Ch.3Ch.1 – Execution (2)

Satisfied, Crayfield nodded.

“Assistant. Take out your notebook and write down every word of our dapper chief inspector’s promise without missing a single syllable. If he sighs, write ‘(sigh)’ in there. Ready now, Chief.”

Josh lowered his voice.

“Reporter Paul Eastman is coming to this island. He sent a request for cooperation to the police station. Our police chief surprisingly accepted it readily, but he has no intention of cooperating at all. Rather, he’s trying to cover up this case.”

“Cover it up?”

Crayfield blinked.

“Why?”

“I don’t know either.”

“No, Josh. If the chief inspector doesn’t know, who does?”

“Crayfield, my friend.”

Josh’s face flushed as he anxiously kept glancing toward the entrance.

“We’ve known each other for quite a while, right? You’ve drunk enough water and eaten enough bread here to know that Pollard Island doesn’t run properly. The police are no exception.

I don’t know where this reporter caught the scent of the mafia. And I guarantee you, this has absolutely nothing to do with the mafia. So this reporter is completely barking up the wrong tree.

So I need you to help guide this person onto the ‘right path.’ Let Paul Eastman gain honor through his journalistic spirit, and let Pollard Island obtain truth, justice, and salvation.”

“Why are you acting like this, Graham? Being so formal, unlike your usual self.”

“Something’s going on.”

Graham declared.

“Look. I’m not that good a cop. I’ve done quite a few things I’m not proud of, and sometimes shameful things too, but I haven’t just been rolling around aimlessly.

My instinct tells me this case is very dangerous. Extremely. It’s not something we can just overlook or let slide. I have a feeling that if we bury this, it will come back as a bomb.

So I’m commissioning you for this case. Uncover the truth and justice, and also discreetly let me know just how much this reporter actually knows. Understand?”

Crayfield smiled faintly.

“And what do I get out of it?”

“I’ll make you an offer you can’t refuse.”

“Let’s hear it.”

“One month’s office rent waived.”

Crayfield pushed his chair back.

“I didn’t hear anything.”

“Two months.”

“Goodbye, sir.”

“My wife will kill me.”

“The exit is that way.”

“Three months.”

Josh quickly added before Crayfield could cover his ears.

“Plus a two-week supply of ‘sedatives.’ How about that?”

The blonde detective stared blankly at the chief inspector.

“You’re joking, right?”

“I hear you haven’t been sleeping well lately. Some ‘sedative’ brandy for purely medicinal purposes might help. What do you say?”

Crayfield, who had just decided to become an insomniac, stood up energetically.

“Assistant. Write down ‘case accepted.’ Come on, get up! It’s a case, a case! A historic moment of our collaboration. Oh, by the way, when is this esteemed reporter arriving?”

The chief inspector looked at his wristwatch.

“Um… he said he’d take the boat this morning. Probably the 8:40 boat. Probably? He said he’d come straight to the police station, so if you wait in the parking lot, they’ll send him to you… Why are you smiling?”

“I already feel my mind and body becoming more relaxed.”

Crayfield replied, taking his eyes off the watch. He now looked much more at ease. The player had been determined, and the task was clear.

“Good. Then I’ll leave it to you. Let’s go.”

“Just a moment.”

Crayfield stopped the chief inspector as he was about to stand up.

“But how do you know this isn’t the mafia’s doing?”

“It’s not their style.”

The chief inspector rubbed his rough chin.

“It’s not the ‘White Glove Family.’ Those Italian guys have their own rules. And it’s not the new force, the ‘Red-Headed O’Malley’ faction either. Their stage isn’t here but the entertainment district, and they prefer to beat people up openly. Lawrence wasn’t either of those.”

“So there’s more to it than just being hung upside down to death. Right?”

At Crayfield’s question, the chief rubbed between his eyebrows.

“…You’ll need to know anyway. This is confidential. Extremely classified information known only to a select few in the police. Lawrence Leeman was skinned alive and hung upside down on a whale processing hook.”

