The Dead Duck Conundrum
Clem Chou
He crosses his fingers and leans forward in his chair, elbows on his knees. His trousers are creased and his dress shirt crinkled. His hair looks just as he left it this morning—barely combed but somehow neatly windswept, with a few grays in evidence. He has a casual yet professional air, and his serious countenance says he’s a man you can trust. His deep-set eyes dart around the circle, observing, analyzing, and making notes. What an irregular group! To his right, a black nurse in her forties, graying hair. Probably has a kid or two in college. He notices a rectangular bulge near her waist, underneath her cotton shirt. Insulin pump. Three chairs to his left, a beefy middle-aged male with a stubbly chin. He’s got grease stains on his button-down shirt, and his pant knees are worn thin. Blue-collar. Mechanic or maintenance worker, perhaps. His voice is raspy and he clears his throat regularly. The cigarette stench is heavy. He’s probably been a smoker for quite a number of years now.
“And you, Mr. Powell? Would you like to share a story?”
The observer snaps back to attention. The wool-vested discussion director is peering at him over his glasses. He’s annoyingly tapping his clipboard with a ballpoint pen.
“Oh, yeah. Will do.”
Eleven pairs of eyes, not nearly as keen as his, stare as he sits up, coughs politely, and begins. “I’ve been a private investigator for fifteen years in three different cities,” he says, in a clear, measured voice. “My job is to find out what my clients want to know. I uncover the truth.” He pauses at this point. “And sometimes, the truth makes no sense.”
--
Tony sat in his oak-walled office, legs sprawled leisurely across the jumble of papers on top of his desk. The fingertips on his left hand smudged a dull black as he thumbed through the morning paper. His right hand was happily occupied with a half-demolished raspberry jelly donut. The gold lettering outside his door spelled: ANTHONY POWELL, PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR. There was a click, and the little bell strung across the top of the door frame jingled. A pretty brunette entered apprehensively and introduced herself as Violet Bowers. Her eyes moistened as she explained the reason for her visit: her beloved pet duck, Daisy, had died yesterday. Daisy was in her prime and in perfectly good health. Violet was absolutely certain that natural causes were not to blame. “Murder,” she called it, rather sharply cynical. Tony listened, a tad incredulous. A duck? She couldn’t have come in with some grand homicide? He debated declining the job. What the hell, business was slow this month, and he hated watching women cry. He rummaged around his desk. A few wrinkled contracts and signatures later, he was on the case.
Waitresses flitted about, trays piled with precariously balanced sandwich plates and empty milkshake glasses. Tony propped up his elbows on the tiled counter. After spending half of the day vainly questioning the upset but clueless Violet and her dull neighbors, he put his pole down. He needed a break from the fruitless fishing and wanted some sound conversation. He explained the case to Joe.
“A duck?”
In answer, Tony nodded at the stained linen apron in front of him, and gave his diluted American blend an intelligent swish before taking a swig.
“Funny. You’ve seen today’s paper?”
“Part of it. Something I should know?” Tony looked up.
Joe wiped his grubby hands on a musty-smelling rag and swiped a newspaper from the back counter. He handed it over.
“Page six.”
The paper rustled. Unbelievably, dead ducks had been turning up all over Tristate City. Corpses were being discovered in all sorts of places—the big pond at the local park, front lawns, rooftops, the middle of the road. Speculation was in the air that an anti-animal rights syndicate was behind it all. Tony put the paper down and frowned.
“Looks like your duck problem is bigger than you thought,” Joe remarked.
“This is about the highway. It’s got to be.”
“The new highway?”
Tony gulped down more watery coffee and nodded slowly. Something was beginning to tug at his fishing line. He gripped the pole and began reeling it in. His mind was churning.
“Mayor Gordon’s pushing for construction. I heard FETA’s filing a lawsuit,” he revealed.
The duck lawsuit. Only legal busybodies knew about it, really. Some hidden political machine was keeping it out of the papers. FETA was an animal rights activist group that had been raising protests against the highway for months. The concrete monster, they argued, would plow right through sacred summer duck habitat. In the deep end of the ocean, the great white sharks of commerce peered irately at the scrambling activists. The construction company was rumored to be providing a large sum for the mayor’s endorsement, but FETA’s lawsuit was a bane, a steel trap around the bait. However shrimplike they appeared compared to the great whites circling menacingly above, FETA and its precious ducks had some serious teeth. The mayor was caught in the middle.
“Reelection is next year,” Joe commented, absently rubbing his chin. “The highway’s a big deal. This could make or break him.”
Tony’s eyes narrowed as he downed the rest of his lukewarm coffee. He was certain he had hooked the right man and motive. Now, to reel the catch in and net it, he needed the method.
