Ch.28Ch.3 – My Miskatonic Comrades (8)

Katherine Scully drew patterns on the desk with her finger. Diagonal line. Triangle. Diagonal line. Triangle.

“The connection between the Flower Killer and Rasputin is uncertain. But your theory is that the Flower Killer is definitely taking advantage of the current chaos, correct?”

“That’s right.”

“Good enough.”

Her long, pale fingers drew a circle. She seemed to have found the correct answer among dozens of wrong ones.

“We’ll need to arrest Rasputin and make him confess over the school broadcast system. Since the military’s objective is to arrest Rasputin, once he confesses, they’ll have no reason to remain here. When the military leaves, the students will lose their justification for taking such a strong stance. As the chaos subsides, the Flower Killer will become desperate. And that’s when we’ll catch him.”

“Elegant.”

Crayfield clicked his tongue. Scully rose from her seat and pulled open the desk drawer. She put on a holstered belt and equipped a Colt Detective Special revolver.

When she draped her white doctor’s coat over it, the weapon was completely concealed. Finally, she removed her glasses, set them down, and completed her preparations by placing a notepad and pen in her coat pocket.

“You can see well without your glasses, right?”

“Would you like me to prove it?”

“No. Blessed are those who believe without seeing.”

* * * * *

Same day, 1:02 PM

Miskatonic University Main Building, 2nd Floor

Department of Folklore, Professor Gordon Whateley’s Office.

Professor Gordon Whateley stares into empty space.

Perhaps he’s looking at the stains on the ceiling. Or maybe he’s contemplating some excuse. Either way, he clearly wants to escape. His eyes lack focus.

His eyes are too large and protruding to be hidden by his eyelids. The appearance that had made him an outcast his entire life wasn’t protecting him even in this moment.

Moreover, even the ceiling of the main building is too low.

The Miskatonic University main building remains exactly as it was “during the colonial era when architectural forms followed precedent.”

According to the lobby’s historical plaque, before the Revolutionary War, it had served as the British Empire’s governor’s office and courthouse. The building’s very purpose had been domination and oppression.

The rectangular building is long and stretched out, but surrounded by nervously, obsessively erected columns. It resembles a gray monster that committed a grave sin, trapped behind white bars.

While the exterior imposes, the interior oppresses.

The rooms are narrow and the ceilings low, seemingly designed to weigh down on people. It appears that due to limited building materials and techniques of the time, constructing large, tall buildings required applying thick layers of sturdy materials.

Like strengthening bones to support layers of flesh.

Scully and Crayfield sat in chairs, telling Gordon Whateley what they had discovered.

The story he had shared with Crayfield beside the observatory telescope. The files the Federal Security Bureau had been concealing and not disclosing.

Whateley was angry that his sincere revelations had been exploited in such a way. When he saw the Federal Security Bureau’s files, he reacted with intense opposition.

Crayfield tried to intervene, but each time, Scully coldly cut him off and restrained him.

Finally, when they reached the point of explaining how they had come to identify Professor Gordon Whateley as “Rasputin,” he let go of his tension.

And stared blankly into space. Catherine Scully didn’t get angry, nor did she prod him with “Are you listening to me?” She simply continued her emotionless briefing.

“Unfortunately, we don’t have concrete evidence. But we can indefinitely detain you. You’ll be taken to Washington. I don’t know what awaits you there, but one thing is certain. The investigation you’ve undergone—your family members will undergo the same.”

At the mention of family, some strength returned to the professor’s eyes.

“Is that a threat?”

“No. I’m merely talking about cause and effect. You have another option. Admit the truth right here and now, and tell us what happened that day. If you refuse, you’re welcome to choose the long, drawn-out verification process instead.”

When the professor didn’t answer, the commotion outside filled the silence.

Students were gathering.

Some departments hadn’t finished their exams yet, so they weren’t chanting loudly, but many had already formed ranks.

They formed a large circle. With just a little provocation, they would tighten like a tensed muscle.

Naturally, the soldiers were better armed. They had sandbags reinforced with steel plates and rifles loaded with live ammunition.

But they were too few in number. Compared to the circular crowd of students, they looked like tiny dots.

