Casson West

"Pump, pump, pump." The muddy boots of a man clanked at the thin birch floor, creaking with every desolate step and sending echoes right behind. The drenched coat sagged almost to the floor, dripping water-drenched within from the hoard of rain that bombarded him. The room in which the man was in was pitch black- or at least it was until he caught a shimmer of amber that illuminated the far end of the room. Next to the bedside table that held the light was the despised objective, the reason the man had come here in the first place. Staring at the object caused the man's mind to become a mess of emotions. Grief, a sense of sadness, a sense of pride in a way, and an overwhelming amount of happiness as a matter of fact. Through the grief, he felt the muscle around his mouth start to harden and move upwards. It curved at the edges, to reveal a smile. Not a smile of joy, a psychopathic smile, a smile that is achievable when ruining something through jealousy. But through the fake smile, there was an overwhelming pressure of guilt pushing against his emotions, tearing him up. Through blurred vision, he still saw the objective- so pitiful. Looking at it this way, gave him joy, a small sense of psychopathic joy. He was finally going to do it, once and for all, to end it all.

About a Few Months Previously

"Flask! Flask!" The strips of documents shifted between the fingers and table face as a person pulled and moved them. From the top rows, a document, milk-white, which was already dangerously wavering off the edge of the table, glided onto the floor delicately. The early morning light shimmered onto the document through the small gap between the two covers that were supposed to be blocking light from entering the room. On the chair looking directly at the files, the person simply ignored the likes of the strip that had just fallen to the ground. Well not exactly did the person completely ignore the strip that had just glided only a short way from his leg; he gave an indecisive flinch as if to figure out whether he wanted to take the time to pick it up.

"Tap, tap, tap-tap, tap," The hard typewriter blocks rattled as his fingers danced upon it, slowly printing words upon the parchment with the ink-soaked rod at the top. "Tap, tap, tap- scratch!"

The paper previously printed on shrieked as it was torn out of the machine carelessly and without hesitation after the last tap. The person crumpled up the paper and threw it onto the floor, but paused before inserting a new set of paper into the typewriter. He hunched his back down and extended his arms to reach the document at the bottom until finally picking up the previously discarded document. He held the paper up high enough so that he could completely see it, then finally let out a long sigh as he placed the parchment into the typewriter. Not sure, he mumbled out the wordings of the parchment to make sure if it was good enough to continue with the resume. "Name: Casson West, that's good enough, Race: African American, yeah, gotta put that in there so they don't get disappointed that a negro went to work for them, Age: 47, Detective for Grinton, starting in 1932, yeah, but still a detective."

Afterward, he simply stared at the parchment for an awfully long time, until sighing and mumbling scornfully under his breath. "Why do I have to have the worst luck? Living in 1935, pretty much the height of the great depression, African American, or pretty much the society's punching bag, being a detective in the most peaceful town in the world, and not to mention middle-aged with not a lot of opportunities ahead of me."

Glancing over to the other side of his office, he saw a fairly large mirror with rims of bronze that resemble swans. Although it was wrapped in a form of plastic, he and his office were still fairly visible on it. He had acquired the mirror a few weeks ago, not because it looked nice, but because it had blood stains from the murder of the rich gypsy. He still hadn't gotten around to figuring out who killed her, but he supposed that it was probably the people that she scammed a while back. "Gypsy, fortune teller, quite ridiculous to think about. She had it going for her, scamming people for their hard-earned money by telling them fake fortunes."

He sassed the gypsy under his breath as he observed the mirror a little more until staring back at the document. While gripping the paper tightly and contemplating his life, he finally looked up. Next to his typewriter was a wooden-framed photo in black and white of an almost faceless woman (since the picture was in quality not too high and because it was getting worn out) holding what looked to be a basket with both hands. Slowly, he started to weep silently. "Angelica, I miss you greatly, my love. Abigail, I'm so sorry I was never around before-," the door hammered with knocks from someone, impatient, trying to get inside. Without hesitation, Casson whipped away the forming tears from his eyes and leveled his voice so the person outside could not tell that he was previously weeping.

