[squash] *1408 Rue Avenue. The code that had crackled over Izzy’s police radio had been a double, dispatcher’s voice droning bored and monotone. 10-32, suspected 10-36, 10-36A. Clear to move on. Detective Montoya please respond. The two story home in lakeview was one of those geometric modern art monstrosities that had been so popular in the early nineties. Sticking out like a sore thumb amidst the carefully maintained cape cod classics and high end bungalows. As was often the case when Izzy arrived, few officers were left milling about the scene, on hand to hear her take, and – though few would admit it- get her whatever she needed, should she have a hunch. There are perhaps more today, with the addition an ambulance, holding the suspect for her arrival. A fresh faced Irish kid greets her. He looks almost too young to be wearing the uniform, green eyes bright and as of yet – unjaded by years on the force. Finnegan, his tag proclaims proudly.*
Detective Montoya! Over Here!
*As though she couldn’t read the address herself, or take the hint from the police tape and squad cars. His breath puffs in the air as he grins.*
[Izzy Montoya] The radio squawked at her, and she responded immediately, even though it meant not finishing her dinner, instead having it bagged (not tagged!) and taking it with her. The coffee, of course, she’d already gotten in a to go cup, and it’s this which makes it outside of the car with her after she arrives on scene. It’s shitty coffee, but she’s a feeling it’s going to be a really long night.
It’s always a really long night.
She grabs her badge, and hangs it around her neck on the chain, before tucking her notebook into the pocket of her trench coat, along with her pen, and heads toward the fresh faced kid who simply hasn’t seen enough life yet. He’s still eager to please, excited about his job. It’ll take years before he’s just as jaded as she is.
“Whatdoyagot, Finn.”
[squash] Aw man, er, I mean Ma’am – *Crows Finnegan, all boisterous energy and optimism, shuts Izzy’s door for her and ambles up the sidewalk towards the triangular door.* You’re going to love this. Ok.. so .. Three bodies. Well. not Bodies. Two are dead. the one guys still kicking. Tried to set himself on fire. Neighbors called the cops when they saw the flames. Wife and kid inside, both dead. Kid upstairs, real gruesome mess in the backyard with the woman..
*As if on cue, an ashen black woman in uniform stumbles out from the side gate, an proceeds to contaminate the crime scene by retching in the neighbor’s bushes.*
House is a mess, real interesting. We cleared it and called you. *Finnegan continues, as though nothing had happened at all.*
[Izzy Montoya] She’s gonna love this, hm? She just gives him a look. Not THE look, but A look. Fortunately for him, there’s a difference, and one is simply a smirk, and the other is more a look that might result in gunfire. He continues on, and she listens as she takes another swig of her coffee.
Three vics – 2 dead, one still kicking. Set himself on fire. And a kid. Fuckin christ. She hates cases with kids. Almost as much as she hates the ones that involve drugs. The woman who throws up gets a passing look, and she shakes her head – while steeling her resolve at the same time.
“Alright. Show me.”
[squash] Ok, alright. Through here. Oh – heh. Hold onna sec. *Finnegan lifts the police tape, gentlemanly as he gestures her a little too eagerly through the odd triangular door.*
You have got to see this. I thought you’d like it… *This situation clearly delighting him with its novelty. Redhead a happy puppy waiting to be booted for pissing himself in excitement. Inside the door, the house is.. strange. Architect definitely on Lsd when he put this one together. A spiral staircase leads up to the second story, the ceiling swooping like a reverse dome. Intricate, busy wallpaper on the walls, entire place unsettling and oppressive. A glass wall is scorched and blistered, the sliding door made opaque with smoke. Finnegan’s feet crunch on broken ceramic tile as he gestures towards the spiral stair case.*
Kid’s up there. Yo-*A crackle of his radio, and he answers shortly, grinning up to Izzy with sheepish regret.*
You going to be ok in here by yourself detective? Apparently the vic is up and talkin now. I’ma go take a statement.
[Izzy Montoya] He thought she’d like it. “Been dreamin about me again, Finn? That how ya figure what I’d like?” It’s said with a slight smirk, amusement dancing in her gaze, even as he holds aside the tape and lets her inside. Dark eyes adjust to the dimness as she looks around, taking another swig of her coffee. A shake of her head for the LSD inspired decor, and she looks upstairs, when he gestures that way, then back to the kid.
