Insight Through Inquiry

Suck it, reports!

+ gabriel cortes

"AHA! It's finished! Suck on that, Ravenhurst!"

Sleep-addled, irate, and dead in more ways than one. This was Detective Hollis in the wee hours of the morning. A messy tuft of hair–greasier than usual–emerged from behind a cluttered desk, and in jubilation did the man raise his hands to the ceiling, praising the harsh fluorescent light above as if it were the sun. An after-action report on a 10-60 was finally finished; long had it been that the man had slaved away at the report after hours, near the records room, at his desk, all with ever familiar visage of the goateed, surly Sergeant Ravenhurst keeping a close vigil. Hell, he even took the effort to work overtime to get that dossier of papers completed, ensconced within a manila folder that smelled faintly of spilt coffee. And lo, the fruits of his labor!

Almost immediately did Mason reach for his coat and bumble toward the exit, haggard, with great dark bags under his eyes. A weary hand did he wave toward the receptionist at the desk, another officer, and then the sergeant that stood right next to both of them. Catheter....no...Kather.....that one guy whom he had requested information from just several hours prior. Perhaps another time would he confer with either one of them, and perhaps apologize to the latter for a little debacle in the break room beforehand. But now was not the time. Home. Sleep. Now.

Yet in that instant did he spot it. A pink cardboard box, laden with freshly baked, pillowy-soft clouds of wheat and sugar, out in the open, right next to several plastic cups of aromatic coffee. Leave it to Kather to take the time to purchase some for the precinct.

"Want some?"

"Hey, thanks," breathed he simply, before acquiring a handful of those soft, sweet pastries for himself. They'd be well put to use for the morning ahead; the carbohydrates and sugar to go with a breakfast of beef jerky. And then, glazed rings of greasy goodness in hand, did he make his exit. Past the evidence room, where Bautista had holed up once more doing absolutely nothing productive, past the navy-blue lockers where all on-duty equipment was ensconced, and toward the elevator, which rose with a characteristic ding.

"God, my head hurts."

---

Grass grew, leaves fell, and an extremely tired detective had just finished taking a rather long nap in the back of his beaten up 2009 Toyota Camry. There was no way that Mason was going to be able to drive in the condition he was in all the way back to his apartment, and so with his coat as a makeshift blanket and his phone as a makeshift timer, Mason settled in for the long haul. Needless to say, it was a tad less comfortable than sleeping in a bed, but at least he was sheltered from the elements. And if he desired breakfast in bed––or a rather pitiful snack in bed––there were donuts, not quite stale, sitting just atop the dashboard. And so, as he rose from his slumber, did the man partake.

Cold coffee from a cup that had been left on the dashboard for too long, with some stale donuts. Oh, what a feast, a delight to the senses! Adjusting the seat of his vehicle upright did the man scarf down his meal, squinting vaguely at the clock before deciding that it was of little importance to him. And, as blurry eyes adjusted to the pastel colors of the sun giving way to dark blue did he notice an individual, dressed in similar clothes to himself, asleep behind the wheel of his own car. A kindred spirit?

Leather loafers trudged upon gravel and asphalt, as the exponentially more unkempt detective made his way to the sleeping man's vehicle. And, with a moment of hesitation, did bony, pallid digits rap lightly on the window of the car.

"You look tired fella, want some donuts?"