Law & Order: Race Affairs Unit (Worldwar TL)

Repost of my Law & Order/Worldwar TL fan-fic crossover at fan request. The original discussion TL can be seen [thread=125165]here[/thread].

Enjoy!

GK...

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The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to current events is strictly coincidental.

In the criminal justice system, offenses involving members of the Race contain inherent diplomatic concerns. In New York City, the dedicated detectives who investigate these special cases are members of an elite squad known as the Race Affairs Unit. These are their stories.

{Dun-Dun}



E. Grand St. near the corner of Essex, Lower East Side

Early morning. Two garbage men are handling the hydraulic lifting of a dumpster. Their garbage truck beeps annoyingly.

Older Garbage Man: ...and so she's hassling me over going to the nudie bar and I says to her: "when I married you I was expecting a life's partner, not the frigging Fleet Lord."

Younger Garbage Man: Man, that's why I ain't never getting colonized like that. Bachelor's life doing good for me, squad mate.

Older Garbage Man: There you go with that damned Lizard Talk. Kids. My daddy fought to keep those scaly bas...

Younger Garbage Man (interrupting): *Hiss* Hold that thought, man. We got bigger problems!

The younger man points to the body of a Race member lying in a dried pool of blood, revealed when the dumpster was lifted.

{cut scene}

Sirens and radio chatter. Yellow crime scene tape. Lieutenants Fitzsimmons and T'Surlak duck under the tape. Fitzsimmons wears a navy blue trench coat against the winter cold and carries a Styrofoam cup of coffee. T'Surlak wears a child's parka that covers his Detective body paint pattern. His badge is on its neck-strap holder. They approach the crime scene investigator at the body.

Det. Fitzsimmons: What's the story on this one, Sal?

Sal: Race male, roughly 26 Tosev years. Body paint matches that of a Chef's Assistant. A single stab wound to the Vvvrrglai artery by a small bladed weapon, possibly a stiletto or a Race gharklil knife. Hip pouch is empty, but contains substantial traces of ginger. No ID.

Det. Fitzsimmons: Single stab the the artery; not just a ginger mugging from the sound of it; professional hit?

Sal: That's the going theory. Could be the Mongooses out 'bagging Snakes'. Possibly ran afoul of El Lagarto for selling ginger on his turf.

Det. T'Surlak: That's not Chef's Assistant body paint.

Det. Fitzsimmons: What?

Sal: Hey, I'm not novice and neither is Maria the BP spec. What do you see that we don't, Detective?

Det. T'Surlak: See the lateral red zig-zag? It should go from the vroian indent to the fourth subvroian scale row but it overlaps at both ends.

Det. Fitzsimmons: So our victim's a shoddy dresser. I assume it's hard to paint when you're hopped up on Chinese food.

Det. T'Surlak: No, Dan, this is too precise. Besides, I've seen this before. I think we're looking at a buried paint job.

Det. Fitzsimmons: Care to fill us Big Uglies in on the Lizard Lingo?

Det. T'Surlak: It's an Old World method of showing your allegiance to a secret society, kind of like Big Ugly gang sign. The differences to the basic body paint are slight: you'll only see them if you're looking.

Sal: So, El Lagarto's gang?

Det. T'Surlak: No. His gang uses their own custom paint schemes.

Det. Fitzsimmons: Fits better than a leather jacket, I'd guess.

Det. T'Surlak (ignoring his partner): This must be a brand new Race gang...or worse.

{Dun-Dun}

Back at the precinct. Telephones ringing, cross-talk, yelling, papers shuffling. Perps arguing.

Pimp: man, I want my phone call. I got me rights, you know!

Cop: yea, two rights and a left from the look of your girl's black eye.

Detective Fitzsimmons walks past and on up to the Race Affairs office. He carries two cups. He comes up to Detective T'Surlak's desk. Detective T'Surlak is typing at the computer with one hand and eye turret, and going through a stack of Race mug shots with the other. Fitzsimmons places one of the cups on the desk for T'Surlak.

Det. Fitzsimmons: here you go: one Qwerg with low-fat soy and extra salt. How's the perp search? *interrogative cough*

Det. T'Surlak: no luck so far on finding our Jhraal Doe, but check out the pics in that stack [points].

Det Fitzsimmons puts down his cup and picks up the stack. He starts going through the pics while T'Surlak takes a sip from the Qwerg.

Det. T'Surlak: *Hiss* Great Emperors Past, this Qwerg tastes like crap. Big Uglies always under-roast the pods.

Det. Fitzsimmons: go figure; we like our coffee slightly below charcoal. OK, I give. What's with these Lizards?

Det T'Surlak: every one of them has a slightly wider lateral stripe in the immediate sub-vroian.

Det. Fitzsimmons (flipping through the papercliped reports): 'ginger', 'ginger', 'vagrancy', 'disturbing the peace', 'ginger'...sound like mostly small-time crimes. Not a one of these even had enough ginger for 'intent to distribute'.

Det. T'Surlak: that's the kicker. None of these five or our victim had any ties to one another that might indicate gang connections. Only one of those lived in the Lower East. Two live in Queens, one in the Bronx, one in Jersey. If they're a gang they're good at keeping their connections isolated.

Det. Fitzsimmons: but not good at keeping a small lick of ginger out of sight when vice walks by.

Det. T'Surlak: I know...it makes no sense! *emphatic cough*

Lt. VanBuren walks up with a dossier and drops it on the desk.

Lt. VanBuren: here's your autopsy. You're going to love this! [sits on the edge of the desk]

Det. Fitzsimmons (picking up dossier and flipping through): Ok, 'death by massive bleeding due to sharp trauma.'

Det. T'Surlak: wow, how'd they guess?

Det. Fitzsimmons (ignoring partner): '...ginger in blood,' naturally. 'No major traumas' other than the stab wound...real barn-burners so far...

Lt. VanBuren: it gets better.

Det. Fitzsimmons: '...notable scaring from former traumas consistent with...combat operations?'

Det. T'Surlak: [speaks animatedly in Race] Why in the hell would a Chef's Assistant bear battle scars? *interrogative cough*

Lt. VanBuren: answer that one and you win the new Pontiac.

Det. Fitzsimmons: changed his line of work?

Det. T'Surlak: no. *emphatic cough* The Race doesn't work that way. A job's pretty much for life, for generations. Unless the scars are just a coincidence we're looking at a military person who chose to disguise himself as a lowly Chef's Assistant. Got an ID yet, chief?

Lt. VanBuren: They're working on the microscale identification as we speak.

Up walks an intern with a stack of papers and hands them to Lt. VanBuren. She reads them.

Lt. VanBuren: we have positive ID: Chef's Assistant Vhrahu, last known working address: Lee Ho Fooks, Broad and Pike.

Det. Fitzsimmons: Great. I could go for Dim Sung.

{Dun-Dun}

Lee Ho Fook's Chinese Take-Out, Chinatown

Dets. Fitzsimmons and T'Surlak enter the small customer area of the Chinese takeout place. Inside, proprietor Lee is behind a counter arguing in Mandarin with someone in the kitchen. The detectives walk up to the counter, flashing their badges.

Det. Fitzsimmons: Mr. Fook, I presume?

Lee: it's Mr. Lee! Stupid Devils always get it backwards. (notices badges) Sorry, Mr. Policeman. Look, I tell you guys, I have Ginger License, see (points to wall) right there! All paperwork up to date!

Det. T'Surlak: we're not here about your ginger permit, Mr. Lee.

Det. Fitzsimmons: do you have a member of the Race working for you; goes by 'Chef's Assistant Vhrahu'?

Lee (scowling): what did that stupid Scaly Devil do this time?

Det T'Surlak: this time?

Det. Fitzsimmons (holding up a police sketch of Vhrahu): this him?

Lee: yea, that him. Always cause trouble, that one. Show up late, steal ginger. I tell my son never hire Scaly Devils, but he don't listen.

A young man with a chef's hat, presumably Lee's son, pokes his head through the order window.

Lee, jr.: Come on, dad, Vhrahu never stole any damned ginger! He did a little, yea; what Lizard in NYC doesn't? But he never stole. I kept tabs on it just like you told me.

Lee: he stole ginger! You know he stole ginger!

The Lees break into a heated argument in Mandarin.

Det. Fitzsimmons: whoa, whoa, hold on there! We're not here about ginger. We're here about Vhrahu.

Det.T'Surlak (eye turrets wiggling with obvious annoyance): when did you last see him?

Lee: Last Tuesday. He leave early after fight with Mongoose!

Det. T'Surlak: a fight?

Lee, jr.: Yea. *emphatic cough* The Mongooses are always up in his snout. They hang in this part of Chinatown. They'd yell at him to 'go home' and stuff.

Det. Fitzsimmons: so, on Tuesday he had another such altercation?

Lee, jr.: yea, Weasel Johnson was all in his face, pushing him around, waving an ice pick at him.

T'Surlak and Fitzsimmons exchange a glance.

Lee, jr (continuing): Vhrahu was real hissed and all, like, ready to fight, but didn't. Good thing, too. A Chef's Assistant don't got the training to fight. He looked like he wanted to real bad, though.

Det. T'Surlak: and where might we find Mr. 'Weasel'?

Lee, jr.: Seward Park down near the projects, usually. Um, why do you ask?

Det. Fitzsimmons: thank you, gentlemen, that will be all.

The detectives walk out and head down the street.

Det. T'surlak: thank the Emperors Past we're out of there. The smell of ginger was horrible.

Det. Fitzsimmons: you hate that stuff, don't you?

Det. T'Surlak: bad memories. Vowed never to touch that stuff and never have.

Det. Fitzsimmons: well, this 'Weasel' sounds like a 'person of interest' to me.

Det. T'Surlak: *emphatic cough* what gave him away? The 'brandishing a weapon' remarkably similar to the suspected murder weapon a few hours before Forensics placed the time of death? Or are we 'profiling' here?

Det. Fitzsimmons: wise-ass Lizard.

Det. T'Surlak: Big Ugly bastard.

Det. Fitzsimmon (after a pause): you up for hot dogs? My treat.

Det. T'Surlak: extra salt, no toppings; thanks.

{cut scene}

A group of young men are lounging around a bench in a park. Shoddy project towers loom behind. They all wear camouflage jackets with cutoff sleeves and a cartoon mongoose with a dead Race member in its jaws on the back. All have very feathered-out hair and beards as if attempting to separate themselves from the clean-shaven Lizard Boys. In the center is a tall man with a weasel tattoo on the forearm. Dets. Fitzsimmons and T'Surlak approach.

Weasel: hey, what have we here?

Mongoose 1: looks like Inspector Kloo brought us a Snake!

Mongoose 2: hey Snake! You must got a death wish to walk up to the Mongeese!

Det. T'Surlak (flashing badge): it's Detective, and I believe the plural you're looking for is 'Mongooses'.

Det. Fitzsimmons (to Weasel): Mr. 'Weasel' Johnson I presume? We'd like to have a few words with you about...

Weasel bolts and the other Mongooses scatter.

Det. Fitzsimmons: always the hard way!

Foot chase ensues through the park and the spaces between the project towers. Eventually Det. T'Surlak catches up. Weasel takes a swing. Det. T'Surlak flips him to his back with a body-throw. Det. Fitzsimmons catches up. They start to cuff Weasel.

Det. Fitzsimmons: Mr. Johnson, you are under arrest for obstruction of justice and assaulting an officer.

Det. T'Surlak (digging a bag of off-white powder out of Weasel's coat pocket and taking a sniff): and possession of narcotics in amounts suggesting intent to distribute and... (digs out a rusted icepick) ...possession of a concealed weapon.

Det. Fitzsimmons (lifting Weasel to his feet): 'You have the right to remain silent, you have the right to an attorney, you have...'

{dramatic music; slow fade out}

At the Interrogation Room, off-white walls and one-way glass observation window. Weasel Johnson is kicked back in his chair attempting with partial success to hide fear under a facade of disinterested boredom and annoyance. Dets. Fitzsimmons and T'Surlak sit across the table.

