The Last Laugh - 3. Wednesday, February 19, 2025

Frustration had once again made it hard for me to sleep. Yes, we had taken a big step forward, but a possible culprit was still a long way off. All the bits and pieces of theories and possibilities hardly had enough substance to work with.

The large brick building with the huge pillared windows on the ground floor where the QFPD sat was old, majestic and the main entrance besieged by a group of journalists. Since Lieutenant Brick had made his press statement last night, I should have expected this, but now it was too late to turn around and head for a side entrance.

“Detective! Any comment on the clown murders?”

“Detective DeLaney! What's the real status of the investigation?”

“Detective! Is it true that a trans person is involved in the case? Detective!”

Holding my breath, I pushed past the curious cameras and microphones and let out a sigh of relief as the heavy double doors closed behind me.

“- and I'll tell you again, officer, my client is expecting me.” A tall man in a long dark coat and carrying a briefcase stood at the reception desk.

“And I'll tell you again, sir, neither Detective Reynolds nor anyone else has occupied or registered an interrogation room, and there's no Donny Wrenn in our files.”

“Donald Venn.” the man corrected.

“Whatever.”

With a shake of my head, I stepped in. “Officer Ingram, did we leave our politeness in bed?”

The young officer blushed. “I'm sorry, Detective, but the man here insists-”

“Nathan Upfield, private attorney,” the man introduced himself, who reminded me a lot of Josy up close. Cold-brown dark hair and glacier-blue eyes, a round, soft face and a little chubby. “My client has been called in for an official interview.”

I nodded. “Detective DeLaney. What exactly is this about?”

Upfield hesitated, he looked quite young, certainly not yet thirty. “I don't know exactly,” he admitted. “Mr. Venn called me last week and asked if I could represent him. When I said yes, he said he would sort out all the necessary and important papers and get back to me. Then he called last night and seemed pretty agitated, said the police had summoned him for tomorrow morning - today.”

“You didn't ask what it was about?” I asked, puzzled, and he blushed.

“For now, I need all the clients I can get.”

“I see.” I nodded while Ingram coughed suppressed. When Upfield nervously touched his lower jaw, I noticed the gloves he was wearing - the kind people wear to protect themselves from the magic of other people or objects, or to protect others from their own magic.

“Mr. Venn was agitated, as I said, but I do believe he mentioned Detective Reynolds.”

I looked questioningly at Ingram, who shrugged.

“Neither Reynolds nor his partner are in. Nothing's been entered for any of our interrogation rooms this morning.”

“Well, then... um...” Upfield looked embarrassed and insecure. “Then I guess I'll call Mr. Venn.” He hurriedly turned around and headed for the exit.

“Upfield, hmmm...” Ingram said snidely and I raised a brow.

“And that means what?”

The young officer blushed again at my tone. “Ah, ma'am, excuse me, the Upfields are an old successful family of lawyers here in town. Old Upfield's son and his wife died in the 2004 tsunami.” He paused. “That could be the son, the grandson that is. Two or three years older than me...? I don't know who he grew up with, not here in Quincefield at least.”

Suppressing a sigh, I nodded my thanks. My promotion to a small town like Quincefield came with a disadvantage or two... “If Detective Gregory passes by, I'll stop by the witness hotline for now.”

“Of course, Detective.”

~

“Anything actually helpful or just the usual soup of busybodies and gossip?” Harry wanted to know when he came into the office later, where I was looking at and listening to the testimonies that had been marked as potentially helpful and then transcribed.

“You know, ask ten people and get fifteen answers.” I raised my hands helplessly for a moment. “I mean, there's definitely something we can work with,” I then clarified. “All five of them were seen in bars with a man on the night they were murdered. The names of the bars even match, but the descriptions of the man don't match at all.”

“Classic memory lapse or disguise?”

“Probably both.”

Harry tipped his head in agreement and dropped into his office chair.

“In addition to the search for the killer, I'm also wondering about the course of the crime,” I said slowly and leaned back, turning my chair so that we could see each other around the monitors. “The bars are all in busy areas and I don't know any woman who would just get into a car with a stranger unless she was definitely looking for sex or was willing to take a risk.”

“The perpetrator could well be attractive and charming enough for it. Or he might not be a stranger,” Harry replied. “I thought for a while that it could have been a woman, but that never really convinced me...”

That made me think of Gianna Durham, neither one nor the other. They had nervously declared yesterday they would take extra care of themselves. Clowndia, on the other hand, wasn't an actress, she was real, her OnlyFans account actually existed. She was acquainted with Gianna Durham via a few corners and had therefore given her permission to use material from her account, but she lived in another state.

"I'm mean, a magic launcher doesn't need to be big to be powerful enough to knock out an adult, but..." He swayed his head. "Making it look like he's helping a drunk girl is not that easy, cause as you said, in busy areas there are always eyes."

