BUFFY:
Locked room mysteries are the worst. They might be a staple of writers, but for me? They’re a nightmare. Somehow, I have to piece together what the hell happened and whodunnit, and everyone subconsciously expects me to do so with the aplomb and neatness of Grissom. Life is way too messy for that. Ten years of working on the streets, in Vice and Homicide and now in Forensics, and I know – life is far too messy and arbitrary for anyone, least of all a copper, to hope for any kind of sense.
Still, it’s my job to find some, to take all the incoherent bits and pieces and somehow make them tell a story that will convince a jury beyond a reasonable doubt. I’m not talking about falsifying anything. The problem is that there is so much evidence, all of which could be evidence of so many different scenarios. The story has to tell me which bits are important, relevant.
The poor man was lying in a pool of blood, on the living room floor behind the sofa, near the dining table. Problem was, the blood didn’t match, and we had no idea where it came from. He had no external injuries and there was no obvious cause of death. Blunt force trauma to the back of the head was diagnosed on the scene, but that was before we figured out the victim was AB and the blood on the floor was O-negative.
With the M.E. going back to the drawing board, the rest of us had returned to the scene, combing it again for anything out of place. Unfortunately, when you first see a room after the fact, it’s hard to know with any certainty what the ‘before’ picture should have looked like.
Will and I have worked these cases together for a few years. 117 cases – yes, we think in cases rather than calendars. He has a dry sense of humour, almost as morbid as mine. We talk shop most of the time, occasionally exchanging mundane pleasantries. I try to avoid that, as I try to avoid noticing his wedding band. We have a certain chemistry, but I’ll never admit that to him. I’ve been cheated on, I won’t do that to someone else, even in the unlikely event that he’d ever make a move. Part of the reason I like him so much is that he’s one of the good guys. And heaven knows how rare they are.
I hate and enjoy every case we work together, and something about this one makes my gut clench.
The blood on the floor yielded DNA, and that led us back to a database. Our euphoria at the breakthrough faded when it was a medical one – for organ donation.
There the trail goes cold – donor’s information is very privileged. I sink my head into my hands, narrowly missing my keyboard. William pulls it out of the way and drops off my share of the Chinese takeaway dinner our profession seems to subsist on.
Three attempts at a search warrant later, there turns out to be no connection between the donor and the deceased that anyone can find. It could have been something valid and medical – O-neg being the ‘universal’ type, but there was no blood bag we can find either.
William almost laughs at that, and comes over to my lab to make a crack about vampires and Natalie Portman. I snort, but don’t look up from my work. I’ve got an anomaly in my sample and I’m checking it. If the victim had an underlying medical condition, then it should show up in chemical analysis. What I’m getting is far too much Viagra and – recreational drugs? An averagely healthy, averagely wealthy divorced middle-aged man was on quite a cocktail of fun. Why? And more to the point, does it have anything to do with why he died? It’s not the cause of death, the levels aren’t high enough, which disappoints the M.E. as well as the prosecutor.
Every extra hour counts, and everyone’s always hoping for an easy answer, a slam-dunk case. The kind that only happen on TV.
WILLIAM:
Is it strange that I have a love/hate relationship with my job? Mostly, I love it.
I’ve always loved puzzles and mysteries, for as long as I can remember. I’ve always loved figuring out how things and events fit together. The more difficult the case, the fewer or less obvious the clues, the happier I am. It’s the open-and-shut cases I hate. Locked room mysteries, especially when they leave the door open? My favourite.
I can’t help it, I get a boost of adrenalin and feel like I can run for days on coffee, take-out and no sleep. The sheer volume of clues, half-clues and possible clues excites me. I love the endless possibilities and scenarios that gradually get narrowed down to the most likely one, the one story that the weight of the evidence supports.
But regardless of the nature of the case, of the clues, of the possible scenarios, the last few years, the last 117 cases, have left me frustrated and confused. And it has nothing to do with the job. 117 cases ago Buffy was the rookie. Brand new, wet-behind-the ears, no experience of Forensics, but with all the hard-bitten cynicism of too long in Homicide, too much experience of just how universal the potential to kill a fellow human really is.
She was nervous as hell, trying to hide it under a layer of street-hard smarts, but actually? So pale she was almost green. I tried to put her more at ease: a bit of small talk, draw her out, without calling her on her nerves. Of course I noticed them – observation is my job, after all. Acute observation and subsequent interpretation of the evidence. I just figured calling her on her discomfort would only make it worse.
