This was a tad harder than he thought it'd be.

Kyle leaned back in his chair a bit, the worn metal of the support squeaking as he did so. His eyes flittered over his desk, littered with various paperwork in an effort to look busy for Cartman's camera. He had to figure out some excuse to get into his office and get a look around. But anything relating to finances would be solved in a matter of seconds with a "Well it's your job, Jew, figure it out". No no, he had to figure out how to keep himself in there for a few minutes minimum. Had to scope around, see if there were other obstacles in his and Mysterion's path.

He twisted his lips, foot tapping lightly on the plastic carpet protector beneath his feet. He reached up towards his computer, listlessly scrolling through files, seeing if there was something for him to 'bring to Cartman's attention'. Something that wasn't directly related to this whole chaotic episode if he could avoid it. No need to get himself verbally backed into a corner and have a hit taken out on him. Cartman probably knew just how much he had figured out, but figured the danger wasn't prevalent until Kyle confronted him. After all, that was his pattern, much as the redhead hated to admit it. Figure out his plans and go after him head-on more often than not. But this situation far extended past their childhood schemes, this was on a whole 'nother personal level all its own. And he wasn't sure of how to sidetrack it.

He jerked at a sudden knock at his door, clearing his throat and trying to get himself straightened up as he glanced through the glass, seeing the telltale rise and fall of a blonde bouncing on the balls of their feet. Kyle shook his head, pressing his lock button and watching Butters stepping through with a wide smile on his face and a splotch of milk from breakfast on his tie. "Heya, Kyle!"

"Hi. For the third time today," he raised his brow. "What's wrong?"

"Nothin' wrong," he assured him, pulling a folder from behind his back and making way over towards his boss. He laid it down in front of him and shrugged, "Just need ya t' sign a few things."

He sighed, "Oh my favorite pastime." He opened the folder and snagged his black ballpoint from beside him, scanning listlessly over the paperwork before him. "What am I signing here?"

"An okay for the design team," Butters shrugged, mindlessly picking at a loose thread of his cuffs. "Craig wants to know if they can use some of their budget and go to some kinda photography seminar."

"Photography seminar?" he repeated with a cocked brow. "Isn't that what he went to school for?"

Butters paused, clearing his throat sheepishly. "Well… well I guess that's true. H-he said it's for layout ideas… and they can get permits for new location shoots."

Kyle's eyes brightened a bit. "Ohh okay. That makes more sense…" he nodded to himself, flipping through pages. He snorted, "How kind, Craig even allocated the costs for me."

"He told me what happened," Butters blurted out, the accountant snapping his head back to stare up at his flustered face. "Well… well Judy did. B-but Craig told me fer sure that it was true…" his face fell pitiably. "Ya ever think a' quittin'?" he whispered, the words even feeling taboo seeping off of his tongue.

The redhead cleared his throat and shrugged dismissively. "Not as of now, no… What exactly did Tucker tell you?"

"He said… said it was your time of the month," his face fell thoughtfully. "Which didn't make much sense 'cuz month end ain't till the end a' this week so I think his dates are off."

Kyle slapped his face with his palm, "Oh my god it's month end. I completely fucking forgot fucking shit!" he hissed, quickly signing off the designated lines and throwing the folder back towards his dumbfounded assistant.

Butters cleared his throat, placing the papers back in an orderly fashion. "Anythin' I can do to help?"

"Not really," he sighed. "Not since you still haven't-" he paused, straightening back up and glancing at the blonde. "Did Cartman question you on the catering for the employees yesterday?"

He shook his head, "Nah. Why heck, I didn't even know he was at the office till he was headin' home!"

A smirk curled up the edge of Kyle's lips and he got to his feet, brushing his bangs back and glancing at the man with a quirked brow. "Is he in a meeting?"

"I-I saw someone go back there but he ain't got no one scheduled, and they mighta left already," he answered. "You okay?"

"Great, actually. Thank you, Butters," he said, gripping his shoulder and turning him, leading him out of his office. They both stepped into the hallway, Kyle turning on his heel and heading straight down the way towards the turn leading to Cartman's office.

Butters watched after him confusedly, "You're… You're welcome?" he blinked. Quickly he shook himself back into attention. Craig certainly wouldn't be happy if he lingered for too long with his paperwork, heading to his own office to get the necessary copies ready to file.

Kyle strut down the hallway, shoulders rolled back and posture poised. He was just going to have to lead Cartman down their old path, going to have to play old, familiar games to buy him the time he needed. And luckily for him, the fatass himself had handed him just the reason that he needed to get it all done. He cleared his throat softly as he approached the thick door, taking a long, needed breath. Had to play it cool and remember what he was in here for, not get too caught up in the moment and just go on a full-on assault. Or else he was just wasting his time.

