Chapter Twenty-One

Jim headed Hank into the locker room. He felt he could drink a whole pot of coffee. Someone else was in the room, but Jim didn't say anything. If they didn't know to say something by now…

Just the vibe, maybe a whiff of aftershave, the fact that there were only four other people in the department that late, only one of whom would be enough of an ass to ignore him… It was definitely a guy, Jim could tell by the movements. Fisk didn't usually come in here. And from the location of the locker—it was probably Marty.

Jim dropped Hank's harness and carefully touched the handles of the coffee pots. He reached into the cupboard and immediately was rained on by tiny packets of sugar when his hand hit something other than the coffee can. He pulled back, hearing the pattering of packets falling onto the counter and the floor. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath then started picking up the packets and piling them to the side.

"Marty?" he called over. "Where's the coffee?"

"You can't even find the coffee?" Marty asked.

"Someone moved it, do you understand that?" Jim tossed a pack of sugar onto the counter and turned.

Hank whined at Jim's tone of voice.

Marty stalked up, pushed past Jim and grabbed something out of the cupboard. He slammed the metal coffee container on the counter. "How's your wife?" Marty asked coldly.

Jim turned away.

"Last week…" Marty started, sounding bitter.

Jim cleared away the sugar and put the coffee can back in its normal spot. "What?" he asked, not looking back.

"At the bar—I was just playing into your hands, wasn't I? Almost gave you permission to put your hands all over Karen."

"I didn't—"

"You sure looked cozy to me."

"But I didn't. Ask her." Jim finally turned.

"Like she'd tell me."

"Marty, I'm not going to take advantage of Karen! I'm not going to let her get hurt, either."

"You swear?"

"Yes! You want it written in blood?" He held a hand out.

"I don't think you have enough left." Marty pushed past him into the hallway.

Jim shook his head and decided against the coffee. The best thing to do was just get the case over and done with.

Hank yawned as he settled back behind Jim's desk. It had been a long day. Hank watched his master a moment, fighting to keep his eyes open. He didn't know much about humans, but he knew Jim was starting to limp, probably needed a trip to the vet.

Jim reached for his cane, which he'd pushed aside with his laptop, but his hand froze and clenched into a fist. Even with half the room slightly off, making him feel like he was drunk and misjudging distances, he knew his way around the squad. He wasn't going into the interview room cane in hand. He wasn't even going to wear his sunglasses. He pulled back and headed over.

"Jim?" Karen asked from the door to the interview room.

He held up a finger for her to wait, concentrating on the slightly skewed distances from his last trip this way. His pace was slower than usual, but it was better that way, taking pity on his battered body.

"Yeah?" he asked when he joined her.

"Christie okay?" she asked.

He knew that's not what she was going to ask, but he let it go. "Yeah. She's still worried."

"Me, too. I keep thinking, what if something had happened. Especially after what you told us about the gun."

Jim sighed. "Don't worry so much."

"Why not?" Marty asked, walking up.

"Because it's not productive," Jim said stiffly without a really good reason. It was okay to worry, just not about him. "Ready?"

"They set his wrist," Karen said.

"Which one?"

"The broken one," Marty muttered, then headed for the observation room.

"What's up?" Karen asked.

"Nothing. Which one?"

"The right one. So he has a cast."

Jim followed Karen into the room.

"You look like hell," the young man from the fight said.

"You should talk," Jim said, trying to develop enough rapport to get the guy talking.

Jim walked over to where a chair usually was, but found himself holding onto an empty table. The interview rooms had been messed with, too, but he wasn't going to let it get to him. He'd just be careful walking around. He didn't like to make mistakes around people he was interviewing. If they didn't respect you, they were less likely to talk.

"What's your name?" Jim asked.

"Michael."

"Michael what?"

"I renounce attachment to worldly things like the people who supposedly gave birth to me," he said in a wry tone of voice, like he was smirking. The kid had probably rehearsed answers to half the questions they were going to ask him.

"And your allegiance is to…?"

"My only ally in life is Uncle Josiah."

"Why?" Jim couldn't help saying.

"Because he's a god. You don't disobey God." Michael chuckled. "Have a seat, detective," he offered with an imperious tone.

Jim moved back and sat on the ledge that ran under the window. "Do you feel better now?" he asked.

"I moved the chairs."

"I know." There was a moment of silence before Jim spoke back up. "You haven't done much we don't know about. Now all we need to know is why."

