Participants:
| Scene Title | Tithonus |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Greek myth.: Eternal life was granted to the man Tithonus — but without eternal youth, meaning he aged throughout his entire unending life. An unsettlingly warped human body is reported to the NYPD, who are largely content to dump the problem on DHS shoulders — the better not to be the ones envisioning what the deceased endured. |
| Date | June 20, 2010 |
Outside the O Lounge, in the Bronx
It's that time of day when any sensible person is at least at home, if not asleep. Early enough that the sky hasn't even begun to lighten, the sun still a long ways yet below the horizon; and the moon disappeared a long time ago. All that illuminates the city streets are city lights, and in this section of the Bronx, those are a bit — spotty. Despite the late hour, cars can be heard whooshing past on the nearby highways — one just half a block south, another only some three blocks west — and every now and again, one slips past on this very road, Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Boulevard. Unlike their counterparts on the highways, however, drivers here are very mindful of their speed.
Two parked cop cars with flashing blue-and-red lights on top do tend to have that effect. The bold yellow tape commanding everyone to stay out of the crime scene only compounds it.
There's a woman sitting at the bus stop inside that yellow line, clearly civilian, blonde and dressed like she was out clubbing not so long ago, her hands wrapped around a styrofoam cup that probably contains coffee. A uniformed officer stands just outside the little booth, seeming to be filling a role more like company or escort than interrogator; but from the way she's tucked back into the corner of the booth and clinging to the cup, she probably needs a few more minutes of space. Another officer is walking a slow, methodical track over the sidewalk and back into the alcove defined by three walls of an old brick apartment building, occasionally pausing to place one or another numbered yellow tag.
On the left of the apartment building, United Telecard Alliance is closed for the night and has probably been so for a while; the lights are still on at O Lounge to its left, the door of the bar propped open — not because the facility is itself open for business, but so the police can go in and out as they please, and the proprietor stand out on the sidewalk looking distinctly troubled.
Allison is a sensible person, really. She has appointments tomorrow, and she'd like to get another hour or two of sleep. But since that's not going to happen, she just rolls with it. No reason to worry about the things she can't change. So she arrives, after a quick stop for coffee, because really, who can function without coffee at this time of day? She drove, and was lucky enough not to have an accident on the way over. There's a reason she normally rides with other Company members. A very good one.
Climbing out of her SUV, Allison glances around, taking in the open door of the bar, the blonde at the bus stop, and where the police seem to be congregating. And it's towards the latter that she begins to walk. Well, this should be fun.
Because she doesn't sleep at Fort Hero, Veronica Sawyer is one of the closer agents to this particular crime scene and thus one of the first there. Roused from sleep, she dressed quickly and casually — jeans, tennis shoes, a t-shirt under a black blazer, her hair pulled into a ponytail rather than taking the time to brush the tangles from it. The only stop she made was for a cup of coffee of her own.
Pulling up behind a black and white, she throws her Jag into park and hops out, hurrying around to the sidewalk. She glances at the civilian, no doubt the witness, and gives a slight nod, looking for any of her cohorts and the street cop in charge. "Richards," she says, when she sees the blonde, then nods to the person with the witness. "Detective in charge inside?" she asks, nodding toward the open door to the lounge, flashing her DHS badge.
The slam of the driver's side door of the SUV comes with the narrow frame of agent Karina's emergence onto the strobe-lit scene, looking just as tired as everyone else awake at this ass-crack hour of morning. Pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose, Bianca offers a shake of her head, still in mid-conversation with someone on the phone. "…don't care if they're running a whole battery of tests, I'd like to know what her status is before I get back. Forward me anything you know once you know it." Flipping her phone shut with her chin, Bianca looks towards the blind alley in the red-brick building, then furrows her brows as she catches up to where Alison and Veronica have converged on the sidewalk.
"Do we have anyone from forensics on our side here?" Bianca asks with an askance look to Veronica, "I don't know much about the assets we have on ground here at all." When the senior agent on scene isn't briefed on all the details, it's clear that this crime scene investigation was indeed thrown together at the last minute.
