(no subject)
WHO Mike McLeary [MOLLY PITCHER], Charlie Toussaint [THE STEADFAST TIN SOLDIER]
WHAT After Mike stole a lab report from the Kuhl Case for Charlie, the guys hung out and review security footage.
WHEN Backdated to mid-February.
WHERE Charlie's apartment.
RATING Let's say PG-13 for talk of grisly murder.
Charlie: The process of opening a bottle of Sam Adams was becoming all too soothing to Charlie Toussaint. He wasn't sure if it was the gestalt of the whole thing; the sound of two copper-colored bottles clinking together, the satisfying pop of the screw cap as he removed it, or that very first taste of beer every time, but his 'occasional drinking' had become a fairly regular occurrence. Of course, there were other benefits to be reaped: It was considerably harder to hear the anguish of soldiers long gone when he was drowsy - sometimes even fast asleep - from alcohol. At least Charlie could console himself in the knowledge that at least Anser would be pleased - maybe, if he tried hard enough, Charlie could fulfill that "hard-drinking" side of the film noir detective stereotype. All he needed now was a fedora.
But the objective of the moment was not, suffice to say, to pass out, nor was it to get in touch with his inner Sam Spade. The beer was placed on the counter next to a brown bag that was, unfortunately, beginning to leak what Charlie could only hope was sauce from his order of beef and mushroom. The apartment - still too large and far too nice for someone like Charlie - was eerily quiet, save for the distant sounds of a rerun of Cops coming from the next room. (The programme, of course, was not his choosing - but between some tripe about Area 51 and Match Game 75, it was the better option.) Brad was out, doing God knows what - and recently, Charlie was beginning to dread his cousin's absence more than relish it, though he would take the sentiment with him to the grave before actually admitting it.
He sighed and with tired eyes looked around the kitchen. Charlie had thought upon moving that he had accumulated far too many things in seven years, but now he knew better. The apartment looked empty and felt sad. Maybe he should have let Brad keep the shag carpeting after all.
Mike: He was muttering. He was muttering, he was put-upon, he was a saint; nobody had ever done more for a friend or a case; the shape of a stolen manila folder pressed a guilty line into the middle of his back, at the edge of his one-shoulder-slung backpack. For the reincarnation for a revolutionary, you'd just assume that he liked breaking rules a little more than he did. And he'd used to, at some point. Catch Mike a few years prior and there would have been only one or two rules he didn't get off breaking, but set him to a uniform and jumping jacks, give him a badge, and suddenly he started hesitating before he pocketed case files for his PI buddies. Of which he had exactly one. One PI buddy who couldn't take his word on their appraisal of evidence and needed it delivered like a pizza.
That he'd volunteered to bring it over himself, that fact was conveniently forgotten when his knuckles met the outside of Charlie's door in a sequence of quick raps. Standing there, shifting the battered red backpack on his arm, he couldn't have looked shadier if they were orchestrating a drug deal. It was not immediately opened.
"Open up," he called, "It's the police." Always a fun greeting. A true greeting, but he also wanted to bug Brad if the guy was home.
Charlie: The look through the peephole was superfluous. So was waiting for that greeting, however amusing it was. Again, Charlie wished Brad actually was home, if only to watch the younger man practically claw his way up the curtains just to get away from the law. It was probably for the best that he wasn't. Charlie didn't feel like playing referee that night.
"You'll never take me alive, coppers," he said from behind the door. It was intended as a deadpan, and for all intents and purposes was, save for that slight curl of Charlie's lips; the very beginnings of a rare smile. There was a two-beat pause, and then the door was opened. His smile broadened with a quirk of a brow. "Jesus, Mike, you act like we're smuggling immigrants or something."
With that comment, some of the life of Charlie's smile dissipated and was replaced with reluctance. After all, if Charlie was still working for the NYPD, this whole exchange-along with the many before, and the countless after-would not have to happen. Charlie had never been much for co-dependence.
