The Investigation (Interlude) Stalking Venus chapter 4 by Paok

Egon, the detective who appeared at Tristan’s door, was a sharp-eyed, gel-haired fellow with an air of utmost confidence and professionalism. His eyes were sun-yellow, bright, and piercing. His red hair was coiffed into a pointed bulb, an all-business, masculine, but slightly old-fashioned style. His face was striking and shapely, with his forehead pronounced, and pointed, sharp cheekbones. His perfectly chiseled jawline was covered in attractively short stubble, and he walked with the straight, upright poise and shit-eating grin of a politician.

 

Tristan had been eyeing the fellow with apprehension ever since he had arrived, stated matter-of-factly that he was with the police, that Ashley was missing, that he wanted to talk, and if he could come in, please. Normally, he wouldn’t have let anyone in, regardless of the circumstances. But Egon was with the police; not letting him in would be suspicious. He wished he had worn something more fancy than his naturally light-brown lichen-burlap chemise and trousers, but he no longer owned much else in the first place. Gone was the satin cottonwood finery of his parents, dyed royal-blue and made to his exact measurements and taste.

 

He was afraid that Egon would somehow be put off by the rank and musky smells or the countless decorations of Venus, and find them somehow incriminatory. How was he going to handle this? What did the man know about Ashley? Was he already under suspicion? Tristan nearly forgot to answer the question of the man waiting patiently in the doorway.

 

“Of course, officer. Please come in.”

 

“Ah, thank you. Solande,” he’d said, taking a low bow. The commoner’s greeting towards the higher class. One of the religious greetings, it meant God be with you. The detective’s gelled red hair didn’t move an inch as he bowed low, lower than his waist, and rose back up. Tristan found it annoyingly performative – they both knew Tristan no longer belonged to the upper echelons of society.

 

Had Egon been unaware of his debased class, he would have been tipped off by Tristan’s clothes, and by the sparse living space. The main room of his home held only a table, some chairs, and a bare kitchen with an icebox and empty counters and cupboards. His writing nook was covered in piles of poems and notes, and his forager’s pack and tools were kept in a corner on the floor. The room was dimly lit by the flickering LEDs of the giants, common in most homes unless candles were preferred. The walls were adorned only by his endless drawings of Venus’s neck from behind, various keepsakes of hers, and on the wall beside the seating table was his large reproduction of The Creation of the Goddess.

 

As Egon strode in, smiling, he didn’t react to the sparse interior decoration or the smell of a living space never cleaned. He bowed again unnecessarily when Tristan asked him to sit. Stately and quiet, he lowered himself into the cardboard chair opposite Tristan, and produced a spiral-bound notepad and pen from the inside pocket of his trench coat. He brought nothing else except his permanent wide grin. The painting took up the whole wall beside them.

 

Egon wore a perfectly tailored gray trench coat that accentuated his svelte but slightly muscular physique. Its coattails danced elegantly in the air with each stride. On the breast of his trench coat were two shining metal symbols. One was the starred twin shields of the local police, bearing his name rendered in gorgeous raised calligraphy. Above it was the interlocking gold, silver, and green-copper spirals of the Church of the Voice. Both were polished to a mirrorlike sheen. Egon spoke in a gravelly, low, and commanding voice, with each syllable perfectly and carefully enunciated, as if each one meant the whole world, and as if no one needed to hear those words more than Tristan.

 

Tristan noted that Egon seemed to be a professional and focused sort of fellow. Unlike the others, he hadn’t made snarky comments about the living space, and his eyes hadn’t lingered on the decor. Still, he was a professional policeman. Tristan was concerned.

 

Egon smiled at Tristan. “Thank you for the hospitality, master Tristan. Not everyone is as nice as you, you know. Let’s get started, shall we?” He flipped to the middle of his notepad and tapped at it with his pen. “Tristan Syphaeus… About 12 years old… Fourth son of the Syphaeus family… Forager… Lives alone. Originally from West Ristle. Is that right?” The detective eyed his notes up and down, and for a brief moment he let slip a look of annoyance. He had so few notes on Tristan.

 

“That’s me,” Tristan replied. He tried hard to maintain his blank expression without breaking out in sweat.

 

“Ahh, the Syphaeus family of Ristle? Your parents are mistress Rebecca and master Marcus, are they not?”

 

“They are.”

 

“Yes, I’ve read about them. They were in the paper last week. They recently donated 3 million olons to the West Ristle Museum of Modern Art.” He tapped his pen rhythmically against the notebook. “They’re the biggest donors for the new orphan program there. There was a dinner honoring them. You have rather philanthropic parents, master Tristan.”

