A/N- Surely the effects of having lost so many partners would have left lasting impressions on the detective.
Abe tipped the whiskey bottle back, ignoring the burning sensation at the back of his throat as the spirit went down. Letting out a quiet 'ahh,' he set the nearly empty bottle onto his disaster of a desk. Not for the first time, he noticed it had fallen into such disarray, but the private detective could never work up the motivation or care to do something about it.
Only the single desk lamp in the corner and the moonlight streaming in through the window behind him illuminated the room. A cold draft chilled the back of his neck, and he shivered.
His bloodshot eyes swept the cluttered surface, skimming over stray leafs of paper, napkins with circular coffee stains, sticky notes attached to books and files and reports of all kinds. A medical examiner's note that a family believed to be falsified sat neglected in the corner of the desk, not having been touched for a few days at least. Henry had promised to take a look at it to help with this case.
Henry…Feeling the stab of pain in his gut return, Abe reached for the whiskey again and took a larger swig. The lukewarm alcohol could help him forget the funeral just that morning.
Yet another partner, gone. It was getting harder to remember where the number stood at now. 17? Or 18? He thought it was 18, but this drunk, it was hard to tell for sure. Far too many, regardless. He'd buried too many partners. Too many friends. Another picture he'd have to add to the growing collection.
Some would think each time it would get a little easier to cope with, each death affecting him a little less, but you never really got used to seeing someone you knew with the life gone from their eyes. Sometimes he could still see the dead stare, the unblinking lids as they looked at him accusingly.
With the amount of times someone close to him lost their life, it was also becoming increasingly difficult to convince himself it wasn't his fault. Abe could only pretend for so long that he knew what he was doing, that he felt sure of every decision he made.
People who lived around here wouldn't work with him, all too familiar with the string of dead partners he left in his wake and the unconventional methods he used to get the job done. Only those investigators who weren't from around here took jobs with him anymore, those who didn't know his reputation. And as the whispered gossip continued to spread, the radius in which people avoided him was getting bigger.
He was a lonely man, nothing but a half-empty whiskey bottle to keep him company. He wasn't sure if he'd even take another job, wondering how quickly he could starve to death should he just decide to lock himself in his apartment and waste away. At this point Abe couldn't quite tell if it was his own conscious or just the alcohol talking.
Letting out a single, humorless laugh, Abe raised the bottle by the neck in a mock toast. Here's to me, he thought morosely, letting more of the alcohol flow down his gullet.
Mark's letter that came the following morning was exactly the thing he needed. Even the raging hangover lingering in his head couldn't prevent the wide smile from spreading across his lips. The contents were fairly to the point, but then again, whenever the guy felt he couldn't trust someone in his own home, he'd called Abe. Short and to the point was all that was required.
Overhanging the excitement at having another assignment he felt confident we couldn't botch, looking into the backgrounds of a chef and a butler, was the relief at hearing from his old friend again. The man had practically disappeared off the map for awhile, ignoring Abe's letters and never leaving the house. It was so unlike his usual character, remembering the outgoing and slightly overbearing fellow as he'd been in college. What had happened? And why wait so long before contacting him?
Several months ago, feeling like he owed it to himself to find answers, since Mark himself wouldn't be providing any, he'd started an investigation of his own. If something had happened, he wanted to know. Abe didn't like the idea of losing another friend and not being able to do a damn thing about it.
After a few weeks of searching and piecing the clues together, the trail came up cold. No matter how far he took things, how deep he dug, he couldn't figure out what had happened to make the man a shut-in. He'd done everything but go there himself and ask Mark what was going on. But if this cold shoulder was anything to go on, he doubted they'd let him inside.
Still, after all of his worry and all this time, it appeared Mark had gotten over whatever funk had been troubling him. Mark's favor didn't take too long at all. The information had been stuffed away in a few file folders to show to the man once he got there. He'd packed his bags a few days before the event and had travelled down by train to see the man face to face. Words on paper weren't enough to dispel all of his concerns, but man's eyes didn't lie.
Now he stood, waiting in the parlor with his pipe in his hands. Eyes scanning the fancy furniture and frivolous decorations on shelves and tables. This place hasn't changed much at all, he thought to himself, standing straighter when the sound of footsteps reached his ears.
The robed man himself rounded the corner, that twinkle of mischief shining brightly in his eyes and a grin to match it. "Abe!" He greeted jovially, holding out his hand to shake.
"Mark!" The detective responded, eagerly taking the hand offered and returning the firm grip. "Good to see you." And truly it was. Seeing Mark so relaxed and put together, nothing at all like the behavior he'd exhibited over the past few years, was the most reassuring piece of evidence he could ask for. It was like they were still back in college, the promise of fun times in every smile Mark quirked.
The robed man stepped back and gestured in a placating manner. "Great to see you as well. Look, I'll cut to the chase. Chef, butler…good?" His eyebrows rose hopefully, expecting to hear good news.
Abe nodded thoughtfully, remembering the information from his files. Mark never asked before to look at official reports and the like on cases like this, trusting the Abe's word over all other things, but the detective prided himself on doing a job properly, bringing the files anyway. Blinking, he replied to Mark's question.
