Familiar is often comforting. Unless familiar is the inside of an interrogation room. Four grey walls with faded stains more than hinting of faces smashed into concrete. Granted, I'm no saint, but it's not just the devils getting hammered in this room. And on this occasion, there's no reason for me to be here which is what's got me worried. Nothing frustrates a cop like a dead end, and they'll use whatever head is in their hands to beat through that brick wall.
Still, I'm stewing at least an hour before Elfberg and Milkshake enter the room. Without a word Elfberg sits across from me, while the snowman circles the room. My only real worry is if they've been searching my bike. I managed to stash my gun before heading inside, but a blind fool pawing around eventually would find it.
Tossing photos on the table Elfberg says, "Recognize any old friends?"
Black and white pics of dead reindeer clutter the table. Calling them friends wouldn't be near the truth, but they are recognizable. Every one is a reindeer I grew up with. Each of them ended up a flier: Comet, Cupid, Donner, Blitzen. They won't be flying anymore.
Calm as I can I go through the pictures, hiding my relief at not finding any of Vixen. Something odd about each photo catches my eye. The crime scenes look clean, suggesting whoever shot these fliers must've been able to walk right up to them without raising an alarm. However, why they're showing me these photos doesn't sink in until Milkshake talks.
He asks, "What've you been up to Red?"
Nodding, I connect the dots, "Not what you're thinking."
"You got into town around 7. Right?" Elfberg says, eying a notepad.
I fold my arms across my chest, "Close enough. That's when we were in that diner together."
Milkshake taps a photo, "And not a half hour later poor Cupid here, got her brains splattered all over a bookshelf."
I chuckle.
Milkshake slams both fists on the table. Growling, "You think that's funny."
I say, "I think it's funny you figurin' I rocketed outta that diner shooting clear across town. I mean, my bike's fast, but she ain't that fast."
"Not impossible though," Elfberg says taking notes.
I can't help cocking an eyebrow. At the very least, it's not outside probable.
He adds, "And sounds like you know where Cupid lives."
Chewing my tongue I feel like an amateur -- walked right into that trap. Granted, it's no secret most of the fliers live in the better part of the city. Vixen's the only one who straddled the line. She always planned to, said it'd keep her grounded, close to her roots and such.
I say, "What about these others?"
Elfberg tells me a shotgun cut Blitzen in half. I'm not sorry to hear it. Though, judging by the photos, he didn't die right away. It looks like he tried to drag himself across the floor before the curtain closed.
Milkshake says, "He died around ten."
At first I perk up. However, I catch my own tongue. I've got an alibi, however, that would mean admitting being on the scene when Collodi was getting shot. I'm not about to put myself in that hot water.
So I say, "What about the others?"
Comet got his throat slit sometime around nine. Donner took three to the chest shortly after midnight.
Seeing an out I say, "I was at Sugar Plumbs 'round midnight. You know this."
"So what?" Milkshake smacks me across the back of the head, "Ever heard of the word accomplice?"
"That would mean a friend of some kind."
"Right-o Red." Milkshake slaps me hard on the back, "Right-o."
"I don't exactly have a lotta friends." Me and Elfberg lock eyes, "Plus, you know I like to do my own dirty work."
Sometimes a record isn't a bad thing. It establishes a pattern of behavior. Knowing that fact causes Elfberg to frown, a sure sign he believes me.
Jotting a note he says, "Time of death isn't an exact science."
Shaking my head I say, "So what's the thought then, huh? I leave town for now on close to ten years, only to come back out of the blue with bloody revenge on my mind? Tell me how that makes sense."
Milkshake says, "We don't need it to make sense if it's what happened."
I say, "I'm not even touching the stupid on that."
Sure enough that gets me another slap to the side of my head. Hard one too, suggesting I may have to make time for Detective Milkshake Snickerdoodle, so he can learn a thing, or two about whom to fuck with.
Elfberg says, "Lot of things changed after the Shortage, Rudy. Lotta people changed too. You weren't here, so --"
"Wasn't exactly easy on the Outskirts."
Setting his notepad aside Elfberg says, "I don't doubt that. Still, over a third of this city starved to death. We arrested some folks for literally eating one another."
"Who's fault is that?" I ask pointedly.
"Depends on who you ask," Elfberg replies.
