《Sleepwalk!》 Prologue A disheveled man stumbled out a heavy front door. His putrid breath reeked of alcohol and bile. Murky spots of ketchup and crumbs coated his mediocre blue suit. In his hand, he held a leather suitcase, the grip falling apart from wear. His tired blue eyes darted from spot to spot, accompanying his paranoid, mad shuffle forwards. A green glass bottle was clenched tightly in his other hand. This man was Alister Moore. ¡°Fuck you, assholes!¡± He slurred. With unsteady aim, he kicked the heavy bar door. ¡°Fuck all of you! See if I fucking come back, jackasses!¡± He yelled. Clenching his suitcase under his armpit, he searched his pockets for a pack of lighters and a cigarette. A cold breeze gently blew across the street, the flickering flame extinguishing into a thin pillar of smoke. It grazed against Alister¡¯s wild brown hair. ¡°Shit.¡± Alister mumbled. He tried again, only to find his cigarette soaked, the stench of alcohol brushing his nostrils. ¡°Just my fucking luck.¡± Alister slowly paced down the street. He carefully planned each step - left, right, left, left, no, right. Each step left him unsteady. Passing by a stray cat, he spat, but missed. He swerved towards a nearby building wall, stabilizing himself against it. His vision blurred and he could see everything double. His right eyelid hung loose and shut itself rhythmically, only to open again. The streets were nearly empty. A group of teenagers hung around - a pathetic defiance against their parent¡¯s whims. But the sun had set, and most people had retreated home. Alister lifted his bottle and chugged, smashing it against a wall when it emptied. He paused and keeled over. Alister¡¯s stomach convulsed. A moment later, his stomach emptied again. Slowly, Alister lifted his head. He stood face-to-face with a poster. Some electoral candidate; a republican. Brian Fox. His nose wrinkled in disgust. ¡°Fuck you.¡± He said, wailing his fist against the poster. The alcohol numbed the pain from smashing the brick wall. ¡°Fuck you, piece of shit, give me my fucking job back.¡± He spat on the poster. For a moment, he stopped his pitiful protest. Alister had a brilliant idea. He zipped his pants open, exposing himself publicly. Undeterred, he whipped out his John, aiming it against the candidate¡¯s face. He cackled madly as a stream of yellow splashed against the poster. Turning his head around, he saw that the teenagers were pointing at him. The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. ¡°What¡¯re you assholes looking at?¡± He yelled. He flipped them off. They responded with jeers and a curse of their own, but he didn¡¯t understand what they said. The world swirled around him, his senses numbed and twisted to a mish-mash of grey. Alister continued down the road. Without a goal, a destination, he stumbled towards the city park. Both his eyes were now droopy, the eyelids slowly covering what little sense of vision he had left. Rows upon rows of green lamps lit the gravel road of the city park. Golden leaves flocked to and fro, swishing from here to there. A beautiful orange flourished amongst the Maple trees lining the coastline of a small pond. Right next to it was an empty bench. Feeling sick, Alister sat himself down. He took a deep breath in. The cold air faintly seared against his throat, but he liked the burn. He grimaced, remembering that he¡¯d run out of alcohol. Artificial light sparkled in the reflection of the pond. The moon hadn¡¯t risen quite yet. Alister sighed. He felt tired. The cool air was blocked out by his thick beige coat. The temperature felt just right. Perfect for a quiet nap. His mind was clouded, and in that moment, he couldn¡¯t care less if some junky robbed his suitcase blind. His files were worth less than kindling anyhow. He struggled to keep his eyelids up. After each opening, his eyelids closed shut harder than before. Alister slowly gave in, his eyes closing for a final time. For a moment, it felt like something pressed against him. A sudden splash left Alister feeling more awake than ever. Unlike a single moment before, his senses were sharp. There was a clarity to each and every thought he formed; a crystal clear reality to each sensation he felt. He knew he couldn¡¯t have fallen asleep. The strain in his legs told him that he¡¯d been standing for some while. His eyes opened to an unfamiliar scene. The moon shone down a dark alleyway. Cramped in both sides by large trash cans, he smelled the faint odour of piss. And something else. A sharp note of saltiness; iron? Alister held his left hand up to investigate the splash. Some liquid had gushed onto his face, his clothing, everything. His hand slowly travelled against a wet, grimy patch, slowly drawing a line on his right cheek. Alister stuck his hand out to examine. His fingers were coated with a warm layer of crimson; a beautiful, ruby-red, glimmering under the moonlight. Alister didn¡¯t understand. He was confused. So, he looked down, to his feet, to his right hand. His right fist clenched a knife. The surface shone with the deepest red he¡¯d ever seen. His outfit was completely different. The first thing he noticed was the cheap poncho he¡¯d never bought. It, too, glimmered with this mysterious red. He wasn¡¯t stupid enough to step into the office with rubber boots, and yet, it replaced his khaki dress shoes. Alister looked ahead at the cold cement. In front of him lay the corpse of Brian Fox. Small geysers gushed out streams of the beautiful liquid. A crimson puddle blossomed under his very feet - he could see himself reflected in it. The corpse was riddled with cuts and stabs; the expensive navy suit ruined and ripped to shreds. Alister tasted the blood on his lips. Warm. Fugitive The world spun in a spiral like a drain being emptied. Alister stepped backwards. His eyes stayed glued to the atrocity ahead. He tripped, falling bottom-first onto the cold cement. The pain coursed through his veins. He loosened his grip on the knife to lift himself from the ground. His right hand reluctantly opened. An imprint had been left by the grip. It singed, the pain subsiding in the cool air. Slowly, he raised himself, and stared at the now ice-cold shard of steel lying by his foot. Alister¡¯s stomach convulsed. Bile rose to his cheeks, and he quickly turned to one of the trash cans. Lifting the lid, he pushed his head inside, and let the sick flow. A bitter taste filled his mouth - it didn¡¯t taste as vile as the alcohol before. A sour, limey taste. Hyperventilating, Alister¡¯s eyes darted around the scene. ¡°What the fuck.¡± He mumbled. ¡°What the fuck is going on?¡± His voice echoed throughout the desolate alley. Slow, deep breaths - one, two, one two. Alister lowered his heartbeat. He closed his eyes. A dream. It must be one of those lucid-dream things he¡¯d heard about. Counting down from five, he shot his eyes open. Nothing changed. The corpse stopped bleeding. The crimson red pool flowed freely; like a river, it slowly dripped down the drains. Alister could hear the sound in the quiet alley; drip, drip, drip¡­ Like a hourglass. His back turned, he slid down into a seated position. The coldness of the brick walls calmed him. What the fuck had happened here? He glanced at the knife. No, that couldn¡¯t be. He crawled into a fetal position. For minutes, he laid there, a million lies and delusions filling his head in a desperate hope. Drip¡­ Drip¡­ Drip¡­ ¡°This is really happening.¡± Alister thought. ¡°I¡­ I can¡¯t have done this.¡± He turned to face the cooling body. He knew that man - Brian Fox. The republican candidate for a local election; the prospective new mayor. The leading candidate. Alister disliked the man - most people liked Fox¡¯s charisma, but he always found it painfully fake. But Alister couldn¡¯t be a killer. Alister steadied himself against the nearby wall. He searched his pockets and found his telephone. Turning it on, he found himself even more confused - eight hours had passed since his time at the bench. Now, dawn neared, and the distant chirping of birds sang harmoniously. He opened the dialer. Three buttons is all it took. Three taps, and Alister felt sick. He had to report this - somebody had died. But he couldn¡¯t take the consequences. He didn¡¯t deserve to. His arm shivered, yet he steeled his resolve. Alister peeked out of the alley. He recognized the street. Washington Avenue. Only about ten minutes away from his apartment. From there, he could see a thin orange peering over the horizon. No figures roamed the streets, save for a couple strays pilfering the trash. He dialed the number. Moments later, an unfamiliar voice responded. ¡°911,¡± it said. ¡°What is your emergency?¡± Alister¡¯s hand trembled. ¡°Hello?¡± The voice asked again. ¡°Anyone there?¡± ¡°...Yes!¡± Alister suddenly snapped. ¡°There¡¯s a body here at Washington Avenue.¡± ¡°A body?¡± The voice asked, tinged with an edge of scrutiny. ¡°Excuse me, sir, what is your name?¡± Alister quickly tapped the end call button and removed his phone¡¯s battery. He gasped for air. His ragged breaths chilled his throat with an uncomfortable burn. ¡°They¡¯ll be here in no time.¡± He realized. ¡°I¡¯ve got to get out of here.¡± He turned back to the alley. ¡°But I can¡¯t leave so much evidence behind.¡± He thought. He moved quickly, digging up an old plastic bag from a nearby trash can. Alister winced when he noticed how effective the poncho had been. Pulling it off his body, no stains remained on himself. He packed the poncho and his rubber boots into the bag. He wrapped the knife in an old newspaper before hiding it as well. Alister wore a hoodie underneath the poncho. Somehow, he¡¯d changed outfits. He hunched over to keep a low profile and headed towards his home. The entire time, a million questions jogged his mind. Adrenaline flowed freely through his veins, and his heart throbbed with an undying fear. His eyes darted with guilt - he felt as if all the people¡¯s gazes focused his back. At last, he arrived home - his shabby two-room apartment. It resembled a hole cut into a large slab of concrete. The building lacked any furnishings; the boring grey tired the viewer¡¯s eyes. When he finally climbed the final step, standing in front of his house door, he realized something felt off. The wind whistled through the crack of the open door. Alister¡¯s keys stuck snugly out of the door¡¯s lock. He frantically searched his pockets to no avail. His keychain jingled solemnly amidst the cool draft. Alister gulped, and pulled the door wide open. He stepped inside. Slowly, he advanced, one foot at a time, the wood creaking underneath his weight. He carefully examined each nook and cranny, his heart pounding each time he opened a new door. He sighed in relief after pulling the last cabinet open. The lack of any signs of robbery disturbed Alister. Only twenty bucks and a hoodie went missing. He wore the hoodie, and Alister could guess where the money went. He found his suit and suitcase left behind on the floor. ¡°What the fuck is going on?¡± Alister thought. He slammed his fist against the wall. ¡°I can¡¯t stay here.¡± He frantically searched around the room. ¡°I have to get away.¡± He picked up his old, dusty college backpack. ¡°I need to get the fuck away before the cops find me.¡± Quickly, he gathered a couple sets of clothing and all the cash he could gather. Grimacing, he stuffed the plastic bag, filled to the brim with his guilt and evidence, and shoved it inside the backpack. ¡°But where the fuck do I go?¡± He asked himself. He slumped to the ground. ¡°I don¡¯t have a car anymore, and I sure as fuck can¡¯t outbike a cop car.¡± ¡°If I¡¯m going to run, I need a plan.¡± He rationalized. ¡°In fact, I shouldn¡¯t run. I should hide. Hide somewhere they can¡¯t find me too easily - somewhere with food and water. Somewhere not too remote.¡± Alister arrived at an epiphany. A place like that existed. A place where he could hide safely. But a certain emotion made his choice a reluctant one. He winced at the thought, but quickly made up his mind. Packing his bag, he headed for the door. This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.
For a society so hell-bent on punishing wrongdoers, a surprising amount of information filled the waves of radio, television, and internet. History existed to educate, and Alister took the information from crappy National Geographic shows to heart. Alister avoided public transportation. Taxis, trains, and buses usually held a black box or a camera nowadays. Instead, he stole a bicycle. Somebody had left a bicycle near the grocery store a while ago and had never picked it up. For extra precautions, he drove the bicycle into a ditch long before he arrived at his destination. For a while, one could see endless rows of white-picket fences. Only two miles later, less than five houses lined the roadsides. Unlike the well-maintained city, thick layers of golden and orange leaves layered the ground. The road slowly turned from cement to gravel. Civilization slowly fed into nature. Only half a mile ahead, the city stopped, and a forest began. Alister felt the cheap soles dig into his skin. He started regretting his decision to abandon the bicycle, but he¡¯d already wandered deep into the forest. No signs of civilization showed through the gaps of the treeline. No trail paved the road ahead, but that didn¡¯t matter for Alister. He simply knew where to go. A small cottage loomed behind the thickets. At first, the dark wooden walls blended in amongst the trees. But soon enough, Alister could make out the dull red of the roof tiles. The cottage was tiny and clearly quite aged. Despite this, reparations had clearly been done, as small patches of the walls showed no signs of the dank green moss. A small stream ran nearby. Alister¡¯s heartbeat stilled at the sight of a nostalgic, serene sight. He quietly stumbled towards the door, the oldest piece of all - and ran his fingers against a carving on its panels, a jagged edge worn from time, clearly marking ¡®Alister¡¯. He noticed the thin markings of bike tires grooved into the mulchy forest grounds and gulped. He loosened the wooden wedge hidden behind a flowerpot. His hand guided itself automatically, grabbing the rusting little key without difficulties. Alister undid the padlock and stepped inside. The homely earthy aroma enveloped him. The interior looked shabby, but cosy; in a way that only a wooden cabin could be. A single-seat table faced the only window to the right. A simple folding chair stood against it. On the opposite wall, a couch-bed leaned, the red wool fibers coming apart due to age. Next to it stood the wooden shelf, in which various trinkets sat; everything from a wrist rocket to comic books. He finally relaxed as he sat on the couch. Only two people in this entire world knew of this place. Some things had changed since he''d last been there. A screen hung against the wall. An old game console sat underneath, two controllers plugged in. A small solar panel fed wires into both boxes. Alister smiled. The place had become what he''d always envisioned as the perfect secret hideout. The bag leaning against his leg reminded him of his purpose here. He jolted up and moved to the side of the couch. He shoved it aside, revealing a loose set of wooden panels. Alister lifted the panels up. Underneath gaped an arm-long hole, which a bucket filled. A crude magic marker labelled the lid: ¡®Apocahlypse Rahtions¡¯, it read. He expected it to be filled with long-expired cans. Alister opened the bucket and felt both relief and a pang of guilt. A stock full of spam, beans, and other assorted goods sat neatly inside. All ubiquitously fresh.
¡°You¡¯re telling me you don¡¯t remember anything?¡± A fist slammed against a cheap aluminium desk. The legs shivered, a shrill squeak escaping from the thin legs. A cheap lamp hung over the dark room, rocking gently from left to right. The walls of concrete echoed the shouts. Only one door led out of a room, and a policeman stood guard on its side. A large mirror dominated the center of the northern wall. It spanned the entire length of the wall and most of its height. That glass surface reflected the scene. A lanky man sat on a cheap foldable chair, cowering. Opposite to him, standing in front of another chair, frowned an officer, staring him down. His blue eyes glared at the man scornfully. The officer dressed out of uniform, but wore his badge proudly. His wild brown hair peeked out of his hat. ¡°You shot this man, and you don¡¯t remember anything? You think I¡¯ll buy that horseshit?¡± The officer kicked his chair, another rumble emanating from the table. The cowering man crawled itself into a defensive ball, averting his gaze from the officer. He shivered. ¡°N- No.¡± The man mumbled out, his words falling on deaf ears. The officer raised his fist, clenched tight into a ball, when the security officer walked up to him, clasping his hand against the arm. ¡°Look, Harry, I think you ain¡¯t getting anything more from this guy.¡± He said. ¡°How about we go for the good cop routine now, eh? You go take a break.¡± Harry sighed. He tapped his colleague¡¯s back and headed for the exit. Before he exited, he gave the suspect one final glare, earning himself a wince. Frowning, he walked through the door. On the other side, an inspector stood waiting. His colleague stood behind the one-way mirror. Another officer sat by an office table, typing the entire conversation down. Harry lumbered towards his colleague. ¡°Tough nut to crack, eh?¡± His friend smiled, offering him a fistbump. ¡°Guess the mighty Harry Jackson ain¡¯t all that after all.¡± ¡°Shut up, Lewis.¡± Harry grinned. He flicked Lewis the finger. ¡°Give me some more time and he¡¯ll cave. Amnesia, fuckin¡¯ ay¡­¡± He said, searching his pockets. ¡°Can¡¯t smoke indoors anymore, remember?¡± Lewis said. ¡°Goddamnit.¡± Harry said. ¡°This case has been pissing me off. I better get a bonus for this.¡± ¡°Well, prepared to get more annoyed, then.¡± Lewis said with a smug grin. ¡°You¡¯re being delegated a new case. Came here to tell you about it, actually. I¡¯m taking over this one.¡± ¡°New case? Oh boy.¡± Harry stomped the ground. ¡°Can¡¯t wait for that. What does the boss want? Should I trail his wife to see who she¡¯s fucking?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t want you in my bedroom.¡± Lewis chuckled. ¡°But jokes aside, it¡¯s a dead politician. Brian Fox, Republican. Found today around noon.¡± ¡°A politician, eh?¡± Harry grimaced. ¡°That¡¯s not going to be much fun for us, is it?¡± Lewis nodded. ¡°The media¡¯s gonna hound our ass if we fuck up.¡± ¡°Yeah, shit. What¡¯re the details?¡± Harry asked. ¡°We got the call around eleven. It was down some dumpy alleyway, so nobody noticed until it smelled.¡± Lewis grimaced. ¡°Although, apparently there was some call early morning. They thought it was a prank, though.¡± ¡°Why?¡± Lewis said. ¡°Because he just hung up. No name, no address, nothing. Just said there was a body.¡± Lewis shrugged. ¡°Guess he was right. Panicked, maybe?¡± Harry groaned. ¡°Well, shit. Ain¡¯t I pumped.¡± ¡°Yeah, well, I¡¯m happy I ain¡¯t you right now,¡± Lewis said. ¡°There¡¯s surprisingly less to go by. The culprit didn¡¯t leave much behind - we¡¯ve got forensics down there, though. You should drop by.¡± ¡°Aight.¡± Harry nodded. He walked towards the door, next to which the coat rack stood. He reached for his jacket and shoved the door open. ¡°I¡¯ll be back.¡±
