“A… Are you high?”

“Nah man, for real, it smells a lot like updog in this place.”

The detective took off his glasses and rubbed them against his shirt. “Two women broke in here and killed themselves, the sink, toilet and shower head are covered in blood, all of the light bulbs have been displaced, and the first thing you take notice of when you walk in… is the smell of fucking updog?”

“Sure do,” Mr. Thomson said without the slightest tinge of irony. “It’s quite foul, eh? Updog, that is. The smell of it. Of updog.”

He sighed in disbelief at the foolish man that stood before him. Seven years he’d served in the investigative branch, hoping beyond hope that one day, some case would emerge among the countless obvious homicides that would pique his interest and be his and his only to solve. And for once, there it was, right in front of him—a true mystery at last. He’d even phoned up the owner of the place, to show how seriously he was going to take it. But alas, this clown served no use for him, and soon those thoughts of doubt came creeping again. The court would soon rule this a simple case of joint suicide before he would be assigned to yet another mundane murder.

No, he thought. Not this time. He wasn’t going to let anything impede his progress. He was going to put his all into this, no matter what. No more delays.

“Okay, sir, thank you for your cooperation. We’ll take it from here. Please stay at your hotel until the investigation is over.”

“No problemo.”

 

Mr. Thomson walked down the corridor, his yellow striped tie swinging with every step he took. It was clear to all the cops in the hallway that he had never suited up like this in his life, and to some degree they felt rather sorry for him. He smiled back at their lowered faces, holding his best impression of a clueless man as he passed by.

The hotel they let him stay at was miles away, and though he certainly wasn’t thrilled by the look of his house, he would much sooner run out the doors and back there than willingly be in the presence of those freaks again. But he’d been left with no choice; the walls were closing in on him, and he felt as though he would crack any moment. “I want out,” he whispered to the receptionist. “Please.”

She smiled at him blankly and handed him the key. Mr. Thomson sighed and went to the elevator, making sure to face away from the door, as he had been instructed.

Sure enough, just one floor above him, that hooded man walked in. He couldn’t see him, but he could tell from the distinct squeak of his glossy shoes who it was. “You have done well, Roger.” He felt a stack of banknotes slide into his pocket.

“Please, I… I don’t want the money. I don’t want nothing in this. Just please let him go.”

“You will see your brother once you’ve outlived your importance.” He felt the hot breath come closer to his neck. “And you are of great importance to us now.”

He knew he was in no place to bargain, so he kept his mouth shut. The elevator stopped again, and the hooded man got ready to leave.

“Wait,” Mr. Thomson said, “just for the record—what the hell is ‘updog’?”

A short silence followed, then a deep snigger. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” The doors closed, and Mr. Thomson was once again left alone with his thoughts, that all hovered over his infinite abyss of despair.