HLotS fiction: Unlove You - #7
Dec. 3rd, 2008 07:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
omg_wtf_yeahRating: 13
Fandom: Homicide: Life on the Street
Characters: Frank, Tim
Summary: Set during the fourth season. Bayliss and Pembleton don't see eye-to-eye on a case.
Warnings: Mild profanity, some blood.
Disclaimer: The characters of Frank Pembleton and Tim Bayliss as well as the series Homicide belong to NBC, Tom Fontana and David Simon.
Table: In this post.
Prompt: #7 Prove it.
7. Prove it.
“It wasn’t the boyfriend.” The sound of the sedan’s doors shutting carried over the maple lined street and manicured leaf strewn yards.
Frank turned to look sharply to Tim at his partner’s decisive statement. He’d been on him all day, since they’d met in the break room earlier, nagging him about the coffee and how Frank never invited him to his house for dinner, that they didn’t spend any time together. Four years on the force and he was a master detective. Now he was acting like Sherlock Holmes. It was quickly getting out of hand. Someone had to rein this pup in.
“You think it wasn’t the boyfriend.” Frank sounded the words out skeptically, pulling his mouth into a sneer. The keys jingled as he fit them into the ignition and the engine turned over. “If it wasn’t the boyfriend who was it?” Tim stretched his legs out in the passenger seat, smiling and self satisfied. “Wasn’t the boyfriend.” He repeated.
Of course it was the boyfriend. The boyfriend had a record, he had motive, his weapon was left at the scene, he’d bolted since the old man’s daughter found him dead. “On what do you base that assumption?” Frank enunciated derisively. “Intuition, Frank. I have a feeling about this.” Frank grasped the gear and shifted into reverse, the backs of his knuckles brushing the fabric of Tim’s trench coat, bunched between the seat and the arm rest. He backed the car through the red and yellow leaves banked on the curb. “You have a feeling.” Frank repeated caustically.
Tim stared at Frank’s profile in good humor, unaffected by Frank’s black mood. “Yes,” He replied, “Because the daughter was lying.” He looked stupid to Frank and simultaneously endearing which irritated him almost as much as his attitude.
“Point in fact, Frank. A guilty person wrings their hands.” He shook his head, propping his elbow on the window as he pointed vaguely, leaning down and close. “She was wringing, Frank.” The burnished autumn trees passed behind Tim’s head, framed by the window, flashes of gold and copper in the morning sun. He was grinning, his teeth sharp and white beneath his full curved lips. “It’s a sign of guilt.” Frank clicked, running his tongue over his teeth leisurely. “Signs.” Frank pronounced scornfully.
“Police work isn’t based on guesses.” He corrected Tim. “Evidence, perseverance…intellect… A little luck.” He shrugged in an act of generous latitude. “Guesses make for sloppy policing.” Tim’s smile was unfazed by Frank’s scathing rebuttal. He smugly shook his head. “It’s not a guess, Frank. It’s instinct.” His vaguely New York, Midwest, whatever regional accent shaped his words charmingly. Frank sucked his back teeth, looking distinctly unimpressed.
“So now you have instincts.”
“I know what I know, Frank, and this,” He pointed downward emphatically. “I know.” Leaning half over Frank’s shoulder, he lifted his eyes to look out the windshield. Frank could feel the side of his arm against his own. “Take Arbor. It’s a shortcut.” He added. Frank pointedly ignored his suggestion and Tim turned to watch the street sign sail by.
“You want to do things your way, go ahead. You take the daughter. I’ll track down the boyfriend.” Tim’s mouth hung agape as he stared at Frank. “We’ll see about your instincts.”
“All right, Frank. We’ll do that. And you,” He pointed at the center of Frank’s chest. “You are going to eat your words.”
_____________________________________
The boyfriend gambled at Dominos, more adept at losing than winning pool games. In return for Frank’s magnanimous oversight of the dime bag he tried to tuck into a bench before leaving a corner boy by the name of J.D. was highly informative in where the boyfriend might go to lay low. The lead took them to a crack house on Michigan where Frank and Kay Howard waited outside a half hour before the boyfriend showed up.
