Lewis Fic: The Evil That Men Do

[kat_lair]

Title: The Evil That Men Do
Author: kat_lair / Mistress Kat
Pairing: Pre-Hathaway/Lewis if you are so inclined, but can easily be read as gen/friendship
Genre: Angst, hurt/comfort, case-fic, meta
Rating: R, see warnings
Word count: 2902 words of fic but 3788 words in total, including notes and references
Warnings: This fic includes references to alcohol and crime, domestic abuse, child abuse, homicide and adult and child victims of homicide. All of these are in regard to cases being investigated, not the main characters. In addition, real life statistics and research on all of the above is included so please tread with caution if any of this is triggering for you.
Disclaimer: Not-for-profit fiction

Summary: Annually, over 600 homicides are recorded in England and Wales. Most of them require very little detective work to solve. All of them deserve our attention.

Author’s notes: This fic was written for Lewis Secret Santa 2012 and originally posted at lewis_challenge. The fic is for cilla_bean who asked for a story with ‘some realism and grit’ so that’s what I aimed for. The result is a rather bleak and depressing fic for a holiday exchange but I do hope this hits the mark. The title is of course from Julius Caesar by William Shakespeare: "The evil that men do lives after them; The good is oft interred with their bones." For the record, I disagree with the second part of the quote and believe that the good too lives after us. Huge thank you to beedekka and loki_dip for efficient and essential last minute betas! And to pushkin666 for handholding, as always.



Hathaway is standing in a puddle of slush and vomit. Not by choice but because it’s either that or broken glass. Or the large smear of blood, gradually turning pink as it mixes with the falling sleet.

The section of pavement outside the Three Lions has been cordoned off, and on the other side of the crime scene tape, Dr. Hobson is crouched over a body.

“Kieran Harris, twenty years of age,” Lewis says, coming to a stop next to Hathaway. He hands over a Styrofoam cup of coffee – crappy instant by the smell of it – and huddles deeper into his too-thin-for-the-weather coat.

“Which one?” James asks. He takes the coffee but only to warm his hands.

“The victim.” Lewis pulls out his notebook even though Hathaway knows for certain he doesn’t actually need it to check any details. “The suspect,” Lewis glances over to the police van, “is Matt Jordan, seventeen.”

To call him a ‘suspect’ is nothing but a courtesy nod to the criminal justice system where no one is the ‘offender’ until proven in court or signing a confession. Jordan is up to neither at the moment, drunk as he is, swaying silently between the paramedics checking him over. There’s blood on his jacket.

Neither of them comments on the boy’s age because neither of them is surprised. Nothing about the scene is unusual; the solemn faces of officers and SOCOs swarming around show only grim resignation at best, boredom and impatience at worst.

Hathaway looks down into the black sludge of the coffee in his hands. He remembers himself at seventeen, even more awkward than he was now, not knowing who he was or what he was supposed to do and looking to God to be the answer to everything.

He’d been wrong about that of course. God wasn’t the answer, he was the question.

“The landlord says he’d kicked both of them out when they’d started fighting,” Lewis says, pulling James out of his own head and back into the present. He’s good at that. “Probably more concerned for his business than the fight itself,” Lewis huffs, but there is no amusement in his voice. Just weariness. “The pub’s already under close scrutiny from the Licensing Board. There’s been several fights here lately... Although this is the first one that’s ended in death.”

“To say nothing of selling alcohol to the underage or intoxicated,” Laura comments. She’s pulling off her gloves, a deep frown of disapproval on her face. “I don’t need to wait for the blood ethanol tests to say that both the victim and the perpetrator were three sheets to the wind.”

“That a clinical term, Doc?” Lewis asks, his voice fondly teasing.

“It’s a goddamn disgrace, is what it is,” Dr. Hobson says. “Here, the murder weapon.” She passes the evidence bag to Hathaway who lifts it to the yellow light of the streetlamp so they can all see the bloodstained switchblade. “It was on the ground next to the victim. I dare say you’ll find his,” Laura nods toward the departing police van which is taking Matt Jordan away to sober up, “fingerprints on the handle.”

Lewis nods and Hathaway silently agrees. There is no mystery to solve here. Just bad news to deliver to two families. Speaking of... “Who’s the family liaison on this?”

“Gupta’s on call this weekend,” Lewis answers. “I rang her earlier and she’s just getting addresses and info on the next of kin.” Lewis glances at his watch. “I’ll pick her up from the station and go with her.”

