#also I think Mac Taylor from CSI NY is an absolute sexy king don’t judge me

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Forensic artist! Slider x FBI investigator! Mav AU WIP I’ve been hatching for a while.

Inspired by the UID community and its talented volunteers and professionals who contribute to the beautiful, humanizing facial reconstruction of some of the decedents! The case isn’t particularly based on the real event but rather a creation of a mish-mash of many different cases as well as fictional details.

Paring: Slider x Maverick, with forensic sculptor! Ice and FBI investigator! Goose.

Rating: Teen and up for now. Might throw some sexy stuff later.

Warning: graphic description of violence, dead body & suicide (no major character death). Very inaccurate description of how law enforcement works in the US (I’ll fix it later! Sry! Please let me know if there are something you’re familiar with because that’d help a lot!)

In 1991, a case reopens in San Diego, California. The case where a White woman aged between 30-45 was found deceased in a wooded area with a gunshot wound in her head in 1978.

She was not facially recognizable with decomposition and animal activities, as well as the wound inflicted by the impact of close proximity gunshot. A medical examination concluded she had large amount of alcohol and some sleep medicine in her system at the time of her death, possibly making her disoriented, and the purse containing her personal belongings left at the scene had a empty bottle of pills whose label had been scratched off.

She cut all tags off from her clothes which consist of a polka dot summer dress, a pair of white heeled sandals (size 5), blue bra and a white underpants with laces, all found on the decedent’s body except for one of her sandals, possibly due to animal activities as observed in her post-mortem scars on her right leg. She was approximately 5’ to 5’3 inches tall and weighed about 140 lbs. She had fair complexion with chin-length red hair, naturally straight and styled curly, but the advanced state of her decomposition hindered the examiners to determine her eye color.

The location she was found is close to the region where prostitutes and hitchhikers frequent and she is theorized to be particularly familiar with the area, suggesting she had been working in sex trade in San Diego area.

Even though she carried no ID or tax stamps, receipts, or credit cards with her at the time of her death, a possible clue to her identity was found in her purse, which is a piece of paper (approx. 4 inches wide and 1.6 inches long) with the message following:

I love you so much Jannie/Jennie/Jamie (the exact words differ depending on the sources) .

I can’t be there anymore but I’ll always love you & wish you the best.

To people this may concern Im [sic] sorry for every-thing [sic]. xxxx

The message was scribbled with a blue-ink pen, but it lacked her signature and nobody with the name in the letter has come forward after the initial information was released in California region.

It is theorized that the person in the letter is either her friend, family (possibly a sibling or a husband) or her child, who she might have been estranged with at the time of her death.

No foul play is suspected in her case and her death has been concluded as a suicide by gunshot.

“….And we’re renewing her facial approximation, which hasn’t been updated since the initial discovery.” Pete scans the case file containing the composite—a basic photomontage. Her silent face is devoid of any emotions he can tell right away, frozen in time, something he’s so used to seeing. “Right. Well, we gotta contact Tom about this.”

Tom Kazansky from Los Angeles Police Department. He’s a forensic anthropologist who specializes in sculpture. A great contributor of his and Nick’s cases with an ice-cold precision, he’s also been a close friend of them—with his great dedication for his job and his deadbeat sense of humor.

“About that.” Nick interjects. “I don’t think we can, Pete. Or we should, for that matter.”

“Why not?” Pete asks, slightly frustrated but mostly surprised at the statement. “We’re lacking a good reconstruction and he’s the best candidate we’ve ever got.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” Nick says with a small shrug. “But he’s on a family leave, remember?”

Oh.

Oh, right. Now he remembers.

“Good for him, yeah?” Nick smiles. “A kid is such a bundle of joy. I still think of the day Brad came home with my sweetest wife whenever I’m feeling low.”

“Shit, Nicky.” Pete groans as he rubs his face with his hand. Maybe two months without a break really does something to his memory. “I can’t believe I forgot that, man. I even sent some gifts for him back in October.”

“Workaholic.”

“Yo, shut up.”

He playfully smacks Nick’s head as they leave. The perk of having a witty partner is he never gets bored at work—with a side effect of never getting a break.

Finding another forensic artist was, to his surprise, a smooth process. Tom has assigned a substitute while he was away, taking care of his wife and his newborn baby girl.

Ron Kerner.

A forensic artist at LAPD, working in Tom’s lab. His portfolio shows a series of drawings of people. He seems to have worked on both the composites of criminals and victims, with him predominantly working on the identification of latter.

Flipping through the thick file, he reaches to the section titled ‘John & Jane Does’. And—damn, how lively and colorful those portraits are.

They are all smiling, some of their grins are wider than others with a more sly-looking expression. There are four comparisons between a then-unidentified person and their living photos, and Ron seems to have captured their unique facial features on point while…humanizing them, however tragic their last moments may have been.

