2020-08-29 - Do You Wanna Solve a Murder?

The thing about small town cops is that very often, they have habitual places to grab a bite, because long hours and tiring shifts always drain the desire to cook for yourself away. Leon wasn’t too outside this sort of mentality, as Locksmith hours were generally on-call, but he liked to think he made time occasionally. Either way, he was regular enough to notice Esme was regular enough that he could count on pulling into the Waffle Shoppe on a certain morning to ’run into’ the detective. He had even shot Ravn a text beforehand to tell him to meet him there at a certain time.

Leon, of course was a few minutes earlier than the time he gave, the blue and grey logo’ed NV200 van pulling into a spot outside the Waffle Shoppe. The big man gets out and makes his way inside, peering around, seeing if he’d beat her here or conveniently soon after. He was dressed A simple black tee is stretched across his form, Impact lettering across the back labeling him ‘LOCKSMITH’. Tan Dickies and brown Red Wings completing his work clothes.

You don't need to say 'waffle house' twice to a man who -- for all his alleged professional expertise as a Swedish master chef -- tends to avoid cooking because he's really not rather good at it, or at least he's convinced that he's not rather good at it. Granted, the woman in his life currently is grateful for a can of cold tuna, but let's be fair; most ladies might be more discerning. And here is indeed, a restaurant dedicated to greasy fried goodness. Combined with an excuse to meet up with the hospitable locksmith, he's there. On time.

Actually, ten minutes before time. It's him over there at the corner table, behind the stack of pancakes.

While it might not be obvious from the outside, Esme frequented the Waffle Shoppe and Black Bear Diner for two different reasons. Waffles were a reward for coming off an overnight shift. Greasy diner food was for getting off late shifts. Today it was waffles. The Homicide detective looks a little tired. There a whole pot of coffee sitting on her table along with a partially eaten plate of waffles that might give you diabetes just looking at them. She's on a laptop, brow furrowed ever so slightly as she works - even when she's supposed to be done working. She's still dressed from her shift. A pair of black slacks and a white button down. Gun and badge holstered and visible.

There's a look on Leon's face when he sees Ravn already into a seat and ordered, something slightly disappointed or crestfallen, as now this was going to seem a lot less organic. Well, couldn't be helped. Leon himself was open carrying, though that likely wouldn't seem out of place to Esme, as the locksmith had all relevant licensing and was former military. He puts a smile on.

"Wilkinson!" he greets, heading over to her booth and making a motion with his hand as if asking to join, waiting for confirmation before he'd slide in. An eye is paid the waffles, maybe she wouldn't be staying, probably best to get to a point then. No plan survives contact with the enemy. "You busy?"

While preoccupied applying generous amounts of maple syrup Ravn is by no means unaware of his surroundings; he shoots Leon a guilty look that absolutely mumbles something about hoping to have time to order twice and then shuffles off into the woods to never be seen again. He cants his head at the greeting and his grey eyes wander to the woman over there -- only in this country. Conclusions are drawn. He doesn't get up quite yet but prepares to do so. After all, while Leon seems a decent fellow, odds are that he did not text Ravn to be here in the hope of setting him up with some dateless cousin. Knife and fork stacked on the tray, scooting over there the instant it seems to be the appropriate thing to do. Absolutely not leaving the maple syrup behind, mind.

Waffles! Alexander really likes waffles. And murder. Which is why he's looking...surprisingly chipper and well put together. For Alexander. He comes into the shop in a t-shirt and jeans, one arm covered with bruises that have mostly faded to greens and yellows, like some sort of splotchy watercolor accident, but whistling under his breath (although most people might not recognize Black Sabbath when whistled). He even smiles at the hostess as she greets him. At least until she calls him, "Mr. A! Do you remember me? I was in your seventh grade class, like, ten years ago. Doreen!"

The smile cuts off, replaced with a pained expression. "Doreen. Uh. Hi. Table for...one?" It sort of trails off as he recognizes a few of the people in the restaurant, although his attention lingers on the detective more than the other two.

Esme looks up at Leon greets her so...enthusiastically. She knows him from his locksmithing business and a couple run ins over the months at the diner or here. They've never done much serious chatting though. So she is at once both suspicious and curious. Perhaps, reluctantly, she nods for him to sit. When he asks if she's busy, Esme counters with, "That depends entirely on what you're about to ask me."

When Alexander walks in, Esme looks to him for a beat and then exhales softly and looks back to Leon. And then there's another person coming over to join thm. She had a sinking feeling that this was going to be a long, long morning. No wonder De la Vega was always so grumpy.

Leon wasn't too surprised at the surly answer to his question, and there's a guilty look to the smile on his face. He lowers his big frame to slide into the booth across from the woman, palms up innocently as if to ward off that attitude or at least seem less threatening. Cops always ask for hands up, so it must make them feel better, right?

"Ehhh, it's about that park ranger murder." He starts, having to choose his words carefully, as the whole conversation never goes quite as well as you plan it in the shower. He skips the part where he might ask if she was done with breakfast first. This was a homicide detective. She probably has a donut in her mouth while crouched over murder victims. At least that was Leon's mental narrative, "How much have you heard about it?"

He notices the look and peeps over his shoulder to spy Alexander. Again, there's that face-falling motion, as Leon has the realization Esme might think he invited the town cop-botherer to sit in on this. Oh boy, this was not going like he planned.

