Detective D. Case

by Neal Goldy

  D.’s right hand on instinct picked up the photo near Ellis Island. He saw the younger Donald that he had been first introduced to. Then, pressing the two photos together, D. leaned back in the chair and watched. Perchance if he waited, something would jump at him like flying fish. The eyes, he paid special attention to the eyes . . . they always said eyes were the windows to the soul… but Donald’s eyes didn’t have that effect on him. No windows were shown, and if there were any, they were shut tight, the curtains pulled over in forgotten silence. Eyes of a ghost attending all photos in existence: that was all he saw, like these people weren’t real. They, all actors playing their parts, to make sure everyone knew their lines and how well they could make a performance out of fictitious figures of character.

  As if fading away, the freckles of Donald McDermott dwindled off. They were wiped clean off both his face and the face of the earth.

  “How in the hell . . . ?”

  Could it – could it be possible then – Donald is two different people? His mind crackled like fire. Imagine if they were the same person: how did he lose the freckles, the dots of sunshine as some people called it? Old detective D. assumed long periods of time in the sun, but in the pictures he had been inspecting these past few weeks, there was no daylight. No sun to be seen where these pictures were taken.

  Then they were different people, he concluded. Writing it down he began to wonder what else could contradict this so-called case, not out of curiosity but out of suspicion. Chief Advert left out many details of the case since the beginning. And as for Paul gone missing for five years . . . how long really was it since then? It could be less than five years, or more, or none at all. Ha! This whole case might not even exist for all he knew! How ’bout that?

  *****

  Late at night, D. had crossed the ever-dark streets of the city he lived in throughout his life. He had been looking for some places, but most of them were closed. Too many times he asked nearby people, still awake at this dark hour, about such locations. They did provide answers, but by the time he got there they were closed. A woman with her daughter told him to try again in the morning. On his way to another site, old detective D. thought about any little girl staying awake with this darkness of the skies.

  Just to make sure, he glanced at the sky. There were no stars.

  Down a long block, he found his place he needed.

  He sat in the closer row of the pews, pressing his head on the next row ahead of him. Slowly he began to chant a prayer. Nobody heard him so he thought it fitting to say it aloud so anyone above could listen to his pleas. Unlike children on Christmas or adults with prayers, D. only prayed for answers to the McDermott mystery. He had lost himself and needed someone else’s reassurance that everything was real and he wasn’t going mad. During his prayer, he pictured God like his mother. His father didn’t deserve the comparison.

  D. opened his eyes. Finished, he thought.

  The room held extreme silence, long hushed tones that hummed. He flicked his eyes to the left. He thought he heard something. Did you hear it?

  Little boy screaming – beating – pain released – D. scrambled his way to the location of the beaten boy. What was going on here?

  “HEY!” he yelled. “HEY!” But nobody heard him.

  The little boy continued to rip out his vocal chords, tore them out bloody. It killed D.’s remaining nerves of peace. He ran miles, the hallway seemingly getting longer as he got faster. Once he reached the room, it was locked.

  He pounded the door. “OPEN UP,” he said, followed by some more pounding.

  That boy cried harder, killing not only his ears but his heart. “OPEN UP!” he demanded.

  And then, for some reason, the door unlocked. A couple jiggles on the knob later, and old detective D. ambushed the scene.

  Two men in cloaks – a little boy, unclothed, clawing the crimson carpet – blood dripping off his chin. One man beat his bruised face while the other stood behind the boy, thrusting.

  “What is the meaning of this?” D. had his pistol ready.

  The cloaked men saw the old detective. “What’re you doing here?”

  “Finding answers,” said D. “What are you doing to this boy?”

  “Punishment with some imagery,” said the cloaked man behind the boy. “It’s none of your business.”

  “I’m a P.I.”

  “Who gives a shit about P.I.?”

  D. shot. A cold-blooded kill, sure, but the circumstances said otherwise. Both men fell to the ground gasping for breath. The boy lay on the ground just about dead.

  “Are you all right?” D. turned the boy over, but it wasn’t a boy – not entirely. Plastic face and body . . . it was some mannequin.

  And it wasn’t a boy when you saw his face. The face belonged to the one named Paul McDermott. His features were planted onto this, this thing. Truly something disgusting these two men were doing, but for what?

  “Fire,” sputtered one cloaked man, almost as if in response to his thoughts. Still, it made little rational sense.

  A picture was taped on the mannequin’s shirt. On it was Paul, riding an old-fashioned scooter waving his hands at the camera. D. thought it strange if not surreal. Underneath was writing like a caption. It said: “LITTLE PAUL, AGE 7.” How could the boy be seven and dress up in suspenders? The clothes he had on nobody wore anymore, they were probably from more than thirty or forty years ago.

  He went to one of the cloaked men. “What does this mean?” Answers . . . need answers . . .

  The man spat out blood. “Hospital . . .”

  “Answer me first and we’ll get you to a hospital.”

  “Paul?” he wondered in a faint voice.

  D. nodded.

  “He died fifty years ago. You know, they’re still trying to find him.”

  More blood came out of mouth.

  “. . . Please, hurry.”

