Chapter Eight

At the DEA field office, Harrison's pose—one hand pressed against a vending machine, the other resting near his holstered gun. Harrison sighed, and Peter opens the snack room door and walks in the break room. "You feeling okay, man?" Peter asked, grabbing a bottle of water.

"You look like you've been hit by a bus." Harrison's sigh was long, but in a slowing flow of emotion, the sound of air leaving a punctured his own body. He didn't even turn his head. "I'm fine. Just tired." Harrison said annoyed. He was not in a good mood this morning. 

Peter peeled the wrapper off a granola bar. "Ah."  Peter waited for an answer, but Harrison didn't answer. "You've been picking up extra shifts again?" Peter asked, the question.

"Yeah," Harrison mumbled. "Keeps me busy."

"And keeps you from thinking?" Peter ventured carefully.

Harrison finally looked up, his eyes meeting Peter's. The raw grief there was unmistakable. "Doesn't work," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "No matter how busy I am, she's still there. In my head. In everything I do.." He pushed off the vending machine, the clatter of the machine's internal gears a sudden, sound noise—more like a vending machine whirling through the room.

He ran a hand through his hair, a nervous, familiar gesture. "Alyssa. I just... I can't stop thinking about her, Peter." Peter started talking about Alyssa's death and the kind of trouble she was in both before and after Jose gave her fentanyl to help her become a drug addict.

"Hey, I think I've discovered something you might want to hear about," Peter said.

He leaned in closer, lowering his voice as if sharing a deep secret. "Okay, what?" Harrison said. He was in a bad mood. More like he does not care anymore. "There are lies that live on the surface that Jose wasn't acting alone; there might be a whole organization involved in pushing these drugs into the community." Peter's eyes widened with urgency as he continued.

Harrison nods his head no. The explanation of Jose's drug dealing history was telling Harrison that he should just not care in the first place. "If we work hard, we might uncover the connections between suppliers and those who are enabling this cycle of addiction. We need to be careful, though; if they're as powerful as I suspect, they won't take kindly to anyone snooping around." He leaned closer, lowering his voice.

"We have to gather evidence discreetly and find allies who can support us, or we risk putting ourselves in danger." Peter continued.

The weight of his words hung in the air, and the tension in the room seemed to thicken. Harrison was begging for Peter to stop talking in his head... but Peter continued. "Let's start by reaching out to a few people. Let's see what the Feds have to say in this particular instance," Peter replied, his determination matching his urgency.

"Once we have a clearer picture, we can formulate a plan to expose them without drawing too much attention." He glanced around the dimly lit room, ensuring no one was eavesdropping, before adding. "Every move we make from here on out has to be calculated." Peter said.

"Alyssa might have stolen small, valuable items from you or family and friends to sell for drug money. To fund her growing habit, she might have progressed to shoplifting, a low-risk, high-volume way to obtain goods to sell or trade." Peter explained.

Harrison sighed, "Or likely exploited Alyssa's need for a steady supply of drugs by getting her to sell for him. It would have started small, just enough to cover her own habit, before she was pulled deeper into the business" Harrison said.
"Jose could have forced Alyssa to become a money launderer which would have put her at high risk of arrest or violence." Harrison continued, annoyed.

The air in the DEA break room hung thick with the stale scent of burnt coffee and cheap microwave burritos. Harrison, a man built for quiet corners and surveillance vans, was anything but quiet. He put in  a $20 bill in the vending machine, slapping it against the front of the vending machine with a force that rattled the whole unit.

"Come on, you worthless turd!"

Harrison shouted. Harrison groaned, as the bag of pretzels he wanted snagged. He hit the glass again, harder this time, and a nearby agent flinched, retreating around the corner. Peter, his partner, stepped in. Peter was all calm and angles, a stark contrast to Harrison's coiled rage. "Take it easy, man. It's just a vending machine." 

Harrison rolled his eyes. "It's not just a vending machine, Peter!" Harrison bellowed, spinning around. His eyes, normally sharp and focused, were bloodshot and wild. He was irritated. He was a bit angry. "It's everything! It's the whole world that just takes and takes and doesn't give a single thing back!"
Peter held up his hands in a placating gesture.

"Harrison,.  Did you even hear a word from me?" Peter asked, and the casualness of his tone was like a match to a fuse. Harrison didn't turn around. "What?" Harrison said, annoyed. He was starting to get more angry. More like begging for Peter to just shut up and to listen to him.

"Looks like the wiretaps are solid. We've got him on a few things now, not just the one." Peter grabbed his bottle of water, before he looked back at Harrison. "The DOJ is feeling confident about countering that deal."

"Feeling confident," Harrison scoffed. He finally turned, and the fury in his eyes made Peter freeze with his mug halfway to his lips.
"You wanna know what I feel, Peter? I feel like we spent a year building a 'solid' case. Its getting ridiculous." Harrison sighed. Harrison's voice was getting louder, the irritation now a hot, sharp blade.

