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Manipulation part 4

By Ecri

April 2

Alan found it hard to believe that so many of Don's friends believed in Charlie, and in Don, for that matter, so much that they had managed to do all this in so short a time. Don's apartment had been turned into some sort of base of operations. He'd refused to let Terry keep the illegally obtained FBI files on her own property, so he'd had it moved to his own. A large folding table, a map of the city, several corkboards with photographs that Alan would prefer not to look at littered the rooms.

Alan, whom Don had been loathe to involve in all of this, had insisted he would be better off helping in his own limited capacity than in sitting alone in hisin Charlie's house counting the days until the trial.

Alan stopped by the jail every day to see his son, but Don, unable to get away, hadn't been by. Alan could tell that Charlie was hurt, but his youngest son's most recent words to him on the topic had left him unwilling to let another day go by without forcing Don to see his brother.

"Charlie, Don's just busy."

Charlie had nodded, still trying in vain to hide the haunted look in his eyes. He'd whispered something, and Alan had had to force him to repeat it.

"It's no more than I deserve. Instant Karma as the song goes. I wouldn't see Mom when she was dying. Now Don won't see me" His voice had cracked then, and he wouldn't say anything more on the subject.

Alan was waiting for Don to get back from the office. Since Charlie's bail had been denied, Don had been unwilling to stay late at the office as often as he had before this. He was usually home by 6:30 with deli, pizza, or Chinese to feed whoever was still working at his apartment and ready to dive into the grunt work himself.

Now, at 7:40 PM, Alan was beginning to worry. Don should have called, but Alan wasn't about to call him. It would be embarrassing for his grown son if his father to called him to ask why he wasn't home yet.

Just then, Don came in the door, a sack of deli sandwiches in his arms. He placed the food on the kitchen table, admonishing those present to take advantage of it. Seeing Alan standing, staring at him expectantly, he went to his father's side. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"I'm worried about"

"I know. Charlie"

"Not about Charliewell, yes, about Charlie, but about you, too."

"Me?"

"Don't give me that innocent routine. You don't sleep. You barely eat. You're going to wear yourself out, and we can't afford that now. I can't afford that now." He paused. Would now be the best time or should he wait? He shrugged. It likely didn't matter. There was no good time to tell Don to go and see his brother.

"Don, Charliehe needs to see you."

Don's head snapped up from the file he'd picked up. "Did he tell you that?"

"Not in so many words"

"Then don't worry about it. I'm busy trying to clear him. He understands."

"What he understands is that this is some great karmic comeuppance. He thinks you won't see him now because he wouldn't see your mother when she was sick."

Don blinked rapidly unable to process that information. "He said that."

"Yes! He did. Don, he needs you. This is hard for him"

"It's no picnic for me, you know!"

Alan inhaled slowly trying to keep his own temper from flaring. "I didn't mean to imply that it was. Don, go to him. See him. Let him know you haven't given up."

"He couldn't think that."

"I told him you would do what you can, but I don't think he thinks there's much you can do." Alan sighed and rubbed a hand across his eyes. To see Charlie like that, alone and in prison "This is breaking my heart, Don." Even as he spoke the words, it was as if someone else was saying them. He'd never said anything like this, but then, his emotions had been near the surface since his wifehe suddenly couldn't think of her without envisioning what she would say, how she would feel if she were alive to see all of this. "If your mother were alive" He got no further. The anguish of the last few days collided headlong with the absence that even now, a year after her death, could bring Alan to his knees on a good day. This wasn't a good day.

Don embraced his father. "It's okay, Dad. I'll go. I'll talk to Charlie. I've got it. I promise."

Even with his son's caring words and warm embrace, it took Alan some time to calm himself. "Thank you, Don," was all he managed to say.

Don nodded and grabbed his coat. He found Terry and told her he was going to see Charlie.

"Visiting hours are"

"I don't give a damn about that."

Charlie sat in his bunk, staring at the sagging mattress above him. He wasn't tired. He rarely slept what people would call normal hours anyway, and his pent up energy was driving him crazy. He wanted a pen or a pencil, chalk, anything to write with. He'd scribble the equations on the wall if he needed to, but he had to have something to write with.