There was no invitation to come in, but Charlie imagined by now Mike didn't need one.
Mike: The thing about Tales was that they didn't need to take each other alive, since everybody would just come back, the same set of cops and robbers popping up in perpetuity. He slipped by without any polite pause at the threshold, swinging the backpack off his shoulder, and filling the space with all the warm, presumptive familiarity of ownership.
He grinned--somehow, that didn't compromise the fact that he was sulking--and made for the sofa. "Yeah, well, I've got two Mexicans in the big compartment. Thought you might need to hire somebody to rip out that carpet, chicks don't dig the shag." Mike was mighty talkative for an expression as stern as the one his returned to when he wasn't smirking. Yes, there were idiosyncrasies which must be honored to get documents from Mike, but he did pull through. He did have the file, and what a file it was. "Brad home?"
Charlie: "I don't know," Charlie began. The sound of his prosthetic rhythmically hitting the hardwood floor marked his temporary departure from the living room to the kitchen. He returned, beer and Chinese in hand, and offered Mike a bottle before sitting back in his much-loved (and much abused) recliner. "Brad likes the shag carpeting, and sometimes I wonder if he's in possession of a vagina. Caught him crying the other day during his daily Soaps."
There was a pause as Charlie took a long swig from his half-empty beer. "But no, no he's not - thank God," he said, with a little less enthusiasm for Brad-bashing than he usually possessed. "I suspect he's out trying to figure out a way to boost that car I won off of Napoleon without me knowing about it. He's been trying for it for weeks."
Mike: He snickered to himself--he followed Brad's exploits with much the same interest as other people watched soap operas, granted with fewer tears--and accepted the beer with the usual gratitude, and the Chinese food much as he'd relish a paycheck. The sofa sagged under his shoulders, which were still sore from an exhaustive workday, and he unzipped the backpack. There were other things in there (a t-shirt, running shoes, a two-pack carton of lightbulbs) but none were as relevant as that thin manila envelope: that was why he was there. It was so full of bloody scenes that he was half surprised nothing oozed from the edges. It was a testament to his experiences that he could remember, even picture all those horrible photographs, and still dig right into a takeout box of shrimp lo mein.
"So you won't have to take my word for it," he said as he handed over the analysis--a report on the murder weapon, swiped it from another desk. He did like giving his word, though, so he tried to summarize what else he'd found out. "Positive ID on the murder weapon. Too soaked for prints. They're having the cokebottles downstairs work on some... algorithm to calculate arm strength... necessary to do as much damage as it did, in such and such a number of strokes, I don't know." He waved his skepticism with a white plastic fork. "It's a long shot."
Charlie: For the very briefest of moments, Charlie considered questioning the existence of lightbulbs in Mike's bookbag, but then thought better of it. He didn't really need to know; in fact, he probably didn't want to know, all things considered. All he really needed was that manila envelope: That case. That horrible, horrible case that, if he hadn't already faced death once this lifetime, might have said would be the end of him. He reclined slightly with the case files, idly leafing through the photographs as one might a phonebook. Every once in a while he would glance up, a non-verbal tell to his informant that he was, indeed, still listening. At last, he nodded, and closed the envelope again.
"Thanks," he said after a short time and two more sips of his beer as he contemplated what he said. 'A long shot' was not among the things he had wanted to hear - but, a long shot was better than nothing at all. He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I just ... I don't know about this case, Mike. Some other detective -- Soo Min, I think? -- is supposed to be working on it as well, but I haven't heard a thing from her in a long time. You got any insights?"
Mike: One shoulder was shrugged, though he'd settled so deep into the sofa that it didn't really rise above level. "I haven't looked too hard, but honestly, I wouldn't be surprised if she did it." There was so much lo mein in his mouth right then that the words sounded like han't, hod, honsly, and di'it. He recognized that this killed some credibility, so he swallowed an uncomfortably large amount of unchewed noodles and brushed the back of his hand against his mouth. 'I mean--I know that's not what you guys want to hear because she's a Tale and Tales don't do shit, but one of my exes, she was way into those books." He whirled a finger around his temple, a wordless indication of how he felt about Devin Kuhl's body of work. Lydia, the girl's name was. He wouldn't be surprised if she killed somebody herself.
