ONL

The Rain In The Cycolpean City. (H.P. Lovecraft/Cthulhu Mythos Roleplay)

Richard Barker

Saying that this case was getting stranger by the minute was an understatement. As Richard walked closer towards the neglected house, rain pouring down and running off his fedora, he got a closer look at two he could see around the house - the big fella with an umbrella and the window-paint guy who'd yelled at them. There were something about the two of them, though it was the big brute of a man he recognized. The name didn't come to him at first, though it was at the tip of his tounge. Too bad the rain drowned out Richard's thoughts, not to mention the loud-mouth who talked to the unknown duo.

Richard walked up to the house just in time to stand beside the big guy, in front of the house in clear sight of the first man inside - clearly someone called "Val" was already inside tearing the place apart. Richard could see the marks in the doorframe, clear signs that someone had entered by force. Crowbars? Probably. "Yeah…strange is the adjective I was lookin' for, mister…?" Richard replied to the nameless man in the doorway, dressed in a trenchcoat too big for him to be taken seriously and a tie that'd make your mother-in-law frown. Without warning, he was told not to come any closer because of some 'developing situation', ordered to show their identification and in turn have a pocketed gun pointed at them. Well if that wasn't just peachy? "My, my, such a lot of guns in this town and so few brains…"

The guy in the trenchcoat had acted like he was a cop or something, using said jargon and calling the Italian-looking guy "partner". Richard couldn't figure out if he was lying his ass off or not, though one act stuck out to him - the moment of hesitation: the brief span of time when he 'became' a cop, as if he needed to get into a role. Either this guy was lying, or he was just a lousy cop, both of which could be true, though Richard was paying more attention to the group as a whole. And yes, the gun.

"I can answer that for ya, big bal, that's 1111 South Curlew Drive." Richard calmly answered the man named Ambrose, slowly reaching into his inside pocket and pulling out a wallet for the two 'authorities' to see. He wasn't moving quickly or violently, making sure they didn't get a chance to shoot him - unless his mouth got him shot again. "And I suppose none of you two are Mr. Everfield or Mr. Stockhold then?" Richard asked, pulling out his private detective-license from said wallet and handing it to whomever of the two guys from the house, refusing to hold his hands up and instead taking this as calmly as he could. If he was scared shitless or not was difficult to say, but having lived, worked and bled in New York made you a tough son-of-a-bitch.

"Unless you two can't read, that says I'm Richard Barker of New York City. Private detective, licensed by the NYPD. And this…" Richard introduced himself, while putting his hands back in his raincoat fingering the Colt police revolver holstered underneath. Before he could continue, the name finally popped from his mouth as he turned to look at Ambrose. "Tull…Amrose Tull, ain't it? You boxed with my Sergeant back in '15, Jackson was his name. Gave him one helluva beating, good show. But that raises some dingy questions, and I might be ringin' the wrong tooter here…" Richard nearly answered for Ambrose, his hands slowly moving in and out of his raincoat as he took out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter, lighting the cigarette and smoking it like he was born with it. The lighter, for a brief moment only, was seen to have the NYPD badge etched into it. Richard let the cigarette dangle loosely from his lips, eyes moving back and forth the group, his eyes only hinting at the last man across the street. "Who are you two, where are your badge, what are you two and all of us doing here, and who's the long-nose over there?" Richard took another puff of his cigarette, clearly finding some amusement in the situation, though no humour. "'cause you two better not be a pair of bunnies and off us two. I've got a pal in the Boston PD who knows I'm here. Sock me, and you'll be in a world of trouble. Understood?"

