Witnesses To A Shooting

Collinsport. As Nicole Collins and members of Collins Investigations have gotten themselves transported through time and back, life continues within Collinsport. Chief Jamison St. Clair, visiting Doctor Artemis of the Miskatonic University has been the victim of an attempted assignation. Fellow officers of the Collinsport Police department have only received vague and incomplete information concerning the shooting. Officer Mills, who has been informed unofficially that she has been placed in charge, awaits more information about the shooting – as witnesses to the tragic events in the Miskatonic Library are about to visit her and leave her with a vital clue.

Ladies and gentlemen the story you are about to see is true. The names in some instances may have been changed to protect the innocent.

Voice over

This is the city.

I was checking updates from Arkham when the witnesses arrived.

Scene fades into interior of the Collinsport Police Department. The camera pans across the front desk, where a policeman is talking on his cell phone. Another officer, with a cup of coffee in his hand, walks past the desk. The white mug bears the CPD crest. He stops. Turns and picks up a donut.

Plain.

With sprinkles.

Officer Mills is sitting at her desk. She is typing up an incident report.

The front door opens.

A tall gentleman in a black suit and black-rimmed glasses enters. He has a pocket watch. Gold chain. Dangling.

Beside him walks a young woman.

She wears square framed glasses. Her hair is tightly roped dreadlocks. She wears a black t-shirt. Mid-drift showing. Yellow and black patterned Capri pants. Black boots, yellow socks, rolled down around her ankles.

“Excuse me, officer.” The gentleman in the black suit says stepping up to the officer at the duty desk.

“Yes.”

“I’d like to speak with Officer Mills.”

Officer Mills rolls out her chair into the room, “I am Mills.”

The gentleman turns to look at her.

He smiles.

She looks at him.

An intellectual she surmises.

“Officer Mills, I am Dr. Artemis.”

“Doctor.” She says.

She stands up.

“I’m a friend of Chief St. Clair.” He tells her.

“Nice to meet you, doctor. How may we help you?”

“Officer Mills, I must first report that Chief St. Clair is in intensive care at St. Mary’s Hospital in Arkham.

“Yes. We had heard that she was wounded, but, we had not heard any of the details.”

Dr. Artemis nods.

“Dr. Clark is handling her case. He’s a good man.”

“I would hope for better.”

“Pardon?”

“I would rather he be a good doctor.”

“He is.”

“Good.”

“But, I must tell you, she was severely injured.”

Officer Mills looks at the doctor.

“It has been touch and go, so far.” He admits.

“What happened exactly?”

“She was shot twice, from behind. Both lungs were punctured.” Dr. Artemis motions to the woman beside him, “Miss Pickman here was a witness.”

Officer Mills looks at the woman.

Notes the t-shirt black with a yellow logo: ”I’m ugly on the inside.”

Long black nails.

Black lipstick.

Goth.

A university student?

Defense attorney will love her.

Officer Mills moves back into her cubical and motions for them to follow.

They sit.

Mills takes out a pen and a pad of paper.

“So, under what circumstances was she shot?”

“Not that I saw much . . . ” Miss Pickman says, “No one saw the shooter.”

“She was sitting at a table, talking to us.” The doctor begins.

Officer Mills looks up from the pad, “Where?”

“In the back.” Miss Pickman says.

“Right, two shots. In the back. “ Mills nods, “But please, ma’am. Start at the beginning. Where – what was the location of the shooting?”

Dr. Artemis crosses his legs, “It happened at the Miskatonic Library, in Arkham. I thought Chief McCloud would have passed on those details.”

“I would rather hear it direct from the witnesses.”

“Right.”

“What time was it?”

“This your office?” He asks.

“Yes.”

“Would have thought you would have had a bigger one, you know, being Chief of Police.” The Doctor says looking at the tight confines of the cubical.

“Am I the acting police chief?”

“Well, yes.” He agrees, “Those were Chief St. Clair’s last words.”

“Let’s hope not.”

“What?” He asks.

“Her last words.”

“Right.”

Xenobia Pickman looks around nervously.

“Well, at least the last ones before she passed out.” He nods.

“We have not heard much.” Officer Mills tells them. “Arkham hasn’t followed up after the initial report.”

