09x07 - Procedural Drama - Part Four: Ticking Clock
Episode Number: 09x07 of Season 9 Fan Fiction (S9FF)
Title: Procedural Drama
Subtitle: Ticking Clock
Author: dracox-serdriel
Word Count: 2,464
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: violence, language
Status: Complete. Feedback appreciated.
Sam followed Harper's graceful movements through the city. They started at the point of attack, where the Penthouse Killer had tried to kill the werewolf. He dashed down the stairwell to the ground floor.
"This is how he escaped," Harper said. "Then he went this way."
The werewolf made short work of the whole thing. They followed a few alleys and roads before coming to a modest hotel.
"He fled on foot?" Sam asked.
"No, he walked calmly," replied the werewolf. "He didn't break a sweat. All business."
Sam didn't like the way Harper said the word business, as if it were offensive. "You okay?" he asked.
"Yeah, I am, just pissed off someone would kill me and walk off like it was a milk run," he replied.
"Crazy serial killer," Sam offered as comfort.
"He's in this hotel," the werewolf said.
It wasn't a cheap motel; there would definitely be some security.
Dean put on the headset Charlie gave him. He thought it'd be lame, but it felt like it wasn't even there.
'I should call Sam,' Dean thought to himself, but he didn't. 'I should call Cas, too.'
Instead, he turned up the Led Zeppelin.
Harper walked up the next flight of stairs and popped his head just beyond the door to the main hallway.
"Anything?" Sam asked, just behind him.
"Nothing," Harper replied glumly. "If we could use the elevator - "
"There're cameras in the elevator," Sam replied. "Come on, ten more levels."
With a heaving sigh, the mild-mannered werewolf continued up the next flight of stairs, repeating the process they'd already done ten times before.
When they reached the top floor, it occurred to Sam that they should've started on this level. This was the guy who liked to throw people off buildings; maybe he enjoyed top-floor views.
"He's on this level," Harper said, "but it's faint."
"Can you figure out which room?"
Harper nodded. When Sam went to go with him, he stopped.
"I should go alone," he replied. "Your scent is making it difficult to hone in."
Sam cast a sideways glance at him. "What if he's in his room right now?"
"Then he'll be easy to find," Harper said. "Stay here, I'll be back."
As much as he didn't want to Sam obliged and waited.
Benny had spent years on the high seas with marauding and vindictive vampire-pirates, yet somehow Castiel ranked as the worst traveling companion he'd ever had.
Cas said, "You seem... unhappy."
"Guess I jus' don't know whatta do with myself. I want'd to warn, Dean, sure, but wasn't expectin' anyone to resurrect me fer my troubles," Benny replied.
"Tell me about it," Cas said.
"How much further we gotta go?" Benny asked.
"Several hundred miles at least, let me calculate..."
"Ya, you do that."
Harper fled back into the stairwell, "We should go."
As they tore down the stairwell, Sam asked, "What room?"
"What?" Harper bellowed back.
"What room was the guy in?"
"Oh, 1056!"
Sam chanted the number all the way down to ground level. His legs ached in response.
"You did good," Sam panted out. "Now you should go home, I've got this from here."
"You sure?" the werewolf asked.
"I insist," Sam replied. He handed off a business card. "You think of anything, or you need someone to vouch for you, you call me, okay?"
Harper smiled and bobbed his head, yes. The color started to return to his face. "Thank you."
Sam gulped down a little more air after Harper left. When he felt better, he headed back into the lobby to the main desk.
"I just tried to get into my room, ten sixty-one," Sam said to the clerk. "And this card, it doesn't work."
"I just checked you in, uh, Sam," the clerk sounded surprise. He typed furiously into the computer. "Sorry, Samuel Carpenter? Isn't that right?"
"That's me," he replied.
"So sorry, I'll fix the card right away. Please give me a second.
As soon as the guy disappeared around the corner, Sam turned the monitor around. He searched by room number and typed in '1056' and hit 'Search.' The following information popped up on the screen:
ROOM: Single
NAME: Booker, Dylan
MEMBERSHIP: Business Travel
STATUS: Platinum
Sam photographed the screen then cleared the search and turned the monitor back around. The name Dylan Booker might be a fake, but if he had a platinum membership with this hotel chain then maybe the alias would be easy to track.
The apologetic clerk came back and handed Sam the room key. "My apologies, Mr. Carpenter, would you like a complimentary dinner from our room service?"
