The Whitechapel Case [abandoned]

Part 2: The Connections (Chapter 4)

The Whitechapel Case
Fox-Trot-9

PG-13
Horror/Suspense/Mystery (How-Catch-'Em)
Disclaimer: I don't own Ghost Hunt or Death Note.

Part 2: The Connections
Chapter 4

[By making fate our choice, the blocks of our existence
Well-spent or wasted, we create our road through this,
A long and winding road of endless cares, a sentence
Of woe that pledges all and gives to none its bliss.
When we set down these stones of mortal destiny
Upon the naked bedrock of our mortal lives,
Oh think before you act upon th' uncertainty
Of endless possibilities that life contrives.
Because no matter what your good or bad intentions,
They matter not to Him that holds the deadly blade;
The question's not how we escape His grim attentions,
For He'll succeed upon our lives, our dues repaid:
          It's how we take our steps to meet Him on the chase,
          Opposing Fate itself, when death breathes in your face.]

Day 2—While Noll, Lin and Bert were heading for the Allenshire House for the Insane, Detective Sergeant Terry Haller and Constable Laurence Grady headed for another place of insanity—the MIT building. The place was crawling with reporters from the Guardian and the Observer to the BBC and others, many of whom spotted their car as it entered the garage and followed it. The two even saw some reporters with microphones, notebooks and pens, as well as their camera crews, closing in on them to get a by-line and maybe a few answers on the "Crisis of the Decade," as some were bound to phrase it in their news reports. Microphones and questions were shoved at them as they got out of their car.

"Sirs...sirs! Is it true that Jacob Meiler bribed the commissioner?" said one.

"Will the commissioner have to let Jacob Meiler go?" said another.

"How will this affect the people's view on law enforcement?" said another.

"Can you make a statement about the alleged fight?" said another.

"How will this affect the current investigation?" said yet another. And on, and on it went... They were becoming a broken record, these questions.

"Jesus, I can't believe these guys," said Terry to himself; fifteen years on the beat with a smoking and drinking habit had cured his voice to a grating bass-baritone. "Listen, my partner and I had just heard about this an hour ago, so we can't answer your questions right now. You're all just gonna have to wait your turn outside this garage, where you should have read the sign not to enter before doing so. Now scram before we arrest you for trespassing on a restricted area!"

A constable who heard the commotion came over and herded the complaining group out like cattle from their green pasture. Many of the reporters were pissed, some enough to threaten the two with a lawsuit for violating the sacred right to free press. Terry and Laurence could care less; instead, they were dreading what was ahead of them as they entered the building. They heard about the news that the West Department of MIT had its legs cut out from under it.

"Damn, Terry," said his partner. "You didn't have to be such a hard ass back there!"

"What do you know about being a hard ass? You're twenty-one, barely a year out of Scotland Yard Academy, and you think I'm a hard ass? No way, kid. I've only put in fifteen years on the beat. But take Old Man Jake or your father: now those two are hard asses."

Laurence knew that first hand; his father was army-strict. 

Once through the door, they walked passed the empty halls and into the main office area of the ground floor, where... Not a soul occupied a single station. Both cops were out doing more interviews the day Andrew and the others stormed out of the MIT building, many of them on bad terms, but they didn't believe the stories in the papers. But now they knew it was true, and that scared them; they looked at the scene before them. Where the building should be the most crowded and noisy (filled with detectives working cases, doing research, shoving paper files, chasing down leads and getting search warrants), without all that activity the place looked deserted and hauntingly quiet. Quiet, that is, until they heard the faint sound of something like a yelling match a few flights up.