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West of the Case: Part 4
West sits alone in the bar. The strong smell of alcohol fills the air, along with the cackling laughter of drunks and loud music blaring out of an old jukebox standing in the corner. She raises her shot of whiskey to her lips and takes a sip, the drink burning down her throat like liquid fire. She sighs and sets the empty glass down. Why was she here? The case of course.
It had been three weeks since West and Beck had agreed to take the case, and it had been three weeks since West had made any progress on solving it. She had visited the crime scene and had found nothing. Any traces of footprints or fingerprints had been mixed with the footprints and fingerprints of the officers who had responded to the mysterious call. Like they had said, there wasn't even any blood. West had searched the scene for hours before finally admitting defeat. That night she had met Beck at a restaurant to talk about their next move.
"I don't think I'm going to be able to solve this case, Beck," she had said miserably. "There's no evidence!" Beck had looked at her a minute and then shrugged.
"I don't know what to tell you," he had replied simply. West had sighed and slumped down into her chair. Now three weeks later she did the same, only this time in a bar and halfway drunk. She leans over the table And covers her head with her hands. A few minutes pass she feels herself drifting into unconsciousness.
"West," a deep, stern voice says. West looks wearily up onto the face of Beck who is looming above her. His arms are crossed, and his eyebrows are drawn together in pain and confusion. West slumps up.
"What?" she slurs, "What's wrong?"
"You're drunk," Beck replies, and for a moment his look of disapproval overpowers the sadness in his eyes. West scoffs.
"Thanks captain obvious," she says."Now what's wrong? What happened?"
Beck looks away for a moment, and tugs his hat down over his eyes a bit, then steps into the booth West sits in and and takes a seat. He leans forward, glancing around the room as he does so, and whispers slowly into Becks ear.
"Frank. He's been murdered."
It had been three weeks since West and Beck had agreed to take the case, and it had been three weeks since West had made any progress on solving it. She had visited the crime scene and had found nothing. Any traces of footprints or fingerprints had been mixed with the footprints and fingerprints of the officers who had responded to the mysterious call. Like they had said, there wasn't even any blood. West had searched the scene for hours before finally admitting defeat. That night she had met Beck at a restaurant to talk about their next move.
"I don't think I'm going to be able to solve this case, Beck," she had said miserably. "There's no evidence!" Beck had looked at her a minute and then shrugged.
"I don't know what to tell you," he had replied simply. West had sighed and slumped down into her chair. Now three weeks later she did the same, only this time in a bar and halfway drunk. She leans over the table And covers her head with her hands. A few minutes pass she feels herself drifting into unconsciousness.
"West," a deep, stern voice says. West looks wearily up onto the face of Beck who is looming above her. His arms are crossed, and his eyebrows are drawn together in pain and confusion. West slumps up.
"What?" she slurs, "What's wrong?"
"You're drunk," Beck replies, and for a moment his look of disapproval overpowers the sadness in his eyes. West scoffs.
"Thanks captain obvious," she says."Now what's wrong? What happened?"
Beck looks away for a moment, and tugs his hat down over his eyes a bit, then steps into the booth West sits in and and takes a seat. He leans forward, glancing around the room as he does so, and whispers slowly into Becks ear.
"Frank. He's been murdered."
