Why So Serious? [Lucas]

["ELLE" FAIRCHILD]

It was almost funny how little actual reporting she did these days.

Sure, Elle was a class-A journalist type. She worked for a newspaper, she made a tidy salary, and she spent the little time not wasted on articles on her own work -- for instance, she'd been slaving away at a novel for nearly six months in what little free time she'd had access to. But still, for all the work she did, she didn't often write articles about things like...this.

A crime.

Not just a crime, but a murder.

Something about it just...disquieted something deep within her. Murder. Like she had known someone long ago who had been killed, and she just...couldn't remember.

Which was ridiculous, of course. You didn't just forget about someone being murdered, and when she wracked her memory for a murder she'd heard about, seen, somehow experienced, she couldn't remember a damn thing. Certainly, she had heard about plenty of murders that occurred in inner-city Chicago when she had lived in the suburbs, but never anything that would have affected her...

It was very odd. Very odd indeed.

Regardless, she'd been asked by her boss to write an article about a recent murder that had occurred in Central Park, and Elle rarely disobeyed her boss -- she liked her job, after all. So that was why she was there, that cold winter morning, standing in a field in the middle of Central Park, trying to get to the crime scene.

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but we can't let you past," one buff-looking policeman said to her. He could clearly tell she was a journalist just from the condescending look on his face. It made Elle want to step on his foot. She should have worn heels instead of Keds.

Biting back a snappy remark, she smiled her little half-smile and said, "But sir, really, I'm a journalist, and it's my civic duty to report to the people what is going on in our beautiful city."

"Yes, and there are at least fifty other journalists within a two mile radius who have exactly the same duty. Right?" piped up the blond, skinny cop next to the first one.

Forty-six, Elle thought acerbically. And you have a terrible Boston accent.

However, she kept on smiling.

"But I'm the first one here," she noted with a clever little quirk of her eyebrow. The policemen looked at each other, and Elle paused a moment before heaving a sigh. "Look, honestly," she said, "I'm not particularly keen on writing about murders unless it's in a murder mystery novel. I'll be quick, and I'll bother you as little as possible. Please let me by."

The first policeman pursed his lips in thought, then exhaled through his nose and nodded. "Alright, fine, miss. But make it quick. And I'll need to see your press pass."

Elle removed the laminate from her messenger bag and showed it to the two men. The blonde one scrutinized it as if trying to find some reason to call it a fake.

Eat your heart out, buddy, it's realer than the nose on your face, Elle thought spitefully, smiling as the two men stepped aside to let her through. She nodded to them with false respect and ducked under the yellow police tape, her bright, sharp eyes scanning the scene. The body was already covered with a sheet. Some CSIs were poking around.

Oh, and there was a very uncomfortable-looking cop standing right over...there.

Well, best to start with him, then.

Trotting up to the man, who seemed like he was about ready to leave, Elle called out to him. "Excuse me, sir, could I have a moment?"

ooc:
outfit!

[LUCAS MARX]

Another day, another dollar.

Poor bastard. Stabbed—thrice in the chest, once to the throat. Delightfully bloody and sickeningly twisted, the crime had been executed in the middle of a field in Central Park; the same field, perhaps, that the man’s unborn children would have played in, had he lived long enough to conceive any.

As though that could have happened.

Now, Lucas might not have been personally involved in this…incident, and he might have been just as surprised as every other cop in the station when they’d received the call, but none of that made the gnawing feeling in his gut go away. Then again, it hardly ever did. And besides, just because he hadn’t been tipped didn’t mean he didn’t know who’d done it. In fact, all it meant was that someone was going to have to get a talking to. A rather unnecessary one at that, and one that would have been highly preventable, to say the least. He hated dealing with the preventable. Bothersome, idiotic pests.

Still, they were necessary. Sir said so. What Sir said, went. Always and without question; there was little point in arguing anyhow, as they both wanted the same thing, in the end. The little man just had a simpler, more well-planned out way of getting to said outcome.

