Chapter Three: Intriguing Interview
Mark scrubbed a weary hand over his aching eyes. Staring at the files for longer would accomplish nothing; they had extracted every scrap of possible information from those papers. As he finally focused on something other than the files, he realised not only how dark it had become but also how exhausted his helpers looked. Even as he watched, Jesse valiantly suppressed a yawn and Cheryl leaned back, stretching to work out the kinks in her back.
It was all so familiar. They had done this hundreds of times before, a pattern well established. Yet Steve's absence cast a horribly discordant note in their usual harmony.
Gratitude burned in his eyes as he realised that none of his friends intended to call a halt to the proceedings. It was up to him. He dredged up as optimistic a smile as he could manage as he summarised their findings.
"We'd better call it a night," he announced reluctantly. "We've got some good leads to work on tomorrow. Cheryl if you could manage to arrange it, I'd like to talk to Tucker in the morning."
She nodded doubtfully. "I'm sure I could set it up. But, I'm not sure if you'll get anything useful out of him."
"If I confront him with what we suspect, it's possible he might crack, and he might be more open with someone who's not a cop. It's worth a try. We should also do some digging into the background of Rico. Maybe there's some gang activity or other obvious motives for his murder that could lead us elsewhere." He turned to Jesse and Amanda. "While I'm talking to Tucker, maybe you two could go to the school and find out more about whom the boy might be protecting - a friend, a girlfriend. It must be someone he cares deeply for to go to this extreme."
With everybody's assent to this plan, he ushered them to the door. Amanda lingered after the others left, taking in the white strain dusted around her friend's mouth and noticing how his normal vitality was dimmed. "Would you like me to stay the night?" she asked tentatively. "I hate to leave you alone right now."
"I'll be just fine, honey," he replied, touched by her consideration. "With a good night's sleep, I will feel a lot better in the morning."
A good night's sleep was a great theory but proved impossible to achieve in practice. Saturated by the facts of the case, his mind refused to relinquish its hold on the proceedings and, as his exhausted body struggled to drag him down into the oblivion of sleep, his mind fought back, startling him awake with the panicky insistence that he'd missed something important that could save Steve.
The knowledge that his son was almost certainly not enjoying the comforts of a feather bed further eroded his chances of rest. He savagely reined in his imagination from speculation of the conditions under which his son could be suffering, knowing that such contemplation would merely paralyse his ability to think clearly.
After several hours of fruitless tossing and turning, Mark abandoned his bed, vaguely considering a mug of warm milk as an aid to sleep. Yet, almost unconsciously, his feet took him down the steps into his son's apartment. Switching the light on, he gazed around the empty room, conscious of a strong feeling of guilt that his reputation for crime solving was responsible for placing his son in jeopardy. However, he attempted to clear his mind of such negativity, pulling the comfort of his son's essence, so strong in the room, around him like a mantle until he finally fell asleep on the couch.
Sloans' Deck
It was fortunate that Mark could not witness Steve's condition and bunking arrangements, or sleep would almost certainly have been denied him. His son lay rigidly on his right side on the wooden, but, thanks to his efforts, at least passably clean floor, unable to find a position that offered any possibility of comfort. At least he enjoyed the illusion of solitude, as his captors lay sleeping on the other side of the cabin, the father in a small cot and son on a mattress pulled out from underneath it. From the cacophony of snores arising from their location, they were now asleep, and he amused himself with idle fantasies of throttling them with the chain in their slumber. Of course, even if he were tempted to go to such extremes, he knew the rattling of his movements would awaken them long before he could approach close enough to succeed.
Besides, he didn't feel that he had the energy to throttle a mouse, never mind his two wiry tormentors. His back was on fire, an agonising conflagration that was exacerbated by the slightest movement on his part. He didn't even bother testing the strength of the wooden panel, knowing that while he was weak, escape was an improbable option.
However, underneath the seemingly submissive surface of acceptance, the simmer of rebellion was building to a slow boil and the unequivocal determination to break away from his captors burned high. Patience wasn't his forte, but he could employ it when necessary, especially now that he also had a firmer idea of when to effect an escape. Before the Baxters turned in for the night, they had removed his chains and taken him to the outhouse, obviously deciding that since they were sharing the one small room, the basic necessities of cleanliness must be observed. The outhouse was a four-foot square, dilapidated construction with a primitive seat over an odorous hole in the ground that was hardly conducive to a leisurely experience, but Steve was more interested in the opportunity it represented.
At the time, Steve could barely walk, every ripple of muscle and current of air sending electric jolts of agony down his back. They had guarded him well during the exercise, but he'd used the occasion to surreptitiously assess the surroundings and was determined that at some point while the chains were off, he would make his move, an attempt that would be improved if he feigned a greater weakness than he was feeling, although that would be difficult at the present time.
