Chapter Text
Fortunae secundae eōrum transeunt itaque mortuīs placent adiuvāre vīvōs.
Harry stares at the plaque affixed to the opposite wall.
LOGIC - "Their own second chances have passed, so the dead find solace in aiding the living."
ENCYCLOPEDIA - It’s the most common proverb in morgues across Revachol. It’s pre-Dolorian and may even be pre-Innocentic, though there is no written record of it prior to Franconegro.
LOGIC - It seems unlikely for a quote to have survived for over 8,000 years, however.
RHETORIC - Perhaps with your limited skill for verbosity, it is.
Under the stark, unflattering lights of the morgue, Harry and Kim stand shoulder-to-shoulder, their silhouette merging beneath flickering fluorescents.
Harry's gaze shifts from the plaque to the body before them, exposed with no regard for decency. The air is laced with the aseptic sting of formaldehyde, but this body is fresh with no smell of decay.
He wants to pull the sheet back up, not because he’s disgusted, but because he’s sure this man is cold and would not want himself on display like this.
EMPATHY - Decency will be returned when you solve his death.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT - So suck it up and look at his junk, son!
“Detective,” Kim’s calm voice hews through the cacophony. “What are you thinking?”
HALF LIGHT - You haven’t spoken in over ten minutes. You’ve just been staring at a naked dead man. He thinks you're a freak, a pervert.
VOLITION - He doesn't. He just wants you to share your thoughts.
Harry tries to arrange his ideas, put them into words, but they whirl through his mind like a screaming hive of bees.
VOLITION - Relax.
Harry pictures Volition holding his face steady with its knobby, elongated hands. Being face-to-face with the empty, cavernous skull-crown is comforting…in an odd way.
VOLITION - Remember what Dr. Vasiliev said. Ground yourself before trying to answer. Remember where you are and what you're doing.
Where am I?
Elysium, Revachol, Jamrock; the old silk mill now converted into Precinct 41; the basem*nt floor located below A-Wing, which now serves as the morgue.
What am I doing?
Investigating a man’s death by conducting a medicolegal autopsy.
Like the field autopsy in Martinaise?
Even better. This death took place close to home, so you are able to use the resources of the morgue and the medical examiner to aid your case.
Is the medical examiner present?
He is. He sits in a corner—a trim, short, bearded man in white scrubs. His name is Dr. Nix Gottlieb, and he also acts as the station's resident sawbones.
Shouldn't Dr. Gottlieb be performing this task?
In an ideal world, yes. But this is Precinct 41—the Bloody Murder Station. He’s already dealt with 26 bodies this week—four confirmed homicides, with the rest sent off to the city—and it's only Tuesday. Look at the dark circles under his eyes. He’s on the brink of collapse. Right now, he is only here to babysit bumbling cops and make sure they don't trip over themselves while poking around at corpses.
Who is the body?
It’s better to ask, “Who was the body.” This is not Ellis "Lely" Kortenaer. He hasn't communicated with you from beyond—not for your lack of trying. This man, unlike Lely, is either unbound to his corpse or has no desire to speak with you.
VISUAL CALCULUS - Nor does he have a mouth to speak with. As you may have noticed, his face is missing.
LOGIC - However, it’s obvious the facial damage was not the initial point of impact.
Whatever hit him did so from behind—another voice echoes in Harry’s mind—at maximum velocity, a cavity carved out where the victim’s brain stem should have been. The blow launched him forward onto the concrete curb and shattered his face.
PAIN THRESHOLD - Along with his glasses, in pieces among the viscera.
What do we already know?
VOLITION - You already have the answer to that. And if you don't remember, look at your ledger.
Harry consults his ledger, Kim waiting patiently for the answer to his question.
ESPRIT DE CORPS - He is used to your methods by now.
Is there a method to my madness?
HALF LIGHT - More madness than method.
Harry takes in the dense professorial cursive on the page, once again surprised that it belongs to him. As usual, his notes—when he's sober enough to write them, which he has been of late—are detailed, peppered with more information than necessary, though that's better than not having enough.
You arrived in the neighborhood at dawn, the sky painted in hues of bruised purple and orange. You and Kim were the detectives assigned to the scene, a “suspicious death,” and when you arrived, you found that the address you’d been given was not an address; the potential crime scene itself was on an outdoor street.
The neighborhood was seedy, typical for Central Jamrock. The few residences that could afford motor carriages had them propped on cement blocks, rusty and in various states of disrepair. Both the street's asphalt and the sidewalk's concrete were cracked and potholed, unlikely to have experienced repair since their completion decades ago.
Discarded children's bicycles littered unkempt lawns, but theirs were not the ones you concerned yourselves with. There, sprawled by the curb, lay the victim and his Vanguard-branded bicycle. The bike was unscathed other than a few scrapes from where it fell, but the man himself…well, safe to say, there was nothing found to identify him, including his face.
Harry closes his notes. He'll return to them later. His gaze drifts to the track jacket that's carefully folded on a nearby steel table. It’s athletic wear, suitable for bicycling, but the fabric is rich colorblocked satin, and the cut features a zip-up neckline and welt pockets.
PERCEPTION - This colorblocked satin track jacket is worth more than you make in a year, just like the bicycle is.
CONCEPTUALIZATION - He liked the finer things in life, it seems.
“What’s your name?” Harry asks.
COLORBLOCKED SATIN TRACK JACKET - Aris-modèle 46.
It speaks in a soft, upper-class cadence, not trying to impress—it just is impressive.
“What was his name?”
COLORBLOCKED SATIN TRACK JACKET - I never asked him that. He and I had an understanding. His secrets were his to keep whenever he put me on, and we soared down the street like leaves in the wind.
“What was he like?”
COLORBLOCKED SATIN TRACK JACKET - A man of means, although you already know that. He was friendly in an understated way, and kind sometimes, but like many of his station, struggled with impostor phenomenon and self-doubt.
“What do you mean, 'like many of his station'?”
COLORBLOCKED SATIN TRACK JACKET - New money. It didn’t matter that he’d been rich most of his life—he wasn’t born that way, and he didn’t have a name behind him. He was self-made, and proud of it, but it’s never enough, is it?
“What was never enough?”
COLORBLOCKED SATIN TRACK JACKET - Money, of course. Never enough money, never enough things to own, never enough respect, never enough power. He was like a sieve. It didn’t matter how much he consumed; it all fell through.
Harry frowns. “A bad man, then?”
The track jacket takes a long moment to answer.
COLORBLOCKED SATIN TRACK JACKET - Perhaps. But he was trying to do better.
“Is that why he was in Jamrock? Because he was trying to do better?”
COLORBLOCKED SATIN TRACK JACKET - Yes.
Kim watches Harry thoughtfully. He hasn't answered his question, but now he knows what his partner is thinking—along the same lines he is. What was someone in an expensive track jacket on an expensive Vanguard bicycle doing in Jamrock?
"I'm not sure about a track jacket like this, but Vanguard bicycles like the one our victim was riding cost over 10,000 reál, or at least they do these days. It seems like quite an old model, though, most likely manufactured between ‘30 and ‘35," Kim says as Harry mumbles incomprehensibly into the track jacket's lining.
