This story is based off the Halls of Pandemonium prompt “Don’t Watch It” by Bradley Ramsey. Thank you for this! I needed a new project to work on and I remembered just how much I love crime dramas.
Detective Montgomery Lane stepped out of the projection booth with a strange feeling in the pit of his stomach. A handful of cops waited in the lobby, still taking witness accounts from bystanders. A woman stood near the door, sobbing. A group of adolescents stood together, looking sick, silently staring at the floor.
“Well, what’d ya think?” Chief Friday folded his hands across his wide chest. Exhaustion etched his face in premature wrinkles.
Lane turned towards the other man. “I don’t know what I think. It’s a damned zombie movie, what am I supposed to think?”
“I just wanted to know if there was anything suspicious.”
“Not unless you call wasting my time suspicious.”
“So, you don’t think there’s any supernatural factors to this crime?”
Lane let out a long sigh and contemplated the life choices he had made to lead him to this point. “No, Chief, I don’t think the zombies are crawling out of the screen and killing people if that’s what you-”
“Hey, I’m not saying that. I just…these folks are pretty riled up. And the murders…well…they’re definitely murders. No one can say they’re accidental anymore.”
“Yeah, I suppose.” Lane glanced at the crowd of people. “Why were so many people out tonight?” It was hard to imagine so many people didn’t have anything better to do than watch the steaming pile of shit he had just witnessed.
“They like the movie, apparently. The director has quite a following. The murders have…well, they’ve actually helped sales, I guess.” Friday scratched his head.
“Huh.” If Lane were honest with himself, he hadn’t gone to see a movie in well over a decade. Even when he had gone out, he rarely took away much from the movies at all.
“You’re missing the point,” his ex-wife, Sam, declared. “It’s about grief and how everyone feels it differently.”
“Well, it’s…something.”
“C’mon,” she grinned, holding his hand tighter. “You can’t tell me it didn’t make you feel something. I was in tears at the end.”
“I feel like my wallet is lighter and I lost two hours of my day.”
Sam rolled her eyes, but she laughed because she used to be able to laugh off his cynicism.
“All I’m saying is that there has to be more to it than that,” Friday pressed on.
“If you can, send me a copy of the movie, a list of cast and crew, and all the places it’s been played already.”
Friday scratched his sparse beard nervously. “I’m not sure I can get you a copy of the film,” he admitted.
“Why?”
“The producer–director…whatever,” he waved his hand. “The guy in charge of all this hasn’t been the easiest to work with. He’ll lose his shit if I ask for a copy.”
“Let him lose his shit. People are dying.” Lane pulled his jacket on. “And the case files. I’ll need a copy of each victim’s case file.”
“You already have-”
“Not the one from tonight.”
Before Friday could protest any further, Lane left the theater. Outside, the skies were a flurry of icy rain. It splattered against the uneven cobblestone streets, making them glisten in the city lights. Behind him, the little theater sparkled in the rain. The marquee read, “Now Showing ‘Brain Dead’ One Night Only”.
For a moment, Lane stood in the middle of the empty street, gazing up at the flashing sign. Rain soaked through his heavy leather jacket as he pulled out a small flask from his pocket. The cheap whiskey was a bitter relief. He contemplated the irony of the movie title before continuing his journey home.
Lane’s office was nothing more than a stuffy rented room above a laundromat. There were four other offices, each hardly larger than a closet. Lane did his best to keep things organized, but it was no easy feat. Around him, shelves of case files, books, and other documents closed in on him. There was hardly enough room for his desk and chair, let alone company.
Despite this, a young woman sat across from him, fiddling with a vape as she watched him flip through a file.
“Blue, you said?” He repeated for what had to be the fourth time that morning. His head was fuzzy from a late night of research and whiskey.
She let out an irritated huff, “Mary-Anne Bluebell Simon. I go by Blue.”
Lane looked up. Blue was young, likely fresh out of high school. Despite her youth, she showed no fear of speaking to Lane. In fact, she had organized the meeting herself. When he had first taken the call he had expected her to be older and a bit more…conventional.
Blue wore an black oversized sweatshirt with the image of a decapitated king on the front of it. Upon removing her hood, Lane had been shocked to find that her hair was shaved. Only a faint fuzz covered her head.
“Well, what have you come here to talk to me about?” It was obvious the young woman was eager to get something off her chest. He wondered what she might know about the murders.
