Fic: Jabberwocky, Part 10a/?
Gene stared around him at his detectives, all but Cartwright present, all wearing looks of horror and fear as he described the case to them. The second murderer, the one who had killed both the first and fourth victim - Gene still refused to count Sam amongst the victims - was using pieces of metal to pin his victims to the walls, or to some other sort of hanging item. Gene described in detail the murders, the fact that all of the victims had been similar in coloring and build to Sam, the pieces of flesh measured to exactly the same dimensions and carved off of their backs, the surgical precision of the cuts that had severed the testes, the pancreas, the adrenals and the thyroids from the victims of both their mystery killer and of Myers, the flash burns to the eyes, the types of beatings, the brutal rapes. He included pictures of the victims, coroner’s reports, Sam and Annie’s theories on the killer’s twisted mind, the fact that he had to see the men as animals, and that they had to not see him until the end, when they saw him as a type of god. The idea that whoever the killer was, there was a good possibility he was eating the parts he had taken. Pamphlets with photos of Myers’ artwork, and full reports from the scene where Sam had been found, and Myers apprehended. Every little detail was circulated to every DC in CID, every available living soul pouring over the thick folders they’d been given.
Once the department was busy with their reading, Gene called Chris and Ray into his office, poured out large measures of scotch into three glasses, and sat down heavily behind his desk. “We need a collar on this twisted shite, and we need it now,” Gene said, downing half of his drink and staring at his two detectives, wishing that Sam was present, his strange, wheedling brain spitting out bizarre ideas, always helpful, no matter how stupid and poncey they seemed.
“Too right, Gov,” Ray said as he took one of the glasses and followed suit, then looked over at Chris. “Any ideas? You were the one that were always hangin’ round the boss, Chris,” Ray said, his own mind drawing a complete blank.
“Need to look over the tape I made. Might be something on it that I missed,” Chris muttered, then looked down at his drink, and slowly slid the entirety of the glass down his throat, earning a shocked look from Gene. He set the empty glass down, then shook his head. “No. Not a bloody clue.”
“If Oswald’s right that this bloke did just the first and fourth, then we’ve got nearly a month until he kills again. Any ideas on the time of the killing? Full bloody moon and all that shite?” Gene looked up at his calendar, trying to figure the exact date. He snorted in derision, shaking his head, then turned back to the other two. “Twenty two days between those killings. So if he is on a pattern here, that’s twenty two more until he kills again. Unless the bastard was counting the Myers killing amongst his, in which case, who bloody knows how long before the perverted scrotum starts ripping another man to bits. Another good man, a man in my sodding city!” Gene felt his face color, and then eased back into his seat, downing the rest of his drink.
“We could go back to abattoirs and butcher shops, Gov, start pulling in workers from that lot and putting the squeeze on ‘em,” Ray noted, racking his brain for something more substantial.
“Right. Carling, I want you following that up. Take Chester and Brixton with you, they’ll be able to help out well enough,” Gene stated, coming up with the names of the hardest DC’s he could think of, although, he thought, Chris has more of a chance of winning an academic medal than either of those two idiots, and that’s saying something about the caliber of man, however good he may be, that was sticking with police work in this day and age. He shook his head at the thought, then started to pour out more drinks.
“What about the art?” Chris asked, eyeing his second drink warily, not sure if he should drink it or not. Everyone knew that he couldn’t hold his liquor, and getting bladdered wasn’t going to help him to win any of the Gov’s confidence. He let the glass rest on the table and lit up a cigarette.
Gene gave Chris a quizzical look. “That horrible shite Myers was crankin’ out, nightmarish piles of twisted horse crap?”
Chris nodded. “What if the other fellow has some connection to the art world? He knew Myers well enough to get him into this shite, and Myers had only just come to the city about the time the killings started. So, stands to figure the other fella came into the city about the same time. Maybe he knew Myers beforehand,” Chris shrugged his shoulders. “Buggeration. I’m talkin’ out me arse, aren’t I?” He stared down at his cigarette and shuffled his feet.
Gene’s eyebrows shifted pensively, “No, no, you’re not. Shit, Skelton, that’s the best I’ve ever heard from you. Gay boy science rubbing off, then?” Chris winced at this, but Gene didn’t notice. “’s a damned bloody brilliant idea, Chris. You and I are going to follow up on it, while Ray bangs heads with the bastard meat dealers. At the same time, I’m pulling Renton and Bradley onto searching for warehouses, large basements, anywhere with a wide, open space like the one Myers used. This sick twist might just be using a similar area for his own torture chamber. Think we’ve got all our bases covered, then, ladies?” Ray nodded, a look of appreciation on his face as he glanced at Chris over his drink, and then he set his empty glass down.
