Post by anomaly on Jan 23, 2016 7:56:17 GMT
Awake.
Chris ran his hand over the other side of the bed, the cold greeted him like a slap in the face. He gave a soft grunt as he forced himself to roll away from the empty side. The movement made his head complain loudly, he gave a slow exhale as he mentally greeted the hangover. “Fuck,” he murmured softly, his head only clangored in response. His eyes slipped closed again, he wanted to go back a few minutes; before the hangover and the cold bed rudely intervened.
He pushed back the covers, the cold air rushing at him. A soft groan tumbled from his lips as he scooted out of bed, maybe he should have just laid there. He idly scratched at his chest while wandering out of the room toward the bathroom.
More cold.
He should have turned on the heat before he started drinking; at least he wouldn’t have forgotten when he climbed into bed. Hell, he didn’t even remember climbing into bed.
The phone jangled, cutting into his thoughts, he let out a curse at the pain starting anew in his head. He needed an axe to cut his head off now. The phone rang a couple more times before the answering machine started up.
"This is Emma and Chris, we can’t get to the phone right now – we’re too busy enjoying life! Leave a note – we’ll get back to you before our next adventure!"
A beep sounded, the line disconnected after a few seconds of silence. Another hang-up call, Chris scowled at the phone. He almost wished the person would call back again just so he could hear her voice again.
He forgot about the bathroom as he shifted a few steps to his right to sink onto the couch, putting his head in his hands.
Emma.
Has it really been a year yet?
He pulled his head out of his hands and exhaled, why did he bother waking up this morning? Every morning he woke up was like a betrayal, he could wake himself into oblivion, yet… every morning, he awoke and it was another day away from her and the event.
It had been a simple case, Sam and Dean asked if he could cover it since it was only a state away. Emma couldn’t go, she hadn’t been feeling well – also, hunting was more of his thing than it was hers; which was fine for both of them. It had worked, he hunted while she worked at the local hospital. So with a kiss good-bye and a promise that he’d be back in a couple days, he left to figure out the bizarre case; it had been bizarre enough that he had forgotten to call her that night, or the next night.
Hell, it had been three days, not his promised two days. But he had gotten the case solved and the brothers stepped in to handle the mess while documenting the creature. That part had been fun, learning about a new creature – but not so fun while trying to stay alive and figuring out how to kill it. Iron and salt hadn’t done it, he had to chop it’s head off and cauterize the wound. Crazy shit.
When he had come back into range, his phone had went off like crazy – which was weird because only three people had his number: Emma and the brothers. Emma never called him this many times in a row. So he had pulled over and listened to his messages, the first few were just Emma checking in, asking him to pick up some things on the way home. He had made mental messages to do so while flipping to the next message.
This one was what had sent icy fingers shivering down his spine.
It had come from her number, but only had a clip of a woman sobbing, trying to catch her breath. Which was weird, even for Emma – Emma was a quiet crier. So he tried to call her back. No one was answering the phone; which made him put his car in drive and ignore the speed limits while he kept trying the number.
He pulled over for gas, an inconvenience, but it grounded him enough to remember that he was driving and talking on the phone – or trying to talk on the phone – something that Emma was constantly on his case for.
She’d understand, it was an emergency.
After putting the nozzle in, he stepped away from the car and hit redial. On the third ring, a male voice answered: “Emma Newell’s phone.”
Chris took a sharp intake of breath, who the fuck was answering her phone? Was that why she was so eager to stay home this time around? Right, she was `sick`. What a fucking…
“Hello?”
Chris took another breath, “who the fuck is this? Where is Emma?”
There was a pause, he could hear some rustling on the other end; a click came from the nozzle. He went back to the car to replace the nozzle, closing the gas cap. “Is this Christopher?”
“Chris,” he automatically said, “you didn’t say who you were.”
“Sir,” the voice started up again, “this is Officer Camarano, you need to come home.”
