Fic: Twenty Four Hours (Part 2) (TS/SPN, Gen)

[briarwood]

Title: Twenty Four Hours (2/2)
Fandom: Sentinel/Supernatural Crossover
Rating: Mature
Pairing: None
Summary: Twenty four hours in the life of Detective Jim Ellison, in which he attempts to solve a particularly bloody murder.
Warnings: For warnings, notes etc see part one.

Click for Part One

---

7.51pm

Jim hadn't spent a night in a motel like this since before his divorce, but there were worse ways to spend an evening. He flipped through the TV channels until he found a movie that seemed worth watching, then lay down on the bed to watch.

Ten minutes into the movie Jim's cell phone interrupted. He answered it quickly. "Ellison."

"Ellison, it's Simon. Can you come in?"

Jim groaned. "I only just got off duty. Can it wait?"

"Not this time. We've got another murder, Jim. It sounds a lot like the scene you saw this morning."

Jim's first thought was of the man he had in custody. Was this an older scene - an earlier murder - or had this happened since Winchester's arrest?

He turned off the television. "What's the address? I'll go straight there."

Simon gave him the address: an apartment building overlooking the bay. "You sound tired, Jim. Are you up to this?"

It wasn't as if Jim could say no. Truthfully, he wasn't that tired. "The overtime had better double my Christmas bonus," he answered jokingly.

"In your dreams," Simon retorted with a laugh.

Jim pocketed his phone and headed for the room where Blair was waiting with Sam Winchester. It was several doors away from Jim's room. He knocked on the door. From inside, he heard Blair's voice, then his footsteps approaching the door.

"Hey, Jim. Trouble?"

"I just got a call to a fresh murder scene. Sorry, Chief."

Blair's face fell. "No rest for the wicked, I guess. Do you need me to come with you?"

Jim shook his head quickly. "No, I've got this one. Stay with the kid. I might not be back for a while, but I'm a phone call away if anything happens, okay?"

Blair grinned at him. "What's gonna happen, man?"

He had a point. "Alright," Jim conceded. "I'll see you later, Chief. Gotta go be a cop."

***

8.30pm

 "...Tripped over my own feet and fell on my face."

"Did they catch you?" Sammy asked breathlessly.

Blair had intended it to be an amusing story. Sammy wasn't taking it that way. He sat on the pillow with his feet on the bed, hugging his knees. He watched Blair raptly, taking in every bit of the story with earnest attention.

"Yeah, they did," Blair answered.

"But if they thought you were a demon..."

Blair grinned, hoping to convey that it really was supposed to be a joke. "Apparently they decided no demon would be that clumsy. The introductions were a bit awkward but the next day I was smoking some really weird sh- er, stuff, around their friendship fire."

Sammy visibly relaxed. "That's good."

Blair frowned. "It was meant to be funny. What's wrong, Sammy?"

Sammy brushed his bangs back out of his eyes and looked at Blair for a long time. "Demons aren't something to joke about," he answered finally.

He seemed so serious that Blair answered just as seriously. "I wasn't talking about real demons."

Sammy offered a weak smile, as if he'd finally gotten the joke. "Is my Dad in big trouble?"

"Yeah," Blair told him honestly. "He is."

"Is my brother in trouble?" Sam looked past Blair toward the bathroom.

"I don't know. Do you know where he is, Sammy?"

"I'm right here." The voice came from behind Blair. "Who the Hell are you?"

Blair turned and found himself staring into the barrel of a gun for the second time that day. The boy holding this gun was a teenager. He stood framed in the bathroom doorway, wearing torn jeans, sneakers and a leather coat that looked too big for him. He held the gun, just as Sammy had, in a steady, two-handed grip. His eyes above the barrel were cold, and Blair felt himself shiver inwardly. Sammy had just been scared and Blair hadn't felt in any real danger with him. This boy would pull the trigger.

Before Blair could react, Sammy had dived in front of him, spreading his hands as if to protect Blair. "Dean, it's okay," he insisted.

"No, it ain't, Sammy. What are you doing with this guy?"

