Alethiology: The Elephant's Hand

Chapter 1

How doth the city sit solitary, That was full of people! How is she become as a widow! She that was great among the nations, And princess among the provinces, How is she become tributary!

— Romans 12:19

PRESENT.

City and County of Chatterley, State of New Strasbourg,

Republic of Taured (Trans-Atlantic Union for the Restoration of Democracy).

The terrazzo floor of the house had a muted sheen, owing to the layer of foreign dust scattered over them, which ruffled under the shoes with each step into the place. The fibres of the old, faded beige carpet curled against the scene, and the leather couch, studded with diamond eyes, shuddered at the sight. Blackish blood had seeped into the crevices between each tile and the tiny spatter marks defaced the girthy pillars, having since dried into sorry stains. A body lay on the floor, female, blonde, late-40s, prone, face-down, its head turned to the right, its right arm outstretched, as though hoping to seize something in its last moments, while its left arm lagged behind, folding straight down by default with its shoulder's lethargic inertia. The body once belonged to a woman. Judging by her dressing—a necklace of lapis lazuli around her neck, a silvery dress shirt over a pink Chanel blouse, only identifiable by the collar peeking out behind her neck, a fine silk pencil skirt woven for one with many strings to pull, and high heels for high society—was an important personage. Of course, this could be gleaned easily from the house in which she was found. The compound was large and spacious, with a high ceiling which opened up into the upper floors, revealing themselves with grandiosity through the indoor balconies. These were arranged like rows of a spectator stand going upwards, lined with metal handrails which, at intervals that had been sawed off, were punctuated by Greek marble statues. Plants hung over the edges, which looked to be non-native to Taured, with red flowers blooming. They might have been intended to mimic the Babylonian gardens of antiquity. Trickling down from the ceiling was a remarkable icy chandelier, a plastic covering still cleaving to it. Its colouration was reminiscent of an aurora borealis, which must have cost a cave of secret treasures to install. Its stalactites reached towards the ground, pinpointing the deceased with deathly precision.

Several seconds after Aletheia Arkwright set foot on the scene, the noise began to set in. Having pushed open the teak doors with her backscratcher to avoid touching the mouldy patches, she now heard the chattering of the forensic technicians scrambling around the corpse. They were placing numerical evidence tags to mark every important spot and photographing each droplet of blood.

Aletheia raised the piece of kaya toast she had in a plastic bag up to her mouth. She bit into it so her left hand was free. Then she reached for the black bucket hat on her head, sliding her finger over the bumps of the nylon threads. Back and forth, back and forth. Then she ran her fingers though her hair and twirled a few black strands calmly. Her backscratcher she kept in her right hand like a sceptre, and she rolled it in her palm. Back and forth, back and forth.

She reached out the backscratcher and scratched it against the leather couch. It had a soft and grainy feel to it. She knelt down beside the carpet which stretched all the way from under the couch to just before the door. She touched the strands of curled fabric. They were cool against the fingers.

"Did you learn anything, consultant?" the man beside her asked.

He was dressed in a grey dress suit over a lighter grey shirt, matched with duller grey dress pants. His tie, however, was blue, and was the only thing which stood out. His name was Sean Clements, the Senior Special Agent of Team K, part of the Criminal Investigation Department of the New Strasbourg State Police.

"Hm?" she responded, the slices of bread still in her mouth. "Mm. Ngh? Mhm."

"Stop eating on the job," Clements chided with a frown. "Tell me what you've learnt."

She released the meal from her maw and slipped it back into the plastic bag.

"What did I learn?" she repeated. "Don't overestimate me, Clements. I've only been in this house for 10 seconds at most." She rolled her eyes.

"Don't flaunt your false humility, Aletheia," Clements rolled his eyes back at her. He whispered, "Let me remind you that you just gave a differential diagnosis as to whether a man had a telekinetic or pyrokinetic Astra two days ago. By taking one look at his hands."

"And then the case was taken from me, thanks to my competence."

"By the director. Not by me. I fought for us to keep it," Clements said defensively. Then he lowered his voice even more. "But there were special ability users involved. You know the drill once there are Astradharis. It couldn't be helped."

She began to retort, "But the Astra business—"

"The Astra business is not our business."

"So we have to hope no special powers were used in the making of this crime, huh? Please let it be a muggle who committed it."

"You know I can't argue with them. Let's focus on the facts. What did you learn?"

Aletheia shrugged. "Well, the victim is someone rich and important, but you probably already knew that."

"Yes," Clements said. "That's because I paid attention during the briefing. You, on the other hand—"

"Of course you had to," Aletheia rebutted. "You were giving the briefing."

Clements shook his head with a sigh. "Of course I was," he replied. "I'm the boss. I'm your boss. And now you will answer my question. That's an order."

Aletheia said, "There are at least two people living in his compound. They have rather different tastes. The one who bought the house and initially furnished it had money but no taste. Or, to be charitable, he had no desire to flaunt his personal status. The other person, then, at a later stage, failing to change the house entirely, proceeded to modify their humble abode to be much more flamboyant. There was a push-and-pull going on in this relationship."

"Good job," Clements said with a smile. "The other person living here you are referring to would be her husband, Timothy Sherman—who was featured in my briefing. If only you listened."

"That would double my cognitive strain," Aletheia replied. "Why do that, when I can see for myself at the crime scene, and then have you feed me the relevant tidbits conveniently?"

Clements rolled his eyes.

At this moment, a voice rang out. "Good to see you, Senior Special Agent Clements." A person with an air of officiality approached Aletheia and Clements from within the house. He was a short, broad-shouldered man, dressed in a black suit and pants with a red tie. He had a goatee and receding black hair. "Chief Inspector Blake Haynes," he introduced himself.