June 01, 2004
.06.01.04. - seventh floor. seven-oh-three. [imogen] *fng

[downtown]

(james)
I've a fav'r a ask yeh the Ahroun's familiar voice slurred across the telephone line If ih won' be too much trouble
maybe Imogen could hear the amusement shadowing his tones
some unseen glimmer in deep umber eyes realizing he was parroting back her own words
or perhaps at hearing the subtle element of non-surprise hesitating her response
silence filled by the shuffle of papers and endless background noise
(you think he actually expected her to be bored to tears and awaiting such a call?)
clipped process of exchanged information harried along by overwhelming demand of a work day

at least on her end
the Gnawer's speech was flavored with a far nastier element
(he's pissed)
easy enough to tell staccato tones lifted from irritation
.... highly unrelated to a busy county office

Need y'r help pinning th' fucks tha' bro'e inna s'me pla'e. there was more to the story, obviously, details of which he withholds from the landline though clearly references the need of her expertise and probable equipment to sleuth answers with the least amount public attention possible 'm at 507 Cook Stree'.... guy a' th' desk'll give ya key f'r gettin' the elevat'r to th' top floor.

the line went dead, releasing Dr. Slaughter to her daily grind
an afternoon passed with the Fostern resorting to prowling the halls of the old hotel
far better than reducing another room to splintered wreckage as what now cowered on the second floor
even a walk did little to diffuse the atomic reactor boiling beneath his flesh
but at least it provided some grub out of the little restaraunt down the way

as the clocked neared her estimated arrival, James had once again returned to the seventh floor
crouched by the door numbered seven-oh-three with one bag of take-out hiding quietly to his left
smoke coiling towards the ceiling from his blatant ignorance of the posted signs

(imogen)
He can hear someone speaking in the background, and oddly enough, a rather terse sounding voice reminding Doctor Slaughter that her cell phone was supposed to be turned off. The muffled sound of her hand covering the small mouth piece of the cell phone as the forensics pathologist, junior in her position and a woman to boot, the odds stacked against her before the phone even rang, offers an apology that seems incongruous about everything about her.

Almost sounds genuine. She's a wonderful actress, though some cynics might speculate on when exactly she is playing her part, and when, if ever, the actual core of her (imagine it is steel and tempered, fierce and sharp) is revealed.

More speech this more muffled, contrite tones audibly. Then the click of a door shutting and Imogen's speaking to him now. Perfunctory. The impression she is being heard, and is watching her words. Compared to what he says, she sounds cool and professional and mostly he speaks and she makes an affirmative noise, the absent, almost careless "...uh-huh?" nudging him through the last sentences.

"I can meet yeh for dinner at six."

Line goes dead on both ends, and Doctor Imogen Slaughter turns back to open the door and walk back into the office to face her boss. Or a co-worker.

She's late, however, getting to the motel, later than she said she'd be. It's not surprising. She has rarely made comments to anyone about what time she will be home, but James's experience is, that when she has, she has never met them, or met them by a narrow sliver of time, just toeing the edge of 'late'.

Six-thirty, then, finds her standing at the front desk, politely asking for the key to the elevator to the fifth floor and ignoring, or perhaps unaware of the sensation of the front desk man's gaze crawling across her body, sleek and subtle in a business suit, the jacket cut to hide her gun, and the rest of it skimming, fine silks and cotton. Attractive and more so because she is unaware and careless of it.

"Ta." Lifting the key in gesture to indicate what she was thanking him for, before turning and walking to the elevator.

Seventh floor. Seven-oh-three.

