A/N: AAAAAAHHHHH YEAHHHHHH
Damn right. I wrote more of this. By God it's a lot of fun.
Excuse my lack of knowledge about American police systems.
Please God you guys, review this. I have no idea whether you all like it or not, and while I probably won't stop if you don't like it, I might go a bit faster if I knew you did like it. Savvy?
Obviously Groove is the Protectobot Groove, and Percival the Coroner is Perceptor. Dead End is Dead End. Duh.
The Captain is supposed to be Chromia. Sam Riley is Strongarm. Obviously. Anyhow, pls enjoy, and review if you like what I'm doing here, if you've got a suggestion, or even if you just want me to clarify something.
Have fun!
TONIGHT: Barry struggles with timekeeping, Paul jumps off a bridge, and a gang of car thieves make their entrance.
ROWLEY & KANE'S APARTMENT, PRAXUS STREET, FAIRHAVEN CITY, MAINE
07:54, 16/08/2006
Barry eyed the clock. He had six minutes. He could do this. He eyed his age-old enemy.
The name "EIGHT-O-CLOCK COFFEE" was printed boldly on the packet. It was taunting him.
He fumbled with the filter paper, stuffing it into the top of the machine, then carefully poured the granules from their container into the waiting receptacle, measuring them out exactly. He grabbed the kettle and filled it with water from the tap, sliding it onto its rest and then flicking the coffee machine on. A small red LED switched on.
He stood up straight. "Five minutes. Should be fine. Five minutes."
The clock flicked to 7:55.
He wiped at the sweat on his brow.
"Five. Minutes." he told the coffee machine. "Five minutes. You take any more time than that and I will hate you forever."
7:56. He shot a look at the coffee machine. "Come on. GO. BREW."
Barry ignored Paul's strange looks and continued. "Come on, come on. For the love of God, come on."
7:57. "Oh God, three minutes. Three minutes! JUST BREW."
7:58.
"Dammit."
He dabbed at his brow again. "God. You're stressin' me out here."
7:59. "BREWWWWW." Barry begged the machine.
The red LED turned green. Barry inhaled sharply. With trembling hands he unhooked the kettle from its seat and frantically poured himself a cup of coffee.
Paul raised an eyebrow. "I know what you're doing."
Barry poured some condensed milk into the mug, then looked around frantically. "Where the hell is my spoon?"
"You're trying to brew the coffee at eight o'clock exactly and then drink it in the space of a minute." Paul continued.
Barry attempted to stir the coffee with his index finger and failed miserably. He burned his finger and had to wrap it haphazardly in a bandage.
8:00. Barry grabbed a fork and stirred his coffee with that instead. He laughed maniacally. "It's perfect."
Paul nodded calmly.
Barry went on, clutching the mug of coffee in his bandaged left hand. "The day has finally come." he said giddily. "I always knew it would."
Paul coughed and pointed to the clock.
Barry's face paled. He looked at the clock.
8:01.
"Dammit!" Barry exploded. He poured the entire cup of coffee down the sink and then the contents of the entire kettle followed it down with a sad gurgle.
Paul facepalmed. "Just because it's called Eight-O-Clock Coffee doesn't mean you have to drink it at eight o'clock exactly." he said.
"You've obviously never drank Eight-O-Clock Coffee." Barry shot back. "I'll let you have some. Sometime. When I actually work out how to make it myself."
Paul sighed the 'oh, forget it, I just give up' way that he often did when Barry was being particularly obtuse. "Never mind. We're supposed to be at the station by half-eight, and if you're not ready then I will go without you."
"You wouldn't." Barry hissed. "The Captain'll chew me out for sure."
"You are forgetting that you are always late, even when I drive you." Paul pointed out.
"Yeah, but that's for a good reason."
"Please enlighten me."
"Chicks dig the bad-boy rule-breaker persona."
"You are telling me that women in a police station who are all police officers and are dedicated to the upholding of the law and/or rules are attracted to a bad-boy rule-breaker persona?"
"Yeah, okay, when you say it like that it doesn't make much sense. It's the juxtapositioning of my carefree rule-breaking attitude and my serious, dreamy and heroic police officer occupation which makes me so irresistible."
