Amanda Young
The bus took her far from that cursed place.
She had survived the three years of her sentence. Now, she was free.
It was a hollow feeling. She had no plans, outside of the steel bars and concrete cage. No family would take her in. The only person she could think of to turn to was Cecil, who owed her big time. She felt like a tumbleweed, blown about in the dirt by the cruel world.
She knew she was being pathetic, feeling sorry for herself.
The bus slowed to a stop, taking her just west of the Crossroads, the farthest stop of the route. She got off.
It was early afternoon. A distant siren released her adrenaline. The thought of men in blue filled her gut with dread. She was already feeling so tired, she could collapse.
She knew there wasn't a lot she could do, besides enter the crummy building. Climb the cracked stairs. Knock on the door with peeling plaster.
The door opened and Cecil's black eyes glittered back at her. "'manda."
"Cecil."
He moved to let her inside, closing the door behind her. The place was small. A mattress on the floor, cardboard boxes as makeshift tables, and a familiar spread of pills and brown stained spoons on the kitchen counter gave her a forlorn smile.
"How was prison?"
"What do you think?" She would have punched him in the face if he wasn't offering his place for her to crash. She needed to get herself back on her feet. Find a job. Get clean.
Speaking of. She wiped the sweat on her brow. She had been kept steady in supply while locked up. The irony that she had all the drugs she could have wished while in prison wasn't lost on her.
She knew it was going to be a rough few weeks. But she intended to get clean. She was going to fix her life.
"Want a hit?" Cecil was already wrapping his arm with a rubber tube.
"How much?"
Cecil paused, raising an eyebrow. "You for real? I thought you didn't touch the shit."
"Yeah. That was before." Before she lost her freedom, for a crime she never committed. For Cecil's crimes.
The man smirked. "Alright," he sounded almost gleeful. "First round's on me. For, you know." His tone held just the slightest semblance of remorse. So he does know he did me wrong.
This did little to make her feel better, though.
What would was the promise of that warm, pleasant buzz that was sure to come from that needle. Cecil always bragged about only buying primo shit.
She took stray surgical tubing and wrapped it around her upper arm, pulling with her teeth as her heart picked up in eager anticipation.
Cecil flicked his lighter and heated up the powder under the spoon, letting it turn to liquid. Antiseptic and burnt rubber filled her nose.
There was an awkward moment as he filled the syringe. He went to push the needle into his inner arm, pushing the plunger inward, the light yellow liquid vanishing. Cecil's face relaxed and he let out a slow breath.
Amanda went to help herself, taking a spare syringe that looked somewhat clean, draining the last vestiges of fluid from the spoon. There wasn't much furniture to sit on. Cecil was already taking up the dingy mattress in the corner. She sat on a dry spot on the carpet.
In another minute, none of this would bother her anymore.
She flicked the syringe and aligned the needle right over a thick vein that bulged eagerly from under her skin. She gently pushed it in and pressed the stopper.
She felt the warmth of the fluid as it spread from her inner elbow all the way up her arm until she felt the pleasure spread across her chest. Her spine hummed. She felt herself fall over. She was sinking. Sinking gently down from this shithole apartment and going to a happy place.
Yes. This was nice. This was so much better.
She didn't care anymore how fucked up her life was.
As long as she had heroin, it was going to be fine.
Wilhelmina Maddox
"Maddox." Grissom entered her office door. He had a stern frown that raised her to her feet.
"Sir, what is it?" She expected him to hand her the case file gripped tightly in his hand. Perhaps it was a particularly sensitive victim or too close to corruption in-house.
"You should sit down, Maddox."
This alarmed her. She obeyed, her fingers already beginning to twitch. "You're scaring me, boss."
Grissom took a seat at the chair across from her desk, his mouth a wide line of discomfort. He slowly placed the folder on her desk. "Just got this called in an hour ago. Forensics probably haven't combed the scene yet. I'm still deciding whether it is appropriate you be the principal investigator for this case."
