Author’s Note: This oneshot was written to be inserted in between Jay leading Antonio out of the interrogation room and Atwater informing the victim’s father about the status of the case in “The Cases That Need To Be Solved” (3x16).
The hallway leading from the interrogation room to the bullpen feels longer, narrower than it normally does. The number of doors and, therefore, exits becoming more obvious with every step. And his right hand instinctively curls tighter around Dawson’s shoulder. Tries to keep his fellow detective from ducking into a room with a lock or from making a break back towards the interrogation room where the suspect sits mouthing off about how six-year-olds should be targeted. Tries to keep himself from turning around and busting in on Voight’s interrogation, from laying into their suspect until he understands that killing a six-year-old -- that even witnessing the death of a six-year-old --.changes you in a way you can’t undo.
So he keeps a tight grip as the two of them step into the bullpen, as he guides Antonio past the desk with pictures of his son, Diego, and past the desk without any pictures towards the breakroom. Hs hold is tossed off with a shake of Dawson’s shoulder as he steps through the open door to the break room; his eyes widen with concern as Antonio moves over towards the windows crossing his arms over his chest and refusing to face him.
“You don’t kill a six-year-old,” Antonio spits out in anger at the windows. Yet his words reach Jay’s ears as more of a low, anguished moan, and Jay’s eyes immediately slide downward and his chest constricts at the similarity because he’s heard this cry before. Heard the cry of a father mourning the fact that he once held a little six-year-old boy’s hand in his and marveled at all the promise of the future. Heard the cry of a community mourning the fact that another one was taken from them.
“No matter what, you don’t kill a six-year-old,” Antonio repeats again and, this time, the anger sharpens his voice. Causes Jay to lift his head as he nods in agreement, as he leans up against the side of the fridge and stares at the at the back of Antonio’s head.
And he wonders what he can say to help him out as Antonio begins to move around the room -- arms folded across his chest as he stares at the windows and then the sink. What exactly he can say to calm him down and keep him focused on the fact that they got the guy and will be able to get justice for a life snuffed out too early. An outcome that doesn’t always happen in the world let alone in the city of Chicago.
“We got the guy.”
The words formulating this reminder are clearly the wrong ones because there is a ripple of anger visible in the way Antonio’s hand releases its grip on his folded arms to toss up backwards towards him. To offer the back of his hand in a silent pronouncement that Jay should cease talking, cease trying to make a shitty situation okay.
The dismissal is taken with a nod of his head and a shaky exhale of breath, and Jay exits the break room without a backwards glance. His determined strides back to the viewing room with its one way glass stop short at Atwater’s desk when he sees Olinsky, Atwater, and Erin moving down that long hallway towards him, and he waits for each of them to pass him by.
Shakes his head side to side when he catches the look in Al’s eyes and the nod of his head towards the break room. Feels a ripple of anger tear through him when Atwater informs him that their suspect is pinning the murder on his twelve-year-old brother. And his face takes on the same look of disgust plaguing Erin’s as Atwater sinks down into his desk chair and mutters something about how their suspect claims to be strong enough to put out a hit on a kid, but is too weak and scared to face twenty-five to life without parole
“Voight sent Ruzek to pick up the brother with some patrolmen,” Erin says after a moment where Jay’s eyes meet hers, where the desire to be professional falters at the sight of the tears rimming around the bottom of her eyes. “Uh, he wants us to ride out and inform the parents about the arrests.”
“Uh, actually, Lindsay,” Atwater interrupts clearing his voice before he lifts his gaze up to stare at the two detectives hovering over his desk. “I’d like to be the one who tells Noah’s father.”
There’s no hesitation on Erin’s part when it comes to agreeing because they had all seen the rapport build up between Brian Johnson and Atwater over the time it took to solve this case, but Atwater is already standing with his coat in hand before she can find the words to agree. And the two of them watch him slip out the back entrance to the bullpen before letting their gazes linger on Dawson staring out the window, Olinsky sitting on the couch, and the now shut door to the break room.