"I know, Harrison.," Peter corrected, his own tone tightening. "We were working with limited information. "We just keep on trying harder."  Harrison scoffed, taking a step closer. Harrison scoffed.

"Oh come on. Peter. I am so sick and tired of this nonsense." Harrison shouted.

"Okay. Harrison, you need to relax." Peter said. He gestured around the sterile, brightly lit room.

"While Alvarez was out there laughing. The same laugh I heard on the phone when he told me what he was doing to her."

Peter's hand tightened on his water bottle. "Don't do that, Harrison. Don't put that on me."

"Why not?" Harrison challenged, his voice rising. "You're my partner. You're the one who stood there and let them convince you we were doing the right thing. While Alyssa was an example. All because we had to play by the book!" He stepped right up to Peter, his body tense and coiled. "You got to see your wife, Peter. I didn't even get a chance to say goodbye to Alyssa. Before she died."

Peter sighed and he stared back, his face a mask of hurt and defensiveness. "You're grieving, I get it," he said, his voice laced with his own rising anger. "But that doesn't give you the right to say things like that."

"Doesn't it?" Harrison snarled. "Tell me, Pete. When you're sitting there looking at that photo on the fridge...do you ever wonder if her picture would be on a wall somewhere if you'd just listened to me?"

"I get it, man. I do. But this isn't helping."

"Helping?" Harrison scoffed, the word a bitter taste in his mouth. He stepped toward Peter, crowding him. Harrison laughed. Alyssa's name made Harrison feel like he was a bad person...like a bomb exploded an entire building.

Alyssa had been gone a month now. A stray bullet, a botched raid, a line-of-duty death that had nothing to do with duty at all. Just bad luck. Peter had been on that raid, too. Peter's face tightened. "Don't act this way!" 

"Why not?" Harrison sneered, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. 

"What? You want me to be the one to hurt too?"

"No! This is about my girlfriend, Peter! The woman I was gonna marry on her birthday!" Harrison shoved Peter, hard.

Peter didn't shove back. Instead, he grabbed Harrison by the shoulders, his grip firm. "I saw her go down, Harrison. I saw it all. You think I don't see it every time I close my eyes? Every time I get in a car, every time I go on a call, I see her. I see the look in her eyes." His voice cracked, and he lowered his gaze for a second before meeting Harrison's. Harrison grabbed Peter's hand and told him angrily to let go of him.

"That's the difference, isn't it?" Harrison finally turned, and the fury simmering beneath his skin was plain to see. "It's just a job to you. Something you can walk away from when the shift ends." Harrison continued, angrily.

"It's the same job it's always been," Peter said, his voice level, but his eyes were now focused on the tension in Harrison's jaw. "And what good did it do her, huh?" Harrison took a step closer, his voice low and dangerous. Peter's grip tightened on the ceramic mug. "You can't blame yourself, Harrison. Or the fact it's a job." Peter said.

"No, we didn't," Harrison snarled. "We followed the rules! If we hadn't, if I'd just gone to find out if she was really up to something... she'd still be here. But you, you still not understanding what I am talking about"

Peter met his glare, his own anger beginning to spark. "Yeah, because that's how this works! That's how we stay alive!" Peter said.

"Whatever," Harrison spat, his voice cracking with a raw, desperate pain. "I remember every single day. I remember how she laughed at my terrible jokes. I remember how she smelled. What do you remember, Peter? The paperwork? The commendations?"

Peter slammed the water bottle down. "I remembered her mother telling me that she was the love of her life, you jerk! I remember you after calling me to go to the hospital, and you weren't there!"

"I needed some air!" Harrison shouted.

"She looked at me, after I walked in the room." Peter continued, his own eyes now glistening with unshed tears. "And she said, "Tell Harrison, I loved him. Not the DEA. Not the badge! You! And I know how it feels to lose someone you love!" Peter shouted.

Harrison's anger deflated into a cold, hollow ache. He stared at Peter, seeing not a rival, but another casualty. He wanted to rage, to punch something, but all the fight had gone out of him.

"Please don't blame this all on me". Harrison sighed. The argument was being heard by other agents outside of the break room. Peter sighed, and the two agents stood in silence for a moment, the ghost of Alyssa filling the quiet room, a shared weight they would carry for the rest of their lives.

After walking back up to his desk, Harrison and Peter decided to stop arguing and look at the photos of the crime scene together where Alyssa's deceased body was lying on her bed along with choked vomit lying on the side of her face and the crime scene photos were brutal. Harrison sighed, feeling like he's a freak. For one not saving Alyssa and two he promised Mrs. Joanna he would protect her, but didn't.

After walking up to the desk, the cold, sterile light of the bullpen office seemed to drain all the color from the crime scene photos scattered across Harrison's desk. Peter walked up and stood beside him, hands clasped behind his back. Peter had seen more than his fair share of death, and the familiar, stoic mask was already in place.

