Light Up (Dresden Files)

[Bladestar123]

When did it happen, you wonder, that the people around you started to resemble snakes. The heavy breathing, the intense glares, and the too warm rooms making every meeting an unpleasant one. When, you wonder, did you start to lose the feeling of camaraderie that working with your partners brought you, and begin to notice the cool glares the upper management sent you and the rest, licking their lips with those dead eyes and stout bellies.

The boardroom was cold. You wilt under the heavy glare of the Assistant Chief, his displeasure boring through 6.6 mm of bone to give you a headache. You don't even consider looking up and making eye contact with any of the men in this room.

The quiet whisper echoes in the silent room, making the wood paneling shiver slightly. "Where's the aide?"

Another man grunts. "It's Tuesday."

Empty laughter rattles around an emptier room, chair after leather chair swiveling in the artificial breeze. You fix your eyes on the grey patterned carpeting, hoping that one would just choke on his beard. Maybe the nerd in the blue coat, he looked disgustingly proud of his outfit.

"It's a wonder the man is ever done with his job, with how much he buries himself in it."

"Now, now, this meeting is strictly off the records, there's no need to give the man gaffe for doing his job. This is a favor, after all."

It's unhealthy, you've been told. Something about repression, pushing back dread not actually helping.

Maybe so. But maybe you just wanted an excuse to drink and keep drinking. A bottle a day could convince people you were coping but stable, and you didn't need to bother with the frilly shit they forced the suckers who accepted help into.

You just really needed something to keep you steady.

"The mayor getting involved in this strikes me as...excessive? Does he really have an opinion on this...?"

"Hardly, but his voice isn't one we can ignore. The Chief claims the Mayor informed him-"

"-of a somewhat reluctant interest, yes. The man has no choice, the public has been vocal about their priorities."

Someone needed to bear accountability, and that man be you. Willingly enough, mind you. Especially since you were the only one capable of doing so.

It doesn't help that everyone else but you refused to admit what happened was real. That it meant nothing.

The badge on your chest never felt lighter. For all that it seems meaningless as a symbol at times, you wanted to believe that it had worth. The light shining off City Hall is cold under the fluorescent light, so goddamn shiny you think you can see all 5 men reflected on its surface.

"Well then, that settles that matter I suppose. Re-election is right around the corner after all."

"Re-election? Bit early to call that isn't it?"

"As early as any foregone conclusions can be determined."

"Is it really?"

Their faces shine between the pillars, and you snicker quietly at the implications, hoping against hope that no one is shooting you a knowing glance. You choose to not look up and find out, instead casually cracking your neck and letting your 5th yawn of the evening bring your head slowly back up.

Your eyes dart nervously between the men, and it's with the lightest sigh of relief that you fail to make eye contact.

"Enough. The aide will be making his way here shortly and we can proceed with this...discussion, I suppose."

"Ah yes, I'd nearly forgotten."

"You're not on the golf course yet, keep up."

"No, if I was I'd have you holding my balls, wouldn't I?"

More laughter.

You sink a little deeper into your chair, before sliding slowly back up, reluctant to allow yourself even that relief.

"And where is the subject of this evening?"

"Presenting himself. Down there, at the end of the table."

"Young, isn't he? Was it really him? Who authorized his involvement with this in the first place?"

"Down boy. Detective Arden requested his assistance on part of his investigation. The rest...well. That's why we're here, isn't it?"

"Be fair, he has a clean record and a good head. He'll do fine."

"Now who's jumping the gun?"

Then, one turns to eye you. Steel-brush hair over a stern jaw would have painted a dour picture, if not for the deep crow's feet about his eyes and a telltale mustard stain tucked away under a buttoned coat sleeve. He looks at you with more amusement in his eyes than in the whole of your current person, and says nothing. The pit in your chest opens deeper, and it's hard not to resent the man for it.

Your new boss, praise be to his exalted self, introduced himself earlier. SIU, was what he called it, the Special Investigations Unit. The brand-new department opened by the Mayor himself in conjunction with the Police Chief in response to the public's demands. Too many "ghost sightings" could be suppressed, but when things escalated to supposed "ghost killings", well, solutions were demanded. You were on a related case yourself, assisting one of the Detectives with the area around a scene, before you...

Well. You suppose you certainly found what you were looking for, or at least something damn close to it.

See, you remember. You remember the moment that these men started eyeing you like snakes, and what led to it.

[ ] You found a hooker dragging a corpse behind a dumpster
[ ] The gang member you were tailing to a bust gave you the strangest look of your life
[ ] You cut a deal in a dark alley you shouldn't have approached, especially with two birds already in the back of the cruiser
[ ] You solved a case you probably shouldn't have meddled in, and reaped the benefits
[ ] You chased a lead no one else believed existed, and found something you regret

Maybe if they asked your colleagues, they would have said that you weren't the sort of man to believe things like that. Flights of fancy, brief flashes of insanity and waking dreams, these things are for other men. Not for you, they might say. But everyone has a little something in the past, something they don't like to share. Or someone.

[ ] A paranoid cousin who always insisted there was something more out there, shaking in fear and buried in evidence he insisted was true
[ ] An old carnie who spent too much time drinking on the street and making fortunes for the needy and desperate
[ ] A priest that raised you with tales of demons, angels, and all the beasts in-between
[ ] Your grandma, old and withered in her rocking chair and clutching her carved rosary to her chest, whispering words in a language no one knows
[ ] Your slightly odd friend who caused strange things to happen ever since you met them, until they went missing one summer, never to return

Now, some details. The character you choose as your "support" goes in order of least to most aware of the supernatural. The more supernatural a support you choose, the more likely they are no longer in your life, in exchange for giving "you" more information regarding the supernatural to start. The ones with a weaker grasp, in exchange, are more likely to be around, and can also continue to grow and perhaps aid you, should you or they wish for such a thing. Everything else, is up to you.

 

[Bladestar123]

The meeting room grows colder as 12 eyes narrow their focus onto you. A few hands begin to ruffle papers, flipping through documents to suitably relevant places. You have a feeling your whole life could be printed on those pages, and not even fill a quarter of the itinerary.

You find it difficult to swallow, despite the fact that you are here of your own volition. Although, considering the fact that the alternative is to be punished for taking a drugged up swerve off the main road and through a couple of alleys, you'd really rather you get your side of how you ended up battered and bloody outside the shattered wreck of your squad car.

