Coruscant Tales II: The Boys in Blue

[Commander Zemil Vymes]

Another day on Coruscant was coming to an end. The cliche' didn't exactly apply to the city planet, but in the one particular seedy section of metropolis that Commander Zemil Vymes called home, the searing yellow orb was dropping below fingers of durasteel, concrete, and glass. It was a city that never slept. Unfortunately it had that kind of an unfair advantage on your average man. To even the score, you could catch 5 hours of red-eyed sleep during the heat of day, and spend your waking hours nursing hot cups of caf that tasted like engine degreaser. It was the same kind of practiced insomniac's monotony, day-in, and day-out. It didn't stop for weekends, and it didn't even acknowledge holidays. Dead bodies didn't get any deader...but clues and leads could get as cold as any corpse they trailed from. Now, as the sun set...Commander Vymes began his day.

"Frellit!"

He sat up, promptly hitting his head on the roof of a cramped squad speeder. Muttering, he removed the protective layer of newspaper that had shielded his eyes from the day's sunlight, allowing some relief from city zenith. He sighed, scratching a tell-tale layer of stubble on his face that let him know that it had been three days since he'd been home. Some would call it slovenly living. To Vymes, it was dedication. Some people couldn't put a book down till it was finished. For Vymes, it was crime. He flipped the newspaper over, glancing at scrawling scribbles that flowed around the day's crossword puzzle. None of the words were right, and almost none of them even fit the length. It was a way of writing down things that he knew...in his own way. Sometimes, it was all the difference in breaking a case wide open. You just had to write down how point A, point B, and point C related on the roadmap of murder, and connect the dots. Idle thought could only do so much. Getting a whiff of himself, he cursed again.

"Could use a shower."

He scowled, looking at the scrawled handwriting on the newspaper.

3:00 AM

Rodian shopkeeper, strangled.

No sign of struggle.

No missing creds.

Flower on countertop. --call florist

Vymes licked dry lips, fumbling by the beverage holder. He winced, gulping down cold caf, which should be a crime unto itself. One day, greasy spoon diners would have to invent perpetually hot caf. The cold stuff could wake you up...but it was more likely to wake the dead.

A stale doughnut stared at him from the opposite seat. How long had that been there? With a sigh, Vymes shifted the speeder into drive, folding the newspaper and setting it aside the old doughnut. It was getting dark out. Time to look sharp.

[Corporal Nobei Knobs]

It wasn't that Corporal Nobei Knobs was bad at his job, it was just that he wasn't quite as good as some of the others he worked with. He didn't have the right build or character that was remotely close to what an Officer of the Watch should have had, but then that was probably what made him - fairly - good at what he did: people didn't suspect the gangly lanky one trembling in the corner to do much aside from shake, but a little bit of fear (not too much of course) got him ready and raring for action.

Tonight, sadly, it was far too cold for him to be diverse action Knobs. This evening the climate was much more suited to the reluctant run-away Knobs that was jogging his way towards a speeder off in the distance, carrying a cardboard tray complete with burning-hot plastic cups balance precariously atop of it. Some of the boiling liquid would spill over the tatty cup rims on occasion and scald his hands, thus creating a domino effect of him tripping, cursing then repeating the aforementioned spilling.

Eventually he tripped straight into the speeder that his ‘superior’ sat in and stumbled in through the partially open door. Whistling loudly, he shoved the tray of fresh ‘Joe’ onto the dash of the speeder and rubbed his hands together, a habitual gesture to warm them up which made no sense considering they were already blistering from the heat of the drinks.

“Blimey! Absolutely glacial out there, sir.”

[Commander Zemil Vymes]

Knobs, despite a penchant for making a chihuahua seem sedentary, occasionally had more insight in him than a council full of Jedi.

"Its beginning the winter cycle, I think. Is it the fifteenth already?"

Coruscant had become automated in ways that nothing should ever be automated. Rain came in pre-determined intervals, as did snow, sunshine, storm, and every other phenomenon imaginable. For a planet of a few million species...there were diverse needs and preferences. And so, you could set a watch to Coruscant's climate changes, since they were...oddly enough...set to a watch. In the biggest metropolis in the galaxy, even the weather was too much chaos to leave to nature. Vymes shrugged off the chill that he felt now that Knobs mentioned it, and gladly took the caf from the Corporal, mindful of the spots of the cup that he might have touched.

