Let me tell you something about detectives. I should know - I am one. Writing this reminds me of that show, Seinfeld, when the lead character, Jerry, says, "Let me tell you a little something about comedy" and everyone rolls their eyes. Like, oh boy, here it comes. Well, you know, he was one so maybe they should have listened. But I'm getting off track. About detectives: Everyone thinks they know all about detectives. Well, they really don't, so let me set you straight on that before I get on with this story.

When most people nowadays think of detectives, they think of TV detectives. That's because more people watch television than go to movies. And there hasn't been much call for the "Private Eye" movie recently anyway. (By the way, I actually have "Hank Bledsoe, Private Eye" on the door to my office. Corny, yes. Unoriginal, without a doubt. But you should see the bulk of my clientele - they kind of expect that sort of thing.)
So people see, in their mind's eye, the Magnum, P.I. type of detective (muscle-bound with perfect hair) in shootouts and chasing after the bad guys, not to mention getting all the good-looking women. Well, here's the truth: If some guy pulls a gun on me, I tell him his shoelaces are untied and I run like crazy away from him, every time. I don't even look back. And if I hear gunshots, I run even faster. Also, even though I do have pretty nice hair, I have yet to end up with any good-looking women after a case.

Here's another truth about private investigators: We are not exactly men of action. Almost all of our time is spent doing one of two things: Waiting and thinking or waiting and not thinking. In between cases, we sit around the office and think about how to pay the bills, how to drum up some new clients (without paying for costly advertising), how to get into another line of work, etc. While in the office and actually on a case, we think about any and all angles to solve the case without getting killed, beat up or going to the police for help, in that order. The part about waiting and not thinking comes when we are on a case and out of the office. Contrary to the TV P.I., most of our time is not spent stowing away on yachts, hanging from airplanes or racing through town at breakneck speeds. It's spent sitting for long periods of time in beat-up cars checking out run-down apartments. These are called stakeouts and any time spent lost in thought will result in the loss of the subject we're staking out and any potential fees that could arise from the job. You really haven't experienced boredom until you have stared at a doorway for six hours waiting for someone to come out and just walk down the street. You let your mind wander, or worse, go to take a leak, for just a minute and you could miss everything. I'll spare you the details of how not to leave your car after drinking coffee continuously since sunup. But it has to do with refilling your thermos.

Another misconception about men in our profession is that our most important tool is our gun. That couldn't be further from reality. Oh, we all carry guns. It's expected of us. Since everyone always thinks of the pistol-packing private eye, we have to be a pistol-packing private eye. It's just the cost of doing business if we want to get hired. But the most indispensable item of our employ is our camera. Like I said earlier, most of us are not hunting down jewel thieves. We're collecting evidence against cheating spouses, people that slipped in the Wal-Mart and have a partially paralyzed right arm (and who are out golfing), and the occasional deadbeat that the repo man can't find. These are camera people, not gun people. In fact, many of my associates make more money by showing the pictures of a midnight tryst to the wayward husband before going to the wife. Some people say blackmail, others say good business sense.

Another common perception about detectives is that we drink a lot. This one is, in fact, mostly true. The popular notion of the bottle of Jack Daniels in the side desk drawer is pretty much right on target. The romantic idea that we need to take a shot or two to steel ourselves to fight evil is, sadly, more than a little off the mark. Some of my peers are just bums and lushes. Others fight the boredom with a couple of snorts and the looseness it provides. But the majority hit the bottle to steel themselves - but not in the way you think. They need it to face the idea that their profession has low pay, horrendous hours, can be dangerous and is the only way they know how to make a living.

I admit that I have a bottle handy also. But I actually like what I do and fight the boredom with music so my drinking is for a different reason. Being the small business owner that I am, health insurance for my employees (me) is a bear to obtain. Not to mention cost prohibitive. On rare occasions, I have met up with a "Knuckles" or a "Bruno" that has been hired to encourage me off a case. These occasions (thankfully I can count them on one hand, but I'm running out of fingers) would require an emergency room visit for most people. I just drag myself back to the office and self-medicate until I feel, if not no pain, at least a little less pain. These visits are always of the "lesson learning" variety and bones are rarely broken, so I guess no permanent harm, no foul.

