It seemed the bright and cheery sunlight of Vale had vanished that day. It made the dank and dark streets the two officers, Detective and Constable, were walking seem even that more foreboding, the mud on the streets seemed grungier, the signs on the street more sinister, and the people on the streets more callous.
Still, this did not deter them as they found their destination. A small door wedged between two storefronts, a Butcher, and a Candlestick Makers. The door was unlocked, and so the two entered, finding a small unmanned desk littered and unorganized, documents strewn across any available surface, in a chilly room at the end of a long corridor.
They rung the bell there, and were greeted by a scrawny youth in a disheveled state, with bags under his eyes. Nevertheless, he smiled as he greeted the two. They explained they were on an investigation, and wanted to ask one of their tenants a few questions. The attendant understood, and gave them the key and directions they needed as soon as he could fish them out from beneath all the chaos that had accumulated.
They ascended up several flights of steps, going ever higher, the light the skylight allowed in growing stronger, until they found the door they were looking for. Black, with its bronze numbers askew on the nails that held them tight.
They knocked once to see if the tenant would open for them. They knocked twice, to see if the tenant was taking his time, or perhaps hadn't heard their first attempt. After knocking a third time, the Detective took the key, and opened the door, and let himself and the Constable in.
What greeted them were the smells of decay, musk, and to those who were familiar to it, those of a brewery.
"Hello? Is the current tenant here?" The Detective called out, using his hat to dispel some of the obnoxious vapors that were affronting him. "This is the Constabulary. We have need to question you as per an ongoing investigation."
Only the silence and the sound of faint raindrops on the windows replied.
They spread out, looking for the occupant. The walls were coated in a dreary peeling wallpaper, composed of dark striped colors, a handful of pictures adorning them. The surfaces of the tables and cabinets were littered with dust, bottles, and opened books, left in disarray to their fates.
In the corner a large rifle had been propped against the wall, seeming the only area in the abode that was well-taken care of.
The Constable made a startled sound, and so the Detective made his way to the room they were occupying. On the floor spread eagle was the man they were searching for, his black coat draped over him, and his mess of wild hair obscuring his face.
"Is he-?" The Constable left the question unasked.
The Detective poked the prone man with his cane, getting a few moans in response. "Passed out." He told the Constable. "Well this won't do. Excuse me a moment." The Detective made his way to the windows where the curtains lay blocking the light of day. With no sense of ceremony, he opened them wide letting in the harsh light of the grey skies outside illuminating particles of dust that circulated in the air. The man on the floor cringed at this.
"Rise and shine there. We only have some questions that we want to ask, and then we will leave you to your debauchery."
"What are you doing in my house?" The man moaned into the carpet of his floor.
"We are the Constabulary." The Detective answered. "My name is Claude A. Augustin. I'm a detective. We are here on an investigation."
"And what do you want with me?" The man moaned.
The Detective looked at his surroundings, noting the disheveled state of… well everything. He had of course heard that this was the state the man had condemned himself too. But for his standing, the Detective couldn't help but feel disappointed that he had fallen so low. "Constable, if you could help me move this man to a seat?" The two of them grabbed the mans arms, and placed him in the emptiest seat they could. The man sat in a slump, doing his best to remain in his state as close to unconsciousness as one could get. "Good, now see if you can find a chair for us to rest in would you?"
"Yes sir."
"Now then, you were asking what we wanted." The Detective said, getting back on track. "You see there's been a string of murders recently." The Detective retrieved a photograph from his pocket, and handed it to the man, who looked at it bleary-eyed. "That poor woman there is the latest victim. We believe that a serial killer is at work."
"You don't think I did it?" The man said, handing back the picture.
The detective took another glance at the apartment he was in, and shook his head. "No. The reason we came is that we believe that the killer is responsible for some unsolved deaths from some years ago. One of these being the death of your younger sister, which I believe you did some investigations on yourself."
That sobered the man. He seemed to freeze and retract into himself, the ruddy color of his face paling. His eyes narrowed, and seemed suffused with many a negative emotions. Hate. Sorrow. Rage. He shifted his position, so that he could better meet the detective's eye.
"I'll answer any question you want to ask." The man said, his voice seething with his barely contained emotions.
The Detective felt a slight smile. There was the man he had been hoping to meet. There was the man who once prided himself amongst the Hunters of Vale. There was Alan E. Polter.