Christopher stood straight, staring at his car then at the road beyond it, “I’m six hours away. Why do I need to come home? What happened? Where’s Emma? What the fuck did you do with Emma?”
“Sir, you need to come home.”
“I’m six fucking hours away.”
“Come home.” The police officer paused, “please.”
“Okay,” Chris could feel the fight slipping out of him, “I’m coming.”
***
The words had played in his head over and over again during the six hour drive. Why would the police have Emma’s phone? What happened? Did someone shoot up the hospital? Was Emma okay? Fuck. Why couldn’t they have just told him over the phone?
Nothing held his attention, he found himself angry with the drivers, even if they were faster than the speed limit – it still wasn’t fast enough. He would drive around them every opportunity he got, if he got pulled over, well fuck the police. He could get out of that ticket, he always managed to. Right now, nothing mattered except getting home.
Six hours had managed to be whittled down to four and some change – closer to five. He rolled into the familiar town, everything was business as usual. He wasn’t sure if he should go home or to the police department. The question niggled at him enough that he decided to pull into the local strip mall parking lot and cut off the engine. He grabbed the phone off the passenger seat and stared out the windshield for a few minutes; he knew he was stalling – but why was everything looking so fucking cheery?
Something was wrong.
That sense of wrongness was growing as he sat there.
He hit the unlock screen button on his phone, ready to find Emma’s number when the phone rang, an unknown number flashing across the screen. He frowned as he pressed the answer call button, “Newell.”
“Mr. Newell,” the polite voice began, “Officer Camarano.” The voice paused, “where are you?”
Hesistation on Chris’ part, he didn’t want to tell him just yet – he wasn’t sure where to go. Camarano might tell him. He was so confused and scared. “Where’s Emma?” His voice dropped to just above a whisper.
“Sir?”
Chris cleared his throat, “I’m at Landon’s.” He held his breath afterwards without even realizing it.
“Why don’t you stay right there? We’ll come and get you.”
“Why?”
“Sir, just… stay there please.”
Chris nodded to his phone, “uh, okay.” The connection was cut off abruptly, Chris stared at his phone. What the fuck was happening? Should he run? Should he stay?
He decided he would stay, watching people saunter by – wrapped up in each other as if the world didn’t exist beyond them. He envied them, it should be him and Emma right now; not him sitting in a car, thinking about running.
Sirens distracted him out of those jealous thoughts.
Sirens that were growing louder.
What the….?
He could see them now, a few cop cars racing straight at him, one slid as it hit the curb. “Oh shit,” he grabbed at the wheel, ready to grab his keys and start the engine. What the fuck? The cop cars surrounded him now, he couldn’t go straight forward – he’d bust his wheels; he couldn’t go backwards, they boxed him in. The sirens were still going.
“Christopher Newell!” An unknown voice blasted him through a loudspeaker. “Put your hands where we can see them!”
Christopher stared in surprise as he glanced over his shoulder. “What?” He whispered.
“Put your hands where we can see them, now!”
He let go of the keys and slowly put his hands up in the air, the car’s windows weren’t tinted so they would be able to see them. “Okay, okay.” His eyes went to the rearview mirror, he saw one of the cops getting out of the car, his gun was drawn.
The cop took careful steps to the door, opening it quickly before returning his hand to the gun, keeping it steady. “Nice and easy now son,” he spoke in clipped tones, “get out and get on the ground. Hands where we can see them. We don’t want no trouble now.”
“What’s going on?”
“Get out. Now.”
“Jesus,” he muttered as he kept his hands up, “gotta unbuckle,” he reached with one hand, making sure he moved slowly as he unbuckled himself. “Getting out,” he spoke through the process, it wasn’t his first time; and it wouldn’t be his last. This time it was just fucking confusing.
“Newell.”
“I’m going,” he turned and stepped out of the car, still slow. “Don’t shoot me,” he gave a soft chuckle as he moved to lay on his stomach, hands touching the asphalt.
