Sable Alley

by Bridget Bundy

“No, thank you.”

  Mr. Scott takes the seat across from me with a heavy sigh. “It’s a good thing you didn’t meet up with me last night. I was tired of doing interviews. I may not walk a lot or have to run after criminals, but this job can be mentally taxing.”

  “Are you sure you’re okay that I missed the appointment? I didn’t mean to do it, but I thought you might be just a little upset.”

  He waves me off with a shake of his head. “I’ve had to interview many immigrants with important jobs, and many times I’ve had to postpone because of what they do. It’s not unusual.”

  “But I don’t want you to think I don’t care. I do, very much so, and I want to stay here in the BEAC.”

  “That’s good,” he says with a nod. “This interview should go more smoothly because you wish to stay.”

  I don’t miss the hidden warning.

  Mr. Scott turns on the tablet and waits for it to load. He tells me the common jargon that our conversation will be recorded.

  “Detective Kipling,” he begins, “the first question. Where are you originally from?”

  I wish I didn’t have to go through this, but I will. I have to. “I’m from the Nendikinto Tribe.”

  Mr. Scott is pleased I willfully answered. He looks at the next question and asks, “What are the names of your biological mother and father?”

  “Retasi was my mother. Gaiwei was my father.”

  “Do they have surnames?”

  “No.”

  “Where exactly did Mr. and Mrs. Kipling find you?”

  “On a road in the woods in the Escisiones Mountains, or as my people would call it the Yesti Mountains.”

  “Does Yesti have a meaning in English?”

  “The name comes from our oldest ancestral patriarch. He raised the mountains that separate east and west on the North American continent.”

  “With your educated background and as long as you’ve been away from your people, do you still believe he built those mountains?”

  “Yes, I do.” No hesitation.

  “It goes against what you’ve been taught. The shifting of the earth, plate tectonics, millions of years ago those natural occurrences formed the Escisiones.”

  “The science doesn’t negate my beliefs.”

  “But the science is proven.”

  “My truth, Mr. Scott, is that my forefather, the patriarch of my people, formed those mountains, and that’s it. I don’t question your beliefs. Do not question mine.”

  “Fair enough. Moving on,” he says, looking to the list for the next question. “Would you be able to find your tribe if you had to go back?”

  “No, I wouldn’t.”

  “Do you want to go back to your tribe?”

  “No, my life is here.”

  “Did you have brothers and sisters?”

  “I had four brothers and three sisters. I was the oldest.”

  “Where are your siblings?”

  “They are dead.”

  “And your parents. Where are they?”

  “The same.”

  “How many people were in your tribe?”

  “That’s a hard question to answer. We were so spread out, and we didn’t keep track of the population.”

  “One hundred? A thousand? Ten thousand?”

  “I’m going to take a guess and say no more than a thousand. The entire tribe was never together all at once.”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Kipling told a citizen auditor when they brought you here that you were separated from your family. They tried to find them. They tried to communicate with you. Detective Kipling, the BEAC is interested in knowing what happened to your tribe. Do you remember?”

  I look down at the table. I don’t want to relive the past. I shake my head.

  Mr. Scott pauses the recording and says, “I understand this is hard to talk about, but the government of the British East American Colony requires that you disclose your past and your lineage. If not, they will consider it an act of treason.”

  “How is that so? My tribe has nothing to do with this government. There is no treason here.”

  “Absolutely there is. Have you heard of Mutiny? It’s a terrorist group.”

  “My tribe is not part of them.”

  “But you wouldn’t know that. How long have you been separated from them? You came to the BEAC fourteen years ago. You probably know very little about your people now. They could have easily migrated here and to many parts of this country and set forth an agenda to bring down this government.”

  “The Nendis would never do such a thing. It is against our teachings. We know if we kill another human being without just cause, we in essence kill ourselves.”

  “You proclaim your people are peaceful?”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “Then it must be proven. Look, Detective, I’m not trying to blame the fear of an entire nation on your people, but if we are to live together in peace, we must be open to dialogue and trust.”

  “If any nation has sought to terrorize innocent people, you must look to the British Empire first. And don’t try to sway me with opinions, when you haven’t experienced nor heard of my people raising a hand against you or this nation. I know the history of the British Empire. I’ve read about the colonization for hundreds of years. To this day, they have continued that mission, and in many instances, when an indigenous nation does not want to bow to your ruler or her rules, you bring war until they relent. No, Mr. Scott, it’s not my people who terrorize this land. It is homebred. It is the poor, the disenfranchised, the natural born citizens, the unfortunate individuals that the elitist of this country turn their backs on.”

  “Where is your proof, Detective Kipling?”

  “My tribe is dead, Mr. Scott. Is that proof enough for you?”

  “Let’s just stick with the questionnaire.” He clears his throat and turns on the recorder. He can’t handle the truth. Figures, most nationalists can’t. “Would you mind telling me what happened to the Nendikinto Tribe? Please.”

  Speaking the truth is hard, and I take a minute to consider how I’m going to tell him.

