Chapter Text
JUN 9 ‘51
“What’s this?”
You slap the slim report against the desk. “I’m just dropping off this report before heading out.” You shrug in your jacket. “It’s Monday.”
Monday. Cryptid Club. With Kim, if you are lucky.
REACTION SPEED – And if you hurry.
Katie’s Cryptid Club meets every Monday night at Jamrock Public Library. You go as often as you are able, a couple of times you’ve even dragged your favorite cryptozoologists, Morell and Lena, along as special guests. However, you are running late, after spending the day following up on a stabbing with Judit.
The two of you had gone out together today. In theory, you are training her to become a detective after her promotion to sergeant. In practice, she is helping you remember all the rules that had drained out of the hole in your head back in Martinaise.
VOLITION – Rules like reports should be completed within 72 hours of case completion.
“Shitkid,” Newly minted Lieutenant Jean Vicquemare’s voice is haggard as he stretches behind his desk, a steaming cup of coffee in his hands. You peer into his eyes and squint.
EMPATHY – He’s exhausted. He wants to leave as much as you, but he is stuck with all the responsibility of C-Wing and no partner to help him run it.
INLAND EMPIRE – Guilt writhes along your spine.
Shifting your weight to your right leg, you glance at the wall clock, “What?”
“You owe me at least three additional reports.” He runs a hand over his face, rubbing against bloodshot eyes. “We’ve been holding D’Agata for too long. I need your report to finish booking him.”
VISUAL CALCULUS – Wait, didn’t you process all the evidence yesterday?
RHETORIC – You’ve got all the interviews in your notebook.
VISUAL CALCULUS – Sergeant Minot gave you a copy of the autopsy report.
ESPRIT DE CORPS – If you don’t put the pieces together, the puzzle is still incomplete.
Shit. “It can’t wait until the morning? I’ll do it first thing,” even as you say it, you know you can’t wait. Jean is right, you’re behind.
LOGIC – You haven't had enough of a break in cases to keep up with the reports. It's 19:30 and in a few short hours, 2 of your reports will be past due.
ESPRIT DE CORPS – Perhaps you shouldn’t keep snatching every case that draws your eye. There are other officers at the 41st.
ENDURANCE – I suppose sleep is optional tonight.
SUGGESTION – You could always grab a nap on the break room couch.
RHETORIC – Assuming no one else is already sleeping there.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT – Most people like going home at night.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY – Home is boring now. You've cleaned all the fun out of it.
You can see Jean winding himself up, but you wave your hands. “Never mind, I’ll get it done.” You slide your jacket back off and shuffle toward your desk before veering off for the phone. Hopefully, you can catch Kim before he leaves, if he is even going.
ESPRIT DE CORPS – The Industrial Harbor has been dealing with increasing unrest as protests and riots spread, sparked by the success of Debardeurs in Martinaise in the spring. Even with their increased resources, the 57th has been stretched thin trying to keep a lid on everything.
EMPATHY – And Kim has been getting home later and later.
ESPRIT DE CORPS – Officers in uniform patrol the streets in pairs. It is late and the strikers have either gone home or gathered around fires in garbage cans, coughing on the noxious smoke. Officer ‘Ace’ Pawelski from the 57th grimaces as he and his partner keep their distance from the groups. They are there to keep the peace and there are a lot more strikers than policemen, so they walk, calculating the distance to be just close enough to be seen, but not close enough to threaten.
Grabbing the phone, you look around. The precinct is relatively empty this late at night, the night patrols never stay long. They are understaffed and there isn’t much time to sit and write reports near the midnight hour.
HALF LIGHT – The witching hour. When the veil between worlds thin and the hearts of the citizens of Jamrock are swayed by the supranatural’s siren call.
Snatching the nearest chair, you sit as you dial the familiar number, long since memorized.
“Yes?” Kim’s voice is clear, though perhaps a touch annoyed.
“Hey Kim,” You weave the phone cord between your fingers, “It’s Harry.”
