The Cheese Murder Mystery- Part 1- Discoveries and recoveries

There are, occasionally, life events which are intrinsically tied to meteorological phenomena. The oldest, and most easily expected in my profession, is the grey sleet that falls when you investigate a corpse. It's almost gratifying; it's like the universe is winking at you. That certain point in the day when the light is fading, the street lights and the city's neons flicker into life, the rain starts to come in sideways, and detectives get to wear trench coats and hats and stand around as the impact of the rain mixed with the lights forms a sort of halo around them. Murder is, of course, terrible, but sometimes it makes you look legitimate. 

Cops won't tell you this, but secretly, they love murder, especially if it's a gruesome one that's gotten some media attention. To be the detective who cracked the case, and have your photo in the paper taken at that same scene, in the rain, the halo of refraction around you, well, it's an announcement to the thrill-seeking ladies of the town that here is the epitome of derring-do. You become a beacon of light that stands against the encroaching dark, the last bastion of morality in a world gone mad, a fearless stalwart, immovable, incorruptible, and totally available for a meaningful overnight relationship. The only thing that trumps it is hanging off the roof of a car during a high-speed chase. I had a friend who did that once. "Armless Harry" was his nickname.

I was, therefore, somewhat annoyed at things as they presented themselves to. This corpse had been discovered, by me, during the hottest point of the day, on the sunniest day of the year. Cool, evening, mid-rain corpses aren't as gross and sticky and definitely don't inflate the way that baking-in-the-afternoon-sun corpses do. The skin was all blotchy and it was clear that any contact would leave you with an odour that would be repellant to just about every form of female attention other than flies. It smelled like someone had boiled socks in a microwave and then tipped in some sour milk and baked beans for good measure. Worse still, it looked relatively commonplace, uneventful, and there's nothing worse than a murder where the only possible benefit to the investigator is that it will at least contribute to his child support payments. I thought about just poking it with a stick, but decided it was probably best to call it in.

The vic (that's short for "victim"; you'd better learn the lingo if you want to sound legitimate enough inside your own head) was male, late 20's, highly overweight, with a t-shirt whose motto bore the legend "Nobody Knows I'm A Lesbian" was still visible through the miscellaneous stains that had accrued. It was clear this guy ate a lot of melted cheese or cheese-related products. Not exactly someone the world would miss.
With a practiced eye, I could see that he'd been hit over the back of the head with some kind of implement, probably for his wallet, with a little bit too much force, although no doubt the sudden meeting with the pavement as unconsciousness wrapped her tender arms around him and her sultry compatriot, Gravity, pulled him directly down for her part in the three-way, had not helped his odds of survival.
A pair of circular spectacles, cracked and folorn, lay on the pavement nearby.

I called Marty, a friend of mine from the local PD. When you go private, it's always best to maintain some good contacts, and the key to a good contact is that they must not, under any circumstances, be better than you at their job. Marty was a unique guy- overall, he was about as useful as a chocolate shovel, but he had a number of successful cases to his name because sometimes, somehow, he'd do something absolutely brilliant. His problem was that afterwards, he could never remember what it is he'd done, or how he'd done it, but it always seemed to happen about the time the department was asking themselves why they had continued to employ a detective whose overall ability, to the practiced eye, appeared about on par with a marmoset who'd been commissioned to write a novel. You were certain that all you'd get is a sheet filled with letters and banana stains, but that odd, coherent paragraph made you stop and think 'perhaps there is some point to this after all.'

"Marty?"
"Who's this?"
"Marty, look at your phone. It tells you who's calling."
There was silence while I presume he looked at his phone. Then I could hear him screaming from a distance "HEY, KNUT, HOW ARE YOU?!?"
"Marty, you can put the phone back to your ear to talk to me again."
"Oh, yeah. Sweet. So, what's up?"
"Got a corpse on the South-West Side behind Jimmy's Comics. Thought you might wanna get a look."
"Oh, sweet! Wait, why?"
"Because someone's dead, Marty, and you're a cop."
"Right. Right. But I'm a detective. What is there to detect?"
"Um, how he died?"
"But isn't that why you're there?"
"No, Marty, we've had this conversation. I'm a private detective. I don't look into these things until someone agrees to hire me, either the Department, or a relative of the victim."
"Oh, yeah. So wait, why were you there?"
And here we have a marmoset-paragraph moment, where he'd ask something pertinent. I hated those.
"I was supposed to be meeting someone."
"What, the vic?"
"No, someone else."
"Was that someone else the vic too?"
"No, they wer- actually, I don't know."
"Did they kill the vic?"
"OK, stop saying 'the vic' all the time."
"But you told me I needed to to sound legitimate!"
"Just get down here, you can ask the rest of your questions once you've hired me."
"I dunno, Knut, department budget's been tight and they don't like hiring outside when they've got a full staff. Sounds like it might be pretty straightforward- they probably don't need you on this."
Here, it was clear, it would take some complex negotiating to convince him of the pressing need to arrange for my hefty retainer. I had to think like Marty, or like Marty doesn't think, either way. Whatever I said would have to make him jump into action; it had to be cunning, believable, plausible, with just a hint of mystery.
"He looks like he might have been a scientist at a secret government lab, but was probably undercover. The terrorists might already have formula and time is of the essence, or the monkeys will gain sentience and then we'll be facing an all out human-primate war. Special Agent Jack Bauer probably will be wanting the report as soon as possible."
"Oh, really? Awesome! I'll be right there and I'll bring the paperwork!"

