OOC Information: All information is considered Out-Of-Character until you learn it through In-Character means.
Content Warning: Descriptions of horrific crimes listed below - user discretion advised.
It's not quite closing time on a Wednesday, although the witching hour is close at hand. The night was good, almost steady, with only a few loud-mouthed out-of-towners who didn't stay long nor tip, two events which are closely related to each other. The locals, while far from wealthy, aren't shy about tipping well for service which is simply average, because a good Irish bar is hard to keep around for terribly long.
Part and parcel to the life of an Irish bar is the men in uniforms - mostly, it's firemen and their ilk, although a scattering of EMTs with dried blood on their clothes will come to refresh Irish coffee and refill ice into their caddies, and it's the cops who stand out the most. Those rare gems, they tip well, drink heavily and tend to be on the morose side of drunks, which isn't a bad thing - rarely do they act the fool, and even rarer do they step out of boundaries. Cops have a long memory, although few can hold a candle to the good ol' Irish pub dwellers and owners.
The officer in question, he's a local lad-done-good, recently sidelined into the administrative wing after catching a bullet for his partner, making Riley Haren a legitimate hero in the eyes of the neighborhood - the life he saved wasn't his own, it was of an ass-kicker much revered when he was himself a linebacker for the high school league. Thus, both of their pictures, for different reasons, adorn a section of the bar's wall.
Staring at a stack of Xeroxed papers, Riley Haren, a lowly Sergeant in the Chicago Police Department, looks downright somber as he glances to Deirdre, expression so forlorn, and he asks, "Deirdre, please, I'm beggin', let a man have himself a smoke without struggling to the door." His right leg, still in a plastic brace, seems to give him no end of agony as he walks everywhere of late. Too poor and honest to own a car, he's a cop who rides a bus to and from work. Were it not for him living within two blocks, he'd likely be drinking at home alone.
"And chance being caught breaking the law by a fine upstanding officer? You'd have me in the clink, Riley?" Deirdre asks with a playful grin before tilting her head to the side "Or worse, have my brother catch me doing a favor for another cop? He might catch ideas... still..." she looks around and then gestures. "If you can hobble to the seat nearest the door, I'll prop it open for you a little, then it won't smoke up the place, but you might have to sit through a lecture about how black lungs can get... every one of my brothers has had to hear it, twice. I keep the pictures on my phone."
Grumbling, Sgt. Riley staggers upright and clutches the bar, shuffling his way down it until he reaches the bitter end, settling into his chair for a moment, then he looks stricken. "Ah, damn it," he mutters aloud, then looks to Deirdre almost apologetically. "I'm off to the mens, 'cause you only rent the beer, after all." He sighs, then is on the move once more, a victim of the male need to take a leak after moving, all the while, he grumbles.
"G'wan, move the papers and such, I'll be a good one, I swear it," he adds, calling out over his shoulder. Another local, Petey Vance, sometimes-successful car thief, breaks from his pool game to help Sgt. Riley on his sojourn to the mens' room, both of them about equally drunk - and thus, either fast friends or a fight will break out next to the urinals.
Deirdre watches the odd couple go to the men's, shaking her head and then goes to do a kindly, coming around the bar to pick up the papers and move them. Unfortunately, she also manages to roll her ankle a bit on the bottom of a bar stool, and while she catches herself the papers go flying. "Ooooooooooh **shite**." she bites out and then starts grabbing up the papers and trying to, as fast as possible, get them into some kind of order. Sure, it's wrong to read things, but it's the only way to put things to rights!
While the subject matter is horrifying to even glance at, having it filtered through Xeroxed police files, perhaps not of strictly-legitimate sourcing, is enough to have it diluted to where Deirdre isn't screaming in horror. Rather, she can see the care and effort of at least six sets of detectives, all of them pouring themselves into their work, fighting the good fight against something evil and bleak.
The Head-and-Hands Killer.
Six victims in 20 days, and no signs of slowing nor stopping. Police are giving daily press conferences and social media sites spit an endless supply of theories, crackpot and profound, to no avail. The single street which binds them all is where their body parts are being found - and all within an eight-block range of it.
However, it's the eye of an outsider, immunized against most of the deleterious effects of the criminal world, save by incidental exposure, that sees something that they don't: the pattern.
