Chapter Eighteen

THE LAWMAN

Three years had passed since the royal twins’ deaths. In Alleria, instability and unrest continued unabated. The People’s Syndicate, a violent populist movement born in the war’s ashes, was overrunning the southern wastelands and extending its reach into Ethosia. Internal stresses made it increasingly difficult for Rowowa to exercise its authority throughout its empire. One of the war’s most popular and successful generals, James Yeocomico, had dissolved the dysfunctional imperial council and was ruling by decree. As a military man, though, he had little understanding of the delicate compromises, traditions, and unspoken rules that had helped hold the empire together. Instead, his heavy-handed efforts to reestablish law and order had prompted some of the provinces to resist centralized control. Regional strongmen emerged to challenge Yeocomico and collude with foreign powers that circled, vulture-like, around what they hoped would soon be the corpse of the Rowowan empire.

Little of this made much of an impact on Karl Lattamore. He was uninterested in the rarified world of international affairs. As Kargas’s most trusted lieutenant during the latter half of the Allerian War, he had seen the seedy side of politics and knew not to place too much faith in it. To be sure, he admired some of the individuals who operated in that arena. For example, he thought the world of Kargas, who had taught him much about self-control, dispassion, simplicity, and the ruthless implementation of plans. As a group, though, he believed that elites were selfish men intent on dominating everyone else. His goal in life was to find a place where he could make a living and avoid getting caught in the geopolitical crossfire.

Lattamore had been visiting an old friend when Valgoran police and Rowowan post office intelligence agents raided the royals’ Mercia bungalow. When he returned, he saw dozens of men swarming in and out of the house. He stood with the bystanders watching the spectacle for awhile before slipping away unnoticed. He was saddened to learn the fates of his housemates. He had never really respected Iona, Rael, and Frederick, but felt that they all deserved the opportunity to live their lives as they saw fit. He believed that their inability to do so contributed to the arrogance they often demonstrated during their time on the run. As for Kargas, Lattamore had always expected the Rowowans to capture or kill him – it had simply been a question of where and when. He counted himself fortunate to escape and looked forward to a more settled existence.

A week after the raid, Lattamore learned from the newspapers that the police had released Iona’s servant girl, Lana, after interrogating her. He found her penniless and distraught at a church shelter. Lattamore not only escorted her back to Aurora, but he also fell in love with her. They married a year later. Although – or perhaps because – she was a dozen years younger than him, Lattamore believed that he had made a good selection. Her subsequent pregnancy convinced Lattamore that he needed to find steady work to support his new family. He got a job with the new Allerian Regional Police Force. Its mission was to help local police solve major crimes – murder, rape, arson, and so forth. This freed Rowowan security forces to focus on stamping out sedition, treason, and rebellion. Lattamore was aware that some considered him and his colleagues collaborators, but he figured that if someone was going to maintain law and order in Alleria, it should be Allerians.

Lattamore was sitting at his desk in the Regional Police Force’s cramped Aurora headquarters, sifting through reports of serious unsolved crimes that the Rowowans required local police stations to submit. Because of his experience and competence, Lattamore’s superiors permitted him to focus on cases that piqued his interest. He noticed a report about a murder in the southern wastelands city of Borotai the previous month. There was nothing unusual about such violence in that region; law and order had almost disintegrated in the area. Instead, it was the details that caught Lattamore’s attention. The killer had raped and murdered a young blonde girl, and then posed her on her back, straight up and down, with her hands tied together over her head with twine. The modus operandi was strikingly similar to that of the person who killed Brenda Furthermore and Anna Mullins.

Lattamore’s initial response was to blame Royo di Czezarchek for the murder. He did not know how or why Royo was in the southern wastelands, but he had a record of turning up in the most unlikely of places. That, thought Lattamore, was a useful talent for a rogue murderer. Just to be on the safe side, though, Lattamore ran through the list of suspects. As far as he knew, there were only six people who were around for both Brenda Furthermore’s and Anna Mullins’s slayings: Royo, Frederick Fitzpatrick, Lloyd Juganhouse, Michael Kargas, Prince Rael, and Princess Iona. Iona’s sex and suicide disqualified her. Rael was dead. As far as he knew, Frederick and Kargas were in labor camps. Although Lattamore made a mental note to check, he was pretty sure that Juganhouse had not left Kirkwell recently – certainly not for the southern wastelands. That left Royo.

