Part 6: 15:18-16:48: Copologies For My Misconduct

Chapter 6: 15:18-16:48: Copologies For My Misconduct

Content warning: This update contains depictions of racism, homophobic slurs, and mentions of suicide.



Let’s put a point into Visual Calculus so we can retry the footprints White Check.






VISUAL CALCULUS: 1) Standard work boot, steel reinforced toes, no 46. 2) Standard work boot, steel reinforced toes, no 44. 3) Hobnailed work boot, steel reinforced toes, no 43.




VISUAL CALCULUS: 5) Another standard work boot, steel reinforced toes, no 44.





VISUAL CALCULUS: 7) The glowing outline of a standard work boot, no 46. But the imprints are *twice* as deep as the others—the weight exceeds 200 kilograms. 8) And yet another standard work boot, no 44. There’s an aberration in the pattern of the sole, however. The right sole is smoother, more worn.







KIM KITSURAGI: “200?” He thinks for a moment. “Could it be the combined weight of two people, one carrying the other who’s tied up? Let’s say, a heavily built worker carrying a similarly built, soon-to-be-dead man?”





KIM KITSURAGI: “Someone operating a work bench—with a pedal. Like a joiner at the harbour?” He thinks for a second. “Or maybe a drummer…”



KIM KITSURAGI: “I don’t know why I said that. We’re not looking for a drummer, we’re looking for a group of dockworkers.”



KIM KITSURAGI: He doesn’t seem to hear you, looking South toward the traffic jam instead. The machines are silent, the engines are all turned off…




KIM KITSURAGI: “A week maybe? Seven days would fit the time frame provided to us by the caller, who reported the hanging.”



KIM KITSURAGI: “I pulled last week’s forecast for coastal Revachol. Seven days below freezing. The day before—the day of his hanging—was the last warm day.”



KIM KITSURAGI: “What do I think? A mob of people brought something heavy to the tree. One of them was carrying the victim. They shuffled around, especially under the tree. Then after hoisting him up, they stood in a semicircle facing his direction. At first glance, this appears to be a lynching.”



With the footprints checked out, you decide to finally open the trash container.




If we were to try to open the container, we would suffer a penalty of minus 10 because we don’t have the prybar equipped. Let’s just use the key.

TRASH CONTAINER: With a well-oiled crack the lock pops open. It should now be possible to simply raise the lid…




TRASH CONTAINER: The smell of rotten food rises to greet you. You see soggy cartons, dirty rags, and organic waste.



TRASH CONTAINER: You see: milk, an egg-rest with one broken egg in it, some pasta wrappers… Picking up the soggy packages somehow feels familiar.






TRASH CONTAINER: As the legs of the slime-covered jeans begin to unspool from the garbage, a rank corpse smell fills the air.
KIM KITSURAGI: “The victim’s clothes?” The lieutenant smells them. “Cadaverine odour is faint. If these belonged to the deceased, they were removed when he was still in the early stages of decay.”



KIM KITSURAGI: Kim quickly searches the jeans. “*Guitar* mark blue jeans. Pockets empty. Or *emptied*? He wore them with a belt, too, a wide belt—the loops appear stretched, but...” He looks into the container: “The belt is missing. That’s it. Do you see anything else in there? I have another bag here…”




KIM KITSURAGI: “This is a military type over-garment. No label or serial number—this is the kind of rib-knit shirt that’s worn over light armour to conceal it in an urban scenario…” He nods to himself. “Anything more?”




CUNOESSE: “The fuck’s he on about--*kids*?!” The one behind the fence yells. “You hear that, Cuno? He thinks you’re an infant or something.”





TRASH CONTAINER: It’s just organic waste, cols and slimy on your hands. Apple and potato peels mostly, unidentified sludge, and the occasional chicken bone thrown in for good measure. But hey…
INLAND EMPIRE: [Medium: Success] Nothing. It’s nothing. Nothing more to see here.








This must be what Sylvie did with your paperwork after she unclogged the toilet.

KIM KITSURAGI: “Well…” He doesn’t know what to say.
EMPATHY: [Medium: Success] His eyes express a rare condolence. Then he picks it up:



KIM KITSURAGI: “It would also not hurt to start taking notes on the case.” He peers into the trash, where soggy cartons and rags stink, uninvitingly. “Now, tell me what your eagle eyes see. Or are we finished?”




