Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Monday, April 2nd, the year 51. 

It should have been like any other Monday morning in his life. Perhaps the main difference was the lack of a hangover and the accompanying migraine. But the anxiety was there, as if he was. 

Or, Harrier Du Bois reflected as he got into the shower, it was different. This was anxiety born out of uncertainty, not alcohol-induced paranoia. 

It was his first day back to work after he lost his memory. 

HALF LIGHT - This is rational. You know what a fuck-up you were! Your colleagues haven’t forgotten. They won’t LET YOU forget! 

VOLITION - Don’t listen to him, Harry. It will be fine. You haven’t been this put-together in years. Older colleagues will see it as a return to form, and the past year as an aberration. 

ESPRIT DE CORPS - Across the district, Satellite-Officer Jean Vicquemare is also getting ready for work. Today his partner will come back to work. He worries that the sobriety hasn’t held up, and that he’ll have to parry anger and violence again. He is anxious. 

“That really didn’t help,” Harry muttered. 

ELECTROCHEMISTRY - You know what does? A warm shower! Those are NICE. We like those! 

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT - Warm showers loosen muscles, release tension in sinews. 

He turned on the water flow and washed himself off, reflecting on the last three weeks of his ‘new’ life. Martinaise felt like an eternity ago. His weeks on leave had been filled to the brim with things to do, and he was surprised that his leg had healed as well as it had. The wound had closed, leaving a white scar on his thigh. 

His intense sessions with his trauma therapist, Madame Ribot, had done a lot for his mental state. 

LOGIC - Well, it is not JUST her. You have bounced ideas and thoughts off us too, you know. 

As he lathered his hair with shampoo, the smell of it made Harry think of Kim, and the first week he had spent there. Kim had been a wonderful host and friend, and had helped Harry get assistance to clean his apartment. Staying at Kim’s had also been… enlightening. He had gotten a glance inside Kim’s very private life. Kim had also turned out to be a great cook. 

Harry had just washed the suds out of his hair as he realised he had gone hard. 

“Uhm… Okay…” 

ELECTROCHEMISTRY - Look, I don’t have much to go on here, but it has been a very, VERY long time since this happened and I don’t think you should waste it. 

“So, what am I into?” 

ELECTROCHEMISTRY - Less talk, more doing. And don’t think. Just follow the oxytocine, baby! 

After finishing, Harry washed himself off again to remove any lingering smell and stepped out of the shower. 

ENDURANCE - That was pathetically fast. 

ELECTROCHEMISTRY - Can you be kind, just this once? He hasn’t done it in a long time. Cold furnace and all that. 

“Quick or not, that was nice. Now, do you think you could figure out what I am into?” 

ELECTROCHEMISTRY - You mean like a thought project? A thought project for kinks? 

“Yeah, exactly.” 

His mind went silent for a moment and then: 

ELECTROCHEMISTRY - Sure, why not. It’ll take all day, mind. Don’t do anything fun without me! 

When the fury retreated, Harry felt a cold settle over him that wasn’t caused by him having stepped out of the shower. This would probably make him more vulnerable in some way, but he couldn’t figure out what for the moment. 

He dried himself off and combed his hair back. His reflection looked back at him in the mirror, looking a lot better than it had on the 11th of March at the Whirling-in-Rags. There was still a slight redness to his nose, cheeks and ears, but the swelling of the cheeks had started to recede. The same could not be said of the nose though. 

VISUAL CALCULUS - It will probably take years of sobriety to make the flushing to leave fully, Harry. It is caused by burst capillaries, and they take a while to regrow. 

ENCYCLOPEDIA - Rhinophyma, the development of a large bulbous nose, has no scientific link to alcoholism and is considered a genetic predisposition amongst men of Occidental descent. This appears to be a milder case of that. So, I’m sorry Harry, but I think you’re stuck with that nose. 

He combed out his moustache and mutton chops as well as he could, thinking that he might need to buy a proper barber’s kit if he was going to keep them. He was clean-shaven on his badge, even if that picture probably was at least seven years old, possibly older. 

As he shaved his chin, touching up his beardline as he went, he got to thinking about Dora, and the phone call he made yesterday. He had slept really well, despite that call. His dreams were vivid, but he didn’t dream The Dream. That was good. 

VOLITION - I am very proud of you, Harry. Forgiving her like that, but I have a question, if you don’t mind? 

“Shoot, Crownie,” Harry said as he washed off the last of the lather from his face. 

VOLITION - You forgave her for leaving you. You said those exact words. Not for the abortion. Only for leaving you. 

Harry was silent for a moment, toweling off the last water from his chops as he considered his answer. 

“Because I don’t. I can’t. I can’t forgive her for that. That was a decision we should have made together.” 

EMPATHY - Her body, her choices, Harry. 

VOLITION -  I understand, Harry. Offering an apology under those circumstances would not have been sincere. 

The fury was right, of course. The fact that he knew she probably hadn’t intended to even have another try at a family, and that the pregnancy was unplanned in her case, was something he left unsaid. 

“It still hurts,” he muttered as he put on his watch, as always with the face on the inside of his wrist. He still hadn’t figured out why he did that. 

PAIN THRESHOLD - It will hurt for some time, Harry. But just like your leg, it will scab over and leave a scar. Scars can ache, but they aren’t dangerous and they remind us of our experiences. For good or ill. 

He hung the towel and got out of the bathroom to get dressed. In a decision to challenge how his colleagues, in particular Jean, saw him, he had decided to wear his lieutenant’s uniform. He had even opted for a darker tie. 

AUTHORITY - Good call. Put his demeaning expectations to shame. 

Just the issue of ties was something special. It turned out the horrific one was not entirely alone. Most of his ties were somber or more restrained in colour, but he did own some spectacularly colourful paisley ones. It was also the one clothing item he wasn’t running a shortage on. 

Most of his button downs had been beyond salvaging in terms of filth encrusted on them or weird stains from even weirder fast food sauces. The others he’d had to do away with had been too tight. He’d saved a few, to motivate him to lose some weight. As soon as he felt he was out of immediate recovery from his alcohol abuse, he would try to trim down a bit around the middle. 

Even though Harry knew there were no ex-alcoholics. 

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT - Motivation is good. Goals are good. But your immediate health is more important than a trim waistline. 

He really needed to buy some new shirts, either way. 

The uniform trousers went on, the fit perfect. He still wondered if he had them fitted recently. The commander’s jacket he knew to be a bit snug, but the trousers fit wonderfully. 

He had opted to mount his holster on the shoulder rig. He would take a moment later in the day to re-mount the holster on the waistband, as soon as he had his service weapon back. As it were, the empty leather holster could hide underneath his jacket. 

He’d bossed his black dress shoes last night, making them shine. If he was coming back, he’d be back in style. He slipped into them, and they felt a bit rough against his heel tendons. Not as comfortable as the disco snakeskins, but they were part of his uniform. 

ENDURANCE - What about the cavalry boots you have? They are both comfortable and fit the uniform. 

COMPOSURE - Another bonus: nice heels. 

“Because the boots aren’t part of the standard uniform. They belong to the equestrian uniform, and I haven’t owned a pair of cavalry breeches for ages.” 

CONCEPTUALIZATION - The mental image of you wearing tight cavalry breeches, considering your current physiognomy, is… disheartening and a bit ridiculous. 

“Thanks,” Harry muttered sarcastically as he shrugged on his uniform jacket. “It is usually the Coach who rides my ass on my weight problem. Novel to have the Art Snob join in the fun!” 

CONCEPTUALIZATION - Harry, I didn’t mean to- 

“Shut up!” Harry barked at them. “Could all of you just… shut up. For a day? Hmm? Or will I have to medicate myself to get your silence?” 

An uncomfortable mental quiet greeted him. He knew the furies deeply disliked when he took his anxiety medication, hydroxyzine. It shut them down for half a day and they all seemed oddly disoriented when the substance flushed from his system. The issue was that the medication also left him feeling a bit fuzzy. 

VOLITION - We only have your best interests at heart, Harry. We don’t want to harm you, not really. We are you, after all. 

“I know, Crownie,” Harry said as he buttoned his uniform jacket. It was indeed a bit snug. “It’s just… I’m nervous. And I want this to work. I want to show them that I’m not some washed-out old fuck-up. That my rank, my 18 years of service and over 200 cases solved still mean something.” He pulled the belt on, careful to not tighten it too hard and then put on his uniform cap. 

He looked himself over in the full length mirror in the hallway. That it had survived his drunken rampages was a small miracle. He couldn’t recall it from his first visit to his apartment following his return from Martinaise, but the rest of the apartment had been in such a terrible state that it blanked out any specific details. His nose tickled at the memory of the stink of it all however. 

The tall, broad-shouldered man that looked back at him did resemble a police officer, apart from his beard. That was incongruous, and Harry again considered shaving the mutton chops off. He could save a moustache, perhaps? 

CONCEPTUALIZATION - That would make you resemble the film star of a Vespertine police procedural. Not a bad idea, actually. 

The thought made Harry smirk. 

“Trying to make it up to me with flattery, huh?” he chuckled. “I’ll think about it.” 

He picked up the cane he had been using to help him get around the last few weeks. His left leg hurt a lot less than it had just a week ago, but longer walks left a dull ache along the thigh. The cane was somewhere between an affectation and an aid now. He also picked up his ledger and carried it under his left arm. He had a lot of old cases to commit to archival paper and finalize reports on. He was glad he’d taken an evening to pick through them in Martinaise, as it not only jogged a bit of his memory back but also gave him an insight into the man he had been before. 

He left his apartment and walked down to the tram station, to line 34 that would take him to central Jamrock, the market square and the old silk mill that served as Precinct 41’s headquarters. Rue de Maigret wasn’t that far from the intersection of Perdition and Main street, and the walk to Central Market just up Main wasn’t that bad either. But Harry figured it was unnecessary to wear on his leg before the day even started. 

He looked out at the buildings passing him by as the tram navigated its way downtown. Perdition Street’s red brick mass-housing three story apartment blocks gave way to the pre-Revolution five story stucco’s of Main. The plaster and colour was fading from most, and in places bullet holes still marked some buildings. But most still stood. 

ENCYCLOPEDIA - Main Street was the principal route for Coalition forces to travel during Operation Death Blow, as they established control over the area after landing at the beachhead in Martinaise. Main Street being a wide avenue facilitated this. The buildings were spared the worst shelling, as the Communards had already retreated from Jamrock when the Coalition rolled in. Pockets of anarchists remained, hence the bullet holes in places. They were quickly defeated. 

The large-leaved linden lining Main Street hadn’t begun budding their leaves yet, but he could see them forming. 

ENCYCLOPEDIA - The trees were planted by the Coalition in the early attempts to placate the citizens of Revachol West following the end of Operation Death Blow and the beginnings of the occupation. 

RHETORIC - Back when the Coalition and Moralintern wanted to give the impression that they cared about the poorer parts of Revachol. That passed quickly, as profit margins once again triumphed over the well-being of people. 

As he got off at Market station and started his walk to Precinct 41, Harry reflected that Jamrock, as far as his fractured memory could put together, seemed very much the same. Early spring had perhaps started to lend some colour to the surroundings, snowdrops and early buds of dandelions shooting up, the latter between the cracks in asphalt and concrete as they did. 

Harry felt a strange affinity with the dandelions. They pushed through enormous hardship, reaching up and producing wonderful blooms. For most people they were just weeds, but he liked them. 

Yes, Jamrock was as it always had been: rough and tumble, riddled with crime and poverty, but with just enough love and laughter and life to stay just above the waterline of despair. 

He, on the other hand, had changed so much in so short a time. 

And despite that here he was, an old dog seemingly incapable of doing anything else than returning to his old master. 

Well. 

Old dog, new tricks.

Chapter Text

Jean Vicquemare was waiting for him at the top of the stairs of the silk mill. He was fiddling nervously with his cigarette, because of course he was smoking. As Harry got level with him, he noticed a faint smell of horse beneath the nicotine smoke. Apparently Jean had popped by the stables as he arrived in the morning. 

“Good morning, Vic,” Harry said softly. “How are they?” 

Jean looked surprised. “How are who?” 

“The horses. You smell of them.” 

Jean got a strange look on his face; part curious, part utter surprise. “They’re uh… they’re fine! But… if you can smell that-?” He took a small sniff of his arm. “That’s real faint, Harry. Are your senses-?” 

“Coming back sharp.” 

Jean looked blank for a few seconds and then a smile broke on his face. It seemed genuine. “Merde, that means you have been sober for a while now!” The smile was soon replaced with a look that seemed very apologetic. 

“That came out wrong, Harry. I’m sorry.” 

“I know the odds are long, Jean. But I am trying. I won’t lie and say I don’t get the urge to drink from time to time. It happens, but I’ve resisted it so far. And to continue doing so, I’ll need the support of my friends and colleagues.” He put a hand on Jean’s shoulder. “That means you, Jean, amongst others.” 

Jean nodded and patted Harry’s hand reassuringly. Harry resisted the urge to pull away immediately. He waited a second and then lowered it. Jean had noticed the minute flinch however. 

“Still not comfortable with touch, huh?” he asked. 

“It’s reflexive. I can’t remember why. Nothing personal, Jean.” 

“It’s alright, Harry. Shall we?” 

Jean showed Harry through the entrance of the station, down the left side, past Administration and into the officers’ section. It was a separate part of the interior, the larger main hall dedicated to cubicles for the sergeants and patrol officers. There was one office for each wing and its accompanying two lieutenants. Jean led Harry over to the one marked C-wing and with the names LTN-2JFR DU BOIS and SAT-OFF LTN VICQUEMARE. 

“Welcome home,” Jean said as he opened the door and gave a little ironic flourish with his hand. 

The office was no larger than 9 square meters, with windows with drawn blinds looking out at the entrance. There were matching windows out towards the main hall and the corridor outside on the opposite side. A strange half-sofa was set against this wall, Harry couldn’t recall the name for the furniture type. The walls on the left and right were solid, covered in shelves full of reference literature and the files of unfinished cases or cold cases. Harry realised he had gone and pulled those out of the archives himself. No wonder he had burned himself out. 

There was a single pole coat-hanger by the door and he hooked his cane on it and placed his cap on top. 

In the middle of the room were two massive desks placed together at the leading edge, forming a large continuous area. Both were laden with cases and notes, and had an ash tray, a desk lamp and a leather desktop mat each. On one, pens were gathered in a mug, neatly, and on the other they laid in a bit of a tumble but still collected together in a neat pile. The same could be said for the paper work. There was a lot but it was in neat piles, but they were neater on the left side, the piles were higher on the right. A box with a blue and red ribbon on it was situated in the middle of the mess of folders on the right hand desk. 

It was easy to guess which desk belonged to whom. 

Harry approached the one with the larger piles and the box on the right and sat down. The chair felt very familiar and he knew this to be his desk. He put his ledger down by his side and picked up the box. 

“What’s this?” 

“It’s a ‘Welcome Back’-gift,” Jean said and sat down across from Harry. “From all of us at the Major Crimes Unit.”

Harry pulled the lid off. Inside was a complete beard maintenance kit with beard comb and brush, scissors, beard oil, shampoo, conditioner and balm. Harry picked up the bottle of shampoo and noticed the brand. Le Bûcheron. His mind kindly informed him that they were pricey. The entire kit must have run a good 100 reál. 

“I- Wow! Thank you!” Harry said, quite taken aback. 

Jean smiled knowingly. “We figured, if you’re going to keep the ‘chops, you might as well take care of them.” He pursed his lips. “It was Jude’s idea, actually. Your appearance in Martinaise and these last months must’ve struck a motherly nerve in her.” He fell silent for a moment, and regarded Harry before he spoke again. “I still think you should shave.” 

Harry put the box down next to his ledger. “The thought has occurred to me too. But now…” He looked at the kit. “I’m not so sure any more. How long have I had them?” 

“The mutton chops?” Jean gazed at the ceiling as he thought. “A year or so, I think? You grew them out before you bought the horrific tie and before you went completely disco. It looked like you were growing a full, Man-from-Hjemdall-style barbarian beard at first. Torson tried to imitate you and failed miserably because he has no beard-growth worth a shit; Chester just looked like a frizzy rat. They gave up. This was back in… ooh… January last year? Yeah, there about. No one questioned it, it was winter. Then one fucking morning you turn up with your chin shaved and with a green courderoy blazer in place of your uniform jacket.” 

Harry nodded to himself. “Did I look good with a full beard?” 

Jean cocked an eyebrow. “You looked like a Katlan barbarian. It didn’t help that you grew your hair out too.” He paused. “You did have a fair bit of grey hairs on your chin, that might have tipped the balance?” 

Harry shook his head. “I have grey hairs all over now, it hardly matters.” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “I think the sad truth is… I grew the beard because I didn’t care. At least until I got vomit stuck on my chin so often when drinking and shaving like this, I could play it off as being disco.” 

Harry caught the small flash of disgust in Jean’s eyes, before his partner clamped down on it. So Jean’s seemingly apologetic behaviour and change in how he acted towards Harry was just a front after all? The realization hurt. 

Before an uncomfortable silence could settle properly in the room, there was a knock on the door and Trant Heidelstam poked his head in. His smile sent a scurry of creases across his weather-beaten face. 

“Good morning, Harry! I’m here to inform you that Captain Pryce has requested to see you as soon as you’re able. He wants to personally welcome you back before the Monday debrief meeting and discuss a few things about your time in Martinaise. I don’t know what about exactly, as he didn’t say.” 

Harry blinked a few times and then groaned loudly. 

“The fucking motor carriage…” he whined, resting his head in his hands. 

“Did you forget that, shit-” Jean caught himself. “Did you forget you drove it into the sea?” 

Harry groaned again. “No, I didn’t! I just didn’t… remember it at all…” He sighed. “I had pushed it out of my mind. I’m so fucked!” 

Harry got up and walked out of the office. As he passed Trant, he turned back to Jean, flashing a semblance of the Expression. 

“Send some funerary flowers and a card to my mum, will you?” Harry said. The joke didn’t reach his eyes. He shuffled off towards Pryce’s office on the second floor, leaving Trant and Jean alone. 

“Does he know-?” Trant said after he was certain Harry couldn’t hear them. 

“No, he doesn’t,” Jean replied, shaking his head. 

“Shouldn’t we tell him?” 

Jean drummed his fingers against the desk. “At some point. I just don’t know what would be a good time to tell him that.” 

Harry knocked on Captain Pryce’s door carefully, waited for the ‘Entré!’ and stepped inside. The captain was seated behind his desk, reading through a report of some sort and looked up as Harry stepped in. Ptolemy Pryce was a man in his late 50s, medium height and build, with a bald pate and a neat silvergrey moustache. Sharp, blue eyes over an aquiline nose regarded Harry as he entered. The faint smell of tobacco in the room came from his smouldering pipe, set down to his side. His captain’s uniform was the same black as Harry’s, but the rank stripes on his arms were in gold. 

Pryce gestured to the chair in front of his desk. 

“Lieutenant Du Bois, please, have a seat.” 

Harry sat down carefully in the old wooden arm chair, but it still creaked under his weight. Some part of him knew it would. It always did. 

Pryce put away the report-folder he had been reading from, and reached into a drawer in his desk. He promptly put Harry’s service weapon, the 3-barrelled Villiers-LaSalle, on the desktop between them. Harry could just make out the etching ‘Sunrise, parabellum’ on it. 

“Whether you walk out with this in your holster after this meeting or not, is entirely up to the answers you give me today, Du Bois. Understood?” 

“Understood, sir,” Harry replied. He could already feel the anxiety crawl up his neck. Pryce seemed to notice. 

“If it is any consolation, Du Bois, I would not have sent you on two weeks paid sick leave if I intended to fire you first thing in the morning. But I need to know whether I can trust you with a gun again.” He paused. “How are you feeling?” 

“Right now? Nervous as all hell… sir.” 

Pryce gave him a strange look. He was weighing something up, but Harry couldn’t place what exactly. His ‘cop frequency’ was drawing a blank too. 

“I mean in general. I was told you stopped drinking.” 

“I have, since three weeks back, sir.” 

“Lieutenant Vicquemare informed me that you had gone on an apocalyptic bender after I sent you and the Major Crimes Unit to Martinaise. On duty. Care to explain why that happened?” 

Harry froze for a moment, as his furies screamed at him, giving different suggestions on how to explain or explain away his behaviour. He sighed after a few seconds of mental debate. 

“I… can’t. Not exactly. I drank so hard I nearly killed myself. And it took my memory with it. But I’ve been told I ordered Lieutenant Vicquemare and the others away, harshly and unprofessionally, and that I then started truly spiralling. I harassed the locals and behaved very unbecoming of an officer of the RCM. I threatened to kill myself in front of civilians and I eventually passed out in my hotel room. After destroying it. As to why… I think I wanted to die, sir. It was a roundabout way of committing suicide.” 

The look Pryce gave Harry was one of equal parts reproach and pity. 

“Honesty lasts longest, Harry,” Pryce said. The use of his first name made Harry look up at Pryce. “Dr. Gottlieb informed me of your memory troubles last week, and that he has sent you to a therapist for it. That confession was refreshing, considering Lieutenant Vicquemare said nothing about it all after picking you up on Sunday the 18th.” Pryce sighed and tapped a finger against the desk as he thought. 

“I should have seen this coming,” Pryce said after a moment. “You had a similar spiral of grief after Dora left you. But you were still doing such great detective work I let you be. I figured Vicquemare would keep you somewhat on course and under control, but that’s what I get for trusting the youth these days.” 

Harry knotted his brows. What did Pryce mean, similar spiral of grief? What was he missing here? 

“You should have taken the promotion, Harry.” 

“Sir, with all due respect, I was not in shape to become captain at that time. It would have been irresponsible to accept. It still amazes me you offered it, knowing my mental state at the time.” 

Pryce smiled a sad, lop-sided smile. “I cleverly presumed that a promotion would get you off the streets and force you to sober up so you could take command of your own precinct. Shame on me for thinking your sense of duty to the people of Jamrock would cave to an offering of gilt rank stripes and a fancy title.” There was a brief pause as Pryce considered something. 

“You said you stopped drinking. Does that mean complete sobriety? Even from the drugs?” 

“Occasional smoke, but yes, completely.” 

“And how do you think it is going?” 

“The temptation to drink is there occasionally, but I can fight it off. The only stimulants I take are coffee and nicotine.” 

Pryce chuckled softly. 

“That means you’re cleaner than 99 per cent of the rest of us. If it is any help, I have to say you look a lot better.” 

“Thank you, sir.” 

“Now,” Pryce began, smoothing his moustache as he thought, “the way I see it, and I have informed Lieutenant Vicquemare of this, is that he left an obviously spiralling colleague with clear suicidal tendencies alone. Because Vicquemare had his feelings hurt.” 

“What? No, I said I ordered them away, sir.” 

“And Vicquemare is your satellite officer, and the rules of décomptage specifically say that should the head officer be compromised in any way, it is the duty of the satellite to step in. He could have said no, and didn’t.” Pryce punctuated the syllables of the last sentence by knocking a finger against the desk. “What he should have done was bring you back here so we could have sent you to rehab, and then gone back to Martinaise with the Major Crimes Unit and rendez-voused with Precinct 57’s representative. He did not. I have informed Lieutenant Vicquemare of this and he has received a formal warning for his negligence of duty.” 

“You said Jean never said anything about it, sir. How did you know?” 