Det. Fitzsimmons: 'doin' stuff', eh? Care to be a little more clear where you were Wednesday night?

Weasel: get off my back, pig! I ain't sayin' nothin' 'till my lawyer gets here!

Det. T'Surlak: if you have a witness as to your whereabouts it can only help you, Mr. Johnson.

Weasel: oh, 'only help me?' Is that so, you freakin' Snake? You know what I do to Snakes?

Det. Fitzsimmons: oh, do tell, please.

Det. T'Surlak: hostile behavior will not help you, on the other hand, Mr. J...

Weasel (interrupting): you wanna see hostile? I'll...just go away, you damned Snake! Go back where you came from!

Det. T'Surlak: you mean Brooklyn?

The door opens. A large, bearded man in a suit appearing so much a biker in lawyer's clothing comes in. Lt. VanBuren is with him.

Lawyer: if you're done harassing my client, Detectives...?

Det. Fitzsimmons: oh, we're just getting started. Care to join us? We'll make coffee.

Lawyer (handing him a blue affidavit): no thank you, Detective, we won't be staying long. This is an order for release from your 'fair graces'.

Lt. VanBuren: seems that at the time of the murder Mr. Johnson and his gang were busy tearing up a Race Foods market...CCTV captured the whole thing.

Lawyer: let's go, Bobby.

Weasel: thank god. This damn Snake's smell was setting off my sinuses.

Det. T'Surlak (waggling eye-turrets in annoyance): peace be upon you too, Mr. Johnson.

Lt. VanBuren: but don't get too eager to leave, gentlemen. Your client still had several ounces of heroin on his possession.

Lawyer: planted, I'm sure.

Lt. VanBuren: Officer Cowell here will take you down to Vice.

The Lawyer and Weasel walk off with a uniformed officer. The Lieutenant closes the door as they leave. She and the detectives are alone in the interrogation room. She takes Weasel's old seat and flops a dossier on the table.

Lt. VanBuren: this is for the better anyway. The icepick was clean. The good news, however, is right there before you.

Det. T'Surlak picks up the dossier and starts reading through it, scanning with both eye-turrets.

Lt. VanBuren: you remember those threads CSI found on the body?

Det. Fitzsimmons: vaguely.

Det. T'Surlak (reading): you're kidding me... (hands paper to Fitzsimmons)

Det. Fitzsimmons (reading): 'black wool threads, thread patterns corresponding to a standard pattern in Hasidic rekel coats'...a Hasidim?

Det. T'Surlak: check this one out: 'hairs found on the body correspond to those of facial hair, likely a beard. DNA corresponds to a young male of Russian or Ukrainian Jewish ancestry.' Yep, it's a Black Hat.

Det. Fitzsimmons: you've got to be kidding. A Hasidim?

Lt. VanBuren: it gets better. Check out the report on the ginger.

Det. T'Surlak (reading): '...chemical and spectral analysis show esters and alcaloids found in ratios common to southwest Java...specific licensed ginger distributors known to import ginger from this region limited to...blah, blah...Goldblum Kosher Foods, inc., NYC'.

Det. Fitzsimmons: I guess we've found our next stop.

{Dun-Dun}

{Dun-Dun}

Fitzsimmons and T'Surlak are in an unmarked sedan, Fitzsimmons driving.

Det. Fitzsimmons: I can't believe a Black Hat whacked the Lizard. Those guys are all piety and humility.

Det. T'Surlak: Remember those horror stories you told me about Catholic School? 'The Pit' was a term I believed you used. And then the whole fracas around, who was that, Father Mac-Somethingoranother?

Det. Fitzsimmons: Yea? So?

Det. T'Surlak: Aren't priests supposed to be a 'piety and humility' too? Killers don't come with a dress code.

Det. Fitzsimmons: Touche.

Det T'Surlak: Then again, killers in your cowboy movies tend to wear black hats...

Det. Fitzsimmons: just...stop it.

Det. T'Surlak opens his jaws in humor.

Fitzsimmons pulls over the car.

Det. Fitzsimmons: here we are, West 64th.

They walk up to a non-descript brick building with a blue and white sign reading 'Goldblum Kosher Foods, inc.' They enter. An attractive young woman in a Hasidic blouse and skirt is behind a reception desk.

Receptionist: good morning, gentlemen, how may I... (notices the Detectives' badges)

Det. Fitzsimmons: just a few quick questions, ma'am. Can we speak to a manager?

Receptionist: one second. (Hits an intercom button) Mr. Goldblum? There's a mensch and an iaschie from the police to see you. (turns back to the detectives) One minute and Mr. Goldblum will see you.

Det. T'Surlak: Danke, meidele. You do an iashie recht.

A large, white-bearded man in Hasidic clothes, undoubtedly Goldblum, walks up and extends a hand to both detectives.

Goldblum: greetings, detectives. To what do I owe this honor?

Det. Ftizsimmons: Mr. Goldblum, you seem like a man who doesn't like to kibbutz, so I'll cut to the chase. A member of the Race was found dead, murdered, and your ginger was found on him.

Goldblum: what? How do you know it's my ginger?

Det. T'Surlak: can we talk somewhere private, Mr. Goldblum?

{Cut scene}

Mr. Goldblum's office. View of 64th street. Pictures of Israel on the wall next to family photos. Goldblum is flipping through the documents the detectives brought.

Goldblum: that looks bad, no doubt about it. I can't imagine how he got the ginger. We never sell to the Race. And you see the permit's in order.

Det. T'Surlak: what exactly is the nature of your business, Mr. Goldblum?

Goldblum: we import and export kosher foods and spices. What it says on the label, really.

Det. Fitzsimmons: you do a lot of business with the Empire, I'd assume?

Goldblum: well, yes. Kind of unavoidable when they control most of the spice lands, you know. Of course we do a lot of business with Israel, as you might imagine. But no ginger sales to the Race or into Race lands. We only import strictly legal and regulated ginger for human customers.

Det. Fitzsimmons: perhaps one of your employees is not as honest as yourself?

Goldblum (shrugs): who knows? We keep careful tab of the amount of ginger that enters and leaves the building and account for any discrepancy, all within the laws, but if someone skims a gram here and there or sweeps up the stuff left in the grinders, how could we know?

Det. T'Surlak: would you or your employees be willing to submit to DNA testing?

Goldblum: meh, why not? I'll give you a hair now if you...

Det. Fitzsimmons (interrupting): forensics will take care of that. We'll have them set up a time.

{cut scene}

The detectives are leaving the building.

Det. Fitzsimmons: well, that was informative.

Det. T'Surlak: think he's telling the truth?

Det. Fitzsimmons: he looked honest, but so did Mayor Lucini. Hey, you up for a bagel?

Det. T'Surlak: how can you eat that crap? Maybe if they have some lox. Add enough salt it's not too bad.

Det. Fitzsimmons: you know...we could cut through... (motions with his head towards the loading dock of Goldblum's. T'Surlak nods and they walk the perimeter of the building.)

Walking through the alley they see motion. Investigating, they see a young Hasidim violently yanking a disheveled Race member away from the building. He chucks the Race member to the curve. The Race member has badly smeared body paint.

Hasidim: and stay out, you verdampt Ginger-head!

Ginger Head: back off, Big Ugly! I was jus' walkin' through!

Hasidim: you know what happens when you come sniffing around here, Lizard!

Ginger Head: what, you'll stab me like you did the other one?

Det. Fitzsimmon: alright, keep it calm. What's going on here?

Hasidim (looking shocked): nothing, officer. Just evicting a trespasser. (He beats a hasty retreat into the shop).

Det. T'Surlak (quietly): suspicious activity with probable cause for search?

Det. Fitzsimmons: nah, let's chat up the Spice Girl. (walks up to Ginger Head) Hey, pal! A few words?

Det. T'Surlak (in Race): <Greetings, Office Assistant. Hard day with the Big Uglies? [interrogative cough]>

Ginger Head: <Greetings, Detective. I, really...by the Emperor (his eye turrets drop; notably, T'Surlak's do not) I was just walking...>

Det. T'Surlak: <forget about it. Instead we have some questions about the black hat you spoke with.>

Ginger Head: <can we speak in front of the Big Ugly?>

Det. Fitzsimmons (also in Race): <don't mind me, Office Assistant.>

Det. T'Surlak: <you mentioned he'd 'stab you like the other one'. Care to elaborate? [interrogative cough]>

Det. Fitzsimmons: <play nice and I might just forget to take a look in that pouch on your belt.>

Ginger Head: <by the Emperor (eye turrets downcast) they'll kill me!>

Det. Fitzsimmons: <we can always continue this discussion in the precinct...>

Ginger Head: <okay! Okay...you didn't hear this from me, but the word on the street is that that guy stabbed this new Race member no one had ever seen before, like a cook or something. 'Hatchling,' fresh off the water transport, probably.>

Det. T'Surlak: <and is there any word on who saw this?>

Ginger Head hesitates.

Det. Fitzsimmons (picking up cell phone and pretending to make a call): hello, Ginger Squad? I have a Lizard here that...

Ginger Head: Alright! Alright! <Word has it 'Tsiongi' Tessok saw it all!>

Det. T'Surlak: <thank you for your time, Office Assistant. Now, run along.>

Ginger Head: <it shall be done, superior sir! {emphatic cough]> (runs off)

Det. Fitzsimmons (making a call for real): Hello, Sal? Got any word on a Lizard named 'Tsiongi' Tessok? Might be with El Lagarto...uh huh...uh huh...great, thanks! (hangs up). We got our man...err, Race member. Vice has him in Riker's on ginger distribution charges. They're sending Goren over to talk to him about it.

Det. T'Surlak: Goren? Oh hell. That guy's buggy. Let's go before he totally brain-wipes the Lizard.

{Dun-Dun}

Riker's Island Federal Penitentiary

{Dun-Dun}

Interrogation room. Chain link over windows. White paint. At the plain table in a fold-up chair that must be quite uncomfortable to a Race member sits "Tsiongi" Tessok, his usual black and red lizards and bones motif gang body paint has been replaced by the green bands of a prisoner. Across the table sits Detective Robert Goren.

Det. Goren (scratching the back of his neck): So, Mr. Tessok, you're a freelance truck driver?

Tessok: yea. Freelance truck driver. They hire me, I drive for 'em.

Det. Goren: so you had no idea that the truck you were driving was loaded with several kilos of fine-cut Jamaican Ginger, then?

Tessok: no, not at all.

Det. Goren: that seems possible. Only...you were wearing (opens the battered leather folder) 'black body paint with a red Race Skull on the chest and various stylized lizard silhouettes' and...'a red spike Mohawk wig adhered to the head'...isn't that an interesting look. El Lagarto's gang wears exactly such a dress code.

Tessok: hey, that's just profiling! It's the style for the Lizard on the Street. All the Lizards are wearing it. (jaw drops in humor)

Det. Goren (smirking): oh, of course. (closes the binder) I can't really fault a being for following the crowd. I could have sworn, however, that anyone, Human or Race, who wore the gang's colors without authorization would be assaulted, possibly killed, but maybe I'm misremembering.

Moment of silent tension. Goren reopens the folder, and starts shuffling papers. Tessok squirms slightly.

Det. Goren: One thing that makes me curious, though: your blood analysis at the time of arrest showed the signs of chronic ginger use. Now, every Ginger user I know has a knack for finding the stuff. (flips through papers) I did some research and found that the olfactory senses of a Race member are very acute, far more so than Humans like myself. In fact, in cases of mating pheromones and things that mimic them, such as ginger to the addict, they can smell such scents for miles away. (tilts head to the side) How exactly did you manage to drive that truck all the way up from Florida without ever smelling it? I mean, there wasn't anything else in there that might have masked the scent. After all, DEA agents with ginger-sniffing Beffels were able to pull that particular truck out of the line at the toll bridge.

Tessok (shifting nervously, eye turrets darting in all directions other than towards Goren): um...you see...I lost my sense of smell. Accident as a hatchling. I can't smell anything at all.

Det. Goren: no kidding? My condolences. (looks at the clock) Wow, were does the time go? It's lunchtime already! I'll talk to you later.

