Talon (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
talonkarrde) wrote2010-07-08 11:51 pm
talonkarrde) wrote2010-07-08 11:51 pm
Entry tags:
Going All In
Case Number 74 lands on my desk on Thursday morning; Bartlett drops it on my desk personally, watching me with none of his bravado, just tired, sunken eyes.
I flip it open and see the little girl with strawberry blond curls, freckles sprinkled across her cheeks.
"Huh," I say. "Isn't this what you assigned to —"
"Kidnapping of a little girl, Fell." He says shortly, cutting me off. "Catch the fucker."
#
Until Katie's disappearance, at least.
She answers the door.
Veronica Baker, née Darling. Thirty-three, in good shape, no previous kids, but good with her sister's daughters, according to my team's background investigation.
"Hi, Mrs. Baker," I say, showing her my badge. "I'm Detective Fell, and I'd like to ask you some questions, if it's okay? I know that a couple of the other officers have already gotten a deposition from you, but we don't like to leave any stone unturned, you understand."
There are numerous books out there that say you can tell a liar by the way their eyes react. It's true — for kids, at least, and adults who haven't learned to lie. For the rest of us, who spend years telling people we love them when we don't and praising worthless actions to survive, our eyes show nothing.
Hers show pain; she's been crying recently. She nods hesitantly to my request, stepping back to let me in, and offers me some tea.
Each of us has a part to play: I pretend that I'm not trying to catch her in a lie, that I'm not questioning her as a 'person of interest', and she pretends that she doesn't know what I'm doing, that I'm just here to look for more information and that I know she's innocent.
I put on a pleasant smile before I start the questions.
"Well, Fell?" Bartlett asks, pushing a small pile of chips to the middle. It's our weekly poker game, and it's a hell of a cliché, our quartet — the captain, the donut-loving, friendly 'good cop' Brian, the lean, by the numbers 'bad cop' Jack, and me.
We're all set for a movie shoot, I think, where four cops take on the world and end up dying heroically to save millions. Or, what would probably make more money, a police drama where one of us is Judas and betrays the others to the mob, the gangs, the cop-killers.
I wonder who the traitor would be.
"On the Baker case, I mean," he clarifies unnecessarily, watching me as Brian calls and Jack folds. They've all read the file, and we've progressed to the 'speculate on each other's cases' section of the night.
"Nothing yet, captain," I respond, folding my queen of hearts and two of diamonds in response, looking back across the table at him.
"It's been a week," he says quietly, as Brian lays out the flop. The unsaid comment is obvious — why haven't you caught him yet? What if he strikes again?
"I interviewed the stepmother, who was actually there," I say in response. The others look at me, curious, and I continue. "I asked her, about halfway through, to describe the kidnapping for me ."
Bartlett picks up his winnings after Jack folds and motions to hold off on dealing the next hand. "And?"
"And she checks out," I said. "Gave me the details, everything squares with Davis' investigations. Described the perp again — same details. Didn't remember anything new. She hasn't been sleeping lately, obviously. Her husband says she's been having nightmares. Drowning."
"What a surprise," Jack comments sarcastically. "She was, after all, floating on her air mattress in the lake when the guy came; she probably lost it for a second and almost drowned trying to get to the kid."
I shrug, and Bartlett gives another look.
"Figure it out," he says.
I meet Anna by the river where Katie disappeared. I ask her all the usual questions, about her marriage and her ex-husband and his new wife, and she answers them dully, by rote. Of course — she's been asked them a couple times now.
The new Bakers have been together for three years. She divorced Jim the year before that. She doesn't sound too jealous of their new relationship, but I press her anyway. She's a person of interest, too, of course, with a possible angle on wrecking the Bakers' marriage.
Being a detective crushes any optimism a person starts out with. It's rational — optimistic people that aren't cynical about everyone's intentions miss leads, are led astray, and lose perps. So we lose the optimism, with the understanding that it makes us better at our jobs.
Even so, this will be a short conversation, I can tell; her answers give nothing but pain for the loss of her daughter. I feel for her loss, of course, but she has nothing substantial to offer, and our resources should be spent on the leads that we still have on the perp, before he escapes the net and it becomes a cold case.
And at the end of it, I mention that she should get some sleep, even though I know she won't. She mumbles that she's been having nightmares — nightmares of someone drowning her baby, and I wonder for a moment.
Hunches are a detective's way of his intuition connecting gaps in facts he doesn't know yet.
I ask her if Veronica was that good of a swimmer, and Anna shook her head. Apparently Veronica was never a fan of the water; Katie had been taught how to swim entirely by Anna herself.
Jim calls us, saying that his wife still hadn't been sleeping, that the nightmares were getting worse. He's worried about her, he says, worried that she was still having terrors of drowning. If we could drop by with any new information on the case, it could perhaps ease her mind.
Sometimes, it's like the movies: you're heading to a place where you suspect the truth is lurking, and perhaps the bad guys, and along the way, forensics will call you: there's been a breakthrough, they say — this is how it was done, go get them and bring them in.
