Killer Genius

by David Archer

  DHS nodded to Jade. "I assume you'll accompany him to his room?"

  "Yes, of course." Jade nodded back and got to her feet, returning her chair to its place along the wall. "Eric?"

  Eric got up, taking another deep breath, and began toward the door. He didn't look at either of them.

  "Ms. Miller, if you could get this to Mr. Prichard, it would be much appreciated. The sooner this gets approved and set in motion, the better."

  Jade took the envelope and nodded again to indicate her understanding of the order. Then she turned and followed Eric out into the hall, giving him a small smile when he caught her eye.

  "Hey. Are you okay?"

  Eric nodded, sniffing quietly. "Yeah. I just… wasn't prepared, I guess." He wiped his eyes and gestured in the general direction of the elevators. "Um, could we go get some coffee?"

  Jade smiled and began to walk. "Sure. Just let me drop this off, and we can hit that little café on the corner."

  Eric smiled back, the look on his face significantly weaker than hers, and he shuffled along beside her. "Thank you."

  Jade rounded the corner and pressed the arrow to summon the elevator, folding her arms across her stomach and idly tapping the manila envelope against her side. "I bet you're missing Donaldson, huh? I know I am."

  To her surprise, Eric shook his head, his face scrunching up as he considered the suggestion. "No, actually. I prefer Section Chief DHS."

  "Really?" Jade arched her brows just as the doors opened, and she stepped onto the lift. "Why?"

  Eric joined her, immediately leaning against the wall across from her. He slipped his hands into his pockets and shrugged. "Ms. Donaldson is very nice, but… there's a certain safety in realism. You likely don't recognize it because you're not a dependent, but it's the same kind of psychology that makes children crave boundaries." He shrugged again, following her when the elevator stopped on the Windlass floor. "Chief DHS is your boss, but she can't determine anything about your life outside of work. It makes sense that you, someone who is in control of their normal environment, balks when faced with someone like her, but decisions made by Chief DHS directly impact whether I spend the rest of my life in a cage or not. Chief Donaldson is pleasant to be around, but she can be a bit of an optimist. Chief DHS is more controlled and distanced, but I know she isn't going to try and shoot for goals she can't achieve and, subsequently, incur consequences that come back on me."

  By the time Eric was done speaking, they were already on their way back to the elevator, the envelope having been left on Sam's unattended desk.

  Jade blinked, not bothering to hide the expression of revelation that crossed her features. "I never thought about that. You're right." It struck her, not for the first time, how little control Eric had over what happened to him, and it left a sick churning in her gut.

  Eric flashed a weak smile. "Thanks for letting me ramble. It, uh… it helps me get out of my head a little when I do, and intellectual talk always… well, just thank you. I feel better." He rubbed the back of his head, briefly scratching again before dropping his hand.

  "You're welcome." Jade gave him a soft smile, once again summoning the elevator with the press of a button. "How about these new rules? How are you feeling about that?"

  Eric frowned and nodded, swallowing hard. "It'll take some getting used to, but… again, it's good to see the person who will have the biggest impact on where I end up taking this seriously." He stepped back to let someone out of the elevator and then followed Jade inside. "Thinking about the long-term logistics, doing what she can to make sure this doesn't come back to bite us after a couple years in court." He looked down at his shoes, scuffing the black Converse against the floor, and a little smile pulled at his mouth again. "It feels good."

  Jade smiled just as the elevator dinged and opened up on the ground floor. "Good."

  Eric chuckled softly, but his eyes were still downcast. Still, despite the odd contradiction in body language, he appeared to be happier than when they had entered the office earlier that morning.

  It wasn't much, but it was something, and with a long, arduous battle against an entire government subdivision looming on the horizon… something was enough. If they wanted to make it from one day to the next, it had to be.

  "So, what kind of coffee are you gonna get?"

  * * *

  Sam threw the glass doors out of his way and crossed the room in record time, not bothering to turn on the lights.

  "Detective—Mr. Prichard? Can you come to—to Windlass? Please? I need you."

