It was raining as Nines entered the old docks near the Jericho wreck. It was also late. After leaving the precinct, he'd returned to the penthouse and made arrangements with Roland to provide care for Pipsqueak. He was cleaning the place anyway, and it was better for Pipsqueak to maintain some semblance of familiarity rather than being uprooted and passed around different homes. With that sorted, and needing nothing more from home, Nines had left. His thirium pump whirred softly as he recalled Pipsqueak's almost pleading mewls. Though he didn't understand what was said, he'd picked up on the fact that Nines was leaving. On a regular working day, that wasn't a problem, but he seemed to understand that this absence would be a prolonged one.

As Nines headed for the door, Pipsqueak had followed and hurriedly overtaken. Standing in the doorway, he'd mewled and pawed his slacks, looking up with big sad eyes until Nines lifted him. During their brief interface, his distress had been palpable. He'd already lost Gavin, so to be left by Nines was unacceptable. Nines did what he could to reassure him with their limited language capabilities. He offered reassurance that he would return and that he would bring Gavin with him when he came home. Knowing how hard Nines had been trying, Pipsqueak had allowed him to leave, albeit reluctantly.

Colin had also contacted him about his plan. Connor had called. As was his duty, Nines shared what he'd learned from Fifty-Seven and the AHL network. The footage of Gavin at the docks was new, so it warranted fresh eyes. Nines wasn't sure if the FBI had checked in or not, but he needed to do his own investigation to ensure nothing was overlooked. After so long, there would be no physical evidence, however there was a chance the dock itself held a record that could lead him to the boat. It was unlikely the Hickory Killer knew his boat had been seen. If he was still using it, he may be able to trace it. If he could find a pattern with the comings and goings, perhaps he could figure out where it went.

Looking at the dates the various bodies had been found, he could estimate when the boat should have been docked. Even if he used a different dock each time, if he could find the boat's identification, he could track it. Computer records, paper records, it didn't matter. Nines would go to each office, by day or night, to look at those lists. The FBI would doubtless do the same, which was why this trip was so important. If the FBI took those records, he'd have to ask Colin for access or hack into their database, which would be difficult. It crossed his mind that he could hack Colin directly, but he was reluctant to do such a thing to either of his brothers. He loved them dearly.

The docks from the footage were old and disused, with only one lone office that kept track of the ships coming and going. The place was uncared for, with only one lone human working there. He was old and wiry, more at home sitting in his wooden cabin with his cosy floor heater than wandering up and down the pier. That certainly explained how Jericho went so long without notice. What did this old man care for the comings and goings of a few rickety androids? If they didn't bother him, he wouldn't bother them. The man looked up as Nines knocked. He was huddled in a thick coat with a flask of hot tea, and only the small light shining on his desk as he read the paper lit the cramped space.

"Pardon the intrusion. I require information about one of the boats that docks here." Nines remained cordial, speaking in his usual business tone, but also drawing himself up to his full height and playing into his intimidation protocols. Underserved as it was, he knew he was more likely to get answers if he leaned into his more abrasive attributes. It certainly had the desired effect. The old man paused, plastic cup halfway to his lips, as he stared at him open-mouthed. It was almost like he'd never seen an android before.

"Y-you-what-now?" The man was truly speechless as he stared at the imposing figure in the battered old doorway. It was pouring with rain outside, and the last thing he'd expected in this weather was for an android to turn up looking for information. Nothing ever went on in this part of town. He almost thought he was hallucinating as he stared at the water dripping from Nines' dark hair, watching droplets fall to trickle down his pale cheeks. His silvery eyes were outlandish and sharp, but there was an underlying softness that made him a little less fearful as he ducked his head and stepped inside.

"I require information about one of the boats that docks here." The old man nodded, pushing up his round glasses and shivering as he left the warmth of his small heater to rattle around the rickety filing cabinets. They were full of old paper books. Rosters of ships signing in and out. They started off with two drawers per year, and gradually lessened and lessened until there were a few drawers that were split between four or five years.

"You mean this month?" As he set the book on the table, Nines could already see there weren't many entries. Barely fifty, which wasn't a lot considering how many there had been just ten years ago. Many of those were the same fishing boats heading out each morning. Nines' LED span yellow as he skimmed the page, filing away the information. Reviewing the shared memory, he did his best to zoom in on the boat for a name or identification number. The android's eyes were primitive, yielding few results.

"Everything for the past two years, if you would. Does the dock have any security cameras?" The old man looked surprised, but hauled out the book he needed. There was the current book, and one other. They were large, hardbacked tomes, the type he was surprised to see in circulation with all that modern technology had to offer. Looking at the old man, he could understand why they hadn't updated. Once he retired, they might not even monitor this dock anymore. Many likely assumed it was abandoned already.

