The Murder of Mr. Chase

Detective Stephen Brown was getting ready for his sleep when his home line rang. Every muscle in his body was saying he shouldn't pick it. He had just returned to New York City on an assignment. He picked the receiver; "Yes, this is detective Stephen Brown speaking." 

"We need you down here..." boomed a voice at the other end. "There is a gruesome murder at Houston Street..." "I will be right there." He hung up, put on his clothes, wore his hat, and headed out. He got to the crime scene as fast as he could. "What's going on here?" He asked the nearest police officer. "Inside are the corpses of the renowned writer Thomas Chase and his mother." 

Thomas Chase, the name rang a bell in his head as he headed into the house.   

CHAPTER ONE

ThomasChase had been a sensation, one of the most interesting writers. His books havebeen mind-blowing. One of his best novels was used to make an award-winningmovie. He was fairly an accomplished man. He was short, thickset, and lookedsturdy, the kind that fights martial arts. He had broad shoulders, blonde hair,and a good nose, which made him slightly attractive. He had been working on hisnew book when he realized that staying in the busy city of New York wouldn't beof any good to him. He had to move to a quieter place where he could focus ongetting the right muse to finish the book. He lived with his old mother, whohad been his only source of joy since his Dad passed away in a gruesome caraccident. He had been sleeping when a wail woke him up. It was his mother's. Heran down the stairs to see whether she was all right when he saw people inpolice uniforms entering their homes. Immediately, he knew something was amiss.They had come to report the death of his father to his mother. He was twelve bythe time. He discussed everything with her. "Hey, Mum, this place is a littletoo busy for my spirit. I want to go on vacation. Probably I'll get the rightinspiration to start my new book. Where do you suggest?" "Oh, that's very nice.You could go to France; heard most people that went came back with interestingideas." "Thanks, Mum, that's why I love you, you have answers toeverything." He kissed her on her cheeks and went out for the day. A few weekspassed, and he traveled down to France. At the airport, he met with a lovelyattendant and asked for the most peaceful place in France. "Bonjour..." he saidthe little French he knew. "Bonjour," She replied with a bright smile. "Wheredo you think is the most peaceful place in this country. I'm here on vacation,and I want some peace away from the family." He said, returning her smile."You could go to Avignon. It is one of the quietest places in France. " Hethanked her and went off. He arrived at Avignon in the dead of the night. Hewas very tired and just wanted to sleep from the long journey. Luckily for him,he found a hotel quickly lodged. He went straight into his room, and withoutputting off his clothes, he was already in the realms of dreams. He had wokenup from a weird dream. He didn't think much about it. He thought the fatiguewas messing with his brain. He went to the telephone and dialed thereceptionist's number; "Hello, good morning. Can I get some coffee sent up tome? This is room516." "Sure, how do you want it?" the receptionist asked withthe politeness of a mosquito. "Black no milk, no sugar." "Okay, you'll get itin ten minutes." He returned the receiver and sat down on his mini-sized bed.As he awaited his coffee, thought of the kind of book he was going to writekept eating him up. He was blank. He was not very frugal. He spent money as heearned them. The money he made from his latest book will soon get exhausted. Hethought about what a new blockbuster would mean for him; he would get the newcar he had been dreaming about, he would move his Mum to Miami and enjoyhimself a little too. He was in his state of meditation when a knock came fromhis door. "Who is it?" he asked as he peeped to check who it was. "Roomservice, your coffee is ready." He opened the door for the coffee to be broughtin. The receptionist had sent some sandwiches with the coffee. He tipped theboy that brought the coffee and locked the door behind him. He went and pouredhimself a full cup. He finished eating and sent the utensils downstairs. Helaid back on the bed and thought more about what his life was becoming. He lostthe larger part of his money to his wife in their divorce, and she got custodyof their kids. He thought that in a flash, his life was going upside down. Hedidn't have a wife, his son was taken from him, and he couldn't come up withmany ideas on his new book. At first, he thought of writing on divorce.However, he had no clue as to what to write. Ultimately, he dropped the idea.He had been jumping in and out of ideas of what to write for three days withoutleaving his room. He sent for food whenever he felt hungry. Thomas Chase couldbe said to be a reserved man. Recluse would be the right word. He had alwayslived in his fantasy world. He didn't like human company except for his Mum's.All the events he went for, his Mum had forced him to go. "These eventswould help you to gain more friends to make you a better person." She hadsaid this when he had wanted to refuse dinner with the Mayor. He loved thetranquility he was getting at Avignon. He spent most of his time sitting in thebalcony. Most times, he would read books of very renowned writers like JamesHardly Chase, Sidney Sheldon, Dan Brown, Harper Lee. He read them thinkingperhaps his writing muse would come back to him. For the first two weeks of hisstay at Avignon, he didn't leave his room. On a Thursday evening, theatmosphere