mysteries unknown

Family Business: Chapter 1

Diary Entry: July 20XX

Today is Saturday. Usually Saturdays are uneventful for me and I'm delighted to report that today was no exception. Eleanor wanted me to go with her on some sort of errand, but the idea of going out in the July sun was completely unappealing. Am I relying on her too much? I'm a grown man- I should be able to go to the grocery store. I guess it's just [text redacted]

I sort of want to ask how you are doing, but I know that would be silly. How are you? I'll answer in your stead. Fine, thank you; work is busy and monotonous, Eleanor is doing well, my father is acting how he always does. He knocked on my door today and asked me to pull up some floor plans for him. I thought it was strange that he didn't just email me about it. Then I remembered I was talking about my own father and felt even stranger about the whole situation.

I considered watching a movie today but for some reason couldn't bring myself to. I had the name of the film in my mind and everything. I was on my computer about to pull it up when I started thinking about how by the end of it I'd have spent two hours doing basically nothing, and I clicked off and went back to whatever task had been appointed to me. It wasn't even urgent really. I just got this sense of dread, like it needed to be done.

Nothing else to say. I suppose I will write again when the mood strikes. I feel ridiculous recording such uneventful entries but Eleanor will be pleased that I have (at least) made an effort.

Sincerely,

Sal Morgan

The air is warm and muggy when Sal makes his way outside.

He turns his instructions over in his head. Go to the lake, wait for around fifteen or so minutes, remember if anyone appears or anything happens. He laments to himself that this job isn't seasonal; if he had his way, summer vacations would have continued well into his adulthood.

He could have taken the car. Why did he choose to walk? There's no reason for it. All that accomplished was making him unnecessarily tired and drenched in sweat.

It's too hot for him even to wear his typical clothes, so he's dressed embarrassingly modestly in a white t-shirt and some knee shorts. He wonders how people dress this way regularly. He misses his tie, and the comfort of long sleeves. He isn't meant to be exposed this way, to have his skin open to the air, prime to sunburn and poison ivy.

Damn you, Damien, he thinks. Out of all the lines of work.

The lake finally chooses to grace him with it's presence. He stops a few feet short of the bank and looks into it, wondering if he came her for any actual purpose. Surely there is no-one, nobody who knows or cares about the man who's body is currently decomposing about forty feet under the surface of the muddy water. He had been lonely, Sal thinks. The thought pulls a twinge of guilt into his mind, but he dismisses it. If someone killed Sal they would be doing him a favor. Surely this lonely corpse had felt the same way.

Sweat is pooling in his shoes. He can feel it distinctly underneath his eyebrows. He is thinking about giving up on this whole ridiculous task and going back home when a set of footsteps approaches him.

Shit.

He turns around in a calculated manner, trying to get a glimpse of the person walking up to the lake. He is of average height, with dark brown skin and black hair pulled into an over-the-shoulder braid. He is wearing khakis and a button up shirt. He looks, Sal thinks, like he is late for some kind of important meeting, or like he's the son of a CEO.

The guy meets his eyes. Smiles. Walks up until he's within speaking range, and starts up a conversation Sal wishes he could avoid.

"Hello," the guy says. Sal tries to smile at him but ends up with more of a grimace. "Weather is awful today, isn't it?"

It strikes Sal as an odd line. He says it with a jovial lilt to his voice, like the terrible weather is delightful to him. The stranger, unconcerned with Sal and his obvious discomfort, pushes on brazenly. "I'm here on an investigation. Looking for witnesses. I got a tip that there was some sort of struggle here approximately four days ago."

Sal is caught off guard, but unconcerned with this man and his so called "investigation". He is clearly not a police officer, and he has the air of a hobbyist, someone who fancies themself a detective and spends too much time thinking about the Zodiac Killer. "I don't think I have any information for you," he says, keeping his face neutral and as non-threatening as possible. "I rarely come here and I don't know about any struggle."

"Ah, that's just too bad," the stranger says. "I mean, I knew this case would be slow going, but nobody seems to have anything to tell me." He pauses. "Are you completely sure you haven't seen a single thing? Anything at all?"

Sal feels squeamish all of a sudden. "Really nothing," he says. "I live decently close by and I would definitely know if anything had happened." He shifts from leg to leg. "I probably would have heard noises-"

The man interrupts him. "I'm being serious," he says, and his face seems to have lost it's more lighthearted expression. "It is essential that you tell me what you know. If you are hiding something from me, I will find out."

Sal is only growing more uncomfortable. "Look- I just- who are you? Are you an undercover policeman? If you don't have any legal authority I see no reason to humor you."

The man looks like he's holding back a smile. "A policeman? Please, you're insulting me." He reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out a small card, holding it out for Sal to take. "Anders Jones. I'm a private investigator."

Sal squints at the card. It looks decently reputable, and he doubts an armchair detective with no legitimacy would go to the trouble of making a business card. This could be trouble, he thinks. This man is clearly someone who actually knows what he's doing, and who is unwilling to back down once faced with a challenge. This is the type of person most likely to see through any of his diversions.

He puts the card in his own pocket. "I really don't know anything," he says. "Shouldn't I be telling the authorities anyway if I did? No offense, but you must understand that I have no reason to believe you are an actual detective."

Anders shrugs. "Feel free to look me up on your own time," he says. "I'm sure you'll find that I'm not lying or delusional." He glances at Sal, up and down. "Will you at least contact me if you hear about any sort of violent crime that occurred in this area?"

Sal nods. "Sure," he says. "Although I still think the police would probably be more fit to tell."

Anders laughs, just a little. "Trust me," he says. "If you were in my shoes you would rethink that."

And with that, the interaction is over. Anders turns around and walks away like nothing even happened.

Odd, Sal thinks. I should probably do some research of my own.

Journal Entry: July 20XX

Anders wakes up the day after his excursion at the lake with a mild hangover and a rather uncomfortable headache.

He is partially disappointed in himself. The other part of him is unsurprised. He thought he gave the rest of his alcohol to Charlotte. Had she returned it to him? He finds this unlikely.

He downs two painkillers from the bottle on his desk, takes a drink of water, and forces himself into the shower. Puts on a set of fresh clothes. Locks the door to his office behind him, and takes the elevator down to the first floor.

Charlotte glances up at him when he walks out of the elevator. "Hey," she says. "You look like shit. Any leads?"

"Unfortunately, no," Anders says. "And thanks. Did I not give you the rest of my stash?"

"Well, yeah, you did," Charlotte says. "Or I guess not the entire rest of it. You definitely gave me some. You have a lot more than just two bottles."

So much for sobriety. Anders scrubs his eyes with the back of his hand. "I actually do have something. I went to the scene where Johnson thought the body might be, and there was this guy acting really suspicious. He tried to tell me he didn't know anything."

"And you think he was lying?"

"Sure."

Charlotte goes back to typing something out on her computer. "Well, good luck," she says. "I have a reservation tonight at seven, so please try to not be a disturbance." Click Click Click. "If you could be back in your office by then, I would appreciate it."

"No promises," he says. "You know how the job goes. Wedding reception?"

"Grad party."

"Open bar?"

Her eyebrows furrow, but she doesn't look up. "Don't even start."

He smiles. His head still hurts. "I know. Look, I'll try to be back by six. Maybe six-thirty."

She waves him off. "Go do your job."

And so he walks out the front door and onto the street.