Jeremiah Hall

Lieutenant Jeremiah Hall of the La Esperanza City Police Department scratched his greying stubble while his commanding officer, Captain Hayward, hollered at him over the phone. He said, “Yes, sir” a few times and added in a couple of grunts and other noises of agreement to appease the irate captain without particularly listening to what the latter was saying as he kept his eyes peeled for anything out of place in his surroundings.

‘Mother Core Disciples Charities’ it stated in bold letters above the wide, speckless, glass doors that led into the soup kitchen that was Hall’s destination for the day. Every time someone entered or exited the building, sumptuous smells wafted towards the parking area at the front where he leaned on the hood of his unmarked cruiser.

From what he had heard, the McHunter family donated this three-story building to the MCDC years ago; a PR tactic to influence the public opinion in their favor, which they sorely needed after the head of their family, the big man himself, Raphael McHunter, was executed for being an Adumbrae.

Hall didn’t follow the news after that. Last he heard, the family members and employees sitting in jail for aiding and abetting an Adumbrae were still appealing their convicted asses all the way up to the Supreme Court. They were lucky they didn’t get the death sentence, but that was the extent they could twist the law with money. No amount of wealth could save Raphael McHunter, a confirmed Adumbrae, from execution.

Sadly, instead of rebuilding their business empire, the remaining McHunters who weren’t in jail fought amongst themselves for a cut in the tasty pie that was the estate of their grandfather.

“Hall? Are you still there?” Hayward barked. “Are you listening to what I said?”

“Here. Let’s see. A goldeye from USBID is coming. No going to Fifteenth’s area. Focus on the Martinez case for this week because the mayor wants something good to announce to the press. That stupid seminar next Wednesday. Have I already said not to go to the Fifteenth?”

“You did,” Hayward said. He continued in a softer tone. “What happened to Ramello was awful, and we will catch the people who did that to him. But there's nothing to show that it's connected to the explosion at the docks, alright? Pure coincidence both incidents happened on the same day. I don’t want to hear any more complaints from Captain Diaz that you were in their area doing your own investigation.”

“Copy, sir.” Both of them knew he wasn’t going to stop his jaunts to the docks. This wasn’t a film noir criminal thriller, but even outside of movies, Hall knew there were times he had to trust his guts even when the facts said otherwise.

This was such a time.

“I know you have a lot on your plate right now. Rest during your free time. You know we have a policy against handling personal cases.”

“Yes, sir. I understand,” Hall said, wondering how many more iterations of those words he could string together.

“And keep the goldeye out of my hair until he’s finished with his business and out of this city. I’ll send you his contact details. He wants to meet with you as soon as possible.”

“I’ll get on that.” After the call, Hall checked the phone number Hayward sent him. Then he looked up from his phone to the person approaching him. “Is he inside there, Castan?” he said while messaging the goldeye.

The freshly-minted detective who recently became his partner in his ‘personal investigations’ shook his head. “He didn’t come here all day, LT. But the soup kitchen director pointed me to some people who know him. They were still lining up, so I asked the director if we could borrow a table to talk with them while they eat. Set aside a place for us. He said that guy usually shows up around this time, but it’s probably good news if he no longer needed to come to this place.”

“Let’s hope that’s the case.”

“What did Cap say, LT?”

“The usual. Something you might find interesting though, there’s a goldeye from the Bureau who’s going to meet us. Meet me. But he’s coming here right now, so you’ll meet him too. Always in a rush, those guys.”

“A goldeye from the Bureau? The BID? What’s a goldeye?”

“I meant the augs of the Bureau. There was a time their eyes used to be mandated colored gold. They can change it when they’re undercover, but on official business it’s gold. That was around the time of the McHunter scandal, they were swarming the city, getting up in everyone’s business. Our nickname for them back then was goldeyes, so you’ll often hear old-timers like me refer to them as such. Been a while since there was a high-profile investigation from the Bureau in this city.” Hall walked to the soup kitchen and gestured for Castan to follow him in.

“I haven’t met a BID aug yet. Why does he want to talk with you? Unless that’s top secret.”

“Nah, it’s about some case I had several years ago. Nothing so sensational.”

The soup kitchen was fairly large. It could sit a hundred, possibly a hundred-twenty or so people, one of the larger soup kitchens in the city. Even though the building was donated to them more than a decade ago, the interior appeared brand new. Fairly fresh coat of white and pale green paint mirroring the façade of the building, and sparkling clean tiles with no hint of any crack. A catchy tune played over the speakers—Hall recognized it as a worship song of religious believers of the Mother Core. Every day, on his way to the precinct, he saw people asking for donations for the MCDC and they always played those worship songs.

