A/N: Views expressed by Stan the Arson Man are not necessarily those of the author. Welcome to fiction.
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Chapter 6
Don liked to visit the bullpen at least once a day, if he could. He wanted all the agents to feel his active presence in their cases, and the day-to-day activities of their lives. Late on Tuesday morning, he stepped off the elevator in time to see Colby and David escorting someone toward interrogation.
He saw Megan, back from vacation, standing over her desk and searching through files. Careful, as always, not to allow any favortism to show toward his former team, he approached her. "Agent Reeves, welcome back. Is there a break in the arson case?"
She looked up and smiled. "Assistant Director. Good to see you. Yes — Colby discovered that the three bars, while serving diverse clientele, did indeed have alcohol in common. They all used the same distributor, and the same driver made deliveries to all three on the days of the fires. He and David are taking him into the box now. I was just going to observe."
Don nodded. "Sounds like a good show," he said, and fell in step behind her when she headed for interrogation.
In the anteroom, they stood with David to watch the video of Colby confronting the driver. So far, the suspect sat alone at the table. They knew that Colby was hovering at the door, giving the guy a few minutes to get nervous. Not too long — they didn't want him asking for a lawyer. Colby's perfect sense of timing in these situations was part of why he was so effective in the box.
Megan spoke lowly. "I saw that Charlie was at the last club. In his statement he said he doesn't even know how he got out. He fell, and someone picked him up again…" She shivered, a little. "That must have been incredibly frightening. How is he?"
Don shrugged. "He's…taking a break. I think…I think the fire pushed him over the edge." He looked at his friends and spoke sadly. "I don't know. I thought he was…progressing. I've been so preoccupied, with my new position, and Cecile…I think I missed something. I'm afraid he's been floundering for a while."
Megan looked sadly at the floor. "He has to want help, Don. He has a good support system in his family and friends— but only if he chooses to use it."
On the monitor they saw the door open, saw Colby stride purposefully into the box and drop some folders on the table. The suspect looked like a deer caught in the headlights.
Don smiled. "Well…at least I know one guy who wants some help right now."
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"Convince me."
Colby was sitting backwards on a chair, arms propped on the backrest, facing the suspect on the other side of the table. "You're the only link between these three clubs. We have credit card receipts for gasoline and shop rags. You have access to empty liquor bottles — arson has confirmed that Molotov cocktails were planted in several locations in each club." He leaned the chair up on its back legs, toward the table. "I gotta tell ya, Stan. I'm liking you for this."
The balding, middle-aged man blinked several times behind his glasses — and then broke Colby's heart when he took all the fun out of the interrogation. "Of course I did it," he said.
Colby's chair crashed back down to the floor. "What?"
The little man leaned forward in his own chair. His hands were on the table, and he formed one into a fist, banging it into the wood periodically to drive home a point. "It was necessary. We must cleanse our own land, we must extinguish the fires of heathenism before we are all cast into the eternal fire of damnation."
Colby just stared at him.
"I knew you would find me soon, I knew there was only so much that I could do, so I tried to choose carefully. Targeting the first club was easy. The homosexual lifestyle is an abomination. Likewise the wanton and promiscuis heterosexual acts promoted by that…that strip club. Remy's? You'd have to be blind and deaf not to be aware of what goes on in there. Drugs. Sex and drugs." Stan suddenly pushed back his chair and leaped to his feet. "A BANE TO SOCIETY! THE LOOSE MORALS OF THIS CADRE OF PERVERSION WILL CURSE US ALL!"
Colby came to his feet as agents watching the video burst through the door to restrain the suspect. "Take him down to holding and book him," he ordered unhappily.
Some people were just no fun at all.
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It was Thursday afternoon before Charlie finally left the small motel. If he hadn't finally finished the last of the food Alan had sent, he might have stayed even longer. As it was, it took him most of the morning to shower, shave, dig out some new clothes, check out and find the will to drive.
He couldn't believe how tired he remained. His first 28-hour nap had been followed by another. Tuesday's and Wednesday's naps had been less overwhelming, but incredibly frequent. He would wake up, turn on the television, eat some yogurt or a protein bar standing in the kitchenette, and within minutes, find himself sprawled on the bed again. Wednesday afternoon he had managed to force himself out of the room long enough to go to the motel's small outdoor picnic area. He had picked a chaise lounge away from the other guests — and fallen asleep.
Early in their counseling relationship, Dr. Aaron had offered him an antidepressant, which Charlie had turned down. He hadn't wanted to "give in" — but in the few moments he was awake, now, he thought that may have been a mistake. He knew that a change in sleep patterns was a sign of depression. Going from no sleep at all to doing nothing but sleeping — that probably qualified. Abandoning his family, his job — those weren't good signs, either.
He thought about it most of Wednesday night — when he wasn't sleeping — and before he got ready to leave on Thursday, he phoned Dr. Aaron, who was more than happy to phone a prescription in for him. Charlie would have to backtrack a little, but not far. He had seen a large franchised supermarket, complete with pharmacy, not long before he had decided to stop at the motel.
Just before he left the room for the last time, Charlie sat on the bed up by the phone again, and unsure as to why he was doing it, called Don. He almost hung up — he really didn't have anything to say — when he was put through to voice mail. Relieved, he spoke to no-one. "Just wanted to say 'Hi'", he said. "Tell Dad, Cecile. Talk to you Sunday."
Charlie hung up, and headed for someplace else.
