10:27 AM.
THREE PORTLANDS
An office somewhere on the Periphery...
"It's just... She's been gone for so long, and the police aren't any help, what if she's not okay? What if she's... Oh god!"
"Don't worry, Ms. Leblanc. We'll find your sister, as long as we know all the information. Why don't we just start from the beginning?"
Delaney Leblanc sank into herself. The hazy room she found herself in smelled of tobacco smoke. A lazily turning ceiling fan above her stirred the stagnant air. She fidgeted, causing the flimsy wooden chair she was sitting in to squeak defiantly. She raised her eyes to the man seated at the desk to her left. The desk had a bronze nameplate- the name 'ANTON SCULLER' emblazoned on it in blocky typeface.
Anton Sculler was a bull of a man. He had large, broad shoulders which sharply jutted towards a square jaw and slightly pudgy face. The scars and marks of a hard life were apparent on his visage: his ears were a mess of cauliflower folds and deformity, his bulbous nose twisted left, then right, then left again in a zigzag, and his lips had melted into a perpetual downturn. The top of Anton Sculler's head was a testament to his ongoing war against male pattern baldness. A war that he was losing. However, in contrast to the weathered look of the rest of his body, Sculler's eyes were wide and childlike; two brown marbles pressed into the Play-Doh of his face. They were large, searching. Always flicking from one corner of the room to the next. They seemed to drink in the reality of his environment freely, a trained instinct from many years investigating. Really, Anton Sculler was a sensitive instrument, as long as he was in top condition.
He had only come into the office a few minutes prior to Ms. Leblanc's arrival, nursing bruised ribs from a case the week previous, and a perpetual hangover from twelve years at the bottom of a bottle. As Leblanc began to recount her story, he shot a glance to his partner seated at the desk opposite.
Jacob Thursby stood in stark contrast to Anton Sculler. While Sculler's body seemed to bulge out of his skin, Thursby's seemed to pull inward onto itself. He was a wiry man, composed nearly exclusively of joints. Where Anton had a square, meaty face, Jacob's sloped inward, composing itself into three v's: a pointed chin, a sharp, crescent mouth, and a goatee that encircled the two. He had medium length brown hair, which always seemed to be slicked back with enough grease to cover a small country, opposed to Sculler's baldness. Thursby's eyes are thin, horizontal and catlike, which seemed to look past whatever he looked at. While Sculler's eyes cast a wide net, Thursby's eyes were needles, which aspirated, pricked, and prodded the narrow funnel of his world. And when Thursby smiled, his upper lip folded in, revealing his gums.
He was smiling now at Ms. Leblanc as he gestured for her to continue.
She had explained that her sister had gotten tangled up with the wrong kind of crowd. People that had claimed to be artists, but seemed more into boozing around and cooking up dangerous thaumaturgy than any anart piece.
"She said that she wouldn't do anything dangerous, but she's been gone now for weeks, and I can't get ahold of her. I tried calling, but she wouldn't pick up the phone, or she changed her number, or... I don't know."
"I see. Ms. Leblanc," Thursby steepled his fingers, "Can you give me a description of your sister, Ms..." He waited for a name.
"Elizabeth. Elizabeth Leblanc. She's a year older than me, 31. She's, oh, about my height. She has blonde hair, and a tattoo, yes, a tattoo on her left arm."
"What's it of?" Sculler asked, jotting down notes in a small grey book.
"Flowers. Magnolias, I think."
"And where has she been staying, these past few weeks?"
"She has an apartment, on Crudot's Passing. Room 102. The group that she's in- they are part of the co-op that owns the building. When I went to check on her, they said she was busy, but happy and safe," Leblanc's lips trembled, "I just need to know if she is, detectives."
"Again, you don't have to worry, Ms. Leblanc," Thursby's dulcet voice soothed, "We'll find her. What's the name of this art collective?"
"The- ah, The Art Collective, Detective Thursby."
Sculler and Thursby exchanged a look.
"I... I believe it's supposed to be ironic..."
