The Production
Inception of Deception
The narrative continues as the detective leads along the path of motives, alibis, and reasons. The first one to turn up was the Production Manager of this mysterious theatrical piece.
Some regarded him as taciturn, some had witnessed his morose nature, but all acknowledged the mystery that enveloped this man. The person in question was Douglas Haddick. His face was rugged, with a permanent frown on his brow. His stare was as metallic as his steel-rimmed spectacles. His hair was all but white, pallid white. With his middling stature, he wasn’t something special to look upon. He never hung out too late, nor did he arrive too early — for work or anything for that matter.
Do I regret anything? No, I don’t.
These words were jotted down on the first page of what appeared to be a journal of some sort. Oddly, it was left unattended to at his desk.
The pages felt frail; some had stains on them. The entries were dated but they weren’t frequent. One such jotting read:
The easiest 50 bucks I’ve ever made. They couldn’t even perceive that the rope was from the last play and not the new set they had ordered. It’s effortless with this lot, the half-baked, lunk-headed artists. Aah, so long have I fooled them and for so long they’ve tangled in my neatly woven trickery.
Dougie, you’re nothing short of whizz.
The man was stealing and had been for almost all his life. With not a single black mark on his record, it was as though an ink-bottle fell upon it as I read on, spilling its contents onto his murky past.
The logs are filled with bogus entries; entries which never arrived. Someone will review them sooner or later and I’ll blame the intern Michael, or whatever his name was. Greed is a deadly sin, the pastor preached last Sunday. If it is, then why haven’t I been struck by lightning yet? Maybe it’s not greed if it feeds me… maybe it’s gluttony. Hell, I must’ve committed all seven of the fiends.
These went on to show the reprehensible work ethics of the production manager. But some notes escalated my suspicion.
That untalented prick! How did the uneducated actor even discover me? He claims to have seen the proof in a pile of bills, but I surely threw them away! That goody-two-shoes will rat me out. No way in hell I’m losing the position I’ve worked long and hard for, all over one small mistake. From my days as an intern to becoming the lead production manager, I’ve been heads and shoulders above the rest of these fools. Never once have I been found out. For 10 years, ten entire years, I’ve built up my syndicate of crime, creating contacts, blaming lowly fools and pulling quite a good scam for years. Anyway, let me observe the situation for a while longer.
These words were clearly written in a panic- the strikes and shaky letters stood witness to it. I never thought that a person with a good track record would have done anything of this sort. This ‘confession’ alone would’ve made him a strong suspect, the contents of this journal only kept strengthening the suspicion, but as though it were a harlot, it was quite the tease.
That moron! That’s it, I’m done with him. He had been mocking me all week and today he (poorly) acted like he was going to complain to the big scary lady. I’ve made up my mind, in the next week I’m going to-
The next page had been torn away, a lot of important information was lost, gone with the wind.
*Chuckle* That was a good show, I took the missus to the theatre the other day, and this was playing.
It was pretty neat, at least that’s what she keeps telling me, but I couldn’t really concentrate as my mind kept wandering off to the last entry. This entry has the potential to be the last piece of evidence in this investigation…
… caused his death, but I’m not sure how to feel about it. On one hand, my secret is safe but on the other… I guess I’ll stew in this feeling for a while and figure out how I feel.
With the production manager’s journal ending on an ambiguous note, the detective hopes for a clue with the next suspect on his list, Hans Evans himself.