She hopes her irritation with Arkham PD does not show.

What little information they had had not been very forthcoming.

Crime scene analysis should have had some preliminary evidence by now and the type and caliber of the weapon should have already been determined.

A cop’s job is like anything other job—only sometimes it gets personal.

This one was personal.

They had shot her boss.

“Please, take a moment. Collect your thoughts and give as detailed account as possible.”

“Yes, “ The doctor nods.

“In chronological order if you please.

“I hope she is able to speak to all of us one day.”

Officer Mills turns to her computer and pulls up a new word document.

“Miss Pickman, would you like to start?’ The doctor asks.

Mills looks at both of them.

There is something suspicious about Miss Pickman.

The woman was hiding something, Mills felt it already.

“Well we were sitting there talking, Dr. Artemis was going to see about having her provide police protection for me on another matter, and there were a lot of people around talking crazy stuff you know, Scotland, Home rule, Halifax banking, and governmental surpluses that kind of thing, you know, and Chief St, Clair, she was trying to ask me some questions, and then his guys shows up, nerdy type, trying not to be you know, black leather jacket, which did not go with his shoes, and he starts talking to her, like he knew her, I think, or something, talking about some new corporation or something or other, moving into Collinsport, in some newspaper article, and she mentioned some religion or what not, I think she knew him too, at least it looked that way; and then as we were talking BAM!”

“Bam?”

“Well more like BAM – BAM.’

“Yes, exactly.” The doctor adds.

“Bam – bam?”

“Yes.”

“Two shots.” The doctor says.

“Rang out as they say. And she dropped face first onto the table.” Miss Pickman adds.

Officer Mills does not like the visual image she gets from the description.

“Once I realized Chief St. Clair had been shot, I went to help her.” The doctor explains.

“You said police protection. Why?”

Something was still wrong about all of this, the Lieutenant thinks.

“Well the doctor was talking to her about that – why she came to visit in the first place, you see.”

“You called her?” Mills asks miss Pickman.

“Me? No, I did not.”

“Well, I had called her, asking for assistance with Miss Pickman’s problem.” The doctor admits.

“Why did you go to St. Clair instead of Chief McCloud?” She looks hard at the doctor, “For your protection matter? It is their jurisdiction.”

“Well—“ the doctor hesitates.

Mills sits looking at him waiting for an answer.

“Well, Arkham PD is a bit understaffed since the attack on the station several months ago,” He said, “And because I believed she was familiar with the man who abducted Miss Pickman.”

Officer Mills nods.

She types a few notes, having pushed the record button on a tape recorder.

“The man who abducted Miss Pickman?” Mills asks. “You know who that was?”

“Her cousin. Richard Upton Pickman.”

“Her cousin?” Mills looks over at Miss Pickman.

“Would you mind telling me the details of this kidnapping?”

“Anyway, I was able to stop the bleeding and the paramedics transferred St. Clair to my lab where I was able to stabilize her.” He says and then sees that Officer Mills is sitting looking to Miss Pickman, waiting for a response. “Oh. Right. Yes, Miss Pickman. Go ahead.”

“Well . . . ” She blushes.

Officer Mills watches the woman’s hands as they fidget.

Notes how she hangs her head.

Stumbles over her words.

“I mean—you probably won’t believe this—and I understand—ready I do it you don’t—because I know it sounds—crazy—and all—but my Cousin Richard—Richard Pickman he like disappeared around 90 years ago, you see.”

“You’re right, I don’t believe it, but go on.” She says, “Maybe if you could explain in a little more detail ma’am.”

The front door of the Collinsport Police Station opens.

A man in a dark suit enters.

He looks around.

Dr. Artemis casually looks out of the cubical at the man in the suit.

The man is carrying an envelope.

Non-script.

White.

“Well you see he and some of his, lets say, friends came up into my basement apartment from a hidden door that lead to a couple of those lower chambers and down into the sewers you see and they grabbed me and hauled me off through the sewers.”

Dr. Artemis looks at the man with the envelope. “Nice suit.”

Officer Mills looks over at the doctor quizzically.

Chief St. Clair is in critical condition and these are the witnesses?

Friends.

Sewers.

Crazy.

The both of them.

Too long cloistered in academia.

