(no subject)
Title: Beantown Blue--2
Pairing/Characters: Casey, Zeke (pairing?)
Rating: Hard R
Genre: AU
Warning(s): various crimes (murder, rape specifically), some grisly images, heavy angst
Author's Note: This story isn't of the fluffy variety, and is chock-full of AU. Nevertheless, I won't be getting too, too nasty with it. I also don't know the ins-and-outs of detective work, murder investigations, etc., but I'm doing my best.
Disclaimer: Don't own!
Synopsis: Set in present-time Boston, MA., Zeke's life as a police officer intertwines with a certain intriguing coroner's.
Previous Parts
Newbury Street had some good and cheap clothing stores, a lot of them used. Zeke awaited complaints from his brother on how he'd had more expensive tastes to satisfy, but lucked when Bobby seemed okay with everything. Zeke appreciated the cheaper things in life-besides cigarettes. Going to places like the Prudential Center or Faneuil Hall marketplace could be fun, as long as he had tax-return money or the rare lotto-win.
For now, Bobby was pleased with the three outfits and shoes he'd gotten from the Goodwill, plus a large backpack from the Army-Navy shop. Figuring they could splurge a little on food, Zeke stopped them at an outdoor cafe for lunch. Bobby needed something more than MSG-laden meals, and Zeke did have a hankering for salad. After ordering two of them (“Rabbit food?” Bobby had commented, shutting up when Zeke cocked an eyebrow at him as a warning) and expensive lattes, the two moved to the one unoccupied table outside. It was near the end of autumn; warm days with cold nights, where soon both would be chilly and awful in just a few weeks. They had to take in the sunny days as much as possible.
Now a few bites into their lunch, Zeke glanced up to Bobby. “So... where you headed, anyway?”
“Headed?” Bobby asked while poking his food with his fork.
“Yea. Where are you gonna go tonight?”
The young man had probably hoped the 'just for one night' condition could be pushed to two, hence Zeke bringing the subject up. Bobby shrugged a little. “Dunno. Might be able to track down Heckle, see where he'd run to.”
“Heckle?” Zeke said. Bobby sighed.
“That's what we call 'im, yea.”
“Uh huh. Well... the place right down the way might be able to take you in. St. Fran, there.”
“Francis? The homeless shelter?” Bobby asked. At Zeke's small nod, he rolled his eyes and scoffed. “Ain't staying at a shelter, man. I'd rather find an alley.”
“It gets cold at night now,” Zeke said.
“I'd rather. Find. An alley,” Bobby haltingly replied. “You ever spend a night in a shelter, big bro? Cos' I have. I lost my shoes and cell the second my eyes closed.”
“Cell?”
“Yea. I replaced it, but...”
Zeke frowned heavily. “You never told me you had one. How can you pay for a cell? Where was it last night after I practically patted you down?”
“It ain't a fancy number, just... one of those pre-paids,” Bobby explained as he drew the cell from his shoe-a place Zeke hadn't checked, damn it...
“Still never told me. I sit around worrying about you, thinking I can't get in touch...” Grumbling, Zeke reached into his pocket and drew out his Blackberry. “What is it?”
Bobby looked annoyed, phone going into his pocket then arms crossing over his chest and head turned to the street. After a pause, he said, “555-2129.”
Zeke entered the phone into his contacts list but paused when he saw Bobby return to eating. The young man looked nervous, sketchy-the usual, but Zeke still suspected... with a sigh, he punched in the numbers and drew the phone to his ear. Bobby noticed. “Who're you calling?” he asked.
“You,” Zeke replied. He listened as the phone began ringing, but no sound was coming from Bobby's pockets. After a moment, someone DID, in fact, pick up.
“Regina Pizzeria, may I help you?” a cheery woman answered. Zeke sniffed hard and looked to the street; the traffic jam there was keeping one of the restaurants driver's in wait, the shop's number printed on the sign sitting on the top of the car.
“Wrong number. Sorry,” Zeke said.
“It's okay,” the woman replied.
Bobby groaned and rubbed his face as Zeke hung up the phone and gave him a long, hard look. “Why'd you do that?” Zeke said.
“Do what, Zeke?”
The defiance in Bobby's voice was the usual. Zeke ignored his lunch to sniff angrily and sit straighter. “I ask you for your number, to keep tabs on you, make sure you ain't dead and you go off and--”
“Knock it off, Zee. Really, knock it off,” Bobby interrupted. “I don't gotta give my shit out to anyone.”
“So I let you crash at my place, get you shit to replace your stank-assed clothes then buy you lunch...”
“Yea, you're a real saint, huh? Did I ASK you for the shopping and grub? No. Just more shit to lord over me later-or now, really,” Bobby replied. “JUST like when we were kids. I always had so much to live up to. Then when Mom takes off--”
“WHAT did you have to 'live up to'? Fuck's sake, we were BOTH fuck-ups!” Zeke angrily retorted.
“I was only fuckin' fourteen when it happened, then what? Mom decides to drop us, and where do YOU go? Huh?” Bobby sniffed with fury as he, too, sat up straight. “They told you, 'take care of Bobby', but no, you go off to parties and shit, do your thing while I make my own dinners and whatever the fuck else I shouldn't have had to do.”
“Wha... you're blaming me? The fuck, Bob, I was nineteen, not exactly an adult!” Zeke said. “You weren't a baby, anyway!”
