Habeus Corpus 2
Oct. 2nd, 2005 06:03 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bedlamsbard “Mrs. Osborn,” Stella said politely. She snuck a glance at Mac; he was more tense than she’d seen him since August, his back perfectly ramrod straight, his features schooled into something careful and blank she’d never seen before. She could practically feel the tension radiating off of him, and couldn’t for the world of her imagine why. “I’m Detective Stella Bonasera; this is my partner Detective Mac Taylor.”
Elaine Osborn nodded easily, as though she was sitting down for tea at her local chapter of Desperate Chapters, Queens Version. “Any relation to the Chicago Taylors, Detective Taylor?” she asked politely, and Mac jumped and stared at her with blue eyes suddenly wide with angry, shocked surprise.
“Yes,” he said shortly, and didn’t elaborate.
Elaine looked faintly surprised; she obviously hadn’t realized that her careless question – throwing around society names, no doubt – had actually meant something to Mac. She didn’t press, though, just turned her attention to Stella.
Stella glanced down at the notes she’d taken from the original detective, before he’d been called away. “You realize you have a right to a lawyer, Mrs. Osborn?” she said.
“Yes,” she nodded. “And I don’t want one. I killed my son,” she said, face as perfectly composed as if she were talking about the massacre of her chocolate soufflé instead of her son.
“Uh-huh,” Stella said. “Mrs. Osborn, you originally called 911 to say you’d found your son on the floor of his room and he wasn’t responding. You later changed your story. Why?”
Elaine considered this for a moment. “It wasn’t something I wanted to say over the phone,” she conceded finally. “It’s awfully crass, you know – to say something so personal like that, so impersonally. I’m sure you would have done the same thing, Detective Bonasera, if it had been your son.”
Stella shook her head slowly. “No, ma’am, I wouldn’t have. For one, I don’t have a son – or any kids at all. For another, I wouldn’t kill him.”
“Where did you put Peter’s body, Mrs. Osborn?” Mac asked suddenly.
She drew her lips together. “It’s in a safe place.”
“Where?”
“A safe place,” she repeated.
Mac scowled and seemed to want to lunge forward over the table, leaning forward with his eyes dark and threatening. “Where –”
Stella put a hand on his thigh and Mac froze, shooting a startled look at her. “Why did you kill Peter?”
“I had to,” Elaine said calmly. “He wanted to leave – go away to Washington. I wanted him to go to Harvard. It would have been a better choice. He would have made connections, gotten his law degree, met a good Catholic girl, get a partnership –”
Mac’s scowl deepened. “But that’s not what he wants, is it?”
Elaine drew her lips together primly. “My son wanted to go to Georgetown University in Washington DC and become an archaeologist. It was completely unsuitable. My husband and I enrolled him in a good Catholic school and he was an honor student there. He could have gone to Harvard. It’s not like we couldn’t afford it. He had just gotten so strange lately. He was always a quiet boy, but he was so strange this past year – staying out late, going to parties at other schools – public schools,” she added, with a disdainful sniff, “I think there might have been a girl, but not from St. Aidan’s. From Queens.”
“I grew up in Queens,” Stella said dryly.
Mac had a very strange look on his face. “You killed Peter,” he said, “because he wanted to go to a different college than you wanted him to? Because he wanted to be an archaeologist and not a lawyer? Because he decided he wanted a social life? If every mother who didn’t like what her kid was doing decided to kill them, there wouldn’t be any children left in this world.”
“Detective Taylor, you wouldn’t know what it’s like.”
“Don’t tell me what I don’t know,” Mac snapped, eyes flashing angrily. “Where is Peter?”
“He’s in a safe place,” Elaine said coolly.
Mac stared at her for a moment, then stood up abruptly and left the room.
“Mac!” Stella snapped. “Mac!”
Elaine watched him with a faintly interested look on her face, then picked up her glass of water and took a sip.
“Excuse me,” Stella told her, and followed Mac out.
He was walking very quickly down the hall, his steps wide and precise.
“Mac!” she snapped again, letting the door of the interrogation room snap shut behind her. “Mac, hold up. We need to talk.”
“Not now, Stella,” Mac said, glancing away. “We don’t have time. There’s a missing boy out there –”
Stella choked down the urge to shake him until his teeth rattled. “No there isn’t,” she snapped. “Peter Osborn is dead, you hear me, Mac? Dead. You and I both know that no one loses that much blood and survives.”
“We don’t know that,” Mac argued. “Not until DNA comes back. Until then, he’s still a missing person. And we need to find him, before he really does become a dead body.”
Stella huffed out a frustrated puff of air. “I know that, Mac,” she said. “I know that. But someone’s dead, and right now all the evidence is pointing to Peter Osborn being our vic. You know as well as I do that where the evidence leads, we follow. Probably better than I do, what with you being the big boss around here. What do you think you’re going to prove?”
