An undercover genius, matched by no other. Once renewed, once honored, once a hero renowned even higher than that of the local police, praised by the most prestigious of Sheriffs. Once a defender of innocents by day and a sleuth at night, who found just enough clues to bring evil to light. A detective like no other, he had just one rule: he always worked alone… just like how he'd always preferred.
The Investigator mulled over these memories bitterly as he took another swig of whiskey, head swirling with the thought of his past achievements as the alcohol slowly began to sink in. What had become of the man of his youth… the one who headed out each night, glass in his hand and spring in his step? What happened to the man who cracked case after case, finding evildoers with skills that were once sharper than steel? He'd died, that’s what happened. He'd died a long, long time ago.
And this was what remained.
“What’s wrong?” The Tavern Keeper asked, eyebrows furrowed in worry as she poured another drink. “Having a rough day out there?”
The Investigator turned his gaze towards the window, where outside, a storm raged, flooding the streets of Salem and tossing whatever wasn’t nailed down high up in its thunderous vortex. “My friend…” He said, voice quiet and hoarse. “Do you ever believe people can change… without themselves even knowing?”
The Tavern Keeper was silent for a moment, before slowly letting out a sigh and sliding over another shot. “I do… and I would know. I, too, have changed much over the years.”
The Investigator lifted his head, having downed his whiskey a moment before. Pulling his overcoat around his sleeves and putting on his old, faithful cap, he slowly picked up his and pipe and lit it with a spark.
“I remember the good old days,” he muttered to himself, voice filled with sorrow as he closed his eyes. “My skills were unmatched, as one would say. Give me a few hours, a house, and a magnifying glass… and I’d find anything you’d need. Foreign documents… weapons… broken glass… books… blueprints… gunpowder… no case was too big, and no clue was too small. I would always find it. I never failed.”
The Tavern Keeper detected a somber tone to the Investigator’s words, which hung in the air like humidity after a storm. “What changed?” She asked, slowly reaching for another glass.
The Investigator hung his head, turning away from the bar. “I don’t know. It was gradual, at first. My mind became duller; less sharp, more scattered. The world got to me: I started smoking to get away from the stress of this place, started drinking more, partying more, and sleeping less. Before I knew it, times had changed— what used to be incriminating evidence was now hidden from sight… what used to be veiled knowledge was now commonplace.”
He removed his hat, observing it with tired eyes. “I… don’t know what happened, if I’m being honest. It’s like I just… changed. Everything I once knew now is but a dull memory… everything that I once relied on is now nothing but a useless distraction.” His fist balled up as he tightened his grip on his hat, anger flowing through his veins. “There’s a Coven out there, goddamnit… yet look at me! I’m not fit for any of this! This town’s going to go to hell, and unlike before, there’s NOTHING I CAN DO TO STOP IT!”
The Tavern Keeper was silent, not knowing how to react to this outburst. The Investigator, after a moment of silence, turned back around, heaving a heavy sigh.
“Sorry. That was a bit much. And perhaps I’m exaggerating a bit. The truth is… there’s still one technique that I’ve kept through all these many years…” He whispered, voice hoarse and hollow.
“What’s that?” The Tavern Keeper asked warily, scrounging the back of her cabinets for something.
The Investigator lifted his head, looking around the bar, the thinnest of smiles spreading across his face as his wary mind began to work. “The one hint that never fails. The one clue that never misleads.” His eyes narrowed as he found what he was looking for. “My good old friend… made of nothing but erythrocytes, leukocytes, and thrombocytes…”
The Investigator lifted what he had uncovered: a red-stained handkerchief, smelling of chloroform, with a glistening blade shining in the middle of the concealed weapon, shining eerily under fluorescent light.
“Blood.”
The Poisoner’s eyes widened as she realized that she’d been caught. “How did you find that!?” She shouted, pulling out what she’d been fiddling with: a syringe of lethal cyanide, stored within a locked cabinet. She lunged towards the Investigator, but quick as a flash, the Investigator sidestepped her attack, sending her careening into a nearby table and letting out a yelp of pain. Letting out a chuckle, the Investigator got to his feet and swung the tavern doors open, inhaling the sweet scent of victory as the warm, humid air of the outdoors flooded in.
“Tsk, tsk … of all people, you must know that secrets of one’s trade do no good when unveiled for all to see,” the Investigator said, a familiar gleam in his eye and a triumphant smirk on his face. “I might be old, and I might be rusty… but I’m not out of tricks. Not yet.”
Laughing in the distance, the Investigator turned on his heel and bolted onto the garden path outside, ready to confront his criminal once more when the sun was to rise.
See the following table for more detailed cases.
