Day 5: 10,318 words and a police press conference

Managed to finally move the plot forward today, but only because of the inspiration that I got from all of you. 

The room at London police headquarters where the press conference was taking place was a bleak grey windowless room. The lights were giving off an eerie glow, giving Scottie an distinctly uncomfortable feeling. The room was somehow managing to feel both hot and cold at the same time. The overall effect was not pleasing. 

It was, unsurprisingly, not very full. Although this was also surprising, given that four mysterious fires had happened in a small stretch of Wortley Village in two weeks’ time.  Scottie had assumed that if she was on the case that many people across Canada would be, but for some reason it wasn’t getting much national attention. Or even much attention beyond the local paper. There was just a smattering of some journalists around the room, none of whom looked up to the task of covering the story adequately. 

Most of the people standing around the room were children in matching yellow rain coats, appearing to be playing some kind of security role. They were touting wooden musket shaped guns. Some of the children were exhibiting an alarming amount of glee—one young child in particular was grinning maliciously, while gripping the gun with surprising proficiency—a stark contrast to her adorable curly hair and sparkling blue eyes. It was truly chilling and also impressive, Scottie had to admit to herself. Some children appeared to be playing dead, which was a strange play to make when you were supposed to be securing the press conference. One such child was wearing pink leggings, and laying face down on the dirty white tiles. Beside her was a sweet-looking but nonetheless gormless toddler, who was holding his “musket” upside down and his hat was tipped downward over his eyes in a becoming manner. 

Scottie was chilled to the bone. 

She recognized Dale Caruthers, the local crime reporter for the London Free Press, sitting in one of the middle rows with his phone out and a pad of paper. He looked anxious, and a little sweaty. Had Postmedia, which owned the subsequently hollowed out the London Free Press, been instituting mandatory lunchtime runs as well?

She took a seat next to him, figuring that it would make sense to make the connection now. 

She gestured toward the empty seat beside him, amidst a sea of empty seats. He grunted in answer. What kind of answer it was, she wasn’t sure. She decided that it was a yes.

“What is this?” she said, gesturing to the musket-wielding children.

“The mini militia,” Dale said acidly, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Oh right,” Scottie replied instinctively, not wanting to look like she was out of the loop when she actually was as far out of the loop as humanly possible. 

“I can’t believe they brought them out today. You’re not going to intimidate me!” He said this last part to the curly haired and blue eyed little girl who had a disconcerting glint in her eye. The look she gave Dale in response—as if she was picturing his death by musket— was one that would live with Scottie forever. 

“Intimidate you? Why would they be trying to do that?”

“Why do you think that this place is so empty?” He whispered back. 

Scottie stayed silent, waiting to see if he would continue. He did.

“They’ve been trying to silence the story. Mini militia members have been walking by my house all week, after I started covering the fires.” 

His voice was barely audible, he was whispering so quietly. Scottie leaned in. 

“That’s horrible.” And cute. Or so Scottie thought.

“Do you think that a child who doesn’t know the proper way to hold a musket isn’t threatening?" Dale somehow had sensed her thoughts. "They’re even more threatening! They’re completely unpredictable!” Dale seemed on the verge of tears. 

“Why do you think they’re trying to silence this? Don’t you think that they want this solved?” Scottie said back. 

“They’re in on it. I don’t know who, and I don’t know why. I also don’t know how. Or what they are up to. But, I do know where,” Dale said, sounding dejected and proud at the same time. 

“Why Wortley Village?” Scottie asked. 

But as soon as the words left her mouth, the room went silent. The police chief, who she knew was named Parm Pettipiece, finally took to the podium. He set down on the podium a black travel mug with “Daddy’s Sippy Cup” written across it in white loopy scrawl. He was covered in a brown liquid that she seriously hoped was coffee, and muttering to himself about how spilt liquid on the stairs is an obvious hazard. 

