Chapter 1

10: 20 p.m. June 6, 1979

I was in my office. It was a slow day for a private detective like me. All of a sudden I got a phone call.

I picked up and said, “Hello, Detective Edwards office. How may I solve your case?”

It was a man’s deep voice who said, “Hello Detective Edwards it is me Chief Johnson. I got a case for you. Can you meet me at the apartment complex called The Haven at room number 263.”

I hung up the phone and got in my car and drove to the Haven apartment complex. I reached the apartment and parked my car. I stepped out of my car and could see sixteen police cars. I went up to room number 263 to see the Chief. As I went in the elevator, I looked behind me. I could see outside in the parking lot; and, I saw a white van and someone came out of the back of the van. I saw him and he saw me. I saw him smoking a cigarette and from the illuminating light of the cigarette I saw his face. His face looked familiar, but I don’t remember from where. As the elevator doors opened I could see the man went in the back way of the apartment in no hurry. I walked out of the elevator and went to the room where the chief was. He was wearing a long brown coat with a matching hat. He was also wearing a white dress shirt and black pants with black dress shoes.

I said, “Hello Chief what do we have here?”

“I don’t know what you or anyone would call this. The place is so clean, can’t get any clues. No sign of force entry. No visible sign of killing the guy. The victim, Keith Wilson, was sitting at his desk; a manuscript was open before him. He was trying to write a story for the magazine that he works for. Now he’s dead. The only person who had found the body is the maid who was hired by him.”

When he was finished talking to me, I could see that the last of the policemen and forensics people left. I looked around and I saw the chair that he was sitting in. I looked in the bedroom, and saw the bed was unmade, I looked in the bathroom, and I looked in the kitchen. Every room was messy except for the room where Keith Wilson’s body was. I talked to the maid and asked her if the guy was ever clean and she said, “No this is one of the messiest apartments I have ever seen.”

I soon came to the conclusion that some how some way he was murdered, and the murder wanted the police to know that too. I was ready to leave but I figured just to look at the apartment room just one more time just to see if I could find any more clues or to come to any conclusions. But I couldn’t find any. I closed the door to the room behind me. I went in the elevator and looked in the parking lot and the van was still there, but no one inside of it. I left from the apartment complex to get to my car. AS I was leaving the same man was entering the apartment. At the time I didn’t think anything about it. It was when I was in my car on my way home that all these thoughts about the case came through my head. I envisioned the room one more time just before the murder happened. I imagined that the killer must had put something like a poison in his drink. I remembered there was no coffee maker in his kitchen or any drink on the desk he working at; and there was no cups in the sink for drying. The sink itself was dry. So, the murderer had to take the cup with him or there is no cup at all. I had to turn the car back around and go the apartment place again, because envisioning the room was not enough.

Chapter 2

12:00 midnight June 7 1979

When I got back to the apartment, there were FBI vans and no local police cars there. No one was inside of the vans. I went into the apartment. I got to the door of the room and inside was FBI men inside the apartment. One of the FBI men stopped, “Who are you?”

I said, “I am Detective Edwards. I work privately with the Chicago Police in this neighborhood.” I showed him my badge.

“Oh, Hello Detective. I’m Secret Agent Bobby Anderson.”

Then I remembered that he was the guy that was in the parking lot earlier today. I asked, “What are you doing here?”

“We got a call two to three hours ago saying that there is a murder here, and I am just getting any clues that the other police officers might have missed. Like this pen that was sitting on the desk where the author was writing. This pen is the murder weapon.”

I stood there with a confused look on my face. “How do you know?”

“Let’s take a walk. Maybe you can help us out.”

We walked around the apartment complex, as he explained, “It all started a year ago in New York. There was this murder called the Ink Blot Murderer, thanks to the press. His motive was to kill the unworthy writers; the writers that have written that one article that has ruined their popularity by choosing the other side of the argument not what the readers wanted to read. The Police would get to the seen then they would call us. The police are trained to see things that are right in front of them, but we are trained to see any smaller details. We first realized that the writer was murdered. When the coroner’s report came back, it said he was killed by a poison that they have never seen before. The pen the writer would write with would have a needle come out when you would press down on the top of the pen. The needle would get into the writer’s skin. Then a poison would be released and it would get into the veins, then go to the major arteries and finally explode. Bam they’re dead! The Ink Blot murder has laid low for a year, but tonight he struck again.”

I had a few more questions to ask him, “Are there any drawings of the man or any of the people who found the body saw the guy’s face?”

“No. Wait a minute, there is a videotape from the last killing. The Ink Blot murderer dressed up as a waiter and gave the check to the writer with the pen. The video was not that clear due to some substance put on the tape film. We sent it out to the analyst to make the video clearer and then case went cold and we decided not to send it. I’ll call the main office and tell them to send it.” After he called the main headquarters of the FBI.I said goodbye and that I would call him if I figured out anything.

Chapter 3

7:00 A.M. June 7 1979

As I woke up in the morning, I found that the air conditioning was broken. My apartment was hot nearly was eighty degrees Fahrenheit. The telephone started to ring. I went to the living room and picked it up.

“Hello?”

“Hi Detective it’s me Secret Agent Bobby Anderson. We got another murder and this one went wrong. Meet me at the Scorpion restaurant…”

He told me the address and I got dressed and left to the restaurant. When I got there, the FBI was there and the police weren’t coming this time. I went inside and there Anderson. The restaurant was like a 50s diner set up. The booth Anderson showed me where there was a man in his early forties sitting there with an IV in his arm and wearing an oxygen mask. There was a cup of coffee and a bagel on the table in front of him. The booth was fake lime green leather and the table was a darker green. The man looked up at me and had a puzzled look on his face. Then it changed from being puzzled to hard thinking. I asked Mr. Anderson what happened.

