The Steve Irwin Incident™


The faded number hardly stood out against the sun-bleached and flaking paint of the doorframe. Still, it matched the one she had scribbled on the notepad she held in her hand. Tight lipped with a pinched brow, McCole stepped forward to wrap a set of tight knuckles against the door.

Jo Wilsey was not a hard needle to find in a proverbial haystack. Not when Joan had the blaze that was the Supernatural Taskforce to burn away the straw and reveal the shining little glimmer. It did help that the woman’s face was plastered on every news channel and newspaper throughout Greater Cordova.

She’d made herself accessible. At least to Joan. She’d wrestled a gigantic jaguar, and some how commanded it to enter a car. That was cause enough for investigation. Either the lady was something supernatural herself, or she had a knack for dealing with them. Both options were enough to draw Joan McCole to her doorstep. Joan cleared her throat and announced in a commanding voice through the door. “CPD, I’m looking for Jo Wilsey.” Gun at the ready on her hip, silver bullets not excluded.

@Jo Wilsey

Jo had let her guard down after several quiet days following her jaguar wrangling, so nothing inspired sudden fear like the announcement that the CPD was looking for her through her own door—and nothing was quite as sobering either. Oh fuck she did not need this right now.

Jo spent thirty seconds yanking jeans on and raking fingers through her hair before moving to the door. She peered out the peephole at the woman, grimacing, then pulled open the door. She immediately noted the gun at the woman's hip.

She greeted the woman with a polite smile and a simple, "I'm Jo." She was under-dressed in comparison, just a pair of ratty jeans and an old tank top, and she immediately regretted those two drinks she had earlier.

Joan’s jaw tilted up in some gesture of greeting as the door swung open to reveal a rather disheveled looking Jo Wilsey. Joan’s lips remained pressed into a signature firm line, but her brow did arch some as she took in the woman’s attire. Not expecting visitors. She’d seen worse.

“Good afternoon, Jo. I am Agent McCole with CPD. Could we have a chat about the incident from the other day?” And don’t try the ‘don’t know what you’re talking about’ spcheel. If she believed it every time she heard that from someone’s mouth, Joan herself wouldn’t even know what she was talking about. The woman’s gaze flickered over Jo’s shoulder and into the home behind, both a gesture that suggested they go inside, and a precautionary scope of the room for anyone else inside.

Jo hesitated for a beat before stepping aside for the woman to enter. "Of course." Fuck, she could just hear Alex now. "I told you so."

She moved to sit at the dining table -- bare except for a pile of junk mail -- and perched on the edge of a seat, overly conscious of the bottle of vodka set out on the kitchen counter. "So what about it?" she prompted, schooling her expression to calm indifference even as her heart raced away.

She stepped aside, and Joan entered with a careful gait. Her hand moved absently to rest near her gun, but upon proper inspection of the space it seemed that they were alone. She followed Jo to the table, but did not sit. Instead, she rested a hip against it and crossed her arms over her chest. “What about it” was another one of those trademark suspect catch phrases.

“We will start with asking how well you know the beast you wrangled. And the other two involved in the incident as well. The man driving the car and the blonde.” Her tone was clinical, her gaze never moving from Jo’s face lest she pull a suspicious expression.

Nope abort mission this chick was playing hardball. She didn't even sit. Jo felt a flicker of irritation matched by anxiety, and she shoved down her coyote's growled insistence that they bite her, which was a uniformly terrible idea.

Just chill. She hadn't done anything illegal (probably???). Jo settled back in her chair and crossed a leg as she met the woman's gaze. "I'd rather not answer that," she replied mildly, maintaining her polite smile. Rule one was don't talk to cops. Rule two was don't let cops into your home, but she'd flubbed that one up in a moment of weakness.

A short burst of air shifted through her nostrils as Joan rolled her weight to the other hip to stand a bit straighter. She'd rather not say. That could only mean she knew them all well enough to want to hide their identities.. "I'd rather you did. It would make this a lot easier for the both of us." Cooperation wasn't that hard, was it? It seemed Joan was the only one her on that sentiment.

"You wrangled a giant leopard into a car. Don't tell me that was a case of being in the right place at the right time and having a way with animals." A single brow arched high above its twin.

"I'm not much for gossiping about other people." It took an effort of will to keep her tone even, but her smile dropped just a hair. The officer (agent? was that like, a special job description?) had a gun, and Jo couldn't convince herself it was only loaded with bog standard bullets. Not that she was about to kill anyone in her own apartment--she was just thinking about killing someone.

"I watched a lotta Animal Planet growing up, and my muscles are bigger than my brain, so I figured I might try 'n help." Largely true, if glossing over the details. There'd been a good two years as a teenager where all Jo could watch was Animal Planet and similar channels.

A muscle beside the corner of her lips tensed. Her jaw locked and she fixed Jo with a frigid stare. A sigh sifted through her nostrils a moment later, and Joan reached a hand out to pull up a chair. In silence, she settled on the edge of it. Her knees were kept squared, and she rested her elbows against them as she leaned in. "The man in that video has been wanted for months now. Did you know that lying about him counts as obstruction of justice?" She clasped her hands between her knees. "The penalty for that could mean time in a penitentiary, Jo. Now, I'm sure you're plenty strong. But I don't think you go what it takes, Mrs. Animal Planet." Wanted for any specific crime? No. For questioning in an investigation? Yes. The great thing about supernatural investigation? You got to play by your own rules.

That wasn't a thing, was it? Lying could get her in trouble, but otherwise she didn't have to tell the police shit, right? Except since when did police follow the rules.

Aw fuck, her Steve Irwin ass was about to get arrested for a bunch of piss-dumb jaguars.

Her smile fell away into quiet focus, but she met the woman's gaze unflinchingly. "Sorry," she offered with a shrug. "I haven't lied. I don't know anything about that." And in her defense, she had no idea who he was anyway—disregarding how easy it would be for her to ask around and find out.

Joan's tongue ran across her teeth. She always hated the stubborn ones. Alas, she knew her limitations. With a low sigh, Joan stood. "I hope that pretty blonde isn't as stubborn." She made to head toward the door, her hand resting near her gun once again. "If, and when, I find out that you're lying... I'm sure our next chat will be through plexiglass." A last-stitch effort, maybe. Hopefully one that would knock some sense into her. Things didn't end with Jo. The blonde had given them a pretty picture of her face, too, and it would only be a matter of time to track down who she was and where she lived.

Oh fucking hell. Yep, can't wait for that call to Alex approximately five minutes after this bitch left. She tried to mentally calculate the likelihood of McCole hunting "that pretty blonde" down, but she didn't know enough about police procedure and resources to even guess. But if Alex didn't have a record or a public presence, and if she wasn't dumb enough to have any photos attached to her name floating around the internet... it was unlikely, right?

"Sorry to disappoint," she said mildly as she stood to trail after the woman to the door. Plexiglass—yeah right. "Have a good afternoon, Agent McCole."

Joan left feeling optimistic that this would not be the last she saw of Jo Wilsey.

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