Turn off the Light ch.18

The discussion, as Peter remembers it, was brief. There was, of course, never any hope. He knew Leight. He knew better than to expect Leight to undergo major personality changes just because they were in a relationship or even in love.

Leight is Leight, and Peter wouldn't want him any other way. So while he knew it was a futile endeavor, he still asked, and just as he had expected all along, Leight said no.

This is why Peter finds himself standing on Market Street, alone, but not really alone because there are at least a million people crammed in Philadelphia's Gayborhood.

In spite of the rancorous body odor of those million sweaty people crammed together on humid June morning, Peter manages to feel lonely—in part because he expected at least two million people but mostly because he hoped (in spite of sense) that one of them would be Leight.

He's holding a rainbow flag and even wearing the obligatory strand of pink Mardi Gras beads, but he hasn't quite caught that queer Pride feeling.

It isn't until his phone vibrates in his pocket that he begins to hope. He answers, holds it as close to his ear as possible, yells, "Hello?"

"Peter. Good. Penn's Landing. Now."

Peter can't tell, over the raucous ruckus, if Leight is using full sentences or not. The cheering and wooing and general merry-making are horribly distracting. "What? You're at Penn's Landing? You decided to come after all?"

"Penn's Landing," Leight enunciates. Clearly, there's noise and riot-like havoc on his end, too. "Now."

"Mal, I'm at the other end of the parade. Wouldn't it be easier if we met halfway?" Halfway also happened to be a block away from their apartment.

"Have you really not noticed?"

So Leight really has been talking in imperative fragments. Great, Peter thinks. Just great. "Noticed what?"

"How is the parade going?"

"Well," Peter furrows his brow, staring at the decidedly empty patch of street in front of him, "it's stalled at the moment."

"Yes, it is. Has been for the last ten minutes. Have you honestly not heard the news?"

"What news?"

"There's been a shooting."

Peter runs. If he really thought about it, he might realize that he has no reason to be running. There has been a shooting, and there is very little he can do about it.

If he really thought about it, he would realize that he should have held off on running and waited for Leight to give him a few details. He doesn't know if anyone is injured, if anyone is dead.

He doesn't know. And he really doesn't care because there's something positively invigorating about running through the streets with a mission you don't quite understand.

And so he runs toward the river, Mardi Gras beads banging against his chest, rainbow flag tucked precariously in his back pocket, with a mission he doesn't understand at all because that's just what he does. Leight says "now," and Peter runs.

"What took you so long?" Leight asks when Peter finally ducks underneath the yellow police tape, out of breath and still out of the loop. He doesn't seem to expect an answer.

Peter only has a moment to register what he's seeing. There's a car, vintage, red, of some classic make he can't name, stopped in the middle of the street. The white upholstery is stained with blood. There's a woman's body sprawled over the backseat.

"It happened twenty minutes ago," the Lieutenant, who has apparently grown a moustache rather lacking in taste in the month since Peter has seen him, informs.

"I can't believe the news hasn't spread faster. There are more cameras here than any other day of the year, and this story—it's going to be something. Pride shootings are always big news, but this wasn't your run of the mill San Francisco Mission District gang shooting. This—well, you can see for yourself—this was political."

Peter isn't close enough to see the body, so he has to ask. "Who was it?"

It's the Captain who answers. "Pennsylvania State Senator Maria Vasquez."

There isn't anything Peter can do but groan. He reads the newspaper. He knows where this is going. He wishes he didn't, but he does. So he groans.

The Captain continues his introduction. "Philadelphia native. 42. Married to ADA Antonio Vasquez. Two kids, ages ten and eight. Democrat. First District. Up for reelection next year. She's here because of the legislation she was planning to introduce next Monday."

"The Marriage Equality Act," Peter supplies.

"Exactly."

"You think she's dead because of it, too."

"It's a pretty clear motive," the Lieutenant jumps in. "According to her aides, she's been getting death threats since she leaked her agenda last week. The husband's already released a statement that he's going to continue her work."

Peter turns to Leight because there's no way Leight doesn't already have an opinion on this. He feels a bit sick to his stomach. He hates to think it's possible in this day and age that anyone would be so violently opposed to marriage equality that he or she would resort to murder.

It's funny, really, because the opponents of same-sex marriage claim that it would pollute the moral standards of society. It's ironic, in a really painful sort of way, because what erodes morality more than murder and bigotry?

Leight's countenance is, unfortunately, impassive. He does, however, cock his head to the side as he gestures to the car. "Shall we?"

"Wait," Peter says suddenly. "You haven't inspected the body yet?"

"I was waiting for you."

There are a thousand retorts (cause of death is obvious, you don't need me, I was on my way), but Peter doesn't use a single one. He nods. "All right then. Let's go examine the body."

So they head over to the convertible. Slumped in the backseat lies the body of Maria Vasquez, a woman Peter is fairly certain he would have voted for if he had ever had the chance.

She's petite in appearance with curly black hair that falls to her shoulders. Her tan face is just beginning to wrinkle. Her brown eyes are open, glassy, and utterly expressionless. She's dressed in a white skirt suit set and a dark red button-down shirt underneath.

The outfit accomplishes two difficult tasks; it matches both the car and the bloodstains. It only takes a moment to see that only one shot hit the body, and it seems to have lodged itself suspiciously close to Maria Vasquez's heart.

"It's what it looks like, isn't it?" Leight asks as he leans over the edge of the car. He sounds a bit bored. "Medically, I mean."

"Cause of death was that gunshot to the chest, yes," Peter affirms.

"Brilliant."

Peter fails to see what is brilliant about this assassination unless it's the fact that it seems to be fairly straightforward.

That's precisely when Leight leans a bit farther in. Then, his nose seizes up as he sniffs. He pulls back a moment later, looking thoroughly satisfied.

He turns around and walks back toward the Captain, whom he asks, "Do we know where the shot was fired from yet?"

"Not yet," the Captain answers with a grimace, "but ballistics is working as fast as they can. There's that new technology, and what with witnesses' accounts, we should have it in a matter of minutes."

"No matter." Leight shrugs. "I can do it myself." And that is exactly what he proceeds to do.

"This isn't possible," Peter insists as they run up the stairs of a particularly unimpressive apartment building. "You're just guessing."

"Maybe," Leight shrugs, "but my guesses are never wrong."

"All right," Peter concedes after a moment (because he's fighting a smile), "your guesses are getting better."

"Exactly," Leight confirms smartly as they reach the third floor landing.

Normally, he would take the opportunity to clap Peter on the shoulder; this time, however, he knows the Captain and the Lieutenant are at least a flight or two behind them, so he slaps Peter on the ass instead.

Peter scowls, but he doesn't complain.

Leight pushes out of the stairwell and proceeds down the hallway. He doesn't stop until they reach the third door on the right. He knocks—loudly and rather violently.

Peter frowns. "Shouldn't we wait for the Captain?"

"Won't make a difference," Leight shrugs. He waits precisely three seconds before knocking again. "No one is going to answer."

.

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