Herbert stands by his door and waves his arm in a formal invite to let us in. His house is decent and clean, neatly decorated to reflect a posh personality; maybe belonging to someone who enjoys a good cup of tea. We walk into a room that I guess is the den, complete with a low-end table and a nightstand placed next to a single red chair set in front of the roaring fireplace. I giggle to myself as I see the cup of tea resting on the counter.
"So," Herbert says while taking his spot in the chair, "what would you like to know about my works?"
Clyde pulls out his little notepad again while I take a seat on the table. Herbert takes a sip from his cup and crosses his legs in an authoritative manner.
"Well," I start, "first I'd like to know how you keep your mane so fluffy?"
He laughs, "Shampoo and conditioner, my dear. Nothing special there. How about something pertaining to my work?"
"Of course. I'm curious as to any material that didn't make it into the papers. You know, anything at all that you might've left out?"
He rests his chin on his knuckles, "Hmm...no, not really. Nothing significant was left out of the papers, everything's all there."
"Are you sure? Even the smallest detail, no matter how trivial, would be nice to hear."
Herbert seems to dig deep into his memory banks, remaining silent for quite some time. I look at Clyde expecting him to be scribbling away some untold hidden knowledge again, but he was just as stalled as I am. His paper is blank, and he taps at his notepad with his pen in annoyance.
"I'm so sorry dear, but I really don't have anything else left to say. The crimes were pretty straightforward, but the strange part was who they were committed by. These were people who ran charities or donated time into the soup kitchen, or built houses for the homeless. For the sake of simplicity, just good people."
I sigh in defeat, "Yeah, that is strange. The same guy who built the homeless shelters was the one who torched them to the ground."
Herbert nods, "The girl in the soup kitchen was caught with the same type of poison found in the derelict's autopsy."
I look at Clyde one more time to see him in the same spot. I realize that this conversation isn't going to get us any progress. Even Fake Troy isn't helping to speed this case up. We need a break, some downtime, and sleep.
"Well," I say, "this has been very lovely, Mr. Dorsett. You have a very cozy home."
He sits up straight, "Oh, thank you. I hope I didn't disappoint you two today."
"Not possible, sir!"
I get up from the table, and he gets out of his chair. Clyde holsters his little notepad and walks back to the front door. Herbert cuts in front of us and opens the door, his warm smile upon his face again.
"It's always nice to have guests over," he says.
I spin around with a cheery smile, "Of course!" I spot his small wall-mounted mailbox and reach into it, pulling out today's letters, "Oh, the mailman came by today."
He takes the letters, "Thank you. Farewell, you two!"
Back in the car, Clyde asks me to search for the next address, but I propose that we should take an early leave for today and pick up where we left off tomorrow. I'm beginning to feel sick, most likely from the lack of footwear. Clyde is hesitant and stubborn, but he eventually comes around. I need medicine before I get any worse.
*** *** ***
Devils Lake Motel: The Next Morning
The usual smell of coffee isn't there when I wake up. It's weird, Clyde always makes coffee for the two of us when he wakes up. I get out of the warm bed and stretch around in my pj's, yawning sleepily and wishing to get out of this cold town already.
There's a newspaper sitting on the table in the small kitchen opened up and wrinkled slightly. Clyde must've gotten it this morning while I was still asleep. That cold medicine really knocked me out, a late start is never a good sign. Today's date is stamped at the top, confirming that it's indeed today's paper. I fix myself a mug of coffee before sitting down to read it, but I don't bother making Clyde's cup. Where is he anyway?
Local resident, Herbert Dorsett, was confirmed dead after he attempted a terrorist attack on Devils Lake Journal, the same newspaper company he was employed to. March 1, at 6:30 p.m., he fired upon his fellow co-workers using a shotgun he had kept mounted in his household, claiming 4 victims' lives (see obituaries on back) and wounding several others.
Once the S.W.A.T. team breached the building, Dorsett refused to surrender his gun and fired at the officers. The officers retaliated in self-defense, killing Herbert Dorsett. No officers were harmed during the incident...
Well, that's all I need to read. I jump out from the chair and rush towards the window. The curtains part away as I pull the string, and the parking spot that the company car should've been parked is empty. Dammit, Clyde! No, dammit, Fake Troy!
I can't call Clyde, it'll jeopardize his condition, but I can track him! I grab the laptop from under my bed and find the drive I need inside my rucksack. All systems boot up and I plug in the drive that contained the tracking program. The laptop pulls up a map and zooms in on America, then North Dakota, then Devils Lake, and finally, on Maple Street. Looks like I've got a jog ahead of me.
*** *** ***
Maple Street: Herbert Dorsett's Residence
Clyde's P.O.V.
