Fic: Standard Deviation, Chapter 3
Author’s Notes: Since this technically is a cop!verse, I figured I'd better write in something that has to do with law enforcement. And nothing screams 'civil service' like dealing with people who don't understand or appreciate what those civil servants do for the general public. Sometimes, you just can't win. But at least in this case, I was able to use it as a catalyst for some more *gasps* wait for it...character development. Anyway, I was trying to post this yesterday, but seeing The Avengers (side note: mmm...Chris Hemsworth and Jeremy Renner FTW!) and then severe thunderstorms in Minneapolis last night precluded that. Here's chapter three for you all. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: I have settled for an ordinary life, so therefore, I cannot own Star Trek.
Chapter | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4A | 4B |
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Chapter 3
Despite his partner’s vehement claims to the contrary, Jim Kirk still believed in two things: A) Routine police calls can and did exist, and B) There was really no such thing as a no-win scenario. He lived his life by the second theory, and would never, ever change it. The first one, however, was open to interpretation, especially given the non-routine nature of the call to which he and McCoy just responded.
Upon pulling into the parking lot at Savers, the pair of cops weren’t even out of their car before the reported victim approached them. Loud, irate, and pushy, she zeroed straight in on McCoy and latched her claws into the sergeant, refusing to back off until she heard the things she was looking to hear.
The problem was that McCoy wasn’t providing the “right” answers.
“I swear to God, if I catch the asshole that did this, I’ll cut off his balls!”
“Really, now?” Jim asked. “Isn’t that a little extreme?”
McCoy schooled his face to impassivity, gently pursed his lips and gave Jim a little shove to the gut. He eyed the woman standing before him while thinking that if it were physically possible, he was sure there would be steam seeping from her ears. Despite her willowy frame and bleach blonde hair, it was clear to Len in the four minutes he’d spent in her presence that she was a firecracker. “Ma’am, I don’t think that will be necessary.”
Laura Howell, as the woman claimed to be named, shifted her weight and put one hand on her hip, leaning forward and gesturing wildly. “Like hell it wouldn’t be! The check for my FAFSA loan was in my purse! I was on my way to the bank to deposit it so I could pay my tuition for the semester!” she yelled, heedless of the small crowd beginning to gather outside the main doors. “I’m pissed!”
“Clearly,” McCoy replied, scribbling some more on the paper attached the metal clipboard before shoving it in to Jim’s hands for the rookie to complete. He pushed his sunglasses up his nose and peered over the upper rim. “We just have a couple more questions and then you can be on your way.”
“Miss Howell, to be perfectly honest, your purse is the lesser of our concerns right now,” Jim started. It was as sincere as he could get, and Kirk hoped that a calm voice would help diffuse the irate woman’s building temper tantrum. “Can you tell us more about the weapon your assailant threatened you with?”
“Weapon? There wasn’t a weapon,” she replied, picking at one of her nails.
Kirk and McCoy exchanged glances. “We were told there was a weapon involved. That’s what was reported to 911.”
Howell waved a dismissive hand. “I told the kid that called 911 that the guy who grabbed my purse had a gun. I thought it would get you here faster so you could get my shit back for me. Guess it worked. Well, sort of.”
Jim took a peek over at his partner. Jaw clenched and working, Jim could see McCoy’s blood pressure ticking up about ten more points. The sergeant shook his head, not willing to do much else, lest he risk a profane outburst directed at Howell and the general stupidity of people like her. Reaching up for his mic, he said to dispatch in a low voice, “Six-two, tell all units in the area to disregard the weapon on the purse snatch. RP claimed it to emergency to get us to her faster.”
Dispatch’s reply cackled in his ear, and after Jim acknowledged it, he fixed Howell with a pointed stare. “Why would you do something like that? Ma’am, we had multiple units heading in your direction because of the threat a guy like that poses to people in the immediate area. You’re pulling resources away from folks would could actually use them,” he finished, unable to keep the small hint of venom from his voice.
Howell rolled her eyes, scoffing while she was halfway through the gesture. “You’re kidding me, right? You’re really going to stand there and lecture me about what I did? That’s rich!” she laughed haughtily. “Goddammit, I knew you wouldn’t take it seriously unless I said he had a gun. When my car was broken into last year, I waited two and a half hours for a cop to show up, and when he did, all you idiots managed to do was to take a report while you told me to check the pawn shops around the area! So forgive me if I don’t have an outstanding, glowing review of the Iowa City police department.”
“Oh, what a terrible predicament,” McCoy grumbled before Jim could initiate a half-assed interjection.
