Disclaimer: Obviously, I do not own Numb3rs or Liz would not have been in last night's episode, and she most assuredly would not have been in the Craftsman.
Author's Notes: Two songs blended into one for this chapter. One a song from the 90's, the other from today. Special props given to Newgal; I did take your suggestion and add that part in, you'll see it down there. And to SG: I'm going to 'mis'quote that movie with Kevin Costner, "If you build [the foundation, it will come." ;)
"I am damaged at best, I'm falling apart, I'm barely breathing, I tried my best to be guarded, I'm an open book instead"
-Lifehouse-
The door closed and the boy turned from watching them leave with baleful eyes. A hand with the long, lean fingers of a musician lifted aside the faded, yellow curtain of the one lone window in his private room. He pressed his face against the glass, heated by the midmorning sun's rays, watching the people outside of the hospital as they came and went.
Growing bored, the curtain dropped as he let it slip between his fingers. A quick turnabout saw him facing his bed, the nightstand, opposing wall, and the door from which every day at exactly thirty minutes after nine his doctors came in to check on him. Everyday without fail they came, the doctor who was in charge of keeping ahead of the drugs' effects on his body and brain, the doctor who had been the first one to treat him, and the doctor responsible for assessing his eyes.
His eyes. They were damaged now. According to the doctors it would take extensive amounts of LASIK surgery to repair what had been done. He didn't really know what all had been damaged; the only difference he could tell was that his vision was atrocious now, the edges around everything blurry and fuzzy. It was only when someone was within five feet of his face that he could make out every feature about them, and even then the edges were still distorted. The thought that he couldn't pay for the surgery didn't bother him very much either; his medical bills were already nearing the cost of his college tuition and there was no way that he alone could add on the money needed to reverse the effects of the chemicals. The surgery would have to wait, and he could still function somewhat fine. No, that wasn't what bothered him the most.
Why me?
Those two words ended with a question mark were what were bothering him so bad. Why him? What made him the target? He just didn't understand and that was after those governmental agents had visited him and explained what had happened. He supposed he would never get the answer that he wanted; and he didn't know if any answer would ever be enough.
A clicking noise, followed by footsteps attempting to be quiet against the tiles, alerted him that someone had come into his room. The footsteps came closer and then paused.
Keith Kelli squinted towards the direction of the paused footsteps. Sometimes if he did that it helped. Maybe one of his doctors had come back. Probably with more depressing news.
"Dr. Funk? Dr. Ecks?" He called out, the last name being his eye specialist.
"I'm not one of your doctors," a decisively female voice said.
He blinked. That voice didn't belong to one of his doctors or one of the regular nurses. "Do I know you?"
A shuffling noise came and he squinted again, attempting to make out something. His visual receivers picked up on the shape of a person standing in the open way that led to the door, passing the information on to his brain from his rods and cones.
"No. At least I wouldn't think so."
Fed up with not getting anywhere in the visual department, he called out in annoyance, "Well you're going to have to come closer. I can't exactly see as well as I used to."
The blurred form wavered, disappearing from his sight completely, and then suddenly coming into focus a few feet from him. There at the foot of the bed was a woman, short and small, her hair long and drawn away from her face. One hand rested on the top of the railing, the other against her hip; it took him a moment to realize that the whiteness was a cast.
"Who are you?" Despite seeing her as fully as he was going to, Keith still had no recollection of ever meeting her.
Her own eyes, a deep green color, studied him for a moment, and he hated the way she noticed his problem. She took a breath and then said, "They've probably told you what happened a week ago. I don't know exactly how much they did tell you—"
"They told me enough to get the general idea. Crazed, deranged, German killer. Wanted to change my eye color or something. That would be the reason why I'm still here," he cut her off, knowing he was being rude but not caring.
She nodded, taking a moment to digest what he had said. "Right. Then they would have told you that there was another person brought in with you. That was me."
Keith regretted his scathing tone and immature attitude. She had been in the same man's hands. "I'm sorry." And he was, although that still didn't explain why she was here though, and he voiced his confusion.
"My therapist recommended that since I keep bringing up my trouble in seeing you...," the words stopped and she choked, "In seeing you there that it might be a good idea to come and see for myself that you were okay. He said it might ease my mind and rid myself of the guilt that I feel for what happened."
