text: Henry Carson was the best of the best. Everybody knew it. When the private dick was on your case, you would be caught and wind up in a cell or a body bag. The legends honestly turned his stomach a little bit. Truth was he had failed to apprehend plenty of crooks in his time. But people are only too happy to remember the successes and write off the failures if you've got the mantle of a hero. The shimmering light reflected off your crown blinds people to your failures. And its beam is one hell of a bar to live up to. Eventually, the drive to attain that level of legendary perfection leads men down dark paths. It was no different for Henry Carson. No different at all. It was mid-October in a dive bar on the edge of town. The brick building was mostly boarded up, but the ground level was one of the seedier joints a person could find themselves. The hole in the wall was called The Viper's Pit, and while it usually boasted a raucous crowd of ruffians, it was strangely calm that night. The bartender, Mr. Morgan, was an elderly fellow who had run it into the ground over the last ten years. He had to sell his house to keep the place afloat, and so he lived in a single room just above the pub. It was a rough life that gave the old cuss a bad attitude and very little patience for unwarranted social interaction. The codger slung drinks and occasionally gave bitter life advice to the younger patrons. Henry was not young enough to merit the fruits of his wisdom, nor wealthy enough to deserve transactional kindness. The detective slunk into the pit, trenchcoat soaking wet from the deluge outside. Taking a seat at the bar, he slapped a dollar onto the counter and demanded a shot of whiskey. “Rough night?” Mr. Morgan asked, with all the gentle delicacy of sandpaper. “Getting rougher,” Henry barked back. “A double. The buck should cover it.” The bartender reached for one of the bottles on his back wall, but Henry tapped him delicately on the shoulder. “I wonder if you would humor me and use this one right here,” Henry explained, tapping his finger on a thin brown bottle on the other side of the bar from him. Mr. Morgan sighed. “Customer's always right.” He poured the brown liquor and watched as Henry swallowed it in one stoic gulp. It barely crossed his eyes, which were bloodshot and cradled in deep dark bags. Something was unnerving about the flatfoot. His reputation preceded him and he didn't go anywhere without a purpose. The man was always on the hunt. “Anything else I can get you?” Mr. Morgan tapped the counter impatiently. “I'm meeting three men here tonight,” Henry began, his voice cracked and rough. “One of them is a murderer. You're going to help me figure out who it is.” The bartender took a moment to process what Henry had just said. Not another soul was in the house tonight, and the splintered wooden tables sat unoccupied. The lights were dim, the flickering neon was the only sound as even the jukebox no longer worked in this place. And apparently, it was now going to play host to this man's private courtroom. “What the hell gives you the right?” Mr. Morgan protested. “You think I want some hoodlum in here wrecking up my pub?” “You'll be compensated. I needed an out-of-the-way location, and this worked well enough,” Henry explained. “All you have to do is serve them all a drink.” “I don't understand-” “You do your job and I'll do mine. There's $500 in it for you if I catch my man, so just play your part,” Henry ordered. Before Mr. Morgan could say anything else, the door creaked open, giving a brief glimpse of the torrential downpour outside. The man entering was some sort of construction worker, dressed in navy overalls, and holding his hard hat under his left arm. The rain had soaked his thin layer of dark brown hair, which was nearly the same shade as the dirt that covered his face. “Andrew Kelstrom?” Henry inquired, wheeling around on his stool to greet the newcomer. “Yeah,” Andrew replied curtly. His words were coated in a thick New Englander accent. “You must be that dick that everybody talks about.” “People have a lot of names for me,” Henry shrugged. “Have a drink on me. Try the whiskey.” Mr. Morgan, despite wanting nothing to do with this shady ordeal, poured a double shot courtesy of Henry's liberal coinage. Four quarters hit the countertop, and Mr. Morgan poured diligently. As Andrew swallowed his courtesy drink, the door opened once more. The second guest was a fish out of water. The jacket of his suit alone must have been worth a month's rent. The tan ensemble was highlighted with a gaudy yellow tie. Mr. Morgan would have guessed car salesman at first glance, but as soon as he opened his mouth it became apparent the boy had not a whit of a charisma. “Uh... excuse me, I think, er,” the young man stumbled over his words, running his hand through his blonde hair. “Is this the place to meet a Mr. Henry Carson?” “Right on time, James Bartley,” Henry replied, gesturing towards an empty seat next to Andrew. “Though I gather from your line of work punctuality is a chief virtue.” “Um, yes, I s-suppose so,” James stuttered. “I, um, hope I c-can help.” “This kid even old enough to drink?” Andrew scoffed. “Barely,” Henry said while sliding a few more quarters in the direction of Mr. Morgan. “Double-shot of whiskey, on me.” “Oh, I uh, I'm not much of a d-drinker,” James stammered, raising his hand as though he were in school. “You are tonight,” Henry said with unyielding finality. “You need some hair on that chest anyway.” The youth had no will to fight any further. He gave a tentative sip and pulled a face, turning towards Henry for any sign of acquiescence. There was none, and with effort, James finished the drink. “Kids a little green in the gills,” Mr. Morgan said. “You need some water, son?” “He can't have any. Not yet,” Henry