Detective Tristan Rue was still wearing his black silk pajamas as he sipped his morning tea, never mind the fact that for most people the day was almost over. Bright lights hurt his eyes, so he did most of his work at night. During the day, he always wore dark goggles of polished brass and brown leather. Beneath the goggles, his eyes were the color of caramel, and his pupils were shaped like a keyhole, which always caused the unfamiliar to gawk more than usual. Long, soft, jet-black curls framed his sharp, angular face.

He heard the rhythmic tinging of metal on glass. He drew back the thick burgundy velvet curtains to discover Woe, a small, brass, clockwork carrier pigeon with glowing red eyes, which he used to communicate with headquarters. He opened the window to let the bird inside. It lighted on his arm, and he retrieved the message, a small rolled up note, from inside a compartment in the bird’s belly.

As he read the message, his forehead crinkled. He crumpled the paper up and tossed it towards the wastebasket, where it landed just outside its mark in a pile of similar notes. He closed the compartment on the bird’s belly. He flipped a switch and the bird cooed once before it folded its metal winds, bowed its head, and its eyes went dark. Tristan picked the bird up, pushed its feet up inside its belly, and slipped it into a velvet pouch, which had been lying on an end table, and he laid it down where the pouch had been.

Tristan bathed, shaved, and dressed. He was somewhat decadent and elegant, choosing only the most eccentric designs of acceptable fashions. He wore a tailored silk velvet and brocade vest, which was the color of dry leaves, overtop of a black collared shirt. He wore a burgundy ascot tie in a plastron knot with the ends crisscrossed over one another, secured with a double tiger claw brooch, and tucked into the vest. The brooch featured a pair of large Bengal tiger claws set in a scrolled and engraved gold mount. His black and gold pinstriped breeches were tucked into tall chestnut colored leather spats, which had polished brass buttons running the length of them and three polished brass buckles at the top. His pointy-square-toe boots were the color of caramelized walnuts. His coat was a black Redingote croisée. He put on a pair of chestnut leather gauntlets and placed a black top hat upon his head. He slipped Woe into his coat pocket and walked out the door into the rain.

It was dusk. Orbs of glowing amber, from the resin of ancient bioluminescent trees, smoothed and rounded by the hands of artisans, served as streetlamps. Their posts were made of ornate, carved alabaster, and inside each amber sphere, myriad bugs, leaves, and frogs were eternally trapped and on display. The cobblestone street glistened yellow-orange in the rain.

Detective Silver Sorrow approached Tristan’s house in an unmarked police motivus.

A motivus was a self-perpetuating vehicle shaped like a bell tipped on its side. The body was rivets and iron, covered in corrosion and rust. It had ornate, spoked, iron wheels, like the wheels on a Queen’s carriage, which were larger in the back than in the front. The back of the bell was covered with a riveted brass porthole containing a convex glass, which left the inner workings visible.

A traction motor, which powered the driving wheels of the vehicle, was itself powered by an electrostatic generator, a type of influence machine that utilized the triboelectric effect to create electric charges through electrostatic induction.

The generator mount was constructed of a mahogany and linen phenolic, with fixtures of copper and brass. The generator itself consisted of two large, vertical amber discs, one stationary and one rotating. The rotating disk was made of multiple layers of vulcanized amber, with embedded sectors distributed throughout, which were accessed through buttons at the disk surface. Attached to the larger, fixed disk were white, celluloid inductor plates. Metallic brushes on either side of the rotating disk were used to pick-up the charge and transfer it to the output terminals. Sparks jumped between the discharge electrodes, which were terminated with copper and brass spheres. The contraption was attached through switches to a series of capacitors, used to store power, which were held in a wooden box and wired together to amplify their wattage.

A single capacitor was comprised of a glass jar with a top electrode, which was a brass sphere and rod that extended down through an insulating wooden lid. The rod was connected by a hanging metal chain to a lining of gold leaf, which partially covered the inner surface of the jar. Tin foil was wrapped around the outside of the jar, corresponding to the internal coated area. The generator was connected to the inner electrode while the outer plate was grounded.

As the motivus neared, it emitted the smell of ozone through an exhaust system of brass pipes. The loud sounds of cracking and popping sparks echoed through the night.

The motivus came to an abrupt stop. Tristan opened the gull-wing door and climbed inside. The interior was distressed, soft chocolate brown leather. It featured delicate brass fittings and decorative wrought iron filigree. To accommodate prisoners, the back seat was separated form the front by bars.

