A raggedy old man sat in a darkened room, the gruff elder’s dirty visage reflected on a wall-wide mirror. The man glanced pompously at his surroundings. He held his head up, dissatisfaction and dissidence evident in his angry eyes. He cringed at the sound of steps growing closer with each second.

Harry soon walked in, a policeman in tow. He held a tall paper bag in his hand. Before closing the door, he mumbled a few words to the officer, sending the cop away. He turned around, glared at the old man, and got himself a seat. Harry pulled out a small tape recorder and clicked the round red button.

“This is the unofficial interrogation of Paul Ramirez, age 51, residence unknown.” He mumbled into the device. “This recording is to be considered off-the-record, as a lawyer is not present.”

“That’s a load of horseshit I’m hearin’ right here.” Paul interjected, slamming a fist against the table. “What’d ya cooks want with me? I ain’t done nothin’ wrong, nothing!”

Harry sighed. “Paul.” He said, looking directly into the perpetrator’s eyes. “I’d like to remind you that we have many witnesses to testify for your violence against me, an officer. You understand what that means, yes?”

Paul flinched, but steeled his gaze. “A small lil’ scratch, that was all.” He said. “What, you pigs ‘re now throwin’ old men like me in the gutter? What a rotten band of rodents ya’ll are!”

“That’s exactly why I need you to cooperate, Paul.” Harry said. “It’d be the best for the both of us.”

“Best for who? Hmph!” Paul said, throwing his arms together. “I ain’t the brightest bulb on th’ christmas tree, but I know what them jargons mean - been in these rooms often, I have. ‘Off-the-record’ - blah! Just say it like it is!”

“You’re right.” Harry paused. “I can’t use this against you, I know - and I really didn’t hope it would have to come to this - “ Harry flashed a grin, causing Paul to flinch. He brought the large paper bag onto the table.

“Now wait a minute here-” Paul raised his arms. “You ain’t goin’ to, uh, you can’t do that!”

Harry looked surprised. “Huh?” He asked. “I was just thinkin’ that this… Off the record would be beneficial to the both of us.” He slowly started unpacking the wooden bag.

“Don’t hurt me!” Paul said, covering his face in pitiful resistance.

Harry laughed. “Hurt you?” He asked, revealing the object hidden behind the brown paper bag.

“What in the-” Paul stared at the table. “What is that?”

Harry held the tall bottle proudly, whisking the brown fluid within gracefully. “This, my friend,” he said. “Is a Maker’s Mark 46. A fine bottle of Whiskey.”

Paul eyed the bottle greedily, his nose twitching to smell unconsciously. “That’s -” He turned his head to look at Harry. “What’d ya want with this?”

“As I said, the ‘off-the-record’ bit is for the both of us.” Harry said. “What I want is a little trade, Mr. Ramirez.”

Paul’s eyes flared with alarm and suspicions, but the golden sheen of the liquer flashed against his brown-toned face. Gulping down, he bit his lip. “...What’d ya want for this?”

“I need you to answer some questions honestly.” Harry said.

“Like… What?”

“You’ll know if you accept.”

Paul nervously looked about, as if looking for help. Finally, he sighed. “You ain’t a normal copper, aren’t cha?” He said. “You lot tend to be a bit more… Violent, I recall.”

Harry shook his head. “Not around these parts.”

“Tch. And an optimist.” Paul sneered. “A’ight, I accept. What’d ya need?”

Harry smiled. “First off, where are you from?”

“From Burbank, the town next over.” Paul said. “Got brought here by those crackjobs in busses.”

“Those busses, are they all from Burbank?” Harry asked.

“No… They’re from all over, I reckon.” Paul said. “I’ve seen folk from all across the state.”

Harry pondered over those words. “Only from our state?”

“Yeah, ain’t seen any Californians or Yanks, I don’t think.”

“Why did you come here?” Harry continued. “Did all of you get on those busses willingly?”

“The folk promised us free booze and food.” Paul said, looking angry. “Those fuckers lied to us, they did, asked us to do all this trouble and they haven’t even fed us since!”

“What trouble?”

“Uh…” Paul paused, looking evermore uncertain. He clutched his bottle. “...I ain’t supposed to say this, so keep it for yourself, aight?”

Harry’s eyes lit up. “Promised.”