“Harry? Harry who?” He sounds distracted, but you know this joke and it delights you every time.
DRAMA – If you can call it a joke after half a dozen times.
CONCEPTUALIZATION – He’s just trying to keep things mysterious.
“The man formerly known as Tequila Sunset, also known as Firewalker, or rarely Raphael Ambrosius Costeau.”
“Ah yes, that Harry, I’d nearly forgotten.” The sound of running water fills the line, “I won’t be able to make it to Cryptid Club tonight, if that’s why you are calling.”
EMPATHY – That is genuine regret in his voice.
Slumping, you let out a sigh, “Me either, Kim,” you close your eyes for a brief moment. “I’m behind on reports and if I don’t have one ready to submit by the morning, we have to release a man.”
Kim makes a hum through the phone line. You can hear the clink of dishes.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT – You need to eat. It’s been eight hours since lunch.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY – Some sort of sustenance. Something to keep you going.
You give a world weary sigh, “If everyone could calm down for one day so I could catch up on the paperwork, I would really appreciate it.”
A small snort, “Wouldn’t we all.”
EMPATHY – You can hear the weariness in his voice, the way his normally even tone is stretched and pulled out of equilibrium. It had been an exceptionally long day.
“Were you at the harbor today?”
There is a long pause before you hear Kim’s hitched sigh. You can hear him moving around, a brief burst of static, before he responds. “Yes, I was out in the streets today, almost everyone was.”
EMPATHY – There is something there. It did not go well for him.
Grunting, you adjust the phone between your head and shoulder, freeing up your hands. You grab a piece of paper from the bin and begin folding. “What happened?”
“People are angry, another company has shut down operations for the time, too many workers on strike.” More movement. “Some of the strikers got violent and had to be restrained.”
AUTHORITY – They should respect his position as an officer of the RCM.
You soften your voice, “Were you hurt?” You’ve been sent out only twice to help at the harbor, but so far, it has stayed relatively calm. You sharpen another fold.
“No, I’m fine.” Something is left unspoken. You can hear more movement, you imagine him sliding his glasses up and rubbing the bridge of his nose. “What about you? How was your day?”
“Oh, you know, two more homicides down at the murder station.” Unfold, crease, slide it open, twist. The paper transforms beneath your fingers. You try to laugh, but even you can hear the strain in the sound.
EMPATHY – Should you be laughing about murder?
HALF LIGHT – If you don’t laugh, you’re gonna cry.
You can hear the forced smile in Kim’s voice, “Are either of the cases mysterious?”
DRAMA – Alas, no. No deception, no ghosts, and barely any sex.
“No, the cases are pretty straightforward. I was partnered with Judit today.”
“Ah yes, Sergeant Minot. How is that going?”
“She deserves a real partner, Kim,” You gift the small paper bird to a nearby desk and stretch out your leg, massaging your thigh.
“So do you, Harry,” Kim responds quietly. He’s told you before that he thinks you work better with a partner.
ESPRIT DE CORPS – He’s right. You’re better as a team.
HALF LIGHT – And safer.
You bite your lip, “Any word on your transfer?” Kim’s transfer had been ‘in the works’ according to the captain of the 57th for the last two and a half months – ever since Kim submitted the request. After THE HANGED MAN case, Kim – demonstrating an impressive amount of courage – had helped Harry return to Jamrock, accompanied him into the old silk mill that was the 41st, and then requested a meeting with Captain Ptolemy Pryce. Harry still doesn’t know what happened in that meeting, but Captain Pryce had demanded a full accounting of Harry’s week with the lieutenant the next day.
“Nothing new to report.”
Clenching your fist around the phone receiver, you groan, “Maybe I’ll bring it up to old Pryce next time I see him.”
AUTHORITY – Then you’d have to stop avoiding him.
“Yes, that might be good,” Kim’s voice is even, but you’ve come to know him well in the last few months. He is tense. You think about the piles of reports on your desk, the multiple homicides you’ve investigated this week and wonder.
