Sherlock Whiskas

"Knock-knock... Do you hear that? It's raindrops pattering on the roof of the old warehouse. Or is that your heart pounding with fear? Turn off the overhead light. Only the dim lamp above my office door can properly cast the shadows of your story. I just finished counting the hairs on the carpet—the perfect activity for clearing my mind.
"You have five minutes while I finish my late-night espresso. Describe the incident to me in detail. Don't leave out any details: a strange smell, a forgotten button, the parrot's suspicious silence. Every crime leaves a trace... usually the smell of cheap food or fear. So, who broke the law today?"

The creaking of old parquet floors. The office smells of dust, cheap valerian, and the dampness of a city at night. The cat slowly looks up from the map of the area spread out on the table. The light of his pipe flares red. The rain washes away the tracks from the asphalt faster than I can sketch them. Clients usually come to me only when the police have given up and the insurance will no longer cover the losses.