April 30th, 1992

The van rolled through Hell double-quick. South L.A. heading north towards Koreatown. The van rolled past looters carrying TV's. The van rolled past fiery buildings and burning husks of cars. Koreans with rifles stood guard on rooftops. Helicopters flew overhead, capturing the carnage and transmitting it across the world.

The van had a police scanner inside. It squawked out reports of county wide mayhem. The reports were falling on deaf ears. LAPD was nowhere to be seen in this part of town. LASD was holding down the county, but LAPD had barricaded themselves further north, protecting the white and rich in Beverley Hills and West Hollywood. The message was clear to the areas most effected by riot: Fuck your safety and security. Mayor Bradley was calling in the National Guard and they would be there this time tomorrow. This was maybe their best and last chance.

Koreatown became Little Armenia. The van driver turned onto a side street. A strip mall with no Korean sharpshooters and no looters. Three businesses: A pizza place, a boarded-up shoe store, and Kafesjian & Son Pawn Shop. The van skidded up to the pawn shop. Three men with assault rifles, dressed in black with hockey masks, jumped out the back and rushed towards the door.

Gunshots shattered the pawnshop window. J.C. Kafesjian crouched behind a stack of guitar amps with a pistol aimed at the robbers. They scattered behind the van. The driver slipped out and started around the back of the strip mall. J.C. cursed in Armenian as he reloaded. Son Tommy, hunkered down behind the jewelry case, stood up to open fire. Tommy got turned into swiss cheese by the robbers. J.C. screamed and started firing wild.

The van's driver quietly came in through the back. He pulled out his pistol and shot J.C. in the back. The old man crumpled to the floor. The four men converged in the store. They traded looks before fanning out. One of them found a safe on the floor next to Tommy's body. He kicked Tommy's body out the way and ran a gloved hand across the dial.

"Get it open," said the driver. "After you get it out, we torch this whole fucking strip mall."







March 18th, 1997

"This fucking guy is crazy."

Frank Lyga pulled his sidearm out and put it on the passenger set. His undercover piece of shit car couldn't outrun the gas guzzler the black man was driving. The driver had tried to start some shit at the traffic light, telling Lyga to pull over and flashing gang signs. Lyga saw a piece and tried to haul ass, but the car caught up with him and was flashing his lights. Lyga keyed his radio.

"Hey, I got a problem," he said. "I've got a black guy in a green Jeep coming up here! He's got a gun!"

The green light went red and Lyga cursed. The car pulled up beside his.

The driver shouted. "I'll cap you."

Lyga saw the driver move. Lyga went for his piece and got off two shots. The driver slumped forward. The car started to roll through the red light. Lyga keyed the mic again.

"I just shot this guy! I need help! Get up here!"

He got out and pulled his badge out as he approached the car. The driver was slumped against the steering wheel. A piece laid on the car floorboard. Lyga saw something metallic on the driver's hip. He reached out and pushed his shirt up.

"Shit," said Lyga. "Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit."

It was a badge. LAPD. The same fucking badge as his.

March 18th, 1997

"All units, all units, shots fired. Officer down."

"The fuck..." Frank Williams had just sat down in the front seat of his brand new Crown Victoria convinced he was in for a slow ride compared to the 77th. He could feel adrenaline flush through him and he was proud that his hand didn't shake. It had before.

"Whiskey 5-1 enroute." He managed to snap his call sign into the middle of the babble of other responding officers. Around him the parking lot was exploding into motion like a disturbed anthill.

He jammed the gear shift into reverse, flipped on his lights, glanced over both shoulders and then shot backwards, spinning the wheel hard so that the front end of his car snapped around. He punched the gear shift up and shot toward the exit, the big V6 engine roaring.

The siren screamed as he activated it, nosing into traffic that scattered in front of him. Other cars were coming onto the motorway behind him and he gunned the engine, only to realize he had no idea where the shooting had occurred, he was not that familiar with the area yet.

"Delta 3-4, Whiskey 5-1, I have no idea where I am going, you're my lead."

"Copy Sarge, follow me." A LAPD Caprice shot past him as more and more cars scattered out of their way. There were a dozen vehicles now as they hurtled toward the scene of the shooting.

For seven minutes they tore through the city at speeds of 80 miles an hour, dodging slow moving cars, dumbfounded citizens and city buses. It never failed to amaze Patrick that Police managed to avoid hitting anyone as often as they did.

The gas station drew into view and he could make out a white man, he assumed he was a plains clothes police officer based on how several others were grouped around him, one wearing a vest with POLICE across the chest. Several others were looking into a green SUV parked nearby.

The various police vehicles came to screeching halts as officers piled out, a plain clothes sergeant issuing orders to contain the crime scene. Williams parked his own vehicle more carefully. He was new here and this was someone else's crime scene at the moment. He climbed from his car and glanced around. The air was hot and a stiff wind was blowing. People were gathering nearby to stair and a news helicopter was already circling.

"Sergeant." He approached the plain clothes NCO who had been directing the arriving officers to secure the scene. The man glanced at him and nodded.

"Sergeant Williams, hell of a day for your first day in Hollywood Division. We've got a blue on blue."

"Fuck..." Williams nodded. "Thanks, I'm not here to interfere, just tell me what you need."

"Thanks, I appreciate that. For the time being just stick around to back me up if needed."

Williams nodded and moved so he could see into the SUV. A blackman was slumped over the steering wheel. Not good. He quickly approached the gathering knot of officers who scattered slightly as he approached, giving room for a man sitting on the hood of his shitty unmarked car.

"Officer," The man looked up at him. "Sergeant Williams, the new Ops NCO for Hollywood Division."

The man regarded him with immediate suspicion but Williams could see the worry and panic in the stretched lines of his face. "Officer Lyga."

"You say nothing, to anyone, you don't take any notes, you don't do anything of the sort. You talk a lawyer and no one else. Understand me?" Williams was speaking quietly but firmly to Lyga who blinked up at him.

"Sergeant?"

"You heard me. Not a word until you talk to your lawyer."

Lyga nodded slowly just as the plain clothes Sergeant hailed Williams, waving him over. Williams placed a hand on Lyga's shoulder and gave it a squeeze.

"You'll be alright son." He turned away to assist with whatever was needed.

March 18th, 1997

---

Nicole mindlessly scrolled through the channels on her TV just to pass the time. She was leaning to one side of her couch with a half-read magazine face down on her lap, a cup of tea on her hand, and the remote on the other. She really couldn't concentrate on much as of late. Her and her ex-boyfriend, Jason, had just broken up and she was torn up about it. It was the typical post break-up routine, so Nicole would be in a slump for some time.

But suddenly and without warning, the phone on the table right beside her went off. Nicole cursed under her breath as a result, having nearly spilled the tea on herself. She put the mug down on the table before picking up the phone.

"Hello?"

"Dr. Davenport, hey it's Davin. Sorry to bother you right now, but an officer has been shot. This just occurred a few minutes ago, and if the guy's dead you know the routine."

Nicole sighed, lowering the volume on the TV. "Goddammit Davin, why do you always have to call with bad news?" Nicole heard laughter on the line before he spoke again.

"Well, I mean, I am on watch. It's sorta my job, otherwise...you know, you'd fire me."

"Alright, alright, don't get smart with me," she replied, her voice a bit playful. "I'll keep my pager on me. Let me know if they give you an update, okay?"

"You got it. Take care."

Nicole then hung up the phone, slow to get up as she had to set the stuff aside, sit up straight, and stretch. Her body was a bit achy, but nothing a quick, hot bath couldn't fix. As she walked over to her room, she wondered who the officer was. Nicole had dated one of the LAPD guys before Jason, so the question would always be there. She felt bad for the poor guy either way, but with the amount of bodies she saw day in and day out, the feeling didn't linger.

