A/N: This is a modern-day cop AU inspired by The Killing on AMC. It will include all the main characters from the movie and TOS. It's a crime thriller, so it'll have lots of shady characters, deep dark secrets, and you never know who the bad guy could be… This is my first Star Trek story, so please review!
Chapter 1
Monday, November 3rd
Jim Kirk was packing up to leave when his boss rolled in.
It was taking longer than he expected, because it was nearly impossible to find anything in his cluttered, tiny office. Empty Chinese take-out containers and dirty clothes were strewn carelessly about, covering the thick files stuffed with paperwork that littered his desk, chair, and filing cabinets—which was fine with Jim, because it wasn't like he was ever going to do it, anyway. That's what Janice Rand the secretary was for, right? That and eye candy. No, right now his main concern was finding his keys so he could get the hell out of the police station and back to his apartment for a shave, a smoke, and, hopefully, a good night's sleep. After, of course, his two hours of trying to get Bones to pick up the phone even when he saw Jim's name on the caller ID.
But Captain Chris Pike had to ruin this admittedly pathetic dream when he unlocked the door to Jim's office and rolled his wheelchair inside. Jim scowled deeply when he saw the smile the grizzled man was wearing. He doubted it could mean anything good.
"I've got a case for you, Jim," Pike stated cheerfully as he wheeled up to Jim's desk, bracing his hands against it to stop his forward momentum.
Jim didn't even glance at him as he continued digging through the layer of trash over his office for his car keys. "No," he said firmly through gritted teeth. "My shift's over."
Pike sighed, his smile fading a little. "C'mon, Jim. Since when have you been the kind of detective that stops when your shift is over?"
Jim's fists clenched as Pike hit a nerve. "I'm tired, Pike. Don't I deserve a break?"
The cheerfulness in Pike's bright blue eyes was almost completely dampened now, and Jim experienced an almost imperceptible twinge of guilt at that. "We all do, Jim," he sighed, running a hand over the shiny silver metal armrest of his new wheelchair. Okay, so now the guilt was definitely perceptible. Jim shoved it down, reminding himself that that wasn't his fault. Pike was silent for a few seconds before slapping on a bracing smile. "But crime doesn't stop, even if our will to deal with it sometimes falters." He fixed Jim with his patented piercing stare, simultaneously thoughtful and expectant and challenging, the same look he had on his face when he got Jim to follow in his father's footsteps and enter the Police Academy.
"Fine," Jim finally said grudgingly. It was hard not to rise to that look, as he was sure Pike knew. "I'll take the case. What is it?"
The smile on Pike's face became more genuine at Jim's acceptance. "I got a call from a couple of uniforms on patrol. Apparently they found something suspicious in Walden Park. Brent sounded like it was really urgent, wanted some detectives on the scene right away."
Jim groaned internally. That didn't sound very interesting. "I'll go as soon as I can find my keys," he muttered, continuing what was rapidly seeming more and more like a pointless search.
"Don't worry about it," Pike replied smoothly. "Your new partner will drive you."
Jim froze, an unpleasant feeling rising in his stomach. "Partner?" he growled. "You didn't say anything about a new partner."
"Jim, you didn't think I was going to let you work a case without a partner. We both know you're smarter than that," Pike admonished condescendingly, in a way that inflamed the rebellious streak Jim's instructors at the Academy had never been able to beat out of him.
"I thought maybe you'd cut me a break after what happened with the last guy," Jim replied pointedly, hoping the memory would be enough to get Pike to let him work a few cases by himself.
Pike sighed again. "You don't have to worry, Jim. I picked this guy out myself. He's a decorated detective." He paused, rubbing his chin thoughtfully before continuing slowly. "You've probably heard about him, actually."
Jim had a bad feeling about the way Pike was carefully choosing his words, and hadn't yet mentioned the name of his new handpicked detective. "Who is it?" he asked bluntly.
"Spock, from the Homicide Department in—"
Pike didn't even have time to get out the full sentence before Jim was up in arms.
"No!" the blonde yelled immediately, slamming his fist on his desk. "No fucking way!"
Pike's eyebrows flew up. "I take it you've heard of him," the police captain deadpanned.
