Finally! I've updated! What a surprise! I'm amazed at myself! Sorry,
but I've been working on another project. Don't worry, I haven't forgotten
about this. So, without further adieu... What? Oh, yeah, I don't own the X-
Men, in comic or cartoon form. Or any form. Of any way. Of any- you get
the picture.
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One year earlier in the city of Savannah, Georgia...
Sheriff Guthrie tipped his fedora back on his head and swept his lanky blonde hair out of his eyes. A few days to go before he got a few days of holiday... he could spend time with the wife... see the rest of the family back home... anything he wanted. So of course the law of averages had to give him one outrageously hard case before he left.
The funeral home was surrounded by police cars, their sirens switched off, but their lights providing a bright, dancing light show on the walls. Guthrie sniffed angrily, and turned back towards the building. He was at the door, when a slight noise from outside caught his attention.
An old, rusting Dodge Dart was making its noisy and pungent way up to the house. It parked haphazardly outside the building with a squealing sound of tortured gears that made him grimace.
"Oh shit..." Guthrie's deputy muttered.
"What?" Guthrie asked.
"That's Detective Milligan's car. No mistaking it." The deputy pulled a long face. "She's a real piece of work. Everybody calls her 'Holmes'. You'll see why."
The car door opened, and a woman, wearing a pair of dark sunglasses and smoking an over-sized cigar, climbed out. She took the cigar out of her mouth, and looked around the street. She then snorted, and spat a large glob of phlegm onto the street. Guthrie walked towards her, trying to disguise his grimace of disgust.
"Detective Milligan?" The woman turned to look at him at his question. "I'm Sheriff Guthrie, this case is my jurisdiction." He held out his hand. "Can I help you?"
The woman looked him over slowly, then stuck her cigar back in her mouth, and grabbed his offered hand vigorously. She smiled, wrinkles forming on her face like a skin on a baked apple. "Indeed I am, and indeed you can." She said with a slow Texan drawl. A whisp of Guthrie's blonde hair caught her eye, and she stood back with a raised eyebrow.
"You aren't one of the Guthries from West Virginia, now are you?"
Guthrie smiled. "Yes, indeed I am. Born and raised in West Virginia."
Milligan nodded, then blew a large plume of tobacco smoke from her nose. "That's a good family. Lots of kid's, right?" Guthrie nodded. "Yeah, that's the family I'm thinking of. What's your relation to Paige?"
"You know my family?" Guthrie asked, surprise etched in his voice.
"'Course I do. I got introduced to them all by one fella called Irving." She shook her head, then spat again. "He's a real piece of work. So, what's your relation to Paige?"
"I'm her cousin."
Milligan nodded. "She's a nice gal. Her older brother, whatshisname, Sammy, he's shaping up nice too. He's in that fancy-nancy place up North, ain't he?" Guthrie nodded. She slapped his shoulder. "Y'should be proud to have a family that large. Means yer never alone." She stuck the cigar back in her mouth. "Well, enough chit-chat. What's the deal?"
Guthrie sighed, then opened the door to the funeral home. "It's a simple mowing down with gunfire, is all." He walked over to where the murder scene was. "As far as we can tell, an armed man – or woman – walked in here, broke the receptionist's neck-" he indicated the white-shrouded corpse with a nod, "-then came in here to administer the coup de grace."
Milligan nodded sagely at the scene before her, then crushed her cigar down on the charity plate next to the doors. She walked in, her boots making heavy sounds on the wooden floor. She shook her head. "What a fuckin' mess..." she muttered, then rubbed her nose. She turned back to Guthrie.
"I suppose it's foolish of me to enquire as to whether anyone saw the killer? I thought not." She paced the floor, looking at the strewn bodies lying on the blood-spattered floor.
"Well," she started, "first things first. Whose funeral was it?"
"A Mrs. Serling." Guthrie muttered, staring at his notes. "It looks like it was going to be a private funeral, just close friends and family."
"Obviously it weren't private enough..." Milligan muttered. She walked back over to the main entrance. "Well, it seems to me as if this was a one-man operation." She declared, staring at the floor. "Y'can tell by the way that there's only enough casings here for one typical magazine..." she indicated the aforementioned objects, "...for one automatic rifle." She looked up at Guthrie. "Can't tell what type of rifle it was, though."
"It was an MP5." Guthrie said.
"How can y'tell?"
Guthrie pointed to the gun on the floor. "Because it's right there. This may be Savannah, but I doubt even the people here are inclined to bring their guns to funerals."
Milligan smirked. "Most droll." She walked forward down the aisle, walking around pools of blood. "It seems as if he stood at the door for a while, I dunno how long..." she trailed off, rubbing her chin thoughtfully. "He knew how to use a gun, the casing piles indicate short, controlled bursts, not a whole magazine in one sitting, so he wasn't someone who had gone mad..."
