When the Gods Are Away, page 7
Patroklus waited for several moments before speaking again, presumably to allow all that reverence to permeate people’s minds and bodies. “Nicholas Manikas is the man we have come to mourn. He died prematurely under tragic circumstances. His body is not here and has not yet been coined, at the request of the investigating homicide detective.”
Patroklus waved his hand to indicate Virgil. A wave of murmurs came from the relatives as they turned to face Virgil. They stared for several seconds as though committing every feature of him to memory so they would know the true face of evil. He clenched his hands around his hat and wondered if any of them would be audacious enough to kill him here, in the presence of two dozen police officers. The officers would probably cheer them on.
Why did Patroklus volunteer the fact that I requested not coining Manikas? Does he want someone to kill me? If so, does that fact imply his involvement in the murder or only a strong dislike of me?
Maybe I deserve to be killed for my transgression. Withholding the coin had so far accomplished nothing other than hurting the victim's family. Manikas' soul might have been necessary for the rituals, but the rituals had revealed nothing to the priest. Everything I’ve done so far has been pointless.
“However," said Patroklus, "we should not dwell on Nicholas Manikas' death, but his life.”
With those words, the priest departed the focal point. Striding past the gathered audience without reaction, he rejoined the officers.
A lengthy pause followed, with the relatives glancing back and forth between each other before a middle-aged man shuffled forward to the spot Patroklus had vacated. Paulus, Manikas’ father. Upon reaching the tree, he turned to face the attendees and cleared his throat.
“Nicholas was my son,” he said in a gravelly voice, “and there can be no greater pedigree than to have me as a father. It will come as no surprise to you, then, that he was a hero. As I served in the military and garnered various honors, including two Valiant Service Medals in the Asian Conflict of ’73 and three recommendations for Exemplary Service Medals in the subsequent years, Nicholas also wanted to serve his city-state to the fullest of his abilities.”
He continued, giving a somewhat dubious account of the deceased’s life. According to Mr. Manikas, Nicholas had lived a life of adventure, heroic deeds, and selfless acts even the most self-denying of people had never achieved. Typical funeral fare. The rest of the ceremony continued similarly, with relatives and coworkers comparing Manikas’ actions to those of Perseus, Jason, and Herakles. From the file Virgil had read, Manikas’ most heroic act had been to arrest someone who had exposed himself in a produce store. Virgil did not volunteer this information during the service.
Virgil’s legs became stiffer and stiffer and his back ached with increasing intensity as the speakers droned on. He needed a chair. Or at least something to lean on. He wasn’t as strong as all these other people. After over an hour, the last person spoke, and Patroklus came forward to end the ceremony.
“Nicholas Manikas was well served by your tales of his life,” Patroklus said. “Though he will spend his eternity upon the unchanging fields of Hades, rendered insipid and irrelevant by that fate which claims us all, it is good that those who remain remember his better days.”
The priest bowed, and the gathering disintegrated. The relatives dispersed from their rows and gathered in clumps, passing around plates of bull meat.
Virgil took a breath, trying to calm himself. Though he had dreaded the upcoming confrontation with the family, the investigation would end today, in failure, if he didn’t speak to them. Returning his hat to his head and pulling his notebook from his pocket, he scanned the clumps and found his target. As he moved to intercept, he heard conversations from the other clumps with topics ranging from the pleasant scenery to the next wrestling competition.
To Virgil’s right, a bulky relative strode toward Officer Collias. Without saying a word, the man shoved Collias.
“You pulled me over the other day!” The relative bunched his fists. With his muscles, he looked like he might be a match for the officer.
“What about it?” Collias asked, with equal parts aggression and confusion.
“The fine was huge. I didn’t deserve that.”
Collias shrugged. “You owe it, either way.”
The relative closed the gap between them, standing chest-to-chest with Collias. “Maybe I’ll find a way to make it worth paying.”
Virgil glanced around for safe cover. He could duck behind a nearby pair of trees or behind a set of relatives already making bets on the proceedings.
