Part 12: 8:44-11:12: Cuno Witnesses An Autopsy
Chapter 12: 8:44-11:12: Cuno Witnesses An AutopsyContent warning: Cuno and Measurehead are in this one, plus some new ableism
Let’s start by talking to Mañana. Evrart pointed us toward him yesterday to resolve the “weasel” problem, and we’re probably not getting our gun back without dealing with that.
CALL ME MAÑANA: “It’s but a rest area on the path leading across open plains,” he notes solemnly, then turns to you, a wide smile adorning his face:
CALL ME MAÑANA: “Oh, say no more. I got you.” He taps the side of his nose with a little wink.
CALL ME MAÑANA: “I knew this man was a commie.” He smiles, tilting his head. “And it’s a good thing you’re doing too. Thanks. What you’re looking for is a basement door behind the greenhouse—that’s behind the Whirling-In-Rags—that’s all I know. Our organization is what you call *compartmentalized*. Means we keep out of each others’ business.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Okay, but where did you get the key from?”
CALL ME MAÑANA: “The janitor gave it to me. Nice fella. We talked about life and things that really, *truly* matter.” His gaze wanders off into the distance.
CALL ME MAÑANA: He shakes his head. “I’m more of a philosophical dockworker. I like to talk about the big picture stuff. Who I am. Who you are. What we are fighting for…” The man takes a big sip from his flask.
CALL ME MAÑANA: “No,” he pauses to think for a moment. “I don’t think I’m a communist. Seeing something of value and saying *I want it all to myself* is a much older and simpler notion. No science to it at all.”
CALL ME MAÑANA: “I have nothing against communists, they are honourable boiadeiros.” He takes a swig from his flask. “And they have good analysis. But my own code serves me well. If my code starts failing—a code can fail a man as well as a man can fail a code—then I will have to submit to a new one. Which may well be communism.”
CALL ME MAÑANA:”I guess you kinda get to be the village chief. He oversees the harbour, makes deals with the owners or other relevant parties. Watches out for his own.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “By that you mean corruption?”
CALL ME MAÑANA: “By heavens, why would he not be corrupt? We live in a harsh and disordered world, see. And in this world…”
CALL ME MAÑANA: “He is *reasonably* lavish, sure. That’s his prerogative. It’s not like you want a saintly demeanor on a corrupt motherfucker. That would be a manipulative illusion. Besides, there are no non-corrupt systems in the world anyway. And *moralism* is the most corrupt of them all.”
CALL ME MAÑANA: “Sure, I’ve had the necessary free time.” He spreads his arms wide, using the reach to show how much time he has. “Fortunately, there’s always time.”
COMPOSURE: [Easy: Success] The look in his brown eyes conjures up an understanding: for him, having command of his time is the most important thing.
ENCYLOPEDIA: [Easy: Success] It all comes together now, the way he speaks about scabs, his general attitude. He’s a follower of a 500-year-old Franconigerian boiadeiro code—ityelf an appropriation of vespertine cool…
ENCYLOPEDIA: No.
CALL ME MAÑANA: “I ain’t the murderin’ type. But that’s just me. Large organizations like our Union have all sorts of men—with all sorts of skills.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Understood,” the lieutenant takes a note. “This has been of limited use—still, thank you.”
Next. let’s head over to Frittte and exchange that cheque for 25 dollarydoos.
We have forty bucks! We’re rich!
Now, let’s talk to Measurehead about getting that corpse down.
MEASUREHEAD: “THE HARDIE MANLETS ARE ON THE PAY OF THE COMPANY. I ANSWER TO THE UNION ALONE—AND I DO THIS OUT OF *RACE HEROISM*. FINANCE IS AN ALIEN CONCEPT TO THE SEMENESE.”
MEASUREHEAD: “SO IT WAS. YOU SURMOUNTED THE HARBOUR WALL IN A DISPLAY OF ATHLETIC PROWESS TO REACH MY SUPERIOR—THEN HAD HIM GIVE ME AN ORDER. I SALUTE YOUR CUNNING AND I WILL REMOVE THE BODY FROM THE TREE—WITH MY BARE HANDS.”
MEASUREHEAD’S BABE: “You’re so noble, Measurehead.”
