by R. A. Mejia
Detective Falkner taps the photo and smiles. “You look proud of your new place. And you should; it’s a nice home. You share it with your mom and sister, right?”
The smile and the compliment from the detective bothers me since his disposition hasn’t really changed. Warily, I answer, “Thanks. After the fire, I wanted to move us to a safer neighborhood. I’m lucky that we found such a great place.”
He nods once and chuckles. “Yes, you’re pretty lucky alright. But not just that you found a good location. I contacted the previous owner, and he said that you bought the house outright and in cash. Now how, may I ask, did a kid who was working at a convenience store just months before get the money to buy a two-story home in cash? You’d have to be pretty lucky indeed to come into that kind of money.”
The smile is still there, but now I understand its source. He thinks he’s got me somehow. And as the detective stares at me, waiting for an answer, I can’t help but think that he may be right. I certainly can’t explain that I fight monsters for a living or that the money I made clearing a single dungeon was more than I’d make in a year at the convenience store. I bite my lower lip, unsure of just what to say, so I don’t answer. Instead, I try to shift the conversation.
“While I’m touched by your concern for my family after we were attacked--a crime, I might point out, that has not been solved--I have to ask, what do any of these questions have to do with the crimes you said you’re investigating? You said that you’d already arrested someone that I know. Who, by the way--if you want my opinion--didn’t have anything to do with any robberies or attacks, much less missing people.”
“So, we come to Samantha Stapleton. Who, if I’m honest, I shouldn’t have told you about.” He shrugs, apparently unconcerned. Yet, the tension in his shoulders, the worried look in his eyes, and the wrinkles that appear on his forehead betray his confusion about why he did tell me about her. I take a little pleasure at his reaction.
Yet, the detective is a professional and quickly regains control, his expression once again blank. He taps the table idly and asks, “How well do you know Ms. Stapleton?”
“As well as anyone, I guess. We worked together for a while. We dated briefly. I haven’t talked to her in a long time though.”
“You ever visit her house?”
I pause and try to recall the last time I’d been there. “Yeah. I spent some time there: a few dinners, a few nights watching movies on her couch and eating take out.”
“You and she used to date? Why’d you break up?”
“Nothing in particular. It was pretty fun while it lasted, but it just didn’t work out. No particular reason why. Will you tell me why you arrested Samantha now?”
The detective moves the photo of my new home from the folder and pulls out a mugshot of Samantha, whose hair in the photo is an orangish-red color. The sight of her causes a mix of feelings in me. Her image reminds me of our brief relationship. At work, she was almost always late, had an attitude, and was usually rude to the customers, but she had a snarky sense of humor and a vibrancy that I only got to appreciate after I became a System User. She was one of the first people that I used Inspect on, and it was the extra details that convinced me that I wasn’t crazy seeing the blue boxes. That use of Inspect also revealed that Samantha was a mom and that she was trying to study to be an accountant. They were little details that showed me that she was more than some goth girl whose hair color changed on a weekly basis. It was the beginning of our friendship, and it led to a brief romance. But the photo also shows a Samantha I don’t quite recognize--and not just because she’s in a police mug shot: she looks thinner than when I’d seen her last, there are more wrinkles around her eyes, and she looks scared.
“Samantha Stapleton was arrested last week in connection with a string of robberies and assaults that occurred in Timore.” He moves the mug shot and shows a new photo of a room with piles of random-looking stuff like forks, plates, silverware, jewelry, TVs, phones, toys, glass, and other items. “These are some of the missing items that were found in her basement, along with personal items from several of the assault victims.”
“Wait, are you saying that Samantha was going out to rob people and hurt them? Little five-foot, three-inch-tall Samantha? The girl that wouldn’t let me kill spiders in the store, because she said ‘it was mean and that spiders were an important part of the ecosystem’? When would she have even found the time to do any of that stuff between her job and taking care of her daughter? Also, why would she steal junk like this?” I point to the photos. “Most of this stuff looks worthless. That TV looks 10 years old and probably doesn’t even support 3D films.”
Not fazed by the questions, Detective Falkner taps the photos. “It doesn’t matter what she took. She was caught red-handed with it in her house. As far as when she could have done it, she doesn’t have a job currently, so she could have done it at any time.”
“But why? Why would she do any of this?”
The detective shrugs. “Perhaps she has expensive habits that extend beyond her means. Maybe she needed money to pay bills.” He pauses and looks pointedly at me before continuing. “Or maybe she was working with someone else who was selling the majority of the stolen items and keeping the profits?”
Then it clicks. The questions about how I could quit my job at the convenience store and how I could afford to buy a home in cash. The questions about my connection to Samantha. He thinks I’m her partner in crime.
Very careful with my words, I respond, “That is one possibility. Another is that someone else put the items in question in her basement and that Samantha has nothing to do with any of it.”
A hint of a smile appears on the detective’s face. “Well, isn’t that a coincidence. That’s the same thing Ms. Stapleton said.” He taps her mugshot. “One might even think that the two of you had planned out your responses together.”
I sit silently for a full minute, unsure of what to say. Any response I give is likely to be construed as some form of evasion or as an admission of guilt. “Or she could just be innocent.”