Bzzzzzzt. Bzzzzzzt. Tony yanked the vibrating device out of his pocket, glanced at the screen, and pressed it to his ear.
“Ms. Bowers?” he answered.
“Yes, um—Detective Powell, I just remembered something.”
“What?”
“You asked if Daisy had left my yard recently. I took her out for a walk at the park two days ago.”
Who the hell walks a duck? Tony thought to himself.
“Great. Good to know. Did you notice anything there?” he asked.
“Nothing suspicious. We were by the duck pond. I wanted her to socialize.”
Tony almost rolled his eyes.
“That all?” he asks.
“Yes. That’s all I can remember.”
“Alright, thanks.”
“No problem.”
Tony said goodbye and hung up.
He patrolled down the gravel pathway. Adjusting his darkened aviator shades, he strolled unhurriedly around the rippling mirror in the center of the park as the cool afternoon breeze drifted past him. He eyed a scowling young man that was standing on the banks and tossing spongy white scraps toward the pond from a plastic bag. Tony seated himself on a bench some distance away, observing unnoticed. This was no ordinary cooing duck feeder. The ducks were barely gathering, and the supposed duck feeder hardly seemed eager to attract any more. And the most peculiar thing—the gloves. White latex gloves. The kind that starts to feel rather disgustingly moist inside when you sweat. It was a summer afternoon, probably 80 degrees out. Who wears gloves on a day like this? And to feed ducks? Either this guy was some nutjob, or he really didn’t want to touch the bread.
Tony got up and drifted inconspicuously over.
“Hey,” he spoke from behind.
The young man jumped and whipped around, surprised.
“W-What do you want?”
Tony got a good look at the face. This was just a kid. 18 or 19 years old, he estimated. He glanced at the left forearm. There was a curious mark, barely a few days old by the slight red swelling and fresh-looking black ink. Tony recognized the local gang symbol.
“Just saw you feeding the ducks and was wondering if I could toss a few?” he said disarmingly. He nodded at the bread bag.
The kid stared at Tony, glanced down at the bag, and then at Tony’s bare hands.
“Uh—I—I don’t have much left. Sorry.”
“No problem. I just haven’t done it in ages.” Tony offered an assuaging grin. He took out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to the kid, who declined. Tony shrugged and lit one for himself. Wary of the older stranger standing next to him, the duck feeder resumed tossing the remainder of the bread pieces into the water. Smoking was a nasty behavior, and Tony detested it wholeheartedly. It was just useful on the job sometimes. The smoke began to trail off the end of the paper tube, but he never put it between his teeth. He watched the orange flame at the tip as he lowered it and dropped it on the ground. Using his shoe, he gently rolled it, still burning, toward a fallen lump of bread. Seconds later, the bread began to char.
The pungent garlic-like odor was immediate and unmistakable. As Tony unclipped the hidden set of handcuffs from the phone case hooked to his belt, he turned to the jittery kid next to him.
“Mind telling me just why there’s arsenic in that bread?”
The room was empty except for a long metal table and three chairs. Marcus shifted and fidgeted in one, looking a little haggard and shaky from a few solitary hours in a Tristate Police Station holding cell. Technically, Tony couldn’t make legal arrests, but his buddies down at the station were rather interested in meeting the duck killer. Marcus was only one of a team of hired mercenaries in the duck war. It was a local gang. Tony had figured that much out at the park, from Marcus’s forearm tattoo. Though he was new to the gang, Marcus knew surprisingly plenty. Still, it wasn’t until half an hour later and a bail offer that he spilled the facts.
“The Mayor.”
Tony looked up immediately.
“Mayor Gordon talked to your gang?”
Marcus nodded quickly.
“What did he want?”
“A solution. He came and said he wanted to get the highway built—it’s how he planned to get reelected next year. But he didn’t want to deal with all the legal schmutz with the ducks in the way and FETA on his back. He just wanted the issue dealt with quickly.”
“So what’d he do then?”
Marcus’s eyes barely flickered.
“Well, it’s pretty simple,” he replied. “He wanted to get rid of the problem, so he started getting rid of the ducks.”
Tony blinked incredulously at the young man.
--
“Is that all?” asks the discussion director. Tony dips his chin once. The therapist writes a little note on his clipboard. Tony doesn’t wonder what it is.
“What happened to the mayor?” the nurse demands.
“Convicted and removed from office.”
A series of harrumphs and mhms rippled around the circle.
Tony grins.
Of course, the most obvious solution isn’t guaranteed to be the best. A logical answer turns out absurd. The greatest crimes are committed for the most ridiculous reasons. As a private investigator, Tony Powell’s job is to uncover the truth. And sometimes, the truth makes no sense.
