Ch.2Ch.1 – Execution (1)

Polard City Police Detective Chief, Josh Graham, entered the office. His hair was graying and the cuffs of his uniform were worn out, but he was a relatively well-groomed man.

However, he didn’t come further inside; instead, he flung the door wide open and fanned the corridor with the file folder in his hand.

“Quit smoking! Go to church! Pay your rent on time! When are you going to fix that nail sticking out of the landing!”

“Am I the landlord, Chief? Building maintenance is the landlord’s responsibility.”

“Should I call her?”

“You’ve probably already met her. Or you snuck in here to avoid getting nagged.”

The landlord of the “Graham Building” at No. 22 is Josh’s wife, Mrs. Margaret Graham.

A respected pharmacist in the community, she runs a fairly spacious pharmacy on the first floor. And in this Prohibition era, a “pharmacy” is one of the few places that can “legally” handle alcohol.

Strong liquor is still used as sedatives or tranquilizers. Most pharmacies tend to collude with the mafia or act as their pawns, but Margaret’s pharmacy is an exception.

Not because her husband is the Polard City Police Detective Chief, but because Mrs. Margaret comes from a distinguished family of Army generals. Even the most powerful mafia wouldn’t dare challenge the United States Army.

Josh sat down in an empty chair with a look of disgust.

“This fellow, your assistant? How many is this now? Four?”

“Six. He works well and he’s smart. And most importantly, he’s lucky.”

“Hey. Be careful.”

The detective chief frowned and pointed at Crayfield.

“That guy is an evil spirit who sucks away people’s luck. Wait a minute. Where have I seen him before… Oh. Right. I remember now. Aren’t you the one who sounded the alarm on Harrington Street? Well, this is a pleasant surprise. Thanks to you, Officer Eldun’s life was saved. Did you know that, Crayfield?”

“This is the first I’m hearing of it.”

Crayfield raised both arms innocently. Josh shook his head dismissively.

“He was drinking on the rooftop, fell down, and cracked his skull. Thanks to your assistant’s first aid, he survived, but he was badly injured and lost about six months’ worth of memories, so he’ll be in the hospital for a while. After that, he’ll probably be busy standing trial. A police officer drinking in these harsh times of Prohibition!”

Crayfield clapped his hands.

“See? My eye for talent is this good. The moment I saw him, I thought, ‘Ah, this guy’s the real deal, he’ll pull his weight.’ Nothing but good deeds no matter how deep you dig…”

“Shut up. Take a look at this. I’m not in the mood for jokes. Assistant! Pull up a chair and come closer.”

Graham opened the file folder. There were two newspaper clippings in succession.

= = = = =

#1.

Obituary – Lord, grant eternal rest to Lawrence Leeman (69), captain of the Polard City Vigilance Committee and outstanding first mate.

Polard Times. March 13, 1929.

= = = = =

#2.

“Horrific Death of Old Whaler, Investigation at Dead End.”

Three days have passed since Lawrence Leeman (69), first mate and harpooner of the Unicorn, Polard City’s last whaling ship, was found dead hanging upside down in an abandoned whale flensing yard, but the Polard City Police have yet to find even a single clue.

Lawrence Leeman was the captain of the Polard City Vigilance Committee and was revealed to have been on night duty the day of his death.

The Polard City Police maintain that “the investigation is ongoing and they cannot answer any questions at this time”…

Arkham Times, Reporter Paul Eastman. March 17, 1929.

= = = = =

A common obituary article. Crayfield, who had been staring blankly, took out a new cigarette. But he only placed it between his lips without lighting it.

“Chief. Are you transferring to Arkham?”

“What nonsense are you talking about?”

“I didn’t expect you to be reading the Arkham Times. Well, a talent like you shouldn’t be wasting away on this island. Since when have you had such great interest in Arkham…”

“I’ll strongly recommend you as my successor.”

Crayfield turned serious. Graham sighed again.

“Look, Crayfield. Don’t you understand what this means? The Polard Times is our local newspaper. They spread good news far and wide and blow away bad news. Look at this brief obituary. How plain is it? ‘Grant eternal rest.'”

“So what?”

“Not ‘so what,’ look at what’s printed in the Arkham Times. Isn’t it a damn awful article? ‘Found dead hanging upside down.’ ‘Haven’t found a single clue.'”

Crayfield still looked confused. Graham scratched the side of his head.

“Are you still half asleep, or are you pretending not to understand? Let’s see. Our respected Mayor Black is working day and night for Polard Island’s tourism business. Right?”

“That’s right.”

“What do you need to ride to get to Polard Island?”

“You need to take a boat.”

“And where do you board the boat?”

“Ah.”

Crayfield finally nodded in understanding.

Arkham City is a 30-minute boat ride from Polard Island and the closest mainland city. So no matter how beautifully written the articles in “Polard Island” are, if bad rumors spread in “Arkham,” where mainlanders board the boats, tourism will come to a halt.

“For Polard City to emerge as a tourist destination, Arkham City’s cooperation is absolutely essential, and from the mayor’s perspective, what could be more subversive than this?”

