Part 1.

Bodies are like time, they’re native to this world but not eternity. This body was dead as disco - which is to say still looking good long after the world stamped its expiration date. None of this was particularly helpful to me, as my job is to find who killed it, not ponder eternity. You see, I’m not a metaphysician, nor a philosopher. I’m just murder police. But even that isn’t true. I’m really just a private investigator, and sadly, a failed philosopher, as if any in known history ever truly succeeded.

I leave my Nietzsche translated by Walter Kaufman in the car (I drive a 1975 American made muscle) and head inside. For some strange reason there is homemade lemonade. Well, the crime-curious neighbor has just made lemonade before the police arrived and is passing it out like shoe booties. I ask her what’s in it? You see, I don’t drink shit. Aspartame, corn syrup, that kind of shit. I also don’t swig whiskey or gin or anything so romantic on or off the job. I do drink my fair share of coffee and espresso though. But again, no shit. I know what I’m doing.

So there I am with my glass of organic lemon, raw honey on ice brew, watching the hot shots go to work. But I’ve been hired by the family to be here - so technically I am allowed, as long as I don’t get in the way. I try to keep a low profile, but you have to understand, I do wear a trench coat. Vintage, French, a real classic. I figure why not lean into the look. It’s good for business and it’s good for morale. My morale that is. But the cops hate it. No one likes getting out dressed, out-read, and out coffeed by the competition.

I’m also handsome as fuck. Look, these are not my words. Well, technically I am saying them, but they’ve been said to me by several women and men throughout my life, and several times on the job. I was once called a distraction by a mortician. This was during an examination where there was an actual dead penis with rigor mortis present in the room. So I always think, modesty or not, maybe it’s just true.

Female cop. Here she comes.

“Hey, you’re a friend of the family, right?’

“No. Well, I know them. I did a job for them a few years back.”

“Lost cat?”

“Yes. It was the wife’s. Turns out her pussy was just hiding in the backseat of a car behind my house. But I found it pretty quick.”

You see, sometimes you have to just give it back. They will never respect you if you take their shit.

“I’m going to tell her you said that.”

“Feel free. Her husband’s dead. Dumb cops never solved it.”

“Well, considering her cousin was murdered in her kitchen and made to look like a Helmut Newton photo, I’m sure she’ll be in the mood for your jokes.”

This was a good point.

“Or was that not a joke?”

It was. But there were offers. Older women love me.

“Helmut Newton? Is there an AI app for crime scene photography or are you more than just a cop?”

“There’s an app. I don’t know who the fuck Helmut Newton is, but maybe he’s a suspect.”

“He’s dead. Died in a car accident outside the Chateau Marmont in LA in 2004. But his photographs are classics. Actually, this isn’t half bad, if that’s what the killer was going for. Not quite a dead ringer for Helmut, but it has a perspective.”

“Where were you last night between 7 and 9pm?”

“That’s cute. I was at the movies, by myself, and no one saw me. But the popcorn girl and I shared a joke about liquid butter.”

“Old crime noir in black and white?”

“No. I was seeing an Indiana Jones film.”

“Which one?”

“Ya know, I don’t remember, last night was kind of a blur.”

“Z.S. Come here.”

That’s me.

Don’t ask what it stands for.

I walk over to the rather fat captain examining a piece of evidence that is now being dropped into a plastic evidence bag and can tell before I get within five feet that this particular piece of evidence is in fact my business card.

“Can you explain this?”

“Yeah. The victim is the cousin of one of my clients. Hence my presence here.”

“Have you two ever met?”

“No.”

“Is there any reason why she would have a need for your services?”

I bite my tongue. She’s dead, but when she was alive she was a real looker.

“I couldn’t say. You should question her family.”

“We will.“

Then this happens.

“Hey cap, there’s a picture of these two together.”

These two being me and the Helmut Newton model. Turns out I did know her, we did meet, and I did take a picture with her at a party once which she framed. Now I’m getting framed, again.

Within minutes I’m in cuffs.

Philosophically, this is what you call, “not good”.

“You said you didn’t know her. No alibi. At the scene of the crime. I’m sorry rat, but we need to take you down for questioning.”

Rat. This is really an affectionate term since I have a very high respect for rats.

“Yeah sure. So we met at a party. Like I said, I know her family. They hired me to be here.”