interrupted. “Oh, be reasonable now. What's the harm in giving the boy a little chaser?” Mr. Morgan argued. “It will all make sense in a moment. Now, Mr. Morgan, I need you to drink a double of your own,” Henry ordered. “Excuse me? I don't drink on the job, pal,” Mr. Morgan bristled slightly and he defiantly placed the stopper back in the bottle. “I don't think you understand what is happening here,” Henry said, his bloodshot eyes piercing through Mr. Morgan's soul. “I told you I was meeting three men here. Can you count?” Once again, Mr. Morgan was dumbstruck. After a second he took Henry's meaning. “Oh, I'm the third suspect in this little freakshow of yours?” Mr. Morgan grunted. “I'm calling the real cops, buddy.” Mr. Morgan slowly moved over to the hanging rotary phone on his back wall. Before he was able to lift the receiver, a shot rang out, and a bullet shattered the base. The rotary fell to pieces and Mr. Morgan stumbled back against the wall, knocking a few glasses off the shelves behind him. In Henry's hand was a smoking .38 revolver, but the man himself showed no emotion whatsoever. This was the same reality he had been living in all night. But now it was revealed to the three of them in extravagant fashion. “Now, Mr. Morgan. Your shot, please,” Henry ordered, every syllable cold and deliberate. Mr. Morgan turned to the shelf to grab a nearby bottle, his hands shaking uncontrollably. The bartender was too old for all this excitement. Too old, his heart too frail. “Use the same bottle as these two,” Henry explained. “There's a method to my madness, and still $500 in it for you if things go well. Minus the cost of repairing that phone, mind you.” Mr. Morgan nearly dropped the bottle in his haste to comply. Andrew and James, for their part, had moved against the back wall in a vain effort to put as much distance between them and the raving lunatic as possible. “Hey, mac,” Andrew began. “Look I got a family at home, don't do nothing stupid now, you hear?” James was hyperventilating and quite unable to form a complete sentence. “Only one of you is going to die tonight. As I told our kind host, Mr. Morgan, I'm looking for a murderer, and I have narrowed the search to one of you three,” Henry explained. “Mr. Morgan, that shot, please.” Mr. Morgan had been fumbling with the stopper, but finally managed to pry it out of the bottle. He poured himself a double and downed it without further fuss. “There we are. And I've had my shot before you two arrived. Isn't that right Mr. Morgan?” Henry asked. The bartender's hands were white-knuckled, and the alcohol sat hard on his stomach. It looked like he wanted to vomit, but was afraid of doing anything to agitate the detective further. “I said, isn't that right, Mr. Morgan?” Henry demanded. “Yes, that's right sir,” Mr. Morgan spat out. “Double of whiskey, just like all of us.” “Thank you,” Henry nodded. “So as you can see we are all in the same boat.” Henry reached into an inner pocket of his trenchcoat and produced a small photograph of a young woman. She wasn't much older than James and were the image in color her striking blonde hair would have been more apparent. “Sarah Wilkins. Pretty young thing. Just turned twenty last August. Pity that we found her body halfway up the canal,” Henry explained, waving the photograph around. “Now our medical examiner ruled the cause of death as drowning. That's modern medicine for you. But I've been operating under a different theory.” Henry reached into the same pocket, this time revealing a few crumpled papers of an official-looking nature. “I've taken a few statements from her friends and family. And it turns out she wasn't much of an angel. Hung out with some bad people. Doesn't mean she deserved to die for it though,” Henry continued. He then pointed an accusatory finger at each of the men in sequence. “James, you should recognize this girl well. Considering you used to date her before she dumped your ass back at the start of the Fall Semester. Young man can take rejection real hard, especially if it's his first.” “Now wait just a minute!” James protested. Henry lifted a hand to silence him and then turned it towards the next suspect. “Then again, Andrew, I think you also recognize her as well. You're best friends with her father after all. I wonder if James knows about how intimately you got to know her following their breakup.” “You don't know what you're talking about,” Andrew growled. “Don't listen to him, kid, he's a crackpot.” James' fists were clenched in anguish, but he was far too timid to do anything about it. He would certainly not stand up to a man twice his age and size, and far less so anybody with a gun. Henry just let the two of them stew for a moment, while he continued his argumentation. “And you, Mr. Morgan. Well, you should know her too, considering she came in here every night to drink. Of course, you knew she was underage, but you've been pretty hard up on cash and weren't about to turn away a paying customer. In fact, you've seen her in here with both of these men and never said a peep about it to anybody.” “You gonna take my liquor license then?” Mr. Morgan grunted. “I didn't kill anybody, now are you planning on making an arrest or are we continuing this stupid game of yours?” “Did I not tell you that you would be instrumental in helping me determine the identity of the killer?” Henry asked pointedly. “You see it all comes down to the whiskey.” Henry reached into his coat pocket a final time to produce a different report from a medical examiner, or rather a copy of one that had been neatly folded into a square. Along with it was a small vial of clear liquid. He unfolded the report and began to elaborate. “I'm not going to try and pronounce the name of the actual drug, I failed Latin in high school, but in a word, she