Chapter Five

A/N: A lot happens in this chapter, so it is a bit long. I'll try not to make this a habit!

Headmaster Cid Kramer stared coldly at the young man seated before him at the other side of the fixed steel desk. Sergeant Rawlinson sat beside the Headmaster, tape recorder at the ready.

"Let me present you with the evidence again, Mr. Almasy," he growled. "You, in the corridor, in a confused state, covered in blood, minus your weapon. Just yards away, your girlfriend, Quistis Trepe, lay helplessly bleeding, dying, after someone had kicked through the partition wall, slit her throat and left her for dead. I put it to you, Mr. Almasy, that someone was you."

The suited, bespectacled man next to Seifer tapped his shoulder and muttered, "You don't have to answer that question."

"What question?" Seifer snarled. "What question? That bastard didn't ask me a question. He's just throwing accusations at me. Look, I already told you, I did not kill Quistis. All right?"

Cid snorted. "Your outburst is indicative of your guilt, Almasy," he sneered. "Your relationship with Miss Trepe was going sour, so you decided to end it the only way you knew how… by killing her."

Seifer's fury bubbled to the surface. "How dare you!" he screamed. "How dare you bring my relationship with Quistis into this!" After a tap on the shoulder from his brief, Seifer calmed down a little. "I already told you, I'd been waiting in the Secret Area in the Training Centre for someone, with a bottle of wine, and when h… this person didn't turn up, I drank the wine straight from the bottle in five minutes. I must have left my gunblade in the Training Centre and passed out on the way back." He glared at Cid, who glared back.

"There was no trace of your Hyperion anywhere within the Training Centre, and this so-called Secret Area," Cid replied, enjoying Seifer's humiliation, hoping to trap him into confessing something, so he could get rid of this unruly student for good. "Try to explain this little hole in your alibi."

"I don't know!" spluttered Seifer. "I was drunk! Maybe a monster ate it!"

"And you expect me, to cut open every monster in there, which I've paid good money for in order to keep this academy going, just to prove you innocence?" Cid barked. "I don't think so, Almasy."

Rawlinson, himself a little annoyed by Cid's interrogation techniques, decided to say something. "We will take care of that if need be, Mr Almasy, but another issue is the blood found on your clothing after Miss Trepe's murder. If it wasn't Quistis', then whose was it?"

Seifer paused. He couldn't say what he had done when he had grabbed Squall's bloodied hand; how he had cherished the plasma of the man he loved! How he had waited all night for him, and how hurt he'd been when Squall had not shown up. In his rage he had tossed his Hyperion somewhere - exactly where he truly had forgotten – and trundled sadly back to his own room, but had passed out on the way. It was the truth, yet he could not speak it. Such forbidden love should stay secret.

Rawlinson sighed. "You must tell us, Mr Almasy," he said, quietly but authoritatively. "We have to know, before we give the forensic results in, so we don't have to hold you. And because you were drunk, and regarding your missing weapon, your alibi is so hazy we really cannot eliminate you from our enquiries until you…"

Seifer had had enough. He was trapped. He had no other choice but to tell the truth. "All right!" he hollered. "I'll tell you what you want to hear!"

"Here it comes," snorted Cid contemptuously, "the big confession."

"The blood… Seifer began, "was Squall Leonhart's." Yes, he would make Squall seem like the guilty party. It would serve him right for breaking his heart last night. "He… purposefully injured his hand and spilt blood on my clothing when I was semi-conscious… to make it look like I had done it… when in fact it was h…"

Seifer was rudely interrupted by an urgent banging on the door. "Headmaster Cid!" a girl's voice called out. "We have another police officer to see you urgently. He has information which my clear Seifer."

Cid tutted. "Send him in, Rinoa," he growled, almost angry at the fact Seifer had more evidence in his favour.

The steel door creaked open and in walked Bryce, ashen-faced and sweating. Not even the presence of the beautiful girl named Rinoa, secretary to the Headmaster, the girl who had crossed the marina earlier, could soothe him after the horrors he had witnessed. He cleared his throat.

"The three victims sustained similar injuries to those which caused Miss Trepe's death," he announced. "The murders took place at around seven-thirty this morning, whilst Mr Almasy was in custody. An unkempt girl was seen wandering away from the scene, so I must deduce that Mr Almasy is innocent."

