Anomie

Chapter Five: Incidents

It was a delicate situation: a Muggle man murdered via the Killing Curse on a crowded London street in broad daylight. The man, as yet unidentified, had toppled over like a tilting plank into other Muggles, the murderer had Apparated away, and the noise had drawn even more attention. When Ron got there, pedestrians were still shrilling that the man had been killed in a flash of green light. He wondered how the Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee would wriggle out of this one.

Ron, decked out in the Muggle clothes that every Auror had to keep in the office - selected by Hermione, thank goodness, so he blended in well - approached a man in police garb and flashed his badge. He didn't know what the badge meant, but it worked as a signal to the Muggle to let him through. Ron awkwardly swooped under the yellow tape and was immediately assaulted by information as the Muggle officer walked with him toward the body.

'No clear cause of death, sir,' said the officer quickly. 'Witnesses say they saw a bright flash of green light as the victim was killed. We haven't had a case like this in -'

'Ten years, yes,' interrupted Ron, uninterested in what the man had to say. He already knew what had killed the Muggle, and Muggle officers were completely daft at investigating magical murders. 'I'll take it from here.'

'It's like that Smythe murder,' the officer went on in a whisper. 'Never was solved, that.'

Not by the Muggles - to wizarding Britain, the culprit had been all too obvious. But no wizard or witch since the second war had had the audacity to commit public murder, let alone in the Muggle world.

McLaggen must have been under Imperius to give him this case, and Tonks would die of jealousy when she found out.

'Do you think it's the same fellow?' the officer asked.

'The same fellow as what?'

'As the Smythe murders, of course!' The officer looked at him dubiously.

Ron shrugged. 'How would I know? I haven't even seen the autopsy report yet.' Not that he needed to. The war was over, and its main antagonists were dead or in Azkaban or across the Channel. Aside from You Know Who; as the Prophet so eloquently put it, he was Wherever, or Elsewhere, or Merlin Knows Where. But Wherever wasn't here, and whoever did this was probably someone completely unaffiliated with the atrocities ten years ago.

Maybe.

The body was already gone. There was nothing that marked the location as a crime scene except for the useless white outline of where the body had landed. 'So...clues?'

'None we can find. The witnesses all say the same bloody thing: flash of green light, disappearing man.'

'Any description of the disappearing man?' He was the murderer, of course.

'Witnesses say he was wearing a black robe down to his ankles. Face was covered. Probably in some cult or other. White male, above six feet tall, lanky. That's all we've got.'

Wonderful. So Ron was supposed to investigate...what, exactly? 'Sounds like you've caught me,' he joked.

The officer's expression was blank. 'Eh?'

'Never mind.' Muggles. No sense of humour. And Hermione would kill him if she caught him thinking that.

Ron didn't see anything else to do here. His next task was to slip the corpse away from the Muggles without causing a stir. He probably wouldn't learn anything from it, with the cause of death being so blatant, but it was protocol, and it might at least give him some clue about the victim's identity.

'Right, off I go then,' he muttered to himself, leaving the police officer gaping at his rudeness.

***

'The Oven Incident,' Ajit began dramatically, ending with a plump pause. He grinned. 'I hardly ever get to tell this story. Let me think for a minute...I want to start it off just right...'

'All right. Well. In the old days before the Oven Incident Voldemort had to cook for himself. Remember the kitchen you saw when Fairfax showed you around Voldemort's apartment?'

Rue remembered. Aside from the tiled floor, it was impossible to tell it was supposed to be a kitchen. 'It was gutted,' remarked Rue.

'It wasn't gutted before from what I've heard. There was an oven, a stove, a sink, and he used them. He had to. Back then the manager of this place was an Auror called Torvald von Rot. He was tough...punished Voldemort for any bad behavior. Well, you can guess he didn't take too well to that.'

Rue couldn't think of any Auror named Torvald von Rot, which seemed to bode ill for where the story was headed.

'I think Voldemort must have been waiting for von Rot to visit personally. Management usually just tells us what to do from afar, takes care of the budget, mundane things like that. But one day von Rot popped in for a surprise inspection, and Voldemort was cooking his dinner at the time.'

'Von Rot went into the kitchen and dismissed the guards. Of course, when the Aurors heard a scream, they thought it was Voldemort.'

'I'm guessing it wasn't?'

Ajit shook his head slowly and emphatically. 'No. The scream was quick, so no one thought anything too awful was going on in there. One of the guards heard the oven door shut, and then there was some banging, but that didn't last long, either.'

Rue's stomach lurched as she realized where this story was headed. She should have known from what the incident was called. 'Please, before you go on...tell me he didn't...'

'Fairfax always tells this story better,' said Ajit, frowning pensively. 'How did you already guess? The guards went in after a while to check that everything was okay, and in the oven -'

'Gross!'

