The curse of ignorance

“Please, come in and have a seat. There's no sense in enduring awkward pleasantries while standing.”

“Thank you, Professor.”

“So, shall we indulge in small talk, or would you prefer to dive straight into the heart of your visit?”

“Huh?”

“What brings you to my office, Inspector?”

“If you don't mind, Professor, I’d prefer to skip the wordplay. I'm here to inquire about one of your students.”

“My students have long since left these institutional confines. They graduated and assimilated into society, prepared as best I could manage. My days of classroom theatrics and shaping young minds are behind me. I'm merely a figurehead now, clinging to the comforts of tenure. However, I must insist upon indulging in my wordplay—it's one of the few pleasures I have left.”

“Do you know a man named Samuel Grint?”

“Inspector, very few students I've taught have left enough of an impression for me to remember their names. Among those who did, Samuel Grint doesn't ring a bell.”

“According to his wife, Mr. Grint frequently spoke about your research. She mentioned you were his inspiration.”

“My, my. How flattering to my ego. By your tone, I'm guessing something has happened to this Samuel Grint. You don't strike me as someone visiting out of mere courtesy or sentiment.”

“What?”

“Is he dead? Did he commit a crime? Are you searching for him? Did he sprout wings and lay golden eggs? Come now, Inspector—please speak plainly.”

“Ahem, right. To the point: Samuel Grint has died, and the circumstances of his death have raised many questions. Those questions led me here, to you.”

“I see. What year did he attend?”

“I have it here—he enrolled as a graduate student in 1995.”

“1995? One moment, please; my student records are organized on the far wall behind you.”

“Do you recall which class he attended?”

“Inspector, had you done your homework, you'd know I only taught one class between 1995 and 1999. This Samuel Grint, as I've said, is not familiar. Please spare this old man your elementary social maneuvers; it undermines your professional image.”

“I didn't mean—”

“Here we are: Sam Franklin Fitzpatrick. Fitz—that's a memorable name.”

“Professor, I'm here about—”

“Yes, Grint. Perhaps his wife took his surname or he changed it for other reasons. Mr. Fitzpatrick is the only ‘Sam’ recorded in my classes between 1995 and 1999—specifically 1996. With a maximum of fourteen students per class, it's likely this is your Samuel Grint. And no, not many find folklore profitable nowadays—a real shame.”

“You found that file rather quickly, Professor.”

“Well, I had my suspicions; I just needed to confirm my memory. I wasn't lying when I said Samuel Grint wasn't familiar. But I vaguely recall a Sammy—yes, here. He wrote a thesis on the social impact of therianthropy—shapeshifting, to laymen—exploring folklore rooted in factual experiences, turning it into scientific improbability. Boldly, he even questioned my own published research methods. I gave him an A-minus; his source citations needed work, but it was otherwise brilliant.”

“Professor, anything I share next must remain confidential. You could face charges for interfering with a criminal investigation if any details are disclosed.”

“Understood, Inspector. Do you know the type of research Mrs. Grint mentioned that inspired him?”

“She said your research involved witchcraft.”

“Of course she did. Was her home full of religious symbols, perhaps soaked crosses and scented with frankincense? Maybe even plastic-covered furniture?”

“I sensed Mr. Grint kept his work private from his wife.”

“Interesting. What was his profession?”

“Unrelated.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Professor, Samuel Grint was found dead in a perfect circle drawn with his own blood. His body was literally turned inside out, with no forensic evidence of attack or external injuries.”

“Inside out? Skin where his organs and bones should be?”

“Yes. It’s impossible.”

“No, Inspector, improbable. Just because something hasn't been documented doesn't mean it hasn't occurred before. Was the circle a ring or solid?”

“It was solid, as if painted. His body was completely exsanguinated.”

“Ever see 'Exorcist 3'?”

“This is serious, Professor. The room was spotless, laboratory clean, devoid of all furniture.”

“What kind of room?”

“A study room in the metro library, second floor. All the furniture vanished.”

“I bet that place hasn't seen excitement in decades.”

“Professor, is there anything from your research that might explain this? We need a starting point to identify who did this.”

“Inspector, your skills aren't adequate to handle entities beyond human experience.”

“Are you seriously suggesting it's ghosts?”

“I suggested nothing of the sort, Inspector. Remember, you approached me. There’s no known law enforcement procedure to manage what caused this.”

“So, it's a supernatural entity?”

“It’s called incantiflaytric—a ritual for summoning a jinn.”

“A jinn? Like a genie?”

“No, a jinn—an entity from another plane capable of manipulating our reality.”

“So, he summoned a jinn, and it killed him?”

“You tell me, Inspector. Would you appreciate being dragged from dinner to serve an insignificant mortal?”

“A ritual gone wrong, then?”

“You misunderstand. Summoning a jinn traps it in our world, turning it malevolent—an Ifrit. Like a free carnival; chaos unleashed.”

“This is too much, Professor. Sorry for wasting your time.”

“Don’t be discouraged, Mr. Davis. You don't have to stake out my office to find out where I'll go next. Your partner’s greed triggered this. When he stole the silver coin from the binding circle, he set it all in motion. Quite shocking to find him decorating his fridge like a skin cozy, wasn’t it? Even Grint’s wife paid the price for revealing too much. You shouldn't have left the coin in evidence. And now that poor old professor hangs lifelessly in his closet. Between us, mothballs won't be enough.”

“What the—”

“Oh, Inspector, the fun has just begun. You won’t get rid of me easily. People might even think you're the killer.”

“It’s you.”

“Call me Steve. May I call you Jare?”