Trace - The End/Log

It's the typical kind of night in this part of the city. There are little box houses set up all over the alleyway, the sounds of people chattering, coughing, groaning, and dogs barking, the very familiar sights and sounds of the hoemless burrows of the Warzone. One particular box set contains a hooded pair leaning against once another. Deacon has his arm out of the sleeve of his hoodie and a belt adjusted around his upper arm with the end firmly between his teeth, in the other hand is a hypodermic needle hovering just above the inside curve of his elbow, while Trace watches on. Both of them look drugged up, dragged out, and hung up wet to dry. Dirty almost seems nice to the realities.. When two people fall, when the drugs really get hold of them, it can really work it's horrible magic in a hurry..

The smaller of the pair has her dark eyes on Deacon's arm but her gaze is unfocused. Trace has her knees up against her chest and her arms wrapped around them, her shoulder rubbing lightly against his as she rocks back and forth just gently.

Gustavo parked his car two blocks away. A local kid he trusts paid twenty bucks to watch it. Gustavo has on an old military jacket, the hood of a hoodie up and jeans. He's quiet, making his way up the street towards where the group area. "Tovarich," he says in Russian as he gets within fifteen feet or so.. "Do me a favor, stow the needle. I'm here as a friend, but I can't talk to you if you're ridin' the dragon." He throws back his hood. "I spent the last week trying to run down where you guys were. Blew a ton of favors to do it, to get to you ahead of the major crimes people. So lets just talk, cool?"

Gustavo's greeting does pause the needles injection, does draw up Deacon's unfocused dark eyes, but whatever humanity might have been there not to long ago... is definately faded now. There's a look that a person gets when they're truely and completely strung out. A constant sort of hunger, like anything and anyone could potentially be coming to take the drugs or coming to 'feed' the addiction. The needle rolls into his palm and slides down into their house of cardboard, then that hand slides across his pasty white mouth, against the color drained black streaks that run all through his pale face, "What is it we are talking about? You are going to coming and save us? mm? Going to telling us how we can turn around our lives if we are putting down drugs, maybe?" Quiet, the words are barely even words, almost slurred accusations from the fraile looking bum that use to be Deacon.

Trace laughs a little, the sound as thin and as fragile as paper. She doesn't stop her little movements, her rocking, although one limb comes up to rub her thumb across her bottom lip, her hand shaking visibly. The laughter dissolves into a little gulped sound and she presses her forehead into her arm, hiding her face.

"You're a soldier, man," Gustavo says softly. "THat doesn't go away. We have a saying where I was trained - once a Marine, always a Marine. You guys were the same way. Hard training, to teach you that no matter how hard you fail or how bad you screw up, your core doesn't change. I'm coming to you as a friend. I owe you, for saving my life. I'm helping you, ahead of my comrades, to get you some help."

Deacon watches the dresed down detective with those unfocused dark eyes, "Go away or giving us money.. everything is gone.. world is taking away from us all of good it ever gave.." The needle reappears, held up so Gustavo can get a good look at it, "This making pain stop.. this making it all so much less hurt.. You go now. Or you give us money, if you really want to help, but you are wasting your breath." He moves, rolling over lazily to push up to his feet, lacking all of that grace he had that night with the driveby, he almost falls back down onto his face.. As he stands, wobbly, his hand slides along the back of Trace's neck, scratching, leaning her agains this leg.

The female of the pair looks up as Deacon stands, her head slowly rising from her arms. Trace looks up at him with that same sort of spaced-out expression, currently further gone than him - perhaps he was the second of them to use that needle? Whatever the reason, she's staying quiet and never stopping her almost spasmodic rocking motion.

"You going to give up? Is that what is going to happen? You're stronger than that. She's stronger than that. You were doing good. Real good." the detective says. "You going to wash that way with some dope? Let the bad guys win? Become just one of the unwashed masses out here, riding the needle and just caring where the next fix comes from? That what you want?" he says, his hands on his hips. He's maintaining his distance though, not close enough to hopefully get caught in an attack - but they're fast! "I'm giving you a door out. Man to man, soldier to soldier. In respect for your service."

