The Black Ibis Case

I stared at the piece of paper for a long time, trying to understand its meaning. I decided to fold it up and place it in a plastic bag to examine it later. I checked the remaining offices but found them as empty as all the other ones I had seen before.

I walked back down to the first floor and checked the empty wooden crates. As I took a closer look, I noticed the straw inside was fresh and new in some of them, but others had old, dusty rats nests; like they’ve been there a while.

I paid closer attention to the newer crates. The tops of the crates were missing entirely, and there was no shipping or identifying labels on the crates whatsoever. All of them seemed to be made of the same wood, though it was hard to tell with only a flashlight and my limited knowledge of the varieties of wood used in crate manufacturing. I decided to give one of them a solid kick and break off a piece to identify it later. It took more effort than I had thought, and I nearly broke a toe or two, but I managed to dislodge a piece of board and took it with me. I was just happy no one was there to see my sorry display as I fought the box and nearly lost.

I exited the warehouse through the same door I had entered. The cold welcomed me with a sharp kiss on the cheek. As I stalked quietly towards the gate, a strange feeling washed over me and the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I walked a few more steps while reaching back into my pocket, and as soon as my fingers found my flashlight, I whirled around and shone it over the area. For the first second or two, I saw nothing as I moved the beam of light around, but I caught a pair of glowing eyes just before they disappeared behind some crates. I watched the area attentively for a minute, but nothing moved.

“Must be a cat or something,” I told myself, walking backwards a few steps before turning back around with a new urgency in my stride. I felt safer once I was back on the sidewalk, but something lingered in my mind as I walked back over to my office, a strange and uncomfortable feeling I just couldn’t quite place.

I climbed the three flights of stairs in record time, still feeling unnerved from the events at the warehouse. I turned around to listen, but heard nothing; no footsteps, no doors opening or closing, no creaking floor. I fumbled around in my pocket and took out my keys, opened the door and locked it again with a great sigh of relief.

Now, in all honesty, my office has never been a particularly neat place. I don’t sweep too often, forget to clean up old discarded scraps of sandwiches that fall as I work, my ash tray is almost always full to the point of overflowing, old whiskey bottles are a permanent fixture, and the couch I use as a bed can only be described in the same vernacular as I have been in the past, “like its had one too many”, whatever that means. The only immaculate part of my life are my case files and my mapping board where I pin all relevant items from a case such as pictures, maps, and other clues discovered on the way.

Even though my office was less than welcoming to most people, that night, it was the best place to be. Once the door was closed behind me, the feeling of growing dread I felt since I left the warehouse subsided. I went behind my desk and looked out the window. I saw nothing but a few pedestrians illuminated by the street lights, hurrying themselves to get wherever they were going. There was a new movie out, something about blood in the title… I can’t remember, but I assumed that’s where some of them were heading.

I sat down at my desk and lit a cigarette, then I stared at the piece of wood I had been carrying. Now that I had decent lighting, I realized it was a nice piece of wood. The grain was irregular and dark brown, with a slight hint of red. I wasn’t sure what it was exactly, but I had a feeling this wasn’t just some cheap board, especially since it took me some effort to break it off.

I set the board aside and decided to turn in for the night. I knew the next steps would involve talking to other people, all of whom were likely at home going about their business or asleep at this time. My headache was finally leaving, and fatigue set in very soon after that. I had a fitful sleep that night, I can’t remember my dreams, but I felt uncomfortable and as though something old, very old, was reaching out to me through a grey mist I couldn’t pierce through.

When I woke up, the sun was already high. I slept right through the morning rush hour traffic, and now only a few cars were passing by on the street. My headache was gone at long last, replaced by the rumbles shaking from my core. Some might think this was hunger pangs, but when you’ve been around as long as I have, you know the only remedy is a mouthful of whiskey from the drawer to quiet the shakes and start the day off right.

I walked two blocks down to Bernie’s Deli, my usual breakfast spot. Same as every day, there was no lineup at this time, and Bernie was the only one at the counter. Junior was in the back, preparing a fresh batch of bagels, judging by the clanging pans and copious swearing I could hear through the doors. The yellow counter was due to be changed soon, but Bernie was keeping the place as spotless as it had ever been despite its obvious age.

Bernie was polishing the countertop with a rag with the diligence of a craftsman. He perked up as soon as I entered. “How’s it going, Sam? You look like you had a rough night again.”

