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It all started with aliens.
While Murray was still at the paper (hanging on to his position by a thread), he began investigating alien abductions for a story. A few sources he interviewed over the phone came from Hawkins, Indiana, and he decided to pay a visit.
The people he interviewed weren’t entirely helpful, but they said enough about “occasional electrical issues” and “some lab” to pique his interest. He decided to check in with the police department just to verify what they had said. See if there were any reports filed.
The station was easy to find, and the older woman who seemed to be running the place was capable enough. It wasn’t until he met the two officers, Powell and Callahan, that he realized the trip was a complete waste of time. As soon as he said why he was there, who he had talked to, they had both laughed in his face. The younger one made several childish comments about butt probing. Finally, Murray sighed and asked, “Is there someone in charge I could speak to?”
Callahan smirked. “Chief’s running late. Hey Flo,” he called out to the woman, “you think he’s ok? You don’t think he got abducted by aliens, do you?”
The other officer snickered. “I did see some UFOs last night. Maybe they got him.”
And people wondered why he hated cops.
Flo took pity on him and had him sit in the chief’s office. He waited and was just about to give up and go home when he heard the younger officer’s voice, “Hey, Chief. You have a very special visitor waiting in your office.”
Murray sat up a little straighter.
“Oh yeah? Your wife couldn’t wait until tonight?”
He could hear the laughter and realized what a huge mistake this had been. He could already tell he was going to hate this man.
Turned out he was wrong.
--
Despite the reception he received, he didn’t stop investigating. Quite the contrary. Once he got word that there was also a suicide, the disappearance of two children (one a young boy and one a teenaged girl) and more possible electrical issues, he began spending more time in Hawkins.
He talked to people. He played whatever part was needed depending on the audience: journalist, investigator, concerned citizen, prospective homebuyer with kids who was concerned about the neighborhood. Was it safe? Were the rumors true? Was the police department capable?
He had the most luck with the biddies. They were usually grouped two to four at a restaurant table and more than happy to fill his ear with all sorts of town gossip (very little of it helpful or relevant). They didn't know a lot about the lights, but the boy's disappearance was tragic although not too shocking with that crazy mother of his. The teenager, Barbara, was a good girl from a good family, but you just never knew anymore.
The biddies loved to talk about Chief Jim Hopper most of all. And Murray took note of everything. Troublemaker as a kid who straightened out after Vietnam. Moved away to New York and married some city girl there. Adorable daughter who died young of cancer which led to a divorce and a return to Hawkins. He seemed to be doing a decent job policing.
After thanking them, Murray would make sure to sit at the table behind them so he could eavesdrop on their continuing conversation. It didn't take long before the women were either cackling or tsk-tsking over the chief's drinking and womanizing. "Shame," one of the women would say, and they would all agree before turning to another topic.
Murray had just participated in one of those discussions and sat down at a nearby table, menu in hand, when the lead biddy suddenly giggled like someone much younger and said, "Good afternoon, Chief. We were just talking about you."
Shit. Murray pulled up his menu to partially cover his face. He motioned to the waitress, but she seemed to be ignoring him.
"Is that so?" a deep voice asked. "All good I hope."
"There was this man asking lots of questions about the town and the police. Said he's thinking about moving here with his family but was concerned about the missing kids."
Another biddy swiveled her body around to face Murray's table. "Hey. Hey you. This is the police chief we were telling you about. You should talk to him yourself and get all your answers."
"What a great idea," Jim said. "Enjoy your meal, ladies."
Jim Hopper sat down across from him. He did not look happy. "So you have more questions? About the aliens?"
Well, this was awkward. "No. About what's happening with all these--"
"What can I get you?" Oh now, the waitress was here. Figures.
She gave Murray a quick nod after she wrote down his order and threw Jim a seductive smile. "Hi Chief. What are you craving today?"
Murray managed not to roll his eyes.
"You buying, Bauman?"