Talented, indeed. Pretty empathetic, he might add. No wonder Tom has assigned his role to him.

“Bradshaw!”

A voice echoes in the hall as they finish talking to the receptionist. Nick turns around and waves back with a big grin on his face.

The man stands in front of them. He’s muscular, slightly shorter than Nick yet still way taller than Pete himself. Towering, but his relaxed stance makes him seem friendly, combined with the toothy grin on his angular face. His curly brown hair complements his tanned skin. Judging from the way he presents himself, Pete assumes he’s not a visitor here.

“Hey bud!” Nick says and shakes hands with the man. “Still dwelling in the lab, huh?”

“Oh you shut your pretty mouth, dickhead.” He chuckles almost affectionately.

“Pete, this is Ron. Ron Kerner from LAPD. Ron, this is Pete. Pete Mitchell.”

Ron Kerner.

The man looks at Pete and reaches out his hand, which he’s quick to shake.

“I really liked your portfolio.”

Pete mutters almost instinctively as he shakes his hand, realizing how awkward he sounds a moment later. Ron looks at him with slightly widened eyes, curiosity flickering in his beautiful hazel irises.

“Uh, I mean…I’m Pete Mitchell. Call me Pete.”

“Thanks.” Ron says with a smile with a tinge of shyness on the corners of his droopy eyes, although well-concealed by his bold voice. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Pete. Tommy always talks about you guys.”

“Yeah.” Pete answers as their hands part, leaving a pleasant warmth on his cold skin. “Pleasure to meet you, too, Mr. Kerner.”

“Hey, Ron’s just fine.” He says. “We’re about the same age, right? Don’t make me feel old.”

“You can call him Ronnie if you want, Pete.” Nick says. “Bet you’ll get along just fine. He’s just as immature as you.”

“What did you say, jackass?”

Their eyes shot at each other as their voices almost synchronize, much to Nick’s amusement.

“Damn it, Nick!”

“Shit, Bradshaw.” Ron mutters at Nick’s smirking face that Pete’s so familiar with at this point of his career. “Let me be cool and act like an adult in front of this guy, alright?”

“Ha! Jokes on you, Kerner. You’ve already said dickhead like you always do.” Nick teases. “C’mon, Pete. You think he’s mature? With his taste in jokes like that? Betcha get along well, darling. Already in synch.”

Ron pouts at Nick with a small pfft sound, a gesture he didn’t think a guy this big could pull off.

“Get along well, huh?” Pete chuckles, lightly patting Ron on the shoulder.

“Great start, I guess.” He grins. “Though I can’t wrap my head around how you tolerate this bastard.”

“Me neither, man.”

Ron barks out a laugh as Nick pokes Pete on the arm, grumbling at how the table has turned.

Ron Kerner.

Today was the first time they’ve met. He’d been faceless to Pete for almost a month, ever since they first called in the most basic business-like manner, talking about grown-up stuff, in contrast to the almost overwhelming amount of portraits he sent him.

“Hey, Nick?”

“What?”

“Can you see an artist in his own work?”

Nick blinks a little, his eyes briefly shot up from the road. They are on their way to go back to their office in his car, idly listening to the local radio as the town passes.

“Don’t look at me like that.” Pete stretches his arms and loops them around the headrest. “It’s weird, I know.”

“I thought you lost your mind and decided to be a philosopher instead.” Nick says. “But I guess you can.”

“How?”

A few seconds of silence filled the car before Nick speaks, absentmindedly stroking his mustache.

“A part of your soul leaves your body to live in the world of your art, forever.” Nick mutters. “I don’t know, Pete. That’s just how I feel. A part of me becomes something not mine, and he dances with the music as I play it.”

Pete can only nod in response. Nick has always been enthusiastic about music. Tom has been artistic, too. He’s a professional artist as well as being a full-time officer, for God’s sake.

“I guess that’s true for Ron, y’know.” Nick says. “Considering the subjects he deals with daily.”

His fingers skim through the pictures. A Black teenager with shoulder-length braids, grinning widely in her denim overalls. A middle-aged Hispanic man with a box of tobaccos in his hand, smiling softly. One of the portraits depicts a woman and a child, possibly her son, chin-up and looking serene together in the wind.

“Ron’s a good guy, Pete.” Nick smiles and shoots a knowing gaze at his partner in the passenger seat. “I wasn’t joking when I said you’d get along.”

“Yeah.” He answers, lowering his eyes in approval. “I suppose so.”

He closes the file and traces the black lettering on the back of it.

Ron Kerner, it says.

Lined in ink, detailed with colored pencils and some markers. Pete can still feel the strokes of his pencils under his fingertips.