(james)
at some point while outside on the city streets, James had checked the clock on his cell: 5:45pm
instead of concluding that she would be arriving soon as dinner plans dictated
he simply used the reference point to assure he would be there by the time she showed
Imogen was hardly on time coming home from work - he's witnessed it more than once
the core of it back in Jersey when they lived next door
however he does not hold the expectations such habits should change now

it's probably why he chose sustenance that did not require the luxury of keeping warm

the shifting gears of elevator cables probably acted as his first clue towards her ascent
tiniest clicks, whirs, and aged groans echoing down the empty hallway
arriving only loud enough to tickle the attention of his ears
right arm drops down to smush the near-filtered Camel out on the faded floor
it could very well be some other resident in the run-down establishment
but oddly enough, James seems familiar enough with the good Doctor's personal time-zone
reaching not for the cell in his pocket to affirm just how late she is
rather reaching into the muted rustles of the plastic bag

the next series of actions narrated only by sound:
ting! - elevator arrives
rattlegroanclackclackclackkshhhh. - antique gate lifts for even her slight leverage.
krrrrt.ka-lick. - key imprisons elevator's ascent once again.
taptaptaptap - low heels mapping her approach.
clk-whshhh! - cap twists off one bottle of beer

that he holds the fizzing bottle up as kerosene lamp beacon is a concert of silence

unlike the quality of her wardrobe that figuratively brightens the old hotel's interior
(not to mention the imagination of lonely - and still scared, mind you - Mauricio downstairs)
the Gnawer seems to blend right in to the faded glory of structural memory
half-figure caught in the shadows of forgotten time
lit only by the random, dimming bulbs scattered along the hall
shaggy silhouette crosshatched by mellow beams seeming to hover between eras

prehistoric tribesman tucked against the safe wall of long cave
urban guttermutt catering contemporary tastes with fine lager

it's only when her toes infringe the downcast domain of deep umber does he lift those eyes in greeting

(imogen)
She doesn't belong here.

Out of all the things Imogen Slaughter should have been, could have been, somehow, that she ended up a doctor for the dead, a kin to the war-like Garou

(shunning the Fianna.
Claimed by a Fenrir)

can somehow seem like a stark and unfair thing. Even if it was (all) her choice. It's stark clear amidst the dingy worn hallway, fine heels making soft even sounds on the worn carpeting as she approaches. Bright flame and vibrant hues amidst shadowed neglect. This Hotel NoTell she'd come to because he'd asked her to. For a favour.

And lord knows she owes him a few.

She glances at the cigarette, sharply hungry for nicotine for a moment, before her gaze shifts, touching upon the face of the Gnawer on the floor, a few strands freeing to brush against her face, curving against her cheekbone, softly.

She carries an aluminium brief case, the weight of it seeming almost intolerable in her slight hand, though she carries it as if unaware of its presence. Her other hand, reaches out to close around the butt of the offered beer, a brief lift to her lips at the offering. "Ta. Did yeh want to show me?" she asks.

(james)
chin drops in affirming nod
(Welcome)
a tandem movement with the lowering arch of his arm
reactionary, mostly, as restless fidgit has him hooking a thumb over left shoulder

Seven-Oh-Three.

"Las' nigh' frien'a mine came 'ere a fine two people alrea'y." expression darkening towards the lines of tense scowl affirm the particular two shouldn't have been "I foun' 'er 'roun' three ay em, door unlock', tv blarin', stretch out on th' bed 'n drugged a shit." his teeth practically grind as the scowl darkens another few degrees "They dunn hurt 'er physic'lly....."

quite a few more degrees
because at this point the Ahroun can't stop the growl from throttling his words

"..... but they stole 'er shit, fuck up 'er head, 'n tresspass a my digs. Dunn touch nothin' when we lef', s'all as it was save th' tv." won't take superior cognitive abilities to figure out the applicance was obliterated by swiping Garou hand "Hopin' you c'n hel' me fine out who they w're."

it's something of a preamble to what she's about to step into
a breath passes (exhaled on rumbling thunder) and James stands to open the door

(imogen)
She nods, absently, listening to his version of the story, as she looks over the apartment, eyes passing over the mess of the T.V., the shattered glass on the carpetted floor.

