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Koekepan
It's another drizzly day in Seattle, 23 March 2072, 09:12.

Outside the wind is subdued, but a fog of droplets too large to remain suspended forms a coat of acidic water which gradually eats away the paint on cars and buildings. Skeletal deciduous trees, stunted by the mildly toxic city environment, wait for the return of the sun before letting their swollen buds open. Seagulls wheel and scream at each other, while pedestrians morosely contend with the splashes of passing vehicles.

Calliope (Cal) Poulsen, head of forensics in the government of the Seattle Enclave, is full of boundless energy, or at least coffee as he addresses the troops. Specifically, the intrepid trio which works for him.

Or, to be more precise, Julia, Jim and Cadwgan.

"Out. Standing. That is all I can say. You found the culprit and you handed the prosecutors a dossier so massive the jury could have beat him to death with it. You know what that means? It means success, which means budgets!" Cal makes a sweeping gesture with one arm, with the result that a few stray droplets of coffee swish through the projected trid image of Julia's terminal on their way to the wall. A few projected letters bobble and swirl before the projection recovers.

"Now, I know you guys have been working hard on the requisitions for the lab, and that's good stuff. I know that delivery has been slow, but at least" here he nods vigorously to Julia "I got the storage system problems corrected. And Jim, your portable examiner's kit should be on its way as we speak, but that's not what I'm talking about. The central office is so happy that they've granted my requests for additional specialist headcount, and they should be arriving today!"

Cal pauses, and reaches into a shirt pocket for a moment, reaching for something, while he mutters: "Oh, and the union should be around sometime in the next day or two to get some of this junk put into storage. I know they promised to do so before, but this time I'm going to stay in the office so that I can stand over them with the work order, otherwise nothing will get done." He extracts a data chip from his pocket, and offers it to Cadwgan. "I know that I was talking about fraud and so on, but we have another political situation that needs resolution, so I'm afraid you're back on the murder trail. The details are all in here, but what's not in there is my marching orders to you: This one is delicate. Big money, big connections, kid gloves. But we have to have resolution. We can't let the perp slip away on this one. Heads will roll, and we must make sure they're not ours."

Cal takes a long pull at his coffee mug and says: "But for now, I'm going to the front desk to make sure that Knight Errant doesn't lead the new kids around the back. Wish I were going with you, though. You've got the better jobs..." Cal's voice trails off as he bounces off at high speed down the long passageway which still smells of stale coffee and staler floor cleaning fluid.
Ziathra
Ophelia Kent arrives downstairs at check-in on time. She is wearing a navy blue power pantsuit underneath her long, armor-lined coat. As her eyes automatically compensate for the glare from the overhead lights, she looks around. Whoever picked that color for the walls should be shot. It ruins morale and encourages digestive trouble. The floors could use some cleaning. I think someone vacuumed that strip of carpet last week. Heavy bulletproofing – what are they expecting?

Ophelia steps to one side a few feet beyond the metal detector. There, she fiddles with her PAN, registering it with the building. Once done, she heads for the coffee machine. It's bad and it's fake, but the stuff is caffeine. She sits in one of the extremely unergonomic chairs bolted to the floor and sips the fake coffee, waiting for her new boss to appear.
amylolytic
Cadwgan holds the data chip very gingerly between thumb and forefinger, treating it with the sort of wary respect he might treat a poisonous insect. Going over to one of the devices in the office, he slots the chip in place, giving the other two a wry look. "As much as I wish we could linger on our laurels, something tells me we've probably made as many enemies as friends. If not more." After all, Knight Errant hasn't been very happy about their existence. He backs off from the device, hitting print to plastic. Chips are fine for the others; he'll take his data in long form.

Standing back to await the hopeful beginning of the printout, he raises slanted eyebrows at the other two. "Anyone up for real coffee in a few? Looks like we'll need some." He watches the printer from the other side of the room.
Quark O'Doom
Jim's slouching in a chair that is, in turn, tilted back to the degree that it is supported only by a dilapidated desk unworthy of any other use. The "office" is, in truth, a furniture graveyard, with scant room to move now that infrastructure for use has been jury-rigged throughout.

"Coffee," he mumbles. "I'm in. Probably need to requisition bigger transportation, too. How many people?" This last to Cal's already-retreating back, without any real hope of answer. The lack of response doesn't trouble him, though; he's already manipulating a terminal (by hand, thank you very much) to start reviewing what undoubtedly scant facts are initially available.

"Wish it was just murder," Jim tells Cadwgan. "'cause it sounds like whatever we find, the outcome of this will be a richer roster of enemies than we have today. Combined with the murderer running off to some enclave where there's nothing we can do. That pissed me off last time -- way too much work for a simple banishment from UCAS."

He brings himself to his feet, a protracted process of tilting chair back to the ground. It creaks alarmingly, which helps motivate standing. "C'mon, let's find out how deep we're rolling, then you can work your magic with the motor pool."
Happy Noodle Boy
Rael Peterson parked his Mercury Comet. He activated the security system. the system sent the confirmation to his comlink. On the image link Real received a image of a anime inspired version of a red-headed elf with plate mail armor and sword. Sir Morningstar your mount is now under the care of Alhanna Brightmeadow. Rael smiled as he headed for his appointment and his first day of this new job.

