Next of Kin

Chapter Five: 36%

Five, 36%

I hadn't noticed it, but my rating had been steadily ticking upwards as I investigated the scene. I didn't know whether that was sympathy- that I was facing what the audience probably considered my loss- or if it was based around any actual investigatory acumen of mine. I resolved next time I was alone in the bathroom to ask what kind of repeat viewership DCAs got, if there was just a certain class of people who liked to watch and rate. My mom had always loved watching true crime shows. It wasn't much far removed from that.

“What am I doing here?” I asked, half-rhetorically. It was at that moment that I remembered that I wasn't exactly alone, and my eyes shot to the scrolling chat window.

“FartGobbler: Jerking off over your brother's corpse?”

A flurry of responses came immediately to my defense, and seconds later, FartGobbler's comment was gone, replaced by a message from, “Petunia2039-mod: FartGobbler laid low by the ban hammer.”

“Investigator Tip: The first step an advocate should take following examination of the crime scene is to canvas for witnesses, starting with the immediate neighbors and spiraling outward from there.”

I groaned. I hated dealing with new people, let alone going door to door. The last time I'd done that was when John and I were kids, trying to sell marked-up candy bars for our scout troop. I'd forgotten John was a scout, back then- that he'd ever been anything, really, other than a low-life.

He had two immediate neighbors, one on either side. To the right was a house with an overgrown yard, and a big motorcycle parked out front. There was a sign in the window, like the ones that usually said, “Beware of Dog” or “No Trespassing,” that said only “Fuck Off.”

To the left there was another house, in further disrepair. It had a collection of dwarves from the Disney version of Snow White in its garden. The were covered in green moss, their paint chipped and faded; loved and worn. There was a mat one step off the sidewalk that read, “Welcome.”

I thought, for my first interview, I'd pluck the low-hanging fruit at the house on the left. I stepped over the mat, and continued up the walkway. Text flashed over the door in red that said, “No solicitors,” but changed as I approached to blue that said, “Official business.” I heard a tone as the door autodialed the resident, and routed the call through my interface.

“Hello?” I heard an elderly woman say. A static picture loaded while video connected, along with her name, Agness.

“Ma'am, good,” I looked in the top right corner of my interface, and saw that it wasn't morning anymore, “afternoon. I'm a designated citizen advocate, investigating a crime.”

“What happened?” she asked, as video came through. Her eyes were empathetic.

“My brother was murdered next door.”

“Heavens,” she said. “And this is such a nice neighborhood, too.”

“Yes, ma'am. I can ask questions over the phone, if you want, but I'm at your front door, if that would be less cumbersome.”

“Oh, yes, of course. How rude of me.” The door unlatched, and she appeared through the crack of the door. She let her own lenses scan my face, and check my credentials. “Sorry about that. But at my age, you can't be too careful.”

The door slid the rest of the way open. “Can I interest you in some tea? I have orange zest and chamomile.”

“I don't think that will be necessary.”

“Nonsense,” she said, and stepped inside a small kitchen. “You have a seat,” she said, and gestured to some stools wrapped around an island separating the kitchen from her living room. “You'll have some orange zest.”