Creative Imperative

Title: Twenty Four Hours (1/2)
Fandom: Sentinel/Supernatural Crossover
Rating: Mature
Pairing: None
Warnings: Gory details, but no "on-screen" violence.
Summary: Twenty four hours in the life of Detective Jim Ellison, in which he attempts to solve a particularly bloody murder.
Timeline: In Sentinel canon, this is set during season one, shortly after Cypher. In Supernatural canon, it's pre-series: Sam is 12, Dean 16.
Note 1: The story is a crossover, but heavy on the Sentinel. TS fen need not know anything about SPN in order to read the story. From the SPN side this is an outside-point-of-view story; a little familiarity with the Sentinel characters would be helpful, but is not essential.
Note 2: Written for marishna's multifandom picture challenge; marishna always gives me the best prompts (see my pic here), but I'm terribly late submitting this story. I hope she'll forgive me, and I hope the wait is worth it.
Note 3: A huge thank-you to raynedanser and sunnyd_lite who helped straighten me out when I ran into a writers' roadblock.

---

Twenty Four Hours

Cascade, 22nd December 1996

10.15am

Detective Jim Ellison parked his truck several houses away from the address despatch had given him. He and Sandburg seemed to be last to arrive on the scene: three patrol cars were parked haphazardly around the driveway, and the meat wagon stood open on the other side. Several uniformed cops stood around in the snow outside the house. The forensics van was there, too. Yellow tape blocked off the driveway and the front door of the house. On the other side of the road, a few curious neighbours huddled together, watching the show.

With one hand on the truck's door, Jim glanced at his "partner" with concern. "Chief, I think you should wait this one out," he suggested. Even from outside, Jim could tell this scene was a bad one. Sandburg was a lot better around crime scenes than he used to be and he would never again make the mistakes he had on the Lash case, but he didn't have the hardened temperament of a seasoned cop.

Blair looked at him curiously. "Why? Do you sense something already?"

"I don't need heightened senses, Chief. Look at them." Jim nodded toward the cops crowding around the doorway. Two of them held lit cigarettes. "They don't want to be inside the house. Whatever's on the other side of that door is bad enough that a bunch of cops would rather stand outside in twelve inches of snow than go in." As Jim watched, the cops shuffled away from the door and two people came out carrying a black-wrapped body on a stretcher.

Blair swallowed. "I can do it."

"Alright." Jim wouldn't humiliate Sandburg by insisting he stay out of it, though he wished he would. "But leave if you have to," he added.

"What if you need my help? If the scene is that bad, then your senses..."

"I can handle it," Jim insisted. He had been to horrible crime scenes before, but Sandburg was right. His newly-heightened senses could be a problem. They could also be a huge advantage; wasn't that why he had Sandburg as his backup?

Blair, of course, somehow knew exactly what Jim was thinking. "You can do this, man. It's just like we practiced. Concentrate on one of your senses at a time, sort through the different elements. Like shuffling a pack of cards."

"Sure thing, Chief. Are you ready?"

For an answer, Sandburg opened the truck door and climbed out into the snow.

***

10.27am

There was blood everywhere.

Jim snapped on a pair of latex gloves and pocketed a couple of spares. He slipped plastic covers over his shoes and nodded to Sandburg, silently telling him to stay outside the room. Sandburg was pale, and looked like he wanted to be sick. Jim didn't miss the gratitude in his eyes. Jim tried to breathe as shallowly as possible and walked into the room.

Mindful of Sandburg's advice, Jim kept a tight rein on his senses. Even so, the sweet, coppery scent of blood was too thick on the air for him to block it out. Jim could taste the blood with every breath he took. There were others in the room: the forensic photographer and a couple of other techs. The bodies had been photographed and removed before Jim arrived; now the positions of the bodies were outlined in tape on the bloody carpet.

