Chapter 2 - Inquiries

Price is washing his hands in the basin in the corner of the room. If he notices someone enter, he doesn't acknowledge it. Carter allows himself the moment to take in his surroundings.

Dr. Price keeps his clinic as tidy as only a man who has something to hide would. The floor is spotless. His examination table is wiped clean. His tools hang neat and polished on the wall, reminiscent of a butcher’s shop as much as a hospital. The desk in the corner, piled high with textbooks and patient files, is the only thing that stands out as suspicious from the rest of the neatness; which, in a stroke of brilliance, makes it anything but suspicious. It makes sense that a doctor as driven and detail oriented as Price would bury himself in his work — he is the people’s doctor, after all.

Detective Carter stares at the degree hung in the corner of the room, out of the way enough to not be a brag, but still present — a gentle reminder that this is a well educated man, and he is going to take good care of you. Carter wonders if this is intentional or simply an unintentional byproduct of Price’s carefully constructed narrative. Any writer worth his salt knows that sometimes the theming just falls into place like that.

“This real, doc?” he asks, announcing his presence with a question.

The sink shuts off behind him. Carter glances back to see the doctor drying his equally neat, manicured hands on a floral pink towel — no doubt a gift from the psychic woman downstairs. “Yes,” Dr. Price says, “it's real.” 

No sign of surprise at seeing the Detective there. Either he'd clocked Carter coming in, or he’s one cool cucumber, through and through. Well – Carter can take care of that, one way or another.

“Dartmouth, eh? Must be pretty smart,” Carter muses, rubbing his chin. “How'd you manage to con your way in there?” It’s not meant as an insult to the good doctor’s intelligence, but simply a comment from someone familiar with the nature of these high class institutions.

“I submitted an application, and they accepted me,” Price says mildly. “I’m sure it helps that I was salutatorian of my college class, though.” 

He sets the towel aside and comes to stand next to the detective — slow, but not so much as to be suspicious. His guard remains lowered, for now. Something about that makes Carter want to launch up and sink his teeth into the man's neck like a bully dog with an unsuspecting trespasser.

It's up close and personal like this that Carter can see just how much the doctor’s coat is doing to hide the shape of his frame, how the heavy exhaustion lines in his face hide the softness of it. His act is quite good, if dedication to a certain lifestyle this rigidly could even be called an act anymore, but it’s not perfect. But, then again, he is a Dartmouth educated doctor, and who would be so foolish as to question that?

Carter raises an eyebrow. “That’s it, then? Good grades and you’re in?” he says. 

It’s not that he needs to ask these things, but he likes hearing them straight from the source. Keeps people honest. And if they aren’t, then he likes to see their faces when he calls them on it.

Price shrugs. If he doesn’t wish to speak about it, his body language doesn’t let on — a stark contrast to their first meeting back at the Harlock estate. Carter supposes it’s a testament to the power of a familiar location much in the same way a nervous dog still feels brave enough to bark at strangers who dare approach its kingdom. 

“Money too, I suppose,” Price answers, “connections. Meeting the right people. My aunt and uncle were educated people and were supportive of my schooling, so that helped, I’m sure. But you knew that already, didn’t you, detective?”

Carter grins up at the doctor, feeling that satisfactory click of a puzzle piece inside him. Of course he knew that. He’d done plenty of research on Price during his investigation and learned just about all there is to know about him — namely, that there really isn’t much to know about him. His medical degree does come from Dartmouth the better part of a decade ago; before that, a degree in chemistry. The only other source Carter could find outside of that was a single instance of one Theodore Price in the will of an older Virginian gentleman, who named Price as his nephew. 

Now, Carter certainly has his doubts that there was an actual blood relationship between the good doctor and that man, but it’s hardly any of his business calling into question a dead man’s affairs that had been settled over a decade ago. As far as the law is concerned, Theodore Price was brought into existence fully formed at the age of eighteen, and no one has bothered to question otherwise. 

Price raises an eyebrow at him in turn; a practiced expression of someone who has learned to weaponize his disappointment. 

“Did you come here for something in particular, detective?” he asks curtly. “Or did you simply come to question the legitimacy of my education?”

That is the question, isn't it? And Carter still doesn't have an answer. He thinks about it, wetting his lips and then fishing through his pocket for a lighter and a new cigarette — something to chew on while he chews on an answer — and puts it between his lips. The doctor’s eye twitches as he clicks the lighter.

“I’d prefer you not smoke in here,” Price says tightly.

