Sharpen my body like a pen

[deductives]

WHO: Bitch and Bitcher aka Sherlock Holmes and Mitchell Hundred
WHERE: City Hall's law offices
WHEN: Friday, March 29th
WARNINGS: Probably just a lot of dirty sassing.
SUMMARY: Sherlock, after checking in on the ADA's autopsy, has decided to investigate her office for further clues. No, he didn't really ask for permission outside of Bradbury. THE POLICE SAY HE'S HELPING SO IT'S FINE RIGHT?
FORMAT: Tagger's choice!

After his last, somewhat disastrous, visit to City Hall in February, Sherlock doesn't entirely relish the idea of going back. However, he hasn't had a murder case this intriguing since arriving in the City. Not that it had been entirely that intriguing until Batwoman gave her insight on it.

Before tackling possible suspects, Sherlock, as always, needs more evidence than what the crime scene and the body themselves represented. That's where City Hall comes in. Charlotte Dunbar's office isn't strictly a crime scene, but reconstructing the events leading up to her untimely death would help in discovering who did it, and why.

As such, anyone passing by the office, left untouched since her murder, will be confused to see a few strips of police tape, strategically borrowed, blocking the entrance as Sherlock scurries about inside, poring over every inch of the place. Currently, he hangs from the shadows on the ceiling, protruding down to his waist, as he examines the tops of her bookshelves.

Comments

[viced]

"Okay, so someone wanted us to get all into this, bring out the details, make this up to be a goddamn spectacle," at least it was only now that Sherlock had been signed into. He felt a drop in his stomach, disgust and frustration pooling there. The unspoken proposition didn't need to be brought to light by Holmes. Now they had fucking Sherlock Holmes on it. This wasn't like the fucking Tidy Bowl killer, or the Son of Sam shithead, this was someone they didn't know about, with an unknown MO, and just Sherlock's word that it might be a killer.

But if it was...theyw ere playing into his hands. Then again, if it wasn't, they would lose the only chance they had at solving it.

"The security tapes aren't going to give you shit, unless it's someone internal, but then we'd have our man. They would've had to come out sometime." He ran a frustrated hand through his hair, looking around the room. He didn't see it like Sherlock did, no. He wasn't excited by this, he was disheartened. Not just because someone under his watch had died, but then learning that their memory couldn't be left to rest without dirty secrets being dug up was another nail in the coffin.

He couldn't defend someone who'd been skimming off the top. It may be chump change to someone like her, or even to him, but Mitchell was tirelessly devoted to making sure government waste didn't happen. Mitchell knew, intellectually, that he was not a good person, and that he'd done some terrible things in the pursuit of power, but he had always done his best, in good faith, to serve the people who'd elected him.

And he was killing himself doing it, he knew that much. He was well aware of how hard he was on himself.

"So are you hoping the killer left clues here? Why come in if you don't think she was killed in this office?"

[deductives]

"Oh, I'm glad you follow." His voice was laced with sarcasm, but he still meant it, in a way. If whoever is subjected to his long discourses is understanding his train of thought, that meant his logical foundations for any theories that might pop up after finding more evidence would be sound. Though of course, he knew they couldn't see the whole picture he did. No one ever would.

"She wasn't killed here, but she was here the day she died. If I can reconstruct what she was doing up until that point, it will be easier to know what led to her death. I already know she was having a night on the town, where she went to eat, and that she met a man. Any present flings had alibis, so more than likely she met with someone new. Thought they had better education here on the perils of strangers." Sherlock put his latex gloves back on and turned to face Dunbar's desk. Absentmindedly, he glances at the office's customary American flag in the corner.

"Speaking of which, I'd have that burned. Respectfully, of course." It'd be more respectful than what he could tell she'd used it for.

[viced]

His eyes shifted to the flag, and then back to Sherlock, and then back to the flag. He didn't see anything with it, but all of the sudden, he had the urge that he would probably want to do what he said. At least with that. A new flag was a small price to pay, for hopefully not having something desecrated around City Hall. Then again, Mitchell was something of a prude, in his own, odd way.

"So, if she wasn't killed here, what kind of information is going to come up here? Of course she was here that day, think about who she was fucking working for. People tend to come to work, you know?" he asked, not really moving from his spot in the middle of the room. He didn't know if he wanted to move or not, just in case he managed to slid his foot into a half-dried puddle of semen or something.

These were very expensive shoes, after all.

[deductives]

Holding back another eye roll, Sherlock began to root through the papers on Dunbar's desk.

"I know your type is better at talking than listening, but really." That and Mitch seemed particularly preoccupied by the stains he couldn't see, because he hadn't been looking.

"Oh, if it was on the floor, I'm sure even the police would have noticed it," he said with a touch of exasperation. "Regardless, this office is practically a blueprint of Miss Dunbar's thoughts. If she anticipated any danger on the horizon, evidence of that will be found here. Even if she didn't, and I can find out who she had plans with that night, it's a step in the right direction."