Jim concentrated on his sense of sight as he moved around the room, stepping carefully to avoid disturbing the blood spatter. Details leapt out at him: some odd marks beneath the window, scuff-marks on the carpet beneath the blood, some kind of dust on the table. The smell and taste of the blood was making him nauseous. Jim closed his eyes briefly, fighting for control. He had seen things as bad as this before. He had seen worse, in Peru. He could do this.

"Jim," Sandburg's voice came from the doorway, "like shuffling through a deck of cards, remember?"

Jim nodded. Sandburg was right. Of the scents in the room, the smell of blood was the strongest, but it wasn't the only thing he could smell. There was the photographer's cologne, for example. Once he began, Jim identified the other scents quickly: a lingering trace of household polish and the musk of some animal, most likely a pet, were the strongest. He smelled nothing out of place except the blood.

"Jim!" Blair called sharply from the doorway.

Jim turned and saw Sandburg watching him with concern. Had he zoned out? Jim didn't think so: he'd just been working. "It's fine, Chief," he said and went back to looking around the room.

The telephone was smashed and covered with blood. Jim called to the photographer. "Did you get this?"

"Sure did, detective." The photographer was sliding a lens cap onto his camera: he was finished.

Jim leaned over the telephone, at first looking closely without touching. It was a white plastic handset and base, so the blood stood out scarlet against the white. The handset was in two pieces, cut clean through the middle, the wires exposed. Jim picked up one piece and ran his gloved fingers along one edge. His fingers slid in the still-wet blood. It was a clean cut, the edges smooth and warm. Jim frowned. Yes, he could feel the residual heat even through the gloves. Something had melted the edges of the plastic. Whatever weapon did this was very, very hot.

So why didn't Jim smell burning? Heat like this needed a source, fuel to burn. It didn't make sense. Jim replaced the phone carefully and told the techs to be sure to bag it as evidence. He stripped off the bloody gloves and folded them inside-out. There was a bag for used gloves near where Blair was standing. Jim gestured and Blair picked it up and held the trash bag out to him. Jim tossed the gloves in and fished the second pair out of his pocket.

While he pulled the gloves on, Jim spoke to one of the officers lurking near the front door. "Did you find anything in any of the other rooms?"

The officer shook his head: no. "No signs of violence or struggle anywhere but this room."

"Witnesses?"

"A neighbour called 911. She was pretty hysterical. The paramedics gave her a shot of something."

"No others?"

"Not so far."

"Alright." Jim glanced toward the open front door. Someone he didn't recognise was approaching the house. "See if you can get rid of the sightseers out there and arrange a door-to-door. This happened while most people on this street were having breakfast; somebody must have seen or heard something."

"I wouldn't be too sure of that, detective," the newcomer said. He reached into his coat and flashed a badge at the cops outside the door. They drew aside to let him in and he stamped the snow off his boots as he entered the house.

Jim studied the stranger. He was a tall man, dark-haired and bearded. He held the badge up for Jim to see. "Special Agent John Biggs."

Jim had less than a second to examine the Federal ID, but then, Jim was a sentinel. A second was all he needed. He saw the tiny flaws that revealed the badge as a forgery. The colour wasn't quite right - someone with normal eyesight wouldn't have noticed unless the fake was side-by-side with the genuine article. Jim turned his attention to the man. He was wearing a well-worn leather coat over a grey suit with a plain tie. It was a reasonable attempt to look the part, but Jim wasn't taken in. Real Feds worked in pairs and wore better shoes.

It was tempting to arrest "Agent Biggs" right then and there. Jim was confident a quick call to the FBI would prove him right. But Jim had a double murder on his hands and he was curious about why this man was trying to get into the scene. He decided to play along.

"What's the FBI's interest in this case?" Jim asked, feigning annoyance. No one liked the Feds muscling in on a case this early in an investigation.

"You don't need to know that," Biggs answered, moving as if to push past Jim into the room beyond.

Jim stepped into his path. "Until I know the Feds have jurisdiction, Agent Biggs, this is my crime scene. I don't need you contaminating it."

Biggs met Jim's eyes and for a moment Jim thought he was going to throw a punch. He definitely wasn't a Fed. Then Biggs sighed. "I've got six double murders across three states. If this makes seven, I've got jurisdiction. So why not let me in and we'll find out?"

