Ch. 59 – In the Drifter’s Wake

There was an alley on either side of the convenience store, so Derrick would have to investigate both of them, since Mister Kim hadn’t remembered which one he dropped the Drifter down at. Despite having spent most of his life in alleyways, the coolness of the shadow upon Derrick’s skin made his stomach twist as he stepped in. He needed to find something, anything, that would help track down the Drifter.

If he was lucky, the Drifter might still be living in the alleyway. A shopping cart, plastic bags, or cardboard boxes could be good leads; if he was staying in an alleyway, it might have some of his belongings in them.

Was there any blood on the pavement? Ripped clothing? Needles? Drifters were often drug users too: drowning out their sorrows, and numbing themselves to the biting cold in the winter. Any bodily fluids on the needles would be hard to glean information from without access to a good DNA analysis lab. But if there was drug residue on it, then—depending on the drug—there was a chance that the Drifter had visited a local dealer.

But there weren’t any of those things in the alley. Just a few paper leaflets, and a discarded plastic water bottle. Derrick grabbed the leaflet, and stooped to reach for the crumbled water bottle, before thinking better of it. The thing had clearly been kicked about quite a bit, was caked in dust, and had probably rolled in from outside the alley on a gust of wind. He wasn’t getting any information out of that.

There weren’t any signs of blood or other body fluids, but then again, it had rained just yesterday, and the rain could have washed out a subtle trail.

There weren’t any dumpsters, nor any other places where a drifter could store his things while he went foraging during the day. The far end of the alley was just as empty.

Okay, well maybe it wasn’t this alley, but the other one? Derrick strolled out of the alley with his convenience store plastic bag in hand, careful not to make eye contact with anyone inside the convenience store. Of course, the hyper-awareness of being watched only made him stare directly forward with an odd intensity. Thankfully, the second alley was right across the length of the convenience store, and he ducked into it with what he hoped was the lazy ease of someone taking a rest and a snack.

A few steps in, and it was obvious that this alley was a lot busier. There were dumpsters, loose trash, a utility box sheltered by a shallow overhang, and discarded furniture.

The difference between the two alleys was staggering. Derrick covered his nose with a sleeve and stepped over a half-open trash bag to get a closer look at the dumpsters.

He snatched a—thankfully dry—rag from the ground and grabbed the first dumpster’s lid with it before hoisting it up. The heavy plastic lid clattered against the brick wall behind it, and a roiling odor filled the air. Thanks to Derrick’s years of dumpster-diving practice, the stench was sickly familiar: he knew it was supposed to be disgusting, but it triggered a familiar part of his brain, and could almost calm him down. Derrick stood on his tip toes to peer inside the dumpster, but there wasn’t much to speak of. It had probably been emptied recently, as there were only a few shreds of plastic and paper stuck to the bottom.

Wait, what if there was an easy way to check if the Drifter had passed by this alley? Like a surveillance camera, or some other sensor—there weren’t many in Chinatown, but—. Derrick backed up, craning his head up in case there was some sort of camera hanging above him that he’d missed earlier. He took a few steps back, and something hard poked into his back. He whipped around and—ah, it was the small overhang above the utility box, which was unusually close to the ground.

The overhang had been amateurishly installed, and had rattled when Derrick stepped back into it. It really fit the vibe of a place like Chinatown. Derrick crouched down and peeked under the overhang. It was just a regular utility box. But with a heavily rusted top panel. Someone had probably installed the overhang to keep the rain from doing any more damage to the panel. Derrick stood up slowly, swiveling his head to make sure he didn’t bump or step into anything else—you never knew what sort of disease-ridden shit you’d find in a dirty alleyway—and continued picking his way through the detritus.

In about ten minutes of searching, the only likely leads he could find were:

- A traditional-style bus pass, which was being phased out in favor of the Beacons anyway

- An old, threadbare sock with a large rip near the ankle

- An advertisement for a nightclub in New Shore City proper

Derrick wiped some sweat out of his eyes with the clean bit of shirt on his shoulder. He was sweaty, smelly, and frankly too tired to put any of the things he had rooted through back in the dumpsters where he had found them, so he’d have to live with the guilt of making Chinatown even dirtier than it already was.

The bus pass was the easiest lead to follow; it was an older one judging by the registration date, so he’d be able to pull the owner’s info from a leaked New Shore City database. The sock was a stretch . . . . He didn’t have any specialized equipment that’d be able to pull information from the DNA present on it. He could look for someone with a matching sock, but given that people were generally not wearing shorts in this weather, that’d be hard to tell even if he did run across the Drifter by a miracle. He could try making a database of all the drifters in town, but how would even even uniquely identify them . . .

And the nightclub advertisement . . .

It would be a place to start, and—if the lighting was hard to see in—Derrick could blend in, even with his disgusting face. Clubs usually wanted to keep drifters out—their smell dampened the mood—but maybe the Drifter had found a patron who frequented the club, or he was saving up money to gain entry into the club.

Derrick dropped the bus pass, sock, and nightclub ad into his plastic bag, and then crouched down, stretching his back this way and that, when he caught a speckle of dull red on the edge of his vision. It was the utility box. Derrick stooped lower and craned his head, shining the small flashlight he had brought with him at the box. It was faint, but there was a blood stain on the bottom of the utility box, sort of smeared against the metal. It wasn’t rust, that was for sure, but had dried in a strange pattern that Derrick might have seen before, as if someone had applied the blood with a textured brush.

