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Author's Note: Just a little fun before the holiday. I'm thankful for all my amazing readers out there in PCLand and I hope all of you have a great Thanksgiving!
Nifty Fact for the day: Go raibh maith agat (guh ro my a-gut) is Gaelic for Thank you.
o(26)o
Smecker was losing his mind.
The stress of his case and of lying to everybody in the friggin' precinct, carefully feigning ignorance about the latest hit on the Street Priests, had finally reached a boiling point and driven him completely batshit, of that he was certain.
It was a nerve-racking tug-of-war. He was a man who was sworn to sustain the law, and he took that oath more seriously than most. For someone of his convictions to be actively corrupting a case as important as this, a case that he once would have delighted in solving, well, it was almost too much. Except that there was no case for him to solve this time because he already knew exactly what had happened to the Street Priests.
They had been struck down by the Saints.
For the past year, he had enjoyed the bittersweet twinge that came from seeing indication the Saints' work in the newspaper, of knowing that someone was doing what he himself could not. He had worried when Murphy had called him from the hospital. He cared about those boys, he really did and he had been just as happy to help them find out about the men that were trying to kill them, just a little research here and there, he never expected it to pull him in the way it did.
But now he was involved, no longer just reading about their vigilantism, no longer just a voice on the telephone, but once again, a living, breathing part of the black and white war the MacManus brothers were waging against the wicked and he wasn't so sure that he wanted to be.
The ideas of legality and justice should have gone hand in hand, but in the real world, they didn't. They went skewing off in opposite directions, one leading to a fallible jury and a fallible judge and, more than likely, a minimum sentence for the greatest of crimes.
The other leading directly to a bullet in your head.
How many times had he watched months of hard work go swirling down the drain simply because some half-baked jury member couldn't get their head out of their friggin' ass long enough to see the truth of what had really happened, their own petty beliefs and reservations completely obscuring his carefully collected evidence and reports? How many times had he seen someone released from prison only to go out and repeat the same disgusting crime the very next week, hell the very next day?
Too friggin' many times for him to count.
So he dutifully went through the motions of investigating a slaughterhouse that had previously been a quiet warehouse on the east side of town, curbing the painful pull of what was right and what was wrong with a steady stream of cigarettes, dossiers, and scotch.
Apparently, all of the booze and smoke and lies had finally penetrated his brain, giving it a good old-fashioned scramble because try as he might, the last time he remembered having his briefcase was right here in his office, and now it was gone.
He was not the kind of man who just went around misplacing things, especially not something as important as his briefcase, yet here he was, tearing his work area apart, again, looking for something that was never very far from his hand
He was a meticulous man; some people would even go so far as to call him anal, much to his private amusement. Losing his briefcase was disturbing, not only because it was full of things that could potentially end his career, although that was more than reason enough, but because it went against his very nature to mislay anything. So, the only logical excuse he could figure was that he was going insane.
Sighing, giving his office one last glance-over for good measure, Smecker grabbed his cup of coffee and wove his way through the throng of local PD, all of whom were talking about the same thing: Thursday night's hit on the Street Preists, slowly working his way toward the opposite end of the building.
The ME's office seemed chillier than ususal, and Smecker shivered as he walked through the meat locker-esque door.
"Agent Smecker!" The ME called to him, beckoning with a gore-covered hand. "Looks like someone is solving your case for you, eh?"
Raising an eyebrow, he walked over to the autopsy table, glancing down at the cadaver there. The corpse was huge, bald and tattooed, a neat bullet-hole surrounded by a black ring marring its forehead. Smecker recognized it as one of the bodies from the crime scene.
The remains had already been cleaned and Smecker was appalled to see that the fingers of the corpse's right hand were curled into a stiff claw around a cup of soup, securely holding it on the chrome table.
"Did you ever find your briefcase?" asked The ME, and Smecker shook his head.
"Not yet, but I'm still looking. Who's this?"