Officer Scott Anderson, with his white coffee mug and donut, walks up to the man in the suit. “Can I help you?”

“I do not suppose you could tell me where I could find a Doctor Artemis?”

“Doctor Artemis?”

“Yes, I have letter to deliver on behalf of Miss Christine Georgina.” The man in the dark suit says.

He has a Nordic accent.

“Mills?” Officer Anderson calls out toward Mills’ cubical.

“Yes?” She stands to look over the top of the cubical.

“Someone here to see your doctor.”

“Yes,” he says looking up over the top of her cubical.

“You’re name’s Dr. Artemis – right?” Officer Anderson asks.

“Yes.”

The man straightens his tie walks over and hands the doctor the envelope.

The doctor takes it.

Officer Mills looks at it.

The Doctor slips it into his jacket pocket.

Mills then looks back to Miss Pickman.

“And what makes you think that this is the same person that you claim vanished ninety years ago?”

“I’ve seen his portrait hanging in our family home, it’s not one of his paintings you know, his are, well rather horrible, not that they are horrible in that he has no talent for painting, or anything like that, but the subject matter—what he painted you know—and I knew it was him as he and the portrait were identical and he told me he was.”

‘What did he paint?” Officer Mills asks.

“Monsters.”

“Monsters?” Mills asks.

“Yes.”

Officer Mills types a few more notes.

“He said he was your cousin?” She asks.

“Yes.”

“I see.”

“Looks just like the portrait.”

“I think Miss Nichole Collins is familiar with this Mr. Pickman.” The doctor adds.

“The P.I.?”

“Yes, she is a private investigator.” He nods.

“So—you’ve talked to her about this kidnapping?”

“No.”

“Because sir, you should talk to the police rather than some private investigation agency. Kidnapping is a federal crime, you are aware.”

“Yes.” He nods, “ I am aware.”

“So, this kidnapping—what happened? Where did they take you?”

“They took me through the sewers and catacombs under Arkham and down into the Dreamlands, where they kept me for months as . . . as . . . ”

Dr. Artemis coughs.

Miss Pickman breaks down crying.

Catacombs?

Dreamland?

Officer Mills shakes her head.

The doctor sets his hand on Xenobia Pickman’s shoulder, trying to comfort her.

Officer Mills turns to her keyboard and types.

Drugs.

Hallucinogens.

Extreme Stress.

“It’s alright now ma’am.” Mills says as she turns back to look at the young woman, “You’re not in the sewers anymore.”

“He-he kept me for himself.” Miss Pickman continues through her tears, “Kept me locked away from others so he could use me for his—own. A couple days ago I was able to slip away and make my way back up to the real world, I don’t know if he got careless or bored with me—but it seems like he let me go.”

“Ok. It’s ok Miss Pickman.” Mills says.

She thinks to herself what a horrible thing drugs are . . . the effects they have on people.

The woman was certainly a user.

Sewers.

Her cousin’s well over a hundred years old.

Dreamlands.

This whole case will never make court – not with these witnesses.

“Let’s move on to the shooting.”

“Okay.” Miss Pickman wipes at her tears.

“Now. Where were you exactly when the shooting took place?”

Suddenly David Silva peers over the top of the cubicle.

He seems to be waiting for something, and keeps glancing at Mills.

“Oh. Hello, Mr. Silva.” Dr. Artemis says seeing him.

Xenobia Pickman sniffs and pulls some tissues out of her purse to wipe away her tears

“Nice lab coat.” The doctor comments, as he looks at the tag Miskatonic U.

Mills cuts a glance at the doctor.

What is it with him and men’s fashions?

David Silva nods to Dr. Artemis. “Hello Doctor. Sorry our meeting again is not for more pleasant reasons.”

“Indeed.”

Officer Mills looks up at Silva, tapping her finger on the desk, “Can I help you, Sir?”

“Sorry Doctor. May I pay you for it? I rather like it.” Silva tells him slipping his hands deep into the lab coat pockets.

“Officer Mills, this is David Silva. He is . . . well, he was a witness.”

Silva shakes his head, “No, Officer Mills. I can help you.”

He steps into the cubical, “I was discussing a possible contract with St. Clair, whom I have worked for previously, when the attempt was made on her life.”