Clem Chou
He crosses his fingers and leans forward in his chair, elbows on his knees. His trousers are creased and his dress shirt crinkled. His hair looks just as he left it this morning—barely combed but somehow neatly windswept, with a few grays in evidence. He has a casual yet professional air, and his serious countenance says he’s a man you can trust. His deep-set eyes dart around the circle, observing, analyzing, and making notes. What an irregular group! To his right, a black nurse in her forties, graying hair. Probably has a kid or two in college. He notices a rectangular bulge near her waist, underneath her cotton shirt. Insulin pump. Three chairs to his left, a beefy middle-aged male with a stubbly chin. He’s got grease stains on his button-down shirt, and his pant knees are worn thin. Blue-collar. Mechanic or maintenance worker, perhaps. His voice is raspy and he clears his throat regularly. The cigarette stench is heavy. He’s probably been a smoker for quite a number of years now.
“And you, Mr. Powell? Would you like to share a story?”
The observer snaps back to attention. The wool-vested discussion director is peering at him over his glasses. He’s annoyingly tapping his clipboard with a ballpoint pen.
“Oh, yeah. Will do.”
Eleven pairs of eyes, not nearly as keen as his, stare as he sits up, coughs politely, and begins. “I’ve been a private investigator for fifteen years in three different cities,” he says, in a clear, measured voice. “My job is to find out what my clients want to know. I uncover the truth.” He pauses at this point. “And sometimes, the truth makes no sense.”
--
Tony sat in his oak-walled office, legs sprawled leisurely across the jumble of papers on top of his desk. The fingertips on his left hand smudged a dull black as he thumbed through the morning paper. His right hand was happily occupied with a half-demolished raspberry jelly donut. The gold lettering outside his door spelled: ANTHONY POWELL, PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR. There was a click, and the little bell strung across the top of the door frame jingled. A pretty brunette entered apprehensively and introduced herself as Violet Bowers. Her eyes moistened as she explained the reason for her visit: her beloved pet duck, Daisy, had died yesterday. Daisy was in her prime and in perfectly good health. Violet was absolutely certain that natural causes were not to blame. “Murder,” she called it, rather sharply cynical. Tony listened, a tad incredulous. A duck? She couldn’t have come in with some grand homicide? He debated declining the job. What the hell, business was slow this month, and he hated watching women cry. He rummaged around his desk. A few wrinkled contracts and signatures later, he was on the case.
Waitresses flitted about, trays piled with precariously balanced sandwich plates and empty milkshake glasses. Tony propped up his elbows on the tiled counter. After spending half of the day vainly questioning the upset but clueless Violet and her dull neighbors, he put his pole down. He needed a break from the fruitless fishing and wanted some sound conversation. He explained the case to Joe.
“A duck?”
In answer, Tony nodded at the stained linen apron in front of him, and gave his diluted American blend an intelligent swish before taking a swig.
“Funny. You’ve seen today’s paper?”
“Part of it. Something I should know?” Tony looked up.
Joe wiped his grubby hands on a musty-smelling rag and swiped a newspaper from the back counter. He handed it over.
“Page six.”
The paper rustled. Unbelievably, dead ducks had been turning up all over Tristate City. Corpses were being discovered in all sorts of places—the big pond at the local park, front lawns, rooftops, the middle of the road. Speculation was in the air that an anti-animal rights syndicate was behind it all. Tony put the paper down and frowned.
“Looks like your duck problem is bigger than you thought,” Joe remarked.
“This is about the highway. It’s got to be.”
“The new highway?”
Tony gulped down more watery coffee and nodded slowly. Something was beginning to tug at his fishing line. He gripped the pole and began reeling it in. His mind was churning.
“Mayor Gordon’s pushing for construction. I heard FETA’s filing a lawsuit,” he revealed.
The duck lawsuit. Only legal busybodies knew about it, really. Some hidden political machine was keeping it out of the papers. FETA was an animal rights activist group that had been raising protests against the highway for months. The concrete monster, they argued, would plow right through sacred summer duck habitat. In the deep end of the ocean, the great white sharks of commerce peered irately at the scrambling activists. The construction company was rumored to be providing a large sum for the mayor’s endorsement, but FETA’s lawsuit was a bane, a steel trap around the bait. However shrimplike they appeared compared to the great whites circling menacingly above, FETA and its precious ducks had some serious teeth. The mayor was caught in the middle.
“Reelection is next year,” Joe commented, absently rubbing his chin. “The highway’s a big deal. This could make or break him.”
Tony’s eyes narrowed as he downed the rest of his lukewarm coffee. He was certain he had hooked the right man and motive. Now, to reel the catch in and net it, he needed the method.