If logic – or anyhow the process of elimination – told Lattamore that Royo was the killer, his instincts said something else. Lattamore remembered that Royo’s behavior while awaiting execution on Kirkwell had not been that of a killer. As he sat at his desk and bounced a ball against a nearby wall, Lattamore realized that he could not draw an informed conclusion until he had more information. He regretted that Kargas had shut down his investigation of Anna Mullins’s murder before he could interview all the people he wanted. Mulling things over, Horace Oxenstera crossed his mind. Much though he admired Kargas, Lattamore believed that Kargas had repeatedly underestimated the overlord because it was in his best interests to do so – at least in the short run. Lattamore, on the other hand, thought that Horace was a good deal more intelligent than he let on. That being the case, Lattamore wondered why Horace had risked so much to rescue Royo. Even if Royo was a Rowowan agent, he had long since outlived his usefulness by the time Horace saved him from the gallows. Perhaps Horace simply wanted to prevent what he believed was a miscarriage of justice? Doing so cost Horace his mission, maybe even his career. Lattamore suddenly had an idea. If there was controversy about Horace’s actions on Kirkwell, there must be paperwork in which Horace related what he knew about Royo and Anna Mullins’s death.

As things turned out, getting ahold of Horace’s report about his time on Kirkwell proved surprisingly easy. Horace had not only secured the lowest possible security rating for it, but had also deposited a dozen copies of it under a dozen different titles. This meant that anyone working for the Rowowan government could see it if he knew what he was looking for. Lattamore could not help but smile to himself when he realized this. Horace had obviously wanted it distributed far and wide, no doubt to justify his actions. When the report arrived a week later, Lattamore rapidly devoured it. Horace made a convincing and well-reasoned argument that Rael had murdered not only Brenda Furthermore and Anna Mullins, but also several girls in Ethosia and Alleria during the war. He based his conclusions on his investigation before he went to Kirkwell, interviews he conducted after the battle on the island, and an astonishing amount of information he had somehow acquired during his time there. Lattamore was impressed. The only problem, of course, was that Rael had died a year before the girl in the southern wastelands met her unfortunate end.

On the other hand, Frederick was still very much alive. Lattamore made some inquiries and discovered that Rowowan authorities had released Frederick from a prison camp six months earlier. Horace had cleared Frederick of murdering the girls during the war because he found no evidence that Frederick had been with Rael at those times. Lattamore, though, thought that was odd because Rael and Frederick had at Kirkwell and Mercia frequently reminisced about their adventures together at the front. Lattamore hiked over to the remains of the royal archives to troll through the available documents there. As Horace had discovered, Frederick was not on any army payrolls, duty rosters, casualty lists, and so forth. Lattamore was about to leave empty-handed when a helpful archivist suggested that he examine the royal family archives in the palace. There Lattamore found his answer. It turned out that Frederick’s commission was strictly honorary. He was in fact Rael’s personal valet, and had been paid out of the royal family’s budget and subject to its orders, not the army’s. In this capacity, Frederick served with Rael throughout the war. It also made him Lattamore’s prime suspect.

Lattamore felt that he had to travel to Borotai to apprehend Frederick – assuming he was there. After all, he had accepted the case and identified the primary suspect. There was also the matter of his pride. Frederick had killed Anna Mullins on his watch, so he had a personal stake in his capture. Even so, he was not looking forward to the long and dangerous trip southward. The People’s Syndicate had started there and its power was growing. Its brutal tactics belied its egalitarian and utopian rhetoric. Its armed gangs roamed the countryside and infiltrated the cities, killing everyone associated with both the Rowowans and the old regime. As someone with ties to its two enemies, Lattamore was particularly vulnerable. Even so, he decided to go. After a tearful farewell with Lana, Lattamore boarded a train in Aurora. The further south he went, the more shocked he was at the abject poverty, destruction, and chaos. The vultures that feasted on the corpses along the railroad was especially jarring. By the time his train pulled into Borotai, Lattamore felt as if he had entered a dusty brown Hobbesian world.

Actually, law and order had not completely collapsed in the town. There was a garrison of Allerian soldiers in Rowowan service there. Lattamore hitched a ride in a truck that took him from the train station to army headquarters. To his surprise, he discovered that Theodore Millwright was the local commander. Lattamore had only met him a few times during the war, but Kargas always spoke very highly of him. After picking his way through the buzz of activity around the headquarters, Lattamore presented his credentials to an officer who ushered him into a dingy room that Millwright used as an office. Millwright remembered Lattamore and called him by name.

