2020-09-04 - Murder Bros

(TXT to Cecil) Alexander : Mr. Harvey.

The coffee shop is moderately busy. It's not in any of the particularly busy rush times, so there's plenty of tables. Alexander has claimed one in the back. He's hunched over a notebook, flipping through it and checking notes he's written. He doesn't look like he's slept much; there are dark circles under his eyes, and his hair is disheveled. He's dressed in a faded Iron Maiden t-shirt, and black jeans that are one bad day from falling off his legs entirely. He doesn't seem to notice or care, his attention alternating between his notebook and the door.

Cecil steps in, still dressed from work in his nerd chic. Seriously, a short-sleeved shirt and a tie? It looks better with the labcoat on, but he left that in the lab. He goes to the counter to order a mug of Earl Grey tea. Not iced, never mind the weather. He takes it hot with a twist of lemon. Once the mug is handed over, he makes his way toward Alexander's table. "Mr. Clayton," he says.

Alexander has coffee. Black. Because he's definitely someone who needs more caffeine in his life. He perks his head up as the door opens and Cecil walks in, and he stares at his Cecil fixedly as the man makes his way to order tea, and then comes to the table. "Hello." He tries a smile. "Thank you for coming. I think I've found something very interesting. Are you well? Any trouble?"

Cecil doesn't seem to mind the staring. He takes a seat across from Alexander at the table and tells him, "I'm well. No trouble. It's actually be a little on the quiet side, not that I'm complaining." He squeezes the lemon into his tea, takes a sip, then asks, "What did you find? Should I be worried?"

Alexander's head tilts to one side. "I don't know? Are you a serial killer? If not, there shouldn't be a problem." A quick smile to suggest that it was a joke. Surely he doesn't ACTUALLY think Cecil is a serial killer. Even if he came to town shortly before the murders started. He clears his throat. "Have you heard of a game called Battle for Babylon? It's sort of a hybrid single-player and MMO, heavily inspired by Babylonian mythology."

Cecil shakes his head slowly. "No, I'm not a serial killer, Mr. Clayton. On the whole, I disapprove of the whole business." He's not without humor in his tone, though he's good at looking painfully sincere. Perking up a bit, he says, "I have heard of it. I tried to play it, but I couldn't really get the hang of it. I got the gist of it, though. Seemed a little on the nose, if you ask me."

Alexander smiles. "Good. It would be awkward if you were. Working with the police and all." He takes a sip of his coffee, and pushes over some papers. "I've played it. Am playing it. It's," he yawns, "pretty fun. But more importantly, it has hidden quests. Where you appease the gods by murdering NPCs in very specific ways. They're a bitch to get right, and there's only a few of them. The most recent seems to be the quest to appease Abzu, by drowning a fisherman. Before that? Killing a shepherd and one of his flock to appease Darmuz, or however that's pronounced." He doesn't draw the lines between the deaths of Fitzgerald and Treadway; he just watches Cecil expectantly.

"So our perp is conducting these sacrifices in real life," Cecil says. Gesturing toward Alexander's notes, he asks, "What's the next sacrifice? Do you know? If we could prevent him from carrying it out, or maybe catch him in the act, we could put an end to this." Lowering his voice, he adds, "And we know the victims so far were Glimmering. I think it's reasonable to expect his next victim to be the same."

Alexander nods, slowly. "Maybe. Or...it's possible that the perpetrator is actually a developer on the game. Or a hacker, adding content to the game under the radar. But these things aren't entirely unknown. I've been going through the forums, and here..." He pushes some papers that are clearly printed out copies of webpages. "Go through these. Look at the posts by DevotedofSamizdat. The timestamps."

If he does, he'll notice that the poster talks about appeasing Abzu and Dumuzid, on the same days of the likely time of death of the two victims. And much earlier, he talks about appeasing another god, one that none of the other posters recognized.

Cecil takes the papers and goes through them. "We could get the feds involved," he says, "and try to trace the username to a human being. I'm sure the chief would love for the FBI to get involved in his town's business." There's a lilt of humor there again. He offers the papers back. "Who is Samizdat? Where does he fit into the Babylonian mythos?"