Goren grabs his folder and gets up and walks to the door. The door opens and he starts to step out.

Det. Goern (stopping): just one more question. At your prior arrest for ginger distribution you never mentioned this injury. (turning to uniformed officer at the door) Could I get my lunch? This may take longer than expected.

The uniformed officer hands Goren a Chinese take-out box. Immediately Tessok starts trembling noticeably, eye turrets darting erratically.

Det Goren (retaking seat, opening take-out box, and grabbing chopsticks): you don't mind if I eat, do you? Good. There's a local pan-Asian take-out place around here I just love. And this one's my favorite. It's Thai Pork with Ginger. (takes several bites, talks with mouth full) I love it. It's absolutely addicting. Oh, I'm sorry. How rude of me. I'm sure the ginger scent must be driving you addled...but that's right. You can't smell it, so I guess it's ok for me to continue. (Tessok is figgiting badly) Now...about that truck of ginger you drove up from Florida...

There's a knock at the door. Det. Eames enters with Dets. T'Surlak and Fitzsimmons.

Det. Eames: Goren, guests for your friend. Race Affairs.

Det. Goren: thanks, Eames. Just enjoying lunch. Have a seat, gents.

Dets. Fitzsimmons and T'Surlak take seats at the table. T'Surlak sends an annoyed eye socket towards the pork and ginger box.

Det. Fitzsimmons: sorry to interrupt. Just a few things for Mr. Tessok. I'm Detective Fitzsimmons and this is my partner T'Surlak.

Tessok (noticeably agitated): T'Surlak? What kind of Lizard name is that?

Det. T'Surlak: a very old one. Sssotian name, predates the Empire.

Tessok: Lizard, please! Nothing predates the Empire!

Det. T'Surlak: many things predate the Empire. My name is one of them. Now, Tessok, your name came to us through word of snout that...

Tessok (interrupting): Good lord, you've gone native. I bet you were an off-hatching! Mommy loved the ginger, didn't she?

Det. T'Surlak (looking annoyed but keeping his cool): yes, actually. I hatched a quarter-year after the mating. All thanks to addle-egged ginger-dealing Azwaca dung. I'd be happy to send you all to the gas chamber, but luckily for you that's not my decision. Instead it's your lucky day, Ginger Head. Fitz?

Det. Fitzsimmons: word on the street has it you saw who whacked that Chef's Assistant.

Tessok (turning one angry eye socket from T'Surlak to Fitzsimmons): yea, maybe I did. What of it?

Det. Fitzsimmons: The City of New York might be very grateful to the being that helps her find the killer.

Tessok: if I saw someone, and I'm not saying I did, I want assurances, if you get my drift.

Det. Fitzsimmons: I get. I'm authorized to give you Possession with Intent rather than Felony Smuggling.

Det. Eames (looking angry): what?

Det. Goren smirks and rolls his eyes.

Tessok: yea, my memory's foggy without a piece of paper to remind me, but yea, I vaguely recall seeing a Black Hatter, one of Shorty's boys, doing the hit.

Det. T'Surlak: 'Shorty's Boys'?

Det. Eames: he means Abner 'Shorty' Zwillman, jr., 'Longy's' son. Heads the Jersey-Manhattan-Brooklyn syndicate. Racketeering, smuggling, gambling, prostitution...all the usual fun stuff. We've been looking into links with ginger smuggling too?

Det. Fitzsimmons: well, that'd place them right up against El Lagarto. (turns to Tessok) You boys happen to be using some undercovers of your own?

Tessok: What, the Fat Stripes? We've only just started seeing those Lizards ours...*hiss* I mean what do you mean? [innocent emphatic cough]

Det. Fitzsimmons: think you could identify the Black Hat in question from a lineup? I mean, all us Big Uglies look the same, after all...

Tessok: are you kidding? I could smell that Big Ugly a mile away!

Det. Goren: Wasn't your sense of smell was damaged as a hatchling?

Tessok: no, of cour...I mean...

Det. Goren (lifting take-out box towards Tessok): ginger pork?

Tessok: *hiss* Just bring the Big Ugly in!

[cut scene]

Outside Goldman's Kosher Foods loading dock. The young man from earlier is walking down the stairs with a group of others. Dets. Fitzsimmons and T'Surlak walk up to him with a pair of uniformed officers. Dramatic music plays.

Det. Fitzsimmons: David ben Zadok?

ben Zadok: yes?

Det. Fitzsimmons (holding badge): you are wanted for questioning in the death of Chef's Assistant Vhrahu. Please come along with me.

ben Zadok (to co-workers): get Goldman, tell him to send over a lawyer!

Dramatic music builds as the detectives and uniformed officers guide ben Zadok to the squad cars.

{Dun-Dun}

The District Attorney's office. Wood paneling and shelves of law books. DA Jack McCoy sits behind the desk. Across from him are ADAs Essval and Rebekkah Rothschild.

DA McCoy: Well, what's the story with the Vhrahu case suspect?

ADA Rothschild: mixed news: our witness Tessok failed to identify ben Zadok from the line up...

ADA Essval (interrupting): but successfully identified him by scent on three separate tests.

ADA Rothschild: and unfortunately he told the interrogating detective that he'd lost his smell at a young age.

ADA Essval: yes, but he was obviously lying to get out of the original ginger smuggling charge.

DA McCoy: that might not matter. A good defense lawyer will use that fact to sew uncertainty in a jury. Plus there's a question as to Mr. Tessok's reliability in general. Even if the jury accepts the smell loss to be a lie, who's to say they won't figure he's lying now to save his hide?

ADA Rothschild: a lot's going to depend on jury selection. Human juries are notoriously bad about discounting scent identification.

ADA Essval (irritated): yes, so we'll just have to make sure we get a few Lizards on the jury! (sighs and casts eye turrets down) I apologize. The mating time is approaching and I'm a little easily agitated. (sees a look from McCoy) Oh, don't worry! I'm on fertility suppressors. The last thing I need is to become gravid right now. (turns to Rothschild) how do you Big Uglies put up with this all year long?

ADA Rothschild: it takes patience to be sure, Ess. Curse and blessing of the human condition.

DA McCoy (looking impatient and uncomfortable): as to the case, what other evidence do we have on this ben Zadok?

ADA Essval: Van Buren got a search warrant for his apartment. They found scholarly and religious texts and a lot of pretty serious Zionist literature, and not much else. Interestingly, the 'not much else' included a thin stiletto dagger; a possible murder weapon. Forensics has it now. It's thoroughly wiped, but they're running it through the Skelkwank analyzer looking for trace samples.

ADA Rothschild: best of all, forensics identified the hair samples from the body as coming from ben Zadok and the wool fibers as matching ones found on a newly dry cleaned coat in his closet.

DA McCoy: how's Mr. ben Zadok fared under scrutiny?

ADA Rothschild: well, actually. Detective Fitzsimmons called him (reads from a paper) 'a model of restraint and composure'. They had little chance to speak to him as it was. His lawyer, Daniel Rosen, showed up and made the rest of the process difficult to say the least.

DA McCoy: Rosen? Well, that fits the witness' claim that ben Zadok is one of Shorty's boys.

Essval sends a questioning head-tilt towards Rothschild.

ADA Rothschild: Rosen's firm has represented the Zwillman's and other Syndicate members many times in the past.

DA McCoy: yea, when I was in law school we studied how Rosen's dad got Hymie Weiss off of a witness intimidation charge on a procedural technicality.

ADA Rothschild: the problem is that Rosen's firm also represents many high-income clients, connected or otherwise. It's made tracing the extent of the Crime Syndicate very convoluted and difficult. In this case ben Zadok's boss Mr. Goldblum hired the firm, according to pay records.

DA McCoy: if there is a suspicion of Syndicate involvement this complicates things further. As Tessok is very well documented to belong to El Lagarto's gang this makes ben Zadok a rival banger and throws witness objectivity out the window.

ADA Essval: definitely. RICO is screaming to get Tessok back in their custody as they think they can pressure him into ratting out the rest of the gang, perhaps take down Lagarto himself, perhaps establish the suspected ties between El Lagarto and the Taggliatari clan.

DA McCoy: so we have the choice of persecuting ben Zadok on murder charges or turning a "nose witness" of dubious reliability over to RICO hoping they can dig out a ginger smuggling ring. Sounds like a bad deal either way. Historically RICO cases are hard to press and there's little evidence this Lagarto is going to cooperate against his Lizards. However, he's more than eager, perhaps too eager to assist against ben Zadok.

ADA Rothschild: that's the way it looks, Jack.

DA McCoy: think you can make the murder charges stick.

ADAs Essval and Rothschild look to one another. Rothschild nods slightly.

ADA Essval (turning both eye turrets to McCoy): I believe we can. [emphatic cough]

DA McCoy: very well. Have Detectives Fitzsimmons and T'Surlak formally arrest Mr. David ben Zadok on murder charges and hold him for arraignment.

{Dun-Dun}

{Dun-Dun}

New York Southern District Courthouse

An empty courtroom, wood paneling and neo-renaissance artwork. ADAs Essval and Rothschild approach the bench from the prosecution side, Defense Attourney Daniel Rosen walks up with defendant David ben Zadok, who wears his Hasidic clothes and no visible restraints. Judge Flora Hamburger (played by guest star former NY congresswoman Janet Blackford) sits behind the bench looking stern.

Judge Hamburger: Peolpe of New York vs. David ben Zadok, charge of murder. Ms. Essval, are you recommending remand?

ADA Essval: we are, your honor, and we are recommending his passport be withheld. The defendant has made several trips to the Imperial Province of Palestine-Israel in the last few years and is considered a flight risk.

Mr. Rosen: Your Honor, my client is a peaceful, law-abiding, and reverent man. The travel was for religious purposes, a pilgrimage to the Temple Wall, for Pete's sake. There's no reason to treat him like a mafia don!

ADA Rothschild: Your Honor, this man is accused of a brutal homicide...

Mr. Rosen (interrupting): based on shaky evidence with a witness more than happy to save his own skin by implicating my client.

ADA Essval: then there's the forensic evidence, the hair and cloth samples...

Mr. Rosen (interrupting): along with who knows how much else after sitting under a dumpster for a day...not to mention the possible mishandling of evidence.

ADA Essval: Your Honor, despite the defense's ascertations to the contrary all evidence was handled in an appropriate manner. Furthermore, we believe the 'pilgrimages' were as a part of a ginger smuggling operation and that the defendant may have links to organized crime.

Mr. Rosen (again interrupting): based on the word of a convicted ginger smuggler attempting to save his own cloaca!

Judge Hamburger: that's enough, Mr. Rosen! Ms. Essval?

ADA Essval: thank you, Your Honor. Based on this evidence the State of New York feels that remand is necessary.

Judge Hamburger: agreed, counselor. Defendant remanded into custody, bail set at two-hundred-thousand dollars.

Mr. Rosen: Your Honor!

Judge Hamburger: I said that was enough, Mr. Rosen. Trial start date was to be set for April 9th; however, there is a motion by the Defense to postpone this due to religious conflicts. Seems this is the start of Pesach and Mr. ben Zadok as a devout Jew is not permitted to work. The motion is to move the trial to the fourth of May.

ADA Essval: um, your honor, I will have to request that the first two weeks of May be closed to trial.

Judge Hamburger: and may I ask why, councilor?

ADA Essval: um...it's...the frenzy.

Judge Hamburger: the what?

ADA Essval: um...mating season.

Mr. Rosen: Your Honor, are we scheduling around orgy times now? Because if that's the case I have this trip to Vegas lined up...

Judge Hamburger (cutting him off): Mr. Rosen, that's out of line! Don't make me consider 'contempt'!

ADA Rothschild: Your Honor, Councilor, as was well established by Razzak vs. the State of California, the Frenzy time is a period set by biological factors and is well beyond the abilities of a Race member to consciously resist. Statute RACE-65.1B clearly considers Frenzy and ginger-casued False Frenzy a period of excusable action and absence.