“I’ll go get crackin’ on the crackin,’ Gov,” he stated, and he left to grab Chester and Brixton. As the door swung shut behind him, Chris stared at Gene, not sure what to say.
“You going to finish your drink, then?” Gene said, and Chris shook his head.
“Go on, Gov. I don’t think any more’s a good idea for me,” Chris felt shame creep into his face as he said it, and Gene gave a small chuckle.
“Old Gladys really is wearing off on you, Skelton. And it is a damned good idea, you silly nonce,” he mentioned, and Chris allowed himself a small smile. He stubbed out his cigarette as Gene downed the entirety of his glass and Chris,’ and then stood. “Come on, then, we’ve got an appointment with the art world.” Chris nodded and followed Gene out of the office, grabbing his jacket off of his desk chair as he followed Gene out of the CID door. Phyllis gave him an odd look as the two of them passed her, and then Gene backtracked back up to her.
“Phyllis, I’ve got ol’ sweet-knickers at the hospital, looking after our boy. She’s also following a line of inquiry on some other supposed DCI that’s been ferreting around there; it’s likely just Tyler’s old ponce of a superior making sure that he’s okay, but just in case, I want you to keep a squad car on stand-by if she calls in. Understood?” Phyllis nodded, and Gene started to walk away again, turning over his shoulder, “And you radio in to me if anything, and I mean anything, comes up. I don’t care if Carling says one of the men he’s questioning pissed his sodding trousers, you let me know about anything that pops up.”
“Roger that, Gov,” Phyllis said as she watched Gene and Chris exit the building, heading towards the car park.
When they reached the Cortina, Chris instinctively moved to get into the back seat, and Gene tossed him an annoyed look. “You plannin’ on having me play chauffeur to your Princess Anne, Skelton? Get in the soddin’ passenger seat,” he nodded towards Sam’s usual place, previously Ray’s, and Chris’ eyes went wide for a second before he climbed into the front passenger seat of the Cortina. His hand flew to the handle above the door as Gene sped off towards the road, colliding with a row of bins on his way. “Always puttin’ the bloody damned things in me way,” Gene muttered as he floored the gas pedal.
As Chris and Gene started down the road towards the nearest museum, the first place that either of them could think of when it came to questioning the art world, Chris pulled out the file folder containing his copy of the case details and started to pour over the pages.
“What you doing?” Gene asked as he saw Chris staring that the photos inside.
“Multi-tasking,” Chris muttered as he flipped a page over, and Gene couldn’t help but smile slightly at this.
“You figure on anything else while you’re playin’ at Dorothy’s double, then, Chris?” Gene asked, and Chris knit his brows in concentration.
“Well, we’re going to be asking after Myers’ art work, and any related stuff, but what about Myers’ buyers, or anyone else directly connected to his business? Grey’s dead, so he’s out of the picture, but someone else that worked at Myers’ studio might be a good bet,” Chris mumbled as he stared at the pages, trying not to picture Sam’s face on all of the coroner’s photos.
Gene nodded as he continued to speed and swerve along the roadways, banking hard on the turns with squeals of rubber. “Good thought. We’ll make it next stop after the museum; a lot of the paperwork from that ol’ house of horrors and shite has already been consigned to the station, so shouldn’t be that hard to get our hands all over it.”
Chris nodded and continued to flip over the pages. Grey was dead… Two deaths, then… One in the line of duty… He pushed the thought back in his brain, refusing to let it distract him, trying to force his brain to beat out another good thought, worried that he’d already used up all of his powers of deduction for the entire year.
When the car pulled up outside of the Atheneum, Gene took a moment to clap Chris on the shoulder. “Never knew you could snap to so well, Skelton. Gonna expect a lot more from you in the future, you daft git, if you can work things out like this,” Gene said, and Chris tried to smile, but couldn’t force himself to.
“Ta, Gov,” he said, and slid the thick folder back under his jacket, where it bulged slightly, making his already gangly movements seem even more uncoordinated. Gene shook his head at this, and the two of them made their way to the entrance.