The alley was clear on both sides of the utility box: enough room for a grown man to lie down on. And the overhang was decently large too. If the Drifter had laid down with his head leaning against the utility box . . . maybe the blood from a head wound had been brushed onto the utility box? Since there weren’t any signs of residence in the alleyway, it was possible that the Drifter had crawled over to the makeshift shelter to rest for a few hours, and then wandered off afterwards.

The ground beneath the panel was relatively bare, except for a smattering of dried gum and weathered stickers. There was a small black chip sticking out from a crack between the wall and the asphalt—wait. It wasn’t a chip of gravel or mulch. It was too uniform and thin. Derrick shone his flashlight down at it—it was still hard to see since it was halfway stuck in the crevice—and pinched the chip with the tips of his fingers. It was a small, delicate thing, the type to break rather than bend, so Derrick wiped the sweat off his fingers, and readjusted his grip, before finally freeing it from the crevice, with hopefully minimal scratching.

He rolled out from under the makeshift overhang and held the chip up to the flashlight. It was a small data card: the type you could put in your phone to expand the storage, or keep photos and videos on. Any label on the chip had long been scratched off, and there weren’t any other identifying markings on it. But if the Drifter had really been lying down near the utility box, then it wasn’t a stretch to think a small data card could have fallen off his person if he was tossing and turning.

But what was on the card? And why would the Drifter have been carrying it loose on his person, instead of keeping it inside his phone’s storage slot, or in a small carrying case? Well, seeing as he was probably homeless, he might’ve sold his phone or carrying case—or gotten them stolen, but made sure to hold onto a card with some precious memories on it. Derrick gulped. It was a dirty thought, but if the Drifter had kept his own photos and those of his family on the card, they could be easily cross-referenced on public sites, or in social media leaks.

Derrick turned his back to the street, concealing the card behind his body, and held it in his closed fist. The card was the most likely lead he had found, but how was he himself going to get the card back home without losing it? It was small enough that he wouldn’t trust it to stay in any of his pockets. Derrick pulled his phone out—which unfortunately didn’t have a data slot for the card, and debated with himself whether or not he’d get any good answers off the internet, before pausing. Oh, right; there was always the ‘old reliable’ solution.

He pulled the corner of the soft phone case off his phone, just enough to slip the card inside, and then wrapped it back on his phone. There. The card would be secure until he got home, unless his phone case came off.

The plastic bag rustled as he stood up and walked away from the alley. He could camp out at the alleyway, hoping to run into the drifter again, but there was no indication that he’d return, and Derrick would draw more unwanted attention if he stayed. He had done the most thorough examination he could do by himself. It had still been worth going: if only for the peace of mind that he hadn’t missed any obvious clues. And, he’d gotten a data card out of it.

He’d have to check the card, but what if it was booby-trapped with malware? Or it was programmed to broadcast his coordinates to its original owner? He’d have to try it on some old, air-gapped hardware. His phone was burning a hole in his pocket as he made his way back to Hack Alley. It was suspiciously loud as he approached the front door, and Derrick froze, his hand hovering over the handle. But Tony’s voice was there, and it sounded like he was having a good time. Derrick sighed and griped the handle. Tony might’ve sneaked a bar girl in, but if he was drinking with her despite the doctor’s orders . . . And of course, as he opened up the door, the sound of laughing and drunken carousing hit him like wave.

It was Tony, standing at a shop table with another man who seemed familiar, but Derrick just couldn’t place his finger on the man’s name. The man had a single, studded earring, and a skin fade: simple, but carefully done. He and Tony were red-faced, probably a few bottles in, and practically pounding the table in excitement.

“Hey, hey, HEY,” Derrick shouted, his face probably growing as red as Tony’s. “WHAT are you doing?”

Tony’s turned, his eyebrows popped up, and with one glance at Derrick, and another back down at his bottle, he slumped down and reddened even further: like a little boy who’d been caught in the cookie jar. He set the bottle down and sat back into his chair, with pursed lips.

The bottle was nearly empty, and the remaining dregs swirled around as Derrick snatched the bottle from in front of Tony and slammed it down on a counter. Both of the men winced, and shrunk down into their chairs.

“You’re NOT SUPPOSED TO BE DRINKING. Let alone this much,” Derrick shouted. His own ears ringing from the noise, he coughed and swallowed some spit to sooth his throat.

“I’m sorry!” Tony said. “We were toasting his proposal”—he gestured at the man sitting across from him—“I mean it was exciting—it felt like the right time to drink if there was gonna be any time, you know?”

The other man sat back up straight and glanced at Derrick, wearing the sort of half-smile you did when you had almost shit yourself, but wanted to seem like you were still in control. Without a wasted breath, he turned back to Tony and cocked an eyebrow.

Tony said.

the man said, nodding as if he was frantically trying to remember.

Derrick asked. Fuck; he sounded like a jealous girlfriend.

Tony grinned and let out a choking laugh.

The two men stared at Derrick with shit-eating grins: the type that guys had on when they were about to say ‘hold my beer and watch this.’