"That'd be great," Sam replied. He immediately regretted it, as he'd have to be in the room to receive it. "Thank you," he said to the clerk.
Sam knew he'd faced more dangerous elements than some random serial killer, but he still felt that knowingly setting down next to one wasn't smart.
'The food better be awesome,' he thought to himself as the elevator doors closed.
Turns out, the hotel's room service was fantastic. Sam munched happily as he did a background check on Dylan Booker. The name was a fake, but not an alias or a cover. It was a pseudonym for a traveling artist hitting up local festivals.
Sam could tell it was a pseudonym because there were no taxes filed under that name. He could push more, but he was worried any serious that hacking would draw too much attention.
And night was falling. He needed to update Dodge, even if it was incomplete. He called her.
"Hey, Dodge," Sam said, "it's me."
"What's up Sam?"
"You alone?"
"Uh, yeah, just left the office about an hour ago," she replied.
"I know who your killer is," he said.
"What?"
"He works under the name Dylan Booker," Sam continued. "Not sure what his real name is yet."
"How do you - "
"I can explain everything," Sam cut her off. "But I'm sort of checked into a room only a few doors down from him - "
"What?" Dodge cut him off.
"I can tail him for you, tell you - "
"No way," Dodge cut him off again, more fiercely this time. "You can't get yourself involved in this, Sam. People will put two and two together and your identity - "
"Okay, okay," Sam relinquished. "Then what should I do?"
"Tell me where you are."
"The Riverside Hotel on Eastin Lane," he replied.
"Okay, you know what this guy looks like?"
Sam realized he didn't, but he knew away he could find out. "Yeah," he replied.
"Good. Your hotel is ten minutes from mine," she said, "I'll pull up outside. We'll tail him together just in case. And you can fill me in."
"Ten minutes, okay," Sam repeated.
He hung up and steeled himself. As casually as possible, he walked over to room 1056 and knocked on the door.
"Hello?" Dylan Booker asked through the door.
"Hi, I'm Sam, I'm here to purchase some art," he replied.
Booker slid the door open, leaving the door chain on so it only cracked. Sam roved his eyes over the man's features. He was five eleven, black hair, small blue eyes, and had a large, wedge-shaped nose. He had also a pearly-white scar that started mid-way through his left eyebrow and continued back to his left ear. It looked like an old burn.
"Sorry, I don't remember speaking with you, been a long day," Dylan replied. "What are you here to purchase?"
Sam noted the long, black overcoat Dylan wore. He had on a very basic dark button up and dark slacks, too.
"I'm sorry, I'm looking for Andrew Styx," Sam invented wildly. "He's doing a commission for me... I thought this was his room...?"
Dylan's suspicions were clear from his expression. "No, I'm not Andrew." He slammed the door shut.
Sam quickly went downstairs and waited across the street for Dodge. She pulled up, a little late, and Sam dropped heavily into her passenger seat.
"He's got a scar," he said to her before a greeting. "From his left eyebrow, to his ear."
"You know what he's wearing?"
"Long, dark overcoat. Dark shirt and pants."
"Finding a man in a dark coat and pants in Chicago," Dodge quipped. "Sure, no problem."
Sam laughed. "He's almost six feet tall, so that's something. And the scar."
"Right. Now you have to explain to me why you think this guy is our killer - "
"There he is!" Sam exclaimed. He pointed to a fast-walking man who just stepped out of the hotel. "We have to follow him, Dodge."
She obliged, putting the car in gear. Sam moved the passenger seat all the way back and slumped down as far as he could.
"What are you doing?"
"He saw me, so I'm being as short as possible."
"Okay, tell me what's going on," Dodge said, keeping her eye on the moving figure.
For what felt like the tenth time, Dean hovered over Sam's phone number. He should really update him on Naomi.
"What am I, a twelve-year-old girl?" Dean said out loud to himself. Then he dialed Sam's number.
Dodge's jaw dropped more than once during Sam's explanation. "You do understand what this means?" she said.
"What?"
"I have to catch him in the act," she replied.
"Why would you - "
"Because I can't tell the DA that one of his victims was a werewolf that survived the attack and then literally followed his scent to track him," Dodge replied. "If what you're saying is true, and this guy is the Penthouse Killer, the only way to catch him is red-handed."
Sam swallowed. "I can help you."
