| |
The Writing on the Wall - Part Three
by Evilida
"Get out of the vehicle," Tritter said. His hand was on the handle of his gun, but he hadn't drawn the weapon. "Nice and slow."
Roy stepped out of the car.
"What's in the glove compartment?" Tritter asked. "Am I going to find a weapon there?"
"No weapons. Just maps and stuff."
"Right. Pop the trunk. Let's see what you've got there."
Roy leaned down to pull the trunk release. Tritter's eyes never left him for a second and his hand tightened on his gun. He relaxed slightly when Roy straightened up and stepped back from the vehicle. Slowly, maintaining eye contact on the policeman, Roy backed towards the trunk. He opened it. Tritter glanced in. The trunk was lined with plastic garbage bags and was almost empty. There was a squeegee, a plastic ice scraper and a length of cord.
"What were you planning on doing with that rope?" he asked.
"Nothing. It's just there. Been there for months, maybe years. It's not even mine. I got this car used and it was in the trunk."
"To me, these garbage bags and this rope look like part of a plan. Maybe a plan involving Dr. House. Were you out here waiting to attack him when he left work?"
"No. I told you - I'm not violent. I wasn't going to attack anybody. I was waiting for my brother. He works here. We were going to meet up after he got off work."
"I was just talking about you with your brother. He didn't mention any meeting."
"He didn't know about it. It was a surprise. We haven't seen each other for a long time, and I wanted to get in touch with him."
"A family reunion. How long has it been, Roy, since you last saw James Wilson? Your brother was quick to tell me that he doesn't have any contact with you at all anymore and hasn't for years. He was pretty anxious to disown you. I know he never visited you in prison. None of your family did. They'd washed their hands of you, hadn't they?"
Roy didn't answer, but Tritter noted the quick flicker of resentment in the ex-con's eyes, and knew that he had touched a nerve. This was a response he could use.
Roy shut the trunk. He got Roy to put his hands behind his back, patted him down (no weapons as promised), took his keys, and handcuffed him. He started walking him towards an unmarked police vehicle.
"I see it in a lot of families," Tritter continued. "There's the black sheep and the white sheep. There's the son who can do no wrong, and the other one - the one his parents figure was just born bad. I guess it was that way in your family too, huh? Your brother being a respected doctor and you being an ex-con and a junkie. "
"I've given up drugs," Roy protested. "I haven't touched them for almost two and a half years."
"Personally, I respect a man who manages to conquer his addiction. It shows real resolve and determination. Still, I've got to wonder how long that resolve is going to last when you're back in Rahway. One hit and you're back to square one. That temptation is always there, isn't it? Always somewhere in the back of your mind. They say prison is hardest on a thinking man - someone with brains. It's the monotony that does them in."
Roy was silent. He was experienced enough to know that it was never a good idea to get chatty with your arresting officer. However, Tritter was highly attuned to Roy's body language and expression. He knew that his words were having an impact. He leaned in close as Roy got into the back of the unmarked police car.
"Two thinking men, if they put their heads together, maybe they could come up with an alternative to prison."
------
House stood in the doorway of his apartment, surveying the damage. He had to make an inventory of what was lost or destroyed for his insurance claim. Eying the shambles of what had once been his refuge, he felt overwhelmed. It would be easier, he thought, to make a list of what still remained. He walked across the room to open a window, hoping to disperse the stink of rotting food. One of the police officers had given him the card of a specialist service, experienced in cleaning up after crime scenes. He wondered if the cleaner gave him a kickback for every referral.
Wilson had offered to help him with the clean-up, but House had refused his offer. He did not know whether Wilson's brother had anything to do with House's break-in, but the possibility made things awkward between them. Wilson staunchly maintained that his brother could have nothing to do with it. He insisted that his brother had been a paragon of virtue until he was lead astray by drugs. House thought Wilson's protestations had sounded false. He had been evasive; there were things about his brother he did not want to reveal. Unfortunately, Wilson was able to keep a secret better than anyone else that House knew. If he wanted to find out what Wilson wasn't telling him, he would have to investigate elsewhere.
He got out his cellphone and called Robert Chase, the most suitable of his fellows for the job he had in mind. Foreman would have reacted with righteous indignation at having been given a non-work-related assignment, and Cameron would have been too nosy. When Chase answered the phone he sounded disoriented and groggy. House realized that Chase must have been asleep, even though it was only seven p.m. He had assumed that Chase had lied about having a headache and was merely trying to gain a day off from work and some sympathy from his colleagues, particularly from Allison Cameron. Now, he realized that Chase was telling the truth. House felt a second of guilt for upsetting his underling enough to make him feel ill. Then he dismissed the notion; it was not his fault that Chase was over-sensitive.
