Ch.83Ch.6 – Tinker. Tailor. Soldier. Lady. (9)

# 1929. 5. 26. AM 10:33

# Kingsport Police Station

# Kingsport

It’s a complete mess.

Whether in uniform or plainclothes, everyone’s outside chain-smoking. Some gather in groups to chatter, others stare aimlessly at the sky, but no one’s smiling. They’re angry, irritated, or just plain tired.

After the warehouse operation failure and the interrogation room explosion, most of Kingsport’s police force has been suspended from duty. Yet they still have to report for work and maintain their posts. They need to “fully cooperate” with Internal Affairs and the Federal Bureau of Security’s investigation, and remain ready to deploy in case of emergency. Keeping all personnel—field agents and support staff alike—on standby is both tedious and dreadful.

With the atmosphere so chaotic, we made it to the second floor without anyone stopping us. Entering the office marked “Detective Division,” we found a lone officer organizing files in the otherwise empty room. It was Sergeant Woodrow, who had been in contact with Kingsport’s priest beforehand. Abashina recognized her immediately.

Woodrow isn’t under internal investigation. She had taken extended leave around the time of the Kingsport operation due to her aunt’s passing. With her alibi firmly established, neither the Federal Bureau nor the State Police bothered her. Though she seemed somewhat tired from the tense atmosphere, she remained cheerful.

As it turned out, she was genuinely childlike in her blind and pure faith. How could she not be a daughter of the Lord when she volunteered with the choir every other week and even served as the women’s association president?

So it was only fair that she would fulfill a small request from the church and receive a bottle of blessed Burgundy cognac in return for her devout faith. Since it would be used for “private prayer” ceremonies at home, even secular prohibition laws couldn’t stand against such pure devotion.

Thanks to her, we learned about the failed operation in Kingsport and Henry Payne’s injury. We heard how local police were under constant surveillance, control, and inspection from State Police and the Federal Bureau, devastating staff morale. We also learned that the brick house autopsy was conducted not by a Kingsport doctor but by someone appointed by the Federal Bureau.

“She was no good. Had a strange accent. Proud of being British? With hair as white as winter snow.”

Sergeant Woodrow grumbled, but she did acknowledge the woman’s skill. With just a quick glance, she could write detailed notes without hesitation, producing reports so clear that even a middle schooler could immediately understand how these bodies had died. However, she wouldn’t show us the autopsy report.

The sergeant tilted her head toward the corridor. Through the glass window was a healthy-looking man in police uniform. The Massachusetts State Police emblem on his sleeve was unmistakable.

“We’re under audit ourselves, so we’re being as cautious as possible.”

The sergeant tapped her desk.

“Still, they gave me a copy of the report for ‘information sharing.’ I put it in my desk drawer. Don’t even think about looking at it. It’s locked tight. I’ll be away for about ten minutes.”

Sergeant Woodrow stood up and left the office. A key ring sat on the chair she had been occupying. Woodrow started arguing with the State Police officer outside. Kingsport officers who had been trying to enter the office took her side.

“How technical,” Aurora said, yanking open the drawer. The large drawer contained nothing but a single autopsy report. It concerned the bodies from the brick house, with notes written on the first page.

The people in the brick house weren’t stabbed. They were victims of explosives. Like Max Ashton’s case, they were attacked by clockwork time bombs implanted in human bodies. The ignition point was believed to be Forest Tweed’s body, the “Chairman”—his upper body had been completely torn apart, leaving only the lower half.

An iron compressed air canister was found where the Chairman had been standing. The container held explosives and small metal ball fragments. The report noted that “the explosive itself is primitive and crude,” but the detonation device was described as “advanced technology.”

A voice-activated bomb.

The structure itself was simple. The detonation sensor was connected to the vocal cord muscles. The sensor moved whenever the vocal cords vibrated, and when words matching a pre-programmed “trigger phrase” were spoken, it would detonate the explosive. Max Ashton’s trigger word was “Moriarty,” but the Chairman’s trigger word remained unclear. The detonation device had been shattered into pieces because more explosives were used than in Ashton’s case.