It didn't sit right with him to defend somebody just because they were one of their own. He stabbed a shrimp. "We can float that it's a crazed fan, I guess that happens sometimes, but I don't see why it couldn't be a crazed writer."
Charlie: "'Tales don't do shit?' You know I don't subscribe to that notion. Look at Easy Raub," came the reply from Charlie, before kicking down the leg rest in order to have better access to the remaining carton of Chinese, still left in the bag. His order of beef and mushroom removed, Charlie poked at its contents with another plastic fork, before glancing up at Mike. "Don't get me wrong. I wouldn't be surprised if it was her, given who she is. But I like to think she didn't - if only because I have that romantic notion tales can change. You can commence the teasing about my sentimentality any moment now."
Another swig of beer. "But no - mostly, I believe she didn't do it because the crime scene doesn't look like her. Read a bit of her work - not a fan, I'd have to say - and it just doesn't seem like her. Views death as an art form - you can see by those pictures the crime scene was anything but art." The leg rest went up again with the push of a lever. "So, she's perfectly capable of it. Wouldn't put it past her. But this crime, no. She didn't do this one."
Mike: He shook his head even while he shoveled another forkful of lo mein--he hadn't eaten all day, lunch had been taken up by some colleagues' drama downstairs, and dinner was put off by overtime on another investigation. That made him both unholy hungry and skeptical of fanciness, of speculation, and of all types of cerebral analysis.
"I don't buy it," he said offhandedly, in his candid way of contradicting without sounding like he disagreed. He waved a hand to the side. "Sure, how she sees it, there's that. That's the theory. But say she hasn't killed in this life yet, and she's forgotten how messy it gets. The beauty of death goes out the window, all the flair, all the style, and she's just there with a body that's not doing what she wants it to. So she gets frustrated, starts hacking. That's less a stretch than adding another party." He didn't seem the least bit disturbed by the nature of his own speculation. It wasn't his case. He could talk about it like this, he could drink his beer and speculate. "Sides, who's going to go through all the trouble, just to let Devin Kuhl take the credit? They're not pretty photographs. Somebody wanted to say something."
Charlie: Charlie slurped back a particularly large portabello as he listened to Mike's reasoning, but as always his attention was divided whenever food was concerned. He swallowed hard, taking a few stabs at the air with his plastic fork, a precursor for the words that were to come.
"See, but then why fall asleep next to the body?" he asked, stirring slightly in his seat to find a better position - at least one that was less likely to spill sauce all over his white t-shirt. (Like he was really worried; the t-shirt was from some charity thing he did in 1997 and had definitely seen some better days, a few more stains couldn't hurt it.) "I mean, sure, that's a way to make sure you get credit for what you've done, but it's also a way to spend the rest of your life in prison. If she was doing it for notoriety, maybe even publicity, she'd take a note from OJ's book. Less is more, and ambiguity is your best friend. Sleeping next to a corpse doesn't leave much room for doubt in the public's mind."
Mike: Tipping back the beer bottle, he retreated even further into the comfortable recesses of the sofa, then brushed his forehead with the knuckle of his thumb. There was sweat there, still, from work, and tension from stealing from work. Mike didn't know how to pull off a perfect murder. It would take a few more years of off-duty drunken boredom before he had that idle plan worked out. For right now, all he knew was how not to do it, and this case was a festival of blown strategies, of blood smears and barely hidden horror weapons. "I don't have a clue, man," Mike admitted with another drink. He balanced the lo mein container on one jean-clad knee as he readjusted and set his arm flat on the sofa back. "I guess that's why we're soldier Tales, not shitty crackpot serial killers."