Judge Hamburger: yes, I recall that one. They tried to debar Councilor Razzak for mating with one of the Jurors during the trial. As I recall they had to declare a mistrial based on possible jury bias.

ADA Essval: with respect, Your Honor, that's Human thinking. The Race does not normally establish social-sexual bonds.

Judge Hamburger: agreed, Councilor, but the appearance of bias was enough. Councilors of the Prosecution, are there any objections to moving the trial date from Pesach?

ADA Rothschild: none, Your Honor.

Judge Hamburger: Mr. Rosen, any objections to cutting out the week of the Frenzy?

Mr. Rosen (hesitating for a moment): ...na...no Your Honor.

Judge Hamburger: alright, then... (flipping through an appointment book) ...this gives the next open slot for trial as the 13th of August. And Mr. ben Zadok, we will respect the observance of shabbat and holy days. Besides, I have family coming over for Rosh HaShanah and Yom Kippur this September as it is. Defendant remanded with bail set and trial date set. (hits gavel)

Conference room in the DA's office. Defense attorney Rosen and ben Zadok sit across from ADAs Essval and Rothschild. Ben Zadok seems almost eerily calm and composed. His eyes burn with an inner fire.

ADA Essval: based on the evidence a conviction is certain, but the DA's office is prepared to offer Murder 2, 15-20, in return for a guilty plea.

Rosen (scoffs): are you kidding me? My client was no where near the scene of the crime, as a friend is willing to testify.

ADA Rothschild: are you kidding us? We have a witness...

Rosen (interrupting): ...who's not credible...

ADA Rothschild (ignoring interruption): ...the hair and coat samples...

Rosen: ...which could have gotten there hours earlier when my client threw the victim out of the factory...

ADA Rothschild: ...which can not be verified since your client's boss failed to turn over the skelkwank disks from the video.

Rosen: hey, things get lost. A third-shift employee, who's since been fired for incompetence, I might add, accidentally overwrote them when he was etching himself music files...which was strictly against company policy!

ADA Essval: on Home they have an expression that goes: (points both eye turrets accusingly towards Rosen) 'how damned convenient'.

Rosen: don't go double-barreling me, hon'! I just bring the news! Go eye-up the idiot that over-etched the disks!

ADA Rothschild: we certainly will...once he gets back from his extended vacation in the Imperial Caribbean.

ADA Essval: again, 'how damned convenient'.

Rosen shrugs. Ben Zadok just stares coldly at them.

ADA Rothschild: And then there's the final nail in the coffin: the murder weapon itself, found in your client's apartment and confirmed through skelkwank analysis to have Race blood on it. There's a 93.4% certainty it is Vhrahu's blood.

Rosen: oh yes, the 'murder weapon'. I'd nearly forgotten. (pulls a blue envelope from his briefcase) Consider that suppressed.

{Dun-Dun}

Judge Hamburger's chamber. Law books and paneling. A spider plant by the window. As an easter egg, a 'Blackford for Congress' sign on the wall. The ADAs sit across from the Judge at a long table.

ADA Essval: your honor, you can't allow this!

Judge Hamburger: madam, please do not tell me what I can or cannot do in my courtroom! The counselor is correct: the weapon was contaminated with the presence of zisuilli blood and the Skelkwank analysis is compromised because of it.

ADA Essval: that's because the defendant specifically stabbed the weapon through a raw zisuilli roast to exploit that very loophole! They call it 'meating' the blade!

Judge Hamburger: the motivation for the 'meating' is irrelevant, the blade is contaminated and the skelkwank analysis dubious because of it! Zazztor vs. the State of Texas clearly established that zisuilli tissue can cause a false positive on skelkwank tests.

ADA Rothschild: but Your Honor, Zazztor v. Texas is twenty years out of date! The modern systems use calibration techniques and multiple confirmations to eliminate any false positives from zisuilli, or aswaca or beef for that matter!

Judge Hamburger (annoyed): again, irrelevant. Irregardless of the technological advances the statute stands, the weapon is legally 'contaminated' and the motion stands! The knife is gone, councilors, I'm sorry!

{Dun-Dun}

{Dun-Dun}

Back in the court room. This time, it is full. The jury box seats twelve: seven Humans and five Race members. The Prosecution is up. A middle-aged woman in tweed and glasses is on the stand. She is Dr. Adriene Folgore, Forensic DNA specialist.

ADA Rothschild: so, Dr. Folgore, could you tell me about the hairs found on the victim's body?

Dr. Folgore: yes. We analyzed them through the microscope and ran skelkwank DNA analysis of the hairs, finding them to belong to a male of Eastern European origins, likely of Jewish ancestry based on several key indicators. Furthermore, DNA comparisons based on hair provided by the defendant shows a direct match on all indicators.

ADA Rothschild: so, Doctor, in your opinion did the hairs found on the victim belong to the defendant?

Dr. Folgore: Yes, absolutely.

ADA Rothschild: thank you, Dr. Folgore, that will be all.

Judge Hamburger: your witness, Mr. Rosen.

Defense attorney Rosen approaches the stand.

Mr. Rosen: so, doctor, you're absolutely convinced that the hairs belong to the defendant, Mr. ben Zadok?

Dr. Folgore: absolutely.

Mr. Rosen (scratching his ear): no doubts at all?

Dr. Folgore: none.

Mr. Rosen (after a moment): but isn't there a chance for a mismatch?

Dr. Folgore: yes, but it's infinitesimally small. Roughly one in a hundred billion.

Mr. Rosen (flipping through papers): it says here it's more like one in 15 million, which means there are at least twelve other people out there who will match this profile.

Dr. Folgore: those numbers are out of date and reflect older, less reliable equipment. The new figure has no uncertainty save for genetic matches from identical twins.

Mr. Rosen: and yet the State of New York still only recognizes one in fifteen million. That means that of the twelve possible genetic matches, Mr. ben Zadok is but one. That's only a one in twelve chance that he's the guilty party, is it not?

Dr. Folgore: that's a logical fallacy. Even if we assume your out-of-date figures are true, which they are not, that would only apply if the defendant was chosen at random from the general population.

Mr. Rosen (flipping through more papers): you say the hairs were found on the victim. The prosecution insists that this means Mr. ben Zadok was at the scene of the crime, and yet Mr. ben Zadok had escorted the victim, very much alive out of his place of work, where the victim was trespassing. Could the hairs have not gotten on the victim then?

Dr. Folgore: based on the placement and the fact that they were not adhered to the victim, that's highly unlikely. Most likely they fell on the victim after the victim was already immobile, likely deceased.

Mr. Rosen: but...they could have come from the earlier scuffle?

Dr. Folgore: yes, but that's very unl...

Mr. Rosen (interrupting): no further questions, Your Honor.

{Dun-Dun}

Tessok is now on the stand. He is wearing standard red-white-blue expatriate "USA" body paint.

ADA Essval: Citizen Tessok, tell us again about what you witnessed the night of the murder.

Tessok: yea, I was hangin' out in the alleys, just mindin' my own business, when I see this Lizard walkin' the alley. He was obviously on a Ginger bender. I think nothin' of it. Hey, a Ginger Head in the Lower East Side after dark? Not what you'd call out of place. Now, then somethin' really catches my eye...and my snout. It's this Tosevite in a black hat and facial hair like them old guys that usually jus' go to the church and can't take the bus on Fridays, or whatever. And I think, 'what's one of them doin' in the streets after dark'?

ADA Essval: and can you identify the Tosevite you saw? Is he here in this courtroom?

Tessok: the nose knows. (sniffs loudly) It's that guy over there (points to ben Zadok).

Judge Hamburger: let the record show that the witness has identified the defendant, Mr. ben Zadok.

ADA Essval: so, Citizen Tessok, what happened then?

Tessok: well, I'm curious, so I follows, real quiet like. And I see the defendant sneaking up on the Lizard, and he pulls out this knife and he piths the Lizard pretty as you please.

ADA Essval: could you state clearly what you mean?

Tessok: he stabbed the Male. In the back of the neck.

ADA Essval: and what did you do?

Tessok: I jus' kept quiet, you know? The Big Ugly might pith me next, right? Anyway, the defendant stole from the Male's pouch and ran back down the alley. Me, I went about my day.

ADA Essval: and why didn't you report the body?

Tessok: what, and get pithed by the black hat? No thank you!

ADA Essval: that will be all.

Judge Hamburger: your witness, Mr. Rosen.

Mr. Rosen: so, Citizen Tessok, or should I call you 'Tsiongi'? That's what the rest of the gang calls you, right? Am I right in understanding you run with a tough crowd? El Lagarto, I believe it's called?

ADA Essval: Your Honor, objection!

Mr. Rosen: goes to credibility, Your Honor.

Judge Hamburger: overruled; get on with it, Mr. Rosen.

Mr. Rosen: Mr. Tessok, were you not brought in to custody the week after the victim's death on charges of felony ginger smuggling?

Tessok hisses lowly.

Mr.Rosen: Your Honor, could you instruct the witness to answer the question?

Judge Hamburger: Citizen Tessok, please answer the question.

Tessok: *hiss* yes, it seemed someone hid a bunch of ginger in the bed of the truck on me.

Mr. Rosen: and what happened to those charges? Don't answer; I have it here. (flips through papers) It seems the charges were reduced to 'possession with intent to distribute' in return for your testimony here today, isn't that right?

Tessok: hey, I saw what I saw and smelled what I smelled!

Mr. Rosen (pauses; reads): about that smell. It says here that you told a detective Goren under interrogation that your sense of smell was damaged as a hatchling and that you couldn't smell the huge amount of ginger in the truck you drove. Yet your 'sniffer' works perfectly the night of the alleged murder. Which is it, Citizen Tessok? Were you lying to cover your tail then or lying to us to cover your tail now?

ADA Essval and Rothschild (together): objection!

Mr. Rosen: withdrawn! That's all for this witness, Your Honor.

{cut scene}

Back in the DA's office. DA McCoy is looking across the desk at Essval and Rothschild, looking very stressed.

DA McCoy: things looking bad, I take it?

ADA Rothschild: they're killing us out there! That slippery shyster and his razzle-dazzle games have shot our witness' credibility to hell and gone, and even sewed doubt over the DNA evidence! Hell, even the threads of the coat he's spinning as unreliable.

ADA Essval: without that knife we're sunk. Damn that outdated precedent! *hiss*

DA McCoy: easy, councilor. Look, we need a break and we need it now or we're sunk. I'd gladly settle for Man 2 right now if I thought Rosen would go for it. As it stands it looks like ben Zadok is walking. Call up your detectives; one of them has to have some lead that hasn't been fully explored. I'll stall for time with the judge. For the love of God, please find us something...anything!

{Dun-Dun}

{Dun-Dun}

Fleischman's Deli, 9th & W. 44th

After dark. An old style kosher Deli. Det. Fitzsimmons is at the counter. There's an old white-bearded Hasidim (Fleischman) behind the counter ringing up Fitzsimmons' order.

Fleischmann: there you go, detective, two pounds of corned beef. Anything else I can do for you this evening?

Det. Fitzsimmons: not today, Avil.

Fleischmann: how's the family?

Det. Fitzsimmons: well, the kid's doing well in school. I get to see him this weekend unless Mary flakes out again.

Fleischman: such a shame. No man should be separated from his son!

Fitzsimmons: yea, tell me about it! Hey, how's your son? Ever make it into medical school?

Fleischmann: you kidding? He's got a full ride lined up at Rutgers! Now, God willing, he'll take it and not go running off to Israel to live like a bum on some kibbutz! Kids. Say, how's the Lizard?

Fitzsimmons: T'Surlak? Seriously, I bring him in here once and you never forget it.

Fleischman (laughing): he asked for ham!

Fitzsimmons: yea, still doesn't quite get the whole 'kosher' thing. Anyway, he's bummed over the whole case. Hell, I'm surprised you still talk to me after arresting a Hasidim.

Fleischman: who, ben Zadok? Please! He's no more Hasidic than I'm the Knick's star forward!

Fitzsimmons: what? Do tell!

