The Officer and the Thief

The Officer and the Thief By Gareth Vaughn The orb was beautiful, even with the splatter of blood clinging to it. Benen turned the intricate sphere over in his hands, the dry flecks of blood stuck in metal and wood grooves. This was one of those priceless objects the Jewylle on Ilben police force sometimes came across, crafted with magic, inlaid with precious metals and stones. Some wealthy bastard was going to want this back. He left it in evidence storage and wandered to the front desk to see about tracking down some wakeleaf tea, brewed strong. Benen was going to need it—he had a long night ahead of him. To his surprise, he could already smell a pot as he turned the corner and nearly ran into George. The man was mid-bundle, tossing a scarf over his shoulder on the way out to get home to his wife and children. “Late night again?” asked George, pulling out a pair of gloves. Despite being a fully trained officer, when George left work he perfectly melded into the rest of the crowd, something Benen knew he prided himself on. Other officers wore their official clothes out, but not George. He very much compartmentalized his life—work was work, home was home, and never the two should meet. “Yeah,” said Benen. “The Nevgeradel murder.” He felt ridiculous the moment he said it; of course George already knew. Benen pointed into the office behind the front desk with a thumb. “I was hoping to grab some wakeleaf.” “I know,” said George. He looked up, brown eyes in a black face twinkling at Benen. “Made you a whole pot. Careful, though—I made it strong. You drink it all, you might be here all night.” “I’m planning on being here all night,” said Benen, holding back a groan at the thought. Last time someone this important had been murdered and he’d taken a night off, Thea had been pissed. No way was he getting anything more than a couple hours sleep, upright at his desk, and only by accident. “See you in the morning.” “I’ll be sure to make you another pot first thing,” said George. “Anyone reporting petty problems can wait.” Benen thanked him and wandered over to the pot, which smelled like George had dumped a full cup of cheap wakeleaf tea inside and left it for half an hour. Thea and Raldina had gone out after a lead, and since Benen was the only person still left in this section of the station, he hooked a mug on a finger and took the entire pot back to his desk. The liquid poured dark and strong as he’d expected, and tasted foul and scummy as was typical of wakeleaf tea steeped for far too long. But Benen had long ago gotten hooked on the shitty stuff—it was all part of the job for him. The way he concentrated. It would almost seem wrong to drink decent tea while looking over writeups of gruesome crimes. Josen Nevgeradel had been brutally bludgeoned, more than was necessary to kill him. The murder weapon was still missing. Benen sucked down a long gulp of tea and began sorting through information. Thea Lister, the Lead Detective on the case, was going to want everything up on the wall where she could make sense of it by the time she got back. She was the first detective Benen had heard of who visualized this way—while most others simply sifted through papers again and again, Thea liked hers sorted through, the important facts tacked to the far wall. When Benen made Assistant Detective at age twenty-seven half a year ago, she requested him for her team specifically and set him on the more administrative tasks. For her part, the other Assistant Detective, Raldina, seemed to like Benen for the sheer fact she got to do more field work now. Looking through reports and interview notes, Benen’s mind wandered back to Josen’s body, sprawled on the study floor, blood ruining the expensive imported carpet. Thea insisted on her entire team viewing a crime scene, something Benen appreciated. Not only did he feel important despite being the newest team member and youngest Assistant Detective, he relished every peek into rich people’s homes. They were all so elaborate, so clean. It was like reliving the first time he’d entered a museum, only with the staggering knowledge that one family, sometimes even one person, owned all that he saw. All evidence pointed to a break-in, and all sense pointed to theft. The commonest reason the well-to-do needed the Jewylle on Ilben police was because someone had decided to pinch a necklace or rob a safe. Generally the situation didn’t escalate to murder, as anyone with any sense would know that would end in the execution of the guilty party. Benen shuffled through papers, drew up a rough sketch of Nevgeradel’s manor plans, and labeled each room with where all people were prior to the murder. The cook reported seeing a thin figure darting in and out of the shadows when she tossed the scraps out to the chickens. Benen was pinning that bit of information up beneath the maid’s report of the dogs barking when he heard a noise he could only describe as scraping nearby. He froze, trying to work out where it came from, what it was. A chair? Benen thought he was alone, and Thea