Fiction: Diary of the No-Rest Detective – Case 1, Part 1.

A Detective’s first case.

As a detective, when your first case is a missing cat, people say you have good luck. Mine is different. I cannot say I have bad luck. Maybe because I am still a detective’s handbag. Or maybe it’s because of where I’m from. In my country, only a few people own cats. And when it’s gone, it’s gone. Nobody is looking for it.How do I know my first case is not a cat? Easy. Winfred has been shifting in his chair the whole trip. A missing cat can’t make you as worked up as this. He pulls his pocket watch out of his coat, flips it open, and slides it back in. That’s anxiety, if you ask me.

The bus stops at a very busy looking place.

“Where are we?” I ask.

“Abidjan.” The detective replies.

It’s not like I know where Abidjan is, but I am sure we’re not too far from home, because everyone is dark-skinned like us. Winfred grabs his case and joins the line of bodies alighting the bus. I do the same. Is it that I’m too excited to be outside the camp? Or Fred, as I prefer to call him, doesn’t seem too happy to be here. Fred calls a taxi, and speaks in some foreign language I’ve never heard before. Now, I’m sure we’re out of our country.

“Get in” he bellows.

I rush into the back seat. I don’t want to look sluggish or reluctant. I have to avoid anything that will make him send me back to the camp. I hear the engine start, and my heart leaps for joy. I’ve passed the first test.

As the car whizzes past houses, I make sure to take in every possible sight my eyes can find. The sea of black people, the animals crossing the road. Everything feels like freedom. I’ve never felt this way before. If this truly is freedom, I want more.

The taxi enters the gates of a large mansion, I’ve seen this kind before. There’s even a bigger one back at the camp. The car stops inside. I wait for Winfred to get down before I do. I don’t want to pass off as too forward. I have a reputation to protect here. A short fat man comes to welcome us. Judging by his expensive clothes and the two men behind him, he must be the master of the house. He even speaks English, Thank God.

He ushers us into the mansion. Inside, he explains the problem to us. He is a congressman. He had gone out for a late meeting and came back the next morning to meet his mother dead. One of the maids had found her on her bedroom floor the next morning, with a knife in her stomach. There were seven staff present at the time of death, excluding the guards outside. Three cooks and four maids. None of them admitted to seeing anything suspicious. The police had done their investigation. They only found the murder weapon to be one of the kitchen knives the cooks use. The police interrogated the cooks, but all of them claimed to have slept off early that night, which in itself is suspicious, because the staff only sleep after the master had gone to bed. It was an unwritten code of conduct. The security had been doubled, so no one has left the house since the murder. The master suspects his cooks. He believes they have been paid by one of his political rivals to cause a tragedy in his household.

This is an open and shut case. It has to be one of the cooks, if not all of them. I may not be a genius, but I’m not dumb.

“Have you made the preparations?” Fred asks.

The master nods a “Yes”. Fred requests to examine the crime scene before any other thing.

We enter the room where the mother used to live. The room has not been made since the murder. I suppose it is to leave some other clues we may find. A large dark brownish stain is on the rug. That must be the blood. Winfred moves towards the open window and looks outside. He beckons to me. I think he found something.

“Do you know why detectives crack cases most of the police can’t crack?” He asks.

“Because detectives are smarter?”

“No. Detectives pay attention to detail.”

I look out the window to find what he saw, but he points to the window sill. There is mud on the window sill, just small enough to be seen only at close range. The room is about fifteen feet above the ground. How is there mud on the window sill? We examine the room for what seems like eternity. Nothing. The mud is the only thing we have.

The master leads us to a second room. Seven pair of curious eyes watch us as we waltz inside. Fred speaks in an extremely thick voice.

“Sit.”

I sit down quickly, too quick for it to be out of obedience, his detective voice terrifies me. He interrogates the staff one after another. The cooks claim to have been feeling lightheaded on that day. They noticed the missing knife, but they were too knackered to look for it. They all eventually fell asleep. The next morning, the missing knife was found were it had been used to take a life.

“How come you all fell sick at the same time?” I ask.

“We don’t know.” One of the cooks answers.

“Alcohol?” Fred asks.

“No.”

“Did you consume any food apart from the ones you cooked?”

“One of the maids brought us some fruits.” Another cook responds.

Over to the maids. They said they were instructed by the mistress to do all of her laundry. It was so much, they worked all night.

“Which of you took fruits to the cooks?” Fred demands.

One of the maids stands up.

“Why did you take fruits to them?”

“I was instructed by the mistress to take the fruits to them.” She says.

“Why did you drug the fruits?”

“I swear on my life, I did not drug the fruits, Monsieur. I took fruits to all of the staff in the house, the mistress even cut them herself.” She appeals. “Everyone had fruits that day, we the maids did too.”

The other maids nod in support.

Winfred gets up to speak with the master.

“Wait for me outside.” He says.

I exit the room to wait.

Out in the corridor, I start to think. I thought this was going to be a piece of cake. Honestly, it’s not. A gentle feminine voice calls

“Hey”.

I turn towards the sound. An exquisite figure of a woman stands a few yards away.

“Are you the new cook?” She asks.

“No… No, I… I’m with the detective” I stammer.

She walks close to me. Too close.

“Better. I won’t have to start explaining my stepsister’s allergies all over again” she says, beaming brightly.

Is this the angel Tobi used to tell me about? Tobi is my friend at the camp. Don’t worry, I won’t miss him.

“She can do it herself” I add.

“I’m not sure about that. She’s been in her room since mama died. She has refused to speak to anyone or go outside.” She replies.

“I guess it hit her harder than everyone else.” I reply, trying to be empathetic.

“Maybe. I hope you catch the killer, though. I also hope it’s not the cooks.” She says.

I can’t tell her I think it’s the end of the road for the cooks. I’ll feel like a villain if that smile on her face disappears.

“Good luck” she says, as she leaves me to my thoughts once again.

Shortly, Winfred comes out of the room with the master. The man walks past me to the direction the lady just went.

“What’s next?” I ask.

Fred then says something I can’t wrap my head around.

“I think I know who the culprit is”.

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