He didn't invoke their Tale status often, but it usually came about like that: to place them on some plane high above another group of Tales, from which they could observe with a cool head and superior experience. He looked with concern down at the folder. "I don't read journals much, but all it seemed to do to her--jail, I mean--was make her bored. And if she wanted a ticket out, sure she could get one, you know? The thing about OJ... last I checked, he wouldn't just come back. Her books aren't classics, give em twenty years and nobody would remember, but hook them on a murder and people will never away." He popped a shrimp into his mouth. "Her babies would live forever."
The more he thought, the more he liked the theory. He wasn't above crafting a nice plot, himself.
Charlie: Charlie considered the theory as he stirred the contents of his carton of Chinese food. "Good point," he admitted, mulling over the words again. He made no acknowledgement to the comment about their status, but the corner of his mouth twitched uncharacteristically. Poor kid didn't know what he was saying. Being a soldier didn't make them better than anybody else; by now, he had learned that at least. All it did was make them unnecessary martyrs, people who would know nothing but death, murder, and war in the name of an unattainable peace-at least, unattainable for them. "You didn't see her when she first got out, though. I don't think she enjoyed being couped up with other women. Goes against her nature. A whole lifetime of being locked away with the wrong gender? I don't know of many people would do that, even for intellectual immortality."
He chewed thoughtfully on another piece of beef as a second idea hit him. "I know you're not fond of a second party being involved with this, but think about this: What if she's in on it, but didn't do the killing herself-all of the notoriety, but none of the jail time. Explains why she hired me, to distance herself from the blame. Also explains the messy crime scene, and why she's not milking this for all it's worth. Too much digging and she could be found out."
Mike: He gave the PI a dark look as gender-switching tale legacies were considered, but didn't otherwise comment. Devin Kuhl might have hated the women, but Mike McLeary liked hanging out with men. And doing other things with women. Things that usually started with hanging out. He drifted into thought about that for several seconds while another theory was spun; he only heard half of it, but it sounded far-fetched.
"Hey, It's your fake case, Charlie," he deferred over a sip of beer. Having shoveled forkfuls of Asian noodles directly to the gut meant that he was suddenly very full, if not very thirsty. It felt better than starving, but it did not lend itself much better to talking shop about a murder investigation. Hunger was a productive sensation. Fullness, ironically, made him want to lean against the sofa back and converse about sports or movies in one-syllable words, and returning his gaze to the nest of noodles returned his mind to business. He adopted a curious lean and asked, "Who exactly is Kuhl? Talewise."
Charlie: That dark look warranted some confusion on Charlie's behalf before he realized that Mike was not aware of the context, so it was met with a glance that seemed to say 'hold that thought.' After all, Devin Kuhl was a ... very special case of gender-switching in the Tale community; Mike, on the other hand -- at least, as far as Charlie was concerned -- wasn't. Then again, the Tin Soldier had, surprisingly, yet to go through a female incarnation, so it was hard to say.
"Bluebeard," he said with finality, as if that explained everything. Nevertheless, he decided to elaborate, using his plastic fork--with mushroom still speared--as some sort of pointer. "That's why I made the 'against her nature' comment, Mike, not a blanket statement--" he paused, not wishing to add for all gender-swapped Tales. "For anyone, just Kuhl. Lots of misogyny, from what I can gather. Which is why the Antheneum isn't on her side, either. She's done it before. Just ... I don't know about this time. I don't know."
Mike: He pressed he tongue against the interior corner of his mouth, looking thoughtful. He did trust Charlie's gut feelings. When Mike wasn't busy demanding beer and Chinese food, one or two steps back reminded him that the guy was a pretty legendary investigator, while his own credentials were slenderer. More than one case had been solved arguing against a skeptic, but Charlie's hesitation was convincing, and he found himself being convinced even while evidence to support his claim was risen. "Maybe not," he admitted. He was distracted by an utter lack of knowledge about who Bluebeard was, and a suspicion, however unfounded, that Devil Kuhl might have been a pirate.