Millwright extended his hand. “Mr. Lattamore. It’s been a long time. I’m sorry the accommodations aren’t better.”

Lattamore shook his hand and took the seat Millwright offered. “Thank you, general.”

Millwright tapped an insignia on his uniform. “No, I’m a colonel now.”

“You should be a general,” said Lattamore.

Millwright chuckled. “Well, I’m fortunate to ply my trade anywhere instead of rotting in a Rowowan labor camp.” He pointed to Lattamore’s badge. “I see you’ve found employment with the Rowowan empire too.”

Lattamore nodded his head and used the opening to explain his mission. When he finished, an artillery shell burst in the street out back.

Millwright listened for a moment to the cries of a wounded man and the reassurances of a medic. “Well, I have bad news, Mr. Lattamore. We’ve been ordered to evacuate the town today before the Syndicate cut off our supply lines. If your man is here, he’s the Syndicate’s problem now.”

Lattamore thought for a moment. He hated the idea of returning to Aurora empty-handed. On the other hand, he had his wife and child to think about. In the end, though, his sense of duty and pride carried the day.

“I think I’ll stay behind and see if I can work with the Syndicate.”

Millwright shook his head. “I think you’re making a mistake, but it’s your call. If you want, I’ll write you a document explaining your mission and asking the Syndicate to treat you well, but I doubt that they will respect it.”

Lattamore watched as Millwright issued the necessary orders. His battalion’s withdrawal from the town was surprisingly rapid. Within two hours all the trucks and boxcars were loaded. Millwright’s car was the last to leave. He stood by the vehicle and looked around to make sure that all his men were accounted for. If he was downbeat by the retreat, he did not show it. He was, Lattamore thought, the consummate professional soldier.

As the two men watched the convoy rumble by out of Borotai, Millwright asked, “What happened to Mr. Kargas?”

“I don’t know,” Lattamore responded. “I assume he’s in a labor camp up in the tundra somewhere.”

Millwright raised his eyebrows. “I heard that he escaped, but was later gunned down by the post office.”

Lattamore was saddened, but not surprised, by the unconfirmed news. “Well, he was a great man.”

“He was,” said Millwright. He then shook Lattamore’s hand, climbed into the passenger side of his vehicle, and drove out of the town in a cloud of smoke and dust.

As things turned out, the Syndicate did not take control of Borotai until the following morning. After spending the night in an abandoned house, Lattamore woke early and waited by Millwright’s former headquarters. He watched looters systematically tear the place apart, but they found little of value. Finally, around ten in the morning, a Syndicate convoy rolled into town. Lattamore’s practiced eye immediately identified its commander, a wiry little man with greasy hair and spectacles, as he emerged from his vehicle. Lattmore approached him with his hands in the air, introduced himself, and asked for a minute of his time. The man looked Lattamore up and down, carefully seized his sidearm, and took him aside. He said that his name was Major Ian Brigsby. As soon as Lattamore identified himself as a member of the Allerian regional police force, Brigsby punched him in the stomach and called for one of his soldiers to take Lattamore out back and shoot him. As the soldier led him away, Lattamore hurriedly explained his mission. Brigsby said nothing until Lattamore mentioned Frederick’s name. He ordered the soldier to bring Lattamore back.

“Frederick Fitzpatrick?” Brigsby asked. “Of the Fitzpatrick family? Those bloodsucking Fitzpatricks?”

“Yes,” Lattamore replied. “He’s one of those bloodsucking Fitzpatricks.”

Brigsby stroked his chin. “I’ll tell you what. If you find him and turn him over to us, I’ll spare your life and let you go free. I’ll give you a week to do so.”

“What if I can’t locate him?”

Brigsby smirked. “Then we’ll shoot you.”

Lattamore did not like the terms, but they beat immediate execution.

Brigsby returned Lattamore his sidearm and dismissed him, but did not order anyone to guard him. Frederick took advantage of the incongruity to leave at once without asking for clarification or elaboration.

Lattamore retreated to a nearby bar to plot his next move. He thought about simply skipping town. The problem was that the nearest Rowowan-held city, Sansapor, was nearly twenty miles away, and the surrounding countryside was full of bandits and Syndicate soldiers who would undoubtedly shoot him if he fell into their hands. His deal with Brigsby was based on the assumption that Frederick was actually in Borotai, but there was in fact no hard evidence to support that. And even if he was, Lattamore had no idea how to locate and apprehend him. As he sat in the bar nursing his whisky, he noticed a large number of stores up and down the street selling specialized products, from apricots to silverware to lumber. He turned to the bartender.