Well, enough about me. If you're still reading, you want to hear about the case, right? I've had a few interesting cases over the years but this one seems to be the one that people enjoy hearing about the most. It's not so much about the money involved (though that is a factor, I'm sure) or that someone ends up dead (that definitely is a factor) but rather that someone like me could have solved something like this. I usually get a sideways look that says, You figured this out. Most people are too polite to actually say it out loud. This is also probably the reason that I tell it so much - I come out smelling pretty good. Before I give myself the Nobel Prize though, I guess I should tell you another reality about my business. Most of us aren't geniuses (although I do consider myself a cut above the average schmoe), we just happen to be at the right place at the right time. This is crucial to solving complex cases that are way above my intellectual levels. A little luck and a lot of just chipping away at a case and things usually work out. At least that's what happened this time.

This particular case was what novelists would call a "locked-room mystery." Everyone from Conan Doyle to Poe to Stephen King has tried their hand at one (I actually read a pretty good one 30 years ago from the Hardy Boys, of all people). The only difference is that those were just stories. As with any big case, it came about like a bolt out of the blue. Except she was dressed all in black.

There was no knock; the door to my office just flew open. Normally, I wouldn't have cared but I was caught with my feet up on my desk, eyes closed, listening to Bob Marley's Exodus.

"I'd like to hire you immediately," she said, before adding with a not quite pleasant smile, "If you're not too busy." Someday you should try to come out of a daydream while swinging your legs off the top of a desk and attempt to look dignified. It just can't be done.

"Can I help you?" I rasped out, immediately wishing that I could have mi mi mi'ed a couple of times like you do when the phone wakes you up and you don't want the caller to know you'd been sleeping. She knew.
"I said that I'd like to hire you immediately - and with no questions asked!" she said. Ah, finally, a slight upper hand. I smiled a little and she realized she had said something dumb. "I mean, of course you can ask questions, you're a detective. I meant I don't have time for you to drag out your answer," she added quickly.

"Well, now we're getting somewhere. My first question would be, 'What's the rush? And how do you know that you can afford me?'" I asked.

"That's two questions," she said. "To answer the second first, I asked around about fees and availability and your name came up at the bottom of the first list and the top of the second. Good enough for me." That stung my pride a little bit - nothing at all about my abilities? She wasn't done yet. "And then when I walked in…" She let her voice trail off as she waved her arms out, palms up, in silent appraisal of my dingy office and its Salvation Army furnishings.

"My, what a lovely disposition you have," I said. "Okay, here it is. I get 200 a day, plus expenses - 100 a day if I don't get what you need after two weeks." And boy, was I going to eat well if I took this one, just to stick it to her. "And I'll need at least 500 for seed money to get rolling." I raised my eyebrows to say, your court now, Honey.

"No chance," she said flatly. "I'll give you expenses so you don't go broke and I'll front you 200 dollars to get started but not a penny more unless I get the results I came for. If I do, then the big money comes your way. Keeps you working hard for the cause."

I had two quick questions. So as not too seem overly greedy, I went with the second one first. "What's the cause?" I asked.

"Ooh, a little more interested now, huh?" she purred. "Quite simply, I should be listed in my uncle's will to receive quite a nice sum of money, but for some reason I'm not. And for ten percent of my inheritance, I'd like you to find out why that is and rectify the situation."

Now seemed a good time for my first question. "How much are you supposed to be getting from this will?" I asked.

She shrugged. "I don't really know. About three or four million dollars."
I struggled not to whistle or suck in air. Even at ten percent, that was quite a nice sum of money. I smiled, and quite sincerely, I might add. "Where are my manners," I said graciously. "Sit down, take a load off and let's get acquainted. We have some business to discuss."

We did have some business to discuss; namely a contract. Before I got too giddy from the dollar signs in front of my eyes, I needed a name signed on the dotted line. I also needed a name, period. Turns out she was one Elizabeth Armstrong of 136 Almeida Drive. Nothing in the name or address that would suggest such cash. Anyway, since I'm not big on copiers or even typewriters, I pulled out two of my standard contracts, crossed out my normal fees, wrote in her offer (paying strict attention to the ten percent part), initialed it all over the place and had her sign them.

