User Profile

Name: Kaye Attwater (OC)
Squad: Major Case
Age: 32

Appearance: I guess I’m a little below average height. Though nowhere near as short as Alex Eames (does the woman even realize that she’s a head shorter than everyone else?), I still look like a shrimp next to Goren. Then again, who doesn’t? I’m about five foot five, 125 pounds, not overly muscular or toned, but it works in a pinch. I’m a swimming buff, but of course we never seem to have to chase perps across a pool… too bad my freestyle’s loads better than my sprint. Let’s see… I’m a brunette. When I was little my mom had this thing about letting my hair grow out, and I’ve just kept it that way because it’s easier than having to constantly maintain a short ‘do. It’s been awhile since I last cut it, so it falls to my mid-back. I usually just keep it in a ponytail or a braid; it’s a daunting task to style the loose curls into anything else.

I’ve been told that my eyes are my best feature. They’re blue-gray. One of my old high-school boyfriends fancied himself a bit of a poet and wrote me a few stanzas about their “silvery, moonlit depths.” Nice kid, Ben Monroe.

I’ve got a fair number of freckles, as a result of too much sun and too little sunscreen back in the day. It’s cool, though, I’ve gotten used to it. Sharp cheekbones and a razor-strait nose, courtesy of my dear old Nan, are much softer thanks to those little spots. They’re pretty much everywhere, actually. I’ve even got a freckle or two between my toes, if you can believe it.

Background: I came from a pretty good background, I suppose. My mother and father were both in the picture; I had a younger brother named Mark and a golden retriever named Lucy. I grew up in the seventies in California. Life was idyllic in those days. I lived in San Diego, so summers were long, infused with the salt-spray of the ocean, the flavor of vanilla ice-cream from the Lighthouse Café, and the lilting music of the Mexican bands that played on the corners in the balmy night air. My best memories of childhood were of summer, of lazy days spent lying languidly in the sun and riding our bikes through town from sunrise to sunset, where children could sit in the park long after dark and watch the fireflies come out without fear. It was a different world back then.

But things were changing, for my home, and for my family. As I grew older, Mark became more and more wily and rebellious. His grades didn’t just slip, they crash-landed, and the kids he hung around with rivaled Ozzy Osborne for their foul mouths and drug habits. My parents began to grow apart. They were different people now, no longer the couple who had danced in the moonlight together in those endless summers. They coexisted well enough, but the affection was gone from their marriage. Lucy was beginning to gray at the muzzle. She was less energetic, she slept more. One day she just didn’t wake up. That was the beginning of our decline, I think. I had long since begun to draw into myself. My only outlets were the theater class that I was taking (I became frighteningly skillful at hiding my feelings) and swimming. What I remember most about those times was that I spent hours at the beach, swimming until I couldn’t feel anything.

One day I skipped school. I spent the entire day in a deserted bay at the end of Sunset Cliffs, staring out at the ocean and occasionally throwing myself into it and surrendering to its might. Wet, tired, and feeling more alone than ever, I trudged up the cliff and towards home. The lights were off in the house when I arrived. I thought it odd, since it was dusk, but didn’t think much of it until I found the back door ajar. I slipped silently inside, the hair on the back of my neck prickling. I searched for my family. Finally I found my mother in the bedroom she had shared with my father. She was just sitting there on the floor, in the dark, her eyes glassy and nose red from crying. I really should have known then what she was going to say. I suppose that in my heart of hearts I already knew instinctually. My father had been alarmed when the school had called to say that I wasn’t in class. He had been driving down Piedmont Street looking for me when a couple of punks in ski masks had tried to carjack him. He fought back. They shot him. He never made it to the hospital.

The death of my father changed my life. It was hard; I felt like I hadn’t really known him for a long time. In my mind I carried an idealized image of him. I still carry it, I think. He was a good man, my father, and even if he wasn’t perfect, there’s no harm in remembering him as such. Mark straightened out, got his act together. He was actually valedictorian of his class, went off to Yale... my mother was very proud of him. She suffered bouts of depression after my father was killed, but eventually pulled through with the help of some intensive therapy and a golden retriever puppy named Lucy Deux-cy.

They never caught the people responsible for my father’s death. For the longest time, I camped out at the local precinct, demanding action, and justice for my father. After awhile I began to realize that there was nothing more they could do. The leads had dried up, the case was cold. That’s why I became a detective, I think. I wanted to make sure that no more little girls ever sat alone on their father’s grave wondering who was to blame. When I graduated high school, I attended the University of San Diego and got my Bachelors’ Degree in Criminology. I moved to New York shortly afterwards and attended the Police Academy. As a uniform, I was always itching to do more. Fetching coffee, sifting through masses of paperwork and riding around in a patrol-car looking for trouble drove me crazy; I never felt like I was actually helping anyone. After I made detective, I worked sex-crimes for about three years, where for the first time I felt like I was doing some good. Burnout hit, though, and I transferred to robbery, and then to homicide after a few years. I was recently moved to Major Case.


Personality: I’ve been accused of being cross, irritable, and prickly. Let me tell you now, those statements are quite untrue! Okay, so I get a bit crabby. Who doesn’t? I dislike it when people think that they need to dumb things down for me because I’m a young female detective. Treat me with courtesy, I’ll respond with the same. Overall, I’m a pretty happy person. Vivacious, I’d call it, or at least lively. This isn’t always a good thing, though. I’m head-strong and hot-tempered when I get worked up about things, but in my defense, I know when to fight and when to let things go. I try to avoid confrontation, but if something important is at stake, or if someone’s looking me square in the face and practically begging to clash, I’ll clash.

Weaknesses/Flaws/Quirks: I carry around a lot of residual guilt from my father’s death. After all these years, I still blame myself for what happened to him. I know that it’s stupid, and I’ve heard the “It’s not your fault, you didn’t do anything,” line so often that it’s practically carved into my brain, but I can’t help it. It’s an unconscious thing. I get too invested in cases sometimes because of it, which is a problem. I also have a hard time connecting with people. I think that it’s because I was such a loner during my high school and college years, I just never learned how to form close bonds to others. I often feel like I refrain from emotional attachment, because I’m not comfortable with people getting too close to me.

As for my quirks, I am a restless soul. If I'm not moving or doing something, I go a little kooky. I have a habit of cracking my knuckles... not to be menacing, just because it feels weird/cool/good. I know, I know, little air bubbles and future arthritic pains, yada yada. I figure that in thirty years, when I should be beginning to get sore, medicine will be evolved and a cure for arthritis will be avaliable. Either that, or some stellar pain killers. Both work.

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