Harry promptly drove to Washington Avenue. The grey sky permeated a somber mood in the air. Rows of bemused and frightful spectators crowded the streets, trying to capture a picture with their smartphones. Harry rudely shoved his way in. Nobody questioned his authority. When journalists asked questions, he curtly gave replied akin to, but not quite exactly, ¡°Fuck off¡±. The alley hid a bit out of the way; it curved slightly inwards. Crude graffiti filled the walls to the brim, from juvenile penises to modern ¡®art¡¯. Harry could immediately tell a murder had taken place. The smell of iron poked his nostrils. Although the large blotch of dried blood on the ground helped mark the spot. The body had been removed for an autopsy. Only a white, blank tape marked the spot where once a man had died. Harry tipped his hat in respect to the dead. He then turned around, looking for the most important-looking guy around. He soon found his man. ¡°Jenkins.¡± Harry said, offering his hand. ¡°You¡¯re on this case?¡± ¡°Seems like I am, Harry.¡± Jenkins shook his hand firmly. ¡°Nice to know we¡¯ve got someone competent in the works for once.¡± ¡°Always a pleasure.¡± Harry replied. ¡°Anyways, you got anything¡¯ for me?¡± Jenkins sighed, glancing at the white tape. ¡°Nothing much, sadly.¡± He shook his head. ¡°Whoever did this was prepared, it seems. Doesn¡¯t help that it¡¯s a dirty alleyway either. We¡¯ve got everything here; from hobo pubes to cat hair.¡± ¡°Ugh,¡± Harry pinched his nose. ¡°You¡¯re jokin¡¯ about that one, right?¡± ¡°God, I wish I was.¡± Jenkins laughed. ¡°Well, that¡¯s why we called you. Have a look-around, will ya? We¡¯ve got some gloves for you.¡± Jenkins handed him a pair of rubber latex gloves. ¡°Asshole,¡± Harry said, punching Jenkins lightly on the shoulder. ¡°Don¡¯t tell me all that shit next time. I¡¯d really rather not know.¡± He grumbled, but quickly put the gloves on. Harry silently dug around each nook and cranny. He grimaced, finding odd spots here and there. Somebody had handed him a forensics kit, in which many small plastic bags and q-tips lie. He quickly searched the area, not expecting to find anything new, but still doing his duties. Harry felt his stomach clench when he opened a nearby trash can. He lifted the bags out, revealing a mass of sticky liquid stuck on the side walls. The odor of bile assaulted his sense of smell, and he held his mouth shut. He turned to Jenkins. ¡°You guys get this yet?¡± He asked, pointing at the pile of bile. ¡°This looks fresh.¡± ¡°Is that puke?¡± Jenkins asked, raising his glasses. ¡°We¡¯ll take some samples of that.¡± ¡°Please do,¡± Harry said. ¡°Before I puke myself.¡± ¡°Pansy.¡± Jenkins chuckled. He quickly submerged two q-tips into the bile and placed it gently into evidence bags. ¡°This consistency¡¯s worrying, though. It¡¯s mostly bile.¡± Harry quickly shut the can. ¡°That a problem?¡± ¡°Bile¡¯s primarily acid, you see.¡± Jenkins nodded. ¡°Means cellular data¡¯s harder to extract. We¡¯re gonna have to send this one in. Our lab¡¯s a bit too basic.¡± ¡°How long¡¯s it gonna take?¡± Harry said. ¡°Five days, give or take.¡± Jenkins said, after a pause. ¡°A week at the latest.¡± ¡°Looking forward to that.¡± Harry said. ¡°I think I¡¯m done here. You call me as soon as results are in, alright?¡± Exposure Harry kicked the door, huffing as he stepped inside the office. Dozens of wooden tables stood in a disorganized fashion. Pins and needles stuck photographs and maps to the walls, where red strings connected dot to dot, evidence to evidence. Boxes of donuts and snacks filled the trash cans, and the soothing scent of freshly-brewed coffee wafted in the air. Most officers paid Harry no heed. They kept on, chattering, typing, sleeping. Lewis reared his head towards the door. He glanced at Harry, grinned, and waved. ¡°Not goin¡¯ well, huh?¡± He asked, his smug grin growing wider by the second. ¡°Shove it, Lewis.¡± Harry groaned. ¡°Nothing. We¡¯ve got literally nothing.¡± Lewis chuckled. ¡°No leads, huh? So what, the hobo had an alibi?¡± Harry ruffled his hair wildly. ¡°Yeah, that¡¯s just the fuckin¡¯ thing, ain¡¯t it?¡± He kicked the wall, earning himself an annoyed glare. ¡°Turns out he was robbing a store exactly then. I seriously can¡¯t believe this shit.¡± ¡°No leads elsewhere?¡± Lewis¡¯ grin shrunk. ¡°Yeah, well, that¡¯s about it.¡± Harry said. He sat himself down on his chair and kicked back. ¡°Sucks to be you.¡± Lewis whistled. ¡°Really does.¡± Harry said. He picked up a stack of papers. ¡°Now I¡¯m back to square one.¡± He sighed. ¡°How¡¯re things on your end? The guy still not spillin¡¯ the beans?¡± ¡°Going swimmingly, actually,¡± Lewis said, smiling. ¡°The department¡¯s sent us a psychiatrist to talk with the guy. He¡¯s spillin¡¯ the beans, alright. Only two sessions in and he¡¯s changed his tune quite a bit.¡± Harry frowned. ¡°Lucky bastard. I got nowhere with the guy.¡± ¡°Well, guess this shows who¡¯s the better cop, don¡¯t it?¡± Lewis said. ¡°Just jokin¡¯. I owe the whole case to Dr. Helmer, really.¡± ¡°That the shrink?¡± Harry asked. ¡°Maybe I¡¯ll have him take a look at your head next.¡± ¡°He¡¯s only gonna find a Playboy mag in there.¡± Lewis laughed. ¡°You best pray he doesn¡¯t find the chief¡¯s wife, too.¡± Harry said. Suddenly, his telephone started ringing. ¡°Lemme get this first.¡± Lewis nodded and turned back to his computer. Harry picked up the black receiver and held it up against his ear. ¡°Harry Jackson. Who is this?¡± He said in a monotone voice. ¡°Harry? This is Jenkins.¡± A voice soon replied. ¡°You got some time right now?¡± Harry leaned back in his chair. ¡°Sure. What¡¯s this about?¡± He asked, twirling with the cord. ¡°We¡¯ve got the results back.¡± Jenkins said. ¡°Pretty conclusive, actually. They¡¯ve done a better job than I thought they would. You wanna come check this out?¡± ¡°Can¡¯t you give it to me over the phone?¡± Harry asked. ¡°Well, I can give you the name, but you better check out the files.¡± Jenkins replied. ¡°There¡¯s some extra stuff here. Like an extended autopsy report. It¡¯s pretty extensive.¡± ¡°I suppose I ain¡¯t too busy right now.¡± Harry sighed. He stood up, the chair creaking beneath him. ¡°I¡¯ll be right down. You¡¯re at the lab, right?¡± ¡°That¡¯s right. Bring me a donut while you¡¯re at it, won¡¯t you?¡± Jenkins asked. Harry quickly ended the call, slamming the receiver against the telephone. He turned to Lewis. ¡°Seems like Jenkins has somethin¡¯ for me.¡± He said. ¡°Hopefully something good this time.¡± Lewis waved. ¡°Good luck, man.¡± Harry headed towards the door, stealing a box of donuts from a sleeping colleague¡¯s table on the way. He quickly walked down the staircase. Many officers and clerks passed by, some waving or giving a small greeting as he passed. Harry headed for the forensics department with the well-trodden path. The forensics department always had an eerie ring to it. Much contributed to that atmosphere - the faint smell of rubbing alcohol in the air, the lab coats, and the morgue. All in all, a Harry felt uneasy in that department. Something about these sanitized environments unnerved him. Like a child fearing the dark; an instinctual reaction. He knocked on Jenkins¡¯ door. Jenkins sat behind his impressive oaken desk, a satisfied smile curved up as he read from a file. A single table lamp lit the room, a shadow covering Harry as he stepped in. Noticing Harry¡¯s entrance, he perked up, and waved. ¡°Harry. Good to see you.¡± Jenkins said. He held up the brown file. ¡°Here¡¯s the report.¡± Harry walked towards him and placed the box of donuts on the table. ¡°And here are your donuts.¡± Harry said, snatching away the files. He whistled. ¡°Phew. This is pretty thick, Jenkins. Mind filling me in on the highlights?¡± Jenkins nodded. ¡°Sure,¡± he said. ¡°It¡¯s basically just an extended investigation. I¡¯ve sent some samples down for evaluation, and they¡¯ve made some new findings.¡± ¡°Like what?¡± Harry flipped the pages, skimming the details briefly. ¡°Well, I guess we¡¯ll start with the autopsy.¡± Jenkins coughed. ¡°You remember what we established, right?¡± Harry scratched his chin. ¡°Well, I might¡¯ve skimmed the details a little¡­¡± He looked away. ¡°But I remember the details. Murdered between five thirty and five fourty AM. Cause of death - internal bleeding. Fifty-six stabs, most to the torso, a couple to the groin, and two to the head. Judging by penetration depth, a knife.¡± Jenkins clapped. ¡°Good job. At least you know your case,¡± Jenkins said. ¡°You¡¯re mostly right. That¡¯s basically it, as far as we were able to determine. No incriminating biological data left on the body. Death occurred before stabbing stopped. Small details.¡± ¡°And I really hope you¡¯ve got some good news for me.¡± Harry glared. ¡°I ain¡¯t got much to work with at the moment.¡± ¡°Well, let¡¯s get to it, then.¡± Jenkins paused. ¡°First thing is, we¡¯ve got a better clue regarding the weapon used. The forensics lab found a couple of shards of metal in the blood sample we sent. Judging by those, we can determine what kind of knife was used.¡± ¡°They found that it was a cheap, low-grade stainless steel.¡± Jenkins continued. ¡°Judging by the bruising along the stab wounds - and the shallow cuts of the later stabs, they¡¯ve found that it is likely from a cheap kitchen knife.¡± ¡°And that helps us, how?¡± Harry cocked his head. ¡°My wife¡¯s got a set of those, and I¡¯m pretty sure she ain¡¯t killed anyone.¡± ¡°It allows us to establish a psychological profile.¡± Jenkins stated. ¡°We can say with near utmost certainty that this was a premeditated murder. Things don¡¯t just add up.¡± Harry tapped his foot. ¡°...I see where you¡¯re goin¡¯ with this.¡± He said. ¡°So, no evidence is left behind - the knife¡¯s likely some throwaway from a gas station, and the body¡¯s riddled with more than enough holes to kill four.¡± Jenkins nodded. ¡°We¡¯re likely dealing with an unstable mind. There isn¡¯t enough evidence to really draw a conclusion, but we know that this was neither an accident nor self defence.¡± ¡°That ain¡¯t really tellin¡¯ us much yet, though.¡± Harry said. ¡°What else you got?¡± ¡°We¡¯re only getting to the good part.¡± Jenkins grinned. ¡°The samples we got from the murder site.¡± Harry smiled softly. ¡°I¡¯m liking what I¡¯m hearing.¡± ¡°We¡¯ve got three suspects, based on DNA analysis.¡± Jenkins said. ¡°First off, it confirms the two suspects we outlined for you - the hairs belong to John Zimmer and Lenny Crawford.¡± ¡°Two people we¡¯ve cleared, I¡¯d like to add.¡± Harry said. ¡°Yes, yes. But here¡¯s the good part.¡± Jenkins waved. ¡°The bile sample. They were able to figure out who it belongs to - well, within eighty-five percent certainty.¡± Harry crossed his arms. ¡°Well, out with it.¡±This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. ¡°It belongs to an Alister Moore.¡± Jenkins said. ¡°He¡¯s in your files.¡±
Harry listened to the soft tunes playing in the radio. A classic rock channel repeated favorites from his childhood - songs, the newfangled youth would likely never appreciate. He coughed, the warm air of his cigarette singing his throat slightly. He breathed rings out of the window. The shapes dissipated quickly in the wind. In the passenger¡¯s seat sat his suitcase. A fine piece of leather with more pouches than necessary. Inside waited the files he¡¯d requested - the files he needed for this investigation. Packed neatly together with Alister Moore¡¯s personals sat the search warrant. In a worryingly rare case of competence, the higher-ups granted the warrant without any issues; it went more smoothly than any case before. Harry whistled, the music amplifying his good mood. Finally, the case started getting somewhere. A pesky thing lived inside every copper¡¯s gut. The hunch. An odd sensation, and any cop worth his salt had felt it before. When one worked with cases day in and day out, sometimes, a sixth sense for trouble developed. That sense came and went like a tramp; it lacked reliability. Many times would it prove itself wrong. And yet, most detectives trusted it. Harry¡¯s hunch told him that a breakthrough was near. Alister Moore had gone missing about four days prior, right around the time of the murder. Harry didn¡¯t have the opportunity to call many of his relatives or friends, but none of them had kept up with Alister. The last person that had seen Alister was his boss, who had fired him that afternoon. His Ford strolled gently into the driveway of Alister¡¯s apartment. His nose wrinkled. He could never get used to the ugly, utilitarian buildings of the city. Grey flakes of aged paint chipped off the walls. Cheap curtains drew the windows shut. In front, an older man impatiently waited. Harry turned the keys and stepped out. He clutched the bag underneath his shoulder and reached for the search warrant. His badge and papers in hand, he approached the old man and tipped his hat. ¡°Good day, sir.¡± Harry said. ¡°You¡¯re the landlord here, I presume?¡± ¡°That I am.¡± The old man picked his ear. ¡°You¡¯re the copper from the telephone, ain¡¯t cha?¡± ¡°That I would be.¡± Harry said. He opened his wallet, revealing a shiny badge. ¡°The name¡¯s Harry Jackson. I¡¯m sure you know why I¡¯m here.¡± ¡°Here to look at that kid¡¯s apartment, yeah, I getcha.¡± The old man said, glaring at him. ¡°Ain¡¯t like them coppers much, but what can an old man like me do?¡± ¡°I¡¯m sorry to hear that,¡± Harry said. ¡°If you wouldn¡¯t mind, could I talk to you about Alister Moore?¡± The old man shot him an annoyed look. ¡°Guess I may as well.¡± He said, after a moment of silence. ¡°But I ain¡¯t known that kid for long, y¡¯hear?¡± ¡°Thank you for your cooperation,¡± Harry said. ¡°Could you perhaps describe Mr. Moore for me?¡± He pulled out a small notebook and pen. ¡°Well, there¡¯s not much to tell.¡± The old man picked his nose. ¡°The boy¡¯s moved in ¡®bout a year and a three-fourths ago, probably more - the quiet type, he was. Ain¡¯t much of a talker.¡± ¡°Did the neighbours ever complain about him?¡± Harry asked, his gaze focused on the moving pen. The old man paused to think. ¡°I heard he¡¯s quite an angry drunk.¡± He said. ¡°Bashing against the wall and all that. Seen him once like that. I ain¡¯t even sure it was the same kid.¡± ¡°I see.¡± Harry muttered. He continued writing. ¡°Anything else?¡± ¡°Nothin¡¯, really.¡± The old man grimaced. ¡°Listen, I barely even visit the place unless some young¡¯uns cause trouble. I¡¯m just an innocent old man, y¡¯hear?¡± Harry finalized his notes and shoved it in his breast pocket. ¡°Loud and clear, sir.¡± He said. He pulled out the search warrant. ¡°And as for Mr. Moore¡¯s apartment¡­¡± The old man turned around and signalled Harry to follow. ¡°Yeah, yeah, I get it.¡± He said. Harry followed the landlord closely behind. The apartment soon came into view. ¡°Nobody¡¯s been in there, right?¡± He asked. ¡°Nobody, as far as I¡¯ve known.¡± The old man said. ¡°The kid left the door wide open. I closed it for ¡®em, but I can¡¯t be too sure.¡± Harry grunted. ¡°Guess I¡¯ll have to hope.¡± He said. ¡°He left the door open?¡± ¡°Yes,¡± the old man nodded. ¡°Left the keys in the lock, too. Guess the kid was busy.¡± ¡°Can I borrow the keys?¡± Harry asked, reaching his hand out. ¡°Go ahead.¡± The old man said, passing Harry a small keychain. ¡°I¡¯ll be waitin¡¯ downstairs. Don¡¯t run off without giving the keys back, y¡¯hear?¡± Harry nodded, watching as the landlord slowly walked down the stairs. He fumbled, trying to find the correct key for the door, but soon slotted in the matching key. He turned the doorknob open and pushed. The metal door creaked open. Harry took a step inside. Harry felt his hairs tinge. Excitement filled Harry; he sensed the evidence in the air. As per procedure, he took a couple snapshots first. He first noticed the disorganized mess. A black suit and tie lay on the ground, together with a brown leather suitcase. The crumpled sleeves indicated that they¡¯d been discarded in a hurry. Harry put on a pair of gloves and stepped inside. The interior was simple. Much of the furniture looked like they¡¯d been purchased off an IKEA catalogue. No single feature stood out. From the entrance, a short hallway stretched out for about a meter. From there, three doors branched out, one leading to a living room and kitchen, another to the toilet, and the last to the bedroom. Harry slowly pushed the door to the living room in. Inside, he found an another mess; a cabinet had been drawn open, and its contents all lied on the ground, slowly gathering dust. Besides that, there sat a nondescript couch and a coffee table. He approached the kitchen and checked the rack of knives. Five handles stuck out of five holes. Harry felt no surprise; if Alister was the killer, he most certainly had used a throwaway. The simplistic design carried on in the bedroom. A table with a laptop. A small, wooden bed. A nightstand with a lamp. A single bookshelf. Dozens of books, mostly boring, nerdy crap, filled the bookshelf. Opening the nightstand drawer, Harry uncovered a dirty pair of socks. An issue Harry came across during the investigation was the question of motive. A reason underlied every murder. If no motive existed, then surely better targets existed for an indiscriminate killing than a public official. Harry turned his attention to the laptop. A thin layer of dust gathered on the blue lid. It had been stuffed to the corner of the table, while a spreadsheet dominated the center. He spread the laptop wide open and clicked the power on. The small cooler whirred silently. Soon, a login screen presented itself - luckily, password protection was disabled. Modern operating systems contained very powerful tools. Used correctly, they could potentially make one¡¯s user experience far easier and more comfortable. Of course, most people didn¡¯t have enough brain cells to read the manual. In those cases, they proved to be very useful for people like him. One such feature was the ¡°Recent Places¡± folder. It documented the last folders and drives opened. Harry clicked it open, not expecting much. A list of names presented itself. The name, ¡®Personal¡¯, drew Harry¡¯s attention, and he navigated to it. The folder had been set to hidden; usually, it couldn¡¯t be seen. Harry¡¯s grin grew wide as a document presented itself.
Alister spent the past six days in intense anxiety. His cabin stood in the middle of nowhere. No roads connected that shelter to the well-trodden paths of hikers and hunters. Even wild animals tended to stay away from the area, as sunlight shone down rarely upon that section of the forest, and vegetation sparsely grew. He¡¯d never seen anything even resembling a human during his stay. Alister rarely left the cabin. No need presented itself. Only for toiletries and water had he exited, and both could be done within meters of the cabin. Lack of proper insulation made the cabin rather cold, but he felt a different type of chill every time he left. The layers of blankets kept him sufficiently warm anyways. In only an arm¡¯s length away, enough entertainment waited. He couldn¡¯t run the consoles for long before the battery pack discharged. Then, he¡¯d have to wait for hours for the panels to gather enough sunlight. Because of the tree-shades, this process took a while. The cheap antenna tended to distort the image and sound quality of the broadcast, but TV reception came through. Lots of games had been loaded on the flashcart, allowing Alister to enjoy some childhood classics. But he found himself flipping through news channels frequently. The nervous, paranoid fear never left his mind; it occupied a part of his brain, regardless of what he did. Entertainment served only to distract, and distractions never lasted long. He calmed himself down, lying that he¡¯d covered up sufficiently, that he¡¯d never be found. He¡¯d found a good spot to hide the evidence; the tool of murder, together with the poncho and boots, lied six-feet under. As usual, a shadow cast itself through the thin pane of glass. A storm brewed outside, the grey clouds swirling and churning. Alister snoozed, his face staring outside the window while absentmindedly holding a half-open comic in his hands. A lightning bolt snapped Alister awake, and he shuddered. He checked his watch and found that he¡¯d overslept; only to realize he no longer had a job. He grabbed the remote and turned the television on. The local news channel lit the darkened room in a bright, orange light. Small flickers of grey covered the screen periodically. Two anchors sat behind a pearl-white desk, arms crossed, making grave faces. A bolded headline scrolled underneath. ¡°Breakthrough in political murder case - New suspect, Alister Moore, Age 26¡­¡± Alister¡¯s jaw gaped. He stumbled backwards, tripping and landing on his ass. Fear paralyzed his limbs and he simply watched, most of the words entering and leaving his mind simultaneously. ¡°The police found damning evidence in suspect¡¯s house.¡± The female anchor recited monotonously. ¡°The detective heading the case, Harry Jackson, has revealed the suspect¡¯s manifesto¡­¡± Alister¡¯s ears perked up at the mention of a manifesto. ¡°Manifesto? What Manifesto?¡± His mind raced with possibilities. He gained control of his body once more, and slowly slumped up. ¡°This document, found in the suspect¡¯s personal laptop, contains hateful rhetoric against the victim of this case, Brian Fox, and his party¡­¡± The anchor continued, not even batting an eye. ¡°My laptop?¡± Alister blinked. His eyes stuck to the screen. ¡°I barely even fucking use that thing.¡± ¡°Here is a picture supplied to us by the police.¡± The anchor pointed at the screen behind her. A screenshot of a text file appeared. Disorganized, badly punctuated lines filled the document: ¡°Fuck the Republican party. Fuck the capitalist pigs.¡± ¡°Fuck you, Brian Fox, Fuck you, Brian Fox¡­¡± ¡°Somebody must do it, somebody must do it, somebody must do it¡­¡± ¡°This is only a portion of the entire manifesto. The entire document spans well over ten thousand words¡­¡± The anchor continued. ¡°And is currently subject for review by the police. Anybody with any information regarding Mr. Alister Moore is encouraged to come forward¡­¡± This kind of pressure usually caused Alister to quake in fear. But at the present moment, he hadn¡¯t the freedom to fully comprehend the exposure he¡¯d just recieved. Instead, he noticed a sound. A small whirr and crackle sounded from the outside. A bicycle. Amidst the Storm Prey learn to recognize sounds of hunters as infants. Small sounds, indistinguishable from the cacophony of creaks and cracks, highlight and amplify under stress. Alister felt the fear of the hunted. The chill rising up his spine, his breath turning shallow and ragged, his hind legs, poised and stretched, ready to run. Outside, small branches and leaves crackled and snapped. The distant whirr of a wheel grew closer and closer. No motors rumbled, and the sound was faint. Alister knew it to be a bicycle, but in that moment, he perceived the thunderous roar of a tank approaching. His mind snapped back, as realization dawned on him. He couldn¡¯t run away. Only two exits existed - the door or the window. Neither were subtle. Alister¡¯s head spun and spun with his body. His eyes darted from object to object, seeking only three things; distractions, weapons, and exits. Alister¡¯s hand snapped towards the shovel. It leaned lazily against the shelf. Dried dirt pried off the metal edges from recent use. He clutched it tightly and seeked for other advantages. He needed every edge to survive this situation. Should he fight? Go for the first strike? Run out? Throw a rock? Throw the- He shook his head. ¡°I need to hide.¡± He realized. Alister wasn¡¯t a murderer. His gaze fell on the couch. Nowhere else could he hide. He jumped towards the sofa, and quickly pushed it aside. The floorboard clunked underneath his feet. Alister jammed his fingers into the slit, biting his lip as a soft pain struck his hand. He yanked the floorboard open. Now, all he had to do- The door swung wide open. Alister froze completely. His sweaty hands clutched the shovel tightly. A man stood under the doorframe. The man¡¯s disheveled hair looked as if he¡¯d just gotten out of bed. Tired, droopy eyes stared with a brilliant, clear brown. A brown leather jacket hung loosely from his shoulder. The zipper hadn¡¯t been closed completely. Cotton shoelaces danced freely, dangling from a pair of hiking boots. His expression told Alister everything; including what emotion he should feel at that very moment. Thankfully, it wasn¡¯t fear. Seeing that man thrust through the door, Alister felt his anxieties all wash away. For a single moment, his lips attempted to form a soft smile. Instead, his mouth curled to a frown. What Alister felt stood opposite to relief. It was guilt. The man stretched his arms out wide. Like a bear, about to devour its prey. But instead of crushing his pitiful prey, he lumbered towards the unmoving Alister, and hugged him tightly. ¡°Alister!¡± He yelled, his voice overflowing with cheer. ¡°I knew you¡¯d be here!¡±
