Content warning: This chapter is where the transphobia/homophobia and self-harm that I warned for in the first post kicks in.
FOUR: HOLDING THE LINE
CON
Police Chief Connor Wicke will be perfectly honest with you: he's not having a great week.
When was the last time he and his team had to deal with a body? There have been a few disappearances over the past few years, but that's par for the course; Mahogany is isolated, way out here in the middle of a dangerous stretch of forest. It's rare that a year goes by without some passing hiker overestimating their familiarity with the terrain and vanishing into the woods. Occasionally even Mahogany locals go missing. Everyone around here knows the risks, but sometimes you just get unlucky.
But murder? Hell, that just doesn't happen around here. Last time would have to have been six, seven years ago by this point. Con wasn't even Chief at the time. Imagine that. Five years and it feels like he's been doing this all his life.
Five years, and now Tacoma Spearing's dead.
He thinks of her as he drives south back through town, the icy wind seeping through the cracks in the cruiser's floorboards. Tacoma Spearing. Sort of a smartass, sure, but the kid had prospects. Not many people in Mahogany can say that. Johto is in a bad way, with the lingering effects of first the wartime occupation and then the OPEC embargo, and Mahogany has been hit especially hard. Who's building in this economy? Nobody. And that means there isn't much of a market for lumber.
Which means that Tacoma Spearing was one of maybe twenty kids in town who had a serious chance of being employed in five years' time. Or however long it takes to get a degree in doctoring pokémon, anyway.
And now, well. Better make that nineteen kids. Things keep going at this rate and Mahogany's going to bleed to death before the decade's out.
He shakes his head and pulls up outside the Spearing house. No time for wandering minds. Simeon and Dr Ishihara have got Tacoma down to the morgue; Toby is dealing with Aaron Lockwood. That just leaves one job, and it's one that Con refuses to delegate. He's meant to be protecting these people. When something like this happens, it's his face they need to see.
Con looks across at Byrne, in the passenger seat. She raises her eyebrows and looks back.
"All right," he says. "I guess it's time."
They get out, and let Moira out of the back. They turn to face the house.
Con takes a deep breath, removes his hat, and walks up the path to the door.
They know. They know the second he walks in. Lucas Spearing opens the door, already dressed to leave for the mill, and when he sees Con he lets go of the door and totters backwards like someone has set their shoulder to his chest and shoved.
"Who is it?" calls Annie Spearing from the kitchen, over the chatter of the radio, and then when Lucas doesn't answer Con takes him by the shoulder and leads him inside.
"Morning, Annie," he says, as Byrne closes the door quietly behind them. "Everett."
Annie stares.
"Would you like to sit down?" asks Con. "I'm afraid I have some―"
"Is this about Tacoma?" Annie asks, whispers really, and then Con nods and she crumples like a newspaper in a blizzard.
Con breathes in, and out. He manoeuvres Lucas into a chair, helps Annie sit down before she falls. Everett just stares, still as granite.
"I'm sorry to have to tell you that Aaron Lockwood found Tacoma's body in the Rageriver early this morning," says Con. Lucas is clutching his sleeve tightly, fiercely, like he's afraid the tide of his emotion will wash him away if he ever lets go. "Annie, Lucas, I'm so sorry."
Everett's spoon bends slightly in his fist. Little drops of milk spot the table around his hand.
"No," whispers Annie. "No, my … my baby …"
Her grief ages her. She's not so much older than Con, but it's like the tears are wearing new lines in her cheeks, adding decades long before they're due. She speaks again, but Con can no longer make out the words; it's just noise, just a low, painful moan. He stares, paralysed by the way she has so suddenly become something so unlike herself – but fortunately Byrne is here now, edging round him to take Annie's hand.
"I know, Annie, I know." Her other hand is moving back and forth across Annie's shoulders, massaging them as they shake. Everett is still just sitting there, mangled spoon jutting from his rigid fist. "Go get the neighbours, Con," says Byrne in a low voice, glancing up at him. "I'll stay with them till you get back."
He nods, not wanting to speak, not sure if he even can speak in this awful, poisonous atmosphere, and backs slowly out of the room, disentangling his sleeve from Lucas' hand as he goes. Out in the hall, he takes a moment to catch his breath, clenching and unclenching his fists and willing his pulse to slow.
Christ. He'd forgotten what it was like. The way people just stop being people any more, made raw and alien by emotions too big for human bodies. Just a jumbled mess of pain and broken gestures. Clutching hands, choked voices. He recalls the pressure of Lucas' fingers on his arm and shivers.
Moira has been waiting out here, and sensing her partner's distress comes over and rubs herself against his calves. It's a peculiarly feline gesture for a rodent, but it runs in the family; Moira's grandmother, Con's original partner on his trainer journey, did it too.
"Thanks, buddy," he says, bending to scratch between her ears. "C'mon. Better get the backup in and call the mill. Lucas isn't coming in today."
On his way out, he makes the mistake of looking back while closing the front door, and sees Everett still staring at him, still crushing the spoon in his fingers. He is crying silently, motionlessly, and Con turns away with a sick guilt beginning to fester in his gut.
Had to be done, he reminds himself. Had to be done.
It really doesn't make him feel much better.
"Con." Dr Ishihara wastes no time: the second he steps out of the lift, there she is, stepping forward to greet him. "How were they?"
He shakes his head.
"It's bad, doc. It's bad."
She sighs.
"It always is, Con." She gestures at the big swing doors at the end of the hall. "Come on. Through here."