When he was finished, she answers, "Kemp tol' me." She notes, taking in every inch of the room, before exhaling, and looking over her shoulder at him, as she sinks to a crouch, placing the brief case on it's side, and taking a swig from the beer before carefully placing it at the corner of aluminium accoutrement of her profession.

"Motel rooms are the worst," she warns him as she unlocks the case, and opens it, pulling out a small jar of powder, a bright electric hue, and a brush, the tip clean and undusted. "They're almost always a few thousand, if not a few hundred thousand finger prints." To keep hers from the mix, she draws gloves over her fingers, the smallest kind, a second skin to her flesh.

Another look over the room. Needle in a haystack, and there is no way for to ever know where to start. Thought flicks back over Kemp's story.

After a moment, she straightens, picking her way around the shattered TV and around the drunken fall of the table. Air conditioning. Everyone's got to start somewhere.

"Did she gi' yeh a description o' 'em? Other than their hair style?" she asks as she ever so cautiously taps down the front lid of the air conditioning, revealing the knobs within.

(james)
"'ve been th' only one in 'ere f'r the pas' three week 'sides Rumor 'n tho' two fuck'rs."

he knows that she needs space and zero infractions to do her job
but that's probably not the only reason he lingers in the doorway
muscular shoulder waning to lean against the frame
tendons flexing beneath skin as another bottlecap twists off
dim lights reflecting off the inks inside his right forarm when it lifts to slug back a healthy (....ha!) swallow

dark eyes explore the contents revealed by case cover lift
(he is actually interested)
keeping from setting the room ablaze from Rage's bristling glare

"Yeh."

sneered. snarled.
but James slowly and patiently recites the description
making sure to speak so that all details are clear enough
(he's hurting, too, that he couldn't protect her from this violation...)
recalling every word Rumor shared with him in the other room five stories below

the man's greasy mullet and stained mechanic's suit, brown eyes and oily chest of hair, workboots that didn't seem to fit correctly, toolbelt oddly light on it's decorative pieces, the Nextel walkie-talkie used to call the woman for maid service towels

the blond's tacky pleather chaps and bra with matching stiletto boots serving as Chicago's own version of a cheap French Maid, magenta thong coordinated with uneven eyeshadow, the butterfly, rose, and barbed wire tattoos that didn't do much to cover the bruises which were probably tracks

his chin lifts up towards the top of the a/c unit
even if she can't exactly see him, considering
bottle lifted so that two fingers can point to the wrench sitting on top

"Idiots lef' that behin'.... 'n the towels ov'r on th' chair."

helpful, he is, to locating this needle
perhaps there won't be so many fingerprints to weed through

(ratchet)
downtown.

ghettoes and monsters that go bump in the night, where high end restaurants make for premium dumpster diving. Alex and Jo keep giving her money, money that quickly is passed on to others less fortunate then she, and far more deserving. And they all are more deserving then little monster who scurries through alleyways.

run down hotel no-tells litter the edges of prosperous downtown business district, the perfect place of business men who need an hour to get off before going home to ignore their wives, hookers doing steady business by the hour, women and young children hiding from daddy who’s gone off the deep end, and so on, and so forth. the dregs of society pass by, go in, come out, pass by again, and tonight is no different then any other night in the long running scheme of things.

outside, somewhere, by random chance [and player tenacity] there’s a grunt that sounds from the depths of alleyway. plastic against metal clangs as lid is flung up and over with a bit of effort.

dumpster diving 101 – never leap without looking. learned the hard way with nasty case of fleas that took days to get rid off, leaving gaunt body riddled with bites. now, she always looks before she leaps.

grubby fingers grasp the edge of the dumpster, dark eyes peek inside, and then nimble little form flows into movement that heaves skinny body up and into the dumpster.

