Year/Job
Private Detective
There's something rotten in Denver. |
Travis
|
Post by Kermit Palantine on Mar 7, 2024 11:46:21 GMT -8
Garfield shifted in his seat, adjusting so that his view was even with the private detective’s. The more Garfield moved, the more he sunk into the beanbag chair.
“Interesting choice,” he said sheepishly, his eyes flitting around the storage unit.
Garfield had first met face to face with Kermit Palantine in a diner just a few blocks away from the Ministry of Magic. Kermit had made a big deal about using his alias, Hermit Palpatine, insisting that that he had enemies crawling all over the Ministry. Garfield had wondered then why Kermit would even choose to meet so close to the Ministry but now, sitting in Kermit’s cramped office, staring at the crooked “Hang in there, Kitty!” poster with the bent corner, the crusty waffle maker stuffed in a corner on top of a filing cabinet, it all made sense.
“Thank you,” Kermit said, producing a bottle of gin from his desk drawer. “Isn’t it awesome? I mean, I work in a storage unit, do you?”
“I work in an office with chairs,” Garfield replied.
“Kermit waved a dismissive hand as he poured generous portions of gin into two paper cups. Garfield took the moment to study the corkboard tacked up behind Kermit. On the board were pictures of Garfield’s own family with lines of red string weaving from picture to picture in an incomprehensible tangle of conspiracy. In the center of the board was a picture of Garfield’s own daughter Jackie, a strand of string extending out to a picture of himself labeled “Garf.” Another string trailing from Jackie’s photo in the center of the corkboard led to a print out of the Starship Enterprise. The trail from the Enterprise led to a newspaper clipping of former President George W. Bush, and from that, a string extended to the edge of the corkboard where Kermit had written on a yellow Post-it note: 9/11? Call Joey.
Kermit slid one of the cups across the table to Garfield and said, “I worked at the Ministry once too, you know. Didn’t care much for it.”
“Right,” Garfield nodded. “Do you think maybe…are there other private detectives? I’m just thinking…someone with more experience might be a better choice for me?”
“Sure,” Kermit said, leaning back in his folding chair. “You could go to the Fawkes Agency. They have a stable of experienced detectives with long careers in law enforcement and other relevant backgrounds. They have licenses too. They report their wages to the tax bureau and receive a pension and benefits and they’re all above board. But I can promise you one thing: none of them can kill a man if you ask them to.”
“Oh god no,” Garfield shook his head. “I wouldn’t ask you to do that. You can’t do that.”
“Oh Mr. McKinley,” Kermit offered a mirthful chuckle as he popped the tab on a Redbull and drained the can into his gin. “I was a cop in America. That’s basically a license to kill.”
“Okay, well…” Garfield ran his hand nervously through his hair. “I’ve got to be getting home soon so why don’t we just skip the small talk and you get into it.”
“I think you’ll want to take a drink for this, Mr. McKinley,” Kermit said solemnly. “I’m okay,” Garfield replied. “Just tell me what you know about my daughter.
Kermit downed his drink, cleared his throat, then said, “Mr. McKinley. Your daughter is dead.”
The words failed to register at first. Garfield just sat there, sinking further into his beans. Then it came to him in a flash. “Jackie’s dead,” Garfield repeated. “Yes,” Kermit nodded gravely. “Not living.”
A single sharp cry escaped from Garfield’s lips. He snapped his hand over his mouth to cover the sobs.
From his desk drawer, Kermit produced a thick file on the McKinley case, opening the folder and spreading the key pieces of information out over the chipped wood. “Of course that’s what the Ministry’s saying…” Kermit said, raising an eyebrow to season the mystery.
“What?” Garfield looked up, eyes puffy now with tears. “You think she’s alive?”
“Well, here is her death certificate,” Kermit said, holding it up for Garfield to examine. “And this was the scene after the fire.”
Garfield cringed as Kermit showed him a photo of three charred bodies. Kermit produced a pair of reading glasses from his shirt pocket and slipped them over the bridge of his nose. “Jackie married William Wilkinson at which time the pair changed their names to McWilkinleyson. The official report says that the McWilkinleysons perished in a fire along with their young daughter.”
