The secretary rummaged through the stack of documents. She was looking for the open case that the lord had recommended to me. According to him, it was a contract that would demand all my talent. The pile was ridiculously colossal. Even its summit looked threatening.
— "There you are!" Jessica cried. "You couldn't hide forever."
The file was particularly thick. Too thick. An investigation dragging on for years, or a massacre with countless victims… The Brothkovic family crest sprawled across it… another case that would end at the palace. That probably meant a mix of both… complex and atrocious.
She set the file on the desk. I didn't want to touch it yet; I just wanted to look at it. The paper had lost its yellow, and the emblem was half-erased. The binder was badly worn, and it wasn't dusty: it had been opened many times.
I crouched. The sheets at the bottom were yellowed, those at the top a brilliant white. The binding was worn, the emblem almost erased. No dust: it had been consulted recently. The affair had lasted a long time and wasn't just languishing.
An investigator, prosecutor, or even a defense attorney can't just drop a file without an excellent alibi.
Everyone would know if there had been a trial, since it was a palace case.
So the story never, or only rarely, made it to court.
Which leaves only the medical cause…
Ah, hell…
It was a killer file…
— "Jessica, I won't take this case."
— "Ah! … Really? The lord handed me the file in person and…"
— "Did you not understand me?"
— "No, it's not that…"
— "What then?!"
The old lady seemed terrified; she avoided my gaze. Jessica was almost trembling…
Oh, don't tell me…
— "Tell me… You didn't rent the file; you took it?"
She couldn't even answer.
— "Fine, give me my payment."
She set a purse timidly on the table. Twenty-seven gold pieces in all… I'd been forced to accept this case. She thought I'd rejoice at that sum. This month may be my last: the mob and money.
At least, she tried to explain instead of lying. It was the only thing that saved her from being fired.
I took this death sentence and went back to my manor. I didn't feel like working in my office.
At 13:30, I pulled myself together and started staring down that heap of information. The exhibits were waiting at the guard barracks, and a service contract. When the file holder takes possession, he must assist the barracks investigators. It had to be signed and delivered into the hands of the public security coordinating officer.
There were thirty-seven reports from different medical examiners. I took one.
N6304… 558-03-23? It's 562… first name: Delfine, sex: female, estimated age: 21 years, height: 167 cm, estimated weight: 67 kg, birthmark on right shoulder, freckles, gray eyes, gray hair…
General condition of the body: The body was cold to the touch, discovered about five hours after presumed death.
Penetrating temporosphénoïdale wound (5 × 13 cm). Fractures of the arms, cervical spine, and thorax without hematoma → post-mortem (likely handling). Signs of cervical and brachial compression. Implantation of a colony of necrophagous ants in an abdominopelvic incision. Spermatozoa on uterine sampling, with local bleeding. Thorax: multiple impacts, bilateral pneumothorax. Cranial injury would be the cause of death.
Clothing and objects present: clothes had been torn, exposing the genitals and the chest area.
Observed lesions:
Skull: penetrating wound 5 cm wide and 13 cm deep.
Abdomen/pelvis: incision about 5 cm deep, containing a colony of carrion insects.
Other observations: the main violence was inflicted on a body already lifeless. The first injury noted corresponds to the cranial incision.
A 222 that is not a chicken…
Article 229 for murder, specifically 231, case 2 (first degree), 5 (sexual affront) … I don't want 233, they're definitely not 234. 235 is assured if I find him. 182 for mutilation and violation of the corpse. 271–273 for sexual assault, though I should check with a colleague as I'm not sure of their application. Since the victims were already dead, in general, I don't deal with that kind of sicko.
36 other victims: we're dealing with a serial killer. But he strikes in the bourgeois districts.
It's one of those cases where the defense will be demolished. I doubt he'll even be defended.
According to a document from one of my predecessors, they were all prostitutes.
Given the number and brutality, he must be both intelligent and compulsive. Also, he likely killed investigators who got close.
I had to hunt a necrophile killer…
But why implant necrophagous ants in his victims?
Also, where did he get them? Not at arm's reach. They live in forests, not cities. He must be a breeder, a macabre anteater. I had to see this Bruno, the medical examiner.