"That's very impressive, ma'am."
Milligan waved her hand in a distracted fashion. "That's why they call me 'Holmes'." She peered at the bodies lying in the seats. "Do we have a guest list?"
"Yep. Only a few people. A Mr. and Mrs. Feathers, a Ms. Dorge, a family called the McIllvanneys and this one feller called Rob Bryson." He shrugged. "We're already trackin' down any relations to tell them about what's happened, but we haven't found any links that connects them to being massacred."
Milligan nodded in a distracted fashion. She scanned the room slowly, chewing her lower lip. "It seems to me as if he was trying to kill everyone here. I mean-" she hastily corrected herself, "-these people weren't 'innocent bystanders'. No..." She trailed off, tapping her foot. "This killer meant to kill everyone here. But why...?"
Guthrie shrugged, then added; "You're right about the meaningful murders. We did notice that once the gunman switched to a semi-automatic, probably a nine-mil." He smiled. "Y'see, we leathernecks do notice something now and again."
Milligan gave him a knowing look, then turned back to the murde scene. "After he fired off the clip..." she walked along the aisle, "...he walked along here, firing off some rounds at those who weren't dead..." Three corpses caught her eye. "I presume that's the family on the guest list, yeah?"
"Probably."
"Hel-lo..." Milligan whispered, leaning towards the corpses. "Did you boys notice this...?" She muttered, indicating the state of the young girl lying up on the floor.
"What about her?"
"Well, look at her. She's lying up, her head towards a crucifix. The other corpses haven't been moved..." She took her sunglasses off, and peered at her face. "I'll wager that the person closed her eyes after she was killed..."
"What, you're saying that this person had some sort of connection with the gunman?"
Milligan shrugged. "Could be, who knows. Get someone to check up. It could be our killer had a sudden spate of a guilty conscious, and decided to make her look more presentable in death."
"Why would he have a guilty conscious?"
Again, Milligan shrugged. "Beats me. Could be that she's pregnant," she said, indicating the distinct bulge, "or some other reason." Her eyes flicked to the girl's hands. "Strange..."
"What?"
"She weren't married. The kid was out of wedlock..."
"How can y'tell?"
"Well, look at the ring finger. It's bare."
"She might not be able to wear it, or perhaps she just took it off for some reason or another." Guthrie suggested.
"No, no..." Milligan shook her head slowly. "If she did, there would be a pale mark 'round her finger." Milligan stood up. "No, this kid was definitely out of wedlock." She turned to the man who was lying back on his chair, riddled with bullets. "This fella looks like the patriarch here..." She looked at his inside pocket. "Well, it weren't a robbery, this fella's wallet is still in there." She looked up at Guthrie. "Can I have a glove?"
Guthrie nodded, pulling one out, and throwing it at Milligan. She caught it one-handed without looking, then slipped it on. She took the wallet out the pocket, then flipped it open.
"Business card... phone card... a couple of twenties... a family photograph..." She took the latter out, and compared it to the corpses on the floor. "Yep, this definitely were a family. Except not all of 'em were here..."
"How'd you mean?"
"Well look." Milligan stated showing the photo to Guthrie. "There's the pater familias, there's the mamma, there's the girl – note she ain't pregnant – but, observe..." She nodded at Guthrie sagely. "...there is one person in this here picture who ain't here. This young fella here." She peered at the boy critically. "My, my, what an effeminate young man."
Guthrie studied the picture. "Y'sure it ain't a daughter?"
"It's a boy. Call it woman's intuition, but it's a boy." She shook her head. "What a silly lookin' fella he is. Long, blonde hair... bright, blue eyes... no sign of a beard or moustache..." She sighed. "I guess we'd better find out who this is, and break the bad news to 'em, huh?" She threw the wallet into the tray for further study.
"I can see why they call you 'Holmes' now, ma'am." Guthrie said, raising an eyebrow.
Milligan shrugged, but a glimmer of a smile touched her lips. "Ah, it's what the taxpayer pays for, I suppose." She yawned, then seemed to notice Guthrie for the first time. "When's your shift end?"
Guthrie looked at his watch. "In about two hours."
Milligan slapped him on the back. "Take an early break, why dontcha? I'll cover for you here. Go back home, talk to your family and suchlike." She smiled, her wrinkles appearing again as if by magic.
Guthrie smiled. "Why, thank you ma'am."
"It's not a problem, young man. You look as if y'could use some real rest for a change." She nodded to the door. "G'wan, scram. Leave us old fogeys to figure it out."
Guthrie tipped his hat, then strode out the door, humming a show tune. Milligan's smile turned to a frown, and she turned back to the homicide scene. She cracked her knuckles and sighed. This was going to take some time...
