2020-07-31 - Cop Bothering

It's hot. Sticky hot, so wet that breathing is like breathing in through a hot towel, with a slight salty tang from the ocean. The interior of the copshop is a positive relief, even with the couple of shouting, protesting drunks who have been manhandled into chairs to be processed. Alexander shuffles in through the front door, and even he has to take a breath and enjoy the cool before he starts moving towards the counter.

The cop behind the desk doesn't bother to hide his groan. "Fuck me, Clayton, not tonight," the guy protests. "Take your crazy somewhere else unless you're here to report a crime."

Alexander frowns. "No. I wanted to see--"

"Nope," the cop cuts him off. "No one is going to bugged by you tonight. It's too goddamned hot, and we're busy. Go. Shoo. Go chase UFOs or whatever the fuck it is that you do."

Alexander frowns, and does not leave. He just stands there, and stares blankly at the desk cop - who glares back.

A sultry, true summer evening. A Friday evening with humidity high enough to make person feel like breathing is just that much more difficult for the moisture trapped in the heated air that lingers with the light at this time of day at the razor edge of July, August is so close you can reach out and touch it. Dr. Olivia Kincaid, the Criminal (Forensic) Psychologist who replaced the institution that was Abraham Feldman at the GHPD pushes back through the doors from outside, her leather satchel in one hand. She's dressed in a black pant suit and white blouse -- a woman working in a male-populated police department needs to be at least tailored and lacking in frills to be taken seriously. She's not impervious to the heat. Her skin is dewy. Even though her blonde hair is swept back into a chignon, a few tendrils cling to her skin.

Olivia is breathing in the slightly musty air conditioned air as she watches the tail end of Alexander's interaction with the desk sergeant. Her office is upstairs. Intake, the evidence room, locker rooms, the documents area, along with places to take statements and deal with the mundanities of public traffic are all down here.

There's a line to walk here. Olivia is still building a reputation for herself at the GHPD. Upsetting the frontline wouldn't be particularly wise. But Alexander, clearly well known to the officer riding the desk, sketches a figure altogether too interesting for a Crim Psych still getting the lay of that land to simply ignore. She stops just out of reach of the man and waits -- patiently -- until he turns enough to catch sight of her. A badge indicating her name and title hangs from the waistband of her black slacks. Once he's seen her, she cants her head ever so slightly and leans toward the hip on the other side of her body from the leather satchel she's carrying. "Good evening. Is there something I can help you with, Mister ...?"

The desk cop tries to wave Olivia away. "No, doc, doc, don't let him--" And then he breaks off in a groan as Alexander turns to notice her.

He frowns, suspiciously. "I don't know you," he says, shoulders hunching. His eyes flick to her badge, reading it. "...shrink. Forensic psychologist." He studies her for a moment, then shrugs. "Alexander Clayton." A glance again at the badge. "Dr. Kincade. You're not from Gray Harbor." A long pause. "Hello."

The cop at the desk says, "Clayton, do not harass the new people. Shoo. Go away." He makes motions like trying to shoo away pests.

Olivia flickers an assessing look with those glacier-blue eyes over to the cop trying to do her a favor and waves her free hand in the universal I've-got-this motion. Either that or she's bored. Friday night at the precinct? It really needs some sort of entertainment. And that entertainment doesn't usually start coming in until sometime after 9pm. She turns an almost-smile back to Alexander. "You are correct. You most decidedly don't know me any more than I know you. And, I think one or both of us should probably have heard of the other by now." What she means by 'by now' is less apparent.

The hand she waved at the well-intentioned sergeant drops back to her side. "Shrink. Ah now, that's one of my favorites. The possibilities are so interesting." She pauses along with him and waits. It's coming. There it is. "Alexander Clayton. Good evening." Then she shakes her head minutely. "Now there, you're mistaken, Mr. Clayton. I'm actually from Gray Harbor. I simply took a bit of a sabbatical after college. Just back in June. It seems --" She offers a thoughtful expression, then finishes, "-- very much like the town I remember."

A glimpse of what might be amusement dances behind Dr. Kincaid's eyes for a few seconds after the sergeant tries to shoo the man off. "Am I interrupting your shoo-ing, Mr. Clayton?"