Scottie swore that she heard him say “take an extra sip, and then no one will trip!” but she couldn’t be quite sure. She wasn’t sure of anything anymore. 

Chief Parm Pettipiece scanned the room, a look of obvious satisfaction that the mini militia was significantly outnumbering the reporters. 

Scottie had never observed anything stranger in her professional life. This was starting to be a trend in London, Ontario.

“Thanks for being here today,” Chief Pettipiece said crisply, giving Scottie the distinct impression that he was thankful for no such thing. “I wanted to give you all an update on our investigation on the two fires that have taken place in Wortley Village.”

“Sophia Scott, Toronto Star,” Scottie announced herself loudly. “Don’t you mean the four fires?”

Had Chief Pettipiece misspoke? Could he count? What was even going on?

“I can neither confirm nor deny that number,” he replied coldly. 

Scottie had no idea how to respond to such a thing. So she just didn’t. There had been, demonstrably, four fires. What was even going on?

“As I was saying,” Chief Pettipiece continued, with an exaggerated eyeroll that led to some chuckles amongst the mini militia. “I can confirm that there have been a number of fires in the Wortley Village neighbourhood of London, Ontario. Our lab is hard at work on testing samples from the scene to determine if an accelerant was used.”

“Working hard or hardly working, am I right?” Dale said almost silently. Scottie didn’t know whether to laugh or scream.

“One item was recovered from the scene that we are seeking public information about,” said Chief Pettipiece. 

“Which scene?” Scottie asked loudly.

“We can’t share that,” Chief Pettipiece responded without even looking at Scottie. 

“Brandon,” he called out suddenly. “The AV!”

Scottie and Dale were looking around the room, wondering who this mysterious Brandon was and what was going to happen next. No Brandon ever materialized, but an outdated and torn projection screen suddenly descended from the ceiling. It took about a million years to fully do so. After that, a projector clicked on somewhere, and a series of photos were shown on the screen.

“This is the bag that contained a number of items,” Chief Pettipiece explained. It was a slightly burned and black soot-covered red tote bag with “Foucauldian Discourse Analysis Aid Kit” written across it in stenciled Army font. 

Scottie started writing everything down furiously. Dale was frozen.

Chief Pettipiece then showed a series of items that had apparently been contained in the bag. First was a burned (literally and figuratively) CD, labelled “Summer Jams 2002.” 

“Were you able to play the CD?” Scottie raised her hand and asked.

“Does it look like we were able to play the CD?” Chief Pettipiece scoffed.

“It was too damaged?”

“We don’t have a CD player. What is this, 2002?”

Scottie was left shocked and gormless. 

Chief Pettipiece took that as an opportunity to continue the slide show of horrors. Second was an unopened pack of Gushers, which were most certainly expired. Third was a partially empty Lisa Frank sticker sheet. The next items were a VHS tape of The Land Before Time IV (she did not have the heart to ask him if he had been able to play the tape), a gently used Tamagotchi (that was surely dead), a single Heely, the original shoe with wheels, and a Beanie Baby wearing sunglasses. 

Scottie was dutifully jotting all of this down. It all sounded pretty standard for a Foucauldian Discourse Analysis Aid Kit. 

But the last item stopped Scottie in her tracks. 

It was simple enough. A plastic kazoo, shaped like a dolphin. 

No one seemed to notice anything amiss. The slideshow ended.

Scottie wanted to ask a question, but no words would come out. In what world would a dolphin kazoo be in a Foucauldian Discourse Analysis Aid Kit? Had everyone in this room gone crazy?

Either someone on the police had placed this obviously wrong item in the Kit, thinking that no one would notice. Or, someone who had been involved in the fire had a clearly faulty Foucauldian Discourse Analysis Aid Kit. 

“That’s all we have today. This press conference is over.” Chief Pettipiece left the platform and the mini militia followed him. The smattering of journalists were left sitting in press conference room in silence. 

Scottie officially had her first clue. But she had no idea what it meant.