Gaby, Jimmy Duran, Frank Kelly, Gunn, Kane, Quinn, Pamela, and Dennis Myers are mine.
Rated PG-13 : Harsh language; strong sexuality; violence; mature themes including child abuse and prostitution.
Please review, it gives me strength to carry on.
Eric had never liked the morgue. It wasn't so much the smell, or the antiseptic bleakness, the sterility of tile and stainless steel; it was the atmosphere of sadness and loss that seemed to permeate the air there, and the occasional person crying for a loved one. Today, however, he decided he hated it.
They waited in the corridor, outside the viewing room, for the body to be brought in for them. He stood, staring at the door, not looking at the two people with him. Jen belonged there, she was a detective assigned to the case. Wes had insisted on coming, as moral support. Eric resented his presence, resented his concern, but also felt a tiny, hidden bit of gratitude.
His thoughts returned to Gaby, her face that morning, the look of fear on it when he had shouted at her, and reached toward her. It had shaken him deeply. He knew children from abusive homes frequently repeated the pattern they had grown up with. What if he had really lost his temper, what if he had hit her? Like father, like son, even if the relationship wasn't biological... Next time he was with her, what if he lost control, gave in to that dark side of himself that seemed to be just under the surface the last few days? There wouldn't be a next time, he resolved, not until this was over.
Hearing his name, he returned to the present and the conversation. They had spent several minutes discussing the evidence, Jen bringing them up to date. Now Wes and Jen had started talking about him.
"We shouldn't even be here," Wes said. "We know who it was. Why can't they identify her with fingerprints?"
"There's no fingerprints available yet," Jen said, her voice low. "If there's a relative who can do it -- well, they want to get a visual identification."
"Eric already saw her at the crime scene."
"That's not a formal ID. He didn't sign the papers. And they want him to take another look. He hasn't seen her for twenty years, after all."
"He shouldn't have to go through this…"
Eric's patience ran out. "Would you please not talk about me like I'm not here?"
"Sorry."
"I'm fine. This isn't a problem for me. Just wish they'd hurry up so we can get the hell out of here."
"Eric, this must be hard on you. If there's any way..."
"Wes..." Eric bit back his angry response. "Just -- don't say it. Don't say anything."
They all fell quiet as the door opened. They filed into a small, cold, white room, smelling of death and antiseptic. Eric noticed the hollow sound of their footsteps, echoing. A moment later they were lined up at the side of the gurney waiting for them. The coroner stepped past them and pulled the sheet back. And there she was.
Her face was whiter than he remembered from that hotel room, the flesh sagging a little more. Without immediate shock to deal with, he could see the marks twenty years had left. Twenty years… she must have been about twenty-six or seven the last time he had seen her. Younger than he was now. Beautiful, as he remembered, despite the drinking.
Looking at that lifeless face, he saw it again as he remembered it, during the good time, the time for those months after his father had left, when their lives had gotten better. She had been a real mother, almost. For a while, anyway…
"Eric, pick up your toys. Grandma's going to be home soon."
He looked up at her. "But Mom, I'm busy. In a minute."
"Now, Eric. If you're not good, Grandma'll leave too. Just like Dad."
It was the one threat that always worked, and she had learned to use it often. He sighed, and then tried a smile. She sent him a quick smile in return, before looking back at the television. She smiled a little more now, and she looked better, the constant tension almost gone from her expression. The drinking was better, too; there was still always a glass in her hand, at least when his grandmother wasn't around; but it didn't make her act mean like before.
It had been bad at first, when his father left. She had cried for a few days, and then over the next few weeks had become quiet and resigned. But the biggest improvement had been when his grandmother had moved in three months ago. Now they seemed almost like a normal family, except for the men who came over sometimes, and the nights his mother didn't come home...
Obediently he collected his toys from the living room floor and took them to his room, sitting on the floor to put them away and getting distracted into play again. That was another good thing; now he didn't have to be so quiet. Even when his mother got mad at him, she didn't hit. When he heard the front door open he jumped up and ran back into the living room.
"Grandma!" He was still excited every time she came home from work. Just as she started to frown at him, he remembered the manners she was trying to teach him. "How was your day?"
She laughed. "It was fine, honey. How was yours?"
"Fine. When are we having dinner?"
She glanced at the couch. "Why don't you ask your mother?"
"Ma…"
"I know, you don't cook. You could give it a try."
"I don't cook, and I don't want to cook."
"Honestly, you sit around here all day. God forbid you should do anything around the house, or get a job and support yourself and your son."
"I'd never get a job that pays anything decent. And someone's got to watch the kid."
"Hmm." She frowned but changed the subject. "I guess it's spaghetti again. Come on, Eric, you can help Grandma make dinner."