"Why would I be buying?"
"You want answers and info, you buy me lunch. That seems fair."
Murray considered this. He did want answers and info. If Jim's info led to something or even if he was just pointed in the right direction, it would be very helpful. Lunch seemed like a small price to pay so he said, "Fine."
After the waitress took his order and left, Murray lowered his voice just above a whisper. "What can you tell me about the missing kids?"
Jim took out a cigarette. "It's not aliens. They don’t exist."
Murray let out a sigh of frustration as he watched him smoke. "I know it's not aliens. What else can you tell me?"
"That's it," he said. "No little green men involved at all." He stood up, calling to the waitress, "Hey, Suzanne, can you put my order to go? I have to get back to the station."
She beamed at him. "You got it!"
"Thanks for lunch, Murray. See you around."
--
Now that Murray had been let go from the paper for getting too close to sensitive information (The paper denied this was the reason, but “budget cuts” his ass.) and he was officially hired by the Hollands, he was learning a lot about Hawkins and its residents.
And one thing that Murray learned pretty quickly was that Jim Hopper was one moody son of a bitch.
There were times when Jim was friendly, even chatty, when they would run into each other in town, and Jim was often able to convince him to join him for lunch or a drink at the bar. He told him stories about growing up in Hawkins and asked Murray about his work at the paper. Murray could see why every woman who served them seemed to come alive when Jim flirted back.
He hated cops, but maybe they were friends?
But sometimes Jim was in a mood, and that was just unpleasant. Jim could zone out or lash out with little provocation. Murray learned early on that he did not want to talk about the children: William Byers—missing, wrongly assumed dead to the point where there was a funeral but actually alive, and Barbara Holland—missing, a teenager but a very unlikely runaway.
And he really, really did not want to talk about the mysterious Russian child with the psionic abilities. Whenever Murray brought her up, Jim would either laugh in his face or get angry. Either ridicule his investigative abilities or tell him he was straight-up wrong.
Murray usually allowed him to change the subject after that. Jim looked like he was ready to throw punches after a few of his questions, and Murray did not want to risk it. Jim would easily demolish him in a fight.
The last time they met up in at a bar, neither of them was in a good mood. Murray’s eccentricities (the paranoia, the misanthropic tendencies) were ramping up due to his continued investigations. He had moved to an even more out-of-the-way compound and started spending more money on surveillance and other electronics.
Jim, on the other hand, was morose. He barely acknowledged Murray’s presence at first and ignored a pretty blonde who had been staring hopefully at him for a while. He concentrated only on his drink and finally mumbled, “It’s all screwed up.”
“What is?” Murray asked. When Jim wasn’t looking, he very quickly pressed record on the tiny tape recorder in his jacket pocket. If it were something personal, Murray would turn it off immediately, He had no desire to use anything personal against this sort of friend of his. But if it were something about the case…
“Everything.” He rubbed his forehead. “I’m trying my best with her, but…”
Woman problems. Personal. Murray subtly went to turn off the machine, but Jim noticed.
“The fuck is that?”
“A recorder.” He wasn’t in the mood to be punched so he scrambled to find a credible enough lie. “I brought it with me because it’s broken. I need to buy new batteries.”
“My place was bugged once,” Jim confessed. He finished his drink and nodded to the bartender for another. "I didn’t like it much.”
“Your place was bugged once?” His voice may have risen an octave or two. Fortunately, every other patron of the bar was too plastered to pay attention. “By who? The Russians?”
“No. Not everything is the Russians.”
“I speak Russian,” Murray offered. “In case it is the Russians.”
“It isn’t. But thanks.” He downed his drink, stood up a little unsteadily, and placed some bills on the table. “This should cover your drink too. I’m drunk so ignore what I said about the bugging. That didn’t actually happen. I gotta go.”
