203. Love is a battlefield

Dr Burke has planned this session to assess Mr Castle’s success, or otherwise, in making his feelings clear to his mother. That should not take long, and then he intends to turn to the status of Detective Beckett’s relations with her father. He anticipates that this will be a reasonably pleasant discussion. Before his patient is due, however, he carefully ensures that his latest book in Mr Castle’s oeuvre is safely concealed in his briefcase. It would be an entirely unnecessary distraction to have such a volume on view.

His contented demeanour is adversely affected when both Mr Castle and Detective Beckett arrive, quite clearly less than wholly happy with each other. Dr Burke is quite definite that he will not address any relationship difficulties which they might be having. He intends to remain strictly within the bounds of the issues which they are experiencing with their respective parents. They may resolve their other issues as if they were reasonable, intelligent adults. Dr Burke believes that intelligence is not lacking. He is not nearly as convinced of the presence of the other attributes.

He preserves a mild, calm visage as his troublesome pair sits down. They are, at least, sitting next to each other.

“Detective Beckett,” Dr Burke begins, “are you content that we commence with Mr Castle relating his progress towards reaching accommodation with his mother?”

“Yeah,” she replies, appearing relieved.

“Mr Castle?”

“Yeah,” he replies, not appearing relieved at all. That is most unfortunate, but Mr Castle will just have to put up with it.

“Mr Castle, you said that you were intending to see your mother again on Wednesday morning. On Tuesday, you will recall, we discussed the risk that she saw your calm as a lack of emotion, rather than an effort to maintain a reasonable discussion despite your experiencing very strong emotions. Please relate the events of Wednesday?”

Mr Castle does, in a flat, unemotional voice which tells Dr Burke considerably more than Mr Castle would undoubtedly like him to know. Detective Beckett’s scowl has entirely dissipated, not half a minute into Mr Castle’s narrative, to be succeeded by a discreet linking of fingers.

“I see. Do you consider that advising your mother of the strength of your feelings, and not suppressing your urge to raise your voice, has assisted in correcting her misapprehensions?”

“I think… I think she really does love me.”

“Reassuring,” Dr Burke puts in, very dryly.

“But I’m still not sure she understands just how close she came to ruining everything.”

“Mm,” Dr Burke hums. He very much hopes that Mr Castle is not going to suggest that he should take Mrs Rodgers on as a patient. He has, of course, a tactful refusal already prepared, but he would prefer not to have to employ it.

“I guess I’ll have to wait and see. This damn housewarming…”

“Ah, yes. Detective Beckett had briefly mentioned that you were planning to provide Mrs Rodgers with a party.”

“Yeah. Well. I spoke to her about that. Sunday afternoon. She didn’t get in touch with me at all after Wednesday, but I didn’t expect her to. I told her I had to think about things. She sounded really happy I’d called, but I only talked about the party. Then…”

“Yes?”

“She asked if I was still going to go,” Mr Castle says. Detective Beckett draws a sharp intake of breath, and wraps her fingers more closely around Mr Castle’s hand.

“How did you answer?”

“Said I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“I see.” Dr Burke steeples his fingers, and meets Detective Beckett’s amused gaze at the gesture with aplomb. “When will this party occur?”

“The twentieth. Week from Saturday.” Dr Burke was perfectly capable of calculating the exact day, and did not need told. He frowns at Mr Castle.

“Mm. And you will attend?”

“Yes. I just said that. So will the rest of us.” Dr Burke’s eyebrows elevate. “The guys from the Twelfth, Lanie – ME Parrish – O’Leary and his partner, and Jim.”

Dr Burke observes a slight flinch by Detective Beckett. Mr Castle’s fingers now wrap over hers. Clearly there is an issue to be explored between Detective Beckett and her father.

“Mm,” Dr Burke hums once more. “I do not think that you need to take extensive steps between now and the party. Simply do what you feel most comfortable with regarding contact, and do not be afraid to show your emotions to your mother.” Dr Burke regards Mr Castle levelly. “Nor, of course, should you ignore her entirely. That would not assist.”

“Urgh,” Mr Castle comments. “Okay.” Dr Burke could wish for a little more articulacy: however, the point is made and understood. Strangely, Mr Castle looks to Detective Beckett, who gives a small shake of her head, before he answers.

“Now, Detective Beckett, is there any matter troubling you?”

