Micro Industry's Arc

Chapter 2 of 14

The net weight proved the man died wrong. It did not prove who tied it. In the police station, the ice worker sat behind a table and denied everything. He said he found the body, nothing more. The detective watched Silas from the corner, arms crossed. She had told him plainly: if the accused walked, Silas would drown with him. He had a story from Wren and no way to prove it. He needed something real. He needed it today. Silas went to the back room of the boarding house. Amos Kettridge rented it, a blind clerk with a filing cabinet inked up his forearm. He had memorized every document ever filed in town. He charged a dollar per secret. Silas set the coin on the table. "The ice worker," Silas said. "When did he start that job?" Amos tapped the coin, then his own arm. "Filed his work permit eleven days ago. Before that, no record here at all." He smiled. "A man with no past usually left one somewhere." Eleven days. The body was three days old. The worker was new. Silas wrote it in his stained notepad and knocked the coin jar over. Amos did not flinch. Silas took the ferry landing next. Noel Trask ran the night boat, a gravel-voiced man with an oil-stained cap and a logbook on his dash. He saw every face that fled town after dark. Silas climbed aboard and nearly tripped on a coil of rope. "Careful, inspector," Noel said, not looking up. "People who rush usually fall." "Twelve days back," Silas said. "A stranger cross your river?" Noel dragged a thick finger down the logbook. He stopped. "One man. Paid double to come over quiet. No name." He turned the book. The date matched. "Same face that works your ice machine now. I never forget a face." Silas felt his chest go tight. A stranger, arriving right before the murder, hiding his crossing. He copied the log entry, hand shaking, coffee stains blurring the ink. He carried the notepad back to the station. The detective read it once. She read it twice. Then she walked into the room where the ice worker waited and laid the ferry log on the table. She named the date he crossed. She named the day he took the job. She asked why a man with no past paid to slip into town beside a dead one. The worker's face broke. He talked. He named a debt, a fight on the dock, a body he'd weighted so it would sink. It never sank. The detective stepped out and looked at Silas a long moment. "Your name's clear, Munk," she said. "But you brought me a confession I have to log as yours." She held up the ferry entry. "Now every soul in town knows you cracked it. And the chief inspector's watching. You wanted the badge. You just made yourself the one they measure against."