'Turns out he chopped him up beforehand to fit him in, but he still had some trouble closing the door -'

'Thank you!' cried Rue, unable to shake the image of dismembered limbs. 'That's enough, really!'

'Sorry,' Ajit said, his tone sincere. 'It is your first day, but it's better that you know why we have our wands close at hand at all times. No one knows exactly what happened, but it's safe to say that von Rot didn't keep to the First Grab Rule. Sometimes I find myself getting relaxed around here because nothing ever happens; it's important to remember what can happen if you are overconfident.

'And that's why no one knows who management is anymore and why whoever it is never visits. It seems paranoid now, but after the Oven Incident, the guards thought there might still be a spy network around working for Voldemort. They thought he might have been informed secretly about von Rot's arrival so he could plan the murder.'

Ajit shook his head. 'They don't realize what he is. He doesn't need extra time to plan. He's probably got all our deaths worked out hundreds of times over.

'But it was just a year after the war, and everyone was jumpy, so the Ministry decided that the identity of management would be kept secret. That way Voldemort can't find out who to kill for bad treatment. Even we don't know who's running this place.'

He chuckled softly. 'But Voldemort has been treated much better since then, so I suppose management must still be worried about...retribution.'

Rue nodded, though she was barely listening, still concentrated on the story Ajit had told about the first manager's murder. She could easily (too easily) picture the end result of the deed. But...But the clever man in the armchair? She tried for a moment to see it, but failed. He didn't seem like the type. 'Was he bloody?' she asked out of the blue.

Ajit looked at her curiously. 'Who?'

'Voldemort.'

'Voldemort? I suppose so. I never asked.'

Rue looked away and pretended to be engrossed with inspecting the dust on one of the dressers she was supposed to be cleaning. She couldn't see him bloody; it was such a Muggle way of killing someone, and even a Muggle would find it dirty. She could hardly imagine his hands chopping vegetables, let alone bone.

It couldn't have really happened the way Ajit said. Maybe the story got twisted through many tellings throughout the years.

'I really did upset you, didn't I?' said Ajit. 'I'm surprised you haven't heard worse. You are an Auror?'

'Yes,' she replied, turning around and smiling to reassure him. 'I'm fine. I was just thinking. What were you saying before about Annie's big game last year?'

Ajit immediately looked even more excited than he had during the telling of the murder. He drew a bundle of pictures out of his pocket too large to fit without magic and immediately picked out just the right one: a picture of his oldest daughter speeding vertically upward on a broom with both Bludgers tickling the twigs of her broom. He launched into a description of the game, and Rue paid attention as best she could with a mystery on her mind.

***

It was just a body. There was nothing remarkable about it. It was stiff, dead, standard. The soul once residing within it had left few telltale signs of his identity: his slacks were plain brown, his shoes of average quality. His hair was mousey brown and combed to each side unattractively.

His pockets were full of odds and ends. Unfortunately his wallet was not among them; the man only had some change. It was the worst day for the man to have left his wallet at home, at least from Ron's perspective, because there was nothing else to identify the body. He might have to wait until someone noticed this boring man was missing before he found out the victim's identity.

The most interesting object the man had been carrying was some Muggle thing Ron couldn't identify. It was small and more or less rectangular, with two almost finger-sized holes. He inspected it closer and found that the holes were really two little spinning wheels. He rotated one of the wheels with his finger and watched as the other moved at the same pace. Ron looked at the side of the object and noticed a thin strip of some Muggle material looping into both wheels.

He didn't have a clue what it was, and he didn't want to damage it, so Ron took out a piece of parchment and proceeded to draw a rough picture of it to take with him. His work day was almost over, so he decided he might as well ask Hermione about it when he got home.

Among the gum wrappers and receipts was a blue ballpoint pen. Ron inspected the writing on the side of it: it read RASP Europe. Next among the corpses' ex-belongings was a piece of string; he put that aside, but he wasn't about to throw anything out when he was this desperate for clues.

There was nothing else. Ron was left to solve the case with an acronym, a piece of string, and a Thingy - the term thrown around the office for odd Muggle objects.

Yet he didn't feel particularly discouraged. He'd solved cases with less information than this...not as an Auror, but back at Hogwarts with Harry and Hermione...

Ron checked his watch and noted with glee that it was two minutes to five. Thoughts of the case took flight as images of his children marched forward. Crumpling the picture of the Thingy into his pocket, Ron left the corpse in its new home in the Ministry's underground morgue, certain that he could already smell dinner.

***

Voldemort had been a pain in the arse all day - even more than usual. It always seemed like more than usual to Fairfax. The ex-Dark Lord had made little biting comments about Rue ever since Fairfax sent her off with Ajit. Fairfax had passed Ajit a note telling him to keep her occupied until the end of their twelve-hour shift; he thought she'd been around Voldemort quite enough for her first day.