"Who cares why anything happens?"

"What were you doing in the warehouse?" Karen asked.

"Looking for you. Uncle Josiah knew you'd be there. He instructed me to take care of you. Why don't you carry a gun?"

Jim ignored the question. "So you came after me because Uncle Josiah told you to."

"That's what I just said."

"Where'd you learn to disarm people?"

"Junior high. Catholic school. Why didn't you kill me?"

"Because we need information and you have it. Will you cooperate?"

"What choice do I have?"

"You'll tell us everything we want to know?"

"Yeah."

"About Uncle Josiah?"

"The world would be a better place without him."

Jim glanced in Karen's direction, wondering if she was catching the same vibe he was. Uncle Josiah's follower, swears he's loyal, yet offers them information. "You don't seem as… difficult to talk to as the other people we've dealt with."

"How so? Because I'm cooperating?"

"No. Because you speak in full sentences."

"Because I'm not brainwashed, you mean?"

"Yeah."

"I'm Uncle Josiah's right hand man. I've helped him take care of everything."

"And you're helping us because…?" Karen asked.

"Pang of conscience? When I lost that fight I realized Josiah couldn't be a god or I wouldn't have lost. David and Goliath and all. You can do anything with God on your side. I had a little time to think while they bandaged me up. I re-evaluated my life."

"How old are you, Michael?"

"Age doesn't matter. That's just counting backwards—being alive a certain number of years. It's especially extraneous because no matter how many years you've lived, the chances of you having done something important enough to warrant counting the years is slim."

"Okay…" Karen said slowly.

Jim blinked.

"What matters is how long we have left. Count forward. Do something with the time before you die."

"What do you plan to do with the rest of your life?" Jim asked.

"I plan to save all those people just like Uncle Josiah said he would. Only I do it by releasing them."

"Why's Uncle Josiah killing people if he's pretending he's such a great guy?"

"To show his power. He likes to flex his muscles. People are just guinea pigs to him anyway. He needs to test his new drug—the one that kills without a trace."

"Does he just give that to anyone who asks for it?" Karen asked.

"If it's for a good cause."

"How does he know if it's a good cause? What is a good cause, to him?" Jim asked.

"Death is a good cause. It's the greatest one there is."

Jim cracked his neck. He wanted to talk to Josiah about all this personally. Getting theories second hand? It was creepy enough. He was sure if he heard them straight from the horse's mouth that he'd shudder, have to lock the guy up just for being so twisted.

"Let's talk about you for a while," Jim said.

"Why? I thought I was just your golden egg, something to get you everything you need to lock up Josiah."

"I never go into anything that focused. Tell us about yourself."

"There's nothing to tell."

"Sure there is," Karen said. "You've obviously lived a fascinating life, tagging around after a messiah, learning the tricks of the trade, helping kill people."

"Nothing much special," he said with a shrug in his voice.

"you don't call any of that special?"

"There's hundreds just like me. You saw them in the church the other day," he said, turning to Jim.

Jim paced back to the table. "You sound young," he said. "Early twenties? 21?"

"Nineteen and a half if you want to be that way. Born of Sylvia and Russell Hershach of Trenton, New Jersey. They're dead, by the way. Josiah put them out of their misery. My mother had cancer, runs in the family, only a matter of time before I succumb. My father was on his third heart attack. Also runs in the family, so I'm screwed. They were some of the first guinea pigs and Josiah's been experimenting on me. Preventive medicine. Will he save my life? Or will he kill me in the process? All in the name of science."

"What were you doing in the squad this morning?" Karen asked.

"Brian failed."

"So?"

"So Josiah wouldn't just give up."

"What was Brian looking for?"

"Samantha. Josiah didn't know where she was."

"And what were you looking for?"

"Information. I wanted to know how close you were to figuring it out."

Michael was starting to sound like a snob. Jim cocked his head to the side, listening carefully to Michael's tones of voice. He still had that superior air, like he was doing them a favor. Jim was surprised at the lack of fear in his voice.

"How close were we?" Karen continued.

"I don't know. I'm not good at hacking into files like Brian was," he said sheepishly, like it was his one shortcoming.

"Are you aware that wasn't Brian Mulhaney?" Karen asked.

"No. Who was it?"

"I was hoping you could tell us. That wasn't his real name."

"Josiah once called him Harvard, but I think that was just a nickname."