On TV or in the movies you never see the P.I. and clients going over a contract, but come on - I somehow reinstate this will to to the way it was and all of a sudden it's, Hank Bledsoe? Hmm, Hank Bledsoe… Nah, never heard of him. On the slim chance that this case was on the level, I wanted to be able to collect a fee. Speaking of the case, it turned out to be doozy (always wanted to use that word).

It seems that her uncle is (was) Thomas Bracken. I guess I should say the Thomas Bracken. like you do whenever you say a famous name and the first reaction of listeners is, You mean the (repeat name just said). Yeah, the Thomas Bracken. Now the dollar amounts were starting to make more sense. I had heard that he just died but it was all hush-hush. Well, I was about to learn the story behind the hush-hush. First, a little background in case any of you out there have recently been marooned somewhere. Thomas Bracken (and Bracken Industries) does nothing but invent things. He's known for the high-profile products (like the idea for the CD and, later, the DVD; the invention of the SteadyCam for movies and the "Space Pen" that can write upside-down, among others) but it was the less-flashy simple ones that made him his money (best example: Ziploc bags). As with any genius, Bracken had certain "peculiarities," the worst of which was his obsession with secrecy and propriety of his inventions. He poured all his own money into research, development and marketing of new ideas (so as not to be beholden to anyone) and paid the price if something failed. Bracken should have been wealthy beyond anyone's wildest dreams if not for some well-publicized debacles. Remember the fantastic (on paper) product of about 10 years ago - the fat substitute that tasted great! Yeah, great until people came down with explosive diarrhea, among other symptoms. That was Bracken Industries. The lawsuits alone would have wiped out a lesser company. So no one really knows how much Thomas Bracken is worth. This was confirmed by Elizabeth ("Oh, call me Betty, I'm not the Queen, you know.").

"So anyway, Uncle Tom was always kind of a weird guy. I guess if you're so smart in some areas, you use up a lot of space in your brain that could be used for other things," she said with another shrug, like it was common knowledge. I had never thought of that but it does make sense. "He was strange but cool, you know? People always shied away from him 'cause he had a reputation for being crazy. You know, 'There goes loony old Uncle Tom,' like he could all of a sudden go off on you. And that's just the thing. He never did crazy things; it was more like a crazy lifestyle. Once you figured out that it was just the way he lived, then he was really fun to be around. Not scary at all. He treated me like a peer even when I was ten or twelve. Maybe because no one else would hang with him, I don't know." She paused to take a breath and I saw my opening. This reminiscing was nice and all, but I wanted to get to the meat.

"So…this will concerned you how?" I tried.

"Hold your water, buddy, I'm getting to that. I'm giving you the whole picture here," Betty said, dismissing me with a wave. "And this stuff takes time if you want to do it right." With a hard look, she dared me to reply. I did not. I realized that sometimes it is nice to hear a good story, if it's told right.

"So anyway, I was the only one that liked him for him. I mean, his own kids greeted him with hands out not a handshake, let alone a hug. And his wife? Man, don't get me started on that money-grubber." Fearing she was starting to get started, I glanced up apprehensively. Betty caught my look, smiled and let me off the hook. "Yeah, well, the stories I could tell about her. To put it mildly, I was the one of the few that hung around for hanging around sake. Uncle Tom always said that I helped him with his work, even though I didn't actually invent anything. I guess he felt relaxed around me so he could think better. I think it was all relative. As you can tell, I'm not the most soothing person to be around; it's just that compared to his sicko family, I came off like pet therapy. You know, when people get old and their family members ignore them, they get a cocker spaniel or something that will just be there, no questions asked. Well, that was me." From the look on her face, it occurred to me that she really did miss Bracken and probably loved him for him. My cynical listening ear softened a little.

"So ever since I was about ten, Uncle Tom said he was going to leave me something in his will. Well, that really didn't mean anything to a ten year old; adults seem to live forever. Plus, I didn't have a concept of money back then. He kept saying that he would leave me ten percent of his money when he died."

I had to interrupt. "So that is how you arrived at my fee, huh? Ten percent of ten percent"

"Well yeah, that seemed fair since I really don't even know exactly how much he was worth," she said. "I have an idea because as I got older, I did form a concept of money and became almost obsessed with following the company's worth through the papers and my own research. I'm sure I seem as bad as his own family but I didn't ask for it, or demand it, like they did; I just wanted to know what I had coming. And the more I couldn't find out, the more I had to find out. Can you understand that? It was like a game. Uncle Tom was so secretive about his company and I couldn't come right out and ask him, could I?" She suddenly affected an overly cheery singsong voice. "'Well hello Uncle Tom, how are you today? How's the family? Seen any good movies lately? Oh, and by the way, how much are you worth so I can figure out my inheritance?'"

