Chapter One: Small Town Problem
Author note: This story is the sixty-second in the Magical Flashpoint series. It follows "Face/Off".
Although all original characters belong to me, I do not own Flashpoint, Harry Potter, Narnia, or Merlin.
"Oy! Watch it, I just cleaned this suit!" a tall, lean man yelped as he was shoved into the small police station. His friend kept quiet, though his scowl said it all as he, too, was pushed inside; the deputies that had arrested them merely sneered, unimpressed with the out-of-town drunks.
The lead deputy hauled the loudmouth towards the station's small cell area, only to pause as his superior looked up from his desk. "Saunders?" the man asked, tone pointed.
"Drunk and disorderly, sir," the dark-haired officer replied, mouth tightening. "This one," he tugged on the lean arrestee, earning a drunken smirk, "knocked out the taillight on my squad car."
"Is that so…" the sheriff drawled, rising to his feet and sauntering around his desk to inspect the drunks.
"Shoulda parked somewhere else," the brunet jeered. "Not my fault I tripped on your bumper, cop."
"Shut up, Roy," the other man ordered – he appeared marginally more sober than his friend.
The Sergeant leaned into Roy's face. "That's good advice, son; I'd take it if I were you."
Roy snorted derision, but said nothing.
"Toss 'em in the drunk tank for the night, Saunders."
"Yessir."
The men were hauled to the cell set against the station's exterior wall and locked in. Deputy Saunders, still sore about the damage to his patrol car, waited for his fellow officers to leave before taunting, "Destruction of public property…bet I could add that to your drunk charge."
"You and what army, genius?" Roy retorted.
"Roy, seriously, shut it," his friend snapped. Looking up at the deputy, he said, "We're really sorry about that, officer."
"Yeah," Saunders jeered. "I bet you are." To his disappointment, the drunk's friend kept him from responding. After a few moments, he left.
The men in the cell waited until they were sure the officer was gone and not returning. Then they traded looks and started searching the tiny cell. The coarse pillows and sheets were inspected, one man turned them inside and out while the other checked under the beds, searching every possible crevice.
"Giles."
The slightly shorter, but broader brunet stopped, glancing down at his friend. One eyebrow hiked, then he saw what Roy was holding up. A broken digital voice recorder…with blood stains on it.
63 hours earlier (3 days earlier)
Commander Norm Holleran bit back a grimace of pain as he eased into the chair behind his desk. Although his old bullet-proof vest had saved his life, absorbing three of the bullets he'd been shot with, the fourth had penetrated his armor and ricocheted into his chest, causing a considerable amount of damage to the commander. If not for magic, he'd still be in the hospital – even with magic, it was going to take a few weeks for his body to completely recover from the trauma.
And yet, none of that held a candle to losing one of the best officers he'd ever had the honor of commanding. Sergeant Gregory Parker wasn't officially dead, but given the four alarm fire that had sprung up around his last known location… Holleran wasn't holding his breath. Parker hadn't escaped to Team One's magic-side safe house or checked in since the blaze – and he would have. Within a day, two at the most.
"Sir?"
Holleran looked up at Constable Kira Marlowe – the SRU dispatcher's expression was tight, closed, and more than a little cold. Within a day of the fire, the entire barn had known the real story behind Sergeant Parker's 'suspension', namely, that he'd been forcibly transferred and sent undercover, that he'd been forced to deceive and alienate his former team, and that he was almost certainly dead. The gossip chain, Holleran was sure, alternated daily between whether the late Sergeant had taken the infamous Castor Troy with him or not. Regardless, his own authority had taken a severe blow in the aftermath, despite the fact that Parker's transfer had occurred without his consent and that he'd been doing his best to reverse that transfer.
"Something I can do for you, Kira?" First names were unlikely to be enough to get him out of the SRU's black books, but Holleran was determined to re-earn his subordinates' trust. Starting with finally getting Parker transferred back to the SRU; if nothing else, the commander intended to argue that Parker had spent most of his career in the SRU and would want to be buried as an SRU officer.
"Preliminary report on the fire, sir," Kira replied, offering the folder in her hands. Her expression softened, just a touch. "Sir? Is…is it true?"