Kim is aware of, and ignoring, Gottlieb's scrutiny from the corner. The doctor's expression is a mixture of annoyance and disgust as he watches the senior detective in action.
Harry nods after a few long seconds, still staring at the jacket. "Well-loved," he says, and Kim isn't sure if he's speaking to him or the jacket.
ENCYCLOPEDIA - The bicycle is painted in Vanguard's most famous color, a trademarked distinctive lavender called Crocus.
Harry’s hand moves to the victim’s athletic-wear trousers, caressing the luxurious viscose acetate. “And you?” he whispers. “What were you doing—”
"Detective," Kim interjects, his tone gentle but firm. "Focus. We're not here to interrogate the wardrobe." A slight tap of his foot echoes out a metronome’s beat. His wrist flicks up, and he glances at his watch, more a reflex than necessity.
"Right, right," Harry agrees, though his eyes linger on the fancy trousers for a heartbeat, wondering if anyone will notice if he “requisitions” them for later use. Probably.
EMPATHY - And even if no one else notices, you and he will. He is already facing the humiliation of morgue nudity. It would be unkind to steal his trousers, no matter how fancy.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT - Like they would fit you in the first place, tubby. Look at that beautiful corpse—a picture of manly strength and vitality!
He’s missing a face, Harry reminds Physical Instrument, though his hand drifts beneath his “morgue chic” to the pleated trousers digging into his waist.
He’d thrown a plaid coat over the cute mascotted t-shirt he’d dug out of the closet that morning that read “DISCO BEAVER,” then abashedly buttoned it when he saw Jean eyeing it. Now the coat and his trousers are in a pact to squeeze the air out of him.
Interestingly, since giving up alcohol cold turkey, his bloating had reduced and his belly didn’t bulge out so far. Instead, he had gained weight all over, and now his clothes fit worse than ever.
VOLITION - Your appearance doesn’t matter. How you feel is what matters.
I don’t feel great.
VOLITION - But you feel better.
“Detective?”
"Right, Kim," Harry acknowledges once more, though his attention lingers on the fabric.
The acrid scent of rapid-development film taints the air as Kim snaps photographs with his Trigat Sunshine Mini. The camera whirs as it captures each distinguishing mark on the body—an appendix scar, three small birthmarks, and an interesting freckle on the foot. “Manner of death,” Kim says as he works.
Harry closes his eyes, and when he opens them, Logic appears in full form, its disjointed face co*cking to one side and then the next with eerie, mechanical movements as it stalks, vulture-like, around the body.
LOGIC - No natural disease in Elysium can cause that much damage.
"Natural is out," Harry states, following Logic as he circles to the superior end of the cadaver, or rather, the head. He runs his fingers through the man’s short salt-and-pepper hair. It was combed with a hint of unscented gel, but it’s now messy and blood-drenched from the two impacts. Harry’s touch is gentle, an apology for the intrusion.
The overhead lights hum as Harry traces an invisible line where blood should have settled on the man’s side but didn’t.
LOGIC - A lack of lividity.
"No discoloration," Harry says.
"Correct," Kim affirms from across the body. "He hadn't been dead long before he was found, which means rigor mortis couldn’t take hold.”
Harry contemplates the clock, counting the scant hours since the man was found, the morning light just touching the road that his last breath had misted.
"Body temperature was almost normal when the first officers arrived," Kim adds, and Harry’s mind wends through the implications. He imagines warmth dissipating from flesh to air.
ENCYCLOPEDIA - Algor mortis is the change in body temperature after death in order to match the surrounding environment’s temperature.
I knew that without the textbook definition, thank you.
ENCYCLOPEDIA - You’re welcome.
“Time of death isn’t hard to approximate,” Kim continues. “A call to the RCM at dawn for a body lying in the road. The caller did not stay on scene, but no surprise there. We arrived after the first patrol officers did, within the hour."
LOGIC - That puts his time of death between 0500 and 0600.
Their attention shifts to identification—fingers splayed on ink pads and pressed against paper.
CONCEPTUALIZATION - Whorls and arches form the signature of a man you never knew.
HALF LIGHT - And never will.
“Kim, what happens if the body’s so decayed that there’s skin slippage?” Harry asks, face thoughtful as he considers the question for the first time. Although he’d learned a lot in the three months since Martinaise, his amnesia still left enormous holes in places typical investigative procedure should be.
“Oh, now that’s really fun,” Kim says dryly, throwing Harry a morbid smile as he files away the fingerprints. “As you might remember with Mr. Kortenaer’s greaves that you—khm—’requisitioned’ while I was away"—Harry winces guiltily—“sometimes skin slippage happens around the hands and feet of a body and detaches. When that happens and we need to take fingerprints, we simply—” Here he mimes taking a glove and pulling it over the glove he’s already wearing.
Harry’s eyes widen. “Are you serious?”
HAND/EYE COORDINATION - Is he serious?
ESPRIT DE CORPS - He’s serious.
COMPOSURE - That’s disgusting.
LOGIC - That’s fascinating.
“Deadly serious,” Kim says, mouth twitching.
ESPRIT DE CORPS - He’s amused at your disgust but is trying not to embarrass you.
They work in silence for the next few minutes, the quiet punctured only by the occasional snore from Gottlieb, who has somehow fallen asleep while standing.
ENDURANCE - Pathetic.
COMPOSURE - Impressive.
"Guessing teeth identification is out of the question." Harry regards a dental cast, scratching his T-shirted belly through the coat buttons between DISCO and BEAVER.
“Guessing so,” Kim says, regarding the shattered maw. “But we have good fingerprints, and maybe we’ll find out who the victim was before we even need those.”
Harry co*cks his head, eyes narrowing as he looks sidelong at Kim. “You're confident in this one."
Kim raises a brow in his direction, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. "Reasonably so," he replies. “John Doe identification is notoriously difficult in Jamrock, but this is a wealthy man. Someone will come forward. Now, let’s discuss manner and cause of death. Accidental hit-and-run?”
Harry squeezes his eyes shut, imagining. “Maybe. It’s dark, a vehicle comes around the corner…"
“Something tells me you don’t believe that.” Kim carefully rotates the cadaver’s neck and head to photograph the deadly injury.
LOGIC - A bicycle struck by a vehicle would display extensive damage.
Harry thinks about the near-pristine bicycle that now resides in the evidence lock-up. “No, I don’t.”
"Suicide, then? He wasn’t straddling the bicycle when he was found. He could have cycled to the road, dropped the bike, and waited for a car to come around."
"Unlikely," Harry muses. The track jacket had told him its owner was sad at the end, but—
INLAND EMPIRE - A man cycles down a dark street, dawn yet to break. His mind is heavy with regret, but he does not hurl himself into traffic. He rides onward, seeking solace in the rhythm of pedals turning and the familiar burn in his muscles.
“It does seem overly complicated,” Kim acknowledges.
“And I think he loved his bicycle too much to drop it on the curb like that.”
Harry regards a silver buffalo tattoo inked into the victim’s inner forearm. It had been Kim’s first photograph, but Harry is only now looking closely at it. He leans in, regarding the unusual metallic sheen.
