the rumours of my demise have been greatly exaggerated
...no matter how much I might be wishing otherwise at the moment.
This has been an *insanely* stressful week. I don't really have anything more to say on that subject; however, I'll be very glad when all of this election-related nonsense is over and done with.
In the spirit of not completely surrendering to work, here's the prologue and first chapter of a Supernatural/Highlander crossover. Thanks go to lferion, fashi0n_mistake, and bardicfaerie for doing the look-at-it-and-fix-it thing.
Prologue: The Scout Towards Aldie
It was technically trespassing, but Nick hadn't spent three years at VCU without learning that the Richmond cops were too busy to worry about the little things. A couple of students smoking a joint in one of the city parks wasn't on their list of priorities.
"And then I said, 'but didn't the greasepaint stain his clothing?'" Nick finished, and watched with satisfaction as Ryan broke into helpless, stoned laughter. "Whoa, don't drop it, asshole." He rescued the threatened joint with an expert movement. "I swear, you waste more weed than any ten people I know."
"Sorry, man." Ryan grinned. "This is some good shit."
"Yeah, I got it from that dude at Lambda Beta Tau. You know, the one with the --" He made a hand gesture that was supposed to indicate a three foot glass bong. Ryan nodded in comprehension.
"That thing's harsh, dude," he said. "I thought I was gonna fucking die when I hit it."
"Yeah, well -- " Nick stopped. A thin, high-pitched noise, just at the edge of hearing, rose against the quiet night. "What was that?"
"I didn't hear anything." Ryan eyed the joint. "You gonna hit that?"
"Yeah," Nick muttered. He absently took a hit, still listening for whatever it was he'd heard. The coughing fit that hit him a second later took him by surprise. Ryan laughed and shook his head.
"You cough like you just started smoking," he teased, taking it back.
This time, both of them heard the sound. It was high-pitched and eerie, and rose waveringly through the still air.
"I heard that," Ryan said, eyes wide. The joint fell forgotten to the ground.
"No shit," Nick hissed. The sound came again, closer this time. "What the hell is it?"
Again the noise came, and this time it seemed almost on top of them, sharp and mournful and far too human. A flicker of white on the edge of Nick's vision threatened to resolve itself into an actual shape, one that he desperately didn't want to see. The streetlights around them flickered once, then again. Nick glanced at his Jeep, parked a few yards away, then back at the thing that was taking on form in the shadows.
"Let's get the hell out of here," he hissed, clutching at Ryan's arm. Ryan nodded once, convulsively. As one, they turned and ran for the safety of the Jeep.
They almost made it.
***
The rumour in the halls of Quantico was that the Winchester case had driven Vince Henricksen insane. It was public knowledge that he'd been obsessed with catching Dean and Sam Winchester, and since they were still at large while Henricksen was locked away in a private mental facility somewhere in Maryland, the facts largely spoke for themselves -- as did the contents of the Winchesters' case file.
Henricksen's colleagues in the FBI's Behavioural Analysis Unit were no more superstitious than the rest of the population, and significantly more used to violent death -- but the Winchester case bothered even hardened profilers. Men and women who often worked upwards of a hundred and fifty cases at a time, all of them violent; who lived their lives steeped in other people's bloodiest fantasies, found their stomachs twisting, their skins crawling when they looked at the Winchesters' handiwork. Everyone wanted them caught, but no one wanted to get into their heads and do it. Henricksen had tried, and it looked like he might never get out again.
As a result, when the Winchester case was assigned to Special Agent Matthew McCormick, the entire BAU breathed a collective sigh of relief. McCormick was brilliant, intense, and personally invested in every case he took on -- and had spent ten years working some of the worst cases in the United States without ever showing signs of mental, or even emotional, breakdown. It was widely felt that if anyone could catch the Winchesters, it would be Matthew McCormick.
Chapter One: On to Richmond
"The Winchesters, huh?" Special Agent Jeremy Miller shook his head, taking advantage of his lounging position against McCormick's doorway to ease the tension in his aching back. He'd just finished the profile for a serial rape case in Nevada, and had a few free minutes to banter with the man before leaving for the weekend. "They must think you're a fucking miracle worker. I glanced at Henricksen's case summary; it was off the charts. Organized, disorganized, shifting MO -- I've never heard of anything like it."
McCormick looked up from the papers he was shuffling about on his desk, and raised one dark eyebrow. "You don't agree with him that Sam is evidencing the disorganized aspects of their streak of crimes, while Dean performs the more organized killings?" His measured, drawling tones never failed to remind Jeremy of Mark Twain: The educated Southerner has no need for an 'R', except at the beginning of a word.
"Henricksen was an idiot even before he went insane," Jeremy said easily. "Besides, I know better than to commit myself around you when all I've had is a very brief look at a case summary that he wrote."
"Wise decision. Did you finish the Reno thing?"
"Yeah." Jeremy stuck his hands in his pockets. "I've got the next two days to myself."
"Feel like accompanying me to Richmond? Peters said to take someone."
"You could take Harris"
"Harris doesn't like me very much."
"Harris doesn't like anyone very much," Jeremy said, following McCormick out into the hall. "Yeah, I guess I'll come. You owe me, though." They made a brief detour to his office, where he grabbed his own coat and briefcase, and the overnight bag that he always kept ready. "What's happening in Richmond?"
"They've had five nearly identical homicides at Chimborazo in the past two months, and one of the officers they've got doing extra patrols in the area thinks she spotted Sam and Dean Winchester last night."
"Chimborazo?"
"An old Civil War hospital. It's a park now; there's a museum, and a few statues. Apparently it's also a hangout for the local students; all five of our victims went to Virginia Commonwealth University." McCormick glanced at his watch. "I'll go requisition a vehicle if you'll go tell Peters I'm requisitioning you."