🧚🏻‍♀️ The Walking Dead - Year 6 Part 1

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Alexander Polawski Location: Administration (A) -> Outside of Administration (I4) Skills: N/A

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

'Dragon', the old callsign for Colonel Aeron Martin from an old, nearly-forgotten war from a time now long gone. Alexander nodded along to Medic talking about the General and the callsign, himself trying to think back to those younger days and see flashing images of his past. He remembered the 'Dragon' name clear as day, but the reasons for why he apparently disliked escaped his ass-busted mind for the moment. The old veteran had a good guess somewhere in his thoughts, however any attempt at sharing it was blocked by the internal dike holding back his past, only allowing an empty string of words to leave his mouth. "Dragon…yeah, not something good…"

Medic yelling at him for moving his butt over to the wall didn't help either, making Alexander sigh audibly. "I'm sorry Medic, but that was no marathon I just ran just there…" He said to Medic, breathing in and out as he looked up all three of them down there to help him - Medic, Thalia and Rolodex. With some reluctant help from them onto the gurney, Alexander was rolled out of the basement room and into the elevator- Alexander clearly heard the mention of an elevator, and hadn't it been for the fact that he had both gotten a good beating from the floor and still hadn't been reunited with his leg, he'd refused to be treated as if he was an elderly. Too bad he at that moment effectively was one, which he hated.

"Not sure I should feel privileged or entitled, haven't been lying down like this under tropical skies for years." Alexander attempted at lifting the mood, unsure of who's mood needed lifting. Perhaps mostly his own, as his disabilities came to light more than ever. Perhaps it was to show the others than he took this well enough, and wouldn't need baby-sitting afterwards? Outside the Administration Building, Alexander shaded his eyes from the Florida sun and put on a brave face, looking over to Thalia. "I'm sorry I fell, Angel, when you took that bowling trophy like a champ…You can leave with the others to the graves without me if you need to."

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Nigel Cooper Location: M5 Skills: N/A

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Nigel would have a hard time forgetting the intellectual conversation he had with Thana before Ash showed up, giving Thana the Athenean a quick smile while she and Ash took the heavy liftings of the conversation. He didn't mind her now talking to Ashton, by now having figured some important bond existing between the two of them after nearly a week together. And he'd already gotten his fair share of conversational filling about Greco-Roman antiquity from the first half of the day, so he wouldn't complain. Only thing was that it made him miss Erica that little much more. He hoped she was doing fine today, wherever she was off doing her part in repairing civilisation.

The Neo-Roman legionaire didn't pay too much attention to what Thana and Ash were talking about, allowing Ash a quick look into the buckets from a reasonable distance. The longer Nigel stood there with him the more the smell pertruded his nostrils like the fangs of a snake, though less deadly. Nigel might have commented on it off-hand, hadn't it been for the pair turned and saw something in the distance. Whatever it was, it wasn't good.

"Oh for the love of…" Nigel exclaimed, wondering if some Greek muse was playing tricks on his eyes. He couldn't believe it, but there Hunter was escorted out and off to gods knew where. "Cuiusvis hominis est errare, nullius nisi insipientis in errore perseverare..." the Roman muttered, facepalming harder than he'd ever done in the company of Hank and Wayne. The Roman statesman Cicero was right in his words, only a fool persisted in his faults, which Hunter clearly had managed to pull off. Nigel turned to Thana as she suggested they get a move on, nodding to both her and Ash before following Thana. "It was good to see you, Ashton. Until next time."

Pushing the cart after Thana, once again back on the campaign trail of food, Nigel only thought back to the previous night and his -clearly failed- attempt at rebuilding Hunter's senses. A part of him had wanted to run over and ask for an explaination, but he knew it'd be futile. This was by no means the Roman army during the early Republican era, but Hunter must have done something to deserve a harsh reprimand. Pushing the cart Nigel wondered if he should ask Thana what Hunter could expect, but the possible answer seemed apparent. Instead Nigeld looked over at Thana and asked her as carefully and innocently as he could. "Service? I take it you've lost someone? I'm sorry to hear that…"

The Rain In The Cycolpean City. (H.P. Lovecraft/Cthulhu Mythos Roleplay)

@Haydrian Cindel Richard would probably resent that sentiment, considering Ferd has't got law-enforcment experience or is licensed lol.

The Rain In The Cycolpean City. (H.P. Lovecraft/Cthulhu Mythos Roleplay)

@Gurren1Will-co! I'll think of something

@Haydrian CindelWell if Richard has heard of Ferd, he'll be sceptical since he calls himself an "investigator" when he's really not. I'm fine by them not having crossed paths.

