Chapter 16: The White Collar Killer

Arthur was angry. It went without saying that he was incredibly agitated - that tends to happen when someone finds out they're wanted for first degree murder. But Arthur wasn't just tense. He was incensed.

Arthur ended the call abruptly with Andrea. He turned smartly on his heel, rocks grinding beneath him. And then he began to run, sprint, bolt back to the cottage, back to the laptop, back to where he could have a semblance of control over the situation. Millions of thoughts snapped through Arthur's mind, circling and grinding against each other in a vicious, endless loop.

One thought was most prevalent, tearing at his consciousness as relentlessly as the wind tore through his hair. Why did I trust anyone but myself?

Saito was supposed to wipe the security cameras. David was supposed to make sure everything was fine, taken care of. He had reassured Arthur. Andrea had backed David up, and even encouraged Arthur to go against his instincts, back to the house. Eames was the tipping point, the person who convinced Arthur to return - to his own mother's house, a person Arthur could put in danger, and something Eames conveniently left out of the equation. That was a red flag Arthur had somehow been color blind to, and he was regretting it.

Finally, Iris had accommodated Arthur in her home. She had been immensely compassionate and helpful beyond what Arthur could've hoped for. She fed him and dressed his wounds and - wasted his time. Time Arthur should've used for cleaning up his mess, not snoring into a quilt.Goddamn it.

Yes, Arthur was angry. Infuriated. Livid. But not with them. Not with any of them. Only with himself.

Arthur's anger fueled his legs. The normally fifteen minute trek back to the house turned into a five minute sprint. By the time Arthur reached the back door, his lungs were aflame, chest constricted in his bandages. And worst of all, he was soaked.

It took him a few moments to realize that it must have started raining. Arthur had been so distracted he hadn't even noticed the ongoing deluge that had opened up above him. The sky had grown dark and volatile, a mimicry of Arthur's own emotions.

Shivering off some cold water, Arthur skidded into the dark house with a bang, door slamming against the inside wall. His feet squeaked as he stomped across the tile floor, leaving puddles of liquid mud behind him. Arthur wondered offhandedly if his new cell phone was waterproof.

With unusual carelessness, Arthur threw Eames' drenched sweatshirt onto the ground, mud and water flying across the tiles in dark rivulets. Arthur whipped shirtless through the house, torso bare except for ruined, damp bandages. "Fuck!" he swore, wrenching Eames' laptop from the sitting room. He stormed over to the living room table, pants dripping. Droplets ran in slow tracks through Arthur's black hair, beading in his eyelashes and blurring his vision. Even without the hindrance of the water, the room was dark, the only illumination coming from the weak outside light. Water dripping from his wrist, Arthur flicked on the ornate white lamp next to the sofa.

Blinking furiously, Arthur powered up the laptop with a jab of his finger, his knee bouncing anxiously as he sat at the edge of the furniture. Cataloging the unconscious tic, Arthur stopped the bouncing angrily with a slap of his palm. Irritated, Arthur swiped some water off his brow with his other hand. The drops flew off his skin, scattering onto the illuminated keys of the device in front of him. Arthur shook his head in vexation, turning to look out the window. The view was dark with storm clouds, the glass letting in little light. He watched the storm move in for a minute, clouds rolling, lightning flashing. He clenched his left fist rhythmically, still feeling the pull at the middle of his palm where Eames had sewed the skin back together. Arthur sat there, staring, trying to think back to a time in his life when things were stable, when there wasn't some sort of hit out for his life. He twisted one of the dice in his hand, thinking back to the Cobol fuck-up.

Dom and Arthur had been hired to extract the Proclus Global plan from a man named Kaneda. But despite being the chief engineer of the company, the man hadn't known the plans for what they wanted.