Frankly, it's a long story, and not one you can say you're particularly comfortable talking about, especially since your story involves-

"A serial killer."

The words are delivered flatly by the pinched face of the Mayor's Aide. He'd seemed quite comfortable here, easing into his seat between the Police Chief and the Head of Internal Reviews with practiced ease, muttering apologies and assurances all the while. Indeed, he seemed altogether too comfortable with the men for some of their comfort, who appeared to grow distant with his approach. That is, until he was given what may have been tacit proof of the incompetence of the men he sat between. His face draws taut, even as his eyes seem to brighten thoughtfully. The other men grow gloomy, faces darkening in knowledge that the mayor would be hearing of everything that would occur here. Your new boss turns to you with a warning look behind his genial expression, and hastens your explanation.

"I found evidence. Evidence that linked-"

"Baxter, Annabeth, born March 13th, 1954. Dead," the Head of Internal Affairs interrupted hoarsely, steely eyes glancing over at you, "August 12th, 2003. Widower and waitress, former wife to Baxter, John D. On August 9th, 2016 her neighbors reported her missing, and the smell of rotting food emanating from her single-story home. On August 10th, 24 hours after multiple reports were filed, a patrolman, one," and here all eyes turn to you. "Officer David S. Hawke, was contacted and told to investigate. The rest follows as such: you visited the place of residence, found the body, and got sick - we found a puddle of vomit contaminating the front lawn, and DNA analysis showed it belonged to you. Following such, you were found 8 hours later, bloody and bruised outside your shattered car, slightly anemic, and with pupil dilation consistent with painkiller usage."

The feeling of disapproval builds, as the papers are put down, and all eyes return to you. The man continues. "However, we found no such drugs in your system, and the bruising is inconsistent with a car crash. Pinpoint contusions and microfractures were more consistent with records of beatings laid by heavy weapons. You are here," and his voice raises, "because you have indicated that you do have a story to tell, and we have decided to give you a chance to acquit yourself before we take action."
"Now," the Mayor's aide, waves you on slightly. "Do explain."

You look at his pale hand waving you on, and feel your knees buckle. For all that he looked like a pencil-pusher, the man certainly had the charisma expected of his role. This is so far beyond your paygrade that even being here is giving you a headache.

You finally manage to swallow your fear, and stand up slowly.

"After arriving at the home, I contacted the neighbors, who said they smelled rancid food. I circled around the home, knocking on doors to see if anyone was home. I circled around back, and found the victim's body, suspended in her kitchen, by what appeared to be rope of some kind."

"It was paracord." Your old supervisor finally speaks up, from where he had sat quietly in the back, content to stay out of it. "Cheap paracord." He adds, at your questioning glance. "The victim had another roll in her bedroom, and from clippings we discovered that she had been using it to repair her undergarments." He subsides, black hair slick to his forehead, after having said his piece. As he backs away from the table, belatedly, you realize the man is far more uncomfortable than you realized.

"Clever." The Chief of Staff mutters under his breath. Everyone else politely ignores him.

You clear your throat, and uncomfortably continue after a few seconds of silence. "I decided that this constituted an emergency, and after contacting dispatch, I entered the home." The approving rumble through the room bolsters your confidence, and you continue. "I found the body, and examined her while trying to avoid contaminating the scene. The body itself was strange, almost dried out. Leaf-like was the phrase that came to mind, and I immediately backed off in case it was more fragile than expected. However, there was no blood at the area, or anywhere in the house, meaning that the murder itself likely happened elsewhere."

The Head of Internals is leaning back and conferring with your supervisor, both speaking in an undertone too quiet for you to catch, so you continue with some hesitation. No one else is speaking up at all, so it really is all you feel you can do. That, or break down.

You suspect that would go over poorly.

"It bore an odd degree of resemblance to the serial murders near Manchester. The face in this case remained intact, of course, but the other details bore a startlingly close resemblance." The temperature in the room takes a startling dip, one you expected the second you brought this possibility up. Everyone in the room sits up straighter, and gives you a harder look. Everyone, except your old supervisor, your new Boss, and the Head of Internal Affairs, who merely have grim expressions on their faces. It appears you have sussed out what they were discussing. You speak in a hurry, rushing to get your piece out before they start making conclusions. "The bodies were very nearly dried in identical manners. This one was actually cleaner, since the body itself was nearly completely intact. The hands especially, the fingers were broken in near identical fashions."

The Police Chief puts his hand up, and you immediately fall silent. The room stews in agony for what feels like 15 minutes, before the Police Chief raises his bowed head, greyed temples looking more sunken in than ever. "What did you do then."

You swallow, and whisper, voice cracking. "I woke up 8 hours later, bloody, in front of my car, and no memory of how I got there."

The Police Chief slowly closes his eyes, and the Chief of Staff grits his teeth. "Nothing? No memories, at all?"

You nod slowly, and the look he sends in return is not friendly. "Young man, this is serious. You cannot brush away allegations of this nature with-"

The Head of Internal Affairs cuts him off. "He has no choice. The doctor's report corroborates his tale, and this connection he speaks of is enough to keep him in the force. The problem here, is his failure to report the lead in a timely manner, such that," more sideways looks, you're starting to grow numb to them, "a real detective could have followed up on it."

They couldn't. No one could, not that you knew of. You see, there was another bit of evidence you had found, one you couldn't report for fear of being judged.

"This young man tried his best. He followed procedure, and while we may never know what happened to the lead he tried to follow, we have much to go on. However," the Police Chief intones. "What's done is done, you, Officer David Hawke, led a significant part of the force on what is now shown to be a goose chase, time that could have been spent finding the true culprit. Your actions," he taps the badge on his chest slightly, his wrinkled brown finger cleanly finding the symbols in the stamped metal, and you feel your own press against your chest. "Have consequences Officer Hawke, and in light of your actions, you have been moved to S.I.U., headed by Lieutenant James Roarke within the West Bureau. He personally requested you, so you're being moved under him, instead of being transferred away due to potentially gross negligence."

The man who called himself your boss waves jauntily from behind the Chief's back.

You swallow hard, and relief courses through your veins. No one noticed your hesitation. Very likely, they had dismissed it, and the crucial bit of evidence that guided you.

