Chapter Text
- --- / -.. .. ... .- .--. .--. . .- .-. / .. -. - --- / - .... . / -... --- ..- -. -.. .-.. . ... ... / .... --- .-.. .-.. --- .--
Plenty of people consider themselves good losers.
In Kim Kitsuragi’s experience, almost all of those people are liars, with the one striking exception of Harry Du Bois.
Five months ago, on a sticky table in the Whirling in Rags, Harry carefully spread out the Suzerainty board, lined up the coins and tokens in neat rows beside it, and proceeded to get his ass kicked.
The thing was, Harry didn’t care that he lost. He may have pouted when Kim noted that advocating for the welfare of cardboard workers was hardly an effective strategy, but throughout the rest of the game, Harry smiled more than Kim had seen in the past two days combined. When Kim won, Harry just grinned even wider.
This thing about Harry was one of the many frustrating, impossibly endearing things that sucker-punched Kim into developing feelings for his new partner, feelings that he is just now allowing himself to explore. This thing is one of the reasons that Kim rarely says no when Harry asks him if he wants to play a board game.
Perhaps it is this goodwill that makes Harry decide that the middle of a board game is the perfect opportunity to bring up the papers again.
“What papers? The blank ones?” Kim doesn’t look up from the board. Harry is this close to actually winning, and Kim isn’t about to allow that.
“They're not blank,” Harry says.
Kim sighs. “You found them in the trash outside records, Harry. I don’t really think—”
“Come on. You should know that you can find plenty of good evidence in the trash. And sometimes a pair of decent boots.”
“Oh, is that why you were rifling around in there?” Kim says lightly, finally looking up at Harry. “I’m glad you told me. I was about to have a very pointed chat with Captain Pryce about getting a new partner.”
Harry rolls his eyes. “My point is that they’re not completely blank. There's some information. Sometimes the arresting officers, sometimes a mention of crimes. Just never… all of it.”
"It is a little puzzling." Kim admits, his tone tentative. He doesn't want to concede this and risk validating Harry's obsessiveness, but he won’t lie. It is puzzling. He has been at Precinct 41 long enough to know that no one would fill out paperwork without a case, and often even when there is one. “Perhaps someone was too lazy to fill out their paperwork properly.”
“No, I don’t think so. Some of them are listed as our cases,” Harry’s arms are crossed in his lap, all pretense of playing the game gone. “But they’re all made up. One form says we went to the Pox, but we've never been there together.” Harry stops suddenly, frowning. “Right?”
Even now, Harry needs reassurance that he hasn’t forgotten anything. Kim doesn’t blame him.
“It could just be a sort of… lazy filing technique,” Kim suggests. “Partly filled-in forms with generic descriptions so things are ready to go when there’s a suspect.” Even as says it, he is skeptical. There are too many of the wrong sort of details present. “Or perhaps… perhaps it’s something less innocent.”
“So you’re thinking corruption?” A glint returns to Harry’s eyes. Some part of him likes the idea.
“Not necessarily,” Kim says. “I just said it’s a possibility. I’m still not ruling out laziness. One second; I’ll show you.”
He gets up from the kitchen table and retrieves a manila filing folder from his bag.
Kim flicks through his files, a frown creasing his brow. Surely, he can find an example of something generic enough that any officer would encounter a similar situation later.
“Kim?” Harry asks.
Kim returns the files to the folder and leans back in his chair. “Hold on. I’m thinking.”
Although Kim wouldn’t put it past Chester and Mack to come up with this sort of harebrained technique, Harry’s suggestion of corruption seems more likely. But why?
As if reading his mind, Harry says, “Let’s say that a cop has a grudge against a small-time perp and wants to make it seem like he’s committed more crimes, or worse crimes, than he actually has. Whip up a few of these forms, and there you have it: suddenly, this guy is a sequence killer who needs to be locked up for a very long time.”
Kim grimaces. He has never heard of a scheme like this, but it could fit in with the grandstanding macho attitudes he’s seen in the 41st’s Vice department.
“So?” Harry prods. “What should we do?”
Kim scratches his head. “I don’t know if this warrants any further action, to be quite honest.”
“Kim, this could be the case of a lifetime,” Harry says, throwing up his hands. “Sniffing out corruption within our own precinct!”
Kim slides the folder back into his bag and hangs it on the hook near the door. “Or it could be nothing and we should just let it go.”