"So I guess that raises the question of who'd want her to go down for murder. Who'd go through all the trouble."
WHAT After Mike stole a lab report from the Kuhl Case for Charlie, the guys hung out and review security footage.
WHEN Backdated to mid-February.
WHERE Charlie's apartment.
RATING Let's say PG-13 for talk of grisly murder.
Charlie: The process of opening a bottle of Sam Adams was becoming all too soothing to Charlie Toussaint. He wasn't sure if it was the gestalt of the whole thing; the sound of two copper-colored bottles clinking together, the satisfying pop of the screw cap as he removed it, or that very first taste of beer every time, but his 'occasional drinking' had become a fairly regular occurrence. Of course, there were other benefits to be reaped: It was considerably harder to hear the anguish of soldiers long gone when he was drowsy - sometimes even fast asleep - from alcohol. At least Charlie could console himself in the knowledge that at least Anser would be pleased - maybe, if he tried hard enough, Charlie could fulfill that "hard-drinking" side of the film noir detective stereotype. All he needed now was a fedora.
But the objective of the moment was not, suffice to say, to pass out, nor was it to get in touch with his inner Sam Spade. The beer was placed on the counter next to a brown bag that was, unfortunately, beginning to leak what Charlie could only hope was sauce from his order of beef and mushroom. The apartment - still too large and far too nice for someone like Charlie - was eerily quiet, save for the distant sounds of a rerun of Cops coming from the next room. (The programme, of course, was not his choosing - but between some tripe about Area 51 and Match Game 75, it was the better option.) Brad was out, doing God knows what - and recently, Charlie was beginning to dread his cousin's absence more than relish it, though he would take the sentiment with him to the grave before actually admitting it.
He sighed and with tired eyes looked around the kitchen. Charlie had thought upon moving that he had accumulated far too many things in seven years, but now he knew better. The apartment looked empty and felt sad. Maybe he should have let Brad keep the shag carpeting after all.
Mike: He was muttering. He was muttering, he was put-upon, he was a saint; nobody had ever done more for a friend or a case; the shape of a stolen manila folder pressed a guilty line into the middle of his back, at the edge of his one-shoulder-slung backpack. For the reincarnation for a revolutionary, you'd just assume that he liked breaking rules a little more than he did. And he'd used to, at some point. Catch Mike a few years prior and there would have been only one or two rules he didn't get off breaking, but set him to a uniform and jumping jacks, give him a badge, and suddenly he started hesitating before he pocketed case files for his PI buddies. Of which he had exactly one. One PI buddy who couldn't take his word on their appraisal of evidence and needed it delivered like a pizza.
That he'd volunteered to bring it over himself, that fact was conveniently forgotten when his knuckles met the outside of Charlie's door in a sequence of quick raps. Standing there, shifting the battered red backpack on his arm, he couldn't have looked shadier if they were orchestrating a drug deal. It was not immediately opened.
"Open up," he called, "It's the police." Always a fun greeting. A true greeting, but he also wanted to bug Brad if the guy was home.
Charlie: The look through the peephole was superfluous. So was waiting for that greeting, however amusing it was. Again, Charlie wished Brad actually was home, if only to watch the younger man practically claw his way up the curtains just to get away from the law. It was probably for the best that he wasn't. Charlie didn't feel like playing referee that night.
"You'll never take me alive, coppers," he said from behind the door. It was intended as a deadpan, and for all intents and purposes was, save for that slight curl of Charlie's lips; the very beginnings of a rare smile. There was a two-beat pause, and then the door was opened. His smile broadened with a quirk of a brow. "Jesus, Mike, you act like we're smuggling immigrants or something."
With that comment, some of the life of Charlie's smile dissipated and was replaced with reluctance. After all, if Charlie was still working for the NYPD, this whole exchange-along with the many before, and the countless after-would not have to happen. Charlie had never been much for co-dependence.
There was no invitation to come in, but Charlie imagined by now Mike didn't need one.
