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Hey, This is the NYPD 82nd Precinct – Part 03

Victorique de Blois was a descendant of the Gray Wolves, the Philosophers in Fur Coat of Eastern Europe. Her intellect was feared as the last and greatest human weapon in the land. During the Second Great War, she was captured by the Sauville Kingdom’s Ministry of the Occult and imprisoned in the massive prison known as Noir Soleil, the Black Sun. Heavily drugged, she spent her days in a trance, analyzing vast amounts of world data and predicting the course of the war.

And before that—before she was confined as a supernatural prophecy machine, during peaceful times—she was a student at St. Marguerite Academy. Her attendant brought her mysteries from all over, which she would solve instantly.

Back then, she was brimming with intellect, wit, and malice—bored like a god, or perhaps a demon. Those were the golden days when the mysteries buried in the dark history of the Old World waited for Victorique to solve them.

“For better or for worse, there were those who needed my power back then. The Old World was rife with strange and enormous mysteries. These mysteries, like me, were steeped in boredom, malice, and nihilism. Bizarre puppets wandering in search of a force to dismantle themselves. Dark, gloomy, intoxicating times spent with these dreadful, almost sentient mysteries.”

Her voice dropped low.

“Back then, I was someone who built bridges of wisdom across the river of emptiness.” Victorique blinked, displeasure and anxiety radiating from her. “But I paid a great price. My mother lost her life, and my attendant was forced to give up a lot of things. Perhaps there is no place for me in the New World. My attendant is searching for a job and a home.”

Victorique spoke to no one in particular.

“As a ghost crossing an enigmatic bridge, the only ones I can be close to are non-humans. Besides my attendant, mysteries, mysteries, mysteries are my only lifeless companions.” Her voice trembled with anger, irritation, and a hint of unease.

“The mysteries of the New World,” she went on in a deep, raspy voice. “Strange customers at the tobacco shop, the inexplicably white shop windows, newspapers falling from rooftops. None of these small things seem to want to be solved. Why is that?”

Drip, drip, drip.

“The radio DJ says it’s because everyone is busy working, fighting, eating, and drinking. No one in the New World is bored.”

“That’s not true, ma’am!” The voice was serious and anxious now, shaky.

Victorique lifted her gaze curiously.

“As you said, everyone in the New World is busy and struggling, just trying to make it to the next day. They’re barely managing with food and rent.”

“More talk about jobs and homes?”

“Yes, that’s right. So incidents get lost in the hustle and bustle of the New World. No one is really okay, no matter how busy or poor they are.”

Victorique muttered, “I see.”

“Even I have unsolved mysteries that have been stuck in my mind like a thorn for years, unable to forget,” the trembling voice continued. “Uh, how do you say it…”

“A cold case?”

“Yes, that’s it!” Frustration seeped into the voice. “During the war, there was a terrifying incident. But everyone was too busy just trying to survive, both during and after the war. It’s a frustrating case for me. There’s someone I have a grudge against from that incident, someone I’m sure is the culprit!”

“Oh?”

“I had an appointment to meet that person tonight. But it seems they really didn’t want to see me again. They bribed the police to have me arrested. Throwing me in the slammer was the perfect way to avoid our little reunion. So, this morning, when I was idly crossing a red light, a cop handcuffed me and threw me in a paddy wagon. Next thing I knew, I was here.”

The woman groaned in frustration.

“Curse them, curse them, curse them!”

Drip, drip. The musty air grew warm, enveloping Victorique. She alone glowed magically in the dimness.

“What I’m saying is, ma’am, I don’t know your circumstances… but there are plenty of people and places in the New World, even in New York City, that could use the help of someone as extraordinarily clever as you.”

“I see. By the way…”

Drip.

“What kind of incident was it?”

The uniformed policeman sleeping on a chair jerked awake with a snort. He let out a yawn, then started eating a pile of French fries.

“I can’t eat anymore. We get so many snacks every day.”

The policeman across from him lazily waved his hand, “Me too.”

The recently awakened policeman, with nothing to do, opened the evening edition of the Daily Road. Suddenly, his eyes widened.

