SEASON TWO OF DETECTIVE JACK Brought to you by the one and only @ClownVamp -
"Donny’s Donuts":
Fried dough.
Wait, no. Try again: Fried sugar dough. I mean, it’s gross. Objectively.
I was back from Hawaii. Back from trying to find myself (I failed). And I was on a bit of a health kick. Vegetables, chicken, and vodka. The three core food groups.
That’s all to say, I was looking good—sunkissed and down a few pounds.
Yet here I was at Donny’s Donuts, the scene of a crime. Donald Redder, proprietor, dead. Found on the baking room floor. Called in by the acne-ridden 16-year-old tasked with opening up this sugary hellhole.
After the mess with The Circle, the force had cleaned ranks. The LAPD was to be the finest police force on the planet (I chuckled too). The issue? The mass firings had left us hamstrung. We barely had enough cops to secure a murder scene, let alone investigate one.
So here I was, outside a Donny’s Donuts, telling sugar-addicted Angelenos to get out of the damn parking lot.
My own personal hell.
[ PLOT A ] "Concentric Circles":
My investigation was punctured by a flurry of radio activity.
“All units. All units. Suspected homicide at Donny’s Donuts Culver City.”
I briefly tuned out, thinking it was a repeat of my present location. But then “Culver City.”
Shit. A second murder scene.
I rushed to my car. I may be tired and jaded, but there’s something about a potential serial killer that wakes you right up.
The Culver City location was a particular feat of human ingenuity. It was a donut shop in the middle of a traffic circle (“the donut in a donut,” it was called). How you safely walked there was a bit of a mystery (it involved a tiny crosswalk in the back).
As I slammed my Chevy into park and jumped out of the car, I instantly knew something was amiss. Inside the glass windows was a scene from an obsessive hungry person’s dreams. Neatly assembled on the counter were uneaten donuts of many flavors and varieties.
But interrupting this organized obsession, a body.
Not a robbery. Her purse was untampered with.
Cecilia Redder.
The grand dame of Los Angeles society. The ex-wife to Donald Redder (but continued business partner).
I started rummaging through her Chanel bag.
A small vial tumbled out.
I knew from my 20s precisely what that was (maybe my 30s too…).
Cecilia Redder seemed to be a cocaine user.
Or, someone wanted us to believe that.
-- PLOT A-1 "The Redders":
As I walked through the bright pink doors of Casa Cecilia, I saw the most curious sight: A giant portrait of The Redders, both of them. Presumably painted before their divorce, the grand painting showing a couple that seemed deeply in love.
Cecilia, gorgeous with her head leaned against him. Donald, a few pounds lighter than his corpse, stern as always. The painting looked to me to be set in Palm Springs, a desert escape frequented by the couple.
My mind started to wander. When would I find my one true love? The Redders seemed to have had something special, however bizarre it was. How come my whirlwinds always ended so badly? My 20s were a parade of actresses (and one actor, but a story for another day). My 30s, recently over, were a sequence of three-month dalliances. Always beautiful, never long-lasting. The one exception was Tiffany. I thought she was the answer. I had loved her so deeply, and two months in, I had planned to propose when she suddenly disappeared.
I assumed she was dead, but I truly don't know. It was as if fate was laughing at me, dooming me to wander this sunny hellscape of a town alone.
As I fell deeper into my broken thoughts, I was suddenly thrown back to reality by the sound of footsteps above me.
Shit.
I was supposed to be the only one here. I drew my gun and started sprinting up the stairs.
--- PLOT A-1-a "All Rich People Have Safes":
When I reached the top of the stairs, I was greeted by a long hallway on both sides. I headed left.
As I walked by palatial rooms, I found what must have been the source of the sound. In a room big enough to be an auditorium, there was a bright pink safe...opened.
Was this whole damn ordeal a robbery?
I walked further into the room. The safe had countless thin jewelry drawers.
I started to pull each one.
Full. Not a single piece of jewelry appeared to be missing. There were millions of dollars of diamonds and emeralds just left here.
As I opened what felt like the 100th drawer, I heard a voice behind me.
“Greetings, Detective.”
--= PLOT A-1-a-End =-- "A Rough Family":
As I whipped around, my reflexes threw my gun into my hand and my eyes involuntarily widened.
Amanda Chester.
In my investigation of The Circle, she had pretended to be her identical twin sister Abigail, who she had killed…rough family.