Mike: The thing about Tales was that they didn't need to take each other alive, since everybody would just come back, the same set of cops and robbers popping up in perpetuity. He slipped by without any polite pause at the threshold, swinging the backpack off his shoulder, and filling the space with all the warm, presumptive familiarity of ownership.
He grinned--somehow, that didn't compromise the fact that he was sulking--and made for the sofa. "Yeah, well, I've got two Mexicans in the big compartment. Thought you might need to hire somebody to rip out that carpet, chicks don't dig the shag." Mike was mighty talkative for an expression as stern as the one his returned to when he wasn't smirking. Yes, there were idiosyncrasies which must be honored to get documents from Mike, but he did pull through. He did have the file, and what a file it was. "Brad home?"
Charlie: "I don't know," Charlie began. The sound of his prosthetic rhythmically hitting the hardwood floor marked his temporary departure from the living room to the kitchen. He returned, beer and Chinese in hand, and offered Mike a bottle before sitting back in his much-loved (and much abused) recliner. "Brad likes the shag carpeting, and sometimes I wonder if he's in possession of a vagina. Caught him crying the other day during his daily Soaps."
There was a pause as Charlie took a long swig from his half-empty beer. "But no, no he's not - thank God," he said, with a little less enthusiasm for Brad-bashing than he usually possessed. "I suspect he's out trying to figure out a way to boost that car I won off of Napoleon without me knowing about it. He's been trying for it for weeks."
Mike: He snickered to himself--he followed Brad's exploits with much the same interest as other people watched soap operas, granted with fewer tears--and accepted the beer with the usual gratitude, and the Chinese food much as he'd relish a paycheck. The sofa sagged under his shoulders, which were still sore from an exhaustive workday, and he unzipped the backpack. There were other things in there (a t-shirt, running shoes, a two-pack carton of lightbulbs) but none were as relevant as that thin manila envelope: that was why he was there. It was so full of bloody scenes that he was half surprised nothing oozed from the edges. It was a testament to his experiences that he could remember, even picture all those horrible photographs, and still dig right into a takeout box of shrimp lo mein.
"So you won't have to take my word for it," he said as he handed over the analysis--a report on the murder weapon, swiped it from another desk. He did like giving his word, though, so he tried to summarize what else he'd found out. "Positive ID on the murder weapon. Too soaked for prints. They're having the cokebottles downstairs work on some... algorithm to calculate arm strength... necessary to do as much damage as it did, in such and such a number of strokes, I don't know." He waved his skepticism with a white plastic fork. "It's a long shot."
Charlie: For the very briefest of moments, Charlie considered questioning the existence of lightbulbs in Mike's bookbag, but then thought better of it. He didn't really need to know; in fact, he probably didn't want to know, all things considered. All he really needed was that manila envelope: That case. That horrible, horrible case that, if he hadn't already faced death once this lifetime, might have said would be the end of him. He reclined slightly with the case files, idly leafing through the photographs as one might a phonebook. Every once in a while he would glance up, a non-verbal tell to his informant that he was, indeed, still listening. At last, he nodded, and closed the envelope again.
"Thanks," he said after a short time and two more sips of his beer as he contemplated what he said. 'A long shot' was not among the things he had wanted to hear - but, a long shot was better than nothing at all. He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I just ... I don't know about this case, Mike. Some other detective -- Soo Min, I think? -- is supposed to be working on it as well, but I haven't heard a thing from her in a long time. You got any insights?"
Mike: One shoulder was shrugged, though he'd settled so deep into the sofa that it didn't really rise above level. "I haven't looked too hard, but honestly, I wouldn't be surprised if she did it." There was so much lo mein in his mouth right then that the words sounded like han't, hod, honsly, and di'it. He recognized that this killed some credibility, so he swallowed an uncomfortably large amount of unchewed noodles and brushed the back of his hand against his mouth. 'I mean--I know that's not what you guys want to hear because she's a Tale and Tales don't do shit, but one of my exes, she was way into those books." He whirled a finger around his temple, a wordless indication of how he felt about Devin Kuhl's body of work. Lydia, the girl's name was. He wouldn't be surprised if she killed somebody herself.