Which had left Fairfax in the unenviable position of putting up with both Voldemort and Vale until eight in the evening. He'd thought he might explode at them both by the end of it, but Voldemort would have made him pay for days if he'd put a Silencing Charm on him. The petulance of the man was not to be underestimated.

Fairfax rubbed his temples with one hand, staving off a headache, as he took a relieving sip of brandy. Lord knew he hadn't taken the guard job by choice, and he'd thought that manoeuvring Rue into his shift with him might make it all more bearable...but it hadn't that day. Fairfax thought about Tuesday and wondered how long he could get Ajit to watch Voldemort while he and Rue...well, there were plenty of rooms in the building, and Ajit owed him for putting up with Voldemort all day while he babbled on about his kids.

And if Fairfax was fired due to negligence, what did he care? He was rich. He didn't even pour his own brandy, for God's sake, yet he spent his days catering to a mentally ill senior citizen. And if Rue was fired, what of it? She'd only become an Auror because of that overbearing father of hers.

Anyway, she wouldn't have to work after they were married. Not that they were engaged yet, but she had a good, solid wizarding name that had come out smelling like a rose even as most of the old pureblood families had fallen into disgrace. She wasn't a pureblood herself, but her name still carried weight, and Fairfax knew the value of a good name. He had one in the Muggle world, but it was utterly worthless in the magical one. Marrying Rue would up his standing. Maybe he'd even take her name as his own.

Besides, he liked her - love would be too strong a word, but he was genuinely fond of the girl - and the sex was good. They were a good match. Once he quit, he'd marry her and settle down, have a few kids, and send them off first to Hogwarts and then to get MBAs on forged Muggle university credentials so they could manage both ends of the family business properly.

But he couldn't quit being an Auror just yet, nor could he contrive to get himself fired. Unfortunately it was his assignment, and his alone, to watch that annoying old homicidal coot for the sake of the Organization.

He hated it, but every time he thought of quitting, he was forcefully reminded that much of his imagined future prosperity hinged on the Organization's success. His family's Muggle business was struggling to expand further, while Fairfax's infant ventures into wizarding business were too dependent on his partners' connections.

Speak of the devil. The fire in front of Fairfax thundered, and his partner's face made its expected appearance in the flames.

'Ramsden,' said the man.

'Malfoy,' greeted Fairfax in kind. 'Am I to understand that the barriers to my entry into the cauldron market will soon be relaxed?'

'Our entry,' corrected Malfoy, his tone playful. 'I'm the one doing the legwork.'

Fairfax disdainfully swallowed the combative remark that brought to mind. The bastard probably hadn't moved from his cushy manor in France all day; Malfoy wasn't doing the legwork so much as the Floowork.

The Malfoy surname had fallen in stature from what it had been, but there were still some who, out of respect for the name or fear of it, would bend a few rules or cut through some red tape when a Malfoy asked for it. Fairfax gave capital and public respectability to their joint ventures while Malfoy fronted his influence and private respectability among well-placed purebloods in the Ministry. It was a decent arrangement. On paper.

'Of course,' conceded Fairfax. 'Ours. So, the cauldron market?'

'Things will progress smoothly from here on.'

'And what about our potion ingredient imports?' Fairfax liked to diversify.

'I've encouraged customs to hurry them along.'

'Excellent. I'll notify my - our - distribution network.'

'You do that.'

Fairfax didn't know what else there was to say. His meetings with Malfoy were usually brief. He couldn't think of anything else he needed to know. 'Same time next week, Draco?'

'Of course.' Malfoy's face disappeared from the flames without so much as a by-your-leave, and Fairfax was left smouldering over the fact that his precious partner was getting so much out of their arrangement for so little effort.

Once the Organization's plans bore fruit, he would be all too happy to kick Draco's arrogant arse out the door. Then Fairfax would be rolling in money and respect, and all his wasted days watching Voldemort wouldn't seem so wasted anymore.

Fairfax didn't hear the footfalls of one of his servants, so he was startled when the man said, 'Sir, a package for you. It just arrived.'

Fairfax looked up at the clock above the hearth; it was midnight. 'Bring it here,' he said. He took the package: it was small enough to fit into his hand and wrapped in brown paper tied with string.

His breathing slowed as his eyes focused on the string - that, along with the shape of the package, left Fairfax no room for doubt about what it was. 'You may go,' he said, trying to sound calm, but the man had already left the room.

Fairfax struggled to snap the string until he realized his foolishness and took out his wand. He tapped it on the package, and the knot compliantly slipped open.

The string fell into his lap as he unwrapped the brown paper. Inside was a cassette tape, unlabeled and dingy grey. Fairfax smiled and ran his fingers over the hard plastic in satisfaction. This was what he had been waiting for; the tension of the day slipped away just like the cassette tape slipped easily into the player.

Fairfax listened for several seconds to the gentle hiss of the tape before he heard Oblivion speak.