Against the Clock 2/13 (Gen, PG-13, Dean, Sam, S1 casefic)
Against the Clock
by Swanseajill
Chapter 2
Four hours later they were coasting slowly down the main street of Springwood, Colorado, a small town at the foot of the San Juan mountains boasting a population, according to the welcome sign, of 7,578.
It seemed a pleasant enough little place, its wide main street lined with majestic maples and a predictable array of coffee shops, outdoor stores and gift shops, evidence to back Springwood’s claim to be the entrance to the great Colorado wilderness experience.
Dean edged the Impala into a parking space and killed the engine.
“So,” Sam said, “where do you want to start?”
“How about we find out something about our victims. You got the addresses for the next of kin?”
Sam glanced down at the laptop balanced on his knee. “Yeah. All except Vic Anderson. He was from out of town.”
“Well, at least that gives us a way in.” Dean fished around in the glove compartment and came up brandishing two IDs. “Brett Wilde and Danny Sinclair, private investigators hired by his family to look into Vic’s death.” He handed one to Sam. “Let’s roll, Brett.”
………………………….
“Don Powell found her in the quarry the next morning, while he was walking his dog.”
Sam observed the man sitting in the large armchair across the room. Randall Miller, husband of the first victim Karen, was tall and unhealthily thin. He wore brown linen pants, a primrose yellow shirt buttoned up to the collar, and a neat brown and yellow striped tie. His narrow frame, sharp features and receding hairline gave him a birdlike appearance, and he seemed older than his thirty-odd years.
He clearly found it difficult to talk about his wife, even now, four years after her death. Speaking her name seemed like torture for him, and whenever it was mentioned, his hand would stray unconsciously to his chest, rubbing circles in a kind of caress.
Sam felt for him, regretting the necessity of intruding on grief that was still so evident. He wondered if he would still feel Jess’ death as keenly after four years had passed.
Dean had taken the lead while Sam sat back and observed Miller as he answered questions about Karen’s movements on the day of the murder and any possible links she might have with the other victims.
He shot Dean a glance as his brother raised a hand to squeeze the bridge of his nose for the fifth time in as many minutes, noting the frown lines between his eyes and the pained expression that shot briefly across his features.
Miller rubbed a hand over his mouth. “I should never have left her. If I hadn’t gone to that sales conference…”
Sam dragged his attention back to Miller. “You can’t blame yourself,” he said gently. “It wasn’t your fault.” He paused for Dean to ask his next question, but Dean inclined his head in Sam’s direction and shifted in his seat. Sam addressed Miller. “So, the police have no leads at all?”
Miller shook his head. “They suspected me at first.” His features contorted in a grimace of distress. “As if I could have hurt her. She was my life. But I had a solid alibi at the conference in Chicago, so they didn’t detain me for long.” He paused, rubbing the side of his neck, obviously uncomfortable talking about his wife. “Anyway, a few people mentioned seeing Karen with a stranger a few hours before she died - it looked like she was giving him directions or something. That was their best lead, but they never found him.”
“Did they give you a description?”
“Tall, dark-haired guy in his mid-twenties wearing jeans and a blue T-shirt. His jaw clenched. “It was him, I know it.”
He looked down, his hand absently rubbing his chest again.
Dean leaned toward Miller. “Do you have any concrete reason for thinking that, Mr. Miller?”
Miller shook his head. “Not really, I just… I just feel it.”
Dean glanced at Sam. “Mr. Miller, I know this is difficult, and we’re almost done here, but could you tell us if Karen mentioned anything unusual happening in the few days before her death?”
“Like what?”
Dean shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know - did she have any unusual nightmares? Hear any strange noises? That sort of thing.”
Miller looked puzzled. “No, nothing like that.”
“We just like to cover all bases,” Sam interjected quickly, then cleared his throat. “Well, I think we have all we need,” he went on, glancing at Dean for confirmation.
Dean nodded.
“We’re very sorry for your loss, Mr. Miller,” Sam said sincerely. “And we’re sorry to intrude at such a difficult time.”
Miller nodded. “Every year I think it should get better, but it never does. It never does. Still, I can feel her with me, even now, and it’s a comfort.” He picked up a photo from the coffee table - he and his wife on their wedding day - and stared at it intently, rocking slightly in his seat.
