Chapter 2, The Art of Deconstruction

RICHARD GILROY’S FRIENDS SHOVE ME TO THE GROUND. My hands slid on the sharp and snowy gravel. Gritting my teeth because they stung, Richard grins then approaches. I quickly stand up and turn to face him. Both of his friends block the path behind him—I’m so dead.

Suddenly, a sharp pain convulses in my right cheek—it turns my entire head and cracks my neck. Richard shakes his hand before landing another punch. My body sways and I lose balance. Leaning on one leg he doesn’t let me rest. Another swing lands on my abdomen, I fall flat on my ass and lay there.

He blows out an exaggerated puff of smoke “I lost a lot of stuff in the fire.” He said with his teeth still touching, “Clothes, shoes, books—well, didn’t really need that last one anyway.” He scoffs then walks towards me as I try to crawl away. He squats on my calf—I scream. Richard grabs my hair and pulls upwards. I wail in more pain as my throat stretches and bends outwards.

“I was going to let this one slide, Marcus.” Richard shrugged. “Accidents happen.” Then he leaned in close, so close that hot breath tickled the inside of my ear. “But my stash.” He whispered—I could hear his teeth squeak in unison with the strengthening grip of his hand, “You know how hard it is to get just one line of lilies these days, Marcus?”

Lilies, like the flower?

“Richard.” I say sputteringly, “I’m—I’m—I’m sorry! I really am—but you’ve got to believe me that it was just a mishap.” He shushes me, I know what’s coming next. He turns my body towards him and several strings of hair come loose. I need to find a way to escape.

Blowing another puff of smoke, then, he proceeds to bring the butt close to my eye.

“Let this be a lesson to—” I grasp a fistful of dirt, gravel, whatever this dust was—and throw it forcefully at his face. He grunts. “You little!” For a moment the grip loosens—now’s my chance. I kick him with all my force can and run in the other direction.

“Richard, you all right?” His friends kneel to make sure he was all right—but he dismisses them almost immediately.

“What are you doing standing there?” Richard shouts and points at me while keeping the other hand on his face, “You two, after him!” Then they start running towards me. That’s bad.

Each step stings, but I keep running. The cold air is like a slap in the face and my mouth tastes like metal— I probably have a nosebleed. Knocking over trash bins and boxes in the way, then those two will have a harder pursuit—and it works, a little. I throw a metal lid behind me, the groan of pain and rage that followed was a good sign—I think it hit.

But now before me is a fence that’s at least three meters tall—I’ll have to make a left turn. Amid my sprint, I look back and to my surprise, only one remained to chase me. Did the projectile cause more damage than it did? Hopefully.

No, it didn’t. I hit another brick wall—this time it wasn’t Richard, but his companion I threw the lid at, His red forehead shows that he’s enraged. Damn it, straight ahead was the street too.

An arm slithers around my neck and tightens. I can’t breathe, and blood starts rushing to my head almost immediately. I squirm to break free as much as I can but fail. Slamming this massive build on the wall didn’t work, kicking him in the vitals didn’t either—Richard sure knew how to choose his friends. The chokehold tightens and I feel like vomiting, the other friend catches up and drives his fist into my stomach, and then another, and another. I release my struggle and fall to the ground. I take a slow deep breath as I dance between my state of consciousness. my lungs, stomach, and neck were all in unimaginable amounts of pain. I look up with blurry vision as someone’s silhouette comes into view.

It was that girl. The light dripped behind concealing her face, but it was no doubt, Irene. She appeared seemingly out of nowhere and in her hand held Richard by the hair. Richard was constricted where he placed most weight on the right side body and the left ankle seemed to be twisted the wrong way. His groan indicated such pain that my two assailants stopped what they were doing to focus in their direction.

I sit and lean on the wall—hand pressed against my torso, dazed but still aware enough to see what followed.

Irene’s hand tightens, the screeching sound of air forcibly inhaled through Richard’s teeth is concerning. He follows with a chopped scream.

“Ah—Ahah!” Richard leans back, following the pull of Irene’s hand. “Why are you just standing there? Get her!”

Both of them begin to move—but Irene gestured to them to stop. Then she pushes Richard forward into one of them. Without saying a word, Irene shook her head towards the street, telling them to leave. Considering what she did to Richard, peace was definitely the right option.

