Ch.276The Eighth Entanglement – Law, Order, and Capriccio (5)

“One way or another, that laborer is most likely the culprit. If not, things will get complicated.”

Inspector Semangelof’s judgment was fairly accurate. Fallen angels tended to think quickly when it came to matters that might inconvenience them, and he was no exception.

In that sense, Semangelof’s words were true. The assailant the detective had tried to lure had at least some justification. He had reason to stab the security guard and client to death in order to kill a union leader.

If it were someone else, they’d have to run around exhausting themselves looking for motives. The evidence, while not perfect, was sufficient, so it was best to accept a good thing as good. The detective nodded briefly.

“You summarize things so clearly. Then again, fallen angels would naturally be skilled at extracting themselves from work. That’s about right. Let’s just accept a good thing as good, shall we?”

The suspect had a record of assault, and if the industrial union had called in a detective to investigate, rumors must have spread enough that public opinion would side with the angels this time. Inspector Semangelof finished his deliberation.

“A good thing is a good thing. I know a dry cleaner that’s good at removing bloodstains. Want the address?”

“It’s not like I’ll be wearing these clothes for long anyway. If I’m free to go home, I couldn’t ask for more.”

He didn’t want to drop off laundry to remove bloodstains only to have that laundry flow all the way to Little Eire. Whether fate existed or not, ominous laundry always seemed to lead there.

Besides, with the field officer drawing this conclusion, no angel would bother digging through trash cans. He might even be able to recover his hidden duffel bag and work clothes another day. Losses should be minimized.

Still, it would be better to contact the reporter at least once. He had asked her to help him if things started going strangely. He still couldn’t tell how things were unfolding.

Inspector Semangelof slightly fluttered the business card he’d received from the detective. It meant he was free to go with just this.

“I’ll contact you if needed. Since you cooperated with the investigation… well, I can use my discretion if a reporter barges into the police station or if an extra edition with the headline ‘Murder at Smith Chemical Factory!’ gets distributed around noon. Anything else to say?”

The detective leisurely shook his head. He decided to be satisfied with being able to extract himself from the situation and getting close enough for an angel to show some goodwill. One shouldn’t be too greedy.

Inspector Semangelof glanced at the detective’s car parked in the darkness beyond the streetlight’s reach. He seemed more skilled and accustomed to murder.

There’s no way the clients who hired the detective only requested an investigation. Someone who came just to investigate wouldn’t be able to avoid the eyes of the Industrial Spirit King.

Inspector Semangelof maintained a smiling face but swallowed his words. The industrial union hiring a detective was itself a risky move.

Even if they had asked the detective to run errands for milk or newspapers rather than investigate, it was a big enough issue to lose the workers’ trust.

Such people, risking the loss of that trust, merely asked for an investigation? That couldn’t be true.

They might have requested the detective to eliminate people who were obstacles to them.

While Inspector Semangelof wasn’t the type of police officer who kept civilian collaborators like Yehoel, he was aware that surrounding officers all kept people from the streets around them. He knew their kind.

A so-called detective wouldn’t do any actual deduction. In the end, a hired thug on an individual basis, or if more skilled, a professional, wouldn’t have come here just for such a reason.

The two men saw the same thing but didn’t recall the same thing. The detective was one step ahead. There was no evidence of his involvement in this case except for the position of the car.

The detective decided to go home and remove the bloodstains from his leather jacket himself. Burning it would be certain, but suddenly burning clothes because they had blood on them was suspicious enough.

It was nearly 7:30 AM when the detective returned home. Since he didn’t need breakfast, he sat right down in his office chair and picked up the phone.

The affair had dragged on too long. By now, the workers should have been on strike, and the hired muscle and union leader should have arrived late to work, tried to contain the situation, and faced backlash.

His job was supposed to be waiting for the atmosphere to ripen sufficiently, then, like a farmer harvesting only the fruit when chaos broke out, quietly dealing with the assailant and union leader and leaving. Not anymore.

The only remaining sense about this case was the insignificant sense of duty to contact the reporter. It might appear like a rope descending from heaven to that assailant.

The detective leisurely dialed the reporter’s number. In the past, she wouldn’t have been able to answer at this hour, but lately she seemed to be waking up earlier.

