Detective Harlow tapped his pencil against his pad. “Quentin Parks, 21 years old. One of his friends called in the kid's disappearance about an hour ago, though the friend wasn’t very coherent during the call. Was wondering if we’d brought him in for the night. Drunk college students, you know how it is.” He let out a great sigh. None of the cops looked happy about being this far down here, but Harlow’s nervousness seemed more calculating, his eyes staring intently down at his pad and a bead of sweat running down his brow. “The friend left a physical description, at least, which matches our guy here close enough. Though I don’t think even his mother would recognize that face now. Given that the mother in question is Councilwoman Parks….”

“Holy shit.” His partner muttered. “Same Parks that ran for mayor a few years back?”

“The very one.” Harlow rubbed his forehead. “And now someone’s got to tell her that her boy just got gutted like a fish and left down here to rot.”

Ryan was bent over a mound in the sewer. I hadn’t had the nerve to follow him towards that pile of garbage, given what was contained in it.

“More human remains.” My brother noted. “Some look actively dismembered, yes, especially the older ones. But even with the decomposition I can’t find any traces of deliberate disfigurement. Not like the newest victim at all. Very strange.”

“Kindly step away from that, boyo.” Harlow called out. “I’d like to have a proper team look over those bodies.”

I tried to keep my eyes up at the ceiling. Sure, I occasionally saw a few rats whose eyes reflected the light of the lamps below. But that still made it a thousand times better than looking anywhere else. “How many of those bodies do you think there are down here?”

My brother winced as he trudged back up to the dry, or at least drier, side of the tunnel to stand beside me. “I didn’t venture to count. But with all the garbage clogging things up, it’s a big pile, Dy. I’m pretty sure I didn’t go through most of it. This part of the sewer system is pretty remote. There’s a good chance people haven’t been down here in years. That pile of sewage that was built up over by the bend did a good job at concealing most of those bodies. If Quentin Parks’ body hadn’t washed up to the side at the right place…”

“Right, right. I see.” I couldn’t bring myself to listen to the rest of that conversation, stumbling out and away far enough that I could drive that stench out of my nostrils. My ring was still cold and smooth as ever when I rubbed it, clearing the static in my head enough for me to think.

I didn’t believe Ryan when he said he hadn’t counted the bodies. But I could believe he’d counted enough that he didn’t want to say the number.

That couldn’t be right, could it? Surely you couldn’t kill that many people and just get away with it? I saw more police officers walk past me without a second look. Judging by the sound of footsteps, there were a lot more coming. They’d probably have to stand in lines to fit within the sewer space at this rate.

Theaker was still strumming at their ukulele when I came to the fork in the tunnels, the clammy dark pathways feeling almost welcoming compared to the sewer. The tune was slower and less erratic, but you could still sense the worry flowing through every note, the melancholy barely tamping down the fear.

“Knew it was weird.” They muttered. “Knew that many couldn’t just pop off the face of the earth like that.” One of the strings snapped with a loud twang, making us both wince. “I’ve walked past that route maybe a thousand times before. I didn’t…” They shook their head and set about trying to replace their string. The flashlight was kept on the crook of their arm, its light beam flickering as they adjusted their instrument.

Why had they stayed here in the first place? I couldn’t imagine what Ryan had done to earn that kind of commitment. No, Theaker had something personal at stake in this, and part of me was tempted to ask about it. Despite the grubby face and unkempt clothing, Theaker’s music radiated talent, and no one ends up on Ryan’s list of contacts without being very, very good at what they do.

So there was an interesting story there, and that’s exactly what I was afraid of. Because seeing someone’s face doesn’t stop them from being background scenery in your life. Even a name can be discarded by the memory within seconds. But stories make people real. Once someone stops being a statistic, you can’t use the excuse of ignorance anymore.

You have to care about them, and at that point there was nothing I dreaded more than that.

So Theaker and I waited in silence. A forensic team trudged past us, laden down with gear and pulling on their masks. I should’ve been more mad at the police, honestly. How many of them would have come down here if it had been Jean Rustin’s body found washed up on the side of the sewer? Even through the darkness of the tunnel, I saw the resentment on Theaker’s face.

Perhaps the cops, too, felt like they already had too many people to care about. Or maybe that was just giving them too much credit.

Ryan stepped out into the tunnel. The lower half of his body was streaked with mud and/or other things I really didn’t want to think about, but he still moved with the same composure he’d show for an evening at the opera. “Detective Harlow wants to do a proper search through the catacombs, it seems.”

Theaker scoffed. “And have you told him just how in-sane that statement is? I bet most of them haven’t set foot down here in their whole lives.”

My brother nodded. “It would take a while to map it properly, I agree, though I’ve considered trying to set up a radar system… but nevertheless, thank you, Theaker. You went above and beyond for this.”

