2020-08-01 - Field Work

Cecil is in a rare, casual mode of dress in jeans and a button-up with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and on his feet are sensible hiking boots, much better for mud than the Oxfords he wears to the lab. He's got a kit with him, for collecting samples, and ID that says who he is. He's got no reason to sneak. He's got the law on his side! So he pulls up to the gate in his blue Prius, giving the timber truck a wide berth. Driving behind those things is nervewracking.

Cecil is, honestly, not unaccustomed to teapot tyrants. He offers a thin smile to the security guard, and does his best to look inoffensive and deferential. "No, no active crime scenes at the harbor that I'm aware of. I just need to collect a few samples and I'll be out of your way. You won't even notice me." He's got a gentle voice, Cecil does, with that unfailingly polite English accent. Sometimes it works in his favor, sometimes it doesn't.

Cecil's smile is kind. It even reaches his eyes. He's happy to see the security guard, honest, and it's great that they're working together on this instead of being at odds. "I'm collecting a few paint and mud samples from the shipping crates. I won't need any that have recently arrived, so if you can direct me to the older ones, I'll be out of your hair in no time."

Cecil leans over to look at the map. "All right, so I'll leave G alone." He smiles at the guard again. "Thank you." He pulls into a place to park that's near the security gate. He wants to keep his Prius and its tire prints away from possible criminal evidence, and he gathers his kit, prepping to walk down, starring with Area G.

Looking up, Cecil takes note of where those cranes are moving overhead. Note to self: next time, bring a hard hat. Ah, well. He doesn't intend to be here long. He bobs his head in an agreeable nod when he's told not to interfere with work. He's used to keeping out of the way, it's easier to observe when one isn't participating. He starts with pictures of the area, then of the crates themselves, and the mud around the crate. He's looking for a match for the mud he found at the crime scene. In the meantime, photograph all the things.

Cecil takes his fill of photographs, then opens his kit for sample bottles. He takes samples of mud, then does a few scrapings of paint just in case. He keeps the people in his line of sight, but he does his best not to engage. Talking to people is the detectives' job. He's interested in things he can tear apart in a lab, and people protest to that sort of treatment. Once he's gotten what he wants in Area G, he looks around for shipping containers that might match what he's looking for.

Cecil takes more pictures, of the West Bay Logistics logo, of the mud, the paint, the lock and hinge, all of it. He takes his time, and he's thorough. The downside is that he gets into what he's doing so much that he stops paying attention to peripheral things. Someone could sneak up on him if he wasn't careful, but damn he's got some good samples of paint chips. While he goes out of his way not to actually touch the container with his bare hands, he does put an ear to the side of it to listen.

Cecil turns to the men, and though he smiles amiably, he's not an idiot. He's got a wary glint in his eyes. "Gentlemen," he says. He moves slowly, kneeling to take a swab of the blood, telling himself he's not doing anything wrong, and there's work to do. "Just doing a little housekeeping, but I'll get out of your hair in just a moment." He caps the sample, and he puts it in his kit with the rest of the samples. "In fact, I believe I'll be going now."

Cecil snaps the kit closed, then fastens the straps that keep it closed. He also puts his camera in its case. Sure, his life might be in imminent peril, but that camera cost a fortune, and yes, the photos are already in the cloud. "Oh, I don't think that will be necessary," he says. "If I don't get back to my people, they'll come looking for me." Which may or may not constitute a lie. His people, such as they are, know he's coming down to the harbor... at some point. Do they know he's here now? Would they miss him before he failed to show up for work? Maaaybe? Probably not.

Cecil yells, which does him no good once his mouth is covered. He kicks at kneecaps and, because there's no such thing as a fair fight, crotches. They may strongarm him into the crate, but he's going to make it as much of a pain in the ass for them as he can. He bites, he scratches. He fights like a mad cat. Unfortunately, 'mad cat' is about as strong as he is, too.

