Chapter 11

BULL PEN, FBI OFFICE

Nikki walked up to David's desk with a file in her hand. "Background on our kid. Turns out doctors and teachers reported several times that they suspected physical and sexual abuse, but none of them ever came to anything. When he was fifteen, the mother showed up at a police station asking for protection, and claiming the father was raping them both, Sam denied it, and the case was dropped when the mother never returned officers' calls. Guess why?"

"Dead," said David, reaching for the file.

"Missing. The body's never been found, and nobody ever filed a report, but it's got revenge murder written all over it."

"You know, I got the feeling he wanted to confess in there, this might explain why he didn't," said David, thoughtful. "His mother talked to the cops, and ended up dead."

David flipped through the pages, his face growing increasingly grim. "God. The mother claimed Traxler Lobell would lock Sam in a closet, and force him to have intercourse in exchange for getting to get out and go to school. I sent this guy to jail, no wonder he snapped." He set the file down and closed his eyes.

"You didn't know," said Nikki. "You didn't do anything wrong."

"I ignored the signs," said David. "His fear of being restrained, refusing to make eye contact, shutting down when I pressed him – classic PTSD, classic signs of abuse. I just wanted to see something else."

"That's half the mental cases in this city," said Nikki. "I'm still going with not your fault, even though self-blame seems to be all the rage in this office."

David stood. "It's more than that. If this guy set Don up, I'm guessing the ultimate goal is a lot more disturbing than just getting him off the case."

SEGREGATION UNIT, US DOJ METROPOLITAIN DETENTION CENTER

There was a soft knock, and Anderson unlocked the door to Don's cell and opened it. "Place is secured for the night. You want to see if you can settle the kid down?"

Don examined the officer with curious gratitude. "Of – course." The last thing he'd expected was another chance to speak to Lobell.

Anderson eyed him back. "I'm counting on you to play fair."

"Of course," said Don. "You reach Sinclair?"

"Yes," said Anderson. "Just got a call, Lobell's being picked up in a couple hours, so…." He beckoned Don out of the cell.

"Hey, Sam. Remember me?"

Anderson retreated quietly to his post at the end of the hall, and Don kept speaking. "I'm sorry I had to leave you earlier, I needed to see about trying to get you out of here. You hang in there, okay? They're gonna let you out, I promise. You're going to be fine, it'll be over soon."

The ungodly mess in the cell was considerably worsened by the recent addition on a dinner tray and its former contents, liberally splattered on the walls and floor. "I see you weren't a fan of dinner. I wasn't either, to tell you the truth. Soup wasn't bad, but those noodles –" he shuddered. "Those had to be the creation of a mad scientist."

"I'm sorry," said Lobell, not looking at Don. "I'm so sorry." He stood and flung himself at the rear wall of the cell, smashing his forehead against the concrete in what appeared to be an attempt to knock himself out when he couldn't escape.

"Easy," said Don. "Easy. It's okay. It's okay, all right? I'm not mad, I'm not going to hurt you." He studied Lobell carefully, trying to decide how much to read into the apology and frantic retreat.

"I'm Don Eppes," he said, leaving off the 'Special Agent' part of his name and placing a hand on the window. He'd learned that from Anderson; in absence of what normally passed for human contact, it was a surprisingly readable and reassuring gesture when done with gentleness. "You recognize my voice, don't you?"

Lobell paced with the frantic energy of an animal trying to escape a trap, and Don decided to back away from the questioning. "It's okay, Sam. If you made that recording, it's okay. I'm not angry, all right? I won't hurt you."

There was no acknowledgement from the prisoner, but he stopped pacing and scrunched himself in a ball in the far corner of the cell, wrapping his arms around his knees and staring at the floor. Don had to figure that was progress of sorts. "Do you mind if I keep you company out here for a bit? I won't hurt you, you don't have to talk to me, okay? I'd just like to be here. Is that all right, Sam?"

There was a whimper from within, and Don thought he saw Lobell shrink away. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. I won't use that name again, okay? You must do music stuff, right? Recording, mixing…that's gotta be some kind of magic. Creating a world of sound, out of nothing? Something like that, you can vanish in it."

He smiled. "I think I know that tattoo. On your neck. It's Cash, isn't it? The needle? The needle tears a hole?" Nobell's breathing stopped, and for one split second he jerked his head around towards the cell door as though to look at Don.

"You don't write a song like that without knowing pain," said Don, his voice soft. "I hurt myself today, I let you down, I will make you hurt?"

Lobell clenched his eyes shut and lowered his head, his breath coming in sobs. "You look in the mirror and see that every day," Don mused. "A needle full of drugs, tearing into your carotid artery? A shattered guitar? I gotta think that's something other than just morbid. I gotta think that's a memorial to some pretty deep pain."

"Cash, that'd be a nice name. Can I call you Cash?" asked Don.

A minute later, there was a faint nod.