"Does Reg Schmidt strike a bell?"

Michael laughed. "See? I knew you'd know who he was."

"Why'd you move the chairs?" Karen asked.

Michael laughed again. "Nice. She's sticking up for you." He reached over and patted Jim's hand. Jim didn't move, just let it run its course. Michael would get to the end of his charade eventually, then they'd be waiting for him.

"Just answer the question," Karen said.

"Brian told me there was a blind detective working here. Obviously, I didn't know it was you at the warehouse, not right away. But I'm glad now. I'm glad it was you. Maybe I lost the fight, but I still got to you, didn't I?"

"Yeah," Jim said, "you really got to me for a minute, but I figured it out."

"Only 'cause I got caught by that other detective. That tipped you off, didn't it? Having an intruder in the building? Proved you weren't just imagining it. Brian thought it would be funny." Michael laughed. "I went for a little more subtlety."

Jim nodded. "Yeah, it was kinda funny. I laughed."

"Did you?" Michael asked, sounding surprised. "Did he?"

"Yeah," Karen said.

"Oh. I don't think Brian wanted you to find it funny." He leaned over confidentially. "He was kinda mad at you."

"How long had you known Brian?" Jim asked.

"About three months. New recruit."

"You never met the other Brian Mulhaney?" Karen asked.

"Nah."

"Your group isn't much for originality, is it?"

"How d'you mean?"

"Everyone we've met, none of them have been going by their own name."

"Why should they? Just because you were born to be a certain person, born into a family and a life, that doesn't mean you need to be loyal to that. When things go bad—we're people, we're versatile. All we have to do is move, change our name, and poof, we're someone else. There's so many people, it's easy to lose yourself."

"Yeah, but you're picking people who exist. Or who died."

"What can I say? Like you said, we're not very creative, right?"

"Tell us about when you first met Josiah," Jim said.

"Like I said, he killed my parents."

"Before that."

"You want me to start "once upon a time," too?" he asked snottily.

"If you want," Jim said with a smile.

"Don't look at me like that."

"Why not?"

"I'm not some little kid you're humoring. This is serious."

Jim sat on the edge of the table next to Michael, his arms crossed. "Believe me, I know how serious this is."

"When did you meet Josiah?" Karen asked.

"About three years ago."

"Where?"

"Michigan. I was staying with my uncle while my mother went through chemotherapy. The parents didn't think I could handle it. I went to the airport—I was bored. I missed my own school, was thinking of trying to catch a flight back... I was just wandering around and there he was. Turns out he was from pretty much the same place and we got to talking. Science and philosophy especially. Next thing I knew we were on a flight to New York."

"You'd known this guy a couple hours and you invited him home?" Karen asked.

"No. He invited me home. I stayed with him a couple months before I took him to meet my parents. You mind if I say they were dying to meet the man who'd saved my life?"

"Saved your life?" Karen asked. "Aren't you getting a little melodramatic?"

"There are many different levels of living. It's all philosophic." Michael lowered his voice, making it sound almost wimpy and sad. "How would you feel if you were sixteen and both your parents suddenly died? This way it wasn't sudden; I knew exactly what was coming and—" He raised his voice and said, "I rejoiced!"

Jim looked away, shaking his head. After a minute he looked back. "You were still a minor," Jim said. "Didn't social services have anything to say about both of your parents dying?"

"I slipped through the system. Lucky me," Michael said.

"When did you meet Samantha?"

"Samantha? I really barely knew her. I met her a couple years ago, I think. But Uncle Josiah's such a popular guy—girls throw themselves at him all the time. Hard to keep them all straight."

"So she was sleeping with him?" Karen asked.

"He's the messiah. He sleeps with everyone. Female, that is."

"She wasn't anything special?"

"He liked her, sure."

"Did he kill her?"

"Sure did. When you're favored by the messiah, you don't go sleep with another man."

"He was jealous?"

"He doesn't get jealous."

"How'd he kill her?"

"Poisoned her. Then he had me shoot her."

"If the poison's untraceable, why shoot her?" Karen asked.

"She wasn't dead yet. It still hurt."

"You said earlier he didn't know where she was," Jim said.

"Her body. He wanted her body."

"Then why'd he leave her?"

"That was my fault. Something came up and when I went back to collect her, you all were there."

"You in trouble for losing her body?"