As expected, he had to wait a while, but the call connected properly. The reporter’s voice came through the phone line.

“Hello, Rose Leafman from Golden Age Press! Who is this? I’m, I’m getting ready for work, so if it’s a long call, I’d prefer if you called Golden Age Press…”

Monday is Monday. While the detective was someone who didn’t distinguish between days or night and day, the reporter at least had a job that required her to go to work six days a week. The detective, now with nothing to lose, spoke.

“Husband Detective Agency here. You’d better call your company first. Things got complicated. By the time I went to do some groundwork, it was already over. The union leader and security guard were dead. The assailant was standing there with a bloody knife. Is your offer to contact you if things were going in an undesirable direction still valid?”

The reporter seemed to be gasping at the fact that it was the detective calling her this early morning. After he finished speaking, she made a small groaning sound.

“Things never seem to end properly… The assailant didn’t do it, but was just standing there with a bloody knife? That doesn’t sound like your usual way of speaking, Michael.”

The detective was someone who rarely spoke unnecessarily. If the lynch mob had done it, he would have said so, but this time his words were quite vague.

“Yes, standing there with a bloody knife. He made quite a long excuse. Said he just came to hang a banner and saw someone with a knife stuck in them. Generally, it seems like a lie, but there are parts that don’t make sense if he did it. That’s why I’m calling. Are you going to publish an extra edition?”

The reporter pondered for a moment. For the detective, saying the suspect was standing there with a bloody knife indicated uncertainty, but the moment the reporter said such a thing, it would be accusing someone of a crime.

She couldn’t accuse someone without certainty. Even knowing that telling the truth would become a lie, she couldn’t do that. On the palette, truth and falsehood were often too ambiguous.

She resisted the urge to ask what she could do by meeting him. It seemed better to meet him. The detective said his words seemed like lies, but Rose had never heard what he said.

By meeting the suspect there, Rose wouldn’t be able to find the culprit. She wouldn’t be able to provide a perfect single answer to the case. But she could at least organize the tone of her article.

“For now… I’d like to meet him if possible. To say a reporter came to interview a suspect would be, ah, when did this happen? Early this morning?”

“I arrived around 6 AM. By then, everything was already over, all three victims dead. That guy… I think I saw the angels taking him away, but I don’t know more details. Since the angels hadn’t even properly finished their on-site investigation, that guy must be locked up in some detention cell. Do you have an excuse to go meet him?”

He had already received permission from Inspector Semangelof to tip off the reporter he worked with. The detective was giving that tip now. From here on, it was the reporter’s problem and capability.

Still, it didn’t seem likely that she could meet the suspect just by saying she came to do an interview. Ordinary angels who were principled were strict about such matters, and fallen angels disliked troublesome things.

To persuade them, or to push through smoothly without causing disgruntled voices, a bigger reason was needed. After making groaning sounds for a while, Rose soon reached a conclusion.

Her voice sounded somewhat confident. At least today, she didn’t seem to want to talk about always feeling like a supporting character.

“Ah, I think I have one. After all, I’m… the reporter who caught the Forest’s Firstborn, right? Even after using the police to arrest my own father… and then shooting him. Whew, I actually said it out loud.”

Rose spoke as if she was barely swallowing her words. This was usually the voice that came out when showing memories to others that she herself hadn’t properly digested yet. The detective nodded briefly.

“That’s right. After getting a tip from me, are you thinking of going there to provide a lawyer?”

The reporter had Paulina. He didn’t know if the reporter earned enough to hire her, but at the very least, that woman named Paulina owed the reporter one favor.

The reporter had once overlooked the fact that her lawyer had been hiding secrets from beginning to end as if it were nothing. From the lawyer’s perspective, it was a courtesy to take on one case for free.

Rose wasn’t the type of person to calculate the price of favors, but precisely because of that, she could receive favors that required price calculation. Rose nodded back. She nodded emphatically.

“That’s right! Even if he’s an assailant, he has the right to legal representation, and I happen to know a lawyer who could come with me. Wouldn’t that work somehow? Though I’d have to persuade Paulina…”

It wasn’t a bad method. That woman always seemed like someone with only flowers in her head, so even if she said such things, she might make a dumbfounded expression but wouldn’t stop her.