“They… They got us to sign some papers, right?” Paul leaned in, nearly whispering. “I ain’t sure what those even were. They just made us sign em’, wouldn’t even let us have a good look at it.”

Harry stared back in surprise. “Sign… Papers?” He asked. “What sort?”

“Here’s the thing, y’see… It was a blank paper.” Paul said, looking paranoid. “But, this ain’t the first I done some cons, if you’d keep that on the hush-hush.”

“Sure.” Harry grimaced. He didn’t like where this was going, but he had to hear all of it.

“I… I think there were some papers underneath, right?” Paul said.

“...Graphite paper?” Harry asked.

Paul gasped for breath. “I didn’t tell you nothing.” He said. “Know nothing.”

“Right.” Harry nodded slowly. He eyed Paul with an understanding smile. “You’re dismissed, then. I’ll have a colleague bring you out.” He said, clicking a square button on the recorder.

Harry stepped away from the window as he watched Paul being escorted out of the building.

The conversation stuck with him. Over the last week, a suspicion began growing inside of him. Perhaps it was conviction - perhaps paranoia. In any case, he felt that something was off. Behind the veil, something enormous brewed - a fearsome entity with more entries to its chain than Harry Jackson could ever know.

And the Lincoln-Brown foundation linked to it somehow.

Harry didn’t know what that meant. Nothing concrete tied both entities together; no clear connection came into view. Of course, a secret was only as strong as its weakest link. In a conspiracy, every single link had to be unbreakable.

A detective’s mind always centered around three words. Three little things governed every little mystery of life - from one’s dalliance with women, to the truth behind a murder. In reverse order, Result, Method, and Motive.

Result. The final result - what would be achieved by one’s actions.

Method. The method with which the result was achieved.

Motive. The motive behind the result.

When talking about a crime, these three words proved central to each and every discussion. No killing happened without all three lining up together. Even indiscriminate murders had some form of motive, a measure of method, and a definite result.

It was a detective’s, and thus, Harry’s, job to figure out all three.

The issue lied in the way Harry had been tackling the case so far. He looked at the Method. Everything he had so far, from Brian Fox’s murder to the mass import of the homeless, lied in Method. A means to achieve a result. Most officers disagreed - they claimed the murder was the Result.

The question was - what had this Method achieved? What was the real Result?

With the limited information Harry could work with, the answer was election. While Brian Fox’s murder may not be attributable to the Lincoln-Brown foundation, another recent murder, that of Arnold Palmer’s, had some tangential connection.

Arnold Palmer died while investigating that very foundation. After publishing a slanderous article decrying their efforts. No strong evidence, but a clear Motive was established. In the case of Brian Fox - he hindered the favored candidate of the foundation. Without intervention, Brian’s victory was certain. The current mayor, Sophia Stone, had an awful campaign, whose destiny stood uncertain even after Fox’s death.

Harry glanced at his phone resting on his table. Turning it on, he groaned, seeing that his wife had called him repedelty, finally sending a text message in resignation.

He felt a pang of guilt and sent an apologetic, but insincere, reply.

Their relationship had always been enviable. For men in the force, a woman as a supporting and loving as his wife was something to dream about. Odd workshifts and the tiring nature of their assignments made them into awful lovers. Harry remained as the foremost example of this. Self-imposed overtime work and skipping many of his mandatory holidays crowned his career.

Whenever he felt this guilt, and with it, the longing to start marching back home, a little something tugged his back. A sense of justice, he called it - as did the others, in a vain attempt to flatter him. Behind his back, and in his own subconscious, they called it obsession.

But Harry wore this badge proudly. Obsession or not, it was for the sake of justice, for the sake of doing what’s right. He loved that feeling; he lived for it. The thrill of seeking wrongdoings just felt right to him. He didn’t know when it started, and he knew it hadn’t always been there, but it felt - it felt…

Right.

On that note, this was no time to mope.

He turned his attention back to his duties. A suspect still roamed the streets freely. Alister Moore had to be captured; perhaps his retrieval would provide him with some links he hadn’t considered yet.

Alister Moore proved to be as much of an enigma as the case on hand. Most of the staff considered his case to be closed-and-shut, but Harry had his reservations. It was nearly irrefutable that Alister had carried out the killing. His motive was also clear; and his result, well, undeniable.