MEASUREHEAD: “BUT—WHILE I AM GONE SOMEONE MUST STAND GUARD ON THE BRIDGE. THAT SOMEONE NEEDS TO BE *YOU*.” He turns to Kim. “BOTH OF YOU.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “This is the uncomfortable result of not taking it down ourselves. I can live with the compromise.”
MEASUREHEAD’S BABE: “Cool. I like men with guns and power.” The woman twirls her hair. “I’m Katya by the way.”
Ugh. Just go, don’t give him anything else.
Oh god, it’s Cuno time.
CUNOESSE: “He *fucked* the tree up! Fucked it good! It was porno.”
CUNO: “Fuck you, Cuno says *kipt* if he wants to. Cuno’s dad says *kipt* all the time. *Kipt’s* a cool word.”
CUNOESSE: “Kipt, kipt, kiptidy kiptiy kipt…” The little one sputters, “kiptidy kipt kipt kipt kipt…”
CONCEPTUALIZATION: [Medium: Success] It’s like a little engine has come alive on the other side of the fence. An engine that only says *kipt*.
CUNO: “Yeah, so?” He doesn’t understand. “Cuno *did* sic the pigs on him. Cuno’s a man of his word.”
CUNOESSE: “Cuno sent your fat ass running around like jello!”
CUNO: “Look, pig…” He’s suddenly all business. “Cuno sent you to rough some people up Cuno played you. That happened. Now you and Cuno should move on.”
CUNO: “You got fucked.” He repeats. “You got fucked, pig. Fucked *bad*. Of course you’re gonna remember this. Now get the fuck out of here, griefin’ the Cuno… After this shit you better have something *real* interesting to say if you wanna stay in Cuno’s face.”
CUNO: “And then what? You fuck in there? You fuck in Cuno’s kingdom?”
CUNO: “It’s a vitamin, pig. Don’t you know anything?” He looks at you like you just pointed at the sun and asked what it was.
CUNO: “Okay? Whatever?! You fucking *need* that shit to stay on top of your game. Cuno goes through like a tube a day. And you look like you could use a *barrel*.”
CUNO: He looks at you, eyes bulging: “You’re not getting this, pig! It *completely* takes away the hangover. It’s like you didn’t do *anything*! Like you stayed home playing with your choo-choo.”
CUNO: “That’s where Cuno gets his daily hit of electric, Cuno’s *shazam*. Cuno rides the fucking lightning in there, pig.”
EMPATHY: Cunoesse is by far the worst of the two. Cuno has no problem being near you, but the other hides behind the fence, afraid for her life, like she’s *done* something. Something very bad. She came up with that psychopathic scheme of screaming for help before. Cuno just wanted to talk to you about his name. Cunoesse was the one who wound him up and directed him. Also, Cuno hasn’t stopped talking to you. Even enjoys it from time to time. When you talk to the other one it’s like talking to a cornered animal. She only hisses.
CUNO: “Fuck you whispering about?” he whispers back.
EMPATHY: He’s whispering too. He’s going with it. But watch what happens…
CUNOESSE: “Fuck you *f****ts* whispering about?!”
CUNO: “If Cuno wants to whisper, he’s gonna fucking whisper, okay?!” He turns back to you and hunkers down: “Let’s *whisper,* pig!”
CUNO: “Crazy?” he whispers tensely. “You don’t know the half of it. She’s not crazy, she’s insane. Dangerous. She smoked a man. She’s done people in, probably even pigs…”
CUNOESSE: “Stop talking to him! Cuno, I’m fucking warning you! You’re gonna get us into shit!”
EMPATHY: She understands what you’re trying to do.
CUNO: “Yo, C?” He pops his head up. “Did Cuno not *tell* you?! Cuno told you—CUNO TALKS TO WHOEVER HE WANTS.” He hunches down again. “Talk, pig. Cuno’s got it under control.”
CUNO: “Fuckin’ yeah. Cuno knows you don’t want to face this right now. This dark shit. Cuno faces this shit every day—makes Cuno’s skin crawl.”
CUNO: “Forget Cuno said that. Cuno was just shitting. Cuno was just running his mouth. Cuno’s stupid like that.” He feels eyes on the back of his head—and stops.