Alexander shrugs. "I don't know. Mythology isn't my thing. What was the god you said the psychiatrist was sacrificed to, exactly? Abeedle something?" He starts going through his notes, idly. "I think the Feds are a mistake," he's quick to say. "We can solve this on our own. Gray Harbor, like the Veil, protects itself." He sighs. "Can we find an individual? Just someone who's good with the cyber-things. And it's possible that the Babylonian mythology is just...a face his obsession wears. He says in one of his posts that 'all gods require sacrifice'. So, maybe, Samizdat and the other one are his gods. ANd the Babylonians are just...a convenient way of talking about them to others."

"We should speak to your lady friend," Cecil says. "She knows about the Babylonians. I suppose we could ask the chief if we have a cyber expert on staff or if he knows where we can find one. I'm afraid I don't know of anyone offhand. In the meantime, how do we prevent him from killing again? What do we know about how he operates in the real world? He clearly has experience as an outdoorsman."

Alexander sighs. "We don't stop him from killing again. Not yet. We don't have enough information. Unless we can persuade the police to publish your description of him. But if they do, he'll probably just go to another city. Portland has a thin point. There are people who shine, there. ANd..." he stops. "There's something more. There are characters on the game who give you hints on who to kill and how. More than one. They're /always on/. I don't know if it's some sort of sophisticated robot, or...if he has accomplices. We need to know that."

He grimaces. "But yes. We should speak to Isabella. She knows more about the mythology stuff than I do." He grimaces. "I don't like to endanger her. But she's the best for this."

"It shouldn't endanger her to ask her about a few names," Cecil says gently. "I would hate to endanger her, too. But it's just a few names." He takes a sip of tea, his brow furrowing. "If we could trace him back to wherever he took Henry. All I know about the place is the smell of it, the old books. Are there any properties in and around the woods that might be suspicious?"

Alexander chuckles, low and soft. "You don't know Isabella. She will always want to be involved to the hilt. It's one of the many reasons I love her; she's fearless." He smiles. "But...that's a good question. I don't know. August might know. Or even Leon. He's a locksmith. He visits a lot of homes. He might be a good one to take a tour around, see if anything pings you. You read the body."

"I'm afraid my talents pale in comparison to yours, Mr. Clayton," Cecil says. "What I got were vague impressions. He was in a place where there were old books, and then somewhere with engine oil. He was apprehensive before he was taken, full of dread. I wonder if he knew he was mixed up in something that would lead to his undoing. Unfortunately, I don't have much more than that."

Alexander shakes his head. "I don't usually get much beyond horrible death. And the feel is important. You don't have to go. Fieldwork isn't really required. But seeing a place might trigger something." He smiles. "But it's nice to say. Call me Alexander. And I don't know. Maybe he did know. At the very least, finding creepy carvings cut into the trees would be...unsettling, at the least. ANd there's still the barbershop. I couldn't follow up on that, but I think someone was going to. The Danish fellow."

"I don't mind field work," Cecil says. "Besides, I'm trying to become more of an outdoorsman these days. A little hiking might do me good." He smiles fleetingly. "Please, call me Cecil. I'm afraid I don't know of any Danish fellows. I know of that Swedish chef at Two If By Sea, but he didn't seem very formidable. Nice man, though."

Alexander blinks a couple of times. "...he's not a chef. Or Swedish. He's Danish. You should talk to him. He's nice." A bob of his head. "Yes. He's nice." He sits back, and stares at Cecil for a long, long time. "I'm sorry," he says, at last. "For surprising you in your office. I shouldn't have done that. It was impolite."

"Is he? Why does everyone seem to think he's a Swedish chef, I wonder," Cecil says, "and yes, he seems quite nice." At the apology, he regards Alexander closely for a moment, then he says, "Did the chief give you grief about that? There's no need to apologize. I didn't mind. I'm glad to have gotten the chance to touch base with you."

"Because something is fucking with reality and people's memories. I don't know why. But it's hitting...buildings, people. People think I'm their favorite social studies from middle school." He leans in and scowls. "Even when they're like, five fucking years younger than I am. It's not okay." His shoulders hunch. "I'm not a teacher." His eyes flick back to Cecil, and he shrugs. "Javier just said that I should break protocol off the grounds. He was grouchy but not super angry. But I know I can be...unpleasant. To be around. And you've been kind about it. So. I apologize."

"Unpleasant?" Cecil shakes his head. "Alexander, I find you delightful. I accept the apology but assure you none is needed. Perhaps we should meet off-grounds, I can understand the chief's concern, but you've done me no wrong, and you've proven an invaluable resource. You have skills of deduction I lack. I'm mostly just here for analysis."

