Chapter XII: Chief Buck’s Order

I pulled the badge from the inner pocket of my trench coat. Behind me, the street hummed with that foul morning energy—the kind that, despite the hopeful glow of the sun, reeks only of regret, bureaucracy, and mid-life crises. I watched as the turn of a gear led, in a controlled butterfly effect, to the opening of the door. I commanded my brain to silence the lingering shock from the previous day’s espionage. I stepped inside with a firm stride, tempered like refined oil. I offered a greeting to the staff at the pristine reception desk, though behind every word, I wondered what illicit dealings the Party might be harboring. To the naked eye, the Bears looked less like a mafia than the Snakes did; however, the best criminals are rarely the most villainous in appearance—they are simply the ones best at hiding it.

I ascended the central staircase, veering right at the fork. With every step, every riser, I tried to force the thoughts aside and focus on why I was there: to work. In Mr. Ursus’s office, a stack of paperwork awaited me, growing more gargantuan by the day. I assumed the upcoming elections were to blame. As I turned to leave my boss’s study, my eyes caught the calendar hanging there—a bitter reminder that today was the eve of the final public appearance before the political blackout. I planned to attend, yes, but only as a passerby. My plan, alongside Lilith, was to track Buck, observing him from a distance like snipers to confirm the fabrication of evidence. With that, we would have a solid case to force a confession regarding how he murdered Ursus’s daughter for political gain. Remembering how Miss Hellicate had proposed this elaborate scheme still amazed me. She had the makings of an investigator—a mind that surprised me with every display of cunning, and a temperament that could make me confess to crimes I hadn’t even committed.

“Excuse me…” Ursus said, catching me off guard. “Would you be willing to appear at the rally tomorrow? I need someone on stage with me; the person scheduled to appear has fallen ill.”

The proposal felt more like a command than a question. Between that and the lingering sense of debt following the reprimand I received during my investigation into the depraved Turner, I accepted. I seized the chance to discuss tomorrow’s speech as a way to procrastinate on the mountain of paperwork.

I made myself comfortable, leaning my weight—and that of the files—against a mahogany cabinet adorning the right wall. In my time there, I had grown accustomed to the “controlled chaos” in which Ursus worked. The hiss of steam-powered mail no longer kept me on edge, and I had abandoned my old habit of eyeing the room’s various mechanisms with suspicion. During our talk, I tried to fish for information regarding Daggerton, mindful of my primary duty as a detective; but Ursus, in a masterful display of political habit, showcased his prodigious ability to dodge questions and provide answers that, in truth, answered nothing at all.

Later, once the conversation had turned stale and diluted, I resigned myself to my task and left the office, papers in hand. I sat down with the same joy a convict feels entering a cell, except my cell was a desk in the building’s general bull-pen.

So many letters and signatures had drained my mind. Yet, a small thought remained active in the background—a nagging, itchy sensation of anxiety. I couldn’t quite put it into words. I reached my apartment and lay down, remembering I hadn’t eaten lunch, making a meal imperative. I ate while thinking about the event I had signed up for. On one hand, I’d be paid overtime; on the other, I hadn’t considered the public exposure or the dread of standing before a crowd. That cycle of indecision haunted me for the rest of the day, as I regretted my impulsive “yes” and tried to convince myself it had been an order in disguise.

The following morning, I asked my boss about the proper attire, only to discover that my finest suit was little more than pajamas to him. Amidst questions of etiquette and organization, I tried once more to slip in a query about Daggerton. Again, he evaded them. I assumed he was simply focusing on the event only hours away. The office was more chaotic than usual—workers, myself included, scurrying to finish last-minute tasks. In the bustle, the day blurred past. Suddenly, the end of my shift had arrived.

I returned home and sat on my bed, the finest ensemble of my wardrobe lying peacefully beside me. I don’t know if it was the way my somber bed sagged under my weight, the sliver of light piercing the curtains, or the sight of the suit itself, but that stifling thought finally crystallized. It’s just anxiety, I told myself. But the thought that Buck would be there—and if Buck saw and recognized me, Wright would inevitably find out—tightened around my throat like a noose. Because of the change in plans, Lilith wouldn’t be there; I wouldn’t have her as an escort, and it was too late to ask Ursus. I could only resign myself to the hope that nothing would go wrong, however deluded that hope might be.

The plaza had been modified with a wooden stage. A crowd began to gather minutes after we arrived; from my waiting spot by the carriages, I could hear them. The organizers had timed the event to catch the last golden hours of natural light.

I gripped the railing with my first step, nearly twisting an ankle—a result of my lack of resolve. Slowly, with the gait of an old man, I reached the stage. I saw a congregation of middle-to-upper-class citizens discussing in circles. I took my position precisely to the right of the lectern, scanning for something to grab onto should I faint. Inside, alongside the knots in my stomach, I felt guilt for my unjustified nerves. I didn’t have to utter a single word; I wouldn’t even approach the microphone. Yet the jitters remained. Twenty-six well-groomed beards, seventeen white dresses, thirteen red ones, fourteen circles of people locked in political debate, I counted involuntarily. I forced my right foot to stop tapping, fearing the hollow structure would amplify my visible distress.

I didn’t hear a word of Ursus’s speech. I scanned the audience from left to right, then right to left, center to edge, back and forth, over and over. I didn’t recognize a single face. I saw nothing alarming. I breathed a sigh of relief, finally tuning into my boss’s words. Halfway through a statement thanking the police—who, according to Ursus, had sent more officers than last time—I saw them. At the far edge of the plaza, by a scrawny olive tree: two familiar faces.

I narrowed my eyes, focusing. My heart hammered against my ribs the moment I saw Buck and Henry in the middle of a photo op. My mind conjured the mechanical click of the camera; a second later, Frederick turned toward the stage. From across the distance, I saw him looking at Ursus, his eyes conveying a strange message of complicity. To my right, as I tried to look away from the Police Chief, I saw Ursus looking back at Buck. He seemed to have spotted him just as I had.

I snapped my head back toward the suspect, only to be met by the shock of his gaze fixed directly on me. The breath I took was sharp, cut short by the clamping of my jaw. I tensed my body to appear firm. I became hyper-aware of my breathing, my blinking, my posture, and the micro-adjustments of my feet against the hard soles of my shoes. I repeated the cycle: look at Buck and Fairchild, look at Ursus, look at my shoes. Fortunately, the event was drawing to a close. Once the final applause rang out, I walked away as fast as I could without appearing to run. I was down the stairs in seconds, nodding a distracted goodbye to my colleagues. Most were heading home, save for Ursus and a few others returning to the office to log the results.

“Did you see Buck in the crowd, sir?” I remarked after shaking his hand.

“Yes. I shall send him a letter before I sleep; I expect he’ll respond,” he said, his voice entirely devoid of surprise.

The Chief seemed as struck as I was, though his surprise was of a positive sort. The plaza was a ten-minute walk from my flat, and I knew the simple route back.

“I didn’t expect him to look at us,” I muttered to myself. “I hope he didn’t recognize me.”

The last rays of sun were vanishing behind the rooftops, bathing the streets in shadow. I thought about how I should be out of immediate danger by now. I laughed at my own stupidity for thinking something tragic would happen just from seeing the man. I tried to bury the thought of Buck writing to Wright to report my presence.

I realized too late how desolate the path had become. On the street, there was only me and a group of officers standing at the mouth of an alley.

“It was Chief Buck’s order… Just do it,” I heard one say to the other as I passed.

I looked over my shoulder. The only thing I found was an officer’s fist flying toward my head…

…"

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