Nicole got the bath running, setting the water to a warm stream just how she liked it. She was 99% sure she would get the callout to work, but pampering herself just before what would be a tremendously long shift always did the trick. She headed to the kitchen to pour herself a fruit smoothie to enjoy with her bath, and unfortunately, the margarita mix stayed in the refrigerator. But she told herself she would be revisiting it after work.

Since she had left the bath running, Nicole hurriedly tidied up the kitchen before heading back to the bathroom. She noticed the bubbles had formed in thick clumps floating around, but the water wasn't going to overflow any time soon. She had maybe a minute or two so she went for her cassette player in the bedroom. Nicole was just about to spoil herself silly, and she couldn't help but smile as she went on.

18th March, 1997

The young man was only 19 years old. He had fallen into crime at a young age. Growing up to a poorer family in LA, that would sometimes seem inevitable. But his latest foray into unsavoury activity would turn out to be a grave mistake. A few nights ago he had cornered what seemed to be a regular old man, walking down a seedy street on his own in the middle of the night. The young boy had pulled a gun on him, taken his wallet then disappeared into the night, happy with his crime. That old man, however, while retired, nonetheless had a very shady past to say the least, and was very well connected - but most importantly, a fiery and ruthless temper. So someone was on their way.

Álvaro leaned his head to the door, hearing for noise within. The TV was turned up extremely and scarce else could be heard from within the run down apartment. Methodically, he picked open the lock, before creeping inside. The sound of the television masked his footsteps, and before long he was directly behind the old man. Pulling out a handgun, Álvaro suddenly brought it to the side of the man's head and fired without hesitation. He slumped down, and Álvaro placed the gun in the now deceased man's hand with his own gloved ones. After searching for the old man's wallet and finding it, he left.

"It's done."

The call was swift, and Álvaro tossed his gloves in the back seat - they would need to be burned later - before getting into his car and driving away from his most recent assignment. It was a relatively cool spring afternoon in Los Angeles and Álvaro enjoyed the car ride - or perhaps he enjoyed it because he knew that payment awaited at the end.

As he drove along he couldn't help but notice a considerable slowing of the traffic. But that wasn't anything out of the ordinary. This was LA, after all, the city of traffic. The thing that suddenly became unusual was the loud thundering of a helicopter over head. Álvaro glanced out of his window. A news copter. He glanced back at the gloves. No, of course not. The kid was just some low life.

A large clump of cars rapidly coming closer up ahead was in a complete standstill, beyond them, he could see the flashing lights of the police. He wasn't going anywhere now, certainly not towards his payment. Álvaro sighed. The police holding shit up for their little theatrics again. He got out of his car and walked up to the gathering crowd. A more chaotic scene awaited his eyes than he expected. Much more cops, all of whom looked vaguely uneasy. Not regular nerves, just general unease.

A large cop, one with striking blonde hair caught his eye for a a moment before Álvaro looked past him to try and find somewhere to squeeze his car by. He eventually spotted it and slipped away from the murmuring crowd. He could get enough information on what happened from the news, anyway.

The hired gun got in his car and squeezed the car down a small road running parallel to the scene. A green SUV surrounded by cops was all he caught sight of before he continued down and away from the scene. Payment was finally back on the way.

March 18th, 1997

---

Smog snuffed radiance, and spring did little to ease one’s mind. A fan circled its near perpetual dance above Kentrell’s head and he was staring at the fan as it turned. It was mid-day, the stove crackled flame, Darius and Lorraine were up cooking breakfast: eggs, sausage, cheese toast. It was the same thing every morning--mornings began whenever the eldest siblings woke--Kentrell sighed. Excising crust from his eyes and tossing his mess of covers from himself, Kentrell sat on the side of the bed and pushed his feet into the house slippers waiting for him on the rug beside his resting place.

As zombies of morn do, Kentrell lifted himself up and lumbered toward the kitchen. A smell once welcoming and sloughing the monotony of routine consumption, Kentrell (or Tre as his siblings called him) would have sooner found Nirvana if he never had to smell cheese toast and eggs again. Sausage made his stomach churn. Kentrell ate it anyway, he was no cook himself--a deficiency which,as Darrius and Shontay reminded him often, made him goofy. Darrius re-attached he smoke detector once all the hot breakfast had been cooked. Lorraine had disappeared into the bathroom and there was no sign of Terell, Marcus, or Shontay.

Kentrell hated being alone with Darrius.

No sooner than Lorraine went to get dressed for work did Darrius begin his shpiel,

“You found a job yet?” Darrius sipped black coffee while Kentrell toyed with a plate of scrambled eggs, Kentrell’s eyes met Darrius’ own,

“Still lookin’.” a dry enough response from the younger Price boy; Darrius knew it to be incredulous,

“Uh huh. Look Tre, I’ono what you plan on doing, but it gotta be something. Shontay and Terell ass, too, cause I know damn well I’m not about to keep doin’ no’ double shifts at McDonalds for three lazy niggas.”

“Man, ain’ no--”

“Nah, nah, nigga. Shut up.”

“Man, aight. I’ll see what up.”

“I’m serious, nigga.”

Lorraine came out of the bathroom and prompted an end to the exchange. In her return, Kentrell found safety from Darrius scold; Lorraine and Darrius left the house after other random chatter between themselves. Kentrell watched them leave and then finished his eggs and sausage. He went back to his room and threw on the same red t-shirt he had worn yesterday and exchanged his slippers for decaying red Converse sneakers. From inside his drawer he retrieved his red bandana and stuffed it in the back pocket of the khaki pants he had also worn yesterday. Hygiene, then Kentrell was outside.

Beyond the black iron fence which enclosed the apartment complex were a handful of people, all of whom had some designated article of clothing in homage to the hood. Red belts, red socks, hats, shoes, flags. Of the ten or so young men and women standing outside, there were the two he had wanted to see most: Terell and Shontay, and of the duo it was Terrell who welcomed Kentrell--or KP as he was known in the streets--first,

“Woop. What up, nigga. Where you been?”

“Shit, sleep.”

“Sleep?! Nigga, it’s 12:30! Been waitin’ on yo’ ass all day.” KP joined with the rest of the group, to which Shontay gave her own greeting,

“Here come this ugly ass nigga!” KP kissed his teeth and indulged her with a one-arm side hug.

“Ya mama, nigga.” KP’s retorts were never quite tuned for quality,

“Whatever, you ready?” 20 sets of eyes turned to KP, nerves flashed up the boy’s spine and settled in the rest of his body. A millisecond too long passed in silence, they could smell the hesitation.

“On Lanes, nigga, you already know I’m ready. Shit, been ready, blood.” the answer appeased none, but no one feigned belief better than KP and his friends.

“We gon’ see.” Shontay and Terrell had already put in work, exactly what that work was was something Terell didn’t quite know. A cherry red cadillac pulled up in front of the apartments, inside a muscled, dark skinned black man with a scar beneath his eye and a blunt hanging from his mouth screeched the cadillac to a halt. Shontay let her eyes fall to the vehicle,

“There he go. Aye!” she shouted to the car, “What up Bone?!” Bone only gave a nod,

KP had frozen solid in just that short span of time, it took a nudge from Shontay to rev life into him. With lowered tone, she spoke,

“Go ‘head nigga, don’t make him call you ova there.”

KP’s legs carried him. Hands clutched the unlocked door and he stepped in. Instinctively, he reached a hand out to Bone, who merely stared at the hand and then hit the gas.

And in a few seconds it all became real to him.