"Of those three, maybe," argued Cid. "He is still the prime suspect in the murder of Miss Trepe."

The feverish Bryce shook his head. "No, Headmaster," he told Cid, deadpan. "Forensics tell me that the injuries inflicted on these three show that the same… implement… was used to kill Miss Trepe…"

A smile broke out on Rawlinson's face. "And since Hyperion is missing, this clears Mr Almasy completely. You're free to go, Seifer." He shot the Headmaster an indignant look.

Cid, his dream of finally expelling Seifer for good shattered, at least for now, sighed and said, "Very well, Almasy. But any more trouble from you, and you're done with this Garden. Understood?"

"Understood," Seifer smirked, getting to his feet, and shaking his lawyer's hand. Pushing past Bryce, he strutted from the room. Rawlinson could have sworn he saw Seifer extend the back of his middle finger as he left, a gesture he knew wasn't meant for him.

"Interview terminated, 11.23," Rawlinson intoned towards the tape recorder, before finally switching it off. "Now, Headmaster," he continued. "I would like to interview this Squall character, if I may. If Seifer's weapon was not responsible for these murders, then perhaps your other gunblade handler might be able to shed light on the matter."

Bryce started breathing quickly. "You don't understand, Sergeant," he said. "Forensics have deduced that it couldn't possibly have been a gunblade that inflicted these injuries."

Rawlinson and Cid both frowned in confusion.

"What kind of knife was it?" Cid asked. "We'll have the entire island searched to find out the perpetrator of these terrible crimes! Every sharp implement will be confiscated!"

Rawlinson exhaled sharply through pursed lips and shook his head. "There's no need to take such measures, Headmaster Kramer," he said, doing well to keep from throttling Cid.

"It… It wasn't even a knife," Bryce explained. "It was more like teeth marks… human teeth marks. Apparently, the victims have had their throats effectively… bitten out."

This time it was Cid's turn to go pale. "M-monstrous!" he stammered, starting to shake in horror. "What would drive someone to kill people in this way?"

Rawlinson opened his mouth to say: That's what we're going to try and do! But his phone ringing saved him from making such a grievous error. "Excuse me," he said, standing up and walking out of the room, phone to his ear. "Rawlinson," he answered. "Ah, Pastor Williams, how can I help you…?" He headed down the corridor to finish his call.

Bryce was left alone with Cid and the pretty girl from the marina. The shaken Cid took a moment to acknowledge his presence. "Rinoa," he said. "Please take this gentleman elsewhere to finish his affairs. My office will be sufficient."

"Certainly, sir," Rinoa said. "Follow me, Inspector."

Bryce blushed. He had never been called 'Inspector' before.

"So, what more do you have to do here?" Rinoa asked, as if she were interested. She' and Cid, wanted the police out of Garden as soon as possible. Having cops hanging around a military academy did not give a very positive message to the world.

"Well…" Bryce began, planning a vaguely intelligent conversation with this Rinoa, in the hope of impressing her. "First I will need to see one of the students, er…" He looked at his notebook. "Zell Dincht. It appears that his family was involved in the murder. And then…"

"Okay, Inspector," Rinoa said, "I shall send for Zell immediately. Please take a seat and wait here." She swept out of the room as if she couldn't wait to leave.

Not again! Bryce sighed to himself. What was wrong with him? Was he cursed with some woman repellent barrier, which only relented itself when he was inebriated? Was he really that boring? Or was it something worse? He raised his arm and surreptitiously sniffed under his arm. Nope, everything in order there.

After a while of Bryce thinking about how he could win Rinoa's trust, and hopefully her heart, the door creaked open. Just as well, thought Bryce. He had plenty of ideas, none of them any good.

"Zell, this is Inspector Rawlinson," Rinoa told the worried-looking, stocky blond boy. "He wants to see you about a private matter."

Bryce smiled weakly. "Hello, Zell," he said gently. "Take a seat."

"Th-thank you, Inspector," Zell said, shuffling into the office, and grabbing the swivel chair next to Bryce's. "I, um… haven't done anything wrong, have I?"

Usually, Bryce would say: Why, is there something you want to tell me about? However, this was a serious matter. The poor lad's entire family had just been wiped out; no time for jokes now.

