$3500
November 6, 2005
Auction wasn't anywhere near as bad as I thought it would be. Beston threatened to show up. Thank God he didn't. Would never have let me hear the end of it. Kessler pulled in $22k -- whatever hose he uses on those inspections of his sure made an impression on Summers's ex -- and Julia did pretty good at $3200. Pulled in a few hundred over, and ended up getting won by, of all people, Talhurst's prospective sister-in-law, Ashley Donner.
The kind of name I usually stay away from, if I'm looking for a date. This one's different, though. Sweet. Too bad she's already engaged. Melcross showed up, was a bit bitchy at everyone, then took off. Percy went after her, so I took Ashley home. Took her to pizza at Pat's first, got some ice cream, ended up talking for hours about random shit. The Renaissance, the Papal Schism, the Council of Constance, her fiance, Percy -- it was fun. Relaxing. Didn't think about the Amati thing more than a couple of times. Nice. She blushes. Didn't know there were people who still did that. Love her smile.
Christ. I'm getting soft in the head. Headed back to the precinct afterwards to finish some paperwork, and ended up taking a report. Mutant. Brotherhood, maybe? We'll see what the yellow sheets run. Referred the vic to Doc Grey. Meanwhile, I swear to God, that putz that Mother Nature's dating, Brendan, has nothing between his ears but cottage cheese. I have met some dumb shits in my time, but I think this one might actually have the IQ of an orange. I've met smarter fire hydrants. Putting in a call to Troy at the FBI. Starting to think the reason the schmuck's not in the Brotherhood anymore is because Magneto figured he'd do more damage out here, flailing around like an epileptic kielbasa. This glowbug's too stupid to be a terrorist. It's a sad day when I sympathize with master metalhead.
'Women are terrifying.' [Al-Razi, Emma, Matt, Percy, Sabitha, NPCs]
---
Log from Rossi at X-Men MUCK
Into the busy police station comes a hesitant duo -- a young Indian girl and her father. Dishita is still dressed in her dirty, twig-snagged outfit from earlier, and one eye is swollen shut, with a trickle of dried blood on her cheek from an impact cut beneath the eye. Her arms are wrapped around her chest, her elbows cupped in her hands. Her father has one arm draped over her shoulders for support. He takes a moment to take in the room, then steps towards the reception desk, guiding her along with him. "We need to report a crime," he informs the officer on duty.
There is chaos in the lobby -- when is there not? -- but the attendant officer is courteous enough through the harassment of other, urgent citizens. "What kind?" he asks briskly, peering up from his clipboard to cast a professional and, a second later, sympathetic eye at Dishita.
"My daughter was knocked out, carried off, and interrogated by a man who released her just a short while ago," Prashant replies. Dishita doesn't meet the officer's eyes, instead focusing her gaze on the desk in between them.
"Kno--" The uniform's eyes sharpen onto Dishita, the clipboard momentarily forgotten in his refocused appraisal of the girl. The city-slanged voice deepens, concern gentling for Dishita. "Are you okay, kid?" he asks. "Have you been checked out yet?"
Dishita nods her head uncertainly, glancing up at her father. "Dr. Jenkins," she begins, but trails off uncertainly. Her father supplies the rest of the details. "Our downstairs neighbor is a physician. We took her there before coming here. He made sure she was not seriously injured." Dishita nods her agreement with that.
"C'mon, then," suggests the uniform -- Peters, his nametag reads -- with a jerk of his head towards the back hallways, as flocked with people as the lobby. "I'll take you down to Homicide and you can make a statement."
Handcuffs. Noise. Chatter. The long, puke-green corridor is lined with benches and bustling with the echoes of criminality: caught, questioned, or on its way to holding. An open door bears the word 'Homicide,' missing letters to suggest some strange bromide instead; inside, plain-clothed detectives labor at desks and at interviews, administering law to create fractured order.
Dishita's father nods his acknowledgment of that, leading Dishita to follow Peters down the hallway and into the office. "I want to go home, daddy," Dishita whispers helplessly to her father, who squeezes her shoulders and murmurs back, "It will be all right, Bacci."
Masculine voices exchange conversation: Peters and a detective, the latter of which points his pen at a manned desk in the back of the squad room before stalking off. "Rossi," the uniform tosses over his shoulder at Dishita and Prashant, leading the way. "Want me to get you coffee? --Hey, Chris."