Rael smiled remembering being initially being annoyed at the inclusion of his Old "Elven" name into the security protocols. He decided to let them remain. While it had been years since he changed his last name to his human ancestral name of Peterson. There were people who still refer to his "Elven" name. These days he now thought of Rael Morningstar or simply R Morningstar as his Artist name.

If they told me to look for the most unimaginative building in the area I could have found this place even sooner. Well they didn't hire me to paint and redecorate this place, though it could really use it, they hired me to use my skills to investigate. Better get inside and check in.

As he went through the door and approached the metal he detector he got out his comlink and the other things security would want to inspect. There seem to someone else waiting here. I wonder if I will be working with her?
Koekepan
The ancient metal detector which still stands in the entry proves, on close inspection, to be unplugged. There is nobody manning it with wands, or any such antique paraphernalia either. Just, behind a bulletproof glass partition, sits a single Knight-Errant guard with amphibian placidity.

Of course, this makes sense. All the real scanning is now built right into the doorways, and goes far beyond the clumsy metal detection approach of days gone by. Hypersensitive total analysis is de rigeur in sensitive government buildings which might attract the attention of career criminals, from which the resulting data is securely and redundantly transported to the waiting eyeballs of the low potential underachievers who get told to actually interpret it all.

The building's network itself is currently announcing itself to Rael's PAN, informing him of the usual - that it's a building owned by the government of the Seattle Enclave, that trespassing is strictly forbidden and that this is enforced by all means necessary, and that there is coffee in the waiting room, and that someone will be with him very shortly.

This prediction is in fact brought to nearly immediate fruition, as Cal bursts into the waiting room from within, coffee in hand and an energetic bounce to his stride. With a broad grin he sees two people he recognises from interviews, and immediately says: "Rael! Ophelia! It's great to see you here. Come on, come to the office and let's get you settled because there is a lot to be done." Saying this, he steps to the side so that the pair can move past him through the secured door into the bowels of the building. While doing so, as an aside to the guard he says: "New employees, you'll find them on the list. Just register their commlinks, wouldya? Thanks." The guard blinks at Cal and starts moving his hands with glacial speed to activate the terminal placed before him, behind the bulletproof glass.

As Cal ushers the pair into the building, which looks like a warren of painted concrete, acoustic tile and industrial carpeting, which smells of stale coffee and stale cleaning solvents, which is pervaded with the hum of equipment and fans, he continues: "You'll meet the rest of the team in the back. It's a bit of a mess but we're in a growth phase, so you'll be in a good position to requisition new equipment. We have a new mystery for my supersleuths to solve, and it, my friends" here is voice drops to a tone of hushed excitement "is murder. See? I get the best, the tastiest nuggets straight from the incident reports right to your desks."

With this introduction, Cal moves Rael and Ophelia briskly through office corridors, each less inspiring than the last.
Koekepan
The printer, which obediently comes to life under the influence of Cadwgan's exotic charms, prints sheet after sheet of data, meticulously explaining the case in beautiful and fascinating characters which bear no immediate resemblance to any character set with which Cadwgan is currently familiar. Still, there is a certain alien artistry to them, as they print out and slip into the printer's catch basket.

Jim on the other hand has more luck with his terminal. Data pops into view in his projected field, displaying the bare and somewhat prosaic facts:



  • Deceased: Jane Doe number 713-2072
  • Species: Homo Sapiens Sapiens
  • Variety: Caucasian
  • Age: Uncertain, apparently mid-twenties
  • Hair: natural mid brown, some dye (auburn tint)
  • Eyes: Replaced, see Appendix A (cyberware), genetically light brown
  • Height: 158cm
  • Mass: 39kg
  • Cause of death: organ failure
  • Additional comments: signs of possible abuse (contusions)
  • History: Docwagon bracelet/implant alert. Team responded, found deceased unresponsive. Attempted immediate resuscitation without success while initiation evacuation. Attempted resuscitation on arrival, without success. Declared dead by attending physician at 4:50AM. Flagged as suspicious death. Holding corpse for up to 24 hours pending arrival of authorities as per policing cooperation contract. If not claimed within this period, tissue harvesting may commence.




There is no immediate sign of any appendices, but there are some detailed trid images of the deceased. Generically pretty, but apparently underweight, she appears to have been a customer of plastic surgeries with up-to-the-minute fashionable beauty templates. There are also no fingerprints, footprints, dental records or other information supplied, although scrolling text overlaying the trid display indicates that would be found in Appendix B. There are some rather dull-looking, faded bruises in various places on the body, but no gaping wounds or other indication of a particular cause of death. Appendix C is supposed to be a toxicology report - but is also not present.
Quark O'Doom
Healthily skeptical of everything he's reading, Jim immediately submits a time-stamped, return-receipt-enabled, and digitally signed request for the body. Thank goodness for DocWagon protocol, and knowing their systems, he muses, routing the request to the appropriate DocWagon personnel and CCing the other members of the team as well as Cal. While he pecks away at a visual representation of a projected keyboard, he shuffles up and down the alleyways of ancient furniture, occasionally clipping the corner of some decrepit hulk and causing alarming shifts or creaks. As of yet, however, there's no cascading avalanche.