“We got him!” The cop barked. Newell heard doors opening and slamming as he heard feet running to him.
“What’s going on?”
“Shut up!” The first cop spoke.
Another voice began, “it’s me,” Camarano spoke, “keep your hands there.” Chris could see movement from the corner of his eyes as he saw the guy get to his knees; then he felt hands.
“What the fuck!”
The hands were sliding over him.
“I have a gun on me, the permit’s in my coat pocket.”
“Good.” Camarano said nothing else as he kept running his hands over Chris’ body. Finally, Chris felt his hands jerked behind his back. “Christopher Newell, you are being put under arrest for the murder of Emma Newell. You have the right to remain silent…”
Christopher heard nothing else beyond that. He could feel the cop trying to jerk him onto his knees so he could stand, but his body just wouldn’t cooperate.
Emma was dead?
**
He had laid on a small cot in a holding cell for a couple hours, his arms crossed and his eyes seeing nothing. He kept replaying the whole scene in the parking lot, Camarano’s words cutting him to the quick every time. He felt smaller and smaller every time he heard those words.
“Newell, get up.”
Chris didn’t move; even if he tried, he couldn’t.
“Newell!” The voice barked, “up!” When Chris didn’t move, the cop unlocked the cell and marched in. “Since you won’t get up, I will make you,” he said nothing else as he grabbed Chris, shifting him into a sitting position, saying nothing else as he kept shoving Chris into a standing position; next, he turned Chris around and put the handcuffs back on. “Don’t try any shit,” the cop muttered as he turned him back around. “Let’s go.”
Chris just moved where he was directed, his feet were so heavy. He barely saw anything, all the noises didn’t register at all.
Emma was dead. He might as well be too.
“Here,” the cop said, stepping around him to push open a door to an interrogation room, “let’s go.” He pushed Chris in, ushering him into a chair facing a mirrored window, he said nothing else as he left.
The room was quiet, too quiet, but Chris didn’t care. He glanced over at the mirror, rolling his shoulders before looking away. Why was he here? They should have just let him rot in jail, he didn’t care anymore.
The door opened, Camarano and another cop stepped in. The other cop dropped down in the chair across from Chris, placing a file in front of him, saying nothing. Camarano stood as he spoke, “hey Christopher. Can I call you Chris?” Chris didn’t respond, Camarano continued, “I’m sorry that you had to find out that way,” he grimaced, “can I get you anything? A coke? Coffee? Doughnut? I can have them go get you some sandwiches.”
Chris just looked over at Camarano before looking away. The good guy act, so the other guy had to be the bad; and he went back to ignoring them.
“This is Officer Schmidt, he’s got some questions for you, just answer them and we’ll see about getting you food.”
“Fuck this,” Schmidt started up, tapping at the file, “you killed your wife, you asshole.” He waited for a second, seeing if there would be a reaction. “What? Nothing?” He sneered as he opened the file, pushing out some of the crime scene photos and setting them before Chris. “Do you get your jollies off slashing women’s throats? Stabbing them 47 times? Who the fuck stabs their wife 47 times?”
Chris looked at the picture, blanching as he saw his beautiful wife laying there covered in blood. Oh no no no. Not Emma. God, not Emma.
“Schmidt…” Camarano started.
Schmidt held his hand up before grabbing another piece of paper, “you’re a sick fuck.”
The room was starting to lose its color, he couldn’t stop looking at the pictures; his Emma. She was really dead. He had harbored a small hope that maybe it was all a joke. He let out a soft moan, curling his hands into fists.
“That’s right, you fucking killed her.” Schmidt lifted the paper, waving it around, “you found out she was pregnant, you didn’t want her to keep the baby. What was it? Did she fuck another guy? So you decided to kill her, make it look like robbers? Run away because you couldn’t face it? Coward.”
Chris’ hands unclenched. “Wait, what?” He looked up from the pictures to Schmidt. “What?”
“Oh sure, now you respond, fucking coward.”