Deacon can hear it, it's evident that he's not yet hit the needle tonight, but he's wobbly. Staring at Gus like he's a viper ready to strike, instead of a man trying to help them out of the pit. A hand come sup to the zipper of that hoodie and begins sliding it down, all very precise, all very deliberate. Unfocused eyes staring at the Detective, "one." He says quietly, distantly, neck like it's only partially got any muscle control at all.

Gustavo is standing a little way down the alley. Deacon is standing in front of him with his back to a wall and he's slowly unzipping his hoody - maybe he's taken to stripping for money? His expression doesn't support that idea, though... it's suspicious and with unfocused eyes. Trace is sitting just inside a carboard box home near his feet, although she's starting to stand in a slow sort of way, with wobbly knees and shaking hands.

"You gonna do that, comrade? Draw down on me?" Gustavo says as his right hand just brushes back his open hoodie and jacket a touch. Not to where his hand is near his weapon, not yet. Just against his thigh. "I'm HELPING you, you stubborn sonuvagun. You're in the shit, right now. No denying that. But you got a narrow window out of it. For you, and for Trace. The world's a shitty place, and you got rogered good an' proper. But later on, right when that dope hits your veins and you have that last moment of clarity, do you wanna realize you had your chance, your last chance out, and you blew it? You want that to be the story on you and her? You that far gone? You were a soldier. You drive on, no matter what the enemy does to you. You never give up. You never surrender." His shoulders are tense and his entire body is all but humming with tightened muscle control, his eyes not leaving Deacon at all. "You slap leather, tovarich, and we're both going down and she's going to be all alone." Gustavo warns. "You're not this stupid. Don't let the dope think for you." Gustavo is 'undercover', in an old Army jacket, jeans, and a hoodie that's down to reveal his head. He's around fifteen or so feet away from Deacon.

The problem with drugs are they rarely allow for clariety of thought. Deacon continues to lower that zipper until it's hanging open over a dirty white teeshirt and in the front of his ratty jeans, the grip of a pistol. There's nothing else he seems able to say, no more words to share, it would appear. His hand is moving over towards that grip, eyes always on the detective, "two." One word, one word to sum up a thousand that could never have said as much as three letters.

Trace must be able to hear Gustavo, he's right there. And there's starting to be a creeping sort of awareness returning to her features as her eyes slowly move up to look at the plain-clothes cop. "Not jail," she says, in a voice that's tired, and shaky, and so much older than before. "We'd be apart."

Maybe Esme heard a rumour. Maybe shes doing her nightly touch-base with the homeless community. Maybe she's just looking for somewhere quiet to have a smoke without having to go 'home' to the Sharkbite. Whatever the reason, she rounds the corner into the alley and comes to a dead stop, recognising two of the three immediately. No words, it's not the time for words yet, just with her cigarette dangling from one hand and a vaguely bemused expression, she stares at the couple.

Let it never be said that Marines don't take advantage of a tactical situation. With a flick of his right hand, that hoodie and coat go flicked back several inches, enough for Gustavo's right hand to drop down. In a smooth movement that Fornax semi-auto comes out, Gustavo twisting to present a fraction of his side, crouched slightly and two hands on the pistol - which is aimed down, but the 'click' of the safety sliding off is loud on the quiet midnight street. It's a fast movement, designed to take advantage of Deacon's drugged, slow state - in a normal day, ninety nine out of a hundred draws there's no way this will work. "Don't do it," Gustavo says, his voice tight - the pistol aimed at the ground. "I don't want you two in jail. I want you clean. I want to find out what happened. I want to know how you dropped so far. But so help me God, you bring that gun out, I am putting two in your goddamn head, friend or no. Don't. Do. This." he growls.