The officer on the street turns as cars begin pulling up; he seems cautiously relieved at their arrival, and the relief takes precedence as Veronica declares her identity. "About time you lot got here," he says, not exactly the friendliest of conversationalists despite that. His uniform bears the nameplate Andrews.
"Caffrey's down in the nook, actually," Andrews continues, nodding down that way. "With the… body." A second nod indicates the woman sitting nearby, who is looking at the newly-arrived suits with a sort of dazed apprehension. "She's the one as called it in. Bar owner was still packing up for the night when we got here, identified the victim as one of his customers." Karina's question elicits a wry snort. "Three of you are all the feds I've seen, and I've been out here a while."
The officer on the street turns as cars begin pulling up; he seems cautiously relieved at their arrival, and the relief takes precedence as Veronica declares her identity. "About time you lot got here," he says, not exactly the friendliest of conversationalists despite that. His uniform bears the nameplate Andrews.
"Caffrey's down in the nook, actually," Andrews continues, nodding down that way. "With the… body." A second nod indicates the woman sitting nearby, who is looking at the newly-arrived suits with a sort of dazed apprehension. "She's the one as called it in. Bar owner was still packing up for the night when we got here, identified the victim as one of his customers." Karina's question elicits a wry snort. "Three of you are all the feds I've seen, and I've been out here a while."
Allison nods to Veronica when she's addressed, then gives her attention to Andrews. His attitude has a brow arching, and she glances towards the direction of the body. A moment of thought, and she looks to the other agents. "I'll go take a look," she offers. She may not be in forensics, but surely she can get something from the body's position and whatnot. Profiling is psychology too!
"Thanks," Sawyer tells Andrews. "Hold on to the witness for us. Richards, once we get the overview from Caffrey, you can have a chat with her."
She begins to move towards the apartment building, glancing at the other two agents. "We may be it for now — it'll take anyone else longer to get here," she says under her breath. "Richards has medical background, though not forensics. Why don't you call in for one of the lab rats to get their ass out here?" Sawyer says, with a nod toward Karina, unsure if the other woman will take the "order" or not. After all, Veronica didn't follow orders the last time they worked together, and she's sure Bianca Karina hasn't forgotten that.
Rolling her tongue over the front of her teeth, Bianca allows her brows to furrow and head to cant to the side as she peers over the frames of her glasses to Veronica, then flips open her phone and depresses one of the speed dial buttons. Breathing in slowly, she begins to pace the curb under the flashing strobe of the cruiser lights, putting in that call to Fort Hero to figure out where the Company's own forensics team is. Fitzpatrick or Lupinette should've been down here already.
Bianca seems content to let the other two agents get a look at the body, while she isn't sure of the condition its in, she'd rather not have to weigh in on the grisly details in first person, seeing it during the likely re-screening of the gore on Monday's meeting should be bad enough.
The patch of concrete bounded by the brick walls is too small and featureless to be termed a courtyard, although no doubt that's what the landlords claim it is. A series of yellow tags dot a path into the alcove, one the agents know more than enough to avoid; as they walk past the younger officer who's been laying them, he straightens, offers a fleeting polite smile, and stays well out of the way.
Two sets of low stairs mirror one another to left and right, each leading into one wing of the building. Past the stairs, a uniformed officer crouches on the right, looking at the shape slumped against the wall on the left. It looks almost like someone, probably drunk, sitting there peacefully, back pressed to the bricks, head turned towards the rear of the courtyard and his left cheek also resting against the building. His legs are folded a little awkwardly, but at a glance they pass; an awake person would sit straighter. But he's not awake.
The officer looks up at the sound of two pairs of footsteps, and straightens from his crouch with a brief nod to the two women. "You're DHS?" Caffrey doesn't wait for an answer, but nods towards the corpse. "Take a good look. Pulled his wallet — Abraham Ritchie, 58 years old. Real estate agent, apparently."
