I reached for the phone, annoyed by its constant ringing. Why didn't cord phones come with a silent mode? Slowly I put it up to my ear, staying in my relaxed state of mind.
"What you need?" I inquired. No time for small talk.
"I need you to figure out who shot the mayor last week."
"Woah woah woah. Slow down, cowboy. Who are you, anyways?"
Being a private investigator, or PI, I was always ready for someone to trick me. People get caught because of me. And when you get caught, you want revenge. Revenge is bittersweet- scratch that, it's just sweet, up until you get caught. Especially for criminals, the lowest-of-the-low in society, the ones who feel no regret, no sympathy, no empathy. The heartless.
Now, who was this mystery man on the other end of the line?
"I'm an agent in the FBI."
"Isn't it your job to deal with this, instead of ordering me to?" I don't care who you are, I'm not afraid to tell you how the world works. It's like my side job.
"Well, kind of. You wouldn't understand, man. It's a complicated position."
"Oh really? You find out who commits crime and- ah-hem- exterminate them. Yep, that sounds REAL complicated to me."
"You don't want to mess with me boy."
"And why not?" I was angry. No one takes up my valuable time with lousy excuses and orders that they have no right to give me.
"Because I pay real well, boy. Better than anyone else you've ever worked for, I bet, and anyone you'll ever work for. And all you have to do is catch this guy and get rid of him for me. Easy pay."
"How much?" Back to business at last. I sat back in my chair and popped an Altoid in my mouth.
"$200,000."
I spit out the Altoid. $200,000? Was I dreaming? I pinched myself- nope.
"Well?"
"I'm on it!"

The next day, I read everything there was to read about this murder. The mayor was getting out of his Rolls Royce when someone shot him from a balcony overhead. Before anyone could get a good look at him, he was gone. A scared, elder woman was found in the apartment the balcony was a part of. She was delirious, frightened out of her mind. They had to take her to a mental institution. On top of all that, she refused to tell the cops a single thing she might have seen in that room.
This whole thing was annoying to me. I needed this woman's information to solve the case, and she wouldn't give it to me. Why? Because she was insane? Because her mind, in order to defend herself, made her forget everything that happened in there? Or because she didn't want him to get caught?
I was perfectly puzzled.
Then, I did some research on the victim himself- Mr. John Pellistan, mayor of Washington, DC. He wasn't exactly a role model- he'd been accused of bribery and stealing money from charity funds. But he charmed his way out of every single problem with the same charismatic attitude that won him the election back in 2012.
He was a man of luxury. From his Rolls Royce to his condo in Venice, he made sure he had only the finest. Of course, some people thought he should be doing more than buying nice things for himself.
One person stood out in particular to me- Marianne "Scoops" Brown, lead journalist for the Washington Post. She would do anything, absolutely ANYTHING, to get the details on a good story. And she was not a fan of Pellistan. Everything he did, every single step he took, she had a petty comment for. Though this behavior irritated some, it turned many others against Pellistan.
I got up and grabbed a glass of water, traced lines through the condensation on the glass with my pinky finger. This was too much for me, but $200,000? For that much money, I'd risk my life. I needed it to pay the bills- being a PI, you have to stay quiet. Everybody can't know what you are. That would be too dangerous.
I was stalling, of course. I had become overly stressed from this assignment, possibly the hardest I'd ever faced. There was almost no DNA evidence to be found, which today is key for solving cases.
Soon, I began questioning my own intelligence and common sense. The man who had called me, he had said he was an agent in the FBI. But was he really? I didn’t even ask for his name at the time because I thought maybe, being a secret agent, he wasn’t allowed to. But what if he wasn’t one? What if I had just thrown myself into the trap of the century, something I had tried to prevent as long as I had been doing PI work?
Stupid. I was stupid, an idiot to not think of this the moment he had called, blinded by the thought of all the cash he said I would get. Who in their right mind would pay someone $200,000 to do something they could do, and were supposed to do, themselves?
Of course, maybe he’s just a lazy FBI agent with lots of cash. But the whole thing seemed pretty fishy to me. I got up and walked over to my call log, found his number (under the title, “Cha-Ching!”), and called.
The phone rang four times, my heart beating harder with each ring. Then, I heard a click; a phone being pulled off the cord, most likely. I listened to him clear his throat, then, in a serious monotone, he stated, “Hello, Hinckly residence. Who would you like to speak with?”
Wait. He gave me his home phone number? I expected to get an FBI line with all kinds of security questions, codes, and probing. Or maybe his cell phone. I did not expect to hear him here, with the faint sounds of children playing in the background.