The body had been drained of blood, but there were no wounds that had done so. You had checked once when examining her from a distance, and once again when you checked the coroner's report after waking.

"You know better than that," your grandmother's aged voice crackles in your ear, and your fist tightens.

You do know better than that.

As you are dismissed, and escorted from the room and back into more natural light, you reflect on what she had offered you in her twilight years.

[ ] Knowledge of strange lights in the night, of creatures of terrible beauty and wisdom that could offer anything at a price
[ ] Knowledge of bloody creatures, skulking in the darkness and always waiting for a chance to pull you in
[ ] Knowledge of magic and folklore, superstitions and rituals to keep oneself safe from terrors unknown

 

[Bladestar123]

[X] Knowledge of magic and folklore, superstitions and rituals to keep oneself safe from terrors unknown

You reach back and massage your shoulder, tense from sitting so stiffly. You refuse to look back at the room you had just been escorted from, the conversation having risen several levels over your paygrade.

Though that could be changing. Any moment. The fast track of life does that to you, gives you hopes you're not sure you can afford.

You snort, and pace down the hall, the rich wood paneling of bureaucracy giving way to a more soothing shade, sunlight beginning to stream through windows left open for people to catch a breath. More and more people begin to appear, moving down the corridor, and you finally relax once you feel suitably buried away.

SIU, the new department you were to be transferred to, wouldn't have this. A new department, specially requested by the mayor and his constituents? You'd be moved to the sterile new departments in the east bloc, recently renovated, recently fumigated, recently evacuated.

Pristine.

The bustle around you almost seems to fade away, the image of beige walls and ergonomic furniture closing in dominates your imagination, and the breeze seems almost as cold as the meeting room you left.

The irony that you are being rewarded for your blatant insubordination is not lost on you, nor is the fact that you are likely to be further promoted for this. You're on the fast track now, in the public eye, with the Board of Commissioners smiling gently down at you from above. A few cases below your belt, and you become the department's poster boy, the shining validation of the Mayor's methods and his stellar cooperation with the Police Force. Maybe even land a cushy desk job in the West Bureau.

The pressure is unreal. The fact that this move is political is not lost on anyone willing to notice, but the value is unquestionable. Politics doesn't necessitate a lack of concern; this was a move that allowed everyone to win.

Everyone but you.

The fact of the matter, was that the Ghost Killings were nonexistent, and everyone knew it. It was a publicity stunt by a tabloid or two, a red flag to try and connect various killings spread out across the South Bureau, a "phantom trail" pointing right at the Valley. It was all nonsense. The break-in's were an expert at lockpicking, the missing valuables were an opportunistic robber, the deaths were a jilted lover or mad psychopath, and the missing flesh those pesky rodents everyone has been demanding the Bureau of Sanitation clean up. All that was needed was a department that could clean it up, and that would be that. And they had it now, the Mayor announcing to the public that by popular demand, a department had been set up to handle the "supernatural" cases on demand, and give everyone peace of mind. People on call to come clean up the mess, and assure them that no, there was no ghost, it was a leak in the ceiling, it was a rat under the boards, it was a tree in the night. Case after case, it would handle it all, and you'd all see how effective your mayor and police force were now, wouldn't you? Vote for your Mayor to be re-elected and don't you forget it. And those tabloids, rumormongers one and all. There were a thousand and one other murders a day; didn't those street rags have something better to do than try and stir public unrest? Hadn't someone up in Northridge spotted Elvis again?

Everyone but you. You knew better.

The dark was terrifying, but you held confidence in your mind, and your caution. You knew enough to handle the spooks in the world, the shades that haunted your grandmother no match for a little preparation. Silver grit, a 15-inch spike of iron, 2 sharpened rowan crosses and a stick of chalk. It would buy you time, time to learn, time to figure out just what the hell you're up against.

The murderer of the Ghost Killings could not be brought to justice. It killed you a little, inside.

The alley was dark, and the dark was terrifying. You cautiously turned the corner, brass shoulders first and in plain sight, taser close at hand. Your service piece is tight to your hip, and you pray to god a time never comes to explain why one of the rounds you were distributed is no longer on your person.

You could only afford to silver-plate one. Highly illegal, and the carved scriptures on the side certainly would do nothing to sell your case. But you needed at least one, just in case.

The round was chambered.

You advanced down the alley.

You continue down the sunny hallway, a sickly smile on your face, greeting people and shaking hands. Honest congratulations are thrown your way, the first recruit into SIU, transferred for outstanding bravery is the message from on high. The memo just came by, and my my, lucky you, don't you forget me, from your palace high up in the sky.

SIU is an unprecedented opportunity. No one wants to work Street, not here. Everyone has a family to go back to, and that desk is a mighty fine distance from anything that prevents you from clocking out at 7:30 on the dot. And you, you lucky lucky man, you who won that lottery, you are the first to benefit. Go handle the spooky stories, go soothe a few nerves, and it's all smooth sailing. No one would begrudge a fellow that victory. That's the story that spread, as soon as it was confirmed that you had more use to the department as a serving member. The memo certainly had gotten around, my my.

Must be a slow day, god bless. Central seemed so much more peaceful than West. Almost a shame to leave, but you needed to pack your things.

The figure that awaited you at the end of the dark alley was shrouded in that terrifying darkness, and he knew it. He stood calmly, and you know he had been aware of your presence for far too long.

But you needed to know. The legends your Grandmother had shared had so very little basis in reality, the guttering embers of her life barely enough to conjure shadows of terrifying beasts in her mind, horrible beasties in the dark she would rave about in her rocking chair. The floor would creak and she would rock, faster and faster, distress fuelling her impassioned calls for endless watchfulness.

But what were they, legends passed down through the ages, of vampires and dhampires, of circles and rituals. Or were they more? You believed they were. You wanted to believe they were.

And here you were. Proof staring you down like headlights. Validation tasted of bile and copper.

Preparation had failed.

No, that was wrong, you were wrong.

You had failed your preparations.

You didn't know enough, the facts presented beyond the scope of your understanding. What you saw there was beyond what you had imagined, and you weren't prepared for it. You needed to know more.

SIU was a red herring, you had no faith in it. But it had value beyond that. You needed information, and this was opportunity like you could only pray for. After all, there were no tolls on the Fast Track, and that meant a whole world of opportunity opened up. Perhaps it's time you finally took advantage of that.