Of course, dots cannot stop a circle. But they can burst it. Neither the dots nor the circle would want such an outcome, but the endless escalation of tension was racing toward promised destruction.

Click.

The clock struck seven.

Our protagonist is proceeding with his own plan. Crayfield bit his lower lip. Professor Whateley seemed to understand this as a form of pressure.

Finally, he opened his elongated mouth.

“…It was shortly after the Great War in the Old Continent. A conference was held in London. What is morality? How should we live now? It was a discussion about such topics. The Great War was different from previous wars. It reminded us that, borrowing the power of civilization, people could be slaughtered structurally, organizationally, and institutionally like factory materials.”

Whateley chuckled, his shoulders shaking.

“It’s funny. The meeting was chaotic and disorganized. It wasn’t a discussion or a conference—just a venue for people to say whatever they wanted, like a public grievance session. The organizers didn’t know what to do either. So that time was essentially a collective monologue. A place for those who knew a little more, who had learned a little more than others, to express their helplessness. That’s why they shone even brighter.”

“Who were they?” Scully asked.

“Young officers from the Soviet Union. They said they were grateful to England. Although Marx’s homeland was Germany, he had settled and lived in London. For them, London was something of a holy land. Those officers said that the spark kindled in an island nation had set fire to the frozen tundra. What they spoke of was like a dream. A dream too sweet to ignore, though impossible to achieve. A world where everyone is equal and no one is discriminated against. A world where no one gets hurt.”

“But their leader was an older officer. He had long canines, and the hair on the back of his hands was remarkably thick.”

Someone was shouting through a megaphone outside. One of the students was demanding the return of their school.

The military side threatened to open fire if they didn’t disperse.

In a free country, individuals with their own rights were declaring their intentions to harm and kill each other.

“Do you remember his name?” Crayfield brought the professor back from the present to the past. The professor searched his memory and continued.

“I don’t know his surname. He only said ‘Vladimir.’ He was a man with pale, bloodless skin. He had a youthful appearance with middle-aged wrinkles and the mouth of a cunning old man. Despite his awkward English, we got along quite well.”

Scully wrote “Vladimir” in her notepad and underlined it twice.

“One night, he expressed his anguish. He said that Lenin’s ideals were excellent, but neither Trotsky nor Stalin had inherited his intentions. While people can dream of ideals, they shouldn’t become the ideal itself. He lamented that Stalin wanted to make himself an idol. Then he asked me a favor.

‘Comrade, I have failed. Failed miserably. Now I place great expectations on the land called America. Its people have clear judgment and can freely decide their own thoughts, words, and actions. The brilliant spark we once had is here, so please take it with you,’ he said.”

“The spark. Ideology, I see.”

Professor Whateley nodded at Scully’s observation.

“What he gave me was a book. Then he laughed while crying. Before we parted, he said: If possible, let me know how my old friend is doing and what interesting conversations you have with the students there. So that’s what I did. I held discussions with students interested in socialism and communism, and turned on the broadcast hoping that a friend beyond the starlight would listen. It was childish. Very childish… like a childhood prank. Just as boys and girls in their immature years strengthen their bonds with codes only they understand.”

“With music?”

“That’s right.”

Gordon Whateley stood up. After scanning the bookshelf, he handed over a book. It was a 1927 edition of Webster’s English Dictionary. The dictionary had a bookmark inserted, which showed musical notes converted to letters and numbers. It was an offbeat arrangement where low C was ‘a’, D was ‘c’, E was ‘b’, and so on.

“What instrument did you use?”

“Professor Mark Bravery is a better clarinetist than one might expect. He gives wonderful performances during Christmas. Thanks to what I learned from him, even though my playing was terrible, I could at least produce the correct notes.”

Scully finished writing her notes. Gordon Whateley smiled faintly. By now, the chants outside sounded like a chorus. The college students were stomping their feet in unison, shouting phrases like “back off” and “get out.”

“On the day in question, I was with two students. They were good kids. Mickey Howland. Olson Noble. They dreamed of a country where everyone starts with equal conditions, without prejudice or discrimination. So those children helped with the broadcast, even though it was exam period. But… ah. But.”