Mostly, though, you go places with a sinking suspicion and nothing to back it up; the fact that you might be wrong is always on your mind, as there are many more false trails than good leads.
There is no call on the way to the Baker residence.
Instead, Anna's car is sitting in the driveway, a shiny BMW with the door still open. I'm out of the car without thinking about it, and lunge towards the door, putting my shoulder against it, hearing the bolt tear through the wood, feeling the door slam open as I roll through.
Veronica is kneeling beside a puddle of vomit, one arm stretched towards the pistol pointed at her face. Anna stands there, arm steady, though she turns to watch me stand up, my sidearm in my hand, though I don't point it at anything.
"Don't," Anna warns, as I slowly limp towards the two of them. "She killed my daughter."
I nod, closing the distance slowly. "You think..." I start, "that she should be punished."
"She should die," she whispers harshly, turning back to look at Veronica. "It would be an easier death than the one my daughter had."
Veronica simply starts sobbing, the horrible sound filling the air as we stand there. A second passes, and then five, and then I see Anna draw herself up. She's going to do it, I see.
And I'm caught — the grieving mother had figured it out on her own, and she had the woman who let her daughter die in front of her. A life for a life. But if she killed Veronica, there would be no confession. There would be no legal punishment, no trial, no demonstration for others. The case would be dropped, but not properly closed.
No detective that's been around for more than a few years retains their optimism. But this wasn't about optimism or pessimism, it was about not letting individual vengeance get in the way of justice. Even if it felt shitty.
'Figure it out', Bartlett said, and I had. Now it was time to bet everything I had to protect it. I took a step and jumped for the gun, watching as it went off, feeling as it hit.
//
A/N: In case you missed the link at the top, the other side of the story, courtesy of the talented![[info]](https://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif)
gratefuladdict. She is an excellent writer, and a very interesting person, and I have to say that I've been pretty lucky and enjoyed every single intersection week we've had.
I flip it open and see the little girl with strawberry blond curls, freckles sprinkled across her cheeks.
"Huh," I say. "Isn't this what you assigned to —"
"Kidnapping of a little girl, Fell." He says shortly, cutting me off. "Catch the fucker."
#
I smooth the corners of the file as I wait for someone to answer my knock. Jim and Veronica Baker — a typical suburban family, newly married, both previously divorced and had recently found happiness once again.
Until Katie's disappearance, at least.
She answers the door.
Veronica Baker, née Darling. Thirty-three, in good shape, no previous kids, but good with her sister's daughters, according to my team's background investigation.
"Hi, Mrs. Baker," I say, showing her my badge. "I'm Detective Fell, and I'd like to ask you some questions, if it's okay? I know that a couple of the other officers have already gotten a deposition from you, but we don't like to leave any stone unturned, you understand."
There are numerous books out there that say you can tell a liar by the way their eyes react. It's true — for kids, at least, and adults who haven't learned to lie. For the rest of us, who spend years telling people we love them when we don't and praising worthless actions to survive, our eyes show nothing.
Hers show pain; she's been crying recently. She nods hesitantly to my request, stepping back to let me in, and offers me some tea.
Each of us has a part to play: I pretend that I'm not trying to catch her in a lie, that I'm not questioning her as a 'person of interest', and she pretends that she doesn't know what I'm doing, that I'm just here to look for more information and that I know she's innocent.
I put on a pleasant smile before I start the questions.
#
"Well, Fell?" Bartlett asks, pushing a small pile of chips to the middle. It's our weekly poker game, and it's a hell of a cliché, our quartet — the captain, the donut-loving, friendly 'good cop' Brian, the lean, by the numbers 'bad cop' Jack, and me.
We're all set for a movie shoot, I think, where four cops take on the world and end up dying heroically to save millions. Or, what would probably make more money, a police drama where one of us is Judas and betrays the others to the mob, the gangs, the cop-killers.
I wonder who the traitor would be.
"On the Baker case, I mean," he clarifies unnecessarily, watching me as Brian calls and Jack folds. They've all read the file, and we've progressed to the 'speculate on each other's cases' section of the night.
"Nothing yet, captain," I respond, folding my queen of hearts and two of diamonds in response, looking back across the table at him.
"It's been a week," he says quietly, as Brian lays out the flop. The unsaid comment is obvious — why haven't you caught him yet? What if he strikes again?
"I interviewed the stepmother, who was actually there," I say in response. The others look at me, curious, and I continue. "I asked her, about halfway through, to describe the kidnapping for me ."
Bartlett picks up his winnings after Jack folds and motions to hold off on dealing the next hand. "And?"
"And she checks out," I said. "Gave me the details, everything squares with Davis' investigations. Described the perp again — same details. Didn't remember anything new. She hasn't been sleeping lately, obviously. Her husband says she's been having nightmares. Drowning."
"What a surprise," Jack comments sarcastically. "She was, after all, floating on her air mattress in the lake when the guy came; she probably lost it for a second and almost drowned trying to get to the kid."
I shrug, and Bartlett gives another look.
