Dryococelus Australis
| Dryococelus Australis | |
|---|---|
"Why does everyone seem surprised about bug smugglers?" | |
| Players |
Solomon thinks Ethan might be able to turn on the charm to get him some information that he needs. |
Ethan's phone rings. Ethan picks up. "This is Ethan," he says, probably unnecessarily. It's Sol's voice on the other end, brisk and kinda grumpy. "You're moderately charming, aren't you?" Ethan's tone is very dry. "That's...a matter of opinion, but I guess sometimes I can be. You're probably in a better position to evaluate that than me, being outside my head." Solomon makes a sound reminiscent of a hiss on the other end of the line. "I was rather hoping for a response like 'yes, I am the most charming motherfucker on the planet'. Obviously, I think you're more charming than I am or I wouldn't be calling. I have an issue, and it requires a certain degree of...social acuity that I lack. I should just hand it over to the police. But I don't want to until I know where the thread ends." "Well you know I'm happy to help. Where am I going?" Solomon grumps. "Nowhere, unless you fancy a trip to Idaho. And you seem more sane than that. I need a bug smuggler to confirm or unconfirm his sale of at least two very rare insects to someone in Chicago. And someone who can convince him to do so over the phone. Or...computer, I guess. Maybe you can Facebook him or Instatime him. I don't know." "There are...bug...smugglers? Why are there bug smugglers?" A pause. "I mean yeah, I think I can, but I might need a little more info from you first." Solomon sighs. "Why does everyone sound surprised about bug smugglers? But yes, of course. Would you like to come by my office? Or my apartment? I don't necessarily wish to be overheard. Or if there's a quiet place you feel more comfortable..." "Your office is fine, I'll be right over." "See you soon." Click. It's a fairly standard office in the Department of Biological Sciences. A cramped little room mostly filled with a university surplus desk, some chairs, a computer that looks largely untouched, and filing cabinets. The walls have framed degrees for one Solomon Jessup, and some insect-themed art. Solomon himself is sitting at his desk, drinking a soda and scribbling notes on a notebook. A stack of freshly graded papers resides in a neat pile off to the side, face down. The gentle knock-knock on the door heralds Ethan's arrival. He sticks his head in and says, "I have brought a peace offering for not knowing about bug smugglers." He holds up a pair of coffees, offering one out to Solomon with a lifted eyebrow. There's a bag in his hand too, probably holding various coffee accoutrement. Solomon stands at the knock at the door, and smiles. "As you should," he says, but there's amusement in it, and he follows it up with a, "Thanks. Would you like a piece of candy?" That appears to be a serious offer, even as he takes the coffee that's extended to him. He waves towards one of the more comfortable of the mismatched chairs. "Please, take a seat. And thank you for coming by. My contacts list remains...small, at the moment, and I thought a speechwriter might at least have a clue how to proceed without sending the fellow off to Canada or something." Someone's been doing his research. There's a little flinch about reference to his past as a speechwriter, and almost as if it's a wound that's…recently raw, instead of something from over a year ago. "Yes please," he says, about candy, because candy covers that up a little bit. "And I think we're past the apologizing for asking each other for help stage." He gives a quick, warm smile at that, then digs in his jeans for a pad of paper. He flips past a bunch of pages with a bunch of weird symbols and seemingly random words on it, and gets a fresh sheet to take some notes. "So who is this guy? What did he sell, who do you think he sold them to?" Solomon's gaze turns sharp at the tiny flinch, and he just stares at Ethan for a long moment before he looks away and takes a quick sip of his drink. Pretending he totally didn't notice that (and doing so badly) as he retakes his seat. "You're too kind," he murmurs, and opens a drawer at his desk that's just...filled with neatly arranged candy treats. "Chocolate or non-chocolate?" He lays out a portion of the selection like a jeweler offering rings to compare: a chocolate orange, expensive jelly beans in a tiny pack, the delicious grandma strawberry candy, butterscotches, and buckeyes in little individual boxes. The weird symbols and words get a curious look, but the questions distract him from more nosiness of his own. "Leonid Carsters, a doctor of Entomology and Arachnology who _appears_ to have a sideline in exotic bug smuggling, although most of the profit from this may be going to alimony payments to his ex, who appears to use them to fun a cult she's running...to troll him, as far as I can tell. I'm sure it was an exciting marriage," he adds, deadpan. "I think he might have sold two 'tree lobsters' to a serial killer who seems to be butchering criminals. I'd like to know who that killer might be." Ethan looks duly impressed by this candy