Words To Live By

(Missing Scenes for Inspector Lewis Episode "Life Born of Fire")

Part One

It was a wet, windy Friday evening. Rain spattered the windows and sudden gusts of wind set tree limbs to whipping about. Inspector Robbie Lewis, casually dressed in blue jeans and a gray sweatshirt, sat slumped on his comfy red sofa. He shuddered, hearing the odd groaning noises the branches made as they scraped the roof. Creepy, he thought, glad I'm safe and sound indoors. Terrible night to be out, sure, but then he had no plans.

Lewis had been feeling rather anti-social and out-of-sorts lately. He hadn't yet come to terms with their recent serial murder case. He knew it had taken a heavy toll on him and had deeply affected his young police sergeant, James Hathaway.

The inspector got up and made himself some tea. As he left the kitchen, he turned off the light, leaving the one in the hallway on. He needed to see to do his work, but he didn't want the place too brightly lit.

It had been several days since that awful night, Lewis mused, and he still found himself flinching at any hint of fire. It was getting better; at least he had stopped having dreams with exploding houses, heat, smoke--and death. But darkness still seemed safer somehow.

Cradling the warm cup in his hands, the detective relaxed in the dim living room. He felt melancholy as he sat pondering how a suicide had set in motion a series of brutal killings.

Lord, that demented woman. All those destroyed lives, all that pain and sorrow. Nasty combination, that --conflicted young people and misguided religious busybodies.

Lewis shook his head and sighed. He wondered if the people involved—the ones who'd survived-- would ever completely recover from the events of the past week. He thought about Hathaway.

Why hadn't the man told somebody what he knew? And he, Lewis, had let it go on for way too long, ignoring all the warning signs because he had wanted to trust Hathaway. They might have been able to prevent some of the horror. Maybe not the suicide, but the killings that came after.

Lewis frowned at the pile of papers awaiting his attention on the low table in front of him. Writing was always a struggle for him, and here he had a truly difficult assignment to finish: a report about the case, and a letter of reprimand about Hathaway. Chief Superintendent Innocent wanted it all finished and on her desk first thing Monday morning.

The case was not exactly a blinding success. What the hell could he say that wouldn't make them all look like thickheaded fools? He himself would have to take most of the responsibility, since he was the senior partner.

But as for Hathaway--conflict of interest? Oh, aye, that was for damn sure. And that was just the beginning. He was looking at some pretty serious punishment. But he certainly shouldn't lose his job. There was always the possibility of press exposure and public humiliation. That never ended well, did it?

He shook his head, smiling to himself as he thought of all the times he had gotten Jim to write something for him. This time he certainly wouldn't be able to ask his more literary partner for any help. You can't write about how badly somebody screwed up with the person right there telling you how to phrase it!

"I don't think 'stupid' and 'careless' are sufficiently forceful enough. The word you need here is 'incompetent', sir. And I would suggest adding 'irresponsible' to the second sentence."

No, that would never do. He would just have to get it done somehow, by himself. He sipped from his mug. Thank the lord for tea.

Lewis picked up the folder he had brought home from the office and pulled out the photocopied sheets from Police Misconduct Procedures. He flipped toone part he had marked with a sticky note-- Appendix A of the Discipline Code. He found Section 5 and again read through the phrases he had highlighted.

"Falsehood or prevarication, which offence is committed where a member of a police force:

a. knowingly or through neglect makes any false, misleading or inaccurate oral or written

statement or entry in any record or document made, kept or required for police purposes; or

b. either wilfully and without proper authority or through lack of due care destroys or mutilates

any record or document made, kept or required for police purposes; or

c. without good and sufficient cause alters or erases or adds to any entry in such a record or

document; or

d. has knowingly or through neglect made any false, misleading or inaccurate statement in

connection with his appointment to the police force.

6. Improper disclosure of information, which offence is committed where a member of a police—"

"Wha-?"

A scuffling sound at the door attracted his attention. It was nearly ten 'o clock, and he had been considering calling it a night. Lewis felt a shiver run down his back as he went to the hallway. Someone was waiting out there. Now that he was away from the window, he could almost hear them breathing.

"Who's there?" Lewis asked

He heard a soft, almost apologetic response, "It's me, sir, James Hathaway." Lewis relaxed, but then hesitated, realizing that he didn't want to talk to the sergeant right then. He was in the middle of sorting out the events of the week, and Lewis did not need that earnest, thoughtful face making him feel sympathetic.

