Disclaimer: I do not own Numb3rs.

Please note that I am not a fabulous Spanish student and may have made some mistakes. The title means 'Bearer of Bad News' (I hope.)

El Portador de las Malas Noticias

"Señor, señor," the woman repeated again. "Por favor, dime. Beto, mi hijo. ¿Dónde está¡Por favor!"

Where was her son, she'd asked. Colby Granger just stared at her. Where is he? She repeated. And when could she see him?

The answer, of course, was that Beto wasn't there- wasn't there in a big way- and that she would see him as soon as the mortician was done with him. Megan had told her as much, too, before realizing that the woman didn't speak a word of English.

"¿Por qué no dices¡Di algo!"

'Why aren't you talking? Say something!' But the fact of the matter was that when he opened his mouth, nothing would come out. He felt stupid, thick; he'd been speaking Spanish for years but somehow when he tried to speak the only thing he could get out was "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," over and over again, and that still in English.

("I'm so sorry, sir, I…")

The woman could understand that much, and it sent her into another fit of tears. "¿Qué¿Qué dijiste? Quiera, Dios…"

It was no good. He was frozen.

"Lo siento, señora. Voy a volver. I'll be back soon." He had to get out of there, if only for a minute.

Outside the room he leaned against the wall. He was getting a headache- a bad one. It was starting behind his eyes but radiating through his skull and threatening to spread through his entire body. He wasn't good at this sort of thing. He never had been, especially not now. He had given so much bad news in his time already, and the part of him capable of it had just shriveled and died.

("Tell it to me straight, Granger. I know you know…")

"How'd she take it?" A voice called. He opened his eyes and Megan's face swam into view.

"Take what?"

Megan gave him a pointed look. "Her son is dead. How'd she take it?" Colby shifted a bit and looked away. "You didn't tell her!"

"Uh," he said quietly, "not yet."

"Colby!" Megan was in his face instantly. "How long are you going to make that poor woman wait?"

("Don't make an old man wait, son…")

"I'm not good at this!" He snapped, glaring down at her. "You're the one that handles these things."

"Yes, usually," Megan replied. "Except I don't speak Spanish."

"And you've lived in California how many years?" He snapped. "What about David?"

"David doesn't speak it well enough for this, Colby. That's one of the reasons you're on this case. You're fluent."

"Maybe we should wait to get the full autopsy report back…"

("I don't want to hear it from his commanding…")

"Why? It's not like the autopsy will show he's not dead!"

("… I want to hear it from his friend, Granger!")

"I just… can you give me a minute, Megan?"

"Colby?"

"I just have a headache…"

"Colby!"

"Private. At ease."

"I'm sorry, sir, I'm not sure why you asked me here."

"Oh yes you are. Tell it to me straight, Granger. I know you know. Is my son dead?"

"Sir…"

"Don't make an old man wait, son. Mine is an old military family and I'm not a patient person."

"Yes, well… the thing is, sir…"

"I don't want to hear it from his commanding, I want to hear it from his friend, Granger. You were close, I know you were. Been together since enlisting. And now I'm asking you to tell me. I don't want to read it on the official report like any other soldier. I want you to tell me right now. Was Phillip in the explosion? Is my son dead?"

Private Colby Granger, twenty-six, stood straight as a board in Colonel Matthew Jeffrey's tiny, hot office and tried to keep his expression as blank and steady as he could manage. Behind his back his hands were shaking. The Colonel repeated his question, eyes panicked, face pale.

"Granger! Is my son dead? Private? Granger?"

"Colby!" Megan's hands were on his arm. "What is it?"

"What is what?" He murmured, confused.

"You look awful," she told him seriously, and he was suddenly aware that he was bent almost halfway over, his hands over his eyes, his face twisted up in knots. "Colby?"

"It's okay," he wheezed. "I'm alright. I just got dizzy for a minute."

"You looked like you were going to faint."

"I was not gonna faint," he corrected her testily.

"Fine, you looked like you were going to pass out, then. You haven't slept in almost two days," Megan said quietly. He was standing straight now, his heart rate slowing, but still her hands were on his arm, her eyes concerned.

"I'm used to it," he told her, pulling away from her grip.

"That may be, but maybe you should go home for a while."

"I will. After this." He gestured at the door to the room where Señora Teresa Rosario was waiting for him. Megan let him go.

Agent Colby Granger, twenty-nine, sat, back straight, in a chair facing the weeping woman across the table. "¿Señor?" She asked quietly. "¿Señor?"

("Yes, sir. Phillip is dead. Just after the explosion… I'm very sorry…")

"Señora, lo siento mucho, mucho. Tu hijo Beto es muerto."

She wailed, sobbing, her words becoming so delirious that Colby couldn't translate. He reached across the table and took her hand.

Her family arrived and after almost an hour Colby made his escape. Megan accosted him almost the instant he'd left the room, but he walked away from her without a word. He grabbed his coat from his cubicle and was at the elevator, on the ground floor, and out of the FBI building as quickly as he could be. He was not in the mood for Megan's psycho-analysis. He was not in the mood for anything just then.