Gene pulled open the museum’s door and held out his badge to the receptionist, “DCI Gene Hunt, here to question whatever ponce is in charge of this place about Jefferson Myers and related artistic bullshit.” The receptionist raised an eyebrow at this, but then asked them to wait and disappeared around a high wall, to return followed by a short man in a tweed suit.
“Walter Buchanan, chief administrator, Mr.…” The man held out his hand, and Gene shook it.
“Detective Chief Inspector Gene Hunt, and Detective Constable Chris Skelton. Here about Jefferson Myers,” Gene said, eager to cut to the chase.
“Yes, yes, of course, Sir,” Buchanan led them back, past a sign labeled, “Pre-Raphaelite Collection” and another sign reading, “Life and Death in the 17th Century,” until they eventually reached a wing with a large plaque reading, “Lowry and Valette, Modern, and Post-Modern Galleries.” Chris allowed himself to sink back into old habits, wondering how anything could be “post-modern.”
“Mr. Myers had certainly been an asset to the city, Sir, although I can assure you we do not in any way condone his behavior,” Buchanan stammered as Gene started to simmer visibly after his first comment. “We have two pieces by him, and several by his contemporaries, including a Ferber on loan from…” Gene cut him off.
“Not really interested in his work, although I’m sure the prices have gone up much higher than they should, now he’s dead,” Gene said, and Buchanan’s eyes widened. “Some other arsehole offed him in hospital, and we think it might also be an art bloke. Maybe someone with similar types of art, and the like,” Gene added, hoping that this was a good enough explanation for Buchanan.
“Dead? Killed in hospital? I hadn’t heard…” Buchanan led them up to two of Myers’ distinctive works, and Gene noticed Chris shudder at the sight of the twisted pieces of sculpture, each over seven feet tall, each a mass of bleached white wood, crimson cloth, and twisting, oddly formed steel. Chris averted his eyes, squinting at the museum’s prized Dewhurst, a brightly lit picnic scene. It hung on a wall far from the sculptures, time slipping away from modernism into impressionism, just before the Lowry and Valette gallery started. He allowed himself to wander away, looking at the different forms of “post-modern sculpture” that lined the curving path through the museum’s wing.
Gene and Buchanan were both locked in conversation and locked onto the Myers sculptures before them, and didn’t notice as Chris slipped away. “It should be hitting the papers tomorrow, actually,” Gene was saying.
“Tragic, but then again, tragedy fills the art world. And I’m sure that Myers’ own… Tragic persuasions, if you’ll permit me the term, will not be mourned by any. It’s sad, isn’t it, the way that genius is so often touched by madness, and so exquisitely horrid when that madness is criminal,” Buchanan said, earning a look of disgust from Gene.
“Sure. Whatever. The thing I want to know is, this Myers bastard, was he connected to any other artist blokes? Someone else who would’ve had a torch, and maybe done something like Myers for his art?” Gene tried to keep Buchanan’s mind on the task at hand, feeling disgust rise up in him as the other man’s eyes actually seemed to be tearing up over the monster.
“Well, Myers certainly has a wide plethora of contemporaries, although none have been able to capture the bleak desolation and deep-seeded, existential angst of Myers,” Buchanan began, and Gene tried to keep from punching the man. “There’s Dingwall, and DeFleuraine; Offlesburg and…”
“Anyone that would be in the city?” Gene said, and Buchanan gave an indignant snort.
“If we were only so lucky, Detective Chief Inspector. Myers was the greatest art mind to come to the city in ages, although the fact that the Manchester Corporation building next door, originally designed by Sir Charles Barry and formerly housing the Royal Manchester Institution, has recently come under scrutiny as a possible graded building may drum up quite a bit of interest, and the City Council, as well as several private institutions, continue to make enough donations that admission is still free to the general public…” Buchanan noticed Gene glaring at him as he rambled, and then adjusted his tie. “No, Sir, no one else. No one related to Myers, or his work, certainly not of Myers’ caliber.”
“Gov!” Chris shouted from across the room, and Gene bolted towards him, glad to get away from Buchanan’s pedantic speeches.