“Another witness. Good.” She says, “Perhaps you can give me a chronological description of events.”

Dr. Artemis now glances outside the cubical opening at a tall girl dressed like a hooker.

Officer Mills notes his distraction.

“I most certainly can.” Silva nods and adjusts his glasses, “But first I must tell you her message. She told me to tell you – Officer Mills – She said, Officer Mills is in charge. And then she passed out.”

Officer Mills nods, “So I’ve heard.”

“That confirms it.” Dr. Artemis tells her.

Now if she could only find a reliable witness.

“So, please. Mr. Silva, were did you see the shot fired?” She asks.

“From behind.” The doctor says, “As I said.’

“I was asking, Mr. Silva, doctor.” She tells him

“From where Mr. Silva? The door? The window? The fireplace? A hidden door from the sewer?

“It was odd, Officer Mills. Two assassins, sneaking into the library with no one seeing them until the moment they shot St. Clair. And their escape was equally rapid.”

“And both slugs lodged in my table.”

“Two? How do you know there were two of them if no one saw them?” Mills asks.

Dr. Artemis now looks up at Silva, surprised, “There were two?”

He nods. “Went right through her. High velocity.”

Pain and anger is apparent in his eyes.

“Maybe Teflon.”

A contractor – not at all professional trained, Officer Mills deducts.

“That is nothing more than speculation until we have some confirmation.”

“I told you that at the time, Artemis. And that . . . that woman with higher senses . . . she agrees with me.”

“Higher senses?” Mills cannot help sighing, “Extrasensory perception is not an accepted police tactic Mr. Silva. At least, not under my watch.”

“Officer Gilman removed the shells.“ The doctor suddenly says.

“Officer Gilman?”

“Yes, Arkham police. They are at the Arkham PD.”

The doctor now looks up at Silva once again, “I was a little busy at the time, Silva, in case you don’t remember.”

“Didn’t your dog retrieve what might be a clothing sample?” Silva asks.

“Dog?” Mills asks

“Bruno.” The doctor nods.

“Clothing sample?”

“Yes, “

“And you handed that over to this Officer Gilman?”

“I was going to get to that, Officer Mills.”

He reaches into his pocket.

Officer Mills shakes her head and for a moment closes her eyes, no COC. None whatsoever – the defense attorney will have this thrown right out.

“Evidence needs a chain of custody, Doctor.”

She opens a desk drawer.

She takes out an evidence bag.

With a pair of pencils, using them like chopsticks, she takes the cloth from his outstretched hand and places the cloth into the bag.

Zips it closed.

“Well, I say I heard two sets of footsteps. In my opinion, there were two. I will state so for the record.”

“Why did you not give such evidence to the Arkham PD?” Officer Mills asks filling out the information needed on the evidence bag.

“Me, I already have. I wrote a deposition.” Silva responds.

Dr. Artemis holds up bag with a piece of purple cloth, heavily embroidered, “I knew you would want to see it after my analysis.”

“Doing a little amateur police work, are we Doctor? Not the Arkham PD criminal lab?” Mills asks.

David Silva nods. “Well, I for one would like to hear the results of that analysis.”

“I will remind you that the Arkham PD is terribly understaffed these days.” The doctor tells her.

She looks at him, her eyes now icy.

A key piece of evidence may no longer be admissible!

“This is an attempted murder on a high profile target, Doctor. I am sure they would make room to work on this.”

“They have no fulltime forensic examiner . . . not since the massacre last year.”

“Please don’t criticize Dr. Artemis. He is trying to help. Were it not for his quick action, St. Clair would be dead now.”

She looks over at Silva.

Her glare is arctic.

“I volunteer my time with the Police, when I can.” The doctor informs her.

“Well thank you doctor Artemis.’” She looks at the purple cloth in the evidence bag, “For that which we have received we are forever indebted to you.”

David Silva notes the mention of no forensic examiner . . . thinking that is rather interesting.

“Thank you, Silva.”

The doctor looks up at the man standing in the threshold of the cubical and then nods to Mills.

“Anyway, my watchdog took this off the culprit. Well, one of them, anyway.’” He says, “That is if there were two.”

“There’s something else you should know, Officer Mills.” Silva begins.