“Cash.”
He waited for further explanation. When she didn’t offer any, he sighed. “I’m gonna need more than that, kid.”
“I’m not a kid,” she raised a pierced eyebrow. “Are you actually looking into this case or are you just…pretending?”
Lane leaned back in his chair and assessed the woman in front of him. She held herself with the calm confidence of someone who was entirely comfortable in their own skin. Fleetingly, he was reminded of Sam.
“Tell me about Cash,” Lane said at last.
“He’s the director, producer, and writer for ‘Brain Dead’. I told him to come here himself, but obviously, he’s pretty busy at the moment. So, I’m here on his behalf.” She raised her chin.
“Cash Kincaid,” Lane remembered the man’s name from the files.
“Yes. Do you have any suspects yet?”
“I can’t share that kind of-”
“Cash isn’t behind this. People are going to make you think that he’s some kind of…murderer, but he isn’t.”
Lane crossed his arms. “Alright.”
“I also…” She trailed off. Her confidence faltered. “I also think this is bigger than a few murders.”
“What makes you think that?”
“I think someone is trying to frame him. Someone really…bad.” It was a rather childish statement, but Lane took a note anyway.
“Who is this ‘someone bad’, do you suppose?”
“All I know Cash wouldn’t hurt anyone. He’s a vegan.”
Lane stared blankly at the young woman. “That’s not an alibi.”
“I know, I just…” she let out a long breath.
“What can you tell me about his movie, ‘Brain Dead’?”
Blue thought for a moment before continuing. “He had a hard time getting it into any theaters at all. It almost didn’t work out. Then one small theater accepted the film, and it was a huge success. More theaters accepted it, and it developed a big online following.”
“Does Cash have anyone in his life that might be jealous of his success?”
Blue bit her lip again. “It’s not like that. I mean, yeah, sure, some people are jealous of him, but I don’t think that’s who’s killing people.”
Lane nodded. Despite not having much faith in what Blue was explaining, he wrote down everything she said. If nothing else, he was thorough.
For about an hour, Lane questioned Blue. She answered mostly in vague responses. The only clear thing she ever insisted upon was that Cash was innocent and someone was trying to frame him. He accepted this opinion.
When Blue eventually left, Lane busied himself with organizing the files and re-reading them.
Eight murders in two weeks. Each murder happened at a showing of “Brain Dead”. The victims were all killed the same way: a deadly combination of alcohol and alprazolam.
After the first few deaths, no one considered it murder, but rather a few unfortunate deaths. The case was closed–overdose. Alcohol and Benzodiazepines were by no means uncommon substances. Unfortunately, the combination of the two was well-known to have taken lives.
Now, however, after eight deaths and hordes of families and friends explaining ‘they never took any medication’, the Milecity cops believed otherwise. After several more deaths and testimonies from family members, the case was reopened.
Lane’s phone rang while he was in the middle of scouring the files for who to interview. Blue hadn’t provided anything concrete and he was eager for answers.
“Hello,” he answered the phone.
“Can you do me a favor for me?” Friday asked.
“Sure.”
“One of my men just interviewed Cash Kincaid and it…the guy is suspicious at best. I just don’t have a reason to bring him in.”
“You think he’s behind this?” Lane thought about Blue’s insistence otherwise.
“I do. I just don’t have enough to make an arrest.”
“So, you want me to interview him? Ask what he saw?”
“I want you to do what you do best, Lane.”
Lane glanced out the window at the muddy skies over the city. “I’ll leave in the next half-hour.”
“Great,” he could practically hear Friday beaming on the other line. “Let me know what you find.”
Milecity had two types of weather–ice cold rain or fog so thick that driving was a hazard. Sometimes, if the heavens particularly hated them, it would be foggy and rainy. The second Lane stepped outside, he regretted leaving the warmth of his office. He pulled the collar of his jacket up against the cold and walked towards his car.
The old vehicle had once been a thing of muscle and power. Now, it was nothing more than a relic of a time long passed. Lane didn’t have the heart–or the finances–to get rid of it. If he were to ever have a rare moment of honesty with himself, he would admit that he saw himself in the old beater.
There had been a time when he had been a great detective, motivated by the unyielding sensation of justice and moral obligation. Now, just like the car, Lane found himself as nothing more than a nod to a memory. He slid into the driver’s seat and let out a long sigh. Rain cascaded across the windshield as he stared at the laundromat ahead of him. His office sat, dark and quiet, on the second floor.
