Abyss (R) (Smash) PART 3
Title: Abyss
Author: blackpoetcat
Rating: R
Character: Derek Wills
Disclaimer: NBC owns all, just playing drama with
Summary: Everyone knows he doesn't give a shit about anything but the show. So when Derek's life capsizes, will anyone give a shit about him?
( Part 1)
( Part 2)
"Your DNA matched the sperm in that condom," Shaw stated after he had closed the door of the interrogation room.
"I told you it probably would," Derek reminded the officer, and raised an eyebrow. "So?"
"So there is something else I'd like to know," the detective replied and raised his chin. "Would you please remove your jacket, sweater, and shirt?"
"What?" Certainly Derek must have heard wrong. This smug police officer did not just tell him to strip, now did he?
"I said I want you to remove your jacket, sweater, and shirt," Shaw repeated. "There is something I need to see."
Derek's eyebrow climbed even higher when he folded his arms before him. "And what would that be, pray tell?"
"I'll tell you as soon as I've had a look at your upper body," Shaw promised with a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
Bloody hell. He... They... Oh, holy shit!
Derek bit his lower lip and shook his head, before he finally obeyed and slowly removed his jacket. He pulled his shirt out of the jeans and then just shoved sweater and shirt up to his left collarbone, without removing them completely. He knew that wouldn't be necessary to reveal what he himself discovered when he took a shower yesterday morning.
"As I thought," Shaw commented, coldly. "Mind explaining how you got this scratch, Mr. Wills?"
After he had readjusted his clothes, Derek cleared his throat and shrugged.
"I suppose during sex. Wouldn't be the first time."
Connelly cut in for the first time, clearly disgusted.
"We found skin particles beneath Ms. Peterson's fingernails. Your skin, your DNA, Mr. Wills! And passionate scratches are usually found on backs, not fronts. Are you still pretending you don't remember? Do you even care that a young woman has been killed after you had your fun? That she probably tried to fight her murderer with everything she had?"
"Believe it or not, I do care! And I am absolutely certain that I didn't kill her!" Derek barked back. His furious gaze shot daggers at the detectives. "I sleep with women, but only with their consent. I do not tie them up and gag them! Do I make myself clear?"
"The only things clear to me are that, first, you were the last person seen with her," said Connelly, "Second, that you used her to satisfy yourself, maybe even raped her, and third..."
He interrupted himself and looked at his partner who continued:
"That our team spent the whole night inquiring every cab control centre to find out if someone drove you from her apartment to your hotel. Negative. Same in Ms. Peterson's neighbourhood: No one saw you leaving, but one heard a scream around two a.m.. And according to the night concierge, you didn't arrive back at your hotel until a few minutes past four."
At this point, Derek's throat seemed to tighten far too much. Nothing helpful swept through his brain, there were still just shredded memories of the smiling blonde girl and her drink. For the first time in his life he was scared to death, because he saw no way out of this nightmare. And worse, he could think of absolutely no one who would be of any help.
"Derek Wills, given the evidence and your total lack of an alibi, you are under arrest for the murder of Tracy Peterson," Shaw declared. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do can and will be held against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. You have the right to make one call. Do you understand these rights?"
If I...
The words echoed in Derek's head, part of him did understand not only every word, but the terrible meaning behind them. But there was another part that screamed in rage, cursed and refused to accept the whole situation. At least until he felt his arms being pulled behind his back and his wrists being cuffed...
"I do," was all he managed to get out, now that he was shocked to the bones and unable to comprehend that this was really happening to him of all people.
***
How often had he watched suspects transported to jail in movies or TV shows? To experience that trip and those bitter emotions himself was far worse than Derek had ever imagined. Well, if he had even ever thought about it. The town's streets and buildings were just a blur; he couldn't focus on anything but the dead girl and the charge against him. The tight handcuffs were not just uncomfortable but felt like they were cutting into his skin. He had trouble balancing in the moving patrol car with his hands behind his back. But the worst thing was that he had not only fear for himself, but for the show as well.
