It's a Wonderful Life Worth Living Chapter 3

Things were not going well for Bobby Goren. Not at all. He felt as if his life was spinning out of control, totally away from him. And he had no idea how to stop it.

Everything was wrong. He had gone undercover in the mental ward at Tates Prison to investigate rumors of torture and murder. And then he was the one tortured in that place, strapped down in a hot room with no food or water for over 60 hours, and then returned there. He came close to dying, and would have if his partner and captain hadn't rescued him. And his nephew Donny, who was the reason he had originally done this undercover sting, had escaped. Bobby didn't know if Donny was dead or alive. And although Tates was now being investigated for those allegations, Bobby thought his mission had been a failure, resulting in a long six month unpaid suspension for him, and marks in his partner and captain's jackets, which he hated even worse than his own punishment.

He started thinking about all the mistakes he had made in his life, all the things he either screwed up or could have done better.

Bobby's mom had died, which affected him badly. He had taken care of her his entire life, or at least tried—even that had been a failure. He should never have put her in Caramel Ridge; she'd hated it, absolutely hated it. She felt abandoned, and who could blame her? She'd said it herself—"What kind of a son would abandon his own mother in a mental institution? But then, I expected as much from you. You've always been inconsiderate, always thinking of yourself. Frank never would have done this. Poor Frank never got a break…and you never helped him out one bit. We both expected that… " She was right, he was a lousy son.

Now she was gone, and now…nothing. Nothing but the bills, anyway. Bobby certainly didn't mind paying the bills for his mother, the only problem was, he no longer had any money. His six month suspension, his mother's bills, his own bills, and life in general had not only wiped out everything he had, but put him into heavy debt. He was pretty much barely scraping along for a while there. He remembered living that way as a child—sometimes Dad had gambled away their food or rent money, and after he'd left there was never any money. That was something he swore would never happen again. And now look at him.

The only way he had to relieve just a portion of that was to get his job back, and the only way to do that was to take on another dangerous undercover mission which the Chief of Detectives was forcing him into. The Chief was no fan of his, and Bobby was convinced the Chief wanted him to die doing this mission. And even if he did make it out alive and start getting a paycheck again it would probably take years before his financial troubles eased.

The latest undercover stint also led to problems with his partner Alex, who hadn't liked not being told of the operation. This made him feel terrible; the one constant in his life the last few years was Alex. And he didn't know how to fix that.

And now Frank, his brother, had been murdered. All Bobby could think of was his last words to his brother, "If I hear you're on the bridge, getting ready to jump…I'll…I'll wait for the splash." Every time Bobby thought of that, he wanted to die. How could he have said that to his own brother? The brother who, at only age seven, had taken care of him, a bratty little four year old, when their parents had left them home alone for an entire weekend? God, how could I say that! Bobby thought, over and over. He was miserable. He was alone in the world now. He wanted to be the one who was dead. Well, maybe he could be… He put his head in his hands, fighting another one of those excruciating headaches that seemed to occur on a regular basis now and lasted for days.

To make matters worse, as if things could get any worse, on her deathbed his mother told him she wasn't even sure who his real father was. It was either her husband, the man he thought was his father, or a notorious serial killer. He'd just recently found out it was the serial killer. It was a crushing blow. The man he thought of as Dad wasn't a very good dad, but at least he didn't murder people. It changed everything, everything he'd ever thought or felt about himself, his whole identity. A schizophrenic for a mother and a murderer for a father, he thought. What a fucking mess they made of me. He wished more than ever that he was dead.

And now came the final kick in the teeth. Bobby discovered his phone and financial records were being checked—by his partner and his captain—for evidence in the murder of his brother. He was deeply wounded that Alex had checked up on him like a common criminal; he felt utterly betrayed. He looked at her and said, "You think I'm a suspect?" And she told him, "Bobby, right now you are a suspect." And in utter disbelief he said, "You think I'm capable of that?" Then he confronted Ross, his captain, and asked point blank if Ross thought that he was capable of murdering his own brother. Ross told him, "You're a detective. What do you think? You're under stress. Your mother's death, your suspension, your father…" That led to another confrontation. And after that, what Ross suspected about Bobby's paternity was confirmed. He was the son of Mark Ford Brady, the serial killer. It was more ammunition to use against him. Ross wasn't particularly happy about it, but he had to do his job.

After Bobby left, furious, Ross was called to another meeting with the Chief of Detectives concerning the beleaguered detective, and things went from bad to worse.

Later that evening, Bobby was in his kitchen, scrounging in the refrigerator for something to eat. Finding nothing, he settled on a beer. Just as good, he thought, not really caring. As he opened the beer there was a knock on his door. He wasn't expecting anyone and unlocked the door.