"No," Dodge asserted. "You can't be involved. People will want to know who you are, and that'll complicate things."
Sam's phone rang. It was Dean. He promptly hit "Ignore."
"Does the Penthouse Killer strike every night?" Sam asked.
"Sometimes he'll kill one night after the other," Dodge replied. "Other times he'll wait a week."
They successfully followed Dylan, as he took main road sidewalks, all of which were well-lit.
"He's not exactly being stealthy," Dodge remarked.
"No, but according to Harper, this guy walked slowly and calmly back to his hotel, which was just a few blocks away from the attack."
"A calm psychopath," Dodge commented, "that's always good."
"Is he going into that - " Sam started to ask.
"Parking garage? Yes," she replied.
"Park on the level right below the top," Sam instructed.
"No," Dodge replied. She pulled up to a metered parking spot and pulled in. "You stay. If the cops come, you need to haul ass out of here, okay?"
"But, you - "
"Sam, chances are this guy isn't the guy, and if he is, he targets men, not women," Dodge's voice became very authoritative. She indicated a sign on the entryway. "And this parking structure has cameras. Stay here."
He hated the idea, but she had a point. "All right, be safe," Sam replied.
He watched as the FBI Agent disappeared into the parking garage.
Dodge didn't know why she trusted this man. Maybe his father saved her life, sure, but he also worked in dangerous situations involving ghosts, monsters, and demons.
She took the elevator up to the level just below the roof. She didn't want to spook the killer, assuming that's who this guy actually was. Part of her wondered if her trust for Sam was based on how he made her feel. He has such trustworthy eyes.
Dodge scrambled to the stairwell and drew her gun as she quietly paced up the steps. On top of everything else, she had to accept the existence of werewolves, of all things!
She looked out over the top level, and at first she saw nothing. She took a moment and listened. She heard it; the sound of a struggle nearby. She threw the element of surprise away and booked it into the center of level, hoping she'd be able to see more.
She didn't have to go far. The scar-faced man with the long, black coat was standing over someone on all fours.
"Stop, FBI!" Dodge cried, pointing her gun at Dylan.
He looked up, shocked, but didn't let go of the rope.
"It's over! Drop the rope go and step away from him!" Dodge ordered.
Instead, Dylan pulled up, and Dodge fired. The killer fell back into an adjacent car; he took a bullet to the left arm. Howling in pain, he dropped the rope and ran.
Dodge made it over to the man on the ground. She took the rope off his neck and said, "My name is Agent Dakota Gage, FBI. Who are you?"
"Jeremy Palmer," the man gasped.
"Jeremy is this your car?"
He nodded.
"You need to get in, lock the doors, call nine one one for an ambulance," she instructed. "Stay inside, okay? Don't open the door unless it's me, the police, or a paramedic."
As an afterthought, Dodge handed him the rope. "Hold on to this for me, I'm going after him, okay?"
Jeremy nodded blankly, took the rope, and got into his car.
She spun around and tore after the guy, who was bleeding quite freely. He had collapsed against the wall near the elevator; maybe the bullet did more damage that she thought.
"Hands where I can see them," Dodge ordered, pointing her gun. "Now."
He shook his head but didn't respond.
"If you can't raise your hands," she continued, "then get on the ground, face-down."
The Penthouse Killer moved forward getting on the ground, slowly. Dodge moved to cuff him.
It was all a ruse. Dodge found out too late, as he clobbered her with a sweeping strike and grabbed for her gun. He spun her around, his face dark and snarling, pushing her back against the wall he'd just been leaning against.
Bang! The gun went off between them. With all his weight, the Penthouse Killer threw himself towards Dodge, knocking her over the edge by the fire escape.
It took all manner of self-control to prevent Sam from running out to help Dodge after her heard the first shot. But he waited.
Minutes - though it felt like hours - later, Sam saw two bodies on the top level. Another shot fired. The first body threw itself into the second, which tumbled from the fifteen-story roof, ricocheting off one of the fire escapes on the way down before slamming into the pavement. Sam dimly noted the first body collapsing away from the edge.
"Not good," he said to himself as threw himself out the door and ran over, hoping the one who fell was the serial killer.
Sam found Dodge broken on the ground. She was covered in blood.
