Ch.95Ch.7 – Elegy to Reason (2)

There wasn’t much to say about the Kingsport incident. I didn’t need to tell Crayfield about Aurora and Abashina. So I focused my story on Clarice Holmes and James Moriarty, and the suicide bombing they orchestrated.

Truthfully, I was embarrassed to share this with Crayfield. I hadn’t properly uncovered the full story of the Kingsport incident, never even found Moriarty’s shadow, and while I got close to Holmes, I never managed to catch her.

Crayfield just listened silently. Meanwhile, we entered downtown Innsmouth.

Though there weren’t many people on the streets, Crayfield drove slowly. He seemed to want to take in the sights of Innsmouth. “Innsmouth people” were immediately recognizable. Bulging eyes, broad foreheads, skin so thin you could see the veins beneath, and wide, horizontally stretched mouths. Their flat faces and oval-shaped heads gave the overall impression of walking frogs.

But aside from their appearance, they weren’t much different from ordinary people. Sullen clerks waiting for customers behind counters, housewives clutching paper bags of bread and canned goods, children laughing and playing among themselves, porters unloading cargo from trucks. The American flag waved over what appeared to be government buildings, and uniformed police officers patrolled slowly.

I couldn’t honestly call Innsmouth a lively town. But even here, people were living their lives in their own way. It’s just not a place where outsiders could easily strike up conversations or put down roots. Closed communities have a distinct characteristic—they make visitors acutely aware that “I am an outsider here.”

The banners provided some relief. They ranged from ones clearly put up by the congressional delegation to various civic groups displaying their respective claims throughout town. “End reverse discrimination against whites” hung above “Release unjustly detained Innsmouth people,” while “Welcome to the Patriot Party Investigation Committee” was displayed alongside “The Progressive Party will open a better tomorrow for Innsmouth.”

Crayfield stopped the car. A group of about twelve people was jaywalking all at once. From their appearance and the placards they carried on their shoulders, they looked like outsiders. An Innsmouth police officer could be seen warning them.

“Crime, you know, changes with the times,” Crayfield muttered as he started driving again.

“Let me give you an example. In the old days, muggings were common. Hitting passersby on the back of the neck with a heavy stone and then stealing their wallet. A vicious crime that could leave someone paralyzed if done wrong. But muggings have long since disappeared. People don’t carry cash anymore, so stealing wallets has become meaningless.

Then there’s the principle of economic efficiency in crime. They want to minimize risk while maximizing profit. As home telephones became widespread, horse racing and stock scams increased dramatically, but bank robberies decreased significantly. Why risk a bank robbery when you can make more money just sitting with a telephone?

But the most terrible and sad part is this: indiscriminate mass killings. Killing complete strangers for no reason, or for trivial reasons, without hesitation. What makes this so horrifying is that it’s a crime that defies explanation or understanding.

Everyone in the world wants to know why these things happen. How they happen. Somehow. Just because. By chance. Because it’s God’s will. People are never satisfied with such explanations. That’s why we’ve developed logic, refined technology and engineering, and advanced law, humanities, and social sciences, isn’t it?

Prohibition is more like a comedy, or a farce. We know how meaningless and harmful that law was. But looked at differently, it also shows a strong belief that society could be improved through the forced mechanism of law. Yes, it was childish, ignorant, and reckless.

But people of that era had a longing to make the world better. An imagination of a better world. Some vision that society could be improved through the institution and rules of law. That’s why such a ridiculous law could be passed.

I believe there’s not much difference in intelligence and judgment between people of the past and present. The only difference is one thing: experience. We modern people have grown from countless experiences of failure and defeat.

Have you ever seen a mechanical clockwork person skillfully handling wire cutters? Or terrorists handling voice-activated time bombs in human bodies? You simply lacked the experience. So you shouldn’t feel ashamed about falling behind Clarice Holmes.”

His words were kind, but I felt even more embarrassed hearing them from Crayfield. Above all, Crayfield consistently took the initiative in his actions. I asked him to tell me his secret. But his answer was completely unexpected.

“There’s no such secret.”

That was surprising. Didn’t he have experience? Hadn’t his numerous experiences, different from mine, made him a hero who protected the world from doom?

“Of course I have experience. But experience alone doesn’t make everything go well. For some people, terrible experiences can become lifelong burdens.”

So what did Crayfield rely on? I was curious.

“Hope and imagination, assistant. Whatever I start, I begin with the hope of ‘I wish it would turn out like this.’ Then I gather information piece by piece and form judgments to make it concrete. It often differs from the blueprint, but I’m satisfied as long as I get the outcome I want.”

I asked if he had a desired outcome for this case too. Crayfield answered somewhat ambiguously.

“I do. I do, but… the problem is that this is Innsmouth. You know John Crayfield was the protagonist of part 1, right? I told you on the first day. The story where I changed the ending. The setting was Innsmouth. That’s why I’m taking this tour now. To erase the Innsmouth I knew. Just as experiences of failure can lead us to ruin, so can experiences of success. Do you like people who say, ‘I know because I’ve done it before’?”

