On Steam, Bears, and Snakes | Continuation 4
Chapter V – The Talk and the War
The crime scene remained unchanged from a few days ago. The air felt heavier, almost static. Something had me tense—a contraction somewhere between mind and body, leaving me rigid. I crouched as best I could; my joints still sore from the previous day. With my stomach at the level of the coffee table, I leaned forward, nearly able to smell the wood itself. I ran my finger along the surface, feeling the grain of walnut—a detail not lost on me, since my town exported this wood, albeit secondarily. My mood was serious; I had set my mind on finding Gregory Turner. And on my way out, I decided, as already noted, to make my first stop at Ursus’s daughter’s apartment.
Having found nothing conclusive on Miss Ursus’s tea table, I moved to the sofa. It was burgundy brocade, with patterns highlighted in a dark, brassy gold, like nearly everything in this city. The cushion was plush; I assumed horsehair. Clinging to that assumption, I pressed myself into it and inhaled. The air carried traces of coffee, food, feminine perfume, and, most prominent, tobacco. It was frowned upon for a woman to smoke, yet within the confines of her home, she might have indulged in it. Still, conclusive evidence suggested otherwise: no cigarettes, pipes, or paraphernalia in the house, and the scent lingered only in the sofa stuffing, a material prone to absorption. Clearly, she had smoked little and in a single spot.
Many people conclude that the universe conspires against you, thrusting you into the worst situations at the worst times. And what happened shortly after I left the living room for the victim’s bedroom seemed to prove this theory. As I rummaged through the wardrobe, dismantling it drawer by drawer to examine hidden compartments, I heard the jingle of keys and the soft swing of the door, its well-oiled hinges creaking open. My fight-or-flight instincts kicked in. In a moment of idiotic impulse, I tried to restore the wardrobe to its original state and hide. Footsteps approached, and I still had several drawers on the floor; the noise had already betrayed me. I realized, obviously too late, that there was neither time to hide nor to make the wardrobe flawless. Resigned, I grabbed a drawer without looking inside, bracing myself for the inevitable confrontation.
— “Who are you, and what are you doing here?!” — a female voice demanded, sharp and alarmed.
I turned to see her. Young, standing in the doorway, her face screaming every thought one might have upon seeing a stranger in the house of a recently deceased woman.
— “Disgusting!” — she exclaimed, eyes falling on the drawer in my hands. — “Pervert!” — she added finally.
I dropped the drawer and only then noticed its contents. My situation was hardly in my favor—the drawer contained underwear.
Embarrassed, I apologized, explaining my purpose and intentions. Fortunately, I had my journal with letters from the victim’s father to substantiate my case.
After a brief conversation in the room, I asked her name.
— “Lilith. Lilith Hellicate.”
— “So your full name means… ‘infernal monstrous night cat’?” — I realized the thoughtless tone of the question as I uttered the last syllable. Yet my prior readings on the meanings of names had escaped my mind before I could stop myself.
— “My family believes the fourth child of a marriage is a bad omen. I was blessed with that fate. Hence the dark meaning of my name,” — she answered, mechanistic, almost proud, as if she had said it a thousand times, each time more comfortable with it.
— “And what was your relationship with Miss Ursus?”
— “Best friends, since we were very young,” — she replied even before I finished the question.
No sooner had she spoken than the air grew melancholic. Reasonable, given she spoke of a murder victim. I apologized for the question, reflecting on how every interaction with this young woman seemed fated to make me appear foolish.
We spoke for a while in the room. Then we moved downstairs to the building’s parlor, where a few sofas and tables awaited. I discovered that, at her father’s request, she had kept their friendship secret—a decision coordinated between both legal guardians to avoid embroiling the Hellicate family in politics. She also explained how she was investigating the case independently, though her position was far less privileged than mine.
We exchanged mailbox numbers to stay in contact. With the conversation concluded and my schedule delayed considerably—but without regret, having gained a valuable ally—I resumed my path to the next stop after the crime scene: the civil registry.
I sought information on Gregory Turner: his parents, siblings, and more, hoping to trace his current whereabouts. In the aging, austere building that housed the registry, I uncovered several generations of the Turner family. Almost all deceased; only Gregory remained—an only child. His mother resided in a nursing home on the city’s outskirts, and his great-aunt had been institutionalized in a nearby city hospital.
Not much, but enough to potentially interview a key piece in the case: the suspect’s mother. Who wouldn’t inform their mother of a flight? Perhaps a criminal mastermind. Yet, considering a note declaring intentions had been left in a dresser in the first place one would search after a disappearance, it was clear—no room for doubt—that Turner was no criminal genius.
Disappointed by the asylum’s lax security, I found that a crude lie—that I was Gregory—was enough to let me in. Patients were either entirely unprotected, or Turner had never visited. The environment was sterile; the rails running along the walls like belts holding up trousers bore stains from countless grips, telling a story of grief, lost hope, and eventual resignation. In the hallways, phonographs repeated Clair de Lune, distorted in its characteristic tone. The only element not entirely depressing, though hardly comforting, was the mismatch between the sound systems.
The door bore a small handwoven wool mat, multicolored, reading: “Tulip Turner,” indicating the room’s resident. Tulip was traditional; I found her seated in a wicker recliner with oak accents. Nearby, a long but low dresser held photos, plants—both woven and real—and books of archaic appearance. A basket of yarn balls, mostly pale, stood out among the decor.
The woman greeted me warmly, like any lady over fifty. Her fragile fingers handled the needles with precision that seemed more machine than human. I took a seat on the bed, lacking other options, and we began to speak.
— “You are Gregory Turner’s mother, yes?” — I went straight to the point.
— “Who’s asking?” — she replied smoothly, not pausing her work.
— “I’m looking for him. It’s important.”
— “Looking for him? Why?” — her calm mastery over the conversation annoyed me. The exchange went on for a long while; she seemed to be draining me by endurance. Little by little, my detective composure cracked. Tulip Turner pushed me toward a cliff, forcing me to reveal tiny scraps of information that she assembled into a whole. Mentally, it felt as though she threatened me with knitting needles while I teetered on the edge of a precipice.
No skirmish leaves one unscathed. At one point, after I mentioned her move, she cleverly asked if I was from the industrial district. That was my opening. She already knew I had no direct relation to her son—one of the tidbits she had extracted through her subtle cunning. Therefore, there was no other way I could know about his move without being near—or in—the places he had occupied. The opening in her impenetrable guard was so slight that, if not for my alertness, I would have missed it.
— “Industrial district, you say? I’m from the southwest area,” — I lied, deliberately revealing a fragment of myself. — “So… your son is in the industrial district, isn’t he?” — I said, a triumphant arrogance I immediately regretted.
Her breath hitched slightly at my question; she confirmed with resignation, then returned to extracting more details about me, likely to send to her fugitive son.
For the remainder of the conversation, my ego partially restored by that clever manipulation of her words, I analyzed the room as frantically as her unceasing gaze allowed. I saw a half-written letter on the small desk by the door. Even without reading it, I knew—at worst—it was addressed to Gregory. And as soon as I closed the door behind me, she would warn her eldest, who would flee like a rat to another part of the city. The encounter had escalated from talk to war, and from war to a race—a race I was destined to lose. Her son was a pen and inkwell away, while I had an entire city and a district to traverse.
What Tulip Turner did not know was that, in another flash of detective insight, I remembered an ace up my sleeve. One that might—just might—allow me to find Turner before he fled with tail between legs…
…"
–“Continue reading and experience the original text in Spanish at https://fictograma.com/. Join our open-source community of writers today!”–