Author's Notes: Written for the ds_aprilfools prompt "first meeting." Many thanks to Sageness and China Shop for beta.

It was after 2300 when he finally arrived at the 27th Precinct. The night air was humid with recent rain, slick streets reflecting light and noise and heat in a way that only emphasized the strangeness of his new posting. Inside the air was stifling with the scent of sweat and human misery. He stepped up to the desk sergeant.

"Lookee here, it's Nanook of the North."

Fraser smiled politely and displayed his ID. "Constable Fraser. Royal Canadian Mounted Police."

"No kidding." The desk sergeant was a large African-American man with a name tag that read N. Dennis.

"You got a dog?"

"He's in quarantine." Diefenbaker had been most indignant about that, but the regulations were there for a reason.

"Shame," Sergeant Dennis said, and then brightened, asking, "You like pigeons?"

"I don't have much experience with them." Fraser was puzzled by the direction of the conversation but perfectly willing to be of assistance, when another officer interrupted.

"Sarge, you want to move it along?"

"Shut up, Deats." The sergeant turned back to Fraser, saying earnestly, "It's not that they're dirty. It's just that I'm starting to question their loyalty."

Fraser gave up trying to work it out and pressed on with his own business. "I'm looking for the officer assigned to this case number." He held up the paper for inspection.

"Oh yeah. You're going to love this fella. Drop your stuff over there with Gruber. Through those doors, down the hall, Interview 3."

"His name?"

"Just ask for Tennessee Williams."

Fraser's eyebrows rose, but the desk sergeant was already busy with a pair of men in black tights and hand-knitted pullovers who appeared to be handcuffed to an ironing board. Fraser went in the direction indicated, signed the visitor's book and handed over his pack before he wove his way back down the corridor through a troupe of mud-spattered ballet dancers.

The third door on his left burst open and two men in well-tailored suits hurried out, brushing past him. The larger of the two was almost twice as broad as Fraser, and was wearing a lot of gold jewellery. He took up most of the corridor, and the briefcase of the smaller man banged painfully against Fraser's knee before he could move out of the way. A third man, who was wearing a shoulder holster over a faded t-shirt, stepped out of the doorway, yelling wildly after them:

"You wait, Miller! I'm gonna get you, and then I'm gonna kick you in the head so hard even your own mother won't know you." The man slumped against the doorframe and ran a hand through already disarrayed short, blonde hair as a smartly dressed brunette woman with a leather briefcase and a long coat draped over one arm stepped past him, saying, "Sometimes I think you like making my job more difficult."

The man shrugged. "Come on, Louise. You know you love a challenge."

"Arthur Miller is going to file for harassment if you don't ease up, and then we'll lose any chance we have of getting the charges to stick." She gave him her briefcase to hold while she slid her coat on and he smiled at her.

"Hey, will you give Stella a message for me?"

"Oh, sure," she said, "And I've got a message for you too. She wants to know if you've signed the papers yet."

The man dropped the briefcase he was holding and slammed his open hand hard against the interview room door, making the saftey glass shudder. Fraser stepped up between the two of them in an attempt to diffuse the tension. "Excuse me, I'm looking for a Detective Tennessee Williams."

The woman snorted, fastening her coat. The man glared at him, and shouted down the corridor, "Oh hardy har har, Dennis!" He spun on his heels, heading up the stairs at the end of the corridor.

The woman looked him over assessingly, as if he were goods available for purchase, and then pointed in the direction the man had disappeared.

"Thank you kindly, ma'am." Fraser gamely followed the man in question up the stairs and through the swinging doors into the detectives' division. His target headed across the room to a desk piled haphazardly with papers and paused in front of it, saying, "Okay, which of you kids has been playing with the Dymotape machine?"

Everyone in the room simultaneously raised their hands. Fraser was perplexed when the man thrust an object into his hand, which turned out to be a name plate. The man slumped into his chair and kicked his feet up on the desk.

Fraser examined the name plate, carefully peeling off a strip of plastic impressed with "Stanley" to reveal the text Det. R. Kowalski.

"I see," he said. And indeed, he was not unfamiliar with the hijinks overworked law enforcement officers could get up to. The man, whom he presumed to be Detective Kowalski, stared at him with narrowed eyes.

"I was told that you were in charge of this case." Fraser handed him the folded paper with the case number on it.

Detective Kowalski sighed heavily and sat up, leaning forward to grab at a pile of files from a tray that balanced precariously on the edge of his desk. He flipped open the first cover.

"Drive-by shooting at Nino's Pizzeria on West Belmont." He slapped the file down on the desk and read the next. "Headless man in the Washington Street parking lot. Someone rumbling single mothers for their social security checks outside the City Day Care Center. A container-load of ceramic Chinese happy cats gone missing from a warehouse on Goose Island. Five alpacas abducted on their way to Hillsdale Alpaca Stud - what the hell is an alpaca? One dead Mountie." The last file came to rest on the top of the pile.

Fraser stiffened. Detective Kowalski's casual attitude towards any case might have rankled, but Fraser was feeling particularly sensitive about the lack of cooperation he'd received on both sides of the border. "I appreciate you're a busy man, Detective. However, the dead Mountie was my father. And I would appreciate it if you'd check the names while there's still a chance of catching the man who killed him."

In a flash, Kowalski was on his feet. "Hey there! Whoa up, pardner. Just hold your horses for a minute."

Before he could say anything further a large man in shirtsleeves, tie askew, leaned out of the doorway of the inner office, frowning at them.

"Kowalski! Didn't your shift end at seven? Get the hell out of here. And stay away from Arthur Miller."

"Three bags full sir." Kowalski turned back towards him, and ran a hand through his hair. "Okay, I got your list of names right here, but you know, I don't think your dentists are going to be answering their phones at this time of night. So, I'll ring round first thing in the morning. I promise." he said, solemnly, not taking his eyes from Fraser's.

Fraser held his gaze, strangely warmed by Kowalski's regard.

"So," Kowalski said, after a long moment. "How do I get hold of you, given that you're not the case officer listed on the file, Fraser-comma-B?"

Fraser flushed, and withdrew a business card from the pouch on his belt and offered it to Kowalski.

"Constable Benton Fraser, RCMP," he said. "I can be reached at the Canadian Consulate here in Chicago. And while it's true that I've no official connection with the case, I appreciate your willingness to keep me informed, Detective.

Kowalski took the card and slipped it into his pocket. He put his hand on Fraser's shoulder and turned them both towards the door, and said, "Call me Ray."