Theaker shrugged, slinging their ukulele over their shoulder. “Not far enough. I mean, it’s probably not Aiello, isn’t it? Not his style to do something like this.”

“Even just dumping someone in a sewer would be too cloak-and-dagger for him.” My brother agreed. “But I wouldn’t rule him out just yet, either.” He tried to reach into his pocket, presumably for his wallet, then frowned at the layer of muck on his jeans. “Is it all right if I pay you tomorrow?”

Theaker shook their head, shifting from foot to foot. “Pay me by finding the sick freak who did this, all right? An-and if you need anything else, just call me.” Ryan tried to protest, but there was a familiar expression set firmly on Theaker’s face. A quiet, angry sort of pride that brooked no protest, and there’s nothing my brother understands as well as that. They nodded again, glancing over at me for a second, then set off through the catacombs.

I turned to look at Ryan. “You find any trace of the guy we’re looking for down here?”

He scowled and shook his head. “It’s hard to tell without a proper report from the forensics team. But what I found all seemed too old and too degraded for someone who went missing two days ago, even assuming they were killed at that very moment.”

“So then what?” I asked. “You think he just ran off or something?”

“At this point, that might be the best case scenario.” He popped another caffeine pill in his mouth. His hair had grown curlier and more unruly in the last few days. Almost cherubic, in the right lighting, but down here it only stressed the wild gleam in his eyes. “But somehow I doubt Mr. Rustin’s disappearance merely coincided with this. Whoever dumped those bodies there has already gotten spooked by this commotion with the police. I have a feeling if we don’t figure this out soon, we’ll never know what happened to our client’s father. So you see why I have to see this through, don’t you? You don’t need to come, but I, I have to follow this to the end. I have to face that man’s family and tell them I did everything I could.” He exhaled, closing his eyes. “Tell me you understand that much.”

Not really. Not completely. But I wrapped an arm around his shoulders anyway, and let him lead me down the path.

*

I managed to lever that catlike fastidiousness of his to get him back to the apartment to change clothes. Even planted the suggestion that he have the last few interviews here in the apartment. But he insisted on coming out to the restaurant. The man we were meeting was a man of tradition, he claimed, and there aren’t many places with more history than the Broiler.

If you hung a city map on a dartboard, you’d catch the restaurant pretty much smack dab on the bullseye. The place lacks a sign and for all intents and purposes is just a big, drafty old house. In further rejection of city zoning laws, the owner, Teo, refused to give it a name. The Broiler bit came from a giant brass chicken hanging behind the counter.

The result of all this laxity is that the place always manages to catch the vibe of showing up at a friend’s place, albeit with at least a dozen other friends hanging out at their own tables. There’s a thin, comfortable layer of grime over everything, just enough that people in sharp suits and dusty overalls both feel comfortable taking a seat.

The fact this place existed at all used to drive me to distraction, but after a day like this it felt disturbingly normal.

My brother took another bite of fried okra, chewing slowly and carefully. He’d slurred a word or two in the last few minutes, but wasn’t tired enough to not notice. He scooped the fork up, missing a piece. He then tried to stab it two or three more times without avail. He finally threw the fork down on the plate and rubbed at his eyes furiously. His hand reached into his jacket for another caffeine pill and I decided I had to keep him distracted.

“Honestly, part of me still refuses to believe there’s that many bodies down there. I mean, isn’t it possible you overestimated your count a bit?”

He didn’t bristle at the accusation like I expected. “As I said Dy, I didn’t do a count. And if anything I’m surprised there weren’t more down there.” He finally finished his plate of food, leaning back and staring up at the pale blue ceiling. “It’s easy, maybe a little too easy, to start deducing entire psychological profiles off of a single crime scene, particularly the messy ones. There’s so much data available it’s almost begging for interpretation.”

I put down my own fork, which had been digging through a bowl of steaming hot grits. Drizzled with bacon grease, naturally. “God, remember Dr. Fabri? I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone pull as much bullshit out of thin air.”

“Exactly. It’s an easy tactic to make fun out of, and for good reason. People are capable of endless complexities, after all. But when all’s said and done, motive is what ties a case together. Unless there’s unambiguous evidence, it’s often the only way to narrow down the list of suspects. When you’re stumbling around in the dark, looking for what you’re thinking is just another nutcase … well, a lot of bodies can pile up in the meantime.”

I took in another spoonful of grits, though I can’t say that statement did much for my appetite. “But, I mean, most of those were all old cases, right? That kind of stuff can’t be that common with national databases, or surveillance.” I paused, having reached the limit of my expertise. “And other stuff.”