¡°Could you tell me a little about your son, Mrs. Moore?¡± Harry sat in a well-lit room. His ass itched from the rough fibers of the beige couch. The fragrance of rosemary overwhelmed, the scent originating from a purple candle. Dark clouds filled the skies, yet it stayed bright outside. A mahogany coffee table dominated the center of the living room, an old CRT television standing behind it. An elderly woman re-entered the room. She slowly lowered a tray onto the coffee table. ¡°Here¡¯s your tea.¡± She said. ¡°Well, I can¡¯t exactly refuse, can I?¡± She chuckled nervously. ¡°Thank you, ma¡¯am.¡± Harry replied, picking up his cup. ¡°I¡¯m in no position to force you into anything, but it¡¯d help our investigation greatly if you¡¯d comply.¡± Mrs. Moore inhaled deeply, held for a moment, and released. She stilled her shaking hand with the other, and a single tear formed in her eye. ¡°Oh, I just can¡¯t believe this is all happening.¡± She said. ¡°Poor old Alister, just what have you gotten into this time? If only Richard were still here¡­¡± Harry quietly brought out his notebook and pen. ¡°Richard¡­ Your husband, is that right?¡± He asked. ¡°That¡¯s right.¡± Mrs. Moore said. She wiped her eyes with a handkerchief. ¡°He¡¯s passed away.¡± ¡°I¡¯m sorry to hear that, Mrs. Moore.¡± Harry said. ¡°Could you start by talking about Alister¡¯s personality?¡± Mrs. Moore contemplated for a moment. ¡°Alister was always a good kid.¡± She said. ¡°Not the kind of honor-roll student a parent would wish for, but a son I could be proud of. He was just your average boy, if you understand.¡± She paused. ¡°I think the only thing that made me worry was how impulsive Alister was. I always knew he¡¯d get into trouble eventually - it happened often before. But that died down as he grew, and recently, he¡¯s been a lot more calm. I thought it¡¯d done him good.¡± She sniffled. ¡°Now I¡¯m not so sure. I can¡¯t believe he¡¯d go on and do¡­¡± Harry¡¯s hand danced across the paper. ¡°I see.¡± He finally said. ¡°How long has it been since you¡¯ve last heard from Alister, Mrs. Moore?¡± Mrs. Moore checked the calendar briefly. ¡°It must¡¯ve been a month ago,¡± she said. ¡°He¡¯s always been awful at keeping up, but over the last year or two, it¡¯s been very erratic. I didn¡¯t worry too much, though. I just figured he¡¯d need some time.¡± ¡°Time?¡± Harry asked, looking up from his notes. ¡°From the¡­¡± ¡°From the accident, yes.¡± Mrs. Moore nodded. ¡°Seems like you¡¯ve done your homework. It was nothing major. The doctors assured us there wasn¡¯t anything wrong with Alister. They released him after only two weeks, and he seemed as fit as ever.¡± She sighed. ¡°But you know how these things go - I guess he must¡¯ve been feeling off. He¡¯d been a bit distant since.¡± ¡°I understand.¡± Harry said. ¡°You mentioned Alister used to get into trouble?¡± Mrs. Moore took a sip from her tea. ¡°He used to be a lot more impulsive.¡± She said. ¡°As a kid, he¡¯d often get into fights with older children - bullies, mostly. It was a fright for me to see him all dirty and hurt. But he¡¯d always smile.¡± She said. ¡°I remember that time he got involved with a peace rally in university. He¡¯d been pepper sprayed by a policeman.¡± ¡°Although,¡± she added quickly. ¡°It¡¯s always been especially bad when his friends got involved. Especially George. I can¡¯t believe the things they¡¯d do together. They tried to chase down a burglar one time, you know? They were twelve then.¡± ¡°By George, you mean George Miller?¡± Harry glanced up. ¡°Yes, that¡¯s right.¡± She said. ¡°The neighbourhood troublemaker. Alister and George were like two peas in a pod - they¡¯d always wind up together. Mostly just to get punished.¡± She said. ¡°Could you describe Alister¡¯s political leanings for me, perhaps?¡± Harry asked, staring blankly. ¡°Alister wasn¡¯t too into politics. He didn¡¯t talk too much about it.¡± Mrs. Moore put her cup down. ¡°He didn¡¯t like politicians, I knew, but not enough to... ¡° She gulped. ¡°He just didn¡¯t want to get involved with it. I think he leaned vaguely to the left.¡± ¡°Just to clarify,¡± Harry paused. ¡°You do not know where Alister currently is, or could be?¡± ¡°No.¡± Mrs. Moore shook her head. ¡°I haven¡¯t the faintest idea.¡± Harry finalized his notes with a dot. ¡°Well, that seems about it.¡± He grabbed his cup for a sip, but quickly let it down, noticing how cold it had gotten. ¡°Just one more question, Mrs. Moore. You mentioned Alister had been settling down recently. Just how recent was this?¡± ¡°He¡¯d been calming down over the years.¡± Mrs. Moore said. ¡°I think spending less time with his friends and all really helped with that. He¡¯s been very quiet over the last two years specifically.¡± Harry slowly rose from his seat. He checked his wristwatch. ¡°Thank you, Mrs. Moore.¡± He said, offering her a handshake. ¡°I really value your cooperation.¡± ¡°Oh, it¡¯s nothing,¡± she said, standing up. ¡°I still don¡¯t believe Alister¡¯s the one you¡¯re looking for. I¡¯m really looking forward to this whole misunderstanding being cleared up.¡± She sniffled. ¡°I¡¯ll do my best, ma¡¯am.¡± Harry tipped his hat. ¡°We¡¯ll find out the truth soon enough. It¡¯s nothing certain yet, in any case.¡± He lumbered slowly towards the door. ¡°I hope you have a nice day, ma¡¯am.¡±The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation. Harry opened the door and stepped outside, shivering momentarily as the freezing wind greeted him. He watched as Mrs. Moore waved goodbye. The sunset neared in the horizon, and the dark clouds ominously hinted at the oncoming storm. He quickly shuffled inside his Ford. A warm breeze blew from the vents. Harry carefully unparked his car and headed for the road. He grimaced. The entire day had been incredibly exhausting. Stories with much publicity always incited the interest of the vultures, pecking at the police for a sensation. He preferred smaller cases. He spent most of the day interviewing people close to Alister Moore, starting with family members. On the surface, Alister was just another office worker, like the millions that came before him, and the trillions that will come after. He led a very mundane life. No prior records, no known incidents. Small fits of rage, but nobody ever harmed. The journal posed more questions than answers. Only a small section had been released to the public. It wasn¡¯t for any special reason besides protocol. In a normal case, there would be no such release of information - the publicity of this specific situation had forced their hand. The higher-ups were very keen on keeping a good reputation. The manifesto contained more information than the deranged scribbles of a lunatic. It explained, in certain terms, what the author had set out to do. Brian Fox, the republican candidate. Part of his platform was the disbandment of various social security services for the city, as well as a reform of all workers unions. Alister clearly disagreed, and he felt that Brian was evil. He¡¯d encountered such cases often. A deranged man, unhealthily transfixed on a target he really had no business getting involved with. But Alister leaned neither to the left nor right, and rarely spoke of politics. All family members confirmed that fact so far. Of course, that proved nothing. Many people kept their delusions private. Harry scratched his chin and lit a cigarette. He took a deep breath in- and out. ¡°No point overthinking this.¡± He told himself. All he could - and would do - was investigate. Eventually, the truth would reveal itself. He grinned morbidly. In any case, the investigation finally had some traction and a clue to latch onto. George Miller. That name seemed to follow Alister¡¯s everywhere. Nobody knew ¡®just¡¯ Alister Moore, they also knew George Miller. From what little work he¡¯d done on the man so far, George seemed like a rather simple fellow - a carpenter, following his father¡¯s footsteps. Harry planned to meet the man as soon as possible. Suddenly, small droplets descended down in rapid succession. Water splattered against the windscreen like a machine gun, the constant rat-tat-tat playing a soothing rhythm. Harry quickly enabled the windscreen wipers. He set the GPS for home. His radio starting blaring. Harry sighed. He¡¯d had his personal vehicle fitted with a police radio. It helped with investigation. He tried his hardest to ignore the sound, but gave in, picking up the receiver. ¡°Harry Jackson speaking,¡± he said. ¡°What¡¯s the situation?¡± ¡°Harry? That you?¡± A familiar voice came through the speaker. ¡°This is Jordan. We¡¯ve got an issue here at, uh, Maple Street. We¡¯ve been looking for anyone close by¡­¡± Harry took a glance at his GPS. ¡°Seems like I¡¯m ¡®bout half a mile away.¡± He sighed. ¡°You boys need a hand?¡± ¡°Would appreciate, Harry. I¡¯ll buy you a drink.¡± Jordan said. ¡°We¡¯ve got some a public disturbance here¡­ Just come. It¡¯ll be over quickly.¡± ¡°¡®Aight. Harry out.¡± He said. He roughly shoved the receiver back into its slot and adjusted his GPS. It took only five minutes to Maple Street. He grimaced at the prospect of getting wet, watching as people ran frantically for cover in the rain. As he arrived, he immediately saw what caused the trouble - a large, private bus, blocking the traffic. He parked his car nearby and grabbed a small umbrella. Jordan stood next to the bus, frantically shouting at the driver, his voice muffled by the splish-splash. Harry walked up to him and tapped him on the shoulder. ¡°What¡¯s goin¡¯ on?¡± He asked. ¡°This guy giving you trouble?¡± Jordan turned around, looking relieved. ¡°Thanks for coming, Harry.¡± He said. ¡°It¡¯s¡­ Slightly complicated. You wanna have a chat with the driver? I¡¯ve gotta contact HQ for confirmation.¡± He pointed at the driver¡¯s seat window. Harry glanced at the driver. He was a gruff looking man, just like your average trucker. He grimaced, a cigarette bit between his lips. ¡°What¡¯s this all about?¡± Harry asked. ¡°You tell me,¡± the driver said, looking annoyed. ¡°I ain¡¯t done nothin¡¯ wrong, an¡¯ your friend here stopped me an¡¯ the boys for no goddamn reason.¡± ¡°The boys?¡± Harry tilted his head. The driver pointed backwards. Covered by the faint mist of the rain, an entire caravan of large busses filled the street, many cards honking and blaring behind them. Harry stared, surprised at the commotion, and turned back to the driver. ¡°What¡¯s all this for?¡± Harry said, alarm filling his voice. The driver stared blankly. ¡°I don¡¯t know ¡®nuffin. I just got paid to be here.¡± He said. ¡°Me an¡¯ the boys are truckers, y¡¯see? They got us these big ol¡¯ busses an¡¯ told us to ship some people here.¡± ¡°Who¡¯s ¡®they¡¯?¡± Harry asked, taking a look at the back of the bus. People filled the seats of the bus - most looking disheveled, dirty, and hungry. ¡°Who are these people?¡± ¡°I ain¡¯t sure myself.¡± The driver said. ¡°Actually, I¡¯ve been thinkin¡¯ these folks are homeless peeps. They smell a little, y¡¯see? Besides, they said this was for a charity or ¡®sumthin.¡± He whispered. ¡°Charity?¡± Harry¡¯s eyebrows clenched. ¡°Look, I ain¡¯t sure how that stuff works, but this sure is the first time I¡¯ve seen this kinda gathering. Who hired you?¡± ¡°Some foundation.¡± The driver said. ¡°Uh, was it the-¡± ¡°Lincoln-Brown Foundation.¡± Jordan suddenly poked his head in. ¡°I¡¯ve got a confirmation from HQ. Apparently the Lincoln-Brown Foundation¡¯s been cleared to bring these people in for some kind of charity drive.¡± ¡°That means we get ta go, right?¡± The driver asked, looking more than a little annoyed. ¡°Finally. You coppers sure wasted my time.¡± Harry glared at the driver, who flinched a little. He looked at Jordan. ¡°Jordan, you escort this caravan, then.¡± He said. ¡°Keep an eye on ¡¯em.¡± ¡°Sure, Harry.¡± Jordan sighed. ¡°Sorry for wastin¡¯ your time, Harry. Turns out it was nothing after all.¡± ¡°No problem, Jordan.¡± Harry shook his head. ¡°Makes more sense to call for backup. You can¡¯t ever be too sure.¡± ¡°Yeah, yeah, great Mr. Jackson.¡± Jordan grinned. ¡°Greet the wife for me, will ya?¡± ¡°Sure will.¡± Harry said, walking towards his Ford. ¡°Good luck, Jordan.¡±
The rain splattered against the thin pane of glass. Alister shivered. The cottage didn¡¯t have any isolation. A single gas lamp lit the insides of the shack, casting shadows of two adults against the walls. Occasionally, lightning crackled, drowning out the feeble light. ¡°That¡¯s about it.¡± Alister said, covering himself in blankets. ¡°That¡¯s all that¡¯s happened so far.¡± The other stared blankly at the ceiling, lying absentmindedly on the floor. ¡°Damn.¡± He finally spoke. ¡°Must¡¯ve been hard on you, huh?¡± Alister sunk into the comforts of his sheets. ¡°You have no idea, George.¡± He said, his voice shaking. ¡°I barely slept the past week. I really thought you were a cop, you know?¡± ¡°Yeah, I noticed. I saw your face.¡± George sat up. He grinned. ¡°Jokes aside, man, you should¡¯ve come to me first.¡± Alister choked. ¡°I didn¡¯t¡­¡± His voice muffled through the blanket. ¡°Expect you to take it this well.¡± George punched him on the shoulder. ¡°What¡¯s with that, dude? You know I¡¯d believe you.¡± Alister nodded. ¡°Yeah, well, I did.¡± He said. ¡°It¡¯s just¡­¡± ¡°Just what?¡± George cocked his head. ¡°It¡¯s been a while since we talked, alright?¡± Alister said, sighing. ¡°I wasn¡¯t sure that we were still on good terms.¡± George laughed. ¡°You¡¯re an idiot, dude.¡± He said. ¡°It¡¯s been only like a year and a half since we last chatted. That¡¯s like, nothing, man. You really think I¡¯m that petty?¡± George looked disappointed. Alister shook his head. ¡°No.¡± He said, his voice monotone. ¡°I was just jokin¡¯, man, relax.¡± George chuckled. ¡°I¡¯m not really mad. Can¡¯t blame you for anything, really¡­¡± He paused. ¡°Blame me for what?¡± Alister asked. ¡°Y¡¯know, not contacting me, I guess.¡± George said. ¡°With the¡­ accident and all.¡± His smile receded. ¡°It was just a car crash.¡± Alister grimaced. ¡°That¡¯s got nothing to do with anything. I¡¯m fine, as always.¡± ¡°Yeah.¡± George stared blankly. He looked as if remembering something. ¡°Yeah, whatever. Look, enough with the depressing shit. We¡¯ve gotta talk.¡± ¡°About what?¡± Alister looked up. George looked as if the answer was obvious. ¡°We¡¯ve gotta clear your name, obviously!¡± He said, a crackling thunder accentuating his point. ¡°You didn¡¯t do it, right?¡± ¡°Well¡­¡± Alister looked unsure. ¡°I¡­ No. No, I didn¡¯t.¡± He said. ¡°Good.¡± George said. ¡°So we¡¯ve gotta find whichever son-of-a-bitch framed you, and kick his ass.¡± He grinned widely. ¡°Just like the old times, eh?¡± ¡°You¡¯re making this sound a lot easier than it is, you know?¡± Alister frowned. ¡°How the hell are we gonna do that?¡± ¡°Enough with that loser talk. C¡¯mon, Alister, show some teen spirit.¡± George said. ¡°I¡¯m too old to play detective, George.¡± Alister said, looking away. George sighed, and held Alister by his shoulder, staring intently into his eyes. ¡°What¡¯re you going to do, then?¡± He asked calmly. ¡°Just give up? Roll over? Get arrested?¡± ¡°Of course not.¡± Alister shoved him. ¡°I just-¡± ¡°Just what? Don¡¯t think it¡¯s possible?¡± George grimaced with a bitter undertone. ¡°Remember who used to say nothing was impossible?¡± ¡°Fuck you, George.¡± Alister stood up, fists clenched. ¡°It¡¯s my fucking life, not a goddamn joke.¡± George glared back. ¡°Yeah, so you should give more of a shit about this than I.¡± He said. ¡°You think you can hide here forever? You really think nobody¡¯s going to find you?¡± Alister stared angrily at George and trembled. Eventually, he sighed, and sat back down, lifting his head up with an arm. ¡°Fuck!¡± He yelled, smashing his other hand against the floor. ¡°I know you¡¯re right, George.¡± ¡°I do, too.¡± George said, crouching down. ¡°Look, Alister, we can¡¯t just twiddle with our thumbs here. We¡¯ve gotta do something before it¡¯s too late.¡± He smiled compassionately and reached a hand out. Alister looked back and gripped George¡¯s outstretched hand tightly. ¡°...Alright.¡± He said. "Let''s do this." Encounter Almost as if the storm last night hadn¡¯t happened, the morning was exceedingly clear. The crisp blue sky hone down brightly upon the black tarmac, the road slowly giving in to nature. Bit by bit, the concrete ahead became more and more uneven, eventually turning into a path of dirt and gravel. On the side, grass and flowers flourished; only a mile away from the cities, nature still bloomed. Harry sniffled. He sneezed into his handkerchief - the wife always insisted he carry one. She understood how sensitive his nose could be. He grimaced, the bright light blinding his vision. His car rumbled, tiny rocks clattering against the metal hull. He watched patiently as the numbers on the GPS grew smaller and smaller. A small wooden house peered into view. It was a lovely place, as a more effeminate person would put it. Small details touched every last corner of that house. The wooden walls were painted and glossed enthusiastically. Engravings filled each nook and cranny, giving the house an antique, rustic feel - in essence, it felt cared for. There was already a car in the driveway. Harry sighed and stopped his car on the roadside. He grumbled as his feet landed on watery mud, the dirt sticking to his soles. His eyes wandered to the postbin. ¡®Miller¡¯, an edgy font labelled. He trudged towards the porch, leaving behind a trail of mud. A small roof protected the porch from sunlight. A small table centered that porch, a single foldable garden chair placed against. Two other chair leaned against the wall, a visible layer of dust and cobwebs gathering upon it. Harry clicked the buzzer. A soft, electric hum responded. He noticed that the mattress was already dirty, small bits of mud drying in the cool air. He waited patiently, glancing through the window occasionally as time passed. Soon enough, a grumpy voice shouted. ¡°Coming!¡± It said. A series of hasty footsteps followed. The wooden door creaked open, revealing a frowning man. A towel crowned his head. ¡°Hello.¡± He said, his brown eyes questioning Harry. ¡°Do you need something?¡± ¡°Just here for a visit,¡± Harry responded, staring back into his brown eyes. ¡°May I come in?¡± ¡°What¡¯s this about?¡± George¡¯s gaze sharpened. Harry sighed. He¡¯d done this routine a million times before. ¡°I¡¯m detective Harry Jackson.¡± He said, pulling out his badge. ¡°I was hoping we could have a chat.¡± George wordlessly studied the badge. ¡°...You haven¡¯t got a warrant, do you?¡± He asked. ¡°I don¡¯t.¡± Harry nodded grimly. ¡°But I believe it¡¯d be better for the both of us if you would comply.¡± ¡°Come in.¡± George finally said, roughly shoving the door open. ¡°Wipe your shoes off, please.¡± Harry stepped inside. The interior matched the cozy outside perfectly; Harry immediately felt that he¡¯d seen such houses a million times before - in fiction, that was. He¡¯d never seen a house so warm in his entire life. Everything from the brick fireplace to the classy wooden furniture felt so fitting. He also noticed silence in that residence. George gestured towards a beige couch. Harry sat himself down. George quickly shuffled out the room, only to return with two glasses filled with water. ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡± George finally said. ¡°Look, it¡¯s rather early in the morning, and I wasn¡¯t expecting any visitors.¡± He paused. ¡°Especially not the cops.¡± Harry stopped glancing around. ¡°No problem, ...Mr. Miller.¡± He said. ¡°It¡¯s almost noon, though.¡± ¡°Haven¡¯t had a good night¡¯s sleep.¡± George said, pulling the towel off his head. ¡°Just woken up, you see? What¡¯s this all about, Detective?¡± He asked, looking at Harry intently. ¡°I think you¡¯ve an idea, Mr. Miller.¡± Harry sighed. ¡°It¡¯s about your friend, Alister.¡± ¡°He didn¡¯t do it.¡± George quickly stated. He stared at Harry with confident, clear eyes. ¡°Well, you¡¯ve gotten do the topic quickly.¡± Harry said. ¡°Well, I don¡¯t like all this formal stuff either. Let me get to the point, George. Do you know where Alister is?¡± George stared blankly for a while. ¡°...No.¡± He said. ¡°Ain¡¯t got a single clue.¡± He wiped a drop of water off his brow. ¡°You sure ¡®bout that?¡± Harry asked, his hand reaching for his pen. ¡°Ain¡¯t got a clue, you said? No idea where he might be, either?¡± ¡°Nope,¡± George shook his head. ¡°Not a single one. Just know he didn¡¯t do anything wrong.¡± ¡°You¡¯re very sure of that, aren¡¯t cha?¡± Harry asked, studying George¡¯s expression. ¡°What¡¯s made you so convinced?¡± George answered quickly. ¡°I¡¯ve known him for a while now, Detective.¡± He said. ¡°I don¡¯t know what others might¡¯ve told ya, but he¡¯s not that kind of guy.¡± ¡°I see.¡± Harry said, tapping with his pen. ¡°So you have no idea what he¡¯s up to?¡± ¡°Yeah.¡± Harry silently stared at George, whose face did not so much as twitch. ¡°Aight.¡± Harry said, breaking the ice. ¡°Why don¡¯t you tell me something else, then?¡± ¡°What¡¯d you want to know?¡± George asked. ¡°Tell me about Alister.¡± Harry said. ¡°What type of guy was he?¡± George scratched his nose for a second. ¡°...He¡¯s a good guy.¡± He said. ¡°I¡¯m not sure how else to say it, really. A real solid dude.¡± ¡°So I¡¯ve heard.¡± Harry said. ¡°Anything specific?¡± ¡°He¡¯d always help whenever you need it.¡± George said. ¡°Remember that time he helped me beat up those fifth-grade punks. We were like, nine?¡± He smiled. ¡°We got our asses beat, but it was worth it.¡± ¡°What for?¡± ¡°Those kids stole a classmate¡¯s lunch money.¡± George reminisced. ¡°I wouldn¡¯t stand for that shit. Alister backed me up. Hell, he was the one who started it.¡± Harry chuckled. ¡°So you kids do that often?¡± He scribbled some notes. ¡°Yeah, well¡­ Used to.¡± George replied. ¡°Until college, sure. Had some fights here and there.¡± His eyes looked away. ¡°Not so much recently.¡± ¡°Around two years ago, correct?¡± Harry asked, listening intently. ¡°Well, it¡¯s been slowing down for the last five years, I¡¯d say.¡± George tilted his head. ¡°Haven¡¯t been hanging out as much since. But the last two years¡­¡± He paused. ¡°I¡¯ve got nothing more to say, really.¡± Harry clicked his pen shut. ¡°Alright,¡± He said, standing up. ¡°That¡¯s all I¡¯ll get from you, it seems.¡± He stretched his hand out. George grabbed his hand firmly and shook. ¡°Look, George, I might be back.¡± Harry said, watching the other¡¯s expression. ¡°Here¡¯s my card. Call me if you hear anything.¡± George frowned. ¡°Can¡¯t make any promises, Detective.¡± He said. ¡°I¡¯m sure you¡¯ve figured it out yourself, but I¡¯m not sure I can help you.¡± Harry smiled softly. ¡°The honest type, huh?¡± He said. ¡°I¡¯ll be honest here and say something too, then.¡± An intimidating glare sparked in the detective¡¯s eyes. ¡°George, if you¡¯re hiding anything - just know that we¡¯ll find it out.¡±If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. George shrugged nervously. ¡°Who, the cops?¡± ¡°Whoever needs to know.¡± Harry said. ¡°I¡¯ll make sure that happens.¡± Harry stepped outside. ¡°Goodbye, George. I hope we don¡¯t have to meet again.¡± ¡°Likewise.¡± George said, watching Harry walk slowly to the car. Harry clasped his boots outside to shake the dirt off before entering his car. He leaned far back into his seat, sighing as he gripped the handle. Sometimes, the honest ones were the hardest to deal with. George obviously was hiding something - what that was, Harry didn¡¯t know. He noticed some odd-looking markings on the driveway. A trail of mud. It was unbroken and thin, thus definitely not made by human feet. No animals could produce such a trail either. A bicycle, perhaps? Harry sneezed. He rubbed his nose with his handkerchief. In any case, he needed to leave.