He waited until Rinoa had left them both alone. "You don't have to call me Inspector," he said, with a slight tone of regret. "I'm just a regular, plain old Constable." He didn't want Rinoa to know this.

"O-okay," stammered Zell. "I'm sorry."

"No need to apologise," Bryce replied friendlily. "In fact, it is I that should be sorry." He felt a chill, dreading telling this poor, nervous kid who had never had any hassle or contact with the police, that his family was dead.

"Why?" asked Zell, confused.

"I'm assuming you've heard about the murders in Balamb this morning," Bryce began.

"Sure," said Zell, a little more brightly. "The whole school's talking about it. Isn't it terrible?"

"It certainly is," agreed Bryce. "And I'm sorry to have to tell you that your mother, sister and nephew were the victims." He drew a breath, waiting for the angry, violent reaction he was sure the musclebound Zell was capable of.

Zell's eyes grew wide with terror and shock, looking completely dead as if his soul had gone, of its own accord, to join his family. "No…" he finally squeaked. "No… it can't be… I saw them all yesterday… they were fine… it couldn't have been…" He put his head in his hands and silently wept.

Bryce had a few problems holding back his own tears. "I am really sorry," he quavered. "Listen, I can put you in touch with a counsellor if you want to talk about things." He put a hand on Zell's arm. "I wish there was something more I could do."

"If I'd had stayed over," Zell sniffled, his voice muffled through tears, and his hands. "I could have fought 'em off. If only I'd been there…" His tears resumed, now more audible than ever.

"You mustn't blame yourself," Bryce reassured him. "Say you had stayed with them. It's highly probable that you would have been killed yourself." He didn't want Zell to know just how his family had been murdered. It wasn't in his best interest to know.

"No!" Zell screamed suddenly, taking Bryce aback. "I would have stayed awake all night… guarding them with my life… and if they'd got to me… then so be it!"

Bryce tried to smile. "Hindsight is a wonderful thing," he said, trying to sound comforting. "How were you to know this would happen?"

"But if I'd only been there I would have…" Zell tried to argue his point but failed. He sighed and looked up, eyes bloodshot through his tears. "I guess you're right," he sighed, slumping his shoulders and looking down at his red flash trainers. "I just… can't believe they're gone. That this would happen at all… It's just… why would someone do such a thing?" The tears drowned him once again.

All of a sudden there was a knock at the door that made Bryce jump, but bypassed the stricken Zell. "Um, this isn't a good time," Bryce called.

"This is very important, Bryce," boomed the voice of Sergeant Rawlinson. "I have some more news of criminal activity in Balamb!"

Oh, God, not another one! Bryce thought in horror. How many murders could there be on such a tiny little island? "Give me a minute!" he called. He turned to Zell. "Listen," he said, whipping out his notebook. "I'm going to give you the number for the Victim Support Unit." He scribbled a number on a blank page, tore it out and passed it to Zell. "And if you want to talk stuff through with me… here's my card. Okay?" He handed one over to Zell, who took it passively.

"I wish I had more time to help you, Zell," Bryce said. "Anyway, I think you need some time alone."

Zell stood up and sniffed.

"Here," Bryce passed Zell his own handkerchief from his pocket. When Zell looked at him uncertainly, Bryce insisted he took it. "Come on, you need it more than me," he told Zell. "I've got plenty more at home, anyway."

"Thank you," Zell croaked, before turning on his heel and running embarrassed out of the office. He didn't like others to see him crying, and he felt that Bryce had seen enough. He barged unapologetically past the waiting Rawlinson, who came into the office.

"What's with him?" he asked suddenly.

"Erm, he's just lost his entire family," Bryce replied sarcastically. "How do you expect him to feel?"

"Oh…" It was Rawlinson's turn to be embarrassed. "The Dincht boy… I had no idea."

Bryce shook his head in exasperation. "Honestly, Sergeant, do you have no tact?" he asked, only half-joking. "Anyway, what's up? Another murder?"

"Not quite," Rawlinson said grimly, "but there has been a grave robbery at the local church, where young Miss Tilmett was buried only yesterday."

