There is nothing I haven't seen before. That was Caitlyn's instantaneous thought as she hurried up a short flight of stone stairs and then stopped to coolly regard the blue strip of plastic horizontally blocking the completely ruined entrance of Demacia National Museum. Bright, yellow letters embellished the artificial material but she ignored their common, ever so repetitive message and allowed her eyes to traverse outwards, all while scribbling down mental notes. The great doorway had been soiled to but a meager comparison to its former glory, the beautiful, cream-colored marble dotted with countless of black, unsightly bullet holes, and the double mahogany doors themselves looked to have been smashed in by an outer force. But whereas a few windows had also been destroyed in the attack as well as the area around the entrance—most likely due to the perpetrator's excessive use of firearms—, the rest of the dazzling, gold and white edifice seemed to have evaded any further damage. Externally, at least.
Demacia must always build grander, more ornate buildings and stock them with riches as time goes by, don't they? Today's the sixth time in as many years something like this occurs; they are positively begging for it.
Caitlyn huffed white mist through her nose and pulled her fashionable but impractical khaki jacket tighter around her, along with her honey-colored scarf. The early morning was unusually chilly, even for it to be in the beginning of November, and frost coated the museum's dark windows like several weeks of well-attended spiderweb. The neatly groomed shrubbery surrounding the establishment was also depressed into a state of grayish paleness, the pallid color palette plunging the whole area into a dampish haze. Caitlyn was well aware that a full outbreak of cold waited just around the corner—the weekend—in Piltover according to the faithful Piltover's Daily and fleetingly wondered how come winter had already arrived in Demacia, where the icy season was relentless but usually very late.
The end of the year was imminent and the signs could be seen everywhere from the frequent sales in the stores to the change of general behavior, but especially due to the flamboyant advertisements of the Snowdown Showdown—the reinstated picture of a morbidly obese man in beard creating the most commotion. People were in high spirits and had already started the great debate of discussing which new champions would be revealed and also which champions would be chosen to the New Years Game, but—according to those who actually found this subject relevant—the most important aspect of the Snowdown Showdown was which types of outfits the legends would wear.
It is pitiful and a damn waste of time, Caitlyn thought and remembered the outrageously revealing minidress that some redhead had worn a year ago. A slight smile suddenly threatened to surface to her lips but Caitlyn forced the motion away, clenching her jaws together. What amused her was that even though she was soon about to reach three decades of existence, a time where most single, hardworking women would ferociously try to find a steady boyfriend, marry and then reproduce, she would remain in solitude as a result of her infuriatingly cynical view of life. Or so her fellow partner proclaimed whenever they got in an argument.
She is correct, though. I'm only twenty-nine but I could have likewise been closer to fifty and been a slightly overweight, yet virgin man with a tendency to watch porn during the evening and work within the fast food business during the day. The annoyance and irritation regarding the Snowdown Showdown would remain ever so mutual. Or at least statistically.
Caitlyn ducked underneath the blue strip in one fluent movement before abruptly halting a brief moment to observe what caused the odd, crusting noises beneath her newly bought, cognac-colored boots. Her brows furrowed in irritation when she noticed the tiny shards of broken glass laying scattered on the other side of the marble threshold she had been polite enough to thoroughly step over and decided to take a closer look at the shimmering pieces when a voice suddenly interrupted her.
"Honorable sheriff, thank the Light you made it."
Mid-descent, Caitlyn stiffened and her brown eyes immediately found the person who had spoken. A tall, elderly man clad in a black and blue pinstripe suit was approaching her with swift strides, his bony fingers nervously clutching a red, sizable notebook. Unnaturally thin legs carried a small, ball-shaped torso with long, scrawny arms and although the stranger was dressed in most expensive clothes, it was evident he suffered from lack of money; he wore no jewelry or any other accessories and his white shirt was a bit too well-worn, bordering to a faint yellow hue across the curving inner side of the collar. White, straight hair with a streak of silver was parted in the middle through the crown of his oval head, an anguished face with a beaky nose and a wide, thin-lipped mouth defining the face beneath. His dead gray eyes, sat dreadfully within their purplish sockets, reminded Caitlyn of those unpleasant dolls every child seemed to want to have, his pale, almost waxy complexion completing the look of a lifeless toy.
The man moved with a determination that was striking—every inch of his desiccated frame emitting narcissism—but his eyes lit up with awe and somewhat envy as he quickly eliminated the distance between the two, scrutinizing her from head to toe. Caitlyn straightened, forgetting her earlier intentions to investigate the broken glass, and held out her hand as he stretched out his own enormous hand towards her.
"Welcome to Demacia National Museum," said the man rapidly, his surprisingly light voice stumbling slightly on the words. Their hands clutched and he shook hers with fervor, his cold fingers chilling her. "These were not the kind of circumstances I had hoped to run in to you with, I assure you, but please accept my warmest welcome anyway."
I oughta enforce some governmental rules supported by the Institute of War rather than traveling here every time these proud dimwits are unable to solve a simple crime like this on their own, thought Caitlyn although she of course said none of this out loud. Instead she shook his hand in reply before releasing her hold, saying, "Thank you, Mr...?"
The man raised his gray eyebrows in dismay as he inhaled sharply. "Dear Light, seems like I've forgotten my manners. I apologize. I am the head of Demacia Cultural Preservation and a life member of the Demacian Council. Perhaps you've heard of me?"
Not at all. "It rather seems familiar, I must say," responded Caitlyn coolly. "But no name surfaces to my mind, unfortunately."
A flash of annoyance swept pass the elderly man's face but he recollected himself in an instant. "Not a bother at all; even the cleverest's memories can fault. My name is Gregior Nicholson and I am in charge of this establishment as well as its employees."
"Mr. Nicholson," noted Caitlyn, ignoring his subtle insult, "were you the person who demanded my presence?"
Mr. Nicholson nodded eagerly. "Yes it was indeed. I heard of your earlier successful endeavors regarding this matter and hoped to make use of your well-honed skills yet again. Demacia is and will always be very grateful for your cooperation, sheriff...?"
He grinned at Caitlyn, happy to have cornered her into her own trap, but she was not one to easily yield secrets. Her surname, for one. With a plastered smile on her lips, she proceeded as if she had not understood him. "There's no need for such overwhelming pleasantries," she curtly replied. "Simply lead me to the crime scene, introduce our suspects and I'll be done."
"Swift and sharp with your tongue, I see." Gregior Nicholson snorted lightly before bowing. "Allow me to lead the way, sheriff."
Caitlyn said no more. There was a homicide to be solved.