Disclaimer: I do not own Crossing Jordan.
Note: A short one this time... Thanks: xOlly, BugFan4Ever, Buzzy-B-, Sakura kaze fuku, Mexwojo and lbcjfan! :))
And just a little announcement: the next chapter will be the last one.
And, oh, I almost forgot: I did make up a few of Woody's memories, just so you know.
"I think you'd better start talking, Mrs. Douglas." Matt Seely flashed a smile to the woman across the table. "He can't help you much. Not when we caught you red-handed." He tilted his head towards the man sitting next to the woman. He knew him rather well – he was a hotshot lawyer, not very well-known for his moral principles, but for the number of rich offenders who were now getting suntan in the Bahamas and other exotic places instead of cleaning toilets in the county jail, thanks to him, John Burns, of course.
The detective looked at him with something that resembled disgust. Although Seely found money quite useful and loved it within the limits of reason, he had learned that not all revolved around those little green bills. That was the reason why he wasn't in a comfortable office, working for his daddy, but in a too hot interrogation room, which had no air-condition, questioning bad guys, or a bad girl, in this case. He loved putting criminals behind bars, where they should be. And this guy in a suit that had probably cost more than a homicide detective's salary was putting them back on the streets.
When Seely's eyes went back to Mrs. Kathy Douglas, the obvious disgust in his gaze was mixed with a small amount of amusement. How, on God's good Earth, was she thinking to get away with what she had done? Hoyt had practically seen her hit Jordan with the handle of a nine-millimeter and aim at her afterwards. Besides, there were all those heinous photographs on the walls. And her nail polish on the lock of the El Camino, which put her at the scene of Cavanaugh's abduction…
"You don't have to say anything," the lawyer warned his client.
However, Seely was hardly surprised when she said in a calm and firm voice, "No, it's all right. I want to tell him everything."
In another interrogation room, detective Chandler was having a hard time with Kathy's husband. William Douglas wasn't so willing to talk.
"Are you sure you don't want a lawyer?" Elliot asked him for at least fifth time. Only, this time he added: "I hear your wife has gotten herself one."
The muscles in his jaw twitched, but Douglas repeated, "I am innocent. I don't need a lawyer."
Chandler was a patient, karmically centered man – yoga, feng shui and everything – but this was starting to be too much for him. He took a deep breath.
"Sure you are," he said unenthusiastically. "Do you have any brothers or sisters?" he asked casually.
The question seemed to have surprised Douglas a little, but he responded, "No, I don't."
"Good to know," the detective retorted. "'Cause someone from the lab should arrive any minute now. We've got a warrant for your DNA. And do you know what we found in Dr. Cavanaugh's car?" he waited for a moment, but the suspect seemed completely uninterested. "No?" Chandler continued. "We found your hair. Nice color, by the way. Not many people have it. Much less they have your mitochondrial DNA." He paused again. "Ready to talk now?"
Those muscles twitched again, but William Douglas remained silent. Well, not that he actually had the opportunity to talk – Matt Seely entered the interrogation room.
"Oh, I think he'd be ready an' willin' when we show him this tape." He almost grinned at the bewildered photographer. Seely pushed a couple of buttons and, without further ado, the moving confession of Kathy Douglas, a real drama queen, in both detectives' opinion, started.
"It was in February," she began, her voice pretty calm, but already shaking a bit. "Our anniversary is in February. I wanted to surprise Billy, so I went… I went to our cottage, to make everything ready for the anniversary dinner. I wanted to surprise him, you see," She looked at Seely, tears welling up in her huge green eyes. "Instead, I was surprised. I… I found that woman, Judith, lying on the couch. She was a secretary at 'Tribune,' you know. I always suspected there was something between Billy and that… that woman. He would assure me there was nothing going on, but I just knew. A woman always does, you know?" She looked up from the table to Matt again, seeking understanding, even compassion, but was bound to find none, so she continued. "God, I was so pissed. I grabbed her by the arm and she just fell on the floor. I-I didn't know what was happening. Than I saw them – the marks. She had been strangled. I started to scream. Billy ran to me from another room. He was carrying a blanket. I… For a moment, for one terrible moment, I thought he was going to kill me, too. But he begged me to listen to him, to let him explain everything to me. I accepted. I-I loved him, detective." The pleading eyes found Matt's again – too bad she didn't know he had never been the one to care for damsels in distress. "I still do."
After a dramatic pause, she resumed her monologue.