Shortly they leave the two of us alone and vanish into the crowd.

Irene approaches slowly and notices my struggle to stand. Her hand extends and I grab it.

“Thanks,” I said, looking annoyed and grateful at the same time. “I owe you one.”

The pain in my body subsided but still lingered. I was able to move after a few moments, though it would take days for complete recovery.

It didn’t take long for us to finally arrive at Irene’s place. The area was indeed not too far from Brightland—and was located near many public facilities, so in those regards, not many complaints. First impression, however, was a bit overwhelming. The small office/home office Irene suggested she lived in was buried in a mess of clutter. Files, books, and papers were scattered throughout the main living space—and the kitchen sink was an unthinkable nightmare. A large corkscrew board with photos, papers, and short descriptions of various things was hung on a wall where a TV could’ve been. Colorful pins and needles, as well as strings, were used to coordinate which file linked to what.

I suppose as a form of thank you, I’ll have to take Irene up on her offer to move in together. Although, it is quite sudden.

Irene walked around the room picking up whatever she could and moved them out of my way. She looked a bit nervous and stuttered a bit as the house tour began.

“I—uh. This is the living room.” She said, gesturing at the mess-covered sofa. “Kitchen—uh.” She pauses at the large pile of unwashed plates, silverware, and pans. “Right—dishes.” She moves some of them into the sink and briefly turns on the tap only to close it again. “I’ll do them later.” She said hurriedly, then we move on to the next segment of the apartment—my room.

At a glance, it looked extremely neat compared to the outside. Ignoring the several misplaced mugs, which she gathered and took with her, the room looked fine. There was a window, a bathroom—even a simple walk-in closet. I couldn’t imagine what her room looked like though. Perhaps half the reason she billed me so little was because of the turmoil. No matter though, so long as she keeps her mess to herself—and doesn’t bother my studies, I was completely fine with these conditions.

Irene, still carrying four mugs, tilts her head sideways and leaves the room. “’kay then, if you need me, I’ll be right out here.” She says timidly.

The door closes and I begin unpacking.

***

HARD TO BELIEVE IT’S BEEN THREE DAYS SINCE I’VE MOVED INTO IRENE’S PLACE. The experience, a bit worse than anticipated. For one, the reason for the many-many mugs scattered throughout the apartment is because of the concerning amount of caffeine Irene consumes. I often find her just on the sofa with eyes closed fidgeting away at anything she found entertaining. Knives, coins, a deck of cards, and pens are the most common. Hypnotizing to watch, but impolite—so I usually just catch glances now and then.

Also, she seems to have very aware senses (which could just be the caffeine). I’d go out of my room, and she immediately knows I’m looking for a bite to eat. Her eyes are still closed and I try to be as quiet as possible, but she just—knows.

“A bit of a gambler I see?” She says as I enter the apartment after a stroll to the convenience store.

I take off my jacket and start placing simple groceries in the fridge. “What do you mean?”

“UV ink under your right index nail.” She points.

I look under my finger and to see some gray spots.

“Scratch cards.” She continues, “The grey stuff is called UV ink.”

Not just that—this type of stuff would happen multiple times a day. Yesterday, I ran out of shampoo so the bottle had to be filled with water so it could be properly used. And as I went to the living room with my wet hair—she immediately knew the predicament I was in just by a passing smell. It’s almost creepy—but impressive at the same time. I wonder how she does it?

I confronted her, and this was the answer I got.

“Deconstruction.” Irene was in the middle of something—looking at two photos and comparing each one. “All things have cause and effect, so if you take an event that has already happened you can take an estimated deduction as to what caused it.” She explained simply while still retaining focus on her work.

She points at the balcony, a single potted flower is placed neatly on a table. “The effect; the flower not blooming, is caused; by the cold season. Although that is a very basic example, the same principle can be applied to almost all things. Sometimes there can be so many causes that it’s hard to determine a perfect effect.”

I look at my nails again, they still have the same markings from when I bought that scratch ticket. “I don’t have a gambling addiction. So you’re wrong about that.”

Irene gives me a stern look which turned into annoyance. “Well, I suppose sometimes people disbelieve their negative traits—especially if it’s something like purchasing scratch cards regularly.”