&&&&&&
Shock! Horror! I actually wrote a chapter that was one scene only! What is the world coming to? Please R&R.
&&&&&&
One year earlier in the city of Savannah, Georgia...
Sheriff Guthrie tipped his fedora back on his head and swept his lanky blonde hair out of his eyes. A few days to go before he got a few days of holiday... he could spend time with the wife... see the rest of the family back home... anything he wanted. So of course the law of averages had to give him one outrageously hard case before he left.
The funeral home was surrounded by police cars, their sirens switched off, but their lights providing a bright, dancing light show on the walls. Guthrie sniffed angrily, and turned back towards the building. He was at the door, when a slight noise from outside caught his attention.
An old, rusting Dodge Dart was making its noisy and pungent way up to the house. It parked haphazardly outside the building with a squealing sound of tortured gears that made him grimace.
"Oh shit..." Guthrie's deputy muttered.
"What?" Guthrie asked.
"That's Detective Milligan's car. No mistaking it." The deputy pulled a long face. "She's a real piece of work. Everybody calls her 'Holmes'. You'll see why."
The car door opened, and a woman, wearing a pair of dark sunglasses and smoking an over-sized cigar, climbed out. She took the cigar out of her mouth, and looked around the street. She then snorted, and spat a large glob of phlegm onto the street. Guthrie walked towards her, trying to disguise his grimace of disgust.
"Detective Milligan?" The woman turned to look at him at his question. "I'm Sheriff Guthrie, this case is my jurisdiction." He held out his hand. "Can I help you?"
The woman looked him over slowly, then stuck her cigar back in her mouth, and grabbed his offered hand vigorously. She smiled, wrinkles forming on her face like a skin on a baked apple. "Indeed I am, and indeed you can." She said with a slow Texan drawl. A whisp of Guthrie's blonde hair caught her eye, and she stood back with a raised eyebrow.
"You aren't one of the Guthries from West Virginia, now are you?"
Guthrie smiled. "Yes, indeed I am. Born and raised in West Virginia."
Milligan nodded, then blew a large plume of tobacco smoke from her nose. "That's a good family. Lots of kid's, right?" Guthrie nodded. "Yeah, that's the family I'm thinking of. What's your relation to Paige?"
"You know my family?" Guthrie asked, surprise etched in his voice.
"'Course I do. I got introduced to them all by one fella called Irving." She shook her head, then spat again. "He's a real piece of work. So, what's your relation to Paige?"
"I'm her cousin."
Milligan nodded. "She's a nice gal. Her older brother, whatshisname, Sammy, he's shaping up nice too. He's in that fancy-nancy place up North, ain't he?" Guthrie nodded. She slapped his shoulder. "Y'should be proud to have a family that large. Means yer never alone." She stuck the cigar back in her mouth. "Well, enough chit-chat. What's the deal?"
Guthrie sighed, then opened the door to the funeral home. "It's a simple mowing down with gunfire, is all." He walked over to where the murder scene was. "As far as we can tell, an armed man – or woman – walked in here, broke the receptionist's neck-" he indicated the white-shrouded corpse with a nod, "-then came in here to administer the coup de grace."
Milligan nodded sagely at the scene before her, then crushed her cigar down on the charity plate next to the doors. She walked in, her boots making heavy sounds on the wooden floor. She shook her head. "What a fuckin' mess..." she muttered, then rubbed her nose. She turned back to Guthrie.
"I suppose it's foolish of me to enquire as to whether anyone saw the killer? I thought not." She paced the floor, looking at the strewn bodies lying on the blood-spattered floor.
"Well," she started, "first things first. Whose funeral was it?"
"A Mrs. Serling." Guthrie muttered, staring at his notes. "It looks like it was going to be a private funeral, just close friends and family."
"Obviously it weren't private enough..." Milligan muttered. She walked back over to the main entrance. "Well, it seems to me as if this was a one-man operation." She declared, staring at the floor. "Y'can tell by the way that there's only enough casings here for one typical magazine..." she indicated the aforementioned objects, "...for one automatic rifle." She looked up at Guthrie. "Can't tell what type of rifle it was, though."
"It was an MP5." Guthrie said.
"How can y'tell?"
Guthrie pointed to the gun on the floor. "Because it's right there. This may be Savannah, but I doubt even the people here are inclined to bring their guns to funerals."
Milligan smirked. "Most droll." She walked forward down the aisle, walking around pools of blood. "It seems as if he stood at the door for a while, I dunno how long..." she trailed off, rubbing her chin thoughtfully. "He knew how to use a gun, the casing piles indicate short, controlled bursts, not a whole magazine in one sitting, so he wasn't someone who had gone mad..."
"That's very impressive, ma'am."
