Blazinghand
United States25550 Posts
TL Mafia LXXI:
Blazinghand Presents Dick Wolf’s
Harry Potter x Law & Order: SVU, The Game of the Movie:
The Return of the Revenge of Fanfic Crossover Extravaganza, Episode 2:
Gaiden
Game of the Year Edition
STORY MODE
Your wand is in your hand almost before you hear the alarm go off. Rushing to your feet, you stride over to the device-- it looks like a cross between a kettle and a clock, whistling and whirring and shooting off steam. It always means the same thing, when this goes off. It means something has gone wrong in your town, in your precinct. You grip the alarm in one handle and your partner, Detective Rodriguez, grabs the other. You aim your new wand (Poplar, 10 inches, Blast-Ended-Skrewt End core, a good replacement for your old one after the "Red Monday" fiasco) at the alarm.
"Portus", you say, and you feel a jerk as you, your partner, and the alarm pull you to the location of the crime.
You land gracefully, and Rodriguez staggers. Your arm shoots out and you hold him up. The regular DLME types are here already, gathering evidence, performing magical scans, and getting ready to bag and tag the body. You walk over to the cordon and talk to the Sergeant. He doesn't look pleased with this situation at all. It's taking stronger than usual Notice-Me-Not charms to keep the muggles away from this location, due to the time of day and the traffic. You'll have to work fast.
He gives you the rundown. One corpse, cold now-- looks like she's been dead for nearly a day. A muggle came across her and called it in, and the local police recognized magic was at play and handed the case off. The muggle's memories have been extracted and sealed, and the case is in your hands.
"Why call in the SVU?" you ask. It looks pretty straight-forward to you. Murder and a body dump.
"Come take a look for yourself, detective." The sergeant waves you over.
"Oh, god," says detective Rodriguez. He looks ready to barf. You hit the rookie with a calming spell-- can't have him ruining your crime scene. "She's only a child. Who the fuck DOES something like this? Who could do this?"
Your mouth twists into a grim frown as you look down at the crime scene before you, and what's left of the victim. You've seen worse, but not since... that time. Your stomach churns, but only for a moment. You hate yourself, a bit, for not feeling more sickened by this. "It's up to us to find out."
The pressure on the notice-me-not wards is increasing. More and more muggles are coming by, then looking confused and wandering off. You’ve been on scene for nearly 3 hours, and you can already tell it’s going to be one of those cases. Hell, you’d know that just from the way the victim looks. You sent Rodriguez home for the day. Some say he doesn’t have the core of steel you need to be an Auror in the SVU, but he’s young. You know he’ll shape up in time.
You cradle your Blast-Ended-Skrewt-End core wand in your left hand while you dab at your forehead with a hankerchief in your right. For the third time today, a muggle has walked through the muggle-repelling charms, and ignored the notice-me-not wards. This is fairly typical for Manhattan muggles, who are some of the most curious and aggressive types out there. In a suburb, or in europe, the muggles are a bit more relaxed about these things, but from “9/11 truthers” to bigfoot hunters, Americans, and New Yorkers in particular, are so stubborn they sometimes overcome things.
The muggle, of course, was quickly stunned and leglimized. Just another New Yorker on his day off, suspicious about what’s going on over here, jumped the police cordon and pushed through the wards. There’s something magical about Manhattan, even for the muggles. They say that a muggle in Manhattan is already half a squib, and a squib half a wizard, due to the concentration of Wizards living here. Somehow, they know, and they are attracted to this place. Looking around at the tall buildings, you can see why. It’s the magical capital of America, and a cultural capital too.
You hear cursing and turn around. The Ministry Obliviator was working his mind magic on the muggle when his spell misfired, and you see a bouquet of sparks shoot out of his wand as energies swirl around him. He gets knocked flat on his back, his eyes open, his gaze vacant. Damn, just what you needed.
You set up a portkey for him to take him to the hospital. He’ll need another mind mage to undo whatever it is he just did to himself, and it’ll take a while. It’ll be some time before he’s back on his feet again. What was he thinking, changing that muggle’s memories after doing so many in one day? He must have been exhausted. So sloppy.
You wipe the muggle’s memories and send him on your way. Wards should stay up for another hour at least, but you’re done here anyways. There’s almost no evidence here, though the lab may be able to get a trace on the magic signature.