[ ] Go get your things from your old workplace.
[ ] Wait for your boss and speak to him of your responsibilities.
[ ] Hit the streets, you need to find information.
[ ] Hit the internet, you need to find information.
[ ] Gossip with the people around you, surely they have rumors and advice?

 

[Bladestar123]

[X] Go get your things from your old workplace.

You walk outside, and get in your old Corolla. The faux leather upholstery creaks comfortingly, cracking around well-worn stress seams. You stop for a moment, head against the cushion, considering your options. There's no shortage, especially considering that you don't really have a solid pin on the man you are likely to be working for. Despite being Lieutenant, Roarke hasn't really made the rounds, so to speak. He's a relative unknown, and you had only really ever bumped into him around Central. There were rumors however, that he was retired from undercover work, and had recently moved in as his just dues. You're not sure how to take it; a few old friends had left to do exactly that, moving elsewhere, and you had never met someone who had returned. You wonder idly, how has it affected him? He seems well-adjusted, but you know for a fact that so many many men need therapy after such work. Is he - ?

You're taken out of your thoughts as you jam your fingers painfully against the dashboard.

Sucking them, you look resentfully at the dash and it's lack of a radio for your fingers to catch. You were usually on beat at this point, and it felt strange not contacting dispatch.

Well, that made up your mind. Time to clean up while everyone else is out; looking at the time, daily briefing likely ended maybe half an hour ago? It should be pretty empty of patrolmen, so grabbing your stuff won't be difficult. Frees up time for for idle speculation later, anyway.

You kick the car into motion, and you take your time in the heavy traffic. It would be pretty embarrassing having one of your colleagues pull you over, and listening to them bitch about the extra paperwork from your dumb ass is an experience best left to jokes and suppositions.

But even being careful, you arrive smoothly in front of your station around a quarter to 10, a slight guilt in your heart at not being in uniform. You know for a fact that, even in broad daylight, patrolling is as active as ever, and dispatch rarely has a clean board for you in these parts.

You quietly open your door and make your way inside, deeply uncomfortable with the looks of pity some of the passerby give you. Perhaps they decided you weren't a policeman because you were so late, or lacked a bag? Or maybe you really did look that miserable and guilty after all.

Or maybe it was the cold. The snow thawed for the most part, but you see little baby bergs hanging out on patches of grass, yet to succumb. Certainly cold enough for you.

The inside is warm enough to put a mild vindicated smile on your face, and you take off your puffy jacket to Jenna's scandalized look at your choice of outerwear.

You ignore it.

"You shouldn't. That's just unhealthy."

You disagree, frankly.

He rolls dull black eyes, and waves you in. You're not surprised he knows why you're here; this had been in motion since they'd found you bent around your squad car worse than the bloody light pole beside you. Jenna had been the one to spot you waking first, in the ward you had been consigned to alone, and you were glad that the stocky man had been there to intercept some of the more terse conversations that followed with nonessential personnel. It hadn't been the first time, nor were you the first he had stuck himself out for; despite all your feigned dismissal, you have a soft spot for the man and his willingness to put up with some of the bullshit patrolmen bring in.

You've yet to see another being so willing to refill the pot for everyone else.

You walk through, and head to your desk, head down, and hoping no one else notices you. Things had been awkward here since then, and you didn't anticipate many people waving you goodbye.

But one of the people who did, gave you pause; a square-jawed brunette waits somewhat awkwardly by your desk.

You swallow slightly, not anticipating this conversation, but step forward. The other desks are not particularly full, save for a few men doing paperwork. Most of the others have probably already left on their beats.

Mary steps forwards, chewing her lips, and you pause in your movement. She doesn't seem to know how to take this, floundering slightly, before lightly clearing her throat anyway.

"Hey. You...you here to clean up?"

You nod slightly, uncomfortably. It's a short and jerky movement, and so small you worry if she caught it at all.

She waits a few seconds, and then realizes that that is the extent of your response. You flush slightly, struggling with words, but she speaks up first again, eyes slightly cooler. "Yeah, so, you're heading out."

"Y-yeah." You look at her, wondering what this is about.

She looks conflicted. "Yeah. Okay. That's, that's cool." It's not cool, and she knows it. This station alone knows the full extent of what you looked like, and she's not stupid enough to think the resulting promotion is a good thing.

Sighing a little bit, you slide around her as politely as you can manage, and move to your desk. It's not got much, you were never one for a cluttered desk. But what's there is... well. A crusty coffee mug, a picture frame, three pens, paperwork, some messages, some cables, a spare nail clipper you had forgotten one day and pad of paper. All of you, laid bare, save for the loose wrappers and disposable plates you'd already removed. You slowly begin shifting it to a little purple basket you kept under the table, moving every minute detail with care, so it's organized neatly. Better to be clean than quick.

"Are...are you sure?"

"What?" You blink.

She looks a little deeper. "Are you sure, you want to do this?"

"Don't have much of a choice, do I?"

"That's horseshit." She snorts. "You have plenty of options David. You just don't want them."

Your silence is answer enough, and she looks a little more comfortable. A familiar arrogance has returned to her eyes now that you're on the backpedal, and this comforts you too. You shift the basket from your set to the tabletop, the last of your preparations functionally complete.

"What's your point then?"

She looks around, and a quick look shows the officers shoving their heads back into their papers. This fails to surprise you, but you notice that she seems almost...bolstered by their reactions. A slight inkling starts to grow, just a vague idea...

She sighs, a deep and gusty breath that somehow doesn't bother you as much as the crust around her eyes. She works the night shift, and you aren't surprised she's tired. What is more surprising, is that she bothered to wait for you. Her kids are usually awake by now, and you've seen what she does to men that keep her from them.

There's something more here, if there was anyone to wait to talk, she would not have been one you expected.

"SIU."

You blink. "What? SIU?"

Her expression twists in the slightest impatience, and you redden a little, hastily speaking up. "I don't know what you mean. What about SIU?"

"Are you sure," she carefully enunciates, "That you want. To go work. For SIU?"

And with that, it's clear. You hadn't realized that knowledge of your promotion maybe not being a good thing would put shade on the department itself. Perhaps that should have been evident - SIU was new after all. Untested. Of course having you be the first recruit would put up alarm bells for people aware of the details. No vets, no sergeant, no one but you.