"Dodge," Sam whispered, "Oh, God - "
<<< Previous Part:
Part Three: Murphey's Law
Next Part: >>>
Part Five: Contractual Immortality
Primary Post: 09x07 Procedural Drama
Primary Post: Season 9 Fan Fiction (S9FF)
Title: Procedural Drama
Subtitle: Ticking Clock
Author: dracox-serdriel
Word Count: 2,464
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: violence, language
Status: Complete. Feedback appreciated.
Sam followed Harper's graceful movements through the city. They started at the point of attack, where the Penthouse Killer had tried to kill the werewolf. He dashed down the stairwell to the ground floor.
"This is how he escaped," Harper said. "Then he went this way."
The werewolf made short work of the whole thing. They followed a few alleys and roads before coming to a modest hotel.
"He fled on foot?" Sam asked.
"No, he walked calmly," replied the werewolf. "He didn't break a sweat. All business."
Sam didn't like the way Harper said the word business, as if it were offensive. "You okay?" he asked.
"Yeah, I am, just pissed off someone would kill me and walk off like it was a milk run," he replied.
"Crazy serial killer," Sam offered as comfort.
"He's in this hotel," the werewolf said.
It wasn't a cheap motel; there would definitely be some security.
Dean put on the headset Charlie gave him. He thought it'd be lame, but it felt like it wasn't even there.
'I should call Sam,' Dean thought to himself, but he didn't. 'I should call Cas, too.'
Instead, he turned up the Led Zeppelin.
Harper walked up the next flight of stairs and popped his head just beyond the door to the main hallway.
"Anything?" Sam asked, just behind him.
"Nothing," Harper replied glumly. "If we could use the elevator - "
"There're cameras in the elevator," Sam replied. "Come on, ten more levels."
With a heaving sigh, the mild-mannered werewolf continued up the next flight of stairs, repeating the process they'd already done ten times before.
When they reached the top floor, it occurred to Sam that they should've started on this level. This was the guy who liked to throw people off buildings; maybe he enjoyed top-floor views.
"He's on this level," Harper said, "but it's faint."
"Can you figure out which room?"
Harper nodded. When Sam went to go with him, he stopped.
"I should go alone," he replied. "Your scent is making it difficult to hone in."
Sam cast a sideways glance at him. "What if he's in his room right now?"
"Then he'll be easy to find," Harper said. "Stay here, I'll be back."
As much as he didn't want to Sam obliged and waited.
Benny had spent years on the high seas with marauding and vindictive vampire-pirates, yet somehow Castiel ranked as the worst traveling companion he'd ever had.
Cas said, "You seem... unhappy."
"Guess I jus' don't know whatta do with myself. I want'd to warn, Dean, sure, but wasn't expectin' anyone to resurrect me fer my troubles," Benny replied.
"Tell me about it," Cas said.
"How much further we gotta go?" Benny asked.
"Several hundred miles at least, let me calculate..."
"Ya, you do that."
Harper fled back into the stairwell, "We should go."
As they tore down the stairwell, Sam asked, "What room?"
"What?" Harper bellowed back.
"What room was the guy in?"
"Oh, 1056!"
Sam chanted the number all the way down to ground level. His legs ached in response.
"You did good," Sam panted out. "Now you should go home, I've got this from here."
"You sure?" the werewolf asked.
"I insist," Sam replied. He handed off a business card. "You think of anything, or you need someone to vouch for you, you call me, okay?"
Harper smiled and bobbed his head, yes. The color started to return to his face. "Thank you."
Sam gulped down a little more air after Harper left. When he felt better, he headed back into the lobby to the main desk.
"I just tried to get into my room, ten sixty-one," Sam said to the clerk. "And this card, it doesn't work."
"I just checked you in, uh, Sam," the clerk sounded surprise. He typed furiously into the computer. "Sorry, Samuel Carpenter? Isn't that right?"
"That's me," he replied.
"So sorry, I'll fix the card right away. Please give me a second.
As soon as the guy disappeared around the corner, Sam turned the monitor around. He searched by room number and typed in '1056' and hit 'Search.' The following information popped up on the screen:
ROOM: Single
NAME: Booker, Dylan
MEMBERSHIP: Business Travel
STATUS: Platinum
Sam photographed the screen then cleared the search and turned the monitor back around. The name Dylan Booker might be a fake, but if he had a platinum membership with this hotel chain then maybe the alias would be easy to track.
The apologetic clerk came back and handed Sam the room key. "My apologies, Mr. Carpenter, would you like a complimentary dinner from our room service?"
