Chapter Text
October 12th, 1985
It all happened under the boundless, non-judgmental sky.
Detectives Steve Fine and Joe Bourquin stood safe and sound, only a few feet away from the corpse rotting on the threshold of an office complex. The woman's head was split open on the sidewalk, her memories soaking into the pavement, continually disturbed from their final desperate hallucinations and buried fantasies by twirling police and ambulance sirens. Joe glanced upwards, thick eyebrows raised as he noticed that it was looking like a beautiful fall day.
"Nice way to break up the morning," he muttered and lowered himself on the ground with a huff; one knee dug into the concrete to support his weight. The detective removed a steno notepad and pen from his coat pocket and scribbled down rudimentary observations of her position and physical appearance. The victim was yet to be identified, but from what he could decipher she was in her mid-to-late forties, and likely working overtime... Time of death late into the night after she'd left work. Fatal gunshot to the forehead. Was she taken by surprise, or did she have to beg for her life? Joe touched her gnarled hand with the tip of his pen. The rigor mortis had settled in her fingers to create a beckoning, witch-like gesture. Steve stood above him and went through the motions of lighting his next cigarette, the picture of grace despite the vehemence of his addiction.
"Third corporate gal this week. Either somebody's really got it in for today's modern woman, or anyone walking 'round in a Calvin Klein pantsuit is targeted for a pretty goddamn brutal mugging," Steve exhaled and watched as the smoke billowed above his partner. For a moment he considered using the domic bald spot on Bourquin's head as a convenient ashtray.
The older man itched his head idly, as if reading Steve's thoughts. "Calvin Klein?" Joe added the unfamiliar name to his notes.
"Jesus, Joe. Get with it."
Joe shrugged, indifferent. "So, rhetorical shit aside, whaddya think? Do we need to get a hold of NOW an' tell them about a misogynist serial killer or what?"
"I don't know, man. I can't even think this early. I need caffeine, like, injected into my ass."
Joe heaved himself off the ground. "How about breakfast? These jackoffs are already getting antsy about scraping this poor lady off the street so's nobody else gets nightmares," he said, gesturing to the paramedics and cleaners hovering in the vicinity, all holding styrofoam cups of coffee that were never offered to the detectives. Steve ground the cigarette butt into the sidewalk and nodded.
Always the one more capable of authentic pity, Joe cast a glance back at the nameless corpse as they ducked under the police tape.
The closest place to eat turned out to be warmed-over 1950's diner imitation franchise. A cathedral to a past often yearned for, a simpler time. Nothing was ever simple in the city. Joe and Steve approached the building; any apprehensiveness of unwelcome nostalgia returning from an unpleasant youth wasn't mentioned. Childhood or any semblance of a past just wasn't brought up, despite six years of candid conversation.
Steve held the glass door open for Joe in an act of chivalrous mockery. Joe moved forward without comment and picked out a booth by the window.
Their server was one of those burnt-out caricatures of a diner waitress, wheeled out for the entertainment of the patrons. Holly was embroidered in the pink lapel of her uniform. "Coming out for the Early Bird Special?" No response. Holly's forced perkiness didn't wilt. "What can I get you boys?"
The detectives ordered unenthusiastically: two bacon and egg breakfast platters with a pot of coffee for the table. Once she left, Steve turned to his partner. He had a peculiar way of scowling and shifting his eyes before he began to speak, the jagged bottom row of his dimly yellow teeth jut forward in an unintentional pout. "You sure know how to pick 'em."
Joe nodded his thanks when the coffee was served. "How was I s'posed to know? This place used to be a family-owned bakery."
The upholstery squeaked as Steve shifted, clinging onto his next cigarette as if it were a life buoy. Frankie Lymon & The Teenagers' "I'm Not A Juvenile Delinquent" started to play on the jukebox. Under the table, Joe used his booted foot to nudge once at his partner like an anxious child. Steve took the brown paper bag he used to collect a few items from the scene and emptied its contents on the counter. Plastic baggies protected the integrity of four feminine belongings: a wallet thinly padded with several bills (no ID), a modest watch with a leather strap, pieces of a shattered pocket-mirror, and the small red handbag all of the belongings were found in.
"What's the motive?" Joe asked, shifting the bags around as if it made any difference. "If it ain't theft it's personal. Could have been the result of an unhappy love affair, or the guy was pissed that she got the promotion instead of him. Could have been that Jane Doe gave the guy who fills the watercooler the wrong look and now he's out for revenge."
"Not necessarily a he, yaknow. A woman is just as capable of murder. Like a bitter coworker. Especially these overachieving corporate types. You wouldn't even have to chip a nail to shoot your colleague between the eyes," Steve held his partner in a pointed gaze, a smile threatening to break his default grimace.
