Chapter Text
One labored breath, pressed against a red handkerchief.
Two matching rings, placed on the hands that grasped one another.
Three pairs of eyes—one belonging to God, the other two belonging to his devoted worshippers.
With a single vow, whispered like a secret; it was upon that holy ground that their love was made forever eternal.
They would never be parted.
Not by man, not by God, nor even by Death himself.
What a bittersweet promise it was.
-·=»‡«=·-
May 1876
"A person often meets his destiny on the road he took to avoid it." —Jean de La Fontaine
In a world where the old and the rich held tightly onto their purse strings and where young men like him hardly ever had a chance to rise above the poverty into which they were born, Kim Dokja was but one amongst many who made his fortune off of others’ misfortunes.
He wasn’t a sinful person by nature, but he did what he had to in order to survive—even if that meant stealing the clothes off another’s back.
He had an infinite number of childhoods; his parents were happy, divorced, fighting, abusive or dead. His father had been a banker, a road digger, a burglar or unemployed. His mother had been a drunk, a countess, a sally-home-baker or a tart. He was an only child, the last of eight, brought up in a foster home or the heir to a fortune.
A swindler, a conman, a crook.
He’d heard it all before.
But to him, what he did was not a crime. Not when the ones who he took from were those who had much to spare.
The rich were so blinded by their shiny new toys, their roaring locomotives, and their sky-faring palaces that they never looked too closely at those of the wayward underbelly. They believed their steel and steam made them invincible.
As such, he learned very early to use his pitiful looks as a way to inspire sympathy. And when he grew a little older and the lines of his face matured to a supple beauty, he found that the purely charitable sympathy he’d once inspired now became something else.
Likely, this also stems from his "exotic appeal" as they so called it.
An Asian jewel among the dusty English?
Nothing new of course, he just didn't bother to correct them when they so verily lumped him in with the Chinese immigrants of which had recently taken up space in East London. A misunderstanding after all, was just another tool for the trade.
And so it turned out that the one gift his parents had given him—his face—was a wonderful weapon, one that he could use to wring every last coffer from the fat purses of lonely old women with too much to spend and no one to spend it on.
He spent his years living a transient life flitting between one rich benefactor to another, well aware of the fleeting nature of love and riches.
Round and round he twirled upon the countless pristine dancefloors all across the country, pressing kisses into the backs of many perfumed hands, smiling prettily at every batted eyelash, suffering with each and every giggle he was forced to endure.
And then, when they had nothing left to give him, he simply exchanged the hands of one wealthy woman for another.
They were all the same, in the end.
That was what made it a dreadfully tedious life, at times.
But never had he ever envied the life of the other young men his age, who appeared to always marry far too early to the first gorgeous young thing who fawned over them.
In fact, Kim Dokja found young women—though pretty as a songbird and far more engaging in conversation than the old lords and ladies whose company he typically sought—were nothing but delicate, untouched dolls.
Beautiful to behold, only to grow equally gray and ugly with time.
Too many young men had wound up broke, miserable, with many children and nagging wives—all for the sake of this so-called ‘love.'
No, he much preferred the taste of caviar to that of stale bread and watered down soup.
To be rich was to be able to afford a life of indolence, where his only job was to laugh loudly and dote openly.
Such was a day like any other.
He stared down at his glass of wine, lazily swirling it within one palm until his attention was pulled away by a sweaty, iron grip upon his arm.
The room was affixed with the polite clatter of silver against porcelain, the soft rustle of expensive silk gowns, and the low, collective murmur of high-society gossip.
Kim Dokja forced a smile onto his face as his patron muse this month—Madam Strasbourg, a plain-looking woman with far too much hair in unspeakable places and a hideous smile—gestured toward him with her hand.
“... My Guwon is a wonderful dancer,” she bragged toward her posse of brainless sycophants, using his chosen pseudonym.
They stood within the grand ballroom of a sprawling Kensington estate, where the air was thick with the cloying scents of imported perfumes and burning beeswax candles. Any and all noise of the London streets outside were muffled by the velvet drapes which kept the cold night air at bay.
“In fact, that was how we met! Imagine my reaction when, amongst all of the beautiful young girls in the room, he came up to me, and asked for a dance. Tell them I’m right, dear. Tell them how wonderful our first night together was! He even told me that he’d ‘never met a woman quite like me before.' I could barely believe it. Me! At my age. Oh, don’t just sit there. Tell them yourself—wasn’t that what you said?”
