[FIC] Law and Order: Metropolis, PG, Part Two of Three
Law and Order: Metropolis
In the criminal justice system, The People are represented by two separate yet equally important groups: the police, who investigate crime, and the district attorneys, who prosecute the offenders. These are their stories.
"Captain!" Jimmy calls excitedly, rushing down the corridor. He stops just short of the trio and waves a folder meaningfully. "The bullet that killed Whitney Fordman matches Derek Fox's gun."
"So, Wade Mahaney didn't shoot Whitney Fordman."
"But." Jimmy pauses dramatically, waiting until he has their full attention before he announces: "He did kill Derek Fox." Instead of jumping for joy, which he seems to think should have been their reaction to the news, they continue to stare at him. "Gun was found in an abandoned warehouse. Mahaney's DNA was all over it and it matches the gun residue we got off him earlier," he continues, staring between the three of them as if there's some vital clue he is not privy too.
There is.
Wade Mahaney has already cut a deal with the D.A.'s office in exchange for his signed confession.
John sighs. "Thank you, Jimmy."
Jimmy looks marginally cheered up, clapping himself on the back before he marches away.
The three enter Captain John Jones's office. John immediately goes behind his desk and picks up his tin of cookies.
"So," Oliver says, collapsing into a chair, "I guess all that's left is the paperwork."
"Unless you were planning on arresting and charging Derek Fox's corpse as well."
"Just get us even more paperwork."
Clark blinks, his glasses slipping down his nose. "Well, what about Wade Mahaney's evidence?" he asks, hastily pushing his glasses back up. "The cop around the corner not going to help?"
John freezes. He carefully sets the cookie back in the tin and seals it. "Shut the door," he says quietly.
Clark shuts the door.
"Do we believe Mahaney?" John inquires softly, careful even in the relative privacy of his office.
"A drug dealer? With a record longer than Clark is tall?" Oliver snorts. "Yeah, because they're known to be so very reliable."
Clark frowns. "Why would he lie?"
"Why'd he lie before? It's just in his nature," Oliver offers glibly.
"No," Clark mutters absently, as though his mind is furiously working through some complex problem. Then he looks up and shakes his head. "He knew we had him. Telling us that there was a cop nearby didn't get him a better deal -- it didn't help him at all. So why would he say it? He hardly named names so it's not like he's got someone he wants set up."
"Who cares why he said it? For that matter, why are we even discussing this?"
"Because no matter whatever else Wade Mahaney may be, he's now a witness. And it's our job to follow it up, even if it is just to rule it out."
"Oh, so, you're going to explain that to three-one?"
"No," John interrupts. He doesn't raise his voice, but somehow makes the command clear. Clark and Oliver fall silent. "I don't want you to say anything to anyone. This stays between us three for now."
Clark opens his mouth to protest. John raises a hand to cut him off. "I want you to check the surrounding buildings for cameras. See if we can get a wider view of the crime scene."
"You are kidding," Oliver says, voice thick with disbelief. "You want to pursue this."
"We pursue it or we call Internal Affairs -- "
"And they'll run into a wall so big a jackhammer couldn't get through it," Clark supplies, trying to ease some of the tension in the room.
Oliver isn't having it. He cuts Clark a sidelong glare and says: "Maybe because there's nothing to get through?"
"A police officer has died," John says. Again, he doesn't raise his voice, but lower it. "And another officer may have stood by and watched." He looks slowly between Clark and Oliver, the reproach in his gaze clear. "We follow up on every piece of evidence we have."
LOHMAN STREET
FRIDAY 10th OCTOBER
Oliver and Clark stand in the streets of Metropolis. They are perhaps two blocks away from where Whitney Fordman died.
The world goes on.
"Security footage?" Nell Potter repeats, eyes turned away from both detectives as she locks the front door to one of the buildings she owns. She finishes with the locks and turns to face them, a small smile on her face. She shrugs. "Haven't got any."
"Mrs. Potter-Winters -- "
"Please," Potter says, her smile taking a more seductive edge, "call me Nell -- oh!" ‘Nell' fakes a bad tumble and grabs onto Clark for stability. She does a lot more groping than necessary for a woman recovering her balance. "Oh, you're so firm." She turns her seductive smile up to eleven and flutters her eyelashes up at him. "I supposed you'd have to be, running around chasing all them criminals."
Oliver, very pointedly, does not come to his rescue.
Clark clears his throat, flushed to the tips of his ears. "Mrs. Potter-Winters," he says. Nell pouts prettily in return. "Mrs. Potter-Winters, you and your husband own over half of the buildings in this area." Clark uses his free arm to gesture around them. "I can see a dozen cameras from where I'm standing. You're telling me that you have absolutely no footage of that night?"
"I don't need all those cameras," Nell tells Clark's chest, obviously thinking very little of her husband. "Some of them are dummies. And they all run to the same system." She blinks, as if awakening from a daze, looks up at him and flashes a winning smile. "And I didn't put new DVDs in the recorders," she adds self-deprecatingly.
"That's unfortunate." Clark frowns, clearly unconvinced. "Do you have footage of the night before the incident?"
Nell bites her lip, looking up at him through her lashes. "I think so."
"And last night?"
"I think so."
"Well, excuse me, ma'am," Clark says, dislodging her as gently as he can before taking a very large step backward, "are there any other nights that you forgot to put new DVDs in the recorders?"
For a moment, she looks like she might slap one or both of them. Oliver takes two hurried steps backward. His movement seems to appease her because she adjusts her scarf a bit more aggressively than is necessary and says, "I don't think so," tightly, clearly ready to dismiss this conversation. "I'm sorry about the policeman that got shot, but like you said, it's unfortunate. I can't help you. If that will be all?"
"No, ma'am, thank you for your time," Oliver says quickly.
She looks between Clark and Oliver, as if giving serious consideration to the whole ‘assaulting a police officer' business before reconsidering. She gives them a cool nod and spins on her heel, strutting away chin held high.
When she's well out of hearing distance, Clark turns and starts back towards the car. "Someone got to her. It's the only explanation," Clark calls over his shoulder.
Oliver rolls his eyes. He has to jog to catch up to Clark. "Or," Oliver says, when they're shoulder to shoulder, "she forgot to put DVDs in the recorders."