Biggs might not have the clone-like dress sense of an FBI agent, but he had the Quantico-brand arrogance down pat. Jim stood aside, gesturing for the fake agent to enter.

"Why don't you tell me what you've got, detective?" Biggs suggested in a more friendly tone. He barely glanced at the bloody ground, but walked around to the window.

"Two dead, a couple. No sign of the murder weapon but it was some kind of knife."

"You're sure it was a knife?" Biggs crouched near the window, examining the frame closely.

The note of amusement in his voice made Jim glance around again at the pattern of the blood on the floor and walls. It was true he had not yet examined the bodies and didn't know what the wounds looked like, but the blood told its own story. He knew the wounds would be slashes and stab wounds: a frenzied attack with something very sharp.

"As sure as I can be until I see the ME's report," Jim answered cautiously, but he resolved to get a look at the bodies himself as soon as he could.

Jim watched "Agent Biggs" walk around the room. Biggs was careful not to touch anything. He finished his examination of the window and took an equally close look at the fireplace, for no reason Jim could identify. Biggs asked all the right questions, but he didn't respond to the answers like a cop. He asked no follow-up questions and showed no interest in the victims. When he bent over the fireplace Jim saw the tell-tale bulge of a gun in a shoulder-holster and a second gun at the man's back.

When they finished their circuit of the room Biggs was looking very grim. "Thanks for your help, detective. I'll be in touch."

Jim held out his hand. "Always happy to co-operate with the FBI," he answered smoothly.

Biggs' mouth twisted in what might have passed for a smile. "See you soon, Detective Ellison." He shook Jim's hand; he had a firm grip.

Jim watched him leave, his boots leaving bloody footprints in the snow outside. Jim carefully stripped off the clean latex gloves and slipped them into an evidence bag. "Chief, let's go. I've seen all I need to see for today." The relief on Sandburg's face was plain, and Jim hurried them out of there. He wanted to get those gloves checked for prints.

***

12.40pm

"It wasn't a knife." Jim slid the crime scene photographs across the table to Simon.

Captain Simon Banks spread the pictures out in front of him, frowning. "Sure looks like one."

"The ME will probably say the same, but I examined the bodies myself. The wounds are in parallel lines, not single cuts and the cutting edge was thicker than a metal blade. They're slashes, not the stab wounds I'd expect to see if the weapon were a knife."

"So what weapon are you looking for?"

"I'll let you know when I figure it out. As crazy as it sounds, the closest thing I can think of is a bear's claw."

Simon gave him the look that statement deserved and Jim shrugged. He hadn't said the killer was a bear, only that he was looking for a weapon that resembled a claw.

After a moment, Simon moved on. "What about this fake FBI agent?"

Jim looked at Sandburg, who had been doing that part of the research while Jim was in the morgue.

"Lieutenant Plummer got a positive match on the fingerprints from Jim's glove," Blair reported, passing an untidy sheaf of papers to Simon. "His name is John Winchester."

Simon flicked through the sheaf of papers. "Looks like he has a long record. Can you give me the highlights?"

Blair nodded. "John Winchester, originally of Lawrence, Kansas. He's a former marine who fought in Vietnam. Married once: his wife was killed in a house fire in '83, leaving him with two children. The cops concluded the fire was an accident, but a week after the case was closed the couple who had taken them in were murdered in their home. Winchester vanished, along with the kids. Since then he's moved around a lot. There are a number of arrests on record: breaking and entering, firearms violations and a couple of traffic offences. No convictions." Blair grinned suddenly. "I like his car," he added. Distinctive."

Simon snorted. "This is your suspect?" he asked Jim.

"He's got no connection to the victims, so why was he at the scene? There's more to this guy than meets the eye. He's not the only suspect, Simon, but he's the one I'm most interested in."

"Impersonating a Fed is a good place to start. I'll get you a warrant and you can bring him in on that. Tell me about your other suspects."