Con was supposed to bring Lucas or Annie along, to ID the body for the paperwork, but in the end neither of them were in any state to leave their seats, let alone the house. Byrne said she'd bring one of the family along later. Con is grateful; he's good at his job, and he dislikes backing out of difficult situations, but he's really not the right person for this particular task.
The morgue is dim and cold, made colder by Ishihara's froslass, sorting through her partner's files on a side table. She came over with Ishihara from Japan during the Second World War, when the two of them were nurses attached to the medical corps, but unlike the rest of the occupying forces they never went home afterwards. Neither have ever explained why, but after thirty years people have stopped second-guessing them. They're Mahogany people now.
Tacoma is lying on a table under a sheet. Under the cold electric light of the morgue, she looks even less alive than she did lying on the riverbank; it brings out the grey in her skin and the blue tracery of veins in her temples. Con is glad that her eyes are closed. He's seen corpses before, but he doesn't like it when they see him back. Something accusatory about the way they look at you.
"What have you got for me?" he asks, transferring his attention to Ishihara's froslass. She says something incomprehensible in her thin, musical voice and hands a file to her partner.
"For a start, she wasn't strangled," says Ishihara, opening it. "Not while she was alive, anyway." She pulls back the sheet and turns Tacoma onto her side with a dispassionate professionalism that Con finds faintly unsettling. "Do you see this burn here, on the nape of the neck?"
"Mm. Yeah." There's a star of discoloured tissue just above the knob where spine meets neck, long red branches forking away across Tacoma's shoulders. Obscured by the bruising, but only partly. Very distinctive, if you know these things, and as a man with a raichu Con has seen more than his fair share of electrical injuries. "Lightning?" he asks, and Ishihara nods.
"Directed electrical discharge," she says. "Some sort of electric-type move – precise, surgical. From how tightly focused it is, I'd suggest a charge beam. Other moves tend to arc more. Messier."
Con winces.
"Nasty way to go," he says.
"Relatively quick," replies Ishihara, catching his eye. "I don't think she suffered, Con."
A pause. Her calm has cracked slightly; she clears her throat and sets her face again.
"As for the contusions around her neck," she continues, lifting Tacoma's chin, "the pattern indicates one pair of gloved hands."
"Fibres?" He knows the answer before he asks, but it slips out anyway. Looking at Ishihara handle the corpse like this is getting to him.
She shakes her head.
"She was in the river all night, Con. And wearing gloves, too. Nothing under the fingernails or I'd have sent it to the forensics team in Ecruteak." Back to Tacoma, rotating the neck now to show the shape of the bruising. "You see where the fingers were? She was grabbed from behind. That means she wasn't choked to stop her crying out while the electrocution was being performed; the attacker would have been in the way of the shot."
"Afterwards?" Con tenses. "You think someone was trying to hide their tracks?"
"Not well, clearly." Ishihara indicates the burn again. "The burn scar was still there."
"Amateur job, then. This wasn't planned." Con frowns, thinking hard. "She was jumped on her way home, somewhere she wouldn't be seen. Someone zaps her in the back, hard enough to kill right away, and then they panic. Not a lot of electric-types in town, are there? And they know the Chief of Police knows lightning burns when he sees them. So they try and cover it up by making it look like she was strangled before they get her out of town and dump her in the river."
"That would be my assessment, yes." Ishihara lowers Tacoma back into place on the table and takes up her arm. "I'd also like to draw your attention to these."
She holds it out, indicating with her gloved hand a series of uneven wounds in the flesh of Tacoma's right forearm. Con looks at them without comprehension.
"Someone attack her?" he asks hesitantly. "And what, she held up her arm to defend her face, or …?"
Ishihara shakes her head.
"No, Con. Look: these here have scarred over. These are still pink, and this one here only closed in the last few days. Very fine cuts – an extremely sharp knife, or perhaps a razor blade. Made over the course of the past year; the oldest are from perhaps nine months ago."
"Abuse, then? Did she have a boyfriend at uni, or―?"
"Con, these injuries are consistent with self-harm," says Ishihara. "One arm, controlled, same pattern. Clean cuts."
Con realises he's staring now, but he can't help it.
"She did this to herself?" he asks.
"Yes." Ishihara hesitates. "It would seem Tacoma was not as happy as her parents thought."
"But doc, that's … why would she do a thing like that?"
"I can't tell you that," she replies. "But I would speculate that she was not fond of herself."
"Christ." Con looks again at the scars: one, two, three, five, ten … that's a lot of hate, right there. He can't pretend to understand it, but he's going to have to try. Tacoma needs justice. That means she needs a cop in her corner who knows her properly.
"It is … unpleasant, yes," agrees Ishihara.
"You're telling me." He sighs. "You got an estimated time of death for me, doc?"
"Of course." She returns Tacoma's arm to the table and pulls the sheet back up to her neck. It's a gentle gesture, almost maternal; the steel has left her eyes now. Con is surprised for a moment – she's always so professional – but then he remembers: she would have delivered Tacoma, wouldn't she? Brought her into this world, and now seeing her out. The last thing any doctor ever hopes for. "Time of death …"
She stands there for a moment, staring at Tacoma. She does not seem to realise she has stopped speaking until her froslass lays a hand on her shoulder, and then she starts and returns her attention to the file.
"I would estimate somewhere between three thirty and five thirty PM," she says. "Did you speak to Harry?"
"Yeah. Her train arrived at four thirteen, six minutes late. He said he didn't have Nikole out to help her with the bags, so I'm guessing it would have been a good forty, forty-five minutes' walk back home with all that luggage."