Seeing two trench coats climbing out of a white unmarked sedan and coming toward him, he turned tail and shot off in the opposite direction, full tilt. Kay got the lead and dragged him off a fence in the alley. A minute later with a gun on him his hands were behind his head and Frank snapped the cuffs on his wrists. “Read ‘im his rights, huh?” Kay said, her shield flashing on her belt as she tucked her gun away. Frank didn’t need the instruction. Breathlessly, he hauled the suspect off by his elbow, wrists pinioned at his back.
Forty minutes later they were at the precinct, Frank escorting his suspect to the box as Kay hung back to ask Munch about the status of the Goldberg case. Tim left the break room as Frank shut the door behind him, cloistering himself and the suspect in the box. Across the squad room, Tim watched the door with interest, trying to catch a glimpse through the window as Frank snapped the blinds shut. “Bayliss, you workin’ the Jamison case?” Kay called to him.
Tim started at the sound of her voice. He straightened up, smoothing his tie down and glancing sidelong back to the closed door. “Uh, yeah. Yeah. Frank’s the primary.” He said, smoothing down the close cropped hair on the back of his head. “Why aren’t you in there questioning O’Hara with Pembleton?” Kay asked. Her hands circled her slim waist as she leaned back at the hip.
Tim’s expression blanked at the question, hesitating as Kay waited for him to respond. Over Kay’s shoulder Munch stared at him through the tinted lenses of his glasses, a trademark mix of boredom and sarcasm on his face. Tim glanced toward the window of the box where one sticking blind betrayed an inch tall glimpse of the curve of Frank’s shoulders as he sat back in his chair.
Tim opened his mouth then closing it bent close to Kay at Munch’s desk, sequestering the sergeant with his larger frame. The rollers on John Munch’s chair squeaked as Munch leaned in to partake in the conference transpiring at the edge of his desk.
“You see,” Tim said, “Frank and I have a difference of opinion about who shot the old man.” Kay curled her narrow fist in her red curls and absently shoved them over her shoulder as Tim spoke, listening with an expression somewhere between impatience and total disinterest. Better to speed it up, Tim figured from the looks on Munch and Kay’s faces. “So we’re pursuing different...different…” Tim rolled a hand in the air to illustrate his meaning, nodding in time with the thoughts in his head. Kay followed his words with steady attention. “Theories.” Tim finished. A pause followed his statement and Munch lifted his brows over his dark glasses to emphasize what read strongly as skepticism. Kay hooked her hands in her pockets and leaned into his space.
“You got a lead on this?” Kay asked him. Tim drew back, eyes moving to the door of the break room where Kellerman and Lewis were tossing a wadded sheet of printer paper back and forth. “Yeah…” He winced. Mulling it over in his mind, he bobbed his head optimistically, courting the ceiling with his gaze. “Not so much a lead as a hunch.” He admitted hesitantly, meeting Kay’s direct stare. He drew his lip between his teeth and bit lightly, dragging his teeth gently over the skin. At their elbows, Munch turned his stare slowly to Kay as though to silently ask her if she could believe this load of crap. “Well, then what’re you doing?”
“Yeah, see,” Tim gestured widely with his hands. “I’m waiting for some tests to come back.”
“What tests? Depending on the test you could be waiting weeks.” Tim shook his head. “To compare the bullet recovered from Jamison’s head to the gun found at the scene.” Kay turned to look at Munch, drawing her lips back in a lopsided smile. “If you found the weapon what’re you waiting for?” Tim widened his eyes, expressing clarity. “Scheiner. He’s calling me back as soon as he pulls out the slugs.” The phone on the edge of Munch’s desk trilled and Munch withdrew to pick the receiver up.
“If you’ve got somethin’ to do I don’t wanna see you hangin’ around wastin’ time around here.” Kay said. Her red hair fell over her shoulders as she shook her head. “Get down to the M.E’s and wait there if all you’re doing here is waiting for the call.” She thrust a thumb in the direction of the door, the overheads flashing on the rings on her fingers.
“Homicide.” Munch spoke into the receiver.
“Well, I know that, Kay.” Tim retorted defensively. “I was just…” He shook his head, knitting his brows as he picked his coat up off his chair. “I was getting my coat.” Kay squared her shoulders like she had something else to say but whatever she might’ve said was interrupted by Munch’s words as he set down the phone. “A good Samaritan called in a drive by on West Curtis. Do you want to ride?” Kay looked back at him over her shoulder. “West Curtis?” She asked. “Yeah. Some west Baltimorons were playing target practice with a cornerboy on the eleven hundredth block.”
