Sally's Story (1.5-1): Chemistry

youtu.be/IpJnxzfO23E

	A panting young man watched the paramedics wheel the girl out of the home and onto the street, police cruisers flanking the emptied home as dozens of his peers watched on. The girl prone on her back, air squeezing barely into her lungs, the police started to process the other denizens of the party one by one, parents called to pick them up. He wanted to run, to sprint away with his just-legal ID and escape the scene but the odd point and nod was isolating him, clawing him back beneath the looming streetlights. Licking his chapped lip he watched the frantic duo of paramedics try and rouse the girl, a blocky kit unfolded on the ground. Squeezing hard air was rushed to her lungs, the chatter of radios muffling their conversation. The taller of the two worked her eyes open, the dilated, unfocused balls swinging useless and unconscious in place. The shorter paramedic, hair slicked back and greasy, mumbled something to his partner. Gloves snapped over his hands he wormed around the open kit at his side, the boy gulping as he pulled out a tiny vial and syringe. The other kept squeezing at the artificial pump, blue latex fingers flicking the bubbles out of the syringe.
	Wincing he watched the needle disappear into her upper arm, the man massaging the sterile spot beneath the continuing strobe and flash of emergency lights. One of the police officers chattered on his chunky handset, inaudible information parlayed back and forth down the municipal lines of communication.
	“Got her,” the taller paramedic shouted, wiping his brow. The girl was pulled up to sitting, disoriented and hardly conscious, but alive. Rubbing her back he continued, fanning her shirt to cool her clammy skin. “Deep breaths alright, deep breaths.”
	“You’ve just had an overdose,” the second joined, packing up his kit. “We gave you some medicine. Can you tell us your name?” He threw a thumbs-up to one of the waiting officers. Moustache wrinkling nervously the cop turned around, jotting a few notes in a book before pulling the handset up again.
	“10-A to Blue, we’re gonna need an ambulance here at…,” he glanced at the book, “1308 Washington Lane, up in Matheson.” A crackle back from the radio pulled a nod and gust of breath, the set clicked up as he returned to processing the scene. The other officers on scene had started to run through the sizable handful of anxious teens, some sobbing on the curb as parents showed up to pick them up. It was gonna be a messy night processing a dozen or so teenagers, many already scrabbling to defend themselves as moms, dads or, worst of all, both showed up. They’d need to cordon off the home, mercifully empty of its owners save for their delinquent son, and start to work on scrubbing it clean for evidence. They’d leave that work to the detectives though, the officer scribbling names in his booklet, nodding to another car to take the adult among them into custody. Sighing he plopped back down in the driver’s seat, his partner ushering the other kids around to their outraged parents. It was going to be a long night.