Into this lovely little tableau blunders the (acting) Chief of Police, in full uniform today, no less. He's nigh unrecognisable in the black on black of the GHPD, short sleeves worn in keeping with the hot and sticky weather, though they do very little to conceal the prison ink that gives him a.. less than cop-like vibe. His radio crackles as he finishes descending the stairs from the second floor and shoves the blast-proof door open with a shoulder; something about a domestic, and someone being armed and presumed dangerous. He rattles off a quick response, pauses at whom he sees in the lobby, then continues his course toward the front desk, and whatever business he presumably has there.

"Doctor Kincaid," is greeted briskly, crow's feet at the corners of his eyes when he favours her with the briefest of smiles. And, "Clayton," somewhat more warily.

The desk sergeant heaves a resigned sigh. "Don't say I didn't warn you, doc. He's a kook." But he stops trying to hustle Clayton away and just relaxes back in his chair, reaching out for his soda to watch the show.

Alexander, for his part, shuffles his feet and studies the woman in front of him. When she says she's from Gray Harbor, his brow furrows. Then relaxes. "...Olivia Kincaid. Yes. I remember your family. You weren't in high school when I was. A bit younger. We never spoke. That I remember." A glance towards the desk. "They always shoo me. But I wanted to talk--"

Alexander breaks off as a certain Latino Captain rumbles into view, and he watches Ruiz. "Javier," he says, and it's got it's own wariness to it. But more warmth. He notes the uniform. "Heading out on a call?"

Olivia dips her chin smartly at the desk sergeant. She's listening; she heard. "You're off the hook, Benson," she replies mildly. The man being shoo'd remembers her family? Her father who did construction work and was well known for being dependably drunk by early evening most any night? Her mother the elementary school teacher? With an uptipping of her brows she sketches another look over Alexander from head to foot. "Now I feel downright remiss. What year did you graduate?" They never spoke. Olivia looks for a moment like she might object to that characterization, but she inevitably remains silent.

Ruiz makes his appearance. "Captain." The timing of Olivia's return greeting to the (acting) Chief has a call-and-response patter to it. Though his fleeting smile holds her gaze longer than a typically terse greeting might usually. There's a sweeping glance for the uniform and a sense that she's taking in more than what the eye can see of the man before she looks back to Alexander, takes her time assessing the interplay between the unlikely pair. Why interject when there's plenty to learn just by standing there and letting the air conditioning start to catch up with her over-warm skin?

"Nope," is the captain's characteristically succinct response, to the question of whether he's heading out on a call. Benson's got some forms for him to sign, and he digs a pen out of a pocket of his uniform, starts writing, quickly realises it's out of ink. An apologetic huff follows, the thing pitched into the nearby garbage can, and another produced from a drawer after two unsuccessful attempts by the desk clerk to find one. "Never fucking work when you need them to, yeah?" Javier murmurs to the guy, and they share a brief chuckle.

The stack of forms is pushed back across, and he makes a little noise in his throat as he straightens, like that left leg of him is still giving him trouble. Another crackle of his radio, and a creak and shift of gear in his rig, his own glance for the blonde psychologist lingering a moment before moving on. Back to Alexander, "There was something I wanted to discuss with you. When you had a moment. Both of you, actually. Separate things." Click goes the pen he'd borrowed, and it's tossed atop the paperwork. "Unrelated."

"Class of Nineteen Ninety Eight," Alexander says, promptly. "But then I left town for college." A pause. "You might remember my father, though. Coach Clayton. He taught history, too."

He falls silent when Ruiz approaches, and as Ruiz digs around for a pen, he leans casually over to peek at the forms with a raw and unapologetic curiosity. He ignores Benson's growl and glare, but straightens back up when Ruiz turns. His eyes dip down to the Captain's leg. "You shouldn't be on it as much as you are, you know," he mutters to the man disapprovingly. Then visibly perks up as Ruiz says he wants to discuss something with him. "Of course. Whenever."

Comfortable in her slanted stance, leaning a bit toward her right, her left foot out to the side, her satchel leaning in against her (left) pants-clad knee, Olivia continues to observe. Pens are dealt with, as is paperwork. A glance is not missed. The Chief has distinct reasons to meet with the unlikely pair standing just a bit further than arm's reach apart in the receiving space near the entry to the precinct. "Ninety-eight? Oh-Four," she compares graduation years. "Coach was your father?" She searches Alexander's face for a resemblance. "He still around?" Leaving town for college receives a slow nod. That's something they have in common.