Damn, it really is one of those days, isn’t it?
You tap a cigarette out of your pack and you walk over to the edge of the wards and look out on the city. Your city. As you light up, you think about your job, the shit you put up with, and the shit that flows through these gutters like water. If you didn’t hate your job so much, you wouldn’t know how to live with yourself. It’s an awful job— but someone’s gotta do it.
You really need this smoke.
Three days later, you and Rodriguez are sitting in the park by your favorite hot dog stand. Lab results got in, good enough they would be able to match the wand if they had it. There’s no wand in the database that matches the aura found at the crime scene, making it an out-of-state, black market, or unregistered wand. 60 hours of stomping around the city chasing down false leads has worn down everyone in the department. You need a success.
Rodriguez and you recently had a pretty decent interview with a squib who knew the victim. It took a great deal of effort and reassurances, but he finally mentioned she had an ex-boyfriend that she was on bad terms with. The squib looked afraid, though, like something might happen to him because he shared the knowledge.
You and Rodriguez are sharing old stories (repeating them, really— you all know everything the other has to say) when your ward-watch beeps. You look down, and see the red and orange lights. Anti-apparition wards have just shot up.
Shit.
You and Rodriguez are both on your feet, wands in hands, dogs forgotten. You tap your comms mirror. No response. Anti-comms wards are up. You’re under attack.
It’s foggy, but there’s still a chance— you aim your wand straight ahead and launch a fireworks spell with three red flares and 2 yellow flares. If any Aurors notice it they’ll be on the way.
Three masked men emerge from the fog, and the fight is on. You bring up shields and fire off a stunner at the tall center man. The brilliant red bolt shrieks through the evening fog and deflects off his shields. He mutters a curse and sends a wave of wind at you, forcing you to crouch. The short man on his right transfigures a bench next to him to a large dog, and sics it on you. The man on his left begins trading spells with Rodriguez, multi-colored bars and disks of light filling their part of the park.
The tall man waves his wand, and a half-dozen arrows appear over his head and launch themselves at you. You transfigure the oncoming arrows into weighted ropes, and banish them at the dog bearing down on you and the short man behind him. The dog goes down with a yip, tangled in the ropes. The short man is struck in the chest by one rope, but manages to vanish the others as they come at him. You are about to press the attack when the tall man shoots a green curse at you. You swear, and drop flat to dodge it. You didn’t hear the incantation, but you’re betting that’s a killing curse.
By now, the dog has come untangled, and sees you lying on your stomach. It leaps at you, jaws open. You hit the dog with a Confundus, and it tackles you, wags its tail at you, licking you. You pull to your feet just as the tall man sends a barrage of stones at you. You turn them to doves, and find the short man has snuck around to your side in this time.
“Avada Kedavra!” he cries, and a green light shoots from his wand. You’re still off-balance from stopping the stones, and you turn to dodge, but you’re too slow— and the dog leaps in the way, taking the spell for you, dying with a whimper.
These guys aren’t fucking around. You flick your wand and generate a billowing cloud of smoke to block your sight. You turn just in time to see the third man launch a cutting curse at Rodriguez, severing his wand hand.
“Rodriguez!” you yell, as your partner falls to the ground, writhing in pain. Too slow, you launch a stunner at the third man. By the time it gets to him, Rodriguez is already dead by his Killing Curse.
You feel the anti-apparition jinx wear off, and hear three pops as your enemies make their escape. You run over to Rodriguez, and grab his hand— the one attached to him— but there’s no pulse. The rookie is dead.
You turn as you hear the pops of incoming apparition, wand in hand. The fog lifts as you see other uniformed officers stride into vision. Thanks goodness— backup is here. You slump over in exhaustion as the secure the scene and try to revive Rodriguez. You know he’s not coming back, though— no-one comes back from the Killing Curse. Damn them.
You spend a few hours filing reports and dealing with the coroner and the lieutenant. You wish you had time to cry, time to mourn, time to feel keenly the loss of your partner. In a better world, you’d have that time. In a better world, you’d take a few days off to clear your head. In a better world, it wouldn’t be you who delivers the message to Mrs. Rodriguez.
