Fiddler asked if they could stop in a couple of shops on the way and buy some things. These "things" included three blankets, a block of cigarettes, a kilogram of apples, carrots, potatoes, and assorted candies of the same weight, several bars of chocolate, four one and a half-liter bottles of mineral water, and five kilograms of different canned food, from sprat to stew. Armed with a bulky, sturdy bag in each hand, they finally headed to where they had to go.
"You do not live alone," guessed Cord.
"It is unlikely that such a nice place could not be occupied," Fiddler smiled.
"What is the place?"
"You will see."
***
Fiddler lived under a bridge near the park.
Descending a rusty metal staircase to the shore, they met a bearded man who was collecting and sorting the coastal rubbish. Nearby, a fire was burning, on which a woman with long black hair was cooking something in a charred cauldron. Next to her, two girls were playing hopscotch, drawn with a stick on the ground. Each, noticing the approaching guests, reacted differently: the man smiled and waved his hand, the woman nodded silently, and the girls ran to them screaming.
"Fiddler! Fiddler!"
"Hi, babies!"
"We are not babies!" the girls screeched cheerfully.
"Then what do you say to that?" Fiddler reached into one of the bags and pulled out two chocolates.
The girls goggled their eyes and screamed in unison.
"Mom, mom, look!" snatching the chocolates from his hands, they rushed to the dark-haired woman. She smiled weakly, nodded to Fiddler again, and patted the girls' heads with her free hand.
"Elder! There is something for you too!"
The man who was sorting the trash rinsed his hands in the river, wiped them off with a rag, and greeted Cord and Fiddler as he came up to him.
"Cord."
"Elder."
While the men introduced themselves, Fiddler took the carton of cigarettes out of the bag.
"Here you go!"
"Wow, guys! You have really pleased the old man!" exclaimed Elder and politely bowed to Cord.
"The rest of them are out in the field?" asked Fiddler.
"Yes, there is no one here except us."
"Good. Come on, Cord."
Fiddler led him around the camp. On the five hundred square meters between the bridge supports and the riverbank, there were seven tents of various sizes and degrees of dilapidation. In the center, a fire was set, and logs were neatly laid out, making up the local kitchen and dining room. Further, near the bridge supports, there was a slightly rickety shed, where Fiddler and Cord headed. The latter was surprised by the appearance of the camp: Cord had expected to see piles of rubbish, old pissed on mattresses, broken bottles and syringes, but he was met with what could have been a rather decent tourist camp. The paths between the tents were carefully swept, and near the garbage can, located at some distance from the dwellings, there were even full but neatly folded plastic bags filled with community waste.
The idyllic feeling was broken only by the incessant noise of cars overhead.
They went to the shed. Fiddler placed one package on the ground, then put his hand into an inconspicuous gap above the door and fumbled for the key.
"Will you wait until I sort everything out?"
Cord handed him the bags and nodded. Fiddler entered the shed, turned on the light bulb, and began to sort out the purchases they had brought.
"To be honest, this is not what I had expected," said Cord.
Fiddler chuckled.
"You thought it would be a hovel for bums?"
"Well… Yeah."
"For that, you need to visit the bums. We are merely homeless."
"Is there a difference?"
"We are not degenerates; we just do not have a home. I'll show you the difference somehow."
"Doesn't nobody try to drive you out of here?"
Fiddler, holding cans of beef stew in his hands, turned to Cord.
"Are you completely unaware of the policy of our state regarding the homeless?"
"I only know about BDP."
BDP, or "Bums, Drug addicts, Prostitutes", was a shameful but still existing concept regarding the priority of criminal investigations. A crime committed against a representative of these social groups was barely investigated, and if it was, then only in a slipshod manner. And if one of them turned out to be the culprit, the court tried to give them the maximum possible jail time.
This concept was created nearly a century ago. Although since then, a lot had changed (not the least being legalized prostitution), many police officers continued to regard such people as second-class citizens.
"In short," explained Fiddler, "as long as we live quietly, do not commit crimes, do not use drugs or drink too much—in general, do not degrade to the state of animals—and do some simple work, they let us live here. The Mayor's Office is aware we are here, and they even gave us a paper saying we can settle here."
"What kind of work do you have to do?"
"Cleaning up the garbage along the river, for example."
"Is that what you call 'being out in the field'?"
"No. 'Being out in the field' is everything related to finding money. We have an artist—she draws cartoons for money. I play the violin," saying this Fiddler took a violin case off the shelf and showed it to Cord. "Someone else goes shopping or sweeps the streets. And some find people who buy what we need," Fiddler chuckled.
"I didn't mind," Cord smiled back. "Well, I must thank you for your help with the case."
"Oh. I completely forgot." Fiddler rustled around the back of a shelf and pulled out a thin black bag. "The jacket."
Cord pulled some disposable gloves from his pocket and put them on. Fiddler looked at him in surprise.
"Do you always carry those with you?"
"Yeah. You never know when you will have to investigate a crime."
Cord accepted the package from Fiddler's hands. There was indeed a leather biker jacket inside. Still, the investigator did not take it out, only glanced at it and handed it back to the homeless man.
"Did you clean it of prints?"
"No, I forgot."
"And don't. It may not be useful, but just in case, keep it."
"Do you want my prints on it?" Fiddler was worried.
"No. But the killer's prints may still be on it. For example, if he grabbed the girl by the shoulder. I'll tell you when you can wipe it down."
"Oh. Thank you. By the way, I was just thinking… I want to introduce you to a friend of mine. I think he might be useful to you."
"Useful for what?"
"For the investigation. You'll understand."
"Okay."
"I'll tell you when we can meet with him. You kind of had a phone, right?"
Cord dictated his home number to him. Fiddler repeated it to himself several times, memorizing it.
"Where are you going now?"
"Back to the park. I have a meeting there."
"Oh! How about taking a walk together?"
Cord didn't mind. For some reason, he wanted to talk to this strange man longer.