1991 Honda Civic. The undisputed king of the road. Sure, the Russians in West Hollywood would usually be seen in a Mercedes-Benz, the Sureños their jacked lowriders, the Mongols MC their chopped Harleys. Even the Italians, still somehow hanging on this city, kept their image of “men of respect” by sticking almost exclusively to Cadillacs. But the Civic had none of the flash of these other cars. It was quiet, it was anonymous, it was nearly invisible. It was a car you didn't see coming until it was already too late. And that, George Choi felt, made it the perfect car for the Korean Mob right now. Maybe in a couple years he'd spend the money on a fancy BMW or Audi. Maybe that new Hyundai Tiburon, send some money back to the old country- that might be a better look.

As they cruised north up Normandie, they hit yet another pothole. Choi grimaced in annoyance, looked down to make sure he still had the Colt Trooper sitting in his lap. The .357 was a heavy gun for a smaller man, but he knew a single bullet would be enough to take someone off their feet, unless they were covered in armor like those freaks in North Hollywood a few months back. He looked at the driver of the Civic, a longtime soldier named Harold Kim, nodded when he saw the Ruger P90 wedged into a cupholder- easy access when it was needed but not sitting in plain sight. Kim knew what he was doing. Choi turned around to look at the man in the backseat, Ho-Seop Jeong. One of the new recruits, only in America for close to two years now, still struggling to learn English. And a former infantryman in the Republic of Korea Army, which was the main reason Choi had felt comfortable putting a Type 56 rifle in his hands. The Chinese copy of the legendary AK-47 was rugged, reliable, and durable, just like Jeong. They were ready for anything.

“I don't know about this, boss,” Kim said. His voice betrayed no nervousness but under his sunglasses his eyes darted back and forth. “We're getting into Little Armenia. That's AP's home turf. You know how those guys love drivebys.” The conversation flowed freely between English and Korean.

Choi clicked his tongue. “If we want to expand, we need to figure out what can be given and what can be taken away. This is going to be prime territory for that new thing we're working on, the crystals.”

“They're not just going to let us into their home,” Kim pointed out.

“I seem to remember the other day I came over to your apartment, we went inside and had a few beers. Your wife made kimchi.”

“That's different, you're my friend.”

“That's right, Kim. You let friends into your home.”

Kim shook his head, still keeping a wary eye out as they idled at a stoplight. “We don't have that kind of relationship with the Armenians.”

Choi shrugged. “We don't have beef, either. And neither of us like the Bloods. We've always been respectful neighbors, I think it's time we start being friends. They'll get distribution rights in their own territory, we get 20%. We lend each other muscle if need be,” he said with a grin to Jeong in the back seat. “Everybody wins.”

“Unless the Armenians say no.”

“They're not the only game in town. If they're not interested in a partnership, fuck 'em.” Choi leaned back. “We'll get Normandie Avenue one way or the other. If they don't like an olive branch maybe next time we come with a bat instead.” They stopped at the intersection with Hollywood Boulevard. “We're getting into Thai Town. That's thinking too far ahead. Turn around, Kim, let's keep scouting Little Armenia. We need to know the lay of the land before getting a sitdown with the Armenian leadership.”

The Civic pulled a U-turn, and the three men continued south down Normandie, looking for where to begin their chapter in the long history of gangs of Los Angeles.

March 18th, 1997

-----------------------------------------

Robert Earle was having a bit of a nap inside of his Ford Fiesta Mk3, After two days of working day and night without sleep he had deep bags under his eyes. During that period he was working on a case about some local politician and something to do with tax fraud. Robert wished he was working on more exciting, However this politician had broken the law and he has made it his mission to punish him. Waking up form his nap slapping himself a few times to wake himself up, Stumbling inside of his car and towards the compartment under the dashboard opening it with a low click. Rummaging inside and finding a small lukewarm flask filled with some Jim Bean bourbon, Fishing it out of the cluttered compartment opening the top of the flask. Taking a few large chugs out of the flask, Letting the brown liquid burn a little down his throat.

Putting away the flask into the compartment and starting his car, Heading off towards the FBI HQ listening to his favorite radio station. The classic rock tones of Rush filled his car, Finally finding his parking spot and parking his car. Getting out of his car and paying the parking meter not wanting to pay a ticket, Before he got out of his car he was searching comically for his brown leather briefcase. Finally finding it knocking off some of the burger wrappers and cups form the local burger shops, Locking up his car as he headed out into the lobby of the tall building. Walking inside and saying hello to Martha the receptionist that was nicer to him then anyone in the building.

Showing his id to the security there before finally walking to the elevator, Being stuck between some young agents, some secretaries and some office workers. Most of the agents were trying to play grab ass with the secretaries. He gave some dirty looks their way but as respond got some crude remarks his way, "Whatcha lookin at drunkie?" One of them said chuckling, "He's imaging as a big bottle of Jack" The other said laughing a bit loud. Robert ignored them finally getting to his floor and getting off, Heading towards his desk taking a seat in his ergonomic chair.

Setting his briefcase down underneath his desk, Booting up his computer and starting to look though some files on it. As well as sorting though the large piles of files and folders on his desk. Looking though the files on the fraud case or some other cases he was given and was working on, "Hi Robert you look like shit, You want me to take over on some of the smaller cases for ya?" A man said right behind him. Robert turned around to see a fat looking white man with dark black hair that was combed over his bald spot, "No it's okay Dylan you don't have to, I got it thanks" He said smiling at his co-worker.

Dylan was probably the only other person beside Martha that was friendly towards him, "Did you talk to Mercer about my investigation about those killings in La Brea Avenue?" Robert asked trying to sort his files. "Nope but you can talk to him about it i know he's has nothing go on until two PM" Dylan said pointing his thumb towards Mercer's office.

Robert thanked him and stood up telling him that they should meet at the local bar after work, Dylan agreed and Robert knocked on Ted Mercer's door. Ted Mercer was the leader of their department and was quite a hard ass, But Ted was honorable and knew that Robert was hard working and could get his shit done.

March 18, 1997

Celia parked her van in a handicapped space in the parking garage next to the FBI building in downtown Los Angeles. She was wearing her black blazer with a sapphire blue blouse and her sandy brown hair was pulled back into a pony tail. She enjoyed the last few notes of Bruce Springsteen’s “Brilliant Disguise” as she slowly closed her eyes and did a slow nod with the rhythm of the drum beat. Celia opened her eyes and said, “Ahh, musical nirvana. Maybe one day he and the E Street Band will get back together.” Celia shook her head and put her work bag in her lap and activated the opening process. She wheeled her chair into the lift and lowered it. As the lift lowered her chair her cell phone rang and Celia pulled out her phone. She kind of liked the flip phone action because it made her feel like it was something out of “Star Trek” Unbeknownst to the rest of the world Celia was a huge “Star Trek” fan. Although she wasn’t sure how she felt about “Deep Space Nine” or the new one called “Voyager.”

Flipping the phone open she said, “Dr. Carter.”

A voice on the other end said, “Dr. Carter this is Eddie and I thought I would let you know that the DNA test from the Henderson case finished up late last night.”

Celia slightly twisted her upper body as she pressed a button along the side of the lift which gave her chair a gentle push out off of the lift. Once her chair was clear the lift began to fold up and Celia closed the door and locked it. She said, “It’s a match for the husband isn’t it.”

As she began to wheel away from the van Eddie replied, “98% match and we got more than half the markers we need.”

Celia smiled and said, “Great! Get the report started Eddie I’ll get the D-A on the phone I’m guessing we’re in court sometime next week. Do you want this one?”

Eddie replied, “Really? Dr. Carter, I don’t know what to say. This is gonna be my first time in court”

Celia said, “You might as well bust your court cherry on this one. You were the one you pushed for the DNA testing of the sock drawer.”

He said, “Wow, umm yeah okay sure yeah. I just hope I don’t let you down.”