Chris shook his head repeatedly, unable to focus, looking over at Camarano for confirmation; the cop just gave a slight nod. “Oh fuck…” He moaned, “no, no, no…” Even though his stomach was empty, he was ready to throw up, his stomach rolled violently, he shoved away from the table the best he could; the chair didn’t cooperate well enough. Chris rolled over to his side and spewed clear liquid, and when the liquid was gone, he kept retching.
“Shit,” Camarano scrambled to get a trash can, “enough Schmidt, enough!” Unable to get to Chris in time, the liquid splashing all over the floor. He could see Chris shaking in the chair.
Schmidt shoved himself away from the table, “fucking act and you know it. He killed that woman and the baby!” He snarled at Camarano, ready to stalk over to the other side.
“Stand down!” Camarano barked, his eyes going to the camera in the corner of the room. Schmidt started to say something, but then followed Camarano’s gaze to the camera and took a step back, clenching his fists.
Chris moaned, grabbing at his chair the best he could while handcuffed, “baby…” He couldn’t even process, his world had just finally collapsed on him, he was teetering on the brink of consciousness as everything started getting fuzzy around the edges of his vision. A baby… Then his body slumped, his head hit the arm of the chair hard.
“Fuck,” Camarano looked to Schmidt, “he didn’t fucking know.”
Schmidt gave Camarano a disgusted look, storming to the door, “you take care of him. He killed her and you know it.” Camarano started to say something when a knock came on the door, Schmidt instinctively took a step backwards – which was smart because the door swung inwards, revealing the chief; a petite woman smartly dressed.
“Let him go.”
“Uh, we can’t,” Schmidt started up, his anger quickly banked in the presence of his boss, “he killed her. All the evidence says –“
“Schmidt!” The chief barked, “Let. Him. Go.” She took a step back to reveal two men in suits, one was tall with long hair brushing the collar of his jacket while the other was shorter and looked like he was spoiling for a fight with the way his jaw was working. “They say Newell’s theirs.”
Schmidt’s mouth opened and closed, he stalked out of the room without a word. Camarano looked at the men, then at his boss. “He’s…” A gesture to the unconscious body in the chair.
The tall one gave a crisp nod to Camarano, “we’ll need all the files and access to the crime scene.” Camarano bobbed his head.
The short one held a hand up, “and a box of your finest donuts and a big fat apology for holding up our investigation.”
The Chief swallowed, “we’re so sorry, we didn’t see anything when we ran him.”
“That’s why it’s called confidential informant, ma’am,” the short one gave her a smile that was supposed to be charming. “We’ll take care of him.”
Camarano hurriedly grabbed the pictures and the paper with the autopsy results, shuffling them into the manila folder before offering them to the tall man. He saw the short one give the tall one a look when that happened. “Donuts coming up,” he ducked his head and hurried out. The chief followed him quickly.
“What are we going to do Dean?” The tall one looked to Dean.
“Take him home Sammy,” Dean looked to Chris in the chair. “We check out the scene, Emma deserves that much.”
**
The phone rang, jarring Chris out of his memories, he jerked on the couch, banging his knee on the coffee table. “Fuck!” He muttered, rubbing at his knee as he tried to jump up in time to answer the phone, he wasn’t even sure how long the phone had been ringing – or how much time he had lost again.
The machine picked up, her voice chirped again: “This is Emma and Chris, we can’t get to the phone right now – we’re too busy enjoying life! Leave a note – we’ll get back to you before our next adventure!”
A few seconds, then a voice launched into a spiel for the newest burger chain that had just moved into town. The voice promised a free meal if he mentioned the phone call. Chris didn’t catch the rest of it as he stretched, turning himself away from the phone as he stumbled toward his bedroom.
Fuck this day, he was so done.
He could hear the message end as he climbed back into bed, burrowing himself under the covers; forgetting the fact that he had wanted to turn on the heat. Or go to the bathroom. He closed his eyes, willing the hangover to go away as he tried to reclaim sleep.