The notes highlighted that the Chairman’s bomb exploded “during a meeting.” Since Alto Family members were gathered in the second-floor conference room at the time of the incident, it was presumed that whoever planted the bomb knew specific words or expressions that the Alto Family only used during meetings. Otherwise, there would be no explanation for why a detonator that functioned normally most of the time exploded precisely during the “meeting.”

“Conclusion: Examine Forest Asa’s medical records, the Chairman of the ‘meeting.'”

Aurora turned the page. The memo also included Forest Asa’s home address: 11 Victory Avenue. At the end of the memo, beneath the autopsy report filled with technical terms, the signature line read “Clarisse Holmes, M.D.” in elegant handwriting.

The voices outside were subsiding. People were returning. We quietly put down the report and slipped out of the Kingsport police station. Not much seemed to have changed since we arrived.

* * * * *

# 1929. 5. 26. AM 11:06

# On the road to 11 Victory Avenue

# Kingsport

“So that wire-knife woman works with the Federal Bureau of Security. That insufferable British woman.”

Aurora muttered. Abashina in the passenger seat looked equally confused.

“That woman. I don’t understand her.”

“She’s insane.”

“I know, right?”

It took about five seconds before Abashina and Aurora looked at each other.

“I mean, Abashina, isn’t it strange? She throws a knife into my stomach and flees from the brick house, then that same evening she’s brought in as the medical examiner? Couldn’t they have just requested her cooperation from the beginning? Wait. Could she have killed them all herself?”

“I don’t think so. That knife had no blood on it. There was no blood anywhere on her clothes. No matter how cleanly you kill, that would be difficult.”

“Then what on earth was she doing?”

Aurora groaned as she stopped at an intersection.

Investigation. Cover-up.

[“The ‘Circus’ will erase, cover up, and conceal everything.”]

Father Michael had said that before we left the island. If Clarisse Holmes was a Circus agent, her solo actions would make sense. She could prevent information leaks while simultaneously destroying evidence.

At the brick house, I judged that she had been destroying the scene. If she had truly intended to attack us, she would have struck when we were most vulnerable—right after we entered the first floor or on the stairs. Because we interfered, she couldn’t complete her investigation and cover-up, so she ultimately achieved her goals by entering as the medical examiner.

Questions remained, though. Why would she willingly hand over the report to the Kingsport police and even write a summary memo at the front? Someone who had distrusted local police all along? Moreover, she was always one step ahead of us. This almost seemed like…

I asked Aurora to pull over briefly. She was surprised by my sudden request but parked by the roadside.

“What is it?”

I answered that we had been deceived.

“What? Deceived how?”

This woman had always operated alone, extremely averse to external exposure—even while working with the Federal Bureau, she escaped through a broken wall at the sound of police sirens. Why would she provide a report that even specified “where to investigate next”? This was clearly intentional. Deliberately directing attention elsewhere to waste investigative resources while she achieved her true objective.

Abashina nodded as if understanding my point. Aurora still looked confused.

“You’re saying she tried to throw us and the police off her trail? Why?”

“Aurora, that woman recognized our disguises immediately. She knew we weren’t brick house gang members but attacked anyway. Why would she do that? This city isn’t safe for her. So much so that she keeps quiet even around Kingsport police. And if this city is dangerous even for someone like her, then something much bigger is happening here than we thought.”

Aurora sighed. Her mustache fluttered comically.

“Ah. Fine. You all know what I do. You know I conduct diplomacy with redheads amid flying bullets every night. I know it sounds funny coming from me, but… I don’t harm uninvolved people. Neither do my men.”

“What are you trying to say?”

Aurora looked at me, clearly intimidated.

“What I mean is, this isn’t like a mafia turf war. It’s more like a military operation. As you know, I was on the battlefield… after occupying a city, this kind of thing would happen. Remaining forces would set off one big explosion. But this isn’t occupied territory. It’s American soil. There’s not even any significant power here. There’s no reason to plant explosives in people’s bodies and detonate them in a place like this. I can’t sense what danger exists. It’s not a mafia conflict, not a street gang fight. Why does it resemble a battlefield?”