Chris was staring at a small sculpture, twisted strands of incredibly fine, thing steal working their way around a mass of odd paraphernalia, including a small, circular piece that looked almost as if it had once been the ER emblem of a police badge, and had then been melted down against a block of coal. The twists of the metal were nearly identical to Myers’ pieces, and Chris was starting at it, trying to determine exactly what the bits and bobs filling it had once been. Most were melted down, like the probably badge, and fixed to pieces of coal and wood. In the center, however, was what looked like two marbles, odd tiger’s eye circles, surrounded by deep, crimson fabric. The fabric was almost identical in color to Myers’ bits of cloth.
“Ah, yes, this piece. Unknown artist, I’m afraid, but it’s been a fairly new addition to our collection. Found in a house fire in Hyde, nearly a year ago, and sent down here for appraisal. Obviously new work, it was moved into the permanent collection. On the base of it, there’s a cut out insignia, and a title, ‘Displacement by Time,’ and then the insignia - Sir, don’t!” Buchanan looked as if he were about to pass out as Gene picked up the heavy sculpture and twisted it upside down, and then stared at its base. There, at the very bottom of the sculpture, was the title, along with a strange mark - a W, surrounded by and bisected by odd, elliptical curves.
“Unknown? Whose house was the fire in, then?” Gene asked as he waved the sculpture about in his hands, and Buchanan continued to gasp and splutter until Gene put it down. “Well?”
“Sir, I must ask you not to handle the art! This piece could be the only thing left of a remarkable artist…” Buchanan was stammering greatly, sweat having broken out on his forehead, and Gene grabbed him by the lapels and slammed him into a nearby wall, jostling the frame of a huge amalgamation of bright colors.
“Whose house, Buchanan?” Gene growled it, and Buchanan looked about to burst into tears.
“I don’t know! It was just sent to us by the Hyde police! A, a, Mr. Martin, or Morgan, or something similar sent it down, stating that it was of unknown origin and could we appraise it for the city! The Antheneum purchased it, and the funds went to the police charity fund there, widows and orphans and such… There never was any information about the artist, all of our inquiries went unanswered…” Buchanan was crying, and Gene let him, go, watching him fall to the floor, coughing and spluttering.
“Morgan!” Gene shouted it, and Chris looked expectantly up at him. “That was the name of Tyler’s old DCI!” He started to run for the door, then back tracked, grabbed Chris by the collar, and thrust him forward. “Come on, you div!” he shouted, and Chris ran after him and out to the Cortina.
The car sped off of Mosley Street and banked hard onto Princess Street, threatening to take out several of the passersby who were wandering about the hazy twilight of the city center, Chris grasping the handle above the door for dear life as Gene raced back towards the station.
“So you think the Boss’ old DCI knows sommat about this, Gov?” Chris asked shakily as Gene poured on the gas. Gene grunted his assent as they continued to head back to the station at break-neck speed, Chris’ eyes wide and his mouth gasping; even the Gov didn’t normally drive like this…
It only took them ten minutes to return to the station.
All comments, critiques, squee and flames are highly encouraged and greatly appreciated. Comments make me feel happy :)
Once the department was busy with their reading, Gene called Chris and Ray into his office, poured out large measures of scotch into three glasses, and sat down heavily behind his desk. “We need a collar on this twisted shite, and we need it now,” Gene said, downing half of his drink and staring at his two detectives, wishing that Sam was present, his strange, wheedling brain spitting out bizarre ideas, always helpful, no matter how stupid and poncey they seemed.
“Too right, Gov,” Ray said as he took one of the glasses and followed suit, then looked over at Chris. “Any ideas? You were the one that were always hangin’ round the boss, Chris,” Ray said, his own mind drawing a complete blank.
“Need to look over the tape I made. Might be something on it that I missed,” Chris muttered, then looked down at his drink, and slowly slid the entirety of the glass down his throat, earning a shocked look from Gene. He set the empty glass down, then shook his head. “No. Not a bloody clue.”
“If Oswald’s right that this bloke did just the first and fourth, then we’ve got nearly a month until he kills again. Any ideas on the time of the killing? Full bloody moon and all that shite?” Gene looked up at his calendar, trying to figure the exact date. He snorted in derision, shaking his head, then turned back to the other two. “Twenty two days between those killings. So if he is on a pattern here, that’s twenty two more until he kills again. Unless the bastard was counting the Myers killing amongst his, in which case, who bloody knows how long before the perverted scrotum starts ripping another man to bits. Another good man, a man in my sodding city!” Gene felt his face color, and then eased back into his seat, downing the rest of his drink.
