Jason Macintosh is missing!

The mild shower that had been dripping from the darkening sky had escalated to a torrential downpour by the time we got the call from the local P.D. about a dead body found behind Jacob's Liquor Store. As we were leaving our office, Jenkins and I donned black rain jackets, grabbed umbrellas and to-go cups of coffee. We climbed inside his aging red Mustang and he gunned it out of the parking lot. Somehow, I managed to stay upright long enough to buckle in and turn on the red and blue flashing lights without spilling any coffee. As my truck seems to spend more and more time at the mechanic's, Jenkins has taken that to mean he has free rein to drive a little more like he’s gunning for first, unlike my usual calm and steady hand behind the wheel.

We arrived at the scene to the usual tableau: two or three police cars with their lights strobing like a rather patriotic dance party, yellow police tape marking the entrance to the alley, plastic numbered tents placed carefully next to bits of evidence, calling to mind place settings at a dinner party that shouldn't be. And of course, around ten cops milling about, looking on as a select few actually do their jobs of taking pictures, notes, measurements. And there, in the midst of all the controlled chaos; our victim laying prone, unseeing eyes still open, head turned slightly to the side, mouth partially open taking in rain that he would never swallow.

"Wait! Stop right there!"

"What is it this time? You said you wanted to be a detective in this story, yes?"

"Indeed, but..."

"But what, Reggie?" I sighed, exasperated.

"Is the victim on his back or his stomach?"

"His back, but what..."

"Then you should have said he was laying supine, NOT prone. There is a difference!"

"Are you..."

"YES! I am absolutely positive! Crack open a dictionary, would you? I thought you said you went to college!"

"In a manner of speaking. I, uh, actually only attended a one-day writer's workshop held at the community college. I found it quite helpful, truth be told."

"Oh brother! My story is being by someone who didn't even go to college? Wonderful! Did you at least finish high school?"

"Of course. It's been a few years now, but.... Look, I'll make it a great story. We can work together as long as you stop interrupting me so much. It throws off my focus."

"Fine. I'll try."

"Excellent. Now, where were we?"

And there, in the midst of all the controlled chaos; our victim laying supine, unseeing eyes still open, head turned slightly to the side, mouth partially open taking in rain that he would never swallow. Thunder roared above the pitch-dark clouds, lightning flashing closer now, adding its own touch to our strange little party. Jenkins and I looked over the poor bastard as best we could given the conditions, talked to a few of the first unis on the scene, then gave a wave to the paramedics to take him down to the county morgue.

Back in the Mustang, Jenkins turned to me, his big brown eyes gone wider, almost comically so. "Hey, Reg, do you know who that was?" I shrugged and shook my head no. "That was Jason Macintosh. The Jason Macintosh!" I met his wide-open enthusiasm with my trademark blank stare. "You know, the actor? He was in..." here, he pauses to look it up on his phone, then shows it to me triumphantly. "Look, this is his filmography. Yeah, that steamy trilogy with Amber Langford is his most popular. And you have no idea who this is, or rather, was, do you?"

I took the phone gently, careful not to touch anything that would switch away from the filmography. "Oh, yeah, think I've seen some of his stuff. Huh, says here he was originally from our little slice of heaven," I say as I hand him back his phone.

"No shit? Whoa, I had no idea!" He replies with even more fanboy adoration, mixed in with a hint of what I can only infer as community pride.

"I wouldn’t shit you; you're my favorite turd!" I couldn't resist teasing him with one of my dad's infamous one-liners. Unfortunately, it fell flat on the man-child, and I could practically feel yet another grey hair sprouting on top of my head.

"Huh? What..."

"Never mind, Alan, let's just head over to the M.E.'s. See if she's been able to find anything useful yet."

"Hey, I actually like that joke! I'm adding it to my dad jokes file."

"Oh, I didn't know you had children," I said as I scanned my character notes.

"God, no. I have nephews that are absolute terrors, but they like the groan factor of dad jokes and fart jokes. Just can't say those around my sister."

"Uh, cool, thanks. Let's get back to it, then, shall we?" I put down the notes and focused my attention back to the blinking cursor.

Inside the building, Jenkins practically runs to the M.E.'s office, like a puppy looking for a treat. Fortunately, Dr. Ashford is already on her back to the morgue and pauses for us to catch up. Like many of us on our team, I believe that Jenkins is slightly in love with Dr. Ashford, but just like the rest of us, he is sorely out of luck. Our petite auburn-haired big-hearted doctor is already married to a rather attractive Pakistani woman she met at a conference three years ago. I was fortunate enough to be one of her groomsmen. Catching up with Jenkins and Dr. Ashford, I smile sheepishly. "Sorry to keep you waiting. I know Junior here is quite eager to hear your findings, Kate."