"No," Clark replies adamantly, "someone got to her first."
Oliver stops. "Okay, I went along with this because we're partners and I've got your back. But can we let this go now?" he asks. "We've got forensic evidence as well as eye witness testimony for the guy that shot Fordman. We've even caught the guy that shot the guy that shot Fordman."
Clark stops several feet up the sidewalk from him, turning wearily as if Oliver is the one standing in the street throwing around insane accusations. "Ollie..."
"Why does this have to be a conspiracy? I know you've always wanted to be the subject of a Dan Brown novel -- fine. That's your thing. But now you're seeing patterns that just aren't there."
"Oliver, I hope you're right. I sincerely hope you're right," Clark admits, frustration heavy in his tone. He reaches up a hand and tugs at the ends of his hair. "But who knows where we'd look first? Who knows our procedures?" he asks helplessly.
"I'm sorry, Clark, I just don't buy it," replies Oliver with an equally helpless gesture. "You're not going to convince me that someone hung Fordman out to dry -- that a cop hung Fordman out to dry."
"Hopefully no one did. But every cop is not the same, and if this is our one in a million shot, we have to look into it."
"Explain to me, Clark," Oliver asks, stepping forward, "why you're so keen to take the word of a drug dealer over the word of a fellow officer."
"You know that's not what this is."
"Then please, enlighten me."
Clark shakes his head. The expression on his face is one of steely determination. "This isn't about taking the word of a drug dealer over the word of an officer. We owe it to Whitney to rule out Wade Mahaney's claim."
Oliver wants to be angry. He wants to be offended on behalf of the entire Metropolis police force, for every serving officer everywhere. But he knows Clark. The Kents instilled in their son a hand-crafted moral compass that would point North in the murkiest of weather, and Clark would gladly follow his gut instinct into a pit of vipers if he felt it was for a good cause. Oliver can't see any good coming out of this, but he'll have Clark's back through it. It's what partners are for.
Oliver sighs. "How do we do that?"
31 PRECINCT HEADQUARTERS
MONDAY 13th OCTOBER
"Eleven years as Captain and I'd never lost one. Until now," Captain William Henderson says. "We're all in shock down here."
"Captain Henderson," Clark starts haltingly, "was Fordman in any kind of trouble?"
"Nothing big. He missed a couple of shifts," Henderson replies with a shrug. "What's the problem here?" He looks from Clark to Oliver, finally settling his gaze back on Clark, whom he's more familiar with. "He was a good guy. He just…had some kind of personal problem."
"Personal problem?" Clark inquires.
Henderson seems content not to elaborate.
"The man who shot Whitney Fordman didn't survive the shoot out," Clark tries, sending Oliver a meaningful look from behind his notebook. "We have charged Wade Mahaney with Fordman's murder."
"Right." Henderson nods in acceptance. "Well, if there's anything you need to make things move a bit faster, just yell. We're glad to help."
Oliver forces a smile on his face and casually adds, "Hopefully, it'd be a bit faster than Eli Talbert."
Clark says something consolatory that goes completely ignored before he simply tries to sink further into the background to observe. Oliver continues to smile cheerfully.
Henderson looks apoplectic.
"I'm sorry?" he asks slowly, in the voice of someone desperately hoping they've misheard.
"Well, I'm just saying. Officer Talbert was late to the scene." Oliver raises his eyebrows guilelessly. "Not much in the way of back-up."
"He was late to the scene and now he's torn up about it," Henderson counters defensively, choosing to ignore the latter half of his statement. "There was another back-up unit that didn't get there in time."
"Granted, they weren't partnered with him, so they weren't as directly responsible for his welfare." Oliver shrugs. "And they were a lot further away. To be fair."
"Is there something you want to say, Detective Queen?" Henderson demands, rising from his desk, palms pressed firmly against the surface. The look on his face plainly says that he's seriously considering throwing away a twenty-six year career to punch Oliver in the face right now.
"Only that you must be disappointed in your men," Oliver replies smoothly. "It's unfortunate."
"Is this about discipline? Because I don't need some silver spoon fed detective in some striped suit telling me how to run my precinct." He gives Oliver a narrow-eyed stare as if he'd measured Oliver against something and been left wanting. "Talbert's been suspended for three weeks, that settle it for you? He's a good cop," he persists. "He didn't get there on time. It happens."
"But not in the eleven years under your command." Oliver pauses expectantly. "Right?"
A sudden, perfectly terrible silence descends upon the room.
"If you want to start impugning my officers, Detective Queen, you're going to be taking your balls back in a paper bag. Do we understand each other?" Henderson says with barely suppressed fury. He is tall and lean; old enough that he's probably retiring soon. Somehow, the threat still seems perfectly valid. "Kent. You might want to get your partner out of here before he hurts himself."
Oliver pushes off the wall with his foot, heading toward the door. He nods at Henderson as he passes, and says, "Don't need an escort, thanks," in the same tones one might use when leaving voluntarily.
Clark nods deferentially, muttering vague apologies, and follows.
A lot of cops work on what is known as the Good Cop/Bad Cop system for handling interrogations, despite the fact that anyone who has ever watched a crime drama knows that it's a set-up. Clark and Oliver had worked out a few variants.
Oliver's job was to talk, irreverently and unstoppably. Clark's job was to appear contrite, and keep up a seemingly stalwart effort of trying to will himself out of existence.
Ideally, this drew the focus to Oliver, allowing Clark the opportunity to sit back, unobtrusively look around, and just observe. Sometimes they slipped up, said more than they meant to.
Clark's job was to listen. And watch.
The ride back to the 38 Precinct is quiet, uncomfortably so. A few times Oliver caught Clark glance at him, mouth open as if he had something to say. But he doesn't. They ride in silence. Oliver waits until they're inside before he finally asks: "So, did you get anything?"
Clark stares at him in wide-eyed shock.
"From Henderson?" Oliver clarifies. "Did you get anything from Henderson?"
"Anything like what?"
"Anything that might have made it worth me riling the old guy up over," Oliver suggests. "And almost getting punched. Not sure if you noticed, but I somehow got the impression that if I'd overstayed my welcome, punching was in my future."
