AN – Please re-read Chapter 29 as it has been revised and the changes affect this chapter. Thank you to everyone who reads; especially those who take the time to review – 'tis appreciated greatly.
Intentional End
Chapter 30
Thursday Afternoon
October 18
Matt and Bobby sat quietly for a moment, and then Matt asked, "What can I do for you? Do you know what you want?"
Bobby had to stand up; he had to move, so he walked to a painting on the far wall. He shoved his hands into his pockets and stared at the seascape, thinking. Matt knew to wait quietly. "Uh, I want her cremated. I want to take her ashes back to Scotland." Bobby turned and continued, "No services. Just me. I want to be with her. There is no one else. Just me." He struggled and the tears fell.
"Whatever you want," Matt replied.
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Deakins crossed the squad room to his office and, again, people stopped and watched, each wondering about Goren, their colleague and friend. Eames waited for Deakins to get settled and then stood at his door.
He looked up and said, "Have you seen him, talked to him?"
She entered and closed the door, standing in front of the boss's desk. "I went by his place this morning on my way in. He let me in."
Deakins' eyebrows shot up. "Was he drunk?"
"He, he had been drinking – he was hung over. I made him coffee and breakfast and he ate." Eames said all of this looking at the floor.
"Did he tell you anything?"
She looked up at him and said, "He asked me to help him find out who did this to Gleason. He said no one else would help him."
Deakins felt as though he'd been slapped. His eyes shot away and he shifted uncomfortably. He thought a long moment, wiped his right hand over his mouth and then said, "Sit down."
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"What about an obituary?"
Bobby sniffed and pulled his handkerchief from his back pocket. He wiped his eyes and cleared his throat, then said, "No, no obituary, nothing. I just want to see her when she gets here and then I want her ashes."
"Certainly." The pair was quiet and then Matt suggested, "Do you want to keep some of her ashes?"
Bobby's eyes shot to the other man, "Yes. Yes, I would. Can you do that? Prepare . . .?" he didn't have the words.
"Yes, Mr. Goren, we do this all the time. We'll prepare a package for you to return to Scotland and an urn or nice box for you to keep."
Bobby nodded. Suddenly, a wee bit of the weight lifted from him. He could keep her near him, forever.
"Would you like to choose something for you to keep?"
Again, Bobby nodded and Matt led him through a door to a display room.
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"Jesus, this guy came down on his head," the first responding officer said to his partner as Detectives Amber Lockworth and Carla Jymosowicz of the Seventh Precinct arrived.
Lockworth went to the body and Jymosowicz went to the officer. "Whatcha got here?" Jymosowicz asked.
"Looks like a hit and run, plain and simple," the officer surreptitiously looked the detective up and down
Lockworth finished pulling on the latex and crouched over the body, patting gently for a wallet. Ah, here we are, she said to herself, pulling the tri-fold from his right rear pocket, 'Agent Philip Wycoff, FBI.' Well, she thought, got us a Fed. She looked over the body, noting its position and injuries as the photographer shot everything from every angle. Finished, she stood and returned to her partner's side, "Got us an FBI boy, we do, we do."
Jymosowicz could barely stand her partner on a good day; so far, this was not a good day. "So, we hand this over to the Feds. Want me to call it in?"
"Nah, I'll do it." She turned back and looked at the body again, "Well, the car didn't kill him, broke both legs, probably his hips and pelvis, but it didn't kill him." Lockworth paused for effect.
Jymosowicz waited and then said with exasperation, "For God's sake, Amber, how did he die?"
"Broken neck. My bet is he was hit, flew, landed on the hood head first, and then slid to the ground on his noggin." She glanced at her partner, "Wanna bet? I'll spot you fifty that the ME confirms every detail. What do you say? Fifty?"
Jymosowicz rolled her eyes and walked toward the two officers.
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Bobby and Matt stood at the entrance, "You'll call me? As soon as she gets here, you'll call me?"
"Yes, I have your cell number. I'll call you. It will be sometime this afternoon."
Bobby nodded and left. He went around the building to his vehicle and sat, deciding what to do. He wanted to talk with Rodgers, but didn't want to see anyone at OPP. He shuddered a deep breath, started the car and headed to the NYC Diocese Cemetery on First Avenue; he needed to talk with his mom.
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"Yeah, Peterson."
"It's done," Drumiester said simply.
"No complications?"
"Nope, only two witnesses and they didn't see anything. It's done."
"Good. Enjoy your weekend."
Drumiester flipped shut his phone and was surprised that he felt a little bad. He never particularly cared for Wycoff as a boss, but they had shared some tantalising tales of tail. But, he thought, that guy had a weird streak, he enjoyed sex way too much. Drumiester liked a piece of ass as much as anyone, but Wycoff – he talked about it all the time. Never one for protocols and deportment in the first place, Drumiester actually started getting a little uncomfortable listening to Wycoff go on; it was the way he told those stories – like he was reliving it. Drumiester once noticed Wycoff become erect as he shared.
The beginning of Wycoff's demise, Drumiester thought, was encountering the professor's husband that morning – hauling him off the street into the car like that. Wycoff just had to gloat to the professor's husband about the sex he'd seen them have. Drumiester was certain Wycoff had burned a copy of them doing it; he had told Drumiester every detail and said he was going to make a copy. Now, in light of what ultimately happened to Wycoff, Drumiester was kind of glad that he hadn't copied the hump session he had observed, wanking off while watching was enough. He checked his watch, finished his coffee and thought, the goddamn bastard got what he deserved.