Sealed off a ways behind the yellow tape caging the scene, Lucas watched the aftermath unfold calmly, cerulean eyes casting careful, analytical glances over those CSIs present. He grimaced as a sheet was drawn over the body, although not quite disgustedly. It was a messy business, crime, but certainly didn’t bode so much secrecy. After all, they were in the middle of a goddamn field. If some kid had been walking by on his way to school earlier, he’d already been scarred. The woman who’d found the bloody mess would need therapy. Pathetic. Anyone walking by now would stop and stare, ogle at the gore they couldn’t see but pretended they wanted to and he and his fellow blue-clad Samaritans would have to usher them off to quench their sick fascination elsewhere.

Sick apes, people.

Still, as his time at the scene began to draw out, Lucas couldn’t help but feel a bit queasy himself. He didn’t like these things. The people, the fingerprint dusting, the collection of evidence; the sick, slow routine. It was nerve-wracking, even if he was protected by his badge. Even if he had an alibi for the past week and a half and nothing more to do with this than a guess at who might have been involved, he hated being here more than he could possibly express. No amount of Sir’s hissed warnings could calm him completely, either, and he found himself fidgeting slightly.

Shifting his weight from his right to left foot, Lucas turned his back to the little Investigator brigade and back out to where he was technically supposed to be watching—the tape. Not that anyone would come from this direction. There was no human wall here; it wasn’t half as exciting. And technically speaking, he could leave. Could have about five minutes ago, according to the man in the extra important uniform. Maybe it’d be best to listen. Slip away inconspicuously in the open, and be done with the whole thing until the evening, when he left to collect a broken promise.

He was taking a step towards the crime scene barrier when he heard a voice, nagging and distinct in the way only those human-rat hybrids called journalists possibly could. He groaned. Not out loud—actually, it was more of a voice in his head doing the groaning—though his eyes did visibly roll as he turned to look at the girl.

Glancing down at his watch, Lucas looked back up at her with a moderately bored expression despite the sudden clenching in his stomach. “Who’re you here for?” He nodded anyway before she could respond. She could have her moment, if that was all it was. No one would question a cop willing to be interviewed, after all.

["ELLE" FAIRCHILD]

Elle was known for being incredibly observant. She could pick out things, small things, about people, about places, about events. It was like her to make little mental notes about things in her head, not for any particular reason, and perhaps not to linger very long, but noted nonetheless. She was perceptive. It was that simple.

She liked to know everything about the world around her. It made her feel a little more...complete.

So as soon as she laid her eyes on the handsome young police officer who turned around to face her, she was analyzing him subconsciously.

She didn't miss the little roll of his bright blue eyes. Cops. They were always so annoyed by her time. They couldn't see past that horrid stereotype of the little rats scuttling about every interesting thing, scrounging for information. Elle might have been curious, but even she was not that persistent.

"Sorry, don't mean to waste your time," she said with a sheepish smile. "Just want to ask a few questions. For the newspaper and all that. Um. Would you mind? I'll really only be a minute."

He seemed a bit...nervous. Flighty. He clearly wanted to get out of here, trying to direct her elsewhere as he was...interesting.

That aside, his immediate reaction to her did not give her a good first impression of him. She bit the inside of her cheek and reflected irritably, Yes, I'm sure you're just ever-so-above me. Policemen. Enormous egos to go with their tiny minds.

"It doesn't really matter who I talk to so long as I can get an idea of what went on," she added, one corner of her lips curling up in a signature little smile. She seemed completely...human, innocent, at that moment in time, but in her head, she was still analyzing, computing, seeking to comprehend. Nervous. Nervous. Why would he be nervous?

There were several possibilities, of course.

One, he could be a very new cop and the whole murder scene was just disquieting for him, but that seemed unlikely. A less observant interpreter of his body language might have believed that, but Elle was not fooled. In addition, judging by his reaction of clear annoyance towards her, it wasn't the first time he'd encountered a journalist.

No, no...it was...strange...

Almost like...paranoia.

"Please?"

She smiled graciously at him.

[LUCAS MARX]

She was certainly small. For a newspaper rat, though, perhaps it was a good thing. Maybe it meant she could sneak through places, down gutters and under sewer grates. He wouldn’t be surprised. People did some freaky, disgusting shit for their stories, after all. That was what gossip was all about. Personally, the idea couldn’t help but make Lucas’s lip curl slightly. Sir, on the other hand, found it all wonderfully fascinating—probably because he was never the one actually crawling around in the muck and mud and rodent dung; that was what Lucas was for, although he couldn’t say he entirely minded.