“Yea, I'm outta here,” Bobby said and stood abruptly, slinging his bag over his shoulder.
“Yea, you're fuckin' welcome, asshole,” Zeke couldn't help from replying with as much vitriol as he could muster. The only reply Bobby gave was his middle finger as he stalked past the cafe's gate and down the street. Zeke sank back in his chair and stared at both of their barely-touched meals. 'Fuck him. He ain't your fault,' he thought, miserable.
~*~
It was hustle-bustle-busy the second Zeke walked through the doors and into the main office. Not five steps in, his elbow was grabbed by Tim. “Hey... what's goin' on?” Zeke asked.
“The girl you found... her mom's here,” Tim replied.
Zeke stood still as he let the words sink in. “Bessie Barnes' girl?”
Tim nodded. “She's in Walsh's office. Ain't long now before she goes to Albany Street to do an ID, but... it's her,” he explained. “Walsh wants you in there, pronto.”
“Yea. Okay, thanks,” Zeke said as he left Tim behind and headed past the groups of desks and water coolers. He could see the insides of Walsh's office through the venetian blinds' slats. Walsh, Marsh and a woman with short black hair, her back to him, sat there talking. The box of tissues sat on the desk, her shaking hand full of them.
~*~
Mrs. Irene Machiton couldn't stop shaking as Zeke helped her down the hall, a hand on her back. There weren't many words he could find to say to this poor woman, leading her down this 'hall of death' to the large window. A few steps away, Irene halted quick, making Zeke almost bump into her.
“Dunno if I can. If that's my baby...” she turned quick to him. “...D-Do I just say 'yes', or do I have... ha-have...”
“Just identify her. If you'd like to go in, we can--”
“Don't know if I can. Don't kn-know if I can.”
Zeke steeled himself and tried giving her his best sympathetic expression. “Just do your best.”
“You're the cop that found her-she's...”
“Mrs. Machiton,” Becky, the only woman on the SVU staff available to go with, came back to her side. “I know it's hard. This will only last a few seconds, then you can decide what you would like to do.”
Zeke wanted to scowl. Becky didn't 'know' anything, having seen what she had or not. Still, Irene nodded fast and continued walking, this time a few steps ahead of Zeke.
Now at the window, Zeke looked in. The sheet-covered gurney had been wheeled over to the viewing-area; Casey stood nearby, holding a clipboard against his chest. Casey watched them all gather with a watchful eye then put the clipboard down on a nearby desk. Zeke stood close behind Irene, bracing himself for the worst. He saw Casey's chest rise slowly and fall before going over to the gurney and lifting the sheet.
Irene's face instantly went into an expression of anguish. “Darcy. Darcy, baby!”
Becky flanked one side of the woman, Zeke on the other as she plastered herself on the glass and howled, tears streaming down her cheeks. “That's my baby! My baby's in there!” she screamed through her crying, words coming out in a splutter.
“You're sure, Mrs. Machiton?” Becky asked. Again, Zeke wanted to hit her, repeatedly as Irene squeezed her eyes shut in one second, opening them in a flash in the other to stare into the shiny, white-walled room.
“I gotta see her! Lemmee see m-my baby!” Before anyone could stop her, Irene slid past Zeke and rushed to the door. She twisted the knob, finding it locked. “Lemmee see my BABY!”
Zeke squashed down the panic to make an urgent knock on the window; Casey nodded quick and disappeared from their view. Becky and Zeke jogged to Irene as the door opened. Casey stood just past it. Irene put her hands to her mouth. “C-Can I see my baby? I gotta see, my Darcy...”
“Yes, that's all right,” Casey replied in a soft voice.
Shaking violently and needing Zeke's hands on either side of her shoulders to keep her steady, Irene stumbled into the room and went over to the gurney. She crumbled at her daughter's side, one hand going to the bruised and battered face. “Baby, who DONE this to you? Who fuckin' DONE it?” she wailed. Random cries and syllables rang out as she grieved, no one interrupting her. Becky bit her lip, crossing her arms tight over her chest.
“She was treated well here, Mrs. Machiton, I assure you,” Becky said.
The woman wasn't listening, continuing to cry at Darcy's bedside. As Zeke fought for words to say, Casey went over to the head of the gurney to look at Irene. “Her name was Darcy?” he asked. Though Irene was still shaking and wailing, she nodded. Casey nodded back, wearing the tiniest, soft smile. “We didn't know her name; I called her 'Marie' when I'd take care of her.”
Irene's eyes snapped away from the bed to Casey. “That... that's her middle. Her middle name.”
“She seemed like a 'Marie',” Casey said.
Zeke watched quietly as Irene took Casey's hand, squeezing it tight. “You took care of my Darcy. Th-Thank you...”
“You're welcome.”
Long minutes passed with no one saying a word, until Becky stood away from the wall and went to Irene again. “We need to go back to the station, take care of a few more things. After that, we can give you her personal belongings and help you with anything else you may need.”
“Where's her bracelet? Y-You said, she'd had her bracelet...?” Irene asked.
“Right here,” Casey said. He drew it from the clipboard and removed it from the plastic bag. “It's very special, I could tell.”
“Got it... from her Gram, six-sixteenth...” Irene's voice was cut off with a choke. The bracelet was handed over and clutched into a tight grip. Now wordless, Irene gave one last, long look to her daughter before breaking down again and being led away by Becky, who held her close, shushing quietly into the woman's ear. Zeke stayed behind a moment, staring at the girl he'd found that one, horrendous night.