Chris ran his hand over the other side of the bed, the cold greeted him like a slap in the face. He gave a soft grunt as he forced himself to roll away from the empty side. The movement made his head complain loudly, he gave a slow exhale as he mentally greeted the hangover. “Fuck,” he murmured softly, his head only clangored in response. His eyes slipped closed again, he wanted to go back a few minutes; before the hangover and the cold bed rudely intervened.
He pushed back the covers, the cold air rushing at him. A soft groan tumbled from his lips as he scooted out of bed, maybe he should have just laid there. He idly scratched at his chest while wandering out of the room toward the bathroom.
More cold.
He should have turned on the heat before he started drinking; at least he wouldn’t have forgotten when he climbed into bed. Hell, he didn’t even remember climbing into bed.
The phone jangled, cutting into his thoughts, he let out a curse at the pain starting anew in his head. He needed an axe to cut his head off now. The phone rang a couple more times before the answering machine started up.
"This is Emma and Chris, we can’t get to the phone right now – we’re too busy enjoying life! Leave a note – we’ll get back to you before our next adventure!"
A beep sounded, the line disconnected after a few seconds of silence. Another hang-up call, Chris scowled at the phone. He almost wished the person would call back again just so he could hear her voice again.
He forgot about the bathroom as he shifted a few steps to his right to sink onto the couch, putting his head in his hands.
Emma.
Has it really been a year yet?
He pulled his head out of his hands and exhaled, why did he bother waking up this morning? Every morning he woke up was like a betrayal, he could wake himself into oblivion, yet… every morning, he awoke and it was another day away from her and the event.
It had been a simple case, Sam and Dean asked if he could cover it since it was only a state away. Emma couldn’t go, she hadn’t been feeling well – also, hunting was more of his thing than it was hers; which was fine for both of them. It had worked, he hunted while she worked at the local hospital. So with a kiss good-bye and a promise that he’d be back in a couple days, he left to figure out the bizarre case; it had been bizarre enough that he had forgotten to call her that night, or the next night.
Hell, it had been three days, not his promised two days. But he had gotten the case solved and the brothers stepped in to handle the mess while documenting the creature. That part had been fun, learning about a new creature – but not so fun while trying to stay alive and figuring out how to kill it. Iron and salt hadn’t done it, he had to chop it’s head off and cauterize the wound. Crazy shit.
When he had come back into range, his phone had went off like crazy – which was weird because only three people had his number: Emma and the brothers. Emma never called him this many times in a row. So he had pulled over and listened to his messages, the first few were just Emma checking in, asking him to pick up some things on the way home. He had made mental messages to do so while flipping to the next message.
This one was what had sent icy fingers shivering down his spine.
It had come from her number, but only had a clip of a woman sobbing, trying to catch her breath. Which was weird, even for Emma – Emma was a quiet crier. So he tried to call her back. No one was answering the phone; which made him put his car in drive and ignore the speed limits while he kept trying the number.
He pulled over for gas, an inconvenience, but it grounded him enough to remember that he was driving and talking on the phone – or trying to talk on the phone – something that Emma was constantly on his case for.
She’d understand, it was an emergency.
After putting the nozzle in, he stepped away from the car and hit redial. On the third ring, a male voice answered: “Emma Newell’s phone.”
Chris took a sharp intake of breath, who the fuck was answering her phone? Was that why she was so eager to stay home this time around? Right, she was `sick`. What a fucking…
“Hello?”
Chris took another breath, “who the fuck is this? Where is Emma?”
There was a pause, he could hear some rustling on the other end; a click came from the nozzle. He went back to the car to replace the nozzle, closing the gas cap. “Is this Christopher?”
“Chris,” he automatically said, “you didn’t say who you were.”
“Sir,” the voice started up again, “this is Officer Camarano, you need to come home.”