  “But why, why did they do this?”

  The man began choking on his own air. “The fires they’ll bring . . . Water . . . remember the Davidsons, right?”

  D. didn’t answer as he carried him to the hospital. Like most people he had met, he died before they got a chance to save him. You know those famous last words? Old detective D. began thinking about it later on, but with the cloaked man in mind. It was truly strange when you thought about it.

  Chapter 6

  Yellow tape wrapped around the police department like a caution blanket. Due to the decline of private investigators over the past few years – some of them long dead – police-detectives took over the scene where the mass shooting occurred. According to the authorities, fingerprints had been found and they tracked down the culprit. No sources claimed as to who started the shooting at the police department (or why, which seemed even easier to crack) but Joseph wrote this all down regardless. When you’re 17 and still trying to get big cash, at least you can’t go wrong with journalism. At the specific newspaper Joseph worked in – The Daily Bell – the pay on articles was good. But enough about payment; he needed to find out information anyone had gotten in the past few minutes. Police officials were blocking the premises with that dumb yellow tape, so it didn’t matter who you were or what magazine/newspaper/journal you worked for: DENIED ACCESS. Point taken from them to not even speak about it or answer any questions from reporters – just read the damn sign on the entrance and you were set. But the problem with police officials and officers, and just everybody working on the scene, was one person, and that was Joseph himself. He needed to get in, find info no one had gotten dibs on and report back to the Daily Bell. And he needed it now--pronto. Standing at the entrance of the department, jiggling your arms around while hopping between feet made you look like you were dealing with a hot potato or knocking on the door for free use of the bathroom. Of course, he knew it was neither of these monstrous hyperboles, but he needed to quit his doings otherwise people would start questioning. If you knew Joseph, you would know that he never liked it when strangers began poking in busine
ss that never belonged to them. Actually, forget that – you didn’t even have to know him to find that out. His mom yapped to all her friends (and sometimes not even her friends) about her son that you didn’t need to meet the guy in order to know why he slept with a Paddington Bear at night, why he never got a girlfriend in high school, or why he still worked at this well-paid yet lousy job. Guess what? He was banned from the morning coffee station because of his so-called “lousy” writing! Could you believe him when he told you that that was only the beginning?

  A droning voice broke his chain of never-ending yarn thoughts. “Kid,” said a man with a strict-looking uniform that reminded him of a P.I. The mustache was a must-have for detectives, you know? “Hey, kid.”

  “Huh?” Nice work for the 17-year-old journalist.

  “Police department is off limits,” said the mustached man. “Do you mind if you . . . you know?”

  “I am afraid I am not following,” said Joseph.

  “For God’s sake, can you please get the hell out of here? FBI’s gonna come in soon so you pretty much got to get out before they kick you out. That’s not to say I’m not going to kick you out and give you the soft treatment of high priority, so I’m giving you up to five to scram.”

  Joseph stamped his foot – something that had no meaning, really. “I’m not moving, officer.”

  “Why won’t you?” His mustache furrowed.

  “Because . . .” Joseph, think! “Because . . .”

  And the mustached man kept his patience, waiting for what the young Joseph had to say. That was, if he said anything besides because.

  “Because . . .” If he could go on without being annoying . . .

  “To hell with it, kid!” said mustached man, striking a finger to the nighttime city. “OUT OF HERE, NOW!” he screamed.

  “Really?” said Joseph. “You think screaming is going to make me move? You must be out of your mind, man.”

  “Then give me your reason.”

  What was he supposed to say now? “Because . . .”

  Like one of those always tempered cartoon characters, the mustached man’s face paled and then went a deep red. “You . . . idiot,” he seethed.

  “Look, I know someone here, and I need to see if they’re all right. Who knows, they might be hurt!”

  “You must have realized before I did that you are the worst reporter – ever. This place has been under caution tape much longer than you have been here, if you really needed to see anyone you actually knew. Plus, all the injured people are at the hospital right now. Don’t you know anything?”

  “But – I could have sworn I saw someone –!”

  Like a policeman (was he?), the mustached man took Joseph by the arms, put them behind his back, and took him down the steps. No matter if Joseph struggled or tried to break free from the meaty hands of the mustached man, the guy had a firm grip. “Lemme go!” he cried.

  “Jesus, what are you, a damsel in distress? Let’s go . . .”

  Two minutes later, the mustached man led Joseph into a small café. He must be some kind of bad-tempered kind of guy to place Joseph in the darkest parts of the city. Envision criminals surrounding him like sharks! Before a minute passed, Joseph dashed inside the café; that place was his haven, the post in which kids protected themselves in Freeze Tag. Difference was, when you were caught, they would beat you and steal all your money. Or worse . . . much, much worse than that . . . yeah, not a good idea, so Joseph ordered mocha. When he seated in one of those booths, he spread out all he got.

  His face fell. Take out the useless doodles he did while passing time and there wasn’t much left to make it into a good story. Nooooooo he thought while slumping over his arms like some dead-looking animal after the sleeping dart did its work. No one would want this! And to think, if they published this – even though the chances of this being looked over were slim – he’d become a laughing stock, the punch bag people liked to poke fun at even when its charm had worn off. Joseph twirled his spoon in the coffee, hearing the dull clatter of metal ring in his ears. What to do, what to do . . .

