Chapter 2: The Investigator

As the paramedics were trying to lift Tom into the ambulance, he came around on his own and said he was all right. The doctor was conscientious, though, and quickly checked his heart, lungs, and pupils. Only after confirming that nothing was wrong did he feel comfortable letting Tom off the stretcher.

The bank closed for the day, and yellow police tape went up outside. Tom then went to the police station to give a statement.

As he recounted what had happened, Tom seemed badly shaken. He was a little slow to answer questions and said there were many details he couldn't remember. But the officer taking his statement was very understanding toward this public-spirited hero. He neither pressed him about the missing details as though interrogating a criminal nor questioned a single answer Tom gave.

The whole affair was actually quite straightforward. From the moment the criminals entered the bank to the end of the robbery, no more than four minutes had passed. And from the moment Tom got up off the floor until all three criminals were incapable of resisting, less than a minute had elapsed. Forty-nine seconds, to be precise. The surveillance footage provided a fairly complete picture of the case. The police were only taking Tom's statement to corroborate it with testimony from someone involved. To them, the case was clear-cut and would soon be closed.

When Tom left the station, many of the officers even applauded and cheered him. The chief drove him home personally and warmly asked whether he would like the police to bring his car back from the bank's parking lot.

Tom politely declined. The bank wasn't far from his house, and he could easily walk over to collect the car. Besides, he didn't want any more contact with the police. If the chief decided they were friends and became part of his social circle, that would pose an enormous risk.

At ten that evening, Tom said goodbye to the chief and went inside. It was a two-bedroom house with an attic and a basement, a neatly trimmed lawn and a clean driveway. Neighborhoods like this generally housed families of three or retired couples whose children had moved out. People living alone were very rare, but Tom lived by himself.

The moment he stepped inside, Tom's expression changed. Even with his back to the chief a moment earlier, his face had looked tense and tired. Once the door was closed, however, his expression was calm and cold, his eyes sharp and alert. Even the way he stood and walked changed slightly. The relaxed, sluggish movements of an ordinary person became steady and controlled.

He now looked as though he could turn straight around and head out to work, full of energy, as if nothing had happened.

Tom cooked dinner, enough for one, and didn't waste a single bite. His meals followed a plan and a routine; he never ate on a whim. After dinner, he cleared away the dishes, took out the trash, washed up, and finally went to bed, just as he did every day. Almost the instant he closed his eyes, he fell asleep. Tom was efficient at everything he did, including resting. He could get by on just two hours of sleep a day for a month. Normally, four hours was more than enough for him.

The next day, although the incident had done little to disturb him, Tom still called his company to ask for a week's leave. On the phone, he sounded as though he had suffered some terrible shock.

His superior agreed at once without even asking why. Apparently, he already knew about the bank robbery the previous afternoon. He was also quite happy to give a few days off to a good employee who hadn't missed a single day since starting work.

And so Tom's plan to feign distress got off to a smooth start. He had long since anticipated that this business wouldn't end so easily.

Sure enough, the number of messages on his answering machine shot up to over a hundred that day. Apart from friends and colleagues, most callers were from the media. Vehicles from television stations and newspapers arrived in droves.

Tom cut the doorbell wire, put a sign on the door saying he wasn't receiving visitors, unplugged his telephone line, and drew all the curtains. In his experience, however much mileage the press might get out of yesterday's news, people would forget about him if he kept this up for a week.

On the third day after Tom shut himself away, an uninvited visitor arrived at the local police station.

“Gary Jordan... Where did this fellow come from?” the police chief asked in puzzlement, leafing through a set of orders sent directly from the governor's office.

The officer who had handed him the document shrugged. “He just walked into the station with it himself. Said it would save some formalities and get things moving faster.”

“The document seems to be in order. Doesn't look forged, but...” The chief never finished.

A man entered the chief's office without knocking and interrupted him. “If the document is in order, there's no need for a ‘but.’ Chief, I am conducting this investigation on the direct orders of Lord Gilson II. If you've heard of that gentleman, I trust you will be as eager as the governor to cooperate fully and accommodate my requests wherever possible.”

The chief looked the newcomer over. He wore plain clothes and appeared to be about thirty, with sharply defined features that could fairly be called handsome. His build was a little slight; at first glance, he looked rather like a scholar.

“Mr. Jordan?” the chief asked.

“Yes,” Jordan said.

“Why would you... Oh, no, why would Lord Gilson be interested in this case?”

Jordan didn't answer. Instead, he said, “Please have all the evidence, statements, witness contact information, and other material relating to the case prepared for me. I'll also need an office. Preferably within twenty minutes. I'll be waiting in the reception room. Please let me know when everything is ready.” With that, he left, remembering to close the door behind him.

The chief snorted. “The lad's an aide to the Gilson family. Hmph... These days, with a noble backing you, you can walk into a police station and order the chief himself around.”

The officer standing beside the desk said, “Then... what would you like me to do?”

“What do you think? Give him whatever he wants, of course. You think an urgent order from the governor is toilet paper? If you haven't done everything he asked within twenty minutes, I'll cut your ass off and put it in a drawer. Yes, the drawer on my right. Then I'll have a new ashtray.”

...

Las Vegas, in a hotel suite.

Gilson II sat in a wheelchair, operating a laptop with his four remaining fingers as he read a report titled “Tom Stall—An Ordinary Citizen Turned Hero.”

He was only forty, but he was already paralyzed from the waist down, and the skin on half his face was artificial. When he was angry, as he was now, large patches of his face neither changed color nor showed any change of expression. The artificial skin was like a flesh-colored curtain pasted over his face, serving only to conceal the count's dead muscle fibers...

“Tom Stall... Why do you look so familiar...” Gilson II muttered through gritted teeth. He glared at the screen, as though trying to kill the Tom in the report with his eyes.