The doctor points out the buttons on the cloth.

“Please note the copper buttons.”

Officer Mills lifts the evidence bag and looks at them.

“It took me a while to research them, but they seem to have an unusual triskelon design.”

Officer Mills notes the inferences as such in her document.

“I believe they are a design associated with the Skgany tribe.”

“Native Americans?” Officer Mills raises an eyebrow.

“Please Officer Mills, listen to what I am trying to tell you. I was JUST discussing my theory that a certain party in Collinsport may be engaging in criminal activity, and that is when St. Clair was shot. And I can’t be sure, but last night I thought someone was following me. Could be just nerves . . . but, there are actually more than a few coincidences.” David Silva says.

“No, no. They are a tribe of Central European Gypsies.”

Officer Mills types Triskelon.

Gypsies.

Central European.

Dr. Artemis turns to look at Silva.

“What party?”

Silva lowers his voice. “This Mimecorp. I smell something rotten.”

Officer Mills looks at him,

“Of what, Sir?”

“No. That’s why I went to St. Clair.”

Dr. Artemis reaches into his pocket and now removes the envelope he had received earlier and opens it.

Silva watches.

“Oh my.” The doctor says.

“Something wrong, Doctor?” Silva asks.

Dr. Artemis sits silent.

Looks off into the station.

Rubs his chin.

“Hmm? Oh, not really.”

Officer Mills knows by his expression that is not true. “That a fact doctor?”

“Well, Professor Bertrand has had an accident.”

“Please, if you have private business to attend to . . . doctor.” Mills tells him.

“My condolences. I hope he’s ok.” Silva adds.

Dr. Artemis looks up, “Oh nothing serous. It seems I must take his place in the expedition.”

Officer Mills types a few more notes.

“Do you know what cases Chief St. Clair was working on?” Dr. Artemis asks.

“I cannot disclose St. Clair’s cases, doctor.”

“Right.”

“Could be one of them?” Silva says.

“One of them?” Artemis looks up.

“That is connected to the shooting—one of her cases.”

“Right.” The doctor nods, “Oh. There was one more thing . . . “

“Yes?” Mills turns to look at him.

“Maybe it’s a coincidence. Maybe not . . . but the same night that Chief St. Clair was shot, twenty-three bodies were removed from Christchurch cemetery in Arkham and Eagle’s Hill in Collinsport.”

Officer Mills stops typing.

She looks at him.

“Including the coffins and tombstones.”

“I fail to see how grave robbing and vandalism has anything to do with this, but I will make a note of it.”

“What possible connection could there be?” Silva turns to Mills.

“I find it more . . . connective that someone shot St. Clair just as she was about to hire me to investigate the Mimecorp technology.”

“Some of the internments date back to the early 18th Century.” The doctor muses.

“Early 18th Century?” Mills asks.

“Yes.”

She nods, “Well—if that is all doctor Artemis, I thank you for speaking with me.”

Dr. Artemis sits back.

He seems reflective, “Let us consider the possibilities . . .. Richard Pickman. . . This Mimecorp organization . . . A crazed Gypsy assassin . . . “

Officer Mills sits back thinking over the possibilities: insanity and or hallucinogens.

“Sorry doctor, but he died a long time ago. Pickman that is.” Silva says.

“Doctor, I do appreciate your testimony, but I have not asked for your help as a detective. With all due respect, I suggest you let the proper authorities deal with this case – and that is the Arkham PD and ourselves.”

“Gypsy?” Silva suddenly says out loud.

“What?” Officer Mills looks at him.

“Gypsy?” Silva says looking at the doctor, “I thought you said Native American?”

“No. Gypsy.”

“Like a Gypsy, Gypsy?”

“The Gypsy is the only clue with any physical evidence to support it.” Dr. Artemis sighs.

“Yes, well, we will be on the look out for gypsies.” Officer Mills says evenly.

He looks at her, “Very well, Officer Mills. I will leave it in your capable hands . . . “

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” He stands now.

“Oh, Doctor.” Mills says.

“Yes.”

“Thank you once again for saving St. Clair’s life.”

“But before I go, I would like to offer one piece of advice . . . “

“What is that doctor?”

“Get a bigger office.”

Cue Music End of Episode