The Very Bad Detective, Part 3

The Very Bad Detective

Catch up with Part 1 and Part 2.

Maxwell Brogue stood in the interrogation room. Chained to the table was one Timothy Shanks, a.k.a.: Crooked Timmy. Detective Grimes ceased her pacing when she saw Maxwell. A slight smile grew on her face. The tall Detective Hatts was in a corner, leaning against the wall.

“Oh boy, are you in trouble now, Tim,” Hatts said, straightening up. He walked over to the man in handcuffs. Leaning in, he pointed to Maxwell. “See that man there? He’s the one who busted this case wide open. He found your hammer in the floorboards.”

Crooked Timmy looked up at Maxwell with bloodshot, beady eyes. His expression was hard and violent.

“You wouldn’t be in here right now if it weren’t for him,” Hatts said.

Tim’s face got harder.

“Who are you?” he asked Maxwell.

“This is the city’s finest private detective,” Grimes said. “Max Brogue.”

“Heh, you need a private dick?” Crooked Timmy said. “That’s pretty pathetic, detectives.”

“Keep laughing, Tim,” Hatts said. “A few minutes with Brogue here, you’ll be singing like a bird.”

“Show ‘em what you got, Max,” Grimes said.

Continue reading “The Very Bad Detective, Part 3”

The Very Bad Detective, Part 2

The Very Bad Detective

Catch up with Part 1.

The officers were lined up along the hallway. Their heads were erect. Some of them had smiles on their faces. But most had an appropriately stern, but satisfied, look. The front door of the police station swung open. A bit of the lashing rain fell inside. Marching into the building were Detective Hatts and Grimes.

Between them was a large man, bound in handcuffs. His face was pinched and angry. The expression could have curdled milk. The police officers glared at the brute as he walked passed. Hatts and Grimes pushed the man along, serious as headstones. But they did allow the occasional wink and smile at their colleagues. At one point, Hatts indulged in a high-five.

The police watched as the detectives marched the man to a holding cell. They waited until the cell door clanked shut, before bursting into cheers. One of the grisliest murders the city had ever seen. And their own detectives brought in the culprit.

Maxwell Brogue missed the moment. He was in the bathroom.

Continue reading “The Very Bad Detective, Part 2”