Post-Trauma 8.6
Lee listens in horror as Temas recounts his encounter with Luerssen. “Andy, you have to call the police!”
“And tell them what?” Temas asks tiredly. Calling them had been his first impulse, too, but as he drove home he’d tried to determine exactly what he’d say, and realized there was nothing to report.
“He threatened you,” Lee points out.
“Yeah-threatened that he intends to be found innocent of murder. I imagine most people they investigate make similar threats.”
“He’s going to suborn perjury,” Lee tries again.
“Yeah, and I’ll mention it next time I talk to them.”
Lee sighs. “Fine. Whatever. If you turn up dead in the parking garage before that happens, I’ll be sure to let them know.”
“I’ve decided that we should somehow get Luerssen addicted to heroin before he goes to prison,” House says as they sit down at their usual cafeteria table. “And then make sure his cellmate is a jailhouse dealer with a really big dick.”
“They do say living well is the best revenge,” Wilson notes, for lack of any better response.
“Nah. Revenge is the best revenge. And peddling his ass for a fix is exactly what he’s going coming to him.”
Wilson doesn’t usually condone prison rape-in fact, he once donated money to the cause, although he’s never quite gotten up the nerve to wear his “Stop Prisoner Rape Now” T-shirt-but he’s not going to make an issue of it in this case.
“Faxed my deposition to Nevada this morning,” House says, a little bit too casually.
The one to the state licensing board for residential treatment facilities, he meant. There had been a message on the machine last night asking for it. “Yeah? I guess it’ll be a while before you hear anything back.”
“Yeah.” House takes a cherry tomato from Wilson’s plate. “Unless, you know, they show up here with a straitjacket and drag me back. That would probably happen pretty quick.”
“That’s not going to happen,” Wilson reassures him. “There’s no way they can make you go back.”
“You never know about evil conspiracies. They can be sneaky.” House twirls his fork in his fingers a few times. “They’ll probably just shut down and start up in a different state with a new name. That’s a lot easier than persecuting and discrediting people who testify against them.”
“Yeah,” Wilson says, relieved to see House looking at this rationally, without going into a flashback.
“Except that power-hungry lunatics don’t always operate according to strict logic,” House says. “They tend to be all about the persecuting and the discrediting. And sometimes the capturing and the beating.” He swallows hard, and his eyes dart to the side once before fixing back on his plate.
“Do you want to go outside?” Wilson suggests.
“No. And don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“You know what.”
“Thanks for seeing me on such short notice,” Temas says, as Detectives Whitley seats herself in his office.
“It’s no problem,” Angela says, crossing her legs knee-over-knee and taking out a notebook. “You said there was an incident?”
“Well. I don’t know if I’d go so far as to call it an incident. I was just going to mention it next time we talked, but Lee-my partner-insisted that I let you know today.”
Angela looks neutral. “Well, sometimes it’s better to be safe now than sorry later.”
Temas shrugs. The incident was terrifying, on a deep, atavistic level. But explained out loud, to someone who wasn’t there, it’s going to sound like nothing. “Well, I was leaving work late last night…”
As he tells his story, Angela’s expression goes from politely interested to actively engaged, and then to guardedly furious.
But he still concludes, “I know, it doesn’t sound like much….”
“It sounds like witness tampering,” she corrects him. “And it is very serious. I’ll notify the prosecutor’s office immediately. They’re likely to charge him sometime in the next few days, and if he’s already attempted to intimidate a witness, that’s a powerful argument against granting bail.”
“Oh,” Temas says. He hadn’t realized, somehow, that intimidation by itself, without an overt threat, was something the police could or would do anything about.
“Have you discussed this with the other witnesses who are your patients?” she continues. “We’ll want to warn them, and explain that they should call us immediately if Luerssen approaches them, but maybe you’d like to speak to them first.”
Temas is embarrassed that it didn’t even occur to him to warn the those of his patients who are involved in the case-not even Greg, who Luerssen mentioned specifically. “No, I haven’t spoken to them yet, but you’re right that I should speak to them first. Give me a couple of hours to do that, if you don’t mind.”
“All right. I’ll contact Isabelle Dumont’s family right away, and the rest of the witnesses after 2 PM.” She makes a note. “Don’t hesitate to call if you see Luerssen again, or if anything else happens-hang up calls, anything.” She hesitates. “I’ve interviewed him already. He’s…well, I’ve met cold-blooded killers who were less…scary. I won’t think you’re overreacting.”
He nods. “Good to know.”
Wilson is passing by the Diagnostics office when he sees House get up from the table, still talking and gesturing, and pick up the phone. Something makes him stop and watch what happens next.
House goes still-Wilson has the impression he stopped addressing his team in mid-word-and then sits-practically falls-in his desk chair. He nods stiffly, twice, says something, and hangs up.
Breaking out of his stupor, Wilson goes in. “What happened?”
House doesn’t answer, just gets up and goes out onto the balcony, leaving the door hanging open behind him.
