Chapter Text
You must be my lucky star, but I'm the luckiest by far
Starlight, star bright, baby
Starlight, star bright
Stay by my side tonight
What you do to me baby...
Madonna's Lucky Star faded from the radio waves, but Jazz kept humming that looping melody far into the following static. She wondered when the local station's range would end- apparently only fifteen miles after the last well-known overpass. She had a long way to go yet; another one-fifty miles until there would be a motel without bedbugs, then another two-seventy five to the no-where town of Bolts. She'd been joking around when she said she'd been wanting to put miles on her new Volkswagen Rabbit. Her boss never did get jokes.
Jazz's boss also never did understand that 'traveling for fun' and 'traveling for work' were two completely different things. Just because she'd expressed her love for exploring the country from coast to coast, did not mean that she would automatically make the only candidate to drive over five-hundred miles to a glorified cornfield for what seemed like a pretty cut-and-dry murder case. She'd seen the news plenty: 'Man Goes Missing; Found in Creek Days Later. Suspected Foul Play' among other headlines saying the same thing in different fonts. It had hit national news for God knows why before quickly fading back into the noise of media coverage.
The man in question went by the name Orion Pax, and was just a normal dude, by all accounts. He lived alone, worked at the local school where all twelve grades learned under the same roof, and the grainy picture of him with his scrawny little cat was charming, but also completely average. He had been born, grew up, and stayed in Bolts until he, alledgedly, got murdered at the age of sixty-two and wound up face-down in a muddy creek bed. This was over two weeks ago.
Jazz bet there had been crawdaddies all over him when they got him. She'd have to ask the coroner or the cops once she got there.
The cops... Jazz had worked with small town cops before. It was a miracle she'd seen any of those cases through. There was no one who could make you feel more like an outsider than an old white man that'd never seen 'a woman like you', even if he wanted the help.
She tried to flip through radio stations to fill the silence and the pit that was growing in her stomach from the dread of another small town case. This one would be worse, she could feel it already. The last times, she'd been within a two hour drive back home, and that comfort had keep her rolling through the staring and the undermining and the muttering. Seven hours into flat plains felt more like a death sentence.
The only station that didn't get cut to pieces by static happened to be some random opera. Not her usual groove, but it was music, and she would take anything over static or the droning sound of the Rabbit's engine and tires. She drove like that into the late evening until she reached her motel and conked out for as long as she could.
It would be a long day tomorrow.
Bolts was exactly how Jazz had pictured it in her head- well, to be fair, she'd seen clips of news footage of the measly down-town and the forest where Pax's body had been found.
It was tiny- barely considered a town by its density. There was a post office, a library, a school, a conjoined police department and fire station, an inoperable gas station, and a grocery store. That was the bulk of Bolts. Everything else was dilapidated, quaint little homes spaced out almost at random. The houses spread further and further apart from the downtown area until they became farms with acres upon acres of corn and soybean fields. She'd driven past a pig pasture on her way in, and she had to tuck her nose into her shirt to block out the awful stench (she'd been elbows-deep in months decomposed cadavers... pig shit shouldn't bother her this bad!). The air was dry and stale and boring, and the cracked, pot-hole filled roads were mostly empty.
Exactly like all the other small towns she'd had the misfortune of working in.
At least the sheriff's department was easy to find- she had a map and the address, of course, but it helped that it was one of the few buildings making up the downtown. She parked her Rabbit along the curb and checked herself over. Professional attire? Check. Badge and other ID in her pocket? Check. Hair not a total mess because she drove with the windows down? ...fixed, and check. Winning smile? Check! She was going to walk in there, make the best impression she could, and secure the case. No problem. She's done it before, she can do it again. It's all groovy.
The front door to the police station squealed when she pulled it open.
"Hello- uh?" greeted a very plain looking cop. "You're not the-"
Jazz's eye twitched, just barely, but she got herself back under wraps without a hitch. "I'm the special agent," she corrected swiftly. "My name's Jazz, nice to meet you." She stuck out a hand to the befuddled cop, sparing a glance at his name badge because she could sense he would forget to tell her his name as he shook her hand. Officer C. Dome.
"Oh, alright," he muttered, seeming to be in disbelief over the whole thing. Jazz was correct- he forgot to introduce himself. That was fine. "Sheriff's in his office." A simple gesture to an open office door clearly labeled "Sheriff". The fact that she could never get lost in this town was nice, anyway.
Jazz thanked him, then moved on to the office. She knocked on the doorframe twice, and the very plain looking sheriff lifted his head. "Can I help you?"
"Special Agent Jazz, sir. May I come in?"
The sheriff scrutinized her for a moment, muttered something under his breath, reached for a cigarette and motioned Jazz to the chair opposite his desk with it. Jazz sat, hands folded in her lap politely as she waited for the sheriff to either give her the boot or begrudgingly accept her service.
Jazz didn't get to become a special investigator because she was young and pretty- though, those things were very true- she got to be one because she was smart. Her parents would say she got 'too smart', and tried to sell her on a less ambitious career (a secretary? Gee, thanks, mom). She had always had a keen eye for small details and the wit to able to connect those details into a full-picture story; a skill she’d put in lots of time and effort into honing to become as good as she was today. People shook her hands and thanked her with teary eyes when she finally gave closure to families who couldn’t mourn for years upon years, and she was supposed to be a boring old secretary? No thanks. She was smart and hard-working and good at her job.