Her voice back to normal, she raised her eyebrows and shrugged, "So you see, I worked it out on my own, as best I could. I really think he was testing me to see if I caved in to the pressure and became like the rest of his family. I think that's why he kept saying a percentage and not a number. He expected me to ask. So there was no way I was going to. So, bottom line, here's what my research turned up: Bracken Industries was never worth less than 30 million or more than 40 million."

So that was the three to four million figure that had so corralled my interest. "Well, everything sounds good so far," I said. "But what about this promise of an inheritance? Was it just that - a promise, or was it on paper?" Yet another question that did not exactly endear me to my new client.

"What, you think I just fell off the turnip truck? Of course I saw it in writing. I saw the actual will. It was even notarized, or whatever you call it, and everything. But now it's different."

Now we were getting somewhere. "Explain different," I said.

"Well, today was the funeral," she began (ah, the reason behind the head to toe black attire), "and afterwards some lawyer -looking guy explained about the reading of the will and read off a list of those involved who should show up. Neither me or Uncle Tom's family was on the list. Now I could give a rat's ass about his family but I know we were both in the will. He would only let me see the part that concerned me but they were listed right above me so I know we were both in. And now we're out!"

She had stood up during her turnip truck rant but now she plopped back into her chair as if exhausted and frustrated by the experience and story behind it. I'm sure she was both. I wanted to give her a little time to recover but time is money and I wasn't getting any right now. I pressed on. "So tell me," I asked as delicately as possible, "how did Mr. Bracken die." Her answer was not what I expected, even in my line of business.
"He committed suicide, but he didn't!" she said. My look was enough to get her to give a little more. "They said he killed himself, but he was murdered! I know it!"

If there was any way to get my attention more than by offering me large sums of money, Betty had just found it. This would fall into the arena of negative attention, though. I don't know about you, but murder kind of gives me the heebie-jeebies, private eye or not. I had one thing on my side though - most people that cry Murder! are usually a) mistaken or b) crackpots. Time to figure out which one I was dealing with. "Okay, slow down," I said, putting up my hands, palms forward in a calming motion. She was having none of that.

"I'm not a crackpot," she burst out. Maybe not, but was she psychic? Things were getting curiouser and curiouser. I gave her time to explain. "I know it seems crazy but Uncle Tom would never kill himself," she said. "He always said that he could never die because he had too many things left to fix. Whoever killed him didn't know that!"

"Okay," I said. "Tell how it happened and we'll go from there." The air seemed to go completely out of her when I said that, as if what I was about to hear would have me scrounging around the office for a straightjacket. She wasn't far off. She bit her lower lip, braced herself, sucked in a big gulp of air and let loose with a monologue that seemed to come all in one breath.

"Uncle Tom wasn't crazy, I told you that, but he did some weird things like especially the one on the day he died, I mean was killed, which was to lock every door and window and entrance into his house when he wanted to work, like someone would burst in and steal his thoughts or something, which - all right - does seem a little out there if you didn't know him like I did, but I did know him so it was okay, but it wasn't on that day since he was found with a bullet in his brain and a gun in his hand and his head on his desk and every door in the place locked from the inside!" She finally took a breath and plowed forward, slowing a little bit. "He also left a note which is one of the two, no three!, reasons that I know he didn't do it. Besides telling me he wouldn't, listen to this note! 'I, Thomas Leland Bracken, being of sound mind, wish to end my life.' What a crock of bull! Uncle Tom didn't talk all legal like that and he hated his middle name so he would have never used it. They didn't know that either. And now, all of a sudden, the will is changed." She crossed her arms, finished. But I had more than a couple things to clear up.