ESPRIT DE CORPS – What is happening at the 57th that he would rather be at the Murder Station than the Industrial Harbor?
EMPATHY – He feels powerless at the harbor – strikes, conflicts, and a captain that tells them only to ‘handle it.’
You talk for a few more minutes, but Kim’s yawns through the phone are contagious and you still have reports to write, so you say your farewells. After hanging up with Kim, you stretch, hearing the creaks and pops as your body protests its abuse. Three reports left to write. A glance at the clock shows it is nearly 20:30.
SUGGESTION – Only one more report has to be filed tonight. Start with that one.
Stiffly, you return to your desk and stare at your typewriter. You know what you need to do.
VOLITION – Write. Once you start, you know it will be easy. You’ve got this.
LOGIC – Start with the file name and number.
D’AGATA’S REPORT – You must finish me, complete me, bring my potential to fruition before you can escape.
Rifling through your haphazard notes, you type the notes, cursing when you strike the keys wrong. When finished, you set it aside. Like Jean, you have a tray on your desk for reports. Unlike Jean’s, it is currently the menagerie for a dozen different folded paper creatures. Kim had given you a book on how to make them when you were stuck convalescing from a bullet wound.
SUGGESTION – Since you are staying late anyway, finish the other reports, including the write up from your case with Judit today. She’s been under a lot of stress lately.
VOLITION – Turn in this report, and then start on the next.
Pulling yourself out of your chair, you stick the report in a folder. Walking through the bullpen, you approach Jean's desk. He doesn't have an office, but he requisitioned a partition to help him 'block out the bullshit' from C-Wing. A series of images are laid out over his desk.
PERCEPTION – Rooms and bodies. From the lighting and backgrounds, they appear to be from different crime scenes.
SUGGESTION – They look familiar.
INLAND EMPIRE – You were there when the pictures were taken.
CONCEPTUALIZATION – Perhaps Jean is trying to make a mosaic with leftover images – a macabre collage for his office wall.
“Shitkid?” You lift your eyes from Jean's desk, not realizing you had stepped right to the edge and were leaning over his desk.
You muster your winningest smile, “What are these?”
AUTHORITY – He is your supervisor, address him with respect.
Lieutenant Vicquemare swipes his hand over his desk, rapidly gathering up all the pictures. “Just some old photos,” he mutters. He stares at you, frowning. “What?”
COMPOSURE – Stand up straight, look him in the eye. You are not doing anything wrong.
You have felt a niggling sense of guilt around Jean ever since you can remember – so three months. Sometimes anger, sometimes appreciation, but always a sharp, thin tendril of guilt. You have tried apologizing, but it just pisses him off more.
ESPRIT DE CORPS – Do your job. You'll figure the rest out with time.
Proffering up the completed reports you hold it out to Jean. Jean doesn't bother to look at them, just points to a box on the corner of his desk. A few other reports sit there as well.
VISUAL CALCULUS – The box is surprisingly empty, considering how many reports he must take.
RHETORIC – HOW DOES HE KEEP UP WITH ALL THE FILES?!
ELECTROCHEMISTRY – I have a theory.
“Anything else?” Jean-Heron Vicquemare might be younger than you, but he has the aura of an old war veteran, grizzled and worn down by the world.
“Nope,” You shoot him a single finger pistol. “I'll have a few more for you in the morning.”
Jean has already returned to his own desk, his hand opening a drawer, rifling through its contents. “Don't work too late,” he mutters.
EMPATHY – He seems to be avoiding your eyes.
VISUAL CALCULUS – He is definitely avoiding your eyes.
“Only if you don't,” you counter, knowing damn well Jean often stays well past midnight. You wonder where he lives, and again the gnawing feeling that you should know. He only seems to be gone at night for a few hours. The guilt settles back into your gut. Unsettled, you stagger off.
LOGIC – Why did those pictures look familiar?
