the irredeemed.

Tony Jones. 28. Devil's Knot Police. 

[anthony-jones-blog2]

bobbydavics:

for @anthony-jones !

The battered watch on his left wrist told Bobby it was close to five in the evening, an insistent beep filled with chagrin at the fact he hadn’t yet returned home. He saw no problem with that – Sheriff Taylor hadn’t imposed a curfew on the town yet. Kids still played out on the streets, their sneakers dulled with dirt and laughs ringing high and clear into the Sunday quiet. In fact, he’d caught sight of the last few younger stragglers making their way home themselves. Since Maggie had needed the car he’d resigned himself to walking today. His empty backpack now sat heavy, the corners of books poking out uncomfortably. 

Whatever noise the wristwatch made soon died down. David Bowie overtook the mundane sounds of Devil’s Knot, the saxophone solo infectious as he half-danced his way down Main. It didn’t matter who might’ve caught sight of him stepping along the footpath, movements irregular and disjointed as he mouthed the words quietly. In that moment he felt as if he were a child again, free of the fear that settled itself across here in the evening, a dark blanket the skies laid down to instil fear and worry into the hearts of every family on his street.

Who’d do such a thing? Would there be another one who goes missing? Was it simply the start of something bigger, more terrifying and monstrous? The anxiety felt strange, contrasting starkly against the last of today’s gentle sunlight. It was warm on his cheeks, the thinner patches of his threadbare shirt. 

Turns out, he wasn’t the only one on edge. Police didn’t pull up at the curb with the window down unless something was wrong. Specifically, the new guy he’d seen around town and in the diner didn’t, unless there was a problem. Bobby stopped, naively peering around to make sure he wasn’t mistaken. A hand tentatively raised to tug the headphones of his Walkman away.

‘ Somethin’ wrong? ’ There was no point to the question. He’d find out soon enough if there was. ‘ I probably look funny dancing down here but I’m not, y’know, under the influence. Promise. ’

Tony was not a fucking good samaritan. He wasn’t the kind of cop who saved kittens from trees or helped old ladies cross the road. He didn’t go out of his way to help people who were only in danger because they were being fucking idiots, wasting the time and money of a public service who’s time would be better spent on people who weren’t fucking asking for trouble. 

And this dumb fucking kid, deaf to the world thanks to his walkman, moonwalking the fucking street—he was asking for it. 

Tony debated with himself rather fervently as he’d approached the kid in the cruiser. He was adequately torn between stopping at yelling at him for being a dipstick, and just driving on by and leaving him to his self-induced fate. 

In the end, it was less concern that made him slow down and roll down the window, as it was annoyance. 

The kid—one he realized now that he could see his face, he partially recognized—was on the right side of the road, and so when Tony rolled down the passenger window, they had the one empty seat between them that he had to call over. 

Somethin’ wrong? The kid asked. Tony had to fight to keep from rolling his eyes. Which he did—but he didn’t keep the skeptical judgement off his face. And then there was the comment about not being under the influence—honestly not something that had crossed Tony’s mind, originally—but now it certainly had, and swearing sobriety is often what drunk people did. 

“So, you remember that thing that happened last month? You know, with the murders? Unsolved? Kid drowned in a river, Daddy hung in a tree. Any of that ring a bell? Better yet, did any of it cross your mind tonight when you were moon dancing the streets in the middle of the night? I guess it never occurred to you that being able to hear, and having your wits about you, might be a good tactic on not also getting murdered?”

The car was still running, but he could feel it—he was about one smart aleck response away from pulling over and getting out. Actually, it was just a matter of time. 

[anthony-jones-blog2]

@maggiedavies​

He officially classified it as not-exactly-a-great-morning when he woke up and realized his shoes still smelled of vomit from the incident in last night’s drunk tank. Nothing like ending an exhausting Friday night with some scumbag’s all day hangover all over your favourite (read: only) Doc Martens. 

And so he left the fucking house in sneakers, which definitely looked as ridiculous with his uniform as it sounds, a fact which did not help his mood. 

Tony didn’t grow up wanting to be a cop. In fact, it hadn’t even been remotely on his radar until after he was old enough and fucked up enough to realize that power was an asset, and to not have any was a disability. But now that he was one, he sometimes wanted to storm up to some woefully optimistic kid who dreamed of ‘protecting people’ and all that bullshit, and tell him to save some fucking time and pick another dream. 