"There he is again," I told Troy as the mailman drives down the street and rounds the corner.
"Don't worry about him," says Troy, "he's not important right now. We should scan Herbert's house for any chemicals or some other thing that could cause hostile reactions."
I nod. It's weird, Troy has always been a very smart individual, but recently he's been doing too much of an efficient job. He knew about getting the names of the reporters, he knew that we should wait for tomorrow to get another clue, he knew that checking the newspaper would find us another lead. I'm starting to get a little jealous of his newfound cleverness.
The streets are empty besides the two of us sitting in the car. We get out and swiftly make our way into Herbert's lawn and on his front patio. Troy pulls out a lock pick kit and begins to disengage the simple dead-bolt lock. It makes a clicking sound, and he slowly pushes the door open. The house is clean and just the way we left it, absolutely no signs of a struggle.
Troy enters through the door first. "Okay, come inside, but wait by the door. I have to scan the airways and make sure nothing in here is contagious."
And so I do. I wait and watch Troy go to work with the chemical detector. I hear an engine roaring closer outside, so I take a peek from behind the curtain to see who is burning fuel.
"That damn mailman keeps circling the block like some sort of vulture!" I yell.
"This may be a case of the criminal returning to the scene of the crime," Troy says, a peal of somewhat cynical laughter following his sentence.
I turn around to see him standing there with a letter in his hand. "What are you going on about now?"
"Take a look."
He hands me an envelope. It's addressed to this house, and more specifically for Herbert Dorsett. The font isn't printed like normal business letters, everything is handwritten. Usually, only personal letters are written like this. I pull out the slip of paper from the envelope and unfold it. Small, yellow dust falls out and lands on the floor.
"Whoa, don't let that stuff touch you!" says Troy while pushing me back a little. He takes out a small slide from his back pocket and a pair of forceps from his jacket. He carefully places the dust molecules onto the slide. "We'll sample this in the car's lab." The rest of the note is blank.
Processing Information...
We've discovered an unknown substance in the home of the most recent victim, Herbert Dorsett. This substance was delivered here through the postal services, linking the mailman clearly to this crime. Of course, he could be innocent and not have a clue what he delivers to people, but when is the mailman ever innocent? Our next move is to examine this substance carefully to understand its purpose and link it to our evidence log.
"You drive, I've got to work on this thing," says Troy while looking at his collected sample closely. We exit the house and get in the car. The mailman circles the block one more time, and I'm embarrassed to say that another bark escapes from me.
"Hey! Stop!" I lean my head out of the window. "You've got something you want to tell me!?"
Troy's small arms grab my shirt and pull me back in, "Pipe down idiot, and leave the damn mailman alone! At least for now."
A small whimper echoes in the car, but little did I realize it belonged to me. I give the unaware mailman another death glare, but he continues to drive along, not even noticing us. I start up the engine and turn on the heater as Troy initiates his work with the car's chemistry equipment. I drive around the town without a route waiting for Troy to have a breakthrough.
"Oi," he says, "this substance has already been categorized by the tech lab. It's parasitic dust that invades the brain and leaves a huge surplus of Epinephrine. It was first used in 1999 during the-"
"No need for a history lesson, Troy. So now we know how they're doing it, but we still don't know who. You got any ideas on how to find out?"
He thinks for a moment, reclining the passenger seat to get a comfortable laying position. He kicks his feet up on the dash. "Let's see...the sample we've got was picked from the floor, so it's already been contaminated, and there's no way for us to trace any past DNA that could've been on it." He springs up into a sitting position again, "How about we check for possible homes on where they brew this stuff."
"Sure, sounds like a good place to start." If this hunch is right, Troy would be getting a medal for his intuition.
He touches the car's monitor and closes the sample's window. He pulls up a search engine and types in, "Devils Lake Landmarks." It takes him a few minutes, but he eventually finds a good candidate that was ripe for the search. He swivels the screen so that I could look at it, "Fort Totten State Historic Site."
"What? But that's a tourist attraction, why would they make this stuff where people always come and go?"
"Dammit Clyde, it's just a hunch. Besides, what's the harm in looking?"
Calculating options...
Well, wasted time could be harmful if we're not careful, but perhaps this isn't worth mentioning. Fort Totten, it is!
"Okay," I agree.
"Whoa, hold on! We're not going to visit it like a couple of tourists, we're going in at night."
"What? It's 13:48 hours right now. How are we going to kill the whole day?"
A smirk takes its place on his mouth. "Well, you could take me shopping."
"Not a chance, femboy. The last thing I want to be seen doing is walking into Victoria's Secret with you by my side."
"Oh boo!" he says in his woman's voice.