Chapter 9
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The Last Rail, on the surface, is a warm and inviting 24-hour tavern. The building is a single wide-open room. Even a casual observer could tell this place has been converted from an old train station. The walls to the left and right of the place are still lined with sturdy benches. The entire back wall is taken up by a massive pane of glass which overlooks a defunct train platform. Looking out at the platform makes my skin crawl.

And behind the bar, Railspike stands, her scarred face diligently watching over her patrons. Her huge arms are folded, ready to carry any rabble-rousers by the neck and toss them into the street.

When Walter steps through the paned-glass door, The Last Rail erupts into welcoming cheers. Even the serious Railspike cracks a smile. Walter gives me a sheepish grin. “I come here when you and Sidhion’re having your little rooftop get-togethers,” He explains.

We sit beside each other at the bar and Railspike welcomes us. She leans an elbow on the counter. Her already low-cut top strains under the weight of her. “Hey, Captain. Finally bringing me some new customers?”

“Anything to see your beautiful smile.” Walter winks at her and she grins. “I’m babysitting tonight. My friend here wandered off and got himself mugged the other day!”

“Oh, poor baby,” She croons. “Maybe the good captain ought to cover your tab then.”

“Anything for you, doll,” Walter grins.

Railspike leans in conspiratorially. “Careful tonight. Ol’ Garmo is fixing to get himself nixed again.”

“I’ll talk to him.” 

Walter paces across the room to an old halfling man. His face is a scrunched up network of wrinkles and liver spots. His clothes were once finely made, with beaded trims and puffy sleeves but neglect has worn them into squalor. A once white shirt is stained yellow and brown. A pair of dark brown pants are tattered and full of holes. He sits alone at a corner table, nursing mug upon mug of amber liquid. 

Walter pulls up a seat next to the man, presumably Garmo, who gives him a wary stare. The two of them engage in whatever inane smalltalk Walter employs when trying to get on someone’s good side. Garmo waves him off a few times. His ire seems to grow until Walter waves to Railspike who mollifies Grmo with a fresh round of drinks. Rather than return to her perch behind the tavern, she lingers at a nearby table, making small talk but still watching Garmo out of the corner of her eye.

Walter leans casually in his seat. His lips move but I cannot hear his words over the din of the tavern. Garmo leaps to his feet with a drunken wail. Dead silence falls heavily over the room. Every head turns in Garmo’s direction. 

“I know what yer about, copper! I ain’t your friend and I ain’t done nothin’! I don’t have to talk to you ‘bout nothin’!” Garmo points an accusatory finger at Walter who maintains his composure.

“Alright, I knew it!” Railspike marches over to Garmo’s table and grabs him by the back of his shirt. In a surprisingly swift motion, she sweeps his head under her arm and marches to the front door, tossing Garmo out with one huge hand. Then she rounds on Walter, sticking an admonishing finger in his face. “Listen, you’re cute but I won’t be putting up with that good-for-nothing for much longer.”

“Oh, don’t be like that. I’ve almost got him to cooperate. Just a few more days.” Walter raises his hands conciliatorily. “I’ll owe ya one. Anything you want.”

The promise seems to calm Railspike slightly. “I’ll hold ya to that one, Captain.” She marches back behind the bar. Walter follows close behind her and sits beside me.

“What was that about?”

“That’s ol’ Garmo that just got kicked out. Didn’t want to bother ya with it until I found something worth mentioning. Bradur says the old tosser worked for the Rynors up till recently. Thought he might have some dirt, ‘specially since he freaks out every time I ask about it.”

My eyes go wide. “Wait, he knows something? Let’s go get him then!” 

“Nah. He’s too drunk to be of any use. Just let me work on ‘im. He’ll crack.”

“Looks like your way isn’t working.” I hop to my feet. “Come on, I bet he’s barely made it down the street. I’ll show you how it’s done.” 

Walter finishes his glass and leaves a few coins on the counter before following me out the door. 

Garmo is easily spotted a short way down Rynor avenue. His arms are wrapped around a streetlamp, which completely supports his weight. He tries to take a tentative step away from the safety of the post. One stumble sends him hurtling back to hang onto his savior. 

I set my hands on my lower back, straighten my posture and pad up behind him. “Good evening, citizen.” 

