//------------------------------// // Case File 4 - A Burning Question // Story: Deadwood's Detective Agency // by TheFullCrumb //------------------------------// “Inspector Irons, what do you have to bring to the table?” Four individuals sat around a long table, the legs rusted and the surface chipped from age. The room stank of old coffee and cigarettes, with a small tinge of overcooked french fries emanating from somewhere. The light overhead hummed with the same annoying buzz that almost invariably followed fluorescent bulbs, flies lazily dancing around until they inevitably burned against the hot sheath of the lights. A large man, arms bulging, stared around at the others, his gaze intense and his face set as he regarded the others in the room. “Sir, I understand that Irons called us all here, but we are still in the middle of an investigation! We-” “Constable Deadwood, you need to calm down. Why not go out to that coffee shop you seem to adore and get us some late-night coffee and donuts? What was it called... not Donut Joe’s, he’s across town in the Upper District.” “Big Joe’s Snack Shack, sir.” Irons nodded, narrowing his eyes as he pinched the bridge of his nose, turning his attention to the array of papers on the table. Several locations had been noted across a heavily creased map, the age and use evident on the worn edges. The other officers present sighed and put their heads on the table, trying not to groan at the long hours they had already spent attempting to ascertain the movements of one of their most elusive suspects. Across several clippings from local newsprint were many headlines, all pertaining to a serial arsonist they had yet to trace. Something had been nagging at him for a while, though – each target was a potentially valuable piece of property, and after the businesses that occupied the land were burned to the ground, it seemed one development company kept showing up and buying the low-value deeds right out from under their owners for less than the actual value. His mind kept nagging him, telling him some sort of connection was there, but he could not simply walk up and accuse someone of high societal standing of serial arson, or accessory to such an act. “Donut Joe’s burnt to the ground out in West District. That was a week ago.” “Big Joe’s has had someone attempt to light it, but every time, it seems that it ignites, and then fizzles out like a small firecracker in water.” Irons was about to remind them that speculation was not something they should act on when Deadwood returned, a hefty container of coffee with fresh cups in one hand, and three stacked boxes of doughnuts in the other. Setting the items down, he took his seat, pulling out a heavily-covered doughnut and taking a small bite. Glancing over at the papers, Deadwood narrowed his eyes, lifting a brow before returning to his doughnut and pouring himself a piping hot and fresh cup of good coffee. “Wait, you were a Constable under Commissioner Irons, Deadwood?” Sunset Shimmer interrupted the story as Deadwood poured a big mug of coffee from his own machine, stopping when he realized that Sunset was indeed talking to him. Taking a quick sniff and sip, he took a seat, chuckling as he leaned back, smiling and laughing. Irons shook his head and sighed, returning the smile as he himself moved to grab a mug to partake in the freshly made coffee. “Ten years ago, Sunset. I was a very different person. Actually, Irons is the reason I have my agency at all.” “And don’t you forget it. Though... you’ve saved our backsides a few times, Detective.” “Yeah. Anyways, go ahead and continue.” Irons cleared his throat, taking a sip of the coffee before continuing. He smiled, glancing up as if he was looking through the ceiling to older, more pleasant times before his expression fell, his eyes turning dark as he stared at the floor. “Donut Joe’s shop had been the most recent to get hit. We still had no motive...” Irons, breathing heavily, tossed papers aside, slamming a fist into the wall. They had been staring at paperwork for more than half of the day, slaving away on records that inevitably held no more information than a street-based survey. Deadwood had attempted to speak up several times, every time being shut down by everyone at the table, Irons included. Whatever his idea was, they were not willing to hear it, and the final time he had suggested something, he had become so frustrated that he left the room in a huff, trying to control himself. “Was it a good idea, Constable Berry?” “We all shushed him, Inspector. Deadwood’s got a track record, but his ideas are beyond weird. What would interviewing the homeless accomplish, besides them mistrusting us even more than normal?” “Wait, interviewing the-” Before the officer had a chance to complete their sentence, Deadwood walked in, a notebook in one