Then he shook his head to himself—of course he had to talk to Jim. This is rank silliness, he thought and opened the door.

Sergeant Hathaway stood in the corridor against the opposite wall, as if he had just stepped back from the threshold after knocking. Lewis had not seen Hathaway since visiting him in hospital, and was a bit surprised to see him up and about.

A shaft of light from the hallway showed raindrops glistening on the closely-cropped blonde head. Lewis noted that the cut over Hathaway's eye was nearly healed.

Still, something wasn't quite right with the sergeant. Lewis noticed that Hathaway was not only dripping with rain; he looked like the proverbial drowned rat. His carefully cultivated air of nonchalant elegance was gone.

The stylish khaki pants and brown corduroy coat were soaking wet and looked rumpled as well. And was that a hint of five-o-clock shadow on his face? Wrapped in the dark coat, the young man looked as pale and gaunt as a ghost.

Hathaway cleared his throat and was obviously to sound more upbeat than he felt. "Good evening, sir. I hope I'm not interrupting anything. I'd like to have a word with you, if possible."

Lewis yawned. "It's pretty late to be out wandering the wet streets, isn't it?" Hathaway was dismayed with his partner's flat, almost annoyed tone—it was just as he had feared. Lewis did not want to see him—he had really meant what he had yelled at him on the street.

The young man swallowed, his stomach feeling hollow. The night of the fire, when Zoe died, his career and friendship with Lewis had also been destroyed. "I'm sorry—I know it's late, sir."

"I called the hospital yesterday and they said you had been released. I guess you found a ride home." Lewis winced inwardly as he heard the edge in his own voice.

Hathaway did not miss the inflection. "Sorry—I didn't think that you would want to, so I called a friend from my music group. I wasn't sure. I didn't want to disturb you. I was afraid, I mean I thought you might be busy. With work." They continued to stand there, neither wanting to comment on the awkwardness they both felt.

Lewis couldn't remember ever having seen Hathaway in such a disheveled state before, and so nervous, even stammering! He sounded as if he was trying hard to control his voice and the strain pitched it a bit higher than normal.

The young man looked so tired, his shoulders sagging as he stood with his hands in his jacket pockets, looking past the inspector into the semi-darkness of the flat behind him. "Sir, if this is a bad time I can come back…honestly…" Hathaway's unkempt appearance made him look like a six-foot-tall Oliver Twist, asking "Please, sir, may I come in?"

Lewis sighed. "No, it's not a bad time, Jim. I was just reading. I guess I should invite you in or the neighbors will think there's a drug deal or something worse going on out here." Another invisible wince. Where had that harsh remark come from?

He stood to the side and Hathaway came in, passing awkwardly in front of the inspector. Lewis looked at the puddles the sergeant had left in the hall. "Where's your car?"

"I didn't drive. I walked." Lewis followed the sergeant into the living room. "Trying to be macho, braving the elements and all," the inspector asked.

"No, sir. It wasn't raining like this when I started out. I guess I didn't plan to be out this long. I—I've been walking around the city for a couple of hours, trying to think." Lewis saw that Hathaway's pale blue eyes were red-rimmed and restless, roving from one item in the room to another.

"I haven't ever known you to have trouble thinking before." The inspector sat back on the couch, set the folder aside and picked up his tea. "Trouble showing good judgment, maybe, yes, but there was never a problem with your thinking." Why did everything he said to Hathaway sound so hostile? This wouldn't do. He had to get a grip.

Hathaway continued to stand uneasily in his wet clothes, his thin form weighed down with resignation. Usually he swung into the flat as if he owned it; tonight he acted like a unwanted salesman expecting to be tossed out at any minute.

"Sir, I was hoping that we would be able to talk about what happened with the Garden case." He pressed his lips together, like the last thing he really wanted to do was talk.

Lewis nodded towards a chair. "Sit down, Jim. You don't have to stand there like you're in front of a firing squad."

"Sir, I think I would rather stand. This may not take too long."

The young man took a breath and then the words tumbled out. "I screwed this case up badly, I know I did. I was wrong from the first—when I saw Will lying on the floor of that church, I should have told you what I knew. But I just couldn't do it."