“Gottlieb reported to me after your initial examination. So I went and asked Lieutenant Vicquemare directly what had happened to make you go stone-cold sober in a week. He caved and told me. I corroborated the account with Special Consultant Heidelstam and Officer Minot. That’s when Vicquemare got his warning.” 

Well, Harry thought, that did explain Jean’s cordial behaviour. Shame it wasn’t honest. He must still hate me then. 

“However, you still have to answer for your own actions, Du Bois.” The switch back to using his surname brought Harry’s attention back with a snap. “I have received Lieutenant Kitsuragi’s report on the case as well as his assessment of your behaviour in Martinaise. The case work is as far as I can see excellent. I expected no less from you, after all. The character assessment is unofficial and based on Lieutenant Kitsuragi’s personal notes.” 

Harry swallowed hard, his laryngeal bump struggling against the tightness of his shirt and necktie. If Pryce noticed, he made no mention and continued. 

“And his conclusions are that despite initially suffering the severe effects of an alcohol and narcotics hangover, you still conducted excellent field and interview work. Despite your body going through withdrawal and the obvious discomfort and pain this brought you, you resisted temptation to imbibe and remained focused on the task at hand. With minor side-tracks. Kitsuragi considers this aberrant, but I would say that is completely normal for you, Du Bois. 

“These side-tracks mainly involved you trying to help locals with minor problems. Am I correct in assuming it was an attempt to make up for your unprofessional behaviour in the days prior?” 

“Only partially, sir. It was mostly because it felt like the right thing to do.” 

Pryce looked at him, and Harry saw the calculations going on behind the captain’s eyes. 

“Now, Gottlieb might say you’ve suffered retrograde amnesia, but that was the single most ‘Harrier Du Bois’-thing you’ve said today.” He sighed. “Do try to limit your little ‘side quests’, Du Bois. It’s how you burn yourself out.” 

Pryce was silent for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts. 

“You tried to dispel a severely deteriorated situation between the dock worker’s union and the military contractors hired by Wild Pines. It still ended in a blood bath, but considering the odds I am glad you tried, Du Bois. Even if it nearly cost you your own life and added another notch on your kill tally. I know you don’t like that. 

“And that, finally, brings us to the motor carriage you drove into the sea.” 

Harry felt his blood freeze and he gripped the armrests hard, trying to ground himself. 

“I have done my best to keep the RCM Central Committee off your back about that. They are baying for blood. I have cited your excellent case work, your former service in the Constabulary Task Force, but I cannot get around their fixation on your propensity for-” 

Pryce was cut off by a loud SNAP as the right armrest broke in Harry’s hard grip. 

“-property damage,” Pryce finished lamely. 

“Oops.” 

“That was an oak chair.” 

“Sorry.” 

“Nevermind, it was old and creaky. But it neatly underscores my point. You are costing the precinct a lot of reál, and at some point, something has to give. The Constabulary has refused us a replacement vehicle at the current time, meaning we have to make way in next year's budget for it or apply for increased funding. This being Precinct 41, the latter is unlikely, unless we can show better numbers in regards to lowered crime rates or resolved cases. The former may result in pay cuts, which I want to avoid as it would further incentivise corruption in the force.” 

Pryce got a sour look on his face. He did not like where he had to take this. 

“Which leaves us in the paradoxical situation in that the one person at the precinct I could count on to fulfil the goal of higher number of resolved cases - you Du Bois - is also the very same person I don’t under any circumstances want to pressure or push into a self-destructive spiral of stress, causing more of said property damage.” 

“I see the issue, sir,” Harry said and set the broken armrest down on the floor next to him. 

Pryce picked up the service pistol by the barrels and pointed the butt at Harry. 

“Here’s my suggestion: you get settled back in during the coming week, finalizing the cases you have on your desk as well as your half of the Martinaise report. I want you to delegate the simpler cases to patrol officers or sergeants to deal with. Archive the ones you cannot immediately resolve as cold cases. No, that is an order! 

“Next week, I want you to start assisting your colleagues in the Major Crimes Unit, teaching them your investigative techniques as needed. When you and Vicquemare recontextualised C-wing, I should have elevated you to a mentorial role, leaving your expertise and experience for the truly difficult cases. We need to populate your knowledge across the precinct and fast.” 

“What’s the catch, sir?” 

“No overtime. No drugs. No drinking.” Pryce punctuated each word with a wave with the gun butt in Harry’s direction. “If I catch you still in your office after seven in the evening, I’ll personally see to it that you go home. If I see you with blown out pupils from speed abuse, you’ll get a formal warning.” Pryce paused. “And if I ever catch you drunk, you’re fired!” 

“Understood, sir,” Harry said, wiping his sweaty palms against his trouser legs. 

“Good,” Pryce replied, handing the Villiers over to Harry. Harry took it and put it into the holster under his left arm. 

“What is it you say? Detect or die?” 

Harry nodded. 

“Detect or die.”

Chapter Text

Detect or die. 

The words echoed in Harry’s head as he sat in the broken chair. 

Last chance. 

Pryce had been incredibly patient about Harry’s antics, all things considered. Innocence levels of patience. But everything has to run out, eventually. 

Detect or die. 

“Are you alright, Du Bois?” 

Harry blinked and came back to the present. 

“What? Uh, yes. Just… a bit overwhelmed.” 

“Well,” Pryce said and got up. “In whichever case I think we should join the other high ranking officers for the Monday debrief.” 

Harry stood up as well, and then thought of something. 

“Just one more thing,” he said and caught the smirk on Pryce’s lips. Apparently that was another “Harrier Du Bois”-thing. “If you want me to teach my method to the rest of the Major Crimes Unit, and later the precinct, I am going to require a case summary of my entire career. Including the minor ones I didn’t lead the investigation on.”

“Why? Because of your amnesia? Is it that bad?” 

Again, Harry considered the consequences of lying to his commander. Pryce was after all a veteran police officer, versed in spotting lies. And Harry was admittedly a terrible liar. 

“Let’s say for the sake of argument that it is, but I can get my memory back faster if I have something to help me reconnect the dots.” Harry spoke slowly, deliberately. “This could be an aid for me and my therapist as well.” He clicked his tongue as he thought. “Either way, recalling the details of over 200 separate cases, even with an intact memory, would be a gargantuan task. Nigh impossible, even with unlimited time available. Which I gather we don’t really have.” 

“That is a good point, Du Bois,” Pryce replied and moved over to a shelf with various forms stocked. Harry realized it was request forms for various parts of the system that the RCM had developed. It was an emerging bureaucracy, but it was emerging. Some of the forms had a truly hand-made appearance. Pryce picked out one from the stack and picked up a pen. 

“Even if your memory had been intact, not many would’ve expected you to recall every detail of every case.” Pryce said as he started filling in the form. Harry reflected on the rather funny fact that Pryce seemed to know Harry’s serial number on the force by heart. He’d been here a little too often, being written up for something or other. A dull ache sifted across his knuckles on his right hand in a ghostly memory of this. 

“I dunno, sir,” Harry said carefully. “I think I would’ve, but there’s no need to tell the rest of the station.” 

“Oh, I know you would’ve,” Pryce chuckled. “Why do you think I brought you along up the ranks as I got promoted?” 

“Eh?” 

Pryce smiled a wry smile and tapped the form. “You’ll have to read and find out.” He took a roller and dried the ink with it and then handed the form to Harry. “Here, hand this to Apricot in Records and she’ll put the summary together for you. I’m just a bit sorry that I won’t be able to see her face when you do! I might hear it, however!” 

Harry folded it and put it in an inside pocket of his jacket. “She’s not gonna like it, is she?” 

Pryce laughed softly and slapped Harry on his shoulder, causing the large man to flinch. Pryce ignored that. 

“Oh, she really won’t! Come on, let’s get to the meeting.” 

Harry and Captain Pryce filed into the conference room on the second floor of the silk mill. It was the old board meeting room of the factory, and it has just been given some conference furniture more becoming of a police force. That entailed less comfortable chairs and a square conference table of elm rather than an oval of mahogany. 

The other lieutenants and sergeants were milling about, chatting about their weekends. 

Harry took his seat next to Jean. 

“You’re still alive,” Jean whispered. There was a hint of amusement in his voice. 

“Yeah, you can hold off the flowers just a little longer,” Harry shot back. Something strange flashed in Jean’s eyes, but it was gone faster than Harry could analyse it. Harry looked at the neat stack of folders in front of Jean. 

“Should I’ve-” Harry began but Jean cut him off. 

“No, I got this. Besides, you never really brought any before. Why start? People will think you’ve lost your mind for real then.” 

Harry had nothing to say to that, with Pryce’s comment in fresh memory. And there was something to that. Once he started recalling, he couldn’t really stop. What he remembered, it stuck into his mind. He was starting to see why “Old Harry”, as he had begun calling his pre-Martinaise self, had tried to commit suicide and later seemingly settled for total memory loss. It did leave him with a lot of pieces to pick up. 

One such was trying to recognise his colleagues, and attach names to them. By now he was certain the entire precinct knew he’d gotten so black-out drunk he lost his memory. What remained was figuring out which ones would pity him and which ones would laugh. 

“Please be seated,” Pryce said and sat down at the head of the table. 

Jean must’ve realised Harry’s predicament and started giving whispered prompts, naming the officers around the table as they sat down. 

“Next to Pryce: Lieutenant Milicia Gorki-Berdyayeva, Ethics Division and our Moralintern liaison. Next, A-wing: Sergeants Furioso Roberts and Kit Mimosa.” Both men were dark-skinned Aeropagites that stood out amongst the Occidentals. “Across, B-wing: Lieutenants John McCoy and Ahriman DeMettrie.” Something in Harry sent acrid bile into his throat at the mention of McCoy’s name. He swallowed and ignored it. “And next to us, well, you’ve met Chester McLaine, but the huge guy is Sergeant Mack Torson. They’re commanding D-wing temporarily.” 

“Temporarily?” Harry whispered. 

Jean gave him a look that said ‘do you have to ask?’. And no, Harry didn’t. Not after over-hearing that Torson glued his eyes shut with super-glue, when Harry called Gottlieb on the day he woke up. 

“Milicia, if you please,” Pryce said and let Gorki-Berdyayeva give her report from Moralintern. It was in essence a heavily abbreviated and curated version on the events Harry had lived through in Martinaise, from the perspective of the Coalition. In the weeks since, the situation in the industrial harbour had deteriorated further and more and more dock workers were joining the strike. The Coalition was therefore considering bringing in the Constabulary Task Force to suppress the workers in the G.R.I.H. So far, the Central Committee of the RCM had stonewalled the Moralintern, maintaining that striking was permitted under the Wayfarer Act and that there was no direct threat to neither the public, nor Indotribal material wealth. 

“Thank you for that summary, Milicia,” Pryce said. “I would next like to welcome Lieutenant double-yefreitor Du Bois back to active duty after his sick leave. Your absence has been felt, Du Bois.” 

Harry saw all the eyes in the room fix on him, and felt the heat start to crawl up his neck. They all seemed to draw the same conclusion at the same time, though, and a round of muttered ‘welcome back’ filtered across the room. 

They all saw I’m sober, and for some reason it scares them. 

“Shit, you weren’t lying, Chester,” Harry heard Torson mutter next to him. 

“Now, Roberts, Mimosa,” Pryce said and turned to the leaders of A-wing. Roberts started giving an abbreviated account of his and Mimosa’s cases. It soon became apparent to Harry that the only two Aeropagites were also the ones mostly responsible for counter-truancy and traffic violations. The least glamorous of all the various duties of the RCM. The systemic racism, how blatant it was, ground a gear in Harry’s brain and he made a mental note that he would mentor A-wing’s sergeants at some point. If they wanted him to, he corrected himself. 

Next, McCoy and DeMettrie gave their brief of the past week. It was a grisly collection of weapons smuggling, drug busting and trafficking. And quite a few dead people, mostly by McCoy. 

“Calm down, Harry,” Jean whispered suddenly, and Harry realised he’d balled a fist on the table. His knuckles were white, the old scars standing out like red lightning bolts. 

“Du Bois, Vicquemare,” Pryce said, bringing briefings around to them. Jean gave a short summary of last week. Harry hadn’t been present, so he stayed silent. Somebody had shot a man at a hairdresser’s in broad daylight, in what was called a straight-up execution. They had some leads but most pointed to internal grievances in one of the gangs of Jamrock, which meant nailing a perp would be practically impossible. There were also a number of corpses that had washed out of the Esperance on the western shores. Jean remarked that because of the personnel problems of C-wing - he gave Harry a sideways glance - they were working slower than anticipated. McCoy must’ve caught the glance because he snorted a laugh at that. 

“Something funny, Lieutenant double-yefreitor McCoy?” Pryce asked. 

“No, sir.” 

So, Harry mused, McCoy was the same rank as him? 

Pryce turned back to Harry and Jean. “Be patient, Satellite-officer Vicquemare, I think I have a solution to your personnel problems. Now, Torson, McLaine.” 

It quickly became obvious that Minot had not been exaggerating when she had commented that Torson and McLaine shouldn’t lead anything. Harry suppressed the urge to groan loudly as they recounted bungled missing persons cases. Harry had no doubt their incompetence in the area had increased Jean’s workload in the past week. Scratch mentoring Mimosa and Roberts, McLaine and Torson needed to be taught basic investigative technique. 

Pryce seemed to have noticed too. 

“Thank you, Sergeant Torson,” he said carefully. “Now, the next order of business is the permanent leadership of D-wing and the matter of a promotion.” 

Harry saw Torson smile to himself. 

Pryce instead turned to Sergeant Roberts. “I have sent the formal application to the Central Committee for your elevation to Lieutenant’s rank. But in the meantime, you should prepare for your official promotion to come through by applying for a new uniform and requesting a new badge, Roberts. That goes for you too, Mimosa, as you’ll be his satellite-officer.” Pryce paused. “Knowing how slow those pencil-pushers in the Constabulary can be, I grant you permission to refer to yourselves as lieutenants from now on. Just don’t file any official documentation with the rank until you both have your new badges and serial-numbers.” 

Harry saw Torson’s face fall and darken, but Roberts and Mimosa beamed. Those promotions must’ve been long coming. Roberts looked to be older than Jean. 

“Which means we are a set of lieutenants short for D-wing. And no, Torson, you and McLaine are going back to C-wing to be directly mentored by Lieutenant Du Bois.” Harry just kept the wince off his face. It seemed Captain Pryce had drawn the exact same conclusion as he had following Torson’s report of last week. 

“But,” McLaine complained, “that leaves the D-wing without leadership, sir.” 

“I wasn't finished, sergeant,” Pryce replied, emphasising sergeant in a way that made McLaine huddle in his chair a bit. Like a reprimanded school boy. 

“Lieutenant Gorki-Berdyayeva has agreed to step down from my office to assume the role of head for D-wing. This means her duties to the Ethics Division will be reduced. I know some of you are drawing breaths of relief at that, but I remind you that the Inspectorate General is still breathing down our necks. I am looking at you in particular McCoy. I’m an old man and I am getting tired of sitting in on late night interviews with the Rat Squad, watching you explain for the third time in a week why lethal force was required.” 

McCoy made an open-handed gesture that could mean just about whatever the watcher wanted. 

“Back to D-wing. Lieutenant Gorki-Berdyayeva will need a partner, and it just so happens that we’ve received a transfer request for a lieutenant from Precinct 57. This is by virtue of Lieutenant Du Bois and his excellent cooperation with the other precinct officer during his case in Martinaise in early March. I have been informed that Du Bois offered this lieutenant to come work with us  after having wrapped up the case, and that he accepted.” Harry couldn’t help the satisfied smile that crept onto his face. 

“Today I received the official paperwork from Precinct 57’s Captain Mitterand for the transfer of Lieutenant Kim Kitsuragi to Precinct 41. I intend to sign off on these after this meeting and send them over posthaste to the Central Committee for verification. Taking the usual red-tape into account, we are looking at Lieutenant Kitsuragi joining us in late April or the beginning of May. Until then, Lieutenant Gorki-Berdyayeva will operate alone as commander of D-wing, which means some case-load will have to be delegated to other wings.” 

“Kitsuragi,” McCoy muttered, but not low enough so it wouldn’t be heard. “Kitsuragi. Where have I heard that name before?” 

DeMettrie rubbed his chin “You’re right, it is familiar. I think I saw him on the yearly stats report in January. He’s got…” He thought for a moment. “At least a hundred cases under his belt. He’s good.” 

“That’s not where I heard it,” McCoy complained. He drummed his fingers on the table and spelled out the syllables. “Kim Kit-su-ra-gi. Where? This is gonna bother me all fucking day if I can’t figure it out!” 

Jean looked at Harry. “You know, don’t you?” 

Harry gave Jean a pointed look. “I do, and I am not saying anything. He’s good, that’s all you need to know. He’s been on the force longer than me.” 

“Wait!” Mimosa cut in. His voice was a melodious bass. “He’s the one who spent fifteen years on the Juvie Squad!” 

“Yeah!” McLaine chimed in. “Didn’t he, like, play pinball for almost of year or whatever the fuck that was about?” 

“‘Pinball’ Kitsuragi,” DeMettrie added, nodding as he recalled too. “That’s where he got his nickname.” 

“Kimball!” McCoy filled in. “I knew I recognised that name! Kimball!” He said it like he was trying it out. 

“He doesn’t like that name,” Harry rumbled. 

“What’s that, Harrier?” McCoy turned his attention to him instead. 

“I said, he doesn’t like that name,” Harry replied, voice low and dangerous like a growl. He felt his heart racing and rage flushed his system. It came so easily when facing McCoy. 

“Which one?” 

“Both!” Harry spat. 

“Aw, how sweet! But,” McCoy smiled crookedly, “aren’t you afraid Vicky is getting jealous?” 

There was a loud SLAM as Harry slapped his hands against the table and stood up, followed by a THUD as his chair hit the floor behind him. He was about to launch himself across the table at McCoy as Pryce’s voice split the air. 

“Du Bois! SIT DOWN!” 

Like yanking on a leash, the effect was immediate. Harry froze on the spot, his breath hot and heavy with anger. 

“McCoy,” Pryce turned to him as Harry righted his chair and sat down. “Lieutenant Kitsuragi will be treated with the respect that two decades of service entails. If that means he wishes to not be referred to by nicknames, you will respect that. Not every officer in the RCM wants to have a nom-de-guerre like Ace or,” and Pryce looked pointedly at McCoy, “the Archetype. Understood?” 

“Understood, sir,” McCoy replied, having taken his eyes off Harry to look at the Captain. 

“Good! The meeting is adjourned.” Pryce slapped his hand against the table to punctuate the statement. 

As people filed out, Harry remained seated, trying to calm his nerves. He had completely lost his temper. His entire body still tingled from the adrenaline spike. 

“Good job,” Jean commented dryly. “What the fuck was that?” 

“Me losing my temper,” Harry replied. 

“You’re sober!” 

“And now everybody knows that even when sober I’m still an unstable fuck-up. Status quo maintained, I guess!” Harry rested his head in his hand. 

Jean didn’t reply immediately and eventually Harry looked at him. 

“What?” he asked. 

“Nothing,” Jean replied, gathering his folders. 

“Oh, there’s clearly something, Jean.” 

Jean was silent for a moment before speaking. 

“I hoped I would never see this side of you again, Harry. But you’re right about Kitsuragi. He deserves to be treated with respect.” 

“Do you know why he was in Juvie for fifteen years?” 

Jean shook his head. 

“Because Captain Mitterand is a racist asshole. Kim was kept there only because he is half-Seolite and looks younger than he is. I won’t stand for that in Precinct 41 if I can help it.” 

Jean clapped a hand on Harry’s shoulder, causing him to flinch. 

“Now, there’s the Harry Du Bois I know from before the drink took over,” Jean said and gave Harry’s shoulder a squeeze. “I’m going back to our office. You come down when you feel ready.” 

“Yeah, I’m gonna drop by Records and hand over a thing to Apricot.” 

“Sure thing, partner!” Jean flashed a grin and walked out the room. 

Sitting in silence, feeling the adrenaline leave him, Harry had to revise his opinion on Jean again. If he wasn’t sincere in his actions and attitude to Harry, then he was an actor worthy of the Waldian Kulturpreis. 

Harry got up and left the conference room, heading over to Records. There, he handed over the form that Pryce had prepared for him. He also learned that there was a person in Precinct 41 that had a more volatile temper than him and that person was Apricot Pidieu. 

“What the actual fuck, Du Bois!?” she shouted at him whilst gesturing to the form. “Have you got any fucking idea what kind of fucking insane request this is? I have so many fucking questions, but they’re all how the fuck you got Pryce to sign the-fuck-off on this fucking thing!?” She looked at him and then down at the request form, as if it had murdered her father, mother and immediate family. Harry’s ‘cop-frequency’ gave him an image of the captain laughing himself into a coughing fit upstairs. She took a few steadying breaths and Harry took the chance to try to explain. 

“Well, sign off he did. I need it to be able to teach the rest of the precinct my methodology.” 

“Why don’t you just pull it out of your ass, like always? Dolores fucking Dei…” 

Harry idly reflected that none of Oldboy’s unflappability and bedrock-like patience seemed to have rubbed off on Apricot. Was her mother like this too? They said opposites attract but Harry couldn’t help feeling a bit sorry for old Jules Pidieu. 

“How long will it take, Apricot?” he asked. 

“You have what? 218 cases to your name now?” 

“Yeah, and I have a few more in my ledger I’m putting together the reports on, but you can skip those from this year.” 

“Oh wow, only… what? 204 then? Massive difference.” She mulled his questions over. “Okay,” she sighed. “If you’ve been a good boy, and written proper layman’s summaries on your cases, I can just photocopy those. What do you think the odds are you’ve been a good boy?” 

“I don’t like the paper work, but I do keep extensive notes.” 

“So, maybe the larger, more complex ones have good summaries?” 

“That’d be my bet.” 

“This is just closed cases, do you want your cold ones too? I know you have some in your office, I’d like them back.” 

“You will, and…” Harry scratched his cheek through a mutton chop. “Include simple summaries, for completion’s sake. Not more than the archival number and maybe a sentence about it. Don’t waste time, they’re cold for a reason.” 

“Okay, that’s still a lot. It’ll take like a month, you know.” She looked at the form again. “What’s this about cross-referenced cases?” 

“Other officers’ cases where I got involved mid-way and assisted in resolving them. I may have made note of that happening in my summaries. If I were a good boy about it.” 

“Right. I’ll see what I can do. No promises of miracles, Du Bois.” 

Harry took the long way back, via the restrooms and then the break room. He had a glass of water and then brought two mugs of black coffee with him for himself and Jean. 

As he was making his way to C-wing’s office, he passed B-wing. 

“Hey, Du Bois!” 

Harry sighed and turned. “Can it wait, McCoy?” he said and indicated the mugs in his hands. He could already feel his blood pressure increasing and the adrenaline pumping again. Why did McCoy set off his fight-or-flight response? The man wasn’t imposing, like Jean with his 1m95. No, McCoy was actually a tad shorter than Harry, muscular but not nearly as broad-shouldered. Harry estimated he was 20 kilos heavier than McCoy, at least. He had to admit that McCoy did look good with his wavy brown hair, blue eyes and rockstar sideburns. With his sharp features and chiselled jaw, he looked like a Vespertine movie star. Not that Harry would ever tell the man. 

“It’ll just be a minute,” McCoy said. In the corner of his eye, Harry saw Jean poke his head out of their office, and stand off to the side, silent. McCoy ignored him. 

