carrying a large bowl with steam lifting tantalizingly from it. As the scent reached Bobby's nose, his traitorous stomach let out a low, mournful roar of anticipation.

"I'll take that as a compliment." Lois laughed.

"As it was intended," Bobby assured her. "The stew smells wonderful, Lois."

She smiled and set down some flatware and napkins. "It was the freshest thing back there. Besides, I figure you can't go wrong with comfort food on a cold, November night."

"No, you can't." He leaned forward and cocked his head, looking up to catch her gaze. "You made a good choice, Lois. Thank you."

The color in her cheeks deepened as her smile grew. "You need anything else, you just give a yell."

Bobby picked up the spoon and dipped it into the stew. He ate tentatively at first, praying his stomach wouldn't rebel this time. Once he was certain it would stay down, he tucked in, emptying the bowl in record time.

He was just scraping the bottom of the bowl when Lois returned with a saucer of biscuits. "I think I'm a bit late."

Bobby chuckled sheepishly. "It was good."

"How about some more?" She reached for the bowl without waiting for an answer.

"That would be nice, thank you." Bobby sipped at the hot coffee until she returned with the bowl and the coffee pot.

He drained the second bowl of stew as quickly as the first, finished off the biscuits and even drained the second cup of coffee. His stomach had not been so full in over a week, and he dearly hoped it wouldn't prove to be a mistake. There was no denying, however, how much better he felt. He'd have to remember to thank Bambi once more for the money and the idea.

Lois cleared away the dishes and refilled his coffee cup. Bobby turned down her suggestion of a slice of pie, not wanting to push his luck with his fickle stomach.

He sipped the coffee and stared out the front window at the busy sidewalk. It was late, but this area of town was still lively. Bobby recognized, if not the people, their types. He'd seen more than his share of them when he'd worked in Narcotics. The faces changed, but little else. Hell, even some of the faces were the same, he realized as a man he recognized from years ago, stopped near the door of the diner to talk to another man.

Andre something; Bobby couldn't remember his last name after all these years. Small time thief and even smaller time drug dealer, and from the looks of the exchange of money Bobby could see, Andre was still in the same business.

Bobby looked away. It wasn't his problem tonight. He had troubles of his own. Troubles he had to solve if he wanted his life back. He closed his eyes and cleared his mind, not an easy feat, given the persistent headache and ever-present fog in his brain. After a few minutes, he gave up trying to focus his thoughts and opened his eyes again.

Though the only information Bobby had was what he'd read in the paper, he did know that whoever had framed him had done a damn good job. According to the paper, it was an open and shut case. He'd attacked Alex and then killed himself. It was suspected that he'd had a mental breakdown. The reporter had made a point of mentioning how an unnamed source had told her that Bobby had been suffering depression for weeks prior to the attack.

Bobby frowned. That unnamed source had to be someone he worked with. Who else would have noticed a change in his mood? Bitterness rose in Bobby, but he quickly squashed it. It was only natural that someone would come forward to talk about him. Hell, they all clearly believed that he'd attacked his own partner. Their loyalty would naturally go to Alex, and he was honest enough admit that was the way it should be. She was the victim.

Of course the paper had mentioned his mother's own mental issues. Bobby scrubbed his good hand over his beard. It wasn't exactly a secret, though he hadn't really talked about it with too many people. Still, he hated the idea of everyone knowing his personal business. But he couldn't dwell on that, either.

What he needed was to remember what had happened Friday. If not the night, then earlier in the day. Maybe something had happened, something that might give him a clue as to who had attacked him. And Alex. He pushed away thoughts of his partner, not willing to be distracted into worrying over her. Fin had assured him that she was going to be all right, and he had no reason to believe it wasn't the truth.

Where had he and Alex gone Friday morning? Bobby stared into his coffee cup and tried to force the memories back. He remembered the case well enough -- the one the papers had dubbed the "Mr. Clean" killer, because of the way he made his victims wash. The women had scrubbed clean with harsh soaps. The hair was washed, the fingernails and toenails were scoured to perfection. The bodies were even dressed in brand new, though generic, clothing. Not one clue remained on the bodies or the crime scenes, making the investigation difficult.

Was the frame related to that case? Bobby pursed his lips in thought. He didn't really see a connection. They had no suspects, very few clues, and only the profile he'd worked up to go on. He'd easily determined that the perp was obsessed with hygiene. The depth of the cleaning had been overkill, leading Bobby to suspect mysophobia, bordering on full blown OCD. It was the only way to explain the obsessive attention to scrubbing the bodies. Unfortunately, that conclusion was too nonspecific to lead them to any viable suspects.

