ArchivedLogs:The Evolution of Interrogations

The Evolution of Interrogations
Dramatis Personae Shelby, Siddhartha	2013-01-24 Things surely have changed.
Location <NYC> Evolve Cafe - Lower East Side
Tucked down an alley, this out of the way coffeeshop is easy to miss if you don't know what you're looking for. Unassuming from the outside, its inside makes up for it -- spacious, with abundant seating and plenty of plush couches and cosy armchairs along the room's edges. The coffee is good, the prices are cheap, and there is a definitive alternative vibe to the room, from the music they play to the art that hangs on the walls. The real draw to this place, though, stems from its client base -- one of the very few businesses in the city that is welcoming to mutants, Evolve has become widely popular as a hangout with that crowd, and it is quite common to see them among clientele and employees both. At night, the thump of music can be heard from above, coming from the adjoining nightclub of the same name that sits over the coffeehouse. How unfair is that no smoking inside law, huh? Especially in this recent cold snap, and double especially when you have to go out into an alley to catch a butt. Venture down the alley that leads to Evolve and you will happen across a trio of women. Two of them are obviously older, one short and plump, with butt-length white hair that seems to move in defiance of the breeze--its swaying is not dictated by anything other than its own will, from the looks of it. The other is mohawked, lanky and currently holding a glowing red finger-tip to the end of the cigarette that Shelby has clamped between her lips. The girl is looking well rested, though the tip of her nose is red and she's restless--or cold--enough to keep shifting from one foot to the other. After a couple of starter puffs, smoke plumes up around her face and she nods a thanks to the two women. "You're a fucking lifesaver, Fabi. For serious." "You think so? That shit'll kill ya, kid," the tall one retorts. The glow fades when her hand drops. "I'm getting out of this bullshit. Too old for the cold." The white-haired woman doesn't speak but she does give her companion a fond but lopsided smile and elbows her in the ribs. "Yeah, yeah, enough gabbin'. See ya, kid." "You too. Don't eat all the muffins, huh?" "I try to leave this place alone if I can," Siddhartha grouses, watching the block roll by through the passenger window. "Guess there's no helping it, huh?" Beside him, Joseph Muir shakes his massive ginger head. "Patrol said she ducked inside the moment she spotted them," he says. "Wait any longer and she'll probably bolt." "You stay here, Joey," Siddhartha tells the driver of the Caliber. "You scare people even when you're not after them." Joseph Muir scoffs but does not disagree. Siddhartha gets out, leaving the car in the truck loading zone. He walks briskly through the frosty air, pulling the navy blue trench coat around him and wishing he had worn a thicker cap. So keen is he to get out of the cold that he almost walks right past the three women smoking outside. He slows to a stop and does a double-take. "Excuse me, Ms. Wilson?" he asks the youngest of them, producing his badge. "Detective Ashanti, NYPD. May I have a word with you?" Shelby may know the two women but it is apparently not the closest of relationships--at the sight of a badge, the shorter hooks her hand around the elbow of the taller and draws her into Evolve. They're both looking over their shoulders as the door closes behind them. Shelby is left to her fate. But, after a full night's rest and some delicious leftovers, she is better equipped to handle the sudden appearance of A Cop before her. The girl might stiffen slightly but she doesn't run, just lifting the smoke back to her lips for another puff. An admirable job is done of keeping her gaze level. "Sorry, mister, you got the wrong chick. I don't know no Wilsons. Isn't Ashanti like a girl's name? I knew a lady down in Georgia named that." Putting his badge away, Siddhartha keeps his hads deep in his coat pockets. "I'm looking for Shelby Wilson," he says equably. "You match her appearance and share her injuries." This last with a nod at her hands. "Now, I realize this is a wonderful world full of miracles, but it would be quite a coincidence if you were not she. Please understand that you are not under arrest; I just need to ask you a few questions." Oh no, the hands! Shelby's eyes go round and she looks down at the objects in question, emitting a muffled, "Shit." Busted! "Goddamned fucking clinic, I knew they'd tell," she laments. But still the girl doesn't run--though she goes glance around, possibly calculating her odds of successfully evading capture. "This is a shit world...you gonna ask me here, or you gonna drag me down to a little room with a mirror? 