Will raised an eyebrow, opening the folder.
Her heart thudded in her neck.
There were no photographs. Yet. It was so fresh the papers were still warm from the printer.
Domestic Dispute.
Neighbors reported screams.
Victim, female, 20-30s. Black hair. Brown eyes.
Lacerations to the neck.
No suicide letter.
Indications of struggle, homicide, defensive wounds.
The address burned into her vision and she shook her head.
"This is Angelina Acomb's home address," she whispered, feeling as if dreaming.
Grissom nodded, looking away. "We need someone to ID the body. There's been some issues with the pathologist's car - body's still at the scene."
Will kept looking back, trying to still her trembling arms.
She needed to be involved. She already knew that. A part of her refused to believe Angelina was dead. But another part of her, the one that was more cynical, was not surprised.
Angelina had dived head first into a pit of trouble.
Will already had a feeling this was a drug deal gone wrong.
Thoughts of Mark and him eventually learning of this broke her heart.
"Your personal relationship with the victim makes this difficult for me," Grissom leaned forward, grunting, "but for one of our own, when it's family, I know the pain. Having to watch things from the outside, leashed to just watch from the sidelines. And I know Hoffman. We know Hoffman."
Will nodded, agreeing. The painful lump in her throat grew and made it hard for her to breathe. She forced it down.
"I can't let him investigate. He's proven time and again that he's going to take shortcuts. And if this prick gets off because he gets a defense attorney that can sniff out anything that was done incorrectly - we could see the killer walk. And I don't want that. He'd never forgive himself."
"Then why me?" Will narrowed her eyes. "I knew the victim personally as well."
"And you have the cleanest track record in this department. No one else can brag how by-the-book you are, except for IA. And for Hoffman, it's the best I can do for him, putting you up to it. He trusted you. If you're up for it, the case is yours." His jaw was clenched, his stare penetrating. "This is asking a lot. I know."
She nodded, swallowing the painful lump forming in her throat. Despite the grief that wanted to bubble up she slammed it down, reminding herself that she could cry when they caught this bastard. She cleared her throat. "I'll do it."
Grissom nodded. "Then get to the scene. Don't worry about breaking the news to Hoffman." He looked weary and almost afraid. "I'll do it."
Will felt the blood drain from her face. "You don't have to do that, sir. I can." She doubted it would be any better, coming from her.
Grissom shook his head. "The crime scene's just been established." He got to his feet. "And I'm going to give the poor man a few more hours of blissful ignorance. Just focus on this case, treat it as pristinely as you do with all the others." Grissom gave her a final nod before leaving her alone.
As soon as the door shut, Will let out a deprived gasp. She covered her mouth and the tremors she had suppressed unleashed like a violent earthquake. Hunched over her desk, she took the case to the side so her tears wouldn't leave wrinkled dots on the papers.
"Angie," she choked back a sob, "no."
After a few more minutes of heavy breathing she wiped her tear streaked cheeks and got to her feet. She grabbed her jacket and car keys, stopped by the nearest restroom to splash cold water on her face, and drove to the crime scene.
Angelina's apartment looked like a nightmare.
Will took in the spray paint on the walls, the clear signs of drug abuse strewn about every horizontal surface, and the confusing layout of furniture. She remembered when this apartment was once tastefully decorated with modern furnishing that resembled the cover of Home Living.
She wasn't sure where the drug abuse started and the violent murder ended.
She carefully stepped over taped squares and yellow number cards as forensic technicians took pictures of every square inch of the living room.
She stopped at the bedroom, bracing herself before she entered.
There, on the bed, in a thin camisole and sweats, lay Angelina Acomb. Dead. Her head dangled off the edge of the mattress, her hair cascading down to the ground. Her eyes were vacant. Her face held the slightest remnants of surprise and fear through her agape lips.
Her fingers were curled with bruises along her wrists, indicating defensive wounds.