  Grabbing the door handle, Sam gave it a hard twist and let himself in, casting a frantic look around the small bedroom. "Eric?" He took two steps inside and caught a glimpse of stockinged feet poking out from the corner between Eric's desk and bed.

  "A-Mr. Prichard?"

  Sam closed the door and rushed back across the room, crouching down by the foot of the bed. "Eric, what's wrong?"

  Eric looked up at him, eyes glassy and red and bloodshot, quiet sobs still shaking his shoulders. His lips were wet, his nose was red, there were tissues all over the floor, and he appeared determined to fit his body into a space entirely too small for it.

  "Eric, what's—"

  Eric was suddenly pushing off the wall, throwing himself at Sam and winding his arms around the older man's frame, latching on. Sam just barely managed to keep from being knocked over, one hand grabbing the bed while the arm of the other wrapped around Eric's waist. Eric gripped the back of Sam's jacket for dear life, crying against his chest, trembling so violently Sam actually stopped to recall if there had been any notes about past seizures in Eric's file.

  "Eric." Sam slowly eased himself into a more comfortable sitting position, placing his freed hand against Eric's back and rubbing hard. "You have to tell me what's wrong."

  Eric shook his head violently, gasping for air in between cries, sobs returning full force and sounding twice as bad as the ones from the phone call.

  "Okay, okay, shh. Shh, it's okay. Shh…" Sam looked upward, grasping at the fringes of several ideas on how to move forward, stroking Eric's hair all the while. "Okay, try and take deep breaths. Can you do that?"

  Eric nodded and tried to do what Sam suggested, but even though he managed deeper inhales, his exhales were stuttered and choppy.

  "Do I need to call 911?"

  Eric shook his head, shrinking in on himself with a trembling cry.

  "Okay. Okay, it's alright." Sam stroked Eric's hair again, rubbing his back and shoulders in an attempt to get him to relax. "Shh, just keep breathing. You're okay. You're safe."

  Sam didn't know what else he could say. He couldn't reason with panic—no one could—and there was no slideshow or speech to give on why Eric needed to calm down. Even if Sam wanted to attempt reasoning, he couldn't, because he had no idea what set Eric off in the first place; that was assuming something had set him off, that the anxiety wasn't just acting of its own accord.

  "It's okay, Eric. Everything's okay. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere. It's okay."

  Eric shuddered, shaking his head against Sam's chest. "I'm scared, Mr. Prichard."

  Sam felt the worry contort his face, but Eric couldn't see him, so he didn't bother to fix it. "What are you scared of?"

  Eric choked out another sob and drew his legs in close, curling up in Sam's arms. "I don't want to go back."

  Sam felt his face twist again, the concern steadily increasing. "Eric… are you talking about North Forest Hospital?"

  Eric nodded a few times, sniffing hard and letting out a few more cries.

  Worry steadily increasing, Sam squinted at the wall across from him. Still, despite his bewilderment, he didn't risk asking questions and triggering another wave of catastrophic uncertainty. "Eric, you aren't going back. Okay? You're not going back to North Forest Hospital."

  Eric shook his head, readjusting his hold on Sam's coat. "What if the case isn't strong enough? What if we don't get enough evidence? What if nobody cares enough
to do anything about it? What if—"

  "Eric, you can't think like that." Sam shook his head, rubbing Eric's shoulders. "That isn't going to happen."

  "But what if it does?" Eric's voice was congested and thick with unshed tears. "What if I mess up? What if I make a mistake that's too big to overlook, and they use it against me in court, and they come and take me away, and—"

  "Eric."

  "We're supposed to meet at Darren's tomorrow night, and I'm supposed to talk about the experiments, but I don't know if I can, and what if I can't, and what if it's important, what if we try to plan more steps tomorrow, but I—"

  "Eric!" Sam gave him a firm shake before immediately settling back into a hug. "Stop it. I will not let that happen. If we need to set up a situation like the one with Tony and Cindy, we will. We'll get you and Melanie off the grid. Somehow, someway, we'll make it work. Okay? Everything is going to be okay. No matter what. I promise."

