Wax joined him a moment later, inspecting the bottom envelope in a stack from the desk drawer.
“What’s that?” Kim asked.
“When you use a fountain pen,” Wayne said, “you gotta wait for it to dry. But sometimes you’re inna hurry, or you’re worried, so you put it away and put something on toppa it. Like this stack of envelopes. Then the ink makes an imprint on the bottom.”
“Smudged,” Wax said, holding up the envelope. “But maybe legible. This part here, it’s underlined. Does that look like a set of numbers to you?”
“A seven?” Wayne asked, pointing at one. The next were too smudged to read. “Then a dash and a thirteen.”
“Maybe a combination,” Kim said softly, crowding them to see the number. “There are big stacks of lockers at the larger train stations that use numbers like this, where you can pay to store things.”
Wax nodded slowly. “Marasi, what have you found?”
“I think these books have all been replaced,” she said. “He seems like the type who reads a lot, but these are all brand new. I’dguess the Set took every book in the place, just in case, and refilled the bookshelves with red herrings.”
“This looks like the original furniture though,” Wax said, and demonstrated moving a chair back so it bumped the wall, right where the paint had been scraped away by repeatedly being hit like that. “It’s old. Worn. The carpet too. The roomappearsneat and orderly, because the Set cleaned it up after they did their search—but it was likely a mess before they arrived.”
“I think the fellow is dead,” Wayne said, tapping the wall and breaking away some putty. “Bullet hole. Probably shot the poor doof in the back while he was sitting here.”
“Too specific a conclusion to draw from so little evidence,” Marasi said, joining him. She pulled out a little brush and fiddled in the hole, eventually pulling out some flakes of something and putting them in a vial.
“Blood?” Wayne guessed.
“Yes,” she admitted. “And what might be a sliver of bone. They must have cleaned the blood off the desk, but removed only the bullet from the hole.” She ran her fingers over the wood. “It’s worn down. He used this desk a lot. Or bought an old one to begin with. Hard to say.”
Wax walked over and handed Wayne a leather cap, like painters wore.
“Found it on the bedpost,” Wax said. “What do you think? Have we given you enough to work with?”
“Maybe…” Wayne said, slipping on the hat. He walked to the center of the room, then stared out a window, putting it all together. Trying to imagine the man who had lived here, trying to extrapolate from what they knew of him.
“He was respected at first,” Wayne said. “A good scientist. But then he found things, heard other things, learned more. He was a chemist, right?”
“For a tire company,” Marasi said.
“A front, most likely,” Wax said. “He said his employers were making abomb. I’dbet his chemistry work involved investigating weapon systems and explosives for the Bilming government.”
“Yeah…” Wayne said, his eyes closed. “He realized they were looking to make a bomb, and heard about splitting harmonium. And he was maybe already a little eccentric. He tried to save the city… But he was an odd fellow, and nobody listened…”
Eyes closed, he spread his arms out and turned around slowly, smelling the place—and imagining it. Stacked old dishes in the corner. He could still smell them. Frantic nights… reading… thinking…
“They didn’t listen,” Wayne said. “And when they locked him up, he learned he couldn’t use the normal justice system to stop the disaster.”
“So what did he do?” Kim asked. “You think the people who killed him were scared that they missed something. That implies he knew something they didn’t want leaked. Where did he stash it?”
“He didn’t,” Wayne whispered. “That’s not what this fellow would do. You see, the Set… they’re going to be wrong about him. Just like Kim is.”
“How?” Marasi asked softly from somewhere to his right.
“The Set,” Wayne said, “they hold on to knowledge. Theystrangleit, Marasi. But a fellow like this, he might be a little unhinged, but he wants people to know whatheknows. He ain’t going to lock his ideas up in some train station. He’llsharethem. If the government won’t listen, then…”
He opened his eyes and met Wax’s. “… he’ll do whatever he can to get the information out.”
“Kim,” Wax said, thoughtful, “which local broadsheet has the worst reputation? The type that publishes whatever nonsense it can get its hands on? Particularly if it’s frightening, or a little off-kilter?”
“There are atleastseven of those,” she replied.
“Which one syndicates the writings of that fool Jak?”