Levi's phone rang with extra ferocity, and he snatched it up, frowning at the number—the extension belonged to the city jail. "Ackerman speaking."
"Mr. Ackerman? This is Bertholdt Hoover."
Levi's eyebrows shot up. "Mr. Hoover! I was due to pay you a visit this afternoon. What can I do for you? How'd you get to use the phone?"
The man on the other end gave a nervous laugh. "About that…this morning when I woke up, it seems my bail had been paid."
Levi's thoughts ran incredulous. He was pretty sure Hoover wasn't eligible for bail, but it seemed the prosecution wasn't seeking the death penalty after all. His stomach unclenched the tiniest amount. "Well," he said slowly. "I suppose that means you can meet me in my office this afternoon, in lieu of me going down there."
"Ah…" A pause. "I have to do a couple things, like pay Reiner back for a lot of rent, and see if I still have a job, and possibly apply for a new one… is there any possible way I could come in tomorrow instead?"
It wasn't ideal, and, childishly, Levi was half-tempted to say no. He caught sight of the sticky note on the lid of his laptop reminding him to pay Hanji a visit, something he'd neglected to do after his ill-fated trip to the eye doctor, and sighed, penciling Hoover in for 2:00. "One more thing," Levi said, suddenly remembering exactly how astronomical Hoover's bail would have been. "Who paid your bail, if you don't mind my asking?" Hoover had made it known, in very subtle tones and with no little amount of blushing, that he was barely able to pay Levi's fees, so Levi was fairly confident that he wouldn't have been able to pay bail.
"Oh, um, they didn't say! An anonymous source, apparently. Good luck, am I right?"
Levi's stomach clenched back up.
With lightning fingers he dialed the jail's administrative desk and filled them in on who he was and what he wanted. The incredibly bored-sounding, gum-chewing man on the other line grunted at him. "I'm telling you, that's exactly what it says. Anonymous money transfer."
"But it can't be an anonymous money transfer," Levi said in exasperation, "do you know what year it is?"
"Don't get salty with me, sir, I'm telling you that it was a money transfer done in cash this morning from a Western Union on the south side. If you want to go down there to see if they have security cameras and a good memory, then hey, whatever fills your toilet, but don't expect me to do it. I don't get paid enough to do this job, let alone play amateur detective." He slammed the phone down with a force that Levi considered unnecessary.
Someone—probably Petra—knocked on the door sharply and opened without waiting for an answer. "I brought you some tea," she said cheerily.
"Thank you," he groaned, still squeezing the skin between his eyes.
"Are you okay? What's wrong?" She asked, concerned.
He raised his head to look at her. She'd done some new thing to her hair, changed her usual lipstick color, and was wearing a cute yellow dress he had never seen before. In short, she looked far too pretty and cheerful considering it was a morning. "My murder suspect had his bail posted by an anonymous source."
Petra frowned. "Anonymous? You can't sneeze on a street corner anonymously anymore."
He raised his hands. "Thank you! I'm so glad someone else appreciates that anonymity doesn't exist, but apparently it does, and I have to go all the way down to a Western Union in the fucking hood to find out if they have cameras."
Petra shrugged. "Send an underling."
"I'm surprised, Petra. Normally you're so protective of them."
She smiled wickedly. "But they don't pay my salary, do they?"
He nodded. "Smart woman. I'll send Jaeger. It'll be payback for how badly he pissed me off yesterday." Petra's face slipped an almost undetectable degree. "And the fact that you favor him is all the more reason for him to go," Levi crowed with a self-satisfied smile. Petra stomped out muttering to herself. He sipped his tea calmly. He always felt a little better after tormenting people.
He ducked out at lunch to pay the city crime lab a visit. Hanji ambushed him as soon as he walked in the door, arms flailing. "You drive like a gangster, did you know?" they said, nearly knocking Levi down. "It's kind of terrifying."
