Ch.222Request Log #017 – Enemy, Slanderer, and Adversary (7)

Everything is destined to rot. One could not call it sad. In countless inequities, only decay maintained its principles with unwavering integrity.

For Dr. Albert’s coffin—filled only with watches he had given his students as graduation gifts and a medal I had placed inside because his body was never found—and for the Followers of the Forest’s Firstborn, created from Charles Clichy’s stubbornness, ability, obsession, and all his human and inhuman aspects, decay alone remained fair.

In the end, it’s simply the flow of nature. After the Followers of the Forest’s Firstborn completely rot away, other supremacists will emerge, and another researcher will sit at Dr. Albert’s desk.

Nothing is fated, and everything is merely natural. What put a hole in the Forest’s Firstborn’s forehead wasn’t justice but a .22 caliber bullet. What killed Dr. Albert wasn’t destiny but Sol Invictus’s sword.

And now, breaking these resurgent Followers of the Forest’s Firstborn was simply my profession. Seeing something so natural brought peace to my mind. It allowed me to look forward to the future.

Because we too desired that decay. We hoped our comrades, who should have returned to dust long ago, could rot in peace. I raised my binoculars to examine inside the branch office of the Followers of the Forest’s Firstborn.

It was busier inside than when I had visited for Inspector Leonard. They probably didn’t truly believe in elven superiority either. They were simply people who would have nothing left to take pride in if they let go of even that.

They seemed to have regained some vigor. Watching those who had found energy for evil deeds was merely amusing, evoking neither more nor less emotion than that.

However, Scott Clichy was nowhere to be seen all day. Despite watching for a good twelve hours from different locations, I didn’t catch a glimpse of him.

One possibility: He became cautious after hearing about the non-existent inventory management employee at Clichy Corporation. Was the organization that meticulous? It could have been a routine report. I didn’t dismiss the first possibility.

Another possibility: Perhaps he was out performing his social cleansing duties today. This explanation made more sense. President Clichy always stayed there when he was in New York.

The reporter told me not to kill Scott Clichy, but said nothing about the other Followers of the Forest’s Firstborn. What wasn’t specified was left to the professional’s discretion.

It would be nice to test-fire my new gun, but to corner Scott Clichy completely, I needed to use the elves’ guns. I would need to stop by the Followers’ warehouse.

They would fall for their own trick again. Scott, if you wanted to rebuild your organization, you should have first cut the throat of someone who knew your methods and had experience leading them.

Today I drove toward the outskirts of New York. It’s a place where you can still see some forest and nature. If labor is free anyway, building a warehouse in such a forest isn’t a bad choice.

However, if they knew that I knew, they should have changed locations. I approached the warehouse after hiding my car. I opened the door with the key I had received when working with the Followers.

Ridiculously, nothing happened. I felt like I was overreacting for thinking they would be intelligent enough to move the warehouse and set traps.

I gathered mana at my fingertips to light a flame, then waved it in front of the warehouse door. No reaction. Using the flame that emitted the distinctive fishy smell of burning mana as a light, I entered the warehouse.

The warehouse hadn’t been used much due to its poor location from the start. From a box in one corner, I took out a 20-gauge shotgun typically used by smaller races like elves or dwarves.

Though quite dusty, it was of much better quality than guns acquired through black market deals, as it had been stocked when President Clichy was still alive.

I grabbed a box of shotgun shells, carefully rearranged the inside of the box to hide any traces of removal, and slipped out. There would be no signs of an intruder.

I ended the surveillance for the day and went home. I poured myself a drink that Carmen had given me as a gift while I was in the hospital. I probably could have slept without alcohol, but I didn’t take that gamble.

As soon as I woke up in the morning, I prepared for work again. When your daily pay is nearly two-thirds of others’ weekly wages, you tend to become this diligent. I cleared my throat and called Yehoel directly.

I clicked my tongue impatiently as the connection tone sounded, then heard the click of the call connecting. I greeted him as usual.

“Good morning, Officer Yehoel. This is civilian collaborator Michael Husband. Today as well…”

Habitual greetings were better. There was no need to broadcast that my police connection was hiring detectives. Yehoel’s relaxed voice came back.

“Hey, has the game gotten too big for you to play with me? I thought you were dead when I didn’t hear from you for almost a month.”

“If the game had gotten bigger and my value had increased, would I be calling you after a month? I need information. Tell me if the Followers of the Forest’s Firstborn caused any trouble yesterday.”