'Cause if I'm not under arrest, I don't gotta go nowhere." It is mostly bluster; being tough is difficult when you stand slightly below the average and have the build of overboiled spaghetti. "It didn't take a clinic to notice you got your hands cut-up," Siddhartha says, conciliatory. "We can talk here, or go somewhere else. Typically, that would be my office, which has decent chairs, terrible coffee, and energy-saving lightbulbs that give me a headache. If you'd /prefer/ an interrogation room, though, I guess I could arrange it." He does not try to look threatening. Most people found him threatening enough, for various reasons. He sighs. "I can't force you to do this, Ms. Wilson, but a man was killed on Tuesday, and you can help me find the murderer. Steven Briar may have been an isolated incident, but we don't know that. His killer is still out there, and I wouldn't bet on him stopping." "Hell no, he's not gonna stop. He's a goddamned crazy person." And Shelby is looking rather skeptical on the ability of this well-spoken gentleman to catch said lunatic. She takes another drag and blows a plume of smoke up into the air; it's difficult to tell where smoke lets off and frosty breath takes over. "If all you want is to ask some questions though, how about you buy me some coffee and pastries and I'll tell you what I can, so long as it means I'm not gonna get dragged in. I mean, seriously, I'm sorry the dude got killed but I was just there trying to buy some clothes. You can ask Adam. If the mouse didn't eat him," she says. "Deal," Siddhartha says, with a wave at the door. "After you." The two enter Evolve, which is fairly crowded due to the inclement weather. A few pairs of eyes follow them, but not too closely. Word must have gotten around. Sid orders a Cafe Americano and waits for the young woman to make her pick. Two of those sets of eyes belong to Fabi and her girlfriend. Shelby raises a hand to the pair as she goes by, signaling that all is well and all manner of things be well. Especially since Sid is the one paying. "I'll have an extra large vanilla bean honey latte with extra whipped cream and cinnamon sprinkles, aaaand..." She pauses to eyeball the pastries in their case. "Two cream cheese danishes, a cinnamon crumble muffin and one of those slices of lemon poppy seed bread cake stuff." She doesn't even look at the cop while offloading this order--she's also going to leave him to carry the tray, while she scouts out a corner table that will give them at least the illusion of privacy. La la la! Paying for the predictably large--yet still larger-than-expected--spread and tucking away the receipt, Siddhartha brings the tray to the corner table. "Coffee'll be up shortly. Nice joint," he adds, sitting down across from Shelby. "I'm going to take some notes, but you will not be identified in any press release or any public records without your permission. Oh, and Adam is all right, by the way, if shaken." He looks up at her from his notepad. "So, you have confirmed that you were at Clothescycle on the afternoon of Tuesday, January 22nd. Could you describe to me what happened?" "You don't have to lie. It's a freak show to folks like you, this place, and when you lie, it makes you look like an asshole," Shelby helpfully tells the detective. In the interim, she has shed her outer layer jacket, revealing a hoodie pulled over a sweatshirt and probably other layers as well. She has to flap her elbows up a couple of times to settle all of those sleeves before she reaches for the nearest danish with her bandaged hands. "I -don't- give my permission," she stresses. "Like I said, I was shopping for clothes and all of a sudden the window bust in 'cause this dude comes flying in through it. He said he was FBI and told me to call the cops, but then this -other- dude came in, said excuse me and like...punched him." Siddhartha raises one eyebrow and smiles a little despite himself. "Fortunately, it's not my job to not look like an asshole. And anyplace that serves better coffee than the Marine Corps pretty much qualifies as 'nice'." He scribbles while Shelby speaks, then wrinkles his brows, stopping. "He said /'Excuse me'/ before punching a man he just propelled through a plate glass window?" The barista brings over their drinks, and Sid thanks her. "All right, could you please describe this unusually polite perpetrator, in as much detail as you can recall?" The girl seated across from him gives an inelegant snort but doesn't respond to the first remark--too busy filling her cheeks with danish. Fortunately by the time more talking is required of Shelby, the drinks are there and she's able to reach for her oversweetened latte with a nod of thanks for the barista. "Mmhmm," she hums through her mouthful before taking a cautious sip to wash everything down. "He was a Brit, see. Like, from England. He had a really sweet suit on, super expensive, you know? With a tie and everything. Pretty old, his hair was like all grey and kinda going on top. Also he made a mouse grow until it was the size of a fucking -bear-. Adam's damn lucky he didn't get eaten." Nodding, Siddhartha takes down her description. "The mouse shrank again, evidently--or otherwise disappeared, as no trace of it could be found afterward." He picks up his coffee, then thinks better of it and waits for it to cool down. "Other witnesses claim that you attempted to assist Mr. Briar, for which you are to be commended." He meets her eyes when he says this. "That was very brave, given the circumstances. Do you recall what the perpetrator said to you or to Mr. Briar--other than 'excuse me'?" Another snort, this one muffled by Shelby's continued wolfing down of too much sugar. "Lotta good it did him. He still got dead when I ran." The next moments pass in silence, her eyes focused down and her hands in perpetual motion. Eating is easier than answering. "He said he was a realist," she finally replies quietly, picking at the soft crust of the lemon poppy seed loaf, "and that he was doing it for me. 