It was a mysterious, still night on Sodor. Everyone was asleep for the night, except the SPD, the Sodor Police Department. Ever since the explosion at Arlesburgh when Emily was helping Donald, and the Kathryn Heist which resulted in a mass of weapons and morphine being stolen by Sailor John and a group of criminals, the SPD had been trying to settle the case. Earlier that morning, something had happened, and Detectives Daniel Phelps and Shay Gallagher were called to the briefing room by the SPD Chief.
"Ahh, Phelps, welcome," he said. "Take a seat."
"You summoned us, chief?" said Phelps.
"Yes. We need a man with your kind of starch on this desk, son," said the chief. "We have two dead civilians, found in their house this morning in Arlesburgh."
After being given the address, Gallagher spoke up in a slightly impatient manner. "It's very tragic to lose two people, but we have more important things to do than wasting our time with two dead civilians. Sailor John is still out there."
"Did I ask your opinion, detective?" snapped the chief, striding over to Phelps and Gallagher's desk. "Two people dead on stolen morphine! That makes this an Ad Vice case! Beat it!"
"Yes sir," said Phelps. He and Gallagher left the briefing room and walked through the hallways. The chief watched them sternly and shut the door behind them. What he mentioned about morphine was the first hint of results of the Kathryn Heist. Sailor John had intended to secretly dispute morphine across Sodor and cause multiple casualties without him being detected.
"So, we're working on the missing morphine, are we?" said Gallagher as the two men approached the staircase by a large window. "I thought Homicide was the major part of our line of investigations."
"That may be the case," said Phelps. "But I am dedicated to fulfilling my duties, whatever they may be. The chief thinks I'm doing OK."
"OK? Don't get humble on me, Phelps," chuckled Gallagher. "You're doing great. You're a war-hero and a crime fighter. Perfect match."
The two detectives made their way outside to their car and set out into the early rising sun to investigate these casualties further. As they drove through the dark beside the line, they heard a distant whistle. A light came shining in the distance and there was Henry, huffing through with the Flying Kipper again. He had not heard about anything about Arlesburgh's tragedy and kept huffing on as he passed the detectives car.
Eventually, Phelps and Gallagher arrived at the house where the dead civilians were found. There were yellow fences forbidding anyone except police to survey the area. Phelps parked the car and walked hastily towards the scene.
"Upstairs, detectives," said an officer. "Round the corner, last door on the left."
The detectives followed the pattern and entered the house. There was another coroner there, examining the body and ready to give a starting report.
"Phelps," he said, getting on his feet.
"What have we got?" asked Phelps.
"Two young men. Overdosed, dead for a day or two." The coroner tossed a small flask to Phelps, labelled for morphine.
"Military issued morphine?" said Phelps. "It matches the same kind from our report with Dr. Bishop. Do you know these people, Shay?"
"I knew them," said Gallagher. He kneeled over the body on the floor. "This younger man was a member of one of Sodor's brass bands. God rest his soul." Then he approached the other body, sunk in a chair. "This one was a workman for the harbour."
"So who is supplying all the morphine?" asked Phelps.
"I highly assume it's our old bloke, Sailor John," said Gallagher. "Being called a pirate, I think the chances of him being the culprit of the Kathryn Heist are rather high. In addition, Seymour Murphy has some oddities surrounding him too. When last I looked, he was the solicitor for Sir Topham. But there has been not much having to do with the two of them. Perhaps we may have to bend a few rules against him just in case…"
"Gallagher, we uphold the law, not break it further!" insisted Phelps.
"So we do," said Gallagher. "But we can't change people. Everyone wants a few changes once in a while, and we have to manage it however we can. I was just making a suggestion."
The coroner cut in. "Enough of this! Phelps, Gallagher, get on with this investigation. Preferably right now."
"As you wish," said Phelps.
Phelps examined the house for anything else to help strengthen their case about the stolen morphine and why these two people were inflicted with it. In the living room, he found a coffee cup labelled "Black Caesar," and wrote that name on his note pad. He knew that name anywhere. It was a small refreshment stand in Arlesburgh that sold fried kippers and chips. After taking notes, he checked the kitchen and found another cup with the same name. It felt heavy for an empty cup, until he found another morphine case taped on the bottom.
