Web of the Weaver: Sidestory, Mysterious Death in a Gray Boy Zone! The first Interview Begins!

Agent Stimmons was an older man, walking with a slight limp. He met me at the arrivals terminal, and looked around.

“We have a secure place for your to dress,” he said.

Granted most people knew, or at least those in a position to care, but the formalities had to be observed. I nodded. “I’m ready. I had to leave much of my equipment back home, but this is an investigation so hopefully I won’t need to…”

“Shoot an Endbringer in the face?” He raised one eyebrow.

“That would mean the investigation had gone off the rails, yes.”

Something like a stifled laugh escaped him.

Huh. It wasn’t the first time since I’d adopted this persona that people laughed with, instead of at me.

I could get used to it.

But I quickly dressed, and let the mannerisms of The Investigator fall over me. I would have no ability to fall back on Orb Weaver, and I would have to be very careful about using my bugs.

Which actually made this a very good exercise, hopefully for relatively low stakes, where I could stretch my “mundane” abilities, via my own skill and little devices to let me cheat.

I touched one such device in my pocket. A simple set up—three LED’s, red, yellow, green. Hooked up to a switch I’d installed in my shoe. Lie, half truth, truth. A lie detector—or at least that was what I would sell it as.

After all, everyone knew that every parahuman could casually grab tinkertech and tinkertech could do anything.

And I wasn’t obligated to tell the whole truth.

*****

The O’Grady’s house was in a better part of town, a nice home, a few toys on the lawn speaking of a younger child. The welcome mat was a humor mat—“Bless this Mess” with the “bless” crossed out and underneath it “God Help” added. 

Agent Stimmons knocked on the door, and a heavyset man answered it. “You.” He glared at Stimmons in his PRT uniform.

I took the opportunity to look at him. Bags under his eyes. His clothes were wrinkled, probably from sleeping in them. He had clenched his hands, and I decided to short-circuit any confrontation by stepping aside from the agent.

“Mr. O’Grady?” I said. “I am The Investigator. I’ve been hired to attempt to bring some closure to this… tragedy.”

“It wasn’t a tragedy, it was murder. Heartbreaker got to my kid, and they’re doing nothing.”

A relatively widely known Master, who enjoyed playing games. The kind a grieving father would immediately latch on to as a way to explain a horrific tragedy.

I would have to step very carefully. My research made it plain how such attempts at rationalization  could easily lead their holders down an endless rabbit hole. After all, if his son was a victim…so was anyone attempting to tell him he was wrong.

“Mr. O’Grady,” I said. “I investigate, and I do not start by making assumptions of any type. I would like to interview you. I am here to determine what happened, not in the service of the PRT, but as an outside consultant. If your son was Mastered… I will work to bring the villain to justice.”

He snorted. “Come in,” he said, glaring at Stimmons.

The PRT probably told him Heartbreaker was nowhere near here.

Inside, I met Mr. O’Grady’s wife. She was attractive, but her hair was now messy, her eyes hollow, as she twisted her hands. A toddler’s crib sat in the living room with pictures. Three children. I’d learned that from my research, but seeing them on the wall, in pictures, Michael with some kind of sports trophy, a younger girl, about 10, riding a horse, the picture of a smaller toddler at her first birthday…

They made it real.

“This is my wife, Madlyn.”

“Thank you, Mr. O’Grady.”  I saw a girl looking around the corner at me, about 11. Her eyes were bloodshot.

“Can I get you something? Coffee… Tea?”  Ms. O’Grady was clinging to her manners like a drowning woman. Mr. O’Grady was still glaring at Agent Stimmons.

“Agent Stimmons,” I said. “If you wouldn’t mind, since I’m not being hired to work for the PRT, but as an outside investigator, I think that some of my discussions with the family should remain confidential.”

Agent Stimmons nodded. “But if you find any evidence of Parahuman involvement?”

“I will immediately let you know. I underestimated a Master once, never again.”

Once he left, I nodded. “Tea, if it isn’t any trouble.” I looked at Mr. O’Grady. “Before we continue, understand I will try to find the truth of this situation. It may not be comforting.” 

The man’s jaw worked, but he nodded. And he didn’t burst out again to blame Heartbreaker. I wonder if he knows this isn’t the case but needs…something.

When the tea was provided, the O’Grady’s sat across the table from me. The child, Jenna, from my records, hugged her mother, before getting into her lap.

Common. Many children reacted by trauma by trying to seek out close contact, or regressing in their behavior. That wasn’t from this case. I’d done quite a bit of research as part of my tutoring duties.

“First,” I said, “Let us rule out the impossibilities. Your son was not using drugs. That is a fact.” The autopsy proved that.

“Tell that to the cops!” Mr. O’Grady said. “Is Michael high often! Are you sure he didn’t have a drinking problem, are you—“

“David,” Madlyn said, as Jenna huddled into her, turning her face from her father.

“I’m sorry.” He visibly mastered himself. “This has been a trying time.”

“I…” I paused. “Thank you.” I wouldn’t give him platitudes like ‘I know’.  I had never lost a child. I didn’t know, and hopefully never would. “First of all, I’d like to discuss when his behavior started to change. Both here and if you know, at school.”

“Maybe Jenna should—“ Gladys started to say.

“No!” Jenna said, gripping her mother tightly. “I don’t…”

“If things become too difficult, we can take a break,” I told them. Then I looked at Jenna. “Jenna, do you know who I am?”

“You shot Leviathan in the face. We saw it at school, and you beat up some guy named…Kaiser?”

Some guy. Even in these depressing surroundings, I saved that memory. ‘Some guy’. 

“Yes. But I have friends, and they tell me when I need to walk away from something that scares me, to take a break. If you become nervous or too sad, tell us. Keeping those thoughts to yourself doesn’t help. So do you really want to stay?”

“I wanna… I yelled at him, before, before…” She sniffled.

Fuck. 

“It wasn’t your fault, Jenna. Trust me, I’m a Thinker and I can tell you that above everything else. It wasn’t your fault…”  And maybe your father has a more pragmatic reason to blame everything on Heartbreaker. I put a sarcophagus recorder on the table, one of the fruits of my bounty from the E88. “Shall we begin? I’m trying to create a timeline here, and I understand how painful this is, so hopefully you’ll not have to recount events to me twice.”

Mr. O’Grady took a deep breath, reached over and gripped his wife’s hand, then nodded. “Okay.”