2015.08.21 - Death and Suspicions

**Emitter:** Mitchell

*Murphy comes to investigate a murder and comes across Mittchell, who she thinks knows more than he's saying*

2015-08-22

Marina and Waterfront

It's a hell of a scene.

The late summer rain is quickly washing away the blood, but there was rather a lot of it. A body lies prone on in an alleyway. A vagrant, but a young one. A drug addict, judging by the track marks on her arms. Her throat has been viciously torn into, leaving savaged arteries and missing chunks of flesh.

Vampires do this sort of thing all the time, but Gary is not a very good vampire. He made the mistake of A), tearing into the vagrant (at least he had the presence of mind to go after a vagrant) within earshot of a busy lunch spot. B) In broad daylight. C) In a neighbourhood regularly patrolled by police.

Despite Gary's supernatural strength and speed, he's currently in cuffs and being held against the hood of a police car by three beefy guys. What's even stranger is that Gary looks like a nice middle-aged, slightly portly, slightly balding accountant.

"Must be goddamn bath salts or something," mutters Detective Horowitz as he stands back and makes notes.

There's a young man with sunglasses and a light jacket (despite the heat) who sits at a cafe under an awning, just across the street. His eyes haven't left the scene. Many of the cafe's patrons have either scattered or gone in for a closer look, but he hasn't moved. Mitchell inhales from a cigarette and frowns.

Murphy is used to getting called into cases that no one wants or know will go nowhere. This one doesn't look like anything she should be put on: the murderer is already caught and in cuffs. And, technically, she's not here in an official capacity. Ever since her move to San Francisco from Chicago, she's been searching out the territory, figuring out what is what. What hasn't changed are the departmental politics and the fact that no one wants to believe that what she does makes any sort of difference. The SI is currently - and begrudgingly - tolerated by the SFPD. But, she'll still do her job to protect her people and as she was already in the area, she's decided to check it out.

Dressed in a grey pantsuit, shoulder length blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail, the shorter woman approaches the Detectives. Her badge is slung about her neck at the moment, proving herself worthy of being at the scene. Seeing Horowitz taking notes, she moves toward him. "I was in the area when I heard the PB. Thought I'd stop by to see if you needed an extra hand." Her tone is all business as she surveys the blood, Gary and then Horowitz - in that order. "What happened?"

Horowitz is a tall, lanky man, with just barely starting to salt-and-pepper hair, kind eyes and a recently-broken nose. He has lines on his face that look like they were drawn there by the stresses of the job rather than his age. He looks up, then has to look down to see Murphy. Poor Karrin. He takes a minute to squint at her badge, then grunts softly. "Guy went nuts and bit out the addict's neck. Funny, I woulda expected it to happen the other way around."

The cops wouldn't look at this scene and see 'vampire,' but then, they tend to actively ignore these things. Gary continues to struggle, his face coated in blood. If she looks carefully, she might spot pointed fangs. It's hard to see amidst his flurry of movement and the red coating his mouth.

Karrin's used to that. She's been short her whole life and refuses to make up for it with impractical heels or anything of the like. Her study of Horowitz is short because she's already back to looking at Gary. "Wouldn't think a guy like that would need three guys to hold him down, either," she observes as she watches the blood coated face of Gary.

Murphy is still a bit of a novice when it comes to identification, but her weird senses are certainly tingling. Her eyes narrow when she sees his face, whether she sees the fangs is unclear, but she knows that the weird things that bump in the night are real and if something sounds like a vampire, it very well may be. "I'd keep him away from anyone else if you put him in lock up. Guy goes crazy like that, he may keep doing it."

The only thing that might possibly go in the 'not a vampire' category is the fact that it's full day. Overcast, yes, but it's not exactly cover of darkness. Still, stranger things...

"Yeah, that's why we think he's on something. We'll see what happens when he dries out. We're gonna put him in solitary," says Horowitz. "Seems like a Limey, too. ID says he lives in Bristol, England. No passport, just a driver's license."

At some point during the conversation, the man at the cafe stood up and moved to the edge of the perimeter. Mitchell's still smoking, but he's removed his sunglasses. He's made eye contact with Gary, who suddenly and inexplicably stops struggling. His fangs disappear and real fear seems to clench him.

As the conversation with Horowitz continues, Murphy's eyes rest soley on Gary. While he's trying to puzzle this out, a thought of 'Dresden may know' crossing her mind. "Dammit," she huffs under her breath at that, brow furrowing. The last thing she wants to do is to talk to Harry Dresden. Louder, she quickly adds, "Tourist gone crazy? Weirder things have happened. His passport may be where ever he's staying."

Perhaps luckily, though, her attention snaps back into focus as Gary immediately stops struggling. That's not something someone on bath salts would do out of nowhere. Quickly, her eyes follow where Gary's attention might be and they land on the smoking Mitchell. She studies the man very aptly, half an ear still listening to Horowitz.

To the casual eye, Mitchell is just another lookie-loo. There's more than a few people gathered around. But most of them are trying to crane their necks to see the corpse, which is partially blocked from view by a police cruiser. A few uniformed officers are taking statements from the patrons who indicated they saw something, but the dark-haired young man isn't trying to catch their attention.

Gary looks away and grunts softly. The cops holding him down ask if he's going to cooperate. After hesitating for a moment, he nods once. They haul him to his feet.

It's easy to miss, but Mitchell seems to shake his head in disappointment. He tosses his cigarette down and starts to turn away.

"Well, looks like you've got it under control," Murphy tells Horowitz. "I'll get out of your hair." Her eyes are still focused on the people held back by the police cruiser. Without waiting for a proper response, she starts to walk forward toward where Mitchell is turning. She's not casual observer and she knows something was a bit off about that interaction.

