When The Little One Speaks

One

The day Zeke Brandt killed himself, Private Investigator Marcus Kole was not on duty.

He was in his flat, eating stale doritos, watching reruns of Two And A Half Men. Neither did he know that such an incident had occurred just four streets away, nor did he, at the moment, care. Marcus was having his first day-off in years. He was determined to stay away from everything that had to do with his career.

Joining the Oakland Police Department when he was 29 seemed like the best career choice possible at the time. Five hard years later, he was starting to have second thoughts. There wasn't much about being a private investigator that he liked. Cases only cropped up once in three months or so, and didn't provide much pay. With his salary, and the few hundred dollars his Great Uncle Bernie left him, Marcus was barely able to pay the rent for his apartment.

His phone buzzed. Marcus barely glanced at it before shoving another handful of doritos into his mouth. The police department had called him at-least five times repeatedly. He had firmly ignored them each time. It wasn't as if he was the only PI they had.

It wasn't until his phone rang for the eighth time that his patience snapped.

"What is it?"

From the other end, he could hear faint police sirens.

"Kole, you have been called to crime scene."

"But I'm off duty!"

"I don't care. 2670, Williams St. Now."

The call ended with a click. Marcus groaned loudly, throwing his cell phone onto the ground with a loud clatter. He got up, didn't bother making any changes to his appearance, and walked out, resisting the urge to stomp like a little child.

Thirteen minutes later, he stood in front of a taped off house, surrounded by police men trying to restrain a crowd of reporters. Sergeant Bennett, head of the Oakland police department, stood on the porch talking to a younger police officer. He spotted Marcus near the gate and sent the officer away with a flick of his hand.

Marcus walked towards him, now wishing he had worn a jacket - the winter was harsh. His converse was wet with snow, which left his feet wet and numb.

"Kole," Sergeant looked him up and down, a disapproving look on his face, "You couldn't have worn anything better?"

"I was off duty. You told me to come immediately." Marcus replied gloomily.

"Hn," Sergeant turned around, leading him inside the house. It was a fairly large house with a spacious living area and wooden stairs leading to upper floors. Officers stood everywhere, taking pictures of different things and places. A group of men in coats stood in the back near the kitchen with their heads together, whispering urgently.

Marcus didn't focus on them. At the moment, all he saw was the limp body in the middle of the living room, the bright carpet a wild contrast to his pale skin. He moved closer, and the body's face came to sight.

He was a good-looking boy, probably in his teenage years. His blonde hair was spiked in the rebellious fashion kids were adopting, cheekbones sticking out prominently, and his mouth was permanently in a half smirk, giving the entire face a smug vibe. There was a bullet hole in the middle of his forehead, the blood that had poured out already dry, forming a red stain underneath his head. In his right hand was a gun.

"Zeke Brandt," Sergeant began talking, "17 years old. Father Alec, mother Jade. Younger sister Nora. Junior at Oakland Charter High School. Found dead an hour ago. Supposedly shot himself."

"So it's a suicide case, right? Why do I have to be here?"

"The father doesn't agree. Personally requested for a P.I. to investigate."