Silver was beyond beautiful, almost too symmetrical, so perfect as to look fabricated, like some bio-engineered masterpiece. Her face was round. Her skin was naturally pale, like sweet cream, and flawless. Her pearl gray eyes were her namesake, for they sparkled like polished silver. Her eyes were outline with mesdemet, a dark gray ore of lead, and shadowed with silver powder made from the wings of jeweled beetles. She wore long, voluminous, dramatic, fake eyelashes in alternating lengths that extended and flared outwards, and there was a jeweled teardrop adhered beneath each eye. Her ever-puckered silver lips were outlined in black with a black line splitting the lower lip in half.

She wore her jet-black hair in baby doll ringlets, which she topped with a mini-hat of black lace and flowers, worn at an angle. Her dress was charcoal gray. It had a peter pan collar trimmed with black ruffles and vertical rows of black ruffles running down the top half of the blouse. The leg-of-mutton sleeves flared at the wrists, nearly obscuring her black lace gloves. It had a center front opening running the length of it and was fastened with a row of black glass buttons with a scallop shell pattern. The dress was cinched at the natural waist with a gun belt, which had a circular, silver belt buckle. The skirt, knee-length and trimmed with more black ruffles, was made full by the petticoat beneath. Her black stockings were adorned with an ornate, white, floral vine pattern. Her shoes were spool heeled, two-toned silver and black, pointy toed, button boots.

Within minutes, the detectives arrived at the hospital. It looked like an oversized gingerbread house, with frilly trimmings and mismatched towers. They parked in the back and walked around to the entrance. The front room offered a reception area and waiting room. There was an apothecary’s shop off to the right. The patient care area consisted of small, over crowded rooms off a main corridor. Nurses shuffled about in their plain white, ankle-length, high-collared, long-sleeve dresses and matching nurse hats, striving to make the patients comfortable and relaxed. The windows were opened up during the day to let out the bad air, and several nurses scurried about to get them all closed before the last light of dusk gave way to pitch black.

The doctors were more like performance artists than actual medics, putting on a show for the infirm in an effort to convince the poor souls they would get better. The best doctors could use this method to pull off miracles, bringing the sick back from the brink of death with their placebos, and thus were often called placebists. The placebist would visit the ill and feed him or her a candied peach, all the while insisting upon the sanative effects of the thaumaturgical medicine.

The detectives pushed open the door to Kiyoshi’s room. Due to the special circumstances, the other two beds in the room were empty.

A teenage girl had her ear against Kiyoshi’s lips, and he was whispering to her. She was very beautiful. Her dress was of the Wonderland variety, all lace and frills, the knee-length skirt full with a petticoat beneath it. It was baby-girl pink and adorned around the bottom of the skirt with white hearts and ribbons befitting a wedding cake. Her long, slick black hair was topped with a large matching pink bow. She wore knee-high white stockings with pink rocking-horse shoes. She could’ve stepped off the shelf of a porcelain doll museum.

Kiyoshi was a pitiful sight. Sorrow and misery were written across his face, not just in the downward turn of his lips, the tear stained cheeks and puffy eyes, and the constant, steady trembling all over, but also in the black and blue bruises, the swelling, and the stitches. He was drugged with morphia to the point of drooling.

“Hi, Kiyoshi,” Silver said.

The sound of her voice caused Kiyoshi to nearly jump out of his skin, and he started to shake and gasp for breath.

Silver said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

He clutched the teenage girl’s arm desperately, so hard that his hand turned white. She stroked his hair as she spoke soothingly to him in a foreign tongue, and he relaxed his grip on her. The girl said, “Who are you?”

Silver and Tristan displayed their badges, which shimmered occult symbols in sliver and gold. Silver said, “I’m Detective Sorrow. This is my partner, Detective Rue. Who are you?”

The girl said, “I’m Maemi, Kiyoshi’s twin.”

Tristan said, “We were hoping Kiyoshi could help us catch the man who did this to him.”

Maemi said, “You best catch the bastard before I do, or you’ll be cleaning his blood from my teeth!”

“Don’t worry. In time, the guilty always swing the gallows dance. Can we have a few minutes alone with Kiyoshi? He may be too ashamed to speak in front of family.”

“He’s very weak, Detectives. He needs his rest. Perhaps you could do this another time.”

“It would be best if we could speak to him now, while his memory is fresh.”

“Very well. But not more than ten minutes. He is exhausted.”

Tristan pulled out what looked like an ordinary gold pocket watch. It actually contained a tiny camera concealed inside. He pretended to check the time, which was always 7 minutes past 10 o'clock on the false watch face, indicating the proper angle for use without a viewfinder. He pointed the stem in Maemi’s direction, where the miniature, rapid-fire lens was located, hidden by the watch crown.

As she left the room, she paused before them. She smiled, curtsied, and said, “Good evening, Detectives,” with perfect enunciation. It was then that Tristan snapped her picture. He discreetly wound the film cassette by turning the key, and slipped the watch back into his pocket.

Silver sat down in a chair by the boy’s bedside. She took out a fountain pen and a notepad. She said, “Kiyoshi, that is a very nice name. My name is Silver. How old are you?”