"You had another run up to the Ithorian's shop today? Seems a bit odd that we'd find a Corellian bloodrose lying neatly on the counter in a sex toy shop."

Vymes took a relieving sip of caf, and continued.

"I mean, there's a bit of a difference between wining and dining, and the other business. Zeebo doesn't seem like he'd be the type to stock something that wasn't either rubber, leather, or covered in metal studs."

[Corporal Nobei Knobs]

The officer gave a forced sounding cough as he tried to mask a chuckle at the mentioned of the sex toy shop and its varying merchandise. He had returned, and had a rather interesting encounter with one of the lovely women who worked their, who had remarked that he 'looked like the type who'd go for the cross dressing scene'. At which he had been appalled, of course, but amused none of the less. The saleswoman had given him some money-off coupons for the purchase of one 'mans dress', and the scraps of paper were still shoved into his back pocket.

“Oh-er-yes, definitely something fishy," Knobs sniggered, "Going on.”

Shifting back down into his seat, he lowered his head to squint out into the bleak night. It didn't look at all pleasant, but then the speeder didn't seem to appealing right now either - it smelled like something had died underneath his seat, and knowing their job that wasn't such a far fetched possibility.

“Correct me if I'm wrong, which I don't believe I am, but this seems awfully familiar.”

There was a musing moment in which Nobei rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

“A devious felon leaving tokens of signature at his crimes. Flowers at that - very romantic!”

Another odd look from Vymes, and he smiled quirkily.

“Professional too,” a hint of apprehension came into his voice at this point, at the thought of a disciplined criminal on the loose.

[Commander Zemil Vymes]

"So where's the money"

It was a Vymes quote, if any. Nine times out of ten, if you ask where the money is, thats the way to the culprit. But, they both knew the answer on this one.

"Still in the register. All accounted to the chit."

He shook his head.

"So....exactly what can we gather for motive, if anything? Maybe there was no motive...but this was a real button-down affair. No prints, no loose ends. So its either an assassination, or there's something stolen that isn't supposed to be there in the first place!"

[Corporal Nobei Knobs]

“Maybe our Rodian friend knew something he wasn't meant to. Maybe he'd seen something or stumbled across something he wasn't meant to. Maybe, just maybe, he was witness to something even more terrible that we've yet to hear about,”

Knobs replied with an attempted air of mystery in his voice as he nodded, a questioning eyebrow rising as he did so. It was the first time he'd come up with a plausible idea, albeit an obvious one, in a long time, and he felt rather proud of it.

“The only problem is... our only witness is rather, well ... dead.”

[Commander Zemil Vymes]

Vymes took a cursory sniff at the stale doughnut, looking at it thoughtfully as they drove on.

"Three in the morning...its not exactly rush hour. But still, its open doors hours in the vice district. Between Horgul, the florist, and every junkie down that sector grid, I'm sure we can dredge up somebody who's got eyes...or at least a good idea of what they may have seen."

He took a turn onto a major skylane thoroughfare.

"If its an organized job...then the florist's likely got some protection. I want somebody checking his books. If there's some zoot-suited wiseguy taking the cream off the top of his retained earnings, I wanna know where its going...and I don't think its the march of dimes."

[Christian Dekker]

Dekker sat up on the back seat of the speeder very sleepy. He rubbed his eyes and opened his mouth wide to let the vast yarn escape his tired head, he had heard sub consciously what they were talking about and made a side comment to add to the Commanders.

"Perhaps this Mafia we speak of need him for some reason...perhaps a witness to a murder...robbery...i dunno...perhaps hes important in someway..." Dekker yawned again and laid his head back down on the head rest behind him.

"And you forgot my coffee darn it knobs how many times?...and my stale cake.....where is it?" Dekker half shouted right into the ear of the corparal and gave the clumsey man a light slap to the cheek.

"You wait,...you wait till its my turn to get the coffee in...ill get you back you see if i dont..." Dekker said falling back into his back seat chair.