“Not another cop,” Garmo wails. He tries to step away and is foiled by his own feet.

“I saw you talking to Captain Walter. You were very uncooperative.”

“Piss off, I know my rights!” Garmo waves a hand, which knocks him off-balance and nearly throws him to the ground.

“Mister.. Garmo was it?”

“Garmond!”

“Mister Garmond. I have been made aware of your affiliations with the Rynor family. Up until recently, we had no reason to suspect you. But your utter non-cooperation has us looking at you now.” I lean closer to Garmond. His eyes are bloodshot but comprehending. “Now you can cooperate and we may just go easy on you. Or I can exercise my full authority, we’ll find everything out anyway, and you’ll go down just as hard as everyone else.”

Garmond grins defiantly. “You don’t know nothin’, copper.”

“Perhaps not yet. But you have yet to see the extent of my authority. You know, public drunkenness is just as much a crime as harboring a murderer. I have a private interrogation room back at the precinct. And I’m authorized to run in any criminal at any moment for any length of time.”

“So what?”

“I am also authorized to carry out sentencing. And I assure you my practices are highly.. Draconian. Now, would you like to cooperate? Or would you like to spend the night alone with me?”

Garmond glares at me. His eyes pry deep into mine, searching for a hint to my seriousness. “Fine! Fine, get me home an’ I’ll talk to you!”

“Walter, help the man,” I order.

Walter steps forward and offers Garmond a hand. The old man reaches out but instead stumbles this way and that. He crashes into Walter’s tree-trunk leg, wrapping both arms around it for support. Walter tries to let Garmo lean and walk along but the height disparity makes it impossible. Walter settles on lifting the man under his arm and letting him point the way.

Garmond points us toward the west side of town, to a ramshackle building at the end of a deserted alley-way. The windows are boarded up. Gaps between the boards are sealed over with yet more wood, laid out to cover as much area as possible.

Garmond, still held aloft by Walter, closes one eye and aims a wobbling finger at the door. And when he finds his mark, a tiny bolt of purple magic emerges and sails toward the door. When it collides, the bolt multiplies into a hundred copies of itself, all buzzing and zooming into formation. The bolts congeal to reveal a magical ward which begins to crack like glass. Garmo gives me a self-satisfied grin when the ward shatters and dissipates. “Bet yer glad you talked me into being nice. That woulda killed ya!” He bursts into laughter.

The interior of Garmond’s home is utterly opposite to its exterior. The place is tidy and warm. A huge thick rug is laid out over the hardwood floor. Shelves of ancient books line nearly every wall. A huge canopied bed dominates a corner of the room. A simple yet elegant fireplace is providing light and warmth to the entire room. And beside it, a work-table is laid out with myriad alchemy supplies. 

“Now lemme.. Lemme sober up one second.” Garmond stumbles toward the worktable, staring at a book which was already open to a particular page. He seems to forget his drunken stupor for a time as his hands deftly grab herbs and vials of odd liquids, depositing them into a mortar. When the mixture is ground together, he lifts the mortar to his lips, pouring the dark black liquid down his throat. 

With a thud, the mortar lands on the table and Garmond leans over it. He drops to his knees, groaning and holding his stomach. Walter rushes over but is waved away. Garmond inhales deeply, holding his breath for a long moment. Then he opens his mouth, releasing his breath and releasing with it a dark black smoke which fills the air and dissipates. Garmond coughs a few times, releasing tiny puffs of shadow. He gets to his feet and wipes a bead of sweat from his brow. “Phew, much better. Okay. Let’s talk.”

Walter tries for his honeyed words again. “We need you to tell us everything you know about the Rynors’ under-the-table dealings.”

“Hold your horses now, Captain. You need my testimony and I won’t just give it up out of the kindness of my heart.”

I sigh, “What do you want?”

“Immunity.”

“Oh, come on!”

“No, no. That’s what I want. I’m a small fry in this whole conspiracy and if you want what I got, I don’t want to go down.”

I look back at Walter who shrugs. “Fine. If you tell us everything, we won’t come after you.”

“Hey, good deal!” Garmond raises a finger which spits out a few tiny electric sparks. “I’ll hold ya to that.”

