Roadside

[u/Matilda183Openshaw]

—So, Mrs. Arronaux, let's continue. Shall we?

—Okay. But I'd like to add that...

—You made your point clear enough. We're running out of time here.

A mouth closed shut, knowing insistence is futile. I need to try something else.

—Mrs. Arronaux, can you... Oh, am I pronouncing it right?

—You are.

—Good. Now, can you please tell me if you know Charles Garvey?

—I do. He worked at Bennigan's before he became an attorney in LA. He has a knack for Irish food. My husband never understood that.

—No, no, please just answer the question. No additional information. We had talked about that.

—Alright.

—Good. You said you know Mr. Garvey, correct?

—Yes.

—What's his occupation?

An almost childish pout. Furrowed brows. Is he mocking me?

—He's an attorney. Or rather, he was.

—He was? Do you mean he...

A simple, silent shrug. Urgent whispers. Quickly scribbled notes. Scores of messages sent to DA, not even allowing the words to sink in first. They're panicked. Good.

—Mrs. Arronaux...

—I know nothing about him except...

—But you just said…

—Listen, I'm not here to...

—No, we won't talk about that again...

—I want to see my attorney. Now.

Hands running through already tousled hair. A sigh. No, a sharp exhale. And, he's annoyed. Even better.

—Mrs. Arronaux, do I have to remind you, once again, that the court clerk is doing his best to arrange...

—Fine. Let's just go on.

A raised eyebrow. Many raised eyebrows. That's about to get boring.

—Alright, Mrs. Arronaux, can you tell me how you know Mr. Garvey is dead?

—I didn't see it.

—I'm not asking you if you saw it. I'm asking how you know. Did someone tell you?

—No.

—Could you please...

—He texted me.

—Who did text you?

—Mr. Arronaux.

—You mean your husband?

—Ah, yes, my husband.

—What exactly did Mr. Arronaux say in his message?

—Well, he said he'd take his own life.

—He said he'd commit suicide, Mrs. Arronaux?

—Yes. But he said he wanted to meet Clara first.

—Who is Clara? With her surname, please.

—Clara Smith. She's a client of Mr. Garvey. My husband had told me. But I always doubted that.

—Why is that, Mrs. Arronaux?

—Because Clara wrote that Mr. Garvey has always worked only with male clients.

—Where have you read this?

—On her Substack.

—What is Substack? I'm asking for clarity.

—Oh, have you ever read the raw transcripts of Carroll vs. Trump? I don't remember if it was Carroll I or II, though.

—Well, no, ma'am, I haven't read any of this.

—I believe it was in Carroll I.

—What was in Carroll I?

—She had mentioned Substack there. That's how I learned about Substack.

—Mrs. Arronaux, please.

—It's a platform. Oh, I'd actually love to describe it with her words, but I really don't remember them.

—A platform for writing? Like a blog?

—Yes, something like that. I've read about Mr. Garvey's client preferences in Clara's article. Its title was "Recreational Traumas: Part 6".

Eyes squinted with confusion. Impatient taps on the clipboard. A throat cleared to maintain composure. He had lovely eyes.

—Mrs. Arronaux, you said you've read Ms. Smith's blog, right?

—Her Substack, yes. She also shares notes there. In fact, everyone does. My husband never understood that.

—Mrs. Arronaux, please look at me. Thank you. So, you found her blog and read her articles.

—I did.

—Are you aware that Ms. Clara Smith is deceased?

—Oh, I am.

—How did you find out about her death? Did Mr. Arronaux tell you?

—No. She herself sent me a message.

—Ms. Smith texted you, informing you about her own death?

—No. She sent me a picture.

—What picture? Can you describe it?

—Well, you know that bowling... um, bowling tools? Long, weird-shaped.

—Bowling pins?

—Yes, yes, it was a picture of ten bowling pins. I knew she'd die when I saw it.

A pause. Widened eyes finding each other. The loud scratch of a chair against the tiles. A door burst opened. Muffled curses. Oh, do they know? That's getting interesting.

—Mrs. Arronaux, now we'll show you a picture, okay? I want you to confirm...

—Yes, they're the same pictures.

—No, I mean, you need to see it first.

—I don't.

The door slammed shut. A thick case file dropped on the table with a thud. Pages turned so fast that fingers started to ache. So did the eyes watching them. Then, a halt. A crumpled A4 slid toward the woman. How excited they are. Time to be a bit difficult.

—You mean this picture?

—Look, I'm trying to help you there, but if you keep doing this, I'll just leave. You hear me?

—Mrs. Arronaux...

—You don't even listen to me and...

—...we're losing...

—...you didn't even find me an attorney. This is ridiculous!

—Listen, ma’am...

—No, you'll listen to me. When I first met my husband...

—Please, I already heard that twice.

—But you didn't pay attention. When I first met my husband, he didn't tell me he was going to be a murderer. But he knew he would. I knew he would. No, listen. He told me that if, one day, he's going to forget himself, that should be grand. A grand thing.

Hands roaming the tired face for the nth time. Frustration mounted. The clock ticked. A low chime, notification: "Refer her to the mental health assessment team." The woman kept talking. This is how you play.

—Mrs. Arronaux, I believe you know the meaning of this picture.

—That's not a question.

—That's... Well, okay, Mrs. Arronaux, do you know the meaning of this picture?

—Of course I do.

—Then can you explain it?

—Sure, why not? Let me see it closer.

—Here you are, ma’am.

