[Imogen Slaughter] Mid-afternoon on a Saturday. Cook County Medical Examiner's Office. It is quiet, almost echoingly so, primarily occupied by the security guard who patrols the halls and Dr. Imogen Slaughter.
Her office is tucked between two larger offices - third door out of six on the right, windowless with the walls covered in bookshelves, or filing cabinets. The door is partly open - the outer surface of it marked with her name (Doctor Imogen M. Slaughter, M.D. A.F.P), and her office hours, intended for residents from Rush University, for whom the cool and professional red-head has taken responsibility.
She is not an easy teacher, but she is efficient.
She sits at her desk, a file folder in front of her, the photographs spread out. In her hand, a typed report - her dictated notes copied out on paper, which she flips through slowly, a line of tension marking her brow.
[Saschenka Neal] It is actually very rare that she finds herself in the Medical Examiner's Office. Crime Scene Technician's are usually kept to the field and then back to the CPD crime lab to drop off whatever had been gathered. But a piece of bone left at a crime scene had to be taken to the ME and Sasha had offered. There had been some... strange news lately, and with the good Doctor's name dropped by Detective Montoya, it couldn't hurt to talk to the other.
Especially when Sasha noticed a thing or two as of late.
Boots echoing dully on the floor, she glances at the doors until she finds the right one, steps slowing and then stopping. Shifting the evidence bag in her arm, she knocks on the door frame quietly. Only when she hears a positive reply does she open the door slightly to see the woman inside, nodding. "Dr. Slaughter? I'm CST Neal, from the Chicago PD. I was asked to bring this to you?"
She holds up a tape evidence bag, a tall blond woman dressed sturdily and plainly. Her straight blond hair is pulled up into a messy ponytail and the mud on her boots shows she was probably out working in the snow at some point. There's a windbreaker with Crime Scene Technician stitched in the upper left, and an ID badge to show she's legit clipped to one belt loop.
[Imogen Slaughter] The red-haired woman is clearly slight, her shoulders narrow, her upper body taut. Her posture is poised - though never quite choreographed enough to be described as a dancer's posture. It is something a little more economical.
Her skin is pale, her hair a brilliant hue of true reds, uncommon in the days of strawberry blonde and the fading of her particular brand of genes. It is pulled back into a braid, coiled at the nape of her neck, several strands coming free to curl against her cheekbone, to catch in her eyes.
In her hands, she has a stapled sheaf of papers, several of them partly lifted with one hand to allow her to see the text beneath. When CST Neal knocks on the frame, she glances up, letting the papers fall to join the others, her spot kept only by her thumb between the sheets.
Her eyes are dark enough to appear almost black at this distance, and they drop, briefly touching the insignia on the front of Neal's jacket, then down to her badge at her waist.
"Good," she says, briefly, offering a faint smile. "From Thompson, right?" Even in those brief words, the woman's foreignness is defined. Her accent is clearly from elsewhere - though many Americans have trouble placing it. She might be from the British colonies, thinks one, or perhaps one of the countries of the United Kingdom. The burr muddles matters. Some think Irish, some think New Zealand, some don't think at all, and merely wildly guess.
The wheels of her chair whisper on carpet as she gets to her feet, plucking a pen from a cup with one hand, then her lab coat with the other. She pulls it on absently, shrugging it over her shoulders. Standing, her slightness is intensified. The woman is a little over five feet, a few inches added to her height from modest heels.
[Saschenka Neal] "Yes ma'am," she answers almost formally, the hint of police woman in her unmistakable. "He apologizes for not sending it with the rest, they missed it under a rug."
It sounds bizarre, losing a hunk of a human bone underneath a rug, but she'd heard weirder and it was possible occasionally. When the doctor is close enough, she hands over the bag, and a sheet that's been used to help denote who held the bag when. While the seal on the bag is signed over and unbroken, you never wanted unaccounted for time with something so crucial. It's handed over to the other woman along with the bag, a silent request for her to please sign that too.
Grey eyes watch the other, taking her in, not quite sizing her up but merely noting all the details like a good CST is wont to do. Her eyes flick to the room as well, noting all the details there, politely waiting for the first task to be done before she launches into other topics.