“We could go back to abattoirs and butcher shops, Gov, start pulling in workers from that lot and putting the squeeze on ‘em,” Ray noted, racking his brain for something more substantial.
“Right. Carling, I want you following that up. Take Chester and Brixton with you, they’ll be able to help out well enough,” Gene stated, coming up with the names of the hardest DC’s he could think of, although, he thought, Chris has more of a chance of winning an academic medal than either of those two idiots, and that’s saying something about the caliber of man, however good he may be, that was sticking with police work in this day and age. He shook his head at the thought, then started to pour out more drinks.
“What about the art?” Chris asked, eyeing his second drink warily, not sure if he should drink it or not. Everyone knew that he couldn’t hold his liquor, and getting bladdered wasn’t going to help him to win any of the Gov’s confidence. He let the glass rest on the table and lit up a cigarette.
Gene gave Chris a quizzical look. “That horrible shite Myers was crankin’ out, nightmarish piles of twisted horse crap?”
Chris nodded. “What if the other fellow has some connection to the art world? He knew Myers well enough to get him into this shite, and Myers had only just come to the city about the time the killings started. So, stands to figure the other fella came into the city about the same time. Maybe he knew Myers beforehand,” Chris shrugged his shoulders. “Buggeration. I’m talkin’ out me arse, aren’t I?” He stared down at his cigarette and shuffled his feet.
Gene’s eyebrows shifted pensively, “No, no, you’re not. Shit, Skelton, that’s the best I’ve ever heard from you. Gay boy science rubbing off, then?” Chris winced at this, but Gene didn’t notice. “’s a damned bloody brilliant idea, Chris. You and I are going to follow up on it, while Ray bangs heads with the bastard meat dealers. At the same time, I’m pulling Renton and Bradley onto searching for warehouses, large basements, anywhere with a wide, open space like the one Myers used. This sick twist might just be using a similar area for his own torture chamber. Think we’ve got all our bases covered, then, ladies?” Ray nodded, a look of appreciation on his face as he glanced at Chris over his drink, and then he set his empty glass down.
“I’ll go get crackin’ on the crackin,’ Gov,” he stated, and he left to grab Chester and Brixton. As the door swung shut behind him, Chris stared at Gene, not sure what to say.
“You going to finish your drink, then?” Gene said, and Chris shook his head.
“Go on, Gov. I don’t think any more’s a good idea for me,” Chris felt shame creep into his face as he said it, and Gene gave a small chuckle.
“Old Gladys really is wearing off on you, Skelton. And it is a damned good idea, you silly nonce,” he mentioned, and Chris allowed himself a small smile. He stubbed out his cigarette as Gene downed the entirety of his glass and Chris,’ and then stood. “Come on, then, we’ve got an appointment with the art world.” Chris nodded and followed Gene out of the office, grabbing his jacket off of his desk chair as he followed Gene out of the CID door. Phyllis gave him an odd look as the two of them passed her, and then Gene backtracked back up to her.
“Phyllis, I’ve got ol’ sweet-knickers at the hospital, looking after our boy. She’s also following a line of inquiry on some other supposed DCI that’s been ferreting around there; it’s likely just Tyler’s old ponce of a superior making sure that he’s okay, but just in case, I want you to keep a squad car on stand-by if she calls in. Understood?” Phyllis nodded, and Gene started to walk away again, turning over his shoulder, “And you radio in to me if anything, and I mean anything, comes up. I don’t care if Carling says one of the men he’s questioning pissed his sodding trousers, you let me know about anything that pops up.”
“Roger that, Gov,” Phyllis said as she watched Gene and Chris exit the building, heading towards the car park.
When they reached the Cortina, Chris instinctively moved to get into the back seat, and Gene tossed him an annoyed look. “You plannin’ on having me play chauffeur to your Princess Anne, Skelton? Get in the soddin’ passenger seat,” he nodded towards Sam’s usual place, previously Ray’s, and Chris’ eyes went wide for a second before he climbed into the front passenger seat of the Cortina. His hand flew to the handle above the door as Gene sped off towards the road, colliding with a row of bins on his way. “Always puttin’ the bloody damned things in me way,” Gene muttered as he floored the gas pedal.
As Chris and Gene started down the road towards the nearest museum, the first place that either of them could think of when it came to questioning the art world, Chris pulled out the file folder containing his copy of the case details and started to pour over the pages.
“What you doing?” Gene asked as he saw Chris staring that the photos inside.