Closer inspection reveals not only that the man is — well, not alive — but several other oddities. For one, his lips seem to be little more than a horizontal ridge across his face. His arms don't seem to have the right shape beneath the cover of a black suit-jacket: too thick at the elbow. There's also a disturbing thickness to the wrists, on the right caught just above the links of a metal watchband as if his flesh had slipped loose and run down until reaching that constriction. The corpse's hands are half-hidden against his stomach, but enough of one is visible to show the fingers curled rigidly inwards, clawlike in their arrangement, as well as distinctly bluer than the rest of his cooling skin.
Three other yellow tags lie on the concrete nearby. One just to the left of the corpse, marking something not readily visible to the seeking eye; another to the right, perhaps three feet along the wall, beside a syringe still containing a small amount of colorless liquid. The third, on the opposite side of the courtyard from the body — not far from where Caffrey was crouching — denotes a broken brown beer bottle and a patch of damp concrete.
There's a slight nod from Allison at Caffrey's question, but her focus is, as it should be, on the body. She's careful not to step on anything that might be evidence, and stops a few feet away from the corpse itself. She crouches down, frowning as she studies the man. "I need some gloves," she says to no one in particular. Since she's not forensics, and normally just talks to people, she has none on her. Bad agent, no cookie.
Veronica nods to Bianca in thanks as she calls the base, then turns to listen to the officer. She moves around the corpse to see what is tagged on the left that she can't make out from the right. She pulls out a small digital camera to snap shots of the body, closing in on the anomalies — hands, wrists, elbows, mouth, wrinkling her nose a little. She knows the police have already photographed as well, and that the forensics team will do a better job once they arrive, but backup photo are always good to have — especially if the files get "lost" somehow.
"The girl out front, she's the only witness?" Sawyer asks, glancing up at Caffrey. "Anyone in the club have any idea why a 58-year-old realtor is hanging around a club?" She nods to the syringe. "We'll need to test that." Finally she glances back at Bianca. "We got a crew on the way?"
Screeching harpy that she is, Veronica's call back to Bianca finds the bespectacled senior agent staring directly down the blind alley, standing beneath a street lamp at its mouth, her eyes narrowed behind the lenses of her glasses and phone still held up to her ear. She says something, presumably to the person on the other end and not a muttered curse and then flips the phone shut with her chin again. Brows furrowed, she begins to come down the alley, shoes clicking on the concrete as she walks, phone tucking into the front pocket of her dark blazer.
"Fitzpatrick is caught in traffic in Brooklyn, apparently there was an accident going to the Brooklyn bridge and traffic's tied up in knots. They're still trying to get in touch with Lupinetti…" and that's when Bianca comes in eye shot of the mangled and deformed human corpse, her breath hitching in the back of her throat and— not starting again.
Swallowing distastefully, Bianca hasn't checked whether or not that corpse stinks yet, and she doesn't intend on finding out as she arrests her breathing and circulates oxygen in another fashion all together.
Caffrey watches as the agents study the corpse. "She found the body," he corrects. "Called 911. Didn't see what happened." Arms crossed over his chest, he continues in a placidly level voice. That his tone is cool only emphasizes the corrections. "The O Lounge is a bar, not a club; caters to people who come out to drink and maybe watch sports, not ones who want trendy colorful things with unpronounceable names and music that isn't much more than a dance beat." In other words, a 58-year-old male isn't that bizarre a feature here. He glances down the alley to look at Bianca, lips quirking faintly at the sight of her expression. "I'm given to understand the bartender was the only one left around. Detective Nash was handling that part of the scene."
The officer on the street turns as cars begin pulling up; he seems cautiously relieved at their arrival, and the relief takes precedence as Veronica declares her identity. "About time you lot got here," he says, not exactly the friendliest of conversationalists despite that. His uniform bears the nameplate Andrews.
"Caffrey's down in the nook, actually," Andrews continues, nodding down that way. "With the… body." A second nod indicates the woman sitting nearby, who is looking at the newly-arrived suits with a sort of dazed apprehension. "She's the one as called it in. Bar owner was still packing up for the night when we got here, identified the victim as one of his customers." Karina's question elicits a wry snort. "Three of you are all the feds I've seen, and I've been out here a while."