“Isn’t that where Lewis and Kellerman caught the double a few months back? The Tanner-“
Tim stepped backward, slipping the brown trench on over his suit, escaping little by little until Kay called out at his back. “Bayliss!” He turned, between the filing cabinet and his desk chair. “Keep me posted, huh?” Kay said, nodding to bring her point across as she pulled on her coat. Tim shook his head, spreading his hands in the air. “Okay.”
With that Kay turned back to Munch and Tim was forgotten. He took the time to beat an exit before he was unduly harassed any further.
_____________________________________
An hour and a half in the box had Frank going in circles. The motorhead was a lost cause. All kinds of stupid, he let his mouth run about his associates when he wasn’t saying that he wouldn’t say a thing. Frank refreshed his memory to have it wiped clean again. It was getting more aggravating than diverting.
He gave him a half hour to stew on it as he smoked up on the roof. The plumes of his cigarette smoke twirled on the air and seemed to give form to the thoughts that preoccupied him. Crossing his arms over his chest he lifted his brows over a dull and unimpressed gaze, leaning back against the chain link fence. It was the waiting game.
“Hey, hey, hey.” Frank visored his eyes from the midday sun, staring over the concrete to the glass paneled doors from which Kellerman and Lewis were coming out onto the roof. Lewis’s tie fluttered in the wind, a deep eggplant violet banner patterned with lilac tiles of contrasting hue, his eyes narrowed against the light beneath the brim of his leather hat. “If it ain’t my man Frank Pembleton in the flesh.” He reached out and they clasped hands briefly as Kellerman caught up from behind, chewing gum and squinting at the sun. “Where’s Bayliss?”
“Beats me.” Frank replied coolly. Lewis glanced back at his partner and Mike smiled with as much amusement as was on the other man’s face. “Uh oh. Trouble in paradise.” Meldrick grinned. “What’s with that? You guys have a fight?” Mike asked, maybe amused and maybe a little interested but not entirely either, twirling a toothpick between his fingers in the corner of his lips. Frank pulled a face.
“What Bayliss does is his own problem.” He pronounced clearly, shaping his lips distinctly around the words. Meldrick Lewis grinned at Mike, who returned his glance with vague amusement. “Don’t nobody say the honeymoon don’t last.” Frank clicked his tongue, taking a last drag off his cigarette. Mike eyed it with obvious envy, in that semi-permanent state of flux between periods of habit. “It’s going to end with me killing him.” Mike and Lewis broke into smiles, laughing. “Whoa!” Meldrick called, “Watch out!” Frank flipped his cigarette to the ground. He walked back inside, trailed by Mike and Lewis’s laughter by the fence.
Inside, he took the maze of hallways at a clip, his footsteps resounding in chorus over the chipped walls and cement floor. His jacket fluttered back from his hip and the overheads flashed on his shield – quicksilver in the low light. His dark skin was burnished by the lamps.
He wondered again where Tim disappeared to, irritated at the inconvenience of his absence. It had been easily five hours since he’d seen him – the slammed sedan doors a refrain to their separation. When they’d arrived back at the precinct they’d gone their separate ways. Whatever Tim was doing didn’t matter. Frank wasn’t humoring his impulse. They weren’t married. He wasn’t going to treat him like his wife. By nightfall the case would solve itself neatly according to Frank’s expectations because criminals were stupid – crime was stupid. It didn’t defy logic. It always made too much sense.
Coming through the archway into the squad room, Frank passed Judy’s desk when she looked up at him, cupping her hand over the receiver resting on her shoulder, a pen cradled between the index and middle fingers of her right hand. “Pembleton – Bayliss called.” Frank pulled a scowl, lifting his hand in dismissal. “Tell ‘im I’ll call him back.” He called, turning once more on his way. Judy half rose from her chair behind him, getting irritated. “I’m not on the phone with him, Pembleton.” Getting lippy. “You wanna call him back you’re going to have to do it yourself.” Frank stalled, glancing back at her. “All right. I’ll do that.”
He wasn’t planning on doing that. Let Tim come to him. He was the one being contrary.
