A Law and Order-Smallville crossover. The events and persons in this tale
are fictional. Similarities to actual events or persons are coincidental.
[Interrogation Room 2, One Police Plaza, NYC, Monday December 2]
"You're not helping yourself, Mr. Grundini," Detective Eames grumbled. "Your underworld bosses may like this whole 'code of silence' routine. The D.A. won't appreciate it."
"I'm tellin' ya the truth, detective," Grundini insisted. "I swear I had no idea those boxes had weapons in them!"
A loud knock on the door. "Detective Eames?" It was Captain Deakins.
Eames sighed as she stepped out. "He's sticking to his story. He says he was clueless about the arms shipments. He's not the sharpest knife in the drawer: he still hasn't asked for a lawyer."
Briscoe grinned. "Can't blame him for keeping his mouth shut. He'd be a marked man if he ratted on his mob buddies."
"So how are we gonna handle this, Lennie?" Green asked. "I'll be the good cop, you'll be the bad one?"
"Nah," Briscoe replied. "You can be the hard ass this time."
Green burst into the room. "Louie Grundini, stand up! You're under arrest for murder!"
"What the f--?" Grundini barked. "What the hell is this about? I don't know nothin'!"
Green held up an evidence bag. "You know that broad who was iced on Park Avenue a week ago? The blood on this knife matches hers! And the knife just happened to be in that warehouse."
"So?" Grundini protested. "Lucky coincidence! I don't know nothin' about her. You guys already got that guy - Lex Luthor. He's the one who did it!"
"Maybe he ordered the hit," Green suggested. "He's a self-made man. Why should he get his hands dirty ... when he can get a lowlife like you to get his hands dirty. And take the fall!"
"Where do you come up with this crap?" Grundini exclaimed.
"I dunno, Louie," Green replied, "The way I see it ... you're an ex-mob enforcer from Atlantic City. You're running guns to South America. The Luthors greased some wheels to do some freelance arms dealing. Lex needs another favour ... you think to yourself 'what the hell, you've snuffed out people before: one more dead girl's no sweat off your back!!"
"No!" Grundini insisted. "I was only at the warehouse to see that the stuff got there. How was I to know that the Atlantic City boys were running guns to the Colombians?"
Green shoved Grundini against the wall. "You're lying! Lex called the hit 'cause Chelsea was gonna squeal. You slit her throat and thought you could ship off the murder weapon down to Bogota. End of story, no more murder weapon!"
Briscoe turned to Captain Deakins. "Time for me to turn down the heat." He pulled Green from Grundini.
"Ed, just take it easy! Cool it!"
Green pushed Grundini aside. "I know you're lying, Louie!"
Briscoe adjusted Grundini's blazer. "You'll have to excuse my partner. He's a little hot under the collar."
Grundini adjusted his silk tie. "That guy's nuts! You guys should keep that lunatic at a desk, or something!"
"Our pals on the Major Case squad have gone over your phone records and those of your associates," Briscoe revealed, "We know all about how you're fencing stolen US Army goods, arms, equipment to the cartels in Colombia. We know that you have a contact in Metropolis. My guess is it's Lionel Luthor, or one of his cronies. Now, explain to me how the Saunders' murder weapon happened to be in your possession?"
"I can't," Grundini insisted.
"You can't?" Briscoe wondered. "Or you won't?"
"I can't," Grundini pleaded. "If I tell you anything, I end up with concrete shoes at the bottom of the Hudson River!"
"So what you're saying is, you don't want your mob pals to find out you spilled the beans," Briscoe stated. "We can help you with that: witness protection, whatever."
"No, what I'm saying ..." Grundini began, "... is that I'm sayin' nothing till I get a lawyer."
Outside, Green frowned at the captain and Eames. "Well, whaddya know - Louie's not as stupid as he looks."
Briscoe stepped outside. "So much for killing two birds with one stone ..."
[Smallville, Monday December 2]
Smoke steamed from under the hood of the detectives' rental car.
Tutuola glanced at the dashboard. "Check gauges? Munch, did you check all those fluids ...?!"
"Yeah, yeah, washer fluid, gas, coolant, the whole toxic mixture," Munch replied. He covered his mouth as he tried to open the hood. "Ouch!"
Tutuola slammed the door in frustration. "Great, the engine's overheated!"
