Peter Flak, Big Time Detective, Part VII

"Well, sir, one thing we do know is that there was someone else in the room with him when he died," Flak said, speaking slowly, trying to remember what it was he was supposed to know about this case.

"Well, lookee here. We got the ever-lovin' Sherlock Holmes here!" Captain Johannson said. "What? Did you think he did that to himself?"

"No, sir! Of course not, sir!" Flak said, snapping out of his stupor. "It's just that, he wasn't alone...if you know what I'm saying."

"No. I do not. Flak..."

"What I mean, sir, is that he had a breath mint."

"A breath mint. Flak! See that window behind you?"

"Yes, sir."

"How high up would you say we are?"

"I'd say we're on the seventh floor, sir, but..."

"I swear to god I'm going to push you out that window, watch you fall seven stories, take the elevator down to the street and start pounding the rest of you with a battering ram if you don't start MAKING SOME GODDAMN SENSE!"

Flak was beginning to realize that his boss was a bit steamed. He figured there was only one way to go from here.

"I certainly wouldn't like that, sir! What I'm saying is that we are working under the theory that Laine Bannister was on a date when he was killed, and that the killer may well have been his date!" Flak smiled proudly.

"And?" Johannson said, leaning forward.

"And what, sir?" At this point, Flak deduced that the expected compliments were not forthcoming.

"What else? Recent dates? Spurned lovers? Desperate housewives? Where's your goddamn list?"

"Sir, we're still developing that sir," Flak said, thinking quickly. "I have a plan to gain that very information very quickly, sir."

"And how, pray tell, will you do that?" Johannson said in mocking tone, completely lost on Flak.

"Tomorrow," Flak declared, "I will hold a press conference!"

"Oh, God," Johannson put his face in his hands. "Get the hell out of here. Flak!"

"What?"

"Just go!"

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