It didn't sit right with him to defend somebody just because they were one of their own. He stabbed a shrimp. "We can float that it's a crazed fan, I guess that happens sometimes, but I don't see why it couldn't be a crazed writer."
Charlie: "'Tales don't do shit?' You know I don't subscribe to that notion. Look at Easy Raub," came the reply from Charlie, before kicking down the leg rest in order to have better access to the remaining carton of Chinese, still left in the bag. His order of beef and mushroom removed, Charlie poked at its contents with another plastic fork, before glancing up at Mike. "Don't get me wrong. I wouldn't be surprised if it was her, given who she is. But I like to think she didn't - if only because I have that romantic notion tales can change. You can commence the teasing about my sentimentality any moment now."
Another swig of beer. "But no - mostly, I believe she didn't do it because the crime scene doesn't look like her. Read a bit of her work - not a fan, I'd have to say - and it just doesn't seem like her. Views death as an art form - you can see by those pictures the crime scene was anything but art." The leg rest went up again with the push of a lever. "So, she's perfectly capable of it. Wouldn't put it past her. But this crime, no. She didn't do this one."
Mike: He shook his head even while he shoveled another forkful of lo mein--he hadn't eaten all day, lunch had been taken up by some colleagues' drama downstairs, and dinner was put off by overtime on another investigation. That made him both unholy hungry and skeptical of fanciness, of speculation, and of all types of cerebral analysis.
"I don't buy it," he said offhandedly, in his candid way of contradicting without sounding like he disagreed. He waved a hand to the side. "Sure, how she sees it, there's that. That's the theory. But say she hasn't killed in this life yet, and she's forgotten how messy it gets. The beauty of death goes out the window, all the flair, all the style, and she's just there with a body that's not doing what she wants it to. So she gets frustrated, starts hacking. That's less a stretch than adding another party." He didn't seem the least bit disturbed by the nature of his own speculation. It wasn't his case. He could talk about it like this, he could drink his beer and speculate. "Sides, who's going to go through all the trouble, just to let Devin Kuhl take the credit? They're not pretty photographs. Somebody wanted to say something."
Charlie: Charlie slurped back a particularly large portabello as he listened to Mike's reasoning, but as always his attention was divided whenever food was concerned. He swallowed hard, taking a few stabs at the air with his plastic fork, a precursor for the words that were to come.
"See, but then why fall asleep next to the body?" he asked, stirring slightly in his seat to find a better position - at least one that was less likely to spill sauce all over his white t-shirt. (Like he was really worried; the t-shirt was from some charity thing he did in 1997 and had definitely seen some better days, a few more stains couldn't hurt it.) "I mean, sure, that's a way to make sure you get credit for what you've done, but it's also a way to spend the rest of your life in prison. If she was doing it for notoriety, maybe even publicity, she'd take a note from OJ's book. Less is more, and ambiguity is your best friend. Sleeping next to a corpse doesn't leave much room for doubt in the public's mind."
Mike: Tipping back the beer bottle, he retreated even further into the comfortable recesses of the sofa, then brushed his forehead with the knuckle of his thumb. There was sweat there, still, from work, and tension from stealing from work. Mike didn't know how to pull off a perfect murder. It would take a few more years of off-duty drunken boredom before he had that idle plan worked out. For right now, all he knew was how not to do it, and this case was a festival of blown strategies, of blood smears and barely hidden horror weapons. "I don't have a clue, man," Mike admitted with another drink. He balanced the lo mein container on one jean-clad knee as he readjusted and set his arm flat on the sofa back. "I guess that's why we're soldier Tales, not shitty crackpot serial killers."
