Chapter Text
At least the body hasn’t started to stink up yet.
As far as bodies go, this one was fresh. The corpse lay face down on the hardwood flooring in the middle of its former living room. Nothing but a bathrobe and briefs. At least a dozen pairs of shoes hustle around him, taking care not to step in the pool of blood around his head. Cameras click away, capturing every angle of privacy away from the body.
Thankfully, he had the foresight to shit beforehand.
The cause of death: a gunshot wound, a gaping hole in the back of the dead man’s head. The discharge had stopped flowing, replaced with drying flecks of blood and settling viscous liquid. Now, the body lays still - and would do so forevermore.
Standing above the body, a man stood, bracing himself in a firing stance. His arm stretched out, his fingers mimicking a gun, pointing directly at the entry wound.
“Five foot… eight. Five foot… nine,” the detective mumbled under his breath. “Yeah, yeah.” He raised his arm, stabilizing his wrist with his other hand. “Five foot nine. Maybe an extra quarter.”
Slowly, he began to walk backward. Retaining his stance, his legs slowly crossed back and forth, keeping his fingers trained on an invisible, once alive, target. Once every couple of steps, he stops, straightens his back to raise his arm, and then drops it back down again.
His recreation doesn’t attract attention from the medical examiners, or even the two outfitted police standing by the apartment door. For all intents and purposes, the detective-playing killer exists in a whole other world at this moment.
Suddenly, the detective stops, crossing over into the apartment kitchen connected to the living room. He plants himself by wiggling his feet as if the hardwood were sand. Closing one eye, and tilting his head, even if just for personal effect, he pulls the trigger in his mind.
Blam. Dead guy.
One may think finding a casing to a bullet that’s been tucked into the skull of a dead man would be one of the first priorities, but in a city where almost 2,000 murders occur yearly, priorities slip. Or idiots fall upwards. That’s what Lester Leighton chooses to believe. Especially on afternoons like these.
Lester spun his head around, scanning the floor. Tricky things, casings were. Some guns had what people would call “second bullets” - husks that fly with enough anger and virality to break and burn skin. The type that comes out hot, fast, and slams in any direction it damn well pleases. Others tend to trickle - just falling to a shooter’s feet. Lester liked it when they trickled out; it’s like a miniature confession. Telling someone you know directly where they were when they killed someone is powerful stuff, after all. Lester liked it even more when they screamed like a bat out of hell. Two years ago, or maybe three, a would-be-serial-robber shot a gas station clerk in the head. The same bullet’s casing found its way into his pal’s eye. Blinding via stray casing isn’t a terribly common reason to check into a clinic, and Lester found a would-be-accomplice-to-a-serial-robber faster than even he expected.
This time, he has to really search for the casing.
Lester drops down, scanning the kitchen floor; usually, casings like to find their way into corners, by table legs, or in open cabinets… also underneath fridges. Crouch walking to the icebox, Lester gets on his stomach. Placing his ear onto the ground, he peers beneath it.
“Fuck,” he mutters, proving his luck.
The casing was found, yes, but stuck in a corner and underneath a fridge. Can’t move the fridge - out of the question. Too many people trying to lug the thing across the room, just enough to squeeze a hand through. Can’t just reach out and grab the thing either.
Lester strained his neck to look at the rest of the police in the room. All of them ignored him, either on purpose or habit. Stay outta Lester’s way, he’s overheard from beat cops in radio cars, Guy is a real prick. The ostracization gives way to benefits, though.
With a breath, a force wraps around his body. The feeling of his wool jacket and flare-cut pants faded, replaced by the cold touch of thin metal and bone. Lester sticks his arm all the way under the fridge with his palm pressed against the bottom.
“Bite.”
A mechanism on his bone-and-metal suit closed down, digging into the undercarriage of the ice box. Soon, a mouth made of metal opened on the bottom of the fridge. Taking a deep breath through his nose, he produces a gust through his new mouth.
The casing comes skidding out, pushed by the airflow of the large metal mouth. Just as quickly as it came, he releases the pressure around his body.
“Bingo.” Getting to his feet, Lester produces a tweezer from his inner coat pocket. Lifting the shell from the ground, he quickly brings it to attention.
“Casing!”
“Was going to have it down as a suicide when we walked in. Locked door, young single fella. Had to ask the landlord for the key…” The uniformed officer tapped at his notepad. “Chainlocked door too.” The officer looked at his watch, nodding. “My 90 minutes are up. Body is yours.”
Sucker, Lester thought, completing the officer’s sentence.
Dead man, locked door. Unlocked kitchen window, leading right to a fire escape. Suicide - what a joke. The neighbor hears a gunshot, but no other ruckus. Doesn’t call until an hour later. Despite the dead body, the house is clean. Nothing strewn or thrown about. This was a murder, not a botched robbery. Not even an attempt to make it look like one. Definitely not a suicide. Who shoots themselves in the back of the head?