He follows. House is standing with his hands braced on the railing, looking out over the parking lot. “Who was it?”
House gives him a dirty look and doesn’t answer.
“Do you have a case?” he changes tacks, wondering how urgent it is to get House back to work.
“No, we were playing Twenty Questions.”
“You don’t have to be sarcastic,” Wilson mutters.
“No, we really were.” House stares some more and then says, “Guy comes in complaining of abdominal pain. Go.”
“What?”
House repeats himself. “You have nineteen questions left.”
“Okay. Uh, any bloody, black, or tarry stools?”
“No. Eighteen.”
“Vomiting?”
“No.”
“Did you do an endoscopy?”
“Yes.”
“Did the endoscopy show anything?”
“Yes.”
“Did you say this was fun?”
“It’s fun for me,” House explains.
“I see. Does he have an ulcer?”
“No.”
They finish playing. Wilson loses. “So what did he have?”
“Gastric torsion,” House says. “Your turn.”
“Okay. Guy gets a phone call and walks outside and won’t tell his buddy what’s going on.”
“Is his buddy really annoying?”
“Uh…yes?”
“Case solved.” House paces to the far end of the balcony and says, still looking away from Wilson, “It was Temas. The shrink,” he adds, as if Wilson might know several.
“What did he want?”
“He wanted to tell me that Luerssen showed up in his parking garage and threatened him last night,” House says flatly.
Oh, shit. This is really, really bad. “Shit,” Wilson says.
“Yeah.” House shrugs. “He said the police will be in touch, and I shouldn’t worry about it too much.”
“Great,” Wilson says flatly.
House rubs his thigh, restlessly. “I guess he wouldn’t be going around threatening people if he didn’t think we had him on the ropes, though.” With shaking hands, he lights a cigarette. “I got in this mess to begin with because I pissed off a petty tyrant to went to war against me,” he says. “Way to learn, huh?”
“This is different,” Wilson points out. “I mean, refusing to apologize to Tritter was kind of…pointless. Not that you deserved months of torture and psychological destruction for it, but there wasn’t really a principle at stake. This time there is.”
“Yes, there was,” House says stubbornly.
“What principle?”
“That I’m not going to let an asshole with a badge push me around.”
“That’s…” not exactly a principle. Wilson decides not to argue. “Luerssen needs to be stopped before he drives somebody else to suicide.”
“Yeah, well. I wonder how many innocent people Tritter’s sent to prison?” House takes a deep drag of his cigarette and blows smoke out over the parking lot.
“And tell them what?” Temas asks tiredly. Calling them had been his first impulse, too, but as he drove home he’d tried to determine exactly what he’d say, and realized there was nothing to report.
“He threatened you,” Lee points out.
“Yeah-threatened that he intends to be found innocent of murder. I imagine most people they investigate make similar threats.”
“He’s going to suborn perjury,” Lee tries again.
“Yeah, and I’ll mention it next time I talk to them.”
Lee sighs. “Fine. Whatever. If you turn up dead in the parking garage before that happens, I’ll be sure to let them know.”
“I’ve decided that we should somehow get Luerssen addicted to heroin before he goes to prison,” House says as they sit down at their usual cafeteria table. “And then make sure his cellmate is a jailhouse dealer with a really big dick.”
“They do say living well is the best revenge,” Wilson notes, for lack of any better response.
“Nah. Revenge is the best revenge. And peddling his ass for a fix is exactly what he’s going coming to him.”
Wilson doesn’t usually condone prison rape-in fact, he once donated money to the cause, although he’s never quite gotten up the nerve to wear his “Stop Prisoner Rape Now” T-shirt-but he’s not going to make an issue of it in this case.
“Faxed my deposition to Nevada this morning,” House says, a little bit too casually.
The one to the state licensing board for residential treatment facilities, he meant. There had been a message on the machine last night asking for it. “Yeah? I guess it’ll be a while before you hear anything back.”
“Yeah.” House takes a cherry tomato from Wilson’s plate. “Unless, you know, they show up here with a straitjacket and drag me back. That would probably happen pretty quick.”
“That’s not going to happen,” Wilson reassures him. “There’s no way they can make you go back.”
“You never know about evil conspiracies. They can be sneaky.” House twirls his fork in his fingers a few times. “They’ll probably just shut down and start up in a different state with a new name. That’s a lot easier than persecuting and discrediting people who testify against them.”
“Yeah,” Wilson says, relieved to see House looking at this rationally, without going into a flashback.
“Except that power-hungry lunatics don’t always operate according to strict logic,” House says. “They tend to be all about the persecuting and the discrediting. And sometimes the capturing and the beating.” He swallows hard, and his eyes dart to the side once before fixing back on his plate.
“Do you want to go outside?” Wilson suggests.
“No. And don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“You know what.”
“Thanks for seeing me on such short notice,” Temas says, as Detectives Whitley seats herself in his office.
