jezebel1386
in
__vam
Framed In Blood: Chapter 1/?
Title: Framed In Blood.
Author: Jezebel1386.
Pairing: Ville/Jyrki, Ville and Bam-Bam.
Rating: PG-13 for now. NC-17 eventually.
Summary: The owner of Philadelphia's hottest club has been murdered and Detective Margera was assigned the case. However, all is not as it seems, especially the victim's boyfriend.
Disclaimer: I don't own Jyrki, Bam, or Ville. If I did, you would never hear from me again.
Warnings: Minor character death. Nothing graphic.
Authors Notes: In no way do I mean to intrude upon or copy anyone else who has written detective stories. This is completely different (I think) and I sincerely hope you all enjoy. *mwah*
Detective Brandon Margera loved his job. For him, each case was like a jigsaw puzzle that had been disassembled and thrown around a room. He took great pleasure in hunting for each piece, each clue, and putting them back together to create a whole picture. Nothing compared to the rush of solving a case, of hunting down murderers and putting them in jail.
But however much Margera loved his job, there were still elements that made his skin crawl and his heart sink. Five years in the Special Crimes unit and he hadn’t grown used to the sight of a dead body. It was always the same: gray pallor to the skin, vacant glassy eyes, a crisp white sheet mottled with angry blossoms of red.
Making sure to steel himself and put on his calm and confident ‘cop-face,’ Margera made his way through the alley until he found his partner, Detective Ryan Dunn. Wordlessly the two men ducked under the newly placed crime scene tape and knelt next to the victim.
“What’ve we got?” Dunn pulled back the sheet just enough to reveal the man underneath. Even in death, the man was striking with smooth porcelain skin and rich black hair.
“Thirty-nine year old Caucasian male who caught two hollow-points to the chest,” Margera grimaced. Hollow-point bullets were designed to break into fragments upon impact and cause massive damage to whatever was being targeted. That knowledge kept the detective from pulling back the sheet any farther. The poor man’s chest probably resembled hamburger.
“Hollow-points?” Margera lifted the sheet on the side of the victim’s body for further inspection. A long, slender arm was decorated with a thick black cuff at the wrist and three of five fingers were ornamented with intricate silver bands. “This guy sure as hell doesn’t look like a gang-banger.” The style of bullet in question was most notoriously used by rival gangs in the area to inflict the maximum level of damage to their enemies. They also tend to find favor in the armed conflicts of countries in the developing world.
“No,” Dunn agreed, “he does not. But he sure as hell pissed somebody off.”
“Do we have an ID?” A quick flick of a notebook and Dunn spouted off the major details.
“Jyrki Linnankivi? Not sure if I’m pronouncing that right. Anyway, he and his boyfriend were walking out of the club and, according to the boyfriend, someone dressed in all black walked into the alley and opened fire.”
While Dunn was relating the incident, Margera had been unable to take his eyes from the body. He had an inexplicable urge to run his fingers over the perfect skin that had probably been cool to the touch, even if life.
“What was he doing here at,” he glanced at his watch. The emergency call had come in an hour before and it was nearing 6:30 in the morning. “5:00? 5:30? Last time I checked, bar time in Philly was still 4:00.”
A goofy ‘I-know-something-you-don’t’ grin spread across Dunn’s face. “Detective Margera, meet the owner and manager of Absinthe.”
“Absinthe? The Goth bar? The bar that all of Philadelphia and most of greater New England would give a limb to get into?” Rumors of all sorts had surrounded the club from the first day it had opened its doors. Some claimed that the place was brothel, that the owner had imported beautiful men and women from Europe to serve as courtesans. Others said that the place was a candy land for anyone seeking anything narcotic. Still others claimed that the place was operated by vampires. Not just people in costume, but real-life, blood-sucking vampires. But as the old adage goes, there’s no such thing as bad publicity. Patrons would line up around the block and pray to get anywhere near the door.
