Untitled Kristeva/DID Story: Part 18

ORIGINAL AUTHOR'S NOTE: I spent a good deal of time mulling over what instrument Kristeva would use to break the sideview mirror. Pick something up randomly from the sidewalk? A tree branch? Something somebody was selling? His bare fist? What? Nothing sounded feasible. :/ Then while writing this scene tonight I remembered the umbrella Devetko's been carrying with him all along, even long before this scene popped into my mind, the umbrella I've mentioned repeatedly for no obvious reason. And voila.

Funny how these things work.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Buchanan asked, brow furrowing in confusion.

The three of them stood outside the ten-story apartment building, since the courthouse was closed for the day. By now Kristeva couldn't even recall the drive back to Minot, though somewhere along the way, the rain had stopped and the sun had come out, though dark clouds off to the west made it clear things wouldn't remain this way for long. Droplets still pattered down from the branches of the decorative trees along the sidewalk, and Devetko held his umbrella at his side and ready to pop open again if need be; their luck had been to run into the prosecutor just as he was returning from an outing, his car parked out front and a grocery bag under his arm. Kristeva had the dim ridiculous thought that why didn't he get food specially catered and brought up to his place since it seemed only fitting. The clueless look on Buchanan's face, however, made him grind his teeth until they hurt.

"You fucking know what I'm talking about," he snapped. "The so-called sealed records you made me jump through hoops to get. What sort of stunt is this? Putting them where anyone can get access to them? After I made sure they went back where they belonged? And don't give me some lame shit like somebody else must've gotten hold of them before you did, because I definitely dropped them off at your apartment, and unless you invited in somebody truly skeevy, there's no way that could've happened."

"Of course I got them back," Buchanan said. "And put them right back where I got them from. They're back where they belong, so what this business is about them being elsewhere, I have no idea."

Devetko stepped forward and opened the folder to show him the front page of Sgt. Kincaid's and then Det. Singer's reports. "Were they the same as these records?"

Buchanan squinted at the file, then frowned. "Yeah, the same. What is this? There's copies of these floating around out there now--?"

Devetko shut the folder. "No, there are not copies floating around out there now. As far as we know these are the only ones."

"You made copies of these--?" Buchanan asked Kristeva now, giving him a disbelieving glare. "Why the hell would you do something like that?"

Kristeva clenched his fists. "I didn't make copies of them and I sure didn't stick them in this folder. You were the last one with access to these records! Are you trying to get me into some kind of trouble with the chief--? Because trust me, I hardly need your help with that."

Buchanan's expression soured. "You'll have to blame somebody else then, because I sure as hell didn't copy them. I have a whole lot more to lose than somebody like you ever would, so why you think I'd be so stupid is beyond me. And trust me, it might've been good, but it wasn't nearly good enough to warrant losing my job over."

Vague confusion flitted across Devetko's face. Kristeva stared at Buchanan for a brief moment, then reached back and pulled the umbrella from his partner's hand before he could protest. He swung it up in a graceful arc and then brought it down so it connected with the passenger-side mirror of Buchanan's car, snapping it loose so it spun crazily and then hung limp and useless against the door. The other two gawked at the damage; Kristeva dropped the now slightly bent umbrella onto the sidewalk with one final glare at Buchanan, and headed back for his own car without a word.

By the time he reached it and pulled the door open, Buchanan at least seemed to have regained his senses--"Oh--really great," he called out, then, "Nice to see that anger management is working wonders for you"--and he then seemed to lose interest, instead leaning toward the car to inspect the damage, muttering under his breath as he did so. Devetko hesitated a second before stooping to retrieve his umbrella, casting the briefest glance at Buchanan and then jogging back toward the car. Kristeva was already seated, forcing himself to stare straight ahead and take deep breaths through his nose, when Devetko got in, giving him a dark look but saying nothing as he buckled himself in. Kristeva made sure not to press the gas too hard lest he send the vehicle hurtling right into Buchanan's and take the prosecutor out with it.

"You're good at poker--right?" he said once they were back in traffic and headed for the police station.

Devetko glanced at him with a frown. "What?"

"Poker. Calling people's bluffs." It stung for him to ask it, considering the slip he'd made with Jenner, and how painfully obvious it seemed in retrospect. "Knowing when somebody is bullshitting you." He gestured behind them, back in the direction of Buchanan's apartment building. "What he just said, about not being the one who copied the records. Would you say he's bluffing? Or no?"