Bzzzzzzt. Bzzzzzzt. Tony yanked the vibrating device out of his pocket, glanced at the screen, and pressed it to his ear.
“Ms. Bowers?” he answered.
“Yes, um—Detective Powell, I just remembered something.”
“What?”
“You asked if Daisy had left my yard recently. I took her out for a walk at the park two days ago.”
Who the hell walks a duck? Tony thought to himself.
“Great. Good to know. Did you notice anything there?” he asked.
“Nothing suspicious. We were by the duck pond. I wanted her to socialize.”
Tony almost rolled his eyes.
“That all?” he asks.
“Yes. That’s all I can remember.”
“Alright, thanks.”
“No problem.”
Tony said goodbye and hung up.
He patrolled down the gravel pathway. Adjusting his darkened aviator shades, he strolled unhurriedly around the rippling mirror in the center of the park as the cool afternoon breeze drifted past him. He eyed a scowling young man that was standing on the banks and tossing spongy white scraps toward the pond from a plastic bag. Tony seated himself on a bench some distance away, observing unnoticed. This was no ordinary cooing duck feeder. The ducks were barely gathering, and the supposed duck feeder hardly seemed eager to attract any more. And the most peculiar thing—the gloves. White latex gloves. The kind that starts to feel rather disgustingly moist inside when you sweat. It was a summer afternoon, probably 80 degrees out. Who wears gloves on a day like this? And to feed ducks? Either this guy was some nutjob, or he really didn’t want to touch the bread.
Tony got up and drifted inconspicuously over.
“Hey,” he spoke from behind.
The young man jumped and whipped around, surprised.
“W-What do you want?”
Tony got a good look at the face. This was just a kid. 18 or 19 years old, he estimated. He glanced at the left forearm. There was a curious mark, barely a few days old by the slight red swelling and fresh-looking black ink. Tony recognized the local gang symbol.
“Just saw you feeding the ducks and was wondering if I could toss a few?” he said disarmingly. He nodded at the bread bag.
The kid stared at Tony, glanced down at the bag, and then at Tony’s bare hands.
“Uh—I—I don’t have much left. Sorry.”
“No problem. I just haven’t done it in ages.” Tony offered an assuaging grin. He took out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to the kid, who declined. Tony shrugged and lit one for himself. Wary of the older stranger standing next to him, the duck feeder resumed tossing the remainder of the bread pieces into the water. Smoking was a nasty behavior, and Tony detested it wholeheartedly. It was just useful on the job sometimes. The smoke began to trail off the end of the paper tube, but he never put it between his teeth. He watched the orange flame at the tip as he lowered it and dropped it on the ground. Using his shoe, he gently rolled it, still burning, toward a fallen lump of bread. Seconds later, the bread began to char.
The pungent garlic-like odor was immediate and unmistakable. As Tony unclipped the hidden set of handcuffs from the phone case hooked to his belt, he turned to the jittery kid next to him.
“Mind telling me just why there’s arsenic in that bread?”
The room was empty except for a long metal table and three chairs. Marcus shifted and fidgeted in one, looking a little haggard and shaky from a few solitary hours in a Tristate Police Station holding cell. Technically, Tony couldn’t make legal arrests, but his buddies down at the station were rather interested in meeting the duck killer. Marcus was only one of a team of hired mercenaries in the duck war. It was a local gang. Tony had figured that much out at the park, from Marcus’s forearm tattoo. Though he was new to the gang, Marcus knew surprisingly plenty. Still, it wasn’t until half an hour later and a bail offer that he spilled the facts.
“The Mayor.”
Tony looked up immediately.
“Mayor Gordon talked to your gang?”
Marcus nodded quickly.
“What did he want?”
“A solution. He came and said he wanted to get the highway built—it’s how he planned to get reelected next year. But he didn’t want to deal with all the legal schmutz with the ducks in the way and FETA on his back. He just wanted the issue dealt with quickly.”
“So what’d he do then?”
Marcus’s eyes barely flickered.
“Well, it’s pretty simple,” he replied. “He wanted to get rid of the problem, so he started getting rid of the ducks.”
Tony blinked incredulously at the young man.
--
“Is that all?” asks the discussion director. Tony dips his chin once. The therapist writes a little note on his clipboard. Tony doesn’t wonder what it is.
“What happened to the mayor?” the nurse demands.
“Convicted and removed from office.”
A series of harrumphs and mhms rippled around the circle.
Tony grins.
Of course, the most obvious solution isn’t guaranteed to be the best. A logical answer turns out absurd. The greatest crimes are committed for the most ridiculous reasons. As a private investigator, Tony Powell’s job is to uncover the truth. And sometimes, the truth makes no sense.