Judy looked like she didn’t remotely give a damn and returned to her phone call, attentively jotting something down on a sheet of paper on her desk. Frank pushed the door to the box open and the low light that bounced off the mustard yellow walls assailed his eyes, already sensitive from standing out on the bleached concrete of the roof.
The motorhead was leaning back into his chair, checking his teeth in the observation window as he balanced on the back chair legs, feet crossed at the ankle on the table edge. Frank stood at the open door a moment, his gaze impenetrable and remote. At his entrance the motorhead looked up, enthusiastic at the attention he was deprived of and ready to continue giving any information that might expedite his release. “Did you track down Jojo?” He asked. Frank crossed his arms slowly, kicking the door shut with his left loafer.
They were closed in together once more.
“Oh, yeah. We talked to your boy Jojo.”
The motorhead smiled radiantly, nodding. “Then you know it wasn’t me ripped nobody off.” Frank pursed his lips, the shake of his head nice and slow. “What were you doing nine o’clock this morning.” The same frustrating path. “I told you!” The boyfriend wailed. “I was down McCarthy. But I wasn’t selling no crystal.” Frank gave him an evil look. Approaching the table slowly, the boyfriend was too stupid to find his posture menacing or any more menacing than any other cop who picked him up in front of a dope dealer’s at twelve in the afternoon.
Frank placed his hands on the boyfriend’s shoes and flung them off the table. The metal chair legs screeched over the floor, slamming down into place. “Tell me about your girlfriend.” The motorhead’s blank expression took on something like irritation perceived through a fogged glass. “That bitch?” He asked. “What’s she got to do with anything?”
“You go over to your girlfriend’s house last night?”
“Last night?” He appeared to be thinking fast. Or trying to.
“Last night.” Frank repeated. His eyes a solid weight on the boyfriend’s face. He spread his hands over the table, one on each edge and leaned over him – taking up his space, blocking out the light with his frame.
“I don’t know nothin’ about last night.” He answered in a hurry. Frank nodded. “You don’t know nothin’ about last night.”
“That’s right.” He nodded, his empty head bouncing up and down in a pattern of total compliance. “I don’t care what that bitch says. I wasn’t at her fuckin’ house. I didn’t lay a fuckin’ hand on the bitch.” Frank’s face slipped out of the light. “You got a gun, O’Hara?” The boyfriend clammed up, his mouth a thinned line sucked into his face. “Nope.” He said, shaking his head. Frank slipped back from the table, turning his back on the head. He bowed his shoulders, laughing. He ramped it up, something a little unhinged in that laugh which usually got suspects talking. The boyfriend could see his face in the mirror and it made him nervous, which Frank was aware of.
He turned and clapped his hands over his mouth. His white teeth flashed beneath his dark lips, smiling widely. “We know you’ve got a gun, O’Hara. You bought it two years ago at B & G Pawn. We have records of things like that.” The boyfriend nodded in time with Frank’s comment, slow to get it and slow to answer. “Oh, you mean that one.” He said quickly. “I thought you meant a different one. ‘Cause I don’t have no other gun.” Struck by sudden inspiration he went on. “The reason why I said I didn’t have one is because I don’t have that one…anymore after it got jacked from my apartment.”
“Someone jacked your gun from your apartment?” Frank asked jocularly.
The head was in complete agreement.
Frank came closer, framed up the table with his body once more. Smiling, he fostered intimacy between them. He crooked a finger to lure the boyfriend closer and the boyfriend warily complied. Speaking lowly and close, Frank grinned. “Then why was it at your girlfriend’s house this morning?” The boyfriend’s eyes reflected pristine void. “I don’t know.”
The latch on the door clicked open and the noise from the squad room intruded on the solitude of the box. Frank turned and found Tim’s tall frame in the doorway, glancing between Frank and the boyfriend in turn. “Frank, can I have a minute?” Frank smoothed his tie down and gestured for Tim to pass through the door.
“Hey, can I go now?” The boyfriend called as Frank grasped the doorknob. Frank turned a scathing look on him once more. “What do you think?” Before he could figure that out Frank shut the door. Back in the squad room, Tim leant close and Frank passed a hand over his forehead, down his face, over his mouth, propping a hand on his waist. “I went back to the scene to question the neighbors again.” Frank’s dark eyes followed Tim’s mouth as he spoke. “And they said, they hadn’t seen O’Hara’s car at the Jamisons’ in a week.”
