Chapter Text
Brenda barely made it off of the elevator on the ninth floor before her cell phone lit up like a Christmas tree, complete with a chorus. The doors opened, and there stood half her squad with their own dreary melodies heralding that death was on their way at the next place they went.
Andy Flynn at least had the decency to gesture that he would drive, while Provenza chattered in her ear the specifics. A male model found floating in a pool with his throat cut.
The interesting element of this was that it was a home that was foreclosed upon in the great crash of 2008, the victim neither lived in or had any family associated with the property, and the pool had been drained to prevent damage to the foundation.
Brenda hmmphed a bit, as she studied the details of the situation on the ride over. There were a lot of things that seemed shifty to her in this investigation, and she let her mind percolate on them while they drove toward the crime scene. Three other cars trailed behind them, one a forensics van, like a sad parade to Alcatraz.
Andy did the driving. The car came to an abrupt halt, enough that it nearly dislodged the file in her lap. She chin snapped up, and scoffed at Andy for being such a jarring parker. She just eyed him. It was a common complaint and bickering session that they had repeatedly that he couldn't park a damn car with out nearly jolting the people inside it like they were dropped in a blender. Her papers, of course, flew out of her lap for the second time to day.
Andy wheezed an insincere apology, slamming the door to greet the officers that were assessing the situation. Brenda Leigh was gathering the papers now swirling around her ankles. Stuffing papers in a folder was bad enough, but then she thought about how much better she would look if she got one of those briefcase attache cases again, instead of just barely having enough room in her big purse for her normal items that couldn't hold case files.
Cramming that idea into a different part of her mind, when she stepped out of the car, she found it odd that her heel came down into a mess of muddy water. Scanning the suburban landscape, there didn't seem to be a reason for the mass of dirt and liquid – particularly since L.A. Had been under strict water rationing protocol.
Walking the treacherous, newly wetted, sandy soil to the front door, Brenda caught the pale face of Andy Flynn. Lt. Provenza didn't look any less upset. It became clear what home this was. There were plaques on the wall describing honoring the service if this particular officer. There were pictures of a proud mother with a beautiful son.
The thing that stood out for Brenda Leigh Johnson, and what would probably haunt her for years was the fact that the picture was spattered with clusters of blood, big circles, little drips, gore that declared that nothing would every be the same again in this home. Nothing would ever be the same in hers, either, because she has crossed the Great Divide of making it work to ending it before it gets worse.
Brenda squelched her emotions, and did what she did best. She was going to send the animal that had done this not to the jail, but under it. Restraining the urge to vomit long enough for it to pass, Chief Johnson started barking orders.
A smooth, deep voice issuing orders behind her nearly caught her attention, but she was far too involved in strategems and evidence collection to really allow it to register.
It was only when she caught a glimpse of a pointy toed shoe being covered with blue paper covers and a pompously stylish suit that she completed the tour of the interloper.
“Hello, Chief Johnson.” Captain Sharon Raydor stated it smoothly and calmly. Her perfect hair was in a covering like hers to prevent contamination, and she had a fat bag that seemed to bulge with equipment.
Directing her officers, Captain Raydor waved her hands and directed the small crowd of officers that filed in behind her. “Apprise me of the officer involved situation that has occurred here, step by step. I want all evidence collected, collated by rooms, individuals and biological priority.”
“Let's get to work, ladies and gentlemen.” Sharon Raydor clapped her hands.
Brenda Leigh whirled to make a decidedly sharp remark, when she caught Captain Raydor slipping in the blood in the foyer of the home. They both slip in a puddle of blood, with Brenda on top of Captain Raydor, feeling the reverberation of how hard the back of her head hit the floor.
Covered in blood that is neither of their own, Brenda mumbles “Quit teasin' me Sharon, you're a good goofball” Brenda jibes as she catches the brunette as she seems to collapse. For a few seconds, Brenda tries to determine exactly what she can say or do to make the woman come around again.
She feels a thousand yard stare of what an asshole she is, and gets moving.
She pulls the woman up and leans against her to keep her upright. She motions for a paramedic, pretending that it is her blood that is all over both of them instead of the suspects. They will both have to undergo weeks of segregation and blood tests if the tests disclose they were exposed. Brenda peers a covert look at Sharon, and Sharon is shooting her and equally assessing look.
They both know they are in this together.