This isn’t that world, though. This is the world of shit, the world of sadness and tears and manic energy that drives you to keep on keeping on, that drives you to anger, that drives you to rage. Mrs. Rodriguez wouldn’t stop crying. She was crying for the two of you, and that would have to be good enough. This world doesn’t account for tears, and your shift starts soon.
Your investigation into the squib’s testimony is worthless. He was mistaken, it wasn’t who he thought it was. That’s the thing that really gets you, you know? If Rodriguez died chasing down a criminal, that would be one thing. This was a false lead, though, this was a waste of time. How could this happen? Did he die for nothing?
They tried to kill you, though, so even though this was a dead end, that means you were on to SOMETHING.
You’ll keep on going. You won’t stop, no matter what. This is a false lead, but you’ll find the truth in time.
You owe it to Rodriguez.
You and Richards grabs the port-pole. Sergeant Adams follows, pausing a moment to tap out a notification on his signal mirror. He grips the pole with his left hand, and draws his wand with his right. You and Richards look to him for direction.
"It's murder, that much we're certain of," says Adams. "Keep your wands out and your eyes sharp. The report's only twenty minutes old, so expect a hot scene. Stun first, ask questions later. Portus."
You feel the familiar yank of the portkey in the center of your being and moments later land on your feet in a big, marble-floored lobby. Great pillars of stone spring up from the floor and reach up to a dark-stained wooden ceiling. The floor is littered with the remains of desks, chairs, and several muggles. The back door has forcibly pulled clear of the doorway and is making a temporary living as a carpet, telling the ceiling "Employee Access Only" with serifed typeface.
Behind you was once a glass wall, intact, and a great glass spinning door, now shattered. The glass wall has embossed letters frosted into the glass, and you read "Chase" clearly, even from the inside. You lift your wand and scan the room while Adams takes point and Richards puts up the notice-me-not wards to keep further muggles out. Tell-tale holes from piercing curses mark the walls, pillars, and furniture around the lobby. It doesn't seem like much of a sporting arena, though maybe it was easier to chase things before someone shot it up with piercing curses.
"Richards, what kind of building is this?" you ask. Out of the three of you, Richards the half-blood knows the most about the muggle world.
"It's a muggle bank," says Richards. "Muggles use banknotes — like personal checks or letters of credit — instead of galleons, and store them in banks like this. The vault should be in the back, either on this floor or one floor below. They don't build as deep as we do."
You nod. You've heard it before, about the banknotes, but it never made sense to you. You don't really know how Richards can tell all these muggle buildings apart. They all look the same to you.
Your scan is finished, and you report. "Looks like a duel happened here. Traces of dark magic, dueling magic, and some sort of chemicals in the air. They don't seem like potion ingredients I'm familiar with. You can't smell them, can't you?"
"Gone," says Richards, picking up an L-shaped piece of metal from the ground. "like a wand, but for muggles. In addition to noise, they generate a small amount of smoke when used. They throw bits of metal, called bullets, and vary in size and shape from 4 inch long ones ones the size of broomsticks.”
“What’s gone?” You ask.
"Richards, Chu, come take a look at this," shouts Adams from the back.
You and Richards hustle through the doorway into the Employee Access Only, which you think is an awfully strange name for a room. You step carefully over the bodies of a few muggles and find yourself in a large conference room, by the looks of it. The damage is more severe here, but there are no bodies, except for a robed figure on the ground by the back door of the room. Judging by the close-cropped pink hair, the wand in hand, and the hole where the bottom half of his torso should be, this wizard is the victim who set off the wards.
Your eyes scan the rest of the room, and see Adams isn't alone. He's arguing with an English Auror, a slim, tall man in a red uniform with unkept hair and striking green eyes. Behind him stands another Auror, with blonde, slicked-back hair, a scar across his cheek, and no left arm. The argument is heated.
"—on our turf, right here in New York. That makes it American Federation territory, so you brits can keep the fuck out of our way. This is my crime scene."
The dark-haired man looks unperturbed. His British accent is grating. "Again, be that as it may, we detected that the person who did this is a servant of Voldemort, so per ICW Code 9.2 (f), this crime falls under the jurisdiction of the British Ministry. Your government signed the treaty regarding Voldemort's followers—"
"I've never heard of anything like that. I'm not going anywhere until I hear back from my Lieutenant, and neither are you…"
Something tugs at the back of your perception. You stop paying attention to the close attention to the argument and look at the damage gouged into the walls and floor from the spells that flew around this room. The victim was definitely a top-notch duelist if his cutting curses could push through marble. Judging by the damage to the back wall, the killer mostly used piercing curses. Several of the chairs show signs of transfiguration, and the two halves of the table were definitely something four-legged and furry before they were cut. This room was scarred everywhere… except for the back door. The door was iron, but spells like this should have easily tarnished and warped it.
