Case Closed

The damp stench of decay struck first—heavy, putrid, unmistakable

Lessie Barrett’s apartment had been steeped in death for days; her body sprawled in her own rot, air too thick to breathe. The carpet had been soddened with blood, stained like coffee on paper—fast, irreversible. Although it was dark, the sallow wallpaper emitted a sickly yellow glow.

I crouched beside her contorted body, her eyes sewn shut—almost as if she were hibernating. My partner, Robert Rockwell, knelt beside me. His hands hovered over her limbs, careful, seemingly reverent. As he examined the scene, his sharp and patient eyes flicked to mine—curiously.

“Notice anything, Gates?” He murmured, his eyes steering back toward Lessie’s body. Robert’s tone always carried an edge—half envy, half wonder.

I cocked my head, inspecting the scene intently. My eyes flashed against the glistening tag for rain boots placed on an end table.

“Suppose she enjoyed rain boots,” I let out.

“That makes two of us! Should I write that down?” Robert lightly chuckled, retrieving a bright-red pen—the one he never parted with—from his flap pocket.

“No, Robert. Don’t be so quick to make a joke of these things.” I snapped, the twinkle in his hopeful eyes dwindling.

Robert can be, in a humble comparison to myself, rather unprofessional–even childish at times. Not in the sense that he finds children’s humor amusing, but in the sense that he acts as if he should be addressed differently–expectant and stubborn.

I hadn’t acknowledged his joke, and he took silent offense to that. I promptly suggested we shift our attention outdoors.

The alley behind Lessie Barrett’s apartment carried the same smell of decay: rusting iron, mildewing soil, damp grime. Mud clung to the soles of my boots as rain persistently pelted against my coat. The tattered bricks of the complex were darkened by the relentless pouring.

Half-buried in the mud was a footprint. Odd considering the rain would’ve washed away any prints left by now. Nonetheless, it was a man’s—long, jagged, yet precise, almost precisely deliberate. Robert hadn’t hesitated to make a note of it, his fingers almost frantic as he wrote.

“There’s only a single footprint?” Robert’s voice pitched, thin, uncertain. He peered deeply into the mud, possibly his attempt at drawing conclusions.

“No, Robert. There is a footprint. A print alone is peculiar; adding the rain makes it an anomaly. The rain should’ve washed away any remaining prints.”

“Why do you suppose that is?” His brow furrowing, Robert narrowed his sight onto me, clawing for an answer. Before I could answer, Robert suddenly began shimmying his leg, chunks of soil flying up. He had managed to dirty his boots and slacks while observing the scene. Marvelous.

Years beside Robert taught me patience. He’d fumble his notebook, riddle his sleeves with stains, and still look to me for validation—like a child waiting on their grade.

Despite the subtle distraction, my brain churned. Could it be that it was intentional? Possibly. Too early to tell. After a long pause, I finally muttered back, “We will indeed find out.”

Following me back to the car, Robert held his pen as he read over his notes. The red tip waited against his chin, as if it already knew the ending of our case. I was expecting him to utter a joke, but he had grown reticent, watchful.

———————————————————

I remember the first day Lars Gates waltzed into the precinct. Swaggering, assured, dapper. Everything about him exuded perfection. I admired him and hated him for it.

I had soon come to be well acquainted with his sting: every promotion, every award, every article that praised him… yet I remained invisible. I carried the weight of our cases, I painted every picture—yet he signed every one. He solves nothing; he simply arranges scenarios to favor him. He hides behind feeble, pitiful veils. Veils, it seems, I’m the only one who has taken notice to.

The moment we caught Lessie Barrett’s case, I knew I’d no longer be a name drowned in the noise, but someone worth listening to.

It’s comical watching him flail around in the web I spun. Just for him.

———————————————————

I think Robert killed Lessie.

I returned to the scene—alone this time. During our earlier inspections, I brushed aside any suspicion that pointed toward my partner. But the thought had festered, growing louder with every unanswered question. We had no leads left—none that didn’t circle back to Robert.

I already buried the statement from an eyewitness who swore they saw him near the apartment on the night of Lessie Barrett’s murder. I told myself it was a coincidence. I told myself that if I couldn’t see it that way—after years of knowing him—that it was wrong.

But last night, my certainty was shattered.

