Played: “Sometimes you never know who is playing who, until the damage is done." by Bad-Boy Storyteller

today disclosing the fact that the death of Trace Friesen is tied into the Joshua Siconolfi case, including that there will be a joint effort between the Tacoma and Seattle Police Departments concerning any ongoing investigations. He’s basically telling Jackson that they are going to work this case together—like it or not. Captain Jackson hangs up the phone. “That son of a bitch,” he mutters to himself, while digging through his desk drawer for some pain relief medication. There he finds a half bottle of Vicodin; he takes out a couple and downs them with some bourbon. The bottle doesn’t exactly have his name on it, and even though not exactly having your name on the bottle makes up for about 15 percent of the population in his jail, he doesn’t feel one bit ashamed. Today he can break a few rules.
    Suddenly he is startled by his intercom. The sweet voice coming through is that of Misty Lakewoods, his secretary. She’s alerting him that Detective Fredo (JFK) is requesting to update his progress.
    “Yeah, all right, send him in.”
    Detective Fredo comes in and says, “I have everyone ready, just like you ordered; we’re just waiting for Cools and Michelle, but they are on their way and should be here shortly.”
    Captain Jackson grabs his jacket and scoots out of his chair, replying, “All right, let’s go.” Fredo holds the door for him. Even Captain Jackson thinks he’s a kiss ass, but has always carried the attitude of “What the hell—it’s kinda nice having a bitch boy close by your side.” Together they move down the hall toward the meeting room—the war room.
    Captain Jackson, realizing he has a few minutes to squander, tells JFK to go on in and wait. Then he slips down the hall and sneaks a peak through the two-way mirror. No one needs to enlighten him to the fact that the girl behind the glass is Amberly—the stripper. Or that she is on drugs, for that matter. She looks nervous and annoyed, most likely from being confined inside the small, claustrophobic space and not knowing her fate. If she knew the truth, she would have jetted out of the building hours ago. But earlier Cools bent a couple of rules and told her she couldn’t leave until he could clear her of any wrongdoing. And now Captain Jackson is all alone with her. He takes a good long gaze, with the kind of eyeball he wouldn’t dare if she could see back through the glass. I might just check out the Kitty Club some night.
    Then across the hall and through another two-way mirror, he spies Maggie— the suicide hotline girl—and the officer who has just brought her in. She’s kind of homely, with knotted hair, and way too skinny for his taste. He speculates: if one were to put the two together in the same room long enough, what would emerge—two strippers or two psychology students?
    A commotion catches his attention, followed by the distinct sound of Michelle Robertson’s voice, always trying to slow her partner down. A smooth step around the corner and he’s hidden from view. He wouldn’t wish for Robertson to catch him peeking. Captain Jackson thinks the world of her, and although he would never admit it, Michelle (who he always refers to as Robertson) could get away with anything as far as he is concerned. To him, she is probably the most perfect package of a women inside and out to ever cross his path. Standing motionless at the corner, he watches her, bouncing along after her hot-headed partner as they march into the war room. Then a voice inside his head says, “All right, Captain Jackson, it’s time for you to get your big, bad, black ass in there and tell all those white boys what the fuck to do!”
    Twenty seconds later he enters and sizes up his makeshift task force. It all feels surreal, having such a high-profile case land in his lap, right at the height of his career. He can taste the power of control, mixed with the fear of knowing that cases like these have all the potential of going bad, and often do. This he