"He's not a cop, he's an anthropologist," Sammy announced, and it should have sounded funny, but Blair wasn't laughing.

Dean kept his eyes on Blair. "Who are you?" he demanded.

Blair tried to explain.

Dean was tougher to deal with than his little brother. He did lower the gun, but he kept it in his hand, safety pointedly off, the gun in plain sight while Blair talked, explaining why he was there. He tried to make it sound reasonable, but he could see Dean wasn't convinced. His look remained suspicious and hostile.

"We don't need help," Dean insisted.

Blair needed to gain Dean's trust. He nodded. "I know you don't need a babysitter, man. I moved around a lot when I was a kid, too. Never had a real home for long. It makes you independent, makes you grow up fast. But even though you don't need help, Dean, the law says you do."

"I already called Pastor Jim. I can take care of Sammy until he gets here."

***

10.10pm

Jim was waiting in the interrogation room when the duty cops brought Winchester in for the second interview. Winchester didn't look at him as he entered the room. He sat down in silence and waited while they chained him to the table.

Jim sat down opposite him. "I have one piece of good news. You're no longer a murder suspect."

Most people would have shown some positive reaction. Winchester's look darkened. "You haven't caught the killer, not this quickly. So either someone else has confessed or more people have died."

He was right.

The second murder scene was as bloody as the first, though they found only one body this time. The scene was fresh when Jim got there, the body no more than three or four hours dead, which meant that the man Jim had in custody couldn't be the killer he sought.

Yet Jim was certain that Winchester knew something about the murders. Why else would he have been there? He was determined to find out what the man knew.

"Another murder," Jim said shortly, volunteering only the bare minimum of information.

Winchester frowned down at the table. "It shouldn't have happened again so soon," he muttered to himself.

"It shouldn't have happened again at all," Jim snapped. "You know something about this killer. You're going to tell me or I'll add obstruction of justice to the rest of the charges."

Winchester raised his eyes slowly. "I haven't lied to you. I haven't misled you in any way. I've just remained silent."

"And let someone else get butchered!"

"No, detective. You let that happen. If you'd left me to do my job, no one else would have died."

"Your job? What job?"

Winchester merely shook his head.

Jim stood, shoving his chair back so violently it crashed into the wall behind him. He leaned over the table, getting right into Winchester's face. "Damn it, talk to me! You know who is killing these people, don't you?"

Winchester moved back as far as the chain would allow, but he moved slowly, apparently unaffected by Jim's display of temper. "No," he answered calmly. "I don't know who is killing them." Winchester put a slight stress on who, as if to confirm that he did know something of importance.

Jim waited.

Finally, Winchester sighed. "I don't know who," he repeated. "I know why. But even if I tell you, you won't believe it. There's nothing you can do to stop this thing."

It wasn't, Jim thought, the defiance of a hardened criminal. Rather, Winchester seemed sincere, as if he genuinely believed Jim would reject whatever he knew. Jim said quietly, "You'll be surprised what I might believe."

Winchester nodded. "Is there a connection between the victims?"

"They knew each other. How well hasn't been determined."

"Alright. You'll think I'm crazy, or lying, but I'll tell you what I know. Off the record, though. Turn off the tape recorder."

Jim was a little surprised Winchester hadn't tried to cut a deal. He reached out and turned off the recorder. "Off the record," he confirmed.

"There's an...an artefact, I guess you'd call it. A piece of sculpture which Will Moore purchased in Illinois. You'll probably find it somewhere near the newest murder scene. It's about this big..." Winchester held up his cuffed hands, one above the other, his hands spaced as far apart as the handcuffs would allow, indicating an object about eleven inches high. "It looks like a Mayan artefact, but it's not."

"If these people were killed for this artefact, why didn't the killer take it?"

"Because that's not how it works. Where this thing goes, death follows. Everyone who owned it in the past twenty years has died, bloody."

***

10.15pm

 "Dean." Blair looked at the kid with exasperation.

Dean looked up, all wide-eyed innocence, as if he had no idea what Blair meant.

