Rating: Gen
Spoilers: through 'Meet Juan Doe'; AU after that ('cause that's all that'd been aired when I wrote this)
Disclaimer: they belong to Graham Yost and NBC; I just like playing with 'em. No infringement intended.
SHOW ME A SANE MAN by Jayne Leitch
Dan's waiting for Michael in the bullpen, perched on the edge of his desk like the world's most foreboding vulture. Michael doesn't even bother pausing; he says, "Your office?" as he approaches, then keeps walking as Dan slides to his feet and leads the way.
Dan closes the door behind them, and Michael can't help himself: "I'd say something droll and provocative, but something tells me this isn't the morning for that."
When Dan turns to face him, it's with the pinched look of a man who's been drinking bad coffee all night. "Michael, Samantha Kohl is dead."
Michael's mind goes blank for a minute. He'd just sat in her office for an hour watching her balance her chequebook two days ago. "Dead?"
"Shot, point-blank. Looks like someone broke into her office, caught her off-guard." Dan drops his chin to his chest and sighs, rolling his shoulders. When he looks up again, he's blinking hard; must've been the coffee from down the hall, and a lot of it. Michael's felt that stuff boil his own eyeballs dry from the inside out. "I thought you'd want to know."
"Of course; of course. Well." The shrink whose time he was being forced to waste is dead. Murdered. There are a number of things he could say, only some of which are in extremely bad taste; he says nothing until Dan clears his throat and Michael remembers he had some kind of history with Doctor Kohl. "Hey, are you all right? Are you..."
Dan sends him a wan smile and scrubs his hand over the back of his neck. "I'm fine. Long night; bad coffee."
"Dead person." Michael winces as he says it, holds up one hand. "Sorry. That was supposed to be sympathetic."
Dan's already nodding, used to him and not offended. "I know."
*
The case is Darryl Delaney's; Michael spends the first half of the day eavesdropping on Carolyn every time her phone rings, but after lunch he gives that up in favour of getting some of his own work done and not looking like he cares. Coincidentally, it's around lunch that Doctor Kohl's appointment book is signed in to the evidence locker, and Michael's sure he hears Boyer from across the room, braying about the name she'd pencilled in for Friday at 3:30.
He sticks his head in Dan's door on his way out, but has to content himself with the distracted nod Dan offers with his ear pressed to the phone. There's a plastic fork sticking out of a styrofoam container on his desk; Michael assumes that means he won't be fuelling another sleepless night on eyeball-boiling coffee alone, and goes home with a clear conscience.
The evening passes. Michael has cheap scotch with dinner, then sits down at the piano and lets his mind wander until he realizes he's improvised his way from Rachmaninov to 'Heart and Soul'. He gives up at that point, and goes to bed early with another glass of scotch and, on a whim, his much-folded and nearly-spindled copy of Double Indemnity.
Walter Huff's just stepped into Phyllis Nirdlinger's honeysuckle-scented web when Michael nearly has a heart attack.
"A little comfort reading, Detective?"
Samantha Kohl looks far too amused by the fact that he can't breathe for one whole minute after she speaks. At least the time gives him a good opportunity to form his argument, and when he finally does reply, it's with conviction: "No. You can't be here. You're not my case! No!"
She seats herself beside his feet, and he can feel her weight dip his mattress. A very tiny part of himself is impressed by the quality of detail his imagination provides. "Obviously you want me to be your case. Otherwise, I wouldn't be here, would I?"
He shakes his head, hoping vehemence will trump what he suspects to be an embarrassing amount of truth. "Well, it doesn't matter what I want. We, we had a relationship when you were--alive--" She arches an eyebrow, and he clarifies, "A *professional* relationship, *Doctor* Kohl. That's a conflict of interest. You *can't* be my case."
She looks at him, her mouth pursed, her eyes narrowed and sparkling. "What are you afraid of, Detective? I'm dead. The only place I exist anymore is inside your head. What is it you think I can do to you there?"
He laughs. He has to. "You're in my head," he says, when the laughter's run out and taken what little subtlety the situation had with it. "You're a shrink, and you're in my head."
She shrugs. "One of us had to get in here somehow, Michael." He blinks, and a ragged bullethole pocks her blouse; she looks down, watching her blood soak and spread through the thin fabric. When she looks back up, it's with a wry smile. "Lucky me."
~~~~~~~~~~
"Show me a sane man and I will cure him for you." --Carl Jung
End.
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2007