“I had a granddaughter I never knew about it?” Garfield asked.
Kermit looked a little annoyed by the interruption but said, “Yes, name of, um,” He flipped through his work for a moment then confirmed, “Jean.”
“Oh god!” Garfield choked.
Kermit held the photo of the burned bodies up for Garfield to see again. The man averted his gaze at the sight of the cooked corpses.
“Mr. McKinley, I have reason to suspect that this is not your daughter.”
Garfield turned back to Kermit and hopefully asked, “Why?”
“I dug up the graves,” Kermit began. “You did what?” “My forensic analysis of the body identified as Mr. McWilkinsleyson revealed that the bones weren’t burned in the fire.”
“Okay,” Garfield nodded though Kermit could tell that he wasn’t really following along. To be honest, he was still a little spooked about the grave robbing.
Kermit sighed and produced a second, thicker file from his desk drawer. He plopped the folder down on the desk with a heavy thud. Kermit pointed to the file as he spoke, “These are Mr. McWilkinleyson’s medical records dating back to his years at Hogwarts. I was able to confirm at least forty-six trips to the Hogwarts hospital wing, and these were only after the medical transparency act of 2002.”
“They really ought to appeal that law,” Garfield mumbled.
“I agree,” Kermit shrugged. “But Enron changed everything.” “What does this have to do with the fire?” Garfield asked. “Mr. McKinley, it has everything to do with the fire. You see, I believe that your son-in-law has the most fragile bones in the world. Do you believe they could survive a fire?” “Well, I suppose not.” Garfield said.
“So I did some more digging,” Kermit continued. “And I found this.” He pulled another document from the McKinley file and slid it across the desk. “A change of name request filed with the Bureau of Magical Businesses. This was submitted three months after the fire, legally changing the name of your son-in-law’s business from Willy McWilkinleyson’s Prosthetics to Billy McBilkinson’s Prosthetics.”
“I don’t understand,” Garfield wiped his eyes. “All this proves is that Willy is still alive.”
“Of course,” Kermit nodded. “But then, who is this?” He held up a photo of a young, aggressively Jackie-looking woman happily exiting Florean Fortescue's, double fisting ice cream cones. Her eyes were obscured by her designer sunglasses, but it was unmistakably Jackie. “I took this just two weeks ago at Diagon Alley.”
“I don’t understand,” Garfield repeated. “What does all of this mean?”
“If I may posit a theory,” Kermit said, locking his fingers together over his stomach as he leaned back as far as he could in his folding chair without tipping over. “I believe that your daughter and son-in-law are trapped deep in a criminal enterprise. They likely needed to make a quick escape, hence the fire. Then they, rather sloppily, faked new credentials under the assumed name 'McBilkinson.' I mean, they left a paper trail everywhere. I have a copy of a check in my file that your daughter signed, I quote, ‘Not Jackie Wilkinleyson.’ And everywhere I go I hear stories of this Billy McBilkinson. They say he brokered a peace between two centaur herds. The Brighthoof and Moonrevelers.”
“But they’ve been warring for decades!” Garfield gasped.
“And he introduced his good friend the Duke of Cambridge to Kate Middleton. They play Pictionary on the third Saturday of every night.”
“So it is true,” Garfield whispered. “Jackie really did fake her death?”
Kermit placed his folded hands down onto his desk. “It’s true, Mr. McKinley, and now they’re in grave danger.”
He set one final picture in front of Garfield.
“This was taken just last weekend.”
Garfield had to bend his knees to see over the desk. Sitting before him was a photo of Willy flanked on both sides by two large, leather jacketed men. They were leading Garfield’s young son-in-law into a dark, stone building. The kind of establishment of ill repute he’d imagine he would find in Knockturn Alley. Both men had patches on their backs that read: Hell's Squibs Est. 1972: You Gonna Die.
“Those two men are members of Knockturn Alley’s most notorious biker gang. I believe they’ve taken your son-in-law captive. They'll likely apply pressure on Willy to do whatever it is they want him to do. That means they'll come for your daughter. We have to find her before they do.”
