Bill Boyd's Journal

10:28pm: ( dreams and ponderings in the wee hours )

11:25pm: Working
just after this...

( Starbucks is the Devil )

12:13am: A trip to the station...
( dropping off the keys )

8:19am: Psych Eval / *encrypted*
( Psychological Fitness for Duty Evaluation )

5:07am: A busy fucking night.
... right after this...

Places to go, people to meet...

... right before this.

1:04am: Places to go, people to see...
For a few minutes, digging fruitlessly in the Mustang's boot, Bill thinks he's left his fucking shoulder holster in the flat. Which would be just his bloody luck. The first time he's actually needed it in ages, and he can't lay his hands on the bastarding thing.

( Read more... )

2:30pm: Right after the party
Bill is still thinking about going home when his phone rings. He isn't particularly surprised. He'd almost been expecting it. Threes, after all.( Read more... )

2:43am: during the party...
( phone )

10:37am: ( Just before the party... )

8:11pm: before the party
The eleventh victim -- the one who hasn't yet been avenged -- is one Marco Diesi. How Italian.

( ... )

7:00am: Today I beat Keira's fuckbuddy unconscious.

I'm pretty sure I should feel badly about that.

Big misunderstanding and all that.

I wouldn't have done it had I known who he was before the fistfight (it was actually more in the nature of a brawl, the little fucker is strong, but he's not exactly skilled, though I did end up on my arse at least once and I've go a bruise the size of a fucking grapefruit on my chest -- sharp elbows), but since I didn't know, and since beating the crap out of someone who was scaling the fucking building seemed like the appropriate response at the time, what I actually feel is... amused.

Clearly I should be ashamed of myself.

But the look on the bastard's face. Fucking priceless.

9:09am: Sleeping, and it's various hazards.
Bill wakes with his heartbeat thundering in his ears, and is momentarily disoriented.

Waking up with his heart doing back flips in his fucking chest, stinking of fearsweat, and feeling phantom pain searing through his thigh, is actually fairly commonplace lately, so he flounders for a moment, trying to figure out what's different here, because that's not what this is.

( ... )

8:33am: musings
I made it to LAPD's evidence impound the other day after the thing with Walsh. It's a bleeding warehouse, as luck would have it, and resembles my Gran's attic, except on a huge scale. Boxes and bins and dusty old paper bags on piles of shite teetering like it's about to fall over. I didn't find the evidence in any of the files I was looking for, but I'm not entirely convinced that means it isn't there. I'm not sure anyone but the actual evidence techs could find anything in that heap of crap.

I did manage to get my hands on the computerized version of the logbook for evidence though. It may or may not prove to be helpful, as getting a list of suspects from fourteen thousand names is no mean feat. It's a place to start though. Anyone who goes in must be logged in, so if worse comes to worse, I know that whomever removed the evidence (and probably whomever deleted the pertinent case files) is in that fucking list somewhere. It's going to have to wait, though, I don't have time to sift through them right now.

It's more important to try and find the next victim. Everything about this fucking case indicates that there is going to be one. The pattern has been consistent up to this point. Dead victims, dead suspect. Now I've got a loose end, a dead victim without a dead suspect, and if I'm lucky, I might be able to keep the fucker, whomever he is, alive.

All of these people seem to be at least peripherally connected to the industry. I'm betting Johnny, and probably Astin, would recognize ever single name. Astin doesn't do me any good; I've got no rapport with the tosser, and I don't expect that to change any time in the near future. Johnny... well, I don't think it's the sort of thing I could broach without being very fucking careful. I think it'd weird him out. It's not his style of small-talk. He doesn't dwell on the ugly shite.

Another couple of options have presented themselves, though. Sean Bean and Nikki Darling. Both of them are long timers. I recognized Bean almost immediately. I think he was in at least one film with Rena Rembrant. I don't know about Nikki yet.

I don't know them well enough to trade gossip, obviously. Nikki I might be able to get drunk, but I'm not sure of it. She's a sharp lady, all angles and edges. I'm fairly sure I've already set off her 'not quite right' radar. My own fault; I handled our first meeting poorly.

Bean's another story. I think getting him drunk won't be an option. I suspect that gentleman is on the wagon. He's got that look about him, the sort that just oozes off of the walking wounded. Poked about looking into his background a bit, and I can see why. If he's not on the wagon, he bloody well should be. Bloke's a menace under the influence. On the other hand, sometimes a bloke like that will talk just because someone is fucking listening. And that's something I can do, given the opportunity.

Right now, most everything seems to boil down to opportunity.

9:24pm: Downward Spiral
The thing with Walsh had been fine. Bill isn't worried about it.