"Chef's an asshole, but he's clean." There was a pause, then continued. "Uh, let's see…the butler's a new guy, also an asshole, but he's also clean."
Satisfied by the answer, Mark's grin widened, and he nodded appreciatively. "I wouldn't have it any other way." Then, he swept his arm back behind him, gesturing to the hallway beyond. "Now, enough talk of business. There'll be plenty of time for that later. Come, let's have ourselves a drink and catch up on the years apart, friend."
"Sounds like a plan to me." The detective followed the man down the hall, looking forward to that promised drink.
Failure hung heavy on the detective's heart the moment he saw the motionless figure lying on the floor. Mere hours before they'd been having the time of their life, celebrating just as they had back in college together. The sting of being able to see his friend again after so many years, only to have him lying dead—no, murdered, he thought bitterly to himself—was a hurt too intense to explain. But in keeping with his nature, Abe forced the pain and vulnerability down into his gut and plastered a more comfortable emotion to the forefront: anger.
He mentally ticked through the guests in the house; the Butler, who had a clean record, save for a short history of mild drug use years previously, didn't jump out at him as the person responsible. What would he have against Mark? Perhaps he felt under-appreciated? It wasn't uncommon for employees to feel their deeds weren't being recognized by their superiors. It was a rather weak motive, but the detective knew others had killed for less.
The chef was a surly son of a bitch, but his record had been practically spotless. Of course, the string of rejections from tv networks could have been stewing in the man for years. All that anger had to be let out somehow, right? He definitely had access to the nearest usable weapons, though a more thorough examination of the body would tell him what exactly had killed his friend.
The mayor had been a friend of Mark's since they were young, but there was plenty in between the things Abe knew about Damien that could cause the outwardly charming man to snap. A disagreement gone wrong? An outstanding debt? Or a stolen lover? Wealth and fame tended to bring with it scandal and cover-ups, and the detective was sure there was some sort of history between the two he hadn't yet uncovered.
That eccentric Colonel was the most obvious suspect in all of this. The man carried around a pistol or two everywhere he went! In the few memories he could remember of the night before, Abe recalled noticing that William had tried to keep his distance from Mark whenever possible. There had been a distinct animosity between the two, more on the Colonel's part than anything, but it had definitely been there. Abe had never liked him much to begin with.
He'd all but missed the attorney standing there beside the body, looking just as shell-shocked as the rest of the men who came running at his exclamation of murder. Letting his anger lead the way, he found his hand shooting out to grab at the attorney's robe. "What the hell happened here? Who's in charge around here?"
The question slipped out by accident, and he quickly covered it up by pointing to his friend laying dead between them. "Trick question: that guy! And he's dead now which makes me in charge."
If there was a murderer somewhere in this house then Abe was going to find the bastard who killed his friend and bring him to justice. He wasn't going to lose this friend without a fight. He owed it to Mark to find his killer.
The dozens of questions he had for the attorney were met with blank stares, and it was likely they were still in shock from the discovery. Perhaps it was their first time seeing a dead body. Or perhaps it was guilt for putting it there in the first place. But like the butler said, the body was cold, and he'd seen the attorney at the end of the hallway, walking down the stairs to enter the parlor. It was unlikely they were the perpetrator. At least, for now. Further evidence may prove otherwise. His angry questions were interrupted by the Chef.
"Prove you're a real dick." He accused, his finger jabbing into his torso. Frustrated at the delay, he dug into his white robe to find the badge he always carried with him. It was a pretty common thing, people not believing he was an actual detective, and it grated his nerves each time it happened.
"Here's my badge, asshole." Flashing the silver insignia at the man, swinging it over to show the attorney as well, hoping it would encourage them to comply with the investigation. Unfortunately, the movement unhooked the loop holding the carded photo set in place, and the stream of pictures descended nearly to the floor.
Mortified, but hiding it successfully, Abe began gathering the pictures together again. "Those are my old partners. Don't ask me about them."
Realizing the statement, coupled with the suspiciously long visual list of his previous partners, had very damning connotations, he hurried to amend the statement, feeling that telling the truth in this instance may be more worthwhile than keeping secrets from these people. Perhaps it would instill a bit of trust towards him, which would help in the investigation later on.
"Fine! I'll tell you. Each one of them died, each death more tragic than the last." His voice threatened to waver, but he pressed on, hoping not a speck of guilt showed on his face. That would only be counterintuitive. "A few of them even died in ironically hilarious ways…"
There was a few moments of awkward silence, and Abe cursed inwardly. None of this was turning out well, but he had to troop forward. The problem was, he doubted he could handle an investigation of this magnitude by himself. He knew his limits, and having this many people to question and ensure would stay in the manor would become problematic. He was just one man, after all. He'd need a partner, but no one else here was trained for the job.
His eyes fixed on the attorney. They were at least familiar with the law, and he had few other options.