LOGIC: [Medium: Success] A cop would be too large for her to overpower. But a determined child of her size can still kill the vulnerable. The elderly. The homeless. Or other… other children.
CUNO: Cuno falls silent. He does not look at you when he replies…
CUNO: “Look, Cuno’s gonna put you at ease. We didn’t do it.”
CUNO: “Crazy people? The fucking *näkkies*? I don’t know…”
CUNO: “Yeah, she was just there.” He points at the apartment building behind the fence.
CUNOESSE: “What was that Cuno?” The little one twists her neck, looking at the building.
CUNO: “How’s Cuno *dealing*? Cuno’s dealing just fine—he doesn’t need you fucking with any of it. C doesn’t either.”
CUNO: “Listen! Listen!” He points to his eyes, then yours. “C is Cuno’s go-to, Cuno’s protecting her. You fuck with C, you fuck with Cuno. You threaten her, you threaten to take her away…”
EMPATHY: This is what it all comes down to—he needs you to take him seriously now.
CUNO: “Yeah, what do you want? Cuno can hook you up with--” he starts, no longer whispering.
CUNOESSE: “Don’t hook him up with shit, Cuno!”
CUNO: “C, relax, he respects the Cuno. Cuno made him respect the Cuno. You respect the Cuno…” He turns back to you. “You get all kinds of shit! Cuno’s gonna get you hooked on illegal narcotics, if you run a little errand for the Cuno—get you *hooked*, pig. Get his hook in you. Then Cuno gonna get you hookin’ for more. Cash in big-style. Pig hooker. See, it’s tension and release with Cuno. Now we releasin’.” He pulls on his tracksuit trousers. “The pant buying shit. That’s on now too. 90% discount for Cuno’s pig. Cuno can flex.”
Fuck it, let’s do it.
CUNO: “Cuno gets it from his dad. Cuno and his dad are major suppliers!” His eyes bulge; their veins reach out like tree branches. “That’s where Cuno gets his lightning on.”
CUNO: “Cuno’s dad is a fucking monster,” he says proudly. “He’s the most violent man in Revachol. He doesn’t give a shit about a single damn thing. He drinks too.”
CUNO: “A baggie… but like in this vial.”
CUNO: “Fuck you talkin’ about. Half a G!? This shit is *giant*, grade A shit. So clean you can barely see it!”
CUNO: “Sure.” He winks at you. “Confiscate it. For Cuno. And you can have half. Cuno’s violent dad’s got Cuno’s key, so you need to fuck your way in there. Go to the pier-side. Bang on the door till the cleaning gimp lets you in. That’s how Cuno does it. Then you go to Room #12 and kick down the door. Police-violence style. That’s what Cuno does. And then it’s action time: You’re locked in the room with a violent fuck head. That’s it.” He concludes. “Next time Cuno sees you, you better have his shit.”
Let’s put on those sweet FALN pants!
KIM KITSURAGI: “Yes.” He covers his nose and lists: “One, investigation of the scene. Two, initial examination of the victim. Three, field autopsy. Four transportation of the body to the morgue. We’re on number three.”
CUNO: “The fuck are they on about?”
KIM KITSURAGI: “You are. Your station would not have assigned you on this case if you weren’t. Now, the way I see it…” he looks at the corpse with some disgust…
THE HANGED MAN: The dead man stares in silence as you crack open the ledger. The bright red paper is covered in boxes and lists—describing the condition of his skin and organs in three parts.
You still don’t trust Evrart about your own name, eh? Smart. No telling if it’s true or not. Probably just another ploy to demean you—better to stick with good ol’ Raphaël Ambrosius Costeau.
KIM KITSURAGI: “KK57-0803.0815”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Hmh,” the man corrects his glasses: “roughly 50.”
CUNOESSE: “Fucky-fucky!” the little monster exclaims, energetically.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Male.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “What else?” He looks over your shoulder. “*9. Body identified by* is non-applicable. *10. Case number* is the same as the coroner’s case.
KIM KITSURAGI: “None—at least not after the initial examination.”
KIM KITSURAGI: Interfering with the body’s position or wounds post-mortem.”
AUTHORITY: [Medium: Success] How did you not know that?! Aren’t you a *cop*? You’re leaving a weak impression here, say something sure-handed!
