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17 January 2009 @ 09:26 pm
Theatrical Muse: Week 266: Question 266  
Name: Dr. Sid Hammerback

Fandom: CSI: New York

Word Count: 1024

Start something.

It was an unusual sight, seeing Mac in running shorts, stretching his legs and then his arms, ever the limber man, the subtleties of a past military training still obvious in his physique, in the way he held himself rigidly upright, his head poised for success. It was early morning and the sun was barely up, but they could both clearly see the outline of the concrete path that their pairs of feet would be running on soon after the event was put into play. Sid, alternately dressed in a business suit with tight black leathers shoes, did not look the part for someone who was about to participate in a running race, but pure unadulterated competition was not part of the plan anyway.

“On the count of three. One, two.” Hawkes barked from some way down the path, his voice not amplified, but still crystal clear in the early morning lull before the noise of voices and of transportation filled the air. The Medical Examiner had not really known that the ME gone CSI could shout that loudly, and he thought briefly as to what service such a talent might be able to perform. The prop knife in his hand, concealed by the newspaper, and the fake gun in his pocket, spoke of the crucial moment at hand, and once the explosive shout of “three!” curlicued its way into the air, he sat on the park bench and waited for Mac to speed by.

Once the CSI had passed the place where he was seated and was some paces ahead of him, Sid dropped the paper, kept held of the knife, and not ten seconds later was already speeding after the other man. The ill fitting shoes and the restrictive clothing were cumbersome however, and as they proved unhelpful to actually catching up to Mac, it was with some difficulty that he kept mildly close to him at all. There had been no direct communication between the pair as of that moment, yet the CSI seemed to know, and he kept on going, relentless and seemingly aware that the failure of the murder recreation was imminent.

There was a singular moment of clarity in Sid’s head as his brow began to shine with sweat, not necessarily from the exhaustion, but all the pent up limbs and energy. A quirk of his mouth confirmed the kind of idea he only suspected could be glimmered from moving through the motions of a murder, instead of trying to recreate it in pictures and in words.

“Hey, hey!” Sid shouted, and there was a small electric jolt of success, of impatience, as Mac slowed down slightly, as they both slowed down together.

“You dropped something!” the ME said, his turn to shout this time, voice still uninterrupted my outwards sources from the world around him. It was almost as if he had puzzled Mac now, and while this was not a source for his own personal victory, it was an answer to the question. The small knife which still lay in the palm of his hand was pocketed quickly as Mac slowed more and stopped completely. The race had stopped now, and there it was, that moment where the hunter corners the prey, the moment every CSI and Medical Examiner he had ever met sought to discover and solve, each in their own special way.

The prop gun was out of his pocket in a flash and he flicked it backwards slightly, indicating the letting off of one shot, imaginary and as elusive as the answers they were trying to seek. Mac, the victim, who had turned towards him when he had shouted, was facing him now, and the aiming, the killing, was easily done as he was stationary and not moving a whisker at all.

The CSI fell, not exactly falling per say, but sitting down quietly and lying back on the pathway, miming injury as Sid walked over to him and lowered himself down onto two knees, hovering over him like a Doctor attending a sick patient. Quietly slipping his fingers around Mac’s neck, the man pressed slightly, releasing after a moment and offering a hand down to the prone man on the concrete footpath.

The CSI stood, satisfaction glimmering across his face as he worked through the clues in his mind and came up with the final answer.

“He couldn’t catch up to him, so he slowed him down.” Mac said, falling silent in anticipation of a medical weigh in from the bespectacled ME who had, by now, loosened the top buttons of the business suit and was looking thoroughly pleased.

“He started something by shouting. No one ignores shouting when you are the only other person around at the time, Mac. This explains as much as anything, why he didn’t have to wear the proper gear, why he didn’t use the knife, and why he could walk away from it afterwards. For all anyone else knew, he could have been running to catch a bus, not committing murder before breakfast.” Sid said, and grinned, all relief and slight humour before they contemplated it some more in the fresh air, juggling ideas and concepts back and forth like trading cards, gradually building up an eventual conclusion of what probably would have been, and why.

Stepping near Hawkes on the way out of the park, the man caught Sid on the shoulder and grinned openly at him.

“You liked it, didn’t you? All this being out here, this problem solving?” he queried, expression curious.

The Medical Examiner shrugged and laughed, a small rumble in the back of his throat, a barely heard tickle.

“It was fun, I give that Sheldon, but I like the place where I am. I am happy for you though, we all are.” the man said, moving off once they had exchanged a few more words and some eventual farewells. Later on in the day he was back in his morgue, in his uniform, in his clothing as he should have been, scalpel poised and precise, ready to start something else and continue on with his life as he had it.
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