Adam Drake - Blackout

“Yes, ma’am,” Fairfax said. “I went to speak with his wife just before coming to you. She’d been beside herself with worry as Oswall had not returned home last night, or this morning. She thought he was on an extended stake out, but upon seeing me coming up the walk she started to cry.” He frowned.

I nodded. To tell a person that a loved one was dead had always been the worst part of working this job.

I wanted to ask Fairfax how he explained Oswall’s manner of death to his wife, but refrained. Not my affair. Instead, I asked, “When was the last time anyone saw him?”

Webster said, “Maginhart said he left the Constabulary shortly after seven last night, as best he can remember.”

“His wife last saw him yesterday morning, before leaving for work,” said Fairfax.

My eyes roamed up and down Oswall’s rocky figure. One hand on his pistol, the other held out in front of him, its palm up and flat as if trying to deflect something. Eyes wide in fear? Shock? Horror?

I noticed a thick little spiral bound note pad sticking out of the exposed inside jacket pocket of his coat. It, too, was complete stone.

“There’s his case book.”

“Yes,” Fairfax said. “Won’t be much help to us now, unfortunately.”

That was an understatement. As a detective worked a case he scribbled notes in a notebook which was almost always on his person. If Oswall met someone here, which is how it appeared, he might have written the name in his case book.

Struck with a thought, I looked at Oswall’s shoes. The stone soles of them did not appear to be fused with muddy ground beneath them. Whatever occurred here only effected Oswall.

Then I saw something else and knelt closer.

“What is it?” Fairfax said.

“Look,” I said and pointed. “See how the mud under his feet is pushed outward?” A little trough of mud ringed the base of both shoes.

“Perhaps he’s slowly sliding into the river?” Webster offered.

“No,” I said. “See how the cleared area extends to both sides of him, toward the river and then the opposite direction.”

“Someone moved him,” said Fairfax and scowled.

“Heavy that,” Webster said.

“Too much for whomever tried to push him,” I said. Oswall was a husky fellow, almost portly. Before he was heavy, now he was almost immovable.

I looked around the area in front of Oswall, in the direction he was looking. The mud and rock debris here made it impossible to see footprints.

“We did a sweep,” Fairfax said as he watched me inspecting the muddy ground. “The boys did a thorough job.”

“That couple sullied the crime scene when they found him. Walking about and all,” Webster said.

“I am aware,” I said. I still looked. Once I reached the far side of the bridge the ground became too rocky.

There had to be something. I sensed it. I took a moment to glance inside my satchel. The knitting bag’s clasp remained wooden. No help there.

The river chuckled at me while it coursed along.

Webster asked Fairfax, “How are we going to move him, anyway? Just from looking at him I’d guess he must be as heavy as a plow horse.”

“We’ll get the truck so to keep him covered,” Fairfax said, frustration growing in his voice.

I looked toward the underside of the bridge; a thick, stone laced wall. I thought I caught the glint of something.

“Yes, but then what? Push him onto it somehow? Would take all the constables in the force to do that. Maybe more,” Webster said.

I approached the wall. Something was there, drawn on its surface.

“That is a matter of concern for later,” Fairfax said. “Right now is the investigation.”

Webster wouldn’t let it go. “We could tie ropes to him, then drag him behind the truck. That might work.”

Fairfax ground his teeth in frustration, but I would not be distracted. I came up on the drawing. No, not a drawing. An engraving.

It looked at first glance to be just a set of long squiggly lines running up and down on the surface of a flat stone. By squinting at it I made out a figure. A long bulbous head, with a half dozen tentacles dangling below it.

A squid.

“There will be no dragging of constables while I’m in charge, understand?” Fairfax said.

“Maybe we can push him with the truck,” Webster said, still thinking over the dilemma.

“Gentlemen,” I said with mild exasperation. “Did you notice this?”

The two constables walked closer.

“Yes,” Webster said. “Noted and disregarded.”

“How so?” I asked with genuine surprise. “This might be important.”

“Well, it’s just a bit of graffiti,” Webster said. “That sort of thing is everywhere now.”

“Everywhere? Graffiti or this specific image?” I asked.

Webster shrugged. “Both, really.” He sensed my annoyance. “I’ll add it to my report, though.” He walked away, making a show of writing in his own case book, trying to get a safe distance from me.

I sighed then held my hand over the etching without touching it and felt a faint tingling sensation against my palm.

“Magic?” Fairfax asked.

“Yes. Someone spelled this into place,” I said withdrawing my hand and fished through my satchel. “Also, see how clean the area is around it? This was created recently. Maybe at the time of the attack.”

“Those have been appearing all around town,” Fairfax said, peering at the squid image. “No idea what it could mean. Do you?”

I found what I was looking for and pulled out a long piece of paper and a charcoal pencil. On occasion, an old bird like me took to drawing the locals strolling through the park. I was terrible at it.

“No, I don’t. Here, hold this up, will you?” I said. Fairfax pressed the paper against the stone and I ran the pencil across it, capturing the squid image.

Finished, I rolled the paper up and put it back in my satchel.

“Did anyone find his buggy?” I asked Fairfax.

“No, we haven’t. I have constables searching further down the road, past the bridge, and another down the river. There’s an old dirt lane running along it from here.”

“Well, he had to arrive at this spot somehow. Either someone dropped him off, which I seriously doubt, or someone took his buggy after he was… stoned.”

“It was a police vehicle so I don’t think they would drive it about on a lark,” Fairfax said.

I nodded, hands on my hips. “Okay, this should do for the moment. Now, let’s go talk to our prime suspects.”

Fairfax raised his eyebrows. “Prime suspects? Those two mud people?”

As we walked past Oswall a pang of sadness struck me. He had been a good man, overall.

“Until you can delve into Oswall’s case files, those mud people are the only suspects you have.”

We climbed back up the embankment and walked to the buggies. Overhead the morning sun crawled up the blue sky and I realized Oswall would never witness another sunrise ever again.

The couple were still in their shady spot only now they appeared to be more annoyed than nervous. As he smoked a cigarette, the man tried to blow rings at his companion. When we approached they jumped to attention as if at a military inspection.

“Good morning,” I said.

They both mumbled a good morning in return, and I got a better assessment of them. The woman was short and stout, hard looking. A tough life no doubt made her appear far older than she was. Dirt and filth etched every wrinkle on her face and hands. She wore a coat, which was too small for her plump figure, and clutched a tiny old purse in front of her.

The man wore a baggy patchwork overcoat, pea green trousers which did nothing to conceal his mismatched socks, and a beaten up cap. He was just as grimy as she was.