A/N: Thanks again to all who've been reading! We have seriously been squeeing our heads off for the next few chapters; we're trying not to lose our minds and end up like Adam Trent! Anyways, tell us what you think of this new chapter! We've been re-watching Committed like crazy, taking notes of every facial expression or look a character gives another. We hope this is accurate!
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I must say, though it is still raining outside, I'm more comfortable being outside the building than being inside- even though I'm still on the premises. I can run out here, I can…breathe. It's not as constricting, and I needed that breath of fresh air.
"Thanks, officer," I tell Lt. Reed Owens of the Desert State Hospital police. He was kind enough to hold an umbrella for me as I headed outside to talk with Nurse McKay about the incident in group therapy regarding Robbie.
Owens nods and walks off. I look around and spot Nurse McKay sitting at one of the benches with a cigarette between her lips, both fingers holding onto it as she takes a drag. I can't help but feel that there's something a bit suspicious about this woman. She seems…a bit too relaxed, considering what just happened. A patient died, and…she didn't seem shaken up about it at all.
"Nurse McKay, hi," I greet her with a small smile, walking over to her and leaning against one of the poles supporting the roof above us. She just nods as an acknowledgement. "Dr. Dino said that you supervised group therapy yesterday."
She blinks, as if taken off guard, but then nods. "Uh, yeah."
"I heard there was an incident involving Robbie…" I trail off.
She nods. "He had a personal item," she informs me, taking another drag of her cigarette.
"A…personal item?" I ask.
I watch as she smashes the cigarette in the ash tray next to her. "You can't bring anything in group except a beverage, it distracts the other patients."
I just nod slowly. "What did he bring?"
"A photograph," she tells me.
It sure seems like I'm having to prod for answers here. "Of what?" I prompt.
"A little boy," she says.
I just nod. "What did you do?"
She blinks. "I followed the protocol," she says. I'm left to ponder what exactly happened in my mind, the images flashing before my eyes, vibrant and clear. "Boom, boom, and boom- medication, seclusion, restraint."
"Tough love," I offer my opinion.
"Call it what you want, these aren't my children," she tells me, getting to her feet as if to make a run for it.
"Why…didn't you mention this information yesterday?" I quickly ask before she has a chance to leave.
"Because crap like that happens everyday here," she tells me, her eyes narrowing.
Yeah, I want to tell her, but this crap happened to lead up to the death of one of the patients.
She shrugs. "I should get back to the unit."
I just nod. "Sure." She walks off rather quickly and I hear my phone ring before I'm able to ponder what just happened in my mind any further. I reach into my pocket and answer it automatically. "Sidle."
"We got the DNA results back on the semen in Robbie's bed."
It's Grissom.
"Patient Adam Trent—the nail biter," he informs me.
I just nod, actually a bit surprised. Adam…didn't seem like the type of person who would be having sex with one of the other patients. He seemed to keep to himself. "Okay."
Once again, I have to admit my unease at having Sara work this entire case… more so, for the simple fact that I am not with her at all times, keeping an eye on her. For example, just a little while ago, I sent Sara back to the state hospital—alone—to collect more information. I, on the other hand, stayed at the lab, analyzing what we already had. Why…? I mean… why didn't I ask Sara to stay here, while taking on the more dangerous task myself? Especially, I can't help but think to myself, if I am going to sit here and dwell on everything that Sara might or might not be encountering at the hospital. It doesn't make sense… and I am reminded of the fact that I can be very… unenlightened, sometimes.
A short time later, however, my fears are put to rest, as Sara and I reunite in order to examine Adam Trent's room. Adam's room is… well… it's different, I suppose. The furniture is the same as the furniture in the other rooms, but… his walls are decorated with… art. I think it's art, anyhow. Snapping a couple of photographs of a cat-like picture, I sigh, as I try to study it. Its back is to me, and it appears to be looking over its shoulder. In a sick sort of way, this part of the picture kind of reminds me of Marilyn Monroe… Okay, let me rephrase that: this picture reminds me of those women from the 1950s and 1960s, who face forward, glancing over their shoulders in seductive poses. The upper part of Adam's picture is innocuous enough, much like the models depicted in the "come hither" photos of past decades.
But then the tone of the picture changes, as the human eye is drawn to spikes. Spikes are not innocuous. Spikes can kill. "This stuff is dark…" I merely comment, noticing how intently Sara is studying the images plastering the walls. What is running through her mind? I think to myself.
