Second Floor Stairwell; 3:00 AM
Javert – no, Luther - was a patient man. He could search for years, so long as he had a good trail. A path to follow was enough; he was content to follow it, so long as it led somewhere. When his so-called ‘search’ led him to an abandoned wharf, with no sign of anyone having been there in weeks it left him frustrated. He’d taken his anger out on a crate, smashing it with his police stick before returning to Bellum Letale at a brisk pace.
Ignoring all commotion on the lower levels, Javert - Luther - kept moving upwards, intending to return to his apartment. Rereading his sources, find out why he suddenly felt comfortable in clothes not made for practicality and whether this was related to the building were things that needed to be done. Or at least, he thought so until there was a sensing of trouble in the air.
Crime. A rat. Something foul which needed to be taken care of.
Luther kept walking, mind going through the usual suspects, as he moved towards where he instinctively knew the stain on humanity was. Jean Valjean would be preferred the escapee (Escapee, since when had that been the term for him?) or even one of those in Thernardier’s gang who had gotten away again…