"Come in!" He bellowed at the person behind the door. The person behind the door threw it sideways as it opened, slamming it onto the milk-white wall.

"Oh shoot- pardon me, Mr. West! It's my first day on the job, I was so lucky they were hiring me- no, no! Don't get the wrong idea, I'm not happy that the crime rate bumped up significantly! I'm talking about the- oh is that the new typewriter? I had one a while back but it was stolen. But yeah, I'm glad to be your partner, Mr. West!" The fairly young man announced energetically as he walked into the room. He wore a ragged navy-blue jacket, with a skinny top hat covering part of his silky black hair, which almost covered his large round glasses.

"Let me guess, you're Henry Benedict Benjamin, that 24-year-old kid with that impulsivity disorder that just graduated Gellert Grinton College - with a Ph.D.?" Casson quoted as he sneaked his eyes onto one of the files on his desk, to look at all the pieces of information he just regurgitated from the file.

"Yes, sir! I have always wanted to be a detective! I've actually had a theory on the new murders that happened just recently! I think I know how and why it happened! Well, I think I know- I think I should tell you right now and go to that place! That sounds like something my dad would do- my dad wasn't one but he knew someone-!" He stammered but was quickly cut off before he was able to complete his sentence by Casson as he handed him a stack of paper.

"Okay rookie, I don't know you, and I don't really want to. Just do the paper and I'll go see the major crimes that we need to investigate." Casson declared and walked off, but not before glancing at the disappointed Henry as he stared at the files.

"But sir! I don't want to just sit here and read- and write- and do boring things!" Henry's voice echoed just enough to reach Casson as he was about to walk out of the office and over to the sheriff's room. The building that Casson was in was a six-room complex (ten if you count the rooms that aren't too important) with different rooms for the town's security protection. The first room, Room A, was for the sheriffs. Inside the room was the list of crimes recently committed, with many drawers containing evidence, older crimes, etc, to the side of the room are two desks, a coffee machine, and a cabinet probably containing uniforms and weapons. Room B was the interrogation room, half of the room is blocked with a glass wall, one side for the interrogated and one for the interrogator. Room C was the room for the captives/the jailhouse. Easily the second biggest room with separate cages inside for people that have been caught doing bad deeds. Room D (the room Casson and Henry were in) was the room for the detectives, including lots of messy files, evidence cases, and brainstorming residues on the wall. Room E is the garage, where they have the sheriff's and firefighters' cars. And finally, Room F is the fire department, the biggest room of the bunch. The building overall is shaped like a rectangle, but at the entrance it curves upward to make a half-dome, towering over the entrance (supported by 4 cylinders).

"Henry, you keep with that attitude and you won't last long in the real world. Your parents can't help you with life, boy. Grow up, kid! Stop being so immature, it's your first day on the job so stick to the softer things." Casson cautioned, ignoring Henry's attempt to not do the paperwork. There was a small silence, a pause in the conversation. Casson awkwardly stared at Henry, expecting him to say something.

"I'm an orphan, sir… I have never met any family members of mine…" He slowly replied to the comment, staring down near his shoes depressingly.

"But you told me about your family!" Casson stared at him unbelievably. "I know you have that disorder, but what are you now? Are you sure you should even have a job? You'll be a danger to yourself and everyone around you in a job that requires carefulness and accuracy to be vital, such as a detective! The best you can do for me is just to quit, I don't need you messing with my job!"

Henry was visibly insulted as he stared at Casson unbelievably. "I have a condition where I tend to forget things easily… and my mind instantly replaces said things with other memories, fictional memories."

"Well darn it all! As if my life was bad enough in this society! Now an incompetent kid with mental incapabilities has to go screwing up my business!" He yelled straight at Henry's face. Fist gripping, Henry hurried off, trying not to show that he was a bit offended. He walked into the sheriff's room and yanked off one of the crime flyers on the wall violently, intending to do the work by himself.