Suddenly I realized. Crayfield too was an ordinary person who could feel fear. Crayfield wasn’t an absolute being either. He was just an ordinary person who, like others, tried hard, struggled, and fought.

But that doesn’t mean he was ordinary like others. From what I’d seen of him so far, he had conviction. A strong self-belief that he could turn hope into reality.

I found myself envying him more than ever.

* * * * *

June 3, 1929. 2:02 PM

Innsmouth City Hall

Innsmouth

We arrived at the city hall residence, where we were to meet our client. Being a politician, our client had a continuous schedule of meetings and forums. Fortunately, he had left us a note saying he could make time after the public hearing that was running from 1:00 to 2:30 PM.

Crayfield and I had a late lunch and returned to Innsmouth City Hall. There was a circular plaza in front of the old stone building. The stone fountain in the center was cracked and covered with a thick layer of hazy dust. The surrounding trees were dying, though their well-trimmed branches suggested someone had been caring for them diligently.

But the people gathered in the plaza showed little interest in the ecology of the trees. Outsiders hung banners between trees, distributed pamphlets, and set up various tents. There was no uniformity in color or shape, and the slogans were all over the place.

“Lots of noise from speakers but not a single audience member,” Crayfield muttered.

No sooner had he spoken than a noisy group passed by us. They appeared to be journalists, carrying large cameras, notepads, and sketchbooks. They took photos with Innsmouth City Hall as a backdrop and interviewed people waving placards up and down. These people wore white robes like baptismal gowns with pointed cone hats, and seemed to be protesting against unfair benefits for Innsmouth.

Thanks to the journalists making such a commotion, Crayfield and I were able to slip into the city hall. Before entering, I paused, feeling as if someone was watching us.

“What’s wrong?” Crayfield asked, but I couldn’t explain properly. We walked around together but couldn’t find anything noteworthy.

“How strange. If someone as unobservant as you noticed something, I should have seen it too. Ah, hello! Where is the public hearing being held? The middle hall on the second floor corridor? I understand.”

The main city hall building was four stories high, but being an older building, it had low ceilings. Not just the corridors but the rooms too were low, making sounds echo considerably and giving a somewhat oppressive feeling. Nevertheless, Crayfield and I had no trouble finding the public hearing room.

On the platform were chairs and desks arranged in a row with seven people seated. The three on the left appeared to be from the Progressive Party, and the three on the right from the Patriot Party. In the center sat a plump, toad-like man with a sign in front of him reading “Mayor.”

“There. See that handsome brown-haired man on the far right? That’s our client, Assistant Charles Klein.”

Crayfield whispered. In front of the platform were about ten long benches arranged like in a church, with well-dressed men and women sitting at intervals. It was easy to distinguish typical Innsmouth people from outsiders even here. Both the floor and ceiling were made of dark wood, and I could detect a faint smell of salt.

After some time, the “Mayor” raised his hand.

“Thank you for the heated discussion. To summarize, it seems both the Progressive Party and the Patriot Party agree that transportation is Innsmouth’s most urgent issue. The railway lines need repair, and road maintenance has been requested from the Massachusetts state government for a very long time but hasn’t been realized. But with these representatives from Congress here…”

Quickly losing interest in the mayor’s words, I slowly observed the people in the room. A man sitting at the edge of the middle section of the audience caught my eye. He looked like a mix between an ordinary person and an Innsmouth person, though that wasn’t why I noticed him.

He was trembling, constantly wiping his hands on his pants. He was clearly wiping away sweat. Was he unwell? Yet he didn’t even clear his throat once. I gave Crayfield a silent signal.

Just then,

“So I ask the Innsmouth citizens here. Does anyone have anything special to say about what we’ve discussed so far, or any objections?”

The trembling man waved his arm enthusiastically.

“Ah, Mr. Penny. Please come up. How’s the shrimp fishing? Don’t worry, come up. I won’t ask you to sing like at the last festival!”

The townspeople burst into laughter, but some whispered into their neighbors’ ears. They seemed concerned that Penny looked unwell. The man called Penny cleared his throat as he climbed onto the platform. A faint whistling sound came out every time he inhaled.

“Goodness, Mr. Penny, are you unwell?”

The mayor took out a handkerchief from his pocket. He reached toward Penny’s forehead as if to wipe away his sweat. The next moment, the mayor screamed and dropped the handkerchief.

“My hand! My hand!”

The mayor’s hand was bleeding as if cut by something sharp. The whistling sound from Penny’s mouth grew louder. As he opened his eyes wide and tried to inhale, I saw a momentary flash of something shiny around his neck. It was the same wire that Clarice Holmes had used.

Everyone stood up. Penny’s body tilted slightly, then fell toward the mayor.

Thud. Roll, roll, roll…

Penny’s severed head fell limply and rolled toward the mayor’s feet.