Crayfield was speechless at the brutal statement. But Graham’s testimony wasn’t over.

“According to the coroner, he was skinned alive. And on his forehead was a clear brand burned with hot iron. Just like they used to do to people’s bodies during slavery, long ago.”

“A brand? Like livestock?”

“It was a horseshoe-shaped brand. And the horseshoe was the symbol of the Unicorn, the whaling ship that last left port and never returned. Lawrence was the first mate who was the only one to return alive from that ship.”

The chief inspector’s voice faded as if making an ominous prophecy.

“Crayfield. Listen carefully. This is the way of sailors from the previous century. A very vicious method, a ‘execution’ ritual reserved for traitors, deserters, and fugitives. Do you understand what I’m saying? The last whaling ship that never returned has come back across the century to execute its last crew member, that’s what I’m saying!”

* * * * *

March 24, 1929. 10:13 AM

Crayfield’s car, muddy road.

The chief inspector had already left for the police station. Crayfield followed behind. The car was a Ford model, sleek in black. Even inside the car, Crayfield didn’t stop smoking.

“What’s Pollard Island like, you ask? It practically built America as we know it. But the people on the mainland aren’t the least bit grateful to this island. It’s like this.

For some reason, you got off work early today. You’ve merely postponed today’s work until tomorrow, but you feel good about it anyway.

You missed dinner time and you’re hungry. ‘I can have dinner with the kids tonight.’ You imagine everyone will be surprised and happy if you bring home some surprise chicken.

So you go into a fast food place. The clerk is busy moving around in the back and shouts that orders are ‘only taken through the kiosk.’

You can read the menu but don’t understand what it means. You have no idea what kind of seasoning they’re talking about, so you end up choosing a menu item marked ‘recommended.’

Believing the kids will like it since it’s the best-seller, you throw open the front door with both hands full of warm, steaming chicken.

The moment you enter, your teenage eldest child grimaces and goes into their room. Your younger child looks at the chicken in your hands, hesitates, and mumbles that they just had dinner.

On the table sits an empty pizza box. ‘Did you eat well?’ You smile awkwardly and clear away the pizza box. The younger child says they’re full and goes to their room.

You open the plastic bag and take out the chicken.

Just in case, you call the kids. The older one doesn’t come out. The younger one opens the door, smiles awkwardly, and closes it again.

You think it would be nice if there was beer in the fridge, but instead you open a can of cola. With a ‘psst’ sound, foam overflows, and you hurriedly wipe it with a dishcloth.

Meanwhile, the chicken has cooled a bit. You take a bite, chomp, but somehow it doesn’t taste like the chicken you usually eat.

The chicken you used to eat was either fried or spicy, but this is boneless with cheese powder and tastes like it’s coated in candy.

You’ve only eaten one piece, but your stomach feels queasy and you can’t bring yourself to eat more.

Suffocating in the silence, you turn on the television. The soap opera is full of people wailing and tearing their hair out.

The news shows people sitting properly and calmly delivering terrible news. Like ‘A child was trampled to death for not being a biological child.’

As you try to lower the volume, your older child bursts out of their room.

‘Please turn it down. You don’t care about me, do you? I have a test tomorrow!’

Bang. A hole opens in your chest. It’s the sound of someone kicking your stomach. Only then do you realize. Ah. I’m hungry.

But no. It’s not enough. It’s deeper than that. Yes. You’re empty now. ‘Empty.’ You don’t say a hungry plastic bucket looks hungry. You say it’s empty.

But being empty is an emotion that goes one step further. When you’re kicked just hard enough not to fall, that hollow sound, the empty cry that rings in your ears now, you know it.

So you just decide to fill it. With something. Conveniently, there’s something good right in front of you.

The chicken that’s gone cold, sweet and greasy, and tough without a single bone.

You take a bite, chomp, and grease oozes out. Chomp, chomp, and bits of meat fly to the corners of your mouth.

