November 10th, 2018
9:15 AM
Detective Captain Andrew York
The calvary had arrived.
He felt a strange sense of relief. This thing was gonna be over, soon. After he had been gifted such a crackpot team of fuckups nobody wanted, it was a miracle that Pray had even attempted to get the FBI in. No, but that man had faith in things. Faith was a word that York had lost many moons ago and nothing was to change that quaint, little, fact.
In any regards, he caroused to the lobby at the behest of Marie Wilks. She was an elderly woman and she was fat. A fellow sufferer of the sin that was gluttony; of course, the two of them could afford that succulent trait. Sure, York knew his heart was giving way because of it and sure his wife had been having him exercise at the gym everyday, but he wasn’t gonna yell at someone for being a bit overweight. Not his style; he didn’t like these holier-than-thou cops that crawled into the district seemingly every other month, sent up to be a homicide police and thinking they’re hot shit because of it. News would flash and insults would fling. Those cops under his command now, they were surely bloated and presumptuous. He didn’t like that.
But, there was nothing new under the sun, despite every waking detective’s claims to the contrary. If he couldn’t deal with a cocky little shit, he wouldn’t be the captain.
He supposed that was part of the reason he was assigned to the task force. He was abrasive, instinctual, and mean. York had no place in this continuing world. A world of niceties, a world of manners and of fake politics that had no business wandering into law enforcement’s way. It wasn’t supposed to be a nice job, it wasn’t supposed to be… any of this! He was an old dog, he supposed. It would pay off eventually, he hoped. Pray would help him out at some point; Pray had to help him after everything he had done.
York had prepared himself for his encounter with the FBI. Smoothed himself over, groomed his voice into one of complacency rather than fear. He was good like that; the irony struck over him for now, his focus more on continued survival. He entered the lobby, smiling lightly and shaking the agent’s hand. Her partner was absent, as Marie had informed him over the phone. Fair enough, he supposed. As long as the others were helping out at the lighthouse, he didn’t care. “Agent Pryor, I’m Captain Andrew York, good to meet you.” He exchanged pleasantries with her, but his eyes wandered to the window. A pithy glimpse at his own mortality glared back, grayed hair and coarse wrinkles wreaking havoc to his head.
He led Pryor back to his office, thanking Marie and wishing her a good day. They were in soon enough; awards, potted plants, pictures of sons, a daughter, a wife, some parents, the usual items that could be in a man’s office. He sat down across from her, smiling. “Alright, ma’am, I’m to inform you of the roles you’ll be taking in the investigation, acting as your captain for the time being. I understand you’ll still be reporting into ol’ what’s his name up at the office and that’s fine, but I’ll tell you what I need of you for now.”
York settled into his chair, adjusting himself and placing readers over his eyes. Papers sat in neat stacks all over his desk, right behind a computer that was only open to the desktop. Jane Doe. Angela Williams. First one probably a prostitute. Bars, truck stops… He knew where his detectives were when they reported in prior. He figured they were still there, at least the three he could trust. The other four he found trustworthy enough had either gone on minor investigative benders or were at the lighthouse and FBI had already located themselves there. He mulled, checking the computer for the logs quickly.
“The Williams residence.” He listed off an address and wrote it down on a notepad. “Detectives Walker, Frey, and Nithko are there. Alright folks, I consider, but I think the Nithko girl is a little too young to be on a case this high-profile.” He shrugged, ripping the page out and handing it to the woman across. “Frankly I think a lot of people on this task force have little to no experience with this sort of thing. Frankly, I think a lot of people on this case in general are assholes. But what do I know?” He instantly regretted what he said in the face of the woman.
With a gasp of defeat, he pressed on. “I’m sorry. I talk too much. Yeah, go meet them over there. Your main priority right now is finding the identity of the first Jane Doe, as I’m sure you know, we think she was a prostitute who was killed just before Angela Williams. Thank you for your time, Agent Pryor. I really do appreciate you and yours coming down to help.” He didn’t smile; rather, a genuine display of respect appeared on his otherwise apathetic and annoyed face. A curt nod and a handshake later (perhaps a few questions, if she needed any) he was sending her on her way; there was paperwork to fill out.