The town of Ifrania-du-roi had no RCM presence. Kim learned this on his long walk home by asking at a few farms, houses, and encampments, and receiving only blank stares in return. A few people mentioned someone called "The Constable," but in a sort of last-ditch, 'you-may-as-well-try-it' tone that did not inspire confidence. On his walk, he also probed for information about 'phone and radio in Ifrania. He found out that the payphone at the HĂ´tel de Ville was broken, and no one seemed to know whether the radio tower was relay or a broadcast station.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: You've done your duty as an officer outside of his jurisdiction. Now, your job is to hand this case off to someone local.
DATA COLLECTOR: But who?
Upon finally returning home to the Dacha, wet and cold and sore all over, he was dismayed to discover that the hostel had no long-distance 'phone line. The Dacha manager told him that the nearest one was at the Port de Valènce, 50 km up the Causeway.
Claudine told him that as far as she knew, the only law enforcement presence on the peninsula was the customs and border patrol at the Port—in other words, the large detachment of the occupying Coalition Army.
He had had no way of contacting them from Ifrania unless he caught the omnibus to the Port. The next one left Ifrania in two days.
• RCM Local Precinct
• Long-distance phone: at HDV? at Dacha? at Port
• Radio tower (probably relay only)
• Local unofficial crime watch? —"constable" at HDV
• Port of Valènce: C.Army border patrol. (last resort)
• 'bus (next is Thurs)
"You could send a letter," Claudine suggested. She was troubled by Kim's story, and asked if he had any photos. He tried to divert the conversation from there, but she asked twice, so he was forced to show her the pictures of Armin's body.
She looked at them for a long time.
"Do you have any idea what kind of a weapon or object could cause a wound like that?" Kim asked, in his most unobtrusive voice. On the tile beside him, the dog fidgeted, muddy and wet.
Finally, Claudine shook her head and handed the photos back. Her expression was unaffected. "No. I'm sorry. I thought I could help. But I have no idea. I've never seen anything like that."
"Neither have I," Kim admitted, taking the photos. Claudine opened a drawer and produced a plastic zip-bag, which she slid wordlessly over the counter to him.
"So you're an officer of the RCM," she said, prompting.
Kim nodded as he slipped the photos into the bag. "Lieutenant, Precinct 57," he said. "Homicide detective. I work in Revachol West, in the Greater Industrial Harbor."
She nodded, and asked no further questions. That means she's been there, and knows where it is.
"Well, I won't pretend that I know your jurisdiction, but the criminal element in this town is usually reprimanded by the Constable," she said. "You could take this to him."
Kim noted that she had not said 'should'—she'd said 'could.'
"I've heard of this Constable," Kim said, mirroring her skeptical tone. "What should I know about him?"
"He won't want your help," she said frankly. "He doesn't solve this kind of thing."
INTERPERSONAL ACUITY: Stop making her your ally. You have already told her too much. Do not show her any more of your cards. Every person in this hostel is a suspect.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Hey. What about Harry?
INTERPERSONAL ACUITY: Oh, shit.
Kim had forgotten Harry the Bear completely. He was like a person from a dream—out of place in the daylit world. But he would have to be told that his friend was dead.
LIST OF SUSPECTS:
Claudine Adedayo, the Dacha manager
Harry _________, the Disco Cop
UNOFFICIAL LIST
NOT INVESTIGATING!
The businesses and persons of note in Ifrania-du-roi communicated via a (venerable but sophisticated) system of intercoms left over by the Army of the Suzerain more than a century ago. Claudine showed Kim into her office, a neatly cluttered, dark-paneled closet of yellowing files and old calendars. She showed him how to operate the radio, and the list of frequencies and call signs, then left him alone.
Kim put on the headset and laid out his notebook on the dark wood desk. It was mostly hidden behind and under file boxes, but it was heavy, finely carved—probably an antique from the Suzerainty. The dog snuffled at Claudine's trash barrel with great interest until Kim clucked his tongue at it, and it lay down. Flipping back to his field autopsy, he reviewed the information and prepared his statement.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: This is it. Passing the baton. Pass it as cleanly and neatly as befits your station and your reputation.
On the list of call signs, he located Constable Bozeman—call sign REQUIN.
Great, Kim thought, Unpopular local cop who styles himself as "the shark."
DACHA: "10-18, this is the Dacha to the Constable. Dacha to Constable Bozeman, over."
(dead air)
DACHA: "10-18, this is the Dacha to Constable Bozeman. Constable, please respond. Over."
(dead air)
Kim sighed, closing his eyes in consternation.
DACHA: "10-18, Dacha to Requin. Requin, please respond."
REQUIN: "10-4, this is Requin. Dacha, what seems to be the problem? Over."
In the privacy of the Dacha office, Kim rolled his eyes.