Guilt? "Well, okay is relative. I suppose you could say that."
She nodded again and neither of them said anything else. It was awkward: he didn't know what to say, and she didn't either, her hand twisting on the metal rail.
He wondered what she had to feel guilty about. The yellow, faded curtain caught his eye and he realized how lonely it was in here; the daily routine of his entourage of doctors might annoy him, but they were the only human contact he had. No one else came to see him, his family being non existent for the last three years.
If she was looking for atonement for something she believed he had done wrong, and if he was looking for someone to talk to, then Keith didn't see why both of them couldn't benefit. He swept a hand towards the small round table pressed into the corner, and the two chairs around it.
Moving slowly, she took a seat, and he could see well now that they were only two feet from one another. She still looked out of place as she glanced around at the walls.
"So, uh, you never told me your name. I guess you already know mine."
His kidnapped partner looked over at him. "Sorry, escaped my mind. Dr.," she shook her head, "No. You don't care about that. I'm Peyton Huntzberger."
"You're a doctor?"
"Not a medical doctor. A forensic doctor."
A guy on his hall was studying forensics. "Like CSI?"
Dr. Peyton Huntzberger let out a short laugh and shook her head. "A rather inept representation of what it is we actually do, but yes, like CSI…"
The minutes ticked by, unnoticed as they talked about everything from the poor representation of the medical and law enforcement fields by Hollywood to what had happened eight days ago.
And later when his entourage of doctors and nurses came by at noon, he didn't even notice or mind, choosing to continue his discussion with the only other human being that had come to see him.
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The line of people waiting to be checked in was longer than usual due to the flood of her fellow agents arriving back from lunch. Security dictated that they had to wait their turn, then march through the metal detectors, retrieve their gun, and finally show their badges before being allowed to move towards the elevators. That explained why she was standing behind ten other colleagues instead of already on her way back to the fourteenth floor and her team.
Megan stepped forward, moving up to number nine. Thinking ahead, she unclipped the holster at her side and scanned the first floor. The mass activity and chaos down here strongly resembled the mass activity of her team. Agent Loosle was still overseeing their case, following up on every note they passed; and now the U.S. Attorney's office was on their backs, pointing their fingers and nosing around to make sure everything was ready for them to go to trial when the time actually came. They wanted a solid case before Meinhard was transferred up north to the federal court for their area. No chances of appeal or mistrial.
Colby and David had been given the task of running down the background check on the psychopath at the request of the attorneys, looking for anything else they could tack on to his charges. The prosecutors' hunch had paid off, information about Meinhard's business in South Carolina coming to light.
In fact, she thought as she replaced number seven, that was where her partner was. Don had gone over to the Detention Center where Meinhard was being held to see if he could get any names from the guy. The chance of him actually getting anything was doubtful. Megan had seen the man when Colby had interviewed him. He was an arrogant, self-centered, manipulative, killer. But he was also a highly intelligent man who wasn't about to give anything else away that easily. Likely, Don would return empty handed, but filled with the man's carefully crafted words that stung in all the right places. Meinhard was very good at that, and she had warned Don to be careful when talking to him. She only hoped that the warning had taken.
Finally it was her turn. And about time too. Megan handed her gun over to the security detail who looked just as bit as impatient and tired as she did with the lines. No incessant ring came as she walked through the open metal frame, and her gun was given back with a forced smile.
Her badge was given a quick scan, the woman matching her face to the name and the number and then waving her on. Now came the waiting for the elevators and she took her place in the crowd of other persons. The sound of the metal detectors, machines, and people still reached her. Her face turned and she watched them for a minute, thinking only that she was relieved that it wasn't her over there.
With the closing of this case, their team was slowly putting themselves back together. Colby and David were fine with having something to keep their hands on. Titus had been kept busy downstairs for the last eight days, running the evidence and pushing it through the system faster than the normal time it took. Having placed the man responsible in jail, Don had ceased pacing the office like an animal and both he and Kathryn had taken to seeing that their doctor was stable. The only information that had been passed on about her well being had been via the two of them. No one else had seen her since then.
And that only left her. Megan was the last member of their team, the one that was meant to hold them all together, and at this moment she was barely holding on to herself. The memories of her task with the Department of Justice still haunted her, plaguing her mind with never ending questions and scenarios. She was the one left that needed to be put back together, but from her vantage point it wasn't all clear.