"He told me he had, indeed, killed her in a fit of rage. He admitted to having an affair with her. He said that she was threatening to tell me and that he couldn't bear the thought of me leaving him, of living without me. I knew it was wrong, but I couldn't just call the police, take him in. I just couldn't. What would my life be without him?" The tears started falling now. "My parents are dead. I have no relatives, no close friends. He's everything I've got. And I loved… love him so much. I agreed to bury her somewhere, far from our cottage. I thought… Oh, I don't know what I thought, I…
Anyway, he then got that idea. H-he's quite a gardener, you know. And he was always obsessed with dark, black, flowers. Till then, I had never seen anything particularly strange in that. But, then, just as we had wrapped the poor Judith," Seely's stomach somersaulted at this amount of hypocrisy, "in that blanket, he told me he had another plan. He reminded me of some exquisitely dark dahlias he had managed to grow a couple of months before.
"Wouldn't it be great," he said, his eyes sparkling, "if we would use those flowers to remind this city of one of the crème de la crème of unsolved crimes? If we would copy the Black Dahlia murder? If we're smart enough, which we are, we'll never get caught."
I was horrified." She buried her face in her hands. After a couple of moments, she lifted her gaze again. "But what could I do? He threatened he was going to kill me if I told anyone as much as a single word.
In the end, I agreed. But never did I dream there were going to be other victims. Detective," she tried her charm once more, "you have to believe me."
Seely only flashed her a cryptical smile and nodded slightly, encouraging her to continue, which she eagerly did, proceeding to other victims – from one Cindy Brown to Jordan, who was miraculously – well, thanks to the gang, actually – saved.
Now, in the interrogation room opposite the one in which that award-winning performance had taken place, detectives Seely and Chandler had the pleasure of watching the shock at the obvious betrayal wash over Billy Douglas's face. He lost his tranquil and somewhat smug attitude.
"Kathy, no," he gasped. "How could you? How could you tell them? And tell them all lies?" He ran his fingers through his hair. "You killed Judith. It was all your idea. I maybe enjoyed it, but it was all your idea." All of this was murmured, almost under his voice, at a fast rate. Loudly and clearly, he said, "I would like to make my phone call now."
"Here he is, Dr. M," Nigel shouted excitedly, striding along one of the many corridors of Massachusetts General. The 'he' in question was Woody, who had arrived at the hospital hot on the heels of the paramedics. For, his numbness, during which Matt Seely (of all the people) had been consoling him, hadn't lasted longer than a couple of minutes. Having come to his senses, he had hurried to where his place was. He had left the interrogation to Seely and Chandler. After all, the woman had been caught red-handed. His place was with Jordan and their child.
And now, here he was: leaning against the wall in front of the ER of Mass General. He hated hospitals. Not only that they were plain depressing, with their sterile white walls and worried faces of friends and relatives all over cafeterias which served the most disgusting coffee ever, but they were bringing painful memories, too.
Memories of his mother, pale and exhausted, but trying to smile to him, were vague. He had often wondered whether he had made them up over the years. Other memories were sharper.
For example, there was his father, who died less than a day upon the arrival.
Then there was Cal's alcohol overdose in high school.
Then there was him in a hospital bed and Jordan telling him some lame joke about losing his spleen. If there was one day that he could erase from his memory, that would be the one. The image was engraved deep into his mind. It burned on his closed eyelids many a time. The image of Jordan with tears which she was trying hard to suppress in her eyes, hesitatingly and insecurely turning to leave, her shoulders hunched as if she was carrying the whole world on them. He hated himself whenever he remembered that. He sometimes thought that not a lifetime could be enough for him to make it up to her.
But, then, of course, there was another moment that had been in photo-finish with the previous one. He was still not sure which of these had actually won the race for the worst hospital memory, or even memory in general. That other infamous moment was, of course, the morning after. His surgery had gone well and there was Jordan at the foot of his bed, holding some plant and babbling about chlorophyll. He was so mad at her for coming. Hadn't she come, it would all be so much easier – that would prove she didn't mean what she had said, that she didn't really care. He would be able to be angry with her for something that resembled a reason. God, was he wallowing in self-pity then.
The last memory featured Jordan lying in her hospital bed, her nose and cheeks red and a bit swollen from the surgery she had gone out of a couple of hours earlier. They didn't know why she hadn't woken up yet. He was sitting there, trying not to think about it, but not being able not to wonder how pointless his life would be if her eyes never opened. For, even if neither of them would have confessed it back then, she had been everything to him then, just like she was now. So he was just sitting there, waiting, long after the exhausted Macy, Nigel and Bug had fallen asleep. When her eyelashes finally fluttered, they sent him over the moon. But only for a moment. Then her blank stare smashed his heart. It seemed she didn't know who he was.