"It's just a body. Meaningless," Michael said with a shrug in his voice.

"Then why'd he want it?"

"He just did. I don't know why."

"And her cousin?" Karen asked.

"Cousin?"

"Glenn."

Michael made a questioning grunt.

"Glenn Bartlett. We found him on the stairs of an old mansion, wearing a t-shirt that said, "Owls aren't pussycats.""

"Sht. That was her cousin?" he asked quietly.

"Yeah."

"I didn't know that." Michael cleared his throat. "Josiah asked me to clear him out. Thought Samantha was sleeping with him. But if that was her cousin… and not the right guy… too bad."

"So you killed him," Jim said.

"I didn't have any choice. You don't question Josiah or you don't see daylight ever again—no offense. Bad euphemism."

"You'd testify to all this?"

"Yeah."

"You know where we can find him?"

"Sometimes."

Jim listened as Karen passed him the notebook across the table.

"It'll be a few days before he's available."

"You his secretary?" Karen asked.

"No. I just don't know where he is until Monday and Tuesday."

"So, Michael Hershach, what were you doing at that warehouse this afternoon?" Jim asked.

Michael laughed a little. "I'm the one who called you and told you to go there. Josiah knew you were looking for him. He thought it best to head you off."

"Why the warehouse?"

"Because he's cleared out of there."

"Not entirely," Karen said. "What about the chemicals?"

"So he's just human. He can make mistakes or just not think of everything, right?"

"But to set us up to go there—he'd have to be pretty sure of what he was doing."

"He trusted me too much. I lost the fight."

"And now you're in trouble?"

"I'm in trouble either way, right? But if you get to Josiah first, I might live."

Marty stretched as he walked out of the observation room, relieved to take a break. He couldn't imagine how Dunbar was holding up after the beating he'd taken, then this long interview.

"Hey," Karen said, "this kid. I think I saw him hanging out on the sidewalk when Samantha disappeared."

"You sure?" Jim asked.

"We were eight stories up, but his mannerisms… Hair color… I think it's him."

Karen ran off for coffee while Jim locked the door to the interview room. Marty fell into his desk chair, hitting his knee in the process. He swore under his breath and rubbed the sore spot, even as he kicked the offending desk.

"Hey, Marty," Jim called over. "Do me a favor?"

"What?"

"What's this guy look like?"

Marty rolled his eyes. He moved over toward the door of the interview room and peeked in. Tom sidled up next to them and Marty looked over to see Tom watching, curious. Mary didn't want to be the object of anyone's curiosity, so he just grunted.

Jim was rubbing his eye, carefully avoiding the bruise that was forming. "Too much to ask?" Jim said. He shrugged. "Doesn't matter."

"He's young," Tom put in. "Skinny. About six foot—"

Jim waved Tom off. "Forget it. That much I know."

Marty closed his eyes briefly, fighting his better nature. He listened as Jim started to walk away. It sounded like he was limping. Marty's eyes flew open to confirm it. Yeah, Jim was limping, but he wasn't about to let on if he was really hurt. Marty wondered if he was okay. First the shoulder, now limping… Was he really taking it in stride, or was he trying to be a hero and prove to them still that he could do his job?

Then again, he had thought first of Karen at the warehouse. He could have just assumed Karen was okay and asked Marty for help, but he didn't. Karen's safety was Marty's main concern, seemed to be Jim's main concern, too.

"Dunbar," he said and waited for Jim to turn back. "He looks like the guy from Happy Days."

One of Jim's eyebrows crooked up. "The Fonz?"

"Nah, the other one. Ron Howard's character. The face is a little rounder, more wholesome, even. He looks like a little cherub," he said with a small dose of sarcasm.

Jim nodded, his head to the side, thinking it over.

"This kid's kinda geeky and well-meaning, you know?"

Dunbar laughed. "He meant well while he was fighting me?"

"I don't know if he meant well, but we all know you deserved it."

Jim sighed and walked away back to his desk. He pulled out his chair, holding onto a rib while he sat.

Marty bit his lip. The words had been out of his mouth before he thought them through. "You can tell he thought it was for a good cause," he amended, too late. He'd meant to just keep an eye on Jim, not go back to being an ass all the time. They had to work together. The comments kept coming, even though he tried to stifle them.

"Great." Jim's face was blank as usual. He pulled out a bottle of aspirin.

"He looks better than the other guy," Marty tried.