The man above him was awaiting trial, which was scheduled to begin a week before Charlie's. He was in for murder, too. Too. Charlie almost laughed at himself. It was as if they had him believing he'd done it. If he believed it, wouldn't a jury? No! He had to stop thinking like that. He wasn't guilty. He wasn't insane.

Then why was he locked up with murderers?

He shifted in his bed once more and apparently had shifted too roughly. His cellmate was suddenly hanging down from the bunk staring Charlie in the eye. "I though I told you I was a light sleeper. Don't move while I'm trying to sleep."

"Sorry." Charlie did his best not to appear frightened, but to a mathematics genius who'd grown up the target of every bully in the Los Angeles area, this was a living nightmare.

Somehow, he must have offended the man because one large hand reached down for Charlie who tried to scuttle backward out of the man's reach. It was then that the guard appeared in the doorway. "Eppes."

Charlie looked up in surprise. "Yes?" He was relieved to see the guard because his cellmate always backed off when a guard was in the room.

"You've got a visitor."

Rather than argue that it was well past the time, Charlie gratefully got off the bunk and moved to the door. The guard slid it open and ushered Charlie out slamming the door behind him.

Charlie didn't spare a glance for the other man in his cell. He would either be asleep when Charlie got back or he would be awake hoping for a chance to play some racquetball with Charlie as the ball.

He walked ahead of the guard who leaned in close to whisper in Charlie's ear. "Your FBI connections may get you off-hours visitors, but there's no chance they'll save you. You are a sick bastard. All serial killers are"

Charlie didn't listen. He couldn't. It was a scenario the prosecuting attorney would most likely enjoy spinning, but Charlie couldn't counter it here. He wasn't in a position to do much except to accept what people would say and what they would do. He focused on the visitor. His father had already been by today, so maybe it was his lawyer. Maybe he had some questions that couldn't wait. Who else, after all, would bend the rules like this just to see him?

The guard led him to a small room. It wasn't the communal visitors room with the plexiglass partitions and the telephones that Charlie usually used. This was a private room usually reserved for lawyer consultations. He was led to a chair, a chain fed through a metal circle welded into the table and attached to the handcuffs at his wrists. Then he waited. It took less than a minute for the door to open again.

Charlie, expecting to see his lawyer, was astonished to see

"Don?"

Don nodded and took a seat. Charlie could see his brother's Adam's apple bob up and down rapidly as he swallowed repeatedly. He saw then that he had been right. He had told his father that Don hadn't come to see him because it was some sort of payback for him not seeing his mother. This was proof. Don couldn't stand to see him, just like he couldn't stand to see his mother dying.

He pasted a smile on his face. He would make this as easy on Don as he could.

"Charlie, I'm sorry to pull you out after lights out"

"No trouble. What's up? Did my lawyer send you?"

Don shook his head. "No. I needed to see you. I spoke to Dad today."

Charlie swallowed and looked away. He should have realized that his father would tell Don.

"Charlie, I don't want you thinking like that. I've been busy trying to solve the case. I'm trying to find the real killer. I'm trying to figure out who might have done this so I can present a reasonable doubt or, preferably, get the charges against you dropped."

Charlie nodded. "I know. I get it. It's your P versus NP."

"Charlie! No! It's not. First of all, mine isn't unsolvable"

Charlie waved away the words. "It's okay, Don. Listen, that equationthe next victim"

"There hasn't been a next victim."

"What?"

"There hasn't been a next victim since you've been under arrest. I have to say, that alone is going a long way to proving Pierce's case."

Charlie shook his head. The equation morphed in his mind and numbers coalesced only to be disregarded. "That puts a new spin on it."

"It does?"

Charlie nodded. "It's a new variable. It alters the data set. The motive hinges on being able to blame me for the murders. If I'm in prison and they continue, it's as good as the killer saying 'hey, you got the wrong guy.' He wouldn't want that."

Don leaned closer. "So it's someone you know?"

"Not necessarily. It's" he shook his head. "There are too many variables, and I don't have a pencilI needI can't writeI haven't" His hands were trembling and he never realized it until Don reached forward and took them both in his own.

"Charlie, it's okay. I'm gonna figure it out. I'm a pretty good detective."