The same was true for the detective. It was indeed amusing that instead of saying the man was the culprit, he said the man was standing with a bloody knife, and now she wanted to get him a lawyer.

But it was also true that she was a woman who was obsessed with truth enough to do such amusing things. Someone whose entire life had been ruined by lies couldn’t so easily swallow falsehoods.

Still, it wouldn’t work just like that. The detective clicked his tongue briefly. If he sent the reporter alone, it was obvious that people would think the detective himself was working behind the scenes to provide the assailant with a lawyer.

Fortunately, the detective knew one more reporter. Unlike the reporter who had beliefs mixed with trauma and obsession as impurities, this one was perfectly suited to be called yellow journalism.

“It won’t work just like that. I only contacted one reporter, you, and if you show up with a quite respectable law firm lawyer who even wears a mythril steel shield on her wrist, the cops, if they have any brains, will think I was trying to get that guy a lawyer. Wait a moment. Let me call another reporter too. So you can blend in properly.”

The reporter treated that woman named Paulina like a neighborhood legal consultant, but a lawyer who could wear mythril steel chain mail under her clothes was definitely not a cheap lawyer.

“If you’re helping like that, I’m delighted, colleague! Ah, I’m going to contact Paulina right away… please do it right away too, Michael! We need to get there before the police interrogate him!”

Looks like she’s planning to hold a trial to verify the facts. The detective didn’t hold back a scoff. If the reporter didn’t intervene, the assailant would simply confess and that would be the end of it.

This is a troublesome matter. It would remind the police of Sacco and Vanzetti, and how those anarchists passionately defended themselves until they finally received a not guilty verdict for murder.

Then it was simple. They would call in outside experts like the detective himself to extract a confession. With a lawyer present, about 90% of such attempts could be blocked. The detective himself was someone who used the remaining 10% chance.

That’s more treatment than the assailant deserves. The detective hung up. Nevertheless, neither of them put down their receivers. The reporter dialed Paulina’s number, and the detective dialed another reporter’s number.

It seemed that the only person who couldn’t properly wake up at this hour was Rose before she confronted her father, as the two people the detective and reporter called answered almost simultaneously.

Rose spoke with a forceful voice. It was a voice full of a sense of duty. Whether it was a sense of duty to know the truth or to help someone was ambiguous.

“Paulina! Did I call the right number? Do you have any cases you’re handling right now?”

The detective spoke leisurely with a mocking voice to the New York City Journal reporter. While there was still some human aspect in his relationship with Rose, there wasn’t with this reporter he was calling now.

“Well, somehow you haven’t got a bullet in your temple despite writing such articles. Anyway, another juicy story has broken… this time the cop said it’s okay to call reporters. Are you interested?”

Though they received unexpected work calls in the morning, both responded calmly. Paulina was always kind to Rose, and the reporter the detective called was always kind to scoops.

Paulina spoke in quite an affectionate tone. Rose’s voice, living her life quite busily in her own way, conveyed warmth to her as well.

“Not at the moment. I’m still hearing that I haven’t completely changed my main work to legal consultation while working as Clichy’s exclusive lawyer. Did that detective go to jail, Rose?”

The New York City Journal reporter who received the detective’s call returned the mockery with mockery. The articles he wrote were much stiffer and more unnatural than those written by Rose Clichy, but they sold just as well as hers.

“Ah, that’s quite a way to talk to a colleague. And, among all reporters, someone like me survives. What’s the matter? If someone calling after months has something that won’t make money… you know?”

Both laughed briefly at their phone counterparts’ words before answering. What Rose displayed was a smile, and what the detective displayed was a sneer.

“He wouldn’t do that! Still, he tipped me off about a murder case to publish as an extra edition… and somehow I think Paulina might be needed. Can you help just this once?”

“When have I ever given something with nothing to gain? It’s a murder case. Some laborer at Smith Chemical Factory or somewhere killed his company’s security guard and union leader. Doesn’t that smell like money enough?”

The two used people they could use, but their methods were vastly different. The murder case that had fallen into a labyrinth was now becoming something else.

A murder case becoming larger due to a lawyer’s involvement was as quick as the casual conversation about Christmas between two people turning into a murder case lost in a labyrinth.