and Raldina wouldn’t be sneaking into the station in the middle of the night. A pause, and then the scraping noise again, this time ending on a slight squeak. Benen moved silently to his desk and picked up his standard issue Turtledove II pistol—while other departments had to make do with finicky everyday pistols, Jewylle on Ilben police were given the latest in magic-powered weaponry. Benen was now sure he’d heard a window, from the front of the station since that’s the only place there were any. He moved to turn down the lights before crossing to the door of the office. There was an intruder in the station. There was an intruder in the station, and he was alone. Benen swallowed, focused. He’d never before had to handle anyone alone, and his mind raced briefly before he pulled it back in check. Anyone breaking into the police station was probably both armed and prepared to do violence. Benen doubted whoever it was would have a weapon comparable to his own, but he moved cautiously nevertheless. Everything was down to him. If the intruder took him out, everything in the station would be available, from sensitive data to the contents of the weapons locker. Benen moved down the darkened corridor toward the front of the station, striving for quiet, wishing he could see better in the dark. His eyes caught something, some figure about as tall as he was, and he pointed his gun at the person. “Police,” said Benen, loud and gruff. “Don’t move.” The figure moved. One moment the person was before him, a shadow against deeper shadows, and then Benen was firing on nobody at all. He heard the wheeze of the pistol, the clatter as the magically propelled bullet hit the far wall, and then was pitched forward as the person barreled into his legs. Benen twisted, landing hard on his shoulder, but managed to grab the intruder’s foot. Where his Turtledove had gone, he couldn’t see in the dark, but he wasn’t about to let go of the ankle he held onto. He pulled down the sock and dug his fingernails in, eliciting a yowl of pain from the person. “I told you not to move,” said Benen, trying to shift to bring his other hand around and pull the person down. Even in the dark, he could tell he’d probably be able to overpower the intruder, who felt thin beneath his fingers. Benen was average build himself, trained enough to have a decent bit of muscle on him. He’d never been able to get the layer of fat off his belly, but then an officer didn’t need to have a perfect body to arrest someone. But even as he was trying to maneuver to get a better grip on the intruder, the person brought their other foot around and aimed a kick at Benen that unfortunately struck. Benen took a glancing blow to his face, one to his chest, and then a final one to the arm holding the intruder back. Groaning, he released the person, who dashed off down the corridor. “s**t,” said Benen, getting to his knees and feeling about for his pistol. Liquid warmth trickled from his nose and over his mouth, his weeklong growth of hair not slowing the flow any. He wiped at the blood with the back of a hand and staggered to his feet. No time to find his Turtledove. He had to stop the intruder from getting to the weapons locker or anything important. Benen lurched down the corridor, angry. When he nabbed this asshole, he was not going to do it gently. The entire station would be laughing at him for a week if he ended up with a black eye, and he could imagine Thea now, suggesting he might have been sleeping at his desk. Benen was young still, but he was not about to let this bastard get anything from the station. The intruder ran fast; Benen couldn’t hear the person anymore, certainly not over his own breathing, which had become difficult around his bloody nose. He threw open every door he passed, searching, and braced himself as he neared the weapons locker. He grabbed the handle, turned, but the door was still locked—the intruder hadn’t come here. Although what the person wanted if not weapons…Benen had already passed the bulk of the paperwork files. Whatever the intruder wanted, it must be in evidence storage. Anything could be there. The police force confiscated everything from money to stolen goods to drugs. One single cursed item removed from storage and placed in the right hands could be devastating to Jewylle on Ilben, and not everything made it back to its rightful owners. There were things in evidence storage from three or four generations ago, unclaimed and unreleased. Benen had thought them safer than in some random person’s home, at least until now. The intruder had practically anything imaginable before thieving fingers. At the evidence room door he heard the grating of wood, the rustle of papers, as the intruder went hurriedly through every drawer. The person had even turned up the light, just a little, and Benen stopped in the doorway. There was only one way in or out of evidence storage, and he wanted to take stock of the situation before making a move. A slender man of about thirty years with white, healthy-looking skin stood with his back half-turned to the