“Who would wanna kill a mope like you?” Lester looked at the body - the apartment was owned by one David Eno, and the landlord confirmed the body was his - with his hand over his mouth. It was starting to smell by now. Too damn hot out.
“Well, we’re sending him out,” said an examiner behind Lester. “The coroner will poke him with a stick, then get someone to pull the lead out of his head. Feels familiar, doesn’t it?”
Week ago. Another whodunit. Same locked door, same unlocked window.
“Same kind of casing,” Lester thought out loud. “Shit.”
– – –
20 minutes.
20 minutes of peace - a rough estimate from Lester. 19 minutes before the Deputy Commissioner is told of the matching bullets and murders. The next minute is dedicated to calling Sergeant Cunningham and telling him to rip Leighton a new asshole. 20 minutes to prepare as the hot breath of the brass surrounds him.
A mess of papers is sprawled across Lester’s otherwise sparse desk. Crime scene photos and criminal records form an unsolved puzzle in front of Lester. The eyes of a dead man peer at him through a photo of the stiff.
John Spencer: killed in his apartment four days ago. A round fired off from a Makarov - larger than a normal 9mm bullet. Rare enough in the States that it left boys in ballistics scratching their heads for a couple of hours. Distinct enough that stirred up enough shit to for Cunningham to kick Lester in the ass. A locked door, unlocked fire escape window. Clean house, nothing broken. John was into something - a low-to-the-ground rap sheet decorates his corpse. Aggravated assault, petty theft, and a small handful of drug charges. No stable job, no contact with family. An apartment nicer than Lester’s.
15 minutes.
Someone, somewhere out there, had a reason to kill Spencer. It isn’t too surprising, given his past.
David Eno; same story. No job, nice apartment. Handful of humbles, assaults, and a case of possession when he was younger.
It’s a wonder the IRS didn’t get them first.
13 minutes.
Eno had a mother with an address in the city. He was already declared dead - outfits should be on their way already. Lester would speak to her first thing after he leaves. Try and establish some form of connection between the two. Overlapping bars, clubs, stories. Anything.
10 minutes.
Lester had a game plan; interview the landlord, then interview the mother. Hopefully, either of them give him something to chew on.
Not much of a plan.
The rounds are going to stir more shit than the deaths. Russian-made rounds.
Lester glances at his watch. 9 minutes.
A hand on Lester’s shoulder rips his attention away from his collection of evidence.
Who the hell?...
Just behind Leighton, the figure of Deputy Commissioner Goode loomed over the detective. Goode’s stature could emasculate anyone in the department. Clad in his decorated blue jacket, Goode shoots daggers into Leighton. Shoulders wide and face stiff, his clenched jaw holds back a torrent of vitriol.
“Detective,” Goode said through clamped teeth, “A word.”
10 minutes before anything should have happened. Goode shouldn’t even know yet, much less be here.
Lester nods, his eyes barely holding back his confusion.
“You had a case four days ago. That body is still red. That bullet already caused a stir - do you feel good letting a communist kill people?” Goode glared at Leighton, sharpening his browline. Before Lester could respond in shock or rebuttal, Goode continued. “Now you have another body. Because you couldn’t find the commie who made the first one. Do you understand?” Goode takes a second to rub the bridge of his nose. His face falls, slightly, before returning his malice back to Lester.
“Goode, I-” Lester couldn’t respond, interrupted by the Deputy Commissioner holding his hand against the detective’s face.
“This is fucked, Detective. You turn those bodies from red to black. Do you know the shitstorm this will pick up when this hits the press?” Goode backed away from the detective, and Lester came to the realization he had been holding his breath for the last minute straight. “Get going, detective. Got it?”
Lester manages to nod his head before he takes a breath. The Deputy rubs his nose once more, then turns heel and walks away from the now-frigid detective.
What the fuck is going on?
— — —
Lester considers himself to be in shape. He’s seen detectives much younger than him in even worse shape - usually when one becomes a detective, their face rounds out and they start using more notches on their belt. You use your feet less. No patrols combined with barely having to run after suspects made for a fellow who didn’t need the physique. The downside to the relaxed physicality was that cops have to learn how to use their brains.
A tragedy.
Lester began to go grey before becoming a detective, but it sure as shit didn’t help. Flecks of grey dot his unrelenting stubble, popping out against his darker skin - a month or two of shaving abstinence and the resulting half-baked beard might be acceptable stepping stones in giving in. But the ritual gives enough assurance to make it worth keeping. Daily, continuous acts - power through routine.
Standing outside of Eno’s mother’s apartment, Lester clutches his notepad like it is his rosary. His hands raise to the door with unease, and he knocks.