He walks into the kitchen to make a pot of tea, aware of Harry’s eyes tracking him across the apartment.
“I can feel you thinking,” Kim says, filling up the kettle at the sink.
“Fine,” Harry says.
“‘Fine’ what?”
“Fine. I’ll let it go.” Harry crosses his arms and gazes at the game board without really looking at it.
“Okay,” Kim says, but he doesn’t believe him. Whether it’s ex-lovers or the potential for an interesting case, Harry has never been good at letting things go.
- --- / ... .-.. .. -.. . / .- .-- .- -.-- / .-- .... . .-. . / --- -. . / -.-. .- -. / -. . ...- . .-. / ..-. --- .-.. .-.. --- .--
“Kim, is this a mysterious case?”
“No. You always ask that and it never is. This is a perfectly standard homicide. The victim was stabbed and he bled to death. It's most likely either a burglary or a domestic affair made to look like a burglary. Nothing remotely mysterious.”
Harry sighs loudly.
“I'm sorry that someone being murdered in Jamrock is not an unusual occurrence.”
“The apartment is a little spooky though, huh?” Harry says. He sets their disposable coffee cups on top of a dusty bookshelf and browses through the titles. “Hey, Kim, listen to these: ‘Starting Out: Circuit Bender , Untold Histories: What the Government Doesn’t Want You to Know , Secret Codes: Making and Breaking .”
“Hmm,” Kim says, only half listening. Kim takes a long, slow sip of his coffee. It is still burning hot but he needs it, even if it means he won’t be able to taste anything for the rest of the morning.
At 5am, D-Wing was dispatched to the scene of a homicide. After twenty minutes of investigation, they handed off the case to C-Wing. The Major Crimes Unit. Kim still isn’t sure what Feurbach considered so "major" about this case that he didn’t want to handle it himself. He only knows that sometime around 5.30, Fuerbach dumped it on their desks with a note saying he'd come through with the financials but otherwise, he was done. Kim found the note when his shift started at 7am.
Kim hasn't told Harry any of that, though. Harry arrived at their desks fifteen minutes late, so all he knows is that they have a case.
The body is a lot less disturbing than Kim could have feared, considering the circumstances. The rug underneath it is rigid with blood, but there is no sign of mutilation, struggle, or treatment. Blood doesn’t coat the room and there are no crying loved ones. It’s peaceful, by murder standards.
Kim takes a thermometer from his pocket and notes the ambient temperature of the room. The thread of sunlight barely penetrates the greying curtains and there is no heater on, so it is only a few degrees warmer than outside. Closed curtains, no heat… it seems likely the victim was killed at night. Yes, though they are stained beyond recognition now, the victim was wearing soft brushed cotton pajamas. High quality. Not extravagant to keep out the chill, but not cheap. Kim pulls the elasticated waistband down to measure the internal temperature of the body. Harry fails at stifling a snicker. Kim shoots him an unamused glance, shutting him up immediately.
"If this is so amusing for you, perhaps you can have even more fun washing this for me." Kim hands the thermometer to Harry, who takes it with an eager nod. As Kim jots down the temperatures and calculates the difference between them, the drop off from typical body temperature, he can’t stop from smiling at the image of Harry at the kitchen sink, up to his elbows in soap. Harry’s clean hands will suit Kim nicely later. If only there were part of an autopsy that would trick Harry into brushing his teeth.
"What do you reckon, then?" Harry hands the clean thermometer back to his partner.
"Six or seven hours, I think. Around midnight?"
"Not too long… Minimal decomp. So the grossest part of the autopsy is already over."
Kim raises an eyebrow at the flakes of crystalised blood on his latex gloves. Then he shrugs. This job would be impossible if he were disgusted by a little blood.
"So he lives alone? Who discovered the body?" Harry rocks the cooled flesh back and forth a little with the toe of his snakeskin shoe.
"Let's just say there's an ugly stain on the ceiling of the unit below. When his downstairs neighbour banged on his door asking for an explanation, there was no response. Since it was before any reasonable human was awake,” Kim smiles grimly at the hours they keep in their unreasonable humanity, “they decided to call the landlord, expecting the worst."
"And this was the worst. Did he die in his sleep?"
Kim snorts automatically, wanting to say no, but he has learned that a quick answer to Harry's unconventional questions is likely to make him sound foolish. "Why do you ask that?"
"There's no blood on the walls or on anything else in the room.” Harry gestures around them. “It's like he was already lying down when—” Harry makes an ugly squelch sound at the back of his throat.