DACHA: "Requin, this is Lieutenant Kim Kitsuragi with Precinct 57 of the RCM. 10-100. I have a possible 10-35. Please report your 10-13 status. Over."
(static)
(dead air)
(static)
REQUIN: "Dacha, 10-9. Please repeat the message. Over."
With a massive effort, Kim mastered his urge to strike the radio receiver.
BRAIN BOUNCER: You didn't used to have surges of rage like this. You're making my job more difficult, you know.
KIM'S EMOTIONS: [expletive redacted] [expletive redacted]
DACHA: "Requin, my name is Lieutenant Kim Kitsuragi. I am an officer of the RCM with Precinct 57. I am reporting a 10-100 to you. This constitutes a possible 10-35. Please respond to the question, are you alone? Over."
REQUIN: "10-10, negative, Dacha. Civilians present. Over."
DACHA: "Constable, please call back from a private location. Preferably a location where you can refer to a list of relay codes. I will stand by on this frequency. Over."
A sullen silence came from the headset. After a few minutes, the light came on again.
REQUIN: "Dacha, this is Requin. 10-12, please repeat your message."
Ignoring the fact that he had used the wrong code, Kim proceeded:
DACHA: "Requin, this is Lieutenant Kitsuragi of Precinct 57 of the RCM. I am a homicide detective in the Greater Revachol Industrial Harbor. This morning, while hiking in the Ossette Gorge, I found a dead body. I believe he may have been murdered and his body dumped in that location. Over."
After a pause:
REQUIN: "10-4, message understood. Have you identified the body? Over."
DACHA: "Yes. He was a guest at the Dacha, named Armin van Mauer. Native of Graad."
(static)
REQUIN: "10-4. Armin van Mauer... Continue, Dacha."
DACHA: "I was able to make a preliminary examination of the body before the tide came in and pulled it out to sea. I regret that was all I was able to do, Constable. I took thorough notes and three photographs, all of which I can share with you. Requin, you have a pen and paper?"
REQUIN: "10-4. Go ahead, Dacha."
Kim read his notes out loud to the Constable. When he was done, Kim asked if he wanted the photos, to which he replied yes, please. Last, Kim confirmed that the Constable was, officially, taking over the case, and considering it a murder investigation.
REQUIN: "10-4, affirmative. Proceeding with this as a murder investigation."
Kim felt a sudden shiver of doubt.
DACHA: "Requin, will this be your first murder investigation?"
(static)
REQUIN: "10-4, affirmative."
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Not your jurisdiction. Not your responsibility.
REQUIN: "Already got a lead, Dacha. This is my town. Nothing goes on here that I don't know about. You did the right thing, reporting it to me. Over."
DACHA: "I'll leave the photos at the Dacha's front desk for you to pick up. Over."
REQUIN: "10-4, thank you, Detective. Over and out."
Kim ended the transmission and turned off the radio set.
That was that, then. All that remained was to hand off his crime scene photos.
He was waiting for the tension to unwind from his spine, the tension of an unsolved case, the tension of responsibility—but it stayed coiled tight around his thoracic vertebrae.
The dog was still a soaking wet menace of mud and sand, so Kim took it out back to the stables to wash it. It led him confidently across the courtyard, where lichen was growing in between marble relief carvings on the tile walls and floor; an empty trellis covered half the courtyard, bare in early spring, letting the rain fall unobstructed. Water gurgled from the gutters and slid along a mossy trough, down a gravel slope and out of view. A few people smoked together around a wrought-iron cafe table, shivering in the late afternoon rain.
The pump was at the far end of the barn. He found some towels in the tack-cleaning area and then spent a contentious half-hour trying to clean the dog. It was a large, long-haired creature, and though it wanted to be obedient and follow its training, it was cursed with odd anxieties and unpredictable sensitivities. Bathing was one of them. When it was finally over, both of their nerves were frayed.
The dog yipped and sprinted down the long, dusty hall of the barn, making the horses stomp in annoyance. It skidded a u-turn and then pelted back towards Kim, trying to shake off the cold water. Kim sat back on his haunches, defeated and wetter than ever, and watched it run wild, rubbing his sore shoulder absently.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: You forgot to drop off the photos. And notify Harry the Bear.
"Shit," he said aloud.
Kim gathered his things and together they tramped back across the courtyard, to the lobby. The dog tried to greet the smokers (a new set) but Kim dragged it forward.
It was late afternoon now, almost nearly dinner time, and the lobby was busier than before. It took several minutes for the manager to reappear at her desk. "Two things," Kim said. "First... I told the Constable I would leave these photos for him when he comes by." He slid them back to her, face-down.
"Oh," she said. "He was already here. He didn't ask for him. I'll make sure he gets them—if he comes back."
"He was already here?" Kim said. Why didn't he talk to me?
"Yes—he made an arrest," Claudine said. "You didn't hear the commotion?"