And that hadn't even been the problem. No, it had been Cobb. It was the first time Arthur had felt the sheer instability of Dom's mind after Mal's death. A passenger bus had been manifested in front of the man, in full view of the projections, in the middle of the downtown. Arthur, always on the lookout for his friend, had barely managed to pull Dom out of the way from the offending vehicle. Arthur shook his head, remembering the mess that the rest of the job had been. Their architect, an unreliable coworker named Nash, had died mid-dream. Arthur had been shooting police officers left and right to create a diversion, even with the dream collapsing around him. It had been ridiculous, stressful, and just the start of the horrible route of work that Dom had dragged Arthur along on, culminating in the Fischer inception. Dom had been desperate to get his kids back, ignoring anyone else's safety in the process.

And Cobol was still hunting Arthur to this day. It was all Cobb's fault, and although Arthur still cared for the man, Arthur was also not one to forget wrongs.

Arthur looked back at the blue-white light of the laptop and was tempted to put his head into his hands. On the screen, there was a line of text proclaiming '31 out of 42 updates completed'. Arthur looked down at himself, tired. In the glow of the laptop and the lamp, Arthur took in his bare chest, his arms. Old scars had mostly faded across his pale skin, except for a few raised portions of flesh Arthur would rather forget the origin of. Glancing at the undersides of his two arms, Arthur could barely make out the silvery-white streaks that marked the insides of his elbows, almost like a web. If someone didn't know better, most would probably take the faint scars on Arthur's forearms as the cicatrices of a recovering drug addict. But, as few knew, the scars he bore were a tell, a map of Arthur's long history in dreamsharing. The most recent signs of assault upon his skin were all on his right arm. A few, mostly healed marks from the planning of the Jansen job, and three new ones, courtesy of Eames. I still can't believe he knew my blood type,Arthur mused. I'm still angry that I'm putting his mother in danger, but he's been so helpful it's hard to stay affronted…

Forty-two out of forty-two updates later, Arthur sank forward once more, preparing for some heavy-duty internet research. I need to figure out what the newspapers are saying, if any of my identities are compromised, if I'm labeled as a terrorist, I wonder if…But Arthur's musing stopped abruptly as the login screen loaded, because a box waiting for a password appeared in front of him. Arthur sighed once more, running a hand through his black rain-slicked hair. I am not going to interrupt Eames or anyone else in London over a simple password.Arthur typed in a few half-assed guesses, his whole body going rigid as he was denied entry for the fourth time. "Shit," Arthur cursed under his breath, rising to his feet. He was ready to walk to London if that's what it would take to get something to goddamn work.

"Arthur?"

Arthur spun around in the dim light, every muscle in his body aching to lash out. Even as he took in Iris' impeccant form in the doorway, Arthur still felt the irrational urge to hit something. Something about focusing on her cheap pink glasses snapped Arthur back to reality, his fists unclenching from their previously taut positions. What the hell is wrong with me?Arthur thought, mentally giving himself a shake. I'll figure this all out. Without committing another murder in the process.

All fuming emotions drained out of Arthur as he felt a rush of weariness sweep over him. He couldn't believe how angry he had gotten, and at Eames' mother of all people. "Iris," Arthur said, his voice tiredly hollow. "Do you know the password to Eames' laptop?"

Iris took in Arthur for a moment, her lips parting in an unasked question. "No," she said finally. "No, I do not." Iris looked Arthur's form up and down, taking in his lack of a shirt and the soaked state of his pants. "I take it the phone call did not go well, love?"

Arthur fell back onto the sofa's cushions, his head hitting the curve of its edge. He laced his fingers behind his head, staring up at the textured ceiling. "No," Arthur replied, his gaze still resolutely fixed on the white ceiling above him. "The call most definitely did not go well." Arthur sat back up a little, looking at the computer with distaste. He was tempted to throw the laptop across the room. "And you don't have any other computers?" Arthur asked Iris. "No other hotspots I could use, no other connections to WiFi?" Iris just shook her head, looking compassionately at Arthur's desperate form.