Seattle CSI requests the body along with associated cyberware, all documentation outlining tests that has been run, the outcomes, and all samples collected, location and time of initial alert, and location and time of retrieval. Said material is critical to ensuring the validity and integrity of subsequent analysis, which may be used for prosecutorial purposes. Please preserve the body for pickup per standard protocol (attached for reference).

"A young white girl is dead," he rumbles to Cadwgan, irritated by the brevity of the report. "Now you know basically as much as I do. All of the appendices outlining her cyberware, toxicology, and biometric details didn't make it. Which is okay, since I'd like to repeat their analyses myself."

Jim then shoots Cal a text message. Could use a signed order to produce the materials outlined -- the location and time of alert and retrieval are DocWagon property, so a court order is probably in order. What makes this one high risk? Any hint to the landmines would be helpful.

"Damn it," he mutters, slapping the virtual keyboard closed with a flourish. "I was looking forward to taking you up on that coffee, too. Let's swing by on the way to the morgue."
amylolytic
Cadwgan gives the printed papers a sour look, and puts them in the recycle bin, where they be reclaimed of their component parts. He turns to Jim instead. "Could you hit a print for me? Maybe you'll have better luck. My charm, unfortunately, works best on actual people." He can make light of his failures, after all. He steps over next to Jim to put the chip down for the other CSI, then backs off to safe minimum distance.

"Human or meta?" is his next question, as he picks up his notebook and makes a couple of elegantly scripted notes on what Jim's already told him. "And do we have an address on file for where the body was found?" He squints over Jim's shoulder from at range, able to make out a few details, at least. "Oh... oh dear. There's the potential for half a dozen minor outrages in this info. Not as bad at hot potato as the last one - at least, based on info on hand. That said, there's definitely some info missing from the top sheet we want."

Cadwgan shakes his head and makes some more notes. "Not to make myself unpopular by talking about stuff outside my immediate field of expertise. But at minimum, where's the list of what was on the body? And amen, brother. Coffee's going to be a high priority in this case. I can feel it." He slips his notebook into his satchel and adjusts his tie. "Let's head to the motor pool and see what we get stuck with this time."
chiatomato
Jude sways around the decrepid office, electronica dance mix blasting solely in her ears, deftly dodging rusty desk and archaic hulking machine alike. Without breaking stride, she mentally pulls up the criminal file and begins categorizing the new fact, cross-referencing them with known government and public databases.

Confident in her new age Sketchers, she bounds onto a low-rise table, executes a well-rehersed spin, and drops back down to the safe, arguably even floor. After a few missteps, she half-falls into her favorite government-issue chair. She props her feet comfortably upon the surface in front of her and begins to review all the additional facts she has accumulated from her own searches.

Jude senses, rather than hears, the word coffee and surfaces back to reality. "Did someone say caffeine? I'm in!"
Happy Noodle Boy
Rael took in surrounding with a bit of dismay. I wonder if the architect also designs interrogation centers? He suspected that his office would be no better but that if they expanding their work area he hoped he could requisition a work area with the best Feng shui, If such a area could even exist is such a place as this.

Rael noticed to smell of hot Caf. he took a deep breath and sighed mid-grade soy-kaf with a bit of chicory extract. the real stuff would be nice but I am not here for the drinks

As they continued walking he started taking in the sounds of the office area they were approaching. Two, maybe three people and it sounds like they are already at work. I hope I can work well with these people and be a member of the team.

I
Ziathra
Ophelia smiles at Cal and Rael. “I'm very pleased to meet both of you.” She stands up, keeping a grip on her fake coffee and follows Cal deeper into the building. At the mention of murder, she perks up. “What do we know so far? Anything?”
Koekepan
Cal doesn't immediately answer Ophelia, but conducts her and Rael briskly down the corridors to a large double door which he flings wide, displaying what appears to be a storage room for ancient junk office furniture and equipment, in which three employees appear to be lost, or squatting.

"Marvellous! Here we are all together. Introductions first: folks, here are Rael and Ophelia. Rael is our brand new scene reconstruction and simulation expert. He's quite the artist, in fact. Ophelia is a profiling analyst, which will probably help us quite a lot with some of these higher profile cases. The tall gentleman there is Cadwgan, in arcane analysis and interrogation. Jude is our technology and white collar analyst, and Jim is a medical specialist. Most comfortable with cadavers, but if you skin your knee, he'll patch it up."

While wrapping up the introductions, Cal casually closes the double doors, then turns back and says more quietly, and more seriously: "This murder. I know that I said it's political, and here is why: I have it on good authority from a friend at Docwagon that the deceased matches the DNA of a very rich, very powerful family. My contact couldn't tell me more, except that it's bound to be embarrassing, so discretion is absolutely necessary at every stage of this investigation. You may have to interrogate or investigate some very important people. When you do so, make sure you have it sewn up tighter than a football, or you, and this whole department, will get hammered like a nail."

Cal pauses to take another gulp of his coffee, and his expression lightens a bit. "Now, I have to go and find out what's keeping the union busy, so you guys go off and find some thugs. Ophelia, Rael, you can use that filing cabinet there for lockers now if you want to, other than that, follow the lead of the old hands. They know where everything is." With this guidance delivered, he starts dodging as smoothly as a broken field runner through the debris, behind a set of old bookshelves and cabinets, and the astute minds of investigators connect the sounds with those of an office door closing.
Ziathra
Ophelia is neither tall nor short, neither fat nor thin. She keeps her blonde hair cut short. The only really remarkable things about her are her blue eyes and the expression on her face. Ophelia seems to be forever listening carefully.

