![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
"Barely Describable"
May. 24th, 2022 08:43 pm"Barely Describable"
7/17/2007
I.
Early in the morning on an already muggy July day, Jeremy Bane pulled into the visitor lot of the Wessex County Jail in Lewiston. Southern New Jersey, only twenty miles from the Atlantic Ocean, was way out of his usual territory but he had been phoned in the middle of the night by this sheriff's department. The Dire Wolf parked his Subaru Outback and scowled at the new building facing him. He was annoyed that the sheriff's office had only given him enough scanty details to arouse his curiosity. Someone here knew about his career in the Midnight War and how the NYPD had been using him as an unofficial vigilante for years. Maybe Lt Montez had been talking to these officers?
Bane strode across the parking lot, up the wide stone steps and through a glass door into a small nook where he faced a steel door with a window set in it. To the right was a bulletin board with notices tacked up, to his left was a wall covered with statements about visiting hours, rules over what could and could not be brought in, and a list of useful phone numbers. There were two security cameras high up in the corners. The Dire Wolf moved to grasp the handle of the inner door, which unlocked with a buzz just before he touched it. They had been expecting him, of course.
Unreasonably annoyed about the whole situation, he stepped into a lobby with some chairs and a short table against one wall, twin vending machines for coffee and snacks, and a television mounted on the wall that was set to the Weather Channel. No one was present in the lobby but then it was just getting light outside. To his right was an enclosed booth in which a heavyset uniformed officer sat and watched him through bullet-resistant glass.
"I'm going to need to see some ID, sir," the officer sat mildly. He was evidently getting near retirement age, with thinning hair combed over to make the best of things. Bane removed his Private Investigator license from his leather billfold and slid it into a metal cup at the base of the booth's counter. The officer gave it only the most cursory examination before returning it. "Thank you. Right through the door to your left, please."
Following instructions, the Dire Wolf opened the door and was met in the hall beyond by a very tall man in a dark blue suit with a red tie. The detective had to be at least five inches over Bane's six feet height, and much wider. Where Bane was lean and wiry, this detective was built like a football player. He reached out to shake hands.
"Good to meet you at last," the man said. He had the short-cropped sandy hair and bristling mustache that went with his pale freckled skin. "Good morning. I'm Detective Louis Wenzel. Joe Montez recommended calling you."
"I was wondering if he was behind this," Bane answered. "I wasn't given much information to work with on the way here."
"First, I want to thank you for driving down here so early. And, as Joe reminded me, I should make it clear that you are here in an unofficial capacity as a civilian advisor."
"I know, I know. This is all off the record and never happened as far as anyone would admit. That's been the way my dealings with the Manhattan force have been for years now." Bane was trying to keep irritation out of his voice but he was impatient at the best of times and he just wanted to get on with it.
The tall man gestured at a door down the hall. It had a frosted glass pane and the number 4. Next to the door was a folding metal chair with a styrofoam cup of coffee sitting on it. "We have a man under arrest for shooting a cow. The incident took place in a field outside Blythe Corners, owned by a farmer named Sheehan. He heard the shot but by the time he got pants on and ran outside, a dark pick-up truck was tearing off up the road. The bed of the truck was covered with a canvas and something big was concealed under it.. big enough to be his missing cow Cissy."
"Cows have names?" Bane asked.
"Sure, farmers spend a lot of time with them and get used to talking to their herd. An hour later, two of our officers located a truck matching the description returning to that spot from a different direction and pulled it over. No cow. The canvas was gone, there was no blood present in the truck bed. Our suspect barely speaks English and has made one phone call so presumably his lawyer or a family member is on the way now."
Bane raised one eyebrow. This was an odd crime. Inexperienced hunters sometimes shot a cow by mistake, but they weren't planning to load the huge carcass and make off with it. "Cows weigh at least a thousand pounds. He must have had a few men helping him."
"Well, we're not getting anywhere. Joe Montez told me a long time ago about your success handling crimes that are, well, weird and unusual." The big detective seemed eager to hear Bane's reaction. "I thought maybe you'd be interested."
"Fair enough," the Dire Wolf replied. "Let me get a look at the guy."
