<div style="background-color:#050505; border:1px solid black; margin:10px 10px; padding-left: 5px; padding-right: 5px;"><div style="background-color:#101010; border:1px solid black; margin:10px 10px; padding-left: 5px; padding-right: 5px;"><img alt="" src="http://i.imgur.com/YqoWFWw.jpg?2" style="float:right; padding:6px;"/><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #7b2424"><span style="font-size: 200%; line-height: 116%;"><span style="font-family: Pristina;"><span style="font-weight: bold">I A N</span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="color: #6b1f1f"><span style="font-size: 150%; line-height: 116%;"><span style="font-family: Pristina;"></span></span></span><span style="color: #101010">____________________</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #d6d6d6">The guards waited until Detectives Trace Sandin and 'Just Jo' left to start grabbing and prodding and shoving. One of them was a giant of a man, standing five inches taller than Ian himself and having the overwhelming presence that he could break anyone over his knee if he wanted to. The other wasn't nearly as intimidating. In fact, he was quite the opposite: vertically challenged, high prescription glasses and a physique that made Ian wonder what the standards for security guards were these days. The cuffs no longer bound him to the chair, but instead the short one cuffed his hands behind him and ordered him to stand up. Never one for disobedience, Ian bolted to his feet as fast as his legs would push him up and laughed as the shorter of his two escorts made a scrambling effort to get his hand on his nightstick. The fat one circled around behind him and gave him a rough push toward the door. <br/><br/>"You're awfully handsy." <br/><br/>"Keep it moving, Baird."<br/><br/>"You can go." Ian turned his head to the side and feigned looking around for a second before finally looking down almost a full foot and laughed, but the small guard ignored him. "I can take him back."<br/><br/>A few seconds of silence passed, and Ian could feel a series of exchanged looks was passing between the two behind his back, but he just kept looking forward through the threshold of the door. The fat one wasn't holding onto the chain connecting his wrists very well. If he were to charge forward, he probably could have gotten free and made his way all the way down the hall before they even knew what happened. But he didn't. He didn't charge out through the door, and he didn't make his way down the hall. He felt the cuffs change hands from the fat one to the short one, and he just let it happen. <br/><br/>Eventually the ungodly mix of quarterback and quarter-pounder left, and he was stuck with the less desirable short and humorless one. One hand was secured around the cuffs and the other was placed firmly on his back to keep him moving through the door and down the hall, only opposite the way he had been fantasizing about going earlier. They were headed back to the solitary cells. Ian was the last cell at the end of this hall, of which there were only three other occupants, and step by step Ian closed in on the cell he hadn't left for months prior for an indeterminate amount of time to spend in it still. He was about to let out a loud sigh, but it turned into a small groan as the guard forced him to take a sharp right turn down to the next adjacent hall and slammed him up against a wall. Ian blinked twice and then clenched his eyes shut to keep the suddenly <span style="font-style: italic">extremely</span> bright light from making his oncoming headache worse. <br/><br/>"You better watch who you're pissing off, Baird." The guard used the entirety of his body weight to pin Ian flat against the sickeningly cold wall that clashed against the heat on his face. The hard contrast in temperature made him feel nauseous, but he forced his eyes open just in time to watch the guard put his chin on Ian's shoulder. "Fucking with me isn't doing you any favors, understand?" Ian nodded his head. "Alright then. Any questions?" <br/><br/>Ian looked down at the floor, then back up at the guard. He grinned in spite of the pain in his temples. "Are you standing on your toes?"The guard scowled in genuine disdain and pulled him roughly away from the wall to push him back down his hallway and depositing of him in his solitary cell. Ian backed up to the door and did his best to put his wrists backwards through the small window at the middle of the door. If the poor vertically challenged guard outside had taken any longer to undo his cuffs, Ian would have been afraid that he was just going to leave them on as payback for all the short jokes.  </span></div></div><div style="background-color:#101010; border:1px solid black; margin:10px 10px; padding-left: 5px; padding-right: 5px;"><img alt="" src="http://i.imgur.com/Y01yBm8.jpg?1" style="float:right; padding:6px;"/><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: #7b2424"><span style="font-size: 200%; line-height: 116%;"><span style="font-family: Pristina;"><span style="font-weight: bold">T R A C E</span></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="color: #6b1f1f"><span style="font-size: 150%; line-height: 116%;"><span style="font-family: Pristina;"></span></span></span><span style="color: #101010">____________________</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">"More like a lying piece of shit," Trace quipped, unbuttoning his suit jacket and pulling out a pack of cigarettes from his pants pocket. "He knows a lot more than he's letting on." <br/><br/>His tenure as a detective with Miami-Dade Homicide had seen some interesting things. Ian Baird was <span style="font-style: italic">nothing.</span> Someone with a god-complex enough to want to imitate a serial killer had plenty of better choices available. There was absolutely nothing in it for someone to mimic Ian, unless they were doing it <span style="font-style: italic">for</span> Ian. And then it all circles back to yet another charge on Ian's record. It was always funny, in a sick sort of way, to watch killers lie through their teeth when they were caught trying to dodge charges or throw off the investigation. Ian was just slightly better at acting the innocent.<br/><br/>The kid was smart, Trace had to give him that much. He was careful not to be recorded, he only picked one detective to actually talk to so neither could corroborate the other's interview results. He thought two steps ahead of them and it pissed him off to no end. <br/><br/>Navigating the labyrinth of cold hallways and colder faces only took a few minutes, and then they were being let out through the double-door exit into the parking lot at the side of the building, where Trace immediately conjured a lighter and lit a cigarette. He threw the pack back into his pocket and exchanged them for keys that conveniently unlocked the doors of his black Pathfinder, throwing open the driver's side door when he got there and sliding in. "What do you want to bet LT got sent another spooky letter from Ian's friend?"</div></div><br/><div style="background-color:#101010; border:1px solid black; margin:10px 10px; padding-left: 5px; padding-right: 5px;"><ul> <br/></ul></div></div>