Rating: PG

Spoilers: up to and including 'Death Goes On'

Usual disclaimers apply: I own nothing but this story.

SPIRAL GROOVE by Jayne Leitch
2006

It was long after ten when Jordan left JD at her apartment--"Time to think," she'd claimed, for both of them--but she didn't hesitate about going back to the office. Sure enough, the elevator doors opened to wailing blues trumpets; the music filled the darkened halls with a smoky physicality, and she took her time wading through it to Garret's office.

He was still at his desk, his back to the door. He couldn't have heard her over the music, but as soon as she paused at the threshold he reached up to lift the needle off the record; the song cut off mid-solo, replaced abruptly--violently--by quiet. Jordan saw Garret's hand weave in mid-air before landing again on the desk, next to the bottle she couldn't help measuring with a pessimist's eye.

"The acoustics change when the elevator doors open," he said to the opposite wall.

"Guess I'll take the stairs next time."

"Wouldn't help. There'd still be a change." Finally he swivelled to face her, and looked at her like he couldn't understand why she wasn't in his personal space yet. She made her way to the chair across from his. He watched her settle, then pulled another glass from the bottom drawer of his desk, blew into it, and poured her a generous three fingers.

She accepted the drink and waited for him to top up his own. They shared a small, silent toast; then Jordan took a sip and watched Garret down half his glass in one swallow. "Talk to me," she said when his hand hit the desk once more.

He slid her a wry look. "About anything in particular?"

"Oh, politics. Money. Religion." She took another sip and shrugged. "You."

"Gary Dellingham from the district attorney's office is going to announce his candidacy for State senate next week," he said, readily and without a pause. "This year's Christmas bonus is ten bucks smaller than last year's. The Baptist church on Old Grove Road is closing due to poor attendance." He leaned back in his chair, which creaked. "I've been drinking out of my desk almost every day since I came back."

"Wow." The glass felt heavy in her hand; she stared at the whiskey rolling inside. "Ten bucks, huh?"

He didn't answer. They sat quietly for at least a minute--Jordan felt the silence grow like an itch between her shoulderblades--and then, finally, his gaze fixed on some point on the wall behind her, he said, "It's not that I can't deal with it. I'm good at this job, Jordan, I know I am, and I know what I do is important."

"What we do." She risked a half-smile. "It's not for everybody, Garret, but we do it. And yeah, we do it well."

"And that's why I can deal with it. I can--" He broke off, glanced away. Stared at the record still circling on the turntable. "I just wrapped a case," he said, "of a woman who was shot to death in her apartment. Four shots, point-blank, in the middle of her living room. It was an execution." His hand tightened around his glass. "The police went over the scene. And I went over the scene. And then--*then*, after she'd been dead for hours, somebody realized that she had a kid, and nobody knew where he was. We didn't know if he'd been there, if he was still there. If we'd find him dead or alive, if he'd been shot or asphyxiated or abused or--" He raised the glass to his mouth and finished off his drink. On the exhale, he rasped, "We found him in the closet. This dark-haired little boy. No more than two years old."

Jordan's palm was damp; she had a tight grip on her glass, almost too tight. She took another sip and watched Garret reach for the bottle again.

"I don't know how long he'd been in there," he said after he'd finished pouring. The bottle landed unevenly on the desk and wobbled slightly, making a hollow sound. "But he was alive. He must've heard his mother's death, at least. I don't know if he saw it. But he was alive, and when I opened the door he looked up at me. And his mother was lying in a cold pool of her own blood right behind me, and I thought--" He drank again, then lowered the glass to dangle from his fingertips as he pressed the knuckle of his index finger to his lips and swallowed. "No, I didn't think," he corrected after a moment, and his voice was rougher than ever, worn with resignation. "I *wanted*. I wanted to have found him dead."

Jordan leaned forward, placed her glass on the edge of the desk, folded her hands tightly together and watched him. "Tell me why."

"Because..." He met her gaze, his eyes glassy; after a moment, he shrugged. "Because it would've been easier. Two bodies. Two autopsies. Two files. Only one survivor--the husband, the dad, a grown man who could at least understand things like death and murder *intellectually*." Dropping his gaze to the top of his desk, he gave a slow shake of his head. "Because things would've been...simpler."

They sat quietly again. This time, Jordan realized the silence wasn't absolute: she listened to the rush of a car out on the street, and the near-subliminal hum of the building's electricity, and the light, static friction of the spinning turntable. Then, thinking about mothers and death and survivors, she reached for the bottle and poured its dregs into her glass. "Garret," she said, and waited for him to look up at her again. When he did, she let herself slump back into her chair and offer a tired sigh. "When do things ever get to be simple?"

End.

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