Alexander turns a dull brick red, and ducks his head to look down at the table. "I, uh. Um." He just doesn't say anything for a while, and fidgets restlessly. "Thank you. For saying that." He clears his throat. "You're, uh. I enjoy talking to you. And you're very good at analysis. It's a, a pleasure to work with you." It's all in a rapid mumble.

Cecil's brows lift in surprise at Alexander's reaction, and then he smiles. "Then it's decided," he says. "We work well together and enjoy each others' company. There's nothing to be sorry for." He gives Alexander's shoulder an awkward pet. "Since we have this much in common, let's be friends, all right?"

"Friends?" Alexander hesitates, and then offers a bright and sunny smile, one completely without the usual wariness. It takes about ten years off his face. "Yes. All right. If you want. We can be friends. I would like that, Cecil. And you like murder. Which makes you one of my few friends that do. How do you feel about metal?"

Cecil grins, and that takes years off of him as well. "I don't know if I'd say I like murder, but I do find the topic intensely interesting because of my desire to catch the ones who do it." Maybe he's not ready to admit just yet how much into murder he is, despite that he practically lives it. "I'm pretty neutral about metal. It can be useful in analysis... you mean the music, doesn't you."

"Yes. I," Alexander frowns, "that's what I mean. I know it doesn't come out like that. Sometimes. But I don't...like the idea of murdering people. But I want to make sure it doesn't happen to more people. Which means knowing everything I can about it. Why, how, who." He shrugs. "You understand, I think. And yeah, I mean the music." There's a twinkle deep in his eyes. "You, uh, probably don't. No one does."

Cecil nods and says, "I do understand, definitely." He takes another sip from his mug, and he gives the topic of metal some thought. "I don't know a lot of metal," he says. "But I don't hate it. I'm just not well-versed. Honestly, anything but country-western is fine. I got so tired of it in Texas. It's just so..." He shakes his head. "American?"

Alexander chuckles. "Country-western is a bit...much. Yeah. Some people thing metal is a bit much, too. But I've always liked it. You turn it on and your blood thrums with the beat. It's great. You can't think about anything." He reaches for his coffee. "Sometimes it's nice not to think about anything. What kind of music do you like?"

Cecil says, "Believe it or not, I have a thing for Antipodean new wave and pop from the 1980s. Split Enz, Crowded House, Icehouse that sort of thing. It's definitely an acquired taste, but it suits me. I'm not very hip to what's modern, though. I listen to whatever's on the radio at work. I think Hozier is pretty good."

"I haven't tried those," Alexander says, but he looks intrigued. "I will. They sound interesting. And I'll send you some metal. Good metal. It'll clear your sinuses, if nothing else. And your ear cavities. Possibly your skull if played too loud." Another of those quick flash grins. "And we'll catch a serial killer. It'll be fun!" He absolutely means this.

"All right," Cecil says, "we'll do an exchange. I'll put some songs on a thumb drive for you." He grins despite himself. "It'll be fun. Soon, we'll be celebrating the end of that bastard. This one might require a bottle of champagne. Especially now that I have someone to celebrate with." He raises his mug to Alexander, then takes a drink.

Alexander beams a smile, and raises his mug. "Yes. We'll celebrate." A pause. "I can attempt to cook. Sometimes that works. Sometimes it's good. And sometimes I learn that there are some things you're not supposed to put in lasagna." He ducks his head again, although only for a moment. He takes a sip of his coffee. "But...yes. Friends. I like that, Cecil. I should probably get going, though. I need to check in with Isabella. You'll have to meet her. Properly meet her. Not walking through the woods to find a body meet her."

"I don't even know what goes into lasagne, so you're one step ahead of me," Cecil says. He gives Alexander's shoudler a less awkward pat and tells him, "It was a pleasure to see you. Give Isabella my regards, and I'd definitely love to meet her properly sometime. Trudging through the woods and stumbling over dead bodies is hardly the time and place."

When Cecil reaches over to pat Alexander's shoulder, the investigator slides away from the touch. "No," he says, a quick exclamation. "I'm sorry. No touching. I don't touch people. Most people. I'm sorry. It's not you." He hastily gathers his things and rises, although he still smiles. "We'll arrange it. Don't die, Cecil." And then he's gone, skittering his way towards the outside.