Technicalities:
"Knight Rider" and "Team Knight Rider" concept and characters copyright Glen A. Larson.
"Baywatch" and trademarks and concept and characters are the copyright of Gregory J. Bonann, Michael Berk, Doug Schwartz, David Hasselhoff.
"Lethal Weapon" concept and characters are the copyright of Jeffry Boam, Richard Donner and Joel Silver. All rights reserved by Warner Bros.
***Warning!!!***This story contains scenes of violence, profanity, and sexual innuendo. Rated R.
Warning!!! Lethal Weapon I spoilers.
Author's note: This story and others like it in the series are primarily built upon the idea of various T.V. shows and movies crossing over. This simply means that the characters of various T.V. shows and movies exist in the same world. Mostly, the characters of Knight Rider and my originally developed characters remain a constant.
* redcheck15
Author's Handle: redcheck15
Email: redcheck15@hotmail.com
Story type: Fan Fiction Crossover
Show: Knight Rider, Baywatch, and Lethal Weapon Crossover.
Rating: R for violence, profanity and suggestive scenes.
This story may be distributed for reading free of charge and must remain unchanged. It is purely for the enjoyment of reading and not profit. It is also the property of the author and may not be distributed for any commercial purposes. Distribution must include the whole UNCHANGED file.
Continue...
IMPORTANT: If you have not done so, please read Knight prologue. It precedes the beginning of all chapters and sets the plot in motion.
Summery: Rick, a 17 year old street-taught mercenary, has added DUKE to his trade of deadly weapons. Everything seems to be going so well, until his brother Tom places a call for his help. Being a good brother, he finds himself squaring off with two hard-to-kill LAPD homicide cops, who are following a trail of smut pornography victims left by his brothers 'production company'. But when he hides his brother out by the beach, Tom cannot suppress his perverse sexual desire to find another victim, this time an LA County Baywatch Lifeguard named Lani...
On with Chapter 1: A Lethal Business...
Rick pulled the rusty Buick LeSabre to the garbage-littered street. Feeling for the securing weight of the Beretta hanging under his left shoulder in a quick-draw holster, he wrinkled his nose in disgust while exiting the car. If anything, the smell wafting in the air was enough to discourage anyone except for the very desperate. Garbage littered the gutters of the street, shabby apartments and houses (if you could call them that) lined the street. Graffiti, gang-colours, and the occasional splotch of dried blood plaster the walls like camouflage.
He reached into his expensive six-hundred dollar black leather jacket and produced a pair of three-hundred dollar OKLEY sunglasses. Putting them on, he began walking into the alley behind the truck.
Rick was acutely aware of the 7 set of eyes following his progress from 10 meters away. He walked on, unmolested as he made his way deeper into the alley. This was his turf; he was known here to those who were in the know. For long years Rick had worked to establish his name as a street-for-hire assassin, and his presence was a testament to his ability to remain among the living. It was also a powerful deterrent to those who wished him ill-will.
Too bad he couldn't bring the Ford with him. But it had to stay hidden for now. Any vehicle would have lasted, oh, 5 minutes before it was completely stripped of all its valuable accessories. Any normal vehicle: the Ford Expeditioner was a recent acquisition of Rick's, and the TKR vehicle was far beyond the norm. The first thing he had done with it was to go rob a bank. Simply put, he had crashed the truck through five feet of pure concrete and made off with two million dollars in cash, then disappeared before the police arrived.
He kept on walking. His eyes picked out a door to his left. A pile of putrid refuse lay to one side of it.
Hopefully, the car would still be in one piece when he got back. If not, oh well...he'd just go buy another one.
He opened the door, taking off his glasses and pocketing them. The interior smelled no worse than the outside. Broken doors and smashed-in walls greeted his sight. Cobwebs hung randomly from various corners. The shaft of light from the doorway was like a invader. It pierced the musty darkness that seemed to forbid anyone from violating the premises. In the left corner was a doorway. From his vantagepoint, the stairs that led down were barely visible. He shut the door, then began making his way down.
With each step came a creaking noise. He wondered whether this would be the time the stair broke, sending him falling into the darkness. Standing at the bottom, he pulled out a mini-magnum flashlight and turned it on, then began making his way through the basement. After 3 minutes of walking, he found himself in front of a metal door. Shutting off the flashlight, he reached out and rapped the door. Once, twice, then three times in rapid succession.
The door swung open, revealing an interior that was quite different from the outside.
For one thing, the smell was gone and the furniture was whole. Another was the gangly hood with the red headband, who held an M-16 pointed at his chest.
The eyes widened in amazement, while the rifle swung down to rest easy.
"Rick!" the youth said, extending a hand.
Rick took it and shook warmly. "Dick, whazzup?"
Sudden screams, female screams, filled the air.
Dick ushered him in, then closed the door. "Same old man."
The screams picked up in volume and intensity, followed by a loud gunshot.
Rick flinched, then relaxed.
Dick just grinned.
"My bro doing business?"
Dick laughed. "Yep. Just doing a final take man!"
"Wanna brew?"
"Sure."
A frosty beer came sailing. With deft dexterity, Rick caught the can and took a long pull.
Just then his brother came bounding out of the room. He was slightly shorter than Rick's five foot eleven, with brown eyes and blonde hair instead of Rick's dark hair.
"Yo! Bro, glad you could come! Been meaning to talk to you."
Rick eyed his brother with contempt. He was sparsely dressed; all he had on were a pair of jockeys. There was the smell of sweat and sex emanating from him. But that was not all. For all his excitement and boasted manliness there was an underlying current of...fear.
"Still making those smut movies I see," Rick said.
His brother lit a cigarette, inhaled, then blew the cloud of smoke skyward.
There was no love lost between them. Rick killed for money, as did his brother. But there was always a difference, he told himself. He killed without pain, without suffering. One shot to the head always killed his contracts. His brother, on the other hand, tormented his victims for long hours. He caused them to suffer through physical anguish and humiliation before killing them. To Rick, that was more than enough to set them apart. He killed to pay the bills, his brother did it just for the hell of it.
His brother swaggered to the fridge in a cocky manner. He appropriated a beer and took a pull.
"So? Why did you ask me to come here. You know I don't like this place."
It was an understatement. Rick and Tom's sister worked as a hooker. And even though Rick loves his sister dearly, he would do anything if it meant she could stop prostituting. He had been around, seen the world through smoky glasses, and what he had seen was downright awful. He knew, someday, his sister might end up dead at the hands of some john. If that day ever came, he knew someone would pay.
But what his brother did, create smut films, struck too close to home. It sickened him that his brother enjoyed what he did; it was family betrayal.
"Ya man, I hear ya. But I wuz working. We're gonna finish another
reel tonight. It's hot bro. Gonna make us a fortune offa this one. Got
some real lively action from a few underage-"
Just then, a tall man with curly brown hair stepped through the door. In his arms he held film reels. A long, ax-like nose and a pair of beedy eyes greeted him. Behind the man came a short blonde woman. Her dispassionate eyes gave him a once-over, before she went back to eating her apple.
The tall guy was the producer for this so-called 'production company'. He came up to Rick and put out a skinny (and sweaty) hand. "Hello Rick. Nice to see you," he said, in a low voice.