“Look,” McCoy continued. “We got off on the wrong foot today. I know you don’t like me, or my methods. I’m glad that you’re back. Fuck, that you’re back and sober is cause for celebration, in my book. Maybe the Bloody Murder Station has a chance to have a clearance rate near 50 per cent this year, who knows?” 

“I’m not hearing an apology, McCoy.” 

“You’re not getting one. But I promise I won’t call Lieutenant Kitsuragi Pinball or Kimball, if it matters that much to you.” He looked Harry up and down, considering something. 

“What?” Harry asked, impatient. He did not like how McCoy looked at him. 

“Nothing, I’m just glad you finally dropped the disco-act and dress like a proper police officer. Despite that awful beard. And you really need a haircut.” McCoy smiled and Harry felt his hackles rise. “Or you’re trying to look proper. Impressive. Insincere but impressive.” 

Harry took in McCoy’s black jeans, his brown leather loafers and his flower patterned Seminine short-sleeved shirt. The three top-most buttons were undone, revealing McCoy’s muscular chest and a golden chain necklace. He carried his service weapon in a shoulder rig, prominently displayed, and a pair of aerostatic pilot’s sunglasses perched on his head. 

McCoy saw how Harry’s eyes took him in and smiled. 

“See anything you like?” 

“No, it’s just a very rich, very ironic comment, considering how you dress.” 

“I can pull it off.” 

“We’re the same age and rank, McCoy!” 

“That may be, but there is also a very fundamental difference between us.” McCoy leant close enough that Harry could smell the faint whiff of alcohol on his breath. His nose tingled. 

“You see, Du Bois, I’m not some beer-bellied former gym teacher.” Harry froze on the spot. McCoy continued, satisfied his verbal jab had landed. “I still pull pussy like you wouldn’t believe. When was the last time you had any? When Dora left you? That’s what, six years ago now? Ah, don’t answer that, you probably don’t remember.” 

McCoy’s words were a strange echo of Jean’s from a few weeks back, and from the corner of his eye, Harry saw Jean wince as he realized that too. 

“How did you-?” Harry managed. 

“The entire station knows you drank your mind away in Martinaise, Du Bois. That you’re back and sober is a fucking miracle, I didn’t lie. But you’re not fooling anyone coming back in uniform and acting straight-laced.” 

McCoy stepped away and turned to go back into his office. 

“I’m giving you a month, two tops, before you fall off the wagon and you’re back to your old antics. It never sticks, you know.” 

McCoy closed the door and Harry seemed to be released from the spell. He looked over at Jean. His partner regarded him with sympathy and made a “come here”-gesture and Harry followed him into their office. 

Jean closed the door and Harry set down one coffee mug on Jean’s desk and the other on his own. He sank into his chair, staring at the floor. 

“Fuck McCoy,” Jean said after a moment. 

“Yeah,” Harry mumbled. 

“He shouldn’t have said that.” 

“But he did.”

Chapter Text

“Harry?” 

“I’m sorry, just lost in thought.” 

“Don’t let McCoy get to you.” 

“Too late, Vic.” Harry looked across the desks at Jean. “I mean, there’s nothing factually incorrect about what he said, is there?” 

Jean took a sip of his coffee and made a sour face at the taste. 

“You mean,” he said as he set the mug down, “about your beer gut and the gym teacher thing?” 

“Yeah.” 

Jean shrugged. “You are a former gym teacher. And you’ve been a bit heavy since I joined the precinct, so… what?” 

“Why does it bother me?” 

“I think that’s a question for you and your therapist to figure out.” 

Harry was silent for a moment. 

“You’re right,” he said and pulled out the notebook Madame Ribot had given him. It fit neatly in one of his inside pockets. Harry had decided to keep it over his heart, on the left side. There was symbolism there. The mind carried your memories, the lungs carried your life, love and humanity, but the heart held the rest of the emotions. 

He opened it up and flipped forward to the page he was after. He heard a low whistle from Jean. 

“That’s a fancy looking notebook. When did you get that?” 

“It’s a gift.” 

“Nice gift,” Jean said and bent to his task. 

Harry finished his note to Ribot, and then added ‘Why do McCoy and I hate each other?’. Harry stared at the words and let his mind wander, trying to tease out some memory or some connection in his damaged synapses. John McCoy had confirmed that he and Harry were the same age and rank. Harry hadn’t intended to use the question like that, but he was the Human Can-Opener after all. He doubted McCoy had missed what he was doing. He already had Harry in his sights, and letting go of a bit of easy-to-find-out information was a small price for a lure. It set Harry up nicely. 

They had probably been on the force as long, maybe McCoy had been there a bit longer. He was obviously a canny interrogator, but he seemed to prefer shooting first and maybe ask questions to the survivors later. Was Harry that much better than McCoy at interrogation, that McCoy had stopped bothering? Was that it? But they weren’t partners, so why would that matter? 

Harry obviously disliked McCoy, but it struck him that his own existence seemed to be a source of annoyance for McCoy. What could Harry possibly have that made the movie star-looking John McCoy jealous? Jealous enough to tease Harry about his looks? 

A cold knot settled in his gut as Harry’s mind whirled him around to another detail McCoy had let slip: John McCoy was single. Harry was too, but he’d had Dora. And Dora had left him. The thought still stung, just not as much as before. He had accepted her departure from his life, forgiven her and decided to move on. Six years too late, but better late than never. 

The objectifying way McCoy talked about women made Harry wonder if the man had ever had a longer, emotionally fulfilling relationship with a woman. Or a man for that matter, but McCoy seemed so viciously heterosexual that Harry discarded the thought immediately. 

Was that it? McCoy was jealous of Harry first having Dora, and then losing her? Losing a pretty woman? And she didn’t just break up, she moved to a different isola. Had McCoy thought he could, what? Snipe her from Harry? 

“You’ve been staring at that fucking notebook page for ten minutes, Harry. Get to work.” 

Jean’s gravel voice broke through Harry’s train of thought and derailed it. 

Harry shook his head, trying to clear it. “You’re right, Vic. Absolutely right. My personal shit can wait.” He got up and unbuckled the waist band from his uniform jacket and hung it on the clothes hanger next to his cane. Then he removed his uniform jacket and hung that too. It was getting warm with it on. As he sat back down, he rolled up the sleeves of his shirt to the elbow. Some little part of him remarked that this was a ritual of his. He had done it countless times before. 

Before he closed his private notebook, Harry internalised the problem with his relationship with McCoy. One of his little furies would have to busy itself with it for the time being. His mind got a bit quieter as his ‘cop-frequency’ took the mission. 

He picked up his ledger and clipped off the notebook and the loose pages from it. A thought struck him as he regarded the halogen-strip at the top. 

“Jean, a question,” he said carefully. 

Jean looked up from his work and studied Harry for a brief moment. “Is it about the perforations?” 

“No, I know what those mean. But, where do I go to get, well, more done?” 

“Ah. That would be Administration and Records.” 

“So, Apricot Pidieu?” 

“Yeah, or one of her junior officers.” 

Harry clicked his tongue once and put the ledger to the side. “Then it can wait.” 

Jean was still looking at him, or rather his blue ledger notebook. “What happened to that?” 

“Uhm, I’m not proud of it,” Harry replied, trying to hedge. 

“Not an answer,” Jean said, resting his chin in his hand and leaning on the desk. Harry saw the glint of amusement in his eyes. Jean knew this was going to be a fun story. 

Harry sighed. “At some point during my bender in Martinaise, I decided I did not want to be a detective anymore. So I jammed my ledger into my hotel room toilet. I then left my room to find more booze, I guess. During my absence, one of the hotel employees tried to clean my room. She found the ledger, removed it and threw it away in the trash bin behind the hotel. That’s where I found it a day or so later.” 

Jean chuckled darkly. “That’s fucking tragic, Harry.” The laughter left his eyes suddenly. “What if someone had picked that up before you?” 

“The container was locked. And the thought did occur to me. However, the water had done its fair share of damage and what remains in here,” Harry waved the notebook in the air, “only I can decipher. Barely. My note-taking just prior to March was irrational and irregular, never mind my handwriting being shaky from… everything I was doing to myself.” 

“Fair enough,” Jean said and took another sip of coffee. He winced again. “Who the fuck made this?” 

Harry took a sip of his own, now cold, coffee. It did indeed taste dreadful. “No clue, but the pot was warm. It’ll keep our minds going and our guts moving, at least.” 

Harry cracked open his blue notebook and rifled through the pages carefully until he got to THE HANGED MAN. He carefully detached the papers and tried arranging them into something resembling a causal chain rather than a timeline. He could write the timeline from memory, but the causality was always a bit trickier to put together well. It helped the prosecutors up in La Delta a lot if the investigation presented a good report with solid causality. Some part of him did however doubt that Dros would be alive and mentally capable to stand trial when the time came. 

He needed to re-write his notes into something more legible before he committed them to paper with type-writer. He looked over his desk, finding no empty note-paper amongst the folders. A quick glance at covers and a swift sorting gave him two neat piles, one for cold cases to hand back to Apricot for archiving, and one of unfinished cases to look over for delegation to patrol officers and sergeants. Harry amended that to only patrol officers when he remembered who his sergeants were. 

He still hadn’t found any paper to work with. That left the desk drawers. 

The top-most had some paper clips and the usual stationary one could assume. No extra paper though. The second drawer had extra folders. And no paper. 

“Third one’s the charm,” Harry muttered as he bent down to open the last one. 

“Hm?” Jean said, looking up from his own notes. 

Harry pulled open the bottom-most drawer. 

And froze. 

“Harry?” 

There, nestled neatly amongst loose lined paper, archival paper for finalised reports and some personal knick-knacks, was a litre-sized bottle of rye whisky. It was half-full. 

So that was why he liked rye bread. It was a taste-memory. He felt his mouth water at the mere thought. 

“Harry?” Jean repeated. 

Harry leant down and took out the bottle from the drawer by its neck. He held it up in front of himself. He let his thumbs coast softly along the glass of the bottle, almost caressing it. He swallowed the spit that had gathered in his mouth, trying to control his urges, his emotions over seeing this. 

It was a wonderful, walnut brown colour. Sloshing it around softly left subtle, oily streaks on the inside of the bottle. His mind filled him in on the smell, unbidden. Oaky overtones, with a hint of fruits and syrup. The taste of cinnamon and apricots, soft on his tongue, burning his throat with its 50 percent ABV as it went down. This was his favorite brand. It was why he kept it at work. It could soothe his raging, aching mind on the truly bad days. Today was a bad day, wasn’t it? 

His right hand closed around the neck of the bottle, thumb against the cap. 

“Harry,” Jean said, breaking the silence. “Hand it to me, please.” 

Harry looked up at his partner, and they locked eyes. He saw the fear in Jean’s grey eyes. He really didn’t want Harry to open the bottle. 

“Please,” Jean repeated. 

Harry closed his eyes, swallowed again and handed the bottle over to Jean. With a slight tug from Jean, Harry let go of the neck. He heard Jean get up and open the door to the office. Harry opened his eyes and looked at his now empty right hand. It was shaking. 

“Mollins!” he heard Jean shout from outside. Then softer, “Take this and pour it out somewhere, I don’t care where, just do it outside.” 

“Really? It’s a nice brand, sir.” 

“And I don’t give a fucking shit! Get rid of it! That’s an order!” 

“Yes, sir!” 

Jean came back inside the office and Harry looked up at him. His hand was still shaking, so he pressed it against the table-top. Jean had noticed, however. It was hard to get things past colleagues who were cops. 

“I almost caved, Vic,” Harry said. His voice sounded small. “And that would’ve been the end of my song. Pryce would’ve fired me. I knew that and I still wanted to…” His voice trailed off. 

“But you didn’t. And he won’t.” Jean came over and placed a hand on Harry’s shoulder, softly. Harry flinched a little, as he did, but soon settled into the touch. Jean rubbed his shoulder, carefully. It felt nice, grounding. Like Kim had done, but Jean’s hands were much larger. 

“I’m proud of you, Harry,” Jean said and patted Harry’s shoulder. Pat pat pat. Then, one final, soft squeeze and Jean let go of him. 

“You broke the spell, you know?” Harry said as Jean moved back to his seat. “If you hadn’t been here, I’m pretty certain I would’ve necked it.” 

“But I am, and you didn’t.” 

Harry gave him a tired look. “You shouldn’t have to watch me all day, every day, Vic. I should be able to resist it on my own, knowing what failure means. That should be enough!” 

“And I had plenty of time to go through your drawers but didn’t. Because I honestly thought you’d polished that fucker off before we left for Martinaise.” 

“Jean… This is how you got to where you were with me. You’re taking on responsibility for my behaviour. Please, don’t. Don’t excuse my behaviour. I thought we were past that? You seemed very past that a few weeks ago.” 

Jean didn’t reply and Harry looked at him. He seemed obviously conflicted over something, but Harry couldn’t quite place what it was. Could it be that Jean had managed to convince himself to hate Harry in the weeks leading up to early March, and that Harry telling him to fuck off had been the final straw. But now that Harry was back, and sober to boot as well as serious about said sobriety, it wasn’t possible for Jean to maintain the veneer of disgust and hate. Jean genuinely wanted Harry to succeed in his sobriety, and he wanted to help. 

Harry sighed and stood up. He dug into his pocket and fished out his key-fob. 

“Fine. If you want to help me, go empty my locker. I’m bound to have something stashed away there, that I for obvious reasons don’t remember.” He handed the fob over to Jean. Jean took it, almost gratefully, and left the office. He closed the door behind him, leaving Harry to himself. 

Harry sat down heavily in his chair. It gave a slight creak that he ignored. He rested his head in both his hands and leant on the desk. 

He was sitting like that, when a little voice called for his attention. 

ESPRIT DE CORPS - Hey! Psst! 

“What?” 

ESPRIT DE CORPS - I finished the thought project you gave me. About McCoy and you. 

“Already? That was quick.” Harry kept his voice low. It was easier to communicate with the furies when speaking out loud, but doing so at work posed a danger. He had inadvertently spoken out loud with Kim around a few times and it always earned him concerned looks. Mentally healthy people did not talk to themselves. 

ESPRIT DE CORPS - Well, what you asked for wasn’t buried very deep. It isn’t something you’ve tried to hide. Also, balloon-head helped me fill in a few blanks. 

INLAND EMPIRE - But not all. There are places even I can’t go. 

ESPRIT DE CORPS - We’ll get to that. So, you want to hear it here and now? 

“Sure, why not? It’s not like I’m going to get anything worthwhile done before lunch today, anyway,” Harry said. 

ESPRIT DE CORPS - Okay, so you and John McCoy used to be partners. This was during your time as sergeants. Pryce put you together as one of the first things he did after being promoted to lieutenant himself. You were both recently out of the Constabulary Task Force, both honorably discharged by your own volition. You left for different reasons than McCoy. I can’t say exactly what, as that is guarded by Crownie, not me or your imagination. You’ve always been different, but you worked well together. You were the more patient one, believe it or not. McCoy was more aggressive, hot-headed. A kind of hammer-and-anvil type of work practice. McCoy wasn’t known as the Archetype then, he became known as Hunter. So you were soon dubbed the Hunter and the Harrier. And you two were GOOD. You were case-solving machines. But you developed your interrogation technique faster than McCoy, and he felt a little left behind. He is the person who dubbed you Harry the Human Can-Opener, you know? It’s a name with many layers. It’s not just that you make suspects ‘spill the beans’, but there was also a saying circulating the precinct at the time. 

INLAND EMPIRE - Who can make a suspect open up? Harry can! 

Harry chuckled. “Okay, that’s kinda funny. So why do we hate each other?” 

ESPRIT DE CORPS - Well, there is a specific event that ended any chance of you two ever functioning together again, but Crownie won’t let me look. It is buried DEEP. Deeper than Dora and the abortion. But McCoy’s impatience showed much earlier than that. He started egging you on, suggesting your interrogations, your can-opening, took too long. It dragged your statistics down, reduced your resolution rates. Nevermind that when your cases went to court, they were water-proof. So McCoy’s trigger finger got itchy. If you were taking in a suspect that you were certain was guilty, but getting a confession out of them would be hard or impossible… Well, McCoy would ‘accidentally’ fire his gun and hit the suspect in the lung or in the stomach, and they would bleed out before an ambulance could arrive. It pissed you off more and more until- 

INLAND EMPIRE - The young man, who is still a boy in so many ways, is terrified. He can’t be more than 15 years old. A high schooler. He’s robbed a Frittte for the daily cash register. It can’t have been more than a 100 reál, at most. He is soaking in sweat and absolutely exhausted. He’s at a dead end. You have him cornered. You’ve chased him for the better part of half an hour. You could go on for even longer, but the boy is at wit’s end. 

“Easy, lad,” you say. “Easy. We’re not gonna hurt you. Just calm down. We’ll take you to the station, call your parents. You’ll do a few weeks of community service, that’s all.” You try to sound comforting. “Just, calm down.” 

“You found him, Harrier?” McCoy comes up jogging, not as fast as you. He sees the boy, smiles. 

“Harrier?” the boy asks. His voice squeaks as he talks. It hasn’t completed its puberty change. “Aw, shit!” 

Too late you notice his blown-out pupils in the light from the street lamp. The boy reaches inside his jacket, and you see from the corner of your eye how McCoy’s hand goes into his. 

“John! NO!” 

You barely get the words out before the shot goes off and the lad’s face vanishes in a red mist. 

ESPRIT DE CORPS - There was barely enough left of the boy’s head to run an identification of him through dental records. To avoid a scandal, Pryce had the body sent to cremation immediately after processing and presented the parents of the lad with an urn instead. During the décomptage-debrief over lethal force, you decided to throw McCoy under the bus. He didn’t like that. Neither did Pryce, but for completely different reasons. McCoy got sent on probation for two weeks and you took a week off, which you spent at home drunk, much to Dora’s dismay. You didn’t want to burden her, so you never explained what you saw that night. It was the beginning of the end of you working together with John McCoy. It would come to a definite end half a year later. 

His keys landed on the desk in front of him with a clatter and startled him out of his mental reverie. 

“You were right to send me to that locker, Harry. God damn, you had a fucking pharmacy in it…” Jean’s voice trailed off as he saw Harry’s look. “Harry? What’s wrong, you look like you’ve seen a fucking ghost.” 

“I- er,” Harry said and tried to steady his breathing. How to explain this? “I had some memories come back.” 

“Really?” Jean sounded intrigued. “Doesn’t look like it was a pleasant one.” 

“It really wasn’t. I remembered why McCoy and I hate each other. We used to be partners. But he shot a 15-year-old in cold blood, for stealing a few reál, and I ratted him out to the Inspectorate General. I just had a mental front-row seat to the execution of a kid that could've been my pupil.” 

“Merde.” 

“Yeah.” Harry picked up his keys and noticed his hand was shaking again. 

“Is it gonna be like this?” Jean asked. “When the memories come back, I mean?” 

“If they’re unpleasant, yes.” 

Again, Harry saw that strangely harrowed look cross Jean’s eyes for a split second. It was gone just as fast and Jean looked at his watch instead. 

“It’s half past eleven,” he said, changing the subject. “What would you say about early lunch?” 

Harry didn’t really have any appetite at the moment, but he was certain that could change. He needed to do something else than dwell on this. So he got up and put his key-fob back in his pocket. 

“Sounds good,” he said, rolling down his sleeves and pulling on his jacket. He didn’t bother buttoning it. If his colleagues were weirded out by him being too straight-laced, he could at least soften the blow a little. “Where to?” 

“Sennheiser’s Sandwiches?” 

“Sennheiser’s sound good.”

Chapter Text

Having lunch improved the mood for both Harry and Jean. A quick walk around the block, cut somewhat short by Harry’s leg acting up, rounded the lunch hour off nicely. 

As they came back inside their office, Jean picked up the two mugs with now ice-cold coffee and said he would come back with something that didn’t taste like black pesticide. 

Harry started re-writing his notes from Martinaise, and soon found his flow for the process. He barely noticed Jean coming back, but muttered an absent ‘thank you’ as Jean set the mug in front of him. An hour later, Harry set down his pen, happy to have finished with the causality chain. He rubbed his wrist. 

“I think I need a bit of a break,” he said. 

“No shit,” Jean chuckled. “You haven’t touched your coffee. Sober Harry is also Workaholic Harry?” 

“Ah, well, no. Just focused.” He sipped the coffee. Even cold it still tasted better than the last mug. “This is good. Even cold.” 

“Thank you,” Jean said. “I brewed a new pot. Judging by the shit-tier quality this morning, I think Torso or Deathless did that. My tip is to stay the fuck away from the breakroom if either of those two have been near the coffee maker.” 

“Deathless?” 

“Ahriman, McCoy’s partner.” 

“I see.” Harry clicked his tongue a few times. “How do you get that kind of nickname?” 

“By being shot so many times that you can’t go through a metal detector without it screaming at you. Fringe benefit of being a long-time partner with McCoy, I guess.” 

Something stirred in Harry at that. He had been shot at three times before Martinaise, and been hit twice. For some reason he knew that both times were when he was a sergeant and when he was partnered with McCoy. 

“Tell me about it,” he said and stood up, stretching his back. There was a slight pop-crick-crick from his spine. “Ah, the wonders of middle-age! Your body starts sounding like cereal in milk.” 

Jean snorted a half-laugh. “Goddammit, Harry!” He looked over at Harry’s desk. “Maybe use the break from writing to clean your desk a bit, huh? It looks like the People’s Pile happened.” 

“Steady on! I have sorted the folders. I know exactly what is what. I have a system, Jean.” Harry looked at his desk and then to Jean’s well-ordered piles. “Sort of.” He picked up the pile of cold cases. “You got any cold ones on your desk? Apricot wanted them back.” 

Jean pulled out a stack and handed them over. “There’s also a few behind you, in the bookcase.” 

“Yeah, I’ll come back for those.” Harry picked up his ledger. “Might as well have this seen-to as well. No point annoying Apricot more than necessary.” 

Apricot was in the end grateful for having the cold cases back, but less thrilled about having to adjust Harry’s ledger-markings. The adjustments required a special machine to apply and it was out back. She handed back his ledger after being gone for the better part of ten minutes. 

“There you go, Du Bois. Two more cases and one more kill. You know, I’ve never had to add a kill to your tally. So, that was novel.” 

“What, really?” 

“Yeah. You’ve had three kills as long as I can remember.” She paused. “Still haven’t got your memory back? That bender of yours must’ve been something else.” 

“It was. Hopefully the case summary can help me recall when I killed people. Feels like something you should remember.” 

“Yeah, well… Not everyone thinks like that, just so you know.” 

Harry made one more trip between Records and his office, clearing out all the cold cases before he sat back down to continue writing up his report of Martinaise. Jean showed him the typewriter they shared and after giving some basic instruction, Harry soon managed to recall how to operate it and how to write a finalized report. His fingers found their way across the keys with instinctual memory. 

Harry saw Jean smile to himself over the paper’s edge as he wrote. Apparently he was doing something right. Jean as he was now was a far cry from the angry and judgemental man he had met in the fishing village outside Martinaise. This Jean seemed like he would be a really good partner. Maybe that was because Harry himself was sober and in recovery. Jean hadn’t believed him when he’d said he was sober and only Kim’s insistence that Harry hadn’t drunk all week had convinced him. 