"Thanks, Cash. You can call me Don, okay? I want you to know you're safe, and they're going to let you out of here soon. You're going to a place where you'll be safe and you can talk to a therapist. You ever been in therapy?"

No response. "I have. Few times, actually. Things happen that make you feel pretty alone, 'cause there's just no way you can explain how they affected you. No way you can put some things into words, but they get that. Makes you feel not so alone, like maybe someone can comprehend. Like you're not the only guy who gets it."

"Not real. Not real." Lobell bunched his right hand into a fist and scraped his raw knuckles on the wall, leaving behind a deliberate pattern of bloody stripes.

Don felt his stomach clench in empathy at how that must feel and tried not to grimace. It was probably the same drive that made people cut themselves, an attempt to feel physical pain as a distraction from the emotional kind, but it was hard to watch. "Easy, kiddo. I know it hurts, but you gotta get it under control, okay?"

"Not real. You're not real!" Lobell screamed. "It's all fake, you're fake, you're not real!" He punched his fist into the wall repeatedly, smearing the lines into a mess.

"I'm a real person, Cash. I'm not a hallucination, okay, I'm right here talking to you." Sam started sobbing, and crawled under the metal bed platform, curling up into a ball with his back against the wall.

"That's better, Cash. Found a little bit of a hiding spot, huh? Hey, I want you to know something, okay? That recording you made. I'm not mad, I know it wasn't your idea. But because of it, I'm going to be locked up in here for a really long time. I'm not going to ask you to talk about it right now, but later, when you're safe - remember you can say you did it and nobody's going to be angry with you. I'd be really grateful if you can ever do that for me, okay?"

The kid was holding his eyes tightly closed. "Not real. Not real, this isn't happening-"

Don cut him off. "Yes, son, this is real. That's an easy lie to tell yourself, but it won't help you get through this. This is real, this is happening, and I'm a real person, counting on you to do the merciful thing. Okay?"

Sam didn't respond, but he was lying quietly in one spot. No screaming, no knuckle-painting – that was some progress, at least. Now let it go. He heard you, let it go. Pushing this isn't gonna help.

Don drew in a deep breath, releasing tension from the most personally important interrogation he'd ever conducted. This was way different from the other scary kind, the kind where if you miss-stepped someone else might die.

This – this was bewilderingly personal. But it was always personal, putting himself in the shoes of both victim and suspect and bringing every scrap of training and instinct he had to the table. Maybe it came down to control, the one advantage he usually had and was now lacking.

What was it you were telling yourself about faith? You're standing here, right? You got a shot at this against all odds, that's not good enough for you, you have to run a perfect interrogation of the mentally and emotionally unstable teenager who helped frame you?

He leaned his shoulder on the door, settling in. Now it was time to be a human being instead of an FBI agent, to offer what comfort he could.

To both of them.

BULL PEN, FBI OFFICE

"Sinclair?"

David looked up from his desk and greeted Nychev.

"Bad news, I'm afraid. Handwriting Analysis just got back to us on that note. The kid was telling the truth, that wasn't his handwriting."

David sighed. "Doesn't mean much," he said, trying to hide his disappointment. "We know he was working for someone else."

Nychev saw through it. "I'm sorry. Techs are still at the studio going over the sound equipment there."

David looked at the other agent. "He recognized that note. It's the one thing about that interview I'm sure of."

"I agree," said Nychev. He sat on the edge of the desk. "Look – margin of human error, right? You're sitting here asking yourself how you missed Lobell's history, I'm asking myself seriously for the first time if I put an innocent colleague in jail."

Nychev looked troubled, and after a minute he asked, "Have you ever questioned his innocence?"

"No. It wouldn't shock me if one day, Don did something hotheaded and stupid and probably just a little noble that landed him in jail. But internet fraud? Anything with a selfish motive?" He shook his head. "It's just inconceivable to me."

"In-con-ceivable!" agreed Colby. "You know, in the movie that line didn't work out so good. Maybe you should pick a new one."

"Whatever, Westley," retorted David, smiling at his partner's not-so-subtle attempt to break in and lighten the prevailing gloom.

"Okay, if I'm Westley, I just have one question for you. Where's my princess?"

SEGREGATION UNIT, US DOJ METROPOLITAIN DETENTION CENTER

Anderson conferred with someone on the radio, and then approached Don. "Transport team's here to transfer Lobell. Need you to go back in now."

Don nodded, and touched the window briefly. "Bye, Sam. Thanks for letting me keep you company, you're gonna be fine." He turned and walked back into the cell, and Anderson paused before closing the door.

"Good job, Agent Eppes."

Don's breath caught in his throat. Anderson had never called him that before. Nobody in here had. In here, he was a prisoner, a last name, a cell number – anything but an FBI agent. He met Anderson's eyes with intense gratitude.

"I'm sorry I leapt to conclusions earlier. This job doesn't exactly inspire confidence in human nature." He hesitated. "You didn't deserve that."

"No worries," said Don with a faint smile. "Good night."