Charlie shook his head and let his own admiration and love for his big brother show through his eyes. "No, you're the best detective."

Don's eyes widened, and Charlie couldn't help but wonder if it was because of the faith Charlie had in him. He smiled and leaned closer to Don. "You are, you know. II know you'll figure this out."

It was then that the door to the room opened again and Charlie shuddered involuntarily. He'd have to go back now. He'd have to leave Don and return to that dark cell with no way to get the numbers that raced around in his mind out of his head and onto paper or a wall or anywhere but in his head.

Afraid, he wouldn't take his eyes off his brother. "I'm okay, Don. Really. Just, don't stay away too longplease." His embarrassment at that little fumble at the end of that sentence evaporated when Don stood and embraced him.

"It's going to be okay, Charlie. I'm not going to let them convict you. I know you're innocent."

Charlie turned his head away so Don wouldn't see the tears standing in his eyes. He nodded his head, and intended to leave like that, but then he realized that he had to see Don once more before he left. His head snapped up to find Don still staring at him, his own eyes mirroring the emotion in Charlie's.

He offered a small smile, which Don returned, and then the door closed and he was walking toward his cell again.

If the guard said anything on the way back, Charlie's racing mind didn't register it. He entered his cell, and, rather than slip into his bunk and risk waking his cellmate, he slid bonelessly down the wall and tried to make himself comfortable on the floor. The chill of the concrete soon set him shivering, and Charlie held tightly to the equations racing through his head.

Don watched Charlie being led away. It was more than he could stand. The look on his little brother's face had changed from despair to hopefulness to complete faith in Don. He wouldn't let his brother down. He might not have been the best brother. He might not have been there every time Charlie had needed him in the past, but this would be different. He wouldn't fail Charlie this time.

He raced out of the room and headed home. There was a lot to do.

Upon reaching his apartment, he fell into analyzing some of the evidence that had led Pierce to arrest Charlie. He'd been at it for hours and hadn't even noticed that everyone had cleared out for the night. Alone on his sofa he continued to read. He'd been over it all a thousand times already, but something kept bringing him back to it. Pierce had brought in another mathematics professor to consult on the case behind Don's back. Why had that been approved? Who at the Bureau doubted his abilities so much that they'd have done this?

It struck him then, in the paranoia that this case had brought out in him, that perhaps this was an elaborate case of revenge. Could someone have gone through all of this, the murders, the frame, in order to get at him? To prove Don was depending too much on Charlie? To prove that Don could be deceived by his brother?

It was ludicrous, but if that weren't the case, then what else could it be? Something inside Don, the instincts he'd honed over the years, insisted that all of this was not just coincidence. Was Pierce in someone's pocket? Had Pierce been manipulated or had he done the manipulating? Was Pierce a pawn or was he the mastermind? If he was the mastermind, then what was his beef against Charlie or against him? If he was the pawn, then who was moving the pieces around the board?

Frustration took hold and Don shot out of his seat. He had to move. He had to walk. He recalled Charlie's frustration at not having a way to write, to get the equations out of his head

Sometimes I can't choose what I work on. Sometimes I have to work on what's in my head.

Don had a feeling that Charlie knew more than he was telling. Maybe he was still working something out, maybe the incarceration was making it impossible for him to work, was stifling his genius, but there was definitely more.

"What's in your head, Charlie?" And how can I get it out?

April 3

Charlie had found a way to cope. It had come to him with no thought at all, and he really hadn't questioned it. With each passing moment, he immersed himself in numbers. It had taken some calculating, and one portion of his brain recognized that he had often done this without realizing it, but now, it had reached an entirely different level. Now the calculations were there, always there, literally just under the surface. At times, he found himself mumbling them aloud in answer to questions, or in response to insults, jibes, and, on occasion, physical attack.

He knew he had always been an easy target. Bullies had taken to beating him. Professors, disliking him because of his youth, tried to discredit him, or to make him appear foolish. Even other serious students, perhaps jealous, and perhaps something else, had never quite warmed up to him.

People never liked what they didn't understand, and Charlie Eppes knew that few could truly understand him. That was what had sent him into the garage scribbling madly on chalkboards as his mother lay gasping out her last breath. The realization that the one person on the planet who understood him completely was leaving him had stolen his reason.