“I’ll do it,” James says. “We’ve pretty much wrapped up here anyway.” They’ve taken preliminary statements from the witnesses but like the offender, most of them were too drunk to be properly questioned until the following day. “You go home and get some sleep.”

“I’m fine,” Lewis protests but his face is tired and worn, his shoulders stooping more than usual.

“Sir,” James says quietly, his repeated, “I’ll do it,” falling somewhere between determined and pleading.

There are two sets of parents about to be told their son won’t be coming home; one never, one not for a long time. It wasn’t the first time either of them had delivered such messages, but only one of them was a parent himself.

Lewis regards him silently for a long moment before nodding. “Alright, lad. Breakfast is on me then.” He pockets his notebook, fishing out his car keys. “You too Doc, if you’ve finished by then.”

Hathaway startles, having almost forgotten about Laura standing quietly by, observing the exchange.

“We’ll see,” she says, smiling. “Do as you’re told, Robbie. Go.” She makes a shooing motion with her hands.

Lewis mutters something about being surrounded by nagging worrywarts but heads toward his car.

“That was a good thing you just did, Sergeant.” The look on Laura’s face is far too soft with understanding.

“I do not know what you mean, Dr Hobson,” James says stiffly. He keeps his eyes fixed on the sheet-covered body of twenty-year-old Kieran as it’s lifted onto a stretcher and carried to a waiting transport.

The sleet has turned to rain, the water washing the street deceptively clean in minutes.


***

Notes for part 1

Alcohol plays a part in approximately half of all crimes committed in England and Wales. For homicides, the estimates start at 40% while some place it as high as 70% (Shaw et al, 2006; All Party Group of Alcohol Misuse, 1995).

With the exception of domestic abuse, the group most likely to experience violent crime is young men (Chaplin et al, 2011). The risk is particularly high for males aged 20 to 24, a group which makes up 7% of the male population but 13% of male homicide victims (Smith et al, 2012). Approximately half of all homicides in England and Wales result from an argument, a revenge attack or a loss of temper, while the most common method of killing is by knife or other sharp instrument (ibid).

***

“I didn’t mean to,” the man says plaintively, his hands playing with glass of water, turning it around and around, “but she was just... pushing me, always nagging, never doing what I asked, you know?”

James nods. “Just tell me what happened today, Mr. Reynolds.”

The interview suite is quiet except for the steady scrape of the glass against the table. Hathaway makes himself relax, breathing slow and even; keeps his eyes on the man opposite him, waits him out.

“I work three shifts!” Reynolds finally bursts out.

“At St. Peter’s Window and Pane,” James looks at his notes. “Several years now.”

Follow me, and I will make you fishers of men, he remembers. Peter was a fisherman. So was James.

“Yeah, yeah, that’s it.” Reynolds leans forward. “Kept the job, didn’t I? They had to let a lot of the others go but Ricky said I’m the best he’s got, couldn’t do that to me.” There’s pride in his voice. “It takes skills, you know, fitting windows. Dangerous too. There was this one guy who got his fingers cut off, just like that.” Reynolds demonstrates, bringing his hand down onto the table top with a chopping motion.

“Really?” James says mildly. “You work hard then.”

“Damn right I do. So when I get home I just want some peace and quiet. A man’s entitled to some of that, don’t you think?”

Reynolds looks at James, waiting for him to agree, for a validation. When none is forthcoming he gets agitated. “I worked for that money, it was mine. Still kept that fat bitch in clothes and food, didn’t I? A roof over her head. That’s what a real man does!” He narrows his eyes at Hathaway, expression turning sneering. “Although maybe you don’t know about that, eh? What to do with a woman?”

Hathaway doesn’t comment on the implication, doesn’t even blink. “What happened earlier today, Mr Reynolds?” he asks again. “After you got home from work?”

“She was packing a fucking suitcase!” Reynolds hits the table hard enough for the water to slosh everywhere. He doesn’t seem to notice. “Said she was going to her mother’s, taking the clothes I’d paid for, taking the kids!”

There were two: a three-year-old girl and her older brother who had started school this autumn. Both of them were with the child services at the moment, the case worker having raised concerns about the family several times already in the Child Protection panel.

“It’s not right!” Reynolds shouts, specks of spittle flying out. “She shouldn’t have done that! They’re my kids, my wife!” He’s breathing hard. “It was her fault! I just didn’t want her to leave, that’s all.” The tone and words return to plaintive, beseeching.

“You didn’t want her to leave,” Hathaway echoes back. Come on, you bastard, tell me what you did, he thinks. We know already so just say it.

