Terror lies not in the unknown,
but in the known cruelty of our own kind—the potential of it.
_____
"Damned beggar! Deviant, you dare thieve from me with such a revolting appearance?"
Once more, the man wearing a black boater hat, possibly hiding a few bristles of hair, kicked the designated thief in the stomach with his boot. It had become like a game to him.
An entire fifteen-minute sequence of the man who was slightly beyond the threshold of middle-aged spouted a barrel of insults, as the stranger on the ground would pathetically heave, sucking in blows that carried more fractious force than the last.
His body finally reaches its limit when he begins coughing blood onto the grotty cobblestone beneath himself.
The tall figure standing over him stops, stuffing a gloved hand into his brown coat pocket, then turning his head, and spitting in the crevice of the stone mere inches from his drubbed face.
"I—ugh, I wasn't trying to steal sir, honestly I just wanted to return what was lost."
"So a man who cannot read is not dumb? Do you expect me to believe you when you are a crippled beggar?"
He pulled his hand out, to scratch the nearly white stubble on his chin.
I am not a cripple! I cannot change how I look, people should learn to come to terms with what isn't 'ideal.'
"Hell… I think he might've broken a few ribs," He drags out his voice into a whisper, suppressing a groan of pain.
"A few ribs is the least of your worries right now, a looter like you in my time would have been given a death sentence. Society has genuinely drawn back, it's no longer as sharp."
He lifts his boot pressing down onto the man's hand, to which he hisses using his free hand to punch the fellow in the knee.
He releases and kicks the air as the man on the ground rolls over, only missing his face by a hair.
"You—!"
"Humble sir, I have told countless times now, I bear no intentions of—" A sharp persistent pain seizes the poor man's leg, sinking like dull teeth into his bone.
"Ah—AHHHH FUCK! BASTARD! You sta- that's my knife! Who's the thief now!?"
The older man crouches lower, pushing the metal further into his flesh above his knee, quickly placing his other hand over the man's mouth.
Something had come rushing into the space, the sounds of many feet scraping the cobblestone briefly instilled desperation in the helpless 'thief.'
"Ya smellin' the blood? I think we oughta tell the bobbies, we might be rewarded merits," a person with a British accent spoke sluggishly.
As the conversation continued, their voices approached the men quarreling on the ground.
"So much as twitch your lip and I will drag the knife to your heart."
The bitter honesty made the helpless stranger jolt in place.
Like a mouse caught under the hammer of a trap.
"So if ya got a plan, why are we still walking towards the ruckus? They might be mobsters, we could run into the wrong affair, and it would take a mere four bullets to silence us."
The only weapon either of them had was a dull knife, and a rack of ware in the fellow's brown coat… neither of them was a gangster.
"Or it could be a syndicate of delinquent rascals," a young lady spoke, clicking her tongue thrice.
The man with the hat attentively peered toward the alleyway entry.
He pressed his hand harder onto the 'thief's' mouth, blocking the airway entirely with his last two fingers, before yanking the blade out.
The helpless man clenched his jaw under the glove, as air filled his nostrils.
"Let this be a warning and perhaps advice. I intended to take the knife, but I think leaving you like this will help you make a better decision for both of us. Don't take too much time though, if they find you alive then they will kill you themselves."
The old man pushed the knife into the hand that was still fairly useful.
When the bleeding bloke could breathe once more, the man wearing a brown trench coat had managed to flee before receiving the detective's encore.
◇◆◇◆
Act I "Encore"
"D—Detective Darwin! Sir, the rookies act like a herd of tumbleweeds around the dead man. They are crowding the body as if he were a circus sea lion. You are their instructor for heaven's sake!"
"Calm yourself, James, they are students, bear in mind that their instigation doesn't go without reason. Images have been within the compass of their fantasies for a year. This is the first time they have experienced reality outside of that, let them dirty their hands."
James' figure tenses as he draws a weary breath.
He secures his glasses onto the bridge of his nose before attempting to lecture Darwin,
"The era is 1864! For–"
"For heaven's sake, we ought to refine our children so that we are not the ancestors who fail our future grandchildren, in year nineteen. Having you around is punishment enough, no? I would rather we not cut into the backs of the children and stick our hands in, they are humans, not puppets my friend."
"You misunderstood, we need not make them our puppets, simply teach them the morals of respect and elegance,"
James said, pressing his fingers together resulting in the blood gradually flushing from the tips.
