sokolov
Dungeoneer
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A/N
The city of Soholm is located on the West coast. It is perpetually grey and rainy, the chill always just on the edge of being miserable, and it has one of the highest crime rates in the country. This is in no small part owed to the existence of the Oberon Crime Syndicate and its shadowy criminal leaders, but also to the bribery of its local police force and political leaders. The Syndicate is said to have a leader, one who can be challenged at any time. The current King has been in power for just over a decade: a long, long time considering the everyday dangers of the city, let alone a position as the head of its organized crime.
a murder
The marble steps of the Soholm Police Department were flooded with people that morning. By all rights, it should have been a lazy Sunday morning, just past 11:00 AM and a bit overcast. There should have been the usual car accidents, parking tickets, and driving violations, maybe a few drunk men who had caused a scene outside of a bar, but today was special. Special in that early that morning, a body had been discovered on the steps of the SPD.
The body of a middle-aged man, dark haired and brown eyed, was found at approximately 6:15 AM on the second to last step of the Police Department, was in nasty shape. The body sported multiple lacerations of all shapes and sizes; what looked to be burns in the shape of cigarette butts on the backs of the forearms and thighs; and most noticeably, a gaping slit in the front of the throat. The tongue was also missing.
The autopsy later revealed that the missing tongue had been shoved violently down the corpse's throat.
Outside of the Soholm Police Department, at 11:00 AM in the morning, the body had since been removed and yellow tape put up around the scene of the crime. In the parking lot, a makeshift podium had been set up, and at this podium, the exhausted-looking Chief Sovoy Burleigh of the SPD was giving a statement. This statement included lots of repeated statements such as 'cannot be determined at this time' 'more information needed' and 'body'. The term 'body' was repeated at least 23 times over the course of the ten minute statement.
Shouldering past the wriggling throng of reporters currently taking statements, blond-haired rookie detective Thomas Kingston spread his arms, repeating 'excuse me'" multiple times as he shouldered past the writhing sea of humanity. Even so, he could barely make himself heard over the crowd.
The blond ran a hand through his hair when he finally made it out of the mass of people. Despite being just slightly below average in the height department, he had broad shoulders and a stocky, well-muscled frame. His blue uniform fit him nicely, stretching pleasingly over his shoulders to draw tight across his biceps. Jogging up the stairs of the building, he withdrew the frames of his sunglasses from over his eyes just in time to catch the back of a lone reporter disappearing into the building.
Blue eyes narrowing, Thomas quickened his pace to a businesslike stalk, following after the other to yank open the door and follow them down the hall and down the stairs towards the Coroner's Office.
"Hey!" Thomas barked. The man, gratifyingly, jumped, shoulders stiffening guiltily. "You're not supposed to be down here!"
"That's alright, detective," a new voice called. A man emerged from behind the bubble glass partition. Currently pulling a pair of red-streaked rubber gloves off, the unfamiliar red haired coroner wore a pair of thick black-framed glasses. Though expression read mild, but his blue-green eyes were sharp.
"Chief Burleigh gave his permission for a brief chat, but considering the ruckus at the front door, I requested that he meet me in the back." The coroner smiled brightly at the rookie detective. It was a convincing smile, but one that did not reach his eyes. "Of course, you're welcome to stick around."
Meanwhile, halfway across the city, another redhead was watching the Chief make his statement over the local news. The man's fine features were slightly blurred by the poor quality of the television, but the woman watched with a dangerous sort of intensity. Casper knew that she couldn't be upset that Sovoy had left her office early that morning. After all, the corpse that had been dumped on his precinct's front steps had been one of hers.
Standing, the red haired woman pushed her chair back with the soft shushush scrape of the office chair's felt-padded legs against the floor. "Cecil," she called. "Get my car ready."
"Victim is Carl Jamos. A known member of the southside gang, if you couldn't tell by the tattoos. Cause of death- asphyxiation. He seems to have been tortured prior to expiring," said the coroner, pulling on a pair of new gloves, "It's funny. I thought his tongue was missing, but it turned out that it had been shoved down his esophagus. The surrounding tissue was so swollen by the time I started the autopsy that it looked as if he was giving us the raspberry."
The coroner's smile was unnerving. Too wide, too happy. Too innocent. "It is a shame though," he said, nodding solemnly. His smile never changed as his blue eyes caught the reporter's wide hazel ones.
