Alton leaves Cook near his home, but has to pass by the station on the way to her duplex. Outside the station, she spots Trageser headed inside. This late at night, his shift should start in a few hours. The young detective ought to be at home and asleep. Curious, she follows.

Inside, one of her coworkers is taking a witness statement from someone who’s either a ratkin or were-rat. It’s hard to tell. She briefly interrupts to ask where Trageser went, and receives a point downward, toward the basement jail, in reply. Alton rubs her forehead tiredly, and then heads down stairs.

The little jail has only six barred cells arranged down the right hand side of the basement hallway. The left hand side has solid wooden doors leading to a bathroom, storage closet, and a small break room with a potbelly stove. Right in front of the stairs sits a guard’s desk, currently empty. Two of the six cells are occupied. One holds a pair of drunk half-elves, propping each other up with help from the far wall. Inside the other Durandal sleeps better than the dead on a rough hewn wooden cot.

Trageser is in the process of unlocking Durandal’s cell. Exactly the kind of thing he has absolutely no business doing, especially at this hour.

“What in the planes are you doing?” Alton hisses, keeping her voice low.

“A contact of Isaacs’ has a spell. I’m gon find out why he did it.” Trageser does not keep his voice down. The paladin stirs. “Why a man kill his own kid. Is make no sense.”

“Oh no you don’t,” Alton warns, suffering the nasal assault of the smell of cheap imported moonshine. She grabs the keys from his hand just as the toilet flushes behind them.

Durandal wakes with a jolt, muttering something incomprehensible about drill times as he pulls himself into a sitting position. The bathroom door opens, and the uniformed guard walks out, still adjusting the hem of her tunic.

“Aww, shit no,” the guard curses, “no, no, no, no. You said you’d keep watch, Rodd, what the fuck?” She grabs the keys from him, and shoves them back in the desk drawer. The little combination lock clicks closed audibly.

“But we all know he’s guilty,” Trageser curses, “I just need to find out why.”

“We don’t know that,” Alton insists, which apparently catches Durandal’s attention. He looks more alert than before, standing close to the bars. “Trageser, you need to go home. We’ll know for sure if his alibi is solid tomorrow.”

Durandal stares. Trageser stutters. The guard slumps glumly into her chair. The drunks giggle. Alton’s face falls delicately into her palm.

Alton shoves Tragesser out of the hall with a gentle push toward the stairs. He walks slowly up the stairs under his own power. When his mouth isn’t open he looks convincingly sober. She turns to head out after him.

“Did you mean that?” Durandal asks, an edge of hope in his voice.

“Did I mean what?”

“That there’s doubt. That you think Marion could lie to you.” He grips an iron bar tight.

“Anything’s possible.” She heads up the stairs after Trageser.

“Two half elves - is really just one whole elf!” one drunk says to the other. Both dissolve into fits of giggles, hugging each other on the jail cell floor.