Surprise! This is a fic idea I've been sitting on for quite a few weeks now. I've taken some creative liberties here (characters with no last names have been supplemented with the actor's last name instead) but I hope they'll make sense anyway! Fair warning: I am Canadian, I know next to nothing about the American judicial system so this is all stuff I learned from Brooklyn 99 and the Tim Diamond books. Also I spent a lot of time on google making sure all the idioms and clothing and building materials are accurate to the 1930s, so I hope it all checks out. Clover is a real town, I think, but this is set in a completely fictional place with no relation to the actual Clover.
This was originally going to be one super long oneshot, but it made more sense to break it up into sections so I'm posting it as a multi-chap. I've got just over a third of the story written so far, so updates may be sporadic but I hope you'll stick with me! Special thanks to Kassandra, as usual, who is joylight on AO3 and has been putting up some quality fucking fics these days. If you're into the georgenotfound minecraft boys thing (that I don't really understand but support wholeheartedly), you should check her out!
Anyways, on with the story! Enjoy!
The sound of rain drizzling along the pavement reminded Luke of a crackling fire. He stuck close to the row of buildings that lined the block, ducking under any protruding eaves that might provide a moment of shelter from the endless gloom.
"Reg had better have one hell of an explanation for me," he grumbled under his breath as he hurried briskly down the sidewalk, "Calling me in on my day off." He nodded quickly to the group of building workers that hung precariously off the scaffolding above his head. He'd never understand how they managed to monkey their way so carelessly around the top; he reckoned any view higher than his third story apartment was enough to make his knees tremble.
The thought of someone tumbling three stories to their death brought him back to the situation at hand. The station's errand boy on the other end of the telephone line had simply stuttered, "Detective Peters says to get you in or it's your badge on the captain's desk," before hanging up abruptly, leaving Luke slippery and cursing as he went to finish the shower he had stumbled out of to pick up the call. Reggie, while a man of quick wit and brilliant mind, had a reputation for rambling so much that the poor errand boy had begun to carry around a notepad and several pens, so the idea of a message so short that it lacked any actual information was concerning enough to bring Luke rushing down post haste.
He'd have a coffee, he decided as he crossed the street into the bustling downtown district, dodging past the groaning engine of a new model car and shoving his hands into the pockets of his trousers to ward off sticky fingers. Not the tasteless sewer water they concocted down at the station; no, when he got home he was going to brew himself a nice strong pot and kick his feet up with the paperback that had been waiting patiently by his bedside for the last seven weeks. The Grosvenor case had taken more out of him than he cared to admit; he'd never imagined that a four-day stakeout on a rumoured production plant would lead to the biggest crackdown on the illegal moonshine trade in their city's history. As proud as he was to have the captain's vote of confidence in handling the precinct's more exciting cases, he was looking forward to a few days of respite from the soul-sucking trend of all-nighters.
He rounded the corner past the Lively's Public House, which, despite the prematurity of the evening was thrumming with activity, past the red-and-white striped canopy of the Milton's Grocery, and past the aluminum spine of the streetlamp that marked the block on which the Clover City Police Station sat.
He shook the water from his hair as he passed through the doorway—he hadn't given it the time to dry before he took off for the station, which was just as well, since he'd forgotten his umbrella, too—and ascended the steps to the second floor, shrugging off his damp overcoat in an effort to make himself look somewhat presentable. You never knew when the captain was going to be in, and he didn't need to be pulled in by the ear over his "responsibility to set a good example".
"Patterson, there you are," Reggie raised a paper file in greeting from the other end of the open workspace delegated to the lower-ranked desk jockeys. In stark contrast to Luke's hastily tucked in button down and pinstriped suspenders, Reggie's sharp charcoal vest and slicked back coif gave the air of a man who'd never lost a night of sleep in his life. "What, were you having a bath in a pot of molasses?"
"I was taking a shower on Sixth and Fraser," Luke answered dryly, brushing past him to unlock the knob to his own office at the end of the corridor. "I would've finished it in my bathroom if you hadn't dragged me in on my one weekend off."
"And I would've loved to hear about it in excruciating detail, but I figured you might shoot me if I waited until Monday," Reggie followed after him as he entered, crossing one leg over the other as he rested his weight against the now open frame.
"What, some kind of robbery?" Luke tossed his coat over the back of his chair.
"Murder."