It's happened each time, without fail, and it only took seeing the time and date reports to really demonstrate the point clearly to Deirdre.
Each time, with the two victims, it is the oldest who is killed first - and the oldest who is discovered first. Like a courtesy of some kind. Duquan Willets Foster - discovered at six o'clock; Jerry Vedic, discovered at five-thirty in the morning, same day.
The pattern holds true for all six bodies - and nobody has noticed that yet - or if they did, it's not in the case notes... which Sgt. Riley has a copy of for some reason.
Deirdre has heard an awful lot about terrible things from her eldest brother. And well, she's a modern girl, which means that a glass of wine and a true crime podcast is not unknown as a relaxing event. So no, she doesn't scream or just flop everything on the bar in a mess the moment she see's what's there... rather she starts, almost involuntarily, looking deeper into the information than is entirely necessary to just file it. Once it's stacked and smoothed she just... stares at it for a moment before going back behind the bar and getting out a notepad, waiting for the officer to come back while she scribbles down what she remembers.
Timely as the tide, Sgt. Riley departs the bathroom, flanked by a newfound friend, Petey Vance, who waves him off with a grin and a wink. Looking to be a little less pained, Sgt. Riley heads to his new roost, then scans the paperwork laying next to where he'll be sitting. "You drop 'em?" he posits, then shrugs, apparently unconcerned, already fumbling for his cigarettes and lighter. Before he applies one to the other, he looks to Deirdre with a curious expression. "You know, it's a 'look' women get, seein' those things. For we men, it's seein' when it's kids in the reports. Same look, y'see, in the eyes." He sounds sympathetic. "Never you mind it, though. We have good lads on these cases. I'm in the know and such, after all." He gives a lopsided smile as he lights up his cigarette.. filter-first. Truly, one of Chicago's finest.
Deirdre was going to gently suggest what he should look for so that he could come up with the idea 'all on his own' and be the big hero. Because she's not a cop, and she knows what that means to someone stuck behind a desk, to be able to make a difference.
But then, he makes the crack about how women look, and never you mind the good lads are on the case, and she deeeeefinitely gets a look now, sure thing. Nostrils flare, eyes narrow, the look you do not want to see on a red head no sir, especially one within reach of a bat and who knows what else.
But she doesn't even yell. She just rips the paper off the pad and slams it down. "Well, all the good lads seem t'have their eyes needing work, because they've all missed this little bit of pattern." she says flatly and then stalks off to rather loudly organize things behind the bar.
Riley blinks in panicked confusion - the pretty redheaded bartender said a mean thing and did not pour a drunk a drink whilst doing so. This falls into the broad category of Very Bad Things and sobriety finds him quickly. "Oh shit," he mutters, paling rapidly, and he frantically waves to Deirdre. "Wait, wait! You.. I.." He pauses, then rubs his eyes with his index finger and thumb, shaking his head. "I.. spoke out of turn, Deirdre, and.. I'm a fool for it." He opens his hands, the expression on his face that of someone experiencing true contrition, seeking the absolution that only a bartender can provide.. also, more pretzel sticks, as the bowl he has in front of him is bone-dry.
"Please, show me what you meant." To even imply she was talking out of her pert, tight ass would see him on a medical leave before her batting hand was emptied and his pension would look downright desirable, even at a 95% loss rate for time served. "You're smarter than I, no question - so, walk me through it, eh? Bring us a pint, I'll even put this out, honestly." Then he dutifully stubs out his cigarette on his heel, flicking it out of the opened gap in the door, once more looking ever the choir boy at her.
Deirdre keeps her back turned and her shoulders taut for quite a bit of this, but in the end, it isn't the worst thing that anyone's ever said to her... just a hot button topic. And the thing about hair trigger tempers is that they often blow over fast. Not that she turns with a smile and a wiggle, no sir. But she does finally turn and rather neutrally refills his beer and his bowl of pretzels and there's maybe a look like 'better not forget the tip' before she's leaning over the counter. "Just a pattern, don't know for sure what it means, but in each pair, the older one was killed first and found first, see? Here and here... here and here.. and then here and here. Every bit of pattern you can find is important in a case like this, right?"