Bit young to teach seventh grade, isn't he? Guess he's a prodigy after all. Ravn dismisses the thought in favour of more important issues than Alexander Clayton's C. V. and the waitress who clearly recognises him from school. At least she hasn't asked me to rate her waffles. Yet. He picks up his tray and heads in Leon's direction. "I'm guessing this is about -- yes. That. Sorry, I got here a bit early. Is this a private party, or are we all comparing notes?"

The poor detective who's probably still remembering that Thursday in 2014 that she actually got to eat a meal undisturbed will not recognise him as a regular in town; he's a tall, copper blond guy in black from top to toe, and he's got a decidedly European accent. He seems to know Leon Gyre -- and from the nod in the town cop-botherer's direction, knows who Alexander Clayton is as well.

Alexander glances over as people congregate at the detective's table. He also doesn't miss the way Esme and Leon's faces change when they see him, and the rest of his happiness visibly falls away, replaced by his usual shoulder-slumped creepiness. "Table for one," he repeats to Doreen, tonelessly, then skitters to the side when she tries to pat him on his arm. He gets a weird look from the hostess, but she shrugs and leads him over to a table just behind Esme's, which he slides into without looking at the three of them. He reaches into his pocket for his phone, and starts scrolling through to his notebook app.

Esme has a terrible poker face unless she's really trying - like, you know, during interrogations. Otherwise, she's easy to read and so it's not difficult to see the bit of guilt that passes over her face too when Alexanders notices them. She doesn't dislike Alexander, he's been extremely helpful after all and he really isn't too bad to chat with. She's just tired and annoyed and -well, now this. She mentally motions to Leon and Ravn. As if trying to give herself an excuse.

When Leon starts asking about the murder, Esme shrugged, sitting back in the booth. "Not a whole lot. Wasn't assigned for me to look into. Just heard some rumors here and there." She looks between the pair and then runs a hand over her face. Without looking over her shoulder she speaks up - clearly talking to Alexander. "Get your ass in a chair over here, Clayton." He's going to be eaves dropping anyway. It's not said unkindly, more just resigned.

Her attention focuses on Ravn a moment, offering him a hand once he's set his stuff down. "Detective Esme Wilkinson." She introduces herself to the stranger. "So. What do you all know?"

What did Leon have? This was the part where he holds up a finger, says 'One sec.' stands and heads out to his car. A resigned smirk on his face, because fuck it, this was happening, he jerks a thumb while looking to Alexander, reinforcing Esme's command that he should shove his ass in that seat while Leon was making a run to his car.

When he comes back, he sets a manila folder down in front of Esme. Inside was a collection of everything he had so far. His pictures of the crime scene, Ravn's emails about the possibilities, Leon's recollection of the reading of the body, the details I hos visit to the barbershop. Its organized in a specific way, but who knew if Esme had ever seen an Army Recon style report.

The detective isn't wrong. Sad or not, Alexander would definitely be eavesdropping on anything where 'murder' is said. He twitches when he's addressed, and sort of slinks over to a chair at Esme's table, blinking a couple of times as Leon makes the run to his car. While he waits for him to return, he stares at Esme and Ravn. "Hello," he says, at last. And then just...stares. Until Leon returns and starts laying out the folder. Enthusiasm visibly returns to the investigator, and he leans over to take a look at what was provided. "A new body was just discovered in Firefly. The woods, not the club. Decapitated with a chainsaw, and head replaced with a sheep's head. An earlier victim, approximately three weeks old; possibly the first."

"Ravn Abildgaard, folklorist -- or apprentice bartender, depending on when you ask," the newcomer to town replies with an easy smile and offers a hand gloved in black kidskin to accept the detective's offer of a handshake. His breakfast tray stays balanced in its horisontal position by the other hand, implying that the man has quite powerful wrists or, more likely, is cheating a little, moving things as one casually does. He does look a little relieved at the resolution of the Clayton Dilemma -- for one, it means he can now sit down at the detective's table without worrying about having another man sitting right behind him, absolutely eavesdropping. Some people are uncomfortable with that sort of thing.

He takes a seat next to the one Alexander was directed at and puts his tray down while Leon dashes off, and indeed, returns. "Leon -- that is, Mr Geier -- asked me to be here." His pronounciation of Gyre's name is slightly off, a little too vocalised. "Oh, that'd be the library patron, then. Then we're only missing the guy from Spokane."

"Staying out of trouble, Clayton? "Esme asked with a wry smile. A nod is given to Ravn and Leon dashes off. "Nice to meet you. For now. We'll see if I change my mind by the time this is all over." She's probably joking. Probably.

When Leon returns, she looks interested. Systematically starting to leaf through the report. Allowing Alexander to look as well. She has, in fact, never seen a Recon report but she likes the layout. More or less. A thoughtful noise made. "Sounds like a cult-type thing." She said when Alexander mentioned the sheep's head replacement thing. "Whose the guy from Spokane?" Having lived there the better part of a decade before coming back to Gray Harbor - Esme wondered if, possibly, she might know the person.

She also finally asks, "What exactly do you want me to do with this information?"