Christopher stood straight, staring at his car then at the road beyond it, “I’m six hours away. Why do I need to come home? What happened? Where’s Emma? What the fuck did you do with Emma?”
“Sir, you need to come home.”
“I’m six fucking hours away.”
“Come home.” The police officer paused, “please.”
“Okay,” Chris could feel the fight slipping out of him, “I’m coming.”
***
The words had played in his head over and over again during the six hour drive. Why would the police have Emma’s phone? What happened? Did someone shoot up the hospital? Was Emma okay? Fuck. Why couldn’t they have just told him over the phone?
Nothing held his attention, he found himself angry with the drivers, even if they were faster than the speed limit – it still wasn’t fast enough. He would drive around them every opportunity he got, if he got pulled over, well fuck the police. He could get out of that ticket, he always managed to. Right now, nothing mattered except getting home.
Six hours had managed to be whittled down to four and some change – closer to five. He rolled into the familiar town, everything was business as usual. He wasn’t sure if he should go home or to the police department. The question niggled at him enough that he decided to pull into the local strip mall parking lot and cut off the engine. He grabbed the phone off the passenger seat and stared out the windshield for a few minutes; he knew he was stalling – but why was everything looking so fucking cheery?
Something was wrong.
That sense of wrongness was growing as he sat there.
He hit the unlock screen button on his phone, ready to find Emma’s number when the phone rang, an unknown number flashing across the screen. He frowned as he pressed the answer call button, “Newell.”
“Mr. Newell,” the polite voice began, “Officer Camarano.” The voice paused, “where are you?”
Hesistation on Chris’ part, he didn’t want to tell him just yet – he wasn’t sure where to go. Camarano might tell him. He was so confused and scared. “Where’s Emma?” His voice dropped to just above a whisper.
“Sir?”
Chris cleared his throat, “I’m at Landon’s.” He held his breath afterwards without even realizing it.
“Why don’t you stay right there? We’ll come and get you.”
“Why?”
“Sir, just… stay there please.”
Chris nodded to his phone, “uh, okay.” The connection was cut off abruptly, Chris stared at his phone. What the fuck was happening? Should he run? Should he stay?
He decided he would stay, watching people saunter by – wrapped up in each other as if the world didn’t exist beyond them. He envied them, it should be him and Emma right now; not him sitting in a car, thinking about running.
Sirens distracted him out of those jealous thoughts.
Sirens that were growing louder.
What the….?
He could see them now, a few cop cars racing straight at him, one slid as it hit the curb. “Oh shit,” he grabbed at the wheel, ready to grab his keys and start the engine. What the fuck? The cop cars surrounded him now, he couldn’t go straight forward – he’d bust his wheels; he couldn’t go backwards, they boxed him in. The sirens were still going.
“Christopher Newell!” An unknown voice blasted him through a loudspeaker. “Put your hands where we can see them!”
Christopher stared in surprise as he glanced over his shoulder. “What?” He whispered.
“Put your hands where we can see them, now!”
He let go of the keys and slowly put his hands up in the air, the car’s windows weren’t tinted so they would be able to see them. “Okay, okay.” His eyes went to the rearview mirror, he saw one of the cops getting out of the car, his gun was drawn.
The cop took careful steps to the door, opening it quickly before returning his hand to the gun, keeping it steady. “Nice and easy now son,” he spoke in clipped tones, “get out and get on the ground. Hands where we can see them. We don’t want no trouble now.”
“What’s going on?”
“Get out. Now.”
“Jesus,” he muttered as he kept his hands up, “gotta unbuckle,” he reached with one hand, making sure he moved slowly as he unbuckled himself. “Getting out,” he spoke through the process, it wasn’t his first time; and it wouldn’t be his last. This time it was just fucking confusing.
“Newell.”
“I’m going,” he turned and stepped out of the car, still slow. “Don’t shoot me,” he gave a soft chuckle as he moved to lay on his stomach, hands touching the asphalt.
“We got him!” The cop barked. Newell heard doors opening and slamming as he heard feet running to him.
