Chapter 1, Part Aii

"Van Hollen," Isabele began as she sank into the passenger seat of their cruiser, "What's with the tights?" she finished, another gnarled deathstick between her lips waggling crazily as she spoke. With a groan she leaned out from the corner, where the seat back and the door met, and pushed the cigarette lighter in.

"Isabele, they're not tights. They're leggings," Felicity corrected as she eased through the police barricade. She lowered her window half way, "Thank you," she piped, with a bright smile at the handsome patrol officer, who tugged the bill of his smart police hat in response. "Tights are thinner: nylon or cotton, a little Lycra; and they have feet. Leggings are 'close fitting trousers' without feet. 'Never sacrifice comfort for fashion's sake' my mentor always told me. And it was freezing out there. And besides, socks with tights would just be awful. And wear my good boots in that nasty alley? I don't think so."

The cigarette lighter clicked and Felicity looked over at her partner as she made a right hand turn. Isabele leaned crumpled in the corner, breathing heavily, unlit cigarette in her lap.

"Isabele Smith: chain-smoking, chronic ecophobic insomniac," she murmured under her breath as she plucked the cigarette off of Isabele's lap and flicked it out the cracked window. "Not on my watch," she continued in a matter-of-fact whisper, as she made another right turn and applied the brake, the car stopping at a metal barricade. The same kind that you see on the freeway.

"I thought as much," Felicity said out loud as she opened her door and stepped out. She slammed it shut. Hard. Smiling mischievously as Isabele Smith started awake.

She walked, hands in her pockets to the front of the car, just short of the barricade, shook her head as the breeze blew across her hair, pulling at the wispies that dared to flaunt themselves, staring out across the panorama before her.

"Oh, for cryin'" Isabele mumbled as she staggered next to Felicity, crumpling the empty package that used to hold what her monster so desperately wanted. "Could this morning get any worse?"
And then she looked up.

"Oh, You Have Got to Be Kidding ME!" Isabele Smith shouted, fists clenched.

It was a crater. A mile in diameter, six hundred feet deep at it center, and that was to the surface of the twenty acre lake that pooled there. Scraggly tree covered tussocks, and rolling brown hills, that shone like dirty emeralds in the spring, surrounded the glorified pond; neglected red stone paths crisscrossed in and out of the landscape. Across the crater, a lone jogger, a blue bipedal speck, was working his way up and out and away.

"Boss. It's Crater Park," Felicity turned to view her partner talking into a cellphone that was larger than her hand, it had to be at least ten years old, as the patrol officers came up to join them. "And there is a jogger leaving to the Northwest. Looks blue from here. Mm-hm.
"Can you have a Uniform climb up on the wall and wave?" She started toward the barricade and then past, down onto the washed-out dirt trail that had been forced into existence by eager children and adventurous adults trying to "save a little time." "Yah. I see 'im. Thanks.
"Is Harper buying breakfast? Well past, huh.
"We're on our way." She pressed the phone off and stuffed it back inside her coat.
"Are you coming, Van Hollen? Or should I send you an invitation?"

"I'm coming. Yes," and to make good on her word she started awkwardly in Isabele's wake.

"Here, let me help you," one the patrol officer's offered his arm.

"Oh, thank you," she smiled with every tooth, as she placed her hand on top of his wrist.

"Oh, brother," Isabele mumbled, too low for her companions to hear.

It was a quiet, fairly short, if not uneven walk around the perimeter of Crater Park, along the narrow, rebel foot trails to the alley wall. There weren't any winter birds, no errant rabbits scurrying for their lives, no rustle of life anywhere. Just the crunch crunch of Felicity's ankle boots in the light gravel, and the tuneless humming of the rearguard patrol officer to keep them company.

They came to the wall, and the officer still sitting on one end of it, feet dangling over on the park side, heels thumping the brick absentmindedly.

"Comfortable, Joe?" Isabele asked as she stopped about fifteen feet from the end of the wall.

"No," he replied, pursing his lips, and shaking his head slightly.

"Backsides' frozen solid. I think I'll be stuck here till spring.
"Took you long enough."

Isabele snapped her head backwards, towards Felicity and her "attendant" and winked. "Didn't want the young one to be embarrassed so I took it easy getting over here. She doesn't have her hiking boots on."

"Oh, be nice," Felicity said, mock scolding the two as she pulled out a small digital camera and began snapping images of the immediate area.

"Tell me what you see, Joe," Isabele instructed the officer who was now standing on the wall as she began to dig in her pockets. She pulled out the small plastic wrapped package that she had just crumpled up and frowned.

{[(I think you guys are starting to get the hang of it, so I won't prompt you with many questions. We are at a decision making point: look at what you know and post away. There were some posts about a time limit for recieving ideas. So far, for me, because of my schedual, that hasn't been a problem. My biggest problem is not being able to post as frequently as I would like. If I had it my way, I would be turning this around once a week, maybe every ten days, NOT once every two weeks or more. Keep it up! Hang in there! Don't get bored on me! Note the updated element on the right (at the bottom of the guidelines)!)]}

Ooooo, Clever Clever!

{[(Some of yoos just made it in before I just went ahead and worked with what had been given to me. So far so gude! Keep it up! I'll get to it soon. I promise.)]}

Chapter 1, Part Ai

"Well?" Fletcher Gereld asked again. He was a tall, skinny man, at the least six-two, with shoulders that curved inwards and a neck that, besides looking to long, bowed, like a vultures. He was dressed in a brown three piece suit that looked like something his grandfather had been buried in. His overcoat was an equally pathetic example of men's clothing. A stiff, cold wind knifed down into the alley, tugging at the gray hair that protruded wildly out from under the only decent article of clothing he had on: a new, leather, carrimac ivy cap.