Not good enough. I was a bit suspicious and I was getting on their nerves. This is more or less hazing for me being better looking and smarter than them. So good looking in fact that the victim kept a picture of me in her house even though we only met once, but not smart enough to remember meeting her and now going to jail.

So it is when you live life on the edge.

“Can I at least get a cigarette before you perp walk me to the car?”

“You smoke?”

“No but in case there are photographers, I’d like to look as cool as possible.”

“There are photographers and no.”

I had to try. I may only be arrested this once. Going forward that is. I’ve been arrested before, and I’m no stranger to cuffs in the bedroom, but perp walked in my trench at a murder scene with cops and the night air and the blue and red lights shining… oh man if there were ever a time to capture a photo of this face for the mantel. I mean, even people who only met me once are doing it.

In the station I meet a gorgeous woman. Why she’s there - God only knows.

“What do you do?”

“I’m a failed philosopher.”

“Failed philosophers are the best kind.”

This gal. What an answer. I love being out-charmed. It is truly one of the great pleasures of life. Unless of course you are a charmless fuck, in which case everyone out-charms you, even a brick wall.

“Can I ask why you were arrested?’

“You may.”

She smiles.

“Why were you arrested?”

“The cops are jealous of me.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, and there is quite a bit of circumstantial evidence that I killed a woman and posed her corpse to look like a Helmut Newton.”

“Which decade?”

“The 90s, naturally.”

“What was the staging?”

“She was vacuuming.”

“What exactly?”

“Oh, her own blood.”

“Ah. I can’t tell if you’re serious. Is this a real crime?”

“Yes. But don’t worry, I’m not creative enough to have staged that. Killing is easy. Satirical erotic high fashion editorial photography is extremely difficult. I would imagine.”

“So do you think the killer is an artist?”

“I’d say so. Either that or a really good forger.”

“Are you interested in true crime?”

“You could say that.”

“Do you think killers listen to their own true crime podcasts?”

“I would think yes. I’m actually a private investigator and I would love to listen to someone break down my own unique genius in a 12 hour retelling.”

“Oh. So how did you get arrested again?”

“It’s unclear. But now that I’m here, it’s actually easier for me to get access to police files on the case. Would you mind grabbing the file on that desk and opening it on the ground in front of me?”

“Are you always this forward with a woman you just met?”

“Well if you want, you could get on all fours and read me the evidence collection. I already know about my business card and the photograph of myself and the deceased together - but anything new would be helpful.”

“You’re bad.”

“So they say. But I want to catch the killer. I can be good, too.”

She got down on all fours. In the station, I kid you not.

“Says here they found a glove. A woman’s glove.”

“Was it the victims?”

“Doesn’t say. Why would they note a women’s glove? Do you think the killer could have been a woman?”

“Explains the vacuuming. Also, I have a theory all artists are secretly women.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, nothing, never mind. That’s interesting about the glove. Anything else?”

“Yes, it says she was covered in orange juice. At one point.”

“OJ at the crime scene, and a glove? Albeit a woman’s. This is taking a strange turn.”

“You’re funny. Do you know that?”

She said on all fours in the police station to the man in cuffs as he made her read from the evidence file for the murder he was both hired to solve and a suspect in.

“Yes, I have heard that before, but never from someone with such impeccable timing.”

“What’s your name?”

“Rapscallion. Z.S. Rapscallion.”

“Rapscallion?”

“Yes, it means scamp in Chinese.”

“Well if you ever get out of here, I’d hire you.”

“What do you need investigating?”

“I have this mysterious tingling that won’t go away.”

“Oh yeah, when did it start?”

“Rapscallion!”

Never have I hated my name as much as right now.

“You’re free to go.”

Or, maybe not. Maybe freedom is better after all.

“Care to accompany me back to my lair?”

I said thinking this will be the easiest sex I’ve had all week.

“Oh, well, you see, I’m still being questioned by the detectives.”

“Pray tell, for what my lady?”

“They think I had intercourse with a large dog that I bought online.”

This is not the type of suspect you want to go home with. Murder, sure. Shit, I was in for murder. But this, nope. Walk away. Just keep going and never look back. The fact that she found me funny is now a major negative and I’m questioning what exactly I was thinking asking her to get on all fours. Fuck.

As I leave I nod to the sergeant on duty.

“Popcorn girl?”

“Yeah. She said you’ve got a real thing for melted butter. Sicko.”

I smile in agreement. Alibis are funny like that.