All four elevators opened at the same time, their passengers exiting as one. Megan stepped aside to move out of one man's way, looking at the elevator next to her and turning quickly back to take another look. She would recognize that blonde hair and short body anywhere—
"Peyton?"
The woman that no one had seen for eight days besides Don and Kathryn paused at the sound of her name, looking up from her hands and across to where the sound of her name had come from. Recognition dawned in her eyes and Peyton pushed her way around the coming and going in front of the elevator. The two women moved to an alcove on the side, secluded as best as they could be during the late lunch hour rush on the first level.
Megan's eyes flitted over the woman in front of her, her natural talent taking over. The five feet tall doctor had always fit the image of petite fully, tiny and not weighing much over one hundred and ten pounds, but she had lost a considerable amount of weight; it showed in the thin, tightness of her face and the protruding of her collarbone and hip visible on the neck of her loose shirt and skin that peeked out from under the hem. A small thin line curved from her chin to an inch or two along her jaw, the freshly healed skin a faint white color. Her right wrist was encased in a hard cast and she held the arm bent and in front of her stomach.
But for all of her external injuries, Megan could read the strength in her eyes and stance, shoulders thrown back, spine straight, and head held high.
"Megan, I didn't know you were back," Peyton said, voice the same as it had been seven weeks ago.
It took her a moment to realize she had said anything, and Megan shook her head. "Yeah. I got back a week ago. After you were…"
She nodded, saving her from having to mention what had happened. "Right. That would explain why I didn't know." A smile was given and the profiler couldn't help but notice how it stretched her cheekbones.
"You're not back yet are you?" Megan was confused as to why she was even here.
Green eyes looked sideways back to the elevators. "Oh. No. I had a meeting with Director Merrick at one. He wanted to assess how I am doing and express his deepest apologies for what happened. I won't be back for at least another two weeks. Possibly more."
That made more sense. "How are you doing?" she asked after a moment, cautiously throwing out those four words that meant much more than the time it took for her to say them.
Peyton blinked, opening her mouth to give an immediate answer, but then stopping to consider it. Satisfied, she looked up at her and said with a smile on her face, "Okay. I'm doing okay. Much better than what I was. The drugs are all out of my system, the withdrawals leaving migraines and the inability to want to eat anything. Therapy is helping, the psychiatrist doing much more than what I thought he was going to. The memories are coming back in bits and pieces, sometimes through the nightmares and sometimes through the sessions. But I'm doing better than I was. I just need a little time."
That was a better answer than what she could have hoped for, and Megan could see that it was the truth.
It was her turn to be scrutinized. Peyton cocked her head to the side and narrowed her eyes. "How are you doing?"
Was it that easy for her to read? Judging by the look on her face as she waited for her answer, it was that easy. Maybe Peyton was just good at reading people. Or maybe because she was damaged too, she could tell that Megan was damaged. Misery loved company, didn't it?
"I'm just working through some things," she finally answered. Her stint with the Department of Justice was still classified and at best that was the most she could say.
That answer seemed to satisfy her, and perhaps she recognized by the tone of her answer that that was all she could say. "It seems that we all are doing a little of that these days."
She smiled at the meaning behind Peyton's words, glad that she was doing well and understood not to ask for anymore at the moment.
"Like you said, I just need a little time," Megan quoted.
Now if only it would work for her like it was working for Peyton.
"You gotta be tough, You gotta be stronger, You gotta be cool, You gotta be calm, You gotta stay together"
-Des'ree-
The hall of the jail was drafty and cold, the air conditioning blowing steadily. Sadly though, the cooler air did nothing for the smell of the place. He would never show it, but walking past the inmates, some of them ones that he had placed in there, was something that if given the chance he would take a pass at.
A whistle came from somewhere to his right, the large, tattooed man making a show of himself by pressing his face hard against the metal bars, hoping to unnerve them.
"Hey! Settle down in there," Don's escort, a man who looked like he could stand his own ground in a place like this, leaned over from his right and thumped the bars next to the tattoo man, "Shut up, all of you. What did I tell you about making a monkey out of yourself, Jim? Keep it up and we'll see who's the one laughing at the end."