The man who looks up from a bloody-minded, two-fingered assault on his computer is black-haired and green-eyed, Italian to the bone. "Yo." Curiosity speeds towards the two visitors, thinned lips easing around the quirk of interest. "Mine? --Chris Rossi. Grab a seat," he invites, while Peters murmurs in his ear.
"No, thank you," Dishita's father replies, guiding his daughter to a seat before taking one himself. "I am Prashant Choksey. This is my daughter Dishita." Dishita looks up at Rossi uncertainly, sizing him up as an officer of the law. Whatever she sees seems at least a bit reassuring; her death grip on her own elbows relaxes minutely.
Peters offers a friendly nod to the father and daughter before taking himself off, leaving a hastily scrawled report behind him on the detective's desk. "Prashant Choksey and Dishita," Rossi murmurs, scribbling his own game (misspelled) stab at the last name on the file before turning a quizzical glance at the girl. "So tell me what happened. Peters said you were abducted?"
Dishita nods her head. "I was in the park," she says, having expected and therefore rehearsed this part. "And this man came up, and he was glowing. I --" She falters, her eyes moving briefly to her father, as if for reassurance; he nods. "I sometimes do weird things -- people near me sometimes act really weird. But only mutants. And he was one, and he could tell something was wrong. And I tried to leave, but he followed me. And I screamed, and this other man came, and he was a mutant, too, and kept making trees fly around. And I tried to run, but he grabbed me, and I screamed, and he hit me." One hand lifts to touch her eye gingerly. "And I passed out. And when I woke up, I was tied up, and he asked me a lot of questions. And then he made a phone call, and then he called a taxi to take me home."
Glowing. The pen scratches busily across paper as the narrative begins, stills for a lash-split glance up at that particular word, then returns to note-taking while the attentive face hardens. "Only mutants?" murmurs Rossi when the story finishes, lifting his gaze up to jump between Dishita and Prashant. "How do you mean, 'weird things'?"
Prashant hesitates, then nods to Dishita. "They -- well, this one man started getting all angry and then threw up. And another man started melting or something. He kept changing colors, and from a dog into a person, and then into concrete. And then there was the thing in the park. With the giant sewer snakes and all the mist and stuff."
"Sew-- the park apocolypse," Rossi says, baritone sharpening to the edge of Brooklyn's accent. Green eyes refocus on the girl, consider her for a long, silent moment, then hood. "Let's talk about that later. You said he asked you questions. What kind of questions?"
Dishita swallows at the change in Rossi's tone. "Um. Things like was it my fault they were all weird and who else knew and how did I find out." Her eyes drop to the table in front of her, and she runs a finger delicately along the edge.
The pen taps on the report, dotting an I, and then drops to the rustle of paper so Rossi can roll his chair around the desk, spine curling into the prop of elbows on knees. Hands clasp loosely between; the deep voice gentles, a soothing note twined through its burr. "Hey, kid. It's not your fault. Okay?" A glance slants up over Dishita's head to pick out Prashant, an eyebrow arching in mute question.
Prashant's lips thin, and he meets the raised eyebrow with a tight, unhappy shake of his head. Dishita, still looking at the table, looks decidedly unconvinced, but nods her head obligingly to that. Prashant says, quietly, "We're still adjusting."
"I can give you the name of someone who can help," Rossi tells Prashant, reaching back to his desk to scribble Jean Grey's name and number on a post-it. "Give her a call. Tell her I sent you. She's got resources at her disposal, and it sounds like-- this man," he directs to Dishita, amending a half-second later, "These men. The glowing one, and the one with the trees. Do you think you could recognize them if you saw them again?"
Dishita nods firm agreement with that last question. "They knew each other," she adds. "The man who was glowing called the other one Derek, and Derek called him Brendan."
A muscle jumps in Rossi's jaw, clamped hard around an unspoken oath. "Brendan," he says flatly, passing his post-it to Prashant before scribbling another note on the report. "Right. I've got some pictures I'd like you to look at later, and maybe you can work with our sketch artist if we can't find a match."
Prashant accepts the post-it, glances down at it, and goes abruptly very still. Dishita, sensing this, glances up at her father with some curiosity. Prashant shakes his head slightly, and Dishita looks back to Rossi, though still unsure. She adds, "The place he took me to was 132 Dorset St, in Clinton. I saw the address when I was leaving."
A glance marks Prashant's stillness, makes note of it, and moves on. "Good /girl/," says Rossi, approval flashing quicksilver through voice and face. The pen scrawls again, and then he leans forward again with the barest ghost of a smile. "You kept your head, Dishita. That's pretty good for a girl your age, especially when you were scared."
