Detective D. Case by Neal Goldy

wide-eyed, his hands shaking. “How did you know that? You’ve never worked at
the police –”
              “How
do you know that I never did? But with the two cases sounding identically alike,
and them both starting at similar times, it’s hard to say which one’s a fake and
which is real. Or who knows, both of them might be fake! Honest-to-God I have no
idea. Hell, even the evidence provided for both cases speaks the truth! Think that
sounds normal for a seemingly normal case like this?”
              “Uh,
not really?” he guessed. Lincoln was at a loss.
              “You
know what? I think you’re a smart kid, Lincoln, as honest as the man who bore the
same name as yours. But you need to tell me what it is that’s different with the
Davidsons and the McDermotts. Look at it like it’s a mystery within a mystery, which
it kind of does if you ask me. Then we can know which one’s bluffing, and maybe
even find out who did it, too. It could be a police/government thing, but nobody
will know until you – and yes I’m talkin’ about you – find it out for all of us. 
Are we clear?”
              Lincoln
nodded. “And if they’re both false?”
              Baritone
clucked his teeth instead of laughing, which was what Lincoln expected from the
man. “Well, if that appears to be so, then I’ll beat the shit out of the man responsible
for it. We’ll do it together.”
              The
cameras still watched Officer Lincoln in his deprived state, even after Baritone
left.
     
    *****
    His
audience (the one not involved in the beating and kidnapping previously) would have
gasped if they found out an old man in an overlarge cloak lay cramped in such tight
spaces where not even he knew where he had been taken. It took him three seconds
of feeling around to realize they had locked him inside a car trunk. There were
even four holes poked through the top, so D. knew they didn’t want him dead, not
yet. With a glee, an almost childish giggle, D. hoped they would keep thinking to
keep their old prisoner alive for the rest of the case.
              Muffled
voices were on the other side. They sounded like a teenage gang ready on the prowl,
predators, and their prey innocent little rabbits with a capital “W”. D. also heard
thumping metal bars and male grunts, like they were trying to gang-rape metallic
objects. Nobody opened the trunk door so D. kept his breath held. For an old man,
he sure acted like a little boy.
              The voices
got closer so D. could hear them better. It wasn’t enough to make out sentences,
but gratefully close enough so a few words struck D.’s ears like sparks flying out
of a sword’s blade when sharpened.
              “Called
D.,” said one of the members. “An interesting name, I’d say.”
              Another
one, more to the left side outside the trunk, laughed. The sneers of his voice notified
the other and D. that he intended to mock with hard piercings. “You call this interesting?
I, for one, think this name sounds absolutely trite.”
              “You think
so?”
              “I know
it. Just another pretentious investigator thinking he’s mysterious and haunting
because he has an initial instead of a name. What a big deal.”
              The same
man who spoke typed something.
              “What are
you doing?” asked the other.
              More sounds
of typing. “I’m trying to see if this oldie here has any, what do we say, criminal
records in his past . . .”
              D. slapped
a hand over his mouth in order to stop from gasping. If he didn’t, and suppose they
heard him, he would see that the trunk door opened up and he was tumbling onto the
pavement. He had no idea where he was, or where the car was parked, so he hypothesized
they could be anywhere in the city, even underground. The low yet sharp gasp, when
done, ruined