A Crime & A Sin
Damn this rain!
The water’s hammering down like a goddamn assault, beating against the tin shells of these cars. It’s a harshness that echoes through the streets, blending with the stench of this godforsaken city. And that relentless pounding, well, it’s like any other noise in Grim Harbor. Takes a while to get used to it.
Here I am, stuck in this Friday traffic, surrounded by a bunch of morons who couldn’t drive their way out of a paper bag. Ain’t this a hell of a way to spend my only day off? But truth is, I’d rather be here than at the office. This damn slum keeps us Homicide boys on our toes, chasing leads in every nook and cranny. We gotta hassle the good folks, asking questions about dead bodies dropped on every damn avenue and boulevard. Spent the past week doing just that. Piece by piece, I put together the facts, compiled a report for the D.A. on a case involving a teenage prostitute.
Locally, she was known as a cheap whore, willing to give a little lip service to anyone with a few bucks to spare. Last week, though, she decided to change careers. Early morning hours, she went fishing at the bottom of the Grim Harbor River. Problem was, she didn’t come equipped for the job. See, she was wearing her nightwear, as if that would help her land a big catch. Any sane person would’ve packed the right gear, but she didn’t have the brains to match her looks. Her John, the guy paying for the service, figured she didn’t need a brain.
So, he pressed a .357 against her skull and turned it into a goddamn crater, scattering her gray matter all over Grim Harbor before dumping her in the river. Thank the heavens that moron didn’t cover his tracks. He’s got a mouth the size of Lake Michigan, blabbing about his little escapade. Practically the whole damn city knows he’s the bastard who did it. Made it real easy for me and the boys to bring him in. And now, I’m finally off the case.
Homicide ain’t no walk in the park, let me tell ya. When Prohibition came and went, the department figured this city would settle down. But Grim Harbor ain’t no creation of bootleg booze or money-hungry hoodlums waving their pieces around. No siree! This place has a long history of corruption, murder, and downright cruelty. History speaks for itself. Take the Market incident, for instance. People lost their lives, victims of terror or the tightening grip of a noose. Then there was the Camp Union incident, a few acres away by Dundy Park. Used to be a Union training camp, then turned into a goddamn hellhole where Confederate soldiers suffered unspeakable horrors. And before that, there was the Indian War, where these self-proclaimed civilized Americans thought the only way to deal with the natives was at the end of a musket barrel. Grim Harbor has seen more bloodshed than those damn slaughterhouses over in the Square district. But these fools, they think pulling a few Tommy guns off the streets, rounding up some two-bit thugs, and shutting down a couple of speakeasies will make this place safer.
Well, they’re dead wrong. This city’s got blood running through its veins, and no amount of law enforcement can change that. Grim Harbor is its own breed of beast, and it takes a certain kind of gumshoe to navigate its treacherous streets. That’s where we come in. We’re the ones trying to keep a semblance of order, fighting tooth and nail against the darkness that seeps into every goddamn crack and crevice. The rain keeps falling, washing away the sins of this town, but it ain’t enough. The stench remains, clinging to the air like a sickening perfume.
So here I am, stuck in this goddamn traffic, rain beating down on my windshield. But I’ll keep pushing forward, because this city needs someone who ain’t afraid to get their hands dirty. Someone who’ll wade through the muck and mire, looking for the truth in a sea of lies. Yeah, that’s me, a goddamn knight in tarnished armor, a voice in the darkness. Grim Harbor may be a cesspool of despair, but I’ll be damned if I let it swallow me whole.
Pshaw! That’s why I’m damn glad I got a break from all that bullshit. Sure, I ain’t out there pounding the pavement just to savor my moment of peace. I could be at home, stuffing my face with cold pizza, drowning my sorrows in sour bourbon, and screwing some dime-a-dozen hooker. Grim Harbor offers plenty of that—booze, women, and grub. But here I am, braving the pouring rain, chasing after a pretty little tail.
Lydia’s the name of the dame. She’s a looker, no doubt about it. Five-four, maybe a buck-thirty, with a tan that’d make you weak in the knees and blond locks streaked with tawny highlights. Blue eyes that could charm the devil himself. She’s got brains too, and the sexiest damn voice ever to grace a woman’s lips. Works down at the Booking department in the station. We crossed paths a few weeks back.
I was sitting at my desk upstairs, sifting through an old newspaper, searching for any damn lead in this dump they call Grim Harbor. See, for some reason, these dicks in the department can’t figure out how to share information worth a damn. Messages get lost the moment the secretary hangs up the phone. Unless you’re there to answer the damn call, chances are you won’t get the break you’ve been waiting for to crack your case.
GHPD ain’t in the business of solving crimes, that’s for sure. I’m damn lucky that Lydia did all the talking ’cause ’round these parts, you got a better shot at finding the Cleveland Torso murderer than solving a goddamn case. Yeah, Grim Harbor wasn’t built by gangsters or Prohibition. Corruption had a stronghold in this city long before all that jazz. But Al and his crew did something history ain’t got no record of—they strangled justice right outta town hall and the police department. They kept the politicians and the boys in blue right in their back pockets. And even though those mobsters are long gone, their legacy hangs heavy in the air. It stinks worse than the sewer water this city had to battle in its early days.
But back to the story. That day, besides some lackluster details about the anniversary of Al Capone’s demise, the print had no real story to tell. The newspaper biz was turning into one big damn ad machine, barely a shred of real news left. It was becoming an artistic movement that’d make Picasso and Dali green with envy. Big bold headlines screaming for attention, while fine print whispered its secrets, creating a collage so captivating that I couldn’t decide whether to read it or hang it on a goddamn wall.
