Title: Forensics and Demonology
Challenge: Connor and Las Vegas by TouchoftheWind
Pairings: None (as of yet)
Disclaimer: All characters owned by Joss Whedon and the creators of CSI. I’m just playing with them. Don’t sue me!
“Okay, spines in the feet. That’s new…” Connor muttered to himself as he limped out of the alley. He knew his shins were in bad shape, but he’d have to wait until he got home to see the extent of the damage. He took one last look back at the fugly-assed blue demon with the spiny toe-tappers he’d just run his knife through. He’d tried to retrieve the weapon, but apparently the blood had an instant concrete effect. There goes another hundred bucks, he sighed to himself, mentally noting to get a new knife in the morning.
He hobbled out into the street and used the lights from the strip to check for any obvious damage: bloody, ripped cargos, a couple of burn marks in his leather jacket from some small, fire breathing demon earlier in the night, and ripped knuckles from a poorly aimed shot at a vamp that hit a brick wall instead. Nothing that would make him stand out from anybody else in this new sin infested city. And he had thought L.A. was bad. Ha. Here it was the humans that scared him more than the demons. The crime rate here seemed astronomical, and if he didn’t know any better he’d say Sin City itself was situated on a hellmouth.
Speaking of crime…Connor spotted yellow tape up ahead about a block and knew better than to ignore it. Most of the time it was humans with too much booze, too few drugs, and never enough money. Or, you know, all three. But on the rare chance that it was supernaturally related, he knew he’d have to at least give it a look. It was harder to seem inconspicuous while checking out a crime scene in LAS Vegas than it was back in L.A. Police in Los Angeles tended to ignore the general public, but here the police looked at everyone and everything. Or at least those damn CSI’s did. He’d had a couple run ins with them before, mostly the night crew. They did their jobs well, from what he could see, but every scrap of paper and spill of a drink was evidence, every onlooker a suspect. It was hard enough at the best of times trying to seep the public safe without the police getting in the way. Their was a cruel irony in that that Connor had noticed some time ago. Now he had new methods to get the job done.
Walking by at a moderate pace, trying to keep his limp to a minimum, he looked over at the scene with seemingly casual interest. Really, he was trying to absorb as many minor, close-up details as possible in a short amount of time. It was an empty parking lot with a male body lying off to the right, his neck twisted at an impossible angle and his eyes wide in shock. No overt bleeding, no broken bones, and no other marks from what he could see. There was, however, a tear in the sleeve of his flannel shirt. Whether it was from catching on something and ripping or a claw, though, was uncertain. There was a dumpster near the back of the lot with some sort of dark, wet stain on it. From this distance he couldn’t tell if it was human blood or demon. He made sure not to make eye contact with anyone and looked away before he has passed the scene completely. Halfway down the block he noticed a cheap, no-tell motel and walked into the alley beside it, checking for fire escapes.
He grabbed hold of the ladder and climbed the levels until he reached the roof. Crouching carefully on the ledge, he looked at the few buildings ahead of him and was relieved to see that, with the exception of one, they were all flat concrete. Unfortunately, that one building happened to be the one right next to the crime scene.
“This is just not my night,” Connor muttered, backing up a bit to get a running head start. He cleared the alleys easily and made it to the final building. Gripping the seam of the slanted roof, he carefully leaned over and got a larger overview of the scene. There were no other telling marks on the body or ground that he could see, and he was about to label it as an average homicide when something caught his eye; a red and black glimmer from just inside the dumpster. Whatever it was, Connor could tell it was large, scaly, and not in a good mood. There were two CSI’s on scene that night; a tall, well built black man and an older, graying man with glasses. The previous was walking around taking pictures while the latter was crouched low to the ground examining something with a set of tweezers. He watched the black guy head over towards the dumpster and knew that if he didn’t act soon they’d have a whole new crime on their hands: aggravated assault by a large, armored demon.
Gil looked up at the young man who had just hailed Warrick over to the yellow tape. Something seemed off about him and his too casual stance. Well, that and the obviously bloody pants. Most kids that age saw a dead body and reacted in one of three ways: fear, fascination, or shock. This young man, however, just stood with his hands in his pockets and didn’t even look at the body. Grissom couldn’t hear what he was saying, but he saw Warrick let his camera hang round his neck and place his hands on his hips. Whatever the kid was saying, he had caught the CSI’s interest. Warrick asked him a few questions and he saw the kid shrug and say something else. It seemed like the young man might have witnessed something, and Gil wanted to know exactly what it was. He stood up and made his way over to Warrick just as the kid turned around and started walking away.
“What was that all about?” Gil asked, watching the kid’s slight limp and storing it away for later.
“Kid said he says he saw the vic being harassed by some guy.”
“He says the guy vic was walking through the parking lot when some big guy in a black leather jacket and gloves grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around, really getting in his face. He pushed him and the vic started yelling back. Kid says he couldn’t see what they were saying and hightailed it out of there when it looked like a fight might start.”
“Smart kid,” Grissom said. “Looks like he didn’t take that information to heart earlier, though.”
Warrick’s brow furrowed for a moment before a look of realization crossed his face. “His pants. Yeah, I noticed that. Couldn’t been anything, though, Gris. Kid could have fallen off his bike and scraped his shins. Doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”
“True,” Gil conceded. “But it doesn’t mean nothing, either. Did he give you a name?”
“Yeah, John. Could be lying. I asked for an address or phone number but he said he didn’t have one; moves around a lot.”
“Your typical anonymous homeless teen. Did you ask him to come back for questioning?”
“Yeah, but he said no.” Warrick shrugged and picked up his camera again. “Not surprised.”
“No,” Gil said, looking around. He had the uncomfortable sense of being watched. “Neither am I.”