It's telling, in some way or another: the way Alexander peeks at the paperwork, the way Ruiz doesn't bark at him about it. The comment from Clayton about de la Vega's leg is noted with interest lighting up those pale blue eyes of hers. Silence is rewarding sometimes. As for 'whenever' on her end? "I'm here for a few more hours tonight. Played all week and now I have to do my penance." That, or she was out for a week recovering from wounds from a particular funeral.

Olivia shifts, lifts her bag and digs into an outer pocket with her free hand. From there she pulls a business card. "Hot off the printer," she shares with a wry bit of a smile, offering the card to Alexander. "If you find yourself in need of a 'shrink' who specializes in forensics, give me a call." The smile remains in her eyes as she uses Alexander's term for her profession.

Alexander nods. And now that it's pointed out, the resemblance isn't hard to notice - the elder Clayton is taller and better built than his son, but their hair and facial features are similar - although the Coach never had Alexander's sleepless, paranoid look, and carried himself with a good deal more confidence and authority than his son manages. Even so, Alexander's face softens as he nods. "Yes. He and my mother still live here. I'll remember you to him when I talk to him - unless you were a bad student, and would rather I didn't."

When the card is offered over, Alexander takes it, gingerly, careful not to brush fingertips even slightly. He reads it. "Mm. I had a shrink. She disappeared. She's probably dead." Benson mutters something under his breath wondering where Alexander buried the body. He ignores it, his attention instead fixed on Olivia. "Why?" A pause. "Why forensics? It's not the most highly paid of the psychiatric sub-disciplines, particularly here."

Olivia slowly begins to pick out the resemblance with a slight tipping of her head again and a sliding gaze that measures such details. "Definitely give him my best greeting. No offense if he doesn't recollect. I was a quiet teen." She takes her time between comments. It seems to be part of her manner.

As she offers the card, Olivia inquires, "What did you study in college? And what do you do here in Gray Harbor now?" Olivia doesn't try to touch the man, and it's likely that she doesn't miss the gingerly way he takes the card, keeps to himself, physically. "I'm sorry to hear about your shrink," she answers with all due respect to the sentiment. Disappeared and probably dead has about the effect it would on just about anyone who has lived for years in Gray Harbor. There's a softening, a mutual recognition, a lack of shock.

Why did she choose forensic psychology? Apparently, Olivia, slowly settling into the cooler air of the precinct after her foray out in the evening, answers directly. "It started out as an interest in psychology, my major. Toward the end of my freshman year, my advisor suggested looking into some of the specialty fields. Criminal justice piqued my interest, to put it mildly. I was accepted into some summer internships early on and soon enough it was really the only trajectory that appealed. At least that passionately appealed." She pauses, looks Alexander over as if retroactively measuring if he really wanted to know that much or if he was being polite or simply interested in the money involved. "What do you do, Mr. Clayton?" She inquires again. "Let me turn the question to you: do you do it because of the money?"

"He'll probably remember," Alexander says, quietly. "He remembers most of his students, I think." An oblique pride there, in his father, that comes through even with his toneless speech and flat affect. He looks surprised at the question, but offers her a brief and sunny smile in reward for it. "History. Cognate in the history of crime. My undergraduate thesis was on divergent narratives of truth in court records of the 19th and early 20th centuries in the Pacific Northwest." A pause, and the smile is wiped away like it was never there. "Just a Bachelor's though. You can't do anything with a Bachelor's in history." A brief nod at the condolences.

He falls silent for a while, not answering her questions, but rather listening to her explanation, then spending some time thinking about his response. Finally, he says, "I look into things." Benson mutters something else under his breath but all that can be made out is 'damned nuisance'. "Sometimes people pay me. And I teach a couple of community enrichment classes at the local community college. Online. Personal history research and survey of historical crimes. I do those for the money." Which, by implication, means that he does the 'looking into things' for other reasons. Then he asks, "Why did it passionately appeal?"

