It was pristine; a new assignment, a new document. The edge wasn't even nicked – it was unfiled. Fresh - just for him. He looked up at her, frowning in confusion
"You've been assigned this." Taking the proffered file, he waited for the slight tingle of data download, but there was nothing. So, he flicked open the folder, and began to read. She waited patiently, watching the edges of his annoyance obviously poking through after a few minutes.
“This again?” his demand was louder than he’d expected in the hush of the room, but she sat impassive again, arms crossed across her breasts, no smile on her face. “I’ve turned these assignments down Captain, for good reason,” he continued.
“Good reason IS NOT I don’t want them, I don’t agree with this punishment Peters,” she said, and then her voice softened. “You’ve disobeyed your only order this month Elliot. If you’d have completed your psych assessments, this might be different, but the fact of the matter is you didn’t, and now this comes down from on high. You get no choice. Do you understand?”
His face burned and for a minute – and not the first one – he thought about tossing his badge at her and handing in her gun. He wrestled with it; he could finally be free. But this was all he was. Husband, cop, DJ. Removing the middle would leave two bookends surrounding what? Staying home with his soon-to-arrive son or daughter? His mind skidded away from that thought and he began to shake. No, I can’t quit. I just can’t.
"OK," he breathed finally. “But…”
She reached over and opened another folder.
She flipped a switch on her desk and the surface changed. She logged in and then looked at him. “State your name for the record,” she said. The desk was dark blue, and with a big red ‘REC’ flashing just above the flat area that she’d spread everything over.
Elliot’s face paled. Making this formal? Maybe I don’t get the choice – it’s not quit, it’s sacked. “Elliot David James Peters,” he said, “Detective Senior, nine years.” He continued.
“I am Cassidy Marques, Captain 1st Class, Four years,” she said, then put the paper in her hands down on her desk in a careful, slightly overlapping line. "It says here that you're doing very little of your psych counselling, which means you don't get choice on assignment. You take what we assign Detective Peters. We removed you from Senior rotation five months ago, though you kept the title. But that was on the understanding that you attended nine sessions. TWO mandatory, six voluntary, you're right – but sometimes voluntary means 'do it, or else', and you know it. I was going to be gentle about this Detective Peters, but let's face it, you've cuffed me to the job again, and it's neither wonder we're all doing our best to protect you now. Please log this in Elliot Peter’s file, year,” she paused, tapping her desk a few times, “fifteen." She stopped, tapped the desk again the warning labels vanished. She tidied up the paperwork, placed it back in the folder and finally looked at him, pity filling her eyes. "We're giving you something easy to do, to give you space. Don't make me regret it,"
Elliot knew psych had highlighted several things. And if he wouldn't take time off, she was going to put him on the best assignment she could find. Though, of course, she was going to tell him that it was all rotation, and that he couldn't do anything about it. He knew how it worked, he just didn't like it. She was trying to be a friend, and he was trying to sabotage everything. That caused another hot flare of anger, though directed internally this time.
"I don't..."
"Elliot," she said patiently, overriding his rising voice, "Take it, or give me your badge. Simple." she said, her mouth tightening, her eyes as sympathetic as she could manage. He could see anger and disappointment in her rising though.
Elliot's mouth mirrored her letterbox tight straightness; all edge of friendliness removed from his posture. He sat rigid in the chair, a sullen foot tapping the air impatiently, like a cat's tail swishing before it pounced on prey.
Finally she snapped at him, loud enough for him to hear the crack in her voice. "It's a direct order Detective. It's yours. Take it, or take your mandatory leave."
He looked at her impassively, and she could see him biting his lip. Not quite enough to draw blood but enough to pull his mouth completely out of shape - it was the expression she knew well. She saw him wear it often around Tark and some of the other officers.