Kiyoshi said, “I just turned sixteen, yesterday.” His voice box was damaged, so he could only talk in a rough whisper.

Silver leaned in closer so she could hear him better. “Did you do anything special for your birthday?”

“I went roller skating. Maemi and I, we got roller skates for our birthday.”

She jotted down his answers in shorthand. She said, “That sounds fun. Then what did you do?”

“Maemi left with her girlfriends, for a slumber party. I started to walk home.” His voice trailed off, and he looked distant, like he was watching something invisible six inches in front of his face.

“Kiyoshi, can you tell me what happened next?”

“It started to rain. The man, he offered me a ride home.” Kiyoshi started to cry. “I said yes. I should’ve said no, but I said yes.”

“It’s okay, Kiyoshi. You’re safe now. Did you know the man who did this to you?”

His eyes went wide as saucers. He said, “No,” as he quickly and stiffly shook his head, wincing at the effort.

“What did he look like?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Can you remember anything about him?”

“No.”

“Come on, now, think. Surely you can remember something about him. Was he young or old?”

“I don’t know.”

“Was he a white man?”

“I told you, I don’t remember!”

“Did he have any special features? Maybe a birth mark or a tattoo?”

“I don’t know.”

“Kiyoshi, where did he take you to? Was it somewhere nearby?”

“I don’t remember. I don’t want to remember. Please, leave me alone!” Kiyoshi was very agitated. His head was shaking no, and his body was rocking back and forth, shaking the bed. He clutched at his hair as if to pull it out by the roots, as if the roots themselves were entwined about the bad memories and could be yanked right out of his head.

Silver said, “It’s okay, Kiyoshi. You don’t have to remember.”

Tristan said, “Kiyoshi, we need to take a few pictures of you to document your injuries, is that okay?”

“I, I --”

“Silver can wait outside.”

“Okay.”

Silver left the room. Tristan took out a box from an interior pocket on his coat. He opened it up to reveal a full size camera made of glass, wood, and brass with a maroon leather bellows. He took several pictures of the wounds on Kiyoshi’s face. He photographed the purple handprints on Kiyoshi’s neck. He said, “Kiyoshi, I’m going to take some pictures of your body now,” as he took a hold of the sheet and pulled it back.

Kiyoshi was naked, except for a bloody diaper. He turned bright red and hid his face with his hands.

Tristan said, “It’s okay. Don’t be ashamed. This is not your fault. You’re very brave.”

Kiyoshi lowered his hands from his face, and Tristan took more pictures.

Silver stepped outside the hospital. She put a black clove cigarette in a carved ivory cigarette holder and lit up. A motivus ran up on the sidewalk and jerked to a stop. A teenage boy climbed out, leaving the door open. He was tall and lanky, nothing but skin and bones, and as dark as bitter chocolate. He hurried past Silver into the hospital.

He darted past the receptionist and raced down the hall. When he saw Kiyoshi through the window on the door, he bolted into the room, yelling, “Kiyoshi! Kiyoshi!”

“No! Don’t look at me!” Kiyoshi cried out in his hoarse whisper as he pulled the sheet up over his face. “Please, get him out of here!”

Tristan laid the camera on the foot of the bed, caught the boy, and held him tightly. The boy was kicking and screaming, fighting against Tristan as he tried to drag him out of the room.

A nurse rushed in. She touched the dark skinned boy on his upper arm and said, “Dorch, hush! You upsetting Kiyoshi!”

Beneath the sheet, Kiyoshi was hyperventilating.

Dorch was crying. He said, “Michie, please, I have to see him!”

She said, “He hurts real bad. Rest is much needed. You see him soon, but now, I give shot so he is sleeping. Be good boy and wait in the hall for me.”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Sir, Detective, is okay. You can let go him now. No give you anymore trouble, will you, Dorch?”

“No ma’am”

Tristan let the boy go. He retrieved his camera and put it away. The nurse was soothing Kiyoshi in a foreign tongue. Tristan checked the time and snuck a picture of the nurse, then excused himself and left the room. Out in the hallway, he checked the time again and took a picture of Dorch. Then he sat down on a bench beside him. He said, “Your name is Dorch?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’re Kiyoshi’s friend from school?”

“His best friend. But not from school. He works as a street vendor, selling flowers. I work for the florist, in the glasshouses at the flower farm. I would cut and pack the flowers for his cart. That’s how we met.”

“When did you last see him?”

“Last night, at the roller rink.”

Michie came out of the room. She said, “He’s sleeping time now. When you get to see him, promise me you’ll smile and not show your horror, okay.”

Dorch said, “I promise.”

Just then, a large, muscular black man came running down the hall. His long and wild dreadlocks were as startled snakes striking out in all directions. He screamed, “There you are, you little shit!”

