by Zac Funstein
“I’m not quite sure why this is important.”
“A fibre-is a fibre- is a fibre. Unlike prints, they cannot pinpoint an offender in any definitive manner. There must be other factors involved, such as evidence that the cilium can corroborate or something unique to them that sets them apart. But we are in luck we needn't try to do everything by ourselves. Strengths are developed in a community.”
“A community of those seeking additions to artificial fabric that’s incredible!”
“Naturally-least that’s how it comes across to us. Why am I telling you all of this? Simply because I want you to release yourself from the sensation that I or any other is in a special class from you... because we are not! The only difference is that some of us-like Gister may have got a little beyond us in the learning stakes. This is who will attempt to remove incoherence from our view.”
“Where can this Gister be found?”
“Gister is one of those who seek to generate an enigmatic image by remaining deliberately vague. All we have is a smartphone address we can leave a text then pray for the best.”
Gister replied not by phone but by the e-mail address that had been given.
Dear Varden,
You’re in luck.I wasn’t in the mood to do any testing but your name always makes us smile being how there was a Varden Circus that used to visit us when we were kids. It made a profound impression on us-which is a bit of a cliche but there you go. One act that always got to us was plate spinning-my mom was always telling us not to break crockery at home! These guys were getting to do it for free! The performer would start with a solitary plate spinning then add more until there was an incredible number going. I used to wish one of those plates to break but it never did. The way this actor used to rush from plate to plate making sure all were spinning-none rotating too slowly-was worth the entrance ticket. What always got to us was how this guy was getting himself in a panic whilst the audience were enjoying anticipating the worst-no one got up to help. They didn’t realise they had a shared resource going here-or that some were just stuck on to make it seem like they could fall off. If we can accept that if we try to get one plate to spin perfectly we can’t spin them all- then we are onto a winner. Such it is with fabric testing-if you cannot get bogged down with one method
logy but accept there are several then you will not go far wrong.
I understand your difficulty with the Schreiber case-I am busy at the moment but as soon as I can get to you I will. I cannot say fairer than that.
Sincerely Gister.
That seemed to be the end of the matter it was not anticipated to hear from him for some while-they only thing they could do was wait-until quite without warning the ringing of Varden’s entrance-bell was heard outside. The noise cut through you. Indeed it was more like the loud buzz, of a warning siren than a bell. Changing the batteries had quite clearly reset the bell to its default setting unintentionally-whatever that was. Xawa upon approaching however realised that something was seriously amiss. There was nobody outside or if there was (since someone had rung the bell this was a reasonable suggestion to make) they were standing aside slightly from the porch so they could not be seen.
The conclusion was drawn this was either a teenager high on crack or some derivative ( most probably both) mucking about-maybe a glitch from the aforementioned changing of the power-source.
“Who is it?” called Varden-opening up this late-probably wasn’t a brilliant move.
Inviting in a rapist or arsonist out there just itching to do whatever it was that turned them on did not thrill him.
There was only silence in response-a deafening silence that seemed to go on interminably.
Xawa tried again:
“Is anybody there-what are you so frightened about?”
It was like an umpteenth Scary Movie franchise-with some slasher just itching to be really mean maybe there would be an attendant creepy phone-call to make matters worse-some expanding aluminium packaging on a stove ready to explode its contents.
Having removed the box from its discrete position the casing was taken off the alarm-then the ‘test alarm’ diode hit with a pen. The same scratchy noise emitted as before.
The designers in lab-coats that made this probably got above themselves so that now you needed a degree just to switch it on.
Then the familiar shape of Gister was recognised slipping into view through the smokey glass. Varden welcomed him in. If Tyson had been expected dressed in a bland pullover, jeans, plus Nikes then you were in for a surprise. His cuffs on his sleeves plus the collar on his blinding white shirt was pressed sharply denoting laundry intervention. His single button tie-pin carried the same symbol in the center. Next to his folded umbrella was a large briefcase that reminded of a mobile office.