"How?"

"Like he's actually here."

"So when Samantha was in protective custody," Karen started, "what were you doing at the building?"

"Delivering a message."

"But you barely knew her."

"Messages. I saw a lot of her. We didn't talk. We weren't friends."

"What was the message?" Jim asked.

"Come home."

"Did she?"

"Must have."

Jim took his time walking to the far corner of the room where Karen had told him a chair was sitting. He'd asked her before they went back in and now he needed to sit.

"Is Uncle Josiah trying to father an heir?" he asked as he walked.

Michael laughed. "He thinks the world is overpopulated."

"Does he father a lot of kids?"

"He's protected, I'm sure, detective. What's this have to do with anything?"

Jim pulled the chair over across the table from Michael.

"I'm glad you finally found that," Michael said. "Doesn't do to have you standing for hours when you're so obviously in pain."

"Michael," Jim said, slamming the chair onto the floor then sitting. "Who would have tried to kill Samantha for getting pregnant?"

"I dunno. Maybe it was just some random person."

"Uh huh, that's what she said, too."

"See?"

"Coincidence?"

"It happens."

"Twice?"

"This is New York…"

"Do you know anything about her family?" Karen asked.

"No. She rich?"

"Do you know why she'd make a bunch of tapes to make her mom think she was going around Europe with Josiah and a church group?"

"She's always been a little storyteller. She liked to talk. She loved to lie."

"And?" Karen asked.

"And I don't know."

"What do you know about Pipsqueak?"

"Just a street name. You gotta go incognito sometimes," he said with a grin.

"Don't give me that look," Karen said.

"You think I'm too young for you, is that it?"

Jim almost laughed, but he kept a straight face and said, "Michael, on topic. What's this poison?"

"I don't know. It kills people and dissolves in the blood. Josiah invented it."

"Yeah? What forms does it take?"

"I dunno. I've never seen it before. Josiah always administers it."

"Who's your friend?" Karen asked.

"Antoine?"

"The guy we arrested with you."

Michael stood up and stretched. "Antoine. He's pretty harmless. Dumb as a post, you know. Half the time he can't remember his own name," he said almost smugly. "Can I go now?"

Jim found himself laughing. He shook his head with a big grin. "Sit back down and stay a while; you're not going anywhere."

"But I told you everything—"

"You admitted to killing at least one person and being an accessory to others. Even if it wasn't your idea, even if your own life was in danger, you're still responsible for their deaths. Do you understand that?"

"But—"

"Sit," Jim invited casually.

Michael didn't seem overly thrilled to hear they weren't going to let him go. He shifted in his chair, over and over. Jim waited patiently and was glad Karen did the same. "You know, you worked me over pretty good," Michael finally said. "Can I get an aspirin?"

Jim glanced over at Karen. He stood up. "Yeah… I'll go get you a glass of water, too."

"You don't have to," Michael said. "She can go."

"Nah."

"You're hurt."

"I can get an aspirin. You stay put."

Jim opened the door to find Fisk waiting for him. "What's his game?"

"I don't know."

"You want Tom and Marty in there?"

"Karen can watch him, you guys keep an eye on him from the observation room, if he tries anything, we're ready." Jim held a cup under the water cooler and pressed the button over the spigot.

"He was awfully quiet before he asked for an aspirin." Fisk followed Jim back to his desk.

"Wouldn't you be quiet for a minute while you decided whether or not to kill yourself?" Jim tapped two aspirin into his palm.

"You think that's what he's planning?"

"Is it a coincidence he asked for aspirin?" Jim held up the bottle, tilting it so the pills jiggled, then tossed it back in his desk. Suddenly he froze while closing the desk drawer and thrust his hand out toward the boss, open to reveal the aspirin. It was the same bottle he'd used earlier, but… "Aspirin, right?"

"Yeah…"

"Take a good look. 'Cause if this kid was looking for files and moving things, it's not that hard for him to slip a few things into a bottle that look like aspirin." Jim couldn't believe how fast his heart was racing, keeping pace with his mind as it ran through scenarios.

Fisk grabbed his hand and took a good look. "These are." He pushed past Jim to the desk and removed the bottle, dumping the contents onto the desk. Jim listened to him sifting through, dropping pill after pill into the bottle. He shuddered as each pill dropped hollowly into the container. "Let's just hope he never thought that way," Fisk muttered. "You all keep an eye out." He screwed the lid back on and dropped the bottle back into the drawer, slamming it shut. "These are okay."