“Thanks, Casey,” he said in a strained voice.
“It's nothing I don't do every day,” Casey said while replacing the sheet. Zeke swore he saw him mouth something to the girl before she disappeared under stark white fabric.
“You named her?” Zeke asked.
“Wouldn't you?” Casey asked in return before shuffling off to the desk.
“Why Marie?”
“Well... Marie's a common middle name. For women, I usually go with Marie, Jean or Ann for a sure bet. Makes it personal,” Casey explained.
“Zeke?” Becky called from the hallway.
“Coming,” Zeke said. He gave Casey a flash of a smile. “Thanks.”
“'Welcome,” Casey replied, not taking his eyes off of whatever he was writing down in Mar... Darcy's folder.
~*~
“Get the fuck OUTTA here!”
“You wanna step?? Go on, try me!”
“Don't fuckin' touch me! You don't touch a GIRL, asshole!”
After such a grueling, emotionally-charged evening, this was the last thing Zeke felt like doing. He stepped in and put an arm out to separate the short, stout and very, very drunk man wearing a Derek Jeter jersey from three women, two men and a bouncer, all in Red Sox jerseys-all of them very, very drunk as well. “Everyone calm down, just calm down,” he yelled over the loud, angry voices and insults flying around. Tim was behind the group, trying to edge his way around two of the girls to talk to them. He'd barely gotten a word out before they both began shouting and pointing the Jeter fan's way.
“And he just WALKS in, wearing that fucker's jersey--”
“--started hitting on me right in front of my fuckin' boyfriend--”
“--got in my face! I'm a CHICK and he got in my face!!”
The typical Boston vs. New York rivalry had always been out-of-hand, and with the baseball season starting to peter out, it was only getting worse. As annoying as the girls and two guys-who were now taking their shirts off and slapping their chests, trying to lure Yankee-fan into a fight-were, Zeke and anyone from Beantown could easily deduce who'd come here to start trouble. Still, he had to keep the peace. Trying to look cool and collected, he turned to the eager-for-trouble young men and held his hands up. “Not tonight, guys. Just go in and watch the game, ease up, c'mon.”
“You take HIM the hell outta here! Get him out, we don't want that shit in OUR city,” the tall, blond young man demanded.
“Go in and tell my partner what happened, I'll take care of him,” Zeke said as Tim began trying to edge them all back inside.
Though they still hollered and started singing in unison (“Na-na-na-na, na-na-na-na, hey-hey-hey, GOOD-BYE!”) as Zeke tugged the Yankee-fan to the curb, they soon left the walk and headed back into the bar. Zeke took a deep breath as he got the man to his car and made him lean on the passenger side. He looked ready to fall down or rush past him back into the action, or run back in to the action THEN fall down... “I need your license, Sir,” Zeke told him.
Though his eyes were unfocused and he scoffed, the young man brought out his wallet and slapped it open to reveal his license. 'Tony Griffoni'. It was an episode of The Sopranos, all of a sudden. The ID revealed a Brooklyn address, making Zeke groan. “So, Tony, you come up to Beantown with this brilliant idea to crash 'Cask n' Flagon' in a Yanks jersey... why?”
“S and G's, man. You Bostonite pricks get so fuckin' hic! pissed off at NUTTIN.” Tony looked back to the doors leading into the bar and raised his arms in a shot. “Yea? Yea?? C'mon out here, show me whatcha GOT!”
“Go cryin' to PAPI, Yankee prick!” one of the girls shouted before Tim ushered her back inside.
“You knew what was gonna happen, didn't you?” Zeke asked in a tired voice. Tony sniffed and got close.
“You listen to me, cazzo... you listen to me...”
The finger jabbing Zeke's chest didn't hurt, but he was glad it'd been done. It gave him all the reason in the world to grab the man's arm, twist him quick and make him land on the hood of the car, face-down. As the irate Italian started hollering and the club's patrons hooted and cheered inside, Zeke slipped the cuffs onto one wrist. “Tony Griffoni, you are under arrest for public intoxication and assaulting an officer--”
“Assault?? That wa'n't no assault, you fag!”
“You have the right to remain silent...” Zeke continued, ignoring the man's protests and cursing as he finished cuffing and walked him to the back of his squad car.
~*~
After booking the New Yorker, Zeke was ready to get an IV drip of coffee put straight into his aorta. No one had caught him by surprise with more fun things to do on his way to the coffee bar, thankfully. It allowed him to pour a large cup for himself. He'd be taking it black tonight, with plenty of sugar.
It was then that Becky came around the corner, headed straight to the pots. Zeke stepped aside and leaned on the counter, watching her as she prepared her drink in her favorite mug decorated in a Red Sox logo. 'Fucking sports...' he thought. “How'd everything go-with Irene?” he asked.
“As well as it COULD go,” Becky replied. “Been a busy night for this shit.”
Zeke made a rueful nod and they both sipped in silence a few moments. He drew his mug away and stared into the black, hot liquid as he asked, “What about Deena?”
“Deena? Our favorite friend?”
The acidic quality to her voice made the hairs at the back of Zeke's neck prick up. “The beaten, almost-raped prostitute, yea,” he coolly replied.
