The Havenport Files: Book One

Day 4

Time: 7:42

Times, calm or chaotic—there sure must have been a time when things were easier to deal with; when accepting any truth the world decided to throw at me wasn't such a headache—second nature even—but, this time, I'm starting to think by myself before accepting whatever is presented to me, in particular what I considered once to be an undeniable truth about the world as I know it—asking what more is there that I don't know about.

Of course, the privilege to go after those answers is not one I have at hand's reach, doubly because I have to work the strange detective hours instead of the normal officer work hours that usually would allow me to choose what shifts I want for the month—the down part of the promotion for sure.

Today, Melissa will stay at home while another officer takes her place in the extensive patrols of this week, giving her a chance to kick her feet up and indulge herself all day in ice cream and cheap beer; lucky her, unlucky me.

I'm not saying she doesn't deserve it; though, if I have to be honest, maybe I am feeling just a little bit envious of her at this moment.

A sigh escapes my throat as my weak, tired eyes blink exceptionally slowly this morning.

Considering I only managed to catch a few hours of sleep, due to the adrenaline of learning the name of the not-so-nameless-anymore killer and the exaggerated amount of caffeine I ingested from the two filled coffee mugs I gulped down mindlessly, I can say I'm not in my worst shape yet.

Something to keep fresh in my head: never drink coffee before bed again, or else I'm fated to wake up in the middle of the night with a train of thoughts I didn't ask for bugging me awake.

Coming to work today wasn't something I wanted to do since I need time to process everything that happened, but, even so, I think pushing forward is the best option at the moment; I can't stop, not now that I learned so much.

Looking through the tiniest space in between the lines of my office's blinds—the only thing that grants me a view of the open area of the station without being seeing back—I find myself anxiously playing with my nails, to the point they are almost no more—chewed and short.

It feels like watching the world in parts, all moving at different speeds; the ability to distinguish the forms of people is lost to me, creating a sense of paranoia that may have been deeply rooted in me all along, just needing a jump start to come to life fully.

"What do I even do knowing what I do now?" I ask myself in a low, tired tone—almost a whisper—one not meant to be heard by anyone but me. "Should I ignore them? Face them head-on with the truth?"

Ignoring the agents when they show up would be undesirable for sure, but I guess it would be worse to ask any of the wrong questions only to satisfy my ever-growing curiosity in a feeble attempt to calm the waves in my head and the flames burning hot in my heart.

I can't be sure of how they will react to me looking too closely into their business, especially considering the length they've gone through to get their hands on this case—to be a part of it—so there are not many options left in my holster, as usual at this point.

It is either pretending I don't know anything, playing as dumb as I can, which shouldn't be that hard apart from managing to keep my mouth shut, or gathering a hell load of determination and letting my mouth run wild.

My accusations would need to be cleverly masked into questions about the things I'm not supposed to know, played off as mere curiosity, with full knowledge that, the moment I ask, I'm screwed for sure. I know that, by doing so, the only path onward will be the hard one to climb, so the real question is: 'How much am I willing to sacrifice to learn the truth?'

Not wanting to push my mind further into this rabbit hole or choose anything—for now at least—that might worsen the agonizing, aching, drums of pain permeating behind my eyes, I settle on focusing my fatigued mind elsewhere—preferably somewhere that causes me less stress and allows me to work efficiently still.

I need to specifically lock in on what truly matters for today—maybe the only thing that does.

The name I discovered in the contacts of the phone after swamping its battery last night for one that wasn't drenched in seawater, a number that was called multiple times through these last few days, and exactly half an hour before what I know was the death of Andrey Kolesov using the hours I learned from Brutus: Dr. James Verso.

Building a psychological record can help me better guess the reason behind the killings and maybe predict the next one, and if not, it will at least help me make the task of locating him less demanding.

Searching for the name on the old computer below my table takes a while due to the combination of bad internet and dated hardware, and in the end, it doesn't reveal much more than a link directing me to the website of Galileo Biotech, cleverly hidden after a whole lot of nothing about the story behind the lab's start and its goals.

As expected, it has the bare minimum about the man in question, telling me that James Verso is—well—was a leader scientist on a small project that, publicly, there isn't much revealed, but by the words they choose to describe it—among some others displayed for any interested investors—leads me to believe I was right in my assumptions.

Sure, it isn't like they tried to be subtle, so that helps.

"The next step into human evolution is hidden in the blood; a fighting chance against autoimmune diseases and much more."

Besides his work, there isn't anything to be found about him on the internet—no social media, no known partner, no kids—basically saying that he is his work and nothing more; not unlikely to a scientist.

