Hank Cooper was a strange man, and nobody noticed his disappearance until they were told. Did he ever leave his house? Or perhaps, did he have any hobbies? Nobody seemed to know.
The detective finally entered his house at 3pm. He couldn’t tell if it had been ransacked or not. Time seemed to slow down, only could have been described as eerie. The grey floor felt the same, as all it could do is warn the detective. Each room gave nothing of use, until he reached the back.
The door was locked. He banged loudly and said something about the law. (look, do you think I’d know?) Nobody bothered to answer, and the detective pulled out a pick. No results.
He picked it correctly. What do you mean it isn’t opening?
He didn’t leave yet. The grass was as damp as his feelings, but his feelings didn’t matter. While he wasn’t the tallest man, but the windows weren’t high up.
Nothing.
No evidence, just nothing. What was a guy supposed to do? He needed this, yet did he really? Who even was the detective? His footsteps seemed to cry out his concerns. Right as he was going to the car, he stopped.
“Did I check the attic?”
He didn’t.
Against his will he hurried back to the house. Would he even find anything of note? It felt like a waste of time. The detective was hungry.
The attic was nothing special by itself. Maybe some of this stuff was worth 30, but most of it could be just lost and nobody would care.
But what surprised the detective was the package with his name written on it. They knew he was in this case? Was this from Hank? He didn’t open it right away.
The detective’s apartment shaked in fear from the box. Sitting on the sofa he just looked at it, not knowing what to think. It wasn’t heavy. A standard post box.
It’d look nice in a closet.
But because this has to go somewhere, he opened the box.
The detective discovered an old timey detective coat. Say, something you’d find at a thrift store.
A note, too.
“Something something I suppose”.
Going? Where could somebody go? And where’d you need this?
An alley is never a bringer of good things, but this would be something else.
This was the first place the detective went when he was stumped. Something about the cold air, the cramped space, or something else always made stuff clearer.
Did you think something else meant good? I feel bad if you did.
A gun, pointed in his face. The unknown man laughed at his out of date clothing, which the detective himself didn’t notice he had put on.
He didn’t want anything, he was just doing this for “the fun of it, lad!”
This world wasn’t for the weak, but deep inside he wondered if he’d make it out alive. Everything started spinning as if he was at a carnival, wanting to throw up.
He shot,
he missed.
The detective obtained a gun.
The bus was crowded, but he managed to get a spot. Not exactly clean, or anything good really, but it’d do.
But then, the detective realized something. He had a WEAPON on a BUS. He didn’t have a bag, it was just in his hand. How had nobody noticed?!
The Detective’s face would have been funny to see. He tried not to make a scene. If they hadn’t noticed before, why not now?
The bus felt tense even to the naive, if even they didn’t know why.
If somebody noticed, they were too scared to tell anybody, because he was back at his apartment once again. Perhaps a good sleep could let something be found, and he could have an easy time from there.
He took off the coat and looked at it, still confused about the point of it. He didn’t have a place to put it, really.
The floor works, I guess.
The sun wasn’t welcoming, but it woke him up anyways.
After arriving at the office, he was sent right back out. He wouldn’t be seeing his apartment for a few days.
Then again it was the bus, this time with a bag. The road became rougher as he crept closer.
The old office building was waiting for him on arrival. The detective knew what needing the coat meant. This town was years behind everybody else.
Entering the building he headed straight towards the desk. He started asking the women behind the desk to be let in.
“And who are YOU?”
The detective pulled out his id. There wasn’t a name, but It’d do.
Grabbing it out of his hand, she laughed at him. She thought that nothing would ever happen here, what’s this guy doing?
The detective looked at her with a blank face. He wasn’t going to take this.
He asked for room 216. He was promptly kicked out.
The detective wouldn’t be giving up yet.
Briskly walking towards the back of the building, the detective had no clue what he was going. Unlike earlier, the windows were too high up.
There was a metal door.
It wasn’t locked.
What seemed to be a back waiting room, was empty. An older elevator waited for him at the back. Frozen in time, the detective didn’t know why he was so impressed. Not many people would have cared. But, no moment can last forever.
The elevator had an echo of Bossa Nova playing as the doors opened. The button for floor eight was pressed, and he was on his way.
The next thirty seconds weren’t notable in any way, shape, or form. Why even mention it ?
Like most buildings, each door had a number. 216 was just around a corner, which cast it in a dim shadow. It matched well with the detective.
Knocking on the door, it was quickly brushed off as an unimportant passer-by.
The detective didn’t like to be brushed off.
Before he resorted to picking the door (authors note, what, is this lockstep?) He knocked even harder.
The door harshly opened.
A man looked the detective in the face. The room was darker than you could imagine, yet it couldn’t have phased a child. The guy muttered something that the detective couldn’t pick up.
It wasn’t friendly.
He stood there, unsure of what to say. The man was about to shut the door. The detective reached out his hand. Sure it hurt for him, but he wasn’t the focus.