[ ] "No, I'm not."
[ ] "This is a good opportunity, for me."
[ ] "There's more to it than you think."
[ ] "Don't worry about it."
[ ] "Why do you want to know?"
[ ] "Better than nothing."​

 

[Bladestar123]

[X]

"Are you sure," she carefully enunciates, "That you want. To go work. For SIU?"

You turn to regard her.

"Remember procedure David, did you do the paperwork? Better get those notes down son."
"Work it off David, you're still on the clock."
"David, you missed the girl you stopped by Vernon. Clean that up, Bill's spotting the drinks today, so you'd better hurry."
"That's some piss-poor handwriting Hawke, I hope it doesn't have a patch on your investigative ability."
"Get up son, you need to finish the job."
"Hold it in David. Not in front of them. Stay professional."
"Here's a tip rookie, never let them see you flinch. This is your beat now, act like it."
"Dry those tears. Time enough for them another day."

Your lips move almost on their own.
"There's more to it than you think."

Her eyes lose that hard grey shine, just a moment.

"What do you mean?" She whispers lowly, urgently, eyes searching yours.

You avoid her glance, ducking your head and focusing more on the ground. "You heard me," you say lowly, "There's more to this than what most people realise."

She goes quiet. You dare look back up at her eyes, but they aren't looking at you anymore. They're staring at some point in the distance.

"David, whatever it was that hit your windshield left no fragments and no traces. And before you ask," she says, cutting you off before you can open your cynical mouth, "Bill ran traces on the lightpole, the one you 'hit'. Bent from the car, for sure, but no friction burns on the tires. Bill says that it's probably slick, or water, but the ground was dry under those tires. No moisture or anything."

Her lips quirk up.

"I can believe there's more to it."

You sigh, a little. The order to stay hands-off on the investigation had been passed on almost immediately, and Central had claimed the lead by dint of the accident occurring on the border of the two areas.

Clearly, that had failed to dissuade some of your old partners.

"You shouldn't have done that."

"Plainclothes investigations on our own time are not supervised or hindered as long as the laws are respected."

Translation: she had the head's implicit permission to do so, but he wouldn't admit it.

"No, you shouldn't have done that. You don't know what you're fucking with, in this." You say, a little angry, a little worried.

"Then explain."

"...this is out of your jurisdiction."

Her mouth tightens. Clearly the fact that Central had overrode them to take the case rankled. "That right?"

"That's right. It's in mine."

SIU went unsaid, and she stills.

"Explain."

"...do you trust me?"

She sighs, a little frustrated. "God help me Hawke, but yes. We've served together for a while. You're a steady man, with a clear head."

You swallow. "It's not human."

"What?"

"It's not human, the killer isn't human."

"What the fuck are you talking about David."

"It's. Not. A human. The killer. The thing that killed that woman, that killed all those people up north. It's all one thing, and it's not human."

She stares at you. "Based on what."

"I saw it."

She swallows. "You saw it."

You nod a little. "I did. It assaulted me. I don't remember anything else."

She blows out a gusty sigh.

"Alright David. It's not human." You can see the cogs in her head spinning, and she's clearly struggling to resolve this. "What do you...what did you see?"

"I saw...I saw a shadow." You say slowly. "I saw a shadow, for the most part, that seemed tall and thin. It was in the back of an alley. I got out of my car to investigate, and he turned around, and he was even skinnier than I thought. He looked...bad. Sick, almost. He had more bones than face, and he was scratching at his face.

"I didn't realize yet," you add, seeing the growing discontent on Mary's face. "I didn't realize what he was. He was just there, yanno? Then he came at me. It was fast, so fast I blinked and then he was in front of me, and then he was just beating on me. He was stupid strong too, I couldn't even hold him off. He got three good hits in, and I was out. Couldn't breathe, couldn't do anything, it felt like he'd moved my ribs with some of those hits, just shifted them into my chest cavity. All sharp pain. Last thing I saw were his fucked up teeth, they were rotten and broken as hell, but they were sharp."

Her face contorts, and she appears to be thinking about it. You feel somewhat anxious, but she doesn't respond.

Her face goes slack after a few minutes, and she looks at you. The hard edge in her eyes is completely gone at this point.

"Alright."

You blink.

"Alright David. Alright. I'm willing to believe you-" she holds a finger up. "For now. You aren't the sort of guy to make shit like this up. I can work on this assumption for a while."

She puts a hand to her head, and slowly slicks her hair back, breathing deeply out of her nose.

"I'll need proof David. Better proof, I mean. I'll need to see. For myself."

You nod slowly.

"I'll let you know when I find something."

She sighs in half-relief, half-resignation.
You watch her steadily.

Her hand reaches back, and you tense, deep in your gut, and only relax when she pulls out a radio.

The radio is matte, like all of the ones in the station, but this one is clean. Pristine. Brand-fucking-new, but the sticker on the side tells you that the station already processed it and it's synched to Dispatch.

She holds it out to you, not meeting your eyes. You take it, the hard plastic flexing a little under your grip.

"Your boss contacted the station. You're on leave until next week. He said he needed time to finalize some of the paperwork," she says under her breath.

"Don't waste it."

Your hand tightens around the radio, and she lets go.

---

You nearly slam the door to your Corolla shut, the hurry carrying your momentum so hard you need to brace yourself on the emergency break.

The sharp pain in your wrists punishes you for your poor decision, and you feel a brief surge of helpless frustration that nearly leads to you kicking your car. Then, you actually think, and sit yourself back forcefully, the seat creaking from the force. You gingerly nurse your wrist, the pain distracting you from what you don't want to face.

You think about it for a minute, and then groan, get out of your car, and walk back into the police station with no small impatience.

---

You stare grumpily at the road as you slowly pull out of the station, briefing papers, subpoena, and laptop secured in the Cruiser. This time, you hit your radio successfully, and follow procedure to the letter, Dispatch sounding as staccato as ever.

You were told to aid, which makes you little better than a glorified auxiliary, in and of itself a glorified civvie. What a promotion. You groan, and lean your head against the steering wheel, having stopped on a side street, and let Dispatch wash over you.

