Realistic or Modern 𝕋𝐇𝐄 𝔻𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐋 𝕐𝐎𝐔 𝕂𝐍𝐎𝐖 { IC }

[celadon.]

ELISE ADAMS
TO TAKE COUNSEL
tags: erzulie mourning star .V1LLAINISM._ BELIAL. elytra Ha_lfLife idiot aeneas.
location: atchison police department -> nick and ruth's family diner
company: lily, dorothy, calista, richie, wayne, sam, beaufort
content warnings: addiction, dry heaving (??)

EARLIER
Atchison Police Department
Atchison, Kansas

The deputy that came to question her was this towering young man with blond-white eyelashes and a square face. He looked like a soldier doll for boys.

Elise sat with her arms guarding her body, nails of one hand dragging the skin of her hipbone. He said: “You wanna tell me what you’re thinkin’?”

She was thinking about the vial of cocaine that she’d let fall in the trash somewhere along the street outside. It'd been a while since she'd had to make talk with the police, so: the ire it could bring? Official charges? Not, perhaps, the deciding difference between an actual life and years of imprisonment, but: back-road town like this, they all had done it, all probably had some in their work lockers even, but hold up so much as a clear bag of baby aspirin and they’d try and snipe you for a day or two. Of course they would. They'd love to. But then they’d maybe convince themselves they were real cops and detain everyone else and that’s too much trouble and she didn’t need her new friends to hate her guts more than she guessed they already did.

But then they never searched her at all. So every part of her then required it like she hadn’t in days, weeks. Maybe months? And finding some blame in the man she saw if she couldn’t kill him with her thoughts alone. Like that might provide a high in substitution, something similarly spiky and motorizing and hot hot hot. She started to steam in that chair almost as if by the force of that effort.

“Tell me about those people you run with.”

Nothing. Self-important nothing if not for the anger of: why not just stash it in your shoe? Why the fuck did you do that?

“This’ll go a lot easier for ya, and all your friends also, if you talk to me.”

Death glare. You didn’t have to do that. “Constitution says I don’t have to say a word to you.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah, and I know you know that.”

“And what part of the Constitution would say that?”

Think about it. Was that not an entire paycheck or two you just dumped? “The important part.”

“The important part, huh?”

“I know my rights, and if I don’t know them, then fucking arrest me. But I’m not engaging in friendly camaraderie with you.”

“Keep acting like this and don’t be surprised if we make that happen for ya.”

How are you even gonna find it?

“Okay,” and she coughed.

The circuits you made around that dirty little hovel in those flat shoes. And you threw it away.

“Don’t be surprised. What, you uncomfortable?”

“Nah. I came in here giving myself permission to try and waste every precious second of your time, and that’s really relaxed me.”

“Some good people died today and you’re being humorous about it.”

“Well, we called to get you over there and nobody was on the line. No one. We had to be the ones to respond so that he wouldn’t leave the house with that big gun he was carrying. Unarmed, regular people. So I think I'll treat you as serious as I think you deserve.”

“You really want to obstruct a murder investigation, ma'am? Is that really what ya wanna do now?”

“You got him!" and when she said this she turned her head away very quickly, as if she were blinded with bright light. "You got the boy. Case is closed. Congratulations and you’re welcome. We’ve done nothing but help you already, man. And I have nothing to give you, so... dwell on that in your mind if you’d like. But we’re done.”

Then she just sat off and drew her tongue along her gumline, giving the closest corner of that room a visible joke of an inspection. After a while the deputy got up and with some select words, chosen very especially to cut, he left.

***

They tried again with a few more faces of escalating age and seriousness but they could not really get anything out of her. So they sent her out into the hall.

Orange fake wood like a school or a family home. The line between small-town police and real police had only infrequently been set anywhere so absolute. Elise stopped for a minute on this: maybe nothing really happened here after all, maybe it was unfair to yeah yeah yeah, no.

She waited another minute that there might be some additional step she’d be asked to take in her debriefing. There wasn’t though so she took a step, and another step, and there was that not-a-cop from before at the end of the hall, halved by where the wall cornered and opened out, and there was another deputy walking by who Elise either saw or imagined as having the red outer-edge of a washed-away bloodstain remaining on his hands, and then she was suddenly aware of all the cops around her then, maybe all of them with washed-up hands and dizzy heads full of murder. And before she knew it she was waylaid, forward on an axis dry heaving so hard she feared, though her mind ran ahead of words and concepts, that she might turn totally altogether inside-out.

Nothing to reject - she hadn’t eaten in days. Just there bent over tearing herself apart. Everyone up and down the building had to be hearing it. The sound.

Another deputy, pudgy with a moustache, stepped up behind her and, after a period of some reluctance - of him and everyone looking at this woman gagging so hard in the hall that what if she was dying? - reached out for her shoulder, asking

“Are you okay, Mi-?”

and so promptly, before he was even done speaking, she flew around and batted his hand away so immediately and aggressively that it hit the deputy in his own face.

“DO NOT FU-” and she heaved again. “DO NOT FUCKING DO THAT. DON’T YOU FUCKING TOUCH ME.”

“You just-”

“FUCKING FASCIST. YOU THINK YOU CAN MANHANDLE ME?”

“YOU JUST ASSAULTED A POLI-”

“YOU THINK YOU’RE GONNA MANHANDLE ME? YOU THINK YOU’RE GONNA PUT YOUR HANDS ON ME? EAT MY FU-” and she heaved again. “EAT MY F-FUCKING SHIT. YOU DON’T EVEN HAVE THE AUTHORITY TO DO THAT. YOU HA-” and she heaved again.

Now the deputy was yelling so loud it threatened to rip his moustache off: “H-HOW WOULD YA FEEL ABOUT A NIGHT BEHIND BARS?”

“I RECOGNIZE NO AUTHORITY OF YOURS TO FUCKING TOUCH ME LIKE THAT. OVER HERE, THIS MAN JUST FUCKING TOUCHED ME. FUCKING FA-” and she heaved again. “FASCIST. FASCIST. YOU’RE A FUCKING INSECT. I’M GOING NOW,” and she started stamping away, all wobbly-stepping with the psychic weight of that afternoon.