The officer on the street turns as cars begin pulling up; he seems cautiously relieved at their arrival, and the relief takes precedence as Veronica declares her identity. "About time you lot got here," he says, not exactly the friendliest of conversationalists despite that. His uniform bears the nameplate Andrews.
"Caffrey's down in the nook, actually," Andrews continues, nodding down that way. "With the… body." A second nod indicates the woman sitting nearby, who is looking at the newly-arrived suits with a sort of dazed apprehension. "She's the one as called it in. Bar owner was still packing up for the night when we got here, identified the victim as one of his customers." Karina's question elicits a wry snort. "Three of you are all the feds I've seen, and I've been out here a while."
Allison nods to Veronica when she's addressed, then gives her attention to Andrews. His attitude has a brow arching, and she glances towards the direction of the body. A moment of thought, and she looks to the other agents. "I'll go take a look," she offers. She may not be in forensics, but surely she can get something from the body's position and whatnot. Profiling is psychology too!
"Thanks," Sawyer tells Andrews. "Hold on to the witness for us. Richards, once we get the overview from Caffrey, you can have a chat with her."
She begins to move towards the apartment building, glancing at the other two agents. "We may be it for now — it'll take anyone else longer to get here," she says under her breath. "Richards has medical background, though not forensics. Why don't you call in for one of the lab rats to get their ass out here?" Sawyer says, with a nod toward Karina, unsure if the other woman will take the "order" or not. After all, Veronica didn't follow orders the last time they worked together, and she's sure Bianca Karina hasn't forgotten that.
Rolling her tongue over the front of her teeth, Bianca allows her brows to furrow and head to cant to the side as she peers over the frames of her glasses to Veronica, then flips open her phone and depresses one of the speed dial buttons. Breathing in slowly, she begins to pace the curb under the flashing strobe of the cruiser lights, putting in that call to Fort Hero to figure out where the Company's own forensics team is. Fitzpatrick or Lupinette should've been down here already.
Bianca seems content to let the other two agents get a look at the body, while she isn't sure of the condition its in, she'd rather not have to weigh in on the grisly details in first person, seeing it during the likely re-screening of the gore on Monday's meeting should be bad enough.
The patch of concrete bounded by the brick walls is too small and featureless to be termed a courtyard, although no doubt that's what the landlords claim it is. A series of yellow tags dot a path into the alcove, one the agents know more than enough to avoid; as they walk past the younger officer who's been laying them, he straightens, offers a fleeting polite smile, and stays well out of the way.
Two sets of low stairs mirror one another to left and right, each leading into one wing of the building. Past the stairs, a uniformed officer crouches on the right, looking at the shape slumped against the wall on the left. It looks almost like someone, probably drunk, sitting there peacefully, back pressed to the bricks, head turned towards the rear of the courtyard and his left cheek also resting against the building. His legs are folded a little awkwardly, but at a glance they pass; an awake person would sit straighter. But he's not awake.
The officer looks up at the sound of two pairs of footsteps, and straightens from his crouch with a brief nod to the two women. "You're DHS?" Caffrey doesn't wait for an answer, but nods towards the corpse. "Take a good look. Pulled his wallet — Abraham Ritchie, 58 years old. Real estate agent, apparently."
Closer inspection reveals not only that the man is — well, not alive — but several other oddities. For one, his lips seem to be little more than a horizontal ridge across his face. His arms don't seem to have the right shape beneath the cover of a black suit-jacket: too thick at the elbow. There's also a disturbing thickness to the wrists, on the right caught just above the links of a metal watchband as if his flesh had slipped loose and run down until reaching that constriction. The corpse's hands are half-hidden against his stomach, but enough of one is visible to show the fingers curled rigidly inwards, clawlike in their arrangement, as well as distinctly bluer than the rest of his cooling skin.
