The Stars Were Right

by Alexander, K. M.

  "Spectacles."

  I nodded. "Unless you're in such an elevated position that you can hire an artisan to make you a custom pair."

  "How long you known Mister Russel?"

  "Few years." I thought about it before answering. "Maybe three?"

  "Three?" Bouchard questioned.

  "Maybe four." I shrugged. I honestly couldn't remember. I felt sick to my stomach. Murder. That was why I was here. I was arrested and charged with murdering Thad. It rolled over me like a dust storm.

  Thad was dead.

  Dead. Gone. Carter's cross, his brood! His kids. His wives.

  My head drooped. He was such a nice guy, had a heart for people. All people. Anur don't need eyeglasses. They don't live long enough for their eyes to degenerate, but he wanted to help other races. Those whose eyes grew old, whose sight dimmed. It's a rarity to find such a generous person. I felt horrible for his wives and children. This would break his father's heart.

  I watched Bouchard make notes in the margins of some document with a badly gnawed pencil. Finally, he nodded and looked up, satisfied after a moment of scratching.

  "Are you a member of the Purity movement?"

  "I beg your pardon?" I said, my voice betraying my irritation.

  "Are you a member of the Purity movement?" Bouchard repeated.

  The Purity movement is a pro-human speciest organization operating out of West Lovat. Their leader was a fellow named Conrad O'Conner, a charismatic blowhard that preached a return to a pre-Aligning world where humans were the dominant species.

  They were particularly hard on non-humanoid races: cephels, anur, and kresh. O'Conner's xenophobic preaching had tied the Purity movement to several murders of non-humanoid races over the years, though there had never been any convictions. They were a black spot on humanity, and I detested the association. I had been called a great many things over the years, but never a speciest. Hate mongers like O'Conner disgusted me.

  "I'm no bigot," I said. My voice was laced with anger. "Carter's cross, my best friend and business partner is a maero. O'Conner would hate me just as much as he hates non-humans. He preaches guilt by association; you should know that as well as I do."

  Bouchard's eyebrows raised and he nodded. His small eyes blinked slowly as he continued to scratch notes.

  "So, if you're not a Purist, please tell me, Mister Bell: What led you to kill Mister Thaddeus Gil Russel of Russel & Sons Optics? Jealousy? Anger? He cheat you?"

  "Thad wasn't a cheat, bit of a tightwad but not a cheat, and I didn't kill him," I said, my voice going cold. I felt my hands knot into fists. I jerked at the chains holding my arms to the floor, hearing them rattle. Bouchard smirked and I continued, "Thad might have liked to think of himself as a cheat, but he was about as honest as they come."

  "He's dead. Murdered. His lips cut away. I'd show you pictures, but you were at his shop earlier, weren't you? You already know all of this. Why would you want to see pictures?"

  My mouth dropped open and I felt cold.

  His lips? His lips cut away? The thought horrified me.

  "He was a friend. A business associate," I explained, my voice cracking with emotion. "I sold him several pairs of spectacles before heading down to Level Two for some dinner. A couple wireframes and a particular pair of Browlines – he loved Browlines."

  "You have receipts for these spectacles?" asked Bouchard, a faint smile playing over his lips.

  Damn it.

  I stared silently at him. He knew I didn't have receipts.

  It was a trap, and I had blindly walked into it.

  He grinned, his white pillar teeth flashing. "Receipts would lend a lot of credence to your story, Mister Bell."

  I wanted to lunge at him from across the table.

  I seethed as the rotten mint door swung open and Muffie returned. The emaciated detective carried a wrapped sandwich and a steaming paper cup of coffee. I could smell the bitter beverage from my seat. The sight of the sandwich made my stomach growl. I wondered if it was audible in the small room.

  The skinny detective set both sandwich and beverage before me, just out of my reach.

  My stomach growled louder. Bouchard and Muffie glanced at each other. Was that a smirk I caught passing between them?

