Highlander/Anita-verse crossover -- no, not that one
Holy Water and Silver Nitrate
a Highlander/Anita Blake crossover
Rated PG
Summary: The secret to being interrogated is to remember that, if you know what you're doing, you can learn as much - if not more - from your interrogator than he will learn from you. (gen; PG)
"Mr. Forrester. I assume that you're aware of your rights?"
I make a point of not rolling my eyes, because of course I'm aware of my rights and my questioner knows that. He's got Ted Forrester's file in his hand, is tapping it gently on the metal table that's standard in most interrogation rooms, and if he's got that, he knows I've been in this situation before. He'll also be aware that Ted has a very good attorney on retainer, and that this interview is over whenever I decide it is, unless someone wants to press charges against me for carrying concealed.
I'd be out of here already if I were only dealing with the local police. Unfortunately, I can't afford to unduly irritate the FBI, not if I want to continue using Ted's legitimate business as a cover for my actual work, so I've wasted an hour in the Cleveland PD's interrogation rooms while waiting for the Bureau's man to get to me.
The waiting is most likely a psychological tactic. Cleveland PD picked me up less than a block from my quarry's latest kill, and since it can pass for human, I'm sure that I'm number one on their suspect list.
The officers who picked me up were lucky. The older one was experienced enough -- and spooked enough -- to stay well out of my reach and out of his partner's line of fire. I could still have taken them both, but doing so would have drawn the attention of certain parties I'd just as soon not have alerted to the presence of a professional assassin. Not when Ted Forrester's known to be in Cleveland on business.
Hence the sharp-eyed FBI agent sitting oh-so-so casually across the table, offering greetings and making sure I've been Mirandized in a soft, Southern drawl that has probably disarmed many a less-wary suspect. He sounds like Rhett Butler, or maybe Ashley Wilkes, and I'm willing to bet that most people find it quite a shock when that calm voice cracks like a whip, civilization surrendering to command with disorienting speed. He hasn't done it to me yet, but every good interrogator knows the trick, and Special Agent Matthew McCormick is dangerously good at his job. He's not publicity-hungry -- I've seen only a few photographs of him, and none of them came close to capturing his darkly vital good looks; still, he's the FBI's profiling wunderkind, their man on the spot in every major serial-killing case of the past decade. His presence in Cleveland speaks eloquently of the Bureau's desire to catch my quarry.
"I'm well aware of my rights, thank you," I tell him. "I'm sure my lawyer's name is somewhere in that file."
"Oh, it is," McCormick says agreeably. "And if I were planning on getting unpleasant with you, Mr. Forrester, I would already have suggested that you call him. As it is, I'm only going to ask you to explain what you were doing at my crime scene, and why you were carrying --" he glances at the file, though I'm fairly sure that he doesn't need to -- "two guns, four extra clips, three knives, a garrote, and a machete. Nor why you were carrying what the rangemaster swears are explosive rounds filled with a combination of silver nitrate and holy water."
"Cleveland's a dangerous city."
"It certainly is," he says. "I'm sure that your presence alone ups the danger quotient considerably. Do you usually go about this heavily armed?"
"I'm a bounty hunter."
"And you are currently hunting...?"
"A rogue shifter." There's always a rogue shifter on Ted's docket, and it's a decent explanation for the specially doctored ammunition in my guns and clips. Now would probably be a bad time to mention that the arresting officers missed one of my knives. Law enforcement types don't like finding out that you're still armed when they've already searched you. It makes them suspicious, and Agent McCormick seems to have a plateful of suspicion already.
"I see," he says dryly. "And your decision to wander around the industrial district at one thirty in the morning?"
"Weres go out at night, Agent."
"They do indeed. Did you find any evidence of your rogue shifter, Mr. Forrester?"
The question is politely interested -- and I realize that McCormick doesn't much care one way or another about my answer. For some reason, he's about as involved in this interview as he would be in a traffic jam. He's going through all the right motions -- the pointed questions, the assessing stares -- but he's already decided that I'm innocent.
Why go through the motions, then? Because he's already figured out what he's after, and doesn't want the local police to know? Because he's in league with it? Or could he actually be my quarry? The thing is supposed to be able to pass for human.
"Not at your crime scene," I allow.
"Then perhaps you'll be good enough to stay away from them from now on." It isn't a question, and McCormick doesn't bother to glance at me to confirm my acquiescence. Instead, he gestures at the door. "You're free to leave, sir. You may collect your weapons from the desk sergeant on your way out the door. We'll be keeping the rounds you...modified."
I'm released with surprisingly little hassle, considering that I was nominally in Federal custody. It's enough to make me even more curious about Agent McCormick than I already was. The man -- if he is a man -- is hiding something; something related to my current job.
I'm going to find out what it is.