Charlie knew his father and brother loved him, and, in many ways, they understood him, certainly better than any one alive today. But his relationship with his mother had been unique. He'd recognized it and she had as well. That must have been why she had spent so many years telling him to make friends, to find people with whom he could share his life.

His current coping mechanism, born of an inability to retreat into P versus NP since he was expected, forced, to interact with his fellow detainees, had multiplied. He laughed to himself at that thought. Multiplied! He was finding many of his own private thoughts rather amusing these days. He would laugh sometimes in the middle of the night, upsetting his cellmate. He would laugh spontaneously at lunch, irritating those around him who thought he was laughing at them.

He could not explain that he hadn't been listening to their conversations, that his laughter had stemmed from some internal dialogue, so the numbers had begun to spill from his mouth. Sometimes, in panic, he would speak them quickly, almost breathlessly. Sometimes, in confusion, he would speak them slowly and carefully.

Sometimes, he just spoke them, mumbled them, clung to them, like a lifeline. He wanted to write them down. He wanted to work through them, but denied that chance, he continued to speak them.

April 7

Larry left the door to his own classroom open as an invitation to the students he knew would be passing by in a moment and peeking tentatively through it to see if he were still around. His own class, having just been dismissed, had wasted no time departing, and he had long ago stopped wondering why so few students remained behind to speak to him about his lecture topics. Charlie's students—even students who didn't have a long and abiding interest in math—always seemed to do that.

He remembered his own surprise whenever some exceptional student did find his lecture's fascinating. He recalled one student in particular who had been much too young to attend University. He had been too young to understand advanced physics. Larry remembered him, though. Shy to a fault, the uncertainty of his youth had been beaten aside by his curiosity and his unquenchable thirst to understand. With dark curly hair, lopsided grin and the spark of genius in his eyes, the student had been disarming and exceptional even among exceptional students. The student, one who had just joined his class, had asked so many questions that both professor and student had missed their next classes.

From that meeting, a friendship had been born.

Larry sighed as the reality of where Charlie was right now hit him in the gut. He lingered over erasing the blackboard. He knew that Charlie's class was being covered two doors down. Some of the students had taken to learning Larry's schedule, knowing he and Charlie were friends. Several of them who felt particularly enamored of the young, vibrant professor often came by after class to ask after him.

He heard someone clear his throat, a more mature sound than he was used to from the students, and turned toward the door. Surprise kept him mute for a moment, but he wrestled control of his vocal chords and stepped toward the doorway his hand outstretched.

"Don. It's good to see you. How's Charlie? How's your father? How are you holding up?"

Don smiled at the questions.

"Choose any one of them." Larry advised.

"Charlie's holding up. So's Dad." He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Look," he gestured toward the other students in the room. "Can we talk?"

"If it's about Charlie, these are some of his students"

"Well, it is, but this is classified."

Larry smiled. "Then you shouldn't be talking to me. I don't have clearance."

Don's voice dropped to a whisper. "Larry, I need to know what was going on in Charlie's head. I need to know how far he got with the equation and if it can shed any light on any of this" he hesitated. "I don't think he's finding it very easy to workinside."

Larry nodded. "Well, you came at the right time." Larry gestured to the handful of students, which included Amita. "These students have been spending the last few days reconstructing Charlie's work."

Don looked at them all. "They have?"

Larry reached for a notebook he'd left on the corner of his desk and flipped it open. "I won't pretend I know precisely how far he'd gotten, but I did catch a glimpse of his work. We used some basic mathematics as a starting point, andwell, I won't pretend that our answer is as elegant as Charlie's or even that I was able to accurately reconstruct every nuance of his thought processes. I'm a physicist, not a mathematician, and even as such, I wouldn't dare to assume that I was half as good at this as he is. I will admit, though, that we have come a long way in three days."

Larry and the students excitedly brought Don up to date on the work, and Larry was pleased that Don was trying so hard to follow it all. Every so often, when one of the students would slip into a purely mathematical language, Don would lose the train of thought and look to Larry for help. Larry shrugged the fifth time that happened. "What can I say? You remind them of him."

"I do?"

Larry nodded, but didn't elaborate.

