M7Fic: Untitled Nonsense (2 of 10)
Title: Untitled
Author: Karen (nee. Katmorg)
~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~
Untitled
Part 2 of 10
"What happened?" The barked question rang truer as a command than it did an inquiry. Larabee was ordering the gathered men to report, and instinctively they did. By the time his long strides had closed the gap from his truck to the front stoop of the apartment building, Arthur Cohen was already at his side.
"Wilmington was transported to the ER," he offered.
"I know," Chris snapped, refusing to be placated. "Jackson called me from the hospital. What I want to know is why he needed to go.'"
"Still working on that," Cohen supplied with a shrug. He raised the yellow crime scene tape for Chris, then followed the agent onto the landing. "We have two DOA here. One on the stairs, and one in the apartment upstairs." Seeing the sudden murder in Larabee's eyes, Cohen backtracked. "It's not Dunne."
Chris uncoiled a notch, his brain already shifting gears into the routine of investigation. "Where's JD? Can I talk to him?"
Cohen wasn't happy with the question, though it was one he'd anticipated. "He's not here. He was when Wilmington and his date showed up." He glanced back through his notebook, "A Marcia Cuellar. She was transported with Wilmington. According to her, they heard the first shot as they were in the stairwell approaching the apartment. That accounts for our first DB. Wilmington and Dunne apparently had an exchange through the door. Then Wilmington sent her down a floor with his cell phone to call for help. After that it's all guesswork. Going from her description there was a struggle that moved out onto the stairs. Someone took a header -- our second John Doe; and Dunne pulled a rabbit act with the remaining suspects hot on his trail. Agents Tanner and Sanchez are out following Dunne's trail." Cohen shook his head, "Damnedest thing I've ever seen, watching that boy of yours picking up traces that I'd swear weren't there until he pointed them out."
"I've seen him do it before," Chris pointed out none-too-gently, though knowing that Vin and Josiah were out looking for the kid made him feel better.
They skirted around the white draped body on the stairwell and squeezed past the forensics team, careful to avoid any of the flags that marked potential evidence. Chris was at once grateful and annoyed at the obvious care the technicians were taking. The case was a guaranteed attempted murder, and so far there was nothing to indicate that it mightn't be a successful murder. Not until JD was found and Buck's condition was known.
Little signs of violence marked their assent. Near the top of the stairwell someone had struck the wall. Hard. The plaster was cracked, small fractures radiating out like shockwaves. Red gone to brown stained the epicenter, and a series of radiating splatters were carefully marked for photographing.
The loft, for the most part, was not as bad as Chris feared. Though the studied chaos inside was jarring. At three o'clock in the morning -- even a Sunday morning - the perpetually turbulent CDC should have been muted and dimmed. Instead, the apartment Buck and JD called home was filled with strange voices. The living room and kitchen crawled with dispassionately curious fingertips. The activity all played beneath the black-white strobe of camera flashes.
"See anything out of place?" Cohen asked. "Other than the obvious?"
It took Chris a minute. Evidence of violence was everywhere. The path of destruction funneled toward the front door, but the wakes spread through the front rooms. "They straightened up before they left," he said off handed, stepping over the back of the upturned sofa. The bright blue remains of a ceramic lamp crunched underfoot.
"JD's computer," he added seriously after a moment's consideration. The big metal desk, dug up only God and JD knew where, was swept clean. The monitor rested on its side on the floor. The screen flickered and rolled, searching for an image in vain. The processor was gone.
"Yeah. It's already our best lead. Most of the damage is confined to Dunne's room. It's where… Well, you'll see." Cohen led Chris down the short hallway to the open doorway of JD's bedroom.
Chris did see. And it sent his stomach bounding to his throat, dragging his heart along for good measure.
"Shit," he swore. He cast about for something more productive to say, and settled for echoing, "Shit."
The body stretched out on the floor wasn't JD. Taller than the young agent by at least a hand span and a stocky build that bordered on fat, there was no way the man could have been mistaken for JD. That was the only good Chris could see in the situation.
And even that was a double-edged relief. The man had been in his thirties and well dressed. Everything about him screamed 'professional.' And there were others who'd been sent with him to collect JD. For all Chris knew, they'd managed to do it.
"I've got a gun over here," one of the techs called. The blond man lifted his prize carefully, holding it up for Cohen. The detective jerked his chin towards Chris, and the tech displayed the handgun once more.
"It's JD's," Chris confirmed, with barely a glance at the weapon. "Extra clips and ammo should be in a safe in the closet."
The tech accepted the information as matter-of-factly as Chris offered it. He used a zip tie to secure the gun and dropped it into an evidence bag. He scrawled a label in thick black lines across the front.
Chris turned his back on the scene, ignoring the detective in him. He didn't want to recreate the events in the room. The answers he needed weren't in this disaster. "I'll be at the hospital."