There were times when Kirk was glad that McCoy’s tongue was about as sharp as his brain, and when dealing with idiots like Laura Howell, Kirk was also glad McCoy hadn’t quite managed to figure out the whole concept of being PC. Bones called it like he saw it, and he never minced words. Jim hid the small smile of satisfaction when he recognized the fractional flare of his partner’s nostrils and the telltale eyebrow raise. ‘Insult in three, two, one…’
McCoy looked Howell straight in the eye and, with his natural Georgian accent thickening, shot out sarcastically, “You had to wait for two hours? Two full hours? Well ma’am, I am sorry that you were inconvenienced, you’ll have to forgive us if we had to push your non-violent property break in down the list while we took care of the domestic disturbance calls, the child neglect cases, the shootings, the stabbings, the gang banging, and the fatal car accidents.”
Howell’s jaw fell open. “Are you mocking me?”
“No, ma’am. Not at all,” McCoy replied with nothing but a straight face. The sergeant sighed deeply and barely resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose in exasperation. Dealing with drug addicts, car thieves, wife beaters and gang bangers was one thing (and a completely acceptable part of the job), but he really did not get paid enough to put up with snotty, prissy, stuck up bitches like Laura Howell.
Kirk could see that Howell’s shrill voice and attitude of entitlement was grating on his partner’s nerves, and by the look on Bones’ face, it was clear the beginnings of a migraine was taking hold right behind the man’s eyes. Jim shook his head and forced himself to focus and looked down at his clipboard, physically checking off that he had all the required information. He tore off his copies of the sheet and handed the pink carbon wordlessly to the young woman. “If we find your purse, we’ll be in touch.”
Incensed, Laura looked at the slip of paper like it was about to bite her hand off. She wadded it up in a little tiny ball and tossed it on the ground at her feet. The paper rolled away toward the curb of the lot, carried by the light breeze and settled against the gutter grate. Howell waved her arms frantically through the air and scrubbed her fake, perfectly manicured nails through her hair. With a squeal of frustration she ranted, “This is it? This is all you’re going to do? That’s bullshit! What the hell do I pay my taxes for anyway?”
“Ma’am, look,” McCoy began, feeling snarkier than usual. “We’re going to put out a description of the man who stole your purse. All the units will have it for this shift and the next one. We’re going to alert the local pawn shops in our daily reports of what was stolen. I suggest you start making phone calls to cancel whatever was in your purse, and call your loan company to report the check stolen. If we find your property, we’ll be sure to get in touch with you. But really, there’s not much else we can do now. I’m sorry you were a victim of crime, but your tax dollars only go so far in providing police coverage for the entire city,” McCoy finished, unwilling to let the bitch of a woman off without a subtle tongue lashing.
Howell, for her part, wasn’t about to back down, either. She looked McCoy up and down, and noticing the sergeant’s stripes on his shirt sleeves said, “Well, I guess there must be a reason someone as old as you is still on the streets, working with a kid who looks like he should still be friends with my little brother. What’s your supervisor’s name? I want your badge number.”
Len pointed to the police report she previously crumpled up and discarded without a second thought. “You’ve already got it, if you can still read it. There are two on there - my badge should be the one on the top. My CO is Lieutenant Pike. The number for the station is on the form as well, so feel free to give him a call. He’d love to hear from you.” McCoy shifted on one foot and pulled off his sunglasses. “And if you don’t pick the report up off the ground, I’m going to go ahead and cite you for littering.”
“Oh my god, you’re a dick,” she muttered, taking two long strides over to where the discarded report landed. Laura turned on her heel to walk away, she shot over her shoulder before she left, “And now, on top of missing my student loan check, whoever it was that jacked my purse has my bank card, my credit card, my cell phone with all my contacts in it, and most of all, my home address. Just great,” she finished sarcastically. “Thanks for all your help! Awesome!”
“Have a nice day, ma’am!” McCoy called across the parking lot.
Kirk watched the woman practically stomp off, his hands on his duty rig and a bemused expression on his face. He laughed out loud when she reciprocated McCoy’s words with vehement waves of both middle fingers. “Wow. She was…something.”
McCoy also stared at Howell’s retreating back, though his expression was anything but amused. Pursed lips, furrowed eyebrows and a partial glare told Kirk that his partner was somewhat annoyed by the woman’s childish behavior, but Jim also knew that Bones would be over it before they managed to get in the car.
“There’s always one,” McCoy said with a sigh. He flipped the metal clipboard closed and tossed it in its holder near the center console computer. “What’s next?”
“Coffee?” Kirk asked, checking his watch.
“Coffee,” McCoy replied. “Listening to that woman’s complaints drained my energy.”