But now…

Now Jean saw Harry made an effort. And it wasn’t just Pryce’s ultimatum. Harry felt good, physically. Sure, he had a million little aches and pains all over, but those came down to him being past 40 and not having been the kindest to his body during his lifetime. And in the end, those pains were not worse than that he could either ignore them or treat them with aspirin, magnesium or even drouamine. 

Now, his mind on the other hand… 

Well, he was getting help with that. Ribot was good and very understanding of his troubles. He wondered if he should at some point tell her about his furies? Or if that would land him in an asylum. 

Harry pulled out the last paper he had from the typewriter and sighed. The report was becoming longer than he’d hoped. He bent down to the bottom drawer again to take out more paper, when he saw a neat little folder amongst the sheaves. He took that too. 

“What’s this?” he said, half to himself, half to Jean as he set the paper down on the desk next to the typewriter and inspected the folder closer. 

“What? That’s a-” Jean’s voice cut off suddenly. “Oh, Harry…” 

Harry stared at the front of the folder. There was a simple floral black-and-white print on it, with the name ‘Edith Du Bois’ and the dates 07-08-’84 and 23-07-’50 printed between the arms of the pattern. He carefully opened it, and saw the psalms and poems lined up. 

There was a lifetime of context to them. 

Context he couldn’t remember. 

It felt like a pit of darkness had opened in his chest. 

“I fucking knew I should’ve cleaned that desk out,” he heard Jean whisper. And then louder, but with care, “I’m so sorry, Harry.” 

“I-” Harry felt the tears collecting in his eyes. He blinked, and they ran down his cheeks, into his beard. “She’s gone.” 

He heard a rustle, and suddenly Jean was by him, with his hands on Harry’s shoulders. Trying to soothe. 

“Please, don’t touch me, Jean,” Harry said and drew a shaky breath. Jean let go of him, respecting his wishes. He said nothing. “I can’t- Fuck!” Harry was holding back his sobs as best he could. “I can’t remember her face!” 

Harry gestured to the folder. 

“And this! It should mean something! The poems, the psalms! But I’m pulling a fucking blank!” He tossed it on the desk and rose suddenly, causing Jean to back off. Harry pulled another wet rasp of a breath. He turned to Jean. “I can’t remember her fucking face, Jean!” A wet sob. “My own mom!” 

Harry pulled at his tie and looked around, wild-eyed. 

“I need- need to- I need out!” 

He flung open the door to the office and walked out. Jean followed, like a shadow. He caught up with Harry half-way to the breakroom, grabbing his arm. Harry twisted out of the grip, still unwilling to be touched. 

“Talk to me, Harry, please!” Jean pleaded. Something in Jean’s voice spoke of a desperation to not have this be a repetition of something that already happened. Something Harry obviously couldn’t recall. 

“He took her from me!” Harry shouted. “The asshole! The one good thing I had! The one good thing left in my life! She’s gone!” 

The rest of the precinct had started to pay attention now. Even Captain Pryce came out of his office and watched from the balcony above. The last few weeks had been blissfully Harry-antics free. 

Harry didn’t care. He was in the middle of his own personal Hell. Again. He started to pace, back and forth. The agitation bled off him. 

“He couldn’t cope with the grief, could he!? The fucking coward!” The sobs had changed to hot huffs of anger but his eyes still streamed with tears. He looked at Jean, as if he’d just realised he was there and marched right up to him. He saw Jean stiffen, as if anticipating a strike. 

“And he took it out on you? What an animal…” Harry turned away. 

In front of him was a wastepaper bin. 

“I can’t remember her face!” Harry screamed and kicked the bin across the open office space of the mill. It landed with a crash at the back. He started looking around for something else to destroy. 

“I thought he was sober?” Mack Torson said, appearing at Jean’s side. 

“He is,” Jean replied. “He found out about his mom.” 

“Oh, shit!” Torson swore and started forward. Jean joined him and they approached Harry carefully. Harry had slammed his fist against the wall, leaving dents in the plaster and his knuckles bloody. He had gone back to sobbing, muttering to himself. Jean couldn’t make out what. 

“Easy, chief,” Torson said as he approached. “Easy now.” 

“Harry,” Jean said carefully, “let’s go back to the office, and you can lie down for a bit, okay? It’s fine.” 

“It’s not fine,” Harry spat. “Why can’t I remember her face?” 

Jean was about to reply, when another voice cut in. John McCoy. 

“I fucking said you’d be back on your antics, Harry, and here we are! I hate being right.” He had come out of his office to watch, but kept a careful distance. 

“Fuck off, John!” Harry barked, the anger back in his voice. 

“Is this about your bird? She left you six years ago! Change the fucking record!” 

Jean and Torson just managed to grab Harry by the arms before he flung himself at McCoy. Both Jean and Torson were large, muscular men, the biggest guys in the precinct. They still struggled to hold Harry back. 

“Shit! I’d forgotten how strong he is!” Torson hissed as he pulled on Harry. 

“I’ll rip your head off, McCoy!” Harry roared. McCoy seemed to ready himself, rolling his shoulders. Harry managed to take one step forward, pulling Torson and Jean along. 

“DU BOIS! McCOY!” The captain’s voice rang out across the open space of the silk mill. And like a puppet with its strings cut, Harry stopped. McCoy relaxed his shoulders, letting go of the tension that had gathered in them, and went back to his office. DeMettrie gave Jean an apologetic and sympathetic look. Jean glanced up at the balcony, where Pryce was still watching. It was generally known that Pryce was the only man who could control Harrier Du Bois, but Jean had never seen it before. Today, he had seen it twice already. 

Harry was calming down, and tried to shrug Jean and Torson off. “Please, let go of me,” he said, his voice hoarse. They did so. He took a few steadying breaths and then wiped his eyes. The tears kept streaming. 

“I- fuck. I need a moment,” he muttered, wiping his eyes again. “Ah, shit. ‘Scuse me.” Harry shuffled away from Jean and Torson and made his way to the stairs to the observation deck on the roof of the silk mill.  

Jean followed him, carefully. 

Harry was leaning on the railing, staring at nothing in the distance and trying to count his breaths to steady himself, when he heard the door to the observation deck open. The hinges squeaked with rust and lack of care. The gait-rhythm on the deck gave Jean away. 

“Go away, Vic,” Harry said. His breath hitched again, his pulse quickening. Why did it feel so hard to breathe suddenly? 

“I’m not leaving you, Harry.” 

“Why not? You seemed eager to do so in Martinaise!” Harry snapped. It was getting really hard to breathe and he pulled at the knot of his tie. The barb landed as intended and he saw the flicker of anger in Jean’s eyes. But Jean closed his eyes, took a steadying breath, and then looked at Harry again. His grey eyes were just sad. 

“You would have found out about this sooner or later, Harry.” 

“Not like fucking this!” Harry sobbed again. “Not today! Fuck!” He cradled his head in his hands. “I’m such a fuck-up. One day back and… fuck! I can’t breathe!” 

Jean took a few steps to get closer to Harry. That caused Harry to tense, snapping his attention to Jean. He started backing up against the corner he was in. 

“Back off!” Harry wheezed. He started pulling at his tie again. “Don’t you dare touch me!” 

Jean held out a placating hand. “Harry, you’re having a panic attack. Let me help you.” Something in Jean’s voice gave away that this was far from the first time he had seen Harry like this. That made it hurt worse, like with Jean anticipating violence from Harry. What had he made his poor satellite put up with these last years? 

“Why do you care? You left me to die!” Why the fuck wouldn’t the tie come undone? He couldn’t breathe! 

Jean didn’t reply, but instead rushed forward at Harry. He fended off Harry’s wild punches, taking one to the shoulder with a grunt. Jean got inside of Harry’s reach, letting the shorter man bang his fists against Jean’s back. He pulled down the tie and undid the top three buttons on Harry’s shirt with a deft hand. He then untangled himself and stepped away from Harry before a proper punch could connect. Harry stared at him, a hand against his neck, feeling the now exposed skin there. 

Relief flushed Harry’s system as he could breathe again, and he sank down on the grilled floor of the deck, panting and trying to regain his senses. He hugged himself, counting his breaths, trying to ground. It was slow going. His mind felt raw, like an open wound. Jean didn’t move, he stood off to the side, waiting. 

Harry looked at him finally, having found some semblance of equilibrium. 

“I’m sorry,” he rasped, “for being such a fuck-up. You should’ve left me in the fishing village.” 

“No,” Jean said with a finality that surprised Harry. “Can I sit next to you?” 

Harry nodded. His larynx felt swollen. 

Jean lowered himself to the floor next to him, keeping a comfortable distance. 

“You’re not the only one who’s done a spot of soul-searching these past weeks, Harry,” Jean said after a moment of silence. He reached inside his jacket and fished out a pack of Astras and a lighter. He lit a cigarette before continuing. “Today just proved a hypothesis I had.” He blew out the smoke, looking into the distance. “I’ve been around Trant too fucking long; I’m starting to sound like him.” 

“What hypothesis?” Harry whispered. 

“That your drinking is self-medication. You never did it to socialize or for fun. Same with the uppers. They were just there to keep you moving when the hangover got too bad. So, me being a detective, I tried to figure out what you would want to cope with. It wasn’t a difficult case, really. I mean, I had a front-row seat to your disintegration after your mother died last year.” Jean stopped as Harry hitched a sob, but Harry waved for him to go on. “You’re taking it better than last year, you know? ‘Old Harry’, as you call him, he just slowly drowned himself in drink. I caught you weeping, but nothing as reactive as today. You hid it, how much it affected you. Today was-” 

“Catastrophic?” 

“Refreshing, in how raw it was. I can deal with raw. I can’t deal with mopey.” Jean took another drag on the cigarette. “I’ve been told it was that way with Dora too. That you worked but you were drunk and just… moping about.” Silence and another drag. “You kept working then, and eventually it passed. I figured it would be the same last year.” Jean sighed but left the cigarette alone. “I was wrong. I didn’t realize that you’re not in pain because you drink, you drink because you’re in pain.” He looked at Harry. “And I can only imagine what it’s like to lose your mom, when she’s your only family.” 

Harry swallowed hard and hugged himself tighter, pulling up his knees to his chest as well he could. He wanted to curl into a ball and disappear. He felt so very small, suddenly. 

“Look,” Jean said and stubbed the cigarette out. “I’m sorry for leaving you in Martinaise. I shouldn’t have. Pryce was right: I should have swallowed my pride, relieved you of duty and taken you to a hospital. But my own emotions at the time… they were complex, let’s say that.” Jean mulled over something and then: 

“What’s been hardest for me, now, is accepting that you don’t remember much of everything. I thought I’d have to explain basic shit, like how to fucking eat, but you manage that fine. I wasn’t prepared for the emotional bits. Interpersonal stuff.” 

“Whaddya mean?” Harry asked, his voice still hoarse. 

Jean smirked. “I know you don’t remember, but back when I was a sergeant at Precinct 41, I was honestly a bit star-struck whenever I talked to you. This was a couple of years ago. I had transferred from Precinct 34 in Faubourg, because they had no positions for sergeants at the time, and I did not want to decline the promotion. I learned Precinct 41 had Captain Pryce, McCoy the Archetype, Deathless Ahriman, and Harry the Can-Opener. Seemed a no-brainer to me. Fucking legends, the lot of you. I ended up in A-wing at first. Suited me fine, I got to patrol on horseback. You were partnered to Berdyayeva at the time, but then she moved up in the chain, joining the Ethics Division. 

“So you needed a new partner. You could’ve picked anyone, but you picked me. I was bowled over. Precinct 41’s supercop wanted me as his partner. And it was great, at first. You were fun, Harry. Really. It just… it became obvious you were hurting. Something gnawed at you, always, but you wouldn’t talk about it. When you were really in the drink, you could start sobbing about Dora, but not before. 

“Then your mother died last year, during the heatwave. You worried about her a lot leading up to it, and went down to her in Faubourg every weekend. The train tickets cost you enough that you stopped drinking. You sweated like a pig, so you had to hydrate properly or pass out. The heat wasn’t doing you any favours, considering… you know.” 

“My beer gut?” 

“Yeah. I covered for you when you were late on Mondays, having stayed at her place. Then one Monday, you didn’t come in. I went and checked your apartment and you weren’t there. So I called Precinct 33, which was where your mother lived and asked them to make a house call.” Jean paused before continuing, considering his words. “They found you cradling her. She had passed away in her sleep.” 

“I was there for her then?” 

“Yeah, I think so. You kept it together until the funeral. You completely fell apart following that. I scraped you off Boogie Street black-out drunk enough times that I lost count. I dragged you back here, put you in the Drunk Tank and hoped you’d be able to work through the hangover. You started to drink at work, to combat it, but you got sluggish. So you started doing speed and uppers, to keep awake and sharp. You even got me on them, because I couldn’t keep pace with you otherwise. Our clearance statistics went through the roof, so Pryce offered you that promotion.” 

Jean snorted suddenly. 

“The fucking look on his face when you declined! It was on one of our Monday debriefs. Pryce made a big show of it. Fuck, he’d actually had the gold pips prepared. And you, ragged and bloated, just stared at him and said one word: ‘No.’ It would have been hilarious if it weren’t so fucking sad.” 

Jean pulled out a new cigarette and lit it. 

“Hey,” Harry said softly. “Can I bum one?” 

“Sure,” Jean said and lit another on his own, and handed it over to Harry. Harry took it and unfolded his long legs. As he took his first drag, Jean continued his story. 

“It was at this point it became obvious you were actually trying to kill yourself with the drink. What do you recall of the winter of ‘51?” 

“I remember the mural and the two drunks. And the hookah parlour one. And the collapsing tenement that wouldn’t collapse.” 

“Okay, so the bad ones. Got it. None of those were kind on you, the mural and the drunks were the worst though. Both made you drink yourself into temporary amnesia. Judit was honest with you. After I had to cover your ass with the drunks, I requested a meeting with Pryce. I asked to take you to a charity rehab, because you needed help. Pryce refused, because it was too close to the incident with Burke and Leslie. The press would figure it out and have a  fucking field day with us. So the reasons were political. This was in February. 

“I knew one thing for certain at that point: you wouldn’t be alive come the end of March. One way or another, you’d be dead. And I had to sit and watch you disintegrate.” 

Jean looked at his cigarette but didn’t smoke it. He just let it smolder. 

“So I made a decision. One I am not very proud of. I forced myself to hate you, to hate you for bringing my career to a standstill, for making me cover for you. I forced myself to hate how you looked, how you stank. I killed all the empathy and pity I felt for you. All, so I could justify that I wished that you would die.” 

“So you did leave me to die?” 

Jean winced. “Because I wanted your suffering to end, Harry. I wanted to hate you, but I can’t. I couldn’t help you, so I tried to hate you and wish death upon you. I tried to make you hate me. And I almost made it work.” He finally took a drag on the cig. “Then you did die. And came back.” 

“What did you say to set me off in Martinaise?” Harry asked. He was looking directly at Jean now. 

“Now that,” Jean said and gestured with his cigarette, “I won’t say. It was deliberately cruel and targeted your heart and lungs, Harry. I got the reaction I wanted, that’s all you need to know.” He flicked the butt away. “I stayed angry at you for the weekend, and that was it. Then I started to worry again. Like I do. That’s when I cooked up the whole Guillaume Bevy-thing. It would’ve worked, if you’d have your memories intact.” 

“Vic,” Harry said after a good minute of silence between them, “I have to say going through this sober, it isn’t very fun.” 

Jean snorted with laughter. “Sorry! But seriously Harry, I expect that it fucking sucks.” He reached a hand out and then stopped himself before it landed on Harry’s back. “Don’t you have medication for your anxiety?” 

“How did you know?” 

“Gottlieb felt it necessary to tell me, as your partner.” 

“Okay, I do, but not with me, if that is what you’re asking.” 

“Why not?” 

“It makes me drowsy. Can’t do police work drowsy.” 

“Can you promise me one thing?” 

“Sure.” 

“Always bring it with you, okay? If this is how a bad memory makes you react, I think I’d rather have you zonked out on the chaise-longue in the office than up here, panicking.” 

“Chaise-longue? Is that what the fucked-up little sofa in the office is called?” 

Jean couldn’t help himself, but he slapped his hand down on Harry’s back as he laughed. 

“Ow! That hurt!” 

“Sorry, Harry.” Jean chuckled and gathered himself. “Come on, let’s go back down. You still have a report to finish.” Jean got up and held a hand out for Harry, who took it gratefully, getting up with a groan and a few cuss-words. 

When Harry finally got home, he was dead-on-his-feet tired. He wanted to go to bed more than anything, but his mind had other ideas. 

VOLITION - No, you need to eat something. 

“I’m so fucking tired, Crownie,” Harry muttered as he pulled off his tie and shirt. He pulled on an old black T-shirt instead. It didn’t quite fit. 

ENDURANCE - Sustenance makes it easier to cope with strong emotions. 

LOGIC - Make it easy for yourself: pasta and a marinara sauce. You can do those in your sleep now. 

RHETORIC - Not in your actual sleep, mind. 

Fifteen minutes later, Harry sat down and had his simple dinner. His appetite had made itself known as he’d smelled the garlic frying in the pan. As he was polishing off the last strands of spaghetti, he decided to ask a question that was burning a small hole in his brain. 

“Hey, Crownie. Why won’t you let me remember my mother’s face?” 

There was a moment of silence in his mind, as if all the other furies were staring at his volition. 

VOLITION - My job is to keep you sane, Harry. Your most easy to access memory of your mother is from the last day you spent together. So, I’m locking that away until you find a photo of her. For your own sake. 

“Fair enough,” Harry said and looked around his small apartment. “If I have one, I’m bound to find it soon anyway.” He didn’t want to dwell on the off chance that he had no photo of her. 

There was a sudden tingle in his chest, not unpleasant and he realized that the electrochemical fury had returned. 

ELECTROCHEMISTRY - Phew! This was a tough one! I did what I could and- What the fuck has happened here!? 

“Uh-” 

ELECTROCHEMISTRY - I left a nice dollop of oxytocine and serotonin this morning. Now this place looks like the Yekokataan Zone of Disaster! What the fuck have you guys done to Harry? 

EMPATHY - It was a bad day. 

HALF-LIGHT  - THE WORST DAY! 

VOLITION - That’s an exaggeration. But it was bad. 

PAIN THRESHOLD - We’ve hurt ourselves today. In so many ways. 

ENDURANCE - But we will soldier on. As we always do. 

ELECTROCHEMISTRY - Harry? 

“I found out my mom died.” He swallowed a sudden lump in his throat. “And that I hate John McCoy, for reasons not quite specified.” 

VOLITION - All in due time. 

ELECTROCHEMISTRY - Fuck me. I’m not letting you out of my sights after this, Harry. Even Crownie turned on you? Well, I have something that might cheer you up then. 

“I’m not in the mood to talk about kinks. I had an awful day and I just finished eating dinner.” 

ELECTROCHEMISTRY - That is actually a thing, you know. The eating bit. 

“All humans like to eat, no one wants to go hungry. Not really.” 

ENCYCLOPEDIA -  Anorexia nervosa- 

ELECTROCHEMISTRY - Time and place, book-head! No, Harry, I mean… Maybe it is because you grew up poor, but for you eating is actually… It’s a bit more than just fuel, you know? Your waistline doesn’t lie. 

“Are you saying I gained weight on purpose?” Harry fell silent and looked down the curve of his stomach. “That’s twisted.” 

ELECTROCHEMISTRY - No, I’m saying you didn’t really put an effort into not gaining weight. There’s a difference. Again, you grew up poor. Feeling full and having some comfort kilos, it is a reassurance you're doing well in life. It’s not a kink as such, but more an observation about something that made you feel good. 

“Well, it doesn’t any more. It is embarrassing.” 

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT - If I may? 

ELECTROCHEMISTRY - Be my guest, Coach. 

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT - Harry, think back on today. I know it isn’t pleasant, but recall when you tried to jump on McCoy. 

“Okay, but what has this-” 

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT - Jean Vicquemare and Mack Torson held you back together. And they’re the biggest guys at the station. Jean is ripped, he trains almost daily. And Torson looks like a rhinoceros had a baby with a human. His free time is nothing but weight-lifting. They were holding you back and you still took a step forward. That’s when Pryce called out. Because the Captain knew you would take another step. And another. Until you reached McCoy. And then there's the armrest you ripped off. You’re strong as an ox, Harry. Being a bit chunky around the middle doesn’t change that. 

“So, comfort kilos?” Harry patted his belly. “I could still do with losing a few, I think.” 

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT - Whatever makes you happy and healthy is good in my book. 

ELECTROCHEMISTRY - Now, if I may continue? I tried to figure out proper kinks and it wasn’t easy. So I went with what I thought I knew. And it turns out, you’re not into piss. At all. That was something the General made up to preserve your dignity when black-out drunk, and I just kind of ran with it. So that one's on me, sorry. The wires got a bit crossed. It is actually the same with the autoerotic asphyxiation thing, or anything relating to strangulation. 

“I knew that already. I had a panic attack today that felt like I was strangled by my tie. It wasn’t pleasant.” 

INLAND EMPIRE - You weren’t wearing the horrific tie even! 

ELECTROCHEMISTRY - Yeah, another case of crossed wires. I can’t say why, because Crownie is blocking me. Again. 

VOLITION - My job is to keep Harry sane. All in due time. When he is ready. 

HALF-LIGHT - If ever! 

ELECTROCHEMISTRY - And lastly, well, this is a no-brainer: you like being touched. You like hugs and sensual touch. Just, not from men in general. Which is a strange one, as you’re obviously into both men and women. We figured that out together. But you have to be the one initiating the touch. And you have obvious areas which are your no-go zones, like your neck and your lower back. I can’t say why, that’s Crownie’s domain and he’s not being forthcoming. 

“That’s honestly just a list of things I’m not into.” 

ELECTROCHEMISTRY - I know! I tried, Harry, but you have a very strange relationship with your sexuality. The touch-averse part of you is… the most problematic I think, and you should work on that. 

VOLITION - Didn’t think I’d ever say this, but I agree with him. 

“So, I like hugs but not being touched. I’ve nothing against a few comfort kilos, but I don’t want to be fat. And I am bi-sexual, but not really?” He sighed and got up to clear the table. “I’m a right barrel of contradictions, aren’t I?” 

He had just finished doing the dishes and was drying his hands off when the phone rang. 

“Âllo! J’ecoute.” 

“Bon soir, Harry.” 

“Kim! What a pleasant surprise! Why are you calling?” 

“I wanted to call and see how you were doing. How was your first day back at work?” 

Harry felt the elation he had felt at hearing Kim’s voice wither and die in his chest. 

“Why don’t you tell me about yours first,” Harry said, trying to keep his voice level. 

“Okay,” Kim replied, sounding a bit surprised. “It was a normal Monday in many ways. But things are heating up in the G.R.I.H, as the strike among the dock-workers is spreading. We’re keeping on top of it, but Captain Mitterand is looking like he is under a lot of pressure. I think he is regretting approving my transfer to Precinct 41 now.” 

Harry huffed a laugh. “Heh, too late. Pryce already signed off on his end. He sent it to HQ in La Delta this morning.” 

“Mmh, that is good to hear. Do you know when it’ll be finalized?” 

“Pryce guess-timated end of April at the earliest. I think he’s called in favours, to be honest.” 

“No doubt. But Harry, how was your day?” 

Harry leaned against the wall and sagged to the floor. He sighed deeply. 

“Harry?” 