“Lighten up, doll,” Carter says. “It’s not like the cigs are going to kill me before this job does.” 

Or the Madame downstairs, for that matter, but he’s pretty sure he’s flown right under her nose this time. Hopefully. He glances over to the tools on the wall and tries to reason how long it would take him to grab a makeshift weapon from where he stands against someone coming in through the front door to disembowel him. His odds are about as good as a pig’s playing craps.

“Don’t call me doll,” Price snaps.

“Lighten up, doctor ,” Carter drawls, lavishing on that sleezy tone that either makes people crazy fun or crazy murderous — regardless, it gets a reaction, which is what he wants out of any scenario. At the moment, Price seems to be leaning toward the latter of the two options, but puts up a fight toward keeping a straight face. “You start asking me difficult questions, I need something to get my tongue loose.”

The doctor steps away. Carter watches as he walks over to the seating area near the far side of the clinic and picks up a small silver dish, then walks back and presents it firmly at eye level. In the center sits a single, hand-rolled cigarette that still smells vaguely of sage and a shit attitude. Carter should call the doc out on his double standard for letting crazy old broads smoke in here while he, a respectable, law-abiding citizen, is chastised for it. 

“I have asthmatic patients, detective ,” Price says, drawing out the title in a mocking sneer. “Your cigarette.”

Carter stares up the doctor’s nose at him. This here is what bothers him: why some Dartmouth educated, highbrow prick like Theodore Price would hole himself up in the shithole part of town just to tend to a few whores. A self-made man who’d worked so hard to infiltrate the boy’s club of higher education should be off tending some rich bastard’s bastards, and that’s the thing — he’d had that. The two years post residency had shown Dr. Price the lavishness of the state’s most upscale hospital with only the most respectable of clientele. Hell, maybe he'd gotten sick of the elite colonial education crowd – Carter had. 

But Dr. Price is made of different stuff than Carter. Those could be his people, in a way Carter could only ever act at — something Carter doesn't have in his core, something refined. And for some reason, for some reason, Price had thrown it all away to come work here, in the back alleys of Chicago. 

That bothers Carter. That he can’t explain. He can conjure up scenarios, sure — blackmail, an illicit affair, a black market drug ring, a secret exposed — but all of them are simply scenarios at the end of the day. You need evidence to build a case, and all the evidence around Price goes skittering between the floorboards when the lights come on.

Carter sucks in a lungful of smoke. Then he exhales it into Price’s face. The doctor scrunches his eyes closed but doesn’t cough, seemingly having learned his lesson from last time. Carter stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray. 

Price opens his eyes, glaring at him. With the depth of those worry lines, Carter wonders if the doctor has ever tried a smile on at any point in his life. He watches as Price returns the ashtray to the other side of the room and takes the opportunity to clear a space off of the man’s desk where he can sit. 

Price sets down the ashtray. He straightens up. He adjusts his coat, then his glasses. Tucks a few stray hairs back in place. The preening is such a bold, amateur display of weakness that Carter knows it’s intentional — for someone like Dr. Price, it has to be intentional. The man’s an actor; maybe not in the same greasepaint-streaked way that Carter enjoys, but one can always recognize a fellow performer. 

Deprived of his cigarette, Carter picks at the dead skin of his nail as he watches the doctor cross the room back to him.

“Detective,” Dr. Price says evenly, a renewed sense of professionalism that feels akin to breaking the spine on a new book; this is business now: “What exactly did you come here for?” 

Carter smiles briefly. If they're playing this game, he’ll play along.

He pulls up his pant legs to perch on the edge of the doc’s desk, leans to favor his good hip, crosses his ankle over his knee. He exaggerates a bit as he runs a finger around his lips in thought, head tilted to observe Price from under the brim of his hat. The doctor just glares at him dispassionately, his gold-rimmed lenses partially obscuring his eyes. 

“Thought you could give me a look over,” Carter says. No reaction. “Be a shame if I made it this far only for that Trotzky of yours to kill me with sepsis.”

Price’s lenses flash as he turns away with a snort. 

“Mir – Madame Rake is not a Trotzky ,” he says stiffly, the slang rolling awkwardly on his tongue, “and if you were septic, you’d’ve better luck staying home and calling your actual doctor.”

“Don't have one,” Carter says, still trailing a finger absentmindedly around his mouth. Dr. Price gives him a sharp look at his answer, watches Carter's finger circle his lips for a round, and then quickly looks away again, gaze going to the ceiling.