"The usual. Karen Moore had a brother who stands to inherit, and apparently he needs money badly. Will Moore had some business connections I want to chase down. But this scene..." Jim waved a hand over the photographs, "this isn't business. Whoever did this enjoys it."

"I agree. Give a copy of the file to H. He can do some of the grunt work so you can concentrate on this man Winchester." Simon leafed through the record Blair had put together. He stopped at the last page and turned it around to show Jim. "You're gonna need backup."

Jim read it and nodded. "I might. I need to find him first." Then he smiled. "But I think I know where to start."

***

5.15pm

From behind the one-way glass outside the interrogation room, Jim watched John Winchester run his fingers over the handcuff bracelet around his left wrist. It looked as if he was searching for a way to slip the lock, but that was surely impossible. He had nothing he could use to pick the lock. A length of chain ran from the handcuffs to a bar beneath the table which was, in turn, bolted to the floor. Winchester was alone in the room. The only light came from a naked bulb above the table.

He was a cool son of a bitch, Jim thought. No sign of nerves. Hell, he looked a little bored.

Jim picked up the case file and headed into the interrogation room. Winchester watched in silence as Jim laid the case file on the table and slid a tape into the recorder. The detective sat down, meeting Winchester's calm eyes.

"John Winchester." Jim spoke into the recorder. "Would you confirm your name for the record?"

Winchester stared at him for a moment, as if considering. Eventually he shrugged. "I'm John Winchester," he answered.

"I've been informed that you waived your right to have an attorney present, is that correct?"

"For the time being, yes," Winchester agreed.

"Why were you at my crime scene yesterday?"

Winchester met Jim's eyes but said nothing. His expression gave nothing away. The silence stretched on.

"Is this how you get your kicks?" Jim demanded. "Dismembered bodies get you hot?"

Winchester simply continued his stone-faced silence.

Jim extracted Winchester's forged FBI badge from the case file. It was sealed into an evidence bag. He slid it across the desk. "You're not a Fed. You're not even a cop. Did you make this yourself?"

Winchester remained silent. This time, so did Jim, hoping the other man would break if he stayed quiet for long enough.

Finally, Jim shook his head. "Fine. Let's try something else." He opened the file but didn't look at it. "Where were you between six-thirty and nine this morning?"

For the first time, Jim saw expression crack Winchester's face. Not much, just a slight frown before the man covered it up. Jim's question troubled him. But he still refused to answer.

"You have the right to remain silent, Winchester, but if you have an alibi you'd be helping us both out if you tell me."

Jim thought he saw a look of pity in Winchester's eyes before the man sighed and finally spoke. "I was in bed, asleep. I checked into the motel at one in the morning, maybe later. I'd been driving nearly thirty six hours straight. So, no, I don't have any alibi."

Jim nodded thoughtfully. "Thirty six hours on the road? You must have stopped somewhere along the way."

"Sure."

"Well, did you use a credit card to buy gas? Or dinner? Is there maybe some waitress who'll remember you?"

"I pay cash," Winchester asserted.

"Or used a stolen card," Jim suggested.

Winchester shrugged, which was as good as an admission.

"So," Jim tried again, "now you've found your voice, what were you doing at my crime scene?"

Winchester shook his head stubbornly, saying nothing.

"What are you doing in Cascade? Sounds like you came here in a real hurry."

Winchester took in a deep breath. "I'd like to make a phone call, if you don't mind."

***

5.32pm

Jim leaned against the wall, watching Winchester while he made his call. He was a fair distance away; Winchester could have no idea he was listening. Most suspects call either a lawyer or family. This didn't sound like either:

"You did what? You goddamned stupid sonovabitch!"

"Damn it, Bobby," Winchester growled, "it ain't my fault they sold the damn thing. Look, this is my only phone call. Will you listen to me?"

There was a short silence. "You need me to post bail?" Bobby asked, his voice more even.

"It'd be useful, but that ain't why I called. Dean has orders to call Jim if I don't make rendezvous, but I need someone to finish this hunt before Dean gets any ideas. The boy's good, but - "

"He's sixteen."