Devetko stared at him in silence for a moment or two. "In my opinion?" he said at last. "No. He wasn't."

Kristeva bit the inside of his mouth but said nothing, since there didn't really seem to be anything to say. Several moments later they arrived at the station, and once inside, promptly went their separate ways.

Kristeva ended up in the file room, since it was the best place to get away from everyone else, and something about poring over the countless dusty boxes and folders helped to settle his temper down somewhat. Now that physical and temporal distance separated him from what had happened at Buchanan's apartment building, he grimaced to himself and wished he'd settled for some sort of verbal retort, instead. At least he could talk his way out of saying something nasty to someone who deserved it. Damaging personal property, however...that was right up there with shoving somebody's head in a toilet. However much he might have deserved it.

He gave himself a half hour, then ventured back into the main room. Devetko's desk was unoccupied. Kristeva peered around the room but didn't see him anywhere. He did finally spot DelBora, trying to organize some papers on her own desk, and when she noticed she had his attention she tilted her head in the direction of Bowen's office, and offered a slight wince as if to apologize for something. Kristeva couldn't entirely suppress a wince of his own...of course by now the other detective would have filled the chief in on what had transpired at Buchanan's place, and had probably told him about the visits to Mitch and Jenner, as well. What else could a goody-two-shoes be expected to do but follow the book.

He reluctantly returned to his desk and booted up the computer, peering toward Bowen's office as he waited for the creaking and grinding to lead him to the login screen. The chief's blinds were open, and he was sitting at his desk, looking up at Devetko, who stood while he talked. Devetko gestured vaguely toward Kristeva's desk; Chief Bowen listened with his head resting on his hand, then shrugged and mimicked the gesture, replying with something that didn't seem to please the other detective that much. Kristeva made himself stop watching them and typed in his login info. He couldn't understand why he wasn't hearing any yelling, nor why he wasn't being called into Bowen's office himself. He peered toward Kincaid's office, but the blinds were closed, and he couldn't even be sure if the lieutenant was in or not. His wince turned into a grimace when he thought of what would happen once word got out that the private details of the Kincaid case had suddenly become so public.

He jumped a little when Bowen's office door opened. Glancing up, he saw Devetko step out and walk toward his desk; he steeled himself for the chief to yell at him to get his ass in there, but the door closed behind Devetko and through the window he saw Bowen merely rub his eyes as if tired and then resume whatever he was working on. He turned back to watch Devetko rifle through one of the desk drawers, retrieve a fresh notebook, and then shut it; he took his jacket and bent umbrella and walked out of the main room without even looking at Kristeva. Kristeva rubbed his own eyes and allowed himself a sigh. If that wasn't a snubbing, then he didn't know what it was.

He kept himself busy for a while checking over a few far more recent cases that seemed relatively low priority--a few phone calls clarified that a couple had even been resolved before he'd had the chance to look at them--then retreated again to the file room to look at some older cases he'd marked for future reference. Doing this always had the odd effect of settling his nerves and clearing his mind, even though he had no idea why, seeing as Missing Persons had never been his forte at the Sheriff's Department. Perhaps it was the sense of distance the cold cases gave, or perhaps merely the fact that he was left to himself to look them over.

He left the room long enough to stretch and fetch a drink from the water cooler. As he was crushing the cup he first spotted a uniformed officer he didn't know too well exiting the hall the file room was located in and then wander off into another part of the building--nothing too odd or interesting--then a female detective he knew only somewhat--Tulie, he knew her last name was--exited as well, working on the top button of her blouse. Kristeva glanced in the direction the officer had gone in, back at Tulie, then tossed the cup in the recycling bin and headed back for the file room. He had too much drama in his own life to get involved in anyone else's.

He'd no sooner sat down and pulled a battered box toward himself than a slight noise drew his attention, and he looked up to see Tulie peer in the room, looking from left to right. "Just me," he said, and she slipped inside, pulling the door partly closed behind her. He gestured--"You missed a button"--and she glanced down at herself before spotting it and swiftly doing it back up. She sat down beside him and pulled one of the nearby folders toward herself, opening it and flipping through the pages, though he could tell she wasn't really reading them.

"So, you know that storage room across the hall, just a little ways further down." She phrased it like a statement, though it was obviously a question.

Kristeva made a slight disapproving face. "I'm really not interested in hearing about your latest sexual exploits, sorry."

Tulie made an annoyed noise and flipped the next page a bit hard. "I wasn't going to tell you about them, anyway. But you know that storage room has an air duct near the ceiling...?"