He shuddered, hoping that wouldn't happen this time. Although she hadn't really had amnesia after her brain surgery, those few moments had been downright frightening.
Nigel's voice startled him, but it brought him relief, as well. Everything would be easier with a little help from his friends.
"Any news yet, mate?" the Brit asked, worry written all over his face. Thanks to his lankiness, he had left Dr. Macy half the corridor behind.
"Hang on, Woody." Garret patted his back when he had finally reached them. "She's been through worse."
Then, trying to distract them all, he said, "Bug should be at the precinct right now, collecting Douglas's DNA. We're gonna nail those bastards. They're not going to get away with this."
"A fat lot of good is that going to do me if Jordan dies here. Or the baby," Woody thought. On the outside, he just nodded. He knew that Macy's intentions had been the best. He also knew that he had been like a father to Jordan, especially since Max's disappearance.
"Great job, Nige" now Woody made an attempt to conversation. "Hadn't it been for your computer skills…" he stopped, not being able to word the rest of it.
"Oh, it was nothing, really." The criminologist, who usually wasn't modest at all, waved his hand. "You gave me the idea. You said: 'Run their pets through the base, I don't care. Just find something.' I didn't run their pets, though," he allowed himself a tiny smile. "But I did check their parents. And… voilà! Although neither Mr. nor Mrs. Douglas had no any other real estate except that house, his mother had a cottage near Boston. Very convenient," he finished his explanation.
Afterwards, they just stood there in silence. Then one of the passing paramedics recognized Woody.
"She is going to be just fine," he said sympathetically. "A couple of bruises, a few burn marks and a broken nose, that's all. But she hit her head pretty bad and Dr. Walters wants to monitor her tonight. Besides, she needs an IV as she is pretty much dehydrated. But, all in all, she'll be okay." He smiled at them. Maybe this wasn't exactly following the rules of patients' privacy, but he couldn't care less. "Of course, none of you will be allowed to see her tonight," he said, turning to leave.
However, Woody, to whom all that sounded pretty much surreal – he had been convinced from all the blood on his shirt that Jordan was dying, grabbed his upper arm, having remembered an extremely important fact.
"And the b-baby?" he almost stammered.
"Oh, of course." The paramedic mentally kicked himself for having forgotten to mention the baby. "Luckily, Dr. Summers was here. He's an excellent ob/gyn. From what I understood, he and Dr.… um… Cavanaugh," he managed to recall the name, "had gone to med school together. Anyway," he finally realized he was rambling at a very inappropriate moment, "you can relax. The baby is fine, as well." He grinned at Woody before walking away.
Woody's trademark grin, which had been missing for a few days, reappeared. Nigel's whitey-whites became visible in their entire splendor when he practically jumped at the detective, hugging him. Even Garret hugged both Woody and Nigel, his smile definitely reaching his eyes this time.
"Maybe I could try to see her tonight after all?" Woody asked hopefully after a time.
"Look, mate," Nigel started before Macy had a chance. "I think you'd better go home, shower and change," he said, pointing at the big bloody spot on Woody's shirt. "And then come here first thing in the morning," he concluded.
He wasn't much luckier in the morning, however. The nurse in charge told him she had no permission to let him into Jordan's room. His puppy-dog look earned him some information, though. Apparently, Jordan wasn't supposed to wake up yet since she had been given some mild sleeping pills because of the nightmare she had been having. His heart broke at the news, but he was grateful that he at least had an update on her condition. Wondering briefly what to do since the same nurse had informed him Dr. Walters wasn't there, he reached the conclusion that he might as well pay a visit to Dr. Summers.
"Yes, that's a good idea," he thought. "He was.. or is, whatever, Jordan's friend. He'll probably be willing to tell me more."
After an ordeal known as: finding your way through a crowded hospital, he found himself in front of Summers's office. The doctor had left his door ajar since his air-condition hadn't been functioning for a long day and a half in the middle of a scorching Bostonian summer. The voice that was coming through that door made Woody stop in his tracks, his curled fist falling limply to his side.
"She's an old friend of mine. The meningioma was operated on only a few months ago, from what I see in her records," the doctor was saying. "They couldn't remove all of it. That's why I wanted to consult you. We both know that those things usually grow during pregnancy…"
Woody didn't hear anything else. For a second, he felt faint. Then he turned on his heel. He needed to see her. He had to. Immediately.