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Strahm sat pensively in the leather chair, staring into, almost past and beyond the bloody pillow that lay on the hospital bed. His hands are clasped underneath his chin as he stares off, anger swirling in him like a storm. He knows the rules of the game. You probably shouldn’t work a case if it’s personal. But this…this was different.
Perez was the only partner who ever put up with his bullshit. They were never in love, never intertwined, she was more like a sister than anything. The force would never let him go because of his abilities as a detective, but that didn’t mean people had to like him either.
Then came Lindsey Perez.
She didn’t exactly understand Strahm, and why he had to be such a dick about everything all the time, but behind it all, she knew he was a skilled detective who wanted to put an end to a legacy covered in blood, guts, and arrogance. He wanted bloodshed to cease and for a monster to be put away…or put down. Either way, Perez looked up to Strahm. She trusted him.
Strahm wrings his hands as he thinks, eyes glassy. He keeps replaying Erickson’s voice in his mind, telling him to back down and take some rest.
Strahm swallows, it feels strange.
He brings his hands down from under his chin, now in his lap, still wringing them, still thinking.
The door opens behind him, he doesn’t turn to face whoever it is.
”I’m very sorry about Lindsey, Peter.”
Strahm grips his hands tightly together, not even dignifying this shitbag with a response. Strahm looks up at Hoffman, turning only slightly, acknowledging his presence more than anything.
It’s quiet in the room, a thought keeps ringing out in Strahm’s mind. He hesitates, but eventually asks, without turning to face Hoffman, “Why’d she say your name?”
”Come again,” Hoffman rolls out in his gravelly tone, shifting to the other side of the room, across the empty hospital bed now.
Strahm gets up from his seat to Hoffman’s surprise. He thought Strahm would be too weary and emotionally worn down to confront him. Hoffman quietly reevaluates the situation.
”The last thing she said was ‘Detective Hoffman.’” Strahm takes a few steps around the hospital bed, closer to Hoffman now. “Why’d she say that? Why’d she say your name?”
Hoffman pauses, it feels suddenly violent in this room. “I don’t know,” he offers, shaking his head slightly to indicate confusion and remorse.
”No?” Strahm insists, almost cutting the detective off before he can finish his sentence. Strahm swallows again, narrowing his eyes.
“How’d you walk out of that building,” Strahm asks hoarsely.
”How did you,” Hoffman quickly shoots back.
Strahm can feel that angry storm, low and slow, brewing and burning in his chest. He clenches his teeth, taking more steps closer to Hoffman now. “On a gurney with a fuckin’ hole in my throat,” Strahm spits back, trying to shout but it’s too much strain on his wound. He pulls back and coughs slightly.
Hoffman doesn’t take his advances lightly. Everything feels like a threat being spat at him. He’s already thinking about how to kill Strahm, he wonders if he should even set up a trap, or if he should just finish the job himself. Hoffman tries not to smile as he savors the thought of bleeding Strahm dry like a stuck pig and watching him beg for his life.
”You should calm down, Peter.”
”Look at you,” Strahm ignores him. “Just a couple of scratches and a story about how your arm straps broke. Bullshit, Jigsaw doesn’t make mistakes.”
Hoffman tries not to smile still, watching Strahm get so worked up was delicious.
”He especially wouldn’t make a mistake like that. Nuh-uh. He’d remember to use something heavy-duty to contain a meathead like you.”
The joy Hoffman was deriving from this interaction suddenly drained dry. He felt violence burning like a fire in his chest, resisting the urge to slam Strahm’s head against the edge of the hospital bed till his brains spilled out.
”Is this you theorizing again, Agent Strahm?” Hoffman drops the niceties. “It doesn’t matter either way, Jigsaw’s dead now.”
Lightning cracks through the storm brewing in him, and he snaps.
He advances toward Hoffman and grips him by his dress shirt.
”I’m not talking about John Kramer, I’m talking about you,” he spits out through gritted teeth.
