All right, y'all. Your patience is unspeakably appreciated. We'd better get started before I start getting all misty-eyed. The semester went well, and my B- average has been gracefully maintained. Oh, and thanks for all the donuts!
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Furious
by
Fashionably Stupid
Chapter Eight: The Damage We Do by the Hopes That We Raise
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People who like people, who trust people, really piss off people like Bobby Goren and Alexandra Eames. Deakins was one of those people.
"Has it ever occurred to either of you that this Bruyard kid's got no motive?"
His detectives just stared him blankly. He felt compelled to persevere until he elicited a reaction.
All I'm saying," he continued, "is that Adam's the one with all the reasons."
More silence. He sighed. "It's been a long day."
Eames breathed out. "Finally, something I agree with," she said.
The silence broken, Deakins decided to try one last wheedle. "I think you're wasting your time with Bruy - "
"You didn't…see him. You never heard…that voice." Goren was visibly perturbed by the memory.
"Seriously, sir." Eames' voice was firm, her words falling like a fortifying hand on her partner's shoulder. "That boy would kill you soon as look at you."
"Still - "
Something in Eames cracked quietly. She stood up to look Deakins in the eye, keeping her knuckles curled on the desk.
"Would you like to interview Sam Bruyard, sir? I think you'd like him. He's Aryan as all hell and he does a great Jodie Foster ." There was a hush.
"He…basically disregarded Clare. She was…nothing to him, she was…just a toy to him, a project. He talked about her like she was…last week's laundry."
Eames nodded. "I think that killing her would come as easily to him as…" She lost her thought. "Help me out here, Bobby."
Everyone in the room breathed out in relief. The tension had been broken.
"I think it's time you both went home." Deakins was smiling now.
Bobby immediately began to gather up his papers. Eames just picked up her purse and, with a brief, easy farewell, departed.
* * *
The drive home was thankfully manageable for both detectives. Goren refueled his car about halfway through the journey. While stopped, he gazed beyond the overhang of the station to the dark sky. The stars were invisible to him through the city lights, and it occurred to him then that he hadn't left the city in far too long. The thunk of the pump shutting off thankfully broke what could have been an overly morose reverie. That night, he slept uneasily, wanting nothing more than the wheels of justice to turn in Clare Bergen's favor. That night he dreamed that a living Clare was speaking to him; he found neither help nor comfort in the poetry he heard.
The sun, like a simple curtain,
rises on another gloriously selfish morning,
another day to rhyme away the hours of the sun.
No one is exempt;
no one can escape the morning,
neither in sickness, nor in sleep,
nor in the sticky artifice of love.
The sun must shine on everyone,
and everyone must pluck out their hairs and
tentatively flex their muscles in its harsh and scorching light.
The sun must play the mirror to our faults,
and we cannot face him because we cannot bear to face ourselves.
We choke through our days
buzzing and chugging,
sitting and waiting
and waiting
and sooner or later our minds will turn to sin
For sin is bred of boredom,
Sin is bred of youth,
Sin is bred of a strongly misguided search for truth.
Truth that is invariably hollow and
notoriously thankless.
Truth as futile as purity.
Purity as futile as war.
War as deadly as truth.
Truth rising as a jarring, unpleasant monument to the
ease with which we shove each other down;
rising like a wave of weedy inequality;
rising like the sun to scorch our sorry frames,
our peaceful minds,
while sin plays the cave to our hollow shouts of hedonism.
and we howl and grunt and bang
the drum.
Sin is a cave.
Truth is a hole,
deep, silent,
with high and slick and bloody walls.
Scratch as you may,
scream as you will,
you are only with yourself,
staring at the walls,
staring at yourself,
like staring at the sun.
So sin while you may.
Sin while you must.
Sin while you still have pink in you.
Sin while the sun rises and
Sin while it shines.
And spend the rest of your life on your crushed and guilty knees.
* * *
The night for Eames fared no better. When she stumbled into her apartment, she knew she wasn't tired enough to sleep, but when she tried to read, her eyes kept closing, presenting a photo-negative image of Clare Bergen's bald, unsmiling head. She flipped on the television to watch the remainder of a rerun of "Friends," laughing occasionally, but mostly staring, not even watching, with glazed-eyes. She fell asleep too early and left the TV on. She woke up feeling scared for the first time in a great while.
* * *
"So how is this going to work?"
"The way it always works, Eames. You know how to do your job."
"I don't think it's safe to leave me alone in a room with that boy. The urge to throttle him just might overpower me." She was not smiling.
"…Your hands are too small…" Bobby cracked a tentative smile at his own joke. He knew this day would belong to Eames.
Eames laughed loudly, fluently. It was a laugh of relief. Deakins laughed, too, briefly but not nervously. He knew his detectives, and he knew they were both uneasy about interviewing Sam Bruyard; all three regarded the task of extracting information from the boy as delicate and necessary as disarming a particularly volatile bomb.
An queasy silence followed the laughter. Bobby opened and closed his mouth a few times before:
"He should…be here soon. With his parents."
"Good." Someone said it. It sounded like Eames, but no one could be sure. A haze had descended over them, a mist of sorts.
Sam was supposed to arrive with his parents in about ten minutes, and both detectives were getting tired of waiting. Eames was feeling particularly antsy: She was becoming increasingly anxious thinking about what kind of people would raise such a seemingly cold-hearted child. She began to review her mental list of questions, trying to hear her voice, stern and demanding; but a part, albeit a small part, of her was doubting Sam's guilt, even unto his involvement. More and more her thoughts turned toward Adam: While he was the less despicable of the two suspects, he was indeed the most suspicious. He was also, Eames couldn't help thinking, the one Clare Bergen wasn't having sex with.
"Goren." There was a knock and a voice at their door. It was a fellow officer, though Eames was struggling to find his name.
"…They're here…" It was not a question.
Both detectives rose from their chairs. Eames felt slightly lightheaded and cursed herself for feeling so. She stonewalled her face, set her mouth straight, but not pursed, and caught her absolute balance. She was almost ready, she had been almost ready all morning, and then she felt Goren's hand on her shoulder.
"Let's go," she said firmly. A part of her wished she had gotten a little more sleep.