-robbery on Marshall, suspect running, armed with switchblade,-

You blink tiredly, maybe, finally, letting yourself feel the full weight of what has happened to you. The men and women you worked with were brave people, but far too much so. Mary had left the offer open, but you were hesitant to take advantage of that.

-three car crash on Pacific and Venice, no injuries but violence escalating-

Your back feels like it's sagging into your rib cage, as you let yourself fold out over your lap and car. Maybe you should though, if stress did this to you. Look at your poor spine, all limp from all that tension. A burden shared is a burden halved, or something like that.

-owner's complaining about potential robbery, possible break-and-enter-

You make a brief muffled sound of protest as the discomfort gets to be too much to bear, and you force yourself to sit back up, head lolling on the cushion. Is this even all-

-pursuit necessary down 80th from Sepulveda, potential murder weapon-

You sit bolt upright and curse.

The siren screams out over the neighborhood, and you make sure you know where you're going, GPS beginning to flash directions. The papers rustle mournfully beside you, and you give the writs a commiserating look. You'll both be doing work tonight.

---

It's bright, and you rise with a weary grunt. Your bleary eyes fail to help you identify the loose clothing beside your bed, and you slip on it, nearly going headfirst into the wall. You brace yourself with your right hand, and howl with pain as your wrist twinges angrily.

What an omen. You grit your teeth, and idly reach over to pat the wooden dresser. Rowanwood, of course, carefully handmade. You'd carved symbols all around its surface, patterns you'd repeated around the bedframe and the windowsill. The window is shut tightly, blinds open to allow natural sunlight in. You'd actually destroyed the mechanism for the blinds and attached them to a bell instead, and then added a little sprinkler full of holy water to the bell tongue. You'd need to replace that, Sunday was coming up. The local Father was always willing to help, if slightly perturbed by your weekly "eccentricities".

No matter, you'd flashed the badge, and he'd accepted your weak excuse of "stress relief". You'll not be entering the confessional though, the guilt from lying to the kind man may actually kill you.

Speaking of things that might kill you...

You sigh, and gaze ruefully at your messy room. And shake your head. Time enough for that later, you weren't in the mood.

You have a week before you are required to present yourself at SIU.

[ ] Hit the streets and start looking for rumors.
[ ] Head to your old station and try going through missing persons reports to find more connections.
[ ] Head to Central and try to contact your boss to leverage some support. (Will involve revealing your personal investigation)
[ ] Head to the crime scene and see if you can find any information.
[ ] Head to the scene of your assault and see if you can find any information.

 

[Bladestar123]

Spoiler: Map thing

 

[Bladestar123]

[X] Head to your old station and try going through missing persons reports to find more connections.

"David."

You get out of your dirty corolla, scowling at the state of the hood. Covered in bird shit it was, great streaks of disgust marring the painfully bright paint. Teach you to park the thing under a tree, you guess. Little bastards. Not once have the birds outside your door cut you a break. Not in the morning, not immediately afterwards. Someday, they'll wake you up too early, and you'll decide enough is enough.

You're excited for that day.

"David."

You turn and smile blandly at Mary, who walked all this way just to greet you. How polite of her. She strides down the sidewalk in great loping steps, police uniform all but snapping in the light breeze, clip-clopping around like someone put a burden on her back, looking more like a harried babysitter than a co-worker. Even the way she stops and crosses her arms at you matches. Careful there Mary, the psychologist they had you meet after the incident said that was confrontational behavior, indicating an unwillingness to communicate or express oneself. Take a man's eye out with those sharp elbows she will, what with the way they're aimed at your face.

"Hi Mary, how are you?"

"David, I'm gonna need an explanation."

Ah, there was the emotional detachment.

"I'm good, thanks. How go the sprogs? Still sniffing their paint sets?"

"David, missing persons reports in LA constitute half our budget. What the hell do you plan on doing? Why haven't you checked the scene of the assault? What if there's some evidence?"

"Oh, don't worry, I remembered. Denny likes the trucks right? Or was that Jacob?"

"David, we need a fucking game plan here. Talk to me."

"I'll bring the cookies, of course. Granny Hawke's best. Should keep the rugrats pacified for a little bit, give you two some rest. You're welcome by the way, how's the senior?"

She sighs, and you can see her irritation warring with the urge to smile. It seems to be irritating her more that the smile wins, but that's your victory right there. You're magnanimous enough not to take it, and that seems to be enough to keep her from manhandling you like one of her little charges.

"Hi Junior, I'm good, the kids are good, David's good."

Not enough to stop her from trying to needle you in return though. You twitch at the diminutive. If Older David weren't such a sweet man, there would be hell to pay for landing you this shit. David Cassidy was an ex-cop who'd been injured in a shoot-out; it was what motivated Mary to cover your ass. "I'll be damned before I see another David show down on my watch," She'd told you. "He wasn't shot down, he retired after a leg injury." You'd told her, but she'd ignored you.

Touchy subject, that.

Not that being shot had stopped her from marrying the man as soon as his retirement paperwork went through. They'd been quietly dating for a solid two decades (against regulations, mind you), you'd heard from some of the seniors. Clucking hens, the lot of them, nosy as all hell. God forbid you keep a relationship secret...

You'd been invited to the wedding for some reason. Mary's side, though the other senior officers were on David the Seniors'. No one other than the two seemed quite sure why you were there, least of all you, but it put a nice pep in Elder Dave's limping gait, and no one had the heart to take that from him or Mary.

She'd been smiling a bit like she was now, actually. A little wistful, a little exasperated. "Come on David. What are you up to."

You roll your neck, and sober a little. "The scene of the assault is out of our jurisdiction, no need to ruffle feathers. We got more to go on, anyway."

You watch her brows furrow. "I pinned the crime to a similar bout of crimes up North. The ones the rags are calling the spooooooky murders. I'm gonna see if I can find more leads."

---

The Ghost Killer. 6 women murdered in very similar ways, with no trace of the murderer. Not even an open window or door ajar, not a blood stain or fingerprint. Slightly different from the "Ghost sightings", but suspected to be tied.

"Mary Li. 26. Unmarried."

The sightings had only really begin in the last year or so, though the murders went back a few years. They happened in different areas as well. The ghost sightings were in the downtown, in gang territory. The killings were residential, almost exclusively.

"Jenny Mira. 34. Widow. Eldest of the women killed."