"I was out back in the stables with this one," Kim said, indicating the telltale dog. It perked up, looking at him. Me? Me?
"I see," Claudine said. "Well, yes, it was quite the scene. He arrested another guest."
"Another guest?"
"Yes."
"For this case?" Kim said, wishing to clarify. "This murder case?"
How the hell did he already make an arrest? He hasn't even seen the body.
"Yes," Claudine confirmed. "I'll make sure these photos get down to the HDV." She tapped the photos. "What was the second thing?"
"I wondered..." Kim hadn't even released the photos from under his fingertips when another commotion interrupted them. The sound of a jaunty horn and a motor carriage engine came from outside—a rare sound in this farm town—but not just any engine. A finely-tuned thrum, almost a purr.
TORQUE DORK: That's the sound of an antique, darling. A Villiers Lebewesen. Probably Model H.
The eyes of Kim, Claudine, and all the others milling around the lobby were drawn to the front doors. Through the plate glass windows, a forest green Villiers Lebewesen drew to a halt under the awning. It was a high-rider, the chassis riding several feet off the ground in a way which, though indicative of luxury, Kim had always found nauseating.
TORQUE DORK: I was right. A Villiers Lebewesen Model H, '22 but kept in prime condition. Painted an unstylish but stately green. Rather fetching.
SPEED DEMON N° 1111: Rather nothing. Rather stuffy.
TORQUE DORK: But darling, that gold detailing...
The sound of the engine and the horn had attracted the attention of the dog. It took off, breaking free from Kim's grip. "Hey!"
On the other side of the wide-open doors, the passengers in the MC began to unload its cargo—a middle-aged Vespertine man in a fine wool coat, the same shade green as his MC, a well-groomed woman of similar age wearing a high collar and a silk scarf, and a little girl, probably 10 or 12, dressed almost identically to her mother.
VRAIMENT VACHOLIERE: What are these people doing here?
The dog bounded up to them, barking excitedly. The father took off his driving gloves and shooed the dog away, but the daughter, clutching a book to her chest, peered demurely at the dog, as though she had never seen anything of the kind before.
"Hey!" Kim whistled sharply. The dog ran back inside the lobby, then twirled around and ran back to the girl. She laughed at the dog, which encouraged it to do it again.
Kim snapped his fingers and the dog finally sat in front of him. Its tail still wagged.
"You've had enough excitement for today, I think," he said, collecting the leash. He pulled it aside in the lobby, out of the way of the wealthy Vespertines. They were already in apparent disagreement with Henri about something.
"We don't have a garage," Henri repeated. "Ask my mum."
"Young sir, this was once the Ifrania-du-roi military retreat for the Army of the Suzerain," M. Vesper was intoning. "If it was built without a garage, I will eat my suitcase."
"Is there a problem here, Monsieur?" the Claudine said, swooping like an eagle.
While the Adedayos dealt with the new arrivals, Kim waited. It seemed to him that this morning had contained a day's worth of exertion in a single hour, and that this afternoon had consisted of a string of simple tasks that fate refused to let him complete. He was still soaked with rainwater.
Another guest was hovering, shuffling his boots on the mosaic tile. Kim couldn't make out his features well, but he was clearly not a fisherman. The man was well-dressed, in a similar sort of professorial way to Armin. He wore glasses too, and a over-the-shoulder bag, and, incongruously, muddy brown boots.
"Quite a scene," Kim said, and the professor looked over at him.
The professor approached. "Sorry?" Within seeing distance, Kim thought he looked part SeraĂŻse. His skin was brown, his face was rather handsome, and he looked to be around Kim's age.
VRAIMENT VACHOLIERE: Indeterminate accent. Local, or from the city?
"Quite a scene," Kim repeated, "that car, the Vespertine family."
It took a few more seconds for him to process Kim's words. "Oh! Yes, wasn't it?"
"Have you been staying here for long?" Kim asked.
"A little while now, yes," the professor said. "Field research trip." He shook one of his big brown boots demonstratively.
Kim waited for him to elaborate.
He did not.
"What do you study?" Kim asked finally. "Oysters?"
"I'm an anthropologist," he said, apologetically. "Sorry, I should have said. I'm so scattered today!"
DATA COLLECTOR: He must be here to study the Six Soleils.
"My name is Ali," he said, extending a hand. "Alexei Volya."
DATA COLLECTOR: So, Safre on Mom's side, Graad on Dad's, based on those names.
VRAIMENT VACHOLIERE: He's local. Hear those pinched "o" vowels?
"Kim," he replied, shaking hands with the anthropologist. "Kitsuragi. It's nice to meet you, Mr. Volya."
"What do you need the 'phone for?" Ali the anthropologist asked.
