New York Minute 5
May. 10th, 2005 04:58 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bedlamsbard*puppy dog eyes* No, I was totally not writing my English paper on the Tanglewood Boys while surfing the Internet. Why would I do something like that? I'm a model student, after all. (Except for the four F's I have in German. There's something wrong when your report card goes 100% all the way across with four 0%'s and one 80%.)
She looked…smaller. Frailer. Not the woman he remembered, not the cop he knew.
Mac sat down slowly in the chair by the bed. “Hello, Stella,” he said, and stopped. What do you say, to someone who may never wake up? What do you say, to the shell of your partner? “Danny and Flack are working the Starbucks case,” he said. Case files. Cold and familiar, and she had to know, just in case. Just in case the worst happened, and maybe it already had, but he didn’t want to think of that. “There’s one DOA and five other victims. They’re all going to be all right, it looks like, except for one man, Jordan Hansbrecker. He’s in the ICU, but they say he should live. The others are all superficial bullet wounds, nothing life-threatening. I sent Aiden over to work a call in the Bronx. I don’t know much about the case – it came in as I was going out. She’s smart, like you, she’ll work fine solo.” He stopped again, suddenly choked up.
“Stella,” he whispered, and leaned over to brush a strand of curly hair off her forehead. “Please don’t die. Please wake up.” He reached for her hand, clutched it tightly, like a dying man to a lifeline. “Remember that case we worked, back in 1999? The triple homicide in Queens? Remember the perp, Jakobsen, and the way he pulled that gun on me? I thought he had us then, but you were there. You were thinking, and he didn’t know about you, so you snuck up behind him and hit him over the head with a board. It was incredibly unprofessional, but you saved my life, Stella, and I –” He stared down at their linked hands, and the badge someone had left on the nightstand. “I can’t do this without you.”
*
“It stops,” Flack said, shaking his head. “It just stops. Fuck, whoever invented cars oughta be shot.”
Danny stuffed his hands into his pockets, frustrated. “Y’know, I’m inclined to agree with you. So our vic runs outta Starbucks, down this street, and then –” He frowned down at the blood spots. “These’re perfectly round,” he said. “That means the vic wasn’t moving. So he stood here – hailed a cab, maybe? That look like blood spatter to you?” He nodded down at the street.
Flack stepped off the curb and knelt down. “Looks like it,” he agreed.
“Little bit,” Danny said. “Weird spray pattern – guy – or gal – was holding their wound, and they used that same hand to hail a cab. That’d spray the blood on their hand off, ‘least a little bit. So our JD ran down here – began walking a block back, actually – stopped here, and hailed a cab, where he got in and went off to parts unknown.”
Flack ground his teeth in frustration. “Anyway we could find him? The medallion cabs, could we trace one of ‘em back here?”
Danny shook his head. “We could try, but it’s like, a one in a million chance.” He raised his camera and clicked a photograph of the blood spatter. “I’m not gonna take those odds.”
*
“Cause of death: asphyxiation.”
Aiden scowled at Delia Shelley’s body. “Poor gal,” she said softly. “Raped and murdered, and an on-duty cop, at that.” She glanced back up at Hawkes. “Strangled?”
“Smothered.” He touched her neck with one gloved hand. “No ligature marks, see? Petecchia in the eyes, and bruising around the mouth, although that may have come from the beating she sustained. Officer Shelley was beaten badly before she was killed. I ran a rape kit and collected semen – I sent it over to DNA. Also, there’s this.” He displayed a clear case.
Aiden took it from him and frowned at it. “Skin,” she said in tones of vague surprise. “From her mouth?”
“Between her two front teeth.” Hawkes nodded. “I’d wager she bit her attacker. Blood under her fingernails – that went over to DNA, too. She fought hard. Take a look at these defensive wounds.” He displayed the bruising on Shelley’s arms and torso.
Aiden reached out, not quite sure what for, then pulled her hand back. “She was a cop,” she said. “She had a whole city to fight for.”
*
“This is the worst part of the job,” Danny said to Aiden, leaning on the lab bench. “Waiting for DNA to come back. One’a the most important things, and it takes forever.”
“God, and don’t I know it,” she agreed. “I got a dead cop over in the South Bronx. Undercover narcotics officer, name of Delia Shelley, who was raped and murdered. Hawkes collected semen, blood, and skin from her body, all of which probably belongs to her attacker. I could catch the son of a bitch right now, but I gotta wait for DNA. Christ, but that pisses me off. We got all this technology, but DNA results still take a couple of days to get back. Don’t take me wrong,” she held up a hand, “I love DNA, and I get why it takes so long. Doesn’t mean I can’t be royally annoyed.”
