So you want an interview with the famous Detective Adrian Spade? 

Let me tell you the truth, kid – being a detective isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be. A lot of people think it’s like the old black and white noir films in which the gruff detective, who smokes like a chimney, stops a criminal from getting away with murder, a dame clinging onto one arm and a Colt Detective Series .38 revolver in the other hand. 

Well, I hate to burst your bubble, but it isn’t that glamorous. Yeah, I’m a Homicide Detective for the NYPD, but that doesn’t mean we are able to solve every crime that comes across our desks. The worst part about this job – besides seeing husbands beating their wives or children found dead by the side of a railroad track – is that regardless of whether or not we find the murderers, the victims are still dead. No deus ex machina, no coming back to life. Dead, end of story, move on to the next case.

Not exactly what you wanted to hear, but you wanted the truth – so there you have it. But I suppose you still need a story to bring back to your newspaper, don’t you? What kind of story do you want? Wait, one with a happy ending? Oh bullsh--, you know there’s no such thing in the world of homicide. What else can I do for you? A weird case? Like what, some sort of “Silence of the Lambs” situation? I don’t have anything that exciting, but I do have a case that remains my most interesting one to date – one that I solved just last week. 

I was still considered a rookie at the time, even though I had three years and over a hundred homicide cases under my belt. You see, in the world of homicide, until you have that one case that truly makes the record books, you’re still considered a rookie. The case began just like any other: I was called to a crime scene – a house just a couple of blocks from the department. The cops had set up a barrier to ward off any curious bystanders and keep the media away. Damn newspeople, I swear the only way they can survive in society is to try and publish a story, no matter how far-fetched. Anyway, I’m getting distracted, you want to more about this case.

When I stepped into the house, something about the environment threw me. There was no sign of a struggle or any form of violence. As I moved to the room where the body was, I was shocked to see that the victim hadn’t been stabbed or shot, but was hanging by a noose in his bedroom. 

“What the hell is this?” I asked my officers. “You called a homicide detective for a suicide? Call the morgue and get this stiff out of here.” 

The officer who was on duty at the time, a Detective Legrasse, began to explain. “At first I thought it was a suicide – until I read the note to find that it was a will addressed by his mother. 

“So … he hung himself because he didn’t get any of mother’s money?” 

“Not exactly – there’s a reason I called for a homicide detective.” Legrasse looked at me pointedly as he passed over the will. As I read through the short document, I began to understand.

The will was addressed to a Mitchell Peters from a woman by the name of Rosa Peters who at this point we knew to be the mother. The will read something like this: “To my son, Mitchell Peters: just as I warned both you and your brothers, the Boogeyman will come for you after my death. The only way to escape him is to end your own life. That is the only thing you will receive from me after death. Farewell and make the best choice.” 

I looked at Legrasse with a look of disgust and confusion, “Christ, why would any mother want for her sons to kill themselves over a spook story?” Legrasse shrugged his shoulders. “This is why we called you. At this point it looks like a murder-suicide and personally I’m glad I don’t have to work it.” 

I looked at him and smiled. “Well, I was thinking that since you had such a keen eye for this, I’ll have you help me with this case.”

He was about to contest when we heard a commotion coming from the front door. We turned around and saw a frantic young man trying to break through the police line. “Let me through, I have to see him, I have to see him, don’t you understand?” The policewoman holding him kept telling him to back away and calm down. “Dammit lady, you don’t understand! I need to see if it’s really my brother in there.” At that point, I made my way to the front door and told the officer to let him through. 

“Sir, I’m Detective Spade of the NY–” 

“Look, no offence, but I need to see if it’s really Mitchell in there.” 

Those words make my job hell on most occasions – having to explain that a loved one isn’t around anymore is like taking a bullet in the gut. I looked into the guy’s frustrated and scared face, sighed, and let him through to the room. As he ran past, Legrasse looked at me disapprovingly. 

“Why would you let him contaminate the crime scene? You do realize that you’re breaking protocol?” 

“It makes it easier to 100% confirm the body, and besides it’s better to identify a family member in a place of comfort than on the cold slab at the morgue.” 

I heard a cry from the dead man’s room and waited until the brother stumbled back out. 

“Is that your brother in there?” I asked him. 

“Yes – that’s Mitchell. That is – was – my brother. God, I can’t believe he actually listened to mom and killed himself.”

“What’s your name?” I asked. 

“Troy, Troy Peters.” 

“Well, Troy, why don’t you come with us back to the station so we can ask you a few questions.” After a moment’s thought, he nodded and followed us back to the police station.

Within the hour, the three of us were in my office with the blinds closed. At this point I didn’t have any leads besides Troy, who was sitting across from me looking like he was about to soil his pants. He looked more nervous than sad about his brother’s death. 

