"A question that sometimes drives me hazy: am I or are the others crazy?"

- Albert Einstein

09:30 a.m

10 days earlier

Tim woke to the clang of metal. He had slept in a seated position with his back against the wall, causing his spine to creak and ache as he sat back straight.

Detective Oliver Hardy, the partner of Detective Julliane Smith, stood at the grill bars, a plastic box in his hand. “You awake kid?” he asked, his words kinder than his rough voice should allow.

“Yeah,” Tim replied, stretching his back to relief the soreness. The cell had no windows to tell the light of day from night, and the glow from the lamp above kept the same irksome white through the hours. He checked his watch and found it to be 9:30 in the morning and was surprised he managed such a long sleep. “What's up?” he found the rugged male detective to be friendlier than his beautiful female counterpart, which when based on stereotypical thinking, boggled his mind.

“Brought you breakfast,” Oliver held up the plastic box.

Warily, but too hungry and tired to refuse the gesture, Tim approached the bar. The detective held the box through the grills and Tim took it without any problem. Opening the plastic lid, the inside contained just one miserable looking plain doughnut and an apple juice box.

“Wow,” Tim voiced out sarcastically. “Looks tastier than oatmeal.”

Oliver shrugged his shoulders, replying, “Jail food. Can't ask for much.”

From the cell beside them, Pearlman voiced, “Here here!” in agreement. Oliver ignored him.

Tim took a bite out of the doughnut. It was nothing terrible. Just something capable of filling his stomach. “So what's this? You're the good cop, she's the bad cop?” Tim asked, referring to Detective Smith. “I'd prefer it the other way around. She's easier on the eyes.”

“I get that a lot,” the man replied. “But no, this isn't like that. I just don't think it's right to lock up a kid when the evidence is so flimsy.”

Pearlman cut in again, “What about me?”

“You're going to rot,” Oliver replied without hesitation.

Tim put the half eaten doughnut back in the box. The juice box was missing its straws so he dug open the aluminium covering with his nails and drank straight from it. The apple juice washed down the chunky bread delightfully.

Oliver continued, “I'm going to see if I can arrange for your phone call.”

“No need,” Tim replied confidently. “I'll be out on bail before nightfall.”

XXX

11:40 a.m

10 days earlier

The basement of the library was where older records and books were kept. Hundreds of thousands of records arranged neatly in metal filing cabinets and boxes on old warehouse shelves made of steel beams and cardboard. Contrary to the futuristic main library, the 100 meters long basement was dusty, and the aisles were lined with dim hanging incandescent bulb that only added a yellowish gloom. The walls were simply bricks, lazily painted with an uninteresting grey, not even white.

“Is it really okay to just leave him there?” Stella asked, looking up from the laptop monitor she worked from, connected to the internet from one of the rare Ethernet ports, sitting on one of the rarer tables and chairs in the basement. In a leaf green blouse and brown pleated skirt and black stockings and shoes, she was the only sight of nature in the noire tinted room. Her strawberry blonde hair glowing a faint gold in the light.

Clay replied, “He probably wanted some time to think,” he continued digging through the metal filing cabinet, occasionally puling out one of the laminated newspaper clippings, only to shove them back into the container. Sweeping off the layer of dust that had piled on his urban grey camouflaged shirt and mud brown cargo shorts, scratching his feet through the gaps in his sandals, he continued, “We should do as he says and go bail him out later.”

Unconvinced, Stella continued, “If what he says is true, and Joshua really did just die from Sin, shouldn't we be there to comfort him or something?”

Closing the file cabinet, he turned to her sister, “You know Tim. He gets very emotional sometimes. But that voice mail he left us last night sounded as if nothing happened.”

“And that's good?” she cocked an eyebrow in question.

He took another deep breath. “I don't know,” was his hesitant reply. “If – and I say if – I'm not wrong, he's trying to focus himself to help us with this Sin thing. I mean, if I was in his shoes, I wouldn't want my friends to end up dead as well. He'd probably want to keep the crying until everything's over.”

“I guess...” she replied, equally uncertain. “I wonder what he's doing now?”

Clay pulled up a seat beside her. “Probably sleeping. I'd knock out too if I went through all that in one night.”

“Maybe he dropped the soap,” Stella said casually, turning the direction of the conversation like a bus about to crash.

“Uh...I don't think he's in there long enough to need a bath.”

Ignoring her brother, she continued, “Maybe he's jerking off.”

“I'm not comfortable talking about my best friend's masturbation habit with my sister.”

