Different detective stories have their own unique twist. This one is no different.
It all started on a lazy Saturday evening. The usually calm streets of Truman Lane were deserted, save for some occasional cabs splashing through the muddy streets and a few people running some pressing errands. The weather was unfavorably cold. It had been raining all day and had just begun to let up towards evening. The sun had a pale, sickly brightness. The clouds also had an ashen-grey appearance. Dusk was fast approaching, and no one knew what to expect—a rainstorm or worse. Given the weather, most people and animals stayed in their homes.
However, the house on 61C had a completely different vibe; there was a small, excited crowd outside this particular building that was situated towards the very end of the street. Two police cars and an ambulance were parked on either side of the street. The curious onlookers and news-hungry reporters tried to get past the guard of constables posted at the entrance of the building to keep them at bay. The usually bright colors of the building had an ominous feeling; despite the general feeling of moodiness, the house appeared to be two shades darker. The odd house belonged to Theo Cozron.
Theo Cozron was a famous author and entertainer, beloved in his day. With a rather rapid rise among his peers, he became more popular and enjoyed life in Hollywood as a writer and comedian. The Ball, he was called. Until a sexual scandal ruined his reputation. His sponsors cast him aside. His fans turned their backs on him. He was no longer the big, fat, bubbling ball of energy he was known as; he had become an even bigger blob of desperation and depression, retiring into an ordinary neighborhood in West County and trying to fight his way back to the top. No wonder the gossip of a mysterious murder in 61C quickly gained ground.
Another squad car pulled up opposite the street, and two pale-looking men got out and stood looking straight at the building. The taller of the two was holding a pager and looking hard at it as if contemplating a message.
“This is not your usual nasty case, Detective,” the shorter man with a cigar in his mouth said to his partner. “I’ll bet you 100 pounds; it’s suicide.”
“Crimes, detectives, and conclusions,” Al replied slowly with a sigh as he continued to fumble with the buttons on his pager.
“You might not have to call that gold star guy; he’s a douchebag. I’m a Silver Star detective too, y’know.”.
With that, the shorter guy crossed the street, through the crowd, and into the house. Calling a Gold Star detective before going in was protocol, but Al knew better than to argue. He dropped his pager wearily into his pockets and walked. The officer on duty, Ken, ushered them both into the building.
“The maid called the station around 1600 hours,” Ken began as he led them down the hall, through the living room. “She found his study locked as was his habit, but when the hours stretched on for too long and continuous knocking couldn’t open the door, she opened the door and found the body in his office.” The officer ended the tale just as they got to the study.
“Does she live here?” Herb inquired.
“No,” the officer replied, eyeing the door handle nervously.
“Has anyone entered the place since she called you?”
“No”
“Have her wait around, will you?” Herb said as he turned the handle.
Ken made a move as if to stop him, then stopped in his tracks.
“What’s wrong?” Al inquired
“The body… I’ve not quite seen something like it, sir; a couple of the recruits couldn’t go in, sir, and I think there might be a bomb in there; all our machines just…”
”Bull shit,” Herb interjected angrily. He glanced briefly at Al and chuckled amusedly.
“What do you know about crime cases?”
The officer stammered some incomprehensible words.
Herb eyed him wearily and pulled the knob; it didn’t budge. Irritated, he darted at the startled officer and roughed him up for the keys. The junior officer ran, half scared, half embarrassed, to the hallway.
The door of the study creaked open. Al prayed quietly under his breath.
A cold shiver ran down the spines of the two detectives. Inside this modest house, owned by Theo Cozron, in the study of Theo Cozron lay the body of Theo Cozron. The room was dark except for the table lamp glowing ominously, and the windows were shut. On the rug lay Theo Cozron’s body, or was it on the chair? It appeared that he fell backward in his chair and broke his neck.
A joker-esque smile was etched on his face. That strange, frightening smile. There also appeared to be a hole in Theo’s head. A fat man fell over in his chair, his back and neck twisted awkwardly, a hole in his head, and a small pool of blood on the floor. Just so much could be seen from outside. The more you look at it, the worse it gets.
The short detective couldn’t move.
“Al?”
“Yes?”
“Call Gold Star.”
“Right”
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