Caution: This section really has nothing to do with you, it's just me ranting. If you want some back story on what motivates me, read ahead. If not, skip to the break and read on.
I originally planned to submit this story in three long-ish chapters, but as I wrote the more daunting that prospect started to become, both for me to write and probably for my audience to read. So I'm backtracking to my earlier days when I put up not chapters but segments of stories that were generally shorter than what they would be all put together... Let me be frank, I don't like this style of writing (which is why I stopped doing it after I got serious about writing) for any number of reasons: I don't like fuck off cliff hangers at every chapter, something I was definitely doing before. I don't like the sense of haste and not-planning that go into making those smaller chapters. And most of all, I don't like how short they are... it makes me feel like I didn't write enough. But, the pros are I can get out chapters faster for those who care to read this story.
This is my attempt at a Law and Order type fanfiction. My first attempt, to be exact. I was inspired by Foodstamps Lex Talionis a long time ago, and it's taken me this long to come up with a proper story to counter hers. And even as I write this, I feel like a douche cause I was a little hard on Foodstamp's writing towards the end and now I realize how difficult it is to write something with this amount of depth and detail. I don't take back what I said (cause I'm a stubborn ass) but I do feel more empathy and understanding towards her. And once again, I demonstrate how not in her league I am. But whatever, she's way too busy to be reading my fanfics, so I'm off the hook, haha!
I actually put effort into my fact checking on this story, but it was still an average attempt. If there is any misinformation here (other than the fictional) please tell me about it, but also try to be understanding - I'm really not all that smart anyway.
I'm 18 and almost a college student; I've been writing fanfics for years now. I don't give a fuck about disclaimers anymore. In fact, simply because I'm writing on a website that is dedicate to FANFICTIONS should negate any and all need to disclaim anything - by being on this site alone, we're all admitting to NOT owning the characters we're writing about. So from now on, fuck it. It's not like I'll get in trouble or anything.
Enjoy!
Je Ne Regrette Rien
Chapter One
Rain fell like cold, leaded pellets from the overcast sky, drilling holes into the asphalt and dirt on a microscopic level, breaking the bonds of the dead man's epidermis, causing the pallor flesh to collapse into itself, wrinkling. Everything was a wash of gray – from the shifting clouds covering the horizon to the dingy glaze over everybody's expression. The only color that stood out at all was the crimson blood that puddle into an icy pink, rippling with every bullet that cascaded from the drizzling storm, flowering in the sick quagmire.
Distant thunder harmonized the drumming of the rain as Detective Gregory St. Clair's mind briefly strayed to Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake. He easily overcame the urge to hum a few bars before wiping the soaked, blonde hair from his eyes and adjusted his trench coat's collar. This rain was a bloody curse; already washing away priceless evidence. Right now, Gregory's immediate adversary wasn't the assassin, but every second that ticked away at his ears, like droplets on the pavement.
"Victim is Scott Bailey," reported Gregory's partner, Detective Alex Sharpton. His tone of voice was as bleak as the forecast. Everyone at the crime scene was feeling the weight of the storm on their hearts, and the rain didn't help either. "Yes, the Scott Bailey. Cause of death: three bullet wounds to the chest. We expect he died instantly, but I sure as hell can't make that call. Wait for the official report. Shots were fired from the top of One Canada Square. And call an ambulance, why don't you…. Jesus Christ, this is just what I needed this week."
Gregory heard the static of the radio, but couldn't resist a stoic quip.
"Talking to the voices in your head again, Sharpton? Because I'm certainly not listening to you."
"Yeah, they're all telling me it's crowded in here." Gregory's visage didn't falter – the frown plastered on his face was not the result of recent consequence, but a perpetual fixture to his thin lips. To say he wasn't in the mood for conversation was an understatement. After two years, he had murdered his appetite for human companionship. Regardless, idle small talk left a bitter taste on his tongue.
"We're not playing tennis here," Gregory grumbled, not losing his commanding undertone. "That wasn't an invitation, Sharpton."
"I know," Alex sighed, shrugging. He was in no mood either, though he was used to this kind of attitude from his partner by now. "But if I have to be the butt of your sarcasm, I might as well return the ball every now and again."
"Your optimism turns my stomach."
"Nothing turns your stomach, Greg. I would know." He glanced down at the draining color in Bailey's cheeks and clicked his tongue in disappointment. "Just another cadaver. Just more carrion for the vultures."
"Those vultures preyed on Scott all his life," Gregory commented. "The political spotlight is nothing more than a hotplate for the fat cats in their penthouses. Not even in death can he escape their flashing cameras. In fact, this will all be reduced to nothing more than a fleeting tabloid they can drink their morning coffee to."
"Not that they'll be doing much mourning."
Gregory blinked, mildly surprised. Sharpton was right: this was the closest he had ever been to a real life celebrity, but he could muster no excitement. Scott Bailey really was just another dead body to him. Just another job to solve.
"It's just so tragic," Alex continued, allowing an unprofessional amount of emotion to leak into his words. "Lord Scott Bailey wasn't even a Lord for a whole week before he gets sniped. During a press conference held in Westferry Road Plaza, no less. Can you think of any worse way to die?"