Deacon barely even precieves that Gustavo is already drawn, is already holding his pistol. His hand just keeps moving towards the one stuffed in the front of his pants like a bad gangster movie.. Long fingers curl around the wood and metal grip, but he's not at all fast. He's got this glassy look, but he laughs all the same.. a hauntingly mocking sort of sound when the Detective tries to reason him out of his drug addle. "We are having taken angel dust for months.. pcp, cocaine.." Tilting his head towards his other hand where the needle runs up the inside of his arm, "This is new.. but fuck the world.. if we are going down, we are going down together.." Then he's pulling the pistol from the front of his waist band, all in that slow motion that takes place when guns get involved. The barrel starts to rise towards pointing at Gustavo.

And now it's Trace's turn to start moving for her weapon. As the worst of the haze is slowly fading from her mind, her hand goes to the zipper of her own sweater and pulls it down, slides underneath. "Everything's lost," she says in that same tired tone. "The world is ... so dark and the lights keep getting fewer and fewer. The drugs work less and less and are harder to get as it all falls away from us and even the lights burn when they shine..."

"Trace, don't." Esme speaks. Even when guns are being drawn, and she's the one who brought a wooden sword to the fight, she speaks. "Be a light. Stop this - do you want to go to jail? Do you want Deacon in jail? Don't be apart. Don't do this." She doesn't approach, knowing better than that at least, but neither does she look for cover. "_Be a light_."

"God-f..." the Marine curses, as Deacon brings that pistol up. "No, don't, don'..." and then the pistol is rising up clearly at him. Right about where it's a second or two from being aimed at Gustavo, the man's heavy semi-auto crashes the night with two rounds fired in rapid-fire succession. Flash sight picture, two rounds center mass, and the gun elevated upwards, a second or so pause to see if Deacon is still moving, and a third shot fired - the first two shots expertly placed center mass, the third striking Deacon's neck, the right side. Gustavo swivels his aim to the left, the pistol up and aimed. "LISTEN TO HER!" he barks, his voice all Marine gunny now, on edge and tense. "DON'T MAKE ME DO THIS!" he shouts, even as the reverberating boom from the fired rounds ricochets around the alleyway.

Then time catches back up with them. All very slow motion until the guns start barking out orders, Deacon jerks twice as the bullets tear into his right and left breast, pushing him backwards.. but true to form, he's like a man doped up on PCP and barely even registers it, except for a grimace as he tries to bring his own pistol up and fires off a shot that slams down into the concrete at the detective's feet. That third shot doesn't hit his head, as intended, maybe it's the growl of the M1911 in his wobbling hand, but does strike him right in the throat. The impact sends him spinning, the pistol flying from his hand towards Trace... as he's bringing a hand up to cover his throat in a vain attempt to save some of the life draining out of him. Ain't no drug in the world that can prevent sanguination, though.. it's a matter of time and time always wins.

Right as the gunshot echoes are reverberating around the alleyway, Trace's heart-broken cry joins it as Deacon falls back. Her eyes are wide and her expression full of anger and fear as her hand comes out of her hoody, empty. She grabs Deacon's pistol and fires wildly at Gustavo, barely even taking the time to aim as she moves herself between him and her husband.

And now the bullets fly. Esme is not quite brave enough to remain in the open - she dives, frankly, behind the scanty cover of some trash cans and a cardboard box. Crouching, she takes a deep breath and tries to compose herself. Meanwhile, the already shadowy alley seems to darken, as if someone had covered the only streetlight, maybe the bulb is failing. There's a chill with it as well. "Gus, /cover/!."

As Trace fires, almost simultaneously Gustavo is firing. Two rapid fire rounds aimed at Trace, and he's doing that second pause to aim for a head shot when his brain registers something - her rounds have struck true. One round ricochets off the concrete and takes off a piece of his coat, a second round hits his right upper chest and the third strikes his right arm, causing his third fired round aimed at her head to echo around the alleyway as it strikes a wall well over her head. The Fornax hits the ground as Gustavo falls back to the ground. Even as the Marine hits the dirt he's rolling with a pained grunt on the debris and trash, his left hand coming out with his backup weapon as he aims between his bent knees at the two drug addicts, trying to pump two rounds at the targets - but he's rocked, hit twice, and it's weak-offhand. The Glock 27 doesn't have the 'punch' of the Fornax, it's .40 caliber rounds have a kick but not the souped-up federal issue Fornax. After firing twice at Trace and Deacon, he begins pushing himself back with his feet, trying to get closer to one of the Dumpsters in the alleyway by scooting on his back with pained grunts, his right arm hanging limply at his side.