“It’s no problem,” Angela says, crossing her legs knee-over-knee and taking out a notebook. “You said there was an incident?”
“Well. I don’t know if I’d go so far as to call it an incident. I was just going to mention it next time we talked, but Lee-my partner-insisted that I let you know today.”
Angela looks neutral. “Well, sometimes it’s better to be safe now than sorry later.”
Temas shrugs. The incident was terrifying, on a deep, atavistic level. But explained out loud, to someone who wasn’t there, it’s going to sound like nothing. “Well, I was leaving work late last night…”
As he tells his story, Angela’s expression goes from politely interested to actively engaged, and then to guardedly furious.
But he still concludes, “I know, it doesn’t sound like much….”
“It sounds like witness tampering,” she corrects him. “And it is very serious. I’ll notify the prosecutor’s office immediately. They’re likely to charge him sometime in the next few days, and if he’s already attempted to intimidate a witness, that’s a powerful argument against granting bail.”
“Oh,” Temas says. He hadn’t realized, somehow, that intimidation by itself, without an overt threat, was something the police could or would do anything about.
“Have you discussed this with the other witnesses who are your patients?” she continues. “We’ll want to warn them, and explain that they should call us immediately if Luerssen approaches them, but maybe you’d like to speak to them first.”
Temas is embarrassed that it didn’t even occur to him to warn the those of his patients who are involved in the case-not even Greg, who Luerssen mentioned specifically. “No, I haven’t spoken to them yet, but you’re right that I should speak to them first. Give me a couple of hours to do that, if you don’t mind.”
“All right. I’ll contact Isabelle Dumont’s family right away, and the rest of the witnesses after 2 PM.” She makes a note. “Don’t hesitate to call if you see Luerssen again, or if anything else happens-hang up calls, anything.” She hesitates. “I’ve interviewed him already. He’s…well, I’ve met cold-blooded killers who were less…scary. I won’t think you’re overreacting.”
He nods. “Good to know.”
Wilson is passing by the Diagnostics office when he sees House get up from the table, still talking and gesturing, and pick up the phone. Something makes him stop and watch what happens next.
House goes still-Wilson has the impression he stopped addressing his team in mid-word-and then sits-practically falls-in his desk chair. He nods stiffly, twice, says something, and hangs up.
Breaking out of his stupor, Wilson goes in. “What happened?”
House doesn’t answer, just gets up and goes out onto the balcony, leaving the door hanging open behind him.
He follows. House is standing with his hands braced on the railing, looking out over the parking lot. “Who was it?”
House gives him a dirty look and doesn’t answer.
“Do you have a case?” he changes tacks, wondering how urgent it is to get House back to work.
“No, we were playing Twenty Questions.”
“You don’t have to be sarcastic,” Wilson mutters.
“No, we really were.” House stares some more and then says, “Guy comes in complaining of abdominal pain. Go.”
“What?”
House repeats himself. “You have nineteen questions left.”
“Okay. Uh, any bloody, black, or tarry stools?”
“No. Eighteen.”
“Vomiting?”
“No.”
“Did you do an endoscopy?”
“Yes.”
“Did the endoscopy show anything?”
“Yes.”
“Did you say this was fun?”
“It’s fun for me,” House explains.
“I see. Does he have an ulcer?”
“No.”
They finish playing. Wilson loses. “So what did he have?”
“Gastric torsion,” House says. “Your turn.”
“Okay. Guy gets a phone call and walks outside and won’t tell his buddy what’s going on.”
“Is his buddy really annoying?”
“Uh…yes?”
“Case solved.” House paces to the far end of the balcony and says, still looking away from Wilson, “It was Temas. The shrink,” he adds, as if Wilson might know several.
“What did he want?”
“He wanted to tell me that Luerssen showed up in his parking garage and threatened him last night,” House says flatly.
Oh, shit. This is really, really bad. “Shit,” Wilson says.
“Yeah.” House shrugs. “He said the police will be in touch, and I shouldn’t worry about it too much.”
“Great,” Wilson says flatly.
House rubs his thigh, restlessly. “I guess he wouldn’t be going around threatening people if he didn’t think we had him on the ropes, though.” With shaking hands, he lights a cigarette. “I got in this mess to begin with because I pissed off a petty tyrant to went to war against me,” he says. “Way to learn, huh?”
“This is different,” Wilson points out. “I mean, refusing to apologize to Tritter was kind of…pointless. Not that you deserved months of torture and psychological destruction for it, but there wasn’t really a principle at stake. This time there is.”
“Yes, there was,” House says stubbornly.
“What principle?”
“That I’m not going to let an asshole with a badge push me around.”
“That’s…” not exactly a principle. Wilson decides not to argue. “Luerssen needs to be stopped before he drives somebody else to suicide.”
“Yeah, well. I wonder how many innocent people Tritter’s sent to prison?” House takes a deep drag of his cigarette and blows smoke out over the parking lot.