Rick merely stared at him coldly. After five seconds, the hand lowered. A smirk made its way onto the producer's face. Ignoring Rick, the man turned to his brother.
"Tom, we're done here. It's a wrap. Give me a call when you can find more 'actresses'."
For all the insulation that Rick had collected as a murder-for-hire, his stomach threatened to rebel. It was all he could do to stop himself from shooting the skinny fuck.
"Will do boss," Tom replied languidly. "We gonna make lots, right?"
The producer laughed, a mocking laugh that got on Rick's nerves.
"Oh yeah! People love it when they're famous! I imagine all the boys that get turned down by these regulars at the bars will give an arm to see this flick."
The producer made for the doorway. Behind his blonde assistant came two jocks. They carried a full body bag between the two of them.
"So whadya think bro? I'm gonna be a star!"
Rick's temper boiled over.
"Listen, ya little shit! I don't want to hear about you and your perverse job.
Now, you got something to say, say it. Otherwise, I'm outta here."
The cocky look vanished from his brother's eyes. It was as if his entire body deflated. He suddenly looked drawn out and pale. He appeared to grow ten years older.
"Look bro, you gotta help me. The cops are onto me."
Rick groaned. "Oh shit. Tell me you haven't been scoring chickees from the Garden of Eden again."
The Garden of Eden was one of the famous and prestigious club in L.A. However, it was no different from any of the so-called 'elite' bars there. To the analytical mind, these were the places that did not believe men and women were created equal. The segregation of certain people from the rest of society was quite evident. One was let in based on their looks, their body, and money. For some, this was a frustrating slide back for humanity. Just when the fight against racism had been cranked into high gear, there came a new slant of disrespect toward other humans. Women and men were let in based on their looks and body. It didn't matter how old or young they were. If your were a man, you needed to be trim, fit, wealthy, good-looking, muscluar/famous. The guys call it 'looking money'. If you were a woman, you had to be 1) Famous, or 2) Good Looking. The latter, for a woman, was a steep bill. A woman had to be thin - no question about it. If a woman was not curvaceous, and did not have long legs, large 'firm' breasts, and at the very least the looks of a model, a woman was not let in. If they were good enough to be models, then they were good enough to be let in. The police claimed to keep a watchful eye on the club. But to those in the know, the cops were on a payrole.
* (Author's Note: this trend is spreading to many other smaller cities and towns. More often than not, boucers are scouring the line-ups and pulling out the 'good-looking' girls (guys less often - since the girls are usually what brings out the guys anyway). It's somewhat sad to see that while our teachers, parents, and mentors teach us to respect ourselves because of who we are, the social atmosphere around us (entertainment, T.V., celebrities, clubs) show us exactly the opposite.
The guilty look in his brother's eyes made Rick's stomach churn.
Tom had been scoring club chicks for his videos.
"Fuck! How idiotic are you!" Rick scolded. "You think you can rape these women, kill them, and dump them without someone noticing?"
His brother regained some of his luster. "Hey man, you should take a look at how much people pay to see these women naked! This is premium shit, it ain't like runaways no more man! These women are famous, gorgeous, and they sell!"
Rick just shook his head. He wasn't going to get involved. No way.
The cops on the payroll may look the other way, but not homicide.
They...
His brother was looking at him, imploring him with his eyes.
Damn, damn, damn, damn, dam! Things had been going so well after the TKR heist. He had the ultimate weapon, money, and a carefree life, but not anymore.
Rick was tempted to walk out on his brother. This was really dumb. He should have known not to use traceable women for the smut videos.
He put the beer can down on a table and looked away.
"Bro?" Tom begged.
Rick put up a hand to forestall any more pleads.
Meticulously, he went through his options. He could walk out and leave his brother flapping in the wind.
No, he couldn't do that. If anything, walking out on his brother was the last thing he wanted to do. Normally, his brother was cool. He had been pushing drugs for a long time, earning a good income. There was very little he couldn't do for himself. He never asked much and got into little trouble. Something was different about this time. In the past his brother had never had much problem with paying cops to look the other way. There was a streak of corruption in the LAPD. This time his brother must have some hard-core cops on his trail. He needed help to shake them, and had come to Rick for help.
He could use the truck's weapons to eliminate the cops on his case. But that would only lead to a Pandora's box. Eliminating the cops would only put more cops on the trail. A dead cop, at the hands of a criminal, sparked a vengeance in Peace Officers. Rick had no illusions of grandeur; he wasn't capable of fighting off an entire department of cops out for blood.
Killing cops could also draw attention to himself, and he knew the organization that had funded the TKR heist had ears. He himself was on the run, and it was in his best interest to lose himself among the populace, at least until things died down.
They would hide, he concluded. Using the money from the bank heist, he had bought a house by the beach. That was here the truck was stashed until everything blew over. His brother could come along, the house was more than big enough. It would be better than living in the city, where they could be recognized easily. It would also be better than driving the truck to another state. The police were sure to be on the lookout for the TKR truck. In fact, every moment he wasted here increased his chance of being found.
"Let's go," he told his brother.
Tom's face lit up. "Oh man, I owe you bro. Where we going?"
"We're gonna hide out at my place on the beach."
"Alright!" his brother yelled. "I love the beach. You got surfing, swimming, and bodacious hot ladies!"
"Well, this is the place alright," the tall black cop sight ruefully.
A photograph flash lit the scene behind him. It outlined his tall form. The tall cop shook his head slowly. Short, black hair shot through with grey matched the weathered lines in his face. He was getting old, and it showed. He regarded his slowly protruding stomach briefly, before sweeping the scene once more. "Another baby," he muttered with a cynical air.
"You want to tell the parents?" his partner asked.
"Do I look like I want to tell her parents?" he replied.
His partner shrugged, slipping another piece of Spearmint gum into his mouth.
"You're the senior here Cochise. You get to tell her," was the somewhat indifferent reply.
"Hey, if I'm the senior here, then I get to delegate. And I delegate Bradely gets the call."
"Sergeant Riggs! Murtaugh!" a voice shouted across the room.
They both turned to see the forensics woman making a come-hither motion. Taking their time, they made their way carefully over the charred remains of the basement room. Pieces of blackened charcoal flaked off the remains of the bed post as Roger accidentally brushed it.
Detective Sergeant Roger Murtaugh was 53 years old and it showed. He had been working Robbery/Homicide for longer than he cared to remember. Dressed in a three-piece grey suit, he looked every bit the old fashioned fighter he was. His ever-increasingly lined face showed a buried past like a scar. But his eyes were intense, piercing, as he scanned the crime scene; it belied his worn-down, if somewhat cynical air that surrounded him. Roger was a family man, and had 4 lovely children of his own. But it was cases like these, where the John Doe's were practically the age of his own children, that dragged him down. Lately, the 'Smut Killings' had taken an ugly turn.
Roger rolled his head, loosening his cramped neck muscles. Under-age teenagers were ending up in the morgue far more frequently than normal. His youngest daughter was now going through the rebel years. It just hit too close to home.
Behind him, his partner chewed his large wad of gum, carefully watching where he put his cowboy boots as he walked.