“How are you doing, Troy?” 

“How am I doing?! Are you seriously going to ask me that after I just saw my own brother dead from hanging himself?” 

“Well, correct me if I’m wrong, but you appear more nervous than sad, why is that?” 

This was when the waterworks began. Legrasse smiled sardonically. Turning to the officer, I asked, “Why are you smiling at this man’s misfortune?” 

“I just find it interesting that after mentioning how someone should react to the death of their brother then they truly begin to cry.” 

Troy looked up at Legrasse with disgust. “Do you think I had something to do with the death of my own brother? No, it was that damn story that killed my brother, that’s what made him hang himself. I tried to tell him and Ronald not to listen to mom about that “Boogeyman” horse sh-- but they wouldn’t listen to me.” 

Troy broke down and began to sob on my desk. I gave him a moment before continuing with my questions.

“Who’s Ronald?” I asked him. Troy lifted his head up from my desk to look at me. “There are three of us – brothers, I mean. Mitchell was the youngest and the second to die. Ronald was the oldest and the first to die. He lived in a small town up in a Maine, a place called Castlerock. Anyway, I thought he wouldn’t believe in the story, but I was wrong. You see, unlike you guys, the police up in Maine ruled it a suicide. What I have to ask you, detective, is why are you investigating this as murder?” 

“We’re ruling this case a murder-suicide because of the contents of the will that was found on his body. What is this ‘boogeyman’ that the will refers to?” Troy looked down at his lap for a moment and sighed before answering. “Officially, there are just three brothers in the Peters family, but unofficially, there is a fourth. This brother, who my mother named Raymond, was older than Ronald by five years. According to my mother, he started showing signs of violence at a very young age. Raymond would do things like try to get into the knives or knock down furniture on top of people. The final straw for my parents was when Ronald was born. Raymond got into the knife drawer, pulled out a small a paring knife, and cut a big gash into Ronald’s arm. When my parents got Ronald to the hospital the doctors asked Raymond why he cut his brother. He said he wanted to see what his muscles looked like. My parents checked him into the hospital’s sanitorium. I didn’t learn about this until much later. My mom referred to him as the ‘boogeyman’ because of what he did to my brother. Last year, she passed away, but as we gathered around her deathbed she told us that Raymond had escaped the sanatorium and was looking for us.”

He paused to take a deep breath. “And this is where the story picks up.” 

“Well, in that case, thank you for your help. Legrasse, will you watch over Troy while I go get the release forms?” Legrasse nodded and I left my office to retrieve the forms. When I got to the desk, the receptionist handed me a letter with “URGENT” printed on the envelope. Opening it, I found a letter from the murderer himself. It read:

To the nosy detective Spade,

I don’t appreciate you involving yourself in my family’s business. I think it’s time for me to introduce myself, wouldn’t you agree? Let’s meet where it all began – the address is on the back. I’ll be very happy when I finally get to meet the famous Detective Adrian Spade face-to-face. Bring nobody else with you, otherwise things will get messy for you and your fellow men. Ta-Ta, Detective.

Sincerely,

Raymond “Boogeyman” Peters

P.S. I appreciate that your office is on the ground floor. It makes it so much easier to see my dear brother one last time.

At that moment, I realized he was in the building and was going after his brother. I started running toward my office, drawing my P226 9mm handgun in the process. When I kicked down the door I walked into a horror that no one could have ever imaged. Troy had a knife sticking out of his throat and blood was running down the front of his shirt. Legrasse was lying on the ground, unconscious, next to the open window that Raymond had used to get in. The murderer had left a note written in blood on the wall: SEE YOU SOON, NOSY.

I ran over to Legrasse who was beginning to regain consciousness. 

“Legrasse! Are you alright? What happened?” 

He was beginning to regain his faculties – once he was propped against the wall, he began to speak.

“He caught me off guard … I heard the window shatter and a man dove in … he came after me first, and slammed my head on the desk. I saw him stalking toward his brother just before I blacked out.” He looked over toward Troy’s body. “Christ, he killed him.” 

After a moment to gather ourselves, I showed Legrasse the murderer’s note. Cradling his face, Legrasse smiled. “Let’s finish this, let’s go get the son of a b----.”

The drive to the small town north of the city took about three hours. As we pulled up to the house, I instructed Legrasse to go around back. I made my way through the front door and found myself in what appeared to be a living room with only two chairs in the middle of the room. As I got closer, I saw that one of the chairs had a note on it telling me to sit. I sat down and waited. After what seemed like hours, I heard a small creak in the back of the house. Standing, I inched my way over to where it came from. 

“Legrasse, is that you?” I whispered …