“Absolute shit, Kim,” he said after a moment. “I made an ass of myself. Twice.” 

“What happened?” 

“I really don’t like John McCoy. We used to be partners, years ago, and he knows exactly what buttons to press to make me fly off the handle.” 

“I see.” 

“I didn’t strike him, Kim! Pryce stopped me. He’s got more control over me than your eyebrow…” There was a static-laced snort from the other end. 

“Jean and I had a tête-à-tête. So we’ve cleaned the air between us. I think we can work this out, as partners again.” 

There was a soft hum from Kim. 

“I got a welcome-back gift from the Major Crimes Unit. A complete beard-maintenance kit. That was touching.” 

“This sounds like pretty good things, Harry. Apart from that bit with McCoy. Why do you say your day was shit?” 

“I found out my mother is dead.” 

Harry barely got the words out before a thick lump of grief formed in his throat and the sobs pushed themselves from his lungs. He felt his eyes brim with tears. 

“Oh, Harry…” Kim said softly. Harry knew Kim wasn’t good with strong emotions on display, but he couldn’t help himself. 

“It sent me spiraling last year,” Harry sobbed. “Jean said I’m taking it better, but I don’t know… it feels… feels like someone stabbed me in both lungs.” 

“Do you want me to come over?” 

“No!” Harry gulped down air, steadying himself. “No… I can manage. I need to go through this, Kim. It’s grief. It’s normal to feel like this. I have to stop hiding from it. It hurts now. But it’ll pass.” 

“Sounds like the therapy is helping.” 

Harry chuckled, despite himself. “Yeah. Ribot said something like that when I explained my grief over Dora leaving, and how it hurt less and less.” He sighed. “Friday feels like an age away right now.” 

“Can’t you book an earlier session?” 

“She’s a busy lady, Kim. And I have my medicine. I made a promise to Jean to take it with me to work, so I will.” Something occurred to him. “Do you have any plans for the weekend, Kim?” 

“Not yet, no.” He sounded curious. 

“I’m going to visit mom’s grave on Sunday. Jean helped me locate the church, l’Eglise Saint Augustine in east Fau, but I don’t want to go alone. Would you mind-?” 

“Not at all, Harrier.” The reply came fast. “Do you want to order some flowers, or…?” 

“Erh, I don’t think I can afford them right now. I checked out some price listings in the market and yeah, no, it’s outside my budget. I’ll bring a storm candle though.” 

“When do you want to meet up?” 

“Do you still have the-” 

“Kineema?” A deep sigh. “No. I had to hand in the keys today.” 

“I see, that’s a shame. We never got to install those new lights you bought.” 

“I know.” 

“Is ten in the morning too early for you to be in Jamrock? You can wait at the tram station on the corner of Perdition and Main.” 

“Should be doable.” 

“Great!” 

Harry started to struggle himself upright again. His right leg had fallen asleep and was shooting pins and needles along itself. His left was aching as it always did in the evenings. He realised he made a lot of noise, grunting and huffing, when Kim asked carefully, 

“Are you alright, Harry?” 

“Uh, yeah, just getting up off the floor.” 

“You made a lot of noise.” 

“One of my legs is asleep, the other aches because I was shot in it, and lastly: I’m a heavy guy. It kind of compounds shit.” He looked down at himself, and pulled down the T-shirt over his stomach. It had ridden up a bit as he stood. “Hey, Kim?” 

“Hmmh?” 

“Would I be imposing myself terribly, if I asked you to hang out with me on Saturday too?” 

“I said I had no plans, so what did you have in mind?” 

“I’m in dire need of new shirts, I’ve made a budget for it. It’s why I can’t afford the flowers. And I don’t know any good places to buy clothes that would, you know, fit me. Would you be a ‘style-buddy’ and help me out?” 

There came a sigh that sounded like a soft chuckle. 

“Of course I’d help you, Harrier. So, do you think you can make it to my place by ten on Saturday morning?” 

Harry smiled, his first genuine smile in a long time. “Should be doable.”

Chapter Text

Tuesday passed in relative quiet, allowing Harry time to catch up on his reports. His colleagues seemed satisfied with ignoring his Monday outbursts, especially after Jean Vicquemare glared a bit extra at them. 

By Tuesday afternoon he had finished writing up reports for all the finalized cases in his ledger and handed them over to Apricot Pidieu for processing further up the prosecution chain. He made a point of including the initial case number for THE HANGED MAN, as well as the amended one, so that it would be searchable both as HDB41-0803.0815 as well as KK57-0803.0815. It was his way of bureaucratically disagreeing with Captain Mitterand’s decision to amend the case number away from Precinct 57 and thus from Kim’s record. It would probably cause a short-circuit in some radiocomputer somewhere, but he didn’t care. 

Wednesday morning was spent going through his active cases, and handing them out amongst his patrol officers. Pryce had been correct in assuming most of them were beneath Harry to deal with. As Harry went through them, he wondered what had made him hang on to storage burglaries and MC-theft? He eventually settled for it being caused by a strange combination of poor self-esteem, arrogance and disregard for his subordinates’ ability. Well, that Harry Du Bois was gone, and this one trusted his patrol officers and sergeants. Even if it meant handing his sergeants in particular cases that basically amounted to fetch quests from Wîrral: go there, arrest this guy, send him along to the Prosecutors Department for trial. After explaining this to Torson and McLaine, Harry decided he had enough bullshit for one morning and decided to go out for lunch. 

He ended up at the newly opened Vaasan-Samaran fusion diner called The Tandoori Moose, where he had a hot stew of tandoori-marinated moose with flat-bread and a good dollop of rice. Harry avoided the otherwise popular Samaran Wall, because their all-you-can-eat buffet seemed like a recipe for disaster with his body in recovery and the cravings he had for deep fried food. It was enough that his morning walk to work presented an unnecessary trial of will as he passed Jafari’s Donuts and Churros. So far, he had managed to resist temptation. 

After lunch, he had a few cases left to hand over, which concerned fraudulent sales of meat and a couple of other violations of the Aliments Act, but he couldn’t find Judit Minot anywhere at the station. Her seat was vacant, but the half-drained cup of tea indicated that she was at work. 

“Hey, Tillbrook!” he called. The young man looked his way. 

“Sir?” 

“Where’s Officer Minot?” 

“Doctor Gottlieb called her down to the lazareth about an hour ago, sir.” 

“Why?” 

“Dunno, sir.” 

“Speak of the devil,” Émile Mollins, Chad Tillbrook’s partner, muttered as Judit Minot came up from the basement. She was swearing up a storm worthy of Apricot Pidieu. 

“The fucking idiots! I warned them! But noooo! Fucking macho-dumb-cocks! But they had to go to Kuklev’s Cocking Kebab Kart! Now they’re puking and shitting their guts out, and I’m left to pick up the fucking-!” She stopped suddenly as she saw Harry. “Oh, sir, I didn’t see you.” 

“Oh, I’m fine with that kind of language, considering what I did a few days back,” Harry said and smirked. “But I hope you don’t talk like that in front of your children.” 

“I certainly do not, sir!” 

“Didn’t think so.” Harry placed the folders on her desk. “Mind telling me what this is all about?” 

Judit took a deep breath. “We have four patrol officers and Sergeant Feuerbach downstairs, suffering from vomiting, stomach cramps and diarrhea. They have all eaten at Kuklev’s Kebabs in the last 24 hrs. It looks like they’ve all caught winter vomiting disease.” She sighed. “I am closing Kuklev’s shit-cart down.” 

She pulled on her holster and grabbed her ledger. Harry put a hand on her arm. 

“Are you certain about this, Judit? The Wayfarer Act-” 

“Doesn’t apply now! He’s broken codes in the Aliments Act by allowing customers to come to bodily harm by serving them badly handed food. I have a clear and highly probable cause! Five police officers are down, I have no idea how many civilians there are!” 

“Isn’t there a step missing, Judit?” Harry said carefully. He wasn’t an absolute expert on the Aliments Act, but he was a detective. 

She took a breath and steadied herself. “I need to prove he has indeed handled it poorly.” She looked directly at Harry. “But it being by accident is no defense as concerns the Aliments Act.” 

“I understand,” he replied. “You still have no new partner after Joseph Mills kicked the bucket, huh?” 

“No, sir,” Judit replied. “I’ve been told that I will be getting partnered with Jolie DeMettrie once she finishes her Junior training.” 

“She seems promising, so that’s good. But I’m not letting you go close down Kuklev’s Kebabs on your own. I’m coming with you.” 

“Sir?” 

“Oh, you heard me, Officer Minot. Shall we?” 

Judit looked surprised and then grinned. She picked up a piercing thermometer, gloves and a flask of disinfectant as well. After a moment's deliberation, she fished out a few sample containers for food tests. Harry realized her police harness had been adapted to fit these things in. 

Judit led the way out of the silk mill, passing a smoking Jean on the stairs. Judit gave a cheery “He’s going down!” as she passed him. 

As they crossed the market square, heading to the kebab stand, Harry asked for her ledger to start taking field notes. 

“So, what would the case number be, Judit?” 

“JM41-0404.1230.” She was quick, sure. Eager. 

“Twelve thirty?” 

“That’s when Gottlieb called me down.” 

Kuklev’s Kebab wasn’t really a cart any more. The business had grown and the more or less permanent cart had become a permanent part of the wall behind. It gave the uncomfortable idea of being bigger on the inside when you looked into it, seeing as it wasn’t obvious that the cart now extended into the ground floor of the building behind it. 

Across from Kuklev’s was Georgios' Gyros, and Georgios started heckling Kuklev as soon as he saw the RCM officers approaching. 

“Oh, you’ve fucked up, Kuklev! This is what you get for stealing traditional Meteoran recipes, you Graadian thief!” 

Kuklev did not dignify that with an answer, but just shot two meaty middle-fingers in Georgios’ direction. He smoothly wiped the look of irritation from his face and smiled at Harry and Judit. 

“Officers! What can Kuklev do for the RCM today, eh?” He seemed to recognise Harry and his smile became a gap-toothed grin. “Officer Du Bois! Long time no see! Have you come for your special?” 

Harry felt a small spike of panic but collected himself before Kuklev noticed. 

“As a matter of fact, no. I am here to assist Health Officer Minot. We’ve had complaints about the hygiene in your cart. Minot?” 

“What Lieutenant Du Bois says is correct. We have five colleagues who have all come down with the same illness within the last 24 hours. They have all had lunch here.” 

They heard a harsh laugh behind them, as Georgios overheard. 

Kuklev made a weird growly sound and then gestured at the officers. “You should come inside. Kuklev has nothing to hide. Will show you I run good business.” 

Harry and Judit went around the side of the cart where Kuklev let them in. Judit put on a pair of shoe-protectors with practiced ease and handed two to Harry. He was nowhere near as graceful as her, but on they went. 

Kuklev made a gesture that encompassed his entire kitchen area. 

“As you can see, is clean! Kuklev knows food hygiene, I have diploma!” He pointed to a framed diploma on a wall next to one of his work benches. It seemed legitimate, issued by the RCM themselves, but it was issued in ‘41. Harry looked at the signature. Lieutenant Marie Berzelius. Something connected in his brain and he recalled that she had been partnered to him at some point, when he was a newly promoted lieutenant. 

“It checks out,” Harry said. “It’s old, but I knew the Health Officer.” 

“Really?” Judit asked. 

“We were partners.” 

“See? Kuklev tell no lies!” 

“Well, the diploma only proves you have the theory, Kuklev,” Judit said as she put on her gloves. “I’m interested in practice.” 

“Of course, of course.” 

Harry hung back, ready to take notes and watched as Judit got to work. She was Jamrock Shuffling the kitchen, opening drawers, relaying what she saw for Harry to note down. She opened refrigerators and freezers, took out the thermometer and made measurements of the cold. 

“Tad warm,” she noted. “Freezer is okay.” 

She looked confused and took out a frozen lump of meat. “What is this, Kuklev?” 

“Is rabbit. I have new kebab special.” 

“Rabbit, huh? Where do you buy it?” 

“Meat market in Le Cycle.” 

“Do you have any receipts for that?” 

“I send all receipts to my accountant.” 

“So that’s a no.” 

Kuklev only shrugged. Minot put the lump back into the freezer. “None of the meat is marked, Kuklev.” Harry made a note of that. 

“I have system, I know which is which.” 

Minot sighed and moved on. She came to the cold buffet and took temperature samples. “Again, a bit warm,” she muttered as she disinfected the needle. “But there’s only vegetables in the buffet containers.” 

She then moved on to the warm buffet and the meat containers. Saving the best for last. She removed the lid of one and took a step back. 

“What the actual fuck, Kuklev!” she shouted. Harry leant forward and saw for himself. There were maggots crawling in the kebab meat. He swallowed and took a step back. Kuklev leant forward, curious, as if he didn’t know his kebab meat was writhing with maggots. 

“I will throw this away, has gone bad,” he said and pulled the container out. 

“Wait!” Judit barked. Kuklev actually stopped mid-step, and Harry was a bit amused. Judit had a good ‘cop-voice’ in the making. She reached forward and took a temperature sample. 

“Forty-two,” she said and Harry noted it down. Then she took out a sample jar, took a pair of tongs from the work bench and filled the jar. She threw the tongs in Kuklev’s dish-washing sink. “Now, you can throw it away,” she said. She took out a marker and noted the date and case number on the jar as well as a code that Harry couldn’t make out. She showed it to him so he could copy it down. 

Kuklev came back with the empty container, having emptied it in the back. He set the container into the same sink as the tongs and collected a new container of meat from the fridge. He plonked that down into the warm buffet. Judit gave Harry a look and Harry made note of the treatment. 

Judit looked over his shoulder at the notes. “Your handwriting is nice, sir. Pedagogical.” 

“Thank you, I’ve had practice.” 

“So,” Kuklev said, obviously uncomfortable with the sudden silence, “I threw it away, is not problem, no?” 

“Maybe, maybe not,” Judit said. “We’ll have a look around back, if that is okay with you?” 

“Is okay,” Kuklev said and turned back to the front. He had some customers to attend to. As they turned, Judit surreptitiously put a bit of paper into the wash basin by the cold buffet. Harry and Judit moved out back, and she immediately started to look through his waste bins. 

“Judit?” 

“My ass he serves fucking rabbit!” she replied as she looked through the bins. She lifted rotting meat and bone as she searched. Harry took a step back, his nose pointing out this was a bit too much right now. 

“Yes!” Judit said and pulled out something by its tendons. “I knew it!” 

She lifted a pair of paws out of the waste bin. She took them in her hand and squeezed the toe beans carefully. Tiny claws extended from the tiny toes. 

“He’s serving cat,” she said and looked at Harry. “Sir? Are you alright?” 

“I’m not, as a matter of fact, Judit.” He took a deep breath and then took out a small evidence bag from his jacket. “Here,” he said and held it open for her to dump the sad pair of paws in. She pulled off her gloves and tossed them in the bin. 

“So,” Harry said after handing the bag over to Judit, “what do we have?” 

“I need to check the wash basin when we get in, but I have enough to give him a fierce fine. He doesn’t keep meat at the proper temperature in the warm buffet, but he did throw it away and knows when it goes bad. It isn’t illegal to serve cat-meat, but he’s selling it as rabbit. That’s just a menu change, and he knows it.” 

“And the kitchen is pretty clean.” 

“Yeah.” Judit sighed. “I was hoping we’d be rid of him for a while. Shit.” 

“His hygiene diploma is pretty old, can we send him on a fresher-upper?” 

“Only if we can prove he has poor hygiene.” She put her hands on her hips and bent her back, looking into the sky above. “It is really hard to prove the origin points of winter vomiting disease, sir. You can at most have a fairly decent chain of circumstantial evidence, unless you luck out hard on the samples.” 

“I understand. Perhaps what we can settle for, today, is a hefty fine and sending him on a review education of food hygiene?” Harry handed over her ledger. 

“Seems like it. Let’s go back inside.” 

As they went back inside, Judit glanced in the wash basin. The paper was undisturbed and dry. She frowned but said nothing. Harry found himself looking around the kitchen, his building safety training taking over for a moment. The ventilation filters above the grill were in need of cleaning, but nothing illegal. The gas piping had the proper markings and warnings. He followed the piping down to floor level. 

There, between the grill bench and the wash basin, was a hole in the wall by the floor. It wasn’t large, maybe a few centimetres wide at most, shaped like a half-circle. He leant down by it. It looked straight out of a cartoon. 

Judit was going over what they had seen and was finalising a fine for Kuklev, when Harry called over to them. 

“Hey, Kuklev!” Harry said. “Seeing as you have no cats around, is this where you keep the mice?” 

“I do not have mice!” Kuklev exclaimed, suddenly defensive. “I have mouse, maybe.” 

“If you say so,” Harry said and rapped his knuckles against the wall just above the hole. 

Suddenly, a stream of mice ran out of the hole, frightened by Harry’s knock on their proverbial door. They swarmed around their feet, and headed out towards the street by the side-door and the back. 

Judit’s cheeks flushed red and she snatched the fine slip back from Kuklev. 

“Fuck the fine! This place is closed!” She hustled Kuklev out on the street, taking off the shoe protectors in her step, with Harry trailing behind. 

Under Judit’s supervision, Kuklev had to close down the cart, throw away all the meat and produce he currently had - yes, even from the freezers - and then she sealed the entrances with RCM-tape. 

“You may open again under the caveat that you retake a course in food hygiene, and pass it, in Couron in two weeks time.” She handed the modified station call to Kuklev. “Secondly, this place will be sanitized before opening, and it will be done under supervision of the RCM.” 

“I have Wayfarer Rights-” Kuklev tried. 

“No no no! The Aliments Act overrides those! You do not have the right to harm or kill people with the food you serve, Kuklev!” 

“I will issue complaint!” 

“You do that! See you in court in 45 days!”  

As they walked back to the station, Judit suddenly burst out laughing. Harry couldn’t help but chuckle along. 

“A mouse! He had the 8/81 of Mouseville!” Judit said. “Is this what it’s like, sir?” 

“What’s like what?” 

“When you get those truly stupid stories, that you can laugh at?” 

“Oh yes,” Harry said, putting an arm on her shoulder. She gave him a funny look, so he lifted it again. “Sorry.” 

“It’s fine, sir,” she replied. She looked down. “Sir, you forgot to- er-” 

Harry looked down. He was still wearing the white shoe protectors. Using Judit as support, he took them off and tossed them in a bin as they walked up the stairs of the silk mill. 

Apart from the little hiccup with the protectors, Harry felt a new confidence growing in him. Perhaps being a mentor for the Major Crimes Unit wasn’t such a bad prospect after all? 

Harry had thought his Friday would be nice and calm, allowing him time to mentally prepare for his visit to Madame Ribot. His week had begun in chaos and his emotions still threatened to get the better of him when he thought back to Monday. He also looked forward to seeing Kim on Saturday, and getting himself some new shirts. He tried to not think too much about Sunday. 

Torson and McLaine had other ideas, and by late morning, he was called out to assist them on Rue d’Estaing in Eminent Domain. He was driven out there by Patrol Officer Chad Tillbrook, after being informed by the chief mechanic in the garage that he wasn’t allowed to let Lieutenant Du Bois anywhere near a motor carriage, by order of the Captain himself. As Harry couldn’t argue with neither the logic nor the order, he wrangled Officer Tillbrook into helping him get where he needed to be. The young man was more than happy to help, seeing as his partner Mollins was out on horseback patrol with Lieutenant Vicquemare. 

Harry got out of the motor carriage and approached no 5 Rue d’Estaing. He was using his cane again, as the weather had gone colder and wetter the last few days, resulting in his leg starting to ache. The building was another of the three-storey brick-blocks that dotted Revachol West. It resembled his own apartment block in many ways. 

Sergeant McLaine was waiting for him at the entrance. 

“Glad you could come, chief,” Chester said as he led Harry inside. “Torso said we didn’t need your help, but I insisted.” 

“How so, Chester?” Harry said as he navigated the stairs. He was starting to hate stairs. 

“Call it a hunch, sir,” Chester said. He was strangely subdued, and polite. 

As they reached the second landing, Harry saw why. The door to the third apartment of five on the landing was busted open, hanging off its hinges. Like most doors it supposedly opened outwards, but this was smashed in on its frame, resting against the wall of the small vestibule of the apartment. 

The inside was a scorched and burnt out husk. As Harry stepped inside after Chester, he glanced around. The apartment was smaller than his own, but not by much. A quick glance into the bathroom revealed that it was mostly spared the fire, but the floor had started to melt, as had the wall towards the single room of the apartment. 

Harry stopped in the middle of the living room. The bathroom shared a wall with a tiny kitchenette, and the tiling had cracked. The cupboards were severely fire-damaged and most reduced to cinder. The porcelain cups and plates had crashed through the bottom of the cupboards onto the metal sink below. The rest of the living room was utterly devastated. There were the metal-frame and spring remains of a sofa-bed, but the rest were piles and piles of lightly smoldering cinders. Harry guessed the collapsed wooden debris against one wall had been a shelf, but he saw nothing remaining of any books. Some odd lumps of glass and metal knickknacks covered the floor here and there. 

The cool wind of spring blew in through the blown out window and the remains of a Suresne balcony. Mack Torson was standing by the balcony door, arms crossed over his chest, looking sullen. He was still hurting from Monday, it would seem. 

“Where’s the body?” Harry asked, leaning on his cane. 

“I didn’t say anything about a body,” Chester said, when Mack gave him a sour look. 

“You wouldn’t call me out unless there was one.” 

“Fucking Mullen,” Mack muttered. “We had it sent to processing. It was more beef jerky than human.” 

“Where did you find it?” Harry ignored Mack’s hostile tone. 

Mack pointed at the remains of the sofa-bed. “There. On its back.” 

“Supine,” Chester filled in. 

“I was working my shift with the fire department,” Mack explained. “We got a call out here in the morning of a fire. When we got here it was engulfed in flames already, so we did what we could. The fire cells in these old buildings are pretty decent, so we evacuated the neighbors and told the others to stay put in the apartments. Those who were home anyway. When we got the fire under control, we moved in - hence the door - and found our victim here.” Another pointing with a meaty finger. “So I contacted Chester and we opened a case.” 

“MT41-0604.915,” Chester filled in. “We did the field autopsy as well as we could.” Implying there wasn’t much to be gleaned from the corpse, if Harry wanted to be charitable. An uncharitable part of him maintained they had found nothing because they were bumbling idiots. 

Harry looked at the debris around the sofa. There was a small glint of orange metal on the ground next to it. 

“So, why did you call me here? What’s your take on this?” he asked. 

Mack gave Chester a sideways glance before speaking. “I think it was just some old fart who fell asleep with a lit cigarette, it caught the sofa on fire, he died. End of. I’ve seen it happen before. There’s nothing mysterious about this.” 

“You disagree, Chester?” 

“Yeah,” Chester said, suddenly animated. “Where’s the ashtray? There’s nothing that indicates this guy smoked!” 

Harry smiled knowingly. “Gold star, Chester. Where is it?” 

Mack snorted. “There doesn’t have to be, some people use beer cans and bottles as ashtrays. And no butts would survive this fire.” 

“But there are none of those things either!” Chester complained. “It doesn’t add up!” 

“Lads!” Harry said, cutting off Mack’s response. “Let’s take a step back and go through this in an orderly manner, alright?” That got both of their attention. Harry was going to turn this into a teaching experience. “You said the victim was supine, on its back. What else can we say about it?” 

