Current time: 2014, New York, 4:30 PM
A pale-skinned man sat alone in his office. He wore a signature deerstalker hat and a light-patterned trench coat with overlapping front panels and two rows of buttons holding a tobacco smoke pipe in his hand. Speaking of tobacco the room smelled of gas—God knows how many buds he'd smoked. Across his desk lay a jungle of paperwork and detective equipment. At his side hung a Colt Double Action Revolver. She may be one hundred and fifty seven, but that bad girl can blow through the toughest metals. Just ask the men in the graveyard.
His name was Patrick Holmes—or Patrick Pastel, whichever fit best. Rumor had it he was the greatest detective alive. Never heard of him? Of course you haven't. You're an amateur.
Enough about that. Clark had a case for our great detective. Shouldn't be too hard. After all, Patrick had a 100% success rate over a thousand-plus cases.
Patrick's thoughts were abruptly interrupted by a loud, desperate knock at the door.
"Come in, ya lousy prick!" he barked.
A light-skinned man walked in, fluffed hair and a straight jawline.
"Morning, Doc," Clark said calmly, striding toward the desk.
"I'm doing good—how about that for an answer, huh?" Patrick said. Clark didn't respond.
"Right, so tell me about this case. What's the special equation, eh? I specialize in all kinds of cases—homicides, robberies, narcotics, frauds, cybercrimes, take ya pick."
Still, Clark said nothing. He just stared. But before he could open his mouth.
"You good, son? Got a little twink inside you? Speak up, boy! I have better things to do than feel another grown man staring directly at me. If that's all you came for, best fuck off then before I have to up this trigger up ya fucking skull."
Patrick's words seemed to reach him. Clark slowly nodded and lazily slid a profile across the desk. "Of course" Clark said
"Finally, now we have something," Patrick said, grabbing the paper.
FADE IN
—
The city's smog hung low over Manhattan as I drove my Chevrolet Impala, two fellow investigators in tow.
Detective Ford stared out the window, as always unreadable, while Martin doodled patterns on his notepad "Twinity block location not bad eh Ford?" I glanced back "We've been on longer trips," Ford replied, monotone, leaning his cheek on his palm.
"Remember 2008?" Ten minutes later, I maneuvered the Impala to a dirt-strewn landscape, littered with rocks. Getting out of the car the building looked like a medium steel warehouse. I pulled my tobacco smoke pipe from my coat and took a long drag, letting the toxic fumes curl into the air. "You boys take the sides," I said, eyes on the warehouse. "I'll handle the big one."
The warehouse was roughly a hundred by eighty feet, twenty feet tall—about 160,000 cubic feet, give or take. Floor, walls, roof—I ran the numbers in my head. 10 to the eleven, maybe 12 joules would be required to blow this sucker sky-high. Martin and Ford looked at me before nodding and trailing over to the warehouse. I myself take a good few extra looks at it myself to confirm my calculation. I have a strong feeling this isn't your average case.
The land around it looks barren and the roads leading toward this location funnily enough people rarely pass by.
In fact rarely would be an extreme exaggeration this was obviously a trap.
Clark gave me the case.
Clark gave me the location.
Strange.
I pulled the radio from my coat pocket and pressed the trigger.
"Keep your eyes on the ground and the surrounding land," I said. "Could be booby traps. Move slow. Over.
Static crackled before Ford's voice broke through.
"Heard you loud and clear, Patrick. Over."
Then more static.
Good.
If my suspicion was wrong, that narrowed the answer to one conclusion.
5-10 minutes pass by like a bird soaring over a house. No call. No checkups. Nothing
Patrick speaks through his radio again "Ford, Martin found anything remotely suspicious? Over." The ""room went silent with static.
"Everything is seemingly normal sir. Over"
I pulled my hand from the speaker. A smirk tugged at my lips.
So that eliminates my first hypothesis
I slipped the radio into my pocket and headed for the warehouse doors. Massive steel doors loomed ahead. I gripped the handle and turned it slowly. Walking inside, the smell of oil and rust hit me first. Inside, darkness swallowed everything.
I turned on my flashlight and swept the beam across the interior.
