FIC: The Disappearance of John Doe
Title: The Disappearance of John Doe
Author: cobweb_diamond
Team: Romance
Prompt: Bonds
Rating: PG
Word count: 2000
Summary: 'If I woke up in a pool of someone else’s blood on the floor of a convenience store, I’d be screaming so hard you'd have to sedate me.'
Notes: The "piano guy" alluded to in this fic Andreas Grassl, who made the news a few years ago when he was found with no apparent memory of anything except the ability to play piano.
Thanks to eleveninches for reading through this for me, and suggesting a multitude of Billy Joel lyrics to use as a title.
‘He looked a lot worse when they brought him in.’
Morrison studies the screen, trying to work out whether the shadows under the man’s eyes are bruises or just poor lighting. ‘Worse, as in a junkie?’
Anders shakes his head. ‘More like a drowned rat. There was a lot of blood, but once they hosed him down he wasn’t too bad. There’s no way it was all his.’
Morrison raises his eyebrows. Maybe not such a victim, then. The man shown on the CCTV screen on Anders’ laptop doesn’t look like much of a fighter, though. He doesn’t look like much of anything. ‘HIV?’
‘No, he’s a lucky bastard. And cool as anything. If I woke up in a pool of someone else’s blood on the floor of a convenience store, I’d be screaming so hard you'd have to sedate me. I think that’s why his representation is pushing the incapacity angle; he’s weird. Seriously, try to talk to him when he wakes up -- he’s like a fucking yoga instructor. I bet if you took his pulse it’d be a steady sixty per minute.’
‘A... yoga instructor? says Morrison, doubtful. Disguised by the flickery grey haze of the CCTV camera, the man in the cell looks almost boyish. Morrison can’t really tell how tall he is, but he’s skinny enough that the one-size-fits-all jail overalls are flopping over his hands. It reminds Morrison of his son, who when he was teething had habitually chewed at his pyjama sleeves until they were stretched-out enough that he could pull them over his fists.
‘You know. He’s calm. Like, creepy calm.’
‘Not all there?’
Anders shakes his head. ‘You’ll see when he wakes up.’
Morrison flicks the screen onto another one of the cells. ‘Come on, he’s not that interesting. Let’s take a look at the drunk-tank camera.’ Too many people in this station are getting fixated on this John Doe case. “Unusual” doesn’t necessarily mean “worthy of notice”.
‘Drunks are messier, not more interesting,’ Anders corrects. ‘He’s an enigma. Don’t you enjoy that shit, Detective?’
‘I prefer mysteries with actual solutions. Just wait this guy out, he’s sure to lose his boner for the Fifth Amendment sooner or later. I’ve got my own shit to do.’
Anders smirks. ‘Could’ve fooled me. Anyway, we can’t keep him forever. He’ll be out on Time Served by the time we get him to court.’
Morrison taps his plastic takeout fork against the desktop, thinking about the man in the cell. He’d been sleeping like a baby, head pillowed on his hands. Not exactly the sleep of a person who’s wracked with guilt. On the other hand, a truly innocent man would be a lot more perturbed by the idea of sleeping in a police cell for days on end. So far this man has said nothing whatsoever to help himself, which is suspicious in itself. ‘You check DNA?’
‘Are you kidding me? He broke into a convenience store and passed out in front of the Haagen-Dazs. If you ignore the silent-treatment amnesia bullshit, that’s a fraternity prank. I’ve probably done worse. They’re not going to spring for DNA testing on this one.’
‘You seriously think he’s bullshitting you?’
‘Of course I think he’s bullshitting us. He’s covering something, anyway. The Public Defender's Office keeps trying to get him out on psychological grounds but Michelle’s stalling. She’ll be out on her ass if we let him go and it turns out he was on some watch-list all along.’
‘This is why I didn’t go for her job, man.’
Anders barks out a laugh. ‘Yeah, whatever you say.’
‘Fuck you. Hey, have you thought of trying a public appeal?’
He shrugs. ‘I heard a couple of the secretaries talking about calling the local radio stations. He’s like our very own piano guy.’
‘What?’
‘That amnesiac pianist? He showed up somewhere with no memory except how to play the piano. I think they’re making a movie now.’
‘Can this guy play the piano?’
Anders rolls his eyes. ‘Yeah, obviously that was the first thing we asked him.’
‘He’s more like Jason Bourne.’
‘If he was Jason Bourne he’d be out of here already.’
There’s a knock on the open door and they turn to see one of the desk secretaries outside, viewing them with obvious disdain.