“Does anyone in this town sell nuts?”

The bartender thought for a moment and gave him a street name. Lattamore paid his tab, left the bar, and walked rapidly the two blocks to Assumption Street. Lattamore remembered that Frederick had a weakness for pistachios. Indeed, he was always munching on them. Lattamore could not imagine him going without them. He probably managed to find them even in his labor camp. Sure enough, there was a store there advertising nuts and figs. After introducing himself, Lattamore asked the shopkeeper if he carried pistachios and, if so, had anyone started buying them in bulk. Lattamore was heartened to learn that a man matching Frederick’s description frequented the store for that very purpose. Lattamore promised the shopkeeper a substantial amount of money if he cooperated in locating him.

Lattamore spent the next three days searching the city for Frederick. He checked every hotel and watering hole he could find without success. The problem, he knew, was that Frederick was a charming man capable of talking almost anyone into taking him in. As a result, Lattamore placed his hopes on the shopkeeper with the pistachios. Five days after he arrived in Borotai, Lattamore dropped by the nut shop and learned that the man matching Frederick’s description had been there a short time before. The shopkeeper informed this man that the pistachio shipment had been delayed, but should arrive the next afternoon. After a troubled night’s sleep, Lattamore returned to the shop, parked himself in the backroom, and waited. Several hours later, he heard a man enter the store and ask for the pistachios. Lattamore recognized Frederick’s voice immediately. With growing impatience, Lattamore listened to Frederick chitchat with the shopkeeper. As soon as Frederick left the store, Lattamore hurried after him, across the street and down a deserted alleyway. He walked up behind him, put his gun to the back of his head, and told him he was under arrest.

Frederick put his hands in the air, turned around slowly, and recognized Lattamore. “Mr. Lattamore,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

Lattamore slowly withdrew Frederick’s gun from his inside jacket pocket. “I’m arresting you for the murders of Brenda Furthermore, Anna Mullins, and several other women, including the one you killed here.”

Frederick laughed. “You can’t do that. You have no authority here. No one does.”

Lattamore cocked his revolver. “This is my authority.”

Lattamore marched Frederick through curious onlookers down to Syndicate army headquarters. After an interminable wait, an aide ushered them into Brigsby’s office.

Brigsby looked up from his desk. “I assume this is Frederick Fitzpatrick?”

“It is,” Lattamore replied.

Brigsby jumped out of his chair and looked at Frederick for a long time. “While you were drinking champagne and eating caviar during the war, I was sitting in a Rowowan prison camp surviving on rats.”

Frederick remained silent.

Brigsby turned to Lattamore. “Well done, Mr. Lattamore.”

“Thank you. As we agreed, I’ll be leaving as soon as possible with Mr. Fitzpatrick.”

Brigsby laughed. “I don’t think so.” He gestured to his aide, “Take them out and shoot them – Mr. Fitzpatrick for parasitism and Mr. Lattamore for collaboration.”

The aide, though, leaned over and whispered in Brigsby’s ear. Brigsby pondered for a moment. “Right. Put them in the cells. We’ll do it tomorrow morning when he gets here.”

The aide called for a couple soldiers to escort Lattamore and Frederick to the jail cell in the building’s basement. Once there, the two men sat on the cold floor in silence for awhile. After an hour, Frederick said, “Are you happy? It’s your fault that we’re going to die tomorrow. These guys kill people for any and no reason.”

Lattamore did not respond at first. Finally, he said, “There are plenty of reasons to kill you.”

Frederick sneered and went back to staring at the wall.

“Why did you do it?” Lattamore asked.

“Do what?”

“Why did you kill all those girls? I’ve never heard of a womanizer who kills what he loves most.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Frederick said.

Lattamore laughed. “Frederick, we’re going to die tomorrow morning as soon as this important person arrives. You may think you can charm your way out of it, but you can’t. They’re going to kill you because of what you represent, not because of who you are. And they’re going to kill me as sure as I’m sitting here. So there’s no need for your lies and deceptions. Save them for God.”

Frederick did not say anything, so the two men sat there listening to the flies buzz around and contemplating their mortality.

An hour later, Frederick spoke. “You’re right. We did it.”