Jim let his eyes close with relief that washed over him so thoroughly he wanted to melt onto the floor.

"You took some?" Fisk asked.

Jim nodded.

"We'll search this place top to bottom tomorrow, just in case. You're right, if they were looking at files, it's not much of a stretch that they could be covering their tracks, trying to get us off the trail."

"I better get back," Jim said.

"We're ready, if you need help."

"Thanks." Jim clasped the pills tightly.

Jim stepped into the room behind Michael. He reached over the kid's shoulder and set down the cup. "Here." He held out his hand.

"It's okay, I have one."

"Watch!" Karen yelled from the other side of the room near the two-way mirror. "The watch," she clarified, moving quickly around the table.

Jim grabbed the kid, pinning his arms down. The cast thunked against the chair. He heard the cup drop, hitting the table as he yanked Michael to his feet. Water spilled and dripped slowly to the floor.

"It's hollow," Karen told Jim.

Jim felt her take the watch from Michael's wrist and pat him down.

The door opened behind him and Tom, Marty, and Fisk hurried in.

"We'll take him down to the Tombs and keep him on suicide watch," Fisk said. "You'll have officers watching you all night. Don't get any ideas."

"I got him," Tom said just to Jim's left.

Jim felt Tom's hands taking Michael's arms and relinquished the kid. Two years before, he never would have given up custody to a younger detective, but now he let go and stepped out of the way.

He let his hand explore the two cuts on his face that had probably been made by that watch.

Jim leaned against the wall outside the interview room.

"It's a good start," Fisk said.

"I think he's a prime candidate for an insanity plea," Jim said.

"Insanity or no, we'll get his statement in the morning when he cools down."

"We're lucky he's still alive," Karen said. "Jim, if you hadn't broken his wrist, he'd have had those pills out of that watch a whole lot faster."

Jim shook his head. "I should have broken his other wrist. Then maybe he wouldn't have had the watch anymore at all."

"You still holding up okay?" Fisk asked. "It's been a long day."

Jim tried to pull himself away from the wall, but his body wouldn't move. "I'm good," he said. He grinned up at the boss. "I thrive on this stuff."

Fisk chuckled. "Right."

"I don't like him," Marty said, walking back up after dropping Michael down in the Tombs.

"We're not asking you to take him to a tea party," Karen said.

"I don't believe a word he says."

"Good for you."

"You know what he did on the way to the Tombs? He cried. He asked me for a hug."

"That's 'cause you're such a sympathetic guy, Marty," Jim said.

"Then the kid started yelling out Bible verses, you know the one about "now though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death"? Only he ended it with, we're all doomed 'cause Uncle Josiah's gonna kill us all."

"If anything he's saying is true, it looks like it all goes back to Uncle Josiah," Tom said. "Looks like Gandhi's gone bad."

Jim leaned against the windowsill behind Karen.

"Michael Hershach, 23," Karen read. "Didn't he say he was 19?"

"And a half," Jim added.

"That's a pretty specific lie," Tom said.

"Keep reading," Fisk ordered. "We'll hash out the details later."

Karen dropped something, causing Jim to jump in the silence. She swore. "He went to the same high school as Samantha Whittleton for about a year."

"If he knew her, why'd he give us his real name?" Tom asked. "'Cause I'm not so sure he really was just Josiah's right hand man."

Jim leaned back in his chair. "You know, I think he honestly thought we were going to let him go, and not look into his background."

"Why?" Tom asked skeptically. "He had to know we wouldn't take it all at face value."

"I think because he was cooperating. Because Uncle Josiah's the big fish here. If he thought all we wanted was Josiah, he wouldn't be too worried about covering himself."

"Hey, boss," Karen said. "They took DNA from this kid while they were fixing him up, right?"

"Right."

"Can we run a paternity test on Samantha's kid? I just have a hunch…"

"Sure. What else?" Fisk asked.

"No criminal record. Studied chemistry in college, but never finished. Looks like he won a lot of debate awards, good at arguing. A couple awards for young entrepreneurs. No real job history. All his knowledge is in theory, no practice."

"What's his status? Missing? Dead?" Fisk asked.

"Nothing reported."

"I'll get in touch with his family tomorrow morning."