Dishita's smile appears for the first time there. It is a weak smile, and fleeting, but it does appear. Prashant reaches to squeeze her hand, matching that approval in his own quiet way. Dishita turns her hand over to cling to her father for the moment, relying on his solid presence to help keep her grounded.
"Listen, Dishita," murmurs Rossi, propping his elbow on the desk to slouch into its support. An apologetic look flicks up to Prashant, cloaks, then turns itself to Dishita instead. "When he had you. This guy, Derek. Did he hurt you in any way? Did he touch you inappropriately, or force himself on you?"
Dishita clearly knows what this question means, and shakes her head. "He just hit me once," she says, though her voice is unsteady. Prashant's hand tightens on hers briefly. She lifts her free hand to touch her swollen eye, in indication. "And it knocked me out. I don't hurt anywhere else."
There's cautious relief in Rossi's firm, "Good. We should send you to a doctor to get you checked out, though. Just in case." It is almost a question, phrased thus; one directed at Prashant, though the steady gaze remains on Dishita. "Did you happen to hear anything he said during the phone conversation you mentioned? Did he say mention names, maybe?"
Dishita shakes her head. "He was talking really quiet," she says. "He called the other person 'boss'. He said -- he said I could be a weapon." Her dark cheeks flush slightly. "But after he got off the phone, he didn't seem happy. And then he said he was going to call me a cab, and he cut me loose."
"Boss." Rossi echoes the word, pen nib tapping a metronome's tally on the file. The faintest of frowns creases his brow. "Did he say it like -- throwaway, you know, like calling someone 'man' or 'dude,' -- or do you think he meant it? I'm not phrasing this well," he apologizes with a swift smile, green eyes lighting with rue.
"I don't know," Dishita admits, growing frustrated with herself. "He just said it. He seemed... I don't know. It seemed like he was asking what he should do, I guess, so I guess he meant it?"
"Good," Rossi says, redacting his report even while approval again jumps readily into his voice, speedy in response to the hint of frustration. "You really did pay attention. You came straight here?" he asks Prashant then. "What time did this happen? You have any idea? The incident in the park, being let go...."
Dishita shakes her head, but more distractedly than in actual response; she actually seems to be thinking. "It was late afternoon when I was in the park; the sun was starting to go down. Maybe... 5:30? 6? And it was dark when he let me go. I had the taxi drop me off a few blocks from home, and called my father." Prashant puts in: "That was at nine. We had our neighbor look her over before we came here. He's a physician."
And the time now? Rossi reflexively glances at his watch before scribbling. "You'll want some ice for that eye," he observes. "We have some cold packs in the back. Let me grab you one, and then we can sit down and take a look at some photographs. Think you can hold out a little longer to do that? I know it's hard," he adds, looking up to quirk a sympathetic grimace at Dishita, baritone gentle. "It's just that it's better to do this while your memory's fresh."
Dishita nods in response to that. Her answers are mostly rote now, automatic yesses and nos. It doesn't help to know that her day is far from over even once she's left the station; she casts a longing look to her father, who gives her a brief, supportive smile.
"Let's set you up over here at my partner's desk, then," suggests Rossi, rising to leave his rickety green chair spinning wildly behind him. "Do you want a soda or something? I'll hop over to MA and grab some photos. --This guy, Derek. What did he look like? Race, age, was he tall? Was he fat?"
"He was black." Had Dishita not mentioned that yet? Mutant has clearly supplanted race as that primary identifier in her mind. "He was really tall. I only came up to around here on him." She puts her hand just above her own armpit on her chest, marking Derek as significantly over six feet. "And he was really strong. He was an adult, but not old. Like, younger than my parents, but out of college." And that range of a decade and a half or so is about as well as she's going to get on age. "He wore a black coat and sunglasses, but he took the sunglasses off once, so I saw his face."
Rossi stuffs his hands in his pockets, and drops a nod down to Dishita. "That'll give me something to start with," he murmurs. "Thanks. I'll go grab those pictures. Why do they always want to dress like the Matrix?" he laments on an erratic spurt of wry humor, laughter lines deepening at the corners of his eyes. "Tree-throwing Morpheus it is, then. Not many of those around. I'll be right back." And off he goes, weaving through the traffic of the squad room with the ease of habit, bearing arrogance and comfort on his broad shoulders.
[Log ends]
Dishita and her father come to the precinct to report a crime.