That was an easy case, textbook, littered with obvious clues. A nice first time for her, a coffee-break yawn for me. I like them complicated and misleading. What can I say? I like a challenge, which must be why I married Dru.
BUFFY:
Evidence is a strange phenomenon. There are so many things, so many clues, that all combine to tell myriad stories. And that’s the problem with my job, with all detective work. Fiction makes it look so easy – the one thing out of place, the one mistake the criminal inevitably makes – but really? It’s not like that.
For instance: we found a lot of fingerprints in the living room where the victim’s body lay. Most belonged to the victim, his son and his son’s girlfriend. So the fingerprints don’t tell us anything, although the prevalence of the girlfriend’s fingerprints could point towards the lady in question dividing her time between both men in the family. Unfair, if that’s the case: for her to have two men while I have none, and certainly not the one I want and shouldn’t even waste my time looking at, however easy on the eyes he is… Those true-blue eyes, those knife-edge cheekbones…
He’s off-limits. He’s married, he’s a colleague, he’s off-limits. I repeat it like a mantra and force myself to concentrate on work.
That works for about five minutes.
WILLIAM:
When I’m on a case, I don’t go home as much as I probably should. It’s simple really: I get work-obsessed, and it bores Dru to tears. She has no interest in what I can tell her about my job. There’s always so much that I shouldn’t say, that’s confidential – and she always said she’d rather not know, so she can’t possibly slip up and say something she shouldn’t. She acknowledges that she’s a bit of a gossip – acknowledges it with a smile, shrug and a charming frankness. That’s one of the things I love about her.
But it does mean that when I’m working and focussed, I tend to hang around the lab, because I can talk to the people there about all the details on my mind. A few of us are like that, and we half-joke about our jobs being the third people in our relationships. Buffy’s never struck me as being quite as obsessive about forensics as we are, the hard-core geeks, yet she works so hard and stays so late I have to wonder why. When she was a rookie, out to prove her worth, it made sense. Now, if it’s not her whole life, her obsession, why put in so much effort? She just about lives here half the time.
BUFFY:
When we’re working a difficult case, I have a tendency to live at the lab. Overtime is something of a mythical beast in Homicide, and maybe it’s a hangover from those days, and maybe I should worry about a work-life balance and all the rest of it, but honestly? It’s not like there’s anything or anyone waiting at home for me.
It’s late, I’m probably the only one here. I sigh, stretch and lock my computer screen, thinking I could use a break, forty winks on the worn-spring sofa in the break room.
I’m surprised to see William there, doing crosswords at the table and looking like he could use a lot more sleep than he’s getting. Why the hell is he still here? He has a life, a wife… I’ve seen the picture of her on his desk, and she’s beautiful. He has reasons to go home, a home to go to. Not just an empty, cold apartment.
Not that I’m not glad to see him. I can’t think of anything to say, so I get myself a coffee, and walk over to the table, racking my brains.
He doesn’t look up, ‘9 letters, Risk coming by River?’
I look over his shoulder, at the controlled chaos of the grid, not really seeing it, ‘Um. I haven’t a clue.’
‘I just gave you the clue.’
‘Ha. Funny. Or not. Maybe try…’ I spell it out under my breath, counting letters on my fingers, ‘Adventure?’
He looks up at me, ‘How do you get that?’
I shrug, almost spilling my coffee, ‘Just a guess. But you’ve got V as the third letter from Overcome, and the final E from Seduce. So it fits.’
He smiles, running a hand through his hair until it rests at the back of his neck. I smile briefly back and turn away. He looks so boyish when he does that, and I clench my fist at my side not to ruffle his hair. Somehow I don’t think he’d thank me.
WILLIAM:
I was taking a break from trying to figure out why – and whence - the blood on the floor, pretending to do the Times crossword and wondering why Dru hadn’t been in when I called earlier to let her know I’d eat at the lab. Must have had to work late herself, poor love.
Usually, crosswords come pretty easily, even the cryptic ones, but I was distracted. By the case, by Dru, by the way the clues had me stymied. It’s not a familiar or a comfortable sensation for me.
Buffy walked in, looked absolutely exhausted. I heard her heels clacking on the floor tiles, the pause as just inside the door when she realised she wasn’t the last one here. The change in direction, heading now for the coffee machine instead of the sofa. The tinkling of the glass coffee pot on the edge of the mug. Her footsteps towards me. Through all of that, she hadn’t said a word. Neither had I, but all that came to mind was to ask why the hell she was still here, and to say she looked tired. I didn’t think either would go down very well. Women tend to take comments like that as insulting rather than concerned.
