2019-06-01 - Mike Oscar Mike is Oscar Mike

It's late afternoon, the sun still out with an clear and cloudless sky that runs a touch contrary to the common weather of the season. Michael had been asked to come in a touch later than normal, so he's just showing up for his shift when others are in the process of leaving. Striding through the station to the changing rooms, he comes out wearing his uniform and walks over to fill up his thermos with coffee and checks the various duty boards and reports from when he was sleeping, catching up on the latest in police business.

The station is mostly empty, as it usually is, it's a small town and there isn't exactly a huge police presence even at peak hours. A handful of officers in the office at any given time, the rest out on patrol.

And one interloper, sneaking in in what's usually a fairly empty time, to liberate donuts from the stash that's usually available in what passes for a break room. Sutton, down from dispatch, is either on a break or ending her shift. It's hard to tell, though her sleeves are rolled up to the elbow, hair twisted up with a pencil. Generally, her voice is on the radio during the day, but sometimes she ends up working swing shifts.

The brunette wanders in and barely looks up, swooping down on a powdered sugar covered donut full of sugary icing filling. A lock of hair falls into her eyes, chunky blonde streak flicked out again as she gives her head a toss, and looks up with her pilfered donut just in time to notice there's a cop in here. She takes a huge bite, and a puff of powdered sugar rains down on her top. It's fine. She's wearing white. She squints. It'll probably take until Michael speaks for her to recognize him, as she's been locked away in dispatch for a little over a month, and rarely goes face to face with the POs.

Her ID badge is on a lanyard jammed into her back pocket, so she could be just about anyone. "Hi." Another poof of confectioner's sugar. She mutters something under her breath and dusts her face off.

"Hi," Michael replies as he joins her near the donuts and after a pause, searching his memory, remembers her name apparently, without seeing the lanyard in her back pocket as it is. "Sutton, right?" he asks, and looking through the assortment mindful not to touch anything, he looks back up at her and apparently opts not to partake. Instead he settles back on his heels and checks to make sure that his coffee is full and sets that down for a moment while he pulls a board off a nearby wall. Reading through the duty roster, he scrunches up his nose slightly.

Turning the clipboard toward her, he shows her the row with his name on it, if she recognizes his name anyhow.

In the case that she does, she sees he has apparently been scheduled for an extra shift this weekend.

Sutton takes another bite of her donut, turning her left wrist up to check the face of the watch there. By now, she's liberally sprinkled with powdery sugar, speckles across her hand, wrist, chest. "Mhm." She swallows what's in her mouth and says, "You can eat a donut while I'm standing here. I won't judge you or post you on any of the cops eating donuts social media feeds." Her tone suggests she might do the latter, but she doesn't have a camera phone easy to hand, so it might be safe.

Now that he's spoken a bit more, and yes, she's taken a little glance at his name tag, because she's stealthy and resourceful like that, she seems to have put a Unit number to a name. Her gaze skims over the clipboard and she smirks. "Was it you who ticketed the Chief's niece?"

"You're covered in sugar," Michael points out the obvious, because well, it's getting sort of ridiculous and he stands there sort of staring at her face, chest and hand all in one go. The offer to eat a donut earns her a brief shake of the head and he pats his non-existent gut a few times and admits, "I try to eat healthy, that's how I maintain my girlish figure," and were he in more flattering garments, it'd be obvious that he probably has a rather dedicated accounting of his calories. One doesn't maintain that level of fitness by eating donuts. "The chief's niece? I didn't even know the Chief had a niece. What's her name?" he asks, wondering if he was the one who'd ticketed her.

Sutton glances down at herself. The sugar doesn't show on her white shirt, but it does on her lightly tanned skin tone. "Huh. Imagine that." She takes another bite of her donut. Poof goes the sugar. It's like someone bought a bunch of powdered donuts just to troll the cops in their dark uniforms. "It's really good. You should have one now and then. Portable calories for all that driving around." She smiles a bit at that, and at the mention of his 'girlish figure,' Sutton gives him a very thorough, very obvious once over. Apparently she's gifted in evaluating the fitness of officers even through pressed uniforms and bullet resistant vests. "You meal prep, don't you?"