As I waited for Marty, I picked up the glasses, turned them over in my hand. There was a name engraved on the side- Edward Pennington. So that was the victim's name.
You shouldn't disturb a corpse before forensics has a look, but I had time to burn and since I wasn't going to be meeting my contact here any time soon. And by "contact" I mean "hooker".
I reached into his right pocket, expecting it to be empty if indeed this had been a simple mugging. Instead, his wallet was intact, and full of cash- $565, to be precise. Curious.
As I took the money out of his wallet to put in my pocket, since I was sure it wasn't going to be relevant to the case and I had my own expenses to cover thus far, I glanced at his driver's license.

Mark Stevens- name, photo, address, date of birth. So who was Edward Pennington?

The Interrogation.

Various smells all come together at once. Sweat. Desperation. Cigarettes. Overtones of blood. The acetone stink you get when electricity has arced and earthed on flesh. Leftover food. Chilli fries.
So I decided to leave my apartment, and go conduct my interrogation.

It was a short ride to the warehouse. It helps to have a place to ask questions where it doesn't attract attention from the other passers-by. Admittedly, this warehouse was more of a storage place where you were assigned a roller-door and a single power point, and on either side there were guys who had been reduced to living in one of these things. I nodded at Dave on the way past.
"Evenin' Dave."
"Oh, hey, Knut. Got an interrogation again, huh?"
"Yup. Gotta keep busy."
"Fair call. Could you keep the screams down after about 8pm though? I have work in the morning and this alimony doesn't pay itself."
"Don't I know it. I'll try to finish quickly, but this one's looking like a tough nut to crack."
"Appreciate it, neighbour."

The roller door came up. The roller door came down. In the dark, I could hear my subject start to shuffle on his chair nervously, the rustle of the ropes reassuring me he was still safely bound.
"Who- who's there?" came a tremulous voice.
I sat down at the desk, and turned on the lamp to shine in his face, and yanked the black bag off his head. He squinted and screwed up his face.
"I'll ask the questions here, Daniel," I intoned firmly, feeling safe that the light being turned on him would mean he couldn't identify my face or features.
"How do you know my name?"
"That's not important. This can be over quickly, or over painfully. It's up to you which one."
"P-p-please, my family will know I'm missing."
"Oh, I'm not so sure about that. But let's not get distracted, Daniel. I want names."
"I don't know what you're talking about! Names of who?"
"Daniel, Daniel, Daniel. Do you think I'm stupid? I don't get hired for nothing, Daniel. My client is paying me good money to get to the bottom of this whole ugly matter. Help yourself, Daniel."
I find that repeating their name conveys an air of power and keeps them feeling cowed. My principal used to use the exact same technique, especially after Debbie Fulsom found the handycam in the girl's locker room. In hindsight, having a sticker with my name and address to return it was probably not the wisest move.
Focus, Tortenheimel. Get the result.
"Daniel, I'd like to think of us as friends. And friends share secrets. I know you have a secret. Everyone has a secret."
"I just liked the way they felt against my skin, all right?"
"All righ- wait, what?"
"My mom's underwear!"
"What? Ew. Daniel, that's not what I'm talking about. I want to know where you got the stuff."
"What stuff?!?"
There was a banging on the concrete wall, and Dave's voice from the other side yelled "dude, some on, wrap this up! I can barely hear Downton Abbey!"
"You and I both know you're watching the Kardashians, Dave!" I yelled back. "Don't pretend like you aren't!"
"It's Downton!"
"It isn't! I can hear Kim whining about Khloe's fat ass!"
That shut him up. Back to business. It was clear this guy was tougher than expected. Time for a little incentive.

I reached into my bag. Pulled out a hammer. Laid it on the table. Pulled out a pair of pliers. Laid them beside the hammer. Pulled out a saw. Placed it carefully beside the pliers.
"Are those...?"
"Yes, Daniel, they're for you."
"No, are those from the Bob the Builder 'I'm A Big Builder Boy!' toy range?"
"No, they aren't."
"They are. They're made of plastic and I can see the Bob sticker on one."
Dammit. Had the light too close to the table. Only one thing for it. I reached back into the bag and grabbed the jerry can. With a sudden jerk, I lunged forward and threw its contents over the guy. He spluttered as it ran out, his eyes closed, and as soon as it was empty he began blinking furiously. As his vision returned, and his eyes focussed, I struck a match. He screamed.