“I’ll figure you out, Detective,” Strahm says in a low, mocking tone, “and then I’ll be the hero, and you’ll get a death sentence, you sick fuck.” Strahm spits out those last two words with pure vitriol and hate. His knuckles are white gripping Hoffman’s shirt, and their faces are inches apart, noses close to touching.
Hoffman remains unfazed. He inhales and begins, “I’ve been chasing Jigsaw, running this case from the very beginning.”
As gently and calmly as he can, he grabs Peter’s wrists and takes them off of his shirt.
”And I got him,” he pushes himself into Strahm’s face, smiling smugly. Strahm stumbles back as Hoffman advances.
”This case is over and done with, Agent. They found John Kramer’s body, he’s lying cold and stiff in the morgue, waiting to be cut open and assessed, like every other body.” Hoffman presses on, walking slowly and cautiously toward Strahm, but Hoffman’s big, and Strahm isn’t exactly in mint condition. It drives Strahm to back up, feeling cornered and like his body has a mind of its own, his blood running cold to the controlled, calm tone of Hoffman’s voice.
“So unless you’ve got something else to say,” Strahm suddenly falls back into his chair.
He turns to look at it like he forgot it was there, but before he can even breathe, he feels Hoffman looming over him, gripping either armrest. Their faces feel closer than before.
“Back the fuck off.” Hoffman’s tone is calm, but it's a warning full of venom. Strahm can feel Hoffman’s warm breath as he dolls out the words. Hoffman smells like fresh clothes and cheap, overpowering cologne, it makes Strahm’s nose sting, and he holds back another cough as Hoffman holds this position, pausing to let it sink in.
Hoffman composes himself, adjusting his tie and shirt collar.
“Stick to the papers for your Jigsaw news, Agent.”
Strahm doesn’t say anything.
”Oh, and I’d take Agent Erickson’s advice. You deserve the rest.”
As Hoffman walks out of the room, Strahm white knuckles the armrests of the hospital chair. He slams his fists down hard on the chair, trying not to curse into the air, Hoffman was still in the hall, most likely.
That was it. The final straw.
—————-
Hoffman rushes for the parking lot, not stopping for anyone or anything as he makes a B-line for his car.
He does his best to seem calm, to walk at a normal pace to his car, to breathe smoothly and calmly, and to unclench his fists as he makes his way. In his little corner of the lot he gets into his car, sitting there, breathing hard now that he’s finally alone. His face felt hot. He felt like the silence was too loud. He looks down, there’s a pocket knife in his cup holder. He takes it in his hand, clicking the switch so the blade pops out.
He studies both sides of it, watching the blade gleam in the fluorescent lights. Suddenly, he takes the knife, swiftly and mercilessly, stabbing the passenger headrest as hard as he can.
Over, and over, and over. Again, and again, and again. He wished he could’ve killed Strahm then and there. He wished Strahm would’ve just died like he was supposed to. He wasn’t a meathead. He wasn’t a sick fuck. He wasn’t just John Kramer’s little side project. He hated John, he hated Jill, he hated Amanda, and worst of all he hated Strahm. He wanted to watch Strahm die a thousand ways over, watching the life drain from his eyes as he realizes this is it, that his last seconds were in Hoffman’s hands. Hoffman stabs the headrest one final time, with a bloodthirsty cry. It sits, practically reduced to nothing, its filling pouring out of its tattered skin.
He leaves the knife in there, slumping in his driver's seat, huffing and puffing, trying to catch his breath and calm down. He put his head in his hands, closing his eyes. If he could just stop shaking.
Deep breaths.
In, and out.
Hoffman sits with himself, regaining his composure. He slicks his hair back into place and fixes his tie, taking one final breath in, and out.
He’s calm.
As he white knuckles the steering wheel, starting the car, he can only think of one thing.
Killing Strahm, and making it nice and slow.