Deacon stumbles and goes down onto one knee as the dark alleyway lights up with the flashes of gunfire. As the explosive echo sends homeless running like roaches in a kitchen, dropping their drugs and booze, abandoning their cardboard shanties, hiding.. scattering. With a hand tight against his throat, clutching hard against the wound, the taller of the drug addicted pair crawls on his hands and knees away from the detective, but his movements are getting kind of slow and sluggish.

As the shadows creep in around them, Trace stops firing and blindly shoves Deacon's gun into the waist of her ratty, dirty jeans. Blood is seeping through her hoody and darkening the material there as she presses a hand against her side with a dull sort of look down as crimson wells up through her fingers. She stumbles backwards, almost losing her footing before she turns and bends to help Deacon, the two of them starting to scrabble to try and get away from the scene.

Whatever else she's doing, Esme is remaining hidden. Moving along behind the thin cover of dumpsters, she tries to get to the injured detective, as much to not be hiding on her own as to see how badly hurt he is. "Thtay down," she imparts under her breath, muting the sibillant syllables so that the words don't carry and make it abundantly obvious to the gun-wielding druggies where she is.

Gustavo is panting, scooting back several feet before firing three rapid fire rounds at the departing drug addicted friends. Rounds impact around them, none striking true. Another scoot and another with a pained grunt, Gustavo getting behind the Dumpster finally. "Six, seven," he tells himself out loud as he does, pressing the magazine release on the slim Glock and as it clatters to the ground he's shoving the pistol into his right armpit, his left reaching for his belt and pulling out a spare magazine, shoving it into the well and rocking the slide back against his right shoulder with a snarl of pain. He leans around the Dumpster to aim down the alleyway into the darkness, his pistol sweeping left and right. Searching for targets, which are impossible to see in the gloom. Esme can see the hole in his right upper chest on his coat, and on the hoodie underneath. Some wetness there, in the darkness. His right arm is mostly limp, dark liquid running down off his fingertips.

The two most obvious targets have evacuated from the other end of the alley.. Trace slides up beside Deacon with bullets passing over head, all very precisely slipping an arm around his waist as his arm goes around her shoulder. Even in their drugged state, the two are so exact when it comes to where the other is, like a single person thinking through two bodies. Deacon grunts, hoisting himself up, but his free hand is holding his throat together.. Trace is supporting the weight of their retreat, struggling out the alleyway as screams from other homeless, dogs howling, and gunfire, play them out like trumpets.

Whatever happens in the meantime... it's about an hour or so after the events happen that Gustavo gets a call that somebody has reported seeing Trace and Deacon. They've got into a cheap motel and the cops are going to storm it to find them. They want him there to make identifications. He gets a ride there but on the way, the call comes in that a fire has been started and the fire brigade are on their way to put it out. Once he arrives (Esme in tow, she isn't prevented from coming), part of the motel is a burned wreck, there are cops and firemen all over and a distressed-looking motel owner wringing his hands.

Gustavo wasn't feeling any pain by the time the ambulance arrived with oh, six or so squad cars, a sergeant, and a lieutenant. He had time to get to the hospital and get stitched up and bandaged and his temporary sling turned into an 'official' one and then the call went out. There's some arguing between him and Esme - what good is a one armed Marine - and in the end, the two are getting out of the squad car, Gustavo wincing as he unfolds himself and stalks his way to the motel owner, his gold badge bouncing on the chain on his chest. Still wearing his shot up coat and hoodie. "You're the owner?" he asks the man. "Detective de Lara."

The owner is a little ways back from the motel, but he's clearly identified to Gustavo once he arrives.. the yellow tape has been rolled out and a parimeter established, but the fire is largely out.. only the smoke and black husk of a motel room window stand as vigil to it at all. As De Lara approaches, Omar turns to regard him, rubbing his hands together in that rat like way of people who run shady businesses in the zone, "Yes, I am owner.. Omar Daluf." Offering his hand, though really it's just trying to be polite at this point.