Gregory remained mute.
"Of course you can," Alex retracted, shuffling bashfully on the balls of his feet. "Sorry. I should have known better than to ask that."
"It was in broad daylight," Gregory mumbled, changing the subject, "if you excuse the irony of our situation. Whoever did this was either an idiot or a mastermind to have risked an assassination of a fledgling Supreme Court Justice." He wanted to tear his eyes away from the soggy skin of the deceased, but he could feel the image already burned into his consciousness.
"I'm leaning more towards idiot," Alex offered.
"What makes you say that?"
"Well, we already know that the guy who did this had to be in one of the near by buildings. Roughly five minutes after the shots were fired, every building within a mile of here was shut down – on lock down. Doors were slammed shut, elevators stopped, primary electricity cut off. I'm actually surprised at how fast the minute men reacted. And police have already stormed the One Canada Square building and found the murder weapon. If our assassin had any escape plan at all, it's been foiled by now."
"Which means the perpetrator must still be in that building." Gregory ground his teeth so hard he feared they might crack. "Let's get going."
The lobby inside of One Canada Square was a bee hive of activity; men and women in uniform rushing past one another under the beaming florescent lights of the emergency generator. The entire building was being searched while workers and staff mingled idly by as their worlds were turned upside down by the terrorist plot. No one could have imagined an assassination on this scale let alone against one of the youngest, most popular United Kingdom Supreme Court Justices.
Gregory and Alex walked with purpose, seeking out the closest officer who actually looked like they knew what they were doing. They happened upon Sergeant Joan Reynolds who introduced herself with a curt salute.
"What do we have here, Sergeant?" Gregory began, cutting to the chase.
"We've already retrieved the murder weapon," Joan sighed. Gregory could tell that she was normally a high spirited person, but was taking this particular case a little harder than normal. Could he blame her? This has been one of the most bold and extreme crimes in Gregory's entire detective career.
"It's an FR F2 sniper rifle," she continued, gesturing towards the officers who were taking inventory. "Even if it wasn't raining up there, the gun showed signs of being wiped clean. We don't have fingerprints."
"Report has it that there was no traceable DNA samples to be found," Sharpton chimed in, flipping through his notepad.
"We did find two objects of interest." Joan flagged down an officer who handed her an evidence bag. "Here's the cigarette butt we found on the scene."
"Any DNA off of that?" Gregory inquired.
"None," Joan informed, holding the bag closer so the two detectives could see. "The filter end was clipped off by a something with a tapered edge. Most likely from the second object," she paused to retrieve the item in question and displayed it with a dubious frown, "a shovel."
"Fibers?"
"Zero; the perp must have been wearing gloves, but even fabric is missing from the grain of the wood. We didn't even find the other end to the cigarette or the three bullet casings. This guy was meticulous."
"And he only had minutes to cover his tracks and escape," Gregory recounted. "So… did the cheeky bastard repel off the side of the building and no one saw him or do we have a man in custody."
"The floors are being searched as we speak, Detective."
"That desk over there," Gregory pointed. "I'd like to speak to the receptionist to see if they remember anybody suspicious. And, Sergeant Reynolds, I'd like you to personally oversee the handling of the video tapes. Get everyone in this building accounted for. Don't let anyone leave."
The lobby receptionist stood with his back against the wall, tapping his foot nervously against the polished tile. As soon as Gregory and Alex began making their way towards him, his face blanched as if he knew what was coming to him. The fact that he was a relatively young looking man – possibly in his early twenties – did nothing to convince Gregory that he was beyond aiding and abetting.
"Excuse me," Alex smiled, "Mister… Jacob, is it? We'd like to ask you a few questions."
"Can you recall any persons with behavior that may be construed as suspicious enter the building before or during Lord Scott Bailey's press conference?" Gregory stared down at him with a fiery intensity, and the boy seemed to shrink back into the woodwork of the walls.
"No, no, no," Jacob rifled off in quick succession. "Everything was normal in here, everything was fine."
"The UK's most prominent Justice was assassinated by someone from this very building and you're saying everything is fine. I'd hate to see what sick entertainment you consider to be a social life."
Alex stepped forward a bit, cutting Gregory off from direct contact to Jacob. They didn't explicitly play good-cop-bad-cop; that was just the dynamic of their partnership. Gregory couldn't help being bitter and blunt. "Make no mistake, Jacob," Alex started in a concerned tone. "If you're hiding something and we find out you lied to us, you're going to be a lot worse off. Be honest. C'mon, mate."
Jacob's eyes darted in every direction but forward, avoiding locking gazes with either men at all costs. "I can't," he whimpered.
"Jacob," Alex whispered. "Do you like the idea of jail? Do you want to go there? If you do, then by all means, keep obstructing us. My partner, St. Clair here, will be more than happy to cart you off to the station. Do it for yourself, mate."
