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Chapter 197: Interlude — Prime Suspect
🕑 Added 2025-02-13 12:00:11 +0000 UTC“Would you please be so kind as to share with us your whereabouts last night between 22:00 and 01:00?”
With ‘us’, Montaparte meant two people: First, herself, because she had asked the question. Secondly, her new ‘companion’ for this investigation — a little demoness who had nonchalantly decided to tag along with a crumbled-up notepad.
Montaparte was fine with it. The demoness had a strong alibi; several people could attest to her being out and about at the time of the murder — most importantly, Dr. Alp, the train’s resident physician. ‘Most importantly’ not because Dr. Alp was a staffer, but because Dr. Alp’s alibi was also multiply corroborated and air-tight.
This left Montaparte with two people she could confide in with little risk for the duration of this endeavour. She needed to talk, to sort her thoughts by voicing them out loud, and Dr. Alp didn’t seem too keen on hearing them.
This ‘Dema’, however? She was perfect.
“I was in the communal area of carriage one,” Poxie Paloxie replied, voice tense.
“Really?!” Dema let out enthusiastically. “Wait, the front one or the back one?”
Poxie winced at Dema’s sudden outburst, but somehow it still made her smile. “T-the front one.” Something about this Dema character delivered just the right amount of charisma — a mix between unpredictability and sincerity. Montaparte became glaringly aware of it when she caught Dema drawing flowers onto her notepad instead of properly noting down what Poxie Paloxie was saying.
Poxie — the third person Dema and Montaparte were interviewing together, the sixth person Montaparte had interviewed today. Before came Treeka, a little spirit living under a canopy, and Dr. Alp and Ulber — train staffers. Ulber had spent the night chatting to a young person called Plink, who’d been going through a crisis. Lastly, they’d interviewed Log and Omi.
Poxie was the third member of their little polycule. She was a heavy-set lifesize puppet with a round face, wearing a worn-down, puffy dress with signs of being eaten away at. She was made out of linden wood with a dark varnish and had countless strands of hair implanted on her skull, giving her a full, frizzly hairstyle. She sounded hollow; all her movements were accompanied by very soft and dull clicks of joints.
“Yeah, figured…” Dema scratched her head with her pen. “If it was the back one I’d have passed you by when I went out on a walk with Treeka. You should have come with us! Omi is cute, I kinda wanted to meet her girlfriends too. You know, under, like, funner circumstances and all.”
Poxie nodded, her smile widening. Her lips were formed from pieces of cloth — the thin threads leading up to Poxie’s ear could pull at them to change their shape.
Any apprehension the witnesses felt upon talking to Montaparte was blown from the trees like autumn leaves when this Dema opened her mouth. And on top of that, she managed to ask useful questions, allowing the detective additional room to analyse the witnesses’ demeanour and expression.
This young puppet, for example, born in Reality N-2402.12, home planet Ebba, had a secret. A secret that somehow related to the night of the murder. That much Montaparte inferred from body language and tone — her answers were guarded, and she sought gazes from passersby. Whether that secret was connected to the murder and therefore any of Montaparte’s business, or whether the questioning merely threatened to expose it, was the difficult part to dissect.
Dema’s easy-going attitude made Poxie less wary. Made her want to share.
“They are ready now,” Raquina said, suddenly pushing herself into Montaparte’s view. Then, she dropped several folders of documents onto the bar. “I’ve compiled the ability sheets of all current passengers.”
Montaparte nodded, and as Dema conducted the remainder of the interview, she began absentmindedly sorting through the sheets. It was time to collect data — the interviews would deliver part one of the relevant information, the sheets would deliver part two. The third part would be the most difficult to come by.
“There we go!” Dema said, flapping her notebook together and turning to Montaparte. “Have any more questions?”
Montaparte shook her head and gestured to Poxie that she could leave.
This investigation could only work if the passengers of the train were open to cooperating; so far, that appeared to be the case. Everyone seemed willing to get to the bottom of this mystery. Which was, in a way, peculiar. Montaparte was expecting a wrinkle to come up.
