Interrogatrio di Professore
By: James Austin Valiant
There's a way to figure this out. There's always a way.
Father William Walter Wordsworth couldn't remember how many times he'd repeated those same words to himself: it had become his mantra over time. No matter how many times established science had said otherwise, Father Wordsworth had been able to prove otherwise. The rest of AX considered their Professor to be a miracle worker of sorts, able to improvise and adapt to any complication thrown his way.
The matter of the Pope's attack is quite different.
It was not the type of improvisation the Professor was used to. He had ventured to the papal apartment, amidst the flurry of other personnel. The place was more than a crime scene, it represented a breach to their whole system, a deadly stab to their entire faith.
The Professor had stood there, taking it all in, as the other men and women investigated in a bustle around him. They swabbed blood samples from the floor, took notes about the condition of the room, catalogued the shards of broken glass.
He recognized the men, most of them, anyway. William knew these were either members of the Inquisition or forensic scientists hired by Francesco and recognized that the incident with the Pope was becoming worse as it transformed from a tragedy into a power struggle between Francesco and Caterina. The cardinals in residence at the Vatican had yet to formally convene on the matter. The Professor knew that, in accordance with centuries old Church law, a conclave to elect a new Pope could not convene while Alessandro still had the potential to recover.
Turning his attention back to the room, the Professor immediately found something he didn't care for. The walls, the floor, and the windows all showed signs of abuse - but the door to the bedroom itself didn't. It was almost as the attacker had let himself in quietly.
The Professor took his pipe from his pocket, along with a small pinch of tobacco. Packing it firmly in the bowl, he withdrew a match and lit it. He knew, as a man of science, that it was a bad habit, a deadly one at that. But smoking relaxed him and allowed him to think more clearly, which he needed to do right now. The Professor had a sneaking suspicion there was more at work here than any of them could grasp at. The long trail of smoke left his nostrils.
The floors, the walls - there are marks here...The Professor took careful note. These were not mere chips or cracks. Serious amounts of marble were torn out of the wall, some as wide across as his hand. They were purposeful, not accidental. William smirked; there was no way anyone as normal looking as Brother Desmond had made this damage.
The scuttle around the Professor continued as he strode about the room. While the room was destroyed, there was nothing missing. Considering all the valuables contained within the apartment and the Pope's study, it was more than a little strange that everything was still in the residence.
Another sharp inhale brought the comfortable taste of tobacco to the back of the his tongue. It was true that the Order of Saint Sebastian was a group who believed that Alessandro was a false Pope, but then, why did Desmond seem so shocked that he had been so critically injured? Desmond had no allies or friends in the Vatican; could it be possible someone was framing him?
It was time to talk to the source.
Father Tres was a steadfast guard.
He had been standing outside Desmond's cell since Father Leon and Father Nightroad had thrown the monk in it. He had been imprisoned six point five hours. Tres had been monitoring constantly; no sound had come from the room since the one point five hour mark. The android priest did not care whether Desmond made a sound or not, so long as he remained alive.
In the near distance, Tres observed an approaching figure.
"Professor."
"Hello, Tres," He patted the Killing Doll on the head, "are all your systems functioning within normal parameters?"
"Affirmative. Are you here to conduct your report on Brother Ian Desmond?"
"Of course. May I have access, please?"
Tres turned to unlock the cell door. "I shall serve as your accompaniment. "
"Thank you, but I'll be fine, my boy."
"Surrender your weapons, Professor."
"Come again?"
Tres's stoic expression did not change. "Allowing entry of an armed person to the confines of Brother Ian Desmond's prison cell is a direct violation of orders. Repeat: surrender your weapons, Professor."
"Oh, Tres, you are truly a most exemplary officer!" The Professor grinned. He removed his gun, a small knife and a pen and willingly relinquished them to the waiting android.
"Professor, this is merely a writing implement." Tres reasoned, holding up the pen.
"Ahh...of course it is!" The priest lied. He had to keep some projects secret after all. "Just hang on to it, please?"
"Positive."
The Professor nudged the door to Desmond's cell open. This cell was even smaller than he remembered most of them being. Of course, these cells had been built close to five centuries ago, when the Vatican had been more interested in political gains than holy ones. The priest heard Tres close and lock the cell door behind him.
