#starts sniffing the crime scene. puts his nose right against the bloody evidence that he just pockets. he grunts twice and your good buddy

[martyrbat]

ghosts - batman confidential #40

[ID: Batman in a side profile view. He's frowning and the underside of his nose is slightly visible underneath his cowl. There's two written sound effects to signify that he's sniffing the air. END ID]

[platypanthewriter]

Dildos and Hayfever

Harringrove April prompt day 13, Hayfever.  Detective Billy Hargrove's had a rough time lately, and Captain Hopper assigns him a partner who'll either make everything worse...or everything better.

“All you need to know is he’s the commissioner’s son,” rang in Billy’s head as he stalked down the hall.  Hopper had followed up with “I told him you were fresh out of rehab,” and  “I’m sure you can remember enough of the ropes to show him, right, it’s not like he’s gonna be doing the work anyway,” and Billy gritted his teeth, punching the elevator buttons with a vengeance.  

The light flickered, worsening the headache that always came on in the spring when all the flowers bloomed, and every tree on every sidewalk in the city shot its rocks off in midair—or when he had to walk into the office of the captain.  This morning, to his utmost joy, he’d had both, and he took the opportunity of alone time in the elevator to blow his nose, hard.  

Captain Hopper meant well, probably, Billy told himself, and set his shoulders.

 He found the right building because of the smoke pouring out half the upper windows, the six fire trucks, and the EMTs coming out with the victims—a nice brownstone, before.  Billy looked—somewhat hopelessly—for an elevator, sighed, and hauled himself up seven flights of stairs, sneezing.

Police Commissioner Harrington’s son was interviewing witnesses.  Billy’d seen him before—always with his own office, always flirting with whoever worked reception, always with his uniform tailored.  How he’d brokered a transfer to Major Crimes was a riddle Billy couldn’t wait to ask about—though if he was absolute dead weight, Hopper would probably come up with another solution to Billy’s bullshit, and kick Harrington back onto a desk somewhere.

Harrington was on an upper landing, listening to a black lady and her husband.  They looked in their...seventies, maybe, well-off, both crying, and clutching tabby cats.  “I can speak to you later,” he said gently, “—if you’d like to—” but the woman shook her head, grabbing his hand.

“He’s a good boy,” she said, sniffling, “—and you better catch whoever did this.  Anyone who could do this.  There aren’t many young men ready to haul an old lady’s groceries up nine flights, or open her pickle jars, either.  Anything we can tell you—”

The man nodded too, holding her hand, and Harrington crouched, jotting down their story, while Billy showed his ID and ducked under the crime scene tape into the half-gutted apartment.  He listened as he pulled the whole crime scene kit on, his gloves, mask, booties, and haircap and all.  

It smelled horrible, still thick with greasy smoke that clung to the inside of Billy’s sinuses, and he was grateful for the mask.

The parts of the apartment that hadn’t caught fire were nice—nicer than he could afford, certainly—with art everywhere, photos, paintings...and a floor-to-ceiling, sculptural mobile he couldn’t help thinking looked like a cock.  He surveyed the scene—a coffee table with wine glasses for two, chocolate-dipped strawberries, and chocolate dick-shaped marshmallows, in front of a couch with penis-shaped pillows.  

There was a spray-painted  ‘GOD HATES F—’ on the wall, the last word obscured by char from the fire, but Billy honestly wasn’t sure it was new, given the decor in general, and the adjacent broken glass glued to the wall in a penis shape.  He leaned in and sniffed it, and he could still smell the fumes of the paint.  He snapped a few pictures of it, for later.

When he backed up to get a wider view, his shoulder thumped into someone.  “Sorry,” said Harrington, and then, showing why he’d made detective, “...that huge thing on the ceiling kinda looks like a dick.”

“A lot of things in this apartment do, you’ll find,” said Wheeler, the lead CSI, raising her eyebrows at Billy with a smirk.  He tensed, a little, but she just started giving him the report, and he nearly shut his eyes in relief.  “Including the weapon.”  She waved at a bagged, cement dong sculpture that looked like art deco.  “It probably didn’t take any prints,” she said, sighing, “—with a gritty surface like that.”  Harrington grimaced, wincing, and touching his head.  

“The victim will probably regain consciousness,” Wheeler went on.  “He left the windows open all along that side of the apartment,” she pointed, “—and with as windy as it’s been today, it sucked the fire away from him, so he didn’t get much smoke inhalation.”

“What even...robbery?” Harrington asked, then, “Domestic violence?” and she grimaced, clicking around on her tablet.  

“From his phone, it looks like a first date.  We’re going over it with a fine-tooth comb, though,” she said, frowning at Billy, then down at her tablet.  “Since the assailant obviously wanted the crime scene burned to the ground.”

Billy nodded, his eyes watering either from the fumes, or the pollen count.  He sneezed inside his mask, and grimaced as it stuck to his face wetly.  “Who is the victim?” he asked, sighing, and wrinkling his nose.

“Ishaq Hill,” Harrington put in, glancing between them.  “Profession, camboy.  Posted photos and videos of himself, pinup style mostly, artsy, sometimes naked.  Neighbors don’t think it was stressing him out any, though, he just talked about being single a lot.”

Wheeler raised her eyebrows.  “Because of the head trauma, they’re keeping him in a medically induced coma, so we can’t ask him what happened at least until tomorrow.  But look,” she said, leaning between them to flick between photos on her tablet.  She zoomed in on the victim’s crotch, and Billy automatically shot an alarmed glance at the nearest human, who happened to be Harrington, his brown eyes frowning back.  

“Was there evidence of sexual assault?” he asked, and Wheeler shook her head, waving him closer.  

“No, no, look,” she said, zooming it in further.  “It’s hard to see, but look, the harness.  The color, there, against his white vinyl?  It’s a leather harness, dyed rainbow tie-dye.   The straps are cut—and it’s empty.”

Billy stared at her.  “...you’re saying the victim is trans,” he said slowly, making sure he had it right, “—and the attempted murderer stole his dick.”

“What the hell,” Harrington breathed.

She raised her eyebrows, waving her arms in a dramatic shrug.  “I have no idea!  But go look, there’s another one in the bedroom—” she pointed, and then bent back to sweeping something into a tiny ziploc bag.

In the bedroom, Harrington pointed at the waist-to-hip sculpture of a man, used to demo, apparently, turquoise leather straps similar to the rainbow straps they could make out in the photos.  This one had a securely-fitted glass dildo in it with a whole blown-glass coral reef inside.  Harrington bent close to stare at the cock made of tiny jellyfish and anemones, while Billy took in the display on the dresser—a whole array of fancy condoms and butt plugs, with decorated stands, and nameplates.  

