#001 | Dig Two Graves
Lightning illuminated the sky as rain poured down the side of Thompson Detmer’s apartment building. Another sleepless night for the once great private investigator, Detmer had been reduced to spending his evenings at the bottom of a whiskey bottle.
He stumbled back and forth in his kitchen, unable to escape the events of that fateful night four months ago. A botched robbery resulted in the death of one bank teller and two hostages, the former of which was Thompson’s younger sister, Marissa. The robber was a 37-year old man named Roger Carver, who laid claim to a pretty substantial criminal record including two charges for grand larceny, one charge for manslaughter, and another for making threats against a government official. Carver was captured alive, but not before a firefight with police shattered his right tibia which left with a permanent limp.
Detmer was crushed by Marissa’s death. He fell into a deep depression that eventually forced him to step away from his work as a private investigator. He freelanced cases for the city’s rich and powerful which involved, among other things, tracking down outstanding debts, uncovering extra-marital affairs, and everything in between.
As the clock read 2:45 AM, Detmer grabbed his coat and walked out the door. The street was barren, and all businesses were closed at this hour, except for the lone bar on his street, “The Red Door.” One doorman sat outside smoking. Detmer walked past and gave him a nod, when a gust of wind blew the door open.
However, just before the door closed, Thompson heard the reporter on the bar’s TV say, “…Carver should be considered armed and very dangerous…” He burst through the door and into the bar to find breaking news: Carver had escaped prison and was on the run. At that moment, six police cars flew by the bar, their lights illuminated the empty street. Much to public outcry, Carver was sentenced to serve his prison sentence at Silver Falls Correctional Facility, less than 10 miles from the very bank he robbed. Information was foggy, but it was reported that Carver had been spotted down by a row of industrial warehouses along the waterfront.
Thompson sprinted out of the bar and across the street; the docks were a half-mile from “The Red Door.” When he arrived at the waterfront, he saw a brigade of police cars and helicopters. Spotlights painted a warehouse where Carver reportedly had been spotted. The nighttime security guard was on his rounds when he saw a man who matched Carver’s description break open the back door and run inside. The guard called police and within minutes, the entire precinct was on-site.
Up until that moment, Detmer had wrestled with the fact he was unable to protect his sister on that day, something that haunted him every night since. As he surveyed the scene from a nearby dock 60 yards from the warehouse, Detmer instinctively slid his hand into his jacket pocket and fingered the trigger of his 9mm glock. Ever since a run in with a dirty client many years back, Thompson always carried his sidearm.
As helicopters circled the building, Thompson wondered aloud, “Why don’t they just storm the ware-“ and at that moment, he saw a sewer grate get kicked off the retaining wall below the warehouse. Carver hobbled out from the drain and shuffled along the rocky embankment. Thompson’s eyes went wide and his heart rate soared as he spotted the man who had murdered his sister. Carver sidled along the rocks and slid into the water; he was swimming over towards the dock opposite Thompson.
However, the maritime police boats also had spotted Carver and they took off towards him. With reason thrown out the window, Thompson sprinted the length of the dock and hopped across the bow of several boats. He landed on the dock about 20 yards behind a limping Roger Carver.
Thompson reached into his jacket, racked the slide on his glock, and aimed right at Carver’s back.
“CARVER!” he shouted, the pain and anger of the past four months coming to the surface.
A crack of thunder and lightning lit up the sky as Roger Carver slowly turned to face Thompson, who fought not to empty the magazine right then and there.
Carver squinted through the driving rain and shouted back, “Who are you?”
With a slight tremble in his voice, Detmer said, “May 14, 2012. 6th Street Bank. You put a gun to a young woman’s head and told her to give you $100,000 in cash or she died. She complied, and you still killed her.”
“What do you care about one-”
“MY SISTER,” Detmer screamed. “You killed my sister!”
Police boats closed in at a rapid pace. Spotlights from boats and helicopters danced across both Detmer and Carver.
4 months ago, Marissa Detmer, one of the lone bright spots in Thompson’s life, was cruelly taken from this earth. Racked with guilt at being unable to protect her, Thompson’s life had unraveled. Now he had her killer staring down the barrel of his gun, while police closed fast. Thompson looked to the sky, a mixture of rain and tears streaming down his face.
He returned his focus to Carver. Police on all boats had their guns drawn at both men. They shouted at Detmer to lower his weapon. He began to lower his glock — and fired one round right into the injured leg of Carver, who crumpled to one knee and looked up at Detmer, agony written across his face. However, he was only met with a bullet right between the eyes. His lifeless body slumping to the ground.
Police officers hurled a volley of gunfire at Detmer, as all rounds hit their mark.
Detmer’s body crumpled; he was dead before he hit the dock.
When the day began, he was another human mourning the loss of a loved one. Less than 24 hours later, both he and Roger Carver were gone from this world.
