Detective Smith wasn’t eight feet tall, but he wasn’t three feet tall either — he was somewhere in the middle. Sometimes he wore his coat and other times he didn’t, but any casual observer

could say Detective Smith always wore a hat on the days when he put it on. He had a face that looked like one, and a mouth that did his talking for him. _____________________________________

Mrs. Hollaway moved into the room like an animal, though no particular one comes to mind. She spoke to him in a voice that communicated her thoughts and feelings. “I’m in trouble,” she

said. “What kind of trouble?” responded Detective Smith. “The trouble kind.” He knew exactly what kind of trouble that was, but decided not to explore that thought any further.

or maybe that guy just showed up and wanted to have a party wherever they were, which is pretty sad if you think about it. ____________________________________ Detective Smith studied the

bullet hole. One thing for certain was that it existed, there was no denying that. He muttered to himself “The only thing that could’ve made an impact like this is some sort of gun.”

____________________________________ As he wandered into the alley, Detective Smith felt something pressed up against his back. He couldn’t figure out what it was. The criminal twisted the

sharp thing further into one of Detective Smith’s organs, though it was still unclear what that sharp thing was. “I’ll have to get to the bottom of this when I turn around,” thought

Detective Smith. ____________________________________ “You had to stick your nose in it again, didn’t ya Detective?” said Eddie. “Don’t you know what happens when gumshoes like you come

snooping? I’ll tell you what happens.” Then Eddie told Detective Smith what happens. ____________________________________ Detective Smith threw a punch that might have connected. Or maybe

the other guy slipped and fell. It’s all very hard to say, as it happened pretty fast. Just know that there were some arms swinging around in a big messy blur until there weren’t.

____________________________________ Detective Smith stumbled into his office. It had been a night where, at the end of it, you feel a specific emotion. He poured something into a glass and

I guess swirled it around a bit before drinking it. Or maybe he left it in the glass. Either way you look at it, the glass was involved in this whole song and dance.

____________________________________ None of it made any sense — the clues, the people, the leads, the suspects, the motives, the events, what had happened, what the relationship was between

them, how people felt about each other, what he should do next. Detective Smith wanted to take a drive to clear his head and make some sense of it all. It was then he thought, “No.”

____________________________________ “What’s your name, kid?” the barkeep asked Detective Smith. “Some people call me Detective Smith. Other people have less kind names for me.” “Oh yeah?”

“That’s right.” “Okay.” ____________________________________ “Who did it Smith? Which one?” said the police chief, his gun at the ready and half the force backing him up. Smith said a name

and pointed in a direction, and the bullets flew. It was finally over. No longer would the people of this city have to deal with that guy or whatever he did.

____________________________________ “This town never changes,” Detective Smith said after that thing happened to him again. And boy did he feel some type of way about it.