“It’s true,” supplied Kim Dokja, turning toward her with a fond, lilting smile. One that was completely devoid of all sentiment, but it wasn’t as though she was bright enough to tell.
No, she was far too busy gloating to her friends, beaming with pride whenever one of them eyed him with lust and admiration.
The only person who didn’t join in the loud laughter and conversation was the young man sitting at the end of the settee across from him, also boredly nursing a drink in his own hand.
He seemed to be aware of something unusual, having eyed Kim Dokja from the very first moment they’d met, though not with a feeling he is used to.
Thankfully, he'd kept his mouth shut and had said nothing so far, looking too amused with the situation to break the illusion Kim Dokja had cast over his latest victim.
That didn’t, however, mean that he wasn’t willing to poke fun.
“So, Guwon, is it? Is that what you do for a living? You’re a dancer?”
“Ha, well,” Kim Dokja had a wry smile, “You see, I—”
“He not only is a wonderful dancer, he writes poetry as well,” interjected Madam Strasbourg, oblivious to how her interruption caused the smile on her young beau’s face to falter, “...and I must say that his poetry is far better than the hideous poems that the countess’ daughter recited last week!”
The old woman’s giggle ended in a loud snort, one that made Kim Dokja tighten his jaw.
He hid his displeasure by taking a long sip of wine, making sure that his charming grin was back in place by the time he pulled the glass away from his lips.
Not that it mattered.
The rest of their company continued to titter about gossip that Kim Dokja barely held any interest in.
“Speaking of the countess’ daughter, I heard from Lady Eliza last week that she’s been seen walking hand-in-hand with Lord Rayburry's son.”
“Isn’t he a serial flirt? What on earth is she doing with him?”
“Heaven knows. All Lady Eliza told me was that the two of them were apparently touring a charming little cottage in Whitechapel. A secret lover’s getaway, perhaps?”
“Whitechapel? Good lord, who would want to live in that decrepit old town? Eugh, so slummy."
“Isn’t that where the old viscount’s chateau is?”
“Who in their right mind would want to have a lover’s frolic right next door to a house full of ghosts?"
“Forget the ghosts! I’d be too terrified to invite any good company over if I lived next to a crumbling, ramshackle of a ruin like that! It’s disgraceful, what that house has become over the years! The viscount must be rolling in his grave, knowing that he’d given his chateau over to a poor beggar who can’t afford to spend a dime on repairing it to its former glory.”
“Oh, but I know the new owner and believe me when I say that is very much not the case,” spoke the young man on the settee. He was, on second glance, more sinewy than others, hair down to his shoulders, pin-straight and brown, with a matching goatee. His eyes were as dark as his waist coat, though it seemed he too, could use them for flattery.
Kim Dokja was not the least bit jealous.
Not of his looks, at least.
Of how wealthy he clearly was, perhaps.
He stared at him for a moment, noting the way he carried himself with a sense of confidence—not at all like the nouveau rich who always seemed to fall over themselves trying to prove their status.
“You know him? Well go on, Alfred, tell us more!”
The man leaned away, stretching out an arm across the back of the loveseat as he addressed the group with an arched brow.
“I don’t know him closely, but James Vernon was my uncle’s former patient. He is the only son of the richest oil tycoon in the old country. His late father passed his entire fortune to him after his death, which makes him far richer than most of us in this room.”
Kim Dokja’s curiosity was suddenly piqued and he sat up straighter, his mouth already drying and heart already palpitating in the way it always did when he found a new treasure to plunder.
He didn’t know a single thing about this James character other than what Alfred had just told the group; he didn’t know what the man looked like, let alone what type of man he was.
After all, none of that mattered to Kim Dokja.
His one true love was money.
“James Vernon? He’s the one who owns that house?” Someone else said. “Why, I heard that the year he graduated from college, he was considered the most eligible bachelor of his class; although, his personality apparently left much to be desired.”
“That’s right, that’s where I’ve heard of him before! I had a cousin who told me about meeting him once, a few years ago. She said he’d been very dismissive toward her. Very cold, ignored just about everyone around him, and had little interest in holding a conversation or getting to know anyone in his company.
"According to my cousin, he’s a wonderful pianist though—the youngest graduate of the Paris conservatoire, but he hardly if ever leaves that ghastly house of his. Oh! And when he did, he was always bundled up in thick coats even in the sweltering heat of the summer.”
“What an odd man. How was it that anyone thought him a desirable bachelor?”
