The Flawless

  A person, one so sophisticated as to never fail, is a truly interesting subject to behold. A being devoid of flaws, blemishes and mistakes, that is who is to be considered perfect. There have been many, far too many to count, that claimed to have reached that state. Reality, however, is often harsh, and those declarations were false to the dismay of both sides. They tried as they may, but their sentence arrived all the same.

  Nevertheless, there was one – a faultless criminal mastermind who evaded the hands of the law at the behest of only his own doing. Tirelessly, the detectives worked towards his inevitable punishment, hoping to close the case as soon as one deemed it done, but the chase went on far longer than any of them, even the elites of the bunch, could ever anticipate. A single mind, capable of unimaginable machinations brought the whole precinct down to its knees. No one knew what to think of the cause – was it a genius? Was it a whole organization? Or was it a deranged fool that lost themselves in the killings? One truth was certain, they were a capable entity, and their persistence was a force not to be reckoned with.

  But as they are, criminals are to be caught and judged by the court of law, and no matter how faultless, how exquisite – a criminal will remain a criminal. The tale of ‘The Flawless’ is one that will never be forgotten, proving that even perfection has its limits.

  Chapter 1 - Detective Vince Capleaf

  The day is May 1st, and I have found myself, once again, in front of hundreds of people on a grand stage. That notion is quite unpleasant, and the noises these people make are unnecessarily loud. But alas, I have to be here, because the higher-ups said so. Next to me stands the general director, Mr. Jonathan Watkins, the crème de la crème of the detective sphere and also my direct superior, who is currently in the middle of quelling the noisy crowd of people in preparation for his speech. The reason this whole charade is even taking place, to the surprise of absolutely nobody, is the annual ceremony of The Best Detective Awards. It really does sound like something grandiose or something more important than day-to-day matters, but in the grand scheme of things, this is something that absolutely does not matter. It is my eleventh time here, after all.

  The director clears his throat and begins his speech.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, today we have gathered here for a very special occasion. First things first, I would like to express my wholehearted gratitude for taking part in this monumental event. Before we begin, allow me to speak a few words about our operations…”

  And so, he went on, on and on, until his voice became droning background noise to me. If there is one thing that Watkins is a general of, it is the general lack of self-awareness, as he is quite actually incapable of just saying the necessary. His speech is downright slow and infuriating, as if he was letting you know that your time was not as valuable as his high and mighty behind by taking up as much time as possible from your twenty-four hours. That is the unanimous agreement between us detectives down at the precinct – around five years ago, someone had a brilliant idea to ask him for his opinion on a certain case. It was a greenhorn, one that still lacked the ins and outs of our work, and his magnesium-deficient brain thought it was a good idea to go straight to the boss for clues. Needless to say, that guy does not work here anymore, and the boss gained himself the title of Watkins the Tormentor. In my humble opinion, that moniker suits him quite well, since his bare presence is enough to cause problems, in my case as of right now, his voice.

  But enough of complaining about Watkins. There is a maximum daily dose of being displeased by a short fat guy with a god complex that I can tolerate, and I am about to cross that limit if I am not careful.

  The droning voice of his turns back into coherent speech as my part in this slowly comes up.

  “…and now, it is time for what you have all been waiting for. Ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce you to the spearhead and forefront of our detective work, a person who some of you have already seen here last year, and the year after, and the year after – you get the rest. Please give a round of applause to Detective Vince Capleaf!”

  The room erupted with the sound of people clapping. I am not sure if I am supposed to be flattered, since none of these people even know yet why they are being introduced to me. Regardless, I keep up a wry smile that is just convincing enough to not portray me as a sociopath.

  As the applause comes to a halt, Watkins continued.

  “This here, ladies and gentlemen, is the undisputable winner of The Best Detective Awards! He is responsible from solving the most menial of cases to even the most notorious and strenuous, such as the Albertson Bank Robbery and the Wig Killer! There is no one quite as capable as him in our ranks. Please offer him yet another round of applause.”

  The crowd does so, although a lot more unwillingly this time.

  “Now, I offer the floor to the man himself,” Watkins stated, stepping away from the stand.

  I begrudgingly make two small steps towards the stand and prepare myself for the most heartfelt and earnest speech any individual has ever given.

  “Thank you for the trophy, see you next year.”

  I then walk off the stage. I already spent more than enough designated time for this, and forcing myself to do overtime is not exactly pleasing. As I usher myself behind the curtains, I can hear a few of my colleagues, who are sitting in the backstage, talk among each other amidst the crowd’s cheering.

  “Of course, the arrogant asshole wins again.”

  “Can’t wait for the day Debrief dethrones him.”

  “Maybe next year…”

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  Those are the exact words I heard from those chumps last year, and the year before that as well. You may think I am an arrogant asshole, you are free to have your own opinion, after all. What is on the other hand an objective matter is the fact that I can get away with being like this, because no one else is competent enough to do their job properly. In simpler terms, I am being envied by idiots, as is tradition.

  I am a successful detective, there is no denying that, and the trophy in my hands serves as proof. Once I add it to the collection, I will be successful eleven-fold. But overall, I would say that this year’s yap session went better than expected. I got to say my one minimal sentence, and no one cried at their loss. That is better than how it usually goes.