"Hmm…morphine taped to the bottom of this cup," he thought as he wrote more in his book.
Back in the living room, Gallagher examined the bodies closer and found bleeding areas where the morphine was likely injected. One small flask of morphine would put someone into a coma. Any more than that could stop the heart. He also took notice of a few dinner plates with remnants of fried fish on them. This gave Gallagher an idea as he looked at the other coffee cup.
"Phelps?" he called. Phelps came back into the living room.
"What is it?" he asked.
"Look at all these plates. They were clearly servings of fish…and I can recall there is a small shop in Arlesburgh that sells some fried dishes from the Flying Kipper. I hope Henry wasn't hoodwinked."
"I see," said Phelps. "I found two cups labelled 'Black Caesar,' one of which had a morphine pouch taped to it…and I think that place is our best bet. Come on!"
Phelps and Gallagher left the house and ran some way into Arlesburgh town until they reached the Black Caesar, that sold its own portions of kippers. When they got there, the counterman had just finished giving a bagged meal to a customer.
"May I help you?" said the counterman.
"Detectives Phelps and Gallagher, SPD," said Phelps. "We're inquiring two casualties…"
Gallagher pounded the palm of his hand on the counter. "Hand over the kippers or we'll kick the door in, you miscreant!"
The counterman did nothing at first…suddenly, he jumped over the counter and bolted outside.
"Get him!" demanded Gallagher. Phelps dashed out after the man and began pursuit on foot. After a few minutes of pursuit, Phelps and Gallagher managed to seize the counterman. But their culprit was not going to give up immediately. He struggled and strained hard to escape, but eventually, both detectives managed to arrest the counterman and take him back to his little diner for questioning.
"What's your name?" demanded Phelps.
"Terry," said the counterman.
"Half answers are not enough for me, you old fool!" snapped Phelps.
"Terry Dennis," said the counterman.
"Hmm. Stand by and watch him, Gallagher, while I take a look around," said Phelps as he walked back inside the shop.
"Stay right where you are, Dennis," ordered Gallagher. "Give me NO reason to shoot you."
Phelps stepped inside the Black Caesar diner and looked around carefully. He opened a cupboard full of plates and bags, but found nothing there. He checked the ice box, full of fish. Still nothing, but he kept up his suspicious mind for any evidence to use. He then opened a small refrigerator. Inside he found a small cup, with some change and a small piece of paper.
It had "Keep the change, lad. Signed, Mr. Ottie," written on it. Phelps took the paper and kept it in his pocket. He then noticed a large cardboard box beside the refrigerator and opened it up. It was full of cups just like the ones he examined back at the house…but then something else caught his eye. Clustered around one of the piles of cups was a large mess of morphine packages.
"Morphine. Might not be filling but I'm sure it's satisfying," Phelps murmured to himself. He wrote more notes on his pad and stepped outside again to talk to his culprit.
"Well," he said. "Now I can finish my sentence from earlier. We are inquiring two deaths in their home right in this very area of the Arlesburgh county, Dennis. We want answers."
"Very well," said Dennis. "Start."
Phelps wrote in his book. "Terry Dennis, Suspect of Morphine Dealing."
"You sold the morphine to those two poor civilians," said Phelps.
"No sir. I sell…I sell fried fish and chips!" said Terry.
"…You're lying, Dennis," said Phelps. "We know you're supplying morphine."
"I have nothing to do with any of this!" protested Terry. "I just do what I do best! Cook dishes for fellow customers and make fresh coffee! Can you prove any different?"
"As a matter of fact, we can," said Phelps. "Frying fish, making coffee…and strapping jolts of morphine on the bottom of coffee cups! Now tell me the truth…who is supplying the drugs?"
"Some man came to me," said Terry. "He brought the drugs to me and just said to sell them in a secretive manner."
"Who is this 'some man,' working for?" asked Phelps.