Alister twiddled his thumb anxiously. A movie was playing on the television, but he paid that no heed. Instead, his gaze focused on the window. George had left the hut ten hours ago, before the sunrise, claiming to get supplies to get their investigation started. At first, Alister could handle the absence, but now, possibilities filled his mind. What if George had gotten captured? What if the police had trailed him? What if he¡¯d ratted Alister out? The answers soon came as a silhouette emerged behind the treelines. Alister first jittered, hiding all but his head behind the couch, but soon sighed a breath of relief when he recognized the lone figure of George. He carried a heavy-duty backpack, seemingly filled to the brim, together with a shopping bag. Alister opened the door when his friend approached. ¡°Took you a while,¡± He said, staring at the cache of goodies. ¡°What took you so long?¡± ¡°Had some trouble with¡­ I¡¯ll tell you later.¡± George said, slightly huffing. ¡°Here¡¯s the stuff you asked for.¡± ¡°You managed to get the¡­¡± Alister rifled through the contents of the shopping bag. ¡°Laptop, yeah.¡± George said, opening his backpack. He flashed a fancy cardboard box. ¡°I found one for two hundred bucks on sale. We¡¯re not using this for much, so I picked it up.¡± George pulled out a second, smaller box, together with a sim card. ¡°This is one of those mobile wifi things - I got a prepaid sim card with it.¡± He said, neatly placing both on the table. ¡°It¡¯s got a hundred bucks worth of data in it, so it¡¯ll last you a while.¡± He grinned. ¡°Unless you spend it all on rubbing one out, of course.¡± ¡°Make sure to get me some japanese videos next time, then.¡± Alister laughed. ¡°A hundred bucks, huh? That¡¯s like, a dozen gigs, you think?¡± ¡°More than plenty enough to read the news and wikipedia.¡± George nodded. ¡°Otherwise, these are some stuff you¡¯ll probably want. A flashlight, some more food, a couple DVD¡¯s¡­¡± ¡°Seems like this cost you a pretty penny.¡± Alister whistled. ¡°Don¡¯t you even start, man.¡± George slumped to the ground. ¡°I¡¯m making you pay for this shit later with interest.¡± He lied down. ¡°I¡¯m taking a nap. This was a bitch to carry.¡± ¡°Go ahead,¡± Alister said, unearthing the laptop from its box. ¡°I¡¯ll figure this stuff out.¡±
Harry flicked the headlamps off as he drove into the driveway. The streets were growing dark, the lamp posts slowly turning on, one by one. Children cleared the playgrounds and teenagers roamed the neighbourhood. His pretty little house, the same as every other house in the suburb, emitted a warm, bright light through its windows. Harry stepped out of the car and moved towards the front door. He clicked his metal key right in and fiddled with the lock. He cursed when it finally clicked open, and he pushed the handle in. Immediately, a familiar face turned to him and smiled. ¡°Harry!¡± Margaret cheered, her hand moving in a circular motion with a ladle. ¡°Early from work? That¡¯s a surprise.¡± ¡°A good one, I hope.¡± Harry smiled. He fiddled with his shoes and cast them aside. ¡°Hey, darling, how was your day?¡± ¡°Good, as usual.¡± She said. ¡°I¡¯ve made your favorite, Harry. Beef stew!¡± ¡°Thanks, love.¡± Harry said, quickly moving towards her. He gave her a little peck. ¡°You know just what I want.¡± ¡°Of course I do.¡± She shoved him playfully. ¡°Why¡¯re you so early today, Harry? It¡¯s the first time since you got on that case.¡± Harry slumped on his couch. ¡°Decided to take it easy today.¡± He said. ¡°Can¡¯t take time off the weekends, I think. Figured I¡¯d spend some time with you today.¡± ¡°That¡¯s a shame.¡± She said. ¡°I was so looking forward to travelling somewhere. It¡¯s Richard¡¯s break, too, you know?¡± ¡°I¡¯m sorry, darling.¡± Harry said, flicking through the television channels. He stuck with the news. ¡°Work¡¯s work, you know how it is.¡± ¡°You¡¯re too diligent, Harry. I worry about you.¡± She sighed. ¡°Dinner¡¯s ready in five minutes.¡± Harry grunted a quick thanks and focused on the news. Apparently, a politician had been killed the town over. Shot, as it were. His secretary was blamed for the murder; she had been in an affair with this man, and had fallen pregnant. A tragic tale to say the least, especially for a man with such a bright future - James Folk, republican representative. He watched his political opponent - and now, victor of the elections, Larry Brown, give an impassioned speech about this or that. Harry felt his face twitch. He hated these politically motivated, insincere speeches; only a month ago, the two had been hounding each other, ready to slit each other¡¯s throats. ¡°The table¡¯s set, honey, come for dinner!¡± His wife yelled behind him, and Harry reluctantly lifted himself from his couch. He sat himself down and glanced at the table. ¡°Where¡¯s Richard?¡± Harry asked. ¡°He¡¯s hanging out with friends again,¡± His wife said. ¡°Out for dinner, he said.¡± ¡°That brat,¡± Harry began eating. ¡°I¡¯ll have a chat with him later.¡± ¡°Oh, I dunno about that.¡± Margaret smiled. ¡°I don¡¯t think you have any right to lecture him, mister.¡± ¡°What do you mean?¡± Harry looked at his wife. ¡°Oh, come on.¡± Margaret poked him. ¡°You used to be like that, too! Back in high school!¡± ¡°Was I?¡± Harry smiled. ¡°I don¡¯t remember.¡± ¡°I remember.¡± She said. ¡°We thought you¡¯d end up as some yankee, riding that bike of yours.¡± She reminisced fondly. ¡°Who¡¯d have thought you¡¯d end up as such a respectable, handsome man?¡± ¡°People grow up.¡± Harry said. ¡°And I can only hope Richard does, too.¡± ¡°I wouldn¡¯t worry so much.¡± Margaret said. ¡°He¡¯ll be fine, Harry. At least he¡¯s doing well at school.¡± Suddenly, Harry¡¯s phone started buzzing. Harry looked annoyed, but he pulled out his phone. ¡°Sorry, Margaret, I¡¯ve gotta get this.¡± He said, looking at the caller ID. ¡°Finish before the stew gets called.¡± She said. Harry quickly tapped the green button and excused himself. ¡°Lewis, this better be something important.¡± He moaned. ¡°What¡¯s up, Harry? Did I interrupt something important?¡± Lewis said. ¡°Are you in bed right now, perhaps? The wife next to you?¡± ¡°Shut up.¡± Harry said. ¡°Just get this over with, Lewis. I¡¯m trying to eat here.¡± ¡°Aight, aight, man.¡± Lewis said. ¡°Relax, I was just screwin¡¯ with ya.¡± ¡°What¡¯s this about, then?¡± ¡°Well, it¡¯s two things.¡± Lewis paused. ¡°First off, the boss wanted me to tell ya something.¡± ¡°What¡¯s up with him this time?¡± Harry groaned. ¡°Is his wife really bangin¡¯ some clerk?¡± ¡°No,¡± Lewis said. ¡°He¡¯s commending you on the job so far. He wants you off the case soon, though.¡± Harry blinked in surprise. ¡°Why?¡± ¡°Waste of talent, he said.¡± Lewis whistled. ¡°High praise from that geezer. Anyways, since the case is basically over, he wants to hand off the search for that Alister guy to some juniors.¡± ¡°I guess that makes¡­ sense.¡± Harry scratched his head. ¡°I¡¯ll have a chat with the boss tomorrow. What¡¯s the second thing?¡± ¡°We¡¯ve got a visitor today,¡± Lewis said. ¡°The Smith family wanted to thank us.¡± ¡°The who?¡± ¡°Smith family. ¡®Member the case I took off your hands?¡± Lewis asked. ¡°Them. The wife came by with a basket full of goodies, although I was distracted by two other baskets¡­¡± ¡°Lewis, I¡¯m arresting you someday.¡± Harry chuckled. ¡°That¡¯s good, I guess. What¡¯s in the basket?¡± ¡°You wouldn¡¯t believe this shit,¡± Lewis said. ¡°Journalists must be making some fat bank, man. I¡¯m considering changing my job. It¡¯s got, like, french wine and shit. She said she¡¯ll come by again tomorrow to hand you off some stuff personally.¡± Harry glanced over his shoulder. Behind him, he saw his wife give him the stink-eye. ¡°Looks like I¡¯ll have to get off.¡± He said.
George jolted awake, shuddering and glancing around the room wildly. He calmed himself and turned to Alister, who was typing away at his new laptop, seemingly too focused to notice. ¡°How late is it?¡± George asked, rubbing his eyes. Only the faint laptop screen lit the dark room. Alister only responded after a poke. ¡°Ten PM.¡± He said. ¡°You¡¯ve slept for a while now.¡± ¡°Oh, shit.¡± George sighed. ¡°I won¡¯t be able to get back home.¡± ¡°Just sleep here.¡± Alister said. ¡°We¡¯ve got two blankets.¡± ¡°Again, huh?¡± George smiled. ¡°You up to play some smash?¡± ¡°Maybe later.¡± Alister said. George peeked over his shoulder. ¡°What¡¯s this?¡± He asked. ¡°You found anything?¡± Alister turned to stare at him. ¡°Nothing.¡± He said quietly. ¡°I don¡¯t even know what I¡¯m looking for.¡± George took a step back. ¡°Jesus, dude.¡± He said. ¡°You look like shit. How long have you been awake?¡± Alister yawned. ¡°Uh, like, three fourths of a day?¡± He said. ¡°I didn¡¯t sleep much yesterday.¡± ¡°You¡¯ve gotta get some rest, man.¡± George said, shutting the laptop down. ¡°You¡¯re getting too stressed out.¡± ¡°You might be right.¡± Alister yawned again and stretched out. ¡°I¡¯m¡­ Not feeling too good.¡± ¡°Guess I¡¯ll play smash alone, then.¡± He said, picking up a controller. ¡°You get some sleep, dude.¡± ¡°Sure will.¡± Alister said, crawling into a blanket on the couch. ¡°Good night.¡± ¡°Good night.¡± George said. Connection A dim light shone through the penny-wide gap in the blinds. The boss held two greasy fingers out, holding the two shutters open. He peered into the outside. The room smelled like cigars and whiskey; the chief always had a taste for the exquisite, the dramatic. Harry disliked all the theatricts. It was a waste of resources. Resources, that could be spent on doing what they needed to do. ¡°I thought I¡¯ve made myself clear, Harry.¡± The chief said, turning to match his gaze. ¡°You aren¡¯t needed to catch the fugitive. We¡¯re already working with officers all across the nation. He¡¯s as good as caught.¡± Harry stifled a scowl. ¡°As I¡¯ve said, chief-¡± He glared. The boss looked away. ¡°I¡¯ve been thinkin¡¯ something was fishy, you know? I haven¡¯t caught the suspect yet, and that means the case ain¡¯t over either.¡± ¡°Again with your gut, Harry-¡± The boss started to sit on his fancy leather chair. ¡°Hasn¡¯t been wrong so far, chief.¡± Harry said. He didn¡¯t hate the man, but he sure was a pain to deal with. ¡°Just give me some time, will ya?¡± The boss stared, his expression telling that he regarded Harry the same way. ¡°Look, Harry.¡± He said. ¡°The higher-ups want us to be operating more ¡®efficiently¡¯, and that means we can¡¯t bother to waste¡­ Resources.¡± A worried tone slipped into his words. ¡°I¡¯m not askin¡¯ for much, chief.¡± Harry said, standing his ground. ¡°Just a little more time.¡± The boss sighed. He pulled out a cigar and snipped its tip. ¡°Alright, Harry.¡± He said. ¡°I¡¯m giving you a week. I expect some results by the end of it.¡± He lit the cigar. ¡°I¡¯ve a call to make, Harry. Is this over?¡± Harry turned away before his frown could show. ¡°Have a nice day, chief.¡± He blurted out. Shutting the door behind him, Harry kicked the opposite wall. Dozens of officers, detectives, and clerks face his way, recognized the door, and gave him an understanding smile. Harry began walking away, his back hunched and both hands slipped into his jacket. It was always higher-ups this, higher-ups that. Always getting into the officer¡¯s way. Harry gave the receptionist a greeting before he exited the building. His hand against the door¡¯s handle, a woman walked up to him, and patted his shoulder for attention. The woman was dressed in full-blacks, from top to bottom. In her hands held was a basket of goods. Her hazel eyes looked sad, blood-shot and weary, but a small determination shining through. ¡°Excuse me,¡± she pulled on Harry¡¯s jacket. ¡°You¡¯re Harry Jackson, the detective, correct?¡± Harry turned around and gave a surprised, but welcoming, smile. ¡°Uh, yes.¡± He said. ¡°That would be me.¡± He had a voice for working with civvies - including his wife. The costs of working as a professional. ¡°May I have a moment of your time?¡± She asked, her hands gathered together neatly. ¡°If you¡¯re not too busy, of course.¡± Harry lifted his hand from the handle. ¡°I¡¯ve got some time right now.¡± He said. ¡°What¡¯s this about?¡± The woman led him to a nearby set of chairs. A couple of his workmates sniggered. Assholes. ¡°I heard you were the detective responsible for the case of¡­¡± She gulped. ¡°My husband¡¯s murder.¡± Harry stared back blankly, but realization dawned. ¡°Oh, you must be Mrs. Palmer then?¡± He said. ¡°I used to be. I believe we¡¯ve met before.¡± Mrs. Palmer nodded. ¡°Yes, it was during the interview.¡± She said, nearly reaching for a handkerchief, but resolutely stopping her shaking herself. ¡°I wanted to thank you, now that the verdict¡¯s been called.¡± Harry tipped his hat. ¡°No problem, ma¡¯am.¡± He said. ¡°It¡¯s just what we do.¡± She handed a basket over to him. ¡°Here¡¯s some goodies we have left at home¡­¡± She said. ¡°Please take it¡­ It¡¯s a token of my appreciation. Our appreciation. The kids¡­¡± ¡°It¡¯s really not necessary.¡± Harry said, but accepted the basket. ¡°I understand it must be a very hard time for you, Mrs. Palmer.¡± He looked into her teary eyes. ¡°If there¡¯s anything we can do¡­¡± ¡°It¡¯s fine.¡± Shs coughed. ¡°We¡¯re¡­ We¡¯re over it, now. Just some lingering regrets, is all.¡± She looked forlorn at the ceiling. ¡°He¡¯s at a better place now, I hope. If we¡¯d only listened¡­¡± Harry¡¯s ears turned up. ¡°I¡¯m sorry to inquire, Mrs. Palmer¡­¡± He said. ¡°But listened to what?¡± ¡°His warning.¡± She wiped a single tear off her rosy cheek. ¡°And I called him paranoid. Oh, Arnold¡­¡± ¡°...A warning?¡± Harry instinctively reached for his pen. ¡°Did you mention that during the investigation?¡± ¡°I did.¡± She nodded. ¡°Not to you, though. We only remembered later - it was a bit of an offhand remark. I¡¯d called in to the office - I don¡¯t quite recall who it was¡­¡± Harry smelled something big. His heart beat faster. ¡°And the warning was about¡­¡± Mrs. Palmer looked away. ¡°He said he was scared he might be killed.¡± She said. ¡°I figured he was being dramatic - journalists tend to be like that, and he¡¯d said this a couple times before¡­¡± Harry told himself not to get too excited. ¡°Did he mention what that was in regards to?¡± ¡°No, not really.¡± She said. ¡°Probably in regards to his research¡­ He was so excited to get an article in the papers, too¡­¡± ¡°I see.¡± Harry said blankly. ¡°That¡¯s very interesting to know.¡± He slipped his pen back into his pocket. ¡°Mrs. Palmer,¡± Harry stood. ¡°Yes?¡± She looked up. ¡°If you remember anything like that¡­¡± Harry said, fumbling in his pockets. ¡°Please contact me here.¡± He passed her a business card. ¡°Thank you very much for the basket.¡± She shook her head. ¡°No, thank you.¡± She said. ¡°I think I¡¯ll go home and rest now.¡± ¡°Please, do.¡± Harry said, opening the door for her. ¡°Shall I drive you?¡± ¡°No,¡± she said. ¡°I¡¯ve got to get used to doing things alone. My car¡¯s right here. Thanks.¡± Harry watched wordlessly as she stepped into her car - suitably black - and waved when she drove off, the car disappearing amongst the morning traffic. He headed straight back into the office with a curious expression.