Today was a day for Leon to look disappointed, apparently. The news that there was another body related to the one they’d investigated has the locksmith’s lips drawing into a line with a slight sigh. He’d hoped they could nab the monster or weirdo doing this before there was more bloodshed. The fact it was a previous murder doesn’t really help. He does look a it confused about Ravn’s assertion of the library patron, brow quirking. To Alexander first, he comments, “That explains why he smelled engine oil, I guess.” His eyes go to Esme next.

“Honestly? I have no idea. This was more of a thing that felt... right? To look into I mean.” He makes hand motions to encompass the four at the table, including himself, “This felt like something related to us, and I think this guy was like us to. I don’t know if that’s related, but the weirdness of it, and the... I dunno, the way he was dragged... felt... Something was off.” He was trying to piece the words together with what seemed like a frog in his throat. His eyes had seemed to touch the pictures once, then would not look down again. “But we’re not police.” Again, that encompassing, back-handed motion toward himself and Ravn. “So we thought if anyone should look into it, it’d be someone like us.” Pause. “And of course, if you need our help with anything else, we’re absolutely willing.” Side-eye to Ravn, knowing it was likely the case.

What's a diner owner doing at the rival 24-hour food stop here in town? Obviously, getting waffles. Maybe the diner's too much like work. Maybe she doesn't understand the implications. Maybe she just doesn't care. Either way, here she is, in all her glory. Which is currently an oversized black-blue-purple plaid hoodie half-unzipped over a grey-black tshirt so faded whatever picture they bore is now nothing but the vague impressions of geometrical shapes, black hiking boots, and jean shorts over black leggings. Her smoky eye is, as usual, stellar, and her nails are red-splattered hot pink, and she could be the only one in the room, the way she just walks in and heads towards the counter, not even a glance around the room.

Not until after she's ordered, at which point she then proceeds to hop up so she's seated on the counter, like some high school delinquent instead of an adult businesswoman with three decades in this world, and her eyes sweep over the room. From...somewhere, she seems to have a hand of cards, which she shuffles idly, not stopping even when her eyes settle on the table where murdertalk is happening. She likely can't tell from this distance they're talking about it, so that can't be why a flicker of interest appears in her eyes.

Right? Yeah, probably not. Maybe it's just the combination of people. Far more likely.

Alexander glances at Ravn when he sits down, and offers a brief smile. "Gyre. Like the poem. Library patron?" He tilts his head to one side. "This man was a homeless man from British Columbia. Gary Treadway. He might have met the murderer in a library, I suppose." He shakes his head. "He was looking for answers. Libraries are good for those." His eyes tick back and forth between Leon and Ravn, drinking in the information avidly. There's a quirk of a smile towards Esme at the quip, but he shrugs, and says, honest to a fault, "Rarely, Detective. And I don't think it's a cult. This has all the signs of a ritualistic killer. We found more cuneiform in the woods. Isabella translated it. Seems to indicate he's targeting people who stand out to sacrifice them to his version of the early gods. Here:" He reaches for his phone and fires up his app, then puts it down so that everyone can read the translated 'verse':

//And they will come from Ka-dig~irra
And slake their thirst on those who shine

The way to stop their ascension
Is to crush the spark before it burns

It is better to snuff a light
Than to let a soul burn and suffer

And give their bodies to gods
In forms that please them

If they are not appeased
They will rise and drink their fill

And all will fall to darkness//

"No marks on the first body. That might be a refinement of the ritual for the second corpse. And Mr. Harvey says that a chainsaw wasn't used for the second decapitation, but it was for the first. It broke, and was exceptionally gory, so the murderer probably moved on to something more reliable," Alexander says, cheerfully.

"The guy from Spokane is a fellow who was murdered roughly a year and a half ago," Ravn replies calmly and nods at the part of Leon's report that's a print-out of his own research on conspiracy theories and pseudoarchaeologists wearing tinfoil hats. "I ran all of that past my friends back home in Copenhagen -- people who breathe ancient religions and archeology for a living, unlike myself. One of them sent a note back, asking if my research was related to a presumed cult murder in Spokane, Washington. I can think of three reasons it might be -- for one, we're in Washington State, the killer didn't have to travel far. Second, the body was found decapacitated, and the head was never found. And finally, the killer had scribbled a word on the wall in the victim's blood: Amashilama -- which happens to be the name of yet a Sumerian deity of the underworld. I am firmly convinced that our man is a roleplaying gamer turned cultist turned serial killer."

He shrugs ever so slightly. "What interests me in this particular regard is that Amashilama is not a deity of destruction. She's a goddess of leeches, but leeches are a healer's animal, and the task in mythology for which she is most famous is making a brew of beer and blood to bring a fallen god back to life."

"I'm very much not police -- I'm a folklorist. My field is the interpretation of the archetypes and symbolism of folk beliefs and cultural gestalts. If I'm told to back off or mind my own business, I will." The last observation is made with a glance at Leon, one that expresses a combination of concern and acknowledgement that yes, the folklorist is very much aware that actually, nobody in a position of authority ever asked for his opinion in the first place.

Gina's hard to miss, though; Ravn nods at her when he's done with that little lecture, then resumes eating his pancakes. With all the maple syrup.