“I’ll take your problems over mine any day,” Danny snorted. “I got a shooting in the Starbucks a few blocks over. Vic was that friend of yours –”
“Shannon Akers,” Aiden nodded. “Yeah, I heard. We haven’t been close in years. Weren’t close even when we were rooming together.”
“Anyway. Akers was the DOA. We got five other vics, all shot, none seriously. Trouble is, we got seven blood patterns. Flack and I followed one out a couple blocks down, then the vic got picked up by a cab. That, and there’s no evidence to lead to a perp. Not even a suspect, not till something pops up. Flack talked to all the vics that are conscious, and not one of ‘em knew the shooter or Shannon Akers.” He shook his head. “Christ, and Stella…” Suddenly tired, he bent his head down, staring at the sheet of prints Hawkes had taken off Akers’ body.
Aiden touched his shoulder. “You couldn’t’a done anything, Danny,” she said comfortingly. “I might not’a been there, but I heard from Flack, after he started bandaging up his knuckles – he was beating the shit outta a wall,” she added confidentially. She suddenly looked incensed. “But, Jesus fucking Christ on a Harley, the detective I had to work with? Man, was that guy a jerk. Sexist, chauvinistic, pig. Fucker said I wasn’t a detective, or a real CSI. Bitches about me being a woman, bitches about me being a rookie – like I am a rookie, Christ Jesus. Then the bastard has the nerve to grab my ass. My ass, Danny! I almost killed the son of a bitch. I did pull my gun on him, but Christ.”
“I’ll beat him up for you,” Flack offered, strolling into the lab with a folder in one hand. Danny eyed his skinned knuckles warily.
Aiden grinned. “Yeah, thanks for the offer, but I think I can take him.”
The detective winked at her. “You need a hand, someone to hold him while you hit, just give me a call. Danny, ballistics came back on the bullets from the shooting.”
Danny snatched the folder from him. “They came back to a shooting during a San Francisco robbery two years ago,” he said, goggling. “And another one, last year, in Washington, DC, at another museum. Our perp’s a robber?”
“Run the vic’s prints,” Flack suggested. “Just a hunch. I’m allowed to have those, I ain’t a CSI.”
Danny picked up the sheet of prints and walked over to the computer. He let them scan. “Fuck,” he said, impressed. “Next time you gotta hunch, you let me know.”
“You’re kiddin’ me,” Aiden said, peering over Danny’s shoulder. “Shannon doesn’t have a rap sheet, but there are prints left from – huh, San Francisco, Miami, Seattle, Washington, Chicago. Museum robberies, all’a them. This ours, or FBI’s?”
“Ours,” Flack said immediately. “She’s our vic, not their perp. Doesn’t matter what she did or who she was, now she’s a body in the morgue. Even if her killer’s wanted by the Feds, she’s ours for murder. Right?”
Danny shrugged. “Close enough.”
Er. Anybody from the East Coast? What do you call Washington, DC? Just Washington? Just DC? What? It's not particularly important, but it's kind of annoying me.
Saw bits and pieces of The Godfather last night. Michael Corleone amuses me, but in a good kind of way. I have never seen that movie before.
She looked…smaller. Frailer. Not the woman he remembered, not the cop he knew.
Mac sat down slowly in the chair by the bed. “Hello, Stella,” he said, and stopped. What do you say, to someone who may never wake up? What do you say, to the shell of your partner? “Danny and Flack are working the Starbucks case,” he said. Case files. Cold and familiar, and she had to know, just in case. Just in case the worst happened, and maybe it already had, but he didn’t want to think of that. “There’s one DOA and five other victims. They’re all going to be all right, it looks like, except for one man, Jordan Hansbrecker. He’s in the ICU, but they say he should live. The others are all superficial bullet wounds, nothing life-threatening. I sent Aiden over to work a call in the Bronx. I don’t know much about the case – it came in as I was going out. She’s smart, like you, she’ll work fine solo.” He stopped again, suddenly choked up.