Celia began to wheel herself along the sidewalk as she said, “Don’t worry Eddie I’ll help prep you just tell the truth and give direct answers. As it was said in ‘Philadelphia’ ‘talk to me like I’m a four-year-old.’ Same concept here kid. I’ll be in there in a couple of minutes.”

She closed her phone as she pressed the handicap door button and wheeled herself into the building. Celia pulled out her badge and flashed it to the on-duty security guard. He looked at the badge and said, “Good morning Dr. Carter.” Celia put her badge away and said, “Hey Jack, how’s the family?” Jack replied, “Great Dr. Carter.”

Celia gave a wink and a smile as she wheeled her way to an opened elevator. As she approached the elevator several people moved to make room for her. Celia kept her composure and said, “I’ll get the next one.” Celia wheeled back as the doors closed. For the most part Celia had made peace with her paralysis, but there were moments like that where she felt like people were willing to help more out of pity than common courtesy. It made her feel like a freak or less than what she was. Celia closed her eyes for a brief moment and everything that happened on that night 4 years ago flooded back in the blink of an eye.

The doors opened up for another elevator and Celia quickly opened her eyes. As she wheeled herself into the elevator. Celia pressed the button for the 5th floor and waited patiently as other people began to board.

March 18th, 1997

---

“The boys around here call it ‘The Black Lagoon;’ a paradise. Only they say nobody has ever come back to prove it.”

A screen flickered white and gray across the dark room, illuminating the cracking plaster walls adorned by peeling paint. In the center sat a bed that barely fit the space and upon it rested a sea of blankets. The dialogue coming from the television was abruptly interrupted by the cries of the alarm clock placed on the bedside table as it wailed for attention. A pair of hands erupted from the pile of fabric with a mess of blonde hair following. Ellie clambered to end the noise, though her eyes remained cemented closed.

“Shush, shush, shush,” she muttered, violently flinging herself out of the covers and aiming a blind fist at the clock, successfully ending its tyranny. The woman grumbled something fierce as she swiped the back of her hands across her eyes and instinctively shuffled directly to the coffee maker situated next to the sink in the corner of the room.

A polo shirt and pair of khaki pants completed Ellie’s outfit, as with any work day. She scrambled to tug her hair into an elastic as she turned her doorknob with an elbow, balancing a multitude of objects in her arms. Upon freeing herself, she worked to make it down the long exterior corridor lined with identical doors without dropping anything. Ellie used her chin to balance a thermos as she bounced down a neglected stairwell and to the edge of the green tinged pool at the center of the complex.

“Mornin’, Sunshine!” she chimed as she headed towards the single pool chair on the patio. A man with a face drenched in hair and whose personal hygiene was clearly suffering rested there, the woman draped across him lacking both clothing and any dignity. “It’s from last night, but I kept it in the fridge,” she spoke essentially to herself, setting a distinguishable box of Chinese food beside them. “Brought Aspirin and some water too.” She continued placing the items she was describing, despite getting no response from either of the unconscious bodies. For a moment, she paused, jutting out her chin and narrowing her eyes at them.

“Aye, Tony?” At last, both of their chests rose. She considered reaching to find their pulses, but the gamble of scabies was not one she was willing to take. Risk versus benefit.

Ellie had moved into the motel upon arriving to the city. Her initial search consisted solely of the cheapest place that would allow her to stay the longest. The bad plumbing and fear of bed bugs or being mistaken for a prostitute came free with purchase. She considered moving somewhere nicer when she snagged her job, but Tony waived rent upon the unspoken agreement that she would bring him occasional leftovers and clean up what she could of his bad decisions.

After draping a towel over the two, Ellie glanced to the watch on her wrist. “Ah, shit.” She frantically reached into her back pocket for her keys, coming up empty.

“Ah, shit!”

March 18th, 1997

---

Most of the ride was silent. The most interaction between the two came when Bone offered a .40 oz of Ole English and KP took a sip; his hands shook. Sweet scent of cherry stunk up the car’s interior as Bone hit the blunt. Music drowned the nerves much as it could. They reached a stop sign and were soon on the border of the East side of their turf near 117th. Bone halted the car, and popped the passenger side lock. A head nod, KP got out an in the fear and frenazy he forgot to close the door. Bone whistled and said the only words KP had ever heard him say,

“Close my mothafuckin’ door, blood.”

KP did as was asked and the red cadillac departed at Bone’s hest. KP turned, eyes laid on the group of about six men who were shooting dice in front of a dilapidated house encircled by a small metal fence. A rusty weight bench sat in the miniscule front yard as well as a rottweiler. No ‘Beware Dog’ sign in sight. KP parsed chatter amid the six kneeled men as they progressed through their game of craps,

“Snakes, nigga.” taunted Tiny Bear,
“Fuck outta here, bluh, doubles nigga.” retorted Peanut,
“Ain’ no fuckin’ doubles, bluh, roun’ up.” concluded Six Pack,
“I’m in nat.” added a muscled, stocky man. KP had seen him before, older homies called him Twin. Armed robbery, extortion, kidnapping. Word was he might have the longest jacket on the turf. It was him who noticed Kentrell and checked him,

“Aye, bluh, who you?”

KP glanced up at Twin, memory served KP right; he had seen Bear around 111 street when KP was younger. Kentrell responded swiftly as was protocol,

“KP. Where Al at?” Twin frowned, Kentrell couldn’t tell whether it was because of the sun or because Twin was confused,

“Ohhh shit! Lil Kentrell? Baby K? Shonda nem Ke--”
“Yeah, nigga, Baby K.”
“Shiiit! Nigga, the fuck you doin’ ova here?”
“I’m lookin’ fo--”
“I know who the fuck you lookin’ fo’, nigga, why though? Know damn well ya mama don’ play that shit.”

Kentrell chose silence. Twin rose to his feet and moved closer to KP,

“Wha’s all this?” Twin tugged at Kentrell’s red shirt, a little too rough for Kentrell’s liking.

Kentrell kissed his teeth and Twin laughed. The mocking was never subtle,

“Oh you a big boy now, huh? You onna hood now, huh? Kssshh!” he jumped at Kentrell who immediately balled his fist up and stuck Twin in his lip. Realization sunk in; Twin felt the cut along his lip with a few fingers, shock radiated for but the briefest second. The next thing Kentrell knew he was pinned up against the car, covering himself from Twin’s onslaught. The others watched and jeered,

“Gon’ let him fuck you up like that, bluh?” touted Peanut,
“Damn, nigga! Fight back!” of course Tiny Bear had something to add,
“Buster ass nigga!” and Six Pack brought a close to the symphony of deprecation,

Kentrell covered himself and did manage to make Twin miss a few blows, but the ones that landed in his stomach and forearms keeled him over,

“Stupid li’l nigga! Chu never touch me aga--” the door creaked open, all eyes turned except a damaged KP’s and an enraged Twin’s,

“The fuck is y’all stupid niggas doin’ in my mothafuckin’ yard, blood? Twin get off the li’l nigga, blood, and bring yo’ stupid ass and his stupid ass in here, blood!” it was Al, or as the younger bloods knew him, “Evil Al”. Leader of the 117th street clique of the Denver Lanes.

No matter the terror Twin had built in him for Kentrell, it was incised by the OG’s command. He came to his senses unnaturally quick and turned to walk inside. Kentrell gathered himself best as he could and hobbled inside, an arm wrapped around his stomach. Al held the door open for Twin, but not KP--aching arms outstretched to the iron bars around the door and pulled it open before it closed. Kentrell grimaced in pain.

