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Medallions d20 Modern (Update Wednesday 09-20-06)
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<blockquote data-quote="Old Drew Id" data-source="post: 952774" data-attributes="member: 12175"><p><strong>Session 1 (5/07/2003) Taylor and Crystal</strong></p><p></p><p>Session 1 (5/07/2003) Taylor and Crystal</p><p></p><p>Taylor dropped the broom for the third time, and nearly gave up trying to sweep up the broken glass. She was having a hard time holding the dustpan in her left hand because of the injury in her shoulder, and she kept fumbling the broom trying to compensate. The doctors last night had only given her two stitches in her shoulder, and then bandaged her up and sent her on her way. A uniformed policeman had given her a ride back to her car, and then she had been free to go. </p><p></p><p>She found it peculiar that she had not talked to a detective, or at least someone other than a simple beat cop during the entire evening. She assumed she would probably receive a call later in the day for a further interview. They had at least taken down her name and contact information in their report, but something made her think that, despite the severity of a multiple homicide and the sheer audacity of the attack, that somehow the police would not pursue the matter as diligently as they should. Nothing she could put her finger on, but something did not feel right.</p><p></p><p>As though triggered by her thoughts, her cell phone rang.</p><p></p><p>“Hi, Taylor? My name is Crystal. We…met last night? You gave me your cell phone number at the hospital?”</p><p></p><p>Taylor greeted her hesitantly, “Yes…hello, Crystal.”</p><p></p><p>“Yeah, hi, listen… I don’t know about you, but I just got the feeling last night like… I don’t know, the police were just not too interested in what happened last night. Did you get that feeling too?”</p><p></p><p>Taylor felt a moment of relief at not being alone in her suspicions, and then further paranoia at the implications if she were correct. She mumbled her agreement to Crystal. </p><p></p><p>“Okay, I thought so… So last night, before the cops got there, I searched the pockets on one of those guys. And, I think I found something.”</p><p></p><p>There was a moment right there. One shining moment, when Taylor felt something, like the two roads diverging in a wood. She could hang up, right here. She could hang up and say the police should handle it, and just walk away. She could not get involved. And something told her, if she went down that other road, if she got involved here…she would be involved forever.</p><p></p><p>“So…what did you find?”</p><p></p><p>. . . </p><p></p><p>Thirty minutes later, Taylor was pulling up in front of a little apartment complex in Southside. Moderately cheap apartments, a lot like her own, suited towards students and young couples. Through the windshield wipers thumping out their visual patterns in the rain on her shield, she saw Crystal standing under a stairwell in her leather jacket. With a wave, Crystal dodged across the lot to Taylor’s car and hopped in. </p><p></p><p>“This is what I found,” she said simply, as she drew a Ziploc bag from her pocket. As she did so, Taylor saw the holster hidden within Crystal’s jacket. Taylor would have been surprised, she supposed, if she hadn’t kept her own pistol under her pillow last night and tucked it into the back of her jeans earlier today.</p><p></p><p>The Ziploc bag contained two small rectangular slips of paper. Each was about the size of a business card, and bore a stamp stating, “Project: Together, Lot #”, and then a blank line to be filled in. One was filled in by hand with the number 2643 and the other showed 2644. </p><p></p><p>“I don’t know what it means, this Project: Together---”</p><p></p><p>“It’s a charity,” Taylor answered. “It’s a thrift store. Just over in Irondale near Eastwood mall.”</p><p></p><p>. . . </p><p></p><p>Ten minutes later, they were talking to a short man with a yellow plastic nametag identifying him as the thrift store manager. </p><p></p><p>“Yeah, so like, Hi! Um, so like, I got these pants from a friend of mine, and there was like, a slip of paper in the pocket that said Project: Together, and it had this number on it, and like, I was just wondering what the number was for...”</p><p></p><p>Crystal was standing, in Taylor’s opinion, far too close to the poor man. Crystal had unbuttoned the first three buttons on her blouse as she talked, and she kept twiddling with her rain-soaked hair as she talked to him. The manager appeared flushed and a little uncomfortable, and was clearly enjoyably affected by her interrogation technique. </p><p></p><p>Taylor idly looked down at the buttons on her own blouse. She could try the same trick, of course, but unless the goal was to fill the guy with pity, it probably wouldn’t help matters.