One of the last things I'm able to find is a publication on the official account of his workplace saying they are accepting applications for new 'brilliant minds', even mentioning there are two spots on their research teams needing filling.

It is clear they didn't want to wait that long before moving on; I can kind of find a logic for not commenting about Doctor Verso—he was no one, a face among faces—but that is cold when thinking one of the big investors of theirs and his daughter, who worked for them, are dead, murdered, and even so, there isn't a single 'fake tear', political style address of the situation.

I become so lost in my research that I only notice a person entering my office out of nowhere—not caring to warn me with a knock at the door or a shout—when the sound of the door slamming shut right behind them ends up reaching my ear, forcing me to look up in their direction fast.

I end up forcing myself to blink—more times than I like to admit—so I can manage to focus my vision correctly to make out a face.

The sweat that threatens to build in my forehead, propelled by the hasty race of my heart at the nervousness brought by the single chance that the scenario I want to avoid so fondly is happening, suddenly ceases the moment I take notice that it isn't one of the agents that approach, but a more familiar figure.

Just locking my gaze on Astero's geek shirt makes my heart calm down slightly.

Looking at the man in front of me attentively starts to help me get a story about how his night went; from the simple way he exhaustedly stumbles towards the chair in front of my table like a dying man to his hair, which stands as wild as a bush as his face rivals mine in tiredness.

It serves to bring me a strange sense of deep understanding because it is very evident that apparently, we aren't that far apart when it comes to our state of mind.

"You seem like you had a rough night, let me guess; not much luck on your side too, right?"

The question leaves me with a sympathetic smile, trying to bring some easiness to his expression; it is easy to say it doesn't work superbly, but it seems to push away some tiredness from his brows.

"This week sure doesn't feel like it is ours." The words escape slip off me—something I've been thinking about for some days now.

"Yes, my only comfort is in the fact that I did all I could, but there was nothing to be found in that filthy car that was more than a couple safe hazards—some empty bottles of whiskey, burger wrappers, I even found a fish that snuck its way into the ventilation system—the usual from a traveling person, well, minus the fish."

The man in front of me is half of what he usually is, looking to be, at this moment, a lot older than he should be.

The two dark voids under his once bright eyes make me avoid looking at them for too long, afraid I'll be sucked in if I attempt to, and paired with it, his hand coordination seems to be significantly affected by drowsiness, as I can tell seeing the effort it takes for him to bring one hand up to do something as simple as scratching his nose.

To let me know that he has more things to add to the conversation, mid-way through a very long yawn that threatens to dislocate his jaw, he reaches the inside of his coat and brings to view a small diary, which he opens and checks something before resuming his talk.

"There was a paper as well, tucked in the flooded compartment of the cup holder, mushy and coming apart. When I brought it with me home last night, I managed to piece it together with some help from two troublemakers, but it turned out to be just an ordinary rental paper dated from the beginning of this week; of course, it was signed by Mister Kolesov. I told the sergeant, and he saved us both the headache by contacting the dealership to inform them of the finding of their property; they are coming to retrieve the parts from Hanna's workshop today."

"Thank you, Astero; I don't know what would be of me without you and Mel. This week feels like a sadistic test from someone who is enjoying themselves a little too much, and I'm not kidding when I say I'm tired of all of these problems weighing on my shoulders. Maybe after this case is over, I'll cash in a well-deserved week's vacation."

Dizziness downs on my system the moment all the scenes from this week replay in my mind, pushing me to feel uncomfortable while sitting down; not that standing up will do me any better, yet, with no better alternative, I use both my hands to push me away from my chair and up to my feet as an idea bubbles in my mind.

"You heard about the coffee machine?" I ask, assuming he didn't notice in his focused mode while working yesterday. "The thing is finally fixed; I don't know if Hanna told you that. You accompany me for a mug, or you prefer I bring you some? Don't feel pressured to get up if you're tired."

"Don't you worry, I'll be just behind you; it wouldn't be good to incentivize my body to act like this whenever I can't manage a good night's sleep. Just give me a moment to get my legs in pair with that."

Astero takes a deep, filling breath and slaps his knees about two times before mimicking my motion to stand, only with more crunchy sounds leaving his joints; his back and legs crack loud enough to make me shiver in response.

Once the horror show is over, he turns to me with the face of someone with a question, and he, not being shy, just shoots it out.

"One thing you said stuck to me; you compared my lack of luck to yours, so I'm going to do as you and take a guess assuming the investigation isn't proceeding as you'd like."