Frank shrugged.
“Could’ve been late.” Tim stared back at Frank keenly. “Could’ve gotten a ride.”
“Well, here’s something else, Frank: Kelly wasn’t at work yesterday like she said she was. She never came into work. Now how do you think something like that would slip her mind?” It was compelling. “You talk to her boss?” Tim nodded, looking self satisfied. “She left at the end of her shift on Tuesday but she didn’t show up last night.” Frank paused, dropping his hand chest level as he focused on nothing. Then he looked back up at Tim.
“If she wasn’t at work last night it would put her at home around the time of death.” Tim nodded emphatically, grin spreading across his face. “Does the M.E. have anything yet?” Tim flipped the pager on his belt buckle. “Juliana Cox paged me about thirty minutes ago.” Finally, they could make a little headway.
“Then let’s go.” Frank said, gesturing onward with a hand.
_____________________________________
Frank glanced at Tim who was still bent over the corpse, inspecting the gore closely with uplifted brows. Frank’s slow eyes moved back to Cox as she set her clipboard on a nearby table. “But…?” He prompted. Tim glanced over his shoulder at Frank before looking up at Cox, hands clasped at his back. “But on closer inspection it becomes apparent that this was not the cause of death.”
Tim straightened up, eyeing Frank over his shoulder. He flicked at a piece of lint on his shoulder. “Which was…?” He began.
“Which was another bullet wound to the head.” Cox stated decisively.
Frank and Tim exchanged glances. They paused for a moment then Frank spread his hands in the air, cocking his head for understanding. “What are you saying, Dr. Cox? That the victim wasn’t killed by a gunshot but a gunshot?” He nodded. “So, what’s your point?”
Cox’s smile was charismatic.
“This man was shot with two different guns.”
Frank lifted his brows. Tim looked in turn at Cox then back at Frank. “So are we looking with two different gunmen?” The overheads reflected on Cox’s hair as she tilted her head, arms crossed over her chest. “Possibly,” She drawled, “Except…”
Tim pitched his brows empathically, glancing at Frank. “Except?” He asked. Juliana smiled. “Except that if you examine the wound itself – and this is preliminary – but…if you examine the clotting in the area it looks an awful lot…” She lifted her gaze to the detectives dramatically, “Like the second bullet wound was posthumous.”
Tim slid his gaze to Frank, mouth agape to gloat about his victory.
Frank clicked his tongue.
Juliana grinned, her smile lopsided. “Pretty cute, huh?” She asked.
Frank arched a brow irritably. “Oh, that’s cute, all right.”
_____________________________________
Back at the Jamisons, they needlessly flashed their credentials to the grieving daughter before barging in the house. The scene was as they’d left it that morning. The stillness of the shaft of afternoon light illuminating the dust motes on the air as Frank bent over the blood stain on the living room rug, probing with his latex clad fingers at the fiber assiduously. His partner was by the doorway, pad flipped open as he consulted with the daughter about her report of the tragedy of the hour.
“Let me know if you need me.” She said as Tim released her from his side. Frank almost snickered when Tim said, “We’ll, uh, we’ll let you know.”
His black dress shoes twisted on the walnut floor, bringing him across the room to his partner’s side. He looked over Frank’s hunched shoulders, humming to himself softly. Frank didn’t look up. “Don’t crowd me.” He muttered without looking up. Tim glanced down on the back of Frank’s head, his full mouth humorless.
“Go over there. Get out of my light.” He flicked his hand toward the wall. For a moment Tim stood behind him without moving. Then he turned and drifted to the lace curtain hung at the window by the fireplace and pulled them open to admit the light. He glanced at the pictures on the mantel – tarnished gold frames around the daughter – grandchildren by another progeny. Tim turned back to the living room, hazel eyes sweeping over the dim shapes of the furniture and the walls.
He hummed, taking inventory.
Frank flipped the rug over, running his gloved finger over the hole in the floor. “Now why in the name of hell…” He mumbled without answering. Tim passed him, framing the scene with his hands. “And then the…” He spoke to himself quietly. “Tsk.” Frank glanced his way then past him, at the rust colored stains on the floor. “Not bad.” He announced. “This layout. Gets good sun.” Tim inspected the floorboard with his fingers.
