Investigation

Emergency sirens filled the air as the ambulance approached the nearest hospital. Inside, paramedics worked feverishly over the bloodied and battered form of a man, his identity still unknown. Richard figured the police would be informed in the morning. 

"Male victim, multiple lacerations and contusions, possible internal bleeding," one of the paramedics relayed to the ER staff as they rushed him through the doors. "We need to get him into surgery, stat!"

"Okay, get him to the X-Ray," Richard ordered. "Elijah, you're up. No, wait, let me see that!"

Elijah — the closest surgeon nearby — quickly nodded and rushed to the lockers.

Once the scans came in, the reports were two-fold: the man's blood pressure was dangerously low, and his heart rate was irregular. The X-ray showed that he had multiple fractures in his ribs and his left arm. He had severe internal bleeding as well. Yet another thing they had to worry about.

Before long, the operation had started. It was rough, but they managed to stop the bleeding and stabilize the patient's condition. They carefully closed the incision and transferred the patient to the ICU for further observation. Elijah took the time to catch his breath. "You made that look easy," said Henry. "Well, I had good help," Elijah smiled. He sat down on a chair outside and sighed.

He looked out the window. "The surgery lasted all night. The sun's rising again."

Henry shrugged. "Better get some rest then. There might be a new call in a few hours or so."

"Yeah, I should." Elijah got up and yawned. He should've taken a vacation.

***

"So we can't talk to him?" Clara asked.

"No ma'am, I'm sorry," Elijah said. 

"Why?"

"We heard the news from a few government officials. This man has been accused of terrorism in many different locations."

"And why can't we talk to him?"

"He's being held under the National Defense Authorization Act. With the NDAA detention, only federal counterterror teams can interrogate him without a lawyer present." Clara looked back at Ryan, who could do nothing but cooperate. "But he's still a patient!" Clara argued. "We can still interview him, right?"

"For now, yes. But once counterterrorism officials get involved, it's game over."

"But that's not—"

"I know. The government's cruel, ma'am. I'm sorry." Elijah grabbed his forehead and began walking away. "If there's anything I can do to help you, let me know," he said. Clara and Ryan looked at each other. "Best make good use," he said.

The two entered the room and let their bags down. The patient's eyes fluttered open, though just barely. Clara holstered her hand on her badge. "My name is Clara Wells—"

"No," he said.

"Pardon?"

"I don't care, ma'am." His voice was hoarse, and his tone was that of broken English. Nevertheless, he spoke it fluently. "Just put your coats away. The same goes for the boy." Ryan smiled, secretly offended. "Of course," he said. He carelessly tossed it aside. Clara grimaced at him. "Sorry," he whispered back. "You can leave them anywhere," said the patient. "I don't mind."

"Right," sighed Clara. "We're here to ask you a couple of questions. We're not looking into the terrorism, just how you ended up like this." The patient remained silent. "Are you okay, sir?" Clara asked. The patient simply looked down at his food tray, sipping the soup. "I'm not, uh-" he cleared his throat, "-I'm not in the mood." Ryan raised an eyebrow. "If you're not in the mood right now, sir, we can come again later," he said.

"No, I mean—" The patient stopped. "Alright, fine. I'll talk."

"Thanks for cooperating. Can you please inform us how you ended up in this position?"

"Okay, look, you need to promise me one thing if I tell you. It's serious."

"Go ahead." Clara pulled out a pen and notepad. The patient set his soup aside, the spoon clinking faintly against the tray. "I…" He swallowed hard before continuing in a hoarse rasp. "I don't know what they look like. The one that shot me. He wore masks. They all wear masks, I would know."

Clara scribbled down notes as the patient spoke. "They all wear masks? Do you have any idea why?"

"To cover their faces—"

"Allow me to rephrase the question: who is 'they?' And how do you know 'they' all wear masks?"

Another pause. "Work. I used to work for them. As a hacker."

"And?"

"I tried double-crossing them." The patient looked down once more, this time in shame. "I tried selling information to another gang. They were the highest bidder, and they paid well. Better than mine, anyway." Clara asked, "And your gang? Who are they?" The patient shrugged. "We don't have a name. All we do is leave a mark — a heart or flower, I don't know — and that's all. If it's a digital project we send the images to the one we stole from. If it's physical, we write it in the victim's blood."

"So if you're stealing something physically, you always kill the victim?"

"Yes. We kill the victim and throw their bodies away somewhere. Usually dumpsters or anything nearby."

"How about the other gang?" Ryan asked. "The one you tried selling information to?"

"I never got their name."

"Do you know anyone who was in it?"

