(no subject)
Banner by aliensouldream
Title: Beantown Blue--3
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
Waking up on days off always felt like heaven to Zeke. The first few minutes after opening his eyes were spent not on what horrors he'd be running into on-the-job, but nothing. Absolutely nothing. There were no friends or family to bother with, no day-trips to take... nothing. After a smoke and some staring at the ceiling, Zeke got out of bed, took a quick piss then slipped into the kitchen for a bowl of cereal.
After perking up his brain with the 'Find Cap'n Crunch's Treasure!' map on the back of the box, the dishes were thrown in the sink and another smoke was lit. The afternoon would be spent fighting the Boston traffic to get some food-shopping done, then perhaps a trip to Boston Common. It wasn't often that he chose to go jogging over going to the gym, but with the weather being just as fantastic as yesterday's, he needed the sun. Zeke narrowed his eyes against the smoke climbing into them as he slipped his shoes on, muttering curses when it came to the state of them-perhaps a new pair would do him right, as well.
~*~
The traffic had been surprisingly easy to deal with today. Sometimes Zeke appreciated weekdays off, giving him the chance to go about his business during work hours without the usual jams, rushes and annoying tourists who didn't know their way around getting in his way. Shopping was a breeze as well. Knowing that he ate too many quickie-meals and junk food had made him fill his cart with more vegetables, fruits and grains... not that Ramen didn't make their appearance on his receipt.
He was almost too blasé about exercise afterward, but he forced himself back into the car and headed to the Common before he changed his mind. The new running shoes he'd gotten felt stiff and needed breaking in, so after parking, locking his car and stretching, Zeke made his way to the trails.
The city could be a harrowing, nasty place to travel in, but it had its good side. The Common was one of them, offering a quiet, fun place for city folk to enjoy. People-watching was one of those things Zeke liked to do. Whether it was his policeman-persona butting in, keeping an eye on passersby and kids that looked alone, or just... enjoyment, he wasn't too sure. The cool breezes finding his body felt good too, allowing an easygoing jog. A group of college boys resting along the trail made him look a bit too long, while he ignored the three running-gear clad women who looked at him. After ten minutes, he found his focus in the rush of endorphins rushing to his brain. This was his drug, an unarrestable offense brought on by nothing more than a body working out the way it should.
It was going on an hour by the time he reached the tennis courts. The water fountain near them was calling to him, making him remember that, once again, he'd left his water bottle on the hood of his car. Snarling at his folly, he took the last few strides to the fountain, gave a few more jogs in-place to wind down then took a long, cool sip from the stream he pushed out. He stayed at it until he felt his leg muscles freeze up, reminding him to do a stretch before stopping completely. With a heavy groan of thirst-quenched relief, Zeke made his way to the patch of grass by the courts, sat and stretched out. Once that was done, he slumped back against the fence, closed his eyes and smiled.
'Good job,' he thought, and it had been. Zeke looked to his watch, finding that he'd gone over his usual hour-long jog. An hour and fifteen it'd been, making him grin wider. It would be a bit before he headed back to the car. Of course, not EVERY-thing he did was healthy. He'd forgotten the water, but not his cigarettes.
Zeke stood as he lit up; the smoke was warm and welcome, filling his lungs and perking him up. He chose to people-watch once again. A double-date was playing out in the grass with two couples sharing a picnic lunch and laughing; three boys were throwing a football around, pretending to be their sports-heroes of choice (“And Drew makes another perfect pass!”); an elderly women was at a bench feeding pigeons; Casey 'Freak' Connor was playing against himself at a tennis-wall; that guy REALLY needed to pull his pants up, lest Zeke arrest him for indecent ex...