 

“...I suppose.”

 

Egon glanced up from the notebook, grinning with his huge teeth. “Yes. So… ahem, not one for small talk, are we. I can appreciate that as a detective. Well, let’s get down to brass tacks. Now then.” He flipped to another page in his notebook. “Ashley Greenbalm.” Egon pronounced the name carefully, as though he was speaking to a child. “Also known as Ashie, also known as LeyLey. Do you know her?”

 

“Yes,” Tristan said. “Um, yes, sir.”

 

Egon waited, but nothing more came. “So, then, master Tristan. How do you know her?”

 

“She,” Tristan carefully considered his next words. He wasn’t one for calculating conversations like this. He had absolutely no idea how to maneuver here. What if Egon baited him into a trap, and he contradicted himself? He was sure that if he said anything substantial, Egon would pounce on it like a lion. This guy was clearly experienced. In a league beyond Tristan. He was being polite now, but surely this was just a ruse to make him comfortable enough to let something slip. But how to avoid that? For now, at least, he hoped that avoiding saying anything more than basic facts would suffice.

 

“She liked me. She... followed me around for a while.”

 

“Ah, I see.” Egon, staring at his notebook, pen in his teeth, betrayed just a hint of surprise. “Well, that’s interesting. I was sure you two were friends.” He crossed out something on the page.

 

“No,” Tristan stated as plainly as he could. Egon was aware that they knew each other? He started to sweat. Had he already lost? So quickly?

 

“When’s the last time you saw her?” Egon seemed much more serious now. He balanced his pen in two fingers. It pointed at Tristan.

 

“I… I’m not sure.”

 

“You don’t remember?”

 

“I don’t know. Maybe at my Ghokaghola.”

 

Egon stared at him, frowning, his eyes suddenly wide and round. Tristan could clearly see the circular edges of his round eyeballs, and his irises were like burning yellow suns. It was like being in the gaze of a hawk about to strike.

 

Surely, Tristan thought, now sweating cold bullets, this is the face that Egon shows all the criminals he locked away. Surely this is it. I don’t know how, but he knows she was here. He knows I took her outside. He knows I took her briefcase, and, somehow, he knows I let her die.

 

Wait. Her briefcase? Her books?

 

Now Tristan was deathly afraid. He felt his face turning completely red. He dared not move his head. But he knew, he could see out of the corner of his eye, that between Egon’s legs, just under the chair he was sitting on – Ashley’s briefcase lay plainly in view, open. He hadn’t hidden her books at all.

 

The eagle-eyed detective continued staring at Tristan, noticing his increasingly uncomfortable fidgets.

 

“Hmmm…” Egon intoned. “That’s strange.” His eyes narrowed pointedly. He leaned forward, arms on his knees. “Ashley told me she had planned to see you.”

 

Oh god, It’s over. Tristan cried out internally. Venus. They’ll throw me in jail. I’ll never see you again. His heart was beating out of his chest.

 

Still, he had to try and keep it up. He had to try. For Venus. “She did? She said that?”

 

“She did. Yes, last week.”

 

“…”

 

“Tristan. Did you see her?”

 

“No, I - I haven’t. I haven’t seen her.”

 

He sat back in his chair. “Hm.” he sighed. “They said you’d be strange. I guess they were being kind.”

 

Was insulting your interviewee some kind of tactic? Tristan fought to keep the red flush rising into his cheeks. It didn’t work. What was this? Tristan knew he was outgamed. He was just no match for this man. He was an amateur; Egon was a master. He didn’t know how, but he was sure, in this moment, that he had been utterly defeated.

 

Egon glanced at him, and a hint of amusement flashed across his eyes for a second. His eyes had gone back to normal. He chuckled softly. “Sorry. Detective in me.”

 

Sorry!?

 

Tristan looked to his badge, as if to verify he hadn’t imagined the shining twin shields’ presence. What kind of detective is this guy?

 

Egon sighed, closed the notebook, and slipped it back into his jacket. He leaned back and crossed his arms, eyes closed. His legs spread out. His feet were still so close to Ashley’s briefcase. But Egon looked like a weary middle-aged man trying to get some sleep. His politician’s grin was gone – his face drooped. He laid there for several minutes, and Tristan began to suspect he really was asleep. But then he spoke.

 

“Ashley.” He said, breathily, like a sigh, speaking to no one. He palmed the tri-spiral symbol on his chest and started fiddling with it. “Samnambe,” he drawled. It was a religious mantra, a comforting word used in times of hardship. It meant: God grant me strength.

