Conversation · The Deserter

Wait, motive, why?

Quick, a motive, while the iron is still hot. Get one out of him.

Wait, motive, why?

He could say he was taking the fall for someone. Disoriented, tortured. It's useless in court without a motive, don't mess this up...

Yeah, yeah, shush!

No, not shush! He could say he was taking the fall for someone. Disoriented. Tortured. It's useless in court without a motive, don't mess this up...

"Do you understand you're confessing to murder -- to a police officer?"

"Yes." A single word is all he gives.

"I just nailed you. Me. Fucking me -- this sorry cop."

"Adolescent imbecile..." He squints.

"Boom -- I got you. Me, the most boring cop on Earth."

"Boom -- the revelation."

"I just fuckin' nailed you. Supercop of Jamrock."

"God damn right I did. I just nailed you."

"Adolescent imbecile." He squints.

"How did you..."

Just nod.

"On second thought -- about something else..."

"Figured." He sighs and holds his lower abdomen. A flash of pain there... it angers him.

"So you shot him?"

"Oh the inhumanity..." He closes his black eyes. "One paramilitary less in Revachol." You can almost see him squeeze a tear out of his eye. His fists begin to tremble from the anger.

"He was a killer. But he was still under the protection of the law."

"He was a soldier too. He was a man."

Tie up every loose end, now. There's no other chance.

This pushed him, but not enough... just a little more...

"That's the murder weapon down. I've got more on you."

"Murder..." The old man does not say more -- he just glances into the reeds and then twitches once more...

"Don't talk to me about Kim!"

"I know what it feels like. I lost people because I was weak too."

"We saved a lot of them -- Alain, uhm, and that musician... we handled it."

"Like fuck you did. I watched it happen, you let those beasts rip right into them. You got that girl killed like it was nothing."

"Like fuck you did. You didn't handle anything. I watched it happen, you let those beasts rip right into them. Got the fat kid killed, the old man too."

"Stop changing the subject -- we have the murder weapon." (Point to it.)

"You know what... You're right. I'm convinced this made the shot. Should we call it?" The lieutenant looks at the weapon demonstratively.

(Dramatically ask.) "You think we have the murder weapon?"

"4.46 jacketed ammunition, modified for range," he lists. "We have it. This is it."

"I'm calling it: we have the murder weapon."

"Good..." The lieutenant takes out his notebook and draws a single line.

"This feels good, doesn't it? Tying things up like this -- when you have the murder weapon, you have the killer."

"You look like imbeciles. Why don't you ask them to give you real weapons?" He chortles. "Going against automatic rifles with these toy guns... of course you got those boys killed!"

"It's a real gun," he points at the lieutenant's sidearm, "not like your musketeer pistols."

"Got nothing to say about that boomstick, huh? You chokin'? That's the stick that did it!"

"Yes, it's a real gun, not like your little musketeer pistols. I've seen you prance around with those, jumping hoops for the liberals..."

"It's a real gun, not like the little musketeer pistols you RCM fasces have."

You know peacetime laws in Moralintern-affiliated nations forbid it -- it's a rarity.

"Looks to me like it could be used for a long range shot."

"It's a rare weapon. I've got you with this one. No one else has these."

"I've done the ballistics." (Point to the tower.) "The shot came from this island."

"I saw you poking around there, looking for evidence. You're damn diligent when it comes to dead fasces." A jitter passes him: "Did you like the view?"

"You had direct visibility. There are embrasures in the concrete, specifically meant for a topfaller to use. And you had a long range rifle in your possession." The lieutenant softens his voice:

"You've been here a long time, Mr. Dros -- too long. You clearly need medical aid..."

"I'm ready to die," the man interrupts him, then coughs: "I've done my part."

He's practically admitting to it: dead fasces -- for fascist -- done his part.

Just one thing remains unclear: the rifle does not seem to have a scope.

"It's the best uninterrupted line of sight into that window in all of Martinaise."

"Because it's a sniper's nest, you stupid fuck. Radio Gauche is right, you have worms in your brain..." Another sudden twitch, then one more one in his right eye...

A spasm of rage, sudden and uncontrollable.

Leave no stone unturned! Get him on what matters most!

Almost! He almost burst out there. Keep piling arguments, anything...

"You said fasces? You're admitting you killed him?"