Chapter 8: Chapter 6

The warehouse smelled of death, no different from the rest of the slums. Even the corpse wasn’t truly a surprise, nor the brutal way it had been torn apart, unrecognizable at first glance. What did surprise Colin, however, was the other body. Burnt black and wholly untouched.

Crouching next to the unburnt body, Colin pat down what remained of the man’s – or maybe a woman? – possessions. Lint, some loose bolts and screws, and a single, iron coin. Upon closer inspection, Colin noted the crude engraving, flipping the coin between his fingers. “What is it?” He asked, feeling Caitlin’s glare move to his back.

“Obviously an ugly ass coin, rum-for-brains,” she replied, crossing her arms.

“At least your eyes work,” Colin said drily. “Now maybe we could check the sarcasm for a minute, and you can answer my question properly.”

Biting her lip, Caitlin shrugged. “Just... feel like I’ve seen it before, is all.” She wandered off, deeper into the warehouse.

Sighing, Colin pocketed the coin. Worth keeping as evidence, at the very least. Upon closer inspection of the body, he noted the size of the claw marks, roughly the same as the one’s from the first body. This one retained some semblance of once having been human, opposed to the mess of gore from before. “Is it feeding more, or just picky?” Colin muttered.

Looking around, he spotted Caitlin slip a pocket watch into her own pocket, the act lacking subtlety. Pilfering or hiding evidence? The detective shrugged the notion away.

Pushing himself to his full height, he made his way towards the other body, crouching over it. The charred remains looked like another male, their frame too big to be a woman. “Unless we’re dealing with giants, I suppose,” Colin mused under his breath. “Maybe a mutant? No notable deformities, so... three male victims so far. Is this a pattern, or coincidence?”

“You going crazy, or there a reason you keep talking to yourself over here?” Caitlin leaned in, staring at the body over Colin’s shoulder.

He waved her off, “Just thinking out loud. Helps me concentrate. Besides, I usually have a partner with me, so it’s a habit now.”

Caitlin hummed in response. “Well, you can talk to yourself all you want, but I don’t think there’s anything to learn from this mess.”

“On the contrary, there’s always something to be gained, long as you know what to look for.” Grunting, Colin pushed himself back up, cracking his back with his thumbs.

Caitlin’s eyebrow rose, scowl deepening. “Uh huh. Like what?”

“Like, for instance, the blood on the inside of the doors, indicating how the victim was slammed into it before being dragged away.” He walked over to the warehouse’s doors, leaning towards the large handle. “Or how the marks in the dust outline his fingers, yet the doors were reported to be closed until someone found the body. This tells us that the door was probably locked as he tried to make his escape.”

Looking from the door to the gore pile, Caitlin frowned. “You’re saying someone trapped him in here to be eaten?”

“It’s a possibility, at least. Maybe there was a second person who escaped, and just shut the door behind him. But given that the body will be...” He pointed vaguely at the rotting meat pile, “Difficult to identify, finding any acquaintances could be impossible. So, I’ll assume the former.” Taking a final look around, the detective made his way outside. “Come on, we’ve got some things to check.”

Caitlin’s padded steps followed him out.

* * *

The Warehouse District’s scriptorium sat in a state similar to the others, its walls in poor repair, broken windows hastily covered in canvas to fight off the constant smog fighting its way in. Colin stared at the broken pair of gargoyles sitting on the sides of the front steps. Was this place nice once, before the mines and the sickness took over, he wondered.

Glancing down, he caught Caitlin glaring at the two Enforcers standing guard before the entrance, her teeth grinding together. The detective shrugged as he made his way up the steps, nodding to the two. One was like the Enforcers he’d met only a few days prior, hunched and brutish, the other the stature of a normal man, a high-end gas mask clinging to their face.

The Enforcer pair eyed the two as they passed, their gazes lingering on Colin’s gun and sweat-stained clothes. Thumbs scratched against brass stocks as the mismatched doors opened.

The inside was somehow worse than the outside, with too many desks and not enough people to man them, the hunched figures scratching out endless lines of ink. Ceramic tiles reflected nothing but the dust covering them, mold pushing the steps up before being crushed back down under shuffling feet. Bare soles in faded robes crept around, collecting sheafs once their contents were completed, slinking off to the archives below.

“Depressing,” Caitlin muttered.

Colin raised his eyebrow, sidling past two of the barer desks. “First time here?”

The girl scowled, her taut skin wrinkling around pale lips, eyeing down a shaking scribe as she passed. “Not a suit, Enforcer, or whatever the hell these poor bastards are, so yes.”

“Never been taken in for assaulting an Enforcer?” Colin’s smile rose slightly as Caitlin’s scowl deepened.

“I’m not stupid enough to attempt that. Unlike you, Enforcers don’t take prisoners. You follow their rules or get shot, it’s as simple as that.” She growled as a menial scooched past, collecting another sheaf from a desk next to her.

The detective rolled his eyes, reaching the stairs in the back. “Well, good to know you can hold yourself back when you want to.”

Dust puffed out with each step, the stairs not having known the boon of a mop in many years. Caitlin hacked a horrendous cough, hands on her knees as she spit up dust back onto the steps. “Ugh... worse than the factories.”

They hit the second floor trailing dust clouds, particles fluttering back down to the steps to later assault the lungs of other would-be visitors. Scuffed floors squeaked under Colin’s shoes, sweat soaking his back, the hallway stuffy, the air humid and stale.

Doors lined the way, mismatched and in poor repair, different metals rusting and woods rotting away. A steel door patched several times with bolts and sheet metal stood near the end, a plaque rubbed smooth from time dangling on a single bolt next to it.

