Let's just be safe and say I own nothing in the following pages. Not even the words, I think. Webster does, or whoever writes the Dictionary.
7
For a kid who had absolutely no remorse over what he'd done to ruin so many people's lives, Nathan Razor was very well-protected by some incredibly expensive lawyers and two parents who seemed to just now be realizing they'd raised a latchkey kid. Of course, it's never too late to set things right—or so psychiatrists say.
Eames sat in her chair in the interrogation room, smiling benignly as all the reasons the charges against this child were foolhardy were listed. He was such a nice boy, really he was. Just the sweetest baby. Sweet babies don't grow into sociopaths.
"That's all well and good, Missus Razor, but the evidence speaks for itself."
"What evidence?" demanded lawyer #1. "It's all circumstantial, plus the testimony of a woman who's expected to do twenty-five to life if convicted. Why don't you just ask him outright?" He tossed up his hands. "Denial is all it'll take to put this case in the ground."
Eames looked straight into Nathan's face. "Nathan, did you kill Monica North?"
He smiled an evil little smile, hands folded in feigned politeness in his lap. "No, ma'am, I didn't stab nobody."
"Anybody," corrected Eames, anger burning. She hated this kind of bratty kid. They were everywhere these days. She'd beat him before she'd let him answer such a serious question in such a foolhardy way. "First of all, 'Didn't stab nobody' is a double negative, leading to a positive, so we could almost take that as a confession right there. Second, she technically wasn't stabbed, she had a knife thrown at her from a close distance. Theoretically, your client just admitted to another murder, somewhere else," she said snidely. "Would you like me to check the records?"
"Man, that's weak," said lawyer #2. "If that's the best you can come up with, we're gone."
"Just giving you an example of the things New York Police can do when we set our minds to it, sir," she said, looking back at Nathan. "And anyway, we found one of his fingerprints on the knife. Your left thumb. You're left-handed, aren't you Nathan?" He said nothing. "This time using proper English, answer my question. Did you kill Monica North?"
He waved his head back and forth like a child without a care in the world. "I didn't stab anybody."
"Yes or no, please."
"He's as good as answered," said the mother.
"Let him speak for himself. Yes or no, please, Nathan."
"No!" he cried, pounding his fists on the table. Eames was beginning to feel sorry for all the pounding that poor interrogation room table suffered through. "No, no, no! I don't want to!"
Eames sighed, rubbing her temples. "Please inform your child, Missus Razor, that he is entirely too old to be throwing tantrums like this."
"Natey, now stop it," she cooed kindly. Wishy-washily.
"Don't tell me what to do!" cried the pre-pubescent individual. "I'll kill you, too!"
Eames allowed herself to smirk. "And we caught that on tape. Smile for the recorder." She got to her feet, already wondering in her mind where she left the Excedrin. "ADA Carver shall be in here momentarily."
Standing over her desk, battling with her bottle of headache medicine, Eames forced a smile as Goren and Mercy approached. "Remind me to shoot myself if my nephew ever gets that way," she said, handing the impossible bottle to Goren.
He twisted it open without effort and presented it back to her, grinning apologetically. "Next time I get the belligerent kid and you hang out with the lesbians."
Eames snorted. "Well, that's the second piece to this puzzle. The third should fall into place like leaves in the autumn."
"Poetic," commented Mercy. "Well, you never know. He might be a tougher nut than you give him credit for."
Goren and Eames glanced at her. "No," they said in unison. Mercy shrugged.
"Well, he should be here in about thirty minutes. A nap is recommended." She knit her brows together motherly. "You two look like hell."
The detectives waited until it was time for St. Claire to arrive. And waited. And waited for over an hour after that with no phone call and no idea what was going on.
Finally, they got the call. Eames picked up the phone and avoided Goren's eyes for along moment. "Uh-huh," she said over and over again. "How? Uh-huh… Which hospital? Uh-huh… All right, then. Thanks."
She hung up the phone and finally looked at her fidgeting partner. "St. Claire is on life-support," she said. "St. Vincent's Hospital."
Goren didn't know where to begin. A part of his brain wanted to just drop everything where it was and never pick it up again. "What did he do?"
"Shot himself in the mouth."
"Where'd he get the gun?"
"Had it all along."
"What are his chances of survival?"
Eames sighed. "Not good."