‘Hey, Annette,’ says Morrison with utmost perkiness, because sometimes he’s just an asshole. ‘Did you want something?’
‘Someone came to bail out Mystery Man,’ she says shortly, surveying the empty takeout cartons on Anders’ desk. ‘But if you’re too busy...’
They both stand up, dislodging the takeout containers. ‘Someone came to bail him out? Now? After nearly a week? We were about to transfer him.’
Annette shrugs. ‘Fourteen hundred dollars isn’t pocket change. Maybe the family needed time to get it together.’
‘But not visit him?’
‘Are you really going to treat this like it’s the most important thing on your desk right now?’ says Annette snidely. ‘Shouldn’t you be solving a murder or something?’
‘Or, more realistically, filling out paperwork?’ says Morrison.
‘Annette, stop talking like you’re my mom. You’re like, only about ten percent Jewish enough. Morrison, I’d tell you to stop being a douche, but I know that’s impossible.’
Anders makes his way to the front office, where a man with a short brown hair and Angelina Jolie lips is filling out Surety Bond paperwork. Anders leans against the desk, waiting for him to look up. ‘Gotta say,’ he says casually. ‘I’ve been kind of curious to see if anyone came to visit our mystery guest. Does he have a name?’
‘Oh, uh -- ‘ the man puts down his pen to shake hands. ‘McGill. Paul. That’s me. And he’s Nicholas. My brother. We’ve been so worried, you have no idea -- ’ Some people get really uncomfortable in a police station. Anders gets the impression that Paul McGill doesn’t spend much time around the wrong side of the law. He’s wearing tweed. He looks like a high-school Geography teacher. ‘He hasn’t caused any trouble, has he?’ McGill asks nervously.
‘Aside from taking up a cell for almost a week and wasting everyone’s time by refusing to tell us his name?’
McGill looks mortified. ‘I -- honestly, I have no idea why he would do that. He has these episodes -- see, I’m his legal conservator. I brought all the paperwork just in case.’ He glances at Vick, the officer manning the front desk, and she raises her eyebrows at Anders and gestures towards a messy pile of envelopes and creased certificates next to the bail paperwork.
‘I already told him it wasn’t necessary,’ says Vick. ‘We’ll have your details on file anyway, Mr McGill.’
‘I’m sorry he caused so much bother,’ McGill continues earnestly. ‘Really, I’ve been looking for him for days, but I suppose I never considered that he would have refused to give his name, he’s usually ever so talkative -- ‘ And on and on until Anders and Vick are sharing increasingly irritated glances over the desk and eventually directing McGill and his now far-less-mysterious brother out of the door.
‘Well, that was underwhelming,’ says Anders, once they're gone. ‘Detective Morrison was hoping he’d turn out to be Jason Bourne.’
Vick enters the last of McGill’s info into the computer and cracks her knuckles. ‘The whole conservatorship thing seemed weird to me. Do you think he ran away? Could this be an abuse case?’’
The brother had seemed harmless enough, but that doesn't necessarily mean anything. ‘Maybe,’ says Anders. ‘But don’t overthink it. He seemed happy enough to leave when his brother showed up.’
‘You’re not curious about the blood?’
Anders runs his hand through his hair. ‘Curious? Yeah. But not enough to waste more time trying to get out information of a brick wall. We’ve got an ID now, and that’s all Michelle asked for. And we have samples from his clothes when we found him, just in case.’
‘Court date’s in ten days.’
‘Exactly. And I doubt his brother’ll let him out of his sight until then.’
‘I was hoping he was going to be like that piano guy,’ Vick adds.
* * *
It feels disgustingly luxurious to be wearing his own clothes again. Sweaters that fit, dear God. But -- ‘Brothers? Really?’
‘Family simplifies matters,’ says Eames, glancing away from the road in amusement to watch Arthur knock back half a cup of coffee in one gulp. ‘Why, are you complaining?’
‘We don’t look anything alike.’
‘Maybe I was adopted. Maybe you were adopted. Our parents were particularly upstanding citizens in that regard. It’s a real tragedy that they died young and left me to look after you in your fragile state.’ Every trace of the bumbling nerd from the police station is gone. Arthur's glad; he always finds it weird to hear Eames speak with an American accent.
‘Ugh, stop talking about our parents, that’s disgusting. How’d you know I’d play the silent card, anyway?’
‘Arthur, in some ways you are worryingly predictable. Such as the fact that it’s typically like pulling nails to get you to give away more personal information than is absolutely necessary. There was no reason to assume you’d be any different with the police than, for example, when you’re being questioned by nosy architects.’