"So we're stuck in the middle of Hickville!" Munch grumbled. "I can't wait to get back to the Big Apple!"
Tutuola waved away the smoke from his face. "Well, I'm sure the rats miss you too, John."
A truck pulled up. "Car trouble, eh?" It was Jonathan Kent.
Munch coughed again. "Looks like we got stuck with a lemon of a rental car. Compliments of Breezy Rentals."
"Lemme see if I can get the AAA or something," Tutuola replied, then fumbled in his pockets for some quarters.
Jonathan coughed as a wall of steam emerged from the hood. He peeked under the car.
"There's your trouble, Detective Munch," he pointed at the pool of liquid on the pavement, "Your coolant is leaking. Lemme see what I can do."
"We don't want to be a bother, Mr. Kent," Munch insisted, "We'll just wait for the AAA guys to come by ... NYPD will foot the bill, no problemo."
Tutuola returned. "There's a pile-up at the interstate. AAA can't be here for another hour, maybe two."
Jonathan pulled out a toolbox, then crawled under the car.
"I realize we've been rubbing people the wrong way," Munch offered, "It's just that our superiors consider this case a priority. There are political forces at work that are impeding our investigation at all levels."
Jonathan wriggled from underneath the car. "I'm afraid there's nothing I can do."
"About the investigation?" Munch inquired.
Jonathan grinned. "No, about the coolant leak." He wiped his brow. "So Lionel Luthor's throwing roadblocks up, is he? That's not really news around these parts. He has politicians and big business in his pocket. Rumour has it that he has the favour of the governor's office."
"I take it there's no love lost between you and Luthor Corp." Tutuola remarked.
Jonathan squinted at the Kansas sunset. "You could say that." He grabbed a pristine white cloth, then tried to wipe the grease from his hands. Without much luck.
"You're probably gonna need one of those industrial cleansers," Tutuola suggested.
Jonathan studied his hands. The dirt would not come off easily.
He wasn't thinking about the car grease.
Long ago, he had made a Faustian deal with Lionel Luthor to "streamline" his adoption of Clark. He opened the door for Luthor Corp. in Smallville. That was the price he had paid.
That he continues to pay - as his only son is now under subpoena to explain circumstances that may or may not have led to Lex Luthor's brutal murder of Chelsea Saunders.
He wanted to accept Clark's faith in Lex's goodness. That - somehow - Lex had the moral clarity that Lionel lacked. He could not.
Alexander Joseph Luthor - despite his charismatic protests - is his father's son. Would he resort to murder to defend the family empire?
No court in America could deny what that answer must be: Yes.
"When your hands get this dirty," Jonathan noted, "you really do need more than soap and water to clean it off."
He started his truck. "I'll give you a lift to your hotel, detectives."
"Thanks, Mr. Kent," Tutuola beamed.
"When you do take Clark to New York," Jonathan began, "... would you ... keep an eye on him? Him and my wife."
"Sure thing, Mr. Kent!" Munch declared. "Clark's a good kid, despite the fact he's got an alleged murderer on his speed dial. Mrs. Kent is in New York now, isn't she? On Lionel's payroll?"
"Yes." Jonathan grumbled.
"And that doesn't sit well with you," Tutuola stated.
"You have no idea, detectives," Jonathan nodded, as he accelerated out of the sleepy town.
[Special Victims Unit, One Police Plaza, Monday December 2]
Detective Elliot Stabler skimmed through the New York Gazette. 'LUTHOR HEIR REJECTS STATE'S 'UNJUST' ALLEGATIONS'
Must be nice for Lex's old man to have a Big Apple rag in his corner, he mumbled to himself. He can portray his son - and his corporation - as innocent of all wrongdoing. Few accused have such influence in the media.
A rookie cop accidentally stepped on Stabler's shoe.
"Hey! Watch it!" Stabler snapped.
"Sorry about that, detective," the cop apologized.
Stabler unfurled the paper again. "Why don't you make yourself useful, son, and go write up a couple a parking tickets."
"Hey, I bust my hump as hard as you do," the cop rebutted.
Stabler stood up and glared at the young cop, who couldn't possibly be over 25. "Is that so?!"
Detective Benson noticed the confrontation and intervened. "Uhh, Mike, why don't you get that evidence down to the CSU ..." The junior officer quickly took the opportunity to escape Stabler's icy gaze.