[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen is an employee for a county sagging beneath the weight of its murder rate, and her office reflects that. There are boxes for use, presumably as interim filing cabinets, perhaps for overflow or perhaps simply for files which have not quite made it to storage. Her inbox is piled high with forms requiring her signature or her review or her notes or - the list goes on. Her outbox is depressingly low.
Still, there is a ruthless organization to everything - the cabinets are labeled though she cannot make out the words from this distance, the boxes are off to the side, also labeled. Her bookshelves are full, but a quick glances notes that the books are organized, as are the medical journals, the forensic documents. She has no certificates on her walls, no proof of her education or certification - though by her nameplate, Imogen is not only a medical doctor but she is board-certified in forensic pathology.
It is utilitarian, here. There are no pictures on her desk. Were it not for the name on the door, and the present of the woman within, this office could have belonged to anyone - her only marks of personality is the efficient organization which she has applied to every aspect of her room.
She makes a brief, dismissive sound as Neal passes on the apology from her colleague. This things happen, and the crime scene had been a particularly grisly one. "Ta," the doctor says as she takes the bag, adjusting her grip so she can can take the sign on sheet as well. The pen she had taken from her desk for just this purpose is uncapped, and Imogen signs, dates and timestamps the sheet before passing it to Neal to witness it, turning the pen toward her. It is routine.
[Saschenka Neal] Her eyes flit back to Imogen as she signs it, murmuring a thank you at the pen. She quickly writes down her own witness signature, before handing both pen and paper back to the Doctor. The evidence is no longer hers, so it will remain with the other woman until it's added to the body or... whatever else may happen to it. Sasha was, perhaps, a little hazy on that part- she'd ask Neda later, for curiosity's sake.
There is a hesitation before she bows her head, just ever so slightly. "I'm sorry, I know you're very busy," busy most likely being an understatement with how much an ME had to do, "but... you just did a talk in Florida, didn't you, about animal bite marks?"
The taller woman smiles, every so faintly, following up with, "Detective Montoya mentioned you, and I thought I saw something online recently."
[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen holds the evidence paper and bag together, folding the top of the former over the latter and lowers her hand. Neal speaks and Imogen's expression stills. She was reserved before, but now, it is as if her skin were marble - cold, solid and unyielding. Her gaze moves, briefly to the hallway; a swift and habitual check that they were alone.
And of course, they are. The security guard will not pass again for another fifteen minutes or so.
"Might I ask why Detective Montoya would consider me worthy of mention?" she enquires, mildly, her eyes moving back to the Crime Scene Technician.
[Saschenka Neal] Her own eyes are intent on Imogen, understanding, and saying nothing even while she's saying everything. There is a small shake of her head- it was nothing bad, honest!
"She happened to mention you during a discussion with Detective Anderson, and my housemate," she explains. "My housemate is a forensic pathologist, Neda Stevic, and I believe that's why you came up."
There is a pause, and then a faint smile. "She seemed to imply you were very capable."
[Imogen Slaughter] Neal looks at Imogen with understanding in her eyes, but she is quickly corrected by the brief shake of Imogen's head. Sasha might have thought that Imogen was concerned about the content of the conversation; Imogen's negation however is swift and unhesitating.
"The reason I ask," she says, "is that Detective Montoya and I ha' a several -" a pause, "acquaintances in common. If you are in the same position, then you ha' the advantage over me and it would be polite fer you to say it outright so I do not need to probe you for circumstances."
The line of her mouth is even - a small measure of tension touching there. Her commentary will either be met with confusion, which will be irritating but not irreparable, or hopefully, Sasha will get the hint and put it on the line.
[Saschenka Neal] Her head inclines slightly, something regal just for a moment in her bearing that's as much as answer as anything. But she's not once to mince words and even though Imogen looked, she looks around as well.
"While our acquaintances may be similar, besides the Detective, they're not quite the same," she explains. "More Russian. Fang."
If anyone does pass by, it's just nonsensical. But she owes Imogen to be honest and upfront. The woman is smart enough to put it together and if she doesn't get it, well... then she certainly wasn't deserving of the praise the detective gave her.
[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen's mouth twists faintly. "It was more for the allusion than fer strict accuracy anyway."