"Brother Desmond?"
The room was bare, save for a concrete slab that served as a bed. Even by a monk's standards, it was desolate. The Albionian priest's eyes adjusted to the low level of light in the room, and he saw him. A crumbled mess of humanity and brown robe, occupying the corner of the room closest to a slight crack in the wall that served as a window. The monk was scratching at the wall with his fingernail, making some sort of marking.
"What do you want?" Desmond spat.
Hm, well, he sounds pleasant… "I'm Father William Walter Wordsworth. I've come to ask you a few questions."
"I suppose you want to know where I was last night, or what my alibi could be?" The monk jested bitterly.
"That would be a good place to start."
"I was asleep. In my assigned quarters." He stated firmly.
"Okay, and what time was this?" The Professor began taking notes.
"You believe me, don't you? Someone here must believe me!" Desmond's voice grew louder.
The Professor sighed and rubbed his eyes. "This is not a matter of me believing you or not. This is a matter of facts, and the facts are as such: The Pope has been attacked and is in critical condition and the only piece of evidence is a torn piece of your own robe, bearing the insignia of the Order of Saint Sebastian. It is far beyond my responsibility to deem you guilty or innocent, but a refusal to cooperate in this interview would surely not look too favorable for you."
The monk's posture relaxed, but his voice remained fierce and defiant.
"Ask your questions, Father. I shall answer them, for I have much more important business here to attend to."
"Now, Brother, what time would you say you fell asleep?"
"It must have been sometime after ten o'clock, after I attended evening prayers and returned to my quarters for my nightly novena."
"Did you encounter anyone on your way there?" The Professor continued.
Brother Desmond shook his head. "I almost tripped over a stray cat, and I noticed Father Tres was following me, but other than that, I had contact with no one."
"Hmm…" The Professor clamped his teeth down on his pipe. "Did you eat?"
"I did not. As is customary among the Order, I abstained from food yesterday."
"Hmm…" The Professor repeated.
"And what is that supposed to mean, priest?"
Desmond's words took on a more menacing tone, and his defiant attitude seemed to border on violence.
"It means nothing, Brother. I am merely taking notes of everything you say." The Professor calmly explained.
"No, no, no! You Vatican dogs, you are all the same! You are under the command of a false Pope, and you follow his decrees with no question as to why such an insufficient being has been chosen to lead Holy Mother Church. You continuously prove tha-
"Are you a vampire?"
The question cut the monk's rant, and silence reigned the cell.
The Professor patiently waited for Desmond to respond.
"Am I a what?" The monk's voice sounded different; deeper, stronger.
"I said, are you a vam-"
"I heard the question, you sodding fool! How dare you accuse me of being a vampire! You claim to be a know-it-all, but are really just a know-nothing. If you could only be enlightened as to how the world, nay, how the universe really works, you would gain so much understanding. Maybe you would have been able to figure out that experiment you screwed up on so many years ago at Londinium University!"
The Professor stopped taking notes. "What did you say?"
An odious stench began to fill the room, overtaking the already strong smell of the priest's pipe.
"You heard me, priest. Your experiment at Londinium - the one you conducted with von Kampfer. Imagine how things would have been different had you managed to be successful. Maybe von Kampfer would not fallen into the hands of the Rosen Kreuz so easily…"
He ignored the accusation.
"So, it is them you are aligned with?"
The monk laughed, and the Professor shivered.
"I am aligned with no one but myself, priest."
The pencil and pad flung from the priest's hands across the room. Did I just...did I just do that out of anger? The Professor rubbed his eyes. The air in the room was thick, and the stench was choking him. That rotten stench that reeked of the sewers…
He looked back in Brother Desmond's direction. The monk stood proudly, his posture stiff and rigid, his eyes blank and glassy. He was gesturing in the direction of the Albionian priest, as his lips moving wordlessly. The Professor then noticed something that shook him deeply.
Brother Desmond was floating a good half-meter off the ground.
It can't be!
"TRES!"
The cell door flung open. As Tres entered, the Professor noted that the stench was clearing the room, and the monk's body crumpled from its perch and fell to the floor. The priest had never been more relieved to see the sight of the robotic Tres.