This art is very…different from what I've seen. Actually, 'different' is a major understatement. I can only imagine what kind of thoughts were running through Adam's mind as he drew these pictures. The hospital is not exactly the warmest most cheery place in the world, though, so in a way I can see how he probably came up with this stuff in his mind.
But why would Adam be making all sorts of innocuous objects into killing machines? I don't understand… in Adam's file, he has records of past suicide attempts, but he never murdered anyone from what I saw. These pictures- to me- depict anger. Where was this anger coming from? Why would Adam be filled with all this rage? Was it rage pent up from being locked up in this place, rage against the hospital, perhaps?
I note that one of the pictures is of Medusa's head. Huh. At one point in my life I think I was actually pretty sure my mother was Medusa. She was known as the nasty mother. Well...my mother was...I wouldn't say nasty, I don't think that word properly portrays her actions. According to what I have read, Medusa purified. Was...that what my mother was doing when she killed my father? Purifying him?
Medusa was sort of the protector of women, she certainly had the strength to scare men off. She was raped by Poseidon but still had the strength and courage to stand against those who thought to inflict harm upon the female race. My mother had put up with my father's behavior for quite some time...and I guess she had finally had enough of it that night. But...I don't justify what she did. And she didn't do it to protect us…she probably did it to protect her.
"This stuff is dark," I hear Grissom say as he takes more pictures of the room. I'm sure there are thousands of things going on in his mind at the moment, but those simple four words were a fair observation of the images in front of us.
You're supposed to be thinking of the case right now, not about something that happened to you over twenty years ago. "Yeah…" I muse, looking from picture to picture. A tree with razors on it, a cat with thorns on its tail, an oboe that looks to have been turned into some sort of weapon… "'Course, I wouldn't expect Winnie the Pooh…" I tell him, still looking at each picture. Somehow I wasn't expecting to see a cheerful pink Piglet all smiles plastered over the walls. Call me crazy.
"Yeah… 'Course, I wouldn't expect Winnie the Pooh…" I hear Sara comment.
Good point. Although… well, I wasn't really expecting to find…this, either. Slowly walking over to Sara, I stand just in front of her, as if trying to protect her from pictures that might just come alive and attempt to kill her… or at the very least, as if trying to protect her from the man whose mind created these sick images.
"Adam's subconscious was working overtime…" I merely reply to her.
Because what must someone be thinking, in order to design a tree with razors, or an oboe that can kill…? What must someone be mentally and physically going through, in order to draw a picture of Medusa… or in other words, a female killer… an individual who is noted by historians as being, for lack of a better word, an evil mother? None of these pictures are happy-go-lucky, although… can I really blame Adam for drawing such dismal images…?
His life is basically a prison, on two completely separate levels. First of all, Adam is locked inside of this particular state-run facility, forced to eat, sleep, and breathe the "craziness." He wakes up, he takes medication, he goes to group, he takes medication, and he goes to sleep… only to wake up the very next day, to repeat the process all over again. Wake up, take medicine, group, take medicine, and sleep. Wake up, take medicine, group, take medicine, and sleep. Wake up, take medicine, group, take medicine, and sleep… only to repeat the process again, the very next day; and then the very next day; and then the very next day. But as if that is not bad enough, Adam is also locked inside the confines of his own body. I cannot imagine what hell his brain must put him through on a daily basis, nor can I imagine how he manages to cope with the stress of being imprisoned inside of his own body. In a sense, I almost feel sorry for Adam. Almost.
But then my gaze wanders back to Medusa, and I start to think about Sara again. Aside from the whole killer and having snakes for hair, Sara and Medusa actually have a lot of things in common. Medusa's mask is always depicted in an interesting way… a strong, unwavering gaze, eyes that reflect extreme intelligence and wisdom… eyes that can tell exactly what someone is thinking, regardless of what that particular person says; the mask kind of describes Sara, in a sense. Sara has strong convictions, and when she gazes at you, it is almost as if she can see right down into your soul; it's almost as if she knows everything that there is to know about someone, just by looking at him or her. And truth be told, I am not entirely sure how I feel about this. What… what does she think about me…? I can't help but wonder.
I just nod, trying to think of something to change the topic and lighten the mood. I can sense- no; feel- the tension in this room and it's making us both uncomfortable.