“So, how’s the sheets so far?” Dema asked, leaning forward to grab a peek. Montaparte was taking a look at Omiaradne’s; she and Rita seemed the least diverse in terms of powers they had access to.
The largest file belonged to Fentanyle, the victim.
The shortest belonged to a woman called Theora the Sun.
“Still working through them,” Montaparte replied, pushing half the pile to Dema. “Help me, if you would.”
Dema nodded and took a look at the sheet Montaparte had just gone through, snatched it with a giggle, and gave it a glance-over. After a moment, her brows furrowed in thought. She clumsily pushed some documents apart, and hummed.
“What’s wrong?” Montaparte asked, interest piqued, her heart beginning to beat stronger.
“Nah, just Bun Bun having her head in the clouds again,” Dema answered, rolling her eyes. “Looks like she forgot to mention something on her sheet! She’s gonna be in so much trouble…”
Montaparte raised an eyebrow, giving the short document another look-over. “What’s missing?”
“Why, here,” Dema said, tapping a segment of her own sheet which she’d produced from somewhere in the pile. Next, she tapped the segment in the sheet of the Sun. And then, like a fresh source breaking from the rock, she said, “It’s her Class!”
“Ah,” Montaparte let out. That was curious.
“Anyway!” she went on as if she hadn’t just upended the world. “What are we looking for?” She flipped right past the pages of a jellyfish girl called Belliandra like nothing of import could possibly be found on it.
Curious, again. Montaparte would have to comb through that sheet in detail later. “We need to interview both her and the Sun. They weren’t answering the door when I tried earlier.”
“Ah… yeah, Bun Bun’s been kinda out of it after this morning… I asked her to join but she wanted time to think.”
Instead of commenting on it, Montaparte gestured to the document pile. “In order for someone to perform an action, two requirements need to be met. One, they need to have a way to actually perform it. Traditionally, this is split into two aspects: the subject needs to be physically present or have a means to overcome distance, and they need to be physically able to perform said action. Someone would have needed the opportunity to enter the Lavish when Fentanyle was there — someone with the means to kill a Pillar of the World. Specifically, Fentanyle was killed by magical intrusion. This requires the ability to conjure elements inside the body of another, in large quantities. We might be looking for a mage.”
“Huh, interesting!” Dema said, nodding. “What’s the second requirement?”
“They need to have a reason,” Montaparte replied. “Nobody does anything without one. Now, the reason does not have to be good, but killing a Pillar is a difficult undertaking, so we can expect them to have a strong one.”
Dema scratched her head and leaned back on her bar stool, almost falling over the back of it before remembering it didn’t have a backrest. She cleared her throat and sorted some papers back together that she’d accidentally crumpled. “People keep talking about ‘Pillars’… No clue what that’s supposed to be…”
“It’s a little complicated,” Montaparte said, not having the time to go into a long-winded explanation. “To put it short, a Pillar of the World is an entity that at least partially enables the existence of its home reality in its known form. For example, the concept of gravity, as well as the concept of distance, are common pillars. Without them, everything would fall apart.”
“I see…” Dema stared at the detective, perhaps hopeful she’d offer a bit more of an explanation, for she still looked slightly lost. The sheets would not read themselves though, and trails could run cold. Montaparte gestured to the other pile of documents and Dema got to work.
Fentanyle had died from interference with her main heart. Something had caused it to stop.
Magic.
Dr. Alp would have had the means to kill her, with his power to Obstruct. Entrichia could have done so too, by preparing an untraceable poison with her power to Condense, which had landed her a position as the train’s resident cook. Kaylay could have done it with her power to Kill. Rita could have used her power to Lie. Bell’s case was tricky; there was a possibility she could have used her power to Shield to ‘protect’ Fentanyle’s heart from the rest of the body. There was Dema too, who could have killed Fentanyle in this manner using her powers of Bleeding. Then there was Treeka, who could have used her power to Grow.
Apart from Montaparte herself, this was everyone.