Before Collias or his assailant initiated the fight, Kostas swaggered from the crowd and inserted himself between the two. With one blow, he laid out the relative.
“I don’t care if you live or die.” Kostas leaned over the man, who groaned on the grass. “But if you don’t back down right now, we’ll be burying you next to Nicholas today.”
The man stood and, for a moment, it looked as though he would take a swing. But he spit blood in the grass beside Kostas’ boot and said, “You’re not worth it,” before spinning on his heel and walking away.
Talking resumed. Kostas clapped Collias on the back, and they strolled toward the other officers, laughing.
Virgil released his breath. He would have hated to see someone killed right in front of him, though it would have been easy to solve that particular case. He continued toward Manikas’ father.
“Mr. Manikas?” Virgil asked when he arrived.
The barrel-chested man turned from the woman to whom he’d been speaking. “What do you want?”
“I’d like to ask you a few questions about your son.”
“I’ve already spoken,” the man said, his expression akin to that of someone who had swallowed a shard of glass. “Let me grieve.”
“I’m sorry. It’s just, I’m conducting the investigation into his death, and I wanted to talk to you about what your son was doing his last few days.”
The man raised a meaty fist, one with scars and bruises. “If you say one more word to me, just one, I will kick your ass so hard you’ll be kissing your own butt. This is my son’s funeral, and I must mourn my loss.”
Virgil opened his mouth to apologize, but realized his mistake in time. He bowed his head and backed away. The father returned to his conversation, which sounded as though it had to do with gas prices during summer months.
That should have gone better. In his notebook, he wrote, "Paulus Manikas didn't want to talk. Threatened ass-kicking."
As he searched for the older brothers to question them next, he saw the chief approaching Nicholas’ father. He wondered how the conversation would go, given Nicholas’ dismissal from the police force.
Virgil turned away from that particular storm and located the brothers in a nearby cluster of relatives, their shiny uniforms and thick torsos making them a focal point. They stood on either side of their mother, their backs to Virgil, while the people in the cluster ate and gabbed. The conversation stopped when Virgil approached.
The brothers turned to face him, their expressions stoic. “Who are you?”
Virgil extended his free hand. “I’m the detective conducting the investigation into Nicholas’ death.”
The mother, a tall, thin woman in a severe black toga, turned. She wept into her hand under her veil. The oldest brother, Boris, set his plate down and folded his arms across his chest. “So you’re the one who ordered him not to be coined.”
Virgil shuffled, looked at his hand, and dropped it to his side. “Um.”
“Kind of disrespectful, don’t you think? How would you like to be stuck on the riverbank, waiting to move on with your existence?”
“Well...” That actually feels like my life. “Can I ask you all a few questions?”
From Boris’ expression, the idea seemed as welcoming as a bowl of goose dung. “Ask.”
“Um. The day Nicholas Manikas was fired, you and Alexandros were arrested for beating him.” Virgil didn’t add that he thought their motive for beating their brother might be their motive for killing him.
Boris and Alexandros turned toward each other, paused, and laughed in unison. “Yeah,” said Boris. “That was pretty hilarious. Now everyone knows we beat up Nicholas.”
“Look,” said Alexandros, “it was our brotherly duty to beat Nicholas. He was always a wimp. We tried to toughen him up. If we’d done a better job, he might still be alive today.”
“So,” said Boris, “the only thing we should have been arrested for is not beating him more.”
“You have almost the same build as Nicholas.” Alexandros eyed Virgil as though contemplating a recalcitrant nail or a particularly annoying weed. “Little flabbier than he was. We could offer you the same services we gave him.”
Virgil took a step back. “No, I... I’m fine.” He directed his gaze to the ground. “So where were you two on the night of the murder?”
Boris and Alexandros exchanged a glance again. “It sounds,” said Boris, “like you’re accusing us of the murder.”
Virgil blanched. He was being too obvious. “Well...”
“We didn’t do it. I was at a dog-fighting show at the Drowned Sailor.” Boris pointed at Alexandros. “He was at a Chronic Death concert with friends.”
