The Detective
The Girl Who Died on the Toilet
If you were to walk down a specific back alley in Paris, France, you would come across a lone door. This door has no signs or markings other than two words in the center the detective. On the other side of this door was a man in an over-sized brown coat, slick black hair and a bowler hat on his head. When you went inside the nondescript door there was only dim light on because it helped the man focus. The man known simply as the Detective; he was known to solve any case you give him for the right price. On one chilly day that threatened snow, a distraught little woman walked through the door to seek the Detective’s assistance. Once she was seated and offered a croissant she stated her dilemma. “My child has been kidnapped.” This made it difficult for the detective to not smile. In his twisted mind kidnappings and murders were the most fun. Unfortunately for him most people did not agree. “Go on,” he says as he hid the smile threatening to creep onto his face. The women gave him all of the information that she had and the Detective set to work. Though there was not much to work with. Put simply, the case was that this woman's daughter was going to school with some friends. They stopped to pick up pastries. The daughter never left. The friends said that she went to the bathroom and it never occurred to them that she did not leave when they did. To solve this case with such little information and unreliable witnesses, the mother did the only thing she could, contact the famed detective. He started on the case and would hope to quickly discover a lead. His investigation took him to the pastry shop. As he walked inside the Detective looked around the building. He went into the bathroom the girl had went in and examined it. There was no other exit other than the one door. The room has heavy with the scent of blood and was poorly masked with the flowery smell of a potted plant sitting in the corner of the room. “How odd. This is intriguing.” he whispers to himself. The Detective glided over to a small cabinet under the single sink. The cabinet contained a towel, wet with blood. The Detective did not have to be as smart as he was to deduce that this blood belonged to the woman's daughter. She was either dead or seriously injured judging by how thickly caked the towel was with blood. The floor looked freshly scrubbed of any evidence, it was clear where it was cleaned based on the fact that only a small portion of the floor did not have a layer of grime on it. If the murder was committed here then the criminal did an adequate job of cover their tracks. The possible suspects began tumbling through his mind. He got held up on one particular man, the janitor. Who else would have unsuspicious access to the bathroom with a cart that could hold weapons instead of mops. But if it were the janitor, why would he attacked an innocent little girl? Again, the detective wanted to grin when he remembered the security cameras strategically placed in the upper corner outside of the bathroom hallway. Perhaps, he would have peek at the camera monitors located in the manager's office just down the hall. However, when the Detective walked in the office to check the cameras he saw it, the lifeless body of a 12 year old girl wearing a school uniform and a backpack. The rest of the room looked untouched. The Detective walked over to the computer located in the far corner of the room. The sole of his shoes clicked on the polished floor. He awoke the computer and it prompted a password. While his eyes scanned the room for photos of other hints of what the manager would use for a password he heard the click of a gun being cocked. The Detective put his hands in the air and turned around. What he saw was a middle aged man with unruly hair and clothed in a janitor uniform. He looked weak, maybe heartbroken or just drunk. He had a lopsided snarl on his face. “I knew the feds would contact you eventually. The famed detective” The mans voice was uneven and his tone was almost mocking. “The police knew they couldn’t outsmart me. So what are you going to do, oh famous detective. Going to arrest me?” Now the man was taunting. The detective remained calm and silent. “ Only problem Detective, I’m the one with the gun. How foolish of you to only be armed with your mind when tracking down a murderer. I killed a girl. Well you found me. I murdered her. But you won’t be taking me in.” When the man said girl, his tone had soften slightly. Teared welled in his eyes but he refused to let the Detective see his pain. The detective observed, still silent. What had made this man become so emotionally unstable? Only then did it click in his mind. The detective focused on the man’s eyes, hidden under a mop of tangled brown hair. He recognized them, but from where. The murder continued ranting “ I have avenged you Abby” He screamed, his voiced show his pain for this “Abby”. “Why you, first I loose your mother and then you. Both because of me and the drink. My hands are filthy in my families blood. It stings but I can wash it off. Why! Why!” The man was now kneeling on the floor, hand together, and looking at the ceiling. Suddenly, the murder remember where he had seen this man. The murderer had been in the news. About three months ago a father and his daughter were in a car crash. It was on the way home from his wife’s funeral. The father was drunk. The daughter, Abigail, died and when the father became sober again and realised what he had done he vanished. No one had seen him until the detective, at this moment. His daughter was 12. It all made sense to the detective. The father was mumbling something unintelligible, driving himself mad with the blame of taking his daughter's life. To compensate for his guilt he takes the life of other people’s daughters so they can feels his pain. The man was now standing but gazing down down at the girl. She had the same color hair as him, she looked like his dead daughter. Now, the man glared at the detective and tried to advance and shoot him but tripped over the girl’s body because he was drunk. The gun fired and the bullet hit the man in the heart, the part of him that already was in unbearable pain. The Detective was unfazed. He walked around the two bodies and made a simple phone call. Less than an hour later the police were on the crime scene scouring the bakery for evidence and whisking the bodies away. The girl’s mother, the woman who asked him to take on the case, was outside, bawling. In the misted of the organised chaos the Detective faded into the background. There were too many people around, it was no longer his place to be there. He had solved the case, found the murderer, and justice had been done. The Detective was actually carrying a gun. The man was wrong about that. But he rarely needed to pull it. When people are in pain they are their own enemy. As he found his way out, he tipped his hat the police chief and shook hands with the mother. Then he straightened his jacket, put on his bowler hat, and slipped down a back alley hidden in the shadows. The darkness masks just one of the many secrets in the city, a door which the man entered. It had no markings other than the simple words, the Detective.