“You’re not going anywhere. You just assaulted a police officer,” and he started after her.

And some other officer held up an arm to his chest, like: let her go. She’s not... you know.

And the deputy knew.

PRESENTLY
Nick and Ruth’s Family Diner
Atchison, Kansas

The tube-lit diner was clean and real and shiny, with a white ceiling and no dust anywhere. And when Elise threw a look across the table at Warwick she saw no one other. And when she threw a look to the other table, to Sam, she saw no one other. Run out and away. That space in her mind now closed. Leaving behind just a young people party with whipped-cream drinks, like a child’s birthday, and also a house with caved-in heads lying about. That would always have caved-in heads lying about.

No cocaine. She'd emptied the trash out all over the sidewalk and got down on her knees in it. Mostly takeout foam cups and food and little spiders. She made herself smelly. It just wasn't there. She had let out this strange bubbling sound that was nearly a cry, but not, and then the rest caught up with her and she had to go. Before they directly saw anything.

Like a burnt-out car. Sitting on her off-ankle she let her leg hang outside, foot tap the tile with a constancy. Was it bothering anybody? She checked them all for any appearances of disdain and found herself smirking when there really wasn’t any. No one wanting to pick up the salt shaker and oh she was so not well. Jittery and frustrated, rife with new scabs, needing to shower.

She would have given anything to just be tired. Like a normal person. She would have given anything to just roll into a bath filled with opiates. Lay in it and sink and meanwhile at a house with caved-in heads lying about some other twenty-six year old woman would get the window open finally and get out and just start running, never stopping for anything or anyone ever again. Heart fast and lovely. Like a cheetah. Never injured and never needing and free.

But she knew that woman was probably done for.

“Something was wrong with that boy.”

Something was. That’d kind of slid past or through her, not really entering her or solidifying as fact, but hearing it said out loud now made her gradually straighten up in her seat. Something was in that boy. Dirtying him down to the soul. And it’d led him to do that.

Down the path of terrible things.

Though maybe he’d always thought of stalking there. A wanderer. Maybe he’d invited it. But what could he have done? What was he, seventeen?

If we're going that far: could you even invite what's not already a part of you?

“But that’s some kind of lost cause you’re preachin’, pretty boy.”

Pretty boy he was. Elise thought he looked like an audio technician, like he should be lugging amps up a stairway. He made all of this business seem somewhat sexy and easy, she thought. She liked watching him read things. The way he took a moment to consider things before he flipped to the next page.

Lily was such a double for girls that Elise had known that she had spent more than a little time racking her mind as to whether they’d actually met before. Too long with the girl in their mutual company only, she could see that giving her a massive stomachache. Fun, fun she’d never been able to have, in too high a concentration for her to take. Though maybe not. What did she know?

Well, she knew when someone was being dense. Though not as if it was on purpose. And it’s not like she didn’t get it. or wasn’t basically right about their situation. It’s not like she wasn’t being smart. It was just vital that she, Elise, quash her, Lily's, mindset. Kill it in front of everyone. There, in the diner, a commitment had burrowed itself deep deep inside her and wasn't getting out, could not possibly get out. Not exactly rational anymore.

Elise put up her hand. Like the worst-behaved in class. "I'm going." She let it come down on the table with a loud knock, giving her tablemates a jump. "I'm not going to exactly act like any of this is an accident. Not yet. Chapter one, you know, read the first line: if you're gonna be crazy people, be crazy people. Be about that. I went through too much trouble to get here just to be smart."

Nice speech? Like sand in her teeth when she said it. But she didn't care. It was fever. The new perfect inspiration having finally landed at the bottom of her. Who gives a shit about cocaine? Or any pill for that matter? You're better than that. Remember what you're doing this for.

The waitress came around. Elise grinned. A desperate, preening, moving-back-and-forth-in-her-seat grin.

“Hey, there. Can I get a Coca-Cola?”

“Sure can.”

“And your regular hamburger, with fries on the side too.”

“Alright.”

“I’ll take a twelve-ounce steak also. Medium rare.”

The waitress gave her a look and Elise gave one back and that was that.

In Dorothy, Elise saw knowledge worth the thousand books that men in the Valley with record-producing friends had expected her to have read. To earn their minimum respect it'd seemed at first but after a while she learned that they really respected you even less if you had. In Dorothy she saw that. What they didn't have. Knowing. And a lucidity that made her want to ask for forgiveness from her sometimes. As in: you know what's really going on. Can you please tell me it wasn't that bad?

And when she arose with new information, Elise's grin sharpened all the more worryingly. It went up to her eyes, even. Creasing them in. "You're good. You're too good. You know, we should get you talking to that lady after a certain point. 'Cause if we're really investigating this, we need a window into that house before it happened, and you're the one. You're the one who's prepared." To everyone: "We can agree that it's Dorothy, right?"

Lowering herself now, back to her table. "Alright. So..." and the tone in her voice almost failed her here because Calista, like Dorothy, was someone who comforted her so much so that it felt irresponsible to try and include her at all, "You with us? Ladies with a little curiosity?"

Then she made eyes with Richie, who had to keep breaking and returning because the waitress was getting an order from him. "With our plus one. You curious, Warwick? You ready to become a certified public cat burglar?"

coded by archangel_

 

[Ha_lfLife]

CAPTAIN NAVARRO ⁠— the law.
tags: BELIAL. erzulie aeneas. elytra celadon. mourning star .V1LLAINISM._ idiot ; location: Atchison Police Department, Nick & Ruth's Family Diner ; interactions: n/a

There were a few things about officer Mike Cochran that rattled Ray. The City Police and the Sheriff’s Department didn’t often have occasions to cross their wires, but it seemed that always, somehow, in any such juncture, Ray was always stuck with Mike. The drug bust back in ’71 out on the Old Highway SW, the domestic dispute at the Pratt place six months ago - Mike Cochran always ended up being the city’s contribution to the matter, resurfacing in Ray’s life like a particular tacky piece of gum stuck to his boot. A pasty man in his forties whose sweaty pallor always seemed much rosier than his fair hair, the unnerving look was fulfilled with an addition of yellowing sclerae and a military haircut that hinted at the idea that Cochran had never really come back from the rice paddies. He always smelled faintly of wet carpeting and menthols, one of which he now balanced between index and middle fingers. As he took a casual drag, he rocked back casually – too casually, considering the circumstance – and eyed dumbly the little Edith Lynch.

