Malum in se

It was around four in the morning before Harold had made it back to the prosecutor's office; he was feeling tired, but he had too much to do before he could try to lay down.

The office itself was cleaned up. He had spent a couple hours dusting and organizing, and though it lacked any personal touches, it was a functional space that he could use as a staging point. Whoever had been the prosecutor before, probably years ago, had good taste -- the walls were painted dark blue, and the desk, trim, bookcases and everything else were a deep-stained oak. If not for the fact that he didn't particularly want to be here, Harold would have likely enjoyed the handsome space more.

But he had to be there, and as time went on, he was getting more determined to do his job and do it well. Detaching himself from how he felt was easier than he'd expected it to be -- he used to be able to do it whenever his duty needed done and there wasn't room to feel much about it at the time, but he had thought he'd forgotten how to do it.

He hadn't.

He listened to the tape of his interview with Malcolm; the original tape was already entered into evidence, tagged, logged and would not be touched again until trial, so this was one of three copies that he had made. When the post came around in the morning, one would go to Elena Dumova, and the other would go to Sev; as a profiler, she'd expressed an interest in lending her experienced opinion on things, though Harold wasn't sure if he'd need it in court.

The last copy he kept for himself, and listened to it as he paced behind his desk, occasionally underlining something in his notes. He still had six more witnesses he had to track down, in order to get what they saw, but Malcolm was the most important of the lot -- he was there from nearly the beginning of the killing spree.

Once the tape was finished running, he clicked it off and gave his notes a quick read. He was glad Malcolm was now under witness protection, both for the sake of the case, but also for the sake of the man -- the attack on him by Tapole, in Harold's mind, was reprehensible. He didn't know why she would attack this man, who had not touched Renne and had not done anything to him aside speak up about what he saw. Though, somewhere or another, Harold found it sort of amusing that she was willing to go beat on Malcolm, but didn't have the stones to seek him out -- afterall, he was the one who talked Renne into turning himself in, and was going to forcibly take him there if Renne didn't willingly go.

Those thoughts, though, had no place here and after a quick smirk, he pushed them out of his mind.

It was getting onto daylight by the time he kicked back in the overstuffed office chair, feet on his desk, and closed his eyes. It was stable, and even if he could only get a few hours sleep, it was better for his health than none at all.

A snippet of old conversation crossed his mind, even as he drifted off; he'd once been talking in the bar with Lil and Ran about malum in se, and finding that a useful term on which to apply to many a potential case in Rhy'Din. He'd just been joking, when he said that he someday wanted to go to trial with that as a basis -- that the notion of 'evil unto itself' would be a good case to argue. That there were some crimes that any civilized individual of whatever species could see as wrong, and that he would have enjoyed arguing it out.

He never expected that day to come.

No physical attacks on the bodies. That left precious few ways that Renne could have killed those animals and people.

And if what he did didn't fall under malum in se, Harold didn't know if anything ever could.

August 29th, 2007
((All caught up!))

Acta non verba

He reviewed the tapes enough times that it made his head hurt -- the one with Johnathan Tapole, then the one with, according to the guest list, people named Merit and Rena that he hadn't met before. It didn't fail to strike him as he did that Renne, while emphatically denying murder, hadn't particularly seemed to care about the victims of said murders, or how he 'had a hole in his head,' only in being angry about the accusation.

Somehow, that lack of empathy from an empath spoke far louder than the denials. Nevermind the raging at the end of the tape, and previous rages.

He was forming a theory of his own; he had not asked for, nor received, the tapes of Elena's interviews with Renne or Sarah. He only answered her questions honestly, neither protecting Renne nor vilifying him with his words -- just speaking the truth as he perceived it. But he had a theory and it was not all that pretty a theory.

Rena he had heard of mentioned before. And even though his mind was sluggish of late with the weight of returning depression, he still made himself focus; he closed his eyes, and thought as hard as he could about where he'd seen or heard the name mentioned before.

Eventually, after a very long period of time scouring his memory, he came up with it.

Rena. Mentioned in Renne's journal, alongside Zonker. Apparently during the night that they had found a body on the path up to the Red Dragon.

Harold jotted down the names. Rena, Zonker, Merit.

He had to figure out where he could find these people. Not so much for himself, but for Elena -- she needed as much information from as many sources as she could get to give Renne an honest assessment. He didn't want that assessment based solely on what he and Sarah had said; it wouldn't be a fair one, for one. A person's life was made up of a lot of things, and as he was coming to understand, Renne's life was not so centered on the Maritime as the imp had claimed so many times. He'd known a whole lot of people, had called a whole lot of people 'family' in his life.

Harold jotted down one name he did know, and included both it a copy of the tape of Renne's visit with Rena and Merit, before putting it in a sealed envelope and taking it to the post office to be sent certified, return receipt requested.

--

Dr. Dumova:

I am going to try to find three people who may be able to help you in your assessment of Renne's capabilities to stand trial, and his diagnosis. Their names are Rena, Merit and Zonker. In the meantime, though, you may want to try to track down Ranyor Asimovic; he was with us at the Maritime from the beginning. He wanders quite a bit (he's a sentient Siberian tiger) but he was often a quiet observer of the goings on in the tavern.