"Well, I wish you could have been honest with me. I resent being lied to. Especially by someone whose judgment I rely on." Lewis sipped at his tea, resting his elbows on his knees, hoping that he looked calmer than he felt.

Hathaway shifted his weight. "Sir, I see that you have the misconduct procedures there. I was definitely expecting something like that. How bad is it likely to be? I need to know if you will be requesting a change of personnel. To be assigned a different sergeant, I mean."

Lewis looked up at Hathaway in surprise. "Whoa, wait, Jim. Why would you think that?"

The sergeant turned away and ran a finger along a shelf of books, not able to meet the inspector's puzzled expression. "Well, sir, the last time we had an extended conversation—"

Lewis raised an eyebrow. "You mean the shouting match in the street, that extended conversation?"

Hathaway ducked his head. "Yes, sir. You made it pretty clear that I was not trustworthy. I assumed that meant you did not want to work with me anymore. Maybe that I didn't have a job at all. " He tried to keep his voice flat and controlled, but his hands were shaking. He thrust them back into the pockets of his coat.

Lewis set down his mug and sat forward, frowning. "You're right about one thing. I was very disappointed that you couldn't be honest with me, Jim. I could tell that you knew more than you were letting on, and I gave you at least three chances to come clean. And you kept on lying to me. So of course I was angry." Lewis stood up, even as he regretted making the situation more adversarial.

He had not intended to revisit "the shouting match in the street" but he found himself yelling anyway. "I vouched for you, Jim! I went on record to Innocent that there was no conflict of interest, when all the while you knew very well that there was. And you knew it from the start of the case, yes, as soon as you saw your friend Will lying on the floor of that church!"

Hathaway silently watched his boss, afraid to breathe, not daring to speak.

"I'm sorry—it's late and we've both been though a lot the past few days. This was a very upsetting case. I don't need to be taking my frustration out on you. But, yes, I am still a bit put out." Lewis paused and Hathaway waited.

The inspector continued more calmly. "Your conduct during this case definitely merits a letter of reprimand, and this incident will have to go onto your permanent record. You may even end up with a suspension. Depends on what Innocent decides. I've been sitting here all evening trying to figure out how to word the letter I have to write." Lewis shook his head.

"But you're not getting rid of me that easy, Jim. I have never considered demoting or transferring you. As much of a pain in the arse as you can be, you're still one of the best police detectives I have ever worked with. And I'm too old to get used to anyone else at this late date."

Hathaway frowned in confusion. "You wouldn't be mistaken about this, sir? I mean-"

"You want to know if you can trust me? You want to know if I'm telling you the truth?" He was being mean, and knew it, but he couldn't stop. Not quite yet. "I'm not lying to you, Jim. I haven't ever lied to you, not intentionally. And I never would. Not about something that mattered."

Lewis sat back down and pointed at Hathaway. "Now will you take off that wet coat and sit down, please? You're making me nervous."

The sergeant shrugged out of his coat and left to hang it up. When he returned, he dropped into the chair as if someone had cut the strings holding him up. The young man sat hunched forward as if warding off a chill and let out his breath in relief.

The inspector could see that Hathaway's bony face was lined and weary. His angular form looked almost emaciated, lost in the folds of his clothes. Lewis couldn't hold onto his resentment any longer. He smiled slightly to defuse the tension—he was ready to be good cop now.

"This hasn't exactly been your best week, has it Jim?" he prodded.

"I've had better," Hathaway replied, snorting a humorless laugh. He rubbed his eyes.

"It started off with my childhood friend's committing suicide by blowing his brains out, then I screwed up the murder investigation, then my dead friend publicly accused me of throwing him to the wolves who drove him to suicide."

His voice faltered and he closed his eyes for a moment. He was on the verge of losing control.

"Jim--" Lewis began quietly.

Hathaway raised his hand and went on in a calmer voice.

"I felt like I was losing my mind and I needed to talk to someone, and just my rotten luck, I chose to confide in the perfect person. A woman who turns out to be a transexual unrepentant serial killer. That happy little interlude culminates in my nearly getting burned to death. But we get to have the fun of watching her burn to death."

His voice grew hoarse but the words kept coming. "I especially enjoyed having my personal issues discussed and dissected in front of people who barely know me."

The young sergeant looked at Lewis, blinking rapidly.

"So, yeah, I guess you could say it was a bad week, a week that sucked like you would not believe."