And here I was, facing her sultry murder eyes.
This was not good.
She had tucked her beautiful blond hair into a cowboy hat, but it was no denying it was her. LAPD had put together a massive manhunt to find her but only had bad tips to show for it (drunk Angelenos thought it was funny to report random blond women…).
I tried talking my way out of it, “What are you doing here?”
“Jack, Jack, Jack. What are we going to do with you?”
As she gloated, I could hear an idea forming in my head.
"Amanda, you know, I could have loved you in another life."
She looked at me.
Her sultry murder eyes turned, briefly, into sultry loving eyes.
I could see her thinking.
And in that moment... I shot her.
--- PLOT A-1-b "They Don't Pay Me Enough For This Shit":
Oh, come on. Who the hell was this guy?
I had made a right when I got to the upstairs hallway, and I soon found the source of the sound. A man staring out the window.
I thought to myself that A) I need a raise. B) Who wears a hat indoors?
“Hello, Detective.”
Ahhhhh, shit. I raised my gun.
“Don’t.”
This apparently all-seeing cowboy was now stressing me out.
He whipped around, pistol drawn.
I fired.
So did he.
--= PLOT A-1-b-End =-- "Blinded":
Have you ever faced gunfire straight on?
The sounds. The explosions. It all has a simple effect…it blinds your senses. Yes, technically you can still see. But you are so overwhelmed that the nerves in your eye process what is happening in short bursts.
There’s signal and noise, but it all turns into a violent, colorful signal.
Time slows down. Slow enough for me to realize I was fooled...to realize this cowboy wasn’t a cow-boy.
That the voice wasn’t a man’s.
It was a familiar voice. A woman's voice.
And, now I was dead. I think.
-- PLOT A-2 "Casa Cecilia":
Cecilia Redder, born Cecilia Dumond, the first, former, and only wife of Donald Redder.
The story of their break-up was an odd one, even by Los Angeles standards.
She kept his name, continued to profess her love for him, and they shared control of the nine Donny’s Donuts strewn across Los Angeles.
At fifty-nine, she was in excellent shape, an avowed practitioner of the only-in-America phenomena of competitive dance aerobics.
Her mansion overlooked Topenga Canyon. With 19 bedrooms, it was the largest house for miles. Originally designed by Frank Lloyd Wright for an art-loving oil tycoon, Cecilia Redder bought it after the divorce and promptly named it Casa Cecilia.
I started pacing the grounds, slightly confused about how donuts paid for all of this but thinking that perhaps I was doubting the powers of capitalism.
As I turned the third corner of the house, I saw what could only be described as a conspiracy in the tree line. Three armed men and a pick-up truck covered by brush.
I ducked down and started heading closer.
--- PLOT A-2-a "Calling in the Reinforcements":
As I got close, I realized I was in a precarious spot.
These men not only had munitions that would make an army battalion shudder, but they had faces that said they knew how to use them.
I made a call, literally. I told dispatch I needed reinforcements, lots of them. I made clear that not only had I found the likely murderers, but they had enough weaponry to bring down a tank.
Dispatch got the message, and within fifteen minutes, I had 50 officers storming the property.
Chaos ensued. The armed men apparently had hand grenades (I'm still processing that one...). Still, ultimately math prevailed as even 50 of LAPD’s worst-trained cops could take down five heavily armed men.
As the smoke cleared, we approached the bodies of the fallen criminals.
One of the bodies started speaking. Sputtering, I could barely make out what the bloodied man was saying.
I leaned in closer.
---= PLOT A-2-a-End =--- "The Last Breath":
The bald man was trying to get a word out. I propped him up as he flashed in and out of consciousness.
I gave him a light slap on the cheek, “What is it? Spit it out.”
The man briefly opened his eyes, “The tru..”
His eyes started rolling back.
This man held the answer. Why did we shoot him? I know I should’ve pursued them myself. Trust my instincts, not the department’s policies. Bunch of bureaucrats who couldn’t police their way through a parade.
I tried to shake him, but he just coughed and sputtered.
As our suspect faded to black, I realized I had perhaps done the worst thing a detective could do: I eliminated our only clue.
And now here I was, staring at a dead suspect, a mountain of paperwork, and no idea what had happened to Donald and Cecilia Redder.