"I should hope that storage room has an air duct..."

"You know the rumor that if the station is quiet enough, you can hear through that air duct directly into Chief Bowen's office...?"

Kristeva pursed his lips. "I was not aware of that rumor, no." When he thought about it, it made sense, considering that was the space directly behind Bowen's office.

Tulie turned another page. "Well...there was some interesting talk in there a while earlier. That new guy with the stick up his ass, I guess he wanted to give the chief a piece of his mind." She paused and peered at him, saw she had his attention, and then said, "Promise you won't deck me in the face--?"

Kristeva rolled his eyes and sighed, putting the lid back on the box. "I won't deck you in the face. Is this why nobody's been talking to me lately, they think I'm going to deck them in the face--?"

"Well, I'm just saying..." Tulie pantomined pushing a lever and then made a flushing noise. She coughed when Kristeva's expression soured and went on. "Anyway...Stick-Up-His-Ass had a talk with the chief. From the sound of it he doesn't like your technique and requested a new assignment or partner." The brief sting Kristeva felt must have shown on his face, for Tulie paused again and bit the inside of her mouth. "Sorry. If it helps any...well, it doesn't. But Bowen said since there's no other openings or partners available, and they really need somebody helping you out in Missing Persons, he's stuck with you for the time being. Promised to put him on a wait list in case anything new comes up. So, you won't be flying solo again just yet...though I'm guessing you'd prefer to...what'd you do to piss the guy off so much, anyway? I mean, it looks like it wouldn't take much, to piss off a guy like that, but still."

"What exactly did he say? Give as his reason for wanting a transfer?"

Tulie shrugged. "Nothing much...that's why I'm curious. Just said the two of you seemed incompatible, and Bowen asked if you'd done anything against the rules, and he said no, he just didn't care for your techniques and figured it wasn't going to work out. You didn't flush somebody else's head, did you--? I mean, yeah, the first guy deserved it, but if you keep this up they're going to boot you back to the Sheriff's Department in no time..."

"I didn't flush anyone else's head in the toilet," Kristeva said, then, "I didn't even flush the first guy. Why are you telling me this?"

Tulie shrugged again and brushed a lock of hair out of her face. "I dunno...I guess because you're kind of a dick, and I find that attractive in a guy." She stood up and turned for the door. "If you tell anybody I said this, I'm going to have to deck you in the face"--and then exited, the door slowly swinging shut behind her.

Kristeva sat there a moment, then shoved the box away and rubbed his eyes. The Sheriff's Department had never seemed so strange as this place did.

He left for a late lunch--which was more like an early dinner--since Devetko was still nowhere to be found, and he couldn't even be sure if he was still in the building or not. Perhaps the other detective had decided that avoidance was the best policy, and he couldn't really blame him. He supposed it would be entirely possible for the two of them to work Missing Persons separately, though, he hated to admit even to himself, it had been kind of nice to have somebody else to bounce ideas off of for a change...as well as somebody else to offer a counterpoint to his own ideas, however annoying it might seem at times.

On his way back from lunch, he detoured, at first not sure why or where it was he planned on going, until he noticed the city hospital looming ahead on the left. The earlier conversation he and Devetko had had with Dr. Steiner echoed in his head; he'd looked it up on the computer, and this was where Trooper Bryan Condry was currently recuperating.

He bit his lip and hesitated just a second or two before pulling into the turning lane and heading for the hospital.

Condry and his partner, Matteo Lopata, worked out of the local state police post, and so he'd never had any reason to interact with them so far. On learning that they were the ones behind the discovery of the unknown skeleton--the skeleton he was just about positive belonged to Det. Singer--he'd made a mental note to speak with them, but Condry's condition put him in a bind. He'd assumed at the time that it was just a concussion and the trooper would be back to his old self in a matter of days, but it had been several weeks since the skeleton was found, and from what he knew, there'd been no change in Condry's comatose state. Dr. Steiner had informed him, via his own network of connections, that it didn't look good.

He introduced himself at the front desk, showing his badge and asking where Trooper Condry was being kept, hoping he wouldn't need any sort of special permission to go see him. The badge must have been good enough, for the nurse gave him the room number, though then added, "Visiting hours are almost over for the day."

"That's all right, I'll be quick." He put his badge away and headed down the hall in the direction of Condry's room.