“You’re saying these explosions have no purpose?”

Aurora gently grabbed Abashina’s arm. Abashina was quite startled, but Aurora seemed relieved.

“Yes! That’s what I’m saying! It’s meaningless! There’s no reason to set off two human bombs in a place like this! Why? Why do such a thing? It’s just like artillery fire.”

“Artillery fire?”

“Yes. Artillery fire.”

Aurora hugged herself as if feeling a chill.

“Both friendly and enemy forces hide in trenches, bunkers, air-raid shelters. They know each other are hiding but still fire artillery at each other. Your ears ring like you’re trapped in a boiler, boom boom. Some people lose their minds and run out. But the reason they fire artillery is simply for ‘suppression.’ Since they won’t leave, it means ‘don’t come.'”

Half-listening to Aurora, I thought of Crayfield. Even Crayfield couldn’t always stay ahead of the players. Yet he and I always won. Ultimately, because we understood what the players were after.

Who is the mastermind in this case? Who holds the initiative? The bomber. The woman from the “Circus,” Clarisse Holmes, isn’t in control. She’s tracking the bomber while focusing more on erasing information about them. Therefore, following Holmes’s intentions would be wrong.

Why would the bomber do this? What does he gain? I couldn’t think of a suitable answer. Not enough information.

However, I know what he did. He exploited the Federal Bureau’s operation and planted bombs in people’s bodies. Voice-activated bombs using modified clockwork mechanisms.

So are these explosions meaningless?

No. The two explosions differ slightly. The first targeted the Federal Bureau. The second targeted the Alto Family, an extreme right-wing group. The first explosion was powerful enough to blast Henry Payne behind an iron door. The second was powerful enough to kill everyone gathered in the conference room. Moreover, the first explosion didn’t contain the shrapnel fragments used in the second. They weren’t the same explosives. Different power levels. This means the bomber isn’t acting thoughtlessly.

Meanwhile, Aurora continued her explanation.

“Of course, there’s also the intention to destroy obstacles in advance to make charging easier. But this seems too excessive for that. Real artillery fire is the aimed, synchronized barrage just before a charge. One big hit that covers everything.”

Countless phrases flashed through my mind.

[“There’s a big event at the cathedral soon. A commemorative celebration…”]

[“When words matching a pre-programmed ‘trigger phrase’ are spoken, it would detonate the explosive”]

[“After occupying a city, this kind of thing would happen. Remaining forces would set off one big explosion”]

[“Most of Kingsport’s police force has been suspended from duty. Yet they still have to report for work and maintain their posts”]

A large event spanning the entire city where specific words are spoken. Police officers who must remain at their posts in case of emergency. For a large event, police might be deployed.

What if the bomber is conducting some kind of test? What if they’re gradually increasing the scale of explosions?

I asked Abashina and Aurora if any festivals were happening in the near future. Both answered no. Even the event at Pollard Cathedral was just the cathedral’s founding anniversary celebration—a small party atmosphere.

I got out of the car and entered a small shop selling cigarettes and candy. I picked up a bag of candy and asked the same question. The older man replied that there were no events in Kingsport for the time being.

“You seem to be from out of town. The atmosphere these days is terrible. How can we live when the world is so unsettled?”

The man kept fanning himself with a stiff piece of paper. I noticed crude black ink printed on green paper.

“This? There’s a poster over there, take a look at that. Damn politicians.”

I followed the man’s finger to look across the street. There was a half-torn poster with an image of a frog-man crying. Below it read: “We oppose all forms of discrimination.”

“We invite all Kingsport whites who have faced discrimination solely for being white! A peaceful street demonstration, without any violence. In America, a country where everyone is equal, some people are more ‘equal’ than you! Join us in taking steps to restore this country’s original values—freedom and equality! Long live the New Southern Confederation!”

City-wide scale.

Large event.

Specific slogans.

An event even police must participate in.

A demonstration.

I tore down the poster and hurriedly got back into the car.