Chapter Text
Blood splattered on the wall.
The man wrung the last of the drops into a plastic basin and brought it to the center of the room. A bitter scent of iron filled the air. But he didn’t look troubled.
Instead, a horrendous smirk appeared on his face, the big scar making his features look ghastly under the candlelight.
“It won’t be long now,” he whispered.
He dipped the brush into the blood-filled basin and ran it across the floor, painting it with what he knew would captivate attention. Their attention.
When he was finished, he admired his grotesque craft.
“Let’s see you investigate this.”
With a quiet hum, he vanished into the night.
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—
Rocky Beach, 1981
The interrogation room was cold.
It was not because of the weather. Spring was beginning, flowers were budding, traces of winter were fading away. Though California winters were never too harsh in the first place.
Rather, the coldness of the room was from silence. Two men were in the interrogation room, sitting in stillness for the last ten minutes. Whoever walked in at that moment could feel the overwhelming tension.
The sight that would welcome them though, was unusual.
Jupiter Jones was tinkering with an antique music box. An odd thing a police detective would do in front of a suspect he was supposed to interrogate.
His thick eyebrows furrowed, fully focused on the nuts and bolts, seemingly ignoring the young man in front of him.
The fidgety man was 20-year-old Emir Lewis, a college student. He looked increasingly uncomfortable as time passed, as the detective hadn’t said anything since he walked in.
Emir had been detained as a primary suspect of the murder of Professor Arthur Welsh-- Rocky Beach’s violin maestro who was also his teacher in the music college. From the time he was taken into custody, he had refused to talk. But he was genuinely confused when the detective who entered the room joined his silence and did this stupid tinkering instead.
He was wondering whether this damn detective was doing it on purpose to make him talk. He glanced uneasily at the two-way mirror. The tall officer who had tackled him earlier must be behind it.
And he was right. Peter Crenshaw stood impatiently in the observation room.
Pete narrowed his eyes at his partner. Having known him for more than two decades, he was used to Jupiter’s quirks, but this was the first time the man had brought a damn trinket into the interrogation room, as if they were back in the workshop at The Jones Salvage Yard.
“What the hell are you doing, Jupe?” he muttered, checking his watch. Twelve minutes.
Five more minutes passed, and at last Jupiter placed the music box and turned the knob.
Beethoven’s Für Elise played. A ballerina figurine twirled slowly atop the velvet surface.
“Typical,” Jupe muttered. “Can’t they choose a song not written by a dead guy for these things? Something not so boring.”
The suspect twitched. But he stayed put.
Jupiter smirked in a way that would make almost anyone want to punch his face. Even Pete, as fond as he was of his best friend.
“So, Bachelor of Music huh?” he said, leaning back. “This crap is what you learn everyday? Beats me why people revere Beethoven so much. Imagine writing papers on Moonlight Sonata or Erotica or whatever–”
“Eroica,” the suspect hissed. “Symphony No. 3, Eroica.”
“Of course you would know, “ Jupe continued smugly. “You went to college just to study this shit.”
The suspect frowned. Clearly wanting to say something but held back.
Pete knew Jupe must’ve had a good reason to act like a high school bully, but he was more concerned about the suspect’s body language. He could tell when someone was cracking, and Emir was definitely teetering on the edge.
Jupe was a great actor, alright. As a small child, he appeared in a comedy television series about a group of silly children. He was known as Baby Fatso and had a way of making people laugh every time he kept falling over things.
This had caused him to hate being laughed at and he trained his brain in such a way that he was taken seriously. So Pete thought it was a bit mean of Jupe to laugh mockingly at the suspect right now, even though Pete knew it was to crack him.
“Poor Mr and Mrs Lewis!” Jupe chuckled, “All of those years of raising their only son, only for him to study a useless degree and waste their money–”
“Like how you policemen are a waste of taxpayers' money??”
Jupe jumped on the moment, leaning in. “At least we get paid to do something useful for society.”
“Oh!” Emir exclaimed, clearly taking the bait. “You mean how you failed to show up fast enough to protect someone from being killed??”
He said this with a shaky voice, and tears welling up in his eyes, which Jupiter noted to be a very interesting development.
But the detective pressed on.