door. He was dressed in black, tight clothes, the kind thieves tended to use, complete with cowl to keep his hair obscured. His motions were frantic, his lips pulled taught, and Benen leaned almost casually against the door frame, watching. He wanted to see what the man was here for before making a move—it could be vital to an unsolved case. And the thief definitely looked like someone Benen could easily arrest. The man sighed as he pulled out the blood splattered orb. He held it up in long, thin fingers for a moment, lips twitching up in an arrogant smile. “You were spotted at Josen Nevgeradel’s home,” said Benen, easing off the door frame as the man’s head whipped around and his eyes narrowed. There was something about him Benen thought familiar, but then, the thieving types tended to have many similarities. “I’m surprised you’d come here and wrap up our investigation for us. Considerate of you.” “You think I murdered the merchant?” asked the man, lip curling. The suggestion disgusted him, which Benen found interesting. He seemed almost too well-bred to be a thief, but then Benen wasn’t going to let that keep him from arresting the man. “No.” The man pushed the drawer closed like that settled things. Benen barely held back a laugh; his grin had to be something fearsome, considering the blood. This thief was going to try to talk his way out of this? Mimic being one of the upper class and trick Benen into letting him walk? Well, he’d have a good story to tell Thea when she returned to a solved case and a prisoner in the cells. “What, exactly, are you grinning at?” “You think I’d let you walk out of here?” asked Benen. “I’m not your murderer.” “No? We’ll see. You’re at the very least a thief.” “What, this old thing?” asked the man, gesturing casually with the orb resting in three of his fingers like he was some kind of street performer. “It was my mother’s.” “Yeah, it was my mother’s, too. Now put it back where you got it and don’t give me trouble.” “I really have no intention of doing either,” said the man, then grinned. Benen set his jaw and took a step forward. Even without his Turtledove, he could take down this thief. The only thing that really concerned him was the orb—none of them, not even Thea, could figure out what it did, and no one who knew Josen had been able to tell them, either. It was obviously laced with magic, and there was the real possibility it could set off a curse. Benen figured there wasn’t much other reason the thief wanted it. It had to be cursed. “Then drop it and let me kick your ass,” said Benen, taking another step forward. The man tsked—actually tsked—at him like he was some sort of naughty child. Like Benen was the unreasonable one, a police officer in his own station. Benen hated the man in that moment, his casual cockiness, the way he bent back out of the way as Benen moved toward him. He was fast, fast enough to dodge the punch Benen threw, but he wasn’t about to let this thief get past him a second time. As the man wove around him, Benen grabbed his arm and twisted it so sharply behind his back Benen was rewarded with a yelp. “Drop it,” he said. The man gasped as Benen pushed him down to his knees. “Go on, don’t be a fool.” “I see no reason for you to act like this is a weapon,” said the man, and clutched the orb close to his chest. “But you don’t know what it does, do you?” He sounded smug. Benen didn’t like that at all. Either the man was trying to talk his way out of this—still—or he knew something Benen didn’t. “I suggest you release me before you go too far. I wouldn’t want you to regret your actions here tonight.” Benen was through with this. With one hand, he kept the arm pinned behind the man’s back, and reached around with his other, groping for the orb. Once it was out of the way he— The man ducked and leaned forward, surprising Benen and unbalancing him. He nearly toppled over the man’s shoulder and released the arm while attempting to catch himself. The thief lurched forward, trying to get to his feet, but Benen wasn’t that taken off guard. He launched himself at the man and they both hit the dirty floor, the orb slipping away and rolling. “Damn!” said the man, and crawled toward the intricate little globe. Benen grabbed both the man’s ankles and pulled him back toward him, glaring. He was going to throw this asshole in a cell and tie him up. Then he was going to get the bastard’s name out of him and figure out how he was related to Josen Nevgeradel. Motive for the murder seemed clear enough: this orb. Everything else was bound to fall into place. “You’re not getting out of here, stop squirming,” said Benen, and looked up as the man made a small, triumphant noise. He had the orb in his hands. And he was turning it. Benen barely processed that before the entire world around him shuddered and his stomach flopped. It was like he was falling from a great height, like he was drowning. He was sick, and everything around him was blurry, everything but the thief, still clutching the orb. And then the sensation became overwhelming, overloading his senses, and he was gone.