ENCYCLOPEDIA - If you cut open the lymph node under his right armpit, you will likely find similar silver ink inside of it. Tattoo ink is treated as an invader by macrophage cells which then transport it to the nearest lymph node.
I’ll remember that if I get the urge to cut open his lymph node, thank you.
ENCYCLOPEDIA - You’re welcome.
“Kim, if we cut open his lymph node, we might see silver ink there, too.”
Kim chooses to ignore that. A frown creases his brow as he studies the buffalo. "I feel as though I've seen this buffalo design before…"
AUTHORITY - That doesn’t sound right at all! You’re the one who’s supposed to have bizarre hunches. Re-establish your authority as the hunch-master, now!
ELECTROCHEMISTRY - That sounds—
VOLITION - No.
Harry scowls down at the buffalo, racking his limited memory, but nothing comes to mind.
A high-pitched shrieking noise causes Harry to jump and whirl around. Gottlieb has woken up and stands with a whirring bone saw in hand, a not-so-subtle hint for them to leave.
COMPOSURE - A poor performance. The lieutenant didn’t move a muscle.
The detectives exchange a glance and make haste for the doorway and the stairs beyond. They know better than to incite the wrath of Gottlieb and his bone saw. Their initial examination is over.
***
Entering the precinct's locker room, they welcome the warm humidity and soothing white noise of water on cracked mint-green tiles. After washing off their morning efforts, they return to C-Wing, shoes echoing on worn linoleum.
Navigating through buzzing corridors of the precinct—officers murmuring into phones, ancient typewriters clacking relentlessly, an occasional burst of laughter punctuating the air—they reach their corner of C-Wing, a large, open-plan office space beneath yellow lights filled with dead insects. Toward the back, two desks are shoved together in front of a chalkboard, where Kim starts pinning the victim’s photographs.
Harry picks up a squeezable toy melon slice with a face from atop his desk and plays with it, its googly eyes popping. It had been there when he’d returned from Martinaise three months ago, and Jean had said it was a dog toy, but Harry didn’t care. It was the only thing on his desk from his old life that he’d liked, and he’d dumped the rest—fast food trash, empty bottles, entire cigarette cartons, a dead plant, a broken miniature lava lamp—into the garbage, making it overflow and bringing down Jean’s ire…not that that was difficult.
SATISFYINGLY SQUEEZABLE TOY MELON - Go on. Put me in your mouth. You know you want to.
He avoids the temptation to bite his melon slice. What with going cold turkey, he’s found himself putting things in his mouth more and more often that are neither food nor drink—pencils, erasers, corners of case files, his own fingernails. Disgusting, Jean said.
Instead, his thick, hairy fingers splay out across his ledger like the legs of a baffled spider, his scrutiny fixed on the scattered notes. "Hit-and-runs," Harry begins, "they're supposed to be straightforward." He flips through the pages of his ledger. "Witnesses come forward, eager to help, but no one saw anything, and whoever called is long gone.” Hit-and-runs were like that. No matter how much a town or a neighborhood hates cops or how justified their hatred is, people are shocked and angered by hit-and-runs—or whatever this was.
Yellow police tape surrounded the crime scene, and despite the early hour, neighborhood voyeurs were out in force, some pretending to water their nonexistent gardens and others, less subtle, bouncing on tiptoes just outside the perimeter.
The three first-responding officers—Bedford, Roddenberry, and Andrewartha—had already made a cursory sweep for the original caller but found no one. Harry noted Bedford and Roddenberry acting with the typical jaded, feigned boredom of patrol officers handing off a case to senior officers—even worse, to Harry Du Bois—but Andrewartha’s reaction had been unusual.
He’d sat hunched on the curb near the body, one arm around his knees and the other hand clenched around the cigarette he was nursing. He wore a Dolorian religious necklace—the Dolores Dei icon rested on his chest above his lungs, an oddity amidst the largely secular residents of Jamrock. When Harry questioned him, his face had hardened in annoyance, the same as the others—but when he thought no one was looking, his eyes, filled with strange sorrow, kept flickering back to the ruined face of the dead man as he sucked on his cigarette.
"Andrewartha's reaction was atypical," Kim says, and Harry looks up at him in surprise.
“Kim, are you psychic? That’s what I was thinking!”
Kim grins. “It’s not hard to be psychic when I’m reading the same notes you are, Detective.”
PERCEPTION - The lieutenant can read upside down. Impressive.
AUTHORITY - No, it isn’t.
“It might be worth looking into,” Kim says.
The two detectives pore over the photographs Kim took at the crime scene, tracing the lack of any disruption to the environment: The absence of skid marks, no vehicular debris…no one saw the tragedy unfold or heard the sounds of squealing brakes or a honking horn. The only clues were the victim and his bicycle.
“Could he have been killed elsewhere and moved to make it look like a hit-and-run?” Kim asks. “It would leave a very short timeframe for the murderer, but—”
Harry stares at the photographs of the body for a long moment, then puts his hands in front of him like he’s operating an MC’s tiller sticks. Imitating an automobile noise that garners the attention of everyone in the sprawling C-Wing office, he “drives” helter-skelter between the desks before flinging out a theatrical arm.
Papers scatter as a sudden draft from Harry’s impromptu pantomime knocks over a pile of unfiled paperwork—
“What the hell are you doing?”
—just in time to welcome Jean Vicquemare. Harry's arms fall to his sides, and he stares down at his green snakeskin shoes, restless papers still settling on the floor.
A chronic sneer on his face, Jean marches toward Harry. “What the hell are you doing?” he repeats, and Harry shrinks further inward.
Kim's indignation on Harry’s behalf often surfaces around the newly-promoted Lieutenant Vicquemare. Kim averts his face, busying himself with tidying papers to hide his emotions.
"Jean," Harry begins, his tone ripe with apology, "I—"
"Save it, sh*tkid." Jean's interruption is swift. “Captain Pryce finally gives you a real job again, and this is how you behave?”
RHETORIC - That’s not true. You and Kim have already been put on several homicides since coming back.
SUGGESTION - He doesn’t care if it’s not true. He wants to hurt you.
PAIN THRESHOLD - It’s working.
Harry shuffles back to his desk like a scolded puppy, eyes still lowered. The mood of the office has shifted significantly, everyone watching the scene in tense silence. Even Torson and McLaine’s usual guffaws are absent.
Jean leans over the two desks, scanning the scattered evidence in front of Harry and Kim. "Looks like Lieutenant Kitsuragi’s pulling your weight again.”
“That,” Kim says quietly, gazing up at Jean with a dangerous gleam behind his glasses, “is not true.”
“You don’t have to cover for him, Lieutenant,” Jean interrupts quickly, oblivious to the treacherous waters he's treading. His own satellite officer, Judit Minot, trails in behind him, her long-suffering expression already in place. She tries to catch Kim’s eye, but when that doesn’t work, she speaks up herself.
“Jean,” Judit says, tone sharp, “we have our own cases to worry over. Leave Harry to do whatever he’s doing and come back.”
“I really am working, Jean,” Harry says, hating the way his voice rises in a childish whine.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT - What kind of voice is that? Drop and give me fifty vocal scales, son!