[Corporal Nobei Knobs]

A frow burried into Knob's brow as he turned to look back at Dekker, scowling. The man infuriated him to no end, but he had - unfortunately - to put up with him. The Corporal looked back to his Commander and gave an exasperated sigh, rolling his eyes.

"Well sir.."

He fished into his pocket and pulled out a grubby looking note pad and pen. Giving the ball of the ink jotter a tap onto the paper, he scribbled a title at the top of the page that read 'suspects'.

"There's always the usuals. An interview with our good friends on the outside of the law might be of some help... I do think too,"

He added in a hushed whisper, "That it would be a good idea to investigate a bit into all of this Jedi activity .. I mean they can't all be good, can they?"

[Commander Zemil Vymes]

"It couldn't hurt to probe them a bit. I don't know their M.O. in these kind of things...and that bothers me. They don't seem the type to be carousing around a sex shop...but leaving a rose behind is unusual enough to broaden my horizons. Lets make some rounds by their new temple, after we tie up the rest. Dekker, take Knobs back to the crime scene, and work your way out around the vice district. Folks down there are a bit like cockroaches, so just lift up the rocks and catch em while they scurry away. I want to know everything they know, and if they don't have airtight alibis, I definitely want to know."

I paused, tossing my cake back to Dekker, opting instead for the stale doughnut.

"I'm going to have a word with Horgus...and see what he knows about the rose. While your down there, call Forensics, and get them to pull a roto rooter job on Zeebo's shop. If we're missing something, I wanna know."

[Christian Dekker]

Dekker grinned slightly at the mans note pad it looked rather comical to watch the man at times...quit ammusing. With that Dekker caught the stale cake in his hands quite annoyed that the blasted thing fell into about 3 different pieces as he struggled to catch all the bits, he only gave a frustrated grumble licking the grumbs from his finger tips.

' Gotcha' boss, but i think keeping a low profile for a while until we have a few more leads would be wise considering all we have to go with is a dead body and a rose.' Dekker said taking one of the broken pieces to his stale cake and stuffed it into his mouth with a satisfied grin.

' We dont want to have the hunted get a wiff of there hunters do we?...'

[Brielle Acaana]

Shifting the pouch over her right shoulder, Brielle snaps on the latex gloves as she surveys the dimly lit shop. What a dive!

Stepping carefully around the chalked outline where the corpse had lain, she squats down surveying the floor surrounding it, sharp green eyes narrowed as she goes over it inch by painstaking inch.

Nothing. Not one frelling scrap! With a sigh, she stands, grunting as her bum knee protests the movement. With slow precision, Brie makes her way through the entire shop, pausing only to examine the more interesting and bizarre sex toys on the shelves. Wonder if Dekker would want to try some of these out later? And on the heels of that thought comes another.

I hope none of these are trade-ins! With a shudder, Brielle turns her back to the toys, frustrated that this night has proven so fruitless to her search. Pulling the bag on her shoulder more to her front she digs through it, feeling for the flashlight she had tossed in just moments before leaving the lab. Fingers closing around the rubber grip, she hauls it out and thumbs on the inset switch, its beam leaping out and driving back the smaller shadows.

Brie was nothing if not patient and persistent walking slowly around the small shop again, stretching up on her tiptoes and getting down on her hands and knees as required. A large cockroach scurries from beneath the front counter and cuts directly across her path. Grinning she waits until its right in front of her then ping!, shoots it back under the counter with her middle finger.

Scrabbling to right itself, the roach again ambles its' mindless way out into the light but not before crawling over something that had a slightly dampened metallic sound. Knocking the bug away with the back of her hand, Brielle lays flat on her belly, sticking her arm into the dark and feeling blindly with her latexed fingers.

What is that? Groping into a small crack in the duracrete floor she can feel something wedged down in it and after several careful minutes of probing and prying, the item pops out and she eagerly withdraws her arm, her prize dangling between her fingers. A small, unremarkable key with a plastic tag hanging from the ring greets her eyes and Brie smiles.

Come to momma! Whipping out one of her small, sterile plastic bags, she drops the key inside, grinning widely. Vymes is gonna love this!