"I am an officer with the RCM, back in the city," Kim said. The professor would know which city. Though they were far from Revachol proper, they were still in the Zone of Control—the farmers and fishermen of the Valènce Peninsula sided with the communards in the revolution, and joined the commune for 8 short years, and suffered the consequences ever since. They were loyal to their own region, but still united under the flag of the city. "I need to make a call to the local precinct."
"Oh—there's nothing seriously wrong, I hope?" the anthropologist said anxiously.
"I'm afraid one of the Dacha's guests has gone missing," Kim said. He lied on an impulse. Being vague was a way to passively solicit information—people loved to fill in their own details for you. "There is reason to suspect foul play. A man named Armin."
"Armin?" The anthropologist frowned, then a look of recognition came over his face. "Armin—you don't mean he's missing?" Kim nodded grimly. "Why, that's terrible. That's just awful..."
"You knew him?"
"Not well," the anthropologist clarified, though he looked rather upset. In all, he seemed to be a rather anxious person. "I saw him around the hostel."
"Had he been here for a while, too?" Kim asked.
"Yes," the anthropologist said. "Yes, he was here before I arrived."
"And when was that?" Kim's fingers itched to take out his notebook.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: But we're not investigating. We're alerting the proper authorities.
"Two months ago," Ali said. "Early February."
"And when was the last time you saw him?" Kim inquired.
"Well..." Alexei the anthropologist hesitated—"I didn't see him, exactly. But I heard him having a fight last night, with another man."
DATA COLLECTOR: Interesting. Very interesting.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Ahem.
Sensible heels clacked across the mosaic tile, announcing the return of manager Claudine. "Mr. Kitsuragi," she said. "How can I help you?"
Kim gestured for Alexei to go first, and he registered a request for new towels. Finally, Kim stepped up to the desk.
Kim sighed, raising his eyebrows at her. "Hi," he said.
"Hi," Claudine the manager said, almost cracking something that could, on a very delicate instrument, register as a smile. "The photos."
Kim put them back on the counter.
"Thank you."
"You had a second thing to ask."
"Yes. I wondered if you would call another guest for me. I need to speak with him about this."
"Certainly. Who?"
"Harrier is his name. Harry. I don't know his surname."
Claudine's mouth opened, then shut. "Harrier Du Bois?"
"Could be," Kim said. "We played cards with the victim in the cafeteria last night. I don't know how well they knew each other, but he's a fellow RCM officer, so I thought I'd do him the courtesy of explaining the..."
"Mr. Kitsuragi," she interrupted. "He already knows about it."
"What?"
"Mr. Du Bois was arrested for murder a half hour ago," she said.
"Oh," was all Kim could think to say.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Shit.
INCIDENT REPORT: CONST. J. BOZEMAN, IFRANIA-DU-ROI
NOISE COMPLAINT/DISTURBING THE PEACE
11 APR, '51. 3:35 AM.
RADIO CALL FROM DACHA HOSTEL APPX 3:30 AM. NOISE COMPLAINT FROM GUEST.
2 MALE GUESTS ARGUING LOUDLY OUTSIDE HOSTEL (FRONT) AT A LOUD VOLUME. POSSIBLY DRUNK.
CONSTABLE CALLED TO SCENE. ARR. 3:45 AM. FIGHT HAD DISPERSED. BOTH SUSPECTS GONE.
NOISE FINES TO BE ISSUED IF REPEAT OFFENSE OCCURS, TO THE FOLLOWING:
1. DUBOIS, HARRIER
2. VANMAUER, ARMIN
Kim looked up from the so-called "incident report," which was scrawled on a yellow sheet of legal paper. "Constable," said Lt. Kitsuragi, with infinite patience, "on the strength of this minor incident, which you did not witness, you arrested Mr. Du Bois for a murder?"
The three of them—Kim, Constable Bozeman, and the dog—were sitting in his office in the Hôtel de Ville—a crowded, carpeted space of repurposed military glory, which was lavishly decorated not with files, forms, nor certifications, but with fishing trophies. Creatures large and small were preserved in jars, stuffed on stands, and mounted on plaques. The dog trembled with the strain of staying still inside this cabinet of delights. The crowning catch was a massive Cerulean Sailfish, as long as an eight-year-old, displayed proudly over the Constable's desk chair.
The Constable himself was tall, Ubi, and facially unremarkable. He was dressed in a denim shirt and tall leather boots that didn't seem appropriate for a rainy climate. Though he was probably younger than Kim, his face had the same creases as many Ifranians—the lines of premature aging brought on by thirty years of sun and sea. He was also missing one and a half fingers on his left hand. The Constable reclined behind his huge antique desk, hands behind his head, giving Kim an easygoing grin. It was obvious that this man's idea of how to do his job came primarily from boidadero paperbacks.
"I am holding Mr. Du Bois as a person of interest, that's correct," he said. "I haven't served the charges officially yet. Few more i's to dot, t's to cross, first."