"You think I don't know that? Are you going to help me or do I have to call someone else?"

Bobby snorted. "You mean there's someone else you haven't pissed off?"

"Bobby."

"I'll be on the first plane. And since you probably won't get another call, I'll let Jim know what you've gotten those kids into." There was real bite in the man's voice.

"Thanks," Winchester muttered gruffly.

"Just try not to dig yourself in deeper, Winchester, you idjit." Bobby hung up the phone.

Jim took  deep breath as Winchester hung up the phone. Simon would have his badge if he knew Jim was listening in on a suspect's phone call. But Jim needed to know if Winchester was his man. He still wasn't sure. The phone call might have given him a way to find out...but he couldn't use it.

The call had told Jim one thing, though: Winchester's kids were somewhere in Cascade, alone. He had checked the motel room when he arrested the man and had seen no sign of the children. Damn it.

He could hold Winchester overnight. He could charge him with impersonating a Fed right now, and the DA said there was enough in Winchester's past record for her to insist on a high bail. Maybe high enough to keep him in custody. But maybe not.

Jim had a few hours to act. Maybe this time having a civilian for a partner could work in his favour.

***

6.19pm

Jim gazed at the moonlit snow behind the motel. "Damn, that's what I was afraid of."

"What?" Blair asked him. "All I see is snow, man."

"The boys climbed out the window. Someone did a good job of covering their tracks and this afternoon's snow finished the job, but I can see where it's been disturbed."

"Lucky you're a sentinel. Which way do you think they went?"

They followed the trail left by Winchester's two sons to a nearby diner. Jim ducked under the Christmas streamers hanging from the ceiling to talk to the waitress at the cash register. After the usual introductions, Jim learned her that the Winchester boys had been in the diner long enough to order a plateful of fries and to make a phone call. She described the younger boy as "cute as a button" and the elder as "a young James Dean". The boys paid cash for their fries and left right away.

Jim left Blair to flirt with the waitress and headed for the phone booth. It was a cramped corner next to the diner's toilets. The wall around the telephone was covered with scrawled graffiti and flyers for this and that. A business card above the coin slot promised a magical night with Melanie. There was a two-year-old directory on a shelf beneath the phone. Jim noted down the number of the phone, thinking he could get a list of numbers called from it. He was about to leave when he got another idea. He dropped a quarter into the slot and hit redial.

A woman's voice answered. "Aberline Motel. How can I help you?"

"This is Detective Ellison of Cascade PD. Someone I'm trying to trace may have called this number earlier today. Can you tell me if you've had any inquiries or new bookings today?"

"One moment please." There was a thud as the woman set the phone down on a table, and Jim heard her turning the pages of a book. There was a TV on in the background, playing what sounded like a quiz show. After a moment, she returned. "There have been two check-ins today, but I can't give you any details by phone. We have to protect - "

Jim interrupted her. "That's fine, I understand. I'll be there within the hour."

***

7.25pm

Jeanette, the motel receptionist, unlocked the motel room door for Blair. He laid a gentle hand on her shoulder as she reached for the handle. "You'd better let me go in alone," he suggested.

She nodded nervously. "Whatever you say, detective."

"Oh! I'm not - " Blair started to protest, then shrugged. It would take too long to explain that only Jim was a detective, and Blair was just his ride-along-cum-unofficial-partner. "Thanks," he added.

Jim had gone around to the rear of the motel so the boys couldn't climb out of the window again. Listening from the parking lot, Jim had said he was sure the younger boy was inside, and thought he was alone.

The elder of the two boys had called the motel from that diner and convinced the clerk he was an adult. He paid for a room using a stolen credit card, then left instructions that his "son" would collect the room key. So when the boys showed up, Jeanette didn't blink at a twelve year old asking for the keys. He'd told her his dad was sick, and the room was listed as paid for.

Smart kid, Blair thought. He remembered doing similar things during his own nomadic childhood - though in his case without the stolen card. Naomi would have considered that bad for the karma.

