Dr. Bale looked at his visitor as if sizing up his motivations; he must have found whatever nuance he sought when he went on. "Like I said, I was under the impression that Mr. Grissom spoke to you about my request."
"When was that?"
"About six months after the trial, less than two years ago."
Nick tapped the armrests. "And why didn't you ever contact me directly? I mean, this was personal. Why keep e-mailing my supervisor?"
The physician looked sheepish. "I guess in retrospect, that would have been the best thing. However, Mr. Grissom was my contact and we had already been in communication about Mr. Crane's evaluations and discussion concerning the trial. Since Mr. Crane's defense pleaded insanity and there wasn't much to do but recommend a treatment for sentencing after the judge agreed with the DA's and counsel's assessment of his mental status."
"He wanted to become me," Nick muttered, gazing at his hands, not understanding why anyone would ever want to be in his shoes sometimes.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Stokes. That's not what Mr. Crane was after. Although that is an interesting theory."
Nick shifted in his seat. "It seemed to fit at the time. What... I mean...what did he want?"
"To fill a void."
It was too pat of a response, but he didn't roll his eyes.
Dr. Bale sighed. "People like Mr. Crane are emotionally barren; they have a poor sense of their identity and since most suffer some form of psychosis, they latch onto others who can give them self worth."
Nick sat forward gesturing with his hand. "I talked to him for about ten minutes, maybe a little longer, and somehow I'm the solution to his problems."
"In his shoes, if someone who has a higher status, like someone in law enforcement, can speak with him with such ease, then in his mind, he couldn't be as detestable as he perceived," Dr. Bale said matter of factly.
"What about Jane Galloway? He murdered her, claimed she was some sort of gift. What you're describing goes beyond a lonely man seeking a friend."
Nick shook his head. This was exactly what he didn't want to do. This was what he wanted to avoid.
It wasn't about him; it was about the case and he needed to get back on track. But he didn't stop the doctor, didn't tell him that this was unnecessary, because some of the splinters from a few hours ago were multiplying and the cracks grew deeper.
"That's part of the delusion. Mr. Crane rationalized all of his behavior, minimized its relevance. In his worldview, it wasn't against society's rules. Jane's death was just another way to impress you."
"Impress me." Nick still couldn't believe it.
"For some people, impressing a person they seek approval from is a guiding force for all motivation. A goal to achieve."
Nick nodded. "Yeah, well, I never tried to assault the person I sought approval from."
"Mr. Crane was caught off guard when he attacked you. Believe it or not, he doesn't hold any violent tendencies towards you. He lacks any practical way to deal with things that he cannot control. Entering his apartment was one of them."
Nick let the investigator part of his brain analyze the case, for once without all the other noise in his head telling him to stop and move on. "All those cameras, and recordings." Nick took a breath, "All part of his need to have some hand in my daily life."
Dr. Bale leaned forward to listen, since the criminalist's voice grew softer and harder to follow with every passing minute. "Gathering such detailed information is common with sociopathic thinking. Again, in his frame of mind, it wasn't wrong."
"I guess when we found his place, all of his equipment, we must have rattled him," Nick theorized.
"It literally tore his world apart. Like a free fall, his only thing left was to confront you." The doctor lowered his voice. "Most stalkers don't ever appear to their victims; they stick to their delusions for years. If not, then their reality is broken."
Nick stared off into space, his voice heavy. "I thought he was going to kill me, in my own place. Though this time I wasn't going to just stand there, helpless."
"He never planned to kill you. He was going to end his life; in a way, it was a test."
Nick frowned, hands clutched the armrests. "I saved him," he almost whispered.
Dr. Bale's chair squeaked in the quiet office. "You reaffirmed his fantasy. You showed you cared that he lived."
Nick felt his nails dig into the leather. "Gave him exactly what he craved," his voice cracking.
Dr. Bale fell silent, letting the past few minutes sink in.
Nick forced his weight down onto his arms, pushing his body up and out of the chair, holding it there for a second, as the muscles in his arm ached and trembled. Then he eased himself back down, and peered up. "This victim impact session. You think it would have worked?"
"I think it might have helped; it certainly would have sped up the progress."
Nick swallowed. "He's made progress, though. Yeah?"