Graham tapped his finger on Paul Eastman’s name. Still, Crayfield remained indifferent.

“Who reads the Arkham Times anyway? Sure, it’s the number one newspaper in eastern Massachusetts by circulation, but people there don’t read newspapers.”

“You should read the papers more, Crayfield. Arkham isn’t what it used to be. The original residents have all left, and outsiders are flooding in.

Not just outsiders, but foreigners too. What do you think they talk about when they meet? ‘Hello, nice weather today, isn’t it? I heard in your country you put tomatoes on bread?’ You think they talk about that?”

“They’d talk about common topics. Right, assistant?”

Crayfield gave a light wink.

“After the weather, they talk about news, my friend. The rumor has spread throughout Arkham. That something gruesome happened on Polard Island.”

“They’ll forget. There’s so much news these days. The economy is tough, pension payments for veterans keep getting delayed. This country doesn’t treat its patriots well. In this situation, who cares about one old whaler dying?”

Crayfield muttered as he lit his cigarette.

“Then how about this?”

Graham pulled out a notebook from his breast pocket. It contained a single line, a scrap cut from a newspaper headline.

= = = = =

Special Extra – “Polard Island’s Leap to Tourist Destination Runs Aground on Major Setback… Vigilance Committee Captain Brutally Murdered, Possible New Mafia Force Behind It?”

Massachusetts Express. Guest Reporter Paul Eastman. March 20, 1929.

= = = = =

After chewing on the end of his cigarette for a while, Crayfield uttered his first words.

“We’re fucked.”

“We’re fucked indeed. Look at this font size. It’s at least a page 2, if not page 3 headline.”

The ‘Massachusetts Express’ is different from local papers like the Arkham Times or Polard Times that only locals bother with. It’s a newspaper published throughout Massachusetts state and holds the number one spot in total subscribers.

That means about 1/4 of the people in the eastern United States now know about the Polard Island incident.

“Been to City Hall? I hear Mayor Black is foaming at the mouth and going berserk. What a disgrace.”

Crayfield tapped the clipping with his finger.

“What’s this about the mafia, Graham?”

“Give me one too.”

Crayfield offered a Camel. The detective chief frowned.

“Don’t you have ‘Lucky Strike’?”

“Since I’m ‘the one who sucks away all the luck.'”

“Damn it. Just light it for me. Listen carefully. Me smoking, this is confidential. Especially you, if you tell my wife… Whew. My head’s spinning. How long has it been?”

The blonde detective watched the chief’s indulgence. It was worth seeing him savor it like a child starved for candy, sucking down to the last puff.

Still, the chief couldn’t readily start talking, probably trying to organize his thoughts.

“Before we talk about the mafia, let’s first discuss this reporter, Paul Eastman.”

Crayfield pretended to be uninterested but slightly tilted his head toward the clock. The Doomsday Clock still pointed to ‘1’. It seemed he had marked reporter Eastman as the ‘player’ in this game.

“Reporters, you know, they start from the bottom. They get hired at some neighborhood newspaper worth about as much as a milk wrapper, deliver milk at dawn, write articles in the morning, and sell encyclopedias in the afternoon to make money. Nine out of ten collapse there.

But after about two or three years, one lucky bastard might catch something like a scoop. Then they move to a higher-level newspaper. Still underpaid, but at least they pay enough that you don’t have to deliver milk at dawn anymore.

Building their career step by step like that, eventually they can hand out business cards saying ‘Reporter for such-and-such’ and make a name for themselves.”

“Like this Paul Eastman.”

Crayfield rolled the name around in his mouth as if it were some magical incantation. Graham frowned.

“Our esteemed mayor is raising hell, demanding we sue the guy who wrote this article immediately, so our police chief’s got a fire under his ass, hasn’t he? He pulled some strings, looked around, and got the full measure of who this guy is and what he’s been doing.”

“I suppose he was milking cows on some Texas ranch?”

“He was an elite officer.”

Crayfield raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“An officer, you say?”

“Quite renowned, apparently? He hid a machine gun squad in a patch of brush no bigger than a palm, mowed down a company of German replacement troops marching in formation, and escaped. Supposedly he hid for two days, pissing and shitting himself in fear? Thanks to that, he was discharged as a captain.

Back home, he entered university as part of a veteran support project and then became a reporter. So far, he’s been on the rise. From what we’ve investigated, he’s a regular reporter for the Arkham Times, but he also interviewed with the Massachusetts Express. Seems he got a position as a guest reporter. To become a full reporter, he’ll need some kind of proper big break.”

“So, that ‘big break’ is the case of the harpooner who died hanging upside down on Polard Island? If he breaks a story about how Polard Island is trying to emerge as a tourist destination but is actually still plagued by the mafia.”

The detective chief let out a dry cough. Crayfield brought a water jug and cup. After moistening his throat, the detective chief clasped his hands together, looking as if he were praying to God.

“Anyway, Crayfield. I have a request for you.”