“Well, apparently someone did. A few years ago, he announced his marriage quite suddenly, to an actress. Or was she a dancer? Either way, the girl wasn’t of a reputable family. Her mother and father were penniless vagabonds!”
“I’m sure she employed all of her acting skills to convince one of the richest men in the country that he was actually seriously in love with her. She did marry him for the money, did she not?”
“Another victim to another game of make-believe love," Alfred murmured, this time staring pointedly at Kim Dokja.
He looked away indifferently, unwilling to meet those shrewd eyes.
“Well now, let’s not claim to know who the real victim was in that marriage. After all, she did have to live with an eccentric in a manor full of cobwebs and ghouls.”
“His mother was a madwoman who claimed to be a medium. She actually believed she could speak to the dead! So who knows—perhaps James felt right at home!”
“Certainly so. At every morning meal, he probably asked the ghost of the late viscount himself to pass the sugar for his tea!”
The loud peals of laughter that followed only made him wish he were deaf.
“They weren’t married very long though, were they? I heard she died.”
“Yes, what a shame. They’d only been married for a year before sickness made him a widower. That poor man. Strange though he might be, it must be frightful to live in a house filled with the memories of a dead lover. No one deserves that.”
A widower eccentric who fell for a gold-digging prude.
Kim Dokja once believed it trickier to cheat those who’d been cheated before and had avoided such cases whenever possible; but the truth was far different than what he’d assumed. The most vulnerable were those who had indeed already been cheated—and who didn’t believe they could be tricked again.
Such was always the case.
The freshest of meat always tasted sweeter, but meat that had already been tenderized took away nearly half the effort of cooking it.
Alas, Kim Dokja was not into men.
“Sweetling, where has your mind wandered off to now?” the grating voice of madam Strasbourg roused him from his thoughts. “Are you bored of our conversation?”
“Not at all, my darling,” reassured Kim Dokja with a quick flash of a smile.
To seal the deal, he picked up her hand, kissing the knuckles with a lingering touch that had the old woman’s face turning a very unflattering shade of red.
His over-the-top gestures took attention away from the fact that his mind was already far off in a realm of his own.
-·=»‡«=·-
Many swindlers blew their winnings on cheap gin and brothel company, but Kim Dokja was meticulous with his spoils. He handled his capital like a banker, saved up his routes under the nose of the British Empire.
And so he’d known what his next course of action would be after the events of last evening. Had spent the better part of the fortnight running a stream of errands.
In the morn', he traveled to dear old Whitechapel and its congested ports, scouting the layout and affairs of the new viscount’s chateau for the next several days.
James Vernon was a peculiar fellow.
That was Kim Dokja's first thought as he stalked the man through the market.
Quiet.
Somehow shorter than he’d expected, but with a strange sort of presence that wasn't easy to be missed.
At the very least, the description he’d originally been given hadn’t been an exaggeration in the slightest.
There barely seemed to be a man there, hidden beneath the piles of thick fur that covered every inch of his body. Even his face was shrouded by a floppy fur hat, and Kim Dokja could only see the very tip of the man’s nose when he bent over to examine a bouquet of flowers.
The conclusion?
Either the man was terrified of cold and plague, or he was far too ugly to want to show his face in public.
Kim Dokja would learn which one it was soon enough, but first came the task of finding a way in.
He idled beside the florist’s stall, fingering the petals of a rhododendron as he strained to catch the sound of the man’s voice. But James seemed to be as silent as a statue, doing nothing but to point down at what he wanted as the florist attempted to make small conversation with him.
“Out on your own again, sir?” He had said, seemingly used to the other man’s stoic personality. “You know, it’s a shame your last butler didn’t stay for long. At least with one around, you wouldn’t have to wander out on your own in this terrible cold. You could always send your gardener, you know. Or are you looking to hire a new one, again? I know some folks who’d be eager for a job, if you need any names.”
The viscount never answered him.
Still, the florist appeared unbothered—or perhaps he was used to it. Either way, he wrapped up the flowers his customer had selected with newspaper. He tied it up neatly with some butcher’s thread and handed it over to the awaiting man who gave him one shilling in exchange.
“There you are, sir. When your gardener comes by later this week, you can tell him I’ll have the usual waiting for him in the back. Safe travels, Mr. Vernon.”
Hm.
Kim Dokja’s afternoons were a bit nicer at least, as he'd often been roped into conversation with a gentlemanly scholar in a top hat, frozen peas being tossed to the ducks on the River Thames.