"Figure it out," he says.
#
I meet Anna by the river where Katie disappeared. I ask her all the usual questions, about her marriage and her ex-husband and his new wife, and she answers them dully, by rote. Of course — she's been asked them a couple times now.
The new Bakers have been together for three years. She divorced Jim the year before that. She doesn't sound too jealous of their new relationship, but I press her anyway. She's a person of interest, too, of course, with a possible angle on wrecking the Bakers' marriage.
Being a detective crushes any optimism a person starts out with. It's rational — optimistic people that aren't cynical about everyone's intentions miss leads, are led astray, and lose perps. So we lose the optimism, with the understanding that it makes us better at our jobs.
Even so, this will be a short conversation, I can tell; her answers give nothing but pain for the loss of her daughter. I feel for her loss, of course, but she has nothing substantial to offer, and our resources should be spent on the leads that we still have on the perp, before he escapes the net and it becomes a cold case.
And at the end of it, I mention that she should get some sleep, even though I know she won't. She mumbles that she's been having nightmares — nightmares of someone drowning her baby, and I wonder for a moment.
Hunches are a detective's way of his intuition connecting gaps in facts he doesn't know yet.
I ask her if Veronica was that good of a swimmer, and Anna shook her head. Apparently Veronica was never a fan of the water; Katie had been taught how to swim entirely by Anna herself.
#
Jim calls us, saying that his wife still hadn't been sleeping, that the nightmares were getting worse. He's worried about her, he says, worried that she was still having terrors of drowning. If we could drop by with any new information on the case, it could perhaps ease her mind.
Sometimes, it's like the movies: you're heading to a place where you suspect the truth is lurking, and perhaps the bad guys, and along the way, forensics will call you: there's been a breakthrough, they say — this is how it was done, go get them and bring them in.
Mostly, though, you go places with a sinking suspicion and nothing to back it up; the fact that you might be wrong is always on your mind, as there are many more false trails than good leads.
There is no call on the way to the Baker residence.
Instead, Anna's car is sitting in the driveway, a shiny BMW with the door still open. I'm out of the car without thinking about it, and lunge towards the door, putting my shoulder against it, hearing the bolt tear through the wood, feeling the door slam open as I roll through.
#
Veronica is kneeling beside a puddle of vomit, one arm stretched towards the pistol pointed at her face. Anna stands there, arm steady, though she turns to watch me stand up, my sidearm in my hand, though I don't point it at anything.
"Don't," Anna warns, as I slowly limp towards the two of them. "She killed my daughter."
I nod, closing the distance slowly. "You think..." I start, "that she should be punished."
"She should die," she whispers harshly, turning back to look at Veronica. "It would be an easier death than the one my daughter had."
Veronica simply starts sobbing, the horrible sound filling the air as we stand there. A second passes, and then five, and then I see Anna draw herself up. She's going to do it, I see.
And I'm caught — the grieving mother had figured it out on her own, and she had the woman who let her daughter die in front of her. A life for a life. But if she killed Veronica, there would be no confession. There would be no legal punishment, no trial, no demonstration for others. The case would be dropped, but not properly closed.
No detective that's been around for more than a few years retains their optimism. But this wasn't about optimism or pessimism, it was about not letting individual vengeance get in the way of justice. Even if it felt shitty.
'Figure it out', Bartlett said, and I had. Now it was time to bet everything I had to protect it. I took a step and jumped for the gun, watching as it went off, feeling as it hit.
//
A/N: In case you missed the link at the top, the other side of the story, courtesy of the talented
gratefuladdict. She is an excellent writer, and a very interesting person, and I have to say that I've been pretty lucky and enjoyed every single intersection week we've had.
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Sometimes, forensics calls and tells you you're completely wrong. I think Fell's had a couple of those experiences too, but not this time ;)
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I love the cadence of your writing, like this:
Each of us has a part to play: I pretend that I'm not trying to catch her in a lie, that I'm not questioning her as a 'person of interest', and she pretends that she doesn't know what I'm doing, that I'm just here to look for more information and that I know she's innocent.
I put on a pleasant smile before I start the questions.
Just exactly right. Well done.
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I really kind of fell off the entire internet/email/phone cliff for about a month or so. I promise that you were NOT the only one getting zero comments! It's been a lot of fun getting invited back into LJI, even for just one entry, and getting motivated to reconnect with all you glorious people.
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Really well done.
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Hm. The way you phrased it — anything you didn't like it? I've given concrit a couple times, and I'm always interested in getting it!
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I am at my grandpa's 90th birthday so I don't have time to do serious concrit right now but I'll try to give a really good read-through tomorrow and let you know. Do you want me to crit it from the perspective of being a complement to Stacey's story, or should I crit it as if it's a standalone? Because I think it does change the approach.
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As for the perspective, hm, good question. Either, both, if you have time? I'm interested to know how it fits and how it'd feel if it just stood singularly.
You know, if that's not asking too much. :P
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Very effective individual stories and also a great pairing.
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But thanks :D
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