Stepping closer, you see that the door and an area around it are free of any sort of damage. In a duel like this, nothing escapes damage by accident. Someone was shielding this place. By the looks of it, this dead guy was absorbing or blocking any spell that went this way. He probably died for it, given where he fell. What was worth losing a life for? What was he protecting?
You twist your wand, and with a silent spell, force the door open.
Richards gasps.
The trembling children bring back memories from that case a year ago. You clutch your wand with rage. Five of them huddle in the corner, eyes wide and filled with fear. One is sobbing quietly, her hands over her mouth, trying to hold in the noise. The oldest one — he can't be more than Jeffrey's age — stands and stares you down, his bloodshot eyes betraying his fear.
"Who— who are you?" he asks, his trembling hands balled into fists. "Where's mommy? What happened?"
After a long day, you sit at your desk at work reviewing your documents. The attacks, the murder, the bank assault— what a week. Pushing papers is mindless drudgery, but sometimes you need a break from all the action and hustle of being an Auror.
You make it to your next document. You’re signing off on evidence inventories. Fifteen entries in, the entries start to all run together. You rub the sleep out of your eyes. In other businesses, they’d use magic to manage these things. The Aurors handle documents personally, though. Something about a human touch on the paperwork to keep an eye out for inconsistencies. As far as you can tell, this mostly opens the opportunities for dirty Aurors to accept bribes to make changes.
Your eyes fall to the page numbers. The page number goes from 57 to 59. Where’s 58? A search of your desk, the floor, and the index cabinet all come up empty. It’s probably just a filing mistake, but still, someone has to look into it. It might as well be you; chasing down evidence filing problems is significantly less likely to get you into a fight than investigating. Still, for it and for the index copy to be missing… someone may have wanted to suppress this.
You take a look at the table of contents and the footnotes. The index doesn’t point at 58 anywhere you can see. The contents list it as evidence taken from the shore crime scene where the woman was found. The footnotes… they’re something else entirely.
There are three. The first is an addendum to the description of the body. The second talks about muggle-repelling charms. The third discusses the dredging of the water nearby.
You sigh. Someone wanted the facts about someone on page 58 covered up. Because of that, you’re almost certainly going to have to look into it. Why is it always you?
The missing evidence files corresponded to missing evidence in the lockers. There was no sign in / sign out entries for that day, and you can’t ask any of the aurors on duty in case they are also in on it. The description of the body and the muggle-repelling charms can’t have been what was being suppressed. You were there for both of those and didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. You’ll keep an eye open regardless, but it seems clear: the dredge team managed to get something out of the water. You have a decent idea on what to look for.
The problem is, now it’s gone, erased from the records, and you don’t know who took it. Even worse, you can’t necessarily trust anyone else here in the precinct. This was an inside job. Evidence doesn’t just disappear like this without someone greasing palms and someone turning dirty. There are always some aurors who take bribes, of course. It’s usually about small things, and when it’s about big things, it’s usually not in your department.
Who got to your men? Is someone a mole for the criminals? Is that how they knew where you’d be when you were ambushed?
* * *
You look around at your gathered men. These are men you know you can trust. Chen is a muggleborn, and not embroiled in the politics of your world. Jackson is as honest as they come, and has a bad reputation for being unbribeable. Lieutenant Adams comes from old money and would never take a bribe. The four of you, together, will have to be enough. You’re not sure you can trust anyone else.
The dredging documents are gone, but the impressions left on the underlying page, when enhanced by magic, are enough to show what motions the quill went through as it pressed ink onto the disappeared paper. The information wasn’t much, but the type, size, and core of the wand were outlined. A quick trip to Stein’s Wands is enough to put a trace on it. He remembers the wand— he remembers all the wands he sells, of course, and the buyer is the dead woman. Someone wanted this wand hidden, and as Adams’ tracelog comes back, you see it’s still in the city.