“What do you mean, you don't have one?” Price demands, his voice pure, impatient acid. Then he swallows, nervous, still half-turned away. “You get injured enough I’d have thought you had someone on personal retainer,” he continues, his tone just as callous as before. He goes back to doing something with his equipment, putting it away, but that doesn't matter a flea when he's avoiding looking at Carter, and when that muscle is tensing in his jaw. 

“Nah. Fuzz like me don't make enough to afford a personal sawbones,” Fyn says complacently, but his whole body has lit up with that familiar, warm tingle. Gotcha.

That repressed emotion there — Price had waited until he could hide it, or try to hide it, but that’s reaction. That’s response. Carter shifts his weight a bit, eager, and winces as the movement really does pull on the mostly-healed stab wound in his thigh. 

“Maybe you should consider it,” Price says, straightening from whatever meaningless task he'd chosen to keep his attention busy. “In any case, I’m afraid I'm closed for the day. You’ll have better luck checking the Sisters of Mercy for your…ailments.” 

“I don't need no Sisters,” Carter says. It could be time for a gamble. How much has Price put down already? What will it take to get him to go all in, not fold at once? Threats had worked last time, but there's the Madame to consider. Carter cocks his head to the side. “Just a quick check-up. Least you could do, doc, seeing as you’re the reason I got stabbed in the first place. I'm an officer of the law, and all. Could be considered impeding an investigation.” He clicks his tongue like a disappointed mother. 

That gets under the doc’s collar, alright. He whirls on Carter, flushed with fury, and spits out, “ You’re the one who–!” before he catches himself and takes a deep, shaky breath. 

“Is that what this is?” Price asks after a beat. 

“Is what what this is?”

“Blackmail,” he continues, “extortion. You viol— you harass me.” His face sours as he corrects himself, still obviously not the word he wants. ‘Violate’ makes him sound too weak and complicit, but ‘harass’ leaves something out. Carter doesn't miss the slightest shiver that runs down the man’s spine, though. “You strip me of my dignity and my image, and all for what? Free medical care from some back alley doctor? I have to laugh, detective.”

“I didn't say free,” Carter corrects. The fact that the doctor seems to believe he views the place as some back alley butcher shop speaks more about Price than it does Carter, however. Interesting.

“Then you can make an appointment , just like everyone else. I'm only one man with only so much time.” Price finishes, or abandons, whatever he's doing with his tools and moves to the desk to tidy the files Carter had shoved aside to sit. Part of it is obviously nerves — the poor man is clearly accustomed to keeping his hands busy — but Carter wonders if another part is a bold display of nonchalance. To suggest that the detective bores him, even. 

Carter pulls his leg a bit higher, nudging a few more papers out of their neat stack. “That’s real interesting, doc.” 

Price pauses. “What is?”

“That you'd want me to come back in daylight hours,” Carter says. He’s really mourning the loss of his cigarette now, having nothing to chew on while he thinks, so he reaches over and plucks a nice fountain pen from the documents to fiddle with. Though polished and expensive-looking on the outside, uncapping it reveals the nib worn and rusted, well-used. “You make a habit of mingling with the fuzz? I mean, it's smart, I'll give you credit. Play nice and the law keeps off your tail, right? But I can't imagine your clientele approves. That woman who left before me seemed nervous enough, and I doubt she even realized I was police. How old was she — late teens, early twenties?”

It's a bluff, obviously. The woman Carter had passed on his way in gave no indication of anything about her besides her gender, and even that isn't a guarantee when it comes to Price and his clientele. But it's a logical guess for someone nervous about being seen at a place like this, and her mannerisms and clothing gave enough of a description to remove the possibility of being just another of Price’s whores. Middle class, but not well off. Educated enough to have manners. Family expectations, disappointment, crisis — he knows how it goes. 

Price glances at him, expression purposefully neutral. “That's confidential,” he says evenly. “Even you should know that, detective.”

Whatever nerve he's struck has got Carter’s mind humming like a double bass at a jazz club. He knows he's onto something here. Now the trick is playing the tune right, getting Price to sing for him without snapping. He digs his scarred, calloused fingers a little deeper. 

“She wasn't a whore,” he continues. “I know whores when I see ‘em. Most of them ain't half bad, either.” 

He thinks. He pushes a few more pieces together with another satisfying thrum of a chord. “Decent family, right? Has money but isn't wealthy. Should have enough to go somewhere more professional than here, but she doesn't. Why is that, doc? She a gambler who lost all her money? A drunk? Wrapped up in something she shouldn't be?” 