She sets her fake coffee from the lobby down on the nearest surface which doesn't seem to be claimed by anyone. Then she gets out of her long coat, revealing a navy blue pantsuit. She extends a hand, in case anyone would like to shake it.

“I'm very pleased to meet all of you and I look forward to working with you.”

Once handshakes and further introductions are finished, she carefully folds up her coat and puts it away in the filing cabinet, along with her purse. Her commlink gets transferred to a blazer pocket.

“How, precisely, should I be taking notes? I can't really tell you anything at this stage beyond the obvious, which is that very rich, very powerful families accumulate rich, powerful enemies. How else may I be of help?”
Happy Noodle Boy
Rael took in his environment as he greeted his new coworkers, with the widest grin. he then sat on a corner of one of the unoccupied desk. As Cal was about to start his briefing Rael took a look around the clutter that seem to be their current work area. Wow I think there is furniture here that older then all the high princes of Tir Tairngire, with a couple rumored exceptions. When I have time I have to see if there might be a true antique treasure hidden among the ruins

After Cal made his exit Rael stood up ready to receive instructions. Hmm, sounds like they have moved the body. Assuming we can get access to the scene I will see what I have to work with.
Quark O'Doom
Jim is an unremarkable fellow as well, with nondescript hair and nondescript -- yet professional -- clothes. His most distinctive feature is the lines starting to make themselves known on his face, mostly remnants of smiles dancing around the corners of his eyes. While his voice is gruff, his demeanor is world-weary, not curt. He shakes Ophelia's hand with a polite grip, and his hands are soft. This is not a manual labor fellow. Perched somewhat precariously on the sagging table beside him is a slim, professional briefcase that must be an antique and is almost certainly no longer relevant or useful.

"Likewise pleased, Ophelia. I'm Jim. A couple quick things to note -- we have an encrypted channel that we've been using, just between ourselves, since we often need to communicate in public areas. Now's a good time for you guys to add yourselves, before we're out and about and, inevitably, something happens where we wish we had it. I've been taking notes electronically, encrypting them locally, and then storing copies on a department server. I think. Jude explained it all to us and then we installed whatever software she offered." He glances at Jude, winks, and adds in a more serious tone, "Remember that everything... well, everything I do might be produced in court. I don't know if that applies to you as well, but since my patients are generally dead, privacy laws don't work in their favor." While he speaks, Jim is in constant motion; he checks the drawers on the desk, gathers up his briefcase, and generates a paper printout that he hands over to Cadwgan without comment, the action born of familiarity.

He grins, then remarks, "Also, I'm not normally the lecturing type, I promise. Sorry to dive right in, but DocWagon's going to dispose of the body if we don't get in gear and pick it up. But if that's the department coffee in that department cup there, we'll need to make an emergency stop on the way in order to fuel up properly!"
amylolytic
"Cadwgan," offers that worthy, shouldering a leatherine briefcase with a quick smile. He's an elf with silver hair dressed in a stylish suit, voice lightly accented. "A pleasure to meet you both. All I ask is whatever notes, if you could manage a hard copy for me, I'd be most grateful. And double what Jim said, about the coffee. Since you two are new, I'm buying."

He's not too surprised by Cal's political bombshell, turning to Jude. "Any cross-references popping up, o wizard of the screen and byte? But I'd better head down to the motor pool before we're stuck doubling up on Segways." He suits action to words, heading for the door with another smile for Rael and Ophelia.
Ziathra
Ophelia smiles again. “Thanks, Jim. Yes, I got this swill from the lobby. Cadwgan, I'll try to remember the hard copy. Thanks for buying. Jude, what encryption are we using? Did we just move into this building? I'm surprised that we don't have our own coffee maker.“

Ophelia follows Cadwgan towards the door.
Happy Noodle Boy
Rael follows behind Ophelia and Jim. He moved his hand through his normally platinum hair. I could have gotten a better haircut and I still a have traces of 'aurora amethyst' in my hair. I really wanted to come across a little more professional until I understood the tolerance of unorthodoxy among my co workers and bosses.

Rael contemplated the 'coffee' offer: Thanks Jim I will probably take you up on that offer later. As far a notes are concerned I just need to know what equipment we will need or do we use own equipment for right now?"
Quark O'Doom
Rael's question gives Jim a moment of awkward pause before he sheepishly admits, "We bought our own equipment, by and large, then verified it was legally compliant and registered it." He pats the briefcase, noting, "And the requests for this equipment were all filed on our first day. It's been... slow."

Turning his attention inward for a few moments, he drops a compressed package of standard department requisition forms and equipment specifications into a temporarily publicly available file store along with a tag. Here's a basic selection of templates. Forward completed forms to Cal. Aloud, "I'll take those down in a minute or two, get 'em while they're hot."
Happy Noodle Boy
Rael grabbed a copy of the official forms for later use. No problem Jim, my comlink along with my visual and audio gear should be able to handle all but most exotic tasks required for this job while making some notes on his comlink Rael asked: since we are working on the BYOE principle should I have brought my own pistol and will I be needing it and other items real soon?"
Ziathra
Ophelia fiddles with her commlink and grabs a copy of the forms for future use. “Thanks again, Jim. Yes, what will we be needing?”
amylolytic
Cadwgan heads for the door, and pauses to look back. "I'd be cautious on firearms, even for self-defense, just now. We're still not entirely welcome," he mentions. "Not to suggest that self-defense is optional, but it's a bit of a can of worms. Mutated, glow-in-the-dark worms with serrated teeth."