With four cracks, the group of you arrive on the scene. It’s a broken-down looking tenement building in a bad part of the Muggle city. As you move forwards, you hear an incantation.
“Bombarda!”
Chen is down. You spin, wand in hand, and the next two curses strike Jackson, tearing him to pieces. You raise your shield just in time to block the Cutting Curse sent at you, and see Adams pointing his wand at you, a mean grin plastered across his face.
“Adams?” you exclaim, “How could you—“
“I was never your man, Chu. You think I’d grovel in the dirt like a dog for my bribes like the others? How do you think everything was organized? Someone had to be on top, someone good like me. Had to be one of us who kept his wand clean, just in case something like this happened. It was a lot of work, planting the evidence, getting you out here on a false lead, and— NO YOU DON’T, Expelliarmus!”
You grimace from pain as you’re knocked on your ass. Your wand goes flying through the air and clatters to the ground behind Adams. You thought you were being subtle with the starting motions for your Blinding Curse. How did he see you in the half-light? He lowers his wand and steps forward.
“Accio Wands”, he barks, and your spare comes flying out of your robes. Chen’s and Jackson’s wands and spares scuttle across the ground towards him, out of your reach. “Much better. Now we can talk.”
“Not bad, Adams,” You growl. “You have me at your mercy, but you haven’t killed me yet, even though you could. What’s your angle?”
Adams grins. “I could always use another man under me. You, like me, are above suspicion. I’ll offer you a chance to join us. We’re immensely powerful, and I’m just a piece on the board, but I’m a knight, not a pawn. I can get you in. Once you take The Mark, you can be trusted, even if you were on the straight and narrow before.”
His face turns soft. “I always liked you, Chu. You don’t deserve to die here. You’re a good man, and you’ll find that what we’re doing is for the best anyways. Sometimes, people have to die to make the world a better case. You know that as well as anyone.”
“How much do I get if I join you?”
Adams smiles. “Now we’re talking. I’m not in it for the money, but I know the way it works It’s actually on a case-by—AAAGH”
Adams tries to say something, but you can’t hear him over the report of your revolver. 5 shots later, you’re empty, but his lungs are full— with blood.
Now, strictly speaking a gun is inferior to a wand. You could have carried an additional spare, like some Aurors do. Still… the firearm has come in handy more than you’d like to admit. A typical pureblood like Adams wouldn’t be prepared for it either way. Who keeps shields up against a wandless opponent? So it’s good enough: you can’t cast spells with holes in your chest.
You rush over to him— you need to keep him alive so you can get more information from him— but he’s already dead.
Shit.
You look around. Three Aurors are dead, and you’re alive. As far as you know, nobody but the four of you knew you’d be here. Adams deserved what he got, but Chen and Jackson were honest and caught in the crossfire. You grimace. Chen had just gotten married. She deserved better than this. She never knew what she was getting herself into.
Jackson, now there’s an honest man who knew the score. He knew what he was getting into the first day he refused a bribe, that someday it would come to this. Somehow, you knew this too. You can’t stay to bury the bodies, or report this in. You’ve only been gone about ten minutes. If you grab your wand and get out of there, nobody will know you were involved.
All you have to do is leave the bodies of your comrades behind.
You’re careful about it. You haven’t cast any magic, so you won’t leave an aura of cast spells behind. You pick up your wand and your spare, and run out into muggle Manhattan. You hid your gun and flag down a taxi. Once you’re a few blocks away, you get out, pay the cabbie, run into an alley, and Apparate back to HQ.
Your friends lie in puddles in a bad part of the city while you sit at your desk, ostensibly just returned from a bathroom break. You do paperwork and act normal. It’s only a matter of time before their absence is noted, and then you’ll be able to “find” them.
You’re alone, now. You can’t trust anyone any more, and even if you did, you can’t drag them into this ocean of blood you’ve waded into. You lay your revolver down on the desk in front of you. In this moment, you hate the muggle weapon. You stole it from a crime scene, and it’s been with you ever since, an uncomfortable weight at your side.
And now, you’ve used it. You’ve killed an Auror. If anyone ever found this out, you’d be on a one-way trip to Alcatraz. You killed a superior officer, you did it to keep yourself alive, you did it because he was a traitor. But you did it nonetheless, and nobody will believe you if you tell him.
His blood is on your hands.