This is a Bad Idea(tm). And yet, Esme is doing it anyway. First she's doing Things in public, now she's accompanying a cop in pursuit of a pair of fugitives. What is this going to do to her reputation, the back of her brain is asking the front? So, she spends the car journey with a distinct scowl, perhaps blaming Gustavo for being quite so dedicated to his job instead of staying at the hospital. But, here she is nonetheless, following the ex-Marine out of the car, the motel getting full brunt of her baleful glare now.

"Mister Daluf. You saw the fugitives, you said?" Gustavo asks. The right hand shake is ginger, since that arm is slung up against his chest. "How long ago? How did they act? What if anything did they say, or do with you?"

"Ah, yes, I did see them!" Omar does not sound excited by this, though he probably did on the phone.. the nature of his turning in the two wanted fugitives seems to have lost a little something now that his motel is burned out. Still, to late to back out now, "They come up.. the little one.. is trying to act like they are going to.. you know.." He doesn't explain, figuring that he does know, "But I can see the bigger male is bleeding.. I am not stupid.. but I also do not discriminate, that is law, yes? Not to discriminate? Anyways.. I rent them room and then see the newspaper article on them.. and immediately phone the police. Is there a reward for information that catches them?" As an afterthought that is probably a first thought, that he's just trying to subtly plant in there now, "Anyways, I rent them room seven.." Motioning with his head nodding towards the blackened window.

From the room comes a forensics cop in the full gear, and he's heading towards Gustavo.

"How did the fire start?" Esme asks, probably not following police procedure in doing so, being neither a cop or particularly interrested in the correct way of doing this. Her attention is then drawn over to the CSI guy, and she eyes him like he's coming with tales of the apocalypse.

"When did you notice the fire?" Gustavo asks as well - great minds. He eyes the cop coming, giving him a nod. "Hey man." he says as he steps to one side - enough to still hear the motel owner, but give the forensic guy some space to talk discreetly if he wants to.

"When fire alarm is going off.." The Owner states with a little shrug of his shoulder, lighting up a clove cigarette because he's sophisticated and such. "Who is going to pay for motel room?"

That being said, the Forensic Detective comes with an up-nod to Gustavo, "So, this is a pretty messy scene.." He begins, glancing back over his shoulder at the blackened window, "We've got two bodies in there.. one of them is burned almost beyond recognition, but both are pretty fired up." Rimshot. Forensic humor. "Looks to me like they got here and the smaller one tried to do some doctoring.. got two shells in a bowl of water.. But he probably bled out about twenty minutes ago by the state of his neck.. I'm surprised he got here at all, actually." Looking up at Esme, "Who's the woman?"

"I'm the woman who kept your guy here from meeting the same fate," Esme tells the forensics guy, jerking a thumb at Gustavo. Not that a shoulder wound is quite so prone to leading to hypoxia, but even so. "Probably the only reward is not getting the rest of your motel burned out, and a real nice clean-up of the room that got trashed," she tells the motel owner then, unsympathetic.

Gustavo grunts at the motel owner, a wry smile. "That depends man, on what contraband we find in the motel. Are we gonna find anything I don't like in there?" he asks before focusing on the forensic specialist with a frown. "Dammit," he says with real feeling. "Big guy, say six foot, small woman, five oh? Can you get dental, you think? He was a soldier, back in Russia I bet. And he should have recent track marks on his right arm. When do you think you'll know for certain it's them?" As an aside to the forensic detective, "She's my witness. And sort of my guardian angel, saved my life."

"Like I said, they're pretty burned up.." The Forensic guy looks over his shoulder, "Uh.. give or take, about two days? There's not much to work with. Come on in, I guess. You're the detective on this one anyways, so you'll want to see the crime scene." And then he's started that way. Provided Gustavo, if not both of them, follow.