He rapped on the door, hearing Cartman sighing irritably. "Come in!" he shouted in annoyance, the door's lock slipping open with a heavy clink.

Kyle pushed open the barrier, glancing up to see Cartman and his heart freezing in place, seeing two other faces in the room with him. Two faces that had been hidden in the dark from him, two that didn't know that he knew who they were. "Well, Kahl," Cartman drawled. "What can I help you with."

The redhead eyed Burke and Kashkov warily, noting a particular malice lingering in the larger man's eye towards him. "If this is a bad time, I can-"

"Nonsense," Cartman waved him off. "You've met my good friends here," he gestured towards the both of them with a wide grin. "Come in and sit. Tell me what's on your mind, Kahl."

Every flag in his head was waving like the middle of a colorguard performance, Mysterion's plea desperately ringing through his ears. But he had to do this. They wouldn't do anything to him here. Not in broad daylight… right? "Call Butters in here," he said quietly.

Cartman's lips quirked knowingly. "Why? Do you need coffee? Paperwork? Kahl I can get that for you if it's what you need."

Kyle refused to step further into the threshold, feeling their audience staring him down bitterly. "He's part of this discussion. I want Butters in here, too," he demanded. A witness. He needed at least one person that guaranteed his safety.

The glutton shrugged nonchalantly, grabbing his phone and dialing in Butters' extension. "Yeah, Eric?" he answered cheerily.

"Come on down to my office, Butters," he said coolly. "Kahl needs you." He hung up the phone and leaned back, fingers folding on the shelf his stomach made as it protruded further in his positioning. "Don't be rude, Kahl," he taunted. "Say hello to our guests."

The redhead glanced between the three pairs of slicing eyes, the ones filled with malicious promise. "Hello," he forced out evenly.

The brunette grinned, "Don't worry about professionalism, Kahl. They're casual partners. With the business I mean," he hiked his brow.

Green flickered back to clash with amber, a long, shaking breath eeking out through Kyle's lips. "Right," he said through gritted teeth. "The business."

"That's all this is, Jew. Just. Business," he cooed.

"Hey there, Fellas!" that chipper voice shot up, Kyle flinching in panic and hands flying up to protect his throat before catching the wide brown eyes on Butters' face. "Well geez, Kyle, I'm sorry," he said worriedly, putting a hand on his shoulder and leading him back down into a casual stance. "I thought ya heard me comin' down the way. I'm sorry," he repeated.

A thick wad of saliva wormed down Kyle's throat. "It's fine," he assured him shakily, glancing back towards the observing group, watching him with dark smirks. Kashkov momentarily quirked his brow at the accountant, a shudder racking down Kyle's spine. That was enough for him, they did know that he knew… He paused. But fucking how?!

"Jewboy, I don't have all day," Cartman barked before pausing, posture slipping back down comfortably. "Now," voice dropping back down into its eerily smooth, calm cadence. "Come sit. There's a third seat right there just for you," he gestured to the chair between the other two men across from him.

"I'm fine standing."

"Kahl. Don't be rude," he repeated, eyes flaring fiercely as his tone remained unwavering.

Butters looked between the two of them confusedly and their silent war spanning acres of a lifetime between them. Kyle glanced at the blonde beside him. If he was in here, he was safe. There's no way they'd go after him with such a blabbermouthed witness… hopefully. He straightened back up, moving towards the group, forcing his teeth to stop their jittering. Carefully, he stepped between Burke and the empty chair, sliding around and taking a seat. He felt so much smaller than he usually did, the three surrounding him towering over him, silently promising that they would finish what they started. He opened his mouth slightly, a squeak coming through before he cleared his throat, trying to regather his bearings. No. No time for this. He just had to ignore the two on either side, ignore the fact that to his left sat the man who's tried to choke him out. His eyes flickered to the right corner of the room at the ceiling, noting nothing and bringing his sight back onto the all-too-amused glutton before him. "Why… isn't Butters in his classes like you promised?" he forced out.

A smarmy grin splayed over Cartman's face, an innocent shrug rolling through his shoulders. "Didn't seem to be the right time, not with so much going on," he proclaimed.

Kyle took a deep breath, "You promised. You took out the money for my bonus and raise already. If it didn't go to Butters, where did it go?" he demanded.

"Does it really matter?"