They had come to the end of the hall and past the bored inmates who had jumped at the chance of doing something instead of sitting in their bunks. The guard held the door open for him and Don entered the small room. It was a waiting room, one he was familiar with. There were many of them placed throughout the jail, each with only two doors, one where they had just come through and the other leading into another short hallway that had one corner and then another door; that door led into an interrogation room used by the federal agents here on business, because none of them ever came here for the simple trip, and the attorneys for both parties.
Don watched as the tall guard outfitted in his standard uniform crossed the five feet to the other door and then looked back at him.
"Sorry about that. They get rowdy whenever one of you guys show up," the man shrugged his shoulders and gave him a smile like 'what are you going to do about it?'. Another time and he might have laughed softly or humored him with a response. But not this time. He didn't want to be here to begin with, having no desire to see the man that would be waiting for him in that interrogation room. "If you'll just wait here, Agent Eppes, I'll go and check to see if the prisoner is ready."
He was left alone and Don found his mind occupying the time by counting the concrete blocks and letting his thoughts flow. Adjusting to the draft, he pulled the sides of his jacket closer and leaned back against the wall.
Don hadn't been to the Metropolitan Detention Center in close to almost a year. Los Angeles' federal prison was reserved for those who had committed the worst of the worst, having been hunted down, fished out, and arrested by those who served this city just like him. The man he had come to see, their now captured fugitive, was being held here until transfer to the prison that served the U.S. District Court for California. No doubt he would not be long there after his trial. Don foresaw an immediate transfer to San Quentin.
The handle jiggled and the door opened, the squeak of the metal hinges magnified in the room. The guard from before, who he had not caught the name of even though he had introduced himself, stood in the doorframe and nodded his head once.
"The prisoner is ready for you, Agent Eppes."
Words of gratitude spilled from his lips as he passed by, feet heavy as he stopped outside the interrogation door. On the other side of the silver door sat a man responsible for three deaths, the partial blindness of a young man, and the kidnapping and harming of an employee of the FBI. One turn away was the monster who believed himself the savior of the 'perfect' ones on the Earth. What was it that Megan had diagnosed the man as? A psychopath with sociopathic like tendencies all rolled into one. His partner had warned him that the man was dangerous, endowed with the ability to coolly manipulate you with his words and leading you into his trap before you recognized it.
He shook his head, clearing all of those thoughts from his mind. He needed to be the one that was calm and cool, the one in charge of the situation, and he couldn't do that if his brain was too busy thinking about five different things.
The door opened with ease, pressure from his wrist combined with the turning motion opening it. It was a standard interrogation room: a table, four chairs, and a camera placed high in one corner to record their actions. However, the man shackled to the table by his wrists and ankles was anything but standard. In fact, this case had to be one of the most unique he had ever come across in all his years.
Even chained like the animal he was and dressed in a jumpsuit, Meinhard Ackerman still managed to look normal. It was the fact that at first glance the German looked like any other blonde haired man. He could even be mistaken for a devoting father. But look a little while longer and that smile seemed to curl at the ends, taking on a sneer, and those blue eyes started to glint with an inner cunningness.
Those blue eyes followed him as Don took the seat opposite of him.
"Ah. I see they have been kind enough to send me another guest. Do thank them for me. It gets so lonely here," The eyes narrowed as Meinhard studied his face, taking in the dark hair, eyes, and facial features. Never before had he given much thought to the heritage of his features; Don was conscious of how he looked, but it had never mattered all that much. But to this man it did. It bothered him very much from what he could tell behind those pale eyes. "Though I do have to say that the other agent was more preferable to you. So much… lighter." His words trailed off at the end, letting them speak for themselves on just how Meinhard didn't approve of his dark visage.
Don didn't say a word, refusing to give the man any satisfaction. Truth be told, if he strayed from his objective he would more than likely end up letting his fist slip into Meinhard's face. Flicking his eyes down to the tan colored folder he had placed onto the table, he lifted the bottom corner and opened it.
"The U.S. Attorney's office has asked me here today. I'm supposed to ask you about your time in South Carolina. Further background information provided us with the knowledge that you were involved in some other disappearances in the city of Aiken. In return for the confirmation of the missing victims the attorney's office is willing to consider removing the death penalty," he stated in a concise manner, speaking evenly and giving no indication on his face as to what he felt.