Auction wasn't anywhere near as bad as I thought it would be. Beston threatened to show up. Thank God he didn't. Would never have let me hear the end of it. Kessler pulled in $22k -- whatever hose he uses on those inspections of his sure made an impression on Summers's ex -- and Julia did pretty good at $3200. Pulled in a few hundred over, and ended up getting won by, of all people, Talhurst's prospective sister-in-law, Ashley Donner.
The kind of name I usually stay away from, if I'm looking for a date. This one's different, though. Sweet. Too bad she's already engaged. Melcross showed up, was a bit bitchy at everyone, then took off. Percy went after her, so I took Ashley home. Took her to pizza at Pat's first, got some ice cream, ended up talking for hours about random shit. The Renaissance, the Papal Schism, the Council of Constance, her fiance, Percy -- it was fun. Relaxing. Didn't think about the Amati thing more than a couple of times. Nice. She blushes. Didn't know there were people who still did that. Love her smile.
Christ. I'm getting soft in the head. Headed back to the precinct afterwards to finish some paperwork, and ended up taking a report. Mutant. Brotherhood, maybe? We'll see what the yellow sheets run. Referred the vic to Doc Grey. Meanwhile, I swear to God, that putz that Mother Nature's dating, Brendan, has nothing between his ears but cottage cheese. I have met some dumb shits in my time, but I think this one might actually have the IQ of an orange. I've met smarter fire hydrants. Putting in a call to Troy at the FBI. Starting to think the reason the schmuck's not in the Brotherhood anymore is because Magneto figured he'd do more damage out here, flailing around like an epileptic kielbasa. This glowbug's too stupid to be a terrorist. It's a sad day when I sympathize with master metalhead.
'Women are terrifying.' [Al-Razi, Emma, Matt, Percy, Sabitha, NPCs]
---
Log from Rossi at X-Men MUCK
Into the busy police station comes a hesitant duo -- a young Indian girl and her father. Dishita is still dressed in her dirty, twig-snagged outfit from earlier, and one eye is swollen shut, with a trickle of dried blood on her cheek from an impact cut beneath the eye. Her arms are wrapped around her chest, her elbows cupped in her hands. Her father has one arm draped over her shoulders for support. He takes a moment to take in the room, then steps towards the reception desk, guiding her along with him. "We need to report a crime," he informs the officer on duty.
There is chaos in the lobby -- when is there not? -- but the attendant officer is courteous enough through the harassment of other, urgent citizens. "What kind?" he asks briskly, peering up from his clipboard to cast a professional and, a second later, sympathetic eye at Dishita.
"My daughter was knocked out, carried off, and interrogated by a man who released her just a short while ago," Prashant replies. Dishita doesn't meet the officer's eyes, instead focusing her gaze on the desk in between them.
"Kno--" The uniform's eyes sharpen onto Dishita, the clipboard momentarily forgotten in his refocused appraisal of the girl. The city-slanged voice deepens, concern gentling for Dishita. "Are you okay, kid?" he asks. "Have you been checked out yet?"
Dishita nods her head uncertainly, glancing up at her father. "Dr. Jenkins," she begins, but trails off uncertainly. Her father supplies the rest of the details. "Our downstairs neighbor is a physician. We took her there before coming here. He made sure she was not seriously injured." Dishita nods her agreement with that.
"C'mon, then," suggests the uniform -- Peters, his nametag reads -- with a jerk of his head towards the back hallways, as flocked with people as the lobby. "I'll take you down to Homicide and you can make a statement."
Handcuffs. Noise. Chatter. The long, puke-green corridor is lined with benches and bustling with the echoes of criminality: caught, questioned, or on its way to holding. An open door bears the word 'Homicide,' missing letters to suggest some strange bromide instead; inside, plain-clothed detectives labor at desks and at interviews, administering law to create fractured order.
Dishita's father nods his acknowledgment of that, leading Dishita to follow Peters down the hallway and into the office. "I want to go home, daddy," Dishita whispers helplessly to her father, who squeezes her shoulders and murmurs back, "It will be all right, Bacci."
Masculine voices exchange conversation: Peters and a detective, the latter of which points his pen at a manned desk in the back of the squad room before stalking off. "Rossi," the uniform tosses over his shoulder at Dishita and Prashant, leading the way. "Want me to get you coffee? --Hey, Chris."