Because being a cop wasn’t like in the movies. At least, it wasn’t in Devil’s Knot. Mostly, it involved a lot less exciting action than you might expect, and a lot more corralling drunks like cattle. Oh, and a ton of fucking paperwork—the part no one ever talks about. To be perfectly honest, sometimes his job made him feel like a fucking unlucky parent, or a glorified babysitter with a gun. And he wanted to complain—wanted to bitch and moan about how he never signed up for this, and how he never wanted to be a cop in the first place, but really, there was no one to complain to. No one he could admit that to without risking just about everything.

And, okay—on the days he didn’t wake up with puke on his shoes, he had a bit of a brighter outlook. There were plus sides, too, to being a cop, even in this butt-fuck of a town. But Christ, did it really test his patience some days. 

And today was one of those days. One of those days he was desperate for a coffee, and considering he didn’t have any at home and he’d slept untll noon, he was far overdue for his first cup of the day by the time he stalked into Patsy’s around 2:30—half an hour still before he had to be at the station. Still squinting a bit from the relative assault of the October afternoon sun in his eyes on the way over, he stepped up to the counter, keys jangling in his pocket. 

When the redheaded woman pushed through the swinging doors of the kitchen carrying a coffee pot, he very nearly sighed in audible relief. “Afternoon, Maggie,” he said with a nod. “Boy am I glad to see you. And only partially because you’re the bearer of coffee.” 

Overtime, he’d become slightly more agreeable with Maggie than he was with most. And yes, it was in part because being pleasant with her did him the favour of getting good service and coffee that wasn’t spiked with resentful spit. But it was also because she was always relatively nice to him. She put up with his cranky, prickly exterior on his earlier mornings, or more challenging nights. Didn’t take every God damned thing he took so personally—unlike many. So to him, Maggie was one of the town’s more bearable residents. 

[anthony-jones-blog2]

mandysilverman:

Mandy’s mouth tightened when he said tough luck. Yeah, it was tough luck. But any human would expect a modicum of more sympathy…

Even as she entertained her irritation, she felt it drain away. Wasn’t that what she kept hoping for: people to leave her alone, to conveniently tiptoe around the apparitions of her dead brother and father? She refused to think of Officer Jones’ approach as refreshing, but it did quell her into submission.

Mandy looked back at the poster and pretended to press the pin in further. Wind rustled the thin paper, making Snoopy’s woeful expression flutter. She dropped her hands to grip the stack of posters to her chest. She probably looked like a kid. She definitely felt like one.

“Two weeks ago,” Mandy replied, boldly meeting his gaze. “After the funerals.” The word clunked between them, having fumbled in her mouth and dropped from her tongue. Mandy’s nostrils flared as she inhaled, shifting her weight, resisting the urge to chew her bottom lip.

“He – um. I woke up in the morning and he was gone. It’s weird, because I’ve kept him inside lately. On account of the weather.” The wind bit at their heels on cue. Mandy hunched her shoulders. After a beat she dropped her gaze to the posters, which she addressed: “I’m worried. I – don’t know what’s happened to him. I want him back.”

Tony didn’t do bedside manner. The way he saw it, sympathy was often a waste of energy, because it wasn’t empathy, and no one liked to be pitied. It accomplished nothing, changed nothing. 

And empathy? Well, empathy was a load of crock, also. Sure, maybe it was nice to have someone “understand” you, but what did it solve, really? Having someone tell him that they knew how he must feel usually just pissed him off. Having someone compare their experiences to his, didn’t make him feel better, it just made him resentful, angry. Because no one knew how anyone else felt. No one could ever possibly say they’d felt the same thing, because people were complex and self-involved and it just wasn’t fucking possible. And having someone pat him on the shoulder and give him that doe-eyed fucking look and tell him, ‘I know how you’re feeling, and I’m so sorry,’ was really the last thing he needed. 

Two weeks ago—after the funerals, she said. It seemed like odd timing, he’d admit. And considering he wasn’t a whacked out conspirator, like the majority of the people in this fucked up town, he had a tendency not to overthink coincidence. The dog was suddenly left with fewer people around to give a shit about him, and the ones who were left were distracted, distraught—it made perfect sense that someone might be forgetful enough to leave a door open somewhere, to forget to close a gate. 

Still. He couldn’t shake the curiosity. Who would take a grieving girl’s dog? He suddenly had images of a murdered canine rotting somewhere in town, left for her to eventually find. Would anyone have reason to mutilate the poor mutt for the sake of hurting her further? He couldn’t see why, unless the theoretical culprit had already hurt her, and simply wasn’t finished. Could a lost dog possibly be connected to the deaths of her father and brother? It sounded farfetched, even in his head, but to be honest, he wouldn’t put it passed the people of Devil’s Knot. Not anymore. 

“He just... disappeared overnight?” He frowned. “Did you find a door open when you woke up? A window? Any way he could have gotten out on his own?”

