Cold Case File - The Christmas Crime Case, circa 2003

[Quelogue]

(Original thread: https://sffworld.com/forum/threads/a-christmas-crime.7056/)

I dedicate this thread to the memory of Hereford Eye. A great and wonderful guy, with his own unique perspective on the world. He will be sadly missed by all who knew him.

This thread is open to any and all participants. I'm hoping that my next post will set the scene as well as give our dear readers an insight into the way the protagonist's brain works.

 

[Quelogue]

Inspector Broome (Broome of the Yard), a failed Scotland Yard detective who models himself on Agent Fox Mulder, an equally failed detective who spent much of his time chasing UFO stories but never managed to catch his hyper-intelligent, pan-dimensional being. Broome is just as useless, but due to the Dunning Krueger effect, thinks he’s a mastermind that Scotland Yard just can’t do without. His boss, however, thinks differently, and thus has referred Broome to the CCF (Cold Case Files) unit, one room back from the boiler room that has been Broome’s office for the past twenty odd years.

Per Broome’s boss, his first CCF is about as cold as it gets…the theft of a bag of Santa’s magic dust, along with three shadows in the snow, that apparently fit the descriptions of three masked penguins. The original officer assigned to the case was an Inspector P. Bear, but there is actually no record of him and no one on the Force had ever heard of him – strange!

Broome’s boss (The Super) issues an ultimatum –

“This is your last chance, Derek. I’ve had it up to here with your failed investigations, your pitiful excuses, and your constant references to a cartoon character called Fox fucking Mulder! Now, either you find a resolution to this case, or you’ll be back in uniform before you can say “the game’s a foot! Am I crystal?”

With The Super’s words ringing in Broome’s ears, he heads back to his office and sits at his desk. While the overflow pipe which crosses his desk at about head height gurgles loudly, Broome takes out his trusty hand-held Dictaphone and peruses the folder that was recovered at the scene of a crash site involving an Inspector P. Bear, at the conjunction of the M4 and the Watford Gap.



With this background, let us begin Broome’s journey, as he begins to uncover the sinister plot to take over the world, that begins with the theft of a bag of magic dust…

 

[Quelogue]

Three hours later, having reviewed the original case notes from that dusty old shoe box that came from the bottom of the equally dusty shelf marked “unsolved cases” in the evidence locker, and with his career hanging by a thread, Inspector Broome found himself inside a chip shop near the Watford Gap. Across from the greasy food counter stood an equally greasy, rather jolly but rather rotund chip shop owner who, through some initial questioning of the locals, turned out to be possibly the last person to see Inspector Bear alive! Broome conjured up in his mind a quick outline of the initial line of questioning, then sallied forth and now found himself standing opposite the aforesaid chippie. The conversation went something like this…

Chippie: “A’ernoon guvnah. What can I do yer for?”

Broome (producing a profile photo of Inspector Bear): “Do you recognize this man? It’s an old photo, I know, but if you can cast your mind back to…”

“Ohh yes, I know ‘im well. He was one o’ me best customers, ‘e was! I often wonder what ‘appened to ‘im. Is ‘e in some sor'-a trabble?”

“Apparently, you may be the last person to see him alive.”

“So ‘e’s dead, then?”

“Well that’s just it,” Broome replied, “we're not sure. He went missing over 20 years ago, but his body has never been found. It’s my intention to find him, and I was hoping you might be able to help by telling me what you know.”

In a more hushed tone, the chip shop owner gruffly whispered, “in that case, guv’nah, you might wanna follah me to the beck.”

Realizing he may have accidentally stumbled on something big, Broome followed the portly gentleman into the back of the chip shop, not quite knowing what to expect, but thinking whatever it is, it might blow the case wide open!

 

[Malifluous Malaprop]

Bonnie Beaver

A serving member of the RCMP and a great friend of Bullwinkle Moose and Constable Rocky Squirrel.

Assisted with the apprehension of Natasha Fatale and Boris Badenov fifteen years ago for messing with the weather at the North Pole. Currently serving their time in Federal lock up for that fiasco, but who are also suspects in the Magic Dust theft of two decades past.