No one says anything, though I'm thinking Big Red. Yet only a complete idiot would say that out loud, let alone in a police station. Talk enough shit about the jolly fat man, well... he knows if you've been bad, and that's not good. That said, Elfberg's reply plants a seed in my head.
He and Milkshake share a furtive glance. I brace for the old song and dance to begin -- screaming and fists blast beating a confession. However, the familiar tune doesn't start. Instead Milkshake nods, and Elfberg pulls a small photo out of his notepad.
Passing it over he asks, "Recognize him?"
At risk of sounding racist, nutcrackers often look the same to me. That is until I notice a wood-burn etched into this one's wrist.
I say, "Seems familiar."
"Name's Glitterspark. Roy Glitterspark. His parents starved during the Shortage, but he lucked out."
"Were they cunts?" I ask.
Milkshake says, "Nope, but Big Red adopted young Glitterspark. Raised him with a whole slew of nutcrackers, conveniently orphaned by the Shortage."
Looking at the picture I say, "Lemme guess, raised to guard fliers."
Elfberg taps the side of his nose. Sounds like Big Red raised his own legion of loyal guards, every one faithful and dedicated to their duty. I'm starting to think I'm not in the fire, though the frying pan is still uncomfortably hot.
"Okay," I say, "You don't have to believe me for this to be true..." and I lay it out for them, how I saw Glitterspark unload an Uzi into Collodi. The unsettling thing is both cops seem to believe me.
Though Milkshake still grumbles, "What's his motive?"
I shrug, "Fuck should I know? The odd thing is Collodi acted like Glitterspark was on his pay."
Furrowing his brow Elfberg says, "That makes no sense. A flier guard wouldn't be assigned to watch over someone like Collodi, and they can't be bought."
Milkshake chimes in, "That lot are true believers."
"Unless he fell from grace," I say then something dawns on me, though I keep it to myself. Glancing across the table I catch Elfberg's eye. Whatever crossed my mind, a hint of it may've flashed on my face. Gathering up the photos he gets to his feet.
Elfberg pulls open the door saying, "We got nothing to hold you on..."
"For now," Milkshake jabs.
"But we're keeping an eye on you." Elfberg gestures for me to leave.
Walking out I can feel eyes all over the station watching me leave. Word is getting around. Fliers are dying, and rumor has it I'm the lead suspect. I'm not sure letting me go is in my best interest. However, that seed Elfberg planted, whether he meant to, or not, I've got an idea where to go next.
Still, I'm stewing at least an hour before Elfberg and Milkshake enter the room. Without a word Elfberg sits across from me, while the snowman circles the room. My only real worry is if they've been searching my bike. I managed to stash my gun before heading inside, but a blind fool pawing around eventually would find it.
Tossing photos on the table Elfberg says, "Recognize any old friends?"
Black and white pics of dead reindeer clutter the table. Calling them friends wouldn't be near the truth, but they are recognizable. Every one is a reindeer I grew up with. Each of them ended up a flier: Comet, Cupid, Donner, Blitzen. They won't be flying anymore.
Calm as I can I go through the pictures, hiding my relief at not finding any of Vixen. Something odd about each photo catches my eye. The crime scenes look clean, suggesting whoever shot these fliers must've been able to walk right up to them without raising an alarm. However, why they're showing me these photos doesn't sink in until Milkshake talks.
He asks, "What've you been up to Red?"
Nodding, I connect the dots, "Not what you're thinking."
"You got into town around 7. Right?" Elfberg says, eying a notepad.
I fold my arms across my chest, "Close enough. That's when we were in that diner together."
Milkshake taps a photo, "And not a half hour later poor Cupid here, got her brains splattered all over a bookshelf."
I chuckle.
Milkshake slams both fists on the table. Growling, "You think that's funny."
I say, "I think it's funny you figurin' I rocketed outta that diner shooting clear across town. I mean, my bike's fast, but she ain't that fast."
"Not impossible though," Elfberg says taking notes.
I can't help cocking an eyebrow. At the very least, it's not outside probable.
He adds, "And sounds like you know where Cupid lives."
Chewing my tongue I feel like an amateur -- walked right into that trap. Granted, it's no secret most of the fliers live in the better part of the city. Vixen's the only one who straddled the line. She always planned to, said it'd keep her grounded, close to her roots and such.
I say, "What about these others?"
Elfberg tells me a shotgun cut Blitzen in half. I'm not sorry to hear it. Though, judging by the photos, he didn't die right away. It looks like he tried to drag himself across the floor before the curtain closed.