Esme listened quietly, absobing all the information being given to her. Ritualistic killer. Potential Glimmer-killer. She wasn't sure what roleplaying games had to do with anything, that wasn't her forte. While she's absorbing the spoken info, she's continuing to go over the given info. Her gaze flickers upward, giving Gina a bit of an up nod. Even if they didn't talk much, Esme was a regular at the diner anyhow and knew of her well enough.

Finally, she focuses back on her little gathered group of would-be detectives. "I'll look into it. I'll try and talk to the person on the force who's handling it and see if I can get de la Vega to assign me on to help at least. We can't have a serial killer that's targeting the likes of us run rampant." She closes up her laptop and sets it beside her, taking a few bites of her now cooled waffles. "I have a shit ton going on right now. You'd think I'm the only detective on the force or some something. But, I'll see what I can do and I'll likely utilize you all for research type stuff."

Leon read the finality of that statement and the closing laptop loud and clear. It wasn't like he personally was any part of profiling or deep diving info researcher. So he's content to sit back and let the others theorize. The bit about during out light before it suffers seems to make him particularly stricken, distracting himself by ordering some black coffee. The taste might help suppress his gag reflex. He doesn't order food.

The look toward the wait staff and Esme's recognition has him noticing Gina's presence. The big man raises both hands skyward, the sort of body language that says, 'Look what we have here!' he looks like he's tasty to ask a question, but it would have to wait until the diner owner approached.

Gina continues to stare idly at the group. She makes zero sign of acknowledgement towards them, even with the nods and waving. Nope, she just... is she watching? Just facing that direction? ... has she blinked? Oh look, there! She blinked. Mostly because the person behind the counter kindly informed her she shouldn't be sitting there, causing Gina to turn her head s - l - o - w - l - y to look over her shoulder, glance at said person just a LITTLE too long, before hopping off the table while keeping eye contact. And then silently pointing towards the LEAR table. And then she looks away and starts walking towards the group, tucking the cards in her back jean pocket - and going to stand behind Alexander, resting her palms on the back of his chair and bending forward to lean over his shoulder - there's still plenty of space, of course. There's no COZYING going on here, just Gina not accepting Alexander's personal bubble. "You look cheery. New murderer in town, or just stranger-than-usual killings?" She wonders aloud... prooooobably to Alexander. "Or have you started writing love poetry again? Some of your old students say you should've taught english literature instead of history, with all your passion for literature." Gina sounds so casual! As if this is simple fact. Such a perfect deadpan.

"Roleplaying games..." Alexander frowns at Ravn. "I was talking to someone, trying to figure out what might have inspired the killer. One of my contacts mentioned a game. What do you know about that? And do you have any more details on that murder? Was there cuneiform? And I wouldn't expect too much fidelity to actual mythology. A ritualistic killer creates their own mythology, even when they use the trappings of real life folklore. What each of these gods represents to him isn't likely to be what it would mean to a serious scholar." He does not say anything about backing off and minding his own business, because let's face it - he has no intention to do so.

He also notes the setting aside of the laptop. He gives a little shrug, and says, "You seem competent and not noticeably corrupt, Detective. The combination does make you stand out a bit. Someone will have to arrest the murderer once he is found." There's a glance towards Gina as she approaches, which becomes outright alarmed when she moves to stand behind him. There's a flicker in his eyes, his face twisting as he fights against competing urges to either cringe or turn around and punch her as she leans down. Although one of his fists clenches, it looks like 'cringe' wins, and he scoots down in the chair to try and maintain the personal bubble.

"Serial killer," he mutters to her, not looking up from the table. "It's not your diner. Stop looming."

"I was speaking with Miss Price at the Library earlier," Ravn adds, looking at the police detective and the locksmith in turns. "She made a suggestion which I intended to follow up on, but -- anyhow, she suggested that if I'm right and our serial killer is in fact someone who overdosed severely on conspiracy theories and Wikipedia, then he will want to brag about how clever he is. I wanted to find someone to hunt through recent social media for hints and traces -- someone posting about Lovecraft, or Sumerian names, or whatever else might prove a pattern. However, as it turns out, the local computer store... burned down, so I did not manage to find someone."

Dipping into a blazer pocket for a black fountain pen -- fancy! -- he quickly scribbles a note on the corner of Leon's report. "While I remember."

Amashilama. Spokane casualty 2018 -- psychiatrist. Beheaded, head not found.

"Just so we don't forget." Then the Dane looks at Esme as he pockets the pen again and picks up his fork; the talk of bodies and murder doesn't seem to disturb his appetite in the slightest, and apparently, neither do the antics of the purple-head harrassing the man in the chair next to himself. "If there's anything further I can do to help, you're welcome to call upon me, detective. I have no background in criminal psychology though -- just, well, folklore. I certainly can't translate Sumerian verse." A glance towards Alexander; somebody else clearly can.

"That's the point of the research I compiled," he murmurs in response to Alexander's inquiry. "Our man is not an academic. He's bouncing around in a fashion that at least to me implies that his original source of inspiration was games like first edition Dungeons & Dragons and or Call of Cthulhu, back in the eighties. He's not going about this in a scholarly fashion -- he's scraping info from Wikipedia and various crackpot conspiracy sites. He's trying to communicate with us. First, the name of a deity painted on the wall -- no cuneiform; he probably hadn't learned it yet. Then, for some reason, our nameless Firefly victim is researching Sumerian mythology at the GHPL and then is murdered -- Sumerian blankverse. And Henry Fitzgerald as the last, covered in cuneiform screaming just the one word, Kur. He's flailing, waiting for us to get it. Or, at least, that's my take for what it's worth."