I had taken all fucking day, but he had known that going in. And Walsh had been exactly as he had expected. Completely professional and thorough. And Bill had been exactly how he had needed to be. Completely in control and manipulative.

Walsh is a decent enough bloke, and it's more than a little aggravating to find out that he feels a bit guilty about the deception. Not that he'd had to do much, but... Well, he'd done enough to keep himself safe. And he's never been much for lying to himself. He knows that the fact that he'd had to do it at all is not a good sign.

I don't have the fucking energy for this shite, he thinks, and glances at the telly, where he'd paused the tape he'd been watching; he looks away again quickly.

He makes his way into the kitchen for a beer, scratching at the skin under the waistband of his flannel pajama bottoms where the elastic had left a red, scrunchy-looking impression on his skin.

The beer is icybitter in his mouth and throat, and he downs half the bottle before he is even aware of it.

Before he is even aware of it.

"Bugger," he mutters, his fingers tightening on the chill glass of the bottle.

How many of these had he had tonight? The clock says half eight, so he's been home less than four hours. He opens the fridge and observes the two lonely bottles on the top shelf. The bin next to the fridge has three empties in it, right on top.

The coffee table has five, along with his laptop, a stack of files, and the remote for the telly.

"Christ."

Eight empties, plus the one in his hand. Nine. And the two still in the fridge made eleven. He's missing one. Ah, wait, there it is. On top of the telly. Empty.

Ten beers in four hours.

"No," he says softly. Because he just fucking knows better than this. Doesn't he?

He thinks about Keira's infectuous grin and how furious she'd looked yesterday morning when he'd left her in the diner. He should fucking know better than to do this to himself.

Has your alcohol use increased since the incident?

Ten beers in four hours.

He empties the rest of the open beer down the drain, watching it fizz in the bottom of the sink.

He should bloody know better. About a lot of things.

He makes coffee, dark and strong, and spends the rest of the night on case files, leaving the telly paused, but still not quite able to turn it off.

11:52am: Insomnia and it's various hazards
Bill lays in bed for more than an hour after he wakes up, head aching dully. The sun isn't even up yet, which doesn't particularly surprise him. Sleep has been dodgy just lately, as it often is when he's got a lot on his mind. He doesn't turn his face toward the glowing digital numbers displayed on the clock on the bedside table. He doesn't want to know exactly how long he'd slept. Knowing will only make him more tired.

( red-black gleam )

8:08pm: Deceptively simple solution
I ran a check of all homicide files of less than 5 k. I came up with 11.

It surprises me slightly, because these cases have come in pairs so far. Victims dead, and possible suspects dead, but clean. Revenge hits?

So why is the number of cases uneven here?

I need more fucking time. I need more fucking beer.

Put the porn down, Boyd.

11:47am: Craptastic Day
Bill is beginning to have serious sympathy for minimum wage workers and single mothers. Or anyone, really, who works two jobs.

He's fucking tired, he has too much shite to get done and not enough hours to do it in, and he absolutely, positively must be visibly doing his job on the weekends. The rest of the time he can sort of skate, stop by the station a couple of times a week, pick up new case files, and work on them at DBY or at home. He doesn't need to actually be present, much, to do his job. On the weekends, however, there is no way around putting certain things aside and getting out on the streets to do some investigation that's actually in-line with what the department is paying him for.

He is still a Vice Detective, no matter what little side projects he's chosen to undertake.

Like it or not.

( more craptasm )

4:51pm: Wondered when I'd be getting this.
( attached file )

9:27am: Listen to your Mum.
My mum used to get onto me for eavesdropping. Which is just fucking funny, considering my current occupation, no? I mean what do I do, basically: I apply my childhood penchant for being a sneaky, spying wanker to new and compex situations.

The problem, as my mum explained it to me at age 6 (and then again, several times a year until she died) is that once you gain information through subterfuge (although I believe the phrase she used was 'by being a sneaking little git') is that you can't ever un-know it. Yet you have to continue on with things as though you don't know it, because you can't let anyone know how you found out.

Complicated.

The moral of this story is: do not rent (or otherwise contrive to obtain) pornographic material involving a girl whom you will continue to encounter on a daily basis, especially if you already have trouble forming coherent thought or speech in said girl's presence as it is.

Note to self: She is FIFTEEN years younger than you, you ridiculous tosser. Nearly young enough to be your fucking daughter.

12:26pm: Hrm
Well, now. This is interesting.

