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Message-ID: <30991asstr$993071405@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: writerzblocked@aol.com (Writerzblocked)
Subject: {ASSM} Harry Long, Psychic Detective 4 (mc)
Date: Wed, 20 Jun 2001 17:10:05 -0400
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Copyright by Writerzblocked, 2001.  All rights, well, you know. Repost and
archive to your heart's content, just don't charge anyone for it or I'll have
to send Harry after you. You all know the rest of the drill by now.  I'm not
big on headers and/or labels, so anyone reposting may feel free to add whatever
MF, MM, FF stuff they think is necessary.


CHAPTER 4

"So you're Agent Grummond?"
"Yes. Is he going to be OK?"
"It's just a slight concussion from hitting the floor.  The doctor would like
to keep him for a day or so, though, just in case there's a problem with his
medication. He seems to be on quite a combination.  I don't think I've ever
seen anything quite like it."
"Yeah.  It's taken two dozen doctors over a decade to finally settle on
something that works.  And then he has to be forced to take them."
"Really?"
"He'd been refusing to take them for over a month.  We just got him back on
medication a few days ago and he seemed to finally be lucid and social again. 
Near as the doctors can tell, it's a progressive disorder."
"Oh, dear.  My mother had Alzheimer's, so I know how painful that kind of thing
can be."

Yeah, right.  You don't know painful, you old sow.  Loosen these straps and
I'll show you painful.

"I see you have him strapped down."
"The night nurse thought he might be suffering from seizures.  The admitting
doctor wasn't familiar with the proper medications, so they thought it best... 
He was tossing and turning and muttering a lot."

Yeah, waking up two separate days in two separate hospital beds to two separate
nurses from hell will do that to you.  And a diet wouldn't even help this
one...

"Does he really need the gag?"
"I suppose not.  It's to stop him from biting his tongue, of course."

To stop me from biting YOUR tongue is more like it.  Sadist.

"Next time he wakes up, I'll take it out."
"Why don't we take it out NOW."
"I'll have to ask the doctor...."
"You go find him. Meanwhile, I'll get rid of these straps.  He obviously
doesn't need them."
"Well, if you think it's best..."
"Yes, I think it's best."
"Well, Just because you have a badge doesn't mean you can just come in here and
order me around."
"No, because I have a badge and a GUN means I can come in here and order you
around. Now get the hell out of here and don't come back without a doctor."

OK, so that one was worth a smile.  And if you've ever tried to smile with a
gag in your mouth, you can appreciate the effort.

"All right, Harry, let's get this gag out."
"Thanks."
"Oh, you're awake."
"Been awake off and on during the night.  The secret to survival around
hospitals is to never let them know you're awake. Then you wait until no one's
looking, undo the straps, get rid of the gag, pry open the window, jump five
floors to the sidewalk and you're free, all alone outside in 35 degree weather
in the middle of the night, dressed only in a hospital nightgown."

Well, hey, I thought it was funny.

"Uh, it really isn't a joking matter, Harry.  You could have been killed."
"Well, I know it's cold outside, but these gowns are actually quite warm,
except for the butt, of course..."

There was an eerie silence and I could tell she wasn't exactly sure how to
answer.  And there was something else...something I was quite familiar with.  

"You know what I mean, damn it."  She put a hand to her head and for a moment
looked a lot like she had two days before in that other hospital room.  Then
she turned her back to me and her head bowed slightly.

"That was a very brave thing you did, Harry.  I mean, I think you saw where
Forrest was pointing his gun...  But you yelled to warn me, anyway.  And then,
the other..."

"Nancy, I..."

"No, I mean it.  I know I haven't been there for you the past few years, so I
can't blame you for thinking I came to get you because of the promotion."

"Oh, C'mon, now.  You know I was just joking around."

She suddenly turned to me and damned if her eyes weren't starting to swell. 
"No, I DON'T know it. That's the whole point. I should know it, but I don't! 
Never know if you're serious or just joking around.  Never know if you're sick
or well.  Never know if you're..."

Her hand went back to her face.  "I just don't know you at all."

I turned away.  "Not your fault, girl. Some of us just don't WANT to be known. 
Hell, I've been like that all my life.  Nothing to do with you or anyone else. 
It's just the way I am."

Wasn't where she was going - I didn't have to be a psychic to figure that out -
but I tried to help by turning it back to me anyway, hoping she wouldn't feel
the need to go further.  I don't have a whole lot of experience with this kind
of thing.  But she pulled away to sit on the foot of the bed, and brought both
hands to her face. 