Both Tristan and Dorch stood up to confront the man, but before Tristan had time to react, the man punched Dorch in the eye. Dorch fell to the ground, stunned.

Silver had followed him inside, when she saw him bolt from the cab without paying his fare. She pulled her raygun and pointed it at the man’s head. The raygun was small enough to fit comfortably in her delicate hands. It had florid black gutta-percha grips and a bulbous body made of silver plated brass. Pulling the trigger activated a small, spring-loaded hammer, which hit a quartz crystal and utilized the piezoelectric properties of the crystal to produce a tight beam of focused ultrasound.

She said, “Police! Hands up were I can see ‘em or you will not have a fucking face!”

The man raised his hands in submission. He said, “If you’re the police, then arrest this little shit for stealing my motivus.”

Dorch was cowering in the floor. He said, “Dad, I’m sorry. I just wanted to see Kiyoshi, and you wouldn’t let me.”

“Oh no! This is it! The last fucking straw! You are not my son!”

Tristan checked the time, adding Dorch’s father to his scrapbook of misery. He said, “What’s your name?”

“Smith. Jarvis Smith.”

Tristan said, “Do you have some kind of problem with Kiyoshi?”

“Yeah, he’s turned my son into a fucking feeb!”

“Did you hurt Kiyoshi, Mr. Smith?”

“Of course not.”

“The way you treat your son, it appears to me you are a violent man troubled by fits of rage.”

“My son stole my fucking motivus! I’m pressing charges! Arrest him!”

“How about I arrest you both, Dorch for stealing your motivus, and you for assaulting him. Would you like to spend the night in jail while we sort this out?”

“No.”

Silver said, “Mr. Smith, your motivus is parked out front. I suggest you get in it and leave. Oh, and you best pay your cab fare, or we’ll be adding that to the charges.”

“Okay, okay. I’m leaving.” He addressed Dorch, “And you, you don’t ever come home again, ever!” He spit in his son’s face.

Silver said, “Sir, this is your only warning!”

“I’m goin’!” He turned and walked away.

Silver put her gun away. Tristan helped Dorch up off the ground and onto the bench, where he wept into his hands.

Michie sat down beside him and rubbed his back. She said, “Don’t worry, Dorch. You stay with me. You sleep in bed of Kiyoshi tonight. He no needing it.”

“You’re Kiyoshi’s mother?” Tristan said.

“I am sister. Our parents died in war last year, killed by military police. The twins were hiding and saw it all. We are refugees.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Life is such, Detective.”

“We would like to try and interview Kiyoshi again in a few days. Once he’s had a chance to rest he might remember more.”

“Yes, of course.”

“We have a lot of work to do, so we’ll need to be going. I’ll have the head doctor instruct the staff Kiyoshi’s presence here be kept in absolute confidence. I’m going to leak it to the newspaper that we found a body fitting your brother’s description. I’m worried that if the killer finds out Kiyoshi is still alive, he may try and kill him. I’ll have headquarters send a guard right over.”

On the way out, Tristan and Silver stopped at the receptionist’s desk to collect a handwritten transcript of Kiyoshi’s medical file. Tristan sat on a bench by the front door while Silver retrieved the motivus from the parking lot around back. He pulled a notebook and fountain pen from his pocket and scribbled a message. He retrieved Woe from its velvet pouch and switched it on. He put the note inside Woe’s belly and sent the bird off into the night.

Silver pulled around to the front of the hospital and parked in the ambulance-loading zone. Tristan climbed into the passenger’s seat. They both rolled down the windows and lit up clove cigarettes to pass the time while they waited for the guard to arrive.

He scanned the medical records. He said, “So what do you think? Another victim of the Lakeshire Strangler?”

Silver said, “Could be. It certainly has all the earmarks.”

“With one obvious exception. Kiyoshi is still alive. Surely by now the Lakeshire Strangler knows the difference between dead and unconscious. Unless he’s just getting sloppy. Could be an inexperienced copycat. Someone with inside knowledge. It’s the only way he would know to cut off the dick and leave the balls.”

“Why does he do that?”

“The sick bastard likes to make his victims shoot cum and blood out the stump while he rapes their asses.”

“Jesus, Tristan!”

“You asked.”

“I know one thing. Kiyoshi is lying.”

“About what?”

“He knew his attacker. I could see it in his eyes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“Why would he protect the man who hurt him?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he is too afraid.”

Woe flew in through the open window and lighted on Tristan’s arm. Tristan retrieved the message, put the bird back to sleep, and stashed it in its velvet pouch.

Silver said, “Where to next?”

“Saint Blaise’s Cathedral.”

“What’s there?”

“We’re going to interview Father Mackie. He’s the one who brought Kiyoshi to the hospital.”