“It is perhaps an undue worry on my part,” he admitted.  “And… honestly, as much motivated by own attempts to make some kind of contact with the families of the… inmates of the asylum.  Perhaps once this business is concluded I could find some incentive to acquire your assistance in that matter.  It’s… a terrible thing, to think those poor people were forgotten and alone before the fate that befell them.”  He frowned, and shook his head.  “Of course.  With any luck, it will be a quiet night.  I’ll… ah… I’ll be happy to provide some refreshments,” he offered, gesturing to the bottle.  “It’s been some time since I had company that wasn’t a patient.”  His brow furrowed - for a moment, there was an anxious need to clean up his office, but he glanced around Avery’s for a moment and realized they were probably equitably skilled at housekeeping.<br/><br/>He gave a wry smile at the confidence.  “Truth be told… Dr. Meister has an unpleasant reputation, but unparalleled experience as a surgeon.  Not an amiable fellow, but… he was happy to foist most of the wealthier clientele of the city off on me.  He much prefers a gunshot wound or an amputation to the more… commonplace injuries and ailments that I treat.”  He chuckled, and shook his head.  “‘I’ll not be trifled with<em>sniffles,</em>’” he repeated, in a thick German accent.  “Still.  Experience is as fine a teacher as any classroom.”  He shrugged and shook off his momentary self-deprecation.<br/><br/>He lingered for a moment, glancing up at the trophy of a buffalo from Avery’s past.  “Perhaps in return you can explain how a … detective comes across such a prize.”  His lips twisted in bemusement, and his eyes quirked with momentary curiosity.  “After your engagement, of course.”<br/><hr/><hr/><div class="floatleft">(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/a/a4/Flatbush.png)</div><br/><strong>Name:</strong>Charlie Flatbush<br/><strong>Faction:</strong>Law Dogs (3)<br/><strong>Date:</strong>May 18th, 1876<br/><strong>Time of Day:</strong>Afternoon<br/><strong>Location:</strong>Deadman's Rest<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Avery Burnam; CLOSED<br/><hr/><br/>The morning was transitioning to afternoon by the time of Flatbush’s arrival - he looked in considerably healthier spirits than when Avery had first seen him, and a shotgun was tipped over his shoulder when he made his way up to the office.  He tipped a dusty hat at the detective.<br/><br/>“Sorry I’m late,” he offered.  “Two fellows drunk ‘fore noon decided to have a row in the jail, and one of ‘em decided to resolve it by dumping the offal bucket over the head of the other.  You picked a good time to chat with Dolores.  Whole place reeks of drunkard shit, now.”  He wrinkled his nose.  “But, on the plus side, once word and smell spread a bit, I imagine folks’ll be minding their manners this evening.”<br/><br/>He fell in step out towards the Line, Deadman’s Rest visible over the newly constructed bridge.  There were signs that construction was continuing, even with the rope-bridge in place - scaffolding had been erected on the western edge of the mesa, and the first signs of an arched wooden bridge were beginning to appear.<br/><br/>He held onto the rope as he began to make his way across.  The southern edge of Deadman’s Rest was lined with fancy, expensive tombs - stone mausoleums with gated entrances.  Then there were a half dozen concentric arches of gravestones, ranging in detail and elaboration by the wealth of their occupants.  The asylum itself was built closer to the middle of the mesa, a stone-walled structure with a neo-gothic character and gargoyles that looked as though it might originally have been intended to be a mausoleum.  On the far north and western lee of the mesa was a blackened rooftop - whatever building was concealed was hidden by the natural dip of the mesa, leaving only a dilapidated roof and arched windows that looked over the cemetery like the eyes of a giant.  A massive stone, fifteen feet long and forty feet long, carved from the stone of the mesa itself, loomed over the smaller graves.  Hundreds of names were inscribed upon the flat surface, beneath Roman numerals that ran the width of the stone.<br/><br/>“The asylum was supposed to be a mausoleum, originally.  Guess the feller who built it decided he’d rather not die in Gomorra,” mused Flatbush.  “Got donated to the town, and so the crazy folk got some place to call their own.”  He nodded his head towards the mausoleum turned asylum.  “I wouldn’t want to live out here.  Hell, even the damn undertaker don’t want to live out here.”  He pointed a thumb behind him.  “He lives on<em>that</em>side of the bridge.”<br/><br/>He reached for keys from his pocket, brought them out with a jangle, and started to work to figure which would work upon the wooden door locked closed at the front of the asylum.  The dust and dirt surrounding the asylum was too firmly packed - or was simply exposed stone - to leave any tracks behind, of human criminal or otherwise.<br/>