So I read the next random crossword clue aloud, more to break the silence than ask for help. She got it, too. She was standing next to me, leaning over the table to look at my efforts so far and I could smell her perfume, faded at the end of a long day, but still there. If I turned my head, I was sure I’d have an unparalleled view down her top. I focussed on filling in her solution, not looking up to smile my thanks until she’d moved away a little.
She flickered a smile back, before leaving the room.
She always seems a little uneasy around me – friendly enough, but guarded. After all this time, I don’t take it personally. She’s a private person, who doesn’t talk much about her life outside work. I couldn’t even tell you if she has a boyfriend. Or, for that matter, a girlfriend.
I take that back. The evidence doesn’t suggest that she’s interested in women. No, the clues say she’s either straight or one hell of an actress. And if she was that good an actress? No way would she be working in the dreary world of Forensics.
The weight of the evidence says she’s straight, and probably single, and why the hell am I even speculating about this? I shake my head to clear it, abandon the crossword puzzle half-completed and head home to my wife.
BUFFY:
You’d think it would get easier, with time. With all the time we spend together, all the cases we’ve worked on over the last few years; but it doesn’t. If anything, it gets worse. I know it’s pathetic, I know it verges on creepy and believe me I’m open to any other opportunities I can find, but I can’t help the fact that the attraction is there. I really, really, like the man – it’s more than lust, and the more I know him, the more I like him. And I’m petrified he’ll find out, and laugh, and remind me that he’s off-limits, as if I don’t already know that. So I try to keep everything light and casual and controllable.
I notice he’s spending more and more time here as we try to sift some kind of relevance, some kind of coherence, from this case. I wonder how his wife feels about all the hours he works, and I don’t know if I want her to be understanding about it or not.
WILLIAM:
Dru’s drifting away from me. And I’m letting her. I’m doing nothing to hold her, to pull her back to me. I’m fairly certain she’s having an affair. I don’t need – and God, I don’t want to think about - surveillance photos, tapped phone calls or even checking her email to know. There’s enough evidence without any of that. The late nights, the missed messages, unreturned phone-calls. The lack of leftovers in the fridge that says she’s not eating at home, not cooking, not shopping. The fresh flowers in the living room. The new perfume, the lack of concern over my long working hours. The fast-changing bed linen.
She’s having an affair, and she’s conducting it in our bed. And as much as that hurts, as much as it rips my heart out; I can’t hate her. She’s my wife, I still love her. Always have, always will.
I know I need to confront her, find out how we got here, what I did or didn’t do – even if I think I already know. She must know I know about it: she’s not being all that subtle, and I’m a forensic scientist.
I don’t want to confront it. I want to ignore it, at least until we’ve cracked this case and I have time to convince her that whatever I did wrong, I can change. I can be better, I can be the man she fell for, married, deserved. Until the next case. And there’s the rub. I’m a realist, and a lousy liar: if what I’ve done wrong is work too hard, too many hours, then I don’t know if I can change. Any promises I make would be lip-service, nothing more. And we both know that.
I rub my hands over my face, through my hair, fingers lacing behind my neck, elbows resting on the desk.
Try to focus on the case, not think about my life falling apart.
BUFFY:
I tell myself I’m not a stalker, not obsessed. I try not to look in as I pass William’ office en route to the Ladies’ but I can’t always stop myself. His head’s in his hands, shoulders tensed as if he’s holding back the urge to throw something, probably a punch.
He usually likes the difficult cases, but this one seems to be getting to him. It doesn’t help that the M.E. has yet to diagnose a definitive cause of death. Apparently there are a few options still open, and so far none of us has unearthed any evidence that could point us in any one direction.
We got quite excited to find a syringe in the kitchen, until tests proved it was used for basting roasts, and no evidence suggested any other purpose or that it had ever been used with a needle.
The victim had needle marks inside his elbows. With the evidence of narcotics in his blood and hair, that was promising right up until he showed up as a regular blood donor, and the marks proved consistent with the needles used by the blood bank.
Yet another dead end. The M.E. is sure the victim didn’t die naturally – he had no underlying or pre-existing medical conditions, and apart from Viagra, GHB and trace amounts of cocaine, no chemical reason to drop dead.
