Chapter Text
Adam is new to Tulsa's police force. It's not like very much happens in their little town, so he's been almost exclusively relegated to intake paperwork. Even then, he barely does any work.
Sue him for thinking this job would be a bit more interesting.
Being new also means he doesn't understand when Remy strolls by and just says, "Winston."
He also doesn't understand why every single one of his coworkers groans and falls back into their chairs.
"Who's Winston?" Adam asks. Some sort of crime lord they can't get the evidence on? Maybe a violent repeat offender? He's too busy building up the guy in his head that he looks right past the teenager that Phil drops in front of him.
"Oh hey, yer new, huh?" The boy says more than he asks. The smirk on his beat-up face is infuriating as much as it's obvious postering.
Adam blinks at him. This is...this a boy. A skinny, tired-looking teenage boy.
"Dallas Winston. He's in here every week. You don't have to process him, I'm sure one of his buddies will be here for him soon," Phil says.
Dallas rolls his eyes while settling into the chair. He manspreads as far as he can, narrowing those icy-blue eyes at Adam. It's like the boy's looking through him. It makes him shiver despite himself.
"Shouldn't we process him properly? He's just a kid," Adam says, wincing as he does. He promised himself he wouldn't be that newbie. The stickler for the rules that tries to do everything by the book and ignore any culture at the station. But still, this kid is obviously a minor.
Dallas growls lowly, his calculating gaze turning hateful. "I ain't a kid."
Phil rolls his eyes. "You do what you want, but trust us, you'll be tired of processing Dallas eventually. Like I said, he's in here every other day."
"Oh, eat a dick, Phil," Dallas snaps. Lotta bite in him for a kid.
Adam nods. He bites his lip and decides to follow protocol anyway, less out of necessity and more to practice when a real criminal comes in.
He feels like he's a prey animal and he's about to get his throat ripped out. Every time he glances at Dallas, he's being glared at. He really should not be ask scared as he is, but damn does this kid have a nasty look to him.
What's that saying? Teenagers can smell insecurity.
Adam tries to work efficiently, anything to get the eyes staring holes into him away. Only...things aren't adding up. He checks numbers, double-checks names, triple-checks paperwork—but nothing clicks into place.
"Um...Darren?" Adam turns to his superior with a look. Darren, with a heaving sigh, drops his book and drags himself over. He's a no-nonsense man, and he kind of scares Adam.
Thankfully, his intense gaze moves off of Adam fairly quickly. Unfortunately, it locks onto the teenager in front of him instead.
"Excellent forgery. Hand over your real docs 'fore ya end up with a federal charge," he spits. Adam almost flinches at his tone, but Dallas stays strong. Or, he tries to. His lip starts to curl into a snarl, before the expression stops half-way and instead gives way to confusion.
"The fuck are you talkin' about?" He asks.
"I won't ask you again. No one here is in the mood for your games," Darren says.
"I ain't lyin!" Dallas explodes. "Those are my papers! The same ones y'all get every time I come in here!"
"Are we really doing this? Do you always have to make things so difficult?" The worst part is, Darren doesn't raise his voice. Adam thinks that's the scariest thing about him. He never raises his voice, and yet it still feels like he's yelling at you, taking up all the space in the conversation.
Of course, Dallas responds the way anyone would expect. He stands up so fast the chair he's sitting on clatters to the floor. Everyone around them finally looks up from their magazines or the TV in the corner to watch the ensuing argument.
Adam mostly tunes it out. He's never been good with people arguing. Rough childhood, you all know how it is. He gets bits and pieces between the panic.
"—you kids really need to learn about the world—"
"I said, they ain't fake! I took 'em when I left—"
"—actions have consequences whether you like it or—"
"—my da ain't smart enough to forge documents for no damn reason—"
"Good lord people! I left for five minutes!" Phil's exasperated voice cuts through it all. Darren and Dallas both fall silent, but they don't look away from each other. Icy blue and dull green stay locked on to each other, even as Phil gets in between them.
