Chapter Text
“Who did this?” Elim tenderly nudges the toe of his boot against the endtrails of the unfortunate Mr. Bishau Groftbick.
The hefty, red-haired Human has been dead long enough for the stain of him to permeate the floorboards of his quaint brick townhouse. It’s a very sunny day, on the shore of Lake Michigan, just north of Chicago. The damnable air circulator is on at full blast, keeping the room well refrigerated. Garak will never understand the Terran fascination with being cold. They waste unquantifiable amounts of energy keeping their buildings 21 degrees exactly at all times of year. At least, however, it means the smell of rotten flesh isn’t unbearable yet.
“Newcomer, I’d wager. Everybody else thinks Groftbick is under your protection—missed payments aren’t exactly public knowledge. None of the old guard are that stupid.” Armis snaps his nicotine gum. He is not a physically imposing man. He’s a very dangerous one. He made a living as a highly skilled forensic investigator before his early retirement. He still has connections in police departments across the globe. A lot of important people owe him favors. He’s addicted to hydromorphone and fascinated with violence. Elim keeps both of these habits quite sated.
Armis is short. Thin. Incredibly pale and gaunt, with perpetual shadows under his eyes and hugging his cleft chin. He keeps his inky hair tied back in a loose ponytail. He typically dresses like an undertaker. In a sense, he is one.
He is Elim’s fixer. The one who is entrusted with solving problems and cleaning up messes. Elim is not particular about methodology. Anyone who was, would not associate with such a polarizing individual. Armis was kindly invited to leave his position at Scotland Yard after one too many instances of excessive cruelty. Elim does not care. Armis gets results. That, in Elim’s estimation, is the only thing that matters. Armis offers the added benefits of being reliable, discrete, and far more interested in the opportunity to indulge his sadistic proclivities than most amounts of money.
“Well, if you don’t have any useful information for me, why did you call me down here?” Elim smiles with a few too many teeth. He’s known Armis for nearly ten years now. One of his first useful acquaintances on Earth. Armis understands that it’s a bad idea to waste Elim’s time. Clearly there’s more to the situation.
“Thought you’d wanna see this. Not the body, c’mon.”
Armis waves him through the carnage-festooned living area and into the bedroom. It predictably contains a king-sized bed, dresser, two night stands, a small desk, chair, and a three-panel standing mirror. It’s a modest affair, considering the usual occupant. Groftbick always dressed so ostentatiously. It garnered assumptions of wealth. Of course, Elim knew perfectly well what sort of housing Groftbick could afford. He never went into business with anyone before gathering a complete understanding of their finances.
Groftbick’s untimely passing will be no great loss to his species. He was ugly, dull, and clumsy. He liked to take without asking, deny any wrongdoing, and offer simpering apologies if later caught in the act. Garak was actually planning to have him executed after the man paid a few more of his overdue bills.
On the desk is a cream colored envelope with a bloody scalpel stabbed through it. Well. The whole scene’s architect certainly has a flair for the dramatic.
“Addressed to you, Boss.” Armis nods at the envelope. “No prints or other residue on the blade, envelope, or anywhere else. Whole place must have been zapped.”
Elim pulls on a pair of nitrile gloves as a precaution before removing the scalpel and taking the envelope. It is indeed addressed to E. Garak of Garak’s Cloth Importers with embossed label tape. It’s sealed on the back archaically, with a circle of red wax. Elim gently breaks it open. There are two pages folded inside. Plain copy paper, made from plant pulp. He can already guess that the ink composition won’t tell him anything useful. It’s a standard sans-serif font. Standard size.
To Mister E. Garak,
I would strongly encourage you not to show this letter to anyone else. That is why I sealed it so ostentatiously. So you could be sure it wasn’t exposed to prying eyes. In fact, not to be cliche, you should destroy this as soon as you’re done reading it.
Elim snorts aloud.
“What’s so funny, Boss?” Armis prompts dutifully.
“Remains to be seen. Off to a good start, though.”
“This one’s dangerous.”
“Oh? The mess in the living room looks like a fairly standard hack job.”
“It isn’t.” Armis’ knees creak as he shifts back and forth on the balls of his feet. Nervous. Very nervous. “The killer surgically removed both kidneys, the gallbladder, the liver, and the pancreas while Groftbick was still alive. Then sewed it all back in before he died. Ribs are broken, show evidence of attempts at cardiopulmonary resuscitation and even a thoracotomy with cardiac massage. Lots of circulatory drugs in the system. Vasopressors. Epinephrine. Magnesium sulfate. Atropine. No sedatives whatsoever, so Groftbick was awake for some of it at least. The attacker must have shown up with a cooler full of blood bags or rigged some sort of auto-transfusion to keep it all going for long enough to do that much surgery. Whoever we’re dealing with is an experienced medic of some flavor or another, and they’re utterly insane.”