"But you don't understand!  It WAS about the promotion, damn it!  Seven years
I've fucking run phone records and viewed fucking videotape and recorded
fucking wires and baby-sat for visiting sheiks while they ordered their hookers
and smoked their fucking dope and I'm tired of it!  You asked me if I'd ever
fired my gun. Remember that? Well, I've got the best scores of any female
officer in the entire district!  Twice I've finished in the top 10% of the
entire Bureau..."

I started to lean to her but my arms stopped, uncomfortable with the closeness,
even now.  What a fucked up relationship.

"...and I've never even once had to PULL my gun.  And then yesterday, the one
time I could've made a real difference, I couldn't even see what the hell was
going on right in front of me.  Now a man is dead and I feel like the whole
fucking department is laughing at me."

Christ.  She WAS starting to cry, damn it.  I'd never seen it before.  And
still, couldn't lift a finger.  Not a kind word, not even a calming breath in
response.  Can't even blame the meds this time.  Just the kind of fucking
bastard I am.

And still it came.  Head buried in her hands at the foot of my bed.  The red
curls, so alive, now seemed flat from the condensation in the air.  Or maybe
from the heat of her confession.  Or maybe from...something else.  Whatever it
was, it was filling the room...but, then again, it wasn't.  Not really.  Like a
gas no one can see, or a sound so high as to be unheard.  Very peculiar, and
I'm one to recognize peculiar.

Now I realize, this might seem like a strange time to be thinking of this, but
human guilt can be a very powerful thing. Take it from me, I'm one to know
exactly HOW powerful.  The wolf that kills and sates its hunger doesn't feel
for the parts of the deer it leaves behind.  How many times has your mother
told you to finish your meal because there are starving kids in India who would
gladly eat that liver you find so disgusting.  That's part of what I meant
earlier when I told Nancy that being raised strict Catholic means you're
two-thirds conscience.  That original sin thing is a mean thing to live with,
if you take it to heart early.  I'm not terribly religious anymore - you lose
it piece by piece when you live the sort of life I have - but there are some
things you don't shake off.  Some things that are either forced into your
fragile psyche when young, or things that, maybe, are just part of nature's
designs.  We all like to think we're strong when we grow up, but most of us
never lose that part of us that cowers in the corner when faced with the strap
for digging in mom's purse or sneaking that smoke out of the pack in dad's
shirt pocket.  Human guilt can be that kind of powerful, I think.

And there are some times when...hell, maybe it can fill up a hospital room.  In
this case, there was enough of it - and not just from her - mind you, that I
swear I could actually feel it.  My robe - hell, the fucking bed sheets - were
WET with it.

And it still doesn't mean any of us are strong enough to do a damned thing with
it, except get more and more uncomfortable.  That's exactly how I felt at this
particular moment. It was as awkward a moment as I can remember.  I knew she
needed something that I never learned how to give and it was killing me. 
Pretty pathetic pair we made; she was confessing, and I was drowning in it.

Strangely enough, the lifeline came from Hector Garza and another, older woman
I didn't recognize, who cut into the scene like two of the Three Stooges or
Groucho, Chico or Harpo.  Or John Cleese in an old Monty Python routine.  It's
like God (or whoever) decided he couldn't end the skit, just interrupt it.  My
life in a nutshell.  For whatever reason, I was grateful.  And it's not often I
give thanks anymore.  

Nancy quickly collected herself and slid off the bed to the window side and
stood facing away from them.  I noticed Hector was quick to pick up that
something wasn't quite right, and rapidly glided between the newcomer and the
bed to immediately grab center stage.  Very good, I thought, very good indeed. 
I was liking this one more and more...

"Hey, there, Mulder, how ya' feeling?!  Man, they're still talking about you
downtown!  Maybe give you a medal."
"Oh, the FBI gives medals to guys who duck and cover now?  No wonder you're on
the fast track, amigo, if that's all it takes."
"Oh, sir, you wound me," he put his hand over his heart and took a step back,
almost stumbling over the foot of the bed. "No need to be modest, you're just
too fast for us youngsters, old man."

OK, so improv wasn't his strong point, but it got the job done.  The woman,
evidently old school FBI judging from the vest and jacket, was looking at him
with obvious disdain.  Probably his boss of one kind or another.  In response,
he flashed her a smile and she rolled her eyes.  She turned to me with the aura
of one who made introductions quite often.  Probably one of those political,
middle-management types, I guessed.  Not bad looking either...