"This is...far out of my depth of field." Esme admits. "Definitely it will be one of the stranger things I've looked into, even here." She summons up a smile, finishing off her cup of coffee. Then she fishes out a few business cards from her purse - passing one to Leon and then to Ravn. Alexander already knows how to contact her. It has an email address and cellphone number on it. "And I'm going on just about 24 hours with no sleep so my brain is not quite comprehending...all of this." Esme waves her hand a bit towards the folder. "Is this mine to keep? Or can you email me copies of all this? I'll be able to view it better and be more useful with fresh eyes and a non-sleep deprived brain."

There’s a look toward Gina as she approaches and menaces Alexander, a look that spoke all about how knew what it was like to have specific triggers and watching her seem to specifically taunt and worry at a known issue the reputed man had. It was judgement, a lot of it, with just a dash of. ’Could you fucking not?’. That last bit was Leon’s foot moving to push a chair out, his head tipping toward it. It was a combination expression.

The rest of the stuff may as well been Greek... Well, he has the thing with languages, so scratch that. Rocket Science? The rest of it was rocket surgery to him, so he just listens quietly and perks up at D&D, which he occasionally played while deployed. Gotta pass time in the desert sometimes... Alexander’s backhanded remark about Esme gets a judgmental look too. He holds up a hand to keep Esme from passing the folder back to him. “Nope, that’s all yours. I’ve got negatives if you need them.” The business card is taken and tucked in a pocket after he enters the info into his phone. Finally he gets around to asking his question, looking to Gina.

“Alright, seriously though. Why did you rename the diner?”

"Pet names will just make your students jealous, Clayton." Gina says, purposefully misunderstanding Alexander. She pauses for a heartbeat, two, right behind him before she reaches out and collects the phone from the table. The observant may notice she never actually gets close to Alexander, nor is she ever at risk of touching him unless he leans towards her instead of away -- but the casual viewer will just note she's still doing this right over his shoulder, and while it only takes a few seconds, poor Alexander! And, of course, there's that slight smirk as she steps away and falls into the now-pushed-out chair, one leg tucking beneath the other knee, leaning back as she skims through the poem.

"If I wanted to loom I'd wear my knee-high boots." She does note while she reads, before she slides the phone back towards Alexander in a careless push. "Might not be ego. We get a lot of fanatic cult shit sometimes. Could also be a guy who keeps switching languages hoping you," Apparently Gina is not part of this manhunt effort, "can understand what and why they're doing what they do. None of you get the guy yet. They're still looking for you to get it, but it could be fear and desperation as much as bragging." Gina doesn't sound at all bothered by this. Nor does she do more than flick her eyes towards the waitress who arrives with her plate of food and tall glass of milk. Instead of say, saying thanks or smiling, Gina just picks up her knife and fork, not even looking at Leon, "Black Bear Diner is what's written on the land deed." She notes idly, "I can't be bothered to change it back. It's not like it's the first time the town's restructured things the way it wants."

"I am not a teacher!" Alexander snaps it, and squirms uncomfortably as she leans in, although he doesn't bolt or close the distance between them. He makes a noise when she touches his phone, though, something caught between a whine and a growl, and it's clear that the only thing that stops him from snatching it back is that they might touch by accident. "You loom," he accuses, sulkily. "Physical height has nothing to do with the phenomenon. And that's mine." When it's slid back, he holds it close to his chest, using both hands.

It takes him a moment, once she's sat down, to catch his breath. But we're talking murders, so he's able to refocus, although his fingers start a nervous, tapping rhythm on the back of the phone. "Not nameless," Alexander tells Ravn, with a frown. "I told you his name. Treadway. He's from British Columbia. Homeless, addict, petty criminal. Target of convenience. Fitzgerald may have been targeted because he was finding the marks in the woods." He hums. "If the Spokane victim is the first victim, then it's the most likely to have a direct connection to the killer. Especially as a psychiatrist. It wouldn't surprise me if the killer had been seeing someone. Detective Wilkerson, I realize that it is imposing, but a copy of the police report from the Spokane victim would be very helpful. And maybe a list of his current and recently terminated patients at the time of death." A brief smile at the look, though. Proudly, Alexander says, "Isabella translated it. She's an archaeologist." Then back to frowning. "Fitzgerald's body said more than that, too. His back and limbs were written to an invocation to a god of the deep. Hence the body dump site, and the octopus, probably. His mythology is getting more sophisticated. He's unlikely to stop himself."

He huffs out a breath, and adds, to Ravn, "Abitha Machinae." He taps into his phone, and soon there's a text winding its way to Ravn with a phone number. "Try that. She's still in town, good with computers and games." Then his eyes narrow suspiciously. "Did the diner name change? It's the Black Bear. It's always been the Black Bear. Lousy omelettes."

"Played a bit of roleplaying games as a teenager," Ravn murmurs to no one in particular; nerdboy seems to find that to be a mildly embarrassing admission. "I'd give you my card in return, detective, but I don't have one. My email and cell number are at the bottom of that file, though, and I'm currently staying on a boat in the marina."