“I suppose it depends on the specifc flavor of crime. But my point is that every system has cracks large enough for people to fall through, and the catacombs,” my brother waved his fork in the direction of the window, “are about as wide a crack as you can possibly get. Regarding Quentin Parks – is it all right if I discuss this? I probably should’ve asked about this earlier, I know.” He sighed in as much annoyance as exhaustion, “But it slipped my mind. You didn’t know Quentin, did you?”

I scraped the last bit of grits off the bowl. In the dark, with only a flashlight for reference, I hadn’t gotten a good look at that body. At that moment I thanked my lucky stars for it. “I mean, I think I heard of him, maybe? Like you said, his mom’s not exactly low-profile. But if we met it must’ve been in passing.” I swallowed the last bite. “Seriously, just get on with it. It can’t be much worse than anything we haven’t already brought up in this conversation.”

“Fair enough. Now, setting aside the ridiculousness of kidnapping a politician’s son to steal his organs, Quentin Parks was specifically disfigured to prevent anyone from identifying him. We basically lucked out with you identifying him as a Doldrum undergrad, plus his friend calling in the disappearance that quickly. What we end up with is a very short timeline. That lends a lot of credence to the idea they didn’t expect to pick up someone like him. They probably only figured out who he was when it was too late.”

“So they panicked, and tried to get rid of him as fast as they could. That’s probably why his body was easy to find, right? They were too scared to think about disposing of him properly.” That made him sound more like a recycling bin than a person, didn’t it? I drummed my fingers against the table. “Of course, none of this really matters if the real culprits are a large-scale organ harvesting operation.” I gave my brother a suspicious look. Even at this point, I didn’t think he was crazy enough to try taking down a Mob boss in a single night. Although he could always try something less ambitious, like start a gang war or something.

“That’s just it. I don’t think this is happening on a large scale. Regardless of whether any operation would make use of the catacombs – though I do highly doubt that – everything else carries the hallmarks of a few people working independently. The way the victims were taken, and the way the bodies were disposed… maybe one person could even do it alone, if they planned things out properly.” He traced his finger on the table, tracing out a shape that reminded me of a spiderweb. “Based on what Harlow and Theaker have told me, most of the disappearances happened close to entrances of the catacombs. Maybe I could map things out. But no, I can’t imagine that’ll get us anywhere useful. Not without a pattern…” He glanced towards something behind my head. “Ah. Good evening, Mr. Gretz.”

“Hardly the evening at this point,” The man wheezed, pulling up a chair. “Ten minutes past midnight. But I’m old now, and I don’t mind late hours as much as I used to. Though it does seem like you should be minding them a little more.”

“Well observed, Mr. Gretz.” My brother smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes this time.

They called this guy Greyhound, apparently, and I understood why at once. He was tall and rake-thin, with a pale and sallow skin. Stringy white hair was combed back, though not properly. He really earned the grey part of his name. Not in his suit, which was actually a tasteful tan color, but through a greyness that permeated every aspect of his being. If he really was a gangster, he was the type to prefer an accountant’s lifestyle.

A teenager wearing a baggy Insandescent shirt and jeans came to take another order, but Gretz shook his head. “Most of my diet is pills these days.” He said, patting his stomach delicately, “and I can’t stay too long even to help out a young whippersnapper like you. You’re lucky to have such important friends, you know.” His smile widened ever so slightly. “Or had, in a few notable cases.”

“Clearly I can’t be so low on your list of priorities, Mr. Gretz, considering you set up someone to tail us.”

I blinked, a brief flash of memory going back to earlier that night. I half expected Gretz to laugh it off, but his gaze only sharpened. “Extra marks to you, boy. But believe me when I say it wasn’t personal in this case. I wouldn’t claim the Mirza family considers the catacombs to be their territory. But they do pay attention, you know? Especially now someone important got caught in the net of those vicious little fishes.”

Ryan steepled his fingers. “So I’m guessing those vicious little fishes aren’t on the Mirzas’ payroll, then? I can’t imagine them doing the distribution aspect of the system of the own. I suppose it could be the Ukrainians… but no, I’m betting on Aiello being their buyer. Did you make them an offer too, I wonder?”

Gretz clicked his tongue, his expression souring. “It’s hard to tell how many of your guesses are blind luck. But you’re right enough, anyway. They have nothing to do with us. They shouldn’t have anything to do with us. These bottom feeders, and frankly Aiello as well, are only competitors in a nominal sense. We… how do I say it? We corner different parts of the market.”

The old man looked like he was enjoying himself now, leaning forward in his chair. He clearly didn’t speak much about his work, at least not with people he considered worth speaking to. He nodded towards me.

“You, you’re the brother, aren’t you? The resemblance is fainter than I expected, but undeniable. Have you heard of surrogates, by any chance?”

I glanced at Ryan for support, but his expression was about as readable as a brick wall. “What, like surrogate parents?”