“I... I just, I grabbed her?” It comes out like a question, like he wants James to deny it.

He doesn’t. “Where did you grab her?”

“By the arm. By... by the neck.” Reynolds’ eyes are darting around the room and he licks his lips nervously. “She kept struggling, hit me in the face!” He points at the red mark on his cheekbone.

Good, James thinks viciously. Good! He keeps his expression impassive though.

“I just wanted her to be quiet,” Reynolds says. “Just some peace and quiet.”

It certainly is that, nothing but the combined sound of their breathing and the steady blink of the electronic recorder disturbing the stillness. The world seems to shrink until nothing exists except this small room and in it, trapped together, Hathaway and a man who killed his own wife – put his hands around her throat and squeezed and squeezed and squeezed until she was dead.

James forces himself to turn his head, to look over to the mirrored window, to remember that he’s not alone. Not alone, not alone, not...

“Did you strangle your wife, Mr Reynolds?” Hathaway asks, his voice measured, tone neutral.

“Yes.” The tension in the room deflates.

James reaches for a pen.

An hour later, he has completed a statement of the events, including a full confession from Samuel Alexander Reynolds, a skilled window fitter and a serial perpetrator of domestic violence.

Outside the interview room, Lewis is waiting, leaning on the wall with crossed arms. “Well done, lad,” he says. The expression in his eyes is so kind it cuts James in two and makes him stumble, legs suddenly too weak to carry the weight of it all.

“Alright,” Lewis says, “You did good.” He puts a steadying hand on Hathaway’s elbow, pulling him along. “Come on now, we’ll grab something to eat, eh? The paperwork can wait until tomorrow.”

James doesn’t say anything, just lets Lewis usher him toward the doors and the world outside, which is bigger than the one they usually inhabit and at least sometimes filled with light. Not alone, he thinks, and the thought is aching and tender, like a new bruise. Not alone.


***

Notes for part 2

The latest British Crime Survey findings estimate that 7% of women have experienced domestic abuse in the last year, although this is likely to be higher due to the under-reported nature of such crimes (Smith et al, 2012). In comparison, 45% of women report having experienced at least one incident of interpersonal violence in their lifetime (Walby & Allen, 2004). Multiple incidents and multiple forms of abuse are common; a third of women experiencing any type of domestic abuse have done so four or more times and over half of female rapes in the UK are committed by the victim’s current or ex partner (ibid).

The figures are similar for homicide. Female victims are usually killed by someone they know, almost half by a current or former partner (Smith et al, 2012), equating to an average of 2 women a week killed in such circumstances. The highest risk is at the point of or just after separation (Lees, 2000). While the second most common method of killing overall is by hitting or kicking, for female victims it is strangulation (Smith et al, 2012).

***

The body is so small, like a doll lying under the white sheet. No one wants to look at it directly, everyone’s gaze flickering over it like a moth around a light bulb, touching briefly but never landing.

James walks through the house in silence, skirting the SOCOs and the uniformed officers solemnly focussed on their jobs. He finds Laura in the lounge, perched on the old sofa, a clipboard balanced on her knees as she fills out the preliminary paperwork.

“Where’s DI...” The words won’t come. It’s as if the ranks and titles have ceased to matter, such trappings of adulthood made insignificant, insulting, in the face of this tragedy. “Where’s Robbie?” he asks finally, clearing his throat.

Laura looks up, her face tired with too many nights like this, spent over dead children. “He’s out the back,” she says, nodding toward the kitchen and the door presumably leading to the garden at the rear of the property.

Two men come in through the front door and Laura gets up. “Ah, our ride is here,” she says.

For a moment James thinks she means the two of them and is about to say he’s not going anywhere yet, but then she starts to lead the newcomers upstairs and James realises that she’s talking about the little girl whose body lies broken on the bedroom floor.

James doesn’t wait to see the procession back out, he’s seen enough for the day.

The kitchen is tiny and unremarkable, a couple of dirty dishes stacked on the counter, an open cereal packet waiting to be put away. The backdoor is cracked open and James steps out, his breath escaping in a cloud as the freezing air hits him.

Robbie is standing in the middle of the small yard, which is nothing but a square of cement really with the wheelie bin in one corner and a pile of cigarette ends in another.

The early morning light makes everything look washed out, like an old black-and-white movie without the happy ending.

“She was a colicky baby, our Lyn,” Robbie says. He’s not really looking at James but it’s clear he knows who he’s talking to. “And Val, well she wasn’t feeling so well after they got home from the hospital. Post-natal depression they’d call it now I guess.” He shifts a little, rubbing his hands together in an unconscious effort to warm them up, still wearing that too thin coat of his. James really should say something about it but...