"Certainly do...Can't vouch for reliability, mind..." With a wave of his hand, the old man invited Nines around his desk to a small wooden cabinet. Upon opening the cabinet, Nines could see a grainy black and white video of the dock outside. It wasn't ideal, but Nines would take what he could get as far as information went. His skin drew back as he touched the old machine. It was sluggish, not meant for such connections, but he managed to copy the feed. It barely went back a month.

"Do you keep old footage?"

"I'm afraid not. These old drives aren't what they used to be. We copy over every twenty-eight days." That was awfully specific, but not surprising. It was quite common for companies to save money in this manner, reusing the same drive over and over rather than buying more. Old drives like this had limited space, and no way to connect to a larger, wireless drive like the Cloud. It was a shame, but at least the paper records remained. Provided the Hickory Killer even signed...

"Does every boat that stops here sign in?" The old man almost looked offended that he'd asked.

"Of course! I may not be good for much, but I always insist on that. Even leave the book out on my off hours for those heading out early and coming in late." That required those onboard these boats to obey the rules or even know about the sign-in system, but perhaps the Hickory Killer had followed the rules. It was worth exploring.

"If a boat hadn't signed, would you know about it?" The old man nodded.

"Check every morning. If there's a boat that hasn't signed, I make a note of it and ticket a reminder on them." That was a little more promising. Unless the Hickory Killer only visited late at night and left in the early morning, his boat had likely been registered in the book. With a thankful nod, Nines turned his attention to the heavy registers. The old man returned to his squeaky old chair, reading his paper and eyeing him every so often as he flipped through the pages. If he was bothered by the water dripping from Nines' clothes to the floor, he didn't mention it.

The weather was truly dreary. Rain lashed the thin glass as Nines flicked through the pages, and the wind whistled by the closed door, which seemed to make no difference as far as the temperature was concerned. The hut was so old that the windows were single glazed with wooden frames held shut with metal hooks, and there was no insulation around the wooden door, which rattled in the wind. It was a wonder the old man could stand it, though being a long-term resident of Detroit, he was probably used to such temperatures. The small heater and flask of tea seemed to do the trick, though he still shivered occasionally.

Looking through the book, there was only one boat that seemed to come and go sporadically throughout the years. It would turn up occasionally, with weeks or even months between visits. Looking up the registry, Nines compared the commercial picture with the one he'd seen in the video. The registry on the boat belonged to Mr R J Appleby. Looking up the name, all Nines found was an obituary. Mr Appleby had been dead for several years and had no children. The boat was assumed to have been sold privately, since no record was known of its whereabouts, and it was never reported stolen.

Nines' LED span red as he looked further into Mr Appleby's history. The boat had been used largely for fishing, but also for regular visits to Canada to collect custom parts for his business. He was a clockmaker specialising in antique clocks and watches. Looking up his business, Nines found an unpleasantly familiar address. It was the antique shop he and Gavin had visited so long ago. The one where they'd found Mr Hughes' butchered body. Did the Hickory Killer make a mistake? It was possible he'd overlooked the boat, believing he'd gone undetected all this time. But to make such a link between himself and the shop...

"Thank you. You've been most helpful." With a curt nod, Nines hurried out into the rain, striding with purpose towards the only place that made sense. His LED blinked yellow the whole way as he processed what he'd found. They'd already thoroughly searched the antique shop before and ruled out a connection between him and the killer. That was before. Before the boat turned up and pointed straight to it. Nines looked up Mr Appleby's records again. Ronald Jerard Appleby. Retired, 2019. Deceased, September 8th 2020. His wife had died earlier, in 2017. With no children, it stood to reason he'd closed the shop in order to retire.

Is there anyone else? There was a brother listed. Deceased, 2011. Children? Four children. Do any of them live in or around Detroit? Negative. Nines cursed softly. There were living relatives, but no sign of contact with Mr Appleby directly. Looking into them now, he could see they also had children. They all had relatively normal backgrounds, scattered across America and Canada. Nines sighed softly as he arrived at the shop and entered. If it wasn't a family member, perhaps there was something in the employment records that would help, if they remained.

The lower level, as before, yielded no results. It had been completely cleaned out years ago. Upstairs, in the workshop by the bathroom, there were sales records. A flourished signature he recognised as Mr Appleby's was signed on most pages, but there were others. The age of those people varied, showing a gradual decline in age. Students? It made sense. Young folk looking for work to see them through college would often take small jobs. The gap between the change in signatures was always two to four years, which was about right for student turnover. What are these students doing now? A good question, but for that, he'd need their employment records. The names themselves were little help, bringing up three or four possibilities in some cases.

Colin, I require your assistance. Such menial labour was one of the FBI's specialities.