Ch.6Request Log #002 – Giving and Receiving Help (1)

After a sleepless night, the city morning dawns. The ashtray is filled with cigarettes burned through the night, and the air in the apartment is suffocatingly stale.

I thought I’d be sick of cigarettes today. But when the window opens and fresh air flows in, I find myself craving that acrid smoke again. Inevitably, I light another one.

I gather mana at my fingertips, creating a flame half the size of my fingernail to light the cigarette. Now the air feels a bit more breathable. Perhaps.

With no work to do, I end up holed up in my apartment except for evenings at the bar.

I’ve been burning through the money I received from the demon, but it wasn’t an amount that would disappear overnight. Today, I had no intention of opening the office.

Yet, uncharacteristically, I have a visitor today. There’s a knock at the door. Tall and heavy. Only one person knocks like that.

I stumble up and open the door with the cigarette still in my mouth. An angel, a head taller than me, stands before me.

Comfortable flame-flickering eyes, golden curly hair like most angels have, and wings folded to fit comfortably inside the building. Judging by the weaker flame in his left eye, this was an angel I knew.

“What brings you here, Yehoel? Showing up without notice.”

He was a fallen angel. In other words, a corrupt cop. He didn’t use money. Bribery with cash left too many loose ends, so we exchanged favors instead.

“Fear not, my friend. It’s nothing serious, so I came in person. Got any coffee at home?”

Angels generally speak in an annoyingly stiff manner or like they’ve jumped straight out of the God-President’s scripture, but fallen angels who’ve tasted money and favors speak somewhat more like humans.

He bows his head deeply as he enters through the door. It was better to discuss business where only the two of us could hear.

“Coffee? If you want coffee, go to a café. Why barge into someone else’s office? I don’t have any. Just tell me what you want.”

Even though exchanging favors left fewer loose ends than handing over money, police had police work and detectives had detective work. This was still illegal.

“I came because there’s work too dirty for angels to handle. Can you help?”

“You seem to handle dirty work just fine.”

Yehoel smiles good-naturedly, as if not denying it, then sits on the steel-framed sofa, knowing the chair would be too small for him. Angels were disgustingly large.

“We have a criminal at our station who’s going to trial in a week. He’s definitely guilty. We have physical evidence and witnesses. But… he’s a somewhat well-known figure, so it’ll be troublesome if it goes to trial.”

Another job to extract a confession. For a well-known figure, playing the victim card at trial would be easier than overturning existing evidence.

Emotion is stronger than reason. That’s why reason needs to keep emotion on a tight leash, but sadly, such ideal situations rarely happen. Even I struggle with it.

“So you want me to get him to confess cleanly in court?”

Yehoel nods emphatically. His smiling face looked angelic, but the task he was assigning was anything but.

“During interrogation, they can have a lawyer present, but not during meals. And if, while enjoying a hot meal, they feel like confessing, lawyers can’t stop them. Right?”

I’ve doubted whether this guy is really an angel for quite some time. When we first met, he was a fairly ordinary angel, but now he’s practically the stereotype of a fallen angel.

Regardless, it wasn’t a difficult job. We’ve exchanged many favors so far. And I’m good at providing help.

“I’d like some money in addition to the favor next time.”

Who the criminal was, what they were arrested for, who was harmed—these were things I didn’t need to know. The first thing a detective learns is to keep distance.

“Money? For a day’s loan, it’s only 20 dollars… I’ll buy you a drink with this month’s paycheck. Deal?”

Angels were generally quite lean, but fallen angels like Yehoel even drank alcohol.

Who would the secret bar that only served angels and civil servants be crowded with? A question that doesn’t need answering.

“If you’re taking me there, that’s fine. But if it’s a regular bar, I’d rather have the cash.”

“There? Ah, no bar compares to Eden. Alright, I’ll treat you at Eden, so handle this for me. Okay?”

I nod and stub out my nearly finished cigarette in the ashtray. Time to work again. I grab my gloves and get up.

“Whoo! This will be handled cleanly. Lunch time is 30 minutes before noon, so wait at the station beforehand. Oh! Can you figure something out about the lawyers? Like what weaknesses this person might have!”

“Why are you asking a detective to do deduction? Do you listen to that too?”

I was referring to the radio drama that the bartender listens to… judging by his understanding, Yehoel must listen to it too. I can only sigh.

“If you’re going to listen to something, at least make it decent. Anyway, I’ll head over right away, so see you at the station. How long does it take you to fly there?”