Mac’s fingers clenched against the black of his suit jacket. “Someone has to speak for Peter Osborn,” he said. “Someone has to. No one else is going to. Not Elaine Osborn, and not Simon Osborn. Someone has to, and I’m going to.”
Commentary much appreciated.
Elaine Osborn nodded easily, as though she was sitting down for tea at her local chapter of Desperate Chapters, Queens Version. “Any relation to the Chicago Taylors, Detective Taylor?” she asked politely, and Mac jumped and stared at her with blue eyes suddenly wide with angry, shocked surprise.
“Yes,” he said shortly, and didn’t elaborate.
Elaine looked faintly surprised; she obviously hadn’t realized that her careless question – throwing around society names, no doubt – had actually meant something to Mac. She didn’t press, though, just turned her attention to Stella.
Stella glanced down at the notes she’d taken from the original detective, before he’d been called away. “You realize you have a right to a lawyer, Mrs. Osborn?” she said.
“Yes,” she nodded. “And I don’t want one. I killed my son,” she said, face as perfectly composed as if she were talking about the massacre of her chocolate soufflé instead of her son.
“Uh-huh,” Stella said. “Mrs. Osborn, you originally called 911 to say you’d found your son on the floor of his room and he wasn’t responding. You later changed your story. Why?”
Elaine considered this for a moment. “It wasn’t something I wanted to say over the phone,” she conceded finally. “It’s awfully crass, you know – to say something so personal like that, so impersonally. I’m sure you would have done the same thing, Detective Bonasera, if it had been your son.”
Stella shook her head slowly. “No, ma’am, I wouldn’t have. For one, I don’t have a son – or any kids at all. For another, I wouldn’t kill him.”
“Where did you put Peter’s body, Mrs. Osborn?” Mac asked suddenly.
She drew her lips together. “It’s in a safe place.”
“Where?”
“A safe place,” she repeated.
Mac scowled and seemed to want to lunge forward over the table, leaning forward with his eyes dark and threatening. “Where –”
Stella put a hand on his thigh and Mac froze, shooting a startled look at her. “Why did you kill Peter?”
“I had to,” Elaine said calmly. “He wanted to leave – go away to Washington. I wanted him to go to Harvard. It would have been a better choice. He would have made connections, gotten his law degree, met a good Catholic girl, get a partnership –”
Mac’s scowl deepened. “But that’s not what he wants, is it?”
Elaine drew her lips together primly. “My son wanted to go to Georgetown University in Washington DC and become an archaeologist. It was completely unsuitable. My husband and I enrolled him in a good Catholic school and he was an honor student there. He could have gone to Harvard. It’s not like we couldn’t afford it. He had just gotten so strange lately. He was always a quiet boy, but he was so strange this past year – staying out late, going to parties at other schools – public schools,” she added, with a disdainful sniff, “I think there might have been a girl, but not from St. Aidan’s. From Queens.”
“I grew up in Queens,” Stella said dryly.
Mac had a very strange look on his face. “You killed Peter,” he said, “because he wanted to go to a different college than you wanted him to? Because he wanted to be an archaeologist and not a lawyer? Because he decided he wanted a social life? If every mother who didn’t like what her kid was doing decided to kill them, there wouldn’t be any children left in this world.”
“Detective Taylor, you wouldn’t know what it’s like.”
“Don’t tell me what I don’t know,” Mac snapped, eyes flashing angrily. “Where is Peter?”
“He’s in a safe place,” Elaine said coolly.
Mac stared at her for a moment, then stood up abruptly and left the room.
“Mac!” Stella snapped. “Mac!”
Elaine watched him with a faintly interested look on her face, then picked up her glass of water and took a sip.
“Excuse me,” Stella told her, and followed Mac out.
He was walking very quickly down the hall, his steps wide and precise.
“Mac!” she snapped again, letting the door of the interrogation room snap shut behind her. “Mac, hold up. We need to talk.”
“Not now, Stella,” Mac said, glancing away. “We don’t have time. There’s a missing boy out there –”
Stella choked down the urge to shake him until his teeth rattled. “No there isn’t,” she snapped. “Peter Osborn is dead, you hear me, Mac? Dead. You and I both know that no one loses that much blood and survives.”
“We don’t know that,” Mac argued. “Not until DNA comes back. Until then, he’s still a missing person. And we need to find him, before he really does become a dead body.”
Stella huffed out a frustrated puff of air. “I know that, Mac,” she said. “I know that. But someone’s dead, and right now all the evidence is pointing to Peter Osborn being our vic. You know as well as I do that where the evidence leads, we follow. Probably better than I do, what with you being the big boss around here. What do you think you’re going to prove?”
Mac’s fingers clenched against the black of his suit jacket. “Someone has to speak for Peter Osborn,” he said. “Someone has to. No one else is going to. Not Elaine Osborn, and not Simon Osborn. Someone has to, and I’m going to.”
Commentary much appreciated.