Work Text:
2010
The blinking black line against a white screen was the enemy tonight. The wretched cursor was an indicator of the internal struggle he was dealing with. Regular white lined paper offered the same useless answers. The real answers lay amongst the printed hard copies, tucked away in beige and manilla folders and envelopes, labeled with dates, numbers, and stamped with the official departments logo for authentication. Despite all the official rhetoric and organization, his brain felt scrambled. All he had to do was sign his name, making it official, but his hand hesitated with the pen over paper, ink likely to dry out in his moment of resistance. The same signature was required virtually on an official lab document, hence the blinking cursor. Had he lost his nerve? Did he ever have it?
Truth be told, he had never endured such a wide variety of problems in such a short amount of time. One bureaucratic mess after another, legalities, signatures, meetings, conferences, the news outlets, it was all crammed into these folders, into his head, playing over and over, each time offering a new perspective and the constant wondering if he missed something or if the events portrayed in these notes were accurate. Of course, they were, his mind beat him into submission, but his heart called foul.
Folder number one, he began the review process again, a twenty-two-year-old college student found murdered in the west district in seattle, she was an intern for the powerful Tom Cooley, one of the last people to see her alive, their paths connected via their workplace as well as security camera footage of Cooley with the victim at a club that night. Carpet fibers, hair, DNA, no exemplar, one required to make a positive match if conviction was their intent. Warrant denied, not enough substantial evidence. Circumstantial. A fishing expedition. He shook his head as he read that final line in the report.
Folder number two, a wine glass sealed in an evidence bag, fingerprints adorning it, the rim of the glass swabbed, DNA match confirmed, Tom Cooley, positive match confirmed in a secondary swab obtained in a previous investigation. A black-tie event, a party dress, a taxicab, a thunderstorm, a flash of blonde hair before it’s pulled back into a formal updo, latex gloves.
Folder number three, the suspect, Julie Elisabeth Finlay, one criminalist, employed by the Seattle Police Department since 1994, specializations in blood spatter analysis, certificates and credentials listed on page three, detained by Internal Affairs May 10th, 2010, questioned, admission of acquiring the wine glass seen in picture four, with no warrant, illegal possession and processing of evidence, subjected to proper disciplinary actions by one Supervisor D.B Russell. Hearing date to be determined at a later time.
Folder number four- Internal Affairs has determined that while the DNA matches one suspect Tom Cooley, it was obtained illegally and must be removed from the department's records and cannot be used to implicate Mr. Cooley in any events here, now or in the future. Disciplinary actions in the suspension of CSI Finlay are found to be necessary and subsequently her employment with the Seattle Police Department has been terminated on May 15th, 2010, by one supervisor D.B Russell. Final signatures are required from all participants see page ten.
It was that final signature line that was the source of the standstill. Both his name and Finn’s name were still left blank. Denial. Deep down he knew that typing and handwriting his name and having her sign off would be the final blow to this boxing match. Sign sealed delivered ricocheted around in his head, in tune with the song and he felt a wave of disgust in his brain for thinking of that lyric at such a serious time.
And in needing her signature, it required an in-person meeting, one on one, something they had been avoiding and generally forbidden to do since the first interrogation a few weeks ago. Somehow during his review process, it started to rain, of course, it always rains here. He was suddenly bothered by the predictability of the weather he had lived with for so long. The steady raindrops tapping on the roof of the building, sliding down the glass windows without a care where they landed or who they landed on nor their effects on the world. The rain didn’t know it made the flowers grow, just like her, she didn’t know the ripple effects of her actions on others, especially him.
But she did care. He knew it. Why else would she risk her entire career for one case? It wasn’t the case, it was the women, taken advantage of by Coolley, who was hiding behind some sort of diplomatic immunity. And if he was being completely honest with himself, he would have loved to arrest the monster right now, because he knew the bastard was guilty. Sometimes following the rules caused more harm than good and she knew and that’s why she acted. Better her than him, right? Better a wine glass than the suspect's body in their morgue. This could have been so much worse. And the root of his anguish, knowing she was right but having to let her go regardless.