Virgil wrote down the names in his notebook. “Okay. Can—"
“And now you’re done asking questions.”
Virgil blinked. “Um, I still have more. I thought you would want to help. I’m trying to find the murderer so he can be punished. And th—"
The other brother gestured to several laughing police officers who had begun walking toward their cars at the edge of the property. “The police have already been doing a good job of that. They typically solve murders in the same day.”
“I don’t think—"
“Then you come along, slow down the process, and make a difficult time even harder on the family.” Boris stepped closer and shoved Virgil. Virgil had to take a step back to regain his balance.
“I’m just trying to—"
“Leave. Or you’ll be the next one we talk about under this tree. And I’m sure the stories about you won’t be as flattering.”
Virgil studied the man’s face. Boris seemed capable of following through with his threat. “Okay. I’m sorry.”
Maybe this was the end. He wouldn’t learn anything else today. He had no leads, and he would have to give up the investigation. Manikas’ death would go unpunished, and all the trouble Virgil had caused would mean nothing.
“Wait,” said the mother. “Please.” Her sons turned to her, mouths gaping.
“Okay.” Virgil’s heart jumped. Someone wanted to talk to him. “You’re Clymera, right?”
“Please, call me, ‘Mrs. Manikas.’” She removed her hand from beneath the veil and wiped it with a handkerchief produced from somewhere within her dress. Her voice seemed on the verge of trembling as she continued. “Someone killed my son, and I want to see them suffer. I’m certain my sons won’t begrudge their mother some vengeance.”
“No, Mom,” said Alexandros. “Of course, we wouldn’t.”
Boris shook his head. “I want vengeance for Nicholas, too. I just don’t think you should be getting involved, Mother. Let the men handle it.”
She hugged each of her sons. “That’s kind of you. I just want to talk to the detective for a few minutes, though, to answer his questions. Maybe I can sit on one of those nice benches while we talk?”
Virgil looked to the brothers, who appeared confused. Boris shook his head after a few moments. “Mother, this is the guy who didn’t let them coin Nicholas.”
“Yes.” Her voice dropped. “And I hope that proved worthwhile. If no conviction comes from his investigation, we may have some reckoning for the insult.”
The brothers appeared pleased at the prospect, eyeing Virgil like a chew toy. He swallowed.
“Thank you, ma’am. That’s great. This will be very helpful.”
“The bench, please?”
Virgil followed as the two brothers guided their mother between them to the closest bench. It sat under a tree that provided a few square meters of shade. Mrs. Manikas lowered herself onto the center of the bench and crossed her legs, sighing. Virgil envied her. His own legs felt stiff.
Mrs. Manikas looked up, though her face remained hidden by the veil. “Now, what would you like to know?”
“Um.” Virgil paused to gather his thoughts. “What was Nicholas like? Who were his friends? How did he spend his last few days?”
The woman clasped her hands atop her lap. “My Nicholas was a gentle soul. Always a kind word for those around him. Always taking care of his poor mother. Then he turned eight.”
Virgil nodded while trying to hide his inner confusion. He couldn’t reconcile her description of Nicholas with the one the officers had given him.
While Virgil jotted down notes, Mrs. Manikas continued. “You might have noticed that Nicholas isn’t built as well as most officers. He’s always been on the thin side. Not weak, but thin. This made him a target for the other kids at school. He would come home crying to me about what the bigger kids had done or said to him.”
“Mom,” said Alexandros. “This guy is a stranger.”
“It’s okay, dear. This man is going to find out who did this.”
Boris gave her a pleading look. “I still don’t think Nicholas would want us talking about him like this in public.”
Virgil cleared his throat. “I can understand what he might have gone through.”
The mother smiled. “I thought as much, judging from your physique and the way you carry yourself.”
Virgil shifted position.
“Nicholas changed after a year of being hurt and insulted. He became sarcastic and spiteful. He wouldn’t physically harm anyone because he couldn’t, but he would eat all the cookies before anyone else had a chance or leave chores undone or leave messes for others to clean. No amount of punishment would change him. His sweet brothers even tried to regulate his behavior, but to no avail.”