The doctor leaned back in his chair. "Yes, he has. Steps have been made, although I think it will be almost unpredictable if you interview him. My original plans were to slowly allow him to accept the fact you were going to confront him. The impact session was meant to instill empathy and consequences for his actions."
Nick wet his lips. "Maybe later, Doc. Right now, I just need answers on this case."
The older man eyed the criminalist. "Did you ever get help after this event?"
Nick exhaled. "This isn't about me, Doctor." He looked towards the door. "Can we begin this?"
He waited and waited. Seemed like a damn eternity, an invisible stopwatch above his head; the little ticking sound made him wish he still smoked. College days he did for a little while, but now he had that insatiable need to draw something dark and thick into his lungs to calm the jitters.
Christ, it wasn't supposed to be like this...He wasn't supposed to feel this way, stomach doing flip flops, sharp pain tearing at his side. Sweat dotted his brow, which he wiped off with the back of his hand. Except he wasn't afraid. No... fear felt different; squeezed his heart, made every beat of it hurt to pump more blood. If anything his pulse was speeding along like a marathon runner. This wasn't quite a panic attack; he knew what those felt
like.
Nick balled up his fists again. It was more like some twisted adrenaline rush...another automatic response to stress...for him, any stress did something unexpected. This felt like he had swallowed a whole packet of caffeine pills, followed by a double shot of Jolt cola.
By the time he heard the lock twist open, Nick knew what it was that made the veins along the surface of his skin pop out... It was anger.
Pure resentment at being under the microscope again; to be viewed by those eyes...eyes that followed his every move for weeks. Nick cursed inwardly; he was already relinquishing power and control to the short geeky man, and he hadn't even entered the room yet.
Nick was full of rage at himself.
The white lab coat caught his eye, the movement followed by the physician's stoic face, his eyes on Nick's, searching for any last minute signal to stop.
There was none, and the other man motioned behind him. That meek profile, followed by short dark hair, a small round face and plastic rimmed glasses with thick lenses.
Nigel Crane stood in the door frame, silent, hands submissive in front, dull green shirt, a matching set of pants. Green was the color of calm; the prisoners here were not relegated to the normal orange jumpsuit. He pushed his glasses over the bridge of his nose; bewilderment, parted lips with the hint of a question...then a swallow and the almost fidgety nature sort of melted into a calm, easy stance.
Nigel took a few steps in front of the table, Nick on the other side, the bulk of a guard behind the smaller inmate. The man of nightmares past motioned with his hands towards the familiar orange plastic chair.
"May I take a seat?"
Nick gestured for him to do so, still watching Nigel's movements, his stomach burning with a burst of digestive acids. The man's voice was as calm and cool as before.
Nigel cleared his throat, hands lay flat on the wooden surface, eyes moving...soaking in details.
"You grew your hair out. Very fashionable, Nick. Like one of those indie rock bands."
Dr. Bale pulled up another chair next to his patient; Nigel didn't notice. The physician turned his head, voice chiding like a teacher's. "Nigel. I explained why Mr. Stokes came here. He's investigating a case, and needed to speak to you about Joey."
"It's Nick," Nigel corrected, never tearing his gaze away.
Nick reminded his brain about who was in charge, who had all the power; it was his to control. "I want to know about your cell mate."
Nigel knitted his eyes. "Did you change your choice in designers?" He leaned forward, squinting. "Reading the latest fashion magazines, not sure about the color." He slouched into his seat, eyes still straight ahead. "Earth tones suit you better."
Nick held up his hand to silent the physician who was about to say something. Nick's eyebrows turned downward, his face almost menacing, his voice sinister. "Your cell mate. Joseph Brighten--"
"Come on, Nick---"
"Don't interrupt me when I'm speaking, Mr. Crane. And don't waste my time either," he chastised. Nick glared when the prisoner became huffy. "I have other things to do. If you're just going to screw around, we can end this interview now," Nick threatened.
There it was, a slight trace of fear. Nigel let it slip for a second, but Nick knew he had him hook, line, and sinker.
Nigel sighed, rolling his eyes. "Joey...really, Nick. The guy was a bore. Total loser."
Nick gave in a little. "Why was that?"
The geeky man snorted. "Never seen such a wimpy guy. On and on about his stupid wife, bratty child. Whatever. A weak little man, couldn't hack it, Nick. Didn't just accept things."
