2020-07-18 - Snitches end up in ditches

Cecil arrives promptly at lunchtime, and he's got a file folder clasped in one hand. He's disheveled as ever, looks underslept as ever, but he has a sense of purpose about him. He doesn't know how to socialize in a coffee shop, but this? This is his job, and he's frankly damn good at it. He shows up at the cafe Ruiz indicated for their meeting, and with some trepidation he orders a sandwich. Then he finds a table near the back, where it's quiet.

The day began with rain, turned overcast and muggy toward midday as clouds rolled in and cooked-off precipitation had nowhere to go. In keeping with the heat, the acting Chief's turned up in shirtsleeves and pants; he looks a little flush, the top two buttons of his shirt undone, and the sleeves rolled up to his elbows to reveal copious amounts of ink. One hand's pulled out of his pants pocket so he can check the time on his watch as he shoulders his way through the entrance, and despite the fact that he hasn't got much stature to speak of? People tend to move aside for him.

"Harvey?" He spots the younger man seated alone at the back table, easily enough. "May I?" An attempt at a smile that falls a bit flat, and a glance at the (only) free chair.

Cecil gestures to the chair across from him and says, "Captain. Please, have a seat. He gives the man a tight-lipped smile that acknowledges the attempted smile with some commiseration. "I'll try not to take much of your time," he says. In some ways, he's Ruiz's opposite. He's not a large man, and he's not terribly intimidating. He's the sort of guy people bump into because they didn't notice he was there. He's the guy who moves out of the way when a big guy walks in. He's got no tattoos, no piercings. If he ditched the glasses, he might not be so bad-looking in a dorky kind of way, but he's a small presence.

He sets the file on the table and opens it, reviewing a few of the papers in there. "This concerns the case at the casino."

The captain, meanwhile, is taking in all these little odds and ends with a rapt, almost hungry attention to detail. As if they're being filed away somewhere in that rolodex of a mind of his for later dissemination. "The casino," he repeats, remaining standing for a moment, and withdrawing a hand from his pants pocket to place fingertips atop the file folder. Ink scrawled across the backs of his knuckles, too, and there's something.. off about those. The work doesn't match what he's had done elsewhere, along his arms. "Of course," he acquiesces after a moment in a low voice, releasing the file folder and nudging out the chair with the toe of his boot. It's settled into smoothly, dark eyes on Cecil.

"What would you like to know." Not quite an inflection at the end there, making it sound less like a question, and more like a demand.

Cecil sits up a bit, and he pushes his glasses up his nose. Here is a confidence he doesn't have in the bar. This is where he's comfortable, in his paperwork. "Actually," he says, "it's what I'd like you to know. The causes of death are straightfoward. These men were shot. All but one of the guns was recovered, as were bullets to match them. There are a few bullets that don't match the guns that were recovered. For now, I'm assuming they belong to the gun they didn't get." He turns a page to glance at his second page of notes. "From the evidence we gathered, we've traced our suspicious individuals to the Harbor. A shipping container, more specifically, though we haven't gotten enough evidence yet to say which one."

He glances up at Ruiz. "That's all in my report. What I wanted to talk to you about is that at least two people are tampering with evidence. It's making it difficult to keep our records straight." And that? Annoys him. Sure, tampering with evidence is bad, but it's getting in the way of his work, and that's not okay.

The cop seems content to slouch, as if in flagrant disregard for his sharp, hawkish focus on the younger man across from him. The fingertip to glasses briefly diverts his attention, and then the contents of the file folder again draw his dark eyed gaze while his tonguetip runs along his upper teeth thoughtfully. "Caliber?" Of the bullets, of course. He turns the page so he can have a look, a slight squint like maybe he needs glasses himself. Or maybe he's just thinking. The harbour, and the shipping container gain a speculative grunt from the captain. Might be he's mentally running through the various businesses run out that way that might be fronts for other endeavours.

Then the paper's relinquished, and he eases back in his chair when tampering's mentioned. Cecil's gaze is met, easily. "That's a pretty serious allegation. Tell me what leads you to believe this."

The report has the caliber mentioned, and Cecil repeats it. He reaches into his jacket pocket and withdraws a few photographs, which he offers Ruiz. The photography is excellent, for whatever that's worth, but the subject isn't all that interesting at a glance. It's an array of odds and ends, fibers, plastic baggies with residues in them, a mud sample, a bullet. But in each of the three photos, there are differences. A new set of fibers, a baggie taken away, and the bullet looks like it's been tampered with.