No, that's not it. While all interesting possibilities, he's just padding the narrative — a buildup to the inevitable dramatic reveal. “Fooling around with the wrong people, maybe?”

Price halts his sorting. The tendons in the back of his hand tense, twist. Bingo .

The detective grins wide. “That's it, isn't it? A summer fling with a rake. Ill-advised, sure, but she's young — she’ll be different from the others. What'd he give her, doc, a disease, or a baby?”

Price’s hand slams against the desk, loud enough to make even a hard-worn man like Detective Carter flinch. The doctor stares blindly down at his files, face colored in a silent, simmering fury, before turning on the detective. Price is tall and slender even on a bad day, but he looms over Carter now like the shadow of yesterday's whiskey-tinged regret. 

He doesn't say anything. Maybe he can't think of anything to say. Maybe he's not saying anything on purpose, just letting the threat sink in. If the Madame downstairs can make due with just a nail file, then an ol’ sawbones like him can do much worse, much cleaner. Carter reckons that this here is the moment that he's meant to make a quick exit. 

The detective leans over and tips Price’s chin up with his index finger. The doctor jerks his head back, face livid. 

“I'm not after your clients, doc,” Carter says. “In fact, I think you're doing a real service to the community. But you ought to remember what I am.”

“I assure you, detective,” Dr. Price says, his voice trembling with barely controlled rage, “I know very well who and what you are.”

“Nah,” Carter disagrees warmly, “I think you forgot for a second, there. Asking me to make an appointment. I don't think you want me around your clients, and you don't want them around me. I waltzed in here a bit too easy, doc, and you let your guard down. Well, I won't lie and say that wasn't my intention — but you oughta have someone looking out for your interests, I think. Someone sympathetic.”

“And I suppose you're the man for the job,” Price says through his teeth. 

“I might be,” Carter shrugs. “Could keep my pals off your back. Redirect attention.”

“And I suppose this is some sort of quid pro quo you're proposing,” the doctor replies, his voice going quiet. “Protection money. I should have known.” 

He sounds resigned, almost disappointed. Carter notes the way his anger has gone back to a simmer — carefully controlled once more. The doc has a tight leash on his emotions, Carter can give him that. 

“I'm sorry, detective, but I'm not interested in…paying you off,” Price says, restacking his papers. His hands aren't shaking as much now, either. “I’ve only recently gotten out of a similar situation, you see, and I'm not eager to enter another.”

“You’ve got me all wrong, Doctor Price,” Carter says, although he regrets a little that he hadn't played that angle — it might have been an effective one. “It’s a genuine offer, no strings attached. Like I said, you're doing good work.”

“Then again, detective,” Price says, “ why are you here? ” 

“I think it's in both our interests to put all our cards on the table,” Carter says, shifting his weight again so he can turn to meet Price's eyes. He's figured it out, now, see. Why he is there. It took long enough to work out that little personal puzzle.

A few more papers drift off the top of the nearest stack like flakes from a snowdrift. Price doesn't bother trying to catch them. He's curious, too.

“Please,” Price says, voice tight and dangerous. 

“You’ve got a good thing going here, and I'd like to see you keep that,” Carter says. “I've got a bit of power in this city, in that I've got access to a lot of channels, y’know? And I'll be honest, doc, I get in more than a few scrapes. I’m not one of those folks that can afford a house call every time some juiced-up sap takes a swing at me. Maybe I stop by here some nights, after hours. You help fix me up and keep the Madame off my back, you get a little extra in the bank, it's a win-win for you.”

“You genuinely just want…medical care,” the doctor says slowly, his eyebrows raising. His worry lines crease across his forehead and around his eyes. “At a reduced rate, I suppose.”

“Nah,” Carter says. “Full price. Somebody gotta pay it, and don't tell me your lost dames are paying full rate.” Carter leans forward, over the desk. “You wanna know what's in it for me? Professional attention, that's what. Less chance of losing a limb to gangrene. And I get to see your face while I'm at it, so that's a win-win to me, doc.” 

Carter considers Price a minute. The doctor is still processing his words, looking for the loophole, the catch. Carter sucks his teeth and decides. Cards down. Time to lay out his whole hand. 

“You ever been fucked like a man, Price?” he asks. 

He's rewarded by seeing the doctor lose his composure again. Price goes pink, then scarlet. One of his hands nearly slips out from under him. 

“I – I beg your pardon?” he requests, voice going high enough to actually sound feminine. 