Clark storms down the corridor on their floor, glad for the relative emptiness. "Oliver," he practically hisses, "are you happy now?"
"What?" Oliver blinks, surprised. "That's what you wanted, wasn't it?" He reaches out a hand and stops Clark in the middle of the hallway. The area where their desks are located is open and there are dozens of officers wandering though. If they were going to have this out, Oliver would prefer they have it out here. "Wasn't it?" Clark looks at the far wall, doesn't deny it. "Then, this is how we do it."
"No. Not when it's one of ours," Clark says with finality.
"So, what? Yesterday you thought the three-one was dirty at the word of drug dealer, and now everyone gets a free pass because you just remembered that they're cops?"
"No. They get what everyone else gets: some basic courtesy and a little respect."
"Let me explain something to you, Clark, so that we understand each other. I don't agree with this, but I said I'd follow your lead because I trust you." Oliver steps into Clark's line of vision, forcing them to face one another. "You want to see this through? Fine. But remember: you don't get to be the good guy while you're pointing the finger at one of your fellow officers," he explains carefully. "If you want to get tough, the kid gloves have to come off. And you're going to have to learn to live with that. Got it?"
The click of heels against linoleum saves Clark from having to reply. Andrea slows in her approach, looking between Clark and Oliver as if unsure of her welcome.
"What's up?" Oliver asks, trying to keep the irritation in his tone to a minimum.
"El Jefe asked me to pass this to you," Andrea says, holding out a plain manila folder tentatively. Oliver takes it with a grateful smile. "Quietly."
Oliver opens it and nods in approval. "Fordman's personnel files." He starts walking backward down the hallway, looking up from his slow perusal of the folder only to favor Andrea with a crooked smile. "You're too good to me, Officer Rojas," he says with an exaggerated leer.
Andrea smiles back as she follows. "Do my best."
She looks back at Clark, slouching the rest of the way down the corridor behind them. "Where did you get his personnel files?" he asks, adjusting his glasses.
"El Raton brought it," she informs him solemnly, sharing a conspiratorial glance with Oliver. "As you can see, he has a perfect record until about three months ago. Then, out of nowhere bad performance reports across the board."
"Why?"
The open office where they work is sparsely only packed at this time of the evening. Oliver immediately heads toward the corner of the room where his and Clark's desks are located. He juggles the folder as he removes his coat and drapes it over the back of his chair.
"Talking with the girls in the break room, there's something," she pauses, looking upward as if trying to draw a phrase from memory, "in the file that is not there."
"And what is that?" Oliver asks absently, collapsing in his desk chair, already thinking about the stack of paperwork sitting in front of him.
Clark looks across the partition at the stack of paperwork on Oliver's desk, reaches over, and silently takes a handful of work even though he'd already finished his case files for the week. Somewhere between taking off his jacket and motioning for Andrea to continue, his arm gets caught in his sleeve, he upsets the delicate arrangement of coffee cup and novelty fish-shaped pencil/paper clip holder, and sends the stack of files falling to the floor. While Clark crawls under his desk, Oliver clears the top of the desk.
"Ignore him and continue," Oliver says, leaning back in his chair.
"Officer Whitney Fordman was gay," Andrea reveals eagerly. Oliver accepts it in stride, but Clark startles, bumps his head on the underside of his desk. Andrea peers under to check on him.
"Go on," Clark says in a strained voice.
"He never told anyone. Was found out when another officer saw him outside of a club making out with another guy."
Clark climbs under his desk and scoops up the papers in a large, disorganized heap.
"Don't tell me," Clark says, straightening out from under his desk and depositing the heap of paperwork back to the corner it had been precariously balanced on in the first place with a thoughtful expression on his face. His fingers twitch and then he taps each against his thumb rapidly. "That was three months ago?"
"Thanks, Andrea," Oliver says, dismissing her with a wink. He recognizes the look on Clark's face now, knows that Clark's brain is running a million miles a minute. So Oliver leans around the partition and shifts Clark's paperwork a few crucial inches toward the center of his desk, waiting for Clark to draw a conclusion. "There are tons of gay cops," he states in an undertone.
"And there are tons of people that aren't happy about it."
"Look, I'm sure that Fordman got teased, he wouldn't be the first. High school never ends," Oliver says as he begins constructing something from the paperclips and pushpins on his desk. "You're too tall, you're too short, and you're too fat, you're too thin." Oliver raps his knuckles against his desk and points out, somewhat gleefully, "We called you 'Smallville' your first six months. And 'Boy Scout'. And -- "
Clark seriously considers giving the paperwork back. "Late back up isn't a joke, Oliver."
"So, wait." Oliver drops his Frankenstein office supply monster and looks up at Clark. "Now his back up was late because he was gay?"
"I'm saying it's a possibility. Oliver, just humor me, all right? I mean, why don't we check all of the facts in Talbert's statement, let him talk us through it, and if all looks on the level, I will let it go. I promise."
38 PRECINCT HEADQUARTERS
WEDNESDAY 15th OCTOBER
It's the second time they've been in the interrogation room in as many days. Eli Talbert sits on one side of the table, looking well for a man who'd just lost a partner little more than a week ago, if a bit confused. He holds his service hat in front of him on the able, occasionally fiddling with the tag on the inside.
"Why don't you just tell us what happened, Officer Talbert?" Clark starts them, pen poised over his ever-present notebook.
Talbert nods. "I was on the corner of Bowman Street when I realized my mistake," he says, his voice hollow, distant as he stares at himself in the one-way mirror. "So, I turned around and ran the other way. I could barely breathe by the time I got there," he adds, chuckling darkly. He briefly meets eyes with Clark, then Oliver, before looking down at his hands. "Fordman was on the ground, blood pooled around his legs. The dealer'd been shot in the head. I tried CPR, but Fordman was already dead by then. The other unit turned up a few moments after that."
"Thanks, Eli, you know how it is: everything by the book." Oliver chuckles as if he's actually making a joke. Talbert reluctantly joins in. "We've got to double-check all the notes, all the evidence, but, uh, if you could just look at this map for a second," Oliver asks, unfolding a map from under the table, spreading it across the table. "You might be able to clear something up for us."
"Of course," Talbert offers immediately.