"Troubles, hon?"

Bobby looked up, startled from his thoughts. Lois was watching him with a blend of curiosity and concern. She slid into the booth opposite him. "You look like you got the weight of the world on your shoulders. A friendly ear help?"

Bobby picked up his newly filled mug -- when had that happened? -- and sipped it, pulling a face at the lack of sugar. "Not unless you have a cure for memory loss," he said jokingly.

"Amnesia?" Lois looked surprised. "Thought that only happened in the movies."

Bobby quickly shook his head. "No, nothing that exciting, I'm afraid. Just... well, just one night in particular, and part of the day before it."

Lois laughed. "Honey, it's nothing to lose a night now and again. Too much drink, too much partying..."

"I wasn't drinking." Bobby stirred sugar into his cup. "I know something very important happened in the missing time frame."

"Something you need to remember?"

"It's important."

Lois leaned back, clasping her hands on the table before her. "When I can't remember where I left my keys, I retrace my steps."

Bobby considered the suggestion, then shook his head. "I can't go back there."

"Maybe not physically. Just close your eyes and imagine yourself there." She stood and picked up the coffee pot. "Give it a try. What have you got to lose?"

With a mental shrug, Bobby took her advice, closing his eyes and clearing his mind. His thoughts were still foggy, but this time he didn't fight it. He simply waited, letting his subconscious choose a direction. It didn't take long. A picture of Alex filled his mind's eye. She was wearing a black pants suit with a soft green blouse. He recognized the outfit as the one she'd had on when he arrived at the station Friday morning. The mental image smiled at him, just as Alex had done that morning, and he found himself smiling back

He fast forwarded the mental tape. His memories of the early morning were clear enough. It was later, as the afternoon wore on, that gaping holes began to appear. Bobby slowed the tape as he approached the first memory hole.

He clearly remembered lunch -- a hastily swallowed sandwich at his desk. Alex had gone out, meeting her brother at a nearby deli. She'd invited him, of course, but he had declined because he wanted to look up something... What was it?

Bobby screwed his eyes shut tighter in an effort to remember. It was something he had written in his notebook. He could see it laying open before him, could see the writing on the pages, but he just could not, no matter how hard he tried, make out the words. He only knew it was something he'd felt an urgent need to research.

Trying a different tact, Bobby moved backward in his memory, trying to figure out when he'd made the notes in question. He and Alex had gone to the warehouse where the last of the prostitutes' bodies had been found. They had been canvassing the area, speaking to anyone they could find who might have seen or heard something, but both of them were growing frustrated with the lack of leads. He remembered Alex talking to a dock worker, a greasy man who'd looked at her in a way that made Bobby want to take his head off. Alex had handled the man well enough on her own, though. Bobby chuckled, remembering the look on the man's face when she'd very smoothly put him in his place. He couldn't remember her words, but he clearly remembered the man's reaction to them.

Bobby had been distracted, though, and had wandered off while Alex finished her questioning of the man. He frowned, trying to pin down the memory of what had lured him away. He'd seen something... a woman...

"Bobby."

A well-worn face coalesced in his mind's eye. Gray hair, pulled into an old, tatty wool hat. Men's rubber boots two sizes too big. A host of threadbare coats, layered one on top of the other over a small frame.

"Bobby... copper-buttons..."

Bobby's eyes snapped open. Dictionary Mary! No wonder her scattered, disjointed phrases had stirred something in his memory. He'd met her, talked to her before! The morning of the attack! He remembered it clearly now. He'd seen her picking her way carefully through the rocks along the shore of the river. She'd been carrying her two shopping bags, one, he knew now, holding her cat, Ganymede. He'd wandered over to talk to her while Alex finished up with the now subdued sleaze ball.

He remembered Mary's disjointed ramblings, and how he'd dutifully written her words in his notebook. He cocked his head, straining to hear the memory of her words.

"Bobby."

He'd been surprised she'd had known his name.

"Copper buttons..."

He could see the words on the page, flowing from the end of his pen as he wrote.

"..."

Something else... She'd said something else. Something he'd written down. But what?

"..."

Try as he might, he couldn't make himself hear the words, couldn't see them at the end of his pen. What had she said?

Was it important?

Bobby opened his eyes, surprised for a brief moment to find himself still sitting in the diner. Were Mary's words important? He thought about it, taking a sip of the now-cold coffee. He'd thought so on Friday. He remembered sitting at his desk in the Major Case squad room, contemplating them. Bobby and copper buttons. Had he made the connection? Had he figured out Mary's puzzle?