"We're going to Cascade PD," Blair pointed out. "Don't pack a gun."

Dean shrugged, clicked the safety on the .45 and shoved it into his bag. He pulled out a long stiletto blade instead and started to slide it into his sleeve.

"Or a knife!" Blair spread his hands. "Geez, are you boys in a gang?"

Dean gave him an angry look. "No," he answered coldly. "Just a family." He didn't remove the knife.

"You don't have to trust me, man. You trust this pastor of yours, don't you?"

"I trust my dad," Dean declared. "He trusts Pastor Jim."

"Dean, that's not fair," Sam put in. He was all dressed and ready, wearing a thick coat and hat as it was snowing again outside.

The man the boys called "Pastor Jim" had been on his way to Cascade when Dean contacted him. No one had said how he'd known he was needed. He called Dean again from the airport. Blair spoke to him, explained who he was and they agreed to meet at the Police Department. If the boys recognised him, Blair figured it should be a simple matter to verify that he was authorised to take care of the boys. It was a better option than turning the kids over to child protective services. Blair had only spent a few hours with them, but he was sure they were better off with their family.

Dean made for the door without answering.

Blair called him back. "Dean, the metal detectors in the PD will light up like a Christmas tree. Would you rather leave the knife here, or have the cops confiscate it?"

Dean shoved the knife back into his duffel.

***

10.40pm

At the PD Blair got the boys settled into a room near the Major Crimes bullpen. He bought them candy and a couple of sodas from one of the vending machines.

Dean passed his candy bar to Sammy and looked at Blair. "I want to see my Dad," he demanded.

Blair nodded. "I'll ask, but I don't know the rules. They might not allow it."

"Whatever, dude." Dean turned his back on Blair, as if it were all his fault. He sat down at the table and said nothing more.

"I'll be back as soon as I can," Blair promised, looking at Sammy. He waited for the boy's nod before he left the room.

Jim was right outside. "Chief. Good, I was just looking for you. If you've got a moment I could use your help."

"Sure. I guess the boys are safe here." Blair followed Jim into the bullpen. This late at night it was almost deserted, only one detective besides Jim still working. "Are you getting anywhere with the case?" Blair asked, stealing a chair from the desk next to Jim's.

"It's not Winchester. I got something from him, maybe. I want you to look through the pictures from the second crime scene."

"Oh, man, I don't know. Is it bad?"

"It was, but it's the room I want you to look at." Jim passed him a folder. "Winchester mentioned a fake Mayan artefact. I want to know if it's there."

Blair's frown smoothed out and he relaxed. Jim was consulting him professionally. This, he could do.

The photographs revealed a crime scene as bloody as the first. Looking at pictures was a lot easier than being there. The room was decorated in dark colours: blue-grey wallpaper, dark wood shelving and furniture. It made the blood less vivid, but no less horrible. How could one body hold so much blood? Blair stared at the first picture for a long time before he realised he was doing it. He turned to the next and managed to look past all the blood to study the shelves. There was a display of antique items on the shelves: Blair knew enough to recognise eighteenth century china but couldn't tell whether they were real or just good imitations. On the bottom shelf was a collection of books: art and history, large volumes of the kind most people buy to display, and rarely read. He moved on to the third picture.

There it was. "Jim. Here." Blair tapped the photograph, showing it to Jim. "This ornament must be what you're looking for. It's a replica of a fifth century Mayan vessel used for burial offerings." He ran one finger across the top of the artefact in the picture. "The figures on top are..."

"I don't need the details, Chief." Jim took the picture from him. "Are you sure it's a replica?"

Blair chuckled. "I think I'd have heard about it if the original had been stolen from the Met, so yeah."

Jim flashed him a quick grin. "Good to know. Thanks, Chief." He took the folder back from Blair and flipped through the paperwork, running his finger down one page as he quickly scanned it. "They didn't bag it. No reason to, I guess. If we go to the scene we can..." he broke off as his phone rang. Jim answered it, "Ellison." He listened for a moment. "Yeah...got it. Thanks." He hung up. "The priest is here for the boys. Can you let the kids know? I want to ask him a couple of questions while I have the chance."