Quickly, she stows the bag and her flashlight into the pouch then steps out of the shop, locking it up behind her, eager to get back to the lab and see what secrets her little treasure will reveal.

[Corporal Nobei Knobs]

Being assigned to any sort of duty was bad, but it was even worse when he had to work with Dekker. Another scowl and he pushed open the door of the speeder as it slowed and got out, motioned for his colleague to do the same. A quick glance down to check that he still had his comm. device on him - giving his breast pocket a pat - and he saluted the Commander. Unlike some of the others in the Watch, he complied with a lot of the heirachic rules, even if he disliked them.

"Come on then, Sergeant,"

And thus they departed off towards the crime scene.

<center>***</center>

On approaching the door of the shop, the two were in busy arguing about something trivial - the coffee again, infact. Knobs walked ahead, mumbling to himself, eyes lowered. His vision not being up ahead, he failed to see the door swinging out towards him as another officer attempted to exit the shop, only suceeding in smacking him in the face.

Joy. Brielle.

The Corporal sighed.

"Officer Acaana," he nodded and poked his head to the side to peek into the shop as he gave his forehead a light rub.

"...Have you made an progress here?"

[Commander Zemil Vymes]

Dropping off Knobs and Dekker, Vymes made his way to Hortus's shop...or more particuarly, Hortis's Horticultural Hut, like someone had dawned on the fact that alliteration was clever. Walking in, Vymes discriminating nose was assaulted by far too many sweet, aromatic fragrances to be appealing. It caused a migraine to blossom like a miasma...like being at one of those parties with debutante women who overcompensated on Chandrillan perfume. Toward the back of the shop, an old hammerhead was tending to some sad-looking lilacs. Vymes tapped the bell on the counter.

"Hortus?"

The ponderous form turned to regard its customer, voice speaking in that unique Ithorian stereo.

"Can I help you, sir?"

Vymes produced a badge, which normally caused the air temperature around anyone in eye contact to drop a few degrees.

"Zem Vymes. Coruscant Watch. Mind if I ask you a few questions."

The Ithorian's large black eyes looked about slowly.

"I'm busy."

Vymes followed his glances. Apart from him and the Ithorian, there wasn't a soul to be found.

"I'm sure it can wait."

With a bassy sigh of resignation, Hortus let the lilacs be, washing his large hands in a nearby sink. In the meantime, Vymes produced a plastic bag, with a rose inside it.

"Can you tell me what kind of plant this is?"

Hortus looked at Vymes with an expression (If he read it correctly...Ithorians aren't exactly people) that seemed to be offended at Vymes' ignorance. He gingerly picked up the baggie.

"Of course I can, sir. That's a Corellian bloodrose. You can tell from the shape of the petals, and the way the thorns are barbed."

Vymes nodded, continuing.

"About how long can these things keep?"

Hortus scratched somewhere on his crested head, pondering his response.

"Well sir, you could keep them a week in cold storage."

Vymes nodded.

"And if not in cold storage? Or in water?"

Hortus blinked

"I wouldn't give it more than a day, sir. Bloodroses are quick to wilt. Thats where the deep color comes from."

As if to demonstrate, Hortus pointed to the shriveled petals on Vymes' sample, which were the color of old bloodstains. The symbolism inherent was glaring like graffiti on the wall to the old cop.

"Do you sell many of these?"

Hortus shrugged.

"Outside of Corellian Freedom Day, there's not much demand...and not in this district. Them Corellians is old money, sir. Not abouts to spend their chit here. All we gets is the mid-level Skrat, y'know."

Vymes knew. He was one of those mid-levelers. Something to be said about it, too. Not the cleanest, friendliest, or well-to-do folk on the city planet. But not everybody could live in gleaming skyscraper spires. Some honest, hard-working types had to muck it in the artificial canyons further down.

"Yeah...well..."

Vymes brushed a hand hard against a stubbled chin.

"Could you pull a list of people who've bought from you within the last 48 hours?"

The Ithorian could see where this was going, and offered helpfully.

"Yessir, tho I'm not the only florist on Coruscant. Am the best though."