Snidely Whiplash is a CI who Bonnie checks in on as he has an “in” with the Penguin Crime Syndicate and their constant robbery of the trains carrying uranium ore.

The Penguins may have an enrichment reactor hidden deep under the northern polar ice very near the Kringle Family Compound, affectionately known as the KFC at the Yellowknife detachment office, and the Russians want it, that’s why Bonnie is to connect with Broome as the Inspector pursues his cold case, since there had been talk of nuked penguins and a missing Chief Inspector.

Tuesday

I sat waiting for my order of poutine in the booth near the kitchen, not so close as to be bothered by the industrious noises coming from that area, but close enough that I could admire the efficiency of the guy running the fryer in the back. Dump in a handful of cut up potatoes, lift and shake after 3 minutes, start the poutine sauce to heat, prep the cheese curds, sink the potatoes back into the oil and stir the gravy. Get the cardboard take out box and pop it open, grab the fries and set them back up to drain, shake them out onto the drip tray, season and then scoop them into the container. Fries, curds, sauce, equals poutine, call it out for pick up. It was hypnotic as I watched the fry guy work.
I normally avoided the city, with its downtown indifference to the homeless and addicted, crowded ERs ad nauseum. My boss was harassing me and I couldn't find my jerk CI anywhere. Snidely was likely out running some nefarious scam on people who couldn't afford his type of investment.
I heard the cook call order up and smiled, full of anticipation for the carb heavy slop about to land in front of me. I was totally disappointed. The box of congealed mess resembled nothing like the plate I'd imagined and dug out a five and two loonies, left them on the table and me and my take away box of gunk exited to the street. I handed the food over to a man sitting on the steps outside, glancing at him asked, "Hey there. Have you seen Whiplash down here today? The guy's passing cheap rock candy off as edibles."
The guy looked out and with shaking fingers, pulled out two candy crystals and said, "Like these?"
"Yeah, pal." I waved a twenty dollar bill and continued, "Where did you see him?"

 

[Quelogue]

So what did Broome see in that back room? Turns out, the chippie, one Albert Bottomley is by night an internet sleuth, specializing in cases that just went cold for whatever reason. About five years ago, he just happened to start looking into the case of the stolen magic dust, and the lead investigator on the case, who inexplicably went missing. When the case went public, it hit the North Pole Times news stands like a tidal wave, but as public interest waned, and with no news coming from, or even about, Inspector Bear, the case went cold.

As is often the case with cold cases, the actual investigation went much deeper than the public at the time were led to believe, and Albert, with enough time on his hands, dug into the files with an almost unnatural obsession. He unearthed a trove of information which he was only too happy to divulge to Broome. There were five cardboard boxes (those fancy ones with the lids that you could put hanging files in) full of case notes, interviews, photos, tapes, and so on. What was of most interest to Broome, however, was the fact that only a few of these files were actually documented by Inspector Bear.

Broome asked if he could take the boxes with him. Albert was rather reluctant at first, until Broome explained that he could stand to gain a lot of money if the evidence he had collected led to an arrest, and/or the closure of the case. Broome also offered to copy all the documents and taped interviews, and then hand the originals back. Albert asked if he could join the case, but Broome rebuffed, saying this was now an official police matter, and it would be in Albert’s best interest to just focus on serving fish and chips.

Feeling rather pleased with himself, Broome headed back out into the shop, with Albert following, who was giving liberal doses of phrases like, “righto then guv’nah, I’ll leave it in your capable ‘ands.” As Broome was exiting the shop, the song, “There’s a Guy Works Down the Chip Shop Swears He’s Elvis” came over the radio. If that’s not a Divine message, thought Broome, I don’t know what is. Broome took the song as a sign of serendipity, which in his mind, unfortunately, he took to legendary proportions.

 

[Malifluous Malaprop]

What in the shallow end of the beaver pond was Snidely Whiplash up to? I'd spent an hour following that punk's direction and then, after I took them, they told me to call them Jones, in to the ER with withdrawals I was called in to have a chat with the superintendent because he doesn't want me to mess with "protocol" going around the Edmonton Police Service, like me asking questions and trying to connect with my confidential informant about the damned Penguin Syndicate was screwing their own investigation into Snidely's scheme.

