Chapter 83: The Shooting Range and the Coroner

The clerk glanced at the society's official seal and signature on the award certificate.

"You don't go to school in the Imperial Capital? You're from Greenwood?"

"Yes."

"Is this the first time a Greenwood student has placed in the Cicero Cup?"

"I believe so."

The clerk wrote the address on the envelope with a ballpoint pen, muttering something under his breath. It sounded like "not easy" or something to that effect.

Once he finished sealing it, he tossed the envelope into the outgoing mail tray.

"The Dawn Family commissioned this through their eldest daughter. Her name is..."

He flipped through his records again. "Charlotte Dawn. Twenty-three, just moved back after finishing university in the Imperial Capital."

"I hear she's the one managing the tutoring arrangements. The mother just signs the papers and pays, and Mr. Dawn is out year-round running his shipping business, so he's rarely home."

Richard understood.

The eldest daughter was the actual decision-maker, the mother was the nominal employer, and the father was largely absent.

The student was twelve, had already gone through three tutors, and was highly uncooperative.

He sketched a mental portrait of the family, and a clear outline was already taking shape.

...

By the time he finished the tutoring application and stepped out of the office, the sun had not yet dipped behind the chimneys.

He checked his watch. He still had two or three hours before dark.

Standing on the stone steps outside the office, he thought for a moment and decided to visit the shooting range.

The inspector team leader's words from yesterday were still fresh in his mind.

The range was open all day, empty on weekends, and required nothing more than his appointment papers to get in.

Since he now had the legal right to use firearms, the sooner he familiarized himself with them, the better.

He walked north along Grafton Street and crossed Central Avenue.

Passing by the pie stall from earlier, he couldn't help but glance its way.

Everything looked completely normal. The unfortunate bystander's vomit and the stall owner's spilled oil had been scrubbed entirely away.

Even the loose cobblestone the man in the jacket had kicked away was patched back into place.

No wonder they were called public health inspectors. They certainly worked cleanly and efficiently.

He skirted the perimeter wall of the freight yard off Central Avenue and found the building the inspector team leader had mentioned in the northeast corner.

It was a three-story brick building coated in yellowing plaster. It had few windows, and every single one was barred with iron grates.

A rusted copper plaque hung by the entrance: "Briston Municipal Environmental Monitoring Station - North District Branch."

Nailed beneath it was an even smaller tin sign, engraved with tiny lettering:

"No Unauthorized Personnel. For environmental complaints, please proceed to Window 3 at the Municipal Hall."

Who would come all the way out behind a freight yard to complain about environmental issues?

The sign's sole purpose was likely to turn curious pedestrians away.

Richard pushed open the front doors to find a middle-aged man in uniform sitting behind a duty desk.

The duty officer was reading a magazine; its cover featured a football player leaping for a header.

"Trainee Inspector Richard Williams, here to use the shooting range." He handed over his appointment papers.

The officer took the documents and flipped through them. He checked the administrative seal and identification number, then looked up at Richard.

His gaze lingered on Richard for a couple of seconds, likely wondering why the inspector was so young.

"The shooting range is on the first basement level. The stairs are at the end of the hall on your right. The ammunition room is to the left of the range entrance. Log your own ammo usage."

The officer fished a key from a drawer and tossed it onto the desk.

"The practice guns are in the iron cabinet in the ammo room. They're Webley Revolvers, and their serial numbers are already registered. Return them when you're done, and don't take them out of the building."

With that, the officer buried his head back in his magazine.

The entire reception process had been more than ten times faster than going to a savings bank.

Richard grabbed the key and headed down the corridor to his right.

The ammunition room sat to the left of the range entrance, its iron door half-open.

Inside, boxes of ammunition in various calibers were stacked against all four walls.

An iron cabinet stood in the corner. He unlocked it with the key the officer had given him and found two Webley Revolvers resting inside.

Richard picked up the newer-looking one and tested its weight.

Compared to his adolescent hands, the Webley Revolver felt a bit large.

It was heavy but manageable, and holding it immediately brought him a profound sense of security.

After jotting his details in the logbook, he carried his items into the range.

The range wasn't large—about twenty-five yards long. Four shooting stations were separated by iron plates, with a thick dirt backstop at the far end.

Iron stands stood in front of the backstop, holding silhouette paper targets.

The paper was punched full of holes. Some groupings were concentrated tightly around the head and chest, while others were scattered all over.

Richard set the gun and ammo on his station's divider. He was just about to figure out how to load the weapon himself when footsteps echoed from the entrance.

An older man appeared in the doorway.

He sported a protruding belly and mostly gray sideburns, though the hair on his head remained thick. The toolbag in his hand clinked as he walked.

"Yo, are you the trainee the boss mentioned?"

"I am."

"What's your name?"

"Richard Williams."

"How old are you?"

"Sixteen."

The man squeezed his round face into an exaggerated expression.

"Sixteen? Handling guns at sixteen?"

He dropped his bag onto the floor.

"The boss and the others shoot on weekdays and then clear out. On weekends, this place is as quiet as a morgue. Ah, I actually work in a morgue, so I suppose the comparison is pretty accurate."

The man introduced himself:

"William Bigelow, public health coroner for the North District of Briston. Everyone calls me Old Biggs."

Richard remembered the inspector team leader mentioning an enthusiastic guy at the range named Old Biggs. This had to be him.

"You're a coroner?" Richard asked deliberately.

"Yep, the only official coroner in the North District of Briston."

Old Biggs dug into his coat pocket and fished out a sandwich wrapped in greaseproof paper.

"Pork and mustard. Want some?"

"No thanks, I've already eaten lunch."

Old Biggs wasn't offended by the refusal. He took a bite and mumbled around his food.

"We knew you were coming to practice. Naturally, we can't let a beginner figure out a gun on their own—the wrong grip can snap your fingers right off. The boss told me about your situation over the phone and asked me to train you if I had the time."

He chewed twice, swallowed the bite of sandwich, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Don't be in such a rush to load it."

With that, he pulled his own gun from his toolbag to show Richard.

The gun was a size smaller than the one in Richard's hand. The barrel was shorter, and the grip was narrower.

It was a Webley-Pryse RIC Revolver.

A size smaller than the standard military Webley, it was an older design that had long since gone out of production.

"This gun was passed down from my master," Old Biggs said.

He popped open the cylinder and pulled bullets one by one from a small leather pouch on his belt, loading them in.

"Our trade has a lot of rules. One of them is that after you complete your apprenticeship, your master gifts you a tool. It could be a knife, a hammer, or a gun. What it is doesn't matter; what matters is that you treat it as an extension of your own arm."