Cash Kincaid lived on the nicer end of Milecity. ‘Nicer’ was a relative term considering the city was slowly becoming overtaken by boarded-up shops and neglected roads. The address Lane had been given directed him to a shiny black skyscraper near the heart of the city. He parked his car and gazed up, unable to see the top few stories due to the weather.
Lane got out of his car and was immediately approached by a valet. The man held out an umbrella as he stepped out of the old vehicle.
“How’s your afternoon, sir?”
“Fine,” he replied gruffly as he handed over the keys.
The interior of the building was as luxurious as the exterior. A woman stood at the front desk with a friendly smile and a well-tailored suit.
“Good afternoon,” she called out. “Who are you visiting today?”
Lane felt wildly out of place as his heavy, leather jacket dripped onto the shiny, white tiles. His boots had already made a mess of the lobby. “I…I’m visiting Cash Kincaid.”
“Wonderful,” she pressed a button and spoke so softly Lane could hear her. After a moment, a voice replied and she looked up, still smiling. “Top floor. He’s expecting you.”
Lane nodded and made his way through the lobby and towards the elevator. He got in and pressed the top floor, level thirty-three. The doors of the elevator shut and in their shiny surface he viewed his reflection for the first time in days. It was hard for him not to notice how rough he looked. He needed a haircut and maybe to trim his beard as well. His well-worn jacket and jeans were a stark contrast to the nice interior of the building.
Before Lane could pick apart his reflection any further, the doors opened with a soft ding. Suddenly, he was in the front entrance of a luxury penthouse. An elegant coat rack sat to his left while the rest of the small space was filled with massive plants. Standing at the center of the foyer was Cash Kincaid.
The man was likely about ten years younger than Lane himself. His hair was blond and well-manicured. In fact, everything about this man was impossibly well-kempt. His face was shaved, and his skin was so perfect it nearly looked fake.
Cash wore sweats and a sleeveless shirt. On anyone else it would have looked casual, however, the way he held himself reminded Lane distinctly of an off-duty model. His lips were pulled up into a well-practiced smile.
“You must be the detective,” he held out a hand.
“Detective Lane.” They shook hands.
“I’m Cash but I suppose you know that already,” his smile remained firmly in place. “Come on in. Do you drink coffee?”
Lane stepped into the penthouse and realized quickly he was out of his depth. The entire place was lavishly furnished with impractical furniture and artwork that was likely designed to provoke feelings. The only real feeling Lane felt was a longing for a strong glass of whiskey.
“There’s no need for coffee. I just have a few questions.”
Cash regarded Lane for a moment. His eyes lingered on his soaked jacket and the files in his hands. “You’re very committed to the bit, aren’t you?”
“What?”
Cash gestured to Lane, but Lane had no idea what he meant.
“The jacket and files,” he smirked. “Did you watch a lot of cop shows as a kid?”
“Blue came by my office this morning. She seemed to think that whoever is behind these murders is attempting to frame you. What do you think about that?” Lane decided it was best just to get started.
“We’ll talk in the kitchen. Take off those boots, and you can put your jacket on the back of the rack.” With that, he turned and walked towards what had to have been the kitchen.
Lane did as he was instructed before following Cash. The kitchen was large with granite counter tops and a stove that hardly looked like it was ever used. It smelled faintly of fresh coffee–the expensive kind–and vanilla.
Gazing around the penthouse kitchen it occurred to Lane that Cash possessed a kind of wealth that few people had. But how? From the information he had, Cash worked at a nightclub. Surely there wasn’t this kind of money in that industry?
Lane took in what he could from his surroundings, carefully documenting the little aspects of the house. It was strange just how much he could learn from seeing where someone lived.
Everything was name brand–Cash wanted to show off. The furniture was uncomfortable but trendy–he had good taste but likely did not spend much time at the penthouse. Everything felt a little too impersonal–he definitely did not live here.
Lane took a seat at one of the bar stools and laid the files out in front of him. He pulled out his notebook and pen and waited as Cash poured two mugs of coffee.
“Do you want cream or sugar?”
“No, thanks.” The only thing Lane cared to put in his coffee was whiskey.
Cash placed a mug of steaming coffee in front of him. He added two giant spoonfuls of sugar into his own before turning his attention back to Lane.
“So, the cops reopened the case?”
“After the fourth death, yes.”