His mind wandered to her. The exhaustion visible in her eyes, consistently for the last few weeks. The dark circles under them, the expressions of somber depression. To the silence between them. The loss of her marriage. The scathing looks she endured from colleagues whenever she was in the building. Fortunately, his team seemed indifferent to her actions. Shaw stayed mostly silent, acting as if she was just in for a disciplinary write up, his sullen expression and concern revealed when she told him she was leaving. Kerry Torres gave her shelter and a sense of camaraderie that she was unwilling to let go in the face of her friend's adversary. Loyal. Even Barbara offered her comfort and a place to stay which he allowed but only short term otherwise it would look like he was housing a guilty offender.
But with this final stroke of pen to paper, she would no longer be his burden. No. His responsibility. No, that was wrong. What was she to him? After all this time? And what was she going to think of him? Her sullen gaze spoke volumes during the meetings and interrogations. After she cooled down at least. In the heat of the moment, she was hyped up, angry, eager to process the evidence and get the conviction, completely unaware that her actions cost them a chance at ever bringing Cooley down. Only time would tell what became of all three of them.
Cooley would continue to evade authorities on any charges, free to roam and lure more women into his trap. The fractured team would heal, Shaw and Kerry had no intention of departing and Russell had no intention of losing them. He begrudgingly needed to hire a replacement, the word stung, sickening his stomach, the notion of another person filling her job, sitting in this office, chatting about their resume, waste of time, there was no one like her. No one could do the job like her, see what she saw, feel what she felt, feel what he was feeling. With that connection severed, the line cut, he felt like he was bleeding out. Some metaphor.
His conversation with the sheriff rebounded in his mind; her loss, wasted potential, erratic, reckless, foolish girl. He would find new talent in a heartbeat. But whose heart was on the line, who would give in that easily, who would let her go without a fight? The sheriff had the nerve to hand him a stack of files of potential employees within a few hours of her termination and he felt the urge to light them on fire. Stop the bleeding, his heart begged his head, but he could not tie a tourniquet around this wound.
What are you waiting for? His brain hissed venomously. He shrugged the intrusive thought with a twist of his shoulder. The navigation of his ship was now off course and sailing straight for a storm, the thunder outside mimicking his thought process, perfectly timing the echoing boom above him.
It was the second flash of lighting that illuminated the doorway of his office where he saw her figure standing between the living and the dead. He feels his heart drop, startled by her presence in the moment even though he had been expecting her. She stands still, leaning against the door frame, hair drenched, curls turned to waves, only a leather jacket with no hood to protect her in this storm.
“You wanted to see me,” she brings him out of his drowning sorrow.
“Yeah,” he sits up, feeling some muscle ache in his back.
He motions for her, and she steps into the office. He slides the paperwork to her and tosses a pen, casual, restrained as she sinks into the chair in front of his desk.
“Badge at the front desk?” he rattles off her final moments with him.
“Yes,” she complies, unusual but necessary at this moment.
“Locker emptied out, nothing left in the fridge, login credentials terminated, department issue cell phone and laptop returned and deauthorized,” he continued the assault.
“Yes,” she agrees with his assessment.
“All right,” he finishes the legalities “sign on the line, date and uh- that’s it.”
She picks up the pen and waves it back and forth in the air, nervous, something to do with her pent-up energy.
But what was there left to be said? Please don’t do this? Don’t fire me? Don’t make me leave? She would not beg for forgiveness, for her job, for herself, that was out of the question. Begging was a sign of weakness, an admittance of guilt, as if he couldn’t see that in her demeanor every time they were forced back into each other's presence. Even if she were on her knees, bleeding out, she would never beg, not to anyone, certainly not to him.
Russell watches her arm move, landing on the desk, hand against the paper, pen touching the line, the only sound the scratching of the ink on the paper and the rain tapping outside on the windowpane. Her silence burned him alive.
She finishes completing her signature and slides both the pen and paper back to him. In the moment, they exchange a glance, in her eyes he sees nothing but pain, perhaps regret. In his, she sees disappointment, disillusionment, a ghostly apparition of her father, she shudders.
It’s the last reaction he gets to experience from her before she stands up, turning her back on him, making her way through the office exit, stopping in the doorway. The palm of her hand presses against the doorframe as she pauses, contemplating something, wondering what could have been, perhaps, itching to speak but silenced by her own emotions. Her hand slipping off the doorframe tenderly is the last image of her his brain can process as she disappears beyond the hallway, evaporating from his life like steam rising from a cup of tea, vanishing before he can study her further, in all her glory, unable to comprehend the image she creates but knowing she’s beautiful in any instance, regardless.