“Multi-tasking,” Chris muttered as he flipped a page over, and Gene couldn’t help but smile slightly at this.
“You figure on anything else while you’re playin’ at Dorothy’s double, then, Chris?” Gene asked, and Chris knit his brows in concentration.
“Well, we’re going to be asking after Myers’ art work, and any related stuff, but what about Myers’ buyers, or anyone else directly connected to his business? Grey’s dead, so he’s out of the picture, but someone else that worked at Myers’ studio might be a good bet,” Chris mumbled as he stared at the pages, trying not to picture Sam’s face on all of the coroner’s photos.
Gene nodded as he continued to speed and swerve along the roadways, banking hard on the turns with squeals of rubber. “Good thought. We’ll make it next stop after the museum; a lot of the paperwork from that ol’ house of horrors and shite has already been consigned to the station, so shouldn’t be that hard to get our hands all over it.”
Chris nodded and continued to flip over the pages. Grey was dead… Two deaths, then… One in the line of duty… He pushed the thought back in his brain, refusing to let it distract him, trying to force his brain to beat out another good thought, worried that he’d already used up all of his powers of deduction for the entire year.
When the car pulled up outside of the Atheneum, Gene took a moment to clap Chris on the shoulder. “Never knew you could snap to so well, Skelton. Gonna expect a lot more from you in the future, you daft git, if you can work things out like this,” Gene said, and Chris tried to smile, but couldn’t force himself to.
“Ta, Gov,” he said, and slid the thick folder back under his jacket, where it bulged slightly, making his already gangly movements seem even more uncoordinated. Gene shook his head at this, and the two of them made their way to the entrance.
Gene pulled open the museum’s door and held out his badge to the receptionist, “DCI Gene Hunt, here to question whatever ponce is in charge of this place about Jefferson Myers and related artistic bullshit.” The receptionist raised an eyebrow at this, but then asked them to wait and disappeared around a high wall, to return followed by a short man in a tweed suit.
“Walter Buchanan, chief administrator, Mr.…” The man held out his hand, and Gene shook it.
“Detective Chief Inspector Gene Hunt, and Detective Constable Chris Skelton. Here about Jefferson Myers,” Gene said, eager to cut to the chase.
“Yes, yes, of course, Sir,” Buchanan led them back, past a sign labeled, “Pre-Raphaelite Collection” and another sign reading, “Life and Death in the 17th Century,” until they eventually reached a wing with a large plaque reading, “Lowry and Valette, Modern, and Post-Modern Galleries.” Chris allowed himself to sink back into old habits, wondering how anything could be “post-modern.”
“Mr. Myers had certainly been an asset to the city, Sir, although I can assure you we do not in any way condone his behavior,” Buchanan stammered as Gene started to simmer visibly after his first comment. “We have two pieces by him, and several by his contemporaries, including a Ferber on loan from…” Gene cut him off.
“Not really interested in his work, although I’m sure the prices have gone up much higher than they should, now he’s dead,” Gene said, and Buchanan’s eyes widened. “Some other arsehole offed him in hospital, and we think it might also be an art bloke. Maybe someone with similar types of art, and the like,” Gene added, hoping that this was a good enough explanation for Buchanan.
“Dead? Killed in hospital? I hadn’t heard…” Buchanan led them up to two of Myers’ distinctive works, and Gene noticed Chris shudder at the sight of the twisted pieces of sculpture, each over seven feet tall, each a mass of bleached white wood, crimson cloth, and twisting, oddly formed steel. Chris averted his eyes, squinting at the museum’s prized Dewhurst, a brightly lit picnic scene. It hung on a wall far from the sculptures, time slipping away from modernism into impressionism, just before the Lowry and Valette gallery started. He allowed himself to wander away, looking at the different forms of “post-modern sculpture” that lined the curving path through the museum’s wing.
Gene and Buchanan were both locked in conversation and locked onto the Myers sculptures before them, and didn’t notice as Chris slipped away. “It should be hitting the papers tomorrow, actually,” Gene was saying.
“Tragic, but then again, tragedy fills the art world. And I’m sure that Myers’ own… Tragic persuasions, if you’ll permit me the term, will not be mourned by any. It’s sad, isn’t it, the way that genius is so often touched by madness, and so exquisitely horrid when that madness is criminal,” Buchanan said, earning a look of disgust from Gene.