[viced]

"Alright, alright, so what have you found so far? Other than the shit that just makes me either sick or grossed out?" he asked, stepping a little bit more into the room. He didn't touch anything, knowing better than that. Oh, his fingers ached to, and he couldn't help but wince at the sound the still plugged in phone was making. Actually, any machine in the room.

He hadn't been here since her passing, obviously. He wasn't an investigator, and he didn't want to get in the way, or even really interfere at all. It didn't matter if he could have found the latches to the money, or to the hidden liquor cabinet. That wasn't what he was here to do.

He wasn't a cop, so he didn't breach that line. "Obviously there's something here, something you think you can find, other than her fucking dayplanner."

[deductives]

Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly before sitting at the desk, picking up the planner Mitch had mentioned.

"Detective work doesn't entirely consist of car chases and grim discoveries, Mayor Hundred. The police are stumped because this case requires a more subtle, diligent analysis they're not trained for." The boring parts, normal people might say. Legwork, as his brother would contemptuously put it.

"I did expect a level of corruption, which the checks prove. But I don't theorize without facts. It muddles the mind into pursuing half truths and leads that go nowhere." As he pages through the planner, looking for entries written in a less steady hand than others, Sherlock's eyes wander towards the desktop computer.

"Don't suppose you could turn that on. While you're here, after all." He makes the request with a tone of almost unnaturally casual politeness. It doesn't at all match the expectant, probing gaze he levels on Mitch. Testing the waters.

[viced]

Mitch started gently, no comment on Sherlock's need to make himself more valuable, or sound more valuable. He didn't care, as long as the case got solved, honestly. That was what he cared about. Ego was only acceptable when it produced results, and he was at least willing to give anyone with an ego a chance.

Hell, look at Edward.

He started because Sherlock was asking him to use his powers. Use them to aid an investigation. For a moment, it sparked a memory, riding in a car, explaining the relationship between two machines, trying to get Angotti to understand. Master/Slave was a complicated thing to understand, or really understand it, even if you knew computers. Mostly because the way machines called to each other was wholly unique.

He shook it off after a moment, only blinking, before striding closer to the computer, keeping his arms crossed to keep them from touching anything.

"GOOD MORNING, TIME TO GET THE FUCK UP." And like a miracle, obediently, the computer started booting up.

[deductives]

Sherlock's eyes flitted between the monitor and Mitch. The change in the mayor's voice was unlike anything he'd heard before, and this wasn't a power he'd encountered yet in this world. He swerves in the desk chair to move closer to the keyboard and begins testing out possible passwords for her login. However, his attention was only half on his guesses.

"Been able to do that for a while, then?" he asked, not looking at Mitch, sounding distracted, though that was hardly the case. He didn't want to sound too interested, nor did he want to directly ask if that was a power from Lachesis or from home. People tended to get cagey about that line of questioning.

[viced]

His eye twitched with every incorrect password. The alarm from the PC wasn't just from the soft ping in protest, but also the noise it made that only he could hear. He winced, but followed, looking at the computer with dismay. "Don't try again, it'll lock you out," he looked down at it, before shaking his head.

"OPEN SESAME." he ordered, and the screen shuddered to show the actual desktop.

No need in making it that hard for him. "As we were saying, I got them in '99, so yeah, I've had them for a while."

He didn't mind admitting that he had powers in his own world. The matrix of scars on his face spoke enough about that. It wasn't something he would be able to deny, for long. How far they went, what specifically he could do with them, he left that to the imagination. He wasn't going to tell anyone exactly what he could do, for both their comfort and his. Besides that, he'd never been comfortable with telling anyone the extent of his powers.

WOW I DIDN'T REALIZE HOW LONG IT'D BEEN AGFD

[deductives]

He was sure he was about to crack the password, so Sherlock's brow furrowed slightly in annoyance when Mitch commanded the computer to unlock itself. In spite of that, he was still fascinated by this ability to order technology around.

"Not granted by Lachesis, then." Which was hardly uncommon, considering all the other 'metahumans,' as they were apparently called, pulled into the City. "But I imagine not common, either." Bradbury often commented how this was simply a weirder version of New York, implying that their worlds were similarly full of unremarkable people.

IT'S ALL GOOD!

[viced]

"No, not common," he mentioned simply, and didn't elaborate. He crossed his arms, instead, looking down at the computer, like he was concentrating on that instead of anything else. He was listening, if just for a few moments, to clear the air of Sherlock's questioning.

He wouldn't elaborate -- couldn't. There was a story to tell about his powers, sure, about how he was the only one, until Pherson, and then he'd been killed -- by Mitchell -- and was only succeeded by one other.

Both had powers they shouldn't. Both had lost it, listening too much and not just telling the fucks around them to shut up, if at least for a while. Then again, neither one of them would be able to do that like he did. He let his jaw relax, after a few moments.

"What're you looking for?"