“Speaking of,” he scoffed, “You know what was playing in the professor’s house when we found him? What a narcissist. A video of himself holding a Stradivari, playing this Panini song–”
“It was Paganini!!” Emir lunged forward, grabbing Jupiter by the collar.
Pete made a start, but he saw Jupiter’s hand signal, telling him to stay put. Damn, how did Jupe even know that he would want to jump in?
“Don’t you dare say another word, you uncultured pig,” Emir said through gritted teeth, rage overtaking his youthful face. “Shut your mouth when you don’t know jack shit about music. You didn’t know the difference between a Stradivarius and the cheap violin he was borrowing in that video.”
“...And how did you know that?”
Emir blinked. “What–-”
“How did you know that he was borrowing a cheap violin? That video hasn't been released yet.”
Jupiter dropped the act now, looking very different. Intimidating. Precise.
“Professor Welsh favoured a Stradivarius when performing solo, and an Amati when performing with his string quartet,” he continued, very different from the man who had been mocking classical music just now. “There was no way you could have known that he borrowed a cheap violin, which in fact he did, for a segment where he was explaining timbre differences. Unless you were in the room when the video played.”
“I attended that concert–-”
“Not possible because I was there.” Jupiter cut in, “and there were only twenty of us that night. It was a small event to celebrate someone’s birthday. You want to keep going?”
Emir let go of Jupiter’s collar and slumped back to his chair, much to Pete’s relief.
“You tricked me,” the young man said quietly.
“Look, Emir, you just have to tell me the truth.” Jupiter said, calmly sitting back down. “Why did you kill Professor Welsh?”
“I didn’t kill him!!” Emir said, frantic. “I didn’t! When I found him, he was, he was already-–”
He couldn’t finish, tears flowing freely now.
Jupiter waited a moment.
Then, he asked softly, “What were you doing there, Emir?”
The young man wiped his tears, breathing hard.
“He was my professor. I was just checking on him.”
Jupe raised an eyebrow. “Why not meet on campus?”
“The professor had a nice music studio at home.”
“Late at night?”
Emir shifted in his seat. “He said it was quieter. Better for focus.”
“Mmm.” Jupe murmured. “You used a spare key to get in.”
“...He gave it to me.”
“Did he give keys to all his students?”
Emir looked down. “I was one of his most serious students.”
Jupe tapped his pen lightly against the table. “His notebook calendar had your name on it. Multiple times. Always on evenings when his wife was out of town or away for board meetings.”
“She doesn’t like loud noise,” Emir replied quickly. “He told me that.”
“She’s a musician too. Part of the college board. She knows what a violin sounds like,” Jupe said, his tone even. “You expect me to believe he tiptoed around his own house so she wouldn’t hear Sarasate?”
Emir said nothing.
”Why run?” Jupe leaned forward. “If you found him dead and you were just his student, why not call the police? Why sprint out the door like you didn’t want anyone to know you’d been there?”
Emir’s eyes were fixed at Jupiter like a wounded deer. The detective almost felt sorry but he held his gaze.
“The professor gave him preferential treatment,” he thought, “That’s why he hid this from his wife, he knew she had more integrity with the board.”
“...I was his lover.”
Oh.
Behind the two-way glass, Pete and a young officer couldn’t believe what they’d just heard.
“They are thirty years apart!” Pete blurted out.
“That’s what you cared about? How about the fact that Professor Welsh was a goddamn homosexual??”
Pete shrugged, unsure how to respond. He decided to continue listening in.
“That night, I let myself in like always. I made him dinner. He liked pasta.”
His voice was shaky as he recounted.
“When I got there, Arthur was... he was already gone. I thought maybe he fainted. But then I saw the blood and–” Emir’s hands gripped his knees, trembling. “I heard voices from outside. I panicked and ran.”
Jupiter nodded slowly. “And that’s when my partner tackled you.”
“I didn’t kill him,” Emir repeated, crying again. “I swear. I loved him. I know people won’t understand. Maybe you think it’s disgusting. But I never loved anyone the way I loved him.”
Jupe was silent for a few seconds and took a deep breath.
“You said you brought dinner. Where did you put it?”
Emir thought for a second.
“His desk, I think… I’m not sure. I just put it away when I saw him on the floor.”
