Part 3 of 3
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Tonight, the Collective Detective learns of the truth behind the disappearance of Morris Cox, as revealed in a Floridian hotel room.
The Collective Detective theme is Dance Of The Urbanite, by Tryad
[music] Welcome to FlashPulp episode 148. Tonight, we present Layers, a collective detective chronicle, Part 3 of 3. This week's episodes are brought to you by the FlashPulp Facebook page. It's the only defense against the mind worms. We assure you. Search for you to the Facebook or direct your browser to http colon slash slash bit.ly/cbkyv2. [music] [music] FlashPulp is an experiment in broadcasting fresh pulp stories in the modern age. Three to ten minutes of fiction brought to you Monday, Wednesday, and Friday evenings. Tonight, the collective detective learns of the truth behind the disappearance of Morris Cox, as revealed in a Floridian hotel room. Layers, a collective detective chronicle, Part 3 of 3. Written by J.R.D. Skinner, Art and Narration by Epelvenex. They're audio produced by Jessica May. [music] [music] Mel Chappelle, 52, was sitting on his still-made hotel bed, eating a Mars bar. The television, on mute, threw the glow of local weather information into the room. But the flashing graphics went largely ignored as the lawyer thumbed at his phone to review the emails he'd had to leave on red during his recently concluded appointment. The sit-down, a meet-and-greet with local law enforcement regarding a grave the collective had managed to track to a bit of rural swampland, had run long. Chappelle, who'd flown in from Washington for the conversation, was not a fan of the area's humidity or its tendency towards small talk. But he'd smiled and rubbed at his neck with a Wendy's napkin while the sheriff had chewed over the details of the case. In the end, Mel had been forced to excuse himself at the risk of missing his conference call. He'd originally hoped to locate a burger before the appointed time, but the trilling of his calendar program's 15-minute reminder had sent him scrambling for his hotel's vending machine and the quiet of his room. The temporary quiet at least, wondering aloud how it was still so hot mid-autom. He'd had to crank the air conditioner as soon as he'd entered the fetid wall of moisture that seemed to hang in the rented space. He was pecking out a response to the final item in question when his cell began to chime the opening theme to the old television show, The Six Million Dollar Man. Rolling off the bed, he flicked the switch to disengage the AC's rattling fan. Settling himself back down, he hit answer. Hello! Hi Mel, it's Tony. We've got you on the speakerphone. I'm here with Wes Willis, he's the file's special agent at charge, and we've also got Carlos Reyes, who's the missing boy's local sheriff. As usual, you should be aware that we're being recorded. "Nice to hear from you, Tony," Chappelle replied. It truly was, as the man was regularly a voice of reason amongst the bruised egos that the legal arm of the collective detective often came up against. I assume, as I'm here solo, that this is largely a courtesy call? Willis muttered something away from the phone's mic that Mel was just as happy not to hear. The first time there had been trouble between the collective and the government, there had been no courtesy at all, just a knock at the door and a warrant. Then they'd carried away much of the server backbone that hosted the network's online tools. The two-year media beating the overzealous raid had precipitated, as well as the eventual court ruling that provided the organization a lawful charter, and encouraged a more diplomatic approach. Chappelle, a former law professor, had changed his occupation and his life, in deciding to assist in the defense of the case. "Huh," replied Tony, "yeah, I think things are about wrapped up here, and we don't need to drag in the dirty half dozen. We just want to touch base." As the liaison spoke, the sweating former teacher used one shoe to lever off the other, then nudged both to the floor. "We certainly appreciated," he said, wondering what kind of madman would build a hotel and floor that didn't have windows that opened. "I feel I should be clear at this time," Wilson's voice rasped to the speaker, "that I am conducting this call under Anthony's advisement. I must make plain in case of any legal action resulting from this conversation that I do not agree with providing details of ongoing investigations to civilians." The fatigue from his trip nearly caused Mel to point out the investigation was only ongoing due to the details provided by volunteer civilians. "Instead," he said, understood. It wasn't the first time he dealt with wills, nor even the first time he'd heard the disclaimer. But in situations where the authorities weren't demanding further documentation, or proof that the civilian researchers had done nothing untoward, Mel found it best to let the feds do the majority of the talking. Carlos cleared his throat. "Yeah, well, I don't mind talking about it. Frankly, I've done a few hours with the press on the subject, so I might as well tell you now, rather than send you off to have the facts misrepresented on CNN.com." "I've never heard of you folks till today, but I've got to say I've also never had an arrest handed to me so neatly," Mel smiled, happy to have the unknown variable in the call swinging his favor. He tucked the big toes left foot into the cuff of his right sock and stripped the white cotton from his ankle, then re-preed the process in reverse. Reyes continued. "It wasn't tough to find Bailey Foster. Your Google map was pretty spot on. I mean, we double checked, but anyhow, I was the first through the door. There wasn't much to it." Married guy, although him and his wife were the cold and quiet types. "Don't think she knew about it, actually." She struck me more as the kind not to get close enough to care. We let him watch us drag out his laptop in a lot of DVD binders. Then we gave him a lift down to the room and started asking some very vague questions. "Well, we really told him what you'd told us," mentioned Moore's Cox's name, even flashed a couple of the more tasteful photos. He bought it all, even told us where the bodies buried. We're going to conduct a search at first light, but I believe the confession. "Well done," replied Mel. It was rare to achieve such quick resolution, but occasionally the results were sudden. "Did he give any further explanation? Any reason why?" "Yeah, love. The boy growing up was gay at a tough time and place. To hear Bailey tell it, his best friend was a huge hater." "Put a real fear into the lad." At 14, Moore's fell for an older guy, 30 years older. It wasn't a relationship, though. It was careful exploitation. When Cox turned 18 and was still hound in the old purg to hold his hand, well, I guess for us we thought he'd outlived his allure. And didn't dare risk the consequence of turning the boy loose. The rest of the call was made up of formalities, and long winded quasi-threats by Willis. That any interference with legal proceedings would bring a sudden bolt of justice from on high. Mel simply bit his lip and murmured in agreement, eager to reach for the thermostat. When they'd finally parted ways, he swung his legs once again over the edge of the bed, and his knees popping, stood. He turned the environmental controls to a level he hoped would be sub-artic, then took a short stroll around the room, stretching. It was tempting to return to the stack of printouts which required review before his morning meeting, but once he'd worked the knots from his lower back, he instead tugged back the rigid wooden chair that had been provided for the room's desk and opened his MacBook. Pulling up the collective detective website, he logged in as legal legal and began filling in the final unknowns regarding the life and death of Morris Cox. After an hour's worth of typing and editing, he found there was nothing more to add. Selecting the proper drop-down, he set the case's status to closed. He clicked save. Flashpulp is presented by HTTP colon slash slash Skinner dot FM. The audio and text formats of Flashpulp are released under the Canadian Creative Commons attribution non-commercial 2.5 license. [Music]