He grasped them by the arms. "Thank you!" he grinned wickedly.
"And I like your glasses!"
He released them abruptly. "Shush. They are not to be mentioned."
"No, really! They suit you! Aw, you look kind of like a hipster," Hanji cooed, taking Levi's chin in hand to turn him toward the sunny window.
"I will kick you in the goddamn shins," he said pleasantly, pulling out of their grasp. "Petra scheduled an appointment for me without me knowing about it."
"Your headaches, probably," Hanji clucked in sympathy. "Well, what do you think of them?"
"Honestly?" He took the offensive plastic frames off and rubbed at his temples and nose. "They kind of hurt. It's like they're heavy or something. And I keep walking into doorframes. It's not very dignified."
Hanji's already enormous eyes grew wider before they threw their head back in a cackle. "Can someone film you? No, really, I'll bet it would be fascinating! I don't remember what adjusting to glasses is like. I think I was born wearing them. Can I study you? See how you take it? It would be for science!"
He grimaced. "No, but you can tell me all about your thrilling discovery and the cipher found with the last body."
Hanji positively glowed. "God, you'll never believe it. The decoded cipher and the anonymous shorthand clusterfuck are actually directly related."
"Hold up," Levi held out a hand, "I'm obligated to ask pretty early on: is there absolutely anything in the cipher that would imply there's going to be another murder?"
"I don't think so?" Hanji asked. Levi fervently wished it didn't sound like a question. "It's hard to explain. Just come with me. Coffee? Tea?" Levi was hauled by his wrist into the darkened recesses of the lab. "I'll spare you from having to be in my office."
"Oh, thank god," Levi sighed, suppressing a shudder.
"Actually, I'm sparing myself; last time you were in there, you threw away my Ned Stark bobblehead," Hanji pouted, pushing Levi in the vague direction of a stool pulled up to a table covered in printouts and copies.
"Task at hand, Four Eyes," Levi broke in. "Besides, it can't be called a bobblehead if it's actually missing a head, but that's not the point, please tell me about the goddamn cipher."
Hanji popped the top of a Red Bull can and drank half of it in one go. "Okay, so! If you will kindly feast your eyes on exhibit A—that's the printout with the blue tab—you will see the cipher left with the body of one Ilse Langnar. On its own, thanks to the utter brilliance that is Moblit Berner, we were able to find out that it's written in Old High German."
The only thing that popped up in Levi's mind was a very eloquent what. His brows knitted together.
"I know, right? Anyway! You'll never guess what it translates to."
"Then you should just tell me," Levi deadpanned, smirking a little.
"Quit interrupting," Hanji scolded. "It's Hildebrandsleid." They presented their finding with jazz hands.
Levi was pretty unsure whether the proclamation was supposed to be the title of something or if Hanji was just very empathetic about it. "Who the fuck is Hildebrand?"
"No, not who, but what. It's the oldest complete work of literature written in Old High German, which, by the way, is the point at which German split off from what would eventually become English. Did you know that if you watch a German movie with the subtitles off, you can actually pick up a lot of it?" Hanji said at such speed that it would have made a lesser man's head spin.
"Did you know that I can speak German at a passable level?" Levi intoned. "Christ, Hanji, how long has it been since you slept?"
With horror, Levi realized they actually needed to count on their fingers. "Forty-two hours!" They said cheerfully. Levi had never understood how Hanji was able to work like this; the pair had known each other since undergrad, and Hanji had always done this—work for superhumanly long stretches and sleep for equally long stretches when they were done. What Levi really wanted to know was how Hanji had managed to metabolize the caffeine. After years of drinking coffee and tea, the caffeine didn't give Levi a pick-me-up so much as it kept him from openly falling asleep at his desk. He realized Hanji was still talking.