It was in the middle of Larry's explanation that Don's phone rang. He checked the caller ID and frowned. Larry watched as Don flipped the phone open and spoke. "Eppes."

Larry noticed how Don straightened and held up a hand asking the kids to be quiet. "You've got my attention."

Larry wished he could hear both sides of this conversation.

"How do I know you're telling the truth?" Don asked the caller. He looked at his watch. "I'll be there." He flipped the phone shut and turned to Larry. "Thanks for everything. Please keep working on it."

He turned and was halfway to the door before Larry called out to him. "Wait! Who was that?"

"Someone who claims they have evidence that can free Charlie."

Larry watched the man go, and turned back to his students. "In case that washes out, we should keep working."

They all set to work, though with a new excitement. It was possible that Don was going to find the last bit of data, or, Larry couldn't help hoping, someone was going to confess.

Don stood in the appointed spot at the appointed time, examining every stranger in the vicinity wondering who he was meeting and what he would learn. The man on the phone had been adamant that he come alone and not bring the police. If this had been a hostage situation he'd never have agreed to it, but this was different. No one was holding Charlie as a bargaining chip. Charlie was in jail. This informant had some way to clear his name. That made him, at best, a snitch. Don was fine with that. He even had a bit of cash as well as his checkbook in case the guy wanted to be paid.

He'd do whatever it took to free Charlie.

He wasn't so lost in thought that he didn't see the man coming toward him and recognize him as the man he was to meet. He couldn't have said why or how he recognized a man he'd never met and had spoken to by phone only once, but he could. Perhaps it was instinct. He'd go with that explanation for now.

The man wasn't what he would have expected. He was dressed in a fine, expensive suit. His hair was neat and tidy, his shoes, shiny, and his watch a Rolex. This wasn't your run of the mill informant.

"Special Agent Donald Eppes." The man said, and, Don noted, it wasn't a question.

Don nodded. "And you are?"

"Here about Charlie."

Don nodded again. "We'll play it your way for now. What do you know?"

"Oh, we'll play it my way or not at all, Agent Eppes. I know everything."

"Would you elaborate on that?"

"Certainly. I arranged all of this. I planted the physical evidence"

"Hair, fingerprints, and carpet fibers?"

"Easily obtained from every day items and easily planted wherever I please. Don't interrupt again. Charlie's life depends on it."

"You make it sound like you're holding him somewhere. He's in prison."

"Ah, yes, well, in a sense, I can reach him wherever he is. Prison is actually easier than most would think." He straightened his cuff and checked his watch. "What you need to know is that I set him up, and I can clear him. In order for me to do that, however, I need you to do something for me."

"And what is that?"

"I need you to work for me."

"I don't understand."

"I need you to work for me. Pass along information that I can use. Tell me what the FBI has on me and my associatesperhaps orchestrate an arrest, or bumble an arrest if I need someone kept out of jailuse excessive force on someone I need eliminatedI need you in my pocket for the rest of your career."

Don shook his head. This guy had to be a megalomaniac. "What makes you think I would ever do those things?"

The man smiled, a death's head smile that sent chill's down Don's spine. "Because I hold Charlie's fate in my hands."

Don felt his pulse rate increase. There was something too slick about this guy. Something too smooth, and yet he seemed to be telling the truth or at least he believed he was telling the truth. "His fateI don't understand. You said on the phone that you had evidence"

"I said I had information. The information is this: I did this to him. I wanted your attention and I got it. If you do as I say, Charlie's trial will be swift and he will be exonerated. If you do not, well, then Charlie better get used to small spaces and communal showers, and if you do anything that leads to me being incarcerated, Charlie's life is forfeit."

Don shook his head incredulously. There was no way this man could mean what he said, and yet, he seemed so self-possessed, so calm about these details. "What if I don't believe you?"

The man smiled. "I thought you might take some convincing. It's quite all right. In this day and age, we must be certain of the characters with whom we enter into a business transaction. I want you to leave here right now and go and visit Charlie. Just go and see him. You will learn that I am to be believed. I will call you tomorrow at noon."

The man turned and walked calmly away from Don. Don's heart was racing. It was inconceivable that anything the man had said was remotely true, and yetDon raced for his car, and, setting sirens blaring, barreled down the streets of LA.

To Be Continued