The Silenced Tale, стр. 24
If he can have conversations with fictional characters; if his hero can be married to his sidekick; if the hero’s son can be mixed-race, and his spymaster’s wife can be Asian and very much not a damsel in need of rescuing; if dragons can be misunderstood victims; if everything Elgar thought he knew about the world he had created had been tipped on its ear; well, then . . . Elgar Reed can make jokes about blowjobs with gay guys, right?
Right.
The sound of the doorbell startles both of them.
Juan stands to answer, but Elgar pushes him back down. “I got it.”
Two officers stand in the space outside his door: a tall black man built like a linebacker, and a petite woman with a straight blonde ponytail and a look on her face that just dared you to call her, “Barbie.”
“This way,” Elgar says, before they can try to make awkward conversation. “Leave your shoes on.”
“Sir, we—” the woman begins, but Elgar cuts her off.
“Trust me. I can’t explain. You just have to see it.”
He stops at the threshold to the kitchen and waves them inside. The smell is stronger right beside the pantry, and he gags again, trying to hold it together. He claps his hand over his mouth, and backs away. Seeing it again, experiencing it again, shatters the false calm he’d been luxuriating in.
Yup. Definitely shock.
Both of the officers suck in surprised gasps, and then both begin coughing immediately after as the stench hits them.
“Lord!” the woman says, pulling plastic gloves out of her belt and snapping them on. Her partner copies her. “How long has it been here?”
“It can’t be more than a few hours,” Elgar says between gritted teeth. “It wasn’t there when I last opened the door, around noon.”
“But the smell,” her partner says, his face pulled into a grimace. “It’s like it’s been rotting there for days.”
“I don’t get it, either,” Elgar says. “I . . . I have to go . . .”
“Go, sit, we’ll come find you soon,” the male officer says, and then he’s speaking into his radio, calling for a forensic team while his partner inspects the windows and the patio door. She already has a fingerprint kit in her hand. Elgar has a swooping fear that the only sets of prints they’ll find belong to him, Juan, and the smudges from Linux’s nose.
Elgar realizes belatedly that he hadn’t let them introduce themselves. He hadn’t read their name badges, either. Surely this has to be some sort of catastrophic breach of protocol. The gripping, freezing fear crawls back up his spine. Because what if . . . what if . . .
“S-sorry,” he calls, without turning around. “I didn’t . . . I didn’t catch your names.”
“Oh!” the woman says. “I’m Lieutenant Riletti, this is Sergeant Jackson. And you’re Elgar Reed, correct? The wri—the homeowner,” she corrects herself quickly.
Through his fear, a little surge of writerly pride wells up, the smug satisfaction of being known a sweet balm, even with everything that’s happening in the kitchen. Happy to be dismissed, Elgar opens his living room window to try to encourage some fresh evening air into the place, then slumps down next to Juan. His assistant flings a corner of Aunty Lilah’s quilt over his shoulder.
He misses her suddenly, intensely and fiercely. She had been firm, but expansive and generous in her love, and he feels keenly alone right now. He’d give anything for one of her strong hugs right now.
It takes longer for the officers to investigate the pile of . . . that . . . than Elgar expects. He can hear them chatting softly to each other, and calling to others on their radios. Eventually, a whole wagonful of other people arrive—a forensic team, a photographer, and some paramedics who shine annoying penlights in his eyes, take his pulse, and make him drink water he doesn’t want.
And then the detectives are there, pulling Juan upstairs and Elgar into his office. Linux makes a fuss at them until Elgar sits in his desk chair, and the cat is able to scale his legs and tuck himself under Elgar’s beard. The detective is accompanied by Lieutenant Riletti, who seems to be squashing down her fannish glee at being in his inner sanctum well. Her expression has grown gray and grim.
After a quick look around the room, her ranking officer introduces himself as Detective Khouri and takes a seat on the tatty old sofa that Elgar keeps in the office for when he’s feeling lazy or needs to lay down while reading. The sofa is the last remaining piece of furniture from Aunty Lilah’s original apartment. Riletti tries to perch on the arm beside Khouri. When it wobbles under her, she stands back up, quickly.
Normally, Elgar would laugh at that—usually, it’s Juan who forgets the arm of the sofa is slowly disintegrating—but instead, he winces at the sinister groan the furniture produces. Okay, yes, he is officially out of the shock phase, and into the fear and worry.
“Mr. Reed?” Khouri says, and when Elgar blinks and turns his attention to the detective, it’s obvious that this isn’t the first time he’s said it.
“Yeah?”
“I said, we’re going to jump right into the questions. Is that okay?”
“Yeah.”
Linux meows pitifully and snuggles deeper. Elgar runs his hands down the fragile little creature’s back.
Khouri asks about Elgar’s friends, his family, if any other incidents have occurred, and Elgar, shaken and uncertain, answers with one-word