“Just the joys of my work, as usual,” I answered dismissively. He was always curious about what I’m working on. Like most people in repetitive jobs, he wished to be in my shoes, living a life of excitement and mystery. Little did Bernie and so many others know though, that detective work is a whole lot of standing or sitting around, eating terrible food as you wait, keeping your bladder in check, waiting to see someone do something and taking a picture at the right time, or asking tedious questions repeatedly until you find what you’re looking for, if it’s there at all. To Bernie, I’m some kind of secret agent, skulking in the shadows, punching thugs until they spew out the info I need, solving life-threatening cases, and gaining the favors of exotic women as I did it all. No, my life was never anything so glamorous, quite the opposite in fact. I get to do things my own way at least, or so I keep telling myself.

“So, what’ll it be today?” asked Bernie with a broad smile on his face.

“Just a bagel and some coffee. Black.”

“Sure, sure,” he answered, cutting the bagel to get it toasted before reaching for a foam cup to fill it with the precious dark liquid. “So, got any big cases you’re working on today?”

“Just the one. Some kid vanished and his brother asked me to find him. Can’t imagine I’ll get rich off this one, but it should keep the heat on for a bit at least.”

“Can’t say I heard about this one yet.” The bagel halves popped up and Bernie buttered them without even needing to look at them. He put it in a bag and handed it and the coffee over to me. “Two dollars even, Sammy boy.”

“Put it on my tab,” I answered plainly as I grabbed the items and turned towards the door.

“Alright, adding it on. I’ll be able to retire if you ever pay me back!” Bernie had a laugh as the door closed behind me. That was probably the biggest perk of his admiration towards me, his ability to forgive my poor payment habits. I’d throw in a few dollars occasionally to make sure my debts to him didn’t get too out of hands, but I knew they were just building up faster than I could pay them back.

I ate my bagel as I got to my car. Bernie probably made the best bagels in the city. On the other hand, he probably made the worst coffee in the city; burnt, thin, and cheap. The deeply bitter taste of it, mixed with the burn of the overly hot temperature, was the perfect way to start the day.

I started my old Challenger up and drove on towards Oakport University. The purr of the engine as it came to life always gave me satisfaction. The weather was on the radio as I made my way over, and apparently, we were due for a warm November day. Not a cloud in the sky as far as the eye could see, though the weatherman warned that a storm could be coming over the weekend, and that snow tires were advised. I changed the radio to the same slow smoky jazz station that I always drift to eventually, listening to the sad trombones haunting me all the way to my destination.

The campus was an odd assortment of eight brown brick buildings, all strewn about as though a giant child had stacked them on each other before pushing them over and leaving them there. The real reason for the confused look of the university is that these were some of the oldest buildings in town, and they became part of the campus as it grew, having started out as homes, stores, or offices that were repurposed, repaired, decorated, and expanded as they were needed. Many gardens were planted to cover up the campus’s chaotic appearance, and the old trees on the grounds were cared for diligently by the groundskeepers, though they now sat bare, looking like skeletons set against a background of brown.

I parked in the guest parking lot and walked inside the main building. I made my way to the reception desk and startled the middle-aged lady who was typing away. She was startled as I approached her desk.

“So sorry, mister, I didn’t hear you come in. How may I help you?”

I quickly looked at the bronzed plaque on her desk. Katherine Bishop. “No need to apologize, Mrs. Bishop, I kind of snuck up on you. I’m Sam Patterson, and I’ve been hired to investigate the disappearance of Leonard Michaels. Could you tell me who his professors are? I’d like to ask them some questions. Just in case they noticed anything about him lately or know who his friends are.”

“Yes, the student who went missing. Sad bit of business.” She tapped a pen against her cat-eyed glasses. “Let me just pull out his records.” Katherine turned around and went to a tall filing cabinet. She perused several files until she found the one she had been looking for. She opened it and browsed through until she found a copy of Leonard’s class schedule. “Here you are Mr. Patterson.” I quickly jotted down the names of the five professors: John Flannigan, Erica Kent, Henry Allan, Dominique Rousseau, and Alex Colton.

“Where can I find these professors?” I asked Katherine as I scribbled the last name and readied myself to jot down their offices.

“You can find all of them in the informatics building. Sorry I can’t tell you more off hand, we just have so many people here.” She laughed as she handed me a faculty directory.

