Crocodile Tears [4/?]
Title: Crocodile Tears [4/?]
Rating: R
Fandom: Bandom [Elliot Minor/Empires/Suns]
Pairing(s): So far, Tom Conrad/ Mikey Russell
Summary: Murder and abduction is never easy, but the Princes in the Tower case is turning out to be something else entirely. Alex Davies wasn't expecting this after the Bernstein case.
Genre: AU/Angst
Warnings: swearing, violence, murder, character death, child abuse, domestic abuse
Notes: [1045 words]
Edward and Richard
"Is staging a reconstruction totally impossible, or is it just me?" Mikey sighed, flicking through the sparse case file.
"We've got no idea how they got out." Alex nodded, looking at his own copy. "I mean, we could do a theoretical. A man climbing through a window taking kids.” He drew out the idea on a piece of paper, sketching a little stick figure man with a face like “>D” jumping out a window with two children poking out of a sack on his back. He paused, chewing on the end of his pencil, before adding a little stick man with a “>:|” face to represent Teddy.
“It’s always a man, spice it up.” The smaller man complained, balling up a sheet of paper and throwing it in Alex’s direction.
"I'm five spice." Alex said in a high pitched voice, ducking the balled up paper his superior threw at him. "Ok, fine, we'll do a reconstruction with one of the tweenies as the abductor. Or an eighty seven year old woman?"
"Ok, point taken." The older man grinned, scribbling something down in his notebook. "We'll do a normal, boring reconstruction. Happy?"
"I'm bossed around by a five year old." Alex complained, as Tom slid into the nonexistent space between them. "Uh, get your own seat, Conrad?" He surreptitiously hid the drawing he’d done in his fist - Tom had a fine arts degree, and who knows what he’d say about Alex’s illuminating illustration.
"Get your own husband." Tom shot back with a smirk. "So, what's happening?"
"Planning a reconstruction." His husband squinted at the picture Teddy had given them. "We need two blonde haired angels. Know anyone?"
"Me, obviously." The photographer batted his eyelashes. The two others ignored him.
"So two blondes. Will Hetherton let us use his house?"
"He's going to have to, if he wants to jog anyone's memory. It needs to be as realistic as possible." The younger man frowned. "The thing is - and it's been bothering me - is there's nothing we can use. He's really not telling us something, there has to be a reason they were taken, right?"
"If you were a creepy paedophile or whatever, stealing two children from a room where their dad sleeps is not really ideal." Tom nodded.
"Nobody's seen anything."
"How the fuck is it even possible?" It burst out of Mikey. "They sleep in the same room, the window was locked. Somehow somebody got into that room, woke up the two children, got them out of the room, brought in a fucking music player and blasted out music - all without him waking up. It's not possible!"
"So you're saying he did it." The younger policeman mumbled.
"Fucking hell, Alex, there's no possible alternative! Either he did it, or he's hiding something very key to the case - like he was tied up by a mafia gang!" The chief constable banged his fists on the table furiously, before jumping to his feet. He ran a hand through his shoulder length hair, looking agitated.
"He could have been drugged." Tom attempted, knowing that he wasn't really being listened to. "They could have all been..."
There was a knock at the door and William poked his head around. "Call for you, Mikey."
"Who is it?" The small man sighed, rubbing his eyes.
"York Social. Said it was urgent." William disappeared around the door and the chief constable followed.
"I'm glad I'm not a policeman." Tom muttered with a sigh, unfolding himself from the chair. "There are less donuts than the movies suggest." Alex smiled absentmindedly at him before walking out the door.
-
"Hi Mr Hetherton, can we come in?" Alex was fully prepared for Teddy to slam the door in his face, but the man stepped back mutely to let them in.
“We meet again.” He said dully, flicking his eyes briefly across Tom.
“Well, I’m not pretending to be a student this time, I’m actually doing my job.” The blonde joked half-heartedly, holding up his camera. “Can I see the boys’ bedroom?” The father opened his mouth to speak, but instead merely nodded, gesturing for them to follow.
“Have you disrupted the scene at all, sir?” The blonde snapped into his working persona.
“I’ve been sleeping downstairs.” Teddy mumbled. Casting an eye over the younger man’s weary face, Tom doubted this.
He raised his camera to his eye, seeing the room through the viewfinder. The boys’ beds were slightly rumpled, one of them had the cover kicked off. Something caught his eye and he knelt down. He snapped a picture of the doodle on the wall in an almost trancelike state, not really sure what it would bring to the case. He went to straighten up when he saw it.
YOU WON’T FIND THEM.
It was scrawled across the skirting board. He looked around, and he suddenly saw it everywhere. Written above picture frames, written on the sill, written across the curtains. How no one had ever seen it before was beyond him. It was everywhere he looked.
YOU WON’T FIND THEM.
It was written in a loose, sprawling cursive, handwriting that Tom didn’t see much of nowadays. What his grandmother would have called “proper handwriting”, but written hurriedly. He bit down on his lip, knowing what he had to do.
Silently, Tom walked down the stairs, feeling shaken. It had never really been an option, but he could completely rule out the option that the boys had run away.
“We need a handwriting sample, Mr Hetherton.” His voice caught in his throat.
“What?” Teddy looked up, caught off guard. His face grew ugly when Tom repeated himself. “Why?”
“We need one.” Tom was reluctant to express more details. Alex slipped into the kitchen to find a sample.
“Alright, fine.” The younger man sighed, taking the pen and notepad Tom offered him. “What shall I write?”
“Anything you want.” The blonde watched him scribble something down on the pad and took it back. “Thank you.”
“Now get out.” Teddy’s eyes were steely. He remained sitting on the couch, his back poker straight and his face totally impassive.
It was only in the car that Tom looked at the notepad. Scrawled across it in flowing cursive were the words “I didn’t kill my sons.”