Logs:TSO-NOLA - Detectives and Constables
TSO-NOLA - Detectives and Constables
|Characters:||Eerie, Rafael, Mingzhu as ST|
|Summary:||An accorded detective brings a case to the Black Constables|
Around the back corner of the bar is a private 'snug' with the windows replaced with mirrors - one-way mirrors, which allow those inside to see outside with relative ease without opening the door.
Inside, a large booth with worn seating of red velvet surrounds a large circular table of wood - a circle of dark wood around the edge scratched and nicked over time, but a clever eye can still see where a serpent's head was carved into it, turning the table's perimeter into an ouroborous. A chip of obsidian set into the table has been smoothed by the years until it's flush with the table's surface.
Two dart boards are set into the wall as well, should those who this snug is typically utilized by get bored. Or have a spare picture of someone they don't like.
This killer has been murdering several people a week every week for entirely too long, and evading Eerie's attempts at tracking them down for weeks to the point that they'd actually put together a dossier and handed it off to Samantha, including passing on the retainer.
But. When a detective contacted the Constables to talk about it? Constable Wright couldn't exactly say 'nope, not my job anymore' when it means maybe getting a real lead. Texts went out to everybody, including Rafael, that the meeting had been set for today, now - and Eerie is seated at the table with the least noir-appropriate drink in the world: a route 44 cherry limeade from Sonic. It's still got the receipt taped to it as they lean against the table, straw in mouth, idly slurping.
Thump! A dart casually tossed from Rafael's hand lands the steel spike in the second ring, and he frowns at the dartboard. It's the closest he's gotten to the center, though, so with a shrug he leans back again and reaches out to pick up his beer. "...Wright, at least get rid of the receipt," he mutters with more than a small hint of amusement as he takes a sip of his beer, gaze hooding a bit, "The client should be here soon, I think?"
Detective Greg Harrington is a man in his early fourties, pale brown hair with grey at the temples, piercing green eyes, and a physique that is fit enough to run down the average perp, if not that of someone in line for the olympics. His posture is upright, his walk one of purposefulness, and despite having seen some of the worst humanity has to offer, he doesn't seem to be bowing under the relentless nature of his job either. A rare kind of man in this world.
He approaches the snug, a pint of beer from the bar in hand and a bag slung over one shoulder, knocking and then waiting to be called in. Assuming that call comes, he opens the door and steps through, closing it behind him. "Afternoon," he greets, quietly.
The younger Constable of the two ignores the receipt-hate of the elder, and instead takes it upon themselves to call out, "Come in!" before rising to their feet in anticipation of the arrival of the detective. They give the newly-arrived Harrington a slow once-over, an appraising look that's probably a little presumptuous from a nineteen year old in a hoodie drinking a limeade in a pub like the Duke.
"Detective Harrington, good afternoon. Come in, sit down."
Rafael gives the younger man a really? look before reaching out to tug the receipt off the cup for him. Then he's pushing himself up to his feet, dressed in black slacks and a black button-up shirt (that's wrinkled to match something usually thrown on the floor at the end of the day) rolled up to the elbows. "Detective," he greets casually, one hand coming up to offer a non-existent hat-tip.
Without waiting for an invitation, Harrington sits himself down at the table, setting his pint in front of him and pulling a few nondescript folders from his bag, setting those down on the table - though still close to him, one hand resting on them so neither of the Black Constables can start rummaging without him being ready. "So. Some asshole is decapitating and exsanguinating people," he voices, without preamble. "What do you two already know?"
Rafael gets a dark but not -too- serious look at the receipt-theft.
"That it's been going on for weeks. The schedule. Hard to track down, impossible to get descriptions. Hard to get a pattern on who they're killing so probably random selection, which makes everything hard. Blood isn't at the scene so the bodies are either being dumped or it's being collected. Or drunk, but it's -very- hard to chop off someone's head and -then- drink blood cleanly. Not impossible, but. And there's a coffin marking at the scenes, frequently, which suggests either ritual or compulsion or a desire to be caught."
After saying all this, Eerie sinks back down into a seat. "I presume you've got more to share with us?"
The receipt's crumpled up and surrepitiously tucked into a pocket as Rafael drops back down to sit, leaning back a little in the booth seating.
"The blood's being drained and they're leaving a coffin marking, so it's either a vampire or someone who really wants us to think they're a vampire," he observes, one hand coming up to scratch under his jawline, "Have we checked to see if the decapitation was pre- or post- mortem? There should be discoloration around the wound that can tell that."
Sure, it sounds scientific, but he learned that one from watching crime procedurals.
"As far as we can tell, cause of death has been blood loss for all of them. The decapitation comes later," Harrington murmurs, now moving the folders to the centre of the table, though still not stating what is inside. "So, we've found one tenuous thread in this pattern. We've got nineteen victims, and all of them were born here in New Orleans," he offers, taking a sip from his pint glass.
