GRINSTONE CITY
11:20 A.M.
The Man Who Committed Suicide's Residence
It was a formal building — neatly built, with elegant decorations along its walls. Clearly, the man who lived there had a taste for style. A short fence framed the doorway, separating it from the street where citizens passed. One would say it was a perfect neighborhood — but not today.
One of its residents had just committed suicide, a tragedy that startled many. Police tape wrapped around the red house, black alarming words printed repeatedly like a stop sign:
CRIME SCENE — POLICE ONLY.
Perfectly aligned, the tape kept the scared yet curious citizens from getting too close.
Three police cars surrounded the area. Nearby, a red sports motorbike gleamed under the sun, and beside it stood a white television station van. A fat cameraman hovered outside it, lugging a medium-sized camera as he documented everything happening at the scene.
In some suicide cases, attention wasn't always this high — but when the victim was a handsome young doctor living in one of Grinstone's most expensive neighborhoods, the curiosity ballooned into a mystery waiting to be popped.
---
"Detective Armstrong! Lemme in!"
A tall, skinny man flashed his detective ID at the two slim policemen standing guard by the yellow tape. His face and credentials glimmered in the morning light. He looked almost identical to the photo on his ID — unlike most people, who looked horrible on theirs but decent in real life. He still had that pointy afro hairstyle paired with orange hair, a crisp white shirt, and a bright red tie. Over it all, he wore a large black jumper — unfazed by the unforgiving weather — and held a steaming cup of coffee in his left hand while flashing his badge with the other.
"You're the new guy everyone's talking about!" one of the policemen recognized him instantly.
"It depends," Armstrong replied, a sly smile playing at his lips. "What's everyone saying?"
"That you're good — that you were sent here by the Committee that oversees crime all over the world!" the officer said proudly.
"Oh, I remember!" the other added, raising a finger as if making a discovery. "They said you've never failed a case in your entire career!"
"Yeah, that's me," Armstrong grinned. "Mind if I take a look, fellow law enforcers?"
His tone, his gestures, his eyes — they all spoke of curiosity and confidence. The two officers immediately understood. The man standing before them was a living legend, sent by the higher ups — and here they were, keeping him out.
They quickly lifted the tape, smiling.
"You can come in, sir!"
Armstrong ducked under the tape, moving swiftly — coffee cup in hand — the soft rubbing of his jumper following him like background music. He extended the cup toward the officer who hadn't recognized him fast enough.
"Don't worry, didn't take a sip," he said, pausing. "Actually, that's a lie. I took a five-cent sip — but I'm the most hygienic person you'll ever meet, so no need to worry."
The officer blinked, half-surprised, half-amused.
"Alright, Cool Jack!" Armstrong said to the other officer, suddenly walking ahead, the nickname rolling off his tongue like a reflex. "Do you mind if I call you that? Nah, you don't mind. You're Cool Jack now. Walk me through what happened here!"
---
"Mr. Felix Sage," Jack began as they walked past the small metal fence, "twenty-nine years old. Worked at a hospital called GetruAids. We got a call from one of his, uh… many sexual partners this morning. She said she found him hanging from the ceiling — electrical cord around his neck — with white foam dripping from his mouth."
They stepped inside, greeted by two policemen snapping pictures better than real estate photographers. The apartment was tidy — except for the scattered condoms that gave away the doctor's nightlife.
"White foam, huh?" Armstrong muttered. "Where was Mr. Sage last night?"
"At Elod Mutt's funeral dinner. His wife owns GetruAids," Cool Jack replied as they climbed the stairs.Little drops of sweat dripping from his face, who could blame him, he was talking to a big shot in the police world.
"That checks out," Armstrong nodded. Absorbing every piece of information he heard like a computer. In his mind the case already had its own file, everything he heard was
Inserted and recorded.
They entered the bedroom. Two more officers were inside, photographing the scene. The body lay half zipped inside a white bag — eyes closed, skin pale, stiff.
Surprisingly.
Felix Sage was the same man who had an affair with Mrs. Mutt just last night.
His neck bore a clean ring of red bruises — a grim reminder of the method of his death.
"With what we gathered, we're writing it off as suicide," Cool Jack said quietly.
"Wait." Armstrong's tone shifted — his eyes darkened, focused. Even Jack could feel the air change. The detective crouched beside the body, studying every detail — the bruises, the position, the expression frozen on Sage's face.
Then, he turned his head sharply toward Jack.
"Did you inform his relatives?"
"He has none," Jack replied.
Armstrong's eyes narrowed in shock, suspicion flickering in them. He stood up slowly, chest heaving as if a large bolder just broked his path to solving half the puzzle.
"You're telling me a horny, rich, relativeless bastard just decided to kill himself for no damn reason?" His voice rose. "He was living every man's dream! There's no way he'd throw that away!"
"But we searched the place," Jack protested. "No signs of forced entry, no strange fingerprints — nothing!"
"There's more to this," Armstrong muttered, pacing. "Did you talk to the girl he was seeing?"
"Yes, she's at the station right now — getting therapy," Jack answered.
"Good. I'll need to talk to her myself." Armstrong's eyes darted across the room, mind spinning through possibilities. "Tell this street's caretaker I want to a word too,if it's a woman then maybe with a cup of coffee."
He turned and strode out dramatically, every officer's gaze following him as he disappeared through the door.
Cool Jack exhaled heavily, finally relaxing. "That guy's tense," he muttered under his breath.
"Cool Jack!"
Armstrong's voice made him jump. The detective burst back into the room, face serious.
"Send me the recording of the call you made to Elod Mutt's wife," he said. "My gut is telling me her voice is might be beautiful ."