Conversation · Kim Kitsuragi

This is not how vivid I want my inner life to be. I just want to get back to solving the crime now.

SHUT UP, FUCK-MIDGET!

I have no idea what's going on here, but you should not do anything that the horrific necktie tells you to do.

"Uhm... detective?" He's staring at you as you clutch your necktie.

Say: "Everything fits. We should celebrate by getting absolutely UNDER THE HAMMER in this yard."

"Uhm..." His face is one of disbelief. The words coming out of your mouth are filled with such sincerity.

The lieutenant doesn't understand what's happening right now. You're twisting at your tie, looking sweaty even by your standards. He needs to say something.

"Yes, it was naive of me to congratulate us. Assumptions are dangerous." He looks around. "Do you see anything else?"

Say: "I'm experiencing a mild malfunction, lieutenant. Something to do with my tie. It'll pass, can you hold on for a moment?"

The lieutenant looks at you curiously. A beat passes in silence, the wind blowing, the cargo belt squeaking.

The lieutenant doesn't understand what's happening right now. You're twisting at your tie, looking sweaty even by your standards. He needs to say something.

"I agree," he clears his throat. "Our assumptions could be wrong. Better not to have them confirmed just yet. Do you see anything else?"

I like how vivid my interior is, but could we maybe do something that doesn't involve getting drunk?

REGARDEZ LA RETARD! He wants to have fun without alcohol. That won't be fun, that'll be boring and sad.

I'll find a way to get drunk on this scene, I swear to god I will.

OH YEAH BABY! FUCK THIS PLACE UP!

That's not going to happen, I'm not letting him make it into one of his tasks. Know your limits, tie-creature!

"Do you think there's something we're missing?"

"We should just generally withhold being content. With life. It's a philosophical disposition we should have."

His eyebrows arch. They are the liveliest part of his otherwise quite inexpressive face:

"Is that so? Well, okay I guess. If it helps with the police-work, by all means. Do you see anything else?"

"Yes. We should have another look at the tracks."

"Mhm. If it fits too well, we might be missing something. What do you see?"

"No. Everything fits too well."

"It does." He looks around. "I shouldn't have assumed in the first place. The caller could have lied, the whole thing could be misreported. Should we take another look? Or go?"

Say nothing.

The lieutenant looks around, tracing your eyes on the tracks.

Isn't it strange when all your assumptions are confirmed like this? Stood in a semicircle, hung him, carried him over... like you're supposed to be feeling clever. And content.

"What do I think?" He tilts his head. "A mob of people brought someone to the tree. Not by dragging -- probably by carrying him."

"How old do you think these tracks are?"

"A week maybe? Seven days would fit the time frame provided to us by the caller, who reported the hanging."

It is not impossible.

"How do you know?"

"As I said, I pulled last week's forecast for coastal Revachol. Seven days below freezing. The day before his hanging was the last warm day."

Correct again. Sub-zero temperatures would preserve the tracks in a good state. The commotion here could have taken place a week ago.

"I pulled last week's forecast for coastal Revachol. Seven days below freezing. The day before -- the day of his hanging -- was the last warm day."

There are eight pairs of tracks in the mud. Three stick out, but...

...you won't get far without the lieutenant here to bounce thoughts off of -- where could he be right now? The asphalt passing underneath the front wheels of his motor carriage at a high speed...

Eight pairs of boots have shuffled back and forth in the mud.

Go over them one by one.

1) Standard work boot, steel reinforced toes, no 46. Just like Titus was wearing in his booth. This is the big dick -- Titus Hardie. The one with the ball cap on his head.

Interesting.

Is it? They didn't even bother to change boots. Putting them on the scene is easy; maybe even too easy.

Continue counting.

2) Standard work boot, steel reinforced toes, no 44. Either the blond muscular guy, Glen, or the young guy with a plectrum around his neck.

3) Hobnailed work boot, steel reinforced toes, no 43. The inked banger perhaps?

4) Standard work boot, no 45 or 46... Theo, the old smoker. You think you even see a tiny fleck of cigarette ash inside the print...

What else?

5) Another standard work boot, reinforced toes, no 44. Same as before -- either the musician Eugene, or the muscle-bound blond Glen.

6) Light as air. Same make of boot, but no 41. Small like a rat? Shanky!

I'm pretty good at this, ain't I?

You're not bad. It's as if the whole world darkens -- and the tracks burn in it with strange beauty.

Count the rest.

7) The glowing outline of a standard work boot, no 46. The imprints are twice as deep as the others -- the weight exceeds 200 kilograms. Fat-Angus -- carrying something?

And the last one?

8) Another standard work boot, no 44. There's an aberration in the pattern of the sole. The right sole is smoother, more worn. Curious... A missing eighth Hardie boy.

"Seven sets of tracks, right?" The lieutenant has been tracking your eyes' movements. "The Hardie boys were here..."

"Eight, actually."

"That so? Interesting. Then one of them seems to be missing. Anything else out of the ordinary?"

Note to self: this would be a good question to ask Titus -- where's the eighth man?