"That's it, then."
The overhead light hums to itself. Con and Ishihara stare.
"Nineteen," says Ishihara, after a while. "She was going to be a doctor."
"I know," says Con. "I know."
The next morning, as the sun struggles slowly upwards through the black cage of the pine branches, Con sits at one end of the conference table at the Police Department and surveys the room. Everyone's here: Byrne, Simeon, Toby, Ishihara, Jackie, all nursing their cups of coffee and the pages of their reports. Their partners are variously coiled, sitting or hovering nearby – at a polite distance, in the case of Ishihara's froslass; she tends to unnerve the other pokémon.
"All right, well, good morning, everyone," says Con. Beneath the table, Moira nuzzles his calf in a tiny gesture of support. "Time to put together what we've got. Doc, if you'd like to run through the medical report for us?"
"Of course, Con." She goes through the details in her clipped, accented Johtoni, without wasting a single word. Electrocution, strangulation, estimated time of death. Con notes the reactions: Byrne leaning forwards with interest, probably already making a mental list of locals with electric-type partners; a wince of sympathy from Toby, always the people person; a look of shock from Simeon, never quite ready to hear gory details. Jackie, eyes wide. Like a play of themselves.
"Thank you, doc," he says, when Ishihara is done. "Any questions?"
"Yeah." Byrne glances at him before turning to Ishihara. "Can you draw any conclusions about what kind of pokémon we're looking for here? Definitely an electric-type, or could it be something else with an electric move?"
"Difficult to be certain," replies Ishihara. "The power suggests an electric-type – it is harder to kill with one blow than it seems, and it pierced straight through the hood of her coat – but there is no reason why another pokémon could not have performed the move. But unless it was a species that is naturally very familiar with electromagnetic manipulation, it would have to have been highly trained in the use of the move concerned."
"So probably an electric-type," says Byrne. "That's something to go on, at least. We pool our knowledge, we should be able to cover most electric-types in town, start checking for motives and alibis."
"I'll leave that in your hands then, Byrne." She nods. "Okay. Toby? What did you get from Aaron?"
"Not much," he replies. "He was out on one of those early morning walks he takes. You know Aaron. Happiest when there's nobody around but him and Steph."
"Yeah, that's Aaron. Anything else?"
"Nope. He just paused by the riverbank and saw the body floating by. Got stuck on some ice and he hooked it with a branch."
Figures. Con wasn't expecting anything much. Aaron does have an electabuzz, and presumably they can use charge beam, but he can't think of a reason why he'd want to kill Tacoma. Sure, he probably didn't like her, but Aaron doesn't like anybody, himself included.
"That it?"
"Yep."
"All right, makes sense. Byrne, what have we learned from Lucas and Annie?"
She clicks her tongue.
"They're in a bad way, Con; they weren't making all that much sense. Best I can tell, both of them were sure Tacoma said she'd be home by five, five thirty on Wednesday. She called them from Goldenrod when she got off the overnight train from Saffron to let 'em know what time to expect her. Both of them were working, neither were around to pick her up."
"Everett?"
"Hasn't got his licence yet, definitely can't handle the winter roads." Byrne shakes her head. "Poor kid hasn't said a word since yesterday morning, but I called Sarah and it seems like he was working that day too."
Still no licence? Maybe some people just don't have a head for cars. Con supposes it's probably safer that way. Most cars in Johto are ageing Kantan models from the fifties and sixties, back when they used to make the interiors out of plywood and plastic foam. The police department's three cruisers are among the sturdiest cars in town, and Con's still managed to put his foot straight through the floorboards on more than one occasion.
"All right," he says. "What about Nick?"
"Phoenix? Annie's brother?"
"Yeah." Con frowns. "I don't think he was up yet when we went round yesterday. Long flight the day before, I believe."
"That's right," says Byrne. "Alola." Con whistles. "Not a holiday, Chief. He's a researcher at Yellowbrick in Saffron, currently on sabbatical. He went to Alola to visit a new lab that's opened up there and consult with some of the scientists there in a city called … Heahea, I think."
"And when did he get back?" Nick has a magneton, Con is pretty sure. That alone doesn't mean he killed his niece, but it makes him one of relatively few people who could have done.
"About one o'clock. His plane landed at four fifteen and he drove back."
"Long drive," notes Con. "There a reason he didn't take the train?"
Byrne shrugs.
"Didn't say."
Hm. There's something there worth investigating. Who drives from the airport with petrol as dear as it is? Con isn't sure what the pay is for a researcher, but it can't be that good.
"Okay," he says. "Is that all we've got?"
"Yes, I think so." Byrne hesitates. "I didn't ask them much about Tacoma – you know, why she might have been killed, any enemies, that kind of thing. Didn't seem like the right time. I'd recommend stopping by again today to dig a little deeper."
"Good work." He stands up and indicates the rough map of town that Simeon drew for him on the blackboard. "Putting together what we know, then. Tacoma starts here, at the train station, and heads here, towards her house on Long Avenue. In between these two points, someone kills her with a lightning bolt, then tries incompetently to cover it up. Yes, Sim?"
"Electric-type moves aren't exactly subtle," he says. "Are we sure it happened in town? She wasn't abducted en route and taken somewhere else to be killed?"
"Good point. We don't know that, no. But either way, someone definitely jumped her in the middle of town. Now, what I'm thinking is that Tacoma went this way; she had heavy bags and her partner wasn't helping her carry them, for whatever reason. She'd want to take the quickest route she possibly could."