Once inside, there were no less than ten members from both the 117th street clique--many of them newbies like Kentrell--and Kentrell’s own 109th street clique who also had a handful of new faces Kentrell didn’t quite recognize including a few females. There were reputables from the other cliques in the neighborhood sprinkled throughout, too: the 111, 112, 115, 118, and 120. The 109th street clique’s big homie, Killer Tone stood near the back of the room alongside… Shontay? Now wasn’t the time to ask questions, just to listen.

“Sit down, blood.” Evil Al instructed Kentrell, who did nothing but oblige.

On the table lay a map of the turf surrounding the Denver Lanes. They were sandwiched between two sets of Hoover Criminals: one on the south of the Lanes own turf on 109th and Figueroa all the way down to 92nd St and the 107 Hoover Criminals to their West alongside a much smaller Crip gang, the Pimp Town Gangster Crips (PTC) who had cliqued up with the 107s. To the north of the Lanes were the Raymond Avenue Crips and to the East across the 110 freeway lie the 112 Broadway Crips and the 118 East Coast Crips, all who numbered from 50-300 deep per individual neighborhood with the Raymond Avenue Crips being the largest.

The Lanes only allies were the neighboring Crenshaw Mafia Bloods, one of the largest blood gangs on the West Side of Inglewood as well as a small Sureno click who were to the south of the Lanes as well. The only reason the Lanes were still around were thanks to their numbers, anywhere from 150-400 deep depending on who one asked, but only members knew how deep the hood truly was.

Put simply, it was time to push these smaller hoods from their borders.

Evil Al and Killer Tone stepped up and addressed the room. Killer Tone took the floor first,

“Listen, bluh, we quiet out here, bluh. Nigga, Raymonds came thu jus’ las’ week gettin’ at us, bluh an’ what we do since then? Nothin’, bluh. The older G’s ain’ pushin’ no lines, ain’ givin’ no get back, bluh, an’ we can’ move like that, bluh. Krispies and naps mobbin’ thu our shit on the daily, bluh, and homies is spooked like,” then Tone added,

“We ain’t lettin’ no mo’ of that shit go, blood. On Lanes, nigga, this why y’all here. Hood gotta change or ain’ no mo’ flaggin’ shit. Them niggas gone run us out the muhfuckin’ city, blood. So this what it is: all y’all niggas in this room ‘bout to earn them flags y’all like to carry ‘round, blood.” keeping the rhythm of the rally going, Killer Tone continued,

“Tip Toe-” Tone nodded to Shontay, “found out from a li’l nap ‘bout a li’l function nem krispies havin’ ‘morrow night an’ we gon’ hit that shi’, bluh. Ain’ it tho’, bluh, while couple y’all do dat the ressa y’all gon’ hit them snoovas, bluh. KP you an’ Tip Toe an’ Six Pack an’ Bear an’ Twin gon’ funk wit’ me early nex’ time an’ we gone go ova the res’.” and to cap it off, Evil Al spoke,

“The rest of y’all niggas wit’ me. We hittin’ them snoovas later. But on’ worry ‘bout all that right now. Y’all gon’ get up wit’ me after all that other shit die down. An’ listen blood, we got too many enemies for you dumbass niggas to be knockin’ against witout usin’ ya muhfuckin’ heads first. Stay in bounds until we make this move, anything y’all got that’s hot gotta go, blood. I’m talkin’ ‘bout even the silva, blood. Stay in bounds and stay low. Now get the fuck out my house, blood.”
At the dismissal, they all rose and left. Outside, Shontay and Kentrell walked back to the Vista together, although it would be quite a long walk.

“Tip Toe? What type’a shit is that?” Kentrell egged,
“Shut up, goofy. You heard what the big homie said, ain’t shit to play a thirsty nigga out his mouthpiece.”

Kentrell raised an eyebrow, partly in disappointment and partly impressed, “Niggas gone think you a jump.”

“I’on’ give a fuck what niggas think. We in this shit, fuck a civilian.”
“I mean… Darius and Lorraine civilians too.”
“Okay, and? Wasn’t talkin’ ‘bout them. Shit, speakin’ of them I been told L ass I was gone get up wit’ her.:” she said more to herself than to Kentrell,
“‘Bout what?”
“Some money.”
“Oh? Y’all ain’t trynna cut nobody in?”
“Nah… nah, nah, this just between me an’ her.” a little deflation marked the words, Kentrell didn’t say anything he just nodded and made a mental note for later, they turned the corner of 115th and Vermont Avenue, a long strip of land known as the “Lane” or the “Hive” for its uniqueness among other streets within the Lanes turf--it was a stretch of old abandoned factories and fewer houses, it was also where many of the hood’s gangways were. A place where many of the Lanes ran prostitution and drugs, partied, and died. Perfect for,

--

Blue bandanas covered their faces and blue Converse patterned the ground as they ran up the alleyway,

“Aye cuh, there go two of them niggas right there, cuh.”

“Aye, ain’ that the one li’l bitch from las’ night?” Marquise “DuRocc” Thomas squinted,

“Shit’chea, cuh. She a slob?” Vernon “Buddha” Harrison’s heart sunk, but he would deal with his feelings another time, “Who that nigga wit’ her though?”

“Don’t matter, loc’, hurry yo’ ass up fo’ they get away!” Thomas cocked the hammer on his Glock 19; Harrison checked the clip on his Sig Sauer P226 and made sure the safety was off,

“We ain’ got all day, nigga. Come on!” and with that, Thomas and Harrison raced up the gangway parallel to the Price siblings,

Kentrell head the footsteps before he heard the call; in mere seconds his head turned and the world slowed--all he saw was blue.

“AYE, WHAT UP CUH!”

---------------------
March 18th, 1997
---------------------

"Big Dave, my man, how you doin t-a-day?" The blackman to whom the sentence was addressed went stiff before slowly raising his hands and turning. He was as broad in the shoulders as some men were tall and the golden chain about his neck looked as if it might choke him to death if he put on any more neck muscle.

He regarded the two police officer who stood before him with barely concealed caution. He knew damn well that when the two cops appeared, trouble soon followed for some ganger somewhere. While he might not like cops, the two had never been anything but decent to him save for the one time they'd beat the wheels off him when he resisted arrest.

"Yo Mr. T and the Commandant in the house! How long you in town for?" There were not many cops that "Big Dave" feared but these two were at the top. The Gang Enforcement Unit didn't hire run of the mill boys, they brought in the toughest mother fuckers out there. They needed to be in the 7-7.

"Long enough." Mr. T replied. His real name was Johnny Mack, so named for the make of the truck he sometimes seemed to resemble. At 6'7 and nearing 300 pounds, he was a promising NFL draft pick when he'd left it all to be a cop. He'd been partnered up with Patrick Chappel four years earlier and the two made a hell of a pair, driving a GMC Suburban just so they didn't bottom out on curbs. "What's the goods down here today?"

Mack did most of the talking, Big Dave had noticed that right away, the white dude, while smaller, was the more dangerous of the two. He always looked at you like you were prey and the stories they'd heard about him from his army days in Africa, well, the dude was fucking scary shit.

"Word is some gangers is lookin to make a play for some turf in the next coupla days." Big Dave was a small time drug mover, running a legitimate video rental business as well. He had even gone to College for a couple of years before dropping out and returning home. His store had an unofficial truce in place between rival gangs, all of whom kept on eye on their boys in order to keep the new flicks rolling in, cheap. Every video in the store was stolen but the boys in blue tended to look the other way if he tossed them the odd tidbit of useful info.

"Big play?" Mack asked. He was standing with his hands on his hips, close to his pistol. The Commandant always stood with his feet shoulder width apart, hands clasped just over his mid-section, eyes never ceasing to move, head on a swivel. Big Dave had heard the stories about how a couple gangers had tried to kill the man by jumping him with knives. He'd fought them both off with his baton and fists. Neither ganger one would ever eat without the help of a straw again.