As she sat meekly in one of the eight wood and forest-green vinyl armchairs of the Atchison Police Department’s humble waiting room, Edith slouched with her shoulders forward, slippered feet dangling uselessly as they couldn’t yet reach the floor. Her pallor was hued green, mousy eyes looking at the geometric pattern of the carpet as did a truant finally apprehended by a school principal. She hadn’t touched her juice or cookie, both of which were provided by Mrs. Bueller. Sadie Bueller, a plump and homely woman of fifty-two, had been the Atchison Police Department’s receptionist for over twenty-five years. And, until presently, she had never had to arrive to the office on a Sunday. But once phoned and informed of the circumstances, she – as had most of Atchison’s police – rose to the occasion. She was here now, sitting next to Edith with a hand on the girl’s knee, motherly spirit seeping out of the woman despite the fact that she’d never had children of her own.

Though Cochran had insisted they speak to the girl in one of the “Investigation Rooms” – a euphemism for the brutalist concrete-floored and steel chaired set-ups the department used for interrogation of criminals – luck had it that they were all currently occupied by alternating members of that unusual party of drifters who’d been unlucky enough to discover the slaughter before the rest.

Mrs. Bueller had already phoned Mrs. Lynch’s sister in Wichita, who – considering every bit of urgency that a murder of the better half of a family allowed, despite a pesky issue of astigmatism – would be in Atchison within three hours.

Aside from the relief that came from the news that her sister would soon arrive to her aid, the freshly widowed Mrs. Lynch was hard pressed to release her vise-like grip from Edith’s arm and shoulder. She’d kept hold of her in such a manner all the way from the house to the station, grasping at her and Simon’s only shared blood like a life preserver in rough seas. Given the quiet, hysterical look in Joanne Lynch’s eyes as she dug bloodless white fingertips into Edith’s flesh, it was easy for any parent to see that Joanne fully believed that were she to let Edith go at that very moment, she feared she would lose Edith to the cruel and godless ether that had taken the others.

Mrs. Lynch had eventually been otherwise persuaded to release her grip from Edith. Specifically, it was at the mention of a testimony against her stepson, Alan, the mention of whose name seemed to snap some part of Joanne’s detached psyche back to the present. As much as she wanted to keep her precious baby at her side, Atchison’s finest convinced her that her immediate account of the day’s events was essential while it was still warm - especially before the town caught whiff of the crimson, iron-scented rumor of a horrific incident down in their own sleepy Kansas town.

Placated by the fact that Edith would be accompanied by the gentle, feminine, saccharine Mrs. Bueller, as well as the trustworthy presence of old family acquaintance Captain Navarro, Joanne finally nodded her assent to step into the next room to discuss her story in private. To be sure, the line of questioning necessary for an accurate testimony would be far too morbid for the likes of a seven-year-old – even one who’d (possibly, probably) been witness to the horrors of mankind firsthand that very day. As Mrs. Lynch was ushered into an adjacent office to voice her sequence of events, she grabbed Ray’s elbow and plead in a low tone: “Stay with her? Please?”

“ ‘Course, Joanne.” Ray offered the poor woman a reassuring nod, as if saying Don’t worry, she’s safe now.

Safe from everything and everyone except Mike Cochran, the worm that he was. Ray had been leaning back against the wall behind Officer Cochran, arms crossed, while listening to the poor kid’s confused and brief responses to Cochran’s inappropriately complex questions. She’s a kid, for God’s sake. Ray thought to himself, eyeing Cochran’s suspicious ease at which he crossed his ankle on his knee and perched his menthol in his mouth.

“I need you to answer me, Edith.” Cochran urged, a trail of plastic and mint smoke fluming from his thin lips. He was running through a pretty textbook list of questions for witnesses, the most recent one being if she’d seen her brother doing anything unusual in the days before the crime took place.

Ray, who’d been silently suppressing his criticisms of Cochran’s heartless approach in the name of jurisdiction, finally decided that jurisdiction could answer to itself. He pushed himself up from the wall, taking a few sauntering steps forward, and decorously plucked the stick from Cochran’s mouth in passing, crushing it in the plastic ashtray on a nearby windowsill. Ray wasn’t one to act “holier than thou” when it came to having a good smoke. Hell, he owed his eighty cents a day for a bit of satisfaction, just as much as the next sorry sap. But even the cavemen would have enough sense to keep from lighting up in front of a kid as young as her. Especially not Simon Lynch’s kid, he who’d sworn off nicotine after high school in the name of family and Baptism, … the white smoke issued from Cochran’s throat in front of Simon’s little girl seemed some kind of disrespect to the dead.

After ridding the room of the offense, Ray sat down in the empty chair next to Cochran, tall legs spreading just enough to knock Cochran’s casual foot off of his knee. Ray rested his elbows on his knees, leaning forward as he looked from Mrs. Bueller to little Edith, still in her Sunday morning pajamas. They were Sesame Street – the whole gang of Big Bird, Elmo, Bert, Ernie, and Oscar the Grouch peering back at him with desperate eyes. Edith was perched like an abandoned eaglet between the stately Mrs. Bueller and a half-dead palm plant in a faux terracotta planter. She looked, in equal parts, like her mother and her father.

He diffused the precedent set by Cochran’s tone by adding, gently: “It’s okay, honey. Take your time.” His words were benevolent, the kind only natural to the kind of law enforcement officer who’d come into the profession later in his career, after having spent many years as a human being before an agent of the state.

And after Edith looked apprehensively from Cochran to Mrs. Bueller to Ray, she spoke: “There was one time. That Alan was outside at night and he met a lady. And they walked off together.”

“Did you know her?” Ray encouraged, but Edith just shook her head no.

As if summoned, a blonde woman burst through the entrance. She would’ve been a stranger if not for her striking resemblance to Joanne Lynch, aside from an evident difference of age. The younger woman moved through the station with a buzzing hysteria, chanting like a mantra: “Where are they, where arethey. Oh my god, oh my god, Oh Edith, baby.”

