Blue Blood 1
Jun. 20th, 2006 05:26 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bedlamsbardPost-There But for the Grace of God, probably takes place roughly three to four years after Snafu. Someday I'm really going to have to do a timeline for the Bardverse, at which point my brain will promptly explode.
Flack arrived at his crime scene with a headache the size of Jupiter and a throbbing hand, the latter of which was funny considering the hand in question was mechanical and didn't feel internal pain. And, also, was from another universe. The headache doubtless came from the fact it was three in the morning and Danny had rolled over, muttered something about Fruit Loops and string theory, and clung like an extremely tenacious octopus when Flack's pager went off and he tried to get out of bed.
"Morning, Detective," the patrolman at the edge of the crime scene tape said cheerfully. He looked inordinately young. Flack was clearly getting old.
"Whatta we got, officer?" Flack asked, reminding his inner Danny that no, he wasn't dumb enough to bring coffee to a crime scene. At which point his brain and his caffeine addiction joined together to stage a revolt agaisnt the cruelty of the world and also the life and times of that poor bastard of a homicide detective that had found himself tied down to the NYPD crime lab and worse, a neurotic nutcase of a crime scene detective second class, thank you very much, who had inordinate and inexplicable ties to New York's most powerful Mafia family and a slew of parallel universes.
Flack had been innocent once. It had passed, quickly. And he'd never been normal.
"DOA," the patrolman told him, inspecting the notebook that had suddenly appeared in his hand. "James Flanigan, 65, retired, ex-NYPD. The meatwagon should be on its way."
"They might have to wait awhile," Flack said. "If it's a homicide, CSU and the ME are gonna have to get out here and have a look first." And he was a homicide detective, so it stood to reason --
"Yeah, about that..." the patrolman began.
Flack leaned past him to get a look into the room, which smelled like nicotine and stale beer and the average cop's apartment. "You couldn't have mentioned the icepick sticking out of his chest?" he said.
-
-
Danny showed up forty-five minutes later with his hair sticking up in tufts around his face and various pieces of clothing thrown haphazardly on him. Flack was fairly certain that was his NYPD baseball league shirt Danny was wearing.
"Way to look professional, Messer," Flack said as Danny ducked beneath the crime scene tape.
"Fuck you, Flack, it's four in the fucking morning."
"Not now, exhibitionism isn't one of my kinks. Anyway, it's not four yet."
"You were so not this cheerful an hour ago," Danny snapped, grinning despite himself.
Flack shot him a birght smile. "Yeah, well, an hour ago I hadn't had two mochas and an espresso."
"Where the hell did you get -- you brought coffee into my crime scene?"
"Sent a uniform for it and what do you think I am, dumb? I drank it in the hall."
Danny relaxed. "For a moment there I thought I'd have to kill you," he said, and then, "Wait a second, the uniforms listen to you when you tell them to do stuff. They don't listen to me."
"That's because they love me," Flack said.
"You know where I'd be if I had coffee?" Danny muttered. "I'd be awake. Did you start processing?"
"No, I thought I'd wait for you to show up and tell me what I'm doing wrong." Flack flipped his notebook open. "The vic's James Flanigan, 65, ex-NYPD. Lives alone. Neighbors didn't hear any struggle, but apparently he was a real friendly guy. He also had a cat, which the lady next door asked about."
"Don't tell me puss is in the next room with an icepick through its furry little heart too," Danny said, crowding around the corpse with a camera in his hands.
"Nah, the cat's nowhere to be found."
"You think the perp mighta got rid of it?"
"That or it got out somehow."
"Better have your guys look for it," Danny said. "What's the last icepick murder you heard of?"
Flack shrugged. "Five -- six months ago. Domestic. Wife got pissed off at her husband and shoved an icepick through his gut. Not the prettiest way to go. You?"