  "We have you at the scene, Mister Bell. We have your fingerprints all over the counter, all over the door. We have a witness who saw you come out of the storefront a few minutes before one of the Missus Russels found her husband dead, his throat slashed, his lips cut off. The guy you bought the paper from, remember him?" He slapped my paper down on the table next to my untouched sandwich and coffee, making the dark beverage ripple. Bouchard wrinkled a thick round nose that matched his moon face perfectly before adding, "He places you there. Perfect description."

  I ignored him and repeated, "I didn't kill him."

  Bouchard leaned forward, grabbing the sandwich with a thick hand. The plastic wrap reflected the lights above us. I could see the dirt under his fingernails. He unwrapped the plastic and gave the sandwich a perfunctory examination before frowning deeply and then glaring at Muffie.

  "What is this shit? Did you get me a damn curry chicken sandwich, Muffie? You did, didn't you?" He glared at the detective leaning next to the door. Muffie shrugged distractedly. Bouchard's eyes were fixated on me the whole time.

  "I bet you added mayo, didn't you, you treacherous bastard."

  I pulled at my handcuffs, hearing the chain rattle below my chair.

  "Nervous?" asked Bouchard.

  "Annoyed."

  Bouchard chuckled.

  I continued, "That's why I'm here. You're hoping I'll crack. Break under this pressure from your act and Muffie's silent routine. The facts are: I didn't kill him, you got nothing, there's no murder weapon, there's no motive. If you did even a little police work you'd know I was friends with him."

  "Victims are usually murdered by people they know. Friends often kill friends."

  "You just want to fill your quota for the month and I'm the easy target. I'm the lazy target. Do you always hang your investigations off conjecture?"

  "We got you at the scene."

  "So? What does that mean? You'll work extra hard trying to pin me to the Purity movement and mark me as part of O'Conner's flock? Meanwhile, as you bumble about, the real killer is out on the streets.

  "It's all circumstantial; you can't pin this on me. You have no weapon. No motive. You have nothing."

  I leaned back as much as my chair allowed. Bouchard grunted in response and took a massive bite of my sandwich. He chewed thoughtfully, and rose to face the one-way glass, watching me in the mirrored surface.

  "It is circumstantial," he admitted, swallowing his mouthful of food. He grinned at me from the mirror, his white pillar teeth reflecting in the ebon surface like a line of stars. It reminded me of the stories my father used to tell me of the girl and the magic cat with its haunting smile. A smile always more visible than the cat itself. "Fingerprints and a witness saying you were there. There were probably hundreds of people on Maynard Avenue today."

  That was the one moment where I felt smug. Felt like I won. Then Bouchard dropped a bombshell.

  "It's also circumstantial you're connected to Fran Nickel, I suppose. The flute player."

  "What does Fran have to do with any of this?" I demanded. My heart thudded in my chest. Fran was the cousin of my broker, a fellow named August Nickel. She was a musician, a flutist in the Lovat orchestra. My one and only connection to elevated society. We had been introduced years earlier by August and hit it off. Went on a few dates but it wasn't meant to be, yet we decided to remain friends. Our relationship was once close but always platonic. As much as I enjoyed her company, I never saw myself with a woman in a mask. I hadn't seen her in years. What did she have to do with this case?

  I felt sick at the thought, my hunger pangs were devoured by worry, and I realized I didn't want to know.

  Bouchard spun, his lackadaisical expression replaced by a fiery one. Hi
s eyes were wide, his brow knitted. He bellowed at me, "Like you don't know, you sick son of a bitch? You starting some collection? Some sick trophy case? Is that it? You come into my city, and already I have two murders, both of which are connected to you."

  "Fran's d-dead?" I managed to stammer. The shock was overwhelming.

  Bouchard ignored my ramblings. "Why the trophies? Her ears, Russel's lips! This some sick perversion? You get off on this stuff, or did they piss you off? Jealousy? Talent? What did they do to make you snap?"

  He leaned across the table, continuing to swear and shout at me. I hardly heard him. It all crashed in on me at once. The realization of what had happened. Fran. Thad. Gone forever. I had been angry with Bouchard up until this point, annoyed at the whole fabrication, unjustly accused of murder; that anger had masked the reality. I had wrapped myself in it, and in one fell swoop Bouchard had torn it away.

