The otter and the sword.

God help me i love a seedy bar. I love the anonymity of it. No one here bothers you. No one cares who you are, or how much you make or who you do. There ain't no judgement in a seedy bar.

The Otter and the Sword is where me and my brother come regularly, along with the regular mix of cops, journos and some of the nearby residents. But what has always surprised me is that you often find at least a dozen good looking birds. The younger ones on the force, the recent inductees to journalism and the occasional bold one from the local university. Basically the kinds who dont have much to spend on recreation but still love playing fast and loose. God bless their souls and I hope their kind never ends.

The bar is like any bar you see around these parts of town, dimly lit with an oddly greenish fluorescent tinge. There are a couple of booths on the left side, the bar on the right. At the far end an old pool table, a couple of low overhanging lights and a few serious men hanging over it. Behind the bar, old Butch stands serving the drinks and keeping an eye over any signs of trouble. There is a eight foot large display cabinet behind him stocked to the rafters with cheap whisky. The kind that has exactly the right amount of potency you need after a hard day's work.

Me, my brother and a few of his friends from the local precinct did exactly so. After a day's worth of fruitless investigations, my brother had had enough and told me to meet him at the Otter at half past eight. The same could almost be said about me, my own investigations were leading nowhere, I was fed up, annoyed, angry and needed a bloody drink. The Otter was our oasis in the dessert, it was our home. And the steady supply of distractions for our eyes didn't exactly do harm to the heart.

INTERLUDE - uno

I was born here in a area that could be called both middle class or lower middle class depending upon the time of the year. My brother was about two years elder to me and never missed an opportunity to remind me of that fact.
Six years ago before I was born my parents came here as political refugees fleeing the oppression of Josef Stalin. Born in St. Petersburg ( then called Leningrad), my father belong to a rather wealthy family who had made their money in steel and had multiplied that during the Second World War, along with the favour of the Communists. However, my father was never war-minded and fancied himself to be a rebel journalist. This naturally found him trouble, and despite my grandfather's strong connections and influence, he could not be guaranteed a safe haven in his country and grandfather used whatever connections he had to ensure a safe passage for his son and his new daughter-in-law.

My father and mother met at the Leningrad State University, he being a year elder. They both were studying politics, my father immediately taking to principles of Marx. After finishing that my parents decided to get married. My father was 22, and mother, 21. It was when my father pursued his diploma in journalism, soon after marriage, that he felt a fire rising within him. At the age of 23 he began having frequent run-ins with the Communist Leadership. Within the year he had ruffled enough feathers to force him to leave his Homeland.
My father returned to St. Petersburg only after 30 years, for the funeral of grandfather, it was also the first time I ever saw Russia. However, grandfather used to visit us at least thrice every year and each time he used to recant tales of the Motherland and the War, must to the charign of my father. Come to think of it, he looked a lot like Leonid Brezhnev, and apparently was good friends with him too.
----
At the age of 27 my father started The Midday Enquirer, out of a garage on Frenchurch Lane with his two friends, Jim Bradley and Lester Irving. Now it has it's own building, a 80 year old Neo-Gothic structure called the The Enquirer House on Stravinsky Avenue. Not bad for a short journey of 30 years in the Media business.
I worked there for a while before I left and came here to work for ol' Hannibal. Don't ask me why though, but apparently it's a Freudian thing or something. Ever since then, as you can imagine, my father and I have had a strained relationship. The only bridges being my mother and my brother.

Day 3

Morality and ethics is best left to philosophers. Judgement is however under the sole command of us commoners. A CI was dead, and my brother was fairly confident that one of my colleagues at the News & Dispatch was his 'employer'.

In this town, for as long as I can remember, CIs were for the sole use of policemen. But since the 80s cops here had started to become very unreliable. A CI could not feel safe with his ol' buddies. I could think of at least five or six instances where dirty cops had bumped of their own informers.

Ever since the CIs started favouring scribes, but if my brother's hunch proves to be correct, the CIs will soon have to hunt for greener pastures. Sure, there have been cases where a CI got careless and found himself floating on the Hayworth river. But there has never been a case where a CI was betrayed by his scribemaster.