"I'll put in a request for a transfer," Jim threatened. "I swear to God, I'll do it right now!"
"Go ahead. With your reputation, no precinct in North America will take you."
Damn, that was true. "Then I'll quit. Open up a P.I. business," Jim countered, running through his options in his head.
Pike smirked. "Be sure to list me as a reference to any potential clients." He rolled his eyes as Jim let out an angry scoff. "C'mon, Jim. What you've heard about Spock can't be that bad. He's a good detective, gets results in almost all of his cases."
"Yeah, and also is supposed to be one of the most uptight, by-the-book, logical bastards behind a badge." Jim argued, the very thought repulsing him. "You can't expect me to work with someone like that."
"I think a person who won't let you get away with your usual bullshit will be a good change for you," Pike said, a hard tone edging into his voice. "You're partnering with him. End of discussion."
A few tense moments passed. Jim began to realize he didn't have a way out on this one. "This one case," he responded through gritted teeth. "And if I don't like him, you get me a new partner, okay?"
"We'll see," Pike said with a renewed smile as he rolled out of the room. "He's waiting in the parking lot for you. Good luck."
Jim grimaced, dropping his head into his hands. What the hell was Pike thinking, sticking him with a stiff like Spock? He'd heard horror stories from his Academy buddies about the man—he was dead weight in coming up with ideas about an investigation, as he refused to entertain any possibilities in a case that he didn't deem 'logical'. And if that wasn't bad enough, Spock also wouldn't so much as sneeze without first checking with his boss. Pike had to know that he would be crippled, trying to work with someone like Spock. Then why would the Captain do it? The only explanation Jim could come up with was that Pike was punishing him for what had happened. The thought sparked a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach.
Eventually, Jim grabbed his gun and badge and dragged himself out to the parking lot to meet the infamous Spock. The man was tall, pale, blank-faced, and dressed in dark two-piece suit. It was hard to tell what race he was—maybe Asian, with one of the ugliest bowl haircuts Jim had ever seen. Running a hand through his own blond hair to make sure it was as messy as possible, Jim walked up to his new partner.
"Jim Kirk," he stated curtly, offering his hand to Spock, who grasped it firmly. Maybe this guy isn't as bad as I've heard, Jim thought hopefully.
"I am Spock. I have been informed of the location of the disturbance." Without so much as another word, not even a first name, Spock turned on his heel and made for his car. So much for that. Jim trailed reluctantly after him, with the feeling it was going to be a very, very long case.
The ride up to the Walden Park usually only took Jim ten or fifteen minutes, but with the stifling silence and Spock's insistence on driving exactly at speed limit when the road was completely deserted made it feel like hours.
"Mr. Kirk, I have found that it is usually far safer to exit a car when it has come to a complete stop, not prior to this event." Spock commented as stepped out of his car and followed Jim out to the center of the fields. The grass was a hell of a lot higher than Jim remembered, and he batted agitatedly at the prickly, waist-high blades as he walked out to where one of the two uniforms, Brent, stood. The other one, Fields, was picking around the grass, probably searching for more evidence.
"What did you find?" Jim asked Brent, who was holding an evidence bag. He held it out in response. Jim grabbed it, ignoring Spock as the man walked to his side, hands clasped behind his back.
It was a sweatshirt, several sizes smaller than what Jim himself would have worn, in a male teenager's style. It was stained with something dark red—blood. Jim frowned slightly, annoyance prickling under his skin. "This is all you called me for?"
Brent's ears turned red as he shifted uncomfortably in place. "Well, uh, I thought that it could be evidence of a murder…or something…"
Jim rolled his eyes, shoving the bag back into the young man's arms. He hated dealing with unis right out of the Academy—they all wanted to be part of some high-profile murder case, and it was fucking irritating to the detectives. Jim wondered how the kid had gotten Fields, who was a seasoned cop nearing retirement age, to go along with him on this. "All this is evidence of is some kids messing around and one of them getting a scratch."
"I disagree, Mr. Kirk," Spock said, face remaining blank. Jim felt the beginning of a serious headache coming on. "It would be illogical for people to travel so far from town to engage in legal activities that could result in bloodshed."
