A Day in the Life of Agent Northam

[Alex]

6:49 AM

BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!

Agent Northam rolled over, looking to his east window of his fifth floor condo to see the sun cresting over the horizon. It was a minor habit, but it gave him some stability. His days had been volatile since the investigation into the Beaumont attack had begun. It was hard to keep a consistent schedule for an assignment like this. But the one constant had been that if the sun was not up, neither was he. But this meant he couldn't afford to miss a single second of daylight. The computer in his alarm clock knew when the sun rose each morning and the vampires who crawled the night melted away.

The federal investigator rose from his bed. He could smell his coffee already brewing. He grabbed his tablet on the way out to the kitchen and entered his government credentials. He tapped an icon called Nightwatch and set the tablet down, letting the AI contained within run its searches while he turned his phone on. He and his team were cut off during the nighttime hours, but his voicemail remained on. He put in an earbud and listened through each as he poured his coffee and took out eggs, bread, and bacon.

First message

Another tip from Pratik. Something about strangeness surrounding Dr. Ernest Harper and the Desrosiers Society. Northam rubbed his temples - if he had to hear Councilman Mehta's grating voice one more time.

Second message

Recon team Alpha's check in. No activity outside of Caine Manor. As expected.

Third message

Recon team Beta. No suspicious calls from the Desrosiers Society itself. But they said to check his texts. Northam did so and sighed. He'd need to stop by the Cathedral today before dark.

Fourth message

Pratik. Again. Complaining about the pace of the investigation. It wasn't that he forgot that he was an informant, not a director. It was that he never processed that in the first place.

Fifth message

Recon team Gamma. No activity outside of Michel's - and a records search validated the health code shutdown. Northam knew it was orchestrated, of course. And moves like this gave him information.

A few more messages came in - mostly from the District with more tips. After each message he had written down the contents on a paper notepad and then deleted the messages. He didn't need any callbacks today. He didn't owe Pratik a call, and the less time was spent on recorded communication lines the better.

With the messages done, Northam heated up a skillet and dropped his bacon onto it. He returned to his tablet and surveyed the results from Nightwatch. It was an AI he had set up by the boys in IT to skim the surface and dark webs for any activity that could indicate Vampires. No major hits today, which meant he could catch up on the report he was preparing for his boss and the New Orleans City Council President. First he'd drop in on Dr. Harper, then the Cathedral, then he'd draw up his report.

Northam cracked his eggs over his simmering bacon and took a swig of coffee. Today would be a pretty ordinary day for an unordinary investigator.

[Alex]

Agent Northam wet his two fingers in holy water and did a sign of the cross as he entered the St. Louis Cathedral. The doors shut behind him, and the din of New Orleans in the late morning was crushed behind it. Instead he could hear soft organ music playing and a few old folks thumbing through hymnals and prayer books. It was almost time for the noon Mass, and what few parishioners would show up for it were filing in one or two at a time. Northam wasn't a practicing Catholic. And he wasn't here to attend Mass. But he allowed himself a moment of respect for the grand old building. It wasn't the largest church he had been in, but its beautiful interior still struck him. The whole place carried an air of austerity and calm that soothed his mild headache.

That headache had been a natural consequence of the morning's interview with Ernest Harper. Dr. Harper was more tolerable than Pratik, if only because Harper was a good man. A decent man. The kind of man that Agent Northam didn't think existed anymore. But that didn't make his interview less frustrating. Harper had been a ball of nerves. He meandered. He got sidetracked. He fumbled his words. Northam was quite sure that when Dr. Harper had taken a bathroom break he had actually gone to vomit. He was pathetic. A pitiable pathetic, but still pathetic. Nevertheless, Northam had gotten what he wanted out of Harper - directly and indirectly. He knew Harper had been in touch with Lucien Caine since the Agent had begun surveillance. He knew that Harper was only seeking the position because of blackmail. And he knew Harper had been in contact with Roger Anderson's wife and a mysterious woman - Juliet Carlisle-Hastings - shortly before Bloom had died. He had taken his notes, asked the U.S. Attorney to send him paperwork to make a FISA request, and moved on. Harper has blubbered on longer than he expected, so he didn't have time to stop for lunch on the way. He'd have to eat later.