"If I told you her name, it wouldn't be funny when you're the one who tickets her next week. She's a speed demon. She might not be his niece. I'm a little fuzzy on the specifics, because it wasn't my call." Sutton, ever helpful in these matters, gestures with her donut, then adds, "If it was you, O'Malley, you'd know."

"Oh yes, very funny. So, what's your first name, by the way? I'm Michael," he introduces himself and hangs the duty roster up on the wall again. Putting his hands in his pockets, he stands there with her, and then realizing that he needs to clock in as being available for radio calls, pushes the buttons on his radio and calls himself in as being at the office and available for call outs. "And you're the paramedic, right?"

Her smile widens as Michael confirms her sense of humor, sarcastically or no. Sutton mhms, "Everly, but everybody calls me Sutton. Even my mother." She watches O'Malley call in service, and finishes her donut while he's busy doing that.

Yes, she does note that his hands to go his pockets. In deference to his pristine uniform, she offers him her left hand, which is attached to a tattooed arm, and free of sugar splash damage. "I am the paramedic. If you've heard any rumors about me, I can assure you that they're unequivocally false. Those hens at the Firehouse are full of crap."

Michael for his part, doesn't have his arms showing, but if she were attentive in the past she might have noticed a USMC tattoo among a few others that he tends to keep covered, except when he's in private or in a place like the station between shifts. He shakes the offered hand with a meaty handshake and smiles at her introduction, "Everly Sutton, you sound like you work the big ring at a old west circus. 'Everly Sutton's fantastic menagerie of beasts from the orient and beyond!'" he pipes up and snorts a bit at her mentioning about the rumors. "I don't give much merit to rumors, but if I did, I doubt you'd have done anything that I'd even blink at. Marines get bored overseas and do some rather insane things in their times of boredom," he mentions.

"Mum loves a good family name throwback." And there's a taste of Sutton's oddly-occasional English accent popping up. Other cops have given her crap for it in the past, going so far as to remind her she's in America now. "Everly is, of course a family name. The history of it is quite tragic."

"You're correct, though. Sometimes it does feel a bit Big Top ferrying you lot all 'round the town." Sutton grins a bit at the mentions of marines and what they do overseas. "Marines get a bit bored stateside, too. I know exactly the sorts of things they get up to, because I have been very drunk in military bars." Her handshake is firm and brief. "I'm mostly kidding." She didn't sound as if she was kidding at all.

"My old man's a marine still, and I've spent considerable time on bases." She lets his hand go, then selects a second donut from the box, this time a chocolate cake with glaze. She breaks it in half and leaves part behind. Someone will hoover that up before the night is through, surely. "Those aren't break room stories."

"I was almost named Virgil, so I know what that's like," Michael mentions, but doesn't make any observations about her accent, given that he has that mild Boston accent himself, he isn't one to throw stones. "Oh really? Give the old man a salute from a fellow Marine," he mentions and that said, seems to confirm her mention about what they get up to with a sort of faint smile and a nod.

He's about to launch into another conversation topic with her when they both get a call in short order about an assault requiring medical attention at a local house.

"That's me," he says and then he adds, "And you, I'll see you there," and he rushes from the room, grabbing his thermos on the way out.

"I was almost named Virgil, so I know what that's like," Michael mentions, but doesn't make any observations about her accent, given that he has that mild Boston accent himself, he isn't one to throw stones. "Oh really? Give the old man a salute from a fellow Marine," he mentions and that said, seems to confirm her mention about what they get up to with a sort of faint smile and a nod. "I need to get my vehicle squared away," he mentions and grabs up his thermos, and seems to be heading out towards the depot with all the emergency vehicles parked in it. But is doing it in a way that's including her, in case she wants to keep talking.

"Virgil's not bad." Sutton replies, straight-faced. "The old man prefers gifts of beer, really, but I'll let him know there are some signs of civilized life in this sleepy little town. I'm quite sure he worries." She wanders toward the door, apparently going with. Seems like she must be coming off duty while he's going on duty.

