Chapter Text
Officer Arroyo stood just inside the doors of one of the many Milton estates. It wasn’t often they received calls from such an upscale residence, and although it was believed to be a prank, Gil was obligated to check. Dr. Whitly had greeted him with a pleasant smile and invited the tired officer in for a cup of tea. He welcomed the comfort of a hot drink on such a cold New York night. The herbal remedy stained his tongue with a blend of sweet and earthy flavors. When questioned about the strange call, Dr. Whitly feigned ignorance. He wasn’t aware a call had been made. Still he let the officer look around while he finished his drink. Gil was grateful for the small break and pleasant conversation Martin provided. Never would he have guessed what was to come from such a simple interaction. With his cup emptied and no immediate danger detected, Gil radioed in the all clear and turned to leave. There he was greeted by a young man just beyond the corridor. His bright blue eyes wide with fear as he mouthed a warning all too late. “Don’t drink the tea,” called the quivering voice as Gil’s vision began to tunnel and his knees buckled under his weight.
*
Malcolm watched the officer sway, his voice lost as the man collapsed onto the persian rug his mother had purchased just days before. He felt his chest heave in disbelief. His chance out of this nightmare was now lying unconscious at his father’s feet. His father who moments before had served a cup of laced tea to the officer his son had called. Malcolm’s gaze rose to meet Martin’s. A smile straining at the corners of his mouth. “Oh good, you’re still up. Help your old man with this, hm?”
The boy’s legs felt like lead with every step. He looked toward the door and back at the officer. He could do something. Run for the police car just outside, maybe they had a partner waiting, maybe there was a chance. His hesitation must have been clear enough to see by the tone of the doctor’s voice. “Malcolm,” he snapped, and like a dog following a command, Malcolm picked up the officer’s arms and dragged him off to his father’s den.
*
Gil awoke to the gentle sound of soft music. The low repeated keys played so delicately on piano in tune with the soft pull of a well rosined bow against cello strings. It wasn’t the worst sound to wake up to. Arroyo might have found it pleasant, had his limbs not been bound to the rests of an old wooden chair. Where was he? There was an ache in his neck from the awkward position he’d been put to rest in. His vision blurred in the dim light of the concrete room. How did he get here? What was the last thing he remembered? He took in a sharp breath, but his chest struggled to expand from the binds restricting him. Panic was beginning to set in, but before he was able to assess anything further a voice called out just beyond his view.
“Good morning, Officer Arroyo.” The man greeted, “Am I saying that right? I’ve never been great with names, do correct me if I’m wrong.”
Gil craned his neck, trying desperately to find the source of the voice, but the binds refused to give him such clarity.
“Sorry to keep you like this. Trust me, this isn’t exactly what I thought I’d be doing first thing in the morning either. You can thank my son for these undesirable circumstances,” continued the man as he rounded the chair. Dr. Whitly stood before him, donned in green surgical scrubs. Arroyo swallowed dryly, the bitter taste of last night’s tea had tainted his palate.
Undesirable was an understatement. Gil pulled at the leather bounds that kept his wrists tightly in place. That smile that Gil had found so charming the night before now sent a chill down his spine. Fear was something the officer had grown accustomed to from being in the field. Still, no amount of training could prepare him for something like this. To think he could be so easily fooled by a confident smile. No, now wasn’t the time to dwell on his mistakes. Clearing the dry itch in his throat, the officer sat up as well as his stubborn seating permitted.
“Where the hell am I?” He questioned, his voice low and gruff.
“This is my operating room!” Chimed Martin, his arms outstretched as he gestured to their surroundings.
Arroyo narrowed his eyes, peering around the bare room as best he could from his position. There wasn’t much to observe. It was closer to a prison cell than an O.R. Concrete encompassed them with three large metal cabinets flush against the wall to his right. The only light source was a dim bulb hanging just above what looked to be a well worn surgical table. His jaw clenched tight as he met the eyes of the man before him.
“You’re The Surgeon,” Gil stated through gritted teeth. Useless rage boiled in his chest. How could he be so careless?
An exasperated groan left the doctor as he waved off Gil’s frustration. “Such a cliche name. Honestly, could you not think of anything better?”
“I didn’t pick it,” replied Arroyo.
“Well, neither did I,” argued Martin as he stepped behind the officer again. When the doctor left his line of sight, Gil felt anxiety bubble at the back of his throat.
“You can’t keep me here!” he shouts. “People will come looking.” His argument was lost on merciless ears. The music crescendoed as Martin turned up the volume. A mix of anger and dread festered inside him like an infected wound. Arroyo tried to keep his breath level, panicking will do him no good. “They know I was here last night!”
“And where is here, exactly?” questioned The Surgeon. “You’ve been out for a very long time. Who knows where you’ve ended up,” he mocked.
“I mean they’ll know I was with you last.”
“Oh don’t you worry about that, I’ve taken care of the loose ends… Well, most of them.”
When Martin stepped into Gil’s line of view again he held a syringe filled with what Arroyo assumed to be the paralytic agent used on the countless other victims before him. Whitly’s hips swayed gently to the music as he stepped forward. Gil twisted his arms in an attempt to free himself. Leather cutting into his wrists with every desperate pull. He couldn’t think. Not with the needle so close to his arm, staring him down as if the clear liquid inside were Death itself. The symphony played imperceptibly accelerando and Gil felt his blood run cold.
Dr. Whitly halted just before the needle could fully penetrate the man’s skin. His lips puckered in thought before stepping back from the officer, a sigh escaping him.
“Does this feel right to you?” He questioned as he lowered the syringe. “It feels so awkward, do you feel that?”
Gil gave a strained look, but felt compelled to answer. “Yes,” he huffed, his tone thick with displeasure. Awkward wasn’t the word Gil would use in this particular circumstance. Horrific or nightmarish felt more suitable.
“Ah, see I thought so.” Martin looked about, his foot tapping to the music before moving behind Gil once again to silence the tune completely. Arroyo felt the heat slowly settle back into his features as his impending doom was put on pause.
“I think the issue might be you, officer. You see, I’ve never had to kill a man before.” Martin returned to Gil’s view, syringe still in hand. “You could say I’m a virgin in that regard.”
Arroyo scrunched his nose at the distasteful terminology. What was he playing at?
“Are you going to let me go then?”
“Oh no. Of course not.” chuckled Martin, “you’ve seen far too much for me to just let you go.”
The larger man leaned down to meet Arroyo’s gaze head on. “No, you’re still going to die, be sure of that.” He paused as he stared the officer down, examining his features carefully. “But you could be quite the experience for my boy.”
Martin was quick to grab at Gil’s arm, the needle piercing his skin without resistance. Gil jerked his arm back but it did no good, the syringe emptied into his vein and a rush like ice washed over the man.
“NO!” he cried. “Stop!” His struggles were futile, as the damage had been done.
“Shh… Now don’t fight it” Martin chided. “Just let it do its job. It’s better for everyone this way.”