Three other yellow tags lie on the concrete nearby. One just to the left of the corpse, marking something not readily visible to the seeking eye; another to the right, perhaps three feet along the wall, beside a syringe still containing a small amount of colorless liquid. The third, on the opposite side of the courtyard from the body — not far from where Caffrey was crouching — denotes a broken brown beer bottle and a patch of damp concrete.
There's a slight nod from Allison at Caffrey's question, but her focus is, as it should be, on the body. She's careful not to step on anything that might be evidence, and stops a few feet away from the corpse itself. She crouches down, frowning as she studies the man. "I need some gloves," she says to no one in particular. Since she's not forensics, and normally just talks to people, she has none on her. Bad agent, no cookie.
Veronica nods to Bianca in thanks as she calls the base, then turns to listen to the officer. She moves around the corpse to see what is tagged on the left that she can't make out from the right. She pulls out a small digital camera to snap shots of the body, closing in on the anomalies — hands, wrists, elbows, mouth, wrinkling her nose a little. She knows the police have already photographed as well, and that the forensics team will do a better job once they arrive, but backup photo are always good to have — especially if the files get "lost" somehow.
"The girl out front, she's the only witness?" Sawyer asks, glancing up at Caffrey. "Anyone in the club have any idea why a 58-year-old realtor is hanging around a club?" She nods to the syringe. "We'll need to test that." Finally she glances back at Bianca. "We got a crew on the way?"
Screeching harpy that she is, Veronica's call back to Bianca finds the bespectacled senior agent staring directly down the blind alley, standing beneath a street lamp at its mouth, her eyes narrowed behind the lenses of her glasses and phone still held up to her ear. She says something, presumably to the person on the other end and not a muttered curse and then flips the phone shut with her chin again. Brows furrowed, she begins to come down the alley, shoes clicking on the concrete as she walks, phone tucking into the front pocket of her dark blazer.
"Fitzpatrick is caught in traffic in Brooklyn, apparently there was an accident going to the Brooklyn bridge and traffic's tied up in knots. They're still trying to get in touch with Lupinetti…" and that's when Bianca comes in eye shot of the mangled and deformed human corpse, her breath hitching in the back of her throat and— not starting again.
Swallowing distastefully, Bianca hasn't checked whether or not that corpse stinks yet, and she doesn't intend on finding out as she arrests her breathing and circulates oxygen in another fashion all together.
Allison glances back at the others, arching a brow. Then she rises smoothly and walks back to her SUV, grabbing a pair of gloves before she returns, slipping them on. She moves closer, waiting until Veronica is done with her pictures before giving a slightly more thorough examination of the body. Sagging skin and all that is weird, but it seems she's searching to see if there's a cause of death beyond the oddness.
"Got it, thanks," Veronica says back to Bianca, shaking her head at the woman who seems reluctant to come any closer. "Go ahead and get started on the girl, get her name and information. You think you can manage that?" There's a little irritation in her voice that she doesn't try to mask. She moves closer to the wall, squinting at a bit of fabric on the wall, then glancing back.
"We'll want the bottle to see if it has any DNA that's not our vic's — could belong to the perp," she notes, before glancing at the bottom of the man's shoes, then glancing back along the tags that led them here. "Scuffs on the ground match the scuffs on the shoes. He was dragged. He's a big guy, so suggests our perp is big, too, or that there was more than one," she murmurs, speaking more to herself than to Richards or the Caffrey.
"Nash and the bartender still inside?" she asks, glancing up at the policeman before finally straightening from her crouch.
"You heard her, Richards," seems to be indication enough from Bianca that the hypnotist should question the witness, "Lee can figure out more about our corpse when we get him back to the lab." Turning her attention to the office on scene who's stepped back, Biance twists to offer him an askance look. "I take it you have men knocking on doors on these apartments facing this alley?" One slender finger motions up to the windows on the floors above. "I don't care what hour of morning it is, but I'd appreciate it if you and your men could let us know the second you get anything positive from anyone up there."
