Sanctioned

by Zeke Jarvis

            Everywhere you go in the city, you can see small crimes. I walk through the streets and see a mother using what is likely unsanctioned magic to repair her child’s ragged shoes. Across the square, someone appears to be pocketing some food from a merchant’s table. Did he use a charm to distract the vendor? Both of these people certainly believe that what they’re doing is justifiable. They also could both be brought in as criminals, but I am pulled by more pressing matters. An important figure has been murdered, and I am the one to halt the wagging tongues, making sure that everyone still believes in justice.

            The murder is a complex one both in execution and impact. The victim was killed during the day, seemingly when his murderer should have been seen, but it must have happened quickly and expertly. There wasn’t an obvious scuffle to call attention. The victim was simply found dead in an alley. This might imply that the victim was lured by someone he knew or could be made to trust, or it might imply that there was an illegal transaction that led to the murder. That’s how the execution is complex.

How the impact is complex is that the victim is from an honorable family and tended to associate with honorable friends. That means two things. First, there isn’t a genuine suspicion of previous criminal activity according to tradition and sanction. Second, there isn’t a natural friend who would be a suspect in plain and public view. The victim had not yet been betrothed, he did not have a clear public rival, and there was no impending transaction that would have led to his demise. This leaves the matter of the murderer very uncertain. Or so it would seem. I’m confident that I’ll be able to name the right person.

When I reach the actual scene, I see four people. Even before they introduce themselves, I know three of them. The victim’s father, mother, and brother. The fourth turns out to be the family counselor, here to make sure that the investigation is thorough and effective. The counselor carefully waves his hand, charming the family, and he says to me, “The family is very upset. While they have not seen the actual body, they have heard a description of the crime. I hope that you will be understanding of their reaction as you resolutely pursue your examination.”

The father and mother are genuinely devastated. They have no clue what happened, and they desperately want answers. The brother, however, is searching with his eyes. They pass over me, look beyond me, then look at the spot where his brother must have fallen. The sum total of my years tell me that, before things end, I will be arresting him for murder. There is something in him which so aligns with the standard suspicions that I can quite see him being led in front of the crowds and denounced for his brother’s murder. Here and now is both too early and too indelicate to act, but I’m confident that the time will come.

“He had no enemies,” the victim’s mother tells me.

I try to give her a reassuring smile and touch her hand. In addition to comforting her, the physical contact will allow me to get a deeper read on her. “That’s what I’ve heard from several people. It’s possible that this was all an accident in a way, a random tragedy. But I’ll do my best to get to the bottom of things.”

She nods, but she doesn’t look directly at me. The father says, “If it’s truly random, then is there any chance that you’ll actually find the killer?”

I release the mother’s hand. For a flicker, I contemplate shaking the father’s hand, but I suspect that he would be less open and more apt to realize what I was doing. Touching the mother only confirmed what my first reaction was. The father wants to believe that he’s inscrutable, that he himself is better suited to investigate than I am. “There’s a definite chance. I can’t make an absolute guarantee, but I will pursue every avenue. It’s also, of course, possible that it is not random.”

The counselor says, “It’s likely too early to speculate anyway, isn’t it?”

“Indeed,” I say. “I don’t like to make too many assumptions this early on. They tend to shut off some possibilities.” I make another quick sweep of the alley. There’s no blood and very little sign of scuffle. The appearance suggests that it was not a random, physical attack but instead an instance of someone being lured into the alleyway by an expert murderer and ambushed suddenly but carefully. The brother is trying to covertly follow what I’m looking at. It wouldn’t be hard to read that action as guilt, trying to see if I’m tracking the events as they precisely happened, which, of course, I am. I’ll eventually have to answer the question of why the murder happened in an alley instead of in a private place, but all of this discussion will be rooted in misdirection.

“We’re willing to help however we can.” The father again, trying to suggest that his intelligence would surpass my experience. It’s a common enough impulse, and I can usually harness it to extract some information.