A beat. "Let's step away from the door," she says, moving back into her office. "Yeh can go ahead and close it."
As Sasha does so, Imogen leans up against the edge of her desk, turned to face the technician. She is dressed in jeans, a blouse beneath the white labcoat which falls partly open at the hip. Her hands press against the edge of the desk on either side of her as she regards the other.
"So yeh know, I imagine that I am a half-blood, and as I don't think you're a full-blood, I suspect I can say the same of you," she says now that they are sequestered.
"And since yeh know that, I think it is fairly safe to say, you also know that most of my experience with animal bites ha' to do with no animal a human would recognize."
[Saschenka Neal] She does step in, careful to not disturb anything, very respectful of the woman's space. Her hands are clasped behind her back in parade rest, again showing that police background.
"No, most certainly not full blood," she responds with a tiny shake of her head. "... and I know. I've noticed it, here or there, your work as with the... animal attack on the police recently."
It is not quite admiration, but it is most certainly respect. Imogen has done what Sasha has been striving to do in her position since she took the job. And it is unspoken, but obviously there, that she till will do what she can to help protect the veil.
[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen's mouth twists downward. "That was a bloody fiasco," is what she says on the matter, her edges of her voice sharp with distaste. "One hopes that the fact you noticed it does not mean anyone else will."
It is an oblique statement - a reference to something Sasha may have already realized, with her own considerations. The risks that one might take to deal with such scenarios. Tampering with evidence. Obstruction of justice.
She pauses, regarding the other, her eyes narrowing briefly in contemplation, "I imagine, given your career path and that you're here, had I not done anything, you would ha' taken steps to mitigate the risk?"
[Saschenka Neal] She meets Imogen's eyes, unflinching and unwavering. "Absolutely and without question. That's why I chose this profession, and continued with it... without support. It is needed."
Sasha has a will that isn't, perhaps, as strong as Imogen's but it's close. Whatever risks have to be taken to protect the veil and her changing kin, it would be done. As carefully as possible, but it would be done.
[Imogen Slaughter] A beat.
"Ha' yeh got a card wi' yer contact details on it?"
[Saschenka Neal] "No, unfortunately," she replies, patting the inside of her coat, before pulling out a small pad and a pencil. She flips to a clean page, and writes down her cell, house, and address. "But I hope this is all right."
She tears it off and hands it to the other woman, tucking the paper and pencil back away.
[Imogen Slaughter] As Sasha writes on the sheet of paper, Imogen turns at the hip, plucking a business card from her desk, passing it scissored between two fingers as she reaches out with the other hand to take the proffered paper.
"Get in touch if yeh need me," she says, "and I'll do the same, shall I?"
A beat. "Yeh should know - I'm not particularly -" a beat of consideration, "traditional in my loyalty. I believe in protectin' the veil. Tha' this helps th'full-bloods is merely a side-effect."
[Saschenka Neal] "Thank you," Sasha murmurs, very carefully putting the card away so it can't be lost. "And yes, please. Whatever I can do, let me know."
The Fang kin pauses at Imogen's words about being not so traditional, and her lips twist into a faint smile, before she nods. "Your views and your loyalty is your own Dr. Slaughter. Unless those views somehow put the veil or a trueborn at risk... I have no qualms with what you believe."
[Imogen Slaughter] She shakes her head slightly - "S'not really an effort to open philosophical dialogue."
"Consider it more like a 'heads up.'" The word, truly, does not fit in her vernacular. Not her cultured voice, not her accent not her previous word choices. With simply her tone, the other is able to hear the metaphorical quotation marks Imogen puts around it.
"Enjoy yer Saturday."
[Saschenka Neal] Sasha nods, accepting that. "Thank you ma'am. You as well."
Her hand is offered and she waits, patiently, for the other to take it. After it's done, she nods once more and then slips out, leaving the door half open, just as it was before.
Maybe a stop to Neda's office, while she had the time...
[Imogen Slaughter] Imogen glances briefly at the offered hand before reaching out to take it. Her grip is firm and cool, her fingers strong and confident. As Sasha turns to, Imogen turns to walk around her desk, dropping the evidence bag into her inbox for processing later.
She returns to the work that was interrupted, and only glances up once as Sasha crosses the threshold to leave.
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