Roland had anticipated unpleasant company - it was impossible to please everyone and although he had desperately wanted to find the murderer and have them taken off the streets, he also recognized that not everyone felt the same way. What he hadn’t exactly expected, however, was for Max Marroquín of all people to criticize him, especially in such a public manner. He’d bit his own tongue back, managed a polite response instead, ( thank you for your input, Mr. Marroquín, I’m sure the good people of our police department are working as hard as they can, but this is about everyone’s immediate safety, ) then moved onto the next question.
Not that his effort to keep the meeting civilized had really worked; they were not a step closer to finding the perpetrator and here Roland was, head lightly throbbing and frustrated beyond belief, not that he’d ever let that show on his face. At least not in front of all these people.
And he should have tried to maintain the same composure and make everyone leave before the situation became even more tense, but he saw a certain someone out of the corners of his eyes and he felt the sudden urge to ask Max just what the hell he’d been thinking earlier. Instead, he simply took his time in grabbing another glass of wine, and quietly made his way over to Max’s side, barely managing to catch the spoken words.
“Hm. Is that so?” Roland asked, more amused than irritated, sly smirk on his face. “Pray tell, Mr. Marroquín - what exactly is your issue, here? All I’m trying to do is allow the good people of Fable City some peace of mind by making sure the killer doesn’t strike twice. Or at the very least, we owe it to Eric, don’t you think?”
It was bizarre to think that he could’ve had a similar dynamic with Roland that he had with Eric; the men, while completely different in personality and priority, came from similar enough backgrounds and had similar potential. If Roland had put an ounce of effort in as a student, things could’ve different. Max couldn’t imagine where they’d be if he managed a breakthrough — managed to inspire some kind of effort in him. He wasn’t surprised at the man Roland ended up becoming, but he was disappointed, nevertheless.
Either way, he wasn’t afraid to dance. This kind of posh parlay, sugarcoated sneers, criticisms wrapped in concern, was a language he knew intimately. For all of his audacity, his presence, there was an immature quality that lingered in Roland, and Max knew he could exploit it. It wasn’t that he thought he was better than the other man, though he did — he didn’t feel fully grown most days either, even when his knees stiffened and his back ached, but the recklessness of an easy life made people sloppy, and Max was better than that.
He held his tongue at the mister. Roland Park knew damn well that he was a Professor — Doctor, even, but that kind of snipe wasn’t worth picking a fight over. He blinked, slowly, wishing the wine in his flask had been something a little more substantial, and turned to face Roland properly. “You aren’t suggesting that there could be a repeat of this kind of tragedy? Personal bias aside, you and I know the kind of presence Eric had in this community. There are a good many people who hate him, and for good reason. This isn’t a serial killer, and, that aside, we aren’t the police. I’m hardly Sherlock Holmes, and you’re no Hardy Boy either.”
