Let's make a story!

A vision flashed for only a second and disappeared; I staggered and stumbled my way back towards the cabin!

I was reaching for the doorknob when the hairs on the back of my neck stood up like soldiers at attention; the door stood ajar.

Not certain that I had left the door ajar in my haste, I pushed it open gingerly, while all the loose ends raced through my brain-the knife, the end table with no dust, the Sasquatch impersonator, the rasping sound; obviously someone had been here--and wanted to frighten me off.

A possible course of action came to mind as I searched the seldom visited recesses of my mind for the name of that mildly famous foreign-born detective who was so helpful with my father's case and just as I was about to give up in frustration, I had it; a call to Detective Een Igma was definitely in order.

I entered the cabin cautiously, checked the loft, and picked up the phone; I was grateful to hear a dial tone.

FELLOW AUTHORS! Let's change the rules and allow 2 or 3 sentences. I think things will move along better and we can develop our ideas a bit. If you agree, write several sentences. I don't thing falling_rain would mind.

Yee ha! I concur. Besides, sometimes it is hard to say all I have in my head in one coherent sentence.

I rummaged through my purse looking for the business card Detective Een Igma had given me that had his direct access line. My hands shook slightly as I dialed his number while mentally itemizing the details I would need to tell him. The phone rang several times, then went abruptly silent.

"Put the phone down!" The voice startled me, but somehow I wasn't frightened. I placed the phone on its cradle, and turned to look at the speaker.

A tall, dark figure was standing in the doorway. His ominous presence was unbearable. Thoughts raced wildly inside my mind.

Detective Een Igma stepped out of the shadows and I spluttered,"I was just trying to phone you!"

"I am well aware of that," he said. "We have been watching this place for days. Seems there has been some interesting activity here." He paused for dramatic effect. "It may have to do with your father."

"But my father has been in prison for years. As far as I knew his case is closed." I said, the familiar anger rising again.

I remembered the evidence presented at the trial, and the total lack of a defence for my father. Even as young as I was, I knew even then something wasn't right about the whole thing. Yes, there was a lot of evidence, but I knew in my heart that Dad couldn't have killed in cold blood like they said.

The detective cut me off quickly, "You must never let anyone know your father did not die in prison."
I had not known the trial was a farce until Detective Igma came to my home, and explained that he was in the witness protection program, and that I was never to speak of the case to anyone. The real murderer would never be caught if he thought anyone could identify him. "I have never said anything--but--five years? Why so long? When will we see him------please!!"

"In case you seem to have missed the clues," Detective Een Igma snapped, "I believe he has been trying to contact you. It also wouldn't be unreasonable to think that there have been a few new developments that might point to the actual killer."

I pondered the implications of that for a moment before blurting out, "How can I help him?"

"Do you think Dad is near? Why doesn't he let me know?"
I thought about the Sasquatch footprints with the same soles as Dad's favorite boots, and I realized that might not be a coincidence, but why run from me? The knife was Dad's; I knew that.
Then I remembered the rasping sound and the disorientation I felt. Dad would not have done that to me. It must have been some sort of chemical in the air. I realized then that I must have come close to the actual murderer!

I expressed my concerns to the detective. "So, where do we go from here?" I asked. "Do we set a trap and lure him in somehow?"

"The motive behind the killing was money. We know who did it and he did not know the man he killed. Let's start with the robbery at the museum and fill you in on the details." Detective Een Igma leaned back on the brown leather chair, lit his pipe, and began to tell me the story I had awaited for five years.

As I listened to Detective Een Igma's convoluted recounting, many of the little nagging questions I had always harbored were now being answered. I asked for occasional clarification as the unbelievable tale unfolded.

My father's highly specialized knowledge of long-forgotten and little-known cultures had been the key to apprehending the thief of an ancient necklace purported in some circles to impart future visions to those lucky enough to possess it. Upon capture, the thief had steadfastly refused to reveal his employer, prefering instead to serve out his sentence in silence; such was his loyalty. And as for the necklace, it had mysteriously disappeared from the evidence locker.

"And the disappearance of that necklace," I said, "how exactly did that lead to the framing of my father for murder?"

Detective Igma tapped the now cold bits of tobacco from his pipe into an ashtray and set the pipe aside. He seemed to be stalling for time, gathering his thoughts.

"Well?" I prompted.

"The necklace was secure in the locker, or so we thought. Everyone who worked at the station was believed to be thoroughly trustworthy. The janitor had been there for so many years that the present staff had all but forgotten his past. His presence in the evidence room was normal, expected. The temptation was too much for him, however. When your father arrived with the lieutenant, the plan was revealed."
"Your father was to substitute a paste copy and conceal the original. The copy would then be returned to the museum, where the authorities believed the suspected mastermind of the theft would attempt to steal it once more. This time, however, he was under surveillance. Every call he made would be heard, every move he made known."

I tried to follow what he was saying. My brow furrowed, the confusion showing plainly on my face. "Wait just a sec," I said, shaking my head. "You're going too fast! I just can't grasp what you're telling me." I felt dizzy. This was too much information too fast. It raised more questions than it answered.

I felt distinctly uncomfortable and quite nervous, the unease slipping over me like a cold damp blanket. I wondered if he was doing this on purpose, to confuse me further, keep me off balance, off guard. Maybe he thought I knew more than I was telling and maybe he knew much more than he was willing to reveal. This flash of insight startled me, and I quickly composed myself. This wasn't my first time experiencing a revelation like this and I had learned quickly to heed those instincts. Unsure now if I could trust the detective, I decided I would have to proceed cautiously.

I took a deep breath and in a carefully modulated tone that belied my new-found wariness said, "Tell me exactly what the janitor has to do with this, and who were they surveiling?"