Simon returns from washing his hand off—three rinses with warm water and soap and he still feels the blood embedded under his fingernails—to find Fulbright and his crew all but turning the sorting room upside-down.
To their credit—mostly, to Fulbright's credit—they'd set to work straight away, cordoning off both the blood-slicked chute and the hamper which, upon closer inspection, is not only covering a pool of blood but whose interior is splattered with it.
He watches from a distance, stationed in the doorway, feeling perfectly awkward as he mentally replays the stuttering description he'd given to Fulbright and the others about his discovery.
Fulbright, in the midst of helping remove parcels one-by-one from the bloodied hamper, grants him the occasional acknowledgement by way of fleeting glances and soft smiles.
It forces him to recall the many evenings at GYAXA, coaxing Athena to speak with him—to anyone, really—about whatever was on her mind through the same simple gestures Fulbright has been exercising. And to see the gradual results... now she is eager to show him projects from school, or even greet him with a hug instead of hiding in her room.
He'd done so not because he'd seen it as field study, a further reinforcement of what Cykes-sama taught him, or out of the pity he sometimes overheard Aura say she felt towards the girl, but because he genuinely, undeniably believed Athena to be in dire need of it; this compassion.
Because he knew what it was like to grow up without.
No! What is he thinking? This is altogether different; Athena is a child, and he is a prosecutor, a well-educated and (he'd like to think, anyway) worldly upholder of the law.
Fulbright doesn't know him—he's just being kind, as one as yonderly as him would be wont to do; it's entirely shallow, annoying, even, in its transparency. He should be insulted, not put at ease, that someone—moreover, a detective—could be as ignorant to believe they could gain Simon's respect through such naivete, and not through the results demanded of them both.
There is absolutely no way Bobby Fulbright could comprehend the uphill battle Simon's fought with his own inner demons, to be where he is today.
In fact, Simon's not even sure how much he's educated himself about the case, save for what the brief has told him.
When Fulbright once again glimpses his way, Simon beckons him over with a curt tilt of the head.
"What is it, Sir?"
As before, Fulbright's gaze falls to Simon's right wrist and the elastic, which he is half-rubbing, half-tweaking with his other hand. Only, this time he hadn't been mindful he was doing so. It must have been automatic, this silly activity to rid himself of restless energy as he tries to extract some confidence out of anxiety tangled so tightly within.
And just as before, Simon drops his hands, feeling ungainly and foolish as he shoves them into the pockets of his topcoat.
"Yes, er... can you... that is, if isn't detrimental to the investigation right now... can you run through the timeline of events with me?" And then, trying to prove that he is not as uncouth as Fulbright likely thinks him... "Please."
Fulbright is all too happy to oblige. "Of course, Sir! So, early yesterday afternoon, another driver found what looked to be a puddle of oil dripping beneath Mr. Herr's delivery truck. Upon closer inspection, it was blood, and it was then that Mr. Herr's truck was busted into, and Mr. Ecsprest's body was discovered. The post office's own investigative squad was able to determine that Mr. Ecsprest had been dead for anywhere from ten to fourteen hours at that point. Which means the murder took place late Sunday night."
"And the reason for Mr. Herr to be taken into custody? It could not simply be because it was his truck that the body was found in, I hope. That strikes me as too convenient."
"That's exactly it! It is convenient, as a way to dispose of the body. The easiest, most efficient way for Mr. Herr to dispose of the body would have been with his delivery truck, not his personal vehicle. His route takes him along a gated riverfront community that isn't anywhere near his own residence. And since the mileage on these trucks is tracked, he wouldn't have had to deviate from his route at all. We think he meant to do so during his next shift, which would have been yesterday afternoon, but by then his plan had been thwarted."
He isn't meaning to be so critical, but Simon can't help picking out and dissecting that which he does not feel is complete or unquestionably true. "Speaking of shifts, what business would the two men even have here on a Sunday night? The post doesn't circulate on Sundays."
"That doesn't mean there isn't any work to be done! There were several people working that night, and Mr. Herr and the victim were the last two remaining, according to those other employees."
Right, he remembers Ms. Prior-Stewart stating that she'd spoken with both of them at some point in that evening, before she'd left. He curses himself for, again, not having her expand on how a Sunday shift might differ from a weekday one, for either of these men. He doubts very much that Fulbright, or a more seasoned prosecutor, would have allowed such an important piece of information elude them.
He sighs, far less settled than he'd hoped to be.
"Here's my issue, Fulbright: a murder occurs, as you know, because of motive, means and opportunity. We have only been able to establish opportunity, and from the looks of it—from the fact that it seems the crime likely took place in the sorting room, which is accessible to anyone, opposed to the dock, where only the drivers would be—that rules out Mr. Herr as being the only one with opportunity. You understand, the defense can, and I'm sure, will, argue that someone was attempting to frame him by placing the body in his truck."
"Haha, oh, they won't take that stance! Mr. Herr hasn't once claimed he's innocent!"
"...What?!" This is news to Simon, and he is properly incensed. "Why did no one inform me the defendant confessed?
"Oh, no, Sir I didn't say that, either! Apparently, Mr. Herr stated that he 'knew he'd end up being arrested', and didn't protest when he was taken into custody and arraigned late last night. Other than that, he won't talk. I haven't gotten to speak with him yet, myself, but I'm confident, with everything we've gathered today, that I'll have enough ammunition to get something out of him before the trial tomorrow!"