"Such as?" said Kim. The strain of not telling him how to do his job was immense.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Such as, I don't know, EXAMINING THE CORPSE?
INTERPERSONAL ACUITY: I do not think you should say that.
"Well, I have to conduct some interviews," the Constable said, leaning forward to drum his fingers on the desk. "I'd welcome any help you can offer in that area, Detective. I'm a one-man force. And like I said, I've never investigated a murder before."
ESPRIT DE CORPS: That much is OBVIOUS.
BRAIN BOUNCER: I'm not helping investigate.
"Do you have the power to press charges?" Kim inquired with innocent curiosity, sidestepping the generous offer of unpaid vacation employment. "Forgive me. There is no rank of Constable in the RCM, and I'm not familiar with the legal code or municipal law in Valènce."
ESPRIT DE CORPS: And I detect no hint of any actual official FORMS or MANUALS in this office.
"Most of the crime I deal with gets the punishment of a minor fine. I've been Constable for nigh on 10 years now, and I've never had to press any charges worse than that. Folks around here tend to resolve disputes among themselves. For somethin' worse than a misdemeanor, I believe I'm supposed to send 'em to the Coalition courts—but I wouldn't even know how to do that. Who would I call? What would I do with the form? Mail it?" He laughed, as if the idea was ludicrous.
"Detective, one thing you gotta understand about Ifrania is—this is a small, small town. There's hardly enough people to keep the grocery store in business. The grade school shut down from under-attendance. There's not even enough liquor to go 'round and start a drunken brawl. There's just work, rain, work, rain, three months of winter, and then more work. Major crimes—homicide? It's unheard of. Theft? There's hardly nothin' to steal."
The Constable folded his hands in front of himself on the desk. "One thing I'll tell you, Detective, about this murder—it was not done by one of ours. This was an out-of-towner, killin' another out-of-towner. Nobody 'round here would do anything like this."
ESPRIT DE CORPS: I... I don't even know where to begin, with that speech.
INTERPERSONAL ACUITY: Maybe ask a clarifying question? 'How did you end up with this job? Were you literally the only person who wanted it?'
"What does ... Mr. Du Bois have to say about last night?"
"Well that's the kicker," said the Constable. He leaned back in his chair again. "You'll like this. He says he doesn't remember it. Blacked out."
HARRIER DU BOIS, SOBER COP: "I can't drink liquor anymore because of my liver. If I have another drink, I could die."
"Funny, you two RCM fellas both being here at the same time. You really don't know each other?"
"No. We work in different precincts," Kim said. "Our paths have never crossed before."
VOLTA DO MAR (challenging—failure): Probably.
The Constable took Kim downstairs to speak with the accused. The town lockup was in the basement of the HĂ´tel de Ville, and it consisted of a handful of small cells, bars and walls painted a pleasant seafoam teal. The space was dark, with low ceilings and little porthole windows, like the brig of a ship.
IFRANIA-DU-ROI: Originally a drunk tank for soldiers who got too rowdy on leave. 100 years and two revolutions later, it's still used for almost the exact same purpose.
The man in the cell isn't sitting like a drunk. He doesn't seem to notice Kim or the Constable enter the space. He's sitting with his back against the bars, one hand loosely gripping a bar, looking up at his porthole window, just out of reach.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Lost in thought. Thinking about how he got here. He doesn't really understand it. There's not much data to work with. He's still getting used to that. He's still getting used to everything.
VICE: Was he drunk last night, after all? Was he lying?
INTERPERSONAL ACUITY: I didn't think so. But sometimes I'm not good at recognizing when people are lying.
"What's on your mind, Mr. Du Bois?" the Constable asks, voice echoing down the concrete corridor.
"Death," says Harrier, without turning around.
"What about it?" Kim asks.
"I've been wondering if I already died, and I'm stumbling around the afterlife. I haven't found any evidence for this theory, I admit. But I haven't found any against it either."
Finally, he turns around to look at them through the bars. When he sees Kim, he frowns, placing him. So he does remember at least one thing from last night.
"Kim?" he says.
"Harrier," Kim replies.
"Harry," he corrects. "What are you doing here? Was it you who made the noise complaint last night?"
"No," Kim says, coming closer to the cell. Harry looks up at him from the floor. "I'm the person who discovered the body."
Harry glances uneasily around Kim's legs at the Constable, who waits at the end of the corridor, hands in pockets.
Kim crouches down so he's at Harry's eye level. "I'm sorry about your friend," he says.
Harry says nothing.
"Detective," Kim says, drawing Harry's attention back to him—another frown— "There's something I neglected to tell you last night. I too am with the RCM. Precinct 57." He hands Harry his badge through the bars.
Harry takes it without a word and examines it at length, seeming to read every word and number.
"Why didn't you tell me?" Harry asks finally.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: The question contains no mistrust—only curiosity.
