What would happen if I told you I lived in New York? Would you imagine me sitting in a bar with a glass of giggle-water waiting to get ossified with my coworkers? Or would you see me sitting in a lousy cubicle waiting to please the big cheese with some swanky paperwork and some numbers. If you thought one of those two, then you're as mistaken as a gatecrasher at a funeral. I'm a detective. Yeah, that's right, I'm the one with with the coat, a notepad and a keen eye for clues. Wait a minute, why am I telling you all this? I ain't trying to impress you like a lounge lizard with a new hairdo at a club. I'm telling you this because someone needs to know what happened to me three and a half months ago.

A typical bump-off. That's what it looked like. My victim was about 35 years of age. Brown hair, blue eyes and freshly shaven. He was lyin' on his back in the main drag outside of a club. I reckon he was one of them lousy drugstore cowboys waiting to pick up one of those flapper girls. That's besides the point. The point is he is dead. A swell bloodstain at the back of his head, marked where the bullet had entered, and the lack of one at his forehead, meant it never left. What shocked me was that the murder had decided to take this mans life in the busiest area of New York. The killer must be hep due to the fact that no one noticed his act. If you're lost, lemme simplify my thought process for you. Shooting someone in the back of the head is pretty noticeable, why did no one stop the murderer from performing this action?

I met with my assistant, John- last names aren't important- for a quick bull session. How could someone kill a man in plain sight, and not get caught? Unfortunately, due the fact that John happened to be the biggest damn flat tire I ever knew, he had no postulation as to how this crime occurred. With no leads, we ran back to the crime scene where John got his first glance at the fellow. As soon as the sheet was pulled back from the body, Johns eyes went wide and promptly upchucked as if he just had a burger at that joint on Hill street that makes everyones stomach get the heebie-jeebies. Once that kid got a hold of himself by wiping his kisser on his sleeve, he examined the body just as I did earlier. Naturally, he was just as baffled as I was. That was the first time, I was completely at a loss.

About a day or two past and I was just as frustrated. John tried to cheer me up, but that kid was just throwing me lines. We decided to return to the crime scene to take another look around, I wasn't gonna let this case win. Once there, John got out his briefcase and dug around for his magnifying glass. While rummaging for his tool, his binoculars tumbled out. That's when everything started to come together. Binoculars are used to see something far away…. you get where I'm going with this? Oh come on don't be such a dumb dora. A man was shot in the head, and no one noticed the killer… how does that tie to binoculars? Yeah, no doubt this was a sniper shot. I snatched up those binoculars and began to scan the nearby building for a hole, or a window that allowed for a sniper to remain unseen, yet would have a clear view. I pinpointed a specific location that I thought would be best suited for this crime. I grabbed John by the coat and we both scrammed to that location.

I was damn proud of myself at that point. I nailed the location first try. Once we reached the site, we noticed a couple bills, and a bullet shell about 10 feet away from each other. At that point, John said he reckoned it was the work of a torpedo. The killer must've dropped the items when he was scrambling to get out of the area once he dragged his victim six feet under. Maybe this murderer wasn't so hep as I thought.

What happened after that ain't worth putting detail to. I don't feel like explaining it. I'm a detective, not a damn writer. The cops came, and we examined the area further and found a couple finger prints on one of the bills. I called up the screwy boss-man and once I told him the news, he was so excited I didn't have a chance to say anything else before he hung up on me. We traced the fingerprints to the murderer, Eric (what did I say? That's right. Last names aren't important). We pinched him, and not two days later, he formally confessed.

So… yeah. That's what happened to be three and a half months ago. I followed my smeller, and solved the case. I don't care if you're impressed, and I don't care if you're not. I just wanted you to know my story. I may be hard-boiled, and hard to get along with, but I'm a damn good detective. New York is my territory. Now if you don't mind, I'm about to get drunk as hell. If another story like this comes up again, read it in the paper, because I'm not about to write one of these again.