"Let's go, officer. I'll supervise your checklist." Nobody needs to supervise a checklist, but she's in no hurry to call a Lyft back to her apartment. Small talk is the order of the day while she finishes this other half of a donut. "You don't smoke either, do you?" She glances over, swiping a few tea packets from the counter as she passes by and steps out. "You've been here some weeks now. How are you finding Washington?"

"Oh really, drill sergeant?" Michael jokes as they walk out of the office and into the adjacent structure. He immediately checks the vehicle, but is mostly just hitting the high points that cause legal issues, less the procedural business of kicking all the tires and double-checking the oil levels. That means he starts with checking to make sure nobody stashed something in the backseat between the padding or alongside the doors. "No, I don't smoke, do you? It's alright, are you from here?" he asks.

"What can I say? I'm genetically predisposed towards efficiency." Sutton pulls open the back door on the other side of the vehicle and gives it the all important sniff test, without sticking her head fully into the vehicle. "Lucky you. No biologicals in the last twelve hours." She could be making that up, of course, but there's generally a lingering aroma if the shift before has to hose it out and open the floor drain.

"If you're lucky, the computer has all the keys and the tire pressure lights aren't on." She shoves the door closed and says, "Yes and no. Not usually. Sometimes." She walks around the back to check the vehicle number. "One of the odd numbered cars was having issues with the heat stuck on the footwell. I had to listen to it all shift, because someone didn't want to go to the garage during peak hours."

"Oh yes, I can tell, you're the model of efficiency. High speed, low drag," Michael says with a nice layer of snark, even as he watches her getting a whiff with a face covered in powdered sugar. "No? I don't smell anything either," he admits with a laugh and grabbing a nearby board off a nearby wall, makes a note of a small dent on the exterior of the door. Shutting the rear door, he opens the front up and leans in and starts checking that over as well. Turning the car on to check the gas tank as more of a note to himself so he doesn't forget later. "I wouldn't mind toasty feet, it's still cool enough," he mentions but does check that as well, thankfully, not this car.

"According to your loquacious brother in arms," Sutton says, "His toes were a burning fire." She lifts one hand and shrugs. "I'd say if he was really that bad, he'd have hit the garage." The brunette pulls open the door and rolls down the passenger window so she can lean against it and chat while Michael finishes up his checklist. She pushes it shut and affects just such a lean.

"I was born in Seattle, so not too far different from here." It's a reasonable drive back to the city from here. "Life here's... different. Slower, by a lot. It's quiet, which I like. The air's different here -- lots of oxygen or something." Sutton jerks a thumb over her shoulder. "All the trees. I'm not sure what it is about the Pacific Northwest that inspires so many serial killers, but it sure is pretty."

"I'm sure someone with more training might have a theory on why more serial killers, but I'm going to say it's because we're just better at detecting and catching them, so it seems like there are more," Michael mentions and having finished his check list, walks around the squad car to lean against it beside her, his radio still available to take calls. "You at the end of your shift, by the way?" he asks, getting a vibe that she isn't just loitering around because she's on her lunch break.

"Or there's a lot of forest in which to dump the bodies." Sutton thinks on that for a few beats before she says, "I like your version better. It's, um, far more comforting, and less likely to give me either heebies or jeebies the next time my Lyft breaks down on the side of the road after midnight." The way Sutton says that suggests it has happened before, and recently. "Standing around googling wolf attack facts and serial murder facts distracts from actually watching my peripheral."

Sutton nods at the question regarding her shift. "Affirmative." She turns, hooking an elbow over the ledge of the door's window. "I did a split shift today to cover someone's doctor appointment. I'm loitering while I try to decide if I'm going to be lazy, and Lyft to the diner, or Lyft back to mine to cook something with vegetables in it."

"I can name an area anywhere on earth that there is a place just as convenient as 'in the forest,' in the middle of a desert, you can just drive offroad easily, in a big city? Just dump it in different trash cans or have one of a million incinerators on hand, or the bad guys might even have access to a crematory, really, it's not like trees are a motivating factor, but that's just my two cents," Michael replies, either trying to soothe her, or at least just maybe debating about it from a common sense perspective. He doesn't try to wheel out statistics. Purely anecdotal observation. "You can always call me, Sutton," he mentions when she mentions her having ride problems. "Or one of the guys. We're not going to leave you standing out there."
Speaking of which..