I signed the service contract and sent a missive to Jorge to deliver the signed document with my requests written on the back. I wrote: "I'll be glad to follow the contract's restrictions; however, you will inform me of the fate of the previous ones. I'm not speaking of the victims, as you well know. You will ensure my protection, and that of my servants and my companion. If you cannot provide this, please be aware that I will not hesitate to enforce a breach of this contract. I don't care about repercussions if my safety is at stake."
I'd had enough of all of this. I looked around the room. I still can't believe I settled in the little kitchen off the parlor. This culture intrigues me: I bought this manor from a relatively wealthy noble, yet a noble who enjoys cooking? He sold me on the virtues of this strange arrangement…
A growling noise cut my thoughts short… Julie.
She watched me from afar, seated on one of the salon sofas. She was nibbling the biscuits like a starving rodent. Yet she seemed worried, judging by her gaze. A pressure in my right trouser pocket reminded me of my oversight. I hadn't given her the necklace! I let go of the maze set on the kitchen desk and went to join her. I was so eager to see her reaction; the jewel was sublime.
She lunged at the sugar bombs and stuffed them into her cheeks. Given her origin, I can understand she never had that much sugar within reach. But she shouldn't gorge herself so. She could get cavities. When I reached her feet, just as she was hurriedly swallowing the rest of her biscuits, I went down on one knee. One hand was in my pocket.
Hiding her lips behind her fingers, she was surprised, as if I had just appeared in the room.
— "Colin… I'm only a peasant from the slums… You can't…"
— "Why couldn't I?"
Tears began to run from her eyes. The reaction seems a bit over the top…
— "I have a gift for you…"
I started rummaging in my pocket; the necklace had snagged on something…
— "Oh, my God! Yes!"
I finally pulled the silver chain from my pocket. Her eyes were closed, and her hand was near my face. Her fingers were spread like a duck's feet. Strange… anyway, I placed my gift around Julie's neck.
She seemed confused by the sensation, then finally opened her eyes; she stared at her fingers. The young woman was searching for something on her hand.
At last, after a few minutes, she felt for my gift… her face clenched as if she'd swallowed a lime… then, with a confused air, she contemplated my face. I felt like I was considering the strange.
What's happening to her?
She flared up spontaneously, slapped me with elegance, then went to bed, flushed red…
Women in this country are difficult… even the peasant ones.
When I joined her in bed, she pouted at me as if I had deprived her of her greatness. The only crime I'm guilty of is the gift I gave her. A master artisan carved the jade! A necklace that cost me a gold coin! Only runes are that exorbitant!
…
Maybe it's a Source diamond…
…
I pretended to fall asleep and gently wrapped my companion in my arms. She took my hand despite her displeasure. My soul awoke in the world of dreams. In that realm, a creature haunted the slums of my consciousness. An intruder. It is as large as the sky. It sucks up my nightmares. This thing speaks to me on some nights; other times, it merely watches me. Its voice makes reality tremble. In it, I hear others' forgetting, aspirations, and experiences.
My breath turned icy.
This thing descended from the heavens, and what I perceived as its head placed itself before mine. A jaw-like form opened, and, in a voice fragmented by past words of others, it spoke:
— "Jakob, Colin, a blind man approaches, a fire. The water, Akwa, has gone to the heavens. He left as vapor. Ignore the benefactor's words. Forget your friend, the river. Your good… your future… Don't forget… her."
I woke with a start. My heart trembled. This thing… it had never acted like this. Akwa… so he is dead, but a blind man? Akwa… so he is dead. But the blind man? Perhaps that doesn't mean a condition, but a man: Solis, blinded by his ideals. If he comes, I will have to take over. For a better world… no matter the cost.
My maid, Gabriella, woke us abruptly. To say I didn't want tomorrow would be an understatement. Upon waking, my companion let go of my hand with contempt. She's still insulted by my gift. Yet she put it on anyway, though she fixed it to her chest with fury.
I dressed in the clothes Gabriella had carefully selected. She knew about my message; I was heading to the middle-class district. Still, at the barracks, I owed myself professional attire—yet practical and protective.
I don my black coat, smooth as silk but lined with thick leather; tailored for me, noble cut, and if a dagger tries its luck, let it bite tanned hide. The trousers match, with flexible seams; the silk shirt allows for breathability. Under it all, drawers and socks without glory (alas). On my feet, my foot-guards: shoes of my own design with steel plates hidden beneath the fabric. The fencing sword hangs at my belt: insignia more than weapon—I know enough to salute. My briefcase, a roving file cabinet of wood and bovine leather, silvered corners; at the center, my initials, CB, of course, engraved in gold.