"I'm not one much for technology," Iris said. "Never have been." Arthur could feel Iris' gaze on his back a little while longer, her hovering form an unspoken presence at his back. "I'm going to make a brew," she said finally, leaving Arthur alone in the living room. Alone with his computer. Given to him by Eames.

I'm sure Eames thought this would be some cute joke, Arthur thought sourly. He looked at the clock. It was growing late, but Arthur could not be sure Eames had left the scene of the crime yet. He wasn't keen on calling the man if he was just going to have to play pass-the-cellphone-down-the-line once more. I can figure this out,Arthur thought, urging himself on. The password can't be too difficult. Eames wouldn't do that to me.

Arthur sat there a few more minutes, the excess water dripping off his muscles and onto the fabric of the cushions below. I'm going to ruin this couch.

The sound of glass breaking startled Arthur out of his concentration. He rose to his feet, worried. "Iris?' He called. "Are you alright?"

"Fine, dear!" Iris replied, a little too hurriedly. "Just surprised is all."

Arthur wasn't up to Eames' standard of human perception, but even he could hear the lie in her tone. He got up from his prostrate position, moving into the kitchen.

Once in the small kitchen, Arthur immediately realized what had been the source of the crash - porcelain shards of what once had been a teacup lay scattered across the tile, their white pieces blending in well with the light flooring. Some puddles of tea lay in the middle of the slivers, dotting the floor in minute brown specks. Arthur quickly commandeered the dustpan from a seemingly shaken Iris, sweeping up the silvers efficiently, and mopping up the tea with a rag. After Iris directed him to the trash to throw out the fragments, Arthur quickly turned back to the counter, placing the small brush and bin to the side.

"What's wrong, Iris?" Arthur asked the older woman, coming closer to her. She was visibly unnerved, fiddling with the beaded chain of her glasses anxiously. Iris waved Arthur over hesitantly, and he followed her into the sitting room. A small television was on in the corner, a 'mute' symbol showing up prominently in the bottom left corner of the screen.

"It's just, well, I turned on the telly to watch the news programme, like every night - even Eames knows I watch the same one, BBC, you know," Iris pauses, glancing at Arthur, seemingly unsure of whether to go on. Arthur felt a pit forming in his stomach, the beginnings of bad thoughts taking shape in his mind. "And as I was going to grab the biscuit tin for both of us," Iris swallowed, twisting her glasses' chain. "I just - I thought I heard something, love."

At this point, Arthur was in full-blown damage control mode, although he was making sure to conceal it. What if Iris saw news about me? Oh no, what if they have a description…"What was it, Iris?" Arthur questioned, his touch clammy and hesitant on her elbow. "It's alright, you can tell me."

"It was my son," Iris said, lowering her grip down from the glasses. "He was on the news."

Well that's not what I was expecting,Arthur thought. "What was Eames doing? Why was he on TV?"

Iris laughed a little, the sound so choked Arthur wondered if Iris really was alright. "I'm probably just imagining things, dear," she said. "I didn't even see him. Like I said, I was walking back to the kitchen and just heard his voice." Arthur turned back to the muted box, his eyes taking in a commercial for dish soap.

Knowing the man's resourcefulness well, Arthur was less skeptical than Iris - Eames seemed to be able to get into anything, once he was determined enough. But Arthur couldn't be obvious about his suspicions - he was still trying to protect Iris from her son's other life, or at least, shield her as much as possible. "What did you think you heard, Iris?"