Joe winced as he realized his coffee was still too hot to properly drink. "Maybe the victims were bad tippers and happened to catch Holly on a bad day."
Steve's will finally cracked and he let out a chuckle that vibrated through his wiry frame, flicking ash into the ceramic ashtray painted to look like a vinyl record. Holly emerged with their breakfasts balanced on one arm and stared pointedly at the bags cluttering the aluminum tabletop. Steve exhumed a cloud of smoke and rescued the evidence, sweeping it off the table and back into the grocery bag.
"So, now we're sitting on our hands... And when we're not sitting on our hands we're sifting through shit. We'll probably find another dead girl tomorrow," Joe speared a shriveled strip of bacon on his fork, consuming it rapidly even when he noticed it was the same sanguine as the businesswoman's shredded brain when they watched an officer lift her head to photograph the damage. Meat in general often brought up this sort of carnage in the detective's mind, though it was usually the veins in steak that got to him the most. No way was he becoming a vegetarian, though.
Over the years Joe'd become desensitized to seeing corpses on a daily basis. Usually the stuff that disturbed him the most, even more than the grisliest murders, were the things that people dealt with everyday. The mundane. He'd been trained to distinguish the greatest complexities in the smallest details. Nothing could ever be as quaint as it seemed. An instance in particular when Joe got the fantods from something innocuous was in July when they were investigating a kiddie-murder. The main suspect was an Italian immigrant who sold balloons in Central Park. When the detectives approached him he let go of a cluster of balloons in self-incriminating terror. Joe momentarily forgot the investigation and instead watched the silent, bright balloons climb the sky, feeling inexplicable dread weigh down on his stocky form.
"I can't even think with those dinosaurs up there staring at me," Steve spoke around a mouthful of overcooked eggs, glancing up towards the wall to indicate what the hell he was talking about. The iconic group photograph of the Minutemen hung faded and illegibly autographed in a frame above their heads.
Joe studied the picture as he absently shoveled food in. After a few minutes he spoke. "Damn, they were corny. But, ah," he fiddled with his napkin. "That Sally Jupiter wasn't so bad to look at, huh?" Joe's voice took on the slightly impertinent gruffness he used when trying to communicate with convicts. Steve found this odd and paused mid-bite. Joe'd been the closest thing to a friend he'd had in a while, but he still recalled the framework of a typical conversation between two heterosexual males. Joe and Steve were anything but typical, and they never talked about women. Even when they went into the chance strip club or cathouse to investigate, their discourses somehow always evaded sex. The question was weird coming from Joe, who seemed uncomfortable in this strained lechery.
"Sure. If you're into dinosaurs," Detective Fine scoffed.
After breakfast, Joe numbly maneuvered the unmarked '81 Plymouth Volare sedan through traffic while his partner stared out the window and smoked broodingly. Between them, the police radio chirped a litany of crimes and locations. Something about an old stacked guy who'd launched out of his apartment window piqued Joe's interest particularly; Steve showed no indication that he was even paying attention.
They arrived at their precinct only to be intercepted by Sergeant Harper, who always managed to be covered in a sheen of sweat despite it barely being eight o'clock in the morning. "Morning, boys. Just got word that you need to be in the Upper East Side, pronto. More concrete-gore for you this morning. Seems a Mr. Edward Blake took a nasty fall from his high-rise apartment last night."
Joe spoke first, "We're working the-"
"Right after you left we found a guy tied to the mailbox, beaten within an inch of his life. Confessed to everything, we didn't even mention the three separate cases found outside the office complex and he said he did it all."
"You mean he-"
Harper had no qualms interrupting Detective Bourquin. "It seems the dog left us a treat. Pretty cute, considering he left him alive this time."
"That means jack-shit," Steve finally interjected, snarling. "I need to see the suspect now."
"He's in a holding cell, Fine, he's not going anywhere. Right now the Blake case is more pressing."
Steve's expression was unreadable, but the way he walked out of the building with his trench coat flapping and scattering threatening shadows around his gaunt figure, this meant he was pretty pissed. Joe attempted to shrug it off. It being the sucker-punch of having Rorschach do your job for you, and do it in the most adamantly primitive way possible that it's almost like he was telling you the answer was right under your nose the whole time.
"S'not like we were getting anywhere, anyways," Joe, later. The tires squealed as he pulled up to Blake's ritzy apartment complex. "I'm just glad the sick bastard is off the streets."
"Right, well. Here goes nothing," Steve replied passively. They climbed out of the sedan wearing stoic expressions. Something yellow and misplaced among the grime appeared in Joe's peripheral, but he lost sight and memory of it a moment later. They held out their badges to anyone who got in their way and took the elevator to the victim's floor. Bourquin all the while thought of balloons and wondered if Blake felt like he was floating before he hit the ground. Even for a second.