June 2nd, 1958

Yea, I guess that didn't start out too good. My name's Patrick James, and I'm a detective of the underwater city of Rapture's police force.

I've been a cop for only a couple years. I started out in Brooklyn just after high school, then was ostracized three years later for getting a little too close to exposing a dirty judge. I was unemployed for a month when one of Andrew Ryan's men found me. He told me I could come to Rapture and become one of it's boys in blue—only now as a detective. I would just have to leave the surface and never come back. I agreed without hesitation. What did I need the surface for, anyway? They could keep their bureaucracy, their dirties, and their damn hypocrisy. I chose Rapture.

It's been a year, and the city's been good. Everyday I'd do my duty and spend my evenings under the entertainment of the Great Sander Cohen and every weekend I spend getting piss drunk at The Eve's Garden. Hell, even on the job there ain't much to enforce. One or two cases of vandalism, a couple fights... Rapture's too busy with it's ADAM to do anything that'll cause a lotta trouble.

ADAM... as if Rapture isn't special enough, we gotta toss a dab of the impossible. Whatever scientific mumbo jumbo goes into it, it comes out one helluva contender to heroin. With ADAM, nothing can't be done. I myself haven't done much splicing; something about it makes me uneasy. But if this case keeps going the way it is, I may not have a choice.

So what is this, you ask? This stupid investigation has just fallen into our laps and already I'm shakin like a leaf. Why? Friggin' contraband. Smugglers! I'm terrified by a couple a moronic, washed up sailors bringing in booze, books, and films from the outside.

As I scratch all this down, I start to think of how much of a chicken I must look. This'll all blow over and I'll be back at ol' Eve's, laughing at myself before I know it. I should just drop this pen and walk away now.

June 4th, 1958

This is going nowhere fast. We keep finding traces of these smuggled goods, but never any real evidence. And these boys by the docks aren't exactly giving us any leads, either. Most of us wanna call this a dead end and split, but Sullivan has direct orders from Ryan to keep looking.

Sullivan never struck me as a man who could just take orders. I know he don't like most of them—I can see it in his eyes, yet he keeps playing middle man on this. I don't get it. At least, until I hear Ryan's voice in an announcement. There's something about that guy's talk. It's like he'd just as soon fire ya out of Rapture and into the ocean like a freaking torpedo as say 'good morning'.

Anyway, I'm hoping to hit somethin soon. I want to be over and done with these smugglers ASAP.

June 17th, 1958

We finally found something today. A whole trip-load of outside crap and the man who brought it in. Bad news is the guy's completely cracked. He's been in custody for three days, and all he's given us is him repeating the same stinkin thing over and over. "Fontaine's Home for the Poor. Sad saps. Fontaine's Home for the Poor. Sad saps..." and it goes on.

Of course we'd suspected Fontaine—I mean, the whole thing's goin on on his Fisheries's backyard, but it's all been speculative. We aren't held down by freakin probable cause anymore, but we're like a bunch a lambs that we just seem to need to be herded by crippling rules, even when they aren't there.

Anyways, this mornin we talked to Fontaine. Frank Fontaine: Grade A thug. Kinda reminds me of my father—and my old man was a complete bastard. Fontaine's got huge companies in Rapture: The Fisheries, The Home for the Poor, The Little Sister's Orphanage, and Fontaine's Futuristics. Jeez, I mean, the man's got everything he needs to completely trump Ryan, but he doesn't. At least, he hasn't.

Oh, but he can. I watched him today, in his office as he calmly and smoothly answered our questions. He was completely at ease as we practically accused him of breaking one of the only laws in Rapture: contact with the surface. He even smiled, like he was amused of our attempt to corner him. It drove Sullivan nuts, and that just made Fontaine's smile even wider.

As we were leaving, and older detective muttered, "Never met a guy so blatantly guilty and proud of it in all my time on the force, and I've met John Dillinger."

I was the last t' leave; I just stood in the back by the door as the cops left, watching Fontaine return to his paperwork or whatever it is he does. He must've felt my stare, cause he looked up and straight into my eyes. I swear, it felt like he was boring into my mind. Finally, he smiled and winked at me. "Catch me if ya can, kid. Catch me if you can."