was poisoned. The drug is interesting, it's basically harmless by itself, but when combined with ethanol it's pretty potent stuff. Which immediately led me to assume she was poisoned by a drink,” Henry pointed to the bottle once more. “Wait, you mean-” Mr. Morgan put a hand to his lips, and felt a knot tighten in his stomach. “I didn't get there all at once mind you,” Henry continued. “First I had to track down what bar she frequented - your little establishment - and then I had to deduce her favorite drink. After a rather long series of interrogations I found that she drank whiskey sour like her old man and that she was seen here with - depending upon the informant - either a young college boy or a man old enough to be her father.” James was now taking deep gasping breathes and buckled over in his chair in pain. Andrew was stoic but gave a concerned glance to the kid. Mr. Morgan reached over the bar to try and comfort the boy. “You have to stop this now,” he said, firmly. “The kid's nerves are gonna kill him before your gun does.” “Oh, that's not nerves,” Henry explained. “That's the poison. You see, earlier tonight when you turned your back on me, I slipped a bit of the stuff in the bottle. And that's what this little game is all about. You see that vial contains the antidote, and I'll gladly administer it to us all once I get a confession from one of you. Either the murderer goes to jail, or we all die here together.” “You're crazy,” Andrew spat, standing up to his full height. “Give me that vial or I'll take it from you!” “You forgot who has the gun in this situation,” Henry reminded tactfully. “P-please,” James sputtered. “I don't w-wanna-” “What if you're mistaken and ain't none of us done anything wrong? We all gonna die because you decided to play a game with our lives?” Andrew shouted. “Death or prison, the choice is obvious and the killer will make it,” Henry insisted, raising his revolver. “Think about it. Even the most deranged madman has a survival instinct and this killer is no lunatic. He was thoughtful, decisive and he planned out every stage of the murder of this innocent young woman. Poison that could be mixed into her favorite drink, and one so subtle that it was almost missed by the medical examiner. Or rather was until I pressed the point and made him look again. The killer planned everything to a tee, they have no deathwish.” “I'm sick of listening to you blabber!” Andrew shouted, making a lunge for the pistol. A reflexive shot rang out from Henry's gun, but the bullet ricocheted off the back wall missing all of them. Andrew's meaty fist made contact with Henry's right cheek as the two grappled over the firearm. Three more shots shattered the glasses on the countertop, but the last bullet in the revolver went through Andrew's shoulder, knocking him to the floor. Henry lay near motionless for his battering, face covered in blood and head swimming from the assault. James was on the floor, crying and close to vomiting from the ordeal. As for Mr. Morgan, he stood behind the bar, casually turning the vial around in his hand. “What are you doing?” Henry asked weakly, attempting to get to his feet. “This is the antidote, you said?” Mr. Morgan asked. He casually removed the stopper and knocked it back like a shot. “No!” Andrew bellowed, before coughing out a bit of blood. “Why?” Henry asked, running a hand along his face to mop away sweat. “Why did you do it?” “There wasn't really a reason, I guess,” Mr. Morgan said, flatly. “I don't plan these things, as you claimed. I just find something that I want, and I take it. I never dreamed you would hand me an opportunity like this to watch two of the people she cared about die as well.” “No reason? There's always a reason. It always makes sense somehow,” Henry grunted. “Call it hunter's instinct if you want to attribute some reason to it. I'm not young enough to kill in my preferred methods, but slipping a little poison to an unsuspecting bit of prey and watching them writhe in agony before the life finally fades out of their eyes,” Mr. Morgan let out a dreamy sigh. “There's nothing in the whole world like it. And now I'll get to watch you die as well.” Henry slowly stood to his feet and began to chuckle darkly. “You're right. I was wrong. I didn't understand a damn thing about you.” “You were very close to solving it if it's any consolation,” Mr. Morgan smirked. “Want a last drink? There's still a bit of whiskey left in the bottle. It might speed things up a little. Save you some of the agony?” James lay motionless on the floor, but he was still breathing. Andrew could not move and was nursing his gunshot wound while trying to drag himself towards the door. “I don't think that will really help any,” Henry exhaled, sitting down on the stool just across from Mr. Morgan. “No, I suppose not,” Mr. Morgan nodded. “Oh not for the reason you think,” Henry explained. “You see, I made a promise that only one person was going to die tonight, and I keep my promises. You're right that I was making some bad guesses. In fact, my initial plan was a crapshoot. My Plan A's always needed a little bit of work. But my contingencies are rock-solid.” “What the devil are you talking about?” Mr. Morgan asked with an amused smile. “Getting us all to drink put us all in the same boat and it was my hope that little mind game would coerce a confession out of somebody. If that didn't work, I could count on the madman doing anything to keep themselves 'alive'. So you see the whiskey served two purposes,” Henry explained. James slowly began to stir. Andrew had made it to his feet and stumbled out the door towards the street, immediately screaming for aid. The three men who had entered Mr. Morgan's bar were very inconveniently alive. “The poison wasn't in the whiskey, you fool. It was in that vial.