“What’s going on?”
“Shut up!” The first cop spoke.
Another voice began, “it’s me,” Camarano spoke, “keep your hands there.” Chris could see movement from the corner of his eyes as he saw the guy get to his knees; then he felt hands.
“What the fuck!”
The hands were sliding over him.
“I have a gun on me, the permit’s in my coat pocket.”
“Good.” Camarano said nothing else as he kept running his hands over Chris’ body. Finally, Chris felt his hands jerked behind his back. “Christopher Newell, you are being put under arrest for the murder of Emma Newell. You have the right to remain silent…”
Christopher heard nothing else beyond that. He could feel the cop trying to jerk him onto his knees so he could stand, but his body just wouldn’t cooperate.
Emma was dead?
**
He had laid on a small cot in a holding cell for a couple hours, his arms crossed and his eyes seeing nothing. He kept replaying the whole scene in the parking lot, Camarano’s words cutting him to the quick every time. He felt smaller and smaller every time he heard those words.
“Newell, get up.”
Chris didn’t move; even if he tried, he couldn’t.
“Newell!” The voice barked, “up!” When Chris didn’t move, the cop unlocked the cell and marched in. “Since you won’t get up, I will make you,” he said nothing else as he grabbed Chris, shifting him into a sitting position, saying nothing else as he kept shoving Chris into a standing position; next, he turned Chris around and put the handcuffs back on. “Don’t try any shit,” the cop muttered as he turned him back around. “Let’s go.”
Chris just moved where he was directed, his feet were so heavy. He barely saw anything, all the noises didn’t register at all.
Emma was dead. He might as well be too.
“Here,” the cop said, stepping around him to push open a door to an interrogation room, “let’s go.” He pushed Chris in, ushering him into a chair facing a mirrored window, he said nothing else as he left.
The room was quiet, too quiet, but Chris didn’t care. He glanced over at the mirror, rolling his shoulders before looking away. Why was he here? They should have just let him rot in jail, he didn’t care anymore.
The door opened, Camarano and another cop stepped in. The other cop dropped down in the chair across from Chris, placing a file in front of him, saying nothing. Camarano stood as he spoke, “hey Christopher. Can I call you Chris?” Chris didn’t respond, Camarano continued, “I’m sorry that you had to find out that way,” he grimaced, “can I get you anything? A coke? Coffee? Doughnut? I can have them go get you some sandwiches.”
Chris just looked over at Camarano before looking away. The good guy act, so the other guy had to be the bad; and he went back to ignoring them.
“This is Officer Schmidt, he’s got some questions for you, just answer them and we’ll see about getting you food.”
“Fuck this,” Schmidt started up, tapping at the file, “you killed your wife, you asshole.” He waited for a second, seeing if there would be a reaction. “What? Nothing?” He sneered as he opened the file, pushing out some of the crime scene photos and setting them before Chris. “Do you get your jollies off slashing women’s throats? Stabbing them 47 times? Who the fuck stabs their wife 47 times?”
Chris looked at the picture, blanching as he saw his beautiful wife laying there covered in blood. Oh no no no. Not Emma. God, not Emma.
“Schmidt…” Camarano started.
Schmidt held his hand up before grabbing another piece of paper, “you’re a sick fuck.”
The room was starting to lose its color, he couldn’t stop looking at the pictures; his Emma. She was really dead. He had harbored a small hope that maybe it was all a joke. He let out a soft moan, curling his hands into fists.
“That’s right, you fucking killed her.” Schmidt lifted the paper, waving it around, “you found out she was pregnant, you didn’t want her to keep the baby. What was it? Did she fuck another guy? So you decided to kill her, make it look like robbers? Run away because you couldn’t face it? Coward.”
Chris’ hands unclenched. “Wait, what?” He looked up from the pictures to Schmidt. “What?”
“Oh sure, now you respond, fucking coward.”