  “The Nendis were visited by a group of men, who represented a mining corporation from the British East American Colony. I don’t remember the name of the company, but they arrived with their machines and weapons. They wanted our land. They claimed there was precious metals, and they had a right to mine it. We had that land for thousands of years. Our patriarch, our oldest ancestors, our families were buried on that land. Where we lived, that’s all we’ve ever known, and there they were, meaning to desecrate it for profit. Chief Aijuli tried to talk to them, but they didn’t care. I could tell from the disgust on their faces they had no respect for the Nendis. We were savages. We were nothing. We were in the way.

  “So, they gave us a proclamation that our land was theirs, and we had a week to move. We didn’t, and that company came in there, burned and killed everything onsite. All the livestock. Our homes. Those that tried to defend our land were summarily killed. My mother and my father were killed in their home because they refused to leave when told. They were shot.”

  Stunned, he says, “I had no idea.”

  “That’s because the BEAC doesn’t want you to know. The mining company was backed by your government.”

  “How many survived from your tribe?”

  “I don’t know. I was at the river when I heard the explosions and gunfire. I ran home. I saw the earth was on fire. I found my parents the next morning. After that, I left.”

  “Where did you go after your family died?”

  “I lived in the woods. Don’t know how long, but I was out there alone for many days, perhaps even months.”

  “How did the Kipling’s find you?”

  “I happen to see a car broke down on the side of a dirt road. Two women and a man was there. Another guy showed up later with a bucket of water. Anyway, before that second guy came back, one of the women, Mrs. Kipling – Mum, saw me hiding and watching them. I remember her bein
g very interested in me, and she wanted to help. Of course, at the time, I didn’t understand what she was about or what she was saying. There was a lot of things I didn’t understand. It was very confusing back then, but I do remember Mum being eager to help me. And I was eager to be around other human beings, even if they didn’t look like me. I didn’t go to her at first. I was scared of her, and everyone she was with. But every day, she’d come back to that same spot where I first saw her, sometimes three times a day, and she’d bring food and water. Eventually, she earned my trust. We learned how to communicate a little. I learned English. She learned a little bit of my language. One day she talked to me about going back to the BEAC with her. She said that she wasn’t ever coming back to the mountains. It was her last day. I had to go. I didn’t want to be alone, and she was the only person in this world I had left. I agreed to go, and Mr. Kipling welcomed me as well. They saved me, in a sense.”

  “That’s remarkable. Did you ever find any other members of your tribe?”

  “No. As far as I know, they’re all buried in a mass grave.”

  “A mass grave? You saw it?”

  “Yes, I did,” I answer as I hold my breath.

  “I’m sorry, Detective.”

  “Unless you were there, you don’t need to be sorry.”

  Mr. Scott nods and clears his throat uncomfortably. “Do you still speak the language of your people?”

  “I haven’t done it in a long time.”

  “What is the language called?”

  “It doesn’t have a name. We simply spoke, and that was it.”

  “Say something in your native tongue. Whatever you can remember and then translate it into English.”

  I think for a moment. Do I remember anything?

  “Okay, um. Evolyimi rimothei.”

  “And what does that mean?”

  “I love my mother.”

  “Say something else, please.”

  “Sithi sidihari.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “This is hard,” I tell him.

  “Ah.”

  “No more. It’s too painful.”

  “I’m sorry about your family and your people, Detective. Truly I am.”

  “Yeah, next question,” I hoarsely reply, trying to keep it together.

  “What was your original name?”

  I’m surprised he asked that question, but I should have known he would.

  “Sasari.”

  “Why didn’t you keep it?”

  “Mum wanted me to have a proper English name in the British Empire.”

  “Proper it is.” Mr. Scott taps the tablet and folds his hands over the screen. “Well, that concludes the questions.”

  “Do I have to come back, or can we just get it all over with right now?”

  “You’re done, Detective Kipling. Thank you for your cooperation today. It went much easier.”

  “What does this mean for me?”

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Will this determine if I can keep my citizenship?”

  “I see no reason why you should lose it.”

  “You think the Nendis are terrorists, and I’m from that tribe.”

  “I was only repeating what government officials have alleged. They weren’t sure where you were from. They’re simply chasing leads, ideas, hunches. Now that it’s documented where you’re from and the outcome of your tribe, I’m sure they will reconsider what they believe.”

  “But why do they think Native Americans are responsible for the terrorist attacks? Do they have evidence that supports this idea?”

  “They don’t have a clue, Detective. They are looking at every person - immigrants and natural born citizens.”

  “I took your questions very personal, Mr. Scott. You accused my people, who pretty much all died away, as terrorists.”

  “I truly had no idea they were dead, and I apologize for being blunt and accusatory without proof. You are an outstanding citizen of the BEAC and the British Empire. The Queen herself would be proud of your contributions to this society. We are lucky to have you, Detective Kipling.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Scott.” I’m not convinced. His speech was practiced a thousand times. I probably should look out for the immigration police from now on.

  I shake his hand and leave before he decides to question me again

  Chapter Twenty-One.