Ray stood as the cyclone of a woman made her way towards Edith, concluding that their little interview had been as well as over for the night. He moved from his position across from the interviewee to allow the aunt to elbow her way through and lock the girl in an enraptured embrace.

Allowing the reunion its due space, Ray instead floated to the periphery of the station’s hallways, lingering with his thumbs looped in his belt loops. Chief Jackson had been magnanimously willing to have Ray stick around, after finding him at the scene. Only having ever known Captain Navarro to be a level-headed and practical agent of the law, the Chief told Ray upon arrival that he didn’t mind if he stuck around, especially if it meant he might’ve caught on to anything that’d occurred before the indolent City department’s arrival.

Of course, Chief Jackson didn’t know of Ray’s shining new suspension, which he’d earned for an incident in which he was neither level-headed nor practical. Thus, Ray treated his knighting into the case with a tiptoeing caution, well aware – as no one else here way – of how much he should not have been involved. He felt like the Avengers or the Man from U.N.C.L.E., an agent planted very much where he had no business being.

A cacophony broke out somewhere down the hall, where a thin brunette woman – one of the crew who’d been apprehended after appearing in the Lynch house – descended into mania at the handling of one of Atchison’s greener officers.

“DO NOT FU- DO NOT FUCKING DO THAT. DON’T YOU FUCKING TOUCHING ME. FUCKING FASCIST, YOU THINK YOU CAN MANHANDLE ME?-“

As the others more or less managed the unruly woman, Ray quietly pondered the oddness of it all. The case – as tragic as it was – seemed open and shut, didn’t it? He’d found Alan with the gun. The kid was likely confessing to it in an adjacent room right this very second. There weren’t any loose ends, just a hell of a lot of grief.

But then what were these folks doing here? None of them from Atchison, none of them from the county, all appearing from dust at the very scene of a horrific crime. There was more to this story. And if not, then … well, it was one hell of a coincidence. Bible study … Ray scoffed to himself.

A thick-necked deputy had emerged from the room where they were questioning Mrs. Lynch at the brunette’s distraction, Once the whole dialogue between the stranger and the poor officer assigned to her seemed to have blown over, the deputy turned to Ray.

“How’s she holding up?” Ray nodded to the door behind which Mrs. Lynch was sitting.

“Talking a surprising bit.” The Deputy wiped the brow of his red face, letting out a tired sigh. “Said that the one who shot everyone – what’s his name-Alan?” (The Deputy was from Denver, originally.) “That she’d always had a piss poor relationship with him. Always felt like he hated her. Thinks its something to do with her being his stepmom and all. But especially lately, he’s been acting real weird. Stopped going to work, slept all day. Angry all the time. Going in and out of the house a lot … having all kinds of problems with his dad; the Missus thinks it might be about Alan’s mother, I dunno where she is in all of this …”

“She’s passed. Cancer.” Ray added, matter-of-factly, having known this a well as any good member of Atchison proper in the past ten years.

“Oh-okay, well…Apparently he’s been fighting with his dad a lot over all that. And, oh! Yeah, and then. She said that last week, they got some weird package right on their front porch, no address block or nothing. They open it and it’s just a bunch of bones … Mrs. Lynch thought it was a prank and threw it out, but now she’s not so sure … Crazy ain’t it? Who’dve thunk we’d have the devil in Atchison?”

Ray smirked at the Deputy’s choice of words. “Not the devil, son. Just people doing bad things.”

--

An hour later, Ray saw Mrs. Lynch, the sister, and Miss Edith into the back of Mrs. Bueller’s Studebaker. Mrs. Bueller had charitably offered her and Mr. Bueller’s home to the three ladies until the immediate events came to a pass. He offered Edith a half-hearted, exhausted wave as she looked wide-eyed out the window. When the vehicle passed onto the next block and out of sight, Ray’s shoulders seemed to noticeably slump under the final release. He wiped his hand across his face, feeling decades older than he was. Resignedly, he noted that his fingers were shaking, the result of multiple cups of strong Atchison PD station coffee and no food since breakfast.

The bell above the glass door to Nick and Ruth’s announced Ray’s entry– a greasy spoon with laminate countertops and ever sticky plastic menus practically adhered to their places. Like anyone in Atchison, especially those frequenting the police station at any hour of the day or night, Nick and Ruth’s was a familiar and comforting sight.

“Hey there, Captain Navarro.” Nick, a white-haired, skeletal old man called from the kitchen window, a greasy white apron tied around his waist.

“Hiya, sweetpea. Not used to seeing you in so late. You workin’ a case?” Ruth added, sauntering back behind the counter from taking orders.

“Something like that,” Ray gave her a warm smile, not disclosing anything further about the day’s tragedies – last thing this town needed was premature, half-baked news about the most cruel and violent thing to happen to Atchison in the past decade. “I’ll get the usual to go, okay?”

“And some of the cobbler, too. It’s blueberry. I’d never forget Miss Sadie.” Ruth beamed, showing a notable gap between her front teeth and her right incisor. Fat Sadie never missed a piece of Ruth’s seasonal fruit cobbler, and Ruth made sure of it personally.

“Appreciate it,” Ray took a ten out of his billfold and offered it over, well accustomed to the amount he’d need in exchange for ‘the usual’ – a steak melt and fries, and whatever cobbler Miss Ruth threw in for his dog.

As she counted out his change, Ray looked over his shoulder to the only other patrons of the diner at this hour. It was them … that peculiar group from the Lynch house. He sat down at one of the stools at the counter, not hinting that he was at all interested in their interpersonal musings, but his ear was aimed at them nonetheless.

The pretty thing he’d seen on the porch earlier, startlingly poised and metropolitan, was relaying information to the others in her booth: “Like I said, t isn’t much. I’m thinking that I could find more answers if I do some digging myself .. maybe head back to the house to see if there’s something worth noting.”

Plus the musings of the other of her table mates, the one who’ caused a scene at the station earlier: “-You with us? Ladies- With our plus one. You curious, Warwick? You ready to become a certified public cat burglar?”