He tried to speak to the man with the teddy bear slumped next to him, “Hey, look at this article,” but got no response. So he showed the newspaper to the policeman next to him, who was playing thumb wrestling with himself.

“Oh!”

“Right?”

“A missing person.”

“The dumpling thief.”

They nodded to each other and turned towards the cells. Other policemen gathered around to look at the newspaper.

“What is it?”

“What’s going on?”

Then, they all glanced towards the cells.

“Oh!”

“This girl.”

“Right?”

“Huh.”

“The incident, ma’am,” the woman began, “is about a man who was suddenly shot dead. And it happened during a time when everyone needed to work together, and the culprit was none other than one of their own. The killer is currently living their life like nothing happened.”

“Hey, dumpling girl,” said one approaching officer. “Is this missing person referring to you?”

The woman in the neighboring cell fell silent. Victorique looked up with a frown. A policeman unfurled the evening paper and pointed at the ad section near the bottom.

Victorique cautiously approached. Her long, shining hair trailed behind her like a tail.

“Look here!” the officer said, and she started reading.

Missing Person Notice

Long white-blonde hair, deep green eyes. About 140 centimeters tall. Female. Sauville immigrant. Speaks English and French. Can read German, Yiddish, Latin, Sanskrit, Polish, Italian, and Spanish. Wearing a traditional outfit called a yukata, a pink floral cloth with a light blue stiff cloth tied around the waist.

“Good for you!” the policeman said with a smile. “Have your guardian come pick you up and pay for the dumplings.”

Behind him, another policeman picked up the receiver. “Operator? Connect me to the Daily Road on Newspaper Row. Yeah, right away. Hey! This is the NYPD 82nd Precinct. About the missing person in today’s evening edition…” He seemed to be enjoying the conversation. “Don’t say that, or I will have to arrest you!”

“There must be a young woman on the line,” one officer said.

“What a smooth talker,” another added with a shrug.

They turned to Victorique.

“Good for you, dumpling girl.”

“Feeling better, dumpling thief?”

Then, they gathered around the desk again to start playing poker or looked for someone to play catch with.

“M-Missing? Me?” Victorique growled. “Separated from my guardian? That pumpkinhead from the East!”

“Wh-What happened, ma’am?”

“My attendant was the one who got lost, but he had the nerve to put an ad in the paper claiming I was the one who went missing. That dirty little… He put it on me!”

“Oh my. So your attendant thought you got lost too,” the woman murmured thoughtfully. “I suppose people just misunderstand each other sometimes.”

Victorique glared at the floor with extreme displeasure.

“That oaf!”

Kazuya ran down the street, deftly dodging the gentlemen and ladies walking on the sidewalk. He turned the corner, then sprinted down the next street.

“V-Victorique. Why is she at the police station? I’m coming to get you right away.”

Navigating the unfamiliar streets of New York, he turned one way, doubled back, then took another turn, rushing all the way.

“Huh?”

He tripped and fell. Busy people either sidestepped him or nearly kicked him as they continued on their way.

Kazuya picked himself up and tried to run again, but soon began dragging his right leg.

“Man, it’s supposed to be healed already. I could go up the stairs last night,” he muttered, forcing himself to run.

At Grand Central Station in the middle of Manhattan Island.

A woman in her fifties, dressed in shabby Southern-style clothes, got off a soot-covered train and walked along the platform.

She carried only an old suitcase. Her face and clothes were dirtied from the long journey.

Glancing around nervously, she managed to get through the ticket gate without trouble. She took in the large domed station and the bustling crowd.

“Well, ain’t this a big ol’ city,” she muttered.

As she started walking, looking around excitedly, an old woman in a long brown dress, her gray hair neatly tied up, appeared before her. Fixing her cloudy eyes on the traveler, she stiffly moved her arms to spread them.

But the woman passed by without noticing her.

The old woman slowly turned, tilting her head with a jerky motion, and watched the woman go.

Busy New Yorkers hurried past. A train whistle pealed, and footsteps pattered all around.