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Dr. Coppenrath sat in interrogation, his hands folded. The practiced calm he used in his assessment of Malcolm back in place as he made eye contact with Gil. Bright stood on the other side of the glass, watching him, studying the man who for a few hours, he warred with on the battlefield of the psyche. “You know, despite how things turned out,” he said to JT and Dani, “He was really a good therapist.”
“You mean despite the kidnapping and discrediting a witness,” Dani said.
Malcolm conceded the point with a tilt of the head, “Despite that, he really did understand trauma.”
“You are the expert,” JT replied.
“Mr. Bright,” Edrisa said, coming over with a huge smile on her face. “How did I do?” Bright returned her smile.
“You know, I didn’t review all the tapes, but I’m sure you did great.”
“Oh stop,” she said, lightly swatting his arm. “I’m just excited I got to be part of one of your schemes.”
“Schemes?” JT said.
“I am literally always available for any plans or undercover missions. You just say the word.” She leaned forward, “Actually, I have a collection of wigs that I used for a neon party once, they could be employed for disguises. You know, if we ever needed to be disguised.”
“Disguised in neon?” JT again added in.
Bright smiled, “Thank you, Edrisa. I’ll keep that in mind.” She smiled at him.
“Okay, well you know, you have my number,” she said, giving a finger gun gesture before cringing, and heading down the hall to the morgue.
“Unbelievable,” JT said. Malcolm glanced at him before returning his eyes to Dr. Coppenrath, finding him looking back at him through the glass.
“I won’t talk to anyone but Malcolm Bright,” the man said.
“You think I’m going to let you talk to the hostage you took just because you’ve calmed down?” Gil said. Malcolm pushed into the room before either of them could say more, JT right on his heels.
“No, it’s okay, Gil. I’d like to hear what he has to say to me,” Malcolm said, never taking his eyes from the doctors. “Want to confess? More dark secrets you have buried in your past, doctor?” Malcolm asked him.
The therapist shook his head, “No, I don’t want to talk to Mr. Bright the profiler, I want to talk to Malcolm.”
Malcolm raised an eyebrow, “Yes, you did enjoy sparring with me, but that’s over now.”
“That was a classic rooky therapist mistake. I should never have allowed myself to be drawn into a battle of wits with you,” he said, leaning forward. “It’s just, you intrigued me.”
The profiler tilted his head, smiling, “I am an intriguing man.”
“And a troubled one, even with your humor based defense mechanisms.” The man leaned back, his brow furrowing. “What’s really sad,” he said, “Is that I think I could have actually helped you. If we met under different circumstances. You really do need real help, Malcolm.”
“I told you what you needed to hear to catch you.”
“Yes, but you knew I am good at seeing through a lie, just like you are. You caught me because you told the truth, not about the electrocution, obviously, but everything else. You made a real breakthrough here, Malcolm, even if it was under false pretenses.” The man looked genuinely sad. “And now, you are going to let it go because it was just for a case, but you don’t have to.”
“Enough, say what you have to say,” Gil said.
Dr. Coppenrath nodded. “You’re right.” He leaned forward, hands folded. It was a therapeutic pose, one that would be inviting if it was not for the fact that those hands were handcuffed to the table. “Malcolm, you aren’t ready to hear this, and it will probably roll right off you. So ordinarily, I wouldn’t push like this with a client, but there is nothing ordinary about our situation. Maybe later you’ll remember what I said today, when you’re ready.”
Malcolm raised an eyebrow.
“One of these days, you’ll be done here. Maybe because you get yourself hurt so severely that even you can’t keep working, or maybe because someone finally realizes that you need serious mental help and pulls you out. Either way, you will be done here, and do you know what will happen to this team you love so much then?”
Malcolm leaned forward, he smirked. It was a familiar tactic, the man trying to unsteady him. He was prepared for anything the man could say.
Except for the one thing he did say.
“Nothing.”
“What?”
“Malcolm, your father saw you as an object. He saw all people as objects, that is how he related to the world. And when you became inconvenient, he tried to dispose of you, like an object, but these people aren’t like him. I’ve been talking to your team all day, and they care about you.”
“You said they thought I am crazy,” Malcolm interjected.
“Ah, they are worried,” he replied, dismissing this. “But they do care about you. Not your mind, not your talent. You. And when one day you can’t serve your purpose here anymore, they will still be there because the person that you are matters to them. So, you don’t have to try so hard to be useful. They aren’t going to just abandon you.”
The room was silent, and then quietly from behind him came a “You good, Bright?” as Dani asked that question possibly for the millionth time. He had not even heard her walk in.
“I…one minute,” he said, his voice choked. He fled the room, body shaking. He barely made it through the door before he started running, stopping only as he hit the sunlight outside. He nearly fell on the stairs outside the station. He felt the stitches in his side pulling as his breath quickened. The shaking in his hand exacerbated the pain of the break. He lowered himself to the stairs and leaned into the pain. Tears sprung into his eyes.
Tears from the pain, he told himself.
His eyes stayed on the concrete steps, but he could feel the pale, deathly form of his child self just out of sight. Then a brown loafer appeared in the corner of his vision. His eyes lifted to Gil, staring down at him as if no one else in the world mattered in that moment, the way Gil always looked at him. “Come on, I’ll drive you home.” Gil’s steady hand took Malcolm’s arm and guided him up. He saw Dani and JT standing in the doorway, watching him with worry plain in their faces.
His team.
Not a team, but friends, he thought. If he knew what that word meant.
Malcolm got into the passenger side of Gil’s car, a place he spent so much time, just like the passenger side of the squad car before it. He knew the feeling of riding shotgun to Gil like most people remembered their childhood room. This was safety, this was home.
Malcolm was a profiler of criminals, but he swore Gil as a profiler of him. So the older man let the silence stay between them as they drove, letting the tears fall uncommented on. He said nothing at all until they were at the bar in Malcolm’s apartment, drinks poured in front of them. “I got to ask a question, Bright…”