“He must have used this stuff in videos,” Harrington said.  “Like, you know, unboxing.”

“I think he probably filmed less taking them out and more more putting them in things,” Billy muttered, as Harrington snickered, and then waved at the small, rhinestoned pastry stand labeled ‘God <3 Fags’.  It was empty.  

He looked over to see whether Harrington had noticed the empty stand, but he was fiddling with his phone.  “...doesn’t look like he had any nasty public messages, or anything,” he said, frowning.  “I’ll look through his account when we get back—”

“I’m gonna see where he gets all these dildos,” Billy said, frowning at one with what looked like birthday candles, and ‘Ishaq 23rd’ floating inside.  He pulled a drawer open, and found a few boxed vibrators, and a lot of lingerie.  “Some of this stuff has to be custom.  Maybe they’ll know which one got stolen.”  

“Oh,” Harrington said, brightening.  “Good idea!”

“You can call around,” Billy told him, and Harrington shot him a sideways glance that made Billy wonder if he was gonna be a shithead about his dad being the commissioner, but he just nodded.  He dropped into a chair at a desk out on the floor like any other cop when they got back to the precinct, searching up both Ishaq Hill’s social media, and local sex shops.

Billy went to find coffee and gossip, avoiding the old guard—his father’s friends.

“Steve’s all right,” said Holland, another CSI he thought he could trust, since she was friends with Wheeler.  She considered, crossing her arms.  “Everybody figures he’ll be bad at the job, so he gets all the desk work, and he’s kind of obnoxious, but he’ll get down and dust vac a bloody trunk, if you need him to.”  

Hagen in Vice sneered, and yelled for everyone to come say hey to Neil Hargrove’s son, back from rehab, and Billy turned on his heel and stalked back to his own department, his heart racing.

 He returned to hand Harrington a vending machine coffee, and Harrington looked grateful, toasting him in the air as he talked on the phone.  “No, ma’am, I’m not trying to make any trouble.  No, it’s nothing like—” he groaned, leaning his head against the handset, then sipped his coffee, and hit redial.  “Hey, I’m looking to buy custom, handmade dildos.  I’ve got a—” he grimaced at the wall, screwed up his face in thought, and then shrugged, glancing at Billy, and grimacing as he sighed.  “I’ve got a highschool ring I wanna put in a dildo.  Uh, go 2011!”  He listened.  “Oh, you do?  Oh, thanks so much,” he said, writing down a phone number, and mumbling more thank yous.  

“What’d you get?” Billy asked.

“Just another store to try,” Steve muttered. He kicked the desk, and rolled a couple feet closer to hand the post-it note to Billy.  “They don’t want to talk to me until I want a weird sex toy,” he said, flushing a little, but laughing.  “I’ve looked for one with plastic dinosaurs in it, a butt plug with my old glass eye—”

Billy snorted his coffee, coughing as Harrington scrambled up to pat his back.  

“I think one time I maybe said moose antlers,” he muttered, counting off on his fingers.  “That one must think I’m pretty weird.”

“Not the eyeball one though,” Billy choked out, trying not to die.  “The fake eye ass plug store thinks that’s normal as shit.”

“I just mean,” Steve said, blushing, and waving his arms in a vaguely antler-like shape from his head, “—moose antlers wouldn’t probably fit in my ass, you know?”

“Jesus H. Christ,” Billy gasped, wiping his eyes, leaned in to where Harrington had brought up Hill’s social media, and scrolled.  

“What’s all this shit about the Westboro Baptist Church?” he asked.

Steve was mumbling and scribbling, and then he hung up.  “Oh,” he nodded.  “They’ve been spamming ‘God Hates Fags’ on all his sites.  He’s been doing a big photoshoot with teasers, kind of...at them?  He kept tagging them.  It’s gone viral.”  He held out his phone, and Billy was treated to a lock screen of their assault victim on his knees, arms out like he was singing, his glittery dick spurting a cartoon rainbow.

“...sorry, that’s not very professional,” Harrington said, grimacing, and yanking it back.  “I’ll change it.”

“Did you see this at the crime scene?” Billy asked him, yanking his phone out and showing Harrington the spray-painted ‘GOD HATES F—’ he’d found on the wall.

“Holy shit,” Harrington said.  “Eugh, imagine them knowing where you live.  Shit, I didn’t even notice that.”  He sighed, and Billy kicked his chair, lightly.

“Kinda busy walls in that place,” he pointed out, and Steve shot him a smirk.

 “Hargrove!” a familiar voice yelled, and Detective Holloway ran up and gave Billy a hug.  “You look so good!” she told him, and then nodded at Harrington, and smiled back at Billy.  “We found the guy the date was with on Grindr.  They’re bringing him in.”

It was nice to have somebody happy to see him, even if her face made him kinda uncomfortable, knowing she’d been the one to catch him drinking in the supply room after all the—after.  

“Make him wait,” Billy said, considering.  “I wanna go through the conversations on Grindr.  He can work up some nerves first.”

“He’s ex-military,” she said, grimacing.  “His CV says his last job was as a ‘fully armed and trained combat specialist’ who did security for diamond mines in war-torn areas.  I don’t think you’re gonna make him nervous.”

“Eugh,” Harrington said, making a face.  “I can see why that date didn’t go well.  He probably dresses like a supervillain.”

Holloway’s look at him was a little withering, and he shut up, turning back to sit at his computer.  “Lemme know if you need anything,” she told Billy, frowning into his face, and he pushed her shoulder away, quirking his mouth.  

“...I’m okay,” he told her, and she didn’t look convinced, but she didn’t hug him again, at least.  

 “How are you doing?” Harrington asked, after she’d left, and after swallowing half the cup of coffee in one chipmunk-cheeked slurp.  He wiped his mouth, blinking wide brown eyes up at Billy, and Billy groaned.  

“Look, about what the captain—”

“I know the story,” Harrington said, tossing back the rest of the coffee like a bathtub drain.  Billy reminded himself to make Harrington pee before they got in a car together, like a little kid on a road trip.  “My dad’s the commissioner, I know the whole...thing,” he said, grimacing.  “You shoulda got a commendation.”

“...he was a dirty cop,” Billy grunted, hunching his shoulders.  “It’s our job to make sure—”

“Yeah, it is,” Steve agreed, nodding at his screen, and Billy relaxed a little, out from under the weight of sympathetic eyes.  “It’s our job, but not everybody does it.  And you knew what it was gonna be like.”

