The mood at Station No. 4 was a gloomy one. The men avoided joking as they usually did. They all sat working at their posts. William walked right in, through to the back, and into his office. He slumped into his chair and lay his head on top of the heap of papers stacked on his desk. Inspector Brakeneried, he thought, what are we ever going to do without you?
Acting Inspector Murdoch decided to return the the alley, where the bruised and bloody body of the inspector lay just two days before. As he bent down, Murdoch noticed boot prints embedded in the dirt and dust.
"George!"
The young constable came running. "Sir? You called?"
"Yes George, I need you to fetch my casting kit."
As the constable complied, Murdoch discovered another set of prints, presumably the inspectors. My God, he thought. Who could have done this to you sir?
Together, the two men made casts of the prints and set them to dry.
"You know, George, I've wanted to be inspector for a while. I could do with the raise of pay. But this, without Brackenreid, this just feels wrong."
"I understand sir. The whole station feels out of place with out him."
When they returned to the the casts, they were dried. As he picked them up, he noticed something odd about the boot.
"See, George," he said, pointing to the heal. "There is heavy pressure here, but almost none where the toe should be."
"So the boots were too big. Well, sir, that eliminates any young tuff or business man. They would have their own boots."
"Your quite right. But the inspector has delt with many criminals over the years. I wouldn't be surprised if one off those had it in for him. You know how the inspector can be, if he was angry, or if he had too much to drink. "
And the two men, as friends, sat together, reminiscing in the memory of their dear inspector.