Notably, both Plink and Qyy had the powers to Teleport, bypassing the train’s own infrastructure — they could, however, only transport themselves and had no way to actually perform the killing.
“That means we’ve got a list of suspects, right?” Dema asked, peeking at her notepad.
“Yes, although Dr. Alp, you, Treeka, Entrichia and Rita have the strongest alibis of anyone we’ve heard about so far. You were heard by Log when you left the train at night with Treeka, you were seen in the diner by Ulber and Plink when you passed through it. Then, Raquina corroborated seeing you and Treeka take the ladder down to the infirmary in the lounge while she was at the staff meeting with the engine caretaker and Entrichia — who we have yet to interview, so we’ll see if that holds up. Then, Dr. Alp confirmed that you helped with the treatment of Rita for several hours. And if you had left earlier than you claimed, you would have been seen by the people who watched you go there in the first place.”
“Yeah, wasn’t me,” Dema said, nodding. “I liked Fentanyle, so I wasn’t gonna off her.”
Something about Dema made it seem like she liked everyone.
Montaparte let out a sigh, going down her own list of suspects. “In order to go from her room to the Lavish, both Kaylay and I would have needed to pass at least the lounge. In order for Bell to do it, she would have needed to pass either the polycule in carriage one, or Ulber and Plink in the diner, to get to the dining carriage teleporter.”
“But like… that’s good, isn’t it?” Dema asked. “If nobody did it, that means there was no crime!”
“I’m not sure that’s how things work,” Montaparte said dryly. “But it is good, because now we know what questions we have to ask in round two of our interviews. We have a list of suspects to go down; at least one of them won’t have an alibi.”
That same evening, in the sixth carriage, after a day full of work, Montaparte said, “Run me through it again.”
Dema swallowed. She sat there holding her notepad full of flowers, and pretended to read from it for a moment. “You sure? We’ve done it six times already…”
“Yes, I’m sure.” Montaparte grabbed her umbrella a little tighter. They’d spent the entire day reading sheets, doing legwork, and holding interviews. In the end, what they had excavated with that work could only be described as a conundrum. They’d dusted off the findings, to ensure the foundation was proper. “I need to figure out what I’m overlooking,” Montaparte said.
“Well… what we found is that everyone who could have killed Fentanyle had an alibi,” Dema said carefully, knowing it wasn’t what Montaparte was asking. Montaparte wanted details.
“This is pointless,” she admitted, and got up. “The train has changed its course. We need to shift gears too.” She raised her finger to caution Dema. “Remember this morning when I told you we had to be discreet? That’s done now. Let’s gather everyone in the lounge. We need to share these findings.”
Montaparte could feel the beginning of a headache shaping in the front of her skull. This was stressful. A murder investigation, at least partially, rested on the presence of asymmetric information. The murderer knew more than the detective. If the murderer had a means to be aware of the state of the investigation, they could shape reality to their desire.
Montaparte had been keen on guarding what little knowledge she had, pooling it in a small well in a forlorn hope of outlasting the culprit’s lake. But if the opponent had a lake, all Monataparte had to do was to salt it. Or even better — to leave a salted well for the culprit to drink from.
A culprit Montaparte believed to have already identified.
It was time to share the findings of her investigation. Just not Montaparte’s thoughts on it.
After dinnertime, they called everyone to the lounge who was willing to come. Only four people were missing — Rita, because she was still in a coma. Kaylay, to watch over and take care of her. Lastly, Theora the Sun and Belliandra. Curious.
Everyone else had gathered, and Montaparte paced up and down the narrow back of the lounge, collecting her last thoughts.
When the chatter died down to leave her room to talk, she tapped against a little board next to the teleportation mirror — Dema had helpfully formed it from chalk, and drawn a haphazard model of the train on it with blood. She even added little stick figures.
“This is a graphic showcasing everyone’s approximate positions at the time of the murder,” Montaparte said, tapping it with her umbrella. “Fentanyle died in the Lavish.” She tapped the front of the train. “There are four ways to enter it — one, from the engine room, which was empty. Two, from the teleporter in the lounge, which was hosting a staff meeting. Three, from the teleporter in the diner. It was occupied by both Plink and Ulber. Lastly, the Lavish can be accessed directly from carriage one, the communal front of which was occupied by Omi, Log, and Poxie.”