“Greetings Varden I here you have hit a bit of bother-with some loose pieces of material.”
Gister apologised for being late after going outside then switching off the engine of his car which had been running in anticipation-it was not sure if this was the correct address.
“Is it okay to film this Gister?”
A camcorder on a striped sofa rested on some cushions.
“I suppose-what I’m going show you isn’t particularly special-I’ve seen it on schools-TV sometimes-the education channel. Be my guest if you want some physical record-maybe someone else will benefit.”
As Gister arranged himself Xawa noticed his new arrivee was wearing a very expensive watch, platinum with diamond inlays, on the outside of his shirt close to the cufflink-it made him kinda smooth somehow. His checking the entrance every few moments gave a jittery air to proceedings-but the camera didn’t seem to bother him after a while.
Having arranged himself at the bureau-vanity then opened the briefcase to lay out the contents to check them item by item, it seemed Tyson was very pleased with himself having set his car keys on the glass top then started digging in his briefcase for the equipment that had been selected for the task— a regular Luger semi-automatic pistol (presumably for protection) , the other weapon a compressed-gas pistol that fired blank shells for some non-specific purpose. It was like this had been done a lot before. As his keys slid off the glass landing on the soft pile rug inside could be seen magazines, non- fiction, plus a fiction book ‘The Only Voyage’ (simultaneously humorous, poignant, plus impossible to put down, this is the story of Noël Lamare a boy who must summon the strength to save his family, his social life, plus—hardest of all—himself). There was another device however that caught Xawa’s attention that seemed like one of these freebies the electricity company gave out to check where there is most electricity wastage in the home.
“That’s known as the disturbometer-least that’s what I call it you must excuse the affectation-I’m not sure what the technical title is. It finds where there are potential disruptors to the burner reaching its full potential.”
“A burner I’m not quite sure....”
“That is what i’ve brought to use on the Schreiber sample. It’s an indulgence I suppose but I like to believe it helps purify the atmosphere.”
The disturbometer (or whatever it was really called) was run over all electrical implements in the near vicinity:- a digital clock, radio plus the burglar alarm that had given such concern earlier. The tall lamp of corroded bronze, with its heavy silk shade, that stood on a table in the angle of the room seemed to crackle for a while but that soon went silent.
“Seems okay-I don’t anticipate any residual difficulty Xawa.”
After putting this aside Gister was visibly shaking (possibly with excitement) as a compartment in the briefcase was opened-as the searcher began fumbling through. Finally, finding what was being hunted for eventually came: a little, scratched burner. It seemed inconsequential somehow-just a stupid burner like any school lab.
“Unfortunately, the scratches are deep, there is little that can be done to remove them. I try to polish the exterior for my wealthy clients but it doesn’t make much difference. I sh
ould get a new one-it’s an irrational attachment this goes wherever I do. We go together you might agree.”
Somehow it seemed in observing him that Tyson had multiple features, each fading then re emerging in subtle parody of itself. Tyson had seemed so inconsequential, as if the intruder might simply evaporate on the cool evening breeze-now his presence was very real tangible.
“Burning tests are just what they sound like-a small specimen is ignited-then the scientist-which is us who are kinda scientists I suppose watch how the sample burns if at all. What discharge is emitted-if any. Does the burning continue if removed from the source-that sort of thing.”
“So by burning some of the teenagers remnant we might determine what type of nylon it is?”
“That’s it-it will give us an understanding of the clothing that the assailant wore-which in court might assist in proving who was responsible. I trust that sounds okay-it seems reasonable enough.”
“From a quick perusal of your briefcase-Well, it sounds to us like you have read a lot of Shakespeare you have read a lot of Hamlet you have read a lot of fiction generally, maybe you can take facts make them sound, turn fact into fiction.”