"So the crime scene is here, right?" Oliver traces the path with the end of his pen. Talbert follows intently, nodding. "You said you started at the Ace of Clubs, and mistakenly ran…here and then to the crime scene, right?"
Talbert hums in agreement.
"Well, just out of interest," Oliver continues conversationally, "Clark and I ran that route."
"Well, when he says ‘Clark and I', he means that he did all the running and I just stood there with a stopwatch." Clark looks up, jerks when he realizes that he's drawn attention to himself and almost knocks over a cup of coffee in his surprise. He folds into himself, making himself smaller, and adds uncomfortably, "Asthma."
Talbert stares, though it's an entirely different stare from his previous one. "I don't know where this is going."
"Well, I'm pretty sure that you'd agree that we're roughly in about the same physical condition," Oliver asks rhetorically.
"I've got a couple years on you, Ollie," Talbert says with good-humor, "You might be a little bit better off than I am."
Oliver smiles as if they're old friends, nodding his head. "But the time you got the shout on your radio," he says, "and the time you radioed back to tell them you were at the scene was, uh, four minutes?"
"If you say so," Talbert offers.
"Well, I had a hell of a time trying to get from anywhere on Central, up to Bowman Street, and then down to the crime scene in that time." Oliver sees the exact moment the implication sinks in, when the warm smile slides off Talbert's face. "4 minutes," he repeats, keeping his tone light, "I mean, it took me 8 minutes, and that was at full tilt." He smiles. "If you weren't so sure, I'd go so far as to say that you'd have to be Warrior Angel to pull something like that off."
"Well, I probably never made it all the way up to Bowman Street," Talbert amends. He chuckles nervously. "Just felt like it, you know?"
The easy smile on Oliver's face freezes. He can feel the gears and cogs shifting around in his head, forming a picture he doesn't like. "You said you were on the corner of Bowman Street," he repeats.
"Yeah. I might have gotten a bit confused," Talbert says defensively.
The ensuing silence draws out uncomfortably long. The hum of the fluorescent lights overhead and the steady tick-tick-tick-tick of the clock are the only sounds in the room. Talbert begins twitching in his seat.
"Yeah." Oliver leans forward, smiling with renewed effort. "Well, you know what, Eli, they're serving you a disciplinary."
Talbert stiffens. "Why is this suddenly a disciplinary?"
"Procedure," Oliver says easily like he's sharing a joke, "I mean, your signed statement and your memory don't seem to be in agreement as to what happened that night."
Clark jots something down on his notebook and looks up. "We, uh," he says, "we may need to ask you back for a few questions just to make absolutely sure."
Oliver regards Talbert with the same easy, friendly smile he's worn for the entire debriefing. "Now, is there anything else that's confusing you?" he asks.
"No, Detective," Talbert answers curtly. "My statement is to the best of my memory." He pushes his chair back and stands, face cloudy. "If that will be all?"
"Oh, yes, of course," Oliver allows, gesturing to the door. He waits until Talbert is mid-flounce before calling him back. "Tell me something, Eli. Did you like Fordman?"
Talbert turns to look at Oliver over his shoulder. "I'm sorry?" he asks coldly.
"You were partners. Did you and Whitney Fordman get along?"
"I didn't know him that well. The other night was the second time we've ever been out on the beat together. He was younger than me. We mixed in different groups," he says, listing more reasons what would have sufficed.
"And did you know he was gay?"
Talbert turns around fully, now, a scowl heavy on his face. "No. I didn't know that. Really? Was he?" he asks in a completely uninterested tone.
Oliver nods affably. "Got an opinion about gay men in the police force, Eli?"
"Not especially." Talbert shrugs. "Sorry, how does this relate to Fordman's death exactly?"
"No, you're right, Officer Talbert. You're absolutely right." Clark stands quickly, interrupting before Oliver has a chance to get them into anymore trouble. Clark offers his hand. "That'll be all for now."
Talbert leaves without shaking it.
Clark chances a look in Oliver's direction. "I thought you weren't going to goad him."
Oliver shrugs and doesn't apologize.
Perhaps their most effective interrogation technique worked so well because it was the way they normally behaved.
It's the second time they've been in John's office in as many days. It's considerably warmer than the interrogation room, considerably more comfortable. This time, it's John on the other side of the table and neither Clark nor Oliver feel very much in charge of this interrogation.
"The more you look at Eli Talbert's account of events, the more it falls apart," Clark says earnestly. His glasses are skewed at a hopelessly useless angle, but in his haste, he doesn't fix them. "The evidence backs up Wade Mahaney's statement."
John flips idly through their report. "This…does not give us motivation. There is no history of animosity between he and Fordman or he and any other gay officer," he says diplomatically.
They are interrupted by a knock at the door. Andrea pokes her head in before entering just enough to pass Oliver a slip of paper. "Here is the information you wanted."
Oliver reads it once, twice, and sighs. "Thanks, angel," he says, just like he's said a thousand times before but this time it doesn't hold the playful edge he usually infuses it with. He sounds tired.
Andrea nods and quickly backs out of the room, shutting the door.
"All right. Maybe you're right," Oliver admits to Clark.
"I am praying I'm not, Ollie, you've got to believe me," Clark replies, leaning forward.
"What do you have?" John asks, nodding at the slip of paper.
Oliver nods. "Eli Talbert is Branch Chairman of something called the," he pauses to consult the paper given to him by Andrea, "the League of Faith for Christian Officers." He looks from Clark to John. "It's a hard-lined religious group within the station. Apparently a lot of the older, uniformed movers and shakers are members."
John tilts his head. "Is that all?"
"No." Oliver pauses again. "They bar membership to all gay officers saying that it, whatever, it doesn't fit with bible teachings." He nods to the door. "Anyway, Andrea did some digging for me and it turns out that Whitney Fordman is a former member." He doesn't need to, but he takes the opportunity to remind them, "Talbert said that Fordman never admitted to being gay."
"It is the best way of putting people at their ease," John says thoughtfully. "Especially your immediate superiors: be like them. And until three months ago, he was."
Clark goes slightly red as he says, "Spotted off-duty with another guy."
"And that would greatly upset Eli Talbert."
Oliver scrubs a hand over his face. "But still, piss him off enough to leave a man to die?"