Colby and David, after finishing with their meetings with SAC Loosle and the Director, had gone back to any information they had found on Meinhard, looking for something useful for the attorneys. An old rent bill had revealed that Meinhard had contracted out the space in a building used for storing steeplechase racing equipment; the building had been much like the factory in Wilmington: secluded, old, and big. In the six months that he had been in the small town in the southern state, seven people had gone missing, three of them college students from the University of South Carolina in Aiken. Those three had never been found, and if Don could get the creep to give up their locations it would give three families some form of closure. If not, then it was out of his hands and would become the problem of the FBI office in South Carolina.
Meinhard tilted his head back and studied him before saying, "But you don't agree with that do you?" The part about being able to read what you were really thinking came back in the form of Megan's voice whispering her warning inside his head.
He locked eyes with Meinhard, staring at him directly and not giving an inch, determined to be just as hard back. "What I think isn't relevant here. What is relevant is the three college students who went missing in the six months that you lived in Aiken."
The ice eyed man continued to dodge his question, inhaling through his nose and moving his hands together, chains rattling and drawing Don's attention. His eyes moved back to Meinhard as he spoke. "But you still have an opinion."
"And I don't see how you telling you what I think is going to get you to confirm those three names. So, I really don't see fit in telling you my opinion."
The German nodded. "I'll give you that. It won't make a difference to me. But it might ease your mind. You're chomping at the bit to tell me what you really think. I can read it on your face and in your eyes."
He wasn't going to get anywhere with this man. Meinhard wasn't going to give up those names; after all there was nothing in it for him. He was going to jail no matter what, the crimes against humanity, multiple murders, and brutality because of race seeing to that. The offer of removing the death penalty held no value. He was going to die anyway.
Don closed the folder with a snap, pushing back his chair and standing. Those blue eyes followed his every move again. Looking down at the chained yet still proud man, he said, "I can see you're not going to give me anything. I didn't really think you would. You haven't cooperated at any step. The evidence will be enough to get you sent away, and the testimony by your two accomplices will be extra. As for what I think, I think it doesn't matter whether you get the needle or not. Nothing will be punishment enough for you. Or justice for what happened."
He made it as far as the door with the folder in his hand before Meinhard decided to speak again, his words causing him to freeze.
"How is she doing?"
Don's other hand hovered over the handle, and Meinhard continued on,
"The doctor. How is she? Does the pain still hurt? Have the nightmares set in yet?"
Don didn't know how Meinhard knew that he was involved with Peyton. They had never been seen together to his knowledge in front of the man, but somehow he had known. A chill traveled down his spine and he was torn between letting it show or turning around and wrapping his hands around the man's neck. His words mean nothing. He can't get to Keith Kelli, and he can't get to her.
His hand closed and turned to the right, the door swinging open. Don moved out and left, past the guard who questioned why he was done so early, ignoring him. His feet echoed against the walls.
Slow laughter flowed out of the room and chased him down the hall, the twisted, distorted sound wrapping around his mind.
San Quentin would be far too nice of a place for Meinhard Ackerman.
Single longest chapter I have written. It just kept growing. Keith Kelli decided he wanted to share his feelings a little more.
Background Information:
Megan: As we can all tell from the beginning of Season Four, she is not okay. There are some things that are still haunting her from her stint with the DOJ.
Meinhard: In the state of California the federal trials for the Los Angeles area are held at the U.S. District Court for the state of California(the Supreme Court for CA). Metropolitan Detention Center is the federal jail in Los Angeles and is where Meinhard would be held before transfer. In the state of CA, the death penalty can be given according to a certain number of charges. Meinhard completes a Triumvirate: 1) Multiple killings, 2) murders of an especially heinous kind, and 3) murders because of race, i.e the experimentation and killing because of Jewish ancestory or visage. San Quentin is where you go to wait on death row for that lovely cocktail. And a psychopath and a sociopath are not quite the same thing, though you can, as in Meinhard's case, exhibit both disorders.
South Carolina: Aiken, S.C. is a very small town in the western part of the state. Steeplechase racing- a form of thoroughbred racing- is what it is famous for. And the Uni. of S.C. in Aiken does exist, and as we all know now, college students are what Meinhard likes to experiment on.