Not long after Gifford, Brannaman and Savino were gone, the bullpen returned to its quiet, yet frenzied pace, the low hum of tense voices, phones ringing occasionally and the Telex machine chattering away at its own accord; signs of steadfast progress when it came to solving crimes, all without the action of newsworthy shootouts, car chases or blood spills.
And thankfully, by the looks of it, the dreadful appearance seemed to be the only thing throwing a monkey wrench into their day so far.
As it was, most detectives were busy finishing up their work week before a well-deserved holiday off, others seemed to be in festive mood already, unable to focus and frequently checking that clock on the wall, eager to go home to their loved ones.
Steve had been largely immune to the holiday cheer beyond the desire to make it a special day for that special Lieutenant in his life, a man who, for all intents and purposes lead by example and genuinely lived his faith, day in and out.
In all his life, Steve had never met a man who stood by his morals with such unwavering dedication, an awe-inspiring stubbornness to believe in the good of humanity when nearly thirty years on the job should have made him bitter and see the world for what it truly was.
Mike Stone was an exception to so many rules, a unique man with a unique gift to change those around him for the better, a magician who could mold broken shards of somebody's past into a beautiful mosaic.
For those lucky enough to work with him every day, Mike was also a mentor and role model, a beacon in a storm of criminal activity, work-related angst and personal drama, never abusing his position of leadership or overstepping the fine line between friend and superior.
And here he was on Christmas, once again taking one for the team so that his squad could spend the holiday with family.
After all, when it came to the two of them, traditions like baking cookies and wrapping presents ahead of the holiday didn't hold the same meaning in their lives any longer, for two completely different reasons.
For most of the morning and early afternoon, Steve had combed through the file on his desk, trying to ingrain what little information was available when it came to the leg discovered up north, hoping to save it in the back of his mind, so when the time came, all the pertaining facts would be accessible to him without the need to look at the paperwork.
With an inaudible sigh, he let his fingers run across the photo of the severed leg, the head of the femur visible among the large muscles still clinging to the bone despite scavenging activity and progression of decomp.
The San Francisco tattoo was located between the knee and hip, the bold letters underlined twice, no other identifying marks to be found, at least not on that body part.
Based on the length and weight of the limb, Bernie had figured its owner to be approximately 6'2" and 240lbs, definitely male and definitely Caucasian. Time of death occurred roughly three weeks ago.
It was also noteworthy that the cuts used to sever the leg from the rest of the body had been relatively precise, causing little trauma to the surrounding tissue, detaching the leg from the hip without ever cutting the top of the femur.
The leg appeared to have washed ashore, then spent a significant amount of time exposed to the elements, before being found.
The current theories included that the disarticulation of the limb could be an elaborate Mob hit, trying to scare a competitor out of the market. It was also plausible that some sick joke had been played by first year ME students playing with an unknown body, a person without a next-of-kin to claim and arrange a funeral, somebody destined to spend a lot of time in the morgue and eventually be buried in an unknown grave.
None of the local Missing Person's reports matched their John Doe, at least none that were filed in the last four months and fell within a reasonable perimeter around San Francisco or Point Reyes Park.
So far, no morgue had reported a body missing, or parts thereof, but Steve wasn't entirely convinced of the legitimacy of those statements, questioning whether or not somebody actually bothered to check all the bodies or simply returned their call claiming that all was fine, too lazy to help.
It certainly wouldn't be the first time.
His inquiries with Vice and Bunko regarding the San Francisco tattoo had yielded nothing so far, no mob affiliation, no gang tattoo, no questionable business doings that could be linked.
Short of a case-breaking piece of evidence falling into their laps this late into the game, it seemed as though Mike was correct earlier when he said that this case would drag on well into the New Year.
Glancing over at this partner who was in the middle of a phone conversation, rubbing his eyebrows in agitation, Steve smiled, feeling a certain sense of relief that the lonely leg might not be the only case remaining unsolved for a while yet.
Judging by the even cadence of the Lieutenant's voice and the long breaks in between his replies, it seemed as though he was still fighting his way through inner-city bureaucracy, hoping to get a detailed map of the currents from ten days ago in order to hone in on the exact spot where his floater's body first hit the water.
Doing so on Christmas Eve when everybody was getting ready to leave for home was a valiant, albeit hopeless effort.
And so he waited through another round of Mike's impatient grunts and nods, followed by the receiver being slammed onto the cradle when his latest attempt yielded another dead end.
"Getting any case breaks over there?", Steve teased from his chair, leaning back enough to see his partner's reaction, the latter being a scowl in his general direction, before the Lieutenant got up to refill his coffee and join him in the bullpen.
"I am getting nothing but headaches. You?"
"Oh…you know…making some headway here and there…", Steve overemphasized with a cheeky grin and stretched his arms, flinching at the ensuing crack in his upper back, "Steadfast progress all the way…"
"Steadfast progress!", Mike mocked before sitting down on the corner of his partner's desk, resting the coffee cup on his thigh, "You've done nothing but stare at that picture for the last hour or so. Your mind is probably with that new lady friend already, making dinner plans and what not."
"Well, you know, it's good to take breaks in between…don't want to get so entrenched in my research that I don't see what's right in front of me. You tell me that all the time."
"I see those few years of law school taught you how to keep your neck out of a sling, didn't they? Always deflecting the truth…"
As their friendly banter continued, Mike's expression softened, his smile growing warmer as he glanced down at the cup in his lap, his thoughts leaving the busy confines of the office for a precious few moments, drifting to whichever peaceful place there was in his mind, before looking back over at his partner.
"If we're both still hitting dead-ends come 5, let's call it an early night. Just leave a phone number where dispatch and I can reach you at in case we get a call for a 187. You know where to find me…"