News of his arrest would emerge in no time. Every reporter would try to squeeze information out of the cast members; they would get no peace for rehearsals or previews, neither for themselves. In the worst case, the investors would quit to distance themselves from the scandal the oh-so-famous director Derek Wills just produced.
Condemned. ‘Bombshell' is condemned. Now, after all that hard work; after those magnificent previews. And it is my fault...
Derek closed his eyes and leaned his head against the car's window. They were both condemned -- he and the show. Even if his future attorney would manage to bail him out, his reputation was ruined. No one would hire a director who was suspected of murdering a young woman...
***
After arriving at the jail, he had to endure the usual process of fingerprinting, personal search, and listing his personal things. This was not only too slow for Derek's patience -- limited on even his best days anyway -- but utterly mortifying. He was used to being respected, if not feared; here he was being treated like an insect, afraid of saying or doing anything wrong. Of course he remembered the rights read to him, that he didn't need to talk at all, but without speaking he couldn't get an attorney. So he asked one of the officers as he was about to be locked into a cell:
"May I call someone now?"
The man knitted his brows. "Didn't you already call your attorney?"
"No, I've had no chance to call anyone and as I don't know any attorney here in Boston, I need to call someone else. Someone listed in my cell phone," Derek explained.
A sigh and rolling eyes betrayed the officer's great interest in Derek's situation, but he nevertheless led his prisoner back to another cell with a phone inside. He locked Derek in and asked "Whose number do you need?"
The first name that came into Derek's mind nearly slipped out, but then he closed his mouth and hastily thought it over. No. Even if Eileen was his oldest friend, she couldn't help him right now. She was in New York and he needed a Boston attorney as quick as possible. Also, he needed someone to cover for him at the theatre. So, despite their deep mistrust and differences of opinion, there was only one person who could provide both necessities...
"Tom Levitt."
***
"Who's this?"
"Tom? It's Derek."
"Derek? Where the hell are you? And what kind of number is that?"
"Tom. Listen. Something happened."
"I know. You vanished and expected me to sort out the bloody mess you left behind!"
"No, that's not what I --"
"Oh, shut up. I don't want to talk to you at all. Just tell me -- when do you plan to descend to your work?"
Derek sighed and cursed inwardly. Not that he expected anything of Tom but loathing, but he had no time for such childish behaviour now.
"Tom, it's important, I need you to listen! Are you listening?"
He could hear a snort of disgust; then Levitt answered.
"Yeah, I'm listening. Now what?"
Before Derek started to explain he swallowed hard. Under normal circumstances he would never... Well, nothing was normal anymore; he had no choice.
"I... I have been arrested," he confessed in a low tone. "I need an attorney, as quickly as possible."
"You have been what?"
Pure disbelief was clearly carried through the phone.
"Arrested. I am in jail and I need an attorney, as quickly as possible," Derek repeated. "Could you please find me one? If possible, without spreading it all over the world. And Tom? You'll stay in charge of the show as long as I'm absent. Do you understand?"
"Yes. And no," came the reply. "Why on earth have you been arrested? For scaring the living daylights out of the cast?"
With another deep sigh, Derek leaned his head against the cold wall. "I... They... they think I killed a girl," he finally confessed.
"Oh my God! But why would they --"
"Tom! Can we discuss this another time? I just want to get out of here! And for that I need --"
"An attorney, yes. I'll call Eileen and --"
"No! If I'd wanted her to do it, I would have called her, not you! She's in New York -- I need someone here in Boston to get me one!"
"Okay, okay -- I'll see to it. Anything else but that and the show?"
"No. That's all for now."
"Well, then..."
"Tom?"
"Yes?"
A pause, a deep breath -- and then Derek managed to get out the one word he used very rarely in general, and probably never to Levitt.
"Thanks."
