Starman [ Life on Mars / Doctor Who Crossover ]

Chapter 2 Iron Man

has he lost his mind
can he see or is he blind
can he walk and talk
or if he moves will he fall

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"Wonder how a bloke gets like that. Being a monster."

Sam glanced up from his notebook. Gene's shoulders were squared, fingers idle on the neck of his flask. He looked like he'd gone three rounds with the Sandman and lost the privilege of sleeping for a week.

Sam knelt down and scanned the flat's carpet, once light tan and now stained dirt-colored red. Blood spatter soaked through the wallpaper nearby, peeling the edges as it dried. "We don't know if this murderer is a bloke, Guv. Might not even appear especially monstrous."

Gene snorted. "Who did this, then -- an enthusiastic butcher?"

Sam's eyes flicked over the carpet, from spots of red to a clump of hair to a tooth lodged somewhere in the rug fibers. He swallowed, pressed his pencil to paper and went on with routine. "I can't pretend to know what goes on in a lunatic mind."

"You can't pretend to know what goes on in bloody general." Gene took a swig from his flask, then capped it. "Fact in point, your nancy forensics have been 'bout as useful as tits on Clark Gable last three crime scenes."

"Killer cleans up well." Sam scowled inadequately.

"If you call this 'cleaning up,' I've a notion why your flat's modeled on a particularly gloomy portion of the Gulag."

Sam rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, then let his gaze wander the length of the room, resting on the other detectives in turn, faces collectively haggard, mouths dry and slack. They hadn't looked this bleak since the Lamb ransom fiasco some weeks ago, and they hadn't even been the ones suffering a bloody drug overdose at the time.

Sam sighed. "Cleans up anything useful," he amended.

"So what the hell does he want, then?" Gene muttered in response, voice taut, fist clenched. "Page in the paper? A sleep-deprived department?"

"Fava beans and a nice chianti," Sam offered with a small groan of exhaustion. He ran a hand down his face as he stood from the floor. "Some twisted sense of purpose. A bastard friend. Who bloody knows."

Gene jabbed him in the shoulder. "So keep the plods on task 'till you've a better ruddy answer. Meanwhile, I'm off."

Sam scoffed. "Quite a time for a breather."

Gene straightened his lapels. "You can blame your own for this one. Call came in, few minutes ago. Seems I'm back to CID on account of one of your mates."

Sam frowned. "Mates?"

"Yes, Tyler -- mates. Something you'd know about if you weren't so bloody irritating." Gene turned to the door as he clarified. "Some bastard from Hyde, tossin' about papers and saying he's been lent to the case. Already a brilliant waste of my time."

Sam's hands tensed -- Hyde -- but he swallowed it down, and nodded, and crossed his arms over his chest. "Right, and while you're gone, I expect I'll be conveniently burdened with addressing the media frenzy."

Gene waved over his shoulder. "You play the bastard self-martyr. Be one."

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