Is this eating? How is it different from routine, obligatory marital relations? You wonder, but before you know it, you’re focused on the act of chewing, chomp.

Not eating but my jawbone makes a sound as I’m chewing something and my teeth are devouring something so

I

am

alive

to convince, myself, of that

It no longer matters which part I’m eating chomp wing or leg or my finger or my tongue chomp

or the silence of chomp the emptiness of the living room it’s tough meat chomp it’s my death rattle until I fill this house with sound

chomp as proof of my life before filling it

chomp I devour to

chomp be alive chomp because I’m alive chomp I devour chomp if there’s nothing more to eat

chomp I will tear at my pain and disillusionment and emptiness chomp even my children chomp all of it without

chomp leaving anything chomp darkness chomp swallowing chomp emptiness chomp will become chomp only chomp what’s being shat out

chomp is chomp the salary chomp regularly chomp deposited chomp in the bank account chomp

which chomp will chomp serve chomp as chomp my chomp tombstone chomp chomp chomp chomp chomp chomp

Drip.

A drop of water falls from the faucet.

You suddenly turn your gaze and see your younger child holding onto the doorframe, watching you.

When your older child was riding piggyback and your younger one was just learning to walk, you took the kids to the zoo.

A lion in a glass cylinder was chomping on a piece of venison that had dropped from above. At that time, your younger child grabbed your pant leg and hid behind you. Just like they’re holding onto the door frame now.

Back then, you smiled and told them:

The lion must have been very hungry.

What would you say to your child now? What expression would you show?

Assistant. That’s the relationship between this island, Pollard Island, and the American continent. A parent-child relationship.

So stop looking at the scenery outside the window. A warehouse with a half-collapsed roof. A ship rotting at the reserve dock, chained because it couldn’t fit in a coffin. Avert your eyes from the prostitutes with empty eyes and exposed chests.

Don’t worry.

This is the shortcut connecting Gord Street to downtown. Downtown has the city hall, and next to the city hall is the police station.

Above all, this road is the most comfortable. The mud, horse manure, and sand mix together to cushion the tires nicely.

Moreover, this car is none other than a 1927 Ford A Black, from just two years ago. The latest mass-production model, that’s what I’m saying.

Understand, assistant?

It was all possible thanks to Pollard Island catching whales and feeding America for centuries.

We’re here. That’s the parking lot. Wait. Our dear chief inspector will send us the hero. The hero this proud country has been eagerly waiting for.

So just check your wristwatch. The watch I gave you. You’re wearing it, right? Good.

* * * * *

March 24, 1929. 10:53 AM

Pollard City Police Station Parking Lot

John Crayfield parked his car at the police station and turned off the engine. After getting out of the car, he lit a Camel cigarette as usual. It was barely half-smoked when a man he had never seen before threw open the front door of the police station. At a glance, he knew it was Paul Eastman.

A stubborn, angular face under a narrow-brimmed fedora. His shiny black suit mixed with synthetic fibers and brown patent leather shoes were an outfit no islander would attempt. With a handkerchief neatly folded in his front pocket like a former officer, his face didn’t look comfortable at all.

Perhaps it was because the sunlight mercilessly stabbed the stranger’s eyes as soon as he came out of the police station entrance.

“Nice weather, isn’t it?”

Crayfield greeted Paul Eastman with a broad smile.

“Too nice.”

Eastman pressed down his brim. His voice was quite frivolous.

“You’ll have to get used to it. A hat with a wider brim would be better. So your face doesn’t get tanned.”

Crayfield pointed to his own hat. Eastman smiled and offered his hand.

“Paul Eastman.”

“John Crayfield. Private detective. My office is at 22 Gord Street.”

Eastman nodded mechanically. His gaze…

“Ah. This is my assistant. Smart fellow. By the way, do you like coffee? How much sugar do you take? If we go this way, there’s a place I really like…”

The two men were like comrades reuniting after five years.