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Garibaldi is really, really not having a good day.
Now, this isn't an unusual occurrence. Far from it, as a matter of fact. But this one’s particularly bad for a few key reasons:
One. Bester is here.
That in and of itself is bothersome. The PsiCop is irritating, smug, and the epitome of The Man that Garibaldi hates. Plus, he’s an extremely powerful telepath, which makes his whole demeanor menacing.
Two. There’s been a string of murders over the past three weeks.
The victims have all been Lurkers, but Garibaldi’s contacts Down Below have all reported concern. Three weeks, five murders, the bodies barely touched even by rats. So two days ago, Garibaldi sucked it up and started investigating.
Three. Bester knows about the murders.
In fact, that’s probably why he’s really here. One of the murder victims had apparently been a contact of the Psi-Corps’, something Garibaldi had found out after asking Zack Allan to do a bit of digging into the victims’ backgrounds, and he assumes Bester’s here to make sure the killer is brought to justice.
“Nobody kills the Corps’ guys with impunity,” Garibaldi mutters to himself. He’s on high alert, despite his habitual slouching stance and his back to the door - he doesn’t trust Bester one bit.
He’s leafing through Zack’s report on Victim #4 when the man himself shows up.
“Mr. Garibaldi,” Bester says, from much, much closer than Garibaldi would like.
He doesn’t give Bester the satisfaction of actually jumping, but it’s damn close. “Bester.” He turns around and folds his arms. “What do you want?”
“Come now, Mr. Garibaldi.” Bester spreads his palms wide in what’s probably meant as a friendly gesture. “What makes you think I’m here on business?”
“Because PsiCops don’t do pleasure,” Garibaldi retorts. Shit. Did that sound like a sex thing?
Bester just laughs. It’s an eerily pleasant sound coming from him, and Garibaldi doesn’t ever want to hear it again. “I can assure you that you’re entirely wrong on that account,” he says. “We PsiCops can be quite familiar with pleasure.”
That was definitely a sex thing. Garibaldi does his level best not to grimace, but can’t quite stop his nose from wrinkling. “What do you want,” he repeats, trying to get them back on topic.
“You know very well why I’m here,” Bester tells him. He takes a seat without being asked, pulling the chair Sinclair usually sits in off to one side. “There are murders being committed on this station. The death of any Psi-Corps operative is regrettable, and certain precautions must be taken to ensure the safety of Ms. Winters and anyone else from our organization who might pass through the station.”
Garibaldi sits down on the edge of his desk. “So what are you proposing?”
“Why, that you and I work together, of course,” Bester says with a terrifying smile. “I know you have no wish to relinquish control of the investigation, but it simply won’t do for us to be kept in the dark.” He leans forward. “Mr. Garibaldi, I think we could make a very good team.” He offers a handshake.
Garibaldi tries not to shudder, but it’s more difficult than he’d like. “Fine,” he says, ignoring Bester’s outstretched hand. “Then let’s get to it.”
He begrudgingly hands over the files on Victims 1-3. “Go over those. Maybe you’ll see something I didn’t.” Turning his attention back to the file of Victim 4, he pages through the autopsy report and notes.
-
Unfortunately, Bester’s idea of leaving Garibaldi in charge of the investigation consists of a lot more personal conversations with the man than Garibaldi would like. He’s started to plan his day around being where Bester isn’t, mostly so he doesn’t have to interact anymore than he absolutely has to. Telepaths have always made him uneasy, and Bester’s power and amorality makes him even worse.
“Mr. Garibaldi!”
He finds himself desperately wishing it was Londo or G’kar calling to him over the crowd. It’s a dark day indeed when he’s praying for Londo to come pester him instead. But it’s Bester, and Bester will know what he’s thinking, so he imagines a red rubber ball as hard as he can, and waits for him to catch up.
“Yes,” Garibaldi says, trying not to sound irritable. “What is it.”
Bester appears at his side. “Check this.” He presses a card of some sort into Garibaldi’s hand, then almost immediately disappears into the crowd again, even before Garibaldi can pull away from Bester’s touch.
“The hell?” Garibaldi mutters. He unconsciously wipes his hand on his uniform pants, despite the fact that Bester had remained gloved the whole time. That finished, he retreats to his office to have a look at the card.
It’s a business card of sorts, thick, old-style cardstock with an embossed symbol stark on one side. It’s not a symbol Garibaldi is familiar with, so he scrapes his thumbnail over it for a moment, committing it to memory, before turning the card over to look at the other side.
Bold pen strokes scrawl out four words in Drazi script, and Garibaldi could probably sound it out if he needed to, but since he’s on a timeline he runs it quickly through the computer. It returns a name that rings a bell, a half-forgotten whisper of someone who passed through the station months ago. He cross-checks his files twice, then once more for good measure. Finally, he sits back in the chair and blows out a deep sigh.
