These Streaks of Blood

29

Ted runs a hand over his face, exhausted. This girl has been wringing him out for over an hour, trying to get information out of him that he simply doesn't have.  

Well, girl probably isn't the right word; young woman would be more accurate. She's tall and lean, her blonde hair tied back in a high ponytail. Her blue eyes, resting atop a significant layer of light freckles, have been fixed on him since she arrived, not straying even once. She's wearing tight-fitted black pants that look to be made of spandex, or maybe nylon. Her arms are crossed over her black leather jacket; the collar folds over, leaving a flap open across her chest. The knee-high lace-up boots top off her appearance, and if she had been older than, say, twenty-five, Ted might have been intimidated by this tough-looking woman; as it is, he's just tired of her interrogation.

"I told you, I can't give away any information about--"

The girl's eyes narrow into an impudent glare. "How are you expecting to get help with this issue if you're not willing to release any information? You've already lost nearly all of your town. You shouldn't let this fear spread across the nation," she says. Her voice has the slightest of accents; Irish, it sounds like. Maybe Scottish?

Ted rests his chin on his hand, letting his fingers stretch the skin at the corner of his eye, hoping it will help him stay awake. "Of course I don't. But this is my job. I'm not allowed to tell you what I know--"

"You know what I think?  I don't think you know anything. I don't think you've made any headway in this case, and at this rate, you're not going to."

Ted stares at the woman bleakly. "We're doing the best we can, miss."

She glares at him a second more, then uncrosses her arms and strides up closer to the desk. She rests her hands on the edge of it, leaning towards him. Though he knows he shouldn't, he feels pressured. She has a baleful presence about her; every step radiates confidence, her every word is assured.

"Yes, you are. But if you let me help you, you'll do better," she states.

Ted blinks. What is she talking about? "What did you say your name was again?" he asks.

The woman smiles slightly, but the expression holds an edge. Ted takes this to mean that she doesn't smile often.

"I've already told you this at least three times, Sheriff. This might have gone faster if you had listened to everything I said," she chides, but, regardless, adds, "It's Joyce Rivers."

Ted nods; the name sounds vaguely familiar, so she must have mentioned it earlier, when he was tuning most of her lecture out. It is his job to deal with these sort of people, the ones who think they can do his job better than he can. No matter what they say to him, he has to sit through it calmly; or at least, doing so makes him much more respectable.

"Well, Joyce, we've got volunteers--"

"I don't want to be a volunteer. I want to solve this case, and I can only do that if you give me whatever information you've collected, if you've got any at all," interrupts Joyce, obviously growing impatient. Ted sighs; she wasn't overly pleasant to begin with.

"And just why are you so sure that you'll be able to solve it? I'm not trying to insult you, miss, but you seem pretty young, and we're obviously dealing with an experienced serial killer--"

Joyce's glare is cutting. "He's not a serial killer - he's a monster. And you and your buddies aren't going to find him, aren't going to tame him, and certainly aren't going to be able to kill him."

Ted moves his hand away from his face and places it on the desk in front of him, laying his other hand atop it. He forces himself to remain calm, hoping to appease her as best as he can.