"I see. And did you catch any names of people in the 'Art Collective'? Or descriptions?"
"I'm sorry, I don't know much about these people. Oh- There's one. Elizabeth called him Carlton. He's, I guess, some sort of a leader for them. He has short black hair, like you detective," She looked at Sculler, "But he's younger."
"How much younger, would you say?"
"A couple of years younger, I think? He looked around 35."
Sculler paused in his writing briefly. Thursby continued.
"That's good. Thank you, Ms. Leblanc. We'll check up with this Carlton fellow as well. He also stays at the complex on Crudot's Passing?"
Leblanc nodded.
"Is there anything else that you can remember from this crowd? Or about your sister. Anything at all would make our job a lot easier."
"No, I- I don't know anything else," Delaney Leblanc's forehead furrowed, "But... Please, detectives, be careful. I've heard stories from Elizabeth- I don't think these people are killers, or... But I do think they could be dangerous."
"You don't have to worry about us, ma'am. We're careful," Sculler said, still jotting down notes.
"Yes, Ms. Leblanc, we'll see what we can do. Of course, there is the matter of payment-"
"Oh, yes, of course. I had expected as much. Is this enough?" She stood up, placing a small stack of bills on Thursby's desk. He looked over them, performing a quick calculation in his head.
"Yes. My, that should be enough," Thursby pushed his swivel chair back and stood up, extending a hand to Leblanc, "What's the best place to reach you with any findings?"
Delaney shook his hand, "I'm staying at the Commodore, on Market and Main. Room 127."
Thursby's gums revealed themselves yet again as his mouth pulled into a constrained smile, "Well, we'll be in touch, Ms. Leblanc. You'll have your sister back, safe and sound. I assure you of that."
"Thank you, detective. Detectives."
Sculler's eyes finally trained over Leblanc as she made to exit. She was tall, blonde herself, had an athletic build, and wore a no-nonsense set of blouse and pants in shades of blue. She wasn't working class, but she wasn't made of money either. Sculler could make out the faintest outline of a scar on her cheek concealed with makeup. She took great care to look dignified, he reasoned. Her eyes, cobalt, shone brightly in nervous apprehension. The black handbag she carried with her was creased from daily use over the years. Thursby took it upon himself to escort her to the door. From there, Delaney Leblanc left the office, leaving only the echo of heels on tile. Jackson Thursby leaned on the doorpost, looking in at Anton.
"Yeesh," Sculler leaned back in his swivel chair after a few moments.
"Just one case after the other, ain't that right, Anty?"
Sculler pulled open a drawer on his desk, retrieving the ice pack that he carelessly tossed within when Leblanc strode into the office. He pulled up his shirt and pressed it onto his aching side again with a quick draw of breath.
"Ain't that right. Damn. I'm going to have to dry out this drawer again."
"Hope there wasn't anything important in there."
"Tax statements."
"Ah. Damn indeed."
Sculler's eyes drifted across the office. The far wall from the two detectives' desks was an oak and glass trophy case. Medals, a red and white set of boxing gloves, old pictures with old friends, a chrome plated semiautomatic pistol. On Thursby's desk, a whittled tobacco pipe. Well used.
"What do you think?" He asked.
"Of her?" Thursby was packing the pipe with tobacco from a small pigskin satchel.
"Of her story."
"I don't believe a single lick of it."
"Me neither."
"The tattoo throw you off? How'd she not know her own sister's tattoo?" Thursby struck a match, holding it to the brown leaf at the end of his pipe. He took a long drag.
"No. It was coming to us in the first place."
"How'd you figure?" White smoke puffed from Thursby's pipe. He let the match die, then lined it up with the others on his desk. 14 dead soldiers, all in a neat little row on the mahogany.
"TPPD handle this sort of thing every day. Even if they weren't able to turn up anything, missing persons cases would be handed over to the FBI, which would mean interrogations and paperwork. Since she doesn't want to go to the police-"
"She doesn't want to be in the Bureau's records."
Sculler nodded.
"You think she's Foundation?"
