Wrong Place, Right Time
Wrong Place, Right Time
Finn takes on a new client.
Author’s note: This is Episode 2 of “Catching the Impossible Killer”. Here’s a link to the full index so you can catch up on the previous story. Enjoy!
Over the years, I’ve met clients in all sorts of strange ways: masquerade balls, speed dating, messages in bottles, not to mention that one time when a client abducted me to a different country that I cannot name for legal reasons. Still, getting punched by one after chasing her down the street was a new one, even for me.
Why was I chasing June? Simple: she was running, so I followed her. It seemed like a good idea at the time. I tend to do a lot of things that seem like a good idea at the time but later end up backfiring on me in the worst ways. It’s all part of my process.
After she realized I wasn’t who she thought I was, June apologised profusely and helped me to my feet. There was a cafe nearby and we got to know each other over two steaming cups of espresso.
When I’d first spotted her, the only fleeting impression I had of June was that she reminded me of Little Red Riding Hood. It was her hair, which was dyed a dark red that matched her coat. As June told me all about her morning, I noticed several new details about her that I filed away for future reference. There were several aspects of her story that I found odd. These I gave my full attention.
“Did the police tell you where your aunt died?” I asked. June thought they’d said she was killed in the bedroom, but she couldn’t be sure. I had a strange feeling.
“I’ll take the case,” I said. June looked taken aback and I realised I hadn’t told her about my job. I explained to her that I was a private investigator (license pending) and that this was exactly the sort of thing I did for a living. She looked unconvinced.
“Look, it’s not that I don’t believe you,” she said. “It’s just that… I can hardly believe it all myself. You need to understand; six hours ago, my mum was waking me up to go to the airport. This is a lot to take in.”
I apologised. I suppose it’s possible I’ve become a little numb to chaos and violence. Or perhaps the better term is immunized. I asked her if there was something I could do to help.
She considered for a second and asked, “Are you really a detective? Like in the stories?”
“More or less,” I said. “Why?”
June smiled for the first time since I’d met her. It was a shaky, overwhelmed, broken sort of smile, but with a hint of mischief. I committed it to memory.
“Do the thing,” she said. “The Sherlock thing. Analyse me.”
I’ll admit, I did not see that coming. That doesn’t mean I didn’t enjoy it.
“Look, anyone can do that,” I told her. “It’s just noticing details. After a point, it runs on autopilot. This… Holmes Test is no proof of someone’s investigative abilities.”
“Do it,” she insisted.
I really do mean that by the way. Anyone can do it. Here, follow along with me:
June was wearing a faded law school t-shirt that was at least a few years old.
Her nail paint was chipped, more so on the index, ring, and middle fingers.
Her haircut and manicure were at least six months old, and she’d started biting her nails again during that time.
It’s obvious, right?
“You passed the bar six months ago and you got a job right after, which you subsequently quit. You stay with your parents, and play a lot of video games, usually on your computer. I know that this isn’t the person you want to be and you’ve been trying to change that, hence the move to a new city. But now you’re starting to wonder if you’re cursed, or worse, crazy. But I have good news for you, June.”
“What’s that?” she asked. She sounded like she was in shock, and I wondered if I’d overdone it.
“You’re not crazy,” I assured her. “And you’re certainly not cursed. I’m something of an expert on that. No, you’re right, this was no burglary. Your aunt was murdered, possibly by her neighbour, and I’m going to find out why. So long as that’s okay with you, of course.”
June didn’t say anything at first. She had a long sip of her coffee, shuddered at the taste, and took a deep breath.
“That’s the spookiest thing I’ve ever seen,” she said. “The case is yours. Can you show me how you did that?”
Proving June’s suspicions was easier said than done. The crime scene had already been sealed and the body taken away to be autopsied, so there was nothing for me to examine; not yet, anyway. Still, we swung by the building and I had June point out her Aunt’s window to me.
It was towards the back of the building. There was a fire escape, which was accessible from the alley behind, but it was on the other side of the building, nowhere near the flat where the murder was committed. There was, however, another window on the sixth floor that could easily be reached from the fire escape, which happened to be open. I had a feeling I knew whose window that was.
“We need to meet a friend of mine,” I told June. “But first, let’s find you a place to freshen up and drop your bags. I’ll make the arrangements.”
The funny thing about human beings is that we easily forget that our life is just one thread in the grand tapestry of life. Things happen, all at the same time and all over the world. Sometimes just a few hundred feet away. And we have no way of being aware of these simultaneous events because our self-centeredness is a necessary survival mechanism.
When I was standing in that alley looking up at the windows, I had no way of knowing that I was not at the beginning of this story but near its end. While I was down there, upstairs, the killer opened the door of 601.
With a large suitcase behind him, he broke the police tape sealing 602, picked the lock and entered the scene. Minutes later, he came out of the flat without the suitcase, then sealed the door again using a stolen roll of tape. Then the killer looked up at the CCTV camera.
There was a red light blinking beneath its dusty eye. He gave it a thumbs up and returned to 601, closing the door behind him.
I had a feeling June couldn’t afford a hotel so I took her to my flat instead. At the time, I lived alone in a tiny studio apartment that consisted of two small boxes (or rooms as my landlord calls them) and a kitchenette.
“Sorry about the mess,” I told her, trying to put things into some semblance of order.
June laughed, dropping her bags in a corner. “This looks just like my room,” she said.
She took off her coat and went to the bathroom to freshen up. She returned a few minutes later, wiping her hands with a small towel.
“That was really impressive,” she said. “How you just… saw right through me. A little scary too, to be honest. How did you do it?”
“Well, you’re wearing a law school t-shirt that’s at least three years old,” I explained. “You probably bought it in your first year. You still wear it, so it hasn’t been long since you graduated, and the last bar exam was six months ago.”
“Obviously,” June nodded. “But the rest-”
“From the state of your nails,” I continued. “I’d say that’s also around the time you started your first job. But it was stressful, considering you started biting your nails again. I know you quit because you stopped getting them done, which means you no longer felt like keeping up appearances. The nail paint is chipped in a particular pattern consistent with PC gamers.”
“But how did you know I’m trying to change?” she asked. “How could you know how I felt about myself? That I’m not happy with who I am?”
“That was the most obvious one,” I smiled. “You’re here, aren’t you? You’re already making a change, and I promise you, it’s worth it.”
She looked surprised, and, dare I say, pleased. I decided not to tell her that her haircut was the real reason why I knew she was unhappy. When people want to make a change, they almost always start with their hair.
To Be Continued.
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