It’s before dawn on a rainy Monday in early Spring. It is close to the end of Elias Crane’s shift, and he’s grabbed a quick snack from an all night vendor at the end of his route. Though he’s supposed to stay with his horde, he’s gone ahead to eat as is his routine. He’s aware of the risk, due to rumors of natural life extremists being active in this area, but the desire for food outweighs the concern that his workforce might be damaged. His living impaired automatons trail the streets behind him, scrubbing the cobblestone with large brushes.

The two living impaired automatons on the far south end of his sweep lag behind, and finally stop. He senses their motion through the spells he uses to control their movements. One stops completely, and that warns him that there must be a snag. If he doesn’t want to be late for the switchover, he’ll need to redirect work to their location. With that in mind, he hurries over to the snag to see what it might be.

In the drainage canal behind a little bar called Thirsty Pilgrim Crane finds his stuck automatons. They’re trying to sweep a corpse downhill.

“Flaming gods damn it.” His deep orange fingers claw through his thick red beard. “Why me?”

The corpse is a young woman, partially dressed in an outfit that includes a lot of thin gray lace. Her head is not attached to her body, and her open eyes stare blankly at the slowly lightening sky. Her bodice has been torn open to reveal a bright red corset.

With no other spells that could be suitable, Crane amplifies his voice to call for aid. He directs the rest of his horde to finish their shift. His relief shows up minutes after the police, but he cannot leave until the police have finished.

In the criminal justice system of the United Non-Evil Necromantic State, the dedicated detectives who investigate crimes of murder of the living and nonliving in the capital city of Two Rivers are members of an elite force known as the Unjust Existence Extermination Investigation Force.

These are their stories.

Detective Rodd Trageser stands in the candlelit morgue on the second floor of the Inter River Police Station. On the table between him and the elderly medium rests the corpse and detached head of the victim of Two Rivers’ latest crime on a long copper table. The room smells of charred sage, thick and cloying, and incense burners gently smoke in all four corners. A pointed witch hat hangs on a pair of antlers mounted next to the door.

“Where’s your partner?” the medium asks.

“Isaacs is out for a religious holiday,” Trageser answers. “Captain’s said to make due without her for now.”

“They don’t often like to see themselves naked,” the medium says. She is human, like the detective, but much older. Her name is Crauvian Doomweaver, and she is a witch. Her familiar, a fat little pig, sleeps under the table. She pulls a thin linen sheet over the victim’s body.

“Is there anything else I should know?” Trageser asks, nervous. This is his first chance to see Doomweaver at her work, as his previous cases had no deceased victims.

“Be polite, kid, the girl’s been through a lot.” Doomweaver lights another thin black candle with a tiny spell. The pig snuffles in its sleep. She sweeps the victim’s fine blond hair back away from her face, tying it with a loose ribbon. With a licked thumb, she tidies the girl’s smudged makeup, and then begins her ritual.

Light from the many candles dances on the soot-streaked stone walls. The light fades from natural yellow to cold, and sterile white as the magic takes hold. The light fails to reflect in the severed head’s eyes at first, but then fills them, and they brighten as the illumination dims in the rest of the room.

The victim blinks.

“Good morning, miss.” Trageser says nervously.

“Am,” the victim pauses, her eyes darting nervously around the dim room, “am I still dead?” Doomweaver caresses the girl’s hair gently. She maintains the spell by concentrating on drawing the victim’s living mind to her cold, lifeless flesh.

“I’m afraid so, miss.” Trageser says politely. He’s been trained in talking to victims, but speaking with the deceased and not animate is a new experience for him.

“I see.” The victim stops to process the news for a moment. “And you’re a detective?” She seems surprised to be talking to him.

“I am.” Trageser tries for humility, and instead gets only awkward nerves. “I’m Detective Rodd Trageser with the Two Rivers Metropolitan Police. What is your name?”

“My name is Marion Durandal.” The victim pauses again, squints for a second. “My father, Sir Roland Durandal, killed me.” This surprises Trageser, but he carries on.

“Where are you from, Miss Durandal?” Trageser asks, trying to keep to his training.

“My family’s from the Second Strabthine Empire,” she says quickly, “so you have to act fast, he’ll leave and go home without me and I won’t get the funeral I should have!”

“Do you have any other information that may help us bring him to justice?”

“Be careful,” the victim warns, “He’s a paladin of Our Lady Serabeth, and he will kill you all.”

Doomweaver immediately cancels the spell. The pig is awake and cowering in the far corner of the room. Candlelight in the room returns instantly to normal. Doomweaver gently untangles her fingers from Marion’s hair.

“This is miles out of your league, kid,” she says. “Get me Alton and Cook.”