EMPATHY – More importantly, why does turning in your reports make you want to curl up and cry?
ENCYCLOPEDIA – A toxic relationship occurs when the physical or emotional wellbeing of a person or persons is negatively impacted.
EMPATHY – If even half of what you've learned about yourself is true, yours and Jean's relationship was unhealthy.
At your desk, you grab your notes and stare at the page clipped to your ledger. Something is missing. You flip back to yesterday’s page. In bright orange ink, the number 82. You turn back to today’s case and write 83, circling it for emphasis and then return to the notes.
You stare at your typewriter. You know what you need to do.
VOLITION – Write. Once you start, you know it will be easy. You’ve got this.
LOGIC – Start with the file name and number.
Imagining Judit’s look of relief when she hears you did the preliminary write ups helps you begin. You set to writing, the words coming out stilted. You include as many details as you can before concluding with the results of the investigation. This case is as solved as it can be, it is up to the courts now.
Even though you want to get at least one more report written, you need to move around again or you’ll fall asleep. Pulling yourself out of your chair, you stick the report in a folder and head back to Jean’s corner. His desk is empty, but the light is still on.
SUGGESTION – Look at the pictures again.
INTERFACING – The lock on the drawer is easily picked, just twist those paperclips there...
Looking around, you grab the small metal clips and straighten them. For a desk in a police precinct, you’d think the locks would be higher quality. You’ve unlocked bathroom stalls with more difficulty.
JEAN’S DESK DRAWER – Nestled inside is a small stack of photographs, several pens, worn and torn notebooks, and Jean’s ledger.
Carefully, you pull out the small, square photographs, not exactly identical, but similar in size. The composition of each image is hovering over a scene, in some cases marked off with tape, but in all cases obviously a crime. A couple of the images are a little blurred, likely taken by an amateur. In the background of one, a figure’s trousered legs are visible.
PERCEPTION – What is visible matches the Perseus Black uniforms the RCM wears.
Frowning, you examine the images more carefully. None of the images show any victims, debris fills the pictures, evidence of a struggle, perhaps? One image shows a small pool of blood – a potentially life threatening amount – on a tile floor. A small coin, not a centim, something foreign is near the corner. Only noticeable because the photographer angled the shot to put it in the foreground.
INLAND EMPIRE – Look away. This is not for your eyes any more.
The next image has a streak of what is also likely blood along a soot stained carpet, perhaps someone was dragged, and another coin. The same one? A different one? A third picture shows a dent in the plaster on a wall, bloody plaster dust on the floor and the coin again.
Your heart speeds up. Is Jean investigating a sequence killer? Why hadn’t he told anyone? You flip through the pictures. Each has a coin and evidence of violence. Six images. You lay them out in two rows on Jean’s desk.
PERCEPTION – What is that there? At the bottom of the image.
You peer closer at the fifth picture. Shoes in the bottom of the frame. Green, snakeskin shoes.
SAVOIR FAIRE – Ooh, those are nice.
REACTION SPEED – Wait, are those…?
“Shit.” Had you been investigating a sequence killer with Jean?
LOGIC – The evidence suggests you were present at at least one crime scene. Odds are low that anyone else is hanging out at crime scenes in those shoes.
PERCEPTION – Footsteps, behind you.
Frantically, you grab the pictures and slide them in the drawer, sliding it shut as quietly as you can. Grabbing the twisted paperclips, you stuff them in your pocket before stepping around the desk and dramatically placing the file into Jean’s tray.
DRAMA – Play it cool. Nothing to see here.
You turn, trying for a blank expression.
Two patrol officers, yawning as they shift out of their coats, walk by. You give them a manic, relieved grin. They stiffen and awkwardly nod back before continuing on.
Head spinning, you return to your desk. Grabbing your notebook you list everything you remember from the pictures.
1. blood – lethal ???
2. coin – silver – bear? (you include a sketch)
3. no bodies
4. RCM present
5.