Not to say there was no trace of their presence. The body was always withered to some degree. Fingers broken, but remnant DNA proved that blood traces existed on the bone shards poking through the skin. The current leading theory was that the killer shattered the fingers and allowed the blood to drain out that way, to prevent a mess. But the holes never quite lined up; the rush of blood should've expanded the wounds with the volume of blood that would need to exit the body. Either that, or it would have taken hours. Days even. That was something no one wanted to acknowledge. Days, bleeding out. There was a chance there. They could have been saved.

No one talked about that.

"Rebecca Tam. 25. Unmarried."

The cherry was always a face chunked out. But no blood. A pleasant shift, one of the older men had mentioned in passing. Does wonders for the night terrors. Get a bigger one to scare the old ones off.

"Regina Tate. 30. Divorced."

Mary looks up at you, from where the two of you are leaning over the report between you. 7 files on the table between you, computer screen flickering cold light over the manila folders. The small meeting room feels devoid of life, despite all that the station had invested in "warm hardwood".

"Helena Carter, and Mary-Elle Davies. Both 28, both unmarried."

Mary groans, and tosses the two folders on the small pile, picking up the last one, and hefting it. "And now...Annabeth Baxter. 47, and married. Face intact. Not cleanly drained, blood is still in the body. You get where I'm coming David?"

You sigh. The connection is more tenuous by the day. But it's there, you're sure of it. The criminal ran because he heard the sirens. You tracked him down because you were confident that what had committed this wasn't human; a human wouldn't have been able to escape. You knew it, knew the death was still fresh the second you saw her face slack in that paracord sling.

But you can't explain how the criminal got so far away. How they knew you were coming and how they got out of the locked house and still made it a block away after hearing the sirens. Not in a way your fellow officers could accept. It wasn't an explanation that could ever see the light of day.

You don't have the answers.

"I know, I know what it sounds like." You push sticky hair out of your forehead, blowing out a deep breath. "But they're connected. I'm sure of it, and if we work based on that assumption for a minute-"

"That takes the case out of our jurisdiction as well." A calm voice interrupts you two, and the boss walks in. Your old supervisor, Police Sergeant Jonah McKinney. He leans in through the frame, and looks at the two of you with tired eyes.

"Be careful about the connections you're drawing there David. Overstep yourself and our friends up above will be sure to swoop down and take the choicest bits for themselves."

Mary turns and tosses him a cocked brow. "Sir, should you really be..."

He steps fully into the room, a brown canvas jacket hanging off his shoulders. "I'm a civilian right now Cassidy, have some respect."

"Sir, that's the thinnest fucking defense I've ever-"

"Manners Cassidy," He chides, a small smile playing about his lips. "Plainclothes are what they are, and a civilian offering advice is never amiss in the force, am I understood?"

"Why the bullshit sarge?" You cut in, wondering why he's dancing around this.

He shrugs. "I'm not allowed to help. The case has legally been passed to a different jurisdiction, and encouraging you is technically grounds for dear, sweet Sgt. McKinney to face a formal reprimanding."

But Jonah McKinney, civvie volunteer with eyes of glass and a heart of burnished gold is under no such restrictions, loud and clear.

"What the fuck are you up to sir." Mary says lowly, looking very much like she's trying not to laugh.

He shrugs tiredly. "I'm interested in what David thinks, and so is God in his Heaven."

You frown. "The Police Chief is invested in this? How?" Why?

"Now, no names, and you can continue your little soiree in peace." He smiles thinly. "David, I need to talk to you later, come see me when you're free."

He walks out of the room, quietly shutting the door behind him and leaving you two in muted silence.

The Chief is interested. Don't fuck this up David.

The words go unspoken, and the two of you choose not to acknowledge it. Instead, Mary sighs, and turns to the computer, jittering the mouse to pull it off the screensaver.

On the screen is a long list of people. Hundreds. So many, many people vanished, just in the past 5 years. Go further back and it jumps up even higher. The acne-scarred mug of what has to be a high-school age student sobers you both, her eyes staring accusatorially from the screen.

Lethargy washes over you, grimacing, you both turn to the screen, and begin trawling down a far too long list.

---

Something becomes obvious the longer you stare at the screen, at inverse proportion to your ability to stare at the screen.

"Why are the number of young women going missing near Westchester so disproportionately high? Inglewood is south, yeah, but that's too far west for the gangs. In fact, look." You pull up the bulletin on missing persons cases, and point out the location. "That's weird. There's no set pattern, but they jump around." You fumble the paperwork, pulling out the list of women, "Yeah, look, Carter then Davies. Carter was near Venice, Davies is near Mar Vista. It's not even moving north, because Baxter was hit near Melrose and Tam was near UCLA."

Mary squints at the screen with reddened eyes. "I'm...not sure. But look."

She points at roughly where Baxter was killed.

"That's another tick against. Every other one was very nearly in the West, but this one is suddenly in the South Bureau? There's no way this guy doesn't think the police are involved, and getting a different bureau involved seems out of character. Look, he's doing a two-step all over the West, he loves it. What's the point of getting us involved?"

You ruffle your hair and groan. This is getting messier.

What the hell do you think is going on?

[ ] "I'm pretty sure the Ghost killings are just red herrings. Big spotlights so the killer can do other things in the background. There's no guarantee that the Ghost Killer limited himself to these big shows, after all, not every set piece goes well. What about the people he couldn't bleed cleanly? We need to look into related cases."
[ ] "I think I was wrong, there may be multiple killers. The similarities could be coincidence, or maybe a message? The two cases are too dissimilar, so we need to look into the possible individual motives of these two, and why they have such similar means."
[ ] "I think Baxter was a killing that someone else left for us, that intentionally mimics the Ghost Killer. They're either trying to get away with a murder by making someone like me assume the Ghost Killer was behind it, or maybe trying to help the killer by getting the police more scattered."
[ ] "I think we're looking at this the wrong way. The only reason that we assumed the Ghost Killer was limited to the West, was because that's where the bodies we found were. But, maybe the killer was just dumping the bodies there. We need to investigate their backgrounds maybe, find where they were going."

 

[Bladestar123]

You drum your fingers on the table, thinking.

"I think," you say, "We're looking at this the wrong way. The only reason that we assumed the Ghost Killer was limited to the West, was because that's where the bodies we found were. But, hear me out here, maybe the killer was just dumping the bodies there."