“Then who is guilty? Why were these items found in her home, stashed away in her basement?” He fingers tap the folder on the table and almost pleads, “Come clean, Anthony, or this poor woman will go to jail. She won’t be able to see her daughter for a very long time. You used to date her? Don’t you have any feelings for her? Confess your part in all this, and we can make sure the district attorney goes easy on her.”
I shake my head. “I guess there’s no convincing you that Samantha is innocent and that I’m not involved? Then I suppose my voluntary cooperation here is at an end.”
I stand up and take a step toward the door, but Detective Falkner stands up and blocks my way. “I have more questions for you.”
I smile wearily. “Detective, am I under arrest?”
He considers me for a moment before reluctantly answering, “No.”
“Then I’m free to go?”
Again, a pause followed by a reluctant, “Yes.” He stands aside, but as I pass him, his hand comes down on my shoulder, and he leans in to whisper into my ear. “Tick, tock, Anthony. We’ve made a very generous offer to Samantha for leniency in exchange for her conspirator’s name. She’s refusing to point the finger at you for now, but she’s a young mother that misses her daughter. She’s likely to break any day. Then we’ll have you.”
A shiver runs down my spine at the words. The police are putting pressure on poor Samantha to falsely identify me as her partner in crime. I take a breath, push off the detective’s hand, and continue to walk out of the room and the police station. The whole walk out, it feels like the eyes of every cop in the place are on me, and I don’t need to use Inspect to feel the hostility and suspicion. I suspect they’ll have someone try to follow me, but let’s see how they fare against my System powers as I figure out what the heck is going on in the old neighborhood.
Chapter 24
The streets outside the police station are mode
rately crowded with people walking to their jobs or on their errands. One of the unintended consequences of automated cars was that people just stopped needing to drive, especially once laws were passed that made it too expensive to even own a vehicle. People started walking more and lived in areas where they could easily get to restaurants and entertainment venues, so downtown Timore, like many cities, developed a central hub. City hall, the police station, and other government offices are at the core, and then there are shops, restaurants, offices, fine craft stores, artisanal cheese shops, coffee spots, and, mixed in with it all, homes and apartments spread out from there.
I used to live on the outskirts of the city proper. It was a bit cheaper, but the neighborhood was sketchier, and you had to take the bus or grab an automated car service to get anywhere.
As I step into the flow of walking traffic I feel the loss of mana as my ability All Seeing goes off. I try not to react, as I note three people with a blue glow, one across the street and the other two slightly ahead of me. They’re dressed in normal clothes, but they have a distinct bearing that makes them stand out when you’re looking for it. I can only guess they’re police officers following me. Right now, the streets near the police station are busy, and it is easy to lose the three following me with combined use of Shadow Step, Sneak, and Spider Climb. I Shadow Step around the corner of a building into an alleyway, and then while still in the shadow-verse, I activate Sneak so that I stay out of sight when I pop back to normal space. Then, while keeping the Stealth eye closed, I use Spider Climb to scale the building to the roof. The whole process reminds me of how I had to evade the guards in the French dungeon. The only difference now is that these police officers don’t have any idea about what I can do.
Once I lose my tail, I hoof it past the downtown shops and the residential areas. I know that it would be faster to call an automated car to pick me up, but the cops might be tracking my account, and there’s no use giving them another way to find me. Besides, with my stats, it’s no longer challenging to jog a few miles to the old neighborhood.
While it has only been a bit over half a year since I moved, the place already feels so different. Just walking down the street, I’ve seen four drug deals go down, and one person almost get hit by a car as he drunkenly walked into traffic. The automated cars avoided him but when I’d lived here no one was that drunk, not this early in the day. The condition of the neighborhood has really deteriorated too. There are more broken windows, and trash is piled up in yards and on the street. My first inclination at seeing the decline of the area is to wonder if a dungeon has spawned somewhere in the neighborhood, but a dungeon scan shows nothing in range. Still, I can’t help but feel tense walking the streets, and I notice more than one shady looking person eyeball me as I walk past them.
I arrive at my first stop to figure out what’s happening, the Quickie Stop Mart. The door chimes as I open it and step into my old place of employment. The familiar sight of the convenience store, with its shelves of junk food and sundries and glass cases of drinks, brings back memories of my life before the System. The job was tedious, but it helped my family pay our bills and even let me save up for my first semester of college.
A voice from the back of the store calls out, “I’ll be with you in a second.” It’s the voice of my old boss, Mr. Smith. He’s the kind man who could have turned a little thief in to the police but instead gave me a job so that I could buy my own comics and snacks. In a moment, he comes out from the stockroom carrying a case of sugary Coco-Puff Puffs, a knock-off brand of the more expensive cereal in his hands. When he sees me, a big smile appears on his bearded face, and he rushes to put the case down and then reaches out to hug me with open arms. “Hey, man! How have you been? It feels like ages since you’ve been by!”
I hug my old boss back, glad that he’s happy to see me. The man helped out my family by giving me a job, and he’s been a consistent father figure in my life. “I’ve been good, Mr. Smith. I’m sorry I haven’t been by more.”
