A New Case

Wilhelm Milcobb and the Nazi’s that could fly

       I hear a knock on the door. In walks a trouble on a pair of legs, the kind that go on all the way to the waist. She’s pale, and she’s been crying.

    “What’s up?” I say leaning forward as she sits down. I read her like a XL wood fibre info tome. She’d lost someone; recently, her hair was messy. She did ok for herself because her dress clearly had the accordion upper sleeves of steam-monitored enviro-wear. She took out a cigarette, but she just held it for a bit, her hand was shaking. A smoker who hadn't had a puff in a while, she had been busy I guess.

    “My ‘usband ‘e was shot” she blubbered putting her face in her hands.

    “Calm down, you’ll get you cigarette wet,” I said leaning forward. She looked up at me, her blue eyes glistening like the glistening blue waters of a bath tub. “Why, didn’t you alert the crime prevention agency, they handle this kind of thing all the time, I even got some contacts in the agency, you’ll be in good hands.”

    She sniffled a little, “I already ‘ave, but the trajectory, it was not matching any of the buildings! They suggest you mister Milcobb.” She explained. I didn’t even listen to the rest. I was too busy dealing with the rising plume of emotions in my chest, building up pressure like an unsecured steam condenser.

    “That’s enough, I’ll take the job. Don’t you worry; Wilhelm Milcobb is on the case!” I said rising from my seat triumphantly.

    “Oh, danke, thank You! I am so ‘appy” she said, as she left the office. I turned and stared out the blinds, the smoke stacks blurred the buildings of the city I prepared myself to turn upside down. I hadn’t taken a case in over a year, not since that night. I can still smell the bitter wind as it whipped against my face, just thirteen months ago.

    I had got the call around twenty o’clock, I was bringing home a puppy for my wife. She’d been begging for weeks. Sighing I changed course. I had had enough of these late night calls, but I had no choice, the Chief’s words rang in my ears. “Milcobb,” he had said “You got vapor, but detektives close cases, you’re on probation.”

I leaned aggressively over his desk. “I resolved more cases this month than Jensen did in the last two, I get the results I need.” Then I got up to leave.

“Hey, Milcobb, do you get the results you need? Or is it the results you want? I can’t count the cases you do off the books as closed. I’m tired of your vigilante s**t. You better be like a freaking shepherd this quarter, or it’s not just your a*s on the line.”

    I pulled up to the crime scene. Jensen had taken control of the operation, but I could tell he was bothered. Maybe the golden boy was finally getting some tarnish. “What we got Jens? One more jumper this quarter and I’ll play follows the leader with the victim.” I said placing my chronomonacle over my left eye. Jensen walked over and put his hand on my shoulder.

    “I’ll get the prep, don’t worry, I’ll get him.” Said Jensen reassuringly.

    “Not so fast, Jens, what’s the main idea here?” I said annoyed, pushing past him, and looking right into my wife’s face hole. It looked like her face had gotten caught in a chimpanzee with a seizure’s mouth. I stumbled back and leaned against one of the police automotive cars.

    “We’ll get the guy, just as soon as we can match the bullets’ trajectories to a nearby building, they came from above” Said Jensen gently, placing his hand on my shoulder. “Get some rest.”

    “Go suck a bratwurst, Jensen; I’m gonna burn this town to the ground.” I replied tormented, then ran off into the night. And I did.

    But that was more than a year ago, and here I was about to get caught up in detective work again, all cause some dizzy dames dead darling. I lit a cigarette and stared into my reflection’s eyes. They were like dark brown waters in a poisoned well, and my stubble didn't make me look too kind either. I walked back to my filing cabinet, and opened the top drawer. Inside was my Steam Shot 5000, it could shoot a piece of lead through a brick from across a picture show theater showing a Chaplain show, and it had more than once. Its bronze condenser coils shone like an oiled panther and the grip was more familiar in my hand than a bottle of scotch.

            “Well, Milcobb,” I said to no one in particular, “time to start this dance, and it’s a slow dance.”