“I’m sorry I disturbed—”
"Never mind," Jean snaps, brushing away the explanation. He turns away, shoulders rigid with resentment. “Play cops and robbers on your own time, sh*tkid, and try not to distract everybody else, least of all Kitsuragi.”
And now the room becomes aware of Captain Ptolemaios Pryce. At some point during the altercation, he’d emerged from the captain’s office, and now he watches the scene with crossed arms. Jean looks at him with some consternation, but seeing he’s not about to be reprimanded, he marches back toward his and Judit’s own corner on the other side of the office.
Pryce walks toward the back of the room, and Harry and Kim stand at his approach.
“Sir?”
"Detectives," Pryce announces without preamble, his voice a surprisingly mellow baritone that doesn’t fit his craggy face. “At ease.” As if it were an afterthought, he gives them a slight smile before his lips fall back into their usual dour position. "We may have an ID."
***
Kim and Harry enter the interrogation room, greeted by the sight of two familiar figures. Officer Riaan Andrewartha slumps in a hard plastic chair, his gaze locked onto his RCM-issued boots. Trant Heidelstam, an occasional consultant for the RCM, engages the despondent patrol officer with relentless chatter about the unique structural density of pre-Filippian brickwork.
"Ah, Lieutenant Kitsuragi! Lieutenant double-yefreitor Du Bois!" Trant greets them warmly, his handsome face cracking in a myriad of wrinkles as he stands and smiles, offering handshakes. “Always a pleasure.”
SUGGESTION - He looks older when he smiles, and twice as attractive.
REACTION SPEED - Wait, why are you—
VOLITION - Focus.
After enduring the storm cloud that is Jean Vicquemare, Harry finds relief in the sunshine that is Trant Heidelstam.
VOLITION - There aren’t a lot of people who knew you before Martinaise that smile when they see you. Treasure those who do.
"Andrewartha approached me," Trant says, and it’s hard to tell if he’s truly as casual as he seems or is putting on a front for the clearly skiddish Andrewartha. "A personal matter, he said."
"Personal how?" Harry prods.
"He knew the deceased," Trant reveals, each syllable measured. "Helped him relocate to a safehouse."
“He was in danger,” Andrewartha explains.
Kim sits and opens his notebook, tapping it with his pen to get the ink flowing. “Please explain.”
"Thomas Konicek," Andrewartha confesses, "he was an executive, a founder of Saxton Pierce, along with Melinda Starke and Westley Gadjalov."
Kim’s eyebrow arches in recognition of the company's name. As for Harry’s part, he’s stumped—he’s never heard of it in his life, at least not that he can remember.
“Saxton Pierce Active Investments,” Kim whispers to Harry, recognizing his confusion. “A colossus in the world of stock brokerage firms. Their logo is a silver buffalo.”
RHETORIC - It suddenly makes a horrible, painful sort of sense why you didn't recognize it even in the form of deja vu you're so used to now.
PAIN THRESHOLD - You’re too poor.
“Well, surprise, surprise: they’re corrupt.” Andrewartha scowls. “Like all of those La Delta scum. Only they’re more corrupt than most. They defrauded millions out of their Betancourt and Grand Couron investors. People ended up on the street because of them.”
RHETORIC - Including him, perhaps? Or his family. His voice is too heated over this for it not to be personal.
“How?” Harry asks, settling in to take notes as well.
“Pump-and-dump schemes,” Andrewartha mutters.
Kim’s eyebrows raise even higher, but he keeps his face lowered, angled toward his notebook. “And Konicek was a part of this?”
Andrewartha nods. “Of course.”
“So what happened?”
"Religious awakening." Andrewartha fingers his Dolores Dei icon, looking away. "We went to the same church. He wanted confession, penance…but didn’t know what to do. He knew Starke and Gadjalov wouldn’t be happy with him. I…I just wanted to help."
Harry's scrutiny settles on the officer, trying to gauge his feelings about Konicek. There is still anger there, yes, but genuine sadness, too, over the man’s death. Was there enough anger to have killed him?
DRAMA - No, my liege. He’s authentic.
“So if the founders are Konicek, Starke, and Gadjalov, who’s Saxton Pierce?” Harry finally asks, after a long silence.
Trant smiles at the question and leans back in his chair, about to give a lengthy answer—but he is thankfully interrupted.
Andrewartha laughs humorlessly. “No one. It was just a name that sounded fancy to them. All three of the founders were poor kids, like that’s any excuse.” He looks toward Harry and Kim, pointedly excluding Trant.
ESPRIT DE CORPS - Andrewartha is young yet. Still believes in the principles of the RCM, that most of you are basically good people despite growing up as rough as the criminals you arrest, good people who just want to help others.
EMPATHY - Some of you still are.
PAIN THRESHOLD - Most of you aren’t.
“Why didn’t you tell us all of this at the crime scene?” Kim asks.
Andrewartha glares at him. “Because it’s sensitive sh*t!” he snaps. “I was still trying to get the boys in the white collar crime department to talk to him, but you know how slow that goes. I didn’t want to just slap the cuffs on him and let him sweat out his last days waiting for Starke and Gadjalov’s goons to get him.”
“So you took a risk,” Kim says, turning a page in his notebook. “One that, unfortunately for Konicek, didn’t pay off.”
Andrewartha nods miserably. “I know I’m in trouble,” he says, putting his head in his hands. “That’s why I went to Heidelstam first.”
“He hoped I could get him in touch with the right people to speak with first,” Trant says gently, “but I’m afraid that matters have spiraled beyond such a recourse."
RHETORIC - He means there’s no connections he has that can help Andrewartha with this.
“I’m screwed,” Andrewartha groans, rubbing his face. “I went behind the 41st’s back and got a man killed.”
“That’s not necessarily true,” Kim says in a calming tone. “We need warm bodies here. I know of many still on the force who have done much worse.”
“Yeah, I sunk a 40,000 reál MC in the bay!” Harry exclaims, then winces at Kim’s subtle glare and Trant’s awkward cough.
“Thomas was worth more than 40,000 reál,” Andrewartha snarls, and Harry sinks into his chair. “And I don’t just mean what he made every year, though that too.” His lips compress, anger giving way to sadness. “He has a family. And he was a good friend.”
Harry and Kim ask a few more questions but learn nothing new, and they leave Andrewartha to Trant’s care, discussing the situation with the captain before exiting the 41st. They part ways, Kim heading off to the polished offices of Melinda Starke and Westley Gadjalov, Harry to the abode of Konicek's kin.
Captain Pryce had decided there were too many places for two detectives to explore in a reasonable timeframe, and he had assigned Jean and Judit to Jamrock shuffle the safehouse Andrewartha had lent Thomas Konicek.
“Hey, sh*tkid!” Jean snaps before Harry can duck out the front, his voice resonating through the grimy precinct hallways. Harry freezes before turning slowly to face Jean, who’s shaking a cigarette out of its pack with his long fingers. “Kitsuragi doesn’t know yet to keep you on a short leash. So for his sake, don’t f*ck this one up, all right?”
Jean’s words sting, but there’s a hint of concern hidden beneath them. Harry grasps them like a lifeline before nodding wordlessly and continuing to make his way out.
***
It’s strange to think that just a few hours ago, a man woke up to go on a bike ride like he did every day of his life and then ended up with a caved-in head.