"I handle your money," he hissed. "And it really fucking matters to me when the money you take isn't being spent on what it's for!" He paused, feeling Burke and Kashkov staring him down from the sides, waiting for Cartman to just give them the word and they would tackle him down. Hell, one could go for him and the other for Butters. Do away with both of them, stash them in Cartman's fucking filing cabinets until they could take them out of the building without any witnesses. This wasn't quite the dramatic show he thought he'd be putting on. The redhead scratched at his hair, ducking his head down and subtly peering through long cinnamon lashes towards the left corner of Cartman's office. Looked just as empty as the first far as he could tell. Good. Now he just had to get through this and get out.

The brunette smacked his lips unenthusiastically, "There was no contract involved, Kahl. The money will be put towards Butters' training before long. For now it's been repurposed for a new copier downstairs. The invoice should be in your email within the week. Right now there's no classes taking in students, we have to wait until the fall. Understand?"

"Fine," he said bitterly, starting to move before Cartman held up his hand.

"Butters," Cartman said, looking up at him with a sly grin. "Do you have anything to add?"

"Um, no, Sir, I don't," he said nervously, fingers twiddling around one another as he stood unsure of why he was even here to begin with.

He nodded curtly. "Good. Then leave. Kahl will be out shortly."

Kyle's eyes widened, "Butters, don't leave," he said hastily, stopping the blonde in his tracks.

"Why shouldn't he, Kahl?" Cartman drawled knowingly, glancing at Kashkov. The man shifted, blocking Kyle's leg with his own and placing a firm hand down on his thigh keeping him pinned down. Kyle looked down at his hand in panic. Butters glanced around in bewilderment, not knowing just what to do. "Butters, leave or you're fired," Cartman snapped. "And close the fucking door."

The blonde turned on his heel, eyes wide with fright at the promise and heading out. "Butters, don't-!" Kyle stopped as the door slammed, breath turning shallow and turning back to face that devious face. He grabbed Kashkov's hand and threw it off his leg, backing up and falling over the back of his chair, landing in an awkward heap and staring up at the three watching him far too casually.

"Now, Kahl," his boss cooed. "Don't be rude. Kashkov was only showing the traditional Russian sign of friendship."

His jaw trembled as he slowly got back to his feet, face darkening. "Funny since he's Ukrainian."

Kashkov grinned, "Smart little ryzhevolosyy. But nyet. I vas born een Ukraina, lived een Rossiya from time I vas two."

"How insensitive of you to think he can only represent the country he was born in, Kahl," Cartman smirked, tapping his finger on his desk. "Would've thought that you of all people wouldn't be so ignorant."

"Don't you fucking turn this around on me, Fatass," he warned, eyes narrowing dangerously. "This threatening me bullshit is going to land you in a world of trouble."

He shrugged innocently. "We've done nothing to you… not here," he said lowly, getting to his feet and slowly walking around his desk, looking up towards the ceiling in thought. Kyle's head followed him, letting his eyes fleet up to scan around the ceiling, taking a deep breath of relief before looking back down as the brunette stopped, blocking his path to the door before turning his head back down to face the redhead. "Kahl, you know you're going wayyyy too far, don't you?" he challenged.

"Yeah. I'm the one who's taken things too far," he spat. "Then what do you call what you've done?"

"What I've done?" he repeated, feigning an offended scoff. "You're the one with your name all over things, Jewboy," he reminded him. "You're the one with the financial know-how." Kyle scowled, flinching at Burke and Kashkov flanking him, completely cornered as he stood in open space. Cartman stepped up closer towards him and leaned down, "And you're the one with a little caped friend who works with the police," he hissed. "Because that's not suspicious. Nothing odd at all about a little Jewrat accountant making out with and practically dry-humping a masked freak."

Kyle's face paled, body beginning to quiver. He'd been watching them for at the very least the last week. The question was where did he see them?! He shook himself out of his shock, plastering his scowl back on. "You're the one with the criminal record," he reminded him bitterly. "And I'm the one who's best friends with a fucking detective! So I'm holding the cards here, Fatboy."

A loud, barking laugh of disbelief passed through Cartman's lips, looking at Kyle with hilarity ringing in his amber eyes. "What cards? The fucking joker at best," he drawled.

He scowled, "Good thing I'm making the game Euchre." Cartman glowered at him and he took a deep breath. "You can fucking intimidate me all you want, Fatass, but I know the weak spot," he bit.

"Oh do you?" he cocked his brow.

He pointed back to himself, "If I'm not here, it all goes to shit, doesn't it?" He stepped up closer towards the glutton, Cartman holding up his hand to stop the other two from approaching, watching with wild, gleaming eyes as Kyle stood in front of him, staring up at him darkly. "You really fucked up making it so you can't get rid of me," he hissed. "And you fucking know it."