Bryce's jaw dropped. "What in Hyne's name is going on?" he gasped. "What sick-minded people live here? I'm in half a mind to move back to Deling City!" Bryce had left Deling City over a year ago, vowing never to return, after getting badly hassled by some Galbadian troops, who accused him of being a 'nark' and a 'traitor,' amongst other much worse names he had been called. He had therefore made Balamb his home, if you could call a run-down terraced house near the industrial docks a home.

"I have done a little investigating of my own," Rawlinson told the shocked Bryce, "and it seems there are no leads as to who did this. The pastor said he saw nothing… he was just walking to the church to prepare Sunday's sermon… and he saw Miss Tilmett's grave… all dug up. Her fiancé is in the Infirmary at the moment, completely cut up. Incoherent." He sighed. "Poor lad. He really loved that girl, from what I hear."

Bryce wanted to tell Rawlinson to shut up already. It had been heartbreaking enough to tell young Zell Dincht that his family had been brutally murdered. Instead he sighed. "I should have brought a spare handkerchief today," he joked weakly. "Give it to the other lad."

Rawlinson nodded. "So, now we're investigating a grave robbery as well as a quadruple murder," he said. "Now, the grave robbery, whilst awful, must obviously come after the killings, so, we'll take statements concerning this incident, but concentrate on the deaths."

Bryce looked doubtful. "You know," he said, "weird as this may sound, I think the incidents might be somehow connected." He looked at Rawlinson's broad grin on his chubby face, trying not to laugh at the absurdity of what Bryce had just said. "Call it… a feeling. I can't explain it…"

Their discussion of the cases was cut abruptly short, by a breathless Dr Sheila Kadowaki, who had just run, confused and terrified from the infirmary, up several flights of stairs to Cid's office. "Officers," she panted. "Rinoa told me you'd be here."

Bryce leapt to his feet. "What's wrong, ma'am?" he asked, suddenly concerned. Please, he thought, don't let this be another murder. He had not yet gotten over the moment he had seen Zell's family, especially his little nephew Connor, with their bodies bloodied, almost beyond recognition. He didn't think he could stomach another mutilated corpse.

"Quistis' body…." Dr Kadowaki gasped. "Gone… been taken… bodybag… ripped open." She sighed and began to fall. Thankfully, Rawlinson was able to catch her and guide the swooning, shocked doctor into Cid's office chair.

"It's okay, madam," he whispered, almost comfortingly. "First, where was the body taken from?"

Dr Kadowaki groaned, as if in pain. "The infirmary… in the west block… just an empty bodybag… on a stretcher…"

"Okay," affirmed Rawlinson, writing this down in his notebook. "We will go and investigate straight away." He turned to Bryce. "Come on, Bryce, duty calls." He sounded a little world-weary. Never had there been so much bloody murder and excitement in such a small part of the world.

Bryce stood up and walked over to the Headmaster's water cooler. He snatched a polystyrene cup and filled it with ice cool water. Carrying it over to his desk, he told the doctor, "Here, drink this slowly. You'll be okay."

"Thank you…" croaked Dr Kadowaki, feebly reaching out for the cup.

The policemen hurried downstairs, and straight to the infirmary, which was, sure enough empty, but for a lonely, weeping Irvine, a box of tissues his sole comfort. Bryce was keen to offer the Irvine his sympathies, but Rawlinson shook his head in disapproval. "Focus on the task in hand," he reminded Bryce.

Reluctantly entering the treatment area, they saw, sure enough, an empty white plastic bag, torn open, as Dr Kadowaki had told them. Rawlinson examined it, whilst Bryce approached tentatively.

"Hmm…" Rawlinson mused, "Must have been a quick job… whoever did this was very underprepared…" He looked a little closer. "The bag hasn't been cut, more likely it's been torn open with bare hands, which is very hard to… hang on a sec…"

"What is it?" Bryce asked, half intrigued, half scared. With all this uncharacteristic death and destruction going on in Balamb, surely this body snatching business was not an open and shut case.

"The folds here and here where pressure has been applied with the fingers," Rawlinson explained. "They are bent outwards rather than in."

Bryce was confused. "Meaning?" he asked.

"Meaning," Rawlinson said "that there is absolutely no way someone has simply ripped open this bag. These are the marks of someone desperate to get out…"