As he worked over his receipt log, Vymes watched the list grow. Apparently, the rose was a bit more popular than Hortus even realized...

[Christian Dekker]

WHACK! the door slammed into Knobs' head and knocked him back a few spaces, Dekker only gave a light chuckle to the rather hurtful looking accident.

' Damn man, think you need to get a doctor to look at that...'

He gave only but another sarcastic grin and opened the door further back into the chest of officer Knobs spending him sprawling back outside.

Dekker walked into the shop and took a good first glances around the shop, turning he gave a wild grin towards Brielle as if he had a dirty thought floating around inside his head.

' You know Brielle you wouldn't look half bad in some of this gear....quite frankly i think Latex suits you the most....nice cat suit would do the trick huh Knobs?'

He looked the other way before Knobs had a chance to answer him. Dekker had always had a thing with Brielle, oh he liked her alright, always giving her half witted comments and hints, but she never took the bait...only made her own snide comments back to Chrsitian.

'Nice set of hand cuffs maybe....well they come with the job right Brielle?

He laughed and walked further into the shop turning onto "cop mode" crouching down to view some finger print dust.

' I see you have cleared things pretty good here...me and Knobs came over to give you a hand with talking to the witnesses, perhaps you would to come over to Ralphio with us, hes the owner of this joint...perhap he knows some dodgy dealings going on here....'

[Brielle Acaana]

"Knobs, Im sorry! I didnt see you there! Here, let me take a look. Not too bad thought it could use a stitch or two. I have a needle and thread in my pouch--I could have you sewn up in just a few seconds if you want?"

Looking down into his comical face, she feels another rush of pity for the man. Knobs didnt have it easy in the Watch. Too many of the other men picked on him. Like Dekker. Why the frell doesnt Knobs stand up to him?

Angrily she pulls of the gloves and throws them at Dekker then shoves hard against one of his shoulders.

"Dammit, Christian, stop picking on him! And grow up while youre at it!"

Brielle hauls back on the reins of her anger before she actually slugged Dekker. The man was too nice looking for his own good and he knew it. An instantaneous attraction had sprung up between Brielle and Dekker at thier first meeting and had never subsided. If anything, it had grown but never to the point of interfering in thier work. Commander Vymes would have thier respective asses if that ever happened. But both were professionals and dedicated to thier work so the chance of anything happening was remote though Brielle had her suspicions that given the opportunity, Dekker would take it to the next level.

"I have to get back to the lab. I need to analyze and dust something I found."

Withdrawing the clear plastic bag from her pouch, Brielle dangles it in front of thier eyes.

"Any ideas on what it might fit? A locker at one of the spaceports maybe?"

Leaning in to get a closer look, the two officers eyeball the average looking key. Taking advantage of his nearness, Brie whispers quietly to Dekker.

"Id look better in the leather."

[Jag Demarr]

There were times when work often translated into "painstaking crap-shovelling." There were times when he just wanted to take his badge and tell his superiors where to shove it - this being one of them - but it was a love-hate relationship for his job does have it's quirks. And tonight, he was going to make sure he lived up to his job description of law enforcement with an emphasis on enforcement.

"Two fifteen in the morning. I hate this damn city." He grunted as he walked past Janeen on his way out, she smiled sympathetically but it was probably more self-pity. She had an entire night of receiving calls ahead of her; calls from all kinds of people needing assistance, protection or a visit from some poor schmuck. Tonight, Jag would be that schmuck except unlike Janeen he didn't seem to deal with people from all walks of life. No, he just had the scum to deal with.

The garage had that sickening, clammy aroma that is produced when rain seeps in through cracks in walls long overdue a new coating of duraseal. Greeting him everytime he had to make a housecall it certainly put him in the right mood to confront the task at hand. In the corner sat "Mrs. Robinson," the love of his life; a FreiTek Fire-Screamer swoop bike. It was, as Jag would ever so modestly claim "The sexiest bitch on the roads!" Most would call it an engine with a seat but unlike any other swoop, it handled just as good as the average speeder-bike and despite being rather huge was still a beautiful piece of machinery.