“Do I need to ask it again?” Carter asks. He drums his fingers on his knees, acting casual while his blood fizzes to life. “Doctor Price, I was wondering –?”

“I – no – shut up!” Price stammers back at him. “You – that is frankly none of your business –”

“Not by a man – though that's part of it,” Carter explains. “By a man, as a man.”

“...And that is what you're really volunteering for, is it?” Price spits out with a slightly hysterical laugh of disdain. “Offering to…to be the other party, as it were. Medical attention, and – and –”

“Yeah,” Carter says, not beating around the bush this time, “I am. Volunteering. If you haven't had the pleasure, that is; might as well be someone decent at it.”

Price makes another sharp, slightly hysterical laugh before recovering himself. “Such humility,” he says dryly. 

“When's the last time someone took proper care of you?” Carter persists as Price moves back around the desk and heads for the door. “C’mon, doc. You needn’t worry about ending up like one of your clients – I don't take those kinds of risks.”

“Well,” Price says, and then doesn't seem to have any other retort prepared. “You. I don't — this isn't — You’re, you're entirely correct that I won't, because you won't be–”

His gaze is drawn almost magnetically to Carter's lap. He takes on another shade of scarlet and shakes his head. 

“Maybe it's you who have forgotten what you're dealing with,” Price says. He swallows. “You know I'm not…I'm not a man.” He shivers as the words leave his mouth. There's a wild bit of panic in his eyes now — doubt, maybe. A silent fear that the detective will agree with him. “I can very much become…in the family way.”

“What part of fucking you like a man don't you understand?” Carter asks. “C’mon, doc. It's not gonna be an issue. There are some old, tried-and-true ways out there. If I may be crude, you got more than one hole to fuck.”

Price stares at him. He gapes for a moment, before saying, “Detective, you are aware I don't have a prostate, aren’t you?”

God, Carter thinks, eyeing the man, Price is a tall drink of water, alright. One of those matchstick forms that's all the rage with the New Women, which is a little more evidence of Price being a certain kind of transvestite since he's not taking advantage of it. 

“A what?” he asks, when he remembers that Price had asked a question. 

The doctor’s mouth thins. “The thing that makes the kind of intercourse you're proposing — you know.”

“Do I?” Carter asks. He can't tell if Price is trying to bluff him or not.

Price huffs through his nose, exasperated. He looks down his nose at Carter in a way that reminds him of a parent looking down at an unruly child. It would be amusing if Price were doing it on purpose, but Carter is genuinely lost at what the good doctor is getting at. Honestly, he’s not sure the doctor knows what he’s getting at himself.

“Are you…” Price thinks, treading carefully with his words. He pulls at a dry bit of skin on his lip with his teeth. “Detective, are you a homosexual?”

Carter snorts. He can’t help it — the idea that the doctor is nervous to ask him which way he swings is funny after he’s just propositioned the man. Carter relaxes a bit, shrugging. 

“Can be,” he says easily, because for all his piss poor attitude, the doctor is easy to talk to. “On occasion. Not exclusively, though.” Men, women, it doesn’t really matter to him; it’s just sex at the end of the day. And if he gets a good time and a bit of information out of the affair, then…well. 

Price’s mouth twitches. “You’ve had…relations with men, then?”

“Sure,” Carter says.

“And with women?”

Carter grins at him. A niggling voice in the back of his head tells him to begin regaling the tales of his many affairs aloud, just to fluster Price more, but he reigns it in. He’s had sex with men, with women, with men in women’s clothing, and with women in men’s clothing. The good doctor isn’t exactly a stretch for someone like Detective Carter to take interest in, even if he has a bit of a different tone from his usuals. 

“Of course,” Carter says. “ You ever had sex with a woman, doc?”

The leash on Price’s emotions goes slack once again, the doctor’s face flaring red. He stutters, clicks his jaw. “That — that’s not — that is highly irrelevant, detective.”

“Never got curious?” It’s difficult to imagine Price actually taking the lead in fucking anyone, but Carter knows there are plenty of women who enjoy taking the reigns. 

“ No . I mean — that’s not — I don’t…I don’t tend to seek out…intimate relations, I suppose,” he says, words losing steam the longer he keeps rambling. 

Carter raises his eyebrows. “You the religious sort, then? Didn't take you for the type.”

“I'm a professional,” the doctor snipes back at him, but it's a bit weak. Price clears his throat several times and goes back to his desk, his hands flicking over pages as if he's looking for something. Looking for his dignity, probably. Carter doubts he’ll find it among the files of fallen women and mistreated flappers.

