Detective D. Case by Neal Goldy Page A
Authors: Neal Goldy
everything. Of course they must’ve known D. was in the trunk – and
he suspected that they spoke near the trunk for this purpose – but thought he was
asleep or still unconscious from the near drowning. Let them still think him too
weak to come out of his short coma and overestimate the circumstances. But D. hoped
the nastier of the two would spin some fictive yarn and false stories accusing D.
of things he had never done, things he had never thought of. He pressed an ear when
he heard the nastier of the two finish his typing and possibly scanning the pages.
He heard
him grunt. “Nope, nothing,” he said.
D. sighed
in relief.
None of
the two spoke. “What was that?”
The old
detective gulped, moving to the back of the trunk. Searching his belt, his pistol
was missing. Not a surprise to him that they’d taken all weapons; what’d be surprising
is if they didn’t, which in turn would be quite an amateur if not a stupid choice.
D. silenced himself, zipping up the open gaps. Just pray that they’ll go away like
the child wishes the ghosts and monsters to go away from underneath his bed, or
away from the darkest parts of his closet . . .
“I dunno.
I thought I heard something.”
The two
of them shuffled to the trunk. D. balled his hands, ready for what would come from
the outside. Gangs like these never acted with reason.
“You must
have killed your ears or something. You are hearing nonsense. I don’t hear a damn
thing!”
The other
stammered. “But-but I did!”
“Quit your
yapping and bullshit! I’m tired of working with you!”
“Then why
do you keep having me around?”
The nasty
one laughed. “That’s your fault, not mine.”
Fading
footsteps signaled their leave. D., on the other hand, puffed out his chest and
released all the built-up breath he was carrying in the meantime. Well, he instead
should release the breath in slow intervals instead of holding it, but pressure
always blocked other better decisions in a person’s life. D. spat on pressure like
he did on jealousy, but that did as much to it as doing nothing and accepting it.
At least D. had the courage to resent it, which few people did these days. Day and
night jobs with crime never helped.
And speaking
of which, D. needed to finish the job – the case, anyway. The sudden disappearance
of the McDermott son took time in steady tolls, which was at the center of the problem.
Add in the complicated dead ends and you have a pot boiling with madness, dashing
in a pinch of frustration. Making things worse was what D. called the Time Stopper.
He should be working on the case, maybe researching the backgrounds of the McDermott
family and their relations with neighbors and other corporations. Assume that they
had more than one company to handle? Power corrupts, and no matter how private the
McDermotts kept their wealth and fame, they were no exception. Human beings in a
general manner were not capable of terrible, dark power that came from the unknown
– or the sinister side of humans, if you wanted a twist to the overall story of
human life. With everyone he met so far, D. made up his mind: the world would be
better off without humans, if the Earth was in fact intended for them in the beginning.
D. fell
asleep long before the trunk door opened, so the members of, in D.’s mind, the gang
had presumed the old man still unconscious from the drowning sequence. Two of the
younger members pulled him from the trunk, splattering their newest prisoner on
the rain-filled pavement. The moment he was slapped on the wet pavement, the detective
snapped his brain awake. He coughed up water and saliva, punching the pavement with
one fist. Like a dream, the members inspected D. like an
he suspected that they spoke near the trunk for this purpose – but thought he was
asleep or still unconscious from the near drowning. Let them still think him too
weak to come out of his short coma and overestimate the circumstances. But D. hoped
the nastier of the two would spin some fictive yarn and false stories accusing D.
of things he had never done, things he had never thought of. He pressed an ear when
he heard the nastier of the two finish his typing and possibly scanning the pages.
He heard
him grunt. “Nope, nothing,” he said.
D. sighed
in relief.
None of
the two spoke. “What was that?”
The old
detective gulped, moving to the back of the trunk. Searching his belt, his pistol
was missing. Not a surprise to him that they’d taken all weapons; what’d be surprising
is if they didn’t, which in turn would be quite an amateur if not a stupid choice.
D. silenced himself, zipping up the open gaps. Just pray that they’ll go away like
the child wishes the ghosts and monsters to go away from underneath his bed, or
away from the darkest parts of his closet . . .
“I dunno.
I thought I heard something.”
The two
of them shuffled to the trunk. D. balled his hands, ready for what would come from
the outside. Gangs like these never acted with reason.
“You must
have killed your ears or something. You are hearing nonsense. I don’t hear a damn
thing!”
The other
stammered. “But-but I did!”
“Quit your
yapping and bullshit! I’m tired of working with you!”
“Then why
do you keep having me around?”
The nasty
one laughed. “That’s your fault, not mine.”
Fading
footsteps signaled their leave. D., on the other hand, puffed out his chest and
released all the built-up breath he was carrying in the meantime. Well, he instead
should release the breath in slow intervals instead of holding it, but pressure
always blocked other better decisions in a person’s life. D. spat on pressure like
he did on jealousy, but that did as much to it as doing nothing and accepting it.
At least D. had the courage to resent it, which few people did these days. Day and
night jobs with crime never helped.
And speaking
of which, D. needed to finish the job – the case, anyway. The sudden disappearance
of the McDermott son took time in steady tolls, which was at the center of the problem.
Add in the complicated dead ends and you have a pot boiling with madness, dashing
in a pinch of frustration. Making things worse was what D. called the Time Stopper.
He should be working on the case, maybe researching the backgrounds of the McDermott
family and their relations with neighbors and other corporations. Assume that they
had more than one company to handle? Power corrupts, and no matter how private the
McDermotts kept their wealth and fame, they were no exception. Human beings in a
general manner were not capable of terrible, dark power that came from the unknown
– or the sinister side of humans, if you wanted a twist to the overall story of
human life. With everyone he met so far, D. made up his mind: the world would be
better off without humans, if the Earth was in fact intended for them in the beginning.
D. fell
asleep long before the trunk door opened, so the members of, in D.’s mind, the gang
had presumed the old man still unconscious from the drowning sequence. Two of the
younger members pulled him from the trunk, splattering their newest prisoner on
the rain-filled pavement. The moment he was slapped on the wet pavement, the detective
snapped his brain awake. He coughed up water and saliva, punching the pavement with
one fist. Like a dream, the members inspected D. like an