'Cause the FBI guy would've...something about needles. Pushed his brains out through his ears, you know? That it'd be me in a few years, instead of him. Her eyes flash up to meet the cop's. "So, can I go now?" Siddhartha underlines 'doing it for her' in his notes, and looks up at Shelby. He makes a point of away his notepad and takes a sip of his coffee. "This is a very important question, Ms. Wilson, and it will not go on the records at all." Lowering his voice, he asks, "Did you tell him, or otherwise demonstrate to him, anything that might have led him to believe--" He holds up one hand to stave off the objection he suspect she would raise. "--rightly /or/ wrongly, that you are 'like him'?" He was right to raise that hand. Shelby is in the process of huffing and puffing and preparing to unleash on him when the qualification arrives. It leaves her studying the man rather sulkily. "What the fuck does that matter? If I did, it makes me what...an accessory? I didn't have a goddamned thing to do with that guy getting killed!" she says, unintentionally allowing her voice to rise a notch. Those in the shop look over. Shelby drops in her seat and looks like she's wishing she could disappear--maybe while leaving a Cheshire-style scowl behind, for the officer of the law. "It doesn't make /you/ anything," Siddhartha says, as calm as ever. "It does, however, make /him/ a particular brand of extremist--the sort who might just as soon have killed you for your insolence if he had filed you in the 'them' box instead of the 'us' box." He rubs his temple and takes a long pull of his coffee as though he were drinking something stronger and more liable to dispel his troubles. "You are not responsible for what happened to Mr. Briar, but it is not impossible that the perpetrator or his organization may try to contact you--in the name of protecting you, recruiting you, or both." He produces a business card from an inside pocket of his coat. It is plain white and bears only his name and number in black print. "If that happens, it is imperative that you contact me /discreetly./" "Yeah, well..." Did Shelby understand any of that? It's difficult to say. She's once again wreaking ruin upon lemon poppy seed, reducing the slice to crumbs on the plate. "Protection like that I -don't- need, thanks," she finally mumbles. "I -knew- it'd get me into trouble. I don't do gangs, that sort've bullshit is just asking for it, y'know?" The card is studied without the girl reaching for it--first she has to give a narrow and distinctly suspicion look to the unfortunate Siddhartha. "What do you mean, discreetly? Like, without telling no one? You don't want me calling 911 or whatever?" "If you are in immediate physical danger, you should by all means call 911," Siddhartha replies, almost indignant. "Otherwise, contact me first, because I can protect your identity." He pauses, frowning, and gulp down more coffee. "Now, maybe they'll leave you alone--and I hope they do--but if they don't, I will do everything in my power to keep them from getting you." A beat. "And to keep the rest of my division from jumping to any conclusions about you." Shelby's forehead rumples in sudden confusion--but her hand creeps out and sweeps the card into her palm. "Your division," she enunciates slowly. The natural question doesn't follow; time is spent in slipping the card into the pocket of her coat, followed soon thereafter by the remaining danish and the muffin. That's bound to make for messy pockets. After she's shrugged into the coat and then zipped it up, she returns to staring across the table at the detective. "So...why? The jumping to whatever thing." "I'm not saying they would," Siddhartha says, shrugging, "but since that incident during the UN Summit, some people in law enforcement have taken 'better safe than sorry' to an extreme, and it isn't always easy to tell which ones they are." He drains his coffee. "Still, ultimately you have to use your own judgment. I don't envy your position, but I am not going to patronize you, and I'm not putting you on any terrorism watch lists for being who you are--whoever you are, which is not my business unless it helps my investigation." Sid allows a slight smile. "Thank you for talking to me, Ms. Wilson," he says, rising and offering his hand. "Thank care of yourself." The teen listens in silent, taking her dear sweet time in digesting what he says. It's only as he gets up that she seems to shake herself from some deeper thought. The handshake is refused--she can plead tenderness on that count, at least--but she does cant her head to look up at him squarely. "When he took off, his suit...the expensive one? It was grey. It also had kittens all over it. Kittens with square glasses on. From the sweaters in the store. There might be a few left there so you can see what they look like. If he was smart he'd have burned it after but maybe you could figure out which way he went out the back if someone had a camera up. Or whatever." Because she's not -really- trying to help a cop. She's just reaching for her latte to chug it down, see? Eyebrows raised, Siddhartha nods. "Much appreciated." As he puts his hat and scarf back on, he pauses and quirks a crooked smile. "'Ashanti' is a place in modern-day Ghana, by the way, and also the people who come from that region. It would make a fine name for a girl, though. I won't hurt for a stage name if I ever go into drag." He tucks a fiver in the tip jar and nods to the barista on his way out.