“Yes sir, that would be the place. Which means that as soon as the press gets a hold of this, they’re going to ride our asses.”
A slow, creeping suspicion started weaving its way through Margera’s veins, made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Something was very, very wrong with the whole situation and the body in front of him was only the beginning. Fighting off and involuntary shudder, he re-covered the body and stood up.
“You said there was a boyfriend? And that he saw everything?”
“We think.”
“What do you mean ‘we think’? Didn’t you question him?”
“All we have is from the 911 call…”
“Are you fucking kidding me? You didn’t question him?”
“It’s not that I didn’t try.” Dunn ran a hand through his ginger colored hair. “Every time I asked him something he’d start crying even harder. At one point he was sobbing so hard I thought he was going to hyperventilate and pass out. So I decided to wait for you.”
“Me?”
“You have better people skills than me.” Margera opened his mouth to protest, but ended up sighing in defeat.
“Where is he?” Dunn nodded over his shoulder and Margera knew exactly who he was looking for. A lone figure, clad entirely in black, was sitting on the curb, apparently forgotten in the chaos. His arms were tightly wrapped around his waist and he was rocking himself slowly back and forth. His face was hidden behind a veil of hair that’s color wasn’t distinguishable in the darkness. He appeared to be in a world of his own. Probably in shock, Margera thought. This was not going to be easy.
Leaving Dunn to oversee the evidence gathering, the detective cautiously approached the man on the curb. The man didn’t acknowledge his presence even when Margera took a seat next to him. They sat in silence for a while, Margera watching the crime scene, the other man seeing nothing at all.
“I’m Detective Margera,” Brandon spoke the words slowly and gently, as if talking to a child, “and I know you’ve had a horrible night. Forgive me, but there are a few things I need to ask you. Let’s get this done as soon as possible, and then we can work on getting you home.” If the man heard him, he made no recognition of it. Brandon took a deep breath and tried again. “Can you tell me your name?” Nothing. “My partner tells me that you were with the vic…” he quickly corrected himself, “that you were with Jyrki when he was shot. Can you tell me what happened?” Still no response. “Do you remember anything about the person who did this? Height? Weight? Gender?” Once again Brandon was answered with silence.
Sighing in frustration, Margera continued. “Okay, let’s try something else. What were you and Jyrki doing before you left the club tonight? Did anyone know you were there or what time you’d be leaving?” The silent treatment was really getting annoying, and worse than that, it was unproductive. With each passing minute, the killer was getting further away and little details about the night were being erased from the only witnesses’ memory.
“Look, I’m trying to help you but if you don’t talk to me we may never…” the man still didn’t say anything, but he unwrapped his arms from about his waist and held up blood-soaked hands for the detective’s inspection. “Oh my god, are you hurt too?” This time the detective didn’t wait for an answer, just started patting the man down, looking for wounds.
“I can’t feel anything…” The detective’s sharp blue eyes widened in surprise at the simple statement and at the unexpected depth of the other man’s voice. The sentence hadn’t been much, but it was definitely a start. Brandon nodded and instinctively tucked a strand of hair behind the other man’s ear.
“I’ll tell you what? How about you let me take you to the emergency room to get you checked out? You and I can talk tomorrow once we know you’re okay.”
The man whimpered softly but let the detective help him to stand up. Together they walked to Brandon’s personal vehicle and climbed inside. Making a mental note to fill Dunn in later, the detective put the key in the ignition and drove away from the swarm of flashing emergency lights.
********************
Two hours later found Detective Margera in an uncomfortable plastic hospital chair. The ER doctors had examined the only witness to Margera’s new case and given him a clean bill of health, excepting a mild case of shock. Erring on the side of caution, the hospital had elected to give the patient a healthy dose of Xanax and keep him for a 24-hour observation.
During the evaluation, Brandon had called his partner and promised to fill him in on everything as soon as possible. In the meantime, he had nothing to do but wait for the mystery man to wake up and see that he had to say.