You leave the fifth spot blank. What else had there been? What else had united those six crime scenes? Was Jean investigating this? Alone?
EMPATHY – Perhaps losing his partner-
LOGIC – He didn’t lose his partner.
EMPATHY – Perhaps his partner losing ALL memory of him and their work put a damper on that collaboration.
You tap your notebook. So, Jean was investigating a series of murders. When were those pictures from? Whenever you theorize about a sequence killer now, Jean just scowls at you.
RHETORIC – Something must have made him look at those pictures again. You know they aren’t from the last few months at least.
HALF LIGHT – Unless you have lost more of your memory.
A chill runs down your spine at the thought.
VOLITION – No. You haven’t forgotten anything more.
You are fairly certain you haven’t lost any significant portions of your days since March. You may not remember every moment, but at least you remember that yesterday happened, and you haven’t forgotten your name.
You begin drawing in your notepad. So, Jean was possibly investigating a sequence killer, probably alone, since you hadn’t heard anyone else talk about it.
You blink your eyes rapidly, fatigue pulling them closed.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY – If you aren’t going to sleep, at least get a stimulant. You’ve already broken into Jean’s desk. There’s gotta be at least some Preptide in there.
ENDURANCE – Sleep would be better.
Leaning back in your chair, your eyes drift to the ceiling. The case must have gone quiet though, since if something had happened recently, you are sure you would have heard about it by now. No one gossips like cops. The shit you knew about your colleague’s lives…
You sit up with a gasp, waking from a doze.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT – Thought you were gonna finish the reports, then nap on the couch.
ENDURANCE – You have it in you for one more report.
SUGGESTION – Get some coffee, there is always some brewing in the break room.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY – Or maybe something a little more potent.
VOLITION – Coffee is perfect. You still need a little sleep tonight.
Two hours and half a mug of coffee later, you finish your final report of the evening. Exhaustion drags at your eyelids. Rubbing your face, you shuffle over to the greasy, old sofa in the break room. With a groan, you slide onto your side and close your eyes.
And you’re running. Not the shambling, stilted run you’ve developed after the bullet wound in your leg, but a full, straight backed sprint. Arms swinging, reaching forward, to help you escape. The hall is long, the carpet a dingy green. Your shoes, your snakeskin leather shoes, tap out a beat on the floor as you move through an open doorway.
You enter into a hallway, a room opens to the left. Pivoting, you move through the door. The room is bright, blindingly so, and you squint. C-Wing surrounds you, shadowy figures at the desks. You feel a sense of familiarity, but you can’t make out their faces. You step closer. What…
A figure appears, catches your eyes for just a moment, before turning. Instead of following the figure, you watch as a coin bounces out of their hand and rolls on to the floor, you follow its path. It stops when it hits a leg.
This isn’t right, there weren’t any figures in the pictures. Your eyes follow the leg up to the hip, the chest, the neck, the face...
Jean.
You rush forward, only for something to grab your shoulder, spinning you-
“Mullen!” Someone is touching you. You lash out, reaching for the hand. You feel it pull back and hear laughter. “Couldn’t make it home last night?” Your eyes fly open.
PERCEPTION – You’re in the precinct, on the couch. You can smell the acidic tang of a freshly brewed pot of coffee.
Through sleep blurred eyes, you see the lean face of satellite officer Chester McLaine. Flipping your middle finger at him, you roll up, running a hand through your hair.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT – Didn’t know grown men could still have so much acne.
PAIN THRESHOLD – Sleeping on couches is for the young, not the middle aged.
RHETORIC – You’re past your middle age, my friend.
“Rise and shine, Pryce, wants to see you.” Chester wrinkles his nose, “Might want to… freshen up a bit first.”
AUTHORITY – Shit.
PERCEPTION – A quick sniff shows that a night spent on a dirty couch after a day of investigating homicides has left you a little rank.
SUGGESTION – You have a fresh shirt in your desk drawer.
REACTION SPEED – If you’re fast, you can even wash your face in the bathroom.