Zeke turned back to the courts, the solo-wall in particular. There the infamous coroner was, whacking a ball against the large, wide structure built for those who didn't have any social skills. Zeke didn't know whether to stare or run off before he was seen, but the former won out after a moment. The young man moved quickly, precisely, catching the ball no matter how fast and awkward the shots were delivered. Small grunts were made at each hit; it went on and on until one thwack! was made too hard and fast for Casey to catch up to, the ball flying off the wall at top-speed and sent to the fence-the fence only a few yards from where Zeke was standing. Casey groaned and jogged over, picked the ball up then stood straight again. His panting, huffing and puffing died in seeing Zeke standing there. A long pause followed before he lifted an arm and made a stiff wave.
“Hey,” Zeke said, waving back.
“Nice day!” Casey called. He stretched his arms out, 'ahh'-ed and smiled. “Real nice.”
“Yea,” was all Zeke could say.
“You play?”
Zeke watched as Casey tapped his racket in the air, the ball being waved around in the other hand. “No.”
“I got an extra racket. C'mon, I need the exercise.”
“Um...” Zeke said. Looking to where Casey's gigantic gym bag lay, he saw that yes, another racket rested next to it. “...You bring two rackets with you?”
“Sometimes I get pissed-off and throw one. 'Good to have a spare,” Casey replied.
Imagining Casey Connor 'pissed-off' was hilarious. He had emotions that didn't involve caring for dead people? Too intrigued, Zeke threw his arms up and went over. “Sure, why not?”
~*~
This wasn't Casey. This was Andre Agassi.
Zeke felt like his lungs were going to burst after chasing the ball Casey had sent back with lightning-speed, the futility of it killing him. The bright-green orb was sent into the fence and bounced off erratically, hitting the corner and going back to Zeke. It banged against his shoe then finally rolled on the dusty-red rubberized ground. With a half-scowl, half-grin, Zeke turned to Casey and shook his head. “This just ain't fair,” he said.
“Hah, what ain't fair?” Casey asked.
“You winning against a noob like me,” Zeke replied. Casey chuckled and walked to the net.
“Winning? But I've barely started.”
“We've been at this an hour...”
“Fifty-minutes and thirty... thirty-one...”
Zeke had to snort in seeing Casey looking at his watch. “What, you timed this?”
“I time everything. Fine, let's take a break,” Casey said.
“Break nothing. Once I catch my breath... shit.” Zeke groaned his way over to the benches. “I can't jog back to the car, I'm spent.”
“I'll give you a ride,” Casey said.
Zeke didn't know if he'd take the offer, but he was more concerned on if Casey wouldn't just share his car, but the giant water bottle sticking out of his bag. Before he could ask, he saw two bottles being brought out. He smiled. “Lemmee get... you get pissed-off and throw water?”
Casey paused in handing Zeke one of the bottles. “No? I just don't wanna get dehydrated.”
“Whatever, pass me one,” Zeke said, then added a quick, “Thanks,” before taking the offer. The pop-cap was flicked up and the nozzle sent straight into his mouth. He tried to not take down too much, too fast, but it was almost impossible. After feeling his throat go from desert-dry to cool, he let the bottle down and smiled. “That felt good.”
“Mmm,” Casey hummed past his own drinking. The bottle was let go in a smack of lips. “Don't ever buy water, it does more harm than good. I use a Brita filter. Does the job just fine. Do you know the trash-statistics of water bottles? It's insane.”
Zeke suddenly remembered who he'd been playing tennis with and he sat up straighter. “I... never buy it. I just forget to drink it altogether,” he said. Casey laughed.
“That isn't smart, either.”
Nodding, Zeke put his head back against the chain-link behind him and closed his eyes. “That was my exercise quota for the week,” he said.
“Until you gotta chase down a druglord through complicated alleyways, anyway,” Casey replied.
“That's always a blast, yea...”
“Tyler?”
The voice from behind made the both of them turn around. In seeing Mike Binns, a fellow officer, in uniform standing there looking at him with curiosity, Zeke moved to a quick stand. “Oh. Hey, Mike.”
“Hey. Day-off goin' good?” Mike asked.
“Yea. Yea, got some jogging in... tennis,” Zeke said with a flick to his racket's handle, making it twirl. Realizing yet again who he'd been playing against, he made a quick nod Casey's way. “Ran into someone who needed a partner to play with. Or... someone to kick their asses at, whatever.”