Court documents. Parole records, probationary hearings, prosecution and indictment records, currently being sorted and sealed into a folder for secure delivery by courier to Seattle, one presumes. The cop looks bemused at the comment on staying off his leg, but doesn't qualify it with a response. Nor much of anything else that's said, notably. He listens, though, while waiting for Benson to confirm that he's good to go. "You teach?" he queries Alexander, ticking his eyes up and down the younger man thoughtfully. "I didn't know that." By the way he's still contemplating him, though, he doesn't seem to think it out of place.

The fact that Alexander's father will probably remember brings a brief, reminiscent smile to Olivia's lips. The pride is there to read. All the resultant father-son relationship implications are considered in the span of that watchful silence. His smile is startling and simply broadens her own for a few moments.

History. She nods slowly, looking genuinely interested. Then he speaks of his thesis and her brows tip up with intrigued fascination. "I'd like to read that thesis sometime, should you be inclined to share it." A beat. "Or I could buy you drinks and you could share the highlights." That there? That's playful, but strangely sincere nonetheless. It doesn't feel flirtatious, however, at least not overtly.

You can't do anything with an undergrad degree? "Well, you clearly do something." She keeps her query in play and it's there to see in her eyes while Ruiz continues his seemingly endless pile of paperwork at the front counter.

And she is eventually rewarded with an answer. Or at least part of one. Benson's addition to the explanation starts filling in some blanks. She pushes a bit into what he's sharing, "How do you and the Captain know one another?" It seems like too obvious of a question. But it could be that she's seeing how deeply he'll answer all the underlying layers.

Passionate appeal. "That's a bit like asking someone why they chose their favorite color or how they do something they have a natural aptitude for, I think." But she'll give it a try. Clayton interests her. And the fact that he gets shoo'd from the precinct when he visits while nearly simultaneously getting invitations to speak with the Chief only adds to that interest. "I like enigmas. People's minds are the ultimate puzzle: why they do what they do, how they do it, what they might do next, and all the little indicators that are there to measure and observe if you choose to look at them the right way. But you don't want to get me started, Mr. Clayton. Not unless we're having drinks and I get to hear all about your thesis and your current investigations." Bartering. Still, it was presumptuous. Or inviting. Or possibly even intentionally off-putting. Who knows?

Alexander jerks his head in an awkward sort of nod to Ruiz. "I teach. Online. Just online. And not...real classes. Community classes. Like how to do your taxes, or contact your spirit animal, or the basics of Reiki healing." His tone is rueful; he has no illusions about the intellectual rigor of most of the coursework he shares the designation with. "I write everything in advance. Have videos. Documents. I just have to answer questions during the semester, look at people's projects."

He falls silent at Olivia's words. Staring at her with an almost painful bafflement. "You...want to read my undergraduate thesis?" Then he shakes his head. "I don't have it. Didn't really have flashdrives. I wandered. It's gone." A pause. "I remember most of it, though," he offers, after a moment. "If you want. You don't have to." That budding eagerness pulling back into wary defensiveness as he scuffs a toe of his workboot on the floor. Sorry, janitors. He doesn't seem to have any hesitation in answering direct questions, though. "I show up to crime scenes. The Captain sometimes does, too. He didn't chase me away as much as some of the others." The first sign of humor, self-mocking though it is, as he adds, "I suppose I grew on him. Like mold."

He watches her with a fixed and almost predatory interest as she offers that exchange. "Enigmas. Yes. People are interesting. Yes." That brief smile reappears, taking some of the stress off of his face. "I do. Want to get you started. But I don't drink much. You can drink. I have questions."

It's odd, the way the cop sort of.. looms near Alexander, even though he isn't strictly speaking taller than him. Or taller than much of anyone, truth be told. But there's a slant to his posture, a temerity to his jawline that could be either protectiveness or aggressiveness. And damned if it's clear which one it is.

"I only tried to chase you away once." Maybe twice. "Maybe twice." Olivia gets a half skewed smile, dimples briefly in evidence before they're gone again. He continues watching her as Alexander continues talking, in his awkward, somewhat stilted manner. Something about growing on Javier like mold. "Sounds about right," the captain concurs. Not that he shows up at many crime scenes, these days. That's generally reserved for Detectives, and beneath his paygrade.

"Anyway, I should, uh." Leave, since he's exhausted his own meagre social skills reserves. "Go." He clears his throat and takes a step back. "See you both later, yeah?"