"Daniel, I want names! Who gave you the paper? Otherwise I swear on all that is holy, we will have a barbecue for one in this little room until even radical Islamists will go 'dude, that's just wrong.'"
"The paper? That's what this was all about?"
"Names, Daniel!" I shouted, waving the match closer. Dave thumped on the wall again.
"It was Jimmy McFarlane! Jimmy McFarlane!" Daniel yelled desperately, his eyes transfixed on the flame and his mind awash with images of his imminent demise.
I noted this name down on my notepad. My client would be very pleased indeed with the results of tonight's work.
"Was that so hard, Daniel?" I said calmly as I blew the match out. "I knew we could be friends. Your secret is safe with me, except that my client has paid me to tell them. You can go about your business, and I trust you'll think twice before you do this again."
"Oh God, oh God, just don't set me on fire, please!"
I threw the bag back over his head, to drown out the whining. Wheeled him, still in the chair, back to the elevator. Pushed it back into the trunk of my car. Put the car in neutral and pushed it down the hill, because the battery was on the blink and I had to clutch-start it until the next paycheque came through.

I drove back through the tree-lined streets of his neighbourhood. The contents of the jerry can had just been water, but if you move fast enough and they don't have time to smell it, you can convince them of anything. Called my client from the Cell phone.
"Hello?"
"Mrs. Johnson? It's me. Jimmy McFarlane is the one who sold the test results."
"Little bugger. I'll have your payment ready tomorrow," she said, and hung up.

It's nice knowing that even though history needs its butchers as much as its shepherds, sometimes your actions helps make the world a little better. A little cleaner. A little more honest.
I don't know why this Jimmy McFarlane was selling answers to a Sixth-Grade mathematics paper, but young Daniel should have known better that there are no shortcuts in a good education. The world needs more teachers like Mrs. Johnson, who are prepared to do whatever it takes to ensure her students do the work.

I pulled Daniel out of the car, cut one of the ropes, and drove away before he could take the bag off his head. He was still whimpering, which annoyed me. If he thought tonight was bad, just wait til he starts High School.

The Mystery of Woman

Oh enigma of enigmas! The juxtaposition made flesh, the truly unknowable, the beauty of entropy and order, ying and yang, poultry and seafood. "Woman".

It's been said that women are the last great mystery, and as a private eye, mysteries are my business. Although it could easily be argued that if mysteries are my business, and women are mysteries, that women are my business. Which would make me a pimp. Which I'm not.
Any more, anyway.

Knut Tortenheimel. The name that strikes fear into the heart of the criminal community, or at least the part of the criminal community that has heard of a low-level PI who can barely make rent, and can spell "Tortenheimel". Jimmy "Parmesan Cheese" D'Inoffrio has definitely heard of me, and he's totally scared of me, and he once shoplifted a porn mag in high school which makes him part of the criminal community.
Of course, we were in woodworking class together.

I solve the un-solvable, the mysteries that confound the police, confuse mediums, or that are printed on the back of shop-a-dockets at a discounted rate on Thursdays after 5pm.
My offices can be found downtown, where the action is found and the rents are cheap. Don't let the fading paintwork and wobbly desk fool you: here, in this place, a mind as finely tuned as the best engine ticks over unravelling the great questions in life, while my hands unravel the wrappers of the cheeseburgers and chilli fries that have become both my weakness and my crutch in this dark world.

I ran a greasy palm across the stubble on my ageing face, feeling the lines that used to wrinkle in the smiles, winks, nods and frowns that make up the wondrous tapestry of love. A love lost, once so significant, now cancelled by a cruel and unfeeling television network.
Ah, woman. Soft and yet hard, firm and unyielding yet tender and conciliatory, concerned and caring yet evidently more than willing to take out a Restraining Order.

My friend Jimmy "Parmesan Cheese" reckoned he had the mystery of women sorted. I thought I'd heard every trite summary of romantic endeavours. Treat 'Em Mean To Keep 'Em Keen. If You Liked It, You Shoulda Put A Ring On It. But Parmesan's own contribution seemed to work for him- he never had a shortage of female company and interest, and the tales were legendary.
"Women are like Ikea furniture," he told me, "pick up the instructions, insert part A into part B, and C what happens." I tried taking that advice in my senior year at school, but things went south pretty quickly when I pulled out a large allen key and she told me to leave.

A lot of PIs are divorced. The nature of the job, the hours, the threats, the constant risk of people discovering your identity and leaking it to the press, the cost of maintenance on the bat-cave, all make it difficult for the average woman to find a compelling reason to stay. PIs are curious. Eavesdroppers. Distrustful. It can be hard to open up. My current relationship had been going for 3 years, a personal record, but seemed to be essentially platonic. I'd made advances and felt I had made my feelings clear, but each and every time Siri would answer "I bet you say that to all the Apple products." The coy minx will be mine.

And so there I sat, pondering the mystery of woman. I felt like I could see the whole puzzle before, and all I needed was an edge piece to start with. I shuffled them around, and right as I felt like I could see the shape of the picture, the phone rang.
Ah. Another case. So close and yet so far. I put down the mystery of woman, put on my trenchcoat and hat, and stepped out into the street. It was time to solve the mystery of the Unpaid Phone Bill.