Sam glanced at Dean, who nodded. This was their cue to leave. They muttered awkward goodbyes, but Miller seemed to have forgotten their presence.
Back in the car, Sam consulted the list of victims. “Next victim was Del Mason. No next of kin in town, but I know where he worked. He was a mechanic for a local car dealer, Larry Melville.”
“Where to?” Dean asked.
“Corner of 4th and Acacia.” Sam studied the town map. “Head east down Main, take the first left, then the third right.” When Dean didn’t start the engine immediately, he glanced across. Dean was leaning back against the headrest, eyes closed.
Sam studied his brother, noting the slight sheen of sweat on his forehead, the way he unconsciously lifted a hand to his head. “Dean? You okay?”
Dean cleared his throat and grimaced. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Headache?”
“It’ll pass.”
“You want to take a break?”
Dean rolled his eyes. “Dude. It’s just a headache. I’m fine.”
He started the engine and pulled out.
…………………………..
Del Mason’s former employer, Larry Melville, had car salesman written all over him, and in Sam’s view, that wasn’t a compliment. His larger than life persona dripped affability accompanied by a seemingly inexhaustible sales patter. He wore cream chinos that did nothing to disguise the extra twenty pounds he was carrying, and a white shirt with several buttons undone showcased a collection of gold chains around his neck.
Despite showing their IDs on arrival, it was a full five minutes before either of them could get a word in to explain that they weren’t there to trade in the Impala and to clarify the real purpose of their visit. Melville’s faced dropped comically, but he rallied quickly.
“Del was a great guy, a great guy. Best mechanic I’ve ever worked with. Tragic loss, totally tragic.”
“And you can’t think of anyone who may have had a grudge against him?” Dean asked.
Melville vehemently shook his head. “Everyone loved Del. He was a war hero, fought in Afghanistan. Discharged because his knee was shattered in a bombing. Took him awhile to adjust to civilian life again, but he was getting there.” He shook his head. “Tragic. Totally tragic.”
Sam took the lead this time, but more questioning elicited no useful information.
When they were ready to go, taking their leave proved difficult.
“So,” Melville boomed, and clapped Dean on the shoulder with a meaty hand. “You’re sure you don’t want to sell this beauty? I’ll give you the best deal you’re likely to see anywhere in the country.”
Dean stiffened. “Thanks, but like I told you, she’s not for sale.” He hastily extricated himself from Melville’s grip and, to Sam’s amusement, maneuvered protectively between the Impala and the covetous salesman.
Melville extracted a card from his pocket and handed it to Dean. “Well, if you change your mind, make sure you give me a call first, you hear? I’ll give you the best deal you’ll see-”
“Anywhere in the country. I got it,” Dean said, backing away and eyeing the card, lips curled in disgust.
Sam held out a hand. “Good to meet you, Mr. Melville. If we find out anything about Del’s murder, we’ll be in touch.”
Dean blew out a long breath as soon as they were in the car and out of sight of the overzealous dealer. “Man, did you see the way he was looking at her? I wouldn’t put it past him to try and steal her.”
Sam snorted. “If you’re worried, maybe you should sleep with her tonight, just in case.”
“You think?” Dean looked like he was seriously considering this as an option.
“No, I don’t,” Sam said, exasperated. “You’re being paranoid.”
Dean shrugged, then grimaced, shifting in his seat.
“You okay?”
“I’m fine. Will you stop asking me that?”
“Fine,” Sam echoed, irritated at Dean’s unnecessarily stoic attitude. “You want a break, get something to eat before we hit the last place?”
“No, let’s get it done.”
The last place was a free medical clinic run by one Art Jackson, M.D. After an hour’s wait until the final patient had left, a grey-haired receptionist showed them into the doctor’s office. A genial man in his sixties, Jackson was the grandfather of Scott Griffin, the second victim.
Sam warmed to the doctor immediately. He possessed a dry sense of humor, and behind his small, round spectacles, his eyes were sharp and inquisitive, giving Sam the feeling that very little got past him.
“The FBI investigated these cases exhaustively last year and came up with nothing,” he said finally, after answering what had now become their standard questions. He looked at Dean sharply. “What makes you think you’ll do any better, Mr. ...?”