Fleischman: really, what kind of Hasidim smokes on Shabat? He just wears the hat. Happens more and more, these days. Kids go off to the Holy Land, pray at the wall a couple times, and suddenly they think they're Orthodox! Most, eh, they do fine. Need some straightening out here and there, you know? But some, they just play dress-up, and the worst, they make a mockery of it all!

Fitzsimmons: do tell!

Fleischman: take that no good kid you locked up: runs with the gangs is the word on the grapevine. Weiss, possibly Zwillman, who knows? They dress up to avoid scrutiny at the airports or whatever. Seems the Lizards don't bother the black hats over there, 'cause they know it gets the Jews living there all riled up. So, dress up in the hat, take a ship full of ginger with them back to the Holy Land, make a mint.

Fitzsimmons: Avil, you're a life-saver! (picks up phone) T'Surlak? Yea, Fitz. Hey, I just got some info that'll blow your mind concerning ben Zadok.

{cut scene}

T'Surlak is at a convenience store watching a black & white closed circuit TV loop through the various cameras.

T'Surlak: well, you couldn't have called at a better time. I'm at a convenience store in SoHo and I just noticed their security camera TV.

{cut scene}

Fitzsimmons: so?

{cut scene}

T'Surlak: so, it's flipping through camera views, and one of them is the back alleyway. I'm wondering if any of the places along the alleys where Vhrahu got killed has anything like this.

{cut scene}

Fitzsimmons: you may be on to something. Meet me at the precinct.

{cut scene; dramatic music}

Back to the court room. The jury is watching a monitor. On it a black and white image of an alley from a high vantage. It clearly shows a Race member in Chef's Assistant body paint including the extra-large "hidden" stripe stumble by. Soon after ben Zadok, his face clearly visible walks by, cold determination on his face. There's a skip-forward and a Hasidim, apparently ben Zadok, comes running back past the camera. The jury and audience look shocked. There is alarmed murmuring. Ben Zadok, looking very worried, is quietly arguing with Mr. Rosen.

Mr. Rosen (standing up): Your Honor, the Defense requests a meeting in your chambers.

ADAs Rothschild and Essval exchange semi-congratulatory glances.

{Dun-Dun}

Judge's Chamber. Both ADAs, Accused and Defense are at the conference table with Judge Hamburger. She looks very annoyed.

Mr. Rosen: Your Honor, in light of this sudden new evidence just sprung on us we need this recess to reformulate the Defense plan.

Judge Hamburger: 'sprung on you'? Councilor, you had the appropriate two week's notice of this new evidence. The only 'surprise' for you was the jury's reaction! Now, you've had more than enough time to restructure your case and respond to the new evidence. Motion for recess is dismissed.

ADA Essval: in light of the circumstances the City of New York is willing to concede Murder Two, 15-25.

Mr. Rosen and ben Zadok whisper animatedly to each other. Ben Zadok looks very angry.

Mr. Rosen: Your Honor, I'm left with little other choice. (hands the judge a document) This is a document from the U.S. State Department ordering an immediate end to the trial in the interests of national security.

ADA Rothschild: objection, Your Honor! This is ridiculous! We have received no notice of this at all!

Judge Hamburger (looking over document): Mr. Rosen, it's a little late to be bringing up documents of this importance, don't you think?

Mr. Rosen: my client is a part of a program considered intensely important to national security by the Gramby Administration. While the details of the program are considered classified - and even I don't know the details - this document is very clear that any incarceration will be irrevocably damaging to the interests of the United States. I apologize for reserving it until now, but I was under orders to save this unless absolutely necessary...again in the name of national security.

Judge Hamburger: Mr. ben Zadok, please give me a real reason to beleive that whatever you do is worth dismissing a murder trial.

Ben Zadok: Your Honor, I am not at liberty to discuss my work, even with you.

ADA Essval: this is absolutely ludicrous! [emphatic cough] Your Honor, this has to be some sort of sick ploy by the defense since they know their case is shot!

Mr. Rosen (holding up hands): madam District Attorney, I'm sorry, but I don't make up the nation's rules. Be advised also that my client's position with the U.S. Government is highly sensitive and not to be revealed in voice or in writing to anyone outside this room or necessary supervisory personnel as dictated in Appendix A.

ADA Essval: ludicrous...

Judge Hamburger: Mr. Rosen, this is highly irregular and I am highly annoyed at this. I am ordering a long recess of an indeterminate duration until the nature of this is sorted out to my satisfaction. So help me if any of this turns out to be other than what you claim.

Mr. Rosen: Your Honor, I'm a man of integrity and a man of my word! (Essval's mouth opens in humor) Hey! That's slanderous, councilor! I object to my colleague's slander of my good name in her...

Judge Hamburger: Mr. Rosen, you got your recess. Don't push it!

{Dun-Dun}

DA's office. DA McCoy and the ADAs are present, as is Mayor Carlotta.

DA McCoy: it seems Mr. ben Zadok has friends in very high places!

Mayor Carlotta: if that isn't an understatement! I got a call from the Undersecretary of State telling me to 'call off the dogs'! Jack, what the hell kind of ant's nest did you kick over here?

ADA Essval: it's got to be a trick. Some sort of ploy...

DA McCoy: I' wish it were! I've called the State Department, I've had the documents verified...whoever ben Zadok is and whatever he does for the government he's apparently too important to send to jail when guilty of murder!

ADA Rothschild: what about a Man 1 deal?

Mayor Carlotta: no deal. The State Department clearly says 'no jail time'. Like it or not - and I surely don't - he walks!

ADA Essval: no! No, sir! You can't allow this! It's not just and not right!

Mayor Carlotta: You're absolutely right about that, councilor, but that's beyond our control at this point.

ADA Essval: sir, no! This is an Azwaca pile! I refuse to let this...murderer walk!

Mayor Carlotta: that's enough, Madam ADA. I don't like it either, but we have no choice. Consider it an executive order.

ADA Essval (in Race): <it shall be done, superior sir!> [emphatic cough]

DA McCoy: that's enough, councilor! (sighs) Look...we drop the murder. But I want him out of my city! We'll get him on a lesser charge. I don't know, assault, ginger charges...health code violation! He handled a dead body before returning to work, right? We can prove that much! (stands up, paces, brainstorming) We have the hair and video footage. We can show that he's in violation of health code statutes concerning the preparation of food products and bring it before the board of health.

ADA Essval (very angry): 'health code violation'?! Why don't we just get him for littering?! 'Mr. ben Zadok, pardon me, but you left your dead Lizard outside the dumpster...'

DA McCoy: I said that's enough, councilor!

Mayor Carlotta: frankly that's enough from all of you! Damnation...we're whipped. It's over, councilors. The bastard walks. I wish it were different, I really do. But it isn't.

DA McCoy: it's 'Whitey' Bulger all over again, isn't it?

Mayor Carlotta: I'm afraid it might be.

{Dun-Dun}

ADA Rothschild's apartment in Red Hook. A small and somewhat cluttered place full of bric-a-brac and porcelain dolls. ADA Essval is with her. They have ice cream.

ADA Essval (looking warily at a spoon of ice cream with one eye turret): this is what Tosevite females eat to de-stress? Cold, sugary insipid paste?

ADA Rothschild: well, this or chocolate.

ADA Essval: I'll pass on either, thank you. Why can't you just drink heavily like your males?

ADA Rothschild: we do that too. Here, I'll dig up that bottle of vodka. (walks off camera)

ADA Essval (setting down bowl): it's just not right. To lose a case on legal grounds is one thing. To have it ripped out from under you by government interference is quite another.

ADA Rothschild (rummaging around in the kitchen): that's the glamorous life of the Prosecuting Attorney, hon.

ADA Essval (after a pause): I'm thinking about quitting.

ADA Rothschild: what?

ADA Essval: maybe I'll move out of this not-Empire all together. What's the point?

ADA Rothschild (returning with vodka and two glasses): Essie, don't do anything rash. Besides, where would you go? Most of Europe is irradiated thanks to the Nazis. Japan imprisons all of the Race as spies. The rest is owned by the Empire, pretty much, and you told me you're never going back there. (pours two shots of vodka, hands one to Essval) And if you think New York's winters are bad, try Russia or Canada!

ADA Essval (downs vodka without thinking about it): there has to be an explanation for all this. Why? Why protect that scumbag, of all scumbags?

ADA Rothschild: you know, I've put some though into that. He must be part of an investigation. Maybe he's an FBI informant?

ADA Essval: maybe he's part of some government plot to kill Lizards.

ADA Rothschild: you can't believe that, Essie!

ADA Essval (Angry; turns both eye turrets towards ADA Rothschild): why not? It was this not-Empire that fusion-bombed the Colonial fleet, after all! (ADA Rothschild looks very uncomfortable; ADA Essval turns her eye turrets to the floor) Sorry. I know you lost family in the reprisal bombing. I'm...just...

ADA Rothschild: it's ok, I understand.

ADA Essval: I need to understand this. Really, I can't go on otherwise.

ADA Rothschild: give up, hon. It's not for us to know and you'd be arrested as a spy if you tired to find out.

ADA Essval (after a long pause): I know who might know...or at least have a good guess. Where's that bar the detectives go to?

ADA Rothschild: I'll take you there. Why, who do you...oh no. Not him! He's a nut!

ADA Essval: who else?

ADA Rothschild: he thinks Sam Yeager is a hero!

ADA Essval: isn't he?

{Dun-Dun}

Sammy's Pub, Thompsen & Prince. Dark dive of a bar popular with the precinct. Dets. T'Surlak and Fitzsimmons are at a booth with Det. Munch from SVU.

Det. Munch: I'm telling you, Alderson may have the arm, but Rodriguez has finesse.

Det. Fitzsimmons: oh, please!

Det. Munch: I'm serious! His curve is responsible for more K's than Alderson's much-vaunted fast ball by...

ADAs Essval and Rothschild walk up.

Det. Munch: hey, ladies. Have a seat.

Det. T'Surlak: <greetings, Councilor>

ADA Essval: <greetings, Detective. How's the abandoned eggs case going [interrogative cough]?>

Det. T'Surlak: <We think we found a lead.>

ADA Essval: <superb! [emphatic cough]> (turns to Munch) Detective, I actually came to talk to you.

Det. Munch: no problem; what have you got?

ADA Essval: it's about the ben Zadok case. What are your thoughts on why the State Department wanted him to walk?

Det. Fitzsimmons: oh, lord. Here we go!

Det. T'Surlak drops his jaw in humor.

Det. Munch gets an excited, conspiratorial look on his face, shifts in his seat, and begins to talk animatedly.

Det. Munch: you came to the right person. I've put a lot of thought into it and followed up on some leads...

Det. Fitzsimmons (interjecting): by which he means wild-assed conspiracies...

Det. Munch (igroning him): ...and it seems obvious: the government's backing up the Syndicate's ginger smuggling operations in order to destabilize the Empire's government.

Det. Fitzsimmons: oh, that's rich, even for you!

ADA Rothschild laughs out loud. Det. T'Surlak's "laugh" suddenly stops, his mouth closes and his eye turrets turn in a serious manner towards Munch.

Det. Munch: it's true!

Det. Fitzsimmons: this from a guy that thinks the Admiral Perry is flying to Home with a cargo bay full of ginger!

Det. Munch: you just wait on that one. But back to ben Zadok: think about it! We know the destabilizing effects ginger's had on the Race. We also know that the Syndicate is dabbling in arch-Zionism: 'kick out the Lizards and free the Holy Land for the chosen people', right? (turns to Rothschild) you're with me, right, sister?

ADA Rothschild: you're on your own there, John.

ADA Essval: please go on [emphatic cough].

Det. Munch: well, we all remember Senator 'Junior' Kennedy and his ties to the mob...

Det. Fitzsimmons: ...alleged ties...

Det. Munch: well, it's like that: the State Department, hoping to destabilize the Empire in their shadow war, supports 'Shorty' Zwillman's ginger smuggling efforts, using fake Hasidim as drug mules. Now, the Race gets wind of this, only they don't know one black hat from another and searching them all of them will piss off the locals in Palestine, so you send over a few agents of your own to keep tabs...