"Hm," he mused. "This is true, really does make it all harder on my end…" he paused, reaching up with a plump hand and snagging Kyle's chin, watching green eyes go wide with panic as he brought him closer. "But if you can't get any farther, then I guess we're at a stalemate, aren't we? Wouldn't want you to get arrested, Kahl. Prison's not a good place for a twink like you," he said with a smirk. "So you and your little tights-wearing friend play detective all you want, because unless you can actually get yourself out of the equation, you're shit out of luck, Jewrat."

"I'm further than you think," he said firmly, trying to shake his hand out of his hold, wincing as thick fingers clutched his chin tighter. "Got two of your little fuckin' cronies arrested just last night. That's just the fucking start," he bit.

He snorted, "Awfully brave considering just what kind of position you're in. In general, and in this room," he reminded him. He leaned down closer and chuckled, "I'd suggest you just go on your merry little way, Kahl. Because it only gets worse from here." He backed up and Kyle blinked, yelping as a fist flew towards his face, slamming into his nose and throwing him back onto the ground.

He groaned, cupping his nose and closing his eyes in pain as he sat back up onto the sides of his legs. He hissed, tasting blood beginning to slowly trail down onto his lips, glaring back up at him furiously. "Not smart," he seethed. "I have a building full of people, and Butters knows I'm in here!"

"Who's gonna believe you?" he cocked his brow and shrugged, nodding to the other two. They grabbed under Kyle's arms, hauling him back onto his feet and holding him upright as Cartman stepped closer once again. "You just had to cry like a little pussy to Tucker about 'how mean I am to you'," he mocked with a pout. "Anyone and their mother can tell you're nothing but an attention whore, Broflovski. Who's not gonna believe me when I tell them that you hit yourself to try to get me ousted and make yourself CEO, huh?"

Kyle blinked before gritting his teeth furiously, "That's not gonna work, Cartman!" he shouted. "Craig and Butters at the very least know that I don't pull that kind of bullshit!"

"But who are they against the countless others who still aren't sure about you?" he gestured around. "It'd be so easy for me to tell them how much bullshit you told them. I have copies of all your files, Kahl, don't forget that. And not everything that goes into this building is signed. Wouldn't take much for me to pull up some paperwork and tell them how hard I worked on it. Not hard to make a lying little thief out of someone, even someone completely innocent," he taunted, leaning down towards him again. "Just remember this, Jew: You don't hold the cards. I do. The sooner you learn that, and the sooner you just let all of this take its course? The sooner you and I can go back to just being regular old business partners without a care in the world."

Kyle stared at him in silence, looking nothing short of a disaster as blood dripped down his chin, pupils pinpoints. Cartman couldn't help but smile. There it was: A look he'd been missing out on this entire operation. Kyle was like an ensnared wild animal, scratching for some kind of salvation, begging and pleading to be let out of his confinement. But in the end, the back of his mind rang with truth: He was completely trapped.

"I'd suggest you go clean up, you look awful, Kahl," he said casually, stepping back around him and towards his desk. Kashkov and Burke shoved him forward, forcing him into a stumble towards the door. "Shame about you running into that door, but we can't all be the picture of grace."

Kyle stood in silence for a moment, looking back over his shoulder to the three of them watching him so intensively. He let out a long breath through his mouth. "And it'll be a real shame when you trip and fall right into a prison cell," he muttered, turning back and letting his eyes sweep the front of the room before storming out of the office, slamming the door behind him on a mission to get his nose cleaned up.

Burke looked back towards Cartman and raised his brow, "Playin' it kinda fast and loose with him, ain't ya? Hope he wasn't recordin' none of that."

Cartman snorted and shook his head, "The Jew doesn't have that much foresight. If he knew you two were in here, then he might've. But I know that look, he was completely off guard. Otherwise he would've been a cocky piece of shit and started the discussion about it himself."

Kashkov hummed, "You zhink he vill cause more trouble?"

The brunette sighed, leaning back in relaxation. "Let him do alllll he wants. We'll give 'im just a while longer. Wait until we figure out his little buddy."

"Little buddy," Burke repeated. "The cape guy?"

"Mysterion," Cartman corrected. "Won't take long. We'll give 'em just a little while longer while I get things set up."

The men looked at each other before back to their boss. "Set up for what?"