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Peterson hung up and put his hands flat on the desk top. Thank God, this is over, he thought, what a mess. He walked to the window thinking over this assignment. He'd never been involved with anything like it – no one had. The expedition had been the best kept secret on the planet; fewer than a dozen people knew the whole story. Of course, nothing much was learned from it; nevertheless, the impact – if the world ever learned of it – would shatter all anyone knew or believed.
From the beginning, Peterson knew that it was going to be a struggle to maintain secrecy. The six participating scientists were the number one liability. All but two had been successfully wiped; they had no memory of anything thanks to the government's new course of drug therapy combined with hypno-manipulation. The new procedures had been fail safe – until that linguist woman from Northwestern; what a piece of work she was, she just would not blank. Peterson told himself that he had no alternative but to remove her. If she had just blanked, if … yeah, if. Sutton, that metallurgist from LA, was the first casualty. That guy knew right away what the artefact was and couldn't wait to spill what he knew. He was removed in short order.
The director returned to his chair and leaned back, still thinking. That son of a bitch Wycoff caused the third fatality, the husband's neighbour. Even though Robinson did the deed, it was Wycoff who was the lead agent, responsible for maintaining silence and equilibrium; as such, he assumed responsibility for all aspects of the mission – good and bad. Wycoff had done a good job for the most part; but there was something about that guy … something twisted. Peterson always suspected that Wycoff had a seedy side, nothing to betray the agency, mind you, just something in his personal life. Peterson wondered if Wycoff had some kind of addiction that he could mask; or, if he was a closet paedophile or submissive or something along those lines.
Well, none of it mattered now, it was done. Peterson sat up and opened the secure file on his computer and read the brief for his next assignment.
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Eames sat and Deakins stood, put his hands in his pockets and looked at the floor. "I shouldn't be talking about this to you, but it has all gone too far. Besides, I think it's over – they did what they had to do and now it's over. It doesn't matter anymore."
Eames had no idea what he was talking about. Deakins looked at her and asked, "Were you ever contacted by the feds?"
"No. Captain, what is this about? What's over?" Eames was truly at a loss.
With his back to her, Deakins said, "Alex, I don't have all the details, but – but Gleason was involved in some government project that required ultimate confidence." He turned and faced her. "I'm not clear on how and why she was involved, but Bobby claimed she was abducted." He returned to his seat, "You know how he is; he feels everything a thousand times more deeply than the rest of us. An agent, Wycoff, came here to tell him about Gleason's involvement and to not investigate her whereabouts. Well, Bobby did just that and wanted me to help him."
Eames noticed the change in Deakins demeanour – fear and regret mixed with his resignation.
"But I couldn't, I couldn't. Wycoff told me to make sure Bobby didn't investigate or do anything to learn about the work Gleason was doing. I told him I was Bobby's friend and would do what any friend would do. He said it was too bad that I would put a friend above family."
"He threatened your family?" Eames asked incredulously.
Deakins looked at the desktop, "Alex, I could not put my family in harm's way. Wycoff said that the young are the easiest to hurt because they are vulnerable and trusting." He looked up and continued, "They were going to kidnap Julie. And then they would take Angie." He paused and then, "I couldn't help Bobby, I wanted to, but I couldn't."
Eames was flabbergasted, she didn't know what to say, and needed more information. "This is incredible. Gleason was working for the government those weeks she was gone?"
The captain nodded, "I have no idea what kind of work she was doing or where she was. She's an ancient languages linguist, so it had to do with some kind of old writing." It was hard not to use the present tense when speaking of her.
"What else did Bobby tell you?"
Oh, this next part was going to be hard, "He told me that he thought she had been raped."
"Oh dear God."
"And, that their apartment had been bugged – sound and camera."
"What?! How did he know this?"
"Wycoff pulled him off the street early one morning and goaded him with talk about – what he had seen them do in bed."
Eames blushed and looked away. Dear God, Bobby is such a private person to begin with; to know that he had been watched making love to his wife would infuriate him.
Deakins continued, "That new kid in surveillance came to me and said that Bobby had checked out a government grade sweeper and that he had found a camera."
This was all too much, Eames looked straight at her boss, "Bobby claims Gleason was murdered. Was she?"
"It wouldn't surprise me."
The pair was quiet for a minute, and then Eames asked, "So, what are we going to do?"
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Bobby walked to his mother's plot, still mounded with clumps of dirt, the sod not yet applied. He wanted to talk with her. He wanted to tell her about Gleason being dead, that they murdered her, that she was pregnant, that his soul had been ripped out, that he didn't think he could live anymore, that he hurt like he never imagined one could hurt, that . . . that he was alone, so alone.
He felt like he was fourteen again and wanted to talk with his mom about this girl he had liked. But his mother had been really out of it back then and was no good to talk with. He had wanted to talk with his dad about the girl, he wanted to know what to say to her, what to do to make her like him. But his father had gotten drunk, lost a load at the track and left for two weeks. Bobby wanted to talk with Frank about this girl, Frank knew a lot about girls, he had lots of girlfriends. But his brother just laughed and made fun of Bobby, said he was a nerdy freaky geek and should go jerk off as that was the only sex he would ever get.
Bobby squatted down beside his mother's grave and spoke aloud to her, telling her everything. And, in his mind, his mother listened, ran her hand over his head, put her palm against his cheek and told him it would all be ok. She said she was proud of him, that he was smart and brave. How he was a good husband and would have been a good father. Bobby talked and cried and his mother loved him.
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Slowly, Bobby walked back to his car and didn't know what to do, where to go. Part of him wanted to go back to the funeral home and wait for Gleason's body to arrive. It had occurred to him to go to the ME's office and be with her there, but, he would have had no privacy. Bobby wanted to be alone with his wife; he needed to see her, talk to her.
He stepped up into his vehicle and sat.