"Well, to the investigators, of course, yes," Riley is quick to say, already placing his hand on the refilled beer, sipping from it with a sigh of relief. "There's the thing, though, Deirdre, and it'll be asked of me, if or when I come to them with this." He then looks at her plaintively. "How can the mystery man always guess which one is found first, regardless of the circumstances?" He then gestures to the paperwork. "This one, the first body, found by someone who was using the alley to insert their contact lenses." Then he taps it again. "The other, someone dropping off newspapers for deliveries at a distro." He shrugs, looking baffled. "So many moving parts, and.. well, no real way to control them, is there?"
Deirdre considers this for a moment, leaning on the bar and tapping. "Well, I'd say either waiting for the older one to be found to kill the younger one, or placing the second body after he knows the first has already been found." she says. "Occam's razor and all that, right? Simplest explanation... he's watching either way."
There's a thoughtful look to Riley's face as he listens, sipping his beer slowly. Licking his lips, he nods to what she's said. "Good, except the lead detective on the first two, he said there's a 'kill room', and that the victims are put there, done in there within a few minutes of each other, and then.. shipped out in plastic totes." He then gives a baffled shrug, idly looking at the pretzels, stirring them with his index finger before ignoring them again, once more looking to Deirdre. "Let's go from the idea he's watching - maybe the contact lens fella, he uses the same alleyway, more'n once.. makes it a pattern. Becomes reliable for it." Then he motions to the papers again. "And the newspaper fella, that's a guaranteed thing, as they're timely enough to get them.. it's the doling them out where they take their sweet arsed time with it." He smirks as he nods again. "Y'know, I can't promise the world to shine in your hair nor the stars to light up your nights, yet.. you do well by me, I'll do well by you." Quietly, he opens up his metal wallet, closely resembling a cigarette case, then extracts a business card, sliding it across the bar to Deirdre. "My da, he's a distro for West Coast beers and liquors. For me, on my word, he'll cut you and your da in quite nicely." He angles his head. "All that we need to do is shape this theory up a bit, hmm?" He raises his glass to her in a salute, looking rather proud.. and anxious.
Deirdre draws her brows together. "How does the lead detective know that much detail?" she asks curiously and then takes the card. "You know, I'm just a random girl who noticed a pattern, I'm not some... investigative genius, Riley. My own brother'll tell you that."
Looking nonplussed, Riley snorts at Deirdre's assessment. "Well, so Sherlock Holmes get to keep his fuckin' dayjob, Deirdre, whoopty-fuckin'-doo," he says, oozing his usual sarcastic charm. "You saw a thing none of us did, or maybe even could. Don't sell that short, not for a moment, you hear?" Then he taps the side of his own head. "You defeated a problem most of the way, without an Academy certificate, no field time, none of it." He sounds envious, really, and definitely proud on her behalf. "That's amazing stuff, Deirdre, and your da, he'd be as proud of you as I. So, shut the noisy whines and think, hmm? How.. how does he do this." He scratches his cheek; normally, Riley does that when huddled with fellow cops. Straights don't get that automatic twitch of his.
"The medical examiner, they tol' him, said the killings all took place close to each other, based on 'tissue lividity' and other such things." He shrugs, not exactly in his depths regarding the forensics of it.
Deirdre rolls her eyes. "Sometimes, it just takes an eye that's not used to seeing the same things all the time." she points out sensibly and then fully leans on the bar, because this is way more interesting than doing the end of night inventory. "Okay, fine, so having a place to do it would be necessary... is there any way to like.. track water or electricity usage in the area? He'd have to use a lot of each, right? Heck, don't they track diseases in sewage? Blood ought to show up too, and I didn't see that there, but I didn't look too close. I know that they sometimes use what are they... ultraviolet cameras to catch heat signatures from people growing in their house right?"
Raising his eyebrows, Riley nods, although a little slower than previously. "If he's killing elsewhere," he begins, "Where to begin tracking for water or power use? Of those two, which is the amount that's 'unusual', and thus going to show itself?" He angles his head, chewing on his lower lip, thoughtful look to his eyes. "Well." Then he looks directly to Deirdre. "The cameras on the intersections and ATMs, plus all of the stores, those are all known things." He muses on this. "So, this guy, the villain, he.. walks the streets, sort of plotting his path, and .. I guess.. figures out where the cameras are, so he can avoid them when he does the drops." Then he blinks, looking not at her, to over her head, at a single photo. "Do you.. see what I'm seeing?" He grins broadly.