It was The Case of the Not Dead Daughter. Jacqueline McWilkinleyson
|
|
|
Post by Jacqueline McWilkinleyson on Mar 7, 2024 21:16:03 GMT -8
Jackie woke up at 5am, as she did every day, heated up a nutritious tray of cinnamon-spiced liver-and-beet casserole for her dear husband to take to work (the liver was for his anemia, swoon, but that there was a tray of it was for sharing with his fellow bikers). Then, when the babies woke up, she fed them leftover beets and read to them their specially-designed affirmations: 1. I am an Empress from the Stars. 2. I will endure life on earth until I return. 3. When Mummy asks me to do something, I will do it without screaming. Yes I will, yes I will.
Toddler Jean III was old enough that she ought to be able to recite the affirmations back, but Jackie had never heard her speak. She didn’t think much of it. She was sure Jean was a perfectly normal child who would speak when she wished to, and she was more correct about this than she knew. Well, Jean wasn’t normal. But not repeating the affirmations was her conscious choice. Then Willy was up and off to work with the casserole. Well. Work, kind of. The motorcycle gang! Jackie thought this whole thing was adorable, though she didn’t know exactly why he was doing it. Probably he missed the camaraderie, like what he would have had on the space pirate ship. Oh, and being out of the law. Jackie felt tears of pride well up in her eyes every time Willy left. They weren’t accidentally caught up in anything over their heads (well, in that arena at least), it was just a fun extracurricular activity. Wow, Kermit was so off about what he thought was going on. What a dumb dumb. Jackie read from a copy of Beedle the Bard to her children, changing all the names to space-names and all the creatures to space-creatures and all the occupations to space-occupations (you get it) so that they felt that their heritage was being acknowledged and honored. She fed the chickens. She looked disapprovingly at the immense, realistic, gorgeous portrait Willy had painted of her that was hanging over the fireplace. So fancy. Didn’t look anything like her. No character. She wished he still drew her in the same style as his school days. But it was sweet he was trying. Jackie believed in letting children experience unadulterated nature, so around lunchtime, she gave both girls an apple and set them outside. Akmena was just one, but Jackie thoroughly believed that if Jean III was not able or willing to protect her, it was best if everyone found that out soon. She sat at her desk to write a letter to her sister Jean (II). As always, making sure the Check Spell was properly cast on her quill, she wrote: She shuffled through the questions for her column. There were a couple of promising ones. One was a sort of extreme one which was written with cut-out letters (looked like the font Witch Weekly was printed in, which Jackie thought was delightfully meta) and the other was the following: Jackie liked the overt flattery of this one, so she decided to save the cut-out-letters one (with its interestingly bloodthirsty content) for another day. She had been getting the bloodthirsty cut-out-letters letters for years anyway. Mr. Blood Will Run In The Streets could wait his turn. She wrote, She then went to collect her children from the outdoors. They were by the creek, trying to catch fish with their teeny weeny bare hands. Jackie decided to show them how it was done, reached in, and plucked out a giant eel. The three of them gawked at it. It had three heads. “Hmm,” said Jackie. “That’s an omen. Couldn’t tell you what for.” “Someone’s coming,” said Jean. Her first spoken words. “I’m so proud of you, baby,” Jackie said, and scooped her up. Jean immediately regretted breaking her silence. “What prescient first words. Let’s write them down in the Book.” She forgot all about the omen in the excitement of Updating The Baby Book. Later that night, when Willy had returned home in his adorable leather jacket, smelling alluringly like chemicals, they bathed the children and put them to sleep, then had a supper of ramen noodles with chocolate melted on top. Then, we fade to black momentarily. As they ate some postcoital peanut butter and jelly sandwiches (they kept a cooler full of them in their bedroom and also the bathroom and also the attic), Jackie thought to mention Jean’s first words. “Imagine what Akmena is going to say! Or the next ones, when we have next ones…” Willy was very much excited to have next ones. “Why did she say that, though?” he asked. “Who’s Someone? Why are they Coming?” “You’ll have to ask her,” said Jackie. She took a messy bite “Aww, gosh, now that she’s talking now, how cute!! What if she tells me she loves me sometime soon. That’d be nice.” “Right, but what happened before?” “Oh, I fished a three-headed eel out of the river. It’s in the fridge now, it’s going in your casserole for tomorrow.” “Hmmm,” said Willy. He rubbed some gooseberry jelly off his wife's chin. “Someone’s coming…” Kermit Palantine