"That'd be great," Sam replied. He immediately regretted it, as he'd have to be in the room to receive it. "Thank you," he said to the clerk.
Sam knew he'd faced more dangerous elements than some random serial killer, but he still felt that knowingly setting down next to one wasn't smart.
'The food better be awesome,' he thought to himself as the elevator doors closed.
Turns out, the hotel's room service was fantastic. Sam munched happily as he did a background check on Dylan Booker. The name was a fake, but not an alias or a cover. It was a pseudonym for a traveling artist hitting up local festivals.
Sam could tell it was a pseudonym because there were no taxes filed under that name. He could push more, but he was worried any serious that hacking would draw too much attention.
And night was falling. He needed to update Dodge, even if it was incomplete. He called her.
"Hey, Dodge," Sam said, "it's me."
"What's up Sam?"
"You alone?"
"Uh, yeah, just left the office about an hour ago," she replied.
"I know who your killer is," he said.
"What?"
"He works under the name Dylan Booker," Sam continued. "Not sure what his real name is yet."
"How do you - "
"I can explain everything," Sam cut her off. "But I'm sort of checked into a room only a few doors down from him - "
"What?" Dodge cut him off.
"I can tail him for you, tell you - "
"No way," Dodge cut him off again, more fiercely this time. "You can't get yourself involved in this, Sam. People will put two and two together and your identity - "
"Okay, okay," Sam relinquished. "Then what should I do?"
"Tell me where you are."
"The Riverside Hotel on Eastin Lane," he replied.
"Okay, you know what this guy looks like?"
Sam realized he didn't, but he knew away he could find out. "Yeah," he replied.
"Good. Your hotel is ten minutes from mine," she said, "I'll pull up outside. We'll tail him together just in case. And you can fill me in."
"Ten minutes, okay," Sam repeated.
He hung up and steeled himself. As casually as possible, he walked over to room 1056 and knocked on the door.
"Hello?" Dylan Booker asked through the door.
"Hi, I'm Sam, I'm here to purchase some art," he replied.
Booker slid the door open, leaving the door chain on so it only cracked. Sam roved his eyes over the man's features. He was five eleven, black hair, small blue eyes, and had a large, wedge-shaped nose. He had also a pearly-white scar that started mid-way through his left eyebrow and continued back to his left ear. It looked like an old burn.
"Sorry, I don't remember speaking with you, been a long day," Dylan replied. "What are you here to purchase?"
Sam noted the long, black overcoat Dylan wore. He had on a very basic dark button up and dark slacks, too.
"I'm sorry, I'm looking for Andrew Styx," Sam invented wildly. "He's doing a commission for me... I thought this was his room...?"
Dylan's suspicions were clear from his expression. "No, I'm not Andrew." He slammed the door shut.
Sam quickly went downstairs and waited across the street for Dodge. She pulled up, a little late, and Sam dropped heavily into her passenger seat.
"He's got a scar," he said to her before a greeting. "From his left eyebrow, to his ear."
"You know what he's wearing?"
"Long, dark overcoat. Dark shirt and pants."
"Finding a man in a dark coat and pants in Chicago," Dodge quipped. "Sure, no problem."
Sam laughed. "He's almost six feet tall, so that's something. And the scar."
"Right. Now you have to explain to me why you think this guy is our killer - "
"There he is!" Sam exclaimed. He pointed to a fast-walking man who just stepped out of the hotel. "We have to follow him, Dodge."
She obliged, putting the car in gear. Sam moved the passenger seat all the way back and slumped down as far as he could.
"What are you doing?"
"He saw me, so I'm being as short as possible."
"Okay, tell me what's going on," Dodge said, keeping her eye on the moving figure.
For what felt like the tenth time, Dean hovered over Sam's phone number. He should really update him on Naomi.
"What am I, a twelve-year-old girl?" Dean said out loud to himself. Then he dialed Sam's number.
Dodge's jaw dropped more than once during Sam's explanation. "You do understand what this means?" she said.
"What?"
"I have to catch him in the act," she replied.
"Why would you - "
"Because I can't tell the DA that one of his victims was a werewolf that survived the attack and then literally followed his scent to track him," Dodge replied. "If what you're saying is true, and this guy is the Penthouse Killer, the only way to catch him is red-handed."
Sam swallowed. "I can help you."
"No," Dodge asserted. "You can't be involved. People will want to know who you are, and that'll complicate things."