A crack and a blow awoke Alister. Alister¡¯s head spun. His vision was blurred; a light shimmered right in front of him, a bright blue glow of a screen. Covering it was a shadowy figure, almost nightmarish from the limited field of view. His mind wasn¡¯t working properly; he wanted to scream and shout, but something stopped him from doing so. A power compelled, no, convinced him to keep tapping his fingers. His vision shook alongside his entire body. Two hands clutched his arms and shoved him aside, taking him away from the monitor. His fingers continued tapping away at nothing. He didn¡¯t recognize any shapes in the darkness. Nothing seemed to make sense; in fact, he didn¡¯t feel quite conscious, like looking back at a hazy dream. A shout alerted his other senses, forcing his body fully awake. ¡°Alister!¡± Someone yelled right into his ear. ¡°Wake up!¡± He continued shaking Alister like crazy. Alister¡¯s attention snapped back into focus. Once again did he notice shapes, formes and figures. Ahead of him sat his friend, George, his face lit partially by the dim light of the laptop. Feeling sick, Alister grabbed George¡¯s hand, and tapped it.Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings. ¡°Wait-¡± Alister said. ¡°Stop!¡± George stopped his movements and studied Alister¡¯s face. ¡°You awake?¡± He asked. ¡°You¡¯re awake, right?¡± He asked, looking concerned. ¡°Yeah, yeah, of course!¡± Alister yelled, pushing him away. ¡°The hell do you mean? What¡¯s going on?¡± He asked, his voice cracking towards the end. George sighed, and shot him a concerned frown. ¡°You¡­¡± He said, looking back at the laptop. ¡°You were¡­ Sleepwalking, I think.¡± ¡°Sleepwalking?¡± Alister asked. ¡°What the fuck are you talking about?¡± He asked. He folded himself in his blankets. ¡°I¡­ I was playing some games.¡± He said. ¡°Then I saw you fumbling with the laptop.¡± He pointed at the brightly-lit screen. ¡°I did not.¡± Alister looked uncertain. ¡°Yeah, you were.¡± He said. ¡°I asked you what you were doing, but your eyes were like¡­ Half-closed. You didn¡¯t answer.¡± Alister¡¯s fingers felt a little warmer than the rest of his body. ¡°What¡¯re you saying?¡± ¡°You were typing something on a document.¡± George held up the laptop. ¡°I tried waking you up, but you wouldn¡¯t respond, so¡­¡± ¡°You shook me awake?¡± Alister asked. ¡°Yeah.¡± The two stared at each other in an uncomfortable silence, their eyes slowing turning to look at the laptop¡¯s screen. Alister slowly picked up the laptop and began reading. George sat next to him, intently burning the contents into his eyes. A single word document was opened. Its name : ¡®Manifesto¡¯. Sprawled were dozens of lines, all perfectly punctuated and capitalized, flawlessly written; the work of an alert man. A man focused on an objective. The objective to deliver a message. A message of hatred. A hatred of¡­ The republican party and Brian Fox. Alister recognized those lines. Words of hatred, vulgarity, and pain. Words that were never his. Glimmering on the screen were the same lines that broadcast across the news. ¡°Fuck the Republican Party. Fuck the capitalist pigs¡­¡± ¡°Fuck you, Brian Fox¡­ Somebody must do it...¡± Alister stared, awestruck at this discovery. Wordlessly, his mouth flapped, a pained moan and whimper emanating from his dry throat. His eyes focused on a single point, unable to take anything in. They burned from overexposure, having forgotten to blink. George finally broke the ice. ¡°You¡­¡± He paused. ¡°You wrote this.¡± Alister finally blinked and gulped. ¡°Did¡­ I?¡± He asked, his head spinning to find an answer. The two fell silent again. ¡°You were¡­ Sleepwalking.¡± George said again. ¡°You weren¡¯t awake, were you?¡± ¡°I don¡¯t remember anything.¡± Alister nodded. ¡°Almost like¡­¡± ¡°Like with the murder?¡± George asked, rubbing his chin. ¡°Damn it, why didn¡¯t we consider this?¡± ¡°What?¡± Alister asked. ¡°What do you remember about the murder?¡± George said. ¡°You¡­ Said you were holding the knife, right? What was it like?¡± Alister looked stupefied. He wanted to let George know how much of an idiot he was being, but he stopped and considered. ¡°It was like waking up.¡± He said. ¡°Like that time you poured the bucket of water over my head¡­ Snapping awake.¡± ¡°And you don¡¯t remember anything?¡± George¡¯s curious gaze made Alister feel uncomfortable. ¡°Yeah. Nothing.¡± He said. ¡°I kinda remember¡­ Like something bumped against me, right before I fell asleep on that bench. Something was off¡­ But nothing else.¡± George stood up, a mysterious half-grin, half-frown painted on his face. ¡°I have an idea.¡± ¡°What would that be?¡± Alister asked. ¡°Don¡¯t even start with this sleepwalking nonsense¡­¡± ¡°Yeah, that¡¯s probably not it.¡± George admitted. ¡°I have an even crazier idea.¡± ¡°What?¡± George stared right into Alister¡¯s eyes. ¡°You were brainwashed.¡± Alister nervously chuckled. ¡°You¡­¡± He stopped. ¡°You¡¯re joking, right?¡± ¡°No.¡± He was serious. Alister could tell. ¡°Are you-¡± Alister angrily motioned. ¡°Are you insane?¡± ¡°Yeah, well, maybe,¡± George said sagely. ¡°Maybe the world¡¯s gone insane. I dunno.¡± ¡°Brainwashed?¡± Alister asked again. ¡°What do you think this is? A scifi novel? Wanna call Yor?¡± ¡°Or hypnotized.¡± George said. Alister¡¯s mouth hung open. ¡°You¡¯re fucking with me.¡± ¡°No, that¡¯s just it!¡± George said, shaking Alister. ¡°This isn¡¯t a joke, Alister.¡± Alister slapped his wrist away. ¡°Sure fucking sounds like one.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t you remember? We read about that whole MKUltra shit before.¡± George said. ¡°That was real shit, Alister. Hypnosis. It¡¯s real!¡± ¡°You¡¯re telling me I got¡­ What, brain-scrambled?¡± Alister covered himself more inside the blanket. ¡°By who?¡± ¡°That¡¯s who we have to find.¡± George cracked his knuckles. ¡°We beat the asshole and he¡¯ll spill the beans. That¡¯ll prove you¡¯re innocent!¡± ¡°You¡¯re serious, right?¡± Alister frowned. ¡°You really think¡­ I was hypnotized?¡± Alister felt disembodied. Like his own limbs wouldn¡¯t follow direction; like wading through water. ¡°I mean, what else could it be?¡± George asked. ¡°Or did you develop a secret sleepwalking habit or something? Are you Dr. Hyde?¡± Alister gave an uneasy smile. ¡°I mean¡­¡± He gulped. ¡°I dunno. That sounds insane.¡± George pointed at the screen. ¡°This,¡± he said, furiously tapping at the screen. ¡°Is insane.¡± Alister stared wistfully at the screen, uncomfortably shifting around in his warm wrapping. Finally, he spoke. ¡°Hypnosis.¡± He said. ¡°I guess that could explain what¡¯s going on.¡± ¡°We don¡¯t have much else to go by, anyways.¡± George said. ¡°Cheer up, man.¡± He slapped Alister¡¯s back. ¡°We could be onto something here.¡± He smiled. ¡°I guess so.¡± Alister smiled back. ¡°Can I go back to sleep now?¡±
Harry leaned back in his office chair, examining the reports laid out in front of him. A television rumbled in the background, the volume too low to disturb him. It broadcasted the election results for the local mayorship. A couple colleagues watched the screen intently. The reports detailed the case of Arnold Palmer, the victim of a shooting. It happened a month ago at a deserted alleyway. A seemingly random passerby - Ron Smith - shot him at point-blank range, unloading his entire magazine within seconds. The sound attracted attention, and the suspect was apprehended quickly. What made the investigation difficult was the suspect¡¯s adamant claim that he did not remember committing the crime. In fact, he said that he didn¡¯t remember the past eight to ten hours, and that he¡¯d fallen asleep around then. But evidence pointed towards a premeditated murder. The lawyers tried to get him out on an insanity clause, but that failed when their defendant eventually caved after a session with a therapist. He had quite a bit to say. According to the shooter, Arnold Palmer was less than honest, and his articles had slandered innocent people, endangering livelihoods. He had to be taken care of. Arnold had apparently written a hit piece on the man¡¯s working place, which got him fired. His ex-boss testified that the shooter was fired because of work quotas. All in all, a rather simple case, from top to bottom. Crazy people feeling marginalized was hardly a story to write home about. Harry had dealt with enough crazies to keep composure for the most part, although the false amnesia irked him. Now, he read through the files again. None of them mentioned what Mrs. Palmer had noted; Arnold¡¯s apparently precognition. It could¡¯ve been a simple mistake, but then again, it was quite a striking line for a murder victim to make. Harry recalled that Arnold had been working on an investigation at the time. Mrs. Palmer had mentioned it. According to his profile, Arnold worked freelance, but currently held a contract with a local newspaper company, the Fairview Weekly. A small publishing company with no noteworthy achievements. The results rolled in and the winning candidate hopped on to the stage, waving her hand with a gentle, warm smile broadly scrawled onto her face. Sophia Stone looked happy, her bright-red lips accentuating her red hair. She grabbed the microphone with confidence. Harry looked away. Arnold¡¯s most recent article, according to the web archives, was a criticism of a well-known non-profit organization, the Lincoln-Brown foundation. They were well-known across the country, and many politicians supported it. Their goal was to provide better healthcare for the country and improve living conditions for the poor. Generally speaking - not that Harry knew much about this - the Lincoln-Brown foundation was praised amongst critics and supporters alike. But Arnold¡¯s piece was anything but appreciative of their efforts. It detailed potential cases of fraud, tax evasion, and most importantly, patient abuse. Hospitals supported by the Lincoln-Brown foundation were found nationwide, and many of them had reports of malpractice and mistreatment. A little above the national average, according to Arnold Palmer. The article went mostly unnoticed. Arnold Palmer had continued working on the case. Had continued. He was dead now. Harry kicked back, separating himself from his work. At least it was an amusing dive - he loved the investigation, the search for the truth, much to the displeasure of his wife. But this had no relation to the current case. Not that he¡¯d expected much. Small details just irked him. Murders in an alleyway. Prominent figures. But there was no connection between the two. Many murders, unfortunately, occurred at this very moment. Many of those in alleyways. There was a rise in, ¡®political assassinations¡¯, as the media loved to call it, recently. A hundred different politicians and psychiatrists came to speak of a generational shift or whatever bullshit that basically amounted to saying, ¡®people are pissed¡¯. A few men in the room clapped as her speech winded down. Harry paid attention again. She shook hands with famous members of the audience - a couple wannabe celebs for the most part. What caught his attention was the person holding a giant check. ¡°...And I¡¯d love to thank these people¡­¡± Sophia shouted, her voice hoarse from the day¡¯s events. ¡°From the Lincoln-Brown foundation!¡± She smiled, and held their hands up. ¡°They¡¯ve decided to donate a million dollars to our local hospitals as a sign of their generosity!¡± Harry stood up, much to the surprise of his colleagues. He slammed his palms on the table. ¡°They¡¯ve supported me so much throughout this campaign!¡± She said, the roused cheers almost drowning her out. ¡°Thank you, thank you, thank you!¡± A connection. Investigation An old jeep drove down the street. Rustling up and down the speed humps, the rusty hull rattled. Small bits of brown showed amongst the dark green of the chipped paint. The sun reflected off the windshield high up in the noon sky. George tapped nervously on his steering wheel, staring at each and every corner with an alarmed look. His hand gripped his manual stick tightly, clunking it here and there whenever necessary. He glimpsed at a small piece of paper rustling on the passenger¡¯s seat - an address was written on top, read as ¡®Anvil Street 56¡¯. Hypnosis. Brainwashing. Mind-control; all words that garnished the memories of his childhood. Alister and he often watched crappy old spy movies and sci fi flicks. A plot element so common it might as well have been called a genre convention. He remembered talking about the topic, both as bright-eyed kids, and as hot-blooded teenagers. In fiction and fantasy, it was all well and good. In real life? A delusion, most people would say. He¡¯d watched those History Channel documentaries before. Nutty people, talking about aliens and the government manipulating their minds. All cooks. Easy to identify. They always wore that crazy hippie outfit. Birds in a feather. Sometimes, truth was stranger than fiction. They¡¯d spent the entire morning looking up terms like brainwashing, mind-control, and the like. All George had found were shitty movie and videogame plots. Alister had looked deeper with that secret martial art, the ¡®google-fu¡¯, but only discovered obscure japanese comics. He looked very ashamed at that, to George¡¯s confusion. They did uncover a small hint, however. Alister had already given up. He was preoccupied with watching television while George scrolled through pages and pages of google. A link caught his eye. A single comment was highlighted for a newspaper - The Fairview Daily. The sister newsletter to The Fairview Weekly, a paper George had a subscription for. It details gossip and news from the local community. In a little segment about local wicca worship and the growth of satanism, somebody had left behind something very interesting. A three-year-old comment by a now deleted username. ¡°These guys are dangerous! Don¡¯t trust their lies! They brainwashed my sister!¡± It was in reference to the group mentioned in the paper. A new-age religious movement, the Fellowship of the Five Fingers. George¡¯s involvement with such groups lasted exactly ten minutes, starting when his college date had asked: ¡°So, do you believe in demons?¡± A shame, since she was so pretty and all. The pentagram carved in her palm just wasn¡¯t George¡¯s thing. The Fellowship of the Five Fingers, or the ¡°FFF¡±, as the article abbreviated, was a new-age religious movement founded by Ronda Rousey, a mid-80¡¯s psychic. From what little information could be found online, it started as an offshoot of LaVeyan Satanism, whatever that meant. College groupies made up the bulk of the community. Five years ago, they¡¯d started a small commune here. When George turned the final corner, he could make out the sign in the distance. The commune looked ordinary, the three-stories wooden condo not showing any outwards signs of occult activity, save for their logo flying outside. George felt an ominous presence from that structure, a building he¡¯d pass by usually without any suspicion. His bias, together with the overtly sanitary color scheme of white and yellow, somehow gave him the chills. He parked a block away for safety¡¯s sake. Crazies knowing your license plate was something he wanted to avoid - his bumper had suffered enough the last time. Walking towards the compound, he stared at the flag waving outside. A green flag with a yellow pentacle, an eye painted in the middle. A striking pink made up the eye¡¯s sclera, while a dark blotch of black filled the iris. Alister stayed at base. As a fugitive, he couldn¡¯t move so freely. Besides, George didn¡¯t want Alister to come close to a bunch of crazies that might be keeping demons chained up in a sex dungeon downstairs, for all he knew. It would¡¯ve been monumentally stupid, even for him, to bring Alister to the group that might be responsible for the current situation. Monumentally stupid, incidentally, was also what Alister had called this operation. ¡°What¡¯re you going to do, knock on the door and ask them if they murder puppies?¡± George knocked on the door. He cracked his knuckles in preparation. It didn¡¯t take long for the wooden door to creak open. Behind it stood a smiling woman of small stature. A curious glance graced her face as she swung the small gap wide open. ¡°Hello?¡± she asked, scanning George from top-to-bottom. ¡°Can I help you?¡± Feeling a little ashamed, George relaxed his hands. ¡°Uh, yes.¡± He said. ¡°This is the compound for the¡­ Fellowship of the Five Fingers, right?¡± He asked. The woman bent her knees. Her long white skirt - the sundress - flapped up slightly. ¡°The Fellowship welcomes you.¡± She said. George turned red. He stood for a moment, finding the right words to say. ¡°I just¡­¡± He paused. ¡°I wanted to ask some questions.¡± The woman beckoned him in, her hand guiding him inwards. ¡°Of course,¡± she said. ¡°Come in.¡± George hesitated. The doorframe looked like a jaw to him - when the door closed, he¡¯d be shut inside. With those people. He gulped, and stepped forth. Overthinking was never his suit. ¡°Thanks.¡± He said awkwardly. She led him into a couch. So far, George didn¡¯t see any signs of whips, chains, and electric chairs, which was probably a good sign. The interior was simple - a couch, a television, a single coffee table. Like a receptionist¡¯s room. Now with 100% less stuff. He flinched when a tea set plopped on the table. The woman served him a drink. George covertly sniffed the beverage for a moment before sipping. The woman laughed, and as a sign of good faith, chugged the entire hot broth down at once. ¡°Sorry.¡± George looked down. ¡°Uh, I just thought¡­¡± ¡°Don¡¯t worry.¡± She waved. ¡°People usually do that. They don¡¯t trust small little movements like us.¡± ¡°Yeah, still,¡± George said. ¡°It ain¡¯t nice, I¡¯m sure. The name¡¯s George by the way.¡± ¡°I¡¯m¡­ Henrietta.¡± She said, pausing for a second. ¡°But the Fellowship calls me Thalia. Like the muse.¡± George looked blankly. ¡°What¡¯s a muse?¡± He shook his head. ¡°Anyways, that¡¯s not why I¡¯m here.¡± Henrietta giggled. ¡°Yeah, I understand.¡± She said. ¡°You said you have questions?¡± George looked into his tea. ¡°Well¡­¡± He said. ¡°I just wanted to know more about you guys and your¡­ Compound you have here.¡± ¡°Are you interested in joining?¡± Henrietta asked. She leaned back. Her dress emphasized her form. ¡°No.¡± George shook his head vigorously, stopping his eyes from wandering. ¡°I just wanted to know more. For, uh, a friend.¡± ¡°What specifically?¡± She asked. ¡°What does your friend want to know?¡± She gave a knowing grin. ¡°What¡¯re you guys up to, here?¡± George asked. ¡°Like, what do you, do¡­¡± He trailed off lamely. Henrietta pointed at herself. ¡°We¡¯re here to serve.¡± She said. ¡°People think we¡¯re some kind of cult crazies because of our origins, but we¡¯re really just here to help out the community.¡± ¡°What kind of work?¡± George asked. ¡°Homeless shelters and soup kitchens, mostly.¡± Henrietta poured herself another cup. ¡°You can ask them if you want. The city council¡¯s really happy with our performance.¡± She smiled. The fragrance of lavender stung his nose. ¡°Oh,¡± George said. ¡°I see.¡± ¡°Yes. We¡¯ve had many former¡­¡± She tapped her fingers. ¡°Clients come and work for us, too.¡± ¡°Is that so?¡± George shifted in his seat uncomfortably.Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more. ¡°Yes.¡± Henrietta nodded. ¡°As you can tell, we¡¯re very dedicated at what we do.¡± ¡°Uh, I see you¡¯re very enthusiastic.¡± George replied. She smiled. ¡°We¡¯ve been working on providing therapy recently,¡± she said, radiating confidence. ¡°If you¡¯d like, you could join and help us out, you know?¡± Suddenly, her finger twitched, the cup of rapidly cooling tea spilling all over her. ¡°Oh!¡± She yelled. George blushed and jolted straight up. ¡°Are you alright?¡± He asked, trying his best not to peek. ¡°I¡¯m fine.¡± She smiled playfully. ¡°Just have to take this off-¡± She tugged on George¡¯s arm. ¡°Why don¡¯t you come over and help?¡± She giggled, motioning towards a nearby door. The toilet. George shook her off and stumbled, falling ass-first forwards. He scrambled up and muttered: ¡°I¡¯m sorry. I have to go.¡± He stood up and dashed towards the door opposite to him. It was not the door he came through. Behind that door, the walls were painted eggshell-white. Two wooden furnitures stood in that room; a chair and a table. On the chair sat a skinny man staring blankly forward. He did not even twitch when George cracked the door wide open. He showed no signs of any reaction, instead simply staring ahead of him, his mouth mumbling something without sound. On the table, a single burnt candle stood. In a daze, George could not move a single muscle. When he regained control, he stepped forward, trying to get the man¡¯s attention. Something pulled at his shirt from behind. Henrietta¡¯s palm firmly gripped his back and yanked with all the force allowed in such a small frame. ¡°Excuse me.¡± She said coldly. ¡°You said you have to go now, right?¡± A panicked disdain filled her eyes. She pushed him towards the exit. ¡°Wait a second,¡± George said. But he saw no way to advance without injuring the woman in front of him. ¡°Let me just talk to him-¡± ¡°You have to go.¡± Henrietta grimaced. They stood by the front door. ¡°Who is that?¡± George yelled. He looked towards that room as she physically pushed him out. ¡°Hello? Hello!¡± Henrietta slammed the door at his face. It clunked against his nose, and George fell backwards. Rubbing his nose, he stood up, and walked towards the window. Unlike before, all the blinds were drawn shut, not a single silhouette visible behind.