selection. "Damn, you go way beyond fun-size Special Dark," he says, and sounds happy about it. He selects one of the butterscotches, smiling faintly as if he almost has a fond memory about one of those, unwraps it, and pops it happily into his mouth. He pauses, though, at this explanation. "Tree lobsters? What's a tree lobster? Is it…some…giant…bug the killer is using to dispose of the bodies? Or is the killer just really into bugs you have to play a black market premium on?" He writes the word alimony though, that's some soft leverage he can use. "What's the going rate on illegal tree lobsters?" "I get cravings," Solomon admits, with a shrug. "Candy helps." He puts the unlucky, unchosen pieces back into the drawer and flips through his notebook until he can pull out some photos recently taken and printed. They're of a very large bug, black with a few if any other markings. From the way it's sitting on a hand (probably Sol's), the thing is massive, all spindly legs and segments. "Allow me to introduce you to Dryococelus australis, one of the most rare insects in the world. Until recently, it was actually thought to be extinct. There may be fewer than thirty individuals in the wild. There are a few captive populations for conservation purposes, but none near here. And yet, a cop investigating one of the newest murders _squashed_ one at the crime scene. It appears to have hitched a ride along with its mate in the plastic containers used to transport the remains." His smile turns fond. "A breeding pair. The female had laid eggs under the corpses tongue. They're very adaptable." He glances up. "Not carnivorous, though. Nor scavengers. A lost wild pair would have no reason to approach a corpse. I speculate that the murder site was in or near whatever enclosure they were being kept in. As for the going rate?" He shakes his head. "Hell if I know. Astronomical. It is one of the rarest insects in the world." Ethan looks at the picture, eyebrows lifting in a way that suggests it's both interesting to him and not at all what he was pictured. "Dryococelus australis," Ethan repeats, careful with the pronunciation, writing it down with some truly atrocious spelling. But he might be intending to use the precise words with Dr. Carsters. But he scratches out the word alimony; he can imagine the price of a bug there are only 30 of just fine for himself and he's not going to match it that way. He smiles; Solomon manages to turn his creepy crawlies charming whenever he speaks about them so passionately, and he can't fault a species fighting for its life for laying her eggs whenever and wherever she needs to. "Did he seem scared, mad, dismissive, apologetic, when you asked him? What approach did you already use?" "I haven't," Solomon admits. "I've done research, but I've hesitated to approach the man over the phone. And he's in Idaho. I'm not going to fucking Idaho. Not for some dead Haitian death squad member, anyway." He grimaces. "I have one arrow in my bow where social interactions are concerned, Ethan. I can scare the fuck out of someone. Unless," he gestures towards the landline, "they can just put the phone down to make me shut up. I think he would require a more gentle touch, someone to coax or entice him into giving up the information. If he even knows it; I only have secondhand rumor and guesswork that he's the smuggler I'm looking for. They're considering yanking his entomology degree for plagarism - he's no doubt feeling stressed and desperate. But if I reached out and fucked it up, I can't stop him from disappearing into the wind." Ethan rolls the butterscotch around his mouth absently while he considers that, tapping the eraser neatly against his pad as he considers his own approach. "How'd you identify Idaho-Alimony-Plagiarist as the supplier? And…totally willing to do it, but just making sure I fully understand…if he's doing illegal bug smuggling and this is a serial killer case…what's stopping you from having the FBI pick him up and then cut a deal? Name of the buyer for not going to prison for a zillion trillion years? Haitian Death Squad makes me think of this case Detective Tofana was telling me about. The one who told three vampire princes they were being fuckwits and got away with it." Indeed, the tone is more a man considering a chess board and plotting a strategy than suggesting this as an actual course of action. He just wants to know what part of the story he's stepping into, mostly, so that he knows what role to go and cast himself inside of. "It's probably the same case; I was called in as a consultant when the squashed bug was found," Solomon admits. "And I could. But I got the information from a friendly acquaintance on the downlow, and I don't particularly want the FBI paying close _attention_ to my acquaintances, friendly or otherwise." His voice is dry. "If I can confirm that he did sell the bugs, and who he sold them to, I can slip the name to Dr. McReady or Detective Tofana, and be reasonably certain they'll leave me out of it as the source of the information. But if I do that, and it turns out to be a bust? My credibility is injured." His lips press into a tight line. "I