Her neck was slashed wide open, the arterial blood having splattered along the ceiling. A significant portion of the wall in the path of trajectory was bare.
The killer was likely covered in her blood. Better have some guys go through all the dumpsters in the next ten blocks. See if any CCTV cameras are around. Keep an eye out.
"Anyone interview the doorman?"
One woman who was dusting for fingerprints shook her head. "This building hasn't had a doorman in months. That's how we all got in so easy."
How had she not noticed? She should have realized this when there was no one standing guard at the entrance. These details, she should have picked up on instantly. She realized she was distracted, thoughts often flashing back to Angelina's wedding. Brunch. Times when they used to laugh and shop and complain about their love lives together. She needed to get a grip.
She wished Allison was back from Virginia, but decided it was better she wasn't. She knew this was going to break her heart as well.
Distant yelling sounded and Will spun around, heart hammering. She half expected the suspect to have returned to the scene.
In a whirlwind, she recognized Mark's angry voice.
"Let me in. This is my sister's apartment. Where is she?!"
She stepped out of the bedroom, down the hall. Uniformed cops were trying to stop a trespasser at the front door.
"Detective, you're not assigned to this case. You need to step back."
She saw Mark, hair disheveled, eyes wide. He saw her and something on her face must have told him all he needed to know.
"Let go of me!" He forced himself free from the grip of one of the uniformed rookies who looked unsure of what the protocol was in this type of situation.
"Mark," Will took a step forward, holding her hands out to him. "Hang on, slow down."
"Where is she?"
"Mark, she's not ready yet - you need to wait."
She felt him push by her, like a bull barreling past.
The rookies followed, trying to pull him back.
They managed to grab him just as he entered the door. But they were too late.
She watched their backs, hearing Hoffman's voice contort into a wail.
"NO!"
Will leaned against the wall, her knees weak, as she heard the man she loved scream in agony. But if Mark touches her - touches her body - I can't let him do that.
She wanted to cry as well. The familiar click and whine of a camera, the white flashes, snapped her into action. She pushed herself back up and sprinted into the bedroom. She stopped when she saw Mark on his knees, weeping at the foot of the bed, Angelina's corpse remained as it had been, unmoved. One of forensics continued to photograph the stuffed animals on the floor, the blood splattering the pale pink sheets.
She knelt by him, putting an arm around him. "Mark," she whispered, "As soon as they're done, you can have all the time with her. Okay? But please, you need to wait outside."
He turned to her, eyes an angry red, cheeks streaked with tears.
He grabbed her hand and squeezed it tightly. "It was Baxter. Find him, Will. Arrest him."
"I will. I promise. I'll find Angelina's killer."
His eyes scared her. They were wild and cold. "It was Baxter. I know it."
She wanted to ask how. But he wasn't in his right mind. So she remained gentle. "Okay, Mark."
"Otherwise," he got to his feet, looking back at Angelina with sudden callousness on his expression. Emotion was thick in his throat and his voice was quiet. "I'll deal with it myself."
"You won't have to, Mark." She stood up as well, hand on his elbow. "I'll make sure whoever is responsible for this will be behind bars for the rest of his life. I promise."
Jill Tuck
Jill had brought the vial of urine out of the bathroom, her heart hammering. "John."
John was at his drawing table, sketching out a floor plan. He turned, reading glasses hanging at the tip of his nose. His eyes landed on the blue liquid and he jumped up with surprise.
"You're -," his words stopped and he looked as if he was about to choke and laugh.
She was beaming. "I'm pregnant!"
He was laughing, arms outstretched, taking her into his arms.
She loved how taken aback he was acting. He had been especially attentive these past few months, ever since their conceiving a child would align with the Chinese Zodiac's Year of the Pig. He had been so invested in the concept of rebirth and renewal.
It was part of his and Art Blanck's brand - "Urban Renewal".