Lewis tapped Harry¡¯s back roughly. ¡°Hey, you there?¡± Lewis asked, giving his chair a soft kick. ¡°Harry?¡± Harry¡¯s head jumped up, crashing against Lewis¡¯s chin. He rubbed the top of his head and moaned. ¡°What the hell?¡± He shouted, looking frantically about. ¡°I¡¯d like to ask you that question, asshole!¡± Lewis yelled with indignation. ¡°Can¡¯t believe I was worried for once. The hell, Harry?¡± ¡°Lewis?¡± Harry said. He rubbed his eyes. ¡°What do you want?¡± ¡°I was plannin¡¯ to ask you how you were doing, but¡­¡± He fake-cracked his knuckles. ¡°I¡¯ve seriously half a mind to kick your ass right now.¡± Harry chuckled. ¡°Good luck.¡± He said, yawning. ¡°Did I fall asleep?¡± ¡°Yeah, you did.¡± Lewis grinned. ¡°You drooled all over your papers, Harry. Had a nice nap, didya?¡± ¡°Ah, shit.¡± Harry wiped the wet spots with his shirt. ¡°I ain¡¯t living this down, am I?¡± ¡°No, you aren¡¯t.¡± Lewis flashed his smartphone. ¡°¡®Cause I¡¯ve taken pictures. How the mighty fall, eh, Mr. Ace Detective?¡± ¡°Shut up.¡± Harry punched him lightly. ¡°What¡¯s up?¡± Lewis grabbed a bundle of papers. ¡°Nothin¡¯,¡± he said. ¡°Just wonderin¡¯ what kept you up so long. Heard your fugitive search wasn¡¯t goin¡¯ so well.¡± ¡°Yeah, well, I¡¯ve had the juniors take care of that for me right now.¡± Harry sighed. ¡°I¡¯ve got an idea where the guy could be, though. Just have to get some facts straight.¡± Lewis flipped through the pages. ¡°That related to the George guy you told me about?¡± He asked. ¡°Harry, these papers have literally nothin¡¯ to do with your case.¡± He tilted his head. ¡°Yeah?¡± Harry said, looking down at his table in disappointment. ¡°I was thinking the same thing too.¡± ¡°Why¡¯re you readin¡¯ up on all this stuff, then?¡± Lewis rolled the stack into a club. ¡°The Lincoln-Brown foundation? You want a hospital named after you or what?¡± He laughed. Harry snatched the roll from Lewis¡¯ hands. ¡°Nothing close.¡± He scratched his head. ¡°I¡¯ve been just¡­ Look, you wanna indulge me on a tangent?¡± ¡°Is this goin¡¯ to be about your gut again, Harry?¡± Lewis asked, raising a brow. ¡°Yeah, well,¡± Harry replied. ¡°Fuck you, it is.¡± Lewis smirked. ¡°Knew it,¡± he said. ¡°Well, shoot the shit.¡± Harry fumbled with his pages. ¡°It¡¯s just¡­¡± He said. ¡°Coincidences, y¡¯know?¡± ¡°What¡¯d you mean?¡± ¡°Look at this.¡± Harry pointed at the case report for Arnold Palmer. ¡°This guy, killed by some dude. Wrote an article about corruption in the Lincoln-Brown foundation two weeks ago.¡± ¡°Right.¡± Lewis nodded. ¡°And then, this.¡± Harry brought forth a report on the current case. ¡°Brian Fox. Republican mayoral candidate.¡± ¡°What¡¯s the connection, Harry?¡± Lewis crossed his arms. ¡°It¡¯s this.¡± Harry pointed at the picture of the current mayor. ¡°Brian was going to win the election, wasn¡¯t he?¡± ¡°Yeah, and?¡± ¡°The chick that won?¡± Harry circled the man holding a check. ¡°Her campaign was sponsored by the Lincoln-Brown foundation.¡± Harry looked expectantly at Lewis with a grave expression. Lewis laughed. ¡°What, that¡¯s it?¡± Harry flicked his forehead. ¡°Thanks,¡± he said. ¡°Well, kinda. I mean¡­¡± ¡°What more, Aliens? Lizardmen? Gay frogs?¡± Lewis chuckled. ¡°I¡¯m dying to hear.¡± Harry shot him a stink-eye. ¡°James Folk, another republican.¡± He continued. ¡°About to win some position two towns over. Got shot.¡± He pulled up another news article. ¡°His enemy? Larry Brown, some dude with connections to the Lincoln-Brown foundation.¡± Lewis studied Harry¡¯s face for a moment. Seeing that it contained no traces of sarcasm, he sighed. ¡°Look, Harry, you¡¯re seriously overthinking this.¡± He laid both hands on Harry¡¯s shoulder. ¡°You should take a day off, y¡¯know? Spend some time with your kid or somethin¡¯.¡± ¡°This can¡¯t just all be a coincidence, can it?¡± Harry asked with uncertainty in his voice. ¡°Politicians and journos are always up to dirty shit.¡± Lewis frowned. ¡°Look, you give me five minutes on google. I¡¯ll find two or three more organizations they¡¯re all bound to. Y¡¯know what I mean?¡± ¡°I guess you¡¯re right.¡± Harry said, dropping powerlessly on his chair. ¡°Goddamnit. What a waste of time.¡± ¡°You¡¯re too focused on doin¡¯ your job well, Harry.¡± Lewis smirked. ¡°Gotta slack off sometimes like us losers, y¡¯know?¡± ¡°I¡¯d rather get shot than be like you.¡± Harry snorted. ¡°Thanks for the encouragement, though.¡± ¡°I swear, you¡¯re cheating on your wife with lady justice, y¡¯know?¡± Lewis slapped his own face. ¡°You¡¯re gonna die of overwork some day, Harry. How long have you been filing paperwork alone this week?¡± ¡°Don¡¯t have to answer that.¡± Harry yawned and stretched his limbs. ¡°Lemme go get myself a cup of joe.¡± He stood up. ¡°Grab me one too while you¡¯re there, y¡¯hear?¡± Lewis yelled as Harry walked towards the break room. The break room was nearly empty. Most officers had gone home for the day. Harry chucked a handful of change into the vending machine and tapped a couple of keys. He watched as a dark liquid filled the plastic cup on the bottom. Behind him, the door clunked open. In came Jordan Davis, his eyelids barely managing to stay afloat. He saluted when he saw Harry. ¡°Jordan,¡± Harry chuckled. ¡°You still in?¡± ¡°Yeah.¡± He yawned. ¡°Tons of paperwork to file. Remember the assholes from a couple days ago?¡± Harry scratched his chin. ¡°You mean the rednecks with the busses?¡± He removed his hot beverage from the vending machine. ¡°Yeah, those.¡± Jordan sighed. ¡°They filed a complaint, the bastards. I had to deal with that shit.¡± Harry pat him on the back. ¡°What for, Jordan?¡± ¡°I dunno, some bullshit about unlawful investigation or some shit-¡± Jordan said. ¡°What assholes. If it weren¡¯t for the damn paper-pushers, I¡¯d-¡± Jordan made a crude punching motion. Harry¡¯s ears perked up. ¡°What paper pushers?¡± He asked. Jordan grimaced. ¡°The higher-ups. Who else? The boss gave me shit about wasting people¡¯s times and all - the kissass really didn¡¯t want to piss the foundation off.¡± He spat on the ground. ¡°You mean¡­¡± Harry¡¯s gaze sharpened. ¡°The Lincoln-Brown foundation, were they?¡± ¡°Yeah.¡± Jordan nodded. ¡°The assholes. Don¡¯t give a damn they¡¯re doing all this charity shit.¡± ¡°You found out what the homeless thing was about?¡± Harry asked, inching closer. ¡°I dunno. Some stuff mission about helping out homeless in the state.¡± Jordan said, grabbing himself a cup of coffee. ¡°Didn¡¯t really look into it. Can¡¯t say I care.¡± ¡°Right.¡± Harry wistfully smiled. ¡°Well, have a good day then, Jordan.¡± Harry waved and shut the door behind him.
Alister slammed the table. The magazines stacked atop scattered on the floor. ¡°You did what?¡± Alister yelled, his eyes wide open. George picked his ear. ¡°Jesus, dude, you really don¡¯t have to shout,¡± he sighed. ¡°I just went over to check things out. Figured it was worth a shot.¡± Alister looked at him with doubt. ¡°Dude, how is that a good idea? What if they did something to you?¡± ¡°We got some more intel now, didn¡¯t we?¡± George said, looking away. ¡°You couldn¡¯t find shit on the internet, so this was our only option.¡± ¡°Yeah, but - ¡° Alister looked worried. ¡°You sure they didn¡¯t mix anything in your tea?¡± ¡°Did you grow a vagina while I was away?¡± George chuckled. Alister was not amused. ¡°Just a joke, man, calm down. I¡¯m fine. Really.¡± Alister looked as if he were ready to say something, but relaxed. ¡°I can¡¯t believe you sometimes, man.¡± He said. ¡°You¡¯re a real dumbass sometimes, you know that?¡± ¡°Yeah, well, at least I got shit done, right?¡± George grinned. ¡°Speaking of which,¡± Alister asked. ¡°Found anything interesting?¡± George scratched his head. ¡°Yeah - well, no.¡± He answered, looking disappointed. ¡°Well, I kinda found some weird lookin¡¯ dude in a creepy room, but - ¡° He paused. ¡°But?¡± ¡°I mean, that¡¯s the kinda shit cults do anyways, right?¡± George asked. ¡°Remember that crazy chick in our neighbourhood?¡± ¡°You mean the woman who got arrested for walking around naked?¡± Alister crossed his arms. ¡°With a pentagram on her belly.¡± George nodded. ¡°I remember your mom was really scared for a while - yeah, well, getting back to the point, it¡¯s probably nothing.¡± ¡°I see.¡± Alister said. ¡°Guess the hypnosis thing isn¡¯t going anywhere, huh?¡± ¡°I dunno, man.¡± George looked serious. ¡°Your sleepwalking thing¡­¡± ¡°But c¡¯mon, hypnosis?¡± Alister nervously laughed. ¡°We should keep checking,¡± George stated firmly. ¡°Just to be sure.¡± Search Fairview had a series of soup kitchens since the late 20th century. A series of localized recession led to a large deal of unemployment around the area, which many previous mayors tried to correct, to varying degrees of success. In any case, in the current growing economy, hunger and shelter was not a big issue amongst the community. Until recently. Harry stopped by the largest kitchen in the area, the Fairview Shelter. Around thirty people usually staffed the compound. They served around three hundred servings per day. This number tripled over the last two weeks; now, tents and shabby stalls were installed in front of the dilapidated old building. He stepped inside to find the tables positively packed and brimming. Harry quickly turned towards the counter, where a teenager scrubbed plastic silverware with fury. ¡°Hey, kid,¡± he asked, tapping the boy on the shoulder. ¡°Got a second?¡± The boy turned around with a displeased expression. ¡°What¡¯s the problem, again-¡± he paused, stared at Harry for a second, and hung his head in curiosity and shame. ¡°Uh, sorry, sir.¡± ¡°No problem.¡± Harry smiled, and gave him a pat on the back. ¡°Working hard, are you?¡± ¡°Yes, sir,¡± the boy glanced at Harry¡¯s police uniform, barely hidden under his large coat. ¡°How can I help you?¡± ¡°I need to talk to whoever¡¯s in charge here.¡± Harry said, looking around. ¡°Mind pointing them out for me, kid?¡± The boy bit his finger. ¡°I think that would be Mrs. Petrov over there,¡± he pointed at a woman twirling a ladle in an oversized pot. ¡°She¡¯s the one that orders us around, I mean, uh, tells us what to do¡­¡± The boy quickly hushed, glancing nervously at the stout figure. ¡°Thanks, kid.¡± Harry tipped his hat. ¡°No problem, sir.¡± The boy saluted and walked back into position. The woman - Mrs. Petrov - stood proudly, her shoulders raised. Her confident posture and footing told Harry enough about her position as head of the establishment. Powerful fingers gripped a wooden ladle tightly. Small pops and sizzled rung from the pot, small bits of potato mash and gruel flicking here and there. She turned to meet as Harry approached her. ¡°What¡¯s the trouble, officer?¡± She asked, her annoyed glance locked with Harry¡¯s eyes. ¡°No trouble, Mrs. Petrov.¡± Harry replied, greeting her with a handshake. ¡°I was just hoping you could help me out with some questions, if that would be alright with you.¡± She simmered the pot down, lowering the temperature. With a simple flick, she called an older woman over, who began transporting the heavy pot to a table. ¡°I suppose I¡¯ve got some time.¡± She said, an annoyed indifference clear in her voice. ¡°What¡¯s the gig, detective? Here to bother me with orders, too?¡± Harry¡¯s eyes lit up in surprise. ¡°How¡¯d you know I was a detective?¡± ¡°I¡¯ve seen that uniform plenty before.¡± She scoffed. ¡°Police officers wear a different color ¡®round here, don¡¯t they?¡± She led Harry towards an office, strutting in like she owned the place. ¡°Had one of you folks walk in here a day or two ago.¡± Mrs. Petrov pulled out a cigarette. ¡°What about?¡± Harry asked, offering a light. She lit the cigarette and started smoking. ¡°Came here to check out the place, he said.¡± She puffed a ring of smoke. ¡°Boss¡¯s orders, he mentioned. Didn¡¯t get his name.¡± She flicked the ashed away with practiced grace. ¡°Didn¡¯t bother, really, the boy didn¡¯t make much trouble.¡± ¡°I see.¡± Harry replied, mentally noting it down. ¡°You mentioned something about¡­ Bothering you?¡± He glanced at her expectantly. ¡°Some assholes walked in here, lookin¡¯ all fancy with their suits, wanted to talk to me about the way I run this place.¡± She smirked sourly. ¡°Chased those buggers out of here, the cockroaches. Can¡¯t stand bureaucrats telling me how to do my job.¡± She extinguished the cigarette on a plate. ¡°Didn¡¯t you come here for something, detective?¡± Harry frowned. ¡°I had some questions for you, Mrs. Petrov.¡± He said. ¡°You usually don¡¯t get as many visitors around here, don¡¯t you?¡± ¡°You mean the homeless folk? Yeah, we don¡¯t.¡± Mrs. Petrov sighed. ¡°Had to hire some kiddies on break ¡®cause we were short on hands.¡± ¡°How many of the newcomers are from around here?¡± Harry asked. ¡°Never seen most of em¡¯ around town.¡± She replied, pulling out another cigarette. ¡°Worked at most kitchens as a substitute before, too. Never seen em¡¯ there either. Not a surprise, really.¡± ¡°What do you mean?¡± ¡°Thought you coppers were onto this.¡± Mrs. Petrov spat on the plate. ¡°Some guys in suits led most of em¡¯ here, I recall. Same assholes who got a piece of my mind.¡± ¡°The men in suits?¡± Harry asked. ¡°Do you know who they are?¡± Mrs. Petrov shook her head. ¡°No idea.¡± She said. ¡°That¡¯s the weirdest part. I tried talkin¡¯ to the newcomers - homeless folk tend to be the decent, talkative sort - but they won¡¯t spit a word of who brought em¡¯ here and why.¡± ¡°I see.¡± Harry sighed. ¡°Do you have any idea who I could talk to if I wanted to know more about them?¡± Mrs. Petrov silently inhaled her cigarette for a moment. ¡°I guess you could try Paul.¡± She said, with smoke rising from her lips. ¡°He¡¯s the old guy with a red-black checkered shirt. You¡¯ll notice him right away.¡± ¡°What¡¯s special about this¡­ Paul?¡± Harry asked, ingraining his description in his mind. ¡°The other folks call ¡®em Crazy Paul.¡± She answered. ¡°Really irritable. The old guy¡¯s been spoutin¡¯ complaints all day long since he came. I¡¯m sure you could bribe him.¡± ¡°Thank you, Mrs. Petrov.¡± Harry said, reaching out for a handshake again. ¡°You¡¯ve been a great help.¡± ¡°Don¡¯t bother thankin¡¯ me.¡± She sighed. ¡°I ain¡¯t done nothing for you. Just get this trouble done and over with, y¡¯hear? I¡¯m tired of working overtime and getting played by some blue-suit fucks.¡± Harry opened the door and held it out for Mrs. Petrov. He gave her a final thanks and started towards the exit with a calm pace. Outside, a commotion brewed, an old man stomping around with a broken bottle in hand. He yelled incoherently at another dirty man. Harry stepped forwards and gripped the crazy¡¯s outstretched arm tightly. The old man turned towards him and scrunched his mouth, aiming for a spit. Harry swiveled his head on time. The ball of saliva shot right past him. Harry twisted the old man¡¯s arm, the bottle falling to the ground, and the old-timer with it. ¡°Easy, easy.¡± Harry said. ¡°You better not move.¡± He held the twisted arm against the man¡¯s back. ¡°I¡¯m with the police, y¡¯hear?¡± ¡°My fackin¡¯ luck.¡± The old man spat on the ground. ¡°Piece of shit cop showin¡¯ up like the fuckin¡¯ dogs they are. Can smell trouble, can ya, fuckin¡¯ pig? Bark for me, you dog!¡± Harry kicked the man in the shin, earing himself a wince. He turned to the forming crowd. ¡°Anyone know who this man is?¡± He asked. ¡°I need someone to testify at the station.¡± Amongst the murmurs, Mrs. Petrov showed herself again. She coughed, silencing the crowd. ¡°That¡¯s the Paul I was talkin¡¯ about.¡± She said, pointing at his face. ¡°You really need someone down at the station, detective?¡± Harry studied her impatient expression and smirked. ¡°I¡¯ll just take your statement by call.¡± He said, cuffing the old man against his wishes. ¡°Let me the fuck go!¡± The old man chattered against the boardwalk. He convulsed when Harry forcefully pulled him up, garbling his words as he puked on the sidewalk. ¡°-fuckin¡¯ piece of shit luck¡­¡± ¡°¡®Aight, in you go.¡± Harry said, nearly kicking the old man into the back seat of his car. He locked his hands with a second cuff against the passenger''s seat headrest. Before Harry could step inside himself, his phone started vibrating. Annoyed, Harry clicked the telephone on. ¡°Hey, Harry.¡± A familiar voice crackled live. ¡°It¡¯s me, Jenkins.¡±Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site. ¡°What¡¯s up?¡± Harry asked. ¡°Need something?¡± Jenkins took a moment to reply. ¡°We found something in regards to our little fugitive.¡± He said. ¡°You might want to check it out, Harry. I¡¯ll send you the details by text.¡±