Sitting back slightly, he continues with, "Otherwise, there's a completely diverse array of age, gender, ethnicity, economic status, relationship status, type of work... all the things we would usually expect to find some kind of pattern in, given your usual serial killer."
"It's pretty hard to avoid killing tourists in a town like this. And avoiding immigrants, too?" Eerie turns to Rafael, eyebrows raised. "I mean, they could be reading minds to target them. I don't know if mind reading is a vampire thing or not. Is reading minds a vampire thing?" Wright returns attention to Harrington, and asks: "Have you done interviews with the victims' families? That's a thing it's really inconvenient for us to do. Did any of them report weird stuff leading up to the deaths? A new person in their life, weird dreams, visions, hallucinations, illness?"
"Have any of the victims been signatories to the Accords, or in any way connected to people who are," asks Rafael as well, fingertips drumming over the surface of the table, "'Natives of New Orleans' is kind of a curious target pattern, there has to be something more to it. At least we can be sure it's not the Axeman come back from the mists of history." A dry serial killer joke.
He brings his own glass up, taking a sip of the beer, brow furrowed in thought.
"We've done the usual checks. A couple of new relationships, but they've panned out to nothing. No dreams, no strange behaviours. I can go through the details of each one if you like," Harrington suggests after another sip from his pint glass. "Maybe you'll see something we've missed. I figure you know a lot more about the inhuman side of the city than I do." Sure, he knows the basics, but there's only so far a man like him is willing to learn - lest he end up trying to arrest Vampire or Werewolf for some of the things they do as a matter of course."
"Mostly what concerns me is that vampires -hate- having their kills out in the open. The person who first turned me onto this case was a vampire. I caught him standing over one of the victims, but he was pretty convincing that he wasn't the killer. He certainly didn't look like he'd just drunk a whole person's worth of blood, unless vampires are like. Undead Tardises." Oh Eerie. The nerd references aren't really appropriate in this situation, are they? Still, Wright persists: "If you can send us any interview notes you have, I can look them over in more detail, but this -sounds- like some kind of ritual, to be honest, more than it sounds like vampires, the further we get into it. Maybe a cult. There are some that do sacrifices for power, kill folks in a certain way, can be a shortcut to some temporary abilities. We've got more than one cult with a history of human sacrifice, but them needing to be local to the city is weird. Hell, I wonder if it's connected to the Wardens, even. They're awful tied to the land."
"Alternately," proposes Rafael with a brow's arch, "It could be someone who's trying to expose the vampires. I mean, the exsanguination, the coffin? It's awfully obvious. It feels either like misdirection or a purposeful revelation, to me."
"I can provide some things. Not much in writing; if the department finds out I'm discussing this case outside of the force, there'll be hell to pay. Written or electronic records will only make it worse," Harrington allows quietly. "Even the stuff I've brought today, I can't let you take away. Take pictures of it if you need to, but I'll need to return the files to their rightful place when I head out." He takes a few long gulps from his pint and exhales quietly. "I'm unsure about the vampire link. The thing that is missing is any appearance of a bite-mark, which I would guess is the number one thing you'd want to include if you were trying to frame a vampire."
"They're not hard to fake. But yeah, the more I think about it, the less I think 'vampire'. And the more I think ritual. The -timing- is what bothers me. So steady. And so frequent. Makes you wonder why they're willing to risk it. Shit." Eerie seems to be pondering something, and finally says: "I'm going to have to start seeing if I can call any of them back, I think. Ask what happened, if they remember. I -hate- calling up murder victims, they're never sane and they're always mad and it's dangerous as shit and sometimes you haul them out of the Underworld and then they're just -back- and you've got a whole new problem to deal with."
"I'm with you. I think the whole 'vampire' thing is too obvious..." Rafael's brow furrows, "It just seems too easy, and the decapitation? Doesn't fit, unless they're some confused-ass vampire that thinks anyone they feed from might rise again. If there's no bite mark, though..." Hands spread, "Well. Yeah, I think seeing if we can stir up their ghosts is probably the best bet."
There's a thoughtful nod from Harrington as the mention of talking to ghosts is made. He's heard of it, though hasn't participated in any such thing himself. "Alright. Is there anything in particular you want to know about the victims in order to choose who to contact?" he asks, taking another sip from his beer and running a hand back through his greying hair, a little uncomfortable but not enough to object.
"Uh, I mean, we won't necessarily have our choice. Not everybody leaves a ghost you can whistle up. But were any of the victims elderly? Or sick? It's hard to say who would be -least- pissed about being murdered, but someone who'd already given some thought to dying and maybe been somewhat at peace about it probably makes a less pissed off ghost. Anyone who had any training in law enforcement or detective work would be useful, too, since they'd be more likely to notice details that would be helpful to us. What do you think, Castillo?" Eerie turns to Rafael for input, once again sliding straw into mouth to slurp on a fruity, not-at-all dignified choice of beverage.