Part One | Masterpost | Part Three
In the criminal justice system, The People are represented by two separate yet equally important groups: the police, who investigate crime, and the district attorneys, who prosecute the offenders. These are their stories.
"Captain!" Jimmy calls excitedly, rushing down the corridor. He stops just short of the trio and waves a folder meaningfully. "The bullet that killed Whitney Fordman matches Derek Fox's gun."
"So, Wade Mahaney didn't shoot Whitney Fordman."
"But." Jimmy pauses dramatically, waiting until he has their full attention before he announces: "He did kill Derek Fox." Instead of jumping for joy, which he seems to think should have been their reaction to the news, they continue to stare at him. "Gun was found in an abandoned warehouse. Mahaney's DNA was all over it and it matches the gun residue we got off him earlier," he continues, staring between the three of them as if there's some vital clue he is not privy too.
There is.
Wade Mahaney has already cut a deal with the D.A.'s office in exchange for his signed confession.
John sighs. "Thank you, Jimmy."
Jimmy looks marginally cheered up, clapping himself on the back before he marches away.
The three enter Captain John Jones's office. John immediately goes behind his desk and picks up his tin of cookies.
"So," Oliver says, collapsing into a chair, "I guess all that's left is the paperwork."
"Unless you were planning on arresting and charging Derek Fox's corpse as well."
"Just get us even more paperwork."
Clark blinks, his glasses slipping down his nose. "Well, what about Wade Mahaney's evidence?" he asks, hastily pushing his glasses back up. "The cop around the corner not going to help?"
John freezes. He carefully sets the cookie back in the tin and seals it. "Shut the door," he says quietly.
Clark shuts the door.
"Do we believe Mahaney?" John inquires softly, careful even in the relative privacy of his office.
"A drug dealer? With a record longer than Clark is tall?" Oliver snorts. "Yeah, because they're known to be so very reliable."
Clark frowns. "Why would he lie?"
"Why'd he lie before? It's just in his nature," Oliver offers glibly.
"No," Clark mutters absently, as though his mind is furiously working through some complex problem. Then he looks up and shakes his head. "He knew we had him. Telling us that there was a cop nearby didn't get him a better deal -- it didn't help him at all. So why would he say it? He hardly named names so it's not like he's got someone he wants set up."
"Who cares why he said it? For that matter, why are we even discussing this?"
"Because no matter whatever else Wade Mahaney may be, he's now a witness. And it's our job to follow it up, even if it is just to rule it out."
"Oh, so, you're going to explain that to three-one?"
"No," John interrupts. He doesn't raise his voice, but somehow makes the command clear. Clark and Oliver fall silent. "I don't want you to say anything to anyone. This stays between us three for now."
Clark opens his mouth to protest. John raises a hand to cut him off. "I want you to check the surrounding buildings for cameras. See if we can get a wider view of the crime scene."
"You are kidding," Oliver says, voice thick with disbelief. "You want to pursue this."
"We pursue it or we call Internal Affairs -- "
"And they'll run into a wall so big a jackhammer couldn't get through it," Clark supplies, trying to ease some of the tension in the room.
Oliver isn't having it. He cuts Clark a sidelong glare and says: "Maybe because there's nothing to get through?"
"A police officer has died," John says. Again, he doesn't raise his voice, but lower it. "And another officer may have stood by and watched." He looks slowly between Clark and Oliver, the reproach in his gaze clear. "We follow up on every piece of evidence we have."
LOHMAN STREET
FRIDAY 10th OCTOBER
Oliver and Clark stand in the streets of Metropolis. They are perhaps two blocks away from where Whitney Fordman died.
The world goes on.
"Security footage?" Nell Potter repeats, eyes turned away from both detectives as she locks the front door to one of the buildings she owns. She finishes with the locks and turns to face them, a small smile on her face. She shrugs. "Haven't got any."
"Mrs. Potter-Winters -- "
"Please," Potter says, her smile taking a more seductive edge, "call me Nell -- oh!" ‘Nell' fakes a bad tumble and grabs onto Clark for stability. She does a lot more groping than necessary for a woman recovering her balance. "Oh, you're so firm." She turns her seductive smile up to eleven and flutters her eyelashes up at him. "I supposed you'd have to be, running around chasing all them criminals."
Oliver, very pointedly, does not come to his rescue.
Clark clears his throat, flushed to the tips of his ears. "Mrs. Potter-Winters," he says. Nell pouts prettily in return. "Mrs. Potter-Winters, you and your husband own over half of the buildings in this area." Clark uses his free arm to gesture around them. "I can see a dozen cameras from where I'm standing. You're telling me that you have absolutely no footage of that night?"
"I don't need all those cameras," Nell tells Clark's chest, obviously thinking very little of her husband. "Some of them are dummies. And they all run to the same system." She blinks, as if awakening from a daze, looks up at him and flashes a winning smile. "And I didn't put new DVDs in the recorders," she adds self-deprecatingly.
"That's unfortunate." Clark frowns, clearly unconvinced. "Do you have footage of the night before the incident?"
Nell bites her lip, looking up at him through her lashes. "I think so."
"And last night?"
"I think so."
"Well, excuse me, ma'am," Clark says, dislodging her as gently as he can before taking a very large step backward, "are there any other nights that you forgot to put new DVDs in the recorders?"
For a moment, she looks like she might slap one or both of them. Oliver takes two hurried steps backward. His movement seems to appease her because she adjusts her scarf a bit more aggressively than is necessary and says, "I don't think so," tightly, clearly ready to dismiss this conversation. "I'm sorry about the policeman that got shot, but like you said, it's unfortunate. I can't help you. If that will be all?"
"No, ma'am, thank you for your time," Oliver says quickly.
She looks between Clark and Oliver, as if giving serious consideration to the whole ‘assaulting a police officer' business before reconsidering. She gives them a cool nod and spins on her heel, strutting away chin held high.
When she's well out of hearing distance, Clark turns and starts back towards the car. "Someone got to her. It's the only explanation," Clark calls over his shoulder.
Oliver rolls his eyes. He has to jog to catch up to Clark. "Or," Oliver says, when they're shoulder to shoulder, "she forgot to put DVDs in the recorders."