"Yea, reckon there will be some dead'uns." Big Dave glanced around the store. It was early afternoon and no one else was around yet. The two cops were in plain clothes and their black unmarked suburban was nowhere to be seen. "Yo, I like the chin fuzz, white boy."

The Commandant was sporting a beard with two long braids out the bottom. Privately, it reminded Big Dave of a Viking warrior. The white man's face split into a broad smile and Big Dave couldn't help but smile back. The fellow was always polite until you pushed him.

"Aye, cheers bru. Decided to give it a go and I think it 'as ta'ned out aight. You been wo'king out? You look fit my bru." The mans accent always made Big Dave want to chuckle since it just sounded damn strange. But one did not laugh at the Commandant, the man had a long memory.

"I've been hitting the iron, yea." Big Dave was flattered the cop had noticed. He had been working out hard for the last few years in order to compete in a Mr Olympia competition.

"I reckon you 'ave got a chance. Good luck." The Commandant flashed another smile even as he snapped his gaze toward the parking lot outside. "Customers. We'll scarper. Thanks Big D."

The two cops nodded and quietly vanished into the rear of the store where Big Dave knew they would let themselves out the backdoor once the coast was clear. It was weird, liking two cops, but they were always decent to him. Maybe he'd invite them for a beer, or a brew as the Commandant put it, one day. He wondered if they'd say yes.

March 18th, 1997

---

Her day had been cut short, but that wasn't unusual for someone in her position. Nicole stepped out of her car, the temperature a bit cool given she was only wearing her scrubs. A few moments later she walked through the front door, Davin greeting her the same way he always did.

"What's up, doc?"

"Hey, Davin. Why don't you ever call with good news? You know, like "Take the day off, you're covered."

"Because you're the best in the business, baby," he grinned, his arms wide open in front of him. In response, Nicole burst out laughing, turning her back to Davin as she headed towards her office.

"Only take messages, please and thank you."

Davin gave her a quick reply as he buzzed her in, saving her from having to scan her ID. Nicole headed straight for her office, turning on the light in the small space before setting her stuff down. She had her various degrees, her high school diploma, and a number of honors awards displayed on the walls. In addition, a bookshelf stood behind her desk which branched out to the left in the shape on an L. She didn't have much else in there; a couple of chairs, a small shelf with some personal pictures and decors, and a plant. Unfortunately, the stack of reports was about the only thing she ever noticed. But not that day. She was set on freeing up some time before the next body arrived.

Out on the main autopsy suite, Nicole sat in her station, looking over some x-rays from the latest case she had. The poor guy was beaten, stabbed, shot... It'd be a while before a cause of death could be determined. The body had been examined to a certain extent, sure, but that was just the routine stuff. The real work had yet to begin.

Up to that point, Nicole had been so caught up in her work that she didn't notice Detective Wilden standing behind her until she spun her chair around. Nicole nearly jumped out of her skin, forcing herself to hold off on cursing out Wilden for the sake of staying on his good side.

"Jesus Christ, you could have announced yourself." Nicole stood up; not that it mattered as Wilden still towered over her given his impressive 6'4 stature. The homicide detective was one of the ones that often paid her a visit, regardless whether she called him in to give him an update.

"You've wasted yet another trip, I don't have anything for you. I'm sorry."

Wilden leaned to one side, taking a peek at the various x-rays that laid on the desk behind her. He smiled at her, although it wasn't a friendly one. It was then she wished Davin would just walk in through the double doors to pull her away from Wilden's presence.

"You've got a lot on your plate, is that it?" he half-mocked, making her blood boil. Nicole hated the way he would talk to her sometimes. She tried walking past him, but he effortlessly sidestepped in front of her to block her path. She then looked up at him, visibly annoyed.

"Was my response not good enough for you? Because I can call--"

"Relax, darling. It's not like I'd force you to give me what I need."

Nicole gave him a cold stare. She balled up her hands into fists to prevent herself from lashing out at him. Even if he was stupid enough to bring up any charges, she really didn't care about that. The only thing that mattered to her was her job, which would be on the line the second she acted up.

"Then you'll get the phone call when we have something."

Wilden smirked. "You know, you look pretty hot when you get worked up. It definitely suits you." He then walked away, leaving Nicole with the extreme urge to throw the pencil sharpener on the desk at him. But if he thought he could just walk in again without her getting at least a quick notice beforehand, he was in for quite the surprise.

March 18th, 1997

---

The golden trickle of honey sank right to the bottom of the adorned glass, an intricate silver coating adorning the cup where it was being poured. A lazily dragged spoon followed soon after, as is the feminine hand reveled in how intricate the glass was, and tried to milk the moment for all its worth. The manicured nails tapped on the table slightly, as the cup was then dragged to an adorned mouth, lipstick lingering on the top of the glass after the deed was done.

She scoffed for a second, before doubling down on the honey. The tea was unbelievable strong, she felt like she could even chew the leaves if she so desired. She eyed her surroundings, the kitchen of a small tea-shop in the middle of Little Armenia, a rather unimpressive, if very boorish presentation. The Russian woman adjusting her sitting in the creaking chair as inquisitive grey eyes peeking though a wavy blonde mop of hair, towards her host.

The tea is strong. He wants to butter me up, despite being dragged to a rather out-of-the-way kitchen Vera quickly pieced together as she offered a thin smile. "This tea is nice, Davit". She answered, crossing her legs to shift her position. A burly man with an impressive moustache moved his bushy eyebrows in acknowledgment as she went on. "You really must want that favour from me." She smile and she tilted her head.

"Well, yes. Those Korean upstarts are trying to set up a meeting with our boss. But I can see that nasty glint of ambition in their eyes." Davit sighed, as he rubbed his temple. "Better a friendly reminder that we have good friends, no? Abram doesn't need to know about this." Vera tilted her head upon the remark.

"True, Abram isn't the sharpest tool in the box. A good blunt instrument. But not what it is required to make new friends." The former Russian KGB operative confessed to the Armenian. She rubbed her temples. "I think I can excuse two or three, no more. Abram will get suspicious if he finds many of my girls, including myself, missing. Puppeteering people is never easy." She confessed, acknowledging the inviolability of Davit's inner sanctum.

"Honeytraps?" The Armenian asked.

"If I told you, what fun would there be on it? Be glad I am not sending armed people." Vera said, as she finished her tea with a strong gulp. "Most of the armed people are on the prowl of those black american bold little pups. And now there's the cop kills cop situation. Not a good time to strongarm anyone" She added, as she raised from the table to her full height. "But these Koreans seem definitely interesting. I want to see what kind of kimchi do they really make."

The Armenian man, as if upon cue, raised from the table. "Well, I guess this is it, then." He extended his hand in a handshake. Callous and scarred, was met with the pale feminine one of the woman. "This meeting never happened." He added, a cocky grin lifting his moustache slightly. "Just like old times, Spider." He made a remark. "Don't you miss it? I still keep my cyanide pills in my desk, you know."

"Davit, I don't miss being nearly killed more times than I care to count. All I want is a cozy place to fatten myself up and live the rest of my days. That has gotten tricky as of late, Fox." She added, crossing her arms across her chest. The man grabbed her coat, made of splendid fur that would make PETA activists flare up with rage, and offered it to her. "Thanks."

"Nonsense. We both know ... that people like us can't really quit. We're too far gone." The Armenian said solemnly as she went towards the back door.

"See you soon, then Davit." The woman announced, clacking her heels in an almost catlike walk.

"See you, Vivi."