“I did,” Billy said, grimacing.  “I thought I did.”

“Hey, they let me into Major Crimes for this,” Harrington laughed, unhappily.  “Even if my police work isn’t up to scratch, they won’t try anything on you if I’m standing there.”

Billy watched him, and felt a kind of brotherhood, suddenly, looking at Harrington’s tight smile, and tense shoulders.  “...police work’s been okay so far,” he said, and Harrington shot him a startled grin.  “I’m gonna go...call the hospital,” Billy told him, suddenly needing to be somewhere else.  “Maybe swing by and take a look at our victim.”

“Oh,” Harrington said, nodding.  

Billy had a few more pictures of the harness sent over—Wheeler was right about what it was, at least—and then they brought the ex-military Grindr date in.  He didn’t look that intimidating, actually—his huge biceps were flexed as he held kleenex over his nose, sneezing so hard every few feet he staggered, and he was wearing a t-shirt with a badly-designed logo for a Queer Youth Charity Marathon.

“Hey,” Harrington whispered, touching his shoulder just before they went inside.  “Uh, there’s a lot of hate on there from the Westboro Baptist Church.  Like, they were getting specific, said someone doxxed him.”

In the interrogation room, their person of interest sneezed so hard snot dangled from both his nostrils, like a drooly dog.  Steve snorted a laugh, and walked off to lean against another detective’s desk—Carol’s, Billy thought.  

“Can I bribe you for some of that kleenex?” he asked, leaning in like he was flirting on a movie poster, and Carol laughed out loud, and hit him with it.  

“Take it and git,” she said, and Steve ran back, grinning.  

“Here we go,” he said, handing one to Billy.  “One for you, the rest of the box for him.”

 “I didn’t even stay for the whole date,” said Braxton Haglund, 34 years old, dark haired and caucasian, with a tattoo Billy could see peeking from under the sleeve of his t-shirt.  Haglund blew his nose, again, and the kleenex was so wet it made a noise as he dropped it against the table.  “He’d left the windows all open.  I walked up so many stairs—” he sneezed, miserably, several times, wadding handfuls of kleenex under his nose, and wiping his eyes.  

“God,” he mumbled.  “If I didn’t have hayfever, I’d probably still have been there when...whatever happened,” he said, between sneezes.  His wide shoulders were hunched despairingly, and even Harrington had a sympathetic grimace.  “Dunno if I’d have been much use, though.”  

“Did you see anyone as you left?” Billy asked, and Haglund thought, taking deep breaths between blowing his nose.  

“...nobody that stood out,” he said.  “Some neighbors, maybe.  Think I walked into somebody, once, my eyes were watering.”

 He hadn’t seen anybody going in, either, so after they let him leave, Billy spent a while scrolling through all the victim’s media accounts.  Harrington stayed doggedly on tracking down the dildo maker—Billy nearly felt sorry for him, except it was giving Billy such a good read on what to expect—and he was coming up with a continuous stream of weird sex toys to be in search of.  “I’m an author,” he told one.  “I want a dildo containing the pen I wrote my first book with.”  He jotted down another number, called it, sighed, and tried again.  “Uh, I want a dildo full of baby teeth—” he started, and then stopped, frowning at the phone.  “They hung up,” he said, sounding betrayed.  

“Wouldn’t you?!” Billy asked, smiling despite having to see comment after comment by the Westboro Baptist Church.  He found further reasons to hate them, but nothing specifically actionable, so he finally stretched and grabbed his jacket.  “I’m done for the day,” he called over the other empty desks.  

“Go ahead,” Harrington said, frowning at the screen.  “I won’t stay much longer.  How the hell hard can this be, really?”

 He was there before Billy the next morning, his jaw set, with dark shadows under his eyes.  Billy detoured to the coffee machine first, and plonked it down in front of him, and Harington rewarded him with widening eyes, and then a bewildered stare.  

“...thanks,” he said softly, then smirked up through a yawn.  “Heard back from the arson investigators, and guess what?  The fire looks accidental.”  He bounced a little in his chair, and Billy wondered whether he was really into murder mysteries, or whether he was just trying to stay awake.  “There was a pan on the stove, some kind of chocolate fondue, they think.  Just caught fire, and with Ishaq unconscious, nobody turned off the stove.”

“...lucky bastard,” Billy said, grimacing, and Harrington raised his eyebrows.  

“You think?  Oh, also, guess what—I found her.  Our dildo artist.  She’s not all that local, but she did send me a few pictures of the dildos she’s made for our guy.”  

“Had to track her down eventually,” Billy said, sipping his coffee, and then caught the way Harrington just bit his lips, his jaw tensing.

“Good job,” Billy told him, feeling a little...stupid, like he was praising a dog, but Harrington brightened, smirking up at him again.

Billy studied the printouts, as Harrington spun around on his chair, guzzling down coffee, and explaining his triumph.  “She says that photoshoot that had the Westboro Baptist Church up in arms?  Upcoming?  Get this,” he said, getting up to lean over Billy’s shoulder.  “—they’re pissed because our boy was staying at a hotel once with the new leader, Steven Drain.  He pretended to be maid service, snuck in, and took the guy’s wedding ring, and made it into a dildo.  He describes it as ‘surrounded by rainbow unicorn confetti and delicious queer flesh’.  Our victim stole his wedding ring,” Harrington cackled, beaming.  “I’m subscribing to his...everything.”

“Lemme see if any of these comments can be traced to Steven Drain,” Billy said, heading off to ask someone to do computer magic.  Steve hopped up and came with him, which was kinda weird, but it was nice to walk down a hall without people shoulder-slamming him like he wasn’t there.

  “Hate that he has my name,” Steve muttered, as they walked back.  “Drain’s got restraining orders for beating up and threatening two young teenagers his daughter talked to, it’s on the public record.  We could see what kinda injuries they had,” Harrington said.  “...imagine taking down the whole Westboro church.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice,” Billy laughed, dropping into his own chair as Harrington got more coffee, then called around and discovered the assailants had both been right-handed.

“Get this,” he said excitedly, “—Steven Drain is in town.  Gay soldier’s wedding, they’re planning to picket it and scream at his widower, you know, their whole thing, but he flew in the night before the assault.”

“We should talk to him,” Billy said, most of his brain on the photos of dildos and butt plugs.  