Continued in Part 4.
Author: blackpoetcat
Rating: R
Character: Derek Wills
Disclaimer: NBC owns all, just playing drama with
Summary: Everyone knows he doesn't give a shit about anything but the show. So when Derek's life capsizes, will anyone give a shit about him?
( Part 1)
( Part 2)
"Your DNA matched the sperm in that condom," Shaw stated after he had closed the door of the interrogation room.
"I told you it probably would," Derek reminded the officer, and raised an eyebrow. "So?"
"So there is something else I'd like to know," the detective replied and raised his chin. "Would you please remove your jacket, sweater, and shirt?"
"What?" Certainly Derek must have heard wrong. This smug police officer did not just tell him to strip, now did he?
"I said I want you to remove your jacket, sweater, and shirt," Shaw repeated. "There is something I need to see."
Derek's eyebrow climbed even higher when he folded his arms before him. "And what would that be, pray tell?"
"I'll tell you as soon as I've had a look at your upper body," Shaw promised with a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
Bloody hell. He... They... Oh, holy shit!
Derek bit his lower lip and shook his head, before he finally obeyed and slowly removed his jacket. He pulled his shirt out of the jeans and then just shoved sweater and shirt up to his left collarbone, without removing them completely. He knew that wouldn't be necessary to reveal what he himself discovered when he took a shower yesterday morning.
"As I thought," Shaw commented, coldly. "Mind explaining how you got this scratch, Mr. Wills?"
After he had readjusted his clothes, Derek cleared his throat and shrugged.
"I suppose during sex. Wouldn't be the first time."
Connelly cut in for the first time, clearly disgusted.
"We found skin particles beneath Ms. Peterson's fingernails. Your skin, your DNA, Mr. Wills! And passionate scratches are usually found on backs, not fronts. Are you still pretending you don't remember? Do you even care that a young woman has been killed after you had your fun? That she probably tried to fight her murderer with everything she had?"
"Believe it or not, I do care! And I am absolutely certain that I didn't kill her!" Derek barked back. His furious gaze shot daggers at the detectives. "I sleep with women, but only with their consent. I do not tie them up and gag them! Do I make myself clear?"
"The only things clear to me are that, first, you were the last person seen with her," said Connelly, "Second, that you used her to satisfy yourself, maybe even raped her, and third..."
He interrupted himself and looked at his partner who continued:
"That our team spent the whole night inquiring every cab control centre to find out if someone drove you from her apartment to your hotel. Negative. Same in Ms. Peterson's neighbourhood: No one saw you leaving, but one heard a scream around two a.m.. And according to the night concierge, you didn't arrive back at your hotel until a few minutes past four."
At this point, Derek's throat seemed to tighten far too much. Nothing helpful swept through his brain, there were still just shredded memories of the smiling blonde girl and her drink. For the first time in his life he was scared to death, because he saw no way out of this nightmare. And worse, he could think of absolutely no one who would be of any help.
"Derek Wills, given the evidence and your total lack of an alibi, you are under arrest for the murder of Tracy Peterson," Shaw declared. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do can and will be held against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. You have the right to make one call. Do you understand these rights?"
If I...
The words echoed in Derek's head, part of him did understand not only every word, but the terrible meaning behind them. But there was another part that screamed in rage, cursed and refused to accept the whole situation. At least until he felt his arms being pulled behind his back and his wrists being cuffed...
"I do," was all he managed to get out, now that he was shocked to the bones and unable to comprehend that this was really happening to him of all people.
***
How often had he watched suspects transported to jail in movies or TV shows? To experience that trip and those bitter emotions himself was far worse than Derek had ever imagined. Well, if he had even ever thought about it. The town's streets and buildings were just a blur; he couldn't focus on anything but the dead girl and the charge against him. The tight handcuffs were not just uncomfortable but felt like they were cutting into his skin. He had trouble balancing in the moving patrol car with his hands behind his back. But the worst thing was that he had not only fear for himself, but for the show as well.