"I bet you aced your Rorschachs," I tell Grissom, looking over at him with a smile. Actually, knowing Grissom, he probably aced everything- including his Rorschachs- with middle school, high school, and college credits to spare.
Grissom looks up from the camera and the picture he's currently taking and returns my gaze. I notice a small grin as he turns and takes more pictures.
"In fifth grade," I start, clearing my throat. I enjoyed the moment between us, it was... no, not sensual, just... comforting in a sense. Why am I talking about something that happened in fifth grade…? Is…it because it just crossed my mind, or…I want to see him smile again? "I drew a picture of a harpooned whale," I told him. "Everyone thought I was gonzo'd," I add, turning to look at him for his reaction. He shoots me a strange look, obviously surprised at my use of the slang term. "But I had just read Moby Dick," I shrug, looking back at the wall of pictures. "Sometimes a…dying whale is just a dying whale," I finish, looking over at him one last time with a grin. He smiles at me and I quickly turn away to try and hide my satisfaction from the reaction that I got from him.
Looking at another picture, I lean forward to take it off the wall for better observation- from here I can't really see what it is or what it looks like, though… it sort of looks like a chimera to me. I try to grab the picture and it falls off the wall behind a small dresser. I was surprised that I actually didn't feel embarrassed that this happened- perhaps it was because I was too focused at the moment, or because we were going to have to move this dresser eventually anyways.
With Grissom's help I move the dresser away from the wall and pick the picture up, looking at it more closely. After taking a peek at the picture, I set it down on the dresser and look down at the air vent. Grabbing my mag-lite, I click it on and open the air vent, and I'm rewarded when I notice that there are what looks to be some envelopes lying inside.
Reaching in, I grab some of them and set them down on the dresser. Kneeling back down to look further inside for anything else of interest, I find a hairbrush- covered in hair- as well and set it down on the dresser for better analysis. The hair looks fresh enough for a DNA profile, and that's good, I know. As soon as we run that to Greg we'll know if Adam had another sexual relationship with someone in this facility.
I get back to work, resisting the urge to look at Sara. I need to focus on Adam's room. I need to collect the data. I need to concentrate on what I am doing. Really, I just have to get Sara out of my mind… because she is close to me, and I am once again consumed with the idea of keeping her safe.
And then Sara starts to talk… to lesson the tension in the room. Why… is she talking? Doesn't she know that I am trying to ignore her presence…?
"I bet you aced your Rorschachs," she tells me.
I flash her a strange look, trying not to smile. If I smile, I will only encourage her, and… God, she's smiling at me. I really want to smile back… I really, really do… but I have to be the consummate professional. I can't smile. I resist… this time.
But then she keeps talking to me, once again trying to lighten the mood. "When I was in fifth grade, I drew a picture of a harpooned whale. Everyone thought I was gonzo'd. But I had just read Moby Dick," she shrugs. "Sometimes a dying whale is just a dying whale…"
First of all, 'gonzo'd'? What the heck does that even mean? And I can't help it! I pull the camera away from my eye, and glance over at Sara. I smile at her for a brief moment, and I feel… what? What do I feel…? Desire? No, not really… the look was by no means sexual, nor was it even sensual. I feel warm… I feel… comfortable… I feel… at ease.
Taking a deep breath, I return the camera to my eyes, trying to get back to work. But before getting too far with my picture-taking, however, I watch as Sara reaches for one of the pictures as if to study it more closely, accidentally knocking it off of the wall, and behind a dresser. It could have happened to anyone, I want to tell her. But instead of saying anything, I simply move to help her with the dresser, and frown, as she uncovers something hidden behind it, and within a vent.
Glancing down at Sara, my mouth slightly hangs open, as she hands me a small stack of letters. Interesting, I think to myself. Very, very interesting. The letters are all addressed to Adam Trent, at Desert State Mental Hospital, and I can't help but notice the very feminine hand-writing, as I glance at the post date of the first letter: June 13, 2002; and of the second letter: June 13, 2002. Once again gazing over at Sara, I slowly raise an eyebrow. "These are all postdated over a year ago…" I inform her, watching her as she removes a hair brush from the vent, setting it on the dresser in front of her. "It's not just his subconscious. This guy's got stuff buried everywhere…" I add, as I once again make eye contact with her.
What the hell is going on around this place…?
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TO BE CONTINUED