There stood two detectives, whom he knew slightly, with some uniformed policemen behind them. They had come to arrest him for the murder of his brother. They made him turn around; wearily he put his hands behind him as they put the cuffs around his wrists.

He could tell they were nearly as embarrassed to be arresting him as he was embarrassed to be arrested, and for a second felt sorry for them. One even whispered to him, "Sorry, man, this is fucked up." Bobby nodded. As they read him his rights, he resigned himself to his fate. He should have anticipated this, why should anything be different now?

After suffering through the indignities of arrest, Bobby laid on the cot in his cell. His head throbbed unbearably. All the problems he'd had over the last two years came to a head and overwhelmed him. And right now he couldn't even come up with any bail money, another humiliating circumstance. He was just stuck. It was getting to him; he felt pressure in his head, in his body. He'd been fighting since he was a young child, and was now just plain tired. Let them do what they wanted to him, he no longer cared. All he wanted now was to sleep; to quit fighting, give up, and just sleep. Forever.

His partner Alex came by to give him some encouragement. "Bobby, I know you didn't do it, the Captain knows you didn't do it. It was the Chief. He's the one who had you arrested."

Bobby didn't say anything for a long while, then very listlessly he said, "What difference does it make? The point is, I am. This is what the Chief's been waiting for, if it was up to him he'd have me in here in a straitjacket. Or shipped off to Bellevue, and locked away for the rest of my life."

"It's not going to happen, Bobby! I already—"

"You know what, Eames? It doesn't fucking matter. Maybe he's right. Maybe I am a whack job. Just like my mother. And oh, yeah, let's not forget my real father! He had to have been president of the entire Whack Job Club! Think of it, Eames! Think of the fucking gene pool I got to choose from—"

"Bobby! STOP IT!" When Bobby quieted for a moment, Eames said, "I've…I've been trying to come up with the bail money, but…"

"Forget it, Eames. I don't want anybody putting up any money for me. I couldn't begin to pay it back anyway. I'm a fucking screw up! Don't throw good money after bad." Bobby got up and banged on the door.

Eames watched sadly as Bobby was shackled again and led away.

O0O

Early the next morning, a guard came to his cell. "Hey, Goren! Get up, you're outta here!"

Bobby awoke groggily from a very fitful sleep. "What?"

"I said, get up. Your bail's been paid, and you're outta here. Or maybe you don't wanna go?"

Bobby was on his feet in a second. "Let's go." On the way out, Bobby said, almost angrily, "Who paid the bail?"

"I don't know. All I know is, it's paid."

So Bobby was out on bail. Now what? He wasn't sure whether he cared or not. Proving himself innocent would be difficult; if he failed, he could figure on prison, and he wouldn't last long in there, and even if he went through all the effort and proved himself innocent, he'd still be no better off. He'd still be dead ass broke, and Donny, if he was even still alive, would still be missing. His horrible nightmares that he'd suffered all his life would still be there, only now they'd be accompanied by nightmares of his terrible torture at Tates, and the murder of Frank. He hadn't been able to prevent the murder of his own brother; what the hell kind of detective was he? Eames and Ross would still have marks in their jackets, and he would forever be the whack job…but what bothered him the most was that Eames and Ross had thought him guilty enough to check up on him; his partner of eight years, and his captain. He and Ross didn't have the best of relationships, but he thought Ross at least respected his ethics and morality. He guessed not. And Eames…

He went back to his apartment; the entire time these and more thoughts preyed on his mind. Once there, he checked in the nightstand by his bed, the back-up gun was still there. He picked up the gun, turned it around in his hand over and over, and thought what a miserable piece of work he was. Knowing it was not in his best interests, he went into the kitchen and got a beer, then another, and realized he was out. That meant he'd have to get more, because he damn sure wasn't drunk enough. He put the gun in his belt on his jeans, and drove his car through the snow to Marty's, a local bar.

"You're here early," Johnny the bartender, commented. Bobby said nothing, just sat at the bar. Johnny knew what he liked, and set him up. He looked carefully at Bobby; Bobby didn't look so good. "You okay, Bobby?"

Bobby looked up for a moment and shook his head. His dark eyes were bright with pain, and it struck Johnny that he had never seen Bobby look so sad. In fact, he had never seen anyone look so sad. He knew of a few of Bobby's recent problems, and offered to help. He leaned over to Bobby conspiratorially, despite the fact no one else was there.

"Listen, Bobby," he said, his voice just above a whisper, "I know things are a little tight for you right now, I could lend you a few bucks if you want." Bobby wondered how everybody seemed to know his difficulties, then he remembered, oh, year, the fact that he wasn't working kind of made his suspension fairly obvious. Something else I can feel good about.

Bobby gave his friend a small smile. "That's all right, Johnny. I don't think I'll be…uh, needing it."