The Rain In The Cycolpean City. (H.P. Lovecraft/Cthulhu Mythos Roleplay)

@Gurren1My thoughts too, he's got something in mind. Also would you mind Richard having seen Ambrose earlier? Like in a boxing match in New York or something?

The Rain In The Cycolpean City. (H.P. Lovecraft/Cthulhu Mythos Roleplay)

@Haydrian CindelI find the attempt of Fred to appear as if he's some sort of authority quite amusing, and so do Richard I think lol.

The Rain In The Cycolpean City. (H.P. Lovecraft/Cthulhu Mythos Roleplay)

Hope my opening was reasonable, having noticed all of you and that nosey guy across the street?

The Rain In The Cycolpean City. (H.P. Lovecraft/Cthulhu Mythos Roleplay)

Richard Barker

New York City, about a week ago.

Passing cars and pedestrians constructed elaborate shadows on the inside of Private Detective Barker's office, obscured and warped by the neon lights and glass window looking on through what was a too-small office for how much he did. Filing cabinets, shelves and drawers, a desk and a chair illuminated by a simple lamp hanging from the ceiling. A single thin chimney of cigarette smoke drifted up towards the lamp, dancing in a myriad of different colors. It was late in the evening, just past his usual business-hours, but here Richard sat, reading.

Richard had read the letter a few times over at this point, nearly done with the cigarette he'd placed dryly on his lips twenty minutes ago. He was thinking, trying to wrap his head around the contents of the letter written by a certain Harry Everfield of Arkham, Massachusetts - or rather, the incoherent rambling of words that could barely be called a letter at all. The gumshoe was no stranger to odd-ball letters from odd-ball looneys, having read his clients' letters and some sent to him. Only one thing difference stood out to him that kept him from crumbling it up into a ball and tossing in the garbage.

The name: Jeremy Stockhold.

Boston, Massachusetts, one day ago.

It was the name that had ensured Richard was driving north later that week. He was heading first for Boston, a logical mid-stop before he contiuned towards the small city of Arkham further up the Atlantic Coast. Richard had thought a lot about that man, Jeremy Stockhold as he drove down newly-paved motorways and rickety country roads, before making it to Boston to stay for the night. Well really he had thought a lot about the whole letter. Who was this Harry Everfield, why was he and the house being watched and beaten up like a Sicillian protection racket, and why did he want Richard to be contacted? He'd only met Jeremy a few times - once when he was contracted to find a certain book and once when he dropped off the book in Arkham.

It was as if it was one huge elaborate joke, and not a very good one either. Richard certainly wasn't laughed. He'd contemplated just forgetting the whole shitshow this was, and he certainly didn't rush out of New York. Slowly his mind had began to turn the cogs like they used to with old, unsolved cases. And annoyed as he was about it, he knew he wouldn't get any rest before he at least went to Arkham to see just what kind of flim-flam this was.

He wasn't going in blind as a bat stupidly drunk on hooch, however. One of his stops in Boston was the police department, having contacted an old buddy from the NYPD who'd transferred after some rather unfortunate incident years ago. The usual pleasentries were exchanged, questions about his work and his missing daughter quickly gone over, before Richard got square. Had he heard about an Arkham-fella named Harry Everfield? Only a slow head-shake was the answer from his buddy, followed by a promise to do some digging until next time. Asked whey Richard was going to Arkham, Richard raised his shoulders as he took a drag of his cigarette, walking out of the department doors; "I guess it's out of habit, ol' pal. I'm an old hound, chasing old leads that go nowhere, trying to put my mind at ease."

Arkham, Massachusetts, today.

The old town of Arkham hadn't changed much since Richard visited it last. The same rickety rooftops and spires dotted the sky line, partially concealed behind a veil of the downpour of rain. Arkahm expatriates he'd crossed paths with before claimed that it never really stopped raining back where they came from. While the private detective didn't take their nostalgic musing of their native home literarly, he could understand why they felt so. Driving from the south through Salem and Beverly, he'd seen the rainclouds far ahead of him as he left Boston. Hugging the sea on his right as he drove through Kingsport, he'd decided to don his raincoat neatly packed in the back of his green Ford 1924. And he was glad he'd done that.

