DIARY PERSONAL ADVENTURES IN GAMES
Procedural PI Phil Noir chases one last killer
The dead woman’s name is Margaret McCoy, 31, brunette, face like a freshly excavated Roman mosaic. A sales executive at Scarlet Management, she was shot to death earlier this morning in her own apartment, 703 Adams Terrace. Lying on her back at the foot of her bed, an oval of red chalk surrounds the body. It means one of two things. Either there’s a ritual element to this killing, or Starch Kola’s Enforcers are terrible at drawing outlines.
I’m performing a ritual of my own, one that doesn’t involve candles and an unfortunate goat. Check the body, ID the victim, check the phone, check the safe. Father Phil Noir is an anointed member of the priesthood of private investigators, and while my rite won’t bring McCoy back from the dead, it might summon the demon who killed her.
Casting my runes yields two good clues and four good leads. The clues are a size-12 bootprint that matches none of McCoy’s shoes, and a fingerprint lifted from the safe keypad that matches none of McCoy’s digits. Alongside the Type-M print, I’ve got McCoy’s address book, her place of work, a printed V-mail of a dating site match with a fellow named Ling, and most promisingly of all the last call to her phone came from an apartment down the hall, which buzzed McCoy’s place at the time of her death.
All considered, I should have this case wrapped up by breakfast, which would be ideal, and not just because I’m hungry. I was on another job when I got the call, stealing back a century-old bottle of Château D’Arc ‘Glass Slipper’ wine from the original thief, a Mr Kian André, for a mystery client. The bottle’s nestled snugly in the side pocket of my trench coat, and I figure I might get a bonus if I bring it to the client chilled.
I depart the murder scene. A Starch Kola enforcer guards the door, but the black face mask he’s wearing must obscure his vision, as I slip through the police tape without him noticing. That’s the problem with all that military gear the cops wear nowadays. It blinds them to seeing anything other than the enemy.
I knock on the door of 704. A woman answers it. She tells me her name is Jack Shaw, which matches the entry in McCoy’s address book. Shaw’s happy to talk to me, says she last spoke to McCoy around 3.30am, which also matches the call log. I ask if I can search her apartment, and she consents.
The first thing I notice is the gun on top of the TV. Detectives tend to spot little details like deadly weapons in conspicuous places. The handcuffs are halfway out my