You can’t stand it.
You’ll find the killers. You’ll unmask the conspiracy. You’ll do it on your own. No more newlywed muggleborns or overtasked obliviators or rookie partners or too-honest purebloods will die because they tried to help you.
You’ll find the killers, and you’ll get revenge.
Take a drink. You’ll need it.
With so many men pulled off the SVU taskforce, the investigation is barely progressing. Things aren’t coming together. Even the Potions Master is off the case, and how will you operate without him?
You make your decision.
* * *
The alley is dark, lit only by a muggle lamppost. Bit by bit, the lamppost seems to be flickering out.
Muggle technology is a poor replacement for magic to begin with, but in the presence of two wizards trying to hide in the dark, the muggle tech breaks down. You think briefly about the fact that magic seems to interfere with certain kinds of technology but not others. “micro-elections” receive the most interference, but electricity is definitely also impacted. Basic muggle technology like fire, pressure, and heat are all unaffected.
Interestingly, all the magical trains in America still run on steam, because something about the diesel engine isn’t compatible with the charms and wards used to create magical trains. It’s too bad, too. The San Francisco to New York trip is currently over two hours long.
At last, your contact arrives. A large, grimy-looking man with long hair wearing a long coat over his muggle clothes, he eyes you with suspicion.
“Chu? Is that you?”
“Jenkins, it’s been a while.” You step into the light. “I’ve been keeping your name of the books, like you asked. You haven’t needed my help in a while, but you still owe me one last favor.”
“Damn, you look like shit, Chu. What they got you up to anyways?”
He’s smiling now. He can sense your desperation. You flick your copy of the Manhattan Seer. He reads the headlines about the dead Aurors, and takes a step back.
“No, no, now see hear man, I ain’t got nothing to do with—“
You cut him off. “Of course I know you didn’t do it, you idiot. You’d never be able to take them down. Look, I know for a fact that Adams betrayed then killed Jackson and Chen, but not before taking mortal wounds from them. Adams was dirty, Jenkins. I didn’t catch him, and neither did you— and hey, settle down, I don’t blame you for that either— but someone HAD to know who he was. Someone had to be passing him orders.”
Jenkins looks terrified. All the color has drained out his face. “Look, I know I owe you, but—“
“Shut up,” you growl at him. “This is it, this is the last one. Do this for me, and you’ll never have to worry about me again. You’re unregistered, Jenkins, and I’ve had to put my ass on the line to keep you out of trouble—“ not actually true, but you need to convince him— “so you better fucking tell me who’s behind Adams. I don’t care how scary it is. I KNOW as well as you do that there’s someone up the totem pole, someone whose name you’ve never said. Up until now, I didn’t care. but now, you’re going to tell me, and we’re going to go our separate ways, and we’ll call it even.”
You continue. “If you don’t help me here, then you better PRAY I never have to cover for your ass again. Everything you’ve built will fall apart around you. Everyone will know, Jenkins. It will be over for you.”
He gulps. “Okay, okay. I’ll tell you, it’s just… don’t let them know that—“
You cut him off. “Out with it, man. I haven’t got all day, and neither have you.”
Jenkins steels himself. “Fine. The man behind this all, the one who has been controlling the men and passing the bribes from higher up, he’s very powerful, see. So I’ll tell you his name, but I can’t tell you more, cause I don’t know. His name is—“
Jenkins' voice is cut off as a cloud of darkness swirls around you and him. You can immediately tell it's magical, as there's nothing passing through it-- not sound, not smell, not taste, not light. You lose your sense of orientation and fall down. You can't even feel the ground beneath your feet.
Only through the extreme levels of training and burned-in instinct you have were you able to focus Apparate away. You weren't able to bring Jenkins with you, and you don't know what happened to him. This meeting was a wash.
Jenkins is dead.
You spend your next two shifts filing paperwork about him. Among other things, he was a an ex-Auror. You’d think that would ratchet up support for the case. After all, Aurors look out for their own. Rapists, kidnappers, murderers, they’re all scum, and everyone puts in their wand to bring them down. But an Auror-killer? Those don’t last long on the streets.
Normally, the press would be all over this. Normall, the department would be all over this. Normally, though, the dead ex-Auror isn’t an unregistered werewolf. Jenkins never bit anyone— if he did that, you’d never be able to cover for him— but he was unregistered nonetheless and the scandal of that covers anything else.