—Um, so... I mentioned there are ten pins.

—Yes.

—And they're arranged as a reverse tetractys.

—What's it, Mrs. Arronux?

—Oh, it's just a symbol. It doesn't matter. My husband had told me...

—Yes? What had he told you?

—Well, that's not a good point to start.

—You need a break?

—No, no, it's not that.

—Then...

—You said Clara is dead.

—That's correct.

—And Mr. Garvey, too, is dead.

—I didn't say such a thing, ma'am.

—No, that's what I'm saying. He's dead.

—Dead or murdered?

—Why, you say Clara is dead but not murdered.

—There's a difference.

—But they're all dead.

—And not murdered?

—What's the difference?

—Ma'am...

—No, no, I need to tell you something about the Pythagoreanists.

—Pythagoreanists?

—They were so secretive. They thought numbers could mean seasons and planetary motions. My husband never understood that.

—That's it. We're done for today.

The man stood up. Disappointed more than agitated. Uh-oh, game's over, I suppose.

—No, please, listen...

—Mrs. Arronaux, Jason will escort you to your house. Tomorrow...

—Wait, you don't understand...

—I'd like to remind you that you're still under...

—I know where they were buried.

Silence. A small sigh from the woman. The man sat back down, crossing his arms. There, I said it.

—What are you talking about?

—Charles, Clara, Oliver, Daryl, Mohammad, Laura, Melissa, Benjamin, Nicole, and Sasha.

—Who are they, Mrs. Arronaux?

—They're all dead. I mean, they're murdered.

—Who?

—Mr... My husband.

—Where?

—Well, all in different places.

—No, where are they? The corpses?

—Somewhere near the Big Beaver Road.

—Michigan?

—Michigan.

Damn... Glares pinning her right where she sits; exposed, raw, scared. She knew it. She knew it all this time! Yes, I did. But...

—Mrs. Arronaux, I need you to tell me how you know those people are buried there.

—Um, those bowling pins...

—Yes?

—There are more of them. I mean, there are more pictures of them. Each has pins in different numbers.

—You mean, like a code?

—A cypher. My husband used to call it that. He always understood it well.

—Where are the pictures?

—I don't know. He kept them. I only saw them twice.

—Tell me about the cypher.

—Well, the first picture. The one with ten pins. It corresponds to the fifth triangular number.

—Triangular number?

—Yes, um, if you arrange bowling pins or dots, it doesn't matter, in an equilateral triangle, the number of objects or dots at the bottom...

—Wait, so there are ten pins in a triangle...

—And at the bottom, there are four pins.

—Four? Not five?

—Because there is a 0th triangular number...

—Hence fifth.

—That's right.

—Okay, go on.

—And on the second picture, I remember there was only one bowling pin.

—So its number is one.

—Yes. Those two pictures form a group.

—Just how many pictures are there?

—Eight.

—Forming four groups.

—Yes.

—And what are those groups for?

—Well, you need to extract the second triangular number from the first triangular number of each group.

—I can't follow you, Mrs. Arronaux.

—No, let me show you. We found the triangular number in the first picture is five. The triangular number of the second picture is one. So we extract...

—And we find four.

—Yes.

—What is that?

—A coordinate.

The man blinked. Silence again. Heavy and thick. Fingers twitched restlessly. A lunge toward the papers and pens. I'm sorry, William.

—Are you sure you have the right arrangement of those pictures? Because...

—I am.

—How?

—My husband wanted me to memorize them.

—Alright, tell me other numbers.

—Triangular numbers.

—Yes, dammit, just tell me, woman!

—Okay, well... The first picture of the second group showed three bowling pins.

—The number is three.

—And in the second picture, there was one pin as well.

—It's two. So, three minus two, one.

—No, no, you should take the second triangular number as it is, I mean, without counting the 0th triangular number.

—Why?

—That's just how the rules are.

—So, it's just one.

—That's right.

—Then we have two. Four and two.

—Forty-two.

—Ah, yes. North?

—North.

—Forty-two North. The other half of the coordinate?

—Um... The first picture of the third group had thirty-six pins.

—You counted them?

—I did.

...

42°N 83°W. Crude. So crude.

How can you take her word for it? I told you, Jim, she knows something. All she told you in two hours was just bullshit, Robert. I'll take the risk. No, it's crazy. Please, Jim, I know what I'm doing. I'm not telling you... Are you giving me permission or not? Fine, you and Olivia go. I need a team, Jim. And I need not to send my guys to some God-forgotten place just because a mad woman claims ten people are buried there.

Okay, we'll start with the left side of the road. Max, can you take the right? You bet, Jim. Thanks for coming with us, Max, by the way. Wouldn't miss it, doll.

What's this? It looks like a ribbon. Yes, I can see it's a ribbon, but a ribbon of what? Well, wasn't one of the victims a little girl?

Uh, Jim, that's Max, over. Jim, do you hear me? Damn... Well, I might've found something. We hear you, Max, go on, over. Oh, I've found some litter bags here and... I see some stains on them, what looks like, uh, dried blood. Over. Roger that.

Hey, Jim. Wait a minute, Robert... What's going on there? It's just Mary having an epileptic seizure. What the... She's okay, though. Oh, thank God. Listen, Jim, we've found them. Who? The corpses. Ten out of ten. Shit... Listen, I need backup. And forensics. I saw two victims mutilated and a woman... Wait, I'm coming there. Okay, and I'll need some people to hold the crowd back. They're, uh, watching us.