"Elliot, what was all that about?" she inquired.
Stabler pinched his forehead. The headache throbbed since this morning. "It's nothing, Olivia."
"Nothing?" Benson demanded. "You've been impatient with witnesses, short- tempered with colleagues ... You've been edgy all week. Something's up!"
Stabler made himself a cup of coffee. He sipped. Lukewarm. "Is it so hard to make a new pot?" he hollered within earshot of everyone.
"I'm just under a lot of pressure recently - that's all," he grumbled.
"Are things tense at home?" Benson asked. "Look, why don't you talk to Cragen. Maybe he'll get you a day or two off. You've been working 14-hour days for awhile now ... you can go home, catch a movie, take your wife out for dinner ..."
Stabler turned on the coffee machine, still grumbling about the nameless ingrate who didn't have the courtesy to brew a new pot. "I'm fine, Olivia. Just fine. I just need some coffee." He checked the carton of cream.
"Great! No frickin' cream!" Stabler put on his jacket. "I'm going to get a decent cup of coffee." He shoved the door open and left before Benson could ask more questions.
Captain Cragen marched towards Benson. "What's up his ass?"
"He says he's under pressure," Benson replied.
"Under pressure?" Cragen scoffed. "I've got Fin and John stranded in Smallville with no wheels 'cause the rental company gave 'em a dud! I got D.A. McCoy determined to jab a lethal injection in the arm of the Lionel Luthor's heir. I've got a perverted politician on the verge of getting his case tossed out. Guess who becomes public enemy #1 if those cases fall through? It's me, it's Lt. Van Buren at Homicide, it's Captain Deakins at the MCS! You can bet that the mayor's office won't lift a finger."
"I realize that," Benson replied.
"Well, good," Cragen stated. "I don't think your partner does. Where is Elliot going?"
"Getting a coffee," Benson nodded towards the exit.
"Now's not the time for him to have a mid-life crisis," Cragen insisted, "If Stabler can't focus on the task at hand, I'd rather have him benched. I want him in my office. Now!"
Benson put on her jacket. The investigation of New York state representative Connors will have to wait.
She had to save her partner's career first ...
[Interrogation Room 2, One Police Plaza, NYC, Monday December 2]
"You're not helping yourself, Mr. Grundini," Detective Eames grumbled. "Your underworld bosses may like this whole 'code of silence' routine. The D.A. won't appreciate it."
"I'm tellin' ya the truth, detective," Grundini insisted. "I swear I had no idea those boxes had weapons in them!"
A loud knock on the door. "Detective Eames?" It was Captain Deakins.
Eames sighed as she stepped out. "He's sticking to his story. He says he was clueless about the arms shipments. He's not the sharpest knife in the drawer: he still hasn't asked for a lawyer."
Briscoe grinned. "Can't blame him for keeping his mouth shut. He'd be a marked man if he ratted on his mob buddies."
"So how are we gonna handle this, Lennie?" Green asked. "I'll be the good cop, you'll be the bad one?"
"Nah," Briscoe replied. "You can be the hard ass this time."
Green burst into the room. "Louie Grundini, stand up! You're under arrest for murder!"
"What the f--?" Grundini barked. "What the hell is this about? I don't know nothin'!"
Green held up an evidence bag. "You know that broad who was iced on Park Avenue a week ago? The blood on this knife matches hers! And the knife just happened to be in that warehouse."
"So?" Grundini protested. "Lucky coincidence! I don't know nothin' about her. You guys already got that guy - Lex Luthor. He's the one who did it!"
"Maybe he ordered the hit," Green suggested. "He's a self-made man. Why should he get his hands dirty ... when he can get a lowlife like you to get his hands dirty. And take the fall!"
"Where do you come up with this crap?" Grundini exclaimed.
"I dunno, Louie," Green replied, "The way I see it ... you're an ex-mob enforcer from Atlantic City. You're running guns to South America. The Luthors greased some wheels to do some freelance arms dealing. Lex needs another favour ... you think to yourself 'what the hell, you've snuffed out people before: one more dead girl's no sweat off your back!!"
"No!" Grundini insisted. "I was only at the warehouse to see that the stuff got there. How was I to know that the Atlantic City boys were running guns to the Colombians?"
