John Gilstrap - Nathan’s Run

Using a handkerchief to hold the receiver and a pencil eraser to push the buttons, Jed used the phone on the end table next to the sofa to call for the criminal investigative unit and the coroner. While he waited on the line to pass along the critical information, he surveyed the interior of the tiny house, taking particular interest in the broken television set with the empty booze bottle resting where the picture tube should have been. Three days’ worth of newspapers had been stacked next to the sofa, each issue opened to a story about Nathan. Jed remembered his briefing on the details that had sent Nathan to the Juvenile Detention Center, and he wondered what the boy’s Uncle Mark had thought about the events of the past three days. Was he remorseful? Titillated? Amused?

“C’mon,” Jed urged impatiently, waiting for somebody in the coroner’s office to pick up the phone. He shifted the receiver from his hand to his shoulder, where he held it in place with a sustained shrug. His eyes wandered to a sheaf of papers; legal documents, he recognized from the numbered lines and exaggerated indentions. There it was, on the front: The Last Will and Testament of somebody named William Steven Bailey. Having nothing better to do, he casually thumbed through the stapled pages.

Something underlined on page fourteen of the will caught his attention, and his mind shifted from scanning mode to reading mode. Halfway through the second paragraph, his backbone straightened and he sat down on the edge of the sofa cushion.

“I’ll be damned,” he said aloud.

“What have you got?” Harry asked, taking advantage of the opportunity to examine something other than the body.

“Our motive,” Jed said sharply.

“Medical Examiner’s office, this is Julie,” a voice said in his ear. Jed told her to hold on for a minute.

So let me get this straight,” Sheriff Murphy summarized after listening to Warren’s presentation. “You want me to go before the voters of this county and tell them that on the advice of a police detective from Virginia, I should ignore all the physical evidence gathered thus far—not the least of which is an admission of guilt from the kid himself—and shift our efforts to find a phantom hit man. Is that what you’re telling me, Lieutenant Michaels?”

Warren scanned the faces of the sheriff and Petrelli, who sat perched like a parrot next to his fellow politician. A deep, abiding belief in the criminal justice system was the only thing that kept Warren from popping them both. This was a useless exercise, he realized. To these two, police work was about votes. Nothing more.

When Warren didn’t answer, Petrelli filled the silence. “Warren, I’m worried about you,” he said, shaking his head, his voice dripping with condescension. “We all know how hard the loss of your son was on you last year. I think maybe you’ve lost perspective on this case. Perhaps you should volunteer to step down from it. That way, I don’t have to ask Chief Sherwood to remove you from it.”

Petrelli’s words hit him in the chest like a hammer. Bang! Warren had known going into this meeting that his arguments were not yet well formed, and that they directly contradicted much of the physical evidence. He knew that he would have to change their entire approach to the facts, and he had, in fact, done the sales job of his life.

To anyone else, the arguments would have been persuasive, but he had underestimated the depth of political ambition jammed into this tiny little office. By refusing to be persuaded, they had made Warren look like a fool. It had been an opportunity for which Petrelli had been waiting for years, and there it was. Find the most vulnerable weakness in your opponent, and concentrate all your forces on that spot. It was every bit as reliable a rule in politics as it was on the battleground.

Worst of all, Petrelli was right. He had no business remaining a part of this case. Warren had known it ever since he’d seen the still picture from the JDC video. His heart was every bit as involved in this case as his mind, but he believed nonetheless that he could keep them separate; he believed he could be professional and objective when he had to be.

But objectivity was not the issue here. Fact was, he was right! And these assholes knew it! For Petrelli, though, the opportunity to make his historical adversary squirm was a far more important prize than justice. By discrediting Warren—the flatfoot in charge of the investigation—Petrelli would be able to recover a portion of the political damage done by Nathan’s celebrity.

“So, what do you say, Warren?” Petrelli pressed. “Why don’t you step down?”

Warren smiled politely. “Why don’t you kiss my ass, J.?” He knew when he’d lost. He also knew that Chief Sherwood was the only human being on earth who hated Petrelli more than Warren did. Petrelli’s threats were as hollow as his spine.

“That’ll be enough!” Sheriff Murphy intervened. “Lieutenant Michaels, I think this meeting is over.”

Warren turned away from Petrelli and faced Murphy. “Look, Sheriff, all I ask is for you to tell your men to take it easy. They’re looking for a murderer named Nathan, not a victim named Nathan. That makes a huge difference in how they take him down. You authorized a green shooter’s light, for Chrissake!”

“Do I need to arrange an escort for you to leave, Lieutenant?” Murphy offered. The phone rang. “I can arrange that, if you want.”

Warren stood still for a moment longer. There was nothing left for him to do. As he turned to leave, he heard Murphy answer his phone and pass it to Petrelli.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Petrelli exploded. “I did no such thing!”

Warren stopped short of the door to eavesdrop. Seeing Petrelli blow his cool always lightened his day. Now the prosecutor-cum-senator seemed as confused as he did angry.

“Look, Stephanie,” he said after a long spate of listening, “I’m telling you I didn’t call. Do you think I have a death wish? Judge Verone would have my butt in jail before nightfall.”

The pieces fell together for Warren. “Stephanie” would be Stephanie Buckman, who had represented Petrelli’s ridiculous petition before Judge Verone the day before. When it all focused in his mind, Warren’s heart started racing. Somebody was trying to trace Nathan’s call.

As much as he wanted to suspect Petrelli of foul play, he knew that the slimebag would let his mother be lynched before he’d violate a court order. After all, the lynching would earn him tons of voter sympathy; the bad press from violating the court order would kill him. He realized in an instant that Nathan’s would-be killer was making his next move.

Warren moved quickly back across the office and snatched the telephone away from Petrelli, pushing him aside with a forearm. J. Daniel looked shocked at the lieutenant’s strength.

“Stephanie, this is Warren Michaels,” he said hurriedly. “I understand that somebody was trying to trace Nathan Bailey’s telephone call?”

Stephanie’s voice showed surprise at the sudden change in characters. “Well, y-yes,” she stammered.

“Did he get it?”

“Y-yes. But why…”

“How long ago?” Warren interrupted. His voice was abrupt and insistent.

“Look, Lieutenant…”

“Goddammit, how long ago, Stephanie?” Warren was shouting now.

“I-I don’t know for sure. Twenty minutes, maybe.” Stephanie seemed hesitant to speak to him about the details.

Warren checked his watch without seeing the time. “Shit. What’s the number?” he asked.

“Lieutenant, what happened to Mr. Petrelli?” she stalled.

“No one knows for sure,” Warren said without missing a beat.