“Adopted sister,” she corrected him.

“Still not comfortable.”

“We can talk about your masturbation habit if you'd like?”

“Wait, you're doing that thing you always do with Tim aren't you?” Clay accused. “Where you guys talk about weird and creepy stuff and you try to top him all the time.”

“Yeah...it's the little things that keeps me happy,” Stella admitted with a smile before returning to her laptop screen. “And I've found something, if you're interested.”

Clay dragged his chair to sit next to her. “What'd you got?”

A photograph was opened on her browser. It depicted a modest bedroom, ordinary save for the blood stains that splattered the walls and bed. The rest of the room was relatively neat, with the exception of the pillows strewn across the floor. “One of the guys on the forum worked the Vashmir case and when I told him what we're trying to do, he said he'd try to sneak some stuff for us.”

“Isn't this illegal?” Clay asked, worried more about his sister getting caught rather than the notion of legality.

“Your face is illegal.”

“Ouch. Are you on your period or something?”

“You just make it too easy,” she grinned.

Clay brushed off the joking insult and asked, “What's so special about the picture?”

“This,” Stella pointed to the desk barely visible in the corner. On it, there was a book with the blurred but readable words 'Journal' on it. “We haven't found much from our research. I'm guessing the officials wants to keep tabs on the information, for whatever reason. But if Vashmir Commons kept a journal...”

“He'd probably wrote his experiences down in it. Good going!” he praised, to which Stella blushed slightly. “Do we have an address?”

“Yeah,” she showed an email sent to her by the forum user, which included the photo attachment and the Commons' address along with some helpless case files. “It's about half a day drive from here though.”

“We'll probably be there for a day or two. And another day to drive to-and-fro. That's three days gone,” Clay calculated. “Wait, more importantly, is the journal even at the house?”

“Yeah. The guy said that most of the personal belongings have been returned to the family by now. But they left the house a few months ago for a vacation and never came back.”

“Good,” Clay clapped his hands together, satisfied at their progress. “Now we just gotta wait for Tim.”

“Yeah, he'd throw a fit if he knew we left without him.”

XXX

04:11 p.m

10 days earlier

“Heads,” Tim said, hands stretched out from between the bar.

From the corner of his eyes, his jail-mate, Pearlman, opened the palm of his hand to reveal the cardboard cut-out of a coin with a crudely drawn triangle on it.

Pearlman replied, “Nope, tails.”

“How do you do that?” Tim asked after losing for the tenth time in a row.

“The trick's in the palm man,” Pearlman replied with a proud tone. “Used to do magic tricks as a kid.”

“How did you end up here then?”

“Oh you know, magic tricks turned to pickpocketing, then drug dealing. Etcetera etcetera. Here I am.”

“Ever thought of going the straight and narrow?”

Pearlman sneered, “And how's that working out for you?”

Tim looked around his jail cell before replying sarcastically, “Not bad actually.”

They both laughed at the joke and partially at their predicament. Their laughter was cut short as Detective Julliane Smith, followed by her partner, Oliver Hardy, came walking into their view. Tim backed away from the cell entrance.

The female detective, with a personality as fiery and fierce as her fire red hair, snarled at Tim a little as she said, “Glad to know you're fitting in with the scums of the Earth.”

With a sardonic tone, Tim replied, “'Hi' to you too detective. But if you don't mind we'd like to get back to our brotherly bonding session right now,” He heard Pearlman puff out a small laugh.

“I would love to keep you here forever,” she replied.

Oliver cut in, “But you've been bailed out Mr. Kleve,” the male detective gave a look of surprise as if to convey, just like you said. He reached around his partner and with key in hand, unlocked Tim's cell door.

“Well, it was nice talking with you Pearlman,” Tim said as he stepped out of the cell.

Pearlman replied, “Pleasure's all mine.”

Tim still could not see his jail-mate's face from the angle. The stairs up were to his right at the end of the corridor, with a officer in blue standing guard at the entrance to it. Tim turned left to try to get a glimpse of his new acquaintance. However, Detective Smith forcefully grabbed him by the elbow.

“Let's not drag this disgusting charade out any longer,” she barked.

“Fine,” Tim replied, jerking his arm away from her grip. He headed for the stairs.

Oliver approached him before he could walk too far away. “The officer will take you upstairs to process your release.”

“Got it, thanks,” Tim replied, devoid of the hostility he held of Julliane, before leaving the detectives behind in their steps.

As the teen headed towards the escort, the female detective jabbed one last cliché at him. “Don't go far.”