If Armis thinks an amount of torture is excessive, that really is saying something. The man has flayed more than one victim alive. Then again, a thoracotomy on a conscious and screaming patient is quite the mental image. Perhaps he has a point.
“I see.”
Elim reads on.
I know you won’t have come alone. I hope you’ve arrived before the authorities. I’m fairly confident you’ll manage it. You’re an intelligent creature and you surround yourself with useful henchmen. So, before you bring your compatriot(s) in on the fun, please allow me to make my case. I think you’ll be quite intrigued.
You don’t know me. You don’t know my family. I have nothing personal against you. In fact, I have given you a gift, in good faith, to show you I mean no harm. You were clearly no fan of Mr. Groftbick. He stole from you in broad daylight. Frequently. So I killed him for you, slowly and very painfully. You’re welcome!
I must confess, however, causing his death was not solely an altruistic action. You see, Groftbick got in my way. He had to be dealt with. His squandered life gets to mean something, in serving as a perfect illustration of how I deal with my problems.
You and I are in the same business. Fabric imports. So far, Mister Garak, you have not been a problem. I hope it stays that way. I like you. Been watching you for quite some time. You’re a cheeky bastard! Lovely sense of humor. You’re incredibly violent and you’re joyful about it. I think you’re jolly good fun. I would hate to make each other’s lives more difficult.
Still with me? Here comes the offer.
You already have a monopoly on silk, denim, and chiffon. Keep it. I get velvet, cotton, and linen. Anything we don’t already have in a chokehold, can be equitably split. All you have to do is stay out of my way while I pick everyone else off one by one.
How do you know I won’t pick you off too at the very end? You don’t! I don’t even know that! I have a lot of issues with impulse control, if I’m being honest. I don’t plan ahead too far because I’ll change my mind by the time I get there. But you seem like you can take care of yourself. You’re much broader than me, I’ll give you that one for free. Here’s another. I’m taller than you and much stronger than you would anticipate.
Don’t come looking for me just yet. Don’t send any of your little grunts either. I have better things to do with my time than kill them. But not to fret. I’ll send another letter soon.
Smooches,
Your Currently Secret Admirer
Well. That certainly read as the ramblings of a homicidal maniac. Elim lets his eyes skim the pages a few more times, memorizing the words before he pulls a lighter out of his pocket. He flicks the flint and holds the flame to the corner of the page. Armis watches him with a raised eyebrow and offers no comment. He’s a smart man, Armis. One of the few Elim has found in the smuggling business.
Silk, denim, and chiffon. Opiates, amphetamines, and cocaine. A generous offer. Or it would be if Elim didn’t already control those markets.
Velvet, cotton, and linen. MDMA, tobacco, and ketamine. Popular sellers all. Not Elim’s particular interest. A matter of supply chains. Tobacco is strangely complicated and the other two. Well. The dance party drugs brought a different clientele than the standard addict. Lots of variables. Lots of opportunities for complications. Elim didn’t want to bother with the fuss.
If the offer was to mutually look the other way and continue about business as usual, well, that was just fine. For now. He would sit back and watch for a while. Make his move before too many pieces get removed from the board.
Elim pulls out his silver cigarette case and pops it open. He selects one of his few remaining allowances of the day, and places it between his lips, flicking the case closed again and pocketing it. He lights the long, thin cigarette and inhales deeply. He exhales through the vestigial gills beneath his jaw. He had them split open for this exact purpose years ago. Intimidation.
“Armis?”
“Yes, Boss?”
“I assume the security system was wiped?”
“Correct, sir.”
“Any valuables stolen?”
“No, sir.”
“What kind of sutures were used on our dearly departed friend’s internal organs?”
“Not standard ones. Haven’t got the chance to run a chemical analysis yet. Looks a lot like cotton thread, though. Either white or already dyed red.”
“Make sure you get a sample. Take some pictures of the knife work as well. Has anyone else gotten wind of this?”
“No, sir. You’re the first and only one I called. I would estimate the time of death between midnight and three this morning. His PADD has been going off, but I think it’s still early enough in the day that nobody’s too worried. You know how he liked to sleep in.”
“Well, in that case, I feel it’s a lovely day for a good old-fashioned house fire. Don’t you?”
“Of course, sir.”
“I’ll send your usual supply reimbursement, along with a nice bonus if the police decide not to involve themselves in too much poking around.”
“You’re very generous, Boss.” Armis smiles, showing crooked but pearly white teeth.
“I want you to keep an eye on this matter at the maximum feasible distance. We wait and see. No action without my go ahead. If the quarry notices you, they will kill you.”
“Understood.”