John already had big plans for their future child. Boy or girl - he would name them Gideon. Terrible name, she knew. But no matter how much she pushed or pleaded, he would not budge on the name.
He was stubborn like that.
But she was just happy that they were having a child together, after so many years of his refusal to.
So Gideon, it was.
She only hoped he would let her dress Gideon however she wanted.
John put his hand over Jill's stomach, as if he could sense Gideon's presence.
"Hey there, son," John whispered at her stomach. "We're going to see you real soon."
"How are you so sure it's a boy?" Jill raised an eyebrow.
John was smiling at her, shrugging. "I just know."
Mark Hoffman
He stood and could do nothing but watch.
The coffin was being lowered down into the ground.
The headstone read:
Angelina Acomb
1976 - 1999
Loving Daughter, Sister, and Wife.
Gone But Not Forgotten
He wasn't sure if it would have been what she would have wanted. Angie never left a will. There never seemed to be a reason.
She was only thirty three.
That made his eyes well up. He shut them tight and willed the world to pause its progression of time.
He felt a small frame wrap around him. A small bit of warmth on that frosted, cloudy morning.
It was Will.
He didn't look at her. He knew he should be thankful she was there, to support him as he said goodbye to the only family he had.
But all he felt was the venom of misery and the emptiness of loss.
Next to Angelina's headstone was Peter Acomb's. To the left of Peter, were his parents. Eventually, he planned on joining them here, in this plot of earth to rot away. Together.
But first, he needed to see that justice was served.
Seth Baxter needed to answer for what he did.
It was the only thing he thought about for the past three days.
It was the only reason his body somehow kept breathing. It was the only reason he got out of bed in the morning, despite his nightly drunken wishes to not wake up.
Will had managed to arrest Baxter just yesterday. That had been another reason he kept living.
The punk had lawyered up but was still waiting on a public defender.
The process was slow but Will had reassured him that she would make sure the DA would have all the evidence needed to convict him.
He trusted her on this.
He had to.
These days, he just wasn't on top of his game. He knew he wouldn't have been able to properly arrest Baxter.
He wanted to kill him. Squeeze the life out of him. Strangle the bastard until his neck bones cracked and he saw the spark of life darken in his eyes.
But going to prison wasn't something he ever wanted.
And killing himself wasn't in the cards either, when Will had taken his gun from him with Grissom's blessing.
Every few minutes, it seemed, he would feel a flash of anger at her, for getting in the way of what he wanted. But every so often, a moment of clarity would shine and remind him that she was doing what she thought was right. She cared for him. It would last a few seconds, until he remembered that Angie was dead.
He didn't realize they had left the gravesite.
He was in her car. Will was driving.
"You hungry?" She asked softly, returning to the city.
He wasn't. But he was thirsty. "Yeah."
"Larry's sound good?" He felt her eyes on him. She had been casting nervous glances in his direction regularly. It was annoying but he didn't complain.
He nodded.
She parked at their usual spot, entered the bar.
Larry had left two shot glasses and an unopened bottle of Jack Daniels where Hoffman sat. "On the house," Larry gruffly spoke. "Condolences."
Hoffman would have been touched.
If he could feel anything at all.
He took the bottle, ripping the cap off, and began taking thick gulps straight, the liquid scalding his throat and burning his eyes.
He had finished half the bottle before he felt a wave of nausea.
He put the bottle back on the counter and leaned forward, willing himself not to start crying there.
Will had her hand on his shoulder, squeezing it gently.
She didn't say anything and he was grateful to her for that.
He sulked as the alcohol began to warm him and help take the edge off his pain. It was numbing and pleasant. It was the only thing that didn't completely suck in his life.
Will poured him another glass and one for herself.
He suddenly recalled a time when Angelina had poured him a glass of whiskey before. Back when he had first graduated from the Police Academy.
"Congrats, Mark!" She had grinned, wide mouthed and beautiful. "Got you this special scotch, aged for twelve years. Something I was saving for when you became this city's 'messenger of justice'."