He opened the door cautiously. There was no sound from inside, but he trusted Jim's senses. The room was dark, the curtains closed although it was still daylight outside. Blair eased into the room and looked around. He froze.

The boy stood in the middle of the room, holding a gun too big for his hands in a two-handed shooting stance. He was aiming directly at Blair. The boy wore a t-shirt that was much too big for him and well-worn blue jeans. His hair was longer than was trendy, bangs flopping over his eyes. His eyes were his most striking feature: a piercing gaze, steady and strong.

"What are you?" the boy demanded. His voice shook a little, but his hands holding the gun weren't shaking.

Blair raised his hands to show he was harmless. "I'm Blair. Are you Sammy Winchester?"

"Don't come any closer."

"Okay. Okay, man. No problem." Blair stayed where he was, raising his hands to show he was unarmed, but not, quite, doing the reach-for-the-sky thing. He watched the boy carefully. "Are you Sam? Or do they call you Sammy?"

"Sammy," the boy answered.

"Sammy, I'm Blair. I'm here to help you."

"No, you're not." The gun was very steady in the boy's hands. "You'll take me away from my family."

Blair wasn't sure he could deny it. He risked a glance around the room: it was bare of everything but the standard motel furniture. It appeared the boys had come here with nothing but their clothing...and a gun.

"Sammy," Blair said softly, "please put the gun down. I'm not going to hurt you." He took a step toward the boy. "Are you alone here?"

Sammy nodded. His hands were beginning to shake. The gun must be heavy, or perhaps it was fear, but there was no sign of fear in his voice. "Are you police?" he demanded belligerently.

"I'm not a cop," Blair answered, relieved he could tell the truth. "I'm an anthropologist."

To his surprise, the boy smiled. "Seriously? What kind?" He sounded as excited as if Blair had said I'm a rock star.

"I study South American tribal cultures," Blair answered. He'd been something of a child prodigy himself, but he was still surprised to run into a twelve year old who even knew what anthropology was.

Slowly, Sammy lowered the gun.

***

7.37pm

 "I've dealt with social services before, man," Blair insisted. "They're morons." He moved across the room as he spoke, placing himself protectively between Jim and the boy.

Jim noted the body language and wondered how Blair and the kid had bonded so fast. "Chief, I don't have a choice here," he began reasonably.

"Yes, you do!" Blair grabbed Jim's arm and dragged him out of the motel room into the snow-filled parking lot. "Do you really believe his father killed those people?"

Truthfully, Jim didn't. Winchester was involved somehow, but if he'd killed the Moores why had he pushed his way into the crime scene? The only explanation Jim could come up with was he needed to retrieve some incriminating evidence, but if so he'd failed, and Jim hadn't found anything. Jim had no doubt Winchester was connected to the case, but he wasn't the killer.

But it didn't make any difference right now. "It doesn't matter what I think, Chief." Jim spoke quietly so the kid who was no doubt listening wouldn't overhear. "He may not be a killer but the man's a criminal. What do you think that kid is gonna do when he's on trial?"

"I don't know, but that's not the point, man. Sam's scared. All he cares about is his brother and he's not here. If you call child services, we'll never know anything they might be able to tell us about your case."

Jim glanced at the window, where the boy lurked behind the curtain. "What are you suggesting?"

"It's outside office hours anyway. Let me stay here with Sam for the night. I'll talk to him..."

"We can both do that at - "

Blair interrupted sharply. "No we can't. You're a cop, and Sammy's been taught to be scared of cops. I think he'll talk to me."

Jim shook his head. "I must be crazy."

Blair grinned. "Thanks, man."

"Alright. I'll get a room here for myself and let Simon know what's happening. You'll stay here. Don't go anyplace else. Call me if anything happens. First thing in the morning, we'll have to go to the PD."

Blair nodded, reluctant, but he understood. "You got it."

"Chief. In the morning, we'll have to make that call. No option."

Blair nodded. "Okay, Jim."

Continued...