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Aingeal Duncan
09 July 2007 @ 10:45 pm
I hate the press.

I hate the press.

I hate, hate, hate hate the press, and everyone here keeps pointing out how I'm a good Catholic girl and I don't actually hate anything.

Today? I hate the press.

(Not you, Vivian, Mel, dears, I don't hate you, but honestly they will not stop phoning, and they're already running things on the most recent case.)
 
 
Aingeal Duncan
10 April 2007 @ 07:24 am
Oh, the things forensics find on scene sweeps.

The things I get in my inbox.



Forth and Fierch and I might not be asleep for a few days now.

We'll be in the lab.
 
 
Aingeal Duncan
04 March 2007 @ 02:31 am
Dear Everyone,

Yes, it's Godawful O'Clock and we're not back to our respective homes yet. We probably won't be, either – odds are we're going to be kept down here for a while longer, because this case is ridiculous and insane.

And if we weren't collectively afraid of Mr Donovan, we'd invite everyone down for a pizza party in the archives while we work, but – no.

Maybe later.

Right now, breaktime is almost over.

Love,
Duncan, VB, Sandy, Kavanagh #2, Ymir & 8

Postscript #1: BORED TO TEARS. – VB

Postscript #2: don't listen to him! HE LIES WE'RE FINE. – Sandy

Postscript #3: ... save me. – Kavanagh
 
 
Aingeal Duncan
07 February 2007 @ 06:28 am
Well, this is going to seem silly, but I'm going to Australia for a couple of days now that I'm reasonably sure I know what happened to Stewart Pierson.

(Too much, is the answer to that question.)

– oh, and Scott? How does your schedule look on the 17th?
 
 
Aingeal Duncan
10 December 2006 @ 02:35 am
Twelve.

She's twelve and there's nothing we can do for her anymore, and we can't even find the people who did this because there just aren't enough answers there's nothing to go on who does this?

Who dumps a little girl like that?



V, watch Nicole. This is starting to scare me.

I'm not going outdoors until we have more answers. And it'd be nice if the techs weren't getting all emotional too.
 
 
 
Aingeal Duncan
05 December 2006 @ 10:47 am
My caseload is shrinking, my desire for a vacation is rising, Mr Litvinenko has still not been autopsied, I am being gag ordered so I can't actually ever mention Mr Litvinenko after this point, and I think I just comma spliced a run-on sentence to death.

Congratulations, Derek and wife.

And Derek's wife's friend who got married, too, but I was referring to the pregnancy.

(Bianca Rheys Wernher. Pregnant. Derek babies. What a world.)

I met Allison Thorne today.

It hurt, a little.

But it'll be okay, I'm sure.

Maybe this weekend, Scott. Tá grá agam duit.
 
 
Aingeal Duncan
25 November 2006 @ 12:30 pm
All I am going to say re: the tragic death of Mr Litvinenko is that I don't have anything to say that the Health Protection Agency isn't already telling you.

(Except oh there is Polonium-210 in my morgue get it out get it out, of course.)

Manner, as far as we've determined, is unexplained. That is not the same thing as murder, so please, ease up on the KGB for a bit, all right? And on the Metropolitan Police. Them too.

There can't be an autopsy yet, we can't be sure his body's safe to touch.

I haven't talked about this before because the press release couldn't be made -- and my friends at 93 Gloucester, my sympathies with you, as I think that Belgravia is stuck carrying this one through.

(And I'll admit it: I'm scared.)
 
 
Aingeal Duncan
06 November 2006 @ 02:09 am
I insist it was a pickup, Bertrand, a pickup, no matter how you want to look at it.

These readings are conclusive.

I'd just as soon sleep through today, though, so does anyone need me to be working? No? I appreciate that.
 
 
Aingeal Duncan
10 October 2006 @ 04:00 pm
We've got a mummy -- actually, I think we've got two, so I'll be over here, in this corner, engrossed.

As I'll be damned if this were natural causes. The natural mummification is too perfect, like it was placed ... this isn't the place for that, though, I'll keep my casenotes off LiveJournal.

So if any of you, um. You know who you are. You. I'm not sure what to call you, or what exactly everyone's relationship is to everyone else, or what to call us, or if I feel okay counting myself as part of an us, but if you don't know who you are I can't say you're very quick on the uptake --

Right.

If any of you need to talk to me, I'd employ email or this thing, because my phones are going to be off.

(And those labtechs better have their Mosquito ringtones off, too. Normal adult ears aren't meant to hear them, sure, but nothing before canid frequency gets past me.)
 
 
Aingeal Duncan
05 October 2006 @ 01:09 pm
And finally I'm allowed back into the lab on full privlege, and Weed and Coxie get to go back to their own beds, and I get to work.

It's -- I'm never leaving here again, really. I don't think I want to. Not for a minute. I could live here, I've slept in the crib before, everyone loves me, the people who come in and out make good variants on company, the MPs aren't that annoying, Ryan Bertrand's consistent in-and-out presence offers a safe view of the outside world ...

And then there was lunch with Fabian Fitzwilliam.

That I think I'll ... reserve judgement on, not to say that he isn't pleasant to speak to, and his daughter's a darling. I think it's more the topic.

Anyway! Work. Work is good. Work is everything I missed, and today we've got a pile of bones that actually all are human, or else, I'm pretty sure they're human. Let a rape victim down by stating that the person she identified, the person who fit and had no alibi was, in fact, completely and conclusively not the person who raped her. I hate that, but really it isn't my job to determine anything other than what I see. Sometimes I wish they wouldn't even tell me the cases.

My suspicious found biologicals turned out to be old, bloody ground beef.

Blood wasn't human, either.

Can't win 'em all.