Shattered 17
Like so many times before, Norman had been left alone.
This time it was in a cold, utilitarian little 'interrogation room' at police headquarters. No explanation, no visitors-- just Norman, a table and a couple of chairs. Of course, and as he suspected, the large mirror on the wall opposite provided a gallery of prying eyes. He didn't care, and briefly wondered what they expected to see.
But he wouldn't move from his chair. No matter how long he was left there, or how desperate he felt. Not even just to stretch my legs. They could walk in and accuse me of attempted escape. If they can accuse me of a murder I have nothing to do with, they could accuse me of anything.
So he sat, leaning over the table, hiding his face in his hands, even sobbing and covering his head. He didn't care what anyone thought. Except Laney. She must have heard by now. It'll be all over the news, and she must know. Oh just don't let her hate me-- don't let her--
An odd sensation of peace came over him. He laid his cheek against the table, cold and clammy against his skin. His hands were still in cuffs, and he held them on his lap. To his audience it would seem he had fallen asleep, or given up hope. Instead, he was happy and safe, inside his head. Remembering the lovely night recently passed, in his beloved's arms.
The way she looked at him, the things she said-- the way she touched him, kissed him, and moved her body against his; that was real. Those feelings they shared, the love they confessed, that was the reality he chose to believe and relive.
She knows I'm innocent. She knows. What do I care what they say, or accuse me of? Even if they get the whole world to believe it, I know the truth, and so does Laney. She loves me for me. But I don't want to go back to the hospital. I don't want to be alone when I can be with her.
"You've been a naughty boy, Norman."
That wasn't his voice-- it was someone else. The door closed-- did it even open?-- and he pulled his head up to see that detective again. The man was smiling. Norman raised his cuffed hands, wiped his eyes with shaky fingers and sat up straight the way he'd always been taught to do in the presence of authority.
"I d-didn't kill anybody." he repeated.
"No, I don't think you did. Maybe." This time. Ackley took a seat and slid a computer print out across the table. Norman glanced down at too many little rows of printed text, unable to focus.
"W-what's that?"
"From the Park Grande. Your receipt, and signature. That's your signature, isn't it?"
Norman lifted the page and studied it closely.
"Y-yes. I've b-been telling you the tr-truth. C-can I go now, pl-please?"
Ackley lowered his eyes. The guy was pathetic. Not the sort of 'human garbage pathetic' that he'd sat across from a few hundred times before in that damn room, or one like it. This guy was a genuine loser. An adult with the social skills and confidence of a 12 year old, and a case history to rival Frankenstein. A monster and murderer, and a scared little kid who just wanted to hide under the bed. Maybe Ackley had been thinking that the State couldn't do enough to exact justice on such a creep; now he imagined nothing the system did could be any worse what he was living with, anyway.
If Bates was acting, he deserved an Oscar.
Ackley sniffed indifferently, and slid a second page across to him.
"Recognize her?"
Norman took it up in trembling fingers. It was a print out of Laney's driver's license, enlarged, complete with picture.
No, no, no! You leave her alone!!
"Laney." His voice was soft, even gentle, and full of sorrow. Then a terrible thought came to him and he raised horrified eyes. "Is s-she alright?? Oh God, w-what happened? Her plane? Oh, pl-please God-- no!"
"Relax, Bates. It's just a photo for ID." Ackley was amused by the reaction, especially since news of his own wife's near miscarriage hardly raised an eyebrow. "So you admit knowing her?"
Warman and about half a dozen other interested parties were lined up just outside the one-way glass. They didn't want to miss a moment of the show.
"Y-yes. That's L-Laney O'Donnell. Th-the friend I was v-visiting."
"We haven't spoken to her yet, to verify--"
"No!" Norman stretched both hands across the table, stopping short of grabbing the startled Ackley by the hand. "N-no, please! I d-don't want her involved. Pl-please! J-just…please."
Outside Warman shook his head.
"This guy's better than a 3 ring circus. Psycho killer, married-- with a kid on the way, suspected of another murder and he's worried about his girlfriend."
A middle-aged woman on the detective's left eased closer. She was a psychiatrist, called in for evaluation.
"Maybe you can let me see him now?" she whispered.
"Doc, let me ask you." Warman ignored the request, having questions of his own. "What do you make of him?"
"Well, I can't make any real evaluations from here-" she shrugged. "But at first glance? He's scared, that's for sure. Paranoid, but that's been documented. As far as a dangerous sociopath?"