Alexander's words causes the Dane to glance at him, though. "No. That doesn't fit into the puzzle. The second victim -- Treadway -- was a tall man, about thirty years old, looked much like me but with glasses. And he was actively researching Sumerian myths at the library. A homeless petty criminal does not randomly decide to become an expert on ancient religions. Either there is a fourth victim, or there's something we don't know about this guy."

He shakes his head lightly. "I'm sure the police have methods of scraping social media. I'm not an investigator. I don't really have any business sticking my nose into all of this to begin with, except, well, I was there when they found Fitzgerald's body."

"Perfect. I'll start my own personal murder board for this." Esme picked up the file and her laptop. She started to take out her wallet but then her phone started going off. So she switched it up and took her phone out to answer it. "Detective Wilkinson." Her facial expression falls immediately. If she was mildly annoyed about breakfast interruptions, now she's furious about something. Whatever it is, written all over her face. "You've got to be fucking kidding me. I'm coming." Esme gives a barely there wave to the group as she starts hurrying out of the Shoppe, saying something or other to whoever is on the phone about this damn city being the death me.

Oh and look at that! ...She forgot to pay for her food.

Esme didn’t forget, the check was conveniently swiped by Leon, who, figuring he imposed on her breakfast, may as well pay for it. Even as he was putting down a black plastic card, he was watching her go, making a face, slightly disturbed and concerned, remembering the woman had just said she’d come off a long shift. Well, what can you do? He’s still listening with interest to Ravn and Alexander, letting them go back and forth, absorbing, and seems surprised to hear Mac’s name mentioned, but lets it pass. He turns back to Gina.

“Wait, so it was the Black Bear before it was the Grizzley then?” He has to ask, since she was so kind to be so Gina about answering a simple frickin question. Then he processes Alexander’s insistence on the name, “No, it has not always been the Black Bear. It was the Grizzley Den Diner.”

Leon was, of course, telling the truth, should Alexander mean to look, though that’d likely be a whole can of worms between Mentalists.

"It's been the Black Bear Diner as long as you've been a teacher." Gina comments as she methodically slices the sausage patty in a crosshatch pattern. The plate is a typical breakfast: sausage patties, crisp potato shreds with onion and whatever else smells so good in there, scrambled eggs, a piece of buttered toast, and a small dish of fresh fruit cut into chunks. She only glances at the disappearing Esme before focusing on her food again, using both knife and fork. It looks like she's.. cutting everything on her plate, actually, into sections. "Like I said. It's not the first time the town's restructured things to suit itself. The real question is if it'll be the Grizzly again on its own or if it's just the way things are now." Gina... doesn't sound too worried about either consequence, and finally has a forkful of potatoes, eggs, and spears a sausage to try the waffle shoppe menu.

Finally glancing up, her eyes flick towards the three men, then sighs and-- in a rare burst of pity (that still manages to convey her frustration with their slow thoughts) - continues, "It's always been the Black Bear. We've always been at war with Oceania." The DUH goes unsaid, but not unimplied. Instead, she just reaches for her milk to take a delicate sip.

Ravn leans back on his chair a moment and steeples his gloved fingers under his chin as he thinks. Then he looks at Alexander. "You were there -- the body in the forest, yes? Did the dead man look like me? You won't know about his head, of course, but the librarian who spoke to Miss Price made it clear that we're talking about a tall, thin man -- like me. So if your forest body -- Treadway -- was, say, short and chubby, then the man at the library was not him. In that case, he's either a fourth victim we don't know about yet, or our killer surprises me by actually reading books."

He decides to let it go. The conversation has moved on, the detective has taken the intel and left with it; life is returning to what has passed for 'normal' for three weeks of his life now. Gray Harbor is being Gray Harbor, and what's true one moment is highly negotiable the next. Pourhouse or Poorhouse, indeed. I suppose you get used to it over time. And that's Eastasia, not Ocea -- oh. I get it. Ha.

"I'm going to have to dash off -- my shift at work is starting shortly, and I have this feeling that my trainer is not the kind of person who doesn't mind if you turn up a few hours late and claim you forgot to clock in." Ravn offers a slightly sheepish look; at least some of the people present know Vic, the bartender at the Twofer, who's infamous for staring down unruly patrons so hard they apologise for existing. "If any of you need anything from me, well, my number's on there. Call me, text me, whatever. I think that's pretty much what I had, though."

He picks up his own tab on his way out at least. Swedish celebrity chefs don't dine and dash.

Alexander opens his mouth to say something to Ravn, but it never quite gets out until the man has risen and left. So he shakes his head, and says, "That wasn't the victim. I mean, why would the victim be looking up Sumerian mythology. He doesn't care. Only one person cares." He's muttering it mostly to himself, like he's almost forgotten that there are other people there.

But he remembers as the conversation returns to the diner. "It was never the Grizzly Den diner," he tells Leon, huffily. "I would remember. And it wasn't. It never was. Who would name a diner the Grizzly Den?" A wave of triumph towards Gina as she confirms his version of events. "It's not like the Pourhouse. People just started spelling that one wrong for no reason. Or like everyone thinking I'm a fucking school teacher."

