Captain Homer Jackson (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
damnyank) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
undergrounds2015-06-25 10:27 pm
damnyank) wrote in undergrounds2015-06-25 10:27 pm
Entry tags:
you won't see this on criminal minds... | closed to dr. henry morgan
The best thing about the dead is that they don't talk.
That's the thought that immediately comes mind, as Jackson leans over the first corpse of the day. Last night's pleasure has come back to haunt him far too early in the morning. He's struggling to concentrate, mind too scattered by the constant jab of a skull-cracking migraine. Meanwhile, his least favorite Sergeant, the one with the ginger beard, is standing beside him, yammering and yammering away about where they found the body, how they found the body, how his name's a mystery, nobody saw anything, and--
"I got it, I got it. Turn the volume down-- actually, why not keep your trap shut and let me do my job. All your answers are right here."
They found the poor fella outside of a Tescos, lying in a crime scene too clean to not be fishy. 6'3. Blonde. Male. Young enough to have been a high school student. Thin and lanky. Dressed in a plain grey sweatshirt decorated by ratty holes, but otherwise well-kept. There are no visible wounds, no lacerations, contusions, not even a little scratch. Slim chance that it could be a heart attack or stroke. More likely overdose, but his gut's telling Jackson otherwise.
Jackson's done the math, and he's got his suspicion: the victim's too perfect, too pale for the dead.
"Sergeant, what did I say about hanging around me? Off with you." The ginger-haired copper leaves begrudgingly, obviously skeptical of Jackson and his yankeedoodle doctor ways. But once he's gone, Jackson sets right to continuing his examination. He's clandestine about it, checking over his shoulder twice, before lifting up the man's pale lips.
Fangs.
These mosquito don't go dropping like flies. Following his suspicions, Jackson rips open the vampire's shirt and examines his spotless chest. No entry wound for the pointy end of any stake. Pristine and perfect.
Jackson takes out a scalpel from his kit and makes a clean slice against his right radial artery. No stolen blood flows out. Dry as the Sahara, or as dry as one of the vampire's victims. Oh, the irony.
"God damn. Another one?" He murmurs under his breath, as he opens up his kit again to withdraw his surgical pliers.
After checking that no one's looking, he takes the pliers to the vampire's left fang and yanks-- god, is this going to bruise his fingers-- and then there's a crack, as it's pulled loose from the vampire's jaw. Now onto the next tooth. He makes quick work of his cover-up, finishing it up with a low level version of a mundane concealment spell, manipulating the empty spaces so that they appear as human incisors to the mundane.
Such a damn hassle. Why couldn't the Night Council do their job? Oh wait, that's right. They're incompetent.
That's the thought that immediately comes mind, as Jackson leans over the first corpse of the day. Last night's pleasure has come back to haunt him far too early in the morning. He's struggling to concentrate, mind too scattered by the constant jab of a skull-cracking migraine. Meanwhile, his least favorite Sergeant, the one with the ginger beard, is standing beside him, yammering and yammering away about where they found the body, how they found the body, how his name's a mystery, nobody saw anything, and--
"I got it, I got it. Turn the volume down-- actually, why not keep your trap shut and let me do my job. All your answers are right here."
They found the poor fella outside of a Tescos, lying in a crime scene too clean to not be fishy. 6'3. Blonde. Male. Young enough to have been a high school student. Thin and lanky. Dressed in a plain grey sweatshirt decorated by ratty holes, but otherwise well-kept. There are no visible wounds, no lacerations, contusions, not even a little scratch. Slim chance that it could be a heart attack or stroke. More likely overdose, but his gut's telling Jackson otherwise.
Jackson's done the math, and he's got his suspicion: the victim's too perfect, too pale for the dead.
"Sergeant, what did I say about hanging around me? Off with you." The ginger-haired copper leaves begrudgingly, obviously skeptical of Jackson and his yankeedoodle doctor ways. But once he's gone, Jackson sets right to continuing his examination. He's clandestine about it, checking over his shoulder twice, before lifting up the man's pale lips.
Fangs.
These mosquito don't go dropping like flies. Following his suspicions, Jackson rips open the vampire's shirt and examines his spotless chest. No entry wound for the pointy end of any stake. Pristine and perfect.
Jackson takes out a scalpel from his kit and makes a clean slice against his right radial artery. No stolen blood flows out. Dry as the Sahara, or as dry as one of the vampire's victims. Oh, the irony.
"God damn. Another one?" He murmurs under his breath, as he opens up his kit again to withdraw his surgical pliers.
After checking that no one's looking, he takes the pliers to the vampire's left fang and yanks-- god, is this going to bruise his fingers-- and then there's a crack, as it's pulled loose from the vampire's jaw. Now onto the next tooth. He makes quick work of his cover-up, finishing it up with a low level version of a mundane concealment spell, manipulating the empty spaces so that they appear as human incisors to the mundane.
Such a damn hassle. Why couldn't the Night Council do their job? Oh wait, that's right. They're incompetent.
no subject
Pulling up one of the arms, Jackson displays the minuscule needle-prick punctured above the radial artery. He lifts up the other arm, revealing the same wound above the radial.
"A hunter wouldn't go to such lengths-- not an efficient way of doing business. Revenge, perhaps? A friend or a relative of a victim returning the favor." A beat. "Or maybe it's a man hopin' to make a profit."
no subject
"One trail ended at a clinic. One that had already caught my eye for a completely different reason. This... I don't like how these things are connected."
From one professional to another? He needed to ask another question. Needed to know what was going on. "Did you find anything else? Any indication of how they were restrained? What was used to drain them?"
Motive? Likely. Opportunity? Sketchy. Means? Vague.
no subject
"How they managed to subdue the bloodsucker..." He clucks his tongue, and gives Henry a can't-be-damned shrug, "Well, I got my theories, but I ain't gonna be forthcoming, 'lest you offer me a damn good reason for why I should break protocol and share with a stranger."
A beat.
"An honest reason."