hand, and two homeless individuals in tow. Slamming the notebook onto the table, he slid it over to Irons, moving over to the coffee and treats and motioning for the homeless to take what they wanted. Bright smiles appearing across their faces, they nodded, moving in for the warm refreshments and baked goods, much to the chagrin of the other officers present. Irons, sensing that there was no arguing with Deadwood when he was just doing what was part of his immediate job anyways, opened the notebook, his eyes going wide with the information contained within. The two homeless people, Indigo Ray and Starsong Magenta, were long-time dwellers of the streets, and they were always on the lookout. From the notes in the book, Irons began to realize the extent to what Deadwood was referring to when it came to interviewing those who may have seen more than people gave them credit for. Tapping a specific page, he motioned Deadwood over, underlining the notes with his finger. “’Suspect seen driving away in what appeared to be a Coltswagen convertible, tricked out with aftermarket parts and under-body lighting?’ Was that all from them?” Deadwood did not speak, preferring to keep his mouth shut and stare down at the page. Irons pursed his lips, raising an eyebrow as he kept his eyes on Deadwood’s expression. He narrowed his eyes when he saw the sweat drops begin to bead on his subordinates brow, his breath quickening as he shifted slightly next to himself, sitting down and biting his lip. “Constable? Care to explain?” “S-Sir... it’s, well, they were in the alleys near some of the arson sites. They put out a message for me... about a week ago, trying to get some information. Those sites had people who routinely worked at the shelters, and this arsonist affects them as well. Sir.” Irons leaned back, smirking as it dawned on Deadwood that he was not actually in trouble, despite the tone that Irons had used initially. Breathing deeply, the Inspector began to flip once more through the notebook, slowly pondering each note as he kept silent, though his eyes belied how he felt. Each note made more and more sense, but it left him feeling a lot more uncomfortable with some of the suggestions that they pointed towards, with some of the threads in his mind leading to some very unfortunate conclusions. Deadwood sipped a cup of coffee, staring down at the map in the middle of the table. “Sir, you’re starting to get that resting... what did you call it, Bulwark?” “Resting Murder Face.” “Yeah, that one.” Irons snorted, glancing up at the others and shaking his head. Deadwood was normally a lot more upbeat, more casual with others, but since he had been assigned to the case like the rest of them, he had become withdrawn, less talkative. Irons was not a man to assume anything normally, but Deadwood certainly had an analytical mind about him that just understood some connections that others did not. The pins in the map were where the constable’s eyes were fixed, and something must have clicked, because the inspector just witnessed in silence as Deadwood withdrew a ruler and marker from his pocket, drawing lines between each arson scene from the very first one to the most recent. As he watched him drew, something clicked – Deadwood was pointing out a connection none of the others had seen, and something about it was troubling. “Deadwood-” “It doesn’t make sense. At least, from a regular point of view. But considering the nearest properties to them-” “’Rich Enterprises, Limited.’ That’s who owns the skyscraper near...” Deadwood nodded, placing his finger stiffly on Donut Joe’s former location. The man owned a franchise of shops, but that one was where the very first had opened, and was a painful stab in the man’s pride. Almost as if struck by lightning, he stood straight up, narrowing his eyes. He glanced over at Irons, looking down at the map as he did and retrieving his notebook from where it sat. As he coloured in various points, each corresponding to the strange black Coltswagen that had apparently been seen driving away from every single arson site. Notes like time of day, weather conditions, each point of data pushed more and more certainty into the mind of Irons as he watched like a student would watch a teacher. Something about the way Deadwood moved gave him pause, as if Deadwood was in an entirely different world, mentally speaking. “Inspector, sir, who was it who was buying up the burned-out lots for redevelopment?” “Says here... Rich Enterprises. But we can’t just rush in and accuse him. We need hard evidence if he indeed is involved in this.” “Then I have an idea, sir. Big Joe’s had a few people try and burn his place down, but considering the fire chief helped him build the place back when it first opened, it’s pretty much fireproof. Won’t stop them using flammables to try and keep it