Turning to look at Veronica, Bianca offers a subtle nod of her head, then steps in to eyeball the body ruefully. "I'll manage things here, feel free to go talk to the detective and the bartender," the brunette notes, adjusting her glasses. "I'll stick around until Fitzpatrick gets here…" which implies that this is going to be a long morning for Bianca.
"Hey, do we have a English to Jackass translator out here? I swear to God that I asked this bartender the same question three times and I got three different answers." Christopher Nash's voice seems to get louder as he walks around the corner of the alleyway. Whoa. Hey. More people. Of course, his eyes seem to focus on the more attractive of those present, but he does have a job to do. He gives Caffrey the evil eye and pulls him aside. "I leave you alone for half an hour and you let the freakin' government move in? What do we have here? FBI? DHS? CIA?" He eyes a few of the badges that are floating about and while he's dressed far nicer than most of them, he grins to Caffrey, "What have I missed?" Kind of a loaded question, all things considered.
Under Allison's examination, some more details become clear — the muscles of Mr. Ritchie's arms do in fact move when pressure is applied, as if they had been separated of their connections to the skeleton beneath. The left arm, initially largely hidden by his position, is partially bare, jacket sleeve rolled up above his elbow — with the red puncture mark of a hypodermic injection. A peculiar softness to the torso under his clothes suggests it may have been affected similarly to his arms.
Caffrey lets the feds sort themselves out, standing back and listening. He does roll his eyes as Nash declares his arrival; but because they have visitors, refrains from replying as he might otherwise. "Evidence suggests the perp's Evolved," he says to the other detective, nodding towards the body. "Makes it Homeland's problem. Frankly? Can't say I mind." He looks over at Allison and Veronica. "Less I have to see of what was done to him, the better, and the techs will no doubt agree." Caffrey looks to Veronica. "This's Nash. He can take you over to talk to the bartender. Knock yourself out."
Bianca's words have Allison looking back at the woman, face devoid of expression. She'd like to bitch, to put Bianca in her place, but now isn't the time. And it's probably just a trick of light that makes her eyes look lighter. Honest. She straightens, giving Nash just the barest of glances. Instead she looks back to Veronica. "Injection on the left arm. Looks like the connective tissues were cut…" A glance to the syringe. Or dissolved, but she doesn't say that aloud. Not with non-Company people around.
The gloves are tugged off and Allison moves out of the alley, heading for the blonde at the bus stop. Once she's past the others, some tenseness leaves her shoulders and face, and a sympathetic smile appears on her lips instead. Mustn't put the witness on the defensive. Make her comfortable, that's the ticket.
"Evolved power and that syringe is a strange combination, unless he's just some sort of junkie," Veronica says, brows knitting together as she looks from the man to the syirnge and back again, shaking her head. "Some sort of ability to snap tendons or ligaments maybe?"
She shakes her head again, and turns to face Nash, tilting her head as she plants a fake smile on her face. "DHS. And apparently you need help since you can't seem to get answers out of the man. Maybe you have the translation on the wrong setting. Try reversing it and you might get a result you can understand," she tosses up to him, before nodding down the path. "Lead the way."
Pacing back up the alley, Bianca Karina offers little more than a studious look over to Dective Nash as she withdraws her cell phone from her blazer again, opening it quietly and dialing in a number — from memory this time. As the phone rings, Bianca keeps her voice quiet. "Yes, it's me. No I'm not sure what we're looking at, actually, but I wanted to get an assurance from the research department that I'm not looking at something we did." As she moves out onto the sidewalk past the alley and out of earshot, the last trail end of "Yes, I understand…" is the final thing Agent Sawyer hears.
While there's much more to do on this particular investigation, Agent Karina seems intent on focusing on the logistics end of things, at least until something more pressing is made her problem.