[drownedintofiction]

[anthony-jones-blog2]

[anthony-jones-blog2]

frankieespositos:

@anthony-jones

He was here for business. That was it.

It wasn’t as if Frankie had been outright avoiding Tony. Not really anyway. He’d seen him within the past month. They talked to each other within the past month. But it had always been a talent of Frankie’s to be able to hold a conversation with someone and effortlessly avoid saying anything the other person wanted to hear.

That was only a line he’d be able to walk with Tony for so long before they both got tired. There was only so two people could avoid talking about before they just outright avoided each other. Frankie furrowed his eyebrows at the thought and pushed the door to Tony’s place open casting a glance around.

It wasn’t something he wanted, but he could give his friend the answers he wanted either.

Where was he the night the Silverman’s had died? What was he doing? Why did he lie?

Frankie would keep his mouth shut. For now. Not that he didn’t appreciate Tony having his back. It was something he never would have expected from a cop, but Tony did a lot of things Frankie never expected from a cop. Considering he was currently here to drop off some cash he’d gotten for drugs that was likely obvious.

The place was quiet, but it was also pretty late. Maybe he was still at work. Hm … That would figure. “Tony? ‘You here?” He called absently, while he wandered into the kitchen to rummage through his friends refrigerator. Well … Might as well make himself at home.

You know, he sees Frankie every couple of fucking days—hell, the dumbass takes food from his fridge and doesn’t think Tony notices, for fuck’s sake—so you’d think the least he could do was warn Tony that he was going to use him as a mother fucking alibi. Christ, Tony wanted to smack him up side the fucking head. What part of ‘cop’ did he not understand? A fucking three letter word, and still that head was so filled up with hot fuckin’ air, that there was no room for even that, apparently. Damn it—it was like baby sitting an adult. 

Tony huffed out the last few puffs of his smoke. On the dank, back patio, littered with ashes, dead plants and a broken bicycle he had no intention of ever fixing, he flicked the butt into a chipping, metallic-gold ashtray just as he heard the voice drifting through his apartment.

Speak of the mother fuckin’ devil.

He sighed as he stepped over the threshold of the patio, pulling the sliding door nearly closed behind him, and made his way to the kitchen where he could hear Frankie already rummaging through his shit. Figures.

The truth was, Tony liked the asshole. And Frankie must have known Tony would cover for him, if he had to—but God damn, is it so much to ask for a little warning? Especially considering how easy it would have been for him to have already said something that didn’t match Frank’s story, screwing him before the words even finished forming in Frank’s mouth. Of course the idiot hadn’t even bothered to check with him first. So much for his knack of self-preservation.

He stepped into the entrance of the kitchen, untied combat boots tracking dirt into the house, and leaned against the doorway, arms folding over his chest as Frankie was closing the fridge door. “Bit of a dangerous trick you pulled, don’t you think?” he drawled, as his friend’s (could he call him that? Should he?) back was still turned to him. 

And he knew that Frankie had been artfully dodging ever being in a place where Tony might have asked him this before. Always in public, always with prying eyes or ears around—never a place where Tony would risk blowing his cover to needle the guy about his so-called alibi and Tony’s involvement in it. He was a masterfully sneaky little bastard, sometimes. Like father, like son, he supposed. 

[anthony-jones-blog2]

mandysilverman:

neighborhood watching

Mandy narrowed her eyes at the poster. It was meticulously done, even by her standards, but now she wondered if it was a little too done. As if people in the neighborhood would think, Sounds about right, that Silverman girl spending all her time making damn posters. Instead of… mourning? Okay, paranoia, take a back seat.

Making a face at herself, Mandy resumed pressing the pins into the tree. A brisk, cool wind whipped down the street, sending stringy blonde hair into her eyes. The cold stung her skin, made her wish she was inside with a cup of hot cocoa, or maybe some of that boxed mulled wine her mother kept in the cupboard above the sink. Those thoughts had been coming more regularly over the past month. For once she didn’t know what to do about it.

Footsteps sounded behind her, muffled by the damp leaves on the pavement. Mandy roughly tucked some hair out of her face and glanced over her shoulder, only to have the wind smack past her again. She exhaled, a little unsteadily, then managed to shoot the stranger a flat smile.

“It’s for my dog,” she explained, pitching her voice loud enough to be heard. Mandy gestured to the poster, which, sure enough, showed a streaky library fax cut-out of a woeful looking spotted dog. The picture was captioned WHERE’S SNOOPY? “He’s, um… missing.”