"So, let me sum this up, if I may," I said. "Your uncle's house is locked up tighter than Fort Knox - I'm betting he had alarms all over the place, right?" She nodded. "He's found dead with a gun in his hand, face down on his desk, and there's even a suicide note. Am I right so far?" Another nod. "Finally, his niece who, by the way, has just been taken out of the will, comes into a private detective's office and claims foul play." I paused for a minute to let all this sink in - for both of us. The chances of my taking this case were evaporating rapidly, and we both knew it. It was becoming what we call in my profession "a pure dog" - a case so pedigreed against how the client saw it that you had absolutely no chance of solving it. Oh, you could take them for a couple of bucks (and I will admit I have done this once or twice when the rent was due) but it's a lousy feeling since they had so much hope for a solution. Their solution. I didn't want to do that to Betty, especially since she wasn't wealthy and it didn't look like she was going to be anytime soon.

My reverie was broken by a rustling sound. Betty was getting up to leave. I guess the futility of her case finally dawned on her. "Sorry to take up so much of your time," she mumbled.

As she was starting out the door, I suddenly remembered something she had said earlier and needed an answer before she left forever. "Wait a second," I almost yelled. "Something's bugging me. You said that there were three reasons that you knew your uncle hadn't killed himself. You only gave me two. What's the third?"
She paused at the door and looked at me so long without moving that I thought she was in some sort of a trance. I was about to say something when she finally spoke. "My uncle was a slob. He had no manners. He wore the same clothes two or three days in a row. And he had no real friends. He felt that he had only one thing going for him - he was maybe the smartest, most creative man alive. He might have jumped off a building; he might have taken sleeping pills. He might have even thrown a rope over a beam. But he would have never, ever have put a bullet into his brain. Not his brain!" When she was done she continued to stare at me, watery-eyed but refusing to cry.

I took the case.

****

Now that I was on the case, what to do first? One look back at Betty and I knew she had to get home and get some sleep. I called her a cab (item #1 on my newly formed expense account) and told her to stay by her phone, in case I needed her. And I knew I would since my best questions and ideas always formed as soon as the client left my presence. While we were waiting, I did know enough at least to get from her the name, date and place of the reading of the will. I also asked for a list of people who might want her uncle dead. Off the top of her head, she could only tell me the people she knew who couldn't have done it - Tom Bracken's family. Oh, she moaned, she wished that she could pin it on them but they were out of the will, just like she was, so what was in it for them? She said she'd think about it and let me know.

We had both settled into a sort of thought-filled funk when a horn startled the hell out of us. The cab. I guess this case made me a little more jumpy than I let on. Anyway, as soon as Betty was out the door, I grabbed the phonebook and looked up Carrington S. Whitlock III. Two things hit me as soon as I saw his name in print. One, I instantly took a dislike to him and he went to the top of my so far non-existent suspect list. On name alone, I hoped he had something to do with this mess. Carrington? Puh-leeze. If I were talking out loud, I would definitely be rolling my eyes. And two, I was wondering why no one with a III after his name is ever named Bub or Hoss or even just Jimmy, for God's sake. Its always Wentworth or Montgomery or Carrington. This from a Hank, the First.

Anyway, it was time for a little subterfuge. I identified myself as Henry K. Bledsoe, Esq. (two can play that game) and said I was retained by Elizabeth Armstrong to look after her interests in the estate of the late Thomas Bracken. So far, no lies. This is where my superior intellect comes into play. Almost everyone thinks that Esq. after someone's name means said person is an attorney. Not so. The word esquire actually means a landed country gentleman but was appropriated in its abbreviated form as an honorific (or ceremonial) title by the legal profession, among others. My superior intellect came into play by opening a dictionary and finding out that anyone can call themselves an Esq. And Betty did, in fact, retain me to check on her interests. With amazing ease, both Betty and I were allowed to be present for the reading of the will. Professional courtesy, I'm guessing, seeing as how I was now part of the brethren.

I had two days to get as much info as I could before our meeting. I figured that I should start at the scene of the crime (always wanted to say that, too). I needed access to Bracken's house. This would actually prove easier than you'd think. Since it was ruled a suicide, there was no scene of the crime in the eyes of the police, so there would be no yellow tape or sealed entrances to circumvent. I feared that Betty would not be up to it, but after I told her we were going to the will reading, she seemed pretty psyched to get rolling. We planned to meet at her apartment and drive over together. You know, like old friends who were in the neighborhood and just decided to drop by.

