Detective Rowan Manory smoked so frequently that he was forced to hire painters every two weeks to cover the nicotine stains dulling his office walls. The only colors he usually allowed were various shades of grey, but he had requested an acrylic black trim this time, nothing ostentatious, just enough of a contrast to suggest some depth.
The effect is pleasant,
Rowan’s office was in downtown Chicago on the third floor inside one of the many faceless buildings along Wabash. His desk sat in front of the window, a gold-plated lamp in one corner and a heavy ashtray in the other. It was at that desk where Rowan would often watch the people pushing their way through the crowded sidewalk as they battled gale-force gusts.
Chicago was called the Windy City primarily because of its blowhard politicians, but the weather was often blustery, a condition significantly worsened by the funneling effect of the many tall buildings. The downtown winds buffeted pedestrians, flapping against them like a flag in a hurricane while the “L” trains screeched and sparked in the background. Little wonder, then, that Chicago had the highest murder rate in the country; the harsh environment induced aggression and violence.
But that was outside. In Rowan’s office, the soft hiss of the radiator was the lone noise, and the frowsty scent of cigarettes permeated the air. This room was the detective’s sanctuary, the place where he awaited cases worthy of his deductive brilliance.
The Case of the Maniacal Macaque (as it came to be known) didn’t initially appear to be Rowan’s cup of poison. The specifics sounded like the sort of crime that any river gumshoe could have taken on successfully. Ironically, it turned out to be one of the great detective’s most famous triumphs.
Coming soon…
James Scott Byrnside 