“Cool, cool. Wish I could say the same...” Mike turned to look at the playground a football-field's worth of distance away. “...Got a 10-66 from one of the parents at the playground. Came to check it out.”
Zeke blinked and looked towards it. “Shit. Find anyone?” he asked.
“No, they said he drove off a bit before I got there. I got a description of the van, what he looked like, just in case,” Mike explained. “There was that call from here last week, but it doesn't sound like the same guy.”
“Well, good thing. I'd hate to have to chase down a kiddy-fiddler on my day off,” Zeke replied. Mike chuckled with him then rubbed the back of his neck with a handkerchief.
“I gotta head back. I'll tell the boys you said hi,” he said.
“Cool, yea... see ya.”
“Bye,” Mike said; with that, he gave a small wave and trudged down the walk lining the courts. Zeke watched him go, feeling nervous...
Casey then let out a sigh and stood. “It was fun, having someone to play with.”
Zeke turned back to Casey, who was going back to his bag and packing up. “Oh. Yea, no problem. It was fun.”
“Yea. Still need a ride?”
“Um... no, it's okay. I can walk it back.” Zeke went over and handed Casey the racket, trying his damnedest to stay smiling. “Maybe I'll practice, kick YOUR ass next time.”
“Aw, sweet of you to say,” Casey said as he slung his bag over his shoulder.
“Hah, didn't know that 'kicking someone's ass' was sweet, but okay.”
“Not that. See ya later, Zeke.”
Zeke blinked furiously as Casey gave him a soft smile, waved and walked off. “Yea... see ya,” he finally replied once Casey had made it to the exit.
~*~
The evening and next day-off at home had passed quickly; TOO quickly, as most respites went. One minute he was calling for pizza after a failed attempt at making spinach pie, the next, he was walking into the office to his desk, where bulging file folders were already waiting for him. He had an hour before getting into his squad car with Tim to keep order on the streets, so he had to make his time with case files and other documents valuable.
The first three were simple and easy to get through, thankfully. Two minor traffic stops with court dates to put into his calendar and one 10-91C, involving the poor mutt that had survived getting in the way of a bus. Zeke felt a crick in his neck and paused to stretch it out, his arms out to pull tension away. In doing so, he looked ahead at the water cooler on the far side of the room where a few officers were standing, drinking water and staring at him with strange little grins. Zeke blinked and returned to his work, feeling uncomfortable.
His next document needed more work-a 10-54 being called in, where luckily, the homeless man in the alley had simply looked dead-but was stopped when someone sat on the corner of his desk, another standing in front of it. Zeke looked up and found Marsh and Officer Joe Petit looking at him with the same odd smiles he'd seen on the others. “Uh... what's up?” Zeke asked.
“Not much. How were your days off?” Petit asked.
“Okay, I guess. Got some exercise, learned I can't cook for shit. Watched way too many game shows. Stuff,” Zeke replied.
“Sounds good. Exercise, huh?”
Marsh's question dripped with amusement. Zeke shifted in his seat, sat back and crossed his arms. “Yea.”
“Mmm, yea, Mike said you DID get a workout at the Common,” Marsh said.
“Ahh. Mike,” Zeke said-as if he hadn't known he'd get some form of bullshit over this. It was best to treat it as casually as he could. “Yea, ran into him after a round of tennis with Connor.”
“Casey Connor. Freak-o,” Petit said.
“That's the one, yup,” Zeke replied.
“How the hell'd you end up practicing for the US Open with him?” Petit asked.
As Marsh grinned around the rim of his water cup, Zeke wanted to groan. He held back to make another shrug. “I was out jogging and ran into him. It wasn't planned, he just needed someone to play against. Kicked my ass backwards, too, so it wasn't that fun,” he said.
“Hah, good at tennis that guy, huh? Something new to learn every day,” Petit said.