“Can’t we just drop a piano on him?” Steve muttered, and Billy snorted, flicking back through, and trying to figure out what was bugging him about the dildos.  There were lots of them, more than Billy’d seen in the victim’s room, and Billy stopped, squinting at his phone screen at one that looked like it was full of tiny antique coins.  “...wait,” he muttered.  “Where did you say she lived?  Dildo lady?”

“Upstate,” Harrington told him, blinking up at him, as he held his pen on the list of neighbors he’d called to ask whether they’d seen anyone that looked like Steven Drain.  

“I need to talk to Dildo Lady,” Billy announced, and Harrington blinked at him, then glanced at his screen and back to Billy, waiting.  “...we should go talk to her,” Billy amended, and Harrington grinned, grabbing his jacket.

“Should we talk to Drain first?” he asked, “—since he’s local?”

“Let’s wait and see the CSI reports,” Billy told him.  “We’ll be on a lot firmer ground if he clipped his nails after he clocked Ishaq Hill upside the head.”

“Hard to believe somebody that loud went down quietly,” Harrington said, nodding.  “There’ll probably be hair or something.  Even if he doesn’t wake up and tell us.  I called this morning—he’s out of danger, it sounds like,” he said, grimacing, and Billy nodded.

“Nice if we can tell him it’s all handled, though,” he said, and Harrington laughed.

“That’s a definite yep.”

 Billy led the way to the level where his car was parked, and then stopped. 

His car had dead rats on it.  He walked closer, and there was a scratch where somebody’d jimmied his window, and tossed more rats inside, and suddenly he longed for a drink.

“Shit,” Harrington said, putting an arm around his shoulders to steer him away, and whipping out his phone.  “Yeah, hey—”

“Stop,” Billy hissed, grabbing for it.  “You’ll just make it worse, don’t tell your fucking dad—”

“Wheeler,” Harrington said.  “Mmm, yeah, you know you said you had some CSI training to do?  I’ve got a, uh, little crime scene in the parking garage.  Could you get your most annoying rookie to come down and—yeah.  Yeah, blue Camaro, license plate PCE 235.”  He listened for a long second, and then thanked her again, tucking his phone away.  

“...shit,” Billy sighed, as Harrington manhandled him to a different car.  

To his relief, Harrington didn’t say anything sympathetic.  After a few minutes, driving at a snail’s pace through downtown traffic, he took a breath, and Billy’s hands twitched.  “Huh,” Harrington said, glancing down, and then biting his lips in a cartoonishly intent face.

“...jesus, just say whatever it is,” Billy told him, snorting a laugh, and sipping his coffee.

“Sorry your dad is a bastard asshole shithead,” Harrington said, wincing, and Billy choked again, coughing and spluttering coffee down his shirt, but he hadn’t been able to laugh about it before, ever, and it felt good, even if he tried to breathe coffee, and couldn’t stop coughing.  

When he could finally draw breath, he sighed contentedly, leaning his head against the window.  “...he is, isn’t he,” he said.

“He is, and so are most of the officers he came up from the academy with,” Steve said, clenching his hands on the steering wheel.  “My dad too.  He didn’t—ugh.”

“What?” Billy asked, curious, suddenly, about Steve Harrington, instead of just the commissioner’s son.  

“He didn’t want me to transfer,” Harrington muttered.  “He said Major Crimes doesn’t need the dead weight.  Hopper had to kinda go out on a limb.  I fuck up and I’m kicked all the way down to traffic, I think.”

The thought that the commissioner had stepped in to help Billy, Detective Neil Hargrove’s son, had gotten Billy through some long nights in rehab.  He drew a long breath, realizing he was even more alone than he’d thought.  “...shit,” he said softly.  His eyes stung.

“It’s fine,” Harrington said.  “Hopper’s got your back.  There are enough of us.  I’ll lean on Hagen some, I think I can talk him around.  It’s good you turned your dad in.  You did a good thing, and everybody shit on you for it,” he growled, glancing over.  “I’ve got your back.  Jesus, man, don’t cry.”

“It’s the pollen,” Billy said thickly.

“Yeah, sure.”

“I have hayfever,” Billy hissed at him, rubbing his face.

 The Dildo Lady looked about sixty, Pakistani probably, and wore a hijab.  Her name was Faiza Khalol, and she was delighted to tell them about her work.  

“Do you have any better pictures of these?” Billy asked her, showing her the one with the coins in it.  “Or could you describe them?”

She could, as it turned out—and even better, when she’d asked about them, Hill had given her one, and she handed Billy a tiny silver coin which, after some googling, he thought might be an Athenian drachma.

“Oh,” she whispered, her brows drawing together.  “Um, is it valuable?”

“I have no idea,” Billy told her, but flicked to another picture.  “But these are, I think.”  The clear butt-plug was full of greyish crystals, with a huge one where it would show.  

“I didn’t see these in his dresser,” Harrington said, leaning in warmly against him, and Billy annoyed himself by shivering.

“No.  These are uncut diamonds, I think.”  Faiza and Harrington gasped satisfyingly, and Billy grinned.  “Ishaq Hill stole more than a wedding ring, I think.  We’ve had the wrong motive.”

“Braxton Haglund guarded diamond mines,” Harrington breathed.  “He’d probably recognize them.  Did Ishaq post pictures with these?”

“He always put up pictures of my latest work,” Faiza said, covering her mouth in horror.  “Do you think…”

“I think we better talk to Braxton Haglund again,” Billy said, reveling in Harrington’s impressed grin. 

 “You’ve got duthing on be,” Haglund gasped, blowing his nose miserably.  “You gan’t brove I saw ‘s pictures.  You gan’t brove anything.”

Billy tried to parse that for a long second, and then, for Harrington, who looked bewildered, said, “Oh, that’s not all we have.  Have you wondered,” he said, turning to his partner, who grinned back, “—how anyone could come in to Ishaq Hill’s apartment, clonk him from behind with a dick sculpture, then search his apartment, and not notice he’d left chocolate heating on the stove?  Chocolate burns fast,” he said, raising his eyebrows at Haglund.  “How did you not notice the smell?”

“His hayfever,” Harrington breathed, his eyes widening at Billy as his cheeks flushed, and Haglund slammed his fist on the table, opened his mouth to yell, and then stopped to blow his nose, and sneeze.

“Also while you were waiting,” Billy told Haglind with satisfaction, “—we searched your apartment.  The warrant judge was convinced by our diamond-and-hayfever argument, and guess what we found?” 

Haglund’s eyes widened in horror, and his back thudded against his chair as Billy shot Harrington a grin, and Harrington smirked back.  “Good job framing a hate group for the crime,” Billy said, his grin widening, “—but why were Ishaq Hill’s dildos on the table in your front room?”