‘Those guys had nothing on Ariadne,’ Arthur agrees, stuffing the now-empty paper coffee cup into the glove compartment. ‘Is this car a rental?’
‘Driving a stolen car in a police station car park would have been a bit much.’
‘You’re a bit much,’ says Arthur, looking out the window. They're a good half-mile away from the police station now, well into the outskirts of town where it's mostly deserted at this time of the evening. ‘OK, pull over here.’
‘Outside the library?’ asks Eames, obeying anyway. The building is closed, lights shut off for the night.
‘I’m not here for the library.’
As soon as the car stops Arthur’s seatbelt whizzes back into its reel, freeing him to lean over the gearshift and wrap his arms around Eames’ neck. It’s awkward, but he’s pretty sure Eames knows that he needs it, the tight grip of his hands in Eames’ shirt belying his wry tone. For a moment Arthur just rests there, pressing his face into Eames’ collar.
‘Thank you,’ says Eames, his words muffled by Arthur’s hair.
‘You’re thanking me?’ says Arthur, disbelieving.
‘For waiting. You could’ve got out of there yourself.’
‘I could have,’ Arthur agrees. ‘But it would’ve been messier.’ Messier, but more certain than trusting Eames to go to the trouble of tracking him down. Both of them know that Arthur doesn’t like to take chances.
Arthur draws back. ‘But speed up your reaction time next time, OK? They were about one day away from fly-posting pictures of my face in every police-station in the city.’
‘Speed up!’ says Eames, outraged. ‘I forged three different legal documents in less than a day! I tracked down a John Doe with -- ‘
Arthur cuts him off with a hand over his mouth and Eames acquiesces immediately, relaxing back into his seat as Arthur wriggles over to half-kneel on the gearshift and kiss him. Neither of them say I missed you because it’s been less than a week and that’s just dumb, but Arthur’s been in a small concrete cube for most of that time and under a self-imposed gag order so it’s perfectly understandable that he might want a little human contact. For Eames’ part, he just winds his fingers into Arthur’s hair and inhales, hoping with distant amusement that they don’t get arrested for indecency less than half an hour after he’s sprung Arthur from jail. The “brothers” trick certainly isn’t going to work this time round.
Author: cobweb_diamond
Team: Romance
Prompt: Bonds
Rating: PG
Word count: 2000
Summary: 'If I woke up in a pool of someone else’s blood on the floor of a convenience store, I’d be screaming so hard you'd have to sedate me.'
Notes: The "piano guy" alluded to in this fic Andreas Grassl, who made the news a few years ago when he was found with no apparent memory of anything except the ability to play piano.
Thanks to eleveninches for reading through this for me, and suggesting a multitude of Billy Joel lyrics to use as a title.
‘He looked a lot worse when they brought him in.’
Morrison studies the screen, trying to work out whether the shadows under the man’s eyes are bruises or just poor lighting. ‘Worse, as in a junkie?’
Anders shakes his head. ‘More like a drowned rat. There was a lot of blood, but once they hosed him down he wasn’t too bad. There’s no way it was all his.’
Morrison raises his eyebrows. Maybe not such a victim, then. The man shown on the CCTV screen on Anders’ laptop doesn’t look like much of a fighter, though. He doesn’t look like much of anything. ‘HIV?’
‘No, he’s a lucky bastard. And cool as anything. If I woke up in a pool of someone else’s blood on the floor of a convenience store, I’d be screaming so hard you'd have to sedate me. I think that’s why his representation is pushing the incapacity angle; he’s weird. Seriously, try to talk to him when he wakes up -- he’s like a fucking yoga instructor. I bet if you took his pulse it’d be a steady sixty per minute.’
‘A... yoga instructor? says Morrison, doubtful. Disguised by the flickery grey haze of the CCTV camera, the man in the cell looks almost boyish. Morrison can’t really tell how tall he is, but he’s skinny enough that the one-size-fits-all jail overalls are flopping over his hands. It reminds Morrison of his son, who when he was teething had habitually chewed at his pyjama sleeves until they were stretched-out enough that he could pull them over his fists.
‘You know. He’s calm. Like, creepy calm.’
‘Not all there?’
Anders shakes his head. ‘You’ll see when he wakes up.’
Morrison flicks the screen onto another one of the cells. ‘Come on, he’s not that interesting. Let’s take a look at the drunk-tank camera.’ Too many people in this station are getting fixated on this John Doe case. “Unusual” doesn’t necessarily mean “worthy of notice”.