Try to find what I lack! Wealth! Glory! Intelligence!
— "Decency…" Julie muttered from her corner.
The maid was shocked and stifled a laugh. I could not hide my embarrassment. I left immediately without breakfast.
The church bell hadn't even rung. Usually, I start work around noon. Here, every rule ends up profaned, including my schedule.
The sidewalks and alleys were clean, but after thirteen minutes of walking, that changed. I'm not saying the middle-class streets are filthy, only that the stench of dung disgusts me. Wealth is seen as it is smelled. How could I lack decency? She comes from the slums! A place where crime infests every corner, where wood rots ceaselessly, where one écu is worth gold. If you don't beg and don't steal, you sell yourself. You eat rats there, drink soot, and stews that summon only disgust. How could I lack decency?
The district's effluvia hit my nose. I had arrived. The guard greeted me, pleasantly surprised to see me.
— "Here to do business? The chief coordinator hasn't arrived yet," the young recruit said brightly.
— "Around what time will he arrive?"
— "At noon, probably. Same time as usual for you."
I pulled my pocket watch: 10:37. An hour to kill.
I spent it in a nearby café. Granted, it was a peasant bistro, but the food was delicious. I had to rummage for écus: they didn't accept argentins. My dish cost three écus, i.e., three centimes of an argentin. I only had two; a gentleman paid the difference. He wore at his belt a book, or perhaps a grimoire; it was sheathed in a custom scabbard. His silhouette seemed familiar… Anyway, at 11:45, I returned to the barracks.
Around 12:05, I arrived. Along the main corridor, lead doors stand. Behind them are small-time crooks; they'll be out in a few days. These corridors intimidate any culprit; the interrogation room is at the end. The idea is that the walk prompts the suspect to think before being questioned. You might say it's stupid to put the cells right before the reception, but those locked up here haven't done anything serious. No one will escape over a stolen apple.
At the far end, the corridor turns at a right angle; on that corner is the interrogation room, its wooden door facing the entrance. The second corridor connects directly to the guards' break room. Honestly, the prison architects are geniuses. The magic of this architecture has cracked more than one. Torture, on Brothkovic lands, is a crime punished by hanging. Here, intimidation replaces torture, and it's better: under torture, you end up saying anything.
I went to the break room; there are always about ten officers relaxing. They rotate staff every two hours, so there are soldiers on the streets, ready to act. The room is 6 m long and 4 m deep. Relaxing and very clean. In the left corner is a door adjoining the public reception. That's a second room of similar dimensions but split in two by a long counter where the commoners came to pay tickets. I took the stairs. On the second floor are the municipal investigators' offices, and on the third is the armory. On the fourth floor are the sector bailiff's office and the chief coordinator's office. Also, there are archives and a dedicated office for private investigators like me.
Once I stood before a chief coordinator's office, for the first time, I froze. I couldn't point to the cause of my halt. Perhaps it was the stress of yesterday or my hectic week. But that second, that day, my body, my soul, and everything attached to them came to a spontaneous conclusion: this case would ruin me.
I pulled myself together and brought my closed fist slowly to the door. My knuckles faced the window. Behind the glass, a man in his forties had his nose to various documents. Mr. Greneau, the officer who must have received and attested the signed contract. He lifted his eyes to the window; stars sparkled in his pupils. You'd think an angel had shown him a path to heaven. He watched me like a saint. Before I even knocked, he opened the door almost immediately. He must have crossed two meters in a thousandth of a second.
He took my suspended fist in both his hands and started shaking it up and down. Tears ran down his cheeks. He grimaced a smile I'd never seen on his face. This is not his usual behavior. Usually, he's withered and rarely cooperates with me. But now he could have licked the soot off my boots while humming. Clearly not a good sign. This story must have haunted him for years.
— "Colin! I accept your conditions! A special agent will be assigned to your home at once."
Usually, I'd be happy to have convinced him. But I couldn't hide my reaction. My face tightened; nausea took over my senses. I didn't have to fight for my cut. The meat is clearly off because there are ants in my dish.