--- PLOT A-2-b "In Quiet Pursuit":
I decided to watch the men. Soon, they lugged their weapons into the back of their truck and started driving.
I ran back to my car and followed their tire tracks over the dirt road. My previous life as an Eagle Scout was coming in handy until we got to the highway. While I lost their tracks, I had a hunch. There was a small town a mile north that was often a stopover for the more criminal elements of LA society.
As I drove up, I saw the pick-up truck outside a diner. Even crime syndicates had to eat.
I parked and got out of the car. As soon as I stood up, the men I had followed surrounded me, and they did not look friendly.
The man who appeared to be the boss scowled.
“Why are you following us, Detective?”
“What were you doing at the Redder mansion?” I shot back.
“We work for Ms. Cecilia.”
Suddenly, I had an epiphany. Why was Donny shot but Cecilia poisoned? It hadn’t clicked until this moment.
Suddenly, they opened fire.
--= PLOT A-2-b-End =-- "The Side Lot of Life":
I blinked.
Dammit.
It hurt. Everything hurt.
I touched my stomach. The warm viscous liquid signaled blood.
I knew what had happened. But it was too late.
My last case. Solved in my head, but no one would ever know. Instead, I would bleed out in the parking lot of a roadside diner.
Cecilia Redder. A murder suicide-er. Is that a term? I don’t know.
I can’t seem to quiet my mind. Thinking about my solve rate as I die. Of course... I guess the data nerds in the commissioner’s office won’t count this one. I wouldn’t.
Maybe I can reflect on my life?
I tried to focus, to think about it all.
I had done a lot. Right? Fastest promotion to detective in LAPD history. Highest case clearing rate. More bad guys in jail than good guys–I think.
But, now that I could feel my pulse fading…I was faced with the haunting feeling that perhaps…just perhaps, that wasn’t the right point.
What had I been running from?
As I started to rummage for an answer, I felt even fainter…
[ PLOT B ] "A Clue":
I started pacing through the 500 square feet that was Donny’s Donuts Wilshire. That’s when I saw it.
A singular donut. Plated. At the counter. Ready to be eaten.
The uniformed officers told me it was there when they arrived on the scene.
I was confused. These academy-fresh officers must be mistaken.
“But weren’t they closed?”
The officers stood looking at me, mumbling amongst themselves like a gaggle of preschoolers, embarrassed for not knowing how to tie their shoes.
The pink glazed donut. A clue. Outside the store, the teenage clerk who had stumbled across Donny’s body was being held. I walked up to him and dragged him back inside by the ears (like my mother used to). “What is this?”
“Sir, it’s a donut.”
“Shut up, kid. You know what I mean.”
The pimpled boy stared back at me, “It’s plain flavored?”
I stood, exhausted. They don’t pay me enough for this. This donut was clearly brought here. Either by Donald or the murderer.
My vote? The murderer.
And that’s when I had an idea.
-- PLOT B-1 "Timmy the Clerk":
He was shaken up. Or at least he was acting like it.
Timmy Satfield, 17 years old. From the part of town where rough and tumble was a way of life.
It was 4:30AM this morning. Opening up like he does every Tuesday when he came across the body of Donny, the donut king of Los Angeles. Bloodied, beaten, and broken beyond recognition.
As he told me this tearjerker story, I interrupted him.
“Shut up, kid. Who put that donut on the counter?”
He looked at me, slightly baffled, “Wha–?’
“You know what I’m talking about.”
His eyes implied no, but his shaky hands told me a different story.
I got right up in his face, “Look at me. Does 20 years in lock-up as an accomplice to murder sound fun? Does it sound like a good time?”
His face started to twitch.
“LOOK AT ME.”
People around us started to stare.
“I….just. I did what I was told…”
And that’s how we had our first suspect.
--- PLOT B-1-a "Doctor Freelove":
It took a few more rounds of screaming. But Timmy eventually told me what I wanted:
“Dr. Hemingford.”
Soon, I was in my car, speeding up the 405. Red and blues pulsating. Timmy told me the doctor had paid him to leave the backdoor unlocked. For a special delivery, he said. Just a favor.
I pulled up to the address I had scribbled down. It didn’t look like any doctor’s office I’d seen. It appeared I had landed in a den of free love, like if a hippie commune had opened a doctor’s office and spent considerable energy to avoid maintaining it.
I walked in.