Suddenly, I was even tenser. I coughed, cleared my own throat, and began.
“Hello, this is the PI you called yesterday. I have some questions for you.”
“Boy, make it quick. I don’t have time for this rubbish.”
He was menacing, I’ll admit it. He had a deep, scratchy voice that stayed in one unenthusiastic tone and never went up or down, and never got any quieter or louder. It was almost robotic.
“I believe you contacted me yesterday about the assassination of mayor John Pellistan."
"I believe so too."
"Well, you also stated that you are an agent in the Federal Investigation Bureau, or FBI."
"That's because I am. Boy, how long is this going to take?"
I ignored his question and countered with one of my own. I had no time for his attitude.
"Do you have any proof that you are a, quote, 'agent in the FBI?'"
"What, you think I'm stupid or something boy? Of course I do- a badge and certificate."
"Good. Well, do you think you could bring said badge and certificate to my office today at seven o'clock? I'm located at 117 Main Street."
He agreed, but reluctantly. After I hung up with him I looked around my office- messy, with papers about the murder littering the floor. I wasn't about to clean it up for some rude stranger, whether he was a fraud or an agent.

Around 7:25 the mystery man showed up at my door. Late, but I wouldn't bother with that. He had on a classic black suit, complete with matching tie. I was wearing a pinstripe suit with matching fedora, just like all those PIs in movies. Why wouldn't I dress up for such an important occassion?
He strolled in, and I examined him further. He was tall, probably around six and a half feet or so, and had on dark shades. There was a Bluetooth in his ear, too.
"This better be fast, boy. I don't have all day."
I led him to my office and we sat down. It was time for interrogation. I turned a bright light on him and, under my desk, turned on a tape recorder.
"So," I began, "Mr...oh, that's right. I don't believe I know your name, sir."
"I'm not allowed to disclose that information because of my occupation."
I gazed at him for a minute. His sunglasses kept me from seeing any emotion he may have, especially with his poker face. However, his arms were crossed- a sign of opposition and hostility. And he may not have been making eye contact with me, but I couldn't tell with those stupid glasses covering them.
"Okay...would you mind removing your sunglasses for a bit?"
"I'd rather not," he replied, coldly and without a moment of thought. I got the feeling he was desperately trying to hide something, the problem was that I didn't know what.
"We'll move on then. May I see the badge and certificate you brought?"
He reached into his suit jacket and pulled out an envelope. He held it in his hands a couple of seconds, but then slid it across my desk. I picked it up and pulled out the badge and paper. The badge was gold, and read "Federal Bureau of Investigation, US, Department of Justice," with a man holding a scale and sword displayed in the middle. It was in the shape of a police badge, and was quite a bit larger than I expected it to be.
I turned it over, studied every line and word with patience. I looked for some sign of forgery, but I had no idea what an official badge looked like.
Holding the badge at the perfect angle, I pretended to fix my tie. Inconspicuously, the 14-megapixel camera in my tie tack snapped a photograph of the medallion.
Then, I picked up the certificate. It said, "The Federal Investigation Bureau expresses its appreciation to Thomas Hinckly for exceptional service in the public interest." It was dated October 2007 and was signed by the director, whose signature I could not decipher. That was six years ago. Yet again I saw the man holding the scale and sword, this time to the left side of the paper. I snapped a picture of this too, making a mental note to do some research on the authenticity later.
"Thomas Hinckly, huh? I thought you weren't allowed to disclose this information."
He scratched his head, and looked away. Classic signs of a nervous character. I didn't make him answer; I had played with him enough for the day. Plus, I had everything I needed.
"Here's your badge and certificate, you may go. Thank you for whatever amount of cooperation you had today,' I said, a sarcastic smile on my face. I was pushing it but, then again, I always do.
After he had left, I plugged my tie tack camera and tape recorder into my laptop. Then, I walked over to the light that had been on Hinckly the whole time and removed a pinhead-size, high resolution video camera from the pole it stood upon. I attached that one also and sat down to review my findings.
Thomas had incredibly confusing gestures. With 14 years of detective work, I had quite a bit of experience with decoding body language. Everything this guy did screamed either "fraud," or "truthful." On one hand, he had crossed arms and leaned back for most of the questioning. To me, that showed a lot of secrecy and deceit. However, he also didn't fidget or hesitate much. I didn't know what to think, but in my gut I knew something was wrong.
I watched the whole scenario hundreds of times, until almost three in the morning. Eventually, I decided I would just solve the case and leave it at that, too tired to keep my eyes open. After all, how dangerous could it be? I'd done it thousands of times.
