2019-07-03 - A Death in the Family

When the police and ambulance arrived Dahlia was sitting on the front steps of Lot 28. A couple other residents of the trailer park were hovering near her. An elderly lady had her arm carefully around Dahlia, murmuring something to her. Dahlia had a somewhat vacant expression on her face. Like she has shut herself down in some way. Trying to just numb everything. A little nod is given to the elderly lady but Dahlia's attention shifts to the approaching cars, and the neighbors back off a bit. Though they're still rubbernecking. Of course. There's what appears to be an ugly bite mark marring Dahlia's pale skin on her left shoulder and some stratches of her upper arm. She might need stitches on the shoulder but it doesn't look like it's bleeding anymore. Her attire is a pair of black cloth shorts and a black tanktop. The tank top has a very minor tear in the side as well.

The paramedics likely don't spend too long with the body before putting in a call to the coroner. The ambulance is still sitting out front though, and one of the EMTs heads over to check Dahlia for injuries while uniformed cops cordon off the area in accordance with protocol. Shortly after the coroner arrives, an unmarked police cruiser pulls up. The engine cuts out after a few moments, and a solitary officer steps out, dressed in a dark, crisp suit. Despite the lack of ballistic protection and duty rig, he's clearly armed; there's no mistaking the gun at his hip when he swings out. Boots crunch the gravel as he crosses the lot, dark eyes sweeping the scene as he moves. And pausing when they snag Dahlia sitting there on the front steps, like the locus of a storm. There's a twitch in his jaw, and then he resumes his prowl toward her, with an authoritative bark aimed at the hover-ers instructing them to back up outside the perimeter. Orders are distributed, as well, to the milling cops, and a terse greeting for the coroner who arrives hot on his heels.

"Miss Evergreen. Do you need anything?" He crouches down to put himself at her eye level, big shoulders hunched slightly, gaze flitting briefly over the younger woman. One of the paramedics goes to fetch a blanket, recognising that she may be in shock.

The rubberneckers back off when Ruiz barks out his orders. At least off enough to where they're outside the perimeter but still have a bit of a view. Dahlia has been silent throughout. She didn't say anything when the paramedics asked about her injury. Nor did she open her mouth the other police tried to talk to her. She is likely in some stage of shock. Just trying to process what's happening and trying to piece together what actually happened last night. When Ruiz crouches down to her level, Dahlia just stares for a moment. A beat to full comprehend his question and then shrugged. Wincing. Mistake. No shrugging. But at least the wound is covered now with a temporary bandage of sorts. The paramedic had heavily suggested she stop in at the hospital to get it looked at a little more thoroughly - likely since she wouldn't say what happened.

Dahlia's gaze lowered then, focusing down on the stairs. "I dunno." Finally, she speaks. Though her voice is quiet.

He doesn't make any attempt to touch her. For the time being. Just gazes at her with those dark, hooded eyes while the other uniformed first responders bustle about their tasks like busy bees. A glance goes to a couple of the neighbours who are being escorted back behind the tape by a female Sergeant who doesn't look like she has time for shit today, then his attention returns to the dark-haired girl. A notepad comes out of his pants pocket, and a pen from somewhere inside his suit jacket. He clicks it on, and scribbles something down. "Do you mind telling me what happened, from the beginning?" His eyes and his voice are difficult to read, as they always are. But there's a touch of something beneath the cool professionalism, that he seems to be making an effort to keep tamped down.

The paramedic returns around then with the blanket, and pulls it around Dahlia's shoulders gently before pulling out her kit to tend to what injuries she can.

What happened. What happened. Dahlia doesn't have any fucking idea what happened, and that sort of transmits to Ruiz from the look in her eyes when those bright green eyes find their way back to his. She's trying hard to keep her shit together and seems to be succeeding so far. Just focusing on him, barely noticing the paramedic or the blanket. Letting her do what she wants. "...I woke up...the tv was on. I guess fell asleep." She drew in a breath. "This injury was on my shoulder...I don't know how or why." Nothing that made sense and she was still trying hard to figure out some kind of reasonable explanation for it. "I panicked. Maybe an animal or something got in. You know? I uh-I went inside mom's room to see if she was okay and..." Dahlia's voice trailed off. And now they were here.