The other Harringrove April prompts I’ve done

[susandwrites]

Fallen Through Time - Chapter 9

Sherlock clapped his hands together and finally let a grin overtake him. “Four serial suicides —and this one’s left a note. It’s Christmas!” John snorted a little indignantly.

 “You could try to reign in your excitement,” he said. “It’s hardly proper.”

 “Ugh, proper —propriety is so…      dull    , John. Dull!” Sherlock nearly skipped a step or two and took up a brisk pace. “What’s the address?”

 Fumbling with the folder as he walked, John read, “Ah —number three, Lauriston Gardens. There’s a block of row houses there that have been condemned.” Sherlock spotted a cab coming down the road and threw his hand out with enthusiasm. He gave the address in a clear voice as he held open the door for John and his knee bounced with rapid excitement as they rode into Brixton.

 Lauriston Gardens was a large, u-shaped building complex in a clear state of dereliction. Broken windows, overgrown in moss and ivy, stared empty and threatening down at passers-by. But Sherlock leapt out of the cab as if it were the open arms of an old friend and, in a way, it was. A case — at last, a case! John slid out after him, barely a step behind.

 In Sherlock’s day, there would have been crime tape. But all that suggested a police presence now was a single bobby posted outside the main door. “Doctor Watson,” he acknowledged with a stiff nod, stepping aside to allow them inside. “Second floor, Doc.”

 “Cheers, Mackenzie,” John replied with a little salute.

 “Who’s this then?” Mackenzie asked curiously, giving Sherlock a once-over.

 “He’s with me,” John gave as his answer and Sherlock allowed a small, smug grin to slide over his face. “Dimmock’s just brought him on as a… ah…”

 “Consulting detective,” Sherlock supplied helpfully. With a little smile of his own, John nodded to Mackenzie and on into the foyer they went. Up two flights of stairs which wrapped around the columnar central corridor and to the open door of a flat that was filled with police officers and one dead body.

 Already, Sherlock’s mind was flying. People were traipsing all over the place, stepping over the body haphazardly and even nudging it with their boots, compromising the crime scene at every available moment. The sight of their bumbling made his skin crawl. “Everyone out!” he demanded in a clear voice, drawing dozens of irritated eyes to him.

 “And just who might you be?” asked a man near the body, his tone somewhere between annoyance and amusement.

 “Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective. I’m here on Detective Inspector Dimmock’s authority to investigate this murder.”

 “It’s obviously suicide,” said another, smaller man. Sherlock turned on him, his mood rapidly slipping downhill, and gave him his most imposing glare.

 “I would appreciate it if you would refrain from spewing stupidity while in my presence.”

 “Now, wait just a mo’,” said the first detective, flapping his hands in an attempt to calm everyone. “How do you      know     it’s murder?”

 “That,” Sherlock said simply, pointing to a place on the wall and all eyes followed his finger. There, scrawled across the peeling layers of plaster and wallpaper, was a single word written in blood:      Rache.  

 “A suicide note,” said the idiot. “People leave them all the time.”

 “But they don’t usually issue a painful, bloody demand for      revenge    , now do they?” Sherlock replied smugly. “I’ve read the file — Hanna Mayer, age twenty-nine, recently immigrated from Germany to take work as a seamstress, identified by a nosy neighbor this morning.”

 “And a small vial containing evidence of poison, but no signs of struggle,” said the first detective. “No sign of another person at all.” He shrugged. “Suicide.”

 “So it would seem,” Sherlock answered in a patronising tone.

 “Unless…” the detective mused, running his finger and thumb across his moustache, “unless someone forced her to take it herself.”

 Sherlock narrowed his eyes for a moment, staring intently at the detective. “What is your name?”

 “D.I. Gregson,” the man replied, extending a hand to Sherlock. “And this must be Doctor Watson,” he said, offering the same hand to John. “Dimmock’s mentioned you before.”

 “Gregson, you may prove not to be a complete idiot after all.” Sherlock stooped closer to the dead woman and said without glancing up, “Please see that these other people stop contaminating evidence.”

 With a small shrug that spoke volumes considering how short a time he had actually known Sherlock, John have Gregson a questioning look and the Inspector started ushering people from the tiny flat. As the door clicked shut behind the team of policemen, John knelt down next to Sherlock and joined in his investigation.

 “So what exactly are we doing here?” John asked in a low tone, gently examining Miss Mayer’s hands for signs of struggle; the beds of her fingernails were discoloured, but the only blood was her own. There was a plain gold hatpin in her right hand, the tip bloodied from where she had pricked her own finger to write the macabre message on the wall.

 “Proving a point,” said Sherlock, sniffing around her slackened mouth and nose. He gestured for John to do the same.      Garlic ‒ arsenic poisoning, then. A large dose, as well, to kill her so quickly.  

 “We’re supposed to be working to make rent,” John chastised without a trace of ire. “Arsenic?”

 Sherlock shrugged. “This is more fun.”

 “Fun?” Now John’s tone was a little incredulous. “There’s a woman lying dead.”

 “Perfectly sound analysis, Doctor, but I was hoping you’d go deeper.” They exchanged a heated look, but the door creaked open and Gregson re-entered the room.

 “Well? What have you got? I can’t keep them at bay for much longer.”

 Sherlock stood upright and made a final lap around the prone form on the dingy floor. “As you say, Inspector, someone likely forced her to take the poison. No signs of struggle, so more likely the killer      convinced    her to do it. But he didn’t stay to observe her dying, or she wouldn’t have been able to write the note. Something drew him back outside….” Sherlock trailed off thoughtfully.

 “Why would someone do that? Take poison and kill themselves all on someone else’s word?” Gregson mused.

 “Revenge?” John put forth, gesturing toward the bloodied wall.

 “Yes,” Sherlock agreed, “but not toward her ‒ that’s not why she’s dead. That’s what she wants. She came up here, resigned to her fate, and is asking for revenge on her killer.” Sherlock looked up and met John’s eye with a weighty expression. “I think we can oblige her request, can we not?”

 “Too right.” John nodded solemnly.