"Through the park?"
"Right." Con taps the stick of chalk on the path through Three Pines. "I guess you can see where I'm going with this, yeah?"
"The middle of the park is pretty quiet," says Toby. "Screened by the trees, isolated – someone might see a flash, but only for a second."
"Snow would deaden the sound, too," adds Byrne.
"It would," agrees Con. "And if Tacoma was killed in town, and if she did die as quickly as you say, doc, she wouldn't have had a chance to cry out. Say you parked at one end of the path, then you came up behind her as she walked. You zap her in the back of the head, then you take her and her luggage back down to the car and drive on out of town."
"Sounds risky," says Toby. "If anyone happened to pass by …"
"You did say it wasn't a competent job, Chief," points out Byrne.
"I did," he says. "So. Byrne, you get on that list of electric-types, start making enquiries – I know Pryce Aske on Tenarrow Road does trainer tutoring; you could see if he can fill in any gaps for you. Simeon, I want you to ask around the streets either end of the path through Three Pines, see if anyone saw anything – Tacoma entering the park, someone following, any suspicious vehicles or activity. Whether he took her dead or alive, the killer has to have got her out of town somehow."
What else? Come on, Con. You remember how to run a murder investigation. You do.
"Dr Ishihara," he says, voice slow with thought. "You're still waiting on toxicology?"
"Yes. I'll let you know when they fax the results through."
"Please do. Not sure I'm expecting anything, but it'll be good to know as much as we can." Okay. That's everything. "In which case, I think we're done here," he says. "Toby, you're with me. Let's check in with the Spearings, see if there's anything more they can tell us about Tacoma, and then let's get down to the park." There's something else, something he meant to― right, of course. "Jackie," he says. "I want you to call the mayor's office. I'm thinking a dusk curfew for the kids, just till this gets wrapped up. I know, they all have pokémon, but Tacoma's partner's one of the toughest in town, and our guy got to her all the same."
"Sure, Chief," says Jackie, making a note on her pad. "You have a statement about it you want me to release, or …?"
He shakes his head.
"Not yet; I'll write up something formal later today. When you're done with Town Hall, stay on the phones. Keep us all connected."
He is relieved to find he sounds like a man in charge of the situation, even to himself. He might not be able to get the sight of Tacoma out of his head, or the feeling of Lucas' hand on his arm, but at least he can do his job right.
"Everyone know what they're doing?" The line of heads ripples with nods. "All right. If you find anything, call in, and Jackie will pass the message on." He claps his hands together in what he hopes is a decisive manner. "Let's get moving, people."
The cruiser rattles through the streets, engine coughing in the cold winter air. In the back, Moira and Carson, Toby's growlithe, shove at each other in an attempt to secure the most seat space.
"Behave yourselves back there, or you're walking," calls Con, without taking his eyes off the road. Moira settles down; Carson simply takes advantage to push her further out of the way. She doesn't push back, though, and that seems to be the end of it.
"Like kids," says Toby, shaking his head. "Ain't that right, Chief?"
"Sure is, Toby."
They drive for a few minutes in silence. Long Avenue is still a little way off. Neither are looking forward to it. They called ahead, and the Spearings do seem to be doing slightly better today, but this still isn't going to be easy. It's why Toby's here. He's always had a way with people that Con just can't match.
"You heard about Alex Ortega?" he asks, as Con negotiates the tricky corner by the bank.
"The little psychic kid? What about him?"
"Came back from university in Goldenrod yesterday," says Toby. "Wearing a dress and asking his parents to call him Jodi."
Con blinks. He spent what little free time he had yesterday at home, unwilling to go out and walk into a conversation about the dead girl currently haunting his thoughts, but it seems he missed some serious gossip.
"What? Really?"
"Yeah. 'S true." Toby grins at the look on his face. "Surprised? I guess I was, when I heard. But it makes sense. Always had him figured for a homo, you know?"
"No, I don't know." Con scowls. It's not that he disagrees, but something about Toby's glee seems vaguely unsavoury. "He's a kid. Never really had anything to do with him."
"Oh, well, nor have I, Chief, nor have I." His reply comes just a little too quickly to be entirely natural. "My nephew Victor used to be in his class at school."
"Right." They pass the general store and slow to a halt at a red light. Sarah crosses the road and waves as she sees the faces through the window; Con raises a hand in return. "'Jodi', huh?" He shakes his head. "Jesus. Must be rough on León and Michelle."
"Well, I dunno what they expected, letting the government send him to school in Goldenrod. You know what they're like in the city."
Con gives him a look.
"Do I?"
"Yeah, you know. Full of deviants and perverts."
Green light. Con takes the car forward again in a cloud of acidic smoke.
"When was the last time you went to this … hotbed of deviancy, Toby?" he asks, trying not to smile.
"Oh, I've never been," says Toby. "But you know, I read the papers."
"Sure," says Con. "Okay, Toby."
It is messed-up about Alex, though. Con isn't a father, thank God – the closest he's ever come to monogamy is a decade-long secret crush on Gabriella Kendrick – but he can imagine what it'd be like. Your only son comes home and says he doesn't want to be your son any more. Some grotesque drag queen bullshit. If it's true – and Con thinks it probably is; the Mahogany gossips aren't actually imaginative enough to come up with something like that – then he hopes León manages to sort him out. The kid's psychic, right? Maybe he just read too many girls' minds and got confused about which thoughts were his. Or something.
"Speaking of Alex," says Con, "he hung out with Tacoma, didn't he?"