“Just get on with the details,” I sigh

“Fine, fine. You know old Balric Rynor? The head of the family? Well he hired me personally. I’m an alchemist. Specialized in medicine. And Balric hired me to tend to his mother, Ophelia. See, she went on a trip up north about a year ago and came back with a mighty cough. She just kept getting worse and worse. Lost so much weight she was sunken. Every day lost another pound and another bit of her mind. Worst case of consumption I’ve ever seen. Was my job to make her better.”

“Did you succeed,” Walter prompts.

“Yes and no. I tried everything. Salves, oils, tinctures, the works. Nothing helped. ‘Till one day I dug into some more.. Unsavory recipes. I swear I used my own blood. Do no harm is the oath! Lady Ophelia responded immediately to that one. Was supposed to be a salve but she wolfed it down before I could stop her. In these cases, it’s best to listen to what the body is trying to get more of. And in this case it turned out to be the blood.”

“So you started feeding her blood?”

“Yes, yes. I brought my findings to Balric and he said he’d start getting it supplied if I’d keep administering it.”

“And whose blood was it that you administered?”

“Don’t know where it came from. I assumed it was animal blood until.. Well I heard what happened to that store clerk. I quit. They offered to double my salary to stay on. I said no. They still send the money. To keep quiet, I guess.”

“So you believe Lady Ophelia killed Panril?”

“Oh, no I wouldn’t go that far. She’s old and frail. And consumption only makes it worse. She could barely walk by the time I left. Lady Ophelia’s no killer.”


 

Sidhion leans, arms crossed, over his precinct desk, listening intently to Walter’s and my report. “Sounds like vampirism to me. I had my suspicions when the cause of death came up as blood loss. And here’s some definitive proof.”

“I thought vampires were supposed to be inhumanly strong. Not cripples in wheelchairs,” I sneer.

“Have you ever met a vampire?” 

I scoff at Sidhion’s remark. He huffs. “I didn’t think so. Anyway, think about it. The Rynors are ‘keeping a pet’ and feeding it ‘oil’ they’re sourcing illegally. They’re keeping Ophelia and feeding her blood. Oleo has to be code for blood.”

Walter leans a heavy hip on Sidhion’s desk. “Makes sense to me. Also makes sense that they drained ol’ Panril to feed her. My question is, how did they pull this off so many times without word gettin’ around of a serial killer?” 

“This can’t have been standard procedure,” I nod. “The victim saw something in the woods, they kill him and drain him. Ophelia is fed and the victim can’t run to the cops. Two birds with one stone. Very efficient.”

Walter shakes his head slowly. “Still sloppy, though. Everything about it. Killing a man in public, covering it up so obviously, stealing his gun when there’s seemingly no reason? The very obvious footprint in the mud? Something stinks and I had a bath this morning.”

“You’re focusing on the wrong thing here. If Kellerman is the one smuggling the blood through these ‘oleo’ shipments then we already know who the source is. Adrian Alkane is supposed to be collecting the blood and passing it along. That means he did it,” I conclude.

“But we searched the farm. He had plenty of ether. Why kill Panril in town when he could have easily abducted him and done it where no one would find out,” Sidhion pipes up.

Derision peeks through my voice. “Okay maybe it wasn’t him. Maybe we’re on the wrong track entirely and the oleo really is just secret oil. And maybe Katali was the killer all along because she was mad the victim didn’t return a book on time.”

Sidhion rolls his eyes. “You really have to stop seeing her. She’s poisoning your mind.”

Walter cuts in before this fight can spark anew. “So our prime suspects are Lady Ophelia Rynor and Mister Adrian Alkane. We’ve already searched one of them and not the other.”

“Alright, let’s go knocking at Rynor manor. I bet we’ll find Panril’s gun in one of the servants’ rooms.” I add, sarcastically.

“Hold your horses, little buddy. Your guns blazing approach might’ve worked on one drunk but the Rynors have a whole house full of people who can toss evidence the second they think we’re suspicious of ‘em.”

“Walter’s right. There’s too much ground to cover. We might have to engage in some subterfuge.”

“Okay, so we break in and ransack the place. Then we arrest everyone." I grin devilishly at my companions.

Walter breathes a heavy sigh. "Maybe we can come up with a better plan while we're out in the woods, yeah?"

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