Disclaimer: I don't own any of the CSI:NY characters.
Another story that just popped into my head and demanded to be written.
In memory of "Moira", furry but a great friend and listener.
The night sky is as black as the coffee he's drinking to try and keep awake. Stars are fading into its depths like grains of sugar, the struggle against the momentary lights below lost. Lights that scream out 'Look, we're alive. We're having fun.' Momentarily. Until another body shows up, at another dark corner. And people turn away from it. Thin veils of clouds flit across the firmament following the drift from high pressure to low pressure. Heat still rising from the city. From the pavement, from the artificial lights, from doors and windows opened to release the fire burning inside, inside of people.
Thin veils of mist rise from his cup, momentarily sink onto the dark liquid as he breathes onto it. Rising up again, with the heat, a vivacious dance. He breathes onto it again, watches the mist collapse into patterns running across the coffee's surface. Impossible to trace. He thinks of Stella. Effervescent, but still, he had to send her home. Not that she had made it easy for him. 'I'm okay.' and all that. In the end he had played the boss-card, and secretly he hated himself for it. He'd have preferred to have her around too, but the way things were going right now she clearly needed a rest, a time away from this place of death.
He recalls the expression on her face when they had found their latest victim, after a week of already running on fumes. Anger, frustration, sadness he could have dealt with, but the void that had crept into her eyes immediately had moved on into his heart. He couldn't bear to see it so he had turned away, and eventually he had sent her away. The void had momentarily been filled by opposition, but then she had walked out of his office, leaving it empty, taking his soul along with her.
He stirs the coffee randomly, molecules swirling around the spoon like thoughts through his head. It could pass for a morning coffee by now. Not a good time to be thinking clearly, even for him. But it might be a good time to have an inspiration. He opens one of the folders lying on his desk. He flips through it. Pictures, autopsy report, test results, witness statements, all neatly arranged. Another folder, and another, all the crimes of just one week, neatly arranged on his desk. As if they didn't bring chaos to the lives of those left behind.
Again he thinks of the body they had found. A small body, a face having grown up prematurely. In a room with no games, tears in the wallpaper and cracks in the ceiling for its only decoration. Not even signs of a struggle. And then Sid's report, a boy of twelve years had obviously died of a heart-attack. Nothing from tox to explain it, nothing from any other lab to explain it. Just nothing left of a life.
The shrill sound of his pager tears him from his thoughts.
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He arrives at one of the countless coffee shops scattered over the streets of New York thirteen minutes later. Usually not filled by a lot of people at this time of day or rather night, now it lies completely empty before him. Flack stands outside talking to Danny and Lindsay, both looking rather tousled. At least they seem to have got some sleep. Lindsay smiles at Mac as he approaches them.
"Hey," Flack greets him and begins explaining before Mac can ask, "called you too because it seems kind of an unusual case. As far as we can tell no murder, the 'body' the woman who called it in saw lying behind the counter is currently being treated in hospital. Amanda Miller, she was alone because the other girl who should have been on the shift left when she arrived, feeling sick. The blood the witness saw on her clothes seems to have been medium and low velocity coffee spatter."
"Don't worry; we've kept her uniform so you can process it. And paramedics have been told to document everything they find on her." he continues quickly seeing a certain twitch in Mac's face. "It doesn't seem to be a robbery either, all the cash is still there and the only thing that appears to be missing is a bottle of chai flavored syrup. Other than that the manager knows nothing, lucky bastard was asleep in the back." he finishes with a wry grin.
Mac's eyebrows quirk upwards. Admittedly this case sounds like a welcome change from the usual murder, manslaughter or other forms of unnatural death they usually have to deal with, but something tells him that isn't going to make matters easier. And there might have been customers who could turn up as victims any time soon.
Through the front window he watches Danny and Lindsay get to work. His reflection appears like a ghost between them. He turns away from it.
"Flack, check around if you can find any more witnesses."