Nash's eyebrow arches as Caffrey declares this crime scene belonging to HomeSec and he isn't sure he likes that. Everytime an Evolved case comes up, HomeSec has to take charge. He shakes his head. "Damn shame too. There's no reason we can't handle this." He arches a brow as Veronica approaches and offers her own wisecrack. He thought he had the monopoly on that here. "Please. As if you are going to get any further than I am." He nods to Caffrey and shakes his head. As he leads Veronica back into the establishment, he offers some helpful advice. "Perhaps if you flash a little leg, he might squeal. I'm almost certain you have better legs than I do. Just a thought. Christopher Nash," he introduces himself, if only to be polite. As he walks over to the bar where the bartender is standing with a beat cop, Nash make the introductions, then steps back to see if Sawyer can get anywhere with this idiot.
The bartender is standing on the wrong side of his bar, polishing glasses with a rag more for something to do with himself than because the clean containers need it. He looks up at Nash and Veronica as they come in, mental sigh apparent in the slight fall of his shoulders. "How many of you do I have to talk to?" the man gripes, though without any particular heat.
Meanwhile, the woman sitting on the bench at the bus stop is still holding the styrofoam cup — empty, now, not much more than a prop for her hands. Blonde, probably somewhere in her mid to late 20's, dressed for the city nightlife that largely wound down a couple of hours ago. She looks up as Allison approaches, managing a weakly polite echo of the psychatrist's smile. It fades quickly. "Can I go home now?" she asks at the earliest practical moment.
Allison shakes her head as she sits next to the blonde. "I'm afraid not, not just yet. I just have a few questions for you first. I promise I'll try to make it as quick as I can." She pulls out a small spiral notepad and a pen and gives the woman another smile. "Let's start with the basics. Can you tell me your name? Your address?"
"Veronica Sawyer," Vee tells Nash, though she ignores the advice of flashing some leg. At least in the Company, women don't make seventy-five cents less on the dollar than the NYPD. Neanderthalism is still alive and well among the blue, it seems. Once inside the bar, she nods to the bartender, offering a hand.
"Morning. Sorry if this is a little redundant. Can you tell me if you know the victim at all — has he been here before, is he a regular, did you notice him at all last night, that kind of thing? Whatever you can remember, even if it doesn't seem important," she says quietly, glancing over her shoulder out the door. She might need Richards to follow her interview here, if the man's memory is sketchy.
"If he'd given up the answers in the first place, she wouldn't have to come in here." Nash asides to the beat cop, who nods. There isn't much for him to do as Veronica questions the witness, and so he begins to look around the room. Though, anyone who may be watching close enough would notice that he's spending quite a bit of time checking out Sawyer's ass as well. He doesn't find anything out of the ordinary inside the room, and considering that the crime happened outside, that's not too surprising. So, his attention goes back to Sawyer and the bartender. Another aside to the cop, "Ten bucks says she gets no more than I do," to which the cop reaches over and shakes his hand.
The bartender sets the glass down, folding the rag around one of his hands. "Yes. He comes in every so often, not regularly, but pretty often, with a group of friends. They tend to the back corner, there— " He nods towards a particular table. "— watch whatever game's on, drink some beer for a few hours. He's always one of the last out when he's here, like he doesn't want to go home again. Never asked why, and he never looked like he really wanted to talk about it, neither."
Leaning back against the plexi wall behind her, the woman nods slowly to Allison. "Shelly Dixon," she replies. "I live right over there," the blond continues, nodding towards the apartment building. "Apartment 513. Was coming home when I saw him, the dead guy, slumped over by the stairs. And then I called the cops. And now we're here." She shudders. "I don't want to know what could — could melt someone like that. Did you see his face?"
The name and address are jotted down on Alli's pad and she nods. "Where were you coming from? Work?" she asks, looking back up to Shelly with understanding eyes, burying her earlier annoyance. "And was he just as he is now, or did you move him? Try to resuscitate him, perhaps?"
Managing not to roll her eyes at Nash, Veronica nods to the bartender. "If you know any of their names, his buddies, that'd be very useful, sir," she says, reaching for a notepad and pen and putting them on the bar so he can jot them down. "If you have their names from credit cards or just because they're regulars." She makes a mental note to check on the man's home, see what's there or not there that makes it a place he'd rather avoid. "Did you notice anything out of the ordinary last night? Anyone talking to him you'd never seen before? Anyone leaving with him, or around the same time?" She pauses, considering the scuff marks. "Maybe a big guy — as big or bigger than him?"
