Schrodinger's Cat is a cliche that escaped the physics lab, long ago. This is not its story.
These are Steve Heisenberg's stories. Crimes are not solved by clues or evidence. They are solved by a Siamese feline that haunts his steps.
The cat knows the truth, but we can’t know its name.
The Missing Mistress
I’m Steve, Steve Heisenberg. I’m not sure if I’m related to that Heisenberg but the possibility of it casts a shadow over me everywhere I go.
Like tonight, I get a call to 1135 Pierpont Avenue at 11:35 pm. The deceased is none other than the Pierpont. A middle-aged philanthropist with more than enough zeros in his checkbook. Seems like they weren’t enough to cover the names in his black book, though. Apparently, the chief is nervous about this one, so he called in his ace… me.
There’s more to this one than meets the eye. I’ve just got a feeling.
“Heisenberg! About time you got here.” The Chief’s face looks ready to go full tomato, no basil. I better deliver answers in record time. “We got a cold stiff, no witnesses, and no weapon. Where’s your cat?”
“I told you to call me Steve. The Feline comes and goes as it pleases. What do we know?”
I pull out a dog-eared notebook with a stubby pencil stuck through the spiral.
“Hiram Pierpont, sixty-five, dead in the overstuffed chair of his office. There’s blood on the note he was reading.”
The Chief hands me an ornate piece of stationery. The scent of lavender and vanilla pours off it.
My dearest,
I regret that I cannot be with you tonight.
You are always in my thoughts, dreams, and hopes.
It is the cruelest jest of fate that I met you when I was already married to another.
If we are ever found out, it would ruin both our lives but I consider it
a price worth paying. I will love you forever.
Faithfully,
M.
“The handwriting is exquisite. The lady must be quite well educated,” I muse. “The perfume is unique as well. We should be able to narrow down the suspects quickly.”
The Chief looks pleased. He claps me on the back. The crack of his hand on my worn trenchcoat punctuates his relief. It seems premature, but I don’t say so.
The fancy French doors that open onto the balcony squeal slightly. A sigh of fresh, outside air follows a black and white Siamese into the room. There’s a delicate lace handkerchief in its mouth. It marches across the Turkish rug and deposits it at the Chief’s feet. His face goes white as he bends to pick it up.
The Feline sits at my feet and licks its right paw, unconcerned. A sputtering cough draws our eyes to the “body” behind the mahogany desk. Hiram Pierpont’s watery eyes pop open and fix on the frilly fabric in the Chief’s hand, then flash to his face. Now the tomato is on the other noodles.
“I told you never to come near my wife again…Officer,” he grates, voice low and dangerous. “Her influence may have gotten you your position, but mine will make sure you never hold public office again.”
The Chief freezes then dives at the wealthy man, hands clutching for his throat. It takes everything I have to wrestle him to the ground and cuff him. The trip back to the station will be interesting to say the least.
As we walk out to the street and the waiting squad car, The Feline stalks behind us, silent and unreadable. The street doesn’t care and the night holds more questions than answers.