Milkshake says, "He died around ten."
At first I perk up. However, I catch my own tongue. I've got an alibi, however, that would mean admitting being on the scene when Collodi was getting shot. I'm not about to put myself in that hot water.
So I say, "What about the others?"
Comet got his throat slit sometime around nine. Donner took three to the chest shortly after midnight.
Seeing an out I say, "I was at Sugar Plumbs 'round midnight. You know this."
"So what?" Milkshake smacks me across the back of the head, "Ever heard of the word accomplice?"
"That would mean a friend of some kind."
"Right-o Red." Milkshake slaps me hard on the back, "Right-o."
"I don't exactly have a lotta friends." Me and Elfberg lock eyes, "Plus, you know I like to do my own dirty work."
Sometimes a record isn't a bad thing. It establishes a pattern of behavior. Knowing that fact causes Elfberg to frown, a sure sign he believes me.
Jotting a note he says, "Time of death isn't an exact science."
Shaking my head I say, "So what's the thought then, huh? I leave town for now on close to ten years, only to come back out of the blue with bloody revenge on my mind? Tell me how that makes sense."
Milkshake says, "We don't need it to make sense if it's what happened."
I say, "I'm not even touching the stupid on that."
Sure enough that gets me another slap to the side of my head. Hard one too, suggesting I may have to make time for Detective Milkshake Snickerdoodle, so he can learn a thing, or two about whom to fuck with.
Elfberg says, "Lot of things changed after the Shortage, Rudy. Lotta people changed too. You weren't here, so --"
"Wasn't exactly easy on the Outskirts."
Setting his notepad aside Elfberg says, "I don't doubt that. Still, over a third of this city starved to death. We arrested some folks for literally eating one another."
"Who's fault is that?" I ask pointedly.
"Depends on who you ask," Elfberg replies.
No one says anything, though I'm thinking Big Red. Yet only a complete idiot would say that out loud, let alone in a police station. Talk enough shit about the jolly fat man, well... he knows if you've been bad, and that's not good. That said, Elfberg's reply plants a seed in my head.
He and Milkshake share a furtive glance. I brace for the old song and dance to begin -- screaming and fists blast beating a confession. However, the familiar tune doesn't start. Instead Milkshake nods, and Elfberg pulls a small photo out of his notepad.
Passing it over he asks, "Recognize him?"
At risk of sounding racist, nutcrackers often look the same to me. That is until I notice a wood-burn etched into this one's wrist.
I say, "Seems familiar."
"Name's Glitterspark. Roy Glitterspark. His parents starved during the Shortage, but he lucked out."
"Were they cunts?" I ask.
Milkshake says, "Nope, but Big Red adopted young Glitterspark. Raised him with a whole slew of nutcrackers, conveniently orphaned by the Shortage."
Looking at the picture I say, "Lemme guess, raised to guard fliers."
Elfberg taps the side of his nose. Sounds like Big Red raised his own legion of loyal guards, every one faithful and dedicated to their duty. I'm starting to think I'm not in the fire, though the frying pan is still uncomfortably hot.
"Okay," I say, "You don't have to believe me for this to be true..." and I lay it out for them, how I saw Glitterspark unload an Uzi into Collodi. The unsettling thing is both cops seem to believe me.
Though Milkshake still grumbles, "What's his motive?"
I shrug, "Fuck should I know? The odd thing is Collodi acted like Glitterspark was on his pay."
Furrowing his brow Elfberg says, "That makes no sense. A flier guard wouldn't be assigned to watch over someone like Collodi, and they can't be bought."
Milkshake chimes in, "That lot are true believers."
"Unless he fell from grace," I say then something dawns on me, though I keep it to myself. Glancing across the table I catch Elfberg's eye. Whatever crossed my mind, a hint of it may've flashed on my face. Gathering up the photos he gets to his feet.
Elfberg pulls open the door saying, "We got nothing to hold you on..."
"For now," Milkshake jabs.
"But we're keeping an eye on you." Elfberg gestures for me to leave.
Walking out I can feel eyes all over the station watching me leave. Word is getting around. Fliers are dying, and rumor has it I'm the lead suspect. I'm not sure letting me go is in my best interest. However, that seed Elfberg planted, whether he meant to, or not, I've got an idea where to go next.
RSS Feed