Det. T'Surlak: ...hence the buried stripes...

Det. Munch: ...exactly, and one gets a little too close to the truth. Shorty's boys send ben Zadok the ice man after him, and presto, dead Lizard in the Lower East!

ADA Essval: wow, that's diabolic!

Det. Fitzsimmons (sarcastically): it's the only logical explanation.

Det. Munch: well, Fitzy, what's your theory?

Det. Fitzsimmons: easy: ben Zadok's an FBI informant, simple as that. They're trying to track down Shorty's ginger ring. They tag him. Unfortunately, he tags Vhrahu and they need to bail him out to save the case. I don't like it, but that doesn't mean I don't understand their motives. Certainly doesn't require a massive multi-party conspiracy.

ADA Essval: and what's Vhrahu's role in all this?

Det. Fitzsimmons: rival gang. New kids on the block, possibly in league with El Lagarto, which explains why Tessok was so eager to 'help'.

Det. Munch: just wait. We'll be seeing more fat-stripers and they'll all be Lizards without Papers. Pretty soon we'll see revenge killings as the shadow war comes to the Five Borroughs.

Det. T'Surlak: reprisal killings? That's a Tosevite concept. The Race doesn't work that way. We kill in war or when logically expedient, not for petty revenge.

Det. Munch: we'll see...we'll see...

Det. Fitzsimmons: care to wager a beer on that?

Det. Munch: oh, you're on!

{cut scene}

Three months later. Madison Street near Grand.

{dramatic music}

Police cars and crime scene tape. Uniformed officers holding back onlookers and press. Dets. Fitzsimmons and T'Surlak duck under the tape and approach crime scene personnel. There's a human body, only black pant legs and black shoes visible at this point.

Det. Fitzsimmons: what do we got, Frank?

Frank (CSI guy): human male, white, Hasidic clothes. Shot twice in the back.

Det. T'Surlak: ben Zadok.

Frank: you know him?

Det. Fitzsimmons: we're acquainted.

Camera pans around to show David ben Zadok's lifeless body lying in a pool of his own blood. Another CSI agent is photographing; a third is circling bullet casings.

Frank: .38 slugs. Three casings; we're tracking down the third. The two other bullets entered low through the back, one at a low angle exiting through the lower left ribcage, the other at a higher angle that, based on the apparent trajectory, probably ruptured the heart, though an autopsy will be necessary to know for certain.

Det. Fitzsimmons: a real heartbreaker.

Det. T'Surlak: 'low angle'...Race member?

Frank: that or a dwarf...or kid or someone kneeling. No witnesses have turned up so far and all the locals managed to see and hear nothing, of course.

Det. T'Surlak: of course.

Frank: there's more. Check out this marking: it's hard to see over the black coat, but it amounts to a red stripe along the chest about nipple-height.

Det. T'Surlak: by the Emperor, a fat stripe!

Det. Fitzsimmons: exactly like the one on Vhrahu. Did anyone outside the department know about the buried paint job?

Det. T'Surlak: it was never even brought up at trial to the best of my knowledge.

Det. Fitzsimmons (after a pause): I thought the Race didn't do reprisals.

Det. T'Surlak: looks like they do now. We've learned oh so much from you Big Uglies over the years.

Det. Fitzsimmons: the worst part about this is that it looks like I owe Munch a beer.

{Dun-Dun}

Fade to black.

A Geek Wolf Production.

The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to current events or real beings, living or dead, is strictly coincidental.

In the criminal justice system, offenses involving members of the Race contain inherent diplomatic concerns. In New York City, the dedicated detectives who investigate these special cases are members of an elite squad known as the Race Affairs Unit. These are their stories.

{Dun-Dun}



The Brigadier Condominium Complex, Central Park W. and W 73rd, Upper West Side

2 am. A man dressed in stylish black clothes and designer sunglasses walks along an ornately decorated hallway with a telecom earpiece and a to-go cup from Wolf Espresso Co. He's acting very hurried and stressed.

Stressed Guy: Yea...yea I know! He'll make the date, how many times do...yea...yea! Look, I know he's got a reputation, but trust me, with his financials after that case he'll do the tour. He has to.

Stressed Guy unlocks a door and walks in, entering a large, plush, and modern-decorated home. It has a large window with a night view of Central Park. In the center of the room is a glowing hologram of a wildly-painted Race member with a leather jacket and a bright neon-green wig screaming into a microphone and striking a pose.

Stressed Guy: Look, I'm at his place. I'll talk to him and he can talk to you. (yells out) Yo! 'Modie! Where you at?

Stressed Guy walks into a spacious bedroom. There, face down in the center of the floor, is a Race member with the same wild paint and wig as in the hologram.

Stressed Guy: Oh Lord...Jimmy, I'll call you back. (hits a button on the earpiece) Hello, 911?

{cut scene}

Dets. T'Surak and Fitzsimmons are walking down the same ornate hallway.

Det. T'Surlak: So much for sleeping in.

Det. Fitzsimmons: Easy for you to say. I was up 'till midnight watching the Yanks.

Det. T'Surlak: Lose again?

Det. Fitzsimmons: What do you think?

The two walk past a uniformed officer and a pair of CSI agents. They duck under the tape over the door and enter. The hologram is turned off and an army of CSI people pick at things around the condo. One points to the bedroom and the Detectives head that direction. There's a uniformed officer at the body and a crime photographer.

Det. Fitzsimmons: Is that who I think it is?

Officer: In the Scales. Pop legend Komodo. His agent found him early this morning.

Det. T'Surlak: (sarcastically) What a shame.

Det. Fitzsimmons: What, you don't like Komodo?

Det. T'Surlak: Does a Black Panther like Al Jolson? He's...was an embarrassment to the race.

Officer: Hey, not exactly my cup either, but you have to admit he did some great stuff back in the day. Draconia was a killer song.

Det. T'Surlak: (hisses quietly). Don't remind me. I could go homicidal myself every time I hear it. Try growing up the only Lizard on your block and always being expected to do the Claw Crawl on command.

Det. Fitzsimmons (changing subject): So, what's the story with the Hisser?

Officer: appears to be cardiac arrest, possibly Ginger OD but we won't know until toxicology is done. Hey, if you walk to the other side you can get a sneak peek on the latest "construction project".

The detectives walk around the body. The camera pans with them to reveal that the victim's eye turrets have been surgically reduced to resemble more human-like eyes. The view also shows the victim has a pair of collagen-implant lips. A badly-added fake nose shows signs of recent swelling as if new.

Dets. Fitzsimmons and T'Surlak (together): Whoa! (T'Surlak diverts both eye turrets)

Officer: And that's what he did to himself.

Det. Fitzsimmons: So, any signs of foul play?

Officer: Not certain yet. Could just be a standard OD or collapse after the years of hard living, but considering the...profile of the victim the Mayor requested a full investigation just to stave off the press jackals.

Det. T'Surlak: Talk about a media circus.

Det. Fitzsimmons: I hope you stretched this morning, Tis, 'cause we'll be the ones jumping through the flaming hoops.

{Dun-Dun}

Lt. Van Buren: Any breaks on the Plastic Dragon?

Det. T'Surlak: Forensics found large-enough-to-be-fatal amounts of a compound called Helenalin, a (reads paper) ses-quit-er-pine lactone that can be toxic to people in large amounts, but triply so in the Race. They call it Shazzkhat, and it's a common poison on Home.

Lt. Van Buren: So, someone slipped Komodo a Micky. Any word on when?

Det. Fitzsimmons: It appears to be a gradual buildup over the course of weeks.

Det. T'Surlak: I'm guessing a slow poisoning. We may be seeing a kill by someone who knows the victim very well.

Lt. Van Buren: Anyone with motive?

Det. T'Surlak: Anyone without motive? Seriously, the Lizard managed to offend half the Race and then offended about all the Big Uglies after that zoo of a trial.

Det. Fitzsimmons: We've planned a little visit to the Agent, Mr. Sam Clayborne.

Lt. Van Buren: The one who found the body? Thinking he might have made a 'convenient discovery'?

Det. Fitzsimmons: Are you kidding? The Lizard cost him millions thanks to missed concerts courtesy of his wild and wacky ways.

{Dun-Dun}



Dets. T'Surlak & Fitzsimmons walk up to the desk of an attractive receptionist. There are sympathy flowers everywhere.

Receptionist (talking into headset): A Star Borne, please hold...(turns to Detectives) yes, Gentlemen? Let me guess, comedy act? Frankly the Human-Race duo's been played out.

Det. Fitzsimmons (presenting badge): Call it more a Buddy-Cop Drama. I'm the By-The-Book and he's the Wacky Sidekick (gets irritated eye turret from T'Surlak).

Det. T'Surlak: I thought you were the Sidekick and I was the Sexy Bad Boy with the Troubled Past.

Det. Fitzsimmons: Can we have a word with Mr. Clayborne? I'm sure you can hold his calls.

Receptionist: Just a minute, please.

{Cut Scene}

Clayborne's Office. The window overlooks downtown Manhattan. There are dozens of glamor-shots of various stars on the wall, apparently his clients.

Clayborne: So I enter the bedroom and there he is, like you saw him. I called 911 and checked his pulse and got nothing, so I left him there. I don't know Race CPR and he was cold as an ice cube anyway, so not much else I could do. (shrugs)

Det. T'Surlak: You seem real broken up over your loss.

Clayborne: I am. Look, if I don't show it, it's 'cause I've seen it happen so many times. You just kinda' get numb, you know?

Det. Fitzsimmons: More than you realize.

Clayborne: You know, detectives, I was there for Komodo for years, back when he was openin' for Lounge acts and doin' Bar-mitzvahs. Hell, I was the one that got him the gig on Donald, his big break! I was even there when that ridiculous trial was going on. 'Ginger Rape of a Minor', puh-lease! Immature Females can't go into heat even with ginger, none the less Males! (snorts) The criminal trial gets thrown out, but some parents gig him for millions in a civil trial based on the criminal charges that were dropped! So much for double-jeopardy!

Det. Fitzsimmons: Would you know anybody that might wish harm on Mr. Komodo?

Clayborne: You mean besides half the population that thinks he's a sicko? I can forward you this week's hate mail. We'd burn them on delivery normally, but after the death I figured we'd keep the new ones on hand for your sake.

Det. T'Surlak: That's a big help, Mr. Clayborne. What about anyone who stood to gain financially from his death?

Clayborne: Not that I can think. He was near bankrupt. This comeback tour was going to save his bacon...and mine! Now he's dead and I've inherited the debt from the show bookings he'll never make now. I'll be lucky to break even on merchandising, assuming Greeperet--Komodo's sister and the kids' new guardian--doesn't cut me out of the loop (T'Surlak and Fitzsimmons exchange glances).

Det. T'Surlak: One more thing, Mr. Clayborne, before we go: is there anyone but yourself that Komodo would see on a regular basis?

Clayborne: Not really. His adopted Hatchlings, the Nanny, Doc. Haney, the service staff...other than that, just Donald. The old Lizard had a soft spot for the kid.

{Dun-Dun}

Dets. T'Surlak and Fitzsimmons elbow their way through a crowd of cheering fans, onlookers, and press.

Det. Fitzsimmons: NYPD, pardon us!

Det. T'Surlak: ...damned circus!

Det. Fitzsimmons: That's fame for you.

They come up to a nondescript house. The yard is well maintained, but roped off with of all things velvet rope. A large man in black sunglasses and a tight black shirt that shows off muscles stands at the entry.

Det. T'Surlak: This gets stranger every minute.

Det. Fitzsimmons: And we thought Komodo made things strange in life.

The detectives approach the rope and guard.

Guard: Back off! Private residence, no admissions!

Det. Fitzsimmons (flashing badge): I think there's room in the club for two more VIPs.

The guard shrugs and unhooks the rope. They walk up to the house.

{Cut Scene}

In the living room. The cheers of the crowd are still audible. A Female in the paint of an Administrator (Quissrath) sits across the coffee table from the detectives. A nanny is struggling to control two hissing, running Hatchlings.