"No clue. Could be. The money good?"
Thursby flipped through a few of the bills on his desk, "Yep."
"Then we oughta at least check it out," Sculler shrugged on a grey overcoat, and reached for a brown hat. He paused.
"Might be a trap," Thursby said. Reaching for a drawer in his own desk, he checked for his snubnosed revolver. Cold, hard metal, and a rubber grip, chambered in .38.
"Might be. But then again, I don't know anyone who would want to snuff us out. Unless..." He looked at Thursby, putting the icepack down, "You hiding anything, Jack? Got a secret enemy?"
"Nope, Anty. Are you?"
Sculler's downturned mouth morphed into a tight smirk as he stepped out onto the balcony of the office, taking a deep breath of smoke-free air. It's going to rain soon, he predicts. The stench of petrichor hangs heavy in the Portlands. Above, a frigid wind howled. It will wind past the office of Sculler & Thursby on 10th Street, to the neon glare of the Anderson Robotics sign in Prometheus Plaza, then up Wavering Street and Boring Road, where the architecture has a particularly capricious mood and no one can agree whether there's 5 or 7 townhouses on the western side, or whether the pharmacy on the corner there existed the previous week. From there it will take leaves and dust and plastic wrappers into the Lower Quarter, to wrap itself around the anart-flats with their asphalt roofs, and pass unnoticed by the sentry golems cordoning off an unrelated crime scene in Fisherman's Alley. Blood pools behind a dumpster. One death of many today. When the rain comes, it will all mix and make passage to a nearby storm drain, becoming indistinct with the rest of the waste water in the depths of the city's cavernous sewers. A great vascular system, reclaiming its lost vitae. Sculler lets the breath go, and the city breathes with him.
"Something on the mind?" Thursby asks from within.
"Nothing, nothing," Sculler replies, "It's just..."
He rubs the knuckles of his left hand. His ribs ache. His eyes burn. Memories of a previous life.
"Sometimes I feel like this town's going to be the death of me. Let's get going. We got a job to do."
THREE PORTLANDS
An office somewhere on the Periphery...
"It's just... She's been gone for so long, and the police aren't any help, what if she's not okay? What if she's... Oh god!"
"Don't worry, Ms. Leblanc. We'll find your sister, as long as we know all the information. Why don't we just start from the beginning?"
Delaney Leblanc sank into herself. The hazy room she found herself in smelled of tobacco smoke. A lazily turning ceiling fan above her stirred the stagnant air. She fidgeted, causing the flimsy wooden chair she was sitting in to squeak defiantly. She raised her eyes to the man seated at the desk to her left. The desk had a bronze nameplate- the name 'ANTON SCULLER' emblazoned on it in blocky typeface.
Anton Sculler was a bull of a man. He had large, broad shoulders which sharply jutted towards a square jaw and slightly pudgy face. The scars and marks of a hard life were apparent on his visage: his ears were a mess of cauliflower folds and deformity, his bulbous nose twisted left, then right, then left again in a zigzag, and his lips had melted into a perpetual downturn. The top of Anton Sculler's head was a testament to his ongoing war against male pattern baldness. A war that he was losing. However, in contrast to the weathered look of the rest of his body, Sculler's eyes were wide and childlike; two brown marbles pressed into the Play-Doh of his face. They were large, searching. Always flicking from one corner of the room to the next. They seemed to drink in the reality of his environment freely, a trained instinct from many years investigating. Really, Anton Sculler was a sensitive instrument, as long as he was in top condition.
He had only come into the office a few minutes prior to Ms. Leblanc's arrival, nursing bruised ribs from a case the week previous, and a perpetual hangover from twelve years at the bottom of a bottle. As Leblanc began to recount her story, he shot a glance to his partner seated at the desk opposite.