@MST3K 4ever

March 18th, 1997

------------------------------------

Robert entered Mercer's office, Noticing things like the many medals and awards behind Mercer's chair. "Please have a seat" Mercer said taking a seat in his large ergonomic chair, "How was your last case? That kidnapping case in Settle?" Mercer asked him not looking at Robert but at some folders filled with paper. "It went well, Like i told you my suspicions were correct. It was the grandmother that had kidnapped her grandson and ransomed him for money" He said softly looking over at Mercer with a blank expression, "Good to hear, Anyway i have another case for you, Their is a homicide that happened downtown" He said causally throwing a folder onto the desk in front of Robert. Robert picking up the folder and looking though it, "Fredrick "Barney" Foley? You want me to investigate some gang banger?" He asked trying to clarify things. Mercer looked finally his way with a soft nod of his head, "Yes because we believe a gang leader named "Mr.Rigs" and his crew is responsible" Robert was nodding his head as Mercer spoke.

"I see then does the forensic team have any clues?" Robert asked wondering if the forensic team was working on what clues they might have found, "Yes they are working on some clues on the body, You know bullet wounds and what not. I will call her to get her down their to meet you to discuss her findings" Mercer said relaxing in his large chair. Robert nodded his head being told he can call him if he needs any other assists on the case. "Robert nodded his head walking out of his office with the folder under his arm.

Taking a deep breath walking towards the elevator clicking on it as the doors opened up, Waking inside and pressing the button that lead him to where the forensic lab was. Mentally preparing himself for his next case, A brief image of one of his friend's bloodied face appearing. Quickly opening his eyes as the elevator door opened in front of him, Getting out and heading into a small room where the forensic lab was. Seeing that no one was there at the moment, He could read what was inside the folder while he waited, Putting his glasses out from his jacket pocket. His eyesight was good but he needed them for things like reading, Waiting for the time being for Dr.Carter.

He had heard of her before, The "Girl Genius" as she was called around the forensic lab. Some of those nicknames included some sexist and derogatory words he does not want to think of. Hopefully she would play ball and try to him work on the case.

The elevator door opened Celia wheeled herself down the hall towards her office. As she made her way down the hall she stopped at an open doorway and looked in seeing Dr. Amy Parker studying her computer screen and asked, "So how was your deposition yesterday?"

Amy brushed back her black hair and replied turning to Celia, "No biggie. Pretty straightforward." Amy looked over Celia's shoulder and walked over to close the door. When the door shut Celia turned her chair to Amy and asked with great anticipation in her voice, "Did you see it last night?"

Amy looked dumbfounded for a moment and said, "D'uh! Best episode of 'Voyager' I've seen in a long time! Kim was so good in it, and the way Tuvok helped him figure out what was going on. It was brilliant."

Celia smiled as she said, "So true about Kim! He is such an underrated Character on that show. I think they need to cut back on Paris. He's okay but I don't see how they can really develop his character much more."

Amy walked back over to her desk and grabbed a coffee as she began to sip on it. Amy asked, "What do you think of the rumors that their getting ready to make a Borg character a crew member?"

Celia shrugged her shoulders and replied, "I don't know. It's a rumor I'll believe it when I see it, but it does raise some interesting possibilities. Anyway..." Celia looked at her watch and said, "Guess it's time to go earn my check." She turned back to Amy and asked, "My place, Friday night Next Gen Season three marathon?"

Amy replied, "I'll bring the Salsa if you make those margaritas again."

Celia smiled and said, "Done. In that case you might want to bring your PJs with you."

Amy winked and smiled as Celia returned the wink. She wheeled herself out of Amy's office and over to her office. Just then her phone rang and she answered, "Carter."

She heard Mercer reply, "Good morning Dr. Carter. Need you down in the lab to meet up with one of our agents named Robert Earle. Give him an update on the Folley case."

Celia replied, "On my way." Celia was starting to gain her focus on her job and go into what people called 'Celia Mode.' Where she became all business and almost rude with her straight forwardness.

Celia arrived in the lab and said, "Agent Earle, Dr. Carter you can call me Celia if you want, but if you call me 'The Girl Genius' at any point I will not be pleased." She wheeled over to Earle and said, "So far it looks like a straightforward gang shooting. A gang banger on the wrong side of someone else's turf. He was clean and sober early indications are he had sexual intercourse within an hour of being shot." She shrugged her shoulders and said, "Romeo and Juliet maybe. The only things I know for sure he had been dead for over an hour before we got the call and that the first shot wasn't the kill shot. Other than that we're still working on the body."

@MST3K 4ever

Robert quickly stood up when Dr. Carter came into the room, Putting away the folder onto the chair he was sitting on. "I see, Do you think perhaps he was seeing one of his "side girl" before he was shot? And a jealous boyfriend had shot him?" He said putting away his glasses suggesting some possibilities, "Do you have any findings of the caliber of the bullet or any blood or hair that might give us a clue on the shooter?" He asked her wondering if she could give him any other clues. "Would i be able to look at what your findings so far? Perhaps we can work together on getting any clues" He said not wanting to sound pushy with his investigation.

The older man was looking at her hearing about her accident that put her into the wheelchair, It reminded him of the few surviving friends. Their bodies broken and mangled beyond repair, All of them mental broken and living a hellish life being trapped in their bodies. He felt empathy for the doctor, And he felt like he was staring at one of his friends that he felt guilty getting blow to shit. He was trying to hold back tears with him coughing loudly once in a while. "My apologies i do not wish to be pestering you with questions, When you are still working on the how and why of this situation" He said wanting to be sincere.

Suddenly his cellphone rang with a cute digital melody of the original Star Trek theme, "I am so sorry, Just excuse me for a moment" He said taking the call from the corner of the room. "Hello? Sandra? Oh yeah sorry honey i am at work right now, I do not know when i will be able to pick you up to visit me on the weekend" He said into the receiver of the phone, Their was a few moments of silence before he spoke again. "I know i am so sorry Sandy....Sandy?Sandy? Fuck" He cursed under his breath putting away his cellphone, Taking a deep breath before returning to meet with Dr.Carter. "Again i am sorry, It was a important phone call" He said trying to mask the sad tone in his voice. It was his daughter who was reaching the age of being a teenager, He was doing his best to be in her life and not lose her like his wife. But with his job and personal demons it was easier said then done.

March 18th, 1997

---

"Davin!"

"Dr. Davenport?"

"I thought I told you not to let Wilden in?"

"I didn't. He must have walked past when I went to the boy's room."

Nicole sighed, shaking her head. "Goddammit! Can't even catch a break here at work."

"Nicole..." Davin stood up, walking around the front desk to stand beside the woman. "Is the situation that bad? I mean, do you need help dealing with that guy?"

She looked up at him, her arms crossed in front of her and a slightly helpless look on her face. "What am I, or what are we supposed to do? He's a cop, and you know how work politics goes; they'll just tell me to get over myself. They'll tell me that he's a good guy, and a cop nonetheless, with no record. That either I'm exaggerating or I'm extremely bitter because we were dating and he dumped me, so now I'm coming after his job. Or maybe I've been spending too much time in here with all these bodies...it's all fucking--"

"Hey, calm down!" Davin interrupted the frantic woman, pulling her in for a hug. His voice was stern but only because she needed someone right that moment. He'd known her for a while, and even though the job brought some great deal of stress at times, he'd never seen her react as such.

Nicole remained still for a moment, slowing her breathing back to normal. "Thank you, Davin," she whispered, pulling back to look up at him. "You're one of the good ones, you know that?"

"So I've been told," he chuckled with a quick wink, taking a step back to lean on the counter with his elbows.

"I think I'm going to step out for a minute," Nicole went on, taking a quick look outside through the glass. "I'm not gonna be long, just a few blocks away to grab something at the store. Page me the second that body comes in if I'm not already here, please."