Although this ‘collaboration’ was recommended by Yehoel’s fallen angel superior, it was better to be somewhat mindful of appearances.

“Even if I take time to enjoy the clouds, I can get there in under 10 minutes, so don’t worry and come at your leisure. Ah, the window please.”

I open the largest window in the apartment living room, and Yehoel takes a few running steps before twisting his body and throwing himself out. Just when it seems he’s falling, he spreads his golden wings and soars upward.

I should at least look somewhat presentable, so I take off my cigarette-reeking clothes and douse myself with cold water cold enough to wake me up.

My life lacks a sense of reality. Every time I splash cold water on myself, as my body shivers from the cold, I worry I might wake up in my bed at home.

As always, today was reality too. I put on clothes that smell less of cigarettes and leave the apartment. I’ll need to take my clothes to the dry cleaner later.

I check my watch. It’s 10:10. There should be an hour and a half until lunch time, and the suspect I need to get a confession from is probably keeping silent as gold.

I drive to the police station. It’s a place I’ve visited many times, but fortunately never as someone who’s been arrested. It took me over 30 minutes after Yehoel left before I could park in the visitor parking lot at the station.

I enter the station. By now, even the angel at reception knows my face.

“Ah, working hard today too. It’s been quiet this week, but here you are again today.”

The receptionist wasn’t a fallen angel, but rather, precisely because they weren’t a fallen angel, they weren’t emotional enough to block an external collaborator called by another angel.

Anger at injustice is still an emotion, and the ability to feel such emotions was almost a privilege exclusive to fallen angels corrupted by money and favors.

“Are you here to see Officer Yehoel today?”

“Yes, same as always.”

“Please wait a moment.”

This one used a stiffly formal way of speaking. At least they’re easier to deal with than angels who speak like actual angels. Like operating a machine, follow the instructions and you get the desired result.

The angel calls Yehoel on the internal phone, responds with a few stiff “understood”s, then looks at me. Even sitting, the height difference wasn’t that significant.

“He asks you to come up to the second floor.”

“Thank you again today. Well then.”

After throwing out some pleasantries, I head up to the second floor. If nothing else, the police station had nice scenery.

Angels were large enough to subdue any race with their bare hands, and if they were large, buildings would naturally be scaled to match.

Reaching the second floor, Yehoel was waiting in front of a poster showing a black hand offering money with the caption “Beware of Falling from Grace” and an angel being tempted by that money. An amusing irony.

Following his guidance, I go deeper inside. It’s probably an area normally off-limits, but as an external collaborator, I could enter if I stayed by his side.

“We have some time left… want to hear what kind of guy he is?”

“Ah, why? You know it’s not my business. Don’t tell me unless it’s interesting enough for bar conversation.”

Usually, he doesn’t even offer to tell me, but today he’s approaching me first to share information. If hearing it would help with the job, I should pay attention.

“Then I should tell you. Have you seen his face before? I’ve never seen you at the theater.”

He pulls out a mugshot from the file and pushes it toward me. I think I’ve seen this human somewhere before. If nothing else, I remember the hair plastered with wax that didn’t suit his squarely angled face.

According to the file, he seems to be a movie actor, but since I can’t remember any of his roles, he’s probably not that famous.

“He’s an actor, and… apparently he gets hives when he eats shrimp or something. Anyway, a kid delivering his lunch sandwich accidentally brought him a shrimp sandwich. He kicked the kid. You can imagine what happened to an elf child kicked by a grown human, right?”

“I can imagine.”

I put on the gloves I brought. They didn’t have studs or anything. Those leave too many traces, and the human body breaks easily enough without metal pieces hitting it.

“But these bastards admit their employee kicked the kid but claim the kid ended up that way because of a pre-existing condition. Even with clear witnesses. They must have slipped money to the kid’s parents too, because those so-called parents are defending the bastard.”

It must not have been a very well-off family. An unwanted child returned as money, so shedding fake tears and defending him wouldn’t be too difficult.

We weren’t much different. The child’s story quickly dissipates, and we move on to business talk.

“So, I shouldn’t leave marks, right?”

Though I couldn’t identify him properly, I thought I’d seen him somewhere… if I hit him wrong, the jury might notice.

“Of course. You’re a professional, right? Can you handle it professionally?”

“Of course.”

We pass the time with trivial small talk. Around 11:29, a lawyer with a shield exits from a nearby interrogation room.

There’s only one lawyer. He doesn’t seem particularly skilled in fighting, and his shield is mass-produced. No need to worry about the lawyer.