Oh. Oh dear.




TRASH CONTAINER: The container sounds a muffled gong.







SUGGESTION: No, you’re the *sorry cop*. The cop who’s sorriest. Let’s make it official, then, shall we?




SUGGESTION: What? Jealous of the *sorry cop?* I think they’ll be fine. Don’t worry.




LOGIC: [Easy: Success:] That won’t happen.



Let’s internalize that right away, but I’m sorry if you wanted something else.



*sigh* Let’s talk to Cuno again.





CUNO: “Look at him!” He points to the body. “Fucking growth hormone shit. He’s a giant. The armour’s too big for *any man*.”



CUNO: “Cuno tried to get the helmet on. It was too big.” He performs a kick-off on the imaginary helmet.



CUNO: “Yeah, that shit means *nothing* to Cuno,” he repeats. “Cuno doesn’t give a shit about material shit. Cuno’s a fucking monk!”



CUNO: “Yeah, Cock-in-Boots. You know that jolly Union cow fucker?

You do not, in fact, know who this person is.

CUNO: Came around talking about cows or some shit. Came around pretendin’ like he cares about cows. So yeah, he’s the one you wanna talk to. He’s fucking crazy about that armour shit. Coming here, pretending he likes cows, tryin’a catch a peep at Cuno’s armour… Go to the gates—ask him yourself.”



CUNO: “Fuck are you talking about? What is this *con-tush-on* shit?” He grabs his head like it’s suddenly hurting.



CUNO: “Oh, did Cuno make your shit-sniffing harder? Obstruction of shit-sniffing?” He lets go of his head, suddenly feeling better. “This is Cuno’s Kingdom. Cuno fucking rules here.”






CUNO: “Listen! Listen!” he stops you. “Cuno doesn’t care about this small-time shit. Just listen—Cuno saw what you did there. Dumpster diving. Sad shit.”



CUNO: “Look, Cuno ain’t seen shit lying around, ‘cept for that f****t up there.” He points to the cadaver. Now you want performance gear or not, grandpa?”



CUNO: “Pig, these are FALN *Modulars*! Liquid fit, performance crotch, urban survival shit! Made in Mirova… by scientists. *Pants* scientists. Believe it, you *need* this shit...” He unzips his jacket to give you a quick peek at the plastic-wrapped pants. T hey are graphite-black and look brand new.

Hmm… performance crotch… you are a little tight around there in your current pants.

SAVOIR FAIRE: [Trivial: Success] These could drastically improve your chances of survival in the urban wilderness.
PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: [Easy: Success] Coach Physical Instrument endorses these pants. They are tartan-ready.



CUNO: “All right, piggo!” His face lights up. “Shit’s rolling.”
CUNOESSE: “Don’t do business with the pig, Cuno! He’s gonna steal all your money, Cuno!”
CUNO: “As you can see…” Cuno nods towards the fence. “Cuno and C don’t trust you. Can’t do business without trust.”




CUNO: “Yeah, Cuno see where this is going. Cuno’s got that fast-brain,” he whispers excitedly. “You saying you pigs are after the mug fucker—coz he’s the clothes fucker...”



CUNO: “Shit, that’s tense…” He thinks for a moment. “Someone’s going to the beatdown-basement, huh? Mug-guy gonna get tied to the radiator.” He nods in approval. “Cuno doesn’t know who put that shit in there. And if he did, he wouldn’t squeal. But if you find out, maybe you can…”
CUNOESSE: “Stop turning into a pig, Cuno! They’re trying to get you hooked on the snitching!” She lets out a hiss, even meaner than before. “Get away from my Cuno, f****ts!”




CUNO: “Fuck does Cuno know. Cuno’s not a fucking acrobat!”
KIM KITSURAGI: The lieutenant takes a quick note in his notebook.






CUNO: “Look, Cuno doesn’t explain shit—Cuno just *says* shit.” He looks you in the eye and nods, as if agreeing with himself.




You should head back to the Coupris Kineema and call the precinct about the serial number from the armor.






INSANE CLOWN POSSE, HELL YEAH




Now, let’s inspect our new items.










YELLOW MAN MUG: But it was in the trash. Why not just call it out when you see it? Or do some volunteering work? Just finish your case, detective.