“They think it’s murder?”
“That’s the leading theory.”
Cash nodded and sipped his coffee. “I want to help,” he admitted. “But I don’t know much. I’m really not the one you should be asking questions to.”
“I don’t expect you to solve it. I’m just gathering a better view of what’s going on.” Lane explained. He was, however, keeping a very close eye on the way Cash reacted to the questions.
Cash answered the questions with ease. He didn’t appear to be stressed. In fact, he seemed to be having a good time, despite the circumstances. He didn’t know the victims personally. He didn’t know anything about alprazolam. He had never seen anything suspicious. It was hard to tell if any of his answers were truthful. Everything from the way he spoke to the way he carried himself felt like a performance.
Perhaps the most fascinating part about Cash was that he was intelligent. He didn’t have the kinds of smarts that looked good on a resume. However, he noticed details the way Lane did and knew how to ask the right kinds of questions.
“I know I’m your lead suspect,” Cash said as he finished his coffee.
Lane acknowledged what he said with a nod. “There are others-”
“There isn’t. We both know your chief thinks I’m the murderer. He probably sent you here to confirm his suspicion, right?”
Lane was surprised by the remark. “Everyone is innocent until proven guilty.”
At that, Cash’s perfect smile faltered. He gave a small scoff, raising an eyebrow in protest, “don’t tell me you actually believe that.”
“I do.”
“Everyone is only as guilty or innocent as everyone around them believes them to be.”
“That’s an awfully bitter way to view the world,” he returned despite halfway agreeing with the remark.
Cash shrugged dismissively. He glanced over at the massive wall of windows. The rain had only intensified. It hammered against the windowpanes, angrily. “So…you’re sure this isn’t just overdoses? I mean, those happen in Milecity all the time, right?”
“Sure, that was what the cops believed at first,” Lane explained. “However, eight people dying from the same drug in a short timeframe raised some flags.”
“I swear,” his eyes met Lane’s. “I had nothing to do with this. I know the cops-”
“Will hear you out,” he promised. “I’m not here to arrest you. I’m just here to gather some facts. Would you say your movie–film has gotten more popular since the murders began?”
“I…well…yes but that’s not…”
“Originally, your film was only playing at one small theater. Now, it’s playing all over the city. When did it become so popular?”
Cash swallowed. “A few days after the second murder. An article in Mile Times came out about what had happened. It wasn’t reported accurately, and people thought the film had been scary enough to kill someone. That’s not true, but…it created a bit of a following.”
“Is there anything else you’d like to share with me?” Lane asked at last. He had mostly gotten what he needed from the other man.
“I hope you find whoever this is,” he said, but his eyes were glued to the table.
“I will.”
Cash smirked and looked up. “I actually have a question for you.”
“Yeah?”
“Did you watch it?”
“Your movie?”
“Film.”
“Yeah, I watched it.”
“What’d you think?”
Lane struggled to find something good to say about the movie. “I think my wife would’ve liked it.”
At that, Cash cracked a smile. “Anything else?”
“It was…bloody.”
Cash nodded; his smile only grew wilder. “You didn’t like it, did you?” Why the hell did he look so happy about that?
“It wasn’t for me,” Lane admitted.
“No, I suppose it wasn’t,” he replied with a strange tone.
Lane found himself eager to leave Cash’s penthouse. It was hot inside, and something about the way Cash’s eyes lingered felt…off. He might have been perfectly kind and polished, but Lane could see something simmering just beneath the surface. There was something that Cash was lying about, but it was impossible to tell what it was.
As he exited the house, Lane assumed he would find Cash’s lies later when he looked over the notes and compared them to the files. Instead, his eyes caught a glimpse of something, only for a moment.
Just as he walked out the door, Lane passed a table in the entryway. A collection of supplies filled the surface: keys, a lighter, bills, and a little orange pill bottle. Across the side of the bottle was the word ‘alprazolam’.
Well that seems like the smoking gun ...Just as he walked out the door, Lane passed a table in the entryway. A collection of supplies filled the surface: keys, a lighter, bills, and a little orange pill bottle. Across the side of the bottle was the word ‘alprazolam’.
But I can't believe you'd make it that obvious! Loved the retro vibe of this guy - bravo
Good start https://marlowe1.substack.com/p/the-man-in-the-red-suit-by-tim-lieder?utm_source=share&utm_medium=android&r=sllf3