“And I was working three shifts; it was before my transfer to CID. No proper parental leave then, not for men. We were tired all the time, that first year. Tired and wound tight. She just kept crying and crying and so did Val, saying she couldn’t cope, and I didn’t know what...” Robbie falters, shoving hands into his pockets.

When he picks up the monologue again, his voice is rough, barely hiding the cracks underneath. “There were times when I was so angry, so frustrated, I could’ve...” He breaks off before finishing the sentence.

“But you didn’t,” James says and it’s a statement of fact, an unshakeable truth, not a question.

“No!” Robbie turns around so fast his feet slip a little on the frost covered paving and James grabs him by the elbow on instinct. “Never! I never laid a hand on either of them!”

“Of course you didn’t,” James says. “And every parent must know how you were feeling.” He shrugs, acutely aware that he would never fall into that category. “It’s nothing unusual. And this here...” he nods to the house behind them, “this isn’t just a case of post-natal depression or stress and frustration boiling over. This isn’t an accident or a one-off.”

There had been bruises. Cigarette burns. If ever there was an incentive to stop smoking it was the image of the little girl’s arms, covered in red marks.

“I know,” Robbie says. He rubs his free hand over his face, making no effort to pull his other arm free from James’ grip. “God... I know.”

They stand together for a while longer, in the slowly brightening morning, gathering the strength and resolve to head back to the station. The case is far from over, even though there is no detective work needed here, no mystery to solve – except perhaps the endless cruelty of humans.

But that is beyond the understanding of any copper, any man.


***

Notes for part 3

The UK does not publish statistics of substantiated incidents of child abuse. However, the NSPCC’s (2012) summary of local authority child protection register statistics and children subject to child protection plans shows that over 50,000 children are currently considered to be at risk of abuse. This only includes those children who have been identified as being at risk and is thus unlikely to be a true reflection of the prevalence of child abuse. The latest Home Office data (Smith et al, 2012) show that, on average, at least one child is killed each week in England and Wales. The most at-risk age group for homicide overall is children under one year old, and the majority (approximately two thirds) of victims aged 16 or under are killed by a parent or step-parent (ibid).

***

A lot of police officers think of themselves as holding up the metaphorical ‘thin blue line’, the last barrier between order and chaos, between law and lawlessness.

James has no such delusions. The police don’t deter crime or disorder, not really, they just clean up after it.

Doesn’t mean it’s not an important job. Doesn’t mean they don’t make a difference. Doesn’t mean—

“The bloody queue in that place!” Robbie’s voice drifts from the hallway, the front door banging shut behind him.

Doesn’t mean something good can’t come out of it.

“I got extra prawn toast for you,” Robbie says, putting the take-away bag onto the kitchen counter and starting to unpack the cartons. “Otherwise you’ll just steal mine.”

James nods. It’s true. His relationship to prawn toast can be described as a mild addiction. “Very thoughtful of you, Sir,” he says. “Keeping me on the straight and narrow.”

“Knock it off,” Robbie grumps, but there’s a smile lurking at the corner of his mouth, “Don’t much care about ‘straight and narrow’ off-duty.”

James grins, ducking his head, but chooses not to comment, chooses to believe Robbie has no idea how that had sounded. Instead he gets plates and utensils out, liking the way he knows his way around Robbie’s kitchen as well – if not better – than his own.

Five minutes later, they’re settled on the sofa, a feast of Chinese food spread around them and Only Fools and Horses repeats on the telly.

“Good day today,” Robbie comments quietly after a while, clumsily balancing a disc of watercress on the chopsticks he insists on using even though it takes him twice as long to eat with them.

James finds it endearing and makes a point to gently mock him about it every time. “Yeah, good day,” he agrees. January is always quiet or at least it feels like that after the busy holiday period which seems to bring out the worst of humanity along with the best. Today had been filled with paperwork, making sure everything was ready for the cases that would get to court over the next few weeks.

Robbie tops up their wine glasses and James makes no move to stop him, despite the fact that it means he’ll be well over the limit to even contemplate driving back tonight. Or, if he’s being honest: because it means that.

This – long days spent in the middle of other people’s tragedy, trying to find meaning where often none exists – isn’t even close to the life James had imagined he’d have.

And yet, despite the weariness and the hurt, it’s better.

Because he has what he’d spent so long looking for: a purpose.

And someone to share it with.