Jacob Thursby stood in stark contrast to Anton Sculler. While Sculler's body seemed to bulge out of his skin, Thursby's seemed to pull inward onto itself. He was a wiry man, composed nearly exclusively of joints. Where Anton had a square, meaty face, Jacob's sloped inward, composing itself into three v's: a pointed chin, a sharp, crescent mouth, and a goatee that encircled the two. He had medium length brown hair, which always seemed to be slicked back with enough grease to cover a small country, opposed to Sculler's baldness. Thursby's eyes are thin, horizontal and catlike, which seemed to look past whatever he looked at. While Sculler's eyes cast a wide net, Thursby's eyes were needles, which aspirated, pricked, and prodded the narrow funnel of his world. And when Thursby smiled, his upper lip folded in, revealing his gums.
He was smiling now at Ms. Leblanc as he gestured for her to continue.
She had explained that her sister had gotten tangled up with the wrong kind of crowd. People that had claimed to be artists, but seemed more into boozing around and cooking up dangerous thaumaturgy than any anart piece.
"She said that she wouldn't do anything dangerous, but she's been gone now for weeks, and I can't get ahold of her. I tried calling, but she wouldn't pick up the phone, or she changed her number, or... I don't know."
"I see. Ms. Leblanc," Thursby steepled his fingers, "Can you give me a description of your sister, Ms..." He waited for a name.
"Elizabeth. Elizabeth Leblanc. She's a year older than me, 31. She's, oh, about my height. She has blonde hair, and a tattoo, yes, a tattoo on her left arm."
"What's it of?" Sculler asked, jotting down notes in a small grey book.
"Flowers. Magnolias, I think."
"And where has she been staying, these past few weeks?"
"She has an apartment, on Crudot's Passing. Room 102. The group that she's in- they are part of the co-op that owns the building. When I went to check on her, they said she was busy, but happy and safe," Leblanc's lips trembled, "I just need to know if she is, detectives."
"Again, you don't have to worry, Ms. Leblanc," Thursby's dulcet voice soothed, "We'll find her. What's the name of this art collective?"
"The- ah, The Art Collective, Detective Thursby."
Sculler and Thursby exchanged a look.
"I... I believe it's supposed to be ironic..."
"I see. And did you catch any names of people in the 'Art Collective'? Or descriptions?"
"I'm sorry, I don't know much about these people. Oh- There's one. Elizabeth called him Carlton. He's, I guess, some sort of a leader for them. He has short black hair, like you detective," She looked at Sculler, "But he's younger."
"How much younger, would you say?"
"A couple of years younger, I think? He looked around 35."
Sculler paused in his writing briefly. Thursby continued.
"That's good. Thank you, Ms. Leblanc. We'll check up with this Carlton fellow as well. He also stays at the complex on Crudot's Passing?"
Leblanc nodded.
"Is there anything else that you can remember from this crowd? Or about your sister. Anything at all would make our job a lot easier."
"No, I- I don't know anything else," Delaney Leblanc's forehead furrowed, "But... Please, detectives, be careful. I've heard stories from Elizabeth- I don't think these people are killers, or... But I do think they could be dangerous."
"You don't have to worry about us, ma'am. We're careful," Sculler said, still jotting down notes.
"Yes, Ms. Leblanc, we'll see what we can do. Of course, there is the matter of payment-"
"Oh, yes, of course. I had expected as much. Is this enough?" She stood up, placing a small stack of bills on Thursby's desk. He looked over them, performing a quick calculation in his head.
"Yes. My, that should be enough," Thursby pushed his swivel chair back and stood up, extending a hand to Leblanc, "What's the best place to reach you with any findings?"
Delaney shook his hand, "I'm staying at the Commodore, on Market and Main. Room 127."
Thursby's gums revealed themselves yet again as his mouth pulled into a constrained smile, "Well, we'll be in touch, Ms. Leblanc. You'll have your sister back, safe and sound. I assure you of that."
"Thank you, detective. Detectives."