"Damn shame that such a handsome man went through such a traumatic event. Tongue missing; head almost falling off his shoulders. His entrails were mutilated. From the internal bleeding, it appears he was still alive when it happened. I could be wrong though. I mean, this could have just been, as people say, a freak accident. This man probably got way in over his head and made a mistake. A grave mistake- isn't that right, Mr. Watts?"
That damn smile was still on his face; still making the corner of his eyes crinkle; his eyes shine. "Now then. I must be on my way. I've a meeting with the chief. Will that be all?"
the rat, the reporter, and the rookie detective
The Soholm Police Station's regular coroner was not as handsome a man as the vision of a redhead currently standing before the two. Where Mr. Underthun, who was currently employed, was balding, bespectacled, and rather portly, this man was tall, muscular beneath the sleeves of his shirt, and boasted a full head of thick, red hair, as well as an array of tribal-looking tattoos, revealed when he peeled off his gloves and shrugged out of the long sleeves of his white labcoat, revealing toned forearms.
Thomas could barely keep his eyes off of him-- which was unprofessional to the highest degree, but god, it'd been months, now. Months. He was tired of his own hand.
"I could be wrong though. I mean, this could have just been, as people say, a freak accident. This man probably got way in over his head and made a mistake. A grave mistake, Mr. Watts."
The baby hairs on the back of his neck prickled. Thomas attributed it to the cold air of the morgue.
Clearing his throat, the blond chanced a look over at the reporter who'd followed him into the Morgue. To his surprise, he found that the man, beneath his tan, was white as a sheet, as if he'd just had all the blood sucked out of him. In fact, his skin was taking on an unhealthy greenish tinge, hazel eyes comically wide behind his glasses. Frozen, like a deer in the headlights. Perhaps the man was the squeamish sort.?
"Excuse me," Thomas said, extending a hand to catch the redhead's attention, for those blue eyes had yet to move from the reporter, who was looking greener by the minute.
He paused, distracted by the very bright, very blue gaze of the redheaded man. Cheerful. Too cheerful. "Dr. Underhill is our regular. I don't believe I've seen you before." He cleared his throat again. Best face. Best foot forward.
"I'll need some ID."
The coroner raised his eyebrow in an amused fashion. His shoes clicked against the floor as he stepped forward, taking the detective's hand in a manner that was clearly not a handshake. "You'll have to forgive me, Detective- I seem to have left my wallet at home." He flashed a charming white smile up at Thomas before he brushed his lips across the blonde's knuckles.
"I'm Quainn, by the way. Quinn Graff.." Quainn slowly let Thomas' hand drop. He was officially done with the reporter. The rat no longer held his interest. His next question had a flush rising to the detective's cheeks in no time.
"Could I take you out to dinner, Detective? I assure you, I'll bring my ID then."
A throat clearing had Quainn looking towards the door. Sovoy Burleigh stood there, arms crossed behind his back as he stared at Quainn. A beat passed. The smile, for the first time, flickered, but when he stepped back a moment later, it was back in place, fixed and cheerful. "Chief Burleigh. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
two greenhorns and an old, tired dog
By no means would Wyatt Watts call himself a coward. But he could also admit when he was scared, and right now, he was scared. His heart was going a million beats a minute. Ba-dum-- ba-dum-- ba-dum-- ba-dum-- ba-dum-- He knew that by the subtle widening of the redhead's smile, the other man could tell.
Wyatt knew who he was. Though before this, he'd only seen the other in grainy photographs, taken secretly or from camera footage, he'd known who he was the moment the redhead had set foot through that door (coincidentally, also the moment that Wyatt's heart had very nearly stopped). Quainn Graff was not who he said he was. And he was bold to come here.
'Such a shame that a handsome man went through this type of death. Tongue missing, head almost falling off his shoulders. His entrails were mutilated.'
Approximately two months ago, Wyatt had made contact with one Carl Jamos, a member of the McGrath syndicate- said 'southside gang'. In truth, they had holds all over Soholm, ties with other gangs, and as Wyatt suspected, connections to wealthy members of several prominent businesses. Establishing first contact with Jamos had been tricky. The man was skittish, rightfully so, and it had taken over a month to get into regular communication with him. They'd started regular- or rather, irregular -meetings around the city. Five of them, to be precise. Last Thursday, Jamos had missed their planned meeting.
The conversation continued fuzzily in the background. "Quainn. I'd sooner call it a surprise if I didn't know better. Don't you have someone waiting for you?"