"He could have said it's his daughter. Or step-daughter. But I agree, a completely unconscious woman should raise suspicion..." We looked at each other, mulled over the problem in silence.

The ringing of the office phone a while later snapped me out of my thoughts.

“Detective Gregory.” Harry sounded unusually somber, presumably he too had been deep in thought. “Thanks, officer.” He hung up and nodded at me. “A witness in the interview room.”

~

In contrast to the interrogation rooms, the interview room was very cozy, with couches and a big coffee machine. Although there was also a recording device on the table, the atmosphere was much more relaxed.

However, the old lady who was waiting for us in the presence of an officer did not seem very relaxed, but rather indignant.

“Detectives Gregory and DeLaney,” Harry introduced us. “What can we do for you, Mrs...?”

“Potter. Evelyn Potter.”

“Please, have a seat, ma'am,” Harry said kindly and I nodded my thanks to the officer, who then hurriedly disappeared.

We all sat down and I pulled out my old-fashioned notepad while Harry formally explained that the conversation would be recorded and then spoke the necessary formalities onto the tape.

“So, Mrs. Potter, what exactly do you want to tell us?”

“I saw the dark-skinned girl with a man in a bar, the Black Eagle, on Friday the fourteenth,” she explained seriously.

“Valentine's Day. Why do you think it wasn't just a date?” Harry interjected.

“Why don't you hear me out, young man?” Mrs. Potter furrowed her brow. She was old, certainly past eighty, but she was fashionably dressed and discreetly made up, she was certainly not senile yet. “I go to the Black Eagle every Friday with my best friend. First we go for a meal, then we go to the bar, drink non-alcoholic cocktails and play cards. It's been one of our routines since we got both widowed.”

I smiled encouragingly at her while Harry kept his mouth shut obediently and mutely nodded.

“The girl and the man were sitting at the table next to us. I noticed her because she was wearing the same sweater as my youngest granddaughter at Christmas. Very pretty girl.” She nodded to her own words and grimaced regretfully.

I pulled the photo of Winnie Jackson out of the folder and held it out to her. “Is this the young woman you saw?”

With a deep sad sigh, Mrs. Potter nodded. “Yes. Yes, that's her.”

“Mrs. Potter identified Winnie Jackson from the photographs,” Harry mumbled into the recorder.

“Why it wasn't a date?” Mrs. Potter then continued. “I mean, you shouldn't judge by looks, but the man was clearly too old. Mid-fifties for sure. Below-average height, I'd say, strongly built. Not fat or anything, but stocky. Dark hair, light-colored glasses.” She nodded at her words. “Other than that, of course, we've heard a bit. I mean, I didn't actively listen, you don't do that, but snippets of conversation did come through. They talked about actors, movies, careers... The girl, Winnie, was quite enthusiastic.”

“An actors' agent?”

She shrugged. “That could have been it. I think she might have said something like 'I've always dreamed of that' in between, but I'm not sure.”

“What time are we talking about, Mrs. Potter?” I asked and she tilted her head.

“Half past eight, nine? We left at half past nine and they were still sitting and talking.”

~

Nico and Jonah both looked frustrated as we joined them after talking to Mrs. Potter.

“The movie husbands are clean,” Jonah began. “A group of friends, medics. Three work here at the hospital, two over in Thylle. And there are only two older men on the project anyway. The supervising professor and the one in charge of props and costumes.”

“But the professor is more of a basketball player type and doesn't fit the description of the witnesses,” Nico continued seamlessly. “And the other one has the best alibi of all: he broke his leg on the first of February and is still in hospital.”

Harry and I nodded.

“Apart from that, very few others have even worked on the project,” Jonah took over again. “We can't even begin to imagine any of them as the culprit.”

Nico shook his head affirmatively and Harry sighed.

“Well, at least we know who we don't have to look at.”

Jonah grimaced. “Anything useful from the statements?”

“The usual mix,” I replied, rubbing my temple. “We sent a couple of officers out to ask around the bars mentioned, but...”

The two techs nodded, then we were silent for a moment before Harry's phone rang - the forward from the office because another witness wanted to talk to us in person rather than the hotline.

~

We spoke to four more witnesses over the course of the day, but they were all more in the sensationalist group, combed through all the files and reports again, but no helpful crumbs appeared anywhere.

“There's no such thing as a perfect crime,” Harry grumbled angrily as the clock in the office read almost six. “If this turns into a cold case...”

“Even if it does,” I said, rubbing my temple, behind which sat a stabbing headache, “it doesn't mean we've failed. Sometimes the perp just has an ounce more luck than we do.”

“I know,” Harry murmured quietly, as if all fighting spirit had suddenly left him. “I know.”

Depressed, I looked at the case wall and the photos of the five women. I wished with all my heart that we could give their families some closure.