Author: Jezebel1386.
Pairing: Ville/Jyrki, Ville and Bam-Bam.
Rating: PG-13 for now. NC-17 eventually.
Summary: The owner of Philadelphia's hottest club has been murdered and Detective Margera was assigned the case. However, all is not as it seems, especially the victim's boyfriend.
Disclaimer: I don't own Jyrki, Bam, or Ville. If I did, you would never hear from me again.
Warnings: Minor character death. Nothing graphic.
Authors Notes: In no way do I mean to intrude upon or copy anyone else who has written detective stories. This is completely different (I think) and I sincerely hope you all enjoy. *mwah*
Detective Brandon Margera loved his job. For him, each case was like a jigsaw puzzle that had been disassembled and thrown around a room. He took great pleasure in hunting for each piece, each clue, and putting them back together to create a whole picture. Nothing compared to the rush of solving a case, of hunting down murderers and putting them in jail.
But however much Margera loved his job, there were still elements that made his skin crawl and his heart sink. Five years in the Special Crimes unit and he hadn’t grown used to the sight of a dead body. It was always the same: gray pallor to the skin, vacant glassy eyes, a crisp white sheet mottled with angry blossoms of red.
Making sure to steel himself and put on his calm and confident ‘cop-face,’ Margera made his way through the alley until he found his partner, Detective Ryan Dunn. Wordlessly the two men ducked under the newly placed crime scene tape and knelt next to the victim.
“What’ve we got?” Dunn pulled back the sheet just enough to reveal the man underneath. Even in death, the man was striking with smooth porcelain skin and rich black hair.
“Thirty-nine year old Caucasian male who caught two hollow-points to the chest,” Margera grimaced. Hollow-point bullets were designed to break into fragments upon impact and cause massive damage to whatever was being targeted. That knowledge kept the detective from pulling back the sheet any farther. The poor man’s chest probably resembled hamburger.
“Hollow-points?” Margera lifted the sheet on the side of the victim’s body for further inspection. A long, slender arm was decorated with a thick black cuff at the wrist and three of five fingers were ornamented with intricate silver bands. “This guy sure as hell doesn’t look like a gang-banger.” The style of bullet in question was most notoriously used by rival gangs in the area to inflict the maximum level of damage to their enemies. They also tend to find favor in the armed conflicts of countries in the developing world.
“No,” Dunn agreed, “he does not. But he sure as hell pissed somebody off.”
“Do we have an ID?” A quick flick of a notebook and Dunn spouted off the major details.
“Jyrki Linnankivi? Not sure if I’m pronouncing that right. Anyway, he and his boyfriend were walking out of the club and, according to the boyfriend, someone dressed in all black walked into the alley and opened fire.”
While Dunn was relating the incident, Margera had been unable to take his eyes from the body. He had an inexplicable urge to run his fingers over the perfect skin that had probably been cool to the touch, even if life.
“What was he doing here at,” he glanced at his watch. The emergency call had come in an hour before and it was nearing 6:30 in the morning. “5:00? 5:30? Last time I checked, bar time in Philly was still 4:00.”
A goofy ‘I-know-something-you-don’t’ grin spread across Dunn’s face. “Detective Margera, meet the owner and manager of Absinthe.”
“Absinthe? The Goth bar? The bar that all of Philadelphia and most of greater New England would give a limb to get into?” Rumors of all sorts had surrounded the club from the first day it had opened its doors. Some claimed that the place was brothel, that the owner had imported beautiful men and women from Europe to serve as courtesans. Others said that the place was a candy land for anyone seeking anything narcotic. Still others claimed that the place was operated by vampires. Not just people in costume, but real-life, blood-sucking vampires. But as the old adage goes, there’s no such thing as bad publicity. Patrons would line up around the block and pray to get anywhere near the door.