"Hey, good luck." Leon intones to Ravn, reaching out to give him that typical back pat and also push to encourage the departing man, as he seemed somewhat reluctant to wager his life to go to work, "You got two choice over there, Ravn. Sunshine or Lava. I suggest sticking to high ground." He adds an amicable wink to the man, the references unmistakable.

Once he was gone, though, Leon wags a finger at Gina, his head tipped slightly, looking at her from under lowered brows, because he understood that reference, and absolutely understood she was being difficult. He looks back to Alexander, sweeping that finger to him, "Do not point at her like she just agreed with you. One, she's Gina. Two, she's making an Orwell joke, which is Propaganda 101. That place was the Grizzley Den Diner." Glance to Gina, "And I bet you're just trolling the lot of us." Leon sits back and crosses his arms, shaking his head in disagreement, "And people did not just start spelling the Poorhouse wrong." There's a noise, a roll of the eyes, an argument he's probably had far too many times so far, "I've walked my parents home from that bar since I was little. It's always been spelled that way!"

Alexander's eyes narrow, and he slouches down in his seat, regarding Leon with a mulish set to his jaw. "People's memories are being fucked up. It's just that you're remembering things wrong. There's nothing to be defensive about. You're just wrong." Pot, kettle would like you to read this stirring oratory about your current shade of ebon. He rolls his eyes. "And I know what 1984 was, yes. But I'm still right. It's the Black Bear Diner and always has been. And it's always been the P-O-U-Rhouse, and I've never been a middle school teacher!"

Then, in a breathtaking display of maturity, he sticks his tongue out. "So there."

Leon's jaw actually drops open into a mask of incredulity at Alexander's convincing example to reinforce maybe he did spend a large block of his time with high school aged children. "So..." he makes a frustrated noise deep in his throat, not even able to finish the mimicry in just how ridiculous he found this. "Yeah, I'll believe that just as soon as you tell me you're wrong about the Grizzley."

At this point, of course, Gina's plan had worked and two grown men were arguing at a table without even stopping for her input.

Until Leon begins to lean forward, mouth opening to make another argument, then he seems to come up short. His mouth closes and his eyes climb, raised index finger drooping as something seems to be working behind his eyes. Finally, he looks back to Alexander. "Do you know anyone else that's ever messed with memory?"

Oh, Alexander is IN this one. He matches Leon's lean, clearly prepared to defend this to the death--and then the guy has to go and throw a curveball. He blinks, and the mutinous expression disappears. He sits back, nods tentatively. "Yeah. We can do it, if we're strong enough. I can do it. Um, a girl I knew, Alice, she could do it more. She changed a lot of things, and even implanted false memories in objects. Or, at least, skewed memories." He takes a deep breath and shudders. "I hate the idea," he adds, quietly. "It's so hard to know what's real. I don't want to be wrong about what's real. People...are not kind when what you think is real doesn't match what they know is real."

Leon blinks, not actually expecting to have the question answered that quickly and that easily. He listens to Alexander's concerns, and he was nodding right along with them, "Ok, yeah. And yeah, I'm right there with you, man. I hate the idea, too." He shakes his head, an actual snort coming out, "Only reason I know I can do it is by accident. I was trying to show Maggi something, a memory, trying to work through some things. She was convinced she was there for the rest of the day. She wasn't lying. It was wild and kinda scary." Leon was still sitting back and having a think for a moment, trying to formulate a question, an inquiry. It felt like... "So... If we can do it... are there stronger things that could do it... more?"

Gina has been neatly and languidly enjoying her meal, eating and occasionally glancing from one person to another, having zero input and just watching it all happen. Food and a show!

Then, alas. They're being mature adults about this. And so Gina reaches for her milk, taking another small sip, before she notes, "You're both acting like it's either or. Reality or memory. It's Gray Harbor. Reality changes, memories are fucked with any time you go on a cruise for a month and come back. That's the Thin Place life." A gentle scrap of her knife to help pile some egg scramble onto her fork. "We could also have slipped into a mega-Dream and not realized it. Doubtful, too many deep tones around for that, but. Why are you going to trust reality or the past any more than you trust memory?"

"Probably," Alexander says, after a moment. "We went over there once, and met the Doctor. He was, as far as Isabella could tell, a thing of pure...whatever it is that we have. Or a wellspring of it, maybe. But the Veil protects itself, right? It changes memories all the time so that people who don't stand out can't find out about it. This is sort of like that, except that it's...stupid stuff. No one actually cares whether it's pour or poor, right? It doesn't matter. Except that it gets in your brain and makes it itch. Because then you don't know what you can trust. Not even inside your head." The terror of that widens his pupils, until the brown is just a thin rim around black. He shudders at Gina's words, and runs both hands through his hair. "I can't. I can't live like that. I can't not know there's a real. It hurts too much."

Leon doesn't look like he's handling that possibility any better, eyes also having a bit more exposed white than before. But, Leon wasn't the kind to sit and let the world fuck him, so, he thinks, "Mega-Dream seems unlikely. As far as I've experienced, they don't seem to hold together coherently for a long period of time. Even They let you back out eventually." There's an unintentional tick, Leon's shoulder seeming to twitch as he talks about that thing, like he'd wanted to shudder, but had held it down to just that motion, "And yeah, it protects itself, insofar as saying horrible gruesome murder is an animal attack, it's always almost like... Occam's Razor? It seems to find the simplest solution, doesn't it? This stuff..." He makes a palm-open wave to demonstrate Alexander, "That's life-altering, not Veil protecting..."His elebows find the table so his hand can find his chin, resting it as his eyes find a comfortable middle distance. Then he looks to Alexander again.