¡°Is that the footage from last evening?¡± Alister asked, rubbing his eyes and yawning. A usb cable connected George¡¯s phone to the laptop. On the screen, a dark footage played; small movements were visible, together with the ambient noise of the forest outside. A figure rolled around on the couch. George studied the video playing at quadruple speed. ¡°Yeah.¡± George said, solemnly staring at the timecode. Suddenly, the figure moved; dragging itself out of the couch, it shuffled around the room, crawling along the floor, tapping around. Eventually it raised itself when its hand brushed against the plastic top of the laptop. ¡°Holy shit.¡± Alister murmured. The figure in the video - Alister - was now illuminated by the bright blue light of the laptop screen. He navigated to a certain file with a couple of clicks and typed multiple sentences, before closing the laptop down and moving back to the couch. The two sat in silence, pondering over the video. George broke the quiet. ¡°I moved the laptop before I left, by the way.¡± He said. ¡°You still found it somehow. I was wondering how your sleepwalking thing worked, with you changing environments after all.¡± ¡°So, what, I¡¯m doing it¡­ Consciously?¡± Alister asked, feeling the goosebumps rising. ¡°But that¡¯s impossible. I don¡¯t remember¡­¡± George shook his head. ¡°Y¡¯see, that¡¯s why I mentioned hypnosis, right?¡± He said. ¡°It¡¯s not like you¡¯re actually asleep, and you¡¯re going through the motions. You must be awake, in a way.¡± ¡°What the fuck?¡± Alister yelled, slumping down powerlessly. ¡°And, what, I¡¯ve been doing this the whole time? For years?¡± ¡°Well, the report didn¡¯t mention how old the document was, did they?¡± George said. ¡°But yeah, you could¡¯ve been.¡± ¡°How¡¯re we going to get to the bottom of this?¡± Alister asked, crawling up in a ball. ¡°As I said, we should continue looking into the hypnosis thing, right?¡± George replied. ¡°Didn¡¯t you mention you found something regarding that?¡± Alister jumped up. ¡°Well, I did, but¡­¡± He looked hesitant. ¡°I dunno, man, it¡¯s kind of a stretch.¡± ¡°C¡¯mon, dude, just show me.¡± George said, pushing the laptop towards him. Alister input a link in the website¡¯s browser. ¡°I found this.¡± He said, turning the screen around so both could see. ¡°It¡¯s an old forum - thing. They call it an imageboard.¡± ¡°Yeah, and?¡± ¡°Well,¡± Alister clicked on a link. ¡°They have a section for paranormal research.¡± He looked more and more defeated by the second. ¡°As you can see, it¡¯s mostly dumbasses and armchair detectives roleplaying.¡± He pointed at the various thread titles, such as ¡®CONFIRMED UFO SIGHTINGS¡¯, ¡®how 2 summon suckubus¡¯, and ¡®Divination 101¡¯. ¡°But?¡± George grinned at the goofy titles. ¡°They had an interesting thread on cases of real hypnosis.¡± Alister said. ¡°It¡¯s mostly conspiracy theories and the really famous shit, you know, like the MKUltra thing, but¡­¡± He scrolled down to a specific post. ¡°This one mentions another site where supposed ¡®victims¡¯ go to talk.¡± ¡°Shit, isn¡¯t that like, exactly what we¡¯re looking for?¡± George asked, excitedly scrolling through the page. ¡°Try reading most of the posts.¡± Alister sighed. ¡°You¡¯ll get tired of ¡®how do I hypnotized hot girl¡¯ posts soon enough, not to mention the crazies who think the Russians hypnotized Obama.¡± ¡°Oh.¡± George deflated, noticing exactly what was pointed out. Alister directed the cursor to a thread on the third page of the site. ¡°Well, but, I did find something kinda interesting, I guess.¡± He said, opening a small video. ¡°Here, look at this.¡± The title, ¡®Real_Hypnosis_Footage¡¯ titled the video. After a couple seconds of a black screen, the video transitioned to a CCTV footage of some sort of clinic. A woman in a hospital gown sat down on a chair, staring at a single flickering flame of a candle growing smaller. A doctor stood behind the patient, carefully whispering words into her ear. No sound playback was available. When the fire began dying, the last of the candle¡¯s wick and wax burning off, the doctor snapped his fingers, and the woman shut her eyes. A moment later, the lady stood up, her blood-shot pupils dilating to a small point. Her mouth tore wide open with what likely was an animalistic screech, and she hung her head back. Her body limped into a quadruped pose and she began acting like a monkey. Alister fast-forwarded the video. ¡°Don¡¯t bother with the next five minutes.¡± He said with a disgusted expression. ¡°At some point, she shits in her hand and throws it against the wall.¡± When the video resumed, a darkened spot besmirched the white walls. The doctor finally intervened with a snap, the woman falling like a rag-doll to the ground. The video cut off moments afterwards. ¡°Jesus christ.¡± George said. ¡°Is that real?¡± ¡°I dunno.¡± Alister said. ¡°That¡¯s why I told you this is a stretch. Could all be a prank for all I know. Although I doubt most people would throw shit on the walls as a joke¡­¡± George curiously continued scouring the thread. ¡°How popular is this place?¡± He asked. Alister chuckled. ¡°Little imageboards like these? Not at all.¡± ¡°Shit.¡± George groaned. ¡°Well, anything else you wanted to show me?¡± ¡°You¡¯ll find it if you keep scrolling.¡± Alister said. ¡°Probably just a big coincidence, but¡­¡± ¡°This one?¡± George highlighted the text. ¡°Yeah.¡± Alister nodded. ¡°It¡¯s half a year old. Some dude claims he¡¯s been hypnotized and kidnapped back when he was homeless.¡± ¡°What¡¯s special about this one?¡± George asked. ¡°Look,¡± Alister said, pointing at a specific line. ¡°Here¡¯s what he says: ¡®They took me to some cult compound. I swear this is true, although I barely remember most of it¡­ I saw some kind of occult symbols, like an eye and a pentacle¡­¡¯¡± Alister read. ¡°And?¡± Alister sighed. ¡°Remember what you told me about the weird cult hippies back there?¡± He said. ¡°They mentioned helping out with homeless people, right? And their symbol was an eye?¡± ¡°Oh, shit, yeah!¡± He yelled. ¡°You¡¯re right.¡± ¡°But I dunno, this all seems like a stretch.¡± Alister said. ¡°Eyes aren¡¯t exactly a rare occult symbol. Most crazy hippies come up with some shit like that. Third eye and all.¡± ¡°Still worth checking out, right?¡± George said, his fingers gliding across the keyboard. ¡°What¡¯re you doing?¡± Alister glanced at a screen. ¡°Are you making a post?¡± ¡°Yeah.¡± George said, finalizing the process with a click. ¡°I¡¯m telling him to contact us ASAP.¡± ¡°Did you leave your real email there?¡± Alister chuckled. ¡°You¡¯re going to get bombarded with spam, you know that?¡± ¡°Shit.¡± George lamented. ¡°Whatever.¡± ¡°Yeah¡­ Well, any other ideas?¡± Alister asked. ¡°I can¡¯t find anything more on the internet. We¡¯ve been trying for days now¡­ If nothing¡¯s shown up so far, I doubt anything new will.¡± ¡°So much for your ¡®google-fu¡¯.¡± George grinned. ¡°You wanna play some games, then? Maybe we¡¯ll figure something out if we cool our heads down.¡± ¡°Yeah, sure.¡± Alister said, gunning for the remote. He flicked the wide screen on. The television defaulted to a news channel. As per usual, it displayed a rather depressing headline - another homicide case. At that very moment, the suspect was shown fully on-camera, this confused, deer-in-the-headlights expression in full view. ¡°Another one, huh?¡± Alister grimaced. ¡°Guess those are pretty common nowadays, eh?¡± George''s mouth hung open. He raised his finger and pointed at the suspect. ¡°Dude, you alright? What¡¯s with you?¡± Alister asked, concerned. ¡°That¡¯s the guy I saw yesterday.¡± George blubbered. ¡°The guy in the cult compound.¡±
It was already way past noon when Harry arrive. He stepped out of his car and onto the soil. Thankfully, he¡¯d prepared ahead of time - he wore his cheap sunday shoes. Packed neatly into the backseat of his car lay a long paper bag. Jenkins greeted him at the scene with a scowl. He gave Harry a middle finger before reaching out for a reluctant handshake. ¡°Harry, when I said ¡®urgent¡¯, that¡¯s exactly what I meant.¡± Jenkins kicked him lightly on the shin. ¡°The hell is that?¡± He peered into Harry¡¯s backseat. ¡°You really made us wait for alcohol?¡± ¡°It¡¯s for the case, what can I say?¡± Harry grinned. ¡°I need it for somethin¡¯. Besides, from what you told me, this doesn¡¯t seem like some that can¡¯t wait.¡± ¡°I¡¯ve got better things to do.¡± Jenkins pouted. He pointed towards a ditch five feet away. ¡°That¡¯s the spot we found it in.¡± Harry walked towards the bushes. Police tape surrounded that single bush; from an outsider¡¯s point of view, it looked like some neighbourhood kid¡¯s prank. ¡°In the bush?¡± Another policeman on duty pried the branches wide open. ¡°Yeah, you see?¡± Jenkins pointed to a spot within the thicket. Lodged within the green and brown of the thick bush was a rusting blue bicycle. ¡°Give me the run-down again, will ya?¡± Harry asked, staring intently at the object. Jenkins sighed. ¡°As I told you on the phone,¡° he stared at Harry with malintent. ¡°Some kid in Alister Moore¡¯s block reported his bicycle as missing. Forgot to lock it around the local grocery store, apparently.¡± ¡°And that¡¯s what I¡¯m lookin¡¯ at?¡± ¡°Yeah,¡± Jenkins nodded. ¡°Someone found it here and called a local station to ask if someone was lookin¡¯ for one. Guess it was too much trouble to yank it out.¡± Harry approached the bush, still held open by the policeman. He pulled out his phone and turned on the flashlight. ¡°It¡¯s been here a while, has it?¡± ¡°I can¡¯t give you an exact date, but it probably sat there for, what, a week and a half?¡± Jenkins grimaced. ¡°The same time our suspect¡¯s been running loose.¡± ¡°You¡¯re thinkin¡¯ Alister stole the bike?¡± Harry asked. ¡°I can¡¯t say for sure - since it rained, any leftover hairs or fingerprints or whatever are probably gone.¡± Jenkins said, maintaining a grim expression. ¡°Strong possibility, though.¡± Harry turned his flashlight towards the forest. ¡°And if he¡¯s biked all the way here¡­¡± He said. ¡°You¡¯re thinkin¡¯ the guy went into the forest, right?¡± Jenkins silently nodded. ¡°If that¡¯s the case¡­¡± Harry shoved his phone back into his pocket. ¡°Let¡¯s start by setting up a warning perimeter. What other towns and cities border this forest, Jenkins?¡± ¡°Give me a moment.¡± Jenkins paused. ¡°I remember it being Greenville, Yellowridge, and Jacksonville.¡± He murmured to himself for a second. ¡°And a couple farms, I think.¡± ¡°Shoot them a call, will you?¡± Harry said, turning back to his car. ¡°I¡¯ve got some business left to do.¡± Introspection A raggedy old man sat in a darkened room, the gruff elder¡¯s dirty visage reflected on a wall-wide mirror. The man glanced pompously at his surroundings. He held his head up, dissatisfaction and dissidence evident in his angry eyes. He cringed at the sound of steps growing closer with each second. Harry soon walked in, a policeman in tow. He held a tall paper bag in his hand. Before closing the door, he mumbled a few words to the officer, sending the cop away. He turned around, glared at the old man, and got himself a seat. Harry pulled out a small tape recorder and clicked the round red button. ¡°This is the unofficial interrogation of Paul Ramirez, age 51, residence unknown.¡± He mumbled into the device. ¡°This recording is to be considered off-the-record, as a lawyer is not present.¡± ¡°That¡¯s a load of horseshit I¡¯m hearin¡¯ right here.¡± Paul interjected, slamming a fist against the table. ¡°What¡¯d ya cooks want with me? I ain¡¯t done nothin¡¯ wrong, nothing!¡± Harry sighed. ¡°Paul.¡± He said, looking directly into the perpetrator¡¯s eyes. ¡°I¡¯d like to remind you that we have many witnesses to testify for your violence against me, an officer. You understand what that means, yes?¡± Paul flinched, but steeled his gaze. ¡°A small lil¡¯ scratch, that was all.¡± He said. ¡°What, you pigs ¡®re now throwin¡¯ old men like me in the gutter? What a rotten band of rodents ya¡¯ll are!¡± ¡°That¡¯s exactly why I need you to cooperate, Paul.¡± Harry said. ¡°It¡¯d be the best for the both of us.¡± ¡°Best for who? Hmph!¡± Paul said, throwing his arms together. ¡°I ain¡¯t the brightest bulb on th¡¯ christmas tree, but I know what them jargons mean - been in these rooms often, I have. ¡®Off-the-record¡¯ - blah! Just say it like it is!¡± ¡°You¡¯re right.¡± Harry paused. ¡°I can¡¯t use this against you, I know - and I really didn¡¯t hope it would have to come to this - ¡° Harry flashed a grin, causing Paul to flinch. He brought the large paper bag onto the table. ¡°Now wait a minute here-¡± Paul raised his arms. ¡°You ain¡¯t goin¡¯ to, uh, you can¡¯t do that!¡± Harry looked surprised. ¡°Huh?¡± He asked. ¡°I was just thinkin¡¯ that this¡­ Off the record would be beneficial to the both of us.¡± He slowly started unpacking the wooden bag. ¡°Don¡¯t hurt me!¡± Paul said, covering his face in pitiful resistance. Harry laughed. ¡°Hurt you?¡± He asked, revealing the object hidden behind the brown paper bag. ¡°What in the-¡± Paul stared at the table. ¡°What is that?¡± Harry held the tall bottle proudly, whisking the brown fluid within gracefully. ¡°This, my friend,¡± he said. ¡°Is a Maker¡¯s Mark 46. A fine bottle of Whiskey.¡± Paul eyed the bottle greedily, his nose twitching to smell unconsciously. ¡°That¡¯s -¡± He turned his head to look at Harry. ¡°What¡¯d ya want with this?¡± ¡°As I said, the ¡®off-the-record¡¯ bit is for the both of us.¡± Harry said. ¡°What I want is a little trade, Mr. Ramirez.¡± Paul¡¯s eyes flared with alarm and suspicions, but the golden sheen of the liquer flashed against his brown-toned face. Gulping down, he bit his lip. ¡°...What¡¯d ya want for this?¡± ¡°I need you to answer some questions honestly.¡± Harry said. ¡°Like¡­ What?¡± ¡°You¡¯ll know if you accept.¡± Paul nervously looked about, as if looking for help. Finally, he sighed. ¡°You ain¡¯t a normal copper, aren¡¯t cha?¡± He said. ¡°You lot tend to be a bit more¡­ Violent, I recall.¡± Harry shook his head. ¡°Not around these parts.¡± ¡°Tch. And an optimist.¡± Paul sneered. ¡°A¡¯ight, I accept. What¡¯d ya need?¡± Harry smiled. ¡°First off, where are you from?¡± ¡°From Burbank, the town next over.¡± Paul said. ¡°Got brought here by those crackjobs in busses.¡± ¡°Those busses, are they all from Burbank?¡± Harry asked. ¡°No¡­ They¡¯re from all over, I reckon.¡± Paul said. ¡°I¡¯ve seen folk from all across the state.¡± Harry pondered over those words. ¡°Only from our state?¡± ¡°Yeah, ain¡¯t seen any Californians or Yanks, I don¡¯t think.¡± ¡°Why did you come here?¡± Harry continued. ¡°Did all of you get on those busses willingly?¡± ¡°The folk promised us free booze and food.¡± Paul said, looking angry. ¡°Those fuckers lied to us, they did, asked us to do all this trouble and they haven¡¯t even fed us since!¡± ¡°What trouble?¡± ¡°Uh¡­¡± Paul paused, looking evermore uncertain. He clutched his bottle. ¡°...I ain¡¯t supposed to say this, so keep it for yourself, aight?¡± Harry¡¯s eyes lit up. ¡°Promised.¡± ¡°They¡­ They got us to sign some papers, right?¡± Paul leaned in, nearly whispering. ¡°I ain¡¯t sure what those even were. They just made us sign em¡¯, wouldn¡¯t even let us have a good look at it.¡± Harry stared back in surprise. ¡°Sign¡­ Papers?¡± He asked. ¡°What sort?¡± ¡°Here¡¯s the thing, y¡¯see¡­ It was a blank paper.¡± Paul said, looking paranoid. ¡°But, this ain¡¯t the first I done some cons, if you¡¯d keep that on the hush-hush.¡± ¡°Sure.¡± Harry grimaced. He didn¡¯t like where this was going, but he had to hear all of it. ¡°I¡­ I think there were some papers underneath, right?¡± Paul said. ¡°...Graphite paper?¡± Harry asked. Paul gasped for breath. ¡°I didn¡¯t tell you nothing.¡± He said. ¡°Know nothing.¡± ¡°Right.¡± Harry nodded slowly. He eyed Paul with an understanding smile. ¡°You¡¯re dismissed, then. I¡¯ll have a colleague bring you out.¡± He said, clicking a square button on the recorder.
Harry stepped away from the window as he watched Paul being escorted out of the building. The conversation stuck with him. Over the last week, a suspicion began growing inside of him. Perhaps it was conviction - perhaps paranoia. In any case, he felt that something was off. Behind the veil, something enormous brewed - a fearsome entity with more entries to its chain than Harry Jackson could ever know. And the Lincoln-Brown foundation linked to it somehow. Harry didn¡¯t know what that meant. Nothing concrete tied both entities together; no clear connection came into view. Of course, a secret was only as strong as its weakest link. In a conspiracy, every single link had to be unbreakable. A detective¡¯s mind always centered around three words. Three little things governed every little mystery of life - from one¡¯s dalliance with women, to the truth behind a murder. In reverse order, Result, Method, and Motive. Result. The final result - what would be achieved by one¡¯s actions. Method. The method with which the result was achieved. Motive. The motive behind the result. When talking about a crime, these three words proved central to each and every discussion. No killing happened without all three lining up together. Even indiscriminate murders had some form of motive, a measure of method, and a definite result. It was a detective¡¯s, and thus, Harry¡¯s, job to figure out all three. The issue lied in the way Harry had been tackling the case so far. He looked at the Method. Everything he had so far, from Brian Fox¡¯s murder to the mass import of the homeless, lied in Method. A means to achieve a result. Most officers disagreed - they claimed the murder was the Result. The question was - what had this Method achieved? What was the real Result? With the limited information Harry could work with, the answer was election. While Brian Fox¡¯s murder may not be attributable to the Lincoln-Brown foundation, another recent murder, that of Arnold Palmer¡¯s, had some tangential connection. Arnold Palmer died while investigating that very foundation. After publishing a slanderous article decrying their efforts. No strong evidence, but a clear Motive was established. In the case of Brian Fox - he hindered the favored candidate of the foundation. Without intervention, Brian¡¯s victory was certain. The current mayor, Sophia Stone, had an awful campaign, whose destiny stood uncertain even after Fox¡¯s death.Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings. Harry glanced at his phone resting on his table. Turning it on, he groaned, seeing that his wife had called him repedelty, finally sending a text message in resignation. He felt a pang of guilt and sent an apologetic, but insincere, reply. Their relationship had always been enviable. For men in the force, a woman as a supporting and loving as his wife was something to dream about. Odd workshifts and the tiring nature of their assignments made them into awful lovers. Harry remained as the foremost example of this. Self-imposed overtime work and skipping many of his mandatory holidays crowned his career. Whenever he felt this guilt, and with it, the longing to start marching back home, a little something tugged his back. A sense of justice, he called it - as did the others, in a vain attempt to flatter him. Behind his back, and in his own subconscious, they called it obsession. But Harry wore this badge proudly. Obsession or not, it was for the sake of justice, for the sake of doing what¡¯s right. He loved that feeling; he lived for it. The thrill of seeking wrongdoings just felt right to him. He didn¡¯t know when it started, and he knew it hadn¡¯t always been there, but it felt - it felt¡­ Right. On that note, this was no time to mope. He turned his attention back to his duties. A suspect still roamed the streets freely. Alister Moore had to be captured; perhaps his retrieval would provide him with some links he hadn¡¯t considered yet. Alister Moore proved to be as much of an enigma as the case on hand. Most of the staff considered his case to be closed-and-shut, but Harry had his reservations. It was nearly irrefutable that Alister had carried out the killing. His motive was also clear; and his result, well, undeniable. The oddity surrounding Alister was that, even given all this evidence, it defied his supposed character. From what little could be gleaned from his private life, Alister used to be a temperamental, but good man, who calmed down considerably over the years. His coworkers and ex-boss attested to Alister¡¯s small fits of unstable rage, which meant it could¡¯ve all been happenstance. He had been fired that exact day, after all. But a single detail eluded Harry¡¯s understanding. After looking into the reports of that day, the person who¡¯d called the police in regards to the body, although his call had been ignored, was¡­ Alister. The telephone network confirmed this. In fact, Harry received a transcript. Would an enraged murderer notify the police of his own killing? A big piece of the puzzle stared right at him, and he failed to notice. What drove Alister Moore to commit the murder? His eyes smoothly glided down the long paper detailing Alister¡¯s life in tenuous detail. Occupation, degree, birthdate, medical history - Surgeries? Harry¡¯s strong hold crumpled the paper. He looked at the sheet and considered a possibility. 2016 / 07 / 19 - Committed to the Fairview Hospital for External and Internal Injuries following an accident.