"Angell's already on it, I'll join her. I have a feeling you're not going to go home either?"
Mac nods with a lopsided grin, sometimes his colleagues know him far too well. "I'll see if Ms Miller can help us with anything."
He looks through the shop window again. Danny and Lindsay stepping across the floor in a tango. Carefully measured movements concealing but teasing emotions boiling inside. His reflection staring back at him. 2D, like something is missing.
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She sits at a table, stares at the screen of her laptop, waiting, waiting. But nothing happens. She begins drumming her fingers on the table, from the edge to the screen and back. Back and forth, back and forth. She hits the keys with excessive force, still nothing, she slams it shut. Her knuckles turn white as she grips it. A grinding noise escapes from her mouth. She's trying to hold back, the energy barely contained trembling through her.
It erupts. The laptop is lifted into the air; it crashes down on the table. Again and again. She screams, her wails joining those of the material suffering at her hands. Plastic cracks, wires spill. She tears at it; tears open her hands on the sharp edges she has created.
Nobody notices.
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A click freezes another square of the linoleum floor onto a frame. Lindsay pauses for a moment, watches Danny swabbing traces from the floor behind the counter, the area she has already captured. The scent of coffee refuses to leave the air. It tickles her brain, they could have breakfast now.
"Fancy grabbing a bite when we're done here?" he says looking up.
She beams at him, "Sure, just … maybe not in a coffee shop?"
He grins, "My place?"
She nods, enforces the visible affirmative with an audible one, "Sounds good."
She turns her attention to the floor again, feeling lighter inside. They continue their attempts to separate traces of a crime scene from traces of everyday customer traffic through a place that never closes. Lindsay's not sure if they are lucky that it would have been Amanda's job to clean the floor some time during her shift, and that she didn't get around to do it.
Coffee colored footprints running into each other, impossible to tell them apart. Impossible even to tell they are footprints. Just smudges that could have been left by anything. The assumption that they are footprints based on the circumstances. Lindsay chuckles at the thought that people might have come in walking on their hands. Danny looks at her with an eyebrow raised. She shares the thought with him.
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His eyes scan the walls, habitually searching for patterns. Their color reminds him of condensed milk, a sorry compromise between the sterility of pure white and the wish to make the place a bit more comfortable. Though now he's only waiting for a witness to wake up the walls spell out memories to him, memories of people trying to pull through, of people losing the fight.
He looks down at the file he's holding, a copy of Amanda Miller's medical report in a folder the color of café au lait. No sign of an injection mark. Still, blood running through tox now. A set of small bruises has begun to form on her left wrist, but not enough to indicate that she was held down by anyone, overcome.
Maybe just a boyfriend she didn't want to talk to.
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She eases her hands from the bloodied material. For a short moment she has felt better, the physical pain overpowering the emotional one. Physical pain, throbbing through her veins, blood dripping from her hands. Plastic shards clicking onto the table. She holds her hands under cold running water, cooling down the seething pain, washing it off.
She takes the kettle and fills it. Cold water bubbling under the force of more tumbling down on it. Plugging it in, watching, waiting. Tiny bubbles beginning to form, tearing themselves from the metal bottom. Molecules dancing through the clear liquid, faster and faster. Bubbles growing bigger and bigger. Ripping through the water, bursting through its surface. She watches. Watches molecules escape from the liquid, turn into gas. Steam dancing through the air. Running hot fingers across her face.
She switches it off. The smell of coffee begins to pervade her room, brushes along shelves, clings to fabrics. She knows she shouldn't have it, it doesn't wake her anymore, it only excites her. But she feels that she needs it.
Her eyes wander over the things in her room. Stacks of books she'd thought she'd read one day. Objects placed haphazardly all across the room, battered edges, threadbare skins. Weather-beaten, out-of-order, held together only by her memories. All those things she had never really needed – but she just couldn't let go. Clinging to them like she couldn't cling to lives.