“I have always seen fiction as counter to fact, poetry as counter to prose. Perhaps it's just semantics but my assumption is that poetry/ prose can deal with and delve into either fiction or fact which, in turn, can be presented in a new fashion.”
Gister can see that Xawa is nervous.
“Relax I’m not that kinda guy-sure I like escaping from humdrum existence but that is strictly personal-but I never get that caught in my professional life-that is sacrosanct.”
“So the residue is especially important I would never have guessed that?”
Gister brought out the alembic then lit the tiny burner. Having positioned the ring stand with glass cone over it, then attached the glass down tube plus receptacle-the mush flowed into a wide crucible that fit neatly about the glass cone. A wire brush is brought out then the pipes cleaned. His movements were slow measured, as if even such an inconsequential act as cleaning a series of pipes was not to be taken lightly. In this perspective an individual man Tyson seemed at best tragically heroic in his fight with a finally unconquerable giant; at worst his actions seemed merely puny/ inconsequential.
“The tiny orifice is prone to clogging by carbon deposits, decreasing combustion efficiency. A problem burner is obvious on a conventional stove, but heaters tend to be ignored once lit, faulty combustion may not be noticed for some while but it can be incredibly damaging. Now the caboodle if you would-in a perfect world you would need a pile of these made from preshrunk fabric plus a pile from unwashed fabric but what you have will have to do since it is all we have to go on?”
Xawa lifts up the nearby plastic cushion then inside the cover to the accompaniment of ripping sounds then stuck a sharply pointed implement into the joints in the plastic-work, looking for the hollow where this was hidden.
“It must be here somewhere-I always hide important traces lest they get stolen. There has been a lot of robberies recently. You’d be amazed what gets taken stuff you wouldn’t even believe that would be considered valuable.”
Tyson peers up at the burglar alarm discretely hidden in an alcove as per a diversion.
“Have you been broken into yourself?”
“Repeatedly, but they never find anything you can be sure.”
There is a ripping sound. “You’re in luck-here we are.” The plastic resealable sachet is found-then given over. “What happens next?”
“Place the charcoal in the burner, on top of the sand hold the flame next to the charcoal until you see tiny sparks moving their way across the charcoal. This is the proper/ safest way, but the most commonly used is known as the ‘Grafton Burn’.”
Quite what a ‘Grafton Burn’ was, was never satisfactorily explained.
Eventually after this request was acceded to a verdict of sorts was given:
“I believe from the residue given that what we have here is weave-nylon. Before you ask what it is-this is a particular type used not on its own but with other filaments usually for its durability.”
“There is a counterpart that is missing that should go with this?”
“We must found out what is somewhen-its a little early as of now.
After Tyson had gone Xawa savagely pulled off his tie, flung it somewhere, then like a great actor all but ripped off every button on his shirt, in undressing that was just how disturbed all this had made him. As the agent climbed into his pyjamas- for the first time in his life, Varden felt out of his depth, Struggling. Worried. Scared. Terrified the Schreiber case might be hurt by his incompetence. It was the tired old cliche about so much to find with so little to go on. Xawa wouldn't be able to live with himself, running from his friends, his family, his life. Knowing that he'd let the deceaseds nemesis get away might not destroy him, but the existence of it would eat away at him. What was worse was even if they had been competent/ thorough, this guy might still have eluded them.
‘Maybe I should re-run all the movies where the bad-guy got away with it,’ Varden exclaimed to Dexter on the phone. Since Tyson was a projectionist this seemed to be the theme. Xawa picks those which might even contain some lessons to be learned. Deciding to list the movies in alphabetical order, the interested-party writes down: ‘Anatomy of Murder’. A good flic but somehow not Schreiber relevant. Vardan moves swiftly on. ‘Arsenic ‘n Old Lace’? Not a good choice either-too drawn out for his taste. The deceased being murdered by a gang of old ladies didn’t fit in somehow. ‘Psycho’? The one responsible got away with it. ‘Sunset Boulevard’. Too generic-there wasn’t any LA ambiance here.