What? Eye rolling at Nash? Whatever for? He's the epitome of charm and intellect. And class, don't forget class. He is still talking to the cop, "I asked all of these questions first. Don't you let them take credit for that." He knows she can hear him but he doesn't seem to care one bit. All of these comments are made with that boyish grin he loves to wear. Though some might call it smartass grin. Still, he has ten bucks riding on this.
"I can get you the receipts," the bartender replies to Veronica. "If they haven't already been picked up by one of the cops wandering around." He seems to eye Nash in particular with that statement. "I don't know their names. They don't come in that often." As Vee continues with her next set of questions, he shrugs. "Didn't see anything like that. He stayed right up to closing, walked out the door alone. They're not my concern once they're outside."
"I was out with friends," Shelly answers, in the manner of someone who's said the same thing a few times now. "I didn't touch him. I don't know anything about CPR stuff. Or. Anything like that."
Another nod from Allison. "Out where? And can you give us the names of your friends?" She smiles apologetically. "Standard procedure, I'm afraid. But yes, if you don't know CPR, the best thing is to not touch the victim, so you did right."
"The receipts would be appreciated," Veronica says with a nod, then glances at Nash with a look that clearly says 'I'll expect them back if you took them.' "You got any waitress or hostess that I can talk to that might know him a little better? And no, no one would hold you accountable for what happened outside. Just trying to get as much information as I can so it doesn't happen again, sir." She smiles sympathetically, and picks up the pad and pen to slide back into her jacket pocket.
"The receipts would be appreciated," Veronica says with a nod, then glances at Nash with a look that clearly says 'I'll expect them back if you took them.' "You got any waitress or hostess that I can talk to that might know him a little better? And no, no one would hold you accountable for what happened outside. Just trying to get as much information as I can so it doesn't happen again, sir." She smiles sympathetically, and picks up the pad and pen to slide back into her jacket pocket.
The bartender sets his rag down on the counter. "Girl named Maggie. Margaret Gear. Can't say she's likely to know much, but I'll allow she might. You want her address or something?"
Shelly rubs at her face, then dutifully recites off the list of friends she went out with and the three establishments they went to. Then she looks over at Allison and adds, "Is there anything else I need to tell you that I already told the other officers? I'd like to go to bed before the sun comes up."
"I apologize. We just have to be thorough, and sometimes retelling something can help you remember a detail or two that you previously forgot," Allison says with a smile. But then she closes the notepad and puts it and the pen away. "But that's all. We may need to contact you again, but for now, you can go on home."
"Please," Veronica says. "Thank you so much for your information." That bit is for Nash's sake and the fact that she is guessing he's out of ten bucks — an address is something after all. The agent hands the bartender the notepad once more and waits for him to jot down the girl's contact information and to find the receipts for her. She jots down the names on those so the business can keep them for their records, then shakes the man's hand. "I appreciate you taking the time to talk to me, sir," she says, then moves toward the door.
Following her out, Nash slaps a tenspot into the cop's hand as he passes. The view in itself was worth the ten bucks he paid so he's not too unhappy about this. It isn't as if he didn't already get most of that information. He opens the door as they get close, letting her out and then following her towards the others, making his way towards Caffrey, "We're just about done here, right? I mean it is theirs now? I left twins to come out here."
Released, Shelly slips off the bench and starts for one of the doors of the apartment building that hasn't been sequestered behind crime scene tape. Caffrey watches her go, then turns towards Nash as the detective addresses him. He doesn't roll his eyes — barely. "Go on, get out of here. You'll just get in the CSI's way, otherwise." He looks to Veronica and Allison, briefly glancing towards Bianca further down the way. "I'll make sure your people get everything mine have. It's all your jurisdiction now.
"Best of luck with it."