Cecil's camera! He whimpers when he hears it hit the pavement. At least it's in its case. That should protect it. His baby! These people are animals, clearly. He takes in the mattress-covered walls before darkness descends, and he grimaces. It's like the back of a free candy van only so, so much worse. He draws himself up taller, flips his hair out of his eyes, pushes his glasses up his nose, and says (in that imminently proper accent), "Well, fuck." Then he quiets to hear what they're saying.

Cecil quiets down and closes his eyes. Never mind that it's already dark in here, it helps him focus. Reyes. He makes a note of the name, and he tries to stay calm while the thugs outside talk about killing him. Americans, they're all so fucking trigger-happy. While he listens, he thinks. First, he needs to get out of here...

No, wait.

Cecil opens his eyes, digs out his phone and looks for reception. Barring that, he brings up the voice recorder. First, he has to finish his investigation. Into the voice recorder, he explains briefly what has happened and that the thugs are deferring to someone named Reyes." His voice is low and trembling. Then he turns on the phone's flashlight and takes a video of the inside of the trailer, the mattresses, the blood.

Then he kneels to touch one of the mattresses, and he braces himself. Opening his mind, he reads the emotonal residue of the thing. It may not be admissible evidence, but it gives him something to work with. Finish the investigation, THEN find a way out.

Cecil's breath catches as he relives the torment. It takes him a moment to gather his wits after reeling from the vision. He steps away from the mattress he's just read, shivering, and he turns the light on. With his kit, he gathers a few more samples of blood, mattress fibers, and such. He snaps a few pictures on his phone, but then he turns it off to preserve the battery life. He closes up his kit again, and with his investigation complete, he sits down in the torture chair (does NOT read it) and tries to extend his mind outward. To Ruiz, of all people. He's seen the Glimmer on the man. Maybe he's enough of a Mentalist to pick up the call, maybe not, but it doesn't hurt to try.

Cecil cranes his neck to listen for the thugs outside, but he's not paying all that much attention to them. He's just listening for sounds of them opening the crate, and when they don't seem to be, he draws his focus inward. Ruiz might not even have Mentalist abilities, but he blazes with Glimmer, so it's worth a shot. Under normal circumstances, Cecil would come knocking on a fellow Mind politely, like a neighbor asking after a cup of sugar. Perhaps it's the thugs discussing how to KILL him that cause him to put everything he's got into mentally shouting 'CAPTAIN!' Ruiz doesn't have a name. His name is Captain.

The attempt to contact him is met, at first, with resistance. A solid wall of resistance, like a granite caisson built to withstand an ocean swell. Cecil's plea crashes against it, and the response is a pitiless silence; and then, on the second, desperate shout, a shudder as of a storm breaking. Electricity given form and motion, charged into arcing flame. <<Who is this? What do you want?>> The voice does not resemble the beast that guards his mindscape; golden eyes and jagged teeth and butcher's hook claws, sniffing and snarling and slinking as it tries to figure out this intruder.

Cecil sags when that first cry goes unanswered. Who else does he know who might be a Mentalist? Joseph? Cecil is hesitant to get him involved. At least Ruiz is the guy he's going to pester about all this anyway, and oh god he can hear the thugs outside moving around, and he gives one last shout: <<CAPTAIN!>> Then he recoils at the breaking storm. Cecil's mind, like the rest of him, is a mild thing, ill-suited toward intimidation or the flexing of power. His mental persona is a thing of shadows that watches and waits. Like a raven that sits the battle out only to descend on the field of the dead once the last cries have faded. In the wake of that desparate mental scream, he's rather meek, actually. <<It seems I'm about to get interrogated or shot, and I have information for you that won't make it back to the lab.>> Yeah, no begging for his life. He wants to make sure Ruiz knows what's up before he karks it.