“Stella,” he whispered, and leaned over to brush a strand of curly hair off her forehead. “Please don’t die. Please wake up.” He reached for her hand, clutched it tightly, like a dying man to a lifeline. “Remember that case we worked, back in 1999? The triple homicide in Queens? Remember the perp, Jakobsen, and the way he pulled that gun on me? I thought he had us then, but you were there. You were thinking, and he didn’t know about you, so you snuck up behind him and hit him over the head with a board. It was incredibly unprofessional, but you saved my life, Stella, and I –” He stared down at their linked hands, and the badge someone had left on the nightstand. “I can’t do this without you.”
*
“It stops,” Flack said, shaking his head. “It just stops. Fuck, whoever invented cars oughta be shot.”
Danny stuffed his hands into his pockets, frustrated. “Y’know, I’m inclined to agree with you. So our vic runs outta Starbucks, down this street, and then –” He frowned down at the blood spots. “These’re perfectly round,” he said. “That means the vic wasn’t moving. So he stood here – hailed a cab, maybe? That look like blood spatter to you?” He nodded down at the street.
Flack stepped off the curb and knelt down. “Looks like it,” he agreed.
“Little bit,” Danny said. “Weird spray pattern – guy – or gal – was holding their wound, and they used that same hand to hail a cab. That’d spray the blood on their hand off, ‘least a little bit. So our JD ran down here – began walking a block back, actually – stopped here, and hailed a cab, where he got in and went off to parts unknown.”
Flack ground his teeth in frustration. “Anyway we could find him? The medallion cabs, could we trace one of ‘em back here?”
Danny shook his head. “We could try, but it’s like, a one in a million chance.” He raised his camera and clicked a photograph of the blood spatter. “I’m not gonna take those odds.”
*
“Cause of death: asphyxiation.”
Aiden scowled at Delia Shelley’s body. “Poor gal,” she said softly. “Raped and murdered, and an on-duty cop, at that.” She glanced back up at Hawkes. “Strangled?”
“Smothered.” He touched her neck with one gloved hand. “No ligature marks, see? Petecchia in the eyes, and bruising around the mouth, although that may have come from the beating she sustained. Officer Shelley was beaten badly before she was killed. I ran a rape kit and collected semen – I sent it over to DNA. Also, there’s this.” He displayed a clear case.
Aiden took it from him and frowned at it. “Skin,” she said in tones of vague surprise. “From her mouth?”
“Between her two front teeth.” Hawkes nodded. “I’d wager she bit her attacker. Blood under her fingernails – that went over to DNA, too. She fought hard. Take a look at these defensive wounds.” He displayed the bruising on Shelley’s arms and torso.
Aiden reached out, not quite sure what for, then pulled her hand back. “She was a cop,” she said. “She had a whole city to fight for.”
*
“This is the worst part of the job,” Danny said to Aiden, leaning on the lab bench. “Waiting for DNA to come back. One’a the most important things, and it takes forever.”
“God, and don’t I know it,” she agreed. “I got a dead cop over in the South Bronx. Undercover narcotics officer, name of Delia Shelley, who was raped and murdered. Hawkes collected semen, blood, and skin from her body, all of which probably belongs to her attacker. I could catch the son of a bitch right now, but I gotta wait for DNA. Christ, but that pisses me off. We got all this technology, but DNA results still take a couple of days to get back. Don’t take me wrong,” she held up a hand, “I love DNA, and I get why it takes so long. Doesn’t mean I can’t be royally annoyed.”
“I’ll take your problems over mine any day,” Danny snorted. “I got a shooting in the Starbucks a few blocks over. Vic was that friend of yours –”
“Shannon Akers,” Aiden nodded. “Yeah, I heard. We haven’t been close in years. Weren’t close even when we were rooming together.”
“Anyway. Akers was the DOA. We got five other vics, all shot, none seriously. Trouble is, we got seven blood patterns. Flack and I followed one out a couple blocks down, then the vic got picked up by a cab. That, and there’s no evidence to lead to a perp. Not even a suspect, not till something pops up. Flack talked to all the vics that are conscious, and not one of ‘em knew the shooter or Shannon Akers.” He shook his head. “Christ, and Stella…” Suddenly tired, he bent his head down, staring at the sheet of prints Hawkes had taken off Akers’ body.
Aiden touched his shoulder. “You couldn’t’a done anything, Danny,” she said comfortingly. “I might not’a been there, but I heard from Flack, after he started bandaging up his knuckles – he was beating the shit outta a wall,” she added confidentially. She suddenly looked incensed. “But, Jesus fucking Christ on a Harley, the detective I had to work with? Man, was that guy a jerk. Sexist, chauvinistic, pig. Fucker said I wasn’t a detective, or a real CSI. Bitches about me being a woman, bitches about me being a rookie – like I am a rookie, Christ Jesus. Then the bastard has the nerve to grab my ass. My ass, Danny! I almost killed the son of a bitch. I did pull my gun on him, but Christ.”