“I appreciate that. It would be helpful if I could see his home, to get a sense of how he lived and what his habits were.” I watch the family reactions. The mother is only half registering everything, barely noticing that I’ve made the request. The father is nodding, again assuming that he’ll be able to steer the investigation once I’m inside the home, that he’ll eventually take credit for finding his son’s killer. Maybe he’ll even believe that he’ll be able to physically take down the murderer. The counselor is, like me, watching the family, trying to gauge what might come of all this. It’s possible that the counselor rather than the brother is the murderer, but it would take a very unlikely coincidence for him to be assigned the case. Of course, that’s not impossible. The brother is judging me, actually hoping that I’m too incompetent to find anything. This doesn’t automatically imply guilt, but it certainly doesn’t suggest innocence.

There’s some pleasant negotiations about when this will work best for everyone. Eventually, they finish, and they leave. I now conduct a more methodical examination of the alley. I touch the stone, feeling the magical residue on the walls. It’s subtle enough that it won’t identify anyone specifically, just that magic was used. Unsanctioned, of course. While it might not be definitive, I could easily convince most folks that it was, in fact, telling, but that’s not enough for right now. Not that it matters. I know how this will end.

I turn from the alley and see someone using sanctioned magic to start a fire to cook with. Seeing it is a reminder that many people question why he have the sanctions at all.

***

            On the appointed day, I arrive at the family’s house a bit early. I’ve walked by it before several times, as many folk in the town have. All of those who will find the family’s life completely out of reach. The number of people who would have a basic motive is incredibly high, but relatively few would have the means to pull it off.

There’s the family crest above the door. Looking at the lion in the center, I wonder if the person who originally designed the crest had ever actually seen a lion up close. Recognized the ferocity of the beast. Or if they understood the many tiny animals fleeing in terror. Would anyone in the family see it that way? Would anyone believe that, if enough of the mice came together, they would be able to chew off the lion’s feet or face or skin?

            After my ruminations, I decide to go to the door. As an honorable family, they’ll certainly be ready early. They may have even asked their counselor to put a sanctioned magical trace on me. Almost as soon as I knock on the door, the counselor opens it. He nods at me, and I nod back. If he knows that I was outside watching, he doesn’t indicate it. The counselor steps back and holds his hand out, showing me the way. I enter, looking around as much as I can without being obvious. There are all of the usual decorations. Ornamental dead animals. Magic-laden plants. Some icons and images rooted in a clear, continuous sense of our society’s history. The clear sense of tradition rooted in the lightning bolts and ominous clouds scattered throughout the home.

            The father comes out to shake my hand. I give a firm, confident grip, and I feel for magic. There is magic, but it is residue rather than something internal to him. This almost certainly means that he’s gone out for unsanctioned magic to try solving the murder on his own. If he believes that his living son is the one who committed the murder, it’s possible that he’s trying to use magic to cover it up, but I have every confidence that this is not the case. “I’d like to look around,” I tell him.

            He nods and turns. “I’ll show you where he spent most of his time.” The room he takes me to is warm and bright. It has a variety of plants, many with magical properties, though it looks like they were pruned for decoration more than practical use. I wonder what the gardener or cleaner does with the clippings. As I look around, I am absolutely certain that this is not where this man’s sun spent the bulk of his time. It’s possible that the father will surprise me yet.

            “He mainly did correspondence here?”

            The father quickly looks me up and down. “Yes, ours is a family with myriad responsibilities, so we all must do our part. Tracking some of our negotiations and transactions was a major part of his work.” This is a simple and plausible lie. I look around at the desk. It’s possible that he’ll have left evidence. It won’t give me any genuine insight into the crime, but what I might find might give me a deeper insight into the family workings.

            “Who else would regularly be in here?” I pick up a journal and leaf through it.

            “I would come in now and then. My wife generally didn’t show an interest in this sort of thing. Our cleaner, of course”

            “And your other son?” The journal does appear to be the murdered son’s, but it reveals very little. Most of the content is material that I already knew, so I can skim it and watch the father respond.