"Three weeks ago. Black Agugliaro, icepick through the ear. The Commission's going nuts tryin' to find out who's offing their guys." Danny sat back on his heels. "Thing is, it's not a common MO today. Maybe sixty years ago, but today we've got lots easier ways to kill people. Icepick's a little outdated."
Flack pulled a glove out of Danny's kit and used it to pull open the drawer of Flanigan's desk. "You think it's a hit?" Empty. He began working his way through the rest of the drawers.
"Either that or a serail. Why leave the pick behind, though? A good killing pick is sharpened and real narrow at the end. Seems kinda a waste to leave it behind." Danny touched the icepick with one gloved finger. "Where the hell's the ME? I want this pick."
All the drawers were empty except for dust. "Either Flanigan just moved in or he was robbed," Flack said. "And I'm bettin' on the second one."
Danny stood up to come look over his shoulder. "Huh. You're right. What do you think he kept in there?"
Flack spotted something white stuck between two boards of the bottommost drawer. HE worked it out. "Case file." He showed Danny the Polaroid.
Danny took it from him. "Aw, look," he said, "you can even see the investigating detective's signature. What the hell is that?"
Flack took the Polaroid back from him. "It's an equation," he said. "The Schwarzschild radius is in there somehow, so it's something to do with astrophysics."
"Which in English translates to?"
"Didn't you take physics in high school, Messer?"
"Uh, no. Did you?"
"Yeah, sophomore year, and I was a physics major in college. Schwarzschild Radius is the equation to find the radius of a black hole." Flack turned away, holding the picture. "Someone took this outta evidence," he said, "at least to take the picture. The original might still be there."
"You think Flanigan was still working the case?"
"Might be, if it was never solved. Looks like it's from -- '96, '97. The investigating detective's got crap handwriting. Case numbers 3108. If all'a Flanigan's drawers were filled with stuff from this case --"
"You think maybe the perp found out and came after him?"
"Maybe." Flack handed the Polaroid back to Danny, who tucked it away in an evidence baggie. "That'd give us motive, at least. Why wait so long, though?"
Danny shrugged. "Maybe he just found out. Or maybe new evidence came up in the case or somethin'. Could be anything. Where the hell is the ME?" he yelled at the door. "When I find out who's supposed to be on duty down at the morgue their ass is grass, I swear to God."
"I called the morgue an hour and a half ago," Flack said helpfully, unable to erase the equations from his mind.
"I'm telling Hammerback to take it out of that bastard's hide," Danny scowled. "All right, unless you're gonna help me process, get out and go detect stuff. I got work to do."
"But I thought you loved me," Flack said, pouting.
"I'm gonna rethink that sentiment real soon," Danny said meaningfully. "Out. Go get one of your minions to bring me coffee and lots of it."
"They're not my minions," Flack said, making a hasty escape.
-
-
Danny swooped down on Flack with cries of," Where's my caffeine fix, you bastard?" when he returned an hour later.
"Out in the hall," Flack said, fending him off with thwacks of his notepad. "What, you think I'm gonna let you drink coffee in a closed crime scene?"
"I knew sending you to those CSI classes at John Jay was a bad idea," Danny moaned. "I shoulda stayed in academia."
"You were in academia?"
"No, but I know a lot of other Danny Messers who were. Including one who could so totally kick your ass seven ways from Sunday."
Flack rolled his eyes. "That include the one in a coma?"
"Shut up." Danny turned back to the room. "Okay," he said. "This is a nightmare. Everything's wiped completely clean. I didn't notice when I got here, but everything smells a whole lot like lemon."
Flack sniffed the air. "You're right. How'd I miss that?"
"All the caffeine went to your brain. I got nothin' except the absense of somethin' and that photograph. And the icepick, which I still gotta print. Oh, and the perp surprised Flanigan. We got no signs of a struggle. And the computer's been wiped. I'll have a sweeper team go over the place and the hard drive sent to the lab, but otherwise it's all leg work. And that bastard of an ME still hasn't shown. Where's my coffee?"