"Hey, you look like you're up to the task. You're my new partner." He pointed to the attorney, who shook their head hastily. Abe laughed, figuring they weren't sure if they were cut out for the job. But he was an excellent judge of character, and they seemed adequate enough for what he was looking for. Not to mention, he'd be able to keep a close eye on the person who'd discovered the body. Best to keep your enemies close, after all.
Abe paced around the small study, the cork board littered with all the clues he could compile on the opposite wall. His eyes glanced over at the intersecting red strings and sticky notes plastered all over it's surface. Sheets of paper and newspaper clippings were cut out crudely and tacked along the edges. Certain bits of important information had been circled in a red pen.
A typewriter sat in the center of the desk, crumpled pieces of paper surrounding it. His trusty bottle of whiskey sat close by, nearly empty. Encyclopedias and volumes detailing the history of the manor sat open and bookmarked all over the place.
Things just weren't adding up. It almost painfully obvious that the Colonel was the culprit, but Abe still felt like something was missing. Some key piece of evidence that he had yet to find.
Celine's sudden arrival to the manor had thrown a loop through things, but had also begun to answer many questions he'd had over the years. William's reaction especially. Abe had never seen the man as gentle or caring than at that moment he'd addressed Celine.
While going through Mark's bedroom upstairs, he'd stumbled upon a very detailed letter, written by Celine herself, explaining that the marriage wasn't working out and she'd decided to leave. That had been years ago, right about the time Mark stopped responding to all letters and communications. Abe felt a spike of inadequacy, frustrated that something as obvious as that had been the cause of all of his friend's strange behavior. So glaringly obvious, and he hadn't been able to figure it out. Some detective he was.
The board was filled mostly with the information he'd obtained about Celine and William, his instinct telling him they were somehow involved in all this. Nothing pointed to Celine specifically, but she was too close to both the victim and the prime suspect to not have some sort of important knowledge on the matter.
The woman herself was upstairs preparing for whatever hocus pocus bologna she wanted to try out. Apparently it had to wait until tonight, however, and so most of the guests had dispersed to occupy themselves until she was ready. Communicating with the dead? This was insanity. His prediction had been right, it wasn't a simple candlestick-in-the-library mystery, but this was not what he'd been referring to.
He'd all but eliminated the butler, the chef, and Damien from his list of suspects. He'd come to the conclusion that the attorney was innocent as well, seeing their dedication to solving this mystery like himself. All that left was Celine and William. He hadn't gotten a chance to truly question the woman yet, but she holed herself up in that room, and Damien was rather protective of her. He doubted the mayor would let him go accusing her of murder.
The answers were right within his reach, Abe could practically feel it. Before he could think on the matter any further, he heard Celine calling for the attorney, signaling that the seance was about to begin. He pushed off from leaning against the desk, intent to wait outside and make sure that he didn't lose yet another partner. He wouldn't fail another.
The sound of the gunshot echoed painfully around the small hallway of the manor, Abe's ears ringing from the noise a moment before a searing pain spread from his chest. The Colonel's face was staring at him in something close to shock, bewilderment. Abe couldn't look away, even as the strength drained from his limbs. The weight of the gun in his own fingers became too much, and he sagged to the floor, dropping the weapon with a clatter.
His body was numb, and he barely felt the wall at his back. Black dots appeared in the corners of his vision, blurring as he tried looking up at the man who'd shot him. The Colonel's eyes swept back and forth across his body. Abe looked down, the red patch of blood seeping through the wound and into his vest. It felt so hot against this skin, his insides growing cold.
Looking up again, barely able to make out distinct features, he saw the attorney reach for the Colonel's gun. Panicking, Abe tried to stand then, failing that, attempted to shout at them to get away. No sound emerged, only strangled croaks. The man was too dangerous to approach but he couldn't warn them. Nothing came out. Sitting in the rapidly widening puddle of his own blood, the detective was useless, helpless, and a failure.
Everything appeared to be moving in slow motion, the attorney struggling with the man over the gun in his hands, who pushed back out of panic himself. Abe's focus shifted in and out, but he saw a brief flicker of fear in both of their faces.
A second gunshot rang, the close proximity and his failing senses causing him temporary deafness. The world began to spin. But in the confusion, he watched helplessly as the attorney stumbled back, a quickly spreading red stain on their own chest. Then, in a morbidly stunning display, their feet shuffled backwards until their back hit the wooden railing, pitching their weakened body over it and down into the foyer below.
Abe tried understanding the words he knew the Colonel was speaking, seeing his lips move, but it was all a garbled, unclear mess. His eyes were failing him, the lids becoming too heavy to keep open, but he swore he saw the man try to reach for the fallen attorney, his partner, just before they'd disappeared over the edge.
The broken detective, knowing he'd failed yet another partner who trusted him with their safety, let out a shuttering breath, not bothering to fill his lungs again with precious oxygen. Perhaps it was better this way. This curse of his could finally target someone who deserved it, and may it end with him too.
The last thing he could see was the Colonel falling to his knees, his head in his hands.
A/N- I'm convinced the detective's quicks were also some sort of defense mechanism. I mean, he truly did want to solve the murder. I saw him as someone who tried everything he could to protect those he cared for, but it didn't amount to anything in the end.
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