He stood up and began to pace, his body radiating tension.

"Listen, lad, you're getting overwrought. You need to calm yourself down." Lewis interjected.

Hathaway ignored his boss' comments.

"And I had the pleasure of watching myself destroy my career—my second go round at destroying a career, by the way. I betrayed my partner—lied right to your face three times, did you say, Inspector? Ironically appropriate, since I was being a Judas."

He gave a humorless chuckle.

"I'm surprised a rooster didn't crow. Oh, and let's not leave out the murders sprinkled in along the way, just to liven up each day."

Hathaway's voice broke and he turned away. Lewis watched his friend trying to pull himself together—he was obviously emotionally and physically exhausted. The older man spoke in a quiet voice.

"Look, son. Why couldn't you have just told me the truth from the beginning? I asked you specifically about your connections to the people involved."

Lewis couldn't understand how things had gotten so difficult. And he knew he had better lay off with the "son". He had a son already and it was not DS James Hathaway.

The sergeant leaned his long frame against the wall, his eyes closed. He was so very tired.

"It was because Will was my friend and I had hurt him and he killed himself. Before I could even get my mind around that, the other killings began. There I was, right in the middle of it all."

Hathaway pressed his fingertips against his temples. He couldn't believe how badly his head ached.

"So, I'm trying to be a police detective and help you solve the case. Because I wanted to catch the killer. I wanted to do my job! I really did, sir."

He had started shivering again.

"My mistake was trying to keep some shreds of privacy and dignity for myself. Trying to hold everything together, and then watching it all fall apart! Will was lying there all bloody and no face at all. I lost it. Shit!"

Lewis intervened. "Part of this is my fault. I should have taken you off the case, Jim. It was my responsibility to-"

Lewis' voice sounded far away. Hathaway had wrapped his long arms tightly around his chest as if he could hold the emotions in. He would not lose control—not here, right in front of Inspector Lewis. He had to leave, to get back outside into the open air. His head was pounding, and his chest felt tight.

The shaking got worse and he felt a hysterical desire to laugh. Maybe laughing would release the stress, keep him from crying—it usually worked that way. He started to let the laugh bubble up. No. It wasn't going to work. Not this time.

Blinking, Hathaway threw his head back. He closed his eyes and tried to slow his breathing. But it was too late. His chest heaved and he felt hot liquid welling up behind his stinging eyelids. He couldn't stop it. The tears he had been holding back for too long forced their way out.

He bent forward, still hugging himself, sobbing quietly, and then Lewis was beside him, grabbing his arm and making him sit back down.

"Jim, it's alright. It's okay to be sad; you need to let it out. There's nothing wrong with it. Will was your friend, he died and you're feeling the grief."

Blinded by tears, Hathaway couldn't speak, couldn't think. He could only sit there, weeping like a baby. After a time, Hathaway grew calm and became aware of his surroundings again. The sergeant realized he was rocking slowly back and forth, so he made himself stop. There was a warm blanket around his shoulders and somehow a wad of tissues had appeared in his hand.

Inspector Lewis was sitting across from him drinking tea and looking intently through the pages from Police Misconduct Procedures as if they held the secret of life.

Hathaway pressed the tissues against his eyes and then blew his nose. To add to his embarrassment, he began to tremble again.

The inspector looked up, innocent-like, just hanging out with a friend.

"Listen, you're freezing, Jim. I'll make you something hot to drink."

Lewis got up and went to the kitchen, briskly getting out a second mug and refilling the kettle, giving his friend some time to pull himself together. Hathaway muttered, "What I need right now is a real drink."

"Sorry, mate. Pub's closed for the night."

The young man looked utterly lost. Lewis recognized that face—it had looked back at him from the mirror fairly often in the year after Valerie died. Grief made you thirsty, Lewis thought. If you didn't watch out, you'd find yourself drinking the wrong stuff. He added a lot of milk and sugar, as if he was making tea for a child.

The inspector had never known Hathaway to talk about himself this much before. Did he want to know anymore about Jim's private life? Hathaway had made him ask if he was gay and then hadn't quite answered the question....if he had been straight wouldn't he have just said so? But if that was the case, what was the remark about the Loaded mag and Yorkie bar supposed to mean?

Lewis sighed. Damn, life was complicated nowadays. Wonder what Morse would make of it. He came back into the living room with the tea for his partner.