As these thoughts passed my mind I knew I had to keep my poker face on. I couldn't let anyone know about the information I was carrying. This would also mean that I would have to carry out my own investigations with a greater deal of care and secrecy. I can't let anyone know about what I know, however I can't keep on telling Hannibal that I am getting nowhere, I will have to lie to keep him of my trail. My only problem is Mac, I can't keep him out of the loop, I have to keep informed and hope he wasn't the dirty one.
-----
I got to work at a leisurely 11 am, Hannibal surprisingly wasn't in yet, so I quitely reached my desk and turned on the computer.
There was an email from my brother, he had some more information for me.

Day 2.6: The Usual Whodunit

It was my brother at the door, with a sergeant from his office. On a Sunday? I really did strike me as unusual, but i suppose it wasn't out of the ordinary. He must have some information on the murder.

"How you holding up kid?", he inquired.

"I'm fine. Can I get you something? A drink perhaps"

"You definitely shouldn't be taking anymore."

"And you sergeant?" I asked, ignoring my brother's condescending remark.

"Water", he grumbled. Not a joyful man, this copper.

"So what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Sarcasm doesn't suit you Alice, I'm here regarding yesterday's crime scene, the Sergeant has some photographs you might want to look at."

"But I already saw the dead guy's face enough" I gave the Sergeant the glass and exchanged it for the yellow folder.

"Well you haven't seen him alive, now have you, Katie?"

"I gotta ask, what's with the girl's names?"

"It suits you", my brother retorted. And I could have sworn I saw the Sergeant smile for the first time. Or maybe he it was a smirk.

I take a look a the pictures, a few surveillance, and a mug-shot too boot. Obviously a man with a checkered past.

"What's his name?"

"Well surprisingly, we don't have his real name, even the address isn't real. Only a street name, Billy."

"Don't be too hard on yourself, I'm sure this isn't the first instance of police incompetence. I'm I right sarge?" One quick glance was enough to know that I had received the intended reaction.

"So, a drug related hit?"
"Maybe so, we don't know yet. But I'am showing you these pictures, because apparently he also used to provide someone in your Newspaper with information. A scribe's Confidential Informant, would you believe that!!"
"Pfft!!", the Sergeant chimed in.
"So what's wrong with that?," I added.
"Well, a CI should always work for a cop. We keep 'em alive, unlike your colleagues. But more seriously, it is possible that this is a underworld hit, for you know, talking out of turn."

"Well, then it's a normal Sherlock whodunit!" I stated.
"Maybe, or maybe it may be something else, but what I need from you, is to find out who he was feeding information too." Turning to the sergeant he said, "Could you wait for me outside? I need a minute here"

Putting the glass on the table firmly, the Sergeant walked out briskly.


"What's his problem?"
"I doubt I'll ever have that much time to explain." With a more serious expression on his face, he looked dead at me, "How you holding up Kid?"

"Why do you keep asking me that?"
"I'm concerned, ever since she left you, you haven't seemed the same."
"Well it's rather difficult to stay stoic when your girlfriend of 3 years just leaves without even a goodbye."
"Have you heard from her yet? What did her parents say?"
"No, I haven't heard from her and neither have her parents. Can't believe she didn't even say anything to them."
"When you get the chance you better apologise for what you did okay?"
"Yeah, I will," I said, just wishing he would shut up.
"All right I have to get back to the station, the media is such a bitch. No offence." He smirked.
"Oh yes, very funny!! I'll see you later." I shut the door, and went back to the pictures.

How could he have worked for someone at the office, and I not have seen him?

Day 2

The telecast went well. Hannibal actuallysaid, “Good Job!”. I don’t like it when he says that. Make’s me feel like acheap whore!
------

It's 3 am, I'm still in bed with my eyes transfixed upon the slowly moving fan blades. Three of them, one behind another, repeating their monotonous duty at an almost bureaucratic speed. My head felts light, numb, but my chest heavy. As if the air is applying an unholy pressure, coercing my heart to give way. And yet, I lie unflinching in the pain. Numb to my surroundings, in my own trance. There are no memories to disturb me. I see in technicolor, wide sweeping movements of red, blue and yellow. And many more. Like paint brush strokes they move around each other, towards a far black spot. Moving fast, but never moving any closer.

His face moving slightly somewhere at the edge of my eye's. Another one, get's chalked down to statistics.

I am moving back in time, my mind in his eyes. Seeing his final scenes, the fear. I sense his assailant's silent might, given by metal and fire. Then the black spot flies right at me and I remember nothing else.