"Sure, man." Blair headed for the door, glad to be leaving the photographs behind for the real cops.

***

10.47pm

Dean wasn't in the room where Blair had left him.

"He went to the john," Sammy explained. He sucked loudly on his soda.

"How long ago?" Blair asked.

Sammy shrugged. "Just a minute."

"Okay." Blair pulled out a chair and sat down. "Your Pastor Jim is here. As soon as he's been checked out you and Dean can get out of here."

"But not my Dad," Sammy said glumly.

It wasn't a question, but Blair answered as if it had been. "No. I don't think so," he answered gently.

Sammy nodded, as if that wasn't a surprise. He finished his soda. "Dad's not a bad man," he said. He met Blair's eyes, his expression all sincerity. "I know how it looks, the way we move around. My teachers have seen bruises on me before and thought...you know."

"Yeah, I know. They thought your Dad hit you. Did he, ever?"

Sammy drew back from him. "That's a trick question," he accused, and suddenly he looked much older than his twelve years. "If I say he's never hit me you'll know I'm lying. If I say he has, you'll think he beats me."

It was the voice of a kid who had seen far too many social workers. Blair smiled. "I'm just looking for the truth. I'm not trying to trick you."

"Dad never beat me. That's the truth."

"I believe you, Sammy."

The door opened and Dean walked in. He said an indifferent "Hey," to Blair, then the two brothers exchanged a look. It was almost as if they were telepathic; Blair was certain they were communicating with that look. But neither of them let him in on it. He settled in to wait for Jim.

***

11.38pm

Jim slammed the truck door and looked across at Blair. "I was planning to head back to the second murder scene on our way home, but I think I'm beat."

Blair groaned theatrically, tilting his head back to stare at the truck's ceiling. "Thank you!" He turned his head to look at Jim. "I'm not gonna argue. Let's go home."

Sandburg's look of relief confirmed for Jim that his partner was in no hurry to see another crime scene. It was late, and they'd both had a long day. The case could wait until morning. "Let's grab take-out on the way," he offered.

Blair grinned. It was answer enough.

Jim started the truck. Wu's Wok was only a small detour between the PD and Prospect and it was the best Chinese take-out in Cascade.

"Do you think the boys will be okay?" Sandburg asked.

Jim shrugged. "Father Murphy checked out and their father confirmed he'll care for the boys."

"That's not..."

"You really bonded with them, didn't you?" Jim teased.

Sandburg was silent for a moment. "Sammy's a smart kid, and the way they've been moved around...I guess he reminds me of me."

Jim smiled, taking his eyes off the road long enough to look at his friend. "Then I think he'll be okay," he suggested.

Blair returned Jim's smile then, his blue eyes sparkling. "Thanks, man." He took a deep breath. "Did you find out how the Winchesters are connected to the case?"

Jim scoffed. "Hell, no." He turned into a parking space near Wu's Wok. "You know, when I became a cop, I really believed in civil rights. Winchester makes me wish I was allowed to beat the truth out of him."

Blair laughed, then stopped as if he wasn't sure Jim was joking. "Would you really do that? If you were allowed?"

Jim hadn't quite been kidding. "Usually, no, but three people are dead, Sandburg, and he knows something. He dropped cryptic hints and implied I wouldn't believe the truth, but he wouldn't give a straight answer to anything. If I thought beating the shit out of him would stop whoever butchered those people...yeah, I'd be tempted." He shook himself and reached for the door handle. "Come on, the working day is over. What do you want to eat?"

Blair rattled off his usual order with a grin. "And don't forget the fortune cookies!" he added.

***

23 December 1996, 8.02am

Jim lifted the yellow tape and Sandburg ducked beneath it, entering the apartment.

"First door," Jim said, but Sandburg hung back, waiting for Jim to enter ahead of him. Jim couldn't blame him for his reluctance. It wasn't that long since the Lash case, when Blair almost ended up a serial killer's victim. This case wasn't similar in detail, but if Jim was reminded of Lash's murders, he was sure Sandburg would be, too.

