[hr][hr][center][h1][b][i][color=orangered]Caesar Gonzalez[/color][/i][/b][/h1]
[img]https://pbs.twimg.com/profile_images/487020636179402752/__RXVLTs_400x400.png[/img][hr][b]Location:[/b] Apartment 2D (Alicia's), Street
[b]Interacting With:[/b] Alicia, Lorna, Cecily, and a Very Anxious Reporter 
[hr][hr][/center]

	The alarm on the oven trilled softly, announcing the completion of the taquitos. Caesar pulled them from the heat with a big, puffy blue oven mitt and set the pan onto the stovetop. It was an example of fairly standard fare, as taken from an American perspective. He quickly set a dishcover atop the entree. These were the activities of normal people doing normal people things, for a normal people block party. All quite normal. All quite people. The Fuzzy Bunny incident aside, Caesar was beginning to feel somewhat at ease in his new surroundings. 

	Then the music stopped; the party abbreviated by scattered screams in the night. Caesar's illusions of having a pleasant vacation(ish) with family shattered as the terminal breath of one of Boston Height's residents hummed quietly into the unforgiving dusk. The venerable Mexican's features, the scowling of an old man coupled with tired smiles directed at his girls, fell away. He stood a little straighter, like a switch flipped inside of him, awakening something primal. Controlled, but savage. 

	The nanosecond after Alicia grabbed her weapon, Caesar had his at the ready, following her out of the apartment. Also in unison, he replaced his H&K .45 and assumed a less combative stance, weaving through the crowd toward the source of the disturbance. The body language of the two, Alicia and Caesar, practically screamed similar training, if not an identical basic skill set. 

	While his daughter took point, Caesar scanned the crowd for reactions that didn't seem to belong. Listening to snatches of conversation en route, he gathered that someone took an ungraceful swan dive from the building across the way. Supposedly, just like last time. This was either a dramatic statement in suicide, an amazing coincidence, or related to the last incident at the last block party. These questions would ordinarily be answered by the local police, but Caesar had heard rumors about the (ironically named) Justice Constabulary. These rumors reminded him of the brutal and corrupt Federal Police to which he once belonged. Just on a smaller scale. No, the former Commandant wanted his own people around him, whether or not they had any meaningful authority in this jurisdiction. 

	Caesar found Lorna in the crowd and locked eyes with her. He enunciated the single sentence in a clear, carrying voice, [color=orangered]"Cookie! Back on the clock."[/color] and beckoned her closer with the tilt of his head, toward Alicia and the crime scene. He produced a piece of personal electronics from his front pants pocket, hit a couple of buttons, and transferred it to the lest breast pocket of his vest. A professional satellite phone, apped out and put to good use, he would now have a record of the events of the evening from his point of view, both on his device and in a company server for later retrieval. 

	Nearing the crime scene, Caesar noted with growing distaste that the more aggressive of the reporters were already making the area more chaotic. A young lady was attempting to do her job - apparently there was already a professional on scene - but it was made difficult by nihilistic media representatives and hamhanded locals. Caesar found the most irritating newsman, a moderately overweight loudmouth with the bullish habit of waving his arms back, as if to push people away who might get in the way of his view of the carnage. Fucking vulture. First on scene. He would make a fine example. 

	He approached on the reporter's flank, nearest the Examiner present, and clearly spoke, [color=orangered]"Need to get by you, sir."[/color] while putting one foot forward, just inside the man's peripheral vision. A flailing hand caught a piece of Caesar's arm, which the older man gave in to, stepping back. The only offer of apology from the reporter came in the form of an indignant, [b]"Don't get in my shot, asshole."[/b]

	Caesar tried again. Same sentence, same step forward. (He was very glad to have recorded the event.) [color=orangered]"Need to get by you, sir."[/color] The hand flailed back yet again, this time with greater directed force. The reporter actually looked back this time, too late to stop himself and too late to stop what occurred next. The Veteran Beater of Wholesale Ass grabbed the man by the wrist and jerked him halfway off his feet. Unwilling to let him hit the ground, [i]yet[/i], Caesar twisted the man's arm behind his back, wrapping his free arm around the pudgy guy's neck. Just before the reporter lapsed into unconsciousness, he heard a solid rasp whisper in a north Mexican accent, [color=orangered]"You're tampering with a crime scene, fucko."[/color]

	The former Federale took two steps back and let the man collapse onto the blacktop like a sack of squishy hams. 

	Returning to the edge of the scene, he held out his Private Security and Commandant (ret) credentials, addressed the Forensic Tech. [color=orangered]"Ma'am. Police response times in this city are a joke. I have other two people on site [i]right now[/i]. May we officially assist your investigation? We can start by holding back the vultures."[/color]