With that, he nods to Jim and Jude cheerfully and heads down ahead of the rest to the Motor Pool office, in order to try sweet-talking whoever's got the desk into giving them a good ride or two instead of a piece of crap.
Koekepan
Cadwgan is not having the very best of luck today. The motor pool window is staffed by a surly-looking ork, who glances up at Cadwgan and grunts: "Whatcha want?"

Service with a smile is not in his playbook.

Jim's commlink lights up in his vision, telling him he has a message. It's anonymous, but Jim can readily guess it's someone he knows: "Hi again, corpsecutter. Got your request. Word to the wise: if you don't move very quickly someone important is going to have a tragic mistake happen to your latest corpse toy. Best burn some rubber. I'll try to keep it on ice for you."

Jude's computer is telling her that Knight Errant operatives have heroically broken up a den of exploitation in Seattle's Magnolia Hill neighbourhood. Lots of Knight Errant logos are floating around, looking important and worth plenty of taxpayer money - but that's in a small peripheral window, easily shut down in favour of the business at hand.
Quark O'Doom
"I can take one," Jim says, "On my bike. But we need to get moving now-ish." He absently ticks off an acknowledgement of message receipt, then starts moving towards the doorway out; anyone who's riding with him had best seize the moment.
Happy Noodle Boy
Thank you Cadwgan I will endeavor to stay out of way of bullets then. As he loading in the encryption codes into his comlink he walking following Jim and Cadwgan. As he continues walking he places his comlink in a protected inner pocket of his Zoe jacket. I guess it's a good thing I have a little extra armor under the outfit in case don't succeed in avoiding bullets.

While Cadwgan is talking to the ork Rael hears what Jim says and replies: "Sure I'm game" and follows Jim
Ziathra
Ophelia fiddles with her commlink and grabs a copy of the forms for future use. “Thanks again, Jim.”
She stays with Cadwgan, since she's not dressed for motorcycles. I hope I don't need to take my truck. “This is looking ugly, even for murder - or are we always in this kind of a hurry?”
amylolytic
Cadwgan takes a few moments to focus on the ork. With a brief grimace for a grin, he tells the ork, More money, a keg of beer, and a beautiful girl, but that's not in the cards today. Need a car to go check out a stiff who got herself offed through their own poor life choices. What's available? There's three of us."

He turns back to Ophelia for a moment. "Some ah, extenuating circumstances. I'll get into those when we're on our way." He turns back to the ork, looking a bit tired. "Be a pal and I'll bring back some lunch. How long you stuck on duty?"
Koekepan
The ork on duty half-smiles at the mention of the keg, and tap-taps on a display in front of him. "Gotta Mercury Comet. Comfy enough, '69 model. Upgraded autopilot and luxury interior. Boss isn't using it today. Yours for the price of anything with real meat." He reaches below the counter, and brings out a little electronic fob with a tag on it, which he dangles on a little finger and holds out for Cadwgan to take. "Barbecue, maybe?"

Jim and Rael don't have to deal with the same process, so they are already on their way into the parking lot, where Jim's bike is sheltering under cover from the drizzle.

Electronically, Cal reaches out to the whole team (the electronically empowered ones, at least), with a brief note: "I have another case cooking, so if you can multitask your activities, reach out to me and I'll set you to work."
Ziathra
Ophelia smiles with a touch of wistfulness at the mention of real meat barbecue. She still has plenty of time to notice the incoming message on her commlink and respond.

@Cal [Ophelia]: I'm not doing much at the moment, just going along to collect our victim. What do you have?
amylolytic
"You're a prince of the people," Cadwgan tells the ork with a grin, accepting the keys. He hurries towards the car before the ork can change his mind or the boss shows up after all. "Hop on in, ladies. Which one of you wants to be responsible for telling it where to go?"

He gingerly sets the keys down behind the driver's side (autopilot or no autopilot) and slides into the passenger front seat side, then as he waits for Jude and Ophelia to join him and set the car in motion, equally gingerly fires up his comm in the hopes this time, it will work properly, and not send him to that Ukrainian folk music video site. Again. "We need to stop by Dixie Rose's on the way back. The man wants barbecue, and I've found the best way not to be stuck in rustbuckets is to keep the folks in the Motor Pool happy."
Ziathra
“I'll do it,” Ophelia replies. She hops into the driver's seat, belts herself in and waits for Jude to get in before starting up the car and firing up the autopilot. “Jude, I think you'd better drive on the way back. I've never been to Dixie Rose's.”
Happy Noodle Boy
Cal I'll be glad to do anything I can. If your next case requires an crime scene that immediately needs to be checked out I can drop what I am doing, otherwise I will help Jim out with his time sensitive corpse
chiatomato
Jude follows the others. She appears a bit distracted, as if on autopilot, swaying absently to an unheard beat. She flips through the public news, throws the Knights Errant logo to the background, then moves on to interrogate government databases with the information from the case. She includes the questions from her teammates, including requests for addresses and items on the deceased. She also sets a script to look for high profile females failing to show to public events in the public streams.