The Department can’t be seen to be playing favorites, even if everyone knows that you do. So you file paperwork. You answer questions. Did you know he was a werewolf? No, you lie. No, you tell the truth. There’s no veritaserum but you always kept plausible deniability. You suspected him, yes, of course— who wouldn’t? But you say if you had undeniable evidence you’d have turned him in an instant.
And of course, you would have, too. The only thing undeniable would be him biting someone, and you wouldn’t cover that up, now would you? So you might as well have been speaking under a geas of truth.
When Sergeant Peterson is pulled from the case and assigned elsewhere, you realize that there are fewer and fewer resources devoted to it. Why did that woman die? What was done to her, and by whom? More and more, you think these questions might not be answered unless something is done.
Someone upstairs is looking out for you, though. They could have left you with a skeleton crew, but they kept some good men on the case. Even better, they pushed through your promotion.
You finger your new Sergeant’s badge, running your fingers over the delicate fringes of it.
In a way, it’s about time. But this shouldn’t be your first case. Still, the authority given to you is exactly what you need as you order your new underlings around.
You move the photos around on the tackboard. All the pieces of the puzzle, they’re all there. Jenkins. The masked man. The squib. The gun. The body. The attacks, the pressure, the betrayal. Adams. With a flick of the wand, you re-arrange the board and draw new lines. How does it all fit together? How did they know where you would be?
The past two weeks commanding this group has been one of the most exciting and stressful of your life. Your promotion was in the works, and now you have the manpower you need. Still, you know which way the wind is blowing. The department will support you as long as you get results, and now… now there’s nothing. You’re sure that given time, you could catch the culprit, but you’ve wasted 14 auror-weeks on this, and people are beginning to notice. It’s only a matter of time, now
You slam you fist against the wall.
“Am I interrupting something?”
You turn around and unclench your fist. The tall, dark man standing in the doorway of your new office is dressed impeccably, as always. His badge shines like it was just polished, his boots are smooth and unscuffed, his cuffs and collar are immaculately pressed and shaped. Here’s a man who doesn’t spend his morning slogging through mud at the riverside looking for clues.
“Captain Carter,” you say. “What brings you to my neck of the woods?”
“Oh, just dropping in,” he says with a frown. “I never got to congratulate you on your promotion. You’re a good auror, and you deserve it.”
You smile, and wait for the other shoe to drop.
“Even more,” Carter continues, “it is such a shame for you to have your first case be something like this. I know how for career-oriented men like you or I, something like this could… well, it could be a black mark on a career, couldn’t it? You know how these things go, Chu. A case like this, it’s poison.”
You know what he’s getting at, but you ask anyways. “What are you getting at, sir?”
“I’m going to do you a favor, son,” says Carter. “I’m pulling your team off this case. It’s going into the pool. No leads in two weeks, we’ll get some fresh eyes on it, see if that doesn’t solve the problem, eh? You could…”
You’ve stopped listening at this point. It’s what you knew, what you feared. It took some time for the politics to trickle down, for this to happen, but it was coming. You knew you were working on a time budget, and your time has run out.
* * *
Carter leaves with your case files. That’s it. The woman’s death will go uninvestigated. The case will be passed around but never picked up, and eventually filed away as a cold case. In time, this will fade from memory. By official channels, you have no way of continuing. The conspiracy, whoever they are, has won. They’ve tied your hands.
Unbeknownst to everyone involved, though, at the bottom of the locked cabinet in your desk, there’s a manilla file folder, marked “DMLE Precinct 16 SCU Case # 1G2-92”. It is filled with all your evidence, your speculations, the addresses and info of witnesses and suspects, everything you investigated.
* * *
A new case rolls across your desk, and you think back to that case you worked on half a year ago, with the woman dead at the waterfront. You don’t think about that case as much as you used to, but it still nags you, still gets at you. You find yourself thinking, writing, taking notices, and inconspicuously continuing the investigation. You can’t do much, but you try. You’re too much of an Auror not to.
You never were able to ID the body. Nobody remembers her, any more. Her death, her murder, the crime.
Nobody cares.
Nobody but you.
TO BE CONTINUED.... TUNE IN FOR TL MAFIA LXXII: GAIDEN 2
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EPT
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