“If I have extra change I buy the cheap ones.”

“Further proving my point.”

A brief pause ensues.

I walk towards her workspace and pick up random objects I found interesting. Specific files of people, and several are even photos of victims. Another thing comes to mind as well—the presence of a certain symbol in almost all the photos and files. There’s a red ink encircling the symbol that reads WHITE LILY MARK. Is this what Richard was referencing?

Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

“So what do you have to do with the police?” I ask curiously. “Judging by these items, I’d guess you were a detective. But if you were one, why didn’t you stop me, a civilian, from looking at these—menacing photos? And if you weren’t one, why do you have them in your possession?”

Irene breaks into a smile, it almost seems like she’s been waiting to answer this question for a while now.

“I’m an advisor.” She begins, “Whenever R-Kid, (R.C.I.D; Redvern Crime Investigation Department), have too much to chew on, they come to me for help with their cases—which, by the way, is most of the time. It’s also the only job I’m suited for.” Irene said that last part with decreasing volume.

“So then, you must be getting paid, right?”

Irene doesn’t give a proper answer. “Not enough, that’s for sure.” She scoffs, and opens another file labeled David Greggory and Wendy Tinbeth Autopsy Report.

So the police hire a private detective who doesn’t look to be older than me—and she gets paid?

“Why would the police hire amateurs? “They can’t be that incompetent.”

Irene closes the file and her face emanates annoyance, she visibly cringes, but soon looked excited as well—it was a weird transition. She goes into my room and takes one of my things. It’s my dad’s old wallet. After turning it around, flipping it—inspecting its contents, she then looks at me with more enthusiasm.

“Your dad was a drunkard and gave you his wallet as a gift.”

“How could you possibly have guessed that? I thought you said deconstruction was mere guesswork?”

“With enough practice, absolute perfection can be achieved.”

I stand there—curious and confused, but amazed also as Irene begins her explanation.

“There are two engravings here on the wallet, inside and outside. It just so happens that one is more polished than the other. The brand is quite obscure—probably cheaply made leather, so it couldn’t have belonged to someone wealthy. In fact, it was owned by a mechanic judging by the several droplets of black oil that have dried out all over it. Inside there’s a photo of three people—Him and two children. If one of the kids is you, then the wallet must have belonged to your dad.”

“You said ‘was’, how did you know my dad passed away?”

“Despite the harsh conditions a mechanic goes through, the wallet is in a decent condition—and with your dad being a low-income citizen, no way he would’ve thrown something as valuable as this away and bought a new one. Meanwhile, the photo inside is outdated, and someone like your dad would’ve kept a more recent one. He would update the picture since he cared for his family, so what is this then? A legacy left by him—or more politely said—a gift.”

Irene takes another close inspection of the wallet. “But you didn’t like him that much. Maybe he came home late every night, maybe your parent’s argued a lot judging by the absence of a mother, or maybe you hated his drinking.”

“How did you get that last part?”

“A bit hard that one, but more so simple. There are small lighter spots located all over the wallet, even on the inside—alcohol acts as a cleaning agent to leather and intemperate exposure can cause discoloring. He goes to the bar on late nights, and every time he goes for a drink he pays right after each one in hopes of it being the last. But it doesn’t take an expert to know none of them were his final. Then he gets so drunk that the alcohol just spills all over his hands and comes in contact with the wallet.”

“Wow.” I couldn’t help but laugh at how absurdly simple she made describing my dad. “Scarily accurate.”

Irene sets down the wallet and smiles. She then goes to the coat rack and throws my jacket, putting on her own.

“Wear it, we’re going out.” She says hastily, grabbing keys. I was about to rebut with an excuse, but Irene had already cut me off. “Don’t act like you’ve got better to do, Marcus. I’ve seen your grades—you’re top of the class”

I suppose she’s right. By the time I put on the attire, she’s already left the door to close on its own. But as I reach the handle, her head suddenly pops back in to say something.

“You’re right about one thing though.” She smiles.

“What is it?”

“Why would the police hire amateurs?”

***

INSPECTOR MEL WAS ALREADY AT THE SCENE OF THE CRIME WHEN MARCUS AND I ARRIVED. The sun had just reached noon, yet it's still as cold as ever. Me and Marcus packed a bit light for this, so if I could, I’d like to finish this quickly.

