Chapter 9: Chapter 7

“Not really the news I wanted, or needed to hear today, if I’m being completely honest.” Colin pinched his nose, breathing deep through his mask’s filters. 

"Makes sense why there was nothing in the warehouse, at least.” Caitlin shrugged. “Do they... do they mark your death on a deed?” 

“Of course not, that would be ridiculous.” George waved around the stack of papers in his hand. “I decided to pull out his records while I was over there and found his residency papers. But then I couldn’t find them, which usually means they’re either dead or homeless. Given that this man owned a warehouse at one point, I assume he had enough to afford his own place. So-” 

“So you found his death certificate, we get it.” Colin threw his hands into the air. “Okay, so that’s a dead end. Where can we go from here? Are there any details on how he died?” 

George shuffled through the stack of papers, “Says it was a heart attack. And no, there’s no coroner’s report, so don’t bother asking.” 

Resting his hands on the nearby table, Colin sighed. “Any business associates? Did he even have a business? How did he get the coin to rent a warehouse?” 

“No, yes, and he ran a small operation fixing stuff. Defective gas masks, coveralls, stuff like that.” George read through his papers, a rote list of information. 

“Any kin?” Colin grabbed his lighter, thumb rubbing the etched rose. 

George hummed, “A daughter. Want me to pull her file for you?” 

“Please.” Colin glanced at Caitlin, his smile strained. “See? Always a lead to follow, long as you know where to look.” 

* * * 

Colin’s headlights cut through the hazy streets, green smog tinting the old buildings, Romanesque stylings of old mixing with the newer, gothic structures. He glanced over, the slightest smirk playing at his lips, smoke drifting from his lit cig and filling the buggy. 

Caitlin wore his gas mask, resistant to the slums’ toxins and the cancerous effects of the burning nicotine, but unable to stand its acrid scent. “I see you laughing at me,” she said. 

Turning his eyes back to the road, Colin shrugged. “Not laughing at all, though it is funny. Didn’t know a ghoul’s sensitive nose passed on to its progeny.” 

Caitlin turned the smoggy lenses on the detective. “Assume for a second that I dunno what that means.” Her voice grated through the mask’s thick rubber, an already scratchy voice twisting into static. 

“Means you’re its kid.” Colin tensed as Caitlin did, biting down on the cig’s paper skin as she growled. 

“I’m not its... I just don’t like the smell.” She said no more, turning from Colin. 

The silence stretched once again, and Colin wished for the comfort of his radio, the buggy’s rumbling engine the only sound to fill the quiet. Buildings whizzed by, curtains drawn and lights scarce, jealous eyes peering from unseen nooks and crevices. 

Colin slowed the buggy down, cruising by a line of apartment complexes. Iron grating covered windows, while doors patched with wooden boards and metal stayed barred from the inside. Whatever names the streets might have had at one point were left in the dust, signs stolen for their metal, leaving rigid coordinates and sector numbers the only ways to keep track of where any person or thing resided. 

He brough the buggy to a stop, parking in front of a red-washed brick building, a flickering lantern hanging above the front door. “Come on, let’s get this over with.” Colin snuffed his cig, putting his hand out. 

Caitlin stripped the mask off and plopped it in his open palm, flicking the latch and throwing the door open before he strapped it on. 

Sighing, Colin slipped the mask over his head, adjusting the straps. “Kids these days...” Stepping from the metal shell, shoes splashing a puddle, he watched Caitlin pace in front of the building’s door, glancing at him and nudging her head at the entrance. “So skittish, I swear,” He muttered, making his way towards the complex. 

Silence haunted the streets, the air too toxic even for the rats that scurried within the walls, muffling even the echoing steps of Colin’s leather soles. A trio of stone steps led to the front door, a chain looped around an iron peg keeping it shut, the handle missing its latch. 

Unlooping the chain, Colin let the door swing inward, stepping inside, hand hovering over his revolver. 

“You can relax,” Caitlin said. “No one’s gonna attack you. If they wanted to die, they’d do it themselves.” She looked around as she walked past him. 

Yellow wallpaper peeled off stone walls. The carpet, once white and pristine, grew mold at its edges, covered in gray and brown splotches that squished underfoot. Tinted windows acted as canvasses for dozens of scratches and cracks, thin streams of smog sneaking in through the gaps. Doors lined the connecting quadrant of hallways, wrapping around the square building, thin walls separating compact rooms. 

A set of stairs stood opposite the front door, its steps covered in a garish green rollout carpet, thread-bare and smattered with holes. The stairs lacked a proper railing but were so tight that they didn’t need one, Colin having to duck as he went under the low-hanging ceiling. 

The second and third floors were in similar repair, the two ignoring the moans and wails echoing from behind closed doors. A man, bereft of clothing and sanity, scratched at one door, screaming incoherently. He began gnawing on the doorknob as Colin went up another flight, losing sight of him. 

The fourth floor looked almost the same, but somehow in even worse shape. Several of the doors stood shattered, still on their hinges but missing large chunks. Only a handful of doors remained whole, all solid steel or iron, rust creeping in around the old corners. 

“You think she’s alive?” Caitlin peered into one of the open rooms, scowling before backing away. “Don’t look in there.” 

By the smell coming from the room, Colin didn’t need to. “I dearly hope so. Would rather not have this case go cold on me.” Pulling out his pocketbook, he flipped to the latest page, squinting at the smudged ink. Room 413. He looked around, seeing no indications as to which room was which, dust forming rectangles next to the doors where plaques would have displayed that particular information. “Great,” he muttered. “Guess we’ll have to go door to door and ask around.” 