Adjusting his safety goggles, the ME picked up a scalpel and made a few practice cuts in the air just above the cadaver's hairline.
"This is Roberto Ramirez, one of 15 bodies recovered from the warehouse this morning, male, Hispanic, 27, identified by the driver's license in his wallet. Cause of death was a .9mm shot to the head; he also has several injuries consistent with an assault."
Wincing as the ME made the first cut, Smecker nodded, swallowing. Why did it seem that every time he showed up, this guy was just starting to hack into some poor asshole?
"Gunshots are amazing things." The ME said, wielding the now bloody scalpel, and deftly slicing through the rest of the dead gangmember's scalp. "They look so neat from the front, but the back of this guy's head is a complete mess. What else can cause that kind of destruction, I ask you?"
Smecker forced himself to focus on something other than the quiet sound of splitting flesh as the ME peeled back the flesh of the cadaver's scalp, revealing the skull beneath.
"I couldn't tell you." He managed.
Nodding, the ME continued to cut. "I couldn't either. Nothing damages quite like a bullet, although something sure tried on this guy. He's beaten to hell and back, even his eardrums are busted, awfully unusual in attacks like this."
"Did you find any of our mystery drug on any of these bozos?" he asked.
"As a matter of fact I did. I also happened to discover its official street name." The ME said, chuckling a little bit, causing Smecker to look at him curiously.
"Our friends the Street Priests are peddling, and this is even a little too much irony for me, Absolution."
For a moment, the words stopped Smecker cold, torn between the urge to laugh and to roll his eyes in disgust. What was it with people and their symbolism?
"Absolution?" he asked incredulously.
"That's right. I found about half a pound of it between all of these guys. One had it neatly labeled in his pocket right next to about three ounces of cocaine. It just goes to show that even the anal-retentive sometimes go to the Dark Side."
"Un-frigging-believable." Smecker said, chuckling a little in spite of the gruesome sight before him.
"Tell me about it, all of these religious analogies running around just drive me nuts. Whatever happened to the good old days of electric Kool-Aid? I took the liberty of calling some other local mortuaries and it turns out that this has been leaking it's way into the US for a while now. Most of the other examiners have been labeling it a heroin overdose.
"How long are we talking about?"
"Several months at least, the earliest one I found was sometime in the summer. I hope you know, Agent, that this little drug is the face that launched a thousand exhumations. I almost feel sorry for the lackadaisical bastards that have to dig all those bodies up for testing."
"What happened to the drugs you found on these guys?"
The ME shrugged, removing the rest of the scalp and holding it up, eyeing it thoughtfully. "I sent it up to evidence first thing after the tox report; it's probably rotting there with the rest of the drugs from the first hit."
Smecker frowned, "The rest of the drugs? Weren't they disposed of a long time ago?"
Setting the scalp aside with a stomach-lurching splot, the ME looked at Smecker, frowning, the protective goggles he was wearing reminding the agent of that horror movie, the one with John Getz. What was it called, The Fly?
"They shouldn't have been, pushing stuff through evidence like that just isn't possible this day and age. There are waiting periods and protocols that have to be followed, trust me."
"I see." Said Smecker, the wheels in his mind already turning, that movie was definitely called The Fly, if only all the answers came to him so easily. "Thanks."
"No problem." The ME replied, turning back to the body in front of him, selecting an electric saw, and giving it a test start. Slowly he lowered the spinning blade to the exposed skull with a sound like someone slicing through thick plastic, after a moment the noise stopped and the ME made a small sound of triumph.
"There we go." He said, gently removing the top of the unfortunate gangmember's head. "Not much brain left, but that's to be expected. Is there anything else I can do for you, Agent?"
Wondering if he looked as pale as he felt, Smecker swallowed and shook his head. "No, thank you." He said.
"Well if you change your mind, you know where to find me."
As he was walking toward the exit, Smecker heard the unmistakable bloop of something falling into a cup of soup and the ME sighed wearily.