KIM KITSURAGI: “They’d *have* to have incapacitated and carried him over—this man was more than a match for untrained dockworkers.” He places his hand on the dead man’s chest, as if in preparation…
COMPOSURE: [Easy: Success] Your central nervous system recognizes this gesture. It’s the *Stations of the Breath* – ecclesiastic, religious in nature. A holdout from Pre-Dolorian burial rites. It takes him two seconds to perform, then…
ESPRIT DE CORPS: [Easy: Success] Somewhere in Jamrock North, a small wood shed behind Rozenkrantz, Lieutenant Nick Feuerbach puts his hand to the chest of a small corpse, no larger than a monkey. It’s raining outside, light drizzle. There is darkness in the shed. Elsewhere yet, an obese female sits in a wicker chair, her silhouette ball-like against the window. Outside: Grand Couron. The day is turning dim for Sergeant Mack Torson. Hand extended, he approaches. To make sure she *is* dead, more than anything else…
SHIVERS: [Medium: Success] The building is tall, seven stories wind-wrapped in solitude; most of the apartments are unoccupied. This was a suicide. The other an accident—the small one.
ESPRIT DE CORPS: ...and so all across Jamrock, Coal City, G.R.I.H.. Forty-two deceased persons found today—forty-two Stations of Breath.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Clothes,” he begins. “The deceased wears armoured boots and white briefs. The make of the briefs is Babroudine I think. Let’s see…” He turns the body onto its side to check the underwear label.
CUNO: “C, it’s happening!”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Babroudine, yes. Inexpensive. Size M. Colour: white.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “The rest of the clothes have been removed postmortem by scavengers in order to get to the victim’s ceramic armour. Officers are in search of the missing pieces—removal of the boots is left for processing.”
Nah.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Tattoos.” He stands up, feet planted on either side of the body. “The upper torso is covered in a single, continuous tattoo resembling a map of the night sky. It reaches from the right shoulder to the heart. The ink is blue and white.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Lividity is consistent with hanging. The head is congested. Contusions are present on the head, chest and thighs—consistent with stones thrown postmortem; low velocity…”
CUNO: “Fucking *low* velocity, chink-chonk!?” The kid explodes.
Jesus christ, Cuno! That’s uncalled for!
CUNO: “You think Cuno doesn’t know what you’re talkin’ bout? Velocity was FUCKING MAX! Talkin’ shit about Cuno’s velocity…”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Ligature mark…” The lieutenant produces a small folding knife. With the other hand pulling on the belt, he starts cutting into the polyester. The stench is horrid. After a while, it’s obvious the material cannot be cut. “The steel wiring…” he concedes—breathless, “there’s too much of it. We *need* to remove the belt so we can get to the ligature mark.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Always good to think ahead. Now…” He points to the rope squeezing the dead man’s neck. “We need to cut the belt to see the ligature mark below. Carefully—with as much *precision* as you can.”
CUNO: “C, my pig is gonna fuck his head off!”
CUNO: “You are,” he says with calm certainty. “You’re Cuno’s pig.”
THE HANGED MAN: The belt is equally tight around the whole circumference of his neck, welling over the edges like white bread, rising from the yeast.
Seems like a lock.
CUNOESSE: “Yeah, fuck him! FUCK THAT FÄGÄRI! Corpse fucking time!”
CUNO: “Told you my pig was hard core.”
KIM KITSURAGI: He sinks the cutters into the knot, preparing to perform the cuts—with his elbow to his knee for precision.
THE HANGED MAN: *Snap!* The knot is slashed. Another cut and the belt falls apart like a flower bouquet, revealing the dead man’s neck—and the dark red ligature mark around it.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Here,” he hands you the chaincutters back and then kneels closer to the body—running his finger along the dark red groove. Until he comes to a gap… “The rope rises to a point,” he says, “leaving a *gap* in the ligature mark. The suspension point is in the back of the neck, on the nape.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Chest is intact.” He presses down on it. “Normal contour. Abdomen is protuberant, pelvis intact. Genitalia…” He pulls down the man’s underpants.
CUNO: “*NOW* IT’S GONNA HAPPEN! C!!!”
CUNOESSE: “I fuckin’ knew it!”