Eventually, the pain subsided sufficiently to surrender to exhaustion, and he fell into an unsettled but surprisingly deep sleep.
Sloans' Deck
Mark was woken after only a couple of hours curled uncomfortably on Steve's couch by a phone call from Cheryl informing him of an appointment at the penitentiary at 10:00 and offering to meet him there to expedite his entry.
With the help of coffee and a jolt of adrenaline on behalf of his son, Mark felt alert, but knowing how much rode on this interview, he was also apprehensive. Due to the severity of the crime, Tucker, although a juvenile, was being held in the Los Angeles Men's Central Jail and would be tried as an adult. It was far from a pleasant environment, and Mark guiltily hoped that it would have softened the kid up sufficiently that he was willing to talk.
Cheryl had acceded reluctantly to his request to talk to the boy alone, so he was shown into the interview area and left. It was a dingy room, redolent of aggression and despair, the odors of vomit and urine perceptible under the overpowering stench of disinfectant.
The door rattled, and he turned for his first impression of Tucker Baxter. The boy was small for his age, probably a legacy from his crack-dependent mother. His expression was sullen, but deep in his eyes Mark could glimpse both fear and intelligence. The guard nudged him over to the table, then, at Mark's request, agreed to wait outside the door.
For an awkward moment the two stared at each other; then Mark broke the silence by introducing himself.
"Hi. My name's Mark Sloan. I'm a doctor at Community General Hospital. Please sit down." He gestured at a chair, and after a pause, the boy slid into it, but not before Mark could see recognition of his name register on the teen's face. Tucker was evidently cognisant of the hostage situation, although presumably after the fact.
Wanting the issue open between them, he baldly stated, "Your grandfather and father have kidnapped my son and are holding him until I can prove you innocent."
"Yeah, I've heard." The grunted reply was a far cry from the apology Mark would have liked, but he thought he could detect a faint trace of regret in the boy's voice. He wondered how much of Tucker's attitude was the normal intransigence of adolescence and how much was a deeper noncompliance inherited from his family.
"Actually," Mark admitted cautiously, "I do believe you're innocent."
"Yeah?" Tucker tried to maintain his mask of indifference, but a ray of shy pleasure slipped through.
"Yeah," Mark confirmed, slipping into the teen's own vernacular.
"No one else does," Tucker complained, though without much heat.
"Well, your family obviously does," Mark remarked, but it was the wrong thing to say, and the kid closed down fast, watching Mark through eyes now shuttered and wary.
Mark mentally cursed his inopportune comment, realising the relationship between the generations of Baxters was complex and not an issue for discussion. It occurred to Mark that maybe the older Baxters didn't believe Tucker and this attempt at rescue was merely an issue of family pride. He felt chills of dismay at this thought, knowing it wouldn't augur well for Steve's chances of survival.
He attempted to get the conversation back on track. "You're making it difficult for people to believe in you. Given the amount of evidence against you, the police need some sort of explanation of the circumstances."
He received only a sullen shrug. "I said I didn't do it."
Mark took a deep breath, holding on to the shreds of his patience. "And if you didn't," he continued, "there are two possibilities. First, you were framed and you're too scared to come forward with the truth."
As he expected, this produced a knee-jerk reaction of bravado. "I ain't scared of nobody."
Mark tipped a challenging eyebrow at him, trying to entice him into embellishing on this response, but the boy subsided with a glare. Mark considered pointing out that he should be scared of the harsh realities of prison life, but realised that this veiled threat would not be conducive to establishing a trusting relationship.
"The second option is that you're protecting the person who did kill Rico. You wiped the murder weapon, establishing your fingerprints on it and smeared yourself with blood."
The teen straightened his shoulders with a defiant expression and Mark nodded slowly, reading the body language as confirmation of their theory. "It takes tremendous courage and love to assume the blame for somebody else's crimes." He was tempted to add 'stupidity', but knew his next remark would be sufficiently crushing.
"Does this person also love you, if they're willing for you to take the fall for them?"
There was a flash of emotion in the boys' eyes that Mark hoped was doubt, but it was gone before he could identify it for sure. "You shouldn't go to prison for something you didn't do," he assured him solemnly. "No one who loved you would allow you to make that sacrifice."
"Then you better prove my innocence," Tucker said rudely.
"Presumably, to do that, I need to implicate the person you're protecting," Mark stated carefully. "It's unlikely I can do one without the other."
Although Tucker offered no comment to that, there was a hint of vulnerability in his surly stare.
"If that's the case," Mark continued hopefully, "why don't you just tell me who you're protecting. I could really use the help."
"I can't."
'Can't', not 'won't'. It was a subtle difference, but it might have significance.
"Can I go now?" The words were insolently stated, but Mark sensed a reluctance to leave, maybe just because the boy didn't want to return to the prison population at large, but it offered some hope.
