Chapter Text
In cinema and old Vespertine fairy tales, ghosts were often depicted as mysterious and powerful creatures. They avenged murders, drove unfaithful spouses mad, predicted the future, or wandered castle corridors for centuries, guarding the treasures of their suzerain.
When Kitsuragi joined the RCM, he quickly learned that real ghosts had nothing in common with those stories. In the grand scheme of things, they were just another unexplained phenomenon of Elysium. As mundane as the Pale or radio cross-talk. Real ghosts did not remember their deaths. They did not interact with the living—at least not consciously. And within a few weeks, they completely vanished from the material world. No rituals or amulets required.
Where the movies didn't lie was that a person who died of natural causes never became a ghost. Never. That gave the RCM a clear reason: whenever a ghost appeared, a corpse was sure to follow. And if no body had been found, it gave them a reason to go looking.
So when dispatch received a report of an unidentified ghost in Martinaise, Precinct 57 immediately buzzed to life. Gossip moved fast. Soon the entire day shift knew who had been assigned to the case, confirmed by cheerful shouts drifting from the half-open door of the break room:
"Bet Kimball finds the stiff before the boys from Jamrock do," a sergeant's voice reached Kim, followed by a chorus of cheers and jeers.
It was expected. Tucked away on the outskirts in the cargo port, Precinct 57 dealt almost entirely with smuggling. Bored officers took any excuse to meddle in their neighbors' affairs. The forsaken coastal district was a perfect fit, as the overworked staff of Precinct 41 often couldn't get around to its problems.
"Doubt they'll even show up in Martinaise. Probably too busy shoveling horse manure!" another voice chimed in, followed by the laughter of half a dozen young men.
The lieutenant didn't share their amusement. He had no doubt Precinct 41 would look into this incident. In the Zone of Control that Revachol had become since the fall of the revolution, the RCM fought for every scrap of authority, even within its own structure.
Slamming the door of his Coupris Kineema, Kitsuragi flipped the engine pre-heater switch to get ready for the drive. With spring setting in, the mood on the streets was tense enough without adding a pissing contest to the mix, which was why he took the case. The lieutenant could only hope the officers from the 41st would show professionalism and agree to cooperate. By the time the MC’s cabin filled with the familiar drone and the smell of diesel, he was confident he was ready for any turn of events.
Kim Kitsuragi was not ready for what was already waiting for him in Martinaise.
***
Arriving at the address—a hostel called the Whirling-in-Rags—the lieutenant spoke first to the man behind the bar, who turned out to be the manager. Precinct 41 had moved surprisingly fast this time: the detectives had arrived the previous evening, and one of them had stayed overnight in a room on the second floor.
Kitsuragi decided to wait for his colleague to come down so he could introduce himself. He took up a strategic position near the front door, hands clasped behind his back, facing the stairs so he wouldn't accidentally miss the right lodger.
The first thing he thought when he saw the figure coming down the stairs was: *Oh, shit.* Kim wasn't prone to passing judgment, but this man’s appearance practically screamed that he had seen better days.
He was a broad-shouldered, slightly thick-waisted man with large hands and long, thin legs, which he used to step unsteadily from stair to stair. He was taller than Kim, though that could be said of many. He slouched slightly, but you could still see the faded traces of a neglected athletic build. His light brown hair desperately needed a cut, and lush sideburns framed his face in the style of the turn of the century.
His clothing was even more surprising. The man wore a vintage green blazer over a white shirt, light orange flares, and green snakeskin shoes. He looked like a disco spirit risen from the grave.
Yet it wasn't the absurd outfit that caused the lieutenant's internal tension. It was the fact that the man on the stairs was definitely not alive.
Kim ran through the standard classifications: the invisible ones were spirits, the physically dense ones were phantoms, and the translucent ones in between were mirages.
Right now, Kim was looking at a mirage. To a trained eye, there was no doubt. From a distance, the motile silhouette looked solid enough. But the morning sun cutting through the cafeteria's stained-glass windows passed straight through him, leaving no shadow on the tiled steps.
Unfortunately, there was no mistake: this was the detective from Precinct 41. Despite the extravagant look, a white rectangular RCM patch was clearly visible on the sleeve of his green blazer. And running into a random police officer in Martinaise was even harder than running into a ghost.
The puzzle was forming a grim picture. Most often, a ghost appeared where the deceased had spent a lot of time in life, or near the place of death. In that case, the officer’s body should still be lying upstairs in the room.
With a familiar gesture, Kim adjusted his glasses, mentally tallying the work ahead: go up, inspect, record, report... Whatever people said about the "bloody murder station," Captain Pryce was unlikely to be thrilled about the death of one of his men.