The storm coalesces slowly but surely into the form of the wolf, like particles ablating in reverse. It speaks again; though again, the voice does not match the beast. A clear and steady rush like a mountain stream, its timbre almost androgynous: <<You've still not answered my questions. But you're in trouble. Forget about the information. Where are you?>>

<<Sorry, sir. It's Cecil Harvey, from forensics. I'm at the Harbor inside a red, rusted shipping container in Area I. It's set further back from the rest. There are at least two, possibly three men guarding it. It seems to be some sort of ad hoc torture room. Listen, if I don't make it, they mentioned someone named Reyes.>> Cecil finds himself clutching the lab kit, and he forces himself to relax. Panicking won't help. <<Reyes seems to be in charge.>>

There's a pause, and Cecil senses a flicker of suppressed rage over the mental link. Then it's tamped down, and his methodical nature, and instinct toward calm and calculated reprisal takes over. <<Cecil. Listen to me.>> Another pause of perhaps a breath; inhale and then exhale, the younger man can feel the captain's calm flooding through the link. <<I need you to give them whatever information they ask for. We'll deal with that later.>> Like it's merely a mess they'll need to clean up. He doesn't seem particularly concerned. <<Whatever helps you survive until I can get there. You understand? I'm going to get you out of this. But you need to be a small target. Can you be a small target?>>

There's a momentary pause in Cecil's mind and a small lilt of confusion, like the idea that someone would come for him simply hadn't occurred. He has grown accustomed to a solitary life. <<Yes, Captain. I can be a small target.>> Another pause, then, <<Thank you.>> He exhales slowly, and he looks around the room in all its bloody glory. <<I can make myself quite small.>>

The link, then, is severed abruptly. One moment, Cecil is submerged in the other man's mindscape; and the next, he's like a fish out of water with no idea how to breathe, or what air is. Just for a split second, before the adjustment to being in his own head again.

The captain, meanwhile, is putting in calls for backup units and heading downstairs to the armoury for a few high-powered rifles. Being the (acting) Chief of Police has its advantages; less red tape for him to deal with. Though less doesn't mean none. He still has people he needs to answer to, especially when task forces are involved. Especially when people are about to very likely get shot. Questions will be asked, and he'd damned well better be ready to answer them.

It's not long after that severed connection that Cecil can hear footsteps returning, and the chain is undone. Light pours in for a moment, although the three goons are right there to make escape a dicey proposition indeed. The lead goon has a disgruntled look on his face, like maybe someone ripped him a new one. One of the others has Cecil's camera case in one hand. Lead goon points. "Hand over your shit. Cell phone, anything you picked up. Or we can come in there and take it from you." He grins. "Your choice."

Cecil reels from the sudden lack of connection. When he comes to his senses, he's alone in this horrible place, with his maybe murderers talking about his fate outside. He glances down at his kit, and he scrambles out of the torture chair to try to hide the kit under one of the mattresses. He takes some of the redundant samples and hides them in his shoes, his pockets. Even if they take the kit, he'll still have something. He hasn't stopped working, not one moment since he's been captured. He's still gathering and preserving evidence.

When he hears the chain being undone, Cecil steps away from where he's hidden the kit, and he stands warily in the light. He holds his hands up in the universal gestures of 'I'm unarmed' and he says, "Gentlemen, I think we can be agreeable about this. I'm just reaching for my phone." Which he does, drawing it out of his shirt pocket, and he offers it over. There's nothing on it Ruiz won't eventually see. "I'm afraid I didn't get much before you found me."

"Agreeable." The goons pause for a second, then grin. "Sure. Hey. We all want to be agreeable, man." And Cecil handing over that cell phone is clearly a step in the right direction, because all three of them relax when he offers it up. The leader grabs it, then waves the second one forward. "Search him."

Second goon steps forward, and seems intent to do just that. "You gonna cause a problem?" he asks, conversationally. He doesn't care, clearly, but is just sizing Cecil up for how much of a problem he plans to be. And this is the guy Cecil bit, so...maybe he's hoping he IS a problem.

Cecil stands still and stares straight ahead while he's searched. Just to be a jerk, he fails to pose a problem. Nor does he show any particular remorse for the bite, but his tone is perfectly amicable. "I'll cooperate, of course. You clearly have me at a disadvantage." He takes a deep breath, then says, "Look, this is just a job. It's not worth dying for." He feels dirty saying it, but he's trying to be small right now.

