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The precinct was exactly nothing and everything like the Sheriff’s station back home. People bustled everywhere, some cuffed and headed for a temporary cell, others released from the drunk tank and receiving their things, officers milling around drinking coffee or filling out paperwork… There was a distinct lack of brown and khaki, which at first kinda threw him. That and he didn’t know a single person.
“Can I help you?” the man behind the desk looked mean and critical, which didn’t help Stiles nerves. When he did this at home, he could just tell his father or Parrish and they would do a lot of the digging for him.
“Yes,” Stiles cleared his throat, his face heating, “I, uh… I need to speak with an officer. Please.”
The man grunted, “Anyone in particular?”
“Someone in homicide?” Stiles didn’t mean for it to come out as a question. Apparently neither did the man.
“Homicide,” he stated.
Stiles nodded, “Yeah.”
“Did you witness a murder?”
“Uh…” this was always the hard part, “Kind of. Not in the classic sense.”
The officer just stared at him. Stiles shifted uncomfortably. He kicked himself for not calling his dad to get a second opinion that morning. Instead he’d run directly to a precinct and this one wasn’t even close to his apartment. He didn’t want to dissect why he’d come here specifically, instead lumping it with it’s proximity to his first class of the day a few blocks over and leaving it at that. He didn’t like thinking he was that far in tune with his spirit guides.
“Not in the classic sense,” the officer said.
“Listen, I know it sounds ridiculous, okay, but I’ve done this before.”
“Have you.”
“Not,” Stiles let out an exasperated sound and turned to leave before turning back, “Not like that. Please can I just talk to a detective?”
The man slowly did a once over, then finally picked up his phone, “Can you tell me anything about this murder you didn’t witness in the classic sense?”
Stiles bit his tongue before speaking, “It involves a girl, like, mid to late twenties, green eyes, pink hair, pink dress. I think she was high or something.”
“Okay,” the officer didn’t look like he believed a word of it, “Go take a seat, someone will be over in a minute.”
“Thanks,” Stiles stepped out of line, feeling like a complete idiot. He could’ve just handed the officer the notes he’d made about the dream and the girl and been done with it, let the chips fall where they may, but Stiles had always been too thick for his own good. He set his backpack by his feet and got comfortable for a long wait. Ten minutes passed. Then 20. At 30, Stiles stood to ask if anyone was coming to see him only to get a curt line about how busy they were and they would get to him as soon as possible. Stiles huffed and sat back down, typing out an email to his professor that he wouldn’t be making it to class. An hour later, he wrote an email to the professor of his next class and pulled out some home made chex mix a la Allison. Meaning it was essentially a meal substitute in a quart sized bag. Almost an hour after that, Stiles was about to call it quits when someone finally called, “Mr. Stilinski?”
“Yeah,” Stiles jerked up to see the most handsome, rugged, irritated scowl he’d ever witnessed in his life.
“I’m Detective Hale,” Scowly introduced stiffly as they shook hands, “I believe you told Officer Estes you may have some information about a potential homicide?”
Stiles nodded, his throat bobbing, “Yeah, I, uh…”
Detective Hale’s eye brows rose, waiting for Stiles to finish. Only Stiles couldn’t remember what he was about to say, “Murder,” he settled on lamely, then with more certainty, “She was definitely murdered.”
“Do you know where she was murdered?” Detective Hale asked, leading Stiles further into the building.
“No, but,” Stiles pulled his backpack off his shoulder and rifled through it quickly, pulling out the notebook he’d used the night before, “I have other details about where she may have been before that.”
Detective Hale frowned at the notebook when he flipped it open, “Is this…?”
“Oh shit, sorry,” Stiles hurriedly took the notebook back, face flushing, “Sorry I’m an art major at NYU, that was a sketch of one of my assignments…” Stiles flipped through the nudes and doodles until he got to the room he’d drawn the night before, “This one and the next two pages.”
The detective studied the drawing, then glanced at Stiles before flipping the page, “What is this?”
“That’s the girl I saw,” Stiles replied.
“And these are notes…” there may have been a question there, but Detective Hale stopped suddenly, “Would you mind coming with me please?”
Stiles didn’t even nod, just followed the detective through the bullpen and into an interrogation room. He took a seat where the Detective motioned before sweeping out of the room with barely a glance backward. Stiles made himself comfortable, hoping this wait wouldn’t take nearly as long as the last one. In fact it was only 20 minutes. Detective Hale returned with another man, dark skinned and just as blank faced. Stiles felt what could only be described as a pressure drop int he room, one he was very used to.
“Mr. Stilinski,” Detective Hale began, “This is my partner, Detective Boyd. If you don’t mind, he’s going to sit in on our conversation.”
Stiles eyes flicked behind Hale and Boyd to the one way mirror, “Sure. Could I take notes?”
Hale and Boyd exchanged a glance before Hale nodded. Stiles pulled out another notebook, this one with actual lined paper, and a pen.
Hale began, “Just to get us started, I have a few rudimentary questions for you.”
Stiles picked up his own pen and started writing, “Shoot.”
“Your full name, please.”
“Unpronounceable,” Stiles smiled, then spelled it out, “But everyone calls me Stiles.”
Boyd blinked down at the paper he’d been filling out, then nodded to Hale to continue.