  Eric sniffed, whispering brokenly. "I won't go back, Mr. Prichard."

  Sam didn't pretend he didn't know exactly what Eric meant by that. "That won't be necessary. You aren't going back, Eric." He replaced the confusion and frustration on his face with calm and then put some space between them, trying to look in Eric's eyes. "Do you hear me?"

  Eric nodded miserably, the look on his face very clearly saying he didn't believe the assurances he was being given. He dragged his arm over his eyes and slumped against the bed, shoulders shaking just enough to let Sam know he wasn't quite done crying.

  "What do you need, Eric?" Sam posed the question gently, and at a puzzled look from Eric, he explained himself in equal softness. "What do you need to stop panicking? Do you need to get out of the building? Do you need a movie or music to distract you? Do you need to go to IHOP and drown your sorrows in pancake syrup?"

  Eric actually let out a feeble laugh at that, and while the expression didn't stick, light still lingered in his eyes even when the turn of his lips was gone. "IHOP?"

  "Sure. We could be there in twenty minutes, and they're open twenty-four hours." Sam offered him a light smile. "It's half past three in the morning. This isn't the time to talk things out or process emotions or come up with solutions. This is the time to put anxiety, and then ourselves, to bed with distractions." He raised an eyebrow a bit, giving Eric a questioning look. "Is comfort food a good distraction?"

  Eric thought about it for a moment, wiped his eyes, and reached for the tissue box on the floor nearby. "You… should be getting sleep. You have to work in the morning."

  "That's irrelevant." Sam sat in silence while Eric blew his nose a few times, heart clenching at the younger man's inability to fully catch his breath. "Do you want to go to IHOP, Eric?"

  Eric sniffed and nodded his head, wiping his eyes again despite how raw they looked, and a feeble smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Yes, please."

  Sam got to his feet and held out a hand. "Come on, then."

  Eric took the hand and struggled to get up, the tiny space doing him no favors as he fought to untangle himself, but he managed, and then it was just a matter of slipping on some shoes and a hoodie.

  Sam waited by the door, and when Eric was ready, he let them both out and closed up behind them. "Come on, then."

  Eric trailed after him, staying at least a pace or two behind. He still didn't see himself on equal footing with the detectives around him, and Sam had noticed the habit was one of the more subtle reminders that Eric had years of trauma to recover from.

  Sure, Eric was getting better. He didn't scratch as much, he didn't have nearly as many mood swings without the Prozac in his system, he had learned how to hold his tongue when he absolutely needed to—the list went on—but he was far from recovered. In light of all the improvements, it could become incredibly easy to forget Eric was still recuperating, but Sam did his best to keep those little things in mind.

  It made him a little less startled when he got the frantic midnight calls reminding him that—

  No, Eric didn't trust the team; he didn't truly trust anybody, not even himself.

  No, Eric didn't see himself as he truly was; his self-esteem was all but non-existent.

  No, Eric didn't stop having anxiety; it was better than it used to be, and it was steadily improving, but in all likelihood, it was a lifelong illness he would need help managing.

  No, Eric didn't see himself as a member of the team; he saw himself as a resource.

  No, Eric didn't understand he should have had rights; he knew he wanted them, but he thought they were far more than he deserved.

  No, Eric wasn't okay. He was better—thank God he was better, he was so much better—but he wasn't okay, and letting him fall under the radar because he wasn't a walking, talking hot mess could have disastrous consequences.

  "Mr. Prichard?" Eric hid his hands in the center pocket of his hoodie, shoulders hunching as he curled in on himself.

  Sam looked over at him, pulling his car keys from his pocket as they entered the parking garage. "Yes?"

  Eric twisted his lips and appeared to consider his words for a moment, and then he said, in all seriousness, "I bet you can't order the rooty-tooty-fresh-n-fruity with a straight face."

  Sam didn't even try to dampen the smile that parted his lips. "Twenty bucks says you're wrong."

  Eric frowned a bit. "I don't have any money."

  "That's alright." Sam waved it off. "When you lose, I'll just take the money from Denny."