Afterward, he'd spent several tedious hours inside a cramped, gas-lit print shop, bribing the pressman to help him forge a letter of recommendation under the fictional seal of a countryside baronet.
It was an exhaustive, unglamorous string of chores, but a successful conman knew that the Devil was always hidden in the mundane.
When the rush of plans had finally settled overmorrow, Kim Dokja found his feet pulling him toward a familiar, narrow storefront nestled just on the border where the wealthy districts bled into the slums.
It was a modest, independent bakery, its small windows fogged up with a rich, buttery warmth that offered a rare sanctuary from the damp and sulfurous air of the street.
The bell above the oak door gave a cheerful chime as he stepped inside, enveloping him in the scent of freshly baked bread and caramelized sugar.
"Ah, Guwon, dear! I wondered if I'd be seeing your handsome face today," a raspy, comforting voice called out from behind the counter.
An elderly clerk with a halo of soft white hair and kind, deeply wrinkled eyes beamed at him, wiping her flour-dusted hands on her apron.
He had long used her shop as a pitstop to decompress between his schemes, and over time, he had developed a sort of fondness for her.
"Good afternoon, Mrs. Gable," Kim Dokja replied, offering an easy smile. He leaned against the counter and glanced at the cooling racks behind her. "I hope the soot hasn't been treating your lungs too harshly today. I'm just looking for my usual, if you have any ready."
"For you? Always," she chuckled, reaching for a wicker basket with a pair of wooden tongs.
She deftly selected a couple of fresh Chelsea buns—the heavily spiced, currant-loaded sweet rolls that were currently taking London by storm.
Kim Dokja pulled a few bronze pennies from his waistcoat pocket and slid them over. "Keep the change, Mrs. Gable."
"Oh, you're a sweet lad, Guwon. Truly,"
She wrapped up the warm buns in a piece of coarse brown paper, but it seemed she was rather anxious about something. The old woman glanced toward a rolled-up copy of the daily paper resting on the edge of her workspace.
“Though I must say, I worry about a young man like you walking these streets. Have you looked at the news today?"
Kim Dokja paused, adjusting his hold on the warm paper parcel. "I can't say I have. I've been preoccupied with business all morning. Has Parliament passed another tax on the steam lines?"
"Frightfully worse than that, I'm afraid," Mrs. Gable murmured, leaning in close across the counter, her voice dropping to a cautious whisper. "Another body was pulled from the alleyways near the automated ironworks this morning. That makes five now and May has only just begun. The papers are calling it a horrific string of tragedies, but the local folks are starting to use darker words."
His eyes narrowed slightly at her meaning.
"Murders?"
"Aye. Cold-blooded," she nodded solemnly, hands twisting at the hem of her apron. "And the most awful thing about it is who they're targeting. Those poor beggars and dockworkers, the shoe-black boys and girls who have nowhere else to sleep but the cold cobbles. Such wretched things, being done to them... “
She sighed deeply, looking out the foggy front window toward the gray, iron-plated skylines of the city.
“The constables are doing next to nothing about it, of course. They never care much when it’s the impoverished folk.”
Kim Dokja can only hum in response.
“Such is life, I suppose."
-·=»‡«=·-
[ METROPOLITAN POLICE DISTRICT ]
ARREST REPORT:
CASE #: A3820-33
ARRESTEE’s NAME: Andras Haversham
CHARGES: Homicide, felonious assault, conspiracy to murder.
OCCURRED:
- Date: 25th April 1876
- Time: 0122 HRS
LOCATION OF ARREST: London Borough of Tower Hamlets, Limehouse
SEX: Male
D.O.B: xx xx xxxx
HEIGHT: 196cm
WEIGHT: 86kg
HAIR: Black
EYES: Grey
PLACE OF BIRTH: Stepney, London, England
CIRCUMSTANCES OF ARREST:
Division; Detective Branch (Special Occult Task)
Arresting Officers:
Detective Sergeant Yoo Joonghyuk (Warrant No. 1355)
Detective Sergeant Anna Croft (Warrant No. 4651)
VICTIM(s):
- Clara Blackwell
- Beatrice Langley
- Charles Brown
- Guo Yunsheng
DETAILS:
At approximately 22:56 on April 24th, 1876, the MPD received a call reporting suspicious activity in London Borough. Uniformed officers were dispatched to the scene to speak with the caller who identified themselves as VICTORIA BLYTHE.