Detective Wenzel opened the door and ushered Bane into a typical interrogation room. The long table with four chairs around it, the soundproofed acoustic tiles, the dark pane of glass on one wall through which people in the room beyond could watch without being seen. There was a painting of mountain scenery, evidently to give prisoners something to look at while waiting.
As soon as he saw the thin, dark-skinned man with tightly curled hair and that distinctive narrow hooked nose, Bane suspected he was facing a native of Danarak. The prisoner wore unremarkable clothing of work shoes, dark jeans and a red flannel work shirt. He had a cheap wristwatch but no jewelry although Bane noticed his right ear was pierced and he had the edge of a tattoo showing on the back of his neck just above the collar.
Speaking in Jufari, the most common language of Danarak, Bane asked, "Are you a son of Bakwanga by any chance?"
The African gave a start as if he had been splashed with cold water. He stared at this newcomer, this gaunt man with cold grey eyes and pale skin who nevertheless spoke Jufari. "I- No, I am not Bakwanga, I am from the hills."
"I have been in your country many times," Bane went on. "Bakwanga Kwali, the Cat's Claw, was a good friend until his unhappy passing. What are you doing in America?"
"You knew the Black Lion? Yes, I heard he traveled and fought alongside Tel Shai knights. But I should say no more."
"Oh come on already!" Wenzel interrupted in prosaic English with a Jersey accent. "If you're going to be rattling on in Swahili, at least fill me in."
"Not Swahili," Bane said. "This man is from a Western Africa nation called Danarak. It's not in the news often. One of my partners was from his country. So far we're just introducing ourselves." Turning back to the prisoner, Bane said in Jufari, "I am called Dire Wolf."
"You- you are the white man who killed Arem Kamende?"
"Yes. Your name is...?"
"Kibba, from the hills. My tribe is the Umari. We are few in number now. But no. I should not speak. Whether you knew Cat's Claw or not, I should await my leader." The man folded his thin hands on the table and stared down at them. Bane asked him a few more questions but received no replies.
Turning back to the tall detective, Bane said, "He's waiting for someone, probably the man who brought him here. I guess you don't arrest many genuine Africans."
"What's eating at me," Wenzel snorted, "is wondering what he did with the cow."
( the rest of the story )
7/17/2007
I.
Early in the morning on an already muggy July day, Jeremy Bane pulled into the visitor lot of the Wessex County Jail in Lewiston. Southern New Jersey, only twenty miles from the Atlantic Ocean, was way out of his usual territory but he had been phoned in the middle of the night by this sheriff's department. The Dire Wolf parked his Subaru Outback and scowled at the new building facing him. He was annoyed that the sheriff's office had only given him enough scanty details to arouse his curiosity. Someone here knew about his career in the Midnight War and how the NYPD had been using him as an unofficial vigilante for years. Maybe Lt Montez had been talking to these officers?
Bane strode across the parking lot, up the wide stone steps and through a glass door into a small nook where he faced a steel door with a window set in it. To the right was a bulletin board with notices tacked up, to his left was a wall covered with statements about visiting hours, rules over what could and could not be brought in, and a list of useful phone numbers. There were two security cameras high up in the corners. The Dire Wolf moved to grasp the handle of the inner door, which unlocked with a buzz just before he touched it. They had been expecting him, of course.
Unreasonably annoyed about the whole situation, he stepped into a lobby with some chairs and a short table against one wall, twin vending machines for coffee and snacks, and a television mounted on the wall that was set to the Weather Channel. No one was present in the lobby but then it was just getting light outside. To his right was an enclosed booth in which a heavyset uniformed officer sat and watched him through bullet-resistant glass.
"I'm going to need to see some ID, sir," the officer sat mildly. He was evidently getting near retirement age, with thinning hair combed over to make the best of things. Bane removed his Private Investigator license from his leather billfold and slid it into a metal cup at the base of the booth's counter. The officer gave it only the most cursory examination before returning it. "Thank you. Right through the door to your left, please."
Following instructions, the Dire Wolf opened the door and was met in the hall beyond by a very tall man in a dark blue suit with a red tie. The detective had to be at least five inches over Bane's six feet height, and much wider. Where Bane was lean and wiry, this detective was built like a football player. He reached out to shake hands.