The entirety of the cop's attention seems to be honed in on Dahlia, though most assuredly he's got half a bead on the scene at large, and the goings-on happening in his periphery at all times. A few notes are taken as she speaks, pad rested on his knee as he scribbles. "When do you think you fell asleep? How long were you out for?" His eyes travel to the wound being tended to on her shoulder, briefly to the paramedic, then back to Dahlia's face. The shaken look is no doubt spotted, and there's another little twitch in his jaw. Then more writing. "Was there any sign of someone having broken in? Was there anyone you are aware of who would have reason to hurt her?" The questions follow one after the other, his accent causing him to stumble here and there, though his voice and manner are remarkably even.

"It was late..." Dahlia remembered that much. His accent doesn't phase her, she's used to the way he talks and she understands him just fine. "Maybe a little after midnight? I woke up at...7 or 8?" Trying to remember specifics. "No signs of it that I saw." But damn if she didn't hope someone had broken in. Then maybe it would...explain something. Dahlia shook her head. "She's a 50-something year old woman riddled with cancer. If anyone wanted her dead, they-" Dahlia ran her hand over her face and exhaled. "I'm fine. Just. Stop." She says to the paramedic. "Leave me alone." Then back to Ruiz. "This has been a long time coming...I just wasn't...expecting it." If it was indeed the cancer that killed her. But that didn't explain her own injury.

Ruiz is fairly patient with his line of questioning, even when the answers tend to come back vague and lacking specificity. His pen scrawls across paper as Dahlia speaks, and when she starts mentioning actual numbers, he circles a couple of things and jots down some notes in the margin. If she were to happen a glance at what he's writing, it's all in Spanish. Unsurprisingly. The paramedic is given a little hitch of his chin as if to say, do as she asks. And then, after some hesitation, he reaches toward her knee. His hand sort of hovers in mid-air for a beat or two before landing very gently. Warm, and slightly rough against her softer skin. "I would like to take a look around her room. May I?"

Dahlia relaxes a little when the paramedic is gone. Her gaze sliding down to Ruiz's hand as he touches her. It's the first time he's touched her since they found out the other was in town. There's a barely perceptible quiver of her bottom lip. "Yes. You can." She lingers there on the stairs for a moment, finding comfort in the touch but then starts to stand up. The blanket gets draped over the small porch railing. "Follow me." She leads Ruiz into the tiny trailer and it basically looks the same as a few days ago when he had come over. Except that there's a pair of officers near the couch - one taking pictures of the blood-stained afghan and the other getting ready to mark it as potential evidence. Down the tiny hallway and Dahlia hesitates in front of the open door. Looking back up to Ruiz and motioning for him to go in first.

The room is not very big. The queen size bed takes up a majority of space. There's a nightstand with a lamp on it and a dresser with a small television. A closet. Not many decorations. But there are a fair amount of framed pictures on the dresser near the TV. A family photo of a man and woman with three boys and a little girl. A wedding picture. And then individual pictures of Dahlia and her brothers when they were younger. There doesn't seem to be any signs of a struggle or anything obviously missing.

He keeps his hand there until her answer's offered, and then gives her knee a brief squeeze. It's accompanied by a smile that lingers a moment, then disappears into scruffy beard. Notepad tucked away for the time being, he pushes to his feet slowly, dark gaze barely leaving Dahlia as she moves to step inside the trailer. After a glance around to make sure things are well in hand out here, he checks his gun briefly and follows her in.

Little duck of his head as they cross the threshold that's not entirely necessary, but possibly out of habit. A pair of latex gloves are pulled out of his pocket, and he takes a minute to look over the room before tugging them on. "How long was she sick for?" is asked casually as he prowls off, passing close by the bed. Stops by the lamp, turns it on and then off again. Notes the position of the remote for the television, then switches it on. Notes the channel, the cable package. Details catalogued one after the other in his head.

After Ruiz steps into the room Dahlia finally summons the courage to step in. Well, kind of. She posts herself up in the doorway. Those green eyes following him as he moves above and does his police stuff. She thought for a moment about his question. "Originally maybe like 3 years ago? But my brothers had it well in hand. They kept me in the loop and all..." Dahlia sighed. "Then she got better. But not too long after we split up she got worse. My brothers I guess were sick of being stuck here? So.." She put her hands up - then promptly lowered them, biting back a wince. Here she was. Dealing with this. "...I guess I need to call them..." Not looking forward to that.