***
Author's Notes: Many thanks to lferion for beta-help, and for helping me pick a title (a task at which I truly suck). As always, feedback is love.
a Highlander/Anita Blake crossover
Rated PG
Summary: The secret to being interrogated is to remember that, if you know what you're doing, you can learn as much - if not more - from your interrogator than he will learn from you. (gen; PG)
"Mr. Forrester. I assume that you're aware of your rights?"
I make a point of not rolling my eyes, because of course I'm aware of my rights and my questioner knows that. He's got Ted Forrester's file in his hand, is tapping it gently on the metal table that's standard in most interrogation rooms, and if he's got that, he knows I've been in this situation before. He'll also be aware that Ted has a very good attorney on retainer, and that this interview is over whenever I decide it is, unless someone wants to press charges against me for carrying concealed.
I'd be out of here already if I were only dealing with the local police. Unfortunately, I can't afford to unduly irritate the FBI, not if I want to continue using Ted's legitimate business as a cover for my actual work, so I've wasted an hour in the Cleveland PD's interrogation rooms while waiting for the Bureau's man to get to me.
The waiting is most likely a psychological tactic. Cleveland PD picked me up less than a block from my quarry's latest kill, and since it can pass for human, I'm sure that I'm number one on their suspect list.
The officers who picked me up were lucky. The older one was experienced enough -- and spooked enough -- to stay well out of my reach and out of his partner's line of fire. I could still have taken them both, but doing so would have drawn the attention of certain parties I'd just as soon not have alerted to the presence of a professional assassin. Not when Ted Forrester's known to be in Cleveland on business.
Hence the sharp-eyed FBI agent sitting oh-so-so casually across the table, offering greetings and making sure I've been Mirandized in a soft, Southern drawl that has probably disarmed many a less-wary suspect. He sounds like Rhett Butler, or maybe Ashley Wilkes, and I'm willing to bet that most people find it quite a shock when that calm voice cracks like a whip, civilization surrendering to command with disorienting speed. He hasn't done it to me yet, but every good interrogator knows the trick, and Special Agent Matthew McCormick is dangerously good at his job. He's not publicity-hungry -- I've seen only a few photographs of him, and none of them came close to capturing his darkly vital good looks; still, he's the FBI's profiling wunderkind, their man on the spot in every major serial-killing case of the past decade. His presence in Cleveland speaks eloquently of the Bureau's desire to catch my quarry.
"I'm well aware of my rights, thank you," I tell him. "I'm sure my lawyer's name is somewhere in that file."
"Oh, it is," McCormick says agreeably. "And if I were planning on getting unpleasant with you, Mr. Forrester, I would already have suggested that you call him. As it is, I'm only going to ask you to explain what you were doing at my crime scene, and why you were carrying --" he glances at the file, though I'm fairly sure that he doesn't need to -- "two guns, four extra clips, three knives, a garrote, and a machete. Nor why you were carrying what the rangemaster swears are explosive rounds filled with a combination of silver nitrate and holy water."
"Cleveland's a dangerous city."
"It certainly is," he says. "I'm sure that your presence alone ups the danger quotient considerably. Do you usually go about this heavily armed?"
"I'm a bounty hunter."
"And you are currently hunting...?"
"A rogue shifter." There's always a rogue shifter on Ted's docket, and it's a decent explanation for the specially doctored ammunition in my guns and clips. Now would probably be a bad time to mention that the arresting officers missed one of my knives. Law enforcement types don't like finding out that you're still armed when they've already searched you. It makes them suspicious, and Agent McCormick seems to have a plateful of suspicion already.
"I see," he says dryly. "And your decision to wander around the industrial district at one thirty in the morning?"
"Weres go out at night, Agent."
"They do indeed. Did you find any evidence of your rogue shifter, Mr. Forrester?"
The question is politely interested -- and I realize that McCormick doesn't much care one way or another about my answer. For some reason, he's about as involved in this interview as he would be in a traffic jam. He's going through all the right motions -- the pointed questions, the assessing stares -- but he's already decided that I'm innocent.
Why go through the motions, then? Because he's already figured out what he's after, and doesn't want the local police to know? Because he's in league with it? Or could he actually be my quarry? The thing is supposed to be able to pass for human.
"Not at your crime scene," I allow.
"Then perhaps you'll be good enough to stay away from them from now on." It isn't a question, and McCormick doesn't bother to glance at me to confirm my acquiescence. Instead, he gestures at the door. "You're free to leave, sir. You may collect your weapons from the desk sergeant on your way out the door. We'll be keeping the rounds you...modified."
I'm released with surprisingly little hassle, considering that I was nominally in Federal custody. It's enough to make me even more curious about Agent McCormick than I already was. The man -- if he is a man -- is hiding something; something related to my current job.
I'm going to find out what it is.
***
Author's Notes: Many thanks to lferion for beta-help, and for helping me pick a title (a task at which I truly suck). As always, feedback is love.