Fin.

End note

Innes (2003) concludes his (highly recommended) book on homicide investigation with following observations: Death has power, both physical and metaphysical, and those who deliberately cause it are regarded as a threat to the natural and social order. In trying to find meaning where none seems to exist we continue to evoke the notions of good and evil; killers are cast as ‘folk devils’ and police as ‘folk heroes’ while murder investigations provide the ideological justification for the way society defines, negotiates and responds to issues of social control, deviance and punishment, order and disorder.

The stories of murder investigations serve the same purpose. All narratives originate culturally; they link the past to the present and the individual to the collective (Lawler, 2002). They not only allow us to make sense of personal lived experiences but of wider context in which they are inexorably embedded. By telling the story of murder as one of justice, the story of death as one of hope, we reinforce the social bonds such events erode and re-establish the human connection we cannot, must not, lose.



References

All-Party Group on Alcohol Misuse (1995). Alcohol and Crime: Breaking the Link. Report of an Enquiry into Alcohol and Crime carried out by the All-Party Group on Alcohol Misuse between January and July 1995. London: Alcohol Concern.

Chaplin, R., Flatley, J and Smith, K. (Eds) (2011). Crime in England and Wales 2010/11: Findings from the British Crime Survey and police recorded crime (2nd ed.), London: HMSO.

Innes, M. (2003). Investigating Murder. Detective Work and the Police Response to Criminal Homicide. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

Lawler, S. (2002) 'Narratives in Social Research'. In T. May (Ed) (2002) Qualitative Research in Action. London: Sage, 242-258.

Lees, S. (2000). 'Marital rape and marital murder'. In J. Hanmer & N. Itzin (Eds). Home Truths about Domestic Violence: Feminist Influences on Policy and Practice: A Reader. London: Routledge, 57-74.

NSPCC (2012), Child protection register statistics and Prevalence and incidence of child abuse and neglect

Shaw, J., Hunt, I.M., Flynn, S., Amos, T., Meehan, J., Robinson, J., Bickley, H., Parsons, R., McCann, K., Burns, J., Kapur, N., & Appleby, L. (2006). The role of alcohol and drugs in homicides in England and Wales. Addiction, 101(8): 1117-24.

Smith, K. (Ed.), Osborne, S., Lau, I., & Britton, A. (2012). Homicides, Firearm Offences and Intimate Violence 2010/11: Supplementary Volume 2 to Crime in England and Wales 2010/11. London: HMSO.

Walby, S. & Allen, J. (2004). Domestic violence, sexual assault and stalking: Findings from the British Crime Survey. London: Home Office Research, Development and Statistics Directorate.

Comments

[margaret-r.livejournal.com]

Think I may have mentioned something like this before, but this really is a remarkable fic;) The reality is heart wrenching, something that’s added to by the statistics you quote and the notes, which I found as interesting and revealing as the fic itself. You’ve given us a brilliant look at how police work is carried out and at the same time the characters are just so much Robbie and James – you can see them perfectly and feel their pain. Thank you for sharing this with us.

[kat-lair.livejournal.com]

Yes, you did comment on the comm post as well so I'm super flattered to get a second one :) Thank you so much for your comments. I'm happy that marrying academic with fiction worked so well and didn't compromise the characterisation.

[maladroitoracle.livejournal.com]

My first Lewis fic! I adored it, perfect characterization! I also liked the notes and the references!

[kat-lair.livejournal.com]

Oooh, I feel honoured that you took that step with my fic :D This was pretty depressing stuff to get started on though, but thank you! You should go and read all the fics out of the Secret Santa exchange now, there were plenty happy-making ones :)

[pushkin666.livejournal.com]

Still love this and aren't you glad you chose to ignore my comments about the research links :D

[kat-lair.livejournal.com]

Thank you darling. And yes I am *g* EVIDENCING RESEARCH IS IMPORTANT.

[pushkin666.livejournal.com]

Lol. Well there are all sorts of things you can research and evidence :D

[planetkiller.livejournal.com]

Wow. This is fantastic. There's a lot going on, but it's really subtle at the same time. Everything's happening under the surface of the text.

Also, your characterizations seem spot on to me. I could totally see them behaving like this in a real episode.

And I like the little statistics that you added in. It's sad to see the crime statistics laid out like that.

[kat-lair.livejournal.com]

Sorry for the late reply.

Thank you very much for the comment. I'm really pleased this rang true to the show and the characters. The statistics are something I see a lot in my line of research so in an odd way it was good to be able to share them with a wider audience.