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The bike tires skidded perilously as he slid to a stop in the junkyard. He dismounted with a leap, shoes squeaking against the wet pavement, and paid no mind to the rattle of the bicycle falling behind him. His head was bent low as he walked.
Inspector Cabanela reached the bottom of the stairs without so much as a click of his heels.
The two detectives on the scene flinched at his arrival like it was the cracking of a whip, their guilty expressions betraying their previous topic of conversation as soon as they saw the look on the Inspector's face.
"I-Inspector Cabanela! Your—"
"Eeevening, gentlemen," he said. The vowel dragged from his mouth like a dead weight, more out of habit than anything else, "I see you already got to work. Nothing like it, baby. Now, if you don't mind, I'll take over from here."
He waved his hand behind him in dismissal. The detectives looked to one another.
"I thought the Special Investigation Unit was working on a case of national scale tonight," the blue one said after gathering his courage.
"I'm sure you think a looot of things, young man."
His jaw clicked shut with an angry clench. He puffed his chest out. The other detective kicked the back of his shoe in warning, but he ignored it. "What I'm saying is, isn't it better if we handle the fieldwork, especially in unrelated cases?"
Cabanela knew his smile achieved its purpose when he saw the man take a full step back. His full attention, however, was fixated on the medical examiner. The blue, mousy little man kneeling next to the body looked up from his "work". His eyes were darting left and right in a panic, and his hands wrung that abused little stethoscope of his like a handkerchief.
"Exaaactly. Glad we're on the same page, baby. Now, if you don't mind," he repeated coldly, "I'll take over from here… and, while you're at it, I'd like a copy of everyone's qualification documents and authorization to access the crime scene on my desk. That's a good fellow."
The three men hesitated for the briefest moment, before finally, one after the other, they gathered themselves and scampered away towards the road, muttering among themselves.
As soon as he was alone, Inspector Cabanela closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Deep down, he knew he must have cut an unsettling figure. He pushed his wet hair away from his forehead and squeezed as much moisture out of his scarf as he could. He hadn't thought to take an umbrella with him when he'd heard the news. He'd barely thought at all. But now, standing alone at the bottom of the junkyard, dripping with water and sweat and breathing harshly from exertion, he took a moment to compose himself. It was the least scrap of respect he could offer her.
He shoved his hands in his coat pockets to fend off the urge to reach for a cigarette.
The Inspector carefully stepped closer to the body. Even with the recent bad weather tampering with the crime scene, it was obvious that the wound had bled a lot; no matter where he put his feet, the ground was tinged red. Lynne's clothes, where they weren't simply wet, were drenched in the same crimson, her vest, her coat, her crestfallen hair plastered to the side of her face and spilling over on the concrete.
Her eyes were locked open, staring past him into nothingness.
Focus. You've failed him enough already.
Cabanela knelt down. Shotgun wound. Clearly defined central entry point, a halo of shrapnel around it—no burn marks. Fired point blank: close, but not contact-range. Her standard model pistol rested by her side, out of its holster—an attempt to fight back?
No, that wasn't it. It was hard to picture Lynne willingly pointing a gun at another person, no matter the circumstances. That was something she'd always had in common with a certain someone, after that day…
He wondered if this would be the only friend he'd have to bury after tonight.
"Damn it," he swore under his breath, biting the inside of his cheek.
Inside his coat, the watch chain was wound around his fist so tightly it almost cut off circulation. Clenched in the centre of his palm, he could feel the pocket watch beat like a second pulse.
"What dragged you out to this old dump to die, baby," he whispered to himself, reaching forward to close her eyes. It was the smallest dignity he could afford her. "Why tonight, of all nights…?"
Her lashes fluttered under his hand.
"Now, is that any question for a great inspector to ask."
His blood froze. When he lifted his hand, something beyond her empty eyes was staring back at him.
"Hello, Inspector Cabanela" it said, as Lynne's face contorted into a grin., "It's been ten very long years."
Cabanela stumbled back. The thing that wasn't Lynne began to laugh, pulling her body up off the ground with the uncanny shamble of a marionette, until she was sitting fully upright. He could only stand back and watch in horror, as her head rolled limply from one shoulder to the other, testing her neck until the joints gave a soft pop.
"Gods in heaven..."