Kirk chuckled as he opened the door to the cruiser. He sat down and went straight for the computer settled in between the driver and the passenger, punching up Howell’s information into the onboard database.
McCoy settled himself in the driver’s seat of the car. With a long suffering sigh, he furrowed his eyebrows and pointed to the computer. ”What are you doing, Jim?”
Fingers dancing rapidly across the touch screen interface, Kirk didn’t even bother to look up when he answered. He lip curled up minutely in the sinister way it often did when Jim had an idea he considered amusing. “I’m looking to see if that woman had any outstanding parking tickets I can use to make her day more miserable. You know, to return the favor.”
McCoy’s face broke into a wide smile right before he tipped his head back and laughed. Some days, maybe riding around with a rookie wasn’t so bad after all.
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“Bones, I think I’m going to out and commit a crime just so we have something to do. This sucks,” Jim said, head resting on the window and his fist propped up on under his chin. He let out a long sigh. Kirk absently tapped his pen with his left hand against the notepad sitting open on his lap. There were several small doodles drawn over the page of notes he was making, showcasing the boredom he felt. Jim barely repressed the urge to pout, instead yawning loudly against the window in his seat.
Three hours, a slew of mundane calls and a questionable gas station burrito later, Kirk thought the day officially went from interesting to downright craptacular. The shift’s excitement petered out rapidly after Laura Howell, and Kirk wondered if and when they’d ever get some action. It wasn’t the weekend, but anything was better than riding around the less reputable parts of town, doing busy work in a vain effort to stay occupied. The streets were dark, nearly deserted, and the few people that were out and about in the areas they’d previously checked actually looked legit.
Out of other, better, more attractive options, McCoy insisted that he and Kirk troll through a darkened parking lot in an area ripe with abandoned warehouses and condemned homes. The sergeant claimed it was a breeding ground for the illicit, and the place the cops always came when they needed something to do. One cracked streetlight flicked on and off above their car while the only other source of light came from a few security lamps positioned on one of the occupied buildings. Graffiti colored the brick of the privacy wall on the other side of the street, and Kirk momentarily found himself admiring the tagger’s talent.
Sighing deeply, Len rolled his eyes, easing his foot off the brake to let the car creep forward. “Did your mother drop you on your head as a child? Unless your plan is to arrest yourself, what person in their right mind goes to make more work for themselves?” McCoy asked, incredulous. He stabbed the buttons on the computer in the car viciously with the tip of his pen, paying little never mind to the delicacies of the keyboard.
“The one who is tired of sitting in a dark parking lot, running license plates to find stolen cars. This was only cool for the first five minutes, and now it’s just lame. The only thing we’ve managed to do so far is to figure out that people need to renew their cars’ registrations more than once every three years,” Jim muttered in return. He shifted to face Bones, scrunching his face up in annoyance. “And leave my mother out of this. It’s not my fault I was born in the sickbay of an aircraft carrier in the middle of the ocean.”
McCoy raised an eyebrow and cocked his head. “Bullshit.”
“No bullshit,” Kirk replied with a shake of his head. “I’ve got the birth certificate signed by the Enterprise’s onboard surgeon to prove it.”
“I was being facetious, but if that’s the case, it explains a lot,” Bones said, nodding his head as he connected the mental dots. ‘The kid was born at sea, the ship rolls and pitches, things get knocked around…’
Kirk’s snort and loud exclamation interrupted McCoy’s thought train. “HEY!”
The sergeant cracked a rare smile, genuine and soft. “Okay, relax! I was joking!”
A smart-ass comment was just about to pass through Jim’s lips when he looked out the windshield of the cruiser and spotted a familiar looking figure wandering through the parking lot. Narrowing his eyes, he flipped to the page in his notes taken from Howell’s random rant. “Bones, I think that’s the guy who jacked our crazy lady earlier. He fits the description I have for him.”
McCoy squinted and pulled out his own notepad, leafing through to find the correct page. He read it over and nodded his head. “Looks like our guy. Let’s see what he has to say. And if you’re right, I guess you turned out be useful for something after all, even if it pains me to admit it.”
Kirk rolled his eyes and pulled the handle of his door gently. Both men knew a junkie when they saw one, and the officers figured he would straight away bolt if they were to approach him in the normal fashion. Jim stepped out on to the street, feet making barely a sound against the blacktop. The dark fabric of Kirk’s uniform helped him blend effortlessly into the shadows while he crept up on his suspect. Jim peeked over his shoulder and found McCoy doing much of the same.