Detective Sergeant Martin Riggs was the flip side of Roger Murtaugh. Where Roger had a cynical air and a wizened face, Riggs was carefree, with a handsomely chiselled face showing just a touch of craziness. A somewhat looser cop, he was nevertheless more alert and tense than his older partner. It had been many years since that fateful day when he had been declared a Lethal Weapon by the Police Force and paired with Roger. At the time, Riggs had suffered a horrendous loss when his fiancé, who at the time was believed to have been murdered, died in a fatal car accident. Some had believed he was acting crazy to collect his psycho pension, while others, like the Captain, knew he had already crossed the line. Unbeknownst to Riggs then, the Captain had paired him with Roger in a last ditch attempt to pull Riggs back to the other side. Without meaning to, Roger and his family had somehow re-established a link with the far-gone Riggs, quenching the painful fires that burned his soul by lending him their strength, family, conviction, and love, to a point where Riggs could find himself.
In the truest sense of the world partners, Murtaugh and Riggs had found themselves to be the balance each needed. Murtaugh, with his obvious cynical outlook of the world, lived a very conservative and dull life. He had been winding down towards a silent retirement-until Riggs came crashing into his life. Now it was all he could do to keep up with Riggs. To admit he was having fun would have killed him, but Riggs was, in a sense, the one thing he was missing in life. Riggs, on the other hand, had no problem with cynicism - he was too full of life for it to bother him. Fast footed, knuckle-dragger, Riggs was intelligent as he was fool-hardy. More often than not, Roger was Rigg's conscience, making him think before doing - which was Rigg's bad habit.
The forensic man was crouched over the blackened headboard. A young man of just over 25, he held up a clear plastic bag. "Guess what guys, our Smut Killer got a little too carried away this time."
"Really, how's that Scott?" Murtaugh asked.
"Becha'll never guess what's in the bag?" the man indicated.
"Noooooo! That's it Riggs, we'll never solve the case now!"
Forensics made a face. "Ha ha asshole. You're a real comedian Murtaugh. Maybe you oughta do something funny like blow up another building."
"You should show some respect for your elders kid. When I was
your age-"
Riggs grabbed the bag out of the young cop's hand.
"When you were his age, your momma spanked you Murtaugh!" a voice rang out.
Laughter erupted from a few cops.
Murtaugh rolled his eyes tiredly. "No respect. That's what it's like now. No respect."
Holding the bag up to the light, Riggs peered at the shape within. ".50 calibre Nitro Express Steel Jacket round. Damn, that's some heeaaavy shit."
Forensics held up another bag. "That's not all. The bed was cracked along the headboard. We were able to retrieve some semen samples from the wood."
Scott slowly grinned. "With this, we should be able to link the trash-can bodies with the smut houses. We'll run a DNA test on the semen as soon as I get back. But I'm almost positive it's the same guy we're looking for."
"Don't be almost positive kid, be right," Murtaugh said as he got up. It was hard not to notice the cracking sound coming from his knees.
Riggs stared at the hole in the headboard. He tried to imagine what it must have been like. It was a young girl, not any older than 16, tied by the wrists and ankles. She would have felt alone, cut-off from the world as she was brutally raped. How alone would she have felt? Very alone, he decided. Alone, without anyone to help her..no hope, no hope. The agony of her being violated again and again would have made her scream. What would she have done to deserve this? She would have been a baby at one time, with parents who loved her, cherished her. They would have watched her go through school and grow into a wonderful young woman. There would have been junior-high graduation, then highschool graduation - the very chapters of life that one held dear. And then the fateful day - when she would have met some player in a bar, someone who knew exactly how to play her emotions and win her trust. He or she then led her here...and she had followed willingly, not knowing the nightmare that awaited her.
He closed his eyes. It was too hard to imagine.
Riggs had only been married for almost a year now. He and Lorna had a wonderful marriage. Through that devoted love, they had brought a soul into the world. He remembered looking into his babies bright blue eyes this morning. The innocent clarity of those precious orbs had taken his breath away. He could still scarcely believe that he and Laurna had created such a beautiful thing. But he knew that he would gun down anyone who dared threaten his child.
It was funny what love did to people. It changed them, molded them in ways they could never see. Riggs certainly had never seen himself becoming respectable. He used to be totally reckless, wanting to get into trouble just for the hell it. But now he found himself holding back, because he suddenly had a new perspective on life. He had come to respect it in an entirely different light. How then, could anyone ever let themselves do this to another human being?
Riggs had no answers to the questions in his head. But he did have an answer. Someone was gonna die for this. There would be no courts if Riggs caught them.
"So, any I.D. on the Jean Doe found earlier today?"
The forensics expert glanced up at Roger, then, very uncharacteristically, glanced away.
Roger's expression changed. Something wasn't ripe.
"Scott, what gives?"
Scott looked back and visibly swallowed. "Roger, you're not going to like what I have to say."
"I always don't like what you have to say. This is a homicide."
"Her name...was Jamie Hunsaker."
Even with Murtaugh's dark colouration, both Riggs and Scott saw him turn a shade paler. A choking sound emitted from his throat.
Riggs felt an icey shiver making its way down his spine.
Roger's facial expression became one of desperation, helplessness.
"Oh no...oh God no, not again! Fuck! Not again dammit!"
"I'm sorry Rog," Scott said sympathetically. "She was Melanie Hunsaker's remaining daughter."
Murtaugh turned away. "Sonofa BITCH!" he yelled.
A sudden anger overcame him. "She was the only one left Riggs! The only one!"
Riggs nodded sympathetically. There was nothing they he could do to comfort Roger.
The name Hunsaker was heavily involved in the duo's past; it dated back to their first case together, when Roger was stringing along a burnt-out wreck that used to be Martin Riggs.
Their first case had involved a resurrected Heroine smuggling group created in the Vietnam War era. A fellow soldier by the name of Dick Hunsaker, who had saved Roger's life in the field, was situated as the front for the illicit business. When Dick attempted to pull out of the business, the Commanding officer of the militant smuggling group had ordered the death of one of Dick's daughters, Amanda Hunsaker, as a warning to Dick. But in the aftermath, her death had been discovered to be a murder, which put Riggs and Murtaugh on the scene. They traced the trail back to Dick Hunsaker and discovered the drug group. One thing led to another, until it ended in a blistering gun battle that rocked the city's nightlife. When the smoke had cleared, Dick Hunsaker was dead, leaving his wife a widow and Amanda's twin sister without a dad and sister.
Now Melanie Hunsaker was all alone.
"Dammit Riggs, why does this always happen to me?" he pleaded.
Riggs had no answer. He silently watched as Roger grabbed a lamp from the nightstand. With a pained roar, he hurtled it across the room, violently smashing the light bulb into the unyielding wall. Breathing heavily, Roger strode from the room in a determined stride.
An uncharacteristic silence filled the room. No banter or witty remarks were heard. With sympathy in her eyes, the female medic spoke softly. "I'm sorry this had to be bad news."
Riggs eyes fell on her face. His eyes were devoid of emotion. "I'd be more sorry for the bastard that did this. He's a dead man."
She kept silent. When Riggs was pissed, it was bad. But when Roger AND Riggs were emotionally upset...she knew without a doubt that someone, somewhere, had just been marked for death.