“Mother,” said Boris. “We’re not sweet. Please don’t say that.”
“Allow your mother her eccentricities, dear.” She turned back to Virgil. “Nicholas’ behavior grew worse when he joined the police.”
So Nicholas Manikas’ personality had irritated a great many people, including his own family. Not new information, but at least it gave Virgil more insight into what made Nicholas the man he was. "Do you know about any friends he had?"
Mrs. Manikas shook her head. "He swore he had friends, but we never saw any. Nicholas became very private after he moved out and started working. I've never even set foot in his apartment. I suppose, now, I never will."
Poor Manikas. Maybe, if someone hadn’t killed him, he and I could have spoken about our common experiences and offered each other sympathy.
“After he was fired," said Mrs. Manikas, "he started looking for jobs at various places. He didn’t tell me where, just that he would let me know when he got hired.”
Motion from the corner of Virgil’s eye. He looked up and saw Paulus Manikas striding toward them. Virgil’s chest tightened.
Paulus interposed himself between his wife and Virgil. “What are you doing, harassing my family?”
“It’s okay, dear,” Mrs. Manikas said. “I’m giving him information that will help him find out who killed our son.”
The man shook his head. “I make the decisions for this family, and it is absolutely not okay.” He stared at Virgil with narrowed eyes. Virgil looked away. “You’ve caused enough harm already. I just learned from your chief that Nicholas would still be alive if the police department hadn’t been forced to hire you.”
Virgil swallowed and then backed away when he saw the expressions on the brothers’ faces. “Um. That wasn’t... my decision.”
“In a sense,” the father said, eyes narrowing, “it could be said that you were the one responsible for my son’s death.”
Virgil swallowed again. “I don’t think that’s what my investigation will conclude. I need to get back to the station and keep working. Thank you for your help, Mrs. Manikas.”
He didn’t wait for a response before striding toward his car. Before he took more than a few steps, something unyielding grabbed his arm and spun him around.
Virgil flailed and stumbled, fighting to keep from crumpling to the ground. He swayed, then regained his balance and looked up to see the chief.
The chief seized Virgil’s shoulders and shook him hard enough to rattle his teeth. “What in Hades’ name are you doing?”
Virgil staggered again and tried to ignore his spinning head. “Um... Questioning the—"
“That is the family of the deceased. You have no right to be harassing them.”
“I’m trying to f—"
“I don’t care what you’re trying to do.” The chief shoved Virgil away. Virgil stumbled several steps, but managed to stay upright. “They have suffered enough already. Why aren’t you out trying to find the murderer?”
Virgil took a breath. “I am. I think it might be the brothers.”
“The brothers?” The chief turned his gaze to them, his eyes widening slightly. Maybe he noticed their bulging muscles and thick torsos. “Both of them, huh?”
“Yes. They had an altercation with the victim a few days before the murder, which might have led to them killing him.”
“And you’re thinking of formally accusing them?”
“I’m considering it. I d—"
“I see.”
Before Virgil could say anything else, the chief strode away. Maybe the chief wanted to prepare himself for a trial by combat with the Manikas brothers. Virgil didn’t want to formally accuse them yet, though, not without more clues.
And he didn’t know where to find those clues. He could call the Drowned Sailor and the Chronic Death concert venue to confirm the Manikas brothers’ stories. But what if those leads don’t help?
Virgil glanced back at the Manikas family. Paulus had shepherded his family across the field, likely trying to put as much distance as possible between them and Virgil.
Growing up with Mr. Manikas couldn’t have been easy, but at least Nicholas had gotten to grow up with a father. What would Nicholas and I have become if the situations of our formative years were reversed? What would my home life have been like if I’d grown up with Mr. and Mrs. Manikas and two older brothers instead of my mother and Chrysanthe? Maybe I would have been the one lying in a laboratory storage compartment. Maybe I would have been the one so estranged from my family that they never saw my apartment.