Over his years of service in the RCM, the lieutenant had grown accustomed to encountering the ghosts of fallen colleagues in the corridors. And yet, deep down, he couldn't help feeling pity for them, stuck in a routine even after death.
An inopportune memory of Dominic surfaced. For a month after he died, his phantom appeared at the department doors every morning, smiling into the void, then sat at his desk and didn't move until evening. Occasionally he chuckled at something—just like in life. Kim's jaw used to clench involuntarily every time he caught that motion out of the corner of his eye. Several years had passed since then. Another officer had long occupied that desk, but the lieutenant had never taken a new partner.
Meanwhile, the dead man reached the bottom of the stairs and stopped, surveying the dining hall. By this moment, his silhouette had stopped showing through. Looking at him like this, it was almost impossible to notice the catch. As a result, none of the cafeteria's patrons—few as they were at such an early hour—paid any attention to the unusual lodger.
Glancing over the sleepy people at the tables as if looking for someone, the phantom suddenly looked straight at Kim. His face instantly twisted into a sickly-looking grimace, apparently meant to be a welcoming smile, and he headed straight toward the lieutenant.
The officer stepped aside to avoid a collision, but the man walked right up, stopped, and held out his hand.
"Hello, you must be from the 57th. Waiting long?"
"I..." Words suddenly got stuck in Kim's throat. Kim looked in confusion at the bar, then through the glass door at his motor carriage parked outside.
"Oh, so you just drove up? I thought... Never mind. I'm Lieutenant Du Bois. You can call me Harry."
"Harry," Kitsuragi repeated mechanically, feverishly trying to think of a way out of the situation.
This ghost definitely wanted something specifically from him. Or did he? Maybe he just mistook Kim for someone he knew? Racists often said that to them, all Seolites looked alike. Could a ghost be a racist?
"I am Lieutenant Kim Kitsuragi..." he said after all, hoping the ghost would somehow realize Kim wasn't the person he needed.
The phantom kept staring into his eyes, patiently holding out his hand. Kim felt awkward. He glanced around to make sure no one was watching, then wrapped his gloved hand around the detective’s palm. To the touch, the ghost’s hand felt like a normal human one. Goosebumps ran down the lieutenant's spine at the realization.
"So, the 57th knows about the ghost too? We could join forces in that case..."
He spoke with a slight accent, strangely stretching some sounds and swallowing others. The dead man's voice was low and slightly hoarse. Kim noted this automatically, but his panicking mind was thinking about something else entirely.
He was really talking to him. Not just repeating snippets of long-forgotten dialogues like ghosts usually did, but reacting to the context. It didn't fit in his head.
"What do you say?" the phantom's question snapped him out of his thoughts.
"I..." the lieutenant frantically tried to figure out an exit.
Entering into a dialogue was a mistake. His mind had simply fallen for a trick—a classic case warned about in RCM training. The human brain naturally seeks patterns where there are none. The ghost wasn't actually answering; it was just a coincidence. He needed to leave. If he distracted the phantom, it would immediately forget about him.
"I need to discuss this with my superiors," Kim blurted, turning toward the door. "You talk to the manager for now."
"But I already..." the dead man started.
The lieutenant walked out without listening to him. Time to stop this charade. He needed to report the death of their employee to Precinct 41 via radio, and let them sort it out themselves.
Taking cover inside the motor carriage and slamming the door shut with a loud bang, Kim finally allowed himself a heavy exhale. He took the handset off its holder, and soon an elderly, rattling voice from Precinct 41's dispatcher answered him:
"10-2, 10-5. This is the 41st, how do you read? Over."
"10-4, Precinct 41. This is Lieutenant Kitsuragi of the 57th. I'm currently in Martinaise. I need to report information regarding your employee, Lieutenant Du Bois."
"Yes, lieutenant, go ahead. Any problems with him?"
"Unfortunately, I must report that Officer Du Bois is dead," Kitsuragi stated in an even tone, staring straight ahead.
A second of silence hung on the other end.
"One minute, lieutenant, communication issues."
*Who is that?* a second voice was heard, muffled but perfectly discernible. Kim didn't know whether to attribute this to the merits or flaws of the 41st precinct's radio equipment.
*It's about Harry,* came the muffled reply from the dispatcher. The sound of a second person stepping closer could be heard.
"Lieutenant Kitsuragi, repeat your message," the dispatcher addressed him again.
"Officer Du Bois is dead. I was just speaking with his ghost at the Whirling-in-Rags cafeteria," the lieutenant repeated in the same tone.