I spotted him, about to hop a bus west from 123rd Street toward "the mall". When he saw me he took his hands out of his pockets and brought them up showing me his palms, "Hey, hey. If it isn't the diversity hire! How you doing Constable Beaver? Started shaving that sweet little rodent yet?"

Of course I got up in his face, "Listen here, you pointy-nosed weasel face! I'll show you how the RCMP train even their women hires." I grabbed his wrist and tried to bury my thumb through the back of his hand and twisted once his grip was paralyzed. "You wanna tell me why you're in violation of your parole agreement?"

Snidely whined as I pulled his arm up between his shoulder blades, "That effing hurts! You don' gotta be mean y'know. You have no evidence I was going near the penguin pools!"

"Snidely," I said, "That's not the violation I'm talkin' about. I was talkin' to our friend, Jones, outside the cafe on 109th Street. He tells me you are handing out cheap rock candy for 10 bucks a pop, you aren't supposed to be selling anything, let alone misrepresenting it as edible THC!"

I watched him deflate a bit. "Listen, listen, constable. You got me. I'm just in a rough spot right now, that Natasha Fatale took me for my savings and now a man's gotta make a livin'. It's not cheap keepin' her in beaver fur jackets!" he laughed wheezily, "Heeheeheehee. I got somethin' for you if you let me go, alright? It's all good, eh? You won't turn me in?"

I shook my head, “Give it to me.”

He continued, “There's this really big Ukrainian guy, or maybe he's Russian, who can tell? Not me, eh?

"Anyways, he tells me they've got a shipment of some really heavy boxes of uranium ore on a truck comin’ in from Yellowknife in two days. I don't know why it's such a big secret, not like they're building a bomb at the Telus World of Science or the planetarium, is it? But yeah, my guy tells me he's not gonna take anymore jobs from these syndicate dudes after this next one. His hair's been falling out. I tol' him that wasn't anything he's movin', it's because he's old! I was hopin to get hired, y'know?"

"Listen, Whiplash," I released his wrist and he stood rubbing his hand, "Leave this stuff alone. It's dirty and really dangerous. I am going back to headquarters to do some research at the office. Just don't go back to harassing those cute little penguins!"

"Awww! C'mon Bunbun," I glared at him for using the pet name Rocky F. Squirrel gave me, "I just wanna go and feed the birdies at the mall some sardines!"

"You know the terms of your parole, Snidely. I hear of you being there, I'll bring you in myself. Stay outta trouble."

I turned up my collar, reached in my pocket and handed him a hundred bucks. "Stay away from your load carrying buddy, too. Buy some real food, you're too skinny." I hailed a cab and climbed in. "RCMP headquarters, please."

 

[Quelogue]

The train from Kings Cross Station sped through the rainy night. It was a particularly disgusting foul-weather kind of night, but the train kept on speeding through it anyway. Luckily for Broome, he wasn’t on that train. He was already sound asleep in bed, in a small but well-appointed room in an equally small hotel in Edinburgh. After leaving the chip shop at the Watford Gap, he had hot-footed it back to London to catch the very next train he could that took him up to Scotland…to see Jimmy McTavish.

Jimmy McTavish, according to Inspector Bear’s case notes, which Broome had gotten from an old greasy newspaper clipping, buried in the bowels of one of the boxes that had previously been in the possession of Albert…oh, wait, this sentence has gone on for too long. Reboot!

Jimmy McTavish was a local fisherman in the small fishing town of Oban on the Isle of Mull. One day, while he was out doing some offshore fishing, he had captured something in his net, which turned out to be a small satchel and a pair of fur-lined, black boots with big brass buckles on them. Contained within the satchel was a sealed metal box containing what appeared to be a ransom note.

The next morning, as the storm clouds were receding, Broome rose early and had a hearty Scottish breakfast. He then checked out of his hotel, and traveled across Scotland to Oban, and ask this Mr. McTavish a few questions, hoping to get some answers. After making a few local inquiries, he sat on a bench at the harbor, waiting for the tide to bring Jimmy McTavish to him.