"Was he ever violent or get angry easily?" the CSI asked.
Nigel smiled. "Joey didn't know about fear, Nick. He didn't quite understand it, how to manipulate it. Use it to its full extent. He was ruled by it, let it play with him. Conquer him...eat him up 'til he was nothing but a little lost sheep, prey for all the big bad wolves out there."
Nick felt something cook, right beneath the surface; he swore if someone touched his skin it would burn. His tone, his voice however, was like crushed ice. "Just answer my questions." He wet his lips, another sheet of arctic cold. "What about this week, anything unusual? Did he talk about Dr. Kincaid?"
Maybe he was laying on the toughness just a bit too thickly; piss off Nigel enough where he clammed up completely. Those beady little eyes behind plastic coke bottle glasses, they showed anger, and he'd have to backpedal. Then a tiny spark...something.
Nigel actually grinned. "I like this bad cop thing, Nick. The darker side is so much more confident, don't you think?"
Nick sat silent, his face betrayed nothing. Inside the splintering magnified, merging with the contents of bile. It had to be burning a hole in his gut, the lining of his belly skewed with the scorching of his skin.
"I'm sure Joey talked to other people, not just you." He managed to control his body enough to begin to stand. "I'll just find someone else..."
"Fine!" Nigel grunted, the little fire in his eyes blazing, then finally calming as Nick sat back down.
The smug little man grumbled under his breath. "Only time he mentioned any of his doctors was when he was transferred to his new one."
"Yeah," Nick prodded, not letting his anticipation show.
Nigel huffed some more. "Guy got him all worked up."
Nick felt the patience slipping through his fingers; he glanced at Dr. Bale, who seemed just intrigued by the whole conversation. Nick focused back, he felt on to something. "Why was he agitated? Was he angry at Dr. Kincaid, his new physician?"
"Will you need me to testify, Nick? My information is very important, right? Since Joey is all by his lonesome. Only his dull walnut of a brain to keep him company." Nigel's eyes glinted.
Nick let silence feed the tension.
Another shove of eyeglasses. "His new doc was always interviewing him, asking him questions. He shouldn't really rattle Joey's cage; little man wasn't very tough." Exhaling, looking around the room bored, Nigel finally locked eyes with the criminalist. "Joey mentioned being used. More stupid babble about set ups, and conspiracies. Just thought he read too many spy novels."
Nick's brain was on overload, trying to find clues within clues. He had to keep things simple. "He thought Dr. Kincaid was using him."
Nigel was beside himself, half amused, shaking his head. "Nick, Nick. No, once again you got it all wrong. His old doctor was up to no good, the new lab coat was trying to find all the little breadcrumbs."
Nick didn't show his confusion, Nigel's rambles made little sense, but he knew he'd been given the biggest break. "His old doctor." Nick sat for a moment, letting everything wash over him, trying to ignore everything else. "What about late night meetings. Did he ever leave his cell at night for therapy? I know lockdown is at nine; any other time did he leave at a strange hour?"
"I'm not his keeper, Nick. I only like to talk to interesting people." Nigel smiled again.
The criminalist had enough; there was only so much he could take, and knew this was about the best information he would obtain today. He signaled to Dr. Bale that this interview was over, no more words for Nigel.
"It's time to go back to Gen Pop." The physician stood up, waving his hand towards the exit.
Nigel stood up slowly, not taking a step away from the table.
Nick looked up at him, defiant...in control.
The nerdy man seemed disappointed and the guard began to usher him away.
"It was good talking with you again, Nick," he said, then turned to follow his escort out.
The geeky man took his time, the guard edging him away. "Come on, your broom closet is waiting for you; got floors to sweep little man."
Nigel headed away and waited for the guard to unlock the door. He turned his head around. "I'm sorry, Nick."
The Texan didn't really know how to respond to the brief apology... his stare cool, lips motionless.
Nigel waited and saw nothing. He adjusted his stupid glasses again. "I'm sorry I didn't send you a card last summer; figured it'd get lost with all your fan mail."
Nick's muteness was more out of revulsion, and not a last jab of their spar. He was left alone in the tiny room and he waited for the silence again before he stood up, nearly knocking the chair over. He leaned against the wall with his hand and laughed softly.
tbc...