	“Sal. *Sal*,” an emphatic voice pushed. “C’mon we gotta go, something big.” The snoozing nandroid rolled uncomfortably on the couch, the years spent sleeping in the department breakroom making it painfully difficult to rouse her. Rolling his eyes the tired man yanked her charging cord from her neck, the robot jumping awake.
	“Je-Sheesus, oh,” she panted, scrabbling upright. “S-Sorry, eheh, w-weird dream. What’s up?” It was early, nauseatingly so- the microwave clock corroborated her internal one, half past three or so.
	“Party up in Matheson,” Vincent yawned, “that’s all they really gave me but they want Vice on it.” Sally nodded in her seat, whipping the wrinkles from her jacket before tagging behind her partner, in his hand a cardboard cup of coffee nabbed from the humming machine by her makeshift bedspace.
	“You maind draiving,” Vincent yawned again.
	“Nope!” The robot shivered as the two stepped outside, chilly fall air closing around them. Jingling his keys in her hand she hopped into the driver’s side, the still-running engine grumbling ahead of her dainty feet. The heat blasted into her pale face, a responsive glow in the new warmth lighting up the dashboard a touch. The radio crackled ahead of them, some ill news about an imperiled Caribbean island furrowing Sally’s brow. Switching the channel to some upbeat poppy station she turned to Vince. “Address?”
	“Huh, oh! Uh… it’s thirteen something, up in Matheson. Washington, Washington,” he repeated.
	“Uh… Alright.” Twisting the wheel she pulled off onto the derelict streets, the odd car here and there stopping ahead of them. Cruising slowly along the silent avenues Vincent snored, his head leant on the cold glass as Sally slowly drove out of the dense city center and across the dominant river, black rippling water flowing silently underneath as she crossed to the wealthier heights overlooking downtown. Matheson, a shining beacon of opulence and success lying opposite its ‘sister suburb’ in Hawthorne, had a reputation to put it lightly. Winding up the hilly roads Sally swerved onto Washington Lane, the row of low streetlights guiding her eyes to the silent police cruiser ahead of them, its lights and siren long extinguished. Pulling a hand off the wheel she slapped Vince’s shoulder.
	“Hnuh!? Oh, uh, thanks.” Sally nodded in response, pulling up alongside the curb. The two piled out, Vince slackly tumbling out of the passenger’s side and upright. A nodding officer’s head shot up, the lid of his cap tipped to the detectives.
	“Detectives Sally and,” she turned, Vincent sleepily fumbling for his badge. “...And la Fontaine.” The officer sniffed, scratching his nose before leaning forward.
	“Kevin Kowalczyk, first on the sc-eee-ne.” he fanned his mouth, sticking his other hand out. “Sorry, s’late.”  Sally took it, Vince still stretching himself out in place, blood slow to flow even with some caffeine.
	“So,” Sally started, flipping out her own little notepad. “What happened tonight.”
	“Awright, so, 1308 here was having a party. Parents are gone, someone brought liquor, the whole typical deal. Parents are *still* gone so the house is yours to pick over.”
	“And what makes this a Vice affair, officer?”
	“Getting there. Got a 911 call after one of the girls was unresponsive, overdose obviously. We’ve gone over the place and marked it but there’s still more to look over. The perp in custody’s admitted to buying the things-”
	“Things?”
	“*Quaaludes*, if you’d believe that. Bit old-fashioned, maybe, but there’s a reason they’re banned.”
	“Quaaludes,” Vince breathed, working the cricks out of his neck. “Throwback and a half, Christ. And this girl OD’d on em?”
	“That’s what it’s looking like, yes.”
	“Jesus,” Vince rubbed his eyes. “Was she resuscitated here, or-”
	“Here, medics with the fire department administered naloxone.”
	“*Naloxone*,” Sally hummed. “Anything else sir?”
	“Just party stuff. Beer, liquor, plastic cups. Nothing else narcotic, and the actual pills have been bagged already.”
	“And what about our ‘perp’?”
	“In custody, only one of legal age there. Odds are he was the source for the booze too and decided to bring something extra.”
	“Alright then, nothing further,” Sally nodded, clipping her little book shut. “Thank you Officer.” Nodding again he leant back on the car, tipping the brim of his cap down as the two detectives went into the home.
	Marching through the ornate wooden door into a sprawling foyer-kitchen complex the two stood back, soaking in the inordinate mess consuming the house’s lower floors. Cups were messily scattered across the floor, a garbage can already overflowing from hours of abuse, cups spilling lazily onto the floor beside empty, squarish bottles. Here and there Sally stepped carefully around sticky brown puddles of spilled alcohol, Vince following after her. Another officer stood sentinel in the broad living room, the last decades’ rich earth tones ringing in Sally’s eyes.
	“This was where, uh, the girl was originally.” The officer pointed to an outdated talking pit dug low into the floor, the squared dugout just as littered with trash as the rest of the home.
	“How’s the upstairs,” Vince turned.
	“Clean, most everything important’s gonna be down here.”
	“Understood. C’mon Sal.” Hopping down into the pit he started scanning around, careful not to crush any potential case-breakers underfoot. A lone cup sat undisturbed on the central table, opposite the sickeningly crisp slew of vomit coating the corduroy couch. Sally recoiled at the mess, the dried spew just over the threshold for what she could handle with half a battery. Breathing deep she closed out the scent of stale puke, muting it behind the sweet spill of beer sitting in the bright red cup on the table.
	“Officer, any reason this cup’s not been touched?”
	“That was the vic’s beer when she started to become unresponsive, left it for you guys to look at.”
	“Thank you,” she turned, tapping Vince’s shoulder as his gloved hand rotated an empty cup uselessly. “Vince I’m gonna try this one, you got a match on you? I’ve gotta hunch.”
	“Oh, uh, one sec.” Patting across his suit coat he plunged a hand into his pocket, whipping out a lighter. “This good?”
	“Perfect.” She slipped away to the adjacent kitchen, washing her hands vigorously and drying them before doing it again. Sliding back over she dipped her pristine finger into the flattening beer. “Alright, try it.” Pushing her finger tip under the clicking lighter flame she hovered her nose over it, the unique sensory augments doing their work as sugars and citrusy notes burnt past her face, the obvious stink of boiling ethanol blurring the subtle note behind it, the synthetic sedative she was familiar with. Her hunch was growing weak, no hidden note of something spiked inside the drink, aside from the obvious culprit of methaqualone now filling her nose.
	“Anything?”
	“Well, there’s methaqualone in there, but-”
	“But what? That’s lead enough to say her drink was spiked, I mean-”
	“It doesn’t explain the overdose Vince! I-I-,” she retreated, her senses failing her where she needed them most. Insecurity creeping back she chose to defer, Vince was right a lot of the time, more often than other detectives for sure. “Nevermind, it’s probably nothing.”
	“Hey, Sal, cool it. Explain your thinking before we stop overturning something.”
	“Well,” she murmured, “Officer Kowalczyk said the victim was administered naloxone. That’s an emergency medicine for *opioid* overdoses.”
	“You thinking these biscuits were cut with something?”
	“Yeah, *yes*,” she brightened up. “Here, lemme try again.” She dipped her whole finger tip in the drink, swirling it for effect and pulling out her dripping digit. Sliding it over the flame the beer boiled off again, the same notes muted now as she searched for something missing, the obvious culprit in the lethal cocktail coating her fingers. Digging past the sweet and sour scents around her she hit it, the acrid, acetic-acidic smell of skag, horse, hero, *heroin* stinging in her head. Snuffling at her little button nose she dispelled the smells, returning to the ‘normal’ perceptions of the space.
	“So?”
	“Someone’s been cutting these quaaludes with heroin Vince.”
	“Christ alive, I-”
	“I think most of our answers will be with that perp, now. U-Unless you wanna give the place another once-over, of course!”
	“Nah, you’re right. Hopefully he’s as tired as I am, jeez,” he smiled, “make things easier.”
	“You want me to drive?”
	“Please.”