The address inspector gave me was for old town Redvern, and by the looks of it, she just arrived here as well—Her clothes were as dry as ours, meaning she hasn’t been out long. CSI was scattered throughout the scene, taking photos, gathering evidence, Mel took note that I can start my investigation once they were done.

Most buildings here are closed and privately owned—looking at the many wet and brown tire tracks, I’d guess they’re for storage. Just not too far from here is the city’s fish market, meaning there’s a river that leads to the ocean—I just hoped that some of the evidence didn’t get swooped off by the current.

We walk for a bit and finally reach the heart of the scene. Marcus looks around as confused as I imagined—but didn’t seem too stunned when the dead body was presented. He refrained from asking many questions on the way, although, it’d be embarrassing to answer why I invited him with me. Inspector Mel didn’t seem bothered by his presence either—after all, it’s not the first time I’ve invited someone to come with me on this type of excursion.

Marcus takes another gander then back at me. “So why am I here again?” thumb pointing at the corpse. “And should I be concerned, about that?”

“Don’t worry, you’re doing great.” I give him a rewarding smile. “Most people faint or scream at nearly half the things we’ve seen today.”

He nods absent-mindedly. “Right, cool.”

Inspector Mel then walks towards us, her steps wide to avoid puddles in the ground. She gives me an approving sign. “They’re done, go ahead.”

“Do we have an ID?” I ask

“Still working on that.” She answered.

John walks away from the body and away from us. His face scoffs as it passes me. Almost as if he’s telling me there’s nothing to gain from this. The worst part is he might be right.

As usual, coming late to the party meant that John and his CSI will have already picked the body clean of any major evidence. Which leaves me with almost nothing to work with, or just photos of the items. Luckily they can’t take something that’s already attached in the first place—I take notice of the attire our victim is wearing, it’s filthy, but clearly a set piece to a suit. Following—I lean closer to the head, and with my gloved hands, start rotating. Irritation behind and inside the right ear, white spots as well. Clear signs our victim wore a communication device, and looking at how different the size of each earhole was, I’d say he used the device pretty frequently.

I feel the ribs—they give in, some are broken, no shattered. I unbutton his shirt and see a small circle with five larger ones surrounding it. The mark of the white lily. I open the mouth and feel several teeth are loose, some missing. His jaw felt slack and out of place as well.

I stand and relocate to the other side. “He’s had training if he was able to fend off the assailant to some extent. Look here.” I raise the palm to reveal bloody skid marks and point out the missing teeth in his bloody mouth as well. “A fight broke out but the victim couldn’t overpower our suspect. Pair that to the uniform and listening device he frequently used, I’d say this man, mid-thirties, was part of a bodyguard firm.”

“What listening device? We didn’t find such a thing.” Mel crossed her arms.

“No,” I reply, “But look inside the ear, there’s acne. Seems strange, doesn’t it? Acne is caused by bacteria, a dirty listening device would have a lot of that right?”

They both stay silent as I continue with the investigation.

I feel around the body one more time before standing up to collect my thoughts and achieve a verdict. I take the coin from my pocket and start flipping. The periodic single, light, ringing sound helps me zone out for a second. Long enough that I failed to notice that Marcus was grabbing my attention.

His faded voice echoes in my head and gets louder the more I’m drawn back to reality. “Irene? Irene?” His hand waves across my face and I jolt in response. He looks a bit worried.

“Yeah, sorry. Lost myself for a bit.” I say, still flipping the coin in between sentences.

“Right then,” Inspector Mel, always business, chimes in for a verdict. “What can you gather?”

I kneel, once again getting my pants wet from the wet snow, and begin my explanation.

“As I stated, our victim, male mid-thirties, worked as a high-class security/bodyguard firm. We know that based on the attire—missing jacket, white button shirt, and black trousers, all traits of a suit, and the earpiece to communicate with one another.” I enunciate, “From here the killer got a bit lazy.”

“How so?” Said Marcus with his arms crossed.

“Well, they were on a retrieve mission, hence the missing jacket. But they didn’t bother to get rid of any other evidence and just dumped the body into the river, where it washed up here.”