Their mark was heedless of the two cops’ presences, even though they were being less than quiet. A quick look left by Kirk sent a couple of high school aged kids on bikes to the other side of the street when the recognized the uniforms. Clearly, neither boy wanted to be caught out after curfew. Jim turned his head back toward the more pressing business when he was sure the kids wouldn’t cause him or McCoy and more problems. The last thing he needed was more distractions.
The likelihood that the purse-snatching junkie was high off drugs he bought with the cash in Howell’s wallet was a near certainty. Kirk watched as he meandered across the street, feeling the surfaces of whatever he bumped into in his punch-drunk state with a childlike awe of wonder. It was like a he was exploring his surroundings for the first time, and it would be almost comical if it weren’t so pathetic. He continued walking, finally collapsing on a bus bench about a half a block from the cruiser. The junkie laid down on the hard plastic surface, curling up with his sweatshirt pulled over his head.
The cops silently moved up, saying not a word until they were within a few feet of their target. “Nice night out here,” Jim said casually, striding up toward the possibly sleeping man.
Two bloodshot blue eyes snapped open, and before either cop realized it, he was up and off the bench. Kirk saw the junkie’s head dart left and then quickly right, looking for every possible exit away from the police. But when he looked to his far left, he was met with sight of McCoy coming up from the side. A panicked expression flashed across the thin, gaunt face and before either cop could give the order to stop, the man fled, booking it for the open space of the warehouse alleys just down the street.
Jim held up one hand as if the simple gesture would deter the suspect from running. “Hey, hey, no don’t do this,” Kirk began as he started at a dead sprint after the junkie. “We just want to talk to you!”
Kirk took off, legs churning and feet pounding against the pavement, wondering why exactly every single junkie had to run from the cops. Couldn’t they be nice and behave, just once? Was that so much to ask? He hollered down the street to the man, who for a strung out drug addict, turned out to be surprisingly quick. “Dude! Just stop! You’re making it worse if I have to come get you!”
The flighty man took a quick glance back over his shoulder and kept running. The cop was fast, and the nice lead he enjoyed earlier was drying up like water in the desert. Skidding around the corner, the man grabbed onto the half broken ladder of a rickety fire escape and quickly scrambled up it.
Jim saw a flash of a shoe disappearing up the ladder, and flying around the corner, grabbed the fire escape to halt his sideways movement. His momentum carried his feet up and off the ground, boots coming up and hitting the side of the building as he used his upper body strength to pull himself up. Once his legs stopped wildly flailing beneath him, Kirk scaled each rung quickly and efficiently. Jim stuck his head cautiously up and over the ledge of the warehouse’s roof, vigilant that he was at a severe tactical disadvantage, cresting the building exposed as he was.
The sound of footsteps off to his left grabbed his attention, and Jim caught the reflection of his suspect in the dirty skylight, illuminated by the full moon in the sky. Kirk hopped the ledge like he was jumping over the boards at hockey, placing his right hand on the lip and leaning his right hip against the side while swinging both his legs up and over the central contact point. His feet were barely on the ground again when he was off to the races, just on the heels of their suspect.
In his ear, Kirk heard McCoy’s panting call. “Kirk! I lost you!”
Jim reached up for the mic on his shoulder while still running full steam across the warehouse roof. “Warehouse roof. Around the corner, there was a ladder on the south side of the building. The red one with the graffiti.”
“I don’t see it,” came McCoy’s reply. A few seconds later, he added, “Dammit, kid. Stop. Break it off! I have no clue where you are!”
“I’m up on the roof, Bones! Can’t you hear me? I’m not exactly being quiet here!” Kirk replied, hurdling a pile of garbage without breaking his stride. He rounded a service entrance door, frustrated that the man was still eluding him. Jim came to the conclusion that he was at a distinct disadvantage, chasing their criminal around the rooftop. The man seemed to know every curve, every corner and where every loose pile of rocks was, because the cop still wasn’t gaining ground. “Stop already, will you!”
Kirk let out a frustrated growl when the man disappeared over the side of the building, presumably dropping back to street level. Kirk found the ladder and followed, bracing both his feet on the outside of the metal before he slid down like a submariner. He pivoted 180 degrees when he hit the ground and grabbed his mic. “Heading north, back on the street level!”
Kirk heard a loud curse in his ear, followed by the winded voice of his partner. “Goddammit, Jim! I’m not kidding any more! Break off your pursuit and stop NOW! I have completely lost you. He’s a petty criminal! We can catch this guy another day,” McCoy yelled into his radio.
Jim shook his head. ‘Not a chance in hell,’ he thought. He was close enough to see the logo on the bottom of the man’s shoes, and in a few more strides, it’d be all over but for the paperwork. Out loud, he said, “No way, Bones. I almost have him.”