“She was last night's news. She gave the usual half-assed statement then left without taking a trip to get checked,” Becky said. “It's business as usual for her tonight, no doubt.”
“I told her I'd help,” Zeke said.
“With what, Zeke?”
“Anything. I don't care,” Zeke replied.
“Gotta stop promising that stuff. She won't take that help, and you know it. I've tried countless times. After a while...” Becky paused to sigh and shake her head. “...You gotta give up and give whatever you've got your best. And this isn't your department to begin with.”
“Will be one of these days.”
Becky cocked an eyebrow and made a lone, derisive chuckle. “You're not detective material, Zeke. Just look at how you handled that mess back on Albany Street.”
“Handled... huh?” Zeke said. He stood straight and regarded the woman with a mix of confusion and anger. “Irene? I did a good fuckin' job.”
“She shouldn't have gone in. I don't care if it's sometimes allowed. Darcy was in bad shape, she didn't need to torture herself over it,” Becky explained. “I was just about to get in the way of that drama when you gave the knock and Connor opened the door. So really, you're there to tag-along, learn the ropes, whatever. Don't get in the way of a detective trying to do her job.”
Zeke felt the top of his head go white-hot, hearing this. “You forget that I was the one who found that girl. I sat in on the meeting and helped, Walsh is letting me. He'd know my potential more than some cold-blooded bitch like you.”
It wasn't often enough that anyone on the force pointed out Becky's bitch-status, which was why her eyes narrowed and a scowl came over her lips. “Keep talking like that and we'll see who's sitting on your review. Wanna take the SVU route? I say one big 'fuck that' to that, and if it ever comes up, my say's pretty solid around here. Shut your big, fat mouth, Tyler-that's a warning.”
“Mmhmm.” Zeke hummed and took another sip of coffee, staring at the woman over the rim of his mug.
“Yea. Get a life, Zeke. Really. Some friends, at least,” she said. She seemed to notice the small flinch Zeke made in his nose and chuckled. “Though by what goes around the office, those are few and far between for you, huh?”
Zeke was tempted to ask, 'the fuck have YOU heard?' but didn't dare. He took the silent-glaring route instead, letting her walk away thinking she'd won.
~*~
Becky was right. So right it hurt.
Zeke slapped the bag of Chinese down on the table and went to the fridge, needing a nice, cold beer. A glass of water was poured also; between countless cups of coffee and now alcohol, he'd dry up and blow away without it. Next came a plate of pork-fried rice and chicken fingers and he was set for another night-morning of food, drink and no-fun.
It wasn't as if he didn't know. Everyone at work was nice to him, for the most part. Becky was the minority in most cases involving friends and acquaintances, so he shouldn't have felt this annoyed and nasty about what she'd said. Yet as nice as they'd all be to him, Zeke knew.
He knew that people got annoyed with him when he'd turn down offers to go to a bar for Sox, wings and a few pints. He knew that saying, 'N'aw man, thanks but I'm beat' made them all wonder what he did on days off. Who wouldn't want to hang with 'the guys' and watch sports, check out girls during a pool-game and drink mug after mug of Sam Adams? Zeke. And they all knew that. Offers from his work friends had diminished down to nothing in the past few months, and Zeke's smile would be fake when they'd fill him in on what he'd missed the night before.
From the perspective of his former lost-loner self, the high school rebel who'd pretended that weekend-long parties were a blast when they weren't, he didn't want to find anything wrong in what he did in his free time. He'd already lived the party-life, where people had been all-too-wiling to come by his place back in Worcester to enjoy the fact that no parents were around to ground them all for beer-bonging and stripping down to hop into the hot-tub. This led Zeke back to the events of the afternoon.
Perhaps he hadn't been the best role-model for Bobby. There should have been more days of Zeke staying home to make sure he did his homework, ate right and practiced for soccer games, instead of Zeke fighting to find something to distract him from his sudden chore of brother-raising. How had that been fair? It hadn't, not to Bobby or himself. Zeke couldn't recall the last time he and his--their mother had talked, never mind his dad. Bobby's had been a lying, thieving drunk who thought it was okay to sneak into their room at night to see if their change jar had enough for a pack of smokes. Sometimes Zeke wondered if he not only hated the man, but his son. Zeke was halfway into the living room before he looked down at what he had for dinner; one beer, when he needed two. He sat everything down on the coffee table then returned to the kitchen.
No... he didn't and couldn't hate Bobby. That wouldn't have been fair in the slightest. Then again, Zeke hated himself on most angles for being the product of a flighty, 'who cares?' mom and a man he didn't even know, had never met. Hating Bobby would be easy.
Or it was.
Zeke sat down on the couch and tried shaking his head to rid it of too much deep-thinking. He was here, in his apartment, eating his food after working a long, hard day at HIS job. The beer was cracked open and taken down in large gulps. That went down cool and easy; ignoring the water and food for his second beer, he cracked that one open and sat back with the remote. The TV was turned on and channels flipped, Zeke finding nothing of interest. It was simply a ritual at this point, done until he gave in to what he liked best.
He lived cheap, but the things he enjoyed watching most were not. He clicked into the high numbers and stopped at the usual. After searching the menu, he found a specific title that catered to his favorite, darkest corner: Hot Dicks, Dirty Deedz looked sinful enough. He clicked on the still, chose 'Pay: $4.99' and continued sipping his beer as the title came up and the action began.