It wasn’t long after that, paranoia now at its highest level, that he got acquainted with the impressive Nancy Wheeler (best friend of Barbara) and Jonathan Byers (brother of William). The three of them made a formidable team and, all things considered, he was reasonably satisfied with the way they were able to wrap things up. He took on other cases and dealt with other people and other towns, but Hawkins and its residents always remained somewhat on his mind.
--
The next time he saw Jim was when he showed up unannounced at his place. He had, to put it bluntly, put on some weight and was sporting a garishly printed shirt, a bushy moustache and one hell of a gash above his eyebrow. He also wasn’t alone.
He had brought Joyce with him. The notorious Joyce Byers (mother of both his friend Jonathan and William, the boy who had been assumed dead but was actually alive, as well as the girlfriend of Bob Newby who had been another mysterious casualty). In other circumstances, he would’ve loved to really get to know her, to see what she had to say about everything. He would’ve brought out the good alcohol if it had just been the three of them shooting the shit.
But it wasn’t just Joyce. Jim had brought along an actual Russian, some scientist they had abducted (Jim was apparently taking hostages now.), to his place of residence so Murray could act as translator (Suddenly, he was deemed useful.). All the work he had put in to preserve his anonymity and safety had been compromised in a second. Had Jim always been so careless, so goddamn stupid, or was this a new development? Had he been hit in the head recently? (Joyce would later confirm that he had been. Multiple times.)
That period of his life would end up being a bit of a blur to him. The Russian scum actually was a pretty good guy, and together, they made fun of Jim and Joyce who were so incredibly annoying with their petty squabbling and sexual frustration that they were continually denying. Everyone was tired and cranky and sniping at each other, and he was so ready for it all to end so he could return to his place alone. This was the most social he had been in a while, and he was just done with all of them.
His overactive imagination and paranoid tendencies often led him to anticipate the dreariest of possibilities, but he still somehow found himself completely unprepared and dumbfounded when Alexei was gunned down in front of him at a Fourth of July fair and again when he was grabbing onto Joyce Byers’ arms as she cried, unable to answer him when he asked her where Jim was.
--
He wasn’t ready to go home yet. Home made him think of Alexei and Jim and how there were four of them on a mission, and now there were only two. He stayed in Hawkins at the cheapest motel he could find, reluctantly signed a few nondisclosure forms with only minimal protests on his part (grief and shock were funny things) and went to a very crowded funeral. He sat on a lumpy motel bed and watched TV, drinking and changing channels anytime there was even a hint of a mention of the "tragic mall fire" or the "heroic police chief." Complete bullshit and he was done with it.
A sharp knock jolted him out of a doze. He waited a minute, praying that whomever it was on the other side would just go away, and then heard another knock and a familiar voice, "Murray?"
Joyce.
He stood up, groaning when he felt the crick in his neck, and let her in. She was carrying a paper bag. "Hope it's ok I stopped by. I needed to get away for a little bit. Jonathan said he would keep an eye on everyone."
"What's in the bag?" He whistled when she set it on the small nightstand near the unmade bed and pulled out a bottle of wine.
"I needed to get away," she repeated and sat on the floor. "And drink. I really needed a drink. Someone brought this over to my house. I don't even know who."
He collected the two small glasses next to the sink and handed them to her. He watched her as she poured, her hand shaking a bit. When they had wine in front of them, she said, "Owens came to see me today. He had some documents for me. Guardianship documents. I'm officially El's guardian now."
He wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so he continued to sip. The wine was terrible, but he saw no reason to point that out.
"I'm glad there's paperwork because I can't imagine her going anywhere else. We know how special she is and how traumatic her life's been, so we're prepared, and I love her, but..." She suddenly looked up at Murray, her eyes huge and red-rimmed. "It's going to be so hard."
"Because of money?" He refilled her tiny glass. "Did Owens take care of that too?" She was owed that much.
She shook her head. "Hop did. He set up a trust for her a while ago and had money in some other accounts that I'll be able to use for her. But it's not that." She frowned. "How much do you know about El?"
