"Peter Flak, Big Time Detective, Part V"

Don't forget to scroll down to read parts I, II, III and IV

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Flak wearily unlocked the door to his Lakestone Drive condo and undressed, meticulously placing his shirt, suit, tie and trench coat into separate dry cleaning bags and hanging them up by the door for morning.

"What a day," he said out loud. "What...a...day."

He checked his messages. One from his brother:

"Pete. It's your brother. Listen, when you get this, check out Ravistech. Everyone says they're about to do a deal with ... Aw, man, I can't leave this on your machine. Call me."

The get-rich-quick deal of the week, he thought. Maybe when he solved the Bannister murder, Janey could line up some endorsement deals.

Another message, this one from Janey. "Peter, we need to talk about this Bannister thing. There are some things you need to know. Rush right to my apartment, right away, when you hear this. Do not delay. Bye now."

Oh, Janey. Janey was always trying to get him to her apartment. Clearly, he mused, he shouldn't have let what happened happen that time ... that it happened. He chuckled to himself. "You never know what's going to happen when that happens to happen," he said, still chuckling.

Flak was in the shower for ten minutes when he remembered: Janey's dead.

"Janey's dead!"

In shock, he fell backward against the shower wall, slipped and landed on his ass. He stood up, slipped again and fell foward against the shower door, landing sprawled on all fours on the bathmat.

"Deep breaths now, Flak," he said to himself. "There must be an explanation.

Flak considered the situation carefully, and came to a single, frightful conclusion:

"Janey's ghost left me a message!"

Finally, he stood, and dressed himself in neatly pressed button-down pajamas. He slipped into bed and, as he did every night, picked up his microrecorder to set down his thoughts for the day and goals for tomorrow, in the manner he learned at the seminar.

"I have the chance of a lifetime. To really be the Super Cop they say I am. Lane Bannister's murder will be my launching pad!" He paused for a moment, then spoke in a lower voice. "Of course, it is a horrible tragedy, and I am confident that we will bring the perpetrator to justice." Good, Flak, Good. "But this will be a tough nut to crack. It's going to take all of my training, investigative and managerial skills to pull this of, but I'm sure... I am confident...that we will bring the perpetrator to justice!" Even better. Good to get that down right.

"But what of Janey's ghost? How does she figure into this? It sounds like she's trying to help, but is she?" Is she? "What could she know? Or..." Flak rubbed his chin, thoughtfully. "Or...is she trying to sleep with me again? Can you sleep with a ghost?" Good question, Flak! "Maybe I should call Ghostbusters..."

"Or, maybe she's not a ghost, and she somehow made that call before she was killed," Flak said, then scratched his head. "That seems unlikely. She was with me and never mentioned her apartment. The ghost theory makes a little more sense, I think."

Flak turned the recorder off and nodded, still thoughtful. "OK, goals for tomorrow. Check out Janey's apartment and confirm ghost theory. Review conclusions of investigative team. Hold press conference to update TV on the latest. Be smart, be intense, be proactive."

Nice one! Flak thought and closed his eyes. It seemed like he'd hardly slept when he heard the banging on the door. And the shouting.

"FLAK!"

Johannson.

"OPEN THE DAMN DOOR! YOU'RE UNDER ARREST!"

"Coming!" Flak said.

# # #

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"Peter Flak, Big Time Detective, Part IV"

"What the hell happened to you, chief?" AK, police department photographer and forensic analyst, looked Flak up and down. Flak's usually impeccable trench coat and suit were smeared with oil, his pale face darkened by black soot.

"Car exploded on 7th Street. My...um..." he generally tried to keep the fact that he'd hired a publicist and agent quiet among colleagues. If they knew, he thought, they'd all want one. "...my friend...was inside."

"Dead?" AK's eyes widened, slightly in awe, mostly in disbelief.

"Yeah, Janey's dead."

"Car just blew up."

"Yeah. We had a drink at Marty's, she gets the car from the valet, turns the corner and just blows up. Ka-boom."

"Come on, Flak. You don't know people who blow up."

Flak frowned. He was being mocked, he was sure of it. He wasn't going to stand for it.

"Well I do now, don't I?" Snap! Flak thought.

"Sorry, man," AK said and shook his head. Then he went back to staring at his flat screen monitor.

Flak stomped his foot on the floor and sniffed. Pull yourself together, Flak. He works for you...