Hall didn’t find it surprising there was a small shrine with a depiction of the Mother Core to the left of the door so that everyone leaving the building could see it. Some of the customers chose to bow to the shrine, touch it, or make some sign before they exited. Various religious sects worshipping either the Mother Core, the Corebrings, or both, have their own interpretation of the Mother Core, but, of course, no one except the Corebings knew its actual appearance.

The place was about ninety percent full.

An average person who knew nothing about soup kitchens or food banks might have a mental image of something akin to a refugee camp, filled with people who looked like they hadn’t taken a bath or shaved in days, wearing dirty, grubby clothes, the only piece of clothing they owned. It wasn’t anything like that. Everyone here was dressed normally. No one could have guessed each one of these people had financial problems based on their appearance. There were also a few men wearing ties and jackets over their dress shirts.

“Just goes to show you can’t tell what a person is going through with appearance alone,” Hall said in a voice low enough only Castan could hear.

“Are those your wise words for the day, LT?” To which Hall replied with only an amused grunt. Castan pointed to a frail old man leaning on a four-pronged walking cane. “There’s the director. His name's Noel.”

“Good morning, sir,” Hall said, stooping to accept the hand offered to him. “I’m Lt. Hall, LEPD. Very nice place you have here. The people of La Esperanza appreciate this social service extended by the MCDC.”

“We share our blessings. Every act of kindness may prevent someone from falling into the clutches of the Adumbrae,” he answered with a soft voice.

“Very true,” Castan said, nodding eagerly.

“Barty’s friends are over there. At the end of the hall. But before going there, would you like something to eat?”

Castan opened his mouth, but Hall quickly spoke before he could say anything, “We appreciate the offer, but we've already eaten.” Castan’s face dropped and he shrugged in resignation. “If you could show us the way,” Hall firmly said. “Please.”

The three men sat across the table from Hall. Right in front of these three men were plates piled high with beef macaroni and thick pieces of buttered toast on the side.

Larson sitting on the left side refused to make eye contact with Hall. Strands of different kinds of fur clung to his yellow sweater, which was starting to fade. Working at a pet grooming perhaps? Or dog sitting for someone who had many dogs. Hall doubted if Larson himself owned multiple dogs; he wouldn’t be able to afford taking care of them.

Bolivar sat at the center. The overalls he wore with a construction company logo, calloused hands, and sun-burnt face, corroborated his background story. The contractor and the sub-contractor were in a dispute about overpayments, and so the poor laborers got fucked.

The person at the right introduced himself simply as Spuds. He was jittery and didn’t want to say anything about himself except that he had a bright future that was robbed of him, and now he didn’t want his friends to see that he goes here. Hall didn’t find anything suspicious about him. Spud was keeping secrets, but it didn’t feel like he would be interested in them.

After they all introduced themselves, Bolivar leaned forward as if they were in a secret meeting. “Did something happen to Barty? What's all this about? If it’s something illegal, we don’t know nothing ‘bout that.”

“Yeah, he’s right,” Spud said in between bites of his toast. “We just know each other here. Watch the TV over there and comment on current events. Anything about our lives, we keep mum about those. That’s each of our own personal business. We talk about the news which is everyone’s business.”

Hall placed his hands on the table, palms facing up, to show openness. “We’re investigating a missing person’s case. Multiple persons perhaps, or one, or maybe none.” Bolivar’s brows furrowed. It seemed he was the only one intently listening. Hall continued, “Suffice to say we have a tip from a credible source that someone, or an organization, is kidnapping homeless people.” He nodded at Bolivar. “You understand how hard it is to verify, right? We don’t even know who the missing persons are.”

Excited he was personally referred to, Bolivar said, “You got that right. Barty was living in his car for a couple of months already. Dunno where he parks at night to sleep. But it’s all over the city. Wouldn’t really know if he’s missing.”

“And before you get any ideas,” Spud said, “We don’t have no idea where Barty is right now, or yesterday, or a week ago.” Bolivar agreed with this.

Hall stared at Larson for a couple of seconds to see if he could get him to say something, but the latter stayed silent. “What do you know about Barty then? I know you don’t talk about personal stuff, like Spud here said, but nothing at all? I’m sure he would’ve mentioned something.” Again, Hall stared directly into the eyes of Bolivar, subtly pressuring him to give any information at all since Larson was of no help and Spud was just spinning them around.

“I think he worked at a chop shop,” Bolivar said after some moments of thinking.

“Hey, nothing illegal. We know nothing about nothing,” Spud reminded him. “Only watching the news and talkin’ about it.”

“No idea if it’s true, just that Barty mentioned it a couple of times. Was some time ago. When he left that place, that’s when he started living in his car.”