The squad room resembled nothing akin to anything orderly. Officers and secretaries went from one place to another. Phones rang, demanding immediate attention; sometimes they were picked up. The clickety-clack of computer keys helped fill the noise of mayhem.
Over by one wall, away from the morning bustle and sunlight, Roger sat back in his chair. His tie was loosened, the shirt cuffs were unsnapped and rolled up.
Riggs sauntered up, a cup of steaming coffee in each hand. He set one down in front of Roger, then plopped himself down in the chair opposite of Roger.
"How'd it go last night Rog," Riggs asked.
Roger litterally sagged into his chair. His suit (he still had not changed clothes) was wrinkled and his hair was slightly dishevelled. There were dark rings under his eyes signifying a lack of sleep.
He answered without looking at Riggs. "How do you think it went? I had to tell a mother her only daughter had been murdered."
Now he looked at him. "How else could it go?"
"Look Rog," Riggs started. "I know it ain't never easy when it involves so much of the past, but you got to put it behind you. Let it go Rog. The best thing we can do now is get the fuckers that did this."
"Easy for you to say."
Just then, a pasty-faced officer walked up.
"I'm busy," stated Roger.
"Yeah, I can see that. Captain wanted to see you in his office, right now."
Captain Ed Murphy swallowed another cup of what looked like coffee, smelled like coffee, but tasted like water drained from his sweaty workout socks aged 200 years.
Riggs and Murtaugh came into his office.
"Riggs, Murtaugh sit your asses down."
He regarded them tiredly. "You guys have given me the worst haemorrhoids in the world. You've caused me nothing but grief ever since I partnered you guys up."
He leaned back in his chair and sipped the so-called coffee.
Plopping the cup down, he stared at them, then smiled.
The smile was not a nice smile. Rather, it was an evil smile, a delightful smile that made Murtaugh and Riggs look at each other.
The unspoken "Oh shit" echoed between them.
"You guys are in deep shit. The case you're working on has been transferred to the Feds, and it's big, REAL big. Seems you guys might have stumbled into a Federal Investigation. Anyways, you guys have been pulled off."
The cop paused, watching his two Sergeant Detectives stop squirming. Then he took a second look at Roger. He saw the lack of sleep. He saw the glowing embers of fire burning in the tall cop's eyes.
Ahhhh shit!
Roger didn't let him down.
"This is BULLSHIT Captain," Roger stated. "They can't do this! We started this case, and we're gonna finish it."
Unfortunately, the Feds had his hands tied, even though he knew Roger was right. But hell, it wasn't anything he or God - unless God outranked the Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigations - could do.
So he told them that in his own polite phrasing.
"You've obviously mistaken me for someone who give a fuck. But here's something that might elevate the discomfort in your sore ass. Seems something involving what could be your guy happened over at some club by Malibu Beach last night. Anyways, you guys are off the case."
"Who's working this for the Feds?" Riggs asked.
The Captain toyed with the request. What he knew was all classified information. Ah fuck it! He shouldn't have even known about it. But he didn't wear the badge of Captain and not have his own network of informants. Would it be too costly to give? No, hell no. If Riggs and Murtaugh decided to dig up the information themselves - and the look on Murtaugh's face said 'Abso-fucking-lutely' then chaos was sure to follow.
He sighed. Better give while the getting was good. "I don't know, some guy named Michael Knight or something."
Knowing full well they weren't gonna take it he tossed them two folders. "Here. You guys are working on the Freeman case now. Jewellery store robbery. 35 grand lost."
"This stinks. We got fucked," Riggs stated.
"Captain, we can't drop this case!" Murtaugh protested.
They weren't gonna take it.
"You're working on the Freeman case now. End of discussion!"
"This is a shit deal Captain," Riggs spit out.
"I don't give a fuck. Do you know why I get migraines but nothing else? Cause I know when to say I don't give a fuck."
Disgusted, Roger got up and made his way out of the office, Riggs following behind him.
Murphy watched the door slam shut. He waited a full ten seconds before allowing himself a small grin of satisfaction. Roger and Martin were the best the department had to offer. He knew that they were going to go flat out and find the bastard that had killed someone close to Roger. When properly incensed, Murtaugh and Riggs went to great lengths to solve cases, usually leaving a trail of bodies behind. But that was okay. They always came back with results, and he was more than willing to take a beating from the Chief if it meant his men did their job. And with Murtaugh and Riggs, you could bet your top dollar they would come back with hard-core results.
As they were leaving, a pasty-faced cop intercepted them. "Riggs!
Murtaugh!"
Murtaugh was still irritated from the meeting. "What!"
"You guys wanna here this. Happens to be my daughter's boyfriend witnessed a double homicide last night. It happened over at some amateur dance club over by Malibu Beach. The Jane Doe in question was raped before she was killed, alongside with her boyfriend in the men's washroom."
Roger perked up.
"There's more. The same night, some guy with a truck injured two people badly with some weird hit and run. The police lost him, but he was found later back at the scene of the crime. He resisted arrest, but was shot and taken into custody."
"Why did he go back?" Roger asked.
The cop shrugged. "Don't know. Maybe he dropped his wallet or something. Maybe he was just hard-up and was desperate."
He let an icey grin mar his feature.
Roger rolled his eyes. Typical cop humor.
"The two involved with the vehicular incident are in the County hospital with serious but stable injuries. One of them was a woman lifeguard. On a hunch, I got a faxed statement. She claims the guy tried to abduct her and her lady friend for some sort of porn video. When they refused, he tried to rape them. She managed to get away, but her friend, and her friend's boyfriend - who tried to be a hero, was shot. She said she and her boyfriend tried to run away from the club when they were driven off the road."
"You said weird?" Riggs asked.
"Yeah, there was a something weird about it. Seems the perp used a truck to try and kill the girl and her boyfriend; nothing unusual about that. But get this: Large parts of the bumper and the driver's side were crushed from repeated impacts. From forensic examination, no paint chips were found. Normally that doesn't happen. You ram a vehicle, you'll leave paint flecks. Here's the weird part: parts of the car were blackened and holed all the way through. Other parts were melted and warped from 'high exposure to unknown heat source'."
"Witnesses claimed they saw 'fireballs' and 'lasers' coming from the truck. It turned the car into swiss cheese and crumpled it like an accordion. Others that saw the truck drive off say it had no damage whatsoever."
Roger closed his eyes. "Perfect. A laser-shooting truck. This just keeps getting better and better," he growled.
"Anyone ID the driver?" Riggs asked.
"Nope. Windows were tinted."
"Truck?"
"You got an address for us?"
The cop gave them a piece of paper. "Thought you might ask."
"You call the Feds to see if they've got anything happening in the area?" Riggs asked.
"Yep. Nada."
He turned to leave, but looked back. "One other thing. Rap sheet says the dude in custody has a brother, who's a gun-for-hire. He's got an impressive record over with the FBI. Seems the dude's brother is wanted on a whole string of murders. If I were you guys, I'd be real careful, cause his brother could come looking."
Murtaugh looked over at Riggs. "C'mon Riggs, let's go to the beach!"
End of Chapter 1
Author's note: Chapter 2 will be continued at
http://www.themestream.com
Look under the Topic: Arts - Fiction and Literature - Science Fiction and Fantasy
"Knight Rider" and "Team Knight Rider" concept and characters copyright Glen A. Larson.
