((I don't own Animal Crossing, blah blah blah. This is entirely fictitious, blah blah blah. Now on with the show.))
My life was going along fine before all of this started. Work had become much more low key the past few years, a very welcome opportunity in my eyes. I may have only been 32, but my career had already peaked. I wasn't disappointed about this by any means. It was my choice, after all, to open up my own practice and take the jobs no one else wanted. Tailing an unfaithful spouse or uncovering small-scale drug rings may have been mundane jobs for another P.I., but I loved the stuff. The drama. The passion. It was all so intense, so real, and so much less disturbing than murder cases. It was like I was watching a bad soap opera from the front row.
The work always came, too. I started as a rookie detective in the police department six years ago under a veteran. The famed Sempronius Buford had been the top man for years. In fact, his work had inspired me to consider becoming a detective. Growing up in Caldwell, it was impossible to go without hearing his name. He was a celebrated hero in a city of mild violence and strange crime. Through his efforts, the crime rate decreased dramatically and the city started to get its act together. Working under Buford was a dream come true.
From the beginning of our time together, he made it clear that I was his last apprentice. On a number of occasions, he informed me that he had one year or one big job left in him, whichever came first. Fortunately for me, the big job came first. A maniacal serial killer began targeting high profile citizens of Caldwell. Clara Harris, a young and beautiful lounge singer; Schuyler Cromwell, a leader in the Animal Rights Movement; and John Whaley, a prominent chef, all came to an untimely end before the bastard was caught. In a week of madness and turmoil, I'd figured it all out. Turns out it wasn't just one killer, but two. I gained a great deal of fame when I cracked the case and almost single-handedly captured Sanford and Scarlett Oberlin, a pair of anthropomorphized mice. Buford resigned, I took his spot for a year, and then opened up my own private business.
Like I said, I didn't mind the small jobs. Every so often, I'd stray from the angry lovers or concerned parents and take on a homicide case, but nothing could prepare me for what I was about to be thrust into. In my short time as a champion detective, I came to hate late night phone calls. They didn't always wake me- I wasn't always asleep- but I hated them just the same. They meant trouble. They meant something big happened. They meant something was wrong, and it was so wrong that it couldn't wait until morning. On the flip side, they meant a nice paycheck, courtesy of the Caldwell Police Department.
This case started, as so many do, with one of those late night phone calls. Startled, I slammed the door to the medicine cabinet at the sound of the ringing. I clenched my teeth and looked into the mirror. My face was still young, still attractive, but it showed signs of wear. The beginnings of wrinkles had formed around my eyes and on my cheeks, and my face sported a semi-permanent five o'clock shadow. Even so, I had retained my boyish good looks, blonde hair, and blue eyes that helped launch my mild celebrity. I thought of how silly yet exciting it had been when I was photographed for the sleuthing journals. I didn't mind being appreciated for my looks.
I glanced down at the colorful pills in my hand. They were quickly becoming the only way I could get any sleep. I set them on the sink and left the bathroom. My phone was sitting on the nightstand in my bedroom.
"What is it this time, Fitz?" I asked immediately. I didn't need the caller ID to tell me it was Guy Fitzhugh. He was the only one to call me so late. Fitz was the lousy sack of shit they'd hired down at the police department to replace the fellow who'd replaced the fellow who'd replaced me. Apparently, a good detective was getting hard to find in this city, unless you wanted to pay big bucks for a private asshole like me, and this string of know-nothing deadbeats were all too often disturbing my unreliable sleeping habits.
"Please don't call me that, Detective Howard," the deep voice responded. The only difference between Detective Fitzhugh and the other jerks they'd hired to replace me down at the PD was that Fitz was an Animal. At least he was a border collie and not a mouse. It was hard for me to look at those shifty creatures the same since the Oberlin case. "We've got quite the mess out here, Amos. It looks... We've got... Well, it's a goddam mess, and we need you."
"Tell me what's going on," I said. So many of the problems I was phoned about were solved, at least temporarily, by advice. Either I told Fitz where to look or how to proceed. Whatever it was, I tried to keep it to the phone. I only went to a crime scene if I had to, and more and more that wasn't often.
"Not this time," Fitz replied, and I knew what he meant. "This is big. Biggest thing I've been involved with. Could be bigger than the Oberlin case."
My body turned cold. "What do you mean?" I asked calmly.
"What I mean," Fitz replied. "Is that I'm calling from the Mayor's office. Tortimer's dead."