The Detective Thirteen
Two days after the dungeon failed.
“This is a clusterfuck.”
Mallory looked up to the chief of police. The man was openly smoking in his office. The ashtray on his desk, sitting precariously atop a mountain of reports, was full of butts and ashes. “Things aren’t great, no,” he agreed. “I’m afraid that I’m going to need some help for the next stage of my investigation.”
The police chief stared at him, then took a pull from his cigarette. “You know, Detective, I admire how dogged you are. It’s impressive.”
“Thank you,” Mallory replied. Then he waited for the other shoe to drop.
“It’s also rather stupid, at this point. I don’t think your investigation is going to go anywhere.”
“I disagree. I think I’m close. I can sense it,” Mallory said.
The chief snorted, then stood. He walked over to the window at the back of his office and spread the curtains over. The city sprawled out beyond. The office was on the topmost floor of the police headquarters, which afforded them a nice view.
He could easily pick out the faint, distant trails of smoke coming from several parts of the city. The chief saw them too. “The firemen have done a good job so far. Last time, when Ditz collapsed we had one fire that raged through the far southern slums for three days. We lost a lot of people to that one.”