Silence hung in the speaker again, and then that same unknown voice irritably threw somewhere to the side: *Fuck, asshole... I'll brief the captain. Ask him to wait.*
There was nothing else to do. Kim put down the handset and waited. The airwaves filled with static again. At that moment, the glass doors of the cafeteria swung open and the ghost in the green blazer stepped outside. Taking a couple of steps across the cracked mosaic, he stopped, looked around, and noticing the person inside the motor carriage, waved to him.
The lieutenant did not react and lowered his gaze to the dashboard, studying the oil pressure gauge. A little longer, and this would stop being his problem.
After a few minutes of tense waiting, the crackle of static in the speaker finally ceased.
"Lieutenant Kitsuragi?" a low, clear voice rang out, expressing nothing but authority.
The lieutenant recognized it. It was the voice of Captain Pryce.
"Speaking," Kim responded, involuntarily straightening his back despite sitting in an empty MC. He had always wanted to meet the famous captain, but never could have imagined it would happen under such circumstances.
"We should keep this brief. I was informed that you made the acquaintance of Lieutenant Du Bois. Is that correct?"
"I met his ghost, sir," Kitsuragi clarified, not understanding what the captain was driving at.
A sigh was heard in the speaker.
"Yes, he is handling this case on my orders. Consider his presence authorized."
Kim gripped the plastic of the instrument panel.
"Sir, I don't understand."
"Detective Du Bois has been dead for about two years, but his ghost continues to work in the RCM as a full-fledged employee."
"But... how is that possible? How does the Coalition view this?" Kim asked before he could stop himself.
"According to paperwork, he is still alive. Without going into details, his body was never found, so there has been no official declaration of death, and I intend to keep it that way."
"Sir, can you really cover up the death of an employee?"
"My job is to look after the needs of the precinct and my officers," Pryce cut him off. "You know what our situation on the streets is like. Precinct 41 desperately needs competent and reliable people, and Du Bois wants to—and most importantly, can—work. So I am giving him work. This is not open for discussion."
Kim closed his eyes. He felt a painful urge to take off his glasses and rub the bridge of his nose. This all sounded so... surreal. The captain, evidently catching his hesitation, softened his tone:
"Listen, lieutenant, I understand the situation is unusual. For my part, I can vouch for Du Bois's competence, but you don't necessarily have to work with him. Martinaise is the 41st's responsibility. But I think cooperation would benefit us. What we definitely do not need is extra attention and interference from the ICP. Do you understand me?"
The situation was indeed unprecedented. But Kitsuragi understood that regarding the interests of the RCM, the captain was right. And who was Kim to argue with Pryce? He took a deep, steadying breath, recovering his composure.
"Yes, I understand you, sir. Thank you for clarifying. I can assure you that this circumstance... will not affect my work with Detective Du Bois."
"Glad to hear that. I am sure you and I will be able to work together," the captain replied in an approving tone and ended the call.
Static crackled again, and the dispatcher returned to the frequency, but immediately in the background, the already familiar muffled voice sounded: *Jules, give it to me.* After a short scuffle, he addressed Kim directly now:
"Lieutenant Kitsuragi, this is Jean Vicquemare. I'm that disaster's partner, Du Bois. I have a personal favor to ask you: keep an eye on him over there. He gets carried away sometimes, loses himself in thought. Better not leave him alone around people. Understand?"
Kim raised his gaze from the dashboard and looked through the glass. Harry was standing in the middle of the square, eyes closed and head tilted back with a completely blissful expression on his face.
"I was supposed to pick him up this morning," Vicquemare continued, "but another department needed the motor carriage. I won't be able to pick him up until evening."
"Understood," Kim said, trying not to think about how two departments in a precinct could share a single MC. "You don't need to worry. Protecting the RCM's reputation is in my best interests."
"Thanks, lieutenant," Vicquemare exhaled with evident relief.
***
Having finished the conversation with the dispatcher, the lieutenant returned the handset to its place and stepped out of the motor carriage. He walked up to Du Bois, who was still standing in the same relaxed posture, lifting his face to the grey sky. Now he didn't look transparent at all; nevertheless, sparse snowflakes passed right through his silhouette, neither melting nor lingering in his hair. Harry didn't seem to mind.
"I must apologize for my behavior, I misjudged the situation," Kitsuragi spoke up, stopping a couple of paces away from the man.
"Hm? Did you say something?" the detective asked, opening his eyes and lowering his head.
"I contacted Precinct 41. They explained your... situation to me."
"Situation? What do you mean?"