Quissrath: Gila! Goana! Calm down and listen to the nanny! (hisses) I'm sorry, Superior Sirs, the last few weeks have been a nightmare. Khormat...Komodo, excuse me; by the Emperor I hate that stage name...he adopted these two, but he never really had the time or interest to raise them. Now they might as well be ferals. The court gave them to me because I'm the only legal family they have and I refuse to send them into foster care. That's where the state sent us after the accident, and look where it got us. Goana! Put that down! (hisses)

Det. T'Surlak: This won't take long, Administrator. Just a few questions. When was the last time you saw your brother alive?

Quissrath: I'll really have to think about that...years. At least five, and then only at our adopted father's funeral. I'm still not sure whether to laugh or cry over that one.

Det. Fitzsimmons: I take it there was no love lost there.

Quissrath: Are you kidding? You saw the freak show exhibit he made out of Khormat.

Det. T'Surlak: Administrator, could I ask what you're doing with your brother's estate?

Quissrath: What estate? The Dragon's Castle in Malibu was foreclosed on, his bank accounts were drained, possibly to feed that damned Ginger habit, and that penthouse where they found him is a rental.

Det. Fitzsimmons: What about album sales, image rights...

Quissrath: Admittedly, those have turned out to be very lucrative, particularly after my brothers...well, you know. I still can't believe it, even if it doesn't surprise me. All that...

Det. Fitzsimmons (interrupting): I apologize, ma'am, but we have to ask the hard questions too. What do you estimate the income of these rights to be?

Quissrath: I haven't actually calculated, but thousands have come in already.

Det. Fitzsimmons: And what are your plans for the money?

Quissrath: I'm setting aside a trust fund for Goana and Gila, only expenses relating to them can draw from it and, eventually, education. And medical, if necessary. They will receive a hundred thousand each upon maturity, enough to get them started, but not so much. I saw what money did to Kormat. The rest, well over 95%, goes into a private foundation led by a board of trustees and will go to help abandoned, exploited, and missing children of all sentient species. Detective, I don't want any of that filthy money. I'm doing fine on my own, and I don't need the corruption that goes with it. I'd pay it all to have my brother alive...and healthy...again.

{Cut Scene}

Dets. T'Surlak & Fitzsimmons are leaving the house, pushing their way through a crowd of reporters, who swarm them, pushing microphones in their faces.

Reporter 1: Detectives, what were you visiting Quissrath for?

Reporter 2: Is she a suspect in Komodo's death?

Det. Fitzsimmons: No comment.

Reporter 3: Is foul play suspected?

Det. Fitzsimmons: No comment.

Det. T'Surlak: The department will issue a statement later.

Reporter 1: What about reports that Komodo was poisoned?

Reporter 4: What about the Agent, Mr. Clayborne?

Det. Fitzsimmons: No comment and no comment.

Reporter 3: Has the mayor's office pressured you to make a conviction?

Det. Fitzsimmons: Did I mention 'no comment'?

They force their way to the car, the reporters still hounding them. They drive away, Fitzsimmons at the wheel.

Det. T'Surlak (hissing): Damned jackals!

Det. Fitzsimmons: Welcome to the joy of a celebrity case.

Det. T'Surlak: I'd rather go up against the Five Families. So, what's your take on Quissrath?

Det. Fitzsimmons: Hard to say. On the surface she has motive. Sure, she's pushing it all into trust funds and the foundation, but we might want to dig deeper to see if she or anyone else with access to Komodo has any under-the-surface controls.

Det. T'Surlak: What about the 'slow poisoning'; if her story on not seeing him in years checks out...

Det. Fitzsimmons: ...we check on any links to any of the regular staff. There's an old game we Big Uglies play that we like to call conspiracy.

Det. T'Surlak: Sounds like a call to Munch?

Det. Fitzsimmons: Oh, hell no! Not this time. He'll try to pin it on the President, or something! We need to approach this one very carefully. 'NYPD Investigators Harass Grieving Sister, Philanthropist.' Those jackals out there would hump our legs over that scoop!

{Dun-Dun}

Back at the precinct. It's late at night with dark windows and empty offices. Dets. Fitzsimmons and T'Surlak sit at their desks with a pile of documents and books.

Det. T'Surlak (document stack in one hand, burrito in the other, talking with mouth half-full): You know, I'm no lawyer but from what I can tell the Komodo Hope Foundation's legit. I can't find a single financial throw-back to Quissrath, Clayborne, or anyone else in any way linked to the victim. All the board of trustees are to be hired by Gurney Services, an airtight philanthropy broker with a spotless record. Not only that, my snout says Quissrath's on the level.

Det. Fitzsimmons (half-eaten burger in front of him): I think your snout is right. There are no open links. Maybe there's an under-the-table deal, but we won't be able to establish anything there without a full investigation...once the Foundation begins running next year. Since you mentioned snouts I think it's worth mentioning that the Great Snout Count's coming up this November.

Det. T'Surlak: well, that explains the mayor's hurry to find a perp. Gotta look tough on crime for the Snouties.

Det. Fitzsimmons: Well, for the moment Quissy's moving down the list. Who else do we got?

Det. T'Surlak: Well, going down the list of those with regular contact with the victim, there's the maids, and the doctor, and the personal trainer, and the yoga instructor, and the voice coach, and the ginger dealer that we know must be there, whoever that is. Of course there's also Donald.

Det. Fitzsimmons: The ginger dealer: any chance the G was laced with the stuff? Big Uglies cut smack and blow with all manner of toxic crap, why not cut the Spice with helenalin?

Det. T'Surlak: It's a thought. Still, we need to find the dealer, or dealers. The autopsy showed enough Spice in his system to double the Lizard population of Australia overnight.

Det. Fitzsimmons: Talk about a bender. The doc. What about him? Anyone talked to him yet?

Det. T'Surlak: Not yet. They put out an APB to bring him in for questioning. So far he hasn't surfaced. The Department talked to the maids. One of them hasn't been there long enough and the other has no real motive we can tell.

Det. Fitzsimmons: Disgruntled employee?

Det. T'Surlak: Not a chance. Komodo may have been more addled than an egg in a dryer, but he was apparently a fair, friendly, and above all well paying boss.

Det. Fitzsimmons: The Goonybird that lays the golden eggs. What about the trainer and yoga teacher?

Det. T'Surlak: The former's in LA and the latter's been interviewed: with her, another case of no reason to kill him and every reason to keep him alive and paying. As for the trainer, he's a former TV actor himself, and here's the interesting part: since Komodo kicked the bucket his name's been all over the press again...and talent scouts are calling.

Det. Fitzsimmons: Sounds like motive to me!

Det. T'Surlak: It gets juicier: among his training methods was a daily health drink of his own concoction: malt, whey...raw eggs for God's sake (eye turret roll), and here's the kicker: herbal and vitamin supplements.

Det. Fitzsimmons: Motive and Opportunity...sounds like Mr. Universe just stepped up the list. (picks up a document) Sounds like we ought to have a word with Mr...oh hell.

Det. T'Surlak: What is it?

Det. Fitzsimmons: the trainer is Donny Carlino?

Det. T'Surlak: Yea, so?

Det. Fitzsimmons: Yea so...Donny 'The Titan' Carlino?

Det. T'Surlak: Mobster?

Det. Fitzsimmons (exasperated): You're kidding me, right? Didn't you ever watch TV? The Titan was this old show about this giant, well-muscled superhero named, well, The Titan. Drifted from town to town righting wrongs...the usual. Donny Carlino was the actor who played him. I loved that damned show.

Det. T'Surlak: You have any problems arresting a childhood idol?

Det. Fitzsimmons: Not if he's a murderer. Look, I know the difference between an actor and a role. If Donny's guilty I won't think twice about it.

Det. T'Surlak: That's what I figured, but I have to ask. Lord knows any defense attorneys will.

Det. Fitzsimmons: Well, looks like it's time to book a flight to LA.

Det. T'Surlak: Great, I can work on my tan.

Det. Fitzsimmons: While we're there we should talk to Donald. He knew the kid for years. No real motive I can tell, unless there's a link to the foundation, but he may have some leads...like who the ginger dealer is. My snout tells me that that tux-painted boobie-ogler hits the Spice himself.

{Dun-Dun}

Los Angeles. Venice Beach. Sand, sun, and palm trees. Swimsuit-clad people and wild, unorthodoxly painted Race members walk by or roll by on rollerblades. Dets. T'Surlak and Fitzsimmons are looking utterly out of place, the former in his Investigator's body paint, the latter in a shirt and tie.

Det. T'Surlak: Now this is a climate! Maybe I'll reconsider moving here with the rest of the Lizards.

Det. Fitzsimmons: Easy for you to say. You can walk around in the scales.

Det. T'Surlak (noticing a woman roll by in a string bikini): I don't know; it looks like even Big Uglies can wander around nude in this town.

At a sidewalk cafe table sits Donny Carlino. He's signing an autograph and smiling. The Detectives approach.

Det. Fitzsimmons (flashing badge): Mr. Carlino? Can we have a word with you?

Carlino: Sure, have a seat. What can I help you with?

Det. T'Surlak: It's about Komodo. You were one of the last people to see him alive. What can you tell us about it?

Carlino: (sighs) That's such a sad story. The little guy had such a troubled life. As you must know I was his personal trainer. I tried to get him off of the ginger and into shape, and he seemed to be doing so well. I'm assuming it was the ginger that killed him, since there's been no announcement of the exact cause of death.

Det. Fitzsimmons (visibly squirming in his seat): Could you tell us about your workout program?

Carlino: Sure. It's pretty straight forward: two hours of calisthenics, two hours of resistance training, some stretching and pilates, nutrition counseling...

Det. T'Surlak: Tell us about the nutrition counseling.

Carino: Sure thing. It's rather straight forward: proper diet, plenty of fluids; well, in Race proportions, of course. I've studied up on Race health, nutrition and fitness so I can give my Race clients a good workout as well.

Det. Fitzsimmons: (cough) I'm assuming you also know what's toxic to the Race?

Carlino: Sure. Plenty of things to avoid. Take nougat: totally toxic. Nothing fatal, but causes scale bursitis and temporary blindness. Wheat grass, a common human supplement, has a compound that can be very damaging to the Yergsaalis...that's a filter organ like the liver.

Det. T'Surlak: Did you give anything to Komodo, supplement-wise?

Carlino: Yes, every visit, Tuesday, Thursday, and Saturday. It's my patented Race Fuel supplement, part of my line of fitness and wellness products. I also have Man Fuel and Woman Fuel, plus Mom Fuel for expectant mothers, Bab...

Det. T'Surlak (interrupting): Can we get a list of the ingredients for this 'Race Fuel'?

Carlino: Well, that's a proprietary formula so I...um, wait, what's this...you don't think...?

Det. Fitzsimmons: I'm really sorry, but we just have to check out every angle.

Carlino (now looking visibly shaken): I, um...look, I'll talk to my business manager and see about getting you the ingredient list. Will you be willing to sign a non-disclosure? Also, what about my privacy? If this gets out that my formula is under investigation...

Det. T'Surlak: Your privacy and propriety will be respected, Mr. Carlino.

Det. Fitzsimmons: We'll have our people talk to your people.

Carlino: Um, thank you.

Det. T'Surlak: Just one more thing. We noticed that you have a new role in an upcoming movie.

Carlino (suddenly smiling and looking childishly contented): Oh, yea! I'm playing a lovable giant in a new kid's movie: The Wizard of Wonder Falls. I loved the book as a kid myself.

Det. Fitzsimmons: It's a classic.

Det. T'Surlak (snarky): I guess some good has come of this tragedy.

Carlino (serious and sad in a puppy-dog way): No...no good came from this. Komodo was my friend and I'd rather be training him than doing this movie.

{Cut Scene}

The detectives are at a beach-side stand getting food.

Det. T'Surlak: Wow, real fresh Azwaca regglems! So much better when it's not hard-frozen for transit.

Det. Fitzsimmons: So, what's the snout say?