"…Richard Adrian," said Terry.
"We've got you for evading us and resisting arrest. If you want our help, you have to help us," said Gallagher.
"What else do you need to know?" huffed Terry.
"Terry, I will speak to the judge on your behalf, if you just give us a name," promised Phelps.
"Well…" said Terry. "There is one other man this Richard is acquainted with. The name is Jasper, he is a fine looking man and carries a cane. Didn't get a last name. He's also in league with Sailor John…"
"See you at the station, Dennis," said Phelps.
"Aren't you gonna help me?" asked Terry.
"Of course. You helped us, and it's only right we return the favor," said Gallagher. Another officer came by to take Terry away.
"See to it this man gets a lenient cell, my friend," said Phelps. "A window and a fresh bed." And so Terry Dennis was taken away and the case had more evidence to help be rested. The two detectives made their way back to their car. Gallagher stepped in and waited for Phelps.
"Excuse me, Shay," said Phelps. "I need to make a call." He walked over to a small telephone booth and made the call back to the SPD.
"Phelps, badge 1247."
"How can I help, Detective?" replied the woman on the other end.
"We apprehended a suspect and sent him to the station. He also gave us a name I noticed written somewhere in the Black Caesar diner. Do you have any address for a Mr. Richard Adrian?"
"Just a moment," said the counter woman as she checked through her files for addresses. "From what I can gather here…Adrian is addressed at 245 Country Road at Maithwaite."
"Thank you. Good day." And Phelps hung up. With that, he returned to their car and after a small discussion about the address, they were on their way. By now, it was nearly midday and more engines were seen along the railway. Both detectives wondered what they would find next. If they had any chance of catching Sailor John, they wanted to be sure they could get rid of any henchmen or servants he may have rallied since he escaped.
Some while later, they arrived in the town of Maithwaite and searched for the address. They went up Country Road, and eventually found a house marked 245.
"Here we are," said Phelps. "Richard Adrian, 245." He knocked a few times waiting for any response. But there was none. After five minutes of knocking and waiting, Phelps decided to get rough.
"Give yourself up in there! Detectives Phelps and Gallagher are coming in!" Phelps then drew a pistol and shot the doorknob, breaking the lock loose. Both men swept inside and searched the first floor. They found no one, so they strode upstairs and opened the first door they came to. It was the bedroom, and sitting on his bed was a middle-aged man with a green shirt and black vest, who looked up urgently.
"Who let you in?" he asked.
"Richard Adrian! Don't bother getting up! Your flunky Terry Dennis just snitched you out!" snapped Phelps.
"I wasn't planning to," said Richard. "Now can you tell me who the hell you are?"
"SPD," said Gallagher. "We want to look around up here."
"The hell you will. Are you carrying a warrant?" insisted Richard Adrian. Phelps put his hand firmly on the man's shoulder, gripping it firmly.
"No. Do we need one?" he asked sternly. "Search the room, Shay."
"What do you think you'll find in here, wide-hats?" Richard asked smugly.
Neither Phelps nor Gallagher answered. Gallagher looked everywhere carefully. He kneeled down and checked under the bed. Nothing. He opened and closed the drawers of the nightstand…and found another piece of paper carrying Ottie's signature, like Phelps saw before.
"Hmm," he said flatly. He got up again and walked over to the desk Richard would sit at sometimes. As he opened and closed a few drawers, he couldn't help but smell something suspicious. It smelt heavily like a certain fluid or powder. Then he heard the radio on the desk begin to make static sounds as it tried to get a signal. He tried turning the knobs a little…and found the lid was loose. Phelps opened it and found that it was full to the top…with morphine packages.
"No wonder your radio was having problems, Adrian," sneered Phelps.
"Vernon! Wilt!" shouted Richard. "Get in here! Take these eavesdroppers apart!" Suddenly, two bulky men came in, ready to fight, although they looked as though they were doped up to the eyeballs. But the two detectives were ready too. They soon fell into fisticuffs while Richard kept shouting and encouraging his men to beat the detectives black and blue. But Phelps and Gallagher, being trained and learned in combat tactics and self defense before becoming members of the SPD still prevailed as the winners and managed to handcuff both men and keep them in line.