 

“You know…” he continued, “Ashley is my niece. She speaks very highly of you, master Tristan.” He smiled softly. His head was completely dropped against the back of the chair, facing the ceiling, “I could have sworn you were friends. She talks about you all the time.” Egon was lying still, deep in thought. His voice was now far less carefully enunciated. He was almost slurring his words. “In fact, the wife likes to tease her. She teases her about you and Ashley getting married, and Ashley gets so flustered. Marry so high up the social ladder? It was a joke. She has pictures of you, and she –” he stopped. “Well, she’d never let me hear the end of it if I revealed that. But clearly it wasn’t as real as she thought. She was just pining. Didn’t really know you that well. That’s clear now.”

 

Egon kept fiddling with his tri-spiral, staring into the space above him. The religious symbol gleamed in the light of the LEDs. Tristan wasn’t sure what was happening. Did Egon really believe him?

 

“Anyway, after you became a forager, Ashley wasn’t herself anymore. She told us you changed. Threw herself into those books. Whatever they were. She would interrupt our dinners with talk of whatever she’d diagnosed you with.”

 

Egon bent his head forward and stared at Tristan over his chest. “You aren’t at all like I expected, master Tristan,” he said sarcastically. “I have to say I’m surprised. Say, when’s the last time you talked with your parents?”

 

If this was some kind of bizarre interviewing method designed to break down his demeanor and confuse him, it was working.

 

With a loud, boorish exhale, Egon righted himself in the chair, and looked around the room. He swiveled his head like a mechanical crane. He’d politely ignored the decor until now, but it was impossible not to notice the hundreds of devotional drawings. Mostly, for some reason, of a woman’s nape, framed with long dark hair.

 

“Well, I can see it for myself. You’re no nobility. Not anymore. Look at you. Look at this place. You’re a strange guy, Tristan.”

 

Egon sucked air between his teeth and furrowed his brow, thinking. Clearly, Egon had been wrong in coming here. Tristan barely knew Ashley. Ashley just had a young, dumb, unreciprocated crush. A crush on someone who no longer existed. It wasn’t the first time Ashley said she was going to see Tristan, yet she never did. Egon’s hunch was wrong. It sounded like Tristan barely even remembered what she looked like.

 

Plus, Egon suspected this whole time that Tristan wasn’t paying much attention. The kid spoke in such short phrases. His expression had hardly changed this whole time. He was uncomfortable, sure, but who wouldn’t be? The boy just stared at him. But not at him – it was as though he was staring right into space. Usually, these sorts of interviews were so tense. Egon didn’t enjoy being treated like the judge, jury, and executioner. But clearly this kid had nothing to do with the investigation. Call it an experienced detective’s intuition.

 

Look at all these drawings. Clearly this was a young man in love – but not with Ashley. Aaaaah, I see why he’s so distracted. This was Egon’s favorite topic of paternal advice. Maybe this trip to the boonies wasn’t such a waste.

 

“Ah. An artist, are you? Is this your girl? Or just a crush?”

 

Tristan blinked.

 

“Tristan, let’s be honest with ourselves. You don’t know anything about Ashley. You’re no noble either. But, say, let’s make this visit worthwhile. You’re going to be glad I came. I’m going to give you some tips on her.” He smiled, but this time, there was no forced grin. His smile was far more warm, natural, and relaxed than before. It was certainly less toothy. Yet something about it still looked strangely forced. Tristan decided to say nothing and let Egon lead the conversation.

 

“I was like that once. Head over heels. With my wife, before we married. I wasn’t an artist myself, so I asked friends to draw her for me. But, kid...”

 

Kid. Egon was enjoying this now. He relished giving younger guys advice. There was no need to be so formal with this weird kid. He rested his elbows on his knees, leaning in, grinning, making sure his eyelids were happily squinted, the way he practiced in the mirror.

 

“But – and I know you don’t want to hear this – you’ve got to rely on yourself first. I know your ‘young love’ seems all exciting and sweet, like it’s right out of a fairy tale, but take it from me, kid. That fire fades. It ain’t a pretty thing to think, but it’s the truth.”

 

Tristan was no longer sweating or blushing. He was simply confused. That made it easier for him to maintain his stone-faced expression, but made it much harder for him to say anything.

 

Luckily, Egon continued lecturing. “Yes, I thought she was a perfect angel. Now, I was very happy after marriage, but you can’t rely entirely on your wife, or your kids, for that matter. Women can’t solve all your problems.” Egon smiled wryly.

