2018-03-17 Let the bodies hit the ground

Ofc. Shackleford is talking to another uniformed officer, a middle aged black man who looks like he's about three times Catherine's size but unlike a lot of officers he also looks very very fit. His name tag proclaims him to be officer Brown. "Anyway, Ryan Clay, 22, white male wearing a black polo shirt, jearns. Brown hair brown eyes, five ten and one seventy. THe girlfriend, Vanessa Minarik, sent me a picture. Tonight's wonder of wonders." Ofc. Shackleford pulls out her phone and forward the picture she was sent. "I've searched the alleys, checked the car, it's still there and the meter was fed about an hour ago."

Richard fits only a few qualities as mentioned by Officer Shackleford, but hears none of them as he continues along the sidewalk. He seems to be in route to the standing position of the aforementioned as well as Officer Brown. He looks up only to confirm that there are humanoid shapes that are sharing the sidewalk with him. He moves to step around them, at first, except when he recognizes one of them. He closes his Uber app, and slips it into the pocket of his suit jacket.

Ofc. Shackleford spots Richard, she's been, as most officers do, looking aroudn even while talking to keep track of who's nearby and what's going on. "Mr.Cromwell," she greets the plainly dressed man. "How are you this evening?" ooc sorry, had to go run and find a bandaid. ;p dut my thumb and didn't want to bleed on the computer.

A coincidence that Officer Shackleford addresses him, as Richard appears interested in having initiated conversation. "Officer Shackleford," he responds, "I am well. Out past curfew, I am afraid." He takes two steps closer to cover a conversational gap without invading hers and Officer Brown's personal space. "I did not expect to run into you on the street sometime after midnight."

Brown has a fine poker face. He just stands there with a polite expression on. Catherine shrugs in answer, however. "Glad to hear you're well. You would happen to have seen this young man?" SHe shows a picture on her phone of the young man in question with his girl friend standing in front of one of the clubs, in line, waiting to get in. "He was last seen over by Club Xyomix about,' she checks her watch. "About 2 hours ago now."

"I have not," replies Richard, spending all of two seconds looking at the picture on Catherine's phone. For extra measure, he checks to confirm whether or not he recognizes the woman as well. The look on his face suggests that he does not. He then looks to the woman before he says, "But it should not take long for him to be found."

"One can hope," Ofc. Shackleford semi-agrees. ANything more she might have said is interrupted by a scream of terror: high pitched, piercing, at the top of some girl's lungs. The scream hasn't faded out before Brown and Shackleford are running in that direction. Brown has good lungs too. "OUT OF THE WAY! POLICE!" His voice is, as one would expect from such a big man, deep, and with the force of adrenalin powering it, quite loud.

So they declare, so also shall Richard comply. The decibel level of Brown is quite substantial as he announces himself and Shackleford. Both the high-pitched scream and bellowing do nothing to Richard's countenance, other than causing his eyes to squint as he tries to determine the destination that the police are headed for. In the interest of being a Good Samaritan, he follows after them with a comfortable gait. Thanks to inattentive deafness and compassion fatigue, people seem to ignore him. Not being a police officer responding to trouble also helps.

It's not a long run. THere's a small crowd, five or eight people gathered in a loose circle and unable to look away from a form crumpled on the ground. A trail of blood, a lot of blood, leads a dozen or so yards up the street. The young man on the ground, guts spilled out in a pool of his blood is the same as in the picture Shackleford showed RIchard not two minutes before.

Brown and Shackleford push through the bystanders, and stop, and look down on the scene. "Well...I guess Mr Cromwell was right," Catherine says to Brown. "It didn't take long to find him."

In short order, the crowd of five to eight people will have a plus one. Perhaps Richard changed his walk to a run. Did anyone notice? Not with a grisly murder scene. He stands in the crowd behind those assembled, looking at the crumpled form as well as the trail of blood. His lips draw into a thin line, his attention focused on the body.

Ofc. Shackleford gets on the radio and calls it in while Brown moves the lookie looos back and starts getting names and contact information. A young man comes hurrying up from the direction of the blood trail, toward the officers. "Hey, I found this," he says, shoving it at Catherine. She reaches out, by reflex to take it. "Cra...." she bites off the expletive. "Sgt Brown. I need an evidence bag." Her tone is mild but the exagerated patience shows her annoyance as she stands there holding a bloody knife. It's rudely made, little more than a roughly sharpened bar of copper, apparently. "You," she tells the young man, "Stand there," when he starts to back away.