“Well, I’ll go get some lunch… looking forward to good results? Ah, I’ll buy you lunch at least. What would you like?”

“A shrimp sandwich. I want to taste what’s so good it’s worth kicking a child.”

Yehoel bursts into light laughter, then hands me the interrogation room key and walks away.

Right, if he’s buying me a meal and drinks, I should do a proper job. I enter the interrogation room. I take off my hat and coat and toss them aside.

The movie actor, who had been sitting with a rather confident expression, raises an eyebrow at the fact that a human, not an angel, has entered. His hair hung down messily, as the police probably didn’t provide him with wax.

He didn’t speak. People don’t fear actions when they can understand the intention. They might fear someone trying to kill them for no reason, but they’ll shoot a thug who pulls a knife to steal their wallet.

I lock the interrogation room door again. Now feeling uneasy, he stands up from his chair. He would have been better off staying seated.

“Hey, what are you—”

I kick the outside of his knee to break his stance, then step forward and bring my heel down on his knee. A scream rings out, but interrogation rooms are well soundproofed.

It didn’t break, so there’s no need for visible treatment. Seeing his knee move in a direction it had never gone before, he clutches his leg and leans against the wall, eyes wide open as if they might pop out.

How kind of him. He’s positioned himself perfectly for me to slam him against the concrete wall. I approach him.

I clench my fist and strike upward into his fatty stomach. A choking sound briefly echoes.

His body curls up and he starts rolling on the floor. I step back, then step forward again and kick his stomach. Whatever else, he won’t think this is unfair.

Lunch time was 1 hour. And there were still 59 minutes left. I don’t remember who I heard it from, but I think I was told to exercise repeatedly but rest frequently.

After 4 more minutes of beating his fatty body, targeting only places that wouldn’t show, I leave the interrogation room. I left my coat and hat inside.

I drink some water, rest briefly, then go back in. He should have had enough time to catch his breath. Since the interrogation room chair is fixed to the floor, he couldn’t pull it out, so he awkwardly clenched his fist and tried to hit me.

I raise my guard with both fists up, then lift my elbow so his fist strikes my elbow head-on. That must hurt quite a bit. The scream wasn’t a pleasant sound.

Hearing what sounds like the fat lump’s Adam’s apple irregularly shaking, I approach and press his neck with the soft flesh between my thumb and index finger, pushing him against the wall again. There’s a brief choking, phlegmy sound.

I step forward and drive my knee into his lower abdomen. His body tries to curl up again, but with his throat in my grip, he can’t.

Now realizing this might be a matter of life and death, he reaches out as if trying to strangle me. He’s trying to resist. I knee him again. The resistance stops.

After pounding him like tenderizing meat for about 5 minutes again, I leave the interrogation room. With no other police around, I sit on the long bench in front of the interrogation room, rest briefly, then go back in. 20 minutes have passed.

Just as expected happiness makes people happy, expected misery makes people truly miserable. It was quite pitiful to see him trying to hide behind the desk in the interrogation room.

If he hadn’t kicked the child in anger, this wouldn’t have happened. If he had accepted punishment for his crime, this wouldn’t have happened.

Because he chose to resist within the bounds of legality rather than pay for his crime, even the angel police had to bring in a private contractor like me. I approach again.

I drag him out from under the desk where he’s trying to hold onto the desk legs, then kick upward with the toe of my shoe at where his lungs would be.

There’s a sound of breath stopping, and as he lies on the floor, I stomp on his lungs.

This is quite a terrible sensation. The body tries to breathe, exhaling, but my foot prevents sufficient inhalation, so he can only exhale. Fortunately, I’m not on the receiving end.

“The kid, the parents, they didn’t say anything…”

That’s not what I want to hear. I have no intention of telling him what words I’m looking for, though.

I remove my foot from his lungs and dust off the shoe print on his shirt.

After that, he said many things. He talked about money, cursed the angels, and I think he even tried to call for a lawyer.

Of course, the interrogation room remained well soundproofed, and he didn’t say what I wanted. After repeating for another 5 minutes, I walk out of the interrogation room.

It was only after nearly the entire fourth 5-minute session that he finally said he would confess in court. Violence may not be very useful for extracting information, but it’s excellent for subjugation.

After hearing those words, I help him up myself. Though he wasn’t in any condition to stand, he forced himself up since I was trying to help him. I straighten his clothes.

I wipe away the tears that flowed from pain and sorrow, then seat him in the interrogation room chair. This time, I leave the interrogation room with my coat and hat.