Bishop and contact (posted for Cross since he's siiiick)

[x-wildchild.livejournal.com]

(Posted for Cross since he's ill and I did the socking.)

Bishop meets up with his paranoid, conspiracy-theory-minded, snarky 'contact' in the NYPD. Who reveals that the police are aware of the disappearances, they just don't much care because the people going missing are mutants.



Bishop walked into the office section of the precinct with a visitor's badge hanging from the pocket of his jacket. It still felt odd to him, even though he had been gone for years. He rounded the thin walls and set a dark purple milk shake in a slightly frosted, clear, plastic cup on the desk he sat across from. "Don't start. I brought a present and you know you're going to show up in one of my offices some day for a favor about some 'mutant' case."

The smirk on anyone else would've been unwelcoming. On John Munch, it was the closest thing to a handshake and a hug. "Lucas Bishop. With presents, even. What brings you to the home of New York's Finest?" It was clear by "New York's Finest" that the man meant specifically the handful of desks in the office, and no other. "No, wait, let me guess, you've come to apologize personally for the abomination this city calls a baseball team, and instead worship at the altar of the Orioles, and you want my season tickets."

"The Yankees are still the most famous and longest winning team in the history of the sport. If I wanted your tickets it would be so I could laugh regularly." Bishop dropped a file on the man's desk. "I'm more interested in the police reports and detectives findings on this, so I can follow up on 'the Finest,' for what that's worth." His tone more complimentary than antagonistic; he was asking for a favor, after all.

"If you wanted my tickets, you would be in a world of disappointment, my friend. These feet have not set foot in Camden Yards since my last wife insisted we go see a game. Six hour drive, and all I got was overpriced hot dogs an the urge to arrest Peter Angelos." Munch flipped through the file, seemingly disinterested, although anyone who knew him at all would know better. "District X? Is that where you've hung your proverbial hat now?"

"I have a couple hats but I'm still the only mutant Detective around. It was me and the crew I'm with or no one." Bishop waited patiently as Munch reviewed the file, knowing better than to try to interrupt or explain any facts while he was reading.

"If I didn't have alimony, I would consider joining you." Munch said. "If it didn't also mean finding my own cases instead of having them waltz in bearing gifts." He pointed at the milkshake. "Your client, did he name himself after the philosophers or the character? I only ask because some schools of modern literature put Bill Watterson on par with such luminaries as J.D. Salinger."

"I doubt he named himself at all but I didn't ask. I'm also not a literature critic, there aren't words enough to define justice from what I've heard and that's where my interest is." Bishop chatted just idly enough to help Munch's process.

Munch closed the file. "I can tell you two things. The first is that either you are very good at knowing when this office is going to be empty." His Captain was dealing with the brass, his partner was out.. somewhere, probably having a squabble with his son, and the rest of the squad was on cases. Munch had been minding paperwork - the old fashioned way, on a typewriter. "Or you're reading minds. Don't tell me if you are, I don't need to invest in tin foil. The second is that there's more to this than just your client's deceased partner and your reports here."

"I'm not a telepath. I am interested in the second part. What's the more?" Bishop leaned in curiously.

"You would say that even if you weren't a telepath." Munch responded, almost automatically. "If anyone asks you, I wasn't here, I never said anything and I don't know anything about Rose Kennedy's lobotomy." He pulled a notepad out of his desk and scrawled a few names on it. "Missing persons reports, mostly. We've gotten one or two reports here, One PP's been forwarding any crime against a sex worker to us for review, we kick back most of them to missing persons. If there's no clear sex crime, it's not our case. But I watch."

The names he wrote down varied. Some were male, some female. A few were clearly Asian or Hispanic, most not clearly from any particular culture. "I'll forward you some information, I can't hand it to you here, you understand?" Munch said. "Not all of these people lived in District X. I can assure you, the ones that didn't, the investigation stopped the second one of the small-minded bigots found out the missing people were mutants. You clear this, you'll clear two dozen missing persons reports."

Bishop took the list and stood. "If I was a telepath I wouldn't say anything. You'd never think that I might be." He replied with a smile. "I look forward to that information, right now I don't have much of anything."

"Consider it a mitzvah, from me to you." Munch said, with a nod. "I'll fax more after my shift. There's a medical examiner who owes me a favor."