  I hadn't seen Fran in years, but I still cared about her. First Thad and now Fran? Fran with her gleaming mask of silvery-white metal, and the lively blue eyes that shone from behind it.

  Few dauger played music, especially wind instruments, but Fran had modified her flute and made it work, and she was good. She had risen quickly, achieving the rank of first chair in a matter of months. I remember sitting in the audience, her flute carrying me to far away places. A melody that was now forever silenced. Gone. I felt sick. I was shaking. Hot tears cut through the dirt on my face, and I realized I was crying.

  My stomach ached with the loss.

  My friends. My friends were gone.

  I convulsed, my arms pulling at the chains fastened to the floor. Bouchard moved closer, continuing to shout. He slapped down an image of Fran's body, the mask smashed in, her ears cut away. Her stomach ripped open.

  I gagged, feeling bile rise in my throat. Bouchard ignored it.

  "You knew her. You knew him." He slapped down a picture of Thad. "They thought you were their friend!"

  I heaved, puking up the noodles from earlier. The vomit spilled all over my clothes, the desk, the photos. It knocked over the coffee. I gagged, coughed, and wept. Bouchard's rant came to an abrupt end, and he backed away quickly. His face was an expression of repulsion. I tried to wipe my mouth, but my hands remained chained to the floor.

  "Muffie! Get him out of here! Throw him in a drunk tank for the time being. I'll see if I can't get the chief to sign him into a proper holding cell."

  He turned to me. I could barely register what he was saying.

  "I'll nail you with this, you piece of shit. By the bloody Firsts, I will nail you to the wall."

  Bouchard's cold eyes followed me as Muffie half-dragged me out of the interrogation room and into the drunk tank.

  FIVE

  The world was a blur and looking back, it was hard to remember the hours that passed between the interrogation room and the drunk tank. I moved through the motions automatically. Shuffling down the hall, Detective Muffie behind me, club in hand, saying nothing. He'd prod me when I moved too slowly for him. Eventually we got to our destination.

  The cage was located on the main level of the station, near processing and just down the hall from the front desk. Made it easy, I suppose, to move the drunks and small-time criminals from processing and into holding.

  I moved into the cage, not really taking in my surroundings and ignoring my fellow prisoners. I followed orders, placing my hands through the bars. Letting the officer unlock the cuffs. Feeling the metal slip away from my wrists. Rubbing them absently and sitting when I was told to sit.

  Sit and wait.

  I took a seat next to a sleeping cephel. He smelled like seawater, kelp, and gin. His skin was a faded gray, dry from his time in the cage. The huge bulbous eyes on the side of his body were closed, and the sack that served as both head and torso seemed to expand and contract with his breaths. His leg limbs curled up below the bench where he rested.

  Across the cage were a few exposed metal toilets. A lanky maero sat atop the stainless steel, his pants down around his ankles and his head drooping. He was about as awake as the cephel next to me.

  Another Saturday night in the drunk tank.

  Hooray.

  I sat in silence for what felt like days but was probably only a few hours. A whole parade of stereotypes were ushered in and out of the cage. Pitch junkies, thugs, prostitutes, drunks, outfit enforcers, cultists, vagrants, and even a Purist came and went in the night. Some released after sobering up. Others bailed out by husbands, wives, or friends. Admitted and discharged and in a few cases readmitted.

  Yet I remained.

  A few characters attempted small talk but I made it obvious that I was uninterested. I needed to think. I needed to mourn.

  Fran's mask and Thad's missing smile filled my memories. I hoped August was okay; he was close with his cousin and a death in the family is never a pleasant affair. Thad was only middle-aged. He would have lived another five years easily. This must have hit his brood hard. I wondered who'd provide for them. A lot of hungry mouths, and none old enough to take over his duties at the spectacle shop.

  I got angry. I wondered who would want to kill Thad, who would want to murder Fran. It seemed so bizarre. So wrong, and somehow I was stuck in the middle of it. Why was it all pinned to me?