“Great idea,” Caitlin said, poking her head into another room before closing the door. “Don’t look in there either.” 

Rolling his eyes, Colin made his way down to each room, holstering his gun. Most were empty and abandoned, furniture shattered, and silverware bent, nothing of value left to sift through. Several rooms smelled raunchy, and he avoided those. 

The first door came up and he knocked. Feet shuffled and voices whispered from inside, Colin pushing his ear against the metal to listen. A man’s voice mixed with a woman’s, both deep and angry. Colin knocked again. “I can hear you in there! My name is Colin Black, I’m with the EDP.” The room fell silence and Colin knocked again. “I’m looking for room four-thirteen! Is this it?” 

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Silence stretched out for a few moments before the man’s voice echoed from behind the door. “Other side, three doors down. Now leave us alone!” 

Colin looked behind him, another door still intact. “Thank you,” he called out, walking away as the two voices began arguing. Catching Caitlin’s eyes from down the hall, he motioned her towards him. 

Pounding down the hall, she stopped just short of the detective. “You find her?” 

“About to.” Colin knocked on the new door, the steel stained from time but untouched otherwise. “This is Colin Black with the EDP. I’m looking for Alexia Letterman. Open up!” 

Silence. 

Colin knocked again, sighing. “I’m not here to hurt you, I just want to talk about your father.” He stepped back as several locks unlatched, the door clattering against each one. 

The door slipped open, just a crack, a pair of golden eyes staring out beneath dirty brown hair. “You’re... not an Enforcer?” 

Putting on his best smile, Colin stripped off his gas mask, tipping his hat. “Well, I sure hope I’m a tad prettier than they are, at least. Can I assume that you’re Alexia?” 

She nodded. The girl was young, no older than seventeen, the bags under her eyes a deep gray, opposed to the pitch black that haunted the older residents. Looking at Caitlin, she bit her lip. “Why are you looking for my dad?” She glanced around, eyes flitting down one end of the hall to the other. 

“Do you mind if we talk inside?” Colin prompted, motioning past Alexia with his hat. 

Sweat trickled down the girl’s face, fingers digging scratches into her door. Her eyes switched between Caitlin and the empty hallway. “I, uh... I don’t-” 

“I’ll wait out here,” Caitlin declared, turning her back and taking a few steps away, jaw clenched. 

Frowning, Colin nudged his head in Caitlin’s direction. “Is it alright if we come in? Both of us? I promise she’s no threat to you. She’s helping with my investigation, actually.” He cut Alexia off with a raised hand. “The reasons of why are confidential, but I assure you that no harm will come to you.” 

Visibly relaxing, the young girl opened her door wider. “Please, uh, come in.” 

* * * 

Her apartment was cleaner than Colin expected. A small coffee table sat in the middle of the room, its surface beaten and scratched but still in one piece, holding a pair of pewter cups. An old couch with a floral pattern, pink and blue roses, fit snugly against the wall, a threadbare blanket and flat pillow laying atop its rumpled cushions. 

An empty flower vase sat before the only window, the glass cracked but taped whole, the view obstructed by the hanging smog and not by any grating. To the left was a small kitchen, half a meter of tiled flooring with small cupboards and a dull sink. Candles were the only source of light. 

“Can we, um, make this quick?” Alexia never stopped fidgeting, her fingers working knots around themselves, gripping at the burlap dress hanging from her scarred shoulders. 

“I promise this won’t take long,” Colin put his hat on, and hooked his mask across his holster. Taking his pocketbook and pen, he flipped to a fresh page. “Just a few questions and we’ll be out of your hair. First, I’m aware that your father passed away a few months ago, but the details of his death are vague. Could you possibly enlighten me as to what happened to him in greater detail?” 

“My father, he... he got into an accident. He, um-” 

Colin raised an eyebrow, writing along as she spoke. “An accident? With who? A stranger, or maybe a customer?” 

Swallowing hard, she continued. “Uh, yes! With- with a customer... They were looking to have something repaired. Something, um...” Licking her lips, she glanced at Caitlin, who was absentmindedly pacing around the apartment. “Dangerous.” 

Colin nodded along, “A weapon, perhaps?” 

Alexia’s mouth hung open for a second, mouthing some words to herself. “Yes, a weapon, that... that sounds right. My father, he is- was, a very... kind man. He said he wouldn’t fix the, um, weapon. And then they- they...” She wiped her eyes with the back of her arm. “They came back a few days later and... and killed him” 

“I see,” Colin glanced at Caitlin, who was rolling her eyes behind the other girl. “I’m sorry to hear such a gruesome thing happen to your father. Please, take a minute to compose yourself, as I do have other questions.” Pulling a handkerchief from his coat pocket, he handed it over to the girl. 

Sniffing, Alexia nodded, taking the handkerchief and wiping her face. “Right... um, thank you.” 

“Of course.” 

They stood together in silence, until Alexia gathered her composure, nodding for Colin to continue. 

“Okay, so I’m aware that Mr. Letterman ran a little repair shop. Was it a large shop, perhaps?” Colin tapped his pocketbook a few times, lazily scanning his eyes across the room. 

“N-no. My father’s shop was quite... small. Only a bit bigger than this room.” Alexia motioned vaguely around them. “W-why?” 

“Well, as it turns out, he owned a whole warehouse, all to himself.” Colin noted down the change in Alexia’s expression, her face scrunching up. She was confused. “And yet, I have trouble understanding why he would need such a thing, or even how he could afford such a thing running a small business. Especially, well, down here.” 

“I... I don’t understand.” A strength flooded Alexia’s voice that she hadn’t held a moment before, her eyes sharpening. “My father never owned a warehouse.” 

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