Lattamore looked at him. “We?”

“Yes, Rael and me.”

“What?” exclaimed Lattamore. “You and Rael? Both of you? How? Why?”

Frederick inhaled deeply. “The first was Brenda Furthermore. Rael and I hated Royo di Czezarchek. He was a condescending little prick. Like a morose weasel. He was smarter than Rael and they both knew it. As for me, I resented his relationship with Iona. She talked about him more than about us. When we saw that he liked Brenda Furthermore, we decided to…ruin her for him. We figured that seducing her would be easy enough – she was after all just a servant girl. But she put up a fight, and in the process got strangled.”

“After you raped her,” said Lattamore.

Frederick ignored the comment. “Most of the time we met girls, they were happy to service both of us, especially after we plied them with alcohol. After all, he was the prince. Every now and then, though, there would be a woman not so willing. Rael never liked that. He liked exerting his power and compelling obedience. He got squeamish about cleaning up afterwards, though.”

Lattamore snorted in disgust. “So it was mostly Rael? Then how did you manage to rape and kill the girl here without Rael’s help?”

Frederick shook his head. “That was a tragic accident.”

Lattamore rolled his eyes. “So, no remorse, no guilt, no shame?”

Frederick misinterpreted the comment. “Why do you think Rael drank so much?” Frederick asked. “He hated what he did. He hated that he was unworthy of ruling Alleria. And he knew that Iona would do a better job if given the opportunity.”

“What about you?”

“What about me?” Frederick mimicked. “I served my prince.”

Lattamore terminated the conversation. “You’re getting what you deserve.”

The two men retreated back into silence. Although the cell became musty and cold as the sun set, the flies continued buzzing. The guards did not give them any food or water. Lattamore let his mind wander. He wondered why Brigsby had accepted his word that Frederick was in fact Frederick Fitzpatrick. The answer, of course, was that Brigsby did not really care about the truth. He wanted to impress his superiors by claiming that he had captured and executed an aristocrat. Having solved that question to his satisfaction, Lattamore pondered Brigsby. Had he been born sadistic or had his time in a Rowowan prison made him so? Probably the former. After all, hundreds of thousands of soldiers spent time in prison camps, but they emerged as good decent people. Cruelty was doubtless inherent to Brigsby. What about Rael and Frederick? How could two men with so many advantages – money, education, status, looks, etc. – become such monsters? Maybe it was their privileges that made them that way? But Lattamore knew plenty of upper class folks who were fine individuals. Were Rael and Frederick, like Brigsby, just touched by evil at birth? And how did two such despicable people find each other. Birds of a feather, mused Lattamore, apparently flocked together. Lattamore’s mind drifted to Iona. Did she know about her brother and Frederick? Did that contribute to her decision to turn them in and then to take her own life? Well, in a few hours he could ask her himself. Thoughts of Iona led to thoughts of his wife. She was young and pretty, so she would probably remarry and be fine. That conclusion actually made him feel better. Despite the stress, he eventually fell asleep.

Early next morning guards rousted Lattamore and Frederick from their sleep and hustled them out of their cell. When they reached the small courtyard behind the building, a photographer took their pictures. The guards then pushed them up against a wall pockmarked with bullet holes from the previous week’s executions. An elated Brigsby stood before them with a higher-ranking officer who was obviously unimpressed with the situation. Brigsby directed the guards to take aim and then gave the order to fire. As the shots rang out, Frederick tumbled to the ground dead. Lattamore’s body tensed, but he felt nothing. Even so, he fell to his knees. Brigsby laughed as the soldiers picked him up and brought him over.

The high-ranking officer scowled at Brigsby before addressing Lattamore. “Major Brigsby informed me that he promised you your freedom if you apprehended Frederick Fitzpatrick. I would like to shoot you too, but I’m going to live up to his bargain. You are free to go.”

An officer emptied Lattamore’s gun of its bullets, handed it to him, and ushered him out the courtyard gate into the boulevard. Although there were Syndicate soldiers everywhere, none made any effort to stop him as he walked down the street and left the town. Rowowan-occupied Sansapor was twenty miles away. Despite the danger, Lattamore trudged down the road mile after thirsty mile, oblivious to the threat posed by bandits. A Rowowan officer leading a patrol out of Sansapor spotted him several hours later and brought him back to safety. A week later he was back in Aurora, writing up his report and returning home every evening to his wife and child.