The night air is glorious. You know when it’s chilly but just a little chilly and the wind is windy but just a little windy and it feels like vistas of potential are just oozing out from all over the city like somewhere in some corner of this magical little place anything can happen and somehow your whole life will actually turn out okay after all? Look, it’s a vibe, as they say. A word which is a lot more profound than some shitty little slang stupid people and children say about the feel of a moment. It’s actually quite literally based on String Theory and the marvelous world of sound and light vibrations dating back as early as the creation of the universe itself but for our purposes the oldest known mention which is the Vedas of the East most notably the original vibration itself…AUM. You see, so much of the faux-wisdom which people both peddle and laugh at is actually real wisdom that survives because of its said realness. Don’t blame me, go punch a quantum physicist or yell at an ancient scribe.

I started to think about what sex would have been like with that online dogfucker. Would she have actually been canine-like or wanted me to? Here’s the thing. I have a dog. I love dogs. The thought of someone abusing them no matter how attractive this e-purchase was is despicable. But the thing is, she was in fact very sassy and only allegedly did this. Which means maybe at most she seemed the type, possibly. I need to stop thinking about her. This is the thing with thoughts, they emerge from who knows where and then they pester you and tell you that you thought them as if I actually created her disgusting romance with the Great Dane. I didn’t. I’m just having trouble forgetting it. Are you?

When I get home I walk my dog. A precious Cavapoo with world class looks.

I tell her not to eat grass. I tell her this every single time I walk her.

“No grass. The grass is not an all you can eat salad bar. The fuckin idiots around here care more about their lawns than their own health. This entire city is covered in poisons!”

I am now literally yelling to my dog who continues to try to eat grass. “No big deal, they’d rather get cancer than have a lawn that isn’t picture perfect.”

A dog up ahead eats grass as its owner stares at her phone.

“See that. He just lost 4 weeks off his life span. Not you. I’m doing this because I love you more than anything in the world. You’re lucky you’re with me.” It’s not a punishment to not eat grass. I try to explain this. It never works. The battle rages on.

At this point I am pretty sure I’m never solving the case. You see, this pretty much happens every single case. I get to the point, usually early on, where I just feel overwhelmed. It’s perfectionism, really. I want it wrapped up in the first 15 minutes. Bow on it, pictures in the papers, women waiting outside my apartment asking if I am taking walk-ins at the bar or that illusive reservation in advance, the works. When in reality I am looking at a glove and something about an orange juice bath. Let’s hope for the dead woman it was organic. Well, in this case it just doesn’t fucking matter does it? Death has a funny way of nullifying things like that.

I return my dog to my apartment and kiss her about a thousand times and tell her I love her about fifty more before I feel ready to leave. I pop the collar of my trench and head out into the night. Coffee at this hour leaves a few options and I know the best ones. I’m the kind of guy who when booking a hotel in a new city has to research the best coffee shop relative to their proximity to the hotel. Once in a while a great one is in the actual lobby. When this happens - jackpot.

I get a hot coffee with milk. For nights, that’s my go-to, for vibes, sure, but also because it’s night. If this is a morning coffee I am going iced, usually espresso.

I decide I need to interview the deceased’s neighbors, but unfortunately, the cops will have already gotten to them. Their little head start sets me back, sure, but I’m resourceful, and they know this. The question is, who do they think I will go for - which means they already went there - versus who do they think I won’t go for - therefore they may have put them on the back burner? Maybe they don’t even care about me at all - but the last case I solved before they did, did not go over well with the cops. Embarrassing cops is kind of like getting to beat your coach in a race during practice. Unless your coach is super elderly or in a wheelchair, it’s a giant fuck you in front of literally the only people who could possibly care.

I decide I need to talk to her friends instead. One, the neighbors will have already given anything they have, and two, her friends are most likely attractive and grieving. Look, don’t get the wrong idea, I’m not a scum bag. I’m not going to pick up one of her friends tonight. But the thing is, they need to be interviewed, right? So the mind thinks these things. That’s the one thing I will always be with you. I’ll be honest. These other storytellers, they’re afraid to get their hands dirty. I’m not. I may want to fuck the dead girl’s friends, or I may not, but if I do, I’m going to let you know. Deal?

Turns out the first one is hot. And she’s with another one, also hot. They are both crying and looking at old photos of her. This is actually a really difficult time and I need to be professional. The good news is, I am a professional. I rarely say the exact thing I am thinking - that’s what you’re for.