 “All of the victims were found in a similar state, yes?” Sherlock demanded of Gregson. “Alone, in an abandoned area, dead by poison ingestion?” Gregson nodded. “And nothing else in common. Different ages, genders, nationalities, days of the week, times of day ‒ a series of crimes of opportunity.” Sherlock drummed his fingers against this lips as he began to pace. “Generally speaking, serial killers require attention, accolades ‒ there is      something     that connects the victims and they tend to escalate the frequency of the killings as the addiction overtakes them. But      this    … this is different. The killer is selecting people almost completely at random, except that they are alone. Calm… calculating… not driven by the urge to kill, but by something else entirely.” His eye landed on Ms. Mayer’s right hand, but not to the hatpin fallen from her grasp, but to an impressive ring which had no bearing on her death. He stooped and slipped it from her finger, examining the not-inconsiderable pearl set in gold.      An heirloom, given the simplicity of her other accoutrements. Surely something she would want back…    .

 “What are you going to do with that, then?” John asked as Sherlock tucked the ring safely into the pocket which would normally carry a watch and buttoned it closed.

 With a cheerful little pat of the pocket, Sherlock replied, “I’m going to smoke out a murderer.”

 “With a woman’s ring?” Gregson questioned as Sherlock strode toward the door, John just behind.

 “Don’t concern yourself, Gregson, it will all become clear in due course,” Sherlock assured the detective.

 “Thank you, Gregson.” John offered him a polite little doff of the cap as he stepped out into the corridor. Struck by an impulse he’d never felt before, Sherlock turned and gave the Inspector a similar gesture, though he wore no hat. He had been far more polite in the past two days than he ever had been in his life ‒ his nose wrinkled. That would undoubtedly be John’s influence.

 They retraced their steps, winding down the central staircase and through the throng of curious policemen. A cursory wave at Mackenzie and they were back on Brixton Road, walking briskly in the general direction of Vauxhall. Dusk was rapidly falling and Sherlock wrapped his coat more tightly around himself.

 Without any warning, John’s hand flew out, grapsed Sherlock by the elbow, and nearly flung him against a the wall of a narrow alley. Before Sherlock could so much as gasp in protest, John was pressed full and firm against him from hips to lips, and Sherlock surrendered immediately.

 It was so similar, in a way, to their first kiss just yesterday.      Yesterday ‒ that was ages ago.     Squeezed against one another in a darkening alley. Frankly, Sherlock hoped it would become a pattern. But it was also very different. There was no hesitation, not from him, certainly not from John. No startled pull-back, no concerned expression. Only John’s fierce assault on Sherlock’s lips.

 His tongue swept into Sherlock’s mouth, deep and sure, and he threaded the fingers of one hand in Sherlock’s hair, keeping them pressed together. Sherlock groaned, his own hands tangling in John’s coat lapels. When John shifted his stance, pressing his groin against the hard plane of Sherlock’s thigh, Sherlock’s head fell back with a soft      thump     against the brick.

 “You were brilliant,” John whispered roughly in his ear, drawing a shiver as his beard brushed against the sensitive skin of Sherlock’s neck. “Truly. Amazing.” He rolled his hips, just a little, and Sherlock felt the length of his erection against him. A wanton moan escaped Sherlock’s throat and John cut the sound off with another deep kiss. “Sshh,” he said against Sherlock’s mouth. “We’re practically in the street.”

 “Then you’d better stop doing that ‒      oh    ,” Sherlock bit his lip as John maniacally writhed against him again.

 “I’d really rather not,” he murmured, his tongue darting out to the place behind Sherlock’s ear.

 “Then you’d better take me home.” Sherlock dropped his hand to John’s waist and slipped his long fingers into the band of his trousers. “I don’t fancy Gregson being forced to arrest us for indecency.” John uttered a deep chuckle, nipped deliciously at Sherlock’s neck one more time, and took a step back. With an obnoxious level of calm, John straightened Sherlock’s jacket. Sherlock himself was feeling rather breathless and he was sure he looked wrecked. He couldn’t be arsed to care.

 The cab ride back to Baker Street was interminable. Sherlock could not bear to so much as look at John, so keyed up was he with arousal. Finally —      finally    , the black door was before them, shining in the bright lamplight.

 They were hardly inside the foyer before they were upon each other again. There was a flurry of hands pulling at coats, knees knocking as the two of them struggled up the stairs, reluctant to stop kissing a second time.      God, he smells amazing. How can he smell so wonderful ‒ aren’t people supposed to stink these days?     But stink, John did not. He smelled of pipe tobacco and castille soap and black tea and      John     ‒ something indescribable that shot straight to Sherlock’s groin.

 Somehow, they made it up the stairs just as John managed to undo all of the buttons on Sherlock’s waistcoat. John’s was more stubborn and Sherlock let out a frustrated growl, nearly ripping at the fabric in his desperation to see and touch and smell as much of John as possible. Finally, John put a firm hand on Sherlock’s chest and pushed him backward, just a step or two. “Undress,” he ordered in a low tone and Sherlock immediately hopped to. His hands were steadier on his own clothes and he was actually able to      see     John as he stripped. John shucked his coat and jacket, nimbly undid his waistcoat and dropped it to the floor. Sherlock found that his hands were moving in near mirror to John’s, unable to think for themselves.

 When at last John had shed his trousers, shirt, and vest, standing in only his thin linen pants, Sherlock was panting. With far less grace than he usually managed, Sherlock stepped out of his own stiff wool trousers and stood upright, chest flushed as he took John in. He was magnificent ‒ truly ‒ strong and firm, broader than he appeared and trim despite his long retirement from military service. And he held himself with such confidence that Sherlock wanted little more than to sink to his knees and swallow him down.

 But it was John who moved first. “Come here,” he growled, stepping forward and clasping Sherlock’s jaw in both hands as he took his mouth in a searing kiss. Sherlock could only utter a desperate      unf     as he finally,      finally    , laid his hands on John’s body. Sherlock had never been so unable to find his words in his life, only managing to make frankly embarrassing little whines as John’s mouth moved across his jaw to nip at his clavicle. John pressed his hips against Sherlock’s until his knees hit the low sofa and they fell onto it in a delicious tumble of limbs. Laid back across the cushions, Sherlock let his legs fall open and John immediately lowered himself fully against him. His hands ran the length of John’s rolling shoulders, slipped into the band of his pants, and tugged them away. John sat back, shoved the fabric down as far as he was able, then pulled Sherlock’s obscenely-modern boxer-briefs over his own hips. “I quite like these,” he said, leaning forward to lick a stripe up Sherlock’s pectoral muscle. “They leave very little to the imagination.”

 “I prefer things this way,” Sherlock breathed, canting his hips upward until their erections brushed against one another, drawing twin moans from the two of them.