"Oh read a goddamn comic," he drawled, pointing towards the door. "It'll take me a bit, but we grab Kahl, make his Barney lover choose taking off the mask or seeing Kahl shot or some other ridiculous cliché piece of shit. Then we just… get rid of both of them," he gestured his hands dismissively.

"Uh, but eef Ryzhevolosyy ees dead, you lose banks," Kashkov reminded him.

A grin crept up his face. "Who said anything about killing him?" The men glanced at one another once again as Cartman's eyes lingered comfortably on his door. "Just trust me, Gentlemen. Kahl will wish we'd gone that route."

Time never seemed to tick as slowly as it did than when Stan was in his office shuffling paperwork and waiting for a fellow officer to come and get him, to let him know that his next subject was in the interrogation room just waiting for him. The noirette sighed, hitting his case file against his hand and shaking his head.

The man in question had given them the name 'Trevor Schroeder' upon being brought into the station one late night last month. However, some digging had uncovered easily enough that his true name was Nathan Hiatt, a long-time worker of the fabrication factory on the outskirts of Bailey. Family, a wife and two sons. Only previous arrest had been charges on a stolen car, released on a three-year probation that had ended only eight months prior to his second arrest.

Now he was in for running drug money as far as Stan could tell. He'd cooperated with another detective up to that point, where the officer had declared that they had enough evidence to begin building their case against him. But it had irked Stan from the first night he'd heard that the man had given the town vigilante a streetname, something that no one else seemed interested in looking into. Or maybe not so much uninterested, more that they didn't want to possibly get roped in with a masked lunatic running around as though they were doing the community a service.

Stan himself? He couldn't exactly figure out just where he stood on the matter. The fact of the matter was, this masked man was bringing in wrongdoers, was cleaning up his town in ways that someone on the force just couldn't do due to legal constraints.

But there was the entire problem in of itself: This wasn't fucking legal.

Stan's career was built on the foundations of following the law to the highest degree, having to memorize countless codes and regulations before having an iota of a chance passing through the academy and onto the force. He remembered all-too-well how it was Kyle himself that had coached him through much of his training, Skyping with him from Denver with flashcards, Kyle holding up Stan's code numbers while he returned the favor with definitions and equations for Kyle's own exams. It'd been pure hell going that route, but Kyle was the only one who could keep him focused and would keep pushing him forward, even from hours away. Given, their method had the unfortunate happenstance of Christophe in the background mocking the both of them before sliding up and carrying Kyle off to do whatever. Stan rolled his eyes at the memory. He'd always hated that fuck, was more than glad when Kyle up and left his ass and came back home. After all, he got his best friend back in time for him to start his detective training, it was a miracle on all accounts considering living with a newborn didn't particularly assist someone in their studies.

But there-in was another problem with the situation: Kyle knew what he was doing. He knew well enough that he was, in all technicality, involved with a criminal. Otherwise, he wouldn't have tried to hide what M was with a flimsy 'private investigator' title. Kyle knew that Stan wouldn't approve of this, knew that the one person who could really do something about it would be against it wholeheartedly. But, that was Kyle. If he felt it was right, he was going to do it, regardless of Stan or whoever else tried to hold him back from it. It was a blessing and a curse on all fronts, but Stan couldn't figure how this situation was anything but a curse for his best friend.

But he supposed that didn't matter at this point. What did matter was finding a way to get him out of it, whatever it all really was. Missing money only gave him so much of an indication, and Stan couldn't work with anything without involving the department. And Kyle was smart enough to know whether or not he was locked in tight in this conspiracy, he'd be the only one to know if there was any probability of him finding his way out. Stan was just going to have to trust his judgment and figure out what he'd asked for.

A knock came at his office door and he glanced over, seeing Detective Murphy poking his head in and nodding. "Hiatt's ready for you."

"Thank you, Sir," he said, standing up off his desk and heading towards the door. He stopped as he passed the detective as a hand fell on his shoulder, glancing over to see Murphy staring at him intensively.

"Why are you reinvestigating him? His case was closed," he asked lowly.

Stan took a deep breath, "Just trying to make sure we have all the loose ends covered-" he paused as Murphy led him back into his office, quietly shutting the door behind him and leaning against it, crossing his arms.

"Marsh, this isn't the usual type you deal with," he said suspiciously. "This was drugs, not theft."

The younger man cleared his throat, scratching through his hair. "I just want to run a double check, Sir. That's all."

Murphy nodded slowly, glancing down at the floor for a moment before practiced, piercing eyes shot back up into his, Stan standing firm and returning the expression, the both of them locked in a mental battle for one of them to falter first. "I'm gonna ask you this only once. And, no matter what you tell me, it'll stay between us. Do you understand?" he questioned. Stan nodded and he sighed tiredly. "Does this have anything to do with the vigilante?"