Kim hesitates. "I'm on vacation," he says finally. "I didn't think it would be important. I'm sorry I wasn't more forthcoming with you."
Harry hands the badge back to Kim. "That's okay. I had a feeling about you. Now I know why."
ESPRIT DE CORPS: He doesn't recognize you.
INTERPERSONAL ACUITY: That's a relief.
DATA COLLECTOR: That's a disappointment.
"Why don't you tell me about last night, Detective?" Kim says, kneeling on one knee. This position makes him acutely aware of how sore and cold his feet and calves still are. His socks are still wet, wool clinging to his skin inside his boots. "What happened between you and Armin after the card game?"
"Where did you find him?" Harry asks, sidestepping Kim's questions.
"...I found his body on the beach," Kim says. "Near the Six Soleils."
"How long since death?"
"Hard to say," Kim says, wishing he had a concrete number. "I estimated between 2 and 6 hours." A pause. "Do you have an alibi for this morning, Detective?"
Harry shrugs. "I was in my room at the hostel. Trying to sleep."
ESPRIT DE CORPS: So no alibi.
DATA COLLECTOR: But surely people saw his comings and goings inside the building. We can find someone who corroborates, or contradicts.
"Detective..." Kim says. He wants to impress the seriousness of the situation onto the detective, but for some reason, his instinct is to be gentle with the man. He seems inexplicably fragile, or volatile—like the person he sees now is just a thin skin stretched over a vacuum, and a tear or a puncture in that façade will unleash that terrible emptiness.
COMPASSION: He's newly sober. You've seen this before, plenty of times, in convicts and colleagues and acquaintances in the Underground. The rawness of a fresh start, the confusion and vulnerability. Nowhere to hide from your guilt. Do him the courtesy of addressing his present-day self only.
BRAIN BOUNCER: You've seen this plenty of times—and you've rarely seen it last long.
"...Harry," Kim says. "Did you and Armin get into a fight last night?"
"I don't know," Harry says miserably.
"Do you think you did?"
"No. He's an asshole, but he..." The sentence trails off. "I mean, he was an asshole."
Time to ask the big question. "You say you don't know, not yes or no. Why? You don't remember?"
Harry looks up at the porthole window again, like his lines might be written there. "No, I don't remember getting into a fight. I remember playing cards with you and Armin, then going for a walk, then going back to my room late at night. I slept terribly, and I had dreams. I don't remember all of them, and maybe Armin was part of them. That's what I remember."
"Then why didn't you say that to the Constable, when he arrested you?" Kim asks in an undertone.
"Because my memory isn't trustworthy," Harry says, with another bolt of that disarming frankness. He turns his head against the pale blue bars to look Kim in the eyes, hardly an arm's reach away. His eyes are big and gray-green—not bloodshot or hungover, just very tired. He looks as exhausted as Kim feels. "A month ago, I drank myself into total amnesia. I woke up not knowing who I was or where I was. Didn't remember anything about history, geography, my family, the Pale, the RCM, not a single thing. It's all gone."
I'm wondering if I already died, and I'm stumbling around the afterlife. I admit I haven't found any evidence for it, but I haven't found any evidence against it, either.
VOLTA DO MAR (challenging—success): He is a wanderer in the graveyard of his own life. A stranger in his own world. A convict who broke out of the clutches of death and returned to the world of the living, only to find it unrecognizable.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: Like me.
SHIVERS: No, not exactly.
Kim meets his gaze, listening silently. He schools his expression, but it must show some of the sadness, because Harry sits up a little straighter, and leans a little closer, like he's tuning into Kim's frequency.
"I haven't touched a drop of alcohol for a month—I swear it, Lieutenant, tox-screen my blood, make me walk in a straight line, ask at the liquor store and the pub in town—they've never seen my face. What I told you last night is true. I know the next drink could kill me."
"So..."
"So no, I don't think I got in a fight with Armin last night and killed him in a fit of rage. But that doesn't mean that I didn't."
Kim takes a long moment to process this, his eyes locked with Harry's.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: His story checks out, but it's messy. We don't like messy.
INTERPERSONAL ACUITY: This person is volatile and a liability. Do not get involved.
COMPASSION: This person needs help. He is a man adrift.
BRAIN BOUNCER: That doesn't mean he needs your help. You owe him nothing.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: You owe him professional courtesy. Be direct.
"Do you think that you would do it?" Kim asks.
A pause.
"No," Harry says.
INTERPERSONAL ACUITY: But...
"...But?"
"...But I don't know myself very well."
CONCEPTUALIZATION (challenging—failure): Wow. What must that be like?
Kim exhales. "All right, detective," he mutters.
"What do you think I should do?" Harry asks in an undertone.
"I think you should wait here a moment," Kim says, gathering himself and standing abruptly. His back and leg muscles wail in protest. His cold socks slip on the insoles his boots. "Constable."