"So anyway, of course the original Hildebrandslied is written in Old High German, and, I'm sure, Mr. Smarty Pants, that you can't read it, else you wouldn't have asked me," Hanji said smugly. "But don't feel bad; I can't read it, either. Luckily, in this glorious age of instant info, I was able to find a side-along translation. Please turn to exhibit B, the green-tabbed one."
Levi shuffled the pages obligingly and began to read the highlighted parts. "So," he said slowly, "basically this dude fights his father in battle but neither of them realizes that they're fighting their immediate family?"
"Au contraire! Evidently, Hadubrand—let's just call him Big H—knew that he was Little H's father, and knew that he either had to kill his son or be killed by him since they were on opposite sides of the war. The bad part is that the verse ends abruptly. It literally just says they broke each other's shields. But, if you will please note my notes at the bottom of the page, you'll see that this work is referenced in later literature, and it seems that Big H does indeed kill his son."
"What happens to Big H?" Levi asked obligingly.
Hanji shrugged. "Some works say that he was mortally wounded in the battle. Some say he became a king. The better question is—why didn't Little H know his own father? And there seem to be two possible answers to this. The first answer is that Big H abandoned the family. The second is that Little H ran away from home and didn't recognize his father because of the passage of time, yadda yadda. And in some versions, it gets even darker. And I think this darker version is exactly what is had in mind, if we assume that the 'anonymous' clusterfuck—" Hanji gave Levi a look that was entirely too probing—"and the cipher were written by the same person. I firmly believe that they are. The handwriting matches up with a certainty of ninety-seven percent, and the anonymous clusterfuck, well. Turn to exhibit C, the yellow tabbed one." Hanji's expression was uncharacteristically grave.
Levi didn't bother looking at the copy of the shorthand note he found at Hannes', going straight to the translation instead. The dread in the pit of his stomach had been steadily growing, but it damn near made him shudder now. Hanji had triple-underlined the last translated line: The scourge of the father is the shame of a son who has forgotten who made him. The son would do well to remember that he will pay.
"You look terrible," Hanji said, their lips pressed tight.
He cleared his throat. "A lot of people have shitty relationships with their fathers."
"Levi!" Hanji threw up their hands. "Did you actually read this? This sounds like a fucking death threat! You may be cranky, but I don't want you to die!"
They looked so aggrieved that Levi cracked a wry smile. "Aw, shucks, Shitty Glasses."
"More importantly, if you know something about this, fucking tell someone! One, you could possibly prevent more murders, including your own. Two, isn't there some legal bullshit that could happen if it turns out you knew who the murderer was?"
"Eh, not in this case," Levi shrugged, taking his glasses off to rub at his face tiredly. "That only really works if you actually know for a fact and have found hard evidence. Suspecting your father is a murderer and not saying anything isn't the same thing."
"Why haven't you said anything, Levi?" Hanji's tone was bordering on disappointment. "Where is Kenny?"
He looked into their enormous brown eyes steadily. "Will you believe me if I tell you I don't know? I seriously don't know. He hasn't been in the old house for several years now, and I lost track of him."
"Well, he clearly hasn't lost track of you."
Levi snorted. "I'm not exactly difficult to find. Being in the newspapers will do that. My paper trail probably stretches halfway to Mars."
"Well, there's no point to denying that you're the source of the anonymous clusterfuck," Hanji said levelly, "so if you can do that bit of investigative work, surely you can start poking around for your dear old dad, hm?"
Levi finally stumbled into his apartment at half past seven. The rest of his afternoon had been a whirlwind of combing over every single piece of information from all the other related murder cases, meeting with a new client, and being too busy and miserable to revel much in the furious glares Eren shot his way when he found out he was going to have to take a field trip to the ghetto to do Levi's bidding. He kicked off his shoes, dropped the keys on the shelf nailed to the wall, and seriously weighed the pros and cons of slumping against the door and just sleeping there. The ache that ripped through his stomach reminded him that even if he felt far from hungry, he still needed to eat.