There’s something onimous about this…



DAMAGED LEDGER: There’s a piece of toilet paper—or is it cleaning tissue? No, it’s toilet paper--*desperately* sticking to the back of the blue plastic clipboard. It’s a metaphor—for you.








KIM KITSURAGI: “It depends. Aside from an anti-counterfeiting stamp, mine has my Station number and address. The information varies by date of issue.”




KIM KITSURAGI: “All RCM vehicles have headlights designed to reveal halogen watermarks. Mine too.”



KIM KITSURAGI: “Okay.” He returns to his neatly kept notes…



DAMAGED LEDGER: They’re not *exactly* white. They’re yellowed in patches by sunlight and alcohol, and covered in dense blue handwriting. Ink escapes into watercolour patterns, reaching its tendrils across entire pages. The paper itself is chequered with faint red lines forming short paragraphs.



DAMAGED LEDGER: Work. Strife. Povery. The Jamrock Quarter. These are handwritten logs of investigations dating back to January ‘51, this year. The exact number is hard to estimate due to missing pages—and an *odd* naming convention—but there are at least twenty, maybe thirty cases. Undertaken, not completed, mind you.





KIM KITSURAGI: “That’s okay.” He nods, then turns back to his own case files. “We all do, sooner or later.”



DAMAGED LEDGER: Yes. It appears you employ a… shall we say *robust yet literary* system. Each investigation has its case number written on the margins. Yet, still more tellingly, most are accompanied by a *name*.




DAMAGED LEDGER: Others appear more light-hearted. THE GUYS ON A COUCH IN AN UNFAMILIAR LOCATION and THE MURDER AT THE HOOKAH PARLOUR, even the rare article free COLLAPSING TENEMENT. Murder features prominently throughout.






KIM KITSURAGI: “Again in your defence, I seem to have named one…” He peeks into his notes. “THE MAN WITH THE HOLE IN HIS HEAD. That was a real person, his death was real. Still I named it that. To amuse myself.”





DAMAGED LEDGER: The tasks you’ve completed flow out of the Kind Green Ape pen in a brash freehand similar to the rest of the letters. The wording comes easily, it’s almost robotically simple; a language developed for mental rigour and simplicity: “Inspect victim’s body.” “Get the body down.” “Interview the cafeteria manager.”







KIM KITSURAGI: “Furies. Yes. Well.” It’s obvious he doesn’t like it. “I don’t know. I have to be honest—I’m not experiencing the *internal strife* that refers to. And also...” He furrows his brow. “Could we make it less *poetic* somehow? Just a normal case name, you know. Think—what would that be? A good *normal* name?”



Fine, we’ll go with the boring one for you, Kim.

KIM KITSURAGI: “Great! That’s great. That’s actually what *I* was thinking too—THE HANGED MAN. Good, strong name. We have a very good name for the case now.






LOGIC: [Medium: Failure] It’s possible: yes. Easy: no. You need to come up with a small archaeological system to re-order the remains of your past works. At the moment all they do is fall apart in your hands. Some dates and the numeric titular system is all you have.



DAMAGED LEDGER: In the back you see thin translucent copier paper—some neon yellow, some bright red—all covered in boxes., like marching armies. These look like official forms, waiting to be filled out…



DAMAGED LEDGER: Three. The topmost are MISCONDUCT FINES, the middle ones are STATION CALLS, and the bottommost are FIELD AUTOPSY FORMS. Each is easy enough to make sense of.






DAMAGED LEDGER: Yes—all that remains now is to fill those forms and *hand* them to people: fines for wrongdoers, interview requests for bad guys, and field autopsies to *dead* guys.





DAMAGED LEDGER: Blue.










DAMAGED LEDGER: What are you waiting for? Just…
INLAND EMPIRE: [Medium: Success] That’s because you know where this leads to.





Rude!




DAMAGED LEDGER: It smells of chewing gum—apricot flavoured.



DAMAGED LEDGER: Familiar handwriting lines the inside of the card—looped, round letters in a woman’s hand.
VISUAL CALCULUS: [Easy: Success] A young woman in her twenties. There is care, effort and a *smile*, you think—although that is not something you can read from someone’s handwriting.
DAMAGED LEDGER: “Harry,” it begins—you’re already reading. “I wanted to write you a letter, so you can read it when you wake up. Maybe it will make you happy.”










ENDURANCE: To what? There’s nothing…




Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhh