ESCH▲TON

http://i.imgur.com/OsCbiJu.png

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█ TIME / DATE: 0930 / 12 OCTOBER 5614
█ LOCATION: LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA
█ CONDITIONS: 83 DEGREES / 4 MPH WIND

THE CASE

Six police officers were found dead—executioner-style. Their bodies were left in an empty lot and discovered by two teenagers (Carl Kingston, 16, and Thomas England, 15). Each officer suffered exactly one bullet to the head; the bullets were delivered by the officers' respective service weapon.

There was no DNA evidence left at the scene, but one of the officers, Jonathan Mendez, 29, had made several phone calls (just before his death) to a textile factory located in East LA.

Autopsy determined time-of-death to be between 0100 and 0300 hours. The toxicology report came back negative.

LAPD wants this case closed fast and is willing to cooperate with Sidereus in finding the killer or killers. However, despite their agreement to aid in the investigation, officers are unwilling to speak ill of their deceased colleagues and are extremely distrustful of the agents. And, to make matters worse, there is a rumor going around that the cop-killer is a synergist.

THE FACTS

LAPD is not being completely upfront with information (HINT: ask for an independent toxicology test) and the killer is most definitely not a synergist. It might be a good idea to dig a little (but watch out for the LAPD—there's definitely something weird going on) and, if you're lucky, you'll find the thread that unravels the mystery. Good luck, agents.

DIFFICULTY: ██████████

"We want this case closed quickly and before the press gets a hold of it."

The chief was an older gentleman with dark, beady eyes and slightly graying hair. His lips were thin—almost nonexistent—and his nose looked broken in three places. He was tall—much taller than the brunette standing beside him—with broad shoulders and a gently protruding stomach that pushed against the crispness of his shirt. "I'm sure you can understand our concerns."

He peered over his steel, wiry frames at the brunette; his expression souring at the edges when the woman shrugged in response. "Your team can set up here"—he led her to a medium-sized room with large, dusty windows. A rectangular table sat in the middle and a clear, plastic board stood at the other end—its surface covered with pictures of the victim, a map of the city, and notes—"it's not much. Times have been tough. Lots of budget cuts to the departments."

There was a hint of bitterness to his words and, from the way he glared at the equipment (or utter lack thereof), his resentment was only thinly concealed.

"It's fine," her voice was deep and sharp and crisp. "We can make do with what you have. It won't be a problem at all." Her eyes scanned the setting, taking everything in without pause. "I'd like to speak with each of the victims' partners."

And even though she phrased it as a request, her tone was far from kind.

---

JASMINE IS AT THE LAPD HEADQUARTERS.

Smoke escaped past his lips in a cloud of gray and poison as he exhaled, shooting a short distance ahead.

"It's too early for this shit," Eli muttered as he dropped a dying cigarette to the ground, crushing the roll with the heel of his boot before reaching into his jacket for another cancer-stick. "It's too damn early to be awake. I haven't even had coffee yet."

Sighing loudly, the agent turned to look at the houses sitting on his left; their presence sleepy and undisturbed. They were uninspired in design and dull in color. Every house was a variation of white and every lawn was artificially green. Curtains were drawn over every window, keeping the privacy of its residents decidedly private. And, if it weren't for the occasional car parked outside the driveway or an aging mailbox perched off-center on an equally aged stand, every house would have looked the same to Eli.

"So, Skadi"—he coughed as he lit up another cigarette, the lightly burning roll hanging precariously from his lips—"which one of these beautiful houses belong to Officer Johnson?"

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ELI IS WITH COEUR AND THEY ARE LOOKING FOR OFFICIER JOHNSON'S HOUSE.

‘How drab,’ Coeur mused as her eyes flit across the painfully similar decorum of these suburban houses. Amongst all the neutral coloring, the woman stood out much like a phoenix would amongst ashes. She wore a bright red sundress that was cinched directly below her bosom by a white patent leather belt, her long legs were swathed in lacy stockings which ended in a nice pair or white patent leather pumps. Her hair was perfectly coifed and adorned with a small white rose to break up the curly darkness of it all. Would she be able to run in her outfit? While the dress didn’t cling to her thighs, as she usually preferred to show of the shapeliness of her form, it was still quite short and her shoes were quite pointed. Yet Coeur didn’t think that interviewing a deceased officer’s family would surmount to much action; and she hoped that being politely and immaculately dressed would win over more answers than looking like one was ready for a street brawl.