The oddity surrounding Alister was that, even given all this evidence, it defied his supposed character. From what little could be gleaned from his private life, Alister used to be a temperamental, but good man, who calmed down considerably over the years.

His coworkers and ex-boss attested to Alister’s small fits of unstable rage, which meant it could’ve all been happenstance. He had been fired that exact day, after all. But a single detail eluded Harry’s understanding.

After looking into the reports of that day, the person who’d called the police in regards to the body, although his call had been ignored, was… Alister. The telephone network confirmed this. In fact, Harry received a transcript.

Would an enraged murderer notify the police of his own killing?

A big piece of the puzzle stared right at him, and he failed to notice.

What drove Alister Moore to commit the murder?

His eyes smoothly glided down the long paper detailing Alister’s life in tenuous detail. Occupation, degree, birthdate, medical history -

Surgeries?

Harry’s strong hold crumpled the paper. He looked at the sheet and considered a possibility.

2016 / 07 / 19 - Committed to the Fairview Hospital for External and Internal Injuries following an accident.

The starry night shone down on a sullen little hut.

Alister sat outside his safehouse, sipping slowly from a hot mug. It kept the chill outside at bay. He wallowed in silence, once again mulling over his current predicament. Sitting out in the woods he’d grown up him helped comfort - and shield - him.

Years ago, every instance of outrage in his life was met with reaction. Fierce opposition, even. He recalled having a fit against his teachers as a teen; his friend had been subject to bullying, and they did nothing but watch. Back then, he recalled, he and George stood up - fists tightly clenched, they fought back.

Beneath the stars so bright, sitting where sat at this very moment, the two swore to fight.

Yet the Alister of this moment felt a primal fear.

Alister didn’t recall when it happened, but he supposed it must’ve been during college.

The magic broke then, and he’d become more reasonable.

Reality came crashing down. Only then did he realize how futile everything had been. The student rallies, the constant meet-ups and protests; they amounted to a fat round nothing, a something less than zero. He swore to fight against something he didn’t comprehend back then. Corruption, government, and deceit.

Enemies they couldn’t fight.

A cloud hung over, covering Alister in a comforting shadow. He sipped his tea, quietly accepting the cowl of nighttime.

George approached with a lantern, his infectious smile painted on as always.

“Aren’t you a bit cold out, dude?” He asked, shivering as a breeze passed by.

Alister shook his head. “Nah, I’m fine.”

“Damn, man,” George shuddered, clattering his teeth. “I’d half freeze to death without my jacket and lantern.”

“Shouldn’t you go back home?” Alister asked, focusing on the dark treeline.

“Nah.” George said. “I’d rather hang out here with you, like usual.”

“Usual.” Alister said thoughtfully. “Well, I guess it’s become usual now.”

“It’s always been usual,” George said. “We just took a break in-between, y’know?”

“Two years seems a bit long for a break to me,” Alister said. “Don’t think my summer holidays were every that long.”

“Your dry streak sure has, and I’m sure you called that a break too.” George grinned.

Alister frowned. He sipped his tea in silence.

“You alright, man?” George asked, leaning in with his lantern. “You’re lookin’ pretty emo right there.”

Alister shot him an annoyed look. “I’m fine.”

“Did I hit a nerve?” George chuckled. “Why, does it remind you of that Evanescence CD you had back home?”

“You’re the one who bought it for me, jackass.” Alister punched him lightly.

“And you’re the one who kept it.” George laughed. “Yeah, well…” He studied Alister.

“What?” Alister asked, shuffling a bit away.

“I dunno, man, I guess I’ve noticed how much you’ve changed.” George said, looking away.

“I’ve always been this way.” Alister uncomfortably said.

George shook his head. “Not always.” He said. “I meant, like, over the last few years…”

Alister scowled and let out an audible sigh. “We all grow up.”

“I haven’t.” George said.

“Idiots don’t.”

“So you shouldn’t, either?” George asked. “I didn’t think you would.”

Alister didn’t reply.

George stood up and walked in front of Alister. Dropping the lantern on the floor, he clutched Alister’s meek shoulders. “Seriously, what’s wrong with you?”

Alister pushed him away. “What’s wrong with you?” He asked.

“I don’t get you,” George said, the flickering light highlighting concern in his eyes. “You… You’re so hopeless, you know that? You look half-dead all the time.”