"Baywatch" and trademarks and concept and characters are the copyright of Gregory J. Bonann, Michael Berk, Doug Schwartz, David Hasselhoff.
"Lethal Weapon" concept and characters are the copyright of Jeffry Boam, Richard Donner and Joel Silver. All rights reserved by Warner Bros.
***Warning!!!***This story contains scenes of violence, profanity, and sexual innuendo. Rated R.
Warning!!! Lethal Weapon I spoilers.
Author's note: This story and others like it in the series are primarily built upon the idea of various T.V. shows and movies crossing over. This simply means that the characters of various T.V. shows and movies exist in the same world. Mostly, the characters of Knight Rider and my originally developed characters remain a constant.
* redcheck15
Author's Handle: redcheck15
Email: redcheck15@hotmail.com
Story type: Fan Fiction Crossover
Show: Knight Rider, Baywatch, and Lethal Weapon Crossover.
Rating: R for violence, profanity and suggestive scenes.
This story may be distributed for reading free of charge and must remain unchanged. It is purely for the enjoyment of reading and not profit. It is also the property of the author and may not be distributed for any commercial purposes. Distribution must include the whole UNCHANGED file.
Continue...
IMPORTANT: If you have not done so, please read Knight prologue. It precedes the beginning of all chapters and sets the plot in motion.
Summery: Rick, a 17 year old street-taught mercenary, has added DUKE to his trade of deadly weapons. Everything seems to be going so well, until his brother Tom places a call for his help. Being a good brother, he finds himself squaring off with two hard-to-kill LAPD homicide cops, who are following a trail of smut pornography victims left by his brothers 'production company'. But when he hides his brother out by the beach, Tom cannot suppress his perverse sexual desire to find another victim, this time an LA County Baywatch Lifeguard named Lani...
On with Chapter 1: A Lethal Business...
Rick pulled the rusty Buick LeSabre to the garbage-littered street. Feeling for the securing weight of the Beretta hanging under his left shoulder in a quick-draw holster, he wrinkled his nose in disgust while exiting the car. If anything, the smell wafting in the air was enough to discourage anyone except for the very desperate. Garbage littered the gutters of the street, shabby apartments and houses (if you could call them that) lined the street. Graffiti, gang-colours, and the occasional splotch of dried blood plaster the walls like camouflage.
He reached into his expensive six-hundred dollar black leather jacket and produced a pair of three-hundred dollar OKLEY sunglasses. Putting them on, he began walking into the alley behind the truck.
Rick was acutely aware of the 7 set of eyes following his progress from 10 meters away. He walked on, unmolested as he made his way deeper into the alley. This was his turf; he was known here to those who were in the know. For long years Rick had worked to establish his name as a street-for-hire assassin, and his presence was a testament to his ability to remain among the living. It was also a powerful deterrent to those who wished him ill-will.
Too bad he couldn't bring the Ford with him. But it had to stay hidden for now. Any vehicle would have lasted, oh, 5 minutes before it was completely stripped of all its valuable accessories. Any normal vehicle: the Ford Expeditioner was a recent acquisition of Rick's, and the TKR vehicle was far beyond the norm. The first thing he had done with it was to go rob a bank. Simply put, he had crashed the truck through five feet of pure concrete and made off with two million dollars in cash, then disappeared before the police arrived.
He kept on walking. His eyes picked out a door to his left. A pile of putrid refuse lay to one side of it.
Hopefully, the car would still be in one piece when he got back. If not, oh well...he'd just go buy another one.
He opened the door, taking off his glasses and pocketing them. The interior smelled no worse than the outside. Broken doors and smashed-in walls greeted his sight. Cobwebs hung randomly from various corners. The shaft of light from the doorway was like a invader. It pierced the musty darkness that seemed to forbid anyone from violating the premises. In the left corner was a doorway. From his vantagepoint, the stairs that led down were barely visible. He shut the door, then began making his way down.
With each step came a creaking noise. He wondered whether this would be the time the stair broke, sending him falling into the darkness. Standing at the bottom, he pulled out a mini-magnum flashlight and turned it on, then began making his way through the basement. After 3 minutes of walking, he found himself in front of a metal door. Shutting off the flashlight, he reached out and rapped the door. Once, twice, then three times in rapid succession.
The door swung open, revealing an interior that was quite different from the outside.
For one thing, the smell was gone and the furniture was whole. Another was the gangly hood with the red headband, who held an M-16 pointed at his chest.
The eyes widened in amazement, while the rifle swung down to rest easy.
"Rick!" the youth said, extending a hand.
Rick took it and shook warmly. "Dick, whazzup?"
Sudden screams, female screams, filled the air.
Dick ushered him in, then closed the door. "Same old man."
The screams picked up in volume and intensity, followed by a loud gunshot.
Rick flinched, then relaxed.
Dick just grinned.
"My bro doing business?"
Dick laughed. "Yep. Just doing a final take man!"
"Wanna brew?"
"Sure."
A frosty beer came sailing. With deft dexterity, Rick caught the can and took a long pull.
Just then his brother came bounding out of the room. He was slightly shorter than Rick's five foot eleven, with brown eyes and blonde hair instead of Rick's dark hair.
"Yo! Bro, glad you could come! Been meaning to talk to you."
Rick eyed his brother with contempt. He was sparsely dressed; all he had on were a pair of jockeys. There was the smell of sweat and sex emanating from him. But that was not all. For all his excitement and boasted manliness there was an underlying current of...fear.
"Still making those smut movies I see," Rick said.
His brother lit a cigarette, inhaled, then blew the cloud of smoke skyward.
There was no love lost between them. Rick killed for money, as did his brother. But there was always a difference, he told himself. He killed without pain, without suffering. One shot to the head always killed his contracts. His brother, on the other hand, tormented his victims for long hours. He caused them to suffer through physical anguish and humiliation before killing them. To Rick, that was more than enough to set them apart. He killed to pay the bills, his brother did it just for the hell of it.
His brother swaggered to the fridge in a cocky manner. He appropriated a beer and took a pull.
"So? Why did you ask me to come here. You know I don't like this place."
It was an understatement. Rick and Tom's sister worked as a hooker. And even though Rick loves his sister dearly, he would do anything if it meant she could stop prostituting. He had been around, seen the world through smoky glasses, and what he had seen was downright awful. He knew, someday, his sister might end up dead at the hands of some john. If that day ever came, he knew someone would pay.
But what his brother did, create smut films, struck too close to home. It sickened him that his brother enjoyed what he did; it was family betrayal.
"Ya man, I hear ya. But I wuz working. We're gonna finish another
reel tonight. It's hot bro. Gonna make us a fortune offa this one. Got
some real lively action from a few underage-"
Just then, a tall man with curly brown hair stepped through the door. In his arms he held film reels. A long, ax-like nose and a pair of beedy eyes greeted him. Behind the man came a short blonde woman. Her dispassionate eyes gave him a once-over, before she went back to eating her apple.
The tall guy was the producer for this so-called 'production company'. He came up to Rick and put out a skinny (and sweaty) hand. "Hello Rick. Nice to see you," he said, in a low voice.