WILLIAM:
The presence of GHB in the victim’s system looked promising for a short while, gave me hope we’d caught a break on this one - until Buffy mentioned that, as far as she and her old buddies in Vice know, it’s often self-ingested, and doesn’t appear to cause much in the way of memory loss. I didn’t want to know how she had such a detailed knowledge of its effects, but the M.E. asked anyway, and she blushed – which I’ve never seen before – and muttered something indecipherable apart from the word ‘spiked.’ Which remark encapsulates why I will never understand women – why would anyone be embarrassed to admit that someone once spiked their drink? Especially when she’s adamant (in response to the M.E’s next question) that she remembers the entire night and nothing happened. At least, nothing as a result of the spiked drink. What’s so humiliating about that?
None of which helps explain how our victim died.
BUFFY:
In the Ladies, I lean my head against the cool tiles of the wall and curse my fair skin. I hate that I can’t control my blushing. Standing in the morgue, talking shop with the M.E and William and feeling the heat rise inexorably in my cheeks at having to shoot William down – he was so hopeful that the presence of a known date-rape drug would be our first decent lead.
Trouble is, having inadvertently taken it, I know it’s almost certainly not a lead. Especially if I’m right about the son’s girlfriend also sleeping with the victim. I think it’s far more likely, in that scenario, that he would have taken it voluntarily in an effort to recreate his younger libido.
I do not want to remember the roiling stomach, the inexplicable horniness of that night. And I really do NOT want to discuss the effects of GHB when I’m feeling on edge enough, when talking to someone I shouldn’t want, but do.
WILLIAM:
I made the effort to go home early today, only to come back to work to get away from the uncomfortable presence of all the things Dru and I did and didn’t say. When I told her I knew, she was relieved. When I asked her why, she said I couldn’t blame her, I’d left first, and mentioned Buffy. If I hadn’t been so blindsided by that I’d have laughed. What the hell has she got to do with anything? Just because she’s the only woman consistently on my shift – ah. I don’t think I’ve ever explained why she’s the only woman from work I mention at home.
Anyway, the tension was too difficult. To make it easier on Dru, I left for the night. Give us both some space. To make it easier on me, I took off my ring. For the first time in 9 years, I don’t want to see it, don’t want to be reminded. Not right now. It twists off reluctantly, and my hand’s unfamiliar without it.
I need a drink, but I don’t like to drink alone. I drive aimlessly for a while and end up back at work. Not like I’ve never pulled an all-nighter and crashed in the office before, and right now I’m too shattered to think.
BUFFY:
William is asleep in the break room, and he looks like hell. I thought he’d gone home for the day.
The M.E has finally determined cause of death – an air bubble in the heart. He believes it was injected into the victim. Of all the ways to kill someone.
And I’ve been going through the victim’s laptop again, through his photos and personal files this time and found evidence that I was right about the girlfriend. In fact, she was the victim’s girlfriend first, then his son’s. And from the personal emails, the victim wasn’t too keen to let her go.
I went to the break room in a stupor, absorbing this news, although it doesn’t help us prove who did it. Or why the blood.
I’m tempted to wake William, just for someone to talk to, but – he looks like hell. I stop my fingers a scant inch from his cheek and force myself to turn away.
I get myself a coffee, sit at the table and start on the crossword he left lying there: ‘Present on arrival (6)’
I’m not much good at crosswords, but sometimes they flow for me.
I’m so absorbed by it, I jump when I hear the low voice by my ear, ‘4 down, Mailed.’
He’s awake, and I don’t know how long he’s been looking over my shoulder, ‘Didn’t mean to scare you.’
I swallow, shake my head, check the cross solution for 4 down (4 across: Mahout) and yes, Mailed fits.
‘Thanks, it fits. Thought you’d gone home.’
Silence. Damn. Shouldn’t have commented. I duck my head, see his hand resting on the table next to my empty coffee cup. Wait. Where’s his wedding ring?
William yawns, stands straight, stretches behind me. I look down at the grid, not seeing it, listening to him walk around the table. I can feel him watching me. I don’t look up.
‘What are you still doing here?’ His tone is unreadable.
I shrug, ‘We have a cause of death. And two suspects. And no solid motive and no real proof.’
‘Oh?’
I explain while he makes a fresh pot of coffee. When I get to the love triangle, he tenses, freezes momentarily, then turns to face me. ‘Sod coffee. I need a drink. Join me?’
Author's Chapter Notes:
I own nothing, just playing.
Chapter End Notes:
open-ended, I know. There's a sequel simmering somewhere on a back burner...