"Division Chief Knox, Mr. Long." She extended her hand.  "I'm sorry we had to
meet under these circumstances, but due to recent events, I thought the process
needed to be speeded up a bit and the offices are...well, after yesterday, I
thought it would probably be better if we met here instead of hustling you back
there so soon."

I took her hand.  "Thanks.  I appreciate it.  I hope I didn't cause too much of
a stir.  Certainly didn't mean to."

"Don't see how anyone can think you had anything to do with it, Harry," Hector
interrupted.  "Not like you knew Forrest was going to choose that time and
place to go postal."

Again, his boss shot him a look of disdain.  He wasn't scoring many points
today. Not with her, anyway.  "Watch your mouth, Garza.  The investigation's
still open.  This isn't the time or place."
"Oh, C'mon, Chief.  It was just a matter of time.  Everyone knew the guy was a
bomb waiting to go off.  It's not like the internal investigation was much of a
secret."
"For the last time, Garza, this isn't the place."

"No disrespect, Chief, but I think it might NOT be that simple."  Nancy turned
back to us, showing no signs of the wetness, at least none that Garza or Knox
would clue into.  Again, an amazing woman, my Nancy.  

"Don't you find it strange that he chose exactly that time and place to go
off?"  
"Not especially.  I was assigning him to desk duty later in the afternoon. I
expect word leaked out somehow.  And, again, this isn't the place..."
"But I talked with five witnesses yesterday.  They all say he seemed to be
pointing his gun towards Harry, Garza and me before he ate it.  Does it make
sense he'd seek out a civilian in the room instead of coworkers or bosses?  I
mean, I'd only met him once or twice and I doubt he'd remember me.  And he
never met Harry at all as far as I know."
"I think we ought to investigate the likely before getting into the more
bizarre theories, Agent Grummond.  After all, he didn't actually fire at anyone
else and he had no motive to harm Mr. Long..."

"Ahem," I interjected.  "Well, I did read his gun by accident and he could have
sensed that from my face.  It had a pretty dirty history and he was right in
the middle of it..."

Garza's face lit up.  "So THAT was what those facial contortions were all
about!  I thought you were having a heart attack or something."

"...a repugnant history." I went on, oblivious to Garza's comments.  "The man
was the worst kind of scum.  Abusive, murderous, he killed his own partner...'

"Oliver?!"  Knox's eyes flew wide.  "You saw Oliver?"

"...with his own gun.  Monstrous, insidious bastard."

Knox bent down and grabbed hold of my shoulders.  "You said his partner.  That
was Oliver Willard."

Hector's hand when to his chin.  "Wow. You mean THE Oliver Willard case? That's
been almost a decade now."
I yanked myself away from Knox.  "A heavyset man, partly bald.  Execution
style.  Back of the head."
"Sounds like him.  They never found his body, so he's never actually been
declared dead."
"He's dead." I hung my head.
"God rest his soul." Garza made the sign of the cross.  Ah. A good Catholic. 
Maybe he'd understand.

Knox shook her head.  "I knew Forrest was dirty, but nothing like this..."

"He deserved what he got" I muttered to myself, turning to stare out the
window.  One of the clouds was breaking apart into smaller formations.  When I
was younger, I always loved to lay on the hill and watch them, like I think all
kids must do at one time or another.  I imagine that's what originally gave
that guy the idea for the ink blot tests way back when...

"At least, in the end, he had the decency not to take anyone with him," Knox
mused.

"Amazing is more like it," Garza added.

At that, Nancy's hand smacked her forehead and she turned to me and smiled. 
"Speaking of amazing, old man, that reminds me.  I almost forgot in all that's
happened, but you remember the homeless man in the parking lot yesterday?"

The wind was blowing pretty hard now, I guess.  One of the formations bent and
twisted and started to take shape, or so it seemed to me...

"Just after the shooting, he came into the Fed Building muttering something
about killing an old woman and demanding to be taken to a priest for
confession. Why he went there instead of the downtown church I don't know, but
the local cops escorted him to a holding cell."

Yeah, God came up with the test a long time before Rorschach, I thought, as I
smiled pleasantly and watched the newly formed cloudy cross drift slowly across
the heavens into the distance...


"Write what you want, how you want, and don't worry about the rest of the
world.  If you do it long enough, eventually they'll catch up."

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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