Driving north Richard came into Arkham proper from the southeast, driving onto the corner of Washington Street and Peabody Avenue. In the distance he could see the hints of what he'd been told was Miscatonic University, the pride of Arkham. Not much else to pride themselves in, the people Richard drove past all looked just as miserable as people did back home in New York, just less fancy lights and signs. To Richard they honestly looked like just normal everyday people.

"Hey, excuse me pal..." Richard called out to a passing man, dressed like a blue-collar worker who might have been headed home for a quick lunch, slowing the car to a halt at the side of the street. "South Curlew Drive, where am I headed?" The worker stopped to look at the man in the car, clearly not a native to Arkham from his New York tounge and need for directions. Eyeing the outsider for a moment, he however turned to point down the road. "Well ya got to keep drivin' down the avenue all the way to the rivah'. Go ovah' the bridge and turn left on High Lane, then keep driving 'till ya' hit North West Street and drive north. Just past the train station, can't miss it. Just keep ya' automobile on the road, mister." "Yeah thanks pal, I will."

Through the streets of Arkham, over the bridged Miskatonic River and past stores, churches, hotels and other places, Richard finally found himself parking in what have been South Curlew Drive. It wasn't the adress he had trouble with, in as much that old towns like Arkham was so archaic that the new street signs occasionally didn't correspond with the old names. It was the damn fog, keeping the Ford to a slow pace as Richard scanned the houses for the right number. On his left he noticed an odd looking fella smoking a cigar or something, eyeballing him as if he had a massive scar across his face. Oh yeah, he did.

On his right however he finally found the house, looking worse for wear than must have been Jeremy's neighbours. "You sure let your setup slip, didn't you Jeremy?" Richard muttered to himself, pulling up to the sidewalk a couple of houses afterwards. Passing the derelict ruin of a mad house sitter, the private detective saw the people congregating outside the house; a mountain of a man looking like a badly concealed G-man, another further back looking like your average Joe carrying a case. This was going to get crowded then, considering the letter mentioned more than Richard alone being contacted. Richard felt like he was behind the 8-ball, he rarely worked in teams these days.

"Let's get this over with then..." he continued to mutter, turning off the ignition and exiting the Ford. Rain poured down onto him like old guilt overcame you before the big sleep, making Richard turn up the coat and pulling the hat down his face as he casually walked back towards the house and the people. About to call out to the mean-looking torpedo outside Jeremy's house, he was cut off by another guy popping his head out of the door and shouting something. Something about seeing any paint on a window? Richard slowed his pace, looking back and forth between the bulky man outside and the ragged loud-mouth on the inside. "Oh shit, it's gonna be one of those cases, ain't it ol' Barker?"

"No paint on that window of yours, pal. The place sure could need a few buckets of it though, this place looks worse that a whorehouse at lowtide. Who are you? Harry Everfield?"

The Rain In The Cycolpean City. (H.P. Lovecraft/Cthulhu Mythos Roleplay)

Richard Barker, Private Detective

Name: Richard Barker

Age: 33

Apperance: The quintessence of the Private Detective, the "'Dick" and Professional Snoop, Richard Barker looks like a man who's got knocked down quite a few times but always gotten back on his feet. Mostly. Richard stand at an average height with an average build, with combed back black hair and brown eyes. What's most striking about the private detective isn't his dress or skill as a snoop, but the big scare on his nose. Few people know really what happened, but Richard sure won't tell just anyone.

Occupation: Private Detective, Private Eye, Private Investigator, Snoop and Gumshoe. Richard's been attributed many of these titles, though he personally uses the first professionally.

Interests: When not in his office or out working his ass off on another case, you can find Richard in any typical joint, drinking whatever legal or illegal beverage they serve to the clientele. A cigarette dangling from his lips, he'll go over the may-have-beens, the what-if's, the if-only's, trying to crack those cases still uncracked. If not, you'll find him taking long drives in his automobile, catching a picture or chatting with his old police buddies from the Force. But there's always a case on his mind.

Fears and phobias: Fears? Listen pal, after serving nearly ten years in the NYPD, you'll get used to a hell of a lot. Either you crack under the pressure, or you grow numb from it. Richard's of the latter, grown to have a lead belly. There's only two things he fears - Never finding his missing daughter, and barbers.

