{{I forgot the teachers were clones. Although they don't get much of the limelight, if that's a good excuse to keep the summary intact. Chapter's extra long in case I don't get back on here for a while. CW for mild gore.}}
"The suspect was located in one of the deep freeze units."
"Correct, ma'am."
"He was closest to the lever."
"Yup. We had to remove him, as well... the bodies..." the man's voice tapered off as he swallowed back bile.
"One of his eyes was destroyed, along with the face and scalp area in its radius."
"...nnh"
The woman roared, "did anyone ask the slaughterhouse employees? Their manager? I refuse to believe nothing was seen or heard by anyone else!"
"Nobody was there. None human anyhow. The discoverer fled the scene, so it appears. We're... in contact... a skip tracer..."
"Go have some Pepto, please."
Heavy footfalls sped out of the room, fading into the distance.
A hoarser voice added, "me too, pal."
"Believe me Harold, this case isn't as tough as it looks. It's the omission of details, the lack of journalistic backbone, and the stunning incompetence of the local CSI department that bothers me."
"And time. Crooks who're clever or lucky can disappear and shut this down for a decade," Harold whistles, "feels like we're hanging on the clock's hand."
"Indeed, but I want you to look over what we know again. Honestly, it's quite clear the incident isn't what it seems."
Harold hrmmed in agreement, then grumbled, "it's one petty game of King Of The Prom gone bloody and cold and some important looking fellas didn't see what was coming."
"That anonymous tipper identified a few bodies without pause, like they were read off a list, and their voice was distorted beyond any hope of identification."
"Let's not get hung up about the voice," a thin, scratchy voice joined, "we need a roll call of everybody that was there and focus on who had the crown in their mitts."
"Hrmm... we got a few names, we'll cross reference their testimonies, and we'll hope it takes us somewhere."
At eight in the morning it was announced on every outlet there was no further use in Clone High High School operating on its usual course, with a pointer for the staff to clean out their personal belongings and find employment in neighbouring districts. The school's authorizer had not yet released a statement on what was planned for the building's future.
Forensics were ongoing under new management to collect and interpret samples of blood, and locate the missing weapon from the Meat Locker.
At nine, Scudworth pulled beside the curb before a horde of journalists and bereaved citizens held back by a dotted line of law enforcement officers. No matter how much those with reddened eyes would scream profanities and demands in his general direction, he had to act cordial and divert suspicion with a credible story.
Still, his brows bunched together when they showed no sign of clearing the parking lot entrance. He shoved the heel of his palm against the car horn to make his point, silently cursing his regret for installing a musical horn that plays La Cucaracha.
By his shoe laid a balled up food wrapper from a burger joint, its contents had been all he ate, and he didn't enjoy it.
He looked over to Mister B in the passenger seat as co-counsel, who was occupied with the sight of a cuffed Roosevelt sliding into the back seat of a cop car with the guidance of a scruffy officer. Scudworth recalled the complaints students brought to his attention about that teacher, then concluded that she was getting escorted to prison for an entirely separate crime. One less potential scapegoat for him.
Mister B's antenna straightened lightning quick when he sensed the heat from Scudworth's glare, his mechanical body spun in response just as quick.
"Your fuel," the robot said, his two-prong hand pointed crudely at the guage.
He swore he didn't idle that long, but the arrow was significantly closer to the "E" on the guage. With his other options at risk of placing a bigger bounty on his head, Scudworth acquiesced to cutting the engine on his old pinto.
Just then, he realized he forgot to forge a story for the stench that just wouldn't dissipate. As he and his robot emerged from the car from their respective sides, he decided to go with accidentally spilling a jarred specimen for the biology unit. A fetal pig, he'd say. In the same moment, the crowd swelled in his direction like he was a Hollywood star. Or a murderer on late night cold case programming.
A smile formed with ease at the thought.
Somebody scanned him, a suited man towering at six feet something with a squared face. Apart from turning his head, he was motionless like a rock in a riverbed. The woman joined at his side was a top grade reporter, he assumed from her formal monochrome attire. She had recording equipment on her person. Not good.
He felt Mister B pull on his lab coat and saw his offer for a handkerchief. He swiped it up to dab the sweat from his forehead as they headed for the main entrance. His legs felt a bit wobbly, and if he was honest, he didn't like the rush of contradictory feelings from extreme hypotheticals. To his advantage, it was rather normal to react this way in circumstances like these.
Crowd control would have to call for backup, or else what looked like an uneven game of Red Rover could break more than bones.
Shortly, the pair was stopped before the entrance by square-head sneaking up on them.
"Cinnamon J Scudworth, we can't allow you inside."
Fantastic fibbery, go.
"Why, I forgot my ecclectic sci-fi themed fish tank!" Scudworth laughed, then whispered with urgency, "and my Butlertron's backup battery. He needs his current one replaced very soon."
Scudworth lightly patted Mister B on the flat of his head for good measure.
The reporter prodded with a microphone, "as the choreographer of A Night In The Meat Locker, do you feel responsible for the unfortunate outcome?"
"Why yes, I am overcome with survivor's guilt. If only I had the foresight, prom night would have been located in a less sketchy, more wholesome facility," he let loose a subdued chuckle, "like a bouncing nightclub."
The officer's frown deepened. Whether it was from that off-colour joke, or he acknowledged the grave matter with mirrored sympathy, Scudworth had to keep at it.
"I am truly sorry for any grief I've caused. That won't revive our fallen, however I can offer-" his voice caught.
He was contractually bound to hide the school's true purpose and the means used to further it along from anyone who wasn't on the project. Mister B's idea didn't seem so brilliant now.
"A prominent lead," square face filled in.
Mister B's eyebrows creaked as they tented in worry.
"Ohoho," the man almost cracked a smile, "I'd forgotten to introduce ourselves. Inspector Ketham."