"Has anyone like you or me gone looking at these memories?"

Gina looks towards Alexander, then Leon, before she sits back in her seat, smiling. It's a smile absolutely without humor- at most, a glint of dark amusement in her eyes. "You'd get used to it eventually--" A pause, as her eyes sweep up and down Alexander, "--or well. Maybe not you." She concedes, before turning back to her plate and reaching for her toast to have a bite, chewing and washing it down with a bit more milk before she continues, "Luckily for you, it's usually one or the other. Reality shifts are like earthquakes. They alter shit permanently. I used to be able to create barriers. Whole, solid ones. Song changed, reality shifted, can't anymore." Gina looks... more resigned, than anything. It's an oddly world-weary look for the literal youngest person at the table. "I'm inclined to think someone's fucking with perception and memory. I remembering Grizzly Den," Ah ha! Point one! "But my lease says Black Bear. I feel like I would've changed the name if it was Black Bear Diner. Doesn't flow as well."

A pause, as she finishes off her toast, licking a bit of jam from her finger. "I don't like digging through heads, though. Or being dug into. So no need to look at me."

Alexander glares at Gina at the quip - but he doesn't deny it. Instead he grimaces. "Isabella went Over There. She said she found something that might explain things, or start to - but then she got snatched into one of those fucking torture dreams, and she's recovering. But the Veil and the real world are sort of like...strange mirrors. So it's just as possible that something is changing over there, and it's...spilling. Over here." He shivers again, looking actively green about the face. "I can't...it's difficult to think about it. But I can ask her about it. What she saw. Maybe you'd like to talk to her?" He's started to sweat, and his eyes are darting here and there like a man starting to crave his next fix - or fear a pursuer.

"I'm not sure I'd want to know what goes on under all that purple..." Leon quips to Gina's forthright denial, "Might come away knowing you've build some sort of shrine with a few ginger hairs or something." Leon brings his coffee to his mouth for the first time in a long time, the beverage almost room temperature in the time they'd been sitting here talking. He takes most of it in a good pull. "And yeah, that's probably best, shoot me her number." Leon agrees, nodding to Alexander, holding up his phone. It was probably a foregone conclusion Alexander could look out the front window and see the phone number to send it to. That look on the investigator was worrisome, and Leon wasn't sure how to stave or delay it, "For now, maybe you just hit me up if you need any help for the other thing? Cuneiform Killer? Sumerian Sam?" Look, he had taken cues about Alexander and tried to cheer him up with humor about murder.

Gina finishes her glass of milk, casually turning it over on her plate - in the precise center of the knife and fork, which are parallel on the plate, placed so each end just touches the outer edge of the plate. It's very precise. And then her eyes flick up to look at Leon and the corners of her lips rise in what could, on a foggy, dimly lit day, be confused as a smile. "Shrines are for amateurs. I collect." She says simply, before pulling a few bills from her wallet and rolling them in a tight, compact cylinder. She places this square center on the upside down glass. "Don't freak out too much, Clayton. It's not like any of us have shit-all real idea of what's going on. I could be wrong." She looks so centered, though!

Pushing her seat back, she rises, both hands in her hoodie pocket. "Good luck with the whole murderer thing, though. It'd be bad if a god rolled up into town."

...aaaand off she goes. Bye Gina!

Alexander obediently sends out the number, glancing only briefly at Leon's truck to remind himself of the digits. "Yeah, I can do that. Keep an eye for the guy Ravn described? I think he might be the killer. And," there's a pained look towards Gina, "he's not going to summon a god. He's just a broken, sad thing hurting others and using rituals to convince himself that it's the right thing to do." He takes a breath, lets it out, then gives Leon a tentative sort of smile. "Cuneiform Killer sounds like the sort of thing the newspapers would love. And it's accurate, at least. Also, keep an eye out for new victims. This guy isn't going to stop himself." He stands up, clearly preparing to leave - but then he hesitates. He shuffles his feet as Gina leaves, telling her, "Don't die," but his attention is focused on Leon. "How...much would you charge to teach me how to pick locks?"

"Copy that." Leon says, letting his breath out as he also lifts himself to get ready to leave. "The thing I worry about most is that the poem or verse or whatever sounds like us. The light, snuff it out, better than suffering." There was no doubt there was horrible suffering spread around a few that had sat at this table. "I wish there was a way we could figure out who or what he's looking for... I dunno." Leon was the sort of person that looked around at all the leavings on the table, made sure the tip was good enough, and counted out a couple more ones for good measure onto the table. Wallet tucked away, he watches Alexander's lingering, an eyebrow raised until he hears the question. Slowly, a grin starts to spread across his face.

"If I were an enterprising sort of guy, I think I'd ask 'What would De la Vega pay me not to?'" There's a pause, a lofted-eyed contemplation of the question, "But then again, what color would he turn if I do?"

Leon makes this last quip with a wink waving his phone at Alexander, the quintessential 'Call me!'