When Alexander's self-described teaching reaches near self-deprecating levels, Olivia casts a speculative glance from the man closer to her to the one signing documents at the counter. The captain's reaction, his input: they'll be informative, one way or another.

Back to Alexander and his acute bafflement about her genuine interest. "I do," she agrees initially. He explains the loss of it. But he remembers most of it. Now that is an interesting tidbit. "Of course you do," she agrees. "I absolutely want," is her immediate reply. "Oh, Mr. Clayton, I have a feeling we'll be getting to know one another and you'll soon learn that I have a severe allergy to things I 'have to' do." Rueful. "Like paperwork." A week's worth of it. Perhaps it was more of a piece of personal commentary.

Alexander offers her so many tidbits; Olivia shifts her weight back to a poised stance, still relaxed, one heeled foot slightly in front of the other not so far from where he scuffs his boot. Eagerness. Defensiveness. Amenable to direct questions.

As for showing up to crime scenes? Another layer makes itself apparent and Olivia nods slowly. Almost all the dempness to her skin has evaporated now. "It sounds as though you are a resourceful and rather valuable contact. With all sorts of other interesting ..." She ends that sentence with a quiet 'mm' in the back of her throat.

Mold. Humor. Olivia's laughter is a spare few quickened breaths, but it lives much longer behind her eyes. "Or like tattoos." Is that a commentary about the Captain? She absolutely is aware he's keeping tabs on the conversation. "You're a tenacious sort, then, I gather."

Alexander's smiles are worth the entire conversation, even if it were significantly more dull. "Yes, yes, of course," she verbally waves way. "Alcohol isn't required. Just a comfortable space where we can have a candid, leisurely conversation. Beverages are merely a pleasant addition." Alexander has questions? Olivia dips her chin once, tacit agreement.

Ruiz seems to somehow end up closer to the conversation and that returns Olivia's attention to the man in uniform. Another smile? The woman (very) briefly parts her lips as if to make some sort of retort, only no words come. She closes her mouth finally. de la Vega's comment about paygrades gets tucked away for consideration.

"You certainly could, Captain." Leave. "Or you could find time in your impossible schedule for a leisurely conversation." But he steps back, half dismisses the conversation. "I'd say there's a good likelihood of that, yes. Though perhaps not at the same time." Seeing them both later.

It's easier to loom around Alexander, regardless of actual height, because he seems to completely lack the urge to posture back at the cop. His shoulders remain hunched, and he seems content to remain in that subordinate, even submissive, posture even in the face of Ruiz's projection of...whatever it is. He does offer Ruiz that bright smile all of his own, though. "Definitely twice. It's okay. And let me know. When you want to talk." And then his posture and voice changes, if only by a fraction, as he says, "Be good, Javier." The bar for the cop is apparently now higher than 'don't die'.

He returns his gaze to Olivia, studying her with a frank, even rude, curiosity at her response. "All right. We'll meet. For pleasant conversation and questions." He bobs his head, then looks at the card she gave him. He fishes his phone out of one pocket, and quickly sends a small text to the number listed. "Now you have my number, Dr. Kincade. But I should go. I came to bother Javier. He's leaving. So I should. It was nice to meet you." He bobs his head at her, then just turns and walks away without any further parting.

"I, ah-" Be good. The chastisement seems to catch de la Vega off guard, and he pauses, and stares at Alexander. And whatever it is, simply isn't, for a moment. Then a breath, and he covers for his slight discombobulation with a flickered smile for the blonde. Dark eyes snag blue, and hold them with that trademark ferocity, for all of six seconds. Three, perhaps four longer than is strictly polite or comfortable. "It's Friday. Are you coming out?" To the Pourhouse, he means. Drinks. With the guys. He takes a step back, and then another. "Espero verte allí." A wink for Olivia, a lingering glance for Alexander's departing back, and then he turns and prowls off for the door from whence he came, headed back upstairs.

Alexander simply turns and leaves after a few choice agreements. The Captain's attention. Olivia remains where she stands for those six seconds and then some. Finally she answers, her Spanish far more sterile and careful than de la Vega's. "Alguien tiene que llevarte a casa." He turns and heads off and she makes her way to her office upstairs.