Dr. Hemingford looked me up and down. As he registered my crisp suit, he scowled and barked.
“An appointment??”
I scowled back.
“Sit down, doctor.”
The hippie sat at his desk. Surrounding him were festival posters and handwritten notes. My eyes noted that these scribbles seemed to have names on them. A client roster? Patient privacy was not his concern.
I asked him my typical interrogation questions. It seemed clear, though, that this man would happily spill the beans.
“Why did you ask Timmy to leave the door unlocked?”
“It was the request of a patient.”
I stared at him.
“I always try to give my patients what they want.”
Silence is often the best tool when questioning someone.
I stared for what felt like five minutes.
Finally, I asked, “What patient?”
He looked around (at what, I do not know) and then leaned in.
--= PLOT B-1-a-End =-- It’s a Circle:
“Cecilia Redder.”
I had him. I knew a songbird from a mile away, and I was staring at one.
“But…why would she kill Donald?”
“Let me show you something.”
The doctor, who I was beginning to doubt had an actual medical license, stood up and shimmied over to his kitchen.
He walked back and shoved something in my face.
“Do you know what this is, detective?”
I stared at this odd man. “It’s a donut.”
“NO. It’s a CIRCLE.”
“Well technical…oh, fu…”
A sharp ring ricocheted in my ears. Probably some subconscious attempt to cram these memories back down. The Circle was the alien-obsessed former sex cult (it’s a long story) that I had faced last year. The same cult that led to the massive firing of LAPD officers.
We had arrested Thomas Chester, a member of the inner circle, but hadn’t captured their leader. Not yet. But we also hadn’t heard from them in months. I had hoped they had shrunk back to alien hell.
“Detective…it’s a CIRCLE,” he repeated as he shoved the colorful calorie bomb in my face with his creepy long fingers.
“I get it, I get it. So let me put this together. Cecilia and Donny were members of The Circle?”
“Well, yes, but Donny left when all the alien mumbo-jumbo started. He was there for the free love.” A glint of knowingness came across the doctor’s eyes.
“Ah, and that’s how you met the Redders. And when the cult splintered, they got a divorce. But Cecilia...was a romantic and still loved him.”
The doctor—I need to stop calling him that—gave me a wide-eyed nod.
I continued, mostly to myself, “And, of course, eventually, Donny needed to die. He knew too much. The Circle wouldn’t allow it.”
Dr. Hemingford pointed again to the donut, affirming.
“But then, who killed Cecilia?”
My new hippie friend’s face froze.
“You didn’t know? I got the call on the way over. Cecilia was found dead too. Poisoned.”
“Detective, that would not have been a murder. She had a visit with The Circle’s favorite backup plan….arsenic. It must have been suicide.”
I leaned back. A cult-inspired murder suicide. Damn.
“Mr. Hemingford,” I’ve given up on calling him doctor, “you are under arrest for accessory to murder.”
--- PLOT B-1-b "Casa de Timmy":
After the young Mr. Satfield had his little breakdown, I let him go. Sometimes the best way to catch a big fish is to watch where the small fish swim.
I spent the rest of the day following him. Where did this suspicious punk live? Where did he spend his days?
I wondered if he knew he was being followed. He spent the late afternoon ducking and dodging through side streets. An endless walk. Perhaps, an endless walk of shame for the murder he had done?
As the sun crossed the horizon, he finally seemed to end his wandering. We were in a decidedly rough part of town, and he appeared to be heading home. The pacing of his feet, familiar. Comfortable.
Finally, he turned into an alley. There lay a building—house would be too strong a word—that seemed to be his home.
I paused for a moment and thought about doing it the proper way.
But, nah. Screw it. I’m going in.
--= PLOT B-1-b-End =-- "Four Children":
I flew my shoulder through the door.
As I dusted myself off, I looked up.
A terrified child.
No, four terrified children…including their teenage father: Timmy.
Jesus. Someone get this boy some contraception.
“WHY ARE YOU IN MY HOUSE?”
I stood aghast as the shame washed over me.
My thoughts raced as I stumbled back out the broken door and down the creaking staircase.
Why do I do this?
Why am I a detective?
Perhaps it was time to hang up my hat. I could buy a ranch in Montana. Live the American dream. Or maybe I’d move to Vegas and become a lounge singer. Anything seemed prudent at this moment.
I had no idea how to answer.
