The Reuben Urbaine Affair

I always had a hobby of people watching since I was a kid. The goings and comings of the lives outside the window next to my desk. The faces, clothes, walks; all of it. As a result, I was deemed to be that unsettlingly curious child who would most likely become some form of creepy adult, probably a sex offender. I suppose they would be surprised to know that wasn't in the cards for me. Now a grown man, I ended up taking my staring practice into the professional world of private investigation as an amatuer sleuth. Managed to scrape together enough for a small office on the upper east side with Reba, an assistant who, obligingly, only complained about the pay once in a while. Reuben Urbaine and Associates Investigative Services, Reba said it sounded better than Urbaine P.I. and gave us a bit of class. It didn't help bring in any business since my biggest concern was looking just busy enough to fool anyone into thinking the case files were full. That entailed looking at the blank sheets of legal pads with serious intent.

“Hey Boss,” a voice called through the door to my room in the office, shortly followed by a few quick knocks on my door.

“What’s cooking Reba?” I said. I flitted my pen between fingers using the tip of it to clean underneath my fingernails.

“We’ve got a new case on the books,” Reba said, as she pushed open the door. She carried a little brown parcel wrapped in twine and small enough to be tucked neatly under her arm.

“Alright, show them in. What’s with the box? Birthday gift from Stella?”

“It ain’t mine, My kid’s not even old enough to walk down the block by herself, let alone use the post office,”

“I’m joking.”

“About my birthday?”

“Reba, I know when’s your birthday.”

“Spill it!”

“September 15th.”

“July 21st.”

“I was talking about the due date of the next bill...”

“Right.”

“Anyway, who’s the package from?” I pointed to the package at the edge of my desk, changing the subject.

“That’s the thing, there’s no name on it.”

“Probably just some neighbor’s junk.”

“Actually, it’s addressed to you. God knows what’s in it, the mailman just handed it to me,” Reba turned to straighten up the stacks of papers in the office strewn about and kicking up dust in general.

I eyed the thing curiously. Most mail that came in were bills and hate mail from cheating hearts on occasion, so it was a bit of a surprise to me that it was an ornate mahogany lockbox with brass fittings. I laid my hands on it feeling for a switch to open it. When I found it I heard a click and felt a slight pang of satisfaction. It then became a great stroke of fear as the box opened and the color drained from my face.

“What’s in the box? Must be too fancy for you, since you’ve piped down for once,” Reba chuckled to herself, not turning around.

“Get out,” I said.

“Huh? It was just a joke, didn’t know you were such a thin skinned guy, Boss.” Reba got a bit put out by my barking at her so harshly since she had jumped out of her skin at my voice. I needed to put her situation in mind clearly.

“My hands are on a bomb.”

Reba turned around in confusion only to adopt the same look of wide-eyed surprise I had as she looked inside the box. Wires ran from a bog-standard digital clock counting down from a minute deeper into a mechanism that made a worrying chain of beeps.

“Oh… oh Lord.”

“Get out and call the police from across the street.” She could only look on in stunned silence.

“Now, Reba!”

She quickly darted out of the room leaving me to focus on the bomb. Though the idea running through my mind was prayers and the thought of whether I would feel anything, my knuckles were white from gripping the damned thing. I didn’t dare move a hair. I waited, waited for the boom, the end.

A click made me flinch, but little else. Nothing happened save for a slip of paper sliding out. It said:

Look inside.

I wasn’t one to be jerked around by anyone, let alone bomb threats. But, call me curious cause I cracked her open. Meanwhile, Reba gave her testimony to the police and waved them off. My focus was on the present my friend left me, a small black notebook, a sum of $20,000, and a message:

You’ll notice the lump sum of money enclosed in the package. Partly for your troubles, partly for the task I ask of you. Namely, to solve the murder of Reuben Urbaine before it happens by my hand. It’s a bit of sport for us. The sins of the father lay upon the son Detective. Rest assured, when I strike you down, you’ll never see it coming. The game is afoot, my friend. Also, no cheating from the police, lest I send something a little more real next time.

The situation had developed for the poorer to say the least and questions swirled in my mind. Namely, that I got paid $20,000 to have someone try to kill me. Life’s odd that way. I gave Reba the rest of the day off for her troubles and took the time to think.

“Sins of the father” played in my mind as I know there was only one guy that could fit the bill of “father”. Though, I’d need to jump through some hoops. Regardless, I knew it was time to hit the bricks to find something on this guy.