"Adam. Explanation, please?" Phil asks.
"W-Well, I'm just having trouble finding...Dallas?" It sounds stupid when he says it. The way Phil looks at him confirms that it is. His boss looks over, and slowly understands as he sees the same things he and Darren saw.
Speaking of, Darren is boiling beside him. His green eyes haven't left Dallas, even as the teenager has already looked away. Still, he doesn't speak until addressed.
"And I assume that's what all the yelling about forgery is?" Phil asks.
"I didn't forge anything. They got the government marks and everything, man," Dallas interrupts.
"Yeah, I mean...yeah," Phil mumbles. "Listen, lemme take this one. Might be a bit much for a newbie."
He doesn't respond, because Phil isn't asking. He scoops up the paperwork and gestures to Dallas to follow him. Darren goes back to his book without fanfare, although anyone can tell he's still seething.
Adam watches Phil and Dallas disappear deeper into the precinct, with the growing feeling that he's opened a can of worms no one is ready to deal with.
"You can never make things easy, can you, kid?" Phil mumbles.
Dallas, thankfully, isn't here to spit at him for saying that. He's long since sent the kid to their interrogation room. He'll definitely need to answer some questions, if everything Phil is thinking turns out to be correct.
They aren't forged documents. At least, if they are, it's the most damn perfect forgery he's ever seen, and there's no way the kid was able to get these. He's listened to his story—no doubt there's more he's hiding—and he believes Dallas when he says he didn't forge them.
"I stole 'em from my da when I left New York. They're my real damn papers, man."
He believes Dallas, he really does, but it's hard to ignore the facts. Calling his higher-ups isn't something he likes to do. They're too intense for his tastes. Especially on kids who don't deserve it. But, he needs some back-up for this.
He stands when another man walks into the room. He's older, aged from the job more than actual time.
"Detective Nick Morrelli. I take it you're Phil?" The man asks. Phil reaches out to shake his hand firmly.
"Phillip Pickney. It's hard to explain the issue. You may just wanna come take a look," he tells the detective.
Thankfully, Nick isn't one of those stuck-up officers who will take over just because he thinks country-folk are incompetent. He listens to Phil's explanation, and his insistence that Dallas is telling the truth.
"The kid ain't exactly honest, but I wouldn't call him a liar," Phil says.
"Sometimes people lie to survive," Nick responds. The way he's eyeing Dallas's mugshot is giving Phil a weird feeling.
"You seein' somethin'?" Phil asks.
"Docs are definitely real, but...Dallas might not be."
"...what?"
Nick snorts at Phil's bluntness. Although, there isn't much amusement at the situation. He knows he's seen this boy before, he just can't remember where or, most likely, which case.
"Everything here might track, but Dallas Winston might not exist at all. In a legal sense, of course."
"What, you think he's undocumented or something?" Phil asks, lowering his voice on undocumented.
"Or something." His eyes snap open wide, and Nick stands and starts flitting about the office. Phil watches as the detective searches through filing cabinets and the endless pages crammed inside each one.
"What are you looking for?" Phil asks.
"Sixteen years ago, a newborn was kidnapped from Tulsa General Hospital. We searched the entire damn state up and down, but we couldn't find him."
"What are you saying?" Phil asks.
The detective plucks out and lays one of the files on the desk. Slowly, with shaking hands, Phil opens it up. A blurry picture of an infant hooked up to a bunch of machines lays on top.
Christopher Allen, premature newborn, reported missing November 9th, 1949.
Reported by Tulsa General Hospital staff and parents, Richard and Joanne Allen.
"You don't think..."
Nick's eyes harden. "Only one way to find out."
It can never be easy, can it? Phil stares at the infant, pale and tiny in the center of it's bassinet. He tries to picture Dallas's signature glare, but the two images just don't add up.
Nick eyes him expectantly from the doorway. Phil sighs so heavily his entire body sags with it. Still, he stands and leads the detective out of the office and into the interrogation room.