"Chase, I want you to get me some information."
"Can't Foreman or Cameron handle it?" Chase asked. "I've taken a sleeping pill and I'm groggy. I shouldn't drive."
"You can do this research from home. I want some information on Wilson's brother. He's a lawyer in New York. His name is Michael. Just get me his telephone number to start with."
"We have this thing in Australia, maybe you've heard of it here, it's called Directory Assistance."
"Is that your attempt at sarcasm?" House asked. "I'm not sure, because you're so bad at it. His home phone number is probably unlisted and I don't know which firm he's with."
"Why don't you ask Dr. Wilson?"
"I would have thought that was perfectly obvious. I don't want him to know. Duh."
Chase wasn't in the mood to argue. Agreeing would make House hang up more quickly.
"Okay, Michael Wilson, lawyer. Somewhere in New York, the city or the state?"
"Yes," said House impatiently. "Phone me back." He terminated the call without saying good-bye.
----
Chase was still angry and hurt by House's earlier comments, and his headache had not abated. The light of the early evening sky coming through his living room window was enough to make him wince in pain. He went across the room to close the curtains and then went back to bed. Whatever House wanted could wait. He wasn't his lapdog.
Fifteen minutes later, Chase was still awake and thinking about House's call. House showed a lot of confidence in him in asking him to handle this delicate matter rather than Foreman or Cameron. He couldn't let him down just because House had been rude. House was rude to everyone, and Chase knew not to take his boss's behaviour personally. He got out of bed and headed toward his computer.
-----
House was rescuing a framed photograph of Stacey from the wreckage of his apartment when his cellphone went off. Chase was on the other end of the line.
"I found two lawyers named Michael Wilson, but one of them is straight out of law school. The other one must be Dr. Wilson's brother. He works for a firm called Petrovich, Alexander in their wills and estates department. He's married and his wife's name is Melissa. I've got his work and home telephone numbers."
House wrote down the phone numbers.
"Anything else you needed to know?" Chase asked.
"That's fine for now. If I think of anything else, I'll let you know tomorrow."
"I won't be in. Cuddy gave me the day off."
"I'm your boss not Cuddy. I think it's a bad idea to give someone a day off just for hurting their feelings. Cameron would never have to come in to work at all."
"But I'm sick. I have a headache."
"And my leg hurts. Boo hoo. "
Chase mumbled something - probably a swear word - and hung up on him. House smiled to himself. He felt a sense of accomplishment for provoking the younger man. It was rare indeed for Chase to display any anger towards his mentor, and twice in one day was a record. Maybe one day Chase would learn to stand up for himself.
----
Instead of taking Roy Wilson to the police station, Tritter had driven him to a diner on the interstate. Tritter had removed his prisoner's handcuffs. Roy cautiously got out of the car. He'd heard of set-ups, where police officers had taken their prisoners to isolated locations and then shot them. They claimed that their prisoners were killed while resisting arrest, but it was cold-hearted murder. Tritter seemed capable of that kind of behaviour. His outward manner was deceptively gentle, but something about him made Roy uneasy. He would make a very bad enemy.
"When we go into the diner, I'm going to ask for a booth. You slide in first next to the wall, and I'll be between you and the exit. "
"Okay."
The waitress came over and showed them to a booth in the back. Tritter said that he didn't need to see the menu. He'd have coffee and a grilled cheese sandwich and his friend would have the same. She left.
"You went to see Bonnie Wilson the other day."
"Yes." Roy didn't see any point in denying what the police officer obviously already knew. "I wanted to check up on my little brother, see how he was doing. Not too well," he said, unable to keep a hint of satisfaction from his voice. "He's been divorced twice since I last saw him. I guess he can't keep a woman happy."
"You told her you were a friend of Gregory House."
"I didn't want her to know I was Jimmy's brother. I saw House's name in the staff directory. "
"Out of all the physicians and surgeons at the hospital, you happened to choose your brother's best friend. That's a coincidence. If it had been me, I would have chosen another oncologist, figuring that my brother would be bound to know someone else in his own specialty. Or did you already know that House was your brother's best friend?"
"How could I know that?" Roy said. "I haven't seen him for years."
"House's apartment was broken into. His laptop was stolen and his place was ransacked. Whoever did that had access to a lot of personal information."
"I don't know anything about that."
They were interrupted by the waitress with their orders. Tritter gave her a warm, friendly smile that disappeared as soon as she walked away.
"What did you see when you broke into House's apartment?"
"I didn't break in to anyone's apartment. I've been keeping my nose clean. With the parole violation, I couldn't afford to draw attention to myself."
"If we searched your place, would we find anything from House's apartment? Or maybe from another burglary? It's a wonder what forensics can find if they look hard enough. "
Roy pretended to be interested in his cheese sandwich.