Ends and means. All that dirty, extravagant shit.

Lucas watched the girl carefully, his brow raising just a bit as she spoke. No, they never meant any harm. Not when they were so close to causing so much. She probably thought he didn’t see right through her; or believed him stupid enough to think this whole thing would actually take but a minute. She probably thought him stupid. Foolish, naïve little girl.

Sighing so as to let her know what a great sacrifice this was, he spoke. “Yeah, yeah, sure.

He nodded slightly at her but began walking, casting a quick look back at the crime scene before jerking his head for her to follow him. Walking with something between a lope and a self-righteous stalk, Lucas led her about ten feet away, up a small, sloping hill. Lucas took great (albeit subtle) care in positioning himself so that she’d stand with her back to the scene, leaving his eyes open to survey the organized chaos behind her, if need be. It was instinctual.

Arms crossing themselves over his chest, Lucas shifted his weight slightly, casting one swift glance over the girl’s shoulder before meeting her gaze, immediately after which he felt his stomach flip. But she didn’t know anything. It was just a reporter. Customary stuff. And he’d obviously been a random pick, so that didn’t matter, either. Again, all just custom. Custom, routine, and coincidence. That was how everyone else operated, of course. People didn’t actually formulate ideas. No one truly analyzed anymore. It was obvious in the way they spoke, the glazed over look so many had in their eyes.

Of course, one day, he’d change that.

As for now, he’d have to hope she was one of the few with the glassy-eyed stares. She could be. He just hadn’t seen it yet, was all.

Looking her up and down once more, Lucas’s lips pursed into a thin line. He waited a moment more before responding, voice a low, lazy drawl that clearly indicated how little he actually wanted to help her. Just like any cop would sound.

“Well, go on,” he urged, nodding impatiently at her. “Are you gonna ask your questions, or are you just gonna stand here?”

["ELLE" FAIRCHILD]

Elle was not ignorant to the opinion policemen held of reporters, or how much they knew about typical journalism tactics – rather, what they thought they knew. But Elle wasn’t a reporter. She was a writer. She wrote what was true, nothing more and nothing less. Sometimes she wrote the truth very well and other times not so well, but it was always the truth. Elle did not lie. It was not in her repertoire.

Still, it was obvious that this man didn’t care to know that about her, and frankly, she didn’t care to share. He could think whatever he wanted about her. She didn’t particularly need his acceptance, but his attitude towards her actually worked in his favor – it only made her want to get this interview done faster.

Forcing the cordial expression to remain on her face and suppressing an inner eyeroll at his obvious sigh, she nodded.

Despite his behavior, though, she followed him, uplifted by the fact that he was willing to speak to her at all. He didn’t particularly like covering news stories that involved crimes for largely this purpose – she didn’t much like people, and trying to coerce a grumpy police officer into giving her the details of a murder or a robbery before the official press release was a monumental effort for her, one that she preferred to avoid. That this particular officer was even the slightest bit receptive to her was encouraging.

She silently noticed the way that he forced her to stand with her back to the crime scene and realized what he was doing, with a slight swell of irritation. But she maintained the expression on her face effortlessly, completely adjusted to masking her true feelings towards other people. This man, though handsome – not that she cared, she didn’t like men – was clearly a complete jerk, presumptuous and cocky, and she didn’t have much time for it. However, no need to let him know she thought that. It wouldn’t help her cause.

Elle’s eyes were not glassy. They were sharp, sharp like daggers, and they saw everything. She was an exceptionally perceptive young woman, the type who was always coming up with new ideas, picking apart the smallest things. She sought understanding for the sake of understanding, not for any particular personal gain. She wasn’t much interested in making money – only in finding something that would make her satisfied with herself.

Lucas would be disappointed if he took a good look at her eyes.

The tone of his voice was familiar, and Elle once again found herself suppressing an eyeroll. Asshole.

“Right,” she said, clearing her throat and readying her notebook and pen. “Can you tell me what you know so far about the murder? When it happened, what happened, how?”