"Fair enough." He'd worked with McCormick more than a dozen times during his own three-year tenure with the BAU, and generally enjoyed doing so. For all his intensity, McCormick was a lot less high-strung than many of their colleagues, including Jeremy himself, and his presence had proven a welcome anchor during two or three of their more stressful cases. Jeremy didn't really mind giving up a weekend for him, especially a weekend for which he'd had nothing planned in the first place. Throwing his coat over his shoulder, Jeremy turned his steps towards Peters' office, preparing an argument as to why he didn't really need to take the time off.
He ended up having no need of it. Peters was on the phone with someone from Washington, and he waved Jeremy off irritably after three sentences' worth of explanation.
"Fine, fine," he snapped. "You got the Reno profile out to their police department?"
"Yes, sir," Jeremy said and, thus sanctioned, went to meet McCormick in the parking garage.
McCormick drove, while Jeremy took the opportunity to better acquaint himself with the contents of the Winchester file. It was too thick for him to do more than scan, but that was enough.
"Jesus," he said when he'd finished, almost disbelieving. He was glad they hadn't stopped for lunch. "That shit reads like a Thomas Harris novel with a higher body count."
"Mm," McCormick said noncommittally, as they pulled into a space outside the Richmond Police Department's Third Precinct. "I was thinking Stephen King, myself."
Richmond was grey and cold, and the buildings that loomed to either side turned the streets into wind tunnels. Jeremy pulled his coat tightly around himself as they hurried up the steps to the station. Once inside, their badges earned them a glare from the desk sergeant that softened noticeably once Matthew opened his mouth. As they made their way down the hall, Jeremy grinned.
"I'm glad I have a native guide. I didn't realize that Richmond was still hostile territory for Yankees."
"Only her institutions," McCormick said dryly. "They'd fly the Stars and Bars over the statehouse if they thought they could get away with it." His mouth twitched. "It might help if you didn't sound like a refugee from the Bronx."
"Are you making fun of New York City?"
"Do I really need to?" They rounded the corner and knocked the door that the desk sergeant had indicated.
"Just remember where Peters and Reyes are from," Jeremy mock-threatened. "We outnumber you, McCormick."
"The barbarians always do," McCormick lamented, as someone shouted from within for them to enter. McCormick went first, Jeremy a step behind him.
The office itself was apparently exempt from the building's 'no smoking' rule. The air was blue with cigarette smoke, and the two desks inside were covered in a scattering of papers that probably constituted a fire hazard. The walls were hung with a seemingly random collection of mug shots, memos, wanted posters, and posters identifying various gang colors and tattoos. The men behind the desks looked up at their entrance. Both wore identical looks of curiosity that shaded into mild hostility when they failed to recognize their visitors.
"Can I help you?" The one who spoke was in his early forties, with thinning grey hair and weary dark eyes in a broad, lined face. His hands, large and blunt-fingered, were paused in mid-air, as if he'd been expanding on a point of interest. His partner was younger, maybe thirty-five or thirty-six, but looked just as tired. His tie was askew, his sandy blond hair looked as if he'd run his hands through it repeatedly, and his sharp blue eyes had definite circles underneath them.
"Special Agents Matthew McCormick and Jeremy Miller, FBI," McCormick said. "We're looking for Detectives Anderson and Monroe."
"You found them." The older man waved them into chairs. Jeremy had to remove a stack of files from the chair in front of the younger one's desk. "I'm Monroe; he's Anderson. What can we do for you?" His accent was less marked than McCormick's slow drawl, but still audible to Jeremy's New York trained ears. Neither detective looked especially pleased to be dealing with the Bureau. Jeremy couldn't help but wonder who the last agent they'd dealt with had been.
"Last night, one of the officers you had doing extra patrols at Chimborazo reported seeing two young men who fit the descriptions of the suspects in a string of serial murders across the country," McCormick said. "They might well be involved in your recent spate of homicides."
Anderson's eyebrows lifted in surprise, and some of the hostility went out of his eyes. "A pair of serial killers? That's unusual, isn't it?."
"Not really." Jeremy couldn't help himself. "Serial killers frequently work together. There's Bianchi and Buono, Lake and Ng, Corll, Henry, and Brooks -- they were a trio -- Fernandez and Beck -- "
"Forget I said anything." Anderson winced. "And this pair of serial killers is in Richmond?" His mouth worked in disgust as he reached for the pack of cigarettes in his shirt pocket. "Perfect," he muttered. "Just perfect."
"What do you need?" Monroe asked.
"Copies of your files on the Chimborazo murders," McCormick answered, "as well as the chance to interview Officer Byrd."
"We can do that." Monroe reached for the telephone on his desk. "Byrd's out on patrol right now, but I can have her sergeant call her in."
"No task force?" Anderson asked around the cigarette he was lighting. "No press conference?"
"No," McCormick said. "I don't want them to know we're coming. We haven't spent three years chasing these two because they're bad at disappearing."
"Fair enough," Anderson allowed.
Monroe hung up the phone. "You're in luck. Byrd's in the station right now. Actually, she was just about to leave. Her sergeant's sending her down here." He jerked a thumb to his left. "You and Anderson can use the interview room next door to talk to her while I dig up the Chimborazo files for you."
***
Author's Notes: Both chapter titles are taken from poems about the Civil War, because I tend to recycle everything I read. If you're interested in reading them, let me know. Matthew McCormick is a character from the Highlander episode 'Manhunt'. He's an Immortal, and has spent most of his life in law enforcement.
feedback gives me something to think about that isn't work-related.