The lieutenant hesitated for a second, not knowing how to phrase it correctly. Could this even be spoken aloud? He couldn't think of anything better than nodding toward the detective and folding his arms across his chest, imitating the pose in which Seolites buried their embalmed dead.
Du Bois seemed to catch the reference.
"Ah, that..." he awkwardly ran a hand through his hair and looked away. "I didn't think you noticed. Sorry. Yeah, so it happened that I... died. Quite a while ago. Took some time to get used to it, but everything's fine now. I can do the work."
Now, up close, Kitsuragi allowed himself to really look at him. The man seemed frighteningly alive. He continued to give Kim a crooked smile (if you can call an old facial spasm that) throughout the conversation, but traces of tension he was trying to hide were noticeable in his movements.
"Sorry, should've told you right away. I just thought... According to plan, you weren't supposed to notice. Usually my partner makes sure I'm not... well... transparent."
To illustrate his words, the phantom raised a hand to chest level and clenched and unclenched his fist a few times. The palm began to ripple, losing and regaining solidity right before his eyes.
Kim stared with wide eyes, but then, recovering himself, began looking around, hoping no passing strangers noticed the demonstration. Seeing this, Harry put his hand in his pocket and, lowering his head in embarrassment, asked:
"Did you happen to find out when he'll arrive?"
"The officer named... Vicquemare," the lieutenant replied, recalling the details of the dialogue, "reported that he won't be able to come until evening due to transport issues."
"Ah... Damn... Of course, I should have guessed they'd need the motor carriage. Everything always comes down to that motor carriage!" Du Bois threw his hands up. "It would be so much easier for all of them if I could ride a horse, but fucking horses are scared of me."
The corner of Kim's mouth twitched at that statement. The phantom noticed. He went quiet, tilting his head slightly as if listening to something, and then looked at the lieutenant with timid hope.
"So we're working together now?"
"Yes, if you don't mind."
"Cool!" came the overly hasty reply.
The detective's mood changed very quickly—all trace of being upset was gone. Kitsuragi chose not to comment on that. Instead, he asked:
"Did you speak with the manager?"
"The one behind the bar? Yeah, we chatted. Yesterday, even," Du Bois winced, remembering. "Pain in the ass type."
"If you don't mind, since we're working the case together now, let's interview him again."
"Yeah, sure, but you do the talking. I don't think I'm his favorite person."
Together they went inside and, approaching the bar, introduced themselves again to the manager—a man named Lawrence Garte. He was the one who had called the police. Kitsuragi asked him to recount the circumstances of meeting the ghost for the official report.
"I bumped into him in the back yard of my establishment while taking out the trash," Garte began reluctantly, wiping down an already clean counter. "At first I didn't even understand what it was. Just suddenly felt chilled to the bone, goosebumps ran down my body. I turn around, and there he is walking. Paid no attention to me, walked through the gate without opening it. I waited a little bit, then peeked outside after all, saw him walking down the road toward the canal. After a few steps he just vanished. I called the police right after that. He hasn't appeared since."
"Can you describe any physical features?"
"Um, I don't know, he was totally pale. Not like they show in movies, you know, when you can barely tell them apart from a living person. This one was more of just a silhouette. Dressed in something light, about his height," the manager waved a rag in Du Bois's direction.
The lieutenant's pen slid rapidly across the notepad page.
"Do you have any idea who it could have been?"
Garte lowered his voice slightly:
"If I had to guess, I'd say it's one of the security guards. The shipping company sent them after the strike started in the port, about two weeks ago. They kept coming in here for a drink, and then suddenly vanished from the street. Obviously, something happened to them."
Kitsuragi made another note. He felt that the manager was afraid of the union, and didn't consider that unreasonable.
"We'll need to inspect the yard where you saw the ghost. Is that possible?"
"Yes," Garte rummaged in his apron pocket, fished out a rusted key, and set it down with a clunk on the counter in front of Kim. "Here, for the gate. Bring it back later."
The lieutenant took the key.
"Thank you. Detective, do you have any questions for Mr. Garte?" he asked before putting away his notepad.
"Hm?" the detective responded, apparently having been lost in thought. Throughout the conversation, he hadn't taken his piercing gaze off the stuffed bird on the wall.
Catching the manager's irritated look, Harry smiled awkwardly and quickly replied:
"Nope, everything's super. Thanks, Garte."
"Anytime," the other grumbled in a tone that made it clear he never wanted to deal with them again.
***
"We'll need to speak with the union chairman," Kim said outside when the cafeteria door clicked shut behind them.
