Chapter 2: Sympathy for the Devil

Just as every cop is a criminal
And all the sinners saints
As heads is tails
Just call me Lucifer
Cause I'm in need of some restraint.

The courtyard was the size of a postage stamp and had two benches. I sat on one, trying to find a position where my leg hurt less. Amber was lazily jumping rope, otherwise silent. Kutner hadn't shown his face all day.

I jumped slightly as a hand rested on my shoulder. Goren was smiling down at me. "Alone?" he asked.

"Unfortunately, no. You?"

He nodded. "All day, thus far." He shrugged. "May I sit sit with you?" he asked.

"If you promise you're real, yes. The last thing I need is to pick up somebody's cast-off imaginary friend."

He sat beside me on the bench and crossed his legs. "I find the fastest way to tell whether I'm seeing the real thing or not is to touch it," he replied casually, relaxing back onto the bench.

I thought of Cuddy. I'd been certain I'd slept with her -- not something I wanted to try to explain to my new friend. I argued an easier point. "But you know the serial killer can't be real because she's dead -- just like Amber and Kutner. I've known all along they were hallucinations. There was no other reasonable explanation."

His head cocked and he smiled. "Maybe I'm hallucinating you," he volunteered. "I suppose we could both be hallucinating each other. Do you wonder if my hallucination is any better than yours?"

"If I've made you up, then you're one of the most boring hallucinations I've ever had. And unless you're seeing me with clown makeup and a snake tongue, my guess is I'm not a very exciting delusion either."

He shrugged. "You're hit or miss."

"Just for the sake of argument, we could stipulate to the fact that we're both real and move on to our bona fide hallucinations -- without all the touching and stuff. I don't want you to feel cheap and tawdry in the morning."

"My meds are causing dreams that make me feel pretty cheap and tawdry every morning. If you were going to stay out of it, you should've told me that right after we met." He shrugged and pulled a cigarette and match out of his pocket. "Not that it would've stopped me. Want one?"

I should have figured a cop would know how to get around the rules. I took the cigarette and waited for a light. "I don't actually know your name," I pointed out as I thanked him. "Before we get in any deeper, we should probably clear that up. I'm House," I added, extending my hand.

"Bobby Goren," he replied, shaking. He struck another match and held it up for me.

I looked straight at him as I inhaled. "So, I haven't heard a good serial killer story in a while. Tell me more about this blond nemesis of yours and what she did to get you personally invested in bringing her down."

"I was enthralled with her. She was brilliant. She created elaborate puzzles for me to solve, planted enough evidence so I knew without doubt she was the one I was looking for. Over and over again. I'm addicted to the edge of madness."

"Interesting choice of words. I get the addiction to puzzles but addiction to living on the edge of madness? Not so much."

"I take chances I won't take when I'm all together," he admitted without apology. "My mind makes elaborate leaps. They call it paranoia. Sometimes I agree. Lately..." He frowned. "It gets dangerous when it goes unchecked. I knew that from dealing with my mother. I pushed it too far, my brain." Troubled, he chewed his fingernails and stared at a brick wall. "They think I'm something I'm not. Because I take risks. Risks that make me good at what I do. But I was better three years ago. Six years ago, even better. And still marginally insane."

The rhythmic sound of the jump rope came to an abrupt stop. "I'm getting chills," Amber called out, irony unmistakable. "It's almost like he knows you."

I ignored her, catching his eye instead and holding it as I laid it out for him. "You take risks no one else would consider and you save lives no one else could save. They applaud your success while they denounce your methods. As though taking chances isn't the basis of your success. The next hopeless case, they're back waiting for you to work your magic again. And when you do, they call you Lucifer...."

"Mm," he replied, nodding, smiling. "You're in need of some restraint."

I grinned. "And we find ourselves here...."

"So I suppose your sanity is also off-kilter?"

Amber cackled and I nodded reluctantly, looking down at the end of my cigarette. My leg hurt enough that I was tempted to put it out on my hand -- just for a distraction -- but I knew that would be considered a definite setback on the road to mental health.

"You alright?" he asked, leaning over.

"Bum leg." I gestured vaguely as I took a last drag from my cigarette and put it out on the concrete. Temptation avoided, I decided to change the subject. "Did she have a favorite method, your serial killer?"

"She liked syringes. Any poison she could get her hands on was sufficient. And she was crafty in the moment. She did whatever it took."

"The feminists would be disappointed in her succumbing to stereotype. A gun or knife would have been much more liberated. Did she break the glass ceiling on the number of victims at least?"

He sighed. "Officially, she never killed anyone."

I raised an eyebrow. "How imaginary is this imaginary friend of yours? Did she have a name?"

"Nicole Wallace." He cleared his throat. "Elizabeth Hitchens. Elizabeth Haynes. She killed twenty people. One was her daughter. There was plenty of reasonable doubt, though. Apparently. No convictions."

"Who was it who outwitted her in the end? You said someone killed her?"

"Declan Gage. Criminal Profiler. I met him when I was with Army CID. We were close."

"He must have thought he was doing you a favor...." I paused to appreciate the perversity of the situation. Somehow she'd turned the tables on him so effectively that her continued survival -- and continued career as a killer -- had become vital to his mental health. Bobby was shaping up to be an interesting puzzle. His references to his mother's mental issues intrigued me and I wanted to know more. Without a segue, I began gathering information for a differential: "What was your mother's diagnosis?" I wished I had a whiteboard.

"Schizophrenia," he quickly replied. "Do you have a diagnosis yet?"

I shook my head. "I've had more than one serious head injury. And I've been dependent on narcotics to manage chronic pain for years. We're still sorting it out. What about you?"

"Bipolar Disorder. No family history of mental illness?"

"None." I paused. "Tell me about these dreams you've been having. I could go for a little cheap and tawdry right about now -- and my meds have no porno side-effects whatsoever. I'm thinking of lodging a complaint."

He laughed heartily. "I'd recommend it if I didn't also have completely insane, terrifying dreams, as well."

An orderly whistled at the door. "Group!" he shouted.

"My favorite," Goren replied without enthusiasm.

When I'd arrived and was going through withdrawal, I'd refused to go to group. I'd kept refusing ever since. Until now, there hadn't been a single other patient I wanted to say good morning to. The thought of performing a psychological striptease for any of them was revolting. Until now. "Let's go," I said, getting up with difficulty. Getting around without a cane was a problem and I refused to accept the walker I'd been offered as a substitute.

He grabbed my arm to help steady me. "You're in my group?" he asked, surprised he'd missed something.

I grinned. "I'm supposed to be. Now that they've given up expecting me, it might be a good time to check it out."

"Maybe I'll get to hear all the things I don't know about you," he suggested.

"Doubtful. I was thinking we could shoot spitballs and pull someone's pigtails and get sent out to the hallway for general misbehavior."

Amber, who'd been unusually silent, suddenly snorted. "You are cheating on Wilson! Kutner was right." As I made my way to the door, she called after me, "Amazing! Kutner's got that sixth sense about people you used to have, House -- before you totally lost it." I heard her laugh as the door shut behind us.