#( dh ft. lm: 001 )

[saltedearths]

Ah. The red light gives him enough of a pause to pat his shoulder twice. Pat, pat. Sometimes he doesn't know what else to do when giving people the fact of the case—it's either Genesis' sleuthing or someone breaking down in his car as he tries to have a nice, uneventful night. A second set of pats hit the man's shoulder. Pat, pat. And thankfully, the light turns green as he drives off somewhere far from his nice little apartment. "The killer is smart. We're trying to corner him as best as we can."

But even he can see the benefits of a placebo as he sighs into the night. "No, no. Dinner's unnecessary. I just want to go home and sleep with the lights off, it's been a grueling..." Day? Week? Month? Life? "Evening." He tries to pin down this man's features as much as he can, and realizes something crucial. "I'll try to pin down whatever you might want me to do. A second look wouldn't hurt, I guess. Though, I'll need a name to forward it to, and sadly, I don't have yours."

Dante's sterile response is so rooted in reality that it manages to still Luke's buzzing, and he sobers in a few moments of semi-uncomfortable silence: it's a valid question. Even if he found out the contents of the note or what the killer did with the blood or the motive, what could someone like Luke do with that information? At this point, he's as general-public as you can get, regardless of Jessica's fate. This guy is being nothing but professional, but he deserves to go home and relax... then here's Luke, in his goddamn car, wasting his time with half-baked questions.

He communicates all this thought in a single sigh, letting his head bump back against the headrest. "Honestly, I don't know," Luke answers, and the rough edge to his voice betrays the sleepless nights leading up to this conversation. He takes off his glasses, rubs a hand over his eyes. "Just feels like to sit there and wait is gonna drive me crazy." He looks over at Dante with an apologetic wince. "Ah man, I'm sorry, let me, uh...let me get your dinner or something."

[saltedearths]

"Sir." The crackpot detectives want to always make the case or break it wide open—sometimes those detectives are simply grieving people unable to move on from a tragedy, letting it consume them day in and day out. He couldn't blame them, or get angry, but he does have to at least follow some laws. At least if he gets tired of the conversation, he can let him out somewhere nice. Dante tries to choose his next few words carefully, just so he doesn't come across as a dickhead. Or at least too mean. The man was still grieving, and even he has some sort of decorum about that sort of thing.

Eyes on the road, hands at ten and two. "I'm legally only allowed to give out any public information released by the detectives, in case another killing happens," he responds. "Can I ask, though—aside from gumption, how are you going to figure out what happens?"

Into a car? No problem. Luke gets into the passenger seat with or without invitation and buckles in purely on muscle memory alone, his mind gnawing on the bones Dante threw him. He sets his paper haphazardly on the dash and produces a pen, making a note in surprisingly-legible cursive. "It's police details and all, I get it, but I'm Jessica Morgan's dad. Not that that makes me entitled to this information or anything, but...I'm kinda grasping at straws here, y'know? Just trying to figure out what might've happened." He falters. "For her." A beat. "For all of 'em, I guess."

[saltedearths]

This is a sad display. It's all Dante can think as he sees him stumble and be led easily away from the hospital to the parking lot—these people don't have much to go on but hope, and even then, it's almost like a drought of it in this town. The urge to simply shoo him and drive off is strong, but really, he has to admire the town's persistence. Even now, in the dead of night, this man's following him to a parking lot just because he might have some information on the murders.

"I was brought in later, but public knowledge released was blood loss on evidence that at the scene, the bodies were found with an injection site and drained of blood." There were questions there, of course—did they drain them before or after? And the thought of it was distressing, since the drainage was clean. It was practiced, it was certainly something that Dante hoped happened after the victims died. But not likely. "And yes," he says, opening his car, a black, shiny thing that thankfully, hasn't died down yet. "But why should I tell you?"

Luke, being a human of semi-functioning social intelligence, recognizes the reproach in Dante's tone, but it's far from deterring him. He falls into step alongside him without hesitation, ready to take full advantage of the window he's been given - he feels like Dante's the type to swing it shut again without much warning, unafraid to crush any lingering fingers.

"So uh," he begins as they walk, unsure of where Dante is leading them but happy to follow blindly. He takes his glasses and another worn piece of paper from his pocket, slipping on the former and hurriedly unfolding the latter: his 'Dante Hernandez' Post It Note falls out in the process and skitters away across the pavement. "The blood loss, what was the evidence for that? Tooth holes, injection sites? And the note that was on the last fella, did you happen to see that?"

[saltedearths]

Jesus Christ and all his goddamned saints—can he never catch a fucking break? It's his own fault for doing his diligent duty, having to check on his residents and his interns in a way that left him here longer than he should have been. No, he understood what he was usually supposed to do. Get in. Heal. Get out. Or else, Jen or whoever this one was comes to his doorstep and turns what is supposed to be a night off into a Q and A.

"I do mind." He's blunt and to the point—niceties are a luxury that he has not afforded this man yet, and the vein in his forehead threatens to angrily grow. But still, some half-decent part of him relents, making him clench his jaw to relieve some of the tension in his body. "But you've come all this way, so come on," he says, leading him to the parking lot. "I'm not doing this on an empty fucking stomach."

Luke glances up at Dante as he answers, starting to approach but stopping first to thank the receptionist for the help. His movements are unplanned, jerking, starting and stopping as if he has a lot on his mind (he does) and is unsure how to proceed (he is), but as he steps toward the doctor his expression is creased with determination.

"Dr. Hernandez, hi," Luke begins, crumpling the Post-It Note with Dante's name scribbled on it in his fist and stuffing it into his pocket. "I know I should've called, but I hear you did some consulting on the... the murder cases." He mutters 'murder' as if it were a cuss word, careful not to alarm anyone in their vicinity. "I won't take too much of your time, I just, uh... mind if I ask you some questions?"

[saltedearths]

It's the end of the day, and after a grueling surgery where he had to actively try to be both ortho and trauma, Dante all but feels tapped out—everything was in order. His residents were corralling the interns and all of them were doing half-decent labs, and he finally, finally was heading out to sit in a dark room and not think about doing anything. And yet, God, the vicious, two-faced prick that he was, makes him see that someone looks for him, and someone at reception points at him, making his way down the hallway.

With all the patience of a starving man in front of a feast, Dante turns and sets his eye on the person asking. "I'm Doctor Hernandez," he grits out in a less than pleased tone. "And I'm supposed to be off. What ever seems to be the trouble?"

closed starter for dante / @saltedearths where: St Peters Hospital when: right when Dante should be heading out

Dante Hernandez. Dante Hernandez. Luke's lips twitched soundlessly with repetition as he pushed past the doors into Saint Peters, purpose quickening his step. He knew showing up unannounced was a risky first impression, but ever since he'd learned about Dante's consultant work on the Antioch murder cases, Luke was determined to get his foot in the door for an audience...perhaps even literally, if that's what it took.

He approached the reception desk with urgency, laying both hands on the counter and leaning onto it as if saving time would save his daughter. "Excuse me, where can I find Dr. Hernandez?" Luke asked the person sitting there, just loud enough to be overheard, praying that he caught the doctor on his shift.