05-09-2014, 07:33 PM
Kragen is in only a single set of handcuff for but a moment. Before long he has been handcuffed and strapped down to the stretcher. EMTs tend as they much as they can to the two bullet holes in his shoulder and the third along his mangled jaw once he's loaded into the back of an ambulance.
He's still able to talk, but it is painful, so he must mean those words he's tossing about.
Detective Cutter is the arresting officer and he acts as DPD's representative in the back of that bus. He's joined by a fed in a black suit who unbuttons his jacket as he relaxes onto the bench the runs along once side of the ambulance.
“Special Agent William Troy,” the man says with a nod to Detective Cutter.
“I've already spoken with your Captain and Deputy Chief. I'm going to be joining you in escorting and any questioning of Mr. Kingsmith,” is how he begins inserting himself into this.
“Not to step on any toes,” his thin-lipped and tilt-headed expression seems to recognize is exactly what someone says before they start stomping, “but this investigation has a federal aspect and we need to work in unison,” finishing with a shrug.
It isn't long before Kragen's transport is moving, its own lights joining with the telltale blue strobe of police vehicles guarding its passage, but it's long enough for the extent of his actions to begin to set in. The long line of carnage that had led from Capitol Hill to the field he'd finally been caught in.
Other than the words exchanged between the agent and detective, and whatever Kragen has to add to them between pokes and prods from the EMT, the only noise is their siren cacophony dying as the arrival to Swedish Medical Center. It isn't the closest Level I Trauma Center as the crow flies, but downtown traffic means it's the fastest these blazing lights can get to.
Kragen is taken out the back upon their arrival to the hospital and wheeled to a section of the hospital that is quickly quartered off by officers and agents. A doctor and three assistants arrive to begin more definitive treatment for the bullet wounds once he's brought into a closed off operating room and put under anesthesia.
Just as he'd faded to black under the blanket of the drugs his vision again moves from darkened to blurry to bleary eyed until it's fully sharpened and returned. Kragen is still in that same operating room he'd fallen asleep in untold hours ago. It's white as snow with only blue curtains and stainless steel tools and trays, and there's the steady beeping from the machine near his bed.
He's still strapped to that table, still handcuffed by his wrists and ankles to it, and a sore and distant pain persists in his shoulder, jaw, and stomach.
A doctor enters his field of vision. His hair is hidden by a surgical cap and most of his face by a similar mask. All that's visible are his simple brown eyes. They look interested as he looms over the man.
“I want to let you know that I don't admire your work, Mr. Kingsmith. It's vulgar and that makes this much easier,” he says, the mask shifting as a chin and lips move beneath it, his voice quite plain. Mediocre. “Don't get me wrong. Your earlier pieces were creative. A lake of gasoline underneath a haven? The collapse of that roadway outside Chicago? Excellent, but so far in the past. Though I guess age catches up with some of us.”
He's still able to talk, but it is painful, so he must mean those words he's tossing about.
Detective Cutter is the arresting officer and he acts as DPD's representative in the back of that bus. He's joined by a fed in a black suit who unbuttons his jacket as he relaxes onto the bench the runs along once side of the ambulance.
“Special Agent William Troy,” the man says with a nod to Detective Cutter.
“I've already spoken with your Captain and Deputy Chief. I'm going to be joining you in escorting and any questioning of Mr. Kingsmith,” is how he begins inserting himself into this.
“Not to step on any toes,” his thin-lipped and tilt-headed expression seems to recognize is exactly what someone says before they start stomping, “but this investigation has a federal aspect and we need to work in unison,” finishing with a shrug.
It isn't long before Kragen's transport is moving, its own lights joining with the telltale blue strobe of police vehicles guarding its passage, but it's long enough for the extent of his actions to begin to set in. The long line of carnage that had led from Capitol Hill to the field he'd finally been caught in.
Other than the words exchanged between the agent and detective, and whatever Kragen has to add to them between pokes and prods from the EMT, the only noise is their siren cacophony dying as the arrival to Swedish Medical Center. It isn't the closest Level I Trauma Center as the crow flies, but downtown traffic means it's the fastest these blazing lights can get to.
Kragen is taken out the back upon their arrival to the hospital and wheeled to a section of the hospital that is quickly quartered off by officers and agents. A doctor and three assistants arrive to begin more definitive treatment for the bullet wounds once he's brought into a closed off operating room and put under anesthesia.
Just as he'd faded to black under the blanket of the drugs his vision again moves from darkened to blurry to bleary eyed until it's fully sharpened and returned. Kragen is still in that same operating room he'd fallen asleep in untold hours ago. It's white as snow with only blue curtains and stainless steel tools and trays, and there's the steady beeping from the machine near his bed.
He's still strapped to that table, still handcuffed by his wrists and ankles to it, and a sore and distant pain persists in his shoulder, jaw, and stomach.
A doctor enters his field of vision. His hair is hidden by a surgical cap and most of his face by a similar mask. All that's visible are his simple brown eyes. They look interested as he looms over the man.
“I want to let you know that I don't admire your work, Mr. Kingsmith. It's vulgar and that makes this much easier,” he says, the mask shifting as a chin and lips move beneath it, his voice quite plain. Mediocre. “Don't get me wrong. Your earlier pieces were creative. A lake of gasoline underneath a haven? The collapse of that roadway outside Chicago? Excellent, but so far in the past. Though I guess age catches up with some of us.”