The search is brutally thorough, and they take everything Cecil has on him - his wallet, if he was carrying one, his badge, his keys. It all gets tossed to the leader, who tucks it away or hands it off to the third goon. When it's done, the guy grins, and says, "See? That's the right attitude. This ain't nothing personal. You stay out of our way, and we'll stay out of yours, right?" It's very friendly.

And then he balls up his fist and drives it, full strength, into Cecil's midsection. And smiles the whole time.

Cecil buckles as the air is driven out of him, and he curls up, hitting the mattress as he goes down hard. He's not a fighter. He's an egghead who spends most of his day in a lab, not a gym. He gasps as he tries to regain his breath, and he manages to utter, "I suppose that was bound to happen." He curls up to protect his vitals. There's no shame in staying down.

The advantage of living in a small town? The precinct's not too far from the docks. Or much of anything else, barring terrible traffic. But that's what sirens are for. Two cop cars, with de la Vega's unmarked Charger in the lead, swoop and weave between cars wise enough (for the most part) to pull over to allow them to pass. The engine on that beast is enough to put the fear of God into a motorist or two who think they can beat him at an intersection, and the pair of cruisers streak past.

Four blocks. Then two. The sirens and lights are cut when they reach the one block mark, and both cars fan out to try to surround the area in case anyone attempts to escape on foot.

"Yep," the goon says, laconically. "Boss'll figure out what to do with you when he has time," he says, but it's not menacing. Or not meant to be. It actually sounds like he's trying to reassure the guy. But Cecil's a smart fellow, and he can hear it in the goon's voice as the leader says, "Just sit tight, and you might just get to go home again, once our boss feels like you can be cooperative. You seem like a guy who sees the value of cooperation."

But it's all empty. None of these three expect Cecil to live, or even see their boss. When they close the door, it has an air of finality - a locked, soundproofed container in a place no one ever checks is a slow and ugly way to die. And by the time the sirens are in the air, the three thugs have already scattered on their own, with most of Cecil's gear.

Except that kit that he tucked away.

The camera! Ugh, that camera was so expensive. Funny that, as Cecil faces abandonment in this shipping container, which looks like so many of the other shipping containers out there, that is what he gets bummed about. His camera. It's just that photography is one of his few pleasures, and they sullied it. They got their thuggish hands all over it.

Cecil uncurls, and he stands up. He immediately pats himself down for any samples that might've been missed, but they're all gone. Fortunately, they were redundant. The goods are in the kit, and he goes over to make sure it's still safely tucked away. Then he sags to the floor of the crate and sighs, sitting with his elbows resting on his knees. Ruiz is coming. That's when it really hits him. Someone is coming for him. He smiles a little.

The cops are not as subtle as perhaps they could be, which.. well, it's a double-edged sword. Shock and awe is often the best approach, and it's what they seem to fall back on today. A commanding roar goes up from the captain, the moment he spots that one laggard on foot, weapon up and braced in both hands. "POLICE, get down, get down on the ground, NOW. Hands where I can see them!" The other two cops are gestured to go on ahead and secure the building with a quick hand signal. And once he's got the goon cuffed, he'll head inside to join them.

Cecil squints at the sudden light coming in, and he waves a little. "Hullo," he says with a note of apology. This is all so dreadfully inconvenient. He gets to his feet and digs out his kit. "They got my phone, wallet, keys, and camera, but they didn't get this." He approaches the door, and he winces a little. That punch in the gut hurt, damn it.

Once the box is broken open, Cecil's greeted by a trio of police in full riot gear bristling with weapons. Weapons that are, mercifully, not meant for him. The one in command hauls off his faceplate, dark curls sticking up every which way, and squints back at the forensics expert huddled in there. Then hitches his chin to the other two men with him. A clear indication to get their perp escorted to one of the cruisers and booked.

