“What number was his room again?” Calligan inquired, glancing at the fixtures on the doors.

“816.” McCullough responded, gazing down the hall. He kept one hand close to his belt, and his gun. “I know they called this place a tenement when we asked for directions, but I think they were being generous. I feel like the rats are gonna try to rob us.”

“I know what you mean. For an up-and-coming banker, the kid sure lived in a rough place. I just hope we can get some good clues as to why someone would wanna rub him out.”

“Yeah, and quick. Something tells me people around here won’t care for two nosey detectives snooping around. This doesn’t seem like the kind of place where the law is very appreciated.”

“Well, we’ll just not let anyone know we’re the law and that won’t be an issue.”

“Good point.” McCullough replied as he passed another door, its sign hanging loosely off of it.

The hall was drab and dimly lit, with a light tan paint in the areas that had any paint at all. The carpet was a dingy discolored brown, worn thin over time. Each door looked as though it hung loosely on its hinges, some nearly falling off entirely.

The two detectives traversed the hallway as casually as they could, intent on not drawing attention to themselves. Even the faint thud of their footsteps on the carpet seemed intolerably loud, and the tension seemed to build palpably within them with each step. Yet still, they pressed toward their destination with stoic professionalism.

“You got the key off the receptionist, right?” McCullough inquired as he donned a pair of gloves.

“I did,” Calligan responded, doing the same. “But I don’t think I’ll need it.” With that, Calligan grasped the doorknob, wrenching to the side. The door swung open with relatively little protest, revealing a tiny, one-room apartment space beyond.

“My, my, my.” Calligan muttered softly as he peered through the doorway. Papers littered the floor, and the sheets had been torn off the mattress of a small bed in one corner. The mattress itself was split open, its innards strewn across the floor. Near another corner a simple wooden desk laid toppled over, its contents scattered.

McCullough laughed, lighting up a cigarette. “This is going to be fun.”

They searched the room for three hours, examining every piece of paper and fallen object, until finally they decided that enough was enough.

“I guess we’re a day late and a dollar short.” Calligan said, crumpling a piece of paper in his hand. “All we know from these is that he was an aspiring detective novelist.”

“And he’s not even very good. I could tell you the killer after the third page.” McCullough chortled.

“That’s because that third page was the last page.”

“Well, it was still a terrible reveal. Anyways, there was clearly something here that isn’t anymore. I wonder if he liked to take his work home with him?”

“It’s possible and that may have been a risk someone didn’t want. Remember, it was the money man who brought down Capone.”

“Well this guy isn’t bringing anyone down. Someone made sure of that.”

Calligan nodded his agreement. “It’s late. Let’s phone a guard in so they can swab for fingerprints tomorrow. We can check in with Doc Rivers in the morning, see if he has his report on that body ready.”

They both headed back to McCullough’s car, where Calligan found a nearby payphone and contacted the station about the guard. As he turned back towards the car, he sighed, glancing around the deserted street. It was nice, in its own way, at this hour. There was nothing to disturb it in the quiet gloom of the night.

As he reached the car he quietly got in. “They’re sending someone over right now. I’ve gotta say, this was quite a first day. We’re going to have a ton of paperwork to fill out when we get back to the office.”

“And it’s only just started.” McCullough replied, putting the car in gear. “It’s only just started.” With that, they drove off into the night.