going to burn past that.” Irons held his chin with his hand, considering the nature of the information Deadwood had shared. Bulwark and his compatriot across the table were engaged in a hushed conversation about double-stack chocolate doughnuts and which coffee shop had the best taste in the city, and decidedly were not paying attention to anything that was happening. It was wrong of them to ignore what Deadwood was bringing to the table, but those two were not the investigative type. Irons knew what they were good at, and it was not tracking down information; they were more good for cordons and checkpoints. Glancing back up, he realized Deadwood had already left, leaving himself and the two oblivious officers to their lonesome. Grabbing his jacket, he slid his arms in, zipping it up as he placed the ill-fitting police cap on his head, his predecessor having a decidedly smaller head compared to his. “Bulwark, Verda, hold down the fort. I gotta go find Deadwood.” “Will do sir. Now, about Donut Joe’s dark roast...” With that statement, he was off, shrugging his shoulders as he felt a cold, wet breeze almost cut through him. Central District was much less inviting in the rain compared to the Upper District, but at least more of the streetlights worked better. Powerful new lamps illuminated as the dark began to set in, pushing home just how long they had been poring over the files and maps. Deadwood was standing at the corner, conversing with another citizen of the city as he tipped his hat, glancing up at Irons as the inspector walked towards him. “Bulwark and Verda being ignorant as always, sir?” “You could say that. So, Big Joe’s Snack Shack,” Irons mused, looking around. There was not a lot of places to hide that were not in view of a traffic or security camera, but the lowering light did give way to a foreboding of sorts, like the walls themselves could just simply swallow someone whole if they so chose. Deadwood motioned to him, pointing up the street, pushing his attention to the establishment in question. Indeed, two blocks up, there sat Big Joe’s Snack Shack, just as brown as the day it opened. Deadwood had told him before that every year, Big Joe shut down the shop so he could reseal the outside, keep that classic wood experience from wearing out in the sun, and even enlisting some of the local youth who otherwise would have probably tagged it to be ‘in’ with some local group of misfits. The man was a legend for how much community service hours he saved the police, and it was not about to go to waste, either. Irons was about to speak up when a vehicle sped past them, a shiny black Coltswagen with blue under-lighting. It visually matched the description, and it was currently moving at far higher than posted street limits towards Big Joe’s Snack Shack. “Dammit! That’s the car! Sir, I’m going-” “Don’t talk, just do it, Deadwood!” “Yes sir!” Without another word, Deadwood took off sprinting, Irons barely able to keep pace with the younger man’s speed. He had read reports on the terrifying physical nature of Deadwood’s physicals, but he had always dismissed them as just rumours and superstition. Seeing it in action, however, was far more than he expected. Deadwood was not just a constable, he was a long-distance runner, and it showed. As they reached where the black car had slowed to a stop, the driver’s door opened to reveal a young man. The young man promptly lit a cigarette, coughing as he reached back inside his car. However, before he withdrew whatever he was going to, Irons stared with his eyes wide as Deadwood slammed into him with all the force of a professional linebacker. A bottle with a rag inside tumbled through the air, smashing a short distance from the officer and the suspect. As Irons slowed to a stop, he stole a glance inside the car itself, and found reason to take pause. “Sir, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. If you do not have a lawyer, one can be provided for you-” “Deadwood, cuff him, and then take a look in here.” “Sir?” Deadwood leaned over, quickly looking inside before covering his mouth with a free hand. Entire crates of bottles with rags in their necks were stacked inside the rear seat, a plumbing torch ready to go and an unfolded map with marks written on it lain on the passenger seat in the front. It was all the calling cards he could have known from a serial arsonist, but something nagged on him. In his mind, it was too clean, too easy, like someone was wanting them to find the perpetrator and put him behind bars, like a scapegoat. “Son, what’s your name?” “L-Layne, officer. Fuller Layne.” “Look, level with me. Were you-” Deadwood stopped speaking when Layne began sobbing heavily. Taking a look down at the young man’s hands, he noticed they were not scorched or scarred – the homeless he had spoken to had stated