After a quick scan to ensure that Cecil is at least mostly in one piece, and not the blubbering mess he might have expected, de la Vega reaches for the kit in question with a gloved hand. "You all right?" he murmurs. "You need a minute? Get you a blanket, a cup of coffee or, uh. Something?" His dark eyes flick over the other.. accoutrements here. The chair. The light switch, which he flips on, illuminating what's presumably torture instruments. His teeth grind together as his mind veers off on a train of thought.

All things considered, the nerd seems to be holding together pretty well. He smiles up at Ruiz with maybe a touch of hero worship -- the man came to save him -- and he says, "I wouldn't say no to a cup of coffee, Captain. Your timing is phenomenal. I don't think they were planning on coming back for quite some time." If he's going to freak out over all this, it's going to be later. It's possible he's in a little bit of shock. "I can describe them," he says, "to a police artist. We got a lot of evidence." He nods to himself, as if trying to figure out if all this was worth it.

Cecil's voice seems to rouse the cop from whatever introspection had taken him, and he turns, and pins the younger man with a hard stare. "We'll see what we can do about getting your.. your property back." Not shit, Javier. Mind your language. He flicks his eyes over the storage container a few beats longer, then reholsters his weapon finally and flicks the light switch off. Gestures for Cecil to precede him out; he'll cover his six. "I'm going to need a statement from you. But we can grab a coffee on the way back to the precinct, if you like. They hurt you?"

Cecil steps out of the crate and looks around, squinting in the light of day. "Of course, Captain. You have my full cooperation," he says. "I want to see these bastards brought down, too. I suppose they've made it personal." He considers the question, then says with a shrug, "I don't need medical attention. It's nothing I can't walk off." He almost laughs when he adds, "I bit one of them. We might be even." Then he takes his glasses off and scrubs his face with one hand. "I'm sure it's going to hit me when I try to sleep tonight, but right now, I think I'm okay. I'm terribly sorry to bother you, but my phone wasn't getting any bars, and the prospect of dying in there was quite real, and I took the only chance I had."

There's a hint of amusement in those slightly narrowed eyes when Cecil mentions having bitten one of them. The captain follows along close beside, and perhaps half a step behind, even bulkier than usual in jacket and armour and variety of weaponry holstered in his rig. Someone would have to be remarkably stupid to try to start anything with Cecil, with this glorified attack dog on his heels.

"Don't be ridiculous," he offers after a pause, and pops open the passenger side door to the unmarked Charger sitting by the shoulder of the road. The accompanying Crown Vic is just getting moving with her cargo of one (1) thug headed for the precinct, right about now. "Bothering me is precisely what you should've done. I don't need any more dead heroes, yeah?"

Cecil nods to the thug in the back of the car and says, "Yeah, that's the one I bit. He suckerpunched me. Some people can't let go of a grudge." He gets into the passenger side of the Charger. He'll worry about his Prius later, like when he gets another set of keys for it. He glances at Ruiz and smiles a little. "I know this may sound like my priorities are out of order, but I wanted to make sure if this was the last thing I was going to do, it would be worth it. I'm not in any hurry to be a hero. I just didn't want it to be for nothing. We have a name. We have blood samples, the inside of the crate." He's not the only forensic guy in town, he knows someone's probably photographing it right now. "We're going to get these guys."

Ruiz is already calling in another team of Detectives to deal with the crime scene, dust the place for prints and get the evidence processed. They aren't going anywhere until that other unit arrives, which might be why he seems in no rush to swing into the driver's seat and start stowing the non-essential bits of gear. The interior of the car is roughly what Cecil might expect: there's an array of switches and dials for operating the lights and sirens, a center column upon which is mounted a dual-encrypted laptop, and even a rifle rack above their heads. It's about as state of the art as Gray Harbour gets.

"It doesn't sound like your priorities are out of order," he confides. "But you do sound like someone who hasn't been in town long. Makes me wonder how long it'll last." A beat as he rests his hand on the steering wheel. "Thanks for your help, though. You know I'm going to have to put in a psych referral for you, right?"