He shook his head slowly, but before he spoke, she chimed in gently. "If you continue to force the hand of the assignment committee, yes Elliot, this is what it comes down to. In deference to our friendship," she paused and tried a weak smile, "I pulled a very few strings to make sure you didn't end up on street duty. CORTEX has it noted that you're unstable. We can't send you out on the cases that are even remotely to do with Nanoviruses – no one would ever be able to tell if you were infected, or just being your old, charming self..." She said it with a deadpan smile, but the edge of recrimination was there. "And I can't trust you to head out into the field if you're barely reporting to psych. Elliot, there's no choice in this one. Take it or give me your badge."
"Oh, this is what it comes down to?" he said, the cool edge creeping into his voice. She nodded.
Burned up and through, he was sure that the cool edge was leading a shockwave front. Any minute now, one of them would explode, the stilted jumping between elements of the conversation, designed to keep him off balance, not working now. He could see it for what it was – it wasn’t friendship, it was expediency. And it wasn’t like Cassidy at all.
He was silent for a moment, thinking about it – she could see the warring anger and obedience reflected in his eyes, his tight expression. She let him sit quietly, meeting his furious gaze and finally broke the silence. He nodded curtly, once and the relief that flowed from her was palpable.
“Good,” she said simply. “You’re a good man Elliot, even if your world has flipped upside down this year. It’s a lot to deal with…”
“Don’t Cassidy,” he said and she stopped in her tracks, swallowing once.
"Ok,” she said, shaking her head, as if clearing a whole line of conversation from her mind, “If you have no questions?" he shook his head, taking in what he'd read, "We'll leave it at that then." She let that settle for a second then said, more softly. "This is, most likely, the last conversation you and I will have."
"Cassidy?" His voice slipped from formal to informal with delicate ease and she ducked her head, blushing. There was a sliver of prediction in that statement. He didn't like the tone she'd used – as if she knew she was dead soon. So many lost this year after quitting or moving departments – the Nanoviruses floating around society, the clone-reservoirs making it difficult to detect them. Elliot knew she was right, though not for the reasons she thought.
"Once the restructure is over, I'm moving out of Precinct 1, and even if I wasn't, it's highly unlikely that you or I, or the other diehard non-techs would remain here," She reached up and touched her neck port, removing her fingers again with a slight shiver. "You know how they feel about the ones that won't use."
Elliot's smile was slightly crooked, an implicit tick of sarcasm tripping into the side of his face as he cocked his head. "They're looking for reasons to get rid of the old guard." He said it as if he were imparting news to an indifferent student, before continuing, " I have a port, I just don't use it often," he added with a rueful smile, tilting round and dipping one shoulder slightly, baring his neck, his shirt pulling away to reveal a nickel port on the back of his neck. She noted it was capped, covered and dingy. His hair lapped at the top like waves pulled by a faraway moon, while his collar covered the rest. It wasn't red though; it hadn’t just been installed. And, it was older than hers. It looked almost corroded, though the metal couldn't and wouldn't unless exposed to a virus that did so. But his was colored oddly and didn’t look right at all.
“But we’ll see each other before you move?” he asked. She shrugged lightly. “Cassidy, what’s going on?”
“Nothing,” she said with a gulp. “I’ve just been told my p
lace,” she added more softly.
“I’ll call you when I get back from this,” he said, holding the folder between thumb and forefinger as if it was offensive. She nodded pensively. Silence spread again, a deep blanket.
"Well then, good luck," she said, on a shuddering breath, trailing off on the harsh edge.
Elliot blinked, startled to hear her tone changing that rapidly.
"I'll miss you too Cassy," he said finally, with a soft smile. "But I'll be back."
She gulped then blinked back something, and continued, "I wanted to talk to you about Beth," she added.
Elliot's eyes glazed over, the cool edge back. It was like watching a lake ice suddenly. "Ma'am, with all due respect – you...and Beth didn't see eye to eye on anything. Which means there's no need."
That seemed to hit her like a slap, and she just stared on, her jaw dropping open as she tried to form the next sentence, "ADA Peters was..."
"Cassidy, don't," Elliot said, and again, she went to move around the desk, and Elliot held up a hand, "Cassy, there's a lot to be said for leaving people alone," his tone was rebuke sharp on the edges of his tongue, and for a minute he nearly continued. Instead, he swallowed hard, the bitter words edging down into his stomach and souring as they slipped. "I'm fine. I'm dealing with it. I do not want to talk about it, and it does not affect my job."