"So, what do you have for me?" Flak said. AK looked up at him blankly. "C'mon. On Bannister."

"Yeah, I know...I'm just messin' with ya. Here, come take a look at this."

On the wide screen, high resolution monitor was a photo of the body that once was Lane Bannister, TV anchor, now mutilated and hollowed out corpse. Flak felt the remains of the egg salad sandwich he'd had for lunch nearly 12 hours ago rising toward his esophagus. He covered his mouth.

"Why don't you just tell me what you see?"

"Breath mint."

"Geez, do I need one?"

"No, look." AK clicked a mouse and zoomed in on a spot to the right of Bannister's head. "Breath mint."

"You want one?" Flak said.

"No, man, look!"

"I don't get it." Flak didn't get it. AK wheeled around on his chair and faced Flak. "Son of a bitch, Flak! Open your eyes!" Flak's eyes were squeezed shut and his hand was over his mouth.

"Just tell me, AK. Please," he said through his hand.

"Just tell me, AK. Pleeeeaaasaasssseee," AK said. "Look, I've zoomed in. You can't see the body anymore."

"You can't?" Flak opened his eyes a crack, then all the way and uncovered his mouth. "Good. I don't have much expertise at forensics."

"Sure. Now do you see that right there?" There, on the plush red carpet, was a round, white pill speckled with blue flecks.

"Breath mint!" Flak said.

"Don't mind if I do!" AK said and filched the box of Altoids from Flak's trench coat pocket.

"No, right there -- that's a breath mint." Flak paused, and began to pace. "So. Our victim was killed in this most horrific fashion. He's stabbed, then shot."

"Shot...then stabbed."

"Right. Shot, then stabbed," Flak said, miming the actions as he spoke each word. "Then, he chokes, and out pops...this breath mint. Sucked upon for, I'd say, approximately 30 seconds."

"Amazing..."

"Yes. I know this because you can still see the blue specks."

"Uh huh."

"Longer, and it would turn white."

"Wow."

He's mocking me again, isn't he? Flak thought. Ignore it. Move on. He'll respect me when I'm chief.

"So," Flak said. "The question is: What makes a man take a breath mint?"

"On a whim, I'd say he had bad breath," AK said, a small, mocking smile playing across his face. Inscrutable, Flak thought.

"Exactly!" Flak announced, dramatically taking the conversational initiative.

"Well. I'm glad we settled that," AK said. "You want to know what I think, Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes, I want to know what you think," Flak said loudly, his impatience rising.

"I think that most people don't pop breath mints when they're alone," AK said. Flak furrowed his brow seriously. He decided it would appear more commanding for him to appear to listen carefully.

"Mmm hm," Flak said.

"Mmm hm," AK said, "and he'd just popped that breath mint before he was shot, stabbed and gouged and cut and whatnot."

"Hm. Yes, go on," Flak nodded.

"And, we know that there were two sets of fingerprints in Bannister's condo -- one set his, and the other unknown. So, I'm surmising here that he wasn't alone when he was shot, stabbed and gouged and cut and whatnot."

"Well of course he wasn't!" Flak could keep silent no longer. "The murderer was with him!"

"Well. Yes," AK said slowly. "But what if the murderer was not dressed in a black mask and striped shirt, like most murderers, but was dressed in, say, a little black dress, when she entered his condo?"

"Why, then..." sputtered Flak, "she'd be a woman!"

"True," AK said even more slowly. "But, more importantly, she would be a woman that knew Lane Bannister. Perhaps she was someone who Bannister thought he might kiss."

"If he was planning a date, as you seem to be implying," Flak said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, "he would have arranged his room just right, combed his hair, brushed and flossed, maybe lighted some candles..."

"Yeah? And?" AK said hopefully.

"And," said Flak, "just before she arrived..."

"Yeah...?"

"He'd pop a breath mint!"

"Yes!" AK shouted. "That's it! And so what happened?"

"Bannister's date had just arrived when the murderer burst in and killed him!" Flak shouted triumphantly, then ducked as a heavy, black metal object that happened to be a Swingline stapler flew by his head, grazing his ear. "Hey! Cut that out!"

"Or," shouted AK, "since there was only one other set of fingerprints in the room, it was his date that killed him!"

Flak froze.

"So we find the date..." Flak said quietly.

"And we find the killer," AK finished.

"I was going to say that," Flak said.