And then he'd turned up on the steps of the SPD. Tongue missing. Almost decapitated. Mutilated entrails, multiple lacerations and stab wounds. Wyatt just knew. He knew that they knew, and if they knew… Even in the police department, it wasn't safe- here, or anywhere in the city.
There was a packet of dangerous information tucked into the safe under his bed. Information that Carl Jamos had given him not two weeks ago. The sound of his name brought him back to the present, however.
"Mr. Watts, is it?" Chief Sovoy Burleigh was looking carefully at him, little lines drawing tight around the corners of his eyes and mouth as he ignored the presence of the redheaded man- a bold move, in Wyatt's opinion. It was never wise to ignore a shark. His pale green eyes were very, very serious. "Everything okay? You're looking a little green, there."
Unable to ignore the nauseating churning in his stomach, Wyatt smiled tightly, a smile like brittle glass. "Yeah, yeah- uh" His stomach began churning anew. He could feel Quainn's eyes on him. "I think I had something bad to eat. Excuse me."
He had to get out of here. Resisting the urge to break into a run, or short of that, a sprint, Wyatt fled the morgue.
Thomas watched in bemusement as the hassled-looking reporter excused himself, hurrying down the hall and disappearing around the bend at a speed-walk that was almost a run. The funny thing... he hadn't asked a single question. Something about the reporter's demeanor was distinctly spooked. But not just in a squeamish way. He'd smelled like fear. The detective stared down the hall, brow furrowing slightly as he did a mental check of the previous conversation. Something wasn't right here. Something wasn't right, and there was a little itchy feeling that indicated that the missing piece of the puzzle lay somewhere in the unfamiliar redheaded coroner who was currently still standing there, watching. The smile had faded slightly from his handsome features. It was at this point that Thomas found himself truly noticing how very odd his eyes were, this Mr. Graff.
"Detective Kingston."
Thomas's head snapped back, posture straightening as he took in the sight of his superior. "Sir?" The Chief indicated the empty hallway with a sharp tilt of his head. He did not say another thing to Quainn Graff, strangely enough. He looked weary, undoubtedly from the harrowing press conference this morning, but there was a certain wariness to his features as well; a canniness in the way he gestured for the young detective to follow after him.
"Walk with me."
end of Chapter 1: Friends In Low Places
The city of Soholm is located on the West coast. It is perpetually grey and rainy, the chill always just on the edge of being miserable, and it has one of the highest crime rates in the country. This is in no small part owed to the existence of the Oberon Crime Syndicate and its shadowy criminal leaders, but also to the bribery of its local police force and political leaders. The Syndicate is said to have a leader, one who can be challenged at any time. The current King has been in power for just over a decade: a long, long time considering the everyday dangers of the city, let alone a position as the head of its organized crime.
a murder
The marble steps of the Soholm Police Department were flooded with people that morning. By all rights, it should have been a lazy Sunday morning, just past 11:00 AM and a bit overcast. There should have been the usual car accidents, parking tickets, and driving violations, maybe a few drunk men who had caused a scene outside of a bar, but today was special. Special in that early that morning, a body had been discovered on the steps of the SPD.
The body of a middle-aged man, dark haired and brown eyed, was found at approximately 6:15 AM on the second to last step of the Police Department, was in nasty shape. The body sported multiple lacerations of all shapes and sizes; what looked to be burns in the shape of cigarette butts on the backs of the forearms and thighs; and most noticeably, a gaping slit in the front of the throat. The tongue was also missing.
The autopsy later revealed that the missing tongue had been shoved violently down the corpse's throat.
Outside of the Soholm Police Department, at 11:00 AM in the morning, the body had since been removed and yellow tape put up around the scene of the crime. In the parking lot, a makeshift podium had been set up, and at this podium, the exhausted-looking Chief Sovoy Burleigh of the SPD was giving a statement. This statement included lots of repeated statements such as 'cannot be determined at this time' 'more information needed' and 'body'. The term 'body' was repeated at least 23 times over the course of the ten minute statement.
Shouldering past the wriggling throng of reporters currently taking statements, blond-haired rookie detective Thomas Kingston spread his arms, repeating 'excuse me'" multiple times as he shouldered past the writhing sea of humanity. Even so, he could barely make himself heard over the crowd.
The blond ran a hand through his hair when he finally made it out of the mass of people. Despite being just slightly below average in the height department, he had broad shoulders and a stocky, well-muscled frame. His blue uniform fit him nicely, stretching pleasingly over his shoulders to draw tight across his biceps. Jogging up the stairs of the building, he withdrew the frames of his sunglasses from over his eyes just in time to catch the back of a lone reporter disappearing into the building.