Or, at least, that is where Jay’s gaze lingers because his head snaps back around at the sound of Erin’s voice to find her staring at the picture of Noah Johnson -- big smile, sparkling eyes -- taped in the middle of whiteboard. Taped right above the photographs of his murder and right between photographs of the man misidentified as his father and the man who actually was.
“Six-years-old and now a twelve-year-old will go down for his murder,” Erin says in a low, gravelly whisper as her gaze remains fixated on the board. And his hand moves to touch her elbow, the offer her the kind of support he tried to give to Dawson a few moments ago, and she responds with fingers that slide down along her crossed arms to touch his. To tangle together for a few seconds so she can find the strength to move forward, to take a step away from him and towards her desk to gather coat and her keys and her courage to tell a family the only good news possible in a shitty situation like this.
And he turns on his heels to watch her, to let his gaze linger on her rather than on the board with its photographs and the reminders its triggers in his head. But those reminders cause him to hesitate when she asks if he’s ready, cause his head to turn slightly so he can peer at the empty desk with its collection of monitors and computers situated between the hallway to the interrogation room and the main staircase.
“Uh,” he drawls out as his head turns back around, as he jerks a thumb over his shoulder to point at the desk behind him, “I need to talk to Mouse real quick.”
Her features falter -- her eyebrows knitting together in confusion -- at his announcement, and he quickly interjects that he’ll catch up with her out front in a few. That this conversation shouldn’t take too long.
He leaves the elaboration as to how he knows this conversation will be short -- how he’s not interested in hashing out what happened in Landigal, how he just wants to make sure Mouse is still out in front of whatever Noah Johnson’s school photo triggered for him inside his head right now -- out his affirmation that he’ll be down in a bit. Keeps his gaze neutral as she slips past him and heads towards the stairs, as he hears Al’s low voice seeping through the crack under the break room door, as he moves in the opposite direction to grab his coat and head down to the tech lab down in the garage.
The motion activated fluorescent lights overhead flicker on as he steps into the garage, as he carefully moves around the torched SUV that Evidence and Recovered Property haven’t come to collect just yet despite him filling out the paperwork as soon as the thing was towed over to the district last night. Chain of command requires a cop to sit with car -- in the locked garage or not -- and Jay’s gaze scans the room to make sure someone is here with it, to make sure Jordan Lockett’s lawyer won’t be able to get him or his brother off on a technicality.
The beat cop -- one of Platt’s newest recruits to the District -- seems to have, at least, noticed the flickering of the lights because a guy wearing blues -- fresh face and bright eyes marking him as fresh out of the Academy -- peeps around the corner from where a second break room with vending machines and a table is assembled around the corner and across from the cage. Glances at the badge fixed to Jay’s hip before asking if he can help the plain clothes detective with something.
“The tech guy in?” Jay questions gesturing with the hand holding his coat towards the tech lab, towards the area jokingly known upstairs as the mouse hole.
“Uh, no, he split maybe ten, fifteen minutes ago,” the officer replies with a frown that deepens when he realizes that Jay isn’t going to ask him to help with more than watching the burnt car because the detective has already started to move towards the door leading outside. Mutters a half-hearted thanks and lets the door slam shut behind him before the officer can ask if he needs anything else.
It takes him only a few steps to make his way around the building to the parking lot where the 300 was left earlier in the way and, thus, he is offoreded only a few moments to pull his cell phone out of his pocket and debate what to say.
But he doesn’t know what to say. Or, more accurately, he doesn’t want to try to find the words to say. And he hopes his attempt at outreach -- the squeeze of his hand on Mouse’s shoulder earlier -- is enough to let his brother in arms know that he gets it. That a six-year-old shot in the head simply because a war raged around him in Chicago is gonna bring up those memories for him, too.
But he also needs the memories of what happened in Landigal to remain behind him so he can do this job. So he can catch those who murder six-year-olds in this portion of the world. And, so, he shoves his cell phone back in his pocket as he wrenches open the passenger door to the 300, as he plops down in the seat and prepares to set out to do his job here after doing his job over there.