“I’m sure I’ll be fine, Finn. Gimme a pair of gloves.” Once he does so, she hands him her now empty coffee cup, so that she can replace her leather gloves with the proper latex ones. “Lemme know what he said soon as your done, clear?”
And then, without reclaiming her cup, she heads up the stairs to see the kid first. Always better to get the hardest one’s over with quickly.
[squash] Heh.
*Is the gangly redhead’s only response, as he slaps a pair of gloves in Izzy’s outstretched hand, and hurries off. The staircase itself is surprisingly old. A ricketty wooden thing, carved with faces and cherubs quite out of place in the modern nightmare of a home. As Izzy ascends to the second floor, the house seems to press in around her. As though not only was the architect on acid, but on a terribly depressing trip. The ceiling seems too low, the walls suffocatingly close and dark. Several rooms stand with their frosted glass doors opened inwards. The carpet ripped to shreds in the first, but devoid of body – a guest room perhaps. The second is smaller. A nursery, all pinks and pastel blues. Scribbles on the walls, out of place once more in its seeming serenity. Another door leads – to a hole. no floor in this room, a sheer drop to the foyer. A bathroom and a child’s room. The smear of blood outside the bathroom tells Izzy where to look. And there on the floor is the body. A small boy, dark haired. No older than ten or twelve. Bloody pooled under his body as he’s curled fetal around the base of the toilet.*
[Izzy Montoya] She pulls her leather gloves off, tucks them into the pocket of her trench coat, and pulls the latex ones on as she moves. She steps carefully on the rickety staircase, as well as down the all as she checks the rooms one by one – including the hole to the floor below. A brow arches, slightly. She studies the nursery for a long moment, making note of the fact no one mentioned a baby – or how young the child was.
That’s when she finds the blood outside the bathroom, and the body within. 10, 12, curled around the toilet. She studies the rest of the bathroom intently, before she looks at the victim himself, a sinks to a crouch by the toilet, by him.
She doesn’t touch him just yet. Instead, she just… listens.
[Echos: per+empathy = 7 + rerolls. +wp]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 2, 7, 7, 7, 7, 8, 9 (Success x 7 at target 7) [WP]
[squash] *The bathroom is all stainless steel and sleek lines. Hard angles. The mirror cracked from impact, shards lie bloody in the metal of the sink. Izzy concentrates, and voices come back with crystal clarity, as real and close as if the owners were standing over top of her. Casual daily conversation at first. Information to be gleaned though casual interaction. Husband a lawyer, Ted. Mother a nurse, Margie. Son Alexi. Having trouble in school. Grades dropping. Still upset about the baby? “The kids weird Marg” “Its just an adjustment.””Should get him into counselling” More idle banter. “But Mom! He talks to me!” “No he doesn’t Alexi, He can hear us, but he can’t talk. He’s not even born yet.” “He does! He made me do it! He Did! He said I had to or he’d do something bad to you and Daddy!” “ALEXI THATS ENOUGH!” Followed by crying. Days go by with little of note, until recently. The child’s voice, and the rhythmic thump of something hard on something glass. “Only room for one. Only room for one. Only room for one. Only room for one. Only room for one. Only room for one. Only room for one. Only room for one. Only room for one.” A cry, and later the father’s voice… “ALexi? ALexi you’ve been in there forever! ALEXI? OPEN THIS DOOR!” A woman’s scream, hysterical babbling.. and then the familiar voice of a fellow officer reporting to someone downstairs.*
[Izzy Montoya] She closes her eyes and rests her forearms on her knees. Those who have worked with her before have seen her like this, seen her seem to simply absorb the scene by remaining in the room, near the victims. They don’t know how she does it, or what she’s doing exactly. She simply tells them that she’s thinking, she’s looking, she’s considering, she’s takin a fuckin piss – anything. None of the answers are true, but her solved case files number more than her unsolved at all times, so they let her be and label her as a good cop, with good hunches.
They can’t know she hears Echoes. They’ll never know that.