“So you didn't ring him up for a game then, right?” Marsh asked. “Cos' we'd worry about you, if you did.”
Zeke rolled his eyes. “No. I didn't. What should I have done? Said, 'Sorry, Connor, but you're a motherfuckin' freak and I'm afraid I'll catch it'?”
“No, no, no... c'mon, we're just bustin' ya,” Petit said. “We just like keeping an eye on our fellow officers, make sure they don't make social blunders.”
“Well, don't worry about me. Just a run-in. It was okay, he ain't that bad a guy,” Zeke said.
“Still a freak,” Petit said. Zeke grinned and returned to the documents.
“Yep. Still a freak,” he replied, but it didn't feel as good to agree this time.
~*~
“He's holed up in his room, won't come out-I didn't know if calling 911 was too much, but...”
Tim smiled the hassled woman's way as he and Zeke stepped into the small, cramped apartment. “It's okay, Ms. Parker. You were right in calling.”
“Um... my name's Cherie, I...” Cherie stuck her hand out to shake; Zeke went first, though it felt like stalling.
“Zeke, that's Tim. Did he lock the door?” he asked.
“No, it don't have a lock. But he's got a chair under the knob or somethin',” Cherie replied. She bit her lip and turned to the small hall to her right. “It's the first door on the left.”
“I'll stay with you and get some details as to what happened. Zeke'll go talk with him-he's good with kids,” Tim told her.
“'K,” Cherie said, nodding fast. “His name's Tyrone. He's only fifteen...”
“I'll try to get him to let me in. Does he trust cops?” Zeke asked.
Cherie took a deep breath, looking anxious. “We just moved here from upstate New York. We'd been in a shelter, had to hide from... his Daddy,” she explained. “The cops hadn't been too nice to us about it.”
“I'll see what I can do,” Zeke replied, trying to keep a muted smile on in hearing this sad bit of news.
Cherie sighed, nodded again then went into the small kitchen with Tim. An offer of coffee was made, making Zeke jealous; but Tim had been right. Troubled kids were people Zeke could relate to. Putting on his best steely but understanding expression, Zeke reached the boy's bedroom door and gave it a light knock. “Tyrone? My name's Zeke, I'm a police officer. Can I come in there an talk to you?”
Silence. Zeke sniffed, waited a moment then said, “Your mom called us-she's real worried about what happened to you. I know you don't want to talk about it, but if you're hurt, you gotta at least let me in there to check it out. Mom said you had a black--”
“Go away. I'm not talkin' to NO one.”
The typical teenaged brand of defiance was in the boy's voice, but it also wore a shake. Zeke leaned on the wall by the door and kept talking. “If you think you're gonna get in trouble with me, you're wrong. It's my job to make sure people don't get hurt.”
“Yea, that's what they said back in New York. Trusting cops ain't gotten me nowhere, so just... leave me alone, I didn't call you pigs,” Tyrone coldly replied. Zeke had to smile.
“Well, I'm a rare breed. I like croissants better than doughnuts... I DO drink coffee like a motherfucker, but so does everyone else. Doesn't make me special, or a 'pig',” Zeke said. “What do you think I look like?”
Tyrone made an audible scoff. “Hah, probably fat, about five feet tall, ready for a retirement home. Ugly mustache. Those stupid cop-sunglasses.”
“Wrong on all counts.”
“Yea, right.”
“Wanna make a friendly bet?” Zeke asked. The boy fell silent, so he continued, “If you open the door and I have any one of those things you just listed, you can slam it closed in my face. If I don't, we sit and talk a sec. Deal?”
More silence, until Zeke heard the creaking of bedsprings. He continued leaning on the wall, wanting to look easygoing and relaxed. Finally, he heard a squeal of chair legs on the wooden floor, a few bumps and the door opened. Zeke looked up, finding a young, skinny teenager giving him a cold stare-however hard it was for the boy to see anything through a swollen, black eye as he had. His lower lip was cut and bruised as well, more cuts present on his arms. Defensive wounds, Zeke deduced. Still, the man gave him a smile. “There. I win the bet, so let's talk.”