Author: Karen (nee. Katmorg)
~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~
Untitled
Part 2 of 10
"What happened?" The barked question rang truer as a command than it did an inquiry. Larabee was ordering the gathered men to report, and instinctively they did. By the time his long strides had closed the gap from his truck to the front stoop of the apartment building, Arthur Cohen was already at his side.
"Wilmington was transported to the ER," he offered.
"I know," Chris snapped, refusing to be placated. "Jackson called me from the hospital. What I want to know is why he needed to go.'"
"Still working on that," Cohen supplied with a shrug. He raised the yellow crime scene tape for Chris, then followed the agent onto the landing. "We have two DOA here. One on the stairs, and one in the apartment upstairs." Seeing the sudden murder in Larabee's eyes, Cohen backtracked. "It's not Dunne."
Chris uncoiled a notch, his brain already shifting gears into the routine of investigation. "Where's JD? Can I talk to him?"
Cohen wasn't happy with the question, though it was one he'd anticipated. "He's not here. He was when Wilmington and his date showed up." He glanced back through his notebook, "A Marcia Cuellar. She was transported with Wilmington. According to her, they heard the first shot as they were in the stairwell approaching the apartment. That accounts for our first DB. Wilmington and Dunne apparently had an exchange through the door. Then Wilmington sent her down a floor with his cell phone to call for help. After that it's all guesswork. Going from her description there was a struggle that moved out onto the stairs. Someone took a header -- our second John Doe; and Dunne pulled a rabbit act with the remaining suspects hot on his trail. Agents Tanner and Sanchez are out following Dunne's trail." Cohen shook his head, "Damnedest thing I've ever seen, watching that boy of yours picking up traces that I'd swear weren't there until he pointed them out."
"I've seen him do it before," Chris pointed out none-too-gently, though knowing that Vin and Josiah were out looking for the kid made him feel better.
They skirted around the white draped body on the stairwell and squeezed past the forensics team, careful to avoid any of the flags that marked potential evidence. Chris was at once grateful and annoyed at the obvious care the technicians were taking. The case was a guaranteed attempted murder, and so far there was nothing to indicate that it mightn't be a successful murder. Not until JD was found and Buck's condition was known.
Little signs of violence marked their assent. Near the top of the stairwell someone had struck the wall. Hard. The plaster was cracked, small fractures radiating out like shockwaves. Red gone to brown stained the epicenter, and a series of radiating splatters were carefully marked for photographing.
The loft, for the most part, was not as bad as Chris feared. Though the studied chaos inside was jarring. At three o'clock in the morning -- even a Sunday morning - the perpetually turbulent CDC should have been muted and dimmed. Instead, the apartment Buck and JD called home was filled with strange voices. The living room and kitchen crawled with dispassionately curious fingertips. The activity all played beneath the black-white strobe of camera flashes.
"See anything out of place?" Cohen asked. "Other than the obvious?"
It took Chris a minute. Evidence of violence was everywhere. The path of destruction funneled toward the front door, but the wakes spread through the front rooms. "They straightened up before they left," he said off handed, stepping over the back of the upturned sofa. The bright blue remains of a ceramic lamp crunched underfoot.
"JD's computer," he added seriously after a moment's consideration. The big metal desk, dug up only God and JD knew where, was swept clean. The monitor rested on its side on the floor. The screen flickered and rolled, searching for an image in vain. The processor was gone.
"Yeah. It's already our best lead. Most of the damage is confined to Dunne's room. It's where… Well, you'll see." Cohen led Chris down the short hallway to the open doorway of JD's bedroom.
Chris did see. And it sent his stomach bounding to his throat, dragging his heart along for good measure.
"Shit," he swore. He cast about for something more productive to say, and settled for echoing, "Shit."
The body stretched out on the floor wasn't JD. Taller than the young agent by at least a hand span and a stocky build that bordered on fat, there was no way the man could have been mistaken for JD. That was the only good Chris could see in the situation.
And even that was a double-edged relief. The man had been in his thirties and well dressed. Everything about him screamed 'professional.' And there were others who'd been sent with him to collect JD. For all Chris knew, they'd managed to do it.
"I've got a gun over here," one of the techs called. The blond man lifted his prize carefully, holding it up for Cohen. The detective jerked his chin towards Chris, and the tech displayed the handgun once more.
"It's JD's," Chris confirmed, with barely a glance at the weapon. "Extra clips and ammo should be in a safe in the closet."
The tech accepted the information as matter-of-factly as Chris offered it. He used a zip tie to secure the gun and dropped it into an evidence bag. He scrawled a label in thick black lines across the front.
Chris turned his back on the scene, ignoring the detective in him. He didn't want to recreate the events in the room. The answers he needed weren't in this disaster. "I'll be at the hospital."