Carter wonders if that discomfort is simply because of disinterest or if it’s related to yet another of Price’s ever-so-slow to be revealed insecurities. A fear of being found out, maybe. A fear of rejection. It’s a little sad, if the detective thinks about it that way; he knows he could find at least ten people at the right speakeasy who would flock to the man like fruit flies to fungus. Maybe he’ll introduce Price to one of those places, if all of this works out. 

For now, though, he’s too busy poking at the doctor’s raw, exposed underbelly and seeing which buttons bring out the claws. 

“What’s that make you then, doc?” he asks, genuinely curious about the answer. “Looking to settle down with a wife someday? Surely not a husband, with all your concerns. Can't see you being a kept man — though they say marriage changes folks. What’ya say, Price? You a fairy like me? Confirmed bachelor?”

The doctor gawks at him, hands going still. He chews on the question for a moment, eyebrows scrunched, face twitching and contorting into indescribable expressions covering a vast range of uncharted and undocumented emotional turmoil. “I— it doesn’t—” 

The doctor stops himself, shakes his head, and redirects back to his original point, voice slightly higher. “You are aware then, detective, that people with your…anatomy, and people with mine have different methodologies of stimulating sexual pleasure. Like the clitoris, for example—”

“If you’ll remember, Mr. Price, I’ve got a pretty good handle on how the clitoris works,” Carter says. “We’ve been acquainted.” Oh, he’d gotten well acquainted with the doctor’s clitoris during his interrogation, that’s for sure. Price must remember that, too, because he doesn't even try to correct the detective on the use of his title. “Maybe what I’m proposin’ is a little less conventional than what you’ll find in the traditional marriage bed, but I’ve been around the bend enough to know how to put my dick in a hole.”

“Which is exactly my point,” Price grits out, the embarrassment finally burning away back into frustration. “Your experience with anal penetration lies solely with men , with people with prostates , which I do not—”

“I didn't say that, first of all. I told you: I make a practice of ensuring there's no outcomes of my fun,” Carter interrupts. “That means women, doc. Second of all, you keep babbling on about these medical technicalities, and I don't know what the hell you're on about. I'm not the one who went to med school.”

“What do you mean, ‘medical technicalities’–? ”

“‘Anal penetration’ this, ’prostate’ business that. I don't know what that is,” Carter says honestly. If the man is going to run his mouth to beat a racehorse Carter might as well get some actual information out of it. “The point is it's fun, it feels good– that's it.”

Price pauses. The detective watches as the worry lines unknit themselves from his face, tugging away a good ten years with them as he looks up. His blank expression is more unsettling than any threat he’s spilled this evening, because despite the tight grip Price keeps on his emotions, this one truly lets nothing through.

“You don’t know what the prostate is,” Price repeats, the flat tone of his voice doing little to betray what might be going through his mind at the moment. The detective shifts, adjusts, lets his leg fall to the floor instead of continuing to tug on it. That older injury in his hip is just beginning to bare its teeth.

“Look, doc, no offense,” Carter says levelly, “but you seem to be doing a lot of dancing around what I call a very simple question.” A thought strokes him, too tantalizing to pass up. He leans his chin into his fist. “You ever take etiquette classes? Hit the dance halls?” The doctor’s probably too gangly for a modern lindy, but Carter can almost imagine him attempting a waltz, stiff as a board.

Price still stares at him. His mouth twitches. “You don’t know what it is, and yet…” The doctor snorts in actual humor. It’s so jarring of a reaction, and lightening fast, that Carter pulls back to watch the doctor’s face morph into genuine, awed amusement. Then it’s gone a second later, replaced with the same baseline stubbornness as usual. Price straightens up, adjusting his lapels.

“Detective,” he says, “have you ever been on the receiving end in your affairs with men?”

Carter smirks at him. “Is that a requirement to hold a homosexual card? Well, shucks. Guess I'm not as much of a libertine as you take me for.”

It’s a joke, obviously, but it seems to be whatever Price was looking for. A slow, controlled smile spreads across his lips but fails to reach the neatly polished frames of his glasses. It's just as sterile as Carter could have expected.

Carter watches as the man walks over to one of his filing cabinets, pulls open the top drawer, and removes a clipboard from the folders. He looks over it as he speaks again.

“You know, typically I conduct a full physical on my new patients. Gives me a sense of what I’m working with,” Price says mildly, intentionally even. He looks up from the clipboard and over to Carter. “And you did come all this way, detective.”