I stumbled home, feeling a sort of sober no one should feel.
-- PLOT B-2 "Officer Mia Mendoza":
I walked out of Donny’s with one idea and many more questions.
And that’s when an answer arrived: Officer Mia Mendoza.
She stood in the parking lot, hip against a street light, “How’s your day, Detective?”
After my failed romance with Abigail/Amanda Chester (it’s a long story…) during my last investigation, I had a healthy skepticism of my heartstrings. But, without breaking a beat, I gave her my best puppy eyes, “Better now, Officer.”
I long held that the one rule of romance is don’t date another cop. Years of shoving feelings into tiny compartments does rough work on a soul. But here I was, staring into an officer’s eyes.
“Detecti—-”
“Please, call me Jack. Detective is what Joe the parking cop calls me.”
“Ok, Jack. I think we found something.”
She started walking me over to a cordoned-off section of the lot. I was distracted but tried to keep focused.
Mia pointed down at the ground. Holy...the murder weapon, a gun with what appeared to be a very bloody palm print.
Who was this angel? Showing me the light, looking like that. Sometimes the things we wish for do come true.
--- PLOT B-2-a "My California Sunshine":
Mia Mendoza. I wanted to say her name over and over. A poetic name for a poetic soul.
After her evidence discovery, I suggested we take a little break. We work too hard not to have some fun.
We found our way to Santa Monica beach. A little sunshine walk is good for the heart.
“Why don’t we go in, Detective?”
“I don’t have a bathing suit, Officer.”
Her hair shimmered as she laughed. She sprinted for the ocean and started running in the water.
“Come on!”
Before getting in, I could already feel the cold (the water is always freezing, anyone telling you otherwise is lying) and the resulting goosebumps.
She waved me in.
There was something about those eyes.
I ran in behind her.
She let her hair down, literally, as mine came down metaphorically.
This was bliss. Wet, cold, and in love.
She looked at me, “Come over here. I want to tell you something.”
--= PLOT B-2-a-End =-- "A Trip to the Beach":
I’m too old for this crap.
It’s always the beautiful ones.
Scratch that. It’s always the beautiful ones that I fall for. My friends seemed to find well-adjusted beauties.
All I remember was her forceful push right before a massive wave.
No accident. No chance.
She had wanted to drown me.
How did I miss the signs?
--- PLOT B-2-b "Snow Flour Inc":
The murder weapon. Officer Mendoza would be Detective Mendoza within the year. I could feel it.
In fact, feeling Officer Mendoza was high on my list. Oof—sometimes my brain really is that of a 13-year-old boy.
As we looked at the weapon, another police officer interrupted us.
“Detective, the neighbors said they saw a truck early this morning for SNOW FLOUR INC. Apparently, it stayed longer than usual, and the men who came out of it didn’t look like delivery men.”
Shit. When it rains, it pours.
I turned to Officer Mendoza, “Let’s go find these murderers.”
We got into my car and started speeding.
“Where are we going?” Mia looked at me, baffled.
I got on the radio, “Dispatch, I need the address of a Snow Flour Inc.”
A few red lights ignored, we soon got to a massive building in the warehouse district of Santa Monica.
The door was unlocked.
As we walked in, I was struck by two things. One, this warehouse was definitely murderer-lurking-in-the-dark level creepy. Second, Mia was my dream woman. An angel with a gun.
As we turned into another room, we heard a sound.
Someone else was here.
--= PLOT B-2-b-End =-- "The Prophet Returns":
As we turned a corner, I instantly knew.
The pink cloak. The piercing blue eyes.
It was The Prophet. The leader of The Circle. The man who took a sex-loving commune cult and turned them into murderous alien-obsessed freaks.
I reached for my gun, but Mia grabbed it out of my holster before I could.
“Sorry, Jack.”
I could feel my dreams withering. I don’t deserve love. I’m not a good enough detective. Maybe not a good enough man.
The Prophet stared at me.
“Detective Crimson, it’s time for you to join us. You know the truth. You know that what we seek is real.”
I briefly imagined myself hanging out with these nutters. The image of me in a pink robe was kind of amusing. The pink would bring out my skin tone...not so bad!
I snapped back, still facing this only-in-Los-Angeles-level handsome cult leader, “Fuck you.”
The Prophet shook his head and nodded to Mia.
A gunshot rang out.
Good night.
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