EMPATHY: [Medium: Success] This is clearly what they’ve been waiting for. Ever since the autopsy began. The lieutenant is trying to make it as boring as possible.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Back is symmetrical and intact.” He struggles to turn the corpse on his side. “Upper and lower extremities are intact, but asymmetrical. There are combat injuries on the right hand, thigh, and hip. In addition, I see smaller, residual scars—too numerous to count, covering about 30% of his skin.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Central nervous system,” he says and then concludes abruptly: “I have nothing. Do you have anything on this man’s central nervous system?”
KIM KITSURAGI: “What would that be?” he looks at you inquisitively.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Good. Musculoskeletal. Purge fluid is coming from the mouth.” He gets close to the mouth-hole, eyes squinting from the stench: “Not injury-related. Eyes and tongue protuberant. Hyroid bone… let’s see.” With his eyes almost closed, the lieutenant puts his hand on the dead man’s throat and begins to massage it, gently. A rotting smell erupts from the mouth. Purge fluid runs down his lips—black and viscous.
CUNOESSE: “Yeah, jack that fucker off!”
KIM KITSURAGI: Back hunched—as if in prayer—he begins to pry open the dead man’s jaws: “Respiratory system…” He stops to exert more force. Both hands are used. “Oral cavity shows no lesions. The victim has received dental implants, possibly after a combat wound. Mouth swollen, hemorrhaging present in mucous of the lips and mouth.”
THE HANGED MAN: Inside you see darkness. Just a mess of meat and darkness.
INLAND EMPIRE: [Medium: Success] THERE ARE ANCIENT MYSTERIES DOWN THERE, COBO… ASK ME LATER.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Gastrointestinal,” he breathes a sigh of approaching relief—this is the last field on the list. He looks around—to the ground, the pool of feces there…
LOGIC: [Medium: Success] This will do.
CUNO: “C, these pigs are fucking corrupt,” the boy nods approvingly.
CUNOESSE: “Why don’t you fuck them if you love them so much?”
KIM KITSURAGI: “So—the scalp bleeds from a postmortem head injury. A stone. The injury does not have the rim of an early inflammatory response. A perpetrator on the scene has confessed to causing it postmortem…”
CUNO: “At MAXIMUM velocity, fucko!”
KIM KITSURAGI: “A dark red abraded ligature mark encircling the neck, with a gap on the nape measuring… let’s day 7 cm. The hyoid bone is fractured, the cervical column intact.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Hmh…” The lieutenant falls silent, abruptly.
EMPATHY: He is deep in thought, eyes fixed on the bright red ring around the dead man’s neck.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Honestly, I’m not sure there *weren’t* marks on his wrists. That part got blurry for me. The *stench…*” he covers his mouth. “But you’re right. I was ready to call this—now I think we should leave it empty. At least for the time being.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “It was a...” He looks for the right words. “An irregular field autopsy. We did not establish cause of death, which is supposed to be the goal of an autopsy. But… *personally* I do not see this as a parameter for success.”
KIM KITSURAGI: “…for processing.” He looks at the dead man one more time, then at the slip of red paper in his hand, then at the corpse again.
EMPATHY: [Medium: Success] He’s thinking: Did I miss something?
COMPOSURE: [Medium: Success] You tilt your head, also looking at the corpse.
What are you missing here? What is this hidden secret gnawing away at you and Kim, demanding resolution?
Dammit.
THE HANGED MAN: His fingernails have turned dark. They’re chipped and quite long. There is dirt under them. That’s all.
KIM KITSURAGI: “Do you think we missed something?”
KIM KITSURAGI: “It would have to be *industrial* in size. Let’s start by asking Garte at the Whirling-In-Rags, and the Frittte store down at the gates. If they don’t know…” His voice trials off—and his gaze settles on *Cuno*. “But only if *all else* fails.”
CUNO: “Fuck are you looking at ping-pong man? You wanna piece of the Cuno? Wanna get *fucked*?”
KIM KITSURAGI: “Only if *all else* fails,” he stresses.
LOGIC: [Medium: Success] Hmm… Cuno looks like he gets around. *Knows* Martinaise. And its fridges too probably…
We put a point into Rhetoric and close this autopsy for the time being. Time to find us a fridge!