The patient grabbed his forehead bandage. "I don't know," he said. "I-I can't remember." Ryan scoffed. "I know you're lying," he taunted. "Ryan!" Clara whispered. "No, it's fine," said the patient. "Uh, I admit. I know a few. But they don't play important roles. Most of them are dead." Clara raised an eyebrow. "Most?"

"There's this one guy that hasn't been killed," the patient explained. "What's his name?" Ryan asked. "His name is Fredrick Brown. He lives near that school."'

"What school?"

"I don't know. Never looked into it," the patient said. "And what's your name?" Clara asked. The patient only shrugged. "I can't say. The government will do some digging though, so you'll get your answer." Ryan pressed forward. "And this school, what is it? What's its name?"

"I never looked into it. You can trace Fredrick's location though, and you'll find it."

Clara closed her notepad. "Thank you for your time, sir. We might drop by later. In case you remember anything-" she handed him her card, "-call me." The patient waited as they left the room to throw it away. He sighed and went back to sleep. "Let's report it to the chief," Ryan said. "See what the others come up with."

***

The car went around another roundabout before cutting a corner. "You'd think the government would try to give us more respect," Ryan muttered. "Instead they leave us with nothing." Clara shrugged. "At least they gave us time," she said. "Which we don't know how much," Ryan spat. "Those government officials could be here at any moment!"

"I know, Ryan. That's why I said at least."

Clara let the silence speak for her.

The car came to a halt around the funeral gathering. Clara and Ryan stepped out, instantly surveying the crowd gathered in the backyard. A simple wreath of flowers rested beside a closed casket on a polished wooden stand. "This must be it," Clara murmured. "The funeral for Fredrick Brown's son." Ryan's brow furrowed as he scanned the attendees. "I don't see Fredrick himself yet. You think he's inside?"

"Are you looking for Fredrick Brown?" asked a voice. Clara saw a man in his late 50s staring at them sadly. "Oh, yes," she answered. "Well, you've already met him," Frederick pointed at himself. "Uh, sorry if this is impolite but, who are you?"

"Agent Wells. This is Foster."

"Hi!" Ryan beamed.

"We're here to ask you a few questions about your previous life."

Fredrick rubbed his temples. He knew this day would come. But for it to be today was a different matter. "Look, I'm not looking for any trouble. I quit before things got out of hand. We were still legal back then—"

"Then that's fine," Clara interrupted. "We've already checked through your case files. We know you're innocent. If we can't ask questions about your previous life, we won't. Could you tell us about your son then?" Fredrick's hands dropped to his side. "Adam? Yeah, he was a nice kid. He got in a lot of trouble here and there, but he was alright. Don't know why he killed himself."

"Any people that know him?"

"Why- why are you asking me this?"

Clara paused. "We're gonna be honest with you. When we were at the station examining one of your friends, we looked into the details of your son's death. Now, this may sound sudden, but we have reason to believe that it wasn't a suicide. It's ruled as one, but there's evidence it isn't." Fredrick scoffed. "Look, my son has just died, I don't—"

"We know," said Ryan. "But we're looking into it anyway. Order from above. Now, who knew him?"

"I-I'm sorry about his behaviour, sir. But it would really help—"

Fredrick sighed heavily, rubbing his tired eyes. "Alright, alright. I'll tell you what I know." He paused, gathering his thoughts. "Adam, he… He had his little posse of friends he ran around with. I don't know much about them. Just typical high school mischief. They tried entering Elysian a few weeks back but didn't cut. Never got their names. Just played around, left, and that was the end of that."

"I heard if you're still good enough, Elysian will move you to another school where they would try to get you back in. I take it Adam was enrolled there instead?" Ryan asked. Fredrick nodded. "Yeah. He was happy for the most part," he answered.

Clara made a few notes as he spoke. "Anything else?"

"No. I take it you'll be taking me downtown or something?"

"We... We can wait until the funeral's over. In the meantime, do you have anything else to say regarding your son's school? Perhaps about his teachers?"

"No, that's all. You'll need to ask some of the teachers yourself if you wanna know. You'll have to make an appointment though." Ryan rolled his eyes. He was getting tired of moving everywhere. "There's no need," said the principal. Clara turned around. "I'm sorry?" she said. "I'm one of the teachers from the school. I came to attend Adam's funeral." The principal looked at Fredrick and said, "I'm sorry for your loss." He shook Clara's hand. "And who might you be, sir?" she asked.

"Oh, right. Forgive my manners. My name's Mike. Mike Halen." The man smiled politely. "I'm Adam's principal."