Paul properly laughed. "Yes, of course. This is why you have tried and failed to make any headway in seducing one of the single most stringent and by-the-book officers in the city for about two years now, and your last relationship was with a strange and exceptionally clingy woman who was a foot and a half shorter than you and dyed her hair entirely silver."
"Felicia was a great girl."
"She insisted upon being called 'Frenzy'."
"Well, maybe she was a bit weird. But we had a good thing going!"
"Your relationship was entirely physical."
"Isn't that what I said?"
"You are a deplorable human being. Get in the car."
FAIRHAVEN POLICE DEPARTMENT 45th PRECINCT, POLYHEX STREET, FAIRHAVEN CITY, MAINE
8:32, 16/08/2006
Barry's morning had gone from bad to worse.
Not only had he been bested by the Eight-O-Clock Coffee, but now he had been defeated in the latest battle in the war between himself and the lovely Sam (from Dispatch).
He regarded his solitary doughnut sadly. He also regarded the small stack of paperwork – wrapped in plastic film with a cheery blue post-it note attached to the front – which his doughnut was sat on irritated admiration.
He picked up the post-it note, dusted the sugar off it, and read it tersely to himself.
"Dear Barry," it read, written in a careful, collected hand using perfectly uniform, smudgeless navy blue ink, "you left this on my desk accidentally. You also owe me exactly six hundred and forty-three pens of assorted colors."
It was signed "Sam" in perfect, exactly-at-90-degrees handwriting.
Barry cast a look across the room to where Sam Riley (from Dispatch) was speaking into her headset, blue lipstick and blue eyeshadow sat on the table in front of her, and her plaster-cast-clad right arm resting on the arm of her chair.
Paul cast him a look over the divider between his and Barry's desks. "Don't do it." he said warningly.
Barry looked affronted. "Do what?"
"Whatever it is you're thinking about doing right now involving Sam."
"How do you know I'm even thinking of doing anything right now involving Sam? I'm just staring into space over here." Barry said defensively.
"Oh please, Barry. You have the look." Paul said, inclining his head in the way that he often did when Barry was being especially trying.
"I do not."
"You have the look that says 'I say, I feel as though I haven't endured enough pain today, I think I shall go and bother the woman colloquially known as Strongarm in the station until she finally snaps and beats me to death with her dispatch headset.'" Paul said flatly.
"You're exaggerating." Barry scoffed. "And I'm going to prove you wrong." He stoutly got up out of his seat, pushed it back in under his desk, marched across the room, performed a fantastically dexterous manoeuvre which allowed him to pretend-stumble two feet, grab a blue pen out of Sam Riley's "Pens Mug" (which Paul knew Barry knew was Sam's favourite pen), twirl it around his fingers and slide it into his breast pocket, then stand up straight again and come straight back the way he'd come and sit back down at his desk.
Paul regarded him with cold disdain.
Barry clicked the pen off his forehead and nonchalantly started filling out his arrest report for the Dalton twins.
Paul raised an eyebrow.
Barry printed his name BARRY WEI KANE at the bottom of the report, scribbled down his ID number 1865/643, signed his name with a flourish, clicked the pen off his forehead, and then dropped the pen onto the finished report triumphantly.
Paul crossed his arms and frowned.
Paul's crushing stare of disapproval was interrupted by the Captain whistling loudly from her office, having just gotten off the phone with someone. "Rowley, Kane! Ginny's got a vic near Iacon Park. I want you pair on it yesterday!" she ordered. Paul was already up and out of his chair before Barry could even react.
24 IACON PARK DRIVE, FAIRHAVEN CITY, MAINE
9:08, 16/08/2006
Paul got out of the car and shut the door firmly, taking stock of the scene. A crowd of people surrounded the area, which was fenced off with yellow POLICE LINE tape and some uniformed officers were fending off the reporters. Paul spotted Virginia Parker, also known as Groove in the 45th Precinct, and made his way over, followed by Barry.
Paul ducked under the police tape. "What have you got, Ginny?" he asked, surveying the area. There was a car wrapped around a lamppost, a body in the back seat. The coroner's van was parked not far off.
"One vic, male, late forties I'd guess. Some old woman walking her dog found the poor guy this morning. I was thinking it could be a suicide, but then I checked the other side of the car." Ginny replied, leading Paul over to the crashed car. "'S covered with purple spraypaint. You ever heard of anything called the Stunticons?" she asked, pointing.