“What are we doing here?” Caitlin finished dusting herself off.

“Learning.” Colin knocked several times, denting sheet metal while rust flakes gathered on the floor.

“Who’s there?” The voice from within dripped like honey, without the telltale signs of rotting lungs or dry throat so common amongst the inhabitants of Ebonpoint’s slums.

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"It’s me, you damned gnome!”

The room sat quiet for a moment, a long sigh breaking the silence. “Come in, detective.”

Colin threw the door open, rocking on its hinges as it swung wide and banged into the wall, rattling the room. “Long time no see, George.” The detective greeted, a strained smile plastered across his face.

“Not long enough, if you ask me, Detective Black.” Behind a steel desk, its surface hidden beneath piles of parchment, sat a well-groomed man in a rumpled gray suit. His five-o-clock shadow outlined a square jaw, facial hair the same light brown as his full head of wind-swept hair. Zone 13’s head scribe, George Brickman, cupped his oversized head in a stubby hand, the other gripping a charcoal pen like a toddler holds a colouring stick. “What can this humble scribe do for you this time?”

Colin crossed his arms, standing only a single step past the doorframe. “Access to your records, as always.”

Caitlin peered into the room, peeking her head in from behind Colin’s back.

“How exciting. And what do you-” George’s mouth hung open, blue eyes locking onto Caitlin. “My, my, who’s this now? A half-breed? Hanging around with a suit? Now this is an interesting bit of company you’re keeping, isn’t it?” Shimmying out of his seat, George disappeared behind his desk, coming back into sight as he waddled around the industrial furniture. One of his legs had been replaced with an iron pegleg, the dwarf’s unnatural gait banging the prosthetic noisily against the ceramic floor.

Caitlin looked down, growling as the scribe put a hand out.

“Now, now, no need to go baring your teeth.” He retracted his hand, putting it against his chest. “The name’s George Brickman, and you my dear, are the most interesting thing to walk through this door in a mighty long while.” George turned his head back up to Colin. “Please, tell me the whole story. I deserve a good tale once in a while.”

* * *

George led the way into the archives, oil lamp held above his head, shadows dancing against the moss-covered walls. He harrumphed, “A far less entertaining story than I was hoping for there, Colin.” The scribe glanced over his shoulder, watching Caitlin stalk them from afar, just on the edge of sight. “Surprising, but no replacement for a good book or bar tale.”

Colin rolled his eyes, footsteps echoing down the long tunnel beneath the scriptorium. “Well, sorry that the murder of several people and a burnt corpse don’t tickle that writer’s itch of yours. But I’m here to do a job, not be your court jester.”

“A jester would be finer company,” George muttered. “Your girl’s a quiet one, you know that?”

“She’s usually a lot more raucous. Guess you smell bad or something.”

“We all smell bad. It’s the culture.” George huffed, but sniffed his armpit nonetheless. Then he stopped, Colin almost toppling over him. “Here we are.” They stood before a large door, iron frame and wooden boards, the door’s rung hanging in the middle of the entrance. George turned and motioned at the door. “Well? What are you waiting for? Open the damned thing, and let’s get your info.”

Caitlin rejoined them, eyes darting between the two men as they glared at one another. “Um...”

Colin broke eye contact, pulling the door open and stepping into the darkness within.

“Hey, I said to open it, not rush ahead!” George called, waddling after him.

“Then keep up!” He shouted back, eyes adjusting to the darkness, and the hundreds of lit candles flickering around the room. Like a bloody dungeon, all of them, Colin thought. “Doesn’t a servile usually take care of this part anyway?

Huffing, George took the lead again, shaking his head. “They do, typically, but I was bored.”

“A model employee,” Colin said flatly.

“And a damn pretty one too!” George declared, marching for a specific shelf. “Now, just to be doubly sure before I go digging through this mess: you’re looking for a deed of ownership for which warehouse?”

“Seventeen.”

“Ah, right then. Give me a few minutes.” George set his lantern on the floor before a shelf, glancing at pages as he fluttered through them, grumbling to himself. “Eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve... Fifty-six? Out of place, damn it all... Ah, here it is!” The scribe pulled two sheets from the shelf, placing one to the side as he moved the out of place document into its rightful place. Huffing, he picked up his lantern and other sheet, stomping his way to the detective while waving the paper before him. “Warehouse seventeen, owned by someone I don’t care to know!”

Snatching the deed, Colin leaned forward, catching the light of George’s lantern. The deed was old, hand-written, lacking the modern touch of documents passed around in the city. Squinting, he read the old ink. Warehouse 17 sat at the top amidst long lines of legalese, the name Butch Letterman scrawled at the bottom.

Colin huffed. “Butch Letterman. Ring any bells? Know where they live, maybe?”

George took the deed back, slapping it down on a nearby table. “Course not, you gear-head! But I do know how to find them. Just sit tight while I find what you need.” And with that, the dwarf wandered off towards another shelf, grumbling to himself as he searched through countless documents.

Caitlin shuffled up next to Colin, her voice barely a whisper. “This mostly what you do? Look at corpses and have weird men dig out papers for you all day?”

Colin shrugged, dropping his voice to match hers. “It’s a peaceful life, until someone runs, or starts hitting you with chairs.” He cocked a smirk, letting it fall as he glanced down at her neutral face. “Not much for jokes, are we?”

Crossing her arms, half-webbed fingers digging into her biceps, Caitlin glared at the detective. “You chased me into my home with guns drawn. Hitting you with a chair was called for.”

Biting his tongue, Colin let the silence stretch for several minutes until George came back with several papers in his hand, scratching his head.

“Okay, so slight problem,” George started. “This Butch Letterman? He’s, uh... dead.”

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