The dark chariots of sleep come swiftly and take me on a long,
mellow and calming journey.

LATER IN THE DAY.

----

I wake up and look at my watch, its already 10 a.m. My head feels like there is a war going on inside. And not a pitiful local civil war, it's a full blown military conflict with Heavy Artillery and Carpet Bombings. I'm never drinking that much again.

----

I force myself to get up, and promptly loose balance. I somehow manage to break my fall. I'm really never going to drink that much again! I struggle to find my way to my bathroom, resting heavily on the sink, I force myself to look in the mirror. Sunken eyes, black rings around them, hair disheveled, and a small scar near my chin on the left from a motorcycle accident. You pitiful little bastard, you always wanted to look like Scarface. I get myself to take a cold shower, to shake my senses out of their drunken stupor. The house is in a mess, the guys were over last night, and tidiness didn't feature high on their list. Neither did common courtesy.

----

I make myself breakfast after the cleaning lady leaves. Not before cursing me. I apologize curtly and ask her to expect the same tomorrow. I take my plate of omlette and toast and sit myself down at the table. From here I can see the sea and the city, with nothing obstructing my view. It's been pouring for a few hours now and the sea is violent too, as if in retaliation. The skies are overcast, like a dark shroud hanging over the city. Brings out my more morose and poetic side. A perfect day to just sit indoors and watch the clouds trample across.

Inside, there isn't much and neither is it a particularly large room. The customary television hangs on one side. Windows on the perpendicular walls, provide a nice sea breeze, helping me unwind after a hard days grind. Besides that there is only a table with 4 chairs, near one of the windows. And a small sofa in front of the television. The rest of the room is occupied by 2 large book shelves on either side of the television.



And a large black and white framed portrait of Gloria Grahame opposite to the television adds some finesse to the proceedings.

----

There is a loud knock on the door, disturbing just as i begin to enjoy my weekend calm. And the clock turns twelve just as I reach to open the door.

Day 1

There are very few things in the world that must make me actively sick. A gruesome murder, I am told, should figure somewhere around No. 1.

Or maybe it's number 3.

But my blood refuses to curl up, it seems rather adamant on following its God-given route.
But my brain, fortunately, is a bit more conflicted. It can't decide whether to treat it as another occurance, or to seem appropriately disgusted and horrified, and only then change the channel.

I hate it when my mind is indecisive.

But there it was, a huge gory image of a man brutally murdered. Without any motive it appeared. And all in High Definition across a multitude of channels. You can't escape it.

----

Work must be done though, even on such a horrible day. I hate it when it rains. Small mercy though, there is some good music on the car radio. Though work isn't much of a drive from home, I don't enjoy the drive. It doesn't run through the most scenic part of town exactly.

----

Just as I walk in, my boss informs me that I must immediately put my current project on hold. My boss is one of those people who look like they can only be 'book smart'. But unfortunately turn out to be clever and cunning pricks as well. Makes it very difficult to win an argument. Even if the project he is putting on hold took 3 weeks of painstaking research and many coffee cups.

As luck would have it, it's about the dead bloke. Apparently it is of more importance than the sad state of public education. Well, more sensational at least. I put up a bit of resistance but ol' Hannibal will have none of it. Back I march back to my desk like a defeated Roman.

My cameraman is ready to go though. He is a small chap, likes to keep a handlebar mustache. Says it makes him look macho. He is single. And has been so for a long time.Skinny, white and with a penchant for over-sized floral shirts and beige jeans. Lovingly known to us as Big Mac.

He also takes a disturbingly high interest in his work. Especially the gruesome and morbid ones. If I didn't know better, I wouldn't have been his friend.

----


We reach the scene of the crime just as the sun comes shinning out of the clouds. The other bees are there too, trying to get the best angle of the bloody face. Kept at bay only by the Cops hurling abuses at them. Gits. The entire lot of them. Fortunately, I have a man on the inside. My cousin. Lets me in on the finer nuances.

"It was a gun shot, straight to the head. No mistake here. We just don't know who or why."

"Ah, splendid job", i said.

"Don't get wise assdouche."

"Good one." He could come up with a few good insults some times. "So where is it from?"

"0.44 caliber, that's all we know"

Armed with this information, I start the telecast ensuring Mac didn't resort to the nasty cliches of television news cinematography. If there is one thing i like about Hannibal, he hates cliches more than he hates me.

----