[center][img]https://i.imgur.com/uBKcsIW.jpg?1[/img][/center] [b]The Bowery [/b] [b]12:21 AM[/b] Tork rode in the backseat of the unmarked car while Corrigan drove and Drake rode shotgun. Drake was on her phone and currently on hold with someone at City Hall. Like them, Peter Thatcher was a city employee. Not exactly like them, Tork thought grimly. The City Planner's office might as well have been on Mars it was so far away from what they did. City Hall and his coworkers would have all the details about his employment and projects. “I thought the planner’s office would be closed this time of night,” said Tork. “I have a contact,” Drake said over her shoulder. “They tend to move heaven and earth when I ask. You give someone some winning lottery numbers from time to time and they go the extra mile for you-- Yeah, I’m still here.” They left the crime scene and split up. Sister Justine and Dr. Tarr headed back to the 13th to begin research into who or what Goodewitch Young was. While the consultants did the research, the cops were… well, Tork didn’t know exactly. They pulled up across the street from a pub and got out. Corrigan put a sign on the dash marking it as a cop car to ward off any antsy tow trucks. “Before you ask,” Corrigan said to Tork. “I know a guy and we’re meeting him here.” “Kavanaugh’s has a reputation among certain people,” said Drake. “It wasn’t always an Irish pub. It’s one of the oldest standing buildings in Gotham. Been around since the 17th century. It's been a public house three times, a post office once, a gentleman's club -- that's 19th century gentleman get your mind out of the gutter -- once, and a crime scene fifteen times.” “That kind of history,” said Corrigan. “That kind of residual psychic imprint. It attracts those that feed on things like that. Ghouls and ghosts and other Sighted people.” “The Right Folk,” Drake added. “That’s what they call themselves. Occultist and magic users. They’re little more than hucksters and gypsies, though.” Corrigan raised an eyebrow at Tork. “But what better place to cultivate a snitch?” They crossed the street and went into the pub. To Tork it looked like the typical dive bar, same bad lighting and same sad regulars at the bar. Tork did notice a group of strange looking people at a nearby table. They looked to be dressed like hipsters with waistcoats and tophats and petticoats. But he also noticed their clothing was frayed and dirty. They gave the trio of cops a long look and huddled closely together. Tork flashed a crooked grin. He was learning a lot of strange stuff tonight, but he found it comforting that even these so-called Right Folk knew cops when they saw them and gave them a wide berth. Corrigan and Drake walked to the bar and Tork followed behind them. The two men tending bar were both elderly, bald men in matching shirts and jeans. As they got closer Tork noticed they were identical twins. One of them saw the cops out of the corner of his eye and turned to face them. He crossed his arms and spoke with a heavily Irish brogue. “Evenin' officers. ‘I’m tall when I’m young, and I’m short when I’m old. What am I?’” “A candle,” said Corrigan. “Is Craddick here?” “Yes,” was the bartender’s reply. He turned his attention to Drake. “I shave every day, but my beard stays the same. What am I?” “A barber,” she said. “Where is he?” “The backroom.” The man started to turn to Tork, but Corrigan cut him off. “That’s all we need, thanks.” “What was that?” Tork asked as they walked towards the back of the bar. “That’s why you never ask a fae for anything,” said Drake. “We’re lucky the Kavanaugh Twins only barter in riddles. Some fairies trade exclusively in sacrifice.” First witches and now fairies, thought Tork. Okay, whatever. He had to keep fighting it if he wanted to stay sane. It was all weird and completely out of his depth, but those glasses of Dr. Tarr’s proved that there was something. He was along for the ride, and thankfully his two guides seemed to know what they were doing. Or so he fucking hoped. “So, what’s your thing?” Tork asked Corrigan. “What’s that?” “Your thing,” he repeated. “Drake here is obviously a psychic or something--” “Clairvoyant-able,” said Drake. “I'm not reading palms and using a fake Jamaican accent. Please, sarge.” “Right... she’s [i]that[/i]. Sister Justine is some kind of exorcist, Dr. Tarr some kind of mad scientist. What’s your thing?” “My thing?” Corrigan paused to look at Tork before shrugging. “I’m the normal one.” They went through a door into a private drinking area. The space held tables and chair, but nobody else. Corrigan stepped forward and glanced around. “Craddick,” he said. “We know you’re here. Come on out and talk to us. We’ve got a case and we can use your help.” “Tell us all you know about local witches,” said Drake. “And maybe we can trade some information on certain cursed artifacts.” [h3][i][color=ghostwhite]Witches, you say?[/color][/i][/h3] Tork looked around for the owner of the voice. It reverberated around the round so it seemed there was no point of origin. It was deep and cultured, like a posh Englishman. Then it appeared in front of the three cops. [img]https://i.imgur.com/EKhs3TZ.jpg[/img] [hr] [b]13th Precinct[/b] [b]1:02 AM[/b] Sister Justine started down the stairs leading into the basement. The 13th was unlike every other precinct in almost every way, but the one way it was especially different was the library. Three long rows of shelving carried tomes and volumes of the written word. The musty smell of books greeted her as she walked through the rows to find what she was looking for. Not long after joining the GCPD Sister Justine merged her own eclectic collection of books with Dr. Tarr’s. Corrigan had also amassed quite an interesting collection in his time so they stored them all down here for quick reference. Books on the occult, books on history, books on abnormal psychology, and even more abnormal practices of medicine. There was a booklet on how to o a lobotomy next to the [i]Gospel of St. Damien,[/i] the only banned book of the Bible written by a devil-worshiper. And beside it was the book Sister Justine was looking for. The thick black binding had no words on it cover. The only labeling came on the spine. The words [i]A Macabre History of Gotham[/i]by J. Peter Stowe were laid out in a harsh white text that was only amplified by the pitch black of the book’s cover. She tucked the book under her arm and started back up the stairs. She passed by Dr. Tarr’s workstation. The doctor had three monitors on the surface of his table. One monitor showed grainy black and white footage of the wolf enclosure at the Gotham zoo, another monitor displayed footage of a colonoscopy in progress, and the third monitor played an episode of the sitcom [i]Bosom Buddies[/i] at full blast. On the table before Tarr was an unfurled scroll of Latin text and a crude diagram of a person drawn beside the writing. “The Romans apparently captured a witchcraft user in 55 BCE during Caesar’s campaign in Gaul" Tarr said as she walked by. "They tried to cut him open to see what gave him his magic… suffice to say they were unsuccessful.” Sister Justine took a seat at her desk and cracked open the book. [i]A Macabre History of Gotham[/i] had been printed fifty years earlier and immediately panned for being sensationalist garbage and soon fell out of print. For them the book was their Bible, the one book the taskforce relied on time and time again. That’s something the new sergeant would figure out soon enough. No doubt Corrigan and Drake were showing him all the sights of their underworld. But that was just one part of it. Their work involved as much reading as it did monster hunting. So much of what they did was tied to history. She began to leaf through the book for anything involving witchcraft. She found the chapter on the East End Strangler, the curious case of Cyrus Gold’s murder, and… “‘A Flight of Witchcraft: The Trial and Disappearance of Alice Young.’ Bingo.”