Rick merely stared at him coldly. After five seconds, the hand lowered. A smirk made its way onto the producer's face. Ignoring Rick, the man turned to his brother.
"Tom, we're done here. It's a wrap. Give me a call when you can find more 'actresses'."
For all the insulation that Rick had collected as a murder-for-hire, his stomach threatened to rebel. It was all he could do to stop himself from shooting the skinny fuck.
"Will do boss," Tom replied languidly. "We gonna make lots, right?"
The producer laughed, a mocking laugh that got on Rick's nerves.
"Oh yeah! People love it when they're famous! I imagine all the boys that get turned down by these regulars at the bars will give an arm to see this flick."
The producer made for the doorway. Behind his blonde assistant came two jocks. They carried a full body bag between the two of them.
"So whadya think bro? I'm gonna be a star!"
Rick's temper boiled over.
"Listen, ya little shit! I don't want to hear about you and your perverse job.
Now, you got something to say, say it. Otherwise, I'm outta here."
The cocky look vanished from his brother's eyes. It was as if his entire body deflated. He suddenly looked drawn out and pale. He appeared to grow ten years older.
"Look bro, you gotta help me. The cops are onto me."
Rick groaned. "Oh shit. Tell me you haven't been scoring chickees from the Garden of Eden again."
The Garden of Eden was one of the famous and prestigious club in L.A. However, it was no different from any of the so-called 'elite' bars there. To the analytical mind, these were the places that did not believe men and women were created equal. The segregation of certain people from the rest of society was quite evident. One was let in based on their looks, their body, and money. For some, this was a frustrating slide back for humanity. Just when the fight against racism had been cranked into high gear, there came a new slant of disrespect toward other humans. Women and men were let in based on their looks and body. It didn't matter how old or young they were. If your were a man, you needed to be trim, fit, wealthy, good-looking, muscluar/famous. The guys call it 'looking money'. If you were a woman, you had to be 1) Famous, or 2) Good Looking. The latter, for a woman, was a steep bill. A woman had to be thin - no question about it. If a woman was not curvaceous, and did not have long legs, large 'firm' breasts, and at the very least the looks of a model, a woman was not let in. If they were good enough to be models, then they were good enough to be let in. The police claimed to keep a watchful eye on the club. But to those in the know, the cops were on a payrole.
* (Author's Note: this trend is spreading to many other smaller cities and towns. More often than not, boucers are scouring the line-ups and pulling out the 'good-looking' girls (guys less often - since the girls are usually what brings out the guys anyway). It's somewhat sad to see that while our teachers, parents, and mentors teach us to respect ourselves because of who we are, the social atmosphere around us (entertainment, T.V., celebrities, clubs) show us exactly the opposite.
The guilty look in his brother's eyes made Rick's stomach churn.
Tom had been scoring club chicks for his videos.
"Fuck! How idiotic are you!" Rick scolded. "You think you can rape these women, kill them, and dump them without someone noticing?"
His brother regained some of his luster. "Hey man, you should take a look at how much people pay to see these women naked! This is premium shit, it ain't like runaways no more man! These women are famous, gorgeous, and they sell!"
Rick just shook his head. He wasn't going to get involved. No way.
The cops on the payroll may look the other way, but not homicide.
They...
His brother was looking at him, imploring him with his eyes.
Damn, damn, damn, damn, dam! Things had been going so well after the TKR heist. He had the ultimate weapon, money, and a carefree life, but not anymore.
Rick was tempted to walk out on his brother. This was really dumb. He should have known not to use traceable women for the smut videos.
He put the beer can down on a table and looked away.
"Bro?" Tom begged.
Rick put up a hand to forestall any more pleads.
Meticulously, he went through his options. He could walk out and leave his brother flapping in the wind.
No, he couldn't do that. If anything, walking out on his brother was the last thing he wanted to do. Normally, his brother was cool. He had been pushing drugs for a long time, earning a good income. There was very little he couldn't do for himself. He never asked much and got into little trouble. Something was different about this time. In the past his brother had never had much problem with paying cops to look the other way. There was a streak of corruption in the LAPD. This time his brother must have some hard-core cops on his trail. He needed help to shake them, and had come to Rick for help.
He could use the truck's weapons to eliminate the cops on his case. But that would only lead to a Pandora's box. Eliminating the cops would only put more cops on the trail. A dead cop, at the hands of a criminal, sparked a vengeance in Peace Officers. Rick had no illusions of grandeur; he wasn't capable of fighting off an entire department of cops out for blood.
Killing cops could also draw attention to himself, and he knew the organization that had funded the TKR heist had ears. He himself was on the run, and it was in his best interest to lose himself among the populace, at least until things died down.
They would hide, he concluded. Using the money from the bank heist, he had bought a house by the beach. That was here the truck was stashed until everything blew over. His brother could come along, the house was more than big enough. It would be better than living in the city, where they could be recognized easily. It would also be better than driving the truck to another state. The police were sure to be on the lookout for the TKR truck. In fact, every moment he wasted here increased his chance of being found.
"Let's go," he told his brother.
Tom's face lit up. "Oh man, I owe you bro. Where we going?"
"We're gonna hide out at my place on the beach."
"Alright!" his brother yelled. "I love the beach. You got surfing, swimming, and bodacious hot ladies!"
"Well, this is the place alright," the tall black cop sight ruefully.
A photograph flash lit the scene behind him. It outlined his tall form. The tall cop shook his head slowly. Short, black hair shot through with grey matched the weathered lines in his face. He was getting old, and it showed. He regarded his slowly protruding stomach briefly, before sweeping the scene once more. "Another baby," he muttered with a cynical air.
"You want to tell the parents?" his partner asked.
"Do I look like I want to tell her parents?" he replied.
His partner shrugged, slipping another piece of Spearmint gum into his mouth.
"You're the senior here Cochise. You get to tell her," was the somewhat indifferent reply.
"Hey, if I'm the senior here, then I get to delegate. And I delegate Bradely gets the call."
"Sergeant Riggs! Murtaugh!" a voice shouted across the room.
They both turned to see the forensics woman making a come-hither motion. Taking their time, they made their way carefully over the charred remains of the basement room. Pieces of blackened charcoal flaked off the remains of the bed post as Roger accidentally brushed it.
Detective Sergeant Roger Murtaugh was 53 years old and it showed. He had been working Robbery/Homicide for longer than he cared to remember. Dressed in a three-piece grey suit, he looked every bit the old fashioned fighter he was. His ever-increasingly lined face showed a buried past like a scar. But his eyes were intense, piercing, as he scanned the crime scene; it belied his worn-down, if somewhat cynical air that surrounded him. Roger was a family man, and had 4 lovely children of his own. But it was cases like these, where the John Doe's were practically the age of his own children, that dragged him down. Lately, the 'Smut Killings' had taken an ugly turn.
Roger rolled his head, loosening his cramped neck muscles. Under-age teenagers were ending up in the morgue far more frequently than normal. His youngest daughter was now going through the rebel years. It just hit too close to home.
Behind him, his partner chewed his large wad of gum, carefully watching where he put his cowboy boots as he walked.