Adrian almost rose from his bed, but Phelps stopped him.
"Sit tight, asshole!" he ordered. "Pretend you're at the parlor getting your nails done. Shay, you ought to search that radio more intently before we keep this lad out of trouble."
Gallagher nodded and took a closer look at the plunder of morphine he had found. He carefully rummaged deeper in the pile and felt something else. He pulled it out and saw it was another syringe of morphine. He remembered the two bodies they found at their first location in Arlesburgh. He snapped his finger, ushering Phelps to come over. Phelps took a look and nodded. Then they noticed something else on the radio. A small logo, reading, "Weightless Rider." Phelps and Gallagher wrote that name in their book before walking back to Richard.
"Two civilians are dead in their home at Arlesburgh," said Phelps. "In a pinch, the SPD could nab you for felony murder and supplying Military-property morphine."
"We found them in their house, as well as remnants of their last meal. Fish and chips washed down with morphine-inflicted coffee!" added Gallagher.
"What is your point?" asked Richard.
"The judge may have a harsh opinion," said Gallagher. "He could give you fifty years for your two lackeys here, and thirty for you supplying the morphine."
"I get it," sighed Richard. Phelps pulled over the chair from the desk and sat down in front of Richard.
"Who is supplying the morphine?" he asked.
"I know nothing of it," denied Richard. "Mitchell the Maker is all the action."
"Mitchell who?" asked Phelps.
"Hmm. Mitchell Finkelstien…" murmured Gallagher.
"What is the link between the morphine and these signatures?" asked Phelps.
"There is no link! You be wasting your time here," said Richard. Phelps took out the scrap of paper he kept with the signature, proving his evidence.
"You're lying. Tell me about this Jasper," he ordered Richard.
"That name doesn't ring a bell," said Richard, shrugging his shoulders. Phelps then decided to dig deeper, remembering what he heard from the incident back at the Black Caesar diner.
"Terry Dennis will testify that you and this Jasper character are expanding into illegal distribution of stolen morphine!"
"Hmm…very well, you have me," said Richard. "So I met a lad by the name Jasper Ottie."
"Tell us about Ottie," ordered Phelps.
"He's a card-player, gambler, scoundrel, you'd like him. He takes any odds anytime," replied Richard.
"What's the score with Weightless Rider?" asked Gallagher.
"That's where I purchased the radio you checked there," admitted Richard.
"So we go visit Weightless Rider and tell them we want a special radio, or radio cupboard to hide our dope in, they'll be copacetic?" said Phelps rhetorically.
"And when we tell them that their good friend Richard Adrian sent us and said they could do a nice deal for the SPD…" added Gallagher.
"I could use an act like you two," said Adrian. "Great Britain's answer to Abbot and Costello."
"You've got character, Mr. Adrian. Now cough it up!" ordered Gallagher.
"The man running that place is Mr. Rider. Named the company after himself. And a good friend of Mitchell. Does that make it clear?" said Adrian.
Gallagher got on his radio and called in a police van. "Take them all in. We're finished here."
"We're after the morphine, nothing else. I'll speak to the DA on your behalf. My word on it," said Phelps.
Before long, Richard Adrian and his two men were taken outside to a police van and placed inside. Phelps and Gallagher still had a way to go before closing their case, but with each visit, they were gathering more and more information and cutting off more and more culprits having something to do with all of this.
Phelps thought it be only necessary to make another call. He found another telephone booth nearby and went to business.
"Detective Daniel Phelps, SPD," he said.
"Yes, may I help you, Detective?" said a counter woman back at the SPD.
"Yes. I need an address for Weightless Rider, a delivery company that provides easy delivery of parcels?"
"Just a moment…" came the answer. "Yes, Weightless Rider. Corner of Sunset in Maron, owned by a Marlin Simon Rider."