Sculler's eyes finally trained over Leblanc as she made to exit. She was tall, blonde herself, had an athletic build, and wore a no-nonsense set of blouse and pants in shades of blue. She wasn't working class, but she wasn't made of money either. Sculler could make out the faintest outline of a scar on her cheek concealed with makeup. She took great care to look dignified, he reasoned. Her eyes, cobalt, shone brightly in nervous apprehension. The black handbag she carried with her was creased from daily use over the years. Thursby took it upon himself to escort her to the door. From there, Delaney Leblanc left the office, leaving only the echo of heels on tile. Jackson Thursby leaned on the doorpost, looking in at Anton.
"Yeesh," Sculler leaned back in his swivel chair after a few moments.
"Just one case after the other, ain't that right, Anty?"
Sculler pulled open a drawer on his desk, retrieving the ice pack that he carelessly tossed within when Leblanc strode into the office. He pulled up his shirt and pressed it onto his aching side again with a quick draw of breath.
"Ain't that right. Damn. I'm going to have to dry out this drawer again."
"Hope there wasn't anything important in there."
"Tax statements."
"Ah. Damn indeed."
Sculler's eyes drifted across the office. The far wall from the two detectives' desks was an oak and glass trophy case. Medals, a red and white set of boxing gloves, old pictures with old friends, a chrome plated semiautomatic pistol. On Thursby's desk, a whittled tobacco pipe. Well used.
"What do you think?" He asked.
"Of her?" Thursby was packing the pipe with tobacco from a small pigskin satchel.
"Of her story."
"I don't believe a single lick of it."
"Me neither."
"The tattoo throw you off? How'd she not know her own sister's tattoo?" Thursby struck a match, holding it to the brown leaf at the end of his pipe. He took a long drag.
"No. It was coming to us in the first place."
"How'd you figure?" White smoke puffed from Thursby's pipe. He let the match die, then lined it up with the others on his desk. 14 dead soldiers, all in a neat little row on the mahogany.
"TPPD handle this sort of thing every day. Even if they weren't able to turn up anything, missing persons cases would be handed over to the FBI, which would mean interrogations and paperwork. Since she doesn't want to go to the police-"
"She doesn't want to be in the Bureau's records."
Sculler nodded.
"You think she's Foundation?"
"No clue. Could be. The money good?"
Thursby flipped through a few of the bills on his desk, "Yep."
"Then we oughta at least check it out," Sculler shrugged on a grey overcoat, and reached for a brown hat. He paused.
"Might be a trap," Thursby said. Reaching for a drawer in his own desk, he checked for his snubnosed revolver. Cold, hard metal, and a rubber grip, chambered in .38.
"Might be. But then again, I don't know anyone who would want to snuff us out. Unless..." He looked at Thursby, putting the icepack down, "You hiding anything, Jack? Got a secret enemy?"
"Nope, Anty. Are you?"
Sculler's downturned mouth morphed into a tight smirk as he stepped out onto the balcony of the office, taking a deep breath of smoke-free air. It's going to rain soon, he predicts. The stench of petrichor hangs heavy in the Portlands. Above, a frigid wind howled. It will wind past the office of Sculler & Thursby on 10th Street, to the neon glare of the Anderson Robotics sign in Prometheus Plaza, then up Wavering Street and Boring Road, where the architecture has a particularly capricious mood and no one can agree whether there's 5 or 7 townhouses on the western side, or whether the pharmacy on the corner there existed the previous week. From there it will take leaves and dust and plastic wrappers into the Lower Quarter, to wrap itself around the anart-flats with their asphalt roofs, and pass unnoticed by the sentry golems cordoning off an unrelated crime scene in Fisherman's Alley. Blood pools behind a dumpster. One death of many today. When the rain comes, it will all mix and make passage to a nearby storm drain, becoming indistinct with the rest of the waste water in the depths of the city's cavernous sewers. A great vascular system, reclaiming its lost vitae. Sculler lets the breath go, and the city breathes with him.
"Something on the mind?" Thursby asks from within.
"Nothing, nothing," Sculler replies, "It's just..."
He rubs the knuckles of his left hand. His ribs ache. His eyes burn. Memories of a previous life.
"Sometimes I feel like this town's going to be the death of me. Let's get going. We got a job to do."
