Ch 2- Interrogation
To recap for the absentminded, I, the do-gooder Darkwing Duck, have been called out of my territory to investigate the theft of a painting at the McDuck Manor. I am currently holding a green post-it note and a pair of goggles as evidence. It will take wits, skill, and a little help from Starducks' Triple Chocolate Mocha with three extra shots of espresso to close this case. I pace in front of all the occupants as I contemplate the best course of action...
"Would you get on with it already?" Donald snaps. "The boys are going to keel over any second now!"
Only the green one seems remotely close to falling asleep. The other two appear extra happy at staying up past their bedtime.
"Fine, fine. People just don't appreciate a good expository monologue these days," I grumble. "Now, where did you last see the painting?"
"It was in the garage," Scrooge replies, pacing back and forth. At this rate he would wear out the carpet within the next hour.
"And you are absolutely certain that you didn't move it elsewhere and forget?" I ask.
That mere slip of the tongue earns me a jab to the jaw with his cane. "I may be old, but my memory is sharper than a dozen African elephants," he snaps.
If he disfigures my rather prominent and dashing bill, I'll be sure to send him the medical costs.
"Noted," I say, backing up. "Now, I shall have to question the children. With their valuable information, I can catch our suspect red handed!"
"I get to help in an investigation? So cool!" The little girl exclaims.
An elderly woman glares at me. "Questions only. They will not be helping you catch the thief if they're still skulking around."
I nod. As a general rule, I don't care for tact. But if the woman in question looks like she could squish me into a ball with her thumb, then perhaps a bit of tact is in order.
Or a lot.
"I don't like this. He's accusing my boys," Donald mutters. "Nobody accuses my boys."
"Get it over with already. Just answer the best you can," Scrooge sighs.
I clap my hands. "Great! Do I have any volunteers?"
No response. Huh. You'd think children would be happy to spend a little time with the daring and dangerously handsome Darkwing Duck.
I am currently in the kitchen area with the red triplet. He watches me as I sharpen my pencil in preparation for note taking, eagerly awaiting the moment I drop my guard so he can gather reinforcements and overpower my otherwise indomitable will...
"Is Huey Duck your full legal name?" I ask.
"Well, as far as I know it's spelled Hubert on my birth certificate," Huey replies, scratching his head. "I can pull up the document for you if you'd like. The Junior Woodchuck guidebook states that it's important to at least have two forms of official documentation at all times."
Oh, he's a Junior Woodchuck. I assume he knows how to tie knots, set traps, and make friendship bracelets out of paperclips and bubblegum. He could very well be a crafty individual...
I shall proceed with caution.
"Where were you at the time of the theft?" I ask.
Huey thinks, scratching his chin as he comes up with his carefully crafted answer designed to cover up his involvement. "Webby was showing us the proper way to slide down the banister of the stairs. Please don't tell Uncle Donald we were doing something that could've resulted in a broken arm if done incorrectly."
"HUEY! YOU AND YOUR BROTHERS WERE DOING WHAT?" A raspy snarl sounds from behind me. Huey flinches and laughs nervously.
I tap my foot to get Donald's attention. "Excuse me, good sir. I was in the middle of a very important matter. Away with you, and I'll fill you in on the results when my interrogation is complete."
"Interrogation, my tailfeathers!" For the sensitive eyes of any youngsters viewing this file, I shall not record the resulting tirade of quacks, swearing, and onomatopoeia that occur when two angry ducks duke it out on a stress-filled night.
(The following is an afterward for my archives at the tower. Let this be a lesson to myself: Make sure prying, short tempered uncles cannot eavesdrop on any future interrogations.)
I humbly apologize to Scrooge McDuck and I have purchased a new pressure cooker that I will send off tomorrow to get his lawyer to stop staking out on the walkway of the Audubon Bay Bridge. How does he even know where my lair is?
Enclosed in the package is an photograph of me posing heroically in front of a defeated Steelbeak. I even perfected my signature for the occasion! It's a loopy cursive style, my preferred choice of penmanship, by the way.)
Huey Duck admits to being in the same vicinity as the aviator goggles. This is a most peculiar development.
I shall now proceed to the blue triplet.
After I drag myself to the nearest pharmacy for some painkillers...
There is now a screen set up by yours truly that separates the kitchen and parlor to prevent Donald from interrupting my investigation with his irate inanities.
The blue triplet grabs a handful of cookies for a midnight snack. A rebel I presume.
"So do you have a secret identity and stuff?" he asks through a beakful of crumbs. "Maybe I should adopt one myself. But until then, I'm just plain ol' Dewey."
I keep my distance so the crumbs don't hit my newly ironed cape. "A secret identity?" I laugh. "Crimefighting is a 24/7 job, kid. I don't need one as long as there are criminals to bust."
"I've seen my Uncle Scrooge turn a dragon to stone," Dewey says, leaning casually on the back of his chair. "I bet you can't turn a dragon to stone."
"Hah! I don't need to!" I growl. Is he challenging my abilities as a vigilante? Well, he had another coming! "I defeated Eggmen with nothing but sunflower oil and a vase! I bested the likes of St. Canard's thieves, litterbugs, and supervillains time and time again! Can your uncle do that, kid?"
Dewey yawns. "Sure he can."
I decided to change the subject before my pride as a hero gets dragged through the mud, run over by a dump truck, and thrown into Davy Jones' Locker.