“It was a he,” Chester began. 

“What makes you say that, Chester? The body was badly burned, wasn't it?” 

“The name on the door: I. Boroyev. That’s a man’s surname.” 

“And Graadian,” Torson added. “Probably pretty old. Like, over 70.” 

Harry clicked his tongue and looked at Mack. “Why do you say that?” 

Mack moved over to the pile by the far wall, and picked up a few of the old knickknacks from the ashes. “Many older people can’t read, the Suzerains didn’t like educated people, so there are no book-remains here. But,” he showed the twisted little metal-and-glass-lump, “this was probably a little sculpture or something. I heard they’re common in Mirova and Byelograd.” 

“I would call that a leap of logic, Mack, but I agree on the victim being old based on the lack of books,” Harry said. “I would also say the smashed porcelain in the kitchen indicates an older person. That particular style was produced just prior to the Revolution and was never made again following it. Too monarchist for most people’s tastes after, so it never made its way into the second-hand market.” 

Chester looked to the kitchen at that, and then back at Harry with a strange expression. 

“Interesting about the glass sculpture,” Harry added after a moment. 

“My mom collects them.” 

“Then that doesn’t mean he is necessarily from Graad, does it? He may have been born here in Revachol.” 

“True,” Mack conceded. 

“Mmh. What else do we know about him?” 

“He lived alone,” Chester suggested. 

“Duh!” Mack snorted. 

“It may sound obvious, but it doesn’t hurt to vocalize it, Mack,” Harry explained. “So, we have an old man, living alone. He didn’t smoke, from what we can tell. Can we say anything else about him?” 

Chester looked around, looking thoughtful. “I… don’t think so.” 

“Not at the moment, no,” Harry confirmed. “Next step. Mack, where did the fire start? Can you tell?” 

“That’s easy! Here!” Mack pointed to a spot just in front of the remains of the sofa. 

“And what makes you so sure?” 

“That spot is a lot more scorched, like the heat was more intense just there.” 

Chester leant down and looked at the spot. “It’s like… I dunno. Mostly wood cinders here. Coffee table?” Harry hummed an affirmation. Chester kept looking at the spot, and took out a pen from the inside pocket of his tartan blazer. He stirred around in the ashes with it, and uncovered a spindly collection of metal wiring and bent plates, with the melted remains of an electrical cord. 

“The fuck?” Mack said. 

“What do you think that is?” Harry prompted. 

“I- It looks like…” Chester hesitated, prodding the metal contraption. “A toaster?” 

“An old fucking toaster,” Mack added. He had knelt down by Chester. Harry stood off to the side, smiling to himself. “My mom has one of those!” Mack followed the length of cord, which was mostly a tangle of old copper wiring. It ran the length of the floor to where a bit of bakelite stuck to the wall socket. Mack pulled it out, revealing a two-prong, unearthed connector. 

“Why the hell would he have the toaster by his bed?” Chester asked aloud. 

“Why indeed?” Harry mused. 

Mack twiddled with the connector plug, set it down and walked over to the kitchen. He looked around, and soon found what he was looking for. 

“Here, Chester!” he called. Mack indicated the one plug in the kitchen. “It’s a three-prong. I don’t think those old plugs fit. I know mom complains about it.” 

“So,” Harry said, bringing their attention to him. “Do you think we can say what happened here now?” 

“Yeah,” McLaine said and stood up. “Old guy plugs his toaster into the living room socket, because it won’t work in the kitchen. He always does this. He puts in toast, as always, and lies down and falls asleep. Today, the toast gets stuck or there is a short-circuit, and it catches fire. Right by his face.” 

“Cause of death: smoke inhalation,” Mack adds. “What a fucking way to die.” 

Chester wasn’t looking at the remains of the sofa like Mack was. He was staring at Harry. 

“You knew this, didn’t you, chief?” he asked. 

Harry gave a small shrug. “I saw the glint of copper wire and the old plug as I came inside. Mack confirming where the fire started sealed it for me.” 

Mack looked at Harry, his face white. Chester, on the other hand, was grinning like a maniac. 

“Dick fucking Mullen is back!” Chester shouted. He was almost giggling with barely contained glee. 

“What?” Harry said. 

“Chester!” Mack complained. “Someone died here! Show some respect!” 

“Don’t you get it, Torso? He’s back! Precinct 41’s own supercop is back!” 

Mack groaned and walked out of the apartment. Harry followed him with a look and then turned back to Chester. 

“Why is this important?” he asked. 

“Because the Bloody Murder Station might not be a joke anymore! Because-” Chester hesitated. “Because… I kind of joined the RCM due to you.” 

“What? Why?” 

“I mean, look at me. I’m not the biggest of guys. Never were, never will be. And sure, everybody’s heard of Captain Pryce and John McCoy, the two badass motherfuckers of Precinct 41, that can draw faster than their own shadows. That’s cool and all, but… then there’s Harry the Can-Opener. Who can talk a suspect into confessing. For a scrawny guy like me, do you have any idea how inspirational that is? And it’s a choice! You could obviously be as physical as Mack with your suspects, but you chose not to!” He fell silent. “So, I was kinda disappointed when I joined, to find out that the Can-Opener had broken. I dubbed you Captain Sober because of that. I’m sorry, but… you know.” 

“Chester,” Harry said softly, “I’m no hero.” He moved to leave the apartment. 

“You are to me,” Chester said from behind him. Harry turned back to look at Chester. He looked so earnest. And young. It struck Harry that Chester McLaine probably wasn’t older than 30. Had he been that young once? It felt like an eternity ago. An eternity and another life. 

“Promise me one thing then, Chester. Don’t make the RCM your life. It isn’t worth it.” 

Harry got into the motor carriage next to Chad Tillbrook, who started the engine and drove back towards the silk mill. They sat in silence for a moment, until Chad broke it. 

“Something the matter, sir?” 

“Nothing, I’m just old.” 

“You’re not that old, sir,” Chad replied cheerily. “Me Nan, she’s old! She claims she can remember King Filippe IV. I don’t believe her because she claims some right barmy things sometimes.” 

Harry didn’t reply that he felt old. Instead he rolled the haft of the cane between his fingers and looked out at Jamrock passing by. 

“No, sir. We do not have any grave-plot or mausoleum under the name Du Bois.” 

“But I was told she is buried here, at this cemetery!" 

“I’m sorry, sir, but you may have been given incorrect information.” The young curate looked genuinely sorry he couldn’t help. 

“If I may?” Kim cut in. “Do you keep records of funeral services, not just burial services?” 

“We do, because not everyone can afford the burial fees connected to maintaining a grave-plot.” Harry made a grumbling noise that made the curate flinch. His face had steadily darkened as the conversation progressed and Harry now loomed over the curate. 

“Would you mind checking the funerary records of August last year for an Edith Du Bois?” Kim asked, subtly placing himself in front of Harry by half a step. 

“Of course, messieurs,” the curate said, happy for the out and disappeared into the records archive of the cemetery of l’Eglise de Saint Augustine. Kim turned to Harry, who still glowered. 

“Please calm down, detective,” Kim said softly. 

“I don’t like what the ‘can’t afford’ implies, Kim,” Harry muttered. He didn’t say that the weather, a cold spring drizzle from an overcast sky, was making his leg ache. He had opted to leave the cane at home today and was regretting it. 

Kim made a non-committal noise. He had chosen a darker jacket for the day, as had Harry. Neither of them wore apparel with RCM-tags. Harry rolled the storm candle between his hands, obviously nervous. 

“Kim,” Harry said after a moment, “I wasn't present for the urn setting. Jean said he found me at home that day, black-out drunk.” 

Kim didn’t say anything, he only softly touched Harry’s arm, making certain Harry saw him doing it. 

The curate came back with a large, leather-bound book. 

“Here we are,” the young man said and set the book down on the table. He traced his finger down the rows. “Edith Du Bois. Funerary service held August 3rd, private attendance. And burial… urn set in the memorial grove, August 15th. No one was in attendance.” 

Harry made a small whimpering noise and turned away. 

“Thank you for your help, curate,” Kim said and followed Harry outside the church office. 

“They even recorded how I failed her, Kim,” Harry said. His eyes were glassy with tears. 

“Let’s go to the memorial grove, Harrier.” Kim softly put his hand on Harry’s shoulder and led him in the right direction. The cold, humid weather made Kim’s glasses fog and wrapped them both in a strange wetness. 

The grove was off to the side of the rest of the cemetery, secluded and quiet. The edges of it were marked by massive trellis walls of Suzerain’s ivy. In the middle of it, a gigantic oak was enthroned, spreading its still naked branches across the grove. It had been there when Insulinde was settled, and Harry guessed it would still be there when the Pale swallowed the world. There were paths of cobbled sandstone snaking out from the oak’s trunk, like sun-rays, with green areas covered in spruce spray and branches between them. Thanks to the ivy-walls, the cold wind couldn’t reach into the grove. 

Harry moved into the grove, carefully. Kim stayed behind. 

Harry stopped in front of the oak and looked up. He felt the hairs stand up on his arms and prepared himself for what he knew would come. 

Her voice. 

Not his mother’s. 

Something much older. 

Ancient. 

Vast. 

SHE IS SAFE WITH ME. 

“This is your heart,” Harry whispered. Speaking with La Revacholière was never easy on him. It tended to happen near streams of water and the Esperance mostly, but this was different. More powerful. Earthier. 

SHE IS SAFE. YOU ARE SAFE. 

“Thank you,” Harry said, a sob hitching his shoulders. He knelt down and settled the storm candle in a nook between two roots, careful that the wick couldn’t catch on anything else. He took out his lighter, a metal one with a personal engraving, and lit it. 

He knelt before the candle for a few moments, lost to himself and what few memories he’d scraped together of his mother and him. He felt the tears run down his cheeks, mixing with the cold humidity of the spring rain still clinging to his skin. 

Eventually, he had to get up as his left leg started to go beyond aching into outright pain. He limped back to Kim, who stood just at the barrier between the outside world and the grove. 

“Are you all right?” Kim asked, looking up at him. 

“Yeah,” Harry replied, fiddling with the lighter still in his hand. “Better, at least. This felt good.” Harry looked back at the candle. “Do you think she was proud of me, Kim?” 

“Your mother?” Kim thought for a moment. “I think she was both proud of and loved her Harrier dearly.” Kim didn’t elaborate further and Harry lacked the energy to push him on it. “Nice lighter,” Kim said at final, as they moved away from the grove. 

Harry turned it in his hands, revealing the engraving of a bird of prey swooping on vermin. 

“Yeah. I found it the other day, in a drawer back home. It had a card.” He took a deep breath. “Mom gifted it to me on my 40th birthday. The bird is a harrier. I looked it up.” He grinned. Kim smiled back. 

“Then I am certain she was proud of you, Harrier.”

Chapter Text

“I didn’t catch you in the office this morning,” Harry said as he settled down next to Jean for the Monday meeting. He was still wearing his uniform to work, but he left the jacket unbuttoned and wore a navy blue tie. He saw the glance McCoy gave him, as if Harry’s choice to relax his dress was a sign of the inevitable decay John McCoy had predicted last week. 

“Some dickshit forgot to clean the hooves of Rimfax, our oldest gelding, during the weekend so I spent the morning getting him in order. I don’t want him to grow hoof abscesses at his age.” Jean worried at his lip as he thought. “If I find out who did that, I’ll-” 

“Everyone, please come to order and be seated.” 

The rest of Jean’s plans of revenge on the unknown horse-torturer was cut off by Captain Pryce calling the meeting to open. Gorki-Berdyayeva was now sitting next to Harry, as befitted her new role as Lieutenant of D-wing. She still gave the weekly summary from Moralintern though. The debrief continued as usual after that. 

McCoy had outdone himself last week. He had managed to add six new notches to his “score board”, as he called it. He looked inordinately proud of that achievement, seeing as that meant he’d wiped a drug cell making and  peddling ‘hunch’ off the streets of Jamrock. 

“I know you said you don’t like the Rat Squad meetings, captain,” McCoy explained, “but ‘hunch’ is bad shit. Six lives to save… I dunno? Dozens? Hundreds? This shit is all over Fau and we don’t need it in Jamrock. Call it preventive measures.” 

“D’ya think the basement pharmacists could cook up something to help with your itchy trigger finger?” Harry remarked before he could stop himself. 

“My trigger finger is fine, Du Bois,” McCoy replied smoothly. “It pulls other triggers too, if you catch my drift?” 

“Jamrock has roughly eighty thousand inhabitants, McCoy,” Harry said, keeping an eye on Pryce to stay on the right side of banter. “You have what? A thousand kill marks now?” 

“Passed the big one-triple-oh last month, but yes, I do.” 

“What are you trying to do? Depopulate Jamrock?” 

“It brings the crime rate down, doesn’t it? And we all have to pull our weight a little extra now that you drove a motor carriage into the sea.” There was a sharp intake of breath at the table. That wasn’t something that was well known it would seem. So how had McCoy found out? 

“I’ll fucking murder Trant,” Jean muttered next to Harry. 

Gorki-Berdyayeva turned to Pryce. “Is this true, captain?” 

“We’ll discuss this later, Millie,” Pryce replied through gritted teeth. He was looking at McCoy as he said it. 

McCoy acted as if he hadn’t seen or heard. He was on a roll. 

“Speaking of pulling your weight, when are you going to get off that fat ass of yours and do some proper police work, Du Bois?” 

“Du Bois! Sit down!” Pryce called out before Harry had properly left his seat this time. “McCoy, two things. One, stop pushing Du Bois’ buttons. I know you two have history going back a decade, but if you so badly want to have at him, do it in the gym during off-hours! Not during a meeting! 

“Two, I have ordered Du Bois to remain at the station to reorganise the Major Crimes Unit and mentor patrol officers for the time being. He still has a noticeable limp in the afternoons.” 

Harry felt his cheeks flush at the mention of his limp. Nothing got past the captain, it would seem. Any apparent excesses were only because Pryce allowed them. 

“Now, I brought both of you up to lieutenancy as I became captain of Precinct 41, because I know you both as good police officers. You both do good work, your methods are just different. And for smooth-running law enforcement, different styles are required. Be quiet, Du Bois!” Pryce shut Harry off before he could say anything. “I know you dislike McCoy’s methodology, but there are times when lethal force is required, maybe even necessary. There are times when suspects cannot be talked down and I trust John McCoy knows this. Your investigative techniques are effective, Du Bois, but they aren’t the fastest and they aren’t always the most efficient. In more open-and-shut cases, a faster approach, that cuts some corners, is the better choice. 

“Now, let’s get this wandering steer back on track. Lieutenant Vicquemare, if you please.” 

Harry kept simmering for the rest of the meeting, unable to quite let go of neither McCoy’s comment nor Pryce’s assessment of their respective techniques. It chafed that Pryce was all right with McCoy’s method of shooting first, no matter how much he complained about the Rat Squad meetings. 

Pryce called the meeting over and then leant in to talk with Gorki-Berdyayeva. Harry couldn’t quite make out what they were saying, but he caught snippets about ‘specialisations’ and ‘logical steps’. 

Harry turned away and found himself looking at John McCoy. 

“Stay out of my way, John, I’ll stay out of yours,” Harry muttered and tried to pass. 

“I’m getting real tired of your arrogance, Harry,” McCoy said and held out an arm to block him. “You think you know better than the rest of us, having found some magical way to solve crimes without having to make the hard decisions. You haven’t. You’ve just lucked out.” 

“Oh, so losing everyone I ever cared about or loved, and trying to drink myself to death, that’s lucking out to you?” 

“I don’t give a shit about your personal problems, that’s on you. But you don’t get to tell me how to do my job!” 

Harry glowered at McCoy, and just this once, he let the more aggressive thoughts win in the chorus of his mind. This needed to end. 

“Pryce is right! Meet me after hours, tonight, in the gym. Get in the ring!” 

With that, Harry bustled past McCoy’s arm and joined Jean outside the conference room. As they made their way back to their office, Harry felt the resentment steaming off Jean. 

“It was going to happen sooner or later, Vic,” Harry said as they got back and he sat down. “We’ve been at logger-heads since I returned. It has to end.” 

“Whatever,” Jean sighed. “I just hope you know what you’re doing.” 

Harry was down in the locker-room, having changed into his gym gear, when Jean entered. It was late in the evening, and Harry thought he’d left for the day. Jean had removed his uniform jacket and tie. He sat down on the bench next to Harry. 

“You’ll need a second,” Jean said without preamble. 

“A second?” 

“This is a duel, no matter what you want to call it.” Jean slapped a marching rhythm on his knees. “The entire station knows, for the record. You’ll have an audience. Even Doc.” 

“Gottlieb too?” 

Jean nodded. “He muttered something about ‘Scheissidioten’ but he’s there, with his bag.” 

“Alright,” Harry said and leant forward, mentally preparing himself. Parts of him were cheering and warming up, eager and ready to go. Others were less enthused. 

“You still wanna do this?” Jean asked after a brief silence. 

“Can’t back down now, can I? I made the challenge, gotta stand for it. Well, the squared circle beckons.” Harry got up, and a small groan escaped him as his leg made itself known. Jean noticed that. 

“Harry?” Jean said as he stood up. 

“What?” 

“Don’t let him see that limp. He’ll try to smack your thigh-wound.” 

“I know.” 

They walked into the gym proper and Harry saw what Jean meant with an audience. The area that was usually meant for practice of close-combat technique between officers, was now circled by a crowd. McCoy was already present, having not bothered to change from his jeans and short-sleeves, confident in his ability to take Harry on. He’d removed his necklace and rings however. 

Harry saw Judit and Trant amongst the crowd as well. Neither looked like they wanted to be here. They were a stark contrast to Chester and Torso, who seemed to have a friendly bet going on the outcome. 

Even Pryce was present, having sat down on a chair next to Nix Gottlieb. 

Harry walked through the crowd, into the makeshift duelling ring. Jean settled down next to Trant and Judit, after exchanging a few words with Ahriman DeMettrie, McCoy’s satellite. They seemed to agree on something and moved apart. 

Harry walked up to McCoy. 

“You're serious about this?” McCoy said after looking Harry up and down. 

“Aren’t you?” Harry replied and stuck his hand out. McCoy took it. 

And then tried twisting it around and out in an attempt to unbalance him. Harry caught the movement, broke it and twisted McCoy’s hand the other way, pulling him closer instead. 

“No you don’t!” Harry growled. 

Quick as a panther, McCoy’s left hand punched Harry in his gut. Harry huffed in pain, but his own left hand grabbed McCoy’s belt. He could hear his colleagues heckling and cheering, but soon tuned it out. 

Harry let go of McCoy’s hand to grab his shirt from behind instead. That meant McCoy’s right hand was free. 

The viper-quick thumb-knuckle punch to his thigh, right into his bullet wound, nearly made Harry black out from the pain. White-hot agony filled him and he roared, but he kept his grip on McCoy’s shirt and belt. 

Harry lifted John McCoy off the floor, still roaring and twisted around, upending McCoy’s balance. 

It was a perfect take-down, instinctual. They smacked down onto the mat and McCoy was immediately pinned beneath Harry’s greater bulk. Harry changed his grip, grabbing around McCoy’s right leg, placed his own right arm across McCoy’s collarbone and leant down on it. If he slid up just a little bit, McCoy would choke. 

McCoy didn’t relent, he jabbed Harry repeatedly in his ribs, but Harry’s padding saved him the pain. 

“Yield!” Harry growled. 

“Fuck no!” McCoy spat. He aimed a punch at Harry’s face, but it was misaligned and glanced off Harry’s right cheek. 

“Yield!” Harry repeated. He let his right arm glide up a tad, putting pressure on McCoy’s windpipe. 

“Fuck! He yields!” 

It wasn’t McCoy, but DeMettrie who said it. 

The bout had taken less than 30 seconds, Harry estimated. 

Harry swiftly got off McCoy, standing up and backing off, huffing from the exertion. His left leg screamed in agony, but he bit down on the pain. McCoy didn’t spare him a glance, but instead stared daggers at his satellite officer. 

“I had him!” he complained. 

“You did fucking not!” DeMettrie replied. 

“Again!” McCoy demanded. 

“No!” Pryce’s voice cut the air like a sword. He looked directly at McCoy. “Du Bois has made his point. This ends here!” 

McCoy rubbed his collar bone and glared at Harry. “Fucking gym teacher!” he spat and left. There were no cheers, no jeers, just an uncomfortable silence. 

People started to leave the gym, going back to their duties, the fun of the evening over all too soon. Gottlieb came up to Harry and gave him an ice-pack. 

“For the face,” he said and then left without further ado, to check on McCoy. Jean came up to him instead. 

“They didn’t expect that,” he said and smiled a lop-sided smile. “I don’t think anyone did.” 

“I noticed,” Harry muttered. He glanced down at the ice-pack he held at his cheek. “Just what my polio-addled law-jaw needs…” 

“At least it was a glancing blow,” Jean said, and guided Harry back to the locker room. “I didn’t know you wrestled?” 

“I do, it would seem,” Harry replied. “Or did.” 

“Don’t take this the wrong way, Harry, but… wrestling, with that body?” 

“No, with another body. That’s the point of wrestling, isn't it?” 

Jean snorted. “Whatever. Go clean up and we’ll grab something to eat, hmm?” 

“Yeah,” Harry said. 

He’d won, but for some reason, it didn’t make him happier. 

Wednesday morning started chaotically for Precinct 41’s Major Crimes Unit. 

According to the station log of Wednesday, April 11th, the timeline of events was as follows: 

At 3:20 a call came into the Revachol West Volunteer Fire Department of a fire at Jamrock Market square. The fire originated from a restaurant known as the Tandoori Moose. 

An on-call officer at Precinct 41 was alerted and called out at 3:25. This happened to be Sergeant Chester McLaine. 

The fire was contained and the fire department left at 3:45. Sergeant McLaine made a preliminary examination of the scene and was joined at 4:15 by Lieutenant double-yefreitor Harrier Du Bois. (Addendum: According to Lieutenant Du Bois, he had seen the fire from his balcony window. When later questioned by Moralintern Liaison Gorki-Berdyayeva about why he was up at the time, Ltn. Du Bois merely cited insomnia.) 

Assessing the scene, Lieutenant Du Bois went back to the precinct station and called in the rest of the Major Crimes Unit at 4:35. 

Harry made his way back to the remnants of the Tandoori Moose with Jean, Trant and Judit in tow. Mack Torson hadn’t answered his phone, and Harry guessed he had been part of the fire brigade called out earlier. 

He also hadn’t gotten hold of Mollins or Tillbrook, but left a notification for when they came in to get their arses across the market square and bring a motor carriage. 

It was almost 5 in the morning, and Jamrock was starting to wake up. The sky was reddening in the east and the twilight of early morning was giving way to dawn. 

Chester was standing outside the restaurant, looking morose and tired. He seemed truly out of sorts in a way Harry couldn’t quite place. The air stank of a hodge-podge of burning wood, Samaran seasoning, grilled meat and… faeces? Whatever it was, it wasn’t pleasant. 

“It’s an arson, chief,” Chester said, looking dejectedly back at the restaurant’s smoldering remains. “I’m starting to hate fires.” 

“Well, so do I,” Harry said. “Let’s get the party started.” He handed his ledger over to Judit. “CMcL41-” Harry began but Chester cut him off. 

“No! I… I don’t want this. I just… I wanna go home, chief.” 

Harry looked at Chester, and saw how tired the young man seemed. 