"Stupid Boy Scouts," Isabele murmured as she brought out a palm sized, plastic wrapped package and began fumbling at the contents. She managed to extract one of the deathly little white cylinders, badly bent and twisted, the lethal end smashed almost flat, and placed it between her lips as she began searching for a means of satisfying the craving beast within her.

"Those things will kill you, you know," Felicity stated with a sardonic smile. She was five-four, a hundred and twenty-five pounds, and dressed to the nines in a smart red, woolen skirt with matching tailor-made jacket, tied precisely with a two inch black patent leather belt. Ankle high boots, that matched the belt, with fur trimmed throats and two inch heels, kept her small feet warm, as black and red checkered leggings disappeared under an at-the-knee hem. The outer edges of the ruffled collar and cuffs of her white blouse, protruding out from under her jacket, fluttered sporadically in the icy breeze.

"You deal with stress in your own fashion.
"Stupid lighter" Isabele groused absentmindedly as she threw her cigarette away disgustedly. Then as if she suddenly realized what had been said to her she turned crossly on the young girl with the flaming red hair, tied in twin French braids down her back. "You're more likely to be run over crossin' the street than I am to die of cancer!" And she ground the heels of her hands into her eyes, exacerbating the insomnia bruises, before she began to vigorously scrub her scalp, pulling her hair loose from the messy knot. Turning her face into the breeze she combed her hair with her fingers, the gray developing at her temples shot contrasting color through the long blue-black mane that snapped in the wind. Quickly she pulled it into another messy topknot at the back of the crown of her head.

"Forget to pay the power again, Izzy?" Calvin asked as he approached the three, looking Isabele up and down, taking in the yellow sneakers, the blue running pants with the white stripe down the side, the cream "I-Love-Anywhere-But-Here" sweater with the dripping green print, and the oversized duck-cloth carpenters jacket.

"Haha," Isabele sneered as she took the steaming Styrofoam cup of Ain't Got Time for Sleep brand, jumbo sized coffee out of Calvin's hand and began drinking.

She turned back towards Gereld, who's brown eyes were flicking over the entire alley, squinting in the waxing morning light, contemplatively adding up the "evidence" in his head. He was sixty-something, or so the rest of the group thought, there was an ongoing pool back at the house, looked well past retirement, but was still the cheifs favorite. Something about a photographic memory. He had turned down so many advancements that the city had finally stopped offering them. He like being in the field, something about how a desk "affects the human physiology" or something like that. Everybody had stopped trying to figure it out.

"Calvin?" Gereld asked without looking at the dapper young man.

"Dispatch received a call," Calvin began as he shoved his hands down into the pockets of his charcoal wool overcoat. It still smelled of the store. "At three-thirty that there was quote 'man a crazy load of fightin' man'. The caller refused to provide I.D. and hung up. Dispatch traced it to the phone booth down the block," he motioned with his head, up the alley and over. "Forensics is dusting it. Local patrol was sent here and when they finally got here, at four-fifteen, they found this" pulling his gloved hands out he spread them wide, palms up, thumbs out, taking in the entire scene. "Patrol is canvassing. So far, their not turning up any information. You could bring the Third I.D. and the Seventh Cav. down here and let them light each other up and no one would notice. Except some local indigent, like what seems to be the case here."

"Is that your initial thought?" Gereld asked somberly, his smooth face not betraying any expression. "That the Third I.D. and the Seventh Cav. decided to have a turf war in the middle of the industrial sector?"

Calvin just smiled, warmly, and adjusted his wire rimmed glasses.

"Isabele. Do you still think that this is the work of Boy scouts?" he asked as he crouched down, peering under a dumpster.

Isabele mumbled something unintelligible.

"Felicity? Do you have any thoughts about this?"

Both Calvin and Isabele sniggered under their collective breath.

"To early to tell, Mr. Gereld." Felicity shot the two a dungeoness look. "Of the evidence, there is absolutely no shortage. The crime scene is positively enormous; starting down there, " she turned at the hips and pointed with a delicate, black leather gloved hand at the yellow police tape at the mouth of the alley, "and ending there," she pivoted and pointed at the dead-end wall, some ten or twelve feet high. "Forensics is going to love this one, positively."

"If a crime was even committed" Isabele slurped "her" coffee.

"Ah," Fletcher Gereld smiled smally.

The others turned in the direction that their leader was facing, just in time to watch the sun crown the small Five and Dime store across the street from the alley, its rays shooting down into the alley like wild colts chasing butterflies on the high mountain slopes.

Fletcher Gereld stood a little straighter, gaining a little more altitude over his subordinates, his posture just as awful as ever. Calvin squared his shoulders and set his jaw. Isabele closed her eyes, exhaled deeply, and sort of slumped while still standing. Felicity bunched her shoulders and shivered, pulled the collar on her jacket up and buckled the patent leather clasp.

"Isabele. You and Felicity get a patrol and go around to the other side of this wall. Calvin. . ."

"Done," Calvin finished and began walking down the alley.

{[(As you will notice, only one charcter has a last name. That's because he's the only character that had names suggested for him that actually worked as a last name. Need last names for the three additional charcters. What are the facts? Where might the facts lead? Is there anything on the other side of the wall? If so: what? Will forensics turn up anything at the phone booth? If so: what? Will the canvass reveal anything? If so: what? Where do we go next? Read the new element added to the page)]}