Detective John Martin (crackshot_) wrote in notionsic, @ 2011-04-13 05:15:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | april 2011, complete, glory powers, john martin |
WHO: John and Glory
WHAT: Bang bang; investigation talk.
WHERE: Shooting range.
WHEN: April 13th, evening.
RATING: Medium for swearing and rape/murder talk.
STATUS: In progress. Complete
John needed a drink, plain and simple. He was itching for it, and a fight-- or a fuck, he wasn't picky with how it would go down-- but he wanted to blast his way to oblivion, to match a drink for every piece of fucking nonsense that had come his way. A lot of it was because of the case: the high profile, career making case that had no excuse to be at a dead end... Except for the inexcusable fact that there was just not enough evidence. The case wasn't something John was particularly tackling for his career or as a favor to the Chief of Police. Doing so was always the wrong way to approach an investigation; doing so gave you a bias and clouded your judgment. Every case was unique (or not at all if you stood firmly by criminal statistics), but that approach didn't make it any less of a headache. The M.E. and lab reports had piled up, but they did little to help shift the investigation forward. There remained vital pieces missing, the biggest being the actual scene of the murder. The garage was only a dump site, and John had been over the garage tapes from that night, collecting every make, model, and license number of coming and going vehicles and following up on every one. But where had that gotten him? Nowhere. And there was still no tongue, which was a strange trophy as far as John was concerned-- Well, maybe not for a gang killing, but the Vic had no gang connection, or even a drug connection for that matter. And it wasn't a random killing. Random killings weren't sexual, but without a clear cut motive, that bit could have been staged.
Means, motive, and opportunity: the holy trinity of investigation, but John only had a bunch of holes and gaps and missing pieces staring back at him. And with a high profile Vic, every venue of investigation meant trouble, so there was never any "right" way to be going as far as his superiors, the family, and the public was concerned. All of this was why John needed a drink, though he swayed himself from the bar and even the privacy of his own home for now, and hauled his ass to the indoor range. Service weapon in hand, he took out the targets, one sheet at a time with tight clusters of three rounds, which they taught at the Academy. John alternated this in the chest with measured and precise, single brow shots with the targets at different distances. His firearm-- its shape, its kick-- had familiarity to the point where it was like an extended limb and shooting came with both instinct and focus. It cleared his head for the most part, put him in a place where he could start fresh, where he could look at the puzzle with a new train of thought. And as as John reloaded his gun and mounted a fresh target, he wondered how the Evo girl had gotten herself in a position to be killed. (Yes, he did his homework, Agent fucking Keating.)