"It's the same thing. Your philosophy of teaching isn't the alphabet, you wish to mold them into classy aristocrats that will agree with your unhinged perception of politics." James, stiffened like a statue as Darwin stood up from his crouching position.
He placed the white cloth back over the corpse.
"Make way please!"
All of the young students straightened from the capacity of Darwin's voice and dispersed from the body. James stood dumbfounded, not moving. Darwin smirked tapping his shoulder lightly.
"Shocked? I know you better than you assume one may accomplish."
Darwin had a knack for pouring salt into the open wounds of people who worked jointly with him.
It was quite easy for him to detect the discolored blotches staining their flesh.
Counting his former engagement with a classified criminal division, he had worked in the field of analyzing the aftermath of crimes for seventeen years, thus, fomenting deduction as merely a routine for himself.
"Enough of that, it is irrelevant, tell me what you've documented," Darwin says.
James swallows dryly, clearing his throat before speaking, hastily changing his blank expression to a sharp, and visibly provoked gaze at his chief.
"A majority, if not all of his wounds were inflicted before the time of his death. The victim's death was drawn out over a long period of time. Based on how fatal the fractures are in specific areas of the body that would only prolong death from internal bleeding, I can assume that the murder was either premeditated or—unforeseen by a suspect who overestimated the endurance of his body."
"Splendid! You can finish going over your list with the rookies, I only needed to know of your thoughts on intent... forget I asked." James grunted, releasing the man's hand that he had kneeled down to inspect.
"What do you think the intent was, sir? Please tell me, I am exceptionally curious."
By the time James finished that sentence, his voice had taken on the high, airy quality of a young girl.
Darwin tucked dark strands of hair behind his ears.
He studied the body more, before closing his eyes to analyze his visual findings with deeper thought.
"I don't believe the crime was orchestrated. Perhaps a chance encounter with a maniacal person before he decided to take his own life," He continued, pressing two fingers over his chin.
"Suicide?! Do you see the condition of his body?"
"Yes, I do not doubt that he would have died from either shock or internal bleeding had he not killed himself, however, I am quite persuaded that he was not entirely beaten to death."
Darwin opened his eyes, patted his pockets, and briskly peered toward James.
"Have a light?"
Jame's mouth gaped slightly then he squinted his eyes at Darwin as if he were somehow a fool, before reaching into the chest pocket of his trench coat and tossing a thin box of matches at him.
"You will be graced," Darwin says, clasping the box with both palms.
"Examine the variations of discoloration on his skin, do you see the redness shrouding the back of his arms? Naturally, the early stages of visible bruises are the red marks or swelling. While not every wound may be superficial, there are still a few that have already appeared."
James peers down again, furrowing his eyes with a shallow expression.
"I presume you are referring to the bruises that have already turned blue, since... deep wounds take days to change color," James says, a slight hint of skepticism hiding behind his calm voice.
Darwin waits patiently for him to avert his gaze from the corpse before continuing.
"These darkened hues signify the body's process of healing, however, after death bruises cannot heal. The inflammation on the back of his arms indicates livor mortis* which typically takes an hour to become visible on a corpse. Given these external aspects, I can speculate that he neglected to prolong his own suffering, but he was beaten long enough for the minor wounds to start healing."
Darwin kneeled and lifted the cloth away before unbuttoning the victim's shirt to reveal his abdomen.
He adjusted the glove on his right hand before pressing a finger on a particularly fresh-looking wound that was below a smaller one that appeared a bit older.
"Despite some of them appearing fresh, they were likely inflicted simultaneously. Ever hear of postmortem bruising?" Darwin glanced at James from the corner of his eye.
James remained still for a moment, suddenly shifting closer when he realized Darwin had expected an answer.
"Ah—yes, I have."
"It fakes the appearance of a fresh wound despite being made long before. The superficial wounds—in addition to the blood having already settled in the lower parts of the body give forth reason that these were not recently imposed."
Darwin's eye narrowed and he withdrew his hand, curling his fingers into the palm of his glove
"-If the victim had died during the beating, I do not believe there would be prognoses of someone dead for merely an hour. A bruise... no matter what kind, requires a minimum of hours to begin healing."
"Well, we have no way of saying when the culprit fled the scene. How would you—"
Darwin interjected before James could finish asking his question,
"I spoke to a group of lads who had declared hearing peculiar noises coming from the passage. One of them described catching sight of a tall man wearing a hat running out of the area two hours before authorities arrived."
James takes off his glasses to rub his eyes. His blonde hair, usually daintily greased back, had a few strands falling forward.