SUGGESTION - Play sh*tty games, get sh*tty prizes.
HALF LIGHT - If that were true, you’d be dead a thousand times over.
PAIN THRESHOLD - Let’s not forget THE UNSOLVABLE CASE. Or the kidnapping incident, whatever that was. Or everything you did to Jean. Or everything you did to —
VOLITION - Stop.
EMPATHY - You shouldn’t judge other people or yourself like that. No one is who they were on the day of their worst choice.
PAIN THRESHOLD - So many worst choices…
VOLITION - Thomas Konicek’s death is due to other people’s choices as well as his own. Don’t forget that.
The sun is high in the sky by the time Harry arrives at Konicek’s family home, which exists in a bedroom community on the outskirts of La Delta. The house is beautiful, of course, but not as glamorous as he had imagined a stock brokerage executive’s should be. It’s gingerbreadish, cute and homey, nestled in the midst of other quaint houses. The only thing out of place is a beaten, dented green trashcan lying on its side.
Harry crouches and studies the poor thing, stroking its metal sides. The can looks like it was beaten with something, and its mouth is blown open and blackened, as if something had exploded inside. “You served well, my friend,” Harry says, giving it a dying salute. Perhaps mercifully, it remains silent.
At length, Harry approaches the house, his footsteps feeling intrusive. The painted wooden door is flanked by two narrow windows, behind which he can see thick robin’s-egg-blue curtains drawn tight. He knocks, his knuckles meeting the wood with a hollow echo that does nothing to alleviate the weight settling in his stomach.
“Have I mentioned how much I hate this part?” Harry muses aloud to his tie as he waits—but this is not his beautiful necktie, Joopson AS Men's Fashion, model Colorful Tie, Catalog No. J327. No, that old friend was lost to the inferno of a molotov co*cktail, and his new collection—kindly started by Judit upon his return to the 41st with the present of a pink flamingo pièce de résistance—is not quite as verbose as the old had been.
Harry now keeps a change of ties at work for just such occasions, and he has exchanged his DISCO BEAVER shirt for his official RCM uniform: seldom worn and way too tight in places, but much more appropriate. His current tie is black, unadorned, and silent.
The door creaks open, revealing a woman with mousy brown curls whose face crumples at the sight of him and his uniform.
“Ma’am—”
“No,” she says immediately, her eyes filling with tears.
“—I’m very sorry to inform you that—”
“No!”
Harry stands still as she launches herself at him and pounds his chest. “No, no, no!” she sobs as Harry lets her vent her pain onto him, her pounding fists giving way to racking cries until she falls, exhausted, against him. He wraps his arms around her shoulders cautiously, unsure how she will react to his touch, but she doesn’t resist or push him away, instead allowing herself to be held by the strange man at her door. Harry looks beyond her and sees a teenage boy and a preteen girl in the hallway, and his lungs fill with their grief.
Several minutes later, Harry sits across from Konicek's widow and son—the girl had been sent to her room. A saucer of untouched tea rests in his hands while the widow, Sarah Konicek, stares blankly out the window behind him. He clears his throat, trying to lay out his condolences with the stilted phrases he'd learned from textbooks Trant had given him, but his words fall flat, and soon he stops trying, slipping into an uncomfortable silence.
Why am I so bad at this?
EMPATHY - You aren’t. Even those who do this as a profession cannot predict how grief will make a person act. Sometimes there’s no right thing to say.
Sarah Konicek sighs, wiping her eyes with the bottom hem of her dress. Harry remembers with discomfort the handkerchief in his pocket that Kim gave him months ago in Martinaise, the one embroidered "KK," but he does not reach for it. It is too precious.
The son, Jeremy, sits dry-eyed with an angry countenance, but he puts a comforting hand on his mother's shoulder. She reaches up and clasps it.
“Please understand,” Sarah says with abject misery, “Thomas…he was a good man.” Her words hang in the air. “He loved us…”
Her son speaks for the first time, looking at Harry with a fury the detective knows isn’t directed at him. “He was trying to make things right.” He bites out each word, staring at Harry with defiance, daring him to gainsay him, which, of course, Harry doesn’t.
Harry listens as Sarah talks about their life together. They’d been childhood sweethearts and grown up in Faubourg, penniless.
ENDURANCE - You struggled more.
VOLITION - It’s not a competition.
Harry nods along, absorbing her words like a sponge. Thomas had gotten on one knee when they were no older than their son is now and told her that he would find a way to give them a better life, no matter what.
He had, but the cost had eaten him alive.
“When did you know?” Harry asks Sarah after some time, his words casual, though he is listening for any signs of untruth.
“Three weeks ago,” she answers, rubbing her red nose as her son passes her another kitchen paper towel to blow in. “He sat us all down for a family meeting. God…if I’d known…”
DRAMA - She speaketh the truth, sire.
She worries at her plain wedding band. Seeing it makes Harry uncomfortable for some reason.
“What did he say about his cofounders?”
A shadow of fear crosses Sarah’s face. “They…weren’t happy,” she says after a while, glancing at her son. “We know about it too, you know, what they did. Are we in danger? I don’t care about me,” she adds, putting an arm around Jeremy, “but the children…”
“I’ll be fine, Mum.” He shrugs off her arm with embarrassment, and Harry is struck by how young he is, still embarrassed by his mother’s affection.
EMPATHY - He will have to grow up very fast now.
Harry hesitates before answering her question. “We don’t know why he was killed”—he voices this with delicate care—“or if it was even purposeful.”
“Of course it was!” Jeremy slams a fist on the table, knocking over a white ceramic statue of Dolores Dei and shattering its arm.
“Jeremy!” his mother cries, more out of reflex than actual anger.
“We know it was, and you know it was. Those bastards killed him.”
PERCEPTION - The quiet sound of a door opening down the hall. The young girl is listening.
Sarah Konicek turns back to Harry, worrying her wedding band harder. “They started threatening us,” she says, her voice low. “Or someone did. Death notes under the doorway saying if he talked, he’d be dead, and so would we. Firecrackers in the trashcan before beating it—”
“That was that piece of sh*t, Leon,” Jeremy sneers, fist still clenched.
REACTION SPEED - Who’s Leon?
“Who’s Leon?”
With a reproving glance at her son, Sarah answers, “Leon Starke, Melinda Starke’s nephew. He’s always been trouble—went to juvenile detention several times as a kid. His father is Melinda’s younger brother, who worked for the firm until about three years ago before being fired for embezzlement or something.”
“Kind of hypocritical, if you ask me,” Jeremy says with a twisted smirk.
“Jeremy says he saw him beating the trashcan with his baseball bat.”
“I did see him beat it,” Jeremy insists. “It was with that same stupid baseball bat he won State with back when he was in secondary, the metal one. He’s probably trying to pay off his father’s debt or something. Asshole.” He mutters the last part under his breath, glancing at his mother.
“How old is Leon?” Harry asks Jeremy, recognizing his need to be part of this.
“19, 20?” Jeremy shrugs. “Not much older than me.” He puffs himself up with false bravado, and Harry gazes at him with sadness, wondering if he’s viewing himself as the man of the house now.
He shouldn’t have to. Not at that age.