‘Drunks are messier, not more interesting,’ Anders corrects. ‘He’s an enigma. Don’t you enjoy that shit, Detective?’
‘I prefer mysteries with actual solutions. Just wait this guy out, he’s sure to lose his boner for the Fifth Amendment sooner or later. I’ve got my own shit to do.’
Anders smirks. ‘Could’ve fooled me. Anyway, we can’t keep him forever. He’ll be out on Time Served by the time we get him to court.’
Morrison taps his plastic takeout fork against the desktop, thinking about the man in the cell. He’d been sleeping like a baby, head pillowed on his hands. Not exactly the sleep of a person who’s wracked with guilt. On the other hand, a truly innocent man would be a lot more perturbed by the idea of sleeping in a police cell for days on end. So far this man has said nothing whatsoever to help himself, which is suspicious in itself. ‘You check DNA?’
‘Are you kidding me? He broke into a convenience store and passed out in front of the Haagen-Dazs. If you ignore the silent-treatment amnesia bullshit, that’s a fraternity prank. I’ve probably done worse. They’re not going to spring for DNA testing on this one.’
‘You seriously think he’s bullshitting you?’
‘Of course I think he’s bullshitting us. He’s covering something, anyway. The Public Defender's Office keeps trying to get him out on psychological grounds but Michelle’s stalling. She’ll be out on her ass if we let him go and it turns out he was on some watch-list all along.’
‘This is why I didn’t go for her job, man.’
Anders barks out a laugh. ‘Yeah, whatever you say.’
‘Fuck you. Hey, have you thought of trying a public appeal?’
He shrugs. ‘I heard a couple of the secretaries talking about calling the local radio stations. He’s like our very own piano guy.’
‘What?’
‘That amnesiac pianist? He showed up somewhere with no memory except how to play the piano. I think they’re making a movie now.’
‘Can this guy play the piano?’
Anders rolls his eyes. ‘Yeah, obviously that was the first thing we asked him.’
‘He’s more like Jason Bourne.’
‘If he was Jason Bourne he’d be out of here already.’
There’s a knock on the open door and they turn to see one of the desk secretaries outside, viewing them with obvious disdain.
‘Hey, Annette,’ says Morrison with utmost perkiness, because sometimes he’s just an asshole. ‘Did you want something?’
‘Someone came to bail out Mystery Man,’ she says shortly, surveying the empty takeout cartons on Anders’ desk. ‘But if you’re too busy...’
They both stand up, dislodging the takeout containers. ‘Someone came to bail him out? Now? After nearly a week? We were about to transfer him.’
Annette shrugs. ‘Fourteen hundred dollars isn’t pocket change. Maybe the family needed time to get it together.’
‘But not visit him?’
‘Are you really going to treat this like it’s the most important thing on your desk right now?’ says Annette snidely. ‘Shouldn’t you be solving a murder or something?’
‘Or, more realistically, filling out paperwork?’ says Morrison.
‘Annette, stop talking like you’re my mom. You’re like, only about ten percent Jewish enough. Morrison, I’d tell you to stop being a douche, but I know that’s impossible.’
Anders makes his way to the front office, where a man with a short brown hair and Angelina Jolie lips is filling out Surety Bond paperwork. Anders leans against the desk, waiting for him to look up. ‘Gotta say,’ he says casually. ‘I’ve been kind of curious to see if anyone came to visit our mystery guest. Does he have a name?’
‘Oh, uh -- ‘ the man puts down his pen to shake hands. ‘McGill. Paul. That’s me. And he’s Nicholas. My brother. We’ve been so worried, you have no idea -- ’ Some people get really uncomfortable in a police station. Anders gets the impression that Paul McGill doesn’t spend much time around the wrong side of the law. He’s wearing tweed. He looks like a high-school Geography teacher. ‘He hasn’t caused any trouble, has he?’ McGill asks nervously.
‘Aside from taking up a cell for almost a week and wasting everyone’s time by refusing to tell us his name?’
McGill looks mortified. ‘I -- honestly, I have no idea why he would do that. He has these episodes -- see, I’m his legal conservator. I brought all the paperwork just in case.’ He glances at Vick, the officer manning the front desk, and she raises her eyebrows at Anders and gestures towards a messy pile of envelopes and creased certificates next to the bail paperwork.
‘I already told him it wasn’t necessary,’ says Vick. ‘We’ll have your details on file anyway, Mr McGill.’