"Possibly, but unlikely we'll break through to him without an appointment. Besides, I'd rather not draw their attention to the RCM's presence in Martinaise."
"Sensible. Who knows how they'll react, especially if they're actually involved."
They headed toward the wooden fence separating the yard from the square. Kitsuragi held Garte's key in his hand and was already about to use it when the detective, without slowing down, walked straight through the gate.
Kim froze mid-step. He hadn't even had time to realize what happened when a child's voice shouted loudly from the other side of the fence: "Fuck his ass in the mouth!"
Recovering from his stupor, Kitsuragi exhaled through clenched teeth. Not drawing attention, they had said. At this rate, it would be a miracle if their duo didn't end up in *La Périphérique's* daily blotter by evening.
With these thoughts, he turned the key in the lock and entered the yard, carefully closing the gate behind him.
The detective was already inspecting the spot. The yard was small. Aside from a dry tree, empty wooden crates, and a dumpster, the only thing drawing attention was a red-headed kid of about twelve squatting in the mud. He was the one who had so colorfully commented on the way Du Bois overcame the obstacle.
Now the kid was looking at them, eyes wide and mouth agape. He blinked a few times. The boy's pupils were dilated.
"Did you just walk through the fence, or is Cuno tripping?" he asked, recovering his senses and immediately confirming the lieutenant's suspicion that he was under the influence of substances.
So the kid's name was Cuno. Kim noted this to himself before intervening:
"No one walked through the fence, young man. We simply entered through the gate."
The boy blinked a couple of times, shifting his cloudy gaze from one police officer to the other. It seemed the lie had worked, and he wasn't going to raise a fuss. The lieutenant mentally awarded himself a point for resourcefulness.
"You haven't seen a ghost around here, kid?" Harry chimed in.
"The fuck do you care?" Cuno narrowed his eyes suspiciously and sniffled.
"We're looking for a body."
"Ah, so you are a pig after all..." he muttered with obvious disappointment.
Then the kid perked up, puffed out his chest, and pointed a defiant finger at Harry:
"Get the fuck out of Cuno's kingdom! There ain't no ghosts here. Ghosts are afraid of Cuno's powerful aura, and stay the fuck away from it!"
"Is that so? And how far does Cuno's aura extend?" the detective asked with absolute seriousness.
The kid spread his arms.
"A thousand-million kilometers in every direction from Cuno. All the way to the edge of the world."
Kitsuragi sighed quietly, observing this exchange.
"Detective," he whispered, "we won't get any sense out of him."
*Wait,* Harry mouthed, and then continued louder:
"And where is the nearest edge of the world, Cuno?"
The boy thought for a moment.
"Over there behind the church, near the lighthouse," he pointed his finger toward the canal.
"Do you think there might be ghosts there?" Harry turned his head in the direction the boy was pointing, as if he could see something through the fence.
Cuno nodded vigorously.
"There's always some fucked-up shit happening there. If Cuno was a ghost, Cuno would definitely hang out there."
Kim mentally chuckled. It actually worked.
The kid didn't say anything else. He just watched the two detectives inspect the yard.
Although some boards in the fence were missing (which was how the juvenile delinquent got in), it was unlikely an adult could have gotten in here without breaking the gate. And committing a murder unnoticed here would be problematic, given the proximity to the hostel and residential windows. Someone would have definitely noticed. There were also no traces indicating a committed crime or a hidden body here.
The detective agreed with the lieutenant that this place was most likely unrelated to the case. Bidding farewell to the boy, who was diligently feigning complete indifference, they left the yard, locked the gate, and returned the key to the manager.
***
The next logical step was to stroll to the "edge of the world," which both Garte and Cuno had indirectly pointed toward. In reality, it turned out that a "stroll" meant a jog. The detective didn't justify his decision to conduct an unplanned workout in any way, simply taking off from his spot after their discussion ended, evidently expecting his partner to follow suit. Kim followed, and was now jogging slightly behind, thinking about how much he loved his motor carriage, how much he disliked the spring slush, and that maybe he really should quit smoking.
To the detective's credit, it should be added that he didn't use any levitation tricks that ghosts could theoretically possess. The entire way, he remained physically solid and seemed to genuinely enjoy the activity. The hems of his green blazer flapped as he moved, as if from the wind, and the heels of his green shoes clicked—not quite rhythmically, but distinctly—against the pavement.
"Did you want to ask something?" the detective suddenly spoke up. The sound of his voice was completely even; he wasn't winded from the run at all.
Kim raised his gaze from the detective's heels to the back of his head. Harry slowed down slightly, allowing the lieutenant to catch up with him.