  Joseph, slouched over, did not cry over his failures. After all, this was not the first time this had happened. People laughed at him before, too, although he preferred it if they stopped doing that and let him garner some damn reputation. What was left worth of his life depended on this! He clacked his fingers on the booth’s table, looking outside--the night never ceased to amaze him with its lack of stars. One day he went stargazing as a child – dad was there explaining the constellations, what they looked like and what they were called. Didn’t stars continue to shine? Someone must’ve turned them all off like a night switch. Joseph wished they’d turn them back on.

  In the very café, sitting next to the counter, was a man wearing a black-as-oil suit. Some might’ve mistaken him for a detective as did passersby drinking what was best for them. He spoke to no one. When the edge of his mug touched his lips, slurping noises rippled. Joseph, like the rest of the lot, paid no mind to the mysterious man at the café; too many “mysterious” people to go around and not enough time.

  *****

  Abel kept his distance when he stalked victims, a shark holding rhythmic tunes with its pace in order to catch its prey. A withdrawal of blood did not bring him here to the all-night life. Everywhere he turned, Abel saw dark faces, the ones that belonged to the frightened rather than the ones people feared. Chilly winds froze him to the core, the underbelly of the beast. He tightened his black-as-oil suit, trudging against these said winds of bitterness. He clenched his teeth tight, too. Keeping it like this, Abel heard old creaking sounds like his front teeth were cracking and splintering away from their once iron-strong foundation. He swallowed, looking on. Flakes of snow blinded his eyes. They were looking for him; they were always looking for Abel.

  But now, in addition to them looking for him, Abel sought another. As most people knew, the police department had been under investigation – a queer decision to lead the expedition with the force’s famous detective of the day, D. Headlines about the man spread, infectious, including why he was chosen instead of anyone else. D. was old, for one thing, and nobody took their problems to him anymore. They used to, but now? Just go to the police, godammit; let the old man be until he rots. People forget some things, though, like how D. – in neglect of anyone’s knowledge – was one of the few P.I.s out there doing their work right. He might even be the only one left, which made Abel’s mission mandatory so they could fix things. Once all was over, things would get back like they used to.

  The stairs he’d gone down went on forever. Almost like an optical illusion, the steps seemed to go down, down, down, never ceasing to stop. And ahead of it was darkness that blinded you from seeking further. Abel imagined it like fish bait – the hook, line, and sinker of knowledge – teasing you a little more than the last time to make you do what it says. It was at least something to do while chopping ways with the startling pitch of black, always hiding and clawing.

  Abel felt the edge of the last step with – well whaddya know – the edge of his also black boot. His eyes were closed for he wasn’t brave enough to face the voice that would intrude. He heard only the ticking of his watch making time go by with its magical powers.

  “Abel?” the voice pondered out loud. “Is that you?”

  “You seem to always know, Minotaur.”

  Clobbering of hooves and everyone knew it didn’t belong to any human. “All I ask is this: why?”

  “Why what, Minotaur?” asked Abel.

  “Why come here again, on this particular night? Do you need to speak to –?”

  “Yes. Let me in.”

  The smoke billowed, and the darkness was gone. Abel arrived and opened the door that awaited him. Inside he faced the People of the Ground, a tight-knit group of gangsters – some yes, others not – that plotted under the earth. A name like that would send mismatched signals to commoners thinking they were nocturnal; no they were not, since the meeting took place at dar
k, and they lived their simple lives above. Besides, when was the last time anyone had seen the sun? Even Abel was a loss when asked. That time it had been a frail woman, dying, coughing up nothing but air. All he knew was that none of the People of the Ground knew the answer.

  Lights on the ceiling flickered – things went dark for a little while– and the People of the Ground vanished from his sight, sealed away from known human activity. In this case it meant him. Abel wandered through the darkened room, searching for anybody. Everybody had gone without a minute’s waste, leaving Abel in the cold. He checked the corners of the room so he could report back, with no evidence of the People of the Ground. They were there but ran off like the frightened mice underneath the wood of the kitchen, the light dying out. Just like that, the lights went out here, too.

  And then they came back on. “Evening, Abel,” said the man Abel knew as Lake. “Everyone’s left, so why are you still here?”

  “I needed you. How did you know I was here?”

  “Intuition, perhaps,” said Lake.

  Abel frowned. “Intuition is one thing, coincidences and suspicions another.”

  “All right, all right, you got me, all right?” He raised his hands as if surrendering to the police – which sounded odd since he was an officer of the force – and gave an easy smile. It’s what liars do to gain trust from opposing parties. “What is it you need?”

  “I have been following D. like you said,” Abel said. “For an old man he seems pretty clever looking through old research and long dead sources. I played my role as the rapist in the church, again, like you said. He saw us. I think he knows what this all means now.”

  “Good thing, too,” Lake said, yawning. “I’m gonna be honest with you here, Abel, but I’m getting kind of bored with all these P.I.s and detectives digging their noses into other people’s business and finding nothing. About time somebody found out.”