</p><p></p><p>The flustered store manager stuttered out, “Those numbers are nothing to worry about. I mean, they are just what we use to track shipments of clothes that we don’t sell. Um…” He lost his train of thought for a moment as Crystal beamed a smile at him. “But, yeah, um… if a friend of yours got some clothes from one of those lots, then she didn’t buy it here in the store. You see, some stuff gets sold in the store, and then some clothes get taken to our warehouse in the back, and they get broken down into lots, and we send those lots to local charities. Your friend must have gotten the panties…er…pants…um… from one of the places we send clothes to…”</p><p></p><p>“A warehouse? How <em>interesting</em>! So…”</p><p></p><p>Taylor wandered away from the budding young couple and moved through the clothing displays in the store, moving towards the back. Finally, a job for Non-Descript-Girl, with her amazing ability to blend in and be ignored!</p><p></p><p>Taylor circled back around for a moment, now behind the enamored manager, and caught Crystal’s eye. Giving her the “keep him talking” signal, Taylor rounded another display of old jeans and passed through a door marked “Employees Only”</p><p></p><p>The room was a simple room of boxes and crates, with a loading bay and a cluttered desk. A tired looking old man with a clipboard stood near the desk, counting boxes. </p><p></p><p>“Hi, I’m Taylor, from Jefferson County Child Care. The man in the front said you could help me? I’m trying to track down a lot that got messed up and sent to the wrong place. Do you have a second?”</p><p></p><p>“Sure, what can I do ya for?”</p><p></p><p>“I’ve got a lot number here, 2643? Could you tell me where that got sent? My boss says that somebody maybe got behind or something…”</p><p></p><p>The trick worked, and the man immediately became defensive. “I don’t think so, ma’am. We always double-check every shipment leaving this place to be sure it goes to the right place, and we always have them sign for it when it gets picked up.” He started flipping pages on his clipboard.</p><p></p><p>“Hey, I hear you. My boss just says we were supposed to get a lot with some children’s clothes in it---”</p><p></p><p>“See, here it is right here. Your boss is wrong. Lot 2643, and 2644, and 2645, all sent to the St. James Mission for the Homeless. And see here, this says all of those lots were clothes for adult men, not children. Your boss is wrong, little lady.”</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Old Drew Id, post: 952774, member: 12175"] [b]Session 1 (5/07/2003) Taylor and Crystal[/b] Session 1 (5/07/2003) Taylor and Crystal Taylor dropped the broom for the third time, and nearly gave up trying to sweep up the broken glass. She was having a hard time holding the dustpan in her left hand because of the injury in her shoulder, and she kept fumbling the broom trying to compensate. The doctors last night had only given her two stitches in her shoulder, and then bandaged her up and sent her on her way. A uniformed policeman had given her a ride back to her car, and then she had been free to go. She found it peculiar that she had not talked to a detective, or at least someone other than a simple beat cop during the entire evening. She assumed she would probably receive a call later in the day for a further interview. They had at least taken down her name and contact information in their report, but something made her think that, despite the severity of a multiple homicide and the sheer audacity of the attack, that somehow the police would not pursue the matter as diligently as they should. Nothing she could put her finger on, but something did not feel right. As though triggered by her thoughts, her cell phone rang. “Hi, Taylor? My name is Crystal. We…met last night? You gave me your cell phone number at the hospital?” Taylor greeted her hesitantly, “Yes…hello, Crystal.” “Yeah, hi, listen… I don’t know about you, but I just got the feeling last night like… I don’t know, the police were just not too interested in what happened last night. Did you get that feeling too?” Taylor felt a moment of relief at not being alone in her suspicions, and then further paranoia at the implications if she were correct. She mumbled her agreement to Crystal. “Okay, I thought so… So last night, before the cops got there, I searched the pockets on one of those guys. And, I think I found something.” There was a moment right there. One shining moment, when Taylor felt something, like the two roads diverging in a wood. She