He knew very little. She was the piece of the puzzle that he hadn't been able to solve. He had done his best to find the child with the powers who he had initially assumed was Russian but had no luck. He had had no idea that Jim had taken in this little girl and become her de facto father. That was why Jim occasionally seemed so hostile to him—he was asking too many questions about this mystery child, and Jim needed to keep her safe and hidden.
"She grew up in a lab and was part of these experiments." Joyce was getting angry now, practically spitting out her words. "No normal childhood or any kind of parental love or affection until Hop rescued her. And yeah, he made mistakes with her, but he loves that girl. Loved. Fuck." A deep shuddering breath from her before she continued. "She's so quiet and withdrawn during the day, but at night, she sobs and screams for him. And I am doing my goddamn best to comfort her, but I just feel like sobbing and screaming too."
He had absolutely no experience with children, found many of them completely distasteful, so he had no advice to give. All he could do was put his hand awkwardly on her shoulder as she tried to collect herself. Then her stomach growled loudly, and that was a practical matter that he could help with. "When did you eat last?"
She shrugged. "I don't know. Karen brought over a casserole today. Maybe it was yesterday. I think I took a bite or two of that this morning. There were cornflakes on top."
"Stay here," he said and headed outside to the vending machine. He had no idea what she liked so when he came back his hands were full of snacks. He took a bag of barbecue chips from the pile and pushed the rest toward her.
She reached for the powdered mini-donuts. "Thanks."
He didn't think he could drink much more of this wine and rummaged around for the vodka he had been drinking earlier. They sat and ate their snacks and drank, each lost in their own thoughts, and he wondered if he should turn on the TV for some background noise. He wasn’t drunk exactly but could feel the alcohol taking effect. He felt warm. Maybe a little sleepy. The wine seemed to be hitting Joyce too. Her cheeks were flushed pink, and she was blinking slowly. He wondered if his friend Jonathan would be ok with the kids for the night.
"I miss him," Joyce said suddenly.
Me too, Murray thought. But he kept his mouth shut because he knew whatever confusing, sporadic friendship of sorts he had with Jim was nothing compared to what Joyce had.
"I keep thinking of that awful car ride." She laughed. She was starting to slur her words a bit. "All those things you said to us. To me. About how I wanted to know what he was like in the sack. You were right. I did wonder." Another laugh from her, much sadder. "I wish I had slept with him."
"Get in line."
He was referring to the countless waitresses and barflies who always seemed to be throwing themselves at Jim, all batting eyelashes and pouty smiles. He did not realize what it sounded like until Joyce blinked a few more times at him. “Are you saying you wanted him too?”
“No,” he said immediately even as his mind flashed on a large, somewhat muscular frame and blue eyes and an easy charm when Jim was in just the right mood. The way Murray had liked him almost immediately even though he hardly liked anyone let alone cops. Huh. Maybe. The alcohol flowing through his veins and the general exhaustion of the last few days and the realization that it just didn’t matter anymore led him to change his answer. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
She gave him a small smile of acceptance that warmed him even more than the alcohol and said, "There really was something about him." She raised her glass and Murray clinked his against hers. "To Jim. He sure could be annoying but also pretty sexy."
He snorted, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. "To Jim."
“I’m really tired. I’m going to close my eyes for a bit. Can you turn on the TV? It might help me relax a little.”
“Ok.” He flipped channels, intentionally skipping past the news, finally landing on some sitcom with canned laughter. “There aren’t too many choices.”
She stretched out on the floor, accepting a few of the pillows he offered her. “That’s fine.”
She began to snore lightly. He wondered how she had been sleeping. He wondered if he should call his friend Jonathan to come get her. He wondered if he should wake her up and tell her to take the small bed if she wanted to nap.
She only was out for twenty minutes or so before she woke up, yawning, taking in her surroundings. “I should go. I don’t want to bother the kids for a ride, so I’ll walk home.”