"We're talking about teenagers, here, Spock. They're the very opposite of logical," Jim replied, trying to keep his voice neutral.
Spock coolly raised an eyebrow at him. "Even so, Mr. Kirk—"
Whatever the man was about to say was cut off by a shout from Fields. Jim glanced over at him as he raised a backpack out of the tall grass with a gloved hand. Jim beat his way over through the grass to inspect it.
The blue material of the backpack was splattered with blood as well. Jim felt uneasiness churn in his stomach. The amount of blood on the sweatshirt wasn't anything to worry about, and neither was the amount on the backpack, but together…
"Do you still believe that this is the result of children, as you say, 'messing around', Mr. Kirk?"
Jim glanced over his shoulder to see Spock leaning over him, coldly raising an eyebrow as their gazes met. Ignoring the barb, the blonde turned his attention back to the backpack. "We'll find out who this belongs to and check to make sure he's okay," he said calmly. Accepting the offer of a pair of rubber gloves from Fields, Jim unzipped the backpack and poked around the contents.
There were many loose sheets of paper, ruined by the rain of last night. A couple of spiral notebooks in similar shape. Obviously, this was the backpack of a schoolkid.
Eventually, Jim fished out a hardcover textbook that hadn't taken too much water damage. Reading the title, he whistled. "Damn, look at this." Jim turned it upward so that Spock and Fields could see it.
"Advanced Quantum Statistical Mechanics?" Fields read aloud. "Jesus Christ, my brain hurts just looking at that thing," he joked.
"The human brain has no nociceptors," Spock intoned. "So that statement is technically inaccurate."
Jim just shook his head as Fields shot him a 'what the fuck' face. "He wasn't being serious, Spock."
"I see," Spock responded, face still impassive. "Embellishment for no reason is a behavioral trait that eludes me."
"Is he your new partner?" Fields asked Jim in a whisper as Spock examined the textbook.
"Unfortunately," Jim muttered.
"What did you do, screw Pike's daughter or something?"
"This textbook covers material normally taught at the graduate level," Spock commented, cutting off Jim's reply.
"It's a high school kid's backpack, I'm positive." Jim grabbed the textbook back from Spock, flipping open the cover. A single name was scrawled there in black pen. Jim felt a little bit of relief when he saw the name—this kid wouldn't be too difficult to find. "How many Pavel Chekovs do you figure there are in Enterprise?"
"I will call Ms. Rand at the station and request that she search the city records," Spock replied, straightening up. "But I would estimate that there are very few."
"No shit," Jim muttered as Spock headed back over to his car and pulled out a cell phone. Fields shot him a sympathetic look as, with a deep breath, Jim walked over to his partner.
"Take a left up here," Jim ordered Spock. He balled up the map and stuck it under the passenger seat in Spock's car. "This is it. The address is—"
"435 Omicron Street," Spock finished calmly, taking the turn Jim had instructed and then pulling into the driveway of Pavel Chekov's house.
"Great." Jim stepped out of the car and slammed the door behind him, taking a moment to pause and size up the house.
It was fairly small and fairly beat up, with vines creeping up the brick walls and bare, curtain-less windows. But the door had been recently painted and the roof thatched by what seemed like an amateur, so obviously the occupants of the house were trying to make it look nice.
"This is the residence of Andrei Chekov, 48, an immigrant from Russia, and his son, Pavel Chekov, 16." Spock read aloud from his notebook. His eyebrow arched. Jim got the feeling that was something he was going to be seeing a lot of. "Fascinating. A sixteen-year-old studying Advanced Quantum Statistical Mechanics. He must have been highly intelligent."
Jim couldn't help but feel a little irked at Spock's use of past tense, because the kid wasn't necessarily dead, but he didn't say anything as he approached the front and pounded on it. "Mr. Chekov?" he shouted. "It's the police, Mr. Chekov, open up!" He paused and waited, but no one responded. He turned back to Spock. "There's a car in the garage, do you think he's ducking us?" Jim asked.
Spock blinked. "Excuse me?"