Nice to meet you Ophelia and Rael. Here are the encryption requirements. You have storage space on the deck hosted in the office. We keep it off the grid for the most part. If you have any other technical questions, just let me know.

Her small frame disappears into the back of the vehicle. From the rearview mirror, Ophelia can see a mop of spiky black hair bopping back and forth. "Sorry. I get a little distracted when I'm chasing down leads. I'm happy to drive on the way back. There is nothing like old-school barbecue with sweet tea."

She leans forward to peak into the front of the vehicle and gives both passengers a smile. "Let me know if there is anything I can do to help." She gives an extra smile to Cal, and pops back into her seat.

Jude kicks back, feet up on the other side of the seat, and fires Cal a note: "Happy to run some additional searches for you if you need extra help."
Quark O'Doom
Jim's motorcycle is a few models behind the cutting-edge, but a fully featured street bike nonetheless. His briefcase is tucked into a sturdy side-container, the file sharing is turned off, and he's typing in addresses the moment the bike is running.

"Hold on," he advises Rael. "There are handholds on the edges underneath your seat. Saw Cal's note, but I'm going to prioritize this body. We'll head straight over." With that, once Rael has gotten himself situated, Jim pulls out into traffic and wastes no time in heading to the DocWagon resource storage, prioritization, and disposition facility.
Koekepan
@Ophelia, Rael, Jude [Cal]: Theft. Money and intellectual property, from a local business. Not a mega, so it's in our jurisdiction. Very professionally done, very big score. Not as exciting as murder, of course.

Jude has some luck identifying the case in question from government databases, although they are rather spotty right now. Evidently information is still flowing in. The DocWagon call came from a location on West Ruffner street, and the attending team's diagnostic analysis software flagged signs of violence, which led to the notification going to the authorities that it was a suspicious event. However, while there are high profile female absences, none of them are particularly near, nor seem to have immediate likely relevance to this case. Either the subspecies is wrong, or the appearance is wrong, or the venue is completely wrong, or they were merely fashionably late. Whoever it is doesn't seem to have made the news data just yet.

The Comet is a nice ride. Seats both front and back are generously sized and upholstered, exterior noises are minimised, and it hardly makes a sound while accelerating out of the lot. The soundproofing almost squelches the deep, sonorous bark of Jim's motorcycle as he guns it out of the lot, but can't compete with the urgent howl which echoes off the city buildings while he winds it up on the way to DocWagon.

Inside the Comet there are muted news reports, delivered by a sultry-looking human avatar. They are mostly fairly banal. A current topic of some importance to the chattering classes is how to get more orks into tertiary education, and that occupies a lot of her time.

At DocWagon, Jim pulls up to the back entrance where the morgue is a good three minutes before the Comet parks politely in the front guest lot. The morgue entry is closed and locked, of course, but the big delivery door where organ and tissue merchants do their transfers is wide open, as per usual. From there it's one door in, and first on the left, and he and Rael are in the morgue.

Jim's commlink quickly picks up the relevant ARO from the right corpse, and he sees that he arrived in the nick of time. Two more minutes, and that gurney would have been wheeled out to be next on the way to disassembly. Just as he steps up to visually confirm, they hear a cheery voice: "Hey, Corpsecutter! Coming back to work for us again, or bringing your boyfriend for a kinky good time?" The speaker is Mark Best, a constantly happy dwarf with a bedside manner which guaranteed him a place in the morgue.
Ziathra
Ophelia says aloud, “Thanks, Jude. Do we have a microwave back at the office somewhere? We might want to grab lunch for ourselves.” She then sets up the team's encryption on her commlink. Once that's done, she relaxes into the wonderful upholstery and ignores the news feed. This gives her plenty of time to notice Cal's message and fire off a reply.

@Cal, Jude, Rael [Ophelia]: I have some training in white collar crime, so I'll be happy to help on the theft.

At that point, the car parks itself in guest parking. Ophelia turns the car off, puts the keys in a blazer pocket and locks the car up once everyone's out of it. Instead of tensing up on her way in, she relaxes a little. Her movements become a bit more fluid. She still walks quickly. "Do we go in the front, or is there a back way in?"
amylolytic
Cadwgan cautiously checks his comm for messages, then looks up as Jude speaks. "Well, I don't know how authentic Dixie Rose's is - we're a long way north for authenticity," he answers briefly, but with a quick smile. "Still, as good as we're likely to get - or be able to afford on our salaries."

He listens with distracted attention at best to the newscast, instead more interested in getting whatever details on the case both from his comm and from the other two in the Comet. "Oh, right, we promised you a little local info," Cadwgan remembers, twisting comfortably on the seat to look at Ophelia. "Summarizing. Working here is a political experience. The city hired us. Knight Errant isn't crazy about the idea. We're their gringos, their auslanders, gwailo. Outsiders. That means a certain amount of patience, tightrope-walking, and generally wearing an extra thick skin borrowed for the purpose from whatever nearby yak you find, and, where possible, when we succeed, making sure the credit gets spread around. Cal will do a lot of it, but ... I've found it helps to be extra aware of it on my own hook."