EMPATHY - You could check in sometimes, after all of this is over. This family needs support, moreso now that they’re about to lose their money once everything gets out.
I can’t help them with money.
VOLITION - No, but you can make sure this young man doesn’t resort to the same types of tactics his father did.
“What did Thomas do about the threats?”
“He left,” Sarah says, smiling sorrowfully. “He thought the threats were directed at him and that if he left, they would stop. He was right.”
“Do you know where he went?”
“No,” Sarah says.
REACTION SPEED - Did you see that? Jeremy looked away just then.
“He wanted to protect us,” she adds.
“Did you stay in contact?”
She nods. “Short phone calls and PO box letters. He hoped after his police friend got him in contact with some higher-ups in the white collar crime division, they’d put us in witness protection, or at least give him a safe prison cell out of the country.” She looks down, defeated.
“And you never saw him at all in those three weeks? You have no idea where he was hiding?” Harry prompts.
“No, of course not,” Sarah says, shaking her head.
“Are you sure?” Harry turns to her son, who wraps his arms around his torso in an unconscious hug and doesn’t answer.
“Jeremy?” Sarah asks, noticing his discomfort.
“I—I followed him,” Jeremy says with distinct unhappiness, refusing to meet her eyes. “That night he told us he was leaving, and he started packing up. I was—I was just so angry with him.”
“Oh, Jeremy,” his mother sighs.
“I was still pissed off he’d been lying to all those people and stealing their money, and lying to us, and then he just tells us he’s leaving us behind when we’re getting all these death threats?” Red splotches appear on Jeremy’s cheeks. It’s clear he’s still angry about it, even as his father lies in a morgue.
EMPATHY - Death doesn’t make the feelings go away.
“I wanted to tell him, you know? I wanted to let him know just what I thought of him ruining our lives. So when he left, I got in my car and followed him all the way to that sh*thole he was staying at in Jamrock, but I left after I saw where he was. I couldn’t talk to him. I was too upset, was afraid I’d do something crazy.
“So I went back the next day, pounded on his door. He…” Jeremy bites his lip, looking away as his eyes fill with tears. “He told me to go home, that I was in danger. I said…I told him, “You just mean you’re in danger, right?” He started crying, and I told him I hated him, and—and he said that was okay, but that he loved me—” Jeremy’s words end in a hiccup.
“And no one saw you?” Harry prompts with care. “No one ever saw you leave to visit your father?” Thomas Konicek would have known the danger and taken back roads at night. Jeremy, though…an angry kid…
“No, of course not,” Jeremy says, but he looks uncertain.
“You’re sure? You saw no one before you left for the second time, no one following behind you?”
“I mean, I did see…”
“Jeremy?” his mother prompts.
“I saw…” A tremor crosses Jeremy’s face, and Harry’s heart sinks. “That’s…that’s when I saw Leon hitting the trashcan,” he mumbles, so low Harry is forced to lean in to hear him. “But I don’t…I don’t think he could have followed me! His…his dad’s car was parked down the street; it would have been a long way for him to run to catch up—”
I don’t want to say this, Harry thinks to himself.
PAIN THRESHOLD - You have to. They need to know how this happened. Besides, they’ll figure it out on their own.
“And,” Harry says, with as much delicacy as possible, “is it not possible that Leon hadn’t driven himself? It was his father who owed people money, wasn’t it?” Harry watches as Jeremy’s last remaining defiance drains from his face and is replaced with dawning horror. His fists, which had been balled in anger, slowly release.
“I—I got my dad killed,” he says, and his mother wraps her arms around him. “Oh, my God…I got my dad killed, and the last thing I told him was that I hated him.”
“No! No, Jeremy, no, this wasn’t your fault—” His mother holds him, and this time he lets her. Jeremy is sobbing now too, but in silence, staring out the same window his mother had earlier as he allows her to hold him but does not hug her back, shutting down.
Harry stands and places a hand on Jeremy’s shoulder. “I know this doesn’t mean anything right now,” he tells Jeremy, “but you didn’t get your father killed. Someone else did that, okay? Your father was living on borrowed time. If it wasn’t this, it would have been something else.” The last part is a lie—Harry doesn’t know that it would have been something else—but it is a kind lie.
VOLITION - They do exist.
“I’m going to find out who did this to your father.” He’s much more sure of his words now. “I promise you that. I’m very, very good at what I do.” He puts one of his cards on the table. “This is my contact information. Please call me if you think of anything else, or if you just need to talk. That goes for both of you. I mean it; I don’t mind.”
He leaves Sarah Konicek rocking her son on the couch. Jeremy’s silent tears etch into his memory—he knows he’ll be seeing that face tonight when he closes his eyes.
HALF LIGHT - And a missing face, too.
***
Three days later, the magistrate-signed requests for an interview have gone through for Melinda Starke, Westley Gadjalov, Samuel Starke, and Leon Starke.
Kim’s interviews the day of Thomas Konicek’s death had led nowhere. The executives had him escorted off company premises until he could provide a warrant, and Samuel and Leon Starke had not been home. Jean and Judit’s search of the victim’s safehouse had revealed nothing more than a few books and frozen dinners.
The suspects arrive with their attorneys in full force, all aggression and without even feigned sadness for their fallen peer.
Melinda Starke is a squat woman with a ruddiness to her cheeks that suggests a lifelong indulgence in the finest whiskeys. She wears an expensive tailored suit with shoulder pads—an unusual choice for a trip to the police station.
COMPOSURE - That’s her armor, just as yours is a bullet-proof vest.
Westley Gadjalov hides sharp, bright eyes behind thick glasses. He has an affable air about him, though Harry notes the man's calculating, weasel-like nature as he plays the wheeler-dealer to Melinda Starke’s loud bluster.
Samuel Starke and Leon Starke, unlike the other two, have not brought their own attorneys, though Samuel seems inclined to believe that Melinda’s attorney is acting for him as well. Harry is not so sure, but he is also not concerned with Melinda Starke, Samuel Starke, or Westley Gadjalov.
Leon Starke, by far the youngest among them, wears a sullen expression and tells the patrol officer who pats him down to “f*ck off.” Although his father goes to stand behind Melinda and her attorney, Leon keeps apart from the rest, even after his father orders him to stay close.
Leon slams down into a waiting-room chair and pulls out a handheld pinball game. “Corrupt pigs,” he mutters, the glass of the game reflecting the dark circles under his eyes.
Judit follows Harry’s line of sight, and she gives him a slight smile. “Go get ‘em, can opener,” she says.
***
Leon sits in a sticky plastic chair, the young man's skin hot and clammy despite the chill in the interrogation room. By his looks, he can't be older than twenty—but his face crumples with the dolor of someone much older.
The door to the interrogation room is open, and Leon’s been told he could leave at any time, and yet he sits still. He watches as Lieutenant double-yefreitor Du Bois rushes past the doorway at a quick clip before doubling back and sticking his head inside the room.
“Oh, I’m so sorry! I nearly forgot about you,” he chuckles before sashaying into the interrogation room, hips swaying, smoothing down a hideously patterned puce tie. Leon wants to laugh but finds he can’t—because it’s not funny. Nothing about this is funny.