“Do you live in the city?”
“In Queens,” Stiles nodded, rattling off the address, “I’ve got three roommates and I’m in my fourth semester at NYU.”
“So you’re not a resident of New York?”
“My ID still says California,” he confirmed, the pressure on his head growing briefly before dispersing all together. Stiles rushed through the last of his notes before setting down his pen with a sigh and giving the detective his full attention.
“Okay,” Hale pushed Stiles notebook forward, turned to the drawing of the girl, “Do you know this woman?”
“A little,” Stiles said, “Her name was Molly.”
“Was?” Boyd asked.
Stiles nodded, shifting in his seat, “I’m pretty sure she’s dead.”
“What makes you say that?” Hale asked.
Stiles blew out a long breath, puffing out his cheeks before spreading his fingers wide, “I’m psychic.”
Both detectives stared at him, “Psychic.”
“I see ghosts.”
Boyd dropped his pen to the paper and Hale sat back, looking monumentally pissed which really really shouldn’t be such a good look on him.
“I know it sounds like a line, but I promise I’m not lying,” Stiles said, “I was waiting for the N, minding my own business when I get someone yelling at me to open my eyes, and when I do she’s there. Last night she—“
“Someone yelled at you?” Hale asked, “Someone else saw her too?”
Stiles deflated slightly, “No. It was my guides telling me to get my shit together. Kinda like an auditory hallucination, with no schizophrenia.”
“You’re sure about that?” Boyd deadpanned.
Stiles stiffened, “Yes, Detective, I’m sure. Look, can I please just tell you what she told me so I can go?”
“You can leave at any point in time, Mr. Stilinski,” Hale replied, looking dismissive.
“Please stop calling me that, okay, it’s Stiles. People don’t even call my dad Mr. Stilinski, it’s weird.”
“What do they call your dad?”
“Sheriff.”
Hales brows rose and he let out a little, “Huh.”
“Listen, I’m really sorry if you feel like I wasted your time,” Stiles stated, frustration and fatigue from having waited so long washing over him, “Everything you really need is right there so…”
Stiles ripped the three pages out of his notebook, then with more hesitation, the page he’d written out earlier, handing it directly to Detective Boyd without making eye contact while leaving the others on the table and packing his bag.
“Oh,” Stiles stopped at the door, “I kept hearing screaming. Not like human screaming, but like metal on metal.”
Then he turned on his heal, letting the door slam shut behind him and feeling like an idiot. He was out the front door and almost to the crosswalk when someone shouted behind him. Stiles turned to see Detective Boyd, looking livid. If Stiles’ hadn’t been positive Boyd could take him down, he would’ve run.
“What the fuck is this?" Boyd brandished the paper in front of Stiles’ face.
“Um,” Stiles' mind froze.
“Who the fuck told you about her?” he demanded, “Is this a fucking joke to you?”
“What? No!” Stiles took a step back, his hands placating, “I’m sorry, your sister’s fierce I couldn’t tune her out!”
“Are you kidding me?” Boyd looked like he was about to blow.
“Why would I lie about something like this?” Stiles asked, trying for placating but probably sounding annoyed, “She just wanted me to tell you to stop overthinking it, okay? Well actually her words were get your head out of your ass, but I figured you wouldn’t take that as well from a total stranger.”
Boyd stared, “What?”
“Your sister,” Stiles said it a little slower, “She wants you to get your head out of your ass and take this Erica chick home. She says she’ll love her and you’re over thinking it. Also, good call on the necklace instead of the ring.”
The detective just stood there, “How the fuck do you know all this?”
Stiles only shrugged, “She told me.”
“What about this?” Boyd held up the paper once more, pointing to the bottom, “Lil Ali? How’d you know that?”
“She told me,” Stiles said again, “And before you ask, she demanded I draw the kitty heart thing, she said you wouldn’t believe it was her otherwise.”
“She used to draw it on everything,” Boyd said, looking at the page as if in a new light, “It was like her signature.”
Stiles didn’t really know what to say after that, so he just smiled, “Well I hope it helps.”
He turned to go but Boyd stopped him again, placing a hand on his shoulder.
He looked hesitant, “I could get fired for telling you this. It could be considered tipping you off.”
Stiles went cold, “Am I a suspect?”
Boyd’s scrunched mouth said it all, “That list you gave us; it reads like a murder fantasy checklist.”
“Oh,” Stiles gulped, “I’m not the killer.”
“You don’t really fit the profile,” Boyd replied, “But don’t leave town for a few days.”
Stiles felt his head bobble, “Yeah, of course.”
“And this girl,” Boyd questioned, seeming to slip into cop mode without even thinking about it, “You’re sure about your description?”
“One hundred percent,” Stiles confirmed.
The detective shook his head, “We don’t have anyone matching it at the MEs.”
Stiles heart sank, “No one?”
“Don’t worry,” Boyd looked grim but determined, “We’ll find her.”
“Thanks,” Stiles watched Boyd’s retreating back before something he said caught up with him, You don’t really fit the profile, “Detective!”
Boyd turned on the steps to the precinct.
Stiles licked his lips, eyes darting along the street before he called, “Are there others?”
Boyd’s lips thinned, and he nodded before disappearing back inside.
Stiles felt his stomach drop for a whole new reason.