Barry whistled. "Yeah, actually. They're a street gang – small time, dumb stuff mostly: jacking cars, selling 'em, that sort of thing. Never thought they'd graduate, so to speak."
On the other side of the car, in bold purple spraypaint, was the phrase DON'T CROSS THE STUNTICONS with a few skull-and-crossbones designs drawn on for good measure.
Paul set his jaw. "We know anything about the vic?" he asked Ginny. She shrugged.
"Percy's just finishing up now, if you wanna go talk to him." she said, gesturing to a tallish, bespectacled man with neat black hair and a red shirt under his green coroner's scrubs.
Paul thanked Ginny and Barry bounded over to the coroner. "Hey, Percy! What's the haps?" he asked.
Percival Epcot stood up from where he was crouched over the man's body. "Good day, gentlemen. As you can see, the victim is male, and I would estimate in his early fifties."
Paul pulled on his black evidence gloves. "CoD?" he asked, crouching down and inspecting the body.
"Certainly not a car crash." Percival said. Barry cocked his head quizzically.
"What'd'ya mean by that, Percy?" he asked. "The dude's obviously been in a car crash, I mean look at him."
"Indeed, Detective Kane. However, if you direct your attention to his chest; you can see an entry would. I would estimate it came from a small firearm, most likely a 9mm round." Percival pointed out. "Furthermore I discovered a brick tied over the accelerator of the car. This was murder, gentlemen, a murder supposed to send a message."
"I think I've got an ID." Paul spoke up, bringing a wallet out of the dead man's jacket pocket and pulling a driver's licence out of it. "He's called Isaac Sumdac, 52."
"Hell, I know that name." Barry realised, snapping his fingers. "Guy ran a used car dealership with his kid. Damn, poor girl."
"Well, this gives us possible motive, I suppose." Paul said, standing up and taking a business card out of the wallet. "Got an address; Sumdac Motors, on Vos Crescent." He put the wallet and driver's licence into an evidence bag. "So, this gang wants our vic to sell their stolen cars, he refuses, they threaten him, he still refuses, maybe threatens to go to the police; so they shoot him and dump him in the park in one of his own cars as a message."
"Makes sense." Barry agreed. "They might be movin' in on the kid, though. We should probably get someone over there."
"Thanks, Percival." Paul said. "Come on, Barry. Let's get to Sumdac Motors."
SUMDAC MOTORS, VOS CRESCENT, FAIRHAVEN CITY, MAINE
9:48, 16/08/2006
The Indian girl pushed herself off the desk and stood up straight when the bell above the door chimed and two police officers walked in, badges glinting.
"Excuse me, miss." Paul started. "Are you Ms. Sumdac?"
"Yes?" Ms. Sumdac replied. "I'm Sari Sumdac, how can I help you?"
"I'm sorry to inform you of this, Sari, but we found your father dead this morning. It looks like a murder." Paul said.
"Oh God." Sari breathed. "Oh God."
"We'd like to ask you a few questions about your dad, if that's ok?" Barry asked carefully, shooting a 'Jesus Christ, Paul, be less of a robot' look at his partner.
Sari blinked a few of her tears away and inhaled slowly. "Y...yeah, I think I can do that." she said shakily. Paul pulled out his notepad and clicked his pen.
"I know it's difficult, but can you try and tell us if there was anyone who might have wanted to hurt your dad?" Barry asked. Sari shook her head.
"N-no...I mean, everyone around here loved Dad. He was a good guy – I mean, I knew we weren't doing super great on the money front, but he didn't let it bother him." Sari choked out. "Wait...actually, some guy came in last week – I didn't think anything weird was up, but him and Dad had some kinda argument. I figured it was about a car breaking down or something, that happens sometimes, and then I didn't give it any more thought. God, I'm so stupid!"
Barry gave Paul a look. "Did you get this man's name?" Paul asked sharply.
Sari wiped at her eyes. "Uh, uh, no, sorry. Uh, he had something on the back of his jacket, if it helps?"
Barry nodded. Sari looked upwards, searching her memory. "Uh, I think it said...I think it said 'Dead End?'"
Barry snapped his fingers. "That's great. That's really, really great. Thanks a lot, Sari. And don't worry. We'll get the guy. Do you have anyone you can stay with?"
Sari nodded. "Uh, yeah. My boyfriend."
