The Detective
Very little light was streaming into the alley. Two dumpsters stood, on different sides, almost touching. A huge man walked towards the end of the alley. Only as he slipped between the dumpsters did one realize all his bulk was in his clothes. His face, if you zoomed in, was dirty, and filled with despair, his eyes gleaming coldly and intelligently. The shadows rearranged themselves, and one stepped into the light, thin, hunched over, eyes searching as they tried to make out the man. A moment of silence, both staring at each other, a brief scuffle, a muffled shot. The second man dropped dead. A gun clanked as it bounced off the ground.
“Go back a few seconds. Here, here. Pause. Zoom. Light it up.”
The smaller man’s eyes were widened and whitened with fear.
The Detective thought about the larger man. Sure, violence happened every day. In increasing numbers recently, but that was an issue for a separate time. But not every homeless person had a gun. None of them should. Was the organization going around arming them? Why? Did the smaller man recognize the older man or did he recognize what he belonged to.
“Here’s the file, there wasn’t much on him, sir. But we did get records until a few years back when he was an assistant at an infirmary. The place is called Sir Gangha Ram Hospital. Seekh or something.”
“How did the man get to this country?” The Detective murmured, leafing through the files.
“We’re still working on that, sir. Sir-?”
The sergeant held the file in his hands, as The Detective grabbed his coat and hat and rushed out. He shook his head, the others smiled at the eccentric behavior of their boss, smiled because they knew he would get to the bottom of it, and continued working.
*
The Detective stepped out, it was raining heavily, mist everywhere, visibility minimal, the headlights on his car could not make out anything past a few feet. He walked into the graveyard, dropped some flowers at the grave of the deceased judge, looked up and screamed. He turned and left.
*
The Detective slid a file across the table, to the man whose wrists were red and raw from the handcuffs that had recently been taken off, and whose mouth was curled upwards in a permanent smile. He flipped through the folder, closed it, and pushed it back. Eyes filled with twinkling laughter. Daring him to ask the question. Asking him, what? The Detective pulled a photo out of his inner coat pocket and flicked it towards the man. He did not react, but The Detective leaned in.
“I saw the recognition in your eyes. You were there. Was that where they turned you?”
“Don't know what youre talking about man.” He looked to the one way glass mirror to his right and pointed to his head and circled, making the universal gesture for he’s crazy. Mouthing the word loco.
Slowly, The Detective said, “it was, wasn’t it. That place has the answers i need?” Half question, half statement. All to himself. The man looked at him, a wider smile forming on his lips.
As The Detective walked out of the prison, and the guards closed the gates behind him, he heard a cackle bursting through the doors. He shivered.
A man watched him leave the prison as it started to rain, on a large screen in a darkened cavern, and picked up a device. He typed up the words. Found the connect.