"Ghosts are not my area of expertise," Rafael admits, hands spreading a little, "A general dossier of the victims would be a good idea, though, something we can go over. Any of them that had defensive wounds might be good-- if there's scratches on their hands or knuckles, anything like that, it suggests they had a chance to see their killer first."
"Yeah, that's one of the other strange points. None of them seem to have struggled. No marks on their arms or face - heck no recent wounds anywhere aside from the decapitation - no foreign DNA under fingernails, nothing," Harrington notes, then takes the top file and opens it. Rather than being a complete dossier of one person, it has the pertinent details for each, and he skim-reads through the list until he finds a couple who might be of use to the ghost-talker.
"Gary Evans, 43, left near Lee Circle Library. A gym-rat, recently got a pay-rise at his work as a plumber for a building firm. Tetty Jones, an editor for a sci-fi magazine and frequent fundraiser for AIDSLaw Louisiana, she was about to have a plaque placed in her honour at the nonprofit's office. Ashok Nagarkar, second-generation Indian-American and lecturer in vetenary science at the university, his first grandchild was born just a couple weeks ago." He makes a vague gesture at the paper. "All people with things to live for."
"We'll see who we can get. Shit. Why don't murderers ever like, target suicidal nonagenarians with late stage cancer? Or at least assholes. Hell." Wright leans back into their seat, obviously bothered by the descriptions of the victims enough to be struck silent. Not enough to keep them from sucking down the last of the limeade and letting the suction noise from the bottom of the cup fill the room, though. "We'll try the writer with the philanthropy history first. Sounds like someone least likely to throw knives at us for trying to help, yeah?"
"...would someone that at peace with dying even leave a ghost? I mean, it's not my area like I said, but from what little I know about restless spirits..." A shrug from Rafael, and he looks back at Harrington with a frown, "No resistant, though, that's-- that's worrying." The pad of his finger taps against th edge of his glass. "Hm. Maybe we should start with Jones. Someone who works with sci-fi stories might be less likely to dismiss signs of supernatural activity, even with their own death."
There's a nod from the detective, and he flicks through the contents of the folder and pulls out one page, setting it in the middle so both the Black Constables can see. It contains a brief bio on Tetty Jones, a picture and the coroner's notes - pretty much what they've discussed today along with her home and work addresses. "Alright. Good luck," he bids. "Like I said, can't leave this with you, but if you happen to take a photo of it while I'm not looking.." he murmurs, picking up his pint and rising, scooping up some darts to take a few shots at one of the dartboards, notably /not/ looking at the table.
"We'll be discrete." And yet, Eerie is not at all discrete pulling out their phone and meticulously taking close-up photos of each page. "Appreciate this, by the way, Detective Harrington. We know the kind of risk you're taking. Both in tackling this kind of case and coming to us with it. So I think we can safely say the Constables owe you a favor. At least the Constables in this room."
"I think it's all our best interests that this issue is... taken care of, regardless," says Rafael with a slight shrug, "This is bad for everyone's business, and people are dying. Corpses always make for a bad time." No offense, Eerie.
There's a series of *thunk* noises as the detective takes his shots. He's not bad, a decent score for someone who isn't really concentrating on the dartboard. When he figures the other two have had enough time to take whatever pictures or notes they need to, he returns to the table, taking another gulp from his rapidly-emptying pint glass. "I just want it solved. If you want to do me a favour, do that," he confirms along with Rafael's sentiment. "If we know who it is, we can deal with them. Even better if you sort that too, mind, but I dunno what your offensive capabilities are, so don't get yourself in too deep with something this dangerous, okay?" he adds.
"I mean, between us I think we can handle most cults," Eerie says, confidently. "They're mostly made up of humans and there's no humans more well-suited to that kind of work than us, are there?" Once the pictures are taken, Eerie closes the folder and picks it up to hand back to Harrington. "We'll be careful. And if we need backup there are folks we can call. We won't get any of yours killed handling this stuff if we can help it."
"I assure you, we can deal with whatever we run into," replies Rafael with a slow shrug of his shoulders, hands spreading a bit, "Our business is inherently a dangerous one, detective. I appreciate the worry, but--" He flashes a brief smile, "We can take care of yourselves."
"Alright. If you need any more information, or someone handy with a gun - do guns even work on ghosts? - then let me know. If I get any new breakthroughs on possible patterns, I'll be in touch," Harrington affirms, rising to his feet and scooping up the files, draining the remainder of his beer and setting the glass back down. "Keep safe, folks." And then, unless forestalled, he's heading for the door.