"Uh…" Karen started awkwardly. "His parents really are dead. He was an only child. Mom died of complications to cancer, dad of heart disease. Looks like his grandmother's still alive, though. And an uncle."

Fisk grumbled. "That's my favorite part of this job, calling the grandparents of some overachiever and telling them their perfect kid has gone off the deep end."

"Glad it's you and not me," Tom said.

"Let's call it a night," Fisk said. "We all need some sleep."

Jim shook his head. "One last order of business," he said.

"Yeah?" Fisk almost sounded annoyed.

"I have to run Richard White through the system or it'll drive me crazy all night."

"Richard White?" the lieutenant asked.

"AKA, Rico Artez. We finally got DeLana to talk."

"Oh. Good. I'm heading out, though."

"Night, boss," Jim said.

"See you tomorrow."

Jim settled into his chair. If he was sore now he couldn't imagine how he'd feel after a night in bed. He stretched before putting in his earpiece and getting to work.

"Richard White, convicted felon," Jim said quietly a few minutes later. He wasn't sure what the other detectives were up to, just that they'd stuck around with him for a while.

"What?" Karen asked incredulously.

"That's what it says."

"What for?"

"Murder."

"No," Karen said.

"If that's what it says," Marty argued.

"No," she argued back. "He wouldn't kill anyone."

"Karen," Jim said calmly. "You never can tell with some people. They don't all come with a rap sheet a mile long."

"Just read the rest," she said.

Jim recited from memory instead of playing the file over. He gestured to the computer. "Says he murdered some old lady and died in prison."

"We know he's not dead, so who says he was ever actually convicted of anything? What if the file was tampered with? Like our files?"

Jim nodded. "I'll give you that much." He turned off his computer. "That's enough for tonight. I'm headed home."

"You want a ride?"

Jim checked his watch. It was after eleven; he wasn't sure of the train schedule from the precinct to home that late at night, and he really didn't want to wait around, not in the condition he was in, so he nodded. "Sure, thanks." Jim slid his laptop into his bag. He'd have to fix the rest of the squad tomorrow, move the furniture back into place then.

"What do you think?" Karen asked in the car.

"About Rico?"

"No, about Michael."

Jim shook his head. "I'm not done with him yet. Not by a long shot. What do you think?"

"I wouldn't trust him."

Jim grinned. "Of course not. You never trust a criminal."

"Do you think he's telling the truth about Uncle Josiah? And how he killed Michael's parents?"

Jim thought it through over several blocks, listening to the car and thinking. He could hear the tires on the street, feel the pot holes, hear other cars passing. "I think that man is capable of anything. But did he actually do it?" He shook his head. "I don't know," he said slowly.

Jim got home and reached for the light switch out of habit. He was surprised to find the light already on. "Christie?" he said quietly, trying to scan the apartment for sounds.

"Yeah?" she mumbled, sounding half-asleep.

"You didn't have to wait up." He dropped his keys off and went to the couch without taking off his coat or Hank's harness.

"I wanted to," she said.

"It's late." He helped her stand, exhausted himself. She snaked an arm around his back and he winced as she put pressure on one of his bruised ribs, but she didn't seem to notice. His free hand explored what it could reach, finding her already in a nightgown with a robe over the top, the silk robe, long and red if he remembered correctly. She'd bought it for Valentine's Day one year.

"How'd it go?" she asked, burying her face in his shoulder.

"I'm tired and so are you. We can talk in the morning."

"Okay. Let me go get the light."

"I'll get it," he offered, sitting her on the bed and pulling off the robe. "I need to take care of Hank."

He turned the light off first before unharnessing Hank and getting him a fresh bowl of water. Some days he didn't even think of light switches, others he found himself turning lights on and off out of habit, his hand on the switch before he realized what he was doing. He must really be tired, he thought, to be trying to turn on the light now. It had probably been a month since the last time he'd done it.

Hank lapped at the water. It was a clumsy sound and Jim knew he should wait for the dog to finish, then wipe up around the bowl, but Hank had been napping on and off all day. The dog was awake, but Jim could feel the extra hours of interrogating, along with the beating he'd taken, and all the energy he'd poured into it in concentration, not to mention the psychological repercussions of having someone move things around the squad. He needed sleep.

Jim crawled into bed a few minutes later, having changed and checked for other lights, making sure the apartment was dark. Christie was already asleep and he gathered her close, kissed her neck, and fell asleep easier than he had in years.