When the Gods Are Away, page 8
Thinking about Nicholas’ apartment reminded him that he hadn't taken notes while at the crime scene. He had a notebook now and nothing else to do, no leads other than checking the Manikas brothers' alibis. Virgil hurried to his car, hoping this next excursion would yield more clues.
Chapter 09
VIRGIL ALWAYS FELT embarrassed when approaching his car, a Nymph model. While most respectable cars on the road had huge wheels, spiked rims, and colorful paintjobs, his stood at shoulder-height, had all the defensive systems of a limp celery stalk, and only had a paintjob if one considered rust an acrylic. Fortunately, he saw no one else on the sidewalk outside Elysian Fields and managed to slide behind the steering wheel undetected. Slouching in his seat, he turned the ignition, let the car rattle to a start, and pulled away from the curb.
Manikas’ apartment was on the northwest side of town, several kilometers away. Virgil's car bumped along a road that could be generously described as, ‘textured’, following it through winding uphill streets bordered on both sides by houses of questionable stability crammed together. In the distance, the clean marble dome and spire of the Temple of Ares loomed over the other municipal buildings.
One final hill before reaching Manikas’ apartment building. Virgil’s car struggled, its engine banging in protest, but it crested the summit and poured downhill. After the car staggered through a couple potholes spanning most of the street’s width, Virgil drew alongside the sidewalk a few meters from the steps to the apartment, a two-story structure with several units side-by-side.
The cracked concrete stairs led up a tiny weed-covered hill and past yellow police tape to the graffiti-laden front door of Manikas’ unit. Virgil reached to turn off his car, but froze in mid-motion. Manikas’ door had opened.
As Virgil watched, his breath still, a figure emerged from the apartment wearing a black hooded cloak. The sight seemed out-of-place in this suburban environment in the daytime, and it became more suspicious given that it occurred when the majority of the police force wouldn't have left the funeral yet. He had found his fourth suspect.
Virgil frowned. A civilian wouldn't visit a crime scene without intending to tamper with it or remove something. Either the man had important evidence in his possession, or he had just destroyed a clue Virgil had overlooked the other day. Another lost piece of information because Virgil hadn’t acted sooner or taken notes.
He considered calling the police, but they would arrive too late. His heart hammered. It was up to him. This might be the moment. He could catch the suspect, demand answers, and maybe even solve the case. Right here, right now, within the chief’s deadline.
The man shut the apartment door and, with the cloak billowing behind, bounded down the steps. He was of average height. His dark clothing obscured other details.
Virgil remained motionless in his car. Should I get out and... confront the suspect? Or wait to see what happens?
The man entered a car several meters ahead of Virgil’s. The car looked inconspicuous, a dark blue Titan or Gorgon or similar model with no obvious markings. Black cloth covered the rear license plate. Before Virgil could pull out his notebook, the car rumbled into action and pulled away from the curb.
Virgil swallowed. He had missed the chance to apprehend the man at the apartment by being an indecisive moron, but he could still follow and confront the man at his destination.
Virgil recalled what his therapist had said about him not being ready to confront the murderer yet. Well, that would always be true, and he didn’t have any choice in the timing. He squeezed the steering wheel as he turned his Nymph from the sidewalk and began the pursuit.
The street sloped downward, descending to the bottom of one hill before climbing up the next. As Virgil's car crept downhill, he watched the other driver lean to the side. It looked as though the man were changing radio stations or increasing the speaker volume.
Virgil pushed down on the gas pedal. His car had little reaction to the increase in fuel consumption. Then the downhill slope increased, allowing gravity to further assist with acceleration.
It wasn’t enough. The cloaked driver had gained tens of meters already and seemed intent on increasing his lead. Virgil tried to force the Nymph to go more quickly.
Red brake lights blinked on from the rear of the other car, probably because the man felt uncomfortable driving downhill at that speed. Virgil sighed. He wished his car had that issue. At least the other car's braking gave the Nymph an opportunity to regain distance.
To Virgil’s dismay, the Nymph continued to fall behind. He pushed the gas pedal to the floor. His car rattled, shaking the mirrors, the seat, Virgil’s teeth. It felt as though it could fly apart at any moment and scatter auto parts across the narrow street.
The other vehicle continued to increase the distance between them.
This felt shameful, reminding him of his early years of education and his peers laughing at him while he tried to run the kilometer-long course. He felt his face redden. A quick glance out the window assured him that no one saw his humiliation.
A few seconds later, the other man braked again, then again. Still, the distance between their cars increased. Probably the other driver didn’t even know he was involved in a car chase.
The situation became more laughable when the other car reached the bottom of the hill. It began to climb the hill, slowing noticeably, but Virgil’s car could still do no more than maintain the distance between them. Ahead, the driver seemed to adjust his position in his seat. While Virgil’s car crept along at what were, for the Nymph, insane speeds, the cloaked man was listening to music and relaxing.
When the Nymph reached the bottom of the hill, it had already fallen half a block behind its prey. As Virgil's car began its ascent, its speed plummeted. He gripped the steering wheel with whitened knuckles, cursing himself for doing something so pointless, but was unable to stop himself.