Hathaway was not able to meet the inspector's eyes. Instead, he stared at the mug in his hands as if he didn't know how it got there.

Lewis gestured at the cup. "Drink that down, man. You'll probably want something solid to eat, too. You've been on that cigarettes and booze diet for too long, my friend."

Lewis went back to the kitchen, opened a packet of chocolate biscuits and put some on a plate. He brought it over and set it down next to his partner.

"Can't understand how some people manage it, drinking all night and showing up at the office hung over every morning. How could you expect to do decent police work in that condition?"

Hathaway started to take a sip and then paused with the mug halfway to his lips."How…how did you know that I had been drinking?"

He was truly curious--he didn't have enough energy left to be embarrassed anymore.

Lewis nudged the plate of cookies towards Hathaway.

"Look, I worked for many years with a man who drank too much. Then, after my wife died, I spent a long time drinking too much. You don't think I know the signs?"

The young man nodded. "Well, you're right. I have been drinking a lot. I've been getting drunk every night since Will died. Trying to forget, trying to remember, trying to feel something, trying not to feel anything. I don't really know what I was trying to do. None of it makes much sense now."

Hathaway looked up at the inspector.

"You know how people say that crying makes you feel better? That expressing emotion gives you relief? Well it's a load of bollocks. My head is pounding like it's going to explode and I feel like warmed-over crap."

He started to laugh and then stopped short, afraid the tears would push up again.

Lewis gave a small smile. He could tell that releasing all that intense emotion had already improved Hathaway's mood—he was calmer and thinking more rationally. After getting some food into him and some uninterrupted sleep, the young man would be feeling quite a bit better. But Lewis knew better than to argue.

He decided to change the subject. "So can you tell me one thing. What were you doing in Zoe Kenneth's flat?"

Hathaway set down the mug carefully and clasped his hands, resting his forehead on them as if praying. His voice was muffled.

"After the video at the club, I felt I had sent Will over the edge. I had sent him to his death. I wasn't thinking straight. Remember we were out on the street, and then—" he stopped.

Lewis nodded. The angry argument.

"I had just ruined my career, and what was worse, it was as if I had handed Will the gun and told him to go kill himself with it. And all those people knew what I had done."

The inspector frowned and leaned forward.

"C'mon, Jim. You couldn't possibly have known what would happen. It was those people at The Garden who—"

Hathaway looked up, his eyes bleak.

"But don't you see? I was one of them! I thought the same way they did. If they deserved to suffer and die for Will's death—then so did I."

Lewis shook his head sadly. "Nobody deserves to be murdered, Jim."

"I know that, sir. But I…I'm afraid I was having a rather rough time of it that night. I wasn't sure what was going to be the next step for me—another evening of drinking, and then what? Another night of pacing the floor, staring at the walls? I walked for hours and finally ended up at home. There I was, and there she was. Waiting for me."

"Zoe Kenneth found you at your house?"

"Yes. And she told me exactly what I needed most to hear right then. She was closest to Will, and she told me I was okay, that I didn't have to be alone. I had no reason to feel guilty."

He shook his head. "It was like she was reading my mind."

"You were in a vulnerable state. She knew that. She manipulated your emotions, Jim. Seems she was good at telling people what they wanted to hear."

"Yes, I know that now, sir. But I let her manipulate me. I wanted to believe her. And at the same time, I think I knew that she was dangerous, somehow. I didn't care."

He shook his head, remembering. "We went to her place and, like I said, she was just what I needed. Sir, at that moment, I would have crawled over broken glass for her. She made me think she was going to-–we were going to—"

"Well, I figured that much out, Jim. I'm not that old." Lewis smiled.

Hathaway cleared his throat, his face hot with embarrassment.

"Well, yeah. She gave me a doctored drink, I knocked it back and then things started to get fuzzy. She confessed everything to me, told me who she really was and about the murders. I knew I was going to die, and I am not sure I minded anymore."

"You were drugged, remember? Of course you didn't mind. You could barely form words."

"No, you still don't understand. See, I had been living in a trap, caught halfway between being a priest and being a policeman, and screwing up in both worlds. I was ready to leave it all behind. On the one hand, there was the world of faith, and in that world I had certainty. I knew what was right and what was wrong. It was all so easy. Black and white."

He stared into space as if he was seeing beyond the room.