"Detective?"
"Could we speak upstairs?"
Kim led the way up. He knew that his interpersonal instincts were not always trustworthy, though they tended to run the other way—mistrust when none was warranted, unfounded suspicions that were never borne out—rather than this—trust where none was apparently warranted, a sense that this man didn't belong in this situation. And yet, in this situation, he was inclined to sympathize with the stranger.
The dog was waiting loyally in the lobby of the empty HDV; the antique mosaic floor was mostly covered with utility rugs, and there were various town notices and handwritten flyers posted all around. The dog jumped up and wagged its tail at their arrival. Kim positioned himself beside it, taking advantage of the intimidation factor of a large canid.
INTERPERSONAL ACUITY: Cons to putting yourself on the line for this complete(?) stranger: He obviously has a lot of baggage, people around him treat him like he's an idiot, alcoholic, probably unstable, 75% chance of it ruining your vacation.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: On the other hand—you hate vacation.
VACATION KIM: Aw, what?
ESPRIT DE CORPS: And you're in a position to help. It would be the right thing to do.
"Constable."
"Yessir."
"I've been a homicide detective for 5 years. In that time, do you know how many cases I've cleared?"
"...Cleared?"
"Produced and charged a likely suspect. Cleared. Not solved, but found a suspect to charge in the first place."
"Uh..."
"I'll give you a hint," Kim said. "My case load is about one murder case every 1.5 weeks. 390 cases, give or take a few."
DATA COLLECTOR: 390 exactly, 391 counting this one (which we are not counting).
"250?" the Constable ventured.
Kim shook his head.
"300?" the Constable offered.
"62," said Kim flatly. "My clearance rate is 16%. And that puts me in the 98th percentile for all RCM officers. Statistically, the chances that this murder case will ever be solved are abysmally low. Last year, 71% of the murders in Revachol went completely unsolved. Do you see now that you may have acted hastily, Constable, in arresting the first person to cross your mind? Do you think perhaps the issue warrants a bit more time and consideration than that? Or do you perhaps think that you are an untapped genius in the field of homicide investigation? A prodigy? That perhaps you will be the first law officer in the Zone of Control whose homicide clearance rate is 100%?"
The Constable's expression had frozen, one eye slightly widened in alarm. Kim remained in the same position, hands clasped in front, looking up at the officer through his glasses.
INTERPERSONAL ACUITY: There's more to say, but instead of offering a way out, I think I'll let him dangle.
Kim stared at him expressionlessly. Finally, the Constable sputtered—
"No—Detective, I didn't think so, but I—"
"Lieutenant," Kim corrected him.
"Lieutenant. I—"
"We both report to the MI," Kim said. "I suggest consulting regulation if you really wish to bring charges against Detective Du Bois. And if you do, you will need to issue a station call containing the evidence. And as a word of friendly advice, Constable Bozeman, hearsay from one witness does not constitute sufficient evidence for charges of murder."
"Two," the Constable managed to spit out. He looked blotchy and embarrassed, but it seemed he was not the sort of person who got angry when they were embarrassed. He just seemed to shrink in size and years. "Two witnesses."
"I suggest you interview them," Kim said, unclasping his hands and picking up the dog's leash.
"Wait—" the Constable said. "Hang on. I—I can't just let him go."
Kim looked back up at him with a raised eyebrow. The man looked prepared to stand his ground.
He waited. More often than not, people would talk themselves into a corner if you just gave them the space. They would fill in your words for you if you let them. Wielding authority involved more silence than speech.
"I can't," the Constable said again. "His arrest is on record. If I let him go, that means I'm dropping the charges. What if he skips town?"
"Serve him a station call," Kim repeated. "If you officially press charges, and he skips town, he'll be a fugitive from the law."
"But I don't have the forms."
"You do," Kim said. "They're in your office. Let's go."
After much ado, they found the station call slips ("Mandatory Sentencing" was what they called it in Valènce) and the Constable filled one out with Harry's information. They pinned the slip, with carbon copy still attached, to the board behind the Constable's desk. Then they returned to the basement lockup, dog in tow.
This time, Harry stands, looking from Kim to the Constable, trying to gauge what's happened. Kim holds out his hand wordlessly, and the Constable places the key on his glove. Kim unlocks Harry's cell.
"What's going on?" asks Harry the Sober Cop. "He's letting me go? What did you say to him?"
"I cut you a deal," Kim says, in an undertone that only Harry can hear.
"What?"
Kim opens the heavy door. Harry still stands inside the cell.
"I'm free to go?" he says.
