"I found someone who saw the hanging. A witness."

They'll keep blocking this. Return to this subject later, when they've dropped their guard.

"There was a bullet in the dead man's brain," the lieutenant checks his notes. "Why was it there, if you hanged him?"

"This line of questioning is over," the woman interrupts. "You got the cause of death already. Hanging."

"If you hanged him, why was there a bullet in his head?"

"Surprise, Titus! I've connected you to the local drug trade."

"Like hell you have." He leans back, unruffled. "There is no 'local drug trade'. This place is as clean as a rifle. Go back to Jamrock and ask the local junkies how clean your streets are in Precinct '41-Kilos'."

"We'll do that. In the meantime," he points south, "did you know that there's an abandoned lorry at the intersection that was used to move raw ingredients for drugs from Terminal B to Jamrock?"

"We know Ruby was the driver. We know that's your affiliation with her." He taps on his notebook. "Detective, you want to deliver the coup de grace?"

"No, do the honour, you've earned it." (Nod at the lieutenant.)

"Thank you." He turns to face the man. "You're right, Titus. There is no local drug trade, because it's all controlled by you. You're the drug trade."

"That's a mighty interesting theory." He rubs his jaw, smiling. "I guess that's what you would need to do, theoretically. A big, strong, state run monopoly would out-compete the runts on the street."

"Yeah, man. Theoretically that's what you would do -- to get rid of the gangs, the dealers, even some of the junkies."

"You would need good, trustworthy people to take their place, of course. Hardy men to run such a monopoly." He grins. "For the good of the community, of course."

Yes, but that just sends everyone else to Jamrock, doesn't it?

"There's still plenty of drugs out there. In fact, I have some in my bloodstream right now."

"Enjoy your shitty ride, junkie-cop. We still have it under control. All you're doing is contributing to the local economy. It's just a little hitch."

"Yeah, there's always gonna be little sprouts. People find a way to make coin. But that's the little picture... Hardie boys are taking care of the big picture!"

"Theoretically, of course. We're just talking politics here. My answer to your drug accusation is: How dare you? Go fuck yourself!"

"Fine. I had other questions."

"What fucking questions?"

"And what about this Ruby? Is she the eighth Hardie who runs this thing for you?"

"You sure do love long walks through Theory Town, don't you?" the big guy asks, straightening his cap. "Well, I'm thirsty now. Thirsty for beer. Got any less theoretical questions, cop?"

He doesn't let it show, but must be a little impressed. You've put a lot of things together, fast.

He's practically saying: yes. A yes to everything you said.

This was good. Every little piece helps put the big puzzle together.

"Not quite yet, Mr. Hardie. There were eight sets of prints on the crime scene. There are only seven Hardie boys here."

"The eighth Hardie -- the one who's missing. She runs the thing, right?"

"My answer is: fuck off!" He takes a step closer. "Mind your own business. There is no eighth Hardie. I run this goddamn scene!"

Finally, you got something out of him. This could prove useful in the future.

"I know, I know!" The little man raises his index finger excitedly. "Fattie walked on all fours. He's so fucking fat he left two sets of footprints."

Despite everything, the little man is quick on his feet.

"Go fuck your mom, Dennis."

"That's more like it, boys." She turns to you. "You heard him, it was Angus on all fours. Anything else you need to know?"

"Aaaand here we go. Back to the usual." The woman sighs.

"This is disgusting. You're admitting to profiting off of poisoning your own people."

"Boo-fucking-hoo. People will always be taking drugs. Might as well do it clean and organized."

"Yeah, that's what the labour movement is all about. Clean and organized. And the Hardie boys are runnin' it."

"Yeah, keep telling yourself that. I know for a fact there's still plenty of drugs out there."

"No, there aren't. Some little shit and his dad are doing speed. Boo-fucking-hoo. The stuff's probably from Jamrock."

Little shit? That's Cuno in the yard.

"Whatever you've seen is peanuts. Look at the big picture, man. The place is a paradise -- and all thanks to Hardie boys!"

"You've just diverted the flow to Jamrock. You've made it our problem."

"We haven't done anything. But theoretically, it has to be someone's problem. So it might as well be yours." He takes a sip of his beer and smiles.

"I don't know," the big man says, swirling his beer can, "I guess theoretical things don't make me emotional. Now, I was sorta going to get my brewskie on."

"Titus, I'm amazed. Where is the same professionalism when it comes to other topics? You're doing great. I hardly have to interfere at all."

"I don't know, Lizzie. I guess theoretical things don't make me emotional." He turns to you. "Now was there anything else? I was sorta going to get my brewskie on."

"Good idea. People are always going to do drugs. At least this way you have some control over it."

"Thank you. Theoretically, of course. Thank you -- theoretically." He takes a sip of his beer and smiles.

He seems genuinely surprised at your response. In a good way.

"Forget it. I knew they'd never own up to it." (Back off.)

"Own up to what?" he shrugs. "Why don't you limp out of here, little detective, and keep your nose off my intersection."

"You're right, there is no local drug trade -- except you." (Point at Titus.)

"The person driving it was present at the hanging. It was one of you. We've connected the footprints." He taps on his notebook, then turns to you. "Detective, do you want to deliver the coup de grace?"

The thought forms in your head, like a lightning strike branching in the sky.

No, the thunder is his. Leave it to the lieutenant.

"Forget it. I knew you'd never own up to it." (Back off.)