Stan froze for a moment before gulping down his anxieties. If there was anyone on the force he could trust to keep his word, it was Murphy without a doubt. He'd been his mentor; He'd shadowed him for months before the man himself had recommended him for promotion. His mind fleeted over the risks, knowing that Kyle was so far out of their scope that none of that really mattered to the man in front of him, all that mattered were Stan's intentions with the criminal.

"Yes, Sir," he answered honestly, straightening up. "I don't feel right letting a clue like the vigilante gave us just hang in the air. Doesn't seem very cop-like."

There was a pause before a smirk curled up on Murphy's lip, Stan slinking with relief at the expression. "Good," he said gently. "I couldn't do that since Sarge is always with me if I'm interrogating someone alone," he rolled his eyes dramatically. "Would you like me to sit in with you, though? Just in case?"

Stan quirked his brow, "We declared him a low-risk threat, Sir."

"No, I mean in case there's questions you overlook," Murphy elaborated. "We don't know how far he is in the underground, but they're never just one-dimensional. May help to have a second set of ears with you."

"And… none of this will go to Sarge?" he winced.

Murphy snorted and shook his head, "No. And if it goes any further, I'll sign off and we'll convince the captain that you discovered something about it on your own. We've done it before," he rolled his eyes. "You always have to find a way to work around the sticklers."

Stan grinned and nodded, "Then yeah. It'd be great if you'd sit in, Sir." Murphy winked, stepping off the door and opening it for Stan to step through, following behind him as they headed through the department down the long corridor leading towards the interrogation room past the holding cells. "Where is the sergeant?" Stan asked.

"Out at the Conifer department," he shrugged. "There was a common link in a drug charge so he went to help compare notes."

"Ah," he nodded. Good. Further Yates was out of their hair the better. They waltzed up to the interrogation room, getting a nod from the guarding officer. Stan knocked on the door twice before pushing it open, the men stepping in to see their handcuffed individual glancing up at them with tired hazel eyes. Stan's mind went into an automatic assessment, noting right off the lingering regret hiding behind his eyes. Not a hardened monster, that was always a nice change.

"Mr. Hiatt," Stan greeted, letting Murphy pass him and shutting the door, the both of them taking seats across from the man.

"Officers," he nodded.

"Detectives, actually," Murphy smirked lightly. Stan paused, realizing all at once where he got that from before shaking himself off and leaning back in his chair, crossing his legs and propping Nathan's folder atop his leg.

"My mistake," he raised his brow.

Stan smacked his lips, "Mr. Hiatt, I have a few things to ask you in relation to the night you were apprehended. Won't take much of your time."

He snorted softly, "Not like I don't have time to spare, Detective."

The noirette took a subtle breath, glad enough that he didn't have to deal with a man determined to 'never say a word to the coppas' or whatever nonsense Kenny liked to tease that he'd do in this situation. "Mr. Hiatt, I want you to tell us a little bit about the man who apprehended you."

He shrugged, bringing his cuffed hands up and tipping around his foam cup of water. "Can't really tell ya much. Some guy playin' fuckin' dress up."

"Dress up?" Murphy repeated.

"Had a cape. And a mask. Wearin' fuckin' tights. I'm guessin' his momma made him the costume," he drawled. "Someone tryin' to be a big boy 'cause they couldn't pass the test t' be with you guys."

"You think he wants to be a cop?" Stan questioned, eyes narrowing slightly.

Nathan shrugged. "Talked like it. 'Bout how… he worked the underground, you guys worked for against those goin' for the people or somethin', I don't know. He was tryin' t' sound like a fuckin' hero or some bullshit."

"Hm," Stan nodded, glancing down towards his folder again and sighing. That wasn't too surprising. That was the mindset of anyone who took on a role like M was. Their profile was fairly narrow-scoped. People who felt that the justice system had failed them sometime in the course of their life. Self-sufficient individuals who thrived off the connotation that they're making a difference. As much as Stan hated to admit it, from the profiles he'd studied, vigilantes were more often than not good people, just with a clouded view of the way society works. Or more, clouded view of the way the legal department works. They are people who finally hit the end of their rope, decided that the only way to make the world a better place was to take matters into their own hands.

But there was one thing that this man seemed to lack that so many other vigilantes carried: He didn't want to be known. He kept himself on the down-low, hidden in the shadows. He didn't seem to want to flaunt his prowess, to proclaim to the people not to worry, that he was their savior and he was going to dismantle the crime syndicate and pick up the slacking of the police department. Stan twisted his lips. It was no wonder Kyle trusted this guy. An overinflated ego was certainly not something that Kyle approved of.