The boy fidgeted a little more before bursting open. "I wasn't at the desk – please don't tell my boss, I'll get canned!" He stopped to collect his thoughts, noticeably calming down. Gregory rolled his eyes in annoyance and turned his back to them, staring off in the direction of the elevators. "I left about twenty minutes before Lord Bailey showed up down the street. No one else was down here, everyone was on the tenth floor watching the press conference. I went up to join them. Bailey was a hero to me, I hated to watch him die!"
"Yeah, it's a real mess," Alex agreed, feeling sorry for the boy. Yes, one of their leads had just been nipped in the bud, but at least they still had the video cameras. "I bet you Lord Collins would be tossing in his grave if he'd been buried yet. Two Supreme Court Justices dead within a month of each other. And one murdered! Tragic."
A soft ping caught Gregory's attention. He broke away from the other two, keeping his arms crossed, and watched as a set of elevator doors slid open. A woman and a man in dark clothes stepped out, seemed to say goodbye to each other, and parted ways – the man going down the hall towards the basement stairs.
"Sharpton," Gregory barked, bringing his partner's full concentration towards him. "Didn't you tell me all of the elevators were cut from power?"
"They were… are."
"Then why is that one functioning?"
Gregory and Alex exchanged glances before both of them drew their handguns from their shoulder holsters, running towards the elevator hallway. Sergeant Reynolds witnessed their sudden dash and called after them. "Detain that woman!" Gregory ordered, turning down the hallway and up to the just closing door of the basement levels. Damn! His feet were slipping; his soles had hardly any traction!
Bursting through the door, Gregory nearly plummeted down the stairs immediately in front of him, but like a feline, expertly kept his composure, using the momentum to carry him the rest of the way to the bottom floor. Beyond the flickering lights, he could just barely make out the body of a man at the end of the hall, sprinting frantically.
"Freeze!" Gregory shouted (and instantly regretted saying such a stupid thing) before aiming his gun. He was a good shot, but not at this distance. Not in the dark. He broke into a run to catch up with the man as he disappeared behind another set of doors, Sharpton staying on his heels.
Years of training had prepared Gregory for occasions such as these. He was fit and determined. So why was his heart pounding so hard he could taste it in his mouth? This wasn't simple adrenaline. This was a fear that Gregory had only felt twice in his entire life.
The doors gave way to a pitch black storeroom; a giant area with shelves and boxes and janitor equipment as far as the eye could see. Gregory contemplated the possibility of an ambush, but it was two against one and the assassin's only objective was to get away as fast as possible. Killing a police officer would be stupid and unnecessary if he could simply slip away unnoticed.
Gregory allowed his eyes to adjust while holding his semi-automatic at arm's length. It was dead silent. He could hear his heart pulsing every second, feeling his veins dilate and throb against his skin, even over his shallow breathing. Alex was right behind him, his footsteps heavy. How many times had Gregory told him to be light on his feet as to not give away his position? The rookie never learned, even after two whole years.
They searched the room, top to bottom, leaving no corner unaccounted for, no dark shadow left unsecured.
"Damn it," Alex hissed between his teeth. "There's no one here, Greg. He must have slipped back out the other end while we had our backs turned."
"No," Gregory calmly whispered. "We definitely would have seen him go by or at least heard the door reopen." He quickly cast his gaze toward the firmly shut exit. "He has to still be in the room."
"Where the hell's our back up?"
A dense blackness caught Gregory's eye and instantly his shoulders dropped. "Sharpton," he called, dejected. His legs felt like they were weighted with led as he approached the circle of darkness and ran his fingers over its border. "A hole. There's a hole in the wall."
Alex soon followed suit, his face dropping in disbelief. "A tunnel," he sighed.
Gregory crouched onto his haunches and examined the hole – admiring it. "I'll bet you 50 Euros that tunnel leads right up to the street level, beyond the police barricade, and straight to a get away car that was lying in wait for him." He lowered his head into his free hand, messaging his pounding temples. "He got away."
"He dug a fucking tunnel!" Alex cursed, still unable to wrap his mind around it.
Gregory holstered his gun and counted on his fingers: "A rifle that's been wiped clean, no bullet casings, no DNA or fingerprints, and an escape tunnel that must have been excavated preemptively. I have to commend the bastard. He planned this whole thing out to a tee."
"Well, we caught him in one mistake," Alex nodded.
"What's that?"
"An eye witness." Alex beamed. "The woman from the elevator. No way he planned on her."
Gregory took a deep breath in the hopes of activating his parasympathetic chemicals so that he could think straight and slowly rose to his full height. "Let's get moving then. We have no time to waste."
Alex didn't move, still running his eyes over the hole in the wall. It was practically a perfect circle.
"Sharpton?"
"Like a fucking mole…" Alex mused to himself before heading for the stairs.
Gregory felt his heart lurch again and bit down on his bottom lip – the last nervous habit he just couldn't rid himself of. With his cold, gray eyes, Gregory glared into the tunnel wishing the heat of his gaze would incinerate the assassin above, knowing it would do no good.
"Yeah," he agreed quietly. "That just about sums it up…."
End of Chapter 1