  Eric thought about that for a moment, and then he smiled. "You're on."

  Sam smiled back. It was important to remember that Eric had a long way to go, but it was equally important to celebrate the small victories.

  "I'll even order extra strawberries."

  Eric chuckled.

  Sam did, too.

  Making it from one day to the next was definitely a small victory.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Sam looked at his watch for the hundredth time, shook his head, and let out a long, weary sigh. He leaned back in the stiff chair and let his head roll to the side, looking at the stack of case files sitting on top of outdated health magazines and some pamphlets on heart disease and diabetes. Briefly, he considered taking a look at the contents, but the idea was short-lived. As much as he hated it, there was nothing he could do but wait. All the interviews had been conducted, he had read all the files three times over, and the rest of the team was back at Windlass with even more information, scrambling to put the pieces together.

  Sam heaved a sigh and rubbed his face a few times, staring up at the fluorescent lights and trying to stay awake. He couldn't recall the last time he had been so burned out, and the incessant buzzing in his pocket was sawing through his very last nerve.

  When Sam was at work, he tried to be at work. That way, when he was at home, he could be at home. It worked fairly well, and with the North Forest Hospital investigation and everything going on with Eric, it was maybe a little easier than it should have been to put his marital problems out of his head. Of course, he couldn't exactly ignore that his wife was so angry she was threatening to move in with her mother, and the damned phone would not stop ringing!

  Sam grabbed his phone from its holder and flipped it open, pressing it to his ear with a lowly growled, "What?" He listened for a moment, then mumbled, “Yes, thank you.” He hung up the phone and said nothing, but turned to Darren. "Darren… have you—" He cleared his throat. "Have you come up with anything?"

  "We're still trying to get a warrant for the rest of the North Forest Hospital building. DHS is talking to the director right now, but it's kid rights against matters of national security. It's… tough."

  Sam snorted and stretched his legs out in front of him, staring at them. "No kidding."

  Darren didn't say anything for a moment, but his voice eventually returned with a new topic. "How's the kid?"

  Sam shook his head, tired eyes perpetually glazed over. "I haven't heard anything. He's been in surgery for…" He looked at his watch again and did som
e simple math. "…three and a half hours."

  Darren heaved a sigh of his own and, after another moment of silence, tried to get some more information. "What exactly happened?"

  Sam rubbed his forehead and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I don't know, Darren, it…" He shook his head with another sigh. "It all happened so fast. I only left the room for a couple minutes, maybe five." He sighed again, trying to quiet the voice in his head that said their situation was his own stupid fault. "Next thing I know, my right ear is ringing from the two gunshots fired less than twenty feet away."

  Sam looked down at his hands—at his sleeves, stained with blood, red and pink and messy—and blinked slowly.

  "Sam, you couldn't have known."

  "But I could have." Sam almost snapped the words, but he didn't quite have the energy to be angry with himself anymore. His voice softened, but his resolve didn't. "I should have."

  "We had no idea they'd be this reckless." Darren's voice wasn't hard or cold, but it wasn't uncertain, either. He was no less confident of his assertions than Sam was of his. "They came out of left field."

  "They don't have anything to lose anymore." Sam crossed his legs at the ankles and continued to stare at them, bouncing his foot a bit. "So, what are they going to do next?"

  "Well…" Darren gathered his words. "What changed?" He paused, as if considering his own suggestion. "Let's go back further. Not just the moments before the shots were fired."

  Sam sighed again and tried to go back to the hours leading up to the one he was in. "Okay, let me think…"

  * * *

  "Hello." Sam dropped a folder on a table and leaned over it, leaning his arms against the table. He stared the young man down, letting the clinical appearance of the interrogation room work in his favor as he implemented intimidation as a tactic. "Georgie Jackson."

  Georgie—a mere two months into his twentieth year of living—stared down at his lap with the expression of a dead man. His eyes were vacant, the green hues much more muted than the vibrant, almost jarring shade from his file photo. His lips were completely relaxed but not parted, his breathing was even and uninterrupted, and he didn't fidget even once as he entered his seventh hour of interrogation.