Detective Sergeant Martin Riggs was the flip side of Roger Murtaugh. Where Roger had a cynical air and a wizened face, Riggs was carefree, with a handsomely chiselled face showing just a touch of craziness. A somewhat looser cop, he was nevertheless more alert and tense than his older partner. It had been many years since that fateful day when he had been declared a Lethal Weapon by the Police Force and paired with Roger. At the time, Riggs had suffered a horrendous loss when his fiancé, who at the time was believed to have been murdered, died in a fatal car accident. Some had believed he was acting crazy to collect his psycho pension, while others, like the Captain, knew he had already crossed the line. Unbeknownst to Riggs then, the Captain had paired him with Roger in a last ditch attempt to pull Riggs back to the other side. Without meaning to, Roger and his family had somehow re-established a link with the far-gone Riggs, quenching the painful fires that burned his soul by lending him their strength, family, conviction, and love, to a point where Riggs could find himself.
In the truest sense of the world partners, Murtaugh and Riggs had found themselves to be the balance each needed. Murtaugh, with his obvious cynical outlook of the world, lived a very conservative and dull life. He had been winding down towards a silent retirement-until Riggs came crashing into his life. Now it was all he could do to keep up with Riggs. To admit he was having fun would have killed him, but Riggs was, in a sense, the one thing he was missing in life. Riggs, on the other hand, had no problem with cynicism - he was too full of life for it to bother him. Fast footed, knuckle-dragger, Riggs was intelligent as he was fool-hardy. More often than not, Roger was Rigg's conscience, making him think before doing - which was Rigg's bad habit.
The forensic man was crouched over the blackened headboard. A young man of just over 25, he held up a clear plastic bag. "Guess what guys, our Smut Killer got a little too carried away this time."
"Really, how's that Scott?" Murtaugh asked.
"Becha'll never guess what's in the bag?" the man indicated.
"Noooooo! That's it Riggs, we'll never solve the case now!"
Forensics made a face. "Ha ha asshole. You're a real comedian Murtaugh. Maybe you oughta do something funny like blow up another building."
"You should show some respect for your elders kid. When I was
your age-"
Riggs grabbed the bag out of the young cop's hand.
"When you were his age, your momma spanked you Murtaugh!" a voice rang out.
Laughter erupted from a few cops.
Murtaugh rolled his eyes tiredly. "No respect. That's what it's like now. No respect."
Holding the bag up to the light, Riggs peered at the shape within. ".50 calibre Nitro Express Steel Jacket round. Damn, that's some heeaaavy shit."
Forensics held up another bag. "That's not all. The bed was cracked along the headboard. We were able to retrieve some semen samples from the wood."
Scott slowly grinned. "With this, we should be able to link the trash-can bodies with the smut houses. We'll run a DNA test on the semen as soon as I get back. But I'm almost positive it's the same guy we're looking for."
"Don't be almost positive kid, be right," Murtaugh said as he got up. It was hard not to notice the cracking sound coming from his knees.
Riggs stared at the hole in the headboard. He tried to imagine what it must have been like. It was a young girl, not any older than 16, tied by the wrists and ankles. She would have felt alone, cut-off from the world as she was brutally raped. How alone would she have felt? Very alone, he decided. Alone, without anyone to help her..no hope, no hope. The agony of her being violated again and again would have made her scream. What would she have done to deserve this? She would have been a baby at one time, with parents who loved her, cherished her. They would have watched her go through school and grow into a wonderful young woman. There would have been junior-high graduation, then highschool graduation - the very chapters of life that one held dear. And then the fateful day - when she would have met some player in a bar, someone who knew exactly how to play her emotions and win her trust. He or she then led her here...and she had followed willingly, not knowing the nightmare that awaited her.
He closed his eyes. It was too hard to imagine.
Riggs had only been married for almost a year now. He and Lorna had a wonderful marriage. Through that devoted love, they had brought a soul into the world. He remembered looking into his babies bright blue eyes this morning. The innocent clarity of those precious orbs had taken his breath away. He could still scarcely believe that he and Laurna had created such a beautiful thing. But he knew that he would gun down anyone who dared threaten his child.
It was funny what love did to people. It changed them, molded them in ways they could never see. Riggs certainly had never seen himself becoming respectable. He used to be totally reckless, wanting to get into trouble just for the hell it. But now he found himself holding back, because he suddenly had a new perspective on life. He had come to respect it in an entirely different light. How then, could anyone ever let themselves do this to another human being?
Riggs had no answers to the questions in his head. But he did have an answer. Someone was gonna die for this. There would be no courts if Riggs caught them.
"So, any I.D. on the Jean Doe found earlier today?"
The forensics expert glanced up at Roger, then, very uncharacteristically, glanced away.
Roger's expression changed. Something wasn't ripe.
"Scott, what gives?"
Scott looked back and visibly swallowed. "Roger, you're not going to like what I have to say."
"I always don't like what you have to say. This is a homicide."
"Her name...was Jamie Hunsaker."
Even with Murtaugh's dark colouration, both Riggs and Scott saw him turn a shade paler. A choking sound emitted from his throat.
Riggs felt an icey shiver making its way down his spine.
Roger's facial expression became one of desperation, helplessness.
"Oh no...oh God no, not again! Fuck! Not again dammit!"
"I'm sorry Rog," Scott said sympathetically. "She was Melanie Hunsaker's remaining daughter."
Murtaugh turned away. "Sonofa BITCH!" he yelled.
A sudden anger overcame him. "She was the only one left Riggs! The only one!"
Riggs nodded sympathetically. There was nothing they he could do to comfort Roger.
The name Hunsaker was heavily involved in the duo's past; it dated back to their first case together, when Roger was stringing along a burnt-out wreck that used to be Martin Riggs.
Their first case had involved a resurrected Heroine smuggling group created in the Vietnam War era. A fellow soldier by the name of Dick Hunsaker, who had saved Roger's life in the field, was situated as the front for the illicit business. When Dick attempted to pull out of the business, the Commanding officer of the militant smuggling group had ordered the death of one of Dick's daughters, Amanda Hunsaker, as a warning to Dick. But in the aftermath, her death had been discovered to be a murder, which put Riggs and Murtaugh on the scene. They traced the trail back to Dick Hunsaker and discovered the drug group. One thing led to another, until it ended in a blistering gun battle that rocked the city's nightlife. When the smoke had cleared, Dick Hunsaker was dead, leaving his wife a widow and Amanda's twin sister without a dad and sister.
Now Melanie Hunsaker was all alone.
"Dammit Riggs, why does this always happen to me?" he pleaded.
Riggs had no answer. He silently watched as Roger grabbed a lamp from the nightstand. With a pained roar, he hurtled it across the room, violently smashing the light bulb into the unyielding wall. Breathing heavily, Roger strode from the room in a determined stride.
An uncharacteristic silence filled the room. No banter or witty remarks were heard. With sympathy in her eyes, the female medic spoke softly. "I'm sorry this had to be bad news."
Riggs eyes fell on her face. His eyes were devoid of emotion. "I'd be more sorry for the bastard that did this. He's a dead man."
She kept silent. When Riggs was pissed, it was bad. But when Roger AND Riggs were emotionally upset...she knew without a doubt that someone, somewhere, had just been marked for death.