Commander Holleran took the folder, but didn't open it. "Is what true, Kira?"
"Is Sergeant Parker really dead?"
About to open his mouth, Holleran paused, glancing down at the folder in his hands. "One moment, Kira."
"Sir?"
Ignoring her confusion, the black man flipped the folder open, skimming through the pages. Then he halted, closing his eyes in grief. "I'm afraid so, Kira."
The blonde edged closer. "They…they identified him?"
Holleran shook his head, but turned the folder so she could see what he had. "No, Kira, the bodies are too badly burned for anything but DNA and dental records."
Kira sucked in a breath, her eyes landing on the same picture his had. Sergeant Parker's Auror badge, almost unrecognizable – half melted and covered in debris from the fire, but the eagle and the hilt of the sword were still recognizable, as was the glint of gold underneath the soot. "They found that on one of the bodies?"
"Near one of them," the commander confirmed softly. "He didn't die in the fire, Kira; the bodies they've recovered so far have gunshot wounds, center mass."
The dispatcher knew what that meant. Although it wasn't impossible that the victims had survived the bullets, only to die in the fire, it was unlikely. Tears threatened and she turned her head away. "I'll miss him, sir."
"We all will," Commander Holleran whispered, allowing his own anguish to show. "Was there anything else, Kira?"
Marlowe hastily wiped her eyes. "Ummm…yes, sir. Captain Cragen called. He said they searched Detective Kastor's apartment, but she's in the wind."
Anger stirred, but the grief was still too strong. Too fresh. "Thank you, Kira. Put Team One on secondary for the foreseeable future, if you would."
"Yes, sir," Kira acknowledged, slipping out of the office and closing the door behind her.
Behind her, Commander Holleran pulled open a locked desk drawer and retrieved the file hidden inside. Gingerly, he opened it, tugging the photograph within free. One finger traced the outline of the officer pictured. "I'm sorry, Greg," he murmured. "She got away for now, but I promise you, we'll find her. She won't get away with this."
He wouldn't let this case go and neither, he knew, would Captain Cragen. Regardless of anything else, Greg Parker had been a cop, a friend, and a good man. To let his murderer's accomplice go free was unthinkable. Even if it took another twenty years, Brenda Kastor would be brought to justice.
Sergeant Ed Lane popped open his latest glass bottle of old-fashioned Coke, listening to the hiss it made before he took a swig. It really did sound enough like a beer bottle to fool someone listening over the phone. Not that that little fact made it feel any better. Didn't make him feel any better to know he'd been up against a man who knew what buttons to push and when. His best friend, the negotiator and profiler. Boss, friend…brother.
"At least you never gave up on him."
Blue eyes closed. "I did give up on him, Wordy. There were all these little clues and I just…ignored them."
Wordy cocked his head. "What clues, Ed?" Then his voice shook, turning rough with shame and grief. "I…I stopped calling him after three weeks. Never even bothered to figure out what was going on. Some friend I am."
Ed swallowed harshly. "The…" He stopped, minute trembles running through him. "Back then, Word, he wasn't as bad as some get. Never got mean or nasty, even when I was bugging him every day about the drinking. A couple times, I'd go and haul him outta the bar; he'd never go until the bartender told him he was all paid up, then he let me drag him back to his place." The Sergeant paused, summoning up those old memories. "When I'd find him, he'd usually offer to buy me a drink." The bark of laughter rang with remembered bitterness, then Ed's voice turned serious. "One thing he always make sure of, Wordy."
"What?" Curiosity and an intense yearning to know rang. Desperate to understand what had been missed and how to keep from missing it again.
"His gun." Ed turned, meeting his team leader's gaze. "Greg never, ever took his sidearm with him when he went out drinking. He told me once that he'd heard stories about drunks with guns and he wasn't going to be one of those stories."
The brunet whistled low. "So…Sarge getting nasty, that's what tipped you off?"
"Not at first," Lane admitted. Frowning, he considered. "I think…I think what I should've noticed was he kept insisting the kids were safer. And one time he started slurring the way he did at the tail end of that ten-day shift."
Wordy groaned, burying his head in his hands. "Ugh. You had to bring that one up."