"Ok missy, daddy needs a ride." He hit the ignition key and the engines roared to life. Unlike most other swoops, instead of an ear-piercing whine it had a low rumbling sound, like a pod-racer engine only quieter. The engine growled as he left the garage and dissapeared down the flyway on his way to the other side of the Tanka District where the party had already started.

[Rhisa Meier]

I ain't no sweetheart, I can tell you that. I ain't no refined lady either, and I sure as hell ain't some prim and proper socialite. I couldn't be one even if for some perverse reason I wanted to be; and believe me, I'd rather choke on a spoon. I'm me. So you don't like me? I don't care. Not many people do. It takes alot to keep my image, and if you got a problem with me, you're just gonna have to get in line with the rest of Coruscant and wait your turn. I'd suggest bringin' something to eat too, cause it's gonna be a long wait.

I guess I don't have it too bad; it's just that some people can't keep from stickin' their grubby noses in my business. And when I say "those people", I mean the damn Coruscant City Watch. Most people have it out for me, but these yutzes especially seem to get a major kick outta haulin' me in whenever they feel like it. Which is usually every day. Ok, maybe not that often, but it sure seems like it.

For me, my days almost always start out the same way: wake up in some God-forsaken abandoned building, hotwire some speeder bike Joe Schmoe stupidly left out, then go cruisin' food; which is basically whatever I can scrounge up. And then it's off to work. Or at least what I call work. I'm a 'runner'. It's usually just the regular stuff, like drugs and stuff, but sometimes, every once in a while, it's something bigger. Like now. I had no clue what I had in my pack, and I honestly didn't wanna know; just that it was important and that I had to get it to The Wicked Garden by tomorrow.

This morning started at the butt-crack of dawn. I hate that time of morning. I really do. Mankind isn't supposed to be awake much less functioning until noon. But, it's not like I have any choice in the matter; when the big man says "I need you to deliver this for me", you deliver it, no questions asked.

I sat up, still groggy and tired from the previous night's activities; gawd I'd like to forget last night, but of course that wouldn't happen. Rolling to my feet, I sent the newspapers I'd used for cover in all directions looking around the alley I'd holed up in to make sure I'd gone for the most part unnoticed. I had to just stand there for a few seconds as the blood rushed from my head. I hate that.

No time for much else though; I'd already stopped for too long. A few hours of sleep here and there, and then it's back to running like mad, hoping you get the goods delivered before someone figures out what's up and either puts a hole in your head or throws you in the slammer.

I'm lucky.

I'm the best runner the boss has.

Reaching down, I picked up my pack, slung it over my shoulders, and ran out of the alley.

I grinned, feeling the wind on my face once more, watching out my peripheral vision as Coruscant's everpresent crowds flew by. I love my job.

[Jag Demarr]

Imagine a place that has become so neglected that where brick meets the ground there is no electrity, no warmth and no water supply. The people wrap themselves up in as many layers of clothing as possible, exposing little skin to the elements which consequently makes them resemble Tuskain Raiders in some peculiar fashion. They are the low-lives, the nobodies, the little people; whatever you choose to call them doesn't make a blind bit of difference to their situation because there is an unspoken hierarchy that exists keeping them where they are, in the gutter.

On top of that there's electricity, go a bit further up and there's water and further than that - hang on, that's too high up - so here is where the action is, tonight at least. Whoever designed this region should have their eyes poked out for being so blind in the first place, platforms protrude further than they should just to squeeze few more families in and once they're victimized to robbery and abuse, they will be kicked to the dark depths only to be quickly replaced by the new contestants. Plain and simple, it is a matter of survival for those who live in the Tanka district where sunlight is sparce and rain is plentiful. Howling winds channeled through the unending canyons of artificial atrocities and angular eye-sores that no doubt metamorph into some princess's throne room up above.

There's a large, spartan edifice that looks like it's best days have long gone. Not only are families housed inside but outside too, around trash containers spewing it's last, licking flames were a number of families, who like the rest of the buildings inhabitants are immigrants, desperate for a better life, desperate for work and money, now desperate to return to whatever hell-hole they came from knowing that their life-savings have been wasted on a one-way trip to a world long forgotten. A loud chugging echoed within the space between this building and the next, which suffice to say was little. Then a mammoth-sized swoop bike turned the corner already slowing before it came to a hault right outside the "Land's End" rental rooms.

