Incident [TEXT]

Best to be affable about it.

“Of course. Shall we go?”

“Certainly,” says Redford. “Follow me.”

As the five of you head away from the greasy spoon, the others who haven't spoken fall into formation around you: the detective sergeant in front, one on either side of you and one at the rear. They're probably all sparkers, but you can't really ask what kind without sounding like you're trying to size them up. Which you are, but you'd rather not make it obvious.

They pause by a black car parked partly on the pavement, but only so that they can bundle you into the back seat. Two officers in the back, again flanking you, and two in the front. Redford drives.

You're not tempted by the silence the rest seem keen to enforce.

“Can I ask what happened last night that makes all this necessary?”

“No,” Redford replies curtly.

“It almost seems like you think I did something. Am I a suspect? That's not too strange, I suppose. Not only do I not have an alibi, you can place me at the scene of Dupont's murder about the time it happened. I even admitted it right off the bat. Isn't that marvellous? I bet you're all patting each other on the back for that one.”

“You're not being arrested.”

“Not yet.”

“Is that so? Any reason why we should?”

“No. But innocence doesn't ensure protection from the law. Justice is blind, after all. Maybe you think you've got something on me. I wouldn't know. I'd certainly like to.”

“That's not what 'justice is blind' means.”

“I like my interpretation more.”

He snorts and doesn't reply.

And so, despite your best efforts, silence reigns. You stare out the window instead. Fortunately, in some respects, as you suddenly realise something is off.

“Wouldn't it make more sense to go down Leif Street?” You ask as the car turns away from said street, taking you away from the Victraedis police station. You feel a stab of uncertainty as you realise the detective sergeant never showed you a badge. Nor did anyone else in this car, despite his claims. Just as your panic reaches the point where you consider attempting to dive out the door, Redford speaks.

“There was some unrest last night on the east side of the river. Leif Street leads straight through the worst hit area, so we're taking a slight detour. The Special Ability Branch are still cleaning up.”

“The mercenaries were dealing with it? Aren't riots more the business of the police?”

“First thing: Special Branch are not mercenaries. I have no idea why people call them that.”

“Yeah, sure. That's certainly the company line.”

“Second of all: it was sparkers. Didn't seem planned, but they were supporters of Number 6. That damn symbol in the sky set them off. Normal people rioting are bad enough.”

“I didn't hear anything about any unrest.”

He nods.

“Good. Special Branch are doing their best to contain it, which becomes a lot easier when you have an entire unit devoted to illusions. They're not intending to act like it never happened, but if they can keep it quiet now they stand to prevent the mess spilling out into other districts.”

“And yet you're telling me.”

“You're not a sparker. Not to mention the situation should have completely cooled down by the time we're done with you, if it hasn't already. At that point it doesn't matter who knows.” He shrugs.

You don't like the sound of that. Purposefully covering up the unrest seems like a poor choice. You didn't think Number 6 had that much support either. This entire situation makes you feel like you've badly underestimated a lot of things. The rest of the journey is spent in contemplation.

Thankfully Redford did seem to be telling the truth, and the circuitous route did indeed take you to the police station. From there it's merely a matter of going inside, emptying your pockets and being shoved in an interrogation room with a paper cup of water.

You've examined the wood grain on the table for the seventeenth time before someone comes in. Looking up at the noise, you see the police officer who questioned you yesterday. She drops a file on the table and sits down opposite you.

“I'm DCI Rosemary Drake. We talked yesterday.”

“I remember. Can you tell me what happened?”

“I'd just like to ask a few questions first. Clarify a few things, if that's alright with you.”

“Of course.” You don't really have a choice.

“Thank you. Regarding last night, did you speak to Alexander Dupont at all?”

“No. He was still alive when I found him, but didn't seem capable of speech. By the time I'd returned from calling emergency services he was dead. Or at least insensible. I didn't want to touch him to find out.”

“Had he moved at all during that period?”

“Yeah, he had. I remember thinking that maybe he had tried to crawl somewhere and passed out before he got very far. He was lying on his front. Previously he'd been on his back.”

“I see. You didn't talk to him on the phone before you arrived?”

“No. His niece said he would be expecting me at about 7PM. I didn't see any need to call in advance.”

“And you had never spoken to him at any other point prior to being given the case? You didn't know him from anywhere else?”

“No? Should I have done? The first time I saw him was when he was dying. Unless we had a very brief and inconsequential encounter I forgot about, I suppose. That doesn't seem too likely.”

“You say the niece told Dupont to expect a private investigator. She would have told him your name then?”

“I guess. No, wait. No...” You reply slowly, thinking about it. “No, I remember her saying that she'd told Dupont to expect a PI as soon as he got home from work, just after she'd found out about the death threats. At that point she hadn't decided who she was sending. I remember because she chose me for a completely inconsequential reason. We were both called Alex, or something like that.”

“So what you're saying is that there is no possible way that Alexander Dupont could have written your name in his own blood as he was dying?”

You blink at her.

“What?”