Jim scowled. "Lot of help you are," he grumbled under his breath. "C'mon," he said louder to Spock. "Let's go around back." Spock nodded and, hands tightly clasped behind his back in that annoying habit of his, followed Jim as he crept around the side of the house.
"Hello? Eez somevun zere?"
Jim whipped around at the sound of the heavily accented voice. He couldn't help but take a step back as he was faced with a truly bear-like man; Andrei Chekov was enormous, at least a head taller than Jim and a fair bit wider, with hands that looked like they could smash glass bottles by just squeezing into a fist around them. The fact that those hands were clutching a tire iron didn't ease Jim's mind, either.
Spock, on the other hand, didn't seem at all perturbed by Chekov's size or sudden appearance. "Are you Andrei Chekov?"
"Da," the man responded, eyes darting uneasily between Spock and Jim. "Vhy are joo here?"
Jim took a deep breath before asking, "Mr. Chekov, do you know where your son is?"
The tire iron slipped from Chekov's hands and clattered loudly on the pavement. "Vhy do joo ask? Eez he een trouble?"
Spock opened his mouth and Jim realized that the idiot was going to tell Chekov the truth. That was another thing that Jim had heard about the man—he was never able to lie, even for the good of the investigation. So Jim swiftly cut him off. "We wanted to ask him a few questions about an incident at the school," he lied smoothly. "When did you last see Pavel?" Jim ignored the eyebrow Spock was raising in his direction.
Chekov frowned slightly, beginning to look worried. "I have not seen heem since Friday. I vas avay all veekend dealing vith vork. I just came back few meenutes ago, and he vas not home. He should be home from school…"
"All right," Jim replied cheerfully, trying to cover up his own uneasiness. He pulled a business card from his pocket and put it into Chekov's massive hand. "Call me if you hear from him, okay?"
"Okay…" Chekov trailed off. He seemed disturbed by what Jim had said, and his eyes never left Jim and Spock as they turned and walked back to their car.
Jim plopped himself down on the passenger seat and pulled the car door shut, thinking. So, the kid's dad is away for the weekend and he goes out partying with his friends. They bring some beers up to Walden Park…maybe they get drunk and start fighting…but why would he bring his backpack? Jim sighed, running a hand through his hair. Spock sat in the driver's seat next to him.
"Spock," Jim started. "Get Rand to call all the local hospitals and give them Pavel's description. Have them call us if he tu—"
"I have already done so," Spock cut him off calmly.
Jim blinked in surprise. "When did you have time to do that?"
Spock arched his eyebrow. "When you insisted on stopping to get a 'hot dog'." The detective's lips curled downward in distaste. "I do not understand the popular tendency to consume flesh," he continued. "Especially when investigating a potentially time sensitive issue—"
"You know, Spock," Jim interrupted, leaning back in his seat. "I was almost impressed with you there. Almost." His partner blinked, perplexed, and Jim sighed. This is going to be a long, long case. "I want to go back to Walden Park. I think we should take a better look around. Maybe we'll find something that the unis overlooked."
Jim looked expectantly at Spock, waiting for him to start up the car and drive, but the man just stared out the windshield, looking thoughtful. "You lied to Mr. Chekov," Spock said, sounding genuinely curious. "May I inquire as to why?"
Jim rolled his cobalt blue eyes. Jesus, did he really have to explain this? "Look, Spock, you don't just walk up to a man and tell him that you found his son's bloody backpack."
"Why not? It is the truth."
"Spock, there are some times in an investigation where it is more prudent to not tell the whole truth, okay?"
Spock nodded thoughtfully. "I will accept this premise. But how was the instance with Pavel Chekov's father an example of this?"
Jim kneaded his temples in frustration. "Well…what if Chekov had killed Pavel? Then we'd be tipping our hand and showing that we had found his backpack, but not his body. Chekov would have a chance to, I don't know, destroy the body or something." Jim knew it was a stupid explanation, but his head was pounding far too hard for him to come up with something cleverer.
Spock frowned. "But—"
"Can you just drive us back to Walden, already?" Jim said testily, crossing his arms over his chest. He can't possibly be as bad as your last partner, Jim kept telling himself. And it's just for one case. That's it.
"Very well."