Releasing me from his hug, he nods understandingly. “Hey, no problem, man. I understand that you’re busy with school. How are your mom and sister?”
“They’re good. Mom only works one job now, and Marie is doing well in high school.”
We continue to chit chat for a few more minutes, me about college and him about the convenience store and some of the neighborhood gossip. I notice that he’s looking a bit haggard and ask him about it. He scratches his thick beard and notice there’s a tension in his shoulders that hadn’t been there when I saw him last. “Anthony, the neighborhood has changed since you left. Things seem to be going so badly. Why just last week, I was robbed at gunpoint, and there have been so many break ins and attacks.” He shakes his head sadly. “And that’s not the worst of it. You remember Samantha, the one that worked here with you? She got arrested! Can you believe that?”
“Yeah, that’s actually kind of why I came by today. I just left the police station.”
His eyebrows rise. “You’re not in any trouble, are you, Anthony?”
I shake my head. “No. Nothing like that. They were asking me questions about Samantha and the incidents in the neighborhood. They told me they found a bunch of stolen stuff in her basement and that they think she was involved in some robberies and assaults.”
Mr. Smith’s shoulders sag. “Yeah, that’s what the rumors say. I just never would have believed it if they hadn’t found all that stuff in her house.”
“I still don’t believe it. I mean, you knew Samantha. She’d never do anything to jeopardize her daughter.”
“I would have agreed with you before, but a lot of strange things have been happening around here lately. Sketchy new people have moved in, and older residents have been having weird things happen to them.”
Mr. Smith goes on to describe some of the ‘weird’ events. People find things missing, but it’s not always something valuable. Instead, mundane or worthless items disappear, like a blender or kitchen utensils. Other instances have been reported of people tripping and falling over nothing then getting beat up but not being able to identify who attacked them.
At the end of his descriptions, I’m puzzled. I mean, no one seems to have actually seen anyone doing all this. They’re worried about ghosts and spirits. If that’s what people are chalking these events up to, then how do the police justify arresting Samantha? I thank Mr. Smith for his time and promise to visit him more often. He’s given me some of the names of people that have reported that they’ve had items taken from their homes or been assaulted by these ghosts.
Some of the victims I knew already, like Mrs. Garcia who babysat my sister and me when mom worked a triple shift, or Mr. Johnson, who caught me pulling the flowers off of his rose bushes one year on my mom’s birthday and then showed me how to do it so that I wouldn’t hurt the plant. These folks are willing to talk openly to someone from the neighborhood, though they are reticent to describe their incidents as being supernatural. Mr. Johnson says he went to bed one night, and when he woke up, he found that his rose bushes were chopped up and all of his lawn gnomes were stolen. Mrs. Garcia was taking her daily walk, and when she returned home, the front door was open, and her blender and all her old chipped dishes were gone.
There are other victims whom I do not know, and they aren’t willing to talk to me until I use Charm. 5 seconds just isn't enough time to get much information, so I drop the 4 stat points I’d been holding from my last level up into Charisma and even equip the 1980s Campy Counselor Set I’d won at the Halloween party, which gives me a bonus of 60% more awesomeness, +10% movement speed, +4 Charisma. This increases the duration of the Charm spell to 13 seconds. It’s not a whole lot more time, but it’s more than enough to get them to describe their ‘incidents’ candidly. Sure, my reputation with each person drops dramatically when the spell is done, but I get the truth from them, and I’m likely to never see them again.
Tom Hanson was tripped as he walked to the convenience store, but when he loo
ked around, he saw nothing to trip on. Then he was hit in the head by seemingly nothing. Eden Redding had all his adult magazines torn to shreds right in front of him by an invisible hand. He took it as a religious experience, but confirmed the same thing as all the others. Each of the people in the neighborhood that experienced something strange had one thing in common: they didn’t see it happen. Even the people who were tripped or beat up. Each time, it seemed like the blows were coming from someone invisible. The people who had something stolen just noticed their things were gone. The entire situation made me wonder how the police had enough evidence to even search Samantha’s house in the first place if no one saw her do anything.
That question is answered after I talk to Mr. Anderson, one of the oldest and grumpiest men in the neighborhood. I remember him chasing me down the street once with a belt in hand when I was a kid because he thought I was stealing his newspaper. Walking up the cracked cement path to his metal security door, I notice his house has gotten run down. The paint is faded and peeling, the yard is overgrown with weeds, and he’s put up metal bars over his windows. I only take a single step onto Mr. Anderson’s porch when I hear the distinctive sound of a gun cocking and a voice cries out, “Don’t you take another step, you weirdo. I have you in my sights.” I raise my hands in the air, palms out, and freeze, even knowing that the man could only send me for respawn. The instinct to not get shot is strong. The security door opens and Mr. Anderson steps out. He is wearing thick coke-bottle glasses, a short-sleeved blue dress shirt, slacks, and grey hair. Well, it might be too generous to say that he was grey-haired since he only had three or four hairs left on his head. Still, he had incredibly steady hands for a man his age, and the double-barrel shotgun doesn’t waver an inch. I use Inspect, hoping that he has a good disposition towards me.