"Okay, you're not saying anything. So I'll tell you what you saw in House's apartment. I'm betting you found a whole lot of Vicodin, and maybe some strong opiates as well. Is that right?"
"Is this House guy sick or something?" Roy asked, refusing to confirm Tritter's supposition. "If he has to take all those pills, he must be pretty sick. Cancer maybe?"
"No, he's just an addict like you, except he has a medical degree and some friends who were willing to commit perjury to protect him. I'm an idealist," Tritter said. "I actually think the law should treat the rich and powerful the same as the rest of us. Unfortunately, the judge at House's trial didn't agree. You got five years; he walked. "
"Jimmy was one of the friends who got him off?"
"Your brother covered up for him and wrote the prescriptions for his Vicodin. He was willing to lose his practice in order to protect House. Under other circumstances, that kind of loyalty would be admirable."
Tritter signalled the waitress for the bill.
"Unfortunately, his loyalty to House is going to get your brother into big trouble. House is hugely arrogant and he thinks that the police are fools. He's certain to make a mistake eventually. The problem is that House has made his friends and co-workers accomplices. When we do catch him, they'll go down as well."
He paid the bill and left a generous tip for the waitress. Roy had not touched half his sandwich, so Tritter picked it up and took a bite. It was cold.
"Now comes the time for you to make a decision. We can go down to the station and I can charge you with the parole violation, the b-and-e, and anything else I think might stick. That's fine with me if it's what you decide. The second option is for you to do me a favour. You help me convict House and in return I settle things with the Parole Board. What's your decision?"
"I don't have a choice. I can't go back to prison. I'll help you."
-----
House picked up some Korean barbecue from a takeaway place and returned to his comfortless hotel room. He had just finished his late dinner, when he heard a knock at his door. He knew it must be Wilson. He had checked in under a false name - Carter McCoy - and nobody but Wilson knew where he was. House didn't want to speak to him.
"House," Wilson said. "I know you're there. Let me in for a minute. We should talk."
House turned up the volume on the room's clock radio to drown out his friend's voice. Olivia Newton-John and John Travolta loudly extolled the virtues of "Summer Loving." House couldn't stand the song and hoped that Wilson hated it just as much. After a couple of minutes of aural torture, Wilson gave up.
------
Normally, James Wilson loved the anonymity of his hotel room - the way it was designed for some theoretical average traveller and not for himself personally. Even someone as astute as House could walk into this hotel room and know nothing about its occupant. He left no footprints here.
After House's refusal to speak to him, however, Wilson wanted company. He headed to the hotel bar rather than his room. Assorted alumni from the Class of '97 were re-enacting one of those timeless Ivy League traditions which, to the uninitiated eye, look so much like binge drinking. He headed toward the bar and ordered a beer. A slim, dark-haired woman was sitting at the bar. Wilson studied her reflection in the mirror over the bar. Lines of worry creased her forehead and he could see the tension in her shoulders. She was lost in her own thoughts, and, judging by her expression, those thoughts were not pleasant. Wilson thought he would be doing a kindness if he distracted her from whatever was worrying her.
"So are you with the Class of 1997?" he asked.
It took her a second to realize that someone was talking to her. "No," she replied, "but I guess it's flattering that you think I could be."
"I'm James Wilson. I'm staying at the hotel temporarily until I find a new apartment."
"I'm in town visiting my oldest son. He's at Princeton. And, no, before you ask, I wasn't a child bride."
"You think I'm trying to pick you up," Wilson said. "I'm not. Only I've had a difficult day and I thought it would just be nice to just talk with someone. And you looked a bit out of place, so I thought that you might want to talk to someone too."
"There are probably worse ways to spend an evening than talking to a stranger," the woman replied. "My name's Joanna Smith or maybe Joanna Partridge. I'm in the middle of a divorce and I haven't quite decided whether I'm going back to my maiden name."
"My ex-wife Bonnie kept her married name after we divorced. Her maiden name is Polish, and she said it was too long to fit on her signs. She's a real estate agent."
"Not a consideration in my case. "
"Your drink's almost empty. Would you like a refill? We could take our drinks to a table in the corner away from the noise and talk for a while."
"I guess we could do that. Order me a rum and coke."
Please post a comment on this story.
Legal Disclaimer: The authors published here make no claims on the ownership of Dr. Gregory House and the other fictional residents of Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Like the television show House (and quite possibly Dr. Wilson's pocket protector), they are the property of NBC/Universal, David Shore and undoubtedly other individuals of whom I am only peripherally aware. The fan fiction authors published here receive no monetary benefit from their work and intend no copyright infringement nor slight to the actual owners. We love the characters and we love the show, otherwise we wouldn't be here.
|
|
|