"And then Will came to me for help. I tried to keep things in black and white, and I failed him. And I lost the certainty. My world of faith hadn't been enough."

Lewis watched his friend. Hathaway spoke as if he was talking to himself. Or to a priest in a confessional.

"Where was the justice for Will, huh? Would the people who destroyed him pay for what they did? According to my faith, it would be up to God to judge. But I wasn't sure of that anymore—God said that Will was wrong and the Garden was right. I wanted to keep on believing, but I had to see justice done."

Lewis nodded slowly.

"So I left the world of faith and became a police officer. To see justice done. I didn't know what was right and wrong in theological terms anymore, but I could know what was right and wrong in legal terms. It was written down. That was black and white. I thought that I had finally got it right. Until Will killed himself and my nice compartments, my neatly boxed life got jumbled up and confused. Again."

Hathaway stopped talking and looked up. "I don't expect you to have any magic answers, Sir. I think I just needed to explain it to you."

"I hope you'll keep trying to see justice done," Lewis said. "Even when it doesn't always work out the way you think it should."

He knew that the young man needed reassurance.

Hathaway shrugged, picked up his tea and drank, staring into the cup.

"I'm sorry I lied to you, sir and I'm sorry my personal issues messed up this case. I shouldn't have come here tonight disturbing your evening when what really I need to do is work this out in my own mind. Thank you for the hospitality, sir."

He set the empty cup down and got up, looking around for his coat.

Lewis held up a hand to stop Hathaway's exit. "Wait, Jim. Can you give me a fancy, Latin-y word for stupid?"

"Obtuse, sophomoric, puerile—"

"Let's go with obtuse. I can't pronounce the others. You, my friend, are just about the most brilliant person I know. That's why it puzzles me how you can be at the same time so obtuse."

Hathaway looked up, his expression nearly back to his usual smirk."What? Aren't you supposed to be comforting me?"

"I am comforting you, wait for it. You think you have ruined your career, right? Actually this may be the best thing you could have done for it. You know what they call you? The rank and file coppers? The regular blokes with backgrounds like me who didn't get the breaks I got. Didn't get to work with Morse and solve big cases. No matter how hard they work, they may not ever get where you are."

"Like Wilson."

"Yeah, like Wilson. They call you The Boy Wonder, Dr. Einstein, Mr. Perfect, stuff like that, right? Some people are jealous and resentful because you seem to be the golden boy, who has it all together."

Lewis was gratified to see Jim smile and shake his head.

"Well, they won't think that after this week, sir."

"Only if you keep being—what was it-- sophomoric about it. You're so swift with the modern technology, you're smart as a GQ model, you have a top-notch education, you turn heads—I know it's not me the female officers are gawking at when we walk by. Dr. Hobson wants to see ya starkers. Innocent thinks you walk on water." He went on.

"Now you've made a big embarrassing mistake and you're in trouble. If you play it right, you can come out of this a winner."

"I'm afraid I still don't understand. What does a coroner's desire to see me naked on a slab have to do with anything? They'll just call me The Boy Wondering About His Future."

"Here's the thing. You have to be like Hugh Grant—after he got in trouble with the prostitute, remember? He's rich, handsome and famous, so of course some people figured he got what he deserved and should go down in flames."

Hathaway winced.

"Sorry. I mean some people wanted him to implode. He would never make another film. He would just crawl away and never be heard from again. Well, he went on the telly and acted all 'just being a lad, ya know' and apologized for doing something so stupid and wrong. He said he had made a terrible mistake and begged forgiveness. He said was only human. And everyone loved him."

Hathaway looked skeptical.

"Didn't his girlfriend dump him?"

"Minor detail."

"But I think I'm beginning to see your point, sir. I have to be humble and take my punishment like a man, is that it?"

"That is it exactly. You aren't nearly as thick as you look."

Hathaway raised an eyebrow, looking much like himself again. Then he sat back and relaxed for the first time that evening.

"Okay, Machiavelli, you win. However, I'm too tired right now to think about this anymore. I have to get myself home."

"Look, Jim. Why not stay here tonight. It's pretty late and you're in no condition to be wandering the mean streets of Oxford. Plus, you may not have noticed, but it's cold and rainy."

Hathaway shook his head.

"No, I've really overstayed my welcome already, sir."