The other driver rolled down his window and draped his arm on the outside of the door.
Virgil sighed again. The other car had soon put a block of distance between them, then two blocks. Then it crested the hill and disappeared from sight.
Virgil beat his head against the steering wheel. Time to surrender.
He turned the Nymph around and began lumbering downhill to return to Manikas' apartment. It was better this way. If the cloaked man were the murderer, Virgil couldn’t have done anything other than deciding whether to die by a spear through his chest or through his back.
As the car reached the hill’s bottom and began trudging uphill, Virgil pondered what the cloaked man’s purpose at Manikas’ apartment had been. When I arrive, am I going to find a ransacked apartment? If something is missing, I won’t know. Diaper-pissing Ares. I should have surveyed the scene better the other morning.
His car finally reached Manikas’ apartment. He pulled up to the curb again and let the engine rattle to a halt. Sighing, he lurched out of the car.
As Virgil strode up the steps toward Manikas' door, the neighbor exited the adjacent unit. Smaller than average height and out-of-shape, the man wore a tight-fitting tunic and wheezed as he walked toward his own set of steps.
Maybe he had seen the cloaked man. Maybe he had even seen the murder.
“Excuse me!” Virgil breathed hard as he hurried toward the neighbor.
The man stopped mid-way down the steps and smiled. “Good morning!”
“Yeah, you, too.” Virgil cut across the hill to meet the man.
When he reached the neighbor, he extended his hand. The man shook it while appraising Virgil.
“Um,” said Virgil. “Sorry to bother you. Did you see a guy in a black cloak come by here today? He just left a few minutes ago.”
The man pursed his lips and shook his head. “Don’t think so. I heard the door open and shut, but I figured it was just the police coming back. You’re not an officer, are you?”
“No,” Virgil said. “Homicide detective. I’m investigating the murder.”
“Cool,” the man said.
“Um, anything you know about what happened here would be helpful. Do you remember anything from the other night? Or anything about Mr. Manikas at all?”
“Not really.” The man shrugged. “Didn’t talk to my neighbor much. He never seemed in the mood. Didn’t hear anything happen next door the other night, either. You’re welcome to come in and talk about it if you want. I can make you some coffee and warm up some baklava. I don’t think I have anything helpful for you, though.”
“Maybe later. Thank you for the offer, though.”
“Sure. You have a good day.”
“You, too.”
Virgil watched the neighbor pound down the steps to the sidewalk. Those few exchanges had been the most pleasant conversation he’d had in months with someone who wasn’t his sister. Is something wrong with that man?
Virgil adjusted his hat and returned to Manikas’ door. Nothing about the door seemed different from the other night. No obvious tampering or vandalization. No forced entry. Maybe the police officers had forgotten to lock the door before leaving, or maybe the cloaked man had a key. The latter would imply a personal relationship with the deceased, which could indicate the brothers.
Virgil tested the doorknob. It turned without resistance. Unlocked. He pushed the door open slowly, then raised his hand as a shield when sunlight from the opposite window blasted his eyes.
When his eyes acclimated, he examined the entryway. To the best of his recollection, it appeared the same as it had yesterday morning. He pulled out his notebook and made a quick sketch of the room, indicating cracks in the tile and door. The drawing would never decorate a politician’s house, but it gave the relative locations of the room’s features.
In the kitchen, a pool of darkened blood marked the murder location. Virgil walked to the refrigerator, stepping over the blood, and opened the door. A mild aroma of expired food assailed his nose, but he held the door open long enough to satisfy himself that the suspect hadn't pilfered any leftovers or condiments. Manikas’ heirs would be pleased.
Letting the door close, he looked down at the spot where Manikas’ body had lain. What were those final moments like? Virgil tried to imagine himself in that situation, making food one moment and turning to watch a spear impale you the next. Poor Manikas. He'd been abused by family and coworkers his entire life and then someone had killed him. If Virgil hadn't been hired in his place, Manikas might have had different experiences the previous two weeks and might still be alive.
Virgil grimaced and continued his search. The kitchen counters had no obvious new markings, but some of the drawers were ajar. The first two contained nothing but silverware or measuring cups, while the third held toothpicks. Either Manikas had stored nothing of interest here or the cloaked man had taken it.
As the rest of the kitchen seemed undisturbed, Virgil jotted down some quick notes and walked to the living room. Though Manikas had a different decoration scheme than Virgil, his apartment felt similarly empty. Maybe the emptiness said something about Manikas. Those weapons on the walls and the lack of personal photographs could indicate that Manikas hid his true self from the outside world even in his inner sanctum. Did he allow himself to be himself anywhere?
Despite my many problems, at least I don't hide from my true nature: I’m an awkward failure with little to offer the world. He closed his eyes, then forced them open.
A swift search of the living room revealed nothing. He continued to the bedroom.
