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Chapter One
I was called into an old prisoner-of-war camp in the middle of the afternoon. Another wrong guy at the wrong time - a dime a dozen around these parts. They found him lying on the floor just a couple hours ago. He wasn’t breathing, and they didn’t think he was gonna start anytime soon. It was a case like any other.
I stepped into the atrium; took a breath of the stale air. For whatever kind of architectural wonder this building was back in the day, the world hadn’t a care. Years of nature’s wear-and-tear turned half the building to debris - broken glass coated the floor alongside boulders of eroded concrete - and what remained was coated in scribbles of amateur graffiti.
I stepped forward, examined the body. A chilling wind passed through, like a sudden horror passing along my skin. I tightened my trenchcoat, straightened my trilby, and focused on the body.
Lieutenant Haynes was there, had cleared the scene. He was a newbie on the force, but he knew a thing or two about murder. He approached me with his hands in his pockets, his gaze kept impersonal by a slick pair of sunglasses.
"Detective Mavish,” he said, “Not a nice day for an on-site."
"Yeah," I said. I slowly paced around the body, letting my mind get to work. "So what’ve we got here? Definite homicide?"
"Definitely," Haynes answered, grimly. "Forensics was here about an hour ago. Pretty detailed report."
"Give me the rundown," I said, and I drew a pack of Camels from my interior coat pocket. "Got a light?"
"I don’t smoke, Mavish," said Haynes.
"Ever try one?" I asked. "Takes the edge off - a detective’s second best friend."
"Let me guess, a detective’s first best friend’s alcohol, right?"
"No, pogs."
I had Haynes run me through on the victim: Chris Johnson, thirty-two years of age; the kind of guy who carried a knife on him at all times, alongside a flask of scotch and a pill bottle for diabetes medication. He had a shallow cut around his neck - something that, at first glance, would be the assumed cause of death. But things are never as simple as they may seem on the surface.
"Tell me what forensics’ got for us," I said. "What’s this guy’s story?"
Haynes took a clipboard from his satchel and started reading off of it, "Pre-Encounter, he was walking by the street. Called his family, they say he was walkin’ over to a friend’s house to pick up a tape he owed. Likely unrelated to the case.
"Passed by the building here, walking down the street. No known witnesses; the street is rather secluded.
"The encounter itself: someone snuck up on him with a syringe and immediately injected him in the neck with some sort of toxin. It had to’ve been a stealthy approach, because nobody in the nearby vicinity heard any sounds of the struggle."
"Syringe?" I interrupted. "What kind of toxin was it?"
"VX," Haynes answered. "After being injected with the toxin, he was quickly strangled with piano wire and dragged off into this room; we could tell he was dragged by the lack of dirt on his shoes."
"Huh," I said. "Maybe the killer really likes to shineshoes."
"Maybe."
Detective Mavish II
Written By: Vincent Diego
Fiction
I was called into an old prisoner-of-war camp in the middle of the afternoon. Another wrong guy at the wrong time - a dime a dozen around these parts. They found him lying on the floor just a couple hours ago. He wasn’t breathing, and they didn’t think he was gonna start anytime soon. It was a case like any other.
I stepped into the atrium; took a breath of the stale air. For whatever kind of architectural wonder this building was back in the day, the world hadn’t a care. Years of nature’s wear-and-tear turned half the building to debris - broken glass coated the floor alongside boulders of eroded concrete - and what remained was coated in scribbles of amateur graffiti.
I stepped forward, examined the body. A chilling wind passed through, like a sudden horror passing along my skin. I tightened my trenchcoat, straightened my trilby, and focused on the body.
Lieutenant Haynes was there, had cleared the scene. He was a newbie on the force, but he knew a thing or two about murder. He approached me with his hands in his pockets, his gaze kept impersonal by a slick pair of sunglasses.
"Detective Mavish,” he said, “Not a nice day for an on-site."
"Yeah," I said. I slowly paced around the body, letting my mind get to work. "So what’ve we got here? Definite homicide?"
"Definitely," Haynes answered, grimly. "Forensics was here about an hour ago. Pretty detailed report."
"Give me the rundown," I said, and I drew a pack of Camels from my interior coat pocket. "Got a light?"
"I don’t smoke, Mavish," said Haynes.
"Ever try one?" I asked. "Takes the edge off - a detective’s second best friend."
"Let me guess, a detective’s first best friend’s alcohol, right?"
"No, pogs."
I had Haynes run me through on the victim: Chris Johnson, thirty-two years of age; the kind of guy who carried a knife on him at all times, alongside a flask of scotch and a pill bottle for diabetes medication. He had a shallow cut around his neck - something that, at first glance, would be the assumed cause of death. But things are never as simple as they may seem on the surface.
"Tell me what forensics’ got for us," I said. "What’s this guy’s story?"
Haynes took a clipboard from his satchel and started reading off of it, "Pre-Encounter, he was walking by the street. Called his family, they say he was walkin’ over to a friend’s house to pick up a tape he owed. Likely unrelated to the case.
"Passed by the building here, walking down the street. No known witnesses; the street is rather secluded.
"The encounter itself: someone snuck up on him with a syringe and immediately injected him in the neck with some sort of toxin. It had to’ve been a stealthy approach, because nobody in the nearby vicinity heard any sounds of the struggle."
"Syringe?" I interrupted. "What kind of toxin was it?"
"VX," Haynes answered. "After being injected with the toxin, he was quickly strangled with piano wire and dragged off into this room; we could tell he was dragged by the lack of dirt on his shoes."
"Huh," I said. "Maybe the killer really likes to shineshoes."
"Maybe."