"Ah, I know what you're thinking, Chief, but I don't think he's got any answers for us."
"Why not?"
"They haven't hung out in years. You remember he smashed up his leg on his trainer journey? He came home, Tacoma kept going. Haven't spoken since."
"Your nephew tell you all this, too?" Con is slightly concerned about how much Toby seems to know about the lives of these children. A man in his thirties, he feels, should probably have other things on his mind.
"Long time ago," he replies. "He used to be stuck on all the politics, back in high school."
"Right," says Con. He sees the sign for Long Avenue up ahead: time to put the crazy kid to one side for a moment. "Right," he says again. "Serious business now, Toby. I'll need your help on this."
"Sure thing, Chief." Toby sighs. "I hope they're okay."
"So do I, Toby. So do I."
He takes them around the corner and pulls over outside the house. Moira and Carson tense up in the back, picking up on the change in the atmosphere.
"All right." Con refuses to hesitate, refuses to let himself back away from this. It's his job, goddamn it. This is what being the public face of the Police Department means. "Let's get this over with."
They get out, the slam of the doors like gunshots in the quiet. Con runs his tongue over lips dried out by more than the cold.
Okay, he thinks. Time to be the Police Chief again.
Electric-types, interviews, crime scene investigation. Little by little, they make progress. Some digging around in the park turns up an expensive pen, which, when shown to the Spearings, turns out not to belong to Tacoma but rather to her uncle, Nick. He is surprised to see it, claims to have lost it some time ago. Con wonders whether this is the surprise of someone confronted with evidence of their misdeeds or the surprise of someone suddenly reunited with something they thought lost. Either way, there's definitely something odd about it. Why was the pen there?
I don't know, said Nick. I lost this last time I was in town, back in October. Maybe Tacoma had it. But why would she have it?
I don't know either, said Con. Why did you drive to the airport and back instead of taking the train?
And Nick looked nervous and said he had no reason, really, he just felt like driving; and Con kept his face neutral and said right, of course.
So: a question mark there. Question marks, too, about the car that people in the area heard – but didn't see – just after sundown, and about the apparently blameless life that Tacoma led, if her parents are to be believed. No enemies, universally liked, according to them. Which fits with Con's theory that this wasn't premeditated, but leaves everyone at the station wondering why exactly this happened in the first place. Killing Tacoma was important enough that someone risked doing it in the middle of town, just to make sure she was dead before she got home.
Con still has no answers. He asks Byrne for updates, puts Simeon in charge of organising a team to search for Tacoma's luggage upriver, and sits at his desk sifting through what feels like an ocean of pointless information. The toxicology report, for instance. Ishihara brings it round herself – the medical centre has the only fax machine in town since the one at the police station broke – and Con reads it through twice before he actually takes in any of the words, and a third before he realises it isn't relevant. Apparently Tacoma liked her weed: okay, so does every other student on the Tohjo peninsula, and probably the planet.
Byrne's report on local electric-types comes a little after noon, when Con is staring blankly at the notes he made during that morning's interview with the Spearings and feeling like his head is about to crumble into ash. He doesn't hear her knock; the first he knows of her approach is when she calls out.
"Chief?" Her words seem to come from the top of a deep, deep well. Con blinks and struggles slowly upwards towards the surface. "Chief?" Byrne looks a little uncertain. "Sorry, I knocked but you didn't answer, so―"
"It's fine," he interrupts. "What have you got, Byrne?"
"Pryce and I put our heads together and came up with a list of people to check out," she says. "Looks like there are about thirty electric-types in town, of which maybe ten seem like people we should check up on, and … Chief, are you all right?"
"Fine, Byrne." How long has he been holding this position? Con straightens up and feels his back protest at the sudden movement. Oof. Definitely been hunched like that for a while. "Just … going over what we've got."
Byrne looks less than convinced.
"Permission to speak freely, Chief?"
He sighs.
"Okay, sure."
"I think you might benefit from taking a walk. No, hear me out," she says, raising a hand to forestall argument. "Just five minutes. Get some air. This case is gonna kill you if you let it."
Con gives her a hard look.
"I don't know what you mean," he says. "I'm fine, Byrne―"
"Someone's dead on our watch," she replies. "A kid, Con. None of us are fine. I know that."
Con puts off answering for as long as he can, but he knows when he's beaten. This is why he hired Byrne in the first place. Toby and Simeon were a little uneasy about having a woman on the force at first, but Con has always believed in advancement by merit, and Byrne is just too good to not be part of the team.
"All right," he says grudgingly. "Leave your report there, I'll … take a look when I get back."
"Will do, Chief," she says, flashing him a smile, and leaves him putting on his coat. He stops in at the front desk to ask Jackie if anyone has come up with anything (they haven't) and heads out to make a circuit around the block.
The air is so cold it prickles going down and makes him cough. Con gasps, shivers a little, and feels something click back into alignment deep inside his brain. Byrne was right. He did need to get out of that room. There's only so long you can sit and breathe in your own sense of failure before you start to suffocate.
And it isn't even like they have failed, yet. It's early days, and this is a weird case. Sooner or later they'll find Tacoma's luggage, and sooner or later one of the electric-types in town will turn out to be the one, and sooner or later, the pieces will start to fall into place. They will.
But still, he thinks, as he crunches his way past the firing range, Moira scampering along at his heels. He screwed up. No matter which way you slice it, you're still left with a dead girl, a broken family and a town in shock. This isn't Goldenrod, isn't the kind of place where lives are just statistics. These things matter here in Mahogany. In Con's town, which he's meant to be protecting, and which instead he's …
"Goddamn it, Con," he mutters, clenching his fist in his pocket. "Get a grip."