Professors Flannigan, Allan and Colton all had adjacent offices, respectively I-109, I-111 and I-113, and Professor Rousseau was on the second floor at I-202. I kept searching the informatics section for Erica Kent, but I couldn’t see the name. “Pardon me, Katherine,” I smiled pleasantly to hide my frustration at the name I couldn’t find, “I don’t see Erica Kent on this list. Are my eyes playing a trick on me?”

She looked at me confusedly for a second, then her eyes lit up, their widening exaggerated by her glasses. “Oh, that’s because Professor Kent is in the archeology building. I’m sorry, I forgot to mention that detail.”

I smiled as pleasantly as I could in response, though I doubt it was very convincing. H-232. An obvious question came to my mind as soon as I had written down the last room number. “Do you know what each of these people teach?”

“Professor Rousseau teaches about networks, Flannigan teaches computer structure, I can’t recall what Colton teaches, and Professor Allan teaches mathematics,” she answered while tapping her glasses’ frame.

“So, what about Professor Kent?” She was the one I was most interested in now.

“Egyptology. Well, introduction to Egyptology for a first-year student, though she teaches all related classes as well.” She stopped tapping her glasses and her eyes came back to look into mine. She clearly didn’t need to think about her answer this time.

“Is it common for an informatics student to take classes in archeology?”

“Hmm. I wouldn’t say it’s common, but students do have some optional courses. I suppose mister Michaels had an interest on the subject,” she answered shrugging her shoulders. I imagined most students either took classes related to their subject, or some they believed would be easy and raise their overall grades. I couldn’t imagine a archeology class would fit either of those for someone like Leonard, so I supposed it was personal interest of his. One that seemed worth looking into at the very least.

“I should be on my way now. Thank you for your time.” I went to turn around and felt Katherine’s hand rest on mine for a second.

“The pleasure was all mine,” she replied with a broad smile.

I looked down at her hand on mine and saw a tan line where a ring used to be. I looked at my own hand, between her fingers, and noticed the same mark on my own finger. I tipped my hat to her as I slid my hand out and left through the door like a brisk breeze.

I found a campus map on a pedestal and oriented myself. The informatics building was near the administration wing, so I partially retraced my steps and quickly found it.

The informatics building looked almost exactly like all the others I had seen so far, except it had three floors where the others only had two, and showed less wear than the others did, its light brown bricks having only been battered by the rain and snow pushed by the Atlantic wind for a few years at most.

I could barely tell the students apart in here too. Everywhere I looked there were thick glasses, the result of staring at screens for too long as I’ve always been told, and white shirts, the sign of lacking individuality as I’ve come to learn. Even the building’s interior was white, angular and cold-feeling, whereas the administration at least had a cozy air about it, or at least as much as a giant collection of files where people worked could be called cozy. This lot seemed to be destined to a life of bureaucracy, and I shudder even now as I did then at the thought of being trapped in that kind of life.

I visited Professors Flannigan, Allan, Colton, and Rousseau one after the next. There was little more than Professor Rousseau’s red flowered dress to distinguish one from the other in both appearance and personality. Aside from their lackluster first impressions, none had any significant information to give me. Leonard was a straight-A student in all his classes who never came late to class, nor made himself noticeable.

That changed in the last few weeks, however. His grades started fluctuating, and he sometimes came late, or didn’t come to class at all, then he stopped coming altogether. Most thought Leonard had some problems outside of school, but nobody bothered asking; that isn’t really their job, after all. Students failed or quit classes all the time and it wasn’t up to them to correct their issues. They weren’t aware of any students he had grown close to either, as Leonard mostly kept to himself and left as soundlessly as he entered every room, like a silent breeze in the night. At least I learned the kid had consistent habits, making his brother’s worry even more grounded.

I wrote down my findings before entering the bathroom to relieve myself. I looked at myself in the mirror and wondered what Katherine might have seen in me earlier today: the bags under my eyes were deeper than the pockets of a short-armed Irishman. The four o’clock shadow on my chin looked more like four days worth of bristles, and the greying hair on my temples seemed to have advanced years since yesterday. “Sam, you’re looking more like your dad every day,” I told my reflection before heading out.

Within minutes, I found myself on the far end on campus, in front of the archeology building, a darker brown and clearly older building than the one I had just left. My mind was curious of what sorts of items might be on display in such a place, if there were any at all since the informatics building was so bare. My gut, on the other hand, was telling me I might find some answers in this place.