User:Synhart/My Written Works

Noir Detective
[Downtown Chicago, November 1928]

A city where crime has been a way of life ever since the Great Depression hit this godforsaken city. Almost every night, one can hear screams coming from the city’s dark and ominous alleys which are often followed by gunshots or the faint sound of a knife digging its way into its prey’s body. Even the police force was a bunch of crooks. They were all corrupt and dishonest. But there was a man from Miami who came to Chicago to join its local precinct upon orders from the Miami Police Department. Carrying a box filled with his old stuff, he stepped in his new office. He put the box against the wall and grabbed out a nameplate. He examined his desk and placed his nameplate on it, Inspector James E. Price. He then turned and faced the window, opened the blinds and stared at the dreary city skyline. He sighed. It was raining that night. After a few minutes, he heard a knock on the door. “Come in,” he said, still staring at the city with his arms crossed. The door opened and the precinct’s secretary, Ms. Margaret Louise, came in. “Are you the new guy? Inspector Price?” asked the lady. James turned to her and said “That’s what my nameplate says,” He looked at the girl. She looked like she was in her late twenties. She had wavy shoulder-length auburn hair, a pretty face with baby blue eyes and red lipstick on her lips. As for her clothes, she wore a sky blue jacket above a plain white shirt, a grey skirt and heeled shoes. “Here’s a dossier about your first case. The guy in that file has been on the loose for a year now,” She handed the inspector a rather thick but light folder. “He murdered my two brothers some months ago,” she grimly added. “I hope you catch that no good-” She burst into tears and hugged James. He felt awkward hugging a stranger he only met for 3 minutes but he tried to reassure her. “I’ll do my best,” he said. She then ran out the door sobbing. James proceeded to his desk and sat down. For some reason, he felt that his pants were lighter. He checked his pockets and discovered that the girl stole his wallet, it contained 20 bucks. “This proves Chicago is a rat hole,” he taught in his mind but he decided to shrug the theft off. He opened the dossier and saw a faded picture of the killer. It startled him. The killer’s face was severely burned when the picture was taken. He took the picture and put it aside, faced down. He read reports about the man mutilating his victims and keeping some of its body parts or scattering it around the scene of the crime. In one file it says that the killer perpetrates his crime with a Bowie Knife, a dangerous knife that has been banned since the late 1830’s. How he even got hold of one, the cops might never know. In another file, it states he was a poor butcher. It was in 1927 when an arsonist burned his shop down during Christmas Eve. He was working inside, chopping and cleaving meat when a burning beam fell on him and knocked the future-serial killer unconscious. He had to spend a year in therapy in an asylum afterwards. Since then, after his disfigured face had been mended, he was observed to be criminally insane and eisoptrophobic. But a simpler way of saying it is that the maniac is afraid of mirrors. It is also said that shards of glass are found in every victim’s body and that murders happen in restrooms or department stores. “I guess he goes psychotic when he sees mirrors,” James thought. He started his killing spree on the 2nd day of March the year after, seven souls taken by that wretched demon. When he flipped to the last file, there was a hand-written note with dried blood on it. The note read “Every month you don’t show your face to me Capone; my knife will slash another throat!” A sheet of paper was attached to it by a paper clip. The document said that it was found taped on the seventh victim’s forehead. "Gang rivalry. The usual,” he said to himself. He gingerly picked up the man’s photo again and placed it in the folder. Then, he opened the first drawer on his desk and shoved the dossier inside. He stood up and glanced at his watch. “6:15 PM. I better make this quick,” he said. He went to the box with his stuff and grabbed out a hat, a grey fedora. He put it on, turned off the room’s lights and went out the door. Inspector James E. Price’s first case, a string of murders in downtown Chicago, set on the brink of a gang war in the late 20’s. He took a deep breath, stepped out the precinct’s doors and into Chicago’s vast abyss of crime and sin.