Detective Clégg

Name: David Gilmore Clégg(Clayg)
Alias(s): Dad of the Year™Dave
Age: 56
Height:6’4
Weight: 200
Blood Type: Red
Ethnicity: Choose Not to Answer Mixed
Occupation: Police Detective / Plainclothesman
Residence: The City
Place of Birth: That Other City
Orientation: Bisexual
Marital Status: Divorced
Handedness: 2
Alignment: Chaotic Good(Subject to investigation)
Class: Yes
Voice Profile: Robert Mitchum

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If not for that easy, lopsided grin the old detective usually wore on his long face - a mildly-amused, mildly-interested look with which he could approach the world at a safe distance and still come off as friendly, even kind - he might have been an imposing figure. Tall and broad-shouldered his tanned arms made darker with thick, black hair and textured with old, ropey muscle built up naturally through decades of hands-on crime fighting, age softening his gut without giving him a belly. A sturdily built man, tiring more quickly than he used to but with a lot of vim left in him.

About his face was a somehow elongated quality, laugh lines carved deep into his jowls and splayed out from the corners of his eyes - which themselves shone in a startling, bright emerald green - razor-sharp and seeming almost to glow in the right light. The kind of eyes from which no detail, no matter how trivial, might hope to go unnoticed. A perpetual five o’clock shadow shaded his chin and jaw, making scratchy the skin that was otherwise softer dnd cooler than it looked. A head of salt-and-pepper black, full though with a receding hairline. High cheekbones, cheeks ever so slightly sunken with the dark hollows of his bright eyes - by all accounts he was a friendly, reassuring presence that could have been anyone’s dad or grandfather - but that complexion seemed to sport the potential of shifting to a grim, gravekeeper’s countenance should shadows fall and sobriety overcome.

Favoring something of a dated aesthetic, the old detective certainly looked the part. Dark slacks, a button-down shirt - usually in some pale shade of blue - a sensible leather belt, sensible shoes and sometimes a loosely knotted necktie - despite the top several buttons of his shirt always being undone for comfort. Most distinctively, though, was his classic pairing of a grey, wide-brimmed fedora - which was usually propped atop his head like an afterthought, but would sometimes be pulled down so as to shade his eyes - and long, navy blue trench coat, to which an unobtrusive pin bearing the logo of some sports team decorated the left lapel, right over his heart. Rather odd, considering he had no interest at all in sports.

He drives an old 1981 Pontiac Bonneville. The black paint is somewhat faded and the bumper speckled with traces of rust. Far from 'show quality', but well maintained and with a plush, luxuriant interior smelling of worn leather and mothballs. There is a small dent on the front bumper he was never quite able to completely buff out. A sturdy boat of a car, the old thing shares the asthetic of its driver - worn, but far from worn out.

David is, in essence, everything one might expect a (somewhat archaic) gumshoe detective to be. A dry, witty and often dark sense of humor, a fondness for outdated lingo in a rich baritone voice. Infinitely patient, Dave is the sort of hard-boiled, film-noir detective who’s seen it all. Indeed he’s one of the best in his field - with a long and objectively successful career behind him that explained the venerable grace with which he approached life. Fond of a good gun and a strong drink, a well-oiled .38 snub-nose revolver rests in a leather shoulder holster beneath his coat, and a metal flash of fine hard liquor keeps it company, tucked snugly in the nearby inner coat pocket.

At once both a man’s man and a ladies’ man - and not merely in the sense of his sexual preferences - Dave is old but smooth. He’s a charmer, silver-tongued devil with a tough exterior and a heart of gold. He’s fond of smooth jazz and blues, (Also some progressive rock) rainy days and monologues. He has about him the distinct scent of mothballs and old leather, accented by the complex notes of warm bourbon. Indeed, for a functional alcoholic he lacks entirely the boozy tang one privy to that little tidbit might expect. He used to smoke like a coal train, but gave that up a few years back. In place of cancer-sticks he carries with him in his inner coat pocket a case of candy cigarettes in order to maintain the familiar gestures associated with smoking as well as his oral fixation. He’s particularly fond of offering them to adolescents and children - especially in front of their parents.

Yes, old Dave Clégg can be a bit of a troublemaker. An instigator. A roguish old bastard with a mischievous streak. Often downright irresponsible - still at heart that uppity delinquent teenager living on the mean streets of That Other City, causing problems for the local fuzz and being a general nuisance.

Having come far from those days though, Dave has achieved respect from most of his compatriots. Offered more lucrative, easier positions and promotions but always turning them down to as to stay pounding the pavement and following the cases he chooses with little interference from the brass - most of whom know that leaving him to his own devices is the best way to get the job done. He’s an unofficial leader among men, capable of naturally taking control of situations and, when he needs to, raising his voice in an authoritative bark that makes him very difficult to disobey.

But Dave doesn’t like to yell at people. He likes to maintain positive relations, a vast and expansive interconnected web of connections and contacts acquired through the years. A complex lexicon of lawmen, politicians, people from all walks of life he’s helped or done business with over the years - criminals included.

In fact, David has a lot of criminals in his contacts - some of them dangerous, but most at least tolerable. He takes a highly controversial approach to law enforcement, namely in that he firmly believes that often he best way to maintain law and order is not to enforce the law. Turn the decades the old sleuth has made deals and bargains with a thousand devils - but never to his own gains. David always does what he thinks is right, and values maintaining relative peace and stability over fighting to eradicate crime at every turn. From Dave’s perspective, the best way to handle a violent street gang is not to increase police presence and certainly not to organize an expensive and dangerous police raid that would get people on both sides killed in droves. No; the best way is to broker a deal with a neighboring or rival gang that is known for peddling drugs rather than killing people. Let the two fight it out between themselves, Dave doing what he could to minimize police interference, and turn a blind eye to their drug trafficking as they move into their new territory - on the strict condition that they adopt a less violent operation than the one they were replacing. Or maybe under the condition that they launch an attack on some other gang that needs rooting out - a complex map of territories and ever-shifting alliances within which David has been immersed for decades.

David’s priority is maintaining a balance. Maintaining stability, keeping things in check rather than trying to stem an unstoppable tide. And, above all, to take down the worst of the worst by any means necessary - lawful or otherwise. Maintaining a reputation as a respected cop who is willing to make deals has its perks, too - most criminals and criminal organizations see him more as an asset then a liability, and often gang leaders or particularly reclusive lawbreakers will agree to speak with him if he needs information on a case.

It’s meant that he’s been part of things he isn’t proud of. A lifetime of doubts over whether he had truly done the right thing, made the right call, turned the right way, weighing heavily on his broad shoulders.

But he’ll always do what he thinks is right.

And in the end, isn’t that the best a man can hope for?