Seeking some way of establishing common ground, an idea occurred to him. "You know, I was framed once for a murder I didn't commit," he volunteered casually.
"Yeah?" There was definite interest in the monosyllable.
This time Mark fought the urge to respond in kind, but it seemed to be infectious. "Yeah. They found me guilty too. I was on Death Row for months."
Tucker looked him dubiously up and down, obviously weighing his evident respectability against the concept. "No kidding?"
It was a relief from the ubiquitous 'yeah', and Mark couldn't help smiling as interest again peeked through the detached exterior. The boy was young enough to regard a death sentence as a cachet.
Mark found himself liking the teen. Beneath the protective shell, he was almost naive and Mark wondered again about the relationship he had with his parents, the strange combination of abuse and affection that produced such artless toughness.
"In fact, I'd probably still be there...or executed...if it hadn't been for my son."
"What did he do?" The fascination seemed to be with the story itself; the boy hadn't yet made the application to his own situation.
"It's a long story, but he never stopped believing in me, and he eventually proved that I was framed and got me released."
"Yeah!" This time it was said with satisfaction and the idea seemed to resonate, and Mark continued to mine the topic, hoping to enlist the teen's sympathies.
"That wasn't the only time he saved my life." There was encouragement in the wide-eyed stare.
"There was one time, I was in the middle of a terrible forest fire. There was no way out - I was barbecue. But Steve, despite the fact that he'd been injured earlier, left his hospital bed, more or less hijacked a news helicopter, and saved my life."
Mark's chest tightened and he could hardly speak through the lump in his throat as he contemplated all the times his son had protected him, sometimes merely by interposing his body between Mark and a threat. He knew it was too soon to push, but the desperate plea bubbled out before he could stop it.
"He's always been there for me." He held the teen's gaze with the intensity of his own anguish. "I have to help him now. Please, is there is any way you can help me help my son?"
His urgent plea touched the teen, and for a moment, the issue hung heavily in the balance, but Mark could see when the training of a lifetime and loyalty to his own kin tipped the scales, and Mark knew he'd lost as the teen dropped his gaze. Before the rejection could be voiced, Mark added. "If you can't help with this murder, is there anything you could tell me about where they might be holding Steve?"
It was a forlorn hope, but since his most critical goal was the return of his son, he thought it was worth a try. However, the boy looked ready to bolt at the mere suggestion. He shook his head emphatically. "Gramps would kill me."
Mark considered the response, obscurely encouraged despite the refusal. The phrasing suggested that Tucker did have an idea as to where his family might have taken Steve, which suggested a familiarity with the location. If there was a family history connected to this place, it could be traced by thorough detective work.
"Can you contact him?" Mark asked randomly, fishing for any additional information he could land without spooking the teen further.
Tucker shook his head. "Look, they're not going to hurt him," he offered tentatively.
"Do you really believe that?" Mark asked him seriously.
The flicker of uncertainty in the boy's eyes was answer enough. "If he does what they tell him, he'll probably be okay," he answered doubtfully. This reply was anything but reassuring, since Mark knew his son too well to expect he would submit to orders from anyone.
He fought to keep his voice steady as he addressed the teen again. "I'd do my best to prove you innocent even if I got Steve back, I promise you that."
"Just do what they say. It's easier that way." He got up to leave, resignation to his own role written sullenly on his face.
"Wait." Mark held out his card. "Please, if you think of anything that would help, call me any time."
The boy hesitated, but in the end accepted the card, holding it gingerly between thumb and forefinger. "Yeah." He looked as if he wanted to say something else, but changed his mind and knocked on the door for the guard to escort him away.
Left alone, Mark sat back in one of the chairs, unable to sum up the energy to leave. The taste of failure was bitter in his mouth. The irony was that he almost respected the motivation of the Baxters. If Steve had been in that position, he would have gone to almost any lengths to save him. He couldn't even blame Tucker for not betraying his family, he'd received little appreciation from them in his life, and the fact that they were willing to go to such an extreme for him must feel like validation.
There were strange undercurrents in the interview, but when he tried to let his mind relax to analyse the nuances of expression and tone, his reasoning refused to move past the concept that while the Baxters had taken effective, if illegal, action to help their son, Steve was still depending on Mark to help him.
He was still reflecting on that unpleasant notion when Cheryl entered. "No luck?" she queried sympathetically, seeing the grim look on his face
"Not much," he responded with a sigh. "I'm sure we're right about him defending the real murderer, but I've got no idea who that might be. I also got the impression that he knows where they're keeping Steve, so we might find something if we research property belonging to family and friends."
"I've got one piece of news for you." Seeing the hope in the look Mark cast her way, she hastily added, "There are no leads on their current whereabouts but it could still prove significant. You know we put the APB out on the Baxter's truck. Well, we've got nothing recent, but there's a reported sighting near the school the morning of the murder."