"That's a matter of record, too. You think he's cured?"
"The mitigating causes, the triggers of his original psychosis have been removed, more or less. He's still psychologically crippled-- he always will be. But it's just possible he's doing the best he can, on the stunted personality he's got."
"Stunted personality?" That was a new one.
"Do you think the pair of you-- you and Bates-- had the same up bringing? You are a product of those formative years as much as he is, or anyone else for that matter. You may have had a dysfunctional family-- most of us do-- but you persevered, and for whatever reason attained the rank of detective with commendations. Norman Bates has had none of that. He still struggles to overcome what he's been. You want an easy answer? There isn't any."
They were both distracted from the conversation by the scene through the glass.
"Look, Bates. I'd like to say 'sure, we won't involve her'. But it's a little late for that. You're the one who got her involved in the first place.
"No, no, no!" Norman held his fists to his eyes. "Sh-she's my fr-friend! I don't w-want her h-hurt."
"Come on, she's a big girl. And she's your girlfriend, isn't she?"
Norman made a sound, indistinct, and Ackley leaned a bit closer.
"Isn't she?"
"Yes." He was crying now, and the detective was surprised by those tortured eyes when they looked over clasped hands. "Pl-please, you d-don't understand. She's important. S-she's a writer. Th-this w-would be b-bad, f-for her--- to be m-mentioned in the n-news." I don't want her touched by any of this ugliness!
"I take it your wife doesn't know about her?"
"What?"
"See? That's what I mean-- you've been a naughty boy. Your wife's in the hospital, carrying your kid. And you're off screwing some--"
"It wasn't screwing!!" Norman slammed his hands down on the table, rage flashing in his eyes at the accusation. "We're lovers! We made love! Is that what you wanted to hear? When you say I was killing my neighbor, I was in bed with a woman who isn't my wife!" His stammer was noticeably absent something Ackley, and the hidden audience realized. "Connie isn't m-my real wife." The rage was over and Norman moaned sadly. "Yes, we got m-married. She w-wanted a baby. B-but I don't. I w-want a wife." I want Laney.
Ackley frowned. He didn't especially want to hear about this creep's love life, though the reality that there were two women out there with no problem screwing a psycho-- or 'making love' with him-- was a bit disturbing. No wonder so many women ended up on a slab.
"Okay." Ackley sighed. "You have to understand. We need someone to say they saw you or they were with you in Oakland during the time we know Mrs. Harrison was killed. Simple as that, Bates. We need a statement from your girlfriend to rule you out as a suspect. We'll try to keep it out of the media. We just need to talk to her. Your wife doesn't even need to know the details."
"I d-don't care if she d-does. Sh-she's going to find out. I'm l-leaving her, I d-decided that even b-before seeing Laney again. W-we'll get a d-divorce."
Ackley nodded. At least that's one thing he's bank on about Bates' future. He doubted Connie would want to stick around once it all hit the fan.
Warman shook his head while his colleagues whispered their observations to one another.
"What a piece of work. All this guy cares about is his girlfriend. Not even himself. And that's a pretty crappy way to treat the pregnant wife."
"Makes perfect sense to Norman Bates." the doctor explained. "At least this time he's not disposing of his troubles with a knife. He sees this Laney woman as the love of his life, his hope, whatever he needs, she's it. The wife appears to be just another image of control, and oppression. Like his mother."
Warman couldn't be bothered with it now. With Bates likely cleared of the charges, if his girlfriend's word was verified, they lost their prime suspect. What angst and drama remained was Norman's problem; he and Ackley still had an open case and a murderer to find. He pressed the button that flashed a small light in the adjoining room, to alert his partner. The interrogation was, for a moment, at an end.
The door opened, and Warman appeared with the doctor in tow.
"This is Dr. Feldman. she'll take it from here."
Ackley nodded and started to rise, but Norman reached out suddenly to grab the man's hand in both of his own.
"P-please. Pr-promise me. You won't m-make it public. Y-you won't say her name for the p-papers. I d-don't w-want to get her in tr-trouble!"
"We'll take every precaution." Ackley nodded and eased his hand free.
Without another word, he and Warman disappeared. Norman was not convinced, and pressed his hands to his face, rocking slowly in his chair.
"Hello, Norman." The doctor took the detective's newly vacated seat and put a small box of tissues on the table. "I'm Dr. Susanna Feldman. They've asked me to have a few words with you, before they let you go."
Norman sniffed, nodded, and finally reached for a tissue without looking up.
"Thank you." was all he said.