"Out in the hall," Flack said, following Danny as his partner walked past the corpse and ducked under the crime scene tape. "Our perp may have been dressed as a pizza delivery guy. Doorman says he let one in, but no one I talked to ordered pizza."
"So we pull Flanigan's phone records." He took the coffee Officer Bell offered him with every expression of ecstasy on his face. "Oh, God, sweet caffeinated nectar."
"Addict," Flack observed.
"It's five in the morning! Mice shouldn't be awake, let alone people."
Officer Bell looked amused, but hid it as he went down the hall. "Sir, you can't come down here, this is a closed crime scene -- hey!" He gaped at the man's back.
Flack stepped in front of Danny. "Sir, you can't -- Dad?"
Flack arrived at his crime scene with a headache the size of Jupiter and a throbbing hand, the latter of which was funny considering the hand in question was mechanical and didn't feel internal pain. And, also, was from another universe. The headache doubtless came from the fact it was three in the morning and Danny had rolled over, muttered something about Fruit Loops and string theory, and clung like an extremely tenacious octopus when Flack's pager went off and he tried to get out of bed.
"Morning, Detective," the patrolman at the edge of the crime scene tape said cheerfully. He looked inordinately young. Flack was clearly getting old.
"Whatta we got, officer?" Flack asked, reminding his inner Danny that no, he wasn't dumb enough to bring coffee to a crime scene. At which point his brain and his caffeine addiction joined together to stage a revolt agaisnt the cruelty of the world and also the life and times of that poor bastard of a homicide detective that had found himself tied down to the NYPD crime lab and worse, a neurotic nutcase of a crime scene detective second class, thank you very much, who had inordinate and inexplicable ties to New York's most powerful Mafia family and a slew of parallel universes.
Flack had been innocent once. It had passed, quickly. And he'd never been normal.
"DOA," the patrolman told him, inspecting the notebook that had suddenly appeared in his hand. "James Flanigan, 65, retired, ex-NYPD. The meatwagon should be on its way."
"They might have to wait awhile," Flack said. "If it's a homicide, CSU and the ME are gonna have to get out here and have a look first." And he was a homicide detective, so it stood to reason --
"Yeah, about that..." the patrolman began.
Flack leaned past him to get a look into the room, which smelled like nicotine and stale beer and the average cop's apartment. "You couldn't have mentioned the icepick sticking out of his chest?" he said.
-
-
Danny showed up forty-five minutes later with his hair sticking up in tufts around his face and various pieces of clothing thrown haphazardly on him. Flack was fairly certain that was his NYPD baseball league shirt Danny was wearing.
"Way to look professional, Messer," Flack said as Danny ducked beneath the crime scene tape.
"Fuck you, Flack, it's four in the fucking morning."
"Not now, exhibitionism isn't one of my kinks. Anyway, it's not four yet."
"You were so not this cheerful an hour ago," Danny snapped, grinning despite himself.
Flack shot him a birght smile. "Yeah, well, an hour ago I hadn't had two mochas and an espresso."
"Where the hell did you get -- you brought coffee into my crime scene?"
"Sent a uniform for it and what do you think I am, dumb? I drank it in the hall."
Danny relaxed. "For a moment there I thought I'd have to kill you," he said, and then, "Wait a second, the uniforms listen to you when you tell them to do stuff. They don't listen to me."
"That's because they love me," Flack said.
"You know where I'd be if I had coffee?" Danny muttered. "I'd be awake. Did you start processing?"
"No, I thought I'd wait for you to show up and tell me what I'm doing wrong." Flack flipped his notebook open. "The vic's James Flanigan, 65, ex-NYPD. Lives alone. Neighbors didn't hear any struggle, but apparently he was a real friendly guy. He also had a cat, which the lady next door asked about."
"Don't tell me puss is in the next room with an icepick through its furry little heart too," Danny said, crowding around the corpse with a camera in his hands.
"Nah, the cat's nowhere to be found."