Superstitions: Richard has seen so much in his years that he rarely finds the necessary to explain the happenings of the real world with superstitious mumbo-jumbo. There's no God, and if there is, he's nowhere to be found. No, the world can be a bad and messy place just because people are bad and messy. No need to add an extra step to include anything we can't see or feel.

Skills: Arabic, Deduction of clues, psychology, Driving, Intimidation, Alertness, Stealth, Research, Dancing, Breaking & Entering, Stamina, Streetfighting and unarmed, Pistols and Shotguns.

Intelligence/Sanity: Richard never attended anything close to Harvard or anything those men in high places attended. No, Richard only got the regular educated most American kids did back in the day, but that's all he needed. While not naturally inclined to be book-smart, Richard's intelligence was rarely questions when he was in the New York Police Department. Richard is a quick thinker and a quick learner. What's the use of learning what the essence of Wiliam Shakespeare's "The Tempest" if you can't dodge a blow of a guy who's no Romeo? Not that he doesn't like a good read, just never really was his thing.

Is Richard a sane person then? Maybe, it's difficult to say. He's stable, that's for sure. But having been through all that he has, you'd be surprised if some wacky thoughts hadn't crossed him. Still he keeps his head cool and collected.

Backstory:

Richard was born the first of four children to the Barker-couple, born and raised in one of New York's shadier neighbourhoods. While things could get rough now and again, the four Barker-children had a fairly good childhood, even when their parents didn't have time for them. For Richard's father, Richard Barker senior, was a cop in the New York Police Department. Which was what Richard junior too wanted to become. So when he wasn't attending school or watching over his siblings, Richard could most often be seen following cops on duty to learn as much as he could. He even sometimes watched them from afar, witnessing how many conducted their work with ruthless efficiency and batons. But they only attacked the bad guys, right?

Richard never got a degree, but managed in 1906 to become a cop just after turning 18 partly thanks to his father already being in the same station. But a few short years later Richard junior was the only Barker left on the force. His father was suspected of taking bribes from a certain Italian establishment and swiftly kicked off-duty for an indefinite amount of time. At first Richard outright refused to believe that his father, the hero in shining armour and blue uniform he had looked up to for so many years could do such a thing, but with age came the creeping realization that no-one was uncorruptable. Every man had his price, even Richard himself.

His idealistic view on his duties as a cop brought him close to the neighbourhood he regularly patrolled. It was commonly known as "Little Egypt" for obvious reasons, as the main demographic of its inhabitants came from the Middle East and many spoke Arabic several generations after emigrating to America. Richard came to know those streets and its regulars more and more as the years on patrol went, and even learned an decent amount of Arabic himself. Of course he never got the accent right, but the others thought of it as characteristic of him, perhaps a bit cute? And he enjoyed it all; his work, his friends, his wife Beatrice and his soon-to-be-born child. Even if his father was a tainted mark on him, life was good.

It wasn't until after the Raid in 1914 that it all started falling apart.

It was meant to be routine task for the now promoted Richard and the rest of the team; they had solid information of a opium trade taking place, who would attend, and when and where it would take place. It would all be simple, put up an ambush and catch the criminals in the act, before going home just in time for dinner. It was anything but simple. They hadn't anticepated the pepretrators to put up resistance like they did, revolvers and knives all thrown into the mix of dark alleyways and too many cooks in one kitchen, so to speak. One of the Portugese guys grabbed Richard from behind, while another came at him with a razor and cutting his nose nearly clean off. Hadn't it been for the backup, Richard knew he'd probably be dead. And he also knew that this operation was doomed from the start. Someone from inside the Department warned them. It angered him, hardened him, even made him a little colder.

Either it was him turning colder that pushed his wife away, or it was his wife's departure that cooled the already shaken police officer, because a year later Beatrice wanted nothing more from Richard. Nothing more except his money and their daughter Elise. He could let go of the money, but Elise he couldn't part with. Not in a million years, not when he needed her the most to stay above water mentally. So when Elise disappeared without a trace another year after his and Beatrice's separation, he had no doubts as to who did it. At least he thought he did, until Beatrice out of all people came crying to him demanding to know where their little Elise was. Richard didn't know, she didn't know, and nobody else did either.