That piqued his attention. Clover was an up-and-coming kind of town, small in landscape but densely populated, and the day-to-day bluejackets were no strangers to criminal misdemeanors. Still, it had been several years since their last questionable death, and the idea of a killer walking loose in the streets was a sobering thought indeed. He turned to Reggie, "What do you know?"
"Nick Carlson, age twenty seven, junior manager of the Clover branch at Abor Shipping Company Limited," Reggie read clearly from the notes in his hand. "Body found one hour after he was reported missing in the South Residential five blocks from his apartment, along with traces of blood that suggest he was dragged through the alleyways and abandoned."
"Any suspects? Witnesses?"
"Neighbours heard gunshots around one fifteen, and the wife called in at one twenty eight to report her husband missing and their apartment covered in blood. There's some speculation about the wife—their marriage was apparently on the rocks for years—but she has a solid alibi so we haven't been able to pin anything on her."
"Christ," Luke ran a hand through his now barely-damp hair as he leaned backwards against the edge of his desk. It looked like the paperback would have to wait. He let out a heavy exhale, letting his breath chase the feeble remains of his weekend plans out the door. "Did you bring the wife in for questioning?"
"We've got her in interrogation right now but no one's been in yet," Reggie passed over the file, which Luke scanned over once more until it was committed to memory. "We figured you'd want to see her yourself."
"Thanks," Luke clapped him on the shoulder as they exited back into the main office, "Looks like I'd better get back to work. Oh, can you do me one more favour?"
"Loan you some hair gel?" Reggie joked, lifting an amused eyebrow at Luke's unkempt locks.
"Get someone to bring me a cup of coffee."
"Thank you for waiting, Mrs. Carlson," Luke began as he shut the door to the small office behind him, "My name is Detective Luke Patterson. I'd like to ask you some questions today, if that's alright."
His first impression of the woman on the other side of the desk as he took his seat was that she seemed altogether very small. Her dark curls were fanned out in a rather short bob about her heart-shaped face, as was the fashion, and they would've contrasted rather prettily against the blush pink of her blouse had her face not been as ashen as the bags of cement that lay below the scaffolding on Sixth Street. "Are you alright, Mrs. Carlson?"
"Oh, I'm quite well, thank you," she murmured faintly, but her wide brown eyes were glazed over in a way that reminded Luke of himself the first time he'd seen a body. He'd been green, then, barely twenty years old, trying to conceal the way the pistol shook in his hand as he'd stood over the still-warm corpse of the man that had been rushing a civilian with a switchblade.
"May I get you a drink?" he tried again, and this time she only nodded, clutching at the armrest of her chair like a lifeline. He reached into the filing cabinet situated against the wall behind him and withdrew a short glass, into which he poured about three fingers of the stout decanter of whiskey before returning it to the cabinet. It was a generous portion for such a wisp of a thing, but he figured a nice strong kick would help to soothe the shock.
He slid the drink across the desk towards her, the glass scraping unpleasantly over the grain of the polished wood, and then reached for his coffee, trying not to grimace at the taste as he settled back into his seat. Someone needed to teach those go-getters how to make a proper pot one of these days; he supposed that someone was going to have to be him. "Please describe to me the situation that led to your call, Mrs. Carlson."
"I was coming home from a lunch," she began quietly, "Flynn—Ms. Johnson and I had plans to meet at the Winterberry Diner at about eleven thirty this morning. I thought I'd pick up a loaf of bread from Annabelle's on the way back to the apartment; I was going to pack him a corned beef sandwich to bring to work tomorrow." Her voice was thin and frail, and the rim of the short glass rattled against the ring on her left hand as she lifted it to her lips. "It was quiet when I got to the door, which I thought was strange, because Nick always leaves the radio on to fill the silence. It drives me nuts," she breathed out a watery chuckle, but some of the colour had returned to her cheeks and it seemed the whiskey had done its job. "When I opened the door, the first thing I noticed was the smell," she took another sip, "And then I saw the blood, all across the living room floor and splashed across the wall, and there were bullet holes in the door to the bedroom, which was ajar."
"How many bullet holes?"
She thought for a moment, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth, "Three."
"Did you see anyone exiting your apartment during that time?" Luke scribbled furiously on the notepad in front of them, the side of his pinky staining with ink where it swept across the still-wet page.
"There was a shadow," Mrs. Carlson cupped the glass with both hands; her gaze drifted down to the shifting prisms on the desk where the diamond on her finger refracted the sterile lamplight, "That's why I didn't scream—when I came through the door, someone was climbing out of the bedroom window, and it sounded like someone was banging on the drainpipe outside."