Face set with determination, she moves quickly. She's not running, but she knows she has shorter legs and if she wants to catch up to whoever that smoking man is, she's going to have to pick up the pace. She easily moves her way through the people still watching and taking pictures for Instagram. Waiting until she's a little bit away and out of the hubbub, she calls out, "Hey, you. Hold up."

Mitchell is not moving quickly away from the scene. In fact, he's rather ambling, like he has nowhere in particular to go. In fact, he's stopped to peruse a newsstand when he hears Murphy coming up behind him. He looks up casually, an eyebrow arching. "Can I help you?" The Irish lilt is clear as day, even in those few words.

Murphy catches up to Mitchell in no time, especially as he's paused at a newsstand. Hooking a thumb around the chain that holds her police badge, she gestures with it toward him, indicating herself to be a member of the SFPD. With her head, she indicates the scene they both just came from. "Mind if I ask you a few questions?"

Mitchell eyes her badge, then turns back to flip through the news magazine. "I didn't see anything. Like I told the guys in the uniforms, I was inside ordering a coffee when it happened." Which, if Murphy checks later, will be true according to the statement of the barista inside the cafe.

"Not saying you did," Murphy replies immediately. "Did you know the guy?" She doesn't offer an explanation as to who the guy is, it should be pretty obvious either way. When the conversation is over, she certainly will check up on that alibi, but for now she's more interested in finding out a bit more.

"I've seen him around," says Mitchell. It's true. Gary was recruited by one of the vampires in his care shortly before they got transported, kit-and-kaboodle to the US. "I'm staying nearby. But I never really talked to him. He had problems, though." Which is all quite true, if not exactly straightforward.

As Mitchell speaks, Murphy nods her head. She's listening to what he's saying and also attempting to read between the lines. "Two men from across the ocean, I can see how he might stick out in your head. Do you happen to know where he was staying? If there is someone else we should contact?"

"No, sorry. Like I said, I just saw him around. At the coffee shop and the like. Sometimes people just snap, you know? He didn't much like it here, I gather. Probably got into some tainted drugs." Mitchell slides the magazine back into the rack. He's wearing fingerless gloves - again, a little odd for San Francisco in the summer, especially for an Irishman who wouldn't be particularly accustomed to California weather. He squints and pulls his sunglasses back down. "The server in the cafe probably talked to him way more than I did." Again, likely the truth.

Murphy narrows her eyes at Mitchell, easily feeling the brush off she's being given. Unfortunately for her, she doesn't have much grounds to really push Mitchell. All she has is a hunch and the thought that Gary might be one of the things that goes bump in the night. And now, possibly, daytime. The gloves, the sunglasses, the attitude: there's a lot that doesn't add up for Murphy.

"I'm sure she did, but right now I'm talking to you." Her voice isn't exactly impolite, but there's a bit of brusqueness to her tone. "How long have you been staying in San Francisco?"

"A little while," says Mitchell, noncommittally. "Look, I had nothing to do with that guy going crazy. I didn't see anything. I don't know why you're hassling me. There was a whole patio full of people who saw the whole thing go down." He points back the way they came. "I appreciate that you're just trying to do your job, but talking to me isn't going to sort out anything."

What's odd is there's actually a note of kindness in his voice. Yes, he's being evasive, but he gets the sense that she's one of the good ones. He doesn't like lying on the best of days, let alone to good people.

"Maybe you did and maybe you didn't," Murphy replies stubbornly. She's gotten her hooks into something and she's going to follow it through. "What I do know is that guy just ripped out someone's throat and had to have three guys hold him down. One look into the crowd and he just gives up, looks scared. Doesn't sound like someone on bath salts."

The kindness only rankles at Murphy. She knows enough to know that she doesn't know enough - and that really bothers her. "People who say that usually know more than what they're letting on," she tells him firmly. It's like she's gotten that line before or something.

"Completely illogical behavior sounds exactly like what someone on drugs owuld do to me. But I'm not exactly an expert on the subject." Mitchell uses his thumb to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Look, I have somewhere to be. Unless you're going to haul me in, well," he shrugs and holds up his arms.

"Being afraid of a particular person?" Murphy tells Mitchell, looking directly at him. "That sounds plenty logical to me." At the moment, she can't do anything to him, which just makes her all the angrier. She can't pull him in for questioning on a case that isn't even hers and she's not sure what she could even hold him on. "What's your name?" she asks. She'll get that, at least. Even if it's just an alias or a lie, it'll be something to call him when describing him to, ugh, Harry.

Mitchell just shakes his head and smiles ever so slightly. He doesn't confirm or deny her interpretation of what happened. He doesn't waste his breath. He pauses for a moment, but then, deciding that it won't help her at all, he answers honestly. "Mitchell." No indication whether that's first or last. And then, unless she stops him, he'll start ambling off down an increasingly crowded street.

The pause is enough to warn Murphy that whatever name he gives her may in fact be a fake. She's wary enough of him to not believe that he'd give her anything but an alias. Frowning, she watches him walk away. She won't stop him, she has no real ability to do so. Instead, she observes and then crosses her arms over her chest as she glowers. This whole thing stinks, in her estimation, and she's going to figure out why.

No doubt she's going to find it stinks even more when she tries to follow up on Gary. There's no record of him being booked and the case has been marked closed. If Murphy digs (or rather, when she does) she'll discover that Gary was marked as deceased before he was entered into processing. Which had to be a very short window between when he was put in the police car and the twenty minute drive to lock-up. Something doesn't smell right.