How can Fulbright be so carefree? So terribly unconcerned about them going to trial with absolutely nothing to support the arrest and allegations, other than what can maybe be construed as a confession? This is a nightmare, it's almost as if...
"So... am I to understand that you are of the opinion Mr. Herr could be, dare I say, innocent?"
"No, not quite. I can't say without questioning him myself, of course, but..." Fulbright hesitates for the briefest second, and then prattles on as if years of experience have led him to this conclusion. "I think Mr. Herr is involved in this crime somehow; there's really no way he couldn't be. I wouldn't be surprised if there was some kind of cover-up going on. But that's just my theory of course!"
"I don't care about your—!" Simon finally boils over, though has enough presence of mind to stop himself mid-outburst. Snapping at Fulbright that he doesn't care about theories will do little good. He's frustrated, and quite frankly, still shaken. He knows that several officers have paused, turning their attention to the two of them, which makes it all the more damaging to his self-esteem.
"Sir, you...?" Fulbright's hand is on the back of Simon's arm as he directs him out to the hallway. They are out of earshot of the other officers, but even so, Fulbright lowers his voice and speaks to Simon as though they are at the bench together, conspiring over a witness's testimony or the defense's claims. "Sir, if you'd like to return to the office, it'd be okay with me."
"No..." Simon shakes his head, thankful the dimly lit hallway aids in hiding the shame in his expression. "No, I... I'm quite alright. I'm only..." He can't finish, can not bring himself to confide in this buffoon.
"Nervous? Hey, I'd be pretty freaked out too, if I—" Fulbright reaches a flattened hand out to demonstrate. "—splatted my hand down in a bunch of blood."
Simon keeps silent, knowing it speaks louder and more meaningfully than the words he's been struggling to find.
"It probably doesn't help at all, but I'm nervous about this case too." Fulbright doesn't sound as much, but he does sound sincere. About both his nervousness and the fact that he does not believe it will be of any great assistance to Simon, to know this.
"Yes, well..." Simon starts, as he draws from a memory of when he was first getting to know Dr. Cykes, almost a full year ago. Picking her brain for all that he could while in the final stages of writing his thesis, before taking his bar exam. How it'd all began as a purely academic relationship between them, a student and his mentor. Something blooming so richly once the two of them began speaking as openly as what is commonplace now.
There's no possible way a fledgling prosecutor and detective will remain partnered together. And so, it will not be like this with Fulbright—will be with some other detective, if it's with anyone at all.
But for the moment, it is very much like this with Fulbright.
"Sir?"
"You handle these nerves of yours considerably well," Simon admits.
"Haha, because I know nothing can get in the way of justice! And I know you know it too! You wouldn't be a prosecutor if you didn't." Fulbright's wide grin seems wider with how the shadows throw across his face. Which only serves to make him appear even more idiotic—and yet...
He is correct. It is his job—and Simon's—to ensure not just that the law is rightfully followed, and that those who would break it face their deserved consequences, but to see to it that the many victims of these wrongdoings are properly defended, completely unable to do so themselves.
And it is not a job that can be entrusted to anyone, as years of studying, and of witnessing the many who have not the discipline or aptitude or, most frequently, the support have proven.
"Hmph." A rueful smile lifts the edge of Simon's mouth. "You are not wrong."
"Oh, thanks, Sir! See, what I said about you being more pol—"
"In fact, I know many things."
"Hey, that's not what I meant!"
"Fulbright?" A third voice cuts in from a short distance away.
They both turn, and it's Simon's old acquaintance Officer Stone standing a couple steps in front of the sorting room's threshold.
"Fulbright, I think you need to see something here," Officer Stone reports, his voice quiet but urgent. "We have... er, not a problem, but... I really think you ought to see it."
Following Officer Stone's suggestion, Fulbright heads back to the sorting room but not before issuing Simon another one of those softer, understanding smiles. Taking this as something of an invitation, Simon decides to tail after him, only to have Stone blockade him from the entrance, an arm thrown out and propped against the frame.
"You should wait out here, Blackquill. Might be a bit too gory for you to handle." Stone gives Simon a smug smile; not all is forgiven from their earlier interaction. Simon wants to be angry with Officer Stone, but only curses his own inability to make a decent first impression.
"He's good!" Fulbright easily pushes Stone's arm down, creating enough room for Simon to slip on through. But he doesn't, too frozen with surprise and it takes Fulbright grabbing him by the sleeve and pulling him into the sorting room to break him from his trance.
"Wh...?" It startles him, the clumsy somersault his stomach does at both their contact and the gesture in and of itself. Fulbright is a fool and Simon need not waste thoughts and emotions, and certainly not any ensuing reactions they ignite, on him.
Fulbright passes him a pair of latex gloves. "Put these on, Sir."
Simon stretches them tightly over his hands. "So I take it I'm not 'in the way' any longer?"
It's meant to be nothing more than a sarcastic comment, but Fulbright takes it in earnest. "As long as you're not treating me like I am, then no, you aren't."
One would think even Bobby Fulbright would run dry of smiles, but yet another one crosses his face.
And as he committed to doing just seconds ago, Simon does not think or feel anything about it.
But he does smile back.