Before this case I didn’t think I would ever have to use the key that Woody gave me for his storage unit. I drove across town past the suburban hamlets and cul-de-sacs giving myself time to reflect on my own possible mortality which was becoming more of a hobby than I would have liked. Coming up to the building, the feelings of unease hadn’t faded and my time was short. I wrenched the door open to a sea of papers, boxes and files ahead of me. It was nostalgic seeing the old man’s stuff around here. Woody would take me out once my beat was over, bulldoze me into helping him manage his case files, then treat me to dinner from Alonso’s as payment. That man must’ve added twelve hours to the shifts I had at the precinct. I have to look through this stuff some time. But the thought of how little time that I may have made me focus on my prize, his unsolved case files. Finding the casebook, I flipped through the pages only finding one case of note: a serial killer who kidnapped victims and styled their killings on greek mythology. Woody only saved one person--a Ms. Delores Jones.

Being my only lead, I went to check her out. She had a little loft in the town slums at the time. It wasn’t anything impressive but I wasn’t one to judge. I knocked on her door.

“Delores Jones?”

“Who is it? What do you want?” a feminine voice called out from behind it.

“I just need to ask some questions about that serial killer case you were a part of.”

“I told the police all I knew 15 years ago and they couldn’t do it. Why put my neck out for some know-nothing punk for some rag?”

“I’m not a reporter,” I rubbed my temples.

“So why bother me, then?” Delores’s voice became much lighter though the hesitation still showed. Then the door cracked open.

“Because I can solve the case,” I said, with renewed confidence having a foot in the door now.

“How’d you figure?”

“Cause the killer is targeting me,”

She slammed the door on my foot.

“Hear me out.”

“Why should I?!”

“I’m literally begging for my life here.” I heard the latch of the door unlock and was thankful I could still walk.

Delores’s story managed to corroborate with the MO on the file. She stated that she was working as a florist at the time when she was kidnapped by a man in an all black suit. She had then been trapped in a refrigerator, buried with only 8 hours of air. She was found with an hour to spare thanks to Woody, who was the lead detective. It was all old news, except for how Woody was taken off the case: by gunshot from the perp. After that, the killer went into hiding and wasn’t seen since. From there I came to a few conclusions about the man behind the knife. He sees himself as an artist recreating the great works of old, but with people’s lives. Considering that Delores had enough time to be found, he’s confident in his abilities. I suppose that would make me Oedipus in his play in lieu of Woody, the truthseeker struck blind by his stubborn nature. That only left one question: where was he going to be to off me? Then an idea struck me.

I stepped outside to make a call to Reba on the street payphone.

“Hello?”

“Where would I be able to get the best view in town?” I could hear the silent confusion. “Just answer the question, please.”

“That’d be the Pavilion on 53rd.”

“Thanks, I owe you one,” I said, smashing the phone on the receiver.

I was over the moon. I pulled my coat open to check for my gun, it having been the only reason that I felt safe at all while out and about, and made my way down to the Pavilion. As I pulled in I noticed that there was scaffolding on an office building looming over the Pavilion. I couldn’t help but find some irony in the fact that the Pavilion wasn’t the tallest building yet had the best view.

There was a man among the scaffolding, a place of honest work, scanning for his prey through the scope of his rifle. An aged, gaunt individual with withered hands for wicked work. All he had to do now was wait for his target to arrive.

“Waiting on me,” I said, training my gun on him. His shoulders arched back in surprise coiled with cat-like tension. I made a point to cock the hammer on my revolver loud enough to hear. “Nice and slow.”

He raised from his prone position as I told him to, slowly rising to a stand, hands in the air.

“You caught me,” he said.

“I didn’t have to, you got away with every murder you commited, then you threatened me. Because of the one that got away.”

“The Kidnapping of Persephone. It was perfectly ornate and a better fate than the one she was going to get living on in anonymity.”

“But, Woody Harris stopped you-”

“Detective Woodard Harrison,” he said. I could see him convulse, like it physically hurt to say his name.

“You had him beat in every way, he couldn’t find you, he died before you, you won.”

“He interrupted my work. My masterpiece, my one calling as an artist of life!”

“You’re not an artist, you're a child who didn’t want to end his game.”

“And when I heard that he had a protégé that he personally taught, I couldn’t resist one more try.” He drew a revolver from his coat and trained it on me. In the minor fraction of a second, I saw every wrinkle and pore pull into a wicked smile. We both fired.

I was the lucky one as he only winged me in the shoulder. He got plugged in the chest and fell back off the roof. I honestly laughed like a loon and fell on my back as a wave of relief fell on me. The police could figure what to do with the body. But for me, life goes on.