Mary frowns. "You think? Why would he bother?"

"Because it gives a very different impression," you say. "You even said so yourself, 'he loves it, no way he would venture out'. It makes him seem cocky, almost overconfident, and far more careless. It's advantageous, because it makes us look for slip-ups in places he might not even be."

Mary hums, and thinks.

"That...could be true. I can see that. Alright, let's humor this hypothesis for a minute. What are we looking at? Walk me through this David." She leans back in her chair, wiping a little at her eyes.

You refocus your eyes on the papers scattered on the table. "We're looking at a few things here: Movement patterns, transportation, location. It's not a small hypothesis, but it makes a hell of a lot more sense than draining blood from inside their homes. We need to investigate their backgrounds maybe, find where they were going."

She leans forward, and jabs a finger at you. "There."

You lean back, slightly flustered. "What?"

"Your words. It 'makes more sense'."

"What about them," you frown, slightly defensively.

"Why do they need to make sense?"

You narrow your eyes.

"Why should his actions make logical, or even," her lips curl slightly. "Physical sense? You said this was supernatural. Why would he even bother?"

"To get us off his back," you argue. "He'd love nothing more than us hyperfocusing exactly on what he wants us to see."

Mary jabs the table violently.

"You're ascribing human reasoning to something you explicitly called out as inhuman. Now, I'm not an, a, some expert," she says, hands rising to her head like antennae, "Not like you seem to be, but why this insistence? If he's not human, why would he even give a shit."

You frown, a slight headache pounding between your brows. "I'm not an expert, not hardly. My grandmother was the closest to that sort of thing I know about." You raise one hand to your nape, massaging gently.

"Well then," Mary presses with an edge of slight frustration. "What did she tell you?"

"A lot of what she said was...apocryphal...almost? Legends and stuff. I looked it up, and a lot of it is based on old legends, but a lot...wasn't. The stories about Vampires, and Fairies, and such were wildly divergent, from what little she mentioned. She wasn't keen on talking about them too much though."

Mary blows out a breath, and mutters something unkind under her breath.

You blink innocently, letting it pass uncontested.

"What were we talking about?"

You both sit in frustrated silence, before Mary snaps her fingers, and says "Inhuman."

You shrug. "Most of the legends I've heard ascribe human-level or greater intelligence to the more dangerous ones. Something about having the ravenous killgorer in the dark whisper a sweet soliloquy of the nature of man and god really tickled their jimmies."

"You buy it?"

"I buy it."

Mary groans. You can't even blame her. Having a monstrous murderbeast running around would, at least, imply a human connection of some sort. Some connection, a lead to follow up on. This risks destroying even that slight hope.

You cough in embarrassment, "Anyway, look, this thing obviously can't be doing what it does because it's mindlessly eating. Tying people up feels too...elaborate for that? This was an entire rig, something implying a great deal more planning than 'I hunger'."

She leans back, not letting off on her look, and you squirm a lot.

Truth hurts though, and you need her to see this. This is happening. This isn't something she can rationalize away, not if she wants the truth. If you let her back off now, she'll be no better off than the reporters you'll need to help explain this away too.

You're not stupid, you know how this supposedly works. You've been told how to handle this. Secrets, care, and lies. Grandma was explicit on this, "Don't speak of this in public, not if you want to be safe from their influence" she'd say. You know how this works, you do, and you need Mary to trust you on this.

She bites her bottom lip in contemplation. "I..."

"Look," you sigh, "I get it. Regardless of all this, we need to know what's happening, and the odds are good that this is a setup, even if the events are unconnected. Either way, we need some kind of evidence, and for that, we need to know why the killer hit these people in particular. Was it a location, some kind of flavor thing?"

She snorts in disgust, and you feel your lip quirk up. "It's possible. Come now, play along. It's like teatime Mary, now pass the tea."

"Riiiiight," she drawls, "Well Ms. Nesbitt, I'm gonna say that this is all stuff the department already looked into as a matter of rote procedure." She waves the documents that you have yet to read, almost pointedly. "Unlike a certain truant officer, the on-scene Detectives did follow procedure, and followed through."

You waved her on grumpily. Management hadn't been pleased with the necessity of taking your statement after the fact, especially before you'd been cleared of culpability.

'Unpleasant' was a word for it. 'Thinly veiled hostility' was another, though maybe that was because they'd walked in on you working the slide for your pistol while in bed.

Not even a joke, that, though it made its cooler rounds anyway. The silver bullet had burned a hole in your pocket for several hours until you'd been released; you'd almost welcome the jokes after that.

"There was immediate threat," you grumble. "I was clear for entry without a warrant."

She ignores you entirely, choosing instead to read aloud from the case details. "The victim was moved before being placed in the harness; investigation found proof of severe rope burns that cut deeper into one side of her body. In addition, there were rope burns consistent with road rash i.e. she was moved while in the harness. However, she was alive at the time, because she was struggling."

Mary puts the paper down, and faces you, looking you straight in your slightly nauseated eyes. "She was moved, but not far. She wasn't carried. There's no way a spooky ghoulie moved her while flawlessly restraining her, and a consensus of the neighbors, during questioning, mentioned that no cars had stopped by in a week, well before her passing."

"She was probably moved into the house, and then restrained, and moved." You say slowly. You pointedly don't mention that the ghoulie may have had some method of flawlessly restraining her, because the thought terrifies you to a degree you found heretofore unknown. At that point, you may as well toss logic out the window for all the good it will do you and these dead women.

You have to believe that reasoning can get you through this.

Mary leans back and sighs. "There's a few ways to pull this off. He could have..." she trails off, muttering to herself, and waves you off.

"I'll go through these a little more, but we're not getting anywhere with both of us spinning wheels. You shouldn't be here for too much longer anyway. We can excuse you being here during standard operating hours, but we're approaching the later shifts, and I need to go on patrol."

You nod.

[ ] "I should go back to her home, try and join the investigation."
[ ] "Maybe some of the neighbors left something out?"
[ ] "Maybe I should go speak to some of the families and friends."
[ ] "Gonna go talk to the boss before he punches out."

First vote only pertains to the murder of Ms. Baxter. Middle two will likely take you to the other murders as well. Last one is self-explanatory.