"You think the perp mighta got rid of it?"
"That or it got out somehow."
"Better have your guys look for it," Danny said. "What's the last icepick murder you heard of?"
Flack shrugged. "Five -- six months ago. Domestic. Wife got pissed off at her husband and shoved an icepick through his gut. Not the prettiest way to go. You?"
"Three weeks ago. Black Agugliaro, icepick through the ear. The Commission's going nuts tryin' to find out who's offing their guys." Danny sat back on his heels. "Thing is, it's not a common MO today. Maybe sixty years ago, but today we've got lots easier ways to kill people. Icepick's a little outdated."
Flack pulled a glove out of Danny's kit and used it to pull open the drawer of Flanigan's desk. "You think it's a hit?" Empty. He began working his way through the rest of the drawers.
"Either that or a serail. Why leave the pick behind, though? A good killing pick is sharpened and real narrow at the end. Seems kinda a waste to leave it behind." Danny touched the icepick with one gloved finger. "Where the hell's the ME? I want this pick."
All the drawers were empty except for dust. "Either Flanigan just moved in or he was robbed," Flack said. "And I'm bettin' on the second one."
Danny stood up to come look over his shoulder. "Huh. You're right. What do you think he kept in there?"
Flack spotted something white stuck between two boards of the bottommost drawer. HE worked it out. "Case file." He showed Danny the Polaroid.
Danny took it from him. "Aw, look," he said, "you can even see the investigating detective's signature. What the hell is that?"
Flack took the Polaroid back from him. "It's an equation," he said. "The Schwarzschild radius is in there somehow, so it's something to do with astrophysics."
"Which in English translates to?"
"Didn't you take physics in high school, Messer?"
"Uh, no. Did you?"
"Yeah, sophomore year, and I was a physics major in college. Schwarzschild Radius is the equation to find the radius of a black hole." Flack turned away, holding the picture. "Someone took this outta evidence," he said, "at least to take the picture. The original might still be there."
"You think Flanigan was still working the case?"
"Might be, if it was never solved. Looks like it's from -- '96, '97. The investigating detective's got crap handwriting. Case numbers 3108. If all'a Flanigan's drawers were filled with stuff from this case --"
"You think maybe the perp found out and came after him?"
"Maybe." Flack handed the Polaroid back to Danny, who tucked it away in an evidence baggie. "That'd give us motive, at least. Why wait so long, though?"
Danny shrugged. "Maybe he just found out. Or maybe new evidence came up in the case or somethin'. Could be anything. Where the hell is the ME?" he yelled at the door. "When I find out who's supposed to be on duty down at the morgue their ass is grass, I swear to God."
"I called the morgue an hour and a half ago," Flack said helpfully, unable to erase the equations from his mind.
"I'm telling Hammerback to take it out of that bastard's hide," Danny scowled. "All right, unless you're gonna help me process, get out and go detect stuff. I got work to do."
"But I thought you loved me," Flack said, pouting.
"I'm gonna rethink that sentiment real soon," Danny said meaningfully. "Out. Go get one of your minions to bring me coffee and lots of it."
"They're not my minions," Flack said, making a hasty escape.
-
-
Danny swooped down on Flack with cries of," Where's my caffeine fix, you bastard?" when he returned an hour later.
"Out in the hall," Flack said, fending him off with thwacks of his notepad. "What, you think I'm gonna let you drink coffee in a closed crime scene?"
"I knew sending you to those CSI classes at John Jay was a bad idea," Danny moaned. "I shoulda stayed in academia."
"You were in academia?"
"No, but I know a lot of other Danny Messers who were. Including one who could so totally kick your ass seven ways from Sunday."
Flack rolled his eyes. "That include the one in a coma?"
"Shut up." Danny turned back to the room. "Okay," he said. "This is a nightmare. Everything's wiped completely clean. I didn't notice when I got here, but everything smells a whole lot like lemon."