(imogen)
"Fingerprints, unfortunately, can last years. One of th'strongest arguements of a defense attorney," this said again absently as she dips the brush into the powder and carefully begin to dab it across the plastic surface, head tilting at the revelation of markings, some partial, some vaguely promising.

His snarl tightens her shoulders and muscles, arching across her back as if the audible sound of his rage was a scorpion she was forced to permit beneath the collar of her shirt, to slowly prick its way across her spine as her tension wound tighter and tighter. "I'll need t'get yer finger prints again," she says, as if he had not snarled, as if the moon were not full tomorrow, as if her muscles were not coiling tighter. "And hers. t'exclude 'em."

Description absorbed. Lovely sounding couple. really. If the Garou do not kill them, she will recommend they run off to join the circus.

Pleather chaps and a bra?

She does turn, however when he mentions that there are other objects that had not been touched by others. Eyeing the towels before dismissing them. Fabric holds very little in the way of finger oils. Fabric does nothing for finger prints.

The wrench however... "I'll do that next," she says, completing the final dabs of her review before starting to cross the room for the tool.

(james)
since she's still turned away
(does he realize how his agitation affects her?)
the Ahroun grunts acceptance to the printing plan
it's punctuated by the sound of liquid sloshing in the bottle
sure enough James is draining yet another fourth or third or half the bottle

he's upset.
he's angry. Still.
he's..... sad... honestly
but the blistering Rage covers it all

"Dunno if th' glass in th' room'll be an' help." just because they dropped the drugs into it doesn't mean they touched it "But I know it' got her print' on it. Only oth'r thing I got 'z scent."

perceptive as Imogen is, there's a key to his behavior in the way voice lowers at the end
it isn't sadness eating away at the Fostern
it's the feeling of being helpless
(You told her it was safe, here, Jamey-boy)

(ratchet)
picking through the pile, bag carefully torn into, nose wrinkling at the wafting scent. 3 day old egg salad. yuck. bag tossed aside, another one probed, before torn into and a pleased hmmm is voiced as fingers pluck a much more recently tossed partial sandwich free. wilted lettuce is tossed aside, as is the tomato, and fingers shove the rest of the not quite rotted, but getting there quickly sandwich into mouth in three bites, chewed once and swallowed quickly. not a lot but will carry her over until Steven gets off work.

something hard is poked with ragged nail, bag torn to see what treasure awaits within, before digging farther to examine the piece of wood, brow creasing with thought.

head cants, and then it’s tossed aside, a use for it not thought of right away, so moving on to find something else. until there, in the very bottom corner, a small little box. dig dig dig until object is recovered, and gaunt form grasps the edge of the dumpster with one hand, launching skinny body over the edge to land in a crouch on dirty alleyway floor. coat of many pockets settles around feet as fingers examine the little box to determine what exactly it is – or could be.

(imogen)
"Might," reduced to one word responses as she blows air slowly out of her mouth, looking over the room. Debating perhaps other possibilities, before turning her attention back, and making her way toward the wrench, leaning down to swoop up her untouched beer in a gloved hand.

Deviated a third time. Imogen is a perceptive woman, and despite appearances, she is not always cold. "It isn't your fault, you know." Abruptly, bluntly, quietly, as she drops the beer on the table beside him. "Even if it was yer room."

That said, she turns her attention toward the wrench, eyeing it warily. Uneven surface. Fingerprints, not so good. The glass has a better chance. If they touched it. She fingerprints both.

She'll dust those and some likely surfaces. Methodical and mostly quiet, absolutely pragmatic in her methods and half lost to the steps of her day to day job, brought outside of traditional. Or maybe not quite so. Tape is used to lift each print, carefully sealing them away. James is fingerprinted, not with dust, but ink that stains his fingers. He knows the drill. Imogen's offer of protection, to avoid even running the risk of running his fingerprints through any system she might have at her disposal.

It's probably quite late at night when she is finally done.


[cont'd next scene]


Posted by james at June 01, 2004 12:00 AM