The man who looks up from a bloody-minded, two-fingered assault on his computer is black-haired and green-eyed, Italian to the bone. "Yo." Curiosity speeds towards the two visitors, thinned lips easing around the quirk of interest. "Mine? --Chris Rossi. Grab a seat," he invites, while Peters murmurs in his ear.
"No, thank you," Dishita's father replies, guiding his daughter to a seat before taking one himself. "I am Prashant Choksey. This is my daughter Dishita." Dishita looks up at Rossi uncertainly, sizing him up as an officer of the law. Whatever she sees seems at least a bit reassuring; her death grip on her own elbows relaxes minutely.
Peters offers a friendly nod to the father and daughter before taking himself off, leaving a hastily scrawled report behind him on the detective's desk. "Prashant Choksey and Dishita," Rossi murmurs, scribbling his own game (misspelled) stab at the last name on the file before turning a quizzical glance at the girl. "So tell me what happened. Peters said you were abducted?"
Dishita nods her head. "I was in the park," she says, having expected and therefore rehearsed this part. "And this man came up, and he was glowing. I --" She falters, her eyes moving briefly to her father, as if for reassurance; he nods. "I sometimes do weird things -- people near me sometimes act really weird. But only mutants. And he was one, and he could tell something was wrong. And I tried to leave, but he followed me. And I screamed, and this other man came, and he was a mutant, too, and kept making trees fly around. And I tried to run, but he grabbed me, and I screamed, and he hit me." One hand lifts to touch her eye gingerly. "And I passed out. And when I woke up, I was tied up, and he asked me a lot of questions. And then he made a phone call, and then he called a taxi to take me home."
Glowing. The pen scratches busily across paper as the narrative begins, stills for a lash-split glance up at that particular word, then returns to note-taking while the attentive face hardens. "Only mutants?" murmurs Rossi when the story finishes, lifting his gaze up to jump between Dishita and Prashant. "How do you mean, 'weird things'?"
Prashant hesitates, then nods to Dishita. "They -- well, this one man started getting all angry and then threw up. And another man started melting or something. He kept changing colors, and from a dog into a person, and then into concrete. And then there was the thing in the park. With the giant sewer snakes and all the mist and stuff."
"Sew-- the park apocolypse," Rossi says, baritone sharpening to the edge of Brooklyn's accent. Green eyes refocus on the girl, consider her for a long, silent moment, then hood. "Let's talk about that later. You said he asked you questions. What kind of questions?"
Dishita swallows at the change in Rossi's tone. "Um. Things like was it my fault they were all weird and who else knew and how did I find out." Her eyes drop to the table in front of her, and she runs a finger delicately along the edge.
The pen taps on the report, dotting an I, and then drops to the rustle of paper so Rossi can roll his chair around the desk, spine curling into the prop of elbows on knees. Hands clasp loosely between; the deep voice gentles, a soothing note twined through its burr. "Hey, kid. It's not your fault. Okay?" A glance slants up over Dishita's head to pick out Prashant, an eyebrow arching in mute question.
Prashant's lips thin, and he meets the raised eyebrow with a tight, unhappy shake of his head. Dishita, still looking at the table, looks decidedly unconvinced, but nods her head obligingly to that. Prashant says, quietly, "We're still adjusting."
"I can give you the name of someone who can help," Rossi tells Prashant, reaching back to his desk to scribble Jean Grey's name and number on a post-it. "Give her a call. Tell her I sent you. She's got resources at her disposal, and it sounds like-- this man," he directs to Dishita, amending a half-second later, "These men. The glowing one, and the one with the trees. Do you think you could recognize them if you saw them again?"
Dishita nods firm agreement with that last question. "They knew each other," she adds. "The man who was glowing called the other one Derek, and Derek called him Brendan."
A muscle jumps in Rossi's jaw, clamped hard around an unspoken oath. "Brendan," he says flatly, passing his post-it to Prashant before scribbling another note on the report. "Right. I've got some pictures I'd like you to look at later, and maybe you can work with our sketch artist if we can't find a match."
Prashant accepts the post-it, glances down at it, and goes abruptly very still. Dishita, sensing this, glances up at her father with some curiosity. Prashant shakes his head slightly, and Dishita looks back to Rossi, though still unsure. She adds, "The place he took me to was 132 Dorset St, in Clinton. I saw the address when I was leaving."
A glance marks Prashant's stillness, makes note of it, and moves on. "Good /girl/," says Rossi, approval flashing quicksilver through voice and face. The pen scrawls again, and then he leans forward again with the barest ghost of a smile. "You kept your head, Dishita. That's pretty good for a girl your age, especially when you were scared."