News of his arrest would emerge in no time. Every reporter would try to squeeze information out of the cast members; they would get no peace for rehearsals or previews, neither for themselves. In the worst case, the investors would quit to distance themselves from the scandal the oh-so-famous director Derek Wills just produced.
Condemned. ‘Bombshell' is condemned. Now, after all that hard work; after those magnificent previews. And it is my fault...
Derek closed his eyes and leaned his head against the car's window. They were both condemned -- he and the show. Even if his future attorney would manage to bail him out, his reputation was ruined. No one would hire a director who was suspected of murdering a young woman...
***
After arriving at the jail, he had to endure the usual process of fingerprinting, personal search, and listing his personal things. This was not only too slow for Derek's patience -- limited on even his best days anyway -- but utterly mortifying. He was used to being respected, if not feared; here he was being treated like an insect, afraid of saying or doing anything wrong. Of course he remembered the rights read to him, that he didn't need to talk at all, but without speaking he couldn't get an attorney. So he asked one of the officers as he was about to be locked into a cell:
"May I call someone now?"
The man knitted his brows. "Didn't you already call your attorney?"
"No, I've had no chance to call anyone and as I don't know any attorney here in Boston, I need to call someone else. Someone listed in my cell phone," Derek explained.
A sigh and rolling eyes betrayed the officer's great interest in Derek's situation, but he nevertheless led his prisoner back to another cell with a phone inside. He locked Derek in and asked "Whose number do you need?"
The first name that came into Derek's mind nearly slipped out, but then he closed his mouth and hastily thought it over. No. Even if Eileen was his oldest friend, she couldn't help him right now. She was in New York and he needed a Boston attorney as quick as possible. Also, he needed someone to cover for him at the theatre. So, despite their deep mistrust and differences of opinion, there was only one person who could provide both necessities...
"Tom Levitt."
***
"Who's this?"
"Tom? It's Derek."
"Derek? Where the hell are you? And what kind of number is that?"
"Tom. Listen. Something happened."
"I know. You vanished and expected me to sort out the bloody mess you left behind!"
"No, that's not what I --"
"Oh, shut up. I don't want to talk to you at all. Just tell me -- when do you plan to descend to your work?"
Derek sighed and cursed inwardly. Not that he expected anything of Tom but loathing, but he had no time for such childish behaviour now.
"Tom, it's important, I need you to listen! Are you listening?"
He could hear a snort of disgust; then Levitt answered.
"Yeah, I'm listening. Now what?"
Before Derek started to explain he swallowed hard. Under normal circumstances he would never... Well, nothing was normal anymore; he had no choice.
"I... I have been arrested," he confessed in a low tone. "I need an attorney, as quickly as possible."
"You have been what?"
Pure disbelief was clearly carried through the phone.
"Arrested. I am in jail and I need an attorney, as quickly as possible," Derek repeated. "Could you please find me one? If possible, without spreading it all over the world. And Tom? You'll stay in charge of the show as long as I'm absent. Do you understand?"
"Yes. And no," came the reply. "Why on earth have you been arrested? For scaring the living daylights out of the cast?"
With another deep sigh, Derek leaned his head against the cold wall. "I... They... they think I killed a girl," he finally confessed.
"Oh my God! But why would they --"
"Tom! Can we discuss this another time? I just want to get out of here! And for that I need --"
"An attorney, yes. I'll call Eileen and --"
"No! If I'd wanted her to do it, I would have called her, not you! She's in New York -- I need someone here in Boston to get me one!"
"Okay, okay -- I'll see to it. Anything else but that and the show?"
"No. That's all for now."
"Well, then..."
"Tom?"
"Yes?"
A pause, a deep breath -- and then Derek managed to get out the one word he used very rarely in general, and probably never to Levitt.
"Thanks."
Continued in Part 4.