tinman

A mortgage? How much?

I am surprised you approved a loan to that amount so quickly. Whew, how shockingly efficient.

I will need you to fax all the documents to the San Sophie Police. Detective Hugh Mosby for the recipient. Good bye.

Hey...

The communicator in the Tin Man's hand rings once again to interrupt the detective.

Yes, hello. Mr. Nixon of the Nixon Cargo Handling Company, am I correct? Thank you for calling back. I just wanted to make sure. Was there a Joseph Granger under your employ?

Yes, that's right. There will be an investigation into the legality of your company's layoffs, but I actually want to know a little more about Mr. Granger's workman's compensation insurance.

Accident insurance? To the amount of... 1.7 million gold certificates. Very good. Is he still being compensated? He hasn't been paid for that since he left? Did he know about it?

You should've told him much sooner. Rest assured, I'll be in touch, Mr. Nixon.

Almost as soon as the Tin Man hangs up, the detective starts to speak.

Heh, you're not so bad at this.

I'm good enough. I'm actually surprised that these basic communication techniques can impress an old veteran like you.

You think you're so damn cool chewing them out on the communicator, huh?

'Of course I have that authority,' 'Rest assured, I'll be in touch...' What, you think you're in a Wrankwood courtroom flick?

Tell you the truth, I actually considered starring in one of those.

So that's how you figured everything out just by making a couple phone calls. Bravo!

A bankrupt, unemployed man, provoking a hoodlum on purpose to try to make enough money off his accident insurance—one that expired long ago—to pay off his debt. Is that the story you're going to tell the brass?

Detective Mosby slams the horn, then suddenly turns, before switching lanes to overtake a slow truck.

Easy, Detective. Drive safe.

You know what this city used to look like forty years ago? It was nothing but a swath of barrenlands! It was us pioneers who carried each rock here one-by-one to build this city from the ground up!

You young'uns from the big cities with all your jargon and those communicators. You think you can crack every case just by calling every goddamn number out there on Terra and blabbering into the phone!

You know what I had when I first became a cop? I had the shirt on my back, and this shitty little police handbook!

The detective grabs the <i>Columbian Police Handbook</i> sitting on his dashboard and tosses it toward the backseat.

It tells us why murders murder and why burglars burglarize, but it doesn't talk about any goddamn intercity net, bank accounts, or frickin' insurance agents!

The times are changing, Detective. I don't understand where your anger is coming from.

You don't understand? I don't understand, either!

It's because of you dipshits chasing trends and grabbing the newest gizmos! You people are why our perfectly fine city turned into this shitheap! To the point that a simple coffee shop couldn't stay in business!

Listen up, Tin Fucking Man. This is my case and nobody else's. I've been a cop for thirty years, and I don't need a steel-plated guy from a movie to come teach me how to solve it!

Someone's communicator starts ringing. Immediately, the detective glares at the Tin Man, leaving him no choice but to lift his device up to show that he hasn't received any call.

With a grumpy look, Detective Mosby pulls out his own communicator and answers the call.

Hello, Mr. Mosley. I'm very sorry to tell you that I've made a mistake with your order. There are actually seven other customers ahead of you today, so we may not be able to finish your cake in time...

We can give you a full refund! And a couple gift coupons...

I don't need your dogshit coupons! I ordered a freakin' cake! I want a freakin' cake! For my retirement party!

Are you saying I should cancel my party?! Is that what you're telling me?!

You want me to walk into the frigging office tomorrow with my head hung low, so the greenhorns can laugh at me?!

I-I'm sorry...

The detective hangs up.

Tin Man rolls down the window and lights a cigarette.

He looks outside. What was once a bustling port is now deserted. Over at the docks, a massive, abandoned cargo landship is being taken apart and sold for scrap.

Here we are. Remember, this is my case. I don't need your help.

A group of workers with metal tools have surrounded the shabby two-story attic. Inside, a girl hides behind the curtains, trembling from head to toe.

Do you know the people who live here?

We're just doing the job we're paid to do, boss.

Here, have a smoke. Tell me, man, why are you making things so hard for this young lady here?

Please don't make this hard for <i>us</i>, boss. This house's been foreclosed, and we're just here to clean up the place. The money comes down from on high, and we depend on the money to live, that's all.