“Hello, my name is Z.S. Rapscallion. I’m a private investigator hired by Elizabeth’s family.”

Right away they are soothed by my presence.

They invite me in. They make a spot for me on the couch. I’m the guy who is going to solve this fucking thing. I’m the good guy. Yeah.

“Do the police suspect foul play?”

Foul play. What an interesting term. I’m not saying I want to experience “foul play” with these two, but again, my mind just goes there sometimes. Why are so many things triggering to me?

“Yes, hence my involvement in the case.”

This sounds pretty good. My involvement in the case. The truth is, their friend was gruesomely staged to look like an artistic rendering of some sort of comment on something or another. Profound stuff I’d imagine, if I cared enough. I really can’t figure it out, but there is definitely an explanation. Maybe I should ask AI.

“Can you tell us what makes it suspicious?”

This one is tricky. I want to, because if they do in fact know the killer they would need to know the nature of the staging, but this type of thing is not public yet and not the kind of thing you can easily say out loud.

“There were signs that are in line with foul play.”

“What were they?”

HER BODY WAS PROPPED UP VACUUMING UP HER OWN BLOOD LIKE IT WAS THE 1950s TOMORROWLAND EXHIBIT AT DISNEY.

I say the last part only in my head.

“Well, you see, there was a strange staging to the scene.”

“Staging?”

They are both now holding onto each other waiting for me to make them feel safe. Unfortunately, that’s not in the cards, not yet at least.

“Do you know anyone who might want to hurt Elizabeth?”

“Hurt her? No. She was liked by everyone.”

Well, not literally everyone.

“Right, but, right now, it’s important to think of anyone you know that might have just come into her life, or someone she mentioned that gave you pause. You know, use that woman’s intuition.”

They both pause and think. I get a funny feeling watching them percolate their feminine advantage.

“Actually, there was one woman.”

A woman?

“A woman?”

“Yes, why?”

First of all, it’s extremely rare for a woman to commit a crime like this and second of all, the glove.

“Go on.”

“She was someone she met at a museum. She said she was working with her on some project. I don’t know, something about it just seemed…”

“Off?”

“Yeah.”

There it was. Something off. Neighbors wouldn’t be able to feel that. You had to know Elizabeth to really intuit the off-ness of that something. These two, they were intuitive. They were intuitive big time.

“Did she ever mention a name?”

“No. Just that she was intense.”

Intense? Hmm. This would be one way of describing a murderer.

“Did she ever mention anything about photography?”

“Photography? Why, were there pictures?”

Here comes the crying.

“No, not that I know of. I mean, obviously the police took pictures.”

Oh shit. Oh fuck. Wait a minute…

The police took photographs of the scene. Is this some sort of weird murder art collab? She staged and they snapped? Maybe the killer never in fact did take any photographs?

“What did the scene look like?”

Bad question.

“Well, it was staged in a way that seemed like the killer hated women.”

“What do you mean?”

“There was… look, this is not easy to say and not really appropriate at this point in the investigation.”

“But we want to help.”

I remove my better judgement and take the leap.

“Elizabeth was made to look like she was vacuuming up… her own blood.”

After a long pause of horror: epiphany reigns supreme.

“Sounds like the killer hated men.”

This never occurred to me. Why would anyone ever hate men?

Kidding. Or am I?

“What makes you say that? The victim was a woman.”

“Well, maybe she was a sacrifice. The ultimate expression of male dominance. A woman disappearing into the very symbol of female oppression.”

Woah. What are these two art majors or just Wokey McWokersons?

“Sure, that’s a theory. But is the vacuum really a symbol of oppression? I mean, I use a vacuum. Seems a little antiquated.”

“In what way?”

“Well, my Dyson is more like a power tool. It fucks.”

Their faces show me I have said the wrong thing. This is not the first time.

Suffice to say I left without a whole lot of new information and with my dignity intact. Was the killer a woman?

I decide to put on one of my famous disguises. I don’t exactly know why I do it, but something about a fake mustache, maybe even a fake nose and a wig just adds to the whole thing for me. When you talk to someone while wearing a disguise, it sort of feels like a fucked up super power. It’s a rush. A bit of fun in a mundane world. Kind of like taking drugs and going to the mall, except in this case you actually look fun. Are there still malls? I once almost got married in a mall.

Wait, why am I telling you?

This is Part 1 of a serialized story.