At that, Ray stood almost as quickly as he had sat down, meandering calmly over to the two booths. The tone he addressed them in was neither harsh nor unwelcoming. But he intended to make his message clear nonetheless: “Folks - we didn’t get to properly introduce ourselves earlier. M’name’s Ray Navarro – from the Sheriff’s Department. I wanted to thank you for your cooperation earlier. ‘S a real shame what happened.” He stood awkwardly for a moment in the silence of his audience, then added. “And I wanted to say that tresspassin’s normally just a misdemeanor.” He glanced over at Miss “FUCKING FASCIST”, thinking to himself that some (if not all) of these folks were probably mighty familiar with their share of misdemeanors. “But messin’ with a crime scene is a felony. And not a light one either. That sort've thing in Kansas can get you jail time. Though I know upstanding folks like yourselves wouldn’t plan on somethin’ like that.”

coded by archangel_

 

[aeneas.]

BEAUFORT HAWTHORNE ─ THE PROFESSOR
tags: BELIAL. elytra idiot erzulie mourning star .V1LLAINISM._ celadon. Ha_lfLife ; location: nick and ruth's family diner
interactions: lily ; dorothy ; calista ; richie ; wayne ; sam ; elise ; ray

An adventuring rationalist was what Beaufort was. Holding onto a reality with structure, seeking reason as the test of knowledge—finding comfort in cognition. It was because of this way of thinking that he found gratification in being right; be it from solving a crossword with context clues, recalling tidbits from long-faded dates, or finding ripe fruit at the grocery. But as he found himself interrogated by police like he worried they were going to be, he realized those times were long behind him, buried beneath the ground and consumed by the worms.

His stay under law enforcement’s hawk-eyed gaze was short-lived, he didn’t make it a point to make a scene like some of his other colleagues. Tight-lipped on his group’s intent but held enough slivers of truth and desire to help them out that they let him walk out as quickly as they had him in.

The retreat to a nearby diner gave him enough time to process what had just unfolded. Irrational violence in someone once thought unbecoming of it was an old friend rather than a stranger to Beaufort; he knew the face of regret and the bloody hands of sin like the worst of days was yesterday. The devil made me do it—as he heard the boy cry. There may have been a time Beaufort would have scoffed at the excuse, as unbelievable as a student claiming their dog had eaten their homework but as he sat flipping through the diner’s menu, he felt inclined to think differently.

“Cup of coffee and a Reuben please, miss.” He slid his sugar packets and creamers to the middle of the table for the takers. It didn’t take long after all the orders were received and given for members of the party to speak up, Wayne being the frontrunner.

A talkative fella—not that Beaufort saw it as a bad thing. Personable. He was sure the intent to go back to the scene of the crime was in goodwill, unanswered questions digging into him that he couldn’t shake. It shouldn’t have been much of a surprise for Sam to be for the idea; the youngest out of the bunch but was braver than him by far. Her eyes clouded with what he could only read as finality, no matter how much Lily clashed against the choice her mind was made. Both she and Wayne’s were.

Their second table shared similar sentiments. Elise especially.

In what felt like Miss Loveday versus the world, Beaufort had to consider the ethics that came with playing investigators in a highly at-large homicide in the rural town. A surprisingly hard task to do as it started to feel like there were too many cooks in the kitchen, an echo chamber of brash decisions to bite the bullet with no second thought. The little speech Miss Adams gave shared the same amount of passion as a call for courage by a war general before he’d send his men to death. Unabashed and unafraid, possibly the same reason they received unwanted attention from a familiar cop.

The intervention from the officer they called on earlier—Ray, only added another voice to weigh in. One on a similar side to Lily’s only with an added intent to warn them of a very likely fate of felony charges. “Of course not officer, we’re just taking everything in. A real tragedy it was.” He was starting to get the hang of the whole “lying to cover up for everyone” schtick.

There were factors to consider for their next plan of action, possible consequences, ethics behind their actions and yet there was no room to think. Was it getting hot in here or was it just him?

Beaufort took a long-awaited bite out of his sandwich, the heat it once had was long gone over the span of the wait. Shame. He swiped a tissue from the table’s dispenser box to wipe his mouth clean before standing up. “Excuse me.” Shuffling his way out of his spot in the booth, brushing past Ray, and going off to the nearest waitress.

“What can I do for ya, darlin’?” Her smile eased at least a bit of Beaufort’s heavy mind. God bless the service industry.

He attempted to match the smile, not quite reaching his eyes but a solid attempt nonetheless. “Just the directions to your men’s room, miss.”

The waitress pointed a manicured index finger to lead the way, “Just right there on your left, sugar. Ya won’t miss it.”

After a gracious thank you to the kind lady, he found himself standing in the middle of the porcelain tile floor of the diner’s bathroom, an Oxford shoe tapping against it in an erratic beat. Like a fella who lost his marbles, hand on his head with the other resting at his hip. Ironically, he felt at ease despite how silly he definitely looked. Finally, there was silence.

Finally, he could think.

coded by archangel_

 

[.V1LLAINISM._]

Richie ,, Warwick ❜ ─ 𝘵𝘩𝘦 skeptic ─ ❛
tags: everyone ; location: the diner
interactions: elise, et. all

Reality, from the moment that the sheriff had dipped his foot into that death trap, felt as far from real, far from reach as possible. Dissolved were the margins between control and chaos, and Richie, despite his yielding compliance, was just another puppet manoeuvred by a set of strings. A vessel.
Arms propped up, surrendering to the law out of pure muscle memory; instinctually, the kind of movement that permits the body independence from the mind, disengages the psyche altogether.

Where was he? What was happening?

Nothing felt real. Nothing felt real at that damn house, at the station, nor in the pockets of time between them; and all of his senses were numb, cemented in dread. Gone. As if he’d been one of the bodies struck down on a Sunday evening, skull made concave through a shower of bullets, a rain of terror.

Richie looked down desperately into the palms of his hands as if they were a sky full of stars, in search of something - anything, a moment of post-clarity maybe, an answer to awaken him from this twilight stupor. But he saw nothing. Felt nothing.

“You alright, son?”

The detective’s voice, low and drenched in a kind of imperious scepticism which he did not appreciate, was enough to yank him back into the present. He jolted.

“Uh….”