# # #

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"Peter Flak: Big Time Detective -- Part III"

"You'll make Chief someday. I promise," Janey said over the rim of Marty's special apple-flavored martini. They clinked glasses. Flak laughed.

"I hope so. Dead bodies are disgusting. And Bannister is very disgusting."

"Once you make Chief..."

"If I make Chief..."

"Once you make Chief," Janey said emphatically, non-verbally reminding Flak of the self-actualization seminar she'd sent him to last year, the one on how visualizing the impossible is the key to achieving the impossible. "Once you make Chief, you'll have detectives to see them for you."

"Damn right!" Flak said, and raised his glass, a Manhattan, to his publicist. He winced and tottered slightly on the bar stool.

"So," Janey said, waving to the waitress and holding up two fingers. "Any leads yet on poor Lane?"

"Hmp. Are you kidding? I delegated. The officers are doing the interviews. The labs are analyzing fingerprints and stuff. The ghouls are cutting into what's left of him to determine cause of death. I'll get a report in the morning. I'm sure they'll come up with something."

"I'm sure you will, Super Cop!" Janey flashed a wide smile.

"Janey, you've got a little smear of lipstick on your teeth."

"Where?"

"Right there," Flak pointed to the top of her left front incisor, and helpfully offered the corner of his napkin. She leaned forward and he gently cleaned the stain. She leaned forward a little more.

"Peter, I..."

Flak's phone rang. "Excuse me, Janey. Duty calls." He flashed his own smile, confident in his teeth's perfection. He flipped open the phone, and lowered his voice an octave.

"Detective Peter Flak speaking!"

"Flak! It's AK. There's something funny in the photos."

"The photos?"

"Of Bannister. You need to come down to the lab."

"It's kind of late, isn't it?""

"Just get down here. It'll be worth your while. I think I know who killed Bannister," AK said impatiently.

"AK, just tell me now...I trust you," Flak said, winking at Janey. He and Janey had worked on that line. It was useful for building confidence in subordinates and building their respect for him...and for avoiding the more unpleasant aspects of his job.

"I can't. You have to see this. Just get the hell down here, OK?"

"All right. I'll be there in 30 minutes." Flak flipped his phone closed and sighed. "I interrupted you, didn't I Janey?"

"The media plans. You want me to call the night desk now?" Janey said from behind a compact mirror. "Otherwise," she sniffed, "We can go over it tomorrow."

"I guess we better do that, Janey," Flak said. "Probably a little early to call the press tonight. I'll let you know what we have first thing."

"You got it, Petey!" Janey said, her smile now perfect. She was cute, Flak thought, in her own officious way. A little too short, a little too pushy and a little older than he usually liked, but she did the best with what she had. They hugged and pecked each others' cheeks. The valet drove up with her BMW 9000i and she smiled and waved. Waiting for his own used Audi to arrive, he admired Janey's car as it drove down the block and rounded the corner onto 7th Street.

Love that car. I should get into PR, he thought.

That's when he saw the explosion.

Flak backed up into the glass door of Marty's, and then experienced one of those rare moments in his life when fight overcame flight, and he ran toward 7th Street. The smoke was thick and the fire hot. He heard a crack under his feet -- a familiar pink compact, covered in black soot -- Janey's.

The BMW was a smoking ruin, and Flak shook his head at the waste. He tried to see whether anyone was inside the car, but the smoke made his eyes water. Then through the smoke he saw a gnarled, charred arm rise out of the window, as if waving, and then fall limp. Flak covered his eyes.

What a way to go. Maybe I'll stick to police work," Flak thought, looked around, and, with sirens approaching quickly, more familiar instincts took over and he backed up to the entrance of Marty's, took the keys, tipped the valet five bucks, made a hasty U-turn and headed for the crime lab.

# # #

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"Peter Flak: Big Time Detective -- Part II"

"This cop will not rest until we bring the perpetrator to justice!"

Flak paused, and flashed his $10,000 grin to the motley armament of microphones and video cameras that recorded his every utterance from the steps of the precinct house. Due to the tireless efforts of High Profile and Janey, his agent, the word was out that Peter Flak, Super Cop, was on the Lane Bannister case, and the city press ate it up. Finally, Flak sensed it was time to stop the questioning.

"I will be here tomorrow with an update. Until then, please, let me get to work. You'd think you've forgotten that the victim is one of your own!"

The reporters nodded and grimaced artfully, and Flak held, for just long enough, highly concerned grimace of his own, turned away from the microphones and smiled at his reflection in the dark glass precinct house door. He brushed a stray strand of hair back into place.