I have also included a copy of the tape with Renne speaking to Rena and Merit. It took place early on in his detainment, but should provide you with some more insight.

If you need to get ahold of me, feel free to write me here, or barring that, I'm likely in my Lighthouse.

-Harold Lowe

September 2nd, 2007

Genius loci

The Maritime was made for the sun.

Harold knew that more intimately than any being alive.

He stood on the dusty main floor; even under the dust, though, the old smells that identified it as home gave a tug on his subconscious -- just because he had moved on didn't mean that he had forgotten.

"No more," he thought, in the sunlight and dust.

His mind was a bit of a mess; the off-chance visit to the Rambling Rose had started off well, but had ended with him wanting to bolt somewhere to hide for awhile. So, that was what he did. He certainly hadn't slept well, though, not even in his lighthouse.

Which was why he came back to the Maritime in the morning.

He stood on the main floor, his tired and sometimes angry and sometimes mournful and sometimes even warm thoughts swirling around, flitting in and out of each other, following some old paths and some new ones.

After a time, he started cleaning. He had always liked cleaning; it had been only one of the thousands of ways he had taken care of his Maritime over the years. It was his way of unwinding after a long day, his way to focus his thoughts into his hands. He'd been tolerant, though a little irritated, by Renne scrubbing the place all the time -- he'd said a few times that he enjoyed doing it himself, but Renne never seemed to take the hint. Though, Harold supposed he should have been more direct and outright said, "Ease up; I like cleaning and I don't like my time to unwind being taken from me."

He doubted it would have been listened to without some sort of protest, but he'd never know now.

He swept the floor, pausing occasionally to look around the silent walls. His walls. No voice had rebounded off of them as much over the years; no four walls anywhere had seen so much of him as these. Six years and some odd months of memories, some public, some intensely private.

People came, people went, sometimes came back, sometimes never did.

He had thought that he would be able to part with the place, but when he came back briefly to let Darkmere use the shower and saw the dust and grabbed a rag, he realized that he would never be able to sell it. Would never be able to abandon it, either. It was his; it was a part of him, even if he didn't always want it to be.

That didn't mean he was going to come back to it, though.

So Harry swept and then dusted. Windowsills, the counters, the cabinets, everything. Cleaned up the second floor, as well, as afternoon was beginning. And when it was all said and done, Harry of the Maritime stood behind his bar once more and polished the top with the rag.

It was his. It always had been. He'd been willing to walk away a few times -- in frustration, in hurt, in defeat. But even in defeat, it was still a part of him.

"No more," he thought, polishing the bartop.

He loved the Maritime. Sometimes hated it, too, but mostly he loved it. He had fought for it, bled for it, lived in it; nearly died for and in part because of it. Had known many people over many years.

Once the place was back to its clean, maintained state, he took one more look around. No... no, it would not be left to abandonment. Nor would it ever be sold. He could not bring himself to strike a match to it, and that left precious few options.

He closed the back door quietly as he left.

Maybe Cinder could help.

In saecvla saecvlorvm

It wasn't hard to tell at this point that a building had once stood there, but time would fade that to nothing in short order. The only thing left was the corral, and the storm cellar; everything else was just bare earth. There wasn't even concrete left.

He had stayed there all night, even after Cinder had gone, looking at the empty space where the Maritime once stood. He couldn't feel the powerful magic that still lingered in the air; he'd always been immune to it, though he figured that magic users and those sensitive to it would probably feel the hair on the back of their necks stand up whenever they walked past this empty lot.

Harold had moved everything in the days leading up to this that needed to be moved; most of it was stored at Ar lan y môr, though a few things were taken to the Eastern Point Lighthouse.

It had been more simple than he'd expected it to be. It was over in a matter of minutes; the Maritime Tavern, at 1801 Eastern Drive, was taken away and put in a place where nothing could touch it. Not even time.

Maybe it would be in that place forever, maybe not.

He stood there well into the day, just... thinking. Looking. Reflecting, somewhat, on both the empty place and how he felt. It wasn't all bad, nor all good, it just was. He wanted to protect it from possible vandals, or the ravages of time, but the world looked a little more empty and lonely without it.

It was only in the afternoon when he finally walked away. Cradled between his hands was Renne's candle; he didn't need to shelter it, but he did anyway.

He carried to to the Port South Holding House; picked up new paperwork and video tapes, and asked Gaston to deliver it. If he were able to deliver a message, he would have; alas, as a prosecutor, he didn't feel that it would be proper to do so. If he hadn't drawn an entirely heavy and uncrossable line between himself and his duties, he would never be able to perform those duties fairly.

If he could have, it may have said, "Put this in your window; home is in your own heart, not in even the warmest four walls."

Hopefully, Renne would figure it out, even without a message.

And once it was done, Harold headed into the city -- it was time to get back to his duties.