The sound of the shuffling of clothes and shoes is muffled from behind the hardwood door.After a moment,, the apartment door slowly cracks open.
Peering from the small gap, the mother of David Eno looked up at Lester. The rest of her is obscured by the door; her bloodshot eyes scan Lester up and down. Her still quivering mouth was visible.
To her, her child had only been dead for an hour. It seems she would have continued to cry if her eyes had allowed her.
“Are you the detective?” She asked, her voice failing her.
“Yes, ma’am.” Reaching behind his shirt, Lester grabbed his shield, old and scuffed, wrapped around his neck. Emblazoned with all the regality New York could offer, he put it in her view. “I’m sure you’ve been made aware of me coming, yes?” He stashed the badge back under his shirt. A shield. Funny symbol. Tended to draw more ire than warding it.
“Yes, I have. The other two policemen told me you would come by. Officer Jakobs and… I forgot the other’s name. Irish, for sure. MacSomething,” the woman said as she undoes the chain lock and opens the door further. The inside of her modest apartment is full of furniture and art - a massive painting sits above her television set.
“You have a wonderful home, ma’am.” Lester said, gesturing to the painting. “I was wondering if you were willing to tell me about your son. Understanding him more is the first step to bringing him justice.” Lester clasps his hands together at his waist, keeping his shoulders slouched and his face low.
“Oh, I just don’t understand…” The woman took a seat down on a long, decorated couch, trailing off. “Yes, you can ask anything.”
Lester takes a deep breath and sits across from her, grabbing his pen and pad from his inner jacket pocket. “Your name?”
“Joanne Eno.”
“Thank you, Joanne. Can you tell me about the last time you spoke to David?”
“Uhm, a couple of weeks ago, I believe? Yes, Thursday before last. He came over to give me some jewelry.” She looks at her hands. Three different rings, all impressive looking. Sapphires, rubies, and opals. Gemstones that once elicited the warmth of joy seem to fill the woman with cold, dangerous nostalgia. “He did that, a lot. All of these decorations and art were from him. I never let him, um, pay for the apartment or my food - I’m a retired woman and his father passed, but I’m well off enough. David checked in with me every so often to gift me things instead.” She swallowed hard.
“Do you know anyone who might have wanted to hurt your son?” Lester asked - this is one of his favorite questions in an investigation.
“No, not at all. I have no clue why someone would want to hurt him. He’s such a good kid.” Joanne’s eyes grew the strength to start producing more tears.
“Well, are you aware of his criminal record?”
“Stupid mistakes he made when he was younger. He wasn’t into any of that nasty business anymore,” Joanne said, her voice growing colder.
“Would you have wanted to hurt your son?” Lester asked in the same tone as any other question.
“Excuse me?” Joanne said, raising her voice. “How could you ask that?” Her hands ball into fists and her face jumps between anger and confusion.
“I’m so sorry, ma’am, I don’t mean to be rude. It’s standard procedure to ask in all cases,” Lester lied. “I apologize - may I ask again about the night you saw him last?”
Joanne exhaled, then nodded.
“How did he seem? Anxious, jumpy at all?” Lester said, his pen scratching against his notepad. Second nature, now, but the act of transcription hadn’t come naturally to Lester. It took time - and a lot of awkward questioning - to fall into his routine. Emotions, locations, and irregularities. That’s what made a case.
Joanne looks down, reminiscing. “No, actually. He was kind of ecstatic,” she rubs her cheeks, wicking off the remaining moisture. “He met some woman, he said. I think he was head over heels for her. Wasn’t able to talk about her without blushing. I’ve never really seen him like that. He never had much luck with women - to be honest. His father and I were worried he was a homosexual, for a while.” She smiles, her eyes returning to her rings. “He called her Keke, I think.”
Emotions, locations, and irregularities. At best, a lead. At worst, a chewing out from Goode.
“Do you know where they met? Where I might be able to speak with her?” Lester’s voice showed his excitement, as much as he tried to hide it - something he hadn’t mastered yet. “It might help.” Thankfully, it didn’t seem like Joanne could notice it.
“Oh, at a bar - or a club. Club… Saturn? He was a frequent patron there, I think. Mentioned it a lot.” Joanne brushes her legs, and looks back at Lester - more like looking through him, really. “May I take a minute? I think I need some water and air.”
With a nod from Lester, she goes to her kitchen.
And now would be the time.
“Come to me,” Lester whispers.
In a flash, Lester’s coat presses against his body as he summons his other “suit”.
Lester can’t quite remember when he gained this power - in the last five years, at least. All he remembers is the nightmares - the days that blended together and the weeklong fever. Like thousands of memories piled onto each other and mashed up. What he knows is as follows:
His power is, as far as he’s aware, rare.