Det. T'Surlak (taking a huge bite): Mmmm....smells great too!

Det. Fitzsimmons: On Carlino.

Det. T'Surlak: Oh...hmmm...hard to say. He acted like he was surprised by the questions, but he is an actor.

Det. Fitzsimmons: You've obviously never seen Return of Titan. They didn't hire him for his emotional range. My snout says he's honestly shocked by Komodo's death. Still, better keep him on the list.

Det. T'Surlak: A lot's going to depend on those lab results, but I'm certain they'll turn up negative. That said, if he was mixing up the supplement he could easily have slipped in the helenalin. He admitted to an in-depth knowledge of Race toxins. Motive, Opportunity, and probable Knowledge about the use of the murder weapon. He's still our number one in my book.

Det. Fitzsimmons: Yea, seems like I'm kicking my inner child to even think so, though. Maybe talking to Donald will help us get things in order.

At that moment a strange Race member in glittery body paint and feathers rolls by on a self-propelled white grand piano. He's flamboyantly playing a jazzed-up version of Rachmaninoff.

Det. T'Surlak (following the piano player with a wary turret): Somehow I doubt anything in this town is in order.

{Dun-Dun}

Donald's Beverly Hills mansion. The Detectives are with Donald by a spacious, landscaped pool with a waterfall. The pool is surrounded by bikini-clad human women, all with exceedingly large breasts. Donald wears body paint reminiscent of a smoking jacket.

Donald: Komodo...dear lord, Komodo. I've known that Lizard since he was a hatchling. Back then his adopted father was his manager. Kid had talent, natural talent. Few Lizards can sing in a way pleasing to Big Uglies, but that kid had it, and daddy dearest was happy to milk it for all the cash he could. (hiss) I must say, I identified with the little guy. I, too, was raised by Big Uglies as you know.

Det. Fitzsimmons: DO you think that accounted for his...eccentricities?

They're interrupted by a buxom blonde in a push-up top serving drinks. Donald is receiving a martini, the detectives lemonade (Fitzsimmons) and iced consumme (T'Surlak). Donald locks an eye turret on the woman's cleavage while Fitzsimmons makes an effort not to stare. T'Surlak sends an exasperated turret to both Donald and to his partner.

Donald: Are you kidding? It's impossible not to be seriously screwed up being a Lizard in a humans' world. Look at me: a freaking Lizard with a breast fetish. I can't help myself. Growing up in a house full of human males. I find them...comforting. They remind me of childhood, or so my shrinks tell me. (hiss)

Det. T'Surlak: Believe me, I can sympathize too. I was raised by Lizards in Brooklyn and that was hard enough.

Donald sends two sympathetic turrets to T'Surlak.

Donald: I feel ya', rook-mate. (hiss) (gulps half the martini) Look, as weird as I am, Komodo had it worse. The fame...he found it too young, too naive. I was an adult and had support from my brothers, particularly Mickey. Of course dad went flying off into the depths of space, Jupiter or Uranus, or Home for all I know...(hiss) sorry.

Det. Fitzsimmons: It's fine, sir, take your time.

Donald (composing self): Well, Komodo, he couldn't take it, the pressure from his dad and the producers, the slavish devotion of the fans, not as a hatchling. That's why he hung out with the hatchlings, 'cause he had no childhood of his own. All those trash tabloid accusations...ginger doesn't work that way!

Det. T'Surlak: Um...sir.

Donald: Oh, yea, sorry. Anyway, it was the ginger that put him over the top. I have to admit my own fault there. When he reached maturity I let him come to one of my parties. The kid tried the spice there the first time. Now me...I float. I float and I float, but the kid, he dived in head first. Loved the stuff, and it did something to him. Burned him out. That was when he went all "Lizzo" on us. Do you think for a second he wasn't curried up to the Plane of the Emperors when he came up with the Claw Crawl?

Det. T'Surlak: It's been supposed.

Donald: Yea...a lot of supposing going on on all fronts. Anywho, I tried to be there for the kid. Hell, I tried to be the Lizard daddy neither of us ever had. I kept inviting him to the show. I even invested in him. That's how I paid for the pool and half the racks around it. I kept bringing him in, even when he started the surgeries. I guess if he couldn't be a real Lizard he thought he could be human, poor addled bastard.

Det. Fitzsimmons: Did you have any other financial dealing with him?

Donald: You kidding? Not after he dropped off the map after those show trials, skipping out on concerts I paid for. I cut my losses with the kid financially at that point, but I still visited with him on occasion. I just had to try to be there for the kid.

Det. Fitzsimmons: And how often did you meet him?

Donald: Maybe two, three times a year these last few. Frankly, the kid was too weird even for me any more.

Det. T'Surlak: What about Carlino, the trainer?

Donald: What, the Titan? Hells, I got him the job! He may be a washed-up actor, but he's got the skills on the fitness end, even for us Lizards. Helped get Komodo off the spice for a while, even, or so he told me.

Det. T'Surlak: Did you ever hear of any fallings-out between them?

Donald: What? (hiss) Give me a break. Titan loved the little Lizard like a nephew. Still does. The guy's like a little kid himself still playing Superman.

Det. Fitzsimmons: Anyone else? Anyone you know with a problem for Komodo? Anyone who saw him on a regular basis?

Donald: Ah...no one with a problem with him. Hell, even that quack he hired against my advice, even that snake oil peddler genuinely seemed to like the kid.

Det. Fitzsimmons: You mean Dr. Falk? The personal physician?

Donald: Yea, that quack. He's a minor legend around here, sells his services to any rich idiot that buys his heap. Big into 'new age' crap, herbals, acupuncture, humors and shakras. Injected the kid every day with a concoction of 'vitamins', he called it.

The detectives exchange a glance.

Det. Fitzsimmons: Do you know where to find Dr. Falk? Do you have his number?

Donald: I can hook you up, but don't bother. The quack's been missing for weeks. Pammy's been crying about it for days. Worthless girl, Pammy, but lord what a set of talents!

{Cut Scene}

LAX Airport. Intercom calling for a passenger. Background noise. People and Race members darting or lounging about.

Det. Fitzsimmons: This damned airport is as much a labyrinth as this damned case!

Det. T'Surlak: tell me about it. That's what happens when you design your buildings to fit the aesthetic of the moment. I may not be big on the Empire, but at least they understand functional design.

They pass a lounge. The speakers blast Komodo's "Claw Crawl".

Det. T'Surlak: (hiss) Is there no end to the Komodo songs? [interrogative cough]

Det. Fitzsimmons: You think that's bad... (walks up to gift shop, holds up a T-shirt "in memoriam" to Komodo)

Det. T'Surlak: (hiss) his body's not even cold. Did they have these shirts in a warehouse somewhere, just waiting for the right moment?

Det. Fitzsimmons: Maybe we ought to look into the T-shirt companies. Maybe they had him offed.

Det. T'Surlak: You only think you're joking. Frankly, we... (he's interrupted by the hissing of his phone) ...just a second. (picks up phone) It's the precinct, returning our inquiry into the 'vitamin' shots. (to phone) Yea? and what's the result? (to Fitzsimmons) the crime scene boys found some of the discarded needles in the dumpster earlier but hadn't gotten to them. Once we reported the vitamin shots they ran the test: positive ID for all on traces of helenalin.

Det. Fitzsimmons: Great, we have the murder weapon. Now we just need to find the good doctor.

Det. T'Surlak: Well, we've got three hours' flight to figure out where he might be. I'm having the precinct send the files right to my phone.

Det. Fitzsimmons: So much for the in-flight movie.

Det. T'Surlak: It's probably a Komodo tribute anyway.

{Dun-Dun}

District Attorney's office. ADAs Essval and Rothschild are at a conference table looking through papers.

ADA Rothschild: Looks like we have a pretty tight case on Dr. Death here. Half of the syringes are loaded with helenalin, not to mention something called thymol that gives the egg heads the idea we're looking at a wolfsbane herb extract.

ADA Essval: Please stop using the term 'egg heads'. I don't call morons 'fetus brains', do I?

ADA Rothschild: Hey, that's kind of funny, actually. But seriously, I'll just use 'block heads' or 'morons' if it bothers you, hon.

ADA Essval: Thanks, El. So, wolfsbane?

ADA Rothschild: yea, a plant common in Europe. The Polish Underground's been using it to poison Lizards since the 50s. As a trained Herbalist Dr. Death would know that.

ADA Essval: Says here he's not even a real doctor; no M.D., just a correspondence PhD. from "Healing Glory University".

ADA Rothschild: Yea, as the detectives say Donald put it, 'a quack'.

ADA Essval: Hmmm...Donald...quack.

ADA Rothschild: Yea, things are going just ducky, aren't they.

ADA Essval: Hon, I swear I've clawed eyes out over less. Now, we've got a good case, we have Weapon and Opportunity, we just need Motive.

ADA Rothschild: And Perp. The good doctor's nowhere to be found. The NYPD and even FBI have an APB out.

ADA Essval: Even the tightest case does little good if we don't have anyone to convict.


{Dun-Dun}

Dr. Falk's New York office. Alternative medicine complex on W. 52nd west of 9th Ave. Clinton, Midtown. Dets. Fitzsimmons and T'Surlak are going through the doctor's files.

Det. T'Surlak: (hiss) what a mess. This guy's files are worse than your living room.

Det. Fitzsimmons: Hey, I resemble that. Ok, I have a leaflet on a 'health spa retreat' in Canada. Maybe he's hiding out there?

Det. T'Surlak: Possible. We can ask the DA to call the Mounties and have them check it out. Wait, here's a receipt for European 'herbal extract' purchases. Among the purchases is 'Extract, Arnica root' and 'Extract, Arnica flower'. That word sounds familiar.

Det. Fitzsimmons (flipping through a pocket notebook): Ah...bingo. Arnica montana is the scientific name for wolfsbane. Good turreting.

Det. T'Surlak: Thanks. And for the love of Pete why don't you get a Clawpad like the rest of us this millennium?

Det. Fitzsimmons: I like my old fashioned notebook. Besides, Lt. Van Buren can't send me hisses through this.

Det. T'Surlak (bagging the receipt and getting out his own Clawpad): That reminds me, I should send her a hiss about the retreat and the receipt.

Det. Fitzsimmons: No kidding. She'd skin us alive if we didn't. You, at least, would make a good handbag and matching pumps. I'd be lucky to qualify as a lampshade.

Det. T'Surlak (clawing at the screen of the Clawpad in his hand): There...hissed. Now, any other bright ideas on where to find this guy?

Det. Fitzsimmons: Hard to say. If he's smart he's hiding in the woods of Canada...assuming knowing herbs means you also know edible plants.

Det. T'Surlak: Well, according to the latest hiss from the Lieutenant LAPD has been talking to the doc's other patients, including that chick with the big milk sacks you and Donald go addled over. The one from that beach show.

Det. Fitzsimmons: No kidding. What's she have to say?

Det. T'Surlak: 'Shocked'...wow, quite a scoop there. Says here that a B-tier actor named Keenu, or something, met with the doc just before his last visit to Komodo, says the doc mentioned going to NYC to see a client, but nothing more. Huh...

Det. Fitzsimmons: What?

Det. T'Surlak: Would you believe that Cruise is an Emperor Worshiper?

Det. Fitzsimmons: You didn't know that? A lot of those Hollyweird types got into it. That or Sufi Mysticism. Anything else? Of importance?

Det. T'Surlak: (hiss) Pardon me for sharing. (claws at screne for a moment) Here we go...Daemon told the LAPD that Dr. Falk regularly visits Brazil for 'herb shopping'. I'll hiss Agent Anderson at the FBI to run the passport scan again.

Det. Fitzsimmons: (snorts) Good luck getting anything from the FBI.

Det. T'Surlak: Ha! Got him! His passport was scanned a few days ago leaving LAX for Brazzaville. They missed it earlier because the passport's under "Eugene Symington", his real name.

Det. Fitzsimmons (dumbfounded): You got that already?

Det. T'Surlak: My friend, you really need to upgrade your technology.