Varden still felt vulnerable/naïve in this city, in Canada in general which was new to him.
Like the elegant woman met in a slick city designer dress with smart makeup encountered the previous evening in the hotel-lobby with rough curls plus some kind of lacquer-product that made her mousse tinged stylist creation stand out from her yet still seem soft/ appealing Xawa was too open.
Xawa liked people; it was a fundamental part of his being. Yet, there were times when Varden wondered if being completely out of his depth with the Study of Man was a very distinct option. Ensconced in his austere little office sometimes working deep into the night Dexter seemed tired, thin, pale. A thick file was pushed aside for a moment; casually perusing the old file of Chief Gansen's must be dropped to read Varden’s e-mail.
Sympathy was not difficult for the hapless emissary. Dexter had been a teenager-just out of his depth at VU. He had felt compelled to challenge a professor, that brought him a lot of attention that wasn’t welcomed. There was no suggestion of being personally at fault-everyone said being called a ‘bad person’ wasn’t an option. His father eventually accepted him as a scrap-metal merchant, a trade known well, in which his sons never got out of their depth-that is one which would build the young Ducharme's confidence not destroy it. For a while at least it had been his support-then something new had come.
It was hot Varden felt unbearably ill at ease, eager to get out of the confinement into the fresh air; the e-mail was sent speedily to Dexter asking him to arrange a meeting where they could ‘ go over this together in a non-confrontational manner’. The last bit about ‘non-confrontational manner’ was even underlined.
The appointment came Dexter began examining his watch expecting the meeting not to materialize-the pointer dragged round the circular transparent plastic of the watch; Ducharme felt surprised to see the one invoked standing in the passageway. The slender figure was standing there looking around his office without actually seeing anything-at least that is how it seemed. It was like a virtual reality-as if Xawa saw everything as an alternative version-you couldn’t bump into anything the hatstand or the desk because it wasn’t real but a recreation. You might have loads of little buckets that you could put on top of one another because they weren’t real or full of anything. At least that is how it seemed.
Xawa was wearing jeans plus a blazer—perhaps the very same one he'd been wearing when in Henry's office (another ‘incident’). That Xawa seemed to be a little nervous to be here was self evident. If only the agent could be seen taking the elevator up- his anxiety would have been even more tangible.
“You may not believe this,” Dexter said calmly, “but I know exactly what you're going through as of now.”
“No, you don't,” Varden said, resentment pouring out of each word.
That for every idle jibe we must give an account to ‘his’ justice; that even the most innocent parts of our mirth are noted in the great- book side-by-side with the deepest characters of guilt from history, is what Xawa wanted to say, but something prevented this being expressed.
“Yes, I do. I've been on this earth, breathing in/ out, more than you. I know when you are tired, when your sensitivity is overridden by stress/ exhaustion.”
“I don't even know what I'm going through-there’s no way you can understand.”
Xawa wasn't sure about anything, but Dexter was correct. Going AWOL was in the offing.
Ducharme had some advice:
“Take a change of tack old chap. When you're completely occupied, when what you're doing sounds extremely interesting tell us about about your situation sincerely/ honestly, then let us know exactly how things are with you. From your letters I judge that you feel very much alone, Old Man, that at the moment in your continuum there can't be much that is too amusing.”
“Who will take over unravelling the Schreiber debacle?”
The body was already decomposed when the deputies had to use a special pallet to extricate her. Varden could see a crowd. Nurses, doctors, secretaries, visitors, priests, plus nuns had gathered there to pay their last respects to this little girl—a little girl—who had fought so bravely. Except it wasn’t a child as believed but a teenager passed the age of consent-about to set off into an adulthood that would never come. Just recently Varden had been reading about how spiritually we were all bound so wondered if the dead girl had something to say to him. His own mother died when her son was at puberty so the investigator was left, the eldest of several children, with only an alcoholic father to raise the siblings.
