I'm back with a new story!
Danny Messer and Lindsay Munroe are characters from CSI NY. Andy Sipowicz, Baldwin Jones and John Clarke are characters from NYPD Blue.
I own nothing to do with Conviction and the title is taken from a Tift Merritt song
August 18th, 2240
"I did it." His voice was oddly calm, empty, stripped bare of all emotion. "I did it. I shot him."
Andy Sipowicz watched from the observation room as his detectives walked the suspect through the interrogation, arms folded across his chest, ignoring the sweat beading on his forehead, the ineffectual whurr of the fan in the corner of the room.
The door opened and closed softly, and he heard careful footsteps as someone moved across the room to join him at the window. "Lieutenant."
He nodded, glancing at him out of the corner of his eye. "Counselor."
Jim Steele peered intently through the glass, his entire frame rigid, still wearing his suit jacket despite the heat. "How's it going in there?"
Sipowicz shrugged. "He still makes himself as the shooter."
"What about a lawyer? Has he asked for a lawyer yet?"
"No. He waived his phone call. Seemed like he was in a real hurry to get it all down on paper. What's going on with you, Counselor? You'd think you'd be glad to have an open and shut case for once."
"I just want to make sure that everything is done by the book. I don't want anyone to say we screwed this kid over." He looked around, seeming to notice the fan, the stifling atmosphere for the first time. "Why the hell is it so hot in here?"
"Busted AC." Sipowicz ran his hand across his scalp. "And if you think this is bad, you should see what its done to my fish."
Jim smiled slightly, still staring through the glass, his attention focused on the interrogation. "How's Connie doing?"
"She's good." Andy folded his arms again, fighting the urge to check his pager. "Due any day now."
Jim nodded, his eyes still intent, still focused through the glass.
"Why don't you walk us through what happened?"
"I just told you what happened." He looked from one detective to the other, his face pale, his eyes wide and staring. "Why do we need to go through it again?"
"We need to get all this straight in our heads, so we can go tell the DA you've tried to get in front of this. It'll play better for you that way."
He sighed heavily, lifting a coke can with shaking hands. "What is it you want to know, Detectives?"
He paused, his hand on the door handle, listening to the raised voices inside.
"You think you can speak to me like that?"
"No, I'm sorry…"
"Don't you dare speak to me like that!"
"I'll teach you to keep a respectful tongue in your mouth!"
He pushed open the door, painting a false smile across his face. "Hey, Pop. Hey Ma." He walked across the room to kiss her on the cheek. Pretending not to notice the tension in the room, the pain dusted across his mother's face, the anger radiating from his father. "Happy 4th of July!"
His mother did her best to smile. "Thank you, dear."
"Where's your sister?" His father made no effort to hide the anger in his voice.
"She just phoned me. Something came up at work." He was surprised at how calm his own voice was. "She's going to meet us at the Park."
"Typical." His father grunted angrily, pursing his lips in disapproval. "She always did think the world revolved around her. Just like her mother."
The sound of the ringing phone shocked her out of the exhausted sleep she had fallen into. Blindly she groped through the darkness until she found it. "Hello?" Her voice still thick with sleep.
Her mother's voice cut through the cobwebs, cut through the last vestiges of sleep. "Ma?" She sat upright in bed, sudden fear rushing through her body. "Ma, what's wrong? What's happened?"
She knew that something had happened, could tell from dreadful, awful calmness in her mother's voice.
"Its your father. Something awful has happened to your father."
"I did it." He sat back, an odd smile playing across his lips, oddly content. "I shot him."
"Where did you get the gun from?"
"Is that important?"
"Just answer the question."
"I bought it off a guy in Harlem."
"What difference does it make? I'm the one that shot my father!"
"Who'd you buy the gun off?"
"I told you. A guy in Harlem."
"Where in Harlem?"
"A bar. Called the Vudu Lounge."
"What's his name?"
"I don't know his name. I was told he was the guy to go to for a piece. I swear, I never saw him before. All he did was sell me the gun. He'd nothing to do with this, I swear."
August 18th 2100
The flash of a crime scene camera illuminated the apartment like a gunshot, bright and searing. The uniformed cop lifted the tape for Jim as he flashed his DA's badge and he ducked underneath it, glancing quickly, carefully around the crime scene.
It looked like a battle zone, furniture overturned, smashed and broken against the walls, the aftermath of a childish tantrum. One photograph remained untouched on the side board, defiant. Alone.
And a body, lying in the middle of the floor.
Through an open door, he could see a woman, sitting on a bed, tightly holding a young man's hand, her eyes fixed and rapt on the chaos in the living room. A Detective crouched next to her, speaking with her in a soft voice.
"Got another shell here, Linds." Danny Messer lifted a casing, studied it carefully and then dropped it into an evidence bag. "9mm."
Another flash from the camera.
The woman in the other room flinched, turning her face away from the CSIs. The detective glanced over his shoulder and stood, walking across to Jim, picking his way through the wreckage.
"Detective Clarke. What have we got?"
"Neighbour called it in. Victim was DOA. Shot close range, twice in the chest, once in the head. CSIs got all the casings."
Jim nodded his eyes flicking towards the bedroom. "Who are they?"
Clarke followed his gaze. "Wife and son." He lowered his voice. "Son makes himself as the shooter."
"You taking him to the 15th?"
"Yeah, we're just waiting for Danny and Lindsay to finish."
"Has he said anything else?"
"Nothing yet. I read him his rights and all he said was 'I shot my father'." Clarke closed his notebook, tapping his pen against the cover. "Listen, I better go, my partner's interviewing the neighbour who called it in."
"We got a gun!"
Instinctively, every one in the room took a step back, out of the line of fire as Danny lifted a 9mm pistol carefully in his gloved hands, He sniffed it, grimacing at the acrid odour. "It's been fired." He worked the mechanism, checking the magazine. "Three shells gone."
He dropped the gun into the bag.
"Are you done yet, Detective Munroe?"
"Almost." Lindsay's voice was distracted she tried to focus her camera. "Just a few more minutes."
He drifted through the room like a ghost, lost amidst the noise and the lights. Drawn towards the lone photograph.
He gasped when he saw it, his hands stretching out towards it, his finger tips almost brushing against the faded frame.
Lindsay Munroe's warning shout managed to tear through his haze, just in time to stop him touching the frame, just in time to stop him contaminating the scene.
He couldn't stop himself staring at the photograph.
A photograph of a family before gunshots tore them apart. Father. Mother. Son. Daughter.
August 18th 2250
The door of the observation room knocked and then opened. "Lieutenant?"
Sipowicz looked around, peering across the room over the top of his glasses. "Ah, Munroe. How are things over the crime lab?"
"Busy, Lieutenant. All the crazies come out during the heat wave." She walked across the room,slowly, reluctantly and nodded towards the glass. "Is that from the shooting earlier tonight?"
"Is he still making himself the shooter?"
She sighed heavily. "We've got a problem."
End of Chapter One
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