Stammering, the accountant widened his eyes - and, blinking rapidly - tried to chase away the sting left lingering from the fluorescent lights.

Tightly pinching at the bridge of his nose, he attempted to dissuade what rapidly began to bubble inside of him — the struggle to string together a single coherent sentence, an answer. But much as he tried, all that came to him was the pounding pressure of too many thoughts flooding in all at once, too many scenes, as the two badged strangers exchanged hesitant looks.

Finally, he abdicated into a bed of veiled ignorance.

“Sorry, what was the question again?” he muttered, eyes screwed shut, fingers still clasped around the narrow flesh of his nose, attempting to relinquish himself from the incessant throbbing against his skull. THUMP THUMP THUMP.

Fuck.

“I uh, I think we’ve got everything we need here Richard.”

The detective was abrupt in his response, jumping to a stand and in doing so, obliging Richie to meet him in his ascent. Extending a cordial hand, the accountant took it solemnly, wrapped the calluses underneath his own in a polite, yet unbearably cold exchange.

“You go on now,” the detective urged through a crooked smile, revealing a gold tooth that glinted ever so slightly underneath the light.

“All I ask is that ya’ll stay outta trouble alright? Atchison don’t need any more of it, ‘specially after what just happened. ”

Richie nodded in affirmation, feeling his body tug itself toward the exit and far away from the tortuous whirring of those lights, overwhelmed by the need to isolate, to reflect. To sleep.

Pft.

It wasn’t like he intended on stumbling into any more crime scenes for the night, anyways.

⇢ ⇢ ⇢ ⇢ ⇢ ⇢

Though it seemed, he couldn’t say the same for the others.

Nick & Ruth’s was the ol’ run-of-the-mill establishment you could find in every too proud all-american county, the kind that’d seen its customers both at their best and at their worst — at all points of time, from birthdays to wars to economic crashes and booms, it was something insignificant in the eyes of a metropolitan but evidently, meant a great deal to the townsfolk.
Richie, if given the opportunity, would’ve opted for some takeout.

Some pizza, maybe.

Still, it happened to be a unanimous decision for him and his associates to enter its retro, unchanged interior and quickly satiate any forgotten hunger, quench the need for normalcy, humanity after a day spent in the depths of the ides.

Unable to catch a seat at the table on the right, Richie quietly, perhaps defeatedly, shuffled in after one of the ladies whose name - he’d have to admit - escaped him at the moment. A young, perky thing that’d somehow already reignited the throbbing torture in his head, Warwick had realised his mistake a little too late, it seemed.

Though with his knee bobbing furiously, it took less time to fall out of focus then it did to snap back in, and he resumed his role as nothing but predisposed decoration — a halloween skeleton, a scarecrow, situated in a half state of consciousness, eyes glossing over the picture frames lined against the wall, just past Elise’s head. If it weren’t for the pure distraction in his gaze, one might’ve thought that he was looking right at her, scrutinizingly so.

“- And you? You gettin’ anything sir?”

Always the last to get a word in (which, was a habit formed purely out of a shy boyhood) Richie perked up ever so slightly, as if he hadn’t just been worlds away a mere seconds before.

“Uh…”

When was the last time he’d eaten? Actually eaten? Nourished not by those processed, hardly edible TV dinners that he’d pop into a melodic microwave but from something homemade, authentic, genuine?
Surveying the yellowed menu, he briefly recollected the times in which his mother would wake up bright and early just to satiate the all but too picky appetite of a 7 year old boy. Waffles. It was always waffles. The corner of his mouth lifted into a hooked, fond smile.

Then, snapping into something a touch more energetic he answered:

“I’ll have the fresh-made waffles. Some coffee too - black, thanks.”

As if it weren’t bordering on black skies.

Handing the menu over to the now frowning waitress he offered a small smile, lifted in his features from the time he was still something innocent, untouched, unharmed, only to nestle back down again into a thoughtful, unreadable frown.

It was not long after that he was forced to reckon with horrid reality and the bestial curiosity of his new crew mates, yet again.

“- So, I was able to interview a local woman. She gave me some info but it’s pretty surface level stuff so far.”

Yada Yada Yada. And Nothing. Richie, out of pure spite but more so the desperate desire to maintain the minuscule peace that he’d just encountered, expertly tuned out the voice of an all-too eager Dorothy (now remembering her name) whom of course, held the best intentions, the most candour, but still couldn’t help but find her a bit insensitive — and that was coming from him.

“Like I said, it isn’t much. I’m thinking that I could find more answers if I do some digging myself…maybe head back to the house to see if there’s something worth noting.”

One after one the members of the group began to voice their inclination to return to what had just made it onto the list of top ten traumatic moments of his life.
Richie stifled the urge to bury his head in his hands and groan bearishly into the hollow blackness. Like a boy on the threshold of becoming a man, but reverting every time he came near, pushed down the mountain only to climb up once again. And again and again and again…

The only person who seemed to share in his sentiment, but could not be further from his dreary disposition was the full-of-life redhead, Lily. Who, if he could add, also made his head hurt.

Now Richie was still yet to piece together his own opinion, own thoughts on the matter, but mostly, he doubted the fact that it was something other than a tripped wire, a thought gone wrong, that had made the boy do it.

Coming from a city where crime and the likes were not unconventional to him —- even crimes as gruesome and personal as this, stifled the tiny voice that questioned everything. A small crackle of doubt in a flame of denial.

If anything, all it would take is a quick psyche evaluation to prove that something wasn’t right, perhaps it was even something unexpected, a nervous break in an otherwise happy and loving son, a bad high, which he wasn’t a stranger to, either. He glanced briefly at the cast wrapped around his left arm, trying to push the memory away.

"- With our plus one. You curious, Warwick? You ready to become a certified public cat burglar?"

He raised his eyebrows and stared through the waitress’s swift movements as his dinner (or could he even call it that?) was set down before him, eyes interwoven with Adams’. Although he didn’t appreciate being made an accessory, that wasn’t his main concern and surprisingly, he was quick enough to voice that.

“No thanks, I’m with red on this one” his shoulders rose in a shrug, head cocked briefly in the woman’s direction.