Chris shook his head repeatedly, unable to focus, looking over at Camarano for confirmation; the cop just gave a slight nod. “Oh fuck…” He moaned, “no, no, no…” Even though his stomach was empty, he was ready to throw up, his stomach rolled violently, he shoved away from the table the best he could; the chair didn’t cooperate well enough. Chris rolled over to his side and spewed clear liquid, and when the liquid was gone, he kept retching.
“Shit,” Camarano scrambled to get a trash can, “enough Schmidt, enough!” Unable to get to Chris in time, the liquid splashing all over the floor. He could see Chris shaking in the chair.
Schmidt shoved himself away from the table, “fucking act and you know it. He killed that woman and the baby!” He snarled at Camarano, ready to stalk over to the other side.
“Stand down!” Camarano barked, his eyes going to the camera in the corner of the room. Schmidt started to say something, but then followed Camarano’s gaze to the camera and took a step back, clenching his fists.
Chris moaned, grabbing at his chair the best he could while handcuffed, “baby…” He couldn’t even process, his world had just finally collapsed on him, he was teetering on the brink of consciousness as everything started getting fuzzy around the edges of his vision. A baby… Then his body slumped, his head hit the arm of the chair hard.
“Fuck,” Camarano looked to Schmidt, “he didn’t fucking know.”
Schmidt gave Camarano a disgusted look, storming to the door, “you take care of him. He killed her and you know it.” Camarano started to say something when a knock came on the door, Schmidt instinctively took a step backwards – which was smart because the door swung inwards, revealing the chief; a petite woman smartly dressed.
“Let him go.”
“Uh, we can’t,” Schmidt started up, his anger quickly banked in the presence of his boss, “he killed her. All the evidence says –“
“Schmidt!” The chief barked, “Let. Him. Go.” She took a step back to reveal two men in suits, one was tall with long hair brushing the collar of his jacket while the other was shorter and looked like he was spoiling for a fight with the way his jaw was working. “They say Newell’s theirs.”
Schmidt’s mouth opened and closed, he stalked out of the room without a word. Camarano looked at the men, then at his boss. “He’s…” A gesture to the unconscious body in the chair.
The tall one gave a crisp nod to Camarano, “we’ll need all the files and access to the crime scene.” Camarano bobbed his head.
The short one held a hand up, “and a box of your finest donuts and a big fat apology for holding up our investigation.”
The Chief swallowed, “we’re so sorry, we didn’t see anything when we ran him.”
“That’s why it’s called confidential informant, ma’am,” the short one gave her a smile that was supposed to be charming. “We’ll take care of him.”
Camarano hurriedly grabbed the pictures and the paper with the autopsy results, shuffling them into the manila folder before offering them to the tall man. He saw the short one give the tall one a look when that happened. “Donuts coming up,” he ducked his head and hurried out. The chief followed him quickly.
“What are we going to do Dean?” The tall one looked to Dean.
“Take him home Sammy,” Dean looked to Chris in the chair. “We check out the scene, Emma deserves that much.”
**
The phone rang, jarring Chris out of his memories, he jerked on the couch, banging his knee on the coffee table. “Fuck!” He muttered, rubbing at his knee as he tried to jump up in time to answer the phone, he wasn’t even sure how long the phone had been ringing – or how much time he had lost again.
The machine picked up, her voice chirped again: “This is Emma and Chris, we can’t get to the phone right now – we’re too busy enjoying life! Leave a note – we’ll get back to you before our next adventure!”
A few seconds, then a voice launched into a spiel for the newest burger chain that had just moved into town. The voice promised a free meal if he mentioned the phone call. Chris didn’t catch the rest of it as he stretched, turning himself away from the phone as he stumbled toward his bedroom.
Fuck this day, he was so done.
He could hear the message end as he climbed back into bed, burrowing himself under the covers; forgetting the fact that he had wanted to turn on the heat. Or go to the bathroom. He closed his eyes, willing the hangover to go away as he tried to reclaim sleep.