Monday, 11:30 AM:
There was a knock at the door. I set down my glass.

“Door’s open.”

The door wasn’t open, but using the phrase to suggest that someone should come in wasn’t unusual. What was unusual was that the door didn’t open after I said it. Arguably, it’s society itself that’s unusual- would an objective viewer find my expectation that the door should open after I said that it already was at fault? Regardless, what was truly unusual was what I found when I opened the door.

It was a man. Well, I guess it doesn’t sound unusual yet, but just wait. He was dead. Should I have just come right out and said that when I introduced him? That would have been clearer. What was clear to me now was that I would need another drink.

Monday, 12:45 PM:
After a couple sips of scotch, I returned to the door. I opened it expecting to find the body of a dead man. And there he was. Not so unusual after all, I guess. It was time to start the investigation.

I dragged the body into the office and set him on the chair opposite my desk. The first step in solving an unusual problem is making it into a usual one. Usually, cases were brought to me by the living and ended when those individuals died. This case would be different. But I could make it familiar.

I manipulated his jaw with my left hand and spoke out of the side of my mouth so I wouldn’t notice I was talking.

Monday, 1:00 PM:
He was a large man, the sort of guy it would take a good ten minutes to drag across an office. His dimples suggested that he was normally quite a jovial fellow, but from his grim pallor, I could tell that something was wrong. His skin was soft, he clearly took good care of himself. But now his clean-shaven face was giving way to stubble, a rough and distracting contrast.

“I have a situation,” he said, “I very urgently need your help.”

“Well if it’s my help you’re looking for, you’ve come to the right place. Because this is the place that I provide help in exchange for payment. But I gotta let you know, I don’t work for free.”

“Name your price.”

I reached for his wallet and flipped through for cards and cash. Jackpot. I put the wallet back.

“I need two grand, cash. And I need to use your credit card for expenses.”

He reached his hand into his pocket clumsily and fumbled around for a bit before giving up and asking me to get it. I obliged.

“Alright, buddy, what’s the problem.”

“I think,” he said, “I’ve been murdered.”

“Well, I can see that. Looks like you’ve been stabbed to death, and then stabbed a few more times. Can you tell me anything more?”

He grimaced. Well, his jaw dropped anyway. I pulled his license out of his wallet.

“Name’s Tony. Tony Sputnik.”

“Damn it!” I had guessed his name would be Lawrence Kensington, and I had been confident enough to put it on the first page of my notebook. I really needed to start working in pencil.

“I’m 41, I’ve got black hair and blue eyes-“

“I can see what colour your hair and eyes are, moron.”

“Fair point. But what you can’t see is my address. You could see it on my license, though.”

Monday, 3:00 PM:
I let Tony crash in my back office and headed for his home. It was a ways out of the city, so I had a couple drinks and then called a cab. His house was substantial and he had lent me his keys, so I let myself in. The house was dark, and it remained that way until I turned the lights on, at which point it became well-lit and magnificent. People with houses like this don’t get stabbed to death. Not unless they’re involved in something criminal. At long last, this was an angle, but I would need more evidence.

I wandered from room to room until I found the kitchen. The thing about kitchen cabinets is that they’re opaque. If there’s evidence in there, you’ve got to swing those bad boys open. Cabinets full of glassware. Cabinets full of croutons. A cabinet with a single document, a recently received letter from a cohort. A cabinet for a lone egg. A cabinet full of liquor. I took the letter with me and left.

Monday, 7:30 PM: I woke up with a start. I had been sitting on a couch in the dark, but it wasn’t dark anymore. Drawing on recently gathered knowledge, I moved my gaze to the light switch. There she was. She was beautiful, a 20-something blonde, the sort of woman you’d have no trouble dragging across your office. Her expression was somewhere between quizzical and terrified.

“Mrs. Sputnik?” I ventured. Her eyes answered affirmatively. “I’m afraid your husband is dead, from murder. As a result of being murdered too much. Well, once. Once is too much when it’s times being murdered, don’t you think?”

She stepped back. “Oh my god. Are you with the police?”

The POLICE! Of course! They could have been indispensable on this job. See, that’s my main problem. I get all tangled up in details, and sometimes they’re not the most important ones.

“Is that blood on your shirt? Are you drunk? Why are you in my house?”

“Drunk? I had a couple drinks, but that was hours ago.”

“You’re wasted,” she lied, “What the hell is going on here?”

“I’m a private detective,” I said. I stood up to shake her hand, but someone had left a bottle on the floor and I tripped over it. I don’t know what they make rich people carpets out of, but if I was rich I’d sleep on the floor every night. I took advantage of this opportunity.