The detective sits at the table in front of him and puts his chin in his hand, regarding him with what should have felt like benign interest. Instead, Leon feels a deep sinking in his gut as he stares back at the detective, eventually dropping his gaze to the table.
“Thank you so much for meeting with me on such short notice. Did you know the deceased well?” The detective reaches out toward Leon as though to comfort him, then seems to think better of it, his hairy hand falling onto the desk.
“Um. Not really,” Leon mumbles. “I mean, my dad worked with him and my Aunt Melinda, but—”
“That’s right,” the detective snaps his fingers as though just remembering, “your father worked underneath your aunt until he was fired for double-dipping three years ago, right? He had all those gambling debts…” The detective trails off while Leon burns with shame and anger at the memory.
“Yeah, well,” Leon grumbles, shifting with discomfort under the detective’s scrutiny and hating how sympathetic the detective appears, “he’s doing much better now.”
“That’s wonderful! I’m so glad to hear it.” The detective’s face breaks into a delighted smile, his voice friendly, but Leon feels there’s something wolfish and hungry behind those sharp teeth. “I thought so. I saw him drop you off in such a nice car! My partner Kim is an MC enthusiast, you know. I asked him what it was, and…”
Leon tries to tune out the detective’s incessant chattering, but that’s impossible when every word feels like another leaded weight added to his stomach.
“…and he said it was an Arka S-40 Zephyr. Quite a beauty. It’s a sign of good taste and success,” the detective continues, eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiles at Leon.
Leon forces out a laugh. "Yeah, well, Dad’s always been a bit of a car nut. Likes to keep them in good shape."
"Ah, so it's not just about driving for him; it's also about the care and maintenance. I can appreciate that." Here the detective gives a small knowing nod, as if sharing some secret understanding between them.
“Sure,” Leon agrees with reluctance, unable to meet the detective’s unsettling gaze. Each time he glances at the detective’s eyes, he is shocked at how vast and unfathomable they seem—but not in a way that’s beautiful. They are covetous, greedy eyes, drinking in everything Leon holds close like a vampire thirsting after hidden knowledge.
He tries to focus, tries to remember what they were talking about. His father's disgrace, the money they’d lost. His fists clench underneath the table, nails biting into his palms.
The detective seems to sense his discomfort. "Anywho, back to Mr. Konicek," he says, referring to the deceased. "How would you describe him?"
“Like I said, I didn’t know him that well,” Leon says warily. “Aunt Melinda says he was the least dedicated, though. Didn’t care as much about the company as her or Westley.”
“And did he say that before or after Mr. Konicek decided to come clean about Saxton Pierce’s fraud? Oh, I’m sorry”—the detective interrupts his own train of thought, smacking his forehead after Leon jerks in horrified surprise—“maybe you didn’t know about that, or didn't know that we knew about that?”
In the meantime, Jean watches from behind the two-way mirror, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest, his expression one of bitter awe. This is the can opener in action—digging his dirty fingers deep into people's lives and minds, probing at their souls—something Jean used to admire him for.
“Please, don’t be nervous.” The detective smiles beatifically at the young man, who squirms under his gaze. "You're sweating like a pitcher in the ninth inning."
“I just need some water,” Leon croaks. As soon as he says it, the detective’s face falls in shame.
“I am so sorry,” he says with earnestness, “I completely forgot to ask you if you need anything. Hold on, I’ll get you something right now. Do you want anything else? Are you hungry?”
The thought of food causes the taste of bile to enter Leon's mouth. “No.”
The detective stands and jogs away from the table as though getting Leon sustenance were his top priority in life. Leon breathes a sigh of relief…until he notices that this time, the detective has closed the interrogation room door behind him.
Leon waits for what feels like an interminable amount of time but is in fact only a few minutes before the detective comes back, arms full of junk food and sodas from the RCM’s vending machines.
“Sorry if they’re a bit old,” he says, grinning from behind the pile in his arms, “the vending machine stocker is on strike.” He dumps the food and the drinks across the table, a cold bottle of water rolling towards Leon. “Did you miss me?”
Leon most certainly did not, but he avoids answering by taking a deep drink of the mercifully cold water. When he looks back up, Harry is not smiling anymore. Instead, the detective is once again staring at him with that disturbing enthusiastic inquisitiveness.
"Okay, Leon," the detective continues, seeming to snap himself out of his reverie and shaking his head before busting open a packet of barbecue-flavored crisps. "I'm rather interested in your Aunt Melinda's relationship with your father.”
Leon’s adam’s apple bobs as he swallows thick ropes of saliva. Somehow, despite the water, his throat feels drier than ever. “They were…close, I guess. They didn’t talk much after…well, you know.”
“Yes, of course,” the detective says. He studies Leon's downcast face thoughtfully before plunging into the barbecue crisps voraciously. “Feel free, by the way,” he says, gesturing towards the snacks. “It’s not like I can eat these all by myself.” He chuckles, though Leon makes no move toward the snacks or sodas.
The detective leans forward as though confiding a secret. “Don’t tell anyone, but I know how to tip the machines to give me extra after paying for one item.” His friendly, benign, evil eyes twinkle with mirth as he gazes at Leon. “I don’t feel too bad about it. It’s not like they pay me what I’m worth. Big organizations like the RCM are always taking advantage of the little guys like us.”
Leon despises him. “You know, stealing from your own vending machines isn’t really the best way to convince me there's such a thing as a good cop,” he sneers. "You're all corrupt sh*ts."
"Oh," the detective says, spreading his hands wide in a comical, exaggerated shrug. His smile is gentle, and he speaks to Leon like a parent comforting a frightened child. "I didn’t mean to upset you. I figured since we were confessing our secrets," he chuckles, "…well."
Leon remembers agreeing to no such thing.
The detective’s voice turns soft again. “It was just a thought. Being corrupt and being human…there’s a fine line between them sometimes. Would be nice if we could separate them neatly, but life isn't that convenient." He pauses, picking up a pack of chocolate-coated peanuts from the table and shaking it. "We're all guilty of something, aren't we?" He fixes his gaze on Leon. "A stolen candy bar when we were kids, or maybe that not-so-innocent white lie told to save our own skin…or maybe something we’re not proud of that we've done for someone we love, like a parent."
At these words, Leon takes a deep breath and looks away, rubbing his eyes with panicked distress and knowing it’s futile to try to hide the stinging tears, and he hates, hates, hates the detective with all his body and soul, at the same time wishing his own father had ever spoken to him so kindly.
“Don’t,” Leon breathes, his voice shaking from the effort as he forces the words out. “Don’t…don’t do this…”
The detective continues, speaking compassionately, continuing mercilessly as though he doesn’t see Leon’s about to break open, doesn’t hear his words of despair.
"I don’t know about you, Leon,” his voice grows soft, “but when I’ve done something wrong, it nags at me…eats away at me. You can try to forget it, put it all behind you, and heck, maybe you do for a while. Maybe your brain erases it, and you can go about your day. But your soul always remembers, always. Believe me, I know. You’ll get that sick feeling whenever you see that same type of candy bar you stole as a kid, or the old baseball bat your favorite coach gave you just a few years ago, or maybe a bicycle in a certain color…”
“Stop,” Leon sobs, “please stop.”