He had been touched, knowing she had been on a tight budget, the both of them always had been.
"You didn't have to get me that," he told Angelina, but happily tasted the smooth warm oak flavored liquor.
"Only the best for my big brother. You're going to be such a good cop ever. You've always done the right thing, since we were little. You always stood up for the kids in the playground who were getting picked on. And you always will. You're my hero. And I love you."
Where was that bottle? He struggled to remember. And then he remembered. He and Will had drunk it dry on one of their movie nights, years ago, and remorse punched his gut.
He should have treasured it. He should have treasured everything he had ever received from Angie.
His vision blurred and he shoved his thumb and forefinger into his eyelids, willing them to stop getting so damn wet. No. Fucking stop. You don't deserve to cry.
"Mark," Will's voice broke through, her fingers pressing into his upper arm, squeezing him back to reality.
"What?" He growled, not looking up to her.
"You should eat something."
"Not hungry."
They spent the rest of the evening in silence. Mark drank as much as he could before he forgot to remember to forget to remember.
Somehow, he ended up back in his bed. He knew it had been Will who had put him there.
Amanda Young
She could handle most of the symptoms of withdrawal. The paranoia. The confusion. The fever and sweats. The shaking. She just couldn't handle the fucking pain.
The pain was in the form of white hot pokers stabbing into the cartilage of her elbows and knees. Her joints felt as if the cartilage was composed of barbed spikes stabbing into her bones. She wanted to die, then and there.
Where the fuck is Cecil? She would gasp and curl into a ball as her body seized from the agony. "Where. The fuck. Are you?" She was breathless and desperate. She needed her fix.
"Shit, Mandy," Cecil's voice croaked over her. She tried to glare up at his beady black eyes and scream at him. Blame him for all of her suffering.
He stood over her, looking nauseous himself. "Mandy. There's a shortage right now. I can't get anything."
"Are you -," she doubled over, rolling on the dirty floor, "shitting me?" She was crying, her face stained with soot and tears. "Just kill me. Please."
Cecil licked his lips, looking afraid. "There's this clinic. They can help with withdrawal."
"Anything. Please. Just go." She didn't know what he was talking about but she wanted more than anything for it to end.
"You got to come with me."
"I can't." She felt another jolt of hot pain and let out a gargled scream.
"Hey! You can. Unless staying here and riding this out is what you'd rather do."
"Ugh. Fuck. No." She was panting as she rolled over, trying with all her might to muster the strength to get off the ground. "Just. Drive."
"Yeah, no shit."
Somehow, she had managed to crawl up to her feet and with the help of Cecil, they climbed into his shitty car and drove for several blocks, until they were in the outskirts of the city. Homeward Bound Clinic's sign burned into her retinas. She hated the font. She hated this entire world.
"Come on. It's first come, first serve."
She gasped as she climbed out of the car, stumbling while holding her stomach. Cecil kept her balance. She briefly felt gratitude for him there. Sometimes, he wasn't a total piece of shit. She somehow managed to walk the hundreds of years from the car through the doors, past some fellow junkies in the halls who was tweaking out, and landing in a cold steel chair.
A waiting room.
The smell of rubbing alcohol and body odor was making her headache worse and her mouth water at the idea of what other substances were likely stored in the clinic.
She sat there, cringing and writhing in her oversensitive nerves, until she heard a gentle voice.
"Oh, dear. Let's get you cleaned up."
She looked up, twitching and trembling past her greasy hair. She saw an attractive blond woman with concern in her eyes and the faintest baby bump on her stomach.
"P-please," she whispered, "just make this stop."
The woman nodded, no judgment in her face. Only understanding and compassion. "My name is Jill. Come with me."
Amanda half-believed she had died and this was an angel. She happily went with her, following her. If anyone can heal my pain, it would be her.
She didn't know why she thought that but blamed her withdrawal delirium.
She was brought into a private patient room.