“Sure. Whatever. The thing I want to know is, this Myers bastard, was he connected to any other artist blokes? Someone else who would’ve had a torch, and maybe done something like Myers for his art?” Gene tried to keep Buchanan’s mind on the task at hand, feeling disgust rise up in him as the other man’s eyes actually seemed to be tearing up over the monster.
“Well, Myers certainly has a wide plethora of contemporaries, although none have been able to capture the bleak desolation and deep-seeded, existential angst of Myers,” Buchanan began, and Gene tried to keep from punching the man. “There’s Dingwall, and DeFleuraine; Offlesburg and…”
“Anyone that would be in the city?” Gene said, and Buchanan gave an indignant snort.
“If we were only so lucky, Detective Chief Inspector. Myers was the greatest art mind to come to the city in ages, although the fact that the Manchester Corporation building next door, originally designed by Sir Charles Barry and formerly housing the Royal Manchester Institution, has recently come under scrutiny as a possible graded building may drum up quite a bit of interest, and the City Council, as well as several private institutions, continue to make enough donations that admission is still free to the general public…” Buchanan noticed Gene glaring at him as he rambled, and then adjusted his tie. “No, Sir, no one else. No one related to Myers, or his work, certainly not of Myers’ caliber.”
“Gov!” Chris shouted from across the room, and Gene bolted towards him, glad to get away from Buchanan’s pedantic speeches.
Chris was staring at a small sculpture, twisted strands of incredibly fine, thing steal working their way around a mass of odd paraphernalia, including a small, circular piece that looked almost as if it had once been the ER emblem of a police badge, and had then been melted down against a block of coal. The twists of the metal were nearly identical to Myers’ pieces, and Chris was starting at it, trying to determine exactly what the bits and bobs filling it had once been. Most were melted down, like the probably badge, and fixed to pieces of coal and wood. In the center, however, was what looked like two marbles, odd tiger’s eye circles, surrounded by deep, crimson fabric. The fabric was almost identical in color to Myers’ bits of cloth.
“Ah, yes, this piece. Unknown artist, I’m afraid, but it’s been a fairly new addition to our collection. Found in a house fire in Hyde, nearly a year ago, and sent down here for appraisal. Obviously new work, it was moved into the permanent collection. On the base of it, there’s a cut out insignia, and a title, ‘Displacement by Time,’ and then the insignia - Sir, don’t!” Buchanan looked as if he were about to pass out as Gene picked up the heavy sculpture and twisted it upside down, and then stared at its base. There, at the very bottom of the sculpture, was the title, along with a strange mark - a W, surrounded by and bisected by odd, elliptical curves.
“Unknown? Whose house was the fire in, then?” Gene asked as he waved the sculpture about in his hands, and Buchanan continued to gasp and splutter until Gene put it down. “Well?”
“Sir, I must ask you not to handle the art! This piece could be the only thing left of a remarkable artist…” Buchanan was stammering greatly, sweat having broken out on his forehead, and Gene grabbed him by the lapels and slammed him into a nearby wall, jostling the frame of a huge amalgamation of bright colors.
“Whose house, Buchanan?” Gene growled it, and Buchanan looked about to burst into tears.
“I don’t know! It was just sent to us by the Hyde police! A, a, Mr. Martin, or Morgan, or something similar sent it down, stating that it was of unknown origin and could we appraise it for the city! The Antheneum purchased it, and the funds went to the police charity fund there, widows and orphans and such… There never was any information about the artist, all of our inquiries went unanswered…” Buchanan was crying, and Gene let him, go, watching him fall to the floor, coughing and spluttering.
“Morgan!” Gene shouted it, and Chris looked expectantly up at him. “That was the name of Tyler’s old DCI!” He started to run for the door, then back tracked, grabbed Chris by the collar, and thrust him forward. “Come on, you div!” he shouted, and Chris ran after him and out to the Cortina.
The car sped off of Mosley Street and banked hard onto Princess Street, threatening to take out several of the passersby who were wandering about the hazy twilight of the city center, Chris grasping the handle above the door for dear life as Gene raced back towards the station.
“So you think the Boss’ old DCI knows sommat about this, Gov?” Chris asked shakily as Gene poured on the gas. Gene grunted his assent as they continued to head back to the station at break-neck speed, Chris’ eyes wide and his mouth gasping; even the Gov didn’t normally drive like this…
It only took them ten minutes to return to the station.
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