Grabbing his cutlery, Richie began to dig into his waffle and popped a bite into his mouth before continuing, only now realising just how hungry he’d been the entire day. If he kept going like this, it’d take less than five minutes to wipe his plate clean.

“I mean, we already have the cops on our asses, don’t think they’d appreciate the ‘outsiders’ mucking up the crime scene to go looking for some ghouls”

Taking a sip from his mug, he leaned back against the booth with a satisfied huff, salvaging the feel of the worn leather against his tired, often hunched-over spine, bringing both of his hands to rest behind his head and elbows peaked in the air, like a sort of man-made pillow.

“‘Sides I’m pretty beat, if it’s alright with you I think I’m gonna head back to the motel. Though the bloodbath might be cleaner at this point.”

With his gaze glued ironically to the still-piping hot mug of coffee, he muttered the last sentence bitterly, somehow both surprised and unsurprised by the sudden apparition of the jackass officer that had brought them into the investigation in the first place.
Gazing up at officer/captain, Richie was at least satisfied to know that he and Lily weren’t the only ones with some sense around here, even though it was the man’s job.

He glanced over at Elise, giving her one of those smug ‘I told you so’ looks and a shrug. If there was one thing Richie liked, in a world where he hated most of everything, it was being in the right.

coded by archangel_

 

[elytra]

WAYNE KELLY ─ THE ARCHIVIST.
tags: Ha_lfLife , BELIAL. , celadon. , erzulie , mourning star , .V1LLAINISM._ , idiot ; location: Nick and Ruth's Family Diner
interactions: mostly Ray; notes: N/A

There was a helluva lot more discussion about his plan than he had anticipated.

Miss Lily hadn't agreed. He respected that. Couldn't say he blamed her for not wanting to get mixed up with the cops, really, because those pigs were likely to chase you til the sun went down if they got a whiff of something they could arrest you for. If you had any bit of doubt about getting involved, it was best to just hightail it to the motel and leave it at that, really. Wayne wasn't keen on 975 Parallel, but he was keen on getting answers. They'd been sent there for a reason. He wanted to clear up whether the tragedy had been coincidence or not.

So, originally, he was gonna let her go with well wishes. Ask her to tell him how the motel beds were and if he would have to worry about roaches when they got back. Honestly, he was fine heading back by himself, you know? Maybe even preferred it. Wasn't to say he wasn't a team player, but there were some things easier done on your own. Quiet and space gave him room enough to think.

Turned out he wasn't the only one interested in conversation, though, because soon there was more talk that was a bit more aggressive than he would've gone for. His gaze shifted over to Elise, watching her slam a fist down on the table top as she went on a sort of pre-battle call to action. Declaration that they were here to be crazy and should dedicate to it...or something of the like.

He got the distinct impression that, while they were advocating for the same thing, it was possible their reasons for doing so were very, very different.

The turn the conversation took wasn't one he jived with. A little snooping, a little trespassing, that he could be cool with. Hell, he'd suggested it, after all. But there was a difference between heading to an abandoned house and going to a piece of property where a murder had happened. A murder that was fresh. People were still mourning, police were still investigating. It was different when there was the potential to stop it. Now? Now it was over. Now entering the scene was more likely to mess with evidence than to do good for the poor family, what was left of 'em.

He bit his tongue, though, letting the ladies talk it out. Best not to get himself involved. He'd already voiced his piece, and he was sticking to it.

It was part relief, part dread when the officer showed up and seemed to read them as easy as a book. Wayne remembered the guy from the scene, a casanova he wouldn't have minded chatting with if not for the blood dripping down the stairs and the devil-minded boy holding a gun. Seemed like a fine fella, even if associated with the man, and he spoke the truth: messing with the crime scene wasn't something to do lightly. The relief came from the concept that maybe this would get Elise and her crew to reconsider. The dread came from the knowledge that it was likely that it would, in fact, simply cause them to lie through their teeth and have at it anyway.

"Well, good to meet you officially, Mr. Navarro. Mighty shame it had to happen under these circumstances, my sincere condolences to that poor family. I don't doubt you knew 'em before this point." Wayne stood up from his seat, flashing a somber smile and putting out a hand. "Wayne Kelly, at your service. Sorry 'bout my companions. Can't say we've all learned to use our inside voices."

It was a light dig, because hells bells, there were some topics people shouldn't have been saying loud enough to be heard by the whole room. Maybe once this was all said and done, he'd introduce them to good ol' library etiquette. That was a later problem, though. For now, he was working on talking to Mr. Navarro. Man gave a good handshake, that was for certain. Hopefully their chatter hadn't been enough to get him completely on their case.

"Now, as my friend here said, we wouldn't dream of it. Still just processing everything. Not every day you see something like that. Think everyone's just concerned about the happenings, is all." He continued, pulling back his hand and crossing his arms comfortably instead. "If there's anything I can help you with, boss, don't be afraid to let me know. How's the family doing, huh? If you're able to disclose. Hope they're taking things as well as they can."

The thought was that if he pulled the man into conversation, the rest of the group was off the hook. That was the theory, at least. Wayne also did genuinely want to know how the Lynch's- what remained of them, at least -were doing. Nasty business, a real nightmare what went done. He couldn't begin to imagine what they were feeling.

coded by archangel_

 

[mourning star]

CALISTA 'C A L' HOLLOWAY.
THE INTERPRETER.
mentions: Dorothy, Elise, Ray, Wayne, Others.
location: Atchison, Kansas. ➞ Nick and Ruth's Family Diner.
cw: None.

Blue eyes blinking owlishly, Calista glanced at her table companions with intrigue. She had been attentive to Dorothy's commentary about the family structure. She tucked a pale fist under her chin, propping her head up as she turned her gaze away from the small group she had seated herself with. It wasn't in her to judge curiosity; everyone had the right to question the unusual. Still, she couldn't find it in herself to agree with the other woman. It was a tragedy; a loss of life that could easily be considered sinister amongst a group of quack ghosthunters who had stumbled upon the worst nightmare for a good ol' Southern family...