Richard couldn't take the pressure, and quit the force. When the police themselves stopped looking for her, he started on his own, even without many leads. Like she was torn out of this very reality and stored away in another. Richard was a broken man, left with little in that world to live for. Perhaps except for the slim hope of Elise returning home safe. Perhaps that's why he became a private detective, to earn enough money to still be alive if...when Elise comes home, or he himself found wherever those devils had taken her.

There doesn't pass a day without Richard looking up at the door in his office, waiting for Elise to walk in and tell him she's home, like nothing's wrong. Like everything is all right. Like things were almost ten years ago before all of this; The scar on his nose, his tired-looking eyes, the wedding ring lying in his mostly empty safe, and the letter on his desk from a certain Harry Everfield.

Richard didn't know the name, but he instantly recognized the one of Jeremy Stockhold. Odd fella, had been hired by him years ago in order to track down a certain book. Richard rarely took on such odd-jobs both before and since, but hey the case payed, and Richard managed to both find and deliver the book to strange Mr. Stockhold. Drove all the way up to Arkham, as per Jeremy's instructions and handed off the book. Never heard from him since, though the case stuck with him. Perhaps this was the case he would turn over this time?

The Rain In The Cycolpean City. (H.P. Lovecraft/Cthulhu Mythos Roleplay)

@Haydrian Cindel Here you go, Richard Barker, Private Detective! One of my favourite characters, hope he's acceptable.

Richard Barker, Private Detective

Name: Richard Barker

Age: 33

Apperance: The quintessence of the Private Detective, the "'Dick" and Professional Snoop, Richard Barker looks like a man who's got knocked down quite a few times but always gotten back on his feet. Mostly. Richard stand at an average height with an average build, with combed back black hair and brown eyes. What's most striking about the private detective isn't his dress or skill as a snoop, but the big scare on his nose. Few people know really what happened, but Richard sure won't tell just anyone.

Occupation: Private Detective, Private Eye, Private Investigator, Snoop and Gumshoe. Richard's been attributed many of these titles, though he personally uses the first professionally.

Interests: When not in his office or out working his ass off on another case, you can find Richard in any typical joint, drinking whatever legal or illegal beverage they serve to the clientele. A cigarette dangling from his lips, he'll go over the may-have-beens, the what-if's, the if-only's, trying to crack those cases still uncracked. If not, you'll find him taking long drives in his automobile, catching a picture or chatting with his old police buddies from the Force. But there's always a case on his mind.

Fears and phobias: Fears? Listen pal, after serving nearly ten years in the NYPD, you'll get used to a hell of a lot. Either you crack under the pressure, or you grow numb from it. Richard's of the latter, grown to have a lead belly. There's only two things he fears - Never finding his missing daughter, and barbers.

Superstitions: Richard has seen so much in his years that he rarely finds the necessary to explain the happenings of the real world with superstitious mumbo-jumbo. There's no God, and if there is, he's nowhere to be found. No, the world can be a bad and messy place just because people are bad and messy. No need to add an extra step to include anything we can't see or feel.

Skills: Arabic, Deduction of clues, psychology, Driving, Intimidation, Alertness, Stealth, Research, Dancing, Breaking & Entering, Stamina, Streetfighting and unarmed, Pistols and Shotguns.

Intelligence/Sanity: Richard never attended anything close to Harvard or anything those men in high places attended. No, Richard only got the regular educated most American kids did back in the day, but that's all he needed. While not naturally inclined to be book-smart, Richard's intelligence was rarely questions when he was in the New York Police Department. Richard is a quick thinker and a quick learner. What's the use of learning what the essence of Wiliam Shakespeare's "The Tempest" if you can't dodge a blow of a guy who's no Romeo? Not that he doesn't like a good read, just never really was his thing.

Is Richard a sane person then? Maybe, it's difficult to say. He's stable, that's for sure. But having been through all that he has, you'd be surprised if some wacky thoughts hadn't crossed him. Still he keeps his head cool and collected.