Ruiz reaches over to set down the remote control, and his hand lingers on it for a time after it's been placed atop the dresser where he found it. If Dahlia's sensitive to such things, there's a taste of something in the air. A bitterness, like the aftermath of rain on dirty streets that haven't seen it for some time. He blinks a couple of times and withdraws his hand then, reaching instead for one of the photographs. Not to pick it up. Merely to touch it with the tips of his fingers, around the frame. "I did not know she was ill. Lo siento." The apology seems sincere, and he meets her eyes for a moment before prowling off again. There's a coiled and almost predatory manner to his movement, as if he half expects whatever killed the woman to show back up at any moment. A possibility that, given the givens in this town, is not all that unreasonable. "You probably should," he agrees. Call them.

"How did you sleep?" The question seems to come out of the blue. He elaborates slightly, a moment later: "When you said you drifted off. How was your sleep?"

Dahlia's nose wrinkled up, like she had a bad taste in her mouth. Doing a quick sweep of the room with her eyes. Then shook her head. She was just tired. She had to be. "Well, family wasn't something I was ever big on talking about anyway." Because she had just wanted to leave it all behind. There's an attempt, and then a failure, to smile a little at the apology. Just opting to nod her head instead. She would call them them later. Once she's figured out this whole thing.

Her head tilts at his question. "...Poorly." She says finally. "I had a bad dream." A little shiver runs down her spine. He was going to think she was crazy. "Mom was a zombie. And she attacked me. And then I..." She looked towards the closet briefly, where the shotgun was kept. "...I shot her. It." Glossing over details. "Then I woke up. The Walking Dead was on. So, probably why I dreamed about zombies." A wry smile. Because it was just a dream. It only had to be a dream. What else could it be?

Ruiz watches the green-eyed woman more than the objects he's perusing, while she speaks to him about her dream. His expression is circumspect, and if he thinks she's crazy, it doesn't show. Tonguetip run along one of his upper teeth for a moment, he seems to think about what she's said, and then pulls away from the bed with slow, ambling steps. "Will you show me where the shotgun is kept?" No comment on the dream, or her rationale for it. Pausing, he steps in a little closer and brings his hands to her shoulders. Gathers up the edges of the blanket and draws them closer around her smaller frame. A smile briefly creases his eyes, but doesn't linger.

Dahlia is silently glad he doesn't start just laughing at the ridiculousness of the dream. She shifted to stand a little straighter at his question. Nodding. There's a slow inhale when he moves in to draw the blanket closer around her. Then her forehead is leaning into his shoulder, breathing in his scent before collecting herself and moving towards the closet. No words spoken, and she doesn't look at him as she starts to slide the door open, but she's glad he's here. She's certainly not in the mood to deal with a stranger. "Here you go." She finally speaks again. It's leaning up against the back wall behind some hanging dresses. "Though, in my dream it was leaning over there." Pointing to an empty space of wall between the dresser and doorway.

He doesn't seem to find it ridiculous in the least, though one never really knows with him. His touch lingers for a while, after the blanket's been drawn closer around her. A barely audible sigh when she leans in to him, head against his shoulder, and his hand briefly settles over the back of her head. He stops just short of giving her a squeeze, though lets her decide how long she wants to linger before pulling away. Cigarettes and ozone describe his scent today. Mild soap somewhere beneath it, and a mint he'd popped before coming out here presumably.

After a short time, he turns to follow her toward the closet. The dresses are held aside with one hand, dark eyes flitting over the interior of the closet, before he looks askance to where she points. Then back, and he ducks inside to retrieve the firearm carefully. Aware that it may not have been stored properly, and is at risk of discharging unexpectedly. Once he's secured it, he ejects the clip and counts the number of buckshot pellets loaded in. "Did your mother know how to use this? And did anyone else know where it was stored?"

