by Carrie Patel
“With the tracks he just made, you’d think we were going to ask him to count these,” Sundar had said, nodding at the shelves of files.
“I don’t think he wants anything to do with them, counting or otherwise. Judging by the dust, I doubt anyone’s been in here for a few years,” Malone had replied, showing him a furry coating on her fingertip.
Sundar had raised an eyebrow. “Well, watch where you stick your hands. I think some of those things are ready to feed.” He’d nodded at the ceiling where several moths of fearsome proportions nested.
Wiping the dust layers off of the protruding file tabs, they’d gone down the row. After combing through the Ss, a few Rs, and even a scattered B and L, they’d found the Stanislau file, more or less where it should have been. Its perfect envelope of dust had confirmed that no one else had examined it in a long time.
“Really?” Sundar had said. “That easy? No half-drunk guards, no short-tempered bureaucrats?” He’d looked around as if expecting to see them surrounded on all sides.
“Just moths.”
Heaving the file out of its spot in the shelves, they’d been pleased at its thickness.
“After all the trouble we’ve had finding everything else, I’d say we’ve had this coming to us,” Sundar had said.
“Let’s see what’s in it first.”
“And what’s missing.”
They’d cracked the folder open, its ancient adhesive popping and snapping. The biographical information provided on Stanislau corroborated what they had seen in the police files and also filled in a few blanks. Stanislau had been fifty-two years old at the time of the trial, had been a suspect in various smuggling and robbery operations, possessed a reputation for a violent temper, and had been mute and illiterate. They’d each taken a sheaf of papers, following their fingertips down the yellowed pages as they searched for useful nuggets. Sundar had found the next link.
“Look,” he’d said, tracing a page with his index finger. “According to these records, Wickery met with Stanislau once before the trial… in an interrogation cell, accompanied by guards.” He’d squeezed his eyebrows together. “On the other hand, Wickery met with representatives of the Council… twelve times.”
“And they selected him to represent Stanislau.”
Sundar had gnawed his tongue. “According to procedure, yes. The Council has the jurisdiction to select lawyers in a trial for any party who cannot afford to pay for his own. And Stanislau fell under that category.”
“Clearly. Does the file say how much Wickery was paid?”
“Yes, it was… wow. Fifty thousand marks for all of three days’ work. That’s the real crime.” He’d pulled the file closer, blinking into it. “His contract states that the additional conditions of his assignment were total confidentiality on his part before, during, and after the trial and his agreement to the presence of an armed guard during his contact with the accused… at all times.”
“What for?”
Sundar’d thumbed through several more pages. “For restraining Stanislau. He appears to have developed a habit of going ballistic from time to time over the course of the proceedings.”
“Where do you see that?”
“An early letter from Stanislau’s handlers at the Barracks to Wickery. They wanted to inform him that Stanislau was a danger himself and others and that he required an ‘armed and capable presence’ at all times. We also have several outbursts throughout the trial transcript,” he’d added, thumbing through red, circled portions of the next ream of papers. He’d looked up at Malone with an eager, dazed expression.
“Tell me if I understand this correctly,” Malone had said, clasping her hands behind her back and pacing the narrow row of shelves. “A dock worker with a dubious past is charged with murdering two of Recoletta’s most famous citizens for a few valuables and pocket change.” She’d looked at him from under knitted brows, and his own had shot back a question.
“One hundred and fifty marks,” she said. “Not pocket change for him, but not enough to warrant becoming an enemy of the city-state. Anyway, he meets with his appointed lawyer once before the trial, even then accompanied by a contingent of city guards. He is under strict restraint at all times and makes no statements. He does not speak or explain himself because he is mute… and he cannot communicate to anyone in writing because he is illiterate. From the time of his arrest, all statements on his behalf are made by his lawyer, who is selected by the Council and paid, we can both agree, handsomely. The five judges unanimously found him guilty and approved the death sentence.” She’d paused and stopped pacing, turning to face Sundar. “Does this sound procedural to you?”
“About as procedural as Domignuez’s indefinite appointment.” Sundar had scratched his chin. “The Council really, really wanted to make sure that he was convicted.”
“More than that, they wanted to ensure that he couldn’t talk. So to speak,” Malone had said. “But what were they worried he would say?”
“That’s the question. Do you think a guy like that was really a threat after he was already locked up?” He’d rested his back against the shelf behind him, leaning into it.
“If so, it would certainly explain the lawyer’s payment. And the other terms of his contract.” Malone had scowled, the sharp lines of her face standing in hard relief against the galaxy of dust swirling around the room. “A year’s income on one case in exchange for his silence and complicity with extreme terms. It would appear that fifty thousand marks were enough to buy Edmund Wickery.”
“That, or a concern for his family’s safety. If the Council wanted Stanislau’s conviction so badly, do you think they wouldn’t have applied a little pressure?” Sundar’d asked. When Malone had looked back at the door to the office, Sundar had continued. “Fine, Junior didn’t think much of him as a father, but does that mean Wickery didn’t love his family?” Sundar’s eyes softened.