Who hired you?

We have no clue either. We just go where the job tells us to go, and once everything's taken care of, they transfer the money to our accounts. If we don't finish, we'll be six feet under.

The workers take the cigarettes, but no one starts to smoke. The hammers, shovels, and crowbars in their hands are all printed with the stevedores' union's logo.

(Sighs) So you boys used to be dockworkers? The owner of this place was a guy called Joseph Granger. He used to work at the dock too.

People die, boss. It ain't easy to survive.

I'm not your boss. Here's my badge.

Per the <i>Columbian Police Handbook</i>, I hereby announce this property was involved in criminal activity and is being sealed off by the San Sophie Police. This whole area is off limits.

It's no use, boss. We leave, and they'll just send more guys over.

Scram! Now!

Without protesting, the workers all turn around expressionless and leave.

That's not in the handbook.

What, you've read every single clause?

The detective sneers, and picks up the monitor from the trunk of the car.

He forces his way past the Tin Man and walks straight into the house.

It's heavy, isn't it?

I told you. I don't need—

I am just asking.

The Tin Man walks toward the soggy-looking plywood cabinet, and finds the lost storage module among the pile of household goods that CSI rummaged through.

Here.

The old detective crouches in front of a pile of electronic components, contemplates for a while, before hesitantly grabbing what seems to be a power cord to plug into the monitor.

The Tin Man clears his throat. The old detective immediately stops what he's doing, turns around, and glares.

I've said not a thing.

The old detective turns his attention back to the components and frowns. After a brief moment, as though he has figured out something, he grabs one of he cables and connects two crystal chips with it.

Then, seemingly getting the hang of it, he quickly puts together most of the outer shell of the storage module.

But just as he's about to connect the storage module to the monitor, he notices that the two-prong plug in his hand cannot be plugged into the three-hole socket.

Gah... shit!

Maybe it's because he's been crouching for quite some time, but his face turns red, and drops of sweat start to drip down from his forehead.

Despite the plug being obviously incompatible for the socket, he uses his entire strength to press it down.

But, under the intense force, the metal prongs slip and the rugged outer shell slides down, leaving a long, bloody cut on the detective's finger.

Son of a bitch!

Damn your coffee shop! Damn your kiosks!

The old detective angrily swings his injured finger around, lashing out at the cup of espresso that he was unable to have for the first time in decades, and the neighbors who post warning letters on his apartment's door.

He lashes out at the politicians who ordered the scrapping of the cargo landships as well as the police commissioner who's willing to turn a blind eye when bribed.

He lashes out at the loopholes in the law, and the coward who left his daughter behind.

He lashes out at the mastermind who rounded up the workers and sent them here. He lashes out at how they are hiding behind the transactions through the intercity net.

He lashes out at his fists for being unable to reach anything at all.

The Tin Man stands idly by. Per the old detective's request, he offers no help until the detective has calmed down.

Put this thing back together, will you? I'm begging you.

The old detective sits listlessly on the floor.

Tin Man steps over his leg and picks up a small handbook from the floor. It is the terminal's assembly instructions. It has actually been in plain view the entire time.

The instructions come with simple illustrations that are easy to understand. The Tin Man flips through the book page by page, and in no time, he has finished putting the terminal back together.

It's locked behind a password.

His daughter's birthday.

The detective says a string of numbers, and a pleasant boot-up sound effect can be heard. The Tin Man has opened the only program on the terminal—an online banking software.

...This is all a scam.

The scammers lured Granger in with a small amount that could buy him a pack of beer. Then, they started forcing him send more and more money.

The Tin Man downloads all the conversations and transaction records.

A scam... This kind of scam has never been seen before in San Sophie.

At the current stage, you could even say this is all legal. These records are practically the same as normal investments.

But from the very beginning, their goal had always been to bleed Granger dry.

They even sent him the details on how he could take out a loan with his house as collateral. Wait... they also mentioned... accident insurance.

Okay, that's more than enough. That's abetting suicide. They aren't getting away.

No, this is far from enough. You have no way of finding out who is behind this. It's very likely that it's not just one person on the other side.

They didn't leave him so much as a single gold certificate.

When did people start acting like this? Back on the frontier, not even the worst of thieves would steal the last piece of bread from a poor family. What happened to our humanity?