Nothing. I stepped into the center of the warehouse, took a long drag from my pipe, and let the smoke drift upward.
Then I dropped it to the concrete.
Suddenly, a red alarm flooded the warehouse.
The steel doors behind me slammed shut with hydraulic force.
Then the concrete beneath my boots split open with a grinding shriek.
A metal table rose from the floor.
On it sat a detonator bomb with red and blue wires counting down ten minutes.
A white sticky note clung to the bomb.
This bomb will detonate in ten minutes. There is no escape.
The explosion will encompass 90 square miles.
"Ninety square miles?"
I rubbed my temples.
Does he take me for an idiot?
There's a reason the Tsar Bomba remains one of the largest explosives ever created. One hundred megatons of energy doesn't fit inside a lunchbox.
"Sloppy theatrics.
Judging by the casing thickness and internal volume, even if it were packed with commercial-grade powder, it wouldn't exceed a few megajoules. I've seen enough real devices to know the difference between spectacle and substance. This one leans heavily toward spectacle.
Enough to shred me. Not enough to scratch this warehouse.
Which is interesting. Because if destruction were the goal, this wouldn't be the tool for it. That detail alone narrows the field of intent.
Which continues to support my second hypothesis: he's after me and doesn't want to cause a scene.
I shifted my attention towards the wires. Cutting them wouldn't matter. Dead-man switch, most likely.
So that raises the real question: why exaggerate?
Why lie about the ninety square miles? A bluff that is dramatic isn't tactical—it's theatrical. Was it to intimidate me? To make himself look threatening? To compensate?
No. That makes no sense."
Clearly his goal was to blow me to pieces. Which means he did some dirty work behind the scenes.
I smirked a little. Dumb boy.
I grabbed my radio and pressed the speaker.
Static answered.
At least he prepared that much.
I drew my revolver and aimed at the ceiling supports. Three shots rang out piercing the ceiling.
Outside the warehouse a loud noise buzzed in Fords and Martins ears.
"You hear that Ford?"
A few minutes later, the steel doors creaked open from the outside.
Ford stepped in first. Martin behind him.
Ford glanced at the table. "What's that?"
I withdrew my revolver.
"Nothing worth mentioning." I said. "There was no case. This whole thing was a staged booby trap. The boy was planning to silently blow me to smithereens.
"Right… and the man responsible?" Martin said
"Remember when I told you about Clark?"
—
Ford crossed his arms. "You're saying Clark tried to kill you?" he asked, leaning back in the seat of the moving car.
I spoke calmly. "He thought he could."
When I arrived back at the sheriff's office, I hurried to the front counter. "Did you see a scraggly white man named Clark?"
The woman stopped typing and looked up at me. "He said he had to run some errands."
I sighed and looked back at Ford and Martin. "Ford, check the cameras inside at the front desk. Martin, look at the outside cameras."
I walked to my office and opened the door. My paperwork and files were gone.
"Cheeky son of a bitch," I muttered.
Later, Martin approached me. "He ran outside, and the vehicle looked like a Jeep Wagoneer."
I nodded. "Right. Tell Ford to meet me outside. You too, boy." I rushed out of the building.
Ford and Martin followed close behind.
"Look at that, boys. I see trail marks," I said.
Martin looked confused. "What do you mean, trail marks?" He glanced at Ford, who just shrugged.
"Come on. We don't have time," I said, running to my car with Ford and Martin right behind me.
I drove to a very specific location. My instincts guided me to a small abandoned building. We stepped inside. Ford and Martin shone their flashlights into the surrounding darkness.
Clark was lying on the ground, dead, a knife lodged in his back. No documents or papers were in sight.
"Patrick," Martin said, looking at me. "We might have another case on our hands."
I looked back at him. "I don't play two hands, son. As far as I'm concerned, this case is officially 'solved'."
FADE OUT
Seven days later, officials ran the fingerprints and handprints found on the weapon's hilt and throughout the scene. The results came back inconclusive.
Patrick sat in his chair, blowing smoke from his tobacco pipe as he stared out the window, watching the day pass by — still troubled by the missing information.