P.I

A short story about a detective and what fails to happen to him.

P.I

The room was dark, but I suppose that made sense considering what was strewn across the once-tastefully patterned carpet. There was sunlight filtering in through the blinds, but thankfully the earthly remains of Mr. R. P Earling weren’t illuminated by it.

“Looks like he won’t be getting up any time soon.” I remarked cheerfully. An inappropriate moment, I’ll admit, but it broke the tension. My partner Rick looked at me incredulously once he had his gag reflex under control. I suppressed my own instinct to vomit profusely, playing the role of the eccentric, detached detective as well as I could.

I hadn’t exactly expected to find such a grisly scene here; when I’d gotten the request from our latest client, I’d thought by “he’s in pieces” she’d meant something significantly less disgusting.

And I’d blundered my way through enough of these damn murder cases in the past to know exactly how this would turn out if we continued; it’d undoubtedly end in a conveniently abandoned warehouse somewhere, with me trying to bluff my way out of an early death.

I couldn’t phrase it that way in front of Rick, however. “I think this case isn’t what we signed up for, Rick.” I said slowly and thoughtfully, as if I was reluctant to leave such a fascinating case alone.

“No,” he replied, casting a glance at the mess on the carpet. “It doesn’t seem like it.”
“So we should leave.” I said, much to his visible relief. Now that the legendary detective had voiced it, it was acceptable. “Yeah.” he said. “W-we should probably tell the police.”

“Of course.” I said, entirely sincerely. This was definitely more of a job for them than a coward like me. I did have a reputation to worry about, but I doubted many would berate me for not touching this mess with a ten-foot bargepole. I produced a mobile phone from within the expanses of my purposefully stereotypical detective’s greatcoat, and began to dial. This is the part, of course, where it all goes wrong.

“Not so fast.” A voice said from behind me. I froze.

“Ah, you got me.” I said as calmly as I could manage, which was remarkably well given the timbre and pitch of the speaker’s voice. It didn’t sound like the voice of a sane, reasonable person, let’s put it that way.

“P-put down the phone.”

I assumed whoever it was had a gun or some other weapon, and it would be foolish to leave it to chance, so I nonchalantly placed my mobile on the floor, careful to avoid landing it in any chunks of Mr. Earling. It was an expensive model.

Rick was frozen in place, staring in horror at the person behind me. I had to intervene before he did something stupid. “Hands in the air, right?” I asked, placing hopefully enough emphasis on the first four words for Rick to get my meaning.

“Y-yea.” The person behind me laughed sharply, with more than a touch of hysteria. I gulped. It goes without saying, I think, that hysterical laughter is never a good sign, even disregarding my current situation, although I can’t deny there are worse times to hear it. During coitus, for example.

I began to turn around, hoping to maybe get a glimpse of my new friend before they snapped completely and did me in, and was rewarded with a sharp stab in the small of the back. “Not yet!” the person at the other end of the blade poking into my back snapped.

I whimpered what may have been an affirmative, my ‘detached detective’ façade rapidly falling apart. Well, what can I say? I’d always wanted a more dignified death than being knifed in the back by some random hysterical stranger.

The stranger stepped back, withdrawing the knife just as it cut through my clothes with ease, the cold metal sending shivers down my spine as it brushed across it briefly. “Now you can turn around.”

Slowly and obligingly I did so, hands still raised skyward, and expecting to see some crazed drug addict, or a forgotten archrival, or…

I gaped. It was none other than Mrs. Earling, the woman currently wedded to the glistening chunks of person that lay around the room. It’s a common twist in murder stories, really, the wife doing in the husband, but this was just too stupid. “You…but…what…eh!?” I said, my sheer shock overcoming any fear of the barmy, short little old women with the huge butcher’s knife opposite me.

“Surprised?” she said mockingly, more than a little insane-sounding. A wide, mad grin stretched across her grandma’s face. The effect was disconcerting, to say the least. “Didn’t think I’d have it in me?”

“Have what?” I said. “Just what the hell’s going on here?” It occurred to me later that to Rick it would’ve looked as if I was attempting to give the demented killer orders, but really I was just hellishly confused.

“It’s my little game.” The old woman said, lazily waving the knife through the air as she spoke. “Rope a private detective into investigating the death of my poor, dear husband, sneak up on them as they’re working, and...” her grin widened, something I hadn’t thought physically possible. “I play with them.”

“Play with them?” Rick asked.

“We don’t need to hear any more details.” I said hurriedly before the madwoman could elaborate.

“Oh, you’ll get them soon enough.” Mrs. Earling said. “I just wanted to make sure a prize like you knew that I’d outwitted you before we began.” She raised the knife.

“Outwitted?” I said, offended. “Actually, I thought this was just a routine-” She lunged forward, cackling wildly. I took a step back in an attempt to avoid it, and felt something no doubt unpleasant squelch under my heel. Slipping backwards, my right foot swung upwards and landed squarely in the old lady’s stomach.

Her knife clattered to the ground, and she fell seconds later, unconscious. I slammed backwards into Mr. Earling with a noise it would be pointless and tasteless to try and describe. I sighed loudly. Another coat gone.

I picked myself up slowly, once again feeling quite ill. Rick looked at me, dumbfounded. “How do we try and explain this?”

It didn’t look very good for us, really. I shrugged, removing my coat and placing it respectfully over the late Mr. Earling…or whoever he had really been. “I’m tired.” I said. “Let’s get back to the office.”

“But what about-”

“Rick, there’s probably a very fascinating story behind all of this mess. I’m tired, hungry, and have lost an expensive coat and a fancy new phone, however, and so I don’t care. Let’s go grab a bite to eat.” I said, calmly leaving the apartment with Rick nervously following.

Hey, it’s not always like in the movies.