"You're right, but it definitely happened here on the rug. There's no blood on his bed. It's more like he was overpowered and killed in the middle of the room."
"The killer was very considerate,” Harry says, peeking under the sheets of the bed that dominates the livingroom-cum-bedroom. “Means I can still take a nap in his bed."
"No, you may not."
"Spoilsport.” Harry flashes a grin. “Care to join me?”
"We've barely been at work for half an hour,” Kim says, deliberately ignoring the question.
"Sure, maybe you’re not tired now , but who knows how long this will take. So much evidence to go through."
"So go through it.”
Harry sighs dramatically but begins searching the room without complaint. Kim ignores Harry's little interested noises, focused instead on steaming through the autopsy form with short answers and rote check-marks. The amount of blood seeping from the body means the heart was pumping it out as he died; in absence of other wounds, the cause of death is uncontestable. Lividity shows he hasn't been moved, not by the landlord who discovered the body, not even by Feurbach and his partner… Whatever spooked them enough to dump the case isn't going to show up here. Glittering clots on the ragwork rug are the mundane part of this tableau. The autopsy doesn’t require much attention.
"I don't know about considerate, exactly… but I'd say the killer was professional. We might be looking for someone with experience."
"Murder experience?"
Kim takes a deep breath, trying to get enough oxygen to his brain to come up with an alternative before someone mentions sequence killers. "Or abattoir experience."
"Ah." This explanation is mundane enough for Harry to wander out of the room. “Kim! Hey, Kim, there’s a radiocomputer in here!”
“Okay. Interesting. Don’t touch it. Trant can take a look at it without—" Kim hesitates to say “breaking anything” out loud, but can’t stop the subtext from dangling.
“It’s so weird to see one in this part of town… This guy must have been a bourgeoise.”
Kim looks around him as if the small, grim one bedroom apartment might have been replaced with a penthouse while he was focused on the body. He's too tired to even tackle his partner's grammar right now. Instead, he tackles the potential sources of evidence Harry was too easily bored to take on.
An old roll top desk crowds the corner of the living room. On it are an excess of radios and porta-reel boomboxes. Kim recognises the Harmon Wowshi styling, but he’s not sure if it’s the same type of boombox Harry bought in Martinaise.
Drawers cleared of anything interesting, Kim lifts the roll-top of the desk. A hardback book with a title so esoteric it makes the bookshelves look normal pins down several hand written letters. He picks up the leaves of notebook paper.
“ In the event of my death… ” Kim reads with a sinking feeling. The writer speaks of conspiracies. Inhumane scientific studies and mind control. Kim says nothing as he feels Harry’s warm bulk behind him, reading over his shoulder. Every vibration in the air from Harry’s breath tells a story and Kim is literate in this genre: Harry is going to love this.
Kim turns the page. “This is important. If I am to be found dead… ” the next page reads.
“How long is this letter, anyway?”
“It’s strange,” Kim says. “This next page isn’t a continuation of the letter. It’s a different version.”
The narrative content of the letter is much the same, with minor differences: some things covered in more detail, some less. Bizarre. Who takes the time to draft more than one attempt at a beyond-the-grave plea? Why decide so carefully what to reveal? Wouldn’t you give as much information as possible?
“This is exciting,” Harry says, voice hushed.
“This is… good,” Kim says slowly. “We may have a suspect or at least a clear motive.”
Kim is careful not to sound too intrigued. If one thing has remained constant over half a year, it’s Harry’s ability to cultivate outlandish theories about even the most mundane cases. Kim tries to imagine what Harry will be like with a genuinely strange example. How long before Harry’s chief suspects are clones from an illegal Moralintern lab? It’s not that Harry’s uncanny knack for knowing things he shouldn’t isn’t helpful. The problem is filtering insight from insanity… and doing so delicately. Harry is still a fragile creature and Kim needs evidence before he will even dare to say “delusions” about the note he is holding.
“The victim signed his name as Philippe Gardinier,” Harry says, resting a hand on Kim’s shoulder and squinting at the letter. “The landlord said his name was William Argyle.”
“Hrm. Perhaps this isn’t Argyle. Perhaps he was subletting the apartment without permission?”
Kim ignores Harry’s resulting lecture on landlords’ excessive social power and rent-seeking behavior. He slides the letter between the pages of his notebook.