“What if our victim here ditched the jacket?” John suddenly comes into the conversation still with gloved hands.

“Unlikely, John, he likely died past midnight, that meant the temperature dropped significantly, but just above freezing—and if I were being chased, I’ll think twice of getting rid of warm clothing. Also my gun.”

“Gun?” He clicked again.

“Of course, being the bodyguard I am, I’d want to defend myself with my standard-issue pistol.”

As I finish my sentence, a man suddenly runs and approaches Inspector Mel with a plastic bag containing a firearm which I just mentioned.

“Maam, we found this upstream.” He said and left almost immediately.

“Thank you, good work.” She replied.

After a brief second of silence, Inspector Mel inspects the pistol once more and addresses her thoughts. “So what do you think happened?”

I let out a long sigh because the clues aren’t enough to recreate the scene—something is missing. A man of his stature won’t leave the fight with a complete loss, there weren’t any signs of an assailant—a piece of torn fabric, even blood will stick to the underside of a fingernail despite being thrown into the river. Also, he was trained, and there weren’t any apparent wounds like a stab or a shot. The victim was fighting a losing battle to begin with. He was poisoned.

“I can’t give an accurate depiction.” I decide to keep this information to myself for now as it’s just a hunch. “If I could perform an autopsy, then maybe—”

“Irene, we’ve been over this.” Inspector Mel cuts me off and crosses her arms. “I’m breaking every rule in the book to even get you and a civilian, here—I can’t let you perform another autopsy.”

“Come on Inspector, just this once please!” I beg

“The last time you ruined an entire array of valuable evidence. I’m not letting you near there again.” John complained.

I scoff and decide it was time to leave. No use persuading them.

“Let’s go, Marcus, we’re done here.” I head in the direction of town and he follows closely.

From behind us, I hear Inspector Mel shouting about how she’ll hand over the autopsy report, and her command to send the body to the morgue. I click my tongue. I can complain all day about autopsy results. John is a terrible pathologist—he’s sloppy and his hand shakes a lot. It’s a dead body, what could he be so nervous about anyway? Based on the look of the body it probably has around twelve hours before the organs start to deteriorate.

Other than this unnamed man, there have been two other victims bearing the white lily. David Greggory, and Wendy Tinbeth. David was found in an alleyway Southside of Redvern, while Wendy was at Cordelia Scott’s. Both of whom had a very unprofessional autopsy performed—the report consisted of many inconsistencies and just bad wording in general to make it sound professional so that no important information is actually getting through.

No choice but to work with the hand I’m dealt with.

Marcus and I walk back into town. Most of the trip was spent in silence, but I could tell he had something on his mind but didn’t want to say it. We finally arrive at a very familiar place—Bellphone Centre. In simplicity, it’s an open area with various stores and stalls ranging from cheap to expensive items. Surrounding buildings are lit with ad displaying screens nonstop. When the sun is out it isn’t really that impressive. At night though, the flashing colors are so bright you can’t differentiate it from day.

We stop at a bench to look at the Bellphone statue. It’s after lunch hour, so times like this are when it’s not so crowded. So it’s nice and ambient even during the holiday season.

“So what did you want to say back there?” I place my hands into my jacket and look at my companion. I could tell from his expression throughout our walk that he had something to talk.

“Well, I didn’t want to interrupt the investigation” Marcus blows air into his hands, his breath becomes smoke as it exits. “But I thought you said they hired you?”

“It’s—complicated.” I reply solemnly and shrug—then I explain how much enjoyment I get from doing this stuff. “I’m just in it for the thrill. As I said, they don’t pay me much, why do you think I’m looking for a roommate?” I chuckle and nudge Marcus’ shoulder.

“Ah—I see.”

A quarter of silence occurs as we notice an old woman sitting at the bench beside us feeding pigeons with breadcrumbs. Both of us observe how more and more birds fly down to get a piece.

“About the autopsy thing.” Marcus leans back.

“Oh that? I—uh, spilled coffee all over a cut open body. It was quite the mess. I’m more of a hands-on-deck type of person, so just reading John’s sloppy autopsy results won’t be enough.” I embarrassingly reply.

“No, no. I meant” Marcus hesitates and bites his lips, but ultimately continues talking. “I think I know someone who can help.”