~*~
“At least the kid went in to get checked out at the hospital. Those injuries were rough.”
“Hopefully his mom can get him into the station to file a report.”
“Eh, you know he won't.”
Zeke stopped the car at a red light and sighed. “It makes me think of things. Things that suck.”
“Like what?” Tim asked.
“Well... I was a real dick back in high school. I never beat on anyone, but I used to think it was funny. This one kid, Cris-shit, it was like he wore a sign on his back saying, 'Please beat the living shit outta me', y'know?” Zeke explained. “Like I said, never laid a hand on the kid. But I remember a few times, going into the lav or locker room, and there he'd be getting the crap kicked outta him. Never stood up for the kid.”
“Yea. I was lucky, never had that stuff happen to me,” Tim said. “But I saw it. Never stepped up myself.”
“Why didn't we, y'know?” The light went green and Zeke moved, turning right onto Massachusetts Avenue. “I mean, look at us. We run around the city pretending to be superheroes. I just spent the last two hours getting a kid to tell me about bullies chasing him home and giving him a beat-down before he could get there. What is it, guilt?”
“Lots of reasons guys like us become cops. Like Sal, there?”
Sal-Zeke had to roll his eyes. Though the bully-cop had been sent to another district months before, people would still talk about him. He'd been the perfect picture of a guy that had joined the force as a strange sort of revenge, wanting to be rough and tough after being treated like shit throughout his whole adolescence. Sal had often bitched about the jocks that had pants'ed him, taunted, beat him up... “Yea. He was winner,” Zeke finally replied.
“'Happens,” Tim said.
“Why did you become a cop, anyway?”
Tim smiled and shrugged. “Both my parents were cops, my grandpa was a cop... I'm like the Crown Prince when it comes to this shit, taking the reins. You?”
With a sigh, Zeke stopped at another red light. God, he was hungry... “Like I said, I was a dick... but the cops in my town always showed respect when I had to deal with them.”
“Hah! What'd you do, and how'd you hide it to get on the Force?”
“No, I didn't get into trouble, besides the usual speeding tickets and shit.”
“So what'd you have to deal with them for?”
“Just...” Zeke took a deep breath and shook his head. “Stuff.”
“Mmm, sure. I'll let Walsh know he's got to give your record another look,” Tim said, grinning and winking. Zeke smiled back and continued driving again, thankful that they now came upon a group of tight-sweater'ed college girls standing in front of a Starbucks for Tim to start commenting on. “Lookit that one with the pink-angora. I could make magic outta that.”
“Yea, pretty sweet,” Zeke lied.
~*~
The chill running through Zeke's body didn't come from the cold. The 10-54 called in sent he and Tim to Frederick Douglass Peace Garden, a casual, five-minute stroll away from Bessie Barnes. After parking with the lights still on, the pair went through the small crowd watching on behind the crime scene tape and joined Mike and Joe, who were standing by the white picket fence's entrance to the small park. “No peace here tonight,” Joe said. He nodded behind him to where the gazebo sat. Zeke followed his line of sight and bit his lip.
“This isn't a 10-54,” Mike said. “Just reported in an 87.”
From possible dead body to murder... Zeke nodded quick and followed them over to where the body lay between a tree and the gazebo. He brought his flashlight up and stiffened. “She looks a hella-lot like Darcy, doesn't she?” he said to no one in particular.
“Yea. All the same stats; this one's got dreads, obvious hippie-chick. Young, looks like she was a healthy girl,” Mike said. “That's out the window, now.”
“Shit.” Tim rubbed the back of his neck and let out halted puffs of breath. “Who's on for this shit?”
“Becky and Marsh. They should be down here any second. Zeke, Tim, you guys keep the crowd under control. The woman who called this in should be back in a minute... she lives in this apartment building...” Joe said, nodding to the building next to the park. “...Her kids are pretty freaked out, she needed to call her mom to take care of 'em while she helps us out.”