Ted, Margie – professional people in a fucked up house. Alexi has problems, talks to the unborn (…fuckin’christtheothervicispreg…) baby, says he made him do it, or something bad would happen. No telling what, no telling how, no telling…
There’s only room for one. Something hard on glass, only room for one. She opens her eyes, and only then does she touch the boy’s body, looking closer for the exact cause of death – calling to the forensics team as she does so “Official word on Cause of death for this one?”
While she waits, she looks around, and tries to see every last detail of the room.
(Per+alert 7 + rerolls (spec, small details) )
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 2, 2, 3, 3, 4, 5, 9, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6) Re-rolls: 1
[squash] *It may well escape her, were it not for the boy’s last words. The telltale thump over and over and over again. The mirror. A turn of the boy’s head, reveals his forehead bruised and bloodied. Skin split and sliced from impact and broken glass. There’s too much blood however, too much slicked along the base of the steel toilet. The radio crackles back, and the distorted voice of the forensics officer confirming what Izzy knows as soon as she moves the little boy’s arms. Wrists slit deep and jagged, a tiny shard of mirror poking from the wide wound, sticky with blood.*
“Official cause of death, Blood loss.”
[Izzy Montoya] She makes a face as she checks the arms, and then lays them carefully back where they were. She shakes her head, and looks up at the Mirror, and back again to the little boy, and sighs.
Then she stands, and moves to the hallway and to the forensics team, she commands – though it’s likely unneeded, “Make sure you get it covered well – canvas the whole scene, pictures, bag and tag everything. Just in case. Where’s the other Vic?”
[squash] “Out back detective. You might want to brace yourself.”
*Never good, coming from forensics.*
[Izzy Montoya] “Why, you under the impression I’m a girl?” It’s automatic, the comment and the smirk, but the team can see that it has little of the fire and humor behind it that it normally would. It’s something to fill the dead air only, as she goes downstairs.
She studies the rooms as she walks through them – she’ll come back and canvas them again in a moment. She wants to see the other vic first – presumably the mom.
She steps out back, without pausing to ‘brace herself’ visibly. It’s her job to be unaffected, it’s her job to be better than the puking cop earlier, it’s her job to be better. And so she is, as she follows the directions to the body out back.
[squash] *Through the scorched and blistered kitchen. A blaze having gutted it almost completely, leaving cold warped appliances and the smell of burnt hair. A triangular door to – nowhere. It doesn’t open. Retracing her steps Izzy would find another door, intricate with glass etchings, leading to outside. The backyard is something only Salvador Dali could dream up. Forboding metal sculptures loom tall over a small black table. Thick white candles sit cold and melted, a skiff of snow settled atop them. An oddly shaped pool steams under a thin plastic cover. Beneath the cover, Izzy can see the dark form of the next victim, floating lazily in a web of long blonde hair.*
[Izzy Montoya] She moves through the kitchen, scorched and blistered, and looks around. She notes the triangular door, again – one that doesn’t open, and then moves to the other to get outside. She shakes her head slightly – the whole fucking place was some sort of funhouse. Candles, sculptures, and the next victim.
As she moves toward the pool, she does her best to take in every last detail of the scene, until she gets to that cover, and lifts it to take a look.
[And again – regular perception]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 1, 2, 2, 4, 5, 7, 8 (Success x 1 at target 6)
[squash] *The pool cover peels back with a stiff crinkle of cold plastic, to reveal a delicate blonde woman. Slavic features cast with a fragility that must have made her look nearly elfin once. Hard to see the beauty she was when her face is swollen and deep blue from asphyxiation. Wide set, sightless blue eyes bulging, blood vessels burst from the strain of trying to breath. She’s suspended, floating upright in the water, pregnant to bursting, a chain cutting into one ankle. A barbeque attached to the chain, resting at the bottom of the pool. The voices Izzy hears are primarily those of fellow police officers. The lack woman exclaiming “oh jesus, no” and gagging – to what end Izzy saw out front.*
[Izzy Montoya] She studies the woman, summoning her professionalism to keep her expression neutral – she’s aided by having been prepared for the pregnancy due to what she’d heard upstairs, and the fact that – believe it or not -she’s seen much worse. She rubs lets the tarp fall again, and snaps. “Hurry up and get her the fuck out of there, will you? Where the fuck’s Finn?”