|
|
Year/Job
Private Detective
There's something rotten in Denver. |
Travis
|
Post by Kermit Palantine on Mar 15, 2024 14:53:29 GMT -8
On a hot summer night in Oklahoma the sky cracks, lightning cutting through thick, suffocating atmosphere. The air tastes like blood. Kermit sits on an old lawn chair outside room 237 of the Paraíso Motel, carefully carving a figurine out of a small block of wood as he watches the sunset fade. The sky dims to a dark, sickly shade of green. He feels like he’s trapped beneath the ocean. Black clouds threaten the horizon. In the parking lot below, Kermit spots Big Jim wrestling with a keg in the back of a white, beat up old covered pickup truck. Stenciled in cursive stylized font over the driver’s side door are the words: Paraíso Motel and under that in small, black serif font: Est. 1963 Azkaban, OK and a bit further down in loud, rainbow colored comic sans is the slogan: “ONLY ONE IN TOWN!”
“Big” is a joke, a cruel but later affectionate nickname given to Jim by members of the 1976 Azkaban High School football team. Big Jim hit a growth spurt after high school, but his weight remains in the lower hundreds. He’s a tall figure, with a scarecrow neck and Nietzschean mustache.
The keg clangs off the pavement. Big Jim lets out a sharp whistle. He spots Kermit on the second-floor terrace. He tips his hat back and calls out, “Got a hand, English?”
Kermit sets the figurine down next to a pair of empty Red Bulls. He jogs gracefully down the steps and as he crosses the parking lot to the old truck he says, “For you, Jim, always.” He doesn’t correct that nickname “English,” which everyone around town calls him despite being Welsh.
“Thank’e kindly, deputy,” Big Jim says. Kermit secures the door of the truck bed and hoists the keg from its bottom. “We’re takin’ her to the storage room in back of the bar,” Big Jim instructs, pinning his hat to his head with his free hand to shield against the wind. Kermit lets him lead the way.
The Paraíso Motel is shaped in a big L. The rooms extend out in a vertical row standing two stories tall, with the lobby and bar perpendicular. They carry the keg through the double doors, are greeted by a sad cowboy song playing on the radio at the front desk.
I’d sell my hat, I’d sell my pony for just two more words with my dear Toni but she’s gone forever, skin cracks away found in that well just yesterday
They move through a large archway in the lobby that heads directly into the bar. Kermit helps Big Jim tuck the keg into a corner of the storage room and the two rest a moment, Kermit leaning against the door jamb and Big Jim taking a seat on the keg.
“You know my niece Lisette is awfully sweet on you,” Big Jim nods, striking the wheel of his lighter and cupping his hands around the cigarette in his mouth.
A bag small bag of pretzel sticks crackles as Kermit tears it open.
“Jim,” Kermit replies slowly. He takes a drag from his pretzel stick, releasing a long, thin line of smoke. “My heart is a lonely sanctuary forbidden to all except the one chosen to inhabit it.”
“Yeah,” Big Jim says. “She loves flowery shit like that.”
Thunder rumbles outside.
“Sounds like it's gonna come down hard,” Big Jim observes. “Biblical like.” "Biblical?" Kermit repeats. “The kinda rain God sends to wash away all the sinners. Won’t be a lot of cover up there in two-three-seven. You can stay in the storm shelter with me and Debbie.” “That's alright,” Kermit says. “Figure if I get washed away, I must’ve done something to deserve it.”
America is a nightmare. A legacy of theft and murder that stretches back hundreds of years. It’s a country founded upon so many sins, Kermit wonders why God hasn’t flushed the whole thing into the sea. As he exits the hotel lobby, the wind howls in his ears and he thinks it sounds like children crying.