Devil’s Knot had always been quiet—which was both something that had brought Tony here, and something that often made him desperate to leave. But without a doubt, this month it’d been especially so—as though it hadn’t just housed two mysterious deaths, but rather a mass murder. Sometimes, if Tony hadn’t know any better, he’d swear the place had been left deserted—desolate and pathetic in the murky aftermath of violence the community was neither used to, nor knew how to explain. And it was perhaps in the not knowing that made the already reticent streets like a ghost town, a wind’s whip away from boasting tumbleweeds and the ring of a cryptic twang. 

He was leaving the diner with his third cup of coffee of the day when he saw her—Silverman, one of the few left standing, as it were. Which should have been a more tragic thought, considering, one that provoked sympathy, if not empathy. But for Tony, it did little than grate an already agitated nerve. He cared less for this town and the people in it, than was expressly required when listening to the same damn stories and outrageous rumours every fucking day. Most of the time, it was a lot more than he could stomach, especially considering the energy it took to keep himself from mouthing someone off—or throwing a well-deserved right hook. 

For the sake of pretence (and for a lack of anything better to do) he approached her. Mandy—he remembered when she’d been brought into the station, questioned about the disappearance of her brother and father.... and then again about the dramatic retrieval of their bodies. Just a wraith, sullen thing she’d been then, in the midst of the tragedy. It would appear that the passing month had done her no favours, either. She looked tired, gaunt. Not that Tony could blame her. 

“Your dog?” He looked at the poster, vaguely confused. And all he could think in those first few moments was ‘no shit? Your dog now too? What’d you do, piss of karma?’ What he said was, “tough luck.” He took a sip of his coffee, hoping it would help to disguise his expression into one of more sensitivity. “When did you last see him?” he asked. A step in the right direction, he would say, in appearing as though he gave a rat’s ass. 

[anthony-jones-blog2]

palm dreams — is there a place you go that always makes you feel better?

“Not in Devil’s Knot, there isn’t.”

[anthony-jones-blog2]

under the blue/take me in — have your dreams ever been broken?

There’s a sick flip in his gut, and he has time enough to look away before he scoffs. The less of himself he gives away, the better. Dreams. Hah. What a fucking joke. 

“Do I look like a kid who had dreams? You have to have someone you look up to, to have dreams. My household wasn’t exactly a dream-inspiring place. Just getting the fuck out was well enough for me.”

[inbox-bait]

expectations asks 💋

feelings — have you ever been hurt because you’re too kind?

what i need — do you miss someone who’s done you wrong?

sleepover — have you ever fallen in love with someone who just wanted to be friends?

mercy/gatekeeper — do your feelings ever keep you up all night?

under the blue/take me in — have your dreams ever been broken?

curious — do you drink to help ease your pain?

xx — who’s the last person that screwed you over?

wanna be missed — does your lover miss you when you’re gone?

he’ll never love you — do you like to leave marks on your lover?

palm dreams — is there a place you go that always makes you feel better?

molecules — has someone ever broken your heart?

let it be — have you ever had it all and lost it?

[hermionc]

[dobrien]

[devilsknotrp]

Anthony “Tony” Jones

Age: 28 Occupation: Police officer Connection to the victims: Tony had been in town for a few months before Phillip Silverman disappeared. Tony got the feeling that Phillip was hiding something: a crook recognizes a crook, after all. Alibi: Driving back into town after some business in Lansing earlier that day Suggested faceclaim: Daniel Sharman

Tony’s parents were middle-class assholes without an interesting bone in their body. They were too old to have children of their own, so they adopted. He has always figured he came from a real sack of shit for a mother or father, given how he’s turned out.

Becoming a police officer was a calculated move. How else could he keep the cops off his back other than becoming one? 

Tony has run a number of drug rings, mainly distributing and selling, but the business he’s brought to Devil’s Knot is unprecedented. Small towns always have the darkest underbellies. Tony has doubled his hand by sniffing around the Michigan Drug Task Force. In the chaos of a raid, no one notices if a little of the product gets taken.

He heard from the cops that Frankie Esposito said he was drinking at Tony’s house until midnight. Tony back up his alibi even though it was crap. Now he wants to know why Frankie lied about it.

Tony doesn’t believe this Satanic bullshit any more than the next person. He’s watched the news shows, hunched over a beer in some dingy bar somewhere, with the idle interest of a sports fan. It’s kind of funny to watch everyone collectively freak out.

Maggie Davies → Buys coffee at the diner, doesn’t know she is his biological mother Charlie Taylor and Danielle Janowitz → Fellow police officers  Francesco “Frankie” Esposito → New friend, uses him to sell drugs Lisa Ramirez → Acquaintances, met through Frankie

Tony is taken