"Why did you decide that?"
"Well, you keep looking at me. I know how it looks. If I were in your shoes, I'd have a lot of questions."
Oh, Kim had plenty of questions. But he merely adjusted his slipped glasses and said:
"I just noticed your shoes. They suit you."
"Oh, well, uh... thanks," Harry looked embarrassed. "I like them too, or rather, I liked them... They're... not original."
"A knockoff?" The lieutenant was no expert in brands.
"No, I mean they aren't real. It's just part of the look. An illusion. I'm actually not wearing any clothes."
Well, that... made sense. Kim hastily banished the visual images creeping into his head.
"Why this particular outfit?"
"Disco-cop? I don't really know. I only dressed like this once, on the day I died. The clothes perished with me. And then I just appeared at the precinct looking like this."
"How does that even work? You... can't change it?"
"Change it? Nope. Can't do it. I can only remove it, but then I'd be without clothes. So, now I'm always disco," he aimed finger guns at Kim and clicked his tongue.
Talking along the way, they crossed the canal and headed further. While their path lay along the road, they occasionally encountered people: loitering dockworkers, drinking homeless men, bored old-timers—but once they left the fishing village behind, the area emptied out. The constant hum of Motorway 8/81 faded, and was replaced by the chirping of crickets and the sparse cries of seagulls drifting in from the sea. Soon, they approached the church.
The Dolorian Church of Humanity (as this wooden building was called in the guidebooks) stood on a boardwalk right at the water's edge, surrounded by thick reed beds. Walking around its perimeter and rattling the door a few times (more times than necessary, in the lieutenant's subjective opinion), the detectives confirmed it was locked. And locked, by all appearances, for a very long time.
Harry stepped back a bit and tilted his head up, looking at the building from the outside. Kitsuragi clasped his hands behind his back and allowed himself to admire it a little too. Despite its age and structural simplicity, the building's architecture was not without a certain charm.
"We had a raid here once," the detective said after a while. "Before I... well... A few years ago."
He pointed a finger at the stained-glass window that took up almost the entire outer wall on the altar side. Its lower section was boarded up with planks from the outside.
"I think we broke something there in the process. The activists complained afterward about 'negligence toward architectural heritage,'" he made air quotes with his fingers. "I guess they closed it down after that incident."
Kim nodded. They walked on. The shore here jutted into the sea as a small peninsula, at the edge of which stood an old, rusted lighthouse. The ground here was dotted with numerous small streams flowing into the sea. Above them, built on boardwalks, loomed dilapidated pre-revolutionary buildings, an abandoned fish market, and a pier.
And on the pier they found the one they were looking for. A lone male figure sat on a bench near the very edge, sideways to the shore, legs spread wide, throwing an elbow over the backrest, and staring somewhere out into the maritime distance.
He was a mirage, just as the cafeteria manager had described, but denser than the lieutenant had expected. Not solid enough to pass for a living human, but solid enough to make out his appearance in full detail.
He was dressed in an almost complete set of white ceramic armor. The kind that cost a lot of money and was therefore used primarily in the special forces of the Occident nations. The freight company had hired themselves some serious security, Kim thought.
The lieutenant took out his notepad to record his observations. At that moment, Harry, standing nearby, broke the silence and spoke, turning to Kim:
"I want to talk to him."
"To a ghost? You can do that?"
"I tried it a couple of times when I was out on a call with my partner. Managed to get some useful info. The guys joke that I can even make the dead talk," he smirked, keeping his eyes on the figure on the pier.
Kim looked back at the mirage and, after thinking for a few seconds, nodded.
"Alright, why not."
In the end, he decided, what did they have to lose? Kim had already broken all the precautions regarding paranormal contact today anyway.
They carefully walked across the rotting boards, which creaked beneath their feet, toward the place where the mirage sat. The detective stood to the side of the ghost, within his field of vision. Kim stopped slightly behind him, holding his notepad at the ready.
"Waiting for someone?" Harry started in a casual tone.
The mirage glanced at him, then closed his eyes and shook his head.
"No. You don't find good company in a place like this."
A reaction was received. In the case of a ghost, this could already be considered a success. Kim nodded to the detective, allowing him to proceed. Harry, not wasting time, asked the next question:
"Then why are you here?"
"Sick of everything. All these bare-assed locals with their demands, the fat cats with their stupid ideas, all the noise... I just wanted some quiet."
"Is that why you came here?"
"I wasn't thinking about where I was going. Just wanted to end up far away from those drunk idiots. To be alone. Broke away from my unit in enemy territory, and this is the result," he smiled bitterly.