Northam made his way to the back of the Cathedral, passing the altar and the apse on the side and going into one of the pathways to the back. An altar server standing around prepared to stop him, but one flash of his badge made the young man's protests die in his throat. He look at the nameplate of each door he passed until he found the right one. Father Auryon, Parish Priest. He knocked firmly on the door. A moment passed and the door opened. Auryon's aged gaze peered from it. He moved to close the door, but Northam's foot was in it much too quickly. "Don't worry, Father," he said. "This is only a social call." Auryon looked at the agent suspiciously, but opened the door. Northam stepped into the priest's small office and closed the door behind him. Auryon was already in his vestments.

"You'll excuse me," Auryon said. "If I exercise my Fifth Amendment rights. Social call or not."

"That's fine," Northam said, taking a seat at Auryon's own office chair. "You don't have to talk. Just listen." He reached into his pocket and threw down a few photographs - photos his agents had taken of Auryon stalking around the Desrosiers Society at night. "You want to tell me what the hell you think you're doing?" He asked.

"Can a New Orleans resident not enjoy a walk at night?" Auryon asked. Northam produced another photo. A photo of a stake hanging from Auryon's belt, beneath his long coat. Of his hand in his pocket grasping something - a gun, perhaps.

"Cut the crap, Auryon," Northam said. "I'd rather you not talk than bullshit me. This isn't your investigation." Auryon was silent now, looking at Northam with a stern gaze. "Your aid was not requested and is not welcome. You know I have friends at State who can get you called right back to Rome."

Auryon chuckled at that, shaking his head. "You think the Vatican will punish one of its ministers working in the name of righteousness?" He asked incredulously.

"I think," Northam said. "That the Society will not take kindly to memos going through the government about a foreign agency meddling in our affairs."

"The affairs of God matter to me, not those of man," Auryon said somberly. "And from what I know about your agenda, you are uninterested in doing God's work."

"You mean mass murder," Northam cut in. "Pointless slaughter. Vigilantism."

"Justice," Auryon cut in, his voice becoming louder. "Justice for what those monsters have done to..."

"To you," Northam interrupted.

"To millions of mothers and fathers and-" Auryon snapped back.

Northam stood now. "Millions of mothers and fathers and sisters and brothers have been devastated by cartel agents, gangsters, and vigilante hunters," He said. "You want us to start executing them on sight? To start gunning down every bastard who puts a bullet in someone? Because I'm pretty sure your Mother Church is against that."

"Those are human beings," Auryon hissed.

"And the best part!" Northam continued. "Is watching you skulk around with the cowardly Councilman, the bitter divorcee, and all the other kooks, weirdos, and losers trying to settle a personal score. Although I guess on that front you fit right in. Fuck the public. Fuck safety. Gotta keep that axe sharp."

"Do you have a purpose here other than insulting me?" Auryon said coldly. He was keeping his composure, but Northam could see tears welling up in his eyes. He walked towards Auryon, softening his expression.

"Father," he said quietly. "I have seen your file. I know what happened to you 40 years ago. To your family." He took a deep breath. "And I am sympathetic. I am doing what I am doing because I don't want anyone to suffer like you did again."

"If you meant that," Auryon said in a low growl. "You'd put every single one of them to the sun without a second thought."

"And if that worked, they'd have all died out in the First Inquisition," Northam replied. "I am sympathetic," he continued. "But you are endangering the public, you are endangering the investigation, and I cannot allow that." Northam looked into Auryon's eyes. "This is your one and only warning, Auryon. You're being brought in if I catch you interfering again. And if you have even a shred of decency and dignity, you'll cut ties with the CPS."

"The Lord works in all ways," Auryon replied. "Even through the hearts of sinners."

"I don't think it's the Lord that's been working through Pratik and Roger," Northam said. Auryon looked quizzically at Northam, but the agent just turned away. "Watch yourself. And don't let me catch you skulking around again." Northam left the room abruptly. He wasn't going to pretend he liked the priest. He wasn't going to offer him a hug or shake his hand. Northam had a mission, and he wasn't going to let anyone get in his way.