“Did she see anything, see it happen?” Zeke asked.
“No. She came out to let her dog take a piss and... yea,” Joe explained.
“'K,” Tim said before he and Zeke stalked off to the curious onlookers. They weren't making a big fuss, thank god... Tim groaned. “This just jumped up a few thousand notches, huh?”
Zeke could only nod as he took an official-looking stance next to the crowd. One man shoved a shoulder past the two women closest to Zeke, his cell phone getting pointed to the scene. Zeke snarled and stood in front of him. “Get back, no cameras,” he said with heavy warning.
“Pfft...” The man scoffed and gave Zeke a dirty look, but backed off. “Fuckin' pigs.”
“Get anything?” the other guy standing next to him now asked. Grumbled replies were made to him, Zeke hearing the word 'youtube' come up. Zeke put his hand to his belt, ready and willing to use whatever it took to give the murdered girl respect.
~*~
Zeke carelessly tossed his keys onto the kitchen counter and headed straight to the fridge. Only two beers were left, with no liquor stores open... they'd do, for now. As he put 'booze' on a mental shopping list, he took them from the door along with some deli meat and cheese. His dinner would be a simple, no-fuss affair even if he hadn't eaten since before the call sending him to the park. Stomaching anything more than some alcohol and snacking felt impossible.
The news crews that had shown up not a half hour after the detectives and coroner vans arrived were already on the serial-killer angle. Zeke figured that it wouldn't be long before nicknames came up, or countless 'How to Stay Safe' reports on every single news show were featured. All it took were two similar cases to come up before the whole of the city went ape-shit, fearing for their wives, daughters and other female family members. It wasn't that it wasn't warranted or unexpected, but...
Everyone thought they were special, in the weirdest of ways. The oddity of human behavior when it came to crime still astounded Zeke. The constant thought of, 'what if I'm next?' both terrified and thrilled a person. Every dread-locked, granola-munching girl in the city would be looking over their shoulders. Mace sales would go up, self-defense courses filling to max capacity. It was warranted, even encouraged, but the way people related to these horrendous events could get strange, unhealthy even. Obsessions were born, with both fear and excitement brewing in the hearts of the city's citizens. Sometimes Zeke wondered if some people hoped that they'd be next, being part of something big and important even if they weren't around to 'enjoy' it.
Perhaps if they'd been the cop having to see, hear, feel-even smell and taste these crimes, they wouldn't have been so enamored or excitable. They'd have to deal with sleepless nights, the worries over finding yet another innocent soul being taken down before they were legal to drink, have fun with friends at bars, get a college education, bear children; maybe then those news crew would stop getting in the way, sniffing hungrily for criminal scandals, murder, rape, whatever else would scare the living shit out of the everyday-Joe and Jane should they'd ever find themselves famous for being victimized, or dead.
Murder was a reality TV show, one of the reasons Zeke would watch game shows or happy, sexy porn. It was always better to cheer someone on, hoping they won the jackpot or had the best orgasm ever.
~*~
It was business as usual, the next night. Tension and apprehension would be released in talking about everything surrounding a murder case while not getting into the grisly details. Until meetings or talks were held discussing the details, the water-cooler talk would consist of what news reports were shown, how accurate or completely ad-libbed they were, how nice the girl's shoes had been, whatever else. It all seemed trite and ridiculous, but Zeke stood by the coffee pot with Joe, Tim and Mike discussing things anyway.
“She looked more Latina to me,” Tim said while pouring water into a cup.
“N'aw, her hair was too thick,” Mike said. Tim pfft-ed.
“They're dreads. A white chick could make ropes outta their hair if they tried.”
“Wonder what Albany Street's gonna come up with this time,” Joe said. “If the details really DO match Darcy's.”
“Hope so, in a way. We don't need two mass-murderers fucking shit up,” Zeke replied. “I'd rather it take one arrest to make everyone stop panicking.”
“We'll get 'im, with promises,” Joe said.