"Thanks, ma'am. Goodbye," said Phelps. He wrote the full name in his book. The last name matched the company's name. But something else came to Phelps' mind. He remembered that a majority of the morphine was from the S.S. Kathryn, when Sailor John and his gang pillaged and plundered it.
"Shay…" he said as they drove off again. "Do you think by any means, any of our apprehended suspects were some of the henchmen who performed the Kathryn Heist? Now they're selling it throughout Sodor?"
Gallagher raised his eyebrow. "Perhaps. But we'll have to wait for more evidence to confirm that. Speaking of which, how long ago was the Kathryn Heist?"
"A few weeks now," said Phelps. "So...if we've been on this case since then, how come no casualties have occurred until two days ago with our first investigation this morning? Where does it get us now?"
"Good question, Dan," said Gallagher. "It's like watching a play, like the failed Nativity play last Christmas. All we can do is keep quiet and find everything out in the end."
And so the two men drove across Sodor to the Numbers Operations building. They decided that if Sailor John had any henchmen supporting the morphine distribution, there had to be some form of communication coming from somewhere. They entered the building and went upstairs, where they met a civilized-looking man wearing a fine tux and hat.
"Detectives Phelps and Gallagher, SPD," said Phelps.
"The name's Jasper Ottie," said the man. "I run a strictly legitimate bookmakers, Detective."
Gallagher had been looking past Jasper and noticed eight telephones on one table clustered together and wired into the wall.
"So that there is not an illegal telephone service your colleagues…or rogues are running?" he asked curiously.
Phelps drew the little signature he picked up earlier form the Black Caesar, and showed his notebook with the "Weightless Rider," logo.
"And this little signature with your name and this address has nothing to do with you?" he added.
Jasper shot a glare. "I pay my kick to authorities and they pay their tribute to the SPD! You can't shake me down!"
"You're a loudmouthed, scumbag aren't you?" Gallagher asked annoyingly. "Didn't mummy ever tell you not to talk back to positions of authority? You sit tight there while we look around."
Phelps and Gallagher then began their search again. Gallagher walked over to the table where all the phones were and took more notes.
Phelps, meanwhile stumbled upon a grey box. He opened it up, and just as he expected, more morphine yet again.
"With this quantity, we're looking at a high level trafficking charge," he thought to himself. And another little signature carrying Ottie's name…and the "Weightless Rider," logo.
"I think Rider's place is our next stop," Phelps decided to himself. "You've got quite a plunder here, Jasper. Start talking."
But when he turned around, he already saw the man bolting downstairs.
"Get him, Phelps!" Gallagher demanded. Phelps dashed outside after Jasper Ottie, running across the road while Jasper pushed and jostled people out of his way to keep running. But Phelps eventually caught up. He seized Jasper, but the culprit spun around and threw Phelps against the wall of a building. Luckily, Phelps wasn't hurt and immediately got back on his feet.
"Okay, come on!" he growled, bolting towards Jasper. "You're under arrest for-"
Jasper gave Phelps a sudden punch to the face. Phelps recoiled for a moment, then suddenly yelled and jumped on Jasper, rolling him over and cuffing him.
Gallagher was waiting back in the room where the chase began when he saw the two men return.
"Alright, alright! You win!" Jasper grunted as he was pulled back inside the room.
"Phelps, take a look at this. I found it in the corner of the room behind the chest you investigated," and Gallagher handed him a cane, like Terry Dennis described.
"Impressive," Phelps grinned. "Most impressive. Too bad you couldn't pull off your vanishing act with this thing, Jasper."
"Make your jokes, detective, but be careful with that. It's a valuable antique," said Jasper.
Phelps lightly tapped it on the table. "You don't say? Gallagher, see what you can find."
Gallagher took the cane and checked carefully. Suddenly, he found that the top was a lid. He opened it and pulled out a piece of paper with a note.
It read, "Mr. Marlin Rider promises to pay Jasper Ottie 200 pounds. Marlin Rider."
"Ottie has Marlin Rider in his pocket. He must have forgotten a few numbers himself," whispered Phelps. He sat down with Jasper.