Iris looked a little sheepish, her hazel eyes darting back to the kitchen. "I dropped my tea before I could really hear too much, I'm afraid. I was just so surprised to hear his voice, you know. I told you Arthur, I rarely speak to Eames, never mind see him. It's no surprise I imagined it, love. It's too bad - " Iris halted in her response, suddenly looking excited. "Wait!" She exclaimed. She stepped in front of Arthur abruptly, and he leaned out of her way, his bare back hitting the wall behind him. He winced as the impact filtered through his bandages. "Sorry, love, sorry," Iris apologized, grabbing a black remote off the table. She peered at the buttons, slipping on her pink-rimmed glasses. "Eames bought this telly last time I saw him, claiming my old one was outdated or some such nonsense…" Iris fiddled with the black device a few moments, her eyes scanning the controls rapidly. She gave up in a matter of seconds, thrusting the remote Arthur's way. He took it questioningly, unsure of what to do. Iris must have spotted his confusion, because she waved in the direction of the television expansively, as though gesturing to an invisible being. "Along with the TV, Eames bought some fancy box," she said. "I forgot, because I never use it, but he insisted on buying it." Iris beamed up at Arthur, some of her previous confidence returning to her posture as she winked. "Whenever Eames is here, he likes to record that one show with the autos and those two loud men, always spouting on about foreign vehicles and such. I can't recall the name…"

"Top Gear?" Arthur asked automatically, still lost in whatever thought process Iris was heading down.

"Yes, yes, that's the one, love. My point is, he's able to record and rewind everything with that thing, even if it's a programme he's watching live," Iris said, touching the device in Arthur's grip. "So - "

" - I can do it now to watch where you thought you heard Eames," Arthur finished, smiling just a little. "Good catch, Iris." He looked at the remote in the low light, the storm outside casting strange shadows into the living room. The storm had grown even stronger, the rain pounding against the windows determinedly.

They settled nearer to the television, and Arthur aimed the remote at the various boxes next to the TV. After pressing 'rewind' both himself and Iris gave a sigh of relief as the live broadcast began to play backwards.

They sat in silence for a few moments, watching people and commercials reverse as the rain continued to hit against the side of the house. "There!" Iris cried out, as Arthur rewinded past a news program. "That's the start of the programme I always watch."

Keying off her directions, Arthur fast forwarded a little more, pressing play just as the broadcast began.

" - to welcome you to BBC Newsnight," a male news announcer sat at a blue desk, his white hair bright under the camera lights. "Tonight we have breaking news coming out of the business district of London. We have just received news of a police investigation in the - "

"See, I told you it must have been nothing, Arthur," said Iris, laying a hand on his arm. "We should find a shirt for you, love, and forget about this."

But Arthur was still, his eyes trained on the screen. He didn't even acknowledge Iris' words, so focused he was on the news report.

" - questions are arising from the public about this investigation, as reports are coming in that the actual crime happened over a week ago, and information is only being released to the media as of today. Now we will transition to footage from earlier today, where…"

Arthur watched the screen avidly as the cameras cut away from the reporter. A strange buzzing began in his ears as he saw the footage in question. Although the area was swamped with various police vehicles, crime scene tape, and investigators, the alley next to CurrencyCorp was unmistakable to Arthur, down to the fire escape in the background.

"I am here at the focal point of London's investigation." A serious-looking reporter stood in front of the camera, her cheery blouse at odds with the surrounding personnel. "Information has been hard to come by, but our sources say that a bomb evacuation was used as a diversion by the perpetrators, who proceeded to engage in a firefight on the fifth floor of this building. Motives are unknown, however the offices damaged in the incident were identified to be property of CurrencyCorp, a business firm specializing in… " Arthur tuned out the reporter, running a hand over his damp hair. Fuck. This is worse than I thought.

" - an unidentified male was found dead outside the building, suffering one shot to the - "

"Arthur, why are you still watching this?" Iris' grip increased on Arthur's arm. "There's really nothing to be gain from watching all of this morbid talk, I must have been mistaken - "

"In addition, a nearby small business suffered an apparent break-in yesterday, also by armed assailants. Information so far points to this robbery as an isolated 'violent incident', although no deaths or injuries have been reported. However, the owner was not available for comment, and -" The news reporter paused, and Arthur recognized the signs of someone listening to an ear piece. She leaned forward to hear better, her hand coming up to press on the device. A few seconds later the woman straightened, looking grim. "Officials have confirmed that the owner of the burglarized café is missing."