The detective leans in closer, all pretense gone from his expression now. Gone is the mask of the friendly, eccentric investigator; in its place is a man with eyes too haunted, too knowing. “You can try to pretend it never happened or drink it away, cut it away, but it will gnaw at you late into the night,” he whispers. “You can sleep, but then the nightmares come. You can laugh at jokes, but it’s always hollow because you know he’ll never laugh again. You can find love, but it will never work because you know you don’t deserve it. You see his family go on the news every few years and cry. Food doesn’t taste good anymore. Your sleep gets more and more broken until you don’t know when you’re awake. You see his face day in and day out—”
“No!” Leon shakes like a man with severe hypothermia, his teeth chattering between each word as liquid drains from his eyes and nose uninhibited. “No, no, no—”
“But it doesn’t have to be this way,” the detective continues with relentless, dreadful kindness, pushing the peanut bag toward him. “You don’t have to live like that, Leon. There is always another way, even when you think there isn't. Even when you believe you’ve gone too far.”
Leon picks up the bag of peanuts and holds it to his chest, cradling it close, staring at the detective with large, pleading eyes. “How,” he whispers, knowing as he says it that the detective holds no real salvation for him, only damnation and a life behind bars or worse—but also knowing the detective is horrifically, dreadfully correct.
Harry smiles with sad, infinite gentleness and leans forward. “Tell me what happened.”
***
Kim rubs his eyes behind his glasses. “So Konicek gets religion and decides to turn in himself as well as the other Saxton Pierce founders, Westley Gadjalov and Melinda Starke, for fraud. Gadjalov and Starke aren’t happy, and Konicek goes into hiding, but that’s not good enough. Gadjalov and Starke get Sam Starke and his son Leon to kill Thomas Konicek. Sam drives the car, and Leon holds the bat that kills Konicek. Simple as that.”
“Simple as that,” Harry agrees, though he doesn’t seem happy. He’s been morose since the interview with Leon, despite his success.
"You did well, detective." Kim's voice is flat but not unkind.
Harry gives his partner a faded smile. "Doesn't feel like it," he admits, the words heavy. He doesn't have to explain further. Kim understands. He always does.
"You're feeling empathy for that…kid,” Kim says.
ESPRIT DE CORPS - He almost said “delinquent.”
Harry rubs a hand over his face, the sigh that escapes him heavy with resignation. "Yeah."
Not for the first time, Kim questions his partner’s suitability as a detective. Life was remarkably cruel to give such a compassionate person the rare ability to wring confessions from the most unwilling—but perhaps the two traits go hand in hand.
"Well," Kim says after a moment of silence, rubbing the bridge of his nose with gloved fingers, "at least we've solved the case."
“At least.”
***
The door to Captain Ptolemaios Pryce's office swings open with a soft creak. Harry and Kim enter, their shadows merging with the light that filters through the blinds. Pryce, stoic against the framed window, turns toward them, his expression unreadable.
"Excellent work," he intones, his voice as crisp as the papers tidily stacked on his desk. "You've done the RCM proud."
Harry surveys the floor, a cracked Mesque mosaic from the days of the silk factory, while Kim stands straighter, if possible, at the praise.
There is a heavy pause before Pryce continues. "Lieutenant Kitsuragi, your Kineema has been transferred from your old precinct. It's parked downstairs."
Shock flickers over Kim’s face, quickly replaced by a goofy grin of happiness that he masks by clearing his throat. “Khm. Thank you, sir.”
A ghost of a smile tugs at the corner of Pryce’s lips, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he watches his newest lieutenant’s reaction. "And Lieutenant double-yefreitor," his tone dips, laden with a different weight, "unusual as it is, please allow Lieutenant Kitsuragi the sole use of this one. It needs better treatment than your last car."
A laugh, hollow and brief, escapes Harry. The humor does not quite camouflage the sting of the rebuke, and Harry's response is mumbled, colored with a mix of gratitude and chagrin. "Thanks, boss. I doubt Kim would have let me drive it even before you said something, but…hey, maybe we can get those helium lights working, Kim?" He exits the room, embarrassed.
Although Harry has left, Kim remains, surrounded by deepening silence. He faces Pryce, whose eyes are now fixed upon him with expectancy.
"Sir, with all due respect," Kim begins, each word measured and deliberate, knowing this is a mistake and fighting against his own instincts, "I'm concerned about the detective—about Harry. Continuing to work in his condition is a risk. And the fact that…well…" He hesitates, hands clasped behind him, fingers squeezing tight.
The captain gestures. “Please, speak freely. Something is on your mind.”
Kim’s initial trepidation is overwhelmed by the anger that has been building at this man who has been nothing but charitable to him since Martinaise, who gave him a job and now his old MC for no reason other than that he’d wanted it. But whenever Kim saw the captain, he couldn’t help but think about Harry and how frightened and alone he’d been in Martinaise.
With pointed care, Kim continues, “I had the…pleasure of observing Lieutenant double-yefreitor Du Bois in action in Martinaise. I hold the utmost respect for his skill as a detective. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone else with the raw talent he exhibits. But,” he adds, “you and I both know he had no business being on that job the way that he was.”
Pryce’s face has gone, if possible, even more wooden. Kim rushes on before he loses his nerve. “He was spiraling into psychosis, a nonfunctioning alcoholic who was self-destructing. I have reason to believe he tried to commit suicide multiple times before I arrived—and this was not a new situation. I’ve seen his caseload. I saw what happened with Burke and Leslie. He was a danger to both himself and those around him.” Kim pauses, the icy chill in his voice and his heaving chest the only outward signs of his fury.
Pryce's face hardens, and his eyes narrow, and Kim knows that he’s about to be reprimanded or demoted or even fired. But then Pryce’s face sags, the lines deepening. "I know," he admits sadly. The confession hangs between them, a truth acknowledged but not absolved.
Kim waits for something more, but nothing is given. “You…know,” he echoes, his voice cold.
“I do. Harry should have been put on medical leave months before Martinaise, but…”
“But?”
“But I needed him. I know that answer isn’t satisfactory for you, Lieutenant, but I cannot go into more detail than that. Suffice to say, I have spent many nights awake wondering if I made the right choice or not—sacrificing a man’s well-being, and the well-being of everyone around him, for the good of the people—and I still don’t know.”
“How can you not know?” Kim asks, aghast. “How can you look at what happened to Burke, look at what happened to Harry—” His fists have appeared from behind his back, and they clench at his sides. “He was sick over it! It never should have happened, and it wouldn’t have—”
Pryce holds up a hand, stilling Kim's protest.
Kim's expression becomes fixed, and he knows he’s gone too far, but Pryce turns away.
“That’s enough, Lieutenant Kitsuragi,” he says with calm quietness. “We all have to live with our choices.”
“We certainly do,” Kim says, trying to steady his voice and almost succeeding, “sir.” With this last defiance, he marches out of the office, closing the door with a childish slam.
Pryce rests his forehead against the cool window and sighs. “And I am sorry.”
But he knows as he says it that “sorry” won’t keep him from doing it again.
Girl Child Revolution waits for no one, not even sad, damaged lieutenant double-yefreitors.