"Every time I go back to look at something, something is different," Cecil says in a tone of pure academic annoyance. "I notice things, Captain. It's what I do for a living. Evidence has been added, evidence has been altered. Like I said, there are at least two people interfering. Someone is trying to slip in evidence that would incriminate the survivors, and someone else is trying to make the evidence difficult if not impossible to analyze, I presume to take attention away from themselves."

A long look at the first picture, then it's pushed aside so he can study the next. And the next, and the next. A sniff, as if to clear his nose, and then the pictures are shuffled back together and tucked into the folder along with their accompanying notes. "Of course you notice things. I'd be concerned if you didn't. Thanks for bringing this to my attention. When you say go back.. you mean go back to the scene? The parking garage? I've got surveillance video from Thorne that might help us out there. You got any other evidence that might give us a leg up?"

Cecil considers the folder, and there are gears turning behind his eyes. "The evidence locker," he says. "Every time I go back to look at what we already have, someone's been at it. I wonder if we could get cameras on the doors going in and out." He glances through the papers, the gears still turning. "I have what may be paint samples. I think going to the Harbor will be my next move. I'll take some paint samples from various containers down there and see if we can come up with a match. That'll narrow down our search. Unfortunately, whoever cleaned up the van knew what they were doing. I got very little off of it. I'll gladly review the surveillance video you've got, though. That could prove useful." With a small, apologetic smile, he says, "I wish I had more at this time, but I wanted you to know we're going to have trouble building a case if we don't put a lid on the tampering."

The evidence locker. Well, that's a slightly different story. The look on de la Vega's face, he might just have some gears turning in his own head, but damned if he's not keeping his own counsel. There's a twinge, finally, of something vaguely resembling a smile. Like he had to remind himself, occasionally, to attempt one to maintain some simulacrum of affability. "That's a good idea. I'll see what I can do about whoever's fucking with the evidence." He sounds a bit tired about that. Tired and irritated. "Anything else for me?"

The vague smile is answered by a small but pleasant smile from the scientist. He looks nicer when he smiles. It lights him up, if only just a little. "Thank you, Captain. In the meantime, I'm hanging onto those paint samples so they don't disappear. I know it's not exactly protocol, I feel better knowing where they are." He gathers up his folder, photos and all, and he offers them to Ruiz in case he needs to add them to his paperwork collection. Who doesn't love paperwork? "That's all I have at the moment, but I'll let you know what we find out down at the Harbor."

The forensic specialist is watched carefully as he begins packing up, a murmur of "Gracias, aprecio esto," for the paperwork slid his way. The folder cover's lifted with an inked fingertip, then lowered again, and he clears his throat. "Let's get something straight, Harvey. You don't tell me what you're going to do. You ask. And I either say sure, that sounds fine. Or I say fuck off. Yeah? You got it?" His expression doesn't change one whit. No smile in sight; just that faint heat in his smoke-dark eyes, like an incipient electrical fire waiting to ignite upon a closed circuit.

Cecil hesitates, confused rather than cautious. "Sorry," he says, "I'm used to being background noise, and I try to stay out of the way. Allow me to put it another way: without samples of paint from containers down at the Harbor, I've found out as much as I can. I'll proceed however you like." He sighs and glances at the folder with a furrowed brow showing an ever present irritation, though it's not directed at Ruiz. "I'm not used to asking permission because, and I don't mean this in any way as a reflection on you, most police don't understand what I do. But I'll follow your lead."

The folder's nudged aside, and the captain leans in a fraction to intimate in a low voice, "Maybe I'm not most police. And you will." Follow his lead, presumably. "Unless it's your call to make. In which case I'll follow yours. Okay?" He says it a little funny, a little sing-song. Like it's three syllables rather than two, o-kay-EE? Then he finally does smile, and it creases up the corners of his eyes. He raps his knuckles a couple of times on the table, gathers up the folder of evidence, and pushes to his feet with a soft grunt. "Thanks again. We'll talk soon."

To his credit, for a guy who is used to being the smartest person in the room, Cecil takes it all in stride. He tempers arrogance with intellectual curiosity. Maybe Ruiz isn't most police, and frankly, that would be delightful. He merely bobs his head in a nod and says, "Right, then. I'm at your disposal, Captain."

Two fingers ticked off his temple, folder tucked under his arm, the Mexican's already distracted by a patrol Officer who's spotted him and wants his advice on something. They stride off together out of the cafe, and back toward the precinct proper, only a brief glance sent over de la Vega's shoulder before he's gone.