“What are you getting at?” Ulber asked, peering at the chalk board. “You said this poses a conundrum?”
Montaparte nodded. “The conundrum — the teleporters give off flashes when used, and the communal front in carriage one can’t be bypassed without notice when occupied. Meaning, if everyone’s accounts are accurate, there is no single person who could have accessed the Lavish unnoticed.”
“Maybe someone can teleport?” Raquina asked, her red dress standing out within the group. Plink, who was sitting next to her, folded his wings and shuffled a bit further away.
Montaparte wrote two names on the board with a marker. “Based on our analysis of the sheets, the occupants who can teleport — Qyy and Plink — lack the means to kill a Pillar.” Then, she scratched the names off. “Nor does anyone else have the means to kill in this manner from a distance or with a time delay, or any other method.”
Of course, there was a wrinkle here, too. People apparently didn’t have to be truthful when disclosing their powers upon entering the train.
A loud scoff made Montaparte’s gaze turn to the engine caretaker. He looked surprised at the sudden attention. “Well, isn’t it obvious?” he grunted. “This is such a farce. You could have ended this nonsense hours ago. Omi, Poxie and Log were all sitting in carriage one, all knew the victim, and had a motive. Log had gotten herself into a fight with Fentanyle just the day before! Their alibis are worthless because they are in it together.”
Omi flinched at the accusation, but the caretaker continued, “Based on her sheet, Log is more than strong enough to kill people. She might be weaker than Fentanyle, but if she had the moment of surprise on her side? Trust? Doable. Now, the only question is: do I have Log thrown out of the train, or do we make her answer to the victim’s bereaved?”
“Log is certainly powerful enough to kill anyone on the train with the moment of surprise,” Montaparte cut in, “but you are forgetting the means of killing: Conjuring magic in someone’s heart. Log is a fighter. She could not have done it.” At least not from the information Montaparte currently had access to. She then wrote down more names under Qyy and Plink. “Of those with the means to have killed Fentanyle the way she died — Bell, Dema, Kaylay, Rita, Entrichia, Dr. Alp, and me — none could have entered the Lavish without being noticed. And there we have it.” She wrote down the remaining names, everyone on the train, then scratched each off with a note of what was missing; means, motive, and access.
“The conundrum!” Dema supplied with a motion of her arm that let out a tiny string of blood to splash onto the chalk board. A chalk board that now featured the names of all sixteen people currently on the train, every single one crossed out.
Montaparte sighed at the theatrics. “The conundrum,” she agreed. And… There was one more complication here.
It was that the engine caretaker was correct. Log and Fentanyle had fought. And Poxie, Omi and Log had lied. Montaparte was certain they didn’t commit the murder, but she also was certain they were hiding something still. They were weaving a fantasy.
And the only way forward was to figure out what really happened.
But now was time for lip service.
“There are still further avenues to pursue, more data to gather, which will take time,” Montaparte said. “For example, we need to thoroughly comb the train for other potential modes of entry to the Lavish, we need to scrutinise the sheets, we need to inspect people’s luggage for magical devices. At the start of the investigation this morning, I placed these avenues to gather data firmly in the realm of highly unlikely to produce results. But, by now? Our options are running thin; they need to be explored.” Montaparte motioned toward the board, to their work, to their evidence. “Because as of right now, it seems nobody could have possibly committed the murder.”
A thought that sent a shiver down Montaparte’s spine, and made her mind wander to a passenger who had declined to join this gathering. Someone who had eluded her attempts for an interview. Montaparte was keeping these ideas close to her chest, for if that passenger — dwelling among the stars in her own little world — noticed her furtive glimpses from underneath the clouds, Montaparte could end up in trouble.
A passenger with the power of Possibility. A woman who could amend the world.
Montaparte’s prime suspect.
