"Watching the Detectives"
You think you're alone until you realize you're in it
Now fear is here to stay, love is here for a visit
- Elvis Costello
Hopper pulled into his spot in front of the police station. Late again, damn it. He had meant to leave earlier this morning, part of an overall plan to come into work early so he could knock off early, so he could be home at a reasonable time now that the days were shortening and night closed in sooner. He hated to leave Eleven home alone in the dark. Not that she minded so much … but he did.
An already foul mood grew blacker when he saw who was waiting on the sidewalk for him. That crackpot who was soaking Barbara Holland's parents for every penny they had. If there was anything Hopper hated as much as people who let little kids die and lied about it, it was people who took money from grieving parents to chase impossible theories that they knew would never pan out.
"Good morning, Jim," the crackpot said.
Hopper rolled his eyes and walked past, hoping that if he didn't give the guy the attention he was looking for, he'd go away.
Of course, that tactic hadn't worked the last half-dozen times they'd been in this situation, so he shouldn't have been surprised when it didn't work today.
Crackpot followed him, calling his name again.
"Hold on a second. We need to talk," he said urgently, catching the door before Hopper could let it slam in his face.
"Get away from me," Hopper muttered. More to himself than to Crackpot, because he knew how ineffective it would be.
"Okay, no, I—"
"Get away from me." Louder, this time.
"You're really going to want to hear this."
"Get away from me!" Hopper sang it this time, really drawing it out.
Crackpot kept talking over Hopper's voice, his own rising in what sounded like desperation. "I only want five minutes!"
"Yeah? I want a date with Bo Derek. We all want something," Hopper snapped at him. They were in the office proper now, and Flo marched up and took the cigarette right out of Hopper's mouth, like she did every morning. So far that hadn't kept him from lighting another one, but she kept hoping, and he didn't mind. She was probably right, for that matter.
He shrugged off his jacket.
"This isn't a laughing matter, Jim," Crackpot assured him earnestly. "This is serious, okay?" he continued over Hopper's groan of disgust and irritation. "I've really got somethin' here, I'm tellin' you!"
"Mornin', Chief," Powell said brightly as Hopper passed his desk, and Phil chimed in with a greeting of his own. God, they were chipper. Didn't they have anything better to do than come to work and be cheery?
Of course they didn't, because as far as anyone knew, nothing ever happened in Hawkins, and that was the way Hopper wanted to keep it.
Catching sight of Crackpot behind him, Powell added, "Mornin', Murray!"
"Got any proof on your butt probin' aliens yet, Murray?" Phil asked. Powell cracked up at that one. It was about as clever as Phil got, Hopper reflected. And Crackpot did like his alien abduction story.
Hopper picked up a doughnut, sinking his teeth into the sweet icing. Before he could take more than the first bite, the doughnut disappeared from his hand the same way the cigarette had disappeared from his mouth, and Flo handed him an apple. A green apple. Like his morning wasn't already sour enough.
"I now believe there was, and may very well still be, a Russian spy presence in Hawkins," Crackpot said doggedly, ignoring Powell and Phil entirely.
"Russian spies?" Hopper said through his mouthful of doughnut. He picked up the coffee pot, pouring out caffeinated goodness—one of the few vices Flo didn't object to, maybe because it made him a marginally more decent human being. He couldn't help but laugh at the new theory. It was a good one. He still didn't like the crackpot, but he could be entertaining.
"Now, Murray, are the Russian spies in cahoots with the aliens?" Phil asked. "Or how do they fit in here? Because I'm confused."
Crackpot kept his eyes on Hopper and kept talking. "I'm talking multiple reports now. Multiple reports, okay? Of a Russian child in Hawkins."
Suddenly it seemed a lot less funny. Hopper swallowed his coffee and repeated, sharply, "A child? What are you talking about, a child?"
"A girl who may have psionic abilities."
Crap. Another reason Hopper hated crackpots like this, because you never knew what they were going to dig up that should have remained buried.
"Psionic?" Powell repeated.
"Psychic," Murray snapped.
"Hey, Chief, what about that girl that made that kid pee himelf?" Phil asked.
"That was a prank."
"What girl?" Murray asked.
Phil frowned. "Wasn't a prank! Kid comes in—"
Hopper talked over him, shushing him. "You've got five minutes," he told Murray, hating that he had to pretend to take this crackpot seriously for even one minute. "Not a second more."
In his office, he planted his feet on the desk to make sure Crackpot knew this wasn't a real interview.
Murray took a seat on the other side of the desk, resting his hands primly on his suitcase. "I talked to a Big Buy employee who said some little girl shattered the door with her mind."
Hopper kept his face blank, wishing Eleven had kept a lower profile. "I heard that story. Did you hear the one about the fat man with the beard who climbs down chimneys?"
Crackpot ignored his sarcasm. "Then last month a coworker of Ted Wheeler's claims some Russian girl with a shaved head was hiding in his basement. Ted now denies this."
Taking the bite of sour green apple from his mouth and chucking both bite and the apple it had come from into the wastebasket, Hopper swung his legs down off the desk. "Wow. That's a surprise." It was a little surprising that the Wheelers hadn't made more of their fifteen minutes of fame from having Hawkins Lab swarm their house … but Ted liked to fly under the radar, from what Hopper had seen, and Karen had her hands full with Mike.
"But it connects," Murray insisted.
"Enlighten me."
"This girl. She's some kind of a, of a Russian weapon, right? Barbara, she sees this girl, tries to help her perhaps, but before she can the Russians find them, take them …"
Hopper stuck another cigarette in his mouth, to take away the taste of green apple. "You're telling me that Barbara Holland was kidnapped by Russian spies?" He lit the cigarette, hoping to hide any hint of the memory of that poor little girl in that creepy library. God, he wished he thought Barbara was still alive in some gulag in Russia.
"Kidnapped," Murray repeated. "Killed …"
"Killed?"
"Don't you get it, Jim?"
"No."
"This has potentially international implications." Crackpot raised his voice. "I'm talking a full-on Russian invasion right here in Hawkins."
Hopper stared at him. If only this guy knew how much stranger the truth was. Of course, this guy was exactly the reason no one was ever going to find out the truth. He played with the paper in his typewriter, purposely making an annoying noise with it. "You have any proof of this girl? I mean, has anybody seen her, like, recently?"
To his relief, Crackpot shouted, "No! But these are separate sources—"
The phone rang, interrupting him, much to Hopper's relief. It was Flo with a message about rival pumpkin farmers messing with each other's crops. Ah, Hawkins at its best. It was almost a relief to be back to such bucolic police work.
He slammed the phone down, stubbing out his cigarette, and said, "Yeah, I'm sorry, I really hate to do this, but I gotta run. It's an emergency."
"You gave me five minutes," Murray protested.
Hopper grabbed his hat. "Yeah. Listen, I liked your alien theory a lot better. And you want my advice? Why don't you stop bleeding those people dry? And go home, huh?"
"Look, I am not bleeding anyone—"
Ignoring that for the lie it was, Hopper stepped a little closer. "Listen to me. Go home."
He hoped this time the guy would listen. Because one of these days, Hopper was going to throw him out the window.