And then, she turns, only to step into the kitchen once more. It works in rooms, and as that room saw quite a bit of damage… She doesn’t crouch, not this time. She simply stands where there’s the biggest open space, likely the most to be gathered in a family area, then she closes her eyes, and listens.
[Come on Kahseeno – don’t be a whore! Echoes!]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 3, 5, 6, 7, 7, 8, 9 (Success x 5 at target 7) [WP]
[squash] *The crackle of her radio. Police organzing, arranging, preparing to move the body in the pool. She stands in the gutted kitchen, Izzy’s mind suddenly swimming with all the conversations having taken place in the heart of this twisted home. They begin normally enough. A conversation about the baby. His growth. The due date. Accusations of adultery fly from husband to wife. “I was in Japan Margie!! Look at you! Eight months? Who the fuck is he?” “NO one! There’s NO ONE! Please! You’ll wake Alexi!” Apologies in the morning. Crying. Concern over Alexi acting out. His wild tales. Concern over the baby. Normalcy, for a time. A few days ago arguments. Hateful words between husband and wife, Margo spewing angry things at Ted. Margo screaming at her boy. “ALEXI! Why would you do that!? You’ll hurt the baby! Bad Boy!” “I hate him mommy! I hate HIMMMM!””I HATE YOU! You’re just like your father! GET OUT OF MY SIGHT YOU Ugly LITTLE MAGGOT! You’re not my son!” As of tonight, there is screaming and weeping. They’d found the body upstairs. And there’s a strange background noise to the conversation now. A thrumming sibilant whisper that grows louder as Izzy listens. there can only be one, there can only be one. There can only be one.. Screaming. Ted talking to himself. Saying his baby is dead. Repeating it like a mantra. Then anguished screaming.*
[Izzy Montoya] It’s overwhelming the amount of information that comes though, the conversations, the accusations, the berating of the child, the screaming and crying…
…and the whisper. That whisper that grows larger than life – there can be only one, be only one, be only one…. Ted talks to himself – screams, and that whisper continues as the background noise until the screams become anguished. Has to be when he went up in flames.
When she breathes again, it’s with a ragged intake of breath, exhaled shakily. She presses her hand against the nearest wall, taking strength from something solid, until she is able to open her eyes and search the place thoroughly.
“Finn finished talking to the husband yet?” She doesn’t say Father – he wasn’t even sure, after all.
[back to just regular hey, what do i see? Perception.]
Dice Rolled:[ 7 d10 ] 2, 2, 3, 6, 6, 6, 9 (Success x 4 at target 6)
[squash] *The crackle of the radio, Finnegan’s eager voice too cheery for the scene Izzy finds herself in.*
“Yeah, dunno if its gonna be much use to you detective. The guy’s cracked. I guess you have to be to try and set yourself on fire,you know? Just kept saying “i’m the one, I don’t want to be the one, but I’m the one” over and over again. Think they’ll be takin him to psych right after county.”
*The crackle of the radio fades in the empty shell of the kitchen, as Izzy’s canny eyes take in the details. A slow blaze, looks like he used an acceleration. All the damage seems to be from him grabbing a hold of things and setting them on fire. Evidence he stopped and rolled. Clearly it is what it looks like. Attempted suicide by fire. A can of campfire fluid burned black in the most damaged corner. One wall isn’t as damaged, bulletin board papers all scorched and burned. Doctor’s appointments and cards, business cards, a report card, a scorched picture with two badly drawn adults, and a little boy.*
[Izzy Montoya] “Jesus.” She stares at the undamaged wall, with the papers and appointments, and the picture, reaching to touch it lightly, sighing. Then she leans closer to the picture, and tugs it down as the date on it registers.
And the fact that there’s no belly on the mom. The dates don’t match up.
[…i was in JAPAN 8 months?! Who’s the father?!… No one, it’s no one…]
Then she looks back out at the body they’re pulling from the pool, and the size of the pregnant swell, then back up to the bathroom, and around again until it lands on the paper.