The tapping of someone's foot has her gaze lifting over to the newcomer at the table, Elise. Headstrong and a free spirit — a little too free, in Calista's opinion. Perhaps that judgment was harsh, unlike her to view someone and be blinded by their firecracker aura instead of taking the time to know her. But, understanding had never been her great virtue. Her capacity for compassion had left her on foreign soil, sewing up young men as they wept for their mommas. She felt compassion for that family; and, screw her if it left a bitter taste in her mouth to listen to these people decide it was a mystery they all needed to solve.

The waitress came back over with her sweet tea. She set in front of Calista, a tip of her head before Elise was shooting off into a long order with a little sway in her frame and a broad smile on her expressive face.

Calista sipped her tea.

She also made sure to thank the waitress as she passed to relay Elise's order to the chef because her mama had raised her with manners — thank you very much.

Elise's question had her blinking, long lashes fanning over flushed cheeks. She was flustered; what could she say to convey her uninterest in walking around a crime scene? She'd seen enough death to last her a lifetime. Stepping over brain matter while trying to see how each individual had felt before each fatal gunshot in their frail bodies did not sound intriguing to her in the least.

It was with luck that the bell rang to announce the entrance of a new person into the diner. It was just as unlucky, however, it was the Captain who had caught them red-handed — her especially — in the middle of the crime scene.

Calista ducked her head, focusing on her sweet tea. Her legs crossed, gaze averted, as her table mates saw fit to incriminate themselves further. An inevitable fate, it seemed, when the captain pushed himself up from the counter and meandered to their table. Her gaze lifted, crystalline-blue eyes darting towards her companions before falling on the man who stood steps from them.

A crease appeared between her brow, a soft frown on her lips.

"Good evening, Captain, sir." She greeted him, because, again -- manners.

The small collective decision they all made — to lie, of course — had her shuffling to sit near the edge. Again, she perched her chin on her hand and ran her soft gaze over their new companion with a curious eye. The slouch to his shoulders, the slight discoloring of his eyes... Calista knew when a man needed his rest and it seemed that this Captain was in desperate need of it.

Wayne had a way with words, she found herself realizing, as the man stood and began to speak. He had a way about him, shifting the conversation into platitudes that showed the rest of them were harmless — just simple folk who had a little too much wanderlust in their eyes.

Calista found herself standing, entering the conversation as she settled herself next to Wayne with a gentle tug of her lips to Captain Navarro.

"We're all very sorry for the impression we've given you so far, sir. We're a bit of a rag-tag group; and, some of us get a little too lost in the fantasy 'stead of focusing on the reality of things." Bitch that she might come off to be to her companions by voicing her objections to their curiosity, she knew how to humble herself to keep the heat off of anyone else. "Wayne was right to offer his condolences. I've worked as a nurse for a couple of years; I've seen some things. But, that scene... it's heartbreakin' all-around. We're all real sorry to have been witness to somethin' like that."

coded by archangel_

 

[celadon.]

ELISE ADAMS
TO TAKE COUNSEL II
tags: Ha_lfLife erzulie mourning star .V1LLAINISM._ elytra aeneas.
location: nick and ruth's family diner
company: ray, calista, richie, dorothy, wayne, beaufort, lily, sam

Neither the nurse nor the accountant could be bothered.

She knew why. She knew in her gut why. She knew what she’d said and what kind of person it made her look like. She knew.

She tried to starfish down on top of it, cover it with shadow. Knocking her head to one side, undaunted, still conspiring: “Alright, then-”

And she would’ve gone on to address Dorothy then if not for the ring of the door.

She turned her head in answer and then turned back right away with injurious speed, finding a place in the centre of the table to hide her eyes. All fallen from the face.

That cop. That cop.

She hissed as if prey to a good joke. "Damn."

The way he came through the door. A two-year-old child could have told you he was a cop based on that because it was like he lived everywhere. That's what you could see in it. Like all homes and businesses were other homes to him. Brother to all residents. Small-town cop.

Elise ground her teeth together hard so as not to say something. High number of things she could say, but only if she’d dare to blow everything apart, and now, she really wouldn’t. For fear of being chastened. If she could have willed it she would have thinned herself to the second dimension so she was just a sideways cut-out of a person, so that he couldn’t even see her.

But then he was next to them and he spoke and she could sense his eyes on her. They likely, maybe, at least sort of, judged of her what many other people, other men, other cops had. That she was like a teenager, still saw things like one; was as much a waste, anyway; but was old enough to go to prison, and could go, and should go. So why are you out here, free? Out here determined to do the things that you do. And in public even. Can you tell us that, girl? Why don’t you go ahead and stop being tough now?

She could hear them in the layers of his voice. Excited little coalition of steel-haired pervert cops.

“A real tragedy it was.”

Nails to her neck, to the cliff of her collarbone. It was hot in the diner just then, in the areas of her old injuries, under her clothes. Hot lines racing across where scars had been.

“...’Stead of focusing on the reality of things.”

And they had her ass! They watched over her. Like a really embarrassing younger sister. And she didn’t look up.

And the waitress came between them all to set down the various helpings of her meal and though she had not been patient for it, would she do anything with it now? She wasn't sure. As long as he was here and they were all like this.

She honestly wasn’t moving much at all. Just her eyelashes, forming together and separating. The most normal thing made curious and too-careful.

In Elise's head then it was murder murder unsolved murder and burial and dismemberment and the ocean all storms and problem rocks and torpedoes and how many have you killed Ray Navarro from the Sheriff’s Department? Do you ever get dizzy with murderous anger anymore Ray Navarro from the Sheriff’s Department? Or is it automatic now? What was your last big fuck-up mistake Ray Navarro from the Sheriff’s Department? Because you flag a few. Are a few of them recent? What are the lies you tell people everyday? Were you in the army? Have you ever taken pills?

Would you like to rule me like a king Ray Navarro from the Sheriff’s Department?

Yet she didn’t say a word, didn't give a look. Retrieved herself from where people talked/were talking and pulled back in. Mouth sagged in the corners. Was there in the house again, whichever house, without even needing to go - evil and dark in the windows which were locked.

And she laughed a little, at Navarro, at everybody. Though it was almost more like an exaggerated dance through the space where laughter would go. Like funny breathing, almost empty of any real sound or suggestion. And then she shut her eyes halfway, tried to eat.

coded by archangel_