Ed dredged up a smirk. That shift lived in Team One infamy. Thirteen hot calls in ten days, seven of them magic-side. By the end, every member of the team had been dead on their feet and wishing they dared take a Pepper-Up Potion. Greg hadn't been the only one slurring his words; the slur had started sometime during the eleventh hot call, forcing the negotiator to figure out how to stop the slurring in order to negotiate intelligibly. Jules hadn't even bothered, something that, in retrospect, should've been yet another red flag as to how much stress they were piling on their boss's shoulders.
"So…yeah," the bald sniper murmured, grief welling up. "There were clues and I just…I left him out there on his own. A couple times, he dropped the act and really talked to me."
The team leader's eyes widened. "He did?"
A rough nod and his throat tightened. "He did, but as soon as he was done, he'd hit me with another bottle crack and start guzzling something…soda, I guess."
"But you thought it was beer," Wordy said flatly.
Ed's throat went tighter still and his chest ached; he shifted back to his locker to hide the tears. "He told me I'd give up on him, sooner or later. I said I wouldn't, but…" Inside, his heart wrenched. "…he was right, Word. I did give up on him. I bet that's why he didn't call any of us when Holleran went down."
"Too many lies," the brunet whispered.
The Sergeant didn't respond. What else was there to say? Greg was gone, Greg was dead, and nothing was right any more. He'd died alone, desperately trying to protect the family he'd spent the last two months lying to. The best of them, their foundation, their leader through thick, thin, and the end of the world. And instead of being right there beside him where they belonged, they'd all turned their backs and walked away. Leaving him to die alone, probably terrified as Troy's trap burned to the ground around him. The best Ed could hope for was that Greg had taken that demon with him.
Lou sighed to himself, watching his friend up the poundage on his latest weight machine. Normally, Spike hated the weight machines; while the bomb tech tended to be more than a bit of a slacker when it came to working out, he did keep up with SRU requirements – on the aerobic machines. The less-lethal specialist could count on one hand the number of times his best friend had volunteered for the weight machines before Sarge…
He cut the thought off, grimacing and flinching internally. How sad was that – he couldn't even think the word. Lou knew why Spike was half-killing himself with the weight machines, knew why they hadn't pulled even one prank since the day Sarge left. It just…it wasn't the same…it felt wrong to laugh and joke and play as if nothing had changed. As if their whole world hadn't come crashing down when they weren't looking.
Ed and Wordy were walking around half-dead, like someone had taken a chunk out of their souls – Lou didn't feel quite that bad, but he couldn't deny the growing sense that Sarge had been more than just his boss. More than just the family he'd chosen. Spike was the same, but also…worse. After all, he and Sarge had been blood brothers, thanks to that wizard serial killer and his nasty, language-twisting curse. It stood to reason that Spike was feeling the loss of his magical 'brother' more than Lou could. Hence the weight-lifting and the distinct lack of video games and practical jokes.
Then Spike hopped off to increase the weight again. Lou hustled over before he could reach for the bar. "Hey, hey, you put that up any more and you're gonna tear something, Spike."
"I don't care!" the lithe constable snarled.
Lou got between his friend and the weights. "But I do. You gotta stop, buddy. Ripping yourself up like this isn't gonna bring him back."
Spike froze, head coming up to stare at Lou. For a moment, they glared at each other, neither willing to back down, then Spike crumpled. Lou grabbed him, hauling his friend into a rough hug; the bomb tech fought for an instant, then the sobs wrenched free. Biting back tears of his own, Lou just hung on. That was another new thing since Sarge had…left. They could hardly make it through a shift without ending up in tears at some point.
He should've hated Sarge for doing this to them. Instead, all the tan-skinned constable could feel was overwhelming, total grief. The glue that had held them together was gone and in that absence, nothing was right any more. Nothing ever could be right again. Not without the Boss.
Jules Callaghan hugged her father, grip almost fierce. He'd already been planning to come down to the city for a visit, but in the aftermath of Sarge's death…tears stung and the brunette turned her head to listen to her father's heartbeat. Strong and sure. He hugged her back, knowing she needed his support. Usually, the negotiator/sniper could stand on her own two feet, thank you, but sometimes… She just needed her father to hold her and chase the nightmares away. Pity this nightmare was very much a reality.