"Well, yeah; that obvious, huh?" Clicking my tongue tiredly, I hide my hands from view to the safety of my warm pockets and move the conversation forward, not keeping us standing around in my office any longer.

"I mean, I've managed to get some good information and all—the name of our killer, his face in a video, and some concrete evidence that my suspect is, in fact, responsible for both deaths. It is just that I'm having some problems finding the safest way of putting it all together; some things just don't exactly fit, and let's say, I came to learn some important information that pushed back some of my progress."

"Wait, I'm sorry; you know the name of the killer and have their face on a recording; even so, there is something on the way of you arresting them?"

The question leaving his mouth comes laced with disbelief, and I can't find it in me to blame him; this situation normally would be like having the cheese and knife in hand and choosing not to do anything with that.

If only things were that simple.

Luckily, he catches on that there's something more to the story and sighs apologetically, changing his expression to a more casual one.

"Look, if it is a problem you need help with, I'll advise you not to try playing the hero; I'm sure Melissa would not mind being your backup just like she was before your promotion. Follow protocol; don't do as Reele used to, please. I can't handle taking the cape of counselor again and having to explain why you shouldn't do something idiotic like I did for that man."

Instinctively, because I want him to understand why I'm acting like this, my mind goes in the direction of telling him the truth, something that makes sense; he is my friend after all, and I need people to trust now more than ever.

These thoughts make the words start climbing my throat so roughly that they claw my flesh, leaving only doubt planted on the scars, stealing me of the confidence my face once had.

That alone is a sign I need to stop and think further about the possible consequences of doing so before actually saying anything stupid.

"Relax, you won't need to; I'm not about to do something stupid." I comfort him, placing a friendly hand on his saggy shoulders. "All that I have isn't enough to help me actually find the guy, so the only choice I have would be to send the information I got to Eddie and let him decide if it is worth sending an alert to the big cities in case he tries moving to a new location or not."

'Am I doing the right thing here, keeping it all to myself?' That question goes through my head before setting in painfully, heavily; the only answer I can muster to give my consciousness a moment of peace is that 'this is for the better'.

Yeah, there is no way I can just tell him that we might be dealing with the supernatural kind of monsters; he would think I'm crazy... Hell, even I can't tell if I am not anymore.

"I'll deal with things in due time; I just need to try my way once more to be as sure as I can that my decision will be the best one. Sure, it isn't as easy as I make it sound like, looking for a needle in a pile of hay—in a speeding truck—but I'll find a way. It isn't as if I have a choice here."

As we talk and walk, time goes by, and it doesn't take long until we both reach the kitchen area past the office, soon having a clear vision of the infamous, super old coffee machine.

The thing is almost as old as me, and I got to say, it looks exactly the same old piece of junk from before, smelling of burning beans and collective despair.

I don't even think before I move my hands in a practiced dance, gathering all the right tools to make some decent coffee for both of us, as Astero, not so enthusiastically, drags a metal chair from nearby to my side and gladly sits down once more to rest his tired legs the most he can manage.

"I understand and will support you on whatever decision you make; just make sure that you make one soon, or else you'll be left with the sour taste that you didn't do anything. To be clear, I'll keep my mouth shut about that; it is better if the sergeant doesn't hear about it anyway, or else I'm sure he'll take matters into his own hands, and we both know how this ends."

"Yeah, that would be bad; I don't want him to bicker with me on how I should do my job. Thanks again for the support; it means a lot."

After shooting a small, thankful smile to the tired pathologist, I turn to the coffee machine and watch as the little tears of the dark-brown liquid fall one by one into the carafe, similar to the rain from yesterday, just a lot calmer.

The quiet moment that extends between us, created by the numerous thoughts in my head and Astero's lack of energy to even exist at this moment, makes me unable not to break it; he might be in battery save mode, but I think he can help me out a little more.

"Can I share with you something that is nagging in my head? I think a second opinion will help me get a better idea of how to proceed."

Raising his head just enough to present me with a frown, Astero waves my preoccupations with his hand and nods once, just enough for me to notice.

"Is that even a question? Please don't restrain yourself next time; to reinforce that in that thick head you got, keep fresh that you can count on me if you need help."

"Okay, the thing is: there's a piece of evidence that keeps hammering on my head, pointing me towards a place that we know has nothing. The flower petal you found under Melinda's fingernail has everything to be solid evidence, but we searched the old mill up and down, and there was definitively nothing there but thick dust and the smell of death. If the killer is carrying the same equipment I saw on the big boxes at the warehouse from Mister Kolesov, he would need someplace around the city to store that, and there was definitively none in the mill."