He takes a left and stomps along under the trees that lean in over the station car park, feeling stupid. He has to get a handle on this. If he's going to do his job right, if he's going to put this one to rest, he needs to stay sharp and not wallow. A man has to stand firm. A man with the town on his shoulders, all the more so.
Above him, spearow burst suddenly from the upper reaches of a pine tree, scattering in all directions with a series of shrieks and rattling feathers. Con jumps and looks up to see the distinctive belly-and-blades silhouette of a skarmory glide by overhead. It unnerves him. You never see these things in summer. Only in winter, when pickings in the mountains are at their slimmest, do they get desperate enough to come down here.
"Keep flying," he murmurs, watching it go. "I don't have time to deal with your bullshit."
Last time a skarmory came down it didn't hurt anyone, but it did take a good few bites out of a cruiser before everyone got together to chase it off. Damn things are nearly as hungry for metal as for meat.
At his side, Moira shrinks uneasily against the ground, tail lashing. Raichu are less afraid of aerial predators than most, with their ability to thunderbolt a flying-type at fifty paces, but Moira is six now, ancient for a raichu, and starting to forget her strength with age. Con bends down and scratches between her ears.
"You'll be all right," he says. "He'll bugger off in a minute."
Sure enough, the shadow changes direction and disappears off to the west, over the treeline. Moira stays tense for a few seconds longer, then perks up and scurries on ahead. Con has to smile.
"Wish I could forget my troubles that easy," he remarks. "C'mon, then."
Left again, and again, and back around the edge of the station to the front door. At the desk, Jackie looks up from her typewriter and smiles.
"Feeling better, Chief?"
"A little," he admits. "Anything turn up while I was out?"
"I got a call from Dean Jackson," she says. "Tacoma's kangaskhan just passed out on his lawn."
According to Dr Ishihara, Nikole will be fine soon. She's running a high fever – a cold that got out of hand, perhaps – and the theory goes that when she finally broke her way out of her poké ball and set off to try and find her partner, she got lost in her fear and confusion and forgot to find water. Right now, she's shivering under a blanket in the pokémon wing of the medical centre with an IV in her massive arm, but Ishihara expects her to be ready to go home very soon.
Another thing Con isn't looking forward to. Bringing Nikole home will hit the Spearings even harder, and trying to explain to pokémon that their partners aren't coming back is always difficult. Con remembers the machamp that survived his grandmother, the pain he had no way of speaking. The poor thing lay down and died five days later. Just willed himself off the mortal coil.
Today, however, the morning after she found her way back into town, Nikole is still in the medical centre. And that means Con has a potential witness on his hands.
Obviously, there are a few problems with this. For one thing, Nikole must have been in her ball at the time of the murder, or else the murderer would almost certainly have ended up being the victim. Still, she might have heard something, and if her route through the woods can be traced, they might be able to find Tacoma's luggage and look for clues there. Toby has Carson trying to sniff out her trail, but with last night's snowfall it's proving difficult.
Which is why, on this cold, clear Saturday morning, Con and Simeon are driving down to the Ortega household.
He could call up the Ecruteak Police Department and ask them to send their psy officer over. This is definitely an option. But he has a hunch about what kind of evidence might be lurking in Nikole's head, and if he's right, it's something he'd rather keep within the town. There are certain things in Mahogany that outsiders just don't get.
"You, uh, heard about Alex?" asks Con. The silence in the car is starting to get to him. He was already nervous about this. Sitting and stewing is only making it worse.
"Yeah." Simeon glances at him. "How d'you want to play this, Chief? I mean, we need his help."
Con shrugs. He's been thinking about this himself, and he really doesn't have much of an idea.
"I guess we'll speak to León and take our lead from him," he says. "Look, he can't refuse to do it. He's Tacoma's friend, right? He'll want to see justice done."
"I suppose you're right." Simeon clears his throat. "Just, uh … well, I dunno. Guess I don't know how to feel about all this."
"You and me both, Sim. You and me both."
They park and get out, breath steaming before them. There's no one else to let out; on this occasion, Moira and Simeon's furret are in their balls. Today, the back seat is reserved for Alex.
A brief exchange of looks. Simeon raises his eyebrows in an up to you sort of way.
Con sighs, and knocks on the door.
Pause. Footsteps. And then―
"Con," says Michelle, looking surprised. "Morning."
"Morning, Michelle." Tight, anxious smile. "May we come in?"
"Sure, of course." She steps aside and they enter, Simeon nodding a greeting at Michelle as he passes. Con can see León watching from the kitchen doorway, coming out now with a wary look on his face.
"Con, Simeon." He shakes their hands. "What's the problem?"
All right. Moment of truth.
"Not a problem, León, more something you can help us with." Someone's turning pages in the next room. Is that Alex? A dozen lurid images flicker through Con's brain in quick succession and he swallows hard, trying to banish them. "You've probably heard that Tacoma's kangaskhan turned up yesterday?"
"Yeah, I heard." León folds his arms. You're always aware, when he does that, of just how big his forearms are. He might have moved up from the production line now, but he still has those lumberjack muscles. "Good sign, I guess."
"It is," agrees Con. "She might be a witness – could be really helpful. But in order to know what she knows, we're going to need a psychic."
A sudden silence. León's eyes flick over to Michelle's and back again. Her face tenses, almost imperceptibly.