"You want to talk about it, Julie?"
Reluctantly, she pulled away. Easing back, she twisted her hands together. "Let's, uh, let's get you settled first, Dad."
Her father nodded, accepting that. Taller than his daughter by almost eight centimeters, with black hair grown partway down his neck, broad shoulders, and a ready smile, Zach Callaghan looked far more like the farmer he'd become than the cop he'd once been. Jules reached for his suitcase, but he hefted it himself with a wry chuckle. "Now, now, Julie, I'm not quite that decrepit."
Eyeing the hints of gray at the formerly raven temples, Jules countered, "Sure, Dad, whatever you say."
He roared with laughter and strode past her to head up the steps of her house. The brunette smiled and went after him; her guest room had undergone quite a few changes since his last visit. For now, they were alone, though Sam was planning to show up later with a home cooked casserole from his aunt's house-elves. Apparently, the Locksley house-elves had 'adopted' their mistress' nephew, though how that translated to weekly casseroles almost as large as her refrigerator's widest shelf, Jules still hadn't figured out.
As she discreetly pointed her father up the stairs and gestured for him to go left once he hit the top, Jules asked, "How was the drive down, Dad?"
"Not too bad; traffic was light, roads were good."
"No last minute pleas from Old Hodgkin?"
Her father laughed, pale blue dancing at the reference to their sometimes crotchety old neighbor. Old Man Hodgkin, as all the neighbor kids called him, had declared Jules an up and coming 'looker' at the age of twelve and a troublemaker at thirteen. The young girl had been unimpressed with both pronouncements, especially when her brothers started teasing her about them. Then the elder man had come to Jules' rescue when an overly aggressive date tried to go too far. Hodgkin had taken the teenage boy over his knee – literally – while his wife made Jules hot chocolate and called her father. Jules had never heard so much as a peep from the boy again and she'd found herself in an extremely odd friendship with the old man throughout the remainder of her high school years.
"Just him telling me to tell you to keep your chin up, Julie."
A faint smile peeked through the gloom and depression that had been her constant companions since Sarge's death. Before even, when he'd left. "Doing my best, Dad."
But her voice hitched, betraying the grief in her heart and soul. She'd gotten so used to Sarge always being there that she'd started taking it for granted. Taking him for granted. Why hadn't she looked, why hadn't she tried harder to understand why he was pushing them away so stridently? She was his second, the team's backup negotiator – she should have known something was wrong when Sarge changed so dramatically. Literally overnight.
They'd reached the guest room; her father dropped his suitcase and reached out, gathering her up and tucking her close under his chin, heartbeat a reassuring throb in her ear. "All right, Julie," he murmured, "I'm inside; I'll unpack later. Now will you tell me what's got the toughest cop in Toronto down?"
"Dad!"
He chuckled. "You're the toughest cop I know, Sweetheart. Way too tough for this old man."
Laughter tickled, but wouldn't come. Not around the lump in her throat. "You know," she whispered, easing out of her father's grasp. "I never thought of him as tough." A harsh swallow and she absently twisted her hands together again, kneading the fingers as she kept going. "He…he was the gentlest guy I know. Always looked out for us as much as he could." She would not cry. She was SRU, one of the cool pants, and…she didn't deserve to cry for him. Not after leaving him all alone with pain and fear and death.
"Your boss, Julie?" Surprise rang. "Last we talked, you told me he'd gone on a bender and got himself suspended."
Slowly, shakily, Jules told her father the whole miserable story. The transfer, the undercover op, the lies her boss had been forced into. The monster with a thing for families and a vendetta against Sergeant Greg Parker for having the courage to arrest him all those years ago. The gang war, the shootings, and the fire; how their world had come crashing down in that moment.
Shaking with emotion, she kept going. Telling Sophie, Shelley, and the kids. The despairing, keening wail from Alanna, her brother sweeping her up in a hug before any of the adults could. Lance hadn't cried, turning away from all of them save his sister. Not that day, nor in all the days since. It was as if the teenager had decided he couldn't trust the adults in his life any more. It didn't help that Ed and Wordy were still too broken up to notice Lance's behavior. Spike was just as miserable, requiring all of Lou's attention to keep the bomb tech from working himself to death, and Sam… Sam had reacted just like Lance, pulling away and refusing to even mention Sarge's name.