“Can’t do that before we have your statement, Chester.” He turned to Judit. “HDB41-1104.0325, then.” Harry looked back at Chester. 

“I was on-call tonight,” Chester began. “Mack was doing his shift with the fire department, and he called me at the station directly. That’s why I was on site so fast. It isn’t exactly far.” He made a tired gesture in the direction of the silk mill. “I waited for them to combat the fire before I moved in. Mack gave a short brief of what he thinks happened, and I second that. The fire started in the tandoori oven. The kitchen’s a bit scorched but safe to move through. Torso had them turn off the gas. Most things are intact, so I think they got here quick.” 

Chester fell silent and Harry decided to try to prompt him. 

“You said it was arson, Chester?” 

“Yeah,” he replied, obviously trying to gather his thoughts. “The fire started in the tandoori, and that was obviously done on purpose. I took a look in it to see what could've caused that. I wasn’t counting on a human face to look back at me. Or what remained of it.” He took a deep breath. “So, I did what any RCM officer would do in that situation. I shat myself.” 

That explained the smell, Harry concluded. “I’ll leave that bit out of the report, Chester.” 

“Thanks, chief. I shuffled to the customer toilet and cleaned myself up, and then you arrived. That’s all.” He looked up at Harry. “Can I go home now?” 

Harry nodded. “You can. Take the day off. That’s an order, sergeant.” 

“Thanks,” Chester repeated and shuffled away. 

Jean came up next to Harry, looking over the remains of the restaurant. The light was still on inside, the strip lights of the dining area having survived miraculously. The fire department really had put it out fast. 

“Poor guy,” Harry said. 

“Chester?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Happens to the best of us, sooner or later,” Jean said. The empathy in his voice made Harry believe Jean knew what he was talking about. 

“I had lunch here last week,” Harry remarked and started to move forward. Judit and Trant trailed behind. Harry passed the serving area and walked in behind the sales counter. The smell of charred flesh, which he now knew was human, increased by several orders of magnitude and his stomach gave a painful lurch. 

“You know what? I’ll hang back,” Harry said and moved back. He swallowed the spit that had gathered as his gag reflex started, and tried breathing through his mouth. 

Jean gave him a look. “Sounds like a plan, Harry. You look green.” 

“Yeah,” Harry wheezed and walked back to Judit. “Help him out, Judit.” He took his ledger from her and sat down on a chair in the dining area. Judit moved forward, putting on gloves and joining Jean as he moved into the kitchen. 

“Are you sure you need me here?” Trant asked Harry. 

“Yes, Trant,” Harry replied as he prepared a field autopsy form. “Alright, let’s get rolling. Initial description of crime scene, Vic.” 

“Grill party!” 

Jean was looking into the oven, as if wanting to confirm Chester’s remark. 

“Jean…” Harry muttered. 

“Chester was right,” Jean replied. He looked around for something to get the body parts out of the oven. Judit was moving around, pointedly looking anywhere other than at the oven. Jean found a metal dustpan and used that to scoop out the human remains from the oven. 

They landed on the floor with dull thuds. 

“That’s bad,” Jean remarked. Judit looked back at him. She turned a bit green as she saw what Jean was referring to. 

“Whaddya mean, Vic?” Harry asked. 

“This isn’t a complete human,” Jean replied. Judit turned away, and took a few deep breaths. “But we’ve got one burned, dismembered victim.” 

“Are you completely sure you need me here?” Trant asked again, a note of rising panic in his voice now. 

“Yes, Trant!” Harry and Jean replied at the same time. 

Judit had moved away and opened a refrigerator, mostly to keep occupied. Harry got the feeling she operated on health officer instinct. She saw her stiffen as she looked into the fridge. 

“Uh, guys,” she said, her voice strangely small. She let the door fall open, and then stepped away, taking deep steadying breaths. 

Harry had half-risen from the chair he was sitting in, and Jean came over from the oven. 

“Well, there’s the rest of him,” Jean remarked. 

“And then some,” Harry added. This time he couldn’t stop the retch from crawling up from his stomach, but he kept it in. Judit came out of the kitchen area and sat down across from Harry. Her face had gone white. Trant sat down too, at another table. They had the same harrowed look, and Harry realized it was because they were both parents. They had to face their kids later today. 

“Hey,” he said, trying to get their attention. “Maybe you two can go outside and wait for Tillbrook and Mollins, okay? And establish a perimeter around the restaurant too?” 

Judit nodded and got up, dragging Trant along. 

Harry got up as well, but moved over to the sales counter. He breathed through his mouth, slowly trying to wean himself on the smell. How was Jean keeping so calm? Was it his depression? 

Jean had moved on to open one of the freezers. He was taking out the remains that could be identified as human and putting them on the floor of the kitchen area. 

Harry started to count the remains and then flipped through his ledger. They were going to need more than one field autopsy report. He looked back at Jean, who was sorting through the bits of human in various stages of frozen, chilled or burnt with surprising reverence. 

“How many are we looking at?” Harry asked, a great sadness creeping into his voice. 

Jean stood up and sighed, a sound that revealed the same sadness in him. 

“Hard to tell. There’s more hands than feet, and I have only found that one head. The torsos are… disassembled.” He stared at what he had managed to put together. “It’s hard to tell the sexes of them and-” Jean stopped suddenly. 

Harry saw it too after a moment. The lankiness of the limbs, the slimness of the torsos. The feet and hands, oddly disproportionate for the lengths of the limbs. 

“They’re fucking teenagers…” Harry groaned. He truly hated his job at this moment. 

Jean looked at Harry, and Harry saw the abyss that opened in those grey eyes. 

“Harry,” Jean said, “I don’t think the autopsy forms accounted for this kind of thing.” 

“Do you want to take a break, Vic?” Harry asked. He felt he needed one himself. 

Jean shook his head. “No, I don’t think I can go back in if I do.” He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and cracked his neck. “Let’s find the heads.” 

Jean eventually found two more heads in a freezer in a backroom. Harry heard him vomit as he found them. When he came back, Harry nearly puked too. They were complete apart from their eyes, which had been removed. But at least two bodies could be sexed now. None had genitalia left. 

“Small mercies,” Jean remarked. “They’re mostly frozen.” 

“Yeah,” Harry said. Less smell then. “So, how many do you think we’re looking at?” he asked again. 

Jean looked over the bodies he had pieced together. Like the world’s worst puzzle. 

“Hard to say… We have seven hands, five feet, not enough legs for the feet, two complete torsos, but only three heads.” Jean sucked air through his teeth. “Going by the number of hands, we should have four bodies.” 

“So where’s the fourth head?” Harry said. “And everything else…” 

“Well,” Jean drawled. “It is a restaurant…” 

“Thank you, Vic!” Harry snapped, fighting back the sudden sickness he felt. “I didn’t want to fucking go there, but you just did!” Harry slapped his hand against the counter and moved away. He needed fresh air. Jean followed him outside. 

The air outside was a fresh relief, and the sun had risen over the surrounding buildings. A golden glow suffused the market square and the Coupris 40 in RCM livery parked in front of the restaurant. Tillbrook and Mollins had arrived. Harry put on his ‘superior officer’-face. 

“Alright lads, we have four bodies in there. I need you to bag them all, and send them off to Processing.” Jean gave him a strange look. 

“Understood, sir,” Mollins replied. 

“Aren’t we doing the field autopsies?” Jean asked carefully. 

“We don’t even know if we’ve got the right parts together, Jean. No, let’s leave this puzzle to Processing to figure out. They need entertainment too.” 

Mollins and Tillbrook stopped in their tracks when they heard ‘parts’. 

“Uh, sir?” Mollins asked, holding two black body bags. “Parts?” 

“Yes, Mollins. We seem to have a sequence killer that enjoys dismemberment.” Harry left out the potential cannibalism, if for nothing else than that he didn’t want to think about it himself. Harry looked down at his ledger, at the half-filled autopsy forms. Leaning against the bough of a tree, he silently filled them in to the best of his ability as Tillbrook and Mollins came out with each bag. Jean hovered next to him, smoking and remarking on details that could be added. Jean asked the two young patrol officers which bag was which victim and got the reply they had bagged them starting from the left side of the kitchen floor. 

Using that as a guide, Harry and Jean were able to connect each autopsy form to a potential victim, number 1 through 4, and sent Tillbrook and Mollins on their way to Faubourg Processing with the half-filled autopsy forms connected to their corresponding body. Jean sent Trant along with them, remarking that Trant needed to keep an eye on the butchers and that he could report back to them faster than through the usual grapevine. 

As the motor carriage left, Jean started to pace and smoke, trying to get rid of his agitation. Harry just felt incredibly tired. 

“Sir?” Judit asked after a moment. Harry had completely forgotten she was still there. “You gave Chester the day off. Do you think you could… you know?” She seemed very hesitant. Not at all the eager patrol officer he’d seen last week. He realized why after a moment. 

“Go home, Judit,” he said. “Jean and I can handle the rest. Take a family day, alright? Hug your kids from me.” 

“Sir,” she said and left. Harry looked back at Jean. No such thing for him or Jean. No family to speak of for either of them. Or, Harry reflected, he didn’t actually know if Jean-Heron Vicquemare had any family. This was however the wrong time for that question. 

“Hey, Vic,” Harry called. “Let’s tape off the area and get back to the Mill, okay?” 

“Sure,” Jean replied. 

Harry worried about his satellite-officer. He was trying to hide how much this affected him, and he seemed very reluctant to talk about it. But Harry thought it wasn’t his place to press him either. 

But part of him was deeply worried. He couldn’t put his finger on what exactly, but he knew through his amnesia that what they had seen this morning at the Tandoori Moose, was one of the worst things Harrier Du Bois had seen during his entire career. 

Back at the station, Harry tried to get Jean and himself to think about something else for the time being. So Harry had asked Jean about the report he had been filing away at during the last week. It turned out to not be such a good distraction, because Jean had been trying to correlate cases of missing persons reported, with the people that had been dragged from the River Esperance the last few weeks. It was mostly related to cross-referencing descriptions of victims. 

And far too many were teenagers. 

He was going to hand it off to Gorki-Berdyayeva later. 

So, lacking distractions, they focused on the case at hand, mapping out initial interviews with neighbours, contact to be made with the owners and, something that both dreaded, a second look at the scene. Out of all the tasks, making contact with the owners would be the easiest, at least on paper. According to the Aliments Act, owners of places that served food and drink to the public needed to be registered with their local RCM precinct. No permits were needed, just a registration. Harry took it upon himself to hand the inquest over to Records. 

Jean at his end started to pull street names from a map, seeing which nearby apartments could have witnesses to the start of the fire. Jamrock being what it was, there was no pulling names from phone lists or residency records. They would have to go about it the old fashioned way, knocking on doors and interviewing people face-to-face. Even the Revachol Postal Service struggled with Jamrock and its nomadic residents. 

They managed to fill the better part of the morning with the leg work of the case, which they now had simply dubbed THE TANDOORI MOOSE, because neither wanted to dwell on details or try to be poetic about it. 

There was a soft knock on the door to their office and Milicia Gorki-Berdyayeva let herself in after Harry called for her to enter. She was a woman of about Harry’s age, small but solidly built, with short, mousy hair that was greying at her temples. 

“Hello boys,” she said softly. “Just checking in. I heard the arson this morning was bad.” 

“Very,” Harry sighed. “Too many dead teenagers for my tastes.” 

“”For everyone’s, I guess. I know they get to you badly, Harry,” Milicia replied and walked over to him and squeezed his shoulder. She turned to Jean. “Do you have the cross-case report?” 

“Yeah,” Jean replied and pulled it out. “I was going to come over later with it.” 

“No trouble,” Milicia replied. “Maybe I’ll be able to clear away some cases from D-wing’s table.” She drummed her nails against the vellum cover. “Now, this might not be the best of times to inform you of this, but Captain Pryce and I have made the decision to specialize the wings of Precinct 41. C-wing will no longer be the Major Crimes Unit, but the Homicide Unit. B-wing will be known as Vice Unit, focusing on firearms, drugs and trafficking. D-wing will be directly under Searchlight and A-wing under Traffic. We are going to make it more official next Monday.” 

It would mean Kim would be forcibly transferred over to Searchlight from Criminal Investigations. Harry made a face but then sighed. “It makes sense, I guess. I just don’t like these kinds of things being decided over my head, Milicia.” 

“I understand, but the Major Crimes Unit was already meant to be primarily a homicide unit, was it not?” 

“It was,” Jean cut in. “Until his life fell apart.” 

“Can’t argue with that,” Harry said. “What about all the petty crimes? Burglary, truancy et cetera?” 

“Those will be spread out evenly amongst the wings. Seems only fair.” Milicia regarded Harry for a moment. “Pryce has a plan, Harry. One that will result in Precinct 41 getting a larger work force. To do that, we need to break the mold a bit first.” She moved back to the door. “Thank you again, Jean.” 

And with that, they were alone again. 

Harry got up suddenly. “I’ll go over to Records for the inquest into the owners of the Tandoori Moose.” 

“Sure,” Jean replied. “I’m going to head out on a run. I need to move, I think.” He fell silent as he mulled something over. “Do you want to join?” 

“No thanks, my leg is still off after McCoy rammed his thumb in it. It’s why I was up so early today. Keeps me awake.” 

Jean looked at Harry, studying his face. “The bruising is down, though.” 

“I got the ice-pack in time,” Harry replied. “See you after lunch, then.” 

Harry handed over the inquest and then made his way to the breakroom. It was empty and silent. One was good, the other… not so much. He felt sick still. 

He walked up to the sink and leant his head against the cupboards above it. The white veneered particle board was cool against his forehead, but it soon absorbed the heat of his body. 

The chatter in his head took over. 

VOLITION - You skipped breakfast! You need to eat something. 

HALF-LIGHT - No, he doesn't. It makes us sick! 

VOLITION - Don’t be daft. We need to eat. We need fuel. 

ENDURANCE - If he eats anything right now, it’ll just come back up- 

Harry buckled over and dry-heaved into the sink. 

LOGIC - Quod erat demonstrandum. 

ENDURANCE - But Crownie, you do have a point. 

PAIN THRESHOLD - It isn’t just discomfort from hunger now, it is actual pain. 

INLAND EMPIRE - What if the Tandoori Moose isn’t the only place with questionable meat? We saw what Kuklev served last week! 

Harry heaved into the sink again. Only stomach acid left him. 

ELECTROCHEMISTRY - Why are y’all dancing around the obvious answer? Harry, you need a drink! A stiff one! 

VOLITION - He certainly does not! 

HALF-LIGHT - Pryce will fire him if he drinks! And then it is good night, Harry. Forever! 

ELECTROCHEMISTRY - Pryce said he’d fire Harry if he caught him drunk. There’s a difference between drunk and having a drink. Just to steady the nerves. 

RHETORIC - I mean, he’s not wrong there. Those were Pryce’s exact words. 

LOGIC - Which is technically correct. 

RHETORIC - The best kind of correct. 

ELECTROCHEMISTRY - See? Even the intellectuals agree with me! 

Harry was about to mutter something back at them when he heard another person enter the breakroom. 

“Harry? Are you all right?” John McCoy asked. 

Harry groaned. The last person he wanted to see right now. 

“Not in the mood for banter, John,” he muttered and resettled his head against the cupboard doors. 

“The entire station knows you got the arson this morning, Harry,” McCoy said and leaned against the counter next to Harry. “And that it was bad. Worse than most. There’s no shame in admitting that.” 

Harry sighed, deep, bone-weary. 

“I need a drink,” he muttered. He heard a rustle, the clink of metal on metal and the faint lapping of liquid against the inside of something. “But if I drink, Pryce will fire me,” he added. 

“Ah,” McCoy said. He put his hip flask away. “Yeah, that’d explain things.” 

“Eh?” 

“Last chance call,” McCoy said but didn’t offer anything more. Instead he opened a cupboard and took out a small shot glass. He leant over and filled it with water and presented it to Harry. 

“It’s just a glass of water, John,” Harry said. 

“Is it? Or is it a ritual? A ritual you know will steady your nerves?” 

Harry took the glass gingerly and knocked back the water, as if it was a shot of vodka. As he wiped water drops from his moustache, he realized a calm had settled over him. He stared at the shot glass in his hand. 

“Well, I’ll be… It worked!” 

McCoy chuckled to himself. “You’re not the only recovering alcoholic I know, Harry.” He started to leave. 

“Hey, John,” Harry said. “Thank you. And no hard feelings, right?” 

“You’re welcome,” McCoy replied. “And well, no, not from Monday, no. But I still can’t stand your self-righteous ass, Harry. It is what it is. We’re still brothers in arms, however.” 

Harry was left alone, twiddling the shot glass in his hands. 

He checked his watch. It was almost lunch time and he really needed to eat something. His stomach lurched, and he argued with himself that he could eat anything, as long as he saw what it was he ate. It narrowed his options down, but it was a good compromise and his stomach settled. 

Harry was resting on the chaise-longue of their office when Jean came back from his lunch break. In his doze, Harry heard how Jean took off his jacket. A slight shuffle and he then heard the metallic rustle of Jean picking up the blisters of hydroxyzine Harry kept on his desk. He knew they were full, and he heard Jean swear under his breath as he saw that too. 

Two quick steps and Jean was leaning over his face, sniffing. Jean himself smelt of Frittte-brand shower gel, tobacco and a faint whiff of horse. 

“Either kiss me or fuck off, Vic,” Harry mumbled. He cracked an eye open and saw Jean looking down at him, startled. Jean straightened up. 

“I thought you-” 

“Were drunk? No, just in the mother of all food comas.” 

“How can you eat after this morning?” 

“With certain stipulations but great gusto.” Harry struggled into a half-sitting position. “I went to the Samaran Wall and their buffet.” 

“That explains why you smell of cooking oil and deep fry.” 

“Yeah. Deep fried shrimp still look like shrimp. And their dipping sauces are divine.” 

Jean smirked. “It’s better than drinking I guess. How many did you have?” 

“I lost count somewhere around twenty,” Harry replied. “And then I discovered their dessert table, and the miracle that is deep-fried bananas with honey and ice-cream.” 

“So, you were in hog heaven?” 

“For a while. Then they threw me out. It would seem there’s a limit to how much you’re allowed to eat at an all-you-can-eat.” Harry chuckled. “Made it back here just as the food coma hit.” 

Jean started to laugh softly. "Goddammit Harry! How do you get thrown out from an all-you-can-eat?” 

“By eating too many fried bananas, apparently!” Harry struggled the last way into an upright position, taking care to not upset his full stomach. He still belched. “Pardon. I overindulged all right. I feel a bit sick to be honest. Now I know what Gottlieb meant when he warned me to stay away from deep fry and fast food.” 

“Speaking of, want me to get you some antiacids?” Jean asked. 

“Yes, please, just don’t tell Gottlieb about this. I promised him to keep my recovery weight gain to a minimum.” 

“Sure thing,” Jean replied, chuckling. “Your secret is safe with me, partner. Merde, I needed a laugh.” 

“Don’t we all,” Harry said to himself as Jean left.

Chapter Text

In late afternoon, once Harry’s food coma had settled, he and Jean started with the interviews of residents across the square from the Tandoori Moose. Jean had done preliminary reconnaissance of the area during his lunch run, noting buildings with balconies or windows that faced in the right direction, and trying to map out which apartment residents would’ve likely seen anything. 

The market square had a fair few trees that obscured the view, something they only knew for certain once they entered the apartment buildings in question. The process narrowed the number of potential witnesses down considerably. Harry floated the idea of the back of the restaurant being of interest, but Jean dismissed it. The back of the restaurant opened up to the very edge of the Boogie Street spearhead and beyond the loading dock out back, there was only the Watermain Lake. 

“So, unless our witnesses can walk on water, they wouldn’t have been able to see anything from there.” 

So they split up and started going through the apartments. 

Many didn’t open their doors, and those who did in general only left statements that amounted to them having slept up until the fire brigade came rolling with their trucks. Or as one Monsieur Marc Leclerc, carpenter, said, “Most honest folk are sleeping at fucking 3 in the morning, officer. I know I was.” 

“So you saw absolutely nothing, monsieur?” Harry prompted. 

“Slept like a baby. Would’ve continued to, if the dear wife hadn’t woken me once the fire trucks came rolling. Got a nice view of it all from the kitchen window then.” He turned round and shouted, “Hey! Mimi! You didn’t see anything weird about the time of the fire last night, did you?” 

“No, mon cher!” 

“There you go. Sorry we can’t help you, sir.” 

“So nothing before that?” 

“Nope!” Monsieur Leclerc looked at Harry quizzically. “Hang on a tick! You’re the Disco Cop! Didn’t recognise you without that fuck-awful tie!” He fell silent and then realized what he had said. “Pardon! I didn’t mean to sound insulting, sir. As I said, I’m sorry we can’t help you.” 

“Thank you for your time, monsieur,” Harry replied and took his leave, moving on to the next apartment. He noticed he was starting to limp, and his leg ached. In a bout of stubbornness he had decided to leave the cane at the station, arguing he needed both his hands to write and hold his ledger during the interviews, but right now Harry regretted the decision. 

He knocked on the door to the next apartment, and as he waited for an answer, he tried to mentally calculate where the windows and balcony of this would be in relation to the ‘Moose. If he was correct, and he often was where these things were concerned, the resident would’ve had a perfect view of the entire front of the restaurant. If they had seen anything. 

The lock and latch of the door rattled and it opened a crack. In that crack a pale Occidental woman, with green eyes and curly dark-brown hair looked back at him. She was tall, but nowhere near Harry’s height. 

“Yes, officer?” she asked. 

“Ma’am, I am Detective Harrier Du Bois of the RCM. I am conducting interviews following the fire at the restaurant across the square. May I have a moment of your time?” 

“I suppose,” she replied. Her voice was husky, hinting at a life-time smoker. “I was kind of wondering when you’d show up.” She looked past Harry into the corridor. “Would you mind coming inside, detective? It’s bad for business to have the RCM standing outside.” 

Harry filed the remark for later pursuing, but gratefully stepped inside. The apartment was spacious but bore its age. The ceiling height was good, typical of pre-Revolutionary apartments, but all the woodwork, including the floorboards, looked worn. Clean, but worn. The putty between the window panes and mullions was flaking. The interior decorating was stylish, but not lavish. Harry realised every single piece of furniture was old, all of it from at least before the New. 

The woman indicated a cushioned armchair. “Please sit, officer.” 

Harry sat down gratefully, but a little bewildered. “You said you had been expecting me, ma’am?” Harry got a good look at her as she moved over to sit on the sofa across from him. Her movements were lithe, almost seductive, but there was a studied element to them. As if she had been moving like that for so long she knew no other way. Like a full-body Expression of sorts. Her body was shapely and she had nice features; a straight nose, full lips, fine chin and sculpted cheekbones, but there was a tiredness around her eyes that did not line up with the rest of her. It wasn’t a weariness you could sleep away. 

She was, Harry thought, a very attractive woman. But also- 

“You’re a sex worker,” Harry said simply. 

She had been taking out a cigarette and his comment elicited a half-chuckle from her. 

“Fuck, they say you’re good and they weren’t lying.” She lit her cigarette and took a drag before continuing. “I had barely opened my mouth and you start Can-Opening.” 

“So you know me?” 

“Know of you, detective.” 

“Then you have me at a disadvantage, ma’am. I do not know your name.” 

“Yvette.” 

“Yvette what?” 