Green shoved Grundini against the wall. "You're lying! Lex called the hit 'cause Chelsea was gonna squeal. You slit her throat and thought you could ship off the murder weapon down to Bogota. End of story, no more murder weapon!"
Briscoe turned to Captain Deakins. "Time for me to turn down the heat." He pulled Green from Grundini.
"Ed, just take it easy! Cool it!"
Green pushed Grundini aside. "I know you're lying, Louie!"
Briscoe adjusted Grundini's blazer. "You'll have to excuse my partner. He's a little hot under the collar."
Grundini adjusted his silk tie. "That guy's nuts! You guys should keep that lunatic at a desk, or something!"
"Our pals on the Major Case squad have gone over your phone records and those of your associates," Briscoe revealed, "We know all about how you're fencing stolen US Army goods, arms, equipment to the cartels in Colombia. We know that you have a contact in Metropolis. My guess is it's Lionel Luthor, or one of his cronies. Now, explain to me how the Saunders' murder weapon happened to be in your possession?"
"I can't," Grundini insisted.
"You can't?" Briscoe wondered. "Or you won't?"
"I can't," Grundini pleaded. "If I tell you anything, I end up with concrete shoes at the bottom of the Hudson River!"
"So what you're saying is, you don't want your mob pals to find out you spilled the beans," Briscoe stated. "We can help you with that: witness protection, whatever."
"No, what I'm saying ..." Grundini began, "... is that I'm sayin' nothing till I get a lawyer."
Outside, Green frowned at the captain and Eames. "Well, whaddya know - Louie's not as stupid as he looks."
Briscoe stepped outside. "So much for killing two birds with one stone ..."
[Smallville, Monday December 2]
Smoke steamed from under the hood of the detectives' rental car.
Tutuola glanced at the dashboard. "Check gauges? Munch, did you check all those fluids ...?!"
"Yeah, yeah, washer fluid, gas, coolant, the whole toxic mixture," Munch replied. He covered his mouth as he tried to open the hood. "Ouch!"
Tutuola slammed the door in frustration. "Great, the engine's overheated!"
"So we're stuck in the middle of Hickville!" Munch grumbled. "I can't wait to get back to the Big Apple!"
Tutuola waved away the smoke from his face. "Well, I'm sure the rats miss you too, John."
A truck pulled up. "Car trouble, eh?" It was Jonathan Kent.
Munch coughed again. "Looks like we got stuck with a lemon of a rental car. Compliments of Breezy Rentals."
"Lemme see if I can get the AAA or something," Tutuola replied, then fumbled in his pockets for some quarters.
Jonathan coughed as a wall of steam emerged from the hood. He peeked under the car.
"There's your trouble, Detective Munch," he pointed at the pool of liquid on the pavement, "Your coolant is leaking. Lemme see what I can do."
"We don't want to be a bother, Mr. Kent," Munch insisted, "We'll just wait for the AAA guys to come by ... NYPD will foot the bill, no problemo."
Tutuola returned. "There's a pile-up at the interstate. AAA can't be here for another hour, maybe two."
Jonathan pulled out a toolbox, then crawled under the car.
"I realize we've been rubbing people the wrong way," Munch offered, "It's just that our superiors consider this case a priority. There are political forces at work that are impeding our investigation at all levels."
Jonathan wriggled from underneath the car. "I'm afraid there's nothing I can do."
"About the investigation?" Munch inquired.
Jonathan grinned. "No, about the coolant leak." He wiped his brow. "So Lionel Luthor's throwing roadblocks up, is he? That's not really news around these parts. He has politicians and big business in his pocket. Rumour has it that he has the favour of the governor's office."
"I take it there's no love lost between you and Luthor Corp." Tutuola remarked.
Jonathan squinted at the Kansas sunset. "You could say that." He grabbed a pristine white cloth, then tried to wipe the grease from his hands. Without much luck.
"You're probably gonna need one of those industrial cleansers," Tutuola suggested.
Jonathan studied his hands. The dirt would not come off easily.
He wasn't thinking about the car grease.
Long ago, he had made a Faustian deal with Lionel Luthor to "streamline" his adoption of Clark. He opened the door for Luthor Corp. in Smallville. That was the price he had paid.