that the individual who was attempting to burn down establishments next to locations owned by Filthy Rich had bandages over scarred hands. Layne did not fit the description, and it was starting to bother him as he glanced over at the map, almost dropping the key for the cuffs when he saw the last mark on the map, one where he knew the owners personally. “A-Am I going to jail?” “No, son. In fact, why not give us a ride? You seem like you know your way around the city. Take us to that location there on your map.” As the car slowed to a stop, Deadwood opened the door on the passenger side, his eyes going wide as he saw police cars already on station, the location in question just embers in a formerly popular establishment. He approached the owners standing on the sidewalk, placing his hand on the man’s shoulder while removing his cap. Irons just stared as he left the car as well, Layne closely behind as he was not willing to get himself into any further trouble compared to what trouble he believed himself to be in. With a sigh, Deadwood put his cap back on, securing it as he shook his head, turning to speak before he was interrupted by an incredibly wealthy-looking individual stepping out of a limousine that had just arrived. The man in question tugged on his large blazer, the grey shaking dust off of it as if the dust was a wanton invader. The dollar-bill-styled clip on his tie belied who he was, and his appearance gave off an incredibly arrogant viewpoint, that he knew he was better than anyone present. “I do say I did warn you that the police weren’t able to protect you as Rich Enterprises Insurance could have. I am here to speak with the Cakes about their land claim, as the company that was in charge of their land lease recently went bankrupt, and I was able to purchase the debt of that company for total owner-” “Mr. Filthy Rich. You are disobeying a police cordon. You are to leave immediately, or you will be fined and possibly charged with obstruction of justice.” “Ah, very well. I can see when I am not welcome. Mr and Mrs Cake, I do hope you see reason. Goodbye for now,” Filthy Rich ended on, returning to his limousine and speeding away. Deadwood released a breath he had not realized he was holding, relaxing the fist he had been making in an unconscious desire to punch Filthy Rich in the face. “So, Filthy Rich sounded very shady,” Sunset stated, having pulled up chairs for everyone present. Irons was sighing, bouncing Cozy up and down on his knee while Deadwood finished a quick phone call over to Big Joe’s, having ordered a decent amount of pastry to be delivered soon. As they all waited for Irons’ response, the front door rang, a not-as-young man entering in and stopping as his eyes went wide, his gaze wandering over Irons and Deadwood. “Of all the places I am asked to deliver, I just had to walk into your Agency, didn’t I?” “You know, I forgot you ran one of the delivery services, Layne. It’s good to see you. How’s your mother?” “She’s fine, Mr Deadwood. She asked me to bring you over for dinner at some point, to meet the man that ‘changed her son’s life.’” Deadwood could only smile as Layne placed the boxes of pastries onto his desk, seeing the young man from ten years before still moving with purpose and knowledge. Glancing out at the street, he smirked when he saw the rundown delivery truck Layne drove, the freshly-repainted sign simply stating ‘Delivery Laynes.’ A terrible pun, to be certain, but he could grasp that it was a name that stuck into people’s heads. “You know, Layne, we’re talking about the old arson case.” “That takes me back. Irons telling the story this time, or should I pipe in and explain?” “I am the one telling the account, Layne. Now, Deadwood was furious at Filthy Rich...” “I cannot believe the sheer cheek of that bastard, sir. Walks in here like he already owns the place-” “He does own the place, but we can’t really say much about it-” Irons stopped as Deadwood retrieved a cellular phone from his pocket, flipping it open and listening to the caller. He watched as the constable almost dropped the device, catching himself before breathing slowly and purposefully. Without another word, he grabbed Layne by the shoulder, dragging him back to the young man’s vehicle and stepping in himself. Waving Irons over, his eyes began to narrow as his expression darkened. “Deadwood, what-” “Filthy Rich is over at Big Joe’s, making a big uproar about how the deed actually belongs to him, and that Big Joe even being there is a miracle-” “That. Bastard.” Deadwood’s and Irons’ eyes went absolutely wide with surprise as Layne swore under his breath, kicking the car into gear as they tore off down the street, rubber marks depicting their departure. Glancing down at his cellphone, Deadwood narrowed his eyes once more, responding as quickly as he could to Big