I asked while spreading out a map. Yehoel’s voice, tinged with a chuckle, traveled through the phone line.

“If they had, I wouldn’t have heard from a partner who’s been starving for performance metrics for a month. Anyway, is this about those Follower bastards again? You know to give me a tip if you dig up anything more, right?”

Though Yehoel spoke as if he was thoroughly enjoying this, his information was reliable. It was in southwestern New York. While circling the Followers’ warehouse in that area on my map, something occurred to me.

President Clichy owned a separate house nearby. That old man used to build a decent house wherever there was a branch of Clichy Corporation.

It wasn’t for vanity. He wasn’t the type to favor his children within the company, but he loved them so perfectly as family that he built houses in each location so they could feel at home even if they were transferred to different branches. It was obvious where Scott Clichy would be staying. I circled that location as well.

“Right, I’ll tip you off if there’s anything you can use for your performance metrics. Just answer your phone on time. Hanging up now.”

I got dressed again. I wrapped the shotgun in paper packaging and tied it loosely with string. There was no chance of confusion, but I made a hole near the muzzle to mark it, then tucked it under my arm and left the apartment.

Now I could find Scott Clichy. It was an old-fashioned mansion with traces of attempting to substitute the vast plains of his hometown with a large garden, since New York had no such expanses.

He certainly loved his children. I parked my car across the street and used binoculars to confirm Scott Clichy on the second-floor terrace. His expression was still filled with nothing but sorrow and hatred.

A child who didn’t learn properly from Charles Clichy. Though I had never properly faced him person to person, there were things I could grasp just by observing from a distance.

Though an absurd combination of words, Charles Clichy was closest to a madman when he was in his right mind. While obsessed with the present, he was the type who would gladly tell his children to step over his corpse if it meant they could seize their own present. The reporter did just that. Rose Clichy was living her own life, while Scott Clichy remained trapped by Charles’s ghost.

I could understand why Scott Clichy was so desperately trying to maintain the Followers of the Forest’s Firstborn. He wanted to preserve his connection to his father. He was trying to protect what his father had left behind before dying.

When he acted like an agitator, it seemed he was at least trying to do something of his own with the Followers, but now he was completely dominated by Charles Clichy’s ghost.

He refuses to die even after death. Having confirmed he was in that separate house, I immediately turned the car around. The Followers didn’t operate during the day.

I wasn’t sure what would happen that afternoon, but if something was happening this afternoon, it would likely happen tomorrow afternoon as well. What needed to be done sooner than observation was gathering evidence.

I visited each meeting place marked on the map to check which ones showed signs of activity. The first place I went to seemed like it hadn’t been visited by anyone for over a month. Someone apparently cleaned it to prevent dust from settling, but there were no signs of human use on the furniture.

The second place showed signs of entry as recently as yesterday. Unlike the first warehouse that smelled only of dust and wooden furniture, this one had a distinct odor.

The smell of alcohol. Even the Followers of the Forest’s Firstborn would find it difficult to raid speakeasies guarded by the mafia while sober. It was better to get them drunk and excited.

So they used this place. After crossing out the locations of the other warehouses, I copied the markings of speakeasies from a New York map boldly titled “Urban Purification Plan” hanging on the wall.

Though they were called secret speakeasies, not many were truly secret. Rather than hiding in darkness, secret speakeasies put more effort into having influential patrons who could make the police leave with just a shout when they came. The marked speakeasies were all cheap places frequented by laborers.

Then they would return in the evening. At least they hadn’t posted when the next operation would take place, so it wasn’t the worst-case scenario.

If they had written that down, I would have raided them today, but since they hadn’t, I needed to watch for another week. I returned to Charles Clichy’s separate house and continued surveillance. Scott remained there.

After observing for another week, I found that Scott Clichy left the house almost daily and headed toward that meeting place. However, the scale of the disturbances wasn’t the same every day. Monday had the smallest force, and Sunday had the largest.

Since they drank heavily and roamed the streets all night on weekends, it was no wonder few people could gather with a clear mind on Monday. It would be better to target Monday.

I waited until the following Monday, then confirmed Scott Clichy leaving the mansion. Since I already knew his destination, I waited fifteen minutes after his departure to avoid being detected while following him.

In such a remote place, they probably wouldn’t have even paved the road. After leaving the residential area, I unwrapped the 20-gauge shotgun I had prepared. The smell of gun lubricant wafted up.