The file staring him in the face is that of a human. Decidedly not a Drazi. The only image is a blurry shot from a security footage tape, caught in profile, but the record is regrettably extensive. “Shit,” Garibaldi mutters, scanning down the list of recorded offenses. They range from minor disturbances -- a couple drunk and disorderlies -- to more serious crimes -- battery, impersonating an EarthForce officer. The more he looks, the more plausible it seems. Most of the previous offenses are telepath-related, if tangentially, so Garibaldi resigns himself to a long night of poring over recent logs.
He’s halfway through a third cup of coffee when he finally finds something worth checking into. But the longer he studies the tapes from the past week, the more he dreads the conclusion he’s inevitably going to have to accept: there’s going to be a stakeout. And he’s going to have to bring Bester.
-
Thirty hours later, they’ve already had the argument about backup, and the argument about comm silence, and the argument about lethal force, and the argument about what to do after the subject is in custody, so Garibaldi assumes they’re done talking. Unfortunately, he’s apparently forgotten about the argument about whether Bester is allowed to be armed.
“Hey! That’s a station security weapon,” he hisses as soon as Bester walks into view.
“Not so loud, Mr. Garibaldi,” Bester says. “I thought you said this was a covert operation.” He leans on ‘covert’ in a way that makes Garibaldi even more tense.
He clenches his jaw. “You can’t have that,” he says, sticking to his original statement. He wants badly to snap and engage with the ‘covert’ discussion, but he knows full well it’s bait. “That’s an EarthForce-issued PPG. You aren’t authorized to carry one at all, let alone on the station.”
Bester smiles. “You might be surprised what I’m authorized to do,” he says, almost teasing.
“I’m going to check,” he warns, but he knows he’s already lost. It’s too late to have this fight, and the extent of the check he wants -- well. He’d rather do it himself than delegate it to any of his subordinates, and they don’t have that kind of time. “Watch yourself.”
It’s an empty threat and they both know it, but Bester just nods as if Garibaldi has won this round.
-
Garibaldi is sitting on a crate near the spot his detail has identified as the most likely location for the next hit. He has a hat pulled down to shield his face, hopefully preventing anyone from recognizing him, and his PPG is hidden from view by a loose cloak-shawl type garment wrapped around him. Bester sits five feet away on another crate, and Garibaldi could swear he feels Bester’s eyes burning into him. But every time he looks up, trying to catch Bester in the act, Bester’s head is turned away, eyes averted.
So he sits, and waits, and determinedly thinks about a crossword puzzle he’s been intending to get to for a while. It’s boring, more than anything else; even his discomfort from Bester’s close proximity fades in the face of having nothing to do.
It’s around the time he’s trying to come up with an eight-letter word for Oakeshott typology: hexagonal cross-section, 15th century Earth sword that Garibaldi spots the subject. He shifts his weight a bit, getting ready to move, and sees Bester do the same. He spares a brief moment to wonder whether Bester had seen him as well, or if he’d picked it up from Garibaldi’s thoughts, and immediately regrets it. They’ll have to work together, and if he’s on edge it’s not going to help either of them.
The suspect surveys the area, as if he’s trying to identify the source of someone calling his name in a crowded room. It’s uncannily like the way Bester scans crowds, and Garibaldi feels a cold frisson run down his spine. Something tells him to be ready, so he’s already got his hand on his PPG when the suspect spots Bester and starts running.
This is where he excels, and he’s fully aware that he’s better at this than Bester is, and he’s going to prove it. His PPG is out in a moment, already set low enough to stun but not kill, and he fires twice, body automatically adjusting to the new variables from long habit. Both shots hit, and even before the initial screams of the bystanders have died out Garibaldi is almost at the body.
Bester joins him a moment later, having apparently never touched his weapon at all, and immediately starts digging through the jacket pockets. Garibaldi keeps an eye on him while he comms first Zack and then Dr. Franklin, making sure Bester doesn’t try to sneak anything away before the security team comes in. Bester looks up at him once, when he draws out a knife from the subject’s belt, and makes a show of setting it down carefully.
Garibaldi is caught up in directing his officers to clean up the body -- well, bodies, since the subject had already carried out his hit before he’d been stopped -- and he doesn’t notice Bester leave. There’s a tension that eases in his shoulders, and a different one that sets in immediately after, but he chalks it up to adrenalin. He’s surprised when he turns to find Bester that there’s no one there, and channels the frustration into finishing this job.
-
“Are you sure?” Garibaldi demands.
Sinclair’s grainy image on the screen nods. “He left early this morning on a merchant bound for the Mars colonies,” he says. “He had clearance, so I assumed he had spoken to you.”
“No, he sure as hell didn’t,” Garibaldi says. He sighs deeply, runs a hand over his close cropped hair. “I’m -- that man is so -- Jeff, if I ever have an aneurysm, just send the funeral bill to Bester, okay?”
“Will do, Michael. Don’t forget, station officers’ meeting in two hours.” The channel closes, but not before Garibaldi hears his old friend’s laughter ring through his office.