Detective D. Case by Neal Goldy Page B

extinct species that out
of nowhere had sprung another form of itself. None of them spoke until D. finished
coughing.
              “They call
you D.,” said the nastier one. “What do you call yourself, besides that?”
              “Nothing,”
the old man said. “Just D., that’s all.”
              The members
crossed their arms, still watching.
              “You have
family?” one of them asked.
              “I used
to.”
              One of
them snorted. “You don’t seem to answer in very long sentences, do you?” When D.
got a clear look at him, he saw buck teeth sprouting from the rest like a rabbit
or horse. Freckles were sprinkled across his face like orange polka dots. The younger
one of the group, D. thought him a new recruit.
              “I can
answer very well, thank you.” He coughed. “Who are you supposed to be, anyway?”
              “We don’t
know each other,” the new recruit spat. “So back off, will you?”
              D. had
something to back himself up, but never got it out. Loud footsteps conquered all
the sounds in the empty night of those few people taking down a lonesome old man
trying to survive at his one job. The night was stark, so nobody could see where
the leading man was walking, but the loud footsteps never were  mistaken. D. of
course stood as the exception, but even he knew that the loud, gargantuan noise
those feet communicated were splitting cracks for miles.
              The loudness
ended, and everyone sealed up quiet. Silence was a thing to get used to from D.’s
perspective.
              “Speak,”
the man that came from the darkness bellowed. He barked as if he were speaking to
a pet.
              D. got
to his feet – well, to his knees, really. “I-I am D.,” he pronounced.
              The man’s
eyes didn’t change. Neither did his expression. “Is this supposed to be a joke?”
              “No it’s
not.” D. shook his head in case the man didn’t think he told the truth.
              “I’ve heard,
through various sources, that you are an independent criminal investigator?”
              D. nodded.
“Yes I am.”
              The man
came through the darkness and revealed himself. His appearance hadn’t matched the
voice since he was dressed as a businessman, wore horn-rimmed glasses, and had curly
hair. He had the shape of a high school nerd when you got close enough. When they
got a few inches too close, the man kneeled close and pushed his glasses up his
nose. He smirked. “No bosses, no partners during the scene?”
              “I have
none of those in the slightest. My office is in a curved corner in my tiny apartment
filled with paperwork, and I take calls in the same place without caring if it is
early morning or late at night.”
              The young
nerdy man held out a hand. “Call me Oliver Henry.”
              They shook
hands.
              “These
are my men,” Oliver Henry said, waving arms around the various young men who seemed
to enjoy beating old men and women. “I am sure you’ve seen them before?”
              “Yes, I
have. They were very polite when they shoved me into a small car trunk.”
              “Hmm .
. . So I see.” He stroked his chin and scratched behind his neck. “I apologize for
the rough treatment given you.”
              One of
the men spoke up. “Hold on a second – weren’t we supposed to nearly drown the man
and now you’re saying that we need to be more careful? What kind of bullshit is
this?”
              Oliver
Henry didn’t say anything. “I heard you are on the case of the missing man Paul
McDermott.”
              “That is
true.”
              “That case,
you know, has been going on for about five years?”
              “I know
that, Oliver. We were