And what about the third thing she had said? What was it? He squeezed his eyes shut again and tried to see the words on the paper as he wrote them, but they wouldn't come. He gave up with a sigh. What he needed was to talk to Mary, to see if she could tell him again what she had told him that day.

Bobby gently worked his splinted hand into his coat pocket and stood. He pulled the bills Bambi had given him out and glanced at them to make sure it was enough.

"You have any luck, hon?" Lois asked from behind the counter.

"Maybe. I think so." He crossed to the counter. "Do-do you know a woman called Dictionary Mary? An older woman... talks strangely."

Lois' forehead creased in thought. "I don't think so. No, can't say I do."

Bobby handed her the money. "Thank you, Lois. You've been a tremendous help."

-:-

Bobby wandered aimlessly until he felt he could walk no further. His limp had grown more pronounced, his still-healing feet aching with every step he took, and all he could think about was finding a warm spot and pulling off the borrowed shoes.

He'd spoken to probably three dozen people, and not one could tell him where to find Mary. Some knew her, some could even tell him where they'd last seen her, but no one seemed to even know where she lived.

He'd have to remember to ask Donald about that... and hope Donald was in the mood to actually make sense today.

Bobby almost glanced at his wrist before remembering he no longer wore a watch. He squinted around the street lights toward the sky at the tops of the buildings and guessed the hour to be close to dawn. With a bone weary sigh, he turned back the way he'd come. The crowd would switch soon, the nightly crew giving way to the set who actually held down legitimate jobs.

Bobby made his way back into the tunnels, stopping several times to make sure he wasn't being followed. Not that he expected to be, but he felt he owed it to Donald to exercise every caution. Donald was nowhere to be seen when Bobby entered his lair. He peeled off the coat, loath to part with its warmth. Though he'd eaten heartily at the diner, it had been hours ago, and his stomach was beginning to growl. He didn't feel right plundering through his host's limited stores, so instead, he collapsed on the pile of dirty rags he'd called home for the past week and pulled the coat over him for a blanket.

He laid there for too many minutes, trying to decide which was more important, just going to sleep, or removing his shoes to give his feet some relief. He finally opted on shoes first, sleep second. With a groan, he sat up and with no little effort, pulled them off. He wasn't at all surprised to find his thin socks soaked with blood.

"Ouch, you really did a number on those." Donald stood in the doorway, his hands in his pockets. "You want Doc to come see about 'em? I can send Spud..."

Bobby shook his head. "No point dragging him out of bed. It's not as bad as it looks."

"Right." Donald knelt on the concrete floor, bringing himself to eye level with Bobby. "Looks like it hurts like hell."

"Then it is as bad as it looks." Bobby pulled the wet socks off, gingerly working the cloth free in the places where it had stuck. "Could I have some-some water?"

"You do realize that water ain't exactly easy to come by down here? I ain't seen you lug none in."

Donald was in one of his moods, it seemed, but Bobby had years of practice in dealing with surprise mood shifts. Donald was an amateur compared to Frances Goren.

Making his voice as submissive as he could manage, Bobby apologized. "You're right, Donald, and I'm sorry. I haven't been pulling my share of the work load, but I just don't know all the ways to get water or food... or any of the supplies that we need. Maybe if you teach me... show me how to do it, I could start contributing." He pasted on his most remorseful smile.

Donald sat back on his heels and gave one short, quick nod. "That's a start. Gotta pull your weight if you want to stay here, you know. I can't do it all. Can't get up top at all, so that can be your job. You can do the up top stuff."

Bobby gave up on the water, but figured it likely wouldn't have been very clean anyhow, so he was really no worse off. Using the socks he'd just pulled off, he dabbed tentatively at the few deep cuts that were oozing blood.

"Is there any of the ointment here that Doc left?"

Donald tilted his head, appearing to think about it. "Maybe."

Bobby waited a minute, but it didn't look the other man was going to say anything else. "If you tell me where it might be, I can look for it."

With a put-upon sigh, Donald stood. "You're a lot of work, you know?" He kicked aside a dirty towel in one corner. Bobby recognized the tin can that was revealed as the one he'd seen Doc with before.

Donald picked it up and tossed it at Bobby. "There. Keep it."

Bobby's reflexes were slowed by exhaustion and pain. The can hit him square in the chest. He barely winced, though it had been thrown pretty hard. What was one more bruise at this point, he figured. He pulled off the tin-foil top and his senses were immediately assaulted by the distinctive scent of tea tree oil.