Professor Gordon clutched at his face.

“It was an accident. Clearly an obvious accident. Marie Shelley’s report clearly spoke about destruction, but I couldn’t even imagine it would come alive again in our time. How could I have known?”

“Professor.”

There was a metallic edge to Scully’s voice.

“What you did was little different from the Breath of Fire.”

“I didn’t kill anyone.”

“No, you didn’t. Instead, you ran away from death. Why didn’t you report it? Why did you run? Was it because the children’s deaths were too horrific? Or was it because you realized what you were doing wasn’t entirely right?”

Tap. Tap. The sound of stones hitting metal plates could be heard. It was the sound of students throwing stones. The soldiers were shouting that they would open fire if the students crossed the line any further.

“Look. See what’s happening out there right now. Because you weren’t honest. Because you turned away from people’s deaths, war is about to break out again.”

“I didn’t want this.”

“No one did. But when you throw a stone into a lake, ripples form. You sowed seeds, Professor. You planted dreamlike ideas in the minds of countless people. But no matter how beautiful those ideas might be, they can become hellish dreams for others. Like the Breath of Fire.”

Professor Whateley bowed his head. Scully straightened her clothes.

“I don’t know what to do.”

Like a frog hit by a stone expressing its pain, so did he.

“Let’s go to the observatory. Professor, the campus broadcast system is still operational. There, in front of all the soldiers and students, confess. What you saw. What you did. Just speak about what you saw, heard, and experienced.”

“Difficult… a difficult… task.”

Unexpectedly, Scully smiled. It was the smile of a victor.

“No. You don’t need to study musical notes anymore. You can broadcast during the day instead of at night, and you don’t need to play music anymore. Much easier, isn’t it?”

“What a shame.”

The professor forced a smile in response.

“I had just gotten good at playing the clarinet.”

* * * * *

Professor Whateley put on a long coat and a hunting cap. Though no one had told him to, he hung his head. This made him look like a stooped old man.

“We can’t be spotted by either students or soldiers. This is tricky.”

Students were already lined up along the road. Suddenly, Crayfield threw off his coat and vest and hid behind a tree on the other side of the building. He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted.

“Soldiers are coming from the north gate! Soldiers! Armed soldiers are coming to kill us!”

Then he quickly ducked down and, crossing through the grass, shouted again.

“The north gate! North gate! It’s the north gate!”

The startled students created a commotion, and someone among them shouted “North gate!”

Students carrying clubs and stones made a fuss about running toward the north gate.

Of course, Crayfield ran back, grabbed his clothes, and rejoined the others.

Scully stared at him intently for a moment, then let out a deep sigh.

“What’s wrong?”

“I think you’d be better suited as a shepherd than a detective.”

“Do you have to phrase your compliments like that?”

A lieutenant stood in front of the observatory with a gun. He seemed a bit angry at seeing Crayfield, but restrained himself when he saw Agent Scully.

“Do you have something else up your sleeve this time, Mr. Crayfield?”

“Nothing up my sleeve, but I do have a favor to ask. This time it’s real.”

Scully looked at Crayfield as if he were hopeless. The lieutenant barely nodded.

“What is it?”

“Well, you’re going to hear something like gunshots soon.”

“Gunshots?”

The lieutenant narrowed his eyes.

“I can’t think of any other way to signal you. Anyway, when you hear gunshots, cut the electricity to this building. You can flip the circuit breaker, or better yet, cut the wires after flipping the breaker. Can you do that?”

The lieutenant looked at Scully with a bewildered expression. Scully nodded as if to say he should do as asked.

“Understood.”

Scully looked at Crayfield questioningly.

“If something happens, we need to cut the electricity so they can’t use their radios.”

“I’m impressed. Really. Have you ever considered joining the Federal Security Bureau? I believe there’s an opening in the Special Task Force.”

“Henry Payne would be my superior, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then no thanks.”

“I could arrange for you to have him as your subordinate.”

“In that case, I’ll think about it.”

Crayfield and Agent Scully drew their pistols. Then they escorted the professor toward the broadcast room.

“Let’s go. Set the trap and wait for the rabbit to get caught.”