Caller reported sounds of screaming, suspicious thumps and loud noises coming from a nearby alleyway, as well as seeing a tall, dark-haired male leaving the scene. No other significant identifying features were described.
Detectives Yoo and Croft briefed their supervisor BARAM HAWTHORNE and were advised to call for backup on their way to examine the scene. Four supporting officers, including fellow occult specialists Jung and Lee were dispatched for support.
Upon arrival at the scene, Detectives Yoo and Croft discovered the fourth body of a serial murder case; a young male of Chinese origin with multiple stab wounds. Initial reports cited upwards of twenty wounds per victim. Each victim was unresponsive on scene. EMS was dispatched to the location.
At approximately 23:22 on April 24th, 1876, MPD received another call reporting a suspicious man carrying a weapon in the nearby area, reportedly covered in blood. Identified male seemed to be acting calm and collected.
Detectives Yoo and Croft track down the suspect. Upon finding him, they discover ANDRAS HAVERSHAM, covered in blood and wielding a dagger on his person. Suspect was agreeable and compliant, answering questions without hesitation or signs of aggression. Suspect had no alibi, no reasonable explanation and was taken into custody without resistance.
AUDIO AND VISUAL TRANSCRIPT OF THE INTERROGATION OF ANDRAS HAVERSHAM FOR CASE A3820-33:
[ START ]
(Beyond the celluloid window are three people, centered around a metal table in a dark, concrete room. The space allows only one window and one door, both of them tightly secured.
There is no escaping this room.
In the middle of the screen is Andras Haversham handcuffed to the table. He appears to be relaxed and incredibly calm, a dark gaze fixed on one of the two detectives in the room with him. There is blood splashed on his face, all the way from his chin to the tattoo high up on his cheek.
It’s dry, clearly hours old.
It doesn’t look smeared, like he never once tried to wipe it away. Never tried to hide the evidence or make himself less conspicuous. The blood comes off in flakes, dusting his forearms and the table with red-brown crumbs with damning proof.
Most people—even most hardened criminals— get nervous when they’re in this room. They get fidgety, anxious, start telling lies to get themselves out of trouble. Offering to make deals to save their own skins.
Andras does none of those things.
Instead, he sits calmly in his chair, tattooed hands flat on the metal table, his gaze unerringly and eerily fixed on Anna’s face.
He does not blink and she does not flinch.)
D. YOO: Do you know why we brought you here?
(Detective Sergeant Yoo is a big man. Almost as tall as Andras is, and just as broad. He’s intimidating with his wild black hair and the uniform, a metal handgun strapped to his thigh within easy reach. And unlike his partner, he’s active. Pacing through the small length of the room, practically boiling over with energy.
Usually, it's Anna who does the talking and the manipulating as Yoo Joonghyuk isn't one to dilly dally. But what he lacks in communication skills, he makes up for with performance.
There have been quite a few criminals that admitted to their crimes as soon as Yoo Joonghyuk got up in their face, all demanding snarls and glaring eyes. Maybe it’s not strictly above board—because confessions under coercion are not admissible in court—but everyone in the department knows:
If you have a difficult case to crack or if you’re dealing with a hard criminal that doesn’t respond to normal questioning or if you’re questioning someone especially dangerous—
You send in Yoo Joonghyuk and his partner.
Andras smiles, tilting his head in a distinctly predatory way.)
HAVERSHAM: I would imagine it has something to do with the spree of killings that’s been going on recently. (He shakes his head in disappointment, tsking.) Such a dangerous world out there, don’t you think? Scotland Yard and the Metropolitan Police are so disappointing these days, oh but…. you’re not really with them, are you?”
D. YOO: Do you believe we arrested you as a suspect for those murders?
(There’s no response, other than a slow, chilling smile growing on Andras’ face.
After a moment of silence, Yoo Joonghyuk drops into one of the chairs offered, flips it around, resting his forearms along the back and straddling it with his legs spread wide.
It’s both a good and bad sign that Andras brought up the killings. Bringing it up unprovoked is practically a guilty confession. Maybe it’s him, maybe he’s the monster stalking the streets. Maybe they finally caught him after months of searching.
But if it is him… this case just got significantly more complicated. And dangerous.)
D. YOO: Is the blood yours?
HAVERSHAM: No, it’s not mine.
D. YOO: Who does it belong to, then?
(Andras moves in his seat, tattooed fingers spreading wide over the top of the metal table.