The next afternoon I took a closer look at the murder. It occured around four in the afternoon on Saturday, and only a small handful of press had witnessed it. Marianne Brown was one of them. She had been a suspect from the start, and I decided I needed to get some 1-on-1 time with her to discuss the incident.
Then, I looked at all the actual evidence. The police had just collected the bullet and were currently examining it. A psychologist was still trying to get some information out of the lady whose house had been broken into.
About an hour from then I called the Washington Post building and asked to set up an interview with Marianne. With lots of hard work, I finally got an appointment for 4:15.
When I walked into Marianne's office, she looked nothing like I thought she would. The last time I saw her was on the news, when the Washington Post labeled her Reporter of the Year. She had long, curly blonde hair and was dressed nicely, in a smart-looking pinstripe blazer and skirt. She had taken the foot-tall bronze statue with tears in her eyes and thanked "all the small people."
Now she had dyed, dark-brown hair up in a messy bun and was wearing a too-big T-shirt and sweatpants. She was chatting on the phone with what I guessed was one of her friends, discussing the new wardrobe she just got from Anthropologie. I sat down and politely waited for her to get off the phone before pulling out my tape recorder.
She took one look at me and shrugged, as if I was insignificant to her. I composed myself and began the round of questions, everything from what she witnessed to the angle she witnessed it at. Three hours of interrogation, and I had no reason to think she was guilty besides her not liking Pellistan. And lots of people didn't like him, so that wasn't very convincing anyways.
Once I got home, I had pretty much concluded that Miss Marianne Brown was innocent. Later on, in the news, I actually saw a recording of the shooting with her in the shot, screaming. That definitely ruled her out.
I decided to lay down for a couple of hours and recollect myself. This job was wearing me out. What if I never solved it? At the moment, it was certainly a possibility.
Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. When I answered it, it turned out to be Thomas. I let him in, and made us both a cup of coffee.
"So," I said, taking a sip, "What's new?"
"The FBI has a new suspect in the killing."
I put down the mug. "What? Who?"
He set down his drink and leaned in, as if we were sharing a secret. "The Assistant Director of the FBI...Jacob Henning. We think he shot Mr. Pellistan."
My jaw dropped in shock. I never even thought a member of the FBI had shot the mayor.
"But," I stammered, "Why do you think he did it?"
"Well, John and Jacob never got along.They were always accusing each other of something, usually stealing or lying. Also, Jacob took a 'sick' day the day John was shot."
I was speechless. Hinckly sounded like he knew his facts, and the theory made perfect sense.
"So, do you want me to interrogate him? Should I look for evidence?"
He smiled a little. "Nah, I think we've got this one. We may need you to provide some help in court, but for now you're good."
Then, he reached in his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. "Your check, sir. Thank you for your efforts to solve this case."
I took the check, almost shaking with excitement. Slowly, I turned it around. $200,000 was the amount written on it, made out to me. I was so happy I almost screamed.
"Th-thank you so much," I said, shaking his hand. "Really. Thank you."
He let out a laugh and headed for the door. "Have a great day, sir!"
Once he left, I sat down and pulled out all of the things I had used for this case: all of the papers, cameras, flash drives, and recordings that I had reviewed so thoroughly. I looked through everything one more time. Later, I turned on the news. They had released some photos from the murder. One had a small glimpse of the killer. I looked at it for a moment, then studied it. The killer had light brown hair and fair skin, and was well built. He looked strong. Then, without thinking, I got out my laptop and searched John Henning.
He had black hair and tan skin.
Suddenly, I was googling everyone involved in the case, from Hinckly to the actual director of the FBI. I saw that Hinckly was a Section Chief in the FBI, one rank below Henning. Right above Henning was the Deputy Director, Charles Davids. Davids had been in lots of trouble for taking bribes.
A story began to play in my head, perhaps not true, but definitely likely. In it, Hinckly wanted Hennings's position, and decided to do something about it. He bribed Charles Davids into helping him kill the mayor, or perhaps hire an assassin. Once Pellistan was dead, they covered up their tracks. As FBI agents, they must have been masters of escape, and excellent at destroying evidence. Then, Davids gave Henning the $200,000 I was holding in my hands right now to, in a way, bribe me. To make me lose my focus on the case, to stress me out. Besides that, the man who reported the case is never thought to be the killer.
I was stunned. If I was right, it would change the people's perspective on the FBI dramatically, and make them wonder how safe they really were. I called the information hotline number given on the news.
"Hello?" I said into the phone. "I may know who killed the mayor." Then, I began my story.

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Tag der Veröffentlichung: 22.07.2011

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