He rubbed his forehead and leaned back in his chair. "For now, let's pencil in the report as if he were dead already. I've got the papers right here. We might as well get started."
She took two-thirds of the stack, being the better pencil-pusher, and left him to moan and groan over the rest. Two hours later, as their papers dwindled down, Eames got the call that St. Claire was dead.
"I don't understand it," she said, hanging up. "What was he so afraid of? It was going to be nearly impossible to pin him to anything. What we could get him with wasn't going to give him life or the needle…"
"Prison," said Goren. "He was afraid of prison." He thought hard for a long, quiet moment. "The porn. Something wasn't right. It was too—standard. Some weren't even open, were they?" Alex shook her head, wondering where he was going with this. "I think he was gay," Goren concluded. "And I think he was terrified of being found out."
"But he impregnated Monica…"
"Bisexual, then. They actually have it rougher in prison than homosexuals. People look at it as… as if he just can't make up his mind. Or won't. As if he's afraid of being 'truly' homosexual."
"This is an extremely unsatisfactory ending," grumbled Eames.
"It rarely ends well in real life, Alex," he said. "We're not Dick Tracey, finding things out just in time for the rolling credits." He told her this because he knew it concluded things for her. His own brain was still abuzz with disappointment.
Eames nodded and finished her papers. Goren still had about five pages to fill out, none of which he was looking forward to. He scribbled a few more sentences and gave up, resting his head on the cool surface of the desk. He sat there until the coolness was gone, hoping nobody was looking at him. Hoping no one came over to check for a pulse, as a few of the jokers were prone to doing. It was embarrassing when they did that.
Minutes passed. He heard Eames take his papers from the corner of his desk and finish them for him. He told himself to thank her later. Just when he was about to sit up, he felt a pair of hands on his shoulders that beckoned him to stay down.
He turned his head to look up and see Mercy mouth the words "Is he all right?" to Eames as she rubbed his neck tenderly—not touchy-feely enough to draw attention.
Goren didn't have to look up to see Eames mouth back "He'll be fine." Mercy shook her head and looked down to see him watching her. The fluorescent light behind her illuminated her hair and the corners of her face. She looked like she fell from Heaven.
He sat up. She quit rubbing his back but kept her hands where they were, as though to steady him. "That felt good," he said, tapping his fingers on the desk. He looked at Alex. "Thanks for taking care of the paperwork."
She shrugged. "It's what I'm here for." He wanted to argue but knew better.
"Well, kids," said Mercy, "it's time to go home."
"I'll be down in a minute," said Alex as Bobby got to his feet. "Just one or two last minute things to pick up."
"All right, then," said Mercy. "Are you ready, Bobby?"
He collected his things and pressed the elevator button down. In the ride alone, Mercy suddenly became shy, as though she wanted to say something. "Listen, Bobby--" she began. "There's something I'd like to say to you. Uh…" She fumbled over her words and tripped over herself in a way he'd never seen her do before. She grinned. "I suck at this. This whole… sharing of feelings. But I'm getting better…"
She collected herself at last as Bobby waited patiently and curiously. "Thank you."
He raised his eyebrows. "That's it? What for?"
"Listen, if there's one thing I'm not, it's ungrateful. I appreciate more than anybody I know the sacrifices made by soldiers, firefighters, cops, teachers… I know that you've probably never been thanked for all the good things you've done for this city and—hell, maybe the world—but I'd like to try." She stood on tip-toe and planted a soft, light kiss on his cheek. "Thanks."
He beamed broadly, catching her off guard. She was about to tell him about the disarming smile he had, but she figured one compliment per day would be enough for him.
"Oh, that's not necessary," he said.
"Sure it is. Don't argue with me." The elevator doors opened on the first floor.
Bobby took a moment to stand in the elevator and think back to the conversations he'd had, the things he'd learned, the relationships he'd built inside the tiny, intimate confines of the cube. If walls could talk…
Mercy found that she'd stepped over a dangerous line in kissing him like that. She suddenly wanted to kiss him again. Just like at the Christmas party. Over and over and all over him. She fidgeted with her keys and finally got her door unlocked. Bobby watched her from his car, feeling his cheek burning.
She felt him watching her, and turned to find him staring with a far-away look on his face. A dangerous look. They regarded each other for a moment, until she looked away, blushing slightly, and got into her car. She honked friendlily as she pulled out of the parking lot.
Roll credits.
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