"Okay, I'll tell you the truth. I need you to help me draft a letter to Innocent so we can start putting your career back on track. We can work on it tomorrow."

Hathaway was nonplussed.

"Let me get this straight, sir. You want me to write my own reprimand letter?"

"Yes. And someday, when I've been a bit of a lad, I'm sure you'll do the same for me."

Lewis was gratified to hear Hathaway laugh—a real laugh this time, not the one he typically used to disguise his pain.

Lewis went to a closet and got out a stack of bedding and towels. Hathaway met him in the hall.

"Let me," he said taking the linens from the inspector. "You may be a devious political mastermind, sir, but I think I can still handle making up a bed."

Lewis smiled. "When I speak to Innocent, I'll add that to the list of factors in your favor."

He turned to leave Hathaway in the doorway to the guest bedroom. "By the way, what opera is that Machiavelli in?"

His sergeant laughed, shaking his head over the stack of linens. Then his face became serious. "Sir, I want to thank you for—"

Lewis interrupted him with an upraised palm. "Don't. Just try to keep out of trouble, Jim. Much more stuff like this will age me prematurely."

"That's why they invented Botox and Viagra, sir."

"Oh no! How did you guess?"

"Your secrets are safe with me, Sir"

"As are yours with me. Good night, Jim."

"Good night, sir."

Hathaway closed the door of the guest room and leaned against it, his face resting on the clean towel on top of the stack in his arms.

"Thank you, God," he whispered. "Thank you for guiding my steps here tonight."

Part Two

It took longer than a few days, but Inspector Lewis was able to convince Innocent that a sternly written reprimand, a one-week unpaid suspension and a visit or two with the department shrink would be punishment enough for Hathaway's transgressions during the Garden case.

CSI Innocent sat at her desk with the folder in front of her.

"Inspector Lewis, I have reviewed these documents and I agree with your findings. I met with Sergeant Hathaway earlier today and informed him of the situation. He took the news in stride, and did not register any objections. Surprising, considering his usual reaction to criticism borders on insubordination."

"May I speak freely, Ma'am?"

"I would not even think of trying to stop you."

"People who don't spend much time with Sergeant Hathaway think of him as some kind of curiosity, a middle-aged genius trapped in a twenty-something body. What they don't understand is that, as brilliant as he is, the sergeant lacks something in the way of practical life experience. This case is just evidence of the fact that he still has a lot to learn."

"Well, I suppose that is why we have him spending all his waking hours with you, Inspector Lewis."

"We are doing our best to socialize him, ma'am."

"Hmmph. I also noted the level of intellectual prowess evident in the written materials you submitted. This letter is very well-written, as is the report. Fluid, elegant turns of phrase. Remarkably eloquent. Suspiciously erudite—Latin quotations, yet: 'fiat justitia, ruat caelum'. Are you sure you didn't receive some assistance from someone, perhaps with a Cambridge education?"

"Of course not, ma'am. Perhaps the close association with Sergeant Hathaway has affected my style of expression."

"Can you look me right in the eyes and tell me that your better half didn't write any of this?"

"Ahhh. I don't think so, ma'am."

"Inspector, what does 'fiat justitia, ruat caelum' mean?"

"I am sure I don't know how that found its way into the letter, ma'am."

"Get out of my office, Inspector. You look like you had a hard weekend. Go get some rest. And tell Sergeant Hathaway to get some rest, too. I'm sure this--" CSI Innocent indicated the folder with a beautifully manicured index finger "--took as much out of him as it did you."

"Yes ma'am. And thank you ma'am." Lewis gratefully turned to leave the office.

"Oh, Inspector?" He had almost reached the door.

"Yes, ma'am." Lewis turned back reluctantly.

"For your information, the phrase 'fiat justitia, ruat caelum' means 'Let justice be done, even though the heavens may fall.'

"Words to live by, ma'am."

"I'd give you a few more to live by, but I am sure you have already heard them. Ask Wonder Boy to translate this for you."

She wrote something down on a slip of paper and handed it to Lewis.

Later, when Lewis met Hathaway, he handed him the paper after tucking the Yorkie bar into his pocket. "What's it say, Jim?"

The sergeant frowned at the paper. "It says 'Vir sapit qui pauca loquitur', sir." .

"I know that, but what does it mean?"

"It is a wise man who speaks little."

"Words to live by, Jim."