Detective Beckett begins to shake her head. Mr Castle nudges her and whispers something which colours her cheeks. When this produces nothing of any use whatsoever, he simply says, “Beckett, what about the photos?”

Dr Burke does not witness Detective Beckett’s now-scarlet face with any enthusiasm, nor are her subsequent words helpful.

“I spoke to Dad and we’re fine,” she emits with considerable exasperation.

“What has transpired?” Dr Burke asks, concealing his weariness at the thought of another substantial set-back about which Detective Beckett does not wish to talk. “If you are, as you assert, ‘fine’, then this will not take long. If not, let us address it early so that it does not require substantial input.” He pauses. “You would not, I am sure, wish to have to return to twice-weekly sessions, or joint sessions with your father.”

Detective Beckett winces. “No. But we worked it out ourselves.”

“Very laudable. What occurred, and how did you resolve it?”

“I wanted to look at the photos of us all together, and talk about Mom. I thought we could handle it. And we did – right up till my high school graduation photo.”

Dr Burke recalls that Detective Beckett had mentioned this goal two weeks ago.

“Mm?” he hums interrogatively.

“He started to cry,” Detective Beckett says, and her mouth contorts in an effort to conceal her incipient tears. “It was just like before, but then he started saying how sorry he was” – Mr Castle has already exchanged clasped hands for a supportive arm around Detective Beckett – “and I couldn’t bear it and ran away,” she finishes on a note of self-contempt.

“She came to mine,” Mr Castle puts in, Detective Beckett appearing incapable of speech. “But then you wanted me to talk to your dad, so I did, and he was just as upset as you were. Both of you kept thinking you’d messed it all up.”

Detective Beckett acquires a Kleenex and blows her nose. “But we hadn’t,” she says with undampened force. “We’re okay. I spoke to Dad after, and we talked about the photo” – Mr Castle starts, as if he had not known that – “and then I called him again on Monday and we’re all fixed. So that’s that,” Detective Beckett finishes, her voice giving the impression that she is about to brush her hands together and wipe away the event.

“Not precisely, Detective,” Dr Burke says dryly. “You have told me that on previous social occasions when discussing the past, you and your father have shared the pain, not inflicted it upon each other. This time, you have separated, although this was a similar occasion of shared pain. Now, explain in a little more detail what took place when you informed your father that you wished to look at the photographs of your family, and to talk about your mother.”

Detective Beckett makes a particularly childish and ridiculous grimace.

“Dad was surprised, and then he said yes, and went to get the albums.” Detective Beckett continues to explain. Dr Burke appreciates the emotional pain which she and her father had chosen to work through, and determines that he should have a brief conversation with Mr Beckett in the near future. “But he just kept crying and it was just like how he used to cry and then he always started on the whisky.” She swallows hard. “I couldn’t bear to see it again.”

“You should have said, sweetheart,” Mr Castle murmurs. The endearment passes unmarked.

“In fact, that specific photograph triggered not just memories of your shared, pleasant past, but also of the most traumatic days of your father’s alcoholism, in both of you. It is entirely unsurprising that you were both badly shocked.” Realisation dawns on Mr Castle’s face, though Dr Burke is unsure why. “Although, of course, you would now prefer that you had been able to remain, it is not fatal or indeed troubling that you could not, provided that you later spoke, which you did. You then spoke again the following day.” Dr Burke steeples and unsteeples his fingers, and leans forward to emphasise the gravity of his next words. “There will be setbacks, Detective. That is a natural part of therapy and of healing. The crucial point is that you have learned how to manage setbacks and overcome the difficulty. You should not regard this as a failure in any way, as you and your father have dealt with the issue effectively. It would be profoundly unhelpful were you to revert to regarding any small impediment to your progress as an absolute failure.”

“They’re both coming for dinner at the loft on Thursday,” Mr Castle interjects, before Detective Beckett can retort.

“A sensible move,” Dr Burke allows temperately. “Now, is there anything else which you would wish to discuss?”

“No,” Detective Beckett says.

“Not yet,” Mr Castle says, gloomily. “But… if Mother still hasn’t got it, would you read her the riot act?” Detective Beckett regards Mr Castle with some surprise. Dr Burke’s heart sinks. “I don’t mean treat her – though I’d pay good money to see that,” he says with inappropriate levity, “but just… I don’t know, put the fear of God into her about interfering?”