"No," Clark replies adamantly, "someone got to her first."
Oliver stops. "Okay, I went along with this because we're partners and I've got your back. But can we let this go now?" he asks. "We've got forensic evidence as well as eye witness testimony for the guy that shot Fordman. We've even caught the guy that shot the guy that shot Fordman."
Clark stops several feet up the sidewalk from him, turning wearily as if Oliver is the one standing in the street throwing around insane accusations. "Ollie..."
"Why does this have to be a conspiracy? I know you've always wanted to be the subject of a Dan Brown novel -- fine. That's your thing. But now you're seeing patterns that just aren't there."
"Oliver, I hope you're right. I sincerely hope you're right," Clark admits, frustration heavy in his tone. He reaches up a hand and tugs at the ends of his hair. "But who knows where we'd look first? Who knows our procedures?" he asks helplessly.
"I'm sorry, Clark, I just don't buy it," replies Oliver with an equally helpless gesture. "You're not going to convince me that someone hung Fordman out to dry -- that a cop hung Fordman out to dry."
"Hopefully no one did. But every cop is not the same, and if this is our one in a million shot, we have to look into it."
"Explain to me, Clark," Oliver asks, stepping forward, "why you're so keen to take the word of a drug dealer over the word of a fellow officer."
"You know that's not what this is."
"Then please, enlighten me."
Clark shakes his head. The expression on his face is one of steely determination. "This isn't about taking the word of a drug dealer over the word of an officer. We owe it to Whitney to rule out Wade Mahaney's claim."
Oliver wants to be angry. He wants to be offended on behalf of the entire Metropolis police force, for every serving officer everywhere. But he knows Clark. The Kents instilled in their son a hand-crafted moral compass that would point North in the murkiest of weather, and Clark would gladly follow his gut instinct into a pit of vipers if he felt it was for a good cause. Oliver can't see any good coming out of this, but he'll have Clark's back through it. It's what partners are for.
Oliver sighs. "How do we do that?"
31 PRECINCT HEADQUARTERS
MONDAY 13th OCTOBER
"Eleven years as Captain and I'd never lost one. Until now," Captain William Henderson says. "We're all in shock down here."
"Captain Henderson," Clark starts haltingly, "was Fordman in any kind of trouble?"
"Nothing big. He missed a couple of shifts," Henderson replies with a shrug. "What's the problem here?" He looks from Clark to Oliver, finally settling his gaze back on Clark, whom he's more familiar with. "He was a good guy. He just…had some kind of personal problem."
"Personal problem?" Clark inquires.
Henderson seems content not to elaborate.
"The man who shot Whitney Fordman didn't survive the shoot out," Clark tries, sending Oliver a meaningful look from behind his notebook. "We have charged Wade Mahaney with Fordman's murder."
"Right." Henderson nods in acceptance. "Well, if there's anything you need to make things move a bit faster, just yell. We're glad to help."
Oliver forces a smile on his face and casually adds, "Hopefully, it'd be a bit faster than Eli Talbert."
Clark says something consolatory that goes completely ignored before he simply tries to sink further into the background to observe. Oliver continues to smile cheerfully.
Henderson looks apoplectic.
"I'm sorry?" he asks slowly, in the voice of someone desperately hoping they've misheard.
"Well, I'm just saying. Officer Talbert was late to the scene." Oliver raises his eyebrows guilelessly. "Not much in the way of back-up."
"He was late to the scene and now he's torn up about it," Henderson counters defensively, choosing to ignore the latter half of his statement. "There was another back-up unit that didn't get there in time."
"Granted, they weren't partnered with him, so they weren't as directly responsible for his welfare." Oliver shrugs. "And they were a lot further away. To be fair."
"Is there something you want to say, Detective Queen?" Henderson demands, rising from his desk, palms pressed firmly against the surface. The look on his face plainly says that he's seriously considering throwing away a twenty-six year career to punch Oliver in the face right now.
"Only that you must be disappointed in your men," Oliver replies smoothly. "It's unfortunate."
"Is this about discipline? Because I don't need some silver spoon fed detective in some striped suit telling me how to run my precinct." He gives Oliver a narrow-eyed stare as if he'd measured Oliver against something and been left wanting. "Talbert's been suspended for three weeks, that settle it for you? He's a good cop," he persists. "He didn't get there on time. It happens."
"But not in the eleven years under your command." Oliver pauses expectantly. "Right?"
A sudden, perfectly terrible silence descends upon the room.
"If you want to start impugning my officers, Detective Queen, you're going to be taking your balls back in a paper bag. Do we understand each other?" Henderson says with barely suppressed fury. He is tall and lean; old enough that he's probably retiring soon. Somehow, the threat still seems perfectly valid. "Kent. You might want to get your partner out of here before he hurts himself."
Oliver pushes off the wall with his foot, heading toward the door. He nods at Henderson as he passes, and says, "Don't need an escort, thanks," in the same tones one might use when leaving voluntarily.
Clark nods deferentially, muttering vague apologies, and follows.
A lot of cops work on what is known as the Good Cop/Bad Cop system for handling interrogations, despite the fact that anyone who has ever watched a crime drama knows that it's a set-up. Clark and Oliver had worked out a few variants.
Oliver's job was to talk, irreverently and unstoppably. Clark's job was to appear contrite, and keep up a seemingly stalwart effort of trying to will himself out of existence.
Ideally, this drew the focus to Oliver, allowing Clark the opportunity to sit back, unobtrusively look around, and just observe. Sometimes they slipped up, said more than they meant to.
Clark's job was to listen. And watch.
The ride back to the 38 Precinct is quiet, uncomfortably so. A few times Oliver caught Clark glance at him, mouth open as if he had something to say. But he doesn't. They ride in silence. Oliver waits until they're inside before he finally asks: "So, did you get anything?"
Clark stares at him in wide-eyed shock.
"From Henderson?" Oliver clarifies. "Did you get anything from Henderson?"
"Anything like what?"
"Anything that might have made it worth me riling the old guy up over," Oliver suggests. "And almost getting punched. Not sure if you noticed, but I somehow got the impression that if I'd overstayed my welcome, punching was in my future."
Clark storms down the corridor on their floor, glad for the relative emptiness. "Oliver," he practically hisses, "are you happy now?"