I parked the car quite far from the meeting place and, wearing gloves, picked up the shotgun. I approached the meeting place carefully, making sure the metal-reinforced heels of my shoes didn’t step on any stones. Boisterous sounds echoed from inside.

Yes, they’re having a drinking party while raiding speakeasies to eradicate alcohol, the drink of orcs. I was thankful they were born with enough intelligence to at least recognize that as a problem.

“Drink, drink! We’re! Hiccup, smashing those speakeasies because they! Huh? Immigrants, orcs! They sell alcohol made by immigrants, but alcohol itself… it’s the God-President’s most beautiful and! Greatest creation. But it’s also a scary creation… well, that’s how it is! Right? Don’t run away!”

They’re soaking that dried-up fellow in alcohol. I examined the interior with binoculars from a distance where the light leaking from the meeting place couldn’t reach me. Scott Clichy wasn’t touching the alcohol.

Judging by his uncomfortable expression, he seemed displeased that such a vulgar drinking party was necessary to preserve his father’s legacy.

Although all the elves having the drinking party were carrying guns, today they would have damaged at most one speakeasy.

The total number, including Scott Clichy, was only six. Yesterday, there were nearly forty followers sitting around a bonfire outside the meeting place. How pitiful in a city of six million.

Two elves with bright red noses from chronic alcoholism, one skinny newcomer who seemed to be here for the first time, and two elves complaining to Scott Clichy about fellow followers who were drinking while supposedly gathered for social purification. I would deal with the last two first.

I picked up a handful of gravel and stone fragments from around me. I seemed to have liked baseball quite a bit when I was young. With twice the strength, I threw what I had in my hand straight at the window of the meeting place.

Small fragments showered down, and the window shattered where the larger fragments struck. Thinking someone had fired a shotgun, one of the followers drinking inside obligingly pulled the trigger.

A gunshot rang out. They fired first. Now there was no reason to hold back as I headed for the door. I yanked it open forcefully, then aimed at an elf who had his back turned, reporting to the new Forest’s Firstborn.

I pulled the trigger. The recoil was so weak that the muzzle didn’t rise at all, but the elf clutched his side and collapsed. An elf who had been sitting with a tight grip on his gun tried to aim, but I was already in position and faster.

I immediately turned the muzzle, pulled the pump, and pulled the trigger again. If this had been a trench shotgun, I could have just squeezed the trigger while working the pump… civilian models were less convenient.

The elf who took the shotgun blast to the face fell forward. His occasional twitching soon stopped. An elf who had been drinking tried to get up but lost his balance and rolled onto the floor.

Normally I would have stepped on him, but this time I used the gun properly. One shot to the stomach made him curl up like a shrimp and start making choking sounds. It happened in an instant.

Only one drunk and one newcomer remained. I waved lightly at Scott Clichy, who was clutching his arm where several pellets from my shotgun had hit him.

Since he was wearing the Forest’s Firstborn mask, I couldn’t see his face. The fact that he willingly wore the mask meant the face inside wasn’t important, so I didn’t worry about it.

“Charles Clichy would have gathered at least sixty people even on a Monday. He would have set a specific period, like Social Purification Week, and mobilized people. When you talk nonsense about meeting every day like you do, even these fanatical elves get tired and only five show up. Your father would be disappointed, Scott.”

I clicked my tongue twice at the newcomer who was mechanically pulling the trigger without pumping to reload. I showed him how to pump and reload in front of his eyes, then shot him in the head.

The last drunk elf was trying to crawl toward Scott Clichy to escape. I leisurely walked toward Scott Clichy and pulled the trigger aimed at the side of the elf’s head. The meeting place fell silent.

I threw the now empty gun to Scott Clichy. He dropped it as soon as he caught it, but it didn’t matter. If I had wanted to leave fingerprints, I would have used a different method.

I pulled over the chair where the elf who had died from a shotgun blast to the face had been sitting and sat down in the middle of the meeting place. I clicked my tongue twice at Scott Clichy as well.

“Sit down, Scott. First, take off that ridiculous mask on your head. Let’s talk like civilized people. Don’t make that expression like you’re telling me not to lie. I don’t care whether what happened here becomes a case where five Followers of the Forest’s Firstborn died and the new Forest’s Firstborn hanged himself from a beam, or just a case where five followers died, but my client does care. Sit down, hurry.”

Scott Clichy obeyed well. The Followers of the Forest’s Firstborn generally became docile like that when left alone.