Malone had been a breath away from asking Sundar more, but something about the territory felt too personal. Instead, she’d said, “They may have threatened him, and that’s a troubling possibility.” Malone cleared her throat, briefly turning her attention to the dust motes. “So why eliminate Stanislau? What did he know, what had he done, that they wanted him silent and dead? If the Council wanted to avenge the Satos, they shouldn’t have worried. There was no shortage of evidence and prejudice against him, so why silence him?”
Sundar had looked back at her, his eyes softer still. “Maybe he was innocent.”
She’d shaken her head. “No. The Council wouldn’t knowingly condemn an innocent man.” Whatever else she might have believed or felt about the Council, that was one step too far.
Sundar had tapped his temple and frowned. “Unless they needed a scapegoat.”
Malone had frowned. “Why this man?”
“Because they could silence him and no one would doubt his guilt. The five judges who delivered the ruling apparently didn’t.” He’d set the file aside, resting dusty hands on his thighs. “You don’t kill a councilor and his wife over a pocketful of valuables, and you don’t worry over the fate of a man who’s presumed guilty before his trial begins.” His voice had sounded rusty and tired, and two ghost handprints had stood out on his dark slacks as he shifted again.
Malone had tasted a sharp bitterness as Sundar had laid out his suspicions. “Are you suggesting that Stanislau was framed?”
“That, or hired. I used to think the councilors were locking down because they feared for their safety. Now, I think they’re trying to hide their guilt.”
If he was correct, the problem was much worse than they had feared.
“If that’s the case,” she’d said, “how is it that we’re reading these files now?” She’d looked back in the direction of Edmund Jr’s office.
He’d followed her gaze, a somber curve haunting the corners of his mouth. “They don’t seem like a pair that talked much.”
Today, she and Sundar had pl
anned on visiting the judges who’d ruled on the murder case. The city kept a pool of scholars educated in law, ethics, forensics, and logic, and for any given trial or arbitration, five were selected at random to hear the testimonies and provide a ruling. Plenty of safeguards, including handsome salaries and a meticulous selection process, were in place to prevent the bribing of a judge or any other variety of dishonesty, but Malone’s faith in the system was dissolving as her investigations progressed.
The inspectors had copied the names of the judges from the case file in Wickery’s office the previous day with the reasoning that the judges might be able to point out any anomalies in the proceedings. And if they didn’t, their reticence would be more telling. Unfortunately, only one of the five was still practicing. Malone hoped that their luck from yesterday would hold and that the other four would be living and locatable.
Sifting through her notes, Malone was vaguely aware of morning’s advance by the increased foot traffic. She had been sitting at her desk for roughly an hour when she heard a rapid tapping at the door.
“Police courier, madam.”
“Come in.”
A man in a bright sash popped in, dropped a sealed message on her desk and, bobbing his head in a truncated bow, retreated as suddenly as he had arrived. Listening to the quick cadence of his footsteps, Malone broke the wax and unfolded the paper.
It was a map showing terrain and features between Recoletta and South Haven. It looked old, although a few scribbles were smudged and fresh. Someone had circled a spot east of a blue thread of river and written, in hurried hand, “He is watching me.”
Jane had not signed the note, but Malone recognized her handwriting from her last message. She left the note in a drawer and rushed to the chief’s office. The judges would have to wait.
Rounding the corridor and turning into the main hall, she approached Johanssen’s office at a brisk pace. Farrah was visible at her desk from the doorway, and looking up at Malone as she caught her eye, she slowly shook her head. Malone stopped twenty paces from the office and watched the secretary. With a discreet glance in the direction of Chief Johanssen’s office, Farrah tapped her extended forefinger on the desk and stared absently at a pile of papers.
Malone took the cue and withdrew to the corridor, waiting in shadows. She brewed a cup of tea in the service room and swirled it in one hand as she waited. After a few minutes, Farrah came out and found Malone around the corner. Her voice was edged with cool urgency.
“You’ve got to get away. There’s a pair of guards with Captain Fouchet in the chief’s office.”
The cup stopped swirling. “Fouchet, here? Why?”
Farrah hid neither her surprise nor her ire. “For you, of course. They’re going to arrest you for treason. For your interference.”
Malone nearly dropped the teacup. Captain Fouchet was the head of the Guard and a man with no love for the Municipal Police. A longtime critic of Chief Johanssen, he regarded the Municipal Police as the Guard’s rival for martial authority in Recoletta. His reputation as the Council’s ruthless enforcer was well-known, and if he was here in person, Malone knew he did not intend to end the day without her arrest.
She and Sundar had kept their investigations discreet. Not even Chief Johanssen knew the details, which was a very good thing, she reflected, as now he could truthfully deny any knowledge of their involvement. They had been careful to keep a low profile and operate under plausible cover, but Malone had suspected that it would be only a matter of time before the Council rapped their knuckles again. The question was how hard.
Malone didn’t need to ask how Johanssen had managed to delay them, nor did she need to ask why Farrah now regarded her with such undisguised resentment. Their beloved chief’s neck now hovered near the noose, and it was her fault. But she couldn’t keep one heated question from her own lips.