She laughed and shook her head. "It's all good, Reg. I haven't been able to start the autopsy yet, but I did run his prints through the system. Seems our boy had a bit of a record early on. Petty theft, a couple of stolen cars, possession of the devil's lettuce, nothing too extreme."

Unable to contain his curiosity anymore, Jenkins blurted out "is it him?? Is it really Jason Macintosh?"

"I'm afraid it is, Detective. Given the rather soaked state he’s in, the autopsy could take a bit longer, possibly four hours or so. I’ve spoken to his family already, but otherwise I’m ready to start. You boys are welcome to use the conference room, if you’d like to wait.”

“Thanks, Doc, we’ll take you up on that,” I replied before Jenkins could. Truth be told, I really didn’t relish the idea of getting back out on the road with him while the storm continued its relentless thrashing. As we part ways with the doctor, I turn to Jenkins. “Hey, I’ll get us set up if you want to start in on the coffee.” He nods before hanging his jacket on a hook, leaving his bag on the table and walking over to the tiny kitchen. The look of astonishment about the Jason Macintosh fading slightly. He’s an excellent detective, but situations like this remind me just how young he really is. And just how old I have become.

Four and a half hours later, Dr. Ashford joins us in the conference room. She’s changed into her “civilian clothes;” a pair of loose-fitting jeans, an old Harvard sweatshirt, comfortable looking shoes, and holding a to-go cup of tea. Jenkins is at one end of the files, notes, pictures and papers -strewn table, sound asleep with his arms as a pillow. I’m in front of the whiteboard, going over the timeline yet again, dates and times of Jason Macintosh’s final days on Earth swimming before me, long past the point of making any sense. I turn to her and give her a very sleepy smile. “What’s the word, Doc?”

“Blunt force trauma to the head was what ended up killing him. He was beaten up pretty badly first, though, the poor bastard. Some defensive wounds, but eventually, he just couldn’t fight anymore. I’m thinking baseball bat. I need to get home and hug my wife now. Sometimes cases like these have me rethinking my career path, you know?” She sighed heavily, then continued. “The tox screens will take a few weeks to get back, depending on how quickly the lab processes them. Given that this is a pretty high-profile case, I might get them back quicker. Gotta put on a good face for the press,” she said disdainfully.

I gave her a quick one-shouldered hug. “New career path? Yeah, you and me both, kiddo. Give Zoya an extra hug from me. We’ll clean our mess and be out soon.” After she left, I stood there with glazed eyes, staring at the nonsense on the whiteboard. As much as I wanted to stay and try to figure it all out, I also knew when it was time to stop. We can start again tomorrow with fresh eyes. I cleaned off the board, woke Jenkins and wordlessly we put the conference room back to rights. As we left the building, I made sure to turn off all the lights and lock the doors. The sun had already started creeping upward, painting the sky in beautiful, muted pinks, purples and oranges. Only when we were in the car did we speak. “I don’t know how much you heard, but apparently our Mr. Macintosh got beaten pretty badly with what appears to be a baseball bat. Final blow to the head did the trick. Last night’s storm washed away probably all of the evidence, unfortunately.” He grunted in response and drove surprisingly carefully to my place. “Listen, man. Go home, get some sleep, try not to watch the news. We’ll meet up at Marino’s for some dinner, alright?

“Yeah, alright. Thanks, boss,” he answered sleepily.

The next few days passed as they usually do when we catch a case. Jenkins had shaken off the incredulousness at working the investigation of a rising Hollywood star, and pored over our initial scribblings, meticulously recording them in our case file. The police chief gave press conferences nearly every day for a week, giving them nothing they really wanted. We didn’t have much to work with, so he usually just gave the bland blanket statement: “actively searching for Mr. Macintosh’s killer, a tip line has been set up with the number at the bottom of the screen, if you have anything to report, please call us. The family has offered reward money for any information leading to an arrest and conviction. Nothing further.” We were all instructed to be polite to the press, and to say “no comment” if they asked us anything. Jenkins and I were hounded a few times, but they backed off when I threatened them with impeding our investigation. Our conference room had been taken over by a dozen phones for the tip line, each manned 24/7. Every few hours when the volunteers were relieved, we would get stacks of the “helpful” tips to investigate. Normally, we had the discretion to follow up on the more credible tips and save the less plausible ones for last. Now, however, we were under a national microscope and had been instructed to follow each one. Luckily, I had my truck back; so, each morning we’d grab a large stack, Jenkins would file the tips by location, and we’d get to as many as we could. A majority of them were just folks either looking for the reward money or wanting to see their names in the news. Those people were quite obviously disappointed when we showed up at their doors without a news crew. We did manage to find a couple of decent leads that would warrant a closer look.