Becky would shit.
~*~
Pairing/Characters: Casey, Zeke (pairing?)
Rating: Hard R
Genre: AU
Warning(s): various crimes (murder, rape specifically), some grisly images, heavy angst
Author's Note: This story isn't of the fluffy variety, and is chock-full of AU. Nevertheless, I won't be getting too, too nasty with it. I also don't know the ins-and-outs of detective work, murder investigations, etc., but I'm doing my best.
Disclaimer: Don't own!
Synopsis: Set in present-time Boston, MA., Zeke's life as a police officer intertwines with a certain intriguing coroner's.
Previous Parts
Newbury Street had some good and cheap clothing stores, a lot of them used. Zeke awaited complaints from his brother on how he'd had more expensive tastes to satisfy, but lucked when Bobby seemed okay with everything. Zeke appreciated the cheaper things in life-besides cigarettes. Going to places like the Prudential Center or Faneuil Hall marketplace could be fun, as long as he had tax-return money or the rare lotto-win.
For now, Bobby was pleased with the three outfits and shoes he'd gotten from the Goodwill, plus a large backpack from the Army-Navy shop. Figuring they could splurge a little on food, Zeke stopped them at an outdoor cafe for lunch. Bobby needed something more than MSG-laden meals, and Zeke did have a hankering for salad. After ordering two of them (“Rabbit food?” Bobby had commented, shutting up when Zeke cocked an eyebrow at him as a warning) and expensive lattes, the two moved to the one unoccupied table outside. It was near the end of autumn; warm days with cold nights, where soon both would be chilly and awful in just a few weeks. They had to take in the sunny days as much as possible.
Now a few bites into their lunch, Zeke glanced up to Bobby. “So... where you headed, anyway?”
“Headed?” Bobby asked while poking his food with his fork.
“Yea. Where are you gonna go tonight?”
The young man had probably hoped the 'just for one night' condition could be pushed to two, hence Zeke bringing the subject up. Bobby shrugged a little. “Dunno. Might be able to track down Heckle, see where he'd run to.”
“Heckle?” Zeke said. Bobby sighed.
“That's what we call 'im, yea.”
“Uh huh. Well... the place right down the way might be able to take you in. St. Fran, there.”
“Francis? The homeless shelter?” Bobby asked. At Zeke's small nod, he rolled his eyes and scoffed. “Ain't staying at a shelter, man. I'd rather find an alley.”
“It gets cold at night now,” Zeke said.
“I'd rather. Find. An alley,” Bobby haltingly replied. “You ever spend a night in a shelter, big bro? Cos' I have. I lost my shoes and cell the second my eyes closed.”
“Cell?”
“Yea. I replaced it, but...”
Zeke frowned heavily. “You never told me you had one. How can you pay for a cell? Where was it last night after I practically patted you down?”
“It ain't a fancy number, just... one of those pre-paids,” Bobby explained as he drew the cell from his shoe-a place Zeke hadn't checked, damn it...
“Still never told me. I sit around worrying about you, thinking I can't get in touch...” Grumbling, Zeke reached into his pocket and drew out his Blackberry. “What is it?”
Bobby looked annoyed, phone going into his pocket then arms crossing over his chest and head turned to the street. After a pause, he said, “555-2129.”
Zeke entered the phone into his contacts list but paused when he saw Bobby return to eating. The young man looked nervous, sketchy-the usual, but Zeke still suspected... with a sigh, he punched in the numbers and drew the phone to his ear. Bobby noticed. “Who're you calling?” he asked.
“You,” Zeke replied. He listened as the phone began ringing, but no sound was coming from Bobby's pockets. After a moment, someone DID, in fact, pick up.
“Regina Pizzeria, may I help you?” a cheery woman answered. Zeke sniffed hard and looked to the street; the traffic jam there was keeping one of the restaurants driver's in wait, the shop's number printed on the sign sitting on the top of the car.
“Wrong number. Sorry,” Zeke said.
“It's okay,” the woman replied.
Bobby groaned and rubbed his face as Zeke hung up the phone and gave him a long, hard look. “Why'd you do that?” Zeke said.
“Do what, Zeke?”
The defiance in Bobby's voice was the usual. Zeke ignored his lunch to sniff angrily and sit straighter. “I ask you for your number, to keep tabs on you, make sure you ain't dead and you go off and--”
“Knock it off, Zee. Really, knock it off,” Bobby interrupted. “I don't gotta give my shit out to anyone.”
“So I let you crash at my place, get you shit to replace your stank-assed clothes then buy you lunch...”
“Yea, you're a real saint, huh? Did I ASK you for the shopping and grub? No. Just more shit to lord over me later-or now, really,” Bobby replied. “JUST like when we were kids. I always had so much to live up to. Then when Mom takes off--”
“WHAT did you have to 'live up to'? Fuck's sake, we were BOTH fuck-ups!” Zeke angrily retorted.
“I was only fuckin' fourteen when it happened, then what? Mom decides to drop us, and where do YOU go? Huh?” Bobby sniffed with fury as he, too, sat up straight. “They told you, 'take care of Bobby', but no, you go off to parties and shit, do your thing while I make my own dinners and whatever the fuck else I shouldn't have had to do.”
“Wha... you're blaming me? The fuck, Bob, I was nineteen, not exactly an adult!” Zeke said. “You weren't a baby, anyway!”
