Richard Barker
Silence. Utter and desolute silence permiated Richard's senses as he looked down the stairs again, after having taking a brief look earlier. At first he had thought he caught the sight of the two members left down in the hallway, shouting down at them something about what the suckers outside were shouting about, what he himself found upstairs and their opinions on the newly-found box. But as he took a second look down the staircase, his brows raised far up his face and jaw dropped slightly, almost losing the cigarette in the process.
Where the fuck had they gone?
"Uhm…fellas? Anderson, Ambroise? Ah chucks, they left me high and dry…" Richard muttered to himself under his breath, seeing himself alone in the house that desperately needed a new paint stroke. Or rather, it needed to be demolished and rebuilt by some proper labourers. Richard sighed, putting the box down at his feet as he took off his fedora, running his hand through his greasy hair and putting the hat back on. Well, if he was alone, at least no one could put their nose in his business.
Sitting down onto the stairs, Richard began fiddling with the clues he had found so far, the cigarette dangling back and forth in his mouth like the weight on a grandfather's clock would. A box, an alarm clock and a piece of paper. Nearly a complete paper trail. Aha, Richard would 'never' get tired of chasing paper around…yeah right, like he was a pencil pusher.
First of all, the paper then. Opening it, Richard was unsure what he saw imprinted on the faded paper.
"What do we have here…looks like an inkdot…octopus?" Richard questioned himself, wondering just what the imprint was and what it was made of. Charcoal? It only put forward more questions than it answered.
Second was the clock, odd as it was. Why had Jeremy, or this "Harry" have it hidden underneath the bed? Richard toyed with it for a moment, lifting it up and rattling it ever so slightly. Rattling, and not just the sound of a broken clock. Something big was hidded inside. Richard pulled out his set of lockpicks, choosing a thick screwdriver-looking tool and catching the edge of the clock's backside. Eventually, perhaps after a few minutes of fiddling, he got it off, revealing the clock's contents. A key.
"Oh let me guess, this is the Key to this puzzle? Ha…ha…real funny, Jeremy, you absolute clown…" Richard, not being amused at all by the bullshittery that was occupying his day, decided to check the chest and get over with it. He had a hell of a lot of questions to have his mind ponder over, and too many questions popping up for him to process alone. The chest was fair enough to lockpick open, only taking him another five minutes or so. Inside he found…yet more paper - A journal. Quickly turning the pages and only getting glimpses of its contents, Richard got an eire feeling in his stomach, one that had in reality been there since he first looked at the imprint on the paper and the hidded key. Something bad, something dark…like when he knew he was stepping into a bad alleyway, and someone wasn't walking out alive.
"Jesus Christ in a handbasket, I need a coffee…and Irish coffee, whiskey and secterian split and all…" Richard muttered angrily, wearily under his breath, tucking the journal inside his jacket alongside the other pieces of evidence he'd picked up. Something about those things sent a shiver down his spine, or perhaps it was the moldy interiour that got to him. Whatever it was, Richard decided to exit the house after what had felt like an hour on the inside snooping around.
He did not expect the welcoming-comittee he was greeted with.
"Of all the rain-soaked dead-end holes I wander into, and I'm greeted by you?" Richard exclaimed as he heard him being shouted at, squinting his eyes underneath that brown fedora as he realized who was talking to him. Dirk Garther, fellow former NYPD beatcop and equally miserable son of a bitch.
"Oh I remember you, green-bag. You're the square new guy at the club house that couldn't tell a stool pidgeon from a torpedo. Good to see you though, you're right; you can really use me." Clearly the group had grown by one more stooge at this point, a tower of guy who looked like he came straight out of Harlem on a good day, unlike this one. Another guy who knew Jeremy? This was getting weird indeed. Richard mouthed his cigarette and let out a long puff of smoke, signalling everyone that he was noting the conversation silently. Too bad he waited too long, for Dirk let the tounge slip that Harry was dead and they were to follow him to the police station - in Dirk's car.
"To Hell with that, Dirk. How am I supposed to get back home? Cab, out here in this God-forsaken place? Nah, you know me, I'll be right behind you." Richard retorted, refusing to simply get in Dirk's car like a common thug. Either he'd have to be forced at gunpoint or have a real good reason why Richard wouldn't follow him in his own car, and so far something else was much MUCH more important, as Richard looked at the group.
"And just where has Mr. Ambrose and Mr. Anderson gone? Did they scamper off while you guys chatted over tea and cookes? " 