Kermit turned the little wooden figurine over in his hands. He never kept her far from him, especially on a stakeout.
He was parked across the street from The Rotten Mandrake, the Knockturn Alley headquarters of The Hell’s Squibs. The rain had been pouring since early morning but was coming down especially hard by the afternoon, blanketing the sky in a shade of green that Kermit had only seen once before in a different part of the world. He watched through rain drops as dangerous men in leather jackets, cut-off at the shoulders, entered the bar. He took a breath, popped open another Red Bull, then clicked a tape into his cassette player to hype himself up.
Kermit had explained the whole thing to Garfield.
“The Rotten Mandrake is the center of the Hell’s Squibs’ criminal enterprise. Whatever they’re doing with your son in law, I’m almost certain that they’re doing it there.”
“But what could they want him for?” Garfield asked.
“It’s hard to say,” Kermit shook his head. “Willy has five degrees. One’s in biochemical engineering. I can only imagine why they would want someone with his expertise. A new drug, a chemical bomb, a murder robot.”
“I always knew that kid was trouble,” Garfield shook his head. “He had that dangerous look in his eyes. Authority didn’t scare him.”
“If, when I find him, you want me to permanently compromise his existence, I could be encouraged to acquiesce given a favorable fee.”
“What?” Garfield blinked. “You can’t kill him.”
“That’s the correct answer,” Kermit said, shooting Garfield a thumbs up.
Kermit pressed play on the cassette player and stepped out of his car.
The call comes over the radio on Kermit’s drive home: shots fired at the Paraiso Motel. The siren blares as he steps on the gas, cornering in time to catch a dusty hatchback speeding out of the motel parking lot. It’s a starter car, the kind of shitty beater a dad passes down to their kid when they get their license, likely well past its recommended miles. Kermit catches a glimpse of the driver’s golden hair and the glint of the sunlight bouncing off his braces.
Kermit’s cruiser has the juice, but the kid’s driving recklessly and leading him toward downtown Az. Kermit keeps his head level by counting the crimes. He’s already got him for reckless operation of a motor vehicle, and when the kid plows through a USPS collection box on the corner of Main Street, Kermit tacks on destruction of property. He smiles when he remembers that the mailbox makes it federal.
The siren continues its song through the chase, alerting panicked citizens who jump back onto the sidewalk and into business as the kid swerves down the road. Kermit wants to end it quickly but worries about the kid spinning out in a public space. The kid senses Kermit’s hesitation and uses it to his advantage, turning onto Bosworth Ave where he’ll pass Azkaban High School.
The sun is setting. Buses have taken most of the kids home, but it’s opening night for the school musical, and the parking lot is packed. Kermit continues to pursue with caution. Once they’re clear of the school he realizes the kid’s mistake. Bosworth is a straight shot into the country.
With the Azkaban lights in his rearview, Kermit accelerates into the hatchback. Its bumper crumples beneath the force of the collision. Kermit’s foot is pressed hard into the gas as he rides the ass of the hatchback, jerking the wheel to keep his cruiser steady. The kid’s better behind the wheel than Kermit anticipates. Instead of losing control and spinning out into the ditch, he goes blow for blow with the cruiser. The hatchback flies open and suddenly Kermit’s staring down the barrel of a scatter gun.
He hasn’t seen the passenger until now. The kid in the trunk pulls off a shot just as Kermit lets off the gas. Buckshot scatters the cruiser’s windshield. It’s enough to put real distance between the kids and himself. Frustrated, Kermit reaches for his revolver, but hesitates. He goes for the glove compartment instead.
The engine drops like a rock through the bottom of the hatchback. It hits the ground solid and stays there while the rest of the car continues moving. It flips forward, shattering into dozens of pieces as it somersaults down the road. Kermit watches from the safety of his cruiser, gripping his old wand in his hand.
He returns home that night to find the Paraiso Motel bathed in red and blue light. The deputies have taped off the parking lot and are herding back a growing crowd of nosy small towners, tragedy chasers, and semi-local news reporters. Kermit steps under the tape and proceeds into the motel office.