“And you were going to warn me when?”
“I couldn’t disappear in the middle of the interview, could I? I had to wait until one of those apes asked for a drink. Just thank your lucky stars that they were too lazy to start with a sweep. Now, do you really want to be standing around squabbling about this when they come to arrest you?”
Malone snorted. “They can’t have anything substantial.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Farrah said. “The chief’s been arguing with them for the past twenty minutes, but they’re not going anywhere. Now, go while you still can.”
“Go where?” Malone asked, gripping the saucer. “And for how long? I can’t do much good hiding in a smuggler’s den and waiting for the Council to forget about me, can I?”
“Figure it out, Malone. You can feel sorry for yourself when they catch you. In the meantime, do what you can for as long as you can. You owe the chief that much.”
Malone felt as though Farrah had slapped her across the face, and she was oddly grateful. “And Sundar?”
“No word on him. They’re after you right now.”
“I have an important lead. I need you to–”
“Don’t tell me. Just get out of here before they start searching for you and lay low. Don’t go home, either.”
Malone nodded. “If Sundar shows up…”
“He’s got a smuggling case waiting for him. Don’t worry about him, just take care of yourself and let Chief Johanssen smooth things out. With any luck, this’ll blow over soon enough.” The tone of her voice did not convince either of them.
Farrah glanced over her shoulder toward her office. Malone pressed the teacup into her hands, and Farrah nodded her thanks, turning back to Johanssen and his inquisitors. As Farrah left her, Malone headed in the direction of a back route, watchful for guards. She followed the hall around its slow curve to the point where it converged with an entry hall, and she saw other inspectors and clerks passing her at a hurried pace, looking over their shoulders. Their agitated murmurs revealed what she should already have guessed: guards checking the exits. These were not the actions of a Council that was only moderately interested in her arrest.
She did not think at this moment that her run-in with the Council would “blow over” any time soon. But later, when there was time to review the events of the past weeks, she would reflect that Farrah was more right about this than either of them could have known.
For now, it was enough to have an idea of what to do next. Turning back down the hall, she set out for the coroner’s office.
Malone passed the pooled offices of the younger inspectors, the desks clustered together and their occupants huddled in conversation. She saw no sign of Sundar. Malone could not afford to wait, nor could she risk leaving him a detailed message. Pressing on, she had to trust that Farrah would take care of him when he arrived. With any luck, he would manage to stay out of trouble and talk to the judges on his own.
After a quick pass through the supply room for traveling equipment, she ducked into the coroner’s office where Dr Brin sat, hunched over his desk. He blinked owlishly when she entered.
“This is an unexpected pleasure, Inspector Malone.”
“I have a favor to ask, Doctor, and there isn’t much time. If you’re willing to help, know that you may spend the next decade in the Barracks if we’re caught. If that sounds like too much, then carry on as if you never saw me.”
He rose, the pale light of the office’s torches shining like a halo on his balding pate. “Inspector, insofar as I can help you, you may assume that I am brittle, ill-tempered, and decades past my prime, but you may not assume that I am a coward. Not another word except for your instructions.”
Malone explained that she needed a way past the guards and out of the station. Brin tapped his shining head.
“Just the thing. Follow me.” He led her out of his office and to a long room lined with metal tables under bright, low-hanging radiance stones. As they crossed into the mortuary, Brin’s left hand darted behind him and shoved Malone back into his office with surprising force.
“David! What
are you doing here? Have you any idea what time it is?” Brin’s voice carried all of the hard authority of a schoolmaster, and the unseen David responded to it.
“Sir, I just wanted to get an early start on the examination.” Malone heard a startled quaver in his voice, and she could picture the speaker clearly: young, diligent, and clean-faced, a shock of tousled hair forever obscuring his glasses.
“You know that I cannot concentrate with you banging around in here. Give me an hour of peace, and then you can have as much time as you’d like. Agreed?” Brin’s voice softened as he finished, and David stuttered an apology and retreated to the hallway at the other end of the mortuary. When they were alone, Brin looked back at Malone.
“I dislike scolding him, but I like less the idea of his complicity in this if we’re caught. Now, you’ll go into that cart.”
Sitting in the middle of the room, as if awaiting their purpose, stood a well-worn gurney the length of the tables on either side of the room. Malone pulled a long, white sheet from the top and gazed at the cold metal surface below.
“Not onto it, Inspector, into it. But first, you can help me with the cadaver.” He wheeled the cart next to the nearest table, and she helped him ease the body of an older woman onto it. She felt heavy and strangely unyielding as they settled her into place.
Brin pulled the long shroud over the woman’s face. “And now it’s your turn.”
As Malone climbed into the storage space just above and between the four wheels of the gurney, she reflected that, by comparison, resting on the metal bed above would not have been as uncomfortable as it first seemed. Stretched in the compartment with her pack resting over her hips and an assortment of shrouds and sheets covering her, she was safe as long as no one decided to search.
Fortunately for Malone and Brin, no one did. The trickling currents of people in the station parted at the sight of the gurney, and Malone did not feel their progress slow until they reached the exit.