“I’ll beat him up for you,” Flack offered, strolling into the lab with a folder in one hand. Danny eyed his skinned knuckles warily.
Aiden grinned. “Yeah, thanks for the offer, but I think I can take him.”
The detective winked at her. “You need a hand, someone to hold him while you hit, just give me a call. Danny, ballistics came back on the bullets from the shooting.”
Danny snatched the folder from him. “They came back to a shooting during a San Francisco robbery two years ago,” he said, goggling. “And another one, last year, in Washington, DC, at another museum. Our perp’s a robber?”
“Run the vic’s prints,” Flack suggested. “Just a hunch. I’m allowed to have those, I ain’t a CSI.”
Danny picked up the sheet of prints and walked over to the computer. He let them scan. “Fuck,” he said, impressed. “Next time you gotta hunch, you let me know.”
“You’re kiddin’ me,” Aiden said, peering over Danny’s shoulder. “Shannon doesn’t have a rap sheet, but there are prints left from – huh, San Francisco, Miami, Seattle, Washington, Chicago. Museum robberies, all’a them. This ours, or FBI’s?”
“Ours,” Flack said immediately. “She’s our vic, not their perp. Doesn’t matter what she did or who she was, now she’s a body in the morgue. Even if her killer’s wanted by the Feds, she’s ours for murder. Right?”
Danny shrugged. “Close enough.”
Er. Anybody from the East Coast? What do you call Washington, DC? Just Washington? Just DC? What? It's not particularly important, but it's kind of annoying me.
Saw bits and pieces of The Godfather last night. Michael Corleone amuses me, but in a good kind of way. I have never seen that movie before.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2005-05-11 12:54 am (UTC)Still hooked on the story. Oh, Flack. Leave it to him to beat something up. Aiden, let him knock the detective around. He'll feel better. You can run a pool, if you like.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-05-11 01:24 am (UTC)Still hooked on the story. Oh, Flack. Leave it to him to beat something up. Aiden, let him knock the detective around. He'll feel better. You can run a pool, if you like.
...It would be better for all of them if Flack beat the detective up. Well, except for Aiden, unless the jerk called in sick. Flack would feel better and Danny and Aiden would earn some extra money.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-05-11 01:37 am (UTC)I understand that if you are native to the DC area, you are in fact from "warshington". Or, possibly, "ball'mur".
For the longest time I was under the impression that my oldest brother lived in Washington. No, silly me, it is Oregon. (oh, whatever. fog and pine trees and rain. I think.)
(no subject)
Date: 2005-05-11 02:12 am (UTC)(oh, whatever. fog and pine trees and rain. I think.)
That would be Western Washington, I believe, Olympics/Seattle area, where it never stops raining. Where I live, it never starts. Except for today, apparently.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-05-11 06:20 pm (UTC)Flat places disturb me. Like...*genuinely* flat places. Like...well, I've briefly been in Colorado. And it was like, "fuck all, where'd the hills go? for that matter, the trees?" At least when I was in NM it was the mountains. Here, the sense of "flat" generally leads to "water". (it's hard to describe: you tend to know you're on the coastal areas because of the sense of the land falling away, I've noticed, thus it gives the impression of "flat"--if not low-lying, then uncovered in some way.)
...I loves me my Atlantic. *hugs, gets soaked*
Where I live, it never starts. Except for today, apparently.
Dude, what is up with the West Coast and this no rain thing? *shakes head* Need to like, drag all of you over here for a good, solid New England mid-summer thunderstorm.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-05-12 01:11 am (UTC)God, I know. I mean, you look around, and there's nothing. Just flat, flat farmland. No trees, no hills, no mountains, which is really kind of disturbing. *shivers* Reason #366 why I could never go to WAZZU (Washington State University. It's in Tacoma. Or some place way over by the Idaho border).
Dude, what is up with the West Coast and this no rain thing?
Well, it rains a lot in Seattle. A lot as in, all the time. Just not here. Something to do with the mountains and...I learned about this in Science, I just don't remember.
...I loves me my Atlantic. *hugs, gets soaked*
*grin* Bet the Pacific could beat up the Atlantic. All that stuff about "pacifism" is just talk.
The Atlantic is pretty.