Going on top of the roof, the view of the entirety of the advanced city laid below. He was born here, and by now knew every crook and cranny. He knew who to pay his respects, and who he can take advantaged of. Old man Joe though went between, respected but taken advantaged as he is a good-hearted man.
He went home, a three-roomed condo, right between the rich and the poor. In Valley city, it was split apart. On one half laid mansions, which billionaires owned residence. On the other half were poor folks who couldn’t even afford some food to fill their tummy. His condo, and its sisters were called the middle finger, often its misinterpreted by tourists.
His flat condo was filled with ornaments, they reflected the city: fancy, however poor. There were comfy bed sheets yet old carpets and curtains. The forks were rusty, yet knives were new. Some guests, from the ghetto side would be amazed at how rich he was, and his friends from the other side would give him wary looks as his broken furniture. One admired, while the other looked down.
He heard a knock on the door, on the other side stood his peer, a detective who worked on the rich side. The man shook his hand, asked him how the John murder case was going. “No clues still.” He already found some people that could give him leads, but he kept that out.
The detective told him to come to the office. “Sure, I will be there tomorrow.” Leaving out the time would give him some flexibility. And its always feels great to not have a set schedule, so it could be solved like a puzzle, into a perfect picture.
He greeted the man out and decided to go to one his leads. “Maybe this time it will all be over.” The case was on his hands for already three weeks, and he was hungry to see something new, instead of being awakened to do the exact actions and have the same thoughts as the previous days, and weeks.
The lead was a woman, she lived on the slum side, near a bar he goes to often. He drove his Mercedes towards the location. He knew soon or later this case would be forgotten, much like the previous one. If he solved if though, there would be no one that thanked him for solving a case, he remembered how the previous case, he was rewarded by woman’s cry at finding out that it was her best friend who murdered her boyfriend. The only cry he wanted to hear was a relief, instead, he heard a tortured laugh, it wasn’t good for his heart.
All those doctors, especially those glorious surgeons who get flowers and many thanks. They are favored by the winds. Those doctors would mostly be remembered in good light. Additionally, if a surgeon couldn’t save a person, they would have all their previous thanks to holding onto from becoming insane. The victims they had, and he had been a world difference. Their victims were from the top food chain, mostly of them satisfied. His victims, however, were from the bottom food chain, never smiling, never had cried of relief.
He passed the bar. Soon he sees the address of his lead, she better has something, be it anything but silence. He went through this procedure, drive to a victim, and leave empty-handed.
He stopped the car. He wore his tie white buttoned long-sleeved shirt, and black jeans. He wore casual clothing, to blend in, and not to frighten the lead. After all, there were too many bad cops.
He bypassed by the security entrance as told them that he was visiting, the lousy guy didn’t even ask who, or where he was visiting. Thus, he entered the apartment, tabbed the room number that the women told him. It rang, and someone asked who he was. He told her he was looking for Janet. She paused for a second and told him okay. They hung up, the door unlocked, and he pushed through it.
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He walked up the stairs to the sixth floor and walked to the apartment number 674. At the door, he could have heard a gunshot, but not a coin ringing on the floor. Most people who lived here were out of their doors, women were gossiping and knitting, kids were running and shouting down the halls. Men were rare to be seen, as most of them went to work in the early morning, and came home at noon. Like most doors, door number 674 had a woman who talked to her neighbor. He noticed that she saw him far away, as she probably knew he was the man on the other line of the call.
She said farewell to her neighbors as he arrived. “You are the detective, right?”
“Hi, you guess right. Then are you the lead?”
“No, the lead is my sister, come on in.”
The apartment was as big as his. The room was full, yet not claustrophobic. The occupant of the place was efficient, items were placed in a pattern. The beds together, the kitchen together, the washroom together, and oddly, an open space among it all. Another woman stood there, probably the sister. They greeted one another with a shook of their heads in acknowledgment and practiced smiles. She told him she was there when the murder happened. He couldn’t guess how she was at the scene, an underground boxing wasn't for any person.
She told him how her brother was one of the betting dealers, he asked her for help, so she agreed. The explanation was reasonable, he now needed to ask the big questions.
“Was there anything noticeable?”
“No, if you mean there were there any suspicious people.”
“Ya, but anything else, like items?”
“Hmm, there was one thing, balloons, I didn’t put any particular thought on it.”
“What about the balloons?”
“Their size, they shrunk fast.”
Balloons shrinking fast was weird, he would check on them later. After finishing the rest of the questions, he gave her thanks and left. He went into his Mercedes and headed deeper into the slums. Construction was often seen, as lots of places were being rebuilt, from old dirty buildings into tall scrapers. It was a sight to behold for tourists, but less for residents. Homes were being rebuilt, and the old occupants were to be kicked out if they couldn’t afford residences in their supposed to be homes. Most people couldn’t afford the rent.
He entered deeper into the slums, and construction became rarer and rarer until there were only the homely broken-down buildings and roads. He remembered these were the very roads where he ran on when he was a kid. They gave him his fondest memories.
A blockage of police cars, pylons, and red tape was seen from a distance. He arrived at the blockage, he rolled down his window. “Good day sir, can I see your identification,” said a cop. He took out his detective ID. The cop looked at the ID and nodded in approval. The cop raised his hand up, and at the cue, the gate opened.
The ride was suffocating after, cops at every corner and pylons set up poorly. A cop led him to the parking area, cramped with cars, yet the cop knew the parking lot with the back of his head, as he lead him to an empty spot immediately.
He headed towards where most cops were, at the murder case. Twenty men killed, no one yet solved any questions. How were they murdered. Why were they murdered them? And lastly, who murdered them. The case was already a month old but was still as developed as a new case.
He walked down the stairs, which lad to the boxing arena. There stood more cops, his peer detectives, and other staff. People discussed the whited markings which indicated where the murdered bodies were. Quickly, he saw who he was looking for, a woman who was in custody of all items at the murder scene. He approached her and called out to her, “Rosa, anything new?”
“No. How about you John?”
“Found something that stood out, balloons.”
“What about the balloons?”
“Apparently, a witness said they shrunk fast.”
“Shrunk?”
“Ya, I need to know and see all that’s connected to them.”
“Okay, I will it that for you.”
After saying his thanks, he headed back home.