"Aw, whatsa matter? You look like you've seen a ghost. You're whiter than your coat…" it sneered, making a show of giving him a disapproving once over, "…not that it takes much, in these conditions. You've really let yourself go, Inspector."
"Is it really… you? The man from that incident, all those years ago?"
"In the flesh." The Manipulator flashed him a smile., "Not my own, clearly, but I'm afraid things haven't gone according to plan... I've had to improvise a little."
With the initial shock settled over his shoulders, his anger finally broke through, "You did this, didn't you? You're the one who killed her."
"Y'know… if I had a penny for every time you threw around accusations like that, I'd have two," it replied, "double the prize for every time you got it wrong, too."
Cabanela grimaced. Through gritted teeth, he said, "Then what—"
"Like I said," the Manipulator continued, "I had to change my plans."
It pulled itself up further, standing at Lynne's full height, while the Inspector backed further away. There was something deeply, unnaturally wrong in the way she moved. In the way it moved her. Something the human brain was hardwired to fear and run away from. The Manipulator looked down at her chest, scratching a fingernail through the drying blood crusted around the open wound. It hummed to itself and tapped Lynne's foot on the ground.
"I didn't mean for her to die here. I wanted her sentenced, for murder. But in the end, the other party in my deal had other plans."
"Your deal? What did my—what did Lynne have to do with any of this? Or you!"
"More than enough." The grin on the Manipulator's face disappeared for the smallest second, before returning again. "In any case, she sure made herself relevant to your little investigation."
"What?"
"You wanted to know why she came to this place? That's simple... It's because I called her here."
"Called her…?" Cabanela repeated.
"At the police station, to be exact. It was a trap, you see. An anonymous tip on the big, secret case she was running out of time on."
His mouth ran dry. D-99. The code on the beaten-up case file, locked away in the bottom drawer of his station desk, flashed in his mind's eye. A warm hand on his shoulder. An infuriating, tight-lipped smile across the interrogation room desk. Lynne's voice on his landline in a hundred messages over the past few days that he'd pretended not to see.
"To tell you the truth, I almost pitied her. She was so desperate for any information on Jowd's case. She wasn't stupid. She was just willing to risk anything." Her back was to him as the Manipulator spoke. Cabanela watched the tails of her bloodied coat wave gently in the evening breeze as his chest grew hollower and hollower. "And where were you, Inspector Cabanela?"
"……"
"You left her to die. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if the last words you said to her were some kind of lie," he said. He turned around suddenly, Lynne's feature twisted in a mask of cold fury, "And it was just for your own convenience. Isn't that right, Inspector?"
Cabanela blinked. "My own what?"
"Don't play dumb. It's the night of the greatest moment in your career, isn't it? The golden crown on your perfect record. And it just so happens…" the Manipulator jabbed an accusing finger towards his chest, "…that the one man still alive to remember your mistakes is fated to die. Tonight. That's why you couldn't let Lynne solve his case. You needed your mistakes to die with him!"
Cabanela looked at the Manipulator—at Lynne's face, twisted in triumph and self-righteous disgust—with a feeling like hot lead settling at the bottom of his stomach. His fists shook by his sides. Deep, deep down, in a part of him that had gotten morbid and bitter despite his determination, he almost found it funny how so many years of work could be foiled by someone who understood so very little.
…But did the distinction truly matter, if the people he loved still died, and things turned out the same?
"That's an awful lot of spilled blood to keep a single coat clean, don’tcha think?" the Manipulator continued, unperturbed.
Cabanela shook his head.
"I've got nothing to say to you," he said simply, in the end. "You wouldn't listen, anyway."
The hand pointing at him fell back to Lynne's side.
"Anyway,” the Manipulator said, clicking her tongue, “that's enough of that. It's a very big night for me as well, ya know? I have a deal to conclude. And that deal just so happens to include wiping out everyone who knew about Temsik."
There was a small, metallic click. Clutched in that very same hand, Lynne's gun now glistened in the streetlights.
"Damn you!" Cabanela swore. His own hand reached for his holster, then stopped. Even if he landed his shot in time, there was no reason to plant the tracking device on anything other than the Manipulator's own body. It would leave her corpse behind next to his just a moment later.
Behind the gun, Lynne smiled with a smile that didn't belong on her face.
"Attagirl," it said, "no resistance, this time."
And yet another gunshot rang out in the lonely junkyard.