Dean smiled pleasantly. “Sinclair. Well, often a fresh pair of eyes can pick up something new, and at the end of the day, we’ve been paid to do a job.”
“Well, I’m afraid there’s nothing more I can tell you.”
The door opened, and a girl’s head appeared. “Hi, Grandpa. I--” She stopped when she spotted Sam and Dean. “I’m sorry. Margaret said you’d finished seeing patients.”
“Come in, Rachel,” the doctor said with a fond smile.” He nodded at his guests. “These gentlemen aren’t patients. They’re private investigators looking into the murders.”
“Really?” Rachel came into the room, eyeing Sam and Dean speculatively. She looked to be in her early twenties, slender body tucked into tight jeans and a T-shirt that left little to the imagination. Her dark brown hair was cut in a short bob, and although her face was too thin for real beauty, it had character and a look of her grandfather in the bright, intelligent eyes.
Dean shot her the patented Dean Winchester smile, guaranteed to have women swooning from East Coast to West. “Nice to meet you. Danny Sinclair.” He nodded at Sam. “This is my partner, Brett Wilde.”
Sam bit back a grin as Rachel rolled her eyes rather than swooning at Dean’s feet, and addressed herself to Sam. “So, who are you working for?”
“Vic Anderson’s parents,” Sam said.
She nodded. “They’ve been making a real nuisance of themselves with the FBI, calling every week or so to see if there’s any progress.”
“And you know that, how?” Dean asked.
“I’m a reporter for the local paper. They keep calling me too, in case I’ve found out something they should know.” Her eyes narrowed. “They called last week; didn’t mention that they’d hired private investigators, though.”
“Well, maybe it slipped their minds,” Dean said quickly. He cleared his throat. “So, Doctor Jackson, just one more question. We were wondering if Scott had mentioned anything unusual happening before he died.”
Jackson raised an eyebrow. “What did you have in mind?”
“Had he seen anything… strange,” Sam explained, “like a vision, or the feeling of someone watching him - or something odd happening in his house? That kind of thing,”
“That’s exactly what the other guy asked.” Jackson said.
“The other guy?” Dean asked, with a quick glance at Sam.
“Last year. Remember, Rachel? It was a couple of days after the murder. He came round asking questions. He said he was an insurance investigator. He was asking about strange occurrences, too.”
“I remember him,” Rachel said. “There was something fishy about him, and the questions he asked.”
Sam didn’t like the speculative look she was giving them, and clearly Dean noticed too, because he said, “Well, I can’t speak for him, but ours are just routine questions.”
“They don’t sound routine to me,” Rachel said.
“It doesn’t matter,” Jackson said pleasantly, shooting a warning look at Rachel, “because the answer’s ‘no,’ to all of them. I don’t know what else to tell you.”
Sam nodded at Dean and stood up. “Well, in that case, we’d better be going. We’ve taken enough of your time.”
“Look,” Rachel said. “I can help. I’ve been doing some work on the cases, and I’ve compiled a lot of information-”
“Thanks,” Dean said quickly, “but we prefer to do our own research.”
Rachel bristled. “I’m just trying to help.”
“And we appreciate it, really,” Sam said, smiling, and shot a warning look at Dean. “It’s just that we like to build up our notes from scratch, rather than use someone else’s work. We’ll be sure to give you a call if we need any more information, though. Do you have a card?”
Rachel looked unimpressed, but handed a card over anyway. “Your loss. I could save you a lot of work.”
“Thanks, we’ll hear that in mind.” Sam took the card and turned to Doctor Jackson. “Thank you for your time.”
Dean was on his feet now, pale and a little unsteady. Sam raised an eyebrow at him but Dean ignored the unspoken question, steadied himself against the chair, and nodded to Jackson and his granddaughter. “We’ll be in touch.”
Jackson studied Dean closely, a slight frown on his face, and opened his mouth to say something. Sure that the doctor was about to ask Dean if he was feeling all right, which would only antagonize Dean, Sam said, “Thanks again, you’ve been a great help,” and steered Dean quickly out of the room.
He was sure now that his brother was sickening for something and wondering how long it would be before Dean would admit it.
Chapter 3
Chapter 1