Case: 03-0720996754H
Division: Homicide
Disposition: Open
See Also: 03-0728040486H
Date of Offense: 072003
Date of Report: 072103
Location: 4414 Aberdeen Dr.
Type: Residence
Classification: Homicide
Victim: Rena Rembrant aka Angela Lassiter
Victim Information: See Supplement
Responding Officer: D. Paulson
Investigating Officer: J. Fletcher
Forensic Investigator: D. Lensig, M.D.
Suspect: None
Suspect Information: None
Narrative: Original Reporting Officer
Supplemental: Homicide Detective
Crime Scene Analysis: G. Sparrow

( ... )

7:53pm: Sept
( encrypted file: Astin, Sean )

7:40pm: ( encrypted file: Depp,Johnny )

12:13pm: Aug 12 9:30 pm
There's a database for porn stars. You can enter a name, and it'll spit out every film they've been in.

I'm not sure why this should surprise me.

I am not going to.

I'm not.

9:55am: Aug 12 6:18pm
Louise???

8:04pm: Aug 12, 5:34 a.m.
The mobile wakes Bill from a warm, garden-scented dream, the first good dream he's had in weeks.

"Bugger," he growls, fumbling for it on the bedside table. Things go skittering off the edge (badge, empty beer bottle, lighter, a stack of videos) and onto the floor as he gropes and curses creatively under his breath. "Oi," he says into the receirver, once he finally locates it and gets the fucking thing up to his ear. "You'd better have a bloody good reason for ringing me."

"Bill, it's Susan," she says, her tone both amused and impatient. He'd have known it was her from the tone alone. She always sounds like that when she talks to him.

"It's fucking early, what do you want?" he growls, but he's already sitting up, awake, and leaning over the edge of the bed to send searching fingertips across the floor for his lighter.

"It's nice to hear your voice, too, Bill. Nothing like the sound of asshole in the morning."

"Bugger off, Sue," he bites back, but he's smiling. His fingers locate his lighter, and he retrieves it with a negligent flip. "What's happened."

Because something has, of course. It's half past five in the morning, and they aren't shagging, so it's clear that something has happened.

"Just a heads up, Billy Boy. I heard through the grapevine that Tyndall has put in a request that you be referred to the department's psychiatrist." She says nothing for a few moments. "That mouth of yours will get you in trouble yet."

"Why Susan, I didn'tknow you cared," Bill says wryly, and digs a fag out of the pack. He pauses before lighting it. "He's got his panties in a twist then. Was it something I said?"

He can almost see her rolling her eyes. "When isn't it?"

"Don't fret, love. It won't be the first time I've been referred." And it isn't. It doesn't particularly surprise him, either. He'd probably have been directed to see the department's shrink with or without Tyndall's recommendation. It's pretty standard for anyone who has either shot someone or been shot to be forced into attending a few sessions.

"I'm not fretting," she says, but she is. He smiles, but doesn't call her on it. "I just wanted to give you a heads up."

"I appreciate that, Sue," he says, quite sincerely. He lights his fag, squints one eye against the stinging smoke. Tries to remember what he'd been dreaming about, exactly.

"You all right, Bill? Really?"

It's not a question she asks easily, he knows that, so he gives it the consideration it deserves before answering.

"I will be. I'm fumbling a bit, at the moment, and I wouldn't say everything is bloody rainbows and kittens, but yeah. I'm making out." He inhales deeply on the fag, closes his eyes. "What about you? Are you getting grief out of this mess?"

"No. Not the kind you mean, anyway." She sounds tired. "They've suspended the case against Dominguez. Completely."

Bill closes his eyes. He's angry, he's fucking furious, but he isn't surprised. Fucking IA and their fucking interference in things they don't understand. Fucking Tyndall, and his fucking investigation. "They aren't investigating you?"

"No," she says quickly. "Only you, Bill." She is quiet again. Probably sitting behind her desk and rubbing at her forehead while her coffee gets cold at her elbow. "You be careful, Boyd. Be careful with the shrink. Be careful with Tyndall."

"Susan, I'm always careful." Which is true, though he knows she doesn't really believe that.

"Just... watch your mouth. You're a good cop, Bill, but you've got the crappiest personality of anyone I've ever met."

He grins and takes another drag off his fag. "Don't worry it, Sue. And don't worry about the shrink. I've got a degree in psychology, you know."

"I know it says so on your records," she says dryly. "I've never seen any evidence of your understanding of human nature live and in person."

Yes you have, he thinks, but doesn't say. "Thanks for the heads up, Susan. I do appreciate it."

"Yeah, yeah. Just practice acting like someone other people actually like."

He can hear her smiling.

"I'll get right on that, Captain," he sneers gently, and rings off.