Barry was pissed off to say the least. Damn Tom Brant. He was still alive and was probably still the last on his unfortunate list of cops who'd offended or arrested him in any way. Barry knew the idiot would probably attend Detective Roberts' funeral, so he hurried to go there.

From the same ill-fated Roberts' flat that Barry had beaten to death with a hammer, he had stolen the detective's police uniform, so he probably wouldn't be noticed by the modem crowd of similarly identically dressed men.

It was raining and his boots were slapping lightly in the puddles, and there were already a couple of drops on his police jacket. His cap was slightly askew on the side of his head, and his tie under his white shirt was also slightly wet, even though it wasn't raining much. Barry heard the priest's typical speech, thinking about how he was probably fucked up from saying almost the same thing in every day. Weiss would probably get sick of it very quickly. He was about to scurry a little closer to the crowd and the coffin to find a glimpse of Tom, but someone crashed into him.

"Careful, damn it," Barry quietly swears. If it wasn't for the whole situation, he probably wouldn't have been so rude. Maybe.