"Oh, well, hop in," he suggests and gets in.

Sutton regards Michael with a bland expression as he first lists off a litany of body dump sites, and then asks her to get into his vehicle. She clears her throat softly, and then says, "If I start treating you lot like my own personal ride share, I might have to stop being so snarky all the time." So, yes, she's aware of her level of sass, and how it rises as soon as a person in uniform enters her line of sight. Again, this may have something to do with growing up in and out of military life.

"Tonight, it's a deal. I decided on the diner. I know it might pain you to pull into the lot." Sutton pulls the door open, regarding Michael for a moment. "But you can hack it, right?" She pulls the door shut, tugs on the seatbelt.

"The trash cans are risky. I don't know about you, but if I'm going to bury a body, I'm going to do it somewhere I can enjoy a little fresh air and some vistas. I think murderers with access to crematories are a little bit lazy. Playing to the stereotype of a cracked death professional. I can't respect that."

Getting into the car with her, Michael says, "We're not a ride share, but it's a small town and there are long periods of nothing happening. I can drop you off, and in the process, look around town a bit, be out moving, be seen, stuff I'd have done anyway," he justifies, though to be honest, it is a bit of nonsense. They shouldn't be giving people rides, but it's a small town and whether he knows it or not, he's already acting a touch like a small town cop. Buckling up, he radios in to say he's on patrol now and they pull out of the lot.

"The diner? Which one?" he questions as they roll out into the mild mid-day traffic, which is to say, rather mild traffic.

"For me? If I was like, being a serial killer, and.. not me, I'd probably just be forensically invisible and leave the bodies behind. Maybe have different signatures every few years," he speculates. "I think Kevin Costner in Mr. Brooks was fairly well contrived."

If you can't make friends with a local paramedic on the town's dime, your life is too damn regimented. Sutton nods, and lifts her hands. "Much obliged, O'Malley. I appreciate it." She can back off the needling a bit and say thank you. She just did it!

"The one with the ridiculous bears all over everything. The menu's shaped like a bear." Her tone implies if a person had ever been there, they'd definitely remember it. "I went there last week, I think, for the first time. I wasn't fully awake and I sort of thought I was having an aneurism." Sutton reaches up to brush a strand of hair out of her eyes, tucking it back behind her ear. "I haven't seen that one, but Kevin Costner looks like a serial killer to me." She glances over at Michael's profile as he drives, watching him for a moment before she asks, "You remember your non-latex gloves?"

"You should see it, I mean, Dane Cook in a dramatic role, ugh, but other than that it's sorta good, I like it, for that sort of movie," Michael mentions as they drive, and as they move across town, she realizes that he must have some idea which one she is referring to, though he doesn't sit and chat about bear menus too much. "And call me Michael, or Mike, not O'Malley unless there are criminals around--in which case it's Officer O'Malley," he mentions. Preferring not to be so formal, now that he's out of the military. "I got enough O'Malley when I was serving, I can be Mike again. Also, if you ever make a, 'Mike Oscar Mike is oscar mike.' Joke, I'll taze you." Joking, obviously.

"It's always the comedians who go the darkest the fastest," Sutton says. "I'll definitely check it out. Streaming video and I are old friends." Her lips part like she's going to make a crack about his name, but she lets him do the litany of options before he finally gets to the joke. And as the joke progresses, and asks, "Get that a lot, did you?"

The way she says it, with a little bit of a smile in her voice, really doesn't bode well for the likelihood he won't get it again, on the radio. She mhms. "Mike it is. Unless there's a shifty looking crime type around. Copy."

There's a moment more before she says, "You know tazing hurts you more than it hurts me -- all that muscle mass on you. Only lasts five seconds." She glances over. "I wouldn't advise it." Kidding? Not kidding? Damn Sutton and her delivery. "I think the diner does grilled chicken if you want to join me, Mike." At least she's stopped calling him O'Malley.