No one had tried to clean the room yet, but the blood had dried overnight. The smell permeated the whole apartment: it smelled disgusting, like rotting meat. Jim tried to breathe shallowly and crossed the room quickly, Sandburg trailing behind him. They were here to bag and tag the artefact Winchester had talked about. The artefact itself was worthless - Sandburg had confirmed that based on the photographs - so why were people being killed for it? Of course, it was possible Winchester was lying or mistaken, but Jim couldn't pass by the potential lead.

"How can anyone do this?" Blair asked. "Why would anyone do it?"

Jim glanced back at his partner, concerned. "When I know why, I'll have a viable suspect." He knelt beside the bookshelves where the artefact should have been. "It's gone!"

The shelf was spattered with blood which left a clear outline where the ornament had stood on the shelf. That meant it had been taken after the cops were done with the crime scene. There must be something inside the artefact; something worth killing for. It was the only thing that made sense. Jim frowned, trying to remember the size of the object from the pictures. It was big enough, perhaps, to hold drugs or perhaps jewels.

He straightened. "Winchester was right," he said grimly. He thought back to the phone call he had overheard the day before. What had Winchester said? I need someone to finish this hunt. Had he arranged for someone to steal the ornament? Was that why he'd been at the first scene?

But if so, why would he tell Jim about it? Had Jim found the ornament, it would have incriminated him, wouldn't it? This made less and less sense.

Jim looked more closely at the place where the ornament had stood, opening his senses to examine every small detail. He saw the imprints of boots in the blood-saturated carpet, marks of fingers, signs that some of the furniture had been moved. The problem was Jim could not tell whether anything he saw was related to the theft. This room was a crime scene: many, many people had tramped through the room from cops to forensic techs, and any evidence was quickly messed up by so many people. The artefact had been taken after the forensics unit had finished their work, but were there fresh prints from the thief? Jim could not tell.

Sandburg's voice broke his concentration. "You're looking for signs of whoever stole the ornament?"

"Yeah, but there's too much here." The smell was awful.

"Let me help, Jim. Come into the middle of the room."

Jim moved as Sandburg directed. The dried blood saturating the carpet crunched beneath his shoes as he walked.

"You've been here before," Blair said, "yesterday. Close your eyes and try to relax."

Jim resisted the urge to roll his eyes, which was always his impulse when Sandburg said something like that. But he couldn't keep the cynicism out of his voice. "Come on, Chief."

"Work with me, man. If it doesn't help, it doesn't, but let's give it a try."

Jim shrugged and closed his eyes. The trouble was that blocking out his sense of sight amplified everything else for him. He struggled to breathe through the stink of decaying blood. It was impossible to relax. He stood there and lied to Sandburg, "Okay, I'm relaxed."

"Now, try to remember the way this room was when you stood here yesterday. Not just what you saw, but all of your senses. Like the Moores' house, did you smell anything above the blood? What did you hear? And taste? What did the room look like? Don't strain for the details, but get it as clear in your mind as you can."

Jim tried. The images came easily to his mind, but other details seemed elusive.

"When you're ready, open your eyes. You're looking for what's different. What's different, and shouldn't be?"

Jim opened his eyes. He still wasn't used to this sentinel gift, and the way details leapt at him came as a surprise. The table had been moved after the blood dried, as if someone crashed into it, maybe? Other items on the shelf that had held the ornament had shifted, again as if the shelf had been jostled. He saw smudges of fingerprints.

Jim called the PD and asked for a forensics team to come down and dust for new prints.

***

8.58am

"Thanks for your help back there." Jim sat down opposite Sandburg, who still looked a little pale. They were in the diner opposite the PD. Jim had paid for breakfast and coffee for both of them. Whether or not they could match a print from the crime scene, he was going to re-examine every piece of evidence today. He was going to find something. He did not want to visit another bloodbath.

Blair smiled over his coffee. "That's why you let me hang around, isn't it?" he said deprecatingly.

"I mean it, Chief. I've got this...ability, but I would never have thought of trying that. It worked."