“For fuck’s sake, Kirk, I’m not telling you again--” McCoy yelled. It was the last thing Jim heard before he launched himself, fully stretched out and parallel to the ground, at the suspect. He wrapped both his outstretched arms around the man’s torso, and when the bulk of his body hit the much lighter suspect, Kirk literally felt his mass knock the wind out of his charge. Jim’s momentum picked the pair up off the ground, and for a brief moment, they were airborne. The men crashed into a pile of garbage and cardboard boxes, rolling to a halt about six feet from where Kirk made the initial contact.
Jim landed on top, using his weight and superior strength to hold the man down while he reached for his cuffs with his free hand. Securing the metal bracelets, Jim picked up the moaning, panting drug addict and hauled him to his feet. Kirk sucked in a couple of greedy breaths to slow his own racing heart; though he thought he’d likely recover long before his newest collar did. “Up we go, genius,” Jim said to the man when he started walking back toward the car.
The radio crackled in his ear. Partner. Contact. Crap. Jim reached up and grabbed his shoulder mic. “Bones, I’ve got him. Northeast alley of the building. We’re coming out to the car now.”
As Jim rounded the corner with his drug addict in tow, McCoy came sprinting around the side of the building, skidding to a relieved halt when he saw his partner no worse for wear with a handcuffed suspect. Bending at the waist, he dropped his hands to his knees and panted heavily, swallowing to relieve the dry mouth he got chasing his partner around the block. He straightened and concentrated on slowing his breathing, sucking air in through his nose and out through his mouth.
Kirk shot him a cocky, barely winded grin as he passed. “Too easy, Bones. Too easy.”
Incensed, McCoy’s upper lip curled in a nearly feral fashion. Instead of the sarcastic comment Kirk was sure he’d get, the sergeant said nothing, silently turning and walking with his partner back to the car. The only thing audible as the trio walked was the sounds of their breathing and their feet tapping against the pavement. They backtracked their path, through the alley, across the street and past the graffiti wall before they walked under the security lights of the warehouse near where the car was left.
When they reached their cruiser, McCoy unlocked the doors and Kirk shoved the junkie into the car. He left the door open to allow some air to flow through the back seat. Though it wasn’t nearly as warm as the summer months, the crisp fall breeze floating through the air was refreshing, and a reminder why many stayed in the Midwest and put up with the arctic winters. Kirk reached in to grab his notepad from the front seat and walked around the open door to lean against the rear quarter panel of the car.
Kirk stood silently, waiting for McCoy to grab his notepad and come around to start the interview. Much as Pike did for him, Bones insisted he take the lead on all the questioning as senior officer so Kirk could learn the ropes. Jim tried his best to be a sponge every day, soaking in what knowledge and experience McCoy could offer, but there was a part of him that was anxious to take the reins when his training officer felt he was ready.
It should have been another interview in which Jim listened, interjected when he could, but where Bones did most of the talking. But instead of grabbing his beaten up leather notepad from the pocket on the driver’s door, McCoy tossed the keys to the cruiser to Kirk over the roof of the car and sat down heavily in the driver’s seat, body angled away from his partner. McCoy’s left leg hung insipidly out the door, posture slouched and frustrated.
“Bones? Hey, what gives, man?” Kirk asked, confused, leaning down and sticking his face in the area of the passenger’s seat. He couldn’t see McCoy’s face in the dark, but he could see his partner’s bowed head and closed eyes. “Hey, you okay?”
“Yeah. Fine. Your collar, your interview,” McCoy said stonily, rubbing his eyebrows with his thumb and index finger. He let out a long sigh and dropped his head into his hand, massaging his temples to keep the headache at bay.
Kirk studied his partner’s sullen posture and attitude. He was far from understanding the intricacies of Leonard McCoy’s thought processes, but he knew that this was a side of him he’d never seen before. Exasperated was a normal state of being from Bones when dealing with Jim; Kirk was well aware of that, but the vibe he was getting from his partner now was different. It was odd, and it absolutely, positively, did not feel right. Pursing his lips, Kirk wondered if he’d just crossed an invisible line in their early partnership, because McCoy actually looked pissed.
Jim found himself hoping that Bones was able to let his anger go quickly, because the squad car really was too small of a space to have to share it with someone who wanted to tear his head off. Whatever happened the rest of the night, Kirk knew one thing for sure: he was about to get the excitement he’d prayed for earlier. It just really wasn’t in the way he planned.
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Next Up: Kirk picks Pike’s brain and in the process, gets inside McCoy’s head.