Pulling up to her complex, I could see that she could use any money that would come her way from Bracken's estate. It wasn't one of the places that I had staked out on other jobs, but it sure could have been. It wasn't that it was falling apart or had paint peeling off the walls or anything obvious. It just had that look that immediately told you that you were not in the high (or medium) rent district. Once inside the hallway to her apartment, another unmistakable sign hit me square in the face. Or nose, I should say. Years and years of cigarette smoke clung to the walls and would be added to in the years to come. I wasn't expecting much better when Betty answered my knock but I was in for a nice surprise. The room was small but immaculate and, well, I guess the best word would be cozy. You could see that she didn't have a lot of money but she sure wasn't going to live low rent. She had paintings on the walls (real paintings, not the Starving Artists Blowout!! All Sales Final!! variety), nice furniture (that looked like you could actually sit on it for more than two minutes without a spring jabbing you in the butt) and clean carpeting. That was the kicker - many places seem clean, but check out the carpet for stains, cigarette burns and non-existent vacuuming and you'll get the whole picture.

The other surprise was Betty herself. To say that she had pulled herself together would have been a gross understatement. Gone was the funeral attire; replaced by a yellow sundress with blue dots (which, as I came closer, became small clumps of blueberries) and sandals. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, which caused her to look years younger than she had in my office. I don't know what age she was; she just looked younger. I can't for the life of me figure out people's ages. I think I got screwed up as a kid when we lived in Louisiana. Our family would go see a Cajun band and these old guys up there with their accordions and fiddles could have been anywhere from 50 to 150 years old. I could never tell. And I still can't. I once turned in a file on a cheating husband to his wife that contained this sentence: "Suspect and wife, both mid-forties, have been employed at the same company for the past seven years." A pretty innocuous sentence, right? Well, you couldn't be more wrong and neither could I. She was 28 and angry enough to try to withhold payment for that job. So no way was I guessing Betty's age. )

But the thing that really got me was her smile. It was so smooth and natural that you could tell it was something that she liked to do. Under different circumstances, of course. Could this possibly be the same person who, not an hour ago in my office, looked so defeated and worn out? It's truly amazing how a little show of teeth, a little upturn at the sides of a mouth could transform a person. She seemed to be able to hold that smile forever. That is, until she caught me giving her the once over. "What? You checking me out?" she said, eyes narrowing.
Was I? Maybe. I smiled. "No, of course not. But remember, we're old friends out for an afternoon drive in the country."

"Oh, right," she said. Was it me or did I detect a flicker of disappointment. She recovered quickly. "But you just remember, no funny business!" Now the smile was back and off we rode to see what we could find out.

I had never been to the Bracken estate but knew the general area so I figured it was probably a little past the hotel on the right. That is, until Betty suddenly said, "Turn here" and I realized that it wasn't a hotel after all. I tried, too late, to not let my eyes go wide. Betty caught it and said, "I know what you're thinking, 'Boy, does he live better than her.' Well, I only work-"

"Hey, he lives better than everyone," I said, cutting her off. "Listen, contrary to popular belief, your belief, I actually like you. You don't have to always come off as so tough. I don't know if you realize this but I'm not just working for you - we're working together to get to the bottom of this. I need you as much as you need me. And you do need me, so let's get on the same page, okay?" Not bad. But actually pretty standard stuff when a client is giving you a hassle. It's the client's reaction that counts. There's always this little delayed reaction from the client when you can actually see them thinking 'What the---? Did he just scold/lecture/yell at me? He doesn't even know me!' What comes next is either fight back or accept. The smart ones (at least from my perspective) accept. Betty, I knew, was no dummy. And she didn't disappoint me. She bit the inside of her cheek and looked down for a moment. Looking back at me, she said, "You're right. I'm being stupid." And that was it. No excuses. No blame. Nothing at all. It was over and time to move on to better (and hopefully, more profitable) things.