            His voice gets just a bit higher as he replies. “They were always in each other’s lives. As brothers are. Somewhere between having each other’s backs and looking over each other’s shoulders.”

            “Of course,” I say. I set the journal down on the left side of the desk. I had picked it up from the right. I go to one of the bookshelves and take down a book. “Is there a space where he would likely keep private material?” I leaf through a few pages and then put the book back onto a different shelf. Little shifts in the father’s face and posture tell me that he’s getting annoyed with my misplacement of things. This suggests that this is actually his study, and he simply brought in a journal or two of his son’s. Maybe his son’s actual workspace is elsewhere, and he sees this as a safe space where I won’t see any clues. Another detective would see this as the father covering up. Given the magic that I felt on his hand, I’m almost certain that he’s slowing me down so that he can pursue justice on his own and so that none of his son’s personal habits come to light.

            “The most sensitive might be elsewhere in the house, though, being honest, I’m not sure if I could say where. I never had any reason to question my son.”

            I go back to the desk and open a drawer. There are a few scraps of paper, an amulet, and a letter opener. I close the drawer and go back to the bookshelves. “I might like to look around for a bit in this room.” I turn towards him. “If you don’t mind, that is.”

            He nods. “If you need anything, talk to me or the counselor.” I thank him, and he leaves the room. After I’m confident that he’s gone away, I go back to the desk drawer. I take the letter opener and the amulet out to examine them a bit more carefully. There’s something on the letter opener. It’s not blood, but it’s not parchment or paper either. I touch it, and there’s a bit of a vibration. I put it back and look at the amulet. It doesn’t appear to be infused with magic, but it’s clearly valuable, loaded with a variety of jewels all laid in gold. I wonder if it’s the father’s or the son’s. Or the living son’s.

            I put both objects back in the drawer and shut it. I sit down and look through other texts. Everything that I read simply confirms what I’ve already determined. It shouldn’t take more than a few days for me to convince my superiors that the brother is responsible. They’ll be happy to see it wrapped up quickly, of course. The father will be saddened, but likely willing to see the matter shut.

I sit quietly for a moment. There comes a point in these types of investigations where a detective has to make an active decision. It’s necessary to contemplate this so that you control the investigation rather than the other way around. I’ll be making a major accusation, and there will be some fallout. It’s important that I not pretend that’s not true. I’ll wait here until the father returns, and then I’ll ask him to make tea. We’ll walk through the house, and I’ll casually watch the living son to gather more material for my superiors.

***

            I am sitting in my superior’s office, waiting for her to come in. I have been in this position dozens of times before. Some situations are more worrisome than others. This is on the “more” end of the spectrum. Aside from the family’s station, there is the possibility that my superior will be skeptical. When the bulk of the case rests on unsanctioned magical evidence rather than hard, physical evidence, there’s always some skepticism. The overseers don’t like unsanctioned magic acknowledged publicly, and allowing it to become evidence gives it more attention and weight than they prefer.

            When my boss comes in, she sits. She carefully lays out a pen, a journal, and a small bottle. Only after she has set them down does she look at me and give a slight smile. “You are prepared, then,” she says, “to report?”

            Her posture is surprisingly relaxed, and her hands are neatly crossed, not ready to immediately transcribe every word I say. This suggests that she is prepared to hear me out, to listen to my findings before judging them. “I believe that I’ve gathered as much as possible, yes. I’ve given a thorough examination of both the murder site and the family home. Based on what I’ve found, the brother should be named as the killer. The father had traces of unsanctioned magic, the family home had traces of magic hanging from him, but it appears that he was unaware of this. The mother was completely unaware.”

            She nods once and picks up the pen to jot a few notes. When she stops writing, she continues looking at the page rather than looking at me. “Pursuing my investigation, I found that there is a bit of rivalry between the brothers. At first, it didn’t seem to be significant enough to lead to murder, but I’ve come to believe that the rivalry is only one factor in the full motive.”

            She sets the pen down. “I’ve become familiar with the family’s troubles in preparation for this meeting. For obvious reasons, I won’t be putting this in the official record, but the absence will extend to you a bit of latitude in your overall investigation.”