The squad room resembled nothing akin to anything orderly. Officers and secretaries went from one place to another. Phones rang, demanding immediate attention; sometimes they were picked up. The clickety-clack of computer keys helped fill the noise of mayhem.
Over by one wall, away from the morning bustle and sunlight, Roger sat back in his chair. His tie was loosened, the shirt cuffs were unsnapped and rolled up.
Riggs sauntered up, a cup of steaming coffee in each hand. He set one down in front of Roger, then plopped himself down in the chair opposite of Roger.
"How'd it go last night Rog," Riggs asked.
Roger litterally sagged into his chair. His suit (he still had not changed clothes) was wrinkled and his hair was slightly dishevelled. There were dark rings under his eyes signifying a lack of sleep.
He answered without looking at Riggs. "How do you think it went? I had to tell a mother her only daughter had been murdered."
Now he looked at him. "How else could it go?"
"Look Rog," Riggs started. "I know it ain't never easy when it involves so much of the past, but you got to put it behind you. Let it go Rog. The best thing we can do now is get the fuckers that did this."
"Easy for you to say."
Just then, a pasty-faced officer walked up.
"I'm busy," stated Roger.
"Yeah, I can see that. Captain wanted to see you in his office, right now."
Captain Ed Murphy swallowed another cup of what looked like coffee, smelled like coffee, but tasted like water drained from his sweaty workout socks aged 200 years.
Riggs and Murtaugh came into his office.
"Riggs, Murtaugh sit your asses down."
He regarded them tiredly. "You guys have given me the worst haemorrhoids in the world. You've caused me nothing but grief ever since I partnered you guys up."
He leaned back in his chair and sipped the so-called coffee.
Plopping the cup down, he stared at them, then smiled.
The smile was not a nice smile. Rather, it was an evil smile, a delightful smile that made Murtaugh and Riggs look at each other.
The unspoken "Oh shit" echoed between them.
"You guys are in deep shit. The case you're working on has been transferred to the Feds, and it's big, REAL big. Seems you guys might have stumbled into a Federal Investigation. Anyways, you guys have been pulled off."
The cop paused, watching his two Sergeant Detectives stop squirming. Then he took a second look at Roger. He saw the lack of sleep. He saw the glowing embers of fire burning in the tall cop's eyes.
Ahhhh shit!
Roger didn't let him down.
"This is BULLSHIT Captain," Roger stated. "They can't do this! We started this case, and we're gonna finish it."
Unfortunately, the Feds had his hands tied, even though he knew Roger was right. But hell, it wasn't anything he or God - unless God outranked the Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigations - could do.
So he told them that in his own polite phrasing.
"You've obviously mistaken me for someone who give a fuck. But here's something that might elevate the discomfort in your sore ass. Seems something involving what could be your guy happened over at some club by Malibu Beach last night. Anyways, you guys are off the case."
"Who's working this for the Feds?" Riggs asked.
The Captain toyed with the request. What he knew was all classified information. Ah fuck it! He shouldn't have even known about it. But he didn't wear the badge of Captain and not have his own network of informants. Would it be too costly to give? No, hell no. If Riggs and Murtaugh decided to dig up the information themselves - and the look on Murtaugh's face said 'Abso-fucking-lutely' then chaos was sure to follow.
He sighed. Better give while the getting was good. "I don't know, some guy named Michael Knight or something."
Knowing full well they weren't gonna take it he tossed them two folders. "Here. You guys are working on the Freeman case now. Jewellery store robbery. 35 grand lost."
"This stinks. We got fucked," Riggs stated.
"Captain, we can't drop this case!" Murtaugh protested.
They weren't gonna take it.
"You're working on the Freeman case now. End of discussion!"
"This is a shit deal Captain," Riggs spit out.
"I don't give a fuck. Do you know why I get migraines but nothing else? Cause I know when to say I don't give a fuck."
Disgusted, Roger got up and made his way out of the office, Riggs following behind him.
Murphy watched the door slam shut. He waited a full ten seconds before allowing himself a small grin of satisfaction. Roger and Martin were the best the department had to offer. He knew that they were going to go flat out and find the bastard that had killed someone close to Roger. When properly incensed, Murtaugh and Riggs went to great lengths to solve cases, usually leaving a trail of bodies behind. But that was okay. They always came back with results, and he was more than willing to take a beating from the Chief if it meant his men did their job. And with Murtaugh and Riggs, you could bet your top dollar they would come back with hard-core results.
As they were leaving, a pasty-faced cop intercepted them. "Riggs!
Murtaugh!"
Murtaugh was still irritated from the meeting. "What!"
"You guys wanna here this. Happens to be my daughter's boyfriend witnessed a double homicide last night. It happened over at some amateur dance club over by Malibu Beach. The Jane Doe in question was raped before she was killed, alongside with her boyfriend in the men's washroom."
Roger perked up.
"There's more. The same night, some guy with a truck injured two people badly with some weird hit and run. The police lost him, but he was found later back at the scene of the crime. He resisted arrest, but was shot and taken into custody."
"Why did he go back?" Roger asked.
The cop shrugged. "Don't know. Maybe he dropped his wallet or something. Maybe he was just hard-up and was desperate."
He let an icey grin mar his feature.
Roger rolled his eyes. Typical cop humor.
"The two involved with the vehicular incident are in the County hospital with serious but stable injuries. One of them was a woman lifeguard. On a hunch, I got a faxed statement. She claims the guy tried to abduct her and her lady friend for some sort of porn video. When they refused, he tried to rape them. She managed to get away, but her friend, and her friend's boyfriend - who tried to be a hero, was shot. She said she and her boyfriend tried to run away from the club when they were driven off the road."
"You said weird?" Riggs asked.
"Yeah, there was a something weird about it. Seems the perp used a truck to try and kill the girl and her boyfriend; nothing unusual about that. But get this: Large parts of the bumper and the driver's side were crushed from repeated impacts. From forensic examination, no paint chips were found. Normally that doesn't happen. You ram a vehicle, you'll leave paint flecks. Here's the weird part: parts of the car were blackened and holed all the way through. Other parts were melted and warped from 'high exposure to unknown heat source'."
"Witnesses claimed they saw 'fireballs' and 'lasers' coming from the truck. It turned the car into swiss cheese and crumpled it like an accordion. Others that saw the truck drive off say it had no damage whatsoever."
Roger closed his eyes. "Perfect. A laser-shooting truck. This just keeps getting better and better," he growled.
"Anyone ID the driver?" Riggs asked.
"Nope. Windows were tinted."
"Truck?"
"You got an address for us?"
The cop gave them a piece of paper. "Thought you might ask."
"You call the Feds to see if they've got anything happening in the area?" Riggs asked.
"Yep. Nada."
He turned to leave, but looked back. "One other thing. Rap sheet says the dude in custody has a brother, who's a gun-for-hire. He's got an impressive record over with the FBI. Seems the dude's brother is wanted on a whole string of murders. If I were you guys, I'd be real careful, cause his brother could come looking."
Murtaugh looked over at Riggs. "C'mon Riggs, let's go to the beach!"
End of Chapter 1
Author's note: Chapter 2 will be continued at
http://www.themestream.com
Look under the Topic: Arts - Fiction and Literature - Science Fiction and Fantasy