The starry night shone down on a sullen little hut. Alister sat outside his safehouse, sipping slowly from a hot mug. It kept the chill outside at bay. He wallowed in silence, once again mulling over his current predicament. Sitting out in the woods he¡¯d grown up him helped comfort - and shield - him. Years ago, every instance of outrage in his life was met with reaction. Fierce opposition, even. He recalled having a fit against his teachers as a teen; his friend had been subject to bullying, and they did nothing but watch. Back then, he recalled, he and George stood up - fists tightly clenched, they fought back. Beneath the stars so bright, sitting where sat at this very moment, the two swore to fight. Yet the Alister of this moment felt a primal fear. Alister didn¡¯t recall when it happened, but he supposed it must¡¯ve been during college. The magic broke then, and he¡¯d become more reasonable. Reality came crashing down. Only then did he realize how futile everything had been. The student rallies, the constant meet-ups and protests; they amounted to a fat round nothing, a something less than zero. He swore to fight against something he didn¡¯t comprehend back then. Corruption, government, and deceit. Enemies they couldn¡¯t fight. A cloud hung over, covering Alister in a comforting shadow. He sipped his tea, quietly accepting the cowl of nighttime. George approached with a lantern, his infectious smile painted on as always. ¡°Aren¡¯t you a bit cold out, dude?¡± He asked, shivering as a breeze passed by. Alister shook his head. ¡°Nah, I¡¯m fine.¡± ¡°Damn, man,¡± George shuddered, clattering his teeth. ¡°I¡¯d half freeze to death without my jacket and lantern.¡± ¡°Shouldn¡¯t you go back home?¡± Alister asked, focusing on the dark treeline. ¡°Nah.¡± George said. ¡°I¡¯d rather hang out here with you, like usual.¡± ¡°Usual.¡± Alister said thoughtfully. ¡°Well, I guess it¡¯s become usual now.¡± ¡°It¡¯s always been usual,¡± George said. ¡°We just took a break in-between, y¡¯know?¡± ¡°Two years seems a bit long for a break to me,¡± Alister said. ¡°Don¡¯t think my summer holidays were every that long.¡± ¡°Your dry streak sure has, and I¡¯m sure you called that a break too.¡± George grinned. Alister frowned. He sipped his tea in silence. ¡°You alright, man?¡± George asked, leaning in with his lantern. ¡°You¡¯re lookin¡¯ pretty emo right there.¡± Alister shot him an annoyed look. ¡°I¡¯m fine.¡± ¡°Did I hit a nerve?¡± George chuckled. ¡°Why, does it remind you of that Evanescence CD you had back home?¡± ¡°You¡¯re the one who bought it for me, jackass.¡± Alister punched him lightly. ¡°And you¡¯re the one who kept it.¡± George laughed. ¡°Yeah, well¡­¡± He studied Alister. ¡°What?¡± Alister asked, shuffling a bit away. ¡°I dunno, man, I guess I¡¯ve noticed how much you¡¯ve changed.¡± George said, looking away. ¡°I¡¯ve always been this way.¡± Alister uncomfortably said. George shook his head. ¡°Not always.¡± He said. ¡°I meant, like, over the last few years¡­¡± Alister scowled and let out an audible sigh. ¡°We all grow up.¡± ¡°I haven¡¯t.¡± George said. ¡°Idiots don¡¯t.¡± ¡°So you shouldn¡¯t, either?¡± George asked. ¡°I didn¡¯t think you would.¡± Alister didn¡¯t reply. George stood up and walked in front of Alister. Dropping the lantern on the floor, he clutched Alister¡¯s meek shoulders. ¡°Seriously, what¡¯s wrong with you?¡± Alister pushed him away. ¡°What¡¯s wrong with you?¡± He asked. ¡°I don¡¯t get you,¡± George said, the flickering light highlighting concern in his eyes. ¡°You¡­ You¡¯re so hopeless, you know that? You look half-dead all the time.¡± ¡°Wouldn¡¯t you be?¡± Alister stood up, facing him. ¡°Yeah, sure, I¡¯d be lost,¡± George said. ¡°But¡­ Not hopeless, not like you are.¡± ¡°What the hell do you mean?¡± ¡°It¡¯s like you¡¯ve already given up!¡± George said. ¡°There¡¯s no fight in you.¡± ¡°Because I have.¡± Aliste said, his eyes wandering away. ¡°There¡¯s nothing I can do¡­¡± George shook him. ¡°That¡¯s exactly what I mean.¡± ¡°What, I told you-¡± ¡°It¡¯s pathetic, you know that?¡± George said desperately. ¡°We have so many clues-¡± ¡°That lead fucking nowhere.¡± Alister cut him off. ¡°You don¡¯t know that.¡± George pushed back. ¡°I can tell it¡¯s fucking hopeless.¡± Alister said. ¡°What¡¯re we going to do? Even the things we have - this crazy shit involves satanic cults hypnotizing people. I wouldn¡¯t be surprised if the fucking president was screwing his secretary in an orgy at this point.¡± Alister paused to catch his breath. ¡°What am I supposed to do?¡± ¡°Well, fight back, obviously!¡± George said, emoting powerfully with his body. ¡°Oh, shut up.¡± Alister said, slumping on the ground. ¡°We had this discussion the first night.¡± ¡°Listen here, it¡¯s fucking true.¡± George said. ¡°I don¡¯t fucking get you, either!¡± ¡°Don¡¯t get me, how?¡± Alister said, glancing up. The cloud had passed, and the moon shone down on George¡¯s back. ¡°You¡­ You¡¯re so¡­¡± George shook. ¡°It¡¯s like you¡¯re dead inside.¡± ¡°What?¡± ¡°You used to be so passionate about this.¡± George limped his shoulders. ¡°I miss that old you.¡± ¡°I thought I went over this.¡± Alister growled. ¡°I hoped you¡¯d return to your senses, you know?¡± George said, averting his gaze. ¡°At first, I was kinda happy, even, maybe we¡¯d get to¡­ Go back, like it used to be.¡± ¡°You¡­ You¡­ What?¡± ¡°I thought this was a chance to bring you back, you know?¡± George said, the passion evident in every single movement and word. ¡°You became so cold¡­ I tried to understand, but¡­¡± ¡°What?¡± ¡°I know it must¡¯ve been hard on you.¡± George said. ¡°I understand, you know? It¡¯s not easy. Your girlfriend left you, your union kicked you out¡­¡± ¡°Don¡¯t you dare-¡± Alister growled, punching against a supporting beam of wood. ¡°Bring that up.¡± Desperation showed in George¡¯s sincerity. ¡°But you know what? I thought you¡¯d change back.¡± Alister stared at him with rage. ¡°You¡¯d come back to your senses and go fight the good fight.¡± George said. ¡°But no, you¡¯re now too busy for the rally, and you don¡¯t care about the petition. Then you stopped talking to me.¡± ¡°It¡¯s all meaningless.¡± Alister resigned, dropping back to the floor. ¡°I told you this before.¡± ¡°It¡¯s not meaningless.¡± George said. ¡°It¡¯s for doing what¡¯s right, remember that?¡± ¡°We haven¡¯t amounted to jack shit.¡± Alister said. ¡°What, punching a couple bullies and shouting loudly with a joint in your mouth got you thinking you¡¯re some hot shit?¡± ¡°Alister-¡± ¡°In the end, we never fixed anything.¡± Alister said. ¡°Sure, we handed out a bunch of flyers and painted a couple walls, but good did that ever do?¡± George shook his head. ¡°That¡¯s exactly what I mean.¡± He said. ¡°You¡¯re so pessimistic.¡± ¡°Yeah, I really should be optimistic about how being branded a murderer is a good thing.¡± Alister sneezed. ¡°It¡¯s about conviction.¡± George said solemnly. ¡°You aren¡¯t even prepared to try to fight for your life.¡± ¡°Because I can¡¯t do anything.¡± Alister¡¯s knees buckled, and he stumbled back onto the floor. ¡°It¡¯s like you¡¯re a completely different person.¡± George said. ¡°You weren¡¯t so bad before the accident, at least.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t want to talk about that.¡± Alister said angrily. ¡°Spending a few weeks in the hospital just gave me time to clear my mind.¡± ¡°You¡¯re sure it didn¡¯t rattle your brain?¡± George asked. ¡°Fuck you.¡± Alister said, spitting on the ground. Feeling embarrassment creep up to him, he clutched his legs, embracing a fetal position. ¡°I¡¯m sorry.¡± ¡°For what?¡± George sat next to him. ¡°I¡¯m an asshole.¡± Alister said. ¡°I just don¡¯t think we¡¯re going to achieve anything, George.¡± ¡°You¡¯re just too pessimistic.¡± George said. ¡°Sure.¡± Alister nodded. The two sat in silence, basking in the moonlight. ¡°I just stopped caring about the college sentiment of changing the world, alright?¡± Alister said, breaking the silence. ¡°I¡¯m sorry about being distant.¡± George nodded. ¡°Yeah, well, maybe I shouldn¡¯t have been so harsh on you.¡± ¡°It¡¯s fine.¡± Alister said, standing up. ¡°You¡¯re going to sleep?¡± George asked. ¡°Yeah.¡± ¡°Are we¡­¡± George hesitated. ¡°Continuing with our research tomorrow?¡± Alister stopped by the doorway. ¡°Yeah.¡± He said. He closed the door behind him. Intrigue Harry knew Alister¡¯s history extensively, as far as any stranger would¡¯ve known. July 19th, 2016. The day Alister got into a car accident. A local police station held the relevant records - victims, charges, all the juicy information. Harry hadn¡¯t bothered looking into that. No reason, as far as he believed. But now, he searched for a motive - a motive, he believed, that would shade light into his suspicions. A motive that spans well over this little case, a possible cog amidst a possible series of machinations he had yet to understand. Two little hints sparked a nice little flame amidst the shadow of doubt. First was Alister¡¯s journal, outlining his motive. In a rather blunt fashion. Judging by his past as your average college activist, it was very reasonable to think ¡®killing capitalist pigs¡¯ served as enough of a motivator. But little incongruencies nagged at Harry¡¯s mind - Alister spent most of his time as a quite, well-behaved person in the past two years. Why would a person decide to step away from activism - to resort to murder? Alister hadn¡¯t bothered numbering or dating the entries, but the creation date of that document could easily be determined. August 20th, 2016. Less than a month after his accident, he had started planning this paranoid conspiracy. Harry knew from stories shared amongst officers how morbid cases regarding insanity could be. Could Alister Moore simply be insane? Humans were very fragile - a little rattle to the brain could do the job. After all, the details indicated that it was indeed rather messy. A couple cracked ribs, both legs broken¡­ Harry shook his head. He wouldn¡¯t make assumptions, yet. Assumptions should be saved for later, when he had more information. Fairview, as a mid-sized city, had a couple of clinics. Amongst them, the Fairview Hospital was the oldest and the largest. It loomed over the city, complacently resting on a hill, like a neighbourhood grandma. A young nurse sighed, absentmindedly nibbling on her pen when Harry walked through the sliding door. He quickly walked over and fumbled for his badge. ¡°Good morning, miss.¡± Harry said, unfolding his wallet. ¡°My name is Harry. Harry Jackson. I¡¯m a detective.¡± She eyed him curiously, hiding her pen in embarrassment. ¡°Um, hello.¡± She said, glancing at his badge. ¡°Can I help you?¡± Harry smiled. ¡°I need some files, miss.¡± He said. ¡°Could you find them for me?¡± ¡°Files?¡± She asked. ¡°I¡­ What kind of files do you need?¡± Harry unveiled a folded document from his jacket. ¡°I need information on this patient.¡± The nurse accepted the crumpled page with a startled blink. ¡°Alister Moore¡­¡± Hey eyes quickly glid across the page. ¡°Uh, is this for an investigation?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± Harry said. ¡°Would it be better if I talked to a superior?¡± She looked panicked. ¡°I can get them for you.¡± She said. A little hint of inconvenience usually worked well, Harry found. ¡°I just needed to confirm that it¡¯s official business.¡± She awkwardly turned towards her computer. ¡°Thank you.¡± Harry watched wordlessly as she gracefully toyed with her keyboard. He himself did not like these modern thingamajigs; in his heart, Harry disliked too much of this technology shtick. Now kids played with smartphones instead of branches and used laptops for classes. He had to admit it proved very useful for investigations, however. While bemusing himself, the nurse turned to him. ¡°I¡¯ve found it, I think.¡± She said. ¡°You¡¯re looking for an Alister Moore, committed during the period of July 19th and August 25th of 2016, right?¡± ¡°That sounds right,¡± Harry said. ¡°What have you got?¡± She shrugged. ¡°Not much,¡± she said. ¡°Just some records regarding his stay here, like the medicine administered, insurance fees, that kind of stuff.¡± ¡°Can you print it out for me?¡± Harry asked. ¡°Sure.¡± She said, soon pulling out a single document from a printer. ¡°Here.¡± She handed him the paper. Harry quickly read the document, his trained eyes looking for any signs of irregularity. However, he could find none. If there were any, they hid behind large mounds of jargon. ¡°Can I ask you something?¡± Harry asked. The nurse had already pried her attention from him, but turned back with a jolt. ¡°Um, how can I help you?¡± She asked, looking nervous. Harry gave a reassuring smile. ¡°I was just wondering,¡± he said. ¡°Do you happen to know anything about this patient?¡± ¡°No,¡± she shook her head. ¡°I always worked here, behind the counter. I don¡¯t know much about any patient.¡± Harry sighed. ¡°Well, could you point someone out for me who did?¡± ¡°I think you could try talking to Lorraine.¡± She said, pointing at a stout woman gently guiding an elderly patient across the room. ¡°If he stayed at the third floor of the C-wing, there¡¯s a good chance Lorraine took care of him.¡± Harry tipped his hat. ¡°Thanks.¡± He said, giving a tiny bow. ¡°You were a great help.¡± The nurse muttered a small ¡°No problem¡± with a blush and looked away. Harry approached Lorraine but stood still as he arrived. She was occupied, helping the elder descend to a comfortable lounge chair. She smiled brightly at the old man when he gave her an appreciative nod. Harry coughed. ¡°Excuse me,¡± he said. ¡°Are you Lorraine?¡± Lorraine turned towards him. ¡°That would be me,¡± she said. ¡°Do you need something?¡± ¡°I just wanted to talk to you, Mrs¡­¡± Harry dragged the final syllable. ¡°Fidditch.¡± Lorraine said. ¡°I think I would prefer Lorraine.¡± ¡°As you wish.¡± Harry said. He preferred formal titles when working with citizens - informal titles, and informal language, was usually reserved for criminals. At least the informal language he used. ¡°Could I have a little of your time?¡± Lorraine glanced at the elderly man beside her, who gave her a nod. ¡°What is this about?¡± ¡°I just wanted to talk to you a little.¡± Harry said, pulling out both his badge and the still-warm document. ¡°I have some questions about this patient. Do you recognize him?¡± ¡°Alister Moore¡­¡± Lorraine whispered distantly. ¡°Ah, yes, I do.¡± She said, snapping her fingers. ¡°Do you have a moment, then?¡± Lorraine looked at the elder once again. He gave her a reassuring look and waved her away. ¡°I suppose I have a minute or two.¡± ¡°Is there anywhere private?¡± Harry asked. ¡°Follow me.¡± Lorraine said, starting down an empty hallway. She led Harry down a long, thin path, finally pushing open an old wooden door. Inside waited a washroom. ¡°It¡¯s probably a bit stuffy here, with all the dry racks and all¡­ But nobody will disturb us, I think.¡± She stared apologetically. Harry showed contentment. ¡°This is fine,¡± Harry said. ¡°I just need a moment, anyways.¡± ¡°So¡­¡± Lorraine asked, a sparkle of curiosity in her eyes. ¡°What do you need, Mr. Detective?¡± Harry produced the document again. ¡°As I told you, I needed some information on this man.¡± ¡°Well¡­ I don¡¯t know what I can tell you.¡± Lorraine said. ¡°I took care of him, but he didn¡¯t stay for long. He looked a bit lost, or tired.¡± ¡°Is that so?¡± Harry said, fumbling for a pocket recorder. ¡°Do you mind if I take some notes?¡± ¡°No, that¡¯s fine.¡± Lorraine said. ¡°Anyways - yes. He looked a bit contemplative, I guess. From the small conversations we did have, I think he had a falling-out with some college friends. Pretty typical, I suppose.¡± ¡°Did he seem angry at the prospect?¡± Harry asked. Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings. ¡°No, not angry. Just sad.¡± Lorraine said. ¡°I think what made me sad was how much he cared about some subjects. He told me a lot about civil rights and stuff. But he always looked a bit disappointed.¡± ¡°Was there anything¡­ Odd about his behaviour or his stay?¡± Harry asked. Harry felt that insanity could be a part of this case - not strong indications, but just a hunch. ¡°Nothing major,¡± Lorraine paused. ¡°There was something small.¡± ¡°What would that be?¡± Harry asked excitedly. ¡°It was¡­ Well, I mean, I don¡¯t know any details, but¡­¡± She said. ¡°He didn¡¯t spend his entire stay in his room.¡± Harry raised an eyebrow. ¡°What do you mean?¡± ¡°There was a small period. Three days, I recall.¡± Lorraine squinted her eyes. ¡°He was outsourced to another wing for emergency treatment.¡± ¡°Is that usual?¡± Harry asked. ¡°No, that¡¯s why I remember it.¡± Lorraine said. ¡°It does happen sometimes with more serious patients, like the life-threatening sort. But I remember Alister¡¯s condition being very stable.¡± ¡°Do you know where he transferred to?¡± Harry asked. ¡°No,¡± Lorraine said. ¡°I asked, but the doctors wouldn¡¯t say. Something about patient privacy and whatnot. I don¡¯t think it got noted down. It¡¯s still in the same hospital, after all.¡± ¡°When did it happen?¡± Lorraine stopped to think. ¡°It¡¯s been a while, Detective.¡± She said. ¡°My memory isn¡¯t perfect, so I have to guess a bit, but I think it was very early August.¡± ¡°I see.¡± Harry paused himself to think. Three days in outsourcing? How did that fit in? ¡°Did you observe any changes after he came back?¡± ¡°Nothing.¡± Lorraine quickly replied. ¡°Nothing at all?¡± Harry asked, looking for any changes in her expression. ¡°Nothing notable, at least.¡± She said. ¡°If anything, I think he was remarkably normal. You usually don¡¯t see people as calm or stable he is after an accident.¡± ¡°Although,¡± She added. ¡°There were two little thing.¡± She added quickly. ¡°Please, go on.¡± Harry said, patiently waiting. ¡°I noticed that sometimes, when he spoke about things he cared about,¡± Lorraine said. ¡°He would get upset. Angry, even.¡± Harry frowned. Did this mean Alister really was insane? ¡°Also, I would sometimes come to the room to check on other patients.¡± Lorraine said. ¡°Since it¡¯s a hospital and all, I get late calls sometimes. Very late calls. I remember him typing away at a laptop during one or two of these nights.¡± Harry felt no surprise at this reveal. The document was created during his stay, after all. ¡°Where did he get that laptop from?¡± ¡°His family brought it in, along with a bunch of other stuff.¡± Lorraine said. ¡°He left behind a stack of old Superman comics, actually. We still keep them here for the kids to read. He must¡¯ve taken very good care of them. They¡¯re already falling apart from the kids.¡± Harry nodded. ¡°Is there anything else?¡± He asked. Lorraine shook her head. ¡°I don¡¯t remember anything else.¡± She said. ¡°If anything, Alister¡¯s stay was pretty uneventful. You¡¯d have to hear about that boy, Ron, if you want some crazy stories.¡± Ron? Harry¡¯s ears perked up at this reveal. Had he heard that name recently? ¡°Ron¡­ What¡¯s this ¡®Ron¡¯¡¯s last name, if I may ask?¡± Lorraine hushed and whispered. ¡°Ron Smith.¡± She said. ¡°I¡¯m not sure if I¡¯m supposed to say this, but he¡¯s in jail for killing a man, you know?¡± Harry knew. He knew very well. Instinctively, he began poking for answers. ¡°What do you mean, by ¡®crazy stories¡¯?¡± Harry asked, uncontrolled curiosity dripping into his voice. ¡°It¡¯s mostly office gossip.¡± Lorraine said, looking a bit worried. ¡°Just a few nurses talking, but¡­¡± ¡°What?¡± Harry demanded. ¡°Well, he said he¡¯d been brainwashed!¡± Lorraine¡¯s worried smile washed away. ¡°A fascinating story, that one.¡±
¡°We got a reply.¡± Alister said without enthusiasm. A bag of chips spilled the floor and George lazily stared into a kid¡¯s show on television, not paying much attention to anything that was going on. He missed Alister¡¯s words. Instead, his focus lept back both recently and far into time. Alister crawled up close to him. ¡°George!¡± He said, lightly tapping him with his foot. ¡°Wake up.¡± George jolted and looked about. ¡°What? Huh? Hm?¡± He said, his pupils wide in surprise. ¡°Oh, what¡¯s up?¡± He looked at Alister with a mixture of pity and disappointment. Alister turned back to his screen, shying away from George¡¯s gaze. ¡°We got an email from the guy on the imageboard.¡± ¡°Oh, yeah,¡± George said, huddling close to the screen. ¡°We did tell him to contact us, huh?¡± ¡°This is your investigation,¡± Alister said, giving George a bit more space. ¡°I shouldn¡¯t have to remind you.¡± George ground his teeth. ¡°Right,¡± he said. ¡°My investigation.¡± He didn¡¯t bother contesting the statement. It wasn¡¯t worth the argument. ¡°Um, Alister?¡± He said, pointing at a screen. ¡°I don¡¯t think emails from a Nigerian Prince will do us any good.¡± ¡°That¡¯s your fault, dumbass.¡± Alister lazily replied. ¡°That¡¯s what you get for posting your email address on an imageboard like that. This is the one.¡± Alister guided the cursor to a particular email - ¡®URGENT¡¯, it read. ¡°Open it up.¡± George said. Alister did just that. George began scanning the rather short email. The punctuation was precise, although the page was littered with unnecessary highlights and capitalizations. ¡°Greetings,¡± the email read. ¡°I have heard your request to talk, and am giving you my official response.¡± ¡°This is a burner email, which will remain active for the following month. You should reply back then. Attached to the email should be confirmation that I am the originator of that post, and that no IMPOSTOR is intercepting your request.¡± ¡°I do not feel confident with talking over the net, however. Those EVIL technology companies employ some of the highest-tech profiling software and backdoors; it is common knowledge the scum-sucking devils sell out to the so-called ¡®lawmen¡¯, as if that title means anything.¡± ¡°If you wish further contact, we will need to set up a place to meet. I won¡¯t divulge much information over the net. Suffice to say, my precise location can¡¯t be tracked over my IP or email; I have a burner laptop and switch IP¡¯s rather regularly, together with additional protection measures.¡± ¡°I don¡¯t have a fixed location, however, and I am willing to travel pretty much anywhere if you want to talk. Reply to this message, and we may set up a meeting date - you may pick the state, but I will pick the precise location and time.¡± ¡°Regards, A Fellow Sovereign Citizen.¡± George stifled a chuckle as he read the last passage. ¡°Well, I guess it¡¯s settled.¡± He said. ¡°This guy¡¯s a bit cooky, isn¡¯t he?¡± ¡°I think that¡¯s an understatement,¡± Alister sighed. ¡°What now?¡± ¡°Email him back, of course.¡± George said. ¡°We¡¯re meeting this guy ASAP.¡± Alister frowned. ¡°You sure about that?¡± He asked. ¡°I mean, this guy¡¯s probably insane, after all?¡± George shrugged. ¡°Sure, but what else can we do?¡± He asked. ¡°We don¡¯t have any other leads.¡± ¡°We could give up.¡± Alister whispered passingly. George sighed. ¡°What do you want to do, then?¡± He asked, annoyed. ¡°You wanna just sit in this room and play Mario all day? It¡¯s not like we have anything better to do.¡± Alister shot him a fierce look. After a tense moment, he turned back to the laptop screen, and grumbled. ¡°Alright, I guess.¡± He said, clicking on the reply button. ¡°Sure. I am in Arizona. I will meet you as soon as possible.¡± Alister read aloud as he typed, and quickly pressed send. ¡°Have fun meeting a lunatic, George. Tell me about it sometime.¡± George smirked mischievously. ¡°Why would I need to do that?¡± He asked. ¡°You¡¯re coming with.¡± Alister turned, his jaw dropping. ¡°What did you just say?¡± ¡°I said you¡¯re coming.¡± George said. He emphasized each word. ¡°No, I¡¯m not.¡± Alister shook his head. ¡°You¡¯re crazy if you think I¡¯m leaving this place.¡± ¡°Look, man,¡± George said. ¡°This is a good opportunity, if anything, if you know what I mean.¡± Alister looked at him like he would an idiot. ¡°I don¡¯t follow.¡± ¡°You can¡¯t stay here forever.¡± George said. ¡°This can be like practice, you know? I¡¯ll hide you in the trunk of my car - nobody¡¯s going to search that. We can use this opportunity to find some new hiding places for you, in case this place gets raided or something.¡± Alister mulled over the suggestion for a second. ¡°That still sounds crazy as shit. Why would I ever do that? Can¡¯t you do it alone?¡± ¡°Contrary to what you think, Alister,¡± George said. ¡°Most people don¡¯t know you, you know? You came up in local newspapers a once or twice, but most people in-state - nevermind out of state - don¡¯t really remember some knifing from weeks ago.¡± ¡°Yeah, but I¡¯m getting fucking arrested if I get caught, dude.¡± Alister said with worry. ¡°You¡¯re going to get arrested eventually if you stay in one place, dude.¡± George replied. ¡°At least think about it, man. Besides, what if the guy¡¯s legit and he really can help us out? Wouldn¡¯t it be good if you could talk to another guy who¡¯s been hypnotized?¡± George paused. ¡°Maybe he even knows how to fix your¡­ Habit.¡± Alister shuffled uncomfortably. ¡°If I¡¯m even hypnotized.¡± He said, challenging the notion. ¡°What else would it be?¡± George asked, repetition creeping into his tone. Alister did not have a response to that. ¡°Come on,¡± George said. ¡°Consider it, at least.¡± Alister sat in silence. ¡°Alright.¡±
2013 / 04 / 23 - Committed to the Fairview Hospital for Intensive Care after a mugging. Those words seared into Harry¡¯s mind - much like the alcohol he sipped. Harry sat at a desolate corner booth of a classic bar, the smell of cigarette smoke to him like air. He stared at nothing, not at the barkeep, washing the glasses, the customers, chattering away, or the imposing door. He was lost in his mind. Ron Smith. The murderer of Arnold Palmer. He¡¯d spent time at that hospital as well. It disturbed Harry. On one hand, it seemed to affirm what he¡¯d been thinking the whole time - that somehow, the murders were linked. But so far, no ribbons had come together to shape a tie. Loose threads, all hanging loose in the air, simply gathered, no connections visible. But now, there was a possible connection. Alister Moore had spent time in the same hospital as Ron Smith, although years apart. Harry¡¯s hunch told him this had to be pursued, so he did. He researched the other possible linked murders - and to his surprise, found that all murderers had spent some time in hospitals across the country. Truthfully speaking, this hadn¡¯t been much to go by. People got sick or hurt all the time - hell, George had spent time in the Fairview Hospital. And yet, he hadn¡¯t killed anyone, and neither was he part of some nefarious conspiracy. So he waited in that bar. Both Alister¡¯s and Ron¡¯s documents in hand, he waited patiently for his contact to arrive. Although ¡®contact¡¯ felt a bit contrived for this person - a childhood friend. Soon enough, a middle-aged man strut into the bar. He glanced about, but rested his eyes when he found Harry in the corner booth. Smiling, he made his way towards Harry. Slipping out of his jacket, the middle-aged man took a seat. ¡°Hey, Harry.¡± He said, offering Harry a firm handshake with a grin. This man was Ronald Davis, a doctor.