"Good to meet you at last," the man said. He had the short-cropped sandy hair and bristling mustache that went with his pale freckled skin. "Good morning. I'm Detective Louis Wenzel. Joe Montez recommended calling you."
"I was wondering if he was behind this," Bane answered. "I wasn't given much information to work with on the way here."
"First, I want to thank you for driving down here so early. And, as Joe reminded me, I should make it clear that you are here in an unofficial capacity as a civilian advisor."
"I know, I know. This is all off the record and never happened as far as anyone would admit. That's been the way my dealings with the Manhattan force have been for years now." Bane was trying to keep irritation out of his voice but he was impatient at the best of times and he just wanted to get on with it.
The tall man gestured at a door down the hall. It had a frosted glass pane and the number 4. Next to the door was a folding metal chair with a styrofoam cup of coffee sitting on it. "We have a man under arrest for shooting a cow. The incident took place in a field outside Blythe Corners, owned by a farmer named Sheehan. He heard the shot but by the time he got pants on and ran outside, a dark pick-up truck was tearing off up the road. The bed of the truck was covered with a canvas and something big was concealed under it.. big enough to be his missing cow Cissy."
"Cows have names?" Bane asked.
"Sure, farmers spend a lot of time with them and get used to talking to their herd. An hour later, two of our officers located a truck matching the description returning to that spot from a different direction and pulled it over. No cow. The canvas was gone, there was no blood present in the truck bed. Our suspect barely speaks English and has made one phone call so presumably his lawyer or a family member is on the way now."
Bane raised one eyebrow. This was an odd crime. Inexperienced hunters sometimes shot a cow by mistake, but they weren't planning to load the huge carcass and make off with it. "Cows weigh at least a thousand pounds. He must have had a few men helping him."
"Well, we're not getting anywhere. Joe Montez told me a long time ago about your success handling crimes that are, well, weird and unusual." The big detective seemed eager to hear Bane's reaction. "I thought maybe you'd be interested."
"Fair enough," the Dire Wolf replied. "Let me get a look at the guy."
Detective Wenzel opened the door and ushered Bane into a typical interrogation room. The long table with four chairs around it, the soundproofed acoustic tiles, the dark pane of glass on one wall through which people in the room beyond could watch without being seen. There was a painting of mountain scenery, evidently to give prisoners something to look at while waiting.
As soon as he saw the thin, dark-skinned man with tightly curled hair and that distinctive narrow hooked nose, Bane suspected he was facing a native of Danarak. The prisoner wore unremarkable clothing of work shoes, dark jeans and a red flannel work shirt. He had a cheap wristwatch but no jewelry although Bane noticed his right ear was pierced and he had the edge of a tattoo showing on the back of his neck just above the collar.
Speaking in Jufari, the most common language of Danarak, Bane asked, "Are you a son of Bakwanga by any chance?"
The African gave a start as if he had been splashed with cold water. He stared at this newcomer, this gaunt man with cold grey eyes and pale skin who nevertheless spoke Jufari. "I- No, I am not Bakwanga, I am from the hills."
"I have been in your country many times," Bane went on. "Bakwanga Kwali, the Cat's Claw, was a good friend until his unhappy passing. What are you doing in America?"
"You knew the Black Lion? Yes, I heard he traveled and fought alongside Tel Shai knights. But I should say no more."
"Oh come on already!" Wenzel interrupted in prosaic English with a Jersey accent. "If you're going to be rattling on in Swahili, at least fill me in."
"Not Swahili," Bane said. "This man is from a Western Africa nation called Danarak. It's not in the news often. One of my partners was from his country. So far we're just introducing ourselves." Turning back to the prisoner, Bane said in Jufari, "I am called Dire Wolf."
"You- you are the white man who killed Arem Kamende?"
"Yes. Your name is...?"
"Kibba, from the hills. My tribe is the Umari. We are few in number now. But no. I should not speak. Whether you knew Cat's Claw or not, I should await my leader." The man folded his thin hands on the table and stared down at them. Bane asked him a few more questions but received no replies.
Turning back to the tall detective, Bane said, "He's waiting for someone, probably the man who brought him here. I guess you don't arrest many genuine Africans."
"What's eating at me," Wenzel snorted, "is wondering what he did with the cow."
( the rest of the story )
