I'm back with the second chapter after a few weeks of deciding where the plot should go. I have one in my mind that I'm using to fill this with, but if you think yours is better then don't hesistate to say why. Reviewing will be appreciated but please, people, keep it constructive. Thanks!
Disclaimer: Never claimed to own Pokemon so why do I suddenly need to "disown" it?
Detective Joward Briggs slammed the report on his table with such force the paper flew out of his sweaty fingers and he hit the table with his fist instead, the favorite coffee mug his mother had given him for christmas some years ago an inch off the edge of his desk. He always seemed to be lucky with the coffee mug, but apparently that was where the luck ended. At that precise moment Briggs would have given anything in the world for that coffee mug to break and instead not get another of what he called "the lost cases." The name couldn't have been more appropriate in his opinion; they were always about lost people and he nearly always lost his temper when he got them because he considered it another loss for the department to be loosing so much valuable time on cases too loose to solve.
The only syllabel that could be understood as his words escaped the escapade of spit flying out at the same time was "mit!". Nobody paid any attention, they were far too used to this routine to bother. Give Joward a crappy case, pressure him, make it look like his fault if it isn't done by the extremely-short deadline. Nobody liked Joward Briggs, aged 23, with his spiky blond hair, unbuttoned first button on the light-blue shirt, rolled up sleeves, baggy trousers and a loose golden tie, but nobody really knew why. It had just passed on, like a contagious infection. Was it because he was good with the girls? Because he had achieved a high position so quickly while they had had to refer to year-long sprees of sucking-up? Or maybe because he had unusual Pokemon for partners with him? But one thing was certain. Compared to the staff of any Kanto P.D, Briggs was different. And people were always afraid of what was different.
Looking down at the report Joward found to his surprise that it was not a lost case. No, this was different. A dead body! Could it be? Had his chance finally come? Excitedly he began to sift through the possiblities - Murder? Suicide? Eagerly he flicked through the pages, tracing the typed sentences with his fingers all the way to the end. He read the specifics with a raised eyebrow: no prints, no signs of abuse, no sign of any other presence even. The autopsy had come out clean - not even the source of the blood had been found. Door still locked, nothing touched. Anybody else in the force would already start worrying about not being able to solve such a mystery but Briggs was far from perplexed. He would have whooped out if he could but in the ultra-professional enviroment they would look for any of that sort of behavior to fire him, so he decided to just let it go. He grabbed his car keys, and, just before closing the door, caught a glimpse of the mug in the flickering yellow lumination, thankful that the mug was still there. As he slammed the door, the mug tilted a little less than halfway on it's edge.
The first thing he noticed when he entered the house was the sense of security. As he entered the house he momentarily directed his glance towards the locks on the door, and started making mental notes. There were four number-key locks and a regular lock. Not only were the number-locks rare but also who would use them for just a house? Turning right he entered the main hall, his narrow and tall frame bearing no trouble with the wooden arch, a pull-up bar pressing the sides which he had to bend down to avoid. In the main hall there was a small window through which he could see his car parked outside, steel bars all around. Inside there was a bottle of perfume, a cellphone and countless empty Pokeballs. Other than those the light-orange tiled, yellow-walled room was completely empty. Suicide was temporarily ruled out. After all, would a man go through all this just to rest himself forever? No, he would have to come back and take a better look in the morning.
As he studied his mental notes carefully while stepping out of the hall, his head hit the pull-up bar which he, until now, had not considered worthy (or suspicious) enough to be part of the tedious subjugation that was about to follow. That is, until he realized his forehead had just knocked a carefully-camouflaged button on the bar. The number-keys automatically locked, windows blinded and he heard a well-defined noise behind him.
Thanks for reading!
: spi