He glanced at the top photo, then looked away, respecting the privacy Harrison hadn't asked for but clearly needed. The photo was a close-up of Alyssa's hand. Her knuckles were white, curled tightly, as if she were trying to hold on to something that was already gone. Harrison remembered how those hands had felt in his, how she'd traced patterns on his palm with her thumb.

Now they were just evidence, a part of the official file. He swallowed hard, the muscles in his throat clenching, and a wave of nausea washed over him, hot and fast. He could feel the bile rising, the familiar burning sensation. His hands, gripping the edge of the desk, were trembling.

"Don't, Harrison," Peter said quietly, his voice low and firm. He didn't have to say what he meant. He just knew."I need to," Harrison rasped, his voice a strained whisper. "I need to see it. I need to see it for myself." Peter sighed, a heavy, sad sound.

He knew that Harrison wasn't trying to be a hero. He was torturing himself, punishing himself, and Peter knew it wouldn't help. "You saw it already, Harrison. It's in your head. You don't need the picture to remember." Harrison's eyes were locked on the photo, but he wasn't seeing the crime scene anymore.

He was seeing her, laughing, her head thrown back, her hair a cascade of red in the afternoon sun. The two images, one vibrant and alive, the other a cold, documented tragedy, collided in his mind, and the world tilted. He pushed away from the desk, scrambling backward, his chair scraping against the linoleum floor. backward, his chair scraping against the linoleum floor. He pressed a hand over his mouth, his face pale. His chest heaved.

"Just go," Harrison said, his voice choking, muffled by his hand. He gestured toward the door, not looking at his partner. "Just go, Peter. I'm going to puke again." Peter hesitated, caught between concern and the urgency of the situation.

Finally, he nodded slowly, backing away as if the air around them had suddenly turned toxic, leaving Harrison alone with his spiraling thoughts and the weight of a choice he never wanted to make.

After Peter walked away, Harrison leaned against the chair, his heart racing with regret and fear. The silence that followed was deafening, each tick of the clock echoing the gravity of the moment as he grappled with the consequences of their fractured trust. He knew that the path ahead would be fraught with uncertainty, and the thought of facing Peter again filled him with dread.

Yet, deep down, he understood the weight of the case and he would have to confront the reality of their relationship as soon as possible rather than later. Harrison took a deep breath, steeling himself for the inevitable conversation that loomed ahead. Why just why? Why would Jose kill Alyssa—as Harrison's most loved and beloved character and beautiful personality of the love of his life, his future wife.

As Harrison gathered his thoughts, he couldn't shake the feeling that this moment could either shatter everything or open a new path for him. With each passing second, he felt the urgency to speak, knowing that silence would only deepen the chasm between him. DEA agents like Harrison, like all law enforcement agencies, review crime scene photos to find certain clues to the revelation of  the relative positions of evidence, and reconstruct events to identify suspects, verify statements, and prove or disprove aspects of the case.

The DEA CSI has a unique understanding of the overall photos of Alyssa's dead body.  The photos were known as an official record of the crime scene, capturing it as it was found before any evidence was moved or collected. Harrison uses photos to identify specific items of evidence and to document their condition at the time they were found. 

But Harrison couldn't do it. He couldn't have these photos shown to him. Harrison couldn't have these photos shown to him of Alyssa's deceased body lying on her bed in her bedroom. Harrison leaned over behind his desk, and he grabbed the trash can once again before he started throwing up. He was retching.... but also coughing.

Alyssa Joanna, his deceased girlfriend's body lying on her bed in her bedroom made him sick. All the agents including his partner Peter  heard Harrison throwing up. Harrison got sick again. After Harrison was done throwing up, Peter walked up to him and he laid a hand behind Harrison's back in a gentle gesture, and Harrison spit in the trash can.

"You need to go home. This case is becoming too much for you." Peter said.

"No," Harrison said, sighing then closing his eyes. "I'm okay." Harrison continued.

Harrison then grabbed a tissue from his desk and he wiped his mouth. After Harrison puts the trash can back down on the floor, he turns to Peter and he doesn't say anything this time.

"Go home. You're not feeling well." Peter said.

Harrison nodded his head in agreement and he sighed softly as he grabbed his car keys from his desk then his wallet and other items before leaving his desk. After Harrison walked away, Peter could tell Harrison was really taking it hard to the fact his girlfriend had died. As Alyssa's boyfriend, he cared about her... a lot. Harrison was trying so hard to get the images out of his head, of thinking of Alyssa before she died.

As he leaves the field office, Harrison walks up to his car after exiting the office and Harrison enters an unmarked car before he shuts the door. For federal agents, including those at the DEA, the vehicle they drive home is typically an unmarked, government-issued vehicle, often called a "g-ride".

They do not typically use their personal cars for commuting because of the job's 24-hour response requirements. So after turning on the car—Harrison pulled the gear in drive and he pulled out of the parking lot before heading home.