As a good-willed member of the lookie-loos, Richard backs up so that he does not get trampled with the rest of the crowd. He is distinctly attuned to the situation unfolding. While everyone's posture and voice appears affected by the grisly scene, he simply takes his steps and remains silent. When the young man proffers what could be a murder weapon, his eyes follow the exchange as well as the one that has given the gift. Some assumptive calculations in his mind suggest that he casually put himself between the young man and the street, should he decide to violate Catherine's command.

Brown holds out a largish ziplock bag he's pulled from a pouch on his belt. Catherine drops the blade into it and Brown seals it, both officers giving the young man the stink-eye. Catherine pulls a packet of wipes out of a pouch on her belt, extracts one and starts wiping the blood off her hands. "Now then....let me get your name, address and phone number," she tells him. She nods a thank you at Richard, noticing where he's put himself. "I'll need your contact information as well, sir," she tells Richard. She doesn't use his name, not in front of others, it's not hers to give out if she can help it. Hands cleaned, she pulls out a pad and starts jotting down the information the kid is stammering at her.

Richard waits patiently for his turn to disclose information. He remains in place, looking over the rest of those assembled and listening to the murmurings going on. He returns his attention to the Officer and the young man as he gives his information, arms at his sides. No reaching for his cell phone. No documenting of a murder scene in the presence of two uniformed police officers. He would call for emergency services, except that Brown has already spoken to the radio extender on his shoulder. He simply... waits.

Ofc. Shackleford takes Richard's information next. "Thank you," she tells him for standing behind the kid. When the information is recorded she says, "And again, thank you. And thank you for your patience. You're free to go, of course. And of course it's possible, probable, a detective will contact you for a statement. I hope it's not too much of an inconvenience. ANd please, do not discuss this with the press or post anything about it on social media." Brown is busy supervising the deletion of pictures from the gathered millenials' cell phones, frowning as they whine at him. "You can delete them or I can impound the phones as evidence," he's telling them.

Richard is very exact in his sharing of personal information. "My name is Courtney Richard Cromwell," he says to Officer Shackleford. "In a lot of my official correspondence, I abbreviate my first name and go by Richard." He carefully reaches into his suit jacket to retrieve a card case, making sure that his movements are so deliberate she can ascertain he is not withdrawing a weapon. He clicks open the case, and retrieves the business card therein. He offers it to her as he explains, "For example." He continues with his address at 401 Vallarta Terrace. "The phone number listed on my business card is a Google Voice number. It is registered to my email address, which you also have." He then offers, "You first saw me leaving the Gaslamp District at 12:09 AM, moments before a loud and piercing scream. I followed you to the crime scene."

Ofc. Shackleford takes the card with a murmured thank you. "Of course, and thank you, sir," she says. "I'll note all that in my report. You are not under any suspicion, but the detectives like to be thorough." By this time the flashing lights of the coroner's van and a police car for the forensics team can be seen down the street, approaching. "They may ask you to come into the police department for an interview or they may just interview you on the phone. And," she digs in a pocket and comes out with a card case of her own. "Please call me if you have any questions or think of anything that may have bearing on the case. My email is there as well if that's ore convenient for you." Ofc. Shackleford glances at Brown. He's still questioning one of the group, one of the young women. he sees Catherine looking at him and she mouths screamer. He indicates another of the young women with his chin. She's clinging to one of the guys, probably her date, face a mess, mascara run from tears, makeup smeared. Catherine nods her way in answer to Richard's question. "Why do you ask?"

"Because she is the first person to publicly identify the victim," Richard replies. "I stepped out of the Gaslamp Square at 12:09 AM. Very shortly afterward, you showed me the picture of a young man that I did not recognize. Two minutes later, all of us heard the scream that brings us to the victim that matches the description in the picture you shared with me." He tucks his business card case away as he adds, "I find that data points are very helpful for problem-solving. I was helping to frame the information I have so that I may share it with you. It may be valuable as you scope your window of opportunity for the investigation."

Ofc. Shackleford listens, carefully. She doesn't answer for a long minute or two. "That is very astute of you," she tells Richard. The coroner's van and the forensics team are here now, and the crime scene people are putting up police tape and the photographer is taking pictures. "I'll make sure to point her out to the detectives, along with the time line. I'm sure they'll find it helpful."

Richard offers some semblance of a smile. It's perfunctory at best. "I am glad that you found my observations helpful. I am very certain your forensics team will have more exact metrics with their tools, and whichever unit takes this case will be armed with the knowledge necessary to investigate and arrest." He didn't even indicate which unit. Homicide? Gang? Organized Crime? "If there's nothing else I can do for you at this time, it may be best if I allow you to continue the maintenance of crowd control and reassuring the public. They need you."

fade out