We pulled into the circular drive (just like a hotel) and parked right in front. Betty had a key so we went right in. It didn't seem like anyone was home but how could you tell with something of this size? Walking through this thing was like being in a museum without the tour guides. Well, I guess you could call Betty my tour guide since I could not have found my way around without her. Betty explained that Bracken hated the house for its sheer size alone, but his family talked him into it. When we got to his study, I could see that she was telling the truth. It was the barest, leanest room I've been in since my short vacation in the county lockup (that's a whole 'nother story - maybe I'll put that one down on paper sometime). The door was off to the side ("They had to bust it down since it was bolted from the inside," Betty explained) and there was a stain on the carpet (I think you know why) but otherwise nothing looked out of place. Here's the whole room: A desk with a phone at the corner, a chair, a reading lamp and three file cabinets. That's it. No windows, no paintings, no nothing. It was weird. The first thing that I thought of was The Wizard of Oz. You know, when Dorothy's house is sucked up by the twister and is dumped into Oz? She goes to the door (in black and white), opens it and sees the most glorious colors imaginable outside. Well, this was the same, only in reverse!

Betty noticed my look and said, "I know, it gets everyone the first time. It's such a juxtaposition from the rest of the house, huh?" Now I was reeling from Betty, too. Juxtaposition? Where in the hell did that come from? I looked at her and she was giving me the you-know-what eating grin. "I had the same feeling you did," she explained, "so I looked it up downstairs in the library. You're the first person I got to use it on. Lucky you. Anyway, Uncle Tom called it his Reality Room. He'd say, 'The other 30 rooms are fantasy. This is the real world. This is where the money was earned to build those fantasy rooms.' I actually kind of grew to like it in here, except I had to sit on the floor."

As she was speaking, I realized that this was probably the first time that she was back in this room since the suicide. She seemed amazingly okay about being here. Betty began edging over to the bloodstain. "I know what that is," she said. "I thought it would really bother me but it's not…real. I mean, it's obviously real, but in everyone's mind that's the blood of my uncle's suicide and I know its not. I'll probably feel different when we find out who did it but for now, it's not real." And that was that. Again, no other explanation was needed or given.
Where to start? Well, where would you start? How about a door that's not just locked from the inside, but actually bolted. Memo to novice detectives: Doors can be locked from the inside and then pulled shut upon leaving a crime. Doors can only be bolted by someone on the inside who is staying in there! Unless someone could climb out of the nonexistent window or slide under the door, no one was in the room with Bracken. But there was no denying that he was dead and the gun was in his hand. I was obviously missing something. That is, if I believed that this was murder and not suicide. I was working pretty hard on the former but if this was the Reality Room, then the reality was that he was alone the whole time. After a few more minutes of blank stares at the walls, I knew I would have to do what I didn't want to do - get the police involved.

I don't know if you remember me telling you earlier about the way I approach solving a case. Quick review: 1) Don't get killed; 2) Don't get beat up; 3) Don't go to the police. Well, that's my order. I have quite a few associates that flip-flop 3) with 2). And some put 3) squarely at the top of their list. I don't hang around with those nut jobs too often. I'm more than a little allergic to stray bullets. So, while I may not want to get help from the police, I recognize the benefits in a lost cause. And this fit that bill. I took Betty home and, tail tucked tightly between my legs, went off to see Officer Friendly.

The only thing that made my needing the police's help even slightly bearable was the fact that my contact's name actually was Officer Friendly. I think this is why, while not actually friends, we get along okay. Bill Friendly recognized the inherent absurdity and unbelieveability of his name, given his chosen profession. And I recognized that he had undoubtedly heard every stupid, obnoxious and unfunny joke on the subject and, for once, had shown a little restraint in the matter. Bill has only two set-in-stone rules of our relationship: First, if his help leads to an arrest, he gets the collar; and second, we can never meet at the precinct station. Something about his reputation being on the line.

Here's how it usually goes with us: I call, he sighs, I tell him what I need, he puts up a big show about how this is the last time he can help me and then we meet for lunch or beers. Since it was too late for lunch, we arranged to meet at BoBo's in an hour.

I was a little hungry so I left for BoBo's right away. Not to eat but to drink. BoBo's is a kind of place that you need to get a couple of beers in you before you order your meal, if you catch my drift. Have you ever noticed that the bars that serve food are always a lot darker than regular bars? I guess the idea is that if you order a cheeseburger and something is placed before you, it could be a cheeseburger, only how can you tell if you can't see it. And please don't say, 'Go by smell.' Please don't even think that. BoBo's takes this premise to the nth degree. Some days (when the fryer badly needs its yearly cleaning) you'd need a Seeing Eye dog to enter the place.