It is a 'mess' in that motel room... old carpeting, shotty wiring, mostly dry wood furnishings.. it looks PH balanced to catch on fire at the drop of a match. But all of these old buildings are, part of the horrible truth of the warzone. Eating itself up. On the 'bed', or what was one, once, is a blackened corpse that's suffered a pretty good bit of fire damage. It may have been a woman once, but any definable characteristics are gone from that.. Slumped down in a chair is an equally burned corpse, though it's not nearly as 'charred' as the other. An ashtray is melted down onto the corpse's thigh and a pistol lays down on the ground be a hand that hangs lifeless and black at it's side.. The smaller body is nude, except for stitches of clothes, as it looks like that's where the fire started since it is by far the most burnt area of the room, but the male.. he's still got some clothes on, though his chest is bare. A hoodie discarded on a table, but generally speaking, the fire has destroyed this scene almost completely.

The Forensic guy motions to one side, "Right over here.. we found a water bason with two slugs, a pair of black tweezers, and a butter knife.. and there's some drugs over in the bathroom too.. Figure.." Pointing to the woman, "She tried to doctor him up, pulled out the bullets from his chest." Which he motions to on the man's 'breast', "Then he bled out.. and she set herself on fire. Don't have a clue how, but it wouldn't take much in this weather." Glancing up at Gustavo, "Still want us to run toxicology?"

"Shit." Esme sighs quietly, closing her eyes for a moment as she sees the crime scene. She may only have been loosely friends with Trace and Deacon, but this is still something she'd rather not be witnessing it seems. Still, she did insist on coming. "Shit." Then again, she's not throwing up either, she's clearly seen corpses before. If not quite so torched.

Gustavo follows Esme in, and with one awkward hand, he works on putting some menthol over his top lip, to help mask the smell - and offers it to Esme as well. "Dammit," he repeats, under his breath. "If you can. Run the tox, do what you can to make absolutely certain. This guy, I'm pretty positive he was Spetsnaz or something along those lines, and a decoy counterintel operation wouldn't be out of his expertise. We'll just get you and the ME to go over it and match it up against my report. He was hit in the carotid, for sure, in his neck." He blows out a breath, crouching with a wince to eye the scene. "Goddamn it," he breathes again. "He was on PCP and I think smack. Her too. Once you have the tox, we can run it against our internal database and see if we can match it to a supplier." He rises to his feet, a bit shakily. "Thanks man." His eyes run over the pair, intently, even leaning in to try to get a better sense of them and he shakes his head. "I can't tell. I just can't tell."

"We found two weapons... one's a Glock 27," says the forensics expert, and he holds up the mentioned pistol, in an evidence baggie. "The other is on the male. Do those match weapons they've used? We can run tests to see if one of them is the gun that shot you." He motions towards the corpses. "They both have rings on... kinda burned but they're silver and not gold." He motions towards the door. "The owner has CCTV footage of them coming in too, if you want to have a look at it."

"I'm fine." Esme declines Oso's offer of menthol, breathing shallowly but in no danger of losing her lunch. "I don't.. I think I've seen enough. I'll be outside." And turning, she exits the room - provided she isn't stopped of course - and waits out in the parking lot, taking a few deeper breaths.

Gustavo nods. "She used a Glock 27. He used a 1911, standard GI frame," he says. At least he knows his guns. A glance at Esme, his face pained and he gives a short nod. "Let me take a look at the rings," he says as he crouches, wincing to grab his small penlight and examine the two rings without touching them - as best he can - before he gives another short nod. "Lets see the footage." He hands back the 27 in the bag, and the 1991 in the bag as well, with their magazines. "Those look like their carry guns. The 1911 is missing six rounds, that's what she fired. THe Glock 27 is full mag, she didn't get to it."

A man comes over to Esme... he's wearing a black leather jacket and he has a camera and a dictaphone. "Are you a cop? Do you have a statement?"

The Forensic guy isn't heartless.. when Esme decides she's seen enough, he stops cracking jokes and lets her go, then he's taking the baggied evidence weapons and nodding towards one of the Crime Scene Investigator vans, "We've got the footage linked to our computers, come on, I'll let you see it."