  The morning briefing has concluded before I make it to the station. DS Green is in her office with Webb. She doesn’t appear to be pleased with him. I wouldn’t be either considering what happened yesterday.

  No longer worried about him or his wife, I sit down at my desk and turn on the computer. My plan before setting out on the next leg of my investigation is to put an all-points bulletin out for Finley Price and Erin Mitchell. The baseball bat in their apartment hadn’t come back as the confirmed murder weapon, but until the results are in, I want them in a holding cell. It only takes a few short minutes to get their photograph and description into the bulletin.

  Afterwards, I make a phone call to Sam. He’s ready to roll. We meet at the same car he had yesterday, and we drive out to District Seven. It’s the tiniest part of the city, but it still has a lot of people living there, from all walks of life.

  We arrive at the address for Harrison Shaw, Ruby Taylor’s friend. Finley mentioned him during the first interview.

  Harrison lives in a duplex that looks like a cottage. The right half is a mirror image of the one he lives in, except it’s teal instead of yellow. A white picket fence surrounds the small front yard, and there’s a blue two-seater car parked in the driveway.

  I knock on the front door. Immediately, someone tells us to hold on. A young man with a green collar shirt and blue jeans eventually greets us. His brown hair is cut short. Eyes are red. He’s smoking, and his hand is shaking.

  “Harrison Shaw, my name is Detective Kipling. This is CSO Clarke.”

  “You’re here about Ruby.”

  “Yes, sir, we are.”

  “Come in.”

  Only the necessary furniture is in the living room, laid out to accommodate watching television. A computer tablet is on the table in the dining area. The kitchen is spotless. From what I can tell, no one else seems to be in the house, but I ask Harrison anyway.

  “I’m here by myself,” he answers.

  “We have a few questions to ask you about Ruby.”

  “Okay.”

  “Our conversation will be recorded.”

  He nods and takes a long draw of his cigarette.

  “How do you know Ruby?”

  “We’ve been friends for years. We went to school together.”

  “How close were you to her?”

  “Like I said we were friends. Nothing more than that.”

  “When was the last time you saw her?”

  “Sunday night.”

  According to the medical examiner, Ruby was killed during that time. Another step to possibly solving this case.

  “Where did you see her?”

  “We were at a ball at Exeter Metro Rail Centre Station.”

  What he said doesn’t sound right. I ask, “You mean a party?”

  “Yeah, a masquerade party. My friends and I do that every once and a while. Whenever we feel like getting together, we pick a venue, whatever suits us, and we do it up. This time we decided to have it at the train station.”

  Now I know why she was wearing a ballgown.

  “How many people were there?”

  “I couldn’t tell you. There were a lot.”

  “How long did this party last?”

  “Started at seven. Ended well after midnight.”

  “Was Ruby at this party the whole time?”

  “No, I don’t think so, but I couldn’t tell you when she left.”

  “Did she spend most of the time with you, or did she have another date?”

  “We hung out, not together all the time, but we all hung out with everybody, you know.”
/>   “I need a list of people who were there.”

  “Sorry, open invitation to whoever wanted to show up.”

  Not good, but this conversation is not a total loss. I’ve gotten another lead.

  “Did she get into an argument with anyone while she was there?”

  “Nobody was fighting or arguing. Well, actually Ruby and Molly had a few little words, but they’ve been at each other’s necks for the past week.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “Girl stuff, I guess. They’re friendly one minute. Not so friendly the next. I couldn’t tell you.”

  “Was Ruby having problems at school or work?”

  “She never mentioned having any. She was happy as far as I knew.”

  “Do you know her sister and her sister’s boyfriend?”

  “Not really.” Harrison tries to take another pull of his cigarette, but his hands are trembling too much. He places the cigarette in an ashtray on the mantle of the fire place. “They lived with her, but I never went over to Ruby’s apartment. Ruby didn’t like visitors, and I was fine with it. I didn’t like going over to that part of town anyway.”

  “Did she talk to you about any problems she was having with them?”

  “No. The dude and her sister couldn’t work and was sick. But she never had any complaints helping them out, and I didn’t get the feeling it bothered her.”

  “Did she get along with her boss from her job?”

  “Are you talking about Mountain Man?” Harrison laughs a little. “He’s awesome. He let us throw a party in the Reyner House last year before it was opened to the public. Got the place for free for the entire night. Have you been there yet? It has all kinds of bizarre statues that changes into different things. Strips of metals are connected to moving pedestals, and the pieces twists around. Depending on where you stand, one of the statues can look like an elephant or Lady Liberty, like the real one in France. Do you know the Reyner House Liberty is the only French authorized replica in the world? The real Statue of Liberty is in Paris on the Seine River. It stands at ninety-three meters. That’s pretty damn tall.”

  “Harrison, stay with me. Did she get along with her boss, Reece Pearson?”

  “Oh, sorry. Uh, yeah, Ruby got along with Mountain Man.”

  “Can you tell me anything else about her? Anything that sticks out in your mind as odd or might have concerned you?”