And in reality it had never meant anything at all.
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Kendall whistles as she takes the uniform from the evidence envelope to process it. She's not much of a morning person, but once she is awake she's bubbly. And thoughts of how she could tease Adam have brightened her mood.
She unfolds the light green material, scans it with her eyes that are not only sharp on evidence. A coffee stain covering the upper front. Almost as hard to wash out as a blood stain. A picture is snapped, a sample is cut from the cloth. Her whistle becomes warped as she hears familiar footsteps approach, the corners of her mouth twisting upwards.
"Good morning, Adam." she pipes.
The footsteps come to a halt. "M-morning, Kendall."
He eyes her back warily, he knows something is coming his way, he just doesn't know what. And not seeing her eyes doesn't make it easier.
"Would you like some coffee?" the tone of her voice hasn't changed.
He's sure there's a trap either way, "Erm, yeah, why not."
"Here you go." She hands him the piece of cloth with a smile that struggles to remain innocent.
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He enters the room where Amanda Miller is resting. The sleep that had been forced on her had not refreshed her. The smile she greets him with is well-practiced yet genuine.
"Ms Miller, I'm Detective Mac Taylor. We're investigating what happened in the coffee shop. How do you feel?"
The young woman runs a hand over her shining blonde hair, pulled into tight braids that join at the back of her neck. "Puzzled. Basically last thing I remember is pouring a coffee – and then I woke up here." indicating the room, "I'm sorry that I'm causing you trouble." Her sapphire-blue eyes fix on him.
His lips wrinkle into a short smile. "You're not causing us any trouble. Whoever did this to you is. But you might be able to help us. I'd like you to try and remember everything that happened in the shop during your shift, no matter how small an incident it might seem."
She nods. "I'm sorry I can't give you very good descriptions of the customers, I've never been good at describing people, and I don't really look that close anymore." she shrugs with an apologetic smile.
"That's okay; we have people who are trained to get the most out of descriptions. For now it's enough to focus on what happened."
She nods again, her eyes becoming slightly foggy as she concentrates. She tells him of an old man on crutches ordering a plain coffee. She had put it on the sideboard for him because he couldn't carry it. He had smiled his thanks. Two boys far too young to even be outside at that time had tried to order a coffee with a shot of rum. After ten minutes of discussion they had left, pulling faces at her. A young man had ordered a cappuccino and had drunk it in what had appeared to be one sip. And so on.
"There also was a woman. She wanted a latte macchiato with a shot of chai syrup. She looked so sad, but she was really nice, left a huge tip."
Mac underlines the last sentence he has written down. He looks up and indicates her wrist with his pen.
"Can you tell me what happened there?"
"Oh," Instinctively she covers the bruises with her other hand. "That … it happened on the way to work. I was a bit late, and suddenly there was this woman. She wanted to talk to me. It seemed rather urgent because she grabbed me. But I just didn't have the time. There were other people around so I suggested she talk to one of them. I hope …" she traces the bruises with her fingers, "I hope she found someone to talk to."
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Her eyes fall on the remains of her laptop. Her hands begin to shake, coffee spills. She tries to set the cup down but it clanks against the table. She grips it harder, presses her elbows into the edge of the table. Her fingers release the cup. It falls, spins like a top, spitting coffee around. She slams her fists on the table, hitting smooth surface, hitting the cup.
The pain draws hot tears, falling onto the table. Clear liquid mixing with black. Her movements slow down. The physical pain ebbs away, the pain causing tears remains. They course down her face, burning into her skin, running along scars.
She looks at the heap on her bed, covered with a duvet.
And waits.
This was supposed to be a one-shot but somehow it just kept getting longer and longer, this seemed like a good place to stop for now…, thanks for reading and I hope you have enjoyed it so far.
All thoughts are welcome; every review is appreciated and replied to wherever possible. They are also a great incentive to continue this or any of my other pieces :)