He returns to the data at hand, asking Jude, "Do we have a definite ID on the corpse yet? I can see more than a few reasons why they could want to clamp down on the body and sweep it under the rug, but it'd help to narrow down hypotheses." He pats his satchel in absentminded contemplation.
chiatomato
Jude shares the latest with her compatriots from her recent searches. "Nothing too exciting yet. Data is still coming in." She adds on the comms link "Body came in from West Ruffner Street, and the attending flagged for signs of violence. I'm looking for high profile missing persons, but nothing lines up yet. I'll keep looking."

Jude wrinkles her nose at the building and looks studiously at the shrubbery. "Not sure how we get in."

She tweaks her searches to look for people and events around West Ruffner Street in recent history. She also stores all the pictures of all missing high profile (and high-profile entourages) just to be safe.

"You know how I love data surfing, Cal. What details do we have on the theft?" Jude queues up the right searches to find a less disgusting thief.
Ziathra
Ophelia listens carefully to Cadwgan, managing to only grimace a little at the mention of politics. "And here I hoped this would be an improvement on graduate school."

West Ruffner Street is probably hopelessly contaminated by this point. I'm still willing to go look at it.

Since no one's sure where to go, Ophelia walks over to the large main door, opens it, and goes straight to the receptionist. The receptionist gets both a sympathetic smile and a flash of the brand new ID. “We're CSI, here to pick up a body. Which way to the morgue, please?”
amylolytic
"Thanks for the update. If I had to guess, I'd say get signed in at the front desk - there's bound to be a civilian entry, and just as well to make nice with the folks here. We might be seeing a lot of them as time goes by." Cadwgan raises his eyebrows, then shrugs and locks up the car behind the others, following to the main doors. "Wouldn't be surprised if there's no missing persons report. After all, it takes time for them to get registered and this sounds like it's been moving fast."

He taps Jude on the shoulder. "I'll need to swing by the site where the body was found after we're done here. See if I can pick up on any trace impressions. Anyway, hold that thought - I'll be in with you in just a minute. Text me if it's important, either of you." He ducks back out to the car, now that he has an address. Time to see if he can take a closer look or arrange for a closer look. The body isn't going anywhere, but the scene of the crime is already at risk of increasing contamination, after all. He slides into the passenger seat, locking the doors and settling in to make himself comfortable.
Koekepan
Ophelia is cheerfully directed to an elevator, with directions to take it down to the sub-basement, where AROs will direct her to the morgue. There, she is assured, she will find what she requires.

In the mean time, Cal responds:
@Jude, Ophelia, Rael [Cal]: The theft happened at Binogen Inc., and apparently involved breaking and entering as well as electronic activity. Very targeted, very professional. You should expect to be dealing with career criminals. The folks there have been very cooperative, but we don't want to try their patience, so as and when you can break free, it might be a good time to let Jim do what he does best while you go to do trace and reconstruction work.
amylolytic
Inside the car, Cadwgan slips out of his skin and into astral space, doing the ritual calculations and concentrating upon loosening from the surly bonds of clay into the great unknown. He speeds his way skyward, following the outline of city streets to West Ruffner, then drops down lightly just south of the intersection in order to examine the periphery of the scene of the body's discovery. What he finds makes him furrow his forehead, then turn and go aloft again, returning to his body.

There, waking to consciousness, he takes out his pack, opening it to remove from the satchel a fabric roll, from which he selects a handful of items, setting up a quick summoning to call up a Watcher. He gives it explicit directions, telling it not only where to go, but what to do when it gets there. "Search the alleyways outside the cordoned area for three blocks in each direction. You're looking for a rubber ball attached to a strap or a small amount of cloth; if you find it, it will have bite marks and possibly vomit stains on it. Look in boxes and garbage cans as well as in the open, and at the openings of storm drains and sewer grates. You may also find one or a pair of gloves with it. If you find these, make a detailed note of the spots where you find these and return to me to tell me. If you find nothing, you are free to go when you have completed your search."

Satisfied, Cadwgan sends the Watcher off and climbs out of the car, locking it up again as he sends a message to the others. Will need to visit site of crime to check more thoroughly. Looks like KE warded it. He heads inside to join up with the others in the morgue.
Quark O'Doom
"Mark!" Jim sounds pleased, but while he talks he's also opening up his slim briefcase. "Business call, and I figured I'd roll deep. How the hell are you? Still trying to figure out the appendix?" This seems to be what passes for morgue humor. He also makes a copy of the gurney's record, signals an override, electronically notes that the body is now undergoing analysis, and signs the whole thing with his official ID. "There," he tells Rael. "That'll buy us some bureaucratic time."

The inside of the briefcase is largely taken up by a sealed dark box with a button, with a small row of remote sensors. After touching the button -- which seemingly does nothing except light up -- Jim removes a handful of sensors and starts subvocalizing on the shared, encrypted channel. <<Jim Svendson commencing analysis at <timestamp>, location is DocWagon facility at <geotag>, examining deceased Jane Doe.>> He has conveniently tagged this line of discussion as 'potentially gross' which would make it easy to filter out. In theory.