“Oh I had an espresso earlier, short and to the point they are darling- at this lovely little coffee shop around the corner.” It was substantially further away than that, but Coeur didn’t much think that her partner would venture to a gourmet bistro to retrieve his coffee. “If I had known, I would have picked you up something. Of course I have no idea how you actually take your coffee. Hm, let me guess: as black as night and as sweet as sin?” A flirtatious little wink fell after that before she turned her head to the mission at hand. Coeur realized it was not the time to be flirting with her partner, as much as she enjoyed that endeavour.

Her red lacquered nails tapped against the piece of paper in her hand, the one where she had jotted down the significant information to the case. “2401,” she purred. Her eyes danced across the mailboxes and the occasional drab little number plaque. She spotted their destination a few houses down from where they were now, and so tucked the sheet of paper back into her clutch. “There we are- that one.” Coeur pointed. It looked no different from the other houses on that row except maybe that the car in the driveway was a bit newer and bit more stately. There wasn’t a rose bush in sight- shame. “Now, Monsieur Scorch, would you care to do the talking, or should I?”

Aleksander didn’t know what he would find here, big red signs pointing them towards the probable cause of this murder? What the agent was assured of was that if there was any incriminating evidence that may have painted the ‘good guys’ in the ‘bad light’, it would be missing. It wasn’t as if he suspected foul play, but the quick finger pointing and the gruff nature of the LAPD was highly suspicious. Yet he reminded himself briskly that he was not here to consider conspiracy theories or cover-up schemes, but to play detective where the LAPD detective force could not. If the evidence pointed them towards that outcome, then so be it.

“Agent Squall, Agent Judgement,” Aleksander stated. He loathed using their code names as it made them seem almost as if they had been written into some pulpfiction novel. “I need you to canvas this area for any clues that may have been missed. I know that order sounds extremely vague, but different eyes see in different ways- as they say. We at least need to find out a hint as to how they were brought here, and anything the LAPD might have thought was negligible that could be of help.”
‘Or they made negligible,’ Aleksander considered but attempted to throw out any distrustful thoughts from his head. This was his forte, tracking, working through the clues, and inevitably being able to finger the criminal. He was far from the most talented synergist in this group, actually given his ranking he was the worst, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t make up for it in other fashions.

He glanced around the empty lot for anything that caught his eye immediately, because as he had learned: sometimes one has to take a step back to see the whole picture. Aleksander’s next course of action would be to use his own power to maybe locate any refuse metal that had been laid about or entirely forgotten. These were paltry stabs in the dark, but at least they were something.

The room was cold and windowless; its only source of light came from a fluorescent bulb overhead, which flickered ominously.

Sitting across the table from Jasmine was a thick, surly-looking man, who's expression was as mean as the room was barren. He had dark curly hair, dried lips, and hateful eyes. He made no attempts to hide his distaste for the agent. He hated the agent—the outsider that was allowed to preview whatever she wanted; the outsider that was allowed to walk in and out of rooms, unescorted.

He hated outsiders.

But Jasmine remained unmoved by his expressions. After all, this wasn't the first time she had encountered abject hatred directed towards her and everything she stood for and, by no means, would this be the last time she encountered such people.

---

THE SITUATION: Marcus J. Randall was the assigned partner of Richard Johnson for the past eight years. The two were not only colleagues, but best friends since their days at the academy. Randall insisted that Johnson was a good cop and the agency is wasting their time nosing around things that are none of its business.


THE FACTS: Jasmine suspects that Randall is hiding something, but is uncertain about what (although she suspects it might have something to do with one of the cases Johnson was working on). It might be a good idea to, after questioning Johnson's wife, check in on Randall. Oh, also, if you have time, you might want to ask Johnson's wife about a case where a little girl was shot dead. But, then again, it might not be relevant.