Dr Burke is appalled. He is not to be utilised as a threat. He is so offended that he frowns blackly at Mr Castle. “I do not believe that would be appropriate,” he chastises. Mr Castle does not look notably chastised, regrettably.

“But if you don’t, my mother will continue to harass Beckett, and her recovery won’t be as fast,” he says.

This may well be true.

“It would spoil all your efforts.”

That may also be true, Dr Burke reflects. However, he is not at all inclined to spend any time with Mrs Rodgers, especially in highly emotional circumstances; and he is certainly not inclined to be manipulated or persuaded by Mr Castle’s use of language.

“Mr Castle, I have said that I do not believe it would be appropriate. Should the situation actually arise, we may reconsider the point, but I must tell you that it is extremely unlikely that I should consent. If you consider that your mother would benefit from the advice of a qualified psychiatrist or psychotherapist then I shall be pleased to recommend suitable colleagues.”

Mr Castle smiles ruefully. “Okay.”

“Now, we have utilised the whole session. I shall see you next week.”

“Night,” Detective Beckett and Mr Castle say in unison, and depart, hands already meeting before the door closes. Dr Burke breathes a sigh of relief.

“Let’s go,” Beckett says. “I’ve had enough brain scrubbing for this week.”

“Oh, yeah,” Castle agrees fervently. “No more brain scrubbing. It’s a shame he wouldn’t talk to Mother, though.”

“I told you he’d had enough of all of us. I can’t wait to be done with therapy,” she adds, “and don’t say I’ve got to do it properly. I know that.”

“Wasn’t going to. I was going to say I’m hungry and can we go get dinner someplace?”

So that’s what they do. They have a pleasant dinner without talking about anything to do with their respective parents – in fact, they largely lament the lack of murders lately – don’t fail to linger over their coffee, and finally Beckett drops Castle at his loft with a leisurely, languorous kiss that leaves him deeply ruffled.

“Have we got a case, Beckett?” Castle bounces as he wanders into the precinct.

“Urgh,” everyone says back at him.

“No? How can we not have any interesting cases?”

“Guess no-one’s that pissed with their pals,” Esposito says.

At that point Beckett’s phone rings. “You jinxed it,” she says, and listens. “Okay, off we go.”

“Huh?”

“Someone’s discovered a corpse round the back of the Dry Dock Playground.”

“Toddlers with guns?” Castle says flippantly.

“No, adults with knives, sounds like. C’mon. ME’s on the way, and so’s CSU.”

The team dash out with enthusiasm. Anything new, after the tedium of the last few days, would be very welcome.

The playground itself is not the scene, which given that it is full of screaming small children – Beckett thinks that most of the screams are of enjoyment, but is not prepared to get close enough to find out whether she is wrong – and also full of shouting and more sporting older children and teens, is probably just as well. Manhattan this may be, but children do not need to see messy murders.

And it is messy. Blood is spattered widely, and the victim has been slashed open in several places. Even Espo is a little shocked.

“Jesus,” he emits. “What the hell happened here?”

Perlmutter looks up, which is not a good start to a case. “He was stabbed, Detective,” he says snidely.

“Thank you for stating the obvious, Dr Perlmutter,” Beckett says sarcastically over Esposito’s fulminations. “Now, why don’t you tell us what has happened, like Espo asked you?” She fixes Perlmutter with a hostile stare, and he cringes.

“The victim is a male of approximately 25 to 30 years old, who appears to have been stabbed at least ten times with a large knife.”

Beckett halts him. “Have CSU found the knife?”

“No,” the CSU team leader puts in. “Still sweeping the scene.”

They look around at the spatter pattern. “Throat cut first,” Beckett surmises.

“Then a slice through the gut,” Espo adds, looking at the corpse’s revealed innards.

“Looks like a lot of stabbing after that,” Ryan says, attempting dispassion and only managing disgust.

“If I were writing this,” Castle says thoughtfully, “it would be a crime of passion. Only someone who’s really mad and totally over-emotional would do this.”

“It’s extremely unlikely that a woman could inflict these injuries,” Perlmutter says patronisingly.

“I know,” Castle points out. “But if I were you,” he carries on nastily, “I’d check my assumptions before you carry on. This is 2009, not 1909. It’s just as likely that the passionate person was male.”

“So only women get emotional, Perlmutter? Is that what you’re telling me?” Beckett says forcefully. “Wanna continue that thought, or do you want to apply some intelligence rather than keep showing off your prejudices?”