"What were you doing the night of the theft?" I ask.
"Wait, is this an interrogation?" Dewey looks around, flipping the tablecloth as he looks underneath it for something.
How unusual.
Some might call it suspicious.
"Where are the lights? Did you bug the room?" Dewey asks. "This can't be an interrogation if I'm not tied to a chair! Oh, maybe I could do the James Pond thing and escape with a laser ballpoint pen! Do you have one of those?"
"Answer the question," I say, waiting for a response. "Your uncle will tar and feather me if I tie you up."
Dewey blinks. "Fine. We were sliding down the banister."
So the story checks out then. "Anything else?" I ask.
"It was pretty funny when Louie went down the banister just as this strangely shaped trenchcoat tumbled down the stairs. He thought it was Uncle Donald in disguise," Dewey snickers.
A strangely shaped trenchcoat? Now we're getting somewhere.
"And did you see who was in the trenchcoat?" I ask, clicking my pen as I jot down all the new information. "Or their height? Distinguishing characteristics?"
Dewey shakes his head. "Um, it was kinda long. It was a really big trenchcoat, but whoever was inside it was definitely about average size since we never saw their face."
"And does this look familiar to you?" I hold out the aviator goggles.
He nods. "That fell out from underneath the trenchcoat when they fell down the stairs."
"I see. Well, that concludes this round of questioning. Your contribution is much appreciated," I say proudly.
Dewey huffs. "Uncle Scrooge can burrow through gold like a gopher. Bet you can't do that."
I take back what I said about appreciating his contribution.
There's something shifty about the green one. It must lie in how his hands remain in his pockets as he slumps against the chair. Or how he yawns every few seconds without expressing any strong emotion. Or the half-lidded gaze he gives me when my cape flutters.
"And you are?" I ask.
"Louie. Hey," he says, as if I was nothing more than his bestie.
"Louie. Do you know what this is?" I dump a crumpled green post it in front of him.
"It's a post it," he says.
I must resist the urge to slap my forehead. "I know it's a post it."
Louie shrugs. "So why were you asking me then? I mean, I guess you're old and stuff, not as old as Uncle Scrooge but still a lot older than me."
He did not just call me a senile senior citizen who slowly walks down the hallway of an assisted care center with a walker and spends the rest of his days playing bingo and gin.
I mean, my feathers aren't turning gray or anything! I'm not that old!
"Look, kid. I'll let bygones be bygones. Now, tell me what the post it note was doing near the painting."
Louie scoffs, folding his arms. "I just put the post its on cool stuff I want to inherit when I'm older. I put them there a few weeks ago. Nothing to do with the theft."
A red herring. Or a green herring in this case. Seems plausible enough.
"One more question before I let you go," I say. "Did you happen to see who was in the trenchcoat?"
He shakes his head. "I was kinda more focused on getting back at Dewey for laughing at me when I fell off the banister."
I sigh. "Fine. Thanks for your help."
A gas gun falls out of his hoodie.
"Hehe. I thought it needed a little cleaning. There's a bit of dust on the barrel," Louie chuckles.
A hero's intuition is never wrong. I was right to suspect he was up to no good!
"Oh my gosh an actual investigation!" the girl shrieks. She stands on the table in an action pose. I have to admit, she doesn't look half bad. "And I get to help! I've never done this thing before! Can I be your sidekick? Temporary sidekick? I'll organize any files you have! I'm the best when it comes to organizing!"
"Sorry," I say. "Darkwing Duck is a loner who bravely champions the moonless nights, weathers through the thunderstorms, and stalks prey with hardly a sound. A tag-along would only slow me down."
She nods, only looking slightly crestfallen. "Well, I'm Webby, for future reference. So, anything I can help you with then? I mean, there's got to be something, right?"
"What happened after whoever was in the trenchcoat tumbled down the stairs?" I ask.
"They opened the front door and ran outside," Webby replies.
Eureka! Then they stole the painting!
"Thanks, kid!" I exclaim. "Now, let us reconvene at the parlor to catch ourselves a thief! But first, you want a picture together? I'm trying to reach out to a younger audience here. It'll help for marketing in the future."
She grins.
How Webby hid a selfie stick on her person, I will never figure out.
"I'm done with my questions!" I say, waiting for the onslaught of questions and shouts from my enraptured audience.
Ahem.
"And?" Scrooge taps his foot impatiently.
Tough crowd. People don't react like they used to.
"From these questions, I have concluded that the thief came in through the upstairs. They would've put the trenchcoat on after they entered the manor, though I don't know why they took the roundabout way instead of just directly heading for the garage. From there, they tumbled down the stairs and made a beeline for the garage, where they stole the painting."
Donald huffs. "Perfect. As if I didn't have enough to deal with already. Kids, go back to bed. I don't want you being all cranky in the morning."
They groan and protest, begging for a chance to capture the thief.
"Please! I'll donate a kidney if you'd let me!"
"No one steals from us! We can catch them!"
"I know how to set traps! I just need a lot of rope and duct tape!"
Scrooge taps his cane against the ground, and they instantly quiet down. "We're dealing with someone who knows their way around the manor. They'll be back soon enough. Now, I have a plan to catch them..."
As Scrooge announces his plan to reclaim the pilfered painting, I sit back to contemplate the events that transpired during the interrogation.
And I have come to a single conclusion.
I am never having kids. Not even if you bound and gagged me on an exploding motorcycle.
Not now or ever.