Panic accelerates you off the couch and careening into the bullpen where you pull at your desk drawer. You grab a clean shirt and dig around. No deodorant (you keep telling yourself to get some, but you never do), but you do have some cleaning wipes from the takeout place down the road. You pull off your jacket and shirt, swipe the hand wipe across your pits and put the clean shirt on. Pulling your jacket back on, you slip into the bathroom on the way, washing your face and running wet fingers through your head and facial hair, trying to look like you didn’t sleep on the couch.
With a deep breath, you fix your collar and head toward Captain Pryce’s office.
COMPOSURE – Head held high, eyes forward.
With a knock, you turn the door handle and look inside.
Captain Ptolemaios Pryce sits behind his desk, Nix Gottlieb slouches over his shoulder as the captain listens to someone on the phone. Gottlieb gestures you inside impatiently as he takes the phone from Pryce.
“Yeah?” Gottlieb has a glass of amber liquid in his hand which he swallows as he listens. You can smell the evaporating liquor from the door.
ELECTROCHEMISTRY – Now there’s a man who knows how to start the day off right.
“How long?” Gottlieb grunts. “Can we bring him here?” The captain points to a cracked leather chair in front of his desk as the Lazareth speaks, and you take a seat.
You study the captain’s face. You always have the sense that here, at least, your memory isn’t really failing you. You have never understood Ptolemy Pryce, and it is possible you never will. To the world, he seems like a strong, reliable officer of the law, working within the system to keep the RCM funded and the Moralintern happy, but you are sure that it is all a facade. What exactly lies beneath however...
CONCEPTUALIZATION – A mystery.
Without any sort of farewell, Gottlieb hangs up the phone, mutters something to Captain Pryce and stalks out of the room. Captain Pryce looks you over, brows furrowed as he frowns.
“Sorry, didn’t make it home last night.”
AUTHORITY – Stop apologizing.
Pryce’s frown deepens.
“Just finishing up some reports, needed them to Jean by 08:00.” You resist the urge to look down to avoid your superior officer’s gaze. In fact, Captain Pryce is one of the few people in Precinct 41 who actually outranks you.
LOGIC – Although, in all practicality, you barely outrank the patrol officers, especially since they’ve garnished your wages to make up for the destroyed motor carriage.
“Bad news then,” Pryce replies finally. “Lieutenant Vicquemare will be unable to receive your reports.”
You frown. Then you think back to the phone call, to Gottlieb, the station’s medic, on the phone. You’re suddenly aware of your heartbeat rattling in your chest. Before you can ask what happened, Pryce continues.
“Lieutenant Vicquemare was attacked last night. He radioed in that he needed back up down in the Burnt Out Quarter. When officers arrived, he’d been stabbed three times. He was barely conscious.”
Your mouth has gone dry. You feel a tremble, a seismic shift through your bones. Your hands begin to shake.
“Is he…” You clench your fists.
HALF LIGHT – Dead? Dying?
Pryce takes a long moment, his eyes assessing your response. “He’s stable.” He nods as if that is enough of a response. “In the meantime,” he pulls out a file and opens it up. “We need to talk about C-Wing.”
You stand up, hands clenching at your sides, “What the fuck does ‘he’s stable’ mean?” You feel something rising up in you, strangling you, “A desk is stable, dead is stable! Is he going to be okay? Do we know who attacked him? Who is investigating?”
VOLITION – Calm down.
AUTHORITY – This is your commanding officer, show some respect.
Pryce’s lips twitch. “I see,” he makes a note on the file and then looks at you again. “Stable means he is recovering and with proper care, he will be fine.” You sit back down, relief making your knees weak.
EMPATHY – Even if the mind forgets, the body does not. Don’t let worry for your former partner distract you.
“As to your other question, that depends.” Pryce pauses to peruse a sheet of paper and closes the folder. “It is time to resume your duties as head of C-Wing.”
ESPRIT DE CORPS – Fuck.