“Carte-Blanche.” 

“Well, Mademoiselle Carte-Blanche,” Harry said, humoring her fake name, “I won’t take up your time more than necessary. I merely need to know if you saw anything strange last night, around two and three in the morning, in the area around the Tandoori Moose.” He gestured to her large living room windows. “You have quite the nice view from here.” 

“You’re assuming I was awake?” she asked, obviously a bit amused. 

“From your earlier comment about expecting the RCM, yes, I do.” 

She settled back, considering how much she could say. Sex work wasn’t prohibited in Revachol, but it was frowned upon if you visited them. So the customers tended to want to pay discreetly and not want receipts. As the only form of taxation was sales tax, well, that left sex workers in a sort of grey area as far as the Revachol Revenue Agency was concerned. 

“My last customer,” Yvette began, “left just after midnight. I took time to tidy up, myself and the… work area. I was done around two, I think. So I made myself some tea and had a cigarette on my balcony.” She pointed across the room. The balcony was located in her private bedroom. “I noticed the lights were on at the ‘Moose. It was remarkable, because I was sure they’d been off when my customer left.” 

“The ‘Moose isn’t open around the clock?” Harry asked. 

“No.” A puff. “They reserve that service for weekends. They haven’t been around that long, but they’ve made a mark already with the opening hours. And the fusion dishes.” Yvette looked suddenly regretful. “Shame really. I mean, they won’t be coming back from this, will they?” 

Now it was Harry’s turn to consider how much he could say. Yvette was skilled at her job of talking but not saying anything about herself. A fury briefly informed him that in another world, she would be perfectly placed as a spy. Another sourly commented that was how it worked in cheap novels, not reality. Crownie sourly remarked she was reminiscent of Klaasje Amandou, and Harry should be cautious either way. 

“That remains to be seen, mademoiselle,” Harry said eventually. “Did you see anyone in or around the restaurant at that time?” 

“There was someone on the inside, yes. Small frame, so I couldn’t see if it was a man or a woman for certain. And then another person arrived, I was just finishing off my cup of tea, so maybe a maximum of fifteen minutes later. That was a man, I am sure.” 

“How so?” 

“From how he walked. He knocked on the door and was let inside. They exchanged some words, he got a styrofoam cup of what I guess was chai, and then he left.” 

“Nothing else?” Harry was noting the information down. “Did you see what he looked like?” 

“It was across the square, detective. But he passed beneath a streetlight and I was kind of struck with how red his hair was. He was wearing a tan blazer, I think, but it was the hair that stood out.” 

Harry stopped writing and snapped his ledger-notebook shut with a loud clap. The sudden noise made Yvette start. She was more high-strung than she gave the impression of. 

“I apologize, mademoiselle,” Harry said. “Did anything of note happen after the man left?” 

She shook her head. “I finished my tea, and went inside. The other person was in there still, from what I could tell. I’m sorry, detective, but I was so tired I fell soundly asleep afterwards. The blinds in my bedroom shut out all the light. I only found out about the fire when I woke up this morning, when I saw the fire damage and the RCM tape all over the front.” 

Harry nodded to himself. 

“Thank you for your time, Mademoiselle Carte-Blanche,” he said as he got up and moved to the front door of the apartment. “You have been a great help to the RCM.” He opened the door to let himself out, but stopped in the doorway. “One more thing: your profession is dangerous. I hope you take precautions.” 

She chuckled darkly from the sofa. “I’ve been doing this for quite some time, Detective Du Bois. I can take care of myself. Don’t worry.” 

Harry nodded. “Have a good evening.” 

He rendezvoused with Jean in the square, outside the ‘Moose. Harry was leaning on a tree, having a smoke himself, as Jean joined him. He stubbed it out as his partner came up to him. 

“Any luck on your end?” Harry asked. 

“Two witnesses,” Jean replied. He took out his notebook. “One Stefan Lundberg, a Vaasan guest-worker, saw the lights on at the ‘Moose at around two or half past two, he was unsure.” Jean smirked. “He was uncertain because he was in that twilight between drunk and hungover and he was just up to take a piss. Apparently he hates the place. Considers it a disgrace to his proud Katlan heritage. Anyway, he saw two people inside.” Jean flipped through his notes. “The other witness was an older man, late 60s, a Pierre Vertou. Claimed he was out walking his dog at the time. He did have a dog, huge fucking thing, like a small pony. I believe him, because he also reported seeing two people at the place at around two o’clock. He gave a better description, saying it was a man and a woman, but couldn’t say more. Poor eyesight.” Jean sighed. “When he came back from his dog-walk, the lights were still on, but he couldn’t make out anyone inside. That was closer to three.” 

“Long fucking dog-walk,” Harry commented dryly. 

“Yeah, but no law against taking night-time walks with your dog,” Jean replied. “I hope you had better luck?” 

“Depends,” Harry said slowly. “I got one witness. But she was quite helpful. Yvette.” 

“Yvette? Just Yvette?” 

“No surname given. Not one that is admissible anyway.” 

“Ah, I see,” Jean said. “So?” 

“She corroborates the stories your witnesses gave. There were two people at the ‘Moose at around two until quarter past two. A man and a smaller person, maybe a woman. She wasn’t sure. The man left, leaving the other one. So if Monsieur Vertou had seen anyone inside at three, it was most likely our little mystery person.” Harry clicked his tongue absent-mindedly as he thought. 

“She said the man left? Did she get a good look at him?” 

Harry nodded. “She did. And we’re going to make a house call.” He started to make his way back towards the silk mill. They needed a motor carriage. 

“A house call? Where?” Jean said, trailing behind. 

The anger began to bubble up in Harry. 

“At Chester fucking McLaine’s!” 

The knock that Harry gave Chester’s front door was the Cop Knock, the steady, rhythmic pounding with the side of your fist that was a percussive order of “Let me in or else!”. Chester opened after the second round of it, looking a bit unkempt and drowsy but annoyed. The latter look disappeared when he saw Harry’s glower. 

“Hey, chief! Welcome to Caisteal McLaine!” He gestured for Harry and Jean to enter. The apartment smelt stuffy and was in some disarray. A rat’s nest, Harry reflected before turning his attention back to Chester. 

“I don’t appreciate being lied to, Chester,” Harry rumbled without pre-amble. 

“Eh?” 

“You were at the ‘Moose just prior to the fire!” 

“Oh!” Chester rubbed his neck and looked really uncomfortable all of a sudden. “Yeah… about that-” 

“You better have a good explanation or so Dei help me, I will knock you back to patrol officer and send you packing to the Skip Squad!” 

“Harry,” Jean said, “calm down.” 

“I just grabbed a chai! Fuck!” Chester complained. “They were open! I was bored!” 

“You saw ‘em! You saw our arsonist!” 

“Harry, we don’t know it was them. Ease off!” Jean was desperately trying to calm his partner down. He knew Harry had a temper, but being sober seemed to only make it more focused, not less volatile. 

Harry turned his ire at Jean. 

“Who else could it have been? The time-frame’s too narrow for another suspect.” Harry jabbed a meaty finger in Chester’s direction. “He saw ‘em!” 

“Look, chief, I was tired, alright? I had just shat my pants and I wanted to go home!” Chester defended himself, and Harry turned his attention back to him. “It slipped my mind, okay? I was going to tell you when I came back to work  tomorrow.” Chester took a few steps back as he spoke, placing himself outside Harry’s swing radius. 

Harry noticed that and instead closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He counted down from ten silently to himself and then sighed. 

“Okay,” he said and opened his eyes. “Tell me what happened, Chester.” His voice was calm again, and Harry saw how Jean relaxed his shoulders in the corner of his eye. Chester remained on edge however, but his voice dropped down from shrill fear to a more normal pitch. 

“As I said, I was cold and bored. I saw the lights on at the ‘Moose and walked over to get myself a cup of chai. The dogwatch between midnight and four is dull, you know?” Chester sighed. “Not even Jamrock has anything interesting going on at that time.” 

“Most officers would be happy for it, sergeant,” Jean remarked. 

“Maybe,” Chester admitted. “There was only a serving girl in there. I had to convince her to get me some chai, and in retrospect she was being real weird about it. Not something I reflected on at the time, as I figured she just wanted to clean the place in peace.” 

“Clean the place?” Harry said. 

“Yeah, she was mucking about with a mop and bucket.” 

Harry looked back at Jean, but said nothing. 

“We definitely need another look at the place,” Jean said. Harry nodded and turned back to Chester. 

“So, what did she look like?” 

Chester ran a hand through his hair. “Small, at most one-sixty, wiry. Early twenties, a bit younger than me I think. Not shapely, no bosom to speak of. She was wearing her work-clothes: dark chef’s jacket and trousers, the hair-protection hat with the stupid antlers that they have. Heart-shaped face, pert nose, wiry dark-blonde hair…” he fell silent as he thought. “I think it was long. It was in her hair-protector’s bun anyway.” 

Harry noted the information down. “That’s a very good description, Chester.” 

“There was one more thing,” Chester said. “And it was kinda odd, so it was why I committed her to memory.” 

“Cop instinct,” Jean mused. 

“Yeah. Her teeth were really crooked. Or broken. I don’t know which, but when she spoke, they looked like fangs!” 

Harry smiled as he closed his notebook. “Very good, indeed. We can circulate this description with the patrol officers and juniors.” 

“So, I’m not joining the Skip Squad?” 

“No, you’re not, Chester.” 

The tension finally left Chester McLaine as he exhaled a long sigh. Harry placed a sturdy paw of a hand on Chester’s shoulder. 

“I apologise for my temper, Chester, but please don’t keep case-sensitive information from me like that in the future. No matter how tired you are.” 

“I’ll keep it in mind, chief.” 

Harry gave his shoulder a few reassuring pats and then he and Jean bid Chester good-evening. 

They were heading back to the Mill in the motor carriage when Harry spoke next. 

“So, what do you make of this, Jean?” 

Jean mulled the question over before replying. “Going by Chester’s description, she sounds like she could be a Skull.” 

“A Skull?” Harry asked. 

“Mhm. After the Madre and Mazda, they’ve sailed up as the next big gang here in Jamrock.” 

Harry clicked his tongue. “You have to fill me in on them. I’ve met three people in total who claim to be Skulls, and none feel like they’d be capable of this kind of thing.” 

Jean glanced at him quickly, before returning his attention on the road. “When did you meet Skulls in Martinaise?” 

“Two wannabes in leather jackets that were checking out Kim’s Em-Cee, and a street-artist called Cindy.” Harry fell silent for a moment. “Cindy was abrasive but she didn’t seem violent.” 

“I see,” Jean replied. “Well, in Jamrock, the Skulls are one of the main sources of property damage. They tend to mark their passing with a cartoon skull, so we know they did it. They steal motor carriages and wreck shit. They set the occasional fire too. Unlike the other groups, we haven’t been able to identify any leadership. Gorki-Berdyayeva thinks they’re an autonomous anarchist group, and their actions speak of a nihilistic bent.” 

“What about murder?” Harry asked. 

“Extremely seldom. You know that barbershop execution I spoke of a week ago? That was probably Skulls dealing with Skulls. They’re flamboyant that way.” 

“So, it isn’t very likely they’d butcher people and cook them in a tandoor then, I take it?” 

“Well, maybe not likely, but someone did. And amongst the gangs in Jamrock, none fit the bill better than the Skulls.” 

Harry sighed and crossed his arms over his chest. “Let’s put a pin in that. We’ll circulate Chester’s description in the precinct and see if that can scrounge something up. And we’ll have to take another look at the ‘Moose tomorrow, see if we missed anything.” 

“Sounds like a plan, Harry,” Jean said. “Do you want me to drive you home directly, by the way?” 

Harry glanced at his watch. It was past seven in the evening. 

“Yes, please, Jean,” he replied. It had been a long fucking day. 

The second visit to the ‘Moose yielded nothing new for the case, beyond locating the mop and bucket. Both were empty and dry and had no traces of the blood Harry had suspected. No more body parts turned up during their search. 

Trant reported back from Processing that they had been able to put together the victims, and they would try to pull dental records for the three victims whose heads they had located. They had three young men and a young woman, all in the age-bracket of 14 to 17 years old. 

“High schoolers,” Harry muttered as Trant recounted that fact. “It’s like someone is mocking me.” 

The inquest from Records came back, and Minot was sent to try to contact the owners of the Tandoori Moose, but she had no luck. They seemed to have vanished into thin air. 

The description of the suspect was circulated, but yielded nothing either. By Friday afternoon, as Harry had his weekly visit to Madame Ribot, he was feeling quite dejected. He told her in circumspect words about his week, and the awful things he had seen. It felt a bit better to talk about it and his emotions over how often his job included dead children. Ribot was very sympathetic to his sadness over that reality. 

Nothing turned up over the weekend either, and by Monday afternoon, Harry and Jean had to regretfully conclude that the trail had gone cold. 

So on Tuesday morning, Jean suggested a patrol of the area around Main Street from horseback. Harry was at first apprehensive, but Jean said that it would be fun. 

“What? Watching me fall on my face?” Harry argued. 

“No, of course not,” Jean replied as they left for the stables. “What is it you call it? ‘Jog your memories back’? We’re going to do that.” 

Jean had obviously prepared for the occasion, as he presented two saddled horses. One dapple grey and one bay. 

“The grey one is Rimfax, our eldest and calmest gelding,” Jean said and handed the reins over to Harry. “I’ll be riding Streiff here. He’s a bit more spirited.” Jean rubbed the neck of Streiff, who gave an appreciative snort. Jean led Streiff out of the stables and stepped up into the saddle with deft ease. 

Harry was left behind, looking at Rimfax. He petted the old gelding’s neck, trying to see what the horse thought of him. 

“I’m a bit out of practice,” Harry said, “so be nice, alright? And I’m sorry if you find me a bit heavy.” Rimfax nuzzled his mutton chops in reply. 

Harry led the grey out of the stable and readied himself to rise into the saddle. He had chosen to wear his cavalry boots for once, and he believed seeing them was what gave Jean this hare-brained idea. Harry got his left leg in the stirrup and launched himself up, wincing as his leg hurt from the exertion. As he landed in the saddle, his memories connected, and the pain faded. He nudged Rimfax in the ribs with his heels and clicked his tongue, and off he went, following Jean. 

Jean smiled, seemingly pleased with himself as Harry came up next to him. 

“I knew you’d get it,” he beamed. “How are the stirrups?” 

“Perfect,” Harry replied. He checked over the saddle tack, noting the holstered rider’s baton and the empty holster for what he guessed was a single-shot shotgun. “Let me guess? My saddle?” 

“Your saddle.” 

Jean studied Harry’s riding technique as they moved out from the stable area at the back of the Silk Mill, and across the Market square, towards Main Street. 

“What?” Harry asked after a moment. His body was recalling more and more. Maybe he had been a pretty good equestrian, but why had he been the driving force behind the requisition of motor carriages then? 

“I didn’t see you riding that often. Before, I mean,” Jean said. It seemed the same thought had crossed his mind as Harry’s. “But you’re really skilled.” 

“How so?” 

“You’re not gripping with your knees. Half the precinct does that, and then complain about the horses acting stiff and funny. Your position is relaxed, but your back is straight. And you’re not steering with the reins. You’re using your knees to nudge and correct Rimfax.” Jean was silent for a moment. “Maybe I should’ve given you a warmblood, like Miramis.” 

“I can’t say I know why I do what I do, more than that it feels natural to ride like this, Vic,” Harry replied with a shrug. 

“You were in the CTF, right?” 

Harry chuckled and patted his belly. “Many years ago.” 

“Could you have been in their cavalry?” 

Harry shrugged. “I don’t know. But I do know I’ve served under Captain Pryce for most of my years, and he’s an avid mounted policeman.” 

Jean smirked. “Not even the Captain rides with his knees like that, Harry. That’s cavalry techniques. You were in the Constabulary Task Force cavalry at some point.” 

Harry shrugged again. As easy as his riding skills had come back to him, he knew one thing for sure. His backside would be sore tomorrow. 

They rode down Main street and came to pass the Jamrock Public Library. Harry recognised the building now, in daylight. He knew he’d passed it on the night he returned to Jamrock after his week in Martinaise. He just couldn’t recognise it in the dark. 

It was late morning, and the amount of people in and around the Library had started to peter out. It was mostly younger people in circulation now, and Harry saw the odd blue patrol uniform amongst them. There were probably the odd truants too, but Harry guessed most were above high school-age. 

The sight of two uniformed lieutenants of the RCM on horseback would lend some authority to the patrol and junior officers in circulation along Main Street. Being on horseback also gave them a really good view of the area and the people in motion. 

And of things that stuck out. 

A cold shiver ran down Harry’s spine and he turned Rimfax around, looking for the source of the sudden hunch. Living with the furies as he had, he knew there were a few he could trust with his life. Crownie was one. Shivers another. 

Harry scanned the area in front of the library building. Who stood out? Who was it that wasn’t supposed to be there? What was off? 

“Harry?” Jean asked, coming up next to him. 

There! Short, cropped red-blond hair in spikes, black leather jacket with spiked shoulders and the words “End it all” on the back. 

“Skull,” Harry said and pointed, letting go with one hand of the reins. The shiver rattled down his spine again. That wasn’t the danger. 

By the entrance door to the library, there was what looked like the case of a bass guitar, just left there. Not five metres from him. He could just make out the red skull painted on the dark brown case. Suddenly his fight-or-flight response was screaming. 

“Everyone get down!” Harry screamed, the second before the timed bomb in the case went off. 

The initial blast was smaller than Harry had thought, but it was still loud and carried a shockwave like a punch to the face. The front of the library vanished in a wash of fire as the fuel in the bomb caught. It blew outwards, the flames reaching out like arms to grapple at trees, people and the rest of the library building. 

The air filled with human screams of pain and, too late Harry realized, the whinnying scream of his horse. 

Police horses were trained to ignore sudden sounds and remain calm, but having a fire bomb go off right next to you would startle the calmest animal in the world. 

Rimfax, terrified out of his mind, bucked and tried to get Harry off him. Harry tried gripping with his thighs, failed and as the buck threw him sideways, he kicked off. 

It was like the tribunal with Krenel all over again. Things moved in slow motion as his adrenaline spiked through him, and he almost felt how his memories reconnected with his training. 

Kick off from the stirrups. 

Tuck your knees and head. 

Twist to hit the ground on a shoulder or your back. 

He smacked into the pavement. 

Roll away! 

Harry rolled to a rest on his stomach a few metres away. He saw Jean set off in a gallop after the Skull with the spiky hair. As he started getting up, his left shoulder numb from the fall, he saw Rimfax canter away from the fire. He staggered to his feet, trying to take in the chaos around him. The young patrol officers and juniors, bless them, had acted fast. In the few seconds that had passed, they had started tending to casualties, putting out fires. Several civilians were aiding them. 

Harry limped over to Rimfax, who was cornered by two junior officers. The horse stomped the ground, snorting, still panicked. 

“Back off from him!” Harry said. “Unless you want to be kicked.” 

The juniors did as ordered, and Rimfax settled almost immediately, as he saw Harry. It was the sight of the uniform, Harry guessed. 

“Easy now,” Harry said, softly. “We just had a little misunderstanding, didn’t we, Rimfax?” The gelding snorted and stomped a hoof. “Yeah, a misunderstanding.” 

Harry inched forward and grabbed the reins carefully. Rimfax gave him a snuffling rub of his face. He seemed to like Harry’s mutton chops. 

Both the fire brigade and two ambulance-lorries arrived a few minutes later. Harry waved the ambulance personnel off him, telling them to focus on the civilians. Leading Rimfax, he made his way to the library front, as the fire brigadiers finished their work. 

Jean returned a few minutes later, with the suspect neatly hogtied and set across the back of Streiff. He handed the young man over to a pair of waiting patrol officers, to send him back to the Mill for interrogation. Harry noted the Skull had a new shade of red in his hair. 

“Take him to the lazareth first,” Harry amended the order. “He’s no use to us dead from an untreated concussion.” 

Jean dismounted and looked Harry over. “Are you all right?” 

“Sore shoulder, nothing major. For the first time in a while I’m glad for my extra padding.” Harry checked his watch. “10:40.” 

Jean sighed and took out his notebook. Time to make a field assessment of the crime scene. 

Harry walked closer to the bomb site, still trailing Rimfax along on his rein. 

“HDB41-1704.1040,” Harry dictated to Jean. “Assistant: Jean Vicquemare. Description of scene: Fire-bombing of public area. Number of casualties-” He looked around, making a head-count, “more than ten. Exact number pending. Walking wounded, burns, no dead.” Everyone was up and moving and no people stayed on the ground. “Mostly property damage to the front of the Jamrock Public Library building.” Harry was quiet for a moment. “We got lucky.” 

He looked at the spot where there had been a guitar case a few moments ago, but now only a scorched mark roughly the size of a human remained. 

“Source of fire: wooden case for bass guitar, probably filled with a smaller bomb and accelerant. Practically nothing remains of any of the above,” Harry said and handed Rimfax’s reins to Jean so he could approach the spot, putting on gloves as he did so. He knelt down and sifted through the soot and ash. He pulled out a few smaller evidence bags, and put the remains of the case’s metal clasps in one, and a few slivers of casing from the bomb in the other. There were bound to be other bits across the street, but the odds of them finding them were small. These would have to do. 

“Fragmentary remains of wood case and bomb casing found on site, Evidence bag A and B respectively.” 

Jean was diligently taking notes, but looked up as Harry ended his description of the scene. 

“Satellite-Officer Vicquemare successfully apprehended the primary suspect fleeing from the scene of crime. The suspect is in RCM custody at Precinct 41 awaiting interrogation after a health check as mandated by the Wayfarer Act.” 

Jean put the notes away and handed Rimfax’s reins back to Harry. He then mounted Streiff. 

“Was there no other way to get him to stop?” Harry asked as he got back in the saddle. His entire left side ached and he made a mental note to let Gottlieb check him over. 

Jean shook his head. “It was the baton or shooting him. I know which I, and you, prefer.” 

“Fair,” Harry conceded. He waved over a patrol officer, a young man he didn’t recognise. “Cordon off the immediate area around the library and the site of the explosion. We might need to take another look.” 

“Yessir!” 

As they rode back to the Silk Milk, Jean sighed. 

“What I wouldn’t give for a proper forensics team.” 

“Same, but it is what it is,” Harry replied. “Now let’s hope you didn’t smack that lad too hard. I have some questions for him.” 

As they passed into the Market Square, Harry decided to take a somewhat circumspect road back, going by the shoreline of the Watermain Lake. He told Jean he needed a moment alone, but in truth he felt a sort of mental tug towards the lake. 

An easterly wind swept over the lake’s surface and ruffled his hair. Harry felt the hair of his neck stand on end and then- 

HE IS COMING. 

“Who?” Harry whispered. 

THE DESTROYER. THE DESOLATOR. THE DEVOURER. 

La Revacholière sounded distraught, however the genius loci of a city ever could. 

Harry reined Rimfax in. “That’s not for… well, decades, right? Or is this something else?” 

IT WILL TEAR ME APART. BROTHER AGAINST BROTHER. SISTER AGAINST SISTER. 

And Harry understood. 

“Le Retour.” 

BUT WRONG. 

“How?” 

When the city spoke next, her voice had shifted, sounding darker, almost guttural and primitive. 

AXE-TIME. SWORD-TIME. WOLF-TIME! 

Harry looked out over the lake. 

“Civil war.”