Joe, his expression growing grim and taut the longer the conversation continued. Without another word, Irons put his hand on the constable’s shoulder, shaking his head. “Constable, you can’t be getting so angry-” “Filthy is threatening him. He has a lawyer with him, and the name is one I recognize. One of those lawyers you call when you know you’re in the wrong, but he’s good enough to help you win the case regardless of the supposed ‘impartiality’ of justice.” Layne bit his own lip, staring at the road as he took corner after corner, sliding through the turns like a bat out of hell. Deadwood was dead-eyed in his stare as he saw the limousine in the distance, his grim, taut lips curling into a deepening frown, the feeling mutual between all individuals in the car. Whatever was happening, Irons knew that Deadwood and Layne had personal stakes in it, even though he had just met the younger man that day. The two in the front had very similar personalities, as if they were brothers or cousins, and while it did bring a momentary smile to Iron’s face, the job ahead was far more dire than he could give it credit for. Parking in a spot Deadwood had identified as the best location for them to approach from, Layne shook his head at Irons and Deadwood, leaving the two police officers to approach quietly. Raised voices could be heard as they leaned against opposite sides of the front door, a perfect position for the lack of visible windows to alert their targets of their presence. “I told you, Joe – my company already owns the rights to this here piece of land-” “The day you actually get your forms properly notarized will be the day I die, Rich. Any bastard with a brain could see that this contract is corrupt and improper, and not even properly checked out by the Land Board.” Slowly pushing the door open, Deadwood stole inside, Irons behind him as they crouched, ready for anything to occur as Big Joe stood behind his counter. Deadwood knew that Joe kept a loaded shotgun below the counter, on account of a few times that local thugs had decided it was a fantastic idea to attempt to rob a man who was once a strongman in a carnival, wrestling bears for fun. Filthy Rich seemed to not understand or know the rationale behind the deportment Big Joe carried, but he did not seem to care, flanked by a lawyer and several bodyguards. Standing up quickly, Deadwood held out his badge, narrowing his eyes. “Manehattan Police! Keep your hands where we can see them!” Almost with a start, the bodyguards drew their pistols, only stopping when they realized the boomstick that had suddenly materialized in Big Joe’s hands was aimed directly for them. Holstering their firearms, Deadwood glanced over to Irons, the inspector having his own weapon trained on the bodyguards. Shaking his head, the constable slowly walked towards the bodyguards, checking each individual carry permit to make certain their paperwork was in date and correct. Irons witnessed two disarming and handing their weapons to Deadwood, who snapped a glove on before placing the firearms on the counter in front of Big Joe. Rolling the glove off and tossing the disposable latex covering into the garbage, he glanced over at Filthy Rich and the lawyer, the former who seemed to be increasingly infuriated at Deadwood and Irons. “You just can’t leave well enough alone! These papers-” Deadwood snatched the contract and paperwork from Filthy Rich, narrowing his eyes as he meticulously read through each piece of paper, having already donned a new pair of latex gloves. Each piece looked the part, but major inconsistencies existed that he was already cross-referencing with what he knew about the city. Sighing, he placed the paperwork on a part of the counter in front of Irons, shaking his head at Filthy Rich. “Mr Rich, you are in violation of multiple ordinances within the city, especially the fraudulent nature of the paperwork you have just attempted to use to coerce Joe here into a deal that was not in any fashion legal. Civil Code and Penal Code clearly state that attempting to file forged or fraudulent land claims is punishable by a minimum of over one hundred thousand dollars in fines, and up to and including ten years in prison.” “So, Filthy Rich got what he deserved?” Deadwood, Irons and Layne glanced at each other, unsure of how to answer Sunset’s question. Deadwood, returning to the chair behind his desk, simply shook his head, glancing out the window and staring at the traffic going by while Irons and Layne began putting chairs back, keeping eerily quiet as they helped clean up the Agency and give Deadwood a quick pat on the shoulder. “Unfortunately, when it comes to wealth, there is a lot that you can get away with. Filthy Rich did lose a company license to purchase and retain future deeds to parcels of land, but he had bail already posted and