He wished he could drive her, but he had been drinking way before her visit. “I’ll walk with you.”
When they were in front of Joyce’s house, she said, “Thank you so much for letting me hang out. I just needed to leave.”
“Sure.”
She sighed then, visibly steeling herself to enter her own home with the kids, and he wanted to say something to make her feel better. He wanted to offer her something other than a cliché or a lie about how things would get easier (he knew they probably wouldn’t). He was not an emotional guy who always knew what to say, and he was, honestly, a little weird and oftentimes inappropriate, so what he came up with was, “You know, a lot of porn these days features men in cop uniforms. Some of them even have moustaches. Maybe that would help you.”
Her mouth dropped wide open as she processed that helpful bit of information. Finally, she shook her head at him. “Um…thanks for that I guess.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I should go in, but don’t be a stranger, Murray.”
“I won’t. I’ll let you know my new number once I have it.”
“Good.” She smiled one last time and went inside.
--
Murray was, first and foremost, an observer. So even though he was exhausted and freezing and felt like every part of his body was bruised, he was able to put all of it aside and watch Joyce and Jim sitting across from him on hard chairs in a small Alaskan office. Paperwork. So much damn paperwork before their final flight back home.
Some supposed “doctor” (Murray wasn’t sure if he was buying this guy’s credentials) had been treating Jim as best he could, filling him with painkillers and antibiotics for various infections and who knows what else. This probably contributed to Jim being in a barely awake state, nodding off and then waking up with a start, tense and wild-eyed, until Joyce was able to calm him down with soft touches and words Murray couldn’t quite make out. This cycle had been repeating for a while.
After he fell asleep once again, Joyce came to sit next to Murray. The two of them watched the sleeping man for a few moments before she asked, “Can you believe we did it? We found him and rescued him.”
They had. From figuring out the doll to making arrangements and flying a plane and karate and fighting monsters and… No, he couldn’t believe it.
“I want you to know,” she said, her voice barely a whisper, “that I never told anyone what you said to me at the motel. And I never will. I’ll never say a word to him.”
About his possible...crush? Was that the right word for it? That sounded too juvenile. Attraction? He hadn’t really put a lot of thought into it. It seemed kind of irrelevant at the time what with Jim being dead. Still, he muttered a quick, “Thanks.”
“Thank you for everything. For believing me and coming with me. I couldn’t have done this alone. I’ll never forget it.”
“Yeah, I don’t think any of us are ever forgetting any of this.”
She rolled her eyes at him. “Just accept my thanks.”
Jim coughed as he woke up again. His eyes darted around the office before his gaze rested on them. He coughed again and asked in a croaky voice, “Are we allowed to leave yet?”
“They’re still waiting on one last signature or something,” Joyce said. “It’s ridiculous how long we’ve been here.”
“I can go check,” Murray offered.
“Thank you.” Jim looked right at him and said, “Not just for checking. For everything. For doing all this for me. You’re definitely getting put on the Christmas card list this year.”
“For fuck’s sake, I would hope so. And I told you it was the Russians from the beginning.”
Jim smiled sleepily at him. “I’m pretty sure you said aliens.”
Joyce went back to sitting next to Jim. Murray watched her lean into him carefully, mindful of both of their assorted injuries. Jim kissed the top of her head and she snuggled deeper into his chest. Jim closed his eyes again, and Murray stood up to get more information.
One last look at the lovebirds as he knocked on the closed door for assistance. Both of them had their eyes closed now, looking almost peaceful together despite everything, and he was suddenly very glad that he was able to accompany Joyce on this adventure, to bring him back, to help reunite them.
Lord knows they had been insufferable when they were bickering and in denial in that stupid, stolen car so long ago, but this was kind of sweet.
He was very much looking forward to getting home, to being alone for a while to recuperate and do some further investigating, but he realized he would probably do this whole rescue mission all over again if he had to.
There really was something about him.