He sat in the kitchen, watching her work, answering her questions about his day at school. She smiled at him, looking pleased. She always said she was surprised that he did so well in school, always praised him for it. The truth was Eric had always liked school. It provided an escape from home, something to occupy his mind, and a way to show the other kids he wasn't just low-class trash like they said his parents were. The teasing he got from them only strengthened his determination to be better than them, to make them all sorry they had ever looked down on him.
After a while his mother wandered in, and actually helped set the table and serve the food. They sat down and started to eat, Eric and his grandmother still chattering, his mother mostly silent, as she usually was. He tried not to let her catch him watching her. Sometimes, like now, he could see sadness in her face, and wondered if she still missed his father. He hoped not, that might mean she would try to get him to come back.
After dinner and dishwashing, Eric and his grandmother returned to the living room to watch television. They plopped onto the couch and leafed through the paper, looking for the TV schedule. Eric looked up to see his mother standing in the kitchen doorway, a glass in one hand.
"Mom? Are you coming?"
"No. I think I'll just go in my room and read." With a dull look at them, she went into the bedroom she had shared with his father and closed the door.
Eric turned back to his grandmother to see her face tight with annoyance, or maybe frustration. "I wish Mom wouldn't always stay in her room," he said.
"So do I."
"She looks sad sometimes."
"I know. She misses your father, God help her. You'd think she'd realize…" She cut off her own words and smiled. "So, what do you want to watch?"
"Whatever you like." Eric's eyes went back to his mother's door for a moment. He hated to see her sad like that. And he hated that she still thought about him…
Back in that chilly morgue room in Silver Hills, he stared at her. The last twenty years of drinking and discontent showed in her dead face, but she was still instantly recognizable. He nodded, feeling as cold and lifeless as the body before him. "It's her."
"Okay. Thanks."
The next few minutes passed in a blur, as he signed the forms the coroner put in front of him, listening to Jen's questions.
"Do you have a definite cause of death?"
"Strangulation. Manual. There are bruises from the fingers on her neck."
"Then the blow to the head didn't kill her."
"No. That was before death, anywhere from a few minutes to an hour or two."
"Was she conscious when she was strangled? Could she have been walking around?"
"Hard to say. I don't think there's any way she walked from one hotel room to another on her own. But she could have been conscious enough to fight back."
"Thanks."
Then they were leaving. Eric walked out, not even looking to see if Wes and Jen were following. He didn't stop until he was outside, in the warmth of the sun, taking a deep breath of fresh air, trying not to feel anything, or remember anything more.
Half an hour later they met Jimmy in the large, bare, dark office where Wes's father spent a large part of his waking life. The investigation was continuing, and it was time for questions. Jimmy and Jen had made it clear this was an official interrogation, and that Wes and Eric were welcome only as long as they did not interfere. Wes found a moment to be grateful Frank Kelly had chosen not to participate; he had made it obvious he thought Collins was guilty.
Wes watched, concerned about his father, but also intrigued as he saw a side of Jen he had rarely seen since the conclusion of her mission against Ransik, well over a year ago. The side that was professional, that could be hard and tough when necessary, that allowed no one to get in her way when she was doing her job. Now, he saw Jimmy nod at Jen. She would be doing most of the questioning.
"Let's start at the beginning. Who was it who called you?"
"He said his name was Quincy. Claimed he was a board member at Atkinson. I've checked with them since then, there is a Quincy on their board, but he was out of town at the time."
"And then what?"
"He said he had information for me. Wouldn't discuss it over the phone. Wanted to meet at the Wells hotel bar."
"And you went. Why weren't you suspicious?"
"Why should I have been?"
"What happened when you got there?"
"He was waiting. Came up, introduced himself. We sat down to talk. I know now he was Dennis Myers." He glanced quickly at Eric, then away.
"And you had a drink."
"He had one. Scotch, I think. I had coffee. Too early for a drink."
"Then what?"
"He kept stalling, talking about how he didn't want anyone to see us. Asked me to come up to his room. I was starting to feel like something wasn't right."
"And then?"
"Then… I don't know. I started to feel dizzy, and sick. Then everything just sort of blanked out. The next thing I remember clearly is waking up in the hospital."
Jimmy spoke up. "We had your blood alcohol tested. You had been drinking."
"If I did, I don't remember."
Jen stared at him, her face thoughtful. Wes stirred uncomfortably. Eric watched, unmoving. Collins stared back, a touch of annoyance starting to surface on his face.
"The bartender remembers seeing both of you," Jen said softly. "He says you had a drink. A double scotch."
"What? That's not true!" For the first time Wes saw his father looking defensive, and now a little frightened. "I don't even like scotch," he added.
