Fictional Derivations

Photography: MCS_flickr

Arcady and Inspector Kincaide stared each other down, like two stray tomcats individually deciding yet not deciding whether now was the time to claw the enemy’s eyes out.

Zene wondered what the equivalent of a bucket of water would be.

“It’d help us both if you’d lay all your cards on the table,” said Kincaide, sitting forward over her mug of coffee. “I’m offering you an information exchange. I know the concept of sharing is foreign to an Arcady, but you seem… more reasonable.”

“Is it not rather early to call, Inspector?” replied Arcady, leaning back and steepling his fingers. “We’ve barely started, and I find it difficult to believe that even you lack enough clues to be going on at this point.”

Kincaide growled. “God help you, Arcady, you’re more annoying than your father.”

“I hardly believe that. My father is the veritable spokesperson for Difficult Bastard.”

“Then let me ask you this, Arcady: do you want the forensics reports for Cartwright’s murder scene?”

Arcady smirked a small and delicate smirk, an expression that reminded Zene distinctly of someone else. “No. I have no need of it.”

Kincaide sat back slightly, as though marshaling her thoughts. “Tell me why not.”

“Come now, Inspector. What fun would that be?” said Arcady in patronizing tones, making Zene wonder how far away they were from spending the night under “questioning”.

“How about the names of all the guests?”

“Eidetic memory, and my father would know them all anyways.”

Kincaide tapped a finger on the table impatiently. “Our bomb squad’s evaluation of the explosive device used on Markov Oldesman, then.”

Arcady hesitated slightly. Kincaide smiled an unpleasant ah-ha.

“I only need one small bit of information, Inspector, and not the entire report.”

“Yes. I remember your last case. It turned on how much the ice cream had melted in the cone. You like trifles, I recall you telling me. And by God I’ll get every last piece of information from you that I can for this particular one.”

Arcady contemplated this. “You’re a poor sport,” he replied reluctantly.

“This is a murder investigation. Not a game,” said Kincaide, with staccato forte emphasis. “Item one—”

Arcady put out a hand, palm forwards. “Two can play this game, Inspector. You need my information badly as well, and I’d wager you need it far worse. You’re allowed three questions, as the genii said.”

“Fine,” said Kincaide after a resentful pause. “How did they manage to hang Cartwright in the middle of a party, and in the blink of an eye when the lights were off for just a minute?”

“Did you know that Marsal Hanbilt was unable to go sailing last weekend because of some missing equipment?”

“Answering a question with a question’s not answering the damn question,” said Kincaide, a growl settling in her throat again. “What’s the significance of that piece of gossip?”

“Sailing rope, Kincaide, and the knowledge and minor equipment to handle it. Extremely expensive, of the highest quality synthetic fiber, with more than enough strength to pull even a moderately heavy chandelier to one side. And I would have hoped you would have learned the importance of trifles too, if workmen and staff complaints could be considered trifles.”

Kincaide shook her head. “That thing was too heavy to lift without a proper pulley and winch system, not to mention if you hang a full-grown and overweight middle-aged man from it. And for your information, I did ask the butler about it. He oversees cleaning those things every week.”

“My dear Kincaide, they did not have to lift the chandelier, merely pull it to one side. Once the poor senator had been attached and pushed over the side, they did not even have to pull his weight.”

“When you say ‘they’, you’re referring to the multiple people needed to pull the chandelier across.”

“And to kill the power for the entire estate, drug and lure Cartwright upstairs beforehand… of course, Cartwright is known to drink a bit much and rather early in the evening as well, so his behavior wouldn’t seem odd. They may not even have had to drug him.”

“We’re already questioning the staff—and there’s something like fifty of them. If there was a conspiracy—which we also already expected—it would still be hard to whittle them down to the guilty parties. Not to mention the hundreds of items on that estate to paw through. That rope—” Kincaid pulled out her cellphone and muttered, “Yes, fingerprints do get preserved on rope, inside gloves, anything.” She smiled. “And the poor Hanbilts have been doing without all their staff since that night. Tut, tut. They must practically be drowning in dust at this point. We’ll find it, on the grounds wherever it is. It didn’t turn up in the garbage from the night, that’s for sure.”

“Your reversed class prejudice I find the best thing about you, Inspector.”

Kincaide jabbed a finger in Arcady’s direction. “Who said it was reversed? And you’re still one of them, whatever your father thinks of you. Don’t think I haven’t forgotten that.”

When she got off the phone a few minutes later, she grudgingly thanked Arcady. He said, “Not at all. It’s so simple I’m surprised it took you this long to figure it out.”

She glared at him. “But there’s something else,” she added.

Arcady contrived to look bored, chin leaning upon hand. “You’ve already done much of the legwork, I think, and you have your direct suspects. But they would not have had a strong motive to perform so loud and expressive a murder.”

“Yes. There’s someone else here.”

“Well, you’re not completely hopeless then. I imagine the staff guilty of the actual murder won’t tell you who contacted them. Of course, to make matters more interesting, all the guests all have alibis. Except for Zene and myself.”

Kincaide snorted. “As if we trust all those alibis. I could swear you’ve got an informant on the force.”

“No, none.”

“Go on then.”

“Much as I hate to say it of the death of any human being, Cartwright’s murder was incidental, a mere gear grinding away in a much larger machine: a smear campaign of excessive degrees against someone.”

“Your father.”

Arcady tilted his head to one side, almost coquettishly. “Perhaps.”

“Oh come on,” said Kincaide with annoyance. “His gardener blowing up is just a coincidence?”

“You have only circumstantial evidence with regards to the connection of that matter, and you’re making dangerous assumptions in the midst of an investigation, which is never a time to prejudice yourself, and especially not for this case. There is a remarkably unbalanced mind at work here, yet cunning enough to not leave a direct trace to himself the first time. Whether he is also responsible for the second murder, or if some other factor is at hand, is not clear even to me right now.”

“I think you’re wrong, and too bullheaded to admit it. Or you’re lying to me, so you can show me up later. Which is damned poor sport.”

“As you wish. You’ve used up your three questions, by the way, so now it’s time for mine. What was the casing of the bomb, if enough shrapnel remained for identifying that?”

Kincaide glared at Arcady as she dialed the bomb squad on her Nokia.