The next weeks wore on as pointlessly as a broken pencil. The tip line wasn’t ringing as steadily as it had been at the start, so the chief reduced it to just three lines. We followed up on the more compelling leads, re-interviewing everyone, rewatching the scant footage from the liquor store and Macintosh’s seedy motel room in the town that borders our own. We didn’t get the “we found a partial fingerprint at the scene that matches… our killer!” moment, or the “wait, pause that, zoom in on that guy, run his image, yes, that’s him! That’s our murderer!” Because those things only happen in the world of make-believe. Here in the real world, murders aren’t solved in an hour. Weeks, months, years, even. If we’re lucky. Most go unsolved, as the many reality shows prove. I lamented this to Kate and Zoya one night, as we had dinner at their place.

“Man, Zoya, this is just amazing! What’s it called again?”

“Aloo gosht. Meri ammi showed me how to make it. Always said cooking exceptional dishes was the way to keep a husband happy!” She replied with a mischievous grin on her blushing face.

“And I am quite happy to say that it’s definitely working!” Kate exclaimed with a giggle. Zoya reached over and gave her hand a brief squeeze. “So, tell us, dearest detective, what’s on your mind, other than this delicious meal? Is it the Macintosh case?”

I scooped up the last bits of potatoes with a hunk of naan and nodded. “Yeah. Well, kind of. I’ve decided that this is going to be my last one. As Danny Glover once so perfectly stated, “I’m getting too old for this shit.” Uh, forgive the language. But it’s true. I have nothing left to teach Jenkins, and he knows more about computers than I ever will.” I paused as both doctors were politely trying (and failing) to hide their giggles. “Wanna let me in on the joke?”

They looked at each other first, briefly, before Kate cleared her throat and answered. “I said basically the exact same thing, Reg. I’ve already spoken to my supervisor and the chief. After we close this case, I’m done. I’ve accepted a position with the university to teach. That way, I get to come every night and be with my family. You should try it, too.”

“What, come home every night to be with your family? Somehow, I doubt being a throuple was in the cards for any of us!” I jokingly said. In response, they both tossed their dark red cloth napkins at me.

“Throuple! Honestly, Reggie! You’ve been around Alan too long! I just meant…”

“I know, Kate. Really, I know.” I looked down at my left hand and noticed that the tan line had completely faded.

“Oh, jeez! Not the brooding widower! That’s too cliché, even for you!”

“…Even for me? The hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“I let all the other cliches pass…”

“What cliches?”

“Old detective, passing along his sage wisdom to the young guy. Young detective trying to reciprocate with computer knowledge and the newest slang. The lesbian couple for the shock value, half of that couple being a woman of Color for flavor. We’re nearing the end of the story, and now you want to make me a widower?? For god’s sake! Take it out. It’s just so unnecessary. Maybe I’m a bachelor by choice. Maybe I don’t believe in soul mates or any of that fluff Hallmark shoves down our throats 27/7.”

“Art imitating life, Reg? Alright, I’ll delete it.”

“I know, Kate. And if I meet “the One,” great! Until then, though, I’ll have more time to devote to spoiling any future nieces or nephews you two give me.”

Several months passed and the case was no longer our priority. Leads dried up completely. The tip line had been disconnected, now anything that someone remembered could be reported on a website managed by our cold case division. Our conference room resumed it’s intended purpose for daily briefings and meetings. The press had left our tiny town in search of bigger news stories and scandals. Kate had a large turn-out at Marino’s for her send off. I opted for a quieter gathering at Kate and Zoya’s home. We were all lounging in their spacious living room when Jenkins went outside to answer a call on his cell. A few minutes later, he rushed in, pale and shaking with excitement.

Kate reached him first. “What is, Alan? What happened?”

Wildly, he looked around at all of us and breathlessly exclaimed, “earlier tonight, someone went to the cemetery and dug up a coffin and stole the body. Jason Macintosh is missing!”