Blue eyes narrowing, Thomas quickened his pace to a businesslike stalk, following after the other to yank open the door and follow them down the hall and down the stairs towards the Coroner's Office.
"Hey!" Thomas barked. The man, gratifyingly, jumped, shoulders stiffening guiltily. "You're not supposed to be down here!"
"That's alright, detective," a new voice called. A man emerged from behind the bubble glass partition. Currently pulling a pair of red-streaked rubber gloves off, the unfamiliar red haired coroner wore a pair of thick black-framed glasses. Though expression read mild, but his blue-green eyes were sharp.
"Chief Burleigh gave his permission for a brief chat, but considering the ruckus at the front door, I requested that he meet me in the back." The coroner smiled brightly at the rookie detective. It was a convincing smile, but one that did not reach his eyes. "Of course, you're welcome to stick around."
***
Meanwhile, halfway across the city, another redhead was watching the Chief make his statement over the local news. The man's fine features were slightly blurred by the poor quality of the television, but the woman watched with a dangerous sort of intensity. Casper knew that she couldn't be upset that Sovoy had left her office early that morning. After all, the corpse that had been dumped on his precinct's front steps had been one of hers.
Standing, the red haired woman pushed her chair back with the soft shushush scrape of the office chair's felt-padded legs against the floor. "Cecil," she called. "Get my car ready."
***
"Victim is Carl Jamos. A known member of the southside gang, if you couldn't tell by the tattoos. Cause of death- asphyxiation. He seems to have been tortured prior to expiring," said the coroner, pulling on a pair of new gloves, "It's funny. I thought his tongue was missing, but it turned out that it had been shoved down his esophagus. The surrounding tissue was so swollen by the time I started the autopsy that it looked as if he was giving us the raspberry."
The coroner's smile was unnerving. Too wide, too happy. Too innocent. "It is a shame though," he said, nodding solemnly. His smile never changed as his blue eyes caught the reporter's wide hazel ones.
"Damn shame that such a handsome man went through such a traumatic event. Tongue missing; head almost falling off his shoulders. His entrails were mutilated. From the internal bleeding, it appears he was still alive when it happened. I could be wrong though. I mean, this could have just been, as people say, a freak accident. This man probably got way in over his head and made a mistake. A grave mistake- isn't that right, Mr. Watts?"
That damn smile was still on his face; still making the corner of his eyes crinkle; his eyes shine. "Now then. I must be on my way. I've a meeting with the chief. Will that be all?"
the rat, the reporter, and the rookie detective
The Soholm Police Station's regular coroner was not as handsome a man as the vision of a redhead currently standing before the two. Where Mr. Underthun, who was currently employed, was balding, bespectacled, and rather portly, this man was tall, muscular beneath the sleeves of his shirt, and boasted a full head of thick, red hair, as well as an array of tribal-looking tattoos, revealed when he peeled off his gloves and shrugged out of the long sleeves of his white labcoat, revealing toned forearms.
Thomas could barely keep his eyes off of him-- which was unprofessional to the highest degree, but god, it'd been months, now. Months. He was tired of his own hand.
"I could be wrong though. I mean, this could have just been, as people say, a freak accident. This man probably got way in over his head and made a mistake. A grave mistake, Mr. Watts."
The baby hairs on the back of his neck prickled. Thomas attributed it to the cold air of the morgue.
Clearing his throat, the blond chanced a look over at the reporter who'd followed him into the Morgue. To his surprise, he found that the man, beneath his tan, was white as a sheet, as if he'd just had all the blood sucked out of him. In fact, his skin was taking on an unhealthy greenish tinge, hazel eyes comically wide behind his glasses. Frozen, like a deer in the headlights. Perhaps the man was the squeamish sort.?
"Excuse me," Thomas said, extending a hand to catch the redhead's attention, for those blue eyes had yet to move from the reporter, who was looking greener by the minute.
He paused, distracted by the very bright, very blue gaze of the redheaded man. Cheerful. Too cheerful. "Dr. Underhill is our regular. I don't believe I've seen you before." He cleared his throat again. Best face. Best foot forward.
"I'll need some ID."
