I've always loved making lists, and crossing things off those lists, etc... it's kind of a hobby with me. My latest list is a typical one pretty much like what everybody else has: a to-do list. I tend to put every single thing that needs to be done on that list (like showering or making my bed), just so I can cross even more things off and feel like I actually accomplished something. Yes, it does happen that the more I cross off the better I feel about my day. Today, I decided to sort out my school notes from past years, as required by this huge list, and I found a funny litte story I had written a long time ago for some project or another. It's one of the few existing specimens of a time when I could write humorous little diddies -- back in the days before comma splices and tough grades scared the fun foolery out of writing. I think this piece deserves its own little premier, just for fun...
In Defence of the Death of a Cookie
The name is Schmidt: Detective Schmidt to be precise, and this is exactly how “it” happened....
It was a dark and stormy night on the fifteenth of April when I happened to glance out the window at the quiet, grey streets. I had been busy smoking my pipe, looking over the daily news, when a sudden movement in the mist caught my observant eye. What was this mysterious movement, this suspicious action, this possibly criminal intent? My keen detective mind resolved to solve this puzzling problem once and for all.
I grabbed my black trench coat and rushed out of the room in a whirlwind of speed, taking the steps onto my apartment rooftop two at a time, only slowing at the top so I could carefully plot my plan of action. Such a case as this requires the utmost caution, and I had to be sure no mistakes were to be made.
I suppose you’re wondering where my partner was. I hardly need inform you, inexperienced readers, that an experienced investigator such as myself works better alone; yes, a partner would certainly slow me down and inhibit the stroke of genius evident in all my decisions. No, no, no; no partners for me, especially not tonight, on what looked like it could be my most dangerous, most successful case yet.
Once on the roof, I concealed myself behind a wide chimney, freeing my gun from its holster and peering around the bricks in the direction of the sinister shadow that had not passed unnoticed while I was sitting in my room. Nothing unusual was in sight, but you know this made the mystery even more dangerous. Only the most violent, daring criminals know how to hide their presence perfectly. I was about to place my gun back in its holster so I could have the use of both of my hands when suddenly the same movement as before flashed across the opposite rooftop.
It was the criminal! The murderer! The bank robber! It had to be, for what other kind of villainous person would sneak about rooftops in April, moving quickly and in the shadows? Of course, younger less successful detectives are required to ascertain who their targets are, interrogate them, arrest them, try them, and prove them guilty before their suspect is finally allowed to die, but I have greater privileges because of my talents. I have a sixth sense for sniffing out criminals, the deadliest threats to mankind, and this shadow on the rooftop was certainly among the worst of them!
Trusting everything to my always correct intuition, I took aim and fired, and upon hearing a thump in the alley below, I knew I had hit my target dead-on, as always. I wasted no time in descending the stairs and sprinting across the street. I did not bother with handcuffs or stealth, for my bullets never missed their mark, which means, my dear readers, that they are always fatal. And so was this one, though I must admit I was a little surprised when I saw who, or what, my criminal was. The neighbour’s cat, one of her two darling Cookies, lay dead in front of me.
Now, I have been approached by many about this action, and I have this to say in my defence: Cookie was a criminal. The silly public tells me this is preposterous, but what else could you expect from such untrained, simple minds? My dear readers, how could Cookie NOT be a criminal? Let us look at the reasons: he was lurking on a rooftop, he caught my eye, I shot him, and I am never wrong when I have an intuition. I am convinced that this cat is responsible for the murder of the man on Westminster Bridge last Saturday.
How do I know this? Well, I am sure I was destined to apprehend that murderer, and Cookie was obviously a criminal, or else I would not have shot him. As for evidence: Hah! I have a degree from Oxford; you cannot really expect one as qualified as me to bother with little things like evidence. I have solved a mystery for you the public, and though I may not be receiving your thanks at the moment, I am sure you will get over your ignorance in time and realize the value of my services. Until then, this is Detective Schmit, signing out.