"Would you care to contemplate the odds of you going to prison for a very long time, Jasper?!" he asked angrily.
"I'm not going anywhere," refused Jasper. "I've paid my tributes and I'm not being taken down by either of you!"
"We are only interested in morphine…stolen morphine which we've been tracking since this early morning. Have you anything to say?" asked Phelps as he opened his book again.
"Yes, I heard about that. The Kathryn Heist. Frightful event, but I wasn't there at all," said Jasper.
"You distribute for Mitchell Finkelstien, serving as a puppet for the gang who performed the heist," said Phelps. "I want to know what happened to the morphine before it was sent to you and passed on through everything else."
"I don't know what you're talking about. I distribute for the SPD, and am a servant for good!" insisted Jasper.
"You are part of the morphine distribution and a traitor! Richard Adrian gave you up as his supplier," Gallagher hissed. "He said you're Mitchell's lackey and you'll act completely under his direction."
Jasper sighed. "I move the morphine Marlin brings me. Marlin Rider."
"Apparently, Rider owes you a fortune," said Phelps.
"We all owe somebody," said Jasper.
"So this has no part in the proceeds of the morphine shipment on board the S.S. Kathryn?" asked Phelps.
"That's a gambling debt. The thugs took my wire service and overruled me," explained Jasper. "Now all I do is shift drugs. Marlin is no different. He just thinks he's the big man who can run up tabs and turn a profit."
Phelps closed his book and got up. "You're not the one we want, Jasper, but you're coming with us. Maybe time behind bars will help you remember something worthwhile."
"Don't put you're money on that horse just yet, detectives," said Jasper.
After another police van was called in, Jasper Ottie was condemned to confinement in a cell.
"Take him away," Phelps said to the driver. "We got a little rough, so take the long way round and don't be gentle with him. Understood?"
"With pleasure," promised the driver.
At this point, Phelps and Gallagher could now move on to their more major objective, to drive to "Weightless Rider," headquarters to hopefully find the source of all the morphine distribution. They drove several miles north along Sodor until they came to another town and found a large greenish building labelled "Weightless Rider," on the front. They parked their car and walked over to a worker outside.
"SPD. We're here to see Marlin Rider," said Phelps.
"Why are you here?" asked the worker. As he asked this question, one of the delivery trucks was leaving the building.
"Routine inquiry, sir," said Gallagher. "Can you tell us where we can find him?"
"You missed him. He's in the delivery truck, just left as you came in."
Phelps looked behind himself. "Jesus H. Christ!" he exclaimed in anger and annoyance. "Come on, Gallagher, back to the car! We'll run him down in half a mile!"
In less than a minute, the detectives were firing down the road after the delivery truck, calling for backup…when suddenly, the back doors of the truck opened and a worker began hurling packages, boxes, and radios out, trying to hit Phelps or Gallagher as reinforcement cars from the SPD came flooding into the streets.
Phelps drove wildly after the truck, sometimes bumping into other cars in the haste and determination. Eventually, he rammed into the side of the truck and pushed it into a pole, damaging it too much to keep driving. Phelps then left his car and drew his pistol.
Soon enough, Marlin Rider was taken back to the parking lot outside his very business.
"The game is up, Rider!" snapped Phelps. "You're under arrest for suspicion of supplying illegal drugs, resisting arrest, attempted murder of me and Shay Gallagher and all-around malicious damage to SPD property!"
"Hold your horses, lads," Marlin said calmly. "I supply radios, not drugs. And that chase…that was an accident. My loads just came loose."
"Tell it to the judge, peasant," snapped Gallagher.
"You know what happens next, don't you Shay?" asked Phelps.
"Time to look around," they said together. They walked inside Weightless Rider. It was quite dark everywhere. The two detectives drew a flashlight and lit up the room. On one of the tables, Phelps found a log book containing all the delivery archives. He began checking the records carefully, looking for any repeats of multiple deliveries.
"Hmm…why is Rider buying so much ice?" he asked himself. He checked more records and saw that Jasper Ottie had bought plenty of furniture.