The police hadn't left it like this. Drawers in the corner dresser hung half-open, crumpled bedsheets and clothes lay on the floor, and the mattress rested on the bedframe at an odd angle. Virgil slid the drawers fully open one-by-one, but found only clothes, and no sign that anything else had been there. Lifting the sheets revealed only the floor.
One final place to check. Virgil approached the bed and lifted the mattress. Beneath it lay a blue book.
Why did the searcher leave it? Given the mattress' odd angle, the suspect must have seen the book. Virgil pulled it from its resting place and set the mattress down.
The book had no fancy gold writing or any indication of its purpose, but it looked like a diary. Virgil noticed a gap in the middle and checked: torn shreds of paper marking the remnants of missing pages. After that, only blank pages.
This, then, was what the cloaked man had sought. Probably the diary had once held incriminating evidence about the murderer.
Virgil groaned. He had been so close. If he’d left the funeral a few minutes earlier or driven a little more quickly, he could have caught the man, or at least have been able to hide and hope for a glimpse of the man’s face. Or if he’d performed a thorough search of the apartment the morning of the murder, he could have found the diary. It felt as though everything about this case served only to remind him what he should have done differently.
Why did the man remove only a few pages? Virgil counted the stubs. Seventeen missing pages. The others were intact. Why not take the entire book and leave no evidence it existed?
He turned to the last entry. Hera 14. The day before Manikas was fired. That had to be relevant. Something had happened after that day that led to Manikas’ death. If events had transpired differently, if the department had laid off a different officer or if it hadn’t hired Virgil...
He shook his head. A lot of things would have been better without him. He needed to concentrate now. Maybe he could find some clues in the earlier portion of the diary. He flipped to the first page.
5414 Zeus 1. Another new year, another new diary. I burned the previous diary, according to the annual tradition. No need to save those memories. None of them were any good, anyway.
Of course, the other officers celebrated last night by making fun of me and hitting me on the arm and pretending they hadn’t hit me very hard. They aimed for the same spot every time and it hurts to wear anything with sleeves. You’d think I would have learned by now not to attend these parties, but I always go and hope it will be something different and that maybe they’ll respect me. If I didn’t go, though, the other guys would probably do something even worse when I saw them again. I hate parties and I hate my coworkers and I hate everyone. They’re a bunch of assholes who think just because they have some muscle and a uniform and a spear that they’re better than everyone else. Well, they’re not. I’m smarter than they are and I would be a better officer if I weren’t always having to worry about what prank they’re planning to pull on me next.
Anyway, I always celebrate the new year with a new poem. So here it is:
Hoping, watching, waiting
Trapped behind the invisible iron bars of a cage built by society
Trying to break them
Pulling
Begging
Pleading
for them to let me out
But am I in the cage looking out into the world of freedom
Or am I the free one looking at society in the cage?
Probably the first one
VIRGIL RUBBED HIS EYE. He wasn’t crying. But that poem was really good. He knew how Nicholas felt, how your options were to either accept the roles society forced upon you or be a permanent outcast.
He closed the book. There would be time to read more poetry later. And to scour the diary for clues, or a cast of characters to question. He slipped it into his pocket.
Though it might provide leads, it also raised questions. How would the murderer have known about the diary, which was supposedly a private book? That fact implied a close relationship with the victim. Was the cloaked man a lover? Was Manikas’ death the result of an escalated lover’s quarrel?
Virgil grimaced. He had less than a day to answer all those questions and provide the chief with the culprit, and his only piece of evidence was a book whose most important pages were missing.
AFTER USING MANIKAS’ restroom, Virgil hurried back to the police station. Instead of ensconcing himself in his office to read the diary, he headed to the chief's office. Since Virgil had acquired new evidence, he hoped he could beg the chief for an extension on the deadline.
The chief's office was at the far end of a hall, secluded from the more heavily trafficked areas. Virgil knocked on the door, but heard nothing. A tentative twist of the doorknob indicated the door was unlocked. Taking a final glance to make certain no one saw, Virgil slipped inside.
The office had few decorations, only a ceremonial golden spear mounted on the opposite wall, and wasn't much larger than Virgil's. It would only take three steps for him to crack his knees against the desk. The desk's surface was bare, with the exception of an opened envelope and an unfolded letter. The letter bore the Senate's seal.
Why would the Senate have sent Chief Dimitriou a letter? Virgil wondered if it had something to do with the detective position. Senator Kelipapalous, who represented Arestia, had mentioned introducing a bill that would, among other things, end funding for homicide detectives. Does the letter have any further insight on the likelihood of the bill passing?
Virgil glanced down the hallway. No one. He knew reading the chief's mail was illegal and, considering the chief's temperament, lethal. The mail was open, though, and he was just going to take a quick peek, and no one else would know, and the letter probably concerned him.
He closed the door and picked up the letter. It was addressed to the chief from Senator Kelipapalous.
We have a problem in common, but a solution presents itself. Your department will be required, by legislative decree, to hire a homicide detective to assist in investigations. I recommend hiring one of the certificate-holders from the short-lived Klasistratos Academy homicide detective program, Virgil Glezos.