"Guess I won't be finishing that." He said and Smecker shut the door, shaking his head.
o()o
The incinerator room smelled like gas and the watery blue walls seemed to be coated in a permanent layer of pale soot. Despite its obvious lack of sanitation, the place was well maintained and taken care of with an almost loving touch. Somebody obviously enjoyed their job here.
Smecker walked into the area and approached the chain-link divider that separated the evidence custodian from the rest of the world, looking through the links at the person beyond. The man behind the partition was busily typing away, long slender fingers making short work of the keystrokes, humming quietly as he did.
Clearing his throat, Smecker felt his eyebrows raise toward his hairline as the other man looked up from his work.
Dark Asian eyes snapped up to meet his, openly appraising the agent before full lips curled into a coy, almost flirtatious smile.
"Something I can help you with?" he said, and Smecker didn't miss the slight lisp that curved around his words.
"Paul Smecker, FBI. I'm looking for some information about a drug shipment that was disposed of here about a month ago. This is the case number and the file."
Sliding Croghan's report under the divider, Smecker watched as the custodian took the file from him, dark fingers lingering slightly over his lighter ones before he picked up the folder, pursing his lips as he read.
After a moment, he slid the file back to Smecker, turning to type something into the computer, brow furrowing as he did. After a moment he looked up, expression still perplexed.
"I'm sorry, Agent; but I can't help you. Our records show that this report never came through and neither did the drugs."
"That's impossible," Smecker said frowning, "I'm holding the report right here in my hands, you just read the friggin' thing."
Shaking his head, the custodian shot him an apologetic look. "According to the computer, a report with that number was never filed. If the report isn't filed then a requisition isn't filled out. Without a requisition, nothing goes in that incinerator. Whatever drugs you're looking for never made it here Agent."
Nonplussed, Smecker stared down at the report in his hands. What the fuck had happened to the drugs then?
"Could they have made it here and just not gotten destroyed?" he asked and the evidence custodian nodded, his dark eyes never leaving Smecker's face.
"It's possible, sometimes things get held up due to paperwork, but we're completely empty right now. Besides, this was never stamped as being brought into the area. Everything that gets filed and returned to the PD gets stamped here in the corner.
"So why didn't this get stamped?
"Someone must have forgotten, you'd have to talk to the person that was working here before me."
"When will they be in again?"
The Custodian sighed, shrugging. "He won't be. He made detective not too long ago and transferred to the precinct uptown."
"Oh really? What was his name?"
"Joshua Townsend. He was a super nice guy, a little odd, but still, you know, nice."
Fighting the urge to yell ' Eureka!' Smecker nodded, half listening to what the other man was saying.
Joshua friggin' Townsend, of course, he would have access not only to the drugs but to the reports as well, but what in the hell would a rookie cop do with 47 kilos of cocaine? And it still didn't answer the question of what the Street Priests were doing trafficking cocaine when they had something as potent as Absolution in their pocket. Too many questions were left unanswered, but one thing was certain:
"Looks like we have a traitor in our midst." He said, turning away.
"Agent!" The evidence custodian called, sliding a white card through the slot in the divider, "If you need anything here's my card. My home number's at the bottom in case you need anything . . . ah . . . after hours."
Taking the card and examining it, Smecker gave the other man a tongue-in-cheek glance, arching an eyebrow. "Thank you . . . Nigel. I'll be sure to keep that in mind."
Tucking the card in his breast pocket, Smecker walked out of the dingy building and out into the bright autumn sun, thinking.
There was a lot of shit here that didn't make sense, but he felt that he was getting closer to the answers he needed, closer to blowing this case wide open. Smiling he turned the corner, heading toward the station, it was only a matter of time before he put all the pieces together and discovered the whole picture, he just had to keep working on finding all those niggling little pieces. He realized with a jolt that he didn't mind finding those pieces, Saints or no, he was still a man sworn to uphold the law and he would do just that by getting to the bottom of these bastards.
Besides, there was nothing more fun than browbeating a rookie.
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