That he continues to pay - as his only son is now under subpoena to explain circumstances that may or may not have led to Lex Luthor's brutal murder of Chelsea Saunders.
He wanted to accept Clark's faith in Lex's goodness. That - somehow - Lex had the moral clarity that Lionel lacked. He could not.
Alexander Joseph Luthor - despite his charismatic protests - is his father's son. Would he resort to murder to defend the family empire?
No court in America could deny what that answer must be: Yes.
"When your hands get this dirty," Jonathan noted, "you really do need more than soap and water to clean it off."
He started his truck. "I'll give you a lift to your hotel, detectives."
"Thanks, Mr. Kent," Tutuola beamed.
"When you do take Clark to New York," Jonathan began, "... would you ... keep an eye on him? Him and my wife."
"Sure thing, Mr. Kent!" Munch declared. "Clark's a good kid, despite the fact he's got an alleged murderer on his speed dial. Mrs. Kent is in New York now, isn't she? On Lionel's payroll?"
"Yes." Jonathan grumbled.
"And that doesn't sit well with you," Tutuola stated.
"You have no idea, detectives," Jonathan nodded, as he accelerated out of the sleepy town.
[Special Victims Unit, One Police Plaza, Monday December 2]
Detective Elliot Stabler skimmed through the New York Gazette. 'LUTHOR HEIR REJECTS STATE'S 'UNJUST' ALLEGATIONS'
Must be nice for Lex's old man to have a Big Apple rag in his corner, he mumbled to himself. He can portray his son - and his corporation - as innocent of all wrongdoing. Few accused have such influence in the media.
A rookie cop accidentally stepped on Stabler's shoe.
"Hey! Watch it!" Stabler snapped.
"Sorry about that, detective," the cop apologized.
Stabler unfurled the paper again. "Why don't you make yourself useful, son, and go write up a couple a parking tickets."
"Hey, I bust my hump as hard as you do," the cop rebutted.
Stabler stood up and glared at the young cop, who couldn't possibly be over 25. "Is that so?!"
Detective Benson noticed the confrontation and intervened. "Uhh, Mike, why don't you get that evidence down to the CSU ..." The junior officer quickly took the opportunity to escape Stabler's icy gaze.
"Elliot, what was all that about?" she inquired.
Stabler pinched his forehead. The headache throbbed since this morning. "It's nothing, Olivia."
"Nothing?" Benson demanded. "You've been impatient with witnesses, short- tempered with colleagues ... You've been edgy all week. Something's up!"
Stabler made himself a cup of coffee. He sipped. Lukewarm. "Is it so hard to make a new pot?" he hollered within earshot of everyone.
"I'm just under a lot of pressure recently - that's all," he grumbled.
"Are things tense at home?" Benson asked. "Look, why don't you talk to Cragen. Maybe he'll get you a day or two off. You've been working 14-hour days for awhile now ... you can go home, catch a movie, take your wife out for dinner ..."
Stabler turned on the coffee machine, still grumbling about the nameless ingrate who didn't have the courtesy to brew a new pot. "I'm fine, Olivia. Just fine. I just need some coffee." He checked the carton of cream.
"Great! No frickin' cream!" Stabler put on his jacket. "I'm going to get a decent cup of coffee." He shoved the door open and left before Benson could ask more questions.
Captain Cragen marched towards Benson. "What's up his ass?"
"He says he's under pressure," Benson replied.
"Under pressure?" Cragen scoffed. "I've got Fin and John stranded in Smallville with no wheels 'cause the rental company gave 'em a dud! I got D.A. McCoy determined to jab a lethal injection in the arm of the Lionel Luthor's heir. I've got a perverted politician on the verge of getting his case tossed out. Guess who becomes public enemy #1 if those cases fall through? It's me, it's Lt. Van Buren at Homicide, it's Captain Deakins at the MCS! You can bet that the mayor's office won't lift a finger."
"I realize that," Benson replied.
"Well, good," Cragen stated. "I don't think your partner does. Where is Elliot going?"
"Getting a coffee," Benson nodded towards the exit.
"Now's not the time for him to have a mid-life crisis," Cragen insisted, "If Stabler can't focus on the task at hand, I'd rather have him benched. I want him in my office. Now!"
Benson put on her jacket. The investigation of New York state representative Connors will have to wait.
She had to save her partner's career first ...