 

Tristan was no longer afraid of this detective. No, now he was annoyed, angry. The man was insulting Venus. But Tristan knew better than to let it out. He just kept staring with a blank expression, hoping the detective would be done soon.

 

“You gotta rely on yourself, kid. Nobody else is going to make you happy, long-term. Just you.” He brushed a hand through his hair, leaving a wide part in it. His hair looked like it had been cleaved in two; completely solid with gel, his hair remained parted. “That’s the truth. You’re too young to understand yet. You get carried away with your emotions. You think everything is so important. But you can’t rely on anyone, or anything. Life just doesn’t work that way.”

 

He continued, now gesturing wildly with his hands. “Listen, it’s great you’ve got got a girl you love. Really, it’s great. Marry her, have fun with her, whatever you want to do. Just remember. Women are fickle. They only love you for what you do for them. So, I know it’s exciting. She looks pretty. Not as pretty as my wife, but nice looking.” He winked. Tristan winced. “But make sure you keep her at a distance. Trust me. Now, my wife is the best woman in the world, but she’s just a woman. Ready to run for some other guy at the first sign of trouble. Understand? They’re all like that.”

 

“My Venus is not -” But Egon interrupted him.

 

“I know what you’re going to say. Egon, you don’t know her! She’s different!” He took on a comically high, babyish voice to mock Tristan’s. “Women, money, fame, power – I’ve had all of it. I’ve had a great life. My wife loves me – as much as she can – my kids do too, and I’ve got a great job. A great one. Great pay, and people respect me. I do a lot of good for the community. I’ve gotten more than a few awards. People love me. And I can’t blame ‘em! I’m a good detective. I’ve put a lot of guys behind bars. Sexy wife, real sexy – I mean big tits –” he licked his lips and made round circles with both hands, “and good kids. But that doesn’t do a single thing to what’s in your heart, kid. There’s an emptiness there that only you can fill, you know what I mean?” He gestured to his heart. “Here. This thing doesn’t change. Ever. You might think it does, but it never lasts. Happiness isn’t out there,” he made a circle to his side with one arm. “It’s in here.” He pointed to his heart. “You gotta find it in yourself. So you don’t need nothing or no one. It’s all me. All here.” Egon’s grin was wide and toothy again. “So try to find a life outside this girl, okay? You’re clearly way too in love with her.”

 

Tristan remained silent. He despised this clownish performance, but he knew better than to blow up in rage against the pathetic man. He had to stay still and silent, for Venus’s sake, even though this man was ignorantly attacking his most deeply held faith. He held his fist down, but his veins nearly popped out of his head.

 

Egon didn’t notice. “No, sir. You can’t rely on women. When you rely on them, you’re just opening yourself up to trouble down the road. Women want strong men. When you grovel at her feet, when you snuggle up to her and say babe!” The mocking high-pitched voice again, “Babe, I’m so sad, I need you! Well, she respects you less. Now you’re a burden. She already has enough kids!” He chuckled. “And suddenly that guy she talks to at church, the guy who owns his own business, he seems much more of a catch than you. So this – this girl of yours – what’s this girl’s name?”

 

An opening! “H- her name is Venus, and -”

 

“Well this Vanessa won’t like you if you obsess over her like this. You need to be strong for her. Your goal should be to make her need you. Women need someone stronger than them – and they want it, despite what they say.”

 

Oh, this condescending simpleton. He’d be better off dead. Smashed to paste just like his despicable niece. Tristan wished he could personally call Venus’s foot down on this man right now. But Tristan just didn’t know what to say anymore. He sensed any suspicion on him was long gone, and that this man had been on a purely narcissistic rant for some time.

 

Egon smiled like he’d just won some sort of battle, and allowed himself to calm down. He sunk back into the chair. He looked expectantly, proudly, at Tristan, hoping for some sort of revelation, or perhaps applause. Nothing came. But Egon still knew he’d won.

 

“So Ashley. Ashley, bless her heart, maybe she’s gone. Maybe not. Who knows.” Egon crossed his legs. He itched at his jaw stubble, and stared up at the ceiling again. “All I know is, she’s not here. She’s not anywhere we’ve looked. But what’s the difference? Do you know how many missing person cases we get every year? Do you know how many of them we solve? Just about none. Zero. People disappear all the time without a trace. Ashley’s just up and poofed away,” he made an explosive motion with his hands. “Even her briefcase was gone.”