Eddie is missing?A picture flashed across the screen, and Arthur swallowed heavily, recognizing a younger version of Eddie's face, complete with long blond hair. "This picture shows Edward Dawson, the missing man in question. Listeners are encouraged to contact the police with any and all related information. Edward is described as…" Arthur blocked out the newscaster's voice, his headache growing stronger by the minute.

"Shit," Arthur said quietly, forgetting about Iris' presence next to him. She stiffened, staring harder at the screen.

"Edward Dawson," she read. "Arthur, is that someone you - " but Iris' question is drowned out as Arthur turns up the volume, the broadcast cutting back to the female reporter.

"The London police have declined to comment if these two disturbing crimes are in any way related to each other, however, here with us we have Investigator - " Arthur forgoed paying attention to the newscaster's talking to watch a man come into view on the left hand side of the screen, his dark blue jacket matching the surrounding crime scene workers. " - and here he is, with details related to these stunning developments. Investigator, can you confirm that the two incidents are related? If so, what do you think happened to the store owner, Edward Dawson?" The woman thrust the microphone closer to the young investigator. He backed up a little, looking uncomfortable.

"At the moment, we are hesitant to confirm any suspicions about the nature of this crime, however, we can state with definite certainty that the criminals involved in both surveyed areas are trained, possibly gang related, and…" The male investigator went on with his analysis, foregoing the cameras to speaking directly with the female reporter. He seemed awkward in the spotlight, and looked very young as he picked at the cuff of his jacket.

Arthur locked on to the reluctant investigator's statement, his arms crossing over his bare chest. The bandages creased under his biceps, reminding him of his own setbacks. His frown grew larger.

Iris' own expression gradually changed to one of horrified understanding as she watched Arthur, her grip falling off his arm in shock. "Don't tell me you're involved in this? That man just said this might be a work of a gang!" Iris reeled, clutching onto Arthur's arm one more. He shifted, but didn't shake her off, and tore his eyes off the screen to look at her, eyebrow raised. "Do you owe money to someone, Arthur? To a mob? Is that why you sought Eames' help? Love - were you shot because of it?"

Arthur hit the 'pause' button as Iris continued to pepper him with questions, unable to focus on the investigator's words. "Iris," he sighed. "I will explain to you what is going on - once I know myself. But as of right now, can we focus on this?" Arthur gestured towards the TV with the remote. A thought struck him. "Have we even gotten to the point where you thought you heard Eames?"

Iris frowned at Arthur, looking slightly affronted. She crossed her arms over her chest as well. "No," she said shortly. "I watched this live. But any moment now." Arthur nodded, resuming the broadcast once more. The reporter was interrogating the investigator, and he remained fidgety, darting glances off screen, probably back at where he had been working.

"I'm sorry," he said, shifting uncomfortably on his feet. "I can't comment much more on the issue right now. If you would like, I'm sure once one of the detectives has more information. When they are cleared and have a spare moment, I'm sure - "

"That's alright mate." A voice sounded from behind the analyst, clear enough to be picked up by the news station's microphones. Broad shoulders entered from in front of the camera man, taking up the screen. A white shirt blocked the cameraman for a second, engulfing the picture in white. The cameraman shifted, and the picture focused again. The man in plain clothes was now standing next to the investigator. And although he was wearing glasses and his hair was out of its gelled style, Arthur recognized the cause of the interruption.

It was Eames.

Iris gasped as Arthur fumbled for the remote. He paused the program, looking over at Iris. "Looks like your ears heard correctly."

Iris shook her head, seemingly unable to reconcile the man on television to be Eames. Who's in full view for anyone watching the nighttime news, Arthur thought unhappily. "But why… " Iris trailed off, looking flabbergasted. "Why would he be there?" She wrung her hands. "No - howcould he be there?"

