Conversation · Titus Hardie

"Guess what -- I've come upon something incriminating."

"Incriminating... now that's a big boy word." He puts his beer can down.

"You're involved. Somehow. I just don't have proof -- yet."

"Well..." He picks up his beer can. "Maybe you should just fuck off then?"

"What are you doing, officer?" He lowers his voice. "We had enough questions to keep this going."

You should have kept pushing if you had something.

"Don't worry," the lieutenant catches Titus's glance. "We're resourceful. We'll find a good topic for us to discuss."

We've hit a wall. Giving the body a more thorough look might give us some leverage. Just saying.

"I have spoken to the head of the Union."

"Evrart?"

"Yes -- him."

"And what did he tell you?" His eyes narrow. "That we killed him? That we took a cargo belt from the harbour, went out back, and used it to hang him?"

The man gets a strange gleam in his eyes. His fists contract as if going through the pulling motion again, savouring it.

He looks you dead in the eye. "Because we did. All of us together. I hope he told the story straight. I hope he told it well."

There's a catch hidden somewhere. He didn't confess so that you could take them all away. It's too simple.

"A-ha, so you just confess to murder?"

"Goddamn right, I..."

"No." The woman interjects. "These seven honest men have equally come forth. They told you what happened -- so that you don't waste any more of your time."

All -- seven -- together. They're diluting responsibility. It's an anti-arrest tactic.

They're playing to their considerable strength in numbers. Don't talk about arresting them. You'll only bring attention to your inability to do so.

"How did you kill him?"

"We hanged him up by his neck until he got real still. Wasn't that obvious, copper?"

"Didn't they teach you anything at the cop school, idiot?"

You're pretty sure you've had at least two years of cop school and many more of active service.

Certainly enough to not put up with this back-sass. Deliver a knock-down observation.

"The autopsy revealed the victim's hands were not tied. No signs of struggle. How do you explain that?"

"Uh... we, huh..." He looks even more irritated than before. "Look, I'm not gonna play Twenty Questions with you, coppo. I'll say it again: We killed him."

"Yeah, I knocked him out." The tattooed one speaks up, banging on his chest. "Came up behind him and clubbed him in the back of the head. He went down like a sack of sand."

"That's right, lawman." He spits through his teeth. "And then we hanged the fuck."

Make them a bit more uncomfortable first, then see if it all adds up.

Things aren't quite right here, are they?

Titus is solid as a rock, and so are a few others, but...

First, tell me who's solid?

Alain -- who looks like he might be Titus' right hand man. The least antsy of the bunch; definitely not his first time being questioned by the police.

This little rat-faced fellow is solid, too. Always fidgety, yes -- but no change there.

Him neither. Mostly keeps to his tomato juice, or whatever he's got there.

Tomato juice? Just tomato juice? A non-alcoholic tomato juice? What's the point of that?

Who's cracking under the pressure?

This one -- he's sweating profusely and has difficulty breathing. They've smartly kept him out of the conversation thus far. Definitely the weakest link in the chain.

A single sentence would wear him out. He can't take the length of the questioning. Keep it going long enough and he'll crack.

Actually, they're admirably -- surprisingly -- composed. The entire room. Given how many questions you've lobbed their way.

All of them? Maybe one of them is fidgeting, cracking under the pressure?

Well, this one -- but he's always fidgeting, so don't get your hopes up.

"Where did all this action take place?"

"Right fucking here." He spreads his hands. "Eugene already told you that the fuck had started coming to our bar..."

"Yeah, man, weren't you listening?"

They keep speaking for Titus so that he wouldn't get his hands muddy with too much explaining.

"Right fucking here." He spreads his hands. "The fucker started coming to our bar. Asking for it."

"How did you manage to overpower him?"

"With numbers, asshole, how do you think?" He looks at the woman. "You're right, Lizzy, I've done enough explaining here."

No, he hasn't. Not yet.

"Mr. Tatts, what did you use to knock the victim out?"

"My fucking elbow, copper." He looks you straight in the eye. "Samaran boxing-style."

He may be lying, but he's good at it. No twitching, no rushing, no uncalled-for details.

Samaran boxing, or Sam Bo, is an eloquently violent set of one-on-one fighting moves originating from the Samaran isola. Sam Bo style implies stealth, cleverness, and cool.

"Hey, you!" (Turn to the big guy.) "You having trouble breathing over there?"

"No." He looks up, startled, his forehead shiny from sweat. A few coiled locks are peeking out from under his warm woollen hat.

"Of course he's having trouble breathing -- just look at how fucking fat he is!" The man next to the big guy bursts out laughing.

"Fuck off, Shanky," the big boss steps in. "Angus is a powerful guy. All muscle."

Keep your eye on this 'powerful guy'. Sooner or later he's going to break like a piece of twig.