"If it'll help catch this killer." Blair gazed down into his coffee mug.

Jim watched him in silence for a few minutes. If Sandburg needed to talk, he would talk. Technically, this wasn't a serial killer investigation, not yet. But they were both thinking it, both expecting another death. No one sliced-and-diced like that unless they enjoyed it.

But when Blair spoke, it wasn't to talk about the case. He was halfway through his short-stack when he laid down his fork. "What's going to happen next? With the Winchester boys?"

Jim considered the question. "I think that depends on their father. Father Murphy doesn't have legal custody  but since he's a priest and a family friend no court is likely to take the boys away from him. They'll go and live with him until their father is released, at least in theory."

"In theory?"

"Winchester's arraignment is..." Jim checked his watch, "in about half an hour. If the judge grants bail I'll give you good odds he'll skip town. He might leave the boys with the priest, but his past record suggests he'll go get them."

"Why are you so sure he'll skip town?"

"I read his record. He's got a couple of outstanding warrants in other states and a history of using false identities. The charges we have won't exactly put him on the ten most wanted list. It'll stay on his record and will be flagged up if he's arrested again, somewhere else, but as long as he stays under the radar there's a good chance he'll get away with it."

"And you're okay with that?"

"Hell, no. But my job is major crimes. It comes down to priorities, Chief. Winchester is a petty criminal and I've got a murderer to find."

Blair nodded. "And I've got a class to teach at eleven. You don't need me today, right?"

"No. Today I'll be stuck at my desk. Paperwork, Sandburg. The meat and bone of police work."

***

10.00am

Blair took a detour past the Aberline Motel on his way to Rainier University. He saw the boys right away because they were outside, packing their things into their father's car. Blair cast an admiring glance over the sleek Impala as he steered his own car into the parking lot. Blair appreciated classic cars, though he would have chosen his own Corvair over the Impala any day. The Impala being here seemed...odd, though. Hadn't it been impounded? He shrugged inwardly, not certain of the rules about such things. Jim would know; he could ask later.

Sammy saw him and waved. Blair waved back from inside his car. He saw Dean speak to the younger boy, then Sammy ran toward Blair's car. Blair grinned at him and opened the car door, half turning to talk with him.

"Hey, Sammy. How's tricks?"

"We're going back to Minnesota with Pastor Jim. Dad's going to join us there."

Blair didn't think their father would be joining them very soon, but he'd come here to make sure the kid was okay. The rest wasn't his business, no matter how much he liked Sammy. He glanced toward the Impala and saw Dean watching them. His look was suspicious, almost hostile.

"Is Pastor Jim here with you?" Blair asked.

Sammy made a face Blair couldn't decipher. "He's paying the motel bill."

Why the face? Blair wondered, but he didn't ask. Sam was okay, and he felt a little foolish for worrying. They had a weird kind of family life but it was no stranger than Blair's childhood had been. They would be fine.

"Do you want to come and meet him?" Sammy suggested. "I told him all about you."

"You didn't tell him my demon story, did you?" Blair feigned embarrassment.

Sammy shook his head vigorously. "No. He wouldn't get the joke."

Blair checked his watch. "Well, I can't stay for long, but, yeah. I'd like to meet your friend."

***

10.00am

Jim sat in the interview room, trying to concentrate on what Mrs Howard, the neighbour of Will and Karen Moore, was telling him. Usually, he could block out the random noise of the Police Department. His peculiar gift enabled Jim to listen to a whispered conversation from two rooms away. Without Sandburg's help the constant sensory input could have driven him crazy, but he had learned to sort through the voices, the footsteps, the shuffling papers and tapping keyboards, until most of it became simply white noise to him. But not today. Today he heard Simon's voice raised in anger and although he should have been listening to his witness he couldn't help trying to hear his captain's conversation.

With an effort, Jim dragged his attention back to Mrs Howard. She'd been talking about seeing the blood through the Moores' window. "You didn't hear anything before that?" Jim prompted.

"Nothing," she answered, her voice a little breathless with nerves. "That's strange, isn't it?"