"Okay, then, well at least this next one is on me. Merry Christmas, Bobby!" he said, raising his own glass to Bobby's.

"Merry Christmas, Johnny," Bobby said listlessly.

Bobby stayed a lot longer than he planned, for the whole night, until closing. Soon all the other patrons had left to go home to their families. "Families," he thought sadly. "Something I'll never have."

"One more for the road, Bobby?" Johnny asked.

Bobby looked at his watch; ten minutes till closing time. "Nah, that's all right." He was somewhat buzzed. "Don't want to keep you any longer than possible. I'm sure you've got better things to do. You need to get home to your family."

"I'm here for the duration, no matter what. So if you want another…? On me?"

Bobby gave his friend another small smile, and got up. "No thanks, Johnny. But you're a good friend…thank you." He headed out, and stopped for a second at the door, turning back. "Have a great Christmas, Johnny."

Johnny watched sadly as his friend left, shaking his head. Things just didn't seem to be working out for him.

Bobby left his car at the bar and walked along slowly through the snow, not even noticing as more snow fell, landing in his hair, on his jacket and all around him. At first he thought about Christmas, and almost smiled at the irony of it all. Christmas, the happiest time of year. How many people killed themselves at Christmas? he wondered. He knew there were a lot, and he wondered at their reasons. He laughed cynically. Here it was Christmas, and it meant little or nothing to him. He had no one to share it with—no wife, no family. Of course he bought Alex a little something every year; she was his partner and he thought, his friend. And Denise. He did love Denise, but never thought himself worthy of her. And he never understood why she always consented to go out with him or have him over. Probably a pity fuck, he thought bitterly. His mind turned to the gun that was still in his belt, and he wandered into a dark empty alley. He stood with his back against a wall, and took the gun back out of his belt. He stared at it for a long time. He'd never put his gun in his mouth before, that would be insane, the slightest thing could go wrong…guess this means I really am crazy, he thought. The thing he feared more than anything in his life had finally happened. Well, at least it happened at a time when no one else could be hurt from it.

Strange thoughts went through his mind. His early Catholic upbringing taught him that suicides would never see Heaven. Which is strange, he thought. If you're committing suicide, it means you're crazy. Why would God punish a crazy person, someone who would need God's help the most? Didn't make sense...The odd thoughts continued. He wondered what the gun would taste like in his mouth, or if it was so cold that his tongue would stick to it. Would he feel any pain at all, or would it hurt for just a second? Please God, please don't let me do this!!

"Okay," Peter said, looking down on Bobby. "Jacob, you're on!"

Bobby had slid down, his back still to the wall. Please, God! He said again. He looked up to the heavens, almost as though he was looking into Peter's eyes, and Peter wondered if perhaps he had sent the wrong man to save him. Maybe someone more experienced—but it was too late now. All he could do was pray that Jacob did it right.

There were tears in Bobby's eyes, and he cried. He put he head in his hands and just sobbed. Now he was glad he was crazy; it was the only way God would ever forgive him. Through those tears he looked again at the gun in his hand. Please, God, forgive me...

Just at that moment there was a commotion at the front of the alley, distracting Bobby. He looked up to see an old man being accosted by a group of young gang members.

"Hey!" he shouted. His natural instincts kicked in, and he jumped up. "Police!"

The gang members took one look at him and suddenly started running. They'd never noticed Bobby in the shadows, no telling how many more police there were.

Bobby reached the old man, helping him up, warily watching for any returning gang members. "Are you alright?" he asked the man.

Jacob looked up at him. "A better question would be, are you alright?"

"What?" Bobby said. The surprise was evident in his voice.

"I said, are you okay? Are you?"

Bobby gave him a strange look. "Of course. I wasn't the one being attacked."

"No, but you were the one trying to kill yourself."

Bobby stepped back, narrowing his eyes. "What did you say?"

"You tried to kill yourself. Lucky I stepped in when I did."

Bobby was shocked to discover this man, whoever he was, knew what he was doing. His voice hardened. "Yeah, well there's still plenty of time."

"Oh, no, no! You can't do that!" Jacob told him. "Not after I just saved you!"

"Watch me," Bobby said grimly. "And what the hell are you talking about, anyway? I saved you."

"Yes, you saved me because I let you save me. To save you."

Bobby pushed the palms of his hands against his throbbing temples. "What?" he asked again, tiredly. He really didn't need this crap now. He sat on a low snow-covered brick wall, elbows on knees, head down, still massaging his temples. "I can't… go on…" his voice was barely above a whisper. "Sometimes I just…I wish I'd never been born…"

"What did you say… you wish you'd never been born?" Jacob thought about that for a moment. Then, "Funny you should say that. Okay… done!"

Bobby looked up, puzzled.

"You just got your wish, Bobby. You are now officially…not born. Uh, I mean, officially, you were never born."

tbc