Sam's phone rang. It was Dean. He promptly hit "Ignore."
"Does the Penthouse Killer strike every night?" Sam asked.
"Sometimes he'll kill one night after the other," Dodge replied. "Other times he'll wait a week."
They successfully followed Dylan, as he took main road sidewalks, all of which were well-lit.
"He's not exactly being stealthy," Dodge remarked.
"No, but according to Harper, this guy walked slowly and calmly back to his hotel, which was just a few blocks away from the attack."
"A calm psychopath," Dodge commented, "that's always good."
"Is he going into that - " Sam started to ask.
"Parking garage? Yes," she replied.
"Park on the level right below the top," Sam instructed.
"No," Dodge replied. She pulled up to a metered parking spot and pulled in. "You stay. If the cops come, you need to haul ass out of here, okay?"
"But, you - "
"Sam, chances are this guy isn't the guy, and if he is, he targets men, not women," Dodge's voice became very authoritative. She indicated a sign on the entryway. "And this parking structure has cameras. Stay here."
He hated the idea, but she had a point. "All right, be safe," Sam replied.
He watched as the FBI Agent disappeared into the parking garage.
Dodge didn't know why she trusted this man. Maybe his father saved her life, sure, but he also worked in dangerous situations involving ghosts, monsters, and demons.
She took the elevator up to the level just below the roof. She didn't want to spook the killer, assuming that's who this guy actually was. Part of her wondered if her trust for Sam was based on how he made her feel. He has such trustworthy eyes.
Dodge scrambled to the stairwell and drew her gun as she quietly paced up the steps. On top of everything else, she had to accept the existence of werewolves, of all things!
She looked out over the top level, and at first she saw nothing. She took a moment and listened. She heard it; the sound of a struggle nearby. She threw the element of surprise away and booked it into the center of level, hoping she'd be able to see more.
She didn't have to go far. The scar-faced man with the long, black coat was standing over someone on all fours.
"Stop, FBI!" Dodge cried, pointing her gun at Dylan.
He looked up, shocked, but didn't let go of the rope.
"It's over! Drop the rope go and step away from him!" Dodge ordered.
Instead, Dylan pulled up, and Dodge fired. The killer fell back into an adjacent car; he took a bullet to the left arm. Howling in pain, he dropped the rope and ran.
Dodge made it over to the man on the ground. She took the rope off his neck and said, "My name is Agent Dakota Gage, FBI. Who are you?"
"Jeremy Palmer," the man gasped.
"Jeremy is this your car?"
He nodded.
"You need to get in, lock the doors, call nine one one for an ambulance," she instructed. "Stay inside, okay? Don't open the door unless it's me, the police, or a paramedic."
As an afterthought, Dodge handed him the rope. "Hold on to this for me, I'm going after him, okay?"
Jeremy nodded blankly, took the rope, and got into his car.
She spun around and tore after the guy, who was bleeding quite freely. He had collapsed against the wall near the elevator; maybe the bullet did more damage that she thought.
"Hands where I can see them," Dodge ordered, pointing her gun. "Now."
He shook his head but didn't respond.
"If you can't raise your hands," she continued, "then get on the ground, face-down."
The Penthouse Killer moved forward getting on the ground, slowly. Dodge moved to cuff him.
It was all a ruse. Dodge found out too late, as he clobbered her with a sweeping strike and grabbed for her gun. He spun her around, his face dark and snarling, pushing her back against the wall he'd just been leaning against.
Bang! The gun went off between them. With all his weight, the Penthouse Killer threw himself towards Dodge, knocking her over the edge by the fire escape.
It took all manner of self-control to prevent Sam from running out to help Dodge after her heard the first shot. But he waited.
Minutes - though it felt like hours - later, Sam saw two bodies on the top level. Another shot fired. The first body threw itself into the second, which tumbled from the fifteen-story roof, ricocheting off one of the fire escapes on the way down before slamming into the pavement. Sam dimly noted the first body collapsing away from the edge.
"Not good," he said to himself as threw himself out the door and ran over, hoping the one who fell was the serial killer.
Sam found Dodge broken on the ground. She was covered in blood.
"Dodge," Sam whispered, "Oh, God - "
<<< Previous Part:
Part Three: Murphey's Law
Next Part: >>>
Part Five: Contractual Immortality
Primary Post: 09x07 Procedural Drama
Primary Post: Season 9 Fan Fiction (S9FF)