He knows the procedures, could recite them word for word if pressed to do so at any given time. He has known nothing but the Order for as long as he can remember, raised among it, practically born into it. The disappointment in his partner's gaze brings an uncharacteristic spark of anger, that the man across the table from him should be so brazen as to act disappointed in [i]him[/i], but the only sign of his indignation is a brief clenching of his jaw. It passes, and he waits a few moments to be sure he for certain has full reign on his temper before speaking.

"No way of knowing." Rickard repeats, and the words taste foul in his mouth. He doesn't believe this, refuses to put blinders on himself for the sake of being righteous. He shouldn't say what comes to mind next because he really doesn't want to engage Septus in another argument, but he can't stop himself. 
Sometimes even his his own self-discipline breaks down. 

"Was it truly a lack of knowledge, Septus, or a lack of patience?" Had they taken more time, would they have saved a couple dozen lives? Could they have? Rickard thinks so. He wonders if Septus genuinely believes they put as much time as necessary into the investigation. He hopes so; the alternative, that his partner simply cares so little for human life, is disturbing.