Suddenly, Phelps looked at the table beside him and saw a newspaper with a large headline.
It said, "IS SEYMOUR MURPHY ASSOCIATED WITH SAILOR JOHN?"
Phelps took particular notice of this and wrote that in his book too. He was well aware that Murphy worked as the Fat Controller's solicitor, but given how calm and clever he behaved, Phelps couldn't help but wonder whether or not there was more to him that met the eye.
"Hey, Dan!" called Gallagher. "Look at this. Where is this trail of water coming from?" Phelps came over and looked.
"There must be a way through the back," said Phelps. "You wait here for me to contact you. I'll go on and follow this trail."
"Okay."
And so, Phelps followed the trail of water through a maze of packages, furniture and more.
"Welcome to furniture village. Where taste comes to die." Phelps said to himself.
For almost ten minutes, Phelps kept following the trail left, right, this way and that, almost as if her were a rat in the maze himself, looking for any reward. After ten minutes, he did find some reward for the effort. A ladder going up. He climbed up and up and up, until he reached a balcony, several stories high above the floor. As he looked down at all the crates below him, he suddenly found a crane panel with tow levers and ran over to it.
He then took control of the crane and hauled the crate away from a blocked door way he saw earlier before climbing the ladder. At that moment, his radio sounded static, so he answered it.
"Phelps here," he said.
"Dan, Shay here. Come down. There's a cold room in the back!"
"Right down. Over," said Phelps. He climbed back down and found Gallagher walking into the cold room. Phelps followed him and found giant blocks of ice everywhere. But there was something different about this ice. Both men could see something frozen inside all the blocks. Phelps drew his pistol and shot the ice broken, revealing what was beneath.
"Well I'll be damned," said Phelps. "Shay…I think we got it. Perhaps this is how they're transporting the morphine!"
"We better report this to the chief," said Gallagher. He and Phelps walked their way out of the building…and just in time. A large truck belonging to Sodor's Ice company pulled in and the workmen began unloading more giant blocks of ice.
"SPD! Leave it right there!" shouted Phelps. "Everyone out of the vehicle with your hands up!"
"There's something in the ice," said Gallagher. At that moment, Marlin Rider, who had been watched over by the guard suddenly punched him and ran for it, back inside the building.
"Let him have it!" yelled Gallagher. "NO QUARTER!" And both men rushed in, with both pistols loaded. They could hear Rider yelling at them to come out and shoot, but they held back and hid behind packages for cover. Phelps very carefully stepped around a corner, holding his aim…when Rider suddenly came out ready to shoot, but suddenly, three shots rang through the large room and Marlin Rider saw no more.
Before long, a coroner was called from the SPD to take Rider's body away. The worker was also placed under arrest for attempting to aid his guilty employer.
"Take him back to the station," ordered Phelps. "Have some experts check this place over."
"Where will you be?" asked the officer.
"We have one more job to do…and a cold-hearted one too," said Phelps, winking to Gallagher. But when they returned to their car, Phelps recalled what Jasper Ottie said.
"Is Ottie serious? Is the SPD turning a blind eye to anything we don't know?" he asked.
"Keep your shirt on, Phelps," assured Gallagher as they drove off once more. "Morphine is prohibited, but that doesn't stop people from wanting to take it. Limiting supply doesn't mean we have limited demand."
"I understand that," said Phelps. "I know that the average joe needs to unwind a little, let his hair down at the end of the week. But morphine? Heroin?"
"It's important to demonise hop, Phelps. Looks good in the papers," replied Gallagher. "But when all's said and done, it's just another chemical like booze."
At last, Phelps and Gallagher arrived at their destination. The main Ice factory of Sodor. But as they approached it, a stranger walked by and said the factory was closed for years.
"Not much call for ice anymore will plenty of new-fangled refrigerators…more like new-fangled nonsense," said the stranger.
"We don't want to hear it," said Gallagher. "How janitors carry a weapon?" The stranger suddenly reached for his weapon, but Gallagher shot him down just as quickly. "That's one way of announcing we're here," said Phelps. Then he and Gallagher broke down the door, and finally found their final culprit.