"I see," he took another note, "And what did you do next?"
"I went over to the telephone—it's by the couch, you see, so there wasn't any need to step over the blood—and dialed zero for the operator because I couldn't remember the station number. I spoke to Officer Robert, who told me to step into the bathroom and lock the door and not to open it for anyone else until he arrived."
"Bobby's a smart man," Luke nodded approvingly.
"He's very kind," she agreed. "He and a few other officers arrived after about a quarter of an hour and brought me down here to the station. It's funny," she mused, the corners of her pink lips quirking up into a wry smile, "I didn't even realize until they opened the door that I was still holding the loaf of bread."
"Did the officers have you collect anything else?"
"Just my purse and a set of nightclothes. I put in a call to my brother as soon as I arrived; Officer Robert suggested I stay with them for a few days." He'd have to speak to Bobby later, gather the statements from the surrounding neighbours to confirm her story, but there was nothing in her facial expressions or body language that suggested she was lying.
"There's one more thing I need to know, Mrs. Carlson, and I hope you'll forgive me for asking: many of the witness reports suggest your relationship with your husband was… complicated."
Her tenuous amusement cleared immediately, brow smoothing over as she drew herself up in her seat. She tilted her chin up in a way that reminded him of a painting he once saw at the gallery: Queen Catherine astride an Arabian steed, commanding and regal and poised to wade into war for her country. "He was my husband, Detective Patterson," she spoke in nary above a whisper, but the steady sureness of her voice carried the blow straight to his heart. "I've never heard of a marriage that does not bury its fair share of secrets, but Nick and I were friends all my life, and I cared for him a great deal."
"Of course," he mumbled uncomfortably, unable to break away from the stern hold of her gaze.
She must've taken pity on him, then, because in two blinks the steel had melted away into chocolate and honeycomb, and the hard set of her mouth had softened into the smile of a woman who understood he was only doing his job. Somehow, this only made him feel worse.
He cleared his throat as he returned to his notes for direction, "Did your husband have any enemies? Someone that he argued with on a regular basis that may have had a motive to go after him?"
She shook her head, the ends of her curls bouncing gently against her chin as she turned her face this way and that. "He was always the sensible one; he had a mild temper and very rarely raised his voice. I can't think of anyone who he was on poor terms with, except…"
"Except?" He prompted.
"His cousin," she sighed tiredly, "She's an… ambitious sort of woman, and whenever they were in the same room it seemed the roof would fly off any minute. Even so, I just can't believe she would stoop so low as to have him killed."
That was usually the case with killers, although he knew better than to tell her that. The poor woman had been through enough today; he didn't need to accuse her cousin-in-law of murder prior to a thorough investigation. "Alright, Mrs. Carlson, I think I have all I need," he scooted his chair back and stood, stepping around the desk to offer her a hand. She took it gracefully, her slender fingers dwarfed against his calloused palm, and followed him over to the office door.
"You'll let me know if you find anything, won't you?" She asked as he began to pull the door open. He stopped, resting his hand against the brass knob as he turned back to her, wincing as the bustling humdrum of the station that filtered in through the narrow crack pierced the quiet. Her small hand was warm in his own, her grip was steady, and the only thing that betrayed her calm determination was in the feeble quaver of her breath as she inhaled through her nose.
"When I find them," he bent forward at the waist to look her in the eye, willing his steadfast assurance to seep its way into her skin. The tightness in his chest loosened minutely as the sound of her breathing seemed to even out, "I promise you will be the first to know."
"Thank you," she whispered gratefully. She squeezed his hand tightly for a moment longer and then released him, stepping back to a distance proper for a married woman to leave between herself and another man.
The sudden movement brought him back to his senses like a bucket of cold water. He jerked the door open, nodding automatically at her polite smile as she swept past him in a burst of wildflowers and honey. "Mrs. Carlson," he spoke suddenly, raising his voice before she could move out of earshot. She spun around, the slight flare of her belted skirt coiling around her knees. "I'm sorry for your loss."
Her chin wobbled, but she lifted her eyes in her best attempt at a gracious smile. "Thank you, sir." Her voice lingered in the stale air even after she was gone. Luke shut himself back into the small office with the bottle of whiskey, poring over the pages until his eyes rimmed red.
I feel so bad, I always mess with Nick in my fics lmao. What did you think? Please drop me a review with your opinions and speculations! Also feel free to come scream at me on tumblr caffeine-catastrophe :) See y'all soon!