"You want Jodi's help," she says, and Con has to work hard to squash his shock. They're actually going along with this? Why would you even do that? If someone goes crazy and claims little green men are controlling his thoughts through the radio, you don't help him make a tinfoil hat, you get him to a doctor.
"Y-yeah," he says, doing his best to sound natural and aware that he isn't succeeding. "Yeah, we do."
Michelle glances at a door to their left.
"Okay," she says, though she doesn't sound very certain. "Well, you'll have to ask her yourself."
She leads them through into the living-room, a cosy little space dominated by one of Ella's landscapes, a view of the mountains so vivid that Con can practically feel the icy wind rolling off the slopes. Faded curtains, twelve-inch TV that Con's Kantan cousins would think of as ancient and which in Johto is considered cutting-edge – and there, reclining on the sofa with a book and a cup of coffee, Alex.
He stares. There isn't even any question of him being able to hide it. That is Alex, yes, but it's also … Christ. In his tight sweater and flowing skirt, he looks like a high school girl. A pretty one. Con sees Alex Ortega, and he sees a pretty girl, and somewhere in his head the two crash into one another with a sickening thud.
Alex blinks and looks up sharply from his book. Eyeshadow, notes Con. And mascara. Con can barely hold his gaze. There's something wrong about this. A boy has no business doing a thing like that, making a man look at him as if he were a woman. It's underhanded. Vicious.
"Oh," says Alex, grabbing his cane and climbing stiffly to his feet. "Chief Wicke. Hi."
His noivern uncurls from in front of the hearth and glares suspiciously at the visitors, planting his claws and unfolding his wings a little to look bigger. Con does his best not to be intimidated. As far as he knows, Lothian is harmless, but Con's never been good with dragons. Or bats.
"H-hi," he says, focusing on Alex. "Uh … how are you?"
"Okay." He smiles nervously. It is beautiful in a way that makes Con feel dirty to have witnessed. "How are you?"
"All right." Obvious lie. Both of them pretend it isn't.
"Good." Alex fidgets a little with his thumb. "And, uh, and you, Mr Brennan?"
"Oh, me?" asks Simeon, startled. "Uh, fine, fine."
A long pause. Con tries unsuccessfully to stop staring; Alex looks anxiously from him to Simeon and back again.
"Con wanted to ask for your help with something," says León, after a while. "Right, Con?"
"Right," he says, glad of the prompt. "That's right, Al― Jodi, I wanted to ask if we could borrow your psychic powers for something."
"Yeah?" asks Alex. "Is this to do with Tacoma?"
"It is. You've probably heard that Nikole turned up?" He nods. "Well, we need to know what she saw," Con continues. "Or heard. Anything at all, you know, it'd be really helpful."
"You want me to try reading her mind?"
"If you could."
Alex shrugs.
"I can try. It's … well, normally I can only read feelings, not thoughts, but I have some training and some history with Nikki, so I might be able to get something."
"So you'll give it a go?" asks Con.
"Yeah. I mean, it's …" Alex sighs. "It's Tacoma, right? So. I'll try."
Just like Con thought. Although he's no longer sure whether or not he wants the help. A large part of him wants to be as far away from Alex as possible. Looking at him, hearing that voice coming from that face, is much more unsettling than he expected.
Maybe he should just call Ecruteak after all.
"Are you sure?" asks Michelle, stepping forward and laying a hand on his arm. Con is surprised at the gesture, although he supposes that maybe he shouldn't be. She clearly still loves the kid, despite the crazy. "You know you don't have to …"
"Mum. It's Tacoma."
Michelle hovers at his side for a moment, looking like she might argue, but then she sighs and squeezes his arm.
"All right, chickadee," she says. "I guess you got to do what you got to do. But if you can't get nothing, don't force it, okay?"
"Mum," protests Alex. "It's fine. Really."
"All right, all right. But Con, you don't let her push herself too hard, you hear?"
"I'll do my best, Michelle," he promises. "Are you able to come down to the medical centre with us now, Alex?"
Alex stares at him for a full five seconds before Con realises his mistake.
"Uh, shoot, sorry," he says, feeling the blood rush to his cheeks. "I mean, Jodi."
Con isn't sure he's ever seen a smile this obviously fake.
"Sure," says Alex. "No worries, I get it. It's new and all." He knocks back the last of his coffee and nudges Lothian out of the way with his foot. "Let me get my stuff and I'll be right back."
He leaves the room, Lothian crawling after him and glaring suspiciously at Con as he goes. Michelle drifts over to León and the two of them look at Con and Simeon as if daring them to say anything.
They do not say anything. Nor do Michelle or León. The four of them stand there in this awkward silence until Alex returns, wearing a woman's coat and carrying a handbag.
"Okay," he says. "Lothi and I are ready now."
Con smiles. It might just be as fake as Alex's. What are the odds? Two record-breakers in one morning.
"Great," he says. "Let's go."
The drive to the centre has never been so long. Con makes a token attempt at conversation, but pretty soon the well dries up and the four of them sit there collectively willing the experience to be over. When they finally arrive, Alex gets out of the car as fast as someone with his leg can, and Con isn't far behind.
"All right," he says, as Lothian disentangles his wing from the car door. "This way, Jodi."
The name tastes like ash in his mouth. It makes him sound like he's giving this bullshit his seal of approval. But there's no other choice, so Con bears it and ushers Alex along to the ward.
