Detective Commons Part Three...

Continuing the tale of Detective Commons and the dead Ginger...

- C!

Recall works on the principle that since your mind can remember the past it must be a place you can go back to. It’s a bit flawed, logically speaking, but it works. Now, because you can’t remember the future, since you’ve probably never been there, it only works on the past. I don't know how it can take your body with it, but I’m no scientist, or I’d give a much better explanation in general. Just take it from me, it’s some crazy shit. The stronger the dose, the farther back you can go. Neat, huh?

Now, the bells were going off. The light bulb above my head was aglow. I had the modus operandi, but not the killer OR the motive. It was a start though. Stay with me here. So, way too many bullets to have been fired by the same gun WERE fired by the same gun. It all makes sense! Somebody sent multiple versions of him or herself from the future, to the same moment in the present, to take out poor Molly. She must have known the shooter, because there were no signs of a struggle, obvious or otherwise. I know, it seems way too easy, but I’m THAT good. Now, the big question remains. Why would anyone go to all that trouble? I mean, Recall leaves you with one hell of a hangover. I mean, it’s great if you like feeling as if you’re pregnant with knives, but most people frown upon that sort of experience.

Jimmy sat back, digging his fork around, obsessively, in the mostly untouched blueberry pie sitting on his plate. The smug look I’ve fondly come to know as “Cletus” sitting firmly on his face, unmoving, like a fat guy at a Hometown Buffet. “So…”

That’s all he had to say? “So?” God I hate Jimmy. He was right though.Those two letters spoke volumes. So, now what? So, where do we go from here? So, who’s got the check? I knew then exactly what I had to do, aside from paying the check because Jimmy is a worthless bastard. I needed to go see Angus, God help me.

Now, the Ginger part of town isn’t a bad place, per se. I mean, if you like your food boiled beyond recognition, and are an immense fan of wool, it’s the place for you. Me personally, I hate it. It’s up there with going to the proctologist after sitting at the DMV for a few hours. I’d rather eat my own feces while being punched in the nuts, but it was the only way. Fuck me.

Apparently, Angus knew I was coming. He had his two biggest men waiting for me outside, gloved hands pre-greased for the weapons inspection. Fuck me twice. I tried to tell them that I abhorred guns more than I hated my mother-in-law, but I have a feeling they just liked this part of the job due to the ear-to-ear grins on their faces. I was glad somebody was enjoying themself.

The twin “Lurches” obviously found nothing, not that they weren’t extremely thorough. I gathered my dignity, what was left of it at least, and limped inside. Angus was sitting by the fireplace in an 18th century duvet, sipping 18 year old scotch, smoking a cigar. I wished he’d close his legs, as I didn’t want to know what he had under his kilt, but it was far too late for that. Things that are seen cannot be unseen.