"Wait," Harry said slowly, thinking over what he heard, "are you talking about the day you died?"
The mirage shook his head.
"It wasn't day. Late evening. He attacked from behind. I was drunk and stupid. It ended quickly."
Kim and Harry exchanged a look. Neither of them had expected such a concrete answer.
"I didn't know ghosts could remember their death," the detective said honestly.
"It's not me, it's this place. There's something unusual here, you can feel it, can't you?" he turned his head and looked into the distance, where the church spire poked up from behind the crumbling rows of the fish market. "Maybe you could remember, too."
"I'm not sure I want to remember my death."
"You're lying, coppo."
"Why do you think that?"
"Because deep down, we all would want to be found. You too."
Falling silent, he shifted his gaze to the ocean, and then continued:
"Worse than dying is vanishing without a trace. That's why I'm talking to you. You're local cops, right?"
"Yes, we're with the RCM."
"Then do your job. The dead don't care anymore, but the living must know the truth."
He looked at Harry and nodded toward the shore, and then simply vanished. He didn't walk away, didn't dissolve, but simply ceased to exist the moment Kim blinked.
Harry continued to look thoughtfully at the sea, his head tilted slightly.
After a while, he turned toward the shore and, pointing at the ruins nearby, said:
"There's a basement under that building. We need to check it."
"Here? Why do you think so?"
Harry shrugged.
"The wind told me."
Kitsuragi didn't argue. He snapped his notepad shut and headed after the detective toward the building.
***
Finding the entrance to the basement wasn't difficult. It turned out to be right beneath a massive, time-faded "Feld Electrical" advertising banner that still hung on the facade.
Before going in, Kim still managed to convince the detective of the necessity to fetch the motor carriage. So now, after another long jog and a short drive back, they stood with a flashlight in the middle of a basement cluttered with junk and bricks.
Large, carelessly folded pieces of tarp with holes along the edges, evidently intended for making facade advertising, lay scattered here and there on the floor.
But Harry's intuition hadn't failed him. Amid the garbage and rolled-up banners, the beam of the flashlight caught a human figure lying on the ground. His outerwear was different from what the ghost had been wearing, but on his feet were the same white ceramic sabatons. This was the one they were looking for.
Du Bois arrived at the same conclusion:
"There's the body," he said, stopping next to Kim and looking at the victim.
It was quite cold in the basement, and the body was better preserved than it could have been. Despite this, the smell radiating from it was simply unbearable. Kim pulled out a handkerchief to somehow shield himself from it.
"Smells worse than it looks," he commented.
The detective shrugged.
"Well... On the plus side, I don't feel the smell."
"In that case, I yield the honor of conducting the examination to you," Kim said, handing the flashlight to the detective.
Harry turned to him. He seemed surprised. Only then did Kim realize he didn't know if Harry could hold objects in his hands at all. With the exception of the initial handshake, the detective hadn't touched anything else all day. Kitsuragi didn't want to look like he was mocking a dead detective.
But Harry broke into a wide smile and, carefully taking the flashlight, headed toward the body. Kim exhaled in relief, took out his notepad, and prepared to write.
The external examination proceeded according to standard procedure, as far as conditions allowed. The detective constantly had to stand up and walk over to Kim to illuminate things for him with the flashlight (making notes in the dark was inconvenient), but Harry didn't complain. He actually seemed to take pleasure in being useful.
The cause of death left no doubt for either detective. The victim's throat had been slit. This was the only injury, as far as they could judge. Black, coagulated blood had soaked the collar of his shirt, and its runoff trickled down the victim's chest in a massive dark stain, dyeing the white fabric.
Inspecting the wound, the detective remained silent for some time. His face was intensely focused. He reached a hand up toward his own throat, as if he wanted to touch it, but stopped the movement before his fingers made contact with his neck.
"Do you think it hurt?"
The detective's question caught Kim off guard. He looked at the dead man. The wound had been inflicted roughly, the blood had flowed for a long time.
"Yes, it was... not an instantaneous death."
"I think he tried to call for help, but couldn't scream anymore because of the cut throat."
The detective seemed certain of the scene he was describing. In Kim's opinion, it was too early to draw such a conclusion—he preferred not to give emotional assessments of incidents in his reports.
"In a place like this, even if he had screamed, it's unlikely he would have been heard. And even if they did, they wouldn't have been able to help anymore."
The detective continued to stare thoughtfully at the victim's face.
"I think the killer was shorter. The cut goes at an angle."