"Have a seat," Jill told her, at the paper covered medical bed. She did so, her head fidgeting. It was cold in that room.
"You appear to be suffering withdrawal. Can you tell me what drugs you take?'' There was a glint from the clipboard and Amanda looked up to see the doctor was writing things down. She felt defensive but knew better than to resist.
"Heroin."
She saw Jill's lips thinned. "I'll prescribe you methadone."
"Yes. Thank you. Oh," Amanda was literally crying tears of joy. "Thank you so much."
"I'll prescribe you just enough to get you out of the woods. But you'll need to stick to the dosage. Here," Jill had dug out of her pocket a bottle of pills, taking out what looked like a single pill. She handed it to Amanda before turning to the sink to pour a glass of water. "This should kick in about thirty minutes. You'll feel a lot better then."
Amanda didn't need the glass of water, instead dry swallowing with eagerness. It would be the longest thirty minutes of her life.
"You can stay in here." Jill turned to a corner chair where wool blankets were folded. She took one and wrapped it around her shoulders. "Would you like me to stay with you? Or something to read?"
Amanda's eyes began to tear up. This woman was so damn nice. It hurt her, feeling as though she wasn't worthy of such kindness. "I'm just going to try to sleep"
Jill nodded, understanding. "Sure thing. I'll check in. If you need anything, just come out and ask one of the nurses."
Amanda nodded. Jill had left, the door clicking shut. She hadn't said thank you fast enough.
Shame gripped her, tightly in the throat and she found herself weeping into the blankets.
Never again, Amanda promised herself. I'm getting clean after this. I'm never touching the stuff ever again. I'm going to clean up. Get my shit together. This is the last time.
John Kramer
John enjoyed walking through dilapidated buildings, finding old structures falling apart romantic. This latest building he purchased had so much potential. He would convert the old hospital rooms into private studios that were affordable for the many struggling citizens of their city.
"We've secured the zoning permits," Art Blanck swaggered ahead, looking clean in his bright blue suit and colorful paisley tie. "Had to pull a few strings but it'll be worth it. All we're waiting for is your blueprints and approval to begin construction. I have a couple of firms eager to offer their services. Tax cuts sure bring in a crowd. Who knew?" Art was smirking, looking very satisfied with himself.
John always found his old college roommate both brilliant and self-serving. It was fortuitous that they got along despite their fairly different life goals. But honestly, if it weren't for Jill, John would have likely joined Art in all his schemes, driven solely by the number of zeroes that would be granted from a project.
He hoped Art would one day see more than that. He still had faith that there was good in Art. He was just blinded by greed.
John paused when he saw a flicker of a shadow. The surprised stare of a dirty face followed by the pattering footsteps let him know that this building had not been completely vacated yet.
"Fucking layabouts," Art cursed, shaking his head. "Looks like we'll need to get some security to keep the squatters out."
"They're the very people this building will hopefully house," John whispered, not particularly caring if the homeless used the structure for shelter for the time being. But it would be dangerous as soon as they began building. Most of the structure was being demolished.
"Can't start building if people are around. It's against the law," Art explained. "Look, I know you feel for the unfortunate. But their presence will delay construction."
"Then find a way to reshelter them," John turned to his lawyer, knowing he was fully capable of coming up with a solution if motivated.
There was an awkward pause but Art cleared his throat. "Sure thing, John. I can come up with a way."
John nodded. "Good." He changed the subject, turning to look at an old elevator that was long ago out of commission. "I agree though, that security will protect people from sneaking in and getting hurt. This building needs a lot of work. The elevators will need to be restored. And we'll need to perform tests that the structure is sound."
"Maybe it'll be easier to just raze the place and start from scratch." Art muttered under his breath.
John watched him, thinking that was a rather peculiar thing to suggest.
Wilhelmina Maddox
Baxter's lawyer was a real son of a bitch.