“Yea, I'm outta here,” Bobby said and stood abruptly, slinging his bag over his shoulder.
“Yea, you're fuckin' welcome, asshole,” Zeke couldn't help from replying with as much vitriol as he could muster. The only reply Bobby gave was his middle finger as he stalked past the cafe's gate and down the street. Zeke sank back in his chair and stared at both of their barely-touched meals. 'Fuck him. He ain't your fault,' he thought, miserable.
~*~
It was hustle-bustle-busy the second Zeke walked through the doors and into the main office. Not five steps in, his elbow was grabbed by Tim. “Hey... what's goin' on?” Zeke asked.
“The girl you found... her mom's here,” Tim replied.
Zeke stood still as he let the words sink in. “Bessie Barnes' girl?”
Tim nodded. “She's in Walsh's office. Ain't long now before she goes to Albany Street to do an ID, but... it's her,” he explained. “Walsh wants you in there, pronto.”
“Yea. Okay, thanks,” Zeke said as he left Tim behind and headed past the groups of desks and water coolers. He could see the insides of Walsh's office through the venetian blinds' slats. Walsh, Marsh and a woman with short black hair, her back to him, sat there talking. The box of tissues sat on the desk, her shaking hand full of them.
~*~
Mrs. Irene Machiton couldn't stop shaking as Zeke helped her down the hall, a hand on her back. There weren't many words he could find to say to this poor woman, leading her down this 'hall of death' to the large window. A few steps away, Irene halted quick, making Zeke almost bump into her.
“Dunno if I can. If that's my baby...” she turned quick to him. “...D-Do I just say 'yes', or do I have... ha-have...”
“Just identify her. If you'd like to go in, we can--”
“Don't know if I can. Don't kn-know if I can.”
Zeke steeled himself and tried giving her his best sympathetic expression. “Just do your best.”
“You're the cop that found her-she's...”
“Mrs. Machiton,” Becky, the only woman on the SVU staff available to go with, came back to her side. “I know it's hard. This will only last a few seconds, then you can decide what you would like to do.”
Zeke wanted to scowl. Becky didn't 'know' anything, having seen what she had or not. Still, Irene nodded fast and continued walking, this time a few steps ahead of Zeke.
Now at the window, Zeke looked in. The sheet-covered gurney had been wheeled over to the viewing-area; Casey stood nearby, holding a clipboard against his chest. Casey watched them all gather with a watchful eye then put the clipboard down on a nearby desk. Zeke stood close behind Irene, bracing himself for the worst. He saw Casey's chest rise slowly and fall before going over to the gurney and lifting the sheet.
Irene's face instantly went into an expression of anguish. “Darcy. Darcy, baby!”
Becky flanked one side of the woman, Zeke on the other as she plastered herself on the glass and howled, tears streaming down her cheeks. “That's my baby! My baby's in there!” she screamed through her crying, words coming out in a splutter.
“You're sure, Mrs. Machiton?” Becky asked. Again, Zeke wanted to hit her, repeatedly as Irene squeezed her eyes shut in one second, opening them in a flash in the other to stare into the shiny, white-walled room.
“I gotta see her! Lemmee see m-my baby!” Before anyone could stop her, Irene slid past Zeke and rushed to the door. She twisted the knob, finding it locked. “Lemmee see my BABY!”
Zeke squashed down the panic to make an urgent knock on the window; Casey nodded quick and disappeared from their view. Becky and Zeke jogged to Irene as the door opened. Casey stood just past it. Irene put her hands to her mouth. “C-Can I see my baby? I gotta see, my Darcy...”
“Yes, that's all right,” Casey replied in a soft voice.
Shaking violently and needing Zeke's hands on either side of her shoulders to keep her steady, Irene stumbled into the room and went over to the gurney. She crumbled at her daughter's side, one hand going to the bruised and battered face. “Baby, who DONE this to you? Who fuckin' DONE it?” she wailed. Random cries and syllables rang out as she grieved, no one interrupting her. Becky bit her lip, crossing her arms tight over her chest.
“She was treated well here, Mrs. Machiton, I assure you,” Becky said.
The woman wasn't listening, continuing to cry at Darcy's bedside. As Zeke fought for words to say, Casey went over to the head of the gurney to look at Irene. “Her name was Darcy?” he asked. Though Irene was still shaking and wailing, she nodded. Casey nodded back, wearing the tiniest, soft smile. “We didn't know her name; I called her 'Marie' when I'd take care of her.”
Irene's eyes snapped away from the bed to Casey. “That... that's her middle. Her middle name.”
“She seemed like a 'Marie',” Casey said.
Zeke watched quietly as Irene took Casey's hand, squeezing it tight. “You took care of my Darcy. Th-Thank you...”
“You're welcome.”
Long minutes passed with no one saying a word, until Becky stood away from the wall and went to Irene again. “We need to go back to the station, take care of a few more things. After that, we can give you her personal belongings and help you with anything else you may need.”
“Where's her bracelet? Y-You said, she'd had her bracelet...?” Irene asked.
“Right here,” Casey said. He drew it from the clipboard and removed it from the plastic bag. “It's very special, I could tell.”
“Got it... from her Gram, six-sixteenth...” Irene's voice was cut off with a choke. The bracelet was handed over and clutched into a tight grip. Now wordless, Irene gave one last, long look to her daughter before breaking down again and being led away by Becky, who held her close, shushing quietly into the woman's ear. Zeke stayed behind a moment, staring at the girl he'd found that one, horrendous night.