            “I appreciate the situation.” I begin telling her about small actions that I observed in both the alley and the house. Admittedly, I embellish some elements, giving a stronger sense of the disdain that the brother showed me than he actually did. I also heighten the father’s guilt and the mother’s general disengagement in order to make my superior belief that the father suspects and the mother has a plausible reason not to. I see my superior’s breath quicken for a bit as she takes all of this in, but she’s able to quickly return it to normal. I explain the rest of what makes the brother such a logical suspect. She takes notes and nods, giving small noises of agreement but not speaking. When I finish, she puts the pen back down. “I would like you to confront him quietly and try to bring him in without humiliating the family.”

            This is what I’d been expecting her to say. “I understand. I’ll do my best to keep it calm and respectable.”

            She stands, so I do as well. She reaches out to shake my hand. I’m sure that she can tell that I have some nervousness. There are many ways that this could go wrong, and ignoring that would be naive. But I have a good reputation based on well honed skills. I’ve been right about this case every step of the way so far. I’ll be cautious but confident, and I will bring this to a successful conclusion, bringing a close to a seemingly honorable but quietly flawed and rotten.

***

            I wasn’t surprised that the brother quickly agreed to meet with me. While he must be suspicious, avoiding the meeting would be damning. The offer to meet without the counselor must have made him think that there was a way that he might turn the meeting in his favor. We meet at a space that his brother had been renting. I’ll be able to see if he knows about this space, and we’ll have a private place to speak. When I arrive, he’s already there. He sees me and nods. I nod back. His face doesn’t betray any anger or immediate aggression.

            I have the key to the door. He doesn’t look surprised when I produce it. Maybe he doesn’t grasp the significance of what’s about to happen. I open the door and let him in first. I do a quick sweep of the area, seeing if he’s brought someone as backup. Nobody stands out, and I don’t suspect that he would have the connections to find someone truly stealthy.

            I close the door behind me. This is a matter best conducted in private. At the sound of the lock turning, he looks back at me. I nod, the message no doubt clear. “It wasn’t me,” he says.

“I have sufficient evidence to convict you.”

He touches his mouth and shakes his head. “That’s not possible. I knew about my brother’s, listen, I didn’t need to kill him to protect our family. I had other…” He takes a step towards me, and I take a step back. He points at me. “You did it. You did it, and now you’re trying to frame me.”

“I’m surprised that he actually came to that conclusion. I wonder if the possibility had come to him earlier. Obviously I can’t let him stir up accusations. “You did it,” he says again. With that, I hold a hand towards him, palm out. I can feel my magic working. A small bubble is created in his breathway. Next, it expands. He recognizes what’s happening and charges at me. That’s actually a favor to me. Later, when the scene is examined, it will appear that he was trying to kill me, and my actions will be sanctioned.

Perhaps he realizes this, because his charge quickly slows to a stumble. It won’t be enough. When I accuse him of the acts that I’ve committed, it will appear that he clearly was trying to kill me, and I only acted in self defense. I thought that I would be able to close the case by accusing him and smiling at him in the court while he was brought to justice. Sometimes, the cases don’t work out. As I watch the breath escape him, I put together the narrative in my head. This will work. I will seem righteous. I will be vindicated.

I watch him choke out. There’s irony here. The bubble in his throat does have air, but it also cuts off all air to him. There’s something that he needs and is so close to him, but he can’t access it to live. It’s an appropriate end, in some ways. Not that I can tell anyone else. Actions like these need to remain secret. There are others who need to be taken down, and my mission will be sanctioned by the state. By direct blessing or ignorant and benign neglect, I will continue my important work.

________________________________________________ 

Zeke Jarvis (he/him/his) is a Professor of English at Eureka College. His work has appeared in Moon City Review, Posit, and Bat City Review, among other places. His books include, So Anyway..., In A Family Way, The Three of Them, and Antisocial Norms. His website is zekedotjarvis.wordpress.com