Injured pokémon are cared for in the east wing, although calling it a wing is a little grandiose; the centre isn't a big building in the first place, and given that Mahogany isn't much of a training town, there's not a lot of space devoted to pokémon treatment. They go down one short corridor and through one door, and that's the journey over with: there's the pokémon ward. Six padded steel slabs, one occupied.
"Nikki," murmurs Alex, staring. Must've been a while since he last saw her, Con figures. She's definitely a hell of a sight. He always forgets how big kangaskhan are; she barely fits on the table, let alone under her blanket. "She's sleeping?"
"Sedated," says Ishihara, emerging from somewhere and nearly giving Con a heart attack. Sometimes people grow to be like their pokémon; in Ishihara's case, that seems to have manifested as an unnervingly silent step and a penchant for sudden appearances. "She didn't like her IV." She looks at Alex. Ishihara isn't the kind of person who smiles, but something about her eyes suggests to Con that she might be trying to do it right now. "Hello, Jodi."
Con watches her closely, but can't tell if she's saying the way he does or the way Michelle does; Ishihara's face has always been a closed book. It bothers him. Ishihara of all people should be sensible enough to know crazy when she sees it. That she might not be is definitely something to worry about.
"Dr Ishihara," replies Alex, looking nervous. "Is Nikki gonna be okay?"
"She's fine. Bad cold that got worse for being outside so long." Ishihara indicates Nikole's poké ball, on a side table. "The seal on these old models is dreadful. Nikole must have been freezing in there, and then once she broke out …" She shrugs. "Well, her fever is going down now. I may be able to let her go this afternoon, if she continues to improve."
Let her go where, exactly? Con isn't sure the Spearings are up to dealing with a kangaskhan at the moment, particularly a kangaskhan who doesn't yet know that her partner is dead. Still, that's a problem for later on. Right now, he needs to get Alex inside her head and then out of his sight as quickly as possible.
"That's good to know, doc," he says. "Uh, Jodi, you ready?"
"Yeah. Sure." Alex looks around, pulls up a chair. Lothian insinuates himself between him and Simeon, his huge ears swivelling around like radar dishes. Both of them look almost comically tiny next to Nikole's massive bulk.
"Good." Con clears his throat. "Remember, what we want to know is where she came from. If we can retrace her steps, we can find Tacoma's luggage. If there's anything about the crime itself, that's good too. But since she was in her ball …"
Alex nods.
"Okay, Lothi," he says. "We're going to try fifty-six, nine, seventeen, in that order. All right?"
Lothian does not respond in any way that Con can see, but maybe that's to be expected of a psychic's partner. Alex nods, breathes in very deeply, and closes his eyes.
"Fifty-six," he says, and as Lothian's nose twitches Con suddenly becomes aware of a vibration in his guts, like the boom of distant guns. He takes a step back, feeling queasy, and sees Simeon do the same.
Alex leans forward a little, his plucked brows meeting in a scowl.
"Nine," he breathes. The word seems to echo in Con's head for a few seconds after he speaks: nine, nine, nine. "And …"
Nikki? Con hears, at the back of his head, and then the moment passes and the vibration seems to move away from him, humming through the floor towards Nikole.
Time passes. Con looks at Simeon, who looks back. The two of them try looking at Ishihara, but she is apparently immune to awkwardness, and just stands there as if this is something that happens every day. Maybe it is, if you have a ghost-type partner.
Alex opens his eyes with a gasp and slumps in his chair, forehead shiny with sweat.
"Oof," he sighs. "Um. Lothi?"
He's already there, dipping his head into Alex's bag and coming out with a chocolate bar. It takes Alex two tries to get it open, weak with fatigue, and once he does he just sits there and eats it in silence for a while. No wonder the kid's so skinny, Con thinks. If this is what being psychic does to you, it's kind of incredible it hasn't killed him already.
"Okay," says Alex, wiping his forehead and sitting up straight. "Okay, she came from the north, I think. There's a bend in the river where this huge tree has fallen down – I think that's where she broke out of her ball. Nearby to … something. A cabin, maybe? With a car parked outside." Alex frowns, like there's something wrong with that. "A blue Crowne."
"Licence plate?" asks Con.
Alex shakes his head.
"Nikki can't read. She doesn't remember."
"There are a few of those cabins out there," remarks Simeon. "Something to go on. We could ask around there and see if anyone's seen anything, Chief."
"Good call. What else, A― Jodi?"
"Something she heard. While she was in the ball, I think?"
Con starts.
"Something she heard," he repeats. "What? She recognise any voices?"
"No. I don't think so. But she heard … okay, it's garbled and I'm not sure I'm reading it right, but I think she heard someone say 'take her to the chapter house'?"
"The chapter house?" asks Con. "You're sure that's what she heard?"
"Pretty sure, yeah." Alex looks up at him, a question in his eyes. "What's a chapter house?"
Con twists his lip between his fingers, thinking. Damn. He was sort of hoping that his hunch would turn out to be wrong. But no. Alex has found exactly what Con was afraid he would.
"I don't know," he says, after a moment or two. "But I'm going to have to find out."
Alex gives him the kind of look a psychic gives someone when they try to lie to him.
"Okay," he says. "I'm glad I could help."
He sounds like he means it, but Con can feel his disbelief. It gets under his skin in a way that makes him uneasy. Nobody likes being mocked by a woman. Con likes being mocked by this grotesquely pretty boy even less.
"Sure," he says, as brightly as he can. "You've been a big help, thanks."
Christ. First Tacoma, then 'Jodi', now the chapter house.
That bad week Con's been having looks like it's going to get a whole lot worse yet.