Others who do not possess the same form of ability cannot see it - but they can see its effects. (Despite having to explain it away to the best of his ability, at least it assured him of his sanity.)
And that he’s only met three other people like him - and all of them are dead.
Reaching underneath the woman’s couch, he presses his hand flat against its undercarriage.
“Bite.”
Another ear forms from the wood and fabric of the couch, connected by an unseen and ethereal force to Lester’s brain. A perfectly functional facsimile.
“You know, I think this is all I need,” Lester said, loud enough to make himself wince due to his extra ear. “I’m so sorry for your loss. I hope I can find your son justice.”
Joanna looks from the kitchen and nods.
Outside the door of the apartment, Lester waited and hoped. Hoped for anything else.
But all he hears are tears.
—
“You know, I really don’t think he likes you,” Cunningham said between bites of a sandwich. Egg salad threatened to fall onto Lester’s desk. His words slide out of his mouth in breathy pauses, lubricated by grease. “In fact, he told me he doesn’t really like you. I’m trying to think of his exact words.” Sergeant Cunningham wagged his sandwich over the piles of paperwork. Cunningham wasn’t a pretty sight - overweight in a way that makes him look dumpy and a face of bright red zits.
“I really wouldn’t doubt it. However, I still catch killers regardless. Speaking of which, don’t you have a job of your own to do?” Lester said. With Cunningham, a gibe like this is more like pointing at a deer than poking a bear.
“Hm! He said you’re a stain on the department. An old, hard-to-remove dark spot. That you’re hard to discern from the riff-raff.” Cunningham stopped eating to look directly at Lester.
Right behind Cunningham, hanging against the wall, was the New York homicide department’s wall of names. The names that once belonged to dead people. Dead names that ended up on homicide’s doorstep. At first, Lester hated that it was so close to his desk. Over time, he’s learned to love the pressure. Once a case gets solved, a name goes from red to black. Another puzzle done.
“You know, we let in a lot of duds, blanks, and no goods. And I’m fine with that! They have their place. But they don’t become homicide detectives. I have no idea why they let your ass become that. They’ve kept you around for too long too. How long have you been a cop?”
“Longer than you.” Lester refuses to look up.
“Waste of your time, really. You know they’re talking about letting queers join the force, too? At least tell me you aren’t a fag, Leighton.” Cunningham bent over to grab Lester’s paperwork in his grease-covered hand. In a single swipe, Lester clutches Cunningham’s wrist before he can make contact.
“Have you considered eating your gun instead?” Lester said, finally looking up at the sergeant. “I know you don’t put it to use anymore.”
Cunningham frowns and recedes his hand. “Fine. This has to get done. Soon.”
The landlord was a dead end. Neighbors didn’t have any useful insights. So who killed John Spencer and David Eno? Pieces never quite fall into place as they tumble together. A story cobbled together from beats and then discarded. Ripped apart to be put back together again. Something is there - Lester is close to it, he feels.
Only one real avenue remains - Club Saturn. Keke. Fling? Serious relationship? From what Lester gathered, Eno kept to himself. Wasn’t great with women. Weeks before his death, he hits it off with some mystery woman?
Irregularities, locations, emotions.
—
Club Saturn nestles itself right between a bank and an abandoned storefront, bookended by different forms of crime and societal scorn. Taking up shop in the decayed bones of a prohibition speakeasy, Saturn kept its propensity for under-the-table deals and illicit substances. The chances of Saturn itself being a front, a money laundering machine, are high.
Nobody will be touching Club Saturn, though. Despite the cocaine and crack that flow through its rings, Club Saturn doesn’t have bar fights. Club Saturn hasn’t ever caught on fire or had overdoses in the bathrooms. No one ever has to look at Club Saturn if they didn’t want to - drugs, prostitution, and paid murder are all part of the social contract. Club Saturn doesn’t rock the boat.
“You’re still going to have to give me your gun, though.” The heavyset bouncer keeps his arms crossed and gaze steady, his sunken eyes and perpetual face of indifference stare at Lester.
As ugly as Cunningham, but at least he uses his body.
“Do I have to tell you again what I am?” Lester said, pointing at the badge hanging from his neck.
“No, you don’t. Do I?”
If Lester was any other detective, he might just turn around. Lester isn’t any other detective - and if things get hectic, he has something more useful than a gun.
“Fine.” Lester pulls his sidearm out and places it into a bin next to the bouncer. “I want it back, though.”
The bouncer almost laughs, a hint of emotion breaking through. “Yeah, yeah. Of course.”
Walking into Club Saturn without his firearm, he feels a rush of excitement. Dozens of patrons are in the halls of Saturn, and he has to find the perfect one. The pounding, bombastic sounds of music hit Lester almost instantly - ears might be rough.
“If I was a mystery woman,” Lester mutters to himself, “where could I be?”