SUAW Workbook

Board game: Space 29

Prompt: Write a mystery story no more than 1500 words.

Disclaimer: I do not promote smoking in the slightest, but this story is set in the 1940's where cigarettes were advertised on TV XD. Detective Lawrence grew up in the 1920's though, so that's why he's using 1920's slang.

"There's nothing else here, sir," Michael said, approaching Detective Lawrence from the side. He made sure the older man saw him before standing next to him. The last time he caught the detective off guard, it ended up with him flipped onto his back.

"That's alright," the detective sighed, running a hand through his black hair. Michael noted the few grey hairs that peeked through here and there. He knew the detective was barely into his forties, but the amount of stress he put on himself because of this case...

"Detective?"

Detective Lawrence turned his head. "What's up, dewdropper?"

Michael refrained from rolling his eyes at the usual jab his superior would say. Instead, he looked at the man tentatively in the eyes.

"Who was James Wellingmann—"

"That's Professor James Herman P. Wellingmann, to you."

This time, Michael gave a huff at the unnecessary correction. "Then, who was Professor Wellingmann to you? You run yourself ragged trying to find a man who's been missing for almost a decade."

"Ah, I forgot you're new." Detective Lawrence jabbed his thumb towards the passenger side, signaling for Michael to get in the car. "Mr. Michael Donovan, don't I have a story for you."

"Is it a long one?" Michael asked dully as he slipped into the passenger seat, the detective doing the same on the other side and starting the car. He didn't need a full monologue of the man's life; he was only there temporarily. But he had to admit, working under an ace certainly had its advantages in the long run.

"Nah, probably won't even last until we get to the station." The detective pulled into the main road of the small town they were in and began making his way back to their hotel. "Butt me."

With a nod, Michael pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket along with a lighter. Pulling one out, he quickly lit it and handed it to the detective before lighting one for himself. The detective took a long draw before speaking again.

"Professor Wellie was a good man. I was in a couple of his classes before really getting to know him. He was like a grandfather to me. Or at least, how I'd think a grandfather would act. Never met my grandparents." He glanced at the young man beside him. "You know I'm a first-generation American, right? Both parents are immigrants."

Michael shook his head. "No."

"Well then, for more context, I'm half Italian and half German. Angelo Lawrence; not a name most white men would name their children. Got kicked around by the teachers a bit when I weaseled my way into university, but Professor Wellie was the only one who cared for my grades and even found me in the speakeasies just to make sure I signed up for the next semester." The detective snorted. "Never got to use that degree, anyhow. He and I would go on these little mystery runs every now and again—he was oddly good at solving cases—until he off and disappeared. I wasn't with him that time, and you can be sure I changed careers as soon as he was announced missing."

"I'm...sorry to hear that."

Detective Lawrence hummed.

"And you still search for him?"

"Of course. Because he'd do the same for me."

The rest of the car ride was silent after that, and Michael found himself a little less peeved to be assigned the "deranged" detective.