"Yes, ma'am, it is, but other witnesses have said the same thing." Jim glanced at his notes. He hadn't written much, partly because she hadn't told him very much he didn't already know. He might have missed something, but the tape was running. He could go over it all again later. "Uh...Mrs Howard, I think that's all I need this morning." Jim stopped the recorder, stood and walked around to the door. "Thank you very much for coming in."

She smiled, evidently relieved. "I do hope you catch him soon. It's all just so horrible."

"I'm doing my best. If you do think of anything else, give me a call." Jim opened the door for her.

Jim would have escorted Mrs Howard all the way to the exit, but Simon called from the door to the bullpen, "Ellison! In my office!"

Jim gestured Two minutes and saw Simon's exasperated look in return. He walked with Mrs Howard as far as the elevator, thanked her again, and hurried back to the bullpen.

Simon was waiting in the doorway of his office. As he crossed the bullpen Jim saw others glance his way. It was as if he'd screwed up badly and they were anticipating him getting a reaming for it. But surely Jim would know if he'd screwed up? Had he done anything worth this kind of attention? The only thing he could think of was the missing evidence, but though that was his responsibility as the lead detective, it wasn't his fault.

He walked past Simon into the office, but didn't sit down. If Simon was going to tear him a new one, he would prefer to be standing.

Simon closed the door. "Is there something you want to tell me, Jim?" He did not look happy.

Jim shook his head. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he answered honestly.

Simon turned his back on Jim and poured coffee. He held up the jug, offering it to Jim. Jim declined with a gesture, though the offer was a good sign.

Simon sat down at his desk. "Your man Winchester escaped custody this morning," he announced bluntly.

"What?" Jim was thunderstruck. "How?"

"That's what I want to know." Simon looked hard at him.

Jim knew that look. "Wait a moment. Simon, you know me. You can't possibly think I did something..."

Simon sighed and drank his coffee. "No, I don't," he admitted. "But you were the last person to have contact with him, Ellison."

So he was the logical suspect. Jim nodded, understanding. "After the second murder I got Winchester out of the cell for a follow-up interview. Everything we discussed is on tape. When we were done, I called officer Newland, he came to the interrogation room and we both escorted Winchester back to the cells. All normal procedure."

"Nothing out of the ordinary at all?" Simon pressed.

Jim frowned. "The eldest boy, Dean, wanted to see his father when Sandburg brought them in, but I didn't authorise it. What happened, Captain? How did he get out?"

"You just told me what happened. You and Newland put him back in a cell; this morning he wasn't there. That's all I know. There's no broken lock, no sign of how he left."

"What about the security tapes?"

"They're still being reviewed. I've posted an APB..."

Simon continued talking, but Jim was only half listening. He had a feeling John Winchester would never be found. Had Winchester been a murder suspect, then the department would throw more resources into finding him but under the circumstances...

"I'd like to take a look at the cell, Simon," Jim suggested. "Maybe I can find something the others can't."

***

10.15am

"I'll be damned," Jim breathed. The single clue he found in the cell was a small scrap of paper which had been folded up and wedged into a small crack in the floor underneath the single bunk. Had Winchester really expected Jim to find this? How could he have known?

The paper bore a cryptic set of numbers. The first set looked like a phone number. The second set was four digits: 12-24. It could be a date, or an ATM code, or, well, anything. Jim glanced toward the cell door. He was alone. He pulled his cell phone from his pocket and dialled the number.

A recorded voice asked for an identification code. Jim shook his head and tried the other four numbers. It worked.

He heard Winchester's voice. "Detective, sorry I had to leave without saying goodbye. I wanted to thank you and your partner for taking care of my boys. I'm sure you've discovered that the artefact we talked about is gone. By the time you hear this it will be destroyed and this curse won't kill anyone else. I know you won't believe that, but time will prove it to you. Don't bother trying to trace this number. You can't."

The call ended automatically, leaving Jim holding a dead line.

"I'll be damned," he said again and headed out of the cell.

~ End ~

Also posted on AO3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/2704