 “Hmm,” John sighed, his head dipping as he rolled his hips against Sherlock again, “I’m inclined to agree with you at the moment.” John’s tongue flicked out and teased at Sherlock’s left nipple before he continued in an awed tone, “Jesus Christ I could stare at you for      days    .” Sherlock’s head fell back against the armrest and he thrust his hips upward again, trying desperately to feel more of John’s hot, hard length against his own.

 “If you don’t stop talking and fuck me ‒” he growled.

 “Then what?” John was smirking. Sherlock’s cock twitched at the sight.

     “Then I will.”  

 “Noted.” At last, John stopped mucking about. He reached between them and took Sherlock’s cock in a firm grasp and gave him a few swift pumps. Sherlock’s eyes slammed shut and he let out an obscene moan and John did not stifle him this time.      “Jesus…”     John whispered, his eyes glued to Sherlock’s erection in his hand, growing impossibly harder by the second and glistening with arousal. Placing his other hand on Sherlock’s hip for balance, John shifted until his cock slipped into the crook of Sherlock’s groin, pressed firmly between his thigh and his throbbing erection. “Ah ‒      fuck!”     John hissed as he slid, wet and heated, against Sherlock’s flesh. He switched hands, his left taking hold of Sherlock’s length, thumb swirling over the head, and his right pulling Sherlock’s knee up toward his chest.

 At the tighter contact, Sherlock forced his eyes open, desperate to watch John as he came.      “Fuck, yes, John!”     He wrapped his fingers in John’s hair so tight that he thought he might pull the strands out by the root. His arousal spiraled hard and fast and suddenly he was coming as hard as he ever had over John’s fingers.

 His face contorted in ecstasy, John uttered an animalistic growl as his thrusts became frantic. His fingers dug bruisingly hard into Sherlock’s thigh and he came with a low,      “Fuckfuckjesusfuck.”      Sherlock moaned as he felt John spill across his hip and stomach and it took all his effort not to lie back and writhe wantonly against him. But he’d wanted to see and      God     had John been magnificent.

 John’s forehead landed on Sherlock’s sternum with a soft      thump     and his panting breaths puffed out across his rapidly cooling skin. His arm was still holding Sherlock’s knee over his shoulder and the gentle stretch in the tendon there was just enough to keep him grounded. He desperately wanted a smoke, but settled for dragging his fingers through John’s hair and taking as deep a breath as possible. The room positively swam with the odour of them and it left him more light-headed than before.

 After what felt an eternity and no time at all, John heaved himself off of Sherlock’s chest and sat back on his heels. “God,” he huffed, a relaxed and contented expression washing over his face, “that’s fantastic.” He ran his hands over his bearded cheeks and let out a satisfied puff of breath.

 “Do you know you do that out loud?”

 “Sorry, I’ll be quiet,” John replied, his cheeks reddening just a little.

 “No it’s… fine.” Sherlock offered him a lazy little grin and John grinned back

Full Work

[all-my-novels]

BLOODY SUNDAY: Chapter 2

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Chapter Two: Devil in the Church

The following Sunday service began at the usual 9:15. Jethro woke up well before that time, groomed his fur and made sure everything was in place. He sat on the sink in one of the men’s bathrooms of the general store’s staff water closet carefully as he got cleaned up. Church was an important part of his life. He always wanted -- no, needed to look his best for every service. If he was going to be in the presence of God, he was damn well going to be well-groomed.

Jumping down from the creamy ceramic surface, Jethro padded out of the bathroom and into the dimly-lit store. Many of the stores in the small town chose to remain closed during the day of rest.  The general store would open after church, when the sun reached the highest point in the sky. Clearing his thoughts with the shake of a head, Jethro sneezed and made his way toward the cat flap. Giving way to the pressure of his forehead, the plastic door creaked. He stilled at the sound of a voice.

"Hey Jethro, wait up."

Channary’s tail stuck straight up as she came from behind the service counter, bumping heads with her brother. A surprised meow sprang from his throat before his eyes lit up in recognition. Channary rarely came to church with him and when she did, it was never of her own doing. She even cringed during special occasions, when the entire town pressured her into making an appearance. Since she was up at such an early hour, it could only mean she planned on attending morning service with him.

"Coming with me today , little lady?" Jethro purred. His cheeky sister snorted in response.

"Oh, Jethro, we both know I'm no lady." She brushed past him, tail higher in the air. "Something compelled me last night to go to church this morning, so I’ve decided not to ignore it. Daisy's real big into following what your gut tells you -- it's apparently a witch thing."

"Well, whatever urged you to come with me must be a good thing." Jethro said,pushing his way through the cat flap and into the brisk morning air.

Fog loomed above the ground of the quaint seaside town. It rolled in off of the water and coated Newsworth in a thick, almost suffocating cloud. It did not bother the cats because they weren’t required to drive around in it. Cats could easily go anywhere get where they needed to on paw. The only time fog posed a bit of trouble was for the hunting feline, but nothing too serious. If Jethro needed to work a case, the dense, opaque mist could interrupt a crime scene. Sometimes it could get rid of important evidence like the scent of a killer. It would not pose a problem for a mundane task such as walking to church.

A perk of living in a small town was being in close proximity to most of the places they needed to get to. The church was less than half a mile from the general store. Jethro and Channary made their way across the short distance in no time. It did not appear as though any other cats had arrived yet. The Holy Church of Cats held service in close proximity to the human church in a small clearing, but it was shrouded in fog. Jethro figured they had roughly thirty minutes before the reverend and fellow church members showed up to start the lecture.

"Do you want to go inside the human church and see if we can catch any mice?" He asked, turning to Channary. His little sister nodded in excitement and the tip of her tail quivered. The two cats retraced their steps back to the front of the human church.

Jethro’s dark nose twitched.  His thin, white whiskers flicked when he cautiously put a paw on the front step. The all-too familiar scent of fear, pain and suffering met his nose. A cat's coppery blood intertwined with the distinct scent of death. He froze and the fur along his muscled shoulders started to rise. Channary stilled beside him, tilted her head and leaned in towards her brother. Curiosity etched into her delicate features.

"What's wrong?" She asked.

"Can't you smell it?" Jethro's ears pressed against his skull in distress. His tail stayed low to the ground and lashed back and forth as he faced his sister. "That's cat's blood... something's not right."

"I can barely see or smell anything over this stupid fog," Channary complained, lifting her head and opening her mouth in an attempt to catch the elusive scent. "You should go check it out if you want. I'll stay down here but call me if you get into any trouble, okay?" Her tone was light, but her eyes glistened with worry.

Jethro did not have to be told twice. Bounding up the stairs, he stopped right in front of the heavy wooden doors marking the entrance of the church. The closer he got to the source of the smell, the easier it became to see who the blood belonged too.