“Wouldn’t you be?” Alister stood up, facing him.

“Yeah, sure, I’d be lost,” George said. “But… Not hopeless, not like you are.”

“What the hell do you mean?”

“It’s like you’ve already given up!” George said. “There’s no fight in you.”

“Because I have.” Aliste said, his eyes wandering away. “There’s nothing I can do…”

George shook him. “That’s exactly what I mean.”

“What, I told you-”

“It’s pathetic, you know that?” George said desperately. “We have so many clues-”

“That lead fucking nowhere.” Alister cut him off.

“You don’t know that.” George pushed back.

“I can tell it’s fucking hopeless.” Alister said. “What’re we going to do? Even the things we have - this crazy shit involves satanic cults hypnotizing people. I wouldn’t be surprised if the fucking president was screwing his secretary in an orgy at this point.”

Alister paused to catch his breath. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Well, fight back, obviously!” George said, emoting powerfully with his body.

“Oh, shut up.” Alister said, slumping on the ground. “We had this discussion the first night.”

“Listen here, it’s fucking true.” George said. “I don’t fucking get you, either!”

“Don’t get me, how?” Alister said, glancing up. The cloud had passed, and the moon shone down on George’s back.

“You… You’re so…” George shook. “It’s like you’re dead inside.”

“What?”

“You used to be so passionate about this.” George limped his shoulders. “I miss that old you.”

“I thought I went over this.” Alister growled.

“I hoped you’d return to your senses, you know?” George said, averting his gaze. “At first, I was kinda happy, even, maybe we’d get to… Go back, like it used to be.”

“You… You… What?”

“I thought this was a chance to bring you back, you know?” George said, the passion evident in every single movement and word. “You became so cold… I tried to understand, but…”

“What?”

“I know it must’ve been hard on you.” George said. “I understand, you know? It’s not easy. Your girlfriend left you, your union kicked you out…”

“Don’t you dare-” Alister growled, punching against a supporting beam of wood. “Bring that up.”

Desperation showed in George’s sincerity. “But you know what? I thought you’d change back.”

Alister stared at him with rage.

“You’d come back to your senses and go fight the good fight.” George said. “But no, you’re now too busy for the rally, and you don’t care about the petition. Then you stopped talking to me.”

“It’s all meaningless.” Alister resigned, dropping back to the floor. “I told you this before.”

“It’s not meaningless.” George said. “It’s for doing what’s right, remember that?”

“We haven’t amounted to jack shit.” Alister said. “What, punching a couple bullies and shouting loudly with a joint in your mouth got you thinking you’re some hot shit?”

“Alister-”

“In the end, we never fixed anything.” Alister said. “Sure, we handed out a bunch of flyers and painted a couple walls, but good did that ever do?”

George shook his head. “That’s exactly what I mean.” He said. “You’re so pessimistic.”

“Yeah, I really should be optimistic about how being branded a murderer is a good thing.” Alister sneezed.

“It’s about conviction.” George said solemnly. “You aren’t even prepared to try to fight for your life.”

“Because I can’t do anything.” Alister’s knees buckled, and he stumbled back onto the floor.

“It’s like you’re a completely different person.” George said. “You weren’t so bad before the accident, at least.”

“I don’t want to talk about that.” Alister said angrily. “Spending a few weeks in the hospital just gave me time to clear my mind.”

“You’re sure it didn’t rattle your brain?” George asked.

“Fuck you.” Alister said, spitting on the ground. Feeling embarrassment creep up to him, he clutched his legs, embracing a fetal position. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?” George sat next to him.

“I’m an asshole.” Alister said. “I just don’t think we’re going to achieve anything, George.”

“You’re just too pessimistic.” George said.

“Sure.” Alister nodded.

The two sat in silence, basking in the moonlight.

“I just stopped caring about the college sentiment of changing the world, alright?” Alister said, breaking the silence. “I’m sorry about being distant.”

George nodded. “Yeah, well, maybe I shouldn’t have been so harsh on you.”

“It’s fine.” Alister said, standing up.

“You’re going to sleep?” George asked.

“Yeah.”

“Are we…” George hesitated. “Continuing with our research tomorrow?”

Alister stopped by the doorway. “Yeah.” He said. He closed the door behind him.