  I check my watch to notice that it is currently 6 PM. My intuition still serves correctly, it seems, since I stepped out of the building at the exact time my shift ended. Then, I walk over to my car, a black vintage Mercedes that sticks out like a sore thumb amidst all the modernity on the road, and it probably produces twice, no, thrice as many emissions as those newfangled cars. After these useless ceremonies, I like to go to a fancy bar to alleviate my troubles. The place’s name is Bammy’s Bar, and it is the best place in Misult City to waste time in the evenings.

  “Welcome, welcome, buddy. How’s the day been?” He greeted me as soon as I walked through the door.

  “It went alright, a few hiccups here and there, but overall – I’m satisfied.”

  Bammy, as he likes to call himself, is a muscular toned dude with the strangest combination of accents I have ever seen. He has worked at this bar for even longer than I have been detective, and he has picked up a thing or two from me during those years – the same goes for me, of course.

  “Here’s one on the house, buddy,” he said as a pint of Guiness was headed my way, sliding across the bar.

  It was then that I noticed that there was no one else here, which is quite unusual, since this is the most popular bar in Misult City. I decided to query the man for the answer.

  “How come you have no customers tonight?”

  “Bastards, each of them. No one’s been drinking recently.”

  “I find it hard to believe that thirty people simultaneously decided to not go to the best bar around,” I sensed a lie on his part.

  “Eh? I know you’re a detective and all, but nothing fishy is going on here, y’understand?”

  The bar is normally open during these hours, and considering it is Friday, I do not think that it is natural for people to not be here. Bammy is hiding something, I am sure of it. What I am not sure of, however, is why the hell he would do that.

  “Fishy?”

  “Yeah, no fish here, that is up on down the street, that seafood place.”

  He is quite the simpleton, completely burrowing my earlier statement that he is a capable person. I don’t think I can obtain any information from him, so I look over at the bar for any clues.

  Two seconds later, I spot something unusual. Below one of the tables, there is a piece of paper in the shape of a brochure of some kind. A magnified glance reveals that it is an advertisement to Danny’s Bar, which instantly revealed the cause of the problem.

  “Someone stole your customers, huh?”

  He reluctantly agreed to my statement. “Indeed, buddy, a corporate spy, he was. The bastard came in and preached about a new bar and stuff. With him left the customers.”

  “Why would you hide that from me?”

  “Heh, buddy, just testing you, y’understand?” He exclaimed with an ugly smile.

  I don’t even know what to reply to that. I came here to unwind from my job, and not do more of it. Nonetheless, now that the crucial mystery has been solved, hopefully, I am free to enjoy my pint now.

  Bammy continued. “So, you have that award thing, eh?”

  Oh, right. I laid that thing on the counter subconsciously, making me forget it was even there in the first place.

  “Yeah, won another one of those. Neat, huh?”

  “They cheaped out on you, buddy. That thing ain’t even metal anymore!”

  “Such is the way of state workers. Cutting corners where it is possible.”

  That is where the coherency of the conversation ended before I dug into my pint. The barman was there to accompany me as we talked and talked. I told him what all happened today, and in return, he told me what he saw today. For example, some guy here tried to buy everyone a drink, but dashed away before he even paid for it. He thought it was a brilliant crime, but he never realized that the drinks have yet to be poured.

  The evening was going well. I was having a jolly old time and relaxing, until my responsibilities caught up to me – or instead, they found me.

  “Detective Vince, I knew I would find you here,” a familiar voice from behind me sounded.

  This is a person I know very well. They are someone who actually knows and cares for their job, and they are frequently of aid to me during my investigations. She is Doctor Faust, an actual genius amidst the mediocrity that is the detective precinct, more specifically, the forensics team, and unfortunately for me, she needs me for work, apparently. Her looks are quite unique, too. She bears thin white hair of medium length, not tied in any particular way. On her face is a pair of black-rimmed glasses that scream “I am a genius” at the top of their metaphorical lungs. As for her attire, she wants to be different from the other detectives and the like, so she wears a white trench coat instead of a black or grey one. The same goes for the boots, pants, and shirt – also pure white. It suits her, in fact – her manner of dressing is just as pretentious and nerdy as she is. Although, if she heard me say that, I could consider myself dead then and there, probably somewhere over in that trash can.

  With the introduction out of the way, we excused ourselves from the bar and continued the conversation just outside the door.

  “Hey, Faust. What is it?”

  “It’s Doctor Faust, mind you,” she scoffed.

  “Got it, doc. What is it?”

  She sighed. “I was tasked with informing you about your next case. You also made me, an important figure, look for you at a rundown bar as if I was your personal mail delivery service.”

  “Since when do the higher-ups decide which cases we take?”

  “This is an exception, Detective Vince. General Director Watkins has placed you on the investigation of Case MC-13. I am here to bring you the necessary information.”

  This was quite the shocker for me. Case MC-13 could only be described as the detective guillotine, since no one has ever managed to grasp even the basics of it. A nightmarish murder case from which no detective came out unscathed due to its sheer complexity. I have only heard rumors, though, and never tackled it myself due to the workload I have always had. If what Faust said is true, then Watkins must have been somewhat pissed after my early departure earlier today.

  She elaborated while handing me a file. “Here is a copy of the case file. Any and all evidence will be going straight to me, be sure to contact me if any problems occur,” she offered in a serious tone.

  With a file left in my hands, she left in a hurry, unwilling to exchange even a word outside of work. Though she was always like that – a workaholic to the bone. Then, if this really just happened, then I have received the biggest challenge yet, despite me not even knowing anything about it. This is going to be very interesting.