Covering his nose with his handkerchief, Kim walked around the body and crouched down to see what the detective was talking about. Harry took a step back to give him room, but, forgetting he wasn't transparent, tripped his foot over a bale of tarp lying behind him. He lost his balance, flailed his arms helplessly, losing density for a moment. With a dull, completely real thud, the detective flopped onto the tarp, miraculously managing to catch the falling flashlight in the air.
"Careful, detective. Are you alright?" Kim asked, standing up.
Harry lifted his head and nodded, looking at him. The lieutenant extended a hand, but Du Bois didn't move to get up. He continued to stare up at Kim from below with widened eyes.
"Kim."
"Yes?"
"There's something there. Under the tarp," his voice was quieter than usual.
Kitsuragi looked down, bent over, and reached for the perforated edge. Lifting the material, he didn't see anything at first, but then something unstuck from the banner and fell to the ground with a dull slap. A human arm.
Kim flinched in surprise.
"Another body," Kim concluded in as steady a voice as possible.
Harry blinked a couple of times, and then with quick movements crawled away from the corpse and got to his feet. He walked over to the lieutenant and shined the flashlight beam on the spot where a decomposing limb protruded from under the lifted tarp.
"I suggest we take a break," said Kim, whose eyes were already beginning to water from the smell.
***
Both stepped outside in silence. A few seconds passed before Harry spoke:
"This is fucked."
"That... was unexpected," Kim agreed.
"What do we do?"
"Now we quickly examine the second one, then pack both bodies, and I'll take them to the morgue at Precinct 57. They can make a more detailed conclusion there."
Harry nodded, but didn't budge from his spot. The lieutenant also remained standing. After a while, Du Bois asked:
"Damn, do you think there might be more there?"
"What?" Kitsuragi didn't understand.
"Bodies. Under the tarp."
Kim froze. God, he hoped not. But the assumption wasn't baseless.
"We act like this," he said. "Now we look at the second one, then pack them both, carry them out to the street, and return to examine the basement."
"Why not carry them straight into the motor carriage?"
Kim grimaced.
"It'll stink up..."
***
The examination of the second body didn't differ much from the first, except for the fact that it had decomposed more severely. It was a man in civilian clothes: a warm jacket, jeans, rubber boots. Just like the first victim, his throat had been slit. But in his jacket pocket, they found a library card in the name of Billie Mejean. This already provided an opportunity to request information on this person upon returning to the precinct.
When both corpses were packed up, the detectives carried them out to the street. Hauling a whole human was obviously harder than lifting a flashlight, but Harry helped as best he could. Kim noticed how the detective's silhouette rippled when he lifted the bag with the corpse by the legs. Applying physical effort, he became increasingly transparent, but did not complain. Kim tried to inconspicuously take the main weight onto himself.
Leaving the bodies on the street, the detectives proceeded to a more careful examination of the basement. Fortunately, they found no more corpses. By the time they finished looking under the tarp and left the basement, both were already convinced that this did not look like a union reprisal against unwanted individuals.
Kim didn't want to risk taking Harry to an unfamiliar precinct. The risk of exposing the detective's unusual nature needed to be reduced to a minimum; here Kim agreed with Pryce.
Having loaded up into the motor carriage, Kim said goodbye to Harry, who stayed behind to wait for his partner, and drove toward the port.
Truth be told, he didn't drive far. Beyond the canal, before reaching the port gates, the road was blocked by a traffic jam of trucks. Waiting in vain for a few minutes, Kim decided to contact the 57th by radio to find out what was happening.
It turned out that the striking debardeurs had closed the gates to the port, thereby blocking the passage. While the captain of Precinct 57 tried to establish contact with their union chairman, officers stranded in the city were permitted to disperse to their homes until news arrived.
Kim pondered how to proceed. His apartment was located near the port, on the other side of the closed gates. Moreover, he had two corpses lying in his back seat. And if choosing between the morgue in the Faubourg and the one in Jamrock...
Kim pulled the lever and, turning around in the opposite direction, returned to the spot where he had left the detective. He didn't have to search for him, as he materialized next to the driver's door almost immediately after the motor carriage stopped. It seemed he had no intention of going anywhere.
"What's the matter, lieutenant? Forgot something?"
"The passage to the port is blocked by the union. I need to take the bodies to the 41st," Kim said, pushing back the seat backrest to move the bags with the bodies. "Climb in, I'll give you a lift."
One corpse had to be shifted under the seats, another buckled in a sitting position, but a spot for the detective freed up. Kim didn't see how he sat down, but a pleased voice from the empty seat confirmed that everything was in order, and they set off down the road to the south.