“Yes sir, that would be the place. Which means that as soon as the press gets a hold of this, they’re going to ride our asses.”
A slow, creeping suspicion started weaving its way through Margera’s veins, made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Something was very, very wrong with the whole situation and the body in front of him was only the beginning. Fighting off and involuntary shudder, he re-covered the body and stood up.
“You said there was a boyfriend? And that he saw everything?”
“We think.”
“What do you mean ‘we think’? Didn’t you question him?”
“All we have is from the 911 call…”
“Are you fucking kidding me? You didn’t question him?”
“It’s not that I didn’t try.” Dunn ran a hand through his ginger colored hair. “Every time I asked him something he’d start crying even harder. At one point he was sobbing so hard I thought he was going to hyperventilate and pass out. So I decided to wait for you.”
“Me?”
“You have better people skills than me.” Margera opened his mouth to protest, but ended up sighing in defeat.
“Where is he?” Dunn nodded over his shoulder and Margera knew exactly who he was looking for. A lone figure, clad entirely in black, was sitting on the curb, apparently forgotten in the chaos. His arms were tightly wrapped around his waist and he was rocking himself slowly back and forth. His face was hidden behind a veil of hair that’s color wasn’t distinguishable in the darkness. He appeared to be in a world of his own. Probably in shock, Margera thought. This was not going to be easy.
Leaving Dunn to oversee the evidence gathering, the detective cautiously approached the man on the curb. The man didn’t acknowledge his presence even when Margera took a seat next to him. They sat in silence for a while, Margera watching the crime scene, the other man seeing nothing at all.
“I’m Detective Margera,” Brandon spoke the words slowly and gently, as if talking to a child, “and I know you’ve had a horrible night. Forgive me, but there are a few things I need to ask you. Let’s get this done as soon as possible, and then we can work on getting you home.” If the man heard him, he made no recognition of it. Brandon took a deep breath and tried again. “Can you tell me your name?” Nothing. “My partner tells me that you were with the vic…” he quickly corrected himself, “that you were with Jyrki when he was shot. Can you tell me what happened?” Still no response. “Do you remember anything about the person who did this? Height? Weight? Gender?” Once again Brandon was answered with silence.
Sighing in frustration, Margera continued. “Okay, let’s try something else. What were you and Jyrki doing before you left the club tonight? Did anyone know you were there or what time you’d be leaving?” The silent treatment was really getting annoying, and worse than that, it was unproductive. With each passing minute, the killer was getting further away and little details about the night were being erased from the only witnesses’ memory.
“Look, I’m trying to help you but if you don’t talk to me we may never…” the man still didn’t say anything, but he unwrapped his arms from about his waist and held up blood-soaked hands for the detective’s inspection. “Oh my god, are you hurt too?” This time the detective didn’t wait for an answer, just started patting the man down, looking for wounds.
“I can’t feel anything…” The detective’s sharp blue eyes widened in surprise at the simple statement and at the unexpected depth of the other man’s voice. The sentence hadn’t been much, but it was definitely a start. Brandon nodded and instinctively tucked a strand of hair behind the other man’s ear.
“I’ll tell you what? How about you let me take you to the emergency room to get you checked out? You and I can talk tomorrow once we know you’re okay.”
The man whimpered softly but let the detective help him to stand up. Together they walked to Brandon’s personal vehicle and climbed inside. Making a mental note to fill Dunn in later, the detective put the key in the ignition and drove away from the swarm of flashing emergency lights.
********************
Two hours later found Detective Margera in an uncomfortable plastic hospital chair. The ER doctors had examined the only witness to Margera’s new case and given him a clean bill of health, excepting a mild case of shock. Erring on the side of caution, the hospital had elected to give the patient a healthy dose of Xanax and keep him for a 24-hour observation.
During the evaluation, Brandon had called his partner and promised to fill him in on everything as soon as possible. In the meantime, he had nothing to do but wait for the mystery man to wake up and see that he had to say.