The glass from the door crunches beneath his feet. The coroner’s taken Big Jim downtown but Kermit doesn’t need to see the body to know the outcome. His blood is splattered on the back wall. Kermit imagines him as they found him: down there on the floor, twisted into an awful position from the fall.
He takes a deep breath and says, “I got ‘em, Jim.”
It was a busy day at The Rotten Mandrake with the bad weather inviting everyone inside. On his way in, Kermit passed by two Squibs who were standing guard by the door. They offered barely an acknowledgement of his presence, but Kermit could feel them studying him. He didn’t exactly look the part of a comrade. He walked inside dressed in a denim jacket, blue jeans, and sneakers. There didn’t seem to be a dress code at The Rotten Mandrake, but Kermit didn’t have the look of a biker. The bigger of the two men tailed him inside.
The bar was packed, but Kermit managed to squeeze in between two hairy men with sleeve tattoos. He rapped his knuckles on the bartop and signaled for the bartender for a drink. While he waited, Kermit turned to the man on his right and pulled a photo of Willy from his jacket.
“You ever seen this fella?” he asked, then produced a copy of an x-ray to pair with the photo. “Maybe this will help jog your memory.”
“Is that an ankle bone?” the hairy man grunted.
“Yes it is,” Kermit replied. “Medical Transparency Act.”
“They need to repeal that law,” the man shook his head.”
“It’s a terrible law,” Kermit agreed.
Kermit turned at the sound of the bartender’s hand smacking down on the bar. He was as big as any of the other bikers in the bar, with a long white beard and a pair of Oakleys resting on his bald head. He spoke through yellowed teeth, “Are you drinkin’ or snoopin’?”
“Hoping to do a bit of both, sir,” Kermit replied, sliding the pictures along the counter so that they faced the bartender. “Firewhiskey and Red Bull, please.”
The bartender flicked the pictures back at Kermit with a snort. “Bad things happen to people who come round here askin’ questions, do’you know what I mean?”
“Yeah,” Kermit said. He backed off of the stool to step out into the middle of the bar. Everything had suddenly gone still. The chatter had died down and all the eyes in the joint were trained on him. Kermit took the photo from the bar and held it up into the rancid air. “I’m looking for this fellow, Willy,” he announced. “Little guy, weak ankles. He’s been spotted round here recently. Now I’m not looking to start any trouble, I just want to find this guy’s daughter.”
“Rusty!” the bartender growled. “Get rid of this guy.”
The big guy who had followed Kermit into the bar advanced forward. Kermit took a step back. Rusty was at least two heads taller than Kermit and a whole person wider. He had a bushy red beard and a head as bald as the bartender’s. Kermit moved back until he bumped against the pool table. Rusty rolled his sleeves up to reveal tattoos snaking up his monstrous forearms.
“Sorry, boss,” Rusty said. “Just followin’ orders.”
Kermit nodded in understanding, then reached for a pool cue. He took it in both hands before swinging. It snapped in two over Rusty’s head to the sound of boos from the bikers in the bar around him. Rusty just smiled, then cocked his arm back. The punch hit Kermit square on the cheek like a freight train. His neck snapped back and it was lights out before his sneakers left the dirty floor.
When Kermit woke up, he was bound to a chair in the basement of The Rotten Mandrake. His cheek stung. He could still hear the voices in the bar above him, but a new noise gave him alarm. It was a strange whirring sound, slowly approaching in the darkness of the basement.
“Hello?” Kermit called out. “Is that you, Willy?”
The figure appeared the through shadows, a stout robot slowly approaching on treads.
“Merlin,” Kermit breathed. “He really did build them a murder bot.”
When the robot reached Kermit, it extended its mechanical arm. Its hand came to rest on top of Kermit’s head and then, as slowly as it had approached, it began to squeeze.
“MY NAME IS…BZZZZ…KENNY KILLBOT…BZZZZ…MK III…KER-MIT PALANTINE…YOU HAVE BEEN DESIGNATED FOR…BZZZ…TERMINATION!”
Jacqueline McWilkinleyson
|
|