Backstory:

Richard was born the first of four children to the Barker-couple, born and raised in one of New York's shadier neighbourhoods. While things could get rough now and again, the four Barker-children had a fairly good childhood, even when their parents didn't have time for them. For Richard's father, Richard Barker senior, was a cop in the New York Police Department. Which was what Richard junior too wanted to become. So when he wasn't attending school or watching over his siblings, Richard could most often be seen following cops on duty to learn as much as he could. He even sometimes watched them from afar, witnessing how many conducted their work with ruthless efficiency and batons. But they only attacked the bad guys, right?

Richard never got a degree, but managed in 1906 to become a cop just after turning 18 partly thanks to his father already being in the same station. But a few short years later Richard junior was the only Barker left on the force. His father was suspected of taking bribes from a certain Italian establishment and swiftly kicked off-duty for an indefinite amount of time. At first Richard outright refused to believe that his father, the hero in shining armour and blue uniform he had looked up to for so many years could do such a thing, but with age came the creeping realization that no-one was uncorruptable. Every man had his price, even Richard himself.

His idealistic view on his duties as a cop brought him close to the neighbourhood he regularly patrolled. It was commonly known as "Little Egypt" for obvious reasons, as the main demographic of its inhabitants came from the Middle East and many spoke Arabic several generations after emigrating to America. Richard came to know those streets and its regulars more and more as the years on patrol went, and even learned an decent amount of Arabic himself. Of course he never got the accent right, but the others thought of it as characteristic of him, perhaps a bit cute? And he enjoyed it all; his work, his friends, his wife Beatrice and his soon-to-be-born child. Even if his father was a tainted mark on him, life was good.

It wasn't until after the Raid in 1914 that it all started falling apart.

It was meant to be routine task for the now promoted Richard and the rest of the team; they had solid information of a opium trade taking place, who would attend, and when and where it would take place. It would all be simple, put up an ambush and catch the criminals in the act, before going home just in time for dinner. It was anything but simple. They hadn't anticepated the pepretrators to put up resistance like they did, revolvers and knives all thrown into the mix of dark alleyways and too many cooks in one kitchen, so to speak. One of the Portugese guys grabbed Richard from behind, while another came at him with a razor and cutting his nose nearly clean off. Hadn't it been for the backup, Richard knew he'd probably be dead. And he also knew that this operation was doomed from the start. Someone from inside the Department warned them. It angered him, hardened him, even made him a little colder.

Either it was him turning colder that pushed his wife away, or it was his wife's departure that cooled the already shaken police officer, because a year later Beatrice wanted nothing more from Richard. Nothing more except his money and their daughter Elise. He could let go of the money, but Elise he couldn't part with. Not in a million years, not when he needed her the most to stay above water mentally. So when Elise disappeared without a trace another year after his and Beatrice's separation, he had no doubts as to who did it. At least he thought he did, until Beatrice out of all people came crying to him demanding to know where their little Elise was. Richard didn't know, she didn't know, and nobody else did either.

Richard couldn't take the pressure, and quit the force. When the police themselves stopped looking for her, he started on his own, even without many leads. Like she was torn out of this very reality and stored away in another. Richard was a broken man, left with little in that world to live for. Perhaps except for the slim hope of Elise returning home safe. Perhaps that's why he became a private detective, to earn enough money to still be alive if...when Elise comes home, or he himself found wherever those devils had taken her.

There doesn't pass a day without Richard looking up at the door in his office, waiting for Elise to walk in and tell him she's home, like nothing's wrong. Like everything is all right. Like things were almost ten years ago before all of this; The scar on his nose, his tired-looking eyes, the wedding ring lying in his mostly empty safe, and the letter on his desk from a certain Harry Everfield.

Richard didn't know the name, but he instantly recognized the one of Jeremy Stockhold. Odd fella, had been hired by him years ago in order to track down a certain book. Richard rarely took on such odd-jobs both before and since, but hey the case payed, and Richard managed to both find and deliver the book to strange Mr. Stockhold. Drove all the way up to Arkham, as per Jeremy's instructions and handed off the book. Never heard from him since, though the case stuck with him. Perhaps this was the case he would turn over this time?