Dishita's smile appears for the first time there. It is a weak smile, and fleeting, but it does appear. Prashant reaches to squeeze her hand, matching that approval in his own quiet way. Dishita turns her hand over to cling to her father for the moment, relying on his solid presence to help keep her grounded.
"Listen, Dishita," murmurs Rossi, propping his elbow on the desk to slouch into its support. An apologetic look flicks up to Prashant, cloaks, then turns itself to Dishita instead. "When he had you. This guy, Derek. Did he hurt you in any way? Did he touch you inappropriately, or force himself on you?"
Dishita clearly knows what this question means, and shakes her head. "He just hit me once," she says, though her voice is unsteady. Prashant's hand tightens on hers briefly. She lifts her free hand to touch her swollen eye, in indication. "And it knocked me out. I don't hurt anywhere else."
There's cautious relief in Rossi's firm, "Good. We should send you to a doctor to get you checked out, though. Just in case." It is almost a question, phrased thus; one directed at Prashant, though the steady gaze remains on Dishita. "Did you happen to hear anything he said during the phone conversation you mentioned? Did he say mention names, maybe?"
Dishita shakes her head. "He was talking really quiet," she says. "He called the other person 'boss'. He said -- he said I could be a weapon." Her dark cheeks flush slightly. "But after he got off the phone, he didn't seem happy. And then he said he was going to call me a cab, and he cut me loose."
"Boss." Rossi echoes the word, pen nib tapping a metronome's tally on the file. The faintest of frowns creases his brow. "Did he say it like -- throwaway, you know, like calling someone 'man' or 'dude,' -- or do you think he meant it? I'm not phrasing this well," he apologizes with a swift smile, green eyes lighting with rue.
"I don't know," Dishita admits, growing frustrated with herself. "He just said it. He seemed... I don't know. It seemed like he was asking what he should do, I guess, so I guess he meant it?"
"Good," Rossi says, redacting his report even while approval again jumps readily into his voice, speedy in response to the hint of frustration. "You really did pay attention. You came straight here?" he asks Prashant then. "What time did this happen? You have any idea? The incident in the park, being let go...."
Dishita shakes her head, but more distractedly than in actual response; she actually seems to be thinking. "It was late afternoon when I was in the park; the sun was starting to go down. Maybe... 5:30? 6? And it was dark when he let me go. I had the taxi drop me off a few blocks from home, and called my father." Prashant puts in: "That was at nine. We had our neighbor look her over before we came here. He's a physician."
And the time now? Rossi reflexively glances at his watch before scribbling. "You'll want some ice for that eye," he observes. "We have some cold packs in the back. Let me grab you one, and then we can sit down and take a look at some photographs. Think you can hold out a little longer to do that? I know it's hard," he adds, looking up to quirk a sympathetic grimace at Dishita, baritone gentle. "It's just that it's better to do this while your memory's fresh."
Dishita nods in response to that. Her answers are mostly rote now, automatic yesses and nos. It doesn't help to know that her day is far from over even once she's left the station; she casts a longing look to her father, who gives her a brief, supportive smile.
"Let's set you up over here at my partner's desk, then," suggests Rossi, rising to leave his rickety green chair spinning wildly behind him. "Do you want a soda or something? I'll hop over to MA and grab some photos. --This guy, Derek. What did he look like? Race, age, was he tall? Was he fat?"
"He was black." Had Dishita not mentioned that yet? Mutant has clearly supplanted race as that primary identifier in her mind. "He was really tall. I only came up to around here on him." She puts her hand just above her own armpit on her chest, marking Derek as significantly over six feet. "And he was really strong. He was an adult, but not old. Like, younger than my parents, but out of college." And that range of a decade and a half or so is about as well as she's going to get on age. "He wore a black coat and sunglasses, but he took the sunglasses off once, so I saw his face."
Rossi stuffs his hands in his pockets, and drops a nod down to Dishita. "That'll give me something to start with," he murmurs. "Thanks. I'll go grab those pictures. Why do they always want to dress like the Matrix?" he laments on an erratic spurt of wry humor, laughter lines deepening at the corners of his eyes. "Tree-throwing Morpheus it is, then. Not many of those around. I'll be right back." And off he goes, weaving through the traffic of the squad room with the ease of habit, bearing arrogance and comfort on his broad shoulders.
[Log ends]
Dishita and her father come to the precinct to report a crime.