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You give him your gun.
You don't want to. You shouldn't. But you do. Because despite yourself, you've come to trust him. Because you've seen him use his insanity as a tool and you want to believe that's what he's doing now, that he'll get the information you need out of this stunt somehow. Because you want to solve this case, want to put these arrogant, thuggish men in their place. Because you want to win.
You give a suicidal man your gun, in a room full of enemies ready to taunt and dare and calmly encourage to him do what he threatens to do, and you know, too late, that the old man Theo is right. He is entirely capable of it. If there was any doubt in your mind, it's gone the moment his lips meet the barrel. He might be telling himself he's bluffing, but you know otherwise. You've seen that look in his eyes before. On rooftops. On the faces of men charging directly, unwaveringly at armed and panicking officers. In the eyes of some of those officers, too. It's not a look of pain or desperation or madness. It's something much harder to overcome. Resignation, perhaps. An anticipation of relief.
And there is no one but you to talk him down. You, who have nothing but simplistic rationality to offer: This isn't necessary. This isn't helping. We'll solve the case, don't worry.
You actually believe, for a moment, that that might be enough. That it might actually be about the case.
He doesn't even look at you as he pulls the trigger. Somehow, that almost makes it worse. As if he's stealing something, not only from himself, but from you. As if he owed you something -- some goodbye, some moment of connection, some unimaginable unrealized future -- and has chosen to deny it to you. It's a terrible, unworthy thought, one that, mercifully, you barely have time to form before your senses force your attention back to the reality in front of you. The gunshot still ringing in your ears. The dripping, viscous smears of blood and brain. The thud of a large, solid body hitting the floor, the scrape of your gun falling from limp fingers and sliding across the tile. The sounds of the men around you: gasps, and cries of "Holy shit, the crazy fucker actually did it!," and horrible, horrible laughter.
Mechanically, part of you is already mentally filling out a field autopsy form. Height and weight and cause of death. A name that you still only have Evrart Claire's word was actually his.
The expression on what's left of the man's face hasn't changed at all. Somehow, that's the thing that makes you want to vomit. Not the blood. Not the brains. Although you can't stop looking at them, anyway. This is my head, he'd said. These are my thoughts. But his thoughts are nothing now, nothing but another mess for the long-suffering cafeteria manager to clean. How can a mind like that be so instantly reduced to this?
Stop it. Stop. Swallow it down. All of it. The vomit, the bile, the image, the thought. The memories of everyone you've ever seen make this transition from thinking, feeling being to inanimate, bloody meat. Everyone you've lost. Everyone you've failed.
It's not about you. It's never about you. You cannot let it be, or you are done.
Only the case matters. Work the damned case.
You raise your eyes from the corpse and look at Titus. "This is bad," you say. Your voice is sharp and even. You note this fact from what feels like a great distance, with no sense of pride. "This is very bad. The RCM does not take the death of one of its own lightly, no matter the circumstances. There will be an extremely thorough investigation now. The police will arrive in considerable force."
"Fuck," comes the voice of Elizabeth from behind you. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!" There are flecks of blood on her clothing. On her face. Her sudden inarticulateness is entirely understandable.
Titus's gaze flickers to her, but only for a moment. "Bring 'em on," he says. "Fuck's it got to do with us, anyway? We never laid a hand on him. Stupid suicidal bastard. Hell, we probably oughta thank him. Now we don't have to listen to any more of his bullshit." He's making a good show of his usual swagger, but there's an edge to it now. He's rattled. Appropriately so. Their "safety in numbers" plan is suddenly very much at risk.
It won't be enough to make him crack. Not a man like that. But it doesn't need to be. He isn't the only one here.
You meet the eyes of the other Hardie Boys, one by one. You are calm. You are cool. You are not going to vomit. Your hands will not shake. You are not about to scream.
These are strong men. But you are stronger. You have to be. You have always had to be.
"They will come in force," you repeat. "And they will discover the truth. This man--" You gesture towards the body. It grins up at you obscenely. A smile with an empty hole behind it. "This man has just given them a very personal reason to care about what's happening in Martinaise." Who knows? It might even be true, despite the way they spoke to him on the radio. "Whatever you're covering up here, is it worth it? Truly?"
They look back at you. Some of them are cold, controlled. Giving nothing away. That's fine. It's fine. All you need is one. And there is more than one, now, with doubt and horror in his eyes. One of them will break, you are certain of it, and then the others will follow. Even Titus won't be able to stop it.
And then everything will be fine. As it always is. All you have to do is keep going.
Because the alternative...
Don't look at the body, don't look at that troubled, brilliant, ridiculous brain spattered all across the room, don't think about yourself, your failure, your guilt, don't think about what might have been, don't face it, don't feel it, don't ever let any of it in.
The alternative needs to be unthinkable.