The Lethal Swing

    I have been a detective for 20 years of my life. I have solved many cases, so many some might think it’s crazy. I personally think it’s almost to normal in this town. I was born in the town of Ricochet about 45 years ago and I liked almost half of it. My mom and dad lived in a tough neighborhood, especially when we lived on the edge of The Ganglands. I grew up with my uncle in the police department. He was also a detective. When he died, I took up the mantle, and a few bad habits.

    I knew everything that happened in this town. From sea to shining sea, but I knew one day I would be fooled. I was sitting in my office, probably sleeping from the scotch, when she walks in. Her red dress and jet black hair was a new spin on a sight I had seen too much of.

    “We’re closed,” I told her. That however, didn’t stop her. I walked up to her and asked her name. She said it was Alice Hartley. She was the kind of girl who would take care of you just because you needed it, and I didn’t know I did.

    “I heard you were the great Detective Shane Smith, is that right?” She asked looking through my small and overflowing bookshelf.

    “You, could say that. I am more of a P.I. than a detective however,” I reply, coughing from the smoke. I put out the cigar and pull out a new one.

    “That is bad for your health, it could kill you,” She says looking slightly concerned.

    “I’ve done enough shit in this town, I think it wouldn’t hurt to speed it up a bit. Want one?” I say back. She looks at me and declines. She then walks over to my small table and pours herself some scotch. “That is mine, I got nothing against a party girl, but come on lady!” I say.

    “Sorry Smith, but the tank’s just a bit too low,” She says before slowly taking a sip, not breaking eye contact.

    “Look, is there something you need from me?” I ask puffing my cigar. I turn and she is looking down at my desk. I look at her and wait for her response.

    “I know you take a lot of different cases, but I think this one might be the bees knees!” She says handing me a manilla file folder. I look it over and start to read it aloud.

    “Gun found at the crime scene, across the street from the record company, so there must have been a helluva crowd for possible witnesses,”

    “I was looking at the body when I realized it was my cousin, Lillian Morrison,” She adds.

    “Morrison? I know a Morrison, James Morrison. Maybe he knows something about this,” I whisper to myself. She hands me a small envelope and I take it from her. I feel it has some weight, like it was some highschool math binder. I opened the envelope to see a massive stack of cash. As I look through the stack, it seemed to be about one hundred and fifty dollars.

    “That is only half of what you will receive,” She says. I look at her in amazement.

    “Three hundred dollars? That’s a lot of jack for one girl to have just lying around. You hiding something from me Ms. Hartly?” I ask. She starts to walk out the door before looking over her shoulder. She looks me dead in the eyes.

    “I have my ways Mr. Smith,” She says before winking her eye on the way out. I look down at the stack of money, and the folders and get to work.

    Many of my cases get done in the span of maybe one to two months, my fastest one was one week, but this one was the special one. It has been, to date, the only case I have not been able to close. I searched the crime scene again and again, nothing. It’s been about a year and I still have only a few pieces of evidence.