Stretched out on the cement was a large, black tomcat with green eyes, opened wide with terror, claws outstretched. The blood that insulted Jethro’s sense of smell came from a shredded gash in the deceased cat’s throat. Based on the expertly shredded incision point, there was no doubt in his mind that an experienced killer did the job. The fairly clean site puzzled him. Jethro assumed the crime scene would be a bloody mess, what with the distinct scent of blood poisoning the air. A slaying of this type should have left a lot of blood.

The poor tom’s mouth was twisted in a snarl, evidence he likely went down fighting. Between his claws were tufts of black fur, and Jethro suspected it belonged to the perpetrator. The tabby leaned over, sniffing at the dead cat's mouth to see if he'd bitten his killer and gotten more of his scent. No such luck. He either hadn't bitten his attacker or the fog got rid of what little scent may have originally been there.

"Channary," Jethro called from the top of the steps. "We've got a middle-aged dead tom up here. Solid black and the throat's shredded."

"Want me to get the chief?" Channary asked. Jethro could barely see the silhouetted outline of her body against the fog.

"Help me move him, first," Jethro replied. "We need to get his body out of sight before the humans get here before some good Samaritan takes it upon himself to bury the body."

Channary bounded up the steps behind him. Jethro leaned over and grabbed the tom's scruff. He kept careful watch  of his paws to make sure he didn’t disturb any evidence as he moved the body. Channary helped support the bottom half of the tom's body.  With expert practice, the siblings moved in a series of coordinated steps, while they carried the deceased to some nearby bushes. The low branches would conceal the corpse from prying human eyes, until the medical examiner could retrieve evidence from the body. It was a shame they couldn’t preserve evidence at the scene of the crime but they had to work with what they had.

"I'll stay with the body, you go get the chief," Jethro told her. "I'm going to warn the reverend and everyone else. We should probably hold the service somewhere else this morning or hold it off for now. The smell of death is terrible around here." He still hadn't dropped his hackles. It felt as if danger was all around him, lingering like an oppressive cloud.

"Are you sure? You look pretty strung up," Channary chimed in cautiously.

"Just go-” Jethro said with narrowed his eyes. “-you're faster than me and I need to be here to warn everyone. What if the killer comes back, Chan?"

A lifetime of working carved well-defined muscles into Jethro. It would take a lot to bring him down. If he did have to fight, it would definitely draw a lot of attention from outside sources. The knowledge did not make him feel any safer. His whiskers continued to tremble with shock after coming across a body left in such a holy place.

As Channary disappeared into the fog, Jethro lowered his head to inspect the body further. He wanted to figure out who the mystery tom was before him. There was something oddly familiar about the dead cat but Jethro couldn’t put a name to the cat until he crouched down at eye level.  Alarm filled him and familiarity struck him hard.

"Tom-Tom!" He cried aloud.

No wonder he'd somewhat recognized the victim. A distinguished member of the church, Tom-Tom had been an attending member since he was a kitten. Jethro saw him sing in the choir along with a handful of other cats every Sunday.  The revelation caused Jethro's claws to sink into the leaves littering the ground underneath the bushes. Bile rose in his throat and he swallowed hard, abandoning the shelter of bushes. He desperately looked around for any sign of other cats.

Through the fog, Jethro saw the small form of Reverend Luke running across the church lawn with Polly close at his heels. It was her first time back to Sunday service since her kittens were born. Jethro hated to have to ruin their day with such horrible circumstances. Accompanying them were a few church choir members, chattering amongst each other. Jethro wondered if they were discussing Tom-Tom's absence. The cat made a point of being very punctual, arriving at the church right on time every morning. Technically, he'd been punctual that morning as well, but in a different way.

Before the other cats got too close to the body, Jethro sprung out of the bushes and raced over towards them. Luke looked a bit surprised to see him out of breath but greeted him with the usual warmth

"Jethro, it's so good to see you," he purred. "Have you been out running?"

"Yes, but I'm not the only one out of breath, Reverend," Jethro said, panting as he tried to catch his breath. "Something terrible has happened... Channary and I have found a body." There was a collective gasp from the assembled churchgoers. "I'm afraid it's one of our own."

"Who?" Luke asked, owl-like eyes growing even wider as he listened to his friend explain who and what he found. Jethro hung his head, halfway expecting one of the choir members to lash out at him for the answer.

"Tom-Tom." Another collective gasp met with a few desperate wails. Tom-Tom's mother was one of the choir singers. Jethro approached the small ginger tabby solemnly. "I'm terribly sorry you had to find out like this, Minerva. Channary and I only found him about fifteen minutes ago."

Unable to respond with her words, the elderly queen wailed out with misery. She turned to one of the other cats and buried her face in their shoulder. Turning back toward Luke, Jethro said, "I'm afraid we'll have to hold the service elsewhere. This will be considered a crime scene once Channary comes back with the chief. We have to keep it sectioned off to save evidence."

Luke nodded wearily. "I understand, Jethro. We will stay out of your way. May God bless you." He wrapped his tail around Polly, who looked distraught as she leaned against him. The couple took their time to make personal connections with each and every one of the church members. The death of Tom-Tom was hitting them hard. A murder so close to home upset Jethro as well, but he wanted to make the job easier on his favorite reverend.

"Listen, Luke -- you can use the general store for the service today if you'd like," Jethro said. "Cody doesn't mind us coming in and you know how he loves the animals. As long as you keep out of the humans' way, no one will bother you. I just want to make sure you're all safe." He stepped forward to give Luke a gentle lick on the ear in an attempt to show solidarity. "It's the least I can do."

"Thank you very much, that should be sufficient," Luke said with a sigh. "Can we wait at the front so all of the members may go together? I don't want to leave anyone out."

"Of course. If I find any stragglers I'll send them your way." A flick of the tail signaled Jethro's approval, and Luke nodded, murmuring a few words into Polly's ear before leading the rest of the group to the church's driveway. Sadly, Jethro noticed how low to the ground Tom-Tom's mother seemed to be as he watched them leave. He couldn't imagine what it would be like to lose a child. It was a reality all cats were forced to face and with a jolt, he realized Luke must be facing the same reality. Jethro flattened his ears and looked back in the direction of the bushes.

Whatever it took, Jethro silently promised he would find the bastard who committed such a horrible crime. This particular attack did not affect only Tom-Tom and his mother. It affected the entire church community and became personal to Jethro. The only question on his mind was if he would be able to find the killer before the killer found his next victim.