"What?" Oliver blinks, surprised. "That's what you wanted, wasn't it?" He reaches out a hand and stops Clark in the middle of the hallway. The area where their desks are located is open and there are dozens of officers wandering though. If they were going to have this out, Oliver would prefer they have it out here. "Wasn't it?" Clark looks at the far wall, doesn't deny it. "Then, this is how we do it."
"No. Not when it's one of ours," Clark says with finality.
"So, what? Yesterday you thought the three-one was dirty at the word of drug dealer, and now everyone gets a free pass because you just remembered that they're cops?"
"No. They get what everyone else gets: some basic courtesy and a little respect."
"Let me explain something to you, Clark, so that we understand each other. I don't agree with this, but I said I'd follow your lead because I trust you." Oliver steps into Clark's line of vision, forcing them to face one another. "You want to see this through? Fine. But remember: you don't get to be the good guy while you're pointing the finger at one of your fellow officers," he explains carefully. "If you want to get tough, the kid gloves have to come off. And you're going to have to learn to live with that. Got it?"
The click of heels against linoleum saves Clark from having to reply. Andrea slows in her approach, looking between Clark and Oliver as if unsure of her welcome.
"What's up?" Oliver asks, trying to keep the irritation in his tone to a minimum.
"El Jefe asked me to pass this to you," Andrea says, holding out a plain manila folder tentatively. Oliver takes it with a grateful smile. "Quietly."
Oliver opens it and nods in approval. "Fordman's personnel files." He starts walking backward down the hallway, looking up from his slow perusal of the folder only to favor Andrea with a crooked smile. "You're too good to me, Officer Rojas," he says with an exaggerated leer.
Andrea smiles back as she follows. "Do my best."
She looks back at Clark, slouching the rest of the way down the corridor behind them. "Where did you get his personnel files?" he asks, adjusting his glasses.
"El Raton brought it," she informs him solemnly, sharing a conspiratorial glance with Oliver. "As you can see, he has a perfect record until about three months ago. Then, out of nowhere bad performance reports across the board."
"Why?"
The open office where they work is sparsely only packed at this time of the evening. Oliver immediately heads toward the corner of the room where his and Clark's desks are located. He juggles the folder as he removes his coat and drapes it over the back of his chair.
"Talking with the girls in the break room, there's something," she pauses, looking upward as if trying to draw a phrase from memory, "in the file that is not there."
"And what is that?" Oliver asks absently, collapsing in his desk chair, already thinking about the stack of paperwork sitting in front of him.
Clark looks across the partition at the stack of paperwork on Oliver's desk, reaches over, and silently takes a handful of work even though he'd already finished his case files for the week. Somewhere between taking off his jacket and motioning for Andrea to continue, his arm gets caught in his sleeve, he upsets the delicate arrangement of coffee cup and novelty fish-shaped pencil/paper clip holder, and sends the stack of files falling to the floor. While Clark crawls under his desk, Oliver clears the top of the desk.
"Ignore him and continue," Oliver says, leaning back in his chair.
"Officer Whitney Fordman was gay," Andrea reveals eagerly. Oliver accepts it in stride, but Clark startles, bumps his head on the underside of his desk. Andrea peers under to check on him.
"Go on," Clark says in a strained voice.
"He never told anyone. Was found out when another officer saw him outside of a club making out with another guy."
Clark climbs under his desk and scoops up the papers in a large, disorganized heap.
"Don't tell me," Clark says, straightening out from under his desk and depositing the heap of paperwork back to the corner it had been precariously balanced on in the first place with a thoughtful expression on his face. His fingers twitch and then he taps each against his thumb rapidly. "That was three months ago?"
"Thanks, Andrea," Oliver says, dismissing her with a wink. He recognizes the look on Clark's face now, knows that Clark's brain is running a million miles a minute. So Oliver leans around the partition and shifts Clark's paperwork a few crucial inches toward the center of his desk, waiting for Clark to draw a conclusion. "There are tons of gay cops," he states in an undertone.
"And there are tons of people that aren't happy about it."
"Look, I'm sure that Fordman got teased, he wouldn't be the first. High school never ends," Oliver says as he begins constructing something from the paperclips and pushpins on his desk. "You're too tall, you're too short, and you're too fat, you're too thin." Oliver raps his knuckles against his desk and points out, somewhat gleefully, "We called you 'Smallville' your first six months. And 'Boy Scout'. And -- "
Clark seriously considers giving the paperwork back. "Late back up isn't a joke, Oliver."
"So, wait." Oliver drops his Frankenstein office supply monster and looks up at Clark. "Now his back up was late because he was gay?"
"I'm saying it's a possibility. Oliver, just humor me, all right? I mean, why don't we check all of the facts in Talbert's statement, let him talk us through it, and if all looks on the level, I will let it go. I promise."
38 PRECINCT HEADQUARTERS
WEDNESDAY 15th OCTOBER
It's the second time they've been in the interrogation room in as many days. Eli Talbert sits on one side of the table, looking well for a man who'd just lost a partner little more than a week ago, if a bit confused. He holds his service hat in front of him on the able, occasionally fiddling with the tag on the inside.
"Why don't you just tell us what happened, Officer Talbert?" Clark starts them, pen poised over his ever-present notebook.
Talbert nods. "I was on the corner of Bowman Street when I realized my mistake," he says, his voice hollow, distant as he stares at himself in the one-way mirror. "So, I turned around and ran the other way. I could barely breathe by the time I got there," he adds, chuckling darkly. He briefly meets eyes with Clark, then Oliver, before looking down at his hands. "Fordman was on the ground, blood pooled around his legs. The dealer'd been shot in the head. I tried CPR, but Fordman was already dead by then. The other unit turned up a few moments after that."
"Thanks, Eli, you know how it is: everything by the book." Oliver chuckles as if he's actually making a joke. Talbert reluctantly joins in. "We've got to double-check all the notes, all the evidence, but, uh, if you could just look at this map for a second," Oliver asks, unfolding a map from under the table, spreading it across the table. "You might be able to clear something up for us."
"Of course," Talbert offers immediately.