 

Egon exhaled deeply, and rummaged around his trench coat for a smoke. He realized he’d forgotten to bring any. He frowned but continued. “So Ashley was curious. Maybe she was thinking about you, the forager. Maybe she breached. Anything could happen out there. Maybe she’ll turn up, maybe she won’t. Who knows? My point is, you can’t let it bother you too much. People die all the time. I see it every day in my line of work. Sometimes we solve them, sometimes we don’t, but that doesn’t bring the person back. You know, I see all manner of scum, every single day. You wouldn’t believe the dead bodies I’ve seen, kid. Eviscerated bodies. Bodies you wouldn’t even recognize as bodies. Just heaps of blood, brains, and flesh. You never knew a body could hold so much blood. Like take my wife for example. They say she’s only got a few weeks left to live. Some kinda cancer. She bleeds a lot these days. You know? It happens. It’s no big deal.”

 

Tristan looked shocked. Where did this man get off? To storm in here and insult Venus. To bungle his job so completely. Tristan had made multiple mistakes, but Egon didn’t seem to care. What a useless detective. And his self-centered, narcissistic “love”. Was his wife just window dressing? In a way, he felt sorry for Egon. The man reminded him of his parents: he cared for nothing but influence and reputation. Using others as stepping stones, not treating them like people. Really loving someone meant cherishing them. Being grateful for them. Revering them. Their love was fickle, empty, and conditional. Yes, Tristan was sure. Not a single person understood love but him.

 

“Ah, you kids. You don’t know sage advice when you hear it. You’ll understand one day, I hope. Well!” He slapped his knees and shot up to his feet. “I guess I’ll be off. Thanks for making the time. Appreciate it. Oh, good luck with the girl. But don’t get too attached, you hear? Master Tristan. I hope she likes commoners.” Another wry smile.

 

He took a deep breath and sighed, content with his lecture. Tristan would understand one day, he was sure. He raised his head with bright eyes as he started to walk towards the door. But as he turned, something caught his eye – something underneath the chair. A briefcase.

 

“Ah,” he said, smiling, affecting a subservient voice. “You cannot leave such a thing on the floor, Master Tristan. Now where are your manners?” He chuckled.

 

Egon got down on both knees beside the chair, his trench coat splayed out in a circle around him. He lowered his head to the floor, facing entirely away from Tristan, who was still sitting in the other chair, watching him intensely. Egon reached out, grabbed hold of the briefcase’s strap, and pulled it towards himself. The blue briefcase had a brown stripe across the middle, and the zipper was open. Several pamphlets and the spine of Disorders of Sexual Development were clearly visible inside. Egon grabbed it with both hands, pulled it towards himself, and rose back to his feet.

 

“Hmm,” he muttered, looking into it. “What’s this?”

 

He considered the mess of papers inside. He leafed through them a bit. “You’ve got some weird tastes, Tristan. You ought to put this away. Who reads this stuff?”

 

He pulled out one of the books halfway. “Huh, Disorders of…” While Egon examined the front of the book, Tristan could clearly see the back, where Ashley had signed her name. “Well! Don’t need to waste my time on this.”

 

Egon forcefully stuffed the book and the loose papers back inside the briefcase. He zipped it up and tossed it on the coffee table between them.

 

He stuck his hands into his trench coat pockets and looked around. He turned to The Creation of the Goddess on the wall.

 

“This is quite the painting. It looks a lot like the ones they have at church,” he said. “I guess you have some taste.”

 

“The Church of the Voice? They have similar paintings? You… Pray to them?”

 

“Now come on,” Egon laughed. “Worship is for people who don’t believe in themselves. Nah, it’s good for the public to see their ‘servants’ going to church. I sit in the back and read magazines. Now that I think about it, maybe you should go to church. God might do you some good.”

 

Egon shook his head in amusement. “Well, nice knowing you. Say. Can I use the bathroom before I go?”

 

Tristan nodded.

 

But just one minute later, the detective left the bathroom with a completely red face. His grin had vanished completely, replaced with a scowl. His eyes were furious. He had lost his stately poise, and now his movements resembled a lumbering, stomping boar.

 

He rushed to the door as fast as his legs could take him. He stared at Tristan, his yellow eyes burning red.

 

In the threshold of the door, he stopped for a moment, hesitating. He turned to Tristan. He glowered. His eyes were wide and round. He spoke his next words with the most venom he could muster.

 

“I thought I recognized that giant bitch. She kills foragers every week.”

 

He looked as if he expected an answer. He waited for less than second. He didn’t care for one.

 

“It smells like fucking shit in here. God be with you, you freak!” He shouted as he slammed the door behind him.

 

The investigation was closed that day. Tristan never heard from him again.

 

Tristan, of course, didn’t need God. He’d already found one.