"The Lieutenant here helped me to uh, to review some regulations," the Constable says. "I find myself lacking in the requisite amount of evidence to bring charges at this time, Mr. Du Bois. I do however have the ability to issue an uh, a mandatory sentencing slip, or a station call, I believe, is what you call them in the city. As such, I have filled one out for you. However..." He glances at Kim— "In an unofficial capacity... Due to your position as a police detective... and my position as a... uh... person who has not solved many murder cases—" Another glance at Kim— "...Any murder cases, that is, not having had the uh, the opportunity... I can offer you, and your, uh, colleague here, the opportunity to clear your name. If you can provide me with a clear alibi for the timeframe of Armin Van Mauer's death, that is to say, the hours between midnight last night and 11 AM this morning, then I will take the station call slip down in my office, and the carbon copy, and burn them both in the incinerator. Detective," he concludes.
Harry continues to stare. "...Right. So I'm free to go, then?"
"If you leave town, the station call will be posted," Kim clarifies. "And if you fail to produce an alibi, the station call will be posted."
Harry turns his eyes on Kim. "And you're going to help me?" he clarifies.
"Yes," Kim says.
"Why?" Harry asks.
Kim raises an eyebrow at him, where the Constable can't see.
"Okay," Harry says, finally. "Sounds like a deal."
He holds out his hand, and the Constable steps forward to shake it. Then he steps back, and takes his key back from Kim. He looks from one RCM officer to the other, then down at the dog, then nods stiffly, and says, "I'll leave you to it, then, fellas. Officers."
He leaves.
"Kim, what the hell did you say to him?" Harry asks as soon as he's gone. "You scared him shitless."
Kim gives a small shrug.
Harry looks impressed.
Still, he does not move from the cell.
"Are you going to come out?" Kim asks. "You're free to go."
"Free-ish," Harry corrects, looking around the cell as if searching for its non-visible, metaphysical boundaries. "I'm not allowed to leave town."
"Until you produce a credible witness," Kim corrects. "Preferably more than one. That should not be difficult, I don't think."
"You don't?"
"No," says Kim. "I am a seasoned investigator. As are you, I take it?"
Harry nods. "Being a detective is pretty much the only thing I know how to do." His eyes are still scanning the lateral edges of the teal box. "You know what we could do, actually, Kim—? You know what would really clear my name?"
"What's that, Detective?"
"Solve the murder," Harry says, his gaze landing on the porthole window. On the other side, night is falling. Flecks of rain rest on the glass. "Catch the real killer."
"So you don't think it's you, then," Kim says bluntly.
"No way to be sure," Harry says, eyes on the window. "But if it is me, I should be locked up, right?"
Kim is unclear about where this conversation is going. "Yes," he confirms. "That is how the legal system works."
"Do you think it's me?" Harry counters.
"...No, Detective, I don't," Kim says.
"Why not?" Harry asks.
"Because usually, the correct solution is the least complicated solution," Kim says. "And 'least complicated' does not describe you or your situation."
Harry snorts appreciatively.
"Amnesiac detective with a binge drinking problem," Harry says. "I guess not."
That nudges something in Kim's memory.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: You have to admit, that sounds familiar, somehow, doesn't it? He's certainly not going to be the one who remembers...
➤ 1. If we're going to work together, I should figure this out. Where have we met before? (Proceed.)
2. If he doesn't know, I prefer not to know either. It will only complicate things. [Discard thought]
THOUGHT GAINED: MYSTERIOUS STRANGER
+1 to Esprit de Corps: Plumbing the depths of your service record.
-1 to Volta do Mar: That might be the wrong place to look.
+1 to Speed Demon N° 1111: Biography of Jacob Irw.
"Detective, is there something special about that window?" Kim asks, clasping his hands behind his back.
"No," Harry says. "Just looking in case I need to get used to the view."
It doesn't seem like that's the real answer, but Kim lets it pass. "Come on," he says. "Let's go." With that same strange reluctance, Harry walks out of his cell, and Kim locks it behind him.
Kim's sleep that night was long and restless, a series of creatively designed nightmares strung together by the steady patter of rain on his window and the roar of the stormy sea. The usual street racing nightmare transitioned seamlessly into nightmares of Armin van Mauer's maimed face, the hole in his cheek tunneling through his brain. Armin spoke to him but Kim couldn't hear what he said. Then the hole appeared in the faces of other victims—Kim's aunt, Yves, Captain Delaney, kids from Kim's juvie cop days, kids he hadn't seen in a decade—probably parents now themselves, or dead in reality. In the dreams, he was responsible for each death in a different way, by fault or by inaction. He heard barking, but when he woke, he was alone; the dog slept in the stables.
I don't usually have this many nightmares, he reflected, lying in bed in the weak light of dawn. The car crash dream was usually enough for his anxiety to make its point. Perhaps this was an effect of proximity to l'Ă©mergence. Perhaps this was the cost of forgetting in his conscious hours. Despite the stress, he felt enlivened and awake as he left his room that morning, like the relief of throwing up after hours of nausea.