"So the crime scene is here, right?" Oliver traces the path with the end of his pen. Talbert follows intently, nodding. "You said you started at the Ace of Clubs, and mistakenly ran…here and then to the crime scene, right?"
Talbert hums in agreement.
"Well, just out of interest," Oliver continues conversationally, "Clark and I ran that route."
"Well, when he says ‘Clark and I', he means that he did all the running and I just stood there with a stopwatch." Clark looks up, jerks when he realizes that he's drawn attention to himself and almost knocks over a cup of coffee in his surprise. He folds into himself, making himself smaller, and adds uncomfortably, "Asthma."
Talbert stares, though it's an entirely different stare from his previous one. "I don't know where this is going."
"Well, I'm pretty sure that you'd agree that we're roughly in about the same physical condition," Oliver asks rhetorically.
"I've got a couple years on you, Ollie," Talbert says with good-humor, "You might be a little bit better off than I am."
Oliver smiles as if they're old friends, nodding his head. "But the time you got the shout on your radio," he says, "and the time you radioed back to tell them you were at the scene was, uh, four minutes?"
"If you say so," Talbert offers.
"Well, I had a hell of a time trying to get from anywhere on Central, up to Bowman Street, and then down to the crime scene in that time." Oliver sees the exact moment the implication sinks in, when the warm smile slides off Talbert's face. "4 minutes," he repeats, keeping his tone light, "I mean, it took me 8 minutes, and that was at full tilt." He smiles. "If you weren't so sure, I'd go so far as to say that you'd have to be Warrior Angel to pull something like that off."
"Well, I probably never made it all the way up to Bowman Street," Talbert amends. He chuckles nervously. "Just felt like it, you know?"
The easy smile on Oliver's face freezes. He can feel the gears and cogs shifting around in his head, forming a picture he doesn't like. "You said you were on the corner of Bowman Street," he repeats.
"Yeah. I might have gotten a bit confused," Talbert says defensively.
The ensuing silence draws out uncomfortably long. The hum of the fluorescent lights overhead and the steady tick-tick-tick-tick of the clock are the only sounds in the room. Talbert begins twitching in his seat.
"Yeah." Oliver leans forward, smiling with renewed effort. "Well, you know what, Eli, they're serving you a disciplinary."
Talbert stiffens. "Why is this suddenly a disciplinary?"
"Procedure," Oliver says easily like he's sharing a joke, "I mean, your signed statement and your memory don't seem to be in agreement as to what happened that night."
Clark jots something down on his notebook and looks up. "We, uh," he says, "we may need to ask you back for a few questions just to make absolutely sure."
Oliver regards Talbert with the same easy, friendly smile he's worn for the entire debriefing. "Now, is there anything else that's confusing you?" he asks.
"No, Detective," Talbert answers curtly. "My statement is to the best of my memory." He pushes his chair back and stands, face cloudy. "If that will be all?"
"Oh, yes, of course," Oliver allows, gesturing to the door. He waits until Talbert is mid-flounce before calling him back. "Tell me something, Eli. Did you like Fordman?"
Talbert turns to look at Oliver over his shoulder. "I'm sorry?" he asks coldly.
"You were partners. Did you and Whitney Fordman get along?"
"I didn't know him that well. The other night was the second time we've ever been out on the beat together. He was younger than me. We mixed in different groups," he says, listing more reasons what would have sufficed.
"And did you know he was gay?"
Talbert turns around fully, now, a scowl heavy on his face. "No. I didn't know that. Really? Was he?" he asks in a completely uninterested tone.
Oliver nods affably. "Got an opinion about gay men in the police force, Eli?"
"Not especially." Talbert shrugs. "Sorry, how does this relate to Fordman's death exactly?"
"No, you're right, Officer Talbert. You're absolutely right." Clark stands quickly, interrupting before Oliver has a chance to get them into anymore trouble. Clark offers his hand. "That'll be all for now."
Talbert leaves without shaking it.
Clark chances a look in Oliver's direction. "I thought you weren't going to goad him."
Oliver shrugs and doesn't apologize.
Perhaps their most effective interrogation technique worked so well because it was the way they normally behaved.
It's the second time they've been in John's office in as many days. It's considerably warmer than the interrogation room, considerably more comfortable. This time, it's John on the other side of the table and neither Clark nor Oliver feel very much in charge of this interrogation.
"The more you look at Eli Talbert's account of events, the more it falls apart," Clark says earnestly. His glasses are skewed at a hopelessly useless angle, but in his haste, he doesn't fix them. "The evidence backs up Wade Mahaney's statement."
John flips idly through their report. "This…does not give us motivation. There is no history of animosity between he and Fordman or he and any other gay officer," he says diplomatically.
They are interrupted by a knock at the door. Andrea pokes her head in before entering just enough to pass Oliver a slip of paper. "Here is the information you wanted."
Oliver reads it once, twice, and sighs. "Thanks, angel," he says, just like he's said a thousand times before but this time it doesn't hold the playful edge he usually infuses it with. He sounds tired.
Andrea nods and quickly backs out of the room, shutting the door.
"All right. Maybe you're right," Oliver admits to Clark.
"I am praying I'm not, Ollie, you've got to believe me," Clark replies, leaning forward.
"What do you have?" John asks, nodding at the slip of paper.
Oliver nods. "Eli Talbert is Branch Chairman of something called the," he pauses to consult the paper given to him by Andrea, "the League of Faith for Christian Officers." He looks from Clark to John. "It's a hard-lined religious group within the station. Apparently a lot of the older, uniformed movers and shakers are members."
John tilts his head. "Is that all?"
"No." Oliver pauses again. "They bar membership to all gay officers saying that it, whatever, it doesn't fit with bible teachings." He nods to the door. "Anyway, Andrea did some digging for me and it turns out that Whitney Fordman is a former member." He doesn't need to, but he takes the opportunity to remind them, "Talbert said that Fordman never admitted to being gay."
"It is the best way of putting people at their ease," John says thoughtfully. "Especially your immediate superiors: be like them. And until three months ago, he was."
Clark goes slightly red as he says, "Spotted off-duty with another guy."
"And that would greatly upset Eli Talbert."
Oliver scrubs a hand over his face. "But still, piss him off enough to leave a man to die?"
Part One | Masterpost | Part Three