He changed out of his work clothes and into a ratty t-shirt from his time on the rowing team in undergrad and a pair of shorts. He was so overdue for a trip to the gym or at least a run that he made a face at himself in the bathroom mirror. The contents of his fridge were far from inspiring, and in desperation he hadn't felt since school and total resignation to the heat, he made himself two turkey sandwiches and a salad. He broke one of his own rules and ate on the couch in the laziest possible position, fighting the ingrained urge to turn on the news. Is there really any news that I want to hear today? he thought idly. Probably not.
He flopped bonelessly back on the couch after doing the washing-up—that was one rule he refused to break unless deathly ill—and groaned, throwing an arm over his eyes. He let his mind whirl. He hadn't seen his father in the context of father-and-son since shortly before his eighteenth birthday. He came home from school one day during winter finals and found his father gone with a note saying "back soon." Meanwhile, Levi turned eighteen, graduated, and moved halfway across the country for college, everything he felt like salvaging jammed into his mother's shitty hatchback from the seventies. He had everything he needed or wanted from the house and saw no need to go back. That was also the year he met Hanji, Eldo, and Gunther, and so he never had a reason to go back.
It hadn't occurred to him at first to try to keep tabs on his father. Hell, when he was a kid, his father wasn't even dangerous. He was a tough-love kind of man, but Levi never doubted he was cared for. His father would occasionally surprise him with some chewing gum or some of the comics he liked to read when he was about six. He remembered, though, something that his mother had told him after a boy hadn't wanted to play with him simply because of his last name. "You will hear strange things about the Ackermans," his mother had warned, though she was smiling slightly, like she was telling a joke. Later, when he caught wind of some of those strange things himself, he had confronted her with them. That time, her face was deadly serious. "You'll hear that we breed craziness like icicles on a cold day," she'd said bitterly. "You'll hear that we're dangerous, that we've done dangerous things, at least from people who've lived in this town forever. But you'll hear that we're powerful, too. Your grandmother used to joke that there was an Ackerman spark—once you find what your spark is, you'll have no choice but to follow it, and be exceedingly good at it. So it can be a good thing, too. Powerful doesn't mean bad or dangerous. People can be powerfully good, too."
The older Levi got, the less he actually believed that. Especially since he was facing the possibility that one, his father had followed him; two, his father was deeply angry at him (even though I'm not the one who fucked off with a "be right back" and then never came back, Levi thought acidly); and three, his father had relentlessly killed half a dozen people in brutal ways and would in all likelihood keep doing it.
Levi rubbed at his face again, letting his exhausted eyes drift shut. He wasn't enough of a gunslinger, old-western type to think, well, Dad, if you can be powerfully criminal then I can be powerfully good and bring your ass down, stage on and all that. This was a city of several million people, and the chances of him being able to lure his father out without falling into a trap (and at this rate, Levi was beginning to think that such a trap might involve being framed for all the murders) were pretty slim.
He fell asleep on the couch and woke up to the insistent buzzing of his phone against the glass of the coffee table. Working the kinks out of his neck with a grunt, he answered. "Ackerman speaking."
"Mr. Ackerman? This is Officer Pixis. I wanted to let you know that we have your client, Bertholdt Hoover, in custody. It's just a precaution, but I'm sure you'll be reasonable about it." His tone was frank and no-nonsense, which were two qualities Levi would have appreciated if he knew what the man was talking about.
"I'm afraid I don't understand."
"Oh, my apologies. Did you not see the eleven o'clock news? There's been another murder."
Levi clicked on the television and got off the phone. The flickering glow of the special broadcast lit up Levi's shadowy apartment, and his knuckles grew whiter and whiter around the remote. After a few minutes, he'd had enough. He flicked the television off, brushed his teeth, and collapsed into bed, mind reeling, trying desperately to follow the threads of whatever the hell was going on.
"Fuck," he whispered to the ceiling.
Merry Christmas, ya filthy animals.
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