DetectiveJack_S1

Detective

Another day, another blood-soaked reminder of why the mayor is down our throats.

The crime scene is barely secured. Los Angeles’ finest...idiots who fumble their way through the academy, only to end up beating some poor souls at a traffic stop.

Anyways, I’m here now. Called away from the west side, beckoned into the hellscape of Beverly Hills. Ready to figure out who killed this man, now splattered on his own linoleum floor.

Dying in a kitchen. Not as bad as the toilet, but close. Your body watched over by appliances. Your last breath witnessed by the breadbasket.

What they won’t teach you in a book is that it all means something...A murder in a bathroom. A murder in a kitchen. Nothing is inconsequential. Did the offender mean to keep things contained (the bathroom)? Was it a crime of passion (the bedroom)? Or was it a domestic escalation (the kitchen)?

That’s why they pay me the medium, government bucks. Fuck it. I’m rambling. Time to figure out who did it. If I was a gambling man (I am), I’d bet the wife did it.

S1-01:

The Murder on South Maple Drive

Jack

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AUTHOR OF THE BESTSELLING SERIES, "THE TRUTH"

It’s the smell.

They don’t tell you about that on cheap television dramas.

But crime scenes fucking reek. The rotting bodies. The drying blood. Revolting.

But, it’s like cooking. The smell matters. It warns you. It informs you. Gives you subtext.

How long has the body been there? Did the killer try and clean up the scene?

These fucking uniformed asshats. They couldn’t investigate their way out of a sandwich.

Let alone a murder.

This man clearly didn’t die in the kitchen. No, he died here. In the bathroom. Even sadder than I imagined.

And it must have been gruesome.

Past the kitchen was the door to the bathroom, a floor covered in blood. I immediately caught it. This was bad, and clearly, it was much worse at some point.

Those bloodied rags covering the kitchen counter a result of a weak attempt to clean up a vile situation.

This was not a domestic escalation. This was cold and calculated, done by someone who knew what they were doing.

Murders in the bathroom are the easiest to clean...and require forethought (how do you get them in there?).

Apparently, in his free time, Thomas Chester was a writer of sorts.

Bank clerk by day, aspiring novelist by night. True LA story.

As we combed through the house, we made another big break in his office. Someone had ransacked it. Seemingly to try and steal all his writing.

The few pages of his work we could find were cheap crime stories. The type found in books that are set alongside the checkout lanes of grocery stores. Apparently, he was an aspiring sellout too.

I continued my investigation throughout the house.

As I took a closer look, I was interrupted by a sharp noise.

The phone was ringing.

“Hello…”

“Greetings, Jack.”

My lips curled. I was not one to get nervous, but the voice on the other end was dripping in intention. The man emphasized each damn…syll...a...ble.

“The Circle wants to meet you.”

“Who the fuck is The Circle?”

“Tonight, 8PM. The church in West Hollywood Plaza.”

I protested, “I’m not going anywhere.”

As I pulled up, I saw him.

With a strong jaw, I would’ve assumed he was a politician or an actor.

But, wrapped in a pink cloak in the middle of an empty parking lot, I deduced that he had the other job perfect for handsome men: cult leader.

“Welcome, Jack.”

It was that halting voice.

“We are here to serve. Why are you rummaging around our affairs?”

I learned long ago that being quiet was the best way to deal with megalomaniacs. They tended to puncture the silence.

He kept talking, “You don’t understand us, do you?”

“No, I don’t.”

“We are The Circle. We are here to bring peace.”

S1-06: The Prophet

S1-05: Ring, Ring

S1-04: A Writer's Room

S1-03: A Vile Scene

S1-02: The Scent of Death

Plebes will try and cover up the scent.

Young detectives have been known to rub peppermint oil under their noses in a vain attempt to mask it.

Malpractice.

You need to smell it all. I leaned in to take a closer look.

As I was washed over with the scent of death, I saw something peculiar out of the corner of my eye. Could it be?

As I read the scraps of paper, a picture emerged of someone obsessed with murder stories. Serial killers featured prominently on every page.

I started having this uncanny feeling.

These stories describe cases...that I am working on. Unsolved.

These weren’t works of fiction…

And the details here, these hadn’t been released.

Something very, very rotten was afoot.

My Name is Jack

“We don’t kill innocents. Only traitors to the cause.”

Wishing I had been recording, I immediately sensed danger. He wouldn’t be confessing and gloating if I were to live.

“Jack, you see. We started as a group dedicated to the free expression of humanity.”

I deduced that was a code word for sex.

“But then we realized that something deeper was afoot. Something had been hidden from us. We found the proof.”

Sex-cult-leader-cryptic-speak was not my mother tongue, so I just looked at him, practicing my best blank stare.

“Jack. Some of us didn’t believe in the proof. But we now have a grander purpose, and for those who don’t get with the program…for those who were obsessed with the flesh. Well, we killed them.”

He looked at me once more with those bright, brilliant eyes.

Wait...I died?!