Knock. Knock.

"Who is it?" Came a timid and shaken voice from behind door Two Thirteen.

"C.C.W. Open up." Came the blunt command from the otherside.

After a moment of silence, Jag's miniscule patience was about to become non-existant and lifting his hand to knock, the door finally crept open. From behind it, peered a rather frail-looking Rodian. A woman who no doubt had too many kids to care for. Yep. There they are, standing a little further back holding each other's hands. Something's definately happened here.

" Corporal Demarr. You reported a disturbance here, miss?" After showing his badge, he stepped forward, forcing her to open the door for him. He lowered his head so he could enter, at six foot, eleven inches, he looked rather imposing for a family who had just been through something rather traumatic. It was evident it had been traumatic as the woman's left arm was bleeding and the entire abode was completely turned over. Clothes scattered, what little furniture they have upturned or broken, a mirror smashed and papers and other random items littered the floor.

Whilst he looked about the humble apartment home of this family the woman told him what had happened, not once did he turn to make eye contact, instead he continued looking. Her voice trembled and she was choked up but from what he could make out they had been raided by three men and after tearing the place apart they abducted her husband. Jag scribbled the following things down on his hand, he'd forgotten his datapad.

2:05am - Rodian salesman, Abadoo Valneegar, abducted.
Wife attacked. Home ranksacked. Nothing taken.
Mrs. Valneegar provides no explanation.

Then he turned to the woman, looked past her for a moment, then asked, "Does he own a personal audiocomm?"

"Why, yes. He needs it for work--" She turned around and scurried over into a corner where she had seen it fall from the dinner table when one of it's legs were broken. "--here!"

Jag took it and pressed redial. Before there was an answer, he turned it off and took note of the last number he dialled.

Last number dialled - 0012-192-5501 - look up address.

"I'll have to keep hold of this, ma'am." He made his way to the door and said: "A phorensics team will be here at eight tomorrow morning." She nodded nervously and closed the door behind him.

"Right, now to find a phonebook."

[Brielle Acaana]

Leaving Knobs and Dekker behind to recheck and lock up the shop, Brielle Acaana slips into the squad speeder that she drove there and starts the engine. Damn engine is missing again! Cant those guys keep them running right?! Angrily, she guns the motor then curses as it hesitates before leaping forward and rising into the traffic lanes.

Humming a nameless tune to herself as she steers through the maze of other speeders, Bri arrives at the stations' parking garage and slides the vehicle into an empty slot. Hopping out, she slings her pouch over her shoulder and walks into the station house, the familiar smells of old paint, sweat and too many cigarettes assailing her nostrils upon entry. My sweet home away from home.

Pushing her way past several other officers lining the narrow hall, she opens the door to her small office, the lights coming on automatically as the sensors register movement in the room. Dropping her pouch onto her chair, Brielle shrugs out of her leather jacket, tossing it up on the coat tree just behind her desk then quickly listens to the messages left on her comm recorder as she thumbs through the papers on her desk. Making mental notes and jotting several names and numbers down on a pad, she turns to what she has been waiting for.

Pulling the small, sterile plastic bag from the pouch, she crosses her office in just a few steps and opens the door to the adjoining lab. Setting the bag on the counter beside her microscope, Brielle reaches under the counter and draws out a pair of her ever present latex gloves. Snapping them on, she opens the plastic bag and carefully extracts the key within. Gently laying it on the counter, she dusts it for any prints and grins widely as a partial thumb print becomes visible. Pressing tape lightly to the print, Brielle lifts the tape then presses the tape itself down on a piece of specialized paper, effectively transferring the print. Immediately, she runs several copies off and sets them aside.

Quickly stashing away the dusting kit, she turns back to the counter and turns on the light to her microscope, setting the key with its' small paper tag still intact onto a glass slide. Easing her right eye down to the lens, Brielle begins a journey of discovery. This was what she loved about her job. Coaxing secrets from corpses and objects that couldnt speak for themselves.

Alright, my little friend, Im listening. What can you tell me that I dont know....yet?