"FLAK!" Captain Johannson appeared, blotting out Flak's reflection. Disappointed, Flak turned to face his boss as he charged out the revolving door.

"Flak. What the hell are you doing here? They're waiting for you at the crime scene. Goddamn. Flak. If you screw this up I'll..."

"Really, sir. Forensics will prepare a very complete report. There's no need for me to actually be on the scene, is there?"

"How the hell did you make Detective? Don't answer that. Just get the hell over there before I punch you in the mouth."

Flak held his hand over his mouth, saluted and jogged for the garage.

* * *

"Ewww!"

Flak covered his mouth with both hands.

"You OK, Detective?" The photographer didn't look up to see Flak's response, a dry heave aimed at the windows that spanned Bannister's high-rise condo like a wide-screen TV. His camera clicked in sync with the snap of the wad of gum he kept at all times in his left cheek.

"Yeah. Pretty gruesome, eh?"

"Well, I've seen worse," said the photographer, a Californian-American of Korean ancestry who everyone called AK.

"You have?"

"Oh, yeah," AK said, snapping a close-up of Bannister's mutilated face. "This one vick down in Lowertown, she had her whole face bit off. Just a skull with hair. You remember that one?"

"Oh, yeah," Flak nodded knowingly, though he hadn't.

"Anything else you need?" AK said, packing up his equipment.

"No, you've done great, thanks."

"Catch ya later."

Something tapped Flak on the shoulder.

"Get away from me!" he shouted at the uniformed officer. He was a young cop, three years on the force, who was known for wearing a perpetual smirk.

"Sorry, sir," said the officer, who's name was Petitte.

"Well. You should be," Flak said, regaining his composure. "What do you want?"

Petitte continued to smirk. "Thought you'd want to hear a report from the officer first on the scene," he said.

"Yeah. Yeah, I do," Flak said. "Get him over here, Petitte."

"Um, yeah. Well, he's here," Petitte said. "He's me. Sir."

Flak didn't like that short pause before Petitte said "Sir." The uniformed cops never seemed to like him much, as hard as he tried to gain their favor. Perhaps he should try harder, he thought.
"Good man," Flak said and clapped Petitte on the shoulder. Petitte looked at Flak's hand and smirked. "Let's hear it," Flak said, resigned to the fact that he was going to have to hear the gory details.

"Alright," Petitte said and flipped open his notebook. "At 9:53 pm we responded to a 911 call from a Jennifer Simpson, intern producer at TV station NBC-7. Simpson said she was to get Bannister and bring him to the station for the 11:00 pm news."

"Hm. He doesn't need much prep time, does he?"

"Just a talking head, sir. But Simpson reports that he should have been at the station by then. She was to, quote, "snap him out of it," unquote, and get him to the station."

"Snap him out of what, Petitte?"

"She wouldn't say," Petitte said, his smirk nearly turning into a grin before getting control of itself. "She buzzed the buzzer and banged on the door, to no avail. Then she called security. Said Mr. Bannister might be asleep."

"Hm."

"Yeah. Anyway, the manager's a big fan of Mr. Bannister, so he let's Ms. Simpson in. At which time, they find Mr. Bannister in the position in which you see him now, sir."

"What's the, uh, cause of death?" Flak said, feeling the bile rising again into his throat.

"Let's see. A lot of stabbing. Couple gunshots. Slashes. You noted the eye gouge, I'm sure..."

"Yes," Flak said weakly.

"Yeah, well, that's not the most unusual thing." Petitte paused, waiting to see Flak's reaction. Flak stared back, silently gritting his teeth behind his thin, tightly pursed lips.

"No, for that you'd have to look at his midsection. He's almost completely emptied out. His guts were sealed neatly into plastic bags." Petitte held up a gallon-sized bag for Flak to see. Flak's eyes widened.

Flak said something incoherent.

"Yeah, pretty sick, huh? But you know, Wilson, the forensics guy? He was almost appreciative. It takes all kinds, doesn't it, sir? Sir?"

Flak had already passed the officer and was racing down the stairs, frantically trying to brush off the mess he'd made on his trench coat before he reached the bottom.

NEXT TIME:

Eww! Gross!

Will Flak be able to stand the sight of dead bodies long enough to solve this mystery? Find out, as the mystery deepens, and the glare of publicity closes in...

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