Throughout, he's carefully arranging sensors on the gurney around the body, close but not quite touching. Each has a small stand that makes this positioning highly configurable. Once everything is to his satisfaction, he pushes the button again and each sensor that has been deployed lights up. Then nothing. Jim spends the time first introducing Mike and Rael, then bantering with Mike. This discussion rapidly devolves into jargon-laden stories that begin with 'remember the time....'

In due course, there's a depressingly bland electronic beep. Then a 3D projection of the body appears above the briefcase. Jim reaches out and starts manipulating it, recording observations as he goes.
Koekepan
Cadwgan's watcher scoots off like a kitten hot on the trail of a ball of yarn. By the time he has sent his message, locked up, passed reception and entered the elevator he finds himself in the company of a very well-dressed human man who is sharing the elevator on the way down from the higher levels of the building. This worthy appears to be in his fifties, with elegantly greying temples, a hint of wrinkles presumably smoothed by some of DocWagon's expert plastic surgeons, a shave closer than paint on a car, and a general air of irritation.

In the morgue itself, Mark is cheerfully throwing chaff back at Jim: "I thought you were on the appendix team. I'm in the gall bladder." Mark also leans over, ostensibly to peer at the corpse under examination, but also says: "Fancy brain on that one. Cute chrome, too." Then he goes back to picking out gurneys to shove towards the disposal queue, in between correcting Mark's reminiscences.

Ophelia and Jude are there in time to catch the banter in full swing, but are there less than a minute before Cadwgan's fellow-traveller, who strides out of the elevator with the brisk, aggressive motions of someone who has places to be and is used to getting there unimpeded by others beneath his station. He is displeased to see the arrangement of affairs under way while Jim records specifications and serial numbers on a few pieces of headware.
amylolytic
"Called down for identification?" Cadwgan asks mildly of the man he's sharing the elevator with. "Here, let me close the door for you." He lets Mr. Executive at the panel first if he wants to (since to do otherwise seems likely to just aggravate the other man further), and settles against the wall, where he can take everything in.

Meanwhile, he takes out his comm, sending to the others ahead of him, Flak from upstairs likely. Be prepared. In the process of what appears to be business, he attempts a stealth photo to send as well. Might as well figure out who exactly is on the warpath as a precursor to figuring out why - or the real reason why. When the doors open, he again allows Mr. Irritation to go first, following discreetly while he checks the photo for sending it along to the more tech-savvy information-gatherers in the group.

Ziathra
Ophelia immediately switches to tiptoing when she sees Jim hard at work. She is careful to laugh soundlessly at the jokes, so as not to disturb Jim or end up on the recording. In fact, she was about to tiptoe right back out to the car when Mr. Executive turned up. She smiles warmly at Mr. Executive and quietly says, “Good morning. How are you this lovely day?” She flashes her ID at him. “I'm Ophelia Kent, with Seattle Crime Scene Investigation. My colleague over there is conducting an autopsy. We appreciate your cooperation and will be on our way just as soon as we finish.”
Happy Noodle Boy
While Jim is at work Rael was observing the procedure as well as the victim. This is currently Jim's show right now but they may need me do a life sketch Rael observes the body taking notes while envisioning the decedent as a living person. Ah she wore cyber eyes I will have to factor that in of course .

As Rael was putting part of his focus on the autopsy he was also aware of the other events around him.

Rael greeted Mike after being introduced No Mark this is my first day on the job. I am not here on a date with Jim and I am most certainly not here to find a date

When the message from Cal comes in he nods Yes that Binogen case sound like something I could help out at.





Koekepan
The new arrival barely nods to Cadwgan, and at Ophelia's words he snarls at her: "DocWagon is subcontracted to Knight Errant for all autopsies and investigations. You are in violation of your contract, so leave. Now!" He waves aside her identification, barely even glancing at it, and points to the wide open cargo door, the cufflink showing from under his jacket sleeve to glint in the light when he motions. He strides in further, ignoring Rael as apparently not currently involved in anything to which he objects, but instead gets right in Jim's face.

"You have five seconds to start collecting your crap and get out of here before I have security kick you out. You are nose deep in trouble." He glares into Jim's face, and from this close proximity, Jim has a great view of his face, and an old, tell-tale set of scars from surgery which Jim recognises. Jim wasn't the surgeon, but he knows this man: Ultin Pine-Hugh, a one-time elf poseur (years ago) who managed somehow to climb the ranks at DocWagon from a High Threat Response team coordinator into executive management. A nasty, dangerous bastard with a chip on his shoulder the size of Elliott Bay. At last word, he was in charge of emergency admissions at DocWagon Seattle, but that was a while back. Mark has quietly faded behind a bank of corpse drawers, showing no stomach for a confrontation with someone who could ruin his life.

On the up side, Jim did set the data on the gurney so their office has the official investigatory authority on record. On the down side, he has a lot more work to do and it's getting interrupted. That, and the boiler suited workers who load corpses into the recycling and recovery automation systems are waiting for Jim to get out of their way so that they can do what they do best.
amylolytic
Cadwgan doesn't directly intrude; not being the target of Mr. CEO's mighty wrath already, there's no gain in making himself more noticeable than he already is. He opts for quietly setting his comm to record all, as this is the sort of wrathful outbreak that tends to come back to haunt a career later on. Better to have this side of it recorded for Cal and the union's sakes. He sidesteps to as quiet a corner as he can find while still getting a good view of the proceedings.

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