Jazz liked her job. A lot. Just… sometimes it was difficult, through no fault of her own. There were always going to be people too closed-minded to accept that she was good at her job. She got sent to Bolts because she was good at her job, however much it felt like the other guys just didn't want to drive all the way out to the middle of nowhere.
“Pax didn’t have no family,” scoffed the sheriff of Bolts, finally. He really was the typical old sheriff, with a big hat and white mustache and a cigarette ever present between his fingers. “So who sent ya?”
Jazz did not sigh, nor smooth the fabric of her pants, nor drop her shoulders. The sheriff could have been any other small-town cop she’d ever met, and she hated that she’d predicted as such. She would act just as she would around any of the ones she'd worked with in the past, and that meant showing no weaknesses- as much as being human could be considered a 'weakness'.
“A friend of his contacted our agency, sir.” Jazz did not add the fact that she was the best the agency had to offer, because that was only partly true, but also because some wisecracks had managed to turn that phrase against her.
The sheriff narrowed his old, wrinkly eyes. “Who?”
”I’m not permitted to disclose that information, sir.” And she wasn't; the informant explicitly stated he wanted to remain anonymous, and he would have remained such even if he hadn't requested it. "But I have been hired to conduct an investigation for as long as it takes, or until it officially runs cold. This entails either our departments working together, or my department overrides yours and we take over completely." By 'my department' she meant herself and only herself, but sheriffs didn't usually like that phrasing. They didn't like the idea of another agency taking over their case in general, which was good for her not having to work a case alone. It also wasn't good for her because she'd have to work with stuck-up small town cops...
“Welp,” the sheriff sighed, apparently easily resigning himself to Jazz’s help. She knew she’d whittle him down sooner or later- just didn't expect it to be 'sooner'. “I’ll introduce you to the officer on the case.”
Now, that had been a courtesy Jazz hadn’t expected. Her surprise wasn’t quite delighted, but it wasn’t disgusted, either, so she rolled with it. “Thank you, sir.”
The sheriff grunted as he got out of his seat; a testament to either his age or his long years on his feet or both.
“This is Prowl,” the sheriff led Jazz to messy piles of paperwork and a huge brick computer obscuring the officer attending to them. An idle scan of the department revealed that there were only four cops in Bolts. The sheriff, Prowl, C. Dome, and one more middle-aged, average looking man standing beside C. Dome at the far wall pretending not to stare over their coffees made four. “Prowl, say hi.”
“Hello,” muttered the voice of a bonafide woman. And, yes, when Jazz peered around the clutter taking up most of the desk, Prowl was, indeed, a real-life woman. A woman cop! In a small town?! Someone pinch her!
“Heya! Name’s Jazz.” Jazz stuck her hand out to Prowl, only barely covering her delight at finally getting to work with another woman instead of some dull, one-track minded man that thought he was better than her. She didn't care about keeping to her more drab, all-business persona at that moment, because this was a woman! For real!
Prowl’s stunning blue eyes were glued to her computer screen in a concentrated glare. There were faint wrinkles lined in her face, but it was unclear if they were from stress or from age. Either way, she was decidedly beautiful in the way architecture was- you had to know where to look to truly appreciate the soundness of the structure. Just from one glance, Jazz could tell she was serious and dedicated and must have given her whole life to be trusted with such an important case. She must be very intelligent indeed, and that was absolutely thrilling.
Anyway, Jazz’s excitement quickly snuffed itself out when Prowl didn’t even look at her extended hand, much less shake it. Right… small town cops… they were always the same.
“Prowl’s been leading the charge on this one since it’s been going stale. You can look at all her notes and contacts, but no evidence locker without her supervision. She’s the best we’ve got, so I’ll be a monkey’s uncle if you really do turn out as good as your record states.” The sheriff watched Jazz dejectedly pull her hand away from the now very mean-looking lady. The more she looked, the more bitter the officer seemed. She should have noticed sooner. “Play nice, Prowl,” was the only warning Jazz got about what she was getting into before the sheriff walked away. Leaving her alone. With Ms. Grouchyface. (Mrs.? Ms.? There wasn’t a ring, but rings could be dangerous in this line of work. If she was as old as Jazz thought, it would be unusual for her to not have a husband. Mrs. She’ll go with Mrs.)
“So…” Jazz started, beginning to rifle through the beige folders stuffed with important papers.
That finally got Prowl to snap her head away from her computer and slap a hand over her stack. Her eyes were intense. Like, damn. Jazz had gotten shit from all kinds of people her whole life, but no glare had ever felt as piercing as Prowl’s.
”Uh,” Jazz drew her hands back again. Alright, no digging. Even though that’s what she needed to start doing. Because that was her job. “Sorry? Where would-"
"You can start by understanding one thing." Prowl kept up her leveling glare, chin raised high not only because Jazz was standing and she was sitting. "This is still my case. I'm calling the shots. I don't care what hoity-toity agency you came from, but you are not-" the corner of her lips curled in a sneer "-going to mess this up for me. Got it?"
Jazz gaped at Mrs. Grouchyface. Now, she'd been given worse from worse cops, and she tried to remind herself of that when Prowl's harsh warning actually stung. She was mean, alright. But she wasn't the meanest she'd seen. Piece of cake. Just adapt and adjust.
"Yes ma'am," Jazz replied, dipping her head just slightly. That seemed to make Prowl relax from her posturing enough. "Where would you like me to start on the case?"