‘I’m sorry he caused so much bother,’ McGill continues earnestly. ‘Really, I’ve been looking for him for days, but I suppose I never considered that he would have refused to give his name, he’s usually ever so talkative -- ‘ And on and on until Anders and Vick are sharing increasingly irritated glances over the desk and eventually directing McGill and his now far-less-mysterious brother out of the door.
‘Well, that was underwhelming,’ says Anders, once they're gone. ‘Detective Morrison was hoping he’d turn out to be Jason Bourne.’
Vick enters the last of McGill’s info into the computer and cracks her knuckles. ‘The whole conservatorship thing seemed weird to me. Do you think he ran away? Could this be an abuse case?’’
The brother had seemed harmless enough, but that doesn't necessarily mean anything. ‘Maybe,’ says Anders. ‘But don’t overthink it. He seemed happy enough to leave when his brother showed up.’
‘You’re not curious about the blood?’
Anders runs his hand through his hair. ‘Curious? Yeah. But not enough to waste more time trying to get out information of a brick wall. We’ve got an ID now, and that’s all Michelle asked for. And we have samples from his clothes when we found him, just in case.’
‘Court date’s in ten days.’
‘Exactly. And I doubt his brother’ll let him out of his sight until then.’
‘I was hoping he was going to be like that piano guy,’ Vick adds.
* * *
It feels disgustingly luxurious to be wearing his own clothes again. Sweaters that fit, dear God. But -- ‘Brothers? Really?’
‘Family simplifies matters,’ says Eames, glancing away from the road in amusement to watch Arthur knock back half a cup of coffee in one gulp. ‘Why, are you complaining?’
‘We don’t look anything alike.’
‘Maybe I was adopted. Maybe you were adopted. Our parents were particularly upstanding citizens in that regard. It’s a real tragedy that they died young and left me to look after you in your fragile state.’ Every trace of the bumbling nerd from the police station is gone. Arthur's glad; he always finds it weird to hear Eames speak with an American accent.
‘Ugh, stop talking about our parents, that’s disgusting. How’d you know I’d play the silent card, anyway?’
‘Arthur, in some ways you are worryingly predictable. Such as the fact that it’s typically like pulling nails to get you to give away more personal information than is absolutely necessary. There was no reason to assume you’d be any different with the police than, for example, when you’re being questioned by nosy architects.’
‘Those guys had nothing on Ariadne,’ Arthur agrees, stuffing the now-empty paper coffee cup into the glove compartment. ‘Is this car a rental?’
‘Driving a stolen car in a police station car park would have been a bit much.’
‘You’re a bit much,’ says Arthur, looking out the window. They're a good half-mile away from the police station now, well into the outskirts of town where it's mostly deserted at this time of the evening. ‘OK, pull over here.’
‘Outside the library?’ asks Eames, obeying anyway. The building is closed, lights shut off for the night.
‘I’m not here for the library.’
As soon as the car stops Arthur’s seatbelt whizzes back into its reel, freeing him to lean over the gearshift and wrap his arms around Eames’ neck. It’s awkward, but he’s pretty sure Eames knows that he needs it, the tight grip of his hands in Eames’ shirt belying his wry tone. For a moment Arthur just rests there, pressing his face into Eames’ collar.
‘Thank you,’ says Eames, his words muffled by Arthur’s hair.
‘You’re thanking me?’ says Arthur, disbelieving.
‘For waiting. You could’ve got out of there yourself.’
‘I could have,’ Arthur agrees. ‘But it would’ve been messier.’ Messier, but more certain than trusting Eames to go to the trouble of tracking him down. Both of them know that Arthur doesn’t like to take chances.
Arthur draws back. ‘But speed up your reaction time next time, OK? They were about one day away from fly-posting pictures of my face in every police-station in the city.’
‘Speed up!’ says Eames, outraged. ‘I forged three different legal documents in less than a day! I tracked down a John Doe with -- ‘
Arthur cuts him off with a hand over his mouth and Eames acquiesces immediately, relaxing back into his seat as Arthur wriggles over to half-kneel on the gearshift and kiss him. Neither of them say I missed you because it’s been less than a week and that’s just dumb, but Arthur’s been in a small concrete cube for most of that time and under a self-imposed gag order so it’s perfectly understandable that he might want a little human contact. For Eames’ part, he just winds his fingers into Arthur’s hair and inhales, hoping with distant amusement that they don’t get arrested for indecency less than half an hour after he’s sprung Arthur from jail. The “brothers” trick certainly isn’t going to work this time round.