“The wife was asking me about it. Here she is, this blonde-haired, Balkan-bred fifty-year old, and she's losing her shit asking me if she should buy a gun.” Mike rolled his eyes and groaned.
“'Happens,” Zeke muttered.
It was then that Becky arrived, looking hassled. The men straightened; Mike was the first to speak. “Any news?” he asked.
“Not really. A few missing cases called in, asking-no dice, not yet,” Becky replied. She went over to the coffee, gave Zeke a blank glance then continued speaking. “With everything the coroner said, Darcy and Jane Doe may as well be the same person.”
“Which coroner?” Tim asked.
“Freak,” Becky replied, corner-smiling. As expected, a few chuckles went through the group.
“This girl was a looker, face not as banged-up. Maybe we'll be getting wedding invites soon,” Mike said.
“Aw fuck, Mike, disgusting!” Joe said while chuckling madly.
“Like he doesn't think that shit,” Mike replied.
“That's taking things a titch past 'appropriate', dude,” Zeke added, trying his best to smile and chuckle with the others.
“I'll say,” Becky, in a rare moment of agreement, said. “Anyway, watch it. He's almost done with--”
“I wonder if he plays cards with them,” Joe said. While the others continued chuckling, he went on. “No, really! Would you fuckin' doubt it? He needs SOME kind of human interaction, even if they can't do anything back.”
“Shit, we'll have to look for a deck next time we go in there,” Tim said.
“It's like they're goddamned Barbies, I swear. I went in their one time, when we had that nine-thousand year old homeless woman getting the slice n' dice, and he was doing her hair,” Joe said.
“Just his way, like we always say,” Zeke said.
“Guys...” Becky said, looking past Joe and groaning.
“Next thing we know, he's gonna build a dream house and prop 'em all up in a pink Corvette--”
“Excuse me.”
Everyone went shock-still as Casey, dressed in his best suit jacket, crisp white shirt and tie edged his way past Joe and Becky to the coffee station. His expression was blank, all concentration on pouring out a serving and shaking sugar packets. He even hummed lightly under his breath; Zeke shifted feet and stared into his cup. “Any... news?” he dared to break the swelling silence.
“Not just yet. I haven't gotten the whole job done, just giving some details to Walsh,” Casey said, his voice just as unreadable as his face. He picked up his drink, took a long sip and made a satisfied “Ahh... s'good. So. Dream houses and pink Corvettes, you were saying?”
Becky rolled her eyes and stared at the ceiling, while the men gave each other cautious glances. Zeke expected Casey to start in on them, perhaps bringing out a tennis racket to pretend their faces were bright green balls. Instead, the young man's emotionless face melted into a bright smile. “Every morning, I wake up thinking, 'gee, I hope everyone at the station likes me'. No, really, I do,” he sarcastically said. “It keeps me up at night, wondering what everyone around here thinks of me, what I do, how I do it. You know?”
“We're just... man, I was just joking around...” Joe finally broke his awkward silence to say.
Casey widened his eyes and nodded quick. In a calm, reassuring voice, he said, “Oh, I know, don't worry. I know. Believe me, I can change. When I get back to the office, I'll be sure to call our murder victim a 'dirty hippie bitch' and pretend that I don't give a shit about victims of violent crime. I promise, if that's what it takes to be 'part of the group, I'll do it. Cos' like I said...” Casey paused to finish off his coffee, smack his lips and toss the cup into the trash before saying, “...I care deeply about the opinions of respectable police officers such as yourselves. Good night.”
Zeke swallowed as Casey walked off, Joe and Mike parting to let him pass. Everyone stared at nothing in particular, letting their faux pas sink in. A long moment of silence passed before Becky shook her head. “As I was saying... watch it, Casey's almost done with his and Walsh's meeting. Christ-fuck, no one lets me talk around here.” With another groan, the woman walked off, muttering under her breath. No one said a thing as they meandered away to return to their work. As Zeke went to his desk to look over the murdered woman's case file, he went over the entire conversation, trying to remember if he'd said anything that Casey might've heard.