[Alex]

Agent Northam flipped a switch and heard the sound of the metal shutters over his windows clamping shut. Most people would call that sort of thing obsessive or paranoid. It's one thing to have shutters in hurricane country, but another to black his own home during the night or whenever he left. Why, someone might think he was a Vampire, his neighbors told him with a chuckle. And Northam would chuckle along with them. Hurricanes as an excuse would satisfy most people. Privacy could cover most of the rest. For anyone who pried further, he'd just laugh and tell the oldest G-man joke in the book.

"If I told you, I'd have to kill you."

He chuckled to himself at home thinking of it. Northam had arrived at his condo just as the sun began to set - late during the New Orleans Spring and Summer. And for a while he rested. He took his shoes off. Caught up on sports news. cracked open a beer. Two beers. He would have seemed an utterly ordinary man save for the shutters.

But eventually he fished in his fridge for some leftover Lo Mein and put it in the microwave. Once it was heated up he settled not in his recliner, but his home office chair. He booted up his PC, a laptop with the WiFi and Ethernet cables removed, and booted up LibreOffice. The City Council and the US Attorney would expect a report soon. And since he was beginning to expect he'd have no "live" captives he'd have to impress them. But he'd kept getting stuck at the same point. He decided to start at the top tonight.

The attack on Beaumont State. Simple enough. The mention of Big Daddy and the presence of LaVoix made it clear that this was a part of the conflict between LaVoix's "freedom fighters" and "elites." He gave a smirk in the direction of his LaVoix Survival Guide to the Night. He might have actually been one of the Vampire's best customers. After all, he'd been listening since he was a teen.

Rundown of Vampire influence in the city. Also uncomplicated. This section was long. It had pages and pages of evidence, innuendo, and suspicions he had written down. Every time he had closed in on an establishment only for it to close. Every time he had approached someone only to have them vanish into the night. And of course, all of the times institutions seemed to close around him as he approached. It was obvious the Vampires were involved with Obsidian. And that some shadowy figure was plying the government itself. The Desrosiers Society was almost too easy. Bonaparte must be pretty goddamn pleased with himself - not that his life wasn't fascinating. He had read through every scrap of paper he could get about Bonaparte Desrosiers in life. He was certainly the kind of person Northam could imagine attracting the attention of the damned.

But then he came to it. The section he always stopped typing at.

The Death of David Bloom.

On the surface, it all made sense. An institutional figure who wronged a Vampire being killed and the investigation into it scuttled. That's what he had thought before he had spoken to the Bloom family and reviewed his file. He had run his machine intelligence over the document again and again, but there was nothing he could find - not from Bloom, his family, or associates that indicated he was doing anything to rock the boat. He wasn't planning to abandon his mistress - Bloom and his wife had made peace with his infidelity years back. And the crime itself didn't fit with what his training taught him to expect of a crime of passion. It had been planned out, if not in method then to cause the maximum amount of attention and damage to anyone who relied on Bloom.

And then there was Pratik.

Whenever Vampires were at work, Pratik always seemed to be right on the edges waiting to squeal on whoever he saw fit. Lucien Caine was the best example, but Pratik had been eager to rat out Big Daddy in the Eastside and had lodged plenty of tips that amounted to nothing. But on Bloom, he was completely silent. When Northam had asked him, Pratik had shrugged and told him that these things happen. It was unlike the paranoid Councilman who never let any stone go unturned when it came to the Vampires he blamed all his ills on. A man had been stabbed by an invisible foe, and Pratik could not seem to care less. The same had been true for Juliet Carlisle-Hastings, the suspicious woman that Ernest Harper had mentioned. She was at the same party as Lucien Caine and enjoyed a truly baffling interaction with him. Harper told of a dustup he had with Roger Anderson, too. And yet Pratik had not mentioned the woman to him.

Northam leaned back in his chair. Was the killing of Bloom really the thing vexing him? Probably not. Bloom was of a high enough profile that the elites would have been justified in targeting him to further their war. The freedom fighters, then, would have frustrated the investigation and worked through The Record - clearly a front of theirs - to bury the story in a hurricane of nonsense. It wasn't the killing of Bloom he didn't understand. It was Pratik's strange role on its sidelines. His strange role in this whole affair. And he couldn't finish his report until he knew what it as.

As he told Auryon, he didn't think it was God working through Pratik, Roger, and the Council for Public Safety. Whoever was pulling their strings was far closer. And Northam couldn't let any stone go unturned.