...tea tree...

Mary's voice... tea tree, isopropyl, cadamer...

That was the third thing Mary had told him! That's what was in his notes, what he'd been struggling all night to remember.

Tea tree oil... Bobby remembered now, Mary had given him the strange, seemingly disjointed list that Friday morning, the morning of the attack. He remembered writing it in his notebook. Something about it had touched a memory so vague he couldn't immediately place it, but he'd written it down, knowing it would come to him eventually. The puzzle pieces that Mary had given him -- the ingredient list, the words "bobby" and "copper buttons" -- hadn't connected for him, but he knew there was a link, and his seldom-wrong instincts warned him it was important.

Tea tree oil. Bobby sniffed the tin can; the odor was distinctive and strong. Tea tree oil was used for treatment of everything from dandruff to acne to minor wounds and rashes. It was a base ingredient in any of a number of over-the-counter medicines, ointments, shampoos, toothpastes, cosmetics... the list was long.

Bobby frowned. Something about the essential oil was ringing a bell in the far recesses of his mind, just as it had the morning Mary had spoken the words to him. But just like that morning, it was something too vague to immediately pin down. Had he pinned it down later? Had he made a connection between Mary's cryptic words? Put her convoluted puzzle together?

"You just gonna smell that all day, or you gonna put it on your feet?"

Bobby blinked owlishly at Donald. "What?"

Donald pointed to the tin can, which Bobby was still holding up to his nose. "Don't know why you'd want to smell it anyhow. That shit stinks like dead track-rabbits, if you ask me."

"The smell... reminded me of something."

"Yeah? Dead track-rabbits?" Donald laughed at his own joke.

"Track-rabbits? You mean rats?"

"Not just rats." Donald held his hands about two feet apart. "I'm talking RATS!" He dropped his hands to his lap. "Make good eating, though. Kind of stringy, but when you can't get anything else, it's filling. And there's plenty of 'em."

Donald seemed disappointed that Bobby didn't recoil from the notion of eating rats. "That don't bother you? Eating rats?"

Bobby scooped up some of the salve from the can and began slathering it on the bottoms of his feet. He shrugged at Donald's question. "I once ate hachi no ko in Japan... bee larvae... and casu marzu in Sardinia. Maggot cheese."

Donald scrunched his face. "Damn, man. You win. Guess a rat would seem tame after that."

"Well... in all honesty," Bobby leaned toward the other man and smiled conspiratorially, "I pulled the maggots out before I ate it. Don't tell my hosts, though; it'd have been seen as an insult."

"Shit, copper, even you have your limits, huh?"

Copper... copper buttons... Ah, hell. Bobby dropped the tin can of salve and slapped himself in the forehead. "Of course!"

Donald peered at him. "You all right?"

"Copper buttons! I don't know how I missed it. It's so obvious." At Donald's bemused expression, he elaborated. "The story goes that a hundred years or more ago, police uniforms were made with copper buttons. That's where the nickname 'copper' came from, later shortened to 'cop.' And-and 'bobby'... she wasn't saying my name. She meant 'bobby,' like the policemen in London. She was trying to tell me it was a cop!"

It made perfect sense, now that he gave it serious consideration. Who better than a cop to cover his tracks so thoroughly? Who better than a cop to know which evidence forensics would look for and how to avoid leaving it? But what about the tea tree oil and the rest of the list of ingredients Mary had given him? What did that have to do with the killer being a cop? Was it another clue to the identity of the murderer of those women? Bobby was sure he was missing something vital, some clue that Mary had been trying to tell him. "I have to find Mary."

"Dictionary Mary? Literary Mary. Not-so-ordinary Mary." Donald chuckled at the lame rhyme.

"Do you know where I could find her?"

Donald shrugged. "She's a river rat. She'll be down to the river later on."

"Do you know where she lives? Here in the tunnels?"

"Hell, no! She don't never come down here. Scares her."

Bobby frowned. "She was here the other day."

"She wanted to talk to you. Besides, she knew I would watch out for her."

"Do you know where she lives?"

"Don't know. Don't care." His expression grew suspicious. "Why do you want to talk to her anyway?"

Bobby decided on honesty. "I think she knows something about a case I was working on. She... she might have been a witness."

Donald raised one eyebrow. "That's a weird fluke, don't you think? A witness in your case and a witness to your murder."

"Coincidence, yes... maybe."

"Or not?"

Bobby shook his head. "I won't know until I can talk to her. First, I have to find her."

-:-

Halfway there. Still with me?