Milligan waved her hand in a distracted fashion. "That's why they call me 'Holmes'." She peered at the bodies lying in the seats. "Do we have a guest list?"
"Yep. Only a few people. A Mr. and Mrs. Feathers, a Ms. Dorge, a family called the McIllvanneys and this one feller called Rob Bryson." He shrugged. "We're already trackin' down any relations to tell them about what's happened, but we haven't found any links that connects them to being massacred."
Milligan nodded in a distracted fashion. She scanned the room slowly, chewing her lower lip. "It seems to me as if he was trying to kill everyone here. I mean-" she hastily corrected herself, "-these people weren't 'innocent bystanders'. No..." She trailed off, tapping her foot. "This killer meant to kill everyone here. But why...?"
Guthrie shrugged, then added; "You're right about the meaningful murders. We did notice that once the gunman switched to a semi-automatic, probably a nine-mil." He smiled. "Y'see, we leathernecks do notice something now and again."
Milligan gave him a knowing look, then turned back to the murde scene. "After he fired off the clip..." she walked along the aisle, "...he walked along here, firing off some rounds at those who weren't dead..." Three corpses caught her eye. "I presume that's the family on the guest list, yeah?"
"Probably."
"Hel-lo..." Milligan whispered, leaning towards the corpses. "Did you boys notice this...?" She muttered, indicating the state of the young girl lying up on the floor.
"What about her?"
"Well, look at her. She's lying up, her head towards a crucifix. The other corpses haven't been moved..." She took her sunglasses off, and peered at her face. "I'll wager that the person closed her eyes after she was killed..."
"What, you're saying that this person had some sort of connection with the gunman?"
Milligan shrugged. "Could be, who knows. Get someone to check up. It could be our killer had a sudden spate of a guilty conscious, and decided to make her look more presentable in death."
"Why would he have a guilty conscious?"
Again, Milligan shrugged. "Beats me. Could be that she's pregnant," she said, indicating the distinct bulge, "or some other reason." Her eyes flicked to the girl's hands. "Strange..."
"What?"
"She weren't married. The kid was out of wedlock..."
"How can y'tell?"
"Well, look at the ring finger. It's bare."
"She might not be able to wear it, or perhaps she just took it off for some reason or another." Guthrie suggested.
"No, no..." Milligan shook her head slowly. "If she did, there would be a pale mark 'round her finger." Milligan stood up. "No, this kid was definitely out of wedlock." She turned to the man who was lying back on his chair, riddled with bullets. "This fella looks like the patriarch here..." She looked at his inside pocket. "Well, it weren't a robbery, this fella's wallet is still in there." She looked up at Guthrie. "Can I have a glove?"
Guthrie nodded, pulling one out, and throwing it at Milligan. She caught it one-handed without looking, then slipped it on. She took the wallet out the pocket, then flipped it open.
"Business card... phone card... a couple of twenties... a family photograph..." She took the latter out, and compared it to the corpses on the floor. "Yep, this definitely were a family. Except not all of 'em were here..."
"How'd you mean?"
"Well look." Milligan stated showing the photo to Guthrie. "There's the pater familias, there's the mamma, there's the girl – note she ain't pregnant – but, observe..." She nodded at Guthrie sagely. "...there is one person in this here picture who ain't here. This young fella here." She peered at the boy critically. "My, my, what an effeminate young man."
Guthrie studied the picture. "Y'sure it ain't a daughter?"
"It's a boy. Call it woman's intuition, but it's a boy." She shook her head. "What a silly lookin' fella he is. Long, blonde hair... bright, blue eyes... no sign of a beard or moustache..." She sighed. "I guess we'd better find out who this is, and break the bad news to 'em, huh?" She threw the wallet into the tray for further study.
"I can see why they call you 'Holmes' now, ma'am." Guthrie said, raising an eyebrow.
Milligan shrugged, but a glimmer of a smile touched her lips. "Ah, it's what the taxpayer pays for, I suppose." She yawned, then seemed to notice Guthrie for the first time. "When's your shift end?"
Guthrie looked at his watch. "In about two hours."
Milligan slapped him on the back. "Take an early break, why dontcha? I'll cover for you here. Go back home, talk to your family and suchlike." She smiled, her wrinkles appearing again as if by magic.
Guthrie smiled. "Why, thank you ma'am."
"It's not a problem, young man. You look as if y'could use some real rest for a change." She nodded to the door. "G'wan, scram. Leave us old fogeys to figure it out."
Guthrie tipped his hat, then strode out the door, humming a show tune. Milligan's smile turned to a frown, and she turned back to the homicide scene. She cracked her knuckles and sighed. This was going to take some time...
&&&&&&
Shock! Horror! I actually wrote a chapter that was one scene only! What is the world coming to? Please R&R.