"How does he want to be a hero?" Stan finally asked.

"Wants to take down the crime rings all by himself," he scoffed, rolling his eyes before taking a small sip of water. "That idiot apparently has a hell of a death wish."

"You think that he's going to die from this?" Murphy asked.

He nodded, awkwardly moving his hands to wipe his lips. "It's one guy. No offense, but if you all can't figure shit out, then neither can he."

Stan took a long breath. Maybe they could have figured something out if Yates hadn't been so damn determined to keep them out of any connection with the vigilante's own 'cases'. "You mentioned a name to him," he said quietly, sharp blue eyes flickering up and locking down fiercely on the man. Nathan nearly jerked at the sudden shift in intensity, caught in Stan's deep, hypnotic stare. Murphy watched from the sides, lips twisting into a proud grin. He was just a natural at that from day one. "Boomslang," he said firmly. "I want to know more about him."

"I don't know who he is," he said slowly. "Just like I told Tights-boy."

"But you know what he looks like, what he sounds like," Stan reminded him.

Hiatt paused, glancing back down at the table and taking a long breath. "You do know that this kinda shit is suicide for a guy like me. Right?" he cocked his brow.

"What, you think we're gonna tell him if we find him what you told us?" Stan returned the expression. "Look, you're not even the stepping stone. You're the patch of dirt before it. Look, Hiatt. When it comes down to it, in this station, you're considered a petty criminal. You have nothing holding you back from serving a little bit of time in jail and then waltzing out a free man once again. You have a family, Man. You really wanna look at your sons when you get out and know that there's a chance that this guy could be the reason that one day they end up in a shit ton of trouble? How would that feel on your conscious?"

He frowned, "My kids wouldn't get into that kind of shit."

"And I'm sure your parents would've said the same about you when you were their age…" he glanced down at his files and scanned over them briskly. "Your oldest is fifteen. That's a common age for the trouble to start," he commented casually.

Murphy nodded, "Just busted a fifteen-year-old about a week ago for sellin' stolen pills out of his parent's basement. You wanna wake up one day and see that your son went down the same way?"

Hiatt leaned back and groaned tiredly, putting his hands over his eyes and shaking his head. Murphy and Stan shared a small look before turning their focus back onto the criminal still racking his brain. "Nathan," Stan continued in a softer tone. "You have a chance to make the first step. You can get out of jail and tell your kids that while you were here, you did the right thing. Let them focus on that part of you, not the part in the cuffs."

"Fuckin' knock off this Sesame Street bullshit," he snapped, glancing back down with a torn expression. "Sure. I can tell 'em that, and then them and my wife and me get knocked off because the fuckin' system ain't just one guy."

"Only takes one string pulled to unravel a cloth," Murphy parried off effortlessly. "And obviously you're pretty trusted with how you're running money of all things. Which means you're higher up than you claim you are. No mere grunts get that kind of responsibility without someone else shadowing them every step of the way."

Stan nodded, "No one will touch your family. No one will touch you. You know what we do for cases like this? We don't name names until things are on trial, and, should things go South, we have witness protection for a reason. You're completely safe. Help us so we can help you. What if someone else were to spill? And they got out and claimed that you were the one who did so? Then we can't offer you safety anymore, Mr. Hiatt, because you refused to cooperate."

He let out a long, labored breath, staring down at his water cup and shaking his head. "Fucking shit this is fucking ridiculous," he muttered to himself before nodding softly. "Fine. He's about my height. Has… kinda darkish skin," he tilted one of his cuffed hands.

"Olive?" Murphy asked, watching Stan beginning to jot down notes.

He nodded, "That sounds right. Brown eyes and black hair. Thin hair," he gestured towards his head. "Fuckin' honkin' nose," he rolled his eyes.

"Are you willing to provide this information to a sketch artist?" Stan questioned.

He shook his head, "No. I'm really the only one that sees him that's been caught. This is fucking risky enough. I can't have you all puttin' his damn picture in the paper or hangin' around anywhere where someone can see."

"All right, all right," he nodded slowly, turning back to his notes. "Build? Is he slim? Stocky? Medium?"

"Medium," he confirmed. "Little bigger than I am," he shrugged. Stan took a glance at him and clicked his tongue.

"You're about 205, so what is he would you say? About 200?"

He looked up in thought, "Probably about 190. Somewhere in that range."

"Age?" Murphy pressed.