Deirdre looks up curiously and then back down to the cop across from her. "Are you saying we're talking about a spider-man serial killer? Working the rooftops? Are they close enough together around there? You could probably map out possible routes, buildings it /can't/ be in, based on the ability to get from here to there. And time to start placing cameras up there, as subtly as humanly possible." she says thoughtfully. then gestures. "You have a map with the building layouts in there?"
Another soft snort, and Riley nods. "Your brother, Donald, he could tell you a thing or two about rooftop jumping," he says with a smarmy tone to his voice. "Although, being fair, he wasn't always a.. well, indecent citizen, shall we say, and was a fairly smart man with a roofing hammer in his hand." He nods to this. "And, yeah, let us look, see what the scene photos tell us, aye?" He then fans out the crime scene photos - due to the way the bodies are delivered, there's no gore, just depressing and bleak alleyways, long and narrow. "First two scenes.. narrow enough to jump without being in the fuckin' NBA." He chuckles, then flips over to the second pair of photos. "Wider, with these two.. maybe he uses a folding ladder, or the like?" And then the last pair. The gap is almost twenty feet. "Okay, I'll call in an APB on fuckin' Spiderman, then." He grunts with frustration.
Begrudgingly, he does produce his phone and queues up Google Maps, selecting the Street View function. He then begins to scroll down from the first address where the body parts were discovered.
Deirdre mm's. "All of 'em could tell you something about rooftop jumping." she points out and then there's a little grin. "Maybe me once or twice. When I was younger. BUT.. see, you have to consider two different paths, encumbered, and unencumbered. He's not jumping far at all loaded down with the dead weight, unless he's got pulley systems rigged and someone would have noticed that, right? And if he's using ladders... well, that's where he'll make a mistake, I think? Will leave them lying up on top of buildings rather than moving them around and stowing them out of sight." a pause and then she points to the screen with the tip of her pen. "Isn't there a billboard there?"
Raising his eyebrows, Riley gives a low, soft whistle. "Show me a man who can lug up a three-by-two tote on his back plus a ladder, folding or no," he says, "Then broad-jump a dozen feet of alley, three stories over concrete... that's a man I'll not fuck with lightly." He chuckles, then shakes his head. "No, not a billboard - it's one of those solar panel rigs for the city sewer people. Keeps 'em from needing to tap into the mains or some such." He shrugs, then looks more at the building layouts as seen from the street. "Looks like he hits the alleys of the three-story buildings only where there's a four-story across the street from it. Huh." Then he blinks, looking blankly at Deirdre.
"Well, one more shiny lens won't be noticed then, will it?" Dee asks as she considers the layout, biting at her lip thoughtfully and twirling a lock of ginger hair. "Zip line? Look for anchor points on the 4 story. And see if there's anyone living in those taller buildings who noticed anything hinky?" she's kind of getting into the whole Encyclopedia Red, junior detective thing.
"Deirdre, my pet, dear, sweet Deirdre," Riley says with a smile. "You're a fuckin' natural at this." He then collects up his paperwork, looks to his pint glass, then back to her. A tense moment passes and he sets the pint glass onto her side of the bar, clearly done with it. "I'll go home, write this up all pretty, an' keep your name free of it all."
When he rises, he looks to be in a lot less pain, seemingly energized. "You earned this, and so much more, Deirdre, you don't even know it, though." He then places two twenties on the bar, resting them on his abandoned pint glass, blowing her a kiss dramatically. "Just about the smartest girl I've met, to be sure." He winks, then he's off, opening the door, almost dancing his way out, looking quite pleased with himself. A few moments later, he's followed out by Petey and his pool partner, both of them waving blearily to Deirdre, finally abandoning the place to her alone, at long last.
Deirdre snorts a bit after the door closes. "Well, and wouldn't I be, if you've always left it to the lads." she points out, swatting her towel against the bar with a moment of annoyance, but then locking the doors, turning out the front lights, and delving fully into the clean up... hoping the resulting fatigue will keep any nightmares from those images at bay.
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