'Poor lad, his students must be a handful. It's quite obvious he is sleep-depraved,' Darwin silently surmised.
Darwin takes a match out, swiping it across the side of the box.
He cupped the small flame under his hand, drawing it near the cigar he left protruding from his lips.
A cloud of smoke seeped into the air, emitting a faint scent around him.
He puffed some of what he had inhaled in James' direction.
"You still look troubled James, If I had to guess you are curious about how I came to this conclusion?" James looked up, then nodded his head like a humble juvenile.
Darwin grinned,
"Very simple actually! The victim's body is out in the open, and the injuries from the beating reflect that the culprit is inexperienced in proper fist combat. The odds weigh heavier on the chance they were randomly thrown into an impetuous rage."
Darwin paused and glanced at the transparent haze flowing from the end of his cigar like a leisure canal.
"…Usually, amateurs fight brutally, but they prefer agony over death, like hanging a person at the edge of a cliff. Anyone who kills for the first time is likely to experience severe paranoia, thus setting their primary objective to get rid of evidence—Unless it's the type who likes a show, those kinds don't normally take the time to snap a finger."
"So the culprit kept him alive and just left him?" James inquired.
" I can't deny, it sounds equally strange, but if they had known they killed him at that very moment, I do not believe they would just leave the body without disposing of anything. At the very least they would throw him in a ditch to console themselves from the consequences of murder."
'The murderer would hope that it would be found after they managed to get far away from the crime scene.' Darwin quietly considered.
"I see… and I am having a difficult time picturing a woman doing this, especially given the extensive markings on his abdomen."
Darwin nodded, turning away as he returned the cigar between his lips.
'A bitter habit is matched for those with bitter souls,' The words were like a ritual that he recited in his mind to offer himself a reason to neglect his genuine resentment toward smoking.
"Doesn't mean she wouldn't be capable~" A man with shoulder-length brown hair, tousled and spilling past his ears, appeared from seemingly nowhere.
Darwin's eyes widen as he raises a hand to his cheek, tilting his head in amusement.
"You must be Herman! I take it you're here to ensure word does not stay between our department." Darwin said, smiling widely, but his eyes formed a sly curve that intentionally gave away the impassive disguise in his tone.
At least from Herman's perspective.
James ambled away the instant he caught a reporter approaching.
He wished not to be interviewed when it was not required of him.
Due to his family name, James was constantly shrouded by paparazzi and reporters who spent nights preparing grueling questionnaires.
To be bombarded because he happened to be investigating a potential murder out in the open was absurd in his mind.
"How can this humble detective help you, reporter?" Darwin spoke, snickering at his colleague in the rear of his mind.
"Huuu…Darwin, your sarcastic demeanor knows no bounds," Herman says, puffing his chest full of the cold air that wilted the leaves on the trees.
Frost had already begun to spread amongst spalls of the bark like fungus.
"I'd assume the apple doesn't fall far from the tree."
Darwin chuckles, "That would be the case if I were the younger one." The weight of puzzlement provoked Herman's head to tilt further.
His head was close to rolling off his shoulders before Herman swiftly straightened his neck posture.
"Ah yes! The traits of my role nearly slipped my mind."
"Tsk."
"You may want to quiet down unless you want to be exposed—I will take much pride in detaining you."
"Detective? Did you say something?" One of the novices approached the detective nervously.
Darwin held a weary expression as he turned himself towards the kid who urgently clamped his hands in a strange motion.
"Nothing important,"
"Oh. Formal apologies for intruding then sir," the kid bowed his head woefully embarrassed by his mistake.
"If you don't mind though…" Darwin spoke, flicking the cigar near his shoe, "Tell James that I will be discussing events with Herman at the public house."
He tapped the tip of his shoe on the bud of the cigar a few times, "He can finish the report for me instead of acting cowardice," Darwin finished, smearing the stone with soot from the contents of his stick.
"The pub? Good choice Detective~" Herman said.
"Of course." The reporter snickered as both walked away, not bidding the speechless rookie farewell.
The popularity of public houses offered many opportunities for people in social classes that required the performance of manual labor.
There was a pub at practically every corner of the town, so it took an inconsiderable amount of time for Darwin and Herman to find their stools.
"Were you genuine about discussing a matter, or did you secretly require an excuse to wet your tongue?"
"I had no intention of drinking at all," said Darwin.
"Marvelous, I would have been troubled if you hadn't wanted to speak to me, though differently… I'm a bit thirsty."