wish to establish myself, not be a laughing stock. Therefore, I check my info before passing it on to those who might take action on it." "Boy do I ever understand *that,*" Ethan says, his head shifting left and straight again while his mouth briefly flattens, as if he's had quite a few instances where he himself felt like a laughing stock and hated every minute of it. He rubs the back of his neck thoughtfully. "Alright well there's no way to call up a guy who is doing super illegal shit without scaring the ever loving shit out of him unless I'm also doing super illegal shit myself. Which means I gotta pose as a buyer. And I gotta make him mad at his customer, mad enough to make the name slip. Something like…dude my goddamn rival got his hands on dryococelus australis, can you believe that shit? I can't let that son of a bitch one up me, fucker gloating at me. He said you're the guy, though, and I need a good rival bug to impress the creepy little shit right back. Can you get your hands on a…" He tilts his head. "What's a good bug to ask for? And what kind of person would I have to be to want to buy it?" Solomon's smile flickers. "It's a frustrating thing," he says, understating the case significantly. He listens to the rest, and nods, slowly. "Stag beetles," he suggests, after a moment. "They're not as rare as the Lord Howe, but they're still highly sought after. Something like the giant stag beetle...I believe one was sold for about eighty nine thousand dollars recently, and that was a _legal_ sale. On the black market, they're probably worth more." He shakes his head. "That would be my best guess, anyway. The good doctor leads a very...plain and ordinary life. He might enjoy the excitement of one upping someone." "Stag beetle it is," Ethan says with a quick grin. "What's the science name for that one?" By the gleam in his eye, he's starting to see the shape of exactly how he'll run this little grift, and he's even having a bit of fun with it. Or…it's just that hunter thing again. The hunt for elusive information pleases him almost as much as the hunt for something he could literally sink his teeth into, and while he hardly radiates it to the same degree that Colt does…he has his moments. "And…is this guy's contact info available online? I'mma try to set up a facetime. Easier when he can see my face. And…" Shit. He's going to have to do homework. "Probably I need some books or papers to read so that if I need to get super duper excited about bugs with him for a second I can actually pull it off for at least a minute or two. What are some good papers of *his,* that would be best of all." Solomon says, “You'll be looking for Lucanus capreolus or Lucanus cervus," Solomon says, promptly. "Although, really, if he comes back to you with an offer for anything in the Lucanidae Family, it would be worthwhile pretending to consider it. Males have antlers in many species, and females have visible ovaries on their underbelly. I can put together a primer for you, and include some of the published articles. I've always found his work to be...well researched and impeccable. It's unfortunate that he's decided to involve himself in such unsavory affairs." He clucks his tongue. "I can get you some of his contact information, as well. He will probably try to put you off until his usual visit to Chicago at the end of the season. Which is fine; we don't actually need a bug. Just the name of who he sold the Lord Howe breeding pair to--if he did." His lips twist and he smiles. "How are you at seeing through other people's lies?"” Ethan sort of hand wibbles at that one, grimacing. "That's not an exact science," he admits. "I have some little tricks that help me understand what people *want*, and which help make them *want* to do do things they probably only need a little nudge to want anyway, and that will help here, but…there's no such thing as like…oh, he's looking right, his nose is twitching, he must be lying. There might be little tricks that can help with that, but I haven't learned them yet. Usually if I've got to detect a lie I have to try to match statements up to facts and see what emerges. It don't help that I hate accusing people of lying." He almost looks embarrassed, apologetic. "It's…real rude." He clears his throat. "Also I…can't *guarantee* I won't spook him either. This is more um. Art than science, you know? But if he runs I'll do what I can to try to track him. If he comes *here* he'll make that a lot easier. And if he makes me try to track him and I catch him…well. One or both of us can then default to plan B: scare the shit out of him." Solomon chuckles. "Is it? Rude, I mean. I figure lying to me was being rude _first_, so why shouldn't I call it out if I know someone's doing it?" Which probably makes him LOADS of fun at faculty meetings. He relaxes back into his seat, steepling his hands before him. "I don't ask for a guarantee. This is a long shot, and may be a dead end. Hell, even if it isn't? It's entirely possible that the CPD and ME's office have evidence that's a better trail to follow, and are gonna close the case before you even make a call. At this point, I'm _curious_ more than anything. This killer seems to target some very nasty criminals, and I admit part of me wishes to say that he or she is doing a public service. So it won't hurt my feelings if it doesn't pan out. I just know what I'm good at...and what I'm not. If he was in the city, I could watch him, plan out something I'd feel comfortable with. But this?" He grimaces. "Not my area of expertise. I appreciate you being willing to waste your time on it, honestly, Ethan." "Well, mostly cause I'm never 100% sure, unless I've got all the facts and things, you see," Ethan says earnestly. "I like it better when someone tries to punch me. Then I know for a fact I'm fully justified in beating the ever loving shit out of them." He shakes his head though, at the killer. "There are a dozen and one reasons why you're right to ignore that part of you. The public service bit. You already know them all, just…I support resisting that urge." As for the rest? "Happy to help. Or to try to help, as the case may be. I don't mind taking the time. A friend's request isn't a waste." He stands up though, not wanting to take up the man's entire afternoon. "Soon as you send the stuff over I'll get on it." Solomon smiles. "I've grown accustomed to ignoring the devil on my shoulder, Ethan." He nods to the earnest explanation. "I understand that. And sympathize. And yes," his smile tilts to one side, "physical aggression is an easier problem to solve than politics or psychology. Perhaps we should all go back to duels and trial by combat." He's joking! Surely, he's joking. He rises when Ethan does, and offers his hand. "Thank you. I appreciate it, Ethan. Although I feel somewhat sheepish for being the one calling you to help me, multiple times in a row. Perhaps you'll find yourself with an insect problem, soon," he jokes, although there's an underlying unease that suggests it does, to some extent, bother him to have the scales 'unbalanced', so to speak. Ethan hesitates. Mid-shake, though he does let go after a moment. "Well. You're already helping with my giant roach problem," he says slowly. "And you're *paying* for the other thing, which so far honestly is mainly Colt; he's got some plan and I'm not sure where I fit into it yet. But. It may be that you'll have an opportunity to return favors soon enough." Something uneasy and unhappy passes over his face. Something else, too. None of it pleasant. "I just don't know how, yet," he admits. "But…rest assured that bug problems aren't the only ones I think you can deal with." He pauses, as if he's about to say more, and then visibly backs away from it. If nothing else, Solomon is quick on the physical uptake; when Ethan's hand hesitates mid-shake, his own hand follows it, giving the interrupted motion a smoothness it otherwise might not have had. He smiles. "I'm sure I will. All debts come due in the end, Mr. Weaver. One way or another. I just like to control how and when," he adds, voice dry. But he doesn't miss that uneasy look, and we've just established that his version of polite isn't always in line with the general definition of the word. He studies the man for a moment, then says, "What's on your mind?" Ethan slides his hands into his pockets and looks off to the side. What's warring on his face is shame and something else. Fear. And a desperate attempt to control both. His jaw works, his mouth is in a tight line, and he says: "I…later. I can't…I have a vow. If I…if I come to you about this right now I'm breaking it." He rakes a hand across his face. "Christ, I'm skirting it right now." He decides to fill Solomon in on what it *is* so he doesn't sound plum crazy. "Suffer none to witness or tend your weakness. Makes it damn hard to talk things out or get advice or…" He blows out his cheeks. "When my…emotions. Are under control. When it's less a weakness and more just…the state of things. I appreciate your willingness. To jump right in. I just…I just can't. Right now. Skolis-Ur will never make me his heir, but I can try not to shame him, at least." Solomon blinks a couple of times, then smiles. "Say no more. I am one of the people in the city least likely to encourage someone to break a sworn vow, Ethan." A thoughtful pause. "Someone I like, anyway." The grin that flashes out is toothy, but brief, replaced by his usual air of grumpy discontent. "Tend your business. When you're in the place where you need a certain sort of tool as part of your strategy to solve your problem, whatever it might be, come back and we'll talk over a beer about it, if you like." A flicker of hungry curiosity in his eyes. "And maybe then I can ask what a Skolis-Ur is." Ethan offers a smile, and if it's a little sickly and weak, well…there's an appreciation for someone else who shares his curiosity. And relief; the way Solomon did that let him save *face*, eases him off the precipice of breaking his own bargains with his own weird Wyrd-cousins. "Thanks," he says, with real gratitude. "I'll take you up on that." Then he raps twice on the desk, the way people do sometimes in a sort of generalized knock-on-wood blessing for the owner of said desk, inclines his head, and slips on out. | |