Will had plenty of evidence. Seth Baxter's DNA was all over the crime scene. But they didn't have the murder weapon. It's likely at the bottom of the river. That would hurt things. There was also the issue with Baxter claiming that Mark had assaulted him and threatened him. It definitely wouldn't make it easier to lock him up. The jury could paint him in a sympathetic light.
Who knew Baxter's relatives were financing a competent defense attorney, in this economy? The world was unfair.
Will needed a confession from him. It was the only way to guarantee his conviction.
He looked as though he was proud, smirking up at her in the interrogation room as his lawyer studied his notes through thick reading glasses.
"So, Seth," Will had to play the charming interrogator. She was the good cop, the sweet cop. She batted her eyes and gave him the biggest charming smile she could. "I appreciate you taking the time to talk to me."
"Yeah, not like I have a choice." Seth pulled at the collar of his jailbird jumpsuit, the bright orange making him look sallow.
"Well, Angelina is dead. And we need answers. I know you can help us with that, Seth. Don't you want Angie's family to have answers?" She did everything she could to not think about her own feelings. She pretended Angelina was another victim. It helped.
She could feel Mark's eyes on her, through the one-way mirror, and already knew he likely detested her ability to play this role.
Angelina Acomb had not been a friend that had dined with her, gossiped with her, shopped with her. This Angelina Acomb was equivalent to a Jane Doe. A stranger. Another poor person in her many hundreds - no, thousands of poor anonymous persons she had investigated in her long career.
"Look. Angel was my sweetheart. Why would I want to hurt her?" Seth, despite the tough guy persona he was struggling to keep acting as, had a haunting shadow over his face and a heavy fatigue weighing his shoulders down.
"Well, remember that warrant that let us take your hair, blood, and urine?"
"Yeah."
"Well, we ran more than DNA tests."
The lawyer looked up, finally, with interest.
"What tests?"
"Drug tests, Seth." Will allowed Seth to squirm under her scrutiny. He scratched the back of his head suddenly, his legs fluttered and his arms crossed. He was anxious. On edge.
"I do not recall the warrant you provided included toxicology tests," the lawyer sounded furious.
Will winked at him, smiling coyly. "Read it again."
The man humphed and flapped through the many documents he had in his briefcase. Baxter didn't wait for the man to allow him to speak.
"So?"
"We found phencyclidine in your system, Seth."
His eyes narrowed. The lawyer paused, looking at his client with shock. They sat in silence for over a minute. Will had counted, hoping Seth would break first. He remained frozen, looking like a deer in headlights.
"Also known as PCP. Angel Dust, Seth." Will took out of her folder the lab reports, sliding them to his lawyer. "Side effects include delusions. Paranoia. Violent episodes."
Seth's eyes became saucers and he was visibly sweating.
"It was an accident," he whispered. His lawyer looked flabbergasted.
"Not another word," the lawyer instructed. "We need a couple of minutes, detective."
She shrugged, acting as nonchalant as possible. "Sure. I'll give you five. Just so you know, a jury is going to see all these facts. With a confession, it'll only do you good, may even get parole."
She got to her feet and left the room. The guard at the door walked in, briefing on relocation to a private room for lawyer-client deliberation. She walked to the adjacent room where Mark and Allison were waiting.
"No parole. And don't make a deal," Mark growled as soon as she entered.
"Don't need to," Allison interjected. "We got the bastard. Worry about the parole hearings if he survives a year locked up. His lawyer's probably advising him to just confess."
"He won't without some deal. I want him locked away for life." Mark's arms were crossed and he glared menacingly at Seth Baxter through the glass. The guy was getting up and walking out of the room, casting nervous glances in the direction of the looking glass. His jaw twitched and Will could only imagine half the fantasies going through Mark's mind. It was obvious he wanted to do a lot more to Seth Baxter than just throw him in jail and lock away the key.
It was a shame they didn't have the death penalty in their state. Maybe then, Mark would find some satisfaction in the upcoming legal battles ahead.