Anyway, I was halfway through my beef (?) poorboy when Bill walked in. You could tell some of the other patrons had been there a little too long when they cringed like Dracula from the momentary light from the open door. Bill's eyes adjusted and he grabbed the seat next to me. He ordered his longnecks (which, per custom, I paid for) and opened a very thin file. "As you can see, we don't have too much on this case," he started. One good thing about Bill was that he never asked my involvement; he just laid out the facts as they had been collected. The cop-speak started immediately. "Call into 911 logged at 4:12 PM from wife. Returning from shopping, wife attempted to elicit response from deceased in locked study. Negative. Upon arrival, officers also attempted to elicit response. Negative. Door opened forcibly. Upon entering, officers noticed deceased with head on desk, .32 still in right hand. Flash point test confirmed gun fired from close range, most likely pressed against skull. It goes on in this vein for a while, need more?"

"No," I said. "Unless there was anything peculiar or out of the ordinary."

"Well, that's just it," Bill said. "Everything points to a suicide. Door bolted from inside; file cabinets not disturbed in any way, as far as we could tell; money in wallet; no other fingerprints on gun or door, etc. At first, we thought maybe robbery as a motive. You know - leave the wallet, there's gold in them thar files. Bracken had every invention he ever patented, and some still out there, in those files. But we went over them with a fine-tooth comb and nothing was missing."

"What about taking pictures of the files?" I asked.

Even in the near total darkness, I caught the drift of the look he gave me. "You been watching too much James Bond," Bill said. "Even if the alleged perpetrator had a camera in his tie clip, or something, those jobs are done with no one around so as not to call attention to the crime. There was sure attention on this one." He paused and thought for a minute. "Except for one thing…" Bill's voice trailed off.

"What?" I asked, surprised. "What one thing?"

"Well, it's actually nothing - we already checked it out but it just bugs me as a loose thread in an otherwise closed case." He continued to stare at the folder.

I didn't even try to keep the desperation out of my voice. "What, already? I'm dying over here. Give me something. Anything!"

"Okay, okay. We know Bracken died at 2:48 PM but…"

"Wait," I interrupted. "I may not know much but I do know that the best a Medical Examiner can do on time of death is a window of about two hours. No M.E. would…"

Now it was my turn to get interrupted. "M.E.? M.E.?" Bill snarled. "We don't need no stinkin' M.E." It was a lousy Treasure of the Sierra Madre impersonation but a smile broke out for the first time since he had arrived at the bar. He paused for effect, then said, "Bracken's head fell onto his left wrist and broke his watch at 2:48 PM. Just superior detective work. You could learn from us. May I continue?" I motioned him on. "As I was saying, we know he died at 2:48 but he received a phone call at 2:44. It lasted for less than 20 seconds."
"Huh?" I couldn't control myself. "How do you know that the phone call lasted less than 20 seconds?"
Bill rubbed his eyes then gave me a look like 'Can a guy tell a story over here?' He sighed (over dramatically, I might add). When he spoke, he used the voice one might use when teaching a three year old (a dense three year old) how to wash his hands. "The phone company in our fine city records their calls in units and thirds for billing purposes, with a unit being a minute and a third being, well, a third of that. You with me so far?" I nodded. "So a call lasting, say, six minutes and thirty-four seconds would be logged 6 2/3. But calls are logged no matter how long they last. And this particular call had no units or thirds listed after it. So obviously…"

I almost missed my cue. "It lasted less than 20 seconds."

"And you call yourself a detective," Bill muttered under his breath.

"Ah, excuse me," I said, "I didn't catch that last part."

"Nothing, nothing. May I continue - again?"

"Oh, please do," I said, smiling weakly.

"So anyway, not only was the call quite brief, it was made from a phone booth. We looked back months and it was the only incoming call to that number. There were quite a few outgoing but only the one incoming. We figure it was a wrong number. It's just the timing, you know…"

I asked where the phone booth was located. He gave me the address and suddenly I saw a little light at the end of the tunnel. And it wasn't someone coming into the bar. "I think I'm gonna give that loose thread a little pull and see if I can't unravel this whole thing," I said as I tossed down a twenty (expense account) to cover our beers and my food. "And the Dolphin is going to help me pull." Even through the darkness, the look on Bill's face told me that he could see me grinning like the village idiot.

PART II coming in the June 2005 issue of Mysterical-E