was nice, and he thought to himself, "a walk wouldn't be of anyharm." He wore his clothes, put on his hat, and left his room for the firsttime. He hadn't walked more than three hundred feet away from the hotel that hesaw a beautiful black dog. Thomas Chase had always had a knack for dogs. Heloved their fluffy bodies, their loyalty, and their cheerfulness. He had a dogonce. He had named it bolt. He loved the dog and trusted it. "Take care of mymum while I am away." He had said this two weeks ago, before he left New Yorkfor Paris to the dog, which was wagging its tail. He moved close to the bigblack beautiful dog to admire it. To his great shock, the dog barked at him. Hejumped back, obviously flushed, and he went away. He spent about three hourswalking; he had to clear his head. Maybe this would help bring his muse back.He walked around the park until it was getting dark. He started walking back tothe hotel. About five hundred feet to the hotel, he saw the same dog thatstartled him earlier lying down. As he walked past the dog, it growled, and hehurried to the hotel. He got to his room and had a long hot shower. After hedried his body, he called for food, which was brought up to him. He ate, and hefell asleep almost immediately. He woke up the next day and followed his normalroutine. He read Dan Brown's incredible piece, "Angels and Demons."He was fascinated; the book gave him the utmost satisfaction. He already had anidea of what he would write. The vacation was finally paying off. He moved backfrom the balcony to his room, sat on the bed, and started to put his ideastogether. He thought of writing a book on murder, a crime thriller. Just as itcame, the idea escaped his head, and once again, he was blank. He stayed in hisroom for a few more days and decided to go out for a walk to clear his head andget some groceries. On his way out, he asked the receptionist where the nearestgrocery store was. "Go straight down on your right, about five hundred feet.You'll see a little grocery store." "Thank you." With that, he left the hoteland went for his walk. Getting out of his room made him realize how beautifulthe little town was. After he spent some hours walking, he headed for thegrocery store. He entered and went shopping. He bought pickles, which he hadloved since he could remember how to count, jam, bread, and milk. He went tothe counter and saw behind it an old lady, about the age of his mother, tall,grey hair, wearing a pair of pink glasses. "Hello there, you look new in town."She collected the grocery from him. "Yeah, I am here on vacation." "You lookdifferent, American? " "Yeah, I am from New York." He paid for his grocery andwent out of the store, back to the hotel. He made a sandwich and preparedcoffee with milk. He slept very late that night, trying to come up with a newidea. He was still at it when he slept off. He lived like this for most of hisstay at the hotel. He didn't go out much. He stayed back in his room and lookedat the town while receiving fresh air from his balcony. He goes out for a walkonce in a while to clear his head and get groceries from the older woman. Thewoman was the only person he spoke with within the town. He told her about hisordeals of coming up with an idea for a book. "I just couldn't get astraight idea in my head." He said this one day he went to buy groceriesas he was standing before the counter. "It is as if my head isempty." "It happened to all writers. You will get the hang ofit." She had said this with a reassuring smile that lifted his spirits forthe day. On the thirtieth day of his stay at the hotel, he stood up from hisbed and sat at the vintage wooden table, opened his laptop to check where he hadgotten to in his book. To his surprise, he had not typed a sentence; the worddocument was blank; he was yet to write his first sentence. He slumped back onthe bed; he suddenly realized that all the time he had spent at the hotel hadbeen a fruitless waste of hours, energy, and money. A sudden reality hit him;he was worse than how he had come. His creative skills had reduced tononexistent. The realization saddened him; a once-great creative writer iswallowing in the pool of writing emptiness. He decided it was time to leave. Hecouldn't achieve anything great as his mother had promised. He was in thisdisappointing state where sleep came to take him away to another realm. He wasbrought back to life by the annoying buzz of the telephone receiver. He walked withwobbly legs to his desk, half awake, half in the dream world. He picked thereceive; "What is it?" He said through clenched teeth because he was wokenroughly by the phone. "Sorry to disturb you, you have a package." "Apackage, okay, I am coming for it." He sure was startled because nobody exceptfor his mother knew he was staying in France. He was not expecting a package.He walked out of his room, not so awake. He went through the passage andentered the elevator, which took him down. He collected the small package fromthe receptionist and headed back to his room. The package was roughly wrappedwith old purple wrapping nylon, and it was small, like a small pocket novelwhich was a little bigger than his palm. Immediately he entered his room, heunwrapped the package and found a notebook with a rough black leather cover;the book looked very old, like an ancient relic of a particular family. Heopened the book, and a strange sensation went through him that his bodyshivered. He wasn't completely awake, so he thought it was the sleep that wasplaying tricks on him. He went back to the bed still in his depressed state andgot into a deep sleep. That was when it all started.