While sifting through our files, a memory surfaced: the tag for the rain boots on the end table—the same boots Robert had fussed over, desperate to scrape clean of mud. My search confirmed he owned the exact pair, and the print we’d found in the alley matched his boots.

I sat in my office, lights low and air stagnantly silent—all except the ticking of a clock, like drops from a runny faucet. I examined Robert in my mind. Could it be? I flipped through the files more, yearning for a sign of contradiction. Suddenly, red ink stopped me cold: “GATES CLOSED”. My pulse stuttered. I flipped the page again. Blank. Again—blank. I now found myself within a paradox of endless questions–maybe because of the obscurity, or maybe because the glaringly red handwriting had been familiar.

As I entered the apartment, the same dingy carpets and flickering lamps greeted me. The smell, though muted, was pungent. I returned to the living room and grazed over the overturned coffee table, shards of glass glimmering like frozen teeth. I eyed the end table, a battered, vintagey cedar layered in brown dust. I walked over, my steps heavy with the echo of curiosity, and traced the wooden lines. My hand glazed over the single drawer handle, pulling it.

What had I been expecting? CSI had already concluded their sweep, and I was well aware of this; yet, something drew me closer.

The drawer revealed a small envelope, crinkled at the edges. A scribble in a harrowingly familiar red ink caught my eye: “GATES CLOSED”. Again. My stomach twisted. I had known the handwriting all too well—Robert. My heart pressed against my chest as I flipped the envelope over. There was an address. My suspicions had been confirmed.

I shoved the envelope into my pocket and started on my way toward my suspect.———————————————————-----

There’s almost an element of divinity with his grotesque obsession.

Lars becomes engrossed in what he does. To him, his occupation demands his sanity, even his soul. Hell, he might not even consider it an occupation. He might not even have a soul. His eagerness to lose himself to a case is astounding, yet idiotic. He, however, never realizes his madness. He regards his insanity and revolting infatuation as “devotion”. To Lars Gates, his desire requires him to consume anything blocking him.

I’m taking a page out of his book–consuming anything blocking me.

I feel I’m being gracious for doing things in the fashion that I am—he’ll appreciate one last case. Just as I’ve endured living in his vain shadow, he’ll too be forced into the shadows. This sacrifice—my legacy will soon surpass any moment of his career. Lars Gate’s will learn what it is to be shunned, what it is to be invisible.

———————————————————

The warehouse smelled of dust and old firewood. Moonlight slashed through the windows in jagged lines, cutting across pools of standing water. A silhouette stood just behind the shadows, the darkness swallowing his face, but I knew it was Robert. My pulse quickened, and blood hammered against my temples.

“Step forward, hands behind your back, Robert,” I called out into the void. Stepping forward, my fingers lurked over the cold trigger of my gun.

The echoes of his faint fit of giggles wafted over to me, sending a chill down my spine. I moved closer.

“You did it again, another mystery solved!” He moved into the light as he softly cried, the grin on his face not reaching his eyes. “The ending of Mr. Lars Gates,” He paused, “and the beginning of our case.”

For the first time, I couldn’t make sense of something. My head scrambled as I tried to piece the puzzle in front of me together. Robert stood deliberately under the haze of the weak light, fastening his gaze onto mine.

“Step forward… hands behind your back,” I felt my face scrunch, recoiling at the idea of Robert being our murderer, or possibly that I had been too slow in discovering the details. If I paid attention more intently, would everything have been prevented?

“Oh,” Robert slowly started. “I didn’t kill anyone. I gave you one last case to solve, your own.” He solemnly declared.

“Case closed, Gates closed.” He murmured, the red pen in his pocket glinting like a wound. He then raised his arms, the metal of his gun flashed, and before thought could intervene, I fired. Bang. One, two.

Silence.

Blood swished in my ears, carrying with it a merciless ringing. My lungs pulsed in and out erratically, thumping against my ribs with the beat of my heart. Was Robert right? Was I… wrong? Was Robert even capable of killing a young woman? Was I capable of killing a young man?

I succumbed to my exhausted knees, falling to the concrete, slick with blood. Bright-red. Just as red as the pen jutting from Robert’s pocket.

As the taste of raw iron filled my mouth, the stillness swathing me was penetrated by a growing sound of wailing sirens—sealing the conclusion to my very own case.

Case closed.

Mr. Lars Gates—closed.