Cecil looks out the window, watching people going about their day as if this day were normal and not at all some kind of waking nightmare. "I'm passionate about my work, Captain," he says quietly. "I never had the physique for police work, and I've got a good mind for details, but the goal is the same: catch the bad guys and put them away. It's a good calling. I have a great deal of respect for your lot and the way you put yourselves in harm's way for the sake of the helpless." He then admits, "I've been here, but I haven't really been here. I go to work, I go home, once in awhile I hit the pub. I deadbolt the door at night and draw the curtains tight. The shadows are just a little darker here." With another one of those fleeting smiles, he waves a hand and says, "I understand, sir. I don't mind. These things are done for a reason."

The second unit finally arrives; a couple more cruisers, out of which cops pile out and start taping off the area and securing the perimeter. One of them, predictably, wants to talk to Cecil. You can have at him once we're back at the precinct, counters the captain, and nobody really seems to dare argue with that look in his eyes.

Then the ignition's keyed, and something spoken into his radio about vic in custody and enroute to station, and he settles in to drive. And it isn't until a couple of minutes later that he replies, low, without taking his eyes off the road, "Las sombras tienen dientes y muerden. Ten cuidado."

Cecil shoots Ruiz a grateful look. He'll happily answer any and all questions. Just. Not right now. He has to think about the captain's words, probably taking them apart to their Latin roots and putting them back together. After a moment, he says, "I survive by being too small to notice. There are always bigger fish to fry, and I'm barely a morsel. It's difficult. Being alone in the world, but in some ways it's easier." He steals a glance at Ruiz. "Someone is bound to ask how you knew to come find me. Why don't we tell them you and I had a verbal agreement that if I didn't check in by a certain time, it would mean something had happened? When I didn't check in, you came to see what happened."

Cecil may well need resort to that, because the snarly Mexican is making no attempt to elucidate upon the meaning of his words. He doesn't glance over, doesn't offer up anything more than the hard line of his profile; scruffy jaw and crow's feet aplenty. Which become marginally more proliferous when barely a morsel is mentioned. Then are smoothed away again when he talks about being alone in the world. Silence follows that, and the stolen glance. They swing left at the next intersection, the Charger's engine surging with a lusty purr like it wants to move.

"Sure," he agrees easily enough. "All right." Still doesn't look over, though he runs his tongue contemplatively over a canine. "Look, enough weird shit happens in this fucking town, people who don't have the Sight.. they stop asking questions they don't understand the answers to. But if it makes you feel better." He does flick his eyes over finally, then away again. "Sure."

"I'm still getting used to that," Cecil says. "People not asking questions." There's a lilt of laughter in his voice as he says, "My parents were like the Spanish Inquisition. It's second nature to come up with a plausible lie. But you're right, people here don't ask. I always ask, even if I don't say it aloud."

He sighs quietly. There's something reassuring about the man behind the wheel. He did just literally save Cecil's life, after all. "I tend to pick one person to trust," he says. "In the department, amidst the politics and whatnot. Someone whose side I'm on, who I'll report to, and when I don't know what to think, they're the one I go to. I picked you, and I'm glad I did."

Were. His parents were like the Spanish Inquisition. It's nearly in him to ask what happened. Whether he left them behind; whether they died. Maybe he doesn't want to know the answer, or maybe he's saving it for another time. The next intersection, they turn right, and there's the precinct up ahead. And that terrible cafe, the one with the health code violations; it's a wonder it hasn't been shut down by now.

Then I picked you, and he's almost visibly pained by it. Like Cecil had slapped him, rather than paid him a roundabout sort of compliment. After a good minute of clearly discomfited silence, he murmurs roughly, "Just stay alive, yeah?"

And then they're pulling into the precinct's gated lot, and he's producing his ID and badge for verification by the guard in the booth, before they're allowed through.

Cecil regards the cafe with familiar dread. It's terrible, but it's their terrible. Those watchful eyes take in the pained look, but he doesn't pry. Instead, he says, "That's the plan, Captain. For as long as possible. A willingness to die in the line of duty is in no way a preference." He walks with Ruiz to the booth. With his badge taken by a thug, he won't be going anywhere without the captain. "Besides, who would feed my cats?"