"Of course. Don't worry, I'll hold down the fort."

Davin went back around the desk to his seat, and Nicole started heading to her office to grab her wallet and the keys to her car. She would welcome the fresh air for a bit; not that she had been in the office too long but it would do her good after her run-in with Wilden.

---------------------
March 19th, 1997
---------------------

"Officers, let me be brief. I have a huge fucking problem," LAPD Chief Willie L. Williams had decided to be frank with the two officers he had called into his office. "Which means you have the same problem."

The two stared back at him without comment. Officer Johnny Mack was impassive as ever, his slab ham of a face dominating the conversation without saying a word. Officer Patrick Chappel sat as he always did, one knee crossed over the other, hands together in his lap, a flicker of amusement in the deep blue eyes. Neither said anything in response.

"We have a dead cop, a black cop, Kevin Gaines." He waited for a reaction but neither man even flinched. Mack had seen his fair share of dead black cops in the 7-7 and, well, Chappel had been killing black folk for God and Country long before he moved to LA. As if another did African-American was going to bother them. "Shooter was a white cop, Frank Lyga."

"Gaines has previously been investigated for possible gang affiliations and I think we might have more coming. Lyga has been a good cop and I want you two to work the streets and see what you can learn about Gaines operation, if any, outside of this agency. Questions?"

"Are we reporting to you?" Mack spoke, his voice a deep rumble that Williams might have found pleasant under different circumstances.

"Yes, and to whatever task force we have set up. It's not on the books yet, obviously. Your names came up when I asked for some Gang Enforcement men."

Mack glanced at Chappel who returned the gaze and then nodded his head.

"And what discretion do we have?"

"Whatever it takes."

"Yes sir." Mack responded, a smile cracking the huge face to reveal teeth that were badly stained by tobacco use. "Anything we can find on Gaines. What about Lyga?"

Williams looked comfortable for a moment but then nodded. "Yes, him too."

"Right you are Chief. Anything else?"

"No, that'll be all."

The two officers stood and saluted, Mack with his typical sloppy police salute, Chappel with the whip crack sharpness of a former soldier. They quickly vanished from the room as Williams picked up the phone and dialed out for his secretary.

"Emily, get me Detective Poole from Homicide @Byrd Man, Medical Examiner Davenport @Liv, and whoever you can get from the FBI Forensics that they will lend us @MST3K 4ever. Yes, I am sure they will want an agent involved, tell them to bring along whoever they damn well please @Eviledd1984, this is a priority. I am going to need all the help we can get here so this doesn't look like some sort of cover up."

He swore as he placed the phone back on the cradle. A black cop shot by a white cop in LA. The media was going to have a field day. He had to do whatever it took to make the investigation as transparent as possible. With another curse he picked up the phone and dialed the mayor.

Celia didn't mind Earle in her lab asking questions and wanting to help. She knew he was vet and wanted to get things moving before the case grew cold. Celia knew that the first 24-48 hours in an investigation were critical.

The "Star Trek" ringtone made Celia smirk briefly as Earle went to another corner to take the call. She could hear brief mumblings about what was going on, but that wasn't her focus as one of her techs walked into the lab. The tech handed her a file and a plastic bag with the what appeared to be scraps and pieces. He said, "Here's the preliminary work up so far. There are some interesting items I think you should take note of Dr. Carter."

Celia took the file and bag and said, "Thanks David." He left the room as Earle was getting off of the phone. She heard his apology and said, "It's okay life gets in the way from time to time. No worries." Celia wheeled herself to a desk and put the bag and the folder on the desktop and said, "Well Agent Earle, things just got interesting."

She pointed to the bag and said, "The powder residue indicates that these shells came from a forty-four magnum. However, the shells themselves have been customized." Celia looked up at Earle and said, "They don't match anything in our database. Meaning our killer has money to get bullets like these done. They're a ceramic polymer with metalac elements in the base material meaning when they enter the body a lot of times they break apart causing the shreds to destroy tissue and bone far more effectively than an ordinary bullet. We've two rounds that are pretty well intact so that gives us something" Celia nodded and said, "That also means that the theory of this being just another gang banger on the wrong side of a turf war takes a bit of a hit. Unless someone in a gang knows someone with bucks who can get custom made rounds like this."

Celia then pulled out a couple of the photos of the body and used a pointer to point out two creases in the shirt. She said, "Those creases didn't come from our body bags. Which means that the killer did our victim in another part of town possibly, and dropped them where the body was found."

Taking a deep breath Celia said, "Our killer knows we would figure that part out. Custom rounds, a forty four, putting a gang banger in the wrong turf. This perp is very smart, and they are toying with us because they can." Celia looked at Earle and said, "Time for us to get to work."

Celia picked up the phone and dialed a number. She said into the receiver, "Ross? Hey it's CC how are you?...Not bad...listen I've a casing and it's not in our database meaning...yeah we need you to take look at it and see if you recognize the handy work....great I'll send one of my lab rats down within the hour....right...bye." Celia disconnected the call and then dialed three numbers. She said, "David get in here you're going on a field trip."

A young lab tech entered the lab and Celia put on rubber gloves. She put them on and pulled out a plastic bag, removed one of the intact casings, put it in the bag and gave it to the tech. Celia said, "Take this down to Ross he's expecting it."

The lab tech left and Celia turned back to Earle and said, "Ross Kraft he is the manager at the Gun Club on Wilshire. He knows about everything there is about guns and rounds. When we get stumped on something like this we call him up and he usually comes through for us." Celia closed the file and asked, "So anything else you can think of Agent Earle?"

March 19th, 1997

---

♫ War, children, it's just a shot away
It's just a shot away
Rape, murder!
It's just a shot away
It's just a shot away ♫

"Gimme Shelter" was the song currently playing from the small radio behind her. The volume wasn't too loud, just loud enough to provide some form of distraction as Nicole dug her hand into Mr. Wilson's thoracic cavity. She was gloved up, wearing an isolation gown, and a face shield as well. Her hair was pulled back into a high ponytail to keep it from disturbing her while she did her job. With the lung in hand, she turned around and placed it on the tray, giving her back to Mr. Wilson's grotesquely displayed body. Nicole carefully inspected the organ, paying close attention to the bullet wound. From a simple, superficial check, Nicole noticed the wound to possibly conflict with the homicide report that had been filed. She would have to do further examination regarding the angle of entry, and she took off her gloves to make some notes for the file.

After taking some time to write down the information, she put on a fresh pair of gloves and directed her attention to the organ once more. She went through the typical procedure regarding entry and exit wounds, the same one she had routinely performed countless of times before.

"Hmm..."

The young medical examiner was right, the angle at the point of entry was inconsistent with the report. She'd come to the conclusion that the wound was angled in such a way that Mr. Wilson had been shot while lying in the prone position, not while him and the individual in question were struggling, as the report stated.

Nicole went back to the paperwork, removing her gloves once more in order to write down her findings. As she was writing, the phone in the corner of the room went off and she walked over to answer it.

"Davenport."

"Dr. Davenport, it's Ed. Chief Williams' secretary called advising he'd like to see you down in the station. She didn't give any details."

"Oh, uh let me just finish down here and I'll head that way soon. Thanks Ed.

---

Down at the precinct, Nicole walked in through the front door, telling the individual behind the counter the reason for her visit. She was given a temporary badge and was told to wait for a bit. As she headed over the chair to take a seat, Nicole couldn't help but let her nerves get the better of her. She wondered whether she'd been called to the station because of something to do with Wilden; the two weren't exactly best friends, but it's not like she had threatened him.

Dressed in her green scrubs and white shoes, Nicole stood out like a sore thumb among a wave of uniformed individuals going about their day, but she simply sat there and waited.