My eyes lose focus and lock on an invisible point on the table; as for my head, it loops around this line of thought in search of an answer that never seems to come.

"I am almost one hundred percent sure both murders happened in the mill, but then the killer abandoned the place; he knew he couldn't stay in one place. I know there aren't many places in the city to hide or carry around equipment like that without being spotted, so where would he move them? It is not like he carried it up to one of the apartments, and I don't think he used his salary to get himself a house in his name around."

Astero knows I'm not looking for a straight answer, so he doesn't say anything to add at first, allowing me to try reaching an answer myself; but a moment passes, and to my surprise, he nods his head to himself after some seconds of deep thinking—an idea clearly forming in his head, and by how he seems somewhat proud of himself, I think it is a good one.

"Maybe someone did spot something; they just didn't contact the station about it; with the number of people who walk around the city, there must be someone who caught an unfamiliar vehicle loaded with equipment. I suggest you check the park and talk with the runners there; I'm sure they can be of help seeing they run around pretty often, even when it rains."

"Wait, what you said reminded me of something. Alexandrina said the same thing about people not contacting us about things they are unsure about, but her instead; maybe she heard something. So instead of talking with each runner, I could just go to where the information would end up." As the epiphany hits me, I move away from the coffee machine and start to walk around, circling the kitchen area. "Astero, you're an A-grade genius; I'll message her about it right now."

The man notices rather quickly that I'm not staying anymore after settling this path in my head, my feet moving towards my office as—resting on my hands—my phone becomes my lone focus, leaving Astero with only one last question.

"Wait a moment, Olivia; tell me this: what do I do about the coffee you just made? I see you have poured enough water for both of us, and it seems you won't need it so soon. So, do you want me to put it on a mug and take it to you or leave it here so you can reheat it later?"

His question is accompanied by the sigh of someone who was almost expecting this to happen.

"Oh, yeah; I almost forgot about it. You can leave it there. Tell Anja that if she wants she can have it; I'm not sure I'll stay around for long, so it's fine,"

I answer as quickly as I'm able to before entering my office and closing the door right behind me; fingers busy sending the text to Alexandrina's number, just a simple and direct: 'Are you busy? I need some help finding out some important information, and I think you're the only one who I can trust; if it's good for you, we can meet at the diner.'

Now, all that remains is waiting for her response, which shouldn't take very long; this allows me to kick back a little and do a quick research on how to deal with supernatural creatures, just in case something ends up happening.

The insistent, never-ending clicking of the clock plastered on the wall drives me slowly insane, to the point that the few moments my eyes end up falling on it, time seems to move slower than before as if to mock me.

My focus, however little, stays largely on the research, ending up mostly wasted on fan wiki pages to popular TV series and dark, occult sites that I have no doubt were written by a teenager in their twilight era.

They must have thought themselves very cool for being different, begging on online forums to be bitten by a hot vampire as soon as possible just to live their fantasies—can't completely blame them; I was a dumb teenager once.

One of the only good things that comes out of the research is the passage of time, which leads me to waste a few hours and finally get a response from Alexandrina; this time I've beaten her to it, catching her probably as she was enjoying sleep.

I might not know much about the woman, but I don't see her as someone who would sleep until late, considering her job—even if today is a Saturday.

In regards to my message, she responds with the same underlining urgency: 'Your message couldn't have been at a better time, Rivers. I have my hands full right now with a problem you can very well help me with in return for whatever information you need; come to my house when you get this. The door will be unlocked for you.

"Alexandrina needs my help with something?" I utter the question curiously out to the air, trying to guess—to no avail—what could be that she needs my help with; I imagined there weren't many things she would need, but what would I know about her? "I can tell already this won't be something easy."

Even as a sigh escapes me, I am not about to write off all the effort she must have put through to help me these past days; she made things a lot easier for me.

If she needs help with something, the least I can do is drive fast and do as asked without complaining, and that is exactly what I plan on doing.

I kick the power button in the front part of the yellowed PC case underneath my desk, watching as the thing slowly turns off, killing the loud, jet engine-like sound of the fans.

Meanwhile, I stretch myself up to my feet, feeling my stomach grumble with a hunger that I almost hadn't noticed I was feeling.

Trying to bully me, the hunger strengthens, making my stomach contract in itself, urging me to eat something soon—something that is just not possible today.

"No time for lunch, not today; later though."

Leaving everything where they should be, my hands pull from the depths of my jeans pocket the keys to my car; next stop: the rich residential area, one of the few places in the city I would like to avoid if possible.