“It’s time to knock on some doors, I think,” Kim says. “We can ask if any of the neighbors know who we have here, or where the other man is.”
They meet the first neighbor on the stairs carrying a shopping bag. At the sight of their RCM insignias, he yelps and sends an avalanche of soup cans tumbling down to the landing. He immediately calms down when they ask about the murder, perhaps relieved that this particular crime has nothing to do with him.
“Yeah, it’s William. William Argyle,” the man confirms as Harry helps him collect his soup cans. “I didn’t know him all that well, but I sometimes get his mail by accident.”
Kim underlines the word “Pseudonym?” in his notebook. He hovers his pen next to the question mark. Rather than scribbling it out, he traces over it again, taking a moment of satisfaction for the feeling of his pen nib rolling over paper, however meaningless the gesture.
“Have you ever heard of someone named Philippe Gardinier?” Harry asks.
The man shakes his head, then lowers his voice. “So… was William killed by the grey man?”
Harry’s eyes light up.
"A man in grey… threatened the victim?" Kim asks, pen poised over the page of his mnemotechnique.
"I… I don't know…" The man fidgets slightly, taken aback by their confusion.
Kim pushes his glasses up with the pen and fixes the man with a meaningful stare.
"William was always talking about some ‘grey man,’” the neighbor says, looking down at his shopping bag. “How he was dangerous. That’s all I know. Like I said, we didn’t talk much. Truth be told, William always kind of… scared me.”
Kim scribbles down the information dutifully, but this is beginning to sound like something straight out of a pulpy novel from the victim’s bookshelf.
They thank the man and begin knocking on doors, but it’s not very productive this time of day. On the left side of the corridor, not a single person opens the door. They have no luck until they circle back around to the apartment next to the victim’s. A robust woman with half a face of makeup answers.
“The grey man? No,” she says, smoothing her hair. “I mean, yes, I heard him talk about a grey man, but I thought nothing of it. I assumed it was one of his little games.” Impatience creeps into her voice. “Wait, he is really dead, right?"
Kim is not used to witnesses doubting this point. "Yes. What makes you ask that?"
"Look, I'm not a player, and I'm not a narc,” the woman says. “If you're really RCM and he's paying you to set this up, that's fine. I don't care and I won't start making trouble with your superiors or anything. But I am sick of my time being wasted by attempts to provide 'texture' for his players. I'm done. So, is he really dead, or can I go back to—” She gestures to her incompletely painted face.
"Ma'am, he's really de—”
"Players?" The excitement in Harry’s voice is utterly terrifying.
“Oh.” The woman blinks in surprise and opens the door slightly wider. “You didn’t know about all of that?”
“Know what?” Kim asks.
“William’s in charge of this… game. I guess you could call it a game. I wasn’t even supposed to know about it, but it’s hard to hide something like that when the walls here are barely a centimeter thick.” She glances toward their shared wall. “He goes on the radio every week with… puzzles.”
Kim doesn’t think Harry could look any more excited, but Harry proves him wrong. “Puzzles? What kind of puzzles?”
“I don’t know. Just puzzles for his listeners to solve. I never really understood why anyone would waste their time with it.”
“And it’s his listeners who come here and bother you?” Kim asks. “Why would they do that?”
“They’re not supposed to. They’re not supposed to know who he is. But they like solving puzzles, so I guess it was unavoidable that they would solve that puzzle: who he was, where he lived.” She rolls her eyes. “He’s not telling them to come here, but I’m pretty sure William sends them all over Jamrock on these foolish little errands. People have too much time on their hands.” She shakes her head with evident disgust.
Kim furiously records the conversation in his notebook. “Do you remember any of the players in particular?”
The woman snorts. “You think I came out here to talk to them? No. Sometimes they’d knock on my door and I’d have to yell at them to go away, but other than that, they just made a lot of noise and tracked mud into the hallway.”
“How long has this been going on?” Harry asks.
“William has been hosting this show for as long as he’s lived here, which I guess is about five years now, but it seems like the players have been coming here more and more lately.”
Kim nods. “Okay, one last question: do you know what frequency he broadcast on?”
“No. I’ve never listened to the show aside from hearing him mumbling from next door. I really don’t know anything else about it.” She looks off to the side for a moment, then laughs. “If someone killed him, I wouldn’t put it past one of those players. It’s not like a crossword, you know? They act like it’s real for so long that some of them forget that it’s not. Maybe William refused to give one of them a hint and they—” She mimes slitting her throat.