could hang up, right here. She could hang up and say the police should handle it, and just walk away. She could not get involved. And something told her, if she went down that other road, if she got involved here…she would be involved forever. “So…what did you find?” . . . Thirty minutes later, Taylor was pulling up in front of a little apartment complex in Southside. Moderately cheap apartments, a lot like her own, suited towards students and young couples. Through the windshield wipers thumping out their visual patterns in the rain on her shield, she saw Crystal standing under a stairwell in her leather jacket. With a wave, Crystal dodged across the lot to Taylor’s car and hopped in. “This is what I found,” she said simply, as she drew a Ziploc bag from her pocket. As she did so, Taylor saw the holster hidden within Crystal’s jacket. Taylor would have been surprised, she supposed, if she hadn’t kept her own pistol under her pillow last night and tucked it into the back of her jeans earlier today. The Ziploc bag contained two small rectangular slips of paper. Each was about the size of a business card, and bore a stamp stating, “Project: Together, Lot #”, and then a blank line to be filled in. One was filled in by hand with the number 2643 and the other showed 2644. “I don’t know what it means, this Project: Together---” “It’s a charity,” Taylor answered. “It’s a thrift store. Just over in Irondale near Eastwood mall.” . . . Ten minutes later, they were talking to a short man with a yellow plastic nametag identifying him as the thrift store manager. “Yeah, so like, Hi! Um, so like, I got these pants from a friend of mine, and there was like, a slip of paper in the pocket that said Project: Together, and it had this number on it, and like, I was just wondering what the number was for...” Crystal was standing, in Taylor’s opinion, far too close to the poor man. Crystal had unbuttoned the first three buttons on her blouse as she talked, and she kept twiddling with her rain-soaked hair as she talked to him. The manager appeared flushed and a little uncomfortable, and was clearly enjoyably affected by her interrogation technique. Taylor idly looked down at the buttons on her own blouse. She could try the same trick, of course, but unless the goal was to fill the guy with pity, it probably wouldn’t help matters. The flustered store manager stuttered out, “Those numbers are nothing to worry about. I mean, they are just what we use to track shipments of clothes that we don’t sell. Um…” He lost his train of thought for a moment as Crystal beamed a smile at him. “But, yeah, um… if a friend of yours got some clothes from one of those lots, then she didn’t buy it here in the store. You see, some stuff gets sold in the store, and then some clothes get taken to our warehouse in the back, and they get broken down into lots, and we send those lots to local charities. Your friend must have gotten the panties…er…pants…um… from one of the places we send clothes to…” “A warehouse? How [I]interesting[/I]! So…” Taylor wandered away from the budding young couple and moved through the clothing displays in the store, moving towards the back. Finally, a job for Non-Descript-Girl, with her amazing ability to blend in and be ignored! Taylor circled back around for a moment, now behind the enamored manager, and caught Crystal’s eye. Giving her the “keep him talking” signal, Taylor rounded another display of old jeans and passed through a door marked “Employees Only” The room was a simple room of boxes and crates, with a loading bay and a cluttered desk. A tired looking old man with a clipboard stood near the desk, counting boxes. “Hi, I’m Taylor, from Jefferson County Child Care. The man in the front said you could help me? I’m trying to track down a lot that got messed up and sent to the wrong place. Do you have a second?” “Sure, what can I do ya for?” “I’ve got a lot number here, 2643? Could you tell me where that got sent? My boss says that somebody maybe got behind or something…” The trick worked, and the man immediately became defensive. “I don’t think so, ma’am. We always double-check every shipment leaving this place to be sure it goes to the right place, and we always have them sign for it when it gets picked up.” He started flipping pages on his clipboard. “Hey, I hear you. My boss just says we were supposed to get a lot with some children’s clothes in it---” “See, here it is right here. Your boss is wrong. Lot 2643, and 2644, and 2645, all sent to the St. James Mission for the Homeless. And see here, this says all of those lots were clothes for adult men, not children. Your boss is wrong, little lady.” [/QUOTE]
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