“Oh, yeah, Frank.” He agreed. “If you can get the blood stains out.”
Frank slid his eyes over the ceiling. Seeing what he’d suspected, he made little sign. “Depends upon how porous the wood is – how quick you get to it.” He stood, pointing systematically to the ceiling. “And…” He mumbled distractedly, “Nah, not…”
Tim’s hands crawled along the wainscot, brows knit in intense examination. “Well, y’just, you know, sand it down – refinish it. My cousin knows a guy, contractor…” Squinting, he muttered, “Uh huh, uh huh.” As though answering a silent question. Frank shrugged, eyes on the floorboard. “Not for me. The suburbs.” His dark eyes slid back to the blood splatters, narrowing his eyes beneath pragmatic brows. “It’s boring.” He made a motion with his hand toward the spots, like playing duck-duck-goose. Tim’s coat shifted against his knees as he straightened up. “Uh un.” He said to himself.
“Well, it’s a matter of opinion, Frank.” Tim asserted absently. “Objectively, it’s a beautiful house, present circumstances notwithstanding.” Frank nodded his head to either side, appraising the room. “Too big.” He disagreed. “I like a townhouse, an apartment – in the city. Out here in the boonies…it’s boring.” Distracted, he dropped his gaze to the floor, then to the floorboard, kneeling low to examine the wood. “But look…” He breathed.
“Look at what?” Tim asked, staring up at the ceiling.
“Not you.”
“Oh.”
“You gotta broaden your horizons.” Tim advised. They came to the wall at the same time, meeting eye to eye then gazing upward. “Chair.” Frank instructed. Tim nodded. “Yeah.” He walked back to the window and grasped the wooden chair by the fireplace, testing its sturdiness in his hands. He curtailed the bloodstain and rejoined his partner. The chair legs scraped on the hardwood as he set it on the floor. He glanced at it again and Frank glanced over at him. Tim curved his hand on the back of the chair, testing it tentatively with his foot. Frank watched him attentively. He laid his hand on Frank’s shoulder and caught his eyes. “Don’t make me fall – I already threw my back out once this-“
Frank sneered, swiping his hands widely through the air. “Get on the damn chair!”
Tim bore his weight up between his hands on the chair and his partner, stepping up cautiously on the arguably sturdy antique. Six foot five already, he was scraping the ceiling on the chair. “See anything?” Frank’s tone was overbearing. “Gimme a minute.” Tim replied.
Frank turned his eyes back to the bloodstain before returning them to Tim’s shoulders and back. “Uh, no…” Tim muttered, probing the crown molding with his fingers. “Oh.”
“What is it?”
“Hand me some, uh…” He made a pinching gesture. Frank patted down his coat, retracted from his pocket a set of pincers which he handed up to Tim. “Yeah.” Frank nodded wordlessly, staring up as Tim dug the pincers into a small hole in the trim. The sound of metal scraping wood rose as Frank listened with one ear to the sound of water running and dishes in the kitchen through the open door.
“Oh, yes.”
Tim descended from the chair and Frank craned his neck to get a closer look. His partner’s lips curved into a bright
smile, carefully lifting a small, crushed bullet for Frank’s eyes.
Frank raised a brow and clicked his tongue.
A half hour had it out that the daughter shot the father over an argument about the boyfriend, late the night before. Spooked by her recent undertakings, she’d retrieved the boyfriend’s gun from her room where he’d stowed it and blew an orange sized hole in the old man’s head. No strings. No complications. Another name in black under Pembleton’s name on the board.
Tim kept shooting glances his way in the squad room, expecting some big apology as smoke curled off the end of Frank’s cigarette as he finished typing his report. No matter what he wanted no apology or great acknowledgement was coming in his direction. As far as Frank was concerned it was 1-1, dead even. Tim pegged the daughter a liar. But Frank was right after his own fashion.
Criminals were stupid and crime always made too much sense.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
Re: Criminals were stupid and crime always made too much sense.
Date: 2009-03-14 12:33 am (UTC)Re: Criminals were stupid and crime always made too much sense.
Date: 2009-03-14 06:50 am (UTC)Despite the timeline inconguity, still a very enjoyable story!
Re: Criminals were stupid and crime always made too much sense.
Date: 2009-03-16 01:15 am (UTC)