Perlmutter colours unbecomingly, and turns back to the corpse. “Of course I’ll need to do proper analysis, but my initial impression is that these wounds were made by a large, very sharp knife. There does not appear to be any tearing at the edges.”

“And what height do you think the attacker might be this time?” Ryan asks with a certain degree of nastiness.

“Six foot eight,” Esposito mutters, not at all inaudibly. Castle sniggers, also not inaudibly. Perlmutter’s high colour rises yet higher, and he favours the surroundings with a vicious stare, akin to that of a trapped sewer rat.

“I have no idea until I can measure the angles precisely,” he says with irritation. “I’m taking him back to the morgue.”

“Not till we’ve checked his pockets, you’re not,” Ryan says, and pulls on nitrile gloves to do just that. He delicately extracts a wallet and a bloodied mess which might, if carefully dissected by CSU, prove to be a driver’s licence or some form of ID. CSU fuss and bustle and take over from there, and the team watches in the hope of something that could at least give them a lead. A phone is extricated, and bagged.

“Perlmutter, what’s an approximate time of death?”

“The early hours of the morning.”

“So anywhere from six p.m. yesterday to ten minutes ago, if it’s like his height estimates,” Espo bitches, fortunately unheard by the unfortunate Perlmutter. Castle acquires an ear-to-ear grin.

“Okay,” Beckett says, before matters can get any worse. “Ryan, you start looking up camera footage. Espo, you get on to the phone records. I’ll run prints.” She turns to the CSU team. “If you could get a name out of that mess that’d be helpful. Can you do that first?”

“Sure thing,” the CSU tech says.

Everyone disperses to carry out their tasks. Castle bounces happily beside Beckett. “A nice new murder,” he enthuses. “Just what we need.” Beckett rolls her eyes. “It is. You were all getting bored and fretful. Now you’ll all be happy again.”

“You won’t be helping much.” Beckett opens the car door.

“What?”

“You invited Dad and me to dinner tomorrow. You won’t be investigating anything more than a recipe book.” She sits down and puts the keys in the ignition. Castle makes some very unhappy noises.

“But… I can do both,” he points out plaintively.

“We won’t get much until Perlmutter’s done, and CSU. We’ll be lucky to get anywhere tonight, so that means that we start the heavy lifting tomorrow.”

Castle pouts unhappily. “But I wanna play too,” he sulks.

“You can. But you did invite Dad and me so you have to feed him something.” She pauses. “Or we reschedule.”

“No,” Castle says very quickly. “No rescheduling.”

Beckett drives them smoothly back round the last intersection before they reach the precinct. “Okay, no rescheduling.” They get out. “Let’s go see what we can get done today.”

Up in the bullpen, the Beckett murder board becomes decorated. After a little gentle persuasion, so to speak, Perlmutter is encouraged to send over a photo of the victim’s cleaned up face, which helps, but informs her (made brave by the fact that it’s over the phone not in person) that Beckett will have to wait for the rest of the information until at least the morning and, since he is busy with other deceased persons, probably Friday. Beckett growls, achieves nothing thereby, and glares holes in the desk, walls and windows, and possibly also innocent passers-by.

“What do we got?” Beckett asks, glaring at the number of empty spaces on her board.

“Still waiting for ID and prints from CSU. Don’t suppose any of you recognise the guy?”

“No,” Ryan and Espo say in unison.

“Nope,” Castle chirps.

“Nor me. I want some data,” she complains. “When are we gonna get the phone records, or camera footage?”

“Phone records tomorrow,” Esposito says placatingly. “I’m just waitin’ for the techs to hack in so we get friends-and-family – maybe we’ll get next of kin that way.”

“Footage soon’s I can,” Ryan says. “Request went in the moment we got back, like with the phone. Usually takes a couple of days, minimum.”

Beckett growls again. Castle, recognising the signs, glances at his watch and determines that it is lunchtime.

“C’mon, let’s go get some lunch while we wait.”

The four of them traipse out to the nearest food truck and then sit down in the park to eat it. After fingers are licked clean and mouths wiped, Castle claims things to do and people to see, and decamps until – as he puts it – there is something to theorise about.

“Not having any information never stopped you in the past,” Esposito jibes gently.

“Genius needs a foundation,” Castle replies easily, and scarpers before anyone can jeer.

The others wander back to the bullpen and get on with other cases until someone gives them some base data to work with.