"Janis of th-the Exclamation Point," the reporter shook a little. Overcaffeinated, perhaps.
Scudworth and Mister B looked to each other for guidance, finding only mutual, tacit astonishment.
"May we get our belongings? Mister B's eyes are a little glazed."
"Absolutely. If you don't mind us coming with you."
Just great. The former principal caged his sarcasm and strolled to the doors, flicking his hand for the guests to follow.
A cool rush of air and the scent of school brushed past them as they entered the main hall. Janis gazed around trying to take in all the sights before all the traces of community would be tucked away.
The hall was taller than it was wide. Certificates for excellence, photographs, the redundantly titled Awareness Fair of Awareness posters, all plastered on the wallspace above the lockers. More personalized additions marked the cliques' claims to territory. Some were unambiguously vulgar.
"I have an admittedly, oh I do mean, a terribly pedestrian question," Janis started with a forced air of pleasantry, "what was an average school day like?"
"I would say... it was like herding cats, but they cry!"
"Oookay then?"
No word followed after that.
Scudworth felt strange. It wasn't the first time he'd been here when school was out, but those hours were spent focused on something that wasn't him. The silence wasn't new to him, but somehow the reverb of the group's footsteps and Mister B's squeaking wheels weren't much more favourable.
As they progressed, the guests realized the main hall bent a little to the side every few meters. It was like going up, or down, a huge spiral.
"The central staircase is now five meters and counting down, Wesley," the robot announced.
Not that the group couldn't see the break in the wall and the staircases beyond.
"He calls everyone that," Scudworth's hands shot up, fingers spread for emphasis, "it's one of his delightful quirks."
"That bot's a trekkie?" Ketham asked.
"Er, no, but good guess!"
"You built him?" Janis wondered as they ascended.
"I did! Oh how I missed the seventies when I was a lad majoring in robotics!"
Janis's eyes gleamed.
"Did you make your fish tank too?"
"I wish!"
The office was a relief from the closed depth outside. Ketham's shoulders dropped to a relaxed slope, and Janis breathed deeply. Mister B slid to the righthand back corner and engaged sleep mode.
The shelves which caught Janis's eye were markedly empty. An array of science equipment seemed to decorate the rest of the room otherwise.
Ketham inspected the alembics, peculiarly shaped glass containers with long spouts. Curiously, some of them more or less looked no different from abstract art, their functionality nonexistent.
"Make yourselves nice and cozy while I fish out the fish tank!" Scudworth yelled before diving into what could be assumed a huge closet.
It didn't take him long to haul it out and gesture at it like it was the eighth wonder of the world. The glass portion was a cube with rounded corners sandwiched between machinery. Tubes connected between the lower portion and the tank. One thin tube laid coiled inside, out of use. Most disappointing of all, there were no fish, no water either.
"They died," Scudworth laughed uneasily, "Although honestly who likes fish? They're such quitters!"
Ketham cleared his throat and said, "First and foremost, we're not here to discuss the pets you prefer. I won't have you arrested for simply talking with me. You may be held for further questioning, however."
"Yes yes, you want to know my movements on prom night! Also can I get you some tea? Maybe, maybe some chamomile to soothe your nerves?"
"No thanks," Janis straightened up.
"Ditto."
The glee on the former principal's face was knocked down a few notches as he leaned back against his desk and scratched his nose.
"I'm terribly sorry," Scudworth lamented, "but I can't for the life of me remember everything that happened because I received a death threat and blacked out. When I came to, I was lying on the floor, right in this room."
Both guests seated themselves in the chairs that were once occupied by miscreants and their foster parents.
"Luckily my loyal robot servant was able to help me get back on my feet." The words steadily pressed harder through Scudworth's teeth until he was hissing.
"Did this influence your actions at prom on that day?" Ketham probed, raising an eyebrow.
"I'll be getting there soon-"
"Quick question," Janis cut in, "what happened to your loyal robot servant's new battery?"
"Sssss ooh! I knew I was forgetting something! DAMN IT!" Scudworth's shouting climbed a whole octave and a half, and Janis's eyes widened in shock.
The ex-principal lifted his hands, and his fingers curled in a gnarled fashion suggesting they had more joints than they should have. Once he'd begun to pace and shriek around the room, the guests leaned towards each other while keeping their eyes on the distressed man.
"I hope he's not always like this." Janis whispered.
"It'd make him a pain to stand in court without being strapped to something."
As they held their furtive exchange, Scudworth zipped off to another room, presumably to save what little face he had left that fell apart from the spontaneous round of primal scream therapy. It was understandable to a fault, but that did little to ease the awkward atmosphere.
The robot hadn't budged once. It's unlikely he could hear anything, or if he did, he didn't have the juice to react. Ketham muttered how uncanny it was that the robot hadn't shut its eyelids.
A door slam tore their attention away. Scudworth stood in the jamb, holding at arm's length a battery the size of a soda can pinched between his thumb and index finger. He was smiling, but the shivering and beads of sweat made it clear it was just theatrics to save face.
The distressed man slid over to Mister B, crammed the battery in the torso's compartment, and babbled, "thank you kindly for that reminder."
"I was just about to apologize for, uh, setting you off like that," Janis admitted, "sometimes we forget how weird grief can be sometimes."
"Nonsense, my humble guest! If I wasn't kicked around, I wouldn't have accomplished anything at all!"
Ketham procured and offered a handkerchief, saying, "When you're ready, tell us what you remember."
"Why, thank you. I will."
"If the one responsible for those threatening calls is still out there, you may request police protection. With proof, it should be relatively smooth sailing."
Scudworth cleared his throat. "I'm ready."
Janis, sensing a great scoop, dialed up her microphone's sensitivity and tightened her grip on its housing.