"He said you appeared to be drunk. Then both of you staggered out of the bar. Myers was almost carrying you," Jimmy said.
"I…" Collins gulped. "I don't remember. I swear."
Wes was no longer able to be silent. "He must have been drugged! It's obvious!"
"Wes -- let us handle this." Jen's voice was firm. They exchanged a hard look before she turned back. "What's the last thing you remember?"
"I was finishing my coffee. He was trying to persuade me to go to his room. Then I started to feel sick… I have a vague memory of walking somewhere… Hearing voices, two men, arguing... Nothing much after that, until I woke up in the hospital."
Jen stared for another moment, her face thoughtful. She looked at Jimmy, who nodded and stood up.
"Thanks," he said. "Sorry we had to ask these questions, but it's necessary."
"I understand."
A minute later they were in the hallway, walking quickly. Wes turned his head to look at Jen's face, so resolute, seeming to be not even aware of his presence. He reached to take her arm, stopping her.
"Did you have to be so rough on him?"
"She's just doing her job, Wes," Jimmy said.
"It's okay, Jimmy." Jen looked up at Wes, impatience struggling with compassion in her expression. "We're not doing this for fun, Wes. Your father's involved in a murder. We're trying to find out the truth, the best way we can."
"And what did you learn from -- cross-examining him like that?"
She smiled faintly. "That he's probably telling the truth. His blood alcohol wasn't that high, not enough to explain his being found unconscious. From what he describes, I think he was drugged, probably Rohypnol or something similar, in his coffee. It causes blackouts and amnesia, and makes the person appear drunk."
"You think my father drugged him," Eric said, his voice bitter.
"Yes, we think so."
"Sounds like something that asshole would do. Wonder how he got involved in this. What he wants."
"That's what we have to find out," Jimmy said.
Wes looked back at Jen. "Am I allowed to tell Dad he's off the hook?"
Jen shook her head. "He isn't, not completely. Not yet."
"But you can tell him what we said," Jimmy told him.
"Okay. Thanks." He started to turn away.
"Wes…" Jen's voice stopped him. "Talk to your father. If we're right, someone went to a lot of effort to set him up. Try to find out if he can think of anyone who would have done this to him. And -- both of you -- keep in mind they may try something again." Her eyes went to Wes's face, then away again.
"Well -- thanks for the warning." Wes saw the discomfort on Jen's face with a pang of guilt. "Jen..." he started.
"What?"
"I -- nothing. I'll see you at the house, later. Help you with your stuff."
"Okay. Thanks." She gave him another unhappy look.
"We'd better get going," Jimmy said softly, with a glance at both of them.
"I want to get back to Dad," Wes said to Eric as they watched Jen and Jimmy walk away. "Do you need me for anything here?"
"No." As Wes started to turn away, Eric's voice came again. "Jen's just doing what she has to do."
"I know. But I don't have to like it."
Jen opened the hotel room door and stepped inside, turning to hold it open for Wes as he carried her suitcases inside.
"Some day, huh?" he said.
"Yeah. Some day. Glad it's almost over." Jen turned to smile at him as he put the bags down. He looked cheerful enough on the surface, but she could see the unhappiness underneath. "Thanks for helping."
"You think I'd let you move alone?" Wes looked around at the hotel room, his smile fading. Jen was sure it reminded him of another hotel room, one not nearly as nice as this one. It made her uneasy, too.
"I wouldn't have blamed you."
"At least there's no mirrors on the ceiling." Wes was smiling again, a little ruefully, when she glanced at him, surprised.
"At least you can joke about it."
"Yeah. Better than crying."
"Wes, this won't be for long."
"I hope so. You'd better work hard on this case. Get it wrapped up fast. Get this over with."
"I'm sorry I had to question your father like that. It was necessary."
"I understand." He glanced at her, his eyes sliding away. "I'd better get going."
"I wish you could stay..." she said softly.
"Dad's expecting me. Don't want to leave him all alone in that house."
"Believe me, I wish I was going with you."
"Yeah. So do I." He looked around the room, at everything except her. "Look, I'll call you tonight. Okay?"
"Good. I'll be waiting." She closed her eyes as he kissed her, too briefly, then watched him leave, after giving her another of those uneasy glances at the door.
When he was gone she looked at her suitcases and then flopped down on the bed. An unwelcome loneliness and anxiety came over her. She was no longer used to sleeping alone. The last time had been in her small apartment in the Time Force complex, two hundred years in the future.
Lucas, Trip, Katie... Alex... The thought of her friends and teammates overcame her, seeming to deepen her isolation and the homesickness she still felt from time to time. When she was with Wes, she didn't miss them so much. But now Wes wasn't here... It hit her, almost like a physical pain, just for a moment, as a tear escaped and trickled down her cheek.