Barry nodded. "Great. Stay with him. That's all for now, Sari."
"Thank you for your time, and my condolences." Paul said in lieu of a goodbye, as Barry was already halfway out of the office, leaving a shocked Sari behind.
"So I take it you know this 'Dead End', Barry?" Paul asked, on the way down the pavement to the car.
"Hell yes. He's a Stunticon. Real name's Dylan Elmwood." Barry cackled. "Small time player, illegal street racer, you name it, and as long as it's to do with cars, he's done it."
"You've got an address for him?" Paul asked, unconsciously checking his SIG P228 pistol at his hip.
"Are you kidding me? Of course I do." Barry scoffed, opening the car door and sliding into his seat. "Let's go."
DYLAN ELMWOOD'S APARTMENT, MIRANDA AVENUE, FAIRHAVEN CITY, MAINE
10:39, 16/08/2006
Barry inspected the door. "Locked." he said to Paul, who was mysteriously not beside him like he should have been. He looked around. "Paul?"
Paul jogged up. "Sorry. Was just on the radio with the Captain. She says we're good."
Barry stood nonplussed. "What? We're just knocking on his door, not..."
Barry was not able to finish, because Paul suddenly drew his pistol and kicked the door off it's hinges, shouting "FCPD! Down on the ground!"
"Oh goddammit!" Barry cursed, hurriedly drawing his Beretta 92FS and following his partner.
A wiry man with a beanie hat, a maroon leather jacket with DEAD END on the back, and a beatnik beard suddenly shot out of a side room, past Barry, and out the back door. Paul followed shortly after, leaving Barry standing in an empty room.
"God dammit." he cursed, and went to go get the car.
Dead End sprinted down through the car park behind his house, jacket flying in the wind and his hat barely on his head.
Paul followed, easily keeping pace with the sprightly man. Ahead, Dead End scrambled up over a small metal fence and dropped down into a small alley, taking off at a run. Paul flat-out vaulted the fence and landed in a forward roll, picking the chase back up at full tilt. Dead End skidded around a corner and ran along towards a small bridge over a pond, where a woman in a red scarf suddenly stopped, aware of the chase currently taking place.
Eilidh Dalton did not want her day off ruined by being taken hostage some guy running from the police. She had had too dreadful a day yesterday (aside from meeting a nice policeman in a bar) for that to happen. So she reacted accordingly.
And suddenly, Dead End was upon her.
At least, he thought he was. In fact, she had ducked sideways and put out a fist just before he could get a grip on her, and Dead End took a solid right cross to the jaw, stumbled past her and then was unfortunate enough to be tackled off the side of the bridge by Paul, coming from the opposite direction to the one which Dead End was expecting.
They ended up in the pond, Paul cuffing the car thief and hauling him up and out, sopping wet.
Eilidh made a squeaking noise and hid behind her scarf when Paul emerged from the pond, his shirt sticking to him and water pouring off him.
"Oh, good morning, Eilidh. Thanks for that." Paul said to her offhandedly.
"Oh. Uh. Yeah. No problem. You're welcome." She stuttered. Apparently nice policeman from the bar last night was also some kind of superhuman. And apparently she was a danger magnet.
"Where'd you learn that, anyway?" Paul asked.
"I did 5 years in the 144th Parachute Medical Squadron." Eilidh replied. "Ex-Lieutenant Eilidh Dalton, reporting for duty." she awkwardly joked.
Paul gave her a smile and saluted. "Ex-Captain Paul Rowley, B Squadron, 22nd Special Air Service Regiment."
"You're from Leeds?" Eilidh asked.
"Originally."
"You don't have the accent."
"You don't have the Essex accent."
Dead End groaned through about 4 broken ribs. "Oh for God's sake, what's the point. Just arrest me already."
Paul gave him a look. "You're under arrest for the suspected murder of Isaac Sumdac. You have the right to remain silent."
Barry pulled the police car up, the lights on. He got out and stared at Paul, dripping wet and holding a casual conversation. "What even are you, Paul? Some kind of human-shaped police robot?"
Paul grinned, a rare thing for him. "Not quite, Barry. Book this guy." he said, handing Dead End over. Paul undid his top button and turned to Eilidh. "Would you mind leaving a phone number with me? Just in case we need to call you into the station about this."
Barry facepalmed and went to push Dead End into the back of the car.