ready to go once the proceedings went through,” Deadwood explained, his tone filled with notes of sorrow. “I lost my badge since the Commissioner at the time was a close friend of Rich’s. When that bombshell came out, he was forced into early retirement, and Irons here was the clear choice to be promoted. He helped me get back on my feet after Rich decided he wanted to try and force the bank I have my account with to freeze my assets.” “’No good deed goes unpunished,’ does it?” “Justice is grand, but you always have to remember that you will always have people who believe that just because they have wealth, they can do whatever they want and the rank-and-file citizens just have to follow along. The Cakes took that photo after they planned to rebuild, thanking us for getting Rich off their backs.” Commissioner Irons and Detective Deadwood. They’re quite a pair, one being level-headed but restricted by the red tape of bureaucracy, and the other beholden to the law, but able to move in a manner that would benefit the police far more than he realized. I know that Deadwood is extremely rough around the edges, but he has a heart of gold, and I think he cares a lot more about everyone in this neighbourhood than I could possibly understand. Just being here, I feel like part of a family I never knew. Rainbow Dash and the others have been sending me messages through Deadwood’s answering machine, and while it’s been a long while now since the Anon-a-Miss incident, I don’t feel like I’m ready to fully forgive them, and I doubt I would ever be able to call them friends ever again, but it’s time I started to just focus on the future. Hanging onto the past just seems to get a lot of people in trouble around here, like with the weirdo Blank Bliss. You ever come back through to this side, I’ll... tell you all about him. Rarity was sent a set of measurements from yours truly, all the size of a small child. I thought Minty deserved something good, and despite everything that has happened, Rarity at least came through. It did take some convincing on Deadwood’s part to actually get her to, well, do it, but once she was reassured that the request was genuine, she took to it with enthusiasm. Anyways, that’s all for now. Talk to you again later, Twilight. “You always seem to be writing in that book. Some kind of journal?” Sunset glanced up to Deadwood wearing an apron and hauling boxed around, cleaning up for the weekly support group meetings. He had suggested she join one to see how Rainbow Dash was holding up, and to bring her own guitar to try and build a new bridge, even if the old ones were burned to a crisp. As he had stated, Commissioner Irons was allowing them to meet specifically because it was Deadwood running the group, and Rainbow Dash was already attempting to make amends for the horrible treatment that had happened. Before she could say anything about her book, the front door jingled as a familiar, rainbow-haired teenager waltzed in, her eyes going wide before attempting to turn around and leave at the sight of Sunset. “Rainbow Dash, it’s fine. I already spoke with Commissioner Irons, and he’s fine with it as long as I am supervising. That and...” Deadwood trailed off as Sunset’s eyes began to water, her tears flowing as she rushed Rainbow Dash and drew her up in a hug. Startled, Rainbow had no idea how to react until Deadwood smiled, sipping from a coffee cup before pulling out his own guitar, chuckling as he motioned over to his amp, laughing as Sunset hesitantly unpacked her own guitar, slowly touching the neck. As the other members of the support group began to filter in, Rainbow Dash and Sunset got to talking again, chatting about anything that was outside high school or anyone else in the former group of friends. It brought a smile to his face and a warmth to his heart to be able to at least help them reconnect in a better way – Rainbow Dash had been almost in tears the last time she asked, desperately wanting to at least be friends again with Sunset. The main room was slowly set up as the others brought out instruments, tuning guitars and preparing woodwind instruments, and plugging amplifiers into the outlets they could find. It was a group that he knew was free from judgment, and he knew that so many events that had happened made everything worth the sights he always saw. “Mr Deadwood?” Deadwood looked over at Rainbow Dash, smirking as she held up a disk, tilting her head in a questioning manner as she motioned that she wanted to hear that today. Nodding, he stood to the side as she placed the CD inside the stereo, chuckling as Deadwood realized what song she was putting on. It had become a favourite of hers, and Deadwood solemnly acknowledged why as it began to play, ramping up as the sound system kicked in. “My heart’s a stereo, it beats for you so listen close...”