Arthur just shook his head, flipping the remote towards the television once more. "I guess we'll just have to find out," he said, and pressed play.

Eames moved, pulling out a chain from underneath his pressed white shirt. He quickly flashed the attached badge at both the investigator and the disgruntled looking reporter. "I'll take it from here. Orders from the higher-ups, you're to get back to work." Eames directed the last part of his speech to the investigator, who looked positively ecstatic to leave the interview. The analyst barely remembered to shake the reporter's hand before scrambling off screen, only pausing to nod once more to Eames.

"Who are you?" The reporter asked Eames. Her tone was superficially pleasant, but Arthur could hear the undertones of annoyance in her voice.

"I'm Mr. Johnson, a detective here. And you're BBC news, correct?" Eames flashed his usual beguiling smile the reporter's way. "I've always loved watching the daily broadcast."

"Great!" The reporter said, recovering herself and smoothing a hand down her hair. She's ensnared, Arthur thought, rolling his eyes. "I am reporting for BBC. Actually, we're taping a segment for the nightly broadcast - would you mind being in it? We've haven't been able to get much information for our viewers, and it would be brilliant to get a statement - " the reporter's words cut off as the video was edited, quickly switching to a shot of Eames standing closer, microphone pointed towards him. Arthur smirked. He could only imagine what Eames had said to the reporter in order for the station to edit it out.

" - that particular speculation has run rampant the past few days," Eames was saying, glancing periodically towards the reporter. "Although I would go far as to say in my personal opinion that the two crime scenes are notconnected in any way," Eames stated. The reporter looked unhappy that he wasn't entertaining her theory.

"But don't you think that two violent incidents within a block of each other are suspicious?" She asked Eames. "Mr. Johnson, the public will be worried - Inspector Brown just said that he believes the perpetrators could be part of an organized crime organization."

Eames looked surprised, raising an incredulous eyebrow at the reporter. "Inspector Brown has had a long day," he said, brushing off the reporter's speculation. "However," Eames turned fully so that his body was facing the camera. He paused for a second, ensuring the attention of the viewers. Arthur was surprised at how intensely Eames seemed to be looking into the camera.

"I do believe that these criminals will be persecuted fullyfor their part in these offenses. I would also speculate that neither the police nor the media has received the full story yet, and every discovery at this crime scene will have to be taken with a grain of salt. Much research will have to be done into the origins of these crimes, before we come to any direct conclusions." Eames turned back to the reporter, seemingly satisfied with his monologue.

The broadcast cut once again, except this time back to the usual nightly reporter. "And there you have it," the man with white hair was saying. "BBC was one of the few stations able to broadcast from the main crime scene earlier today. As of now, that section is closed to the public due to the ongoing investigation. Later developments have prompted us to show this video released by the police. The media has been informed that this man is unidentified, but classified as one of the lead perpetrators involved in the violent CurrencyCorp shooting, dubbed 'The White Collar Killer' by some outlets."

The news report cut to a grainy security feed, in which Arthur recognized one of CurrencyCorp's main entrances. The cameras showed a side view of a receptionist's desk. The woman behind it was shuffling papers and glancing down towards a computer. Her head lifted as a man came striding out of the elevator, purposefully tilting his head away from the camera. He was dressed very professionally. Arthur could make out the signs of a well tailored suit peaking out from the edges of his black coat. The man moved a little, accidentally knocking some papers off the desk, and Arthur cursed.

"What Arthur?" Iris asked. "What is it?"

Arthur just shook his head, watching the grainy security video play out. He already knew what was going to happen - the man was going to stoop down, and go behind the edge of the counter to aid the receptionist in picking up the papers. The man's face was turned away from the camera the whole time, but Arthur also knew as soon as the man knocked the papers, sending the receptionist scrambling to the floor, he plugged in a flash drive to the computer. That flash drive would duplicate all of CurrencyCorp's files and document the makeup of the company's entire network. And, as the man moved behind the desk to help pick up the papers, Arthur knew he was going to extract the flash drive once more, download complete.