It's not a long trip, then they're standing at the open doors at the back of the black van and Gary, cus that's the CSI guy's name, pulls up the footage. The Camera is positioned over the register, so it shows a pretty clear view of anyone paying, there's also two more. One in the lobby and another near to the parking lot. The last shows the pair stumbling up, a black bleeding figure hanging onto the shoulder of a smaller.. then the lobby image shows them coming through the doors and the smaller slumping the bigger into a chair as she heads quickly for the register. But it's that last image where Gary freezes the frame, showing a blood splattered face in fairly clear view.. it's definately Trace. "That her?"

Gustavo nods, "That's her. Definitely. He's the right size and has the right wound, too. and those rings," he points, "Those are the same as what they wore, I think, when I saw them." He blows out a breath, rubbing his face. "Thanks man. Just run it all down, I want to be abso-double lutely sure it's them. Damn shame. Fucking drugs," he says, wincing. "You good, you need anything? I should probably go see the IAD folks for the post shooting stuff."

"No I'm not, an' no I don't. Fuck off, pap," Esme tells the man with the camera quite bluntly. Apparently, she's got no interest in telling the press anything right now, so soon after witnessing the corpses of a couple of friends. Then, she follows the cops over to the CSI van, more to get away from the journalist than anything else.

Esme is given a frown. The reporter snaps a few pictures of the hotel before he makes his way over to the cops, the "press" badge on his chest visible. He seems to recognise Gustavo and moves in his direction. "Detective de Lara! Do you have a statement for my story?"

The CSI Gary starts the footage back up and it shows them clearly going into room eight in that same slouching drag sort of way, 'Deacon' clearly beginning to lose control of his muscles as they enter. He almost looks dead already, more being drug than walking, more just hanging off Trace, than holding on. Then about ten minutes after... Smoke begins to curl beneath the door and the glass shatters as the fire warps it enough to break it.. "Sorry, don't know how you knew them.." Sympathetic as he can be, given the circumstances. He shuts down the footage and tips his head, "I'll have a copy of it sent to you for your report." Then he's headed back towards the motel to collect more evidence.

THe huge Marine clearly forces himself to watch. He watches until it's done, and he frowns and turns away. "Thank you, Nick. Thanks," he tells the other man, before the reporter speaks to them as the forensic specialist is walking away. Dammit. Reporters. Gustavo slides his eyes right and left. Can't have Esme do it. No one else is around. "I'd direct you to our public affairs person, Lieutenant Dawson. But .. it appears that two suspects involved in a firefight with APD this evening were perhaps involved in a fire here. It's too early to tell for certain. That's all off the record," Marine stare. "On the record. Drugs suck the best out of us, and leave a hollow, empty shell. Sometimes they take good people and turn them bad. A loss of life, no matter the life, is tragic." A left hand finger poke at the reporter's chest. "You run that shit."

The reporter steps back from the big, poking marine and swallows, nodding. "I will, Detective... thanks!" He scurries off, probably to try and get more statements.

Shaking her head slightly, Esme stands stoicly just outside of the van, arms folded, expression set. If she's upset about the deaths, other than the discomfort of being in the burned-out motel room initially, she's doing her level best not to show it. She waits for Gustavo to finish giving his comment to the reporter, then states quietly, "I'm gonna head off. You come see me if that arm gets any worse, ok?"

Gustavo nods, "I'm gonna go get drunk." the Marine says, staring at the burned out hotel. "And talk to the IAD flaks. I will. You call me, okay? Tell me you're okay. If there had been a way ... any other way." he trails off, and swallows, clearing his throat. "I didn't want this. You know that, right? I didn't want any of this."

"Yeah, I know. I heard the warnings. They were off their fucking heads," is Esme's simple pronnouncement. "You want company for the drinking? I could use a twelve-pack right now, and the shit they serve at the Bite ain't going to cut it." Because hey, misery loves company, right?

Gustavo nods, "I'd like that." he says finally, scowling at the motel. "Lets get the hell outta here before more news people show up, and the brass wanting to congratulate me." he says. He raises his voice, "Hey Jenkins, can you get your rookie to drive me home?" And then he's walking with Esme towards the squad car.