He didn't invoke their Tale status often, but it usually came about like that: to place them on some plane high above another group of Tales, from which they could observe with a cool head and superior experience. He looked with concern down at the folder. "I don't read journals much, but all it seemed to do to her--jail, I mean--was make her bored. And if she wanted a ticket out, sure she could get one, you know? The thing about OJ... last I checked, he wouldn't just come back. Her books aren't classics, give em twenty years and nobody would remember, but hook them on a murder and people will never away." He popped a shrimp into his mouth. "Her babies would live forever."
The more he thought, the more he liked the theory. He wasn't above crafting a nice plot, himself.
Charlie: Charlie considered the theory as he stirred the contents of his carton of Chinese food. "Good point," he admitted, mulling over the words again. He made no acknowledgement to the comment about their status, but the corner of his mouth twitched uncharacteristically. Poor kid didn't know what he was saying. Being a soldier didn't make them better than anybody else; by now, he had learned that at least. All it did was make them unnecessary martyrs, people who would know nothing but death, murder, and war in the name of an unattainable peace-at least, unattainable for them. "You didn't see her when she first got out, though. I don't think she enjoyed being couped up with other women. Goes against her nature. A whole lifetime of being locked away with the wrong gender? I don't know of many people would do that, even for intellectual immortality."
He chewed thoughtfully on another piece of beef as a second idea hit him. "I know you're not fond of a second party being involved with this, but think about this: What if she's in on it, but didn't do the killing herself-all of the notoriety, but none of the jail time. Explains why she hired me, to distance herself from the blame. Also explains the messy crime scene, and why she's not milking this for all it's worth. Too much digging and she could be found out."
Mike: He gave the PI a dark look as gender-switching tale legacies were considered, but didn't otherwise comment. Devin Kuhl might have hated the women, but Mike McLeary liked hanging out with men. And doing other things with women. Things that usually started with hanging out. He drifted into thought about that for several seconds while another theory was spun; he only heard half of it, but it sounded far-fetched.
"Hey, It's your fake case, Charlie," he deferred over a sip of beer. Having shoveled forkfuls of Asian noodles directly to the gut meant that he was suddenly very full, if not very thirsty. It felt better than starving, but it did not lend itself much better to talking shop about a murder investigation. Hunger was a productive sensation. Fullness, ironically, made him want to lean against the sofa back and converse about sports or movies in one-syllable words, and returning his gaze to the nest of noodles returned his mind to business. He adopted a curious lean and asked, "Who exactly is Kuhl? Talewise."
Charlie: That dark look warranted some confusion on Charlie's behalf before he realized that Mike was not aware of the context, so it was met with a glance that seemed to say 'hold that thought.' After all, Devin Kuhl was a ... very special case of gender-switching in the Tale community; Mike, on the other hand -- at least, as far as Charlie was concerned -- wasn't. Then again, the Tin Soldier had, surprisingly, yet to go through a female incarnation, so it was hard to say.
"Bluebeard," he said with finality, as if that explained everything. Nevertheless, he decided to elaborate, using his plastic fork--with mushroom still speared--as some sort of pointer. "That's why I made the 'against her nature' comment, Mike, not a blanket statement--" he paused, not wishing to add for all gender-swapped Tales. "For anyone, just Kuhl. Lots of misogyny, from what I can gather. Which is why the Antheneum isn't on her side, either. She's done it before. Just ... I don't know about this time. I don't know."
Mike: He pressed he tongue against the interior corner of his mouth, looking thoughtful. He did trust Charlie's gut feelings. When Mike wasn't busy demanding beer and Chinese food, one or two steps back reminded him that the guy was a pretty legendary investigator, while his own credentials were slenderer. More than one case had been solved arguing against a skeptic, but Charlie's hesitation was convincing, and he found himself being convinced even while evidence to support his claim was risen. "Maybe not," he admitted. He was distracted by an utter lack of knowledge about who Bluebeard was, and a suspicion, however unfounded, that Devil Kuhl might have been a pirate.
"So I guess that raises the question of who'd want her to go down for murder. Who'd go through all the trouble."