Without a Word

Mapping Out the Mind

        "If she was going to lie," you ask, Tom rummaging in his desk.  "Then why even come here?"

        "Give an appearance of confidence, which she lost at the end of the interview."  He stands up straight, finding the marker that corresponded to the board.  He hands you it.

        "I know you have brain, (Y/N).  Use it."  Slightly annoyed, you take it.

        "Is there any particular way you want me to do this?"

        He sits down in his chair and looks at you blankly.  "You have free reign."  You smile.

        "Is this your way of deducing me?"  He smiles.

        "Very good, but we are getting no further to solving this case."  With a small chuckle, you turn to the board, split it in half horizontally, and draw columns in the top half.  The bottom half, you started a thought web, the centered labeled inferences.

        "Okay, so what she did," you say aloud as you label the first column.  "And what she said," you title the second column.  You look at Tom, who, with the gesture of his hand, signaled that you had the floor.

        "Alright, then," you starting to fill in the top half, "so she showed me the pictures of her children, and I don't know about you, but they don't look anything like Mr. Hawkins."

        "They don't."

        "She was also fidgeting when I asked her about her alibi."

        "Continue."

        "And she held her purse close to her, like she was protecting and hiding herself."  You turn to him.  "And you know what?  Why would she wait a week to file a report?"  He smiles at you.

        "You're learning quickly."  He takes the marker from you and adds to your work.  "Didn't you notice how she kept her chin elevated so she looked down at you?"

        "Yes."  He looks to you.

        "Then you should've wrote it down.  That shows how confident she was, thinking that she was escaping just as she did with the police.  She thought she had the upper hand, that she had this all planned out."  He draws an arrow connecting his point about the point about her children.  "She was overconfident, thinking showing us her children would put her further in the clear.  It's only bringing her down."

        He draws another arrow out from her children.  "Plus, if you listened carefully, she never said it was 'their' children."

        "Right, she only said they were hers, her family."

        "That, (Y/N), is called avoidance.  Plus, she wouldn't be lying, and it paints her more maternalistic to most people."  He writes "Mr. Ficnh" on the board and connects all the bullet points to him.

        "What's wrong with this picture?" Tom asks, turning to you.

        "Well for starters, you spelled his name wrong."  He turns to the board and corrects himself.

        "Very funny.  But if I were a grieving and worried mother, I wouldn't have the neighbor spend a meal with my family, and I wouldn't mention in an interview that they said the food was 'fantastic.'"  He goes to his laptop.  You look over his shoulders, seeing that he's pulled up both Reed's file and information about Kenneth Finch.

        "Twenty-five.  Brunette.  Never married."  You read closer.  "Looks like he's the manager of a car company not to far from here.  And he's making six-figures."

        "Does this make it more obvious?"  You look over at Reed's information again.  Mechanic.  Not six-figures, but still decent.

        "They're both into cars, and Finch makes more money.  Plus, she took the opportunity to trade in her husband for a better model."

        "Look at him closer."  You do, examine all the facial features.  The nose, the shape of his eyes, his eyebrows.  All too familiar.

        "He's the real father."

        "And if you have the opportunity to perfect your family, what would Elizabeth Hawkins do?"

****

        You and Tom spend the remainder of the night researching: why Elizabeth Hawkins become a mother at 19; why she waited until now to strike against Reed; figuring out what knowledge Kenneth Finch knew; what role he played in the murder of Reed Hawkins; where the rest of him may be found.

        Sleepily, you look over at the bottom of your laptop, and you don't believe what it reads.  You check your phone, and it doesn't lie.

        "Tom."

        "Hmm?" he asks, not looking up from the papers on his desk.

        "It's 2:34."  He looks at his clock, not even a hint of sleep in his eyes.

        "Oh, well look at that."

        "Shouldn't we get to bed?"

        "I'm on the verge of possibly finding the missing remains of Reed Hawkins.  Sleep can wait."

        "Okay."  You try to stay awake, but an hour later, you fall to the mighty slumber.  Tom looks over at you, seeing your head plopped down on your keyboard.  He looks back at his papers, attempting to ignore you, but he looks back one more time.  With a sigh, he walks over to you, picks you up, and carries you to the couch.  After laying you down, he gets a blanket from his room and covers you with it before going back to his work.

***

        You wake up the next morning to the sound of a bullet firing.  You scream, scrambling so much that you fall onto the floor.  You find Sherlock sitting in his chair, a pistol in hand.  You turn to the wall, decorated with a yellow smiley faces and a fewbullet holes.

        "Thomas?!  What is the meaning of this?!"

        "Bored."  And with that he fires another bullet, this time hitting the right eye of the smiley face.  You're dumbfounded, you mouth slightly ajar.

        "Unbelievable,"  you whisper to yourself as you rise to your feet.  It's then that you notice you were tangled up in a red blanket.

        "Did you do this?"  Tom looks over at you.

        "It's customary to sleep with a blanket or comforter, is it not?"  You smile.

        "I'm still trying to understand you."  He looks over at you.

        "Well that's a first."  He stands up.  "Well let's go."

        "Tom, I justwoke up.  I need to shower.  And go where, exactly?"

        "Breakfast, first, and then to Molly at the hospital.  A new body part came in."