When the windows overlooking the room were within sight, he slowed his step, and started having second thoughts. What point was there, really, in going to see a police officer in a coma...? Surely if there'd been any sort of change, it would have made news by now; Condry's and Lopata's find had been a rather big event, and it was only the fact that Condry was unconscious and Lopata seemed to remain at the hospital every moment he wasn't on the job that had prevented local news reporters from demanding more details about the story. This realization made Kristeva take a few more steps forward until he could peer into the windows. The view was pretty much as he'd expected--a hospital bed, the patient within it hooked up to EKG and blood pressure monitors, IV tubes in his arm and an oxygen tube in his nose and a bandage around his head. Aside from the plethora of medical equipment it looked like he was merely sleeping. More than all of this, however, it was the other person in the room who Kristeva noticed. A second man in a dark brown Highway Patrol uniform sat in a chair not far from the foot of the bed, reading a book. Once or twice he glanced up at the EKG monitor or the clock before returning his attention to his reading. He looked perfectly willing to stay there all night if the hospital staff would let him, and Kristeva didn't doubt that he was.

He stared in the window at the two troopers for a few moments before turning and heading back up the hall.

At the front desk, he asked the identity of the visitor, and confirmed that it was in fact Trooper Lopata; he gave his card to the nurse and asked that she inform Lopata he wished to speak with him when possible. He then asked if Condry had had any visitors--"Just Trooper Lopata," she said, "and a woman a few times. She was here just last week. Got into some sort of argument with Trooper Lopata. Hasn't been back since. Trooper Lopata's here every single day, though, bless his soul."

Kristeva left the hospital--he'd never cared for hospitals or doctors much anyway--and spent an hour or so following up on a few of the cases he'd checked out earlier in the day, then headed back to the station one last time. Devetko had finally returned as well, though he offered no greeting when Kristeva sat down at his desk, so Kristeva said nothing either, figuring perhaps it would be best to cut ties as early as possible. For a while the two of them sat across from each other working on their computers in silence, ignoring the occasional glances from the other officers wandering through the room.

The shift finally changed, and most of the others still present started packing their things to head home; DelBora offered Kristeva a small sympathetic wave on her way out. Devetko straightened out his own desk, but instead of leaving, disappeared into the back of the building, so Kristeva figured he'd found something else to sort out before heading home for the night. He didn't bother shutting down his own computer or picking up his own things; the headache was niggling behind his eye again, and he knew from experience he wouldn't be getting to sleep easily that night. There was only one thing he could think of to do on such occasions, and that was browse through the missing persons database until his brain no longer registered the details, and only then head home and try to get at least a few hours of sleep. So while everyone else was on their way out, he logged in to the system, selected a year and location, and started paging through picture after picture and report after report, prepared to pore over hundreds of them if need be.

The station had mostly emptied out, just a few officers whom he didn't know very well appearing and disappearing every now and then, by the time it had grown dark outside and maintenance had shut off most of the fluorescent lights in the main room. He kept his desklamp on and leaned his head on his hand, clicking through photos, once in a while jotting down a note to follow up on. He almost didn't notice when Devetko appeared from the back, jacket and briefcase slung over his arm, fiddling with the bent umbrella as if trying to figure out how to make it function again; he glanced briefly toward Kristeva, seemed to frown a little (maybe it was only the light?), then walked past, toward the exit. The doors were just off to Kristeva's side so he didn't have to turn his head to see what was going on; Devetko slowed to a halt in the middle of the vestibule, his back to Kristeva, and stared at the outside doors for a moment, then his shoulders seemed to slump a little. After a pause he reluctantly turned, a resigned look on his face, and came back toward the entryway. Kristeva turned his full attention back to the monitor when he pushed the doors open and reentered, though he did peer up when Devetko dumped the briefcase and umbrella on the floor under his desk, draped his jacket over the chair, and sat down. He pressed the power button on his computer and stared at it balefully while it creaked and ground into action, typing his login info when the welcome screen appeared.

"What are we working on?"

Kristeva hesitated a few seconds before pushing his notepad across and onto Devetko's desk; Devetko pulled it toward himself. "Emily Casey. Six years old, blond hair, brown eyes, purple dress. Last seen wandering in the local Wal-Mart. Possible family abduction."

"Leads?"

"Her uncle fell off the map around the same time. Has possible connections in Minnesota."

"Checking the Minnesota criminal database now."

He started typing, frowning at the screen, and after a moment or so Kristeva realized that was just his natural facial expression when concentrating on something. He turned his attention back to his own monitor, and for the second time that day they sat across from each other, working on their computers in silence.