God she's missed him. And part of Dahlia's psyche hates that. But today's not a day to dwell on it. She'd stand like that all day if she could with the way she was feeling. She doesn't linger too long, but likely only because somewhere in the back of her mind she remembers there are other officers here and that he is, technically, here on business. She stands a little off to the side as he inspects the closet. A brief thought of wanting to sit down but then decides against it. She is not sitting on that bed. All the shells are accounted for when he checks. It is loaded, but it hasn't been fired recently in the least. Dahlia nodded. "We all did. It was-is- an in case of emergency thing. But she wasn't in any shape to be messing with it." Dahlia eyed him curiously for a moment. Then the curiosity faded. "Only my brothers. but none of them are around here."

He is, of course, here on business. The suit, the nice shoes, the handgun and ID badge clipped to his belt stating his name as 'J. R. de la Vega'. His manner is steeped in professionalism, despite that brief little indiscretion with his arms around her. And in all honesty, it's a small town. The cops are often known to the people they're policing, and nobody's going to look at them crosswise for a brief embrace.

The shotgun's magazine is set aside, and he hoists it into both hands, checking its heft while aiming it at the window. He lingers like that for a few moments, finger brushing the trigger, before turning and settling it back into place behind the rack of clothing. "What had she eaten today?" His dark eyes slide back to the younger woman, suit jacket brushed aside with his hand as he reaches for his notepad again.

Dahlia's gaze stays steady on him, then a quick glance towards the living room where the officers seem to have taken care of the afghan. Hopefully she would get it back sometime. Then it's back to Ruiz when he asks about food. "Nothing. Unless she got up in the middle of the night. Which is unlikely. Like I said, I checked on her as soon as I got up and she was like that." Raking a hand through her hair. "Yesterday was...some chicken soup. She's...was...having trouble keeping stuff down. She'd just gotten back from the hospital the day before for a treatment round." Chewing her bottom lip in thought and then sighed. "I should've let the doctors keep her there." Looking down towards the well worn carpeted floor.

"You mustn't get into games of what you should, and should not have done," advises the man, as gently as he's capable of. There's always a roughness, a slight abrasiveness to his speech, and English being his second language likely doesn't help. The closet door is pulled shut, and he starts tugging the latex gloves off his hands, balling them up and preparing to ditch them on his way out. "I think I have all that I need for now," he tells her then, angling closer, but not improprietously so. Well outside of her personal space still. "I will be in touch with you. Is there.." His brows furrow slightly, then smooth. "Is there anything you need, Dahlia?" Her first name, this time, rather than 'Miss Evergreen'.

Dahlia looks at him for a long moment, maybe trying to think if there's anything practical that she needs. Versus what the more impulsive and destructive side of her wants. Finally, "Nothing you can help me with Ruiz." Her voice is soft and there's nothing negative in her tone. Just matter of fact. She shrugged the blanket off and it found a temporary home on the floor as she stepped forward and hugged him again. "Thank you for coming." Even if it was just because his job brought him here. And she doesn't want him to leave but nonetheless, she lets him go and steps back. "...I'm going to see about staying with a friend or something for a little bit I think."

He lingers there, silent, during the entirety of Dahlia's scrutiny. Taller than she by a fair bit, and there's something intent and not entirely wholesome about the way he looks at her; the slight slant to his dark eyes, and the feral aspect it lends them. He waits until she's had her little think about his question, and offered her reply. And judging by the expression on his face, he doesn't entirely believe her. His chin comes up when she steps in close, and his arm goes around her securely, gathering her up against him with a squeeze, this time. "Si," is offered quietly as she pulls back. "That might be wise." He heads for the door, then pauses and turns. "You have my number. Use it. If you think of something." A flinch like he tried to smile, but it falls a bit flat.

When he pulls her in closer, Dahlia grips at his suit jacket for a moment. But then it's over and he's starting to leave. "Yeah...I'll call you." Dahlia assured him, rubbing the back of her neck. It was a very good thing other officers were still milling about some. Drawing in a breath, "I'll let you know who I'm staying with. Once I figure it out. In case something comes up." Her gaze lingered on him for a moment longer and then she turned to gather up the fallen blanket. This was her's now. Those paramedics were definitely not getting it back.

Ruiz nods once when she agrees to keep in touch. He watches her for a long moment, then repeats in a low murmur what he'd told her earlier, "Lo siento, Dahlia." His brows furrow slightly as he watches her. Then with a breath, he turns to head back out. Gloves are tossed in a bin that someone's set up for precisely that, gun checked one more time as he moves through the trailer and down the stairs toward his cruiser.