1.15.98
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"Okay, count of three, team two move on my mark -- Three, two, one, MOVE!"

Radios crackled around the neighborhood, and the SpecOps division's black-clad members swarmed the house, splintering the quiet night with shouts and breaking glass.

For then next few minutes, lights bathe the house, men in Kevlar carrying heavy weaponry scurry through the house, shouldering doors open and yelling commands to no one at all...

"Big bro, this is team two. House is -empty-, 'cept for furniture and stuff. Money's gone, kid's gone, food's still sittin' on the counter."

"Copy, team two." The coordinater sighed, disgusted. "No one? Anything incriminating?"

"Nope. I don't know. We're still looking around... There's so much stuff here, they didn't get tipped off too soon before we got here. Anyone covering the ports and stations?"

"I figured you were, but I couldn't resist hoping for a huge note detailing their intended destination. Ah well... And we have -some-... There aren't enough to cover everything, but we have someone watching all of the major departure points. I'm sending Kethra to make the calls now."

"Don't we all wish. I'd settle for a note explaining just what pies the brother-in-law has his fingers in, to tell you the truth. What's this?" Silence, save for the soft rustle of breathing and background noise, most of it made by the other officers. "Never mind... Thought I had something, and it was just one of those sweepstakes entries made up to -look- like a certified letter. Aren't those illegal?"

"Damn... I -hate- those things. My wife is always getting all excited over those... Keep looking. I'm switching to team one, will be incommunicado for ninety seconds, starting...-now-." And the connection broke with a sharp -click-.

"Hey, Bob, look at this... The kid's got talent, y'think?" Iris held up an open sketchbook, one of half a dozen that were scattered on the floor. Another handful were tossed haphazardly onto the unmade bed, scattered bits of paper showing where a favored page or two had been ripped out. The picture the woman was holding showed a cat, half asleep beside the plant on the diningroom table downstairs.

Crossing the small room, Bob peered at it, nodding slowly. "I can't make out the scribble in the corner, down here, but it's probably safe to say the boy drew it... There's another thing we know about him. Oh, and to answer your question... Quite probably." Turning, he left her to go through them, taking up where he'd left off in his own task.

He wasn't too thrilled with what they'd found, so far. A wardrobe that seemed to be in the middle of transition from at least normal colors to all black; three or four 'cards by bands he'd never heard of and two or three that he had, thanks to his daughter's taste... Full of morose music, and the unfamiliar artists seemed more of the same. He couldn't decide, though, how much of it all was teenage-angst-phase and how much was really a sign of something more... Given the fact that he didn't have very many, it was probably just the phase.

The drawings, too... Maybe he was going for the whole 'tortured artist' thing. Although the drawings themselves seemed to be if not cheerful, at least bland. Certainly not as disturbing as some of the artwork on the cover of that NailGun album. There was an English workbook and a history textbook on the desk, as well as two three-ring binders, a mess of rumpled papers and a math book shoved back under the desk. The backpack was missing, along with some clothes...

"Bob?"

"Yeah?"

"Do we have Forensic's full co-op on this?"

"I think so, yeah. Why?"

"'Cause I think they should take a look at some of these pages. There's something that looks like a little smear of blood, on this one, and quite a few of what I'm guessing are the newest books have these...water spots or something on them. And on a couple of them, they've been framed by words... Little ones, too small for me to read. They might be important... Or they just might be infentesimal doodles. But I think it's worth a look."

"Well, okay... You've got the right, stick it in an evvie bag and tell 'em what you want them to look for." Peering into the depths of the closet once more, something pink catches his eye. Reaching down, his hand encounters wonderfully soft, well-loved fuzz, and when he pulls it into the light, he discovers a small toy...something, wrapped in a tattered pink blanket. Frowning darkly, he turns to is and holds the evidence of the kid's earliest years. "We're boxing all of this up when we're done."

She gave her partner a long, searching look, then shrugged. "You're always trying to save things, to preserve them... What makes you think he'll ever show up to claim it? Or -want- it, for that matter? I bet he'll never know that this ever happened, and..." She stilled under the look he was giving her.

"He might not. He might die before he ever makes twenty. But then, I might not live through next year, and my little girl might get hit by a bus tomorrow. People need things to remember, people need to be able to remember good things. I'm just doing my bit to maybe preserve a little chunk of his life, something that he might want sometime later. Besides -that-, it's all evidence, so it would have to be saved anyhow, as long as the case is open. So I could argue that it's not -me- at all."

"And I bet you save string, too."

"Do you have any idea how hard it is to find real string these days?"

"I knew it."

And so the odds and ends of the life of one Neetlemyre Knickerbocker, née Scalthwaite, are boxed up, labled, and shipped off to a controlled-climate vault on another world, held safe and sound until he came calling or the case was closed, whatever came first.