“Alright.” Jupiter nodded, already thinking of the fingerprint work that needed to be done.
He glanced at the mirror and gestured once. A moment later the door opened, the young officer escorting Emir a bit too roughly before receiving a warning look from Pete.
Once the door shut again behind them, Pete walked over to where Jupiter was. He looked at his friend with that esteem he’d always had for him ever since they formed the puzzle-solving club together with their other close friend Bob Andrews, which later became the juvenile detective agency they had named The Three Investigators.
Pete always admired Jupe for being the brain and the leader of the group and Bob for being the meticulous research master, sometimes not realizing how much the other two also regarded him with much respect.
He nodded towards the music box. “You never run out of tricks, huh?”
Jupiter held the music box up. “Not my best creation… But it'll do. It has served its function as a cognitive disruption where I needed to interject with the suspect’s train of thought–-”
“It was a distraction for you to catch him off-guard, got it,” Pete said flatly, already tired of the long words.
Jupe gave a tired smile and handed the music box to Pete who absent-mindedly received it.
They walked out of the room to the dimly lit corridor.
The Rocky Beach Police Department wasn’t exactly state-of-the-art. But the beige walls, white floors, and bulletin boards had seen Jupiter and Pete worn-out footsteps all these years.
Uniformed officers passed by them and gave curt nods. A telephone was ringing somewhere, and the sound of typewriters filled the air.
“I feel bad for tackling that kid now,” Pete said softly, nodding half-heartedly to the admin hurrying to the chief’s room. “He looked really miserable.”
“You did your job,” Jupe said, “as did I. You are capable of stopping people physically, and I am capable of destroying them mentally. As far as I’m concerned, it was a good show of our teamwork.”
Pete smiled but looked thoughtful.
“Not that I disagree, but Jupe, don’t you think you were a bit too–-”
“Efficient?”
“Cruel.” Pete stated, pausing in the hallway. “Do you not feel sorry for that kid?”
Jupiter hesitated. Pete always had a way to tap into his conscience.
“I do feel sorry,” he admitted. “But we are here to catch criminals and uphold justice, Pete. We do all we can for the greater good.”
Pete let out a long breath. “...Sure.”
“You’re a good man, Pete,” Jupiter said, giving Pete a rare compliment that always meant a lot to him, “But don’t let the softness of your heart get in the way of protecting the truly innocent.”
At this, Pete only nodded quietly.
They continued walking until they had reached their office. A space shared by the few detectives in the precinct, with desks enough to hold typewriters, casefiles, ashtrays, telephones, sometimes food and days-old coffee cups.
Jupiter settled at his desk, filled with books and old case files, things that he insisted he needed to keep his detective instincts sharp.
“I must say,” Jupe started thoughtfully, “That was calmer than I had expected.”
“Calmer than you expected!” Pete almost shouted. “He almost beat you up and that was calmer than expected? If he had roundhouse-kicked you, would you say he was only ‘slightly excitable’?”
Jupe ignored that. “For an obsessive person like him, I was sure he would punch me–- which I was prepared to stop, of course. But he only settled on grabbing my collar. Rather intriguing.”
“Besides,” he took his notebook to write down what he had learnt, “I knew he wasn’t the murderer.”
Pete was startled. “What? But you were questioning that poor kid like he was the murderer!”
“I questioned him like I would any suspect. I knew he was hiding something, but he was reluctant to share. I was merely using psychological techniques to dig out that secret.”
“And how did you know he wasn’t the murderer?”
“Think, Pete. What did we see back at the crime scene? How was the Professor’s body?”
Pete recalled the gruesome home studio.
“...On the floor… Still warm. There was a lot of blood.”
“Fresh blood. And?”
“He... Looked like he had been stabbed all over. And-– Emir didn’t have any drop of blood on him.”
“Exactly.” Jupiter nodded, satisfied. “The professor was murdered only moments before we arrived at the scene because a neighbor reported a possible break-in. He couldn’t have had time to change his clothes given the time of death.”
He took a sip of his cold coffee.
“All you had to do was observe, Pete. Remember what Sherlock Holmes said. A lot of people see, but not observe. We investigators need to train our minds to be observant at all times and deduce from data. We knew he brought dinner that he made himself, so what is the next logical course of action?”