“Alright. Listen up – get everything bagged n tagged. It’s pretty clear the dad lost his damn marbles and went on a rampage – just in case though, I want the bodies over to Dr. Slaughter, asap. I don’t fucking care if she’s sleeping, I don’t even care if she’s fuckin the entire Chicago Bears team in the middle of the stadium on pay per view – get them over to her. She’s the best we got and I want her on it, if only to confirm it quick before the fucking press has a goddamn field day. Yes, the boy too. And I want to talk to the husband myself.”
While she talks she folds up the picture, and tucks it into her pocket, before heading out to the back to make sure there’s no movement on that belly as she goes by, headed for where they’re holding the husband.
[squash] * Affirmatives gravel and buzz on the radio, though there’s insistence that she’ll have to make it snappy. The EMT workers are getting antsy about getting the husband to the hospital. Finnegan is standing at the back of the ambulance chewing on a piece of beef jerky. Beside the burn vic. All class, the young irishman. All class. His freckled face lights up as he sees Izzy emerge from the strange geometric house.*
“Over here Detective! I held them up for you!”
*Jerky offered as he pulls back the door to the van and steps to the side, chewing noisily. Ted is a short, square man, who for all his bullish figure could have been a looker once. Now he’s bandaged heavily, sprawled out on a gurney with the majority of his upper face seeping blood through cotton padding. His head thumps faintly against the cot. Over and over and over again. Horror clear on his face as his lips move soundlessly.*
[Izzy Montoya] She doesn’t take the jerky. “Maybe later.” She simply climbs into the back of the ambulance, and scoots down to sit next to Ted, watching him a long moment before she reaches forward and slaps her hand down on his bandaged forehead, pressing his head hard to the gurney. If the attendants move – she just snarls a ‘don’t make me shoot you’, and continues to put pressure on the head thumping man’s wounds until he looks at her with clearer eyes, eyes dulled only by pain.
Pain brings clarity.
“Listen here, Ted. I’m not feelin’ very generous to you, right now – but I’m gonna give you two minutes to tell me whatever you think you need too before they haul your sorry ass off. Got it? Talk.”
[squash] *The burned man begins screaming in anguish, and the one of the burly EMT attendants does indeed stand up, eyes flashing. His arm is caught by the man beside him, a warning muttered, buying Izzy some time. But it would appear Finnegan isn’t the only unjaded one working the dinner shift tonight. Ted continues to scream as the detective presses melted flesh under her hand, holding him still.*
“Not me.. aaaugh not mee! Only.. be.. one”
*He shrieks, body beginning to convulse and twist against the straps of his gurney, metal scraping on its secure frame as the blonde wonderboy has had quite his fill of Izzy’s tactics.*
That’s ENOUGH. Get out.
[Izzy Montoya] “Easy, buddy. I’m out.”
She nods, slightly, as if that’s all she expected Ted to say. Poor newbie gets upset and snaps at her and she leans forward, right in the injured man’s face, slipping to rest her lips by his ears, murmuring. “I believe you.”
A small comfort offered, before she stands and moves to the back of the van, and out, reaching over to snag the piece of jerky from Finn. “Alright. Let’s get this the fuck cleaned up, get the vics to Dr. Slaughter. No one talks to the press but Sarge, and I want every report on my desk first thing in the morning.”
While she talks, she reaches into her pocket for her cell phone.
[squash] *Ambulance doors slam behind her, engine firing as the EMT’s make to leave at long last. Finnegan’s standing outside, green eyes wide as he gives up the jerky, and stammers blinkingly.*
“You, ok detective? What happened?”
*But then Izzy’s snapping orders with authority, and the gangly kid is on the move, working to clean up the crime scene and get everyone gone for the night. Cleaners would be there in the morning to make the strange fun house sparkle, fresh and new and ready for auction, new buyers, or a new family of residents.*
[Izzy Montoya] She chuckles at Finn and shakes her head, clasping him on the back. “I’m fine.” Poor kid. One day he’ll be jaded and he’ll lose that sparkle. She might have to fuck him first, to take full advantage of that vivacious eagerness.
She leaves a message on Imogen’s cell phone. “Two incoming, Dr. Slaughter. Needs you’re expertise. Call me and I’ll give the details.”
A second call after that for Curata, see if he’ll do a brief scouting missing for her, as she supervises the rest of the process, already planning to hit the bar on the way home.
[squash] [and fade!]