Hall continued pressing them for information. He only found bits and pieces of a puzzle, or maybe different puzzles. There were too many questions in this trail and Barty was his best bet for the next lead. And now, Barty seemed to be missing. Perhaps the first missing person that he could identify.

“How about when you’re watching the TV?” Castan said.

“What about it?” Spuds said.

“Anything weird about his comments on the news? Or if not on the news, the ads, anything on TV.”

Spuds and Bolivar looked at each other and shrugged. To Hall’s surprise, Larson, who had been quiet this entire time, spoke, “If it’s ads...there was an ad for clinical trials for a stress pill.”

“Like those that say they lessen the chance of collapsing our Eloyce field? Some science mumbo jumbo shit like that,” Bolivar said. “But I don’t remember an ad for a clinical trial.”

“I recall Barty saying he was going to try to apply. It was only one time that ad showed. And Barty never mentioned it again. But I distinctly remember that time because we were talking about clinical testing makeup on animals and how inhumane it is.”

“And I have a comment on that,” Spuds jumped in.

The conversation meandered to various topics. Hall couldn’t get any more from them. That clinical trial was the key. He heard something like it before. An acquaintance of one of the supposedly missing persons also mentioned going to testing of some kind. It wasn’t for a stress pill, but a psychological study on indigent individuals. Hall clenched his jaws and slowly exhaled. The puzzle was getting larger, yet he couldn’t catch up in finding the pieces.

Someone tapped on his shoulder. “Excuse me, detectives,” Noel, the director of the soup kitchen said. “A man is looking for you."

Hall turned to see Noel and the hulk of a man behind him. “From the Bureau, I presume?” The man nodded and flashed his identification. He appeared to be half Hall’s age, but if he was an aug, what was to prevent him from replacing his face? His skin did have a strangely reflective sheen. The goldeye arrived quickly and even entered the soup kitchen to find him. He stood up and extended his hand, his six and a half feet was still a head shorter than the goldeye.

“Good afternoon, Lieutenant Hall.” The man returned the handshake. “You can call me…Matt. Let’s go with Matt.”

Hall grasped the hand firmly and tested the strength of the grip. Though the skin on the palm had the texture of skin, beneath it wasn’t human flesh at all, more like the feel of a Kevlar vest. The hand had an unnatural weight to it as well. “How may I help you?”

“I hope I’m not interrupting you,” said Matt, clearly aware he was interrupting. “If you’re done, can we go outside? We have things to discuss.”

“Yes, we’re done here,” Hall said. “Let’s go Castan. No need to waste this man’s time. Every movement of his is powered by enough energy to supply this place’s electricity for a month.”

Matt laughed. “My energy system is not nearly as inefficient as that, mind you.”

Hall thanked Barty’s friends and Noel, and made his way back to the parking area. “Are we going to talk here…or…?”

“Do you know of a good restaurant where we can have some privacy?”

“Sure, I know of a place.” Hall threw the keys to Castan. “Danny’s should be empty this time.” He was usually the one who drove, but he wanted to spend the time thinking and consolidating what he had so far on the case so he wouldn’t forget any of it. And perhaps, because it was fresh information, he could find a link. Castan jogged to the driver’s side of the car while the goldeye walked to a black SUV nearby. Hall was about to open the car door—

BANG! BANG!

Hall instinctively dropped down and drew his gun. Crouching behind the cover of his car, he looked for the threat. As he turned around, he noticed Matt was behind him, arm outstretched, palm open somewhere behind where his head was a second ago. A tiny piece of metal dropped to the concrete ground. The bullet.

“What was that?” Castan said. “Where is he?”

The guy who presumably shot at them was right outside of the soup kitchen, lying on a pool of his blood. From the screams of the people in the soup kitchen, he most likely came from inside and followed them.

Hall noticed Matt had formed a finger gun with his other hand and it was pointed in the direction of the perp.

“Fastest draw in the West.” Matt held up his hand and blew on his smoking index finger. “Can you check him?” he asked Castan, who obliged and ran to the dead body while still on the lookout for other possible attackers. “Didn’t know it was this exciting here.”

“Thanks for saving me. I owe you one.”

“All in a day’s work, you don't owe me for that. You do owe me something else.”

“What is it?”

“You owe me an explanation. Someone anonymously sent a video to us. Perhaps you’re familiar with it. Giant furry creature ripping apart storage containers while being shot at. Interesting video. Very interesting.”

“What does it have to do with me?”

Matt looked him in the eye. Hall was certain he was being scanned. “Isn’t it interesting that a certain Lieutenant Jeremiah Hall would send an anonymous tip to us of such magnitude instead of going through official channels?”

“If that's true...then it does sound interesting.”