In later meetings, neither Anna nor Yoo Joonghyuk will define this movement as one of nerves. They will not say that Andras was anxious, but rather that he was settling in. Getting comfortable. He knew he was going to be here a while, better than any of them at the current moment.)
HAVERSHAM: Couple a’ people. Girls and guys, you know the sort.
D. YOO: What are their names?
(There’s something about Andras’ smile that is chillingly unhinged, the way it only seems to grow in the darkness of the room, like the flash of a predator's teeth in the middle of the night, a silent threat backed by the glow of focused eyes.)
HAVERSHAM: You tell me. You saw them, didn’t you? You touched them, didn’t you? (In the next second, his mouth opens, and even by written documentation, it’s easy to see that he takes a long, indulgent breath through his mouth, his polite smile dissolving into something meaner.) I can smell them on you. I can smell the blood.
(A moment of silence.
Two bags are then thrown onto the table, two separate sealed cases of gathered evidence. One contains the photo ID’s of the massacred victims.
The other bag holds a wickedly long knife, curving inwards on a lethal sweep. A killing weapon stamped with the ouroboros, carved for the sole purpose of slicing a life into pieces.
It is not a defensive weapon. It is not a steel that normal people would think of as something made to protect yourself. In fact, this type of blade is illegal in many places, purely on how cruel a weapon it is and because it is cursed with ritualistic magic.
That sight of it makes even hardened detectives shiver in sympathy, because that thing was made for gutting.)
D. CROFT: You’re not a man who is currently in a good position. I hope you understand this well. All you have to do is answer our questions.
(Andras raises a brow.)
HAVERSHAM: Have you asked me any questions? I hadn’t realized.
(Andras doesn't seem bothered about his circumstances in the slightest. Doesn’t seem remorseful or even care that he’s been caught or even trying to pretend to care. Instead, he almost seems amused and pleased.
Criminals that want to be caught are inherently the most dangerous ones, because they will do anything to bring attention to themselves. And Yoo Joonghyuk finds himself suddenly certain that this man wanted to be caught. He wanted to be here. He wanted to be arrested and brought into this room to be questioned.
The interrogation rooms always feel like a trap in the detectives favor—it’s designed to keep dangerous people contained, with metal tables bolted to the floor, rings designed to hold cuffed hands and feet, and with a door that only opens with specialized access, or in this case is currently protected by runes due to the nature of the case—but since this murderer so obviously wants to be here…)
D. CROFT: What were you doing in the borough two hours ago?
HAVERSHAM: Running a few errands.
D. YOO: What kind of errands?
(Andras shrugs, and the fact that he can be so blithe while cuffed to a table in front of two detectives is infuriating.)
HAVERSHAM: Nothing that concerns you.
(Everything about him concerns them now.
Yoo Joonghyuk shoves the ID’s over, forcibly tapping at them until Andras deigns to look down, his eyes blank and his expression unmoving.)
D. YOO: Do you know them?
HAVERSHAM: Not in any real sense of the word.
D. CROFT: So why did you target them? Why did you kill them? You just see a couple of poor young kids walking around and what? Need to prove yourself a big, strong man or something? You get off on things like that? Why’d you do it?
HAVERSHAM: Why shouldn’t I? No one could stop me.
D. YOO: We stopped you.
(Andras leans back further in his chair, seemingly unbothered that his hands are cuffed tightly to the table. If anything, he looks bored.
He looks over at Yoo Joonghyuk for the first time in a while—not because he seems frightened by him, but rather because he seems to know that the real danger in the room is not him—
But instead, the woman observing him with intense golden eyes.)
HAVERSHAM: Did you?
CROFT: Is that a confession?
HAVERSHAM: If you still need a confession, I would be sorely disappointed in the state of the justice system. Do I need to do your job for you as well as making it disgustingly easy?
(Anna leans forward then, arms crossed over her chest.)
CROFT: Why did you make it so easy? You didn’t cover your tracks well; you didn’t even dispose of the murder weapon. You were found loitering outside of a storefront, like you were waiting to be noticed. You didn’t struggle, and while you’re being a prick about interrogation, you’re also not denying anything. You were given the option to ask for a lawyer, you are entitled not to answer any of our questions—it’s almost like you want us to find you guilty. Why?
(Andras looks up at her, and even though no one ever told him he was being watched by a stenographer, he somehow manages to find the one facing him and looks directly at the window.)
HAVERSHAM: We all have our secrets, don’t we?
[ END ]
PENTONVILLE PRISON, FILE FOR INMATE
> ADMITTED: April 29th, 1876