Jules supposed she was little better, what with her raw refusal to cry and her near obsessive need to keep tabs on her remaining teammates. But someone had to do it. Someone had to make sure none of them slipped through the cracks like Sarge had. She'd failed her family once; she wouldn't do it again.
The flow of words petered out, the innermost longings of her heart on full display. She missed him. So much they'd gone through as a team and he'd died alone at the hands of a non-magical psychopath. Why…why hadn't he been wearing a vest? Why hadn't he used his badge Portkey to escape once the fire started?
"He sounds like he was a great boss, Julie. I wish I could have met him."
The brunette dredged up a smile. "He would've liked you, Dad." Firmly, she set the anguish aside. "So… How about you, Dad? How've things been since you moved?"
Her father's expression darkened just a hair. He considered, then remarked, "Well, Julie, funny you should ask."
Jules' eyes narrowed. Her father had known perfectly well that she would ask, sooner or later. "Dad."
He stopped, reading her gritted, 'get-to-the-point' tone perfectly. Then he sighed, tugging her into a half-hug. "Never could snow your mother either, Julie." Another sigh. "You're right. Something's come up, kiddo. I could use your help. You and that team of yours if they're willing."
Commander Holleran scowled as Zach Callaghan made his pitch. A simple investigation into the whereabouts of two missing journalists, last seen in the town lockup on drunk and disorderly charges. With local law enforcement implicated, Callaghan had seen fit to come and ask his SRU daughter and her team for help.
Very nice, very neat. Except… "You are aware that our unit isn't Internal Affairs, aren't you?"
The ex-cop subtly stiffened. "Yes, sir, I am," he confirmed. "Look…it's a small town. Not really much in the way of IA or outside options if the local sheriff goes bad."
Jules frowned. "You think whatever happened was deliberate?"
Holleran watched as the elder Callaghan made a valiant attempt to squirm without actually squirming. "The deputies say they released the journalists the morning after, but no one I've talked to has actually seen them since they got arrested. There's a few people around town who whisper, but just about everyone knows to stay out of the sheriff's business." Swinging to face his daughter, Callaghan added, "I may not be a cop any more, Julie, but some things, you don't forget. I know something's wrong, but I've got no proof."
"Just instinct," Jules whispered. Distress ran across her face, mirrored by her teammates, at the inadvertent reminder of all Sergeant Parker had had when dealing with his backstabbing undercover handler. Screaming instincts and no proof.
He didn't like it. Didn't like it at all; Team One was one breath away from shattering into a thousand pieces. They needed time on secondary status, a breather to let them start recovering – as much as any of them could – from Parker's death. The last thing they needed was some jaunt off to the backwoods of Canada to play Internal Affairs in some tiny, podunk town. Or was it?
The commander's frown deepened. If they stayed in Toronto, it was all but inevitable that they'd be on a hot call sooner or later. Secondary status didn't mean off-duty. In fact, secondary status meant Team One would be spending more time at the barn. Where Parker's ghost was all but tangible, lurking in every corner Team One frequented. The parts of the barn Parker hadn't visited could be counted on one hand – and were usually the sole domain of building maintenance.
Surveying the constables and their Sergeant, Commander Holleran came to a decision. Keeping Team One here, in Toronto, would cause far more damage than a simple jaunt up to Lyndhurst Flats, the town Jules' father had recently moved to as he looked to downsize and start retiring from farming. With any luck, the clear-cut, simple investigation would give Team One a change of pace and space to start dealing with their former boss's death. Once they got back, he could muscle them into a few sessions with the department psychiatrist. And perhaps, by that point, Parker's body would be identified so they could give him the department funeral he deserved.
"All right," he announced. "I'll allow this, on one condition, Sergeant Lane."
"Yes, sir?"
Meeting Lane's gaze, Holleran replied, "Your brother and Detective Onasi go along for the ride."
He could see the reflexive refusal, the need to protect what little family the Sergeant still had left, then Ed bowed his head in acceptance. "Copy that."