"Mitchell Finkelstien! Give it up and pack it in!" ordered Phelps.
"Come get me!" challenged Mitchell as he ran upstairs through an open door. Phelps and Gallagher shot down the two men guarding Mitchell before running after him through the building. Phelps and Gallagher split up through the building, but only a minute or two later, gunfire ensued through the building.
"Shay! They're shooting!" Phelps exclaimed behind a desk. Several shots ensued at that moment while Phelps ducked for cover.
"Watch out, Dan! I'll try and head them off!" called Gallagher as he took off down the hallway. Phelps took out two more men before continuing pursuit after Mitchell Finkelstein.
"I ain't running out of friends or guns in here any time soon! Understood?" Mitchell shouted. Phelps disagreed to himself as he ran through the building until he reached another large room, with hundreds of ice blocks, where several more gunmen were hiding and ready to fire.
"Pour it on, damn it!" yelled Mitchell. "Keep shooting! I want these troublemakers dead!" Phelps heard him and swept through the maze of ice blocks, followed by Gallagher after he caught up and took out all the gunmen. After that, Both detectives followed Mitchell upstairs to one more room.
"They're all dead, Finkelstien," said Phelps. "Leave the weapon and put your hands up, now!"
"Hands up? Sure. Then what?" said Mitchell. "Policeman to peddling drugs to cut a deal as soon as I get locked up, some old friend puts an ice pick under my skin!"
"Only one other way, dipshit!" proclaimed Gallagher. He opened fire again, but Mitchell just dodged by a tiny margin and made a last attempt to run away and hide, but it was all in vain. Phelps cornered him and finally shot him down for good.
"Let's look around," said Phelps. "Now that we've finally prevailed."
"No need to look," said Gallagher. "Let's check this big chest right here." Phelps saw it was almost as tall as he was. He opened it up, and there it was. The final step in their investigation. Multiple boxes labelled for two thousand syringes of morphine each. One of those boxes was already open, revealing the same morphine packages since the beginning.
"Heavens," said Phelps. "This stuff has got to be worth at least a hundred grand…So Finkelstien participated in the Kathryn Heist?"
"No. I assume that Mitchell took the morphine off Sailor John's hands. This is big," said Gallagher. "But we've hit the jackpot here. This is going to make the papers, Phelps."
Within the hour, a squadron of policemen were called over to the ice factory with hatchets to smash the ice open and retrieve the morphine. The Chief had been called along too. After Phelps described everything, the Chief seemed quite proud.
"Well, well," he smiled. "Who would have thought that in one day, two of my top detectives could find out so much and give us such a large advantage? Good work, Phelps and Gallagher. This is a good result. As far as we can tell, Mitchell the Maker was moving the morphine across the Island as far north as Harwick. Altogether, about 25% of Sodor has had a touch of morphine by now. This makes us happy and it makes all your arrested suspects guilty as charged. I won't lie to you, boys. I like the headlines. I like them a lot. You keep this squad in the papers, and you're looking at a promotion."
And the Chief walked out of the ice chamber. Phelps and Gallagher looked at each other as they lit a match to smoke their pipes.
"Well done," they said at the same time.
"We're a big step closer to stopping Sailor John," said Phelps. Gallagher nodded and the detectives walked out of the ice chamber. So, the case of the illegal morphine was solved. But quite soon, Phelps and Gallagher would gain another victory against two more of Sailor John's henchmen…two men who were trigger happy to say the least.
Different, isn't it? As I said in the last story, this is a complete adaptation of one of "L.A. Noire's" Vice Department cases, *The Black Caesar*. Pretty faithful to the original, you did a damn fine job with this, Jeremy. Definitely very proud of this one. So yeah, this basically describes how the morphine from the S.S. Kathryn was distributed across Sodor following the Kathryn Heist, which again, was Sailor John's doing. Still, we're not done focusing on Sailor John's plan, as we'll be focusing on him again in the next story. So leave your reviews for this chapter and stay tuned for the next story, *Trigger Happy*.