“Thanks, Casey,” he said in a strained voice.
“It's nothing I don't do every day,” Casey said while replacing the sheet. Zeke swore he saw him mouth something to the girl before she disappeared under stark white fabric.
“You named her?” Zeke asked.
“Wouldn't you?” Casey asked in return before shuffling off to the desk.
“Why Marie?”
“Well... Marie's a common middle name. For women, I usually go with Marie, Jean or Ann for a sure bet. Makes it personal,” Casey explained.
“Zeke?” Becky called from the hallway.
“Coming,” Zeke said. He gave Casey a flash of a smile. “Thanks.”
“'Welcome,” Casey replied, not taking his eyes off of whatever he was writing down in Mar... Darcy's folder.
~*~
“Get the fuck OUTTA here!”
“You wanna step?? Go on, try me!”
“Don't fuckin' touch me! You don't touch a GIRL, asshole!”
After such a grueling, emotionally-charged evening, this was the last thing Zeke felt like doing. He stepped in and put an arm out to separate the short, stout and very, very drunk man wearing a Derek Jeter jersey from three women, two men and a bouncer, all in Red Sox jerseys-all of them very, very drunk as well. “Everyone calm down, just calm down,” he yelled over the loud, angry voices and insults flying around. Tim was behind the group, trying to edge his way around two of the girls to talk to them. He'd barely gotten a word out before they both began shouting and pointing the Jeter fan's way.
“And he just WALKS in, wearing that fucker's jersey--”
“--started hitting on me right in front of my fuckin' boyfriend--”
“--got in my face! I'm a CHICK and he got in my face!!”
The typical Boston vs. New York rivalry had always been out-of-hand, and with the baseball season starting to peter out, it was only getting worse. As annoying as the girls and two guys-who were now taking their shirts off and slapping their chests, trying to lure Yankee-fan into a fight-were, Zeke and anyone from Beantown could easily deduce who'd come here to start trouble. Still, he had to keep the peace. Trying to look cool and collected, he turned to the eager-for-trouble young men and held his hands up. “Not tonight, guys. Just go in and watch the game, ease up, c'mon.”
“You take HIM the hell outta here! Get him out, we don't want that shit in OUR city,” the tall, blond young man demanded.
“Go in and tell my partner what happened, I'll take care of him,” Zeke said as Tim began trying to edge them all back inside.
Though they still hollered and started singing in unison (“Na-na-na-na, na-na-na-na, hey-hey-hey, GOOD-BYE!”) as Zeke tugged the Yankee-fan to the curb, they soon left the walk and headed back into the bar. Zeke took a deep breath as he got the man to his car and made him lean on the passenger side. He looked ready to fall down or rush past him back into the action, or run back in to the action THEN fall down... “I need your license, Sir,” Zeke told him.
Though his eyes were unfocused and he scoffed, the young man brought out his wallet and slapped it open to reveal his license. 'Tony Griffoni'. It was an episode of The Sopranos, all of a sudden. The ID revealed a Brooklyn address, making Zeke groan. “So, Tony, you come up to Beantown with this brilliant idea to crash 'Cask n' Flagon' in a Yanks jersey... why?”
“S and G's, man. You Bostonite pricks get so fuckin' hic! pissed off at NUTTIN.” Tony looked back to the doors leading into the bar and raised his arms in a shot. “Yea? Yea?? C'mon out here, show me whatcha GOT!”
“Go cryin' to PAPI, Yankee prick!” one of the girls shouted before Tim ushered her back inside.
“You knew what was gonna happen, didn't you?” Zeke asked in a tired voice. Tony sniffed and got close.
“You listen to me, cazzo... you listen to me...”
The finger jabbing Zeke's chest didn't hurt, but he was glad it'd been done. It gave him all the reason in the world to grab the man's arm, twist him quick and make him land on the hood of the car, face-down. As the irate Italian started hollering and the club's patrons hooted and cheered inside, Zeke slipped the cuffs onto one wrist. “Tony Griffoni, you are under arrest for public intoxication and assaulting an officer--”
“Assault?? That wa'n't no assault, you fag!”
“You have the right to remain silent...” Zeke continued, ignoring the man's protests and cursing as he finished cuffing and walked him to the back of his squad car.
~*~
After booking the New Yorker, Zeke was ready to get an IV drip of coffee put straight into his aorta. No one had caught him by surprise with more fun things to do on his way to the coffee bar, thankfully. It allowed him to pour a large cup for himself. He'd be taking it black tonight, with plenty of sugar.
It was then that Becky came around the corner, headed straight to the pots. Zeke stepped aside and leaned on the counter, watching her as she prepared her drink in her favorite mug decorated in a Red Sox logo. 'Fucking sports...' he thought. “How'd everything go-with Irene?” he asked.
“As well as it COULD go,” Becky replied. “Been a busy night for this shit.”
Zeke made a rueful nod and they both sipped in silence a few moments. He drew his mug away and stared into the black, hot liquid as he asked, “What about Deena?”
“Deena? Our favorite friend?”
The acidic quality to her voice made the hairs at the back of Zeke's neck prick up. “The beaten, almost-raped prostitute, yea,” he coolly replied.