“Exactly like that! Two prospective parents, unable to conceive a child of their own, ask a woman to lend out their services. The woman carries their child for nine months, with all modern medicine and conveniences at hand, and to the benefit of everyone involved. Wonderful industry, truly. Worthy of emulation!”

He nodded towards a young man standing beside him with his hands crossed behind his back and the eyes of a shark. “Take Achmed. He’s the brother of Zain here. Achmed shattered a leg working as a Mirza family retainer. He’s a perfectly acceptable surrogate at the moment, carrying my new liver for me. Perhaps my kidney, too, based on what my doctor has been telling me lately. He eats a perfect diet, takes proper exercise. A perfect model for all the men and women who make up my part of the operation. Most of whom, I’ll remind you, remain perfectly passable members of society.”

I stared down at my empty bowl. “And how much are you paying them to sell their organs?”

“Adequately.” Gretz said, in a tone that brooked no further discussion. “But my point is, you understand this all means we cater to a certain tier of clientele. Aiello and his ilk are different. He provides for the desperate, and that allows for lower standards of product and far worse conditions. But he got ambitious in expanding his operation. A born overpromiser, that one. And those poor conditions of his means he’ll always have trouble filling in his quotas.”

“Which is where the bottom-feeders come in. They fill in all the gaps.”

“Precisely. I suppose you could go to Aiello’s people, see if you can’t get them to tell you what you want. It won’t be easy to convince someone to act as whistleblower, though. Nobody wants to be fed their own fingers, after all.” He waggled his hand for emphasis. “But what you should be taking away from all this, young man, is that with the market comes the demand. You clean out the filth from the catacombs, and the scum will rise to the top somewhere else.” He checked his watch and stretched, bones popping as he did so. “That answers all of your most pertinent questions, I hope.”

Ryan nodded silently.

“Excellent.” He gave my brother a grandfatherly wink. “I’ll be calling in for a consultation at some point, you know. Even we less reputable businessmen require a detective every once in a while, and the current batch at the PD are so utterly incompetent. We’ll still pay you for your troubles, of course. Quite adequately.”

The Greyhound sauntered out of the restaurant, swinging his cane. My brother drained his glass of water and set it down on the table.

“So,” I said, after a minute of silence, “that’s it for the night, then?”

Ryan tapped faintly at his jacket. “I thought so, at least. But Ms. Yuna Maeng sent me a message a few minutes ago. You remember her, right? She’s our client’s aunt, and Jean Rustin’s sister-in-law.”

“The one they saw with him at the bar?”

He nodded. “She works the night shift at the Inchoate Fisheries, about two blocks away from here. Might as well speak to her now if we get the chance, right?”

“Might as well.” I agreed. “But did she agree to come here?”

“About a minute ago, but – ”

“Then get a little rest,” I said, “at least until she shows up. What do people like you call it? A micro-nap? It’s gotta be better than nothing.”

Ryan muttered something too low for me to hear. “Fine. You should see her coming down the street through the window.”

“And I’ll wake you up the moment I see her, never fear.” It occurred to me a second later that I had no way of recognizing the woman, but at that point my brother had already rested his head in his arms, burying his nose in that old lilac scarf and closing his eyes.

He didn’t stir, even as guests came and went, shouting out their orders and grumbling about their bills. I watched them all. There were dockworkers and security guards and even a single ballet dancer still wearing his costume. I couldn’t get Gretz’s words out of my head. Surrogates…

That guy over there had teeth and fingers yellowed from smoking. That one looked too old – they’d pick young people, wouldn’t they? And Gretz probably wouldn’t take a liver from an alcoholic, either.

But in the end, I could probably pass most of the surrogates on the street and never know. And no matter what happened tonight, most of that system would keep chugging along, undeterred. It worked along with identical little machines across the rest of the world, grinding thousands between their gears each day. There’s something soothing about that futility, warm and heavy as weighted blanket. You don’t have to feel bad about what you can’t change.

I rose from my reverie to order something, deciding if I had to ponder life’s injustices I might as well do it with a full stomach. I was halfway through a club sandwich when the infamous sister-in-law walked into the Broiler. Yuna Maeng had a jaunty, rubber duck yellow raincoat slung around her shoulder, but she still managed to sit down at the table before I noticed her properly.

She was quite short, not even five feet tall. One look at her face, though, and I had no doubt she was older than her sister. Her expression was drawn and hard, her hair tied up in a tight bun on the top of her head. Maeng checked her phone, frowning at my brother, then at me. “Ryan Amadeus Neville?” She asked, thoughtfully drawing out each syllable.

I jerked my thumb in his direction. “That’s him.” I knew he’d probably want me to wake him up at this point, but he looked so peaceful at that moment the very thought felt like kicking a puppy. I slid a menu over to her. “Can I order you something?”