Of course, none of it was apparent from the video that BBC was showing. At best, viewers could observe the man knocking over the papers and clambering to retrieve them, hitting the edge of the woman's computer in the process. In addition, he bumped into the receptionist once more on the way up, somehow ending up on the other side of the woman in the process, nearer to the computer.

Arthur knew all this because the man in the video was him. He was part of the current security footage being aired on television, a piece of video that Sandy swore she had deleted.

"This footage you are viewing is from inside CurrencyCorp, from a month earlier. Cameras captured video of this man entering the building and quickly leaving. An anonymous tip off has given evidence that this man was instrumental in the carnage of last week." The male reporter leaned forward a little, looking professionally concerned. "Police sketch artists have released a facial composite of the man known as The White Collar Killer. Any citizens spotting suspicious individuals matching this man's description in the greater London area are urged to…"

The facial composite flashed onto the screen, and Arthur almost dropped the remote.

Sure, the nose was a little more hooked, the freckle missing from underneath his right eye, and overall the artist gave Arthur more scars on his face than he could ever take credit for, but the likeness was there. Undoubtedly, the facial composite was of him.

"The subject in question is described as being Caucasian, male, and having a stature between - "

Arthur shut off the television. He had seen enough. Iris stood next to him, staring blankly at the TV. "Was that - that was - "

"That was me," Arthur finished, standing. "I'll be back," he said to Iris, stepping towards the front door.

"Where - where are you going?!" Iris called to him. The front door slammed shut in response.

Arthur stood on the front step in the middle of the thunderstorm. It was raining so profusely that he couldn't even spot the end of the driveway. He walked off the front step and out onto the lawn, heedless of the lightning streaking in great arcs through the night sky.

"It wasn't raining like this in Eames' interview," Arthur said out loud to himself. "I wish it was like earlier." He began to snicker, and then to laugh. "No, I wish it was like 10 years ago!" Arthur's bandages were now beyond soaked, his pants were a lost cause, and his stitches were probably ruined underneath it all. But he didn't care, because he was near hysterics.

Not only had a video of him been broadcasted to every news outlet in the U.K., but descriptions and sketches of himself were available to all the news providers as well.

Arthur was well and completely fucked, and he knew it.

The worst part was, Eames had been trying to protect him, even today. He had tried to dissuade the reporters from connecting the dots between various crime scenes, to throw the media off Arthur's scent. Arthur had heard the double meaning loud and clear behind Eames' speech to the smitten newscaster. Eames had been warning Arthur a shitstorm was brewing, and that Arthur was in the middle of it. He knew Arthur, or at least his mother, would be watching that specific broadcast, because, as Iris said, she watched the same thing every night. He wouldn't have been sure yet that Arthur would see they were looking for a specific killer. Eames had even gone so far as to warn Arthur he was going to need to do 'research' - with someone tipping off the authorities about Arthur's involvement, and Sandy's failure to erase Arthur from the CurrencyCorp video logs, Eames had known events were conspiring that neither Arthur nor himself even had an inkling of. Arthur was in the dark about his own crime scene.

Arthur flashed back to the present, to the rain falling out of the sky above him. His legs were coated in flecks of mud from the rapidly-forming puddles of the front yard, and his hands lay limply at his side. He fingered his totem, rolling the die in his palm. Arthur was almost disappointed when he could make out three dots through the dark. Shoving his totem back into his pants, Arthur squinted out into the darkness once more, able to see the outline of Eames' gnome. Satisfied the home was safe, or at least as safe as it can be with me in it, Arthur disappeared back into the house, his mind already ten steps ahead, gearing up for a long night of research and answers.

Perhaps that was the reason why he didn't notice the way the gnome was tilted slightly to the left, out of its normal position.