wontgraham: (pic#10809662)
ᴡɪʟʟ ɢʀᴀʜᴀᴍ; ᴄʀɪᴍɪɴᴀʟ p̶r̶o̶f̶i̶l̶e̶r̶ ([personal profile] wontgraham) wrote in [community profile] herbgarden 2017-02-27 03:39 am (UTC)

for his shithead alter ego, let's get some filthy gross past-au in here

The ninth ward isn't the only shitty, still-impoverished place left in Louisiana. Will's been to most of them, knows them well even after being transferred officially to New Orleans police.

Sometimes, they still end up driving outside their areas for calls. It can piss off the other local cops, but Detectives Graham and Broussard aren't known for respecting pecking orders. So when they get the tip-off that a noise complaint and reported lone gunshot down in Iberville might actually have been a drug chain getting a nasty interruption, they saddle up and drive over.

Two hours later, it turns out their location is lots of chickenwire fences marking off weedy lawns and thin, barking dogs. Will pulls them against the side of the road, half the tires into the soft dirt of what passes for a shoulder in this residential area. They both get out of the car, ignoring the neighbor two mobile houses down who's peering out her blinds with a scowl to see what the cops are up to on her street now. Will reads tired hatred and burnt-out fear, cigarette ash drifting across the road from her.

Turns out the tip-off about the house was right. Three guys leave, in the lamp-breaking hustle that follows them trying to ask about noise levels. Two guys end up caught in the aftermath, and both of them put their guns down for the cops leveling guns right back at them. Broussard takes the thicker one, out in the kitchen from where the guy tried to half-heartedly sprint away.

Which leaves Will with the taller, lankier one, the one who tracks his every movement with sharp eyes. He's quiet as hell but his face is a loudspeaker, and Will looks away first, sweat pooling at his lower back.

He's already dropped his weapon onto the floor, as suggested. "Turn around, hands behind your back." Will's still got his gun out, pointed at the guy's shoulder - he watches this stranger's eyes, sees the way he clocks that the gun isn't actually pointed at his heart, watches him read so much before he starts turning into a loose, relaxed circle around to face the wall.

The handcuffs ratchet loud in the sudden quiet. Metal gleams as it encircles one bare wrist and one that Will can just barely see dark ink spilling down towards, but a leather jacket covers the rest.

Dust clouds off it, when Will pats his pockets down.

It doesn't take more than five seconds to find the large bag of crystal this guy was carrying. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be held against you in a court of law." Will's cautious about putting the gun back in his holster, doesn't snap the button back into place, leaves it easily accessible. Whoever owns this house could easily still be inside. "Not that you seem like a nervous talker."

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