Flack sniffed the air. "You're right. How'd I miss that?"
"All the caffeine went to your brain. I got nothin' except the absense of somethin' and that photograph. And the icepick, which I still gotta print. Oh, and the perp surprised Flanigan. We got no signs of a struggle. And the computer's been wiped. I'll have a sweeper team go over the place and the hard drive sent to the lab, but otherwise it's all leg work. And that bastard of an ME still hasn't shown. Where's my coffee?"
"Out in the hall," Flack said, following Danny as his partner walked past the corpse and ducked under the crime scene tape. "Our perp may have been dressed as a pizza delivery guy. Doorman says he let one in, but no one I talked to ordered pizza."
"So we pull Flanigan's phone records." He took the coffee Officer Bell offered him with every expression of ecstasy on his face. "Oh, God, sweet caffeinated nectar."
"Addict," Flack observed.
"It's five in the morning! Mice shouldn't be awake, let alone people."
Officer Bell looked amused, but hid it as he went down the hall. "Sir, you can't come down here, this is a closed crime scene -- hey!" He gaped at the man's back.
Flack stepped in front of Danny. "Sir, you can't -- Dad?"
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(no subject)
Date: 2006-06-21 03:13 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-06-21 11:56 pm (UTC)I'm glad you enjoyed it. This was a fun chapter to write -- they're so snarky! And jaded! Much better than the non-stop angst of Bloody Sunday.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-06-22 02:20 pm (UTC)I love the dialogue. The banter about icepick murders, Danny's grumbling about how the uniforms listen to Flack but not to him, and of course, the snark about caffeine withdrawal.
It seems that Flack and Danny have settled into a comfortable relationship, despite the complete and utter madness of their lives. I also get the impression that Flack seems to have recovered somewhat from the PTSD, too.
"Extremely tenacious octopus"... yes, that would be Danny, wouldn't it? And he'd still be adamant about not cuddling.
I'm curious, though - the first line suggests that Flack somehow lost both hands, whereas I was under the impression that he lost one during Bloody Sunday, replaced it with a hook, and then replaced the hook with the prosthetic from a mirrorverse. Did I miss something?
One more question. Is Don only telling half the truth when he says he was a physics major in college?
(no subject)
Date: 2006-06-23 12:08 am (UTC)I love the dialogue. The banter about icepick murders, Danny's grumbling about how the uniforms listen to Flack but not to him, and of course, the snark about caffeine withdrawal.
The dialogue was really fun to write -- they're a lot easier together than they are in any of the previous stories, and they bounce off each other the same way. And it's four in the morning, if I drank coffee I'd be in caffeine withdrawal too.
Flack's mostly recovered from the PTSD -- he still flashbacks occasionally, and God knows what he'd do if he ever came face to face with one of the Tanglewood boys again (because ha, I can't remember who's dead and who's alive and who's in prison), but he's functional now.
"Extremely tenacious octopus"... yes, that would be Danny, wouldn't it? And he'd still be adamant about not cuddling.
Oh, they're not cuddling, they're just...clinging. Like monkeys.
I'm curious, though - the first line suggests that Flack somehow lost both hands, whereas I was under the impression that he lost one during Bloody Sunday, replaced it with a hook, and then replaced the hook with the prosthetic from a mirrorverse. Did I miss something?
*facepalm* Typo. That should read "...considering the hand in question..." But that's exactly what happened: during Bloody Sunday a building fell on him and his hand had to be amputated, whereupon he had a hook for scare purposes (and because it looked cool), then during There But for the Grace of God astrophysicist!Danny built a prosthetic using Inhuman tech for him in return for the rescue.
One more question. Is Don only telling half the truth when he says he was a physics major in college?
Yes. He started out as just a math major, then took an advanced physics class to fulfill a requirement and got interested, took more, and eventually went for a double major as a five-year student. There's a line cut from when he's talking about the date on the evidence that says, "About the time I came back to the city."