  What had Bouchard said? Two deaths since I'd arrived in town, two deaths, and both were connected to me on some personal level. It felt arrogant to assume I was the reason both of my friends were dead, but what other connection was there? Thaddeus didn't know Fran, and Fran didn't associate with anur. As an elevated member of society, it would be bad for her career. I puzzled over the connection for a while, coming up dry.

  The cephel next to me woke up. He clucked at me for a while. Humans don't have the beaks to speak Cephan, but if taught it's fairly easy to understand; likewise cephels can understand Strutten, although it's not perfect and often things need to be repeated. We passed some time making a bit of small talk, the weather, some local politics, the jai alai rankings. When he was ushered out of the cage I remained on my bench alone, pondering my position and starting to itch with that feeling of being trapped.

  I had to prove my innocence. Though it would take real, solid proof. Bouchard's inquisition played through my head over and over, like a skipping record. Endless. Repeating. It was clear to me that his mind was already made up. He wanted me for the murders. Me and no one else. He was probably finding a judge to sign off on my conviction. It'd be the easiest route, and if the monochrome serials are right, corrupt judges are as common as pitch dealers.

  Leaning back against the bars, I ran my hands over my tattoos. Twin cargowain wheels printed in fading black stained both my forearms. They meant a lot to me. I shuddered involuntarily, feeling like the cage was pressing in on me.

  I couldn't stay here. My skin grew itchier. Moving away from the bars, I began to pace the cell.

  I don't mind the crowded streets of the city. I don't mind layers of buildings built atop one another; there in those crowds, among those levels of the city, I can move where I want to move. If I choose to take a caravan across the Big Ninety, I can. If I choose to find myself in a kreshian restaurant on Level Two, I can. If I choose to spend days holed up in some cheap motel watching serials, I can.

  There, in the holding cell, I was like a caged animal at the Wilcox Exchange. I was trapped, my world shrinking from vast and unreachable to a twenty by twenty cement floor, and if I was convicted it'd get even smaller.

  I need to be free; it's burned into me.

  "Wensem," I said out loud.

  My answer.

  A homeless man who had just drifted off to sleep near where I stood grunted with displeasure at the outburst. He rolled to one side, exposing the soiled ass of his jeans. I shifted away, taking up a standing position near the corner next to the cell door.

  Wensem was my answer. He was with me all morning, until I went to Thad's shop. He could prove my innocence, at least in Fran's death, and if I wasn't guilty of Fran's m
urder, why pin Thad on me? There was no motive. It made Bouchard's case that much more difficult. How could I have collected my payment with Wensem if I was off murdering Fran?

  My telephone call. I never got my telephone call. Hoping that was not just another serial misconception, I turned to face the bars. The walls opposite the cage were the same rotten mint color as the interrogation room. Must have been a common theme throughout the building. I could hear the ringing of telephones and the babble of raised voices. A few cops passed by, either off or just freshly on duty—I couldn't tell.

  "I want my call!" I yelled, making my demand to anyone who could hear it. I pushed my face between two bars as my hands gripped them. I shouted again. No response. My racket added to the noise, but didn't draw any attention from outside the drunk tank. Inside the cage was a different story. My companions were much more free with their jeers and insults. They shouted at me, waving arms and hurling profanities.

  Ignoring them, I shouted again. "Bouchard! I demand my telephone call! You hear me, detective? You hear me?"

  "Shut up," I heard a deep voice growl from behind me.

  I shouted again.

  "Keep it down, tiger!" sneered a cross-dressed prostitute with purple hair and olive skin. "Some of us are nursing hangovers the size of a First's nutsack."

  I ignored my cellmates.

  "I want my telephone call!" I shouted. "I haven't got my telephone call! Detective Bouchard, you own me a damn telephone call!"

  Nothing. No response from the other side of the bars.

  I waited.

  Bouchard didn't appear. Surprisingly, it was the emaciated Muffie who showed up. Sunken cheeks and hollow eyes. Even his hair hung limply. Fat, wormy lips drew back in a sneer and he stared at me cockeyed. He held a small club, and menacingly slapped it against an open palm.