"Damage report, Professor. Brother Ian Desmond seems to have been injured as well."
"I am fine, Tres, just fine," The Professor lied, collecting his pad and pencil, "I was just concerned. I think the good Brother here might be a little malnourished, he was fasting all day yesterday."
"I shall see he is provided with nourishment. You should report to Cardinal Sforza immediately." Tres answered.
"Of course, of course!" The Professor's smile waned. Turning on his heel, he left the fallen monk and the Killing Doll. As he walked, he pulled out his pad and pencil and began revising his notes.
There's a way to figure this out. There's always a way.
"Come in!"
Caterina Sforza answered the knock at her door, and was relieved to see the Professor enter her office. She had only recently been able to pull herself together after the attack on her brother's life. Oh, poor Alec - how he was most always caught in the middle of the immense power struggle between herself and Francesco. Not that Francesco was letting up, either. Her informants had told her that Francesco was using this incident as a way to paint Caterina as a severe danger, not only to the Pope, but the entire Vatican and Church itself.
"Good evening, Your Eminence."
"Good evening, Professor. Did you finish your report?"
"Well….yes and no." The intelligent priest stammered.
"And that means?"
"I didn't have ample time to create a formal report, because I felt the information I collected was too important to not share immediately." He explained.
"I see. Well," Caterina was highly suspicious, "what do you think?"
"We are dealing with a man who is deeply disturbed, Your Eminence. I believe he is a violently psychotic individual, who has had these tendencies for some time and with a change in his usual circumstances, finally saw fit to execute them."
"Go on."
"People with his condition often premeditate these sorts of attacks for years and years, carefully plotting and planning every move and possible outcome. It is my belief that he not only studied the interior of the papal apartments, but had it memorized inside and out."
"How do you explain the immense destruction?"
The Professor clamped down on his pipe. "Those experiencing a massive rush of adrenaline, such as the one Brother Desmond must have been feeling, often are able to perform feats that would appear superhuman."
The last statement made Caterina even more suspicious. "Let me see your notes."
His jaw dropped. "But...but that is my analysis. What do you need to see my notes for?"
"William." Her voice took an authoritative tone. "Your notes."
The Professor walked to the desk and begrudgingly handed her his pad. Caterina readily accepted it, and began perusing the pages. He sighed, loading up his pipe with another tear of tobacco. She's sure taking her time reading those things - why can't she just trust my formal opinions? Most of what I wrote is a knee jerk reaction to my observations!
"Professor."
"Your Eminence."
"You know what these observations mean, don't you?"
The Albionian priest shook his head. "I know what they say, and I've already told you what they mean."
"I can't believe myself either, William, but we have to face facts here," Caterina sighed, rubbing her temples, "My God, I haven't heard of anything like this in years. The Pope was attacked in the middle of the night, brutally beaten almost to death, and no one heard it. Then, the chief suspect claims to know nothing, yet we find him covered in blood. He seems to know things about us that no one but a close confidante would know, and he exhibits and provokes strange and unusual behaviors."
"But, Your Eminence, the supposed levitation could have been merely a trick of the low level of light in the room, and I may have flung the pencil and pad out of anger, and of course, his knowledge of anyone's past could be the result of intelligence gathering!" the Professor insisted.
"Say what you want, William, but I think we both know what's going on here. This has reeked of the supernatural since the beginning." She paused. "We're going to need to find him."
The Professor sighed, instantly knowing who Caterina was referring to. "But he's so...so disagreeable. No one can stand him. How can we work with a man like him?"
"Nevertheless, Professor. This is an order." Caterina clicked a small button on her desk. "Sister?"
A novice nun entered the office. "Yes, Your Eminence?"
"Please deliver a message to the Basilica of St John Lateran. Tell Father Giuseppe Pommodori I require an audience with him this evening."
"Yes, Your Eminence." The novice nun left, intent on her errand.
"I still can't believe it's come to the this," The Professor removed his pipe and puffed out a short series of smoke rings.
"I know, Professor," agreed Caterina, "it has been decades since we needed his services. Hopefully, time hasn't hindered his faith and abilities."
"Indeed, Your Eminence," the Professor placed his pipe back in his mouth, "after all, what good is an infirm exorcist?"