“She was last night's news. She gave the usual half-assed statement then left without taking a trip to get checked,” Becky said. “It's business as usual for her tonight, no doubt.”
“I told her I'd help,” Zeke said.
“With what, Zeke?”
“Anything. I don't care,” Zeke replied.
“Gotta stop promising that stuff. She won't take that help, and you know it. I've tried countless times. After a while...” Becky paused to sigh and shake her head. “...You gotta give up and give whatever you've got your best. And this isn't your department to begin with.”
“Will be one of these days.”
Becky cocked an eyebrow and made a lone, derisive chuckle. “You're not detective material, Zeke. Just look at how you handled that mess back on Albany Street.”
“Handled... huh?” Zeke said. He stood straight and regarded the woman with a mix of confusion and anger. “Irene? I did a good fuckin' job.”
“She shouldn't have gone in. I don't care if it's sometimes allowed. Darcy was in bad shape, she didn't need to torture herself over it,” Becky explained. “I was just about to get in the way of that drama when you gave the knock and Connor opened the door. So really, you're there to tag-along, learn the ropes, whatever. Don't get in the way of a detective trying to do her job.”
Zeke felt the top of his head go white-hot, hearing this. “You forget that I was the one who found that girl. I sat in on the meeting and helped, Walsh is letting me. He'd know my potential more than some cold-blooded bitch like you.”
It wasn't often enough that anyone on the force pointed out Becky's bitch-status, which was why her eyes narrowed and a scowl came over her lips. “Keep talking like that and we'll see who's sitting on your review. Wanna take the SVU route? I say one big 'fuck that' to that, and if it ever comes up, my say's pretty solid around here. Shut your big, fat mouth, Tyler-that's a warning.”
“Mmhmm.” Zeke hummed and took another sip of coffee, staring at the woman over the rim of his mug.
“Yea. Get a life, Zeke. Really. Some friends, at least,” she said. She seemed to notice the small flinch Zeke made in his nose and chuckled. “Though by what goes around the office, those are few and far between for you, huh?”
Zeke was tempted to ask, 'the fuck have YOU heard?' but didn't dare. He took the silent-glaring route instead, letting her walk away thinking she'd won.
~*~
Becky was right. So right it hurt.
Zeke slapped the bag of Chinese down on the table and went to the fridge, needing a nice, cold beer. A glass of water was poured also; between countless cups of coffee and now alcohol, he'd dry up and blow away without it. Next came a plate of pork-fried rice and chicken fingers and he was set for another night-morning of food, drink and no-fun.
It wasn't as if he didn't know. Everyone at work was nice to him, for the most part. Becky was the minority in most cases involving friends and acquaintances, so he shouldn't have felt this annoyed and nasty about what she'd said. Yet as nice as they'd all be to him, Zeke knew.
He knew that people got annoyed with him when he'd turn down offers to go to a bar for Sox, wings and a few pints. He knew that saying, 'N'aw man, thanks but I'm beat' made them all wonder what he did on days off. Who wouldn't want to hang with 'the guys' and watch sports, check out girls during a pool-game and drink mug after mug of Sam Adams? Zeke. And they all knew that. Offers from his work friends had diminished down to nothing in the past few months, and Zeke's smile would be fake when they'd fill him in on what he'd missed the night before.
From the perspective of his former lost-loner self, the high school rebel who'd pretended that weekend-long parties were a blast when they weren't, he didn't want to find anything wrong in what he did in his free time. He'd already lived the party-life, where people had been all-too-wiling to come by his place back in Worcester to enjoy the fact that no parents were around to ground them all for beer-bonging and stripping down to hop into the hot-tub. This led Zeke back to the events of the afternoon.
Perhaps he hadn't been the best role-model for Bobby. There should have been more days of Zeke staying home to make sure he did his homework, ate right and practiced for soccer games, instead of Zeke fighting to find something to distract him from his sudden chore of brother-raising. How had that been fair? It hadn't, not to Bobby or himself. Zeke couldn't recall the last time he and his--their mother had talked, never mind his dad. Bobby's had been a lying, thieving drunk who thought it was okay to sneak into their room at night to see if their change jar had enough for a pack of smokes. Sometimes Zeke wondered if he not only hated the man, but his son. Zeke was halfway into the living room before he looked down at what he had for dinner; one beer, when he needed two. He sat everything down on the coffee table then returned to the kitchen.
No... he didn't and couldn't hate Bobby. That wouldn't have been fair in the slightest. Then again, Zeke hated himself on most angles for being the product of a flighty, 'who cares?' mom and a man he didn't even know, had never met. Hating Bobby would be easy.
Or it was.
Zeke sat down on the couch and tried shaking his head to rid it of too much deep-thinking. He was here, in his apartment, eating his food after working a long, hard day at HIS job. The beer was cracked open and taken down in large gulps. That went down cool and easy; ignoring the water and food for his second beer, he cracked that one open and sat back with the remote. The TV was turned on and channels flipped, Zeke finding nothing of interest. It was simply a ritual at this point, done until he gave in to what he liked best.
He lived cheap, but the things he enjoyed watching most were not. He clicked into the high numbers and stopped at the usual. After searching the menu, he found a specific title that catered to his favorite, darkest corner: Hot Dicks, Dirty Deedz looked sinful enough. He clicked on the still, chose 'Pay: $4.99' and continued sipping his beer as the title came up and the action began.
Becky would shit.
~*~