He said, “This is another writer that was about to get poisoned but he was taking antibiotics which counter acted with the poison. The last thing he remembered drinking a cup of coffee and having his plain bagel with cream cheese and getting a check. But the guy who gave him the check wasn’t the same person who gave him his coffee and bagel. At the time he didn’t think about it. And the thing he knows he has passed out for one minute.”

“What was he taking antibiotics for?”

Then the man took off his oxygen mask and said, “For a bad cough. The doctor said it was an infection that I had. Hey, Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

I said, “I don’t think so.”

I looked around the place and saw a video camera in the ceiling.

I asked, “Did you see that video camera?”

“No. I didn’t. Let’s ask the manager about it.”

We went outside to speak to the manager. The manager spoke in an Italian accent.

“Oh, why did this have to happen at my store? Why oh Why!”

“I’m Detective Edwards. May I ask you some questions?”

“I’m Frank Gallo.”

I asked him questions about the video camera and how could someone not notice the murderer wasn’t one of your own works?

“Well the video cameras are on tape every day. We were busy and I just hired 2 new busboys so no one has seen them before.”

After asking him more questions I went to the office and looked at the video tape. I couldn’t tell what the guy looked like but he looked familiar. He was wearing the uniform of the restaurant workers. I saw that he grabbed the check and a credit card from behind the counter and pulled a pen out of his pocket and gave it to the writer. Then the ink blot murder left from the back door. And the writer passed out. I rewound the tape to the part where before the ink blot murder came to the picture, and everything was clear. Then when he stepped into the picture his face was blurry. I called Mr. Anderson to watch the tape.

“Well it’s like the other tape, but not that bad. We’ll send it off to the lab.”

“Do you think he’s timing himself,” Mr. Anderson asked.

I looked around for a clock in the small office room. I found the clock and saw that it was three minuets off. I answered, “I think he does. Because look ant the time in the diner and now look at the time in here, it’s three minuets off. So he was rushed that is why he didn’t have time to clear his face from the video.” From a hard time thinking about where I saw the face I remembered him from that night when Mr. Anderson was in the parking lot of the apartment complex and lit up his cigarette I thought I saw another person behind him. And I was right that was the guy.

“Do you remember that night of the first murder that happened at the apartment complex?”

“Ya, what about it?”

“When you light that cigarette by the van I saw you and another person behind you. Who was he?”

“There was no other person behind me maybe you saw your’ self.”

There was a knock at the door.

Mr. Anderson said, “Come on in.”

Another FBI agent came into the office.

He told Mr. Anderson, “Sir, the Lab couldn’t clear the tape. They sent it back. It is on your desk.”

“Here take this tape and send it to the lab this one I think they can clear, so we can see this Ink blot murder and stop him.”

The FBI agent took the tape and left. Mr. Anderson told me that he will call me when the tape comes in. So I left and went to the office to see if I missed any calls.

Chapter 4

8:00 a.m. June 7 1979

After Detective Edwards left I lit up my cigarette, then I went back to my office to check the tape that the lab sent back one more time. I got into my car and put on the air-conditioning and started to drive. When I got to the FBI headquarters in IL I put the tape on and called the sketch artist in so I can describe to him what I saw. When the sketch artist arrived I put on the tape and told him what I saw of the murder. When he was finished I looked at the drawing and it looked familiar but I denied and just waited for the lab to call me. I sat at my desk and looked through the old case files, and tried to put together the clues. Then the phone rang and it was the lab. They wanted me to go there, which was in the basement. When I got there one of the scientist had a smile on there face.

He told me, “I have good news the thing that was to kill the people is the same thing that destroyed that one part of the tape. We were able to get it all off. Here take a look.”

I looked at the tape and I was in shock. I immediately called Detective Edwards and told him to come down here. When he got there I asked him to my office so that I can pay him. I took out a check and seemed to have lost my pen. I asked Detective Edwards if I can barrow one.

He asked, “So who was the ink blot murder?”

I showed him the tape. The tape showed Detective Edwards at the restaurant dressed as the waiter and giving the check, the pen, and the credit card to the writer. Detective Edwards had a confused look on his face. Then his face froze and it changed expressions. No longer confused it was satisfied.

I asked, “Detective Edwards can you explain this?”

His voice was no longer the same it sounded deeper. Then he chuckled and said, “I have to say congratulations!” He clapped his hands. “But you have not figured out the entire puzzle you’re still missing pieces which I should give theme to you.”

“I am Phillip Edwards Jones. I came here to hide from you. Yes you Mr. Anderson. When I came here I rented an office and stared to ask myself what new identity shall I take on? I finally came up with a private eye detective; and took up my middle name as my first name. My mind couldn’t take on both sided and created a split personality. Did I answer all of your questions?”

“Yes! Now I have to take you to jail Detective or should I call you Phillip Jones?”

“I think not for the pen in your hand is the poison that will now kill you. So I shall say good bye.”

I tried to get up from my chair but I fell down on the ground in pain. Before passing out was Detective Edwards took the tape out of the VCR and the old cases. He was getting ready to leave. Then all of a sudden I stood up and grabbed my gun out of my holster and said, “Stop right there. You are not going any where. See I took the antibiotics I just need to prove that it was you. Part of me couldn’t except that it was you. Now you’re under arrest!”

The End