He shrugged, "Uh, I think he's probably in his forties, maybe late thirties. Can't be sure."

"Any kind of typical attire?" Stan questioned.

Hiatt shook his head, "No. Sometimes he's in work clothes, sometimes he's in sweatpants. Just depends I guess."

"So you think he has a job of some kind that isn't criminal related?" he flickered his eyes back up and narrowed them slightly.

"I don't know," he said flatly. "Maybe…" he paused, twisting his lips. "Well, actually he did mention a few times that some boss at work was drivin' him crazy, so I guess he does."

Stan licked over his lips, tapping his pencil against his papers. "Did he specify who it was driving him crazy?"

He looked into his water cup, running their brief conversations through his head. "Uh… didn't say a name or place or nothin'… called him a ginger piece of shit, though," he shrugged.

Stan froze, eyes going wide and fingers tightening around his pencil. Oh shit.

Murphy continued on, catching the subtle tensing in his peripheral but pressing onwards. "No idea what he does though?"

He shook his head, "Nah. We ain't exactly much for talkin' personal lives," he drawled, taking a sip of his drink. "Kind of not the smartest idea for this kinda shit," he jerked his head towards the two of them.

The noirette shook himself out of his shock, going back to staring at the man head-on, a forced, even breath breaking through his nose. "What exactly does this guy do?"

"Takes materials or money to runners," he shrugged. "From there me or whoever takes it to next in line and it eventually gets where it's goin'. So no one has it the whole trip there."

Murphy narrowed his eyes, "So he's just another runner?"

"Far as I can tell, he's a supplier. Comes with direct orders from the guy at the top." He paused, "And before ya say anythin', no, I don't know jack shit about whoever's at the top. Boomslang is the only guy I got any kind of constant connection with. All the others have been one-offs."

Stan nodded, teeth grating nervously as he looked between him and his notes. This wasn't good. This just wasn't good in the least. "Is that all?"

Nathan looked up and let out a deep breath, both Stan and Murphy glad to see actual wheels turning, trying to track down any speck of information they could use. He finally shook his head, "Nah. I ain't got nothin' else. Like I said, I don't know nothin' about the guy except for short meetin's and goin' on our merry ways," he shrugged sheepishly. "Sorry."

"Don't be, you've been a great help," Stan said, both he and Murphy getting to their feet. "Thank you, Mr. Hiatt."

"Gonna keep my family safe, right?" he asked lowly.

They nodded. "Not a word of this is leaking to anyone but our department. And it may just stay with Detective Marsh," Murphy patted Stan's back. "Thank you for your cooperation." They both stayed angled to the side to keep him in their vision as they moved towards the door, Stan knocking and getting it opened, standing aside for the guarding officer to make his way in to take the man back to his cell.

Stan turned on his heel, hurrying towards his office, cringing as he felt Murphy right on his tail. The both of them ignored the various banter going about around them, making a beeline towards the secluded location. Stan stepped inside and made way to his desk, sitting in his chair and hiding his face in his hands, shaking his head as Murphy closed the door, watching him warily. "Marsh?" he asked firmly before his face softened. "Stan. What happened in there? Why did you freeze up?" Stan looked up at him with worried eyes, biting on his knuckle lightly. The senior narrowed his gaze, making way to sit across from him and stare at his off behavior. "Stan, what's wrong?" he urged.

"Let's just say… I have a… special interest in this case," he worked out.

He nodded, "I figured as much. Do we need to call it an official investigation?"

"No," he shook his head, taking a deep breath. "Sir, I'm begging you to just trust me on this. For just a little while. Let me figure some stuff out before we call it in to the heads."

The man leaned back, heaving a deep sigh. "Marsh, you know we're not supposed to do that."

"I'm… I'm trying to save an innocent man," he pleaded, Murphy taken aback by a sudden sheen of water coating those eagle-sharp blues. "Sir, you know I wouldn't be fucking around if there wasn't more here than what you've heard."

Murphy bit his lip, hand bouncing against his thigh. "I know you wouldn't… but you also know that no cop should go at something alone," he reminded him. "I really need you to at least tell me what's going on. I promise, if it's what you say it is, we'll keep it between us, at least for now. Stan, whatever this shit is… I've never seen you get like this. And it looks like it's something too personal for you to handle on your own."

Stan groaned, leaning back and pinching the bridge of his nose. "Fuck. Just… just fuck…" he leaned back down and stared at the detective's kind gaze, taking a steadying breath. "All right. Fine. I'll tell you what I know… But… you're not gonna like it…" He gulped, looking down guiltily, 'And neither will Kyle.'