“Call on his home and confirm if he really did make the dinner? We need to inform them about Emir anyway. They must be worried.”
“Alibi check. Precisely. We should also investigate how long their… relationship has been going on, and whether this murder might have anything to do with it.”
Before Pete could say anything else, the telephone on Jupiter’s desk rang.
Jupe picked it up.
“Detective Jones speaking.”
After a few moments, his dark eyes lit up and he signalled for Pete to listen in. Pete moved to the other phone in the room, ducking under Jupe’s telephone cord because, for some reason, he chose to stand a few steps away from his desk while on that call.
“--grotesque,” said the voice on the line as Pete picked up the receiver. “You’d better see this for yourself, Detective. It’s… Not something I can easily explain over the phone. Maybe it’s a prank. Or something more sinister.”
Jupe’s eyes shone the way they would every time a good mystery landed its way before him. He glanced at Pete. Unfortunately, Pete knew that look really well.
“Detective Crenshaw and I will be there, Officer Martinez.”
He put down the receiver after writing down an address.
“Let’s go, Pete. The precinct’s been a bit dull recently. We have a few hours before forensics come up with anything significant for us to analyze. I hope this is something invigorating!”
“How about informing Mr and Mrs Lewis about their son??”
“Officer Thompson will help. Wouldn’t you?” Jupiter nodded to the officer who had been arranging case files in the room.
“Whatever you say, Jupe,” said the officer good-naturedly. He was one of the younger officers in the precinct who admired Jupiter and Pete ever since they made a name for themselves as young investigators.
With a hurried thanks, Jupiter marched out of the room.
Pete followed, shaking his head. They had a fresh murder scene and an emotionally damaged suspect, and his partner had decided something else was more interesting.
“If walking into a bloody crime scene and almost getting beaten up by a suspect is ‘a bit dull’,” he muttered, “I’d rather have the most boring precinct in the world.”
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—
A few hours earlier, Bob Andrews parked his car near the edge of the dilapidated warehouse district, the tires crunching over gravel and pebbles.
“Are you sure this is the place?” he asked, adjusting his glasses.
“Yes sir,” the junior journalist accompanying him said. “At least the fax said so.”
“Do we know who sent it?”
“No… No return number.”
Bob frowned. “Anonymous?”
The younger man nodded. “It came through the paper’s machine early this morning. It only said, “You want a story? Look here.” With the address.”
Bob exhaled, one hand running through his blonde hair and the other reaching into the back seat for his camera. “Well, we’re here now. Let’s check it out.”
“Wait, Bob,” the junior said nervously. “Shouldn’t we call the police first? I mean, what if it’s something dangerous?”
“I thought about it,” Bob replied, stepping out of the car. “But if it turns out to be a prank, I’d rather not waste their time. We’ll just take a quick look.”
Being a journalist, Bob knew that the police department had a love-hate relationship with the press. He had helped Jupe and Pete with some investigations in the past while Bob got to have premier access to newsworthy cases, but not everyone in the precinct liked it. Some thought ex-Chief Reynolds and Chief Cotta gave the three of them too much leeway.
As they stepped closer, the scent hit them first. Something metallic.
The warehouse door was slightly ajar. Light filtered through a broken pane above it, illuminating what looked like smears of something dark near the threshold.
Bob carefully pushed the door open.
What he saw was something that made his blood run cold.
Painted, or rather, smeared, across the concrete floor was a familiar symbol. Large. Jagged. Written in blood.
The edges were uneven. Something about it felt rushed, but intentional. Beside it, the dried remains of a mynah bird lay curled like a warning.
Bob’s stomach twisted.
“Now you call the police,” he said, almost whispering. “Describe what you saw and ask for Detective Jones and Detective Crenshaw.”
“Right away, Bob,” the young man said shakily, already making his way to the nearest telephone booth.
Bob stayed where he was, camera in hand, heart pounding.
Unbeknownst to him, a figure was watching him from afar.
He smiled, satisfied with the pieces coming together.
“Let the treasure hunt begin.”
Next chapter:
“Fourth of July is coming soon. You know what that means, Jones.”
“Pete’s birthday?”
Jupiter joked, but Chief Cotta didn’t laugh like he usually would.
“It means you all might be in danger.”