The coroner raised his eyebrow in an amused fashion. His shoes clicked against the floor as he stepped forward, taking the detective's hand in a manner that was clearly not a handshake. "You'll have to forgive me, Detective- I seem to have left my wallet at home." He flashed a charming white smile up at Thomas before he brushed his lips across the blonde's knuckles.
"I'm Quainn, by the way. Quinn Graff.." Quainn slowly let Thomas' hand drop. He was officially done with the reporter. The rat no longer held his interest. His next question had a flush rising to the detective's cheeks in no time.
"Could I take you out to dinner, Detective? I assure you, I'll bring my ID then."
A throat clearing had Quainn looking towards the door. Sovoy Burleigh stood there, arms crossed behind his back as he stared at Quainn. A beat passed. The smile, for the first time, flickered, but when he stepped back a moment later, it was back in place, fixed and cheerful. "Chief Burleigh. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
two greenhorns and an old, tired dog
By no means would Wyatt Watts call himself a coward. But he could also admit when he was scared, and right now, he was scared. His heart was going a million beats a minute. Ba-dum-- ba-dum-- ba-dum-- ba-dum-- ba-dum-- He knew that by the subtle widening of the redhead's smile, the other man could tell.
Wyatt knew who he was. Though before this, he'd only seen the other in grainy photographs, taken secretly or from camera footage, he'd known who he was the moment the redhead had set foot through that door (coincidentally, also the moment that Wyatt's heart had very nearly stopped). Quainn Graff was not who he said he was. And he was bold to come here.
'Such a shame that a handsome man went through this type of death. Tongue missing, head almost falling off his shoulders. His entrails were mutilated.'
Approximately two months ago, Wyatt had made contact with one Carl Jamos, a member of the McGrath syndicate- said 'southside gang'. In truth, they had holds all over Soholm, ties with other gangs, and as Wyatt suspected, connections to wealthy members of several prominent businesses. Establishing first contact with Jamos had been tricky. The man was skittish, rightfully so, and it had taken over a month to get into regular communication with him. They'd started regular- or rather, irregular -meetings around the city. Five of them, to be precise. Last Thursday, Jamos had missed their planned meeting.
The conversation continued fuzzily in the background. "Quainn. I'd sooner call it a surprise if I didn't know better. Don't you have someone waiting for you?"
And then he'd turned up on the steps of the SPD. Tongue missing. Almost decapitated. Mutilated entrails, multiple lacerations and stab wounds. Wyatt just knew. He knew that they knew, and if they knew… Even in the police department, it wasn't safe- here, or anywhere in the city.
There was a packet of dangerous information tucked into the safe under his bed. Information that Carl Jamos had given him not two weeks ago. The sound of his name brought him back to the present, however.
"Mr. Watts, is it?" Chief Sovoy Burleigh was looking carefully at him, little lines drawing tight around the corners of his eyes and mouth as he ignored the presence of the redheaded man- a bold move, in Wyatt's opinion. It was never wise to ignore a shark. His pale green eyes were very, very serious. "Everything okay? You're looking a little green, there."
Unable to ignore the nauseating churning in his stomach, Wyatt smiled tightly, a smile like brittle glass. "Yeah, yeah- uh" His stomach began churning anew. He could feel Quainn's eyes on him. "I think I had something bad to eat. Excuse me."
He had to get out of here. Resisting the urge to break into a run, or short of that, a sprint, Wyatt fled the morgue.
***
Thomas watched in bemusement as the hassled-looking reporter excused himself, hurrying down the hall and disappearing around the bend at a speed-walk that was almost a run. The funny thing... he hadn't asked a single question. Something about the reporter's demeanor was distinctly spooked. But not just in a squeamish way. He'd smelled like fear. The detective stared down the hall, brow furrowing slightly as he did a mental check of the previous conversation. Something wasn't right here. Something wasn't right, and there was a little itchy feeling that indicated that the missing piece of the puzzle lay somewhere in the unfamiliar redheaded coroner who was currently still standing there, watching. The smile had faded slightly from his handsome features. It was at this point that Thomas found himself truly noticing how very odd his eyes were, this Mr. Graff.
"Detective Kingston."
Thomas's head snapped back, posture straightening as he took in the sight of his superior. "Sir?" The Chief indicated the empty hallway with a sharp tilt of his head. He did not say another thing to Quainn Graff, strangely enough. He looked weary, undoubtedly from the harrowing press conference this morning, but there was a certain wariness to his features as well; a canniness in the way he gestured for the young detective to follow after him.
"Walk with me."
end of Chapter 1: Friends In Low Places
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