"If there's anything you need..." she persisted, and Elliot shook his head. “Well, I'm here, and if I'm not...Morri knows where to find me."
Elliot nodded. She continued around the side of the desk, finally reaching him and as he stood, put her hand out. Instead of taking it, Elliot leaned forward and hugged her, then left the room in silence.
CHAPTER TWO
The bullpen was almost still on his return. A hushed chatter in one corner by the door - Detective Laurence swinging it in and out to emphasize his point - brought a disquietingly warm draft to the room. Like the floor below was on fire, the air coming towards Elliot felt a couple of degrees warmer than the still air around him that was now parting like waves.
Storm fronts charged the room. A desk slammed behind him and Tark - his big hand sausage-grasping around a phone - angrily stabbed the numbers on his comm. He looked back at Elliot, and the glare changed to something akin to sympathy, mixed in with just a touch of smugness. It was the weirdest expression Elliot had ever seen, but he'd seen Tark do it before. When his partner got desk duty after being shot, it had been the same – maybe with a slightly different ratio. It was the same expression when his partner quit on him; three days after the poor girl had left to 'desk duty' (who knew where), he had told everyone she was a tight-assed bitch, and a shitty partner. Elliot knew that she was a more competent cop than him – Tark was average, but at least he was consistent. But she wasn’t as bad as he was saying. Had his hands not been full then…
No. I’d have done nothing. I’ve been doing nothing here since Harper was shot in the spine. I’ve been doing nothing here since… The thought died in his head, hitting that glassine wall. He pulled his chair out, but before he sat, unease settled over him. Something wasn't right.
He glanced down at a packet he didn't recognize, which had appeared on his desk at some point while he'd been with Marques. It was a plain manila envelope, with a lurid yellow post-it note on the outside, personally addressed to Elliot. He had expected to see a docket outlining where to find the chain of custody notification forms, why they had been forwarded in hard copy, instead of through CORETEX. Instead, there was just a string of numbers That string of numbers was fairly unusual to see, the classification of 'outside jurisdiction' odd enough, indicating that it wasn't 'every day' storage that held the cold case boxes for this–the digits on the end of the cold case achingly familiar, to some part of Elliot – the ident marks on the papers themselves causing the ache to slip into chill, and from chill into anger.
'They want to do this once a year'
No name. No identification. Just that string of numbers that tantalized at the edge of his memory and that neatly printed, block style hand. And that one sentence that made the bottom drop out of Elliot's stomach.
He pulled the slim case from his tray, the envelope marked simply with 'Reality 24 Amateur' and its evidence number. His stomach tightened further – cramps spreading through his diaphragm, down and up. His chest began to feel tight, but he deliberately pushed it aside, trying to breathe evenly.
He put the CD down carefully, under the envelope. Casually even, on top of the null paper for sensitive evidence. There was no evidence that couldn't be tracked in the building - not officially anyway, but there were some things that needed to be protected until context could be assigned. The null paper and null desks were barely sanctioned though, so he was aware he had to be careful.
Every few minutes, his eyes strayed to the envelope, as the hum of the room dropped, dipped and slipped into old building almost silence. He finally noticed detectives clearing out of this area and into the better lit night shift rooms – their desks duplicated by the simple swiping their prints and allowing the smart desks to rebuild.
No paper, no pen? Simple, write on the table – it could sense even when you HAD both, so why bother? One of the best things of the smart desk project was the snapshots – it made detectives more honest, at least when it came to paperwork. Where everywhere had the possibility to bend, or break, having honesty built in was a good thing.
No dicta-phones either – each was attuned to the every staff voice – and you could sit at any desk you pleased. Unrecognized voices were simply tagged via a phone number, tag, or desk box. People unwise enough to place their phones or other smart tech on the desk, or touch, if they had ports, would be instantly scanned and downloaded – it wasn't as if the police couldn't seize their address books anyway. Hence the null point. Detectives wanted privacy themselves - and some tech didn't like the desks. So, there was a null panel on every desk, and bringing anyone in to interview, it was always highlighted in green, while the rest of the desk took on a hot, hazy red, until the interview began. Even out of the corner of your eye, you couldn't mistake that, and as the tech was all pervasive now – everywhere, that was, people knew, in the city.
Everyone carried an element of tech – most of it a harmless salting, though there were others that used their nanobots as a weapon.
Elliot wasn't sure where it had been adopted beyond the boundaries of Darkness. Elliot got himself into the habit of using it, even though his wasn't a 'hot' desk. There was a space designated as safe, and the rest was his desk. The envelope had arrived there - and was going to stay there.
The newer police recruits had no personal space – just hot desking, and desk swapping invasive, pervasive tech. One single nod to custom was that those uncomfortable with the tech or those that had used biometrics or had not jacked in directly to CORETEX in the past 90 days, were allowed a desk off to one side – a real, wooden desk, flaking and facing a flak jacket wall of death and decay. Each was a mark of deference - one edge contempt, the other in the ultimate respect. If you could jack in, after all, you were one of the untouchables – you knew more, automatically, just by connecting to CORETEX. No clumsy searches, no poor overlays, the neural interface had been designed for them. There used to be a pool of five spaces at these desks - now, there was just Elliot's and one other spare space. Elliot knew why too. Soon, there would be no unjacked officers, and CORETEX would become as corrupt, twisted as the rest of the system.
Elliot got to do both. Right now, he was working a cold case, before he went on his next assignment. The cold case wasn't logged completely in CORE, as it involved a virus on a piece of tech, so, Elliot got one of the two desks. He was dismayed to realize that over the last six days of work, he'd been the only officer using one. Another sign of the times. He turned his attention back to the laptop and CD, and inserted it, not knowing what to expect. And as he watched, his eye grew wider and wider.
Elliot fast-forwarded through the screen caps, catching simply "CD: 20
40 Warehouse 4, Dock District B" before he saw a girl running past, legs bare and splattered with a lurid tattoo in purple and green–a bird of paradise he later saw, when he played it back at normal speed. She was followed by a small blur, then a darker shadow passing under the line of sight of the shadow. He drank in about three more seconds of footage before pausing it, then turned quickly to another screen, tabbing out to his CORETEX search. He punched in a practically nonsensical code, and was presented with some bare information, six codes and a file reference. And he sighed. He turned back to the footage – footage that wasn't supposed to exist, before looking around, and then shaking his head. No one was paying him any attention at all – and he liked it that way, but still, there was something almost furtive about taking evidence left deliberately at a desk that wouldn't archive it.
He pulled the cd out of his machine, and tucked it into his bag, then returned to what he was doing. His files moved through his hands numbly – the information in them shifting and wintering under his chilled fingers.
He was careful not to head home straight away. He moved through the rest of his day as close to as automaton as he could manage, hands doing the best they could to keep up with the notes that were being clamored out by the one line that was repeating over and over again.
'They want to do this once a year'
CHAPTER THREE
Silence filled the gaps with companionable ease, and then was chased from the room by the wave of conversation lapping around them. Elliot took a long draught from his third pint, studying Jack Harper and Morrigan Roth across the table.
The world ran in loops around them – barmaids circling like butterflies, regulars blundering through waspishly, people that had wandered in